flower crotch

I was woken up by the phone ringing. It was loud. I had thought of setting the ringer volume lower for months. But I’m afraid my mother would get angry. She wants it loud. So does my father. I had set the volume lower one time and my mother couldn’t hear a call from one of her patients and she got really angry. She’s an ophthalmologist. Very conscientious. Always said that she only knew one thing when she was growing up: that she was going to be a doctor.

The phone was in my dad’s room. The door to my room was shut. My dad’s room is across the living room. Maybe 10 metres away. There are five air vents in my room, two covered with thin glass and three with mosquito nets. The ringing had gone straight through the wall.

I got off the bed and ran to the phone. Just before I got to the phone I looked out to the front windows and I could see my mother’s white doctor’s robe. And her arm lifted in a V to hold her mobile phone to her ear. I didn’t pick up the phone. “Yeah! Okay!” and ran to the door and turn the key once. “Shouldn’t have locked the door, I needed to go to the toilet for ages.” “Yeah. Okay.”

I walked back to the living room. Looked at the clock on the wall. 9.30. I had wanted to watch a replay of the New Zealand v. Australia Rugby World Cup Semifinal 2003, it was on at 9. I sat down and turned on the TV, set it to AV1, the decoder, and pressed 3 and 6 for the channel number. That took maybe a minute. The game was already on. 25 minutes into the first half. NZL 0 – 10 AUS.

Four years ago. I was walking with Claire to her birthday party at an Indian restaurant on Crown Street, Sydney. We were walking up a hill in the late afternoon and the sun was shining and I was starting to sweat, but I didn’t mind. She was wearing a long olive-green velvet skirt that I knew had a stain near the hem but you couldn’t see it. The skirt was ruffled and your eyes would get distracted by the pretty embroidered red and yellow flowers near the crotch anyway.

Nick Agafonoff had left a message on our answering machine earlier that afternoon saying that rugby was very important to him and that he couldn’t come to the party because he couldn’t possibly miss Australia playing New Zealand in the semifinal of a Rugby World Cup and he was going to have to watch that on TV instead of coming to Claire’s party. She said fuck him, he’s so self-centred. I said, don’t worry, he’s just a child. I set the VCR to record the game at 7.30, then we took the bus to the restaurant.

The party was fine. There was pretend belly-dancing, piles of naan, six-packs of beer, sweaty bottles of cheap wine. Even Matt, who had also wanted to watch the game and came late so he could watch the haka and the first few minutes (“Australia scored first, they were smashing the All Blacks, I can’t believe it”) and kept checking his mobile phone for time, didn’t go home too early. Wasn’t even the first one to leave.

Back at home (“That was fun, wasn’t it”) I sat on the divan with my shoes still on, turned on the TV, VCR and pressed Play. It was NZL 0 – 10 AUS. I had set the VCR half an hour too late.

Now I was watching the replayed game, but I wasn’t really watching. Bodies falling into the ground, not wanting to fall to the ground, a guy with his trainer holding a handkerchief over his nose, I was looking for the blood but couldn’t see it, he had red tattoos along his lower arm, the player. “This is not the All Blacks we’ve seen carried all before them in in this tournament!” I turned off the TV, the decoder.

A couple of hours ago. I was in my room reading Robert Olen Butler’s From Where You Dream. From where? Then I jerked off thinking about Holiday. A girl I met once at a book launch I invited her to. I was working as an editor at a small but rich publishing company and I’d come up with the idea of rereleasing a short novel written in the ’70s about a young rich girl from Jakarta who went to college in Bandung, got pregnant and committed suicide. It was narrated by her ghost. Written by a former nun. Holiday’s favourite book.

She had stood up at the discussion and asked a question, or offered a comment, I wasn’t really listening. I had not met her before but seeing this girl in dark green t-shirt and brown cargo shorts, speaking with her head tilted to the right, a rope of hair falling over and over her face, I knew that was her. Later I looked and found her near the Biography shelves at the bookstore (owned by the publishing company) where the launch was held. “Intan, yes?” I had used her real name. I forget what we talked about. Books. I told her to wait and grabbed her a copy of Lorrie Moore’s Self-Help that I’d been telling her about. She told me about this guy in Jogja who sold cheap second-hand books online. She held her mobile phone up to my face so I can copy his number. I remember his name. Homerian. And her fingers wrapped around the buttons on her mobile.

