Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Ricardo Domeneck

THE CULTURE INDUSTRY

Entertainments
for families in the interior
require their own
human resources.

Here,
great actors
do not come to play;
here,
great poets
do not come to read;
here,
great singers
do not come to sing;
here,
the intelligentsia
does not deign
to interpret. 

Here,
evangelical churches
and fitness centers
administer implementation
of Mens sana in corpore sano.

Visits to the ice cream parlor
which used to be a pizzeria
and before that, a snack bar.
Only the walls have changed;
they bear neither photograph
nor painting from venerable traditions. 

The public space
— neither Agora nor Ecclesia —
incites variations
— now whispered —
on old resentments
and petty irritations
that swell and throb
like carbuncles.

The frustrations of the father,
the frustrations of the mother;
hence the progress
of nascent discontent
in offspring frustrated
over heightened
losses.

At the dinner table
reigns our same
lack of subject matter
or matter repeated
unto exhaustion. The debts
to God and to Caesar. 

And yes, our silence
about the only things
that could possibly save us.
If only, in an instant
of sudden lucidity,
we could drown
ice cream, pizzas and snacks
in tears, blubbering together
in the gutter. But what would
the neighbors say?

In the capitals
the intelligentsia drop their tears
— the people! the people! —
while mold and moss
gradually encroach upon
our non-mouth, our non-soul.

CULTUURINDUSTRIE

Het vermaak
voor families in het binnenland
vereist een heel eigen inzet van
mensen.

Hier
komen de grote acteurs
geen optredens verzorgen,
hier
komen de grote dichters
geen gedichten voorlezen,
hier
komen de grote zangers
geen liedjes zingen
hier
verwaardigt
de intelligentsia
zich niet tot uitleg. 

Hier
valt het implanteren van een
mens sane in coropore sano
toe aan adventkerken
en krachthonken.

Bezoekjes aan de ijssalon,

die eerder een pizzeria
en een broodjeszaak was,
veranderen slechts de muren,
waaraan geen
foto of schilderij hangt
van eeuwenoude tradities.

De openbare ruimte

– agora noch ecclesia –
zet – nu fluisterend –
aan tot variaties
op de oude rancunes
en lichte irritaties
die aanzwellen en
kloppen als zweren.

De teleurstellingen van vader,

de teleurstellingen van moeder
en zo, verder naar beneden,
de eerste teleurstellingen van
het hele kroost, met groeiend
verlies.

Aan tafel
heerst ons gebrek aan
een gespreksonderwerp of
dat ene uitentreuren herhaalde
onderwerp. Onze schulden
aan God en de keizer. 

O ja, en het zwijgen
over de enige onderwerpen
die ons misschien kunnen redden.
Konden we maar heel even,
in een helder moment,
de ijsjes, pizza’s en broodjes
overgieten met tranen,
schreeuwend in de goot.
Maar wat zouden de buren
dan zeggen?

In de grote steden
grient de intelligentsia
– het volk! het volk! –
terwijl schimmel en mos
onze non-mond en non-ziel
steeds verder overdekken.

INDÚSTRIA CULTURAL

As distrações 
para as famílias do interior
exigem recursos humanos
próprios.

Aqui 
não vêm atuar
os grandes atores,
aqui 
não vêm ler
os grandes poetas,
aqui 
não vêm cantar 
os grandes cantores,
aqui 
não se digna
a interpretações 
a intelligentsia.

Aqui, 
às igrejas evangélicas 
e às academias de ginástica 
pertence a implementação 
do Mens sana in corpore sano.

As visitas à sorveteria
que antes fora uma pizzaria
e antes, uma lanchonete, 
apenas mudam as paredes,
que não trazem 
nem fotografia nem pintura
de tradições centenárias.

O espaço público 
— nem Ágora nem Eclésia —
incita variações 
— agora aos sussurros —
dos ressentimentos velhos,
das irritações pequenas
que se acumulam
e latejam como pústulas. 

As frustrações do pai,
as frustrações da mãe,
e assim, em escadinha,
as frustrações nascentes 
da prole toda, em perdas
crescentes.

À mesa 
reina nossa mesma 
falta de assunto da janta
ou o assunto repetido 
à exaustão. As dívidas 
com Deus e com César.

E sim, o silêncio 
sobre os únicos assuntos
que quiçá nos salvassem.
Quem-nos-dera, num instante 
de lucidez repentina,
aguássemos agora
os sorvetes, as pizzas, os lanches 
com lágrimas, esgoelando juntos
na sarjeta. Mas o que diriam
os vizinhos?

Nas capitais
lacrimeja a intelligentsia 
— o povo! o povo! — 
enquanto o mofo e o musgo
cobrem aos poucos 
a nossa não-boca, a nossa não-alma.

Close

THE CULTURE INDUSTRY

Entertainments
for families in the interior
require their own
human resources.

Here,
great actors
do not come to play;
here,
great poets
do not come to read;
here,
great singers
do not come to sing;
here,
the intelligentsia
does not deign
to interpret. 

Here,
evangelical churches
and fitness centers
administer implementation
of Mens sana in corpore sano.

Visits to the ice cream parlor
which used to be a pizzeria
and before that, a snack bar.
Only the walls have changed;
they bear neither photograph
nor painting from venerable traditions. 

The public space
— neither Agora nor Ecclesia —
incites variations
— now whispered —
on old resentments
and petty irritations
that swell and throb
like carbuncles.

The frustrations of the father,
the frustrations of the mother;
hence the progress
of nascent discontent
in offspring frustrated
over heightened
losses.

At the dinner table
reigns our same
lack of subject matter
or matter repeated
unto exhaustion. The debts
to God and to Caesar. 

And yes, our silence
about the only things
that could possibly save us.
If only, in an instant
of sudden lucidity,
we could drown
ice cream, pizzas and snacks
in tears, blubbering together
in the gutter. But what would
the neighbors say?

In the capitals
the intelligentsia drop their tears
— the people! the people! —
while mold and moss
gradually encroach upon
our non-mouth, our non-soul.

THE CULTURE INDUSTRY

Entertainments
for families in the interior
require their own
human resources.

Here,
great actors
do not come to play;
here,
great poets
do not come to read;
here,
great singers
do not come to sing;
here,
the intelligentsia
does not deign
to interpret. 

Here,
evangelical churches
and fitness centers
administer implementation
of Mens sana in corpore sano.

Visits to the ice cream parlor
which used to be a pizzeria
and before that, a snack bar.
Only the walls have changed;
they bear neither photograph
nor painting from venerable traditions. 

The public space
— neither Agora nor Ecclesia —
incites variations
— now whispered —
on old resentments
and petty irritations
that swell and throb
like carbuncles.

The frustrations of the father,
the frustrations of the mother;
hence the progress
of nascent discontent
in offspring frustrated
over heightened
losses.

At the dinner table
reigns our same
lack of subject matter
or matter repeated
unto exhaustion. The debts
to God and to Caesar. 

And yes, our silence
about the only things
that could possibly save us.
If only, in an instant
of sudden lucidity,
we could drown
ice cream, pizzas and snacks
in tears, blubbering together
in the gutter. But what would
the neighbors say?

In the capitals
the intelligentsia drop their tears
— the people! the people! —
while mold and moss
gradually encroach upon
our non-mouth, our non-soul.

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