- List of poems by important authors of realism
- Pains
- The kingdom of drunkards
- To Voltaire
- The Mistress (Fragment)
- Ecce Homo!
- Homeland
- Recipe for a new art
- Closer to you
- L
- TO
- TO
- Photographs
- AND
- Candida
- Homeland
- Recipe for a new art
- The new aesthetic
- To my beauty
- My four deaths
- 92 Epistle (Fragment)
- I love you
- The friends
- Final judgment
- To America
- In the stream
- Other poems of interest
- References
The poems of realism were the exponent of a literary trend that was promoted in Europe in the mid-nineteenth century, due to the natural exhaustion that the predecessor current was presenting: Romanticism.
In realism, certain romantic canons such as costumbrismo were maintained, but he moved away from the imaginative and trivial to return to a more objective view of the world: to present society as it was, even with its defects. The latter was gaining ground and this trend led to another called Naturalism.
Although in the literary field, the genre that was most cultivated was the novel - which was delivered in parts in European newspapers - poetry also found its place at the hands of prominent authors of the time.
List of poems by important authors of realism
Pains
Love and glory
On sand and on wind
the sky has founded everything!
The same is the world of mud
as the world of feeling. Only air and sand are
the foundation of love and glory
.
Towers with which the
world and hearts fill illusion;
those of the world are sand,
and air those of the heart!
Author: Ramón de Campoamor
The kingdom of drunkards
He once had a kingdom so many drunkards,
that it can be said that they were all,
in which by just law it was prevented:
-Nobody tastes the wine.-
With joy the craziest
applauded the law, for costing little: obey it
later, now is another step;
But in the end, it is the case
that they gave it a very different
slant, believing that only red wine was forbidden,
and in the most frank way
they later got tipsy with white wine.
Surprised that the people do not understand her.
The Senate makes an amendment to the law,
and that of: No one tastes the wine, he
added, white, apparently, wisely.
Respecting the amendment the populace,
returned with red wine to be drunk, believing instinctively, but what instinct!
that the private one in this case was not the red wine.
Once the Senate has run,
in the second amendment, in cash
-None taste the wine,
be it white, be it red, - he warned them;
and the people, to get out of the new jam,
then mixed the white with red wine;
finding another escape in this way,
for it was neither white nor red then.
Third time mocked,
-
But how much a rebellious people forges!
Do you think that he then mixed it with water?
The Senate then left the post,
thus when he ceased he gave a manifesto:
The law is a network, in which
a mesh is always broken,
whereby the base man who does not trust in his reason,
evades suspicious… How well he said !
And in the rest I agree
that he should say, if he did not say it:
The law never confronts
the one whose infamy is equal to his malice:
if it is to be obeyed, the bad is good;
but if it is to be avoided, good is bad.
Author: Ramón de Campoamor
To Voltaire
You are formidable battering ram: nothing
Resist your satanic irony.
Across the grave still
Your raucous laugh resounds.
Fell under your steely satire
How much human stupidity believed, And today reason no longer serves as a guide
To the regenerated offspring of Adam.
It only influences his immortal destiny
The free religion of ideas;
Already the wretched faith came to earth;
The Christ is already collapsing; already the teas
They illuminate the mysteries of the road;
You already won, Voltaire. Screw you!
Author: Gaspar Nuñez de Arce
The Mistress (Fragment)
I learned at home what
the most perfect happiness is based on,
and to make it mine
I wanted to be like my father was
and I looked for a woman like my mother
among the daughters of my noble land.
And I was like my father, and my wife was the
living image of the dead mother.
A miracle of God, what
another woman like that saint did to me !
My only loves shared my
loving companion,
the idolized homeland,
the manor house,
with the inherited history,
with the inherited estate.
How good was the wife
and how fertile the land!
How happy was my house
and how healthy my estate,
and how solidly was
the tradition of honesty attached to them!
A simple farmer, humble,
daughter of a dark Castilian village;
A hardworking, honest,
Christian, kind, loving and serious woman
turned my house into an adorable idyll
that no poet could dream of.
Oh, how
the painful bustle of chores softens
when there is love at home
and with it much bread is kneaded in it
for the poor who live in its shadow,
for the poor who struggle for it!
