Afrizal Malna (2)

Our Inheritance

Speak again my goat, my knife, my field, my stove, my house, my umbrella, my saw, my fishpond, my glass tile, my bucket, my gas lighter. Speak again my mirror, my adze, my eating table, my writing eguipment, my drinking glass, my family photo album, my chickens, my rice barn, my rice knife.

Speak again voices of my ancestors, my crowbar, my goat my books, my eating dish, my waer pomp, my hammer, my hoe, my pantry, my bird cage, my bycicle, my flowers, my water gutter, my bed. Speak again my water buffalo, my flashlight, my relatives and neighbors, my scissors, my rice knife.

Speak again my guest's chair, my work, my tobacco, my rice pounder, my blanket, my warm clothing, my cookinh pan, my hat. Speak again my cats... knife.

1987

translation by Marianne Koenig

Warisan Kita

Bicara lagi kambingku, pisauku, ladangku, komporku, rumahku, payungku, gergajiku, empang ikanku, genting kacaku, emberku, geretan gasku. Bicara lagi cerminku, kampakku, meja makanku, alat-alat tulisku, gelas minumku, album foto keluargaku, ayam-ayamku, lumbung berasku, ani-aniku.

Bicara lagi suara nenek-moyangku, linggisku, kambingku, kitab-kitabku, piring makanku, pompa airku, paluku, paculku, gudangku, sangkar burungku, sepedaku, bunga-bungaku, talang airku, ranjang tidurku. Bicara lagi kerbauku, lampu senterku, para kerabat-tetanggaku, guntingku, pahatku, lemariku, gerobakku,

sandal jepitku, penyerut kayuku, ani-aniku.

Bicara lagi kursi tamuku, penggorenganku, tembakauku, penumbuk padiku, selimutku, baju dinginku, panci masakku, topiku. Bicara lagi kucing-kucingku... pisau

1989

A Man at Fort Rotterdam

I met with that man, the bodily remains of a colony, upstairs in an old building, Fort Rotterdam. He was like the pounding of the breakers on Losari beach, making my pillow sweat in the night. The occan air made a hole in the door, then told of soldiers specters marching in information at night, a woman's screams from inside an old well, and a biscuit an a plate instantly consumed in a swarm of red ants. Fort Rotterdam is my hair standing on end, full of homeless souls, between the old buildings where children take English classes. I didn't invite the man to cat fried rice, lined up along Loxari beach. To know him, I must imagine a man staking his body to the walls of Fort Somba Opu, against the Kompenis cannon attacks besieging it from the sea air delivering endless fine salt upon my lips. That tale makes rocks rain down on his sentences, hard the tendons in the hand encloing the night.

Midday, war with the Kompeni resumes, with lessons, Heavy Metal on the public transport. American films on TV, the regional spending budget...

Ram, my friend, I left a man in that old building upstairs, gushing forth to your mother's bed.

1994

translation by Linda Owens

Seorang Lelaki di Benteng Fort Rotterdam


Saya temui lelaki itu, sisa-sisa tubuh sebuah koloni di bangunan tua lantai atas, Benteng Fort Rotterdam. Ia seperti hempasan ombak Pantai Losari, membuat bantal tidur saya berkeringat di malam hari. Udara laut membuat sebuah lubang di pintu, lalu bercerita tentang hantu-hantu tentara berbaris, jeritan perempuan dari sumur tua, dan biskuit di piring seketika habis oleh kerubungan semut merah.

Benteng Fort Rotterdam jadi bulu kudukku yang berdiri, di antara bangunan tua tempat anak-anak kursus bahasa Inggris. Mereka tak mengenalnya: seorang lelaki memancang tubuhnya pada tembok-tembok Benteng Somba Opu, dari serangan meriam Kompeni yang mengepungnya dari laut. Saya merasa sendiri dengan sepatu buatan Jerman di kaki saya, bersama udara laut yang tak henti mengirim garam halus di bibir saya. Kisah itu membuat batu berjatuhan pada kalimat-kalimatnya. Keras. Urat di tangan menutup malam.

Siang hari, peperangan dengan Kompeni berlangsung kembali, dengan kursus-kursus bahasa Inggris, musik-musik metal dalam kendaraan-kendaraan umum, film- film Amerika di TV, anggaran belanja daerah....

Ram, sahabatku, aku tinggalkan seorang lelaki di lantai atas bangunan tua itu. Mengucur hingga tempat tidur ibumu.


1994