หนังสือบุหลันวรรณกรรม

“She’s the only one who knows who the father of the
foetus curled up inside her womb is,” my uncle said. “She’s the only
one who can find the guy and ask him to marry her.”
But the worm - the name they gave my mother - seemed
to be insensitive to her parents’ worry. With her sleepy look, she always
seemed not to care. “In ancient times there was also a woman who
gave birth without a husband and her baby grew to become a
prophet,” she said.
“Prophet my ass,” Bob said. “In ancient times an angel came
to her. Who came to you?”
“A man. Maybe an angel too,” she answered. “Who knows?”
My uncle, with a vague memory of the religion classes he
ever had at school, apparently was happy to hear such an answer. One
day, with his head full of alcohol, he told the people who came to
party at that drinking place that his sister was left with a seed by an
angel who had sneaked into her bedroom through the house ridge.
“That’s why the worm got pregnant despite no husband,” he said. “Her
child will become a prophet one day.”
Bob was never as happy as my uncle. As the days went by,
the worm’s belly became larger, although her body stayed thin and
she didn’t show any interest in finding a husband. Bob grew more
hysterical with her - possibly desperate. Actually, he wanted my
mother to become a dancer. He had once dated a ballet dancer, a
woman as tall as a pole who was able to stand on one toe for a long
time. I thought it was weird for a man who had been crouching in a
southern Semarang corner, near a Chinese graveyard, to have a ballet
dancer as his girlfriend. I don’t know where they met and how a
ballet dancer could fall in love with a hillbilly. Bob’s dream to have

บุหลันวรรณกรรม 569

my mother become a ballet dancer was never approved of by Leli
because it reminded her of the woman who was once Bob’s girlfriend.
“She’d better become an employee in a bank,” Leli said.
“That would be good too,” Bob said.
“She must become an employee in a bank!” Leli affirmed.
“I didn’t disagree, did I?” Bob said. “I just said…”
“So why did you secretly buy her ballet shoes?”
“She asked for them herself.”
“Not all requests should be granted.”
“If she becomes a ballet dancer she’ll go abroad often. But
an employee in a bank is also good…”
It was a debate of a long time ago, when the worm was still
a teenager.
Now thirty years old and carrying a baby inside her womb,
my mother could no longer become anything, neither employee in a
bank nor ballet dancer. Maybe she could still become a ballet dancer
after her baby was born, but she would have to take care of her body.
Usually the body of a woman who has given birth would stretch and
a woman with that kind of body would find it difficult to become a
ballet dancer. It wouldn’t be easy to stand on one toe with a fleshy body.
Two or three months before I was born, I watched as Bob’s
condition became more and more heart-rending. There was a
neighbour who once said that my mother’s pregnancy was a curse that
Bob and Leli must accept since they liked to pray in sacred places.
Bob never heard it himself; he almost stopped going out two or three
months before I was born. My grandfather just crouched inside his
room, like a hermit who buries himself in a cave waiting for a
miracle. Leli still went out; she went to the market every morning and
sometimes had to go to a grocery to buy her husband cigarettes.

570 Bulan Sastra

After nine months and ten days of gestation, I was born in
the bathroom. Look, I was born in due time despite no father
waiting on me. My mother wanted to take a leak, she went into the
bathroom and I was born before she could close the door.
The neighbours came to visit me. I saw spiteful faces looking at my
pretty face. Maybe they had wished to watch something appalling on
my birth day; I think they would have liked it more had I been born
a turtle or a squirrel. It would have made them more persistent in
gossiping about my family’s sin. Actually I wanted to say to them,
“You don’t have to be spiteful,” but I could restrain myself. I didn’t
want to emulate what had been done by other babies in ancient times.
My uncle really loved me. He always told the people at the
drinking place how beautiful I was. “Yesterday, after you all went
back home, I heard her speak to her mother,” he said. He told them
something I never did. I guess he did it out of his excessive pride over me.
Among the folks at home, Bob made me feel the saddest.
My grandfather kept confined in the bedroom. He only came out when
I was one month old, and came to me with the face of a hermit who
has just had a revelation. He was seeing my face for the first time,
and there and then he lifted me out of my mother’s arms and took me
to the backyard. Right there, when there were only the two of us, he
whispered to me the revelation he had just received. I wanted to
answer, please go ahead, but I didn’t say so. You know, I didn’t like
to imitate what was done by people in ancient times. That’s why
I remained silent and watched him.
At night, when my mother and I were sleeping side by side,
Bob entered our room and lifted me carefully. He took me to the
backyard and laid me down on the ground, then slit my throat with
the knife he had brought - the grandchild he had been longing for for

