The Balinese Earth

Oka Rusmini Poem

The Balinese Earth

1

perhaps in your eyes there never was any map
of the ancestors of Balinese earth
or perhaps life has never taught you beauty
and the leaves so often picked by our ancestors
along the bank of Badung river
never told the tales of their genealogy



I remember
when as a child the river told me many stories
our ancestors sat close to the edge
with their legs stretched out into the water
letting their sarongs get soaked
as the water washed gladly over them



I often ran along the edge with my tricycle
the coconut trees teaching me the fable of a certain temple
you must learn the genealogy of earth ,they said,
for hundreds of offering have been prepared
by those who own this land



my fragrant Bali, the blood of the dancer turned into flames
that burn away the floral fertility of my land



children still play
along the shore, and an old woman waits for her grandchild
small fish, the aroma of earth
gives youth to her breath



2

Do you know the meaning of earth?
or perhaps you’ve never heard the question
the sky that protects you from the sun’s stretched bow
has made you forget the ancestral blood
that has often inundated your form



the sound of carriages that once woke up women for the market
has been packaged into fairy tales
far across the sea,the sky that you’ve begun to make your enemy
has no foam or coral that you might sculpt into a form of civilization



was it an idiot native of this land who occupied this simple plot of earth?
estrangement envelopes every world on which we might plant our feet
perhaps we still have a temple
at which you steal glances thinking
it too might be made an entertainment
where now can the ancestors of the sacred Sang Hyang dancer go
to make their confession of faith?



there is no ritual
the ancestors return home
the water at the edges of the Badung river refuses our touch
the old woman who often brought her grandchild here
has lost the river
how many genealogies of earth do you understand?
who can you trust to shoulder the burden of these mistakes?



if you longer have trees
or earth thet gives off the aroma of blossoming rice
to whom will you sing the song of your greatness?



people with no eyes, hearths or head
are only brave enough to proposition the beauty of your land
you dance on its body
tell me: which dance do you really understand?



3

so long as women entrust their prayers to the leaves
Temples shiver, their vomit soaking the statues
foreign hand in giving carvings
my Temples
have spoken to the rain
that never will give birth to their seed



hundreds of dances only understood by the gods have faded away
their shards killing off the blossom of rice



rituals no longer have voices of their own
and women who were often awakened by the sound of carriages
no longer know the beauty of the body of rice



smoke envelopes every earth on which I plant my steps


I see blood swiftly flowing
the wound of coral in the sea
the sky rent asunder
so what I cant’t even distinguish its colors



people of the coast across the sea
bury hundreds of additional corpses
is it a native of this land who weeps in the corners of the city
no longer able to connect her rituals with the scent of the earth that is hers



and just to smell the earth
the owners of the map, of the Badung river and the sea,
even the gods, must pay the price of the aroma of their own land



4

where is the earth that once dirtied my tinny feet
where the ceremony of my birth
complete with so many kinds of flowers and leaves of the forest
that cleansed me so that I came to posses this land?
where the ancestors
who so often sang the song of genealogy of the greatness of humanity?
where are the dancers
absorbed in devotion who borrowed night study
inspiration from the gods of dance?



history no longer has any greatness
for you no longer know the earth



as long as the leaves prepare death
how many plots of land will you set aside for the burial?

translated by Thomas M. Hunter

Tanah Bali



1

mungkin tanah Bali tak punya peta leluhur di matamu
atau hidup tak pernah mengajari keindahan
daun-daun yang sering dipetik para leluhur di pinggir kali Badung
tak pernah mendongengkan silsilah padamu



aku ingat
ketika kanak-kanak air kali itu bercerita banyak padaku
dan leluhur duduk dekat kali
menjulurkan kaki. kain mereka dibiarkan basah
air kali memandikannya dengan riang



aku sering berlari dengan sepeda roda tiga
mengitari kali. pohon kelapa mengajari dongeng sebuah Pura
katanya, aku harus tahu silsilah tanah
beratus tumbal telah diciptakan para pemilik tanah



Baliku harum. darah para penari telah jadi api
membakar kesuburan bunga-bunga tanahku



anak-anak tetap bermain
dekat tepi kali seorang perempuan menunggu cucunya
ikan-ikan kecil, bau tanah basah
memberi kemudaan bagi nafasnya



2

pahamkah kau arti jadi tanah?
pertanyaan ini mungkin tak pernah kaukenal
langit yang melindungimu dari busur matahari
membuatmu lupa pada darah leluhur yang sering menyiram bentukmu



suara delman yang membangunkan perempuan-perempuan pasar
terbungkus jadi dongeng
jauh di seberang, langit mulai kaumusuhi
tak ada karang dan buih bisa dipahat jadi peradaban



pribumi tololkah yang menempati sepetak tanah?
keterasingan membungkus setiap bumi yang dipijak
kita mungkin masih punya Pura
yang kau lirik juga jadi tempat permainan
kemana para leluhur penari Sang Hyang mementaskan keakuannya?



tak ada upacara memikat leluhur pulang
air di tepi kali Badung tak ingin disentuh
perempuan tua yang sering mengantar cucunya
kehilangan kali
berapa silsilah tanah kaupahami?
siapa yang kaupercaya menanggung kesalahan ini?



kalau kau punya pohon
atau tanah yang tak memiliki keharuman bunga padi
pada siapa kau akan bercerita tentang kebesaranmu?



orang-orang tanpa mata, hati, dan kepala
hanya berani meminang keindahan tanahmu
kau menari di atas tubuhnya
katakan padaku, tarian apa yang kau pahami?



3

selagi para perempuan menitipkan doa lewat bunga-bunga
Pura-Pura menggigil, muntahannya membasahi patung-patung
tangan-tangan asing ikut memberi pahatan
Pura-Puraku
telah bercerita pada hujan
yang tak akan melahirkan benihnya



beratus tarian yang hanya dipahami para dewa luntur
patahannya membunuh bunga-bunga padi



upacara tak lagi memiliki suara sendiri
para perempuan yang sering dibangunkan suara delman
tak lagi tahu keindahan tubuh padi



asap membungkus setiap tanah yang kupijak



kulihat darah mengalir deras
kulihat luka batu karang di lautan
kulihat langit pecah
bahkan tak bisa kubedakan warnanya



orang-orang dari pesisir menyeberang
menanam beratus bangkai baru
pribumikah yang menangis di sudut-sudut kota
tak lagi bisa merangkai upacara dengan bau tanah miliknya



bahkan untuk mencium tanah
para pemilik peta, pemilik kali Badung, pemilik laut
bahkan para dewa harus membayar bau tanah miliknya



4

mana tanahku yang sempat mengotori kaki kecilku
mana upacara kelahiranku
lengkap dengan beragam bunga dan daun hutan
yang membasuhku jadi pemilik tanah ini
mana para leluhur
yang sering mendongengkan silsilah kebesaran manusia
mana para penari
yang khusuk meminjam malam mempelajari taksu dewa tari



sejarah tak lagi memiliki kebesaran
karena tanah tak lagi kau kenali



selagi daun-daun mempersiapkan kematian
berapa petak tanah kau sisakan untuk penguburan ini?

