Tjipoetat Quill

Padlocks on Sea Cliff Bridge

2011-12-29T11:06:00.000+11:00

We stopped to freezesome moments
upon this serpentine’ssteely pavement

(where a Fay and a John,

a Janet and herJason,

and hundreds of othercouples later on—

locked padlocks toits railing,
and threw the keys into the sea roaring);

We stooped to throw a look at the distant horizon,
memories unchained slithering from a time ancient

when we vowed toexchange passkeys

to our otherwise padlockedhearts.

-- Wollongong 27/12/2011

Each time we

2011-12-27T00:34:00.000+11:00

Each time we say Hey It’s Our Country!, we may be overstating the significance of our birthplace, ourselves or both.

Beauty needs

2011-12-26T00:27:00.002+11:00

Beauty needs no justification but it does need at least one beholder.

A thing of joy

2011-12-25T00:31:00.000+11:00

A thing of joy is a beauty forever.

Happiness

2011-12-25T00:26:00.000+11:00

1) Happiness needs company.

2) Happiness is a simple place once we get there.

There are as

2011-12-23T00:24:00.000+11:00

There are as many faces of moralities as there are types of values.”

Despite what

2011-12-23T00:23:00.000+11:00

Despite what they believe to the contrary, war is what lies between two peaceful commas.

Lying requires

2011-12-22T00:28:00.000+11:00

Lying requires one to remember.

Always

2011-12-22T00:21:00.002+11:00

Always doesn’t exist.

Money

2011-12-21T00:20:00.001+11:00

Money unowned can’t be saved.

Hey, your

2011-12-20T00:19:00.001+11:00

Hey, your coffee’s colding!

Marry didn't

2011-12-19T00:25:00.000+11:00

Mary didn’t have a lamb; Garry did. (And he still has it!)

Whatever isn't

2011-12-18T00:32:00.000+11:00

Whatever isn’t made in China, is overpriced.

The grass on

2011-12-18T00:30:00.000+11:00

The grass on the other side isn’t always greener.

Of Healing and Cleaning

2009-06-14T09:43:00.022+10:00

(To K.)

Agony, suffering
Or stuff of this sort will
One day remind you of the dirt
We're paid to clean, buddy:

Never wanted,
Always avoided, we know
It just as it is.

Healing is akin to cleaning;
For both seem as necessary
As eventually futile.

That dirt transporting
is neither about hiding,
postponing nor surrendering:

It may be more about accepting,
Where a spot is all needed
In your heart to contain it.

Weston Creek, One Morning

2009-06-14T09:40:00.003+10:00

(Canberra Poems)

The sound of crickets
beneath a gum tree
this wee morning

might not be the last
goodbye song for
Autum, yet.

Winter, an unwanted
gift from somewhere,
will arrive.

Soon.

Eid Mubarak

2008-10-01T02:46:00.003+10:00

to err is human
but no less so
is to forgive

to beseech
or beget mercy
deeds often suffice

yet instances also exist
when words alone
can do the service

Eid mubarak,
may upon you
be peace

Motsy Chinina

2008-09-07T00:57:00.008+10:00

Once at least in a life time
each one of us has a moment
like my own Motsy Chinina:

A blinding supernova
so dazzling it be

Too brief to talk about
too great to disregard

Frost Too Would Agree

2008-08-28T02:20:00.006+10:00

And in four words
I can sum up
all the things I’ve
learned about 'em people:
they mostly go left.

The Ballad of Kiai Banjar and Kalama

2008-08-20T01:17:00.005+10:00

In the little wood near his lebak
He would notice the trembesi tree
That had amazed him with its height
As well as its noiseless majesty.
Yet one day amidst the drizzles
Homecoming from tending padi
Kiai Banjar of Tanjung Beringin
Brought down the handsome tree,
So sudden as the little sprinkles.

The planks he shaped with his hands,
Were tucked in neatly under his bed;
His wife Kalama did not understand
Whatever was in his husband’s head,
She but found him later bed ridden,
A devoted husband, father of seven,
Due to an illness that knew no cure.
Thus she gave him the best treatment
Some would’ve called a self-torture.

The six years’ stroke his husband had
Stopped all his agonies in this world.
And the hamlet known for its quiet
Grew hectic arranging the final rite.
All set, Kalama stood by watching
Her four sons shouldering the coffin:
A finest wooden chest of trembesi,
By the good man who was inside it,
Was too beautiful for a life’s irony.

When the ultimate ritual was over,
Kalama caught up with lost slumber
Like a log, in her lonely chamber.
When awakened, she could but suffer
From a loss no one could decipher
No soul would hear much from her.
The news transporting both us here
Me and my mother saw her whimper,
As any child would, at a dead brother.

(Tj. Beringin, 2007)

The Mob

2008-08-15T16:24:00.002+10:00

In the land of the blind
the one eyed man was king

And so the story goes
rehearsed told and repeated

Whereas in our land of the blind
the leaders they deserve get elected
the one-eyed odd and disregarded

Untitled

2008-08-15T14:59:00.002+10:00

(to: a. kiarostami)

the wind that blew
your clothes
on the clothesline
that day

knows the pain
that discloses
the budding rose
petal by petal

and god

2008-08-15T02:15:00.003+10:00

is that
that whispers within
that what’s right is right
and what isn’t
is not

August August

2008-07-31T02:08:00.008+10:00

August always has its peculiar way to astound:
by which half the year closes as she comes down
perchance half my life, too, this time it seals
and my half-baked plans suffice to match a hill

(This time I'll cling to the last seconds of July
and hide behind the doorway just to await awhile
when August arrives, quietly tiptoeing the dark,
she'll find herself thrilled at my august hug!)

a piece of thought

2008-05-15T01:15:00.004+10:00

1/

thoughts aren’t your pets ever
taught to come by at willpower
they are butterflies wild rather
that may arrive for your nectar

2/

thoughts are creatures feral and free
which rest low on leaves of grass gaily
or feel home high on the loftiest tree

though some may seem meek and docile
none can be owned by any known mortal

hunters submit to seduction of all ages
to enslave them through high education

gardeners who with cohabitation suffice
send out their love with floral invitation

Kisses

2008-05-09T16:18:00.011+10:00

This template is sure kissing me again! I first used it about 2 years ago when still under the classic Blogger. I wonder why the creator named this very template: Kiss. In any case I'm sticking with it, maybe for good.