And how much they appreciate it, without saying it,
and how much they care about the house,
and how they take care of it,
and how God increases it!
The Christian woman could
do everything, the discreet woman achieved everything.
Life in the farmhouse
revolved around her
peaceful and friendly,
monotonous and serene…
And how joy and work
where virtue is interpenetrate!
When washing in the crystalline stream
the girls
sang, and the cowboy sang in the valleys,
and the young men sang in the lands,
and the water
carrier on the way to the fountain, and the goat on the bare slope…
And I also sang,
that she and the countryside they made me a poet!
The balance
of that serene soul sang
like the wide skies,
like the fields of my beloved land;
And he also sang those fields,
those of the brown, undulating slopes,
those of the seas of waxed harvests,
those of the mute serious perspectives,
those of the chaste deep solitudes,
those of the gray dead distances…
The soul was soaked
in the solemn classical grandeur
that filled the open realms
of heaven and earth.
How placid the atmosphere,
how calm the landscape, how serene
the bluish atmosphere spread out
over the beam of the immense plain!
The afternoon breeze
stirred, lovingly, the avenue,
the flowery brambles of the fence,
the cherries of the meadow,
the harvest of the leaf,
the green glass of the old oak…
Mono-rhythmic music of the plain,
how pleasant your sound, what sweet it was!
The shepherd's bagpipes on the hill
cried the tunes of the earth,
loaded with sweetness,
loaded with monotonous sadness,
and within the sense
the cadences fell
like golden drops
of sweet honey that flowed from the honeycomb.
Life was solemn;
the thought was pure and serene;
the feeling calm, like the breezes;
The love is mute and strong, the pains are meek,
the pleasures are
tame, the beliefs are
stale, the bread is tasty, the sleep is restorative,
the good is easy, and the conscience is pure.
What desires the soul
had to be good,
and how it was filled with tenderness
when God told it that it was!
Author: José María Gabriel y Galán
Ecce Homo!
I have lived
alone with me
for twenty-four years and I have wanted to
divorce myself for four years.
Everything that surrounds
me causes me deep boredom,
and if I enter myself, what I see frightens
and horrifies me…
My head is vast,
dark and dark chaos
from which a world will never emerge,
and my heart is a circus
in which they fight like wild beasts
my virtues and my vices.
Without a star in my sky,
in a black night I walk;
I look for flowers and I find thistles, I
perceive a celestial aroma,
I run to him, and when I run, blind,
my feet find emptiness;
It is impossible to stop,
I fall rolling into an abyss, I manage to grab a rose…
and it comes off with me!
Today I can neither love nor feel…
Oh! when I think that I have been
happy… that I could be…
One day, a cursed day,
a desire to know crazy,
made my spirit taste
the, forbidden, inviting
fruit of the forbidden tree
of good and evil… Science
threw me from paradise!
Cruel she,
my eyes have turned into microscopes;
I look at the one where others see pure water
full of infusoria,
and where they find love they
only discover selfishness.
There are those who at night, in the forest,
are enchanted by the pure brilliance
of a light that enters the leaves
it makes its way out of the grass;
I don't, I can't enchant myself
and I approach that light,
until I find the worm…
and I do the same in the world!
And if life causes me
boredom and annoyance,
just thinking about death
gives me chills.
Bad if I live, and worse if I die,
see if I will be amused…
If the beings of the earth
all live
as I live, since there is God (if there is) I do not understand
why we were born!…
Damn my luck
and the damn day
they sent me into the world
without consulting me!…
Author: Joaquín María Bartrina
Homeland
I.
Wanting me one day
Know what the Homeland is, An old man told me
How much he loved her:
«The Homeland feels;
They have no words
That of course they explain it
Human languages.
»There, where all
Things speak to us
With a voice that deep down
Penetrates the soul;
»There, where it begins
The short journey
That man in the world
The heavens point;
»There, where the song
Maternal cooed
The cradle that the Angel
Guardian veil;
»There, where on land
Blessed and sacred
From grandparents and parents
The remains rest;
»There, where it raises
Your roof the house
Of our elders…
There is the Homeland.
II.
