The cubist poems they had their highest representative in the figure of Apollinaire, who adapted pictorial cubism to literature. He contributed the surrealist way of writing, breaking the syntax and logical structure in his poems, making use and giving leading importance to color, typography, drawings made with words and letters of different shapes, empty, etc..
This is called "calligrams" or "ideograms", and is what is currently known as "visual poetry." Cubism was born in France at the beginning of the 19th century, having its maximum representation in painting, but it also influenced all branches of culture.
It was an artistic trend that drastically and forcefully broke the established canons.
This poem written in the form of a calligram, is arranged around the figure of his beloved reproduced in a photograph.
In it, he can be seen wearing a straw hat that a beginning designer had made very fashionable at that time: Coco Chanel.
Its translation is more or less as follows: Recognize yourself, this beautiful person is you, under the hat. Your exquisite neck (form the neck and left shoulder). And this is finally, the imperfect image, image of your adored bust seen through a cloud (right part of your body), a little lower is your beating heart (left part of the body).
Actually this calligram is part of a series of letters that Apollinaire and his lover Lou exchanged during World War I, in which the poet served.
They were fiery and very erotic letters and poems, which when they came to light caused a stir and censorship.
Tablada was a Mexican writer and poet who developed his prolific material at the time of the Mexican Revolution. Of avant-garde orientation, he cultivated haiku (Japanese poetry) and also ideograms, influenced by Apollinaire.
De la Torre was a Spanish poet who was born at the beginning of the 20th century and who was married to the sister of the Argentine poet Jorge Luis Borges.
Cuban writer born in 1929. Film critic and journalist, diplomat in the early years of the Castro government, then a dissident, asylee and British national. Passed away in 2005.
Sweet stabbed figures, expensive flowery lips,
MIA, MAREYE, YETTE, LORIE, ANNIE and you, MARIE,
where are you girls,
BUT near a fountain that cries and prays,
this pigeon is ecstatic.
All the memories of yore
Oh my friends you went to war
They sprout towards the firmament
And your glances in the sleeping water
They die melancholy.
Where are Braque and Max Jacob
Derain with the gray eyes as the dawn?
Where are Raynal, Billy, Dalize
Whose names become melancholy
Like steps in a church ?
Where is Cremnitz who enlisted?
Maybe they are already dead
Of memories my soul is full
The fountain cries over my grief
THOSE WHO STARTED TO THE WAR OF THE NORTH FIGHT NOW
The night falls oh bloody sea
Gardens where the warrior flower pink laurel bleeds abundantly
A poem written following the silhouette of the popular Eiffel Tower. Here it is translated into Spanish.
The black night is sea,
the cloud is a shell,
the moon is a pearl.
I would make myself a crown
Of all the cities traveled
London Madrid Paris
Rome Naples Zurich
They whistle in the plains
Seaweed covered locomotives
Here nobody has found
of all the rivers navigated
I would make myself a necklace
The Amazon The Seine
The Thames The Rhine
One hundred wise vessels
Who have folded their wings
And my orphan sailor song
Saying goodbye to the beaches
Breathe in the scent of Monte Rosa
Braiding the wandering gray hair of Monte Blanco
And about the Zenit del Monte Cenis
Ignite in the dying sun
The last cigar
A hiss pierces the air
It is not a water game
Go ahead
Gibbous pennines
They march into the desert
The stars of the oasis
They will give us honey from their dates
In the mountain
The wind makes the rigging creak
And all the mountains dominated
Well loaded volcanoes
They will lift the anchor.
This cafe has some talanquera
and third-rate wagon.
There is not much tobacco and it makes a lot of smoke.
I ?? the ninth Spanish poet ?? I presume
in front of the Mayor of Zafra, who mourns his gray hair
(eleven ink piastres every week).
Fan. Portuguese.
Accent of Seville, golden city!
And from my Bilbao stoker.
Waiter!
Coffee with milk, half and half.
Shouts Llovet. Calla Bacarisse.
Solana consecrates.
If Peñalver speaks, it seems that a hinge opens.
Leon Felipe, mourning!
Does not have
neither
homeland
neither
chair
nor grandfather;
Duel! Duel! Duel!