Imma bought me a latest poetry book by SDD last week: Before Dawn, a beautiful book--both physically and literarily. I should thank her with 2 looong kisses. One for the book, the other for rekindling my passions. For poetry and her.

Tato Ted Kooser

2008-02-20T02:23:00.008+11:00

Ted Kooser (l. di Ames, Iowa thn 1939), pengarang 10 buku kumpulan puisi, termasuk Delights & Shadows (Copper Canyon, 2004); Winter Morning Walks: One Hundred Postcards to Jim Harrison (2000); Weather Central (1994); One World at a Time (1985); dan Sure Signs (Pittsburgh, 1980), pada tahun 2004 diangkat oleh Library of Congress sebagai poet laureate ke-13 di bidang Puisi.

T A T O

Apa yang dulu diniatkan sebagai pernyataan –
sebilah belati bercucur darah di sekepal
hati yang gemetar – kini cuma sebentuk memar
di bahunya yang kerontang renta,
di mana kejumawaan pernah menghantamnya,
menghunjam perih yang panjang.
Dulu ia sosok orang yang mesti
kau perhitungkan: kuat, tangkas lagi
beringas, bagai kuda jantan. Tapi di pagi
yang dingin ini, waktu ia melewati meja-meja
di pasar kaget, berkaus hitam ketat
dengan gulungan lengan yang memamerkan
jati dirinya nun pada suatu ketika,
ia tak lebih dari seorang lelaki tua
yang sedang mereka-reka barang loakan,
lalu meletakkannya kembali;
hatinya telah lembek dan biru, didera cerita.

(Dari Delights & Shadows, Copper Canyon Press, 2004. Terjemahan TQ, 2008.)

A Birthday Poem

2008-02-10T12:47:00.002+11:00

I know it's just perfectly okay
to wish oneself a Happy Birthday
but as my very day arrives today
Nothing I think I would rather say.

That life rolls on is as clear as day
but the trick to happiness, I'd say
is to not seek it wittingly in any way.

(10 February 2008)

Farewell

2008-01-29T02:20:00.003+11:00

Every hesitant good-bye

with no envisioned hi

is itself a mini size

of an eventual demise.

Farewell is never really
a phenomenon of the body;
easier said than done
it is a state of mind.

(9/21/06 - 1/28/08

Publish Post

)

Twilight at a Little Harbor

2008-01-11T04:09:00.001+11:00

Chairil Anwar:

Twilight at a Little Harbor

To Sri Ajati

This time around no-one is searching for love
among the sheds yonder and shacks of old,
neither in tales nor upon the masts and ropes.
Small ships idle onshore snort with hopes
that they can drag themselves back seaward.

Drizzles have hastened the dark; yet still heard
are flaps of an eagle's wings caressing melancholy.
The day's rustles by now have swum hurriedly
away, seduced by another harbor somewhere.

Then, a standstill; the soil and water bereft of wave;
there's nothing else. I am trudging along the cape,
ill at ease yearning to reach its tip, to bid farewell
to this fourth beach, and submit to a final sob as well.

(This is a draft translation of Chairil Anwar's Senja Di Pelabuhan Kecil (1949)--its original version in Indonesian here. For a glimpse of this great poet, click here.)

2 SMS Messages to My Brother

2007-11-09T15:16:00.003+11:00

1/
G8!
Tx 4 the news.
Just read ur article
in the paper.

Very sharp n critical;
not a word 2 many.
Congrats! I’ll sure make
copies; 40 of it, may b,
4 eternity.

2/
Btw, almost forgot:
here’s teardrops
from mom. Must've
missed u an awful lot.

Lebaran Eve 1428H

2007-10-13T03:34:00.001+10:00

1/
What the last fasting
day has to offer is too soon
to speak about

2/
For the little girl cried
Seeing Dad bury
Her dead kitten tonight

Tongue

2007-10-02T18:06:00.001+10:00

If at this instance someone turns out
to lend me a line,
i'll return it someday in my tongue.

Szerelem, Szerelem

2007-09-12T18:25:00.001+10:00

(Terjemahan)

Cinta, Oh Cinta

Cinta oh cinta,
yang terkecam sebagai siksa
mengapa tak tumbuh saja
engkau di pucuk-pucuk pohon
atau di helai daun sarangan?
Agar tiap gadis dan jejaka
dapat menjangkaumu.
Sebab aku pun pernah memetik
sehelai, tapi membiarkannya pergi.
Aku yang dulu memetiknya
membiarkannya berlalu.
Maka, sehelai lagi mau kupetik
andai kutemukan kembali
satu yang baik dan cantik:
kekasihku yang dulu.
Sebab baginya seorang
apalah yang tak siap
kukorbankan?
Akan kukuras air di laut
dengan sendok di tangan
dan dari dasarnya akan
kupunguti seluruh mutiara
dan untuknya kurangkaikan

Szerelem, szerelem
(Hungarian Traditional Song; my wife’s favorite. Click here to listen.)

