Nikmah Sarjono 
Translator

on Lyrikline: 5 poems translated

from: indonesian to: english

Original

Translation

Demokrasi Dunia Ketiga

indonesian | Agus R. Sarjono

Kalian harus demokratis. Baik, tapi jauhkan
tinju yang kau kepalkan itu dari pelipisku
bukankah engkau… Tutup mulut! Soal tinjuku
mau kukepalkan, kusimpan di saku
atau kutonjokkan ke hidungmu,
tentu sepenuhnya terserah padaku.
Pokoknya kamu harus demokratis. Lagi pula
kita tidak sedang bicara soal aku, tapi soal kamu
yaitu kamu harus demokratis!

Tentu saja saya setuju, bukankah selama ini
saya telah mencoba… Sudahlah! Kami tak mau dengar
apa alasanmu. Tak perlu berkilah
dan buang waktu. Aku perintahkan kamu
untuk demokratis, habis perkara! Ingat
gerombolan demokrasi yang kami galang
akan melindasmu habis. Jadi jangan macam-macam
Yang penting kamu harus demokratis.
Awas kalau tidak!

© Komodo Books
from: Suatu Cerita dari Negeri Angin
Komodo Books, 2001
Audio production: Haus für Poesie / 2015

Democracy of the Third World

english

You must be demoratic.
Alright, but please pull your fist
from my forehead. Shouldn’t you be…
Shut up! It is entirely up to me whether my fist
will be placed on your forehead, or in my pocket,
or to be punched on your nose.
The important thing is that you must be democratic.
Besides, we are not talking about me, but
about you. Meaning you must be democratic!

Of course, I agree, didn’t I’ve always tried to...
Cut it out! We don’t want to listen
to your arguments. No need to waste time
defending yourself. I order you to be democratic,
end of discussion!
Beware, the mobs of democrats that we’ve gathered
will crush you down. So from now on,
no more tricks, you must be democratic.
Beware if you are not!

Translated by Nikmah Sarjono

Airmata Hujan

indonesian | Agus R. Sarjono

Jangan bidikkan aku, ronta Bedil sambil menggigil. Diam!
Bentak Tangan. Aku harus meledakkan anak-anak itu.
Tapi mereka masih belia! Lihatlah senyumnya yang muda
dan mereka tidak meminta selain kesejahteraanmu juga.
Bukankah engkau sering mengumpati gaji yang tak cukup
nafas hidup yang sempit, hingga harus berderap kian-kemari
mengutip sesuap nasi.

Jangan bidikkan aku, raung Bedil. Diam!
Ini bukan persoalan pribadi, hardik Tangan.
Ini masalah politik. Satu dua nyawa
sebagai taktik. Tapi ini bukan soal angka,
bukan soal satu dua
tapi soal ibu meratap kehilangan,
soal dimusnahkannya satu kehidupan
soal masa depan manusia yang dibekam. Soal hak …
Tutup mulutmu barang dinas! Kamu hanya alat

dan jangan berpendapat. Itu urusan politisi di majelis sana.
Tapi mereka hanya bahagia! Sergah bedil.
Mereka tak pernah peduli padamu, pada mereka,
pada yang miskin dan teraniaya.
Mereka tak mengurusi siapa-siapa
selain dirinya. Dor! Bedil itu tersentak. Jangan …
D or .. dor .. dor .. dor…  Selesai  sudah

gumam Tangan. Bukankah ini sudah berlebihan, isak Bedil.
Entahlah, gumam Tangan, aku tak tahu. Aku penat.
Aku hanya ingin istirahat. Semoga istri
dan anak-anakku di rumah sana
semuanya selamat.

Bedil itupun menjelma hujan. Tak putus-putusnya
mencurahkan airmata. 

© Komodo Books
from: Suatu Cerita dari Negeri Angin
Komodo Books, 2001
Audio production: Haus für Poesie / 2015

Tears of Rain

english

Please do not aim me, a rifle wriggles and shivers.
Shut up! Yells the hand. I have to shoot those kids.
But they are still very young! Look at their adolescent smiles
and they demand nothing but your welfare too.
Don’t you often curse your small salary, your limited
opportunities, that you have to trot here and there
picking a fistful of rice?

Do not aim me, the rifle wails.
Shut up! This is not a personal problem, the hand scolds.
This is a political problem. One or two lives
have to be sacrificed.
But this isn’t about numbers, not about one or two
but about a mother lamenting her loss,
about the termination of someone’s life
about the discontinuity of someone’s future. About the rights of...
Shut up, you piece of equipment! You’re just a tool

so don’t argue. Arguments are for politicians in the councils.
But those politicians are only thinking about themselves! The rifle replies.
They never care about you, about them,
or about the poor and the oppressed.
They care for nothing other than their own interests.
Bang! The horrific sound startles the rifle. Nooooo......!!!
Bang! ...bang! ...bang! ...bang!
It’s done... the hand murmurs. This is insane! The rifle cries.
I don’t know, whispers the hand... I don’t know... I'm tired.
I just want to go home and have a rest. Hopefully my wife
and my children are safe back home.

Then the rifle transforms itself into rain. Endlessly pouring
its tears.

Translated by Nikmah Sarjono

Celan

indonesian | Agus R. Sarjono

Pada jantung sejarah yang berdarah
ketemui Paul Celan diam-diam mengajar bunda
sang waktu dan benih malam untuk berjalan. Tapi waktu
dan malam berhenti dalam genangan susu hitam
tempat mayat-mayat perempuan berambut kelabu
mengambang pilu. Siapakah tajam kapak-kapak
jika bukan Yang Dipertuan Adipati Kehampaan?
Disandingkannya maut kencana dengan bibir cinta
jasad asmara dengan pusara gelak tawa
pinggul ratapan dengan tengkuk kehidupan
semua dijalinnya sepasang-sepasang
seperti merangkai yang bukan matamu
bukan mataku dan bukan matanya
dalam jalinan selendang berkibaran
gelap dan muram
bagai candu dan ingatan.

Bunda malang yang tiada pulang, kekasih
yang dibakar dan berkubur lapang di angkasa,
menggali sumur luka di jantung kenangan
tempat rasa bersalah menjelma susu hitam
yang ditimba oleh dia yang tersisa,
dia yang luput dan lari untuk bahagia.
Di tempat itu pula Issac
Bashevis Singer berkutat bebaskan budak
dalam diri, menulis musuh
dalam kisah cinta sejati. Tapi trauma
dan masa lalu bagai mantan istri
selalu memaksa rujuk kembali

Dalih adalah maestro dari rembang ingatan
Bahkan pada momen-momen jingga
Pada nadi hidup yang berdegup mesra,
selalu ada dalih untuk tak bahagia.

© Komodo Books
from: Lumbung Perjumpaan
Komodo Books, 2011
Audio production: Haus für Poesie / 2015

Celan

english

At the heart of a bloody history
I found Paul Celan secretly taught
the mother of time and the seeds of night to walk.
But the night and time had stopped inside a puddle of black milk
where the bodies of gray-haired women were grievously laid.
Whose sharpness of ax it is,
if not His Excellency The Duke of Emptiness?
He collocated the golden death with the lips of love
Bodies of romance with tombs of laughter
Hips of laments with the napes of life
He arranged them in pairs
like arranging those that were not your eyes
not my eyes and not his eyes
in the fluttering braided shawl
dark and gloomy
like opium and memory.

Poor mothers who had never returned home,
lovers who had been burnt and buried in the vastness of the sky,
were digging wells of wounds in the heart of memories
where guilt was incarnated into black milk
milked by those who survived,
who had escaped and fled to seek refuge.
In that same place, Isaac Bashevis Singer
struggled to abolish slavery from himself,
writing the enemy in a love story. But the trauma
and the past were like an ex-wife
always forcing to reconcile

Exuces are the maestros of memory’s twilight
Even at the orange moments
in the artery of life pulsating vibrantly,
there are always excuses to be unhappy.

Translated by Nikmah Sarjono

Surat Pembaca

indonesian | Agus R. Sarjono

Redaksi yang terhormat
Izinkan saya menyampaikan keluhan
dan sedikit saran. Burung bangau
di tepi danau itu sudah sembilan malam
mencangkung sendirian, hingga katak
dan ikan-ikan tak berani bercinta
padahal purnama begitu indahnya.

Juga di tepi padang, sekuntum kembang
tersedu-sedu sendirian, sembilan lambaian
yang lalu tepat di tikungan jalan
ke arah hutan. Jingga kelopaknya terbiar
di sela belukar tanpa ada yang peduli
padahal setiap hari ia menghias diri
dengan embun pagi.

Saya sarankan agar remang rembulan
yang mengambang sendu
di sudut kolam itu disandingkan saja
dengan rusa remaja yang termangu
sendirian di tepian hutan, padahal
para pemburu sudah lama berlalu
membawa rusa jantan kasmaran
yang rubuh tersambar peluru.

Demikian surat saya, semoga ada
manfaatnya bagi pembaca
maupun sepasang kupu-kupu
yang terjebak di kaca jendela kamar,
padahal cuaca di luar
begitu nyaman, sejuk, segar.

© Komodo Books
from: Surat-surat Kesunyian
Komodo Books, 2015
Audio production: Haus für Poesie / 2015

Reader’s Letter

english

Dear editors,
allow me to make some complaints
and a small suggestion. That crane
on the river bank has been standing there alone
for nine consecutive nights,
that the frogs and the fish feel reluctant to mate,
whereas the moon is shining so beautifully.

While nine handwaves ago,
on the edge of a meadow, right at the bend of the road
toward the forest, a flower wept alone.
Her orange petals were lain fallow
beneath the shrub, abandoned.
Whereas every day she has always dressed her petals up
with morning dew.

I suggest the gloomy moonlight
floating above the pond to be paired
with a fawn standing on the edge of the forest,
whereas hunters have already gone
shouldering their ravin: an infatuated buck
collapsed by bullets strikes.

That’s all I have to say, I hope my letter
will benefit other readers
as well as a pair of butterflies
which trapped in my room’s window,
while the weather outside
is absolutely nice, cool, and fresh.

Translated by Nikmah Sarjono

Surat Lamaran

indonesian | Agus R. Sarjono

Perkenalkan nama saya sendu
dengan satu dua keriangan.
Saya terampil menangani lara
kenangan-kenangan tersisa,
dan mengemas melankolia.

Adapun kehampaan, rasa kosong
dan sia-sia, serta yang berkaitan
dengan ratapan, dapat saya tangani
sebagai tambahan pekerjaan.
Tentu untuk ini saya perlukan
tunjangan tambahan: sepotong senja
dengan sebaris tipis warna jingga.

Saya ajukan lamaran ini sepenuh hati
dan mohon kiranya dapat diterima.
Sebagai lampiran, saya sertakan di sini
segaris luka lama: pedih dan abadi
dari cemas dukana tiada bertepi.

© Komodo Books
from: Surat-surat Kesunyian
Komodo Books, 2015
Audio production: Haus für Poesie / 2015

Application letter

english

Allow me to introduce myself,
my name is Dysphoria,
with a little bit of gaiety.
I skillfully handle grief,
remains of memories,
and I’m good at packing melancholy.

As for emptiness, feeling hollow
and futile, as well as laments,
I can handle them
as an extra job.
Naturally for this I need
an additional allowance: a piece of twilight
contoured by thin orange lines.

Please kindly accept
my sincere application.
As an appendix, I include here
listed old wounds: persistent pain
resulting from endless qualms.

Translated by Nikmah Sarjono