บหุ ลันวรรณกรรม 571

years. But I died that night because he was no prophet and thus no
angel came down to the backyard to trade my body with a lamb or a
rabbit or any other animal. My spirit went to heaven with one wish:
to tell this story to you.
You know, my thuggish uncle became more violent and
abusive after my death, and he himself died six months later at the
hands of a mysterious soldier who worked at night. My mother died
six years ago but in truth she had died seven years before, on the day
of my death. My grandfather crouched behind bars for several days
after his knife slit my throat. The police took him away and the court
sentenced him to life. I was sad for the punishment he must go through
but I can’t blame the police who arrested him and the judge who
sentenced him. Unlike me, they didn’t understand that what my
grandfather had done was simply acting on a revelation.
My grandmother, the toughest person in our family, kept her
wish to have a grandchild. Like a traitor who carries a curse, she still
keeps visiting sacred places and shamans, and she does so alone
because my grandfather cannot go with her. My aunt has been married
for twenty-three years, she has never been pregnant and now she is
forty-nine. Her husband, the insurance man, is already sixty-three.
When he married my aunt, he was forty years old. That’s why he was
always calm and looked old when courting her. My grandmother was
never broken, whatever her daughter and son-in-law said. “My
mother was fifty-four when she gave birth to my brother and my
father was sixty-five,” my grandmother said. That’s why, with the
hope that one day her daughter might get pregnant, she keeps doing
things that bore her.

572 Bulan Sastra

I’m telling this story because in recent years people have
been thinking that she is crazy. You know, she’s very sane; she just
has to do what has to be done for the sake of something she is
longing for. I think her perseverance should even be imitated. So, to
be able to tell this story, last Friday night I possessed someone’s body
to write it. You may think that this story was written by AS Laksana.
Actually, no. He hasn’t been writing for a long time and I don’t think
he was having any idea about what to write. I borrowed his fingers
and used his name so as to deliver this story to you. My name is
Gloria - a name I chose myself since my mother hadn’t had the chance
to give me one. Now I’m thirteen, a sad beautiful teenager growing
in my place. I hope my mother and my uncle read this too. We have
never met, even after they both died.

Thai Poems

He’s Buddhist, I’m a Muslim

Prach Andaman
Translated by Ora-Ong Chakorn

1.
Hearing him chant Araham samma*
While I chant Dua** downstairs
In the bedroom during our trip
He and I see our differences
He’s Buddhist, I’m a Muslim
Yet our hearts are full of merry smiles and dreams
Though through different paths in time
We’ve seen a miracle on the way
I’m heading for Yala***
While for so long he’d been travelling
Before I invited him
To go and face the reality together

1 Part of  the Buddhist prayer Ratanattaya Vandana  (Salutation to the Triple Gem)
“http://www.thailandqa.com/forum/showthread.php?32134-Chanting-Pali-Thai-
English-and-translation”
2 ‫دعاء‬ Du’a or Dua (as is commonly written): a prayer of asking or request. It is an
Arabic word meaning ‘to call out’ or ‘to summon’. It is regarded as the second greatest
act of worship in Islam. 
“http://9dozen.wordpress.com/2008/11/30/dua-dua-worship-of-allah/”
3 A southern province in Thailand

บุหลนั วรรณกรรม 575

2. 
We share some thoughts
Some of our goals in life are alike
On some similar routes we’ve sheltered
Discovering mutual moving stillness and common sense
He’s Buddhist, I’m a Muslim
No conflicts, no backstabbing, no divergence
No boundaries can hinder
Or undo the bonding between our hearts
3. 
The world outside is full of fences
Hatred overturns the good old order
Draws lines beyond expectation
Hinders the childhood dreams of one and all
Close friends become estranged
Relationships are shaken by crazy storms
Suspicion is in the air
Feeding the everlasting fire of hatred
4. 
We may argue just for argument’s sake
But never raise issues beyond our grasp
Our philosophical ways are mutually heard
Through such earnest exchanges we become close
He’s Buddhist, I’m a Muslim
We travel on the verge of instability
The world outside, pig-headed, plays with fire

576 Bulan Sastra

Differences are made into tools for destruction
Fire is ready to engulf the world
Each flame is to separate us through our differences
Pushing our friendship off the route
Drawing a line between our hearts – building fences

