Remembering Subagio Sastrowardoyo
JAKARTA (JP): In the creation of poetry, a distillation of thought and experience takes place; more often than not what underlies poems are philosophical conclusions. The tendency on the part of the poet to philosophize is apparent in even the simplest of poems. The stronger the poet the more his point of view or his understanding of life is supported by experience. Poems attempt to express the human predicament, regardless of whether the unfortunate fate is that of the poet himself or of humankind in general.
Subagio Sastrowardoyo, a philosopher, essayist, and poet, was a man who spent his life attempting to explain the human experience. He died July 18 at the age of 71.
Subagio was born in 1924 near the city of Madiun, East Java and made his debut as a writer in 1957 with a collection of poems entitled Simphoni. Following several attempts at short story writing, poetry became his main creative outlet. In 1966, after an extended stay in the United States, he published a collection of poems entitled Saldju. Publications released since that time include Daerah Perbatasan, Keroncong Montinggo, Buku Harian and several books of literary criticism.
A Javanese by birth and temperament, Subagio shows himself to be, through his poetry, a poet of the larger world a well. He is a poet who can write a poem about South Africa but just as easily delve into indigenous legend. Though urban in his sensibility, he has not alienated himself from the great tradition of Java and has in fact consciously and conscientiously experimented with its myths and metaphors. The results have been authentic recreations and allusions to a civilization still influential in modern Indonesia. Subagio's poetry pulls us deep into the essence of his metaphysical life. His poetry reflects a quiet wisdom that comes from a taste of both Eastern and Western civilizations.
-- John H. McGlynn
With thanks to Muhammad Haji Saleh
And Death Grows More Intimate
(Requiem for JFK)
On the door still hangs the sign of mourning As if he will not return -- No, he will not return but there is something they do not understand -- why he was so quiet upon departure. There was not even a trace of sadness on his face or in his staring eyes, that seemed to say with pride: -- I died young -- Yes, there is some good in dying young and following those who fell before their time. At the close of the season the first to die was not the informed, the one wasted by age but he who stood braving the wind on a hill or near the shore where storms threatens life. Before their time the heroes are buried on mountain ridges or in city parks where children fly kites. In the late hours of the night leaves fall more thickly unplanned: And death grows more intimate, like a convivial friend who goads one to laugh -- the universal language always understood -- Face to face as if through a clear glass The face: still recognizable, even the scar of a former wound is visible on his forehead. He reaches out a ring clinging to his finger. -- You see, there is no barrier between us. I am still tied to the world by promises and memories While death is only a veil a concept whose threshold is easily crossed Nothing is lost in parting, everything is restored, as are daydreams and urges of fancy -- At the close of the season the dividing wall comes tumbling down and death grows more intimate.
One day there will be a little boy who no longer grieves for his kite tattered or flown away -- See, Mom, I'm not crying because I can fly myself with my own wings to the sky --
The First Man in Space
Tell the world I have reached the point From where there is no return. I soar now through a space Where day and night are one. An empty ocean on a bed of shining stars. The earth has receded, the sky floats farther distant. The universe is calm. I feel no hunger but a longing for my wife, my children, my mother at home. The greater the distance makes greater the love for those left behind What do I remember? My childhood, sleeping next to my mother Who serves me dreamland tales of ogres And giants, sprites and nymphs. I remember a story book, folded, behind a cupboard door I remember a rose from Elisa Tucked in the folds of a letter that whispered of love for me The intimacy. And who now stands at the window With Alex and Leo, -- those naughty boys I love -- Who stare in vain at the sky. Trying to catch A glimpse of my ship, a trace of my flight Through an untelling sky. Is the earth's sky still overcast, as when I left the day before yesterday? What is it I dream of? I no longer have dreams For all have taken flight together with this ship into an uninhabited world. But, maybe there is one. Give me one word of poetry Rather than the thousand promising scientific formulas that hurled me far from the earth I love. These heavens are silent. These heavens are mute. But I have reached the point From which there is no return. A kiss for my wife, my children and mother And regards to those who think of me. The universe is so deep, the universe is so still. I move farther distant, ever more distant from the earth I love. My heart grows lonelier Its rumbling, ever more. Mother, Don't leave me alone.
South Africa, 1957
Christ the loving has a white face. -- I've seen it in the illustrated bible and marble statues in church -- The white people scream: "Hosannah!" and parade boisterously to heaven.
But my skin is black And heaven's not my place The earth is black satan is black sin is black and so: I am the cursed earth I am satan damned I am heinous sin I am garbage in the street
They build railways and trains, hotels and airplanes They build schools and post offices, churches and restaurants. But not for me Not for me
I live in the rubble at the city's edge in mosquito-infested shacks in steaming swamps
They may hunt me They may burn me They may shoot me
But my wife will still produce children like weeds on their lawns like mildew on their walls like mold on their bread Because the black earth is ours The diamond mines are ours The Natal mountains are ours
They may kill me They may kill me They may kill me Because they are white and Christ the loving has a white face.
The Word
In the beginning was the word The universe was made of words Behind them only empty space and a morning breeze
We are afraid of ghosts because of words We love the earth because of words We believe in God because of words Fate is trapped in words.
That is why I hide behind words And sink without a trace.
Nawang Wulan
(Guardian of the earth and rice)
Don't speak to me in an earthly tongue I am from heaven Don't touch my body with a sinful body I am from heaven
Greet me with flowers The blood of sorrow and love Flowers for the baby newly delivered from its mother's womb Flowers for the lover who sweetly yearns Flowers for the death that silently waits
But watch over the child who cries in the night for milk Watch over the newly-tilled field A child needs rocking A field needs water I will descend to your hut at your call
With flowers. The blood that flows from sorrow and love.
At the Foot of the Bed
asleep there is no guarantee you will wake again
sleep is preparation for a deeper sleep
at the foot of the bed an angel watches and coos a lullaby
These poems appear with courtesy of The Lontar Foundation, of which Subagio Sastrowardoyo was one of its founders. All poems translated by John H. McGlynn. For further translations of Subagio's poetry see On Foreign Shores and Walking Westward in the Morning, both published by Lontar.