Szerelem, szerelem,
Átkozott gyötrelem,
Mért nem virágoztál
Minden fa teteje?
Minden fa tetején,
Diófa levelén,
Hogy szakísztott volna,
Minden leány és legény.
Mert én is szakísztottam,
El is szalasztottam,
Én is szakísztottam,
És el is szalasztottam.
Ej de még szakísztanék
Ha jóra találnék,
Ha jóra, ha szépre,
A régi szeretőmre.
Mhhhhhmmmhhhh
S, a régi szeretőmért,
Mit nem cselekednék,
Tengerből a vizet,
Kanállal lemerném.
És a tenger fenekéről,
Apró gyöngyöt szednék,
És a régi szeretőmnek,
Gyöngykoszorút kötnék

Charles Simic: Di Penghujung September

2007-08-29T02:56:00.001+10:00

Charles Simic adalah poet laureate terkini (semacam penyair 'istana') di Amerika (2007). Satu hal menarik tentang Simic adalah bahwa ia baru belajar bahasa Inggris ketika berumur 15 tahun, saat ia pindah ke AS dari negeri asalnya, yang dulu bernama Yugoslavia. (Saya baru belajar bahasa Inggris di usia 12-13 tahun, waktu di SMP. Bedanya, saya sampai sekarang belum pernah ke Amerika.)

Berikut satu-satunya karya Simic yang saya terjemahkan. Judul aslinya: Late September. Dalam pemahaman saya, puisinya ini bercerita dan mencitrakan sebuah lanskap, baik fisik dan mental, pada suatu hari di akhir September, menjelang musim dingin tentunya. Yang tertangkap adalah sebuah suasana yang agak buram, muram, bahkan horor. Membaca karya ini mengingatkan saya pada salah sebuah karya Rielke.

Saya sendiri merasa kurang sreg dengan hasilnya; tapi bagaimana lagi, saya tidak bisa membuatnya seindah aslinya. Saya cuma ingin coba ”mengunyah-nguyah” rasanya dalam bahasa Indonesia. (Buat saya, cukup pahit.)

Charles Simic:

Di Penghujung September

Truk pos itu menuruni pantai
Sambil membawa sehelai surat.
Di ujung dermaga panjang
Seekor camar yang bosan
Sesekali mengangkat kakinya,
Dan lupa menjejakkannya kembali.
Udara beraroma bahaya
Tentang tragedi yang bakal menyata.

Katamu semalam,
Seperti ada suara TV dari rumah sebelah.
Dan kau yakin bencana baru tengah
Mereka kabarkan.
Lalu kau beranjak keluar, memastikan:
Bercelana pendek, bertelanjang kaki.
Yang terdengar cuma suara
Laut yang letih setelah sekian lama
Pura-pura bergegas
Meski tak ke mana-mana.

Pagi tadi terasa seperti Minggu.
Angkasa bertugas seperti biasa
Tanpa menghampar bayang di trotoar
Atau di antara barisan pondok kosong;
Yang di dekatnya terselip gereja mungil
Dan selusin nisan kelabu yang berhimpitan.
Seolah tubuh mereka gemetaran.

(Dari The Voice at 3:00 a.m., Selected late and New Poems oleh Charles Simic, © 2002.)

Taking Pictures

2007-07-09T03:41:00.001+10:00

Seeing our loved ones
Through the view finder
and eternalizing the moments
At the snap of a finger
are enough justification
for our every vacation.

(Bali, July 2-6, 2007)

in the elevator

2007-04-15T11:25:00.001+10:00

in the elevator
11 workers &
1 red butterfly

Cats and Mosquitos

2007-04-11T02:29:00.001+10:00

When I was a kid I would believe
To each cat 9 lives God doth give

But some roads buried their carcasses
So concluded I such were not the cases

All cats that meet their first demise
Are but dead without compromise

Their bodies decay and be unseen
Their spirits go straight Upstream

A grown up now I am not that silly
To believe in such a ridiculous folly

I can even tell with utter conviction
To mosquitoes nine lives are given

See, even now, as I’m jotting this down
Hundreds of them are hovering around

My head, my neck, my hands, my feet
Not only do they make me feel the heat

They also turn me, such a genial feller
Times and again indeed a serial killer!

I am a Poem

2007-03-05T16:41:00.002+11:00

I am a poem
ascending to higher unimportance
and I take it my humblest function
to dissent the ideals of mankind

Three Poems by Ook Nugroho

2007-02-05T01:35:00.001+11:00

OOK NUGROHO was born in Jakarta on April 7, 1960. He has been awarded Hadiah Sih from Jurnal Puisi. Ook Resides and works in Jakarta. The three works translated here first made appearances in Kompas, Sunday, February 4, 2007

OOK NUGROHO:

Time melting

Time melting once again
The room resumes my name
You a mere shadow
Obscured across the weather

We must talk
You say, at the threshold of words
But language seems
A mere wall

Towering divide between us
Time keeps on melting
The room still wearing my name
You I know not who, nor where

© 2007, Ook Nugroho.
Translated by TQ

OOK NUGROHO:

Improvisation

I have left you an empty plot
right here. Please enter and select any corner
that you like. Perhaps you’d feel good

near a comma, a foggy niche
before a period becomes dotted. Or you
may as well play with a number

of question marks. Whichever; but
I certainly won’t suggest you coiling near the title—
it’s a deception. You know it, don’t you?