»The deep valley, The rough mountain
That they saw happy
Running our childhood;
»The old ruïnas
Of graves and of sakes
What cloaks do they wear today
Of ivy and bush;
»The tree that fruits
And shadow gave us
To the harmonious son
Of the bird and the aura;
»Memories, loves, Sadness, hopes,
What sources have been
Of joys and tears;
»The image of the temple, The rock and the beach
That neither years nor absences
From the spirit they start;
»The familiar voice, The young woman who passes
The flower that you have watered,
And the field that you till;
»Already in a sweet concert, Already in isolated notes, You will hear that they tell you:
Here is the Homeland.
III.
»The ground you walk on
And flaunts the finery
Of art and industry
Of all your race
»It is not the work of a day
That the wind breaks;
Labor is centuries
Of sorrows and feats.
»In him had origin
The faith that inflames you;
In him your affections
More nobles take root:
»In it they have written
Plowshares and swords,
Brushes and pens, Burins and exploits, Gloomy annals, Enchanting stories
And in eternal traits
Your people portray.
»And so much to his life
Yours is linked, Which joins in a tree
To the trunk the branch.
»Therefore present
Or in remote areas, Wherever with you
Homeland always goes.
IV.
»It does not matter that the man, May your land be ungrateful,
Let hunger afflict her, Let pests invade her;
What vile executioners
The slave dessert, Breaking the laws
More just and holy;
»What eternal nights
The mists bring you, And never the stars
Your desired light;
»Ask the outlaw,
Ask the wanderer
For her without a roof, Without peace and without calm;
»Ask if they can
Never forget her, If in sleep and wake
They do not cry out for her!
"It does not exist, in their eyes, Most beautiful abode, Neither in the field nor in the sky
None equals it.
»Maybe all united
Tell each other tomorrow:
«My God is yours, My Pátria your Pátria. »
Author: Ventura Ruiz Aguilera
Recipe for a new art
Mix without concert, by chance,
the lake, the neurosis, the delirium,
Titania, the dream, Satan, the lily,
the dragonfly, the punch and the sculpture;
dissolve in Hellenic tincture
auroral pallor and candlelight,
wish Musset and Baudelaire martyrdom,
and tongue and rhyme put yourselves in torture.
Then pass the thick concoction
by alembic to the vain brain
of a blue bard from the last batch
and you will have that sovereign jargon
that is Góngora dressed in French
and covered in American compote.
Author: Emilio Ferrari
The human life
Candles of love in gulfs of tenderness
fly my poor heart to the wind
and finds, in what it reaches, its torment, and hopes, in what he does not find, his luck, living in this human grave
deceive regret is my contentment, and this atrocious sackcloth of thought
there is no boundary between genius and madness.
Oh! in the mean life that the madman seizes, and that the unhappy sane of horror dismays, sweet in name, actually bitter,
only pain with alternate pain, and if when counting it to days it is very long, measured by hours it is eternal.
Author: Ramón de Campoamor
Closer to you
Closer to you I feel
the more I run from you
because your image is in me
shadow of my thought.
Never, even if you are complaining, your complaints I can hear, because since you are so beautiful, I can't hear you, I watch you speak.
Be patient, heart
which is better, what I see, desire without possession
What a desireless possession
Because in sweet confidence
I once spoke to you
all my life i spent
speaking with my hope.
Tell me again today, Well, rapt yesterday
I listened to you without hearing
and looked at you without seeing.
After you cross a bundle
I saw for the carpet;
blind, the dagger buried…
and it was your shadow.
How foolish, I love you, even out of jealousy
your shadow killed!
TO THE EAR (1)
Let me penetrate this ear
the right way to my good, and in the deepest corner of your chest
let me build my loving nest.
Eternally happy and hidden
I will live to occupy it satisfied…
Of so many worlds as God has made
this space no more to God I ask!
I no longer lust long fame
nor the applause that follows victory
nor the glory of so many coveted…
I want to encrypt my fame in your memory;
I want to find my applause in your eyes;
and in your arms of love all my glory.
Author: Adelardo López
L
It's her!… Love, her steps lead…
I feel the soft rustle of her dress…
Which sky by the divided ray, my spirit suddenly lights up.
A thousand yearnings, with the sudden bliss,
they stir in my heart moved, which chicks are boiling in the nest
when the tender mother is coming.
