33 Poems of Modernism by Great Authors

726
Robert Johnston

The Modernism poems They are compositions that use literary resources typical of poetry, framed in the literary movement called Modernism. Some of its most recognized representatives are José Martí, Amado Nervo, Ernesto Noboa or Eduardo Marquina.

Modernism was a literary movement that occurred between the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries and was the first to emerge in America and spread to Europe, largely explained by the independence movements that arose in the continent during those years. years.

Rubén Darío, author of Modernism.

In Modernism, poetry played a leading role, since through it the new cosmopolitan ideas and creative trends of the time could be expressed, which disdained the guidelines established by Realism and Naturalism..

Modernism was then a literary trend marked by rebellion, innovation and the libertarian spirit.

List of poems by the most famous authors of Modernism

Song of Hope

A great flight of crows stains the azure blue.
A millennial breath brings hints of plague.
Men are murdered in the far East.
Is the apocalyptic Antichrist born?
              
Omens have been known and wonders have been seen
and the return of Christ seems imminent.
The earth is pregnant with pain so deep
that the dreamer, meditative imperial,
suffer with the anguish of the heart of the world.
              
Executioners of ideals afflicted the land,
in a well of shadow humanity is enclosed
with the rude molossi of hatred and war.
Oh Lord Jesus Christ! why are you taking, what are you waiting for
to extend your hand of light on the beasts
and make your divine flags shine in the sun!
              
Suddenly arises and pours the essence of life
about so many crazy, sad or inveterate souls,
what a lover of darkness your sweet aurora forgets.
Come Lord to make yourself glory.
              
Come with trembling stars and cataclysmic horror,
come bring love and peace over the abyss.
And your white horse, which the visionary looked at,
happens. And the divine extraordinary clarion sounds.
My heart will be the embers of your censer.

Rubén Darío (Nicaragua)

That love does not admit strings reflections

Lady, love is violent,
and when it transfigures us
the thought ignites us
The madness.

Don't ask my arms for peace
that they have prisoners of yours:
my hugs are of war
and my kisses are of fire;
and it would be vain attempt
turning my mind dark
if the thought turns me on
The madness.

Clear is my mind
of flames of love, lady,
as the store of the day
or the palace of the aurora.
And the perfume of your ointment
my luck pursues you,
and it ignites my thought
The madness.

My joy your palate
rich honeycomb concept,
as in the holy Song:
Mel et lac sub lingua tua.
The delight of your breath
in such a fine glass hurries,
and it ignites my thought
The madness.

Rubén Darío (Nicaragua)

And I looked for you in towns ...

And I looked for you in towns,
And I looked for you in the clouds,
And to find your soul,
I opened many lilies, blue lilies.

And the sad ones crying told me: 
Oh what pain so vivid! 
That your soul has lived a long time 
On a yellow lily!

But tell me how has it been? 
I did not have my soul in my chest? 
Yesterday i met you, 
And the soul that I have here is not mine.

José Martí (Cuba)

Whenever I sink my mind into serious books ...

Whenever I sink my mind into grave books 
I bring it out with a beam of aurora light: 
I perceive the threads, the joint, 
The flower of the Universe: I pronounce 
Soon to be born an immortal poetry. 
Not of altar gods or old books 
No of flowers from Greece, repainted 
With fashionable concoctions, not with traces 
Of traces, not with livid debris 
It will tame the dead ages: 
But from the bowels explored 
From the Universe, it will emerge radiant 
With the light and the graces of life. 
To win, he will fight first: 
And it will flood with light, like the dawn.

José Martí (Cuba)

Then

I want to die when the day declines,
on the high seas and facing the sky,
where the agony seems to dream,
and the soul, a bird that takes flight.

Not listening to the last moments,
now with the sky and the sea alone,
more voices or sobbing prayers
that the majestic tumbling of the waves.

Die when the light, sad, withdraws
its golden networks of the green wave,
and be like that sun that slowly expires:
something very bright that gets lost.

