Gloria Fuertes: poems

There is no doubt that Gloria Fuertes is one of the best known writers in the world. His poems are almost always remembered because we grew up with them. But the truth is that she was more than a children's poet. Both the strong Gloria figure and her poems endure over time.

But Who was Gloria Fuertes? What poems are the most important you wrote? How was it?

Who is Gloria Fuertes

In the words of Camilo José Cela, Gloria Fuertes was a 'bitchy angel' (excuse me). She did not have an easy life, and even so, she managed to write some of the most beautiful poems for children.

Gloria Fuertes was born in Madrid in 1917. He grew up in the Lavapiés neighborhood, in the bosom of a humble family (mother seamstress and father porter). His childhood was spent between various schools, some of which he has related in his poems.

At the age of 14, her mother enrolled her in the Institute of Professional Education for Women, where she obtained two diplomas: Shorthand and Typing; and that of Hygiene and Childcare. Instead of going to work, however, he decided to enroll in Grammar and Literature.

Your goal, and what she had always wanted to be, she was a writer. And he succeeded in 1932, at the age of 14, when they published one of his first poems, «Childhood, Youth, Old age ...».

His first job was as an accountant in a factory, which gave him time to write poems. It was in 1935 that he published a collection of them, Ignored Island, and began to give poetry recitals on Radio Madrid. However, he did not quit his job. From 1938 to 1958 she worked as a secretary until she was able to quit. And it is that in addition to that job she also had another as an editor in a children's magazine. That genre was the one that managed to open the doors to fame, which came to him in 1970 when Spanish Television featured her in its children's and youth programs and made his poems known worldwide.

Finally, and because it is one of the poems where she herself talks about her life, we leave you the way she presented herself.

Autobiography

Gloria Fuertes was born in Madrid

at two days of age,

Well, my mother's delivery was very laborious

that if it is neglected it dies to live for me.

At the age of three he already knew how to read

I already knew my work at six.

I was good and thin

high and somewhat ill.

At the age of nine I was caught by a car

At fourteen the war caught me;

At fifteen my mother died, she left when I needed her most.

I learned to haggle in stores

and to go to the towns for carrots.

By then I started with love,

-I don't say names-,

thanks to that, I was able to cope

my neighborhood youth.

I wanted to go to war, to stop it,

But they stopped me midway

Then an office came out for me,

where I work like I'm stupid,

(But God and the bellhop know I'm not)

I write at night

and I go to the field a lot.

All mine have been dead for years

and I'm more alone than myself.

I've posted verses on all calendars,

I write in a children's newspaper,

and I want to buy a natural flower in installments

like the ones they give Pemán sometimes.

The best poems of Gloria Fuertes

Below we have compiled some of the poems of Gloria Fuertes so that, if you don't know them, you can see how he wrote. And, if you know them, then surely you want to read them again because they are one of the best in poetry.

When they name you

When they name you,

they steal a little bit of your name from me;

it seems like a lie,

that half a dozen letters say so much.

My madness would be to undo the walls with your name,

I would go painting all the walls,

there would not be a well

without me showing

to say your name,

nor stone mountain

where I won't scream

teaching the echo

your six different letters.

My madness would be,

teach the birds to sing it,

teach the fish to drink it,

teach men that there is nothing,

like going crazy and repeating your name.

My madness would be to forget everything,

of the remaining 22 letters, of the numbers,

of the books read, of the verses created. Greet with your name.

Ask for bread with your name on it.

- He always says the same thing - they would say in my step, and I, so proud, so happy, so cheerful.

And I will go to the other world with your name on my mouth,

to all questions I will answer your name

- the judges and the saints will not understand anything-

God would condemn me to say it nonstop forever.

You see what nonsense

You see what nonsense,

I like to write your name

fill papers with your name,

fill the air with your name;

tell the children your name,

write to my dead father

and tell him that your name is like that.

I believe that whenever I say it, you hear me.

I think it's good luck.

I go through the streets so happy

and I carry nothing but your name.

autobio

I was born at a very young age.

I stopped being illiterate at the age of three,

virgin, at eighteen,

martyr, at fifty.

I learned to ride a bicycle,

when they didn't reach me

feet on the pedals,

to kiss, when they did not reach me

breasts to mouth.

Very soon I reached maturity.

At school,

the first in Urbanity,

Sacred History and Declamation.]

Neither Algebra nor Sister Maripili suited me.

They fired me.

I was born without a peseta. Now,

after fifty years of working,

I have two.

The Rooster Wake Up

Kikiriki,

I'm here,

the rooster said

Hummingbird

The hummingbird rooster

he was redhead,

and it was his suit

of beautiful plumage.

Kikiriki.

get up peasant,

that the sun is already there

on the way.

-Kikiriki.

get up farmer,

wake up with joy,

the day is coming.

-Kikiriki.

Village children

wake up with the ole,

waiting for you at the "school".

