Poems by Luis Muñoz Rivera

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Illustrated paperback ISBN: 9788490076095
Hardcover ISBN: 9788411266284

SKU: 9788498979886 Category: Tags: , , ,

The Poems of Luis Muñoz Rivera have enormous sociopolitical content, belong to the Realist movement in literature, and are descriptive and visual and alien to Romanticism. The Poems of Luis Muñoz Rivera have been grouped into four sections, which reflect his career “Retamas”, “Tropicales”, “Nacionalistas” and “Líricas”.

Broom

I. I don’t know if the lyrics make verses
that I write with tears,
thinking that, in my sweet Borinquen,
This beautiful jirón of the homeland
(perhaps from a dream
as vain shadow)
The Settler’s Gentle Hope
It is lost in shadows and bitter waves.

For these lines I write trembling,
I neither seek, nor count, nor choose words;
This time the rhetoric awaits,
that the truth passes.

And are these rhymes so sad and joyful.
arrows of fire or blades of frost,
that scorch the lips
or they cool the soul.

IV. With clothes in beautiful disarray,
the marble forehead of curls populated,
babbling trembling lips
confused words,
A child slept
dreaming in the homeland.

Oh! How beautiful, laughing, and splendid,
Haughty and heroic, virile and gallant
I saw her emerge from the airwaves.
roaring and brave,
with its foam veste covered,
Nymph’s torso, the statue shapes!
The years passed:
The boy, in his land, grew up as an outcast:
He saw the whip explode relentlessly.
of the servant on the back;
look could into Caesar’s face
smiles of pity;
blood, rebellious,
rose to his cheeks in sharp wave;
and then… on their sleepless nights,
evoking the dreamed nymph,
How petty, how poor, how sad!
I used to look at her!

Alas! The dream… how sweet and joyful!
The truth… how naked and bitter!

That’s why the bait
Thinking of the homeland,
He felt his withered eyes many times
fill with tears.

VII. There is no remedy: bend the knee:
lower your head,
and suffer to be oppressed and squeezed
The Despot’s Plant
If the masters wield the whip
that explodes arrogance.
Ah! Silence! On the trembling lips
drown out the protest
because it still reigns in the world
The law of force.

Your plow, the furrows breaking,
Break the earth:
You work tirelessly, and the fruit
of thankless slaughter
to its wide bottomless chests
The treasury is taken.
Meanwhile in the hut of Balago
You die of misery.
Continue your work: it demands it
The law of force.

Does it envelop you perhaps, relentlessly,
the wicked suspicion?
Do false scribes revile you?
Does it open its doors to you,
Like a thirsty and cursed monster
black ergastula?
Wait and suffer, what remedy?
Who suffers and hopes,
It may one day break into pieces
The law of force.

XIII. What a deep calm!
What a profound peace!
What a solemn stillness she who reigns
by those heights!

No events occur;
the days go by,
Without a breath stirring the seas
of our policy.

Silence so sad
enervates the spirit:
Is this land an immense
Tomb of the living?

XIV. I don’t know if Don Pablo, the pontiff,
studies anxious practical politics,
Reading tirelessly with increasing eagerness
my poor brooms.

But I know you really like them,
and that he loses his calm with them:
that sometimes enclose in rough wrapping
bitter truths.

Lord Count: the counts who seek
cheerful and pleasant impressions,
with trying an acíbar like this
They die of rabies.

XVI. Are the people having fun?
Let him have fun,
If you forget your anxieties
What more could you ask for?

Let it be stirred in joyful verbenas,
Let him drown his sorrows
rushing the liquor of pleasure!

Let him be flooded in the bacchic,
if you ever feel
The bitter memories of yesterday!

That discouragement invades
our gentle city?
That in it they sink the claw
the merciless vultures?

Bah! Never mind. Let him enjoy: let him sing;
and altars levante
to laughter, to dance to love.
He has nothing left for him: the party;
the languid orchestra;
of the glasses the sweet rumor.

The decline comes:
You are already feeling it,
The people, once haughty
It is degenerate.
Do you not observe in his withered forehead
The Cursed Footprint
that the idea would leave when leaving?
Those people do not want to be saved.
If it falls, if it dies,
is that he longs to fall and die.

XXXV. At night, while it burned
the consumption booth,
Describing so many curves
Like an aimless boat
Approach us
a presumed Demosthenes
and gave us gallant
With this beautiful speech:

“Do you see those flames?”
There is a very close wiry river,
which is, in front of the accident,
A sarcasm and an insult.

Well, I have in my stomach,
—and I never hide it—
a more terrible fire,
ash-free and smoke-free,
who mocks bombs
and disdains the aqueduct.

And this fire does not go out
Nor with all the rum in the world.

XXXIX. Poets and artists:
break the palette and the gentle plectrum;
Pick up the plough: you need
save the country.

Writers: the steely pen
pull with disdain;
Do not seek in the glorious joust
The dream triumph and the noble laurel.

Another thing the country demands of you;
The seed in the furrow throw:
the work of the strike spirit;
Break with the pikes the ferocious ground.

That the country is going backwards? Never mind.
Sow the tobacco: plant the coffee.
This people is not Rome or Greece:
If it falls, let it fall. Let him fall.

Kill the newspapers;
Throw the sweet lute stream into the stream:
We must not sound with glory;
Here it is only possible to sound with the cross.

If nothing we have that is worth much
Forget the Gentile Plectrum
That way you can only
save the country.

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