8 Poems of Futurism by Great Authors

Simon Doyle
8 Poems of Futurism by Great Authors

We leave you a list of futurism poems of great authors such as Filippo Tomasso Marinetti, Vladimir Mayakovski, Wilhelm Apollinaire de Kostrowitsky or Borís Pasternak.

Futurism is an avant-garde artistic trend created by the Italian Filippo Tommaso Marinetti at the beginning of the 20th century, and its influence encompassed other areas of art, such as literature..


Although the futurist current had a great boom in the field of plastic arts, futurism originated in letters and its founder, Marinetti was, in fact, a poet.

This current has as its main characteristics the exaltation of originality, contents that refer to movement (time, speed, force, energy, rhythm) and modernity (machines, automobiles, cities, dynamism).

5 poems by the most famous futurist authors

Hug you

When they told me that you were gone
Where it does not turn
The first thing I regretted was not having hugged you more times
Many more
Many more times many more
Death took you and left me
So dead me too
It's curious,
When someone is lost from the circle of power
That ties us to life,
That roundabout where only four fit,
That round,
We are attacked by reproaches (vain)
Of the theater
What is lair
For brothers
And a shame, a shame that it does not fit inside
And a shame, a shame that drowns us
It's curious,
When your life turns into before and after,
On the outside you look the same
Inside you break in two
And one of them
And one of them
It hides asleep in your chest
In your chest
As a bed
And it's forever and ever
No more
In the life
How sad not to be able
Get older
With you.

Author: Filippo Tomasso Marinetti

Poet and Worker

We are even.
Comrades, within the working mass.
Proletarians of body and soul.
Only together will we beautify the world
And we will propel it with hymns.

Author: Vladimir Mayakovski

Song of the Automobile


Vehement god of a race of steel,

space drunk car,

that piafas of anguish, with the brake in the strident teeth!

O formidable forge-eyed Japanese monster,

nourished by flames and mineral oils,

hungry for horizons and sidereal prey

your heart expands in its diabolical taf-taf

and your sturdy tires swell for the dances

let them dance on the white roads of the world!

I finally let go of your metal ties ...

You throw yourself intoxicated the liberating Infinite!

To the din of howling your voice ...

behold, the setting sun is imitating your fast walk,

accelerating his bloody palpitation at the horizon ...

Watch him gallop at the bottom of the woods! ...

What does it matter, beautiful devil!

At your mercy I find myself ...

Take me to the earth deafened despite all its echoes,

under the sky that blinds despite its golden stars,

I walk exasperating my fever and my desire,

with the dagger of the cold in full face!

From time to time I lift my body to feel on my neck,

that trembles the pressure of the frozen arms

and velvety from the wind.

It is your charming and distant arms that attract me!

This wind is your devouring breath,

Unfathomable Infinity that you absorb me with joy ...

Ah! the black mills unmanganilladas

it suddenly seems that,

on its padded cloth blades

they go on a crazy race

as on exaggerated legs ...

Behold, the Mountains are preparing to launch

layers of sleepy coolness over my escape ...

There! There! Behold! In that sinister bend! ...

O Mountains, Monster Flock, Mammuths

that you trot heavily, arching your immense loins,

you already paraded ... you are already drowned

in the skein of mists! ...

And vaguely I hear the grating rumble

produced on the roads

for your colossal legs of the seven-league boots ...

Mountains of the cool layers of heaven! ...

Beautiful rivers that you breathe in the moonlight! ...

Dark plains I pass you the great gallop

of this maddened monster ...

Stars, my stars,

Do you hear his footsteps, the din of his barking

and the endless rattle of her copper lungs?

I accept with you the opposite,

My stars ... More soon! ...

Even sooner! Without a truce!

Without any rest, release the brakes! ...

What! Can't you? ... Break them! ... Soon!

Let the pulse of the motor increase its momentum by a hundredfold!

Hurrah! No more contact with our filthy land!

I finally get away from her and fly serenely

by the scintillating fullness of the Astros

that tremble in their great blue bed!

Author: Filippo Tomasso Marinetti



Perhaps if the stars shine,

Is there someone who needs it?

Does anyone want them to be?

Does anyone take these spit for pearls?

And screaming,

Between midday dust,

He makes his way to god,

He fears that no one expects him,


kiss her sinewy hand,


!there will necessarily be a star!

cry out,

He will not endure this ordeal in the dark!

And then

Go restless,

with calm expression.

