Poems by Amien KamiI
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Membaca Tanda Tanda.
Dari remah-remah kata Kutelusuri jejak puncak sajak Lari mencari hakikat cahaya di belantara kata dan menemukan aura Hamzah di antara kearifan Amir kekhusyukan Fansuri Pernah sekali waktu aku lelah mendaki dan menapaki curamnya terjal gunung jiwa langit kesunyian para pertapa Melewati liku-liku luka jalan setapak kubaca sandi yang ditinggalkan pioner saat menerobos pekat malam pada ceruk goa-goa purba walau tiada dalam peta Samar-samar kuikuti jejak tapak luka mereka yang tersaput bayang-bayang kelebatan hutan raksasa atau terseret derak-deras gelombang hitam sejarah manusia (Semua itu, kini hanya tersisa dan tersaji jadi dongeng nina-bobo Si Upik jelang tidurnya) Saat sendiri di beranda entah terpantul oleh siapa ada gema suara terbawa angin dari utara Recognizing the Signs From the scattered bits of language, I uncover the heights of poetry, racing to discover the core of illumination amidst the chaos of words, and I stumbled upon Hamzah's spirit. In the insights of Amir, the dedication of Fansuri shines through There was a time when I felt exhausted from the arduous journey up the steep mountain of my spirit, navigating the quiet skies where hermits dwell. As I maneuvered through the painful twists and turns of my journey, I discovered the signs inscribed by those who came before me, all while pushing through the dense darkness of the night Deep within the hidden caves of the past, even if they don't show up on any maps I kind of trace the marks of their pain, hidden in the dark corners of the massive forest or pulled along by the thunderous tides of our shared past. (All of this now serves as a soothing lullaby for Upik as she prepares to drift off to sleep) Sitting by myself on the porch, I couldn't help but wonder about the echo that the northern wind brought with it. "The mirror not only shows our inner self but also reveals what we see through our eyes. It serves as a witness to our journey, reflecting how our true path aligns with the desires of our heart." Sitting alone on the porch I shut my eyes and recognize the signs around me Call Its From The Blues Mereka bilang aku minggu siang yang tak pernah Lelah Sementara buku jariku sering berdarah Memetik senar hingga sayap jiwaku terbang Mencabik senar hingga paruh jiwaku patah Nada itu, selalu membawaku pada musim-musim melewati gurun, lembah, ngarai hingga lorong mimpi Trompet melengking, genderang tambur bergema langkah lars serdadu luka tertatih menahan perih, sehabis perang gerilya Billy Holiday menyanyi, suaranya galau Menyalak mengoyak tabir kelam malam “This call its from the Blues!” Ada yang sedang berendam dalam aquarium Di balik podium Imperium itu, ia masih menyanyi lagu lama yang itu-itu juga Sementara kita, masih berdesakan di gheto dan kamp pengungsi, perut diganjal mie instan + nasi basi Warta di televisi, anak jalanan disodomi plus dimutilasi Para penyair masih sibuk diskusi soal diksi wakil rakyat koalisi untuk kepentingan sendiri dan demonstrasi sudah hampir tak punya gigi “This call its from the Blues!” Sambil bersandar di tiang listrik trotoar pinggir jalan menyaksikan buruh, pedagang kaki-lima, pelacur serta penganggur bertahan hidup serta mengais mimpi di jantung negri yang penuh korupsi “This call its from the Blues!” Billy Holiday menyanyi, suaranya parau menyalak mengoyak kelam malam Ada yang terjarah, terjajah dan terluka sementara aku disini, terkesima menantikan lokomotif perubahan yang dijanjikan tak kunjung muncul di stasiun harapan This call it's from the Blues People say I'm like a never-ending Sunday afternoon, even though my fingers sometimes bleed from strumming the strings, pushing until my soul takes flight, ripping at the strings until my spirit feels shattered. That tune, consistently transports me through the seasons, traversing deserts, valleys, and canyons, leading me to corridors of dreams. The sound of trumpets resonates, drums reverberate, and I can almost hear the footsteps of injured soldiers, struggling in agony, following the aftermath of guerrilla warfare. Billie Holiday's voice bursts forth, howling passionately as it cuts through the shadows of the night. “This call its from the Blues!” In an aquarium, someone is immersed, standing behind an ornate podium, continuing to sing the same familiar tunes. Meanwhile, we remain packed into ghettos and refugee camps, our bellies filled with instant noodles and old rice. The news on TV reveals the harsh realities of street children suffering abuse and violence. Poets are preoccupied with analyzing the language used by those in power, who are more focused on their own agendas. As for the protests, they seem to lack any real impact. “This call its from the Blues!” Resting against an electric pole on the sidewalk, I observe the daily struggles of laborers, street vendors, sex workers, and the unemployed as they navigate their existence in a nation rife with corruption. “This call its from the Blues!” Billie Holiday's raspy voice cuts through the night, filling the air with emotion. Meanwhile, some people suffer from looting, colonization, and deep wounds, while we stand here in awe, anticipating the arrival of the long-promised train of change that never seems to pull into the station of hope. |
Amien Kamil was born in Jakarta, Indonesia, on May 2, 1963. He is a poet, painter, film director, director in his country of the Republic of the Performing Arts. He studied at the Academy of Cinematography of the Jakarta Institute of Arts. As a teenager he became interested in literature and the world of stage performances. Joining a theatre group quite popular in Indonesia, Rendra Theatre Workshop, he studied art more intensively with several teachers of fine arts, literature and theatre. He has published two anthological books of his poetry and has participated in artistic events in the United States, Mexico, Germany, Algeria, Georgia, Belarus and Egypt.
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