Now I was jerking off thinking about her fingers. They were soft. So was her body. Untoned. She had dark nipples. Soft breasts. Soft tummy. Folds on it as she lifted her legs to receive me. I called out her name. “Oh, Holiday.”

I fell asleep after that. I always do. Now I’m in the same bed. The blue Grove book next to my laptop. I’m watching highlights of the game on YouTube. The first try was an intercept. The pictures were blurry.

minor poet

why copy the masters

becuz the night becuz the princess of peacocks got syphilis

off a french boulangerie patisserien

‘masa ini ann demeleumeester ?’

‘no way fuck you mister !’

becuz i got nuthin to say

apart from a thin description

of a pack of everest

and a fascimile of Gedong Lami

define : cut//copy

sastra kesaksian atau romantika semata?

esei damhuri muhammad di kompas minggu (2/8/09), yang berjudul ‘romantika pasca-enam lima’, meminjam istilah pengarangnya sendiri adalah tulisan yang tidak ‘akan berdiri sebagai peristiwa yang mandiri’. kita perlu memperhitungkan ‘fakta-fakta’ di luar ‘esei’ ini.

membaca esei ini saya jadi sadar, damhuri memang hidup di masa ‘pasca-65’ tapi mungkin bukan tahun 2009. begitu takutnya dia dengan ‘stigma PKI’ sehingga dia susah2 mencoba membuktikan bahwa tulisan2 martin aleida ‘tidak perlu dicurigai mengusung tendensi tertentu.’ bahkan dia bilang ‘tendensi tertentu’! apakah orde baru masih berkuasa? kenapa damhuri tidak bilang saja PKI/marxisme/komunisme etc.?

kelihatannya yg dimaksud damhuri dengan ‘pasca-65’ adalah tahun 1980-an, setelah film pengkhiatan g30s/pki dirilis dan kata ‘PKI’, ‘marxisme’, ‘komunisme’, etc. menjadi sama mengerikannya dengan ‘Sundel Bolong’, ‘Nyi Roro Kidul’, ‘Bayi Ajaib’.

sementara martin aleida sudah lama ‘boldly gone where no mas has gone before’ dan justru ingin kepro-PKI-annya terlihat jelas di seluruh cerita2nya. martin menyebut tulisan2nya sebagai ‘sastra kesaksian’, klaim yang diakui oleh damhuri dalam ‘esei’ ini dengan menyebut martin sebagai ‘penggerak sastra kesaksian’ !

namun dalam eseinya damhuri melawan argumen katrin bandel dalam kata penutup kumcer martin terakhir, ‘mati baik-baik, kawan’, bahwa ‘tampak jelas martin bukan sekadar ingin menceritakan peristiwa 65 dari perspektif yang berbeda, ia juga punya misi untuk melawan pemalsuan sejarah.’ menurut damhuri, argumen katrin ini adalah ‘cara menimbang yang agak berlebihan dalam konteks pembacaan teks sastra.’

perlawanan ini sama sekali tidak menghiraukan bertumpuk2 bukti dalam kumcer ini maupun dalam cerita2 martin yang lain bahwa martin memang punya misi yang disebutkan katrin tadi. sekedar contoh, dalam cerpen ‘malam kelabu’, disebutkan nama desa soroyudan, mojo dan laban, ketiga2nya basis PKI di tepi bengawan solo. saya sempat berpikir bahwa nama2 desa ini adalah nama samaran. ibu saya berasal dari bekonang, kecamatan mojolaban, di seberang bengawan solo kalau dari arah kota solo (juga tempat asal arswendo asmowiloto dan jujuk srimulat). saya pikir desa mojo dan desa laban yang disebutkan martin dalam cerpennya adalah nama samaran untuk satu desa ‘mojolaban’, tapi setelah saya cek dengan ibu saya, desa mojo dan desa laban memang dua2nya ada, dan dua2nya basis PKI.

