PUstaka puJAngga

Written by Nurel Javissyarqi
Translated by Agus B. Harianto

There is a poem written in simple way, but it is still interesting to be interpreted its meaning. There are greatly and maturely of its working, until it is charmed the eyes and ear. Definitely it is figured out, when the days is filled by tone of worship of chanting poems.

It was evident that the interpretation was truly indeed or it was just grimy from predecessors. It was evidently as well the poet of imitators; plagiarist or he was leaving from the experience of life, for the sake of tracing on the history of life.

There are unfinished poems by not so impatient too synchronize the value of words supported his work, so it is not as solid as the masterpiece. It can be investigated of its diction, whether it was be familiar to its poets or uncontrollably asked, it would be seen when we looks down his works.

Whether he was loyal enough to experience faithful tread of authority in the turnover of time such as his wishy-washy writing, there is a senseless, imbalanced and so on.

There is a writer sheltered by great talent but too much enjoy his intelligence, walks along on the brilliant instincts but underestimates natural things of his works. His words were beautiful, but it didn’t attach to the body in the same breath of life upheavals of his era.

There are some creeps on perseverance, but after his expert is presented, his heart chains were loose to disengage the circle of possibilities reached before. The presence of illumination of poetic light was like divine inspiration, but he never takes good care of it well, and then it will be diffused.

From here we should be maintained vigilance, suspecting on a set of self acquisition matures the implicit and also the already explicated. Trained the sensitivity in the overall sense of reading the sign. So his heart knowledge manifests as deep as the breath of understanding he is running.

This does not stop in order some doors to be opened to thirstiness, thirst increased bone, and find the idea of hot-spots as jump correlation, for the sake of fly the great willing staying in womb of longing.

It felt so hard fro the true poet to step on the stairs of self-hood. Now I’m aware, why so many of them were committed suicide, insane, isolated, and also other bad luck during their lived out of grade to find the sign of the heart of period.

There are some defeated and be sprawled face up all over in the middle of path, despairing and satisfied before the time was calling. Perhaps his name is still be mentioned, but it won’t be as strong as the one who sacrifice his life in order to preserve the value of poetic, enlightening spiritual wealth for others, be sincerely useful for the triumph of the peace and comfort world.
***

Albrecht Goes was born at March 22, 1908, and he died on February 23, 2000. He is a German writer and during the World War II he served as pastor in the German army. After the war, he wrote a few novels correlated to his experiences.

One of them is “Unruhige Nacht” (1950), translated into English as “Arrow to the Heart” and it was adapted for BBC television broadcasted in the United Kingdom, 1952.

Now I’ll try to interpret his poem below:

LANGKAH-LANGKAH
Albrecht Goes

Anakku, pendek langkahmu yang pertama
Dan akan pendek pulalah langkahmu yang penghabisan.
Langkah pertama diiringi ayah dan bunda,
Langkah terakhir kaujalankan sendirian.

Mungkin setahun lagi, kau, anakku, akan membuat
Banyak langkah tanpa diawasi,
Entah itu nanti langkah apa
Dalam terang dan di malam hari?

Dunia ini luas dan milikmu,
Melangkahlah dengan tabah dan berani.
Setelah langkahmu yang terakhir, anakku,
Kita akan bersama kembali.

STEPS
Albrecht Goes

My son, your short step at the first
And it would be so at your final step.
The first step accompanied by father and mother,
The final step you run it alone.

Maybe another year, you, my son, will make
Many steps without supervision
Whether it will be what steps
In the light and at night?

This world is vast and yours,
Step bravely and boldly.
After the last step, my son,
We’ll be together again.

[From the book “Malam Biru Di Berlin (Blue Night in Berlin)”, translated by Berthold Damshäuser and Ramadhan K.H., 1989, which is re-translated into English would be more or less like above]

The first step was troubling; there is space of doubts; between faith embedded with the whole of intentions, and also anxiety on the believed experience for testimony.

This absorbs all about power to determine the next step; there is a sound of silence, echoed fear breaking the eardrum of bear flavor, there was invited to retrace the thorny path without feeling it.

It is cluster of passion blown up to the smallest grain of the origin of presence, another name before the stone, or beam of wood with the purity. Now the dust, and charcoal as void filler, had not been marked in the eyes, and then as something existed.

That boy fought against the formation of the fate of his parents, the history of roots infiltrate to find the water of life in the cave of silent, presumably hoping to grow grafted.

Or softness of the wind spread the pistil of flowers; danced seed of life to the field and allowed to be lush at the distance of time that far away be forgotten by the beginning.

When I got lonely how I missed the old air delivered the determination to the present days, if only the new saga on the new name, the other accosting is still grasping consciousness of poetic; the life for the social breath.

While looking for weak points that was not transformed the cloud of aegis, hopefully the final steps captured each individual particle as he testified.

When the responsibilities attracted the consciousness, how shiny is the matured anxiety; misgivings are compacted, forgetfulness is raised up by the freedom to the limits of ability.

As he drew the silence and considering the quiet, from his anxiousness spread down the nets to anywhere. Pulled with the whole power, then arose the approximation from the crush of disappointment, and then found his shadow from another shadow.

A tree grows beside the trees; he saw there was uprooted and also was not growth, if tamarind tree renewed its freshness at the rainy season.

The leaves were regenerated to virgin, its shadow wouldn’t be immovable, the wind was shy to blow hard around it, only at a certain distance, uprooted the immature trees.

The child smelled discretion of view, out of the cage that had been shackled footsteps. Such as egret is playful to plow the muddy fields before going to fly its white wings.

Self-complacency floats the self in the air, or a branch smelled to the rain drop and said; welcome the season, welcome the sanctity of being born, after a long drought stricken the country.

At its peak, the trees shaking the rod to drop fruits, the birds flied toward the nest; every evening, the night ad also the morning, the beginning of consciousness renewed the time for the sake of insight sit down together with the changes surrounding.

Then this world is widely spread over the fortitude of courageous, mature the experience, the understanding presents the contemporary, the consciousness of questioned spatiotemporal has now transformed to be he power.

The memory of forms incarnated to be the singing, condensed the meaningful similarity, cutting the affix and grabbed the content. Who is gained the final step as full as the meaning, the feeling is commensurate to the song of time inhaled the balance of understanding.

Not too satiated and also not too much hunger, the values is deserved to be held to contemplate the limit of possibility; the humane mature, the essence of journey led it to determine the light of wisdom taken into the deepest heart.

At the turn the discretion of view, the regularly breath, ideology of running the purity, found illumination of peace, the poetic world of nirvana is promised as much as craved. This is how realist for the souls has testified, the sweet faith of the bitterness felt, or behind the folds of bitter there is honey of eternity.

Suppose grateful opened the curtains of the horizon surrounded, the color of beauty permeates the bone marrow of creation. Or the born read at the end of walking through the path of tired; wheezing provokes the feelings of constantly life.

Finally understanding spread around the world, there is no difference even though from the rivers that its flow is not same. Indeed so, the final step is signed? Then go into it, together again.
http://www.sastra-indonesia.com/2010/08/membaca-langkah-langkah-sederhana-albrecht-goes/

Filed under: Essay, PUstaka puJAngga