#indonesianpoet
I couldn't be silent as the train I was on sped all the way to a station I didn't recognize, I had no control over the engines screaming to be replaced, I couldn't catch up any longer, and the more I ran, the less I knew the speed to stop at.
How could I just stand there as the hands of time continued to swing, hurling me from one strange and unpleasant page to another? I'm not sure when everything will be finished, on which page this story will end in a long epilogue, or in whose hands this turmoil will be reconciled.
How could I be fine when my head was hit by blunt objects, my limbs were entangled by the weak and helpless, my heart was pumping nonstop, the heart was drained and empty space was left, my mouth was locked, and as much as I tried to free myself, I only increased the grip on my body, and the wound was getting worse? the situation will deteriorate
How can I just stand there and stare?
While stomachs demand that they be filled, notes demand that they be cleared, and people want that they be scheduled. The days torment me relentlessly; during the day, I am dark and color blind; at night, I stutter, and all colors beg to be painted tomorrow.
How can I be like this when the sky is endless, the rain falls on any cheek, other flowers grow and new buds form, the chess horse continues to gallop, or the pen and paper have reached the abyss of the book?
How am I supposed to...
Oh **** it!
I'm sick of sentences; I'm no longer strong.
This story has concluded.
Jan 26, 2022
Jan 26, 2022 at 2:54 PM UTC
Another Tinder match
supposed we hike to bromo mountain
If not to suffer me
neighbor country guy
Where jaded is the least people be
lives in a bunkbed dorm room
For months and months
Certified to put judgement
on strangers
He studies everyone
But locals
Talks in languages
but local's
He's interested in story of stragers
But not my story
Too local maybe
One lunch in a local's
I lend him lunch money
He never thinks he owes me
A thing
He sits there on the corner
Reading people's story
Those whose land made
By foreign spices, coal, and sweats
Like me
May 24, 2020
May 24, 2020 at 2:11 PM UTC
Eat at home
Drink at home
Work from home
Love at home
Read at home
Nourish our home
Alone at home
Together at home
Make peace at home
Grow beans at home
Educate from home
Sit and cry
Grow patience
from home at home
May 14, 2020
May 14, 2020 at 3:00 AM UTC
Pick a color out of me
The light blue chair in the living room
The sky blue in the sky on moday noon
The spinning chair with a grey stain of a mine company receptionist
The business district full of green glassy glass windows
The weary mind missing a mother in red lipsick
Roses as white as medical students jacket
Scars of an old man selling brooms
Dragged on dried fresh black asphalt
Meh..
Brightest streetlight still watching the night will
Of merry little heart
A city that fill our little lamb
Apr 7, 2020
Apr 7, 2020 at 3:05 PM UTC
I just sit on the stairs
I gave the entrance ticket
to someone, a few more minutes
The show begins, I already know what story
that will be on display, and I'm bored
I just sat on the stairs
Crowds come cheerfully
coupled with wry lies
I know who they are, but
they pretended not to see me
I just sat on the stairs
in front of a performance house
actually, who lives and what is there
in this house? Is only hope that must be
I bought with a very expensive ticket?
Yesterday I read in the rest of the local newspaper
articles that are far from the headlines
someone wrote a review about
the theater is dim, the actors are getting worse,
and bankrupt show management.
I just sat on the stairs
see people pretending to be happy
buy a ticket with the remaining savings
that should be paid
for health insurance.
Nov 29, 2019
Nov 29, 2019 at 5:49 AM UTC
Start something with no desire and without much intention embedded
Like knitting fabric without thread
Collect the strands after the silk from the worm that hangs on the sleeve of the tree
Self-exploit
Seek capital and foster determination as much as possible
A moment of consciousness
What I am doing this time is not something easy
Some time to come will feel heavy and not for a moment
Dictate education and learning that must be boring
It is not easy to deepen what I have decided
But in other words
Choosing is a path that must be taken by anyone
Regardless of what and how the choice is made
Of course the greatest consequence is to accept and run everything with the best treatment
Choosing does not mean losing one thing to another
But choosing is the form and attitude in determining the way to achieve something
Although there will be a lot of opposition and even rejection within
It is not the end
Make every difficult thing a whip
And what feels easy
Becomes the power to fulfill the difficult
For what will happen in the future
All attitudes and treatment must be embedded from this moment
Having chosen is courageous
Ready to live and wrestle all the races and obstacles ahead
So far
All new preparations have been collected
While walking slowly
Follow the directions and learn to read nature
What I have started
One day
I have to reap
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 3:44 PM UTC
I a m hungry, therefore I am - Garfield
IN prayer he will never utter
it waits for the rain of milk,
a heavy rain, because of him
the cat with thirsty tongue, see with
its own eye, when mother was disappear.
In prayer he never dared to ask
it wants a fishy fish neck,
the smell of a fisherman,
no care about salt salinity, or its own sweat.
In prayers he will never say
it expected the lap, the fire on that stove
warm, and maybe also sear.
Aug 11, 2017
Aug 11, 2017 at 8:57 AM UTC
WHAT is the color deserted? He hides from the eye catch, over time, blooming orange gerbera, we plant it in the wounded land.
What is the scent of lonely? Blood that does not drip, the sap that does not flow from gerbera stalk wound, when we pick it.
What is the taste of lonely? Leaves fall not brewed, imagined what is dissolved in our cups, which once did not get to the petals gerbera.
Aug 9, 2017
Aug 9, 2017 at 8:59 AM UTC
HE stroked a white cat. The cat slowly turns into a cloud. He was about to cup the cloud but the whole cloud came into his eyes. She became sleepy and fell asleep.
The cloud that had entered his eyes became cloudy outside his eyelids. He dreams about a sheet of sky that will rain. Then woke up with slightly wet eyelashes. But it was not the tears.
*HE:
Who cried in my eyes last night?*
He did not see, the cat or the cloud wanted to answer but they were stuck in a holy book that on one page of inserted a brochure course an easy way to reach the paradise that has been long past the date of its operation.
Aug 4, 2017
Aug 4, 2017 at 12:54 PM UTC
HE took me
To the dirt road
Along the creek
The flow of time.
We met a child
Who can not swim strongly
But good at fishing.
He took me to the cemetery.
We saw
A child and his father pray
Visiting women
They are very dear
He pulled my hand
To the banana garden
Which bear fruit on long bunches,
And it knows
Will soon be cut down by a machete.
He was lying with me
On a night
And awakened by various things
The scramble wants to be a dream
In a rush sleep.
Jul 24, 2017
Jul 24, 2017 at 7:11 PM UTC
LET'S stop by, just take off the tired helmet, and
Put a weary suitcase, year and year in the age line,
Then we stand up at the height of the tower,
"That," I said, "a ***** cloud, will there's a mud rain,"
you shook your head and stared on the motor lock.
"Chevolution, chevolution," I heard
Like that word you hissed over and over again.
You reach for the handlebars of the motorbike,
slamming in the direction.
Which far refuse comfortable cage and shady wells.
I plucked a banyan branch, for a pointer to
read again, a Book that we can never finish ...
The air is lagging after you step on the gas,
Drove in the far direction, I knew it was perfume,
A man who leaves no trace, except
Spilled coffee on the tablecloth, and dried cauliflower.
Jul 21, 2017
Jul 21, 2017 at 10:19 AM UTC
JUNE hid from me, on a forgotten calendar sheet on the kitchen wall. In vain, I shied away from the dust. Dust did not care about June on that calendar I'd never had.
Me and June, almost did not know each other again. Me and dust still greet each other just as a matter of praise. Dust and June as usual, still deceiving each other, yellowing on the paper.
Jul 20, 2017
Jul 20, 2017 at 1:02 PM UTC
MY HOUSE is Your home. Your house is my home. Now, if I'm going in, I do not have to pry Your window anymore.
But, last night I tried to steal again in my own home. Silently sneak into Your heart, and hope You catch me.
Jul 20, 2017
Jul 20, 2017 at 12:52 PM UTC
I am a leaf and you are a voracious caterpillar. I'm gone, when you turn into a butterfly, develop the color of your wings.
I'm late night and you're polite dew. I was not there when on the leaf, morning and the sun brilliant you.
Jul 18, 2017
Jul 18, 2017 at 7:18 PM UTC
THE remembrance upon you is a **** I pluck it, then you grow again with the patience of time. With perseverance you endure, to me who can not stand it.
The memory upon you is the spider's thread, the never-ending nest, knitting itself, I'm trapped in it, helplessly, can not be free, and can never be cleared clearly.
Jul 18, 2017
Jul 18, 2017 at 7:10 PM UTC
I want you to simplify me with your love. Like the gratitude of paddy field to rain, with which it grew rice.
I want you to simplify me with your love. Like the prayer said by grass for the soil, which gave it life and in turn, enlivens.
I want you to simplify me with your love. Like works of the sun: rising-setting, giving names to morning, noon, eve and night.
Jul 16, 2017
Jul 16, 2017 at 7:14 PM UTC
ARE those love poems that do not mention my name?
I often get lost there. Surprised at a word I never knew, what they wanted to say to me.
I often tripped over there. Walking in complicated stanzas, which I did not know was going to take me anywhere.
But I feel at home there. As if hiding from many sounds, which for years forced me to deafen myself.
Ah, what a dictionary you are. How narrow is my tongue. I wonder if those poems you wrote for me?
Jul 16, 2017
Jul 16, 2017 at 6:17 AM UTC
MAYBE on the lips? Because there I like to interpret bitterness.
Or on the arm? A pair that is not long enough, but enough
to always embrace, dim, nervous.
Or on the neck? The circular ladder, like a rubber tree, and
I was a tapper who could not bring heart to wound there.
Or on the forehead? A thin line of hair, always silent.
"Ah, do not have much guessing," you say, "let me read it,
The old verses of poetry, which I have always kept secret ...
Jul 16, 2017
Jul 16, 2017 at 6:02 AM UTC
I do not want to be your metaphor, said rain to my tears
Then cry me with the sky, so you can no longer
Separating: between gloomy weather and unstoppable sadness
I do not want to be your metaphor, said the flower to my love
Then I put on the worst clothes and I became your gardener,
So you do not realize: what you picked every morning
Jul 15, 2017
Jul 15, 2017 at 12:14 AM UTC
My love is saltiness in your sea. The sun thinks he can vaporize me from you, making me a cloud in an unfamiliar sky. He was wrong, but let me do it, I do not want to blame him.
My love is the nutrient element fused in your garden's soil. The sun thinks only he who grows you and blossoms your flowers. He was wrong, but I will not blame him.
Jul 14, 2017
Jul 14, 2017 at 10:04 PM UTC
MONTHS are mature, the moon comes, I pluck you, with a doubtful hand and an abundance of anxiety. Night is ripe, night comes.
Moon hungry, wild moon. You make me a bat, take out. I am from the blind stone cave, hunting you. Night hungry, wild night.
The moon is sharp, the moon is deep. I'm a diver fisherman, long sharpening. Spear, on you I shut my eyes-wounded. Night sharp, deep night.
Jul 13, 2017
Jul 13, 2017 at 7:19 PM UTC
YOU delirious about the coastal span - from
the country that went on a hot year - then become the
beach your body: spread out - fragrant and hungry!
Like the perfume ad page, which is torn off
thick copies, magazines that chock short of pictures!
The one on you lies, I, which is released by the wind,
large pickaxes, mooring the sky, then sprinkling wildly
I started this guerrilla, facing my own shadow,
your spicy sand bath, quartz that grows hearts
Late afternoon. The sun goes past: yellow past
soon it was broken and glowing, the blood of a snake
I've repeatedly looked at digital numbers,
Casio - waterproof, 200 meters - an hour of the day
*
If the sea yells, the sentence is the waves!
He did not carry any name, until he called the bay
Place turtle loggerhead, from far journey,
Thousands of miles pilgrimage, to the sand he had hatched,
littered, food wrappers and beverage cans
This ******* like undesirable verbal abuse!
*
What have I found? Or broke it? I'm a farmer
threatened insect pests, certainly can not keep, seeds per
Seeds, immature rice. The season is short-lived.
When I see the location of the taxi to the North,
I also had to go back there, fold the map, then
stepping like a man's footstep -
like the song I heard from Springteen - and
write down a poem that I am afraid of his verses.
Jul 12, 2017
Jul 12, 2017 at 10:35 PM UTC
1. How Can a Moon Make a Shadow from a Boar's Body in a Forest Feeling The Entire Night?
2. Is the River in The Forest Choosing Himself Where He Was Turning or He Should Ask the Wild Boar Frequently Crossing It?
3. How Many Wild Boars in The Forest Have Ever Realized That There is Always a Moon-shaped Shadow from its Body?
4. If the Boar is Dead, Is the Shadow Dead or Staying and Hiding in The Shadow of The Forest?
5. Has The Wild Boar Ever Thinking That Moon Is a Boar Stuck at the Elevation Then Slept and Sleep Is On?
6. Is the Forest to Which There is No Boar Still Worthy to be Called Forest? Why No Boar Moon? Night Boar?
7. Can Later When I Die and Bury in the Forest, Then from My Grave Go Out a Wild Boar Without Shadow?
Jul 12, 2017
Jul 12, 2017 at 10:03 PM UTC
LIKE rain fingers play a sound in your leaves,
Clinging to the overwhelming silence I recognize.
I once had the courage that turned out to be frightening.
Without you, I'm a coward, pervert already in the first step.
I want to write any sentence, with words
cried "Oh .." at first. And "Ah ..", in the end.
I imagine it's in melodious lyrics, which are sung
singers - who like me - are never good at dancing.
As for the song - after you hear it - meaning:
leaving you, that means I leave
myself, that's why only on you I'm back.
Jul 11, 2017
Jul 11, 2017 at 11:22 PM UTC
A non-compulsive lung asks for a laksa sauce: what sense can you always hide from me?
An urgent hand, saying to the crumbly crumbling cup: what injury are you preparing for me?
A non-threatening eye, whispering to the cauldron: what spice do you add to my boiled hooves?
The wobbling heart, suspecting the gaping gap: when should I be immersed in the flamy oil of yours?
(2013)
Jul 11, 2017
Jul 11, 2017 at 4:53 AM UTC