Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Ricardo Domeneck

BOOTED

No one
          would expect Medea
      to swallow,
       digestively, her pride
    like bread
       if the survival kit
  calls for revenge:
         point its proud
      head
       down-
stream of all consequences to Jason
& may Glauce
            hobble,
         furunculosis
        in the fuselage
        of my fuse-
                       ego,
        without an echo
     or union.
       Even I, Brutus,
         would not know without doubt
      what Arthur
        would say, in these times
     of party switching,
        about Guinevere.
           I don't care
     therefore the
balance of shade of this
      deficit
     or if
   mister prosecutor
       dares
pass judgment on the successful
  conviction,
in a lawsuit in favor of Troy,
  of the trees
used for the one-horse cavalry
     of its calvary.
         When it comes to
        guilty parties,
let he who sees himself as prize
plot the betrayal.
       I don't
     know who indicates
where I sign the contract
  for the combustion point
of my straw stuffing
   or the angle that would aid
     the last straw
    at the eve
    of burning.
So I'm not whining to the fire
     to spare me the fish scales
      or not lick my filling:
        Without shoes, I won't
     feel indifference in the blisters
          that separate, with pus,
my soles from the burning coal,
             my skin from the ashes:
     may it sting me
  until it extinguishes me -
           I, ironized mucous membrane
           hydrated
      with hardtack,
         would teach the art
of losing lotteries
          as habit and destiny,
   and would discourse
  on loneliness, on being the
      third contraband
platypus
     in a distracted Noah's
   ark.
   This is indeed one art.

VREEMDE VOETEN AAN MIJN EIGEN BILLEN

Niemand
          verwacht van Medea
     dat ze, ter bevordering van de vertering,
                  brio en brioche opslokt
                   als de overlevingskit
   wraak dicteert, af en toe:
       stuur de steven
                     van de hoogmoed
          in  stroomafwaartse richting
         van de gevolgen voor Jason
& dat Glaucia moge
                zwichten,
  zweeruitstorting
            aan de vliegtuigromp
 van mijn smeltbare
                    ego,
 zonder echo
               en vakbond.
Zelfs ik, Brutus
   zou niet kunnen twijfelen
aan wat Arthur
         te zeggen had, op deze dagen
 van partijdige
                 ontrouw, over Guinevere.
     Onbelangrijk is daarom voor mij
                         de overweldigende
balans van dit
                    deficit
            of indien
            de officier van justitie             
                                        het zou wagen om
de schulduitspraak te verkondigen
                           als op een proces
ten gunste van Troje, en de bomen
                             veroordeelt die hij gebruikte voor het paard
    van zijn calvarie.
                          Als het om
           de beklaagde gaat, verraad dan degene
                                die zichzelf als trofee beschouwt.
           Ik ken niemand
                         die mij toont
waar ik onderteken dat ik het brandpunt
                             aanvaard
van mijn opzetting
         noch de hoek die toesnelt
    op de waterdruppel
                  op de vooravond
                 van overstroming en val.
Kom, ik jengel niet voor het vuur
                dat het mij schubben spaart
                of dat het mijn peluw niet likt:
blootsvoets, moet ik geen
   verwaarlozing voelen bij de blaren
        die met etter de zolen
scheiden van de gloed,
                 de huid van de as:
                          dat ik mag branden
                      tot ik uitdoof –
                                *ik, slijmvlies
                       gehydrateerd
                                             door Lots zout,
zou de kunst onderrichten
        bij loterijen te verliezen
    als gewoonte en bestemming,
                       en ik zou iets verzinnen
              over solitude, het derde
                       gesmokkelde
vogelbekdier te zijn
                 in om het even welke ark
  van een verstrooide Noah.
                    Dat, ja, one art.