Die, and young: before I destroy
time brings the gentle crown;
when life still says: I am yours,
although we know well that it betrays us.

Manuel Gutiérrez Nájera (Mexico)

The first kiss

I was saying goodbye ... and throbbing
close my lip to your red lips,
"See you tomorrow," you whispered;
I looked into your eyes for a moment
and you closed your eyes without thinking
and I gave you the first kiss: I raised my forehead
enlightened by my true bliss.

I went out to the street joyfully
while you were leaning out the door
looking at me on and smiling.
I turned my face in sweet rapture,
and without even looking at you,
I jumped into a fast moving tram;
and I stared at you for a moment
and smiling with the whole soul,
and even more I smiled at you ... And on the tram
to an anxious, sarcastic and curious,
who looked at us both with irony,
I said to him getting happy:
-"Forgive me, Lord, this joy."

Amado Nervo (Mexico)

In peace

Very close to my sunset, I bless you, my life,
because you never gave me failed hope,
no unfair work, no undeserved penalty;

because I see at the end of my rough path
that I was the architect of my own destiny;
that if I extracted honey or gall from things,
It was because in them I put gall or tasty honeys:
When I planted rose bushes, I always harvested roses.

… True, my blooms will be followed by winter:
But you didn't tell me that May was eternal!

I certainly found long nights of my sorrows;
but you didn't promise me only good nights;
and instead I had some holy serene ...

I loved, I was loved, the sun caressed my face.
Life, you owe me nothing! Life, we are at peace!

Amado Nervo (Mexico)

Twilight Eyes

As in a bottom of light, deep and calm water,
In the blue of the afternoon the campaigns rest.
And to the star that ajar its lucid pupil,
The shadow of the night trembles on her lashes.

A slight darkness smoothes the grass
With the usual caress of the hand in the hair;
And in his last look he takes the earth to heaven,
The submissive sweetness of the doe's eye.

The blue of the still afternoon is the sky itself
That descends to the earth, with such soft deliquity,
That it seems that her abyss clears up,
And that in his deep soul he was looking at himself.

And it curdles in the dew that at the edge of the grove
The black eyes of the nocturnal grass weep;
And contemplate in the bosom of the taciturn water,
And dilates the lotus eyelids slower.

And crystallizes, like icebergs, the walls
Of the little white house that looks through its door
The peace of the prairies; and gently expires
In the noble sadness of your dark eyes.

Leopoldo Lugones (Argentina)

To the gauchos (fragment)

Brave and tough race

that with wild strength

gave the country in equestrian panache

his primitive sculpture.

A terrible fortune

goes to her sacrifice united,

how the wound unfolds

that the bull breaks the neck,

in the stream of the slaughter

the banner of life.

Is that the faithful will

that makes the grim fate happy,

melt the black grape into wine

from harsh adversity.

And in point of freedom

there is no more clear satisfaction,

to measure it complete

between risk and heart,

with three quarters of a facón

and four quatra feet.

In the hour of great pain

that history gave birth to us,

as well as the good of the day

trova the songbird,

the payador song

announced the dawn,

and in the cool rosicler

that painted the first ray,

the cute gaucho of Mayo

He left never to return ...

Author: Leopoldo Lugones

A little bit of sky and a little bit of lake

A little bit of sky and a little bit of lake

where the graceful bamboo fishes stars,

and at the back of the park, with intimate compliment,

the night that looks how you look.

Bloom in the lilies of your poetry,

the candid moon that rises from the sea.

And in flimsy delirium of blue melody,

it infuses you with a vague heartbreak to love.

The sweet sighs that your soul perfume,

they give you, like her, celestial ascension.

The night, your eyes, a bit of Schumann

and my hands full of your heart.

Author: Leopoldo Lugones

A l m a c h i l e n a (fragments)

Everything is silent, everything is silent ...

Only from the sea, from the dike

comes a glow from the stove

and redouble the shrapnel

of the hammer next to the shaft.

...

They are the works of the dike ...