© 2007, Ook Nugroho.
Translated by TQ

OOK NUGROHO:

To Whom I am Talking

I will never know
Whom these words
Will ever reach finally
I have of course not written
Them for the sake of nothing
You are the one I’ve aimed
But who actually are you
Do we not know each other
Do I not have your address
In the shrubs of my memories
Eventually beyond this poem
Is the world of orange dusk
Where you may then be
In a city far away anywhere
While it'll remain unconfirmed
As to whom I am talking

© 2006, Ook Nugroho.
Translated by TQ

A Father's Gift

2007-01-23T15:07:00.001+11:00

As my first stroke in the new year, here's some pieces of news about the publication of a bilingual book of poetry by Eka Budianta. The title is Hadiah Seorang Ayah, which is quite apt, since the poet had wanted to give this book to Pandu and Elysia his son and daughter in law, also as wedding souvenirs to those coming at the merry reception last Jan. 7. Also titled in English as A Father’s Gift, the book consists of 50 selected poems by this celebrated Indonesian poet. I really think it’s a highly interesting and original book. But you'd perhaps think of me as being very biased here... ;-D

Hadiah Seorang Ayah/A Father's Gift
50 Selected Poems of Eka Budianta
Translated by: Tjipoetat Quill
Prologue by: Harry Aveling
Published by: Kata Kita
First Impression: January 6, 2007
Pages: 148
ISBN: 979-3778-40-7

Words and Clothes

2006-12-14T20:06:00.001+11:00

Words are to thoughts as clothes to bodies;
They are put on to reveal--or conceal.

Fanduan Forigami

2006-12-08T03:45:00.002+11:00

(A la AAG)

Bapak-bapak seiman-setuhan
Kakak-adik yang mau ikutan
Forigami adalah hal gampang
Seni menggunting dalam lipatan
Yang semua orang bisa lakukan

Yang terpenting adalah 3M:
Mulailah dari yang kecil
Mulailah sekarang juga
Mulailah dari diri sendiri

Forigami perlu ketenangan
Jadi lakukanlah diam-diam
Beritahu semua kemudian
Ketika hampir ketahuan

Jika si Teteh lalu tak tahan
Barangnya tak lagi miliknya seorang
bisikkan saja perlahan-lahan:

Ini takdir, Teh, takdir
Kalau bukan apa dong namanya?
Jadi Teteh kudu istighfar sana
Dan mohon ampun sama Yang Kuasa

Sekian dulu dan wassalam!

Downfall

2006-12-05T18:51:00.002+11:00

(AAG)

A man must be verily in love with a woman
to be willing to risk a hardearned reputation

Or he must be blinded by some carnal ambition
to be disposed to pave the way to his downfall

Any which way applies to him, not really a concern
But next time he preaches, may he leave God alone!

Dew

2006-11-24T03:57:00.001+11:00

one of the last droplets
of dew tiptoeing onto
one of the first leaves
of an unknown plant

in my plot three morns
ago has undried itself
in my heart today, gliding
through my fingers onto

my XP and your Windows—-
maybe to undress before
your very eyes and soul
(which perhaps recognize

what it all must mean)

R.M. Rilke: Kesah

2006-10-10T13:01:00.002+10:00

Kesah

Segalanya telah jauh berlalu.
Bintang yang berkelip di atas sana
sepertinya telah mati sejuta tahun lalu.
Sepertinya kudengar tangisan
Di mobil yang baru lewat.
Jam dinding di rumah tetangga depan
Sepertinya telah berhenti berdetak.
Entah kapan mulainya...
Aku hanya ingin melangkah keluar dari hatiku
Dan berjalan di langit luas.
Aku ingin berdoa.
Di antara gemintang yang tlah lama mati
Pasti satu tertinggal untukku.
Kurasa aku tahu yang mana itu:
Yang di ujung cahayanya di atas sana
berdiri seperti kota putih.

Judul Asli: Klage
Oleh Rainer Maria Rilke
Terj. Tjipoetat Quill (1992-2006)

In The Land of The Malay

2006-09-26T11:17:00.001+10:00

Syamsu Rizal:

In the land of the Malay fishermen have the hearts of ocean
there’s no place to dress up
but songs of the wave that does not grasp the land
In the land of the Malay, boys turn into ponds
that write letters to God about life after death,
while verses of sea’s conceit linger
In the land of the Malay, men are scattered bodies
running off without bracing themselves,
ending up without any land

Syamsu Rizal, Pulang Penyengat, Riau
Draft translation by TQ
Source: Kompas 26 September, 2006, reported by Indira Permanasari

Best Wishes and Greetings of Peace

2006-09-22T12:07:00.001+10:00

Best wishes and greetings in peace and of peace to Muslims all over the world upon the approaching holy month of self restraint. May we live to deserve the grace of the month and to celebrate a glorious victory that ensues. May this not be a mere poor interlude in which to exhibit piety. May it dawn on us we only deceive ourselves by fooling other people and the Almighty. May we all be refined souls for the sake of our own sanity if not humanity--more gentle and loving persons for our family if not for everyone in the world or this country.

Marhaban, Ramadhan!

Pessioptimism

2006-09-07T01:01:00.001+10:00

as optimistic
that a pessimist
can be pleasantly
surprised
as pessimistic
that an optimist
can be as elated

The Test of My Poem

2006-08-24T00:20:00.002+10:00

1/
The taste of my poem
is in the relishing
sweet, sour or bitter
cold, lukewarm or hot

The test of my poem
is in the nourishing
its effect in the heart
undying, fleeting or naught

2/
Here are the lines
that got stuck in the jam
on their way to your heart

Possibly the very words
you had cried out loud
but got outroared
by the noises down the path

Driving my quill alone
I have taken them all along
somewhere never by-passed

© tq, 2006

James Wright: Dua Sosok di Samping Perapian

2006-08-13T02:06:00.002+10:00

1/
Malam ini kulihat rambut ayahku,
Saat ia duduk tertidur di dekat perapian.
Memahami helai keputusasaanku,
Ia mengirim cintanya lewat sehelai bulu burung hantu.
Maka aku pun datang, tak mau dianggap tak paham.
Malam ini, Ohio, tempatku dulu pernah
Meradang mengutuki kesepian,
Menampilkan ayahku, seorang makelar batu,
yang pernah menggumuli dan menguasai alat-alat berat,
Dan beristirahat, membayangi wajahnya yang rupawan.

