8 junio, 2024

30 Avant-garde Poems by Famous Authors

The avant-garde poems They emerged in the first half of the 20th century and were characterized, like the avant-garde current in general, for having a free and innovative style, not tied to literary conventions.

The avant-garde in poetry does not respect the metric, it takes risks, is irreverent and very creative, to the point of practicing total freedom. This anarchy is observed in the typography used and the way of capturing the lines on the paper (upside down or in the shape of animals, spirals, etc.), incorporating drawings, sounds and dreamlike images or strange situations.

Avant-garde poetry intentionally appeals to bad spelling, to the creation of non-existent words and to dispense with connectors and other grammatical resources.

The theme is also out of the ordinary and the words do not seek to have meanings beyond the words themselves, that is, there is no figurative sense.

All these characteristics were very marked in the avant-garde poetry of Europe. When this current permeated America, the writers of this continent adopted it to express their socialist political ideals and their concern for social issues.

For this reason, in their thematic poems they dealt with the problems of humanity, using more or less subtle metaphors, but ultimately reflecting their commitment to the people.

List of poems by the main avant-garde authors

August 1914

Author: Vicente Huidobro

It is the vintage of the borders
Behind the horizon something happens
On the gallows of dawn all cities are hanged
The cities that sniff like pipes
halali
halali
But this is not a song

men walk away

Royal Ebony

Author: Nicolas Guillen

I saw you passing by, one afternoon,
ebony, and I greeted you;
hard between all the trunks,
hard between all the trunks,
I remembered your heart

Arará cuévano,
arara sabalú

-Real ebony, I want a boat,
real ebony, of your black wood…
-It can’t be now.
wait my friend, wait
wait for me to die

Arará cuévano,
arara sabalú

-Real ebony, I want a chest,
real ebony, of your black wood…
-It can’t be now.
wait my friend, wait
wait for me to die

Arará cuévano,
arara sabalú

-I want a square table
and the pole of my flag;
I want my heavy bed
I want my heavy bed
ebony, of your wood,
Oh, of your black wood…
-It can’t be now.
wait my friend, wait
wait for me to die

Arará cuévano,
arara sabalú

I saw you passing by, one afternoon,
ebony, and I greeted you:
hard between all the trunks,
hard between all the trunks,
I remembered your heart

A Laugh and Milton

Author: Jorge Luis Borges

Of the generations of roses
that in the depths of time have been lost
I want one to be saved from oblivion,
One without mark or sign among things

What were they? destiny holds me
This gift of naming for the first time
That silent flower, the last
Rose that Milton brought to his face,

without seeing her Oh you red or yellow
Or white rose from an erased garden,
magically leave your past

Immemorial and in this verse shines,
Gold, blood or ivory or dark
As in his hands, invisible pink.

the bird

Author: Octavio Paz

in the transparent silence
the day rested:
the transparency of space
it was the transparency of silence.
The motionless light of heaven soothed
the growth of the grasses.
The bugs of the earth, among the stones,
in the identical light, they were stones.
Time in the minute was sated.
In the absorbed stillness
noon was consumed.

And a bird sang, thin arrow.
Wounded silver chest vibrated the sky,
the leaves moved
the herbs woke up…
And I felt that death was an arrow
that it is not known who shoots
and in the blink of an eye we die.

The Black Heralds

Author: Cesar Vallejo

There are blows in life, so strong… I don’t know!

Blows as of the hatred of God; as if before them

the hangover of everything suffered

It will pool in the soul… I don’t know!

They are few; but they are… They open dark ditches

in the fiercest face and in the strongest back.

Perhaps they will be the colts of Atilas barbarians;

or the black heralds that Death sends us.

They are the deep falls of the Christs of the soul

of some adorable faith that Fate blasphemes.

Those bloody bumps are the crackles

of some bread that burns at the oven door.

And the man… Poor… poor! He rolls his eyes, like

when over the shoulder calls us a pat;

make your eyes crazy, and everything lived

it puddles, like a puddle of guilt, in the look.

There are blows in life, so strong… I don’t know!

poem xx

Author: Pablo Neruda

I can write the saddest verses tonight.

Write, for example: «The night is starry,
and the stars shiver, blue, in the distance”.

The night wind spins in the sky and sings.

I can write the saddest verses tonight.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

Through nights like this one I held her in my arms.
I kissed her so many times under the infinite sky.

She loved me, sometimes I also loved her.
How not to have loved her great still eyes.

I can write the saddest verses tonight.
To think that I do not have her. Feeling I’ve lost her.

Hear the inmense night, even more without her.
And the verse falls to the soul like dew to grass.

Does it matter that my love could not keep it.
The night is full of stars and she is not with me.

That’s all. In the distance someone sings. In the distance.
My soul is not content with having lost it.

As if to bring her closer, my gaze searches for her.
My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.

The same night that makes them whiten
trees.
We, the ones then, are not the same.

I no longer love her, it’s true, but how much I loved her.
My voice searched the wind to touch her ear.

