Schattensprache

The God of Small Things*

2008-05-07T11:58:00.001-07:00

Gratiagusti Chananya Rompas

a Surreal Afternoon. when Sunlight falls like a see-through

shawl—Lipstick and Fuchsia Nail Paints,

my Mother's. Strawberry Ice Cream. her Tutu. and your Kisses, of course. hot

on my lips, cheeks. Wet, Sweet like Lollipops.

i miss you. it feels like someone is pumping a Birthday Balloon slowly

right next to my heart. i'm trying to paint you a picture, but i can't: it's like

Hope is walking down the street, with a limp—i'm torn between Happy

the Balloon is nearly, fully pumped, and Worried what if it explodes before it's

perfectly, beautifully, a Balloon.

Something is Wrong. as if the world and its

overactive volcanoes can hear your thoughts: in a conspiracy

to work out what's going to happen to you

next. that makes you helpless, like a Feather

Floating in the wind.

but What Really Gets Under My Skin is knowing that no one,

not even you, can hear the Electrical Storm in my Mind and the endless

chant of the I-Love-You mantra in my Head.

i wonder, do you ever feel like this. i wonder

even, if there's the tiniest bit of Possibility that you have ever felt

The Same Thing for me. oh i know, i know, all this is just a Cheap

Fantasy.

i give up. i put away the things i Want. i put You away.

i'm locking you out of the Cells

of my Brain.

i turn on the TV.

Breaking News.

outside, the universe is dark. it is Real.

*was first published in Kompas Minggu (let me get back to you on the link), will be in her first collection of poetry, 'Kota Ini Kembang Api', out in spring/autumn 2008—it depends on which hemisphere you live in—from irisPUSTAKA

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La Doncella de Salta*

2008-05-06T13:16:00.001-07:00

girl with coca leaves stuck to her lips
eternal friend of mountain fairies

her mouth locked forever
in a kiss

uncross your legs
defrost what's left
in the wine rack

because there will be

no more chicha
for the golden child
of the last capacocha

*barbarism from Waraney Herald Rawung's great poem, 'anggur gandum itu', here.

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Tuti Artic

2007-11-18T23:43:00.000-08:00

Between happiness now and happiness tomorrow: a grand canyon
You, my sweet, I watch you smile as you lick your Artic ice-block;
I will decorate my love for you with cream puffs + Coca Cola
This is a boot camp for you, my future wife: see if you can stop the tickling of the clock.

You are an excellent kisser already, I can still feel your lips on mine
As you hop on to the buddy seat of my decrepit Raleigh—
I can still feel the heat of your body, how fast you've grown, sweet child o' mine!
The dreams of this old man rocket sky high.

Other men will pick you up tomorrow, and the next day—a different man every day
I will walk past you on the street and you won't say hi:
Heaven to you is nothing but child's play.

But I'm like you too, I wear things out at the speed of light
Me and Tuti + Greet + Amoi ... I break hearts left right and centre,
Love is a series of short wars.

- Chairil Anwar, in Djakarta Dalam Puisi Indonesia (Ajip Rosidi, ed.), Dewan Kesenian Djakarta, 1972, p. 42.

Like Death

2007-05-29T20:39:00.000-07:00

Like a simple death the shadow of a clock tower stretches slowly to the village square.

In the last quarter of an afternoon a man lies with his back to the sun and listens for the blackbirds returning to the hills in the distance.

Arrest dusk in windows before the sky goes limp and the season goes sour.

Above everything: tian, en couleur locale, streched taut, old and square, runs a ring around this mortal coil.

- Goenawan Mohamad, Kompas, 23 October 2005. (a kind of draft.)

Ky-o-to

2007-05-29T20:25:00.000-07:00

i sat in the kyoto gardens
xxxxxa cool blade of grass in my hand
this was then and this is now
xxxxxall is lost. where did it go?

- Sitor Situmorang, translated from memory (i'll check later).

LAST WINTER

2007-04-21T20:42:00.000-07:00

It was a little too early in the morning to walk to the train station
the air still wet
the pavement reeked of pot

A homeless man overtook my lazy stroll
I reached into my pocket: no quarter for you my man,
or your empty beer can

A pile of paper on ohms, impedance,
and the immortal flow of energy:
forget the discounted airfares on the shop windows
there will be no more love in the tropics
this winter!

And I thought about the Ancar river, yours,
its own immortal flow
and the unavoidable
arguments in the kitchen
the shifting of sand and water

Under the red awning of Waroeng Java
8.30 a.m.
"1 pesan diterima"
"you're not going home this year?"

Do you think it's ever appropriate
to thumbclick a reply
for a woman
who has given away nine months
of her womb?

I looked at Meneer Deventer across the road
his centuries of stiffness
crumpled my train ticket into a ball
and made a beeline for the postkantoor:
"Dear my island home,
you little dot on a globe,
I still hold you responsible for me, and my hopes."

- Ida Ayu Oka Suwati Sideman, 'Winter Terakhir', from Perempuan Bali di Rantau

COLD UNREGISTERED

2007-04-17T10:50:00.000-07:00

Cold unregistered
on the thermometer

The city only wet

The wind along the river
drives us away, yet we stay

there. As though

the drizzle vanishes
and the light swims

playing with colour

God, why can we be
happy?

- Jennifer Lindsay's version of Goenawan Mohamad's 'Dingin Tak Tercatat', pilfered from Linus Suryadi AG, Di Balik Sejumlah Nama, p. 212.

COLD UNREGISTERED

Cold unregistered
on the thermometer

City wet

The wind along the river
driving us away, yet we stay

rain invisible
and the light swimming

playing with colour

God, how can we ever
be happy?

- Harry Aveling's version, also from Linus's book, pp. 211-212.

Cold Unregistered

Cold unregistered
on the thermometer

The city is but wet

Along the river the wind
chases us away, but we stay

there. As if

the light were swiming
in rain unseen,

playing with colors.

God, why can we be this
happy?

- Laksmi Pamuntjak's version in Goenawan Mohamad, Selected Poems, p. 33.

(Untitled - a fragment from Ida Ayu Oka Suwati Sideman's Durawati)

2006-10-19T00:35:00.000-07:00

at dawn
single-striped footsoldiers
banged drums
did the heroes’s chariots
in bright-coloured flags

it’s near dusk now
horses are trotting home, riderless
a spear in the back of a chariot
the flags
down to half-mast

From Ida Ayu Oka Suwati Sideman's Durawati, stored for eternity here.

Song for a Good-Hearted Woman Before Her Fiftieth Birthday

2006-07-22T20:08:00.000-07:00

A motel in Kampung Bali
a little upmarket, the sign says 'Wisma'
a woman nearly fifty, waiting for his lover
inside a room, three-thousand rupiah a night, stuffy.
The ceiling fan's broken again
grey mold inside the bathtub, but the water is clean.
Yellow plastic ladle, blue bedsheet,
grimes on the wall next to the lampswitch, dust everywhere,
under it in permanent marker, "Romeo and Julia"
under it, "Cicih and Iman", the picture of a heart
and two arrows striking through it.

She doesn't mind waiting, but is a little bothered
insulted perhaps
by the motel owner who let her
run upstairs with a big question mark on his face:
"This rich woman, she must be waiting for his man again,
why is she always hurrying?"
From outside, the sounds of the street,
bajaj, baso, the welding man,
rise and fall and creep in. She listens
to a grandmother swearing at grandchildren
throwing dirt on her laundry.

She doesn't mind waiting, though he's late again
what is it this time?
She sits down, throws herself into bed, clutching a pillow,
bites it. In her mind everything she doesn't need:
"Lover, I miss you, I need you,
don't betray me this time
though I know you've grown used to
betraying your wife—
this is not just an affair, we've been doing this
far too long—this is the only thing
that makes me happy, ah,
this is as good as it gets!
But what if he's woken up to his senses
and gone back to his wife, he's still got things
to sort out there too:
"I've been faithful, I've been good,
raise the kids, a pay rise every semester
pay back the mortgage faster,
I get on well with my in-laws, though not the cousin in-laws
they've forced me to take in!
Sundays, Lebarans, Thanksgivings, Tupperware dinners,
once in a while a movie for two, trading gossips
about the neighbours, listening between the lines,
that means something too ..."

