International Poetry Day. 8 sonnets to celebrate

One more year today the International Poetry Day and there is nothing better to do than read it. The one we like the most, from any author and era, in any language. I have chosen these 8 sonnets. Are Espronceda, Góngora, Unamuno, Hurtado de Mendoza, Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz, Carolina Coronado, Rosario Acuña and Federico García Lorca. Because every day we should put on a helping of good verses.

Jose de Espronceda

Fresh, lush, pure and fragrant

Fresh, lush, pure and fragrant,
gala and ornament of the flowery pensil,
gallarda placed on the upright bouquet,
fragrance spreads the nascent rose.

But if the burning sun an angry fire
vibrates of the cannon on fire,
the sweet scent and the lost color,
its leaves carry the hurried aura.

This is how my luck shone for a moment
on wings of love, and beautiful cloud
I pretended perhaps of glory and of joy.

But oh! that good turned into bitterness,
and leafless in the air it rises
the sweet flower of my hope.

Luis de Gongora

To jealousy

Oh fog of the most serene state,
Hellish fury, evil born serpent!
O poisonous hidden viper
From green meadow to fragrant bosom!

Oh among the nectar of Poison mortal love,
That in a crystal glass you take life!
Oh sword on me with a hair held,
Of the loving hard brake spur!

O zeal, of the eternal executioner favor!
Go back to the sad place where you were,
Or to the kingdom (if you fit there) of terror;

But you will not fit there, because there has been so much
That you eat yourself and you don't finish,
You must be greater than hell itself.

Diego Hurtado from Mendoza

I raised my eyes, from crying tired

I raised my eyes, from crying tired,
For returning to the rest that used to;
And since I didn't see him where he used to,
I brought them down with drenched tears.

If I found any good in my care,
When I was happier,
Well, I already lost him because of me,
Reason is that I cry them now doubled.

I set all the candles in bonanza,
Without mistrust human understanding;
A moving storm arose,

As if land and sea and fire and wind
Do not go against my hope,
And they punished only suffering.

Miguel de Unamuno

Full moon night

White night in that crystal clear water
he sleeps remains on his lagoon bed
on which full round moon
what an army of stars is leading

candle, and a round oak is mirrored
in the mirror without any curl;
white night in which the water acts as a cradle
of the highest and most profound doctrine.

It is a tear from the sky that embraced
he holds Nature in his arms;
It is a tear from the sky that has posed

and in the silence of the night pray
the resigned lover's prayer
only to love, which is his only wealth.

Sor Juana Ines De La Cruz

Hints at his aversion to vices

In chasing me, World, what are you interested in?
How do I offend you, when I just try
put beauties in my understanding
and not my understanding in the beauties?

I do not value treasures or riches;
and so it always makes me happier
put riches in my thought
not my thought of riches.

And I do not estimate beauty that has expired,
it is civil spoil of the ages,
nor do I like wealth fementida,

taking for the best in my truths,
consume vanities of life
than to consume life in vanities.

Caroline Coronado

To a drop of dew

Living tear of the fresh dawn,
to whom the withered flower life owes,
and the eager meadow among the foliage soaks up;
drop that the sun with its reflections gilds;

That in the seductive flower complexion
rocked by the slightest zephyr,
red mix your snow color
and her charming scarlet of snow:

Come and mix with my sad cry
and consume you on my burning cheek;
that perhaps they will run more sweetly

the bitter tears that I devour ...
but what a drop of dew
lost in the flow of my tears ...!

Rosario de Acuna

The autumn

The sun sets its fire under the cloudy;
the mists break their thick veils
and the rain descends, and streams
of limpid glass the meadow gathers.

Loving bird, loving insect,
they feel, last time, burning jealousy;
the swallow and her chicks march:
the forest is adorned with a golden hue.

It's here! The sea raises its foam
and acrid perfumes to the earth he sends ...
Who doesn't love him? Among pink mists,

crowned with myrtles and laurels,
it has been giving ambrosia to the vines,
pouring fruit, giving honeys!

Federico Garcia Lorca

Love sores

This light, this devouring fire.
This grey scenary surrounds me.
This pain for just an idea.
This anguish of heaven, world and time.

This cry of blood that decorates
lyre without a pulse now, lubricious tea.
This weight of the sea that hits me.
This scorpion that dwells on my chest.

They are a garland of love, a bed of the wounded,
where without sleep, I dream of your presence
among the ruins of my sunken chest.

And although I seek the summit of prudence
your heart gives me the valley
with hemlock and passion of bitter science.