Denpasar, 1994

Read More......

Nenden Lilis Poems

From the Lost Centuries


On midnight, you soaked wet in rain
After that long journey
“Please go home!” the wind moans inside your heart


You stood like a statue in front of the house
That you abandoned
A house with no more dwellers
In quietness, the sound of a house-lizard is bursted out
In the dark, you hear the sound of water
Dropped through the leaky roof


“Come in!” a magical voice sounded
emerged from the lost centuries



your feet trembled, took a step toward inner floors
the cold moist walls
spreading unpleasant odor
with the rest of the lights within your eyes
you observed the loneliness inside the room
“this house is empty, definitely empty!”


and then you wept.

1995

translated by Nikmah Sarjono

Dari Abad-abad yang Hilang



tengah malam kau kuyup dalam hujan
setelah perjalanan jauh itu
"pulanglah!" angin merintih di hatimu


kau mematung di ambang rumah yang kautinggalkan
dan lama tak berpenghuni
dalam sunyi, pecah suara cecak
dalam gelap, kaudengar tetes air
jatuh dari seng yang bolong


"masuklah!" sebuah suara terasa gaib
datang dari abad-abad yang hilang


kakimu gemetar menginjak lantai dalam
dinding-dinding dingin dan sembab
merupai juga bau lembab


dengan sisa cahaya dalam matamu
kau menyimak sepi dalam ruangan
"rumah ini memang kosong, memang kosong!"


dan kau menangis



1995

Poem of a House


This house becomes narrower
Inside it we both got buried
Not be able to help each other


This room smelled mengkudu
While fingernails still be blue


Face becomes haggard
Chest becomes thinner
Mouth becomes pale
Persistently coughing
For a long time has forgotten how to sing


The owner of this house came
Not to visit
But to evict

2001- 2002

translated by Nikmah Sarjono

Sajak Rumah


rumah ini semakin sempit
di dalamnya kita sama-sama terpuruk
dan tak bisa saling menolong


ruang bau mengkudu
sedang kuku tetap membiru


wajah kian tirus
dada kian tipis
mulut lesi
selalu terbatuk
sekian lama lupa bersenandung


si tua pemilik rumah datang
tidak untuk menjenguk
tapi mengusir



2001-2002

House of Memory


A homeless person could never go home anywhere
Except to memories beneath the guava tree
To old mother and father who sit speechlessly in a
Dusty room


She still feels she belonged to that dull cupboard
Although its key hole is stuck, its door can not
Be closed, its mirror reflects tapering shadows


Traces of soil on a hoe and a shirt full of mud
Hanged in the kitchen is also like
The rest of her heart
Although something is difficult to grow
Like the apple tree in the backyard
Its leaves withered, got eaten by caterpillars
Or the pomegranate tree, its fruits cracked
Before they got ripe


But a homeless person still wants to stay
Although she doesn’t know, are there still yearnings,
Is someone still waiting?


She just knew
Life is actually being alone

2002
translated by Nikmah Sarjono

Rumah Kenangan


seorang tanpa rumah tak bisa pulang kemana-mana
kecuali pada kenangan di pohon jambu klutuk
pada ibu-bapak renta yang terpekur di kamar berdebu


lemari kusam itu masih dirasa miliknya
meski lubang kuncinya macet, pintunya tak bisa
menutup, cerminnya memantulkan bayangan lonjong


bekas tanah di cangkul dan baju berlumpur
yang menggantung di bilik dapur juga
seperti sisa hatinya
meski selalu ada yang terasa sulit tumbuh
seperti pohon apel di kebun belakang
daunnya rangkas dimakan ulat
atau pohon delima, buahnya belah sebelum masak


tapi seorang tanpa rumah masih ingin tinggal
meski tak tahu, masih adakah yang rindu,
masihkah ada yang menunggu?


ia hanya tahua
hidup sesungguhnya sendiri


2002

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Agus R. Sarjono Poet

Fake Poem

Goodmorning sir, goodmorning madame said the students
with a fake greeting. They studied
fake history from fake textbooks. Having finished their studies
they were dumbfounded at the mass of fake marks.
Since their school grades weren’t good enough
they went to their teachers houses to present them
with envelopes full of comments and fake respect.
With fake smiles and making fake rejections
their teachers finally accepted the envelopes with the fake promise
to change the fake marks for new fake marks. Many schooldays
later they became fake economists, fake lawyers,
fake farmers, fake engineers.
Some of them became fake teachers, scientists
or artists. They plunged eagerly
into the middle of fake development
with fake economy as fake leaders. They witnessed the hectic
fake trade with fake export and fake import
which provided various goods of fake quality.
And fake banks full enthusiasm offered fake bonuses
and fake gifts, but at the same time with fake permits
and fake letters secretly asked for loans
from the national bank, run by fake high officials.
The public did business with fake money
supported by fake foreign exchange.
Therefore the foreign currencies, stimulated by fake rates
caused everybody to panic and end in a crisis
which made the fake government
crash into a fake fate. And fake people
cried out their fake joy and discussed
fake ideas during fake seminars and talk shows
welcomed loudly the start of a democracy
fluttering
and fake.

