Joan Deusa Dalmau

- Spain -

Joan Deusa Dalmau (Gandia, 1993) is a Valencian poet.
He holds a degree in Hispanic Studies and its Literatures from the University of Valencia and later pursued Philosophy, studying at the Università della Sapienza in Rome and the University of Barcelona.

His debut poetry collection, Camelot o la poesia social (Camelot or Social Poetry) (Bromera, 2020), won the Ibn Khafadja Poetry Prize of Alzira.
Deusa is the co-founder of Poetry Spam, a digital magazine. He is secretary of the Saforíssims Societat Literària collective, where he coordinates the 3 de March festival in Gandia. He also oversees Estiuvers, a festival dedicated to poetry and cultural heritage in Gandia.
In 2022, he was awarded the Antoni Vidal Ferrando Prize of Santanyí for El bosc de la vampira [The Vampire’s Forest] (Adia, 2022).

His poems have been included in several anthologies, such as La tempesta (Calúmnia, 2021-2022), El que ens ve damunt (Versaletes, 2023), Última poesía crítica (Lastura, 2023), and Revista Val/15. Quaderns de poesia valenciana (Val/15, 2024).

Since 2020, he has lived in Grau de Gandia, working as a secondary school teacher and a cultural manager for various literary events.

«Joan Deusa (Gandia, 1993) won the Ibn Hafaja Ciutat d’Alzira Prize in 2019 with his debut poetry collection, Camelot o la poesia social [Camelot or Social Poetry] (Bromera Poesia, 2020). Prior to this, he had published Periplo lapislázuli (2016), a collection of short stories. In 2017, he received the XXVI Certamen de Poesia Jove Miguel Hernández Daia Nova Prize; in 2018, he was a finalist for the Salvador Iborra Prize for Young Poetry in Catalan (AELC); and in 2019, he was awarded the Pare Miret Poetry Prize. Deusa is an active member of the writers' association Saforíssims and the AELC, as well as the founder and director of Poetry Spam, Revista antipoètica de treballadorXs precariXs i desocupaXs (Poetry Spam, the anti-poetic magazine for precarious and unemployed workers)» *1

«Averse to conventional poetry readings and wary of what he calls “the expression of false feelings,” Deusa asserts his stance in Camelot o la poesia social, a collection that not only earned him the Ibn Hafaja Poetry Prize but also cemented his voice as an uncompromising poet.» *2

«Shut away in his apartment in Gandia, Deusa began composing this collection in the solitude of early mornings, drawing inspiration from his literary influences. The result: visceral verses, surrealist poetics, and a deliberate attempt “to create a crack in the concept of evil.” Camelot o la poesia social is a journey into an imagined Camelot, where an earnest poetic voice navigates longing, rage, and a deep-seated ambivalence toward poetry itself.» *3

«Deusa’s foray into narrative writing shares the same philosophical and poetic intensity. His first prose work, El bosc de la vampira [The Vampire’s Forest] (AdiA Edicions, 2022), winner of the Antoni Vidal Ferrando Prize of Santanyí, follows a young Valencian writer on a quest to find philosopher Ludwig Wittgenstein’s cabin. The book unfolds as a collection of short, interwoven texts—hovering between the poetic and the philosophical—centered on this search. Along the way, the protagonist takes refuge in the home of a Catalan poet, facilitated by their mutual acquaintance, Joan Deusa.
Against the backdrop of a frozen, desolate landscape, what begins as isolation transforms into an enclave of creative and sexual intimacy. As the poet finds inspiration in the embrace of a figure named Florvermella, the novel meditates on the nature of artistic creation, the inner workings of the literary world, and the fluid boundaries between reality and fiction.» *4