jadi bahkan martin pun berusaha melawan propaganda geografis orba, melawan pemalsuan sejarah yang di masa orba sering mengambil bentuk pemalsuan atau penyamaran nama tempat yang menjadi latar cerita tentang PKI dan orang2nya. (coba ingat-ingat, di manakah sebenarnya dukuh paruk?)

dalam eseinya, damhuri memakai pendekatan yang sangat sempit untuk membaca cerpen-cerpen martin, memvonisnya dari awal sebagai (sekedar) ‘romantika’, dan segan mempertimbangkan kemungkinan-kemungkinan selain itu. sayangnya hal ini sering sekali terjadi. banyak penikmat maupun kritikus sastra indonesia yang sepertinya lebih nyaman menempatkan sastra sebagai sesuatu yang oh so suci dan tidak sepantasnya dikotori dengan hal-hal yang tidak sastrawi macam sejarah, apalagi politik (apalagi tendensi tertentu). jika anda menghadiri diskusi buku martin yang dibahas ini di pds hb jassin beberapa bulan yang lalu, anda akan bisa menyaksikan kecenderungan ini secara langsung.

salah satu kemungkinan yang seharusnya bisa dipertimbangkan damhuri adalah membaca karya sastra sebagai ‘historical documents’, seperti yang dilakukan salah satunya oleh robert darnton dalam buku klasiknya, ‘the great cat massacre’. satu lagi kemungkinan adalah memakai pendekatan new historicism, atau versi abal2nya di sini, ‘sastra kontekstual’. namun ironisnya, esei yang dimuat di kolom ‘sastra’ kompas minggu dan memakai gaya pseudo-akademis ini (termasuk memakai catatan kaki, eg, ‘terj. Akhadiati Ikram, 1991’) justru malah menunjukkan tendensi (pun intended) alergi kepada pendekatan-pendekatan akademis.

jadinya, esei ini seperti menderita split personality: di satu pihak nadanya santun dan berhati-hati, namun di lain pihak isinya menghakimi dengan sepenuh hati kalau tidak bisa dikatakan agresif. hal ini menghasilkan ironi-ironi lain yang sepertinya tidak sepenuhnya disengaja, seperti mengutip asvi warman adam—sejarawan kiri indonesia yang sering menulis tentang kekerasan ’65—yang mengatakan bahwa cerpen2 martin aleida adalah ‘upaya mengejek dan menertawakan nasib orang2 yang tergetahi stigma PKI… [yang] peruntungan mereka lebih ditentukan oleh stigma PKI itu’, tapi kemudian hampir dalam nafas yang sama bilang bahwa nasib kamaluddin—protagonis cerpen martin ‘malam kelabu’ di buku ‘mati baik-baik, kawan’ yang bunuh diri di tepi bengawan solo begitu tahu pacarnya partini dibunuh oleh massa karena bapaknya adalah pemimpin Barisan Tani Indonesia cabang Soroyudan—’dipastikan tak ada hubungannya dengan peristiwa2 berdarah pasca-65′.

di dalam cerpen itu, martin menceritakan dengan gamblang bahwa kamaluddin bunuh diri karena patah hati (‘romantika’-nya di sinikah?) pacarnya partini dibunuh massa karena dituduh PKI seperti bapaknya. klaim damhuri bahwa bunuh diri kamaluddin ‘tak ada hubungannya dengan peristiwa2 berdarah pasca-65’ jadi susah diterima karena ia tidak memberikan alasan yang lebih kuat selain klaimnya sebelumnya bahwa semua cerpen martin dalam kumcer ini memang ‘romantika’ semata. klaim yang dibuktikan dengan klaim.