2/
Tenang dan agung, tangannya bersidekap.
Ia bangga kepadaku; menurutnya
Aku telah berhasil menjadi orang penting
Di antara orang-orang penting di kota-kota besar.
Aku tak mau membuatnya terbangun.
Aku pulang sendirian, tanpa istri atau anak
yang mungkin akan membuatnya bahagia.
Terjaga, sendiri, namun merasa diterima
Aku juga duduk di dekat perapiannya,
Garis-garis usia yang buruk tertakik di wajahku,
dan kedua tanganku tak bisa diam.

James Wright (1927-1980) termasuk figur penyair penting di Amerika pada jamannya. Puisinya yang diterjemahkan di atas menunjukkan rasa hormat pada ayahnya dan perasaannya yang ambivalen terhadap tempat kelahirannya, Ohio. Info selanjutnya dan versi aslinya dapat dilihat di sini.

David Malouf: Untuk Ditulis dalam Bahasa Lain

2006-08-11T11:58:00.001+10:00

Seperti misalnya, bahasa yang dipakai kakekku dalam
tidurnya ketika memimpikan dirinya sudah mati,
atau masih hidup. Awan

berarak ke nafas yang lain; rembulan siang menetas
dari heningnya gelap yang berbeda, di mana burung hantu
turun dari matahari, beberapa ekor jalak kusam

dalam nama yang asing bagi kita menggalang senja,
sebutir demi sebutir membiarkan jatuh bayangan tubuh mereka.
Peristiwa biasa semacam ini

adalah puisi dalam bahasa lain dan tak mungkin
diterjemahkan. Burung hantu
dengan darahnya yang kental dan mulut menganga

tak cukup cepat untuk mencengkeram kepala butiran debu.
Sekawan kolibri dengan mata berkaca-kaca
laksana para bidadari kamikaze Giotto

berduka, tatkala mendapati
bahwa nama mereka dalam sebuah bahasa yang binasa
adalah pengantar bagi sangkar baja atau Daftar Isi,

kebun abu-abu Jardin des Plantes. Kakek menggumamkan
nama-nama kita di bumi. Kita mendatangi cahaya
dari mulutnya, buih-buih penuh teka-teki.

Kujelajahi thesaurus
demi satu kata: kerinduan, dambaan
para cucu akan satu bahasa

yang masih dicakap mereka yang telah mati, yang masih diucap
dalam tidur mereka yang sekarat, datangnya hal-hal
biasa, namun asing bagi bahasa.

© 1992, David Malouf
(Draft Terjemahan Tjipoetat Quill)

Tidaklah Cukup Jendela Terbuka

2006-08-08T03:24:00.001+10:00

Untuk memandang padang dan sungai
Tidaklah cukup jendela terbuka.
Untuk melihat pohon dan bunga
Tidaklah cukup memiliki mata.
Sebab penting juga tak berfilsafat
Agar pohon bukan ide semata.
Hanya ada satu dari setiap kita,
seperti halnya masing-masing gua.
Hanya ada satu jendela tertutup,
dan di luar sana: seutuh dunia
serta mimpi tentang apa yang tampak
seandainya jendela itu terkuak,
Yang tak pernah menyerupai apa
yang terlihat ketika ia terbuka.

(Fernando Pessoa; terjemahan TQ)

To See the Fields and the River

To see the fields and the river
It isn't enough to open the window.
To see the trees and the flowers
It isn't enough not to be blind.
It is also necessary to have no philosophy.
With philosophy there are no trees, just ideas.
There is only each one of us, like a cave.
There is only a shut window, and the whole world outside,
And a dream of what could be seen if the window were opened,
Which is never what is seen when the window is opened.

(Fernando Pessoa; translated by Richard Zenith)

Não Basta Abrir a Janela

Não basta abrir a janela
Para ver os campos e o rio.
Não é bastante não ser cego
Para ver as árvores e as flores.
É preciso também não ter filosofia nenhuma.
Com filosofia não há árvores: há ideias apenas.
Há só cada um de nós, como uma cave.
Há só uma janela fechada, e todo o mundo lá fora;
E um sonho do que se poderia ver se a janela se abrisse,
Que nunca é o que se vê quando se abre a janela.

(Fernando Pessoa, 1924)

Fernando Pessoa: Otopsikografi

2006-08-07T18:58:00.001+10:00

Penyair adalah peniru ahli
Yang amat lihai di bidangnya.
Ia mampu memalsu nyeri
Dari perih di dalam dadanya.

Dan mereka yang membaca
Kata-katanya yang terjalin
Tak mendapati kedua derita
Selain satu kepedihan lain.

Maka di sekeliling lintasannya
Berpuntirlah pegas nurani,
Sebuah kereta api mainan
Untuk menghibur pikiran.

(Fernando Pessoa - terjemahan TQ)

AUTOPSYCHOGRAPHY

The poet is a faker
Who’s so good at his act
He even fakes the pain
Of pain he feels in fact.

And those who read his words
Will feel in his writing
Neither of the pains he has
But just the one they’re missing.

And so around its track
This thing called the heart winds,
A little clockwork train
To entertain our minds.

(Fernando Pessoa; translated by Richard Zenith)

AUTOPSICOGRAFIA

O poeta é um fingidor.
Finge tão completamente
Que chega a fingir que é dor
A dor que deveras sente.

E os que lêem o que escreve,
Na dor lida sentem bem,
Não as duas que ele teve,
Mas só a que eles não têm.

