Examples of "lyrical yo" and "poetic yo"

Lyrical me and poetic me

The lyrical self and the poetic self are two methods an author uses to express himself through a literary work.

Through the I poetic the author expresses his own feelings, ideas, wishes and opinions. In addition, this poetic self can dialogue, seduce and propose situations or comments to readers. The poetic self (or poetic speaker) is written in first person with the aim of generating the feeling that it is the poet himself who is speaking to the readers.

The I lyrical differs from the poet, expresses feelings and emotions through language but maintains distance or individuality from the author. In this case, the author uses natural resources to express the feelings of the author's inner self and to externalize them. The lyrical self does not necessarily coincide with the author: it can be a character, an animal, a vegetable, or a mythological character.

It can serve you:

Examples of "lyrical yo"

From the Divan of Abulcasim el Hadramí
By Jorge Luis Borges, The Maker (1960)

The poet declares his name
The circle of heaven measures my glory,
the libraries of the East dispute my verses,
the emirs seek me to fill my mouth with gold,
the angels already know my last zéjel by heart.
My instruments of work are humiliation and anguish;
I wish I had been born dead.

The Lyrical Solitude
By Esteban Agüero

Just like before, just
only with you, verse,
co-worker,
looking at the things that look at us,
and dreaming dreams;
choosing the sunniest place,
and older than silence,
shadow of molle, rugged little corner
in the tangle of the hard hills.
And alone, with free arms,
with my slow steps,
disdaining the talk of the people,
and measuring time with the sun.
Oh! this loneliness that is my flesh,
that makes me good and new,
delicious to taste life
with the living mouth of dreams;
that makes me the diamond and pure axis of the universe,
the smelly tongue of mute things,
and crazy center
Oh! this loneliness in the company of the Verse,
which is the heart of the fragrant heart,
musical mirror,
and look of God in the pupils
of my new eyes.
With him we walk in gentle solitude
and in rural idleness of feelings;
away from the world, away from everything, away
deciphering tiny secrets.

Poem 1
By Pablo Neruda

Woman's body, white hills, white thighs,
you resemble the world in your attitude of surrender.
My body of a wild peasant undermines you
and makes the son jump from the bottom of the earth.

I was just like a tunnel. The birds fled from me
and in me the night entered the powerful invasion of him.
To survive I forged you like a weapon
like an arrow in my bow, like a stone in my sling.

But the hour of revenge falls, and I love you.
Body of skin, moss, greedy and firm milk.
Ah the glasses of the chest! Ah the eyes of absence!
Ah, the pubic roses! Ah your slow and sad voice!

Body of my woman, I will persist in your grace.
My thirst, my endless craving, my indecisive path!
Dark channels where the eternal thirst follows,
and the fatigue continues, and the infinite pain.

One day you are, the next you are not
By Roger Wolfe, Babylon Burns (1994)

One day you are, the next you are not
One day you are, the next you are not
The smoke hangs in the room
like a bad joke.
of broken families
from the speakers:
«The truth is that they are only happy
when they feel pain.
That's why they got married... »
And me? I don't say anything.
I put out the cigarette.
Another day will die.

Examples of "poetic self"

House inside
By Enrique González Rojo

I had a love at first sight with poetry,
at first reading, letters tangled in the eyelashes,
to exchange sweet bellaquerías
behind the door. The poetry, oh the poetry
and the humble perfection of him without misprints.
Words served as a stepping stone
to go to the poem, the story, the philosophy
and to the loving confession.
In them I found the puzzle of infinity,
howls to catch stars,
the ostias to eat the world
and sometimes the piece of bread
that denies at any point of the chaos
the totalitarian claims of hell.

Clouds
By José Hierro

You question uselessly.
Your eyes look up to the sky.
You search behind the clouds
footprints blown away by the wind.
You look for warm hands
the faces of those who were,
the circle where they err
of her playing her instruments.

Ad by words
By Pedro Casariego

I need a girl who knows how to iron
my lips with hers and tend
her clothes eternally next to the
mine and remove the stains from me
her heart with her look I will put
the table and the caress in her bouquet
of moons and I will try to walk very
slowly
when
her
not
have
rush

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