It is the formidable song,

the clarinazo, the peal

of the hammer next to the shaft

where is the ocean liner.

...

They are the high ranking broken.

Are they from where? Nobody knows:

one remembers that in Tango

plunged the knife to the handle

by the way serious little matter ...

...

And the Maipino Juan María,

Juan José, Pancho Cabrera,

huasos that were one day,

today already in the secretariat

of a Workers' Union Center.

... .

All temple of machete.

Each a good boy

with the good mood of seven,

that launches like a rocket

the taunt or the talkative.

...

Author: Carlos Pezoa Veliz

To a brunette

You have abyss eyes, hair

full of light and shadow, like the river

that sliding its wild flow,

the kiss of the moon reverberates.

Nothing more rocking than your hip,

rebel against the pressure of dress ...

There is summer in your enduring blood

and on your lips eternal spring.

Beautiful outside to melt in your lap

the kiss of death with your arm ...

Breathe out like a god, languidly,

having your hair as a garland,

so that the touch of a burning flesh

the corpse shudders in your skirt ...

Author: Carlos Pezoa Véliz

In memory of Josefina

1

Of what was a love, a sweetness

unparalleled, made of dream and joy,

only the cold ash remains

that retains this pale wrapping.

The orchid of fantastic beauty,

the butterfly in its polychrome

yielded their fragrance and gallantry

to the fate that fixed my misfortune.

Over oblivion my memory prevails;

from her grave my pain tears her away;

my faith the appointment, my passion awaits,

and I return it to the light, with that frank

spring morning smile:

Noble, modest, loving and white!

two

That I loved you without rival, you knew it

and the Lord knows it; never flirt

the erratic ivy to the forest friend

how your being joined my sad soul.

In my memory your living persists

with the sweet rumor of a cantiga,

and the nostalgia for your love mitigates

my duel, that to oblivion resists.

Diaphanous spring that does not run out,

you live in me, and in my austere aridity

your freshness mixes drop by drop.

You went to my desert the palm tree,

to my bitter sea, the seagull,

And you will only die when I die!

Author: Guillermo Valencia

There is an instant of twilight ...

There is an instant of twilight

where things shine brightest,

fleeting throbbing moment

of a delinquent intensity.

The branches are velvety,

the towers polish their profile,

a bird buries its silhouette

on the sapphire ceiling.

The afternoon changes, concentrates

to forget the light,

and a soft gift penetrates her

of melancholic stillness,

as if the orb were picking up

all its good and its beauty,

all his faith, all his grace

against the shadow that will come ...

My being blooms in that hour

of mysterious blossoming;

I have a twilight in my soul,

of dreamy placidity;

in him the shoots burst

of the spring illusion,

and in it I get drunk with aromas

of some garden that is beyond! ...

Author: Guillermo Valencia

I was thinking of you, of your hair

I thought of you, of your hair

that the shadow world would envy,

and I put a point of my life in them

and I wanted to dream that you were mine.

I walk the earth with my eyes

raised - oh, my eagerness! - to such a height

that in haughty anger or miserable blushes

the human creature lit them.

Live: -Know how to die; that's how it afflicts me

this unfortunate search, this fierce good,

and all the Being in my soul is reflected,

and searching without faith, of faith I die.

Author: Jose Marti

I am a sincere man (fragment)

I am an honest man

Where does the palm grow from?,

And before I die I want

Cast my soul verses.

I come from everywhere,

And everywhere I go:

Art I am among the arts,

In the mountain, I am mountain.

I know the strange names

Of herbs and flowers,

And of deadly deceptions,

And of sublime pains.

I have seen in the dark night

Rain on my head

Rays of pure fire

Of divine beauty.

I saw wings coming from the shoulders

Of the beautiful women:

And come out of the rubble,

Flying the butterflies.

I have seen a man live

With the dagger at the side,

Without ever saying the name

Of the one who has killed him.

Quick, like a reflection,

Twice I saw the soul, two:

When the poor old man died,

When she said goodbye to me.