Doraemon, the drowned cat

Kornkue
Translated by Ora-Ong Chakorn

1.
Sobbing is heard in the night time
Sadness mixes with a trembling heart
Oh, how the world is still mourning
Gravity turns into punishment
The flow is low: the water is gone
Leaving stain lines behind
This overwhelms someone’s weakened heart
Making him surrender to the facts of life
2.
The yearning cries for Doraemon*
Comes from a sleepless child who rolls on the floor
And won’t listen to reason
As a little girl, she has her needs
A birthday gift from mum
On nights when drunken dad doesn’t come home
This Doraemon is a lasting true friend

1The fictional cat robot from a world-famous comic from Japan
578 Bulan Sastra

A fairy-tale bedtime buddy before her eyes are closed
A travelling partner whose company is always needed
Doraemon is like her limbs on each journey
Though it is just a doll
Her heart values it more than she values herself
3. 
A big wave swept through the house
With mum at work and she at school
Everything downstairs was left unmoved
And eventually drowned under such strong current
Beyond the flood was her sad thought
Dearest Doraemon was under attack
She cried over this sudden change
Restlessly even when the flood was gone
Doraemon, soaked and stinking
Was indifferent to this bitter world
She was the crazy one who couldn’t let go
Whose world was shattered? God knows!
4. 
The sobbing in the night is now over
Soothing words have sent her to sleep
A sleep that will last all night
Whose eyes are these, still gazing through the dark?
In his embrace lies his precious, sound asleep
Whose utmost dream is fixated on
“A new Doraemon,” he repeats
Tomorrow night payday

The sweet scent of Mother’s love

Korn Siriwatthano
Translated by Ora-Ong Chakorn

Mother gave birth to me under the sky
With all her tender loving care
My first cry on the day I was born
Brought her a smile amidst her tears
 
My naval string was tied and sent to her
To hold as I was her long-awaited darling
Though Mother had to stay by the fire1
She still took breaks to breastfeed me, shaking all over
 
Happily fed, I lay in her embrace
Her timeless love omnipresent
She cuddled me, stroked me, kissed me
From head to toe ever so fondly
 

1A mother who has just given birth is, in Thai tradition, confined in a room where a fire
is kept and some herbs are burnt; the heat and the aromatic smoke are thought to help
her recover quickly.
580 Bulan Sastra

I held her tight, bit her breast, made her wince
But she never got angry, not even a bit
Whenever I was in pain
She cried with me in great sorrow
Mother could starve for me to smile replete
On her shoulder she let me sleep
She could endure the cold for me to be warm
All sufferings she could bear for my well-being
 
Mother has taught me in all walks of life
She gave meaning to everything
From toddler I could gladly sit and walk
Mother has taught me to always be a man
 
With her I have learnt to dream
To deal with and get through crises
To fight my way into the world
In an oddly graceful way
Mother has taught me to know real love
To have a greater mind than that of animals
To love people and make donations
To live up to the legacy of Thainess
 
Mother also pointed the path of the North Star
To inspire me with goodwill
To nurture mercy in my mind
To overcome all temptations
 

บุหลันวรรณกรรม 581

To be frugal and tempered
To know the meaning of enough
To live a cautious, well-thought-out life
To achieve goals with no wrong turn
 
I, therefore, am who I am now
Still living the life Mother instructed
My goodness and happiness are to her credit
To the most profound love a mother weaves
 
I think of her every day, not just on Mother’s Day
Her fragrant love is always in bloom
I just cannot get enough of it
Old now I still wish to take her love to the grave

Only regrets?

Kangwanprai Nam
Translated by Ora-Ong Chakorn

1.
A sign in the temple is pinned with an old nail
To an old tree branch in the wind
Many trees have fought, won and lost
This one is still swaying, though leafless
 
Like words of wisdom written and pinned
Hoping someone would care
After reading with attention
Or merely glancing through the lines while the eye rests
 
Those rhymed words show no sense of prosody
And their etching lacks style
The letters are fading away, but with faith
Those words are priceless to the mind
 

บุหลนั วรรณกรรม 583

Peaceful in the morning light, lonely in the late sunshine
Sacred at noon, then in the afternoon sun
The warm sayings on the sign fade away
The world of virtue falls asleep on its own
2. 
Those beautiful things are to be forgotten
Absorbed in the stream with strong current
Of the new world, people leave the past to dry
Carried away in the maze, alone and unknown
 
Living in haste and stress
Competing day and night, even while asleep
Disoriented, time is enough for anxiety
Trying to find a way out, only in vain
 