1998

translation by Linde Voûte

Sajak Palsu

Selamat pagi pak, selamat pagi bu, ucap anak sekolah
dengan sapaan palsu. Lalu merekapun belajar
sejarah palsu dari buku-buku palsu. Di akhir sekolah
mereka terperangah melihat hamparan nilai mereka
yang palsu. Karena tak cukup nilai,
maka berdatanganlah mereka ke rumah-rumah
bapak dan ibu guru untuk menyerahkan amplop
berisi perhatian dan rasa hormat palsu.
Sambil tersipu palsu dan membuat tolakan
tolakan palsu, akhirnya pak guru dan bu guru
terima juga amplop itu sambil berjanji palsu
untuk mengubah nilai-nilai palsu dengan
nilai-nilai palsu yang baru. Masa sekolah
demi masa sekolah berlalu, merekapun lahir
sebagai ekonom-ekonom palsu, ahli hukum palsu,
ahli pertanian palsu, insinyur palsu.
Sebagian menjadi guru, ilmuwan
atau seniman palsu. Dengan gairah tinggi
mereka menghambur ke tengah pembangunan
palsu dengan ekonomi palsu sebagai panglima
palsu. Mereka saksikan ramainya
perniagaan palsu dengan ekspor
dan impor palsu yang mengirim dan mendatangkan
berbagai barang kelontong kualitas palsu.
Dan bank-bank palsu dengan giat
menawarkan bonus dan hadiah-hadiah palsu
tapi diam-diam meminjam juga pinjaman
dengan ijin dan surat palsu kepada bank negeri
yang dijaga pejabat-pejabat palsu. Masyarakatpun berniaga
dengan uang palsu yang dijamin
devisa palsu. Maka uang-uang asing
menggertak dengan kurs palsu
sehingga semua blingsatan dan terperosok krisis
yang meruntuhkan pemerintahan palsu
ke dalam nasib buruk palsu. Lalu orang-orang palsu
meneriakkan kegembiraan palsu dan mendebatkan
gagasan-gagasan palsu di tengah seminar
dan dialog-dialog palsu menyambut tibanya
demokrasi palsu yang berkibar-kibar
begitu nyaring
dan palsu.

1998

Read More......

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

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Afrizal Malna (1)

Asia Reads

The sun has freed itself of its adornment, yet we still face the same sky, the same land. Asia. After the gods have gone been fossilized in TV antennae, after times of destruction, which hearken back old tales from another world, words smell of gasoline. And we express ourselves trough a different set of clothes. Asia. Ships open markets, replacing dragons and oxen with petroleum. To take us where telephones are ringging.

There we crawl, in a contest of power. Silence takes over the roads at night. Asia. And then we bring in new adornments, new flags, different loves, to find that days exceed time; reading what may not to be read, writing what may not written.

The land glistens, catching the scent of man, saving us from all times. Asia. We understand once more the roar of the sea, the place to which the ancestors sent birds, created words. Asia is to be discovered, like night seeking alost plot of land; the place language is born.

Asia.

1985

translated byi John H. McGlynn

Asia Membaca

Matahari telah berlepasan dari dekor-dekornya. Dan kami masih hadapi langit yang sama, tanah yang sama. Asia. Setelah dewa-dewa pergi jadi batu dalam pesawat-pesawat TV; setelah waktu-waktu menghancurkan; dan cerita lama memanggil lagi dari negeri lain, setiap kata berbau bensin di stu. Kami terurai lagi lewat baju-baju baru. Asia. Kapal-kapal membuka pasar, mengganti naga sapi dengan minyak bumi.

Asia. Kami masuki dekor-dekor berbagai kekuatan, bendera-bendera baru, seks dan cinta yang lain lagi. Kota-kota dalam baju warna-warni. Mengantar pembiusan jadi jalan di malam hari. Asia.... Tempat membaca yang tak boleh dibaca, tempat menulis yang tak boleh ditulis.

Tanah berkaca-kaca, Asia, mencium bau manusia, Asia, menyimpan kami dari segala zaman, Asia. Tempat leluhur mencipta kata. Asia hanya ditemui, seperti mencari segumpal tanah yang hilang: Tempat bahasa dilahirkan.

Asia

1985

An English Lesson About the Weight of The Body

Pardon, how much is your body's weight? Just a moment, my head is cubic of sand. My hands are 60 cm. Excuse me, how many hours is your body's weight? My lips are thick. For sure, my feet are brown like the goverment building. How is your body's weight, Please. my name is Ahmad, you fool! No! My head is one cubic os sand. There is a gutter. Tears at the wash basin. Rain in a bucket, wait. Why are your hands hard? Like the power. You have culture, do you? Your face is red. Do you like tomato juice? Pardon. Who is your body's weight? My feet are there, you fool! Please... Please. Accompany my body. Not like that. A sack of sand for what? Sorry... where is your body's weight?. Pardon, don't hold my nose. Where's your beloved? Carrots and beans are already cooked. Excuse me, is that water already boiled? The cat's hair in your eye is funny, isn't it? Beautiful. Just wear that batik shirt. It will make my girlfriend suspisious. Don't forget, my name is Ahmad. Ugh, how can you do without soap? Ah, how come his ears are like that? Pardon, you ever saw your body's weight? Want to make an essay, do you? about Culture? A political and economic analysis, yes. Your hand will hurt, of course.

1995

translation by Marianne Koenig

Pelajaran Bahasa Inggris Tentang Berat Badan


Maaf, berapa berat badanmu? Sebentar saja, kepalaku satu kubik pasir. Tanganku 60 cm. Permisi, berapa jam berat badanmu? bibirku tebal. Tentu, kakiku coklat, seperti bangunan pemerintah. Berat badanmu bagaimana, please. Namaku Ahmad, tolol! No, kepalaku satu kubik pasir. Ada saluran got. Irisan daging di wastafel. Tunggu. Kenapa tanganmu keras? Seperti kekuasaan. Kamu punya kebudayaan, ya? Wajahmu merah. Anda suka juice tomat? Maaf. Berat badanmu siapa? Kakiku ada di situ, tolol! Please... please. temani badanku. Jangan begitu. Satu karung pasir untuk apa? Sorry... di mana berat badanmu? Maaf, jangan pegang

hidungku. Kekasihmu mana? Wortel dan buncis sudah direbus. Permisi, sudah mendidihkah air itu? Bulu kucing di matamu lucu, ya. Beautiful. Pakai saja baju batik itu. Nanti pacarku curiga. Jangan lupa, namaku Ahmad! Idiiiih, masa tidak pakai sabun. Aaaaaaa, kok kupingnya seperti itu? Maaf, pernah melihat berat badanku? Mau membuat esei, ya? Tentang kebudayaan? Analisa politik dan ekonomi, ya. Sakit, dong, tanganmu.


1995

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Four Haiku

Four haiku, a poem by Saut Situmorang

such boredom...
the goldfish swimming
measuring the aquarium

***

CHURCH BELL
the city walls laugh at it

***

ANCIENT TREE
a flower on the top branch

***

MIDDAY SUN
the dew in the graveyard still

Saut Situmorang, one of famous Indonesian Poet, now living in Yogyakarta, a basis of Indonesian intellectual. Saut recently released his "Otobiography" which content his complete poem collection. Saut chalange Indonesian literature society to againts Utan Kayu domination.

