The Avant-garde poems Emerged in the first half of the twentieth century and were characterized, as was the Avant-garde current In general, for having a free and innovative style, not tied to literary conventions.
The vanguardism in the poetry does not respect the metric, it risks, it is irreverent and very creative, to the point of practicing total freedom.
This anarchy is observed in the typography used and the way of drawing the lines on the paper (in reverse or in the form of animals, spirals, etc.), incorporating drawings, sounds and dream images or strange situations.
Avant-garde poetry intentionally appeals to bad spelling, the creation of non-existent words and to dispense with connectors and other grammatical resources.
The thematic also goes out of the common thing and the words do not look for to have meanings beyond the own words, that is to say, the figurative sense does not exist.
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.
Therefore, they addressed in their thematic poems on the problems of the humanity, using Metaphors More or less subtle, but ultimately reflecting their commitment to the people.
You may be interested The Top 15 Top Avant-Garde Representatives .
10 poems of the main authors of avant-gardism
1- August 1914
It is the vintage of borders
Behind the horizon, something happens
In the gallows of the aurora are hung all the cities
Cities that sniff like pipes
Halalí
Halalí
But this is not a song
The men go away
Author: Vicente Huidobro
2- Real Ebony
I saw you passing, one afternoon,
Ebony, and I saluted thee;
Hard between all the trunks,
Hard between all the trunks,
I remembered your heart.
Arara cuévano,
Plow sabalú.
"Real beech, I want a boat,
Real ebony, of your black wood...
"It can not be now,
Wait, my friend, wait,
Wait for me to die
Arara cuévano,
Plow sabalú.
"Real beech, I want a safe,
Real ebony, of your black wood...
"It can not be now,
Wait, my friend, wait,
Wait for me to die
Arara cuévano,
Plow sabalú.
-I want a square table
And the horn of my flag;
I want my heavy bed,
I want my heavy bed,
Ebony, of your wood,
Oh, of your black wood...
"It can not be now,
Wait, my friend, wait,
Wait for me to die
Arara cuévano,
Plow sabalú.
I saw you passing, one afternoon,
Ebony, and I saluted thee:
Hard between all the trunks,
Hard between all the trunks,
I remembered your heart.
Author: Nicolás Guillén
3- A Laugh and Milton
From the generations of roses
That in the depths of time have been lost
I want one to be saved from oblivion,
One without a mark or sign between things
That were Fate is upon me
This gift of naming for the first time
That silent flower, the last flower
Rose that Milton approached his face,
Without seeing it. Oh you red or yellow
Or white rose from a blurred garden,
Leave your past magically
Immemorial and in this verse shines,
Gold, blood or ivory or gloomy
As in her hands, invisible pink.
Author: Jorge Luis Borges
4- The Bird
In the transparent silence
The day was at rest:
The transparency of space
It was the transparency of silence.
The immobile light of the sky was still.
The growth of herbs.
The bugs of the earth, among the stones,
Under the identical light, they were stones.
The time in the minute was sated.
In the stillness absorbed
The noon was consumed.
And a bird sang, thin arrow.
Wounded silver chest vibrated the sky,
The leaves moved,
The grasses woke up
And I felt that death was an arrow
Who does not know who shoots
And in an open eyes we die.
Author: Octavio Paz
5- The Black Heralds
There are blows in life, so strong... I do not know!
Blows as of the hatred of God; As if before them,
The hangover of everything suffered
It will be in the soul... I do not know!
They are few; But they are... Dark ditches open
In the fiercest face and the strongest spine.
Perhaps they will be the colts of barbarians Attila;
Or the black heralds that Death sends us.
They are the deep falls of the Christs of the soul
Of some adorable faith that Destiny blasphemes.
Those bloody blows are crackles
Of some bread that burns in the oven door.
And the man... Poor... poor! Turn your eyes, as
When he slaps us on the shoulder;
Turns the eyes crazy, and everything lived
It becomes like a pool of guilt, in the eyes.
There are blows in life, so strong... I do not know!
