aku masih perempuan penyabar yang membuktikan cinta lewat kepul tungku. suamiku adalah lelaki kekar yang berharap mengabarkan bahwa ikan-ikan telah terjaring. anakku lahir sebagai anak nelayan yang malu dibilang bodoh dan miskin.
#sebagai istri yang tak mengenal alam selain dapur, sumur, dan kasur
cabe dan bawang tak tumbuh di tanah ini. padi dan jagung memilih daratan lain. oleh karena ikan-ikan kabur menyeberangi pulau jauh untuk bertelur, aku jadi ragu apakah perahu-perahu itu benar-benar berlayar sampai tertambat lagi sebuah jangkar.
suamiku, pada laut yang menyimpan maut, aku ingin bertanya muasal pasang dan surut. pada mata sedalam laut, kau tangkap ikan bersisik lumut: menelan
matahari di siang hari, dan menelan bulan di malam hari. memang aku tahu, ikan bersirip gelombang itu berendam di air garam. tapi, kenapakah ikan tak
pernah asin?
di atas perahu kau kibarkan layar. tiang menusuk bintang bagai bulu mataku. gelombang menggesek air yang bergambar bunga karang di dasar. dan di tengah bahtera itu, kau berhenti bertanya arah angin, hanya biru langit dan air laut berombak menuju geladak kau biarkan berdebur ke dadamu. memang aku tahu, langit selalu bertaut pada laut. adakah laut mengalami maut, suamiku?
#sebagai ibu, sudah kupohonkan doa kepadamu, sepanjang hayat manusia
terbayang dirimu, terkenang dhemar kambheng itu. sebuah kapal melintas di depanku. mungkin itu kapal yang dulu membawamu meninggalkan ibu, ladang, sungai, hutan kecil di belakang rumah, juga perahu ayahmu.
kini, engkau perantau. aku memujamu dengan api ini, anakku, sebab aku tahu rahasia pendar damar pada sumbu kapas yang napasnya terdengar. di atas sekerat daun lontar dan jelantah itu, suluh damar menjadi kompas bagiku; dan kusulut ia bagi jiwamu, agar nyala dan terangnya meresap ke dasar hatiku.
bila api menggeliat di udara, ia melarut jiwa. kau pasti bahagia di sana. dan bila ia mati, kusulut lagi, mati lagi; gerimis bening tumbuh di mataku, memadamkan segala sukmamu.
bagiku, kau adalah api itu, anakku. api yang berkobar di aliran darahku, sumsum tulang, dan detak jantungku. garis nasib yang kau ikuti lajunya adalah perpanjangan sumbu yang kau sulut di rahimku dulu. karena itu, aku menjagamu tak mengenal waktu.
#kita adalah kematian; seketika pantaiku disulap jadi ziarah tanpa rimbun kemboja
kelak, di pemakaman ini ruh-ruh akan tumbuh seperti pohon. akar-akarnya berserabut dan menghunjam dalam tanah. amal-amalnya jadi batang dan getah meleleh, bagai cinta yang mencair. lihatlah, bunga-bunga di ujung ranting, kelopaknya mekar ke langit:
ada yang ceria, ada yang derita.
kelak, suatu pagi di pemakaman ini, ruh-ruh kita tumbuh. kita akan bertemu, mengenang permainan dadu, buku, dan kisah yang tak selesai. kita berjanji akan melanjutkannya nanti bersama ular yang meliuk dalam api, atau burung-burung yang bertekukur dalam cahaya. ya, kelak pemakaman ini akan menjadi hutan rimbun, yang ditumbuhi ruh-ruh kita.
2016
Translation:
PANAONGAN WOMAN FROM THE COAST OF PASONGSONGAN
I am still a patient woman who proves her love through the smoke rising from the hearth. My husband is a sturdy man who longs to return with news that the fish have been caught. My child was born a fisherman’s son, ashamed of being called poor and ignorant.
#as a wife who knows no world beyond the kitchen, the well, and the bed
Chilies and onions do not grow in this land. Rice and corn have chosen other plains. Since the fish have fled across distant islands to spawn, I have begun to wonder whether those boats truly sail only to cast anchor here once more.
My husband, to the sea that keeps death in its depths, I wish to ask where the tides are born. Within eyes as deep as the sea, you catch fish scaled with moss, swallowing the sun by day and the moon by night. I know those wave-finned fish dwell in saltwater. Yet why is it that fish are never salty?
Upon your boat you raise the sail. Its mast pierces the stars like my eyelashes. Waves scrape against waters painted with coral blossoms beneath. And there, upon that vessel, you no longer ask where the wind is headed; you simply let the blue of sky and the heaving sea break upon the deck and surge against your chest. I know the sky is forever bound to the sea. But tell me my husband, does the sea ever meet its own death?
#as a mother, I have entrusted my prayers to you, all my life
I still see you, remembering that dhemar kambheng. A ship passes before me. Perhaps it is the very ship that once carried you away from your mother, the fields, the river, the little forest behind the house, and your father’s boat.
Now you are a wanderer. I worship you with this flame, my son, for I know the secret of the damar resin glowing upon its cotton wick whose breath can be heard. Upon a strip of lontar leaf and used cooking oil, the damar torch becomes my compass; I kindle it for your soul, that its light and warmth may sink into the deepest chamber of my heart.
When the flame writhes in the air, it dissolves the soul. Surely you are happy there. And when it dies, I kindle it again; when it dies again, clear drizzles bloom within my eyes, extinguishing every trace of your spirit.
To me, you are that fire, my son. The fire blazing through my blood, the marrow of my bones, and the beating of my heart. The line of fate you follow is but the extension of the wick first lit within my womb. That is why I keep watching over you without knowing time.
#we are the death; in an instant my shore is turned into a pilgrimage without the shade of frangipani
One day, in this cemetery, souls will grow like trees. Their roots will spread and burrow deep into the earth. Their good deeds will become trunks, while sap trickles down like love melting into itself. Look, the flowers at the tips of their branches bloom toward the sky: some radiant with joy, others burdened with sorrow.
One morning, in this cemetery, our souls will grow. We shall meet again, remembering our games of dice, our books, and the stories left unfinished. We shall promise to continue them together, beside serpents coiling through fire, or birds softly cooing within the light. Yes, one day this cemetery will become a lush forest, where our souls take root and flourish.
Penulis: Zen AR
Poetry Prairie Literature Journal #4 “Dunia Bawah Laut”
Diterjemahkan oleh Poetry Prairie
Dhemar Kambeng berarti lentera menyala yang mengambang, biasanya dipakai sebagai pelengkap setiap hajatan yang digelar warga di Madura.
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Dhemar Kambeng is a glowing floating lantern traditionally displayed during communal festivities in Madura, serving as a symbol of celebration and togetherness.
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