"Why am I still here?
—pathetic!—he must've gone back to his wife!
What am I doing? I shouldn't be waiting
for someone else's husband—"

She gets up, ah, no, the bed has swallowed her
as the door creaks and he comes in
puts down his Echolac and: no more waiting,
no more thinking of unnecessary things, no greetings,
hugs, kisses, waste of time, because the two of them
past the prime of their lives, still have to go the length between
the north and south poles to meet
in this bed, amongst the sleaze of dust, these silent witnesses,
to taste the honey of life.
No longer young, they wear scars like proud epaulettes,
they caress, kiss each other where thorns, a blade,
whatever life has thrown at them, have drawn blood,
and in an hour or two, they are gone
as if by magic—
It's true
never for very long
until someone knocks on the door:
"The room is paid for, here's your change,
and your towels,
you want to order any drinks?"

'80

Toety Heraty

(From Nostalgi = Transendensi, Jakarta, Grasindo, 1995, pp. 113-115)

Ballad of Middle Age

In a hostel in the area of Kampung Bali,
one respectable enough to be called a hostel,
a woman of middle age awaits her lover
in a three-thousand rupiah room
stuffy, with its ever-stalling fan,
a mildewed bath, but the water is clean
a yellow plastic bathing dipper
a mattress with blue-colored spread
and grimy walls
with felt-tip markings:
"Romeo and Juliet"
and beneath that "Cicih and Iman"
in a heart pierced by two arrows

Waiting is no problem — but it had been irritating
or, perhaps, offensive would be the better word
to see the hotel owner, who had directed her to the
stairs, shake his head in wonder while asking himself:
"This is a call girl? You couldn't tell by the way she's
dressed. She's early besides; looks embarrassed too."

the sounds of the street outside are audible
calls of pedicab drivers, noodle vendors, and smiths
rise up and enter through the window
an old woman bitches how her wash has been dirtied
by the children playing outside

Waiting is no problem—
though it has been quite a while
what could possibly have delayed him
and so she sits, then lies down,
clutching the pillow anxiously
driving away untoward considerations:
"I want you and need you so much
don't ever betray my trust
no matter how customary it might be
for you to betray your wife —
this is not just another tryst,
we've known each other too long —
I long to taste a little of life's sweetness
this is the basic human right for which I long"

God forbid he's regained his good sense
and gone back home to his wife,
where there, too, are other considerations:
"Haven't I proved myself devoted
raising the children, helping with the income
we've paid off our debts
I get along fairly well with the in-laws
even those who, goddammit, still live in our home
Sundays and Holidays together,
feast days and club meetings too
every once in a while a film,
talking about the neighbors,
these too are a kind of bond..."

"Why am I waiting here?
don't I have any shame? he's gone back home for sure
what am I hoping for, even I know it's not proper
to be waiting for someone's husband..."

She moves, but is too late
the door creaks, and she is caught on the bed
as he enters, briefcase in hand
no need to delay
considerations no longer matter
no need for small talk, even kissing and hugging
is a waste of time, because the bed
which earlier had been a continent
somewhere between the North Pole and Antarctica
has now been crossed
by two persons of middle age
who, amid the grime, a silent witness, sip nectar —
lives no longer so young
and now so very scarred, unite
and kisses on wounds made by thorns and other foils,
all the sundry scores of life,
are in the space of one or two hours of time
miraculously healed
no, there's not much opportunity
and then another knock on the door
"You paid for the room, here's the change
and a change of towels as well
would you like to order something to drink?"

(Translation by John H. McGlynn, in A Time, A Season: Selected Poems of Toety Heraty, Jakarta, The Lontar Foundation, 2003, pp. 94-101.)

SIN

2006-07-22T20:04:00.000-07:00

your white face
outside my window
behind my back
since dawn

it has always been thus

the soul
footprints in the mud
of the heart

words
echoing in infinity
of space

my hand
trembling as I rip a poem
out of thin air

your eyes
my last memory of you
burning inside me

your face
white outside my window
behind my back since dawn

cripples my arms

Subagio Sastrowardojo

(From Simphoni, Jakarta, Pustaka Jaya, 1971, p. 18.)

