Miguel Hernández: poems you should read and remember

Miguel Hernández is one of the most famous poets in Spanish literature and we should never forget him and the legacy he left us in his poetry. But, by Miguel Hernández, what poems do you know?

Below we are going to give you some examples of the best poems by the author born in 1910 in Orihuela, and died, at just 31 years old, in the Alicante prison.

Onion Nanas

Onion is frost

closed and poor:

frost of your days

and of my nights.

Hunger and onion:

black ice and frost

big and round.

In the cradle of hunger

my child was.

With onion blood

breastfed.

but your blood

frosted with sugar,

onion and hunger.

a brown woman,

resolved in moon,

thread by thread is spilled

over the crib.

Laugh, child

that you swallow the moon

when necessary.

Lark of my house,

laugh a lot.

It's your laughter in the eyes

the light of the world.

Laugh so much

that in the soul, when hearing you,

beat space.

Your laugh sets me free

it gives me wings.

Solitudes take me away,

jail takes me away.

Mouth that flies,

heart that on your lips

flashes.

Your laugh is the sword

more victorious.

flower victor

and the larks.

rival of the sun,

future of my bones

and of my love.

The flapping flesh

sudden eyelid,

and the child like never

colored.

How much goldfinch

soars, flutters,

from your body!

I woke up from being a child.

Never wake up.

Sad I have the mouth.

Always laugh.

Always in the crib,

defending laughter

pen by pen.

To be so high flying,

so widespread,

what your meat looks like

sifted sky.

If I could

go back to the origin

of your career!

In the eighth month you laugh

with five orange blossoms.

With five tiny

ferocities.

With five teeth

like five jasmine

teenagers.

Kisses border

will be tomorrow,

when in the teeth

feel a weapon.

Feel a fire

run down teeth

looking for the center.

Fly child in the double

chest moon.

He, sad onion.

You satisfied.

Do not fall apart.

You don't know what's up

nor what happens.

I call the youth (from the best known Miguel Hernández poems)

fifteen and eighteen,

eighteen and twenty...

I'm going to have my birthday

to the fire that requires me,

and if my time resonates

before twelve months

I will fulfill them underground.

I try that they remain of me

a sun memory

and a brave sound.

If every mouth in Spain,

of his youth, put

these words, biting them,

in the best of his teeth:

if the youth of Spain,

of a single and green impulse,

will raise his gallantry,

his muscles extended

against the rampaging

that they want to appropriate Spain,

it would be the sea throwing

to the ever-changing sand

various horse dung

of its transparent towns,

with an endless arm

of perpetual strong foam.

If the Cid nailed again

those bones that still hurt

dust and thought

that hill on his front,

that thunder of his soul

and that indelible sword,

without rival, on his shadow

of intertwined laurels:

when looking at what of Spain

the Germans claim

Italians try

the Moors, the Portuguese,

that they have recorded in our sky

cruel constellations

of crimes soaked

in innocent blood

climb on his angry colt

and in his celestial anger

to shoot down trimotors

like someone who demolishes crops.

under a paw of rain,

and a cluster of relente,

and an army of sun,

rebel bodies roam

of the dignified Spaniards

who do not submit to the yoke,

and clarity follows them,

and the oaks refer them.

between grave stretcher-bearers

there are wounded who die

with his face surrounded

from such diaphanous sunsets,

that are sown auroras

around your temples.

they look like sleeping silver

and gold at rest seem.

They reached the trenches

and they firmly said:

Here we will put down roots

before anyone kicks us out!

and death was felt

proud to have them.

But in the black corners,

in the blackest ones, they tend

to cry for the fallen

mothers who gave them milk,

sisters who washed them,

girlfriends who have been snow

and that they have turned into mourning

and that they have returned from fever;

bewildered widows,

scattered women,

letters and photographs

that faithfully express them,

where the eyes break

from so much seeing and not seeing them,

of so many silent tears,

of so much absent beauty.

Solar Youth of Spain:

let time pass and stay

with a murmur of bones

heroic in their flow.

Throw your bones into the field,

use the strength you have

to the dark mountain ranges

and to the olive tree of oil.

It shines through the hills,

and turn off the bad people,

and dare with the lead,

and the shoulder and leg extends.

Blood that does not overflow,

youth that does not dare,

neither is it blood, nor is it youth,

they neither shine nor bloom.