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Dorothea Rosa Herliany (3)

An Obsession in Black and White

i am trapped by the rain singing
among the tall grass: so is the moon
as it rises over my shining sorrow.

the hills and rivers of the heart
depict his fear.
the mist encircles him
through the waves of screaming insects
in the distant forest.

a drop of black sky comforts me
among the flying leaves, geese and
a pair of cranes search for the tranquillity
which floods shabby grief
in a spark of red light.

the sun turns to mist in the damp moon
hanging over the heart's emptiness.
how can we ever reunite
everything which has been torn apart?

i can read nothing
in the old thoughts which search
for all that has vanished, except the fear
arising from someone somewhere, "My beloved,
the night trembles with the screams
of strange wild beasts!"

March 1997 - January 1998

Obsesi Hitam Putih

aku terperangkap lagu hujan
di antara ilalang: bulan yang itu juga
mendaki dukaku yang purnama.

lerenglereng dan tebing hatitua
melukiskan ketakutan.
kabut melingkar
dalam gelombang jerit serangga
di hutan jauh.

setetes langit hitam menghiburku
di antara daundaun terbang. angsa dan
sekawanan bangau mencari keteduhan
yang menggenang duka-renta dalam sepercik
cahaya merah.

matahari mengabut dalam genangan bulan
menggantung di kekosongan kalbu.
di manakah bertemu antara segala
yang terpisahkan?

tak ada yang bisa kubaca
dari pikiran tua yang mencari segala
yang tibatiba hilang. selain ketakutan.
lalu bisikan dari entah siapa-apa, "Kekasih,
malam itu getar lolong hewanhewan liar!"

Maret 1997-Januari 1998

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Arif B. Prasetyo (4)

DEAD MOON PROCESSION

Stone stair:
The bridal bed of the sun and its sacrifices
At the god’s navel.
Down below:
The ritual begins.
Nine dead moons
Tie their shawls
On the waving, twitching waist
That dash against my flesh.
Down below:
The lights, the breasts of light
Hanging from the eyelashes:
An eagle snatching
With its two black wings.
A wild wild bird
Scratching my cage of desire.
Go on, you moan.
Shake it, rock it, you scream.
Far, far
In the untouchable chasm.
At its navel:
The cries and the traces
Run over each other
Crushing the souls
Under your soles:
I perish
In the labyrinth of the stones in piles:
A towering precipice
That guide you to the circle of fire
As your body purified
And I vanish.

DANCE

Your back
Is the monsoon hair hanging loosely.
The night chasm shining brightly
burned by the firestorm of your dance.
“Drink me, eat me.
Stab me with your pitch-black thing
For just a little more pain. A bright red stallion groans
Licking my body in pleasure.”
He writhes in pleasure on your back.
And you jump up and down, outraged, in heavy snorting.
A thousand worms gnawing the veins: the intricate network
Of a bruised old banyan’s root. The deathly pale heart at its end,
Trembling in terror, glimpse the angels in the bush.
And the seeds scream, their eyes open wide,
Strangled by desire
of commiting suicide.
Just a little more pain
The storm will sink into your back.
The night chasm will be in seething,
In panting, wet with light:
The drizzle of mushrooms, iron rust
And yellow butterflies.

Read More......

What's Poetry

What's poetry

The Jakarta Post, Sunday, July 15, 2001

What's Poetry?

One shouldn't write poetry,
For the sake of writing poetry,
A subject or a thought,
That catches the mind,
A thought that steals your heart,
That stirs and emboldens the mind.
Poetry should be something Divine,
An emotion out of the blue,
It should help us to fly,
On the wings of fancy.
A thought provoking sonnet,
Promises the company of a friend.
A lunatic, a lover, a poet,
Are of imagination all compact
Said the famous bard.
Do you agree with the bard?
Is poetry an emotion recollected in tranquility?

So that one should be inspired.
The limitless inspiration,
The power of imagination,
A willing suspension of disbelief,
Can give you the strength and belief,
To write and enjoy poetry,
In its infinite variety.

By Sapna Deepak

Time, Playing with a Kaleidoscope . .

Time, playing with a kaleidoscope (his toy),
Moved it a bit with a twist of his wrist
Breaking a pattern;
And other shapes come settling in place,
Color making room for color
Forming another pattern,
Until Time, playing with the kaleidoscope, his toy,
Moves it a bit with a twist of his wrist
Changing the pattern again

By Bibsy Soenharjo

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Dorothea Rosa Herliany (2)

Talking Trash

in the empty forest, i am enchained by words of trash.
the world is weary and confused, the paths go round in circles
in the dishonest confusion of truth and deceit.

the land in the distance is fertile.
i have no way of growing.
i am like a snail with no trail to follow.
searching for the home
it carries on its back.
from one unnamed land to another,
i am unable to see the most imaginary oasis:
i am imprisoned in words of trash

i build a world set on cranes' legs
this is a land of dwarfs, shrunken and foolish.
they weave fear with their long tongues.
lies turn into yes.
and truth turns into no. words soar
to the top of the tower
of babel. desires and force
aimed at nothing in particular
whistle through the air, day by day,
like a sheaf of arrows hunting the wind.

i am lost in a land where words are trash.
in my poetry, i build myself a small house
where my conscience can live.

Sampah Kata-Kata

di rimba kosong, aku terbelenggu sampah katakata.
dunia lunglai dan kusut. perjalanan mellngkarlingkar,
dalam kekacauan dusta antara kebenaran dan tipudaya.

di hamparan tanah subur,
aku kehilangan jalan untuk tumbuh.
seperti siput yang berjalan tanpa jejak ludah.
mencari rumah sendiri di punggung.
dan tanah ke tanah tanpa nama, aku
tak melihat fatamorgana.
: aku terkurung dalam sampah katakata.

kubangun tempat berpijak kaki bangau,
inilah negeri kurcaci. sebab kerdil
mereka menyulam ketakutan dengan lidah panjang.
kepalsuan menjadi ya.
dan kebenaran menjadi tidak. katakata membumbung
di puncak menara babel.
segala nafsu dan kekuasaan
yang tak lagi punya mata
mendesing hari ke hari
dalam sekelebatan anak panah memburu angin.

aku tersesat di negeri sampah katakata.
kubangun rumah kecil dalam puisi hati nurani.