I give him a consolation,
a
handkerchief
Y
other
handkerchief.
Arrives
Monsieur Lasso de la Vega.
Il vient de diner a l'Hôtel Ritz.
Il sait bien son rôle.
Et il porte sa fleur.
Parole
d'honneur!
In the corners some couples
security and yellow ladies
they look at Torre and shudder
the guards and the old women
he quotes them to flags
with ears.
Endless discussion
on whether Valle Inclán is ultraist
what if patatín
what if patatán.
A trin bell rings at the counter.
trin. trin. triiinn.
a few pay and all leave.
. Silence, shade, cockroaches under the couch.
The islands arose from the ocean, first as isolated islets, then the keys became mountains and the low waters, valleys. Later the islands came together to form a large island that soon turned green where it was not golden or reddish. Small islands continued to emerge, now made keys, and the island became an archipelago: a long island next to a large round island surrounded by thousands of small islands, islets and even other islands. But since the long island had a defined shape, it dominated the whole and no one has seen the archipelago, preferring to call the island an island and forget about the thousands of keys, islets, islets that border the large island like clots of a long green wound..
There is the island, still emerging from between the ocean and the gulf: there it is.
You whistled a night, it slipped,
still lifes, hidden guitars
pipe and mandolin curtsies,
chasms between face and face.
In the eyes of a sitting woman
you dream Paris in its monochrome,
music, painters and poetry,
and its segmented gray dwellings.
You broke down from the windows
gray and ocher on cutout paper,
You gave volume by folding hinges.
You took care of verses by Manuel Machado,
let no one strip them of their "Soul".
You made an escaped man's war.
Those were the times of the monkey anise
and the intoxication of manners.
The painting, as is. With cubism
the anise bottle changed its tone.
Juan Gris was his dealer and his employer.
First lady of still life,
the bottle of anise is no longer the same
sitting among colors on her throne.
A table, a blue, or just nothing,
than painting when it is invented
it is more beautiful the other way around.
And, fully intellectualized,
the bottle of anise, listen carefully
what a french newspaper tells.
(I)
I saw leave
tonight
of the concert
in the Gaveau room
to the last
person
and then I walked away down the same street and went to the tobacconist at
look for matches
(II)
mirror in your cork frame thrown into the sea among the waves you do not see only the lightning the sky and the clouds with your mouth open ready to swallow the sun but if a bird passes by and for a moment lives in your gaze it instantly runs out of eyes fallen into the blind sea and what laughter at that precise moment comes from the waves.
Do not stop
cloud over the horrible city
everything there feels the fish
asphalt and groceries.
Beautiful silver cloud
don't stop over the city
Look at those people
Can you see more vile faces?
They have not stolen
nor have they killed their brothers
but they are willing to do it.
Blue says up there
Glitter for flowers and herbs
and for the birds
Brightness for the proud trees.
Shine for the saints
for the children, for the innocent
for those I pity
for living with the fratricides.
For them the Eternal Father
gave splendor to the fields
for them is heaven
consolation of the Humble.
The hunting horn calls like a bell
just like a color in the woods.
The far horn of rock-shaped trees.
It's the unicorn hunt
come with us we are your friends.
The path is marked by the horse
and the saddle
horse and saddle tied to trees.
They sit at the table in front of the house
each one is put to their liking
to eat lobster and mayonnaise
Come! your friends call you.
But I heard screams that came from the house
and then they sat me before shiny bottles
I realized that I didn't know anyone.
And those screams of pain that came from the house
they mixed with the talks, with the songs.
In the distance the rooster crowed like a laugh.
My good angel whispered in my ear: be careful!
Too late the earth was already shaking under my feet.
Lord, help me, help me, my God!
The moon has laid down in a fireplace
it was cold in the street
i hear the rain
I'm sitting waiting for nothing
I have found one
I'm looking for two
two leaves for the crown
of inheritance
of the lonely ghost
that crawls into love
to empty my heart.
Vréneli's room
where we lived
had pink wallpaper
a tufted peach damask bed
a pendulum clock pointed to noon
Or midnight since yesterday
she undressed
a bit like an english
her dress had diagonals
and pictures.
It's only mine
the town that is in my soul.