My good! My love !: For the bright and clear
look of your eyes, with longing
penetrates the soul, of your greedy being!…
Oh! Nor the fallen angel more consolation
I could enjoy, if I penetrated
second time in the region of heaven!
Author: Adelardo López
TO
Oh Musa, that in combat
of life, you have not had,
to your honor worshiping, flattery for the tycoon
insults for the defeated, no applause for the tumult!
As in days of fighting
if the pity does not dull
or seize your thoughts, today raise your song, and let it be
a moan every note
and each stanza a lament.
Before the immense break
of beautiful Andalusia, give way to your fierce anguish;
but don't stop crying
proclaim oh my Muse!
the truth, always severe.
Your feelings silence, because immoderate zeal
the miserable vanishes, and in this human battle
who flatters the wretch
it does not encourage him: it debases him.
Tell him rather: «-Go ahead!
Fulfill your rude task
and cries, but works;
that the firm and constant man
the ravages of his grief
with the own effort it cuts off.
»Don't be at the foot of the ruins,,
like a useless beggar, indolent and downcast, and when the swallows return
they will work on the eaves
of your new house the nest.
»Plows, sows, rebuilds, fight against the current
of the misfortune in which you live,
and exalt and sanctify
with the sweat of your brow
The gift you receive ».
Speak to him thus, honored Muse, and in your noble magisterium
never desecrate your lyre, With flattery waned, with the clumsy vituperation
nor with the low lie.
Author: Gaspar Nuñez
TO
He wanted to impose his memory on the world
a king, in his excessive pride, and by thousands of slaves built
erected this mortuary pyramid.
Sterile and vain dream! Already history
he does not remember his name or his life, that blind time in its swift run
left the grave and took the glory.
The dust that in the hollow of your hand
the traveler contemplates absorbed, has he been
part of a servant or part of the tyrant?
Ah! everything is mixed up and confused, that God keeps for human pride
just an eternity: that of oblivion.
Author: Gaspar Nuñes
Photographs
Pantoja, have courage! Break the fence:
Look, look on card and letterhead
and the bull that hooked Pepete fits
give birth in hardware stores.
You are a fool. -True.- But hush
your modesty and doubt do not worry you.
What does a fool matter more where he gets
with childish presumption so much trash?
You will be worth a peseta, good Pantoja!
Faces and names are not worth much more
that photography throws to the world.
Show us your face and don't be surprised:
let the future age collect,
so many portraits and so few men.
Author: Gaspar Nuñez de Arce
AND
Señol jues, pasi you more alanti
and what in between those, don't give you craving
do not give you fear…
If you come antiayel to afflict
You're lying at the door But he's already dead!
Seize, seize the accoutrements, there is no money here:
I have spent it on food for her
and in pharmacies that did not serve him;
and that that quea me,
because I didn't have time to sell it, I already have excess, is already getting me!
Embargo esi sacho de pico,
and those jocis nailed to the ceiling, and that security
and that chunk and nit…
Jerramieros, there was not one left!
what do I want them for?
If she had to win it for her, What was it that took that away from me!
But I no longer quio vel esi sacho, nor those jocis nailed to the ceiling, not even that security
nor that chunk and nit…
But a vel, señol jues: be careful
if any of those
it's osao from tocali to that bed
ondi she is dead:
the bed ondi I wanted it
when we were both güenos;
I have taken care of the bed ondi, the bed ondi was her body
four months alive
and a dead night!
Señol jues: let none be osao
from tocali to that bed not a hair, because here I am
delanti you same!
Take it all
all, give me that, that those blankets have
suol from his body…
And I guelin, I guelin her
you see that the güelo!…
Author: Jose Maria Gabriel y Galan
Candida
Do you want Candida to know
which is the best girl?
Well meditate with love
what you are now going to read.
The one who is docile and obedient, the one who prays with blind faith, with innocent abandon.
the one who sings, the one who plays.
The one who turns away from foolishness, the one who eagerly learns
how to embroider a handkerchief, how to write a letter.
The one who can't dance
and yes pray the rosary
and wears a scapular
around the neck, instead of a necklace.
The one who despises or ignores
worldly ravings;
the one who loves her brothers;
and his mother adores.
The one that fills with candor
sing and laugh nobly;
work, obey and pray…
That's the best girl!