Jakarta, 1998

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Poem from prison

Dreaming I was a bridegroom

by Bambang Isti Nugroho

The white bread you sent
I've already eaten
and the letter you slipped in
I've already read

I was so moved
by the dignity of your feelings
and the strength of your spirit

In my narrow cell under military detention
with its cold and smelly floor
my sleep was decorated with dreams
dreams of being a bridegroom

But there was something that made me nervous
for all who were there at the wedding
were wearing uniforms
and carrying guns

We were handcuffed
and I could hear
someone pounding a judge's gavel

Yes, it was a strange and frightening dream
but still I enjoyed
dreaming I was a bridegroom

Even with my hands bound
sleeping in my narrow cell
that was cold and full of mosquitoes

Something made me sad
when I was awoken from the dream
it all disappeared

And I felt again
what it was like to be under investigation
and feel fear

District Military Command, August '88

Bermimpi jadi pengantin


Roti tawar yang kau kirimkan
sudah aku makan
surat yang kau selipkan
juga sudah aku baca

Aku begitu terharu
betapa mulia hatimu
betapa tegar jiwamu

Dalam sel sempit tahanan militer
yang lantainya dingin dan bau
tidurku berhias mimpi
mimpi jadi pengantin

Ada yang membuat aku gelisah
yang hadir dalam pernikahan
semua berseragam
semua membawa senjata

Tangan kita diborgol
telingaku mendengar
orang mengetok-ngetokkan palu

Mimpiku memang aneh dan menakutkan
tapi tetap saja aku suka
bermimpi jadi pengantin

Biarpun tangan diborgol
tidur dalam sel sempit
yang dingin dan banyak nyamuk

Ada yang membuat aku sedih
bila aku terjaga dari mimpi
mimpiku jadi buyar

Aku merasakan kembali
sedang dalam penyidikan
merasakan ketakutan.

Kodim, Agustus '88

-----

From Sajak-sajak cinta dari balik terali (Love poems from behind bars) by Bambang Isti Nugroho, published by Penerbit Widya Mandala, Yogyakarta, 1994. Born in 1960, Bambang Isti Nugroho is a Yogyakarta-based writer active in journalism, theatre and literature. In 1985 he was one of the founders of Palagan, a study group concerned with issues of social justice and literature. In 1989 he was arrested, along with two other student activists from Yogyakarta, and tried under Indonesia's infamous 1963 Subversion Law. (See Inside Indonesia 19, July 1989). Sentenced to eight years, he served a term of six years in Yogyakarta's Wirogunan Prison.
Keith Foulcher was the translator.

cited from no. 51 July-
September 1997

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Dorothea Rosa Herliany (1)

Secret Sex Telegrams

i sent you telegrams of desire, some powerful current flowed to
the brain,
somehow, i searched for love in one explosion after another.
i found one disappointment after another.

i sent thundreds of tiny screams into the closed waves.
they beat against the walls and my doubts, i gave you
millions of uncertain kisses, fire flowed from my closed eyes.

i sent you a sheaf of telegrams of love: in my sweat
and wild breathing, all that remained was a row of unspoken
sentences
and bubble upon bubble of poisonous hatred.
then i wrote a disgustingly obscene story
about a gentle rabbit dressed in flesh
and the passage of "the man with the golden gun".
i sent it to the scene of the most stupid sex possible.

why should you curse this tiny pleasure, especially as you hide
the barking of dogs and the shrill whinny of horses
between the pages of your scriptures
and in the graffiti written on the walls of your temples.

rest in my crotch, little man.
before you curse a corner of your cold mirror
before i hunt you down: before i kill you
with my arrow soaked in the poison of hundreds of snakes.
then, with a flick of my finger, throw your body
into the smiling hole of my most stupid pleasure.

February'2000

Telegram Gelap Persetubuhan

kukirim telegram cinta, untuk sesuatu yang deras, mengalir ke ubun,
yang ganjil. yang kucari dalam ledakanledakan. yang kutemukan
dalam kekecewaan demi kekecewaan.

kukirim beratus teriakan kecil dalam gelombang takberpintu.
membenturbentur dinding dan kesangsian. kuberikan berdesimal
ciuman bimbang. sampai hangat membakar dari mata terpejamku.

kukirim sebaris telgram cinta: lewat lelehan keringat dan
dengus nafas liarku. yang menyisakan sebaris kalimat bisu
dalam gelembung racun kebendan.
dan setelah itu kutulis cerita cabul yang memualkan,
tentang seekor kelinci lemah berbaju gumpalan daging
dalam sederet langkah "the man with the golden gun".
kukirim ke alamat persetubuhan paling dungu.

mengapa kaukutuk kesenangan kecil ini. sambil kausembunyikan
lolongan anjing dan ringkik kuda sembrani dalam berhalaman kitab
atau berbaris grafiti di dinding luar menara.

diamlah dalam kelangkangku, lelaki.
sebelum kaukutuk sebagian fragmen dalam cermin bekumu,
sebelum aku menjadi pemburu sejati: untuk membidikkan panah
yang kurendam racun beratus ular berbisa.
dan kibas jariku melemparkan bangkaimu
ke lubuk senyum nikmatku paling dungu.

Februari, 2000.

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Sitok Srengenge (6)

YIN-YANG

When the bud of love breaks in the woman's heart
and the voice twists its bonds, becoming words
sliding towards the man,
the lake in her womb
overgrown with silent bamboo
When the words collide with the man's soul's cliff
and the echo thunders like a hurricane,
at that moment the bamboo's been bewitched
and the woman knows a life begins inside her
The woman walks around before sleeping
so dreams will guide her to the road's bend,
where she'll meet a man
and the light radiating from the East
There a mother prepares a place
for the new life beginning in the womb
In the woman's lake containing a rainbow
the man entwines himself
till all dismays perish
billows becoming fog,
his body redeems
becoming mirage
his awareness rising high
becoming the sun,
and the mind which always keeps the woman's face
spreads out becoming a sky of billowing clouds
And the woman walks around,
circling the lake of her own creation
She sees fog, sees the sun,
sees the sky of billowing clouds
She sees the mirage,
sees transience
Desire stands eternally with the man
becoming the rainbow's thickest colour
Through tears the man reaches the woman
and if the fog
wants to tug
the man sneezes
and a typhoon rises from the eyebrows' base
making the sun slip into the lake till it sinks
and his tears wink transforming stars
While taking a cat in her lap
the woman looks upwards into the clear night
and stars fall to the bottom of the silent lake
And the woman daydreams before sleeping
till the dream ends her wandering at the brink of waking,
then she watches the man's sweat dangling from the leaves
in the glare of light radiating from the East

