ENSIKLOPEDI SASTRA

Profile Of Kahlil Gibran

2009-09-24T02:17:00.000-07:00

Name: Khalil Gibran
Gender: Male
Date of Birth: 6-Jan-1883
Birthplace: Bsharri, Lebanon
Date of Death: 10 April 1931
Place of death: New York City
Cause of death: Cirrhosis of the Liver
Religion: Christian
Race or Ethnicity: Middle Eastern
Occupation: Poet, Novelist
Nationality: United States
Mother: Kamilah
Sister: Mariana, Sultana
Brother: Peter (half-brother)

Gibran Khalil Gibran was born on January 6, 1883, to the Maronite family of Gibran in Bsharri, a mountainous area in Northern Lebanon [Lebanon was a Turkish province part of Greater Syria (Syria, Lebanon, and Palestine) and subjugated to Ottoman dominion]. His mother Kamila Rahmeh was thirty when she begot Gibran from her third husband Khalil Gibran, who proved to be an irresponsible husband leading the family to poverty. Gibran had a half-brother six years older than him called Peter and two younger sisters, Mariana and Sultana, whom he was deeply attached to throughout his life, along with his mother. Kamila’s family came from a prestigious religious background, which imbued the uneducated mother with a strong will and later on helped her raise up the family on her own in the U.S. Growing up in the lush region of Bsharri, Gibran proved to be a solitary and pensive child who relished the natural surroundings of the cascading falls, the rugged cliffs and the neighboring green cedars, the beauty of which emerged as a dramatic and symbolic influence to his drawings and writings. Being laden with poverty, he did not receive any formal education or learning, which was limited to regular visits to a village priest who doctrined him with the essentials of religion and the Bible, alongside Syriac and Arabic languages. Recognizing Gibran’s inquisitive and alert nature, the priest began teaching him the rudiments of alphabet and language, opening up to Gibran the world of history, science, and language. At the age of ten, Gibran fell off a cliff, wounding his left shoulder, which remained weak for the rest of his life ever since this incident. To relocate the shoulder, his family strapped it to a cross and wrapped it up for forty days, a symbolic incident reminiscent of Christ’s wanderings in the wilderness and which remained etched in Gibran’s memory.

At the age of eight, Khalil Gibran, Gibran’s father, was accused of tax evasion and was sent to prison as the Ottomon authorities confiscated the Gibrans’ property and left them homeless. The family went to live with relatives for a while; however, the strong-willed mother decided that the family should immigrate to the U.S., seeking a better life and following in suit to Gibran’s uncle who immigrated earlier. The father was released in 1894, but being an irresponsible head of the family he was undecided about immigration and remained behind in Lebanon. On June 25, 1895, the Gibrans embarked on a voyage to the American shores of New York.

The Gibrans settled in Boston’s South End, which at the time hosted the second largest Syrian community in the U.S. following New York. The culturally diverse area felt familiar to Kamila, who was comforted by the familiar spoken Arabic, and the widespread Arab customs. Kamila, now the bread-earner of the family, began to work as a peddler on the impoverished streets of South End Boston. At the time, peddling was the major source of income for most Syrian immigrants, who were negatively portrayed due to their unconventional Arab ways and their supposed idleness.

In the school, a registration mistake altered his name forever by shortening it to Kahlil Gibran, which remained unchanged till the rest of his life despite repeated attempts at restoring his full name. Gibran entered school on September 30, 1895, merely two months after his arrival in the U.S. Having no formal education, he was placed in an ungraded class reserved for immigrant children, who had to learn English from scratch. Gibran caught the eye of his teachers with his sketches and drawings, a hobby he had started during his childhood in Lebanon.