The hanging sign of wisdom swaying in the wind
With the same rhythm as some temple bell
Sends out invitations for calmness like dust
To the stubborn mind full of ruthlessness
So neither peace nor path to happiness can be found
Only suffering whose straightjacket leads to decay
Oh, poor heart in the lonely world – so wrecked
No single word could be spelled in writing

584 Bulan Sastra

3.
A recent visit to the temple for peace of mind
Though not in hope of a full meditative state
Many times this escape lasted all day
To my surprise the sign of wisdom is gone
 
(The sign of wisdom swaying in the wind
The old nail called it quits and fell
Virtue then plunged to the ground, hope vanished
Ending the dream of a moral society)
 

The Rohingya1: the face of humanity

Wanrawee Rungsaeng
Translated by Ora-Ong Chakorn

An old boat ... wreckage of dreams ... a human tribe
Never stopping in the sea of hope
With land on fire, blood in every home
The sea still has some light of hope on the horizon
 
No chance to bury oneself in any land
Every route shut down
Life or death a matter of fate
The Rohingya are weeping at hell on earth
 

1 The Rohingya are a Muslim minority population living mainly in the state of
Arakan, in Myanmar (Burma). Although some 800,000 Rohingya live there and
apparently their ancestors were in the country for centuries, the Burmese government
does not recognise Rohingya people as citizens. People without a state, they face harsh
persecution in Myanmar and in refugee camps in neighbouring Bangladesh and
Thailand as well.
Source: http://asianhistory.about.com/od/Asian_History_Terms_N_Q/g/Who-Are-The-
Rohingya.htm
586 Bulan Sastra

Floating in a wooden boat far from shore 587
Hoping for a new land in their dreams
Struggling through sun and storms round the clock
Sailing under the thick Andaman sky in angst
 
Fleeing from killing scenes
Where there is only sadness on earth
Where the warmth of home has turned into fire
The Rohingya are hunted down, forced to flee
Eyes filled with dread, mind with sorrow
These men with no land to stay
Have sailed aimlessly through the dark
Hopeless in the sea with no direction
 
Dreaming of a shore in the sunshine
But their journey is filled with doom and death
The old boat in ruin carries no more hope
On such a cold eve, trying to find a shore to anchor
 
Like toxic waste in a deserted world
The Rohingya are pushed away, no welcome
Wasteful human trash – river of tears
Hunted down and ripped off their land
 
In the gloomy face of humankind
Humanity is entirely torn apart
Those living corpses scared and in tears
Swallow death from all directions
 

บุหลันวรรณกรรม

No land for them to stay
No port available for their boat
With such fate in this hypocritical world
Why on earth did Allah create the Rohingya?
 

The boat builder

Praphon Ruangnarong
Translated by Ora-Ong Chakorn

At dusk now the sea...
The sounds of waves and wind merge pleasingly
Along the shore fine pine trees bow to the wind
The beating of a mosque drum calls the Muslims to prayer
 
Old Sae, a lonely old man
Alone on the seashore
His koleh1 boat anchored permanently there...
Its wood decay saddens his heart
 
Those hands used to work wonders
Creating exquisite koleh boats
With their pointed bows and sterns, so charming
The burung singa2 birds painted along the hulls so mesmerising

1A highly decorated Malay canoe often rigged with a rectangular sail
2A mythical bird whose body is in the shape of a lion. It has fangs and is believed to
be a tough diver.

บุหลันวรรณกรรม 589

 
Sadly there came the winds of change
The burung singa were brought to naught, losing all power
The koleh couldn’t sail across the changing ocean
Loud motor boats now sweep up all sea animals
 
Tears run down the old man’s face
His glorious time as a boat builder is over
The koleh only come in miniature
Sailing in glass windows just for display

The three aunts

Romana Rocha
Translated by Ora-Ong Chakorn

Curry aroma in the kitchen
The aroma of boiling curry in the kitchen
Permeates the house and the orchard this morning
Under the roof of this wooden house named The Forest’s Glory
The smell of sour curry with turmeric is in the air
 
The cool breeze of dawn leads to memories of days past
In such a restless world
The fragrance of wild flowers here is still a bliss
The three aunts still value simplicity
 
Roosters crow a manner of song at every break of dawn
Birds still chirp and trill without feeling inferior
This is a little wood in the big city in this era
A truly beautiful sanctuary for life
 

