Schattensprache

Going for a Jog in Menteng: One Morning

Ah,
morning jogs in in the city
no need for a map, won't do me any good—
they've changed the names of the streets
again. They'll soon run out of names of war heroes
streets and alleys, the veins of the city
messages and promises
that never go anywhere, aortas passing over the heart—
old routes in an old city painted
a deserted brown.

Ya,
the streets are empty
people running, lifting
deadweights on old shoulders
a tanjung petal falls, crushed beneath heavy feet
rare plants, sweet-smelling, dew on tips of leaves, everywhere
Now
the city wakes to morning's embrace
lights break through branches, streetlamps
put out, cars
one by one, break rules
traffic lights and one way signs.

Get off the street!
Becak, piled high with this morning's
produce, quick feet pedalling
quick sales at the morning market
Look!—
at Five Ways people deep-fry
bananas and cassavas for the builders
squatting, gossiping—
the progress of development, acceleration
and continuity, maintained as long as commissions are paid—
Clean Up Jakarta: the motto:
No Cigarette Butts! The basket-wielding
troops leave nothing to chance
even their own slow shadows, in the trees
trashbins, green gutters
face down, and quick as a flash
a cigarette butt at the end a mechanical arm.

Ai,
it will be light soon, must make
something of my day—a deserted map
Monas, the fountain, the bridge to
Kebayoran or Kuningan
an old map, like a dying heart
dark corners everywhere, the flow
will soon clog, then stop—
Karet, Menteng, Pulo, Tanah Kusir, wherever
as long as I can lie down, and not sleep
standing up
I know gravesites are getting too expensive these days.

But—
the worst thing is, if say for some reason
they won't bury me here
and one morning, like this one,
or whenever I let my guard down, my soul
will go looking around
for nostalgia in a city it doesn't recognise—
where's the deserted map of Jakarta, where the Xs
that mark the spots, notes, scribbles, and the lines
that mark the scars of life?

'80

Toety Heraty

(From Nostalgi = Transendensi, Jakarta, Grasindo, 1995, 110-111. In her previous collection Mimpi dan Pretensi (Dreams and Pretensions)—she recycles a lot of her poems in several just-that-slightly-different collections so you just have to have them all, like Morrissey—the poem was called 'Aerobics in Jakarta'.)

And here is another translation taken from A Time, A Season: Selected Poems of Toety Heraty, translated by John H. McGlynn, Jakarta, The Lontar Foundation, pp. 10-14.)

Jogging in Jakarta

Ahhh....
an early-morning stroll in the city
without a map, seems strange
with street names changed
to those of recently-dead heroes
and streets and alleyways, the city's routes
empty, like so many of life's requests and promises,
those gashes on one's heart —
of sepia brown

Indeed, the streets are quiet,
no one around but joggers, freeing themselves
from the excess weight of death,
trampling fallen tanjung blossoms, now so rarely found
and taking with them a hint of fragrance, a little dew
And now
at day's break, the city awakes
to sunrise, street lights suddenly die
and solitary cars, as if unconcerned
speed by, ignoring traffic signs
and no-through zones

Watch out,
there's a pedicab, laden with produce.
propelled by swiftly-turning feet
chasing after sales at the morning market
And look —
in the foodstall at the corner
bananas and sweet potatoes
are being fried for construction workers
who squat, mumbling about rapid development
guaranteed acceleration and growth
as long as there's a commission —
all the while the city's cleanliness is assured,
with cigarette butts diligently collected,
not one escaping
basket-carrying troops,
shadowy forms who scour bushes,
garbage bins and drainage ditches,
eyes fixed on the ground, swiftly nabbing another butt
with jerry-rigged tweezers

Oh,
soon it will be light, and thereafter
a day-long chase towards the demands of a career —
the sepia map comes to life, the heart pounds hard
between the National Monument, the fountain
and the bridges leading to Kebayoran and Kuningan
a fragile map, like an aging heart
with darkened corners where the circulation slows
and finally stops —
at Karet, Menteng Pulo, or Tanah Kusir
any cemetery will do
as long as there's room to stretch out
because I won't be buried standing up
even though space for a grave is remarkably rare

But —
what makes me most worried, would be
for some reason, not to be buried in Jakarta
so that in the morning,
or at any other time
my spirit, in need of a nostalgic stroll
would be unable to find
or even recognize, this city of mine —
where the sepia map, with its crossroads
notes and scribblers, are signs that mark
life's wounds.

posted by lo! @ 6:44 AM