Guim Valls

- Spain -

Guim Valls (Barcelona, 1992) began his poetic career in 2015 with the book Quincalla del segle, which was published in a handmade edition by Roure Edicions, the small poetry book press run by his father, Marc Valls, a graphic designer and illustrator. The following year, he won the Martí Dot Poetry Award for La mà dins la roda. In 2020, he published Pitó, a long fragmented poem in which the voice that speaks throughout is that of the monstrous serpent that guarded the Delphic oracle before the arrival of the god Apollo. Guim Valls has participated in all kinds of recitals, whether solo, in ephemeral poetic-musical projects, or as a member of the poetic improvisation group Nicomedes Mendes.

“With Pitó, Guim Valls has plunged into an abyss –I still don’t know which one– and has brought us poetry from it. Without asking for forgiveness or anything in return. Pitó, born against the will of the earth, is a terror full of possibilities and certain defeat (at the hands of Apollo, of course, the dictator of light). A wicked beast that writhes, terrifying, and slaughters lineages. A drugged brain stitched together with cracks [these are images that appear in the book; not all, but almost]. A book, in short, that should define a generation, ours, the one from the nineties, because it plays in a different league.”

Genís Poch, Núvol: “El nen blau i la serp de l’abisme” [review of Pitó by Guim Valls]

More about the poet

Poetry

ORPHEUS ON THE METRO / ORFEU AL METRO

It is forbidden to walk on the rails.

I’ve dropped down onto the rails
again.

I’ve inserted the ticket
into the pursed lips
of the toothless ferryman.

I’ve dropped down onto the rails
to have a listen:

my song
choked
by the shriek
trapped
on the rails.
Translated by Jacob Rhodes
Està prohibit baixar a la zona de vies.

He baixat a les vies
un altre cop.

He inserit el bitllet
entre els llavis premuts
del barquer esdentegat.

He baixat a les vies
a veure què:

el meu cant
ofegat
pel gemec
atrapat
als rails.

Quincalla del segle (Roure Edicions, 2015)
RHEUM FILTER / FILTRE DE LLEGANYES

Warnings are pointless now.
Our heads are full of that final dream
from last night. Our breakfast
awaits us in a cloud of smoke,
and our gawky elbows dig into the table
shoring us up for some attempt at bipedalism.
We smoke. Time is a bribe.
We listen to melodies
sounding out of our cranial void.
We cannot see the day, just bridges.
We shan’t flee the day.
We are a reserve of uncontrollable virtues.
Swollen wishes,
inaccurate prophecies
that coffee imprints on our bodies.
Our tongue, after a quick check,
remains sheltered under the roof of our mouths.
Our hand keeps vigil over the wheel we are running late in becoming.

Translated by Jacob Rhodes
Ja no calen advertències.
Tenim el cap inflat dels últims somnis
de la nit. Tenim al davant nostre
l’esmorzar voltat de fum,
i els colzes matussers clavats a taula
apuntalant segons intents de bipedisme.
Fumem. El temps és un suborn.
Escoltem les melodies
que produeix el buit cranial.
No veiem el dia, només ponts.
No serem del dia fugitius.
Som una reserva de virtuts incontrolables.
Voluntats embotornades,
profecies imprecises
que el cafè imprimeix en cossos.
La llengua, després d’una ràpida comprovació,
se sap encara arrecerada sota el sostre paladar.
La mà sotja la roda en què ja tardem a convertir-nos.

La mà dins la roda (Viena Edicions, 2017)
PYTHON / PITÓ

My body has grown screwed into the sacrament
of this pulsing earth,
one force among other forces
in this game of sharp strikes
and cruel affinities.
Mud was mud
until it became confused with mud
and it became dream.
I am a hard one
to date.
I have never left the riverbed,
fine sand or hard rock –to me it’s all the same–
I drag myself along and as I have neither fingers
nor hands neither arms nor legs neither feet
nor toes, I neither know nor can count the number
of scales that clad me and make me
invincible.
I am full of myself
especially when I kill. It’s a pleasure
seeing myself reflected in life’s darkened
hand mirror, yielding with a crunch
and staunching the prayer.
Later,
on to swallowing whole and digesting slowly.
It runs within me,
translucent, a blood made of voices
saying things about the past, about the now,
and about what is to come,
but I pay them no heed.
Translated by Jacob Rhodes
He crescut enroscada al sagrament
de la terra palpitant,
una força entre altres forces
en el joc aquest d’empentes
i cruels afinitats.
El fang va ser fang
fins que es confongué amb el fang
i es tornà somni.
Soc de difícil
datació.
Mai no he deixat de tocar mare,
arena fina o roca dura m’és igual,
jo m’arrossego i com que no tinc dits
ni mans ni braços ni cames ni peus
amb els seus dits, no sé ni vull comptar
el nombre d’escates que em revesteixen
i em fan invencible.
Soc presumida,
sobretot quan mato. És el plaer
de veure’m reflectida al mirallet obscur
de la vida que cedeix amb un cruixit
que estronca la pregària.
Després,
engolir i pair molt lent.
Em corre per dins,
diàfana, una sang feta de veus que diuen
coses que han passat, que passen ara
o que passaran més tard,
però no me les escolto.

Pitó (Edicions Poncianes, 2020)
UNTITLED / SENSE TÍTOL

Stick your crook
wherever it happens to fit,
shepherd.

You have walked enough
today.

Your herd
vomit their grass
when you look away,

the gods play
and stretch out
until they tire of it.

Do not compare
a crook
of polished wood

with a snake
when it stands up.
Translated by Jacob Rhodes
Entafora’t la vara
per on et càpiga,
pastor.

Ja has caminat prou,
avui.

El teu bestiar
vomita l’herba
quan no mires,

els déus juguen
i s’estiren
fins que es cansen.

No comparis
una vara
de fusta polida

amb una serp
quan es posa dempeus.

Pitó (Edicions Poncianes, 2020)
CEREMONY / CERIMÒNIA

That wobbly chair is the same spot where poems are made. You do not sit on it, but drag it a while by its backrest, you take it on a walk for life. By mid-morning, because you have set out early, your arm already starts to feel tired. Autumn macerating deep in your flesh, the wood whistles, you see the bug hiding behind the symbolic eyes of passers-by, no-one stops for anyone. Some arrive at places where others have set out from, and you too must have come to some place or another. You clear your dry throat, lean your back against a wall, bum on the floor, and sit the chair down on its side to rest on your bony lap as if you were nursing diamonds.
Translated by Jacob Rhodes
La cadira dels grinyols és la mateixa dels poemes. No t’hi asseus, l’arrossegues una estona agafant-la pel respatller, la treus a passejar la vida. A mig matí, perquè heu sortit d’hora, ja comences a sentir-te el braç cansat. És tardor macerada carn endins, la fusta xiscla, veus el bitxo que s’amaga rere els ulls simbòlics dels passants, que ningú no s’atura per ningú. Uns arriben a llocs d’on altres parteixen i tu deus haver arribat també a algun lloc. T’escures la gola resseca, arrepenges l’esquena contra un mur, el cul a terra, i asseus la cadira de costat sobre la teva falda ossuda com si covessis diamants.

Inèdit

Guim Valls

- Spain -

Poetry

ORPHEUS ON THE METRO / ORFEU AL METRO

RHEUM FILTER / FILTRE DE LLEGANYES

PYTHON / PITÓ

UNTITLED / SENSE TÍTOL

CEREMONY / CERIMÒNIA