บหุ ลันวรรณกรรม 591

The hands that cook the curry
Siblings’ ties are still present
In the glowing kitchen of this loving home
Their minds are focused on the real world
Spreading their love, letting the truth guide their way
 
The three aunts – love is their name
With them my dream is nurtured
The seed of hope is sowed everywhere
By those hands anointed from above
 
My childhood world is blessed
With them I know my chores heavy or light
Learning to be sweet, to be tough at heart
Learning to endure hard work and to strengthen my soul
 
Those hands sow love into my heart
In the same way they cook curry with heady aroma
Time flies but things here remain true
To that aromatic fragrance rooted in my heart
 
The virgins
When the golden rays of the sun in the east
Give light to every living thing
The flowers are clad in dewdrops and fog
The birds chirp and flutter, the hens peck the earth in the yard
Eleven cats, three dogs and one cow
All is fun on the ground
The three aunts enjoy being single
Raising their many nieces and nephews

592 Bulan Sastra

In this loving wooden house in the orchard
Life slowly goes on
When golden rays light up hearts undistorted
Nieces and nephews are friends with all animals
 
The aunts’ fragrant hands are warm and comforting
Heaven resides in their endless creation
Rendering loving kindness to all
Their curry then has the best aroma in the world
 
The palace of curry
The curry is cooked at dawn
Its ingredients form the unique aroma all over
The tang of salacca and lime is in the air
Together with the flavours of meat and veggies grown locally
 
Under the roof of The Forest’s Glory I reminisce
About a land of priceless warmth
With sweet music in the air
A song of kindly love to life
 
In the palace of aromatic curry at dawn
The sunshine brightens the path of goddesses
The three beautiful goddesses are so magical
I prostrate myself in the dust of their every step

Medium

Thanya Thanyamas
Translated by Ora-Ong Chakorn

With western influence he mixes Thai with English
Imitating proudly the act of code-switching
Overlooking the value of the national language
Alienating it with strings of borrowed terms
The mother tongue is the beginning
Since childhood one has used it
But with higher education one becomes an intellectual
Drawing attention to oneself through unusual ways of speaking
 
Long words are cut short, lobotomised
Such a trend is peddled as fashionable
Complete words come out reluctantly
Language sifted means something else

594 Bulan Sastra

Lately Miss Thailand have been imported
With competitive advantage over domestic rivals
They speak in broken Thai, how wicked
And yet show off their wares on the catwalk
 
We let those oddities brainwash us
Their flood gushing out over us
Such anomalies are scary
As they turn us blind and deaf
 
Victims of invading aberrations we are
Dragged forcibly away from our roots
Now youngsters no longer listen to Thai songs
Foreign songs it is they want at whatever cost
 
The native precious seems outclassed
Related businesses go bust
New sets of values are flowing in
Burying the old ones until they blanch and die
 
O poor native tongue, pride-bereft
Obviously its structures are suddenly gone
So are the native arts and culture
Of our forefathers, value-deprived
 
Old memories are all that’s left to tell
Everything has been tainted and lost
Like a figure hollow inside

บุหลันวรรณกรรม 595

Changes are commonplace each day
Leading characters on stage must be of mixed blood
This is the age of creative hybrids
As if Thailand was racially colonised
Nothing can be done but watch mundanely
 
Now is the age of distorted images
Twisted are forms and appearances
Confusion is everywhere
Turning things upside down
 
New things are madly flooding in
Taking over the land we own
This used to be Thailand – the Golden Land of Dharma
The centre of knowledge of all kinds
 
O the very essence of our motherland
Has been freakishly distorted through the tongue
The native language is full of lexical and structural changes
So distant from the original
 
Everything is misplaced
Strange structures are being adopted
People add this and that at random
Proud of their eccentricities
 
We let so much novelty flow in
Submerge our shoulders, ears and eyes

596 Bulan Sastra

To listen and watch we are compelled
To get involved in this new wicked tradition
They point at a bird and we nod in agreement
Letting grotesque evil seep in
Mistaking fame for virtue
All comes from the need to have what they have
 
They fascinate people with exotic clothing
That’s just their selling point
We, aspiring people, are so obsessed
Wearing excessive clothes unnecessarily
 
Those foreign products are phony
How blind to worship them wholeheartedly
Taking celebrities as role models
Only exacerbates our obsessions
 
So life is misleading nowadays
That wrong becomes right is almost par for the course
Whatever celebrities do
Leads the way to our common behaviour
 
