PUstaka puJAngga

Written by Nurel Javissyarqi
Translated by Agus B. Harianto

MABUKLAH!
Charles Baudelaire

Meski selalu mabuk. Terang sudah: itulah masalah satu-satunya. Agar tidak merasakan beban ngeri Sang Waktu yang meremukkan bahu serta merundukkan tubuhmu ke bumi, mestilah kau bermabuk-mabuk terus-terusan. Tetapi dengan apa? Dengan anggur, dengan puisi, dengan kebajikan, sesuka hatimu. Tetapi mabuklah!
Dan jika sembarang waktu, di tangga istana, di rumput hijau kamalir, dalam kesepian guram kamarmu, kau tersadar dan merasakan mabukmu sudah berkurang atau menghilang, tanyakanlah pada angin, pada gelombang, pada bintang, pada burung, pada jam, pada segala yang lari, pada segala yang merintih, pada segala yang berputar, pada segala yang bernyanyi, pada segala yang bicara, tanyakan jam berapa hari, dan angin, gelombang, bintang, burung, jam bakal menjawab: “Inilah saatnya untuk mabuk! Untuk tidak menjadi budak siksaan Sang Waktu, mabuklah; bermabuk-mabuklah tanpa henti-hentinya! Dengan anggur, dengan puisi atau kebajikan, sesuka hatimu-”

GET DRUNK!
By Charles Baudelaire

Although always drunk. Clearly: that’s the only problem.
In order not to feel the horrible burden of The Time that crushes the shoulder and bend your body into the earth, you must be continuously drunk. But what will you drunk with? With the wine, with the poetry, with virtue, as you preferred? Whatsoever, get drunk!
And if at any time, at the stairs of palace, on the green grass kamalir, in lonely humming of your room, you wake up and feel your drunk had been decreased or disappeared, ask to the wind, to the waves, to the stars, to the birds, to the clock, to anything running, to anything moaning, to anything rotating, to anything singing, to anything talking, ask them what time is it today, and the wind, the wave, the star, the bird, the clock would answer: “It’s time to get drunk! To not be a slave to torture of The Time, get continuously drunk! With wine, with poetry or virtue, as you preferred-”
*

French modern poetry can be practically started from Charles Baudelaire on his poem anthology “Les Fleurs du Mal” which is an inspiration to contemporary poetry, had borne two streams of literary; the artists and critics, on the one hand, it flew into Mallarme to Valery, on the other hand, it infiltrated to Rimbaud and then to Avontir, the surrealis (Marcel Raymond “De Baudelaire au Surrealism”, Jose Corti 1963, quoted by Wing Kardjo).
Wing Kardjo himself says “The nature is such kind of mystical allegory, a kind of imagination stimulation. Even so Baudelaire kept declares that the inspiration is the reward of everyday endeavor, not merely drop down from the Heaven.”
Charles Pierre Baudelaire, was born in Paris at April 19, 1821, and died August 31, 1867, he was the King of the Poet (Rimbaud expression), a famous critic and translator of the nineteenth century. His father was an artist and officer, whom died when Baudelaire was a child in 1827. At the following year, his mother, Caroline, 34 years younger than his father, married Lieutenant-Colonel Jacques Aupick, and then he served as French ambassador to many kingdoms. (Took from the book “Sajak-Sajak Modern Prancis Dalam Dua Bahasa”, compiled by Wing Kardjo, Pustaka Jaya, Prints II, 1975).
**

At 1841 Baudelaire’s parents sent him to India, in order he to be stopped the tendency of bohemian life, but a year later he returned to France to accept the inheritance. In 1844 the half of the money has been lost by style of spree. For the sake of supported his life to write art criticism, essays, and reviews in various journals, his poems began to appear since the 1840s. In the year 1847, he published the autobiographical, “La Fanfarlo”. 1854-1855, he published the work of Edgar Allan Poe. At 1857, Les Fleurs du Mal (Flowers of Satan) was published, the poetry anthology that is almost fulfilled with sexual content, Gustave Flaubert and Victor Hugo wrote praise for what had benn he done. New prosaic poems published after his death entitle “Petits Poèmes en prose” in 1869. (Took from Encyclopedia of World Literature, compiled by Anton Kurnia, i: boekoe, 2006).
***

I saw Baudelaire is a figure of poet who was diligent to search for the chemical formula of words, for the sake of freshness, especially in his poems.

The struggle of life was flying among the bohemian life, he forged the heart of times destroyer to surpass the events, a freshness seem looked up.

Hit the wall of the old poetic, flew in through the crater candradimuka of soul struggle, didn’t be the followers of the shadows of history.

But crossing the color of the last century placed at the position that has been struggle and intercourse with the words, by the attitude of his work.

Because of the ticking of time and place of scene burdened consciousness, it was finished by seriously wrote the wings of behavior processed by feelings.

It was real, sweet smells stimulated him to step up the level of achievements, borne the mature outlook, scattered the flashing waves of devotion.

Until certain considerations he was tossed to the beach of believe that is to be the view crushing all over around, exploring the comprehension of next generation, on the critical reasoning observed and developed the knowledge.

From reading and the conflict of time determined to be trapped in the space, entered the atmosphere of head seethed to force him to stir up the deepest heart, to find freedom of motion of creation.

The wildness of life run sideways and sometimes run oblique way, up and down in the nightlife of glittering puzzle of light, and also the hunches break through the desert of thinking.

Penetrated the frame of stream attacked like a comet spreading the spots of light in the darkness of night, on the beauty of the moon that always circulates the renewal.

The pressure of life on guilt or the forgotten had missing from previous estimation; even the sleepy clarify the reading, pushing into the immeasurable hallway.

Whether the balance or had been, when the searchman swayed by waves bear the grain from the power of wind of memory and the mountains at far away place.

There is strong pressure of air incarnated to be the season in the nature of heart in turn, blossoming, falling, and then circling, were markers of hour for the incident of war was not stopped to be mixed over with strong understanding.

That the fate should be forwarded to the span of time, distance of the considerations of essence embraced the loneliness, as if the sky of life gave him blessing though the mistaken had passed.

Whether it rewards or sin when the deed came out in the book of achievement, was it the body of messenger or being crazy on faded path far away from the light ranges.

The reflection cared the bosom of night, smoothened the comfort panorama, as perfect as the flowers with various colors in the gardens of the essence of forging.

While the fog of anxiety as much as the mega of fear drops down the tears of unimpeded heavy rain, chills for fever on symptoms of eternality all the times.

And his poetry above, Baudelaire leaned anything to the busyness; the ghosts of worried had been disappeared through the slashes of bare machete of the creation.

The whipping of possibility on swing flaw is believed to close the odd denounced unfounded, the heart was beating so hard when he pumped his brain to study in anxiousness.

Resembling like the stages of madness had never stop to reach the firmament of hope left.

There’s magic energy form, when he poked the issue of the riots, but did not injure old wounds.

But more and more pain, when no answer is found, resembling running first, waiting for the others.

Pulse of waiting is more frightening than since the failure seem look alike the face of future destroyer.

But he probed the sabot of the dark possibility of continuance understanding, that the problems must be conduced.

Although the barriers have cunning eyes, until the dance of the fingers bounced off to the rock and hit the towering cliffs.

The echoing of presence that became the spiritual bound, purely for the sake of slave of destiny.

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