César Abraham Vallejo Mendoza was a Peruvian poet. Although he published only three books of poetry during his lifetime, he is considered one of the great poetic innovators of the 20th century in any language. Thomas Merton called him "the greatest universal poet since Dante". Always a step ahead of literary currents, each of his books was distinct from the others, and, in its own sense, revolutionary. Clayton Eshleman and José Rubia Barcia's translation of The Complete Posthumous Poetry of César Vallejo won the National Book Award for translation in 1979. The late British poet, critic and biographer Martin Seymour-Smith, a leading authority on world literature, called Vallejo ... more »
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Cesar Vallejo Poems
Black Stone on Top of a White Stone
I shall die in Paris, in a rainstorm, On a day I already remember. I shall die in Paris-- it does not bother me-- Doubtless on a Thursday, like today, in autumn.
Black Messengers. (Translation of Los he...
There are in life such hard blows . . . I don't know! Blows seemingly from God's wrath; as if before them the undertow of all our sufferings is embedded in our souls . . . I don't know!
Los heraldos negros
Hay golpes en la vida tan fuertes . . . ¡Yo no se! Golpes como del odio de Dios; como si ante ellos; la resaca de todo lo sufrido se empozara en el alma ¡Yo no se!
Paris, October 1936
From all of this I am the only one who leaves. From this bench I go away, from my pants, from my great situation, from my actions, from my number split side to side,
To My Brother Miguel In Memoriam
Brother, today I sit on the brick bench of the house, where you make a bottomless emptiness. I remember we used to play at this hour, and mama caressed us: "But, sons..."
Mediodía estancado entre relentes. Bomba aburrida del cuartel achica tiempo tiempo tiempo tiempo. Era Era. Gallos cancionan escarbando en van ...
Under The Poplars
Like priestly imprisoned poets, the poplars of blood have fallen asleep. On the hills, the flocks of Bethlehem chew arias of grass at sunset.
Piedra Negra Sobre Piedra Blanca
Me moriré en París con aguacero, un día del cual tengo ya el recuerdo. Me moriré en París -y no me corro-
Hay un lugar que yo me sé en este mundo, nada menos, adonde nunca llegaremos.
Bordas De Hielo
Vengo a verte pasar todos los días, vaporcito encantado siempre lejos... Tus ojos son dos rubios capitanes;
La Rueda Del Hambriento
POR entre mis propios dientes salgo humeando, dando voces, pujando, bajándome los pantalones...
España, Aparta De Mí Este Cáliz
Niños del mundo, si cae España -digo, es un decir- si cae del cielo abajo su antebrazo que asen,
Epístola A Los Transeúntes
REANUDO mi día de conejo mi noche de elefante en descanso.
Luna! Corona de una testa inmensa, que te vas deshojando en sombras gualdas! Roja corona de un Jesús que piensa
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
Black Stone on Top of a White Stone
I shall die in Paris, in a rainstorm,
On a day I already remember.
I shall die in Paris-- it does not bother me--
Doubtless on a Thursday, like today, in autumn.
It shall be a Thursday, because today, Thursday
As I put down these lines, I have set my shoulders
To the evil. Never like today have I turned,
And headed my whole journey to the ways where I am alone.
César Vallejo is dead. They struck him,
All of them, though he did nothing to them,
They hit him hard with a stick and hard also
With the end of a rope. Witnesses are: the Thursdays,