11 Surrealist poems of the most representative poets

My plane on fire, my castle flooded with Rhine wine
my ghetto of black lilies my crystal ear
my rock rolling down the cliff to crush the country guard
my opal snail my air gnat
my bird of paradise quilt my black foam hair
my cracked grave my rain of red locusts
my flying island my turquoise grape
my crazy and cautious car collision my wild bed
my eardrum pistil projected in my eye
my tulip bulb in the brain
my gazelle lost in a cinema on the boulevards
my casket of sun my volcano fruit
my hidden pond laugh where distracted prophets drown
my flood of cassis my morel butterfly
my blue waterfall like a background wave that gives birth to spring
my coral revolver whose mouth draws me like the mouth of a reverberating well
frozen like the mirror in which you contemplate the flight of hummingbirds from your gaze
lost in a mummy framed lingerie show i love you

«I have something to say I tell myself» - Federico García lorca

I have to say something I tell myself
Words that dissolve in your mouth
Wings that are suddenly coat racks
Where the cry falls a hand grows
Someone kills our name according to the book
Who gouged out the statue's eyes?
Who placed this tongue around the
Crying?

I have something to say I tell myself
And I swell with birds on the outside
Lips that fall like mirrors Here
Inside there the distances meet
This north or this south is an eye
I live around myself

I'm here there between rungs of flesh
Out in the open
With something to say I tell myself

Mystic Carlitos - Louis Aragón

The elevator always descended until I lost my breath

And the ladder always went up

This lady doesn't understand what is being said

It's fake

I already dreamed of talking to him about love

Oh the clerk

So comical with his mustache and his eyebrows

Artificial

Gave a cry when I pulled them

Thats weird

What do I see? That noble foreigner

Lord I am not a light woman

Uh the ugly

Luckily we

We have pigskin suitcases

Foolproof

This

Twenty dollars

And it contains a thousand

Always the same system

Nor measure

Nor logic

Bad topic

Give me, invisible flame, cold sword,
your persistent anger,
to end it all,
oh dry world,
oh bled world,
to end it all.

It burns, dark, it burns without flames,
dull and fiery,
ash and living stone,
desert without shores.

Burns in the vast sky, flagstone and cloud,
under the blind failing light
among sterile rocks.

Burns in the loneliness that unravels us,
land of burning stone,
of frozen and thirsty roots.

Burning, hidden fury,
ash that goes crazy,
it burns invisible, it burns
as the powerless sea begets clouds,
waves like resentment and stony foams.
Between my delirious bones, it burns;
burns inside the hollow air,
invisible and pure oven;
it burns as time burns,
how time walks between death,
with his own footsteps and his breath;
it burns like the loneliness that devours you,
burn in yourself, burning without flame,
solitude without image, thirst without lips.
To end it all
oh dry world,
to end it all.

«Plane» - Guillaume Apollinaire

What have you done, French, with Ader the air?
One word was his, now nothing.

He rigged up the members of the asceticism,
in the French language then without a name,
and then Ader becomes a poet and calls them an airplane.

O people of Paris, you, Marseilles and Lyon;
all of you French rivers and mountains,
city ​​dwellers and you country people ...
the instrument for flying is called an airplane.

Sweet word that would have enchanted Villon;
the poets to come will put it in their rhymes.

No, your wings, Ader, they weren't anonymous
when the grammarian came to master them,
to forge a scholarly word without anything airy
where the heavy hiatus and the ass that accompanies it (aeropl -anne)
they make up a long word, like a German word.

Ariel's whisper and voice was required
to name the instrument that takes us to heaven.
The moan of the breeze, a bird in space,
and it is a French word that passes through our mouths.

The plane! Let the plane go up in the air
to glide over the mountains, to cross the seas
and even further get lost.

Let him trace an eternal furrow in the ether,
but let's save it the soft name of airplane,
because of that magic nickname its five skillful letters
they had the strength to open the moving skies.

What have you done, French, with Ader the air?
One word was his, now nothing.

"Towards the night" - Philippe Soupault

It's late

In the shadow and in the wind

A cry rises with the night

I don't wait for anyone

To nobody

Not even to a memory

The hour has long passed

But that cry that the wind carries

And push forward

It comes from a place that is beyond

Above the dream

I don't wait for anyone

But here is the night

Crowned by fire

From the eyes of all the dead

Silent

And everything that had to disappear

Everything lost

You have to find it again

Above the dream

Towards the night.

«Night» - Antonin Artaud

The zinc counters go through the sewers,
the rain rises again to the moon;
on the avenue a window
reveals a naked woman.

In the skins of the swollen sheets
in which he breathes the whole night
the poet feels that his hair
they grow and multiply.

The dull face of the roofs
contemplate the extended bodies.

Between the ground and the pavements
life is a deep pittance.

Poet, what worries you
it has nothing to do with the moon;
the rain is cool,
the belly is fine.

Watch the glasses fill up
on the counters of the earth
life is empty
the head is far away.

Somewhere a poet thinks.

We don't need the moon
the head is big,
the world is crowded.

In every room
the world trembles,
life begets something
that ascends towards the ceilings.

A deck of cards floats in the air
around glasses;
wine smoke, glass smoke
and the evening pipes.

In the oblique angle of the ceilings
of all the rooms that tremble
marine fumes accumulate
Of badly constructed dreams

Because here Life is questioned
and the belly of thought;
bottles collide skulls
of the aerial assembly.

The Word springs from the dream
like a flower or like a glass
full of shapes and smoke.

The glass and the belly collide:
life is clear
on vitrified skulls.

The fiery areopagus of poets
congregates around the green baize,
the void spins.

Life passes through thought
of the hairy poet.

«Urban appearance» - Olivero Girondo

Did it come from underground?
Did it come off the sky?
I was among the noises
injured,
badly injured,
still,
silent,
kneeling before the evening,
before the inevitable,
attached veins
to fright,
to the asphalt,
with their fallen tresses,
with his holy eyes,
all, all naked,
almost blue, so white.
They were talking about a horse.
I think it was an angel.

«Ashes» - Alejandra Pizarnik

The night splintered with stars
looking at me amazed
the air spews hate
embellished his face
with music.

Soon we will go
Arcane dream
ancestor of my smile
the world is haggard
and there is padlock but no keys
and there is dread but no tears.

What will I do with myself?
Because I owe you what I am
But I have no tomorrow
Because you ...
The night suffers.

So far the surreal poems of the most popular authors of the movement have arrived, so we hope you enjoyed them as much as we did in collecting them to show them to you. If you have any questions or contributions, remember to use the comment box below; In the same way that we invite you to share this entry on your social networks, since you may have a friend who loves surrealist poetry and you still don't know it.