Elena Martin Vivaldi. Anniversary of her death. poems

Elena Martin Vivaldi. poems

Elena Martin Vivaldi was an Andalusian poet who was born in Granada on February 8, 1907 and died on a day like today in 1998. So this anniversary we remember his figure with this selection of poems Of his work.

Elena Martin Vivaldi

Her father was a professor of Gynecology and a progressive man, which could have influenced her to study at a time when it was not usual for women to do so. She graduated in Teaching and Philosophy and Letters by the University of Granada. Later he opposed the Corps of Libraries, Archives and Museums and obtained a position as archivist.

It was contemporary of some poets of the 27 Generation, but it is not usually included because she began writing later and was first published in 1945.

His poetry has a intimate and melancholic tone and echoes of Gustavo Adolfo Becquer. His complete works were published as shore time in 1985. Three years later she was named Favorite Daughter of Granada and also received the medal from the city's Royal Academy of Fine Arts.

Elena Martín Vivaldi — Poems


Between you, loneliness, I look for myself and I die,

in you, my loneliness, my life I continue

defeated by your arms I go with you

and there I wait for you where I no longer want.

I've always been waiting for you on my street,

and lover of my nights I chase you,

if ever, hurt, I curse you,

since your absence, sad, despair.

You gave me the hope of having you

in my pain Guided by your hand

I climbed the steps of death.

Here where in your shadow I am grown,

time, yours and mine, is close,

leaving me the blood already fulfilled.


And it was a silence hard as stone;

a silence of centuries

It was a grim, impenetrable silence;

a silence without veins

It was a pain of love, made of long

nights without the beloved

Made of faithful hands that reach out

shaken, alone

It was a sleeping voice in the shadows,

some dry tears

Feverish lip tremor, a madwoman

deserted hope.

first word.

First day.

first word.

Gone is the pain, his hand raised

that struck in the face of reverie,

looking for the roots, the germ of illusions

grown on this hard and dry land

of tired meat

But his clumsy fingers could not

break this improbable and rebellious crust,

your waiting bid.

First day.

first word.

the fight starts now

with a blush of flame.

behind the pain shines

the green branch and stem.

echoes I

The man stretches his gaze to the sky.

Shadow of a truth, happy quarrel,

Up into space, haughty star

For centuries of hope contemplated.

Boat of an illusion, ship born

in sails of his audacity. yes more beautiful

Venus nails her light, Echoes flashes

with a voice that has always been pronounced.

Worlds numberless his presence

they admit in brilliant latticework.

Stretched network where love and science

collect their messages. Like a sister

of the whole universe, poetry

sing, in the night, eternal and superhuman.

The rain

what would the rain be like

if it weren't scented,

Of memory,

of cloud,


and crying?

How would the rain sound,

if it didn't shine bright,




flash of lightning,

arco iris

of smells and hopes?

How would the rain give off its scent,

its gray perfume,

if it weren't that rhythm,

that voice,

the singing,

far echo,


a scale of dreams?

What would the rain be like?

if it wasn't his name?

for your blue silence

You, moon, if you spoke to me,

if under your cold heart

you had, free, a soul.

If within your blue silence

burning words will throb,

to my defeated blood waking up.

If your steps left a path

and a marked path

to escape the world of uncertainty.

Oh, moon, if you came,

wandering wakefulness light,

to my house.

If you opened the balconies at night,

and between scales of aromas

your hands would reach out to me

If forgetting your blind indifference,

you will fill my eyes with those green

landscapes, where do you have

hidden the secret of your flame.

Oh, moon, always moon,

for your immobile luck,

uselessly moon of my crying.

If you heard me, moon!



What golden fullness is in your cup,

tree, when I wait for you

in the blue cold sky morning.

How many long Augusts, and how intense

They have covered you, suffering, with yellows.


All afternoon it lit up

golden and beautiful, because God wanted it.

All my soul was a murmur

of sunsets, impatient in yellow.


Serena of yellows I have the soul.

I do not know. serene?

It seems that among the gold of its branches

something green turns me on.

Something green, impatient, undermines me.

God bless your gap.

For this fertile hole of my desires

a delayed sky reveals me.

Oh, my hope, love, voice that does not exist,

you, my always yellow.

Make yourself a fiery twilight sun:

get green, yellow.

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