January. Selection of 5 poems for the wintry month

January. New year, new beginnings and goals, hopes and dreams, this time more than ever. January, winter month par excellence. We will also have to start it with a little poetry. This is my selection of sonnets and poems assorted authors of all ages, from Quevedo a Ax but also Neruda o Peace.

January first - Octavio Paz

The doors of the year open,
like those of language,
Towards the unknown.
Last night you told me:
morning
some signs will have to be traced,
draw a landscape, weave a plot
on the double page
of the paper and of the day.
Tomorrow we will have to invent,
again,
the reality of this world.

I opened my eyes late.
For the second of a second
I felt what the Aztec,
stalking
from the rock of the promontory,
through the cracks of the horizons,
the uncertain return of time.

No, the year had returned.
It filled the whole room
and my eyes almost touched it.
Time, without our help,
I had put,
in an order identical to yesterday,
houses on the empty street,
snow on the houses,
silence on the snow.

You were by my side
and I saw you, like snow,
asleep between appearances.
Time without our help
invent houses, streets, trees,
sleeping women.

When you open your eyes
we will walk, again,
between the hours and his inventions
and by lingering on appearances
We will attest to the time and its conjugations.
We will open the doors of this day,
We will enter the unknown

Hospice - Antonio Machado

It's the hospice, the old provincial hospice,
the dilapidated mansion of blackened tiles
where swifts nest in summer
and the crows squawk on winter nights.
With its pediment to the North, between the two towers
of ancient fortress, the sordid building
of cracked walls and dirty walls
it is a corner of eternal shadow. The old hospice!
While the January sun sends its faint light,
its sad veiled light over the barren fields,
At a small window they appear, at daylight,
some pale, stunned and sick faces,
to contemplate the blue mountains of the sierra;
Or, from the white skies, as on a pit,
fall the white snow on the cold earth,
on the cold land the silent snow ...

January butterflies - Luis Gonzaga Urbina

One day gray and dull winter. Have,
the garden is lazy, the flowers drowsy,
tired the waters, that barely hold
upright the jets of the jets.

There are no chirping birds; no voices sound;
and in the anemia of light and greenery,
two butterflies that come and go
flavored colored wings shake.

You are looking for honey, you deludes! honey no longer exists,
and a trope assails me, very old and very sad:
the two illusions of my whole life.

(To love! To be loved!) Are two butterflies
in a withered garden that has no roses….
They are two stragglers from spring.

Sonnet XLI - Pablo Neruda

Misfortunes of the month of January when the indifferent
noon lays its equation in the sky,
a hard gold like wine from a full cup
fill the earth to its blue limits.
Misfortunes of this time similar to grapes
little ones that grouped bitter green,
confused, hidden tears of the days
Until the weather published its clusters.
Yeah, germs, pains, everything that throbs
terrified, in the crackling January light,
it will ripen, it will burn as the fruits burned.
Divided will be the sorrows: the soul
will give a gust of wind, and the dwelling
it will be clean with fresh bread on the table.

The three last Castilian muses - Francisco de Quevedo

I look at this mountain that ages January,
and cana I watch expire with snow
its summit that, cold, dark and brief,
The sun looks at her, who painted her first.
I see that in many places, flattering,
either he gives away his ice, or he drinks it;
who, grateful to his pity, moves
the free and talkative crystal musician.
But in the alps of your angry chest,
I do not see that your eyes to mine
Give, being fire, the ice you love.
My own flame multiplies cold,
and in my own ashes I burn frozen,
envying the happiness of these rivers.