valentine poems

February 14 is approaching and everyone wants to dedicate Valentine's poems. It's been more than 1.500 years since the Catholic Christian Church established this date —XNUMXth century AD. C.— to commemorate the laudable works of brotherhood and love of Saint Valentine of Rome. Since then, as is well known, millions of people around the world celebrate friendship on this day, but above all, love as a couple.

There are countless poets who have dedicated their time to hoist with their verses that fine thread that makes two beings one: love. Thinking of all those romantics who want to dedicate Valentine's poems, this delicate list has been created with works by: Alejandra Pizarnik, Antonio Machado, Federico García Lorca, Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer, Mario Bennedetti, José Martí, Magaly Salazar Sanabria, Julio Cortázar, Petrarca, James Joyce, Ángel Marino Ramírez, Jaime Sabines, Migueljosé Márquez and more. Don't stop reading them.

“Who shines”, by the Argentine poet Alejandra Pizarnik

When you look at me

my eyes are keys,

the wall has secrets,

my fear words, poems.

Only you make my memory

a fascinated traveler,

an incessant fire.

"Love", by the Venezuelan poet Magaly Salazar Sanabria

Nothing that held me back, stops me. I seem clumsy, but I find peace in you. I attend your discovery. You're a morsel I can feed on. My body looks at you when you don't ignore it. I celebrate your arrival while I strive to give you a name. Come, I want to show you my jewelry, my dresses, my wines. I want to see your form, the mist in your background, your altar, your four hundred arms. I feel the world rolling, drowning in that time that says we are not.

“It burns in your eyes”, by the Spanish poet Antonio Machado

A mystery burns in your eyes, virgin

dodge and companion.

I don't know if the fire is hate or love

inexhaustible of your black aliaba.

You will go with me as long as I cast a shadow

my body and left my sandal sand.

—Are you the thirst or the water in my path?—

Tell me, elusive virgin and companion.

"Eternal love", by the Spanish poet Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer

The sun may cloud forever;

The sea may dry in an instant;

The axis of the Earth may be broken

Like a weak crystal.

It will all happen! Will death

Cover me with his funeral crepe;

But never in me can it go out

The flame of your love.

"I thought of you", by the Cuban poet José Martí

I thought of you, of your hair

that the shadow world would envy,

and I put a point of my life in them

and I wanted to dream that you were mine.

I walk the earth with my eyes

raised—oh, my eagerness!—to such a height

that in haughty anger or miserable blushes

the human creature lit them.

Live: —Know how to die; that's how it afflicts me

this unfortunate search, this fierce good,

and all the Being in my soul is reflected,

and searching without faith, of faith I die.

“Blessed be the year…”, by the Italian poet Petrarca

Blessed be the year, the point, the day,

the season, the place, the month, the hour

and the country, in which her lovely

gaze chained to my soul.

Blessed is the most sweet porfia

to give myself to that love that dwells in my soul,

and the bow and the arrows, that now

the sores feel open still.

Blessed are the words with which I sing

the name of my beloved; and my torment

my anxieties, my sighs and my crying.

And blessed my verses and my art

Well, they extol her, and, finally, my thought,

since she only shares it.

"My love is in a slight dress", by the Irish poet James Joyce

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My love is in a light outfit

among the apple trees,

Where bustling breezes yearn most

Running in company

There, where jovial breezes dwell to woo

To the early leaves in its wake,

My love goes slowly, leaning

Towards his shadow lying on the grass.

And where the sky is a cup of clear blue

on the smiling earth,

My love walks slowly, raising

Her dress with graceful hand.

 "A love letter", by the Argentine poet Julio Cortázar

Everything I would like from you

it's so little deep down

because in the end it is everything

like a passing dog, a hill,

those things of nothing, everyday,

spike and hair and two clods,

the smell of your body,

what you say about anything,

with me or against me,

all that is so little

I want it from you because I love you.

That you look beyond me,

that you love me with violent disregard

of tomorrow, that the cry

of your delivery crashes

in the face of an office manager,

and that the pleasure that we invent together

be another sign of freedom.

"Sonnet of the sweet complaint", by the Spanish poet Federico García Lorca

I'm afraid to lose the wonder

of your statuesque eyes and accent

that at night puts me on the cheek

the lonely rose of your breath.

I'm sorry to be on this shore

trunk without branches; and what I feel the most

is not having the flower, pulp or clay,

for the worm of my suffering.

If you are my hidden treasure,

if you are my cross and my wet pain,

if I am the dog of your lordship,

don't let me lose what I have gained

and decorate the waters of your river

with leaves of my alienated autumn.

“Verses of a moonless bedroom”, by the Venezuelan poet Ángel Marino Ramírez

 Moonless bedroom verses

where it rains pure night,

be symbols of waste

without any moderation.

I touch my body and I touch you

without respecting the borders,

the bed has ways

to suck up the crazy noise.

My love is not indifferent

is a wall of reflections

that in the naked mirrors

They love your innocent gesture.

