7 junio, 2024

26 Realism Poems by the Most Important Authors

The realism poems They were the exponent of a literary current that was promoted in Europe in the mid-19th century, due to the natural exhaustion that the predecessor current was presenting: Romanticism.

In realism, certain romantic canons such as costumbrismo were maintained, but it moved away from the imaginative and trivial to return to a more objective view of the world: presenting 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 cultivated the most 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

doloras

love and glory

On sand and on wind
Heaven has founded everything!
The same the world of the mud
than the world of feeling.
Of love and glory the foundation
they are only air and sand.
Towers with which the illusion
world and hearts full;
those of the world are sand,
and air those of the heart!

Author: Ramon de Campoamor

The kingdom of the drunkards

Had a kingdom once so many drunks,
that it can be said that they were all,
in which by just law it was prevented:
-No one tasted the wine.-
With joy the craziest
The law was applauded, because it cost little:
complying with it later is another step;
but in the end, it is the case
that they gave it a very different bias,
believing that only red wine was prohibited,
and in the most frank way
then they were tipsy with white wine.
Surprised that the people do not understand it.
The Senate to the law puts an amendment,
and that of: No one tasted the wine
added, white, apparently wisely.
Respecting the amendment the populace,
returned to be drunk with red wine,
Believing by instinct, but what an instinct!
that the private in such a case was not the red.
With the Senate over,
on the second amendment, cash
-No one tasted the wine,
Be it white, be it red,-
warned them;

and the people, to get out of the new blockade,
with red wine then he mixed the white;
Finding another escape this way,
Well, neither white nor red then it was.
Third time mocked,
said the Senate;

It is forbidden to mix wine with wine>-
But how much a rebellious people forges!
Do you think he then mixed it with water?
The Senate then leaving office,
Thus when Caesar gave a manifesto:
The law is a network, in which there is always
decomposed a mesh,
where the villain who does not trust his reason,
he evades suspiciously…
How well said!

And in the rest I conclude
What should he say, if he didn’t say it:
The law never stops
to whom his infamy his malice equals:
if it is to be obeyed, the bad is good;
but if it has to be avoided, the good is bad.

Author: Ramon de Campoamor

To Voltaire

You are formidable battering ram: nothing

Resist your satanic irony.

Through the grave still

Your shrill laughter 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 miserable faith came to earth;

Already the Christ collapses; already teas

They illuminate the mysteries of the path;

You already won, Voltaire. Screw you!

Author: Gaspar Nuñez de Arce

The Mistress (Fragment)

I learned at home what it is based on
the most perfect bliss,
and to make her 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 was my wife
living image of the dead mother.
A miracle of God, what a sight he made me
another woman like that saint!

They shared my only loves
the companion lover,
the idolized homeland,
the manor house,
with the inherited history,
with the inherited farm.
How good was the wife
and how fertile the earth!

How happy was my house
and how healthy my finances,
and how solidly it was united
the tradition of honesty to them!

A simple farmer, humble,
daughter of an obscure Castilian village;
a hard-working, honest woman,
Christian, kind, affectionate and serious,
turned my house into an adorable idyll
that no poet could dream of.

Oh how it softens
the painful bustle of chores
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 grateful they are, without saying it,
and how much they are interested in the house,
and how they take care of her,
and how God increases it!
The Christian woman could do everything,
The discreet woman achieved it all.

life in the farmhouse
revolved around her
peaceful and kind,
monotonous and serene…

And how joy and work
where virtue is, they interpenetrate!

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 little goat in the bald slope…
And I also sang
that she and the countryside made me a poet!

sang the balance
of that serene soul
like the wide skies,
like the fields of my beloved land;
and also sang those fields,
those of the brown ones, 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 solemn classical grandeur
that filled the open fields
of heaven and earth.

What a pleasant environment
how calm the landscape, how serene
the bluish atmosphere spread
above the beam of the immense plain!

the evening breeze
she waved, lovingly, the boulevard,
the flowering brambles of the enclosure,
the cherries of the vega,
the harvest of the leaf,
the green cup of the old oak…
Monorhythmic music of the plain,
how pleasant your sound, how sweet it was!

The shepherd’s bagpipe on the hill
cried the tunes of the earth,
full of 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;
pure and serene the thought was;
calm the feeling, like the breezes;
mute and strong love, meek sorrows
austere the pleasures,
entrenched beliefs,
tasty bread, restful sleep,
easy good and pure conscience.

what desires the soul
I had to be good
and how it was filled with tenderness
when God told him it was!