Gibran’s curiosity led him to the cultural side of Boston, which exposed him to the rich world of the theatre, Opera and artistic Galleries. Prodded by the cultural scenes around him and through his artistic drawings, Gibran caught the attention of his teachers at the public school, who saw an artistic future for the boy. They contacted Fred Holland Day, an artist and a supporter of artists who opened up Gibran’s cultural world and set him on the road to artistic fame…

Gibran’s works were especially influential in the American popular culture in the 1960s. In 1904 Gibran had his first art exhibition in Boston. From 1908 to 1910 he studied art in Paris with August Rodin. In 1912 he settled in New York, where he devoted himself to writing and painting. Gibran’s early works were written in Arabic, and from 1918 he published mostly in English. In 1920 he founded a society for Arab writers, Mahgar (al-Mahgar). Among its members were Mikha’il Na’ima (1889-1988), Iliya Abu Madi (1889-1957), Nasib Arida (1887-1946), Nadra Haddad (1881-1950), and Ilyas Abu Sabaka (1903-47). Gibran died in New York on April 10, 1931. Among his best-known works is THE PROPHET, a book of 26 poetic essays, which has been translated into over 20 languages. The Prophet, who has lived in a foreign city 12 years, is about to board a ship that will take him home. He is stopped by a group of people, whom he teaches the mysteries of life.

Profile Of Muhammad Iqbal

2009-09-24T02:07:00.000-07:00

Iqbal, great poet-philosopher and active political leader, was born at Sialkot, Punjab, in 1877. He descended from a family of Kashmiri Brahmins, who had embraced Islam about 300 years earlier. Iqbal received his early education in the traditional maktab. Later he joined the Sialkot Mission School, from where he passed his matriculation examination. In 1897, he obtained his Bachelor of Arts Degree from Government College, Lahore. Two years later, he secured his Masters Degree and was appointed in the Oriental College, Lahore, as a lecturer of history, philosophy and English. He later proceeded to Europe for higher studies. Having obtained a degree at Cambridge, he secured his doctorate at Munich and finally qualified as a barrister.

He returned to India in 1908. Besides teaching and practicing law, Iqbal continued to write poetry. He resigned from government service in 1911 and took up the task of propagating individual thinking among the Muslims through his poetry.

1928, his reputation as a great Muslim philosopher was solidly established and he was invited to deliver lectures at Hyderabad, Aligarh and Madras. These series of lectures were later published as a book "The Reconstruction of Religious Thought in Islam". In 1930, Iqbal was invited to preside over the open session of the Muslim League at Allahabad. In his historic Allahabad Address, Iqbal visualized an independent and sovereign state for the Muslims of North-Western India. In 1932, Iqbal came to England as a Muslim delegate to the Third Round Table Conference.

In later years, when the Quaid had left India and was residing in England, Allama Iqbal wrote to him conveying to him his personal views on political problems and state of affairs of the Indian Muslims, and also persuading him to come back. These letters are dated from June 1936 to November 1937. This series of correspondence is now a part of important historic documents concerning Pakistan's struggle for freedom.

On April 21, 1938, the great Muslim poet-philosopher and champion of the Muslim cause, passed away. He lies buried next to the Badshahi Mosque in Lahore.

Profile Of Matsuo Basho

2009-09-15T10:35:00.001-07:00

Haiku(Matsuo Basho)

2009-09-15T10:32:00.000-07:00

Awake at Night
Awake at night
the sound of the water jar
cracking in the cold

Autumn Moonlight
Autumn moonlight
a worm digs silently
into the chestnut

A Bee
A bee
staggers out
of the peony

A Caterpillar
A caterpillar,
this deep in fall--
still not a butterfly

A Cicada Shell
A cicada shell;
it sang itself
utterly away.

First Snow
First snow
falling
on the half-finished bridge

First Day of Spring
First day of spring--
I keep thinking about
the end of autumn.

Six Haiku(Matsuo Basho)

2009-09-15T10:27:00.000-07:00

Six Haiku

Walking in the night;
the lamp is low,
the oil freezing.

It has rained enough
to turn the stubble on the field
black.

Winter rain
falls on the cow-shed;
a cock crows.

The leeks
newly washed white,
-how cold it is!

The sea darkness;
the voices of the wild ducks
are faintly white.

Ill on a journey;
my dreams wander
over a withered moor.

Four Haiku(Matsuo Basho)

2009-09-15T10:25:00.000-07:00

Spring:
A hill without name
Veiled in morning mist.

The beginning of autumn:
Sea and emerald paddy
Both the same green.

The winds of autumn
Blows: yet still green
The chestnut husks.

A flash of lightning:
Into the gloom
Goes the heron's cry.