contoh lain pembuktian klaim dengan klaim ini adalah waktu damhuri kemudian mengutip apa yang terjadi pada dewangga dan abdullah ‘dua sejoli sehidup-semati’ dalam novel martin ‘leontin dewangga’. damhuri mengatakan bahwa ‘tabu setangguh apa pun, tiada bakal berkutik di hadapan cinta sejati.’ ini setelah menceritakan kembali bagaimana abdullah adalah ‘mantan tapol yang dimusuhi banyak orang dan hidup menggelandang demi menghindari kejaran’ dan bahwa dewangga ‘juga pernah ditahan’ dan baru ‘bebas setelah merelakan tubuhnya ditiduri oleh seorang komandan militer.’ damhuri seperti mengajak pembaca untuk menghiraukan saja klaim-klaim ala ‘sastra kesaksian’ martin dalam cerpen-cerpennya. lebih baik mempercayai klaimnya sendiri bahwa semua itu hanya bagian dari kecenderungan ‘romantika pasca-65’.

damhuri sepertinya ingin membaca cerpen dan novel martin sebagai ‘romantika pasca-65’ di mana kekerasan politik macam apapun ‘tiada bakal berkutik di hadapan cinta sejati’.

walaupun para pemilik cinta sejati itu semuanya mati tersiksa dalam penderitaan.

happily dead ever after.

semacam gabungan antara mills & boon dan american psycho.

memodifikasi sedikit kata katrin dalam kata penutupnya tadi menjadi sebuah pertanyaan retorik, seorang pengarang kritis, apalagi kritikus, di tahun 2009 pasca-65 ini seharusnya tidak lagi bertanya, mengapa cerpen2 martin aleida dicurigai mengusung komunisme/marxisme/PKI-isme/BTI-isme (ie, ‘tendensi tertentu’) tapi apa rupanya yang salah dengan itu? with that out of the way, mungkin damhuri justru akan bisa lebih fokus mencari bukti tekstual yang lebih dari sekadar klaim untuk membuktikan bahwa yang ditulis martin sebenarnya adalah romantika, bukan sastra kesaksian.

express yourself, water babe

I entertain the thought of not being able to see my water babe grow big enough to swim across the arctic waters

So does my wife

In her ladybug bikini

How will the red of the ladybugs’ wings run in the cold black water ?

I say, thank you Clovique, for fast-forwarding my life to a grassless hill in Karawang

A modest river in the non-existent trees

Flowing slowly

What will you do to remember your mother and father, child ?

Your mother’s slumped doll head fast asleep feeding you through a cracked teat ?

Her backbreaking determination to express herself in the middle of the night

Her tireless understanding of a husband dozing off to dreams of MadAss Kymco Trend Spartan

I can’t expect you to remember things you don’t yet understand, child

But be good to your mother

She of the Casper-arms and eyes

I will pray in my own secular way so she can witness you bloom into an angel with the widest wing-span in the adult universe

So she can guide you through your first trip across all the points in all possible and impossible universes

You owe her, child, your life

You don’t owe me anything

(Except a kiss on my cold cheek when I’m dead. I’ve always wanted to know if the dead can still feel things they desperately want to.)

Tante Sophie

around the same time i decided to publish The Book, i bought a new vespa too. and by ‘bought a new vespa’ i meant buying a vespa that is new. 2007 issue. but the newness is not the point. what is the point. off all this shit. the shit is the relationship i had with this city, capital city of oompapa. i’ve always caught taxis, and other forms of public transport all my life. taxi is not public transport you stupid ass. i’ve never got my feet on the ground. my heels are shiny and spotless, like my new azzurro sky lx150 with red italian leather seats (treated with natural wax) and red aluminium handgrips (in my dreams). but now i’m ready. as never. a wife-in-training for a pillion. a zen still space between a waste disposal truck and a mayasari bakti. P06. get into it. and out as quick. The Book is a sort of Honda Astrea ‘86 in a gallery of New Mios. a couple of Royal Thai Finos thrown in. it’s a 2-stroke wonder aberration in a world dominated by 4-stroke killing machines. head-check! left. right. crash into yr afterlife. death. that’s what im prepared for. preparing for. death by slow whirring of National Library of Australia-approved air-conditioner-cooled air, leaning at 35 degrees on Maïakovskii’s magnum opus (whichever one that is), untouched by human hand since its mechanical appropriation by a nit-picking buyer from the Australia Indonesia Institute.

quit whinging.

