Submit Your Poems
Get Your Premium Membership

Best Famous Jorge Luis Borges Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Jorge Luis Borges poems. This is a select list of the best famous Jorge Luis Borges poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Jorge Luis Borges poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of jorge luis borges poems.

Search for the best famous Jorge Luis Borges poems, articles about Jorge Luis Borges poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Jorge Luis Borges poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

See also: Best Member Poems

Go Back

by Jorge Luis Borges | |

Elegy

 Oh destiny of Borges
to have sailed across the diverse seas of the world
or across that single and solitary sea of diverse
names,
to have been a part of Edinburgh, of Zurich, of the
two Cordobas,
of Colombia and of Texas,
to have returned at the end of changing generations
to the ancient lands of his forebears,
to Andalucia, to Portugal and to those counties
where the Saxon warred with the Dane and they
mixed their blood,
to have wandered through the red and tranquil
labyrinth of London,
to have grown old in so many mirrors,
to have sought in vain the marble gaze of the statues,
to have questioned lithographs, encyclopedias,
atlases,
to have seen the things that men see,
death, the sluggish dawn, the plains,
and the delicate stars,
and to have seen nothing, or almost nothing
except the face of a girl from Buenos Aires
a face that does not want you to remember it.
Oh destiny of Borges, perhaps no stranger than your own.


by Jorge Luis Borges | |

History Of The Night

 Throughout the course of the generations
men constructed the night.
At first she was blindness; thorns raking bare feet, fear of wolves.
We shall never know who forged the word for the interval of shadow dividing the two twilights; we shall never know in what age it came to mean the starry hours.
Others created the myth.
They made her the mother of the unruffled Fates that spin our destiny, they sacrificed black ewes to her, and the cock who crows his own death.
The Chaldeans assigned to her twelve houses; to Zeno, infinite words.
She took shape from Latin hexameters and the terror of Pascal.
Luis de Leon saw in her the homeland of his stricken soul.
Now we feel her to be inexhaustible like an ancient wine and no one can gaze on her without vertigo and time has charged her with eternity.
And to think that she wouldn't exist except for those fragile instruments, the eyes.


by Jorge Luis Borges | |

Remorse For Any Death

 Free of memory and of hope,
limitless, abstract, almost future,
the dead man is not a dead man: he is death.
Like the God of the mystics, of Whom anything that could be said must be denied, the dead one, alien everywhere, is but the ruin and absence of the world.
We rob him of everything, we leave him not so much as a color or syllable: here, the courtyard which his eyes no longer see, there, the sidewalk where his hope lay in wait.
Even what we are thinking, he could be thinking; we have divvied up like thieves the booty of nights and days.


by Jorge Luis Borges | |

To A Cat

 Mirrors are not more silent
nor the creeping dawn more secretive;
in the moonlight, you are that panther
we catch sight of from afar.
By the inexplicable workings of a divine law, we look for you in vain; More remote, even, than the Ganges or the setting sun, yours is the solitude, yours the secret.
Your haunch allows the lingering caress of my hand.
You have accepted, since that long forgotten past, the love of the distrustful hand.
You belong to another time.
You are lord of a place bounded like a dream.


by Jorge Luis Borges | |

Shinto

 When sorrow lays us low
for a second we are saved
by humble windfalls
of the mindfulness or memory:
the taste of a fruit, the taste of water,
that face given back to us by a dream,
the first jasmine of November,
the endless yearning of the compass,
a book we thought was lost,
the throb of a hexameter,
the slight key that opens a house to us,
the smell of a library, or of sandalwood,
the former name of a street,
the colors of a map,
an unforeseen etymology,
the smoothness of a filed fingernail,
the date we were looking for,
the twelve dark bell-strokes, tolling as we count,
a sudden physical pain.
Eight million Shinto deities travel secretly throughout the earth.
Those modest gods touch us-- touch us and move on.


by Jorge Luis Borges | |

Susana Soca

 With lingering love she gazed at the dispersed
Colors of dusk.
It pleased her utterly To lose herself in the complex melody Or in the cunous life to be found in verse.
lt was not the primal red but rather grays That spun the fine thread of her destiny, For the nicest distinctions and all spent In waverings, ambiguities, delays.
Lacking the nerve to tread this treacherous Labyrinth, she looked in on, whom without, The shapes, the turbulence, the striving rout, (Like the other lady of the looking glass.
) The gods that dwell too far away for prayer Abandoned her to the final tiger, Fire.


by Jorge Luis Borges | |

We are the time. We are the famous

 We are the time.
We are the famous metaphor from Heraclitus the Obscure.
We are the water, not the hard diamond, the one that is lost, not the one that stands still.
We are the river and we are that greek that looks himself into the river.
His reflection changes into the waters of the changing mirror, into the crystal that changes like the fire.
We are the vain predetermined river, in his travel to his sea.
The shadows have surrounded him.
Everything said goodbye to us, everything goes away.
Memory does not stamp his own coin.
However, there is something that stays however, there is something that bemoans.


by Jorge Luis Borges | |

Adam Cast Forth

 Was there a Garden or was the Garden a dream?
Amid the fleeting light, I have slowed myself and queried,
Almost for consolation, if the bygone period
Over which this Adam, wretched now, once reigned supreme,

Might not have been just a magical illusion
Of that God I dreamed.
Already it's imprecise In my memory, the clear Paradise, But I know it exists, in flower and profusion, Although not for me.
My punishment for life Is the stubborn earth with the incestuous strife Of Cains and Abels and their brood; I await no pardon.
Yet, it's much to have loved, to have known true joy, To have had -- if only for just one day -- The experience of touching the living Garden.