Of other. Will be from another. As before my kisses.
Her voice, her bright body. The infinite eyes of him.

I don’t love her anymore, it’s true, but maybe I love her.
Love is so short, and oblivion is so long.

Because on nights like this I had her between my
arms,
My soul is not content with having lost it.

Even if this is the last pain that she causes me,
and these are the last verses that I write to you.

Ode to Rubén Darío

Author: José Coronel Urtecho

(Sandpaper Accompaniment)

I outwitted your cement lion at the corporal.

You know that my crying was made of tears,

and not pearls. I love you.

I am the murderer of your portraits.

For the first time we ate oranges.

Il n’y a pas de chocolat,” said your guardian angel.

Now you could perfectly

show me your life through the window

like pictures that no one has painted.

Your emperor’s dress, which hangs

of the wall, embroidery of words,

how much smaller than that pajama

What do you sleep with now?

that you are just a soul.

I kissed your hands.

“Stella —you were talking to yourself—

finally arrived after the stop”,

I don’t remember what you said later.

I know we laugh about it.

(Finally I told you: «Master, I would like

see the faun”.

But you: «Go to a convent»).

We are talking about Zorilla. You said:

«My father» and we talk about friends.

“Et le reste est literature” again

your impertinent angel

You got very excited.

“Literature all—the rest is this.”

Then we understood the tragedy.

It’s like water when

flood a field, a town

without fuss and enters

through the doors and fills the halls

of the palaces —in search of a channel,

of the sea, nobody knows.

You who said so many times «Ecce

Homo” in front of the mirror

and you did not know which of the two it was

the real one, if there was one.

(Did you want to tear

the glass?) None of this

(marble under the blue) in your gardens

—where before you died you prayed to the corporal—

where i hang out with my girlfriend

i am disrespectful to swans.

II

(drum accompaniment)

I’ve had a brawl

with the thief of your ties

(myself when I was going to school),

which has broken your rhythms

punched in the ears…

Liberator, I would call you,

if this were not insolent

against your provencal hands

(and the Songbook of Baena)

in the «Grandma’s Harpsichord»

—your hands, that I kiss again,

Teacher.

In our house we used to meet

to see you leave in a balloon

and you left in a galley

—later we discovered that the moon

it was a bicycle

and you returned to the big party

from the opening of your suitcase.

Grandma was furious

of your Parisian symphonies,

and the kids we ate

your wax pears.

(Oh your tasty wax fruits)

You understand.

You who were in the Louvre,

among the marbles of Greece,

and you ran a march

to the Victory of Samothrace,

you understand why I’m talking to you

like a camera

in the Plaza de la Independencia

of the Cosmopolises of America,

where did you teach to raise Centaurs

to the ranchers of the Pampas.

Because, looking for me in vain

between your dream curtains,

I’m done calling you

«Master, Master»

where your sumptuous music

It is the harmony of your silence…

(Why have you fled, teacher?)

(There are a few drops of blood

in your tapestries).

Understand.

Sorry. Nothing has been.

I return to the rope of my contentment.

Ruben? Yes. Rubén was a marble

Greek. (Its not this?)

“All’s right with the world”, he told us

with his superb prosaism

our dear sir Robert

Browning. And it is true.

FINAL

(with whistle)

Finally, Ruben.

inevitable countryman, I salute you

with my bowler hat

that the mice ate

one thousand nine hundred and twenty-five

co. Amen.

What a pity!

Author: Leon Philip

What a pity
that I cannot sing in the usual way
of this time the same as the poets who sing today!
What a pity
That I can’t sing with a smug voice
those brilliant romances
to the glories of the country!
What a pity
that I do not have a homeland!
I know that the story is the same, the same always, what happens
from one land to another land, from a race
to another race,
how do they pass
those summer storms from this to that region.
What a pity
that I do not have a region,
small homeland, provincial land!
I should have been born in the womb
from the Castilian steppe
and I was born in a town I don’t remember anything about;
I spent the blue days of my childhood in Salamanca,
and my youth, a gloomy youth, on the Mountain.
After … I have not returned to drop the anchor,
and none of these lands lift me up
nor does it exalt me
to be able to sing always in the same tune
to the same river that passes
rolling the same waters,
to the same sky, to the same field and in the same house.
What a pity
that I don’t have a house!
A manor house and emblazoned,
a house
in which to keep,
to more of other strange things,
an old leather chair, a moth-eaten table
(that they will tell me
old domestic stories like Francis Jammes and Ayala)
and the portrait of my grandfather who won
a battle.
What a pity
that I do not have a grandfather who won
a battle,
pictured with a crossed hand
in the chest, and the other in the hilt of the sword!
And what a pity
that I don’t even have a sword!
Because… What am I going to sing if I don’t even have a homeland,
not a provincial land,
not a house
stately and emblazoned,
nor the portrait of my grandfather who won
a battle,
Not an old leather chair, not a table, not a sword?
What am I going to sing if I’m an outcast
who barely has a cape!

However…
in this land of Spain
and in a town in the Alcarria
there’s a house
in which I am inn
and where…

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