II
Do you want to know, Candidita, you, who will aspire to heaven, which is perfect model
of a young Christian?
The one who is getting closer to God, the one that, when she stopped being a girl, with his house he loves
and the street is forgetting.
The one that embroiders scapulars
instead of rosettes;
the one who reads few novels
and many devotionals.
The one that is simple and is good
and knows that it is not disgrace, after embroidering in gold
start cooking dinner.
The one that is pure and collected, the one who estimates her decorum
like a precious treasure
worth more than your life.
That humble young lady, noble image of modesty, is the best model
that you have to imitate, Candidita.
III
And do you want to finally know
what is the finished type, the model and the paragon
of the perfect woman?
The one who knows how to preserve
his honor pure and collected:
the one that is honor of the husband
and joy of home.
The noble Christian woman
strong and generous soul, to whom he gives his pious faith
sovereign fortress.
That of his children faithful pledge
and loving educator;
the wise administrator
of his house and his estate.
The one marching ahead, carry the heaviest cross
and walks resigned
giving example and giving courage.
The one who knows how to suffer
the one who knows how to love
and knows how to carry
down the path of duty.
The one that the home sanctifies,
the one who invokes God in him, the one that everything touches
it ennobles and dignifies it.
The one who knows how to be a martyr
and faith to all knows how to give, and teaches them to pray
and teaches them to grow.
The one that brings that faith to light
and the impulse of his example
builds a temple in his house
to work and virtue…
The one that God achieves
is the perfect woman, And that's how you have to be
so that God bless you!
Author: José María Gabriel y Galán
Homeland
Wanting me one day
Know what the Homeland is, An old man told me
How much he loved her:
«The Homeland feels;
They have no words
That of course they explain it
Human languages.
»There, where all
Things speak to us
With a voice that deep down
Penetrates the soul;
»There, where it begins
The short journey
That man in the world
The heavens point;
»There, where the song
Maternal cooed
The cradle that the Angel
Guardian veil;
There where on land
Blessed and sacred
From grandparents and parents
The remains rest;
»There, where it raises
Your roof the house
Of our elders.
There is the Homeland.
II.
»The deep valley, The rough mountain
That they saw happy
Running our childhood;
»The old ruïnas
Of graves and of sakes
What cloaks do they wear today
Of ivy and bush;
»The tree that fruits
And shadow gave us
To the harmonious son
Of the bird and the aura;
»Memories, loves, Sadness, hopes, What sources have been
Of joys and tears;
»The image of the temple,
The rock and the beach
That neither years nor absences
From the spirit they start;
»The familiar voice, The young woman who passes
The flower that you have watered, And the field that you till;
»Already in a sweet concert, Already in isolated notes, You will hear that they tell you:
Here is the Homeland.
III.
»The ground you walk on
And flaunts the finery
Of art and industry
Of all your race
»It is not the work of a day
That the wind breaks;
Labor is centuries
Of sorrows and feats.
»In him had origin
The faith that inflames you;
In him your affections
More nobles take root:
»In it they have written
Plowshares and swords, Brushes and pens, Burins and exploits, Gloomy annals, Enchanting stories
And in eternal traits
Your people portray.
»And so much to his life
Yours is linked, Which joins in a tree
To the trunk the branch.
»Therefore present
Or in remote areas,
Wherever with you
Homeland always goes.
IV.
»It does not matter that the man, May your land be ungrateful, Let hunger afflict her, Let pests invade her;
What vile executioners
The slave dessert, Breaking the laws
More just and holy;
»What eternal nights
The mists bring you, And never the stars
Your desired light;
»Ask the outlaw, Ask the wanderer
For her without a roof, Without peace and without calm;
»Ask if they can
Never forget her, If in sleep and wake
They do not cry out for her!
"It does not exist, in their eyes, Most beautiful abode, Neither in the field nor in the sky
None equals it.
»Maybe all united
Tell each other tomorrow:
«My God is yours, My Pátria your Pátria. »
Author: Ventura Ruiz Aguilera.
Recipe for a new art
Mix without a concert, at random, the lake, the neurosis, the delirium,
Titania, the dream, Satan, the lily, the dragonfly, the punch and the sculpture;
dissolve in Hellenic tincture
auroral pallor and candlelight, wish Musset and Baudelaire martyrdom, and tongue and rhyme put on torture.
