Cecilia Meireles was born on a day like today in 1901 in Rio de Janeiro. She was a teacher and journalist and is considered one of the best South American poets of the XNUMXth century. It belonged to Brazilian modernism and it also had a great influence of romanticism. He published his first collection of poems at the age of 18 and received several awards and recognitions. Was the founder of the First Children's Library of Rio de Janeiro. Esta es una selection of poems by his work to remember.
Cecilia Meireles - Selection of poems
Picture
I did not have this face today,
so calm, so sad, so thin,
nor these eyes so empty,
nor this bitter lip.
I did not have these hands without strength,
so stopped and cold and dead;
i didn't have this heart
that is not even shown.
I did not notice this change,
so simple, so true, so easy:
In what mirror did you get lost
my image?
Resurrección
Don't sing, don't sing, because the castaways come from afar,
the prisoners come, the one-eyed, the monks, the orators,
suicide bombers.
The doors come, again, and the cold of the stones,
of the stairs,
and, with a black robe, those two ancient hands.
And a mobile candle flames smoking. And the books. AND
the Scriptures.
Don't sing, no Because it was your music
voice what was heard. I am a recent dead, still
with tears.
Someone absentmindedly spat on my lashes.
So I saw that it was already late.
And I let the sun stay on my feet and the flies walk.
And a slow saliva dripped from my teeth.
Do not sing, because I braided my hair, now,
and I am in front of the mirror, and I know well that I am on the run.
Childhood
They took the balcony bars
from where the house was sighted.
The silver bars.
They took the shade of the lemon trees
where bows of music rolled
and reddish ants.
They took away the house with a green roof
with its shell grottoes
and its stained glass windows of tarnished flowers.
They took the old piano lady
who played, played, played
the pale sonata.
They took the eyelids of old dreams,
and they left only the memory
and the current tears.
Suggestion
Anything happens like this
serene, free, faithful.
Flower that is fulfilled, without question.
Wave that is violent, because of indifferent exercise.
Moon that envelops the bride and groom embraced and
to the already cold soldiers.
Also like this night air: whispering of
silences, full of births and
petals.
Equal to the stopped stone, preserving its delayed destiny.
And the cloud
light and beautiful, living from never becoming.
The cicada burns in its music, the camel that chews
his long loneliness,
To the bird that seeks the end of the world, to the ox that goes
with innocence towards the mountain.
It happens like this, anything serene, free, faithful.
Not like the rest of the men.
Autumn song
Forgive me, dry leaf,
I can't take care of you
I came to love in this world
and even love I lost.
What was the use of weaving flowers
in the sands of the ground
if there were people sleeping
on one's own heart?
And I couldn't lift it!
I cry for what I did not do
and for this weakness
is that I am sad and unhappy.
Forgive me, dry leaf!
My eyes without strength are
watching and praying for those
they will not rise.
You are autumn leaf
that flies through the garden.
I leave you my nostalgia
-the best part of me.
And I'm going this way
sure how useless everything is.
That everything is less than the wind,
less than the leaves on the ground.
Reason
I sing because the moment exists
And my life is complete
I am not happy nor am I sad:
I am poet.
Brother of elusive things,
I feel neither joy nor torment.
I go through nights and days
in the wind.
If I collapse or if I build,
if I remain or undo,
-I do not know, I do not know. I don't know if I stay
or step.
I know I sing. And the song is everything.
The rhymed wing has eternal blood.
And one day I know that I will be dumb:
-Nothing more.