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Best Famous South America Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous South America poems. This is a select list of the best famous South America poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous South America poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of south america poems.

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Written by Jorge Luis Borges | Create an image from this poem

The Other Tiger

 A tiger comes to mind.
The twilight here Exalts the vast and busy Library And seems to set the bookshelves back in gloom; Innocent, ruthless, bloodstained, sleek It wanders through its forest and its day Printing a track along the muddy banks Of sluggish streams whose names it does not know (In its world there are no names or past Or time to come, only the vivid now) And makes its way across wild distances Sniffing the braided labyrinth of smells And in the wind picking the smell of dawn And tantalizing scent of grazing deer; Among the bamboo's slanting stripes I glimpse The tiger's stripes and sense the bony frame Under the splendid, quivering cover of skin.
Curving oceans and the planet's wastes keep us Apart in vain; from here in a house far off In South America I dream of you, Track you, O tiger of the Ganges' banks.
It strikes me now as evening fills my soul That the tiger addressed in my poem Is a shadowy beast, a tiger of symbols And scraps picked up at random out of books, A string of labored tropes that have no life, And not the fated tiger, the deadly jewel That under sun or stars or changing moon Goes on in Bengal or Sumatra fulfilling Its rounds of love and indolence and death.
To the tiger of symbols I hold opposed The one that's real, the one whose blood runs hot As it cuts down a herd of buffaloes, And that today, this August third, nineteen Fifty-nine, throws its shadow on the grass; But by the act of giving it a name, By trying to fix the limits of its world, It becomes a fiction not a living beast, Not a tiger out roaming the wilds of earth.
We'll hunt for a third tiger now, but like The others this one too will be a form Of what I dream, a structure of words, and not The flesh and one tiger that beyond all myths Paces the earth.
I know these things quite well, Yet nonetheless some force keeps driving me In this vague, unreasonable, and ancient quest, And I go on pursuing through the hours Another tiger, the beast not found in verse.


Written by Emily Dickinson | Create an image from this poem

Volcanoes be in Sicily

 Volcanoes be in Sicily
And South America
I judge from my Geography --
Volcanos nearer here
A Lava step at any time
Am I inclined to climb --
A Crater I may contemplate
Vesuvius at Home.
Written by Carl Sandburg | Create an image from this poem

Fellow Citizens

 I DRANK musty ale at the Illinois Athletic Club with
the millionaire manufacturer of Green River butter
one night
And his face had the shining light of an old-time Quaker,
he spoke of a beautiful daughter, and I knew he had
a peace and a happiness up his sleeve somewhere.
Then I heard Jim Kirch make a speech to the Advertising Association on the trade resources of South America.
And the way he lighted a three-for-a-nickel stogie and cocked it at an angle regardless of the manners of our best people, I knew he had a clutch on a real happiness even though some of the reporters on his newspaper say he is the living double of Jack London's Sea Wolf.
In the mayor's office the mayor himself told me he was happy though it is a hard job to satisfy all the office- seekers and eat all the dinners he is asked to eat.
Down in Gilpin Place, near Hull House, was a man with his jaw wrapped for a bad toothache, And he had it all over the butter millionaire, Jim Kirch and the mayor when it came to happiness.
He is a maker of accordions and guitars and not only makes them from start to finish, but plays them after he makes them.
And he had a guitar of mahogany with a walnut bottom he offered for seven dollars and a half if I wanted it, And another just like it, only smaller, for six dollars, though he never mentioned the price till I asked him, And he stated the price in a sorry way, as though the music and the make of an instrument count for a million times more than the price in money.
I thought he had a real soul and knew a lot about God.
There was light in his eyes of one who has conquered sorrow in so far as sorrow is conquerable or worth conquering.
Anyway he is the only Chicago citizen I was jealous of that day.
He played a dance they play in some parts of Italy when the harvest of grapes is over and the wine presses are ready for work.

Book: Reflection on the Important Things