Then pass the thick hodgepodge
by alembic to the sesera vain
of a blue bard from the last batch
and you will have that sovereign jargon
what is Góngora dressed in French
and soaked in American compote.
Author: Emilio Ferrari
The new aesthetic
One day, on class matters, the hens signed a uckase, and from the Sinai of the henhouse
they promulgated their law to the whole world.
Available there, in cash, than the robust flight of eagles
must be condemned
like a cheesy lyricism in bad taste;
that, instead of carving nests in the heights, digs, incessantly, in the garbage;
that, to expand the horizons, flush with flush the mountains be beheaded, and leaving all Himalayas at the level, of the dunghill that his corral dominates, henceforth, there is no
more flights than chicken flights.
This the volatile side
he decreed, the invention cackling.
But despite the uproar, I infer
that people later, as usual, He kept admiring the eagle on the summit
and throwing the chickens into the pot.
Author: Emilio Ferrari
To my beauty
Bartrina does not believe in friendship:
«Disillusioned with love, my longing
in friendship he sought sweet consolation
and my life I started with sincere faith;
no (I say wrong: I left), I gave it to him whole
to a friend - who was, I believed.-
But one day a terrible day came!
I had to weigh him on the scale
of interest, and that friend of mine
who I loved with so much excess, it yielded to an ounce of weight ».
Author: Joaquin Mario Bartrina
My four deaths
Bartrina does not believe in conjugal loyalty:
«Before a sacred image
with an anxious heart, with the torn soul, for the health of her husband
a married woman begs sad.
And not your health wishes
for being loyal to his love;
he loves her because
crying makes her ugly
and mourning makes him feel bad.
Author: Joaquin María Bartrina
92 Epistle (Fragment)
No coward will cast clean steel
while hearing the clarion of the fight, soldier that his honor keep whole;
nor the pilot's mood falters
why the hell light your way
and the immense gulf to stir see.
Always fight!… of man is destiny;
and the one who fights undaunted, with burning faith, His divine laurel gives him glory.
For calm he sighs eternally;
but where does it hide, where does it spring
of this immortal thirst the yearned for source?…
In the deep valley, that toils
when the florid season of the year
dresses it in greens and early light;
in the wild peaks, where it nests
the eagle that lays next to the sky
his mansion fought against hurricanes, the limit does not find its longing;
nor because his slave makes luck, after intimate restlessness and sterile mourning.
He only the happy and strong man will be, may he live in peace with his conscience
even the peaceful sleep of death.
What is splendor, what is opulence, the darkness, nor loose mediocrity, if to suffer the crime sentence us?
Peasant's hut, humble and cold, Alcazar de los Reyes, stout, whose altitude defies the mountain, I know well that, invisible as the wind, guest that the soul freezes, has sat
remorse from your home.
What became of the haughty, untamed Corsican
until Spain appeared on the borders
which comet from the broken sky?
The power that his flags gave him
with awe and terror of the nations
Did it satisfy your flattering hopes?…
It fell; and among the barbarian rocks
of his exile, in the night hours
Fateful visions haunted him;
and the auroras gave him sadness, and in the gentle murmur of the breeze
voices he heard accusing moans.
More compliant and more submissive
the will of God, the beautiful soul
that always lacerated briers tread.
Francisco, that's how we saw that
who lulled you in her maternal arms, and today, clothed in light, the stars trace:
that when touching the threshold of the tomb, bathed her sweet face with sweet lightning
the dawn of immortal joys.
Author: Ventura Ruíz Aguilera
I love you
I love you without explanations
calling my feelings love
and kissing your mouth to get excited, I love you without reasons and with reasons, I love you for being you
It's nice to say I love you
but it is more beautiful to say I love you, I'm sorry and I'll show you.
I have no wings to go to heaven
but I have words to say…
i love you
Love is not just a feeling.
It is also an art.
Author: Honoré de Balzac
The friends
In tobacco, in coffee, in wine,
at the edge of the night they rise up
like those voices that sing in the distance
without knowing what, along the way.