1995-1999

MAASTRICHT

My eyelids are transforming a boat
grounded on your river's frozen surface
a heart etched
and the moon puffing behind an ice berg
together piling up mist
and the night melts
The border wind touches your lips
tulips' petals delay breath in the dust of snow
Three guys, noses pierced with gold rings
approach me asking for marijuana
"Because your hair's long and black and, well, you're brown!"
No. It's the instinct to exploit
a subordinated race
And I remember a waitress at a restaurant
overlooking a park,
where a flock of pigeons
fought over breadcrumbs,
allowing her breasts to spill from her sweater
as if ignoring winter
As she turned her cat eyes to me
half scolding half seducing
"Sorry, you can't smoke kretek in here. But, if you want,
we could do it together in my apartment."
And I drift off in a second floor room
an old red brick building
A wad of a sofa
facing a TV playing soft erotica,
Stella Artois from Belgium,
and a pair of goblets between them
You imagine Rome, I remember Yogya
who knows why
There's also Gauguin's blow
like the wind,
red and mustard-yellow embracing,
dark and reddish purple
Maybe desire trembles because of the mist
and the mountain night
You reveal a cover,
offer a heart beat
My thoughts return to a hungry morning,
the wing of a seagull among drizzles, the lake's edge
Handful of bread,
a nipple of raisins, melted butter
But still I hear, faintly, in the boulevard,
the season blowing and the last twig of linden leaf leaves
at the moment your nerves shake
between jittery movement and stammering voice


Then: silence!
But, there in a park
Venus and pines whisper,
for they're wet
soaked by
January rain

1996



FATAMORGANISM

Fingers of a mischievous season
Grab a small girl's hip,
Trembling butterfly waiting for the wind to pass
towards Buchenwald
I hold back a whistling heart,
behind the back of an beheaded statue,
before a government building's ruin
assaulted by the anger of the unemployed
Suddenly the city becomes a musty man
with whiskers and a beard thick as bushes,
tousled tangled
and his sight as blurred as the dusk's sun
The wind comes rustling
tousling his hair which full of grit
repressing memory of vociferous drizzle
dripping down far in the Simbirsk morning,
sprouting a clump of black grass
spreading wide as night
Then he hears a melancholy clap from the east, swallows
leaving behind a broken colour of twilight, a Soviet
"Fate is not as slippery as woven linen, Mr Lenin," the horizon’s only empty
there's no sunrays, when he muttered the soliloquy
" Do understand, if there's no mausoleum for Mussolini,
after an ideology which took sides for common people
hardens to become cruel as an axe,
beheading the shoots of reason and instinct."
"And the workers, the workers, keep being hunted and killed
by the growing capital."
Half ripe words without echo without magnet,
but the sky screams its voice, creaks its beating
The man's body disappears with the twilight
falling apart as blurred as a fatamorgana,
his head sprawled among scattered rocks
and splinters of a pair of butterfly wings
Between the beheaded statue, a stonehead,
a corpse of butterfly, I'm dazed
watching hope's trot like a last train
to a concentration camp

1997

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Sitok Srengenge (5)

MEMENTO MORI

In your pale countenance
I read a trace of hints:
the whip of winter wind,
rioters who return
with remnants of the Stasi troops’ rancor
The light is buried in the slumbering town,
children and women from the East
dream of a slice of bread and a gulp of wine
Surely, you served me
that night:
the burst of bones in the crematorium
and the withered buds of wheat
And the rest, a veiled blanket,
as soft and moist as mist
shaken by the struggling thunder
deep in the heart of the pine forest
And so we lie down,
and even our breath is choked
The room becomes as silent as a crematorium chamber
the dissolving moans scorched by the fire of desire
Behind your closed eyes,
a woman. is burning Mein Kampf secretly
The mighty words of the Fuhrer shattered into husks,
like the ember of your body which crackles and dies out
History, crumbs, desire, shrink once more into the earth,
where the first and last steps fuse in one spot
"Even you who walk with imagination
soon will rest in an oriental region:
a cozy soul
in a span of Java.
But my spirit will always wander
looking for the promised land, somewhere."
As wide as you imagine, thousands of miles,
spread between Euphrates and Nile
But your people has been seizing,
but your vow has been snatched
Birds
pass through the dimness of the building's shadow,
but you see yourself, perplexed in the darkness
speaking in the language of the Southerner
The sky is like an invert of a winnowing tray
with the shivering of the Saturn’s ray
"I want to return, Mother. Your child is still immature."

1997
(Translated by Daisy Ekowati)

VIEW OF THE DUSK

So long
the child is preparing paper and pen
as if there is something to be written,
maybe something secretly desired:
a blister of lament, or of complaint,
from someone who falls
So long watching the twilight
perforating the sandalwood branches,
as if he understands its meaning:
in a moment the atmosphere will be gloomy,
maybe also scary,
because the night is never late
to spread hatred
Pillars of light faded
as a shooting star, the idol whose legs are wide open all the time
will be seized by shadows
Then he will find himself
laying on his back in the grass field,
looking up at the stars
Then he will enter the dream world, which he created
So long!
But he shivers there
and doubts his unusual sight:
a male cow is flying to the Southeast,
falls deep into the belly of the limestone hill
and the crows disperse
towards the crack of the tomb's entrance
For he knows there is no cow, there is no Southeast,
and neither the crows
Only the crushed hill,
where a circus clown is building a sarcophagus
He feels his fingers trembling,
between fear and fervor,
paper and pen are in his hand without a scratch of line, not even a point
Because he is stunned at the crimson sky:
there is no clap of a heron's wing, only cotton lumps
shaping a face:
an executioner who breeds boots and rifles
Instantly he spits snatched by dry wind
thrown to the center of the lake,
perforates into the plants
becomes green, becomes yellow, becomes red, becomes black
becomes restless, becomes risky, becomes curse, becomes vengeance
Then he hears someone cough loudly
overcoming the shriek of the Sphinx,
bursting siren, tear gas, bulldozer,
also rifle and panzer
The air is blackened by smoke,
the smell of burned flesh and goods
And as usual
someone is busy counting numbers, not lives,
because, he said, they are just villains
no more important than ruins
So long
that child is preparing paper and pen
as if there were something to be written,
maybe something secretly desired:
a gasp, or remorse,
from someone who falls
So long the paper and the pen are in his hand,
too full of scratches and crosses,
but he is powerless to write them
Not because of giving up, or fear,
he just feels, not hearing voices:
a scratch of scream, hurried steps,
or the sound of the soldiers' shoes
He doesn't see anything, except dusk and guns
So long!