Tell someone:

"Do you no longer have anything?

It's not scary?



Perhaps, if the stars


Is there someone who needs it?

Is it necessary

that every time it gets dark

over the rooftops

even a star lights up?!

Author: Vladimir Mayakovsky

Before the movies

And then this afternoon we will go
To the cinema

The Artists of Now
They are no longer those who cultivate the Fine Arts
They are not those who deal with Art
Poetic or musical art
Artists are the actors and actresses

If we were artists
We wouldn't say cinema
We would say cinema

But if we were old provincial teachers
We would not say cinema or cinema
But cinematograph

Also my God it is necessary to have good taste.

Author: Wilhelm Apollinaire de Kostrowitsky


My soul, that you suffer
For those around you,
You have become the grave
Of all those who grieve on earth.

Their bodies embalmed,
You consecrate your verses to them,
The lyre, sobbing,
Raise a lament for them.

In our selfish age
You defend fear and conscience
Like a funeral urn
Where their ashes rest.

Everyone's torments
They have brought you to your knees.
You smell like corpse dust,
To graves and obitorios.

My soul, bowl,
Of everything, everything that you have seen here,
You have been making a mixture
Grinding, the same as a mill.

And grinds still
How much has happened to me,
Almost forty years of this life,
In humus of the graves.

Author: Borís Pasternak

I just want miracles

You will never understand
because I,
amid the gale of mockery.
You will never understand
because I,
amid the gale of mockery.
I carry my soul on a plate
to the feast of future years.
Through the scratchy cheek of the streets,
slipping like a useless tear,
it may be
the last poet.
Have you seen?
On the stony avenues
the striped face of the hanged abulia,
and on the foamy cervix
of the swift rivers
the bridges twist their iron arms.
The sky cries
a cloud
a grimace at the corner of the mouth
looks like a woman expecting a child
and god gave him a one-eyed idiot.
With plump fingers, covered in red hair,
the sun caressed with the insistence of the gadfly
your souls were enslaved to kisses.
I fearless,
I maintained in the centuries the hatred of the rays of day;
with a tense soul, like cable nerves,
I am the king of lamps.
Come to me
those who tore the silence,
they howled
when the noon noose tightened,
I'll show you,
with words
simple. Like a moo,
our new souls,
like arches of lamps.
Just touch your head with your fingers
your lips will grow
for huge kisses
and a tongue
related to all peoples.
I, with the limping lama,
I will retire to my throne
with star holes in the worn vaults.
I will lay down
with clothes made of indolence
on the soft bed of real manure
and silent,
kissing the sleepers' knees
the wheel of a train will hug me by the neck.

I just want miracles.

Author: Vladimir Mayakovski.


I drink the bitterness of tuberose,
the bitterness of autumn skies,
and in them the burning jet of your betrayals.
I drink the bitterness of the afternoons, the nights,
and the crowds,
the weeping stanza of immense bitterness.

The reasonableness of spawns of workshops we do not suffer.
Hostile we are today to the safe bread.
Restless the wind that of the cupbearers toasts,
that, quite possibly, will never be fulfilled.

Inheritance and death are our commensals.
And in the serene dawn, the peaks of the trees blaze.
In the cookie jar, like a mouse, searches for an anaesthet,
and Cinderella quickly changes her dress.

Swept floors, on the tablecloth ... not a crumb.
The verse is serene like a child's kiss.
And run Cinderella, in her car if she is lucky,
and when there is no white, with her legs too.

Author: Borís Pasternak

Other poems of interest

Avant-garde poems.

Poems of Romanticism.

Renaissance poems.

Poems of Classicism.

Poems of Neoclassicism.

Baroque Poems.

Poems of Modernism.

Dada poems.

Cubist Poems.


  1. Poem and its elements: stanza, verse, rhyme. Recovered from portaleducativo.net
  2. Poem. Recovered from es.wikipedia.org
  3. Filippo Tomasso Marinetti. Recovered from es.wikipedia.org
  4. Hug you. Recovered from poemasfuturistas.blogspot.com.ar
  5. Vladimir Mayakovsky… Five poems. Recovered from observaremoto.blogspot.com.ar
  6. Futurism. Top representatives. Recovered from futururismo-leng.blogspot.com.ar
  7. The car song, by Marinetti. Recovered from papelenblanco.com
  8. Poems by Guillaume Apollinaire. Recovered from opinioneideas.org.

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