The erection of a look

the road does not dissipate it,

that arrow is a mill

that ignites the flame

The sleeping roses sing

when my hungry word

wants to embrace the storm

of your suicidal hips

I no longer count the minutes

let alone the hours

with your rapturous caresses

time lost attributes.

falling in love is scary

by its invisible tide:

not an easy task

get wine from the vineyard.

We are both conceptual

whose chastity dies,

if the substance wants it

the devil looks for reasons.

freehand motifs

in your darkest angle,

to drink the cyanide

of prolonged passion.

And in the end the bed steals

all the silence of the wind,

the breath lies happy

no moon over the bedroom.

"Let's make a deal", by the Uruguayan poet Mario Benedetti

Partner

you know

you can count

with me

not until two

or up to ten

but count

with me

if ever

warns

that I look into her eyes

and a streak of love

recognize in mine

do not alert your rifles

nor think what delirium

despite the grain

or maybe because it exists

you can count

with me

yes other times

He finds me

sullen for no reason

don't think how lazy

can still count

with me

but let's make a deal

I would like to tell

with you

he is so cute

know that you exist

one feels alive

and when i say this

I mean count

even if it's up to two

even if it's up to five

no longer to come

hurried to my aid

but to know

for sure

that you know you can

count on me.

“Your name”, by the Mexican poet Jaime Sabines

I try to write your name in the dark.

I try to write that I love you.

I try to say all this in the dark.

I don't want anyone to find out

no one look at me at three in the morning

walking from one side of the room to the other,

crazy, full of you, in love.

Enlightened, blind, full of you, pouring out.

I say your name with all the silence of the night,

my gagged heart screams it.

I repeat your name, I say it again,

I say it tirelessly

and I'm sure there will be dawn.

"Love", by the Mexican poet Salvador Novo

Love is this shy silence

close to you, without you knowing it,

and remember your voice when you leave

and feel the warmth of your greeting.

To love is to wait for you

as if you were part of the sunset,

neither before nor after, so that we are alone

between games and stories

On dry land.

To love is to perceive, when you are absent,

your perfume in the air that I breathe,

and contemplate the star in which you move away

When I close the door at night

"My beloved's body", by the Venezuelan poet Miguel José Márquez

the body of my beloved

not a woman's body

nor does he have his father's eyes

his mother's mouth

nor the furious whiteness of the Corsicans

imposed by force on their grandmothers

in ancient nights of conquest

the body of my beloved

it's not even a body

is it a drizzle of meat

a rebellious imprecation of atoms

reluctant to the vain tautology of the electron

and its eternal rounds over the void

the body of my beloved

has no corners or borders

lost or won curves

because it is immutable as the rock

and does not know of boundaries or measures

because there is no limit to your dance

the body of my beloved

it is not of earth nor is it of air

does not get wet or burn

It's not mine, it's not yours, it's not anyone's.

It is a nomadic tree without a mountain

an aurora swollen with continence

the anointed root of all birds

the body of my beloved

it is not the wind rose

it's not the rose

it's not the wind

It is not geography for maps and frigates

It's all south, all valley, all howl

the raised petal of the thorn

it's sunny storm

sea ​​of ​​lava in the middle of the tundra

arrow of sun under the bow of the moon

death that sprouts in the remote life

the body of my beloved

It is not the hidden number of things

it's not the sweet nothing

nor the virginity of silence

is the unseemly softness of galaxies

the hummingbird indecency of time

a volcano of tenderness in perpetual eruption

planet of peace palm tree and belly

a chance that rearranges itself in my mouth

and returns everything to its seed

the body of my beloved

It is not a garden for dry leaves

the deadly leisure of lukewarm love

the bureaucracy of contact

does not understand the stillness of the balance

and always nests on top or in the pit

high high

deep deep

otherwise

does not nest

nor take flight

“Say 'love'”, by the Venezuelan poet Juan Ortiz

say "love"

build a house

that floats in the open.

It's too much for the earth

like a cross,

like the truths,

that's why it goes from truce to truce

about languages

in the air

say "love"

shake the stables,

neighing animals

at the roots of the body.

It is more than the branch

without becoming a tree,

water that rains between two horizons

and nothing floods

but the heart of the one who misses.

when that top

visited my mouth

and you played

the mountain of leaves on my chest,

I brought my lips to my hands.

Since then

It seems that I have forgotten

how to elevate the abode that we are

with a sound,

it seems,

but where do I put the caress

eyes go out,

something sings

and see you inside.

“Without saying 'I love you'”, by the Venezuelan poet Juan Ortiz

If you accompany me in this love without saying "I love you",

I will be at every moment

subject to you for more than a word,

and the root will be deeper,

and we will be like a stone with butterflies inside.

I go to the side of the road, you know,

I want to tear down the walls of time until our now,

but it is still missing and dying is close.

To live this is to understand the misfortune while the smile crowns the triumph,

and we go from funeral to funeral

and people go happy with one without knowing what happens.

This cross of coffee that visits in the usual hours takes away the dream of the hand with you,

and I savor your thighs, giving you inside the lights of my tongue...

By then it's too late to come back

and the heart becomes a place to walk rarely,

forgetting who you were,

because it is convenient to double life and keep it until it is prudent

and I can see you again.