PUstaka puJAngga

Written by Nurel Javissyarqi
Translated by Agus B. Harianto

“with her simplicity, woman can also be beauty” (Van Gogh)

I. History of paint

(I) The world is colorful,
night- noon, twilight and dawn,
stripe and stretch down to embrace the sky;
bats, crows, incarnate become history.

(II) Sharp dancing of paint are unsheathe,
similar like ripeness body- be pliant of the houri;
the sun is captured by the soldier of cloud,
the foots are trotting to the days of death.

(III) The paint hurts the body of canvas, thickly paint of anger,
that is the blood pouring forth, from inside of body is seethed hardly.

(IV) In here, the positions of craziness are arranged,
colors of the world, doesn’t satisfied the eyes anymore,
words, not even one satiating the ear;
cut by the period that don’t glorify the work,
then the beauties is fell headlong into the hole of ancient.

(V) Palette denies the paint, betrayal to tear the canvas;
the heart fully pain, without acetic acid there is no color of feeling.

(VI) Like the fermented palm wine has ability to drunk the galaxy;
turns the planet upside down, great difficulty to be crazy,
doesn’t give the freshmen.

(VII) When the great grand mother, didn’t know the color yet,
chiseling on wall of temple, deeply and shallow of its light;
flew trough river of legend, and the flood of tear
created the stillness, added the top of their meditation.

(VIII) Light- color as the coloring of the world,
its elements meet the universe of silent.
All flowing aims to estuary; “they tell the story each other,
meet the overflow of sea, be solid with the sweat of salt.

(IX) At the narrow room,
the air is moving back and forth repeatedly to create the color,
its aroma doesn’t be stock- still in amazement by the eras.

(X) Staring being far from, its characteristic is hidden,
copulates the freedom to guess,
with the galaxy’s particle of the light feeling.

(XI) Similar like calling,
the color of death at the beginning season of yearning,
stepping on clay land, sand is swampy,
the rhythm of song is reaching the dreams of yearning.

(XII) Van Gogh; “season for children,
to form the clay, create the doll.”
Heap of sand becomes building,
and the world is created from the loyal men.

(XIII) Night- day are collected,
gives another face for the wanderer of history;
skins the canvas of heart, small brush of destiny is moved actively.
Only the crazy one, whom be able to swirl the feeling,
body meet the abstract at address of sitting with cross leg,
then the full moon night is shining swamp,
the lotus is blossoming in the bosom.

(XIV) Who the one spend the color become the superiority,
equal with the saying of poet; pain of pen at the black of ink.
Papers of sacrificing, ruins of mist with wing,
breathe the smell of incense, before you run out of age.”

(XV) The times are wandering as the color of brave man,
similar like soft dust flies into eyelid;
or tear pouring out, by pealing of red onion.

(XVI) When looks the work then be trembled the sign,
be perfect in crazy at the color of composition of dizzy
make the enjoyer be lost, whom doesn’t guess.

(XVII) He is thirsty to plunge,
bathed with the paint to copulate the dry season,
draws the world pain of subject, roaming of
specter of yearning of the poet, for the children of its period.

(XVIII) Narrow and crowded around of the color stops the game,
lies down among the work, be closed the eyes with the dream of whole paint;
bodies are ripped apart by the palette, the paint brush be threw away onto the canvas,
broken- hang, looking for wrapper of bone.

II. Marriage of Van Gogh

(I) Your simplicity was threw out any direction until agree,
didn’t make the whole object;
unperfected painting gives maturity,
you are strangeness of fall headlong, cutter of hoping.

(II) The heart is hard beating without ever finish to wait,
you worried to miss, the colors of the twilight sky was roaring.

(III) The afternoon drags me to sink in the nights,
at bucket of putrid flower, injured woman is cured by sucking
lips of black rose, as soft as salve of ulcer of the time will come.

(IV) The days is in pain are also being happy;
watch the work to enjoy with nervous eyes,
overcast with short drizzle, aims to the spirits of blue craziness.

(V) He dumped away the robe of disturber, body of hermit
incarnates paintbrush on united canvas; mixed over in
the bosom, aroma of pain is pouring out, since from abstract well manner.