The Question(Pablo Neruda)

2009-09-15T10:23:00.000-07:00

Love, a question
had destroyed you.

I have come back to you
from thorny uncertainty.

I want you straight as
the sword or the road.

But you insist
on keeping a nook
of shadow that I do not want.

My love,
understand me,
I love all of you,
from eyes to feet, to toenails,
inside,
all the brightness, which you kept.

It is I, my love,
who knocks at your door.
It is not the ghost, it is not
the one who once stopped
at your window.
I knock down the door:
I enter your life:
I come to love in your soul:
you cannot cope wit me.

You must open door to door,
you must obey me,
you must open your eyes
so that I may search in them,
you must see how I walk
with heavy steps
along all the roads
that, blind, were waiting for me.

Do not fear,
I am yours,
but
I am not the passenger or the beggar,
I am your master,
the one you were waiting for,
and now I enter
your life,
no more to leave it,
love, love, love,
but to stay.

The Question
PABLO NERUDA

Poetry(Pablo Neruda)

2009-09-15T10:21:00.000-07:00

And it was at that age ... Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don't know how or when
no they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence
but from a street I was summoned
from the branches of night
abruptly from the others
among violent fires
or returning alone
there I was without face
and it touched me.

I did not know what to say, my mouth
had no way
with names
my eyes were blind
and something started in my soul
fever or forgotten wings
and I made my own way
deciphering
that fire,
and I wrote the first faint line
faint, without substance, pure
nonsense
pure wisdom
of someone who knows nothing
and suddenly I saw
the heavens
unfastened
and open
planets
palpitating plantations
shadow perforated
riddled
with arrows, fire and flowers
the winding night, the universe.

And I, infinitesimal being,
drunk with the great starry
void,
likeness, image of
mystery,
felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke loose on the wind.

Poetry
PABLO NERUDA

Profile Of Pablo Neruda

2009-09-15T10:15:00.001-07:00

Ode To Sadness(Pablo Neruda)

2009-09-15T10:15:00.000-07:00

Sadness, scarab
with seven crippled feet,
spiderweb egg,
scramble-brained rat,
bitch's skeleton
No entry here.
Don't come in.
Go away.
Go back
south with your umbrella,
go back
north with your serpent's teeth.
A poet lives here.
No sadness may
cross this threshold.
Through these windows
comes the breath of the world,
fresh red roses,
flags embroidered with
the victories of the people.
No.
No entry,
Flap
your bat's wings,
I will trample the feathers
that fall from your mantle,
I will sweep the bits and pieces
of your carcass to
the four corners of the wind,
I will wring your neck,
I will stitch your eyelids shut,
I will sew your shroud,
sadness, and bury your rodent bones
beneath the springtime of an apple tree

Ode TO Sadness
PABLO NERUDA

Profile Of Aristhopanes

2009-09-15T10:12:00.001-07:00

Song Of The Clouds(Aristophanes)

2009-09-15T10:07:00.000-07:00

Loud Maidens that float on forever,
Dew-sprinkled, fleet bodies, and fair,
Let us rise from our Sire's loud river,
Great Ocean, and soar through the air
To the peaks of the pine-covered mountains where the pines hang as tressed of hair.
Let us seek the watch towers undaunted,
Where the well-watered cornfields abound,
And through murmurs of rivers nymph-haunted,
The songs of the sea-waves resound;
And the sun in the sky never wearies of spreading his radiance around.

Let us cast off the haze
Of the mists from our band
Till with far-seeing gaze
We may look on the land.

Cloud-maidens that bring the rain shower
To the Pallas-loved land let us wing
To the land of stout heroes and Power
Where Kekrops was hero and king
Where honor and silence is given
To the mysteries that none may declare
Where are gifts to the high gods in heaven
When the house of the gods is laid bare
Where are lofty roofed temples, and statues well carven and fair
Where are feasts to the happy immortals
When the sacred procession draws near
Where garlands make bright the bright portals
At all seasons and months in the year
And when spring days are here
Then we tread to the wine-god a measure
In Bacchanal dance and in pleasure
'Mid the contests of sweet singing choirs
And the crash of loud lyres.

Chorus Of The Initiated(Aristophanes)

2009-09-15T10:04:00