Jamal D. Rahman

8 Januari 2011

Amir Hamzah: Penyair yang Kalah, tapi Menang

Filed under: Kritik Sastra,Tidak terkategori — jamaldrahman @ 05:00

Oleh Jamal D. Rahman

Bonda, waktu tuan melahirkan beta
Pada subuh embang cempaka
Adalah ibu menaruh sangka
Bahwa begini peminta anakda

Tuan aduhai mega berarak
Yang meliputi dewangga raya
Berhentilah tuan di atas teratak
Anak langkat musafir lata

Puisi Amir Hamzah itu termaktub pada sisi kanan makamnya yang sedih. Dia wafat secara tragis dan mengenaskan, 20 Maret 1946, dalam usia 35 tahun, pada suatu malam yang mencekam. Hingga beberapa tahun kemudian kepergiannya masih diselimuti kabut gelap, sebelum akhirnya terkuak. Di makam yang sedih itu, puisi di atas terasa memiliki konteks baru. Begini rupanya akhir hidup seorang penyair yang —dengan segala pengorbanan dan dedikasi tingginya— telah berjuang untuk bangsanya: dia dibunuh secara sadis oleh saudara-saudara sebangsanya sendiri.

Dia memang sebuah riwayat yang kelam, sebuah kisah yang kalah. Tapi bagaimanapun dia keluar sebagai pemenang.

(more…)

18 November 2008

Burn Me with Your Letters

Filed under: Tidak terkategori — jamaldrahman @ 05:00

Jamal D. Rahman

ALL THE MORE ETERNAL ROCKS

With wounded corpse, I smeared blood onto this wall

then I let the sky talked to itself. Scorning or laughing

I felt the rocks are becoming more eternal. Because upon them

my anger and saturation were being carved.

Pouring all the meanings of love and hatred

of the sky. Calling on lightning and waking up the night.

The stars had fallen, as drizzle of tears.

Trickled without a sound

1990

translated by Nikmah Sarjono

Jamal D. Rahman

CORRIDOR’S BREEZE

At the end, we finally created many stopovers

inside our bodies. Dusty and smoky was the road

that we’ve walked through. Our children had fell along

that road. Ahead of us, broken bones and iron wreckage.

The road has narrowed, the fences wider, the bridges higher.

Corridor’s breeze blows, day and night. Connecting

all the growing stopovers inside our bodies. But we’ve

became unable to make contact. Even as the wind blows,

nothing seemed connecting us to other people.

Neither did we feel any need to do so. The roads have taught us

merely with touches we’d never realized. Still,

something is moving inside our bodies

Within the coldness of our prayers, eventually we built bridges

and sidewalks. There, the corridor’s breeze felt even colder.

And when those stopovers have been built completely,

we are no longer recognize our own bodies….

1993

translated by Nikmah Sarjono


Jamal D. Rahman

THE WRECKS OF HUMAN AGE

I haven’t yet finished unloading my body. Sandstones

reformate themselves. Like the days that stacked on

the freeway, endlessly embracing the clock who after you

all day: motor vehicles will only take you to mortal dreams.

I witness again the Sun

blazes eternally, like the circles made by Earth,

circles that continuously being cut by continent’s thirst

But still I wake my body up from the wrecks of

human age. While my dreams moved between

the bouncing balls this world has thrown

Yet I unload again my body, keep on unloading.

Couldn’t reach its spirit in dreams: I shouted

all alone in the solitude of human age

1994

translated by Nikmah Sarjono

Jamal D. Rahman

CHANGE ME INTO A WAVE

From the tips of your eyebrows, I began this life.

The pointyness of my ’Bismillah’ cut down the shrubs

in the forest of eternity, sharpened the everlastingly opened

land of prayers. But where have the holy water delivered

your epistles? In my bow I did not read. In my worship

I did not spell. Tears of my prayers dropped from every tree,

every star, every bird, every water spot in the river of the sun.

O, my bow is the ocean who carries mountains towards

refugee’s land. And I have rolled and crashed

before I became a wave

Yes, from the tips of your eyebrows, change me into a wave

who chase on continent’s age. Because everytime I get crushed,

there will be something you hear: the pointyness of my ’Bismillah’

pounding, slashing the world’s alienation

1997

translated by Nikmah Sarjono


Jamal D. Rahman

RAIN IN PAINTINGS OF TEARS

I read the rain that poured from the paintings

of our tears. The clouds still spread my yearnings

in procession, to the curves of your eyebrows

that started to shed. I saw the fire of my prayer

burned the dry soil, caused a crack on the earth

who read you until the sound of the bell ends

I read your letters with the squeaking sound of the doors

calling on you each time I open up the land of the Sun.

Yes, burn me. Burn me with your letters that hide my heartbeat.

Burn my tears until the roads burst out the fire of prayer

into crater that holds our pure soil

Yes, burn my love, before I look back to the rain

falling from your prayers.

1997

translated by Nikmah Sarjono

Jamal D. Rahman

THOSE WHO PLANT THE SEEDS OF WIND,

WILL HARVEST THE STORM (1)

For the martyr of Reformation,1998

While holding on to the storm, I kiss the sea fire

Burning within your chest. I still can smell the dry season

in your breath, like that cracked tower of time. But we wept:

the sea fire fell into our palms — tonight

I’ll kiss the fire that burns the city:

your cremated ashes blaze on the stairs of the dry season,

until pain springs from wounds. Your cremated heart

slaughters the children of time, until blood

springs from the pain.