I trembled once - on the fence,

At the entrance of the vineyard,-

When the barbarian bee

It stung my girl on the forehead.

I enjoyed once, in such luck

That I enjoyed like never before: -when

The sentence of my death

Read the warden crying.

I hear a sigh, through

Of the lands and the sea,

And it is not a sigh, -it is

That my son is going to wake up.

If they say that the jeweler

Take the jewel better,

I take a sincere friend

And I put love aside.

Author: Jose Marti

Song of autumn

Well: I know! Death is sitting

At my doorsteps: cautious comes,

Because their cries and their love do not prepare

In my defense, when they live far away

Parents and son. When returning frowning

Of my sterile labor, sad and dark,

With that to my winter house I shelter,

Standing on the yellow leaves,

In the fatal hand the flower of sleep,

The black woman plays on topped wings,

Avid face, tremulous I look at her

Every afternoon waiting for me at my door.

I think of my son, and of the dark lady

I flee without strength, devoured the chest

Of a frenzied love! Most beautiful woman

There is no that Death! For a kiss from you

Dense forests of various laurels,

And the oleanders of love, and joy

To remember my childhoods I gave!

... I think of the one to whom my guilty love

Brought to live, and, sobbing, I dodge

Of my beloved the arms; more I already enjoy

Of the perennial dawn the sure good.

Oh life, goodbye! Who is going to die, is going dead.

Author: Jose Marti

Summer Romance (excerpt)

Summer noon - gold and blue - what do you wear                     

so much new joy, so much secret anxiety,                    

Like a blossoming over hearts!                  

Under the restless breeze                    

the noisy park of nests and songs,         

it is like a harmonious poet's heart.                         

Thirst for love in souls, which moistens the eyes,                      

the divine madness of divine excesses,                       

in the red goblets                        

on mischievous lips,

like golden horseflies, kisses flutter!                  

Down the bright paths,                            

the fluffy sands,                       

loving couples                      

interweave with threads of sweet moments

the cloak of the auspicious and serene hours ...                       

Fragile rounds pass, fragrant bouquets                       

of romantic blondes and fiery brunettes.                      

Author: Ernesto Noboa

To my mother

To calm the serious hours

Calvary of the heart

I have your sad soft hands

that perch like two birds

on the cross of my affliction.

To ease the sad hours

of my quiet loneliness

it is enough for me ... to know that you exist!

and you accompany me and you assist me

and you instill serenity in me.

When the asp of boredom gnaws at me,

I have some books that are in

the bloody hours myrrh, aloe,

the support of my weak soul:

Heine, Samain, Laforgue, Poe

and above all, my Verlaine!

And so my life slides

-without object or orientation-

suffering, quiet, submissive,

with sad resignation,

between a sigh, a smile,

some imprecise tenderness

and some real pain ...

Author: Ernesto Noboa

Ego sum

I love everything strange, I love everything exotic;
the equivocal and morbid, the false and the abnormal:
they can only calm my neurotic nerves
the morphine vial and the chloral vial.

I love withered things, that chlorotic tint
of thugs and harlots, pasture of the hospital.
In my sick, sensitive and chaotic brain,
like a Poeana spider, evil spins its web.

It doesn't matter that the others run away from me. Isolation
It is conducive to the flower of feeling to be born:
the tuberose of the dream sprouts in solitude.
It doesn't matter if I am denied human applause
if the music of distant stars intoxicates me
and the flapping of my wings over reality.

Author: Ernesto Noboa

Psalm of love

God bless you, love, because you are beautiful!

God bless you, love, because you are mine!

God bless you love when I look at you!

God bless you love when you look at me!

God bless you if you keep faith in me;

if you don't keep faith in me, God bless you!

Today that you make me live, bless you;

when you make me die, be blessed!

God bless your steps towards good,

your steps towards evil, God bless you!

Blessings to you when you welcome me;

blessings to you when you dodge me!

!Bless you the morning light

that when you wake up hurts your pupils;

bless you the shadow of the night,

that in his lap he will find you asleep!

