Pedro Salinas y Serrano

Pedro Salinas y Serrano Poems

Pedro Salinas y Serrano Biography

Pedro Salinas y Serrano (27 November 1891, Madrid – 4 December 1951, Boston) was a Spanish poet and member of the Generation of '27. He was also a scholar and critic of Spanish literature, teaching at universities in Spain, England, and the United States. Pedro Salinas is considered one of the leading poets of the Spanish literary movement, the Generation of 27, which includes Federico Garcia Lorca, Rafael Alberti, Luis Cernuda, Emilio Prados, Vicente Aleixandre and others. His father died when he was a child. Being young in Madrid, Salinas developed interest in various topics, including law, philosophy and writing, and dreamed of becoming involved in all these areas. He then went on to teach at the Sorbonne (Paris) from 1914 to 1917. There, he developed a passion for Marcel Proust's works, translating the first two volumes and part of the third of the vast In Search of Lost Time into Spanish. When he returned to Spain, he began lecturing at the University of Seville, the University of Murcia, and the University of Santander. In 1922-1923, Salinas taught at Cambridge University. The Spanish Second Republic appointed him rector of the International Menendez Pelayo University. Before the Spanish Civil War began, Salinas had been offered a teaching position at Wellesley College, and in summer 1936 he left Spain to assume that position, and never returned. He taught in several universities in the United States and Puerto Rico, including the Johns Hopkins University. He was laid to rest in Santa Maria Magdalena de Pazzis Cemetery in San Juan in accordance with his wishes. His complete works have been edited by Enric Bou, of Brown University.)

The Best Poem Of Pedro Salinas y Serrano

Afan

No, no me basta, no.
Ni ese azul en delirio
celeste sobre mí,
cúspide de lo azul.
Ni esa reiteración
cantante de la ola,
espumas afirmando,
síes, síes sin fin.
Ni tantos irisados
primeros de las nubes
—ópalo, blanco y rosa—,
tan cansadas de cielo
que duermen en las conchas.
No, no me bastan, no.
Colmo, tensión extrema,
suma de la belleza
el mundo, ya no más.
Y yo más.
Más azul que el azul
alto. Más afirmar
amor, querer, que el sí
y el sí y el sí.
La tarde, ya en el límite
de dar, de ser,
agota sus reservas:
gozos, colores, triunfos;
me descubre los fondos
de mares y de glorias,
se estira, vibra, tiembla,
no puede más.
Lo sé, se va a romper
si yo le grito esto
que ya le estoy gritando
irremisiblemente
a golpes:

Tú, ya no más; yo, más.

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