1997
(Translated by Daisy Ekowati)

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Arif B. Prasetyo (3)

PENINSULA


The sun,
A yellow tiger groans
Gripping the flesh of a darkening sky
Over the shock of my memory.
At the corner of the peninsula
I see the skin of the sky is peeling
Scratched by your long-soft nails.
The hours of your trembling stare
Carve the shadow of the evening in my eyes
Dragging the aroma of your dying
Which is exhausted with the coral reef
And the leaves that has grown thick and tough
Draining off the time.
Don’t cry sweetie, please do not rave.
I hate being astonished to see the whiskers of your light
Hanging loosely in the space
Begin to dance in a strutting way
And scatter to all directions
Showering with the sand.
My memory slip.

A mile of the last clouds
Sinks in the dark shoulders of the women
Who has been sleeping by the sea
Those who called my nick-name in wonder
And loved the silent sun of the heart :
The stupid stone, the badly wounded one
That insists on looking at you
While you are dying to get me out
Of the crumpled rainy days
Scratching the skin of the waters
As cold as your touch.


EROS

Your body:
The little hills
The old Ketapang tree,
The slippery road which is forked at its end
Stretching
Licked by the smell of the melancholy.
The ponds of salt water,
The humid steam in the clefts
Of the moldy wood.
The huts are falling apart.
The ivory tongue
of the sun
Slits the curve of the earth
With open eyes
And a naked bravado.
At dusk,
Impressed by the pure masculine wind drawing
The tip of the young-green sugar cane,
The neglectful angel descends
To an area not found in the map.
Without wings,
And chased away,
He picks up the wound of the day. And keeps on stumbling
Over the path of an Adam which is stepped on
As long as the black sand,
Among the red clusters,
Halfway dark,
The giant umbrellas,
The lively banners,
And days passed-by
In gray and haze
And the remnant of the skylight
Which is trembling because of the ghost of the martyrs
Who were killed in a huge hole.
The angel
Poorer than a stoned-to-death man
Look at his dying eyes
Sliced by the wild dogs.
Twenty four jaw-knives bark wildly
Drooling rancid mucus.
It rained more than yesterday’s storm
Spiting the sand-ship as free as can be
To the rainbow with seven colours.
And then through a short cry
Which is thrown to the air
From a hiding
In the battle in the bush of the park
On his forehead I find stars
Running around.
The light takes refuge
To the sky,
The spear of spirits that was released
Its sound is like paddy borer
Reddening the rough barch of the trees.
The aroma of the burnt meat,
The wide ditch open wide
Flooded with fragrance
From the cut meat.
The death is like a candle in the middle of a party
And as if the soft hand of the sky
It was awaken to guide you to the gate:
The explosion
Of the birth,
The meeting of the days and night.
“O my sweet pigeon
If later you decide on your return path
Or a route
Taking you to the morning, don’t hesitate!
Remember the ripples that luminescent
In my last cry,
The retina
Which stay under the light of an harbour,
The little hills, the old ketapang tree,
The curling of the snake’s tongue
Forked
Embracing it.......

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Sitok Srengenge (4)

OBITUARY FOR THE MOON

My child sleeps figuring the moon
and in class her eyes still keep the night
when the teacher speaks of the sun
My child draws a horizon, the ocean,
a ship with no pilot,
and the teacher's skirt is teased by the rising tide,
the teacher is eaten by fish
In bed my child weeps
the tears drop onto the notebook
full of scribbles of red, orange, yellow,
green, blue, indigo, purple
My child says it is a pool!
My child wishes to help the teacher,
so my child draws a small boy fishing
while looking at the moon above that pool
And after that, the fish in the first verse
becomes a snack for the teacher's dog
My child falls asleep again,
figuring the moon
in my child's eyes the night is held
but the dog keeps howling for the fish
My child quickly draws fish
inside eyes which contain the sea
but the fish whine for the teacher
My child quickly draws the teacher
in eyes that still contain the school
but the teacher is again teaching about the sun
My child repeats the drawing of the horizon, the ocean,
the ship without a pilot...
in my child's eyes the world is contained
but the teacher does not like this
and gives my child a score of five
In the following days,
My child fears drawing anything again
except for commemorating the small boy in the second verse
who longs for the moon above the pool

1991
(Translated by Margaret Agusta)

YOU, THE WIND

At first I thought you were a wave,
but each time I dived in to swim
you would spin up like a wind storm
The sweat bursts and soul and body are restless
become a prayer of untouched Love
There, I find comfort in your breeze
once a while just before you blow away
I hunt the voice of the flute in the distance,
which I find are the rustling branches
I am dazed by the illusion of your moves,
as silent as the stone within my longing
Now I know there is no need to chase you
You live within and outside me
- there is no distance yet you are so far,
so close yet not touching
if it is true you are the wind
I will breathe you in as I wish
Deep within the heart that beats,
you are the new spirit of my life
Flows the blood, flows
within the vein of my Love
because of you, my Love

1991 (Translated by Margaret Agusta)

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Nirwan Dewanto (4)

SQUID

—after Hiroshi Sekine


Like a handkerchief
with one corner torn away
where it collided with the reef
a handkerchief now transparent
saturated with tears
that seeks eyes of truth
eyes that never ask
where their skeleton has gone
where the redness of their flesh.
In truth eyes like that
are the eyes of a master diver
who also knows that the fringes
of that wounded corner
are only ten in number
like her own fingers
fingers that have never been sharpened

by the thorns of the stars or the hair of the moon.
I think that those two will meet
on the broad expanse of algae
where the diver’s fingers bleed
and all those enemies with knife-sharp teeth
hunt them even to the base of a chasm.
I think that those two are competing
to reach the final line of a conclusion
but no, they are touching each other
even threading themselves together with no sense of shame
so that those twenty fingers
those twenty torn strips of the fringes
grow as wide as a wave
so that the body of the diver
becomes as clear as the morning air
and our little handkerchief no longer
swims, but takes flight
flying high in search of eyes
eyes glistening with tears
because they have no power to distinguish night
from black ink as wide as the sea
that drags the diver away from death.
I think now it is only a squid
that has taken form as a handkerchief
for it is always thirsty
for your eyes, for your tears.