Open your eyes to bless you,

before succumbing, the one who is dying!

If the murderer blesses you when you hurt,

may God bless you for your blessing!

Bless the humble whom you help!

Blessed, by naming you, your friends!

Bless the servants of your house!

The pleased mourners bless you!

May the earth give you a blessing in flowers,

and the time in copy of peaceful days,

and the sea is still to bless you,

and the pain back off and bless you!

Play again with the snowy lily

Gabriel your forehead, and declare it anointed!

Give heaven to your mercy gift of miracle

and heal the sick in your sight!

Oh dear woman! ... Today that you adore me,

all blessings is the day!

I bless you, and I want you to

God and heaven and earth bless you!

Author: Eduardo Marquina

Melancholia

To you, for whom I would die,

I like to see you cry.

In pain you are mine

in pleasure you leave me.

Author: Eduardo Marquina

Cry? So that!

This is the book of my pain:

tear by tear I formed it;

once done, I swear to you, by

Christ, I will never cry again.

Cry? Why!

My rhymes will be like shimmering

of an intimate light, that I will leave

in every verse; but cry,

Never that anymore! By whom? Why?

They will be a placid florigelio,

a bundle of notes that I will water,

and there will be a laugh for every arpeggio ...

But a tear? What sacrilege!

Never that anymore. By whom? Why?

Author: Loved nerve

Autobiography

Autobiographical verses? There are my songs,

there are my poems: I, like the nations

happy, and after the example of the honored woman,

I have no history: nothing has ever happened to me,

Oh, noble unknown friend, that I could tell you.

Back in my younger days I guessed about Art

the harmony and the rhythm, expensive to the musageta,

and, being able to be rich, I preferred to be a poet.

-And then?

-I have suffered, like everyone else, and I have loved.

A lot of?

 -Enough to be forgiven ...

Author: Loved nerve

Spain

Let me go on and row the galley

under the storm, on the waves:

He is heading to a Spanish Atlantis,

where the future is silent and waits.

The resentment is not extinguished nor the hatred dies

before the banner that the barbarian flies:

if one day justice was alone,

the whole of humanity will feel it.

And row among the foaming waves,

and row the galley that you have already seen

how are the storms of fickle.

That the race is on its feet and the arm is ready,

that captain Cervantes is on the ship,

and above floats the pavilion of Christ.

Author: Rubén Darío (Nicaragua)

The country of the sun

Next to the black palace of the king of the island of Iron (Oh cruel, horrible, exile!) How is it that

you, harmonious sister, make the gray sky sing, your aviary of nightingales, your formidable musical box?

Doesn't it sadden you to remember the spring when you heard a divine bird and litmus

in the land of the sun?

In the garden of the king of the island of Gold (oh, my dream that I adore!) Was better than you, harmonious

sister, train your winged flutes, your sonorous harps; you who were born where the blood carnation and the red rose are born prettier,

in the land of the sun

Or in the palace of the queen of the island of Plata (Schubert, sobs the Serenade ...) you could too, sister

harmonious, make the mystical birds of your soul praise, sweetly, sweetly, the moonlight, the virgin lilies, the dove nun and the marquis swan. The best silver melts in a fiery crucible,

in the land of the sun

Go back to your boat, which has the sail ready (resonates, lyre, Zephyr, flies) and leaves, harmonious

sister, where a beautiful prince, on the seashore, asks for lyres, and verses and roses, and caresses her curls of

gold under a royal blue parasol,

in the land of the sun.

Author: Ruben Dario

Divine Psyche (fragment)

I

Divine Psyche, sweet invisible butterfly

that from the abyss you have become everything

what in my nervous being and in my sensitive body

form the sacred spark of the mud statue!

You peek through my eyes in the light of the earth

and prisoner you live in me as a strange owner:

my senses at war reduce you to a slave

and you barely roam free through the garden of sleep.

I knew to Lust that you know ancient sciences,

sometimes you shake between impossible walls,

and beyond all vulgar consciences

you explore the darkest and most terrible twists.

