Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Ricardo Domeneck

ANCESTRAL SLAUGHTER

When my grandmother used to wring
the necks of chickens, not infrequently
to the point of decapitation,
and dropped them to the cold cement floor
and that shocking dance,
on her face there was no trace
of passion, pleasure, or pity.

In the darkness hidden within the noonday,
those killings were the most honest acts
in the violence of that house,
that childhood.

After plunging into boiling water
those headless corpses
[who’d stood in brood in the yard
questioning their Creator],
she began to pluck them, with all
the agility of a gray-lined hawk.

Like the caress of the jaguar’s skull
on the capybara’s, or the annulate
embrace of the caracara’s claws
on a snake’s all-torso body,
nothing in that old woman
was cognized
beyond a simple mission:

to feed her offspring.

As any animal does not question
the food chain in the face of hunger,
my grandmother was of all animals
the most innocent in my house
and in my forest.

More than cats and pigeons,
more than tortoises and rabbits, 

this is far more certain:

my grandmother was more innocent
even than our household dogs,
our big, fat dogs
with sharp — but useless — teeth,

also waiting for that age-old mammal
to drench her hands in blood.

VOOROUDERLIJKE SLACHTPARTIJ

Als mijn oma kippen de nek
omdraaide, waarbij ze vaak
de kop eraf trok,
en ze op de koude grond gooide
voor die angstaanjagende dans,
stond op haar gezicht geen spijt
of genot of opwinding te lezen.

In het donker verborgen in het middaglicht
waren die slachtpartijen allerfatsoenlijkste
daden in het geweld van dat
huis en die kinderjaren.

Ze doopte de lijken zonder kop
(die ergens in een hoekje van de tuin
zijn Schepper vroeg waarom)
in het kokende water en
plukte ze snel en behendig
alsof ze een kiekendief was.

Zoals het kroelen door de jaguar
van de kop van het waterzwijn,
of de omklauwing door de caracara
van het kronkelende lijf van de cobra,
werd die oude vrouw
door niets anders gedreven
dan door de eenvoudige missie:
haar kroost voeden.

Zoals ieder dier dat als de honger nijpt
niet denkt aan de voedselketen,
was mijn oma het onschuldigste dier
van mijn huis en mijn jungle. 

Meer dan katten en duiven,
of hazen en schildpadden,

was mijn oma

ongetwijfeld onschuldiger dan
de honden bij ons thuis,
die grote moddervette honden met hun
vlijmscherpe maar nutteloze tanden,

die ook nog eens van dat oude zoogdier verwachtten
dat ze haar handen met bloed bevlekte.

MORTICÍNIO ANCESTRAL

Quando minha avó torcia o pescoço
dos frangos, não raras vezes
chegando a decapitá-los,
e os lançava ao chão frio de cimento
para aquela dança assustadora,
não havia em seu rosto
paixão, prazer, ou pena.

Na escuridão escondida dentro do meio-dia,
aqueles morticínios eram os atos
mais honestos na violência
daquela casa e daquela infância.

Afogando na água fervente
os cadáveres sem cabeça
[que ficara de banda no quintal
interrogando seu Criador],
ela passava a depená-los, ágil,
qual fosse ela um gavião-pedrês.

Como o cafuné do crânio da onça
no crânio da capivara,
ou o abraço anelar das garras do carcará
ao redor do corpo todo-torso da cobra,
nada naquela velha
era cogitado
para além da missão simples: 

alimentar a prole.

Como todo animal que não questiona
a cadeia alimentar diante da fome,
minha avó foi o bicho mais inocente
da minha casa e da minha selva. 

Mais do que os gatos e pombos,
mais do que os jabutis e coelhos,

com certeza

era mais inocente minha avó
do que as cachorras da casa,
aquelas cachorras grandes e gordas
com os dentes afiados — mas inúteis,

esperando também daquela mamífera-anciã
que manchasse ela as mãos de sangue.

Close

ANCESTRAL SLAUGHTER

When my grandmother used to wring
the necks of chickens, not infrequently
to the point of decapitation,
and dropped them to the cold cement floor
and that shocking dance,
on her face there was no trace
of passion, pleasure, or pity.

In the darkness hidden within the noonday,
those killings were the most honest acts
in the violence of that house,
that childhood.

After plunging into boiling water
those headless corpses
[who’d stood in brood in the yard
questioning their Creator],
she began to pluck them, with all
the agility of a gray-lined hawk.

Like the caress of the jaguar’s skull
on the capybara’s, or the annulate
embrace of the caracara’s claws
on a snake’s all-torso body,
nothing in that old woman
was cognized
beyond a simple mission:

to feed her offspring.

As any animal does not question
the food chain in the face of hunger,
my grandmother was of all animals
the most innocent in my house
and in my forest.

More than cats and pigeons,
more than tortoises and rabbits, 

this is far more certain:

my grandmother was more innocent
even than our household dogs,
our big, fat dogs
with sharp — but useless — teeth,

also waiting for that age-old mammal
to drench her hands in blood.

ANCESTRAL SLAUGHTER

When my grandmother used to wring
the necks of chickens, not infrequently
to the point of decapitation,
and dropped them to the cold cement floor
and that shocking dance,
on her face there was no trace
of passion, pleasure, or pity.

In the darkness hidden within the noonday,
those killings were the most honest acts
in the violence of that house,
that childhood.

After plunging into boiling water
those headless corpses
[who’d stood in brood in the yard
questioning their Creator],
she began to pluck them, with all
the agility of a gray-lined hawk.

Like the caress of the jaguar’s skull
on the capybara’s, or the annulate
embrace of the caracara’s claws
on a snake’s all-torso body,
nothing in that old woman
was cognized
beyond a simple mission:

to feed her offspring.

As any animal does not question
the food chain in the face of hunger,
my grandmother was of all animals
the most innocent in my house
and in my forest.

More than cats and pigeons,
more than tortoises and rabbits, 

this is far more certain:

my grandmother was more innocent
even than our household dogs,
our big, fat dogs
with sharp — but useless — teeth,

also waiting for that age-old mammal
to drench her hands in blood.

Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Prins Bernhard cultuurfonds
Lira fonds
Versopolis
J.E. Jurriaanse
Gefinancierd door de Europese Unie
Elise Mathilde Fonds
Stichting Verzameling van Wijngaarden-Boot
Veerhuis
VDM
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère