Carlos Pellicer He is one of the most important Mexican poets of the first half of the 1899th century and was born on a day like today in XNUMX in Tabasco, where he was also a senator until his death in Mexico City. We remember it with this selection of poems that we collect from his work.
Carlos Pellicer
He also dedicated himself to museology and held several important positions in different museums. He was also a professor of literature and history and a member of the Mexican Academy of Language. He also won the National Prize for Literature and was at the head of the Latin American Council of Writers, based in Rome.
Was great traveler, which drew a lot of inspiration from nature (from the great rivers, the jungle and the sun). Of his work we can highlight: Colors in the sea and other poems, Stone of sacrifices, June Hour, Hexagons, Subordinations o With words and fire.
Carlos Pellicer — Selection of poems
My willingness to be does not have a limit
My willingness to be does not have a limit;
He just looks down and without looking.
Afternoon or early morning light?
My willingness to be does not have a limit.
Not even the gloom of a beautiful duel
ennobles my fortunate flesh.
Statue life, uninhabited death
without the gardening of a longing.
A sleep without dreaming is silent and shadows
the prodigious empire of my eyes
reduced to the grays of a village.
Without the present absence of a handkerchief
The days go away in poor bundles.
My willingness to be does not have a limit.
Nameless love
Nameless love, destiny area
of being and not being. Your soon siege
sustains my pain and cancels the tedium
of exhausted glass or tight wine.
In a high silence, an aquiline
blue span of silence, alive. In the middle
of the unfortunate patience of your siege
I open the cages and overflow the trill.
For you I hang wreaths on the walls;
Because of you I am more fleeting and in the mature ones
you will dream, I lighten your songs.
And I carry you in my being and you have collected
the attitude that in Florence or Byzantium
consecrates his doves to oblivion.
When leaving a soul
Twilight water, thirsty water,
late birds leave you like syllables.
Swinging in the poplars the wind discount you
the joy of your eyes drinking in mine.
I aligned my thoughts to your dark joys
and I liked the sweetness of your slow words.
You lengthened twilights in my thirsty hands:
I devoured your tragic summers in bread.
My hands will be moist from your breast.
You will have poison left from my obstinacy,
floating flower of anguish that baptized destiny.
From our two silences one day must emerge
the luminous water that gives a divine blue
at the bottom of the cypresses of your soul and mine.
In the silence of the house, you...
In the silence of the house, you,
and in my voice the presence of your name
kissed between the cloud of absence
aerial block of the solitudes.
Everything behind closed doors, the stillness
Waiting for you is the vanguard of heroism,
guarding the army of hugs
and the great plan of happiness.
I don't know how to walk except towards you,
by the soft path of looking at you
put my lips next to my questions
-simple, eternal flower of asking yourself-
and listen to you like this in me, already blood and fire
reject, luminous, the shadows…!
Aerial apple of solitudes,
silent bite of absence,
word on travel, winter clothing
that will make the plains naked.
You in the silence of the house. I
on your lips of absence, here so close
that between the two of us the round of words
It merges into the best that the poem gives.
This boat without oars is mine…
This boat without oars is mine.
To the wind, to the wind, to the wind only
has given him his course, his indolent
desolation of sterile distance.
Everything has already lost its hierarchy.
I'm full of nothing and under the bridge
just the quagmire, the criminal
ruin of water and its silverware.
Everyone leaves or comes. I'll stay
to what losing courage and fear gives.
To the wind, to the wind, to whatever the wind wants!
A sea without honor and without piracy,
excellencies of any blue
and this boat without oars that is mine.
Today that you have returned, we have both remained silent
Today that you have returned, we have both remained silent,
and only our old thoughts
They illuminated the sweet darkness
of being together and not saying anything.
Only the hands were shaken so much
like breaking the iron of absence.
If a cloud eclipsed our lives!
Leave the new voices in my heart,
the very clear, present assault,
of your person on the landscapes
What is in me for the air of your life.