While holding on to the storm,

I kiss the sea fire that burns my heart

1998

translated by Nikmah Sarjono

Jamal D. Rahman

THOSE WHO PLANT THE SEEDS OF WIND,

WILL HARVEST THE STORM (2)

On this river, you are the tinkling sounds of water

flowing between the stones. Bamboo tree’s rustles,

gets us closer to a rose. But you say: in here, I am

a thorny rose of your heart

On this river, you are the roots of casuarina tree

stuck outward the water. You wash your feet

and utter an incantation. The rhythm of the river changed.

Its banks flattened. And you say: in here, I am

The roots of casuarina tree that strangle your heart

1998

translated by Nikmah Sarjono

Jamal D. Rahman

IN OUR CHESTS THUNDER AND LIGHTNING

ARE STILL ROARING

Rain always reminds me of the ocean who

arouses my infatuation, to the river who produces

the cries of water, calling on estuary. Because I know,

once it flows away from the source, water will never again

hear the tinkling sounds that it used to play. Therefore

I can never understand, why everytime the freshwater

meets the salty water in that estuary,

the sea always churns:

please don’t leave. The rain hasn’t yet subsided,

in our chests thunder and lightning are still roaring!

1999

translated by Nikmah Sarjono

Jamal D. Rahman

WOUND CAN NOT RETAIN THE PAIN

We, the boiled tin, become

breaking bubbles in the bottom of lava,

struggling to hold on inside a burning breast,

inside a bruised chest

the wound in my poem

can no longer retain any pain

Mother. Mother. Mother.

2000

translated by Nikmah Sarjono

Jamal D. Rahman

ON THE MOUNTAINSIDE OF THE DRY SEASON

On the mountainside of the dry season,

how many seasons have come and go?

Your cries has dried on that mountainside.

Withered, and shattered

become a slab of prayer:

you pry up my stone,

but you don’t break its sufferings

you dig up my weeping,

but you don’t shed its tears

2000

translated by Nikmah Sarjono

Jamal D. Rahman

BENEATH THE WINGS OF THE NIGHT

Beneath the wings of the night,

the hills scrape on solitude

the chill broods on fire,

cuts the wind within hurricane’s embrace,

makes bright red slices,

until blood can no longer be hurt

but behind the hills that crowded

with the cries of the children of the sun,

the wind dried. Restlessness rains. And I heard

the twitters of birds caged in the woods.

Burnt. Cremated alone

behind that hill, I bowed

with an injured prayer

2001

translated by Nikmah Sarjono

Jamal D. Rahman

TWILIGHT HAS HATCHED

I will only sacrifice my rib to be made a flute

for the sounds adored by the wind. Or even typhoon.

So when I looked at the dim of the early twilight,

I knew: it has hatched from the tears of my rib

2002

translated by Nikmah Sarjono

Jamal D. Rahman

CARRYING THUNDER

I heard the rain’s restlessness, clinking, scissoring time.

Then I cried: the clouds always save some frequencies.

Glowing. Thundering. Striking everything that comes

everything that goes. Only my yearning. Only my yearning

considers the drizzle. Before the ocean spills on the black soil…

You cried too, brother. But keep on crying. The jingling sounds

of a harp still you hear, as I still hear the restlessness of rain

jingles. Scissors. Keep on crying, before your silence

thundering…

The sky splits. Through the curving rainbow, I grasped after

a slice of prayer. Twining the ruins of my years

and plunge them into acid. And when you came singing

drizzle’s yearning, I still carrying thunder

booms like a canon, like a sickle cuts the sky….

2002

translated by Nikmah Sarjono

Jamal D. Rahman

O, BLUENESS THAT CRASHED MY SOUL

How deep does the sky dig the chasm of time? Too much

that needs to be buried. But memories have to stay remembered,

so that your heart will always be implanted, touching the sky,

and pointing at a certain height where you will

explode the rage of the Earth

you scratch the stars until they become the blueness

in my solar plexus. My anxiety dropped at the glare

of a knife, who stared at you with quiet slashes

How deeper will the sky dig the chasm of time?

Does the blueness of the sky, the blueness of the sea,

the blueness of my heart, not deep enough

for the earth’s anger and the knife’s fury?

O, blueness that soothes my heart

O, blueness that crashed my soul

2002

translated by Nikmah Sarjono

Jamal D. Rahman

THE RUINS OF LIGHT

It is a long time indeed, waiting for you under the ruins of light.

Until pieces of time hollowed out the crater in my heart.

Can’t you hear my weaken moans become the cliffs

in your valley of love? They steeped, abrupted, rocked.

But my weaken moans are your faithfulness

lulls my nasty deeds

No decree is more divine than the ruins of light.

Thus, so deep now the meaning awaits:

crater waits for the wind to catch the silence from a raging spirit.

Cliff waits for the crying stone, longing for lava sediments

2002

translated by Nikmah Sarjono

Jamal D. Rahman

SPINNING THE HOUR HAND OF THE SUN

We spin the hour hand of the sun, rapidly running

towards you, with wounded time. Days knocking on

our doors. For us to open another path into another continent.

Running along blacken asphalt, after being burned by charcoal stove,

before being diffused by dusty gravels. Day by day

chases after each other at the top of the hour hand

in the ravine of a waterfall. Stabbing one another, leaping

and jumping, chewing the stones. We hunt death with a needle,

seek for life by diving into a lake

flaming stones drown us in noisy pieces. Twining the soil

of the hillside, squeezing all the pain at the bottom of the wound.

Then we resurrect a thousand antelopes, a thousand horses

within the remains of our prayers. We want to run together

with a thousand pronged horns on the fields, with

a thousand trots stomping amidst the dust

we will keep on running. Spinning the hour hand of the sun

2002

translated by Nikmah Sarjono

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