Joan García Viltró


Two Poems

 

The Swimmers: 24th February

 

2. August. Deutschland hat Rußland den Krieg erklärt. – Nachmittag Schwimmschule.
—Franz Kafka, Tagebuch 1914

 

The swimmers crawl their way  …………………………………………………………………………………………… They raise and run, clumsily pack
along the lanes in the afternoon………………………………………………………………………………………………..whatever & don’t forget the cat
or breast it in some clumsy style…………………………………………………………………………………………………..in her cute spacecraft carrier
Swimming school kids flock at the start……………………………………………………………………………………..& shouldn’t they have foreseen
of the lanes making the options narrower;…………………………………………………………………………….all of it — but they always do that,
in their cheery mayhem a few eyes.…………………………………………………………………………………………..they look the other way scream
in the throes of the unforeseen.………………………………………………………………………………….as if the ripples in the water don’t always
Is it they already fear death?                                                                                                                                   forerun a tidal wave, or it can
By drowning? Or is it the cold?                                                                                                                                          be easily breasted over.
Puffy dreams of a swimmer’s scalp.                                                                                          Eyes-closed some find their way out of home
hover some instants like bugs above the tarmac                                                                                       on their finger tips along the walls.
as others scream their lungs out                                                                                                     Some drag their uniforms across the lanes
not making waves or shed tears underwater.                                                                                               as Russian paras drop like flabby
And others fancy closing their eyes                                                                                                                          tears down their rifle sights.
& keeping their crawl straight, but they don’t.                                                                                           How casual is to get yourself killed
They are not aware: they swim inwards                                                                                                     at age 20 and your photo circulated
drawn by triggering aches in those haunted                                                                                            in socials as a frosted chunk of meat
corners of their bodies, drawn                                                                                               by the tanks bar bodies peppered with shrapnel
by cunning schemes about the rest                                                                                               on the tarmac, a suitcase the only mourner.
of their lives, starting the moment                                                                                                                Run, drag your life-heavy wheeled
they lift their flabby bodies                                                                                                                suitcases and your cute cat-carriers, flock
over the rim of the pool                                                                                                                                at the platforms for those metal eels
—but it’s all an illusion,                                                                                                                               or race-drive your lives past them all
like strokes get easier after                                                                                                                                 others, or take the contrary lane,
minute 20, like they aren’t annoyed                                                                                                       or leave the old and the fragile behind
by the old and the unfit. Nothing seems                                                                                                  —the shells explode like odd achings
ever to change bar everything                                                                                                            of the body, triggers, or the military craft
changes impassionately and                                                                                                                       savagely crawl low past your clusters
ineluctably, and then the swimming                                                                                                                           like locust, big time locust.
ends in mid-afternoon.                                                                                                                                                   But nothing ever changes.

 

The City of Total Delight

 

In the City of Total Delight reason is bullshit,
open to what is purposeless and shameless.
Staring is at last allowed and touching
yourself overtly and eating with your
fingers. The Gardens around the City, there to
parley gaily, to futilely get a sunburn.

Behind the Halls of Silence and Bliss, gently
trick yourself into back alleys. The sinking
after a glorious chord, that silence, that soundless
cliff of pleasure infinite. At your ingress,
let your ears be anointed, your voice be muffled,
let your soul be blissfully unguilted.

Stroll with your oily, shapeless, shape-craving
self along the Passage of Quantum Mirrors.
They are there and are not when you look at
your image or inside it or on it (which is
ruled out and against all decorum elsewhere).
Mindless, delight in the City regulations.

In nearby grounds pretending is also
bliss. It is encouraged and praised by
some of the Gods. The Boulevard of Pretension
is for you to indulge in this ultimate virtue.
Swagger along this promenade with rapture:
you were loved, your youth was never sentenced.

Safely bathe, relieve your soul-straining urges,
soothe fresh sores in the spas around Oblivion
Square, where you find much bliss in forgetting, in not
being remembered, your deeds obliterated.
Gluttony owns you: feed on the flowers with gusto,
homeward hearts will weep at your senseless drifting.

Creep your way past the Temple of Jupiter O.M.,
raping bull in the house; he fills up every
nook and cranny. Watch the underlying
Nereid being forever penetrated,
which is what you craved. The Golden Domus,
though, is meant for a godhead only; you are not.

So the City finds its way to you, and
sometimes you luckily find your way in.
Mostly people never find it.

 

Joan García Viltró is a poet and teacher based in Cambrils, on the south Catalan coast. His poems are often, but not always, inhabited by Mediterranean characters and mythologies. Some have been published in Borders and Belonging (Cephalopress), erbacceThe London Magazine, and Full House Literary, among others. He was most recently longlisted for the Fish Prize and shortlisted for the WoLF Poetry Competition. His poem ’The Swimmers : 24th February’ was shortlisted in 2022 for the Aesthetica Creative Writing Award.


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