Before Old Age and Other Poems
Abdee Wahab
Translated into English by Madina Malahayati Chumaera
Illustration by Cindy Saja.
before old age
before speaking of loss, they
remember again the curve of the smile
left behind on the mirror’s surface.
the slope of that smile akin to a pair
of arms encircling the wind.
before brewing coffee and grumbling about monday morning,
they contemplate the laborers’ fate—their wallets
strangled dry—all while asking,
"why does the rupiah always follow the sun’s course?"
before the dish mother cooks is done as dusk, they
witness the streets transform into dining tables
serving gridlock. the people
scatter from their workplaces and warehouses
—returning home like birds to nests.
before the night’s light dies, and the quiet
invites them to talk about loss,
faintly they hear
chairil roaring from the bookshelves:
"life is only delaying defeat"
"life is only delaying defeat"
"life is only delaying…"
"life is…"
"life…"
makassar, 2019
the color of reminiscence
back then, grass was my favorite color.
on the walls of my room, i loved drawing
the mountains, the trees, the forests, all
the leaves, and everything that knew me.
at elementary school, i ached every time i had to sing
i have five balloons—varied are their colors—*
i feared that grass would shatter, and that
i had to hold tight to what wasn’t me.
my teacher frequently comforted me with stories of the future, of
"the soldiers; fierce and brave in the color of grass"—that memory
stayed trapped for years and guided me to something far—
away that didn’t know me.
but time cannot save itself.
this city forced my hands and me to grow and hate
my favorite color. the tales of ambition that echoed in school,
now i know, instead loved the blood-soaked more.
the drawings that grew lush in my room
were swept and displaced from their own home,
because the city needed
the wider roads even more.
i sing—i have five balloons—once more, to
comfort my grief. but the grass shatters still, always will
and what is left is nothing more than the shards of what was me
that i had to hold onto tight.
makassar, 2019
a mere cat
i am merely a cat
i am merely a cat
that was hit by a car
i am merely a cat
that was hit by a car
on the road in front of your house
i am merely a cat
that was hit by a car
on the road in front of your house
left there to lay for weeks
i am merely a cat
that was hit by a car
on the road in front of your house
left there and erased by time
makassar, 2019
in the waiting room
in the waiting room, the border between restlessness and worry
is as thin as a line of misting rain, pattering on time’s feet.
they are all engulfed. they search for help in the phones they hold.
they search and ask for all the names that exist where nobody knows.
the objects in that room are thrown into bedlam. they talk
of you—and all that you will never hear.
the time that hides behind the hanging clock and the calendar
talks of the universe and destiny you chase after endlessly.
the painting on the wall and the door that greets all the guests
speak of all you’ve flung away and all that have stained to stay.
the television and air conditioner whisper of the burning news
and the cold that rattles your body.
the carcassed smile of the president in its framed cage, the only silent one in this room—
he just smiles, seeing you trapped in that line between restlessness and worry.
makassar, 2019
small hands
you small hands,
who taught you how to crush gravel in your palms?
didn’t you witness how much crimson
sopped and flowed due to ire?
you small hands,
to act childish makes you a child.
didn’t we come from the same hands,
and won’t we surely return to those same ones, too?
you small hands,
let us cease this stubborn act.
if those arms hesitate to embrace,
why are they reluctant to clasp others in greeting?
you small hands,
too soiled is your body.
wasn’t it that hatred must leave, love must live,
before we each end up alone?
makassar, 2017
© Abdee Wahab
English translation © Madina Malahayati Chumaera
*These are the opening lyrics to the nursery rhyme Balonku Ada Lima.
SEBELUM MENUA DAN PUISI-PUISI LAINNYA
Abdee Wahab
Ilustrasi oleh Cindy Saja.
sebelum menua
sebelum bicara tentang kehilangan, ia
mengingat kembali lekuk senyumnya
yang tertinggal di hadapan cermin.
lekuk senyumnya seumpama sepasang
lengan yang memeluk angin.
sebelum menyeduh kopi dan mengeluhkan senin pagi,
ia mengamati nasib buruh yang terjepit
di dompet, sambil bertanya-tanya
“kenapa rupiah selalu mengikuti arah matahari?”
sebelum masakan ibu sematang petang, ia
menyaksikan jalanan menjadi meja makan yang
menyajikan kemacetan. orang-orang
berhamburan dari gedung-gedung dan gudang-gudang
—pulang seperti burung-burung ke sarang.
sebelum malam padam, dan sepi diam-diam
mengajaknya berbincang tentang kehilangan,
samar-samar ia mendengar
chairil berteriak dari rak-rak perpustakaan
“hidup hanya menunda kekalahan”
“hidup hanya menunda kekalahan”
“hidup hanya menunda...”
“hidup hanya....”