Sodom and Gomorrah

2006-07-22T20:02:00.000-07:00

God
neck deep
in tax files
election news
profit shares
the new neighbour asking for clean water.

An all-night ball
ribbons everywhere
a trumpet screams
a pale face, sleepy,
I can’t see my ashtray from the smoke
did someone knock on the door?

You?

Yippeee!!
Rock-rock-rock.

The short hand points at three.

Subagio Sastrowardojo

(From Simphoni, Jakarta, Pustaka Jaya, 1971, p. 28.)

The Distance Between You & Me

2006-07-22T20:00:00.000-07:00

Our father who art in heaven,
let’s not move closer,
you and me,
I’ve lost you on the white horizons.
Or it’s the black forest has blinded me.
I’m only happy when birds sing on branches
and deep in the valley,
a Kliwon market hums for me.
I know I can only hear everything once
then everything disappears
and I’ll have to run
Home.
Smash the door in.

Our father who art in heaven,
don't move any closer,
I’m a man, I’m Nausea,
if I see you naked in the woods
I’ll scream as the Jews did:
“The Cross!”
And you’ll be as dead
as the mud on your shoes.

Subagio Sastrowardojo

(From Simphoni, Jakarta, Pustaka Jaya, 1971, p. 10.)

Gott ist Tot

2006-07-22T19:57:00.000-07:00

No gods in these swamps.
A crow sharpens his beak on a black branch
And the sun stops above the corpse
of a priest stabbed inside his own temple.

The gods are dead.
A snake slings onto the lips of a well,
and drinks from the mouth
of a whore smiling at her own reflection.

Mother Earth!
Who will pull men and priests
into the slime of these swamps, and
offer them for sacrifice before the night’s out.

Subagio Sastrowardojo

(From Simphoni, Jakarta, Pustaka Jaya, 1971, p. 9.)

Going for a Jog in Menteng: One Morning

2006-07-22T06:44:00.000-07:00

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.

News from the Front of the Office of the Secretary of State

2006-07-21T00:29:00.000-07:00

Once his body has been stretchered
Hurriedly
Out

We sing
'Leaves are Falling'
Slowly

A soldier
Takes off his beret and wipes
Tears none of us can hold back

At the top of the Gajatri
A flag hangs limp
Behind it: a roll of clouds

Taufiq Ismail
(1966)

(From Djakarta Dalam Puisi Indonesia (Poems of Jakarta), edited by Ajip Rosidi, Dewan Kesenian Jakarta, 1972, p. 107)

Tram

2006-07-21T00:25:00.000-07:00

The tram screams&screams!
barks!&snakes along the river.

A man's making faces at me on the other side of the banks
I don't care anymore.

I've run out of breath
Going against the current of morning traffic.

A pickpocket went for my wallet
and I'm sweating, like a horse.

All for nothing?

I am so stupid, in this city of millions
I should've just waited for the next one.

(1950)

(By Mh. Rustandi Kartakusuma. From Djakarta Dalam Puisi Indonesia (Poems of Jakarta), edited by Ajip Rosidi, Dewan Kesenian Jakarta, 1972, p. 79.)

Risjwijk 17

2006-07-21T00:23:00.000-07:00

That night we were sitting on the balcony, the moon was up
Traffic was loud, bleating and roaring outside
Cables spread like hair between telegraph poles
We tried to make out the black outlines of the night

A becak hummed on asphalt, crossed a ditch
Then suddenly in the sky, a bright sickle of light
Cut across the row of pines behind the hospital
We got up, looked at each other: Is that the satellite
They couldn't stop talking about?
The bright star at the tip moved on, slowly like time
The sickle bent its back westward
Across the roofs, skimming the top of the hospital pines
Blinking to the earth below.
We said nothing. We craned our necks to watch the play of lights
Jazz on the radio, 'Summertime',
More bending of the sickle, over
The roof of another building, slicing the shadow it cast
Over a house in disorder
Wrestling over concepts of freedom
And how to make poverty and starvation
History. As the satellite marched on towards the moon
And the next jungle of technological puzzles
And as the house tried again to spell
D-E-M-O-C-R-A-C-Y, starting with the sickle-bend in D

The moon that illuminated the sky and the earth under it, what was dark
And was now light, and children running, laughing, showing teeth,
Over bits and pieces of sloganeering, trampling portraits
Of cult personalities, as they played bandits-and-heroes,
Along the pedestrian strip, the Old Fort's Wall and King's Way
Ransacking the offices of the bureaucrats and ushering them
Out. Off they went. A pack of wolves who
Told lies for a living and now looked around for someone to lead them on.
Someone who would bark at the moon. Once. Twice. There's no point.
He wept over the darkening sky.

