#indonesian poetry

[puisiabadi]

Sabtu, 25 Maret 2023

Kereta berikutnya masih lama. Aku menunggumu menyapa sembari menulis kata-kata ini. Di stasiun tempat kita pertama bersentuhan hati.

Hari-hari ini penuh kegamangan. Engkau dikoyak-koyak kehidupan.

Kadang dalam malam-malam kita yang panjang, engkau menolak untuk bertahan.

Tapi kehidupan bukan milik kita, bukan? Tidak pernah jadi punya kita.

Setiap hirup dan hembus adalah angka-angka yang kelak kan dihitung. Ada angka-angka yang jadi rugi, ada angka-angka yang jadi untung.

Meski kita kalah, kita bisa saja berbahagia. Menikmati keuntungan kehidupan.

Angka-angka itu tentu bukan sekadar berapa banyak rupa. Melainkan juga di mana ada makna.

Maka meski kita kalah, kita masih mampu mendulang makna. Oleh karenanya kita bisa berbahagia. Oleh karenanya kita bisa banyak untung di sana.

Lupakan saja itu dan mari menaiki kereta ini bersamaku. Kita kan berkeliling dan biarkan dirimu menghirup nafas kota yang tua dan letih ini. Kota yang sudah sekian lama berdiri, namun tak mati-mati. Ada yang bilang, ia abadi.

Jika kita mampu menghirup nafasnya, mungkin kita juga akan abadi. Tidak mati-mati. Serta mampu mengalahkan kehidupan.

Tapi apakah kehidupan sekadar kemenangan dan kekalahan?

Apa tidak ada kesempatan bagi angin sore yang berbahagia, dan cinta yang bersahaja?

[humaintain]

A Yielding

after Toeti Heraty

Let us settle down, love. No more heartbreak. The rice cooker has always been turned on. The rice tender and warm. I don't forget, in this version of my life. Neither do you.               Malam tidak menggebrak masuk melalui halaman (jika kita bisa memanggilnya halaman) belakang, tetapi menyelinap dingin di atas linoleum menguning, membawa tenteram & bukannya ancaman-ancaman belaka.1 

We leave behind the jagged edges of ourselves. 

Ayo kita tanggalkan belati diri yang terpaksa ini.2                                     jati diri

/

autotranslation:

1. Night doesn't break in / through the backyard (if we can even call it one) / but slips, frigidly by, on top of the yellowing / linoleum, carrying tranquility & not / mere empty threats.

2. Come disarm the blade   we were forced to be.                           the person

[musings-n-museums]

i don't know which one feels more like home. (the uncertainty or the chaos)

fireworks by jaedha godwin, pinterest // split by niki // post by @haykhighland (infinite thanks for letting me use your post // special by sza // images from pinterest // post-glacial by tori mccandless // "saga (i won't forget you when i'm gone)", andrei voznesensk - translated by @metamorphesque // split by niki // image from pinterest

[poems-from-around-the-world]

Metamorphosis - Sapardi Djoko Damono - Indonesia

Translators: Hasif Amini and Sapardi Djoko Damono (Indonesian)

a stranger is taking off your clothes layer by layer, seating you in front of the mirror and tempting you to ask, “whose body am I wearing right now?” a stranger is quietly writing down your life story, reflecting on your birthdate, making up the story of the reason of your death – a stranger is quietly turning into yourself

[batsmilelove]

“Yes, he loves me, but for me it is a great misfortune. For he thinks that because he loves me he is free to torment me, takes full advantage of this imaginary privilege. Almost every day comes a letter tormenting me to death, but then of course there comes another which is meant to make me forget the first; but how can I forget it? He always talks in riddles; one can’t get a candid word out of him. It is possible that what he wants to say cannot be written, but then, for heaven’s sake, he should stop it altogether and write like a sensible person. He doesn’t torment me deliberately, for he loves me, I know, beyond all measure, but he ought to stop tormenting me and making me so miserable with his love.”

-letters to felice, franz kafka

[artmctalon]

Sketch of contemporary poet Li-Young Lee (Krita, 2023), an American poet of Chinese-Indonesian descent.

Drawn during a recent episode of identity-related anxiety, after I read the following work by him:

People have been trying to kill me since I was born, a man tells his son, trying to explain the wisdom of learning a second tongue.

It's the same old story from the previous century about my father and me.

The same old story from yesterday morning about me and my son.

It's called "Survival Strategies and the Melancholy of Racial Assimilation."

It's called "Psychological Paradigms of Displaced Persons,"

called "The Child Who'd Rather Play than Study."

Practice until you feel the language inside you, says the man.