I go in there without a passport
like at home.
He knows my sadness
and my loneliness.
He gives me sleep
and covers me with a stone
scented.
Gardens bloom in me.
My flowers are made up.
The streets belong to me
but there are no houses;
they were destroyed from childhood
Its inhabitants roam the air
looking for accommodation.
But they live in my soul.
That's why i smile
when my sun barely shines,
or cry
like light rain at night.
There was a time when I had two heads.
There was a time when my two faces
they covered themselves with a vapor in love
and they faded like the perfume of a rose.
Today it seems to me
that even when I go back
I'm going forward,
towards a high portal
behind which the walls stand
where extinguished thunder sleeps
and folded lightning.
It's only mine
the town that is in my olma.
Did I meet them all? I was
to your workshops? Did i see your art
near or far?
Now I get out of myself, out of my time,
I'm going to his unknown grave,
They call me, they drag me to the bottom
from his hole - to me the innocent - to me the guilty.
They ask me "Where were you?" I fled.
They were taken to the corner of their death
and there they ate their own sweat.
There they managed to see the light
of his unpainted canvases.
They counted the years not lived,
watched and expected ...
An arrow sometimes heals a sick heart.
Hallucinations, open this sea urchin for me
marinal. I also want to be the doctor
jewel thief to open a grenade.
The Holy Virgin sent this drawing
from miraculous blue to every comrade
no word was said before entering;
it was a little to the left, under the breast.
Dream, why lie? If you need hostages
here is the flowerpot, mound of strata
scented and the plot and the egg of the scorpions.
If the customs officer increases the crack
with grenades, simulating suits,
put your hand in all the rubies of the infanta.
The dogs bark in the distance and nearby the rooster crows.
It's the way you are, oh! naughty nature
but April changes everything the next morning,
dresses the ripe fruit trees in soft satin,
dyes the vineyard and the butterfly with sulfur hues,
in the nectar of the rose he intoxicates the bumblebees,
and knot the ties of love unleashed.
So sings a poet loved by wild gods,
And that, like Janus, has several mouths.
The spider
Going through his fabric
this very clear moon
has the spider awake.
Saúz
Tender willow
almost gold, almost amber,
almost light ...
The geese
Geese for nothing
they sound alarm
on their trumpets of clay.
The peacock
Peacock, long glow,
for the democrat chicken coop
you pass as a procession.
The turtle
Although he never moves,
tumbling, like a moving car,
the turtle goes down the path.
Dry leaves
The garden is full of dry leaves;
I never saw so many leaves on your trees
greens in spring.
The toads
Pieces of mud,
down the path in twilight,
The toads jump.
The bat
The flights of the swallow
the bat rehearses in the shade
and then fly during the day ... ?
Night butterfly
Return to the bare branch,
night butterfly,
the dry leaves of your wings.
Fireflies
Fireflies in a tree ...
Christmas in summer?
The Nightingale
Under the celestial dread
rave about the only star
the song of the nightingale.
Moon
The moon is a spider
silver
that has its web
in the river that portrays her.
I don't give a damn that women
have breasts like magnolias or fig raisins;
a peach or sandpaper complexion.
I give it an importance equal to zero,
to the fact that they wake up with an aphrodisiac breath
or with an insecticidal breath.
I am perfectly capable of bearing them
a nose that would win the first prize
at a carrot show;
But yes! -and in this I am irreducible
- I do not forgive them, under any pretext, that they do not know how to fly.
If they don't know how to fly, those who try to seduce me are wasting their time!
This was - and no other - the reason that I fell in love,
so madly, by María Luisa.
What did I care about her serial lips and her sulphurous jealousies?
What did his webbed limbs matter to me
and his glances of reserved forecast?
Maria Luisa was a real feather!
From dawn I flew from the bedroom to the kitchen,
I flew from the dining room to the pantry.
Flying I would prepare my bath, my shirt.
Flying made their purchases, their chores…
With what impatience did I wait for him to return, flying,
from a walk around!
Far there, lost in the clouds, a little pink dot.
"Maria Luisa! María Luisa! ”… And after a few seconds,
he was already hugging me with his feather legs,
to take me, flying, anywhere.