Over the red moon, old pines,
His old hunting ground. His hungry bitches.
The marble floor cold on his paws, he craned his head up
Into the sky. Now it's more than just a matter of "It's so beautiful it makes me want to cry"
More than just a matter of the position of stars in astrology
Computerized numbers, technological experiments, and precision!
And here people struggle against anti-logic still
The problem of the four-freedoms, protein deficiency,
No electricity and abandoned blue-prints
Someone walked off, then tens of them, thousands,
Into the flying discs of fire
Like an old wave, slowly rising
Crashing over the horizon. Then stopped
And shouted: Hey you! You there! Yes you!
Hey ............ you
yes: YOU!

(1956)

(By Taufiq Ismail. From Djakarta Dalam Puisi Indonesia (Poems of Jakarta), edited by Ajip Rosidi, Dewan Kesenian Jakarta, 1972, pp. 111-113.)

Lebaran Night

2006-07-21T00:19:00.000-07:00

The moon above
A gravesite.

(By Sitor Situmorang. Original taken from malam sutera: sajak-sajak sitor situmorang (Silk: Night), Yogyakarta, Matahari, p. 141.)

North Freedom St., Jakarta

2006-07-21T00:15:00.000-07:00

on the kerb
mahoganies stand with the raintrees
the angsanas in coats of black exhaust
and watch
suits and ties
bulging suitcases
shiny shoes
polished everyday
the bowing drivers
and the bodyguards
erect like pencils
lift their heads up
let the wind hit
and tamarind leaves
fall like snow
on sweaty faces

(By F. Rahardi. From Kompas, early 2006.)

Disco Emergency

2006-07-21T00:13:00.000-07:00

Double discman. AA battery
Active speakers. Modern life
Green mixing desk. Second hand
Lighting rig. 17th of August
We dance

Disco Disco
Emergency! Disco

Mozilla and CD-Rs
Cramped kos 3x4
School corridor late at night
Art openings we're late for
We dance

Disco Disco
Emergency! Disco

No house music hey na na na na
Nothing breaks beat fa fa fa
Jolts of the eccentrics
Fun of your antics
We dance

Disco Disco
Emergency! Disco!

(By Jimi Multhazam. Taken from The Upstairs's album Energy, 2006.)

Digital Video Festival

2006-07-21T00:10:00.000-07:00

We're back
To the future
West of Jakarta!
Make a U-ee
Before Fatahillah
To Glodok Raya!
The National Film Centre
The Kingdom of Movie Heaven
Hollywood, Bollywood
Cannes, Tehran
Let's go crazy!

Digital Video Festival

We don't wanna wait in line
No extra butter
On our overpriced popcorns
Gimme that five thousand note, girl
And I'll show you
Happy!
Let's go
Home!
To the piles of pirated discs
And freedom to go
Crazy!

Digital Video Festival!

(By Jimi Multhazam. Taken from The Upstairs's album, Energy, 2006.)

Jakarta: Night

2006-07-21T00:08:00.000-07:00

At the corner of Kebon Sirih
And Thamrin
I stopped. And looked up
At the neon lights
Blinking on rooftops.
Metropolis!

I freeze under the streetlights
The traffic lights
I think, I am
This is Jakarta
Not Hong Kong
Or Lake Toba

I left all that
on a boat
one clear morning
long ago

Now
It's late
Time to go home.

(By Sitor Situmorang. Original poem taken from Sitor Situmorang: Kumpulan Sajak 1980-2005, edited by J.J. Rizal, Jakarta, Komunitas Bambu, 2006, p. 40.)