Poetry

THE SORROW OF THE SAMARUCS / EL PLOR DELS SAMARUCS

I write from the balcony of an apartment where I glimpse a shard of sea,
letters arrive from friends in Barcelona—I open them, I read,
I have little money, a bicycle, and with these alone,
I can venture to Valencia and the very heart of Gandia.
Few yogurts are left, little meat in the fridge,
yet I have rice, garlic, potato peels, perhaps a tomato.
On the table, I keep paper, pencils, Tirant lo Blanc,
and books by Wittgenstein, blue notebooks, brown notebooks,
on certainty.
I save all the lyricism for the evening,
for I write slowly a work, I write, I mean, the miseries,
And if I have time, I run along the beach, there by the sea,
when the dead wave from the sand is violet
or I take my old bicycle and pedal through the paths, toward Xeresa,
to the wetland where my father now plants artichokes, garlic, and picks the pumpkins.
As I leave and return, I cross the Samaruc lake,
and I say, my friend, oh, my friend, autumn has arrived,
and the samarucs weep and blow bubbles beneath the water’s surface,
To you, I entrust my work, I tell them,
And I head home, still hearing them,
and I say nothing more, for all has been said
when night descends,
and the sharp teeth of the monster
and the rusted sword, raised high.
Translated by Laia M. Llobera
Camelot o la poesia social, Bromera (2020)

Escric des del balcó d’un apartament on veig un tros de mar,
rep cartes d’amics que m’escriuen a Barcelona, les llig,
tinc pocs diners i una bicicleta, i amb tot això
puc fer viatges a València i al centre de Gandia.
Queden ja pocs iogurts i poca carn a la nevera,
tinc, però, arròs, alls, pells de creïlla, potser una tomaca.
Damunt de la taula tinc, també, paper, llapis, el Tirant,
i llibres de Wittgenstein, quaderns blaus, quaderns marrons,
sobre la certesa.
Deixe tot el lirisme per a la vesprada
perquè escric lentament una obra, escric, vull dir, les misèries,
i si tinc temps, isc a córrer a la platja, allà voreta mar,
quan l’ona morta des de l’arena és violeta,
o agafe la meua vella bicicleta i entre pels caminals, cap a Xeresa
a la marjal on mon pare ara planta carxofes, alls i cull les carabasses.
Quan vaig i quan torne travesse el llac del Samaruc
i dic, amic meu, ai, amic meu, ja ha arribat la tardor,
i els samarucs ploren i fan bambolles sota l'aigua dels llacs,
a vosaltres vos deixe la meua obra, els dic,
i torne a casa sentint-los, i ja no dic res i no hi ha res a dir
quan ha arribat la nit
i les dents esmolades del monstre
i l'espasa rovellada, enlaire.
GILDED ALEXANDRINES / ALEXANDRINS DAURATS

The glass lingers, unfinished, untouched.
A striptease of awe. A striptease of sin
Who left it there? Filled with beer,
while I stood beside, pissing at the urinal.
A yellow stream flowed from the penis,
and I began to think, and think some more.

After his triumph at Arbela,
Alexander the Great took Babylon,
tore down Persepolis, crossed the Hindu Kush,
where he faced elephants, in India.
Later, he returned through an inferno of sand
to grand Babylon. But for what?
That day, Alexander was drunk—
stumbling, hand in hand with Bagoas,
a boy of rare beauty.
What filled his mind? A golden chalice.

The glass still sits there, untouched, unfinished.
A striptease of awe. A striptease of sin
As he drinks, before he can heave
into the basin, he stains the carpet,
spilling blank verse into sour froth.
The hops carve bitter verses of March,
towards a god he does not know.
He retches no more, but perhaps he forgets—
forgets the golden chalice,
the white windows, the frosted glass,
its strange and unknown texture.
He does not flee, nor is he one to yield,
but he treasures the poet-philosopher,
leading him to his Persian court,
where he will write his finest lines—
verses full of wonder, others near divine,
like beer abandoned, left untouched.

The glass still lingers, unfinished, intact.
A striptease of awe. A striptease of sin.
He flushed the toilet and stepped away,
pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket,
lit one, took a sip of beer.
Walked with his friend, whose hair shone like gold,
thinking of the glass he’d seen in the bathroom.
He wondered if he was still himself,
if the world held hidden engines of ruin—
on the earth, the bar counter,
the bathroom stalls, the groves of orange trees,
the roads that stretch beyond.
He sees darkened bridges—
spirits longing to return, spirits that returned to him.
But he let the thought drift.
He was a poet now, and that was enough.
They spoke again of Wittgenstein, the master,
of whether free verse was needed, or strict form,
if language itself was domination.
And they made their way back home along the road.
The Safor hushed a murmur from Greece.

