George Franklin

George Franklin practices law in Miami. His chapbook, What the Angel Saw, What the Saint Refused is forthcoming from Sheila-Na-Gig Editions. Remote Cities is his third full-length poetry collection with Sheila-Na-Gig Editions, complementing Noise of the World (2020) and Traveling for No Good Reason (winner of the Sheila-Na-Gig Editions manuscript competition in 2018). He has also authored the dual-language collection, Among the Ruins / Entre las ruinas (translated by Ximena Gómez and published by Katakana Editores, 2020), and a chapbook, Travels of the Angel of Sorrow (Blue Cedar Press, 2020). He is the co-translator, along with the author, of Ximena Gómez’s Último día / Last Day and co-author with Gómez of Conversaciones sobre agua / Conversations About Water (Katakana Editores 2019 & 2023).

The Hazelnut Child

A boy no bigger than a hazelnut, his parents
An aging couple who’d wished so hard
For a child that their wish, the same for both,
Created him . . . out of nothing but their wish.

The boy no bigger than a hazelnut, could
Make horses obey him by poking and pinching,
Whispering repeatedly, “Faster, faster!”
He ran errands, performed chores, triumphantly.

The boy no bigger than a hazelnut, nestled
In the feathers of a stork and flew to Africa
To make his fortune, as many did in those days.
He returned with a diamond—somehow.

A boy no bigger than a hazelnut, and his parents,
Wealthy from his adventure, moved to a great house—
Servants had to be careful where they stepped—
But he, Ulysses-like, grew bored and packed his bag.

A boy no bigger than a hazelnut,
His parents no longer alive,
Went off to sleep in a hazelnut grove,
And stayed there until he died.

How To Be a Tourist in Barcelona

On your second afternoon in town, do nothing.
Take a long bath.  (There’s a bathtub!)  Dress in
Clothes that are relatively clean, go sit on the back

Terrace, and look up at the colors of the towels
And sheets hung on the neighbors’ clotheslines.
Remember the boxes of wooden clothespins

Your great aunt used and the lines strung across
Her backyard.  Here, blue and red shirts are hanging
From the railings of balconies along with fuchsia

Dish towels and gray sweaters.  On another balcony,
There is an herb garden.  You’re too far away
To see what kind.  That terracotta pot might be

Rosemary.  To the east, the sun hits some corrugated
Roofing and casts a scalloped shadow down the side
Of an unpainted building.  The bricks show through

In places.  In the courtyard between buildings,
You will find nothing designed by Gaudi, only
The cries of gulls and pigeons, and a radio playing

A pop song you don’t recognize.  One building
Is being renovated, and men in long-sleeve t-shirts
And baseball caps are working on scaffolding.

In the courtyard, there are no monuments, but
It will make you remember Orwell, who thought
That for the briefest of moments Barcelona was

The best society humans had created.  It will also
Make you think about what followed.  That was
Only eighty-something years ago.  These buildings

Stood here then.  Their windows opened onto
The street battles between anarchists and communists,
Socialists, nationalists, and inevitably fascists.

The world did nothing to help.  Orwell died
Of tuberculosis in England, but not before his
Prose eviscerated Auden for referring to “the

Necessary murder.”  Several pigeons—not a flock—
Move from one roof to another where there’s
More sun.  The sleeves of a black turtleneck flap

Lifelessly in the breeze.  The sky is a pure,
Brilliant blue that denies history exists and that
Suffering matters.  It doesn’t even care about

Architecture and cathedrals.  It only knows its
Own permanence.  Stare up at it, and watch
The gulls and pigeons.  There will be other afternoons

To be a tourist, to visit La Sagrada Familia,
The museums, and to take the cable car up Montjuïc.
For now, just sit on the terrace.