PUstaka puJAngga

Written by Nurel Javissyarqi
Translated by Agus B. Harianto

The spirit of poetry before blown by the poet, it was still wafting in the sky of the spiritual of creation. How to struggle the light of feeling is so tired. Like water is boiling on the stove with the flame of eternity.

Ripen substances of experience till no bacteria remains. From there comes the clarity of beginning, his own soul is suggested for the sake of spewing long embodied the flaming. As a birth of certitude, after long yearning encumbered.

The risen trust destroys the mist of misgivings, drowned the doubts. Shadows of fear haunted romance during this time is vanished. In the fusion of space-time that is always carried with the consciousness.

The words from the mouth of pen are achieved, drawing on sheets of paper, carving the wood of testimony. Its destiny sails boat of conscience for the sake of the light of mankind.

When his body’s inner of spiritual was culminated completely, the power of his poet crept through fingers that is lively dancing and kept shaking.

“Son of Shakespeare’s” the nickname of Victor Hugo (1802-1885) to Arthur Rimbaud. Viewed the shadow of himself was flashed by the light of past. His eyes were twinkled covered by nearest ancestor spirits. Guiding souls are not plentiful, to be more sturdy to attempt in the search.

Until the end of the path he completed his work, stared at repeatedly anywhere. Trimmed and adapted to be more humane or sensory from the previous state. Kept in neat box, before the distance of waiting learnt what had oscillated around him all the years.

The seriousness was continued after the doubt haunted back, anxiety was raised by vigilance. He took the past notes; he read it loudly in the inner and spoken out. This is where the final adjustments to occur.

Fragments without mercy to himself, the choice of words exceeds the decision of law beheaded. The colors and the melody were harmonized. Matured the blowing of changes that are always driven. If in doubt it was saved again, if it felt perfect it was believed has the final testimony like the beginning of birth.

Bernard Dorléans in his book ” Les Français et I’Indonésie du XVIe au Xxe siécle ” says that Arthur Rimbaud was in Java in 1876 as a member of the Dutch army. Now allowed me to interpret one of his poems entitles “Chanson De La Plus Haute Tour” from the book “Sajak-sajak Modern Pranncis dalam Dua Bahasa” (Bilingual Modern French Poetry), compiled by Wing Kardjo, Pustaka Jaya, 1972:

LAGU MENARA TERTINGGI
Arthur Rimbaud

Datanglah, ya datang
Saat bercinta.

Aku sudah begitu sabar
Hingga semua kulupa.
Derita dan gentar
Ke langit musnah.
Dan haus maksiat
Membuat darahku pucat.

Datanglah, ya datang,
Saat bercinta.

Bagai padang
Terbengkalai lupa,
Belukar dan kemenyan
Tumbuh dan berbunga
Dalam dengung liar
Lalar-lalar kotor

Datanglah, ya datang
Saat bercinta.

Song of Highest Tower
Arthur Rimbaud

Come, yes come
Time for making love.

I’ve been so patient
Until I forgot all.
Anguish and trepidation
Disappeared into the sky.
And thirsty of wickedness
Makes pale my blood.

Come, yes come,
the time for making love.

Like fields
Abandoned and be forgotten,
Shrub and incense
Grows and flowers
In the wild drone
Dirty flies

Come, yes come
The time for making clove.

Rimbaud, evokes a passionate period from the base of himself. His power appointed and soared to fill a call away. Or his personality called for causes.

Then the faces came, flocked to find possibilities. Passionate affection was pulverized by deepest longing. Along with it every utterance creates great atmosphere in the womb of the universe.

Thicken the belief in all beings, like the fate outlined. Not wavered even though the entire world to thwart. That is the spirit of inner matures its voices toward into the deepest heart, the heart of time.

His patience of waiting destroyed all buildings of past historical on the painful embankment. The flowers of the reefs of memory are blown by wave swept over the wounds to salt the self.

