La Doncella de Salta*
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.
Tuti Artic
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
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
i sat in the kyoto gardensxxxxxa cool blade of grass in my handthis was then and this is nowxxxxxall is lost. where did it go?- Sitor Situmorang, translated from memory (i'll check later).
LAST WINTER
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
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 UNREGISTEREDCold 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 UnregisteredCold 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)
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
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 AgeIn 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
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
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
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
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
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 JakartaAhhh....
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.
