Vicente Vidoffrovicente huidobroJanuary 10, 1893 - January 2, 1948Born in Santiago, Chile, he is the founder of the creationist poetry genre. Along with Neruda, Mistral and Pablo Deloka, he is one of the four greatest Chilean poets of the 20th century. As a teenager, he was sent to a Jesuit school and soon dropped out to travel in Argentina. In 1912, he co-founded the magazine "Young Poets" with poets to disseminate the poetry theory and style of Rubén Dario, the founder of modernist poetry. In 1916, he lived in Europe and had close contacts with the French avant-garde artist Picasso and others in Paris. Later, he went to Madrid and became acquainted with Spanish poets such as Juan Larrea. After returning to Chile, he founded the newspaper Action in 1925 and became involved in politics. He ran in the national election as a candidate, and after losing the country, he went abroad again and lived abroad through the Spanish Civil War and World War II. He returned to Chile in 1945. Three years later, he died in Cartagena, a suburb of Santiago.
Hydroscope
My mirror, flowing in the night, turned into a stream away from my room.
My mirror is deeper than the planet.
All the swans drowned in it.
It is a green pond on the city wall.
In the middle of the sleep you moored naked.
On her waves, sleepwalking under the sky.
My dreams are far away like ships.
You will see me forever standing in the bow of the ship and singing.
A secret rose bulged in my chest.
A drunken nightingale flapped its wings at my fingertips.
Happy people
The rain will not fall again, but there are a few tears.
And shine in your hair.
A man jumps on the sun.
His eyes were filled with the dust of all the roads.
His singing did not come from his lips.
Daylight crashes against glass.
The clouds of anxiety dissipate.
Universe. Clearer than my mirror.
Birds flying with children's shouts.
It was the same color, green, above the trees, higher than the sky, and the flight of the bells was heard.
Translated by Fan Ye. The art of poetry
May poetry become a key.
Open the locks on thousands of doors.
A leaf falls, an object flies by;
Seeing that everything is creation, the soul of the listener is overwhelmed.
Create new worlds, scrutinize your rhetoric, adjectives, and erase them if they have no vitality.
We are in the sky of nerves.
Muscles are like memories.
hanging in the museum;
However, we are not discouraged by this:
Real strength.
in the head. Poet, why sing roses!
Let it open in the poem;
Everything in the sun.
It's all just for us.
The poet is a little God.
Leave
The ship sails away. On sunken waves.
From what kind of throat without feathers.
Burst into song.
A cloud of smoke and a handkerchief.
Fight with the wind. Flowers of the summer and winter solstice.
Open in the air.
We wept in vain.
They cannot be collected.
The last verse will never be sung.
Lift your child into the wind.
The woman said goodbye from the beach.
The swallow's wings are broken.
Translated by Zhao Zhenjiang.
Hours
A small town. A train stopped on the plain.
The deaf stars sleep in.
in every puddle.
The water trembled. Curtains to shield from the wind.
Hanging in the bushes at night.
A lively drizzle.
From the flower-covered minaret.
Secrete stars.
Here and now. The time of maturity.
dripping on life.
Night
You hear the night gliding on the snow.
The song fell from the tree.
The voice made a sound through the mist.
I lit my cigar with a glance.
Whenever I open my lips.
I filled the void with clouds.
in the harbor. The mast is full of birds' nests.
Wind. Moaning in the wings of birds.
The waves shook the dead ship.
I whistled on the shore.
Look at the stars twinkling between my fingers.
Translated by Dong Jiping.
her
She took two steps forward.
Two more steps back.
The first step is to say hello sir.
Step 2: Say hello ma'am.
Other steps say how are you doing with your family.
Like a dove in the sky.
Today is a beautiful day.
She wears a flaming red shirt.
She has eyes that calm the sea.
She hid her dreams in a dark cabinet.
She saw a dead man in her head.
When she arrived, she left a beautiful part far away.
She left to wait for her, something formed on the horizon.
Her eyes were wounded, and blood was spilled on the hill.
She opened her heart and sang the darkness of her age.
She is as beautiful as the sky below the dove.
She has a mouth like steel.
A deadly flag is painted on the lips.
When she laughs, it's like a sea of coals in her belly.
Like the moon that sees itself in the water.
Like the sea that gnaws all the sand.
Like overflowing and falling into the void of a sea in plenty of time.
When the stars rustle above us.
Before the north wind blew her eyes open.
How beautiful she was on the horizon of her bones.
Wearing a flaming red shirt and a tired tree-like gaze.
Like the sky riding on a dove.
The art of poetry
May poetry be like a key that opens a thousand doors.
A leaf falls, and something flies away;
Everything that the eye sees is created, and the listener's heart trembles.
You have to create new worlds, and watch your wording;
Adjectives are harmful if they are not angry.
We are in a nervous cycle.
Muscles are like monuments.
hanging in a museum;
But we don't let this stop us from lacking strength:
The real vitality is in the mind.
Poets, why do you sing roses?
Let it be full of life in the poem;
It is only for us that everything under the sun survives.
The poet is a little god.
Translated by Zhu Jingdong.
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