But what does he know about inside and outside, my father who was spared nothing in spite of the languages he used?

And me, confused about the flesh and soul, who asked once into a telephone, Am I inside you?

You're always inside me, a woman answered, at peace with the body's finitude, at peace with the soul's disregard of space and time.

Am I inside you? I asked once lying between her legs, confused about the body and the heart.

If you don't believe you're inside me, you're not, she answered, at peace with the body's greed, at peace with the heart's bewilderment.

It's an ancient story from yesterday evening

called "Patterns of Love in Peoples of Diaspora,"

called "Loss of the Homeplace and the Defilement of the Beloved,"

called "I Want to Sing but I Don’t Know Any Songs."

"Immigrant Blues" from Behind My Eyes by Li-Young Lee. Copyright © 2008 by Li-Young Lee.

[wanitabulan]

1.

Aku ingin merayakan hal-hal kecil milikmu; pelukmu, keras kepalamu, kehangatan dalam tawamu, hatimu yang luas, genggaman tanganmu, teduhnya bahumu, pikiranmu yang selalu berantakan, dan cara-cara mencintaimu yang sering membuatku kesal.

2.

Aku ingin mensyukuri hal-hal kecil milikmu; menemukanmu diantara banyak ketidakmungkinan, keberadaanmu yang menenangkan, hidup milikmu. Seluruhnya itu— lebih dari cukup.

3.

Semoga hal-hal yang kita kerjakan sepenuh cinta, menemukan jalannya.

Melinda Risa

July 28, 2022

[phossydel]

I am now 19 !!

When it comes to my own birthday, I like treating myself. So, here’s some stuff I treated myself to;

1. A song

2. A silly little doodle session

3. A poem about my quarter life crisis

(pls be nice I hate it too)

It’s my birthday,

and I still feel like shit

My goddamn birthday

And I still feel like I can’t fit

in the mold that I’ve carved out for myself

How to act, and how to feel

To be like anyone else

I’ve grown and grown

It’s just not right

There’s something missing

In this life

What I’m missing’s something new

and something strange

Something I’ll never feel again-

And never had experienced

Like the fumbling for your hand

And the deafening noise of our favorite band

The feeling of complete and utter bliss

The feeling of an over-romanticized first kiss

Is it still my birthday

If I don’t feel reborn once again?

I’m going to pass out now if you don’t mind

[summerinbali]

bisikan kecil namun jauh.

Tuhan, 

aku bimbang dan goyah lagi

di sini aku merasa seperti tidak mampu

berusaha sekuat apapun rasanya bukan hatiku yang menyembah

hanya badanku memenuhi kewajiban duniawi

tidak dengan jiwaku yang memenuhi janjiku padaMu di surgaloka dahulu

kepalaku penuh pertanyaan

jiwaku semakin sulit menemukan tenangMu

semakin banyak orang yang bercerita tentangMu dan cara menyembahMu

semakin ragu aku menjadi

aku menjadi tidak pantas duduk dihadapanMu

aku tidak pantas berdoa meminta didepanMu

ketidaksempurnaanku dalam duduk, dalam membungkus tanganku, dalam memercikan air suci

menjadi beban untukku bahwa ketika dihadapanMu aku harus siap dan bersih

Tuhan, 

aku jauh dari kata siap ataupun bersih

aku hanya ingin menemukanMu sendiri

aku percaya kehadiranMu ada di dalam diriku yang penuh dosa dan kotor ini

 namun sulit dan tidak cukup apabila hanya aku percaya

Tuhan, 

izinkan aku menemukanMu lagi

izinkan aku belajar percaya lagi

izinkan aku berserah lagi

izinkan aku membuka telinga dan mata ini hanya untukMu

Tuhan,

bolehkah?

[kathswonderworld]

Translation #4: Loss by Ko Un (+Explanation)

As with any other translations I have done in this site, I do NOT own the original text. What I do own is my own translation and the explanation below it.

That being said, if there's something amiss in my translation, please feel free to correct me and/or give me some constructive criticism. I would love to grow more as an amateur translation, and the only way to soar is by seeing and listening.

Enough chit-chat, please enjoy the translation and don't forget to check the original poem ("Loss" by Ko Un, in case you didn't read the title!)

Original text source: here.

Translation + Explanation: here. (in GoogleDocs format!)

[srikandiescapism]

The thing is, I have this huge compassion for others but not myself until it overflows and realizes I have nothing to fill my own cup with

[puisiabadi]

Rabu, 22 Maret 2023

Sebentar lagi malam kan menyurut, dan kota tua kembali kosong seperti hati seseorang yang dulu pernah kuajak ke sini.