Bodies that are born defeated,

defeated and grays die:

come with the age of a century,

and they are old when they come.

youth always pushes

youth always wins

and the salvation of Spain

It depends on your youth.

Death next to the rifle

before we are banished,

before we are spit on,

before we are faced

and before among the ashes

that of our people remain,

hopelessly dragged

let us cry bitterly:

Oh Spain of my life,

Oh Spain of my death!

kissing woman

kissing woman,

in the sun, is to kiss

In all life.

lips rise

electrically

vibrant rays,

with all the brilliance

of a sun between four.

kiss the moon,

woman, is to kiss

in all death

lips descend

with the whole moon

asking for its sunset,

worn and frozen

and in four pieces.

for freedom

For freedom I bleed, I fight, I live.

For freedom, my eyes and my hands,

like a carnal tree, generous and captive,

I give to the surgeons.

For freedom I feel more hearts

what sands in my chest: my veins foam,

and I enter the hospitals, and I enter the cotton

as in the lilies.

For freedom I detach myself with bullets

of those who have rolled his statue through the mud.

And I break free from my feet, from my arms,

of my house, of everything.

Because where some empty sockets dawn,

she will put two stones of future look

and will make new arms and new legs grow

in the cut meat.

They will sprout winged sap without autumn

relics of my body that I lose in each wound.

Because I am like the felled tree, what a sprout:

because I still have life.

Elegy, one of the best poems by Miguel Hernández

(In Orihuela, his town and mine,

Ramón Sijé has killed me like lightning,

with whom he loved so much.)

I want to be the gardener crying

of the land that you occupy and manure,

soul mate, so early.

Feeding rains, snails

and organs my pain without instrument,

to the discouraged poppies

I will give your heart for food.

So much pain gathers in my side,

Because it hurts, even my breath hurts.

A hard slap, an icy blow,

an invisible and homicidal ax blow,

a brutal push has knocked you down.

There is no greater expanse than my wound,

I cry my misfortune and its ensembles

and I feel your death more than my life.

I walk on the stubble of the dead,

and without warmth from anyone and without consolation

I go from my heart to my affairs.

Early death lifted the flight,

early morning early,

early you're rolling on the ground.

I do not forgive death in love,

I do not forgive the inattentive life,

I do not forgive the earth or anything.

In my hands I raise a storm

of stones, lightning and strident axes

thirsty for catastrophes and hungry.

I want to dig the earth with my teeth

I want to separate the earth part by part

to dry and hot bites.

I want to mine the earth until I find you

and kiss the noble skull

and unmuzzle you and return you.

You will return to my garden and my fig tree:

by the high scaffolding of flowers

will bird your hive soul

of angelic waxes and labors.

You will return to the lullaby of the bars

of the enamored farmers.

You will brighten the shadow of my eyebrows,

and your blood will go to each side

disputing your girlfriend and the bees.

Your heart, already worn velvet,

call a field of sparkling almonds

my greedy voice of love.

To the winged souls of the roses

of the almond tree of cream I require you,

that we have to talk about many things,

soulmate, partner

I have too much heart

Today I am without knowing I do not know how

today I am only for sorrows,

Today I don't have friends

today I just crave

to rip my heart out

and put it under a shoe.

Today that dry thorn sprouts,

today is the crying day of my kingdom,

Today I download discouragement on my chest

discouraged lead.

I can't with my star.

And I seek death by hands

looking fondly at the knives,

and I remember that companion axe,

and I think of the highest bell towers

for a somersault serenely.

If not, why?... I don't know why,

my heart would write a last letter,

a letter that I have stuck there,

I would make an inkwell of my heart,

a fountain of syllables, of goodbyes and gifts,

and there you stay, I would tell the world.

I was born in a bad moon.

I have the penalty of a single penalty

that is worth more than all the joy.

A love has left me with arms down

and I cannot tend them towards more.

Don't you see my mouth how disappointed,

what dissatisfied my eyes?

The more I contemplate myself, the more I grieve:

cut this pain with what scissors?

yesterday, tomorrow, today

suffering for everything

my heart, melancholic fishbowl,

prison of dying nightingales.

I have plenty of heart.

Today, discourage me,

I the heartiest of men,

and for the most, also the most bitter.

I don't know why, I don't know why or how

I spare my life every day.

What poems by Miguel Hernández do you like?