A striptease of awe. A striptease of sin.
The glass still sits there—unfinished, untouched.
Translated by Laia M. Llobera
Última poesia crítica (Lastura, 2023)

El got segueix allí, inacabat, intacte.
Un striptease d’horror. Un striptease del mal.
Qui l’havia deixat? Estava ple de birra
i jo, al seu costat, pixava a l’urinari.
Del penis va fluir un rierol tot groc
i jo vaig començar a pensar i pensar.

Després d’haver guanyat la batalla d’Arbela,
Alexandre, el Gran, conquerí Babilònia,
va destruir Persèpolis, travessà l’Hindu-Kush,
allà es va enfrontar a elefants, a l’Índia.
Temps després va tornar per un infern d’arena
a la gran Babilònia. A què hi va tornar?
Anava ben borratxo, Alexandre, aquell dia,
de la mà de Bagoes, un noi que era molt bell.
Què pensava? Pensava en un calze daurat.

El got segueix allí, inacabat, intacte.
Un striptease d’horror. Un striptease del mal.
Mentre Alexandre beu, abans de vomitar
a l’orinal, de colp, també ho fa a la catifa,
abocant versos blancs entre una escuma agra.
El llúpol li escrivia amargs versos de March
cap a un déu que ell ignora. Ja no vomita gens,
però potser oblida, oblida el calze d'or
i les finestres blanques d’un vidre esmerilat,
d’una textura rara, per ell desconeguda.
No fuig, no és de rendir-se, però li agrada molt
el poeta filòsof, i amb ell se l’endurà,
a la seua cort persa, i allí escriurà
els millors versos blancs, versos plens de sorpresa
i d’altres de divins, com birra abandonada.

El got segueix allí, inacabat, intacte.
Un striptease d’horror. Un striptease del mal.
Estirà la cadena i va eixir d’aquell lloc.
Tragué de la butxaca el paquet de tabac,
encengué un cigarret i begué un glop de birra.
Anà amb el seu amic. Tenia els cabells d’or,
i pensava en el got que havia vist al vàter.
Es preguntà si ell seguia, o no, sent ell,
i si hi ha secrets mecanismes del mal
ubicats a la terra, a la barra dels bars,
als lavabos dels bars, als camps de tarongers
i a les carreteres. Hi veu ponts enfosquits.
Són esperits que volen tornar, i que li tornen.
Però no va pegar més voltes a la cosa,
ara era un poeta i això era prou.
Tornaren a xarrar de Wittgenstein, el mestre,
de si calia o no el vers lliure o la mètrica,
si el llenguatge és, o no, la dominació.
I van tornar a casa per una carretera.
I la Safor callava una remor de Grècia.

Un striptease d’horror. Un striptease del mal.
El got segueix allí, inacabat, intacte.
THE LARVA / LA LARVA

In a short poem by Ibn Hazm, I read
of love between two souls.
One dreamed of the other, found them in sleep,
and upon waking, felt the pain of absence.
I rose early, sensing its larva,
sticky, green—a living dream.
Just beyond my door lie the ancient wetlands.
I brew my coffee, flicking through books,
Spinoza wrote that body and spirit
are but traits of an eternal god.
There’s an ectoplasm clinging to the sofa.
Cleaning is key to crafting a good verse.
On my way to the broom, down the hall, more snot.
I’ll take a stroll. The air feels fine despite the winter.
A book in my pocket. The sea and death, all of it.
“Is literature a filthy trade?”
I think as I kick shells in the sand.
I light a cigarette, watch a man like me
walk the beach under this damp chill.
I pull my collar tight, squinting to see him.
At night, I dine on meat, a sweet salad.
It will all happen again, and it won’t be a dream.
I sense a cut of what’s to come, already.
I enter the living room. He’s turned on the computer.
And on the screen, I see the poltergeist.
We eat. Then, we smoke. Six hundred twenty-five years
this poltergeist has lived. I show him my poems,
and he touches my words, weaving a steady rhythm,
vibrato, thought, rhyme—perfect balance.
The larva accepts wine, we talk of Dante
and how the tercets banish wandering souls.
Petrarch, Cavalcanti. He speaks of Pere Salvatge
and Beatriu de Dia. It strings verses from its father.
We head out to pubs, once home to Gandia Shore,
friends invite us to drinks of green.
He chants: «I think of hell, where time is unknown.»
Techno, rhythm, psychotropics. By morning, the wetlands,
all lit up, reveal a planet made of sand
where the larva can bind the ectoplasm
to bounty hunters, falconers,
cyborgs, and desert poets.
The darkness fades. Not to remember it all.
Forgetting is required to shape the absolute.
I stumble through the door, worn. Everything, everything swirls around me.
Tomorrow, I'll have a whole existence to wash clean.
Translated by Laia M. Llobera
poema inèdit

