Blog . Letras . Vic

Poetry Foundation poets.org buenosaires poetry

¿En perseguirme, mundo, qué interesas? ¿En perseguirme, mundo, qué interesas? ¿En qué te ofendo, cuando sólo intento poner bellezas en mi entendimiento y no mi entendimiento en las bellezas? Yo no estimo tesoros ni riquezas, y así, siempre me causa más contento poner riquezas en mi entendimiento que no mi entendimiento en las riquezas. Yo no estimo hermosura que vencida es despojo civil de las edades ni riqueza me agrada fementida, teniendo por mejor en mis verdades consumir vanidades de la vida que consumir la vida en vanidades.

I am Defeated all the time; yet to Victory I am born. Journals, April 6-12, 1842

“If I find in myself desires which nothing in this world can satisfy, the only logical explanation is that I was made for another world.” ― C.S. Lewis, Mere Christianity

Según Juan José Arreola En realidad todo lo que importa y vale en este mundo es lo poético, sea en palabra, sea en artes plásticas, sea en actitudes humanas, es la posibilidad de ser real del hombre, su posibilidad de crear, estamos hablando del lenguaje, es desdeluego un fenómeno lingüístico de ordenación de palabras, cuando hay una urgencia autentica de comunicar una experiencia intima o nuestra percepción del mundo externo, la voluntad expresiva crea la ordenación de las palabras … una nostalgia de manifestación, una nostalgia de armonía. Según otros escritores y poetas Franz   Kafka : La poesía es una expedición de la verdad. Ezra   Pound : La poesía es el mínimo lenguaje con el máximo de significación. Octavio   Paz : El Poema es un caracol donde resuena la música del mundo, y metros y rimas no son sino correspondencias, ecos de la armonía universal. César   Vallejo : Un poema es una entidad vitral mucho mas organizada que un ser orgánico en...

Según Octavio Paz . Es una función del lenguaje si se está pensando sobre el lenguaje . Es una aspiración, una necesidad psicologica, metafísica y física si se está pensando sobre el individuo . No trata únicamente sobre lo sublime, también trata sobre las cosas pequeñas . Es una de las formas para hacer una reconciliación entre el cuerpo y la mente . Es la percepción de la verdadera realidad . Es algo entre le sueño y la razón Ejemplo: Entre lo que veo y lo que digo A Roman Jakobson 1 Entre lo que veo y digo entre lo que digo y callo, entre lo que callo y sueño, entre lo que sueño y olvido, la poesía. Se desliza entre el sì y el no: dice lo que callo, calla lo que digo, sueña lo que olvido. No es un decir: es un hacer. Es un hacer que es un decir. La poesía se dice y se oye: es real. Y apenas digo es real, se disipa. ¿Así es mas real? 2 Idea palpable, palabra impalpable: la poesía va y viene entre lo que es y lo que no es. Teje reflejos y lo...

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William Wordsworth, 655 Samuel Taylor Coleridge, 679 Percy Bysshe Shelley, 740 John Clare, 764 John Keats, 768 Edgar Allan Poe, 865 Charlote Bronte, 916 Emily Bronte, 920 Walt Whitman, 927 Emily Dickinson, 1000 Oscar Wilde, 1072 William Butler Yeats, 1089 Robert Frost, 1125 James Joyce, 1150 William Carlos Williams, 1153 Ezra Pound, 1164 Aldous Huxley, 1199

I Am I am: yet what I am none cares or knows, My friends forsake me like a memory lost; I am the self-consumer of my woes, They rise and vanish in oblivious host, Like shades in love and death's oblivion lost; And yet I am! and live with shadows tost Into the nothingness of scorn and noise, Into the living sea of waking dreams, Where there is neither sense of life nor joys, But the vast shipwreck of my life's esteems; And e'en the dearest--that I loved the best-- Are strange--nay, rather stranger than the rest. I long for scenes where man has never trod; A place where woman never smil'd or wept; There to abide with my creator, God, And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept: Untroubling and untroubled where I lie; The grass below--above the vaulted sky Remembrances Summer pleasures they are gone like to visions every one And the cloudy days of autumn and of winter cometh on I tried to call them back but unbidden they are gone Far away from he...