QUIT WHINGING as the new QUIT SMOKING.

you’ve had quite a nice life. unlived that’s true. but on Tante Sophie* anything, even the examination of an unexamined life is possible. so said not socrates.

drifters are not cool. easy, vespinoy.

*Tante Sophie Hortense Cecile Doblijn, née De Pauly, the full unexpurgated name of my standard azzurro sky LX150 with factory-issue leatherette blue seat, also the name of the sullen matriarch in Breton de Nijs’s Vergeelde portretter: Uit een Indisch familie album.

After Lunch

After Po Chü-i

After eating lunch, I feel so 3.0.
Waking later, I sip two Ventis of green tea frappuccino,

then notice the Sarinah building aslant, the sun
already low behind Tenabang again.

Joyful people resent Twitterless days.
Sad ones can’t bear the slow connection at their offices.

It’s those with no joy and no Gizmodo—
they trust whatever Palm Pre brings.

kritisisme anyar

dialog sing asale soko blog favoritku iki (tulisan nang ngisor iki luwih iso dinikmati nang kono):

anggoro gunawan:

ing basa jawa, tembung kriya (kata kerja) iku ora kaya basa inggris sing nduwèni wektu. tembung turu, mbok saiki, wingi, sesuk, utawa kapan waè tetep “turu.” beda karo sleep, slept, sleep. wong jawa mataraman sing akrab karo unggah-ungguh basa, mbédaake tembung “turu”, “bobok”, “tilem”, lan “saré.” prakarané ya mung trap-trapan sing magepokan karo level. ukara gampangé, “sapa sira sapa ingsun.”

ing basa indonesia luwih prasaja maneh: “tidur.” tembung iki wis cukup bisa digunaaké kanggo kapan waé lan sapa waé. apa banjur basa iki sing paling apik amarga égalitèr? jaréné, basa nudhuhake bangsa. wong melayu (asliné basa indonesia) mbok menawa pancen égalitèr. wong-wong iku seneng ngulandara menyang ngendi-ngendi lan kondhang ing jagad pelayaran. mula ora anèh yen tembung-tembung sing magepokan karo segara akeh tinemu ing basa melayu: nakhkoda, galangan, lan buritan. aku ora ngerti tembung-tembung iki yen disalin menyang basa jawa. basa jawa luwih akrab karo ndonya tetanèn. seka wit klapa wae bisa diwedar akèh tembung. godhongé sing enom sinebut janur,sing tuwa dijenengi blarak, klapa sing isih cilik banget jenengé bluluk, rada gedhé diarani cengkir, lan kayuné disebut glugu.

basa inggris pancen luwih premana yen prakara kala (wektu), nanging ora premana ing detil cilik-cilik ngene iki. barang orang rinonce lan kapilah dadi perangan kang luwih cilik maneh. basa inggris, rumangsaku, luwih tepak kanggo sinau, ora kanggo pangrasa. basa inggris luwih ngandhelaké logika. tembung beauty/beautiful lan pretty bisa kanggo lanang-wadon, bisa uga kanggo kahanan kang éndah. coba panjenengan bandhingaké karo basa indonesia sing ana tampan, cantik, permai, elok, bagus lan indah. ing basa jawa, tembung iki bisa dadi gantheng, ayu, éndah, bagus, sulistya, lan cèkli.

sugih tembung iki magepokan karo budhaya liya sing mlebu. basa inggris klebu egois tumrap tembung-tembung seka basa liya, dadiné dadi kurang akèh tembung. déné basa indonesia akèh nyerep basa-basa liya (lokal, inggris, walanda, portugis, sanskrta, arab). basa jawa akèh njupuk tembung seka sanskrta, indonesia, walanda, lan arab.