And you find shadow and mourning. What shadow and grief you find

under the vine where the Devil's wine is born.

You perch on the breasts, you perch on the bellies

that made Juan crazy and made Pablo sane.

A virgin Juan, and a military and violent Pablo;

to Juan who never knew of the supreme contact;

to Paul the stormy man who found Christ in the wind,

and to Juan before whom Hugo is stupefied.

Author: Ruben Dario

Nocturno de la copla callejera (fragment)

Long ago I burned my ships

like the conqueror,

and I threw myself into the bustle of adventure

from one heart to another heart;

but…

I confess

that I also had my sad night.

Oh sad night I am crying!

Oh night when, wandering

Through the evocative-looking dark neighborhoods,

where in humble houses romanticism dreams

of virgins sick of Moon and song,

it has interrupted my path

a couplet escaped through the treacherous hole

from a window, just

stick me in the middle of my heart ...

And the couplet came to me

thrown, between the grumble of an old accordion,

by some smug lad

according to the impudence of his hoarse voice.

Author: Santos Chocano

Orchids

Glass amphorae, graceful finery

of enigmatic surprising ways,

headbands typical of apolines fronts,

ornaments worthy of lavish rooms.

In the nodes of a trunk they make scales;

and kink their serpent stalks,

until we are at the altitude pending,

like birds without wings.

Sad as pensive heads,

they sprout, without clumsy ties

of tyranny root, free and haughty;

because also, with the mean at war,

they want to live, like pure souls,

without a single contact with the earth.

Author: Santo Chocano

Mother

Little mother, little mother

White cantarrana flower

Soft charm of my life

Sweet love that never cheats.

Who looks at you already admires you

Non-fogging mirror

Virtue well learned

To suffer always quiet

Industrious spider

That in the mountain corner

His laborious little telita.

In silence he weaves and keeps

A lovely life

Of delicate tenderness

Of kind patience

Sweet love that never cheats.

Author: Romulo Gallegos

In a fan

Poor damned verse              

to look at your red lips

and in the light of your eyes

always want to burn.           

Hummingbird from which it moves away

the myrtle that causes it

and take a close look at your mouth              

and he can't kiss her.

Author: Manuel Gutierrez Najera

Amethyst twilight

The twilight, of amethyst, turns
More and more intense blue,
The lantern fills with a dim green glow
The trees on the avenue.

The old piano plays a melody
Serene and slow and jovial;
She hunches over the yellowed keys,
And bow your head like this.

Shy thoughts, serious and wide eyes
And hands that wander while listening ...
Twilight turns even darker blue
With amethyst reflections.

Author: James joyce

Cowardice

It happened with his mother. What a rare beauty!
What blond wheat garzul hair!
What a rhythm in step! What innate royalty
sport! What shapes under the fine tulle ... !
It happened with his mother. He turned his head:
His blue gaze nailed me very deeply!

I was ecstatic ...
With feverish haste,
"Follow her!" Cried body and soul alike.
... But I was afraid to love madly,
to open my wounds, which usually bleed,
And despite all my thirst for tenderness,
closing my eyes, I let her pass!

Author: Loved nerve

Other poems of interest

Poems of Romanticism.

Avant-garde poems.

Poems of Realism.

Poems of Futurism.

Poems of Classicism.

Poems of Neoclassicism.

Baroque Poems.

Poems of Cubism.

Poems of Dadaism.

Renaissance poems.

References

  1. Spanish Literature of Modernism and Modernism (literature in Spanish). Recovered from es.wikipedia.org
  2. Poems by Rubén Darío. Recovered from poesiaspoemas.com and amor.com.mx
  3. Poem by Amado Nervo. Recovered from amor.com.mx
  4. Poem by Manuel Gutiérrez Nájera. Recovered from ciudadseva.com
  5. Poems by José Martí. Recovered from amediavoz.com and frasesypoemas.com
  6. Poem by Leopoldo Lugones. Recovered from poesi.as.

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