Fivepoems by Gabriel Garcia Marquez

 

Fivepoems by Gabriel Garcia Marquez

 

When we hear his name, we think of Macondo. We always identify him with his novels, but he also wrote poetry.

 

Song

It rains in this poem

Eduardo Carranza

 

It is raining. Afternoon is one fog sheet. It is raining. The afternoon is wet of your own sadness. Sometimes the wind comes with her song. Sometimes I feel my soul tight against your absent voice. It is raining. And I am thinking in you.

 And I'm dreaming. No one will come this afternoon to my pain closed. No one.

 Only your absence that hurts me in the hours. Tomorrow your presence will return in the rose. I think the rainfalls I never eat fruit. Girl like the fruits, pleasant as a party today is sunset your name in my poem Sometimes the water comes to look at the window and you are not sometimes I sense you close. Humbly return your sad farewell humbly and all humble: the jasmines the rose bushes in the garden

And my crying in decline. O absent heart: how great it is to be humble

Poem from a snail

Have seen the sea. However, it was not the rhetorical sea with masts and moored sailors to a legend of songs. Nor the green cosmopolitan sea -sea of ​​Babel- of the cities, that never had windows for the evening star. Nor the sea of ​​Ulysses that I had seven musical sirens like seven islands surrounded of music everywhere. Nor the useless sea that returns with a load of landscapes so it's always October in the dream of the gannets. Nor the bohemian sea with a port and a delirious sailor that he lost his heart in a game of cards. Nor the sea that breaks against it [dock a hopeless song that reaches the chest of days without emotion, like a tattoo. Nor the punctual sea that always has a port for each trip where love becomes life as in the womb of a mother. That was my sea, the eternal sea, sea ​​of ​​childhood, unforgettable, suspended from our sleep like a dove in the air. It was the sea of ​​geography, of the little students, that we learned to navigate on elemental maps

In the sea of snails, imprisoned sea, distant sea, which we carried in our pocket like a toy everywhere. The blue sea that looked at us, when was our age so frail that doubled under the weight of castles in the air. And it was the sea of first love in autumn eyes. One day I wanted to see the sea -sea of childhood- and it was already late

The death of the rose

He died of a bad smell. Identical, exact rose. She subsisted to her beauty; she succumbed to the fragrance of her. She had no name: perhaps they would call her Rosaura, O Pink-fine, or Pink of love, or Rosalba; or just pink, as she names the water. She more she would have been worth be everlasting, Dahlia, thought with moon like a branch of acacia. However, she will be eternal: she was pink; and that is enough; God keep her in his kingdom at the right hand of dawn

If someone knocks on your door

If someone knocks on your door, my friend, and something in your blood beats and does not rest and in your stem of trembling water, the source is a liquid of harmony. If someone knocks on your door and you still you have plenty of time to be beautiful and all april fits in a rose and for the rose the day bleeds If someone knocks on your door one morning sound of doves and bells and you still believe in pain and poetry If life is still true and the verse exists. If someone knocks on your door and you are sad, open up, which is love, my friend.

Morning sonnet to a weightless schoolgirl

As he passes he greets me and behind the wind that gives the breath of his early voice in the square light of a window it fogs up, not the glass, but the breath It's early as a bell. It fits in the improbable, like a story and when he cuts the thread of the moment pours his white blood in the morning. If you wear blue and go to school, it is not distinguishable if it walks or flies because it is like the breeze, so light that in the blue morning it is not necessary which of the three that pass is the breeze, which is the girl and which is the morning.

With affection,

Ruben