The town doesn't need a watch

the rooster is worth the alarm.

In my garden

On the grass the trees speak to me

of the divine poem of silence.

The night surprises me without smiles,

stirring in my soul the memories.

* * *

Wind! hears!

waiting! do not go!

Whose side is it? Who said that?

Kisses that I waited for, you have left me

On the golden wing of my hair

Do not go! Brighten up my flowers!

And I know, you, wind friend messenger;

answer him saying that you saw me,

with the usual book between your fingers.

As you leave, light the stars,

they have taken the light, and I hardly see,

and I know, wind, sick of my soul;

and take this "date" to him in a swift flight.

... And the wind caresses me sweetly,

and leaves insensitive to my desire ...

Guess, guess ...

Guess, guess ...

Guess, guess ...

Guess, guess:

he is riding on a donkey

he is short, fat and with a belly,

friend of a gentleman

of shield and spear,

knows sayings, is smart.

Guess, guess ...

Who is he? (Sancho Panza)

Prayer

That you are on earth, our Father,

That I feel you on the spike of the pine,

In the blue torso of the worker,

In the girl who embroiders curved

The back, mixing the thread on the finger.

Our Father who art on earth,

In the groove

In the garden,

In the mine,

In the port,

At the cinema,

In the wine

At the doctor's house.

Our Father who art on earth,

Where you have your glory and your hell

And your limbo; that you are in the cafes

Where the wealthy drink their soda.

Our Father who art on earth,

On a bench in the Prado reading.

You are that old man who gives bread crumbs to the birds on the walk.

Our Father who art on earth,

In the cicada, in the kiss,

On the spike, on the chest

Of all those who are good.

Father who lives anywhere,

God who penetrates any hole,

You who take away the anguish, who are on earth,

Our Father we do see you

Those that we have to see later,

Wherever, or there in the sky.

Where are you going, carpenter? (CAROL)

-Where are you going carpenter

with the snowfall?

-I go to the mountains for firewood

for two tables.

-Where are you going carpenter

with this frost?

-I go to the mountains for firewood,

my Father awaits.

-Where are you going with your love

Child of the Dawn?

-I will save everyone

those who don't love me.

-Where are you going carpenter

so early in the morning?

-I am going to war

to stop it.

At the border

I'm tall;

in the war

I got to weigh forty kilos.

I've been on the brink of tuberculosis

on the edge of jail,

on the brink of friendship,

on the edge of art,

on the verge of suicide,

on the brink of mercy,

on the brink of envy,

on the brink of fame,

on the edge of love,

on the edge of the beach,

and, little by little, it made me sleepy,

and here I am sleeping on the edge,

on the verge of waking up.

couples

Each bee with its partner.

Each duck with its paw.

To each his own theme.

Each volume with its cover.

Each guy with his type.

Each whistle with his flute.

Each focus with its seal.

Each plate with its cup.

Each river with its estuary.

Each cat with his cat.

Each rain with its cloud.

Each cloud with its water.

Each boy with his girl.

Each pineapple with its pineapple.

Every night with its dawn.

The little camel

The camel was pricked

with a road thistle

and the mechanic Melchor

gave him wine.

Balthazar

went to refuel

beyond the fifth pine ...

and the great Melchior was uneasy

he consulted his "Longinus."

-We did not arrive,

we did not arrive,

and the Holy Childbirth has come!

-it is three minutes past twelve

and three kings have been lost.

The limping camel

more half dead than alive

its plush creeps

among the trunks of olive trees.

Approaching Gaspar,

Melchior whispered in his ear:

-Good camel birria

that in the East they have sold you.

At the entrance to Bethlehem

the camel hiccupped.

Oh what sadness so great

in his belfo and in his type!

The myrrh was falling

along the path,

Baltasar carries the chests,

Melchior was pushing the bug.

And at dawn already

-the birds were already singing-

the three kings stayed

open-mouthed and undecided,

hearing talk like a man

to a newborn child.

-I don't want gold or incense

nor those treasures so cold,

I love the camel, I love him.

I love him, -the Child repeated.

On foot the three kings return

crestfallen and afflicted.

While the camel lay down

tickles the child.

In my round face

In my round face

I have eyes and a nose

and also a little mouth

to talk and to laugh.

With my eyes I see everything

with my nose I make achis,

with my mouth like how

popcorn.

Poor donkey!

The donkey will never stop being a donkey.

Because the donkey never goes to school.

The donkey will never become a horse.

The donkey will never win races.

What is the donkey's fault for being a donkey?

In the town of the donkey there is no school.

The donkey spends his life working,

pulling a car,

without pain or glory,

And the weekends

tied to the ferris wheel.

The donkey cannot read,

but it has memory.

The donkey reaches the finish line last,

But poets sing to him!

The donkey sleeps in a canvas hut.

Do not call the donkey a donkey,

call him "man's helper"

or call him person

Do you know more poems worth remembering by Gloria Fuertes?