(VI) At the hill of the sun, wait the body being burnt,
the nights summarize cool to pick the flowers up;
this is the painting of eras before satisfied to disengage,
leave in dry of judgment time.

(VII) Being lonely of the soul is frozen, a candle is not kissed by the flame;
the pain of ear incarnates painting, then they be crazy to pay attention.

(VIII) Hot weather is swimming in the depth,
the narrow power of wind east- west slaps the face;
I am naked sweetheart, for life to satisfy you,
then the soul breaths of enjoyer, by your attention.

(IX) Pain marriage, won’t be easy to be got loose,
sweetheart of his paintings are no more left, and the deception are more pleasant,
cloud- cumulus tell story about the pouring forth of solid blood at the future.

(X) Long pain pays fully lave;
he was wallowing in a mud hole, pounding on the cracking of land,
for loving to them, missed to the craziness.

(XI) Sand of seashore is scattering around on the face of twilight,
dumped his self off onto the edge ocean of feeling;
when he developed the world, almost finished at the decrepit shack,
and the dusts fell onto the floor, from more weakly sky.

III. The self-figure of Van Gogh

(I) On the canvas of sick,
the history paint of great grand mother trots the death,
comes closer- sticky to the era of youth in the end of your life;
is dying man, among the happiness of gleaming color.

(II) He was lost in the rotation rhythm of consciousness,
stand straight erectly feeling lives the frozen to be cut off by bad luck;
Who be brave to receive resolutely?

(III) Keep painting to hope on his shadow be far away
behind the death, its wings aimed to the dream;
it develop for years, the sky was not in certain of its level.
Van Gogh said; “I extend the face, I hang nailed
with window of the moon, and the glass roof- tile as the sun.”

(IV) The noon cleanses sweat, realize be in crazy to make work,
like the teenage time stupidly in the jail of disappointed;
times are framed with painting for the firmament of soul,
and someday later, the students come to visit the room of history.

(V) I draw clearly most handsome face
among self- figure (personality); “I am Van Gogh haunt you.
Dream, that is my world after death, and this writing,
Lead you, master, to reach the kingdom of my soul.”

(VI) The heartbeat is trembled;” look at my picture,
I use the colors to follow it, and its young
support me in every periods. My painting is extended
on the walls of testimony.”

(VII) I shake sickly in the game of color;
stupidity, that is my cleverness alike rusty sword,
incomparable happiness, circling- glazier’s putty to centuries pain,
the alliance of my paint’s colors, to their canvases.

(VIII) “Oh, I ever throw those smiled self- picture,
then I pick it up, I adhere it on the wall of ceiling in my room.
Every guest that come to the house, go home with laugh,
Either does miss a lot like revenge is unsheathed, at those painting
which is still boiled, together with my young friends.”

IV. The Death of Van Gogh

(I) The sky’s gate is opened, the land is cracking widely,
didn’t avoid to enter into a bier,
didn’t brought whatever beloved,
didn’t be accompanied by whatever hated.

(II) Sleep together with the rhythm of insects, fragrant and dry of
Cambodia flower; the crying of regret, left to make a hole on the body- soul.

(III) Above the fidgety sky,
wonder maybe dragged for climb down the way of live again.

(IV) Past carrying of a bier that he smiled at;
the angels pinched the cheek, he said,
the fairy pick the kissing up, the matter is.

(V) Uncertain death, be silent from the noisy of speculators.

(VI) Felt so comfort, in weakly range of birth,
freshmen from something, after sick harvested the full moon.

(VII) Just like these, the fairy were surrounding the meeting doesn’t
need time, everything runs fully blue color;
doesn’t obey by the night- noon and everything seem so pure.
The painting of past century also the next are shown up
in my rest they said, I have been closed the eyes.

(VIII) Over here the soft air having color, infiltrates into the branches of cloud,
and the color of flowers doesn’t same, this clearly more has breathing.

(IX) Van Gogh stated the sentences firmly;
“ the craziness shouldn’t be full, if only the feeling overflow
to the different color. Mean time, the post of life is in the death.
Together with this,
I leave the rough and dismembered sketches.”

October 5, 2000, Eska at the near of GajahWong.

Filed under: Ballads of Too Early Destiny, PUstaka puJAngga