E assim nas calhas da roda
Gira, a entreter a razão,
Esse comboio de corda
Que se chama o coração.

(Fernando Pessoa)

Qana

2006-08-01T17:16:00.003+10:00

1/

To whom words are mightier than swords
Be warned, for woes may thee betide

After our pride, land, offsprings and lives
what more of us can be deprived?

Virtuousness and compliance
are being ridiculed by this persecution

Avarice rules the world, conscience eclipsed
by Darwinian aggression

Peace is a piece of cake offered at a gunpoint
Truth always the one from a certain viewpoint

To whom words are mightier than swords
be wary, for words may be merely as shorter
than swords as our untimely departure

2/

To whom swords are mightier than words
be assured: woes will thee betide

Virtuousness and compliance
do not expire with persecution

While avarice feeds on itself
aggression only breeds violence

The Peace offered at a gunpoint
and the Truth in between ruins
are but sources of self-inflicted pain

Swords return to sheaths where they belong
and get eaten away by time before too long
the blast of words, as soon as they explode
is a flame time can neither put out nor corrode

(7/31-8/2,2006)

Sorry (2)

2006-07-24T02:12:00.001+10:00

foul air in my stuffy room
screech of a stuck window
a lizard's dash

Sorry

2006-07-19T03:16:00.001+10:00

Please forgive us should You find this insolent
Or see no tears we shed after the latest trick of Yours
But writhing inside, we have been guessing the motive
Eeach time one disaster seems to rally against another;
Guess we should know better that we should know better
Dubstrucked by quakes and tsunamis we wish to arrive
At the meaning of Mother Nature's messages
Though we know we'd better take precautionary measures
Whilst in the midst of the whirlwind of political rhetorics
Filthy conglomerates sneer and chuckle with each drop
Of the mud bursting from their oil pipes in East Java
Guess we should know better that they aren't sorry

Belitung

2006-07-13T17:16:00.001+10:00

Majestic rocks from millions of years ancient
Bystanders of earthly silent evolution
Are in themselves untold stories
Of an ever-lasting beauty that is this beach
That the hands of time would only caress
And praises from our lips would never cease

Weâ€™ve been blessed with the bliss, my dear!
Kissed by the splendor of its wind
Bathing in the warmth of its water
Made to feel peculiarly at home
by the soft white sand underneath

(Tanjung Tinggi, 4-7 July, 2006)

(Photo by Driartha Vera)

A Jar of Pickles now Available at Gramedia

2006-06-27T16:55:00.001+10:00

A Jar of Pickles, a potpourri of original poems written in English by three contemporary Indonesian poets, namely Gerda Hutapea-Silitonga, Manneke Budiman and myself, is now selling at Rp 30,000 at Gramedia bookstores all over Indonesia. This book, published in March 2006, is prefaced by a well known Indonesian literary scholar and critic, Melani Budianta, who has given very encouraging remarks and commendation.

FREE DOWNLOADS

Right click to download and Save Target/Link As...

TQ's 35 Selected Poems
Latest poetry ebook published by PoemHunter.com. In English.

The Tjipoetat Quill. Latest poetry
e-book prepared for Puitika.net; in English.

Two Crescents

2006-06-23T02:06:00.001+10:00

two crescents
one smiling in the sky
the other framed by my window

Dream

2006-06-22T02:03:00.001+10:00

last night
I dreamed
that I dreamed
that I awoke
a sleepless man
posting on what
I dreamed
last night

From Tinywords

2006-06-10T11:41:00.000+10:00

"Congratulations! Your haiku is appearing today on the home page of tinywords, at http://tinywords.com. It's also being sent to our subscribers via email and SMS right now. After today, you'll be able to find it in our haiku archives, and at this permanent URL: http://tinywords.com/haiku/2006/06/09/. Thank you for contributing to tinywords!"

Well, the pleasure's all mine.

Empty

2006-05-31T01:16:00.001+10:00

I have let her, the kid
unstopper me
thinking she would drink me up
and part of her I'd be;
I am now an empty bottle
all right
the rest of me your crippled dog
instead

Today My Daughter and I

2006-05-19T14:47:00.002+10:00

today my daughter and I
walked the morning sun
the first time again

Kemang Afternoon Blues

2006-05-15T02:06:00.001+10:00

1/
Had it not been for the traffic jam
You'd have thought being elsewhere
Most the niceties seemed so foreign
Speaking a tongue so unfamiliar

2/
The bookstore you were in
saw a sea of printed words
of books beyond reach
So beautiful they were doomed

3/
Even a minute you were denied
A meeting with the busy manager
Who had sent you over the phone
No help in sight; you'd better go home

4/
Clinks of glasses
Suffocating smokes
Chuckling women and men
dressed to kill in fashionable lifestyle
This café where you got stranded
Found you wondering what went wrong

5/
A man my age plugging his notebook
Deciding to trot down the globe
Without an exchange of words
He vanished to another world

6/
The soul you could relate to
Was the one serving the coffee
The bill that she later gave you
still remembered your poetry

7/
Poems jumping out of your heart
scurried down the busy roads outside
down the antique shops up to galleries
Come back! Poetry unallowed here.

8/
In the corner of an inner alley
Wartegs* stood solemnly
Waiting for the regulars:
Hungry waiters and secretaries

9/
In the mountains of garbage
In the clogged gutters
And the spits of taxi drivers
our future was in sight

10/
"Sorry man, no mosque around
But if you want, over there:
Quite some sweats away
Mind telling Him to wait?
We're too busy down here."

(Kemang, April-May 2006)

*Warteg = Indonesian word for
a simple and cheap foodstall

Stop Press: News from East Java

2006-05-09T17:02:00.001+10:00

I would like to thank the great people of Puitika.Net, especially to its chief editor Sazano, for having interviewed and exclusively profiled me on-line in Indonesia's most influential national poetry website today, Puitika.net. This on-line poetry journal is located in a cool-weathered city of Malang, East Java. In gratitude, I have offered them the manuscript of my next book of poetry, for free downloading through their server.

