The Pictures You Sent (vi)

VI. An old Woman in Paradise Island 

     : Rambu, Bali-Lombok-Alor

      of the pictures you sent, an old woman
      handed me a basketful of her offerings
      for the gods who dwell the shrines.

      “Thank you, but I am not another new god planted
      by the commercials.” I could see her eyes learned
      my face. She gaped, disbelieving words from my soul.

      “An outcast I am.” I let her read my nakedness,
      touch the scars that screamed stories in a language
      she recognized. She listened to the splashing sound
      of waves in my youth, to the voyages in my past.
      Then she saw a burning plain, my childhood playground
      was scorched by the fright nobody care.

      The old woman rubbed my dried tears with her thumb,
      hers had long been gone. Then she left without a word,
      the offerings on her head, she continued to look for
      the gods who dwell the shrines. I saw her walk
      sliced the smoke on the ground, her traces revealed
      the bleeding earth of Paradise Island

The Pictures You Sent (iii)

III. Patience (of West Papua) 

      of the pictures you sent, the underwater garden
      absorbed my restless nights into its cleafts.

      I could remember mothers dropped their tears
      into the sea, wound by wound, salted its water
      with silenced loss and rage. They had searched
      for our brothers throughout the land, forced
      themselves to be contented with whatever remains
      they could found. They planted the bones
      at the edge of horizon, it grew as corals

      I could remember mothers chanted their whispers
      to the ocean, pray by pray, herded the ripples
      to dance with their sons, the undying souls beating
      tifa drum. It was the voice from colorful layers
      beneath the surface, “You made us swim with the fish
      but you cannot stop the ancestor songs we sing.”

      Waving the deep, the spirits shake the land.

Metro, 03-5/06/2010

© Era Fiyantiningrum
Sort of explanation: 

The Pictures You Sent (ii)

II. Nightmares and Dreams 
    (Nemangkawi in Mount Cook Picture)

     of the pictures you sent, there was one
     entrapped me in obscure ambiguity.
     It was quiet snowy flat on mountains peak
     I saw you. Silhouette lonely behind the tourists,
     looked shabby, perhaps chilled in your thick jacket

     I could not read your face, “Were you lost
     in your thoughts?” There was roaring howl
     escaped your mind, it was the muted cries
     of children in third world countries,
     echoed through mountain slopes then ended
     tearing my heart. Conscience.

     I wanted to touch your eyes, shift the gaze
     from where you were looking into the empty air
     because while you curled embracing yourself,
     the gentle breeze came out from the picture.
     Caressed our drying wounds, it brought white
     feathers for our once broken wings. Spirit.

Metro, 02/06/2010

© Era Fiyantiningrum

The Pictures You Sent (i)

I. Memory (of Dried Marsh at Merauke)

     of the pictures you sent,
     my heart is torn before
     scattered spinifex in the desert

     at night it shows an endless landscape
     of silvery peace reaching horizon.
     Moonlight envelopes it. The stars
     fades out, leaves only the brightest
     sparkling

     during the day it reveals my house
     standing lonely amongst nests of snakes,
     you can see it beyond the end
     of the road. Rows of burnt trees
     along the edge, trailing off.

     In that ancestral property, the ground
     marooned by the blood of our fathers, a girl
     curled in childhood space she never leaves:
     beaten by the fears, raped by time

Metro, 02/06/2010
© Era Fiyantiningrum