Lightly, brothers of fate,
godlike, pale shadows,
the flies of habits frighten me, they hold me
afloat amidst so much whirlpool.
The dead speak more but in the ear,
and the living are a warm hand and a roof, the
sum of what was gained and what was lost.
Thus one day in the boat of the shade,
from so much absence my chest will shelter
this ancient tenderness that names them.
Author: Julio Cortázar.
Final judgment
Woe to you the sad ones
That in such stormy sea
Fighting with the storms
Without hope you float;
Knowing from your damage
That of the route at the end
Only the
raw death will be your prize and no more!
And you those who in vague dreams
Of eternal happiness You
believe in flight in dying
Over the airs to pass,
What reward, wretched ones,
By such blind faith do you wait,
If it is between God and men
Mediating eternity?
And where do you, deceived
In such blind confusion,
Walk, my brothers, Truguas
lending to pain?
If you go, like me, marching,
Full of faith in your heart,
Believing behind the grave,
Go to a better life,
Bend your forehead like me,
Have a quick step,
That by sentence of the same
For us there is no God.
But no, follow your path
To the magical radiance,
With which the sweet hope
Your childhood illuminated;
And oh! If you were eager to run
From your footsteps in pursuit of
your encouraged spark,
I could follow you!
Author: Ramón de Campoamor.
To America
This is Spain! Stunned and injured
under the brutal weight of her misfortune,
inert lies the august matron
who in other centuries weary fame.
The one that sailed the stormy seas
looking for you daring in the mystery,
until one day,
dazzling the world, you emerged, like Venus, from the waves.
Blinded by your splendid beauty,
by setting you in her imperial diadem,
Spain oppressed you; but do not blame her,
because when was the barbaric
just and humane conquest ? He also graciously
gave you his blood, his robust language,
his laws and his God. He gave you everything
except freedom!
Well, I could give you the only good I didn't have.
Contemplate her defeated and humiliated
by doubleness and gold, and if
her ills move you to generous pity,
the tragic collapse of a glory
that is also yours, corner her in her duel.
It's your unhappy mother! Do not leave
your love, in such an immense misfortune.
Author: Gaspar Núñez de Arce.
In the stream
When little by little, in droves,
the people ran towards the raptor,
already, with a jump, he was raised,
his skin bloody,
but his face radiant.
Read in their glances
the heavenly appetite
for those adventures dreamed of
there on frozen nights
of infinite helplessness.
It seemed to wake up
to a higher destiny,
and eagerly to guess
the shelter of home,
the caresses of love.
The angel who slept in him saw
the luminous scales
between his dreams,
and, hopefully, beat
his wings for the last time.
As
soon as he was broken and dusty, he found himself on his feet, with a slow step
beside the lady he stood,
and for a moment he discovered himself,
embarrassed and confused.
She offered him a hand
of the thin, tight glove,
ran to shake it proudly,
and went to give him a superhuman,
a first kiss in his life.
But when he grasped it, he felt,
with the touch of the silk,
something cold, the kiss drowned,
and in his he pressed
the viI payment: a coin.
He even saw the lady, longing,
return, trembling, the grim,
pale face for an instant;
immediately heard, vibrating,
the crack of the whip;
He went with anger and despair,
losing sight of the car,
raised his fists to the sky,
threw the gold against the ground…
and was hungry that night.
Author: Emilio Ferrari.
Other poems of interest
Poems of Romanticism.
Avant-garde poems.
Poems of the Renaissance.
Poems of Futurism.
Poems of Classicism.
Poems of Neoclassicism.
Poems of the Baroque.
Poems of Modernism.
Poems of Dadaism.
Cubist Poems.
References
- Spanish Literature of Realism. Recovered from es.wikipedia.org.
- Spanish Realism. Characteristics, Authors and Works. Recovered from uma.es.
- Outstanding authors of Spanish Realism. Recovered from masterlengua.com.
- Mr. Ramón de Campoamor. Recovered from los-poetas.com.
- Painful. Recovered from poemasde.net.
- "Ecce Homo!", A poem by Joaquín María Bartrina. Recovered from caminoivars.com.
- José María Gabriel y Galán. Recovered from poemas-del-alma.com.
- Homeland. Recovered from sabalete.es.
- Emilio Ferrari. Recovered from poeticas.es.