In the last three years I have remained anonymous for some reason. However, they have were the first to have let the cat out of the bag by revealing my true identity! :) This profile by Puitika is the most complete and up to date source of info about myself!

They say curiosity kills the cat. Being the cat here I guess I should not worry too much: I'll die just once and still have eight lives left.

(Thanks again, Puitika!)

Poem for My Wife

2006-05-08T16:54:00.001+10:00

This morning when we woke up
the meat cages* still locked us up

We took a bath so they’d look nice
Had our breakfast of eggs and rice

Wore the the stuff that Pinurbo**
from his father once borrowed

Braved the traffic never cool
Sending our daughter to school

Day by day we replay the ritual
while yearning for the ephemeral

Break to again drop us by
after that long ago goodbye

To brief childhood and fantasies
of life, when things looked easy

We pray patiently a day will come
when our only kid a lady becomes

Till we sit by this front verandah
time overflowing us, like a blunder

Then the best thing to do, my dear:
is to exist not or escape from here

Notes:
* Meat Cages ("Sangkar Daging") is also title of a poem by
a West Sumatran poet Gus Tf.
** Joko Pinurbo is an Indonesian poet known for his witty poems
gravitating on pants.

Radio Interview on A Jar of Pickles

2006-04-29T23:36:00.001+10:00

Tune in to FeMale Radio (99.5FM) and join a live discussion on A Jar of Pickles with poet Gerda Hutapea-Silitonga plus poetry reading in Jakarta, on 1 May, 2006 at 7:30-9:00.

Eyes

2006-04-20T13:22:00.002+10:00

I used to believe that comprehension began with you;
That what you failed to understand was insensibility.
For every time a picture renders a thousand words,
You claim the first to know;
And if it were not through you,
How would we fall for the beauty of a look?

But then I learned that deception was easiest
To cloud you; that the pair I’ve had might lie,
When they suggest the bigness of near
Or the smallness of far.
When a picture offers a thousand words,
You are the first to be deceived;
And if it were not through you,
Why have many hearts ached at
The tyranny of the skin deep?

Kitanomaru Park

2006-04-16T03:28:00.001+10:00

1/
here's a picture of us
taking an impromptu walk
side by side in the park
our park, you dubbed
underneath the darkened
canopy of drizzle-wet foliage

two-three Japanese frogs
suspended their croaks
and returned the quiet
to the nearby loch

2/
this is the very photo
that framed your radiance
that warmed the shuddering
March of old Tokyo;
And this face used to be mine
forlorn at the thoughts of two
souls expecting me, at home

From the Publisher

2006-04-14T13:49:00.001+10:00

Press Release:

PUBLICATION OF THE FIRST ANTHOLOGY OF POETRY BY THREE INDONESIAN POETS

A Jar of Pickles, a potpourri of poems written in English by three contemporary Indonesian poets—namely: Gerda Hutapea-Silitonga, Manneke Budiman and Nad (aka the Tjipoetat Quill)-—has just been published and will be available at major bookstores in Indonesia, prefaced by a well known Indonesian literary scholar and critic, Melani Budianta, who has given very encouraging remarks and commendation.

“Their joint authorship has amassed from the English literary tradition and presented something fascinating to the global world.”

Is it too early and too presumptuous to ask whether the poems in this anthology are ready for that global game? Or should we just approach this anthology in a more relaxed and unassuming way, enjoying them as very fine creative exercises of ardent poets?

Nobody has the answer for sure, but the likelihood is great that fellow writers, poets, critics, advanced English language learners and teachers, or poetry enthusiasts will appreciate this volume. We are proud to have played a part in the processes that gave birth to this one of its kind publication.

PT. ABSIS+ORDINAT
Jl. Kayu Jati Raya no. 3A, Rawamangun, Jakarta
Tel. 62-21-47866434/47866-437; Fax: 62-21-47866435.
(Voluntary model: Lej)

UPDATED 20 APRIL 2006:
JOP is selling at QB Bookstores and Toko Buku Aksara in your town:)

Father--Unfinished

2006-04-11T16:31:00.001+10:00

1)
eleven forty
five a.m. you sent news
through the rain: "good mourning!"

2)
I hastened my way
to you, though fully knowing
it would not change things

My Father

2006-04-04T03:37:00.001+10:00

I am reminiscing you; and the little boy who often stole some change from the left pocket of your pants that would hang behind the door in the front room; his pride in bringing home for Mom, his three brothers and as many sisters, a plastic bagful of bananas or oranges from the money he'd stolen; the one afternoon you once asked him about the vanishing money; how he could bring home oleh-oleh for the family; the childish lies and made-up stories; and the relief he felt when you did not pursue the truth hidden in his pinkish heart. (You didn't lose your trust in this boy. Maybe you knew, he only wanted to learn to be like you. And as far as I know, never did once you lose trust in him.)

I am remembering you; and those muddy streets, noisy morning market, quiet walks you walked together on the way to your office and his school; the so many words unspoken; the surroundings that renewed the boy every day; the neat uniform you wore and your well-kept pomade-glazen hair.

I am recalling you; and those magenta boxes of dried raisins you sometimes bought him at Bang Toto's kiosk after you two had had to pass the swinging bridge across the Banjir Kanal and cross the old doubletracks; the red guitar you bought for him, and know the reason why some days latter he discovered that his first own guitar was so terrible like a sin; so ugly he wanted you to get him another; your being speechless when the boy finally destroyed it. (You did not lose your temper at the outrage.)