Until the trepidation also anxiousness, swept away and his desire was untouched again. It was destroyed unless the will of legitimate desires and smelting of his passion paled beauty faces as pale as bagasse (sugar cane dregs).

Or sheaths of flowers withered by the wistful wind suddenly ripen the time. The apple wrinkled before touched by fingers. Rimbaud called the arrival of wind but not the wind of comforting, but the charm of enthusiastic as much as the romance of death.

The wind of ancient came and rammed the eyes of its children, on rocky cliffs tapered thickly. There the sheets of time keep the saga of longing.

Landslides filled in the old voices, now eroded by shore wind blew the bones of thousands of years ago. The hidden incarnates limestone, as pale as bitter of early morning rain.

Forget it the consciousness will move away or have gone. The death of lover overshadows the beloved, and then scented flirtation to stick the lips shut trembling.

Fly as high as black cloud engenders the times of shaking the thick of robustness. Tallest tower of presence at the romance: the death is always missed by seekers of eternality.

Spreads the flame of eternality to dim hallways. Resurrected the ghosts are not missed, but the calamity befallen that is long time meaningless.

Horrified of anguish escaped into the red sky. On the fields of perished the fury is redoubled, came during passionate lovemaking.

So, that is my interpretation for this time. For its history I quoted from the books “Puisi Dunia” (World Poetry), vol. I, compiled by M. Taslim Ali, Balai Pustaka, 1952 (which is retranslated into English would be more or less like what you have seen):

Jean Nicolas Arthur Rimbaud (October 20, 1854-November 10, 1891) is French poet, born in Charleville, Ardennes. An educated religious, at first he was so quiet person but suddenly he revolted and left his school and his mother, appeared in Paris at 15 years old. He got Paul Verlaine with poems anthology that was appalling poets in Paris. And his poems are viewed dramatic Hayali. Fantasy and also mild sentimentality to make daydreaming. His free rhymes are alive, the words he used as the color of the sound of the moving pictures, association around one metaphor as a central.

From this collection streamed symbolically flowing to enter French literature. In some cases Rimbaud is considered a pioneer of surrealist, he wrote poems between the ages of 15 and 19 years. His famous anthology are “Poésies”, “Une Saison En Enfer”, “Illuminations.” His famous poem is “Le Bateau Ivre” that is fully symbol of events of fate and destiny and unordinary and far away country paintings.

This Rimbaud that was not normal was as is he could view with his inner. Paul Claudel (1868 -1955) considered him as the greatest poet who ever lived. After him nearly being shot dead by Verlaine, suddenly he disappeared. He lived the free and wild life, talented on the field that was not appropriated to the carriage of authority. He Become an ivory traders, sold weapons to Negus. Rimbaud died in Merseille because of fallen from his horse. His legs had to be amputated, phlebitis finished his story.

Excerpts from http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Arthur_Rimbaud: it is written, in May 1876 Rimbaud signed up to the Dutch Colonial Army as soldiers for free travel to Java (Indonesia), he promptly deserted and returned to France by ship. At the residence of the mayor of Salatiga, a small town 46 km south of Semarang, Central Java, there is a marble plaque stating that Rimbaud had lived in the city.

Rimbaud and Verlaine’s met for the last time at March 1875 in Stuttgart, German, after Verlaine’s liberty from prison. Rimbaud gave up writing at that time, he decided to work or already sick of his wild life. Some claimed that he was trying to be rich to be able to live one day as an independent writer. And then he traveled extensively in Europe, mostly by foot.

At the hospital in Marseille, his right leg amputated. Postoperative diagnosis was cancer. After he was staying briefly at the residence of his family in Charleville, he traveled back to Africa. On the way his health was deteriorating, was taken to the same hospital. Surgery was done and it was attended by his sister Isabelle. Rimbaud died in Marseille, and buried in Charleville.

http://www.sastra-indonesia.com/2010/05/1876-ruh-puisi-arthur-rimbaud-di-salatiga/

Filed under: Essay, PUstaka puJAngga