“hidup...”
makassar, 2019
warna kenangan
dulu rumput adalah warna favoritku.
di dinding kamar, aku gemar menggambar
gunung-gunung, pohon-pohon, hutan, daun-daun,
dan segala yang mengenal diriku.
di sekolah rendah, aku selalu bersedih ketika
menyanyikan balonku ada lima, rupa-rupa warnanya
aku takut rumput pecah, dan sesuatu yang bukan
diriku harus kupegang erat-erat.
ibu guru sering menghiburku dengan cerita tentang cita-cita
“tentara; mereka gagah berani dan berwarna rumput”
ingatan itu bertahan bertahun-tahun dan menuntunku
kepada sesuatu yang jauh dan tak mengenal diriku.
namun waktu tak mampu menyelamatkan diri sendiri.
kota ini memaksaku tumbuh dan membenci
warna favoritku. cerita tentang cita-cita di sekolah rendah
ternyata lebih mencintai sesuatu yang berwarna darah.
gambar-gambar yang subur di kamar,
diusir dan digusur dari rumah sendiri,
sebab kota membutuhkan
jalan-jalan yang lebar.
aku menyanyikan balonku ada lima, sekali lagi
untuk membahagiakan kesedihanku. tetapi rumput selalu pecah
dan yang tersisa hanyalah pecahan-pecahan
diriku yang harus kupegang erat-erat.
makassar, 2019
seekor kucing
aku adalah seekor kucing
aku adalah seekor kucing
yang tertabrak kendaraan
aku adalah seekor kucing
yang tertabrak kendaraan
di jalan depan rumahmu
aku adalah seekor kucing
yang tertabrak kendaraan
di jalan depan rumahmu
diabaikan berminggu-minggu
aku adalah seekor kucing
yang tertabrak kendaraan
di jalan depan rumahmu
diabaikan berminggu-minggu
dan dihapus oleh waktu
makassar, 2019
di ruang tunggu
di ruang tunggu, batas antara resah dan gelisah,
setipis sebaris gerimis yang rintik-rintik di kaki waktu.
orang-orang tenggelam. mereka mencari pertolongan di telepon genggam.
mereka mencari dan menyebut semua nama yang ada entah di mana.
benda-benda di ruangan menjadi gempar. mereka bicara
tentang kau—dan hal-hal yang tak akan pernah kau dengar.
waktu yang bersembunyi di balik jam dinding dan kalender,
bercakap tentang semesta dan takdir yang terus menerus kau kejar.
lukisan di dinding dan pintu yang menyambut semua tamu
berbincang tentang segala yang kau hempas terlepas dan segala yang membekas.
televisi dan pendingin ruangan bicara tentang kabar yang membakar
dan dingin yang membuat tubuh kau bergetar
bangkai senyum presiden dalam bingkai, satu-satunya yang tak mengucapkan apa-apa
ia hanya tersenyum, melihat kau terperangkap di antara resah dan gelisah.
makassar, 2019
tangan-tangan kecil
tangan-tangan kecil,
siapa yang mengajarmu mengepal berkerikil?
tidakkah kau saksikan betapa banyak merah
yang basah dan tumpah akibat amarah?
tangan-tangan kecil
berbuat usil menjadikanmu kerdil
bukankah kita datang dari tangan yang sama,
lalu akan pulang ke tangan yang sama pula?
tangan-tangan kecil
sudahilah berlaku degil
jika lengan enggan berpelukan,
mengapa enggan menggenggam salam?
tangan-tangan kecil
tubuhmu sudah terlalu dekil
bukankah benci harus tanggal, cinta harus tinggal,
sebelum kita menjadi tunggal?
makassar, 2017
© Abdee Wahab
ABDEE WAHAB was born in Pinrang on October 17, 1994. He works as a librarian at Katakerja in Makassar, where he currently lives. His poems have been published in online media and several anthologies: Perjalanan Waktu (Aria Pustaka, 2017), Sajak Hujan (Genio, 2017), Sejuta Suara Yang Anarki Dalam Nadi (Oase Pustaka, 2017), Seharusnya Kita Tak Saling Rindu (Rumah Kayu Indonesia, 2017), Antologi Puisi Alih Wahana (Negeri Kertas, 2017), Kata-Kata Yang tak Menua (Garis Khatulistiwa, 2017), Tentang Yang (Makassar F8, 2017), Kuantar Kau Ke Makassar (Makassar F8, 2018). He can be found on Twitter at @abdeewahab_ and on Instagram at @abdeewahab.
MADINA MALAHAYATI CHUMAERA is a 19-year-old computer science undergraduate in Jakarta, Indonesia. Her interests lie in the intersection between the humanities, the sciences, and everything in between. She can be found on Twitter at @falsecatch and other places at malahayati.carrd.co/.
CINDY SAJA is an illustrator who started her career in 2010. She completed her Fine Arts education at IKJ in 2011 and Master of Design education at ITB in 2014. Cindy's illustration style tends towards cartoons which use bright and minimalist colors. Her collaborative work doesn’t focus on one particular character, but rather the content that will be accompanied by the illustration itself. This is why the audience will find differences in the materials used, such as pencil shading, monochrome watercolors with particular accents of color, or digital cartoons. Cindy has collaborated with several authors and artists including Gouri Mirpuri, Butet Manurung, Rani Pramesti, Rene Suhardono, Erikar Lebang, and many more.