DAMONO, Sapardi Djoko

Metamorphosis

a stranger is taking off your clothes layer by layer,

seating you in front of the mirror and tempting you

to ask, “whose body am I wearing right now?”

a stranger is quietly writing down your life story, reflecting

on your birthdate, making up the story of the reason

of your death –

a stranger is quietly turning into yourself


Moonlight at Midnight

I awake on the chair as moonlight falls on my face through a glass roof-tile

did the rain stop long ago?

the newspaper I was reading spreads open

lying on the floor; in the middle of the night it looks so cold and transient


Imagine if

Imagine if what you see in the mirror this morning

is not your face but the bird that flies in the cloud-spattered

sky, scattering the wind through its feathers;

imagine if what you see in the mirror this morning

is not your face but the cloud that watches the bird as it

plunges into our city and flaps the factory smoke from its

feathers;

imagine if what you see in the mirror this morning

is not your face but the rambutan tree in your courtyard

that lures the bird to perch on its shoulders;

imagine if what you see in the mirror this morning

is your own old face that remains unchanged even though

you keep on peeling it fiercely layer by layer each and every day.


Paper Boat

When you were a child you made a paper boat and sailed it

on the river shore; the stream flowed gently, and

your boat swayed its way towards the ocean.

“It will stop at every big port,” an old man told you.

Feeling happy, you went home with vibrant pictures

in your head. Since then you kept expecting to hear

by chance any news about the boat that was

always on your mind.

At long last the message reached you from that old man, Noah. He said,

“I used it in a big flood and your boat

is now stranded on a hill somewhere.”


Walk to the West in the Morning

When I walk to the west in the morning the sun follows me from behind

I follow my own shadow which stretches out in front of me.

the sun and I have no quarrel about which of us has created the shadow

the shadow and I have no quarrel about which of us has to walk in front


He Never

He never promised the tree

to translate birds

into fire

he never promised the bird

to enchant fire

into a tree

he never promised fire

to return the tree

to the bird

Rain Falls

You hear the sound of rain at the door

The shadows of the wind stand in front of you

No need to say anything; a thousand words

Turn into the night, nothing is there

No need; words freeze,

Seconds sharpen at the edge of Solitude

Slipping and falling

When you close the door.

Your grief is not yet calm.

In My Prayer

In my morning prayer, you become the sky

That never closes its eyes all night, that expands clearly

Ready to receive the first light, that curves silently

Because it will receive the sounds

When the sun floats above the head,

In my prayer, you become the tips of evergreen

That are always green, that endlessly

Ask difficult questions to the wind

That whispers from somewhere

In my prayer this afternoon, you become a church

bird that flaps its wings in the rain,

That perches on branches and sheds the feathers

Of guava flowers, that suddenly restless and

Flies then perches on that mango branch

This evening in my prayer, you become the wind

That descends very slowly from afar, tiptoeing

On the street and touching its cheeks and lips

In my hair, forehead, and eyelashes

In my night prayer, you become my heartbeat,

That patiently endures the pain

That knows no bounds, that faithfully investigates

Secret after secret, that endlessly sings

For my life

I love you,

That's why I will never stop praying for

Your safety

Rain in June

Nothing is more steadfast

than the June rain

keeping its longing a secret

to the flowering tree.

Nothing is wiser

than the June rain

wiping off the footprints

full of doubts in that avenue.

Nothing is more sensible

than the June rain

letting go unspoken words

absorbed by those flowering tree roots.

(adaptation: Zaj DE MEESTER)

Within Me

Within me flows a long river

Its name is blood;

Within me pools a lake of blood

Its name is soul;

Within me ripples the waves of soul

Its name is life!

And because life is beautiful

I cry as much as I want.


Quatrains

/1/

I sent you a few words

ones that are now rare –

if they reach you one day,

hide them, there’s no way to understand me

/2/

the space that exists within a word

is like our home:

there are pictures, sounds, and gestures in it –

and yet we are forbidden to decipher it

/3/

for those who still believe in words:

silent is their surging core, pitch-dark is their heart of fire –

but when will we ever understand the sea?

and the eternal fire?

/4/

what do we find beyond words:

a flower garden? deep space?

in the garden, so many things are left unsaid

in space, so stark is the void

/5/

what else is left to cling on to? some words

insist on bursting through reality’s edge –

upon reaching the other shore, will it still be meaningful,

to you, everything I want to say?

/6/

in every word you read there are always

missing letters –

you will find them again someday

amidst thickets of memories.

I am the Pond

I am the pond:

Sail upon it;

Sail, revealing small ripples

that move the lotus flowers;

Sail while gazing at the fragrant light;

Once you reach the other side, just leave it

Let me take care of your boat.

Interpretation Poem

You said I am a bird?

Never betray

the river, the field, and the stone.

I am the last leaf

that tries to survive on a branch

that hates the wind.

I don't like to imagine

the fleeting beauty of myself

that dreams of the earth,

not trusting the promise of fire that will translate me

into the language of ashes.

Please interpret me

as the last leaf

so that the voice of the wind that lulls

that branch will be extinguished.

Please interpret me as the desire

to be with you longer.

Please create meaning for me,

anything — I am the last leaf

that wants to witness your happiness

when evening comes.

Only

Only the sound of birds that you hear

And you never see those birds

But you know those birds are there

Only the rustling of the wind that you feel

And you never see that wind

But you believe that wind is around you

Only my prayer trembling tonight

And you never see who I am

But you believe I exist within you

My Heart, a Leaf

My heart, a falling leaf

drifting down onto the grass;

Hold on a moment,

let me lie here for a while;

there are still things I want to gaze upon,

that have always eluded me;

A moment is eternal

before I touch your garden every morning.

I Want

I want to love you simply

with words that were never spoken

wood to the fire that turns it to ash

I want to love you simply

with gestures that were never conveyed

cloud to the rain that makes it disappear

Mask

He loves crafting masks. He keeps skinning

his own face over and over again

and hangs them up on the wall. “I would like

to use them in my production,” a director says.

Tonight, when the play is performed,

he looks for his own face among

the whispering, shouting, groaning

masks: it’s not there. It turns out that he

still has to skin his own face over and over again.

////////////////////////////////////////////

“Where is my mask?” he asks no one

in particular. In the make-up room: broken mirror,

rouge and powder scattered around;

but the mask is not there. “Where

is my mask?” he asks. Low voltage electricity,

cobwebs on the ceiling

and a tranquilizer in his palm. But no

mask. Perhaps the director implies that

the Tyrant has to skin his own face to get the mask.

/////////////////////////////////////////////

But the mask has no right to become human;

it has certainly memorized the king’s decree

and lived through the commander’s last agony. It is familiar with

the spectators’ gapes and heartbeats. Oh, my Lord,

never mentioned in the program book,

nor on the payroll—it’s just hung on the wall

after the play is done. Even when there are only the two

of them on the empty stage, the director remains indifferent.

The mask has no right to become human.