mbiyèn aku sok maca cerkak (cerpen) basa jawa sing dijupuk seka sastrawan-sastrawan ndonya ing kalawarti (majalah) panjebar semangat. ing kono, paraga-paragané dadi katon béda. ana unggah-ungguh sing banjur katon lucu, nanging rumangsaku dadi nduwé daya linuwih. kaya déné nalika mikael nyoba njarwa tulisan jawaku iki dadi basa inggris. aku kaya nemoni yèn kuwi dadi tulisan sing naté tak tulis. tulisan kuwi dadi nduwé kaluwihan kanthi pangrasa kang béda, pangrasa basa inggris.

aku dadi kepikiran nyoba salin basa kangthi gagrag (versi) manéka warna. asliné dijupuk seka crita mahabharata, yajña sarpa. gagrag basa inggris siji waé, aku durung wasis lan durung mesthi bener.

hana sira ratu sang parîksit ngaran ira, anak sang abhimanyu patêmu-tangan lâwan sang uttarî pinakaçisya bhagawân krsna, paripûrna ring bahuweda.

(kawi)

ana ratu jenengé sang parikesit, anak sang abimanyu seka dhedhaupané karo sang utari, dadi murid begawan kresna, sampurna ing ngèlmu.
(jawa gagrag 1)

wonten raja kanthi aran sang parikesit, putra sang abimanyu saking dhedhaupanipun kaliyan sang utari, dados siswanipun begawan kresna, angrungkebi sadaya wéda.
(jawa gagrag 2)

ana raja jejuluk sang parikesit, putrané abimanyu lan utari, dadi siswané begawan kresna, sing nguwasani kanthi becik kabéh ngèlmu.
(jawa gagrag 3)

adalah raja yang bernama sang parikesit, putra sang abimanyu hasil perkawinanya dengan sang utari, menjadi murid begawan kresna, sempurna dalam banyak ilmu.
(basa indonesia gagrag 1)

ada raja bernama parikesit, anak abimanyu dan utari, berguru pada begawan kresna, menguasai banyak ilmu dengan baik.
(basa indonesia gagrag 2)

there was a king named parikesit, son of sang abimanyu and sang utari, student of begawan kresna, perfect in knowledge.
(basa inggris)

mekitron:

bar maca postingmu.

dadi kelingan geguritan iki:

The Crimson Cyclamen

(To the Memory of Charles Demuth)

White suffused with red
more rose than crimson
—all acolor
the petals flare back
from the stooping craters
of those flowers
as from a wind rising—
And though the light
that enfolds and pierces
them discovers blues
and yellows there also—
and crimson’s a dull word
beside such play—
yet the effect against
this winter where
they stand—is crimson—

It is miraculous
that flower should rise
by flower alike in loveliness—
as though mirrors
of some perfection
could never be
too often shown—
silence holds them—
in that space. And
color has been construed
from emptiness
to waken there—

But the form came gradually,
The plant was there
before the flowers
as always—the leaves,
day by day changing. In
September when the first
pink pointed bud still
bowed below, all the leaves
heart-shaped
were already spread—
quirked and green
and stenciled with a paler
green
irregularly
across and round the edge—

Upon each leaf it is
a pattern more
of logic than a purpose
links each part to the rest,
an abstraction
playfully following
centripetal
devices, as of pure thought—
the edge tying by
convergent, crazy rays
with the center—
where that dips
cupping down to the
upright stem—the source
that has splayed out
fanwise and returns
upon itself in the design
thus decoratively—

Such are the leaves
freakish, of the air
as thought is, of roots
dark, complex from
subterranean revolutions
and rank odors
waiting for the moon—
The young leaves
coming among the rest
are more crisp
and deeply cupped
the edges rising first
impatient of the slower
stem—the older
level, the oldest
with the edge already
fallen a little backward—
the stem alone
holding the form
stiffly a while longer—