Lagu-lagu para pengamen mulai menutup kotak-kotak uangnya. Sebagian pulang ke haribaan malam. Sebagian tetap tinggal demi menuntaskan dendam. Ada pula yang tertidur di bawah bayang-bayang pohon yang telah lama mati itu.

Satu lagi saja, katamu. Sebelum kaki kita beranjak dan pikiran kita naik bersama khayalan-khayalan purba.

Kota ini pernah jadi persinggahan. Kini tinggal cerita-cerita yang mulai memudar dari ingatan. Zaman berganti, hati demi hati datang dan pergi. Setiap hati dengan ceritanya sendiri-sendiri. Setiap hati dengan kisah kasihnya sendiri-sendiri.

Kalau kita boleh kembali, mungkin kita kan jadi abadi.

[laboratoriumkata]

Pengakuan

judul asli : Confession penyair : Craig Morgan Teicher buku : to Keep Love Blurry terjemah bebas oleh : Ramadhan A

lowell melakukannya dengan baik karena ia mengerti, meskipun kepiawaiannya berkata

"aku pernah seburuk itu," ia tetaplah harus tampil sempurna.

tiada yang mencintai seseorang yang membenci dirinya sendiri, seorang yang kuat, dan semua pesona atas minat seseorang pada kejahatannya sendiri yang ia tumpahkan pada pertunjukan bagi yang terluka olehnya, atau bagi mereka yang belum pernah dan menjadi sasaran selanjutnya.

Si pemberani,

bintang rock,

pawang sirkus yang piawai,

yang membakar dirinya dengan api tiap malam.

lalu dipadamkan dengan tangisan penontonnya. Unik!

itulah tipuan yang mereka sukai; ia baik-baik saja. karena ia mencintai dirinya, kebencian yang dipermainkan. seorang pembenci diri sejati, yang memkau rumah-rumah kosong,

terlambat.

[ranahrubrik]

Tidak ingin kehilangan siapapun. Apakah itu jahat ?

Katanya, semua boleh hilang kecuali ibu

Tapi aku juga tidak ingin kehilangan bapak

Dan, aku juga sangat tidak ingin kehilangan satu-satunya kakak perempuan ku

Bapak, ibu, dan kakak perempuan ku adalah duniaku

Bahkan apa saja yang kuusahakan saat ini

Hanya dan untuk kebahagiaan mereka.

Tuhan, kumohon aku tidak kehilangan siapapun. Jika harus, apakah boleh jika aku yang lebih dulu yang pergi ?

[handweavers]

"The relationship of textiles to writing is especially significant, not only for the cuneiform-like qualities of many patterns (preserved in a Hungarian term irásos, meaning 'written'), but also for the parallels between ink on papyrus and pigment on bark cloth. There is, in fact, little difference between the two. Such connections are implied in many textile terms. For example, the Indian full-colour painted and printed 'kalamkari' are so named from the Persian for pen, kalam; the wax for Indonesian batiks is delivered by a copper-bowled tulis, also meaning pen. The European term for hand-colouring of details on cloth is 'pencilling'. The Islamic term tiraz, originally denoting embroideries, came to encompass all textiles within this culture that carried inscriptions. And the patterns woven into the silks of Madagascar are acknowledged as a language: the Malagasy vocabulary for writing and preparing the loom are synonymous, while the finest stripes are zanatsoratra, literally children of the writing, or vowels. The study of textiles is, in fact, a branch of palaeography, in which deciphering and dating reveals the stories encapsulated in cloth 'handwriting'. 

With or without inscriptions, textiles convey all kinds of 'texts': allegiances are expressed, promises are made (as in today's bank notes, whose value is purely conceptual), memories are preserved, new ideas are proposed. Records were kept in quipu (khipu) a method of knotting string used by the Incas and other ancient Andean cultures to keep accounts and communicate information, the oldest of which is some 4,600 years old. Many anthropological and ethnographical studies of textiles aim at teaching us how to read these cloth languages anew. The 'plot' is provided by the socially meaningful elements; the 'syntax' is the construction, often only revealed by the application of archaeological and conservation analyses. Equally, the most creative textiles of today exploit a vocabulary of fibres, dyes and techniques. Textiles can be prose or poetry, instructive or the most demanding of texts. The ways in which they are used - and reused - add more layers of meaning, all significant indicators of sensitivities that can be traced back to the Stone Age."

— Mary Schoeser, World Textiles

[batsmilelove]

And nothing is sadder than sending a letter to a doubtful address;

-letters to felice, franz kafka