Os pés alheios nos próprios glúteos

Ninguém
          espera de Medeia
      que engula,
                  digestório, o brio feito broa
                  se o kit-sobrevivência
  dita, às vezes, vingança:
         direciona a proa
                            do orgulho
                  à jusante
            das consequências para Jasão
& que claudique
                       Gláucia,
         furunculose
                   na fuselagem
        do meu ego
                        fusível,
        sem eco
                e sindicato.
       Até eu, Brutus,
         não saberia sem dúvida
      o que Arthur
                   diria, nestes dias
     de infidelidade
                  partidária, de Guinevere.
           Não me importa
                           portanto a balança
       torrencial deste
                            déficit
                ou se
              o senhor promotor
                                        ousa
proferir a sentença de sucesso
             na condenação,
num processo em prol de Troia,
                       das árvores usadas para o cavalo
     de seu calvário.
                    Quando se trata
        de réu, traia
                 quem se toma por troféu.
       Não
                conheço quem indique
onde assino que aceito
                      o ponto de combustão
do meu empalhamento
                         ou o ângulo que auxilie
     a gota-d´água
                          à véspera
               de transbordamento e queda.
Vamos, não choramingo ao fogo
                           que me poupe escamas
                 ou não me lamba o estofo:
       descalço, não
                hei-de sentir descaso nas bolhas
                     que separam, com pus,
as solas da brasa,
                       a derme das cinzas:
                           que me arda
             até que me extinga -
                                 *eu, mucosa
           hidratada
                            a sal de Ló,
         ensinaria a arte
              da perda em loterias
          como hábito e destino,
                         e discursaria
             algo sobre a solitude, ser o
                            terceiro ornitorrinco
            de contrabando
                           em qualquer arca
              de um Noé distraído.
                         Isto sim one art.
Close

BOOTED

No one
          would expect Medea
      to swallow,
       digestively, her pride
    like bread
       if the survival kit
  calls for revenge:
         point its proud
      head
       down-
stream of all consequences to Jason
& may Glauce
            hobble,
         furunculosis
        in the fuselage
        of my fuse-
                       ego,
        without an echo
     or union.
       Even I, Brutus,
         would not know without doubt
      what Arthur
        would say, in these times
     of party switching,
        about Guinevere.
           I don't care
     therefore the
balance of shade of this
      deficit
     or if
   mister prosecutor
       dares
pass judgment on the successful
  conviction,
in a lawsuit in favor of Troy,
  of the trees
used for the one-horse cavalry
     of its calvary.
         When it comes to
        guilty parties,
let he who sees himself as prize
plot the betrayal.
       I don't
     know who indicates
where I sign the contract
  for the combustion point
of my straw stuffing
   or the angle that would aid
     the last straw
    at the eve
    of burning.
So I'm not whining to the fire
     to spare me the fish scales
      or not lick my filling:
        Without shoes, I won't
     feel indifference in the blisters
          that separate, with pus,
my soles from the burning coal,
             my skin from the ashes:
     may it sting me
  until it extinguishes me -
           I, ironized mucous membrane
           hydrated
      with hardtack,
         would teach the art
of losing lotteries
          as habit and destiny,
   and would discourse
  on loneliness, on being the
      third contraband
platypus
     in a distracted Noah's
   ark.
   This is indeed one art.

BOOTED

No one
          would expect Medea
      to swallow,
       digestively, her pride
    like bread
       if the survival kit
  calls for revenge:
         point its proud
      head
       down-
stream of all consequences to Jason
& may Glauce
            hobble,
         furunculosis
        in the fuselage
        of my fuse-
                       ego,
        without an echo
     or union.
       Even I, Brutus,
         would not know without doubt
      what Arthur
        would say, in these times
     of party switching,
        about Guinevere.
           I don't care
     therefore the
balance of shade of this
      deficit
     or if
   mister prosecutor
       dares
pass judgment on the successful
  conviction,
in a lawsuit in favor of Troy,
  of the trees
used for the one-horse cavalry
     of its calvary.
         When it comes to
        guilty parties,
let he who sees himself as prize
plot the betrayal.
       I don't
     know who indicates
where I sign the contract
  for the combustion point
of my straw stuffing
   or the angle that would aid
     the last straw
    at the eve
    of burning.
So I'm not whining to the fire
     to spare me the fish scales
      or not lick my filling:
        Without shoes, I won't
     feel indifference in the blisters
          that separate, with pus,
my soles from the burning coal,
             my skin from the ashes:
     may it sting me
  until it extinguishes me -
           I, ironized mucous membrane
           hydrated
      with hardtack,
         would teach the art
of losing lotteries
          as habit and destiny,
   and would discourse
  on loneliness, on being the
      third contraband
platypus
     in a distracted Noah's
   ark.
   This is indeed one art.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
Hendrik Muller fonds
Lira fonds
J.E. Jurriaanse
Literature Translation Institute of Korea
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère