You and Her

For fear it would sound as a fake,
I dared not to let you know
      how deep you cut through her heart
      when abruptly you drew back,
      frightened of being more alone

Ah, dear one,
No one's life was free from carrying the baggage
Why should you try so hard to weighted yours?

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

Halves of a Night 3

I've done packing today: savannah and horizon folded
inside the box, neatly arranged amongst sealed mugs
of lagoon, sand, and salty wind. I was everything of a journey,
had to depart while my heart still the soil to grow other dreams
of this archipelago, without children clothed poverty or misery

But my palms are no longer the map. Years and tears had mixed
its scratch with scars, "Please help me read the road signs,
before Time comes devaluing price of the broken plans."

But then the night was down and you never came. I saw myself
curled against demons of the open window, too numb to stop
scavengers sneaked in, busied themselves picking anything
scattered on the floor: pile of desolation, stack of vain,
even words leaked from damaged paragraphs, "No, don't take them.
The lines are mine. I search and gather any piece of lost paradise,
I am one of you, vagrants roaming landfill of prophecies"

09-17/06/2010
© Era Fiyantiningrum

I made my coffee from unfinished map

the feverish kitchen shivered, it's dying for weeks
and I have no fire left to warm her. I felt like a bankrupted
when I began to burn my paragraphs, one by one, saving lifes

in the night, boiling water displayed planets run into each other
and all into oblivion as the bubbles gone. but I saw horison
stretched inside the kettle. It was hope and I refined every path,
signs, directions, piers, town names from the ashes:
I made my coffee from unfinished map

tangerang, 12/06/2010

A Girl in Train Station

Wikan had arrived quite early at the station, despite his train to Bandung not departing until seven thirty. It was the holiday season, and most people travelling to and from Yogyakarta had booked their ticket at least six or seven days in advance. Not having planned his trip, (it was a last minute decision the boss employed to show his power) Wikan had therefore been left with the unenviable task of managing his ticket purchase from one of the many scalpers, who plied the main hall of Tugu station.

After the feverish bartering for tickets, Wikan successfully defeated his ticket rivals and entered the platform at 6.10am, holding his “double priced” ticket with a woman’s name on it. He grabbed a local newspaper, looked for a chair in the waiting lounge, but then, unexpectedly, his attention was instantly captured by the girl, whom he recognised immediately. Her complexion, dark and divinely beautiful, distinguished her as a single, luminous black pearl amongst the bustling crowd of the pale morning light. She had tied her curly hair with an ochre band, but much of it had escaped and now impulsively framed her face.

Halves of a Night

: S. A

Came home twenty minutes late, you're contented
with sand of time in your pocket, stolen
from the shore when the moon seduced her.
But then in your bedroom you found the storm
still thunderous. There was heavy rain, lightning,
and memories exploded from inside you

You had to wait until later on everything was quiet.
Only twigs and leaves, drying on your bed, scattered
as you watched the seasons drifted on the verandah.
It was late of night, and you cried.

(You left the door open. A mongrel walked in,
by the window, healing her past unnoticed
behind the darkness. It was late of night
and the dog looked pity at you in silence,
'do you want me licking your wounds too?')

--09/12/09--05/01/10--
© Era Fiyantiningrum