En un poema breu de l’Ibn Hazm vaig llegir
una història d’amor entre dues persones.
Una, somiava l’altra, la trobava en els somnis,
i quan es despertava en patia l’absència.
M’he alçat molt matí i n’he sentit la larva
apegalosa, verda. Era un somni viu.
A uns metres de casa estan les marjals velles.
Em prepare café i fullege alguns llibres,
Spinoza va dir que el cos i l’esperit
només són atributs d’un déu interminable.
Hi ha un ectoplasma apegat al sofà.
Fer neteja és tasca clau per fer un bon vers.
Camí de la granera, al passadís, més mocs.
Pegaré una volta. Malgrat l’hivern, fa bo.
Un llibre a la butxaca. La mar i la mort, tot.
«És la literatura un ofici que embruta»,
pense mentre patege petxines en l’arena.
M’encenc un cigarret i veig algú com jo
caminar per la platja, sota aquest fred humit.
M’aprete el coll i cale, esprem els ulls per veure’l.
A la nit sope carn, una ensalada dolça.
Tornarà a passar tot i no serà cap somni.
Endevine un tall del que arriba, ja.
Entre al menjador; l’ordinador, encés.
I dins de la pantalla veig el poltergeist.
Sopem. Després, fumem. Sis-cents vint-i-cinc anys
té aquest esperit. Li mostre els meus poemes,
i em toca paraules, aplica un ritme constant,
vibrato, pensament, rima, bon equilibri.
La larva accepta vi; comentem, llavors, Dante,
la forma dels tercets allunya els esperits.
Petrarca i Cavalcanti. Em diu Pere Salvatge
i Beatriu de Dia. Llig versos de son pare.
Sortim als pubs, on ans van fer Gandia Shore;
uns amics ens conviden a copes color verd.
Resa: «pense en l’infern, on el temps no es coneix».
Techno, ritme, psicòtrop. Al matí, les marjals
enceses em fan veure un planeta d’arena
on la larva podrà apegar l’ectoplasma
a caça-recompenses, a ensinistradors
de falcons rogencs, cíborgs, escriptors del desert.
La fosca s’ha esvaït. No recordar-ho tot.
Oblidar és precís per fer un absolut.
Entre en casa, rendit. Tot, tot, em pega voltes.
Demà tindré un món sencer per netejar.
THE STRATEGY GAMES / ELS JOCS D’ESTRATÈGIA