I am bringing you to mind; and the old scooter you used to have and how the boy got irked by your slow ride and the fact you never used gear one; the ridiculous pain inflicting his pinkish heart every time he returned from school to find your old sky blue Opel Kapitan parked in the open garage; his wishing that your bulky jalopy would vanish in thin air, so that he would not see its grinning grills; the euphoria he felt when Mom got Rp 250,000 in exchange of the crap.

I am evoking you; and the Khong Guan assorted biscuits you'd bring home for him, brothers and sisters and over half a dozen relatives who depended on you; and the taste of the Orang Tua herbal wine you occasionally bought, including the dizziness one late rainy night, when the boy ignorantly drank up to the last drop.

I am recollecting you; and that boy turning into an ingrate with but little pride of his first motorbike, his Wora-Wari; the times it'd turn itself off from overheating. (He got it from you not long after he started to learn to live and dechiper the way of the world; the family TV, among the first in your neighborhood, that perched on the cupboard in his kos-kosan before the fateful barter into a lousy typewriter.)

Be Not Too Proud

2006-04-03T00:01:00.001+10:00

(In loving memories of my father;
born June 22, 1938 - March 25, 2006)

Though Thou succeeded finally
in shunning his mortal body
with every beat of my heart
he shall be living eternally

Though Thou see me in grief
The tears I am still shedding
Only recollect the happiness
And joy we have shared

Be not too proud, Death!

despite what lexicographers say

2006-03-22T15:49:00.001+11:00

despite what lexicographers say
love, life, happiness
and the likes of them--
ladies and gentlemen,
are verbs

News: Publication of A Jar of Pickles, a first book of poems in English by three Indonesian poets

2006-03-20T18:42:00.001+11:00

A Jar of Pickles: A Potpourri of Poems from Indonesia will be published by the end of this month by Penerbit Absis dan Ordinat, Jakarta. Watch out: this will be among the first anthologies, if not the pioneer, of almost 100 original poems written in the English language by three Indonesian poets: namely Gerda Hutapea-Silitonga, Manneke Budiman and ... The Tjipoetat Quill (;), with a critical introduction from an outstanding literary critic from the University of Indonesia, Melani Budianta. The book will be available soon at major bookstores in Indonesia at around Rp. 25,000 a piece.

2006-03-17T18:36:00.002+11:00

A piece of email
tiptoed in, waited there
and gave me a surprise!

2006-03-16T13:21:00.001+11:00

good Japanese food
on the Ides of March
tells me things will be fine

A Brief History of Gods

2006-03-14T20:16:00.001+11:00

First, we worshipped the inanimate.
Next, we learned to worship the gods
Later, we discovered the Deity.
Then, dazzled by our own Reason
We returned to the inanimate
And ended up worshipping anything,
From football to economic growth.

H.

2006-03-05T04:49:00.001+11:00

Thank you so much,
I can’t thank you all enough
for this most beautiful epitaph:

“Here lies the body
of a man who never lived his life.”

It’s oh so much better
than the Baa Baa blacksheep sign
you all always had round my collar.

2006-02-21T15:53:00.001+11:00

tears hang on her eyes

the ones on the left
fearing the stertorus night sky

the ones on the right
imbued with thoughts
of her faraway mom

2006-02-16T13:16:00.001+11:00

at times spoony sometimes
forky our concupiscence
to life is such

a slide on jalan prapanca

2006-02-15T18:29:00.001+11:00

2/
i'll recognize him
once I see his face again
so it says

a slide on jalan prapanca

2006-02-13T13:10:00.001+11:00

1/
an old and rusty slide
made derelict by one's
misplaced innocence

2006-02-10T13:02:00.001+11:00

clouds over jakarta sky
conceal the midnoon sun
of my birthday

2006-01-17T18:59:00.001+11:00

gone for the year-end holiday
the muse seems to have
forgotten me

2005-12-25T03:34:00.001+11:00

to the rainbow
we three generations give
a standing ovation

2005-12-23T15:05:00.000+11:00

To marketers, praise is like food.
And your blog has been kind, never rude.
The team here at Answers,
Like Nutcracker dancers,
Bow kindly in deep gratitude.

(A limerick received today
from Answers.com.
Thanks!)

2005-12-21T15:30:00.001+11:00

not so much as what we feel
about this budding rose
is our love

as it is with
what we do in caring
and nurturing the cute plant

2005-12-19T16:26:00.001+11:00

i tore apart my only love
and am dying
an ungraceful death

2005-12-14T14:44:00.001+11:00

i am flying to Batam
Island with butterflies
in my stomach

2005-12-14T02:25:00.001+11:00

it took the deodorant more
than three decades
to lick my armpits

2005-12-08T20:39:00.001+11:00

(1)
last night's encounter
gave the little rat and me
a terrible blow

(2)
it's my job therefore
to make it clearly see
that one of us must go

After work

2005-12-06T20:35:00.001+11:00

o, tell me why this city
is cursed with traffic jams; and I'll
show you the root of corruption

2005-12-05T18:54:00.001+11:00

erasers don't pretend
to justify errors, dear,
they only try to rectify

2005-12-03T18:44:00.001+11:00

pencils condone typos,
pens incurably obsessed
with permanence

After school

2005-12-02T19:55:00.001+11:00

tell me one good thing
you did to yourself today

and one you did to others

let us ask each other
these questions, my daughter

for as many tomorrows
we borrow

2005-11-30T04:07:00.001+11:00

once on Sudirman
the verdure of 2 angsana
now in memory

2005-11-29T04:08:00.001+11:00

1½ hours left
shepherding wayward words
to their new textual barn

2005-11-28T17:58:00.001+11:00

at lunchtime
blatant curses and veiled conceits
devoured the four of us