Two Girls & Me

2006-07-21T00:07:00.000-07:00

I'm just waiting until I get paid
Then I'll ask Girl I out for dinner
We'll eat & drink
Smell the roses in the evening air
If the weather is fine
We'll talk about love

My head feels heavy, & my chest,
& my pockets & my stomach empty
I'll go visit Girl II at her house
We'll talk
& love's all around us, in the air, inside us
& stays on the tips of our toungues
As we sip tea and crunch fried peanuts between our teeth

Once I get paid, believe me,
I will go to Girl I's wedding
We'll shake hands,
My hands will be shaking.
She will say, 'I do.'
The rain will clear.

In the morning I will buy two bags of lollies
I will scatter them over the grave of Girl II
The red soil will be wet
And with the rest of the money in my pocket
I will fly to Menteng and drown myself in my sorrow
Alone.

If someone would give me some money for this poem
I will ask Girl I and her husband to go see a movie
And or out for dinner at a restaurant
Then, with the rest of my money I will buy flowers, I'll scatter them over Girl II's grave
And I will drown myself
In total solitude.

(1952)

(By S.M. Ardan. Original poem taken from Djakarta Dalam Puisi Indonesia (Poems of Jakarta), edited by Ajip Rosidi, Dewan Kesenian Jakarta, 1972, p. 57.)

1945, February 14

2006-05-29T09:39:00.000-07:00

*Supriyadi led the PETA rebellion in Blitar

He saw how the Japanese forced farmers to hand over all the rice they had, even though they were running out of food, down to sewing tree barks into clothes, dying as romusyas, etc.

He hated the Japanese so much he decided to go ahead with his rebellion.

(Zulkifli Lubis: MSII47)

(from Kronik Revolusi Indonesia (Chronicle of the Indonesian Revolution), Volume 1 (1945), Pramoedya Ananta Toer, Koesalah Soebagyo Toer, Ediati Kamil, KPG, Jakarta 1999, p. 3)

Kampung

2006-05-23T23:20:00.000-07:00

If I want to get out of this country, Sis, it's
because the air here is stuffed with
dead thoughts.

Nothing's changed, just
like back then at
the kampung.

People are busy setting up rules
for alley traffics
night patrols and
registrations at the kemantren.

Everyone wants to have his say
on morals, politics, religions
as if they know what they're talking about.

Hang families who hold dance parties! Down
with la petite bourgeoisie! I'm waiting
for someone to say, 'Just leave them alone.'

Everyone flirts
with the djamu-woman, laughs
at all her jokes.

And gossips on the street mean so much
more than a quiet samadhi
alone.

People are suspicious
of love
and trust.

If I want to get out of the country, Sis, it's
because I want to be free and find the real
me.

(Subagio Sastrowardojo, Simphoni, Pustaka Jaya 1971, pp. 35-36)

The Story Of An Old Man Who Died This Morning As Told By A Friend Who Said He Will Be A Poet One Day

2006-05-23T21:33:00.000-07:00

This is sad.
An old man at the intersection, dead, next to the traffic lights.
His belly, concave like glasses for the near-sighted.
A fly, knee deep in pus-y sores, electric yellow like the colors of the prostitutes' clothes.
I'm standing next to him.
And I'm thinking.
Am I going to end up like this,
Dead like a dog with my legs spread open?

(Adri Darmadji Woko, in Penyair Muda Di Depan Forum, Dewan Kesenian Jakarta 1976, p. 63)

Honey Bird

2006-05-23T09:19:00.000-07:00

A bird
Purple
Breaks honeycombs
Petals of flowers
Pink
From the tops
Of the dadap
Tree: the bird
Thin-winged
Crook-beaked
Grey black leaves
Tremble
Branches
Give way when
The beak
The wing suddenly
Swerve
Wind on its
Tail. The ends of
Branches
Blue.

(F Rahardi, from Kompas, 7 May 2006, p. 30)

Re: City [2]

2006-05-23T09:13:00.000-07:00

this city is full of legs
young, clean-skinned, wild

the legs of a golden afternoon

6 january 2003
jakarta in my head

(ode_wallad a.k.a. Edo Wallad in Antologi Bunga Matahari, Avatar Press 2005, Jakarta, p. 146)