This is a doctrine of false imitation
Misjudging bad taste for creation
We see and hear such things every day
Until it gets to us in a misguided way

The universe in a tea cup

W. Vajiramedhi
Translated by Ora-Ong Chakorn

One drop of water in the cup from a kettle
Could be one teardrop from a pretty girl
One cup of fragrant tea could be
The sound of agony from the abyss
 
She drinks tea every morning
Perhaps drinking her own crystallised blood
This taste of warm tea might blend in her mind
With the border war in its land of origin
 
In the cup are clouds and a rainbow
Ants, mosquitoes and worms making their living
Delightfully lush gardens and woods
But also an everlasting forest fire
 

598 Bulan Sastra

There are crooked politicians
Preachers and monks peddling heaven
Sinners and lunatics of all ilk
And also the moon, the sun and twinkle stars
 
We always have one another in the way of the world
We rely on many thousands of other beings
That’s what makes us exist
That’s why we belong to one another
 
One drop of water in the cup from a kettle
Could come from heavenly clouds
Or from one’s flesh and blood
Depending on which perspective you have
 

Mother’s Day slogan

Pinyo Srichumlong
Translated by Ora-Ong Chakorn

Neither the warmth of the sunshine on earth
Nor bright moonlight at night
Can delight one’s soul
As much as the presence of a mother in one’s life
Wise men from the past had a saying
A hundred lovers can’t hold a candle to one beloved wife
A hundred beloved wives who are indeed true companions
Can’t match the happiness derived from a mother’s presence
Mother’s love for her child from the bottom of her heart
Is more true and pure than any other kind of love in existence
With it she is willing to sacrifice her happiness
No matter how much suffering she has to endure
After giving birth she protects her child
From all harm, so happiness is the only thing happening
Her beneficence exceeds the scope of the entire sky
No comparison can be possible ever
Mother, here is how I remember you
Through this poem you are truly praised
No matter how much effort I would spend writing for a million years
There is no way I could put my immense gratitude into words

Indonesian Poems

บุหลันวรรณกรรม 601

Marsh garden

Raudal Tanjung Banua
Translated by Miagina Amal
Soft as the gills of snakehead fish, thin as the flesh of queen fish
tendrils and transparent roots grew translucent
upon the black mud. The lotuses and water lettuces floated like a
transparent green dress, the love boat of frog couple
bobbing, fertilising the slimy eggs like a map or tangled net
of the future children, in the fishermen’s rundown shacks
Sharp as gourami fish fins, spiky as the catfish’s dorsal fin
wooden poles surfaced from the still water
like invisible hands that lured swarms of grasshoppers and
dragonflies
perched with their wings burning, a true analogue for the farmers and
cultivators
who lost their fields and forests

602 Bulan Sastra

This is a marsh garden, miracle of the universe in our odyssey
we see everything from the side of the boat: snails, moss
lizards and snakes. The hand wants to touch the thick mud
Instead, it is your body I get
This garden is soft, without a spot to stand on
If I spit because of the sour stench
I fear you wouldn’t understand: here we are on a boat
far from land, too fed up
We have left behind every wish
we have spewed out curses in the streets
and in this wild garden we asked the heavens’ tendrils
to tap our heads
and turn us into a couple of frogs
tame when they mate
Fertilising the slimy eggs on the water’s surface, the eternal nemesis
of the larva of striped feet mosquitoes
buzzing agonisingly in fishermen’s and farmer’s ears
without smoke and fire
Inside the marsh a mammoth was fossilised
thousands of years old fishes
stones and submerged tree trunks were also encrusted
but that was not what I looked for nor what I want to revive
I want the broken oars of the fishermen
I want the blunt hoes of the farmers

บหุ ลันวรรณกรรม 603

so I could mend them with the murky mud
of my own breastbone
In the brown-yellow water
a red fish splashed about, breaking the stillness
forming ripples of the years
on the water’s surface. When I stole a sideways glance at you
splashes of time came from the depths
of your eyes, that slowly expanded into a marshland
spreading quietly towards the evening
A lily blooms among the tall silver grass
and shrubs, a child’s hum rises
on the struggling lips: we cannot go back
- don’t go back!
To be here forever as a part of the grand garden
in these soft-eternal dump marshes
to be happy and miserable together with the fishermen and the farm-
ers
to build a place of footing
on the mud and waters of the earth

