7 junio, 2024

8 Poems of Futurism by Great Authors

We leave you a list of futurism poems of great authors such as Filippo Tomasso Marinetti, Vladimir Mayakovski, Wilhelm Apollinaire de Kostrowitsky or Borís Pasternak.

Futurism is an avant-garde artistic current created by the Italian Filippo Tommaso Marinetti at the beginning of the 20th century, and his influence covered other areas of art, such as literature.

Although the futurist current had a great boom in the field of plastic arts, futurism originated in 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 best-known 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 dead me too
It’s curious,
When someone from the circle of power is lost
That circle where only four fit,
that circle,
Reproaches attack us (vain)
Of the theater
what is lair
for brothers
And a pity, a pity that it does not fit inside
And a pity, a pity that drowns us
It’s curious,
When your life turns into before and after,
on the outside you look the same
inside you break in two
and one of them
and one of them
She hides asleep in your chest
on your chest
as a bed
And it’s forever and ever
no more
In the life
How sad not to be able
Get older
With you.

Author: Filippo Tomasso Marinetti

Poet and Worker

we are even
Comrades, within the working class.
Proletarians in body and soul.
Only together we will beautify the world
And we will drive it with hymns.

Author: Vladimir Mayakovsky

automobile song


Vehement God of a race of steel,

drunk Space Car,

what anguish paws, with the bridle in the strident teeth!

O formidable forge-eyed Japanese monster,

nourished by flames and mineral oils,

hungry for horizons and sidereal prey

your heart expands in its devilish taf-taf

and your strong tires swell for the dances

let them dance on the white roads of the world!

Release, finally, your metal ties…

You drunkenly throw yourself into the liberating Infinite!

To the noise of the howling of your voice…

behold, the setting sun is imitating your swift walk,

accelerating its bloody palpitation at the level of the horizon…

Watch him gallop deep into the woods!…

What does it matter, beautiful Demon!

At your mercy I find myself…

Take me on 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 cold in full face!

From time to time I raise my body to feel in 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 Infinite that absorbs me with joy…

oh! the black mills dismantled

it suddenly seems that

on its embellished cloth blades

they start a mad race

like on oversized legs…

Behold, the Mountains are preparing to launch

on my escape layers of sleepy coolness…

There! There! Behold! in that sinister bend!…

Oh Mountains, Monstrous Herd, Mammuths

you trot heavily, arching your Immense loins,

you already paraded… you are already drowned

in the skein of mists!…

And dimly I hear the grinding rumble

produced on the roads

for your colossal legs with seven-league boots…

Mountains of the cool layers of heaven!…

Beautiful rivers that you breathe in the moonlight!…

Dark plains I give you the great gallop

of this mad monster…

Stars, my stars,

Do you hear their footsteps, the noise of their barking

and the endless rattle of his copper lungs?

I accept with you the opposite,

My stars… More soon!…

Even sooner! Without a truce!

Without any rest Release the brakes!…

That! Can’t you?… Break them!… Quick!

May the pulse of the motor increase its momentum by a hundredfold!

Hurrah! No more contact with our filthy land!

At last I get away from her and fly serenely

by the scintillating fullness of the stars

who tremble in their great blue bed!

Author: Filippo Tomasso Marinetti



Perhaps, if the stars shine,

Is there someone who needs it?

Is it that someone wants them to be?

Is it that someone takes these spits for pearls?

and shouting

Between midday dusts,

He makes his way to God

He fears that no one waits for him,


kiss his sinewy hand,


there will be a star!

cry out,

He will not endure this ordeal in the dark!

And then

Go restless,

with calm expression.

Says to someone:

«Don’t you have anything anymore?

It’s not scary?



Perhaps if the stars


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 cinema

And then this afternoon we’ll go
to the cinema

The Artists of now
They 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 professors from the provinces
We would not say cinema or cinema
but cinematographer

Also, my God, it is necessary to have good taste.

Author: Wilhelm Apollinaire de Kostrowitsky


My soul, you suffer
For those around you,
you have become the grave
Of all those who suffer on earth.

Their embalmed bodies,
You consecrate your verses to them,
The lyre, sobbing,
Raise a lament for them.

In our selfish age
You defend fear and conscience
Like a funerary urn
Where his ashes rest.

The torments of all
They have brought you to your knees.
You smell of corpse dust,
To pits and obituaries.

my soul, bowl,
Of everything, everything that you have seen here,
You have been making a mixture
Crushing, the same as a mill.

and grinds still
How much has happened to me
Almost forty years of this life,
In humus from graves.

Author: Boris Pasternak

I just want miracles

you will never understand
because I,
don’t worry,
among the gale of mockery.
you will never understand
because I,
don’t worry,
among the gale of mockery.
I carry my soul on a plate
to the feast of future years.
By the scratchy cheek of the streets,
slipping like a useless tear,
it may be
the last poet
Have you seen?
On the stony avenues
the striped face of the hanged apathy,
and on the foamy neck
of swift rivers
the bridges twist their iron arms.
the sky cries
a little cloud
a grimace at the corner of the mouth
looks like a woman expecting a child
and God gave him a one-eyed idiot.
With plump fingers, covered in red hair,
the sun caressed with the insistence of the horsefly
your souls were enslaved to kisses.
I, intrepid,
I kept in the centuries the hatred to the rays of day;
with a tense soul, like cable nerves,
I am the king of lamps.
Come to me
those who tore the silence,
they howled them
when the midday noose tightened,
I will show you,
with words
simple. like a lowing,
our new souls
like arcs of lamps.
As soon as I touch your head with my fingers
your lips will grow
for huge kisses
and a tongue
related to all peoples.
I, with the limping lama,
I will retire to my throne
with star holes in the worn vaults.
I will lie down
with clothes made of indolence
on the soft bed of legitimate manure
and silent,
kissing the knees of the sleepers
The wheel of a train will embrace me by the neck.

I just want miracles.

Author: Vladimir Mayakovsky.


I drink the bitterness of the tuberoses,
the bitterness of autumn skies,
and in them the burning stream of your betrayals.
I drink the bitterness of the afternoons, the nights,
and the crowds,
the tearful stanza of immense bitterness.

We don’t suffer from the wisdom of spawns of workshops.
Today we are hostile to safe bread.
Restless the wind that of the toast cupbearers,
which, quite possibly, will never be fulfilled.

Inheritance and death are our commensals.
And in the calm dawn, the peaks of the trees flame.
In the cookie box, like a mouse, searches for an anapest,
and Cinderella hastily changes her dress.

Swept floors, on the tablecloth… not a crumb.
The verse is serene like a child’s kiss.
And Cinderella runs, in her car if she’s lucky,
and when there is not even white, with his legs too.

Author: Boris Pasternak

Other poems of interest

Avant-garde poems.

Romanticism poems.

Renaissance poems.

Classicism poems.

Neoclassicism poems.

Baroque poems.

Poems of Modernism.

Poems of Dadaism.

Cubist poems.


Poem and its elements: stanza, verse, rhyme. Retrieved from portaleducativo.net
Poem. Retrieved from en.wikipedia.org
Filippo Tomasso Marinetti. Retrieved from en.wikipedia.org
Hug you. Retrieved from poemasfuturistas.blogspot.com.ar
Vladimir Mayakovsky… Five poems. Recovered from observoremoto.blogspot.com.ar
Futurism. Top representatives. Recovered from futurismo-leng.blogspot.com.ar
The car song, by Marinetti. Recovered from papelenblanco.com
Guillaume Apollinaire poems. Recovered from opinionideas.org.

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