The Female Vagrant (extract) By Derwent's side my Father's cottage stood, (The Woman thus her artless story told) One field, a flock, and what the neighboring flood Supplied, to him were more than mines of gold. Light was my sleep; my days in transport roll'd: With thoughtless joy I stretch'd along the shore My father's nets, or watched, when from the fold High o'er the cliffs I led my fleecy store, A dizzy depth below! his boat and twinkling oar. My father was a good and pious man, An honest man, by honest parents bred, And I believe that, soon as I began To lisp, he made me kneel beside my bed, And in his hearing there my prayers I said: And afterwards, by my good father taught, I read, and loved the books in which I read; For books in every neighboring house I sought, And nothing to my mind a sweeter pleasure brought. Can I forget what charms did once adorn My garden, stored with pease, and mint, and thyme, And rose and lily for the s...

Frost at Midnight The Frost performs its secret ministry, Unhelped by any wind. The owlet's cry Came loud--and hark, again ! loud as before. The inmates of my cottage, all at rest, Have left me to that solitude, which suits Abstruser musings : save that at my side My cradled infant slumbers peacefully. 'Tis calm indeed ! so calm, that it disturbs And vexes meditation with its strange And extreme silentness. Sea, hill, and wood, This populous village ! Sea, and hill, and wood, With all the numberless goings-on of life, Inaudible as dreams ! the thin blue flame Lies on my low-burnt fire, and quivers not; Only that film, which fluttered on the grate, Still flutters there, the sole unquiet thing. Methinks, its motion in this hush of nature Gives it dim sympathies with me who live, Making it a companionable form, Whose puny flaps and freaks the idling Spirit By its own moods interprets, every where Echo or mirror seeking of itself, And makes a toy of Thought...

Adonais (extract) I weep for Adonais - he is dead! O, weep for Adonais! though our tears Thaw not the frost which binds so dear a head! And thou, sad Hour, selected from all years To mourn our loss, rouse thy obscure compeers, And teach them thine own sorrow, say: "With me Died Adonais; till the Future dares Forget the Past, his fate and fame shall be An echo and a light unto eternity!" Where wert thou, mighty Mother, when he lay, When thy Son lay, pierced by the shaft which flies In darkness? where was lorn Urania When Adonais died? With veiled eyes, Mid listening Echoes, in her Paradise She sate, while one, with soft enamoured breath, Rekindled all the fading melodies With which, like flowers that mock the corse beneath, He had adorned and hid the coming bulk of death. O, weep for Adonais - he is dead! Wake, melancholy Mother, wake and weep! Yet wherefore? Quench within their burning bed Thy fiery tears, and let thy loud heart keep Like his, a mut...

Ode to a Nightingale My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk: 'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, But being too happy in thy happiness,--- That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees, In some melodious plot Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, Singest of summer in full-throated ease. O for a draught of vintage, that hath been Cooled a long age in the deep-delved earth, Tasting of Flora and the country green, Dance, and Provencal song, and sun-burnt mirth! O for a beaker full of the warm South, Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, And purple-stained mouth; That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, And with thee fade away into the forest dim: Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget What thou among the leaves hast never known, The weariness, the fever, and the fret ...

Childe Harold - Canto the third I. Is thy face like thy mother's, my fair child! Ada! sole daughter of my house and heart? When last I saw thy young blue eyes, they smiled, And then we parted,--not as now we part, But with a hope. - Awaking with a start, The waters heave around me; and on high The winds lift up their voices: I depart, Whither I know not; but the hour's gone by, When Albion's lessening shores could grieve or glad mine eye. II. Once more upon the waters! yet once more! And the waves bound beneath me as a steed That knows his rider. Welcome to their roar! Swift be their guidance, wheresoe'er it lead! Though the strained mast should quiver as a reed, And the rent canvas fluttering strew the gale, Still must I on; for I am as a weed, Flung from the rock, on Ocean's foam, to sail Where'er the surge may sweep, the tempest's breath prevail. III. In my youth's summer I did sing of One, The wandering outlaw of his own da...

A Little Boy Lost Nought loves another as itself Nor venerates another so. Nor is it possible to Thought A greater than itself to know: And Father, how can I love you, Or any of my brothers more? I love you like the little bird That picks up crumbs around the door. The Priest sat by and heard the child. In trembling zeal he siez'd his hair: He led him by his little coat; And all admir'd the Priestly care. And standing on the altar high, Lo what a fiend is here! said he: One who sets reason up for judge Of our most holy Mystery. The weeping child could not be heard, The weeping parents wept in vain: They strip'd him to his little shirt. And bound him in an iron chain. And burn'd him in a holy place, Where many had been burn'd before: The weeping parents wept in vain. Are such things done on Albions shore. London I wander thro' each charter'd street. Near where the charter'd Thames does flow And mark in every face I meet Mar...