Author: José María Gabriel y Galán

Ecce Homo!

twenty four years ago
that I live alone with me
and I’ve been wanting for four
divorce myself.
everything that surrounds me
it causes me deep boredom,
and if I enter myself, it terrifies me
and what I look at horrifies me…
My head is vast chaos
hazy and gloomy
from which a world will never emerge,
and my heart is a circus
in which they fight like beasts
My virtues and my vices.
Without a star in my sky
in black night I walk;
I look for flowers and find thistles,
celestial aroma I perceive,
I run to him, and, as I run, blind,
my feet find the void;
it is impossible to stop me,
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 i’ve been
happy… that could be…
One day, cursed day,
a crazy desire to know,
made my spirit test
the, forbidden, inciting
fruit of the forbidden tree
of good and evil… Science
threw me out of paradise!
Cruel she, in microscopes
my eyes has turned;
the one that others see pure water
full of infusoria I look,
and where they find love
I only discover selfishness.
There are those who at night, in the forest,
enchants before the pure brilliance
of a light that between the leaves
From the grass he makes his way;
I don’t, I can’t love myself
and that light I approach,
until you find the worm…
and I do the same in the world!
And if it causes me life
boredom and annoyance,
just thinking about death
I get chills.
Bad if I live, and worse if I die,
See if I’ll be funny…
If the beings of the earth
they all live as I live,
How is there God (if there is) I don’t understand
why were we born!…
damn my luck
and the day be cursed
when they sent me into the world
without consulting me!…

Author: Joaquin Maria Bartrina

Homeland

YO.

wanting me one day

Knowing what the Homeland is,

an old man told me

How much he loved her:

«The Homeland feels;

they have no words

How clear they explain it

Human languages.

»There, where all

things speak to us

With a voice that goes all the way down

It penetrates the soul;

«There, where it begins

the short journey

that the 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

Of grandparents and parents

The remains rest;

»There, where it raises

your roof the house

From our elders…

There is the country.

II.

»The deep valley,

the rude mountain

that they saw happy

Running our childhood;

»The old ruins

Of graves and altars

What cloaks do you wear today?

Of ivy and bramble;

»The tree that fruits

and shade gave us

to the harmonious sound

Of the bird and the aura;

»Memories, loves,

sadness, hope,

What sources have been

Of joys and tears;

»The image of the temple,

The rock and the beach

That neither years nor absences

They start from the spirit;

»The familiar voice,

The young woman who passes

The flower that you have watered,

And the field that you till;

»Now in sweet concert,

Already in isolated notes,

You will hear them say:

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 originated

The faith that inflames you;

In it your affections

More noble take root:

They have written on it

plows and swords,

brushes and pens,

chisels and feats,

»Gloomy annals,

Stories that enchant

And in eternal traits

Your people portray.

»And so much to his life

Yours is linked

which unites in a tree

To the trunk the branch.

»Therefore present

Or in remote areas

anywhere with you

The homeland always goes.

IV.

«It doesn’t matter that the man,

Your land is ungrateful,

let hunger afflict her,

Let plagues invade it;

»What vile executioners

The last slave,

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 one who wanders

For her without a roof,

Without peace and without calm;

»Ask if they can

never forget her,

If in sleep and wakefulness

For her they do not cry!

«It does not exist, in their eyes,

most beautiful abode,

Neither in the field nor in the sky

None equals him.

»Maybe all united

Tell each other tomorrow:

«My God is yours,

My homeland your homeland.»

Author: Ventura Ruiz Aguilera

Recipe for a new art

Mix without concert, at random,
he lakethe neurosishe delirium,
Titaniahe dream, Satanhe lily,
the dragon-flyhe Punch and the sculpture;

dissolve in hellenic tincture
auroral pallor and candle light,
wish to musset already baudelaire martyrdom,
and tongue and rhyme put yourself in torture.

Then pass the thick hodgepodge
by alembic to the brainless vain
of a bard blue of the last consignment

and you will have that sovereign jargon
What is Góngora dressed in the French style?
and smeared 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 waits, in what he does not find, his happiness,

living in this human grave

deceive sorrow is my contentment,

and this atrocious hair shirt of…

Deja una respuesta

Tu dirección de correo electrónico no será publicada. Los campos obligatorios están marcados con *