Under the leaf, the same
though the smooth green
is gone. Now the ribbed
design—if not
the purpose, is explained.
The stem’s pink flanges,
strongly marked,
stand to the frail edge,
dividing, thinning
through the pink and downy
mesh—as the round stem
is pink also—cranking
to penciled lines
angularly deft
through all, to link together
the unnicked argument
to the last crinkled edge—
where the under and the over
meet and disappear
and the air alone begins
to go from them—
the conclusion left still
blunt, floating
if warped and quaintly flecked
whitened and streaked
resting
upon the tie of the stem—

But half hidden under them
such as they are
it begins that must
put thought to rest—

wakes in tinted beaks
still raising the head
and passion
is loosed—

its small lusts
addressed still to
the knees and to sleep—
abandoning argument

lifts
through the leaves
day by day
and one day opens!

The petals
the petals undone
loosen all five and
swing up

The flower
flows to release—

Fast within a ring
where the compact
agencies
of conception

lie mathematically
ranged
round the half-like sting—

From such a pit
the colour flows
over
a purple rim

upward to
the light! the light!
all around—
Five petals

as one
to flare, inverted
a full flower
each petal tortured

eccentrically
the while, warped edge
jostling
half-turned edge

side by side
until compact, tense
evenly stained
to the last fine edge

an ecstasy
from the empurpled ring
climbs up (though
firm there still)

each petal
by excess of tensions
in its own flesh
all rose- –

rose red
standing until it
bends backward
upon the rest, above,

answering
ecstasy with excess
all together
acrobatically

not as if bound
(though still bound)
but upright
as if they hung

from above
to the streams
with which
they are veined and glow –
the frail fruit
by its frailty supreme

opening in the tense moment
to no >bean
no completion
no root
no leaf and no stem
but color only and a form –

It is passion
earlier and later than thought
that rises above thought
at instant peril – peril
itself a flower
that lifts and draws it on –

Frailer than level thought
more convolute
rose red
highest
the soonest to wither
blacken
and fall upon itself
formless –

And the flowers
grow older and begin
to change, larger now
less tense, when at the full
relaxing, widening
the petals falling down
the color paling
through violaceous to
tinted white –

The structure of the petal
that was all red
beginning now to show
from a deep central vein
other finely scratched veins
dwindling to that edge
through which the light
more and more shows
fading through gradations
immeasurable to the eye –

The day rises and swifter
briefer
more frailly relaxed
than thought that still
holds good – the color
draws back while still
the flower grows
the rose of it nearly all lost
a darkness of dawning purple
paints a deeper afternoon –

The day passes
in a horizon of colors
all meeting
less severe in loneliness
the petals fallen now well back
till flower touched flower
all round
at the petal tips
merging into one flower

(puisi anggitane william carlos williams)

dadi (kowe ya mesti wis mbethek ta) kabeh tembung sing pancen bagian-bagian anatomi kembang tak keliri abang, tembung sing ra ana hubungane karo kembang tapi dijilih nggo nggambarake kembang iki kelire biru, lan tembung sing isih ana hubungane karo kembang utawa taneman tapi dudu bagian dari kembang iki tapi ya dijilih nggo nggambarake kembang mau kelire ijo.

tembung sing abang ana pitu, cyclamen, rose, petal/s, flower/s, leaf/ves. bud, stem, sing ijo ana telu, fruit, bean, root, lan sing biru ana rolas, edge/s, flanges, mesh, tie, beaks, head, ring, ring, sting, rim, flesh, vein/s/ed, tip.

lha karena geguritan iki sakjane ya mung tentang kembang siji thil (‘one flower’ neng baris terakhir) statistik neng dhuwur kuwi ketoke mendukung argumen neng postingmu nek basa inggris ‘ora premana ing detil cilik-cilik’. ming pitung tembung sing asli tentang kembang, siji jenenge sik sakjane ya latin, cyclamen, lan siji, rose, sakjane ya malah dudu bagian kembang kuwi tapi malah jeneng kembang liya sing digunakake nggo nggambarake abange kembang kuwi kaya piye. sakmentara tembung sing dijilih sangka njaba anatomine kembang yen sing biru ditambah karo sing ijo totale ana limolas. luwih saka dobel. malah nek rose karo cyclamen ra dianggep dadi tiga kali lipat. iki ketoke ya mendukung argumen beauty/beautiful/pretty-mu.