For miles of silence we planned a caress
that brought us closer to paradise;
for hours we nestled in a cloud,
like two angels, and suddenly,
in corkscrew, in dead leaf,
the crash landing of a spasm.
What a delight to have such a light woman ... ,
although it makes us see, from time to time, the stars!
What a pleasure to spend your days in the clouds ...
the one to spend the nights of a single flight!
After meeting an ethereal woman,
Can a terrestrial woman provide us with any kind of attractions?
Is it true that there is no substantial difference
between living with a cow or with a woman
that has the buttocks to thirty-eight centimeters of the ground?
I, at least, am unable to understand
the seduction of a pedestrian woman,
and no matter how hard I try to conceive it,
I can't even imagine
that love can be made more than flying.
I see him, leaning against a wall, his eyes almost
phosphorescent, and at the feet, a more hesitant shadow,
more ragged than a tree.
How to explain your tiredness, that aspect of home
groped and anonymous who only know the objects
condemned to the worst humiliations? ...
Would it suffice to admit that your muscles preferred
relax to endure the closeness of a skeleton capable of
age the newly released suits? ... Or will we have to
persuade us that its very artificiality ended by
give it the appearance of a mannequin crammed into a
back room? ...
Eyelashes ravaged by the unhealthy weather of their
pupils, he would go to the cafe where we met, and bent in
one end of the table, looked at us as though through a
insect cloud.
There is no doubt that without the need for an instinct
archaeological developed, it would have been easy to verify that
exaggerated, inordinately, when describing the fascinating
seduction of its attractions, with impudence and impunity
with which the disappeared is remembered ... but the wrinkles and
the patina that corroded those vestiges gave it a
decrepitude as premature as that suffered by buildings
public ...
I'm not.
I don't know her.
I don't want to meet her.
I hate the hollow,
The love of mystery,
The cult of ash,
How much does it disintegrate.
I have never had contact with the inert.
If of something I have rengade is about indiference.
I do not aspire to transmute myself,
Nor does rest tempt me.
The absurd and the fun still intregues me.
I am not for the immobile,
For the uninhabited.
When he comes to get me,
Tell him:
"has moved".
She took two steps forward
I took two steps back
The first step was saying good morning sir
The second step said good morning ma'am
And the others said how is the family
Today is a beautiful day like a dove in the sky
She wore a burning shirt
She had seas numbing eyes
She had hidden a dream in a dark closet
She had found a dead man in the middle of her head
When she arrived she left a more beautiful part far away
When she left something formed on the horizon to wait for her
Their gazes were wounded and bleeding over the hill
Her breasts were open and she sang the darkness of her age
It was beautiful like a sky under a dove
Had a mouth of steel
And a deadly flag drawn between the lips
He laughed like the sea that feels coals in its belly
Like the sea when the moon watches itself drown
Like the sea that has bitten all the beaches
The sea that overflows and falls into emptiness in times of plenty
When the stars coo over our heads
Before the north wind opens its eyes
It was beautiful in its horizons of bones
With his burning shirt and his weary tree stares
Like the sky riding on the doves
Succession of eloquent sounds moved to radiance, poem
it is this
and that
and that
And this that comes to me as innocence today,
that exists
because i exist
and because the world exists
and because the three of us can properly cease to exist.
In an orchard of Fray Luis
Dream me dream me quickly star of earth
cultivated by my eyelids take me by my shadow handles
allocate me with marble wings burning star star among my ashes
To be able to finally find the statue under my smile
of a sunny afternoon the gestures on the surface of the water
the eyes to flower of winter
You who in the bedroom of the wind are watching
the innocence of depending on the flying loveliness
that betrays itself in the ardor with which the leaves turn towards the weaker chest.
You who assume light and abyss on the edge of this flesh
that falls to my feet like a wounded vividness
You who are lost in jungles of error.
Suppose that in my silence lives a dark rose with no way out and without a fight.
Poems of Romanticism.
Avant-garde poems.
Poems of Realism.
Poems of Futurism.
Classicism Poems.
Poems of Neoclassicism.
Baroque Poems.
Poems of Modernism.
Poems of Dadaism.
Renaissance poems.
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