Poems ems by José Martí.

Poems ems by José Martí.

 

Poet, journalist and revolutionary. He was the forerunner of Latin American modernism.
1. Forest of roses

(There slowly)
Oh! the blood of the soul, have you seen it?
It has hands and voice, and to the one who pours it
eternally among the shadows accuses.
There are hidden crimes, and there are corpses
Of souls, and there are killer villains!
To the forest see: from the most upright oak
We piled a pylon, and on the pylon
How many cheat woman let's say!
That is the human struggle: the tremendous one
Battle of helmets and lilies!
For proud men are not fierce?
Beasts and beasts! Look, here I bring you
My dead beast and my rage tamed.
Come, to silence, to murmur, to noise
April leaves and nest boxes.
Leave, oh my beloved, the silent walls
From this vulnerable

 house and come with me
Not the sea that beats and roars but the forest
Of roses at the bottom of the jungle.
There life is good, because it is free,
And your virtue, for free, will be true,
For free, my meritorious respect.
Neither love, if it is not free, gives fortune
O wretched people, those who calmly enjoy
Of stolen loves! If it's foreign
The love, the pleasure of respecting it
Greater than a thousand times is that of his enjoyment;
From the good work that pride to the chest is
And as in sweet tears it overflows,
And in strange words, that seem
Flutters, not voices! And what fault
The one to pretend love! Well there is torment
Like that one, without loving, of talking about loves!
Come, I'll be sad there, because I see myself!
Come, that loneliness will be your shield!

2. In you  I thought, in your hair

In you I thought, in your hair
In you I thought, in your hair
that the shadow world would envy,
and I put a point of my life in them
and I wanted to dream that you were mine.
I walk the earth with my eyes
raised - oh, my eagerness! - at so much height
that in proud anger or miserable blushes
the human creature lit them.
Live: -To know how to die; that's how it affects me
this unhappy search, this fierce one,
and all the Being in my soul is reflected,
and looking without faith, of faith I die.

3. I am an honest man
I am an honest man
Where the palm grows,
And before I die I want
Pour my verses from the soul.
I come from everywhere,
And everywhere I go:
Art I am among the arts,
In the mountain, I am mountain.
I know the strange names
From the herbs and flowers,
And of deadly deceptions,
And sublime pains.
I have seen in the dark night
Rain on my head
The rays of pure fire
Of the divine beauty.
I saw wings coming from the shoulders
Of beautiful women:
And get out of the rubble,
Flying butterflies.
I've seen a man live
With the dagger at his side,
Without ever saying the name
The one that killed him.
Fast, like a reflection,
Twice I saw the soul, two:
When the poor old man died,
When she said goodbye.
I trembled once - on the fence,
At the entrance of the vineyard, -
When the barbarian bee
He scratched my girl's forehead.
I enjoyed once, in such a way
that I enjoyed as never: -when
The sentence of my death
The warden read, crying.
I hear a sigh, through
Of the lands and the sea,
And it's not a sigh, -it's
That my son is going to wake up.
If they say that of the jeweler
Take the best jewel,
I take a sincere friend
And I put love aside.
I have seen the injured eagle
Fly to serene blue,
And die in his lair
The venom viper.
I know well that when the world
Yield, livid, at rest,
About the deep silence
The gentle stream mumbles.
I have put a bold hand,
Of horror and jubilant jubilation,
On the extinguished star
That fell in front of my door.
Hidden in my brave chest
The pain that hurts me:
The son of a slave people
Live for him, shut up and die.
Everything is beautiful and constant,
Everything is music and reason,
And everything, like the diamond,
Before light is coal.
I know that the fool is buried
With great luxury and great crying.
And that there is no fruit on earth
Like the one in the cemetery.
I call, and I understand, and I take off
The pomp of the rhymer:
I hang from a withered tree
My doctor's mock.

4. The poisoned cup
I touched, madam, your hand
White and naked in the bright party,
In the faithful heart I try in vain
The echoes turn off that orchestra!
The devastating waltz the impure note
That in his suspended flame arms
Rushes took you to the heart without a cure,
Repeat it loving my ears.
And how much chord I laze and murmur
It offers the audacious soul the beautiful earth,
pretense them the dark spirit-
Tenuous changing of the note that one.
Listen to it without ceasing! To the brightness, blind,
I look at her vaguely
Move with slow are wings of fire
And my forehead to wrap to be anxious.
Oh! my trembling hand would well know
To the air steal winged note boiling
And, with art of sweet sorcery,
Hanging oleanders to the burning cup,
In my thirsty arms fainting
 give you madam, perfume killer:
But I hurry the poisoned cup
And in me, the love that consumes me ends.

 5. It is blonde: hair lose
It's blonde: hair loose
Brightens the eye of the Moor:
I go, since then, wrapped
In a whirlwind of gold.
The summer bee that buzzes
More agile for the new flower,
It does not say, as before, «grave»:
«Eva» says: everything is «Eva».
Low, in the dark, the dreaded
Cataract flow:
And the iris shines, lying
On the silver sheets!
I look, scowling, the wild
Pomp of the irritated mountain:
And in the celestial blue soul
A pink hyacinth springs!
I go, for the forest, to walk
To the neighboring lagoon:
And among the branches I see her,
And for the water it walks.
The garden snake
Whistle, spit, and slide
For his hole: the bugle
He stretches me, trilling, the wing.
Harp I am, psaltery I am
Where the Universe vibrates:
I come from the sun, and in the sun I go:
I am love: I am the verse!

Note’s editor: Because the poet is using old Spanish and slang the translation is not easy, especially find proper words that cannot alter the meaning of the poem.

