- 5 poems by the most famous futurist authors
- Hug you
- soul
- I just want miracles
- Feasts
- Other poems of interest
- References
We leave you a list of Futurism poems by 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 spanned other areas of art, such as literature.
Marinetti
Although the Futurist current had a great boom in the field of plastic arts, Futurism originated in the 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 had left
Where does not return
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 alone
So alone
So dead I too
It's funny,
When someone gets lost Of the circle of power
That ties us to life,
That circle where only four fit,
That circle,
We are attacked by reproaches (vain)
Joys
Of the theater
That is a lair
For brothers
And a shame, a shame that does not fit inside
One
And a shame, a shame that drowns us
It's funny, When your life becomes before and after,
On the outside you seem the same
Inside you break into two
And one of them
And one of them
Hides asleep in your chest
In your chest
Like a bed
And it is forever and ever
It goes no more
In Life
Dear
Life
How sad not to be able to
Grow Old
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 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 bridle in the strident teeth!
O formidable Japanese forge-eyed 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 its bloody palpitation at the horizon…
Watch him gallop deep into the woods!…
What does it matter, beautiful Demon!
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 the face!
From time to time I lift my body to feel on my neck, that trembles the pressure of 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
suddenly it seems that, on its padded fabric 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 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 its copper lungs?
I accept with you the opposite, My stars… More soon!…
Even sooner! Without a truce!
Without any rest, release the brakes!…
Than! Can't you?… Break them!… Soon!
Let the engine pulse 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
Listen!
Listen!
Perhaps if the stars shine
Is there someone who needs it?
Does anyone want them to be?
Does someone take these spittle for pearls?
And shouting
Amidst midday dust, He makes his way to God
He fears that no one expects him, cries, kisses his sinewy hand,
pray, there will necessarily be a star!
cry out, He will not endure this ordeal in the dark!
And then
He is restless
with a calm expression.
Tell someone:
"You don't have anything anymore?
It's not scary?
Yes?!"
Listen!
Perhaps, if the stars
they shine, 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 today are
no longer those who cultivate the Fine Arts
They are not those who deal with
Art Poetic or musical art
The Artists are the actors and actresses
If we were artists, we
would not 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 you need to have good taste.
Author: Wilhelm Apollinaire de Kostrowitsky
soul
My soul, who suffers
For those around you,
You have become the grave
Of all who grieve on earth.
Their bodies embalmed,
You consecrate them your verses,
The lyre, sobbing,
Raise a lament for them.
In our selfish age You
defend fear and conscience
Like a funeral urn
Where their ashes lie.
The torments of all
have brought you to your knees.
You smell like corpse dust,
A 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 still grinds
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
why I am
calm,
amid the gale of mockery.
You will never understand
why I am
calm,
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,
I,
perhaps
the last poet.
Have you seen?
In the stony streets
waddles
the listed hanged face apathy,
and the scummy neck
of the swift rivers
twisted his arms bridges iron.
The sky cries
disconsolate,
loud;
a cloud
a grimace at the corner of the mouth
looks like a woman expecting a child
and God gave her a one-eyed idiot.
With plump fingers, covered with red hair,
the sun caressed with the insistence of the gadfly
your souls were enslaved to kisses.
I, intrepid,
maintained in the centuries the hatred of the rays of day;
With my soul tense, like cable nerves,
I am the king of lamps.
Come to me
those who tore the silence,
howled them
when the noon noose tightened,
I will show you,
with
simple words. Like a moo,
our new souls,
buzzing, like arches of lamps.
As soon as you touch your head with your fingers, your
lips will grow
for enormous kisses
and a language
related to all peoples.
I, with the limping lama,
will retire to my throne
with star holes in the worn vaults.
I will lie down
bright
with clothes made of indolence
on the soft bed of legitimate
and silent manure,
kissing the knees of the sleepers
the wheel of a train will hug me by the neck.
I just want miracles.
Author: Vladimir Mayakovski.
Feasts
I drink the bitterness of tuberose,
the bitterness of autumnal skies,
and in them the fiery 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.
The wind is disturbing that of the cuppers toasts,
which, 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, she searches for an anapesto,
and Cinderella quickly changes her dress.
Swept floors, on the tablecloth… not a crumb.
The verse is serene like a childish kiss.
And Cinderella runs, 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.
Poems of the Renaissance.
Poems of Classicism.
Poems of Neoclassicism.
Poems of the Baroque.
Poems of Modernism.
Poems of Dadaism.
Cubist Poems.
References
- Poem and its elements: stanza, verse, rhyme. Recovered from portaleducativo.net
- Poem. Recovered from es.wikipedia.org
- Filippo Tomasso Marinetti. Recovered from es.wikipedia.org
- Hug you. Recovered from poemasfuturistas.blogspot.com.ar
- Vladimir Mayakovsky… Five poems. Recovered from observaremoto.blogspot.com.ar
- Futurism. Top representatives. Recovered from futururismo-leng.blogspot.com.ar
- The car song, by Marinetti. Recovered from papelenblanco.com
- Poems by Guillaume Apollinaire. Recovered from opinioneideas.org.