Author: César Vallejo
6- Poem XX
I can write the saddest verses tonight.
Write, for example:"The night is starry,
And shiver, blue, the stars, in the distance."
The wind of the night turns in the sky and sings.
I can write the saddest verses tonight.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.
On nights like this 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 grass to the dew.
Does it matter that my love could not keep it.
The night is full of stars and she is not with me.
That is all. In the distance someone sings. In the distance.
My soul is not content with having lost it.
As if to approach her my look seeks.
My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.
The same night that bleaches the same
Trees.
We, the ones then, are not the same.
I do not want it anymore, that's true, but how I loved her.
My voice searched the wind to touch her ear.
Of other. It will be from another. As before my kisses.
Her voice, her bright body. His infinite eyes.
I do not want it anymore, it's true, but maybe I love her.
Love is so short, and forgetfulness is so long.
Because on nights like this I had it between my
arms,
My soul is not content with having lost it.
Although this is the last pain she causes me,
And these are the last verses that I write to you.
Author: Pablo Neruda
7- Ode to Rubén Darío
(Accompaniment of sandpaper)
I smashed your cement lion at the end.
You know that my tears were tears,
Not pearls. I love you.
I'm the killer 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 out the window
Like some 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 are you sleeping in now?
That you are only a soul.
I kissed your hands.
"Stella-you were talking to yourself-
Arrived at last after the stop",
I do not remember what you said later.
I know we laugh at it.
(At last I told you,"Master, I would
See the faun".
But you:"Go to a convent").
We are talking about Zorrilla. You said:
"My father"we talked about friends.
"Et le reste est literature"again
Your impertinent angel.
You exalted yourself a lot.
"Literature all-the rest is this."
Then we understood the tragedy.
It's like water when
Floods a field, a village
No fuss is entered
Through the gates and fills the halls
Of the palaces - looking for a channel,
Of the sea, nobody knows.
You who said so many times"Ecce
Homo"in front of the mirror
I did not know which of the two was
The real one, if any.
Did you want to tear up
The crystal?) None of this
(Marble under the blue) in your gardens
-where before you died you prayed to the corporal-
Where I walk with my girlfriend
I am disrespectful of the swans.
II
(Accompaniment of drums)
I had a brawl
With the Thief of your Ties
(Myself when I went to school),
Which has broken my rhythms
To punch in the ears...
Liberator, I would call you,
If this were not insolence
Against your Provencal hands
(And the Cancionero de Baena)
In the"Clavichord of the Grandmother"
-those hands, I kiss again,
Teacher.
In our house we met
To see you go balloon
And you left in a galley
-after we discovered that the moon
It was a bicycle-
And you went back to the big party
Of the opening of your suitcase.
Grandma was infuriated
Of your Parisian symphonies,
I the chicks ate each other
Your wax pears.
(Oh your tasty wax fruits)
You understand.
You who were in the Louvre,
Among the marbles of Greece,
And run a march
To the Victory of Samothrace,
You understand why i talk to you
Like a camera
In the square of the Independence
Of the Cosmopolis of America,
Where you taught to create Centaurs
To the farmers of the Pampas.
Because, looking for me in vain
Between your curtains of dream,
I've finished calling you
"Master, master"
Where your sumptuous music
It is the harmony of your silence...
Why did you run away, master?
There are a few drops of blood
In your tapestries).
I understand.
Sorry. Nothing has been.
I return to the rope of my contentment.
Rub? Yes. Ruben was a marble
Greek. (Its not this?)
"All right with the world,"he told us.
With his arrogant prosaicness
Our dear Sir Robert
Browning. And it is true.
FINAL
(With whistle)
In short, Ruben,
Countryman unavoidable, I greet you
With my bowler hat,
That the mice ate in
One thousand nine hundred and twenty five
co. Amen.
Author: José Coronel Urtecho
8- What a pity!
What a pity
That I can not sing in the usual way
Of this time the same as the poets who today sing!
Que lastima
That I can not inton with a voice swallowed
Those brilliant romances
To the glories of the motherland!
Que lastima
That I do not have a country!