With affection,

Ruben

Jose Marti

Short Biography: Jose Marti

Jose Marti

He was born in Havana, when Cuba was still under Spanish rule, on January 28, 1853. He was the son of Don Marino Marti and Navarro and of Mrs. Leonor Pérez and Cabrera. It was called José Julian.
In 1865 he entered the Municipal Superior School and then the Colegio de San Carlos. In 1869 he was sentenced to prison for six years, for having published writings considered seditious (in them he called a traitor a fellow student who had enlisted as a volunteer in the Spanish Army). The exile to Spain was the result of the commutation of the sentence. In that country he studied at the Universities of Madrid and Zaragoza, culminating his studies in Law and Philosophy and Letters.
It dates from that time "The Political Prison in Cuba", where the Spanish government was the subject of criticism for its cruelty and rudeness.
After returning to Cuba, and being banished again to Spain, he married in 1877 with
 Carmen de Zayas Bazán who made him father of Ismael, inspirer of many of his verses.
He moved to New York in 1880 and there he wrote in some newspapers, such as "The Sun" and the magazine "The Tour". Later he wrote for the newspaper "La Nación", of Buenos Aires (Argentina). He was Consul of Argentina, Uruguay and Paraguay, but his heart forced him to fight for the liberation of his homeland, and founded the Revolutionary Committee.
Along with Generals Máximo Gómez and Antonio Macero, he embarked on his way to Cuba to fight. He landed on the island in 1895, and died at the hands of the Spanish forces , on May 19 of that same year.
He was a great speaker and journalist, an exhibitor of modernism.

 He innovated in terms of rhythms, accents and nuances, enunciating critical contents about literature and the art of the moment.
Along with Rubén Darío, (Nicaragua), Julián del Casal (Cuba), Manuel Gutiérrez Nájera (Mexico) and José Asunción Silva (Colombia), is considered to be the initiator of the Hispano-American modernist movement.
He wrote about travel chronicles, art criticism, plays, such as "Patria y Libertad" (Indian drama in two acts), "Abdala" (a piece in eight scenes written at sixteen), "Amor con amor pays" (an act). He also wrote a novel: "Amor pester", and numerous poems that he collected in several short volumes: "Ismaelito" (1882), "Versos sencillos" published in 1891. This could be considered his most finished work. Poems such as "La rosa blanca" and "La niña de Guatemala" are included in this Anthology. "Versos libres", was published in 1913 by Gonzalo de Quesada de Oróstegui, in Volume IX of the Complete Works. It is a strong and hard poetry, qualified by its own author as written "not with academic ink, but with one's own blood".
Selections of his poems were published twice, with a prologue and notes by Rubén Darío.
As a journalist he introduced in 1882 absolutely modernist techniques, synesthesia, and harmony and elaborates metaphors. He created what he called Max Heriquez, the artistic prose.

With affection,

Rubén

Letter from editor: Poems of theSoul

Letter from editor: Poems of theSoul

Dear reader:
I think that poetry in the past was always for me as something that lacked understanding and interest. I think I suffered a kind of scientific indoctrination in my university and professional times. With the passage of time I have come to appreciate it better, although the difficulties to understand the message of the writer of poems still subsist.

I recognize that for this reason I have not published a good number of poems.

However, due to the readers' consideration, this situation has changed, giving it greater literary coverage.

The poet Antonio Machado calls his works "poems of the soul"; and this is the hallmark of this literary style that uses the soul as a source of inspiration.
And what is the soul? It is the part of a person that is not physical. It is the part of every human being that lasts forever after the body experiences death. As C. S. Lewis said, "You do not have a soul, you are a soul, it is different from the heart and the spirit, it can be strong or unstable, and there is often confusion about the human spirit versus the human soul.
We have been created in the image of God with spirit, soul and body, in that order.
 Now in the human soul is the intellect, the will and the emotions. With the spirit one can relate or communicate with God.

Well, going back to the works of poets; it seems to me that they, for the most part, have chosen that in some way, using the components of the soul; to scrutinize his own soul according to his experiences, to then dress them towards us in the form of poetry.
There, is where that kind of "bottleneck" is formed, which I think is the obstacle place where the difficulties of many of us are to not only understand poetry, but the poet's own message. It is clear that there are to our beautiful reaches and diverse poems of great quality written by poets that transcend history; so it's worth making the effort to understand them.
 Undoubtedly, as the saying goes, "between tastes and colors authors have not written"
and: nor do they enter the shoes by force ".

There are fantastic writers who leave us thoughts in their narrations, which should be taken advantage of by us; making pauses in our frantic speed of life.

For example: Recently publish a story by Cees Nooteboom titled, "Gondolas".
And the writer, I think referring to friendship says: "Better Company than love."
What do you think of the thought? Read the story and draw your own conclusion.

To finish this my digression, I told you to ask my son, what would happen to my blogs when I am is no longer here. He told me that they would continue in the network uninterruptedly while someone still requested their reading.

This fascinated me and increased my energies for the publication of more articles including poetry, by the way.
You know that in the background every person yearns to be reminded of one after death; and I think with regret you have to accept that even when you are alive you are also forgotten.
But in my case I remembered once more that my name is already written in the "Lamb's Book of Life" which is Jesus. And by the way I will dwell with the Lord "for long days".
So, that of being reminded or forgotten, it takes a back seat.

By reflecting on this, proving that such is the struggle of people for survival and longing

for wealth, which leaves aside basic issues such as love and friendship for others, for another moment that often does not come?

And sometimes I reflect when I see a nest of ants in a field, watching them come and go hurriedly, working tirelessly, running over others, passing over each other, in their feverish race to finish the tasks for survival, reminds me of human life .

With affection,
Ruben