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Sitok Srengenge (3)

BY THE BANK OF THE RIVER AMSTEL

By the bank of the River Amstel, in a cafe,
you shake death off the coat, at dusk
The years gilding the longing,
your hair whitening
The current keeps crushing between the swans
and lines of light
Seventeen teals crowding in the passageway of a cheesecake shop,
seven glasses of alcohol spinning the coarse flannel of drizzle
Then you pry out that bit of exile: a flock of Peking ducks
driven to an alien land south of Nanking
where the sentries' whips
are ready to strip reason, to lash death
Between a tray of cannar meat slices and a pot of green tea
you snort out once more with hate the sacred words of Mao
And as wild as a stray seagull,
you arrange the memories, you follow the dreams, in confusion
to the heights of a whip-driven climb
up the parched cliffs of Manchuria
But at that dusk, Wispi, on the bank of the River Amstel
you shake death, once again, off the coat
For in your shrinking body
there are pulses of the sea soothing bitterness:
ideology, dreams of revolution
-the precarious faith that builds prisons
The dangling red shawl on your neck, Wispi,
is like a desire that never sees the light of day
Perhaps, I can't be sure,
you mention God with a sigh of a vein,
beneath the scattering powder of snow
through trees that withhold silence,
you row your weathering age to heaven-knows
where a crane stands dazed on the roof ridge, waiting for crumbs
Perhaps death has once called on Daltonstraat, one night
whiffing over the memories that you've recorded, blurry books,
traces of nicotine on the pipe, the echoing coughs on coffee grounds,
when you go on vacation to a country of illusions

1996
(Translated by Hasif Amini)

GENESIS

The snake man squats under the bungur tree
gathering a hurricane of dead leaves,
the snake woman bathes mesmerized
by the shadow of paradise at the bottom of the lake
The man closes his eyes to dream of a thousand rapids,
as the woman stays awake for the next moon to come
The roar of rapids breaks the silence of the stone,
as the lake sends out the river to split the ravine,
and the round moon guides the snake in its wanderings
The stones are set into the shape of a mountain, the man climbs
The moons flock together to reach a year, the woman flies
To tear at the mountain for many years, the snake coils
The man ends with rapids starts with stones,
the woman ends with the lake starts with the moon,
the snake man-woman start and end with heads with forked tongues
The man aims a stone at the snake's head,
the snake's tongue calls to the lake
The rowing with the moon runs ashore on the mountain with its rapids,
the anchor is cast into the ravine
where bananas and citronella grass grow
The snake-like instinct emerges at the hips and the woman writhes,
the man's fingers grip the mountain
The snake's glands creep onto the waist and the man tightens,
the women's hands reach for the moon
The man of rapids splashes the bed of the woman lakes,
the snake strikes the moon amidst the stones
The dream of the sleeping Earth becomes you,
when it awakes its consciousness turns into me

1995
(Translated by Margaret Agusta)

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Nirwan Dewanto (3)

SERPENT


I let them drink from the still waters of my depths
so that they will be more youthful, and more thirsty.
I block them both at the entryway
each time they make a move to leave this place
for I know that the Countenance, whose place is there so very far away
will turn them into nothing more than a standard mother and father.
They are the most beautiful creatures in this Garden:
more slippery than the tiger pierced with light
more swift than turtledoves the color of blood
more poisonous even than me.
Because I have no face of my own I follow their very movement
and spread over the entire Garden, from corner to corner
so that they will not get separated, or even defeated
by a treasure that appears from time to time
from behind the barrier: perhaps it is the Dead Sea
whose saltiness is not to be found in my source
or Karbala, where clusters of rock and earth
shine more splendidly when sprinkled with blood.
I suckle the breasts of the female so that

I will truly not compete with the male.
I swallow the sperm of the male so that
I will truly have no envy for the female.
I am even more impartial, leading both
to the tree of darkness, yea even unto the tree of light:
Choose for yourselves which fruit will be most fruitful:
when your tongue is wounded, so shall you know language
and when you are satiated, perhaps you will be destroyed.
Such was my advice, but they did not hear
anything but an indistinct hissing
so that in the end they merely drooped
at the edge of the river. Forgive me:
I will drench them with water, even if they
merely thirst, I will set them loose
so that I complete the circle.
Know this: they will awaken in the midst
of rows of mustard and wheat, then will light the fire
that will entice the Countenance to come to us.
Truly, allow me to go on without a visage
for I am only a kind of river
though my current is heard
only as the hiss of a forked tongue.
Believe me, I have nursed
those twins, cleansing them from the clay
and dregs of the creation of the earth and sky.
They are yours now — behold oh Countenance of Fire
but don’t force me to confess
as if to conceal in my depths
a single turn of the Way that leads to you.

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Sitok Srengenge (2)

FRANKRIJK

Like a bat
the nocturnal wanderer that you know from pictures,
or the ghostly prince from the dark chamber of Nosferatu's palace
who abducts virgins
into the fog and the howl of invisible dogs
I find peat marshes
in your piercing solitude
I see the desire lurking in the veins of your neck
like the fruit from the tree that has grown before the beginning of time
So bury all intention
to toy with eternity,
soon the bell will toll
from the peak of Anne Frank's tower,
siren's wails slashing the night:
somebody has just committed suicide
Dogs copulate with the cold,
you and I dissolve each other's soul into desire
Until someone with long hair,
who once called upon your dream,
opens the window
The fire in the furnace is out, charcoals crushed
into powder,
you and I
turn into ash
Driven by the winter wind I am cast into the ocean
becoming islands of the equator
you are left in your place, covered with snow
lumped into the past
Someday when the snow melts and the wind stirs the windmills,
you will be carried away by the water,
and at a certain point
will arrive at my side
Maybe embracing each other, then letting go of each other
till heaven knows when
Maybe like a dream
Like a dream

1996
(Translated by Hasif Amini)

AHRWEILER

Before breath becomes fog
and fog
becomes snow
and on the willow twigs the snow
becomes tears, the fox lying on the bush path
no longer is the silent possession of the oak forest
In the valley of the River Ahr a thought becomes a stone
and the stone
becomes an old coat for the city that hides a wound
and the wound
becomes open fields,
where the veins are shattered
arisen as grape shoots,
children worm over, moaning with trembling lips,
"So cold out here. Open the door, please
don't let us die a frozen death."
Birds with wings of light kindle the stars in the sky
and their twinkling echoes a spectral sound:
Kling! Klingelingeling .... Like a groan from time immemorial,
yet not touching the ears
of the people
crouching with arms folded by the fireside
The wind turbines of winter quiver
driven into the altar
and children lump together like tropical islands
but no longer those of the mother who made the ocean with tears
Like an unexpected dream that makes one falter
during silent nights,
I come from an archipelago
But not one of yours!

1996
(Translated by Hasif Amini)

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