I know the story is the same, the same always, what happens
From one land to another land, from one race
To another race,
How they do
Those storms of summer from this to that region.
Que lastima
That I have no district,
Mother country, provincial land!
I must have been born in the womb
Of the Spanish steppe
And I was born in a town from which I remember nothing;
I spent the blue days of my childhood in Salamanca,
And my youth, a gloomy youth, on the Mountain.
Then... I have not put the anchor back,
And none of these lands raise me up
Do not exalt me
To be able to always sing 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.
Que lastima
That I do not have a house!
A manor house and emblazoned,
a house
In which he holds,
To more of other rare things,
An old leather armchair, a table moth
(They told me
Old domestic stories like Francis Jammes and Ayala)
And the portrait of a grandfather who won
a battle.
Que lastima
That I do not have a grandfather who will win
a battle,
Portrayed with a crossed hand
In the chest, and the other in the fist of the sword!
And what a pity
That I do not even have a sword!
Because... What will I sing if I do not have a country,
Nor a provincial land,
Not a house
Manor and emblazoned,
Nor the portrait of a grandfather who won
a battle,
Or an old leather armchair, or a table, or a sword?
What can I sing if I'm an outcast?
Which just has a coat!
Nevertheless…
In this land of Spain
And in a village of the Alcarria
there's a house
In which I am in the inn
And where I have, borrowed,
A pine table and a straw chair.
A book I have too. And all my trousseau finds
in a living room
very wide
And very white
Which is in the lower part
And cooler than the house.
It has a very clear light
this room
So wide
And so white...
A very clear light
Entering through a window
Which leads to a very wide street.
And in the light of this window
I come every morning.
Here I sit on my straw chair
And I beat the long hours
Reading in my book and seeing how it goes
People through the window.
Things of little importance
Look like a book and the window glass
In a village of the Alcarria,
And yet it is enough for him
To feel the whole rhythm of life to my soul.
That all the rhythm of the world by these crystals happens
When they pass
That shepherd who goes behind the goats
With a huge staff,
Exp.
With a load
Of firewood in the back,
Those beggars who are dragging their miseries, Pastrana,
And that little girl who goes to school so reluctantly.
Oh, that girl! Make a stop in my window
Always and stays at the glued glazing
As if it were a print.
What grace
Has his face
On the crushed glass
With her chin in her mouth and her flat nose!
I laugh a lot watching her
And I say she's a very pretty girl...
She then calls me
Fool! And he leaves.
Poor child! No more happens
For this wide street
Walking to school very reluctantly,
Do not stop
In my window,
Nor does it stick to the glued glass
As if it were a print.
That one day got bad,
Very bad,
And the bells died the other day.
And on a very clear afternoon,
Through this wide street,
Through the window,
I saw how they took it
in a box
so white…
In a box
so white
Which had a crystallite on the lid.
From that glass was the face
Same as when I was
Stick to the glass of my window
To the glass of this window
Which now always reminds me of the crystallite of that box
So white.
The whole rhythm of life passes
By the glass of my window...
And death also happens!
Que lastima
That not being able to sing other feats,
Because I do not have a homeland,
Nor a provincial land,
Not a house
Manor and emblazoned,
Nor the portrait of a grandfather who won
a battle,
Nor an armchair of old leather, nor a table, nor a sword,
And I'm an outcast
Which has only one layer...
Come, forced, to sing things of little importance!
Author: Leon Felipe
Other avant-garde poems
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References
- History of modern literature. Retrieved from es.wikipedia.org.
- Poetry of vanguard. Recovered from educ.ar.
- Major avant-garde poets of the twentieth century. Retrieved from timetoast.com.
- Avant-garde poems. Recovered from mispoemasde.com.
- Poetry of Vanguard of century XX. Retrieved from studyingaprender.com.
- Vanguard, Total Transformation. Recovered from vanguardistasecuador.blogspot.com.ar
- Neruda. Retrieved from Neruda.uchile.cl.
- Ode to Rubén Darío. Recovered from poesi.as.