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.
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.
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)
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 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 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)
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)
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)
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)
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)
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
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
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
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
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
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 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 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
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 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 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
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
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
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
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
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
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)
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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.
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