I press start and wake the machine,
ready for a round of strategy.
They offer me lands, cities to claim,
miniature maps with electronic Aegeans.
I choose Macedonia in Anatolian lands,
beyond the valleys where the enemy waits—
Darius, the Achaemenid, the Persian might.
A three-on-one, AI set to hard.
I click start. Loading game.
First, I command the fields be plowed.
Men and women set to work—
building homes, workshops, barns.
I send them out for wood, stone, ore.
Stone matters most—
not for walls, but for homes.
Greece is a verse stretching through time.
Darius Codomannus has launched his attack.
Sixty Persian horsemen, a hundred spearmen
march toward the hill where my polis stands.
I order the lines to form—
a hundred hoplites stand firm,
shields locked to guard the town.
The Persians arrive, blood running free.
From the capitol, I send arrows soaring.
In time, we drive the raiders back.
Greece wears the taste of ash and iron.
I choose to rebuild.
I will raise theaters, barracks.
Beyond the hill, my polis will spread.
I need resources. I grow, I falter.
An hour passes. The AI moves fast,
preparing its final strike. My hands shake.
Now I command two hundred Macedonians—
hoplites, slingers working wood and ore.
I have cavalry. I have Alexander the Great.
I have a feeling.
I will abandon the outer posts.
The enemy knows. The Persians know.
I want to spark the fire. So, I launch a raid.
With what time I have, I set the phalanx.
Some soldiers still haven't come—
they arrive from harvesting wheat,
from cutting wood in distant forests,
from breaking stone.
They come in bands of twenty, thirty,
still a long way off.
They form ranks and columns, ready to hold against chariots,
Indian war elephants, and the cavalry—
until Alexander arrives with his marching companions.
Shadows appear, robes fastened tight,
woven in Babylon, embroidered with birds.
Herodotus claimed a million Persians
crossed the Hellespont against the Lacedaemonians.
Persian infantry clash against sarissas.
Chariots hurl javelins,
elephants attack the flanks, shattering phalanxes.
Persian horses fall upon pikeman's lines.
I send stones—smooth, round, Eastern—
with slingers from Rhodes, taking their place behind,
while Agrianian peltasts hurl their javelins.
Soldiers, their minds simple,
do what they believe they must—
striking those in front of them, driven by fate, bound to fight.
But Alexander races forward, always at the front
At times, without command,
he surges past the Thessalians and elite cavalry,
driving into the elephants, hunting Darius.
As he stays close, the soldiers grow stronger.
I order Alexander to fall back,
but spears pierce him, arrows rain like seas.
Then, the call of salpinx, asking for help.
I shift my gaze to the corners of the game,
and see the Immortals rising toward the polis.
With him near, the soldiers stand taller.
I command Alexander to fall back,
but spears find him, arrows rain like seas.
Then—the cry of the salpinx, pleading for aid.
My gaze sweeps the edges of the game,
where the Immortals ascend toward the polis.
I send hoplites, slingers, wave after wave.
I think of the chaos. I think of Alexander.
What if he had strayed from Greece’s armies,
forgotten Aristotle’s lessons,
and slipped beyond the map, past the steppe?
There, he would bow to distant kings—
Tatars, Mongols, Chinese lords,
a mercenary adrift in the endless unknown.
A chill grips me. A shadow looms.
The ground is strewn with corpses—
fallen horses, fallen elephants, youths from Thessalonica,
Greece’s finest from Thebes, Agrigento, and Athens.
My army lies in ruin
and the Persian tide has breached the polis.
Where have they gone? Where do these cold minds drift?
Into what kind of oblivion will they fade?
Where will we meet again? Where, Alexander the Great?
Where, Ptolemy the Savior? Where, Hephaestion of Pella?
I uninstall the game. The screen goes dark.

Months must pass before I recover.
Translated by Laia M. Llobera
poema inèdit

Prem el botó d’inici i encenc l’ordinador
per fer una partida en un joc d’estratègia.
M’ofereixen espais i pobles que triar,
mapes en miniatura amb Egeus electrònics.
He triat Macedònia a terres d’Anatòlia,
més enllà de les valls que estiga l’enemic,
Darios, l’aquemènida, el gran imperi persa.
Vull un tres contra u, nivell d’IA, difícil.
Clique el botó d’inici. “Carregant la partida”.
El primer que faig és manar que llauren camps.
Als homes i les dones els ordene obrar
cases, tallers, graners. Els envie a fer
llenya, pedra, metalls. És important la pedra.
No per construir murs, sinó per a les cases.
Grècia som un vers que s’estén en el temps.
Darios Codomà ha llançat un atac.
Seixanta cavalls perses i cent d’infants llancers
pugen cap al turó on tinc la meua polis.
Ordene formar files. Un centenar d’hoplites
creen una renglera per protegir el poble.
Han arribat els perses i fan córrer la sang.
Lluny, des del capitoli, els hi envie sagetes.
Al cap del temps fem fora la ràtzia enemiga.
Grècia plora agra. Decidesc restablir-me.
Construiré teatres, casernes militars.
Més enllà del turó expandiré la polis.
Necessite recursos. I cresc, em faig feble.
Passa una hora sencera. L’IA prepara prest
el seu atac final. Em tremolen les mans.
Llavors tinc un exèrcit d’uns dos-cents macedonis,
hoplites, tiradors de fona que treballen
la fusta i els metalls. Tinc la cavalleria.
Tinc Alexandre el Gran. Tinc un pressentiment.
Crec que abandonaré posicions exteriors.
Els enemics ho saben. Els perses això ho saben.
Vull encendre la flama. Llavors, llance una ràtzia.
Amb el temps que tinc col·loque la falange.
De vegades, encara manquen soldats per vindre,
arriben de segar el blat, arriben de
tallar llenya, de boscs llunyans, picapedrers,
colles de vint, de trenta, que encara trigaran.
Formen grups i columnes. Resistiran els carros
i els elefants de l’Índia, i la cavalleria,
fins que arribe Alexandre, amb els companys de marxa.
Arriben unes ombres amb vestits ben cordats,
teixits a Babilònia amb imatges d’ocells.
Heròdot afirmà que un milió de perses
van passar l’Hel·lespont contra els lacedemonis.
La infanteria persa xoca contra sarisses.
Els carros de cavalls envien javelines.
 Els elefants ataquen pels flancs. Desfan falanges.
Els cavalls perses cauen contra els grups de piquers.
 Els envie pedres fines, redones, orientals,
amb fonadors de Rodes, que es col·loquen darrere,
peltastes agrians els llancen javelines.
Tenen intel·ligències petites els soldats,
fan el que creuen que s’ha de fer,
atacar  els que tenen davant. Hi estan predisposades.
Però Alexandre corre, sempre, a l’avantguarda.
De vegades ho fa sense que li ho ordene,
avançarà els tessalis i els cavallers d’elit
i atacarà els elefants, recercant en Darios.
Mentre roman a prop, els soldats guanyen força 
i ordene Alexandre córrer a rereguarda,
però li claven llances, li envien mars de fletxes.
Llavors, sonen salpinx que em demanen ajuda.
Desplace la mirada cap als racons del joc
i veig els Immortals pujar cap a la polis.
Envie, llavors, grups d’hoplites, fonadors.
Pense en la confusió. I pense en Alexandre.
Si s’hagués separat dels exèrcits de Grècia,
si hagués oblidat les lliçons d’Aristòtil
i hagués eixit del mapa més enllà de l’estepa.
Allà treballarà per a reis i senyors
tàrtars, mongols, xinesos, senyors invisibles,
talment un mercenari perdut en l’infinit.
He sentit un calfred. Veig un núvol obscur.
I en terra hi ha cadàvers de cavalls, 
cadàvers d’elefants, joves morts de Salònica,
flor innata de Tebes, d’Agrigent i d’Atenes.
El gruix del meu exèrcit ha desaparegut
i les forces dels perses ha penetrat la polis.
On són? On van aquestes fredes intel·ligències?
En quin tipus d’oblit s’acabaran desfent?
On ens retrobarem? On, Alexandre el Gran?
 On Ptolomeu el Sóter? On Hefestió de Pel·la?
Desinstal·le el programa. Apague la pantalla.

 Hauran de passar mesos per tal que em recupere.
EVIDENCE OF GOD'S EXISTENCE / PROVES DE L’EXISTÈNCIA DE DÉU

Reclining on the couch, as I read a book,
a verse comes to mind:
EVIDENCE OF GOD'S EXISTENCE.
Origen, who castrated himself,
said that God exists in potential,
but also in action and being.
From the ancient Solomon, he interpreted
that God is creating worlds to infinity,
and each day, He shapes souls
in stock, in case they’re ever needed.
Maimonides said we know Him
by all the things He cannot be.
This is called the negative way.
Dionysius the Areopagite asserted
that the negative way serves
to understand, through evil, its existence,
for instance, there’s capitalism,
the hatred of networks, Gandia’s shores,
and Netanyahu’s criminal deeds.
Lying on the couch, the book upon my chest,
I think of when I was in Palestine,
when I passed by the Sea of Galilee.
Days before, they detained a friend
at that checkpoint in Nablus, a boy who guided us
through that city between the deserts.
I remember that from the Sea of Galilee,
we journeyed on to Tiberias,
where we found Maimonides’ tomb.
All I see is what God can never be.
Poems are not complex,
I think as I light this cigarette.
I reach for a map of the Mediterranean.
Palestine and Valencia stand in parallel.
Translated by Laia M. Llobera
poema inèdit

Ajagut al sofà, mentre llegesc un llibre,
m’arriba al cap l’escriptura d’un vers:
PROVES DE L’EXISTÈNCIA DE DÉU.
Orígenes, que es va tallar els ous,
va dir que Déu hi era en potència,
però també en acte i existència.
Va interpretar de l’antic Salomó
que Déu està creant mons fins a l’infinit,
àdhuc, que cada dia crea ànimes
en stock per si mai calgués fer-les servir.
Maimònides digué que sabem d’Ell
per totes les coses que no pot ser.
D’això se’n diu la via negativa.
Dionís Aeropagita afirmà
que la via negativa servia
per comprendre, als mals, la seua existència,
per exemple, hi ha el capitalisme,
hi ha l’odi de xarxes, la platja de Gandia,
i els actes criminals de Netanyahu.
Ajagut al sofà, el llibre sobre el pit,
pense en quan vaig estar a Palestina,
quan vaig passar pel llac de Galilea.
Dies abans, van detindre un amic
a aquell check point de Nablus, un noi que ens feu de guia
per aquella ciutat entre els deserts.
Recorde que del mar de Galilea
anàrem a visitar Tiberíades,
i que trobàrem la tomba de Maimònides.
Tot el que veig és el que Déu no pot ser.
Els poemes no són enrevessats,
pense mentre m’encenc aquesta cigarreta.
Vaig a buscar un mapa del mar mediterrani.
Palestina i València estan en paral·lel.
THE COLERIDGE FLOWER AWAITS ON THE WITCH’S MOUNTAIN / LA FLOR DE COLERIDGE ESPERA EN LA MUNTANYA DE LA BRUIXA

Doraemon pressed his hand close to his sex and came towards me with my gift for the happy child of this planet of blooming trees of blossoming poets, a black mountain of papers upon the witch’s table and from that place so close to his very core, he brought me the flower of paradise and said, take it,
this one mirrors the flower worthy of Coleridge, found in a forgotten note
and he said, yes! Just like Borges, that is: if a man crossed paradise in a dream, and as a final testament, they gave him a flower crafted from paper, like this one, and upon waking, found that flower still in his palm, what would happen?
This is what Doraemon says now and what if this unpronounceable word is the quivering dream? Then what? Oh, thunder, light in the cave where the small body of an animal is crushed in the cauldron, The Coleridge flower, the Valencian one.
They hid the rose, there were interrogations, look at the little girl. Horror.
Now Doraemon interrogates me,
and now he draws a pistol, striking in its beauty.
It’s no toy, it’s a Walther P38, a World War model,
and now he looks at me, touches his reproductive organ,
and says, "Now you’ll cross paradise, you bastard."
Translated by Laia M. Llobera
Camelot o la poesia social, Bromera (2020)

Doràemon es va clavar la mà molt a prop del sexe i va vindre cap a mi
amb el meu regal per al xiquet feliç d’aquest planeta d’arbres florits
de poemaris florits, una muntanya negra de papers damunt la taula de la bruixa
i em va traure d’aquell lloc tan proper al seu òrgan reproductor la flor del paradís i em va dir prén
esta és igualeta que aquella flor digna de Coleridge en una nota perduda
i em va dir sí! igual que Borges, és a dir: si un home travessara el paradís
en un somni i com a prova final li donaren una flor aixina de paper i com aquesta
i si en despertar trobara aquella flor en la mà llavors què?
és el que diu Doràemon ara i si això de la paraulota impronunciable
és el somni trèmul? Llavors què? Oh trons, llum a la cova on es matxaca en la marmita
el cos d’un animal petit, La flor de Coleridge, el valencià.
Varen amagar la rosa, va haver interrogatoris, mira la xiqueta. Horror.
Ara Doràemon em fa un interrogatori
i ara trau una pistola que és bonica.
No és una pistola de joguet, és una Walther P38 model guerra mundial,
i ara em mira i es toca l’aparell reproductor
i em diu ara creuaràs el paradís, cabró.

Joan Deusa Dalmau

- Spain -

Poetry

THE SORROW OF THE SAMARUCS / EL PLOR DELS SAMARUCS

GILDED ALEXANDRINES / ALEXANDRINS DAURATS

THE LARVA / LA LARVA

THE STRATEGY GAMES / ELS JOCS D’ESTRATÈGIA

EVIDENCE OF GOD'S EXISTENCE / PROVES DE L’EXISTÈNCIA DE DÉU

THE COLERIDGE FLOWER AWAITS ON THE WITCH’S MOUNTAIN / LA FLOR DE COLERIDGE ESPERA EN LA MUNTANYA DE LA BRUIXA