The salted egg

Mardi Luhung
Translated by Miagina Amal

I ate a salted egg. With an oily yolk.
And I was reminded of you. Once, you jokingly said:
“You know, when I was born, I hatched from a salted egg.
A bluish salted egg. Oval in shape. With a hard shell.” And when
I’d finished eating the salted egg, I was also reminded that you were
indeed pliable. Those who wished to investigate had to hold the egg up
to the lamplight. So you can see the thin streak or thick vein. Aside all
that, in your every swish, I hear the merry swashing of ocean waves.
The swashing of the ocean that never tires to bear the seeds of salt.
Stretching everything there is. Then flashed on the tips of the waves:
“Catch me; catch the eternal saltiness that’s stuck on the roof of my
mouth!” And at that time, how I (and those who had the chance
of seeing you) had suspected, if we dare to enter your

mouth, we would later emerge out of it dissolved
in whitish grains of salt. Grains that would later

be shrouded in each secret taste of salted
eggs being served. Like mist
shrouded in smoke.

The shadow sewing machine

Afrizal Malna
Translated by Hallo Ulrike Draesner

Nightfall, before dark. Books left behind by the husband, after he
began to forget about manliness. The never-changing radius between
the inbox and outbox lists. A scalpel at the tip of language. A drug
bottle from the Berlin Wall. Night lights. The size of the table
unable to enlarge the size of a man’s shadow outside the house. What
is poetry, you asked, between language courses, moving urban culture
from the walls of the East Side Gallery to another wall and the smell
of butter on the tongue between knife layering. Removing memory
from the plane wreckage. Up and down once more to savour the taste
of chaos. You will feel it. Poetry took my soul to gain the shadow of
language, that room that has no outside and no inside. From Europe
love’s gravitation touched the Indian child in your arms, and further
up words that undermined all proxies. Getting late now. You feel that
the house walls still give out the feeling that all memories that broke
away from history through reading have experienced reading as
bridges that delivered stories. What is poetry, I asked, if a train

606 Bulan Sastra

ticket at Beusselstrasse station creates wind shadows in Rosenthaler
Platz station, transfers poetry from every translation whose kiss has
the smell of wounds. I put my arms into the language you plant,
smiling that smile of yours. I am still able to kiss the herbs though
I am behind in planting season terms. Coaxing between the Javanese
decorations and copies of me multiplied by photocopier. Night now,
after night has passed. What is poetry? We are the drawings of
language. Shadows peeled. They abort the light that wants to be born.
What is poetry? A sewing machine that keeps stitching between
shadow and bod. Creating a quiet blaze inside the clothes left behind.
Night, after this night there will be no more here.

Letter of a rock

Joko Pinurbo
Translated by Miagina Amal

Sorry, only now I got the chance
to reply to the letter you sent seven years ago
At the time, you asked me to look after
a big rock in your front yard
that you’d later carve into a statue
You took the rock from a river in the woods
I like to read and daydream sitting on
your rock and can feel its pulse
Sometimes my dream is left behind on your rock
and perhaps absorbed in its womb
The rain loves your rock so much and the rain’s love
is greater than yours. I like to see
your rock lose its breath when caressed by my rain

608 Bulan Sastra

Eventually, your rock got pregnant. From its womb
an adorable small waterfall was born
The waterfall is now all grown up
It can chitchat with the rain
Sorry, stay away from my waterfall
Perhaps even your rock will no longer recognise you

Bandung’s shopping tour brochure

Ahda Imran
Translated by Miagina Amal

This city sprang from the mud of a lakebed stuck onto a Governor
General’s shoe sole.
And then the masters of plantations built this city out of the
remnants of the beauty of a strumpet they had brought from Paris.
Paris, the city where they went on excursions. To shop and be
fashionable. They also brought along a lot of schools. Schools that
invited the inland native children to see the crowds moving to the
Bastille.
This city is slightly windy, like a woman whispering in
your ear.
Let’s shop. People hauled their bodies to the clothing stores.
Piled down their bodies in the trolley. Just put your body here, a
mayor will push it. He wore the shoes of the Governor General. He
took you to visit every clothing store in this city. The clothing stores
that turned this city into the dressing room of a theatre.
A theatre whose stage has no memories.

610 Bulan Sastra

Look. All these street signs. All of them point to clothing
stores, malls, apartments whose façades all bear names in English. In
front of the cash registers pretty young cashiers flash satisfied smiles
at you. Smiles for your credit cards and your bodies, folded inside the
store’s shopping bags.
This city is the broth of fried fish cakes that trickles from the
sauna rooms and massage parlours.
Let’s eat. The weather of this city makes you feel hungry all
the time. Take your bodies wherever, this city will cook everything
for you. This city is a big smorgasbord. A smorgasbord with sundry
plastic flowers, steaks and fried fish cakes broth that trickles from the
sauna rooms and massage parlours. You can eat while listening to the
angklung or the underground karinding jaw harp. Or the weak voice
of children busking with no instruments other than their handclaps.
Wearing the jersey of the hometown soccer team Persib.