silih-menyilih ing basa inggris iki apa malah nggawe uwong2e dadi luwih kerep lan biasa mikir nganggo metafor, simile, lan sakpiturute?

kadang2 yen aku nerjemahke saka basa indonesia neng basa inggris ana tembung sing neng bahasa indonesiane wis jelas tapi nek tak basa inggriske secara harfiah, tembung per tembung, hasile basa inggris-e dadi krasa kurang kongkrit. contone iki:

menjelang petang
kuda-kuda pulang tanpa sais
keretanya koyak

(saka geguritane ida ayu oka suwati sideman – penyair favoritku saiki – judule duarawati, bisa diundhuh ing penyairbali.blogspot.com)

yen ‘koyak’ tak terjemahke dadi ‘all beaten up’ utawa nganggo kata sifat lain gambar sing ketok jelas neng tembung ‘koyak’ kuwi dadi ilang. terus piye? pertama tak pikir isa wae sak kalimat kuwi dadi misale kaya ngene ‘riderless horses drag chariots like carcasses’ (simile! nyilih tembung!), utawa, akhire (sing tak unggah ing blogku translationsof.blogspot.com) ‘horses are troting home, riderless / a spear in the back of a chariot’ (‘koyak’, kata sifat iki, tak ganti nganggo gambar (koyak-e mungkin kaya ngana kuwi, ketoke).

ngene iki rada sering terjadi. dadine rasane memang kaya sik mbok omongke ning postingmu kuwi. tembung2 basa indonesia (lan jawa) krasane luwih spesifik, utawa gambare wis kaya built-in (misale sepatu koyak, koyak-e ya sakjane padha wae karo koyak-e kereta mau, tapi yen tembung inggris ketoke (terutama kata sifat mungkin) gambare tergantung konteks utawa memang ra jelas (makane kelas2 creative writing, hemingway, stephen king, pada nganjurke aja kakehan nganggo kata sifat ta?)

tapi ya mungkin juga sakjane diksi basa inggrisku sakjane ya cekak. hahahahaha. utawa basa jawa lan indonesia tetep basa ibuku sehingga aku isa ngrasakke segala macam arti ‘koyak’ mau sementara tembung inggris-e tetep krasa ‘dingin’, isa dimengerti tapi ra pati isa dirasakke?

dadi tak pikir nerjemahke, apa meneh nerjemahke geguritan, sing penting ya nerjemahka gambar karo rasa/roso kuwi mau. tembung dadi nomer loro. apa malah telu? misale terjemahan2 ing postingmu kuwi dhewe, kenapa parikesit kadang2 anak abimanyu dan utari dan kadang2 anak hasil perkawinan abimanyu dan utari? kurasa kuwi mesti soale ya kuwi, kadang2 roso bahasa target-e (bahasa sik dinggo nerjemahke) mendikte kudu ngganggo ‘hasil perkawinan’ atau kadang2 ora. apa ana alasan liya?

conto meneh sing rada terkenal:

‘We were young. We have died.’ (Archibald McLeish, ‘The Young Dead Soldiers’)

‘Kami mati muda. Jang tinggal tulang diliputi debu.’ (Chairil Anwar, ‘Krawang-Bekasi’)

Lha iki malah Chairil-e sing mengkongkritkan gambare (kuwalikane kisahku karo IAO Suwati Sideman mau). Ya iki sih nek menurutku alasane simpel, Chairil penyair sing luwih apik tinimbang McLeish. Tapi ya kuwi mau, akhire sik diterjemahke (‘disadur’) Chairil adalah gambar lan rasane.

Dadi menurutku ‘pangrasa’ sik mbok omongke neng postingmu kuwi ora mung tergantung karo tembung lan bahasane, tapi uga sangat tergantung karo ‘pangrasa’ penerjemahe.