Letter to a hero: the Peking duck

Hanna Francisca
Translated by Miagina Amal

Fight, beloved, on a stretch of string
along the flowing river
that ties your neck in a square knot
so that your wingspan and feet are free to dance
Let go of your fat, let go of your body sweat
Heaven awaits at the shady door
Of the heavy currents that flow under your feet don’t be afraid
You won’t drift away to the estuary
The string won’t break within the square knot
Therefore, move, beloved
flap your wings, stretch your body to get rid of
frailty and stink, which will be proof that a man you truly are
It is a man’s duty
to prepare love in a pot

612 Bulan Sastra

Let me say this: if your lover happens to drop by one night
say goodbye before the break of dawn
because the sharp knife on your neck later
will be the last prayer for your worried partner
Tell her, No need to worry
Haven’t I planted a seed in your fertile womb?
Your duty is to care for the egg
I love you, in heaven we shall meet again
Do you know the fate of the young dog
before it got seasoned with spices?
Muzzled in a sack
hit with a stone
so the blood stays coagulated. Because the tastiness of frozen blood
conquers the shame in us. Would you want that?
Do you know the fate of the roasted pig
impaled with an iron rod before death
finally came?
As a lover, you have such an easy task
for even if your neck is tied with a long rope all night
still you can keep singing
There will be no food in your stomach
because a full stomach is a hindrance to perfection
Love will flow from the rushing river
The cool night is so gorgeous
Sing away

บุหลนั วรรณกรรม 613

As long as your feet tread on longing
feathers will flap on the roaring torrent
Sing away
I’ll wait for your fate at dawn
Your hunger will cease, your muscles will harden
and the stink of your body will quickly vanish
That is how obligations and all happiness begin
until your body lays
at the bottom of the pot
If the sharp knife makes you afraid, a spoonful of vinegar
in your empty stomach will soon banish the fear
Trust me, if the sour vinegar is poured
before the blade cuts you deep
all your feathers will rise up in fear
Indeed the veins on your stomach will get severed
and writhe for a short moment
in agony
then alarm will blur your vision
That is the reason your feathers involuntarily rise up
Never fear because by then you will be blind
Do not dread if you cannot hear a thing
The sharp knife will help you to die
Is it painful?
Listen: pain that surpasses the limit of tolerance
will banish the pain
for you are indeed dying

614 Bulan Sastra

But the most important lesson of all: the whole-hearted donation of
all your feathers
How will your skin be as smooth as a baby’s skin
if you hide your veins behind your feathers?
Does not each creature long to return pure like a baby?
Everyone truly loves you, beloved
Accept it. All praises are for you only
for you alone. If later they say
What a fine-tasting meat this is
it glides on the tongue
featherless smooth, crisp and odourless
Everything is for the sake of your good name
You may smile, of course
In the place where all virtues rest
where God
eternally resides
May you be blessed
Amen

Between the coughs, where are you?

Iswadi Pratama
Translated by Miagina Amal

tonight
I heard your coughs
under the sweater while it rained
over the living room
with its walls of fading paint
over the city
and people simply came and went
under the eyes of people all around you
I saw children beating their chests
out of merriment more than through the bitterness of opium
they let their bodies go every which way
between garbage and colourful toys
but your coughs tonight
sent sailing ships into my mind

616 Bulan Sastra

we took along the whole townsfolks
and celebrated with toddy that made us damn hot
tonight
— as on previous ones —
still longing for a touch of your breast
and a peck on your tapering legs
I searched for the way home
the sound of your coughs
and the prescription for drugs I have yet to get you
was torn to pieces by the drizzle

A tuppeny-ha’penny prophet

M. Aan Mansyur
Translated by Miagina Amal

you changed back the blanket into a swan’s wing feather
you let them swim on the pond you had set up on the table

you changed back paper into tree trunks
you let the leaves play merrily with the air outside the window

you put your head back in the cage
you suppressed all wild thoughts, the serpents that could twist you

around and make you cry
you are a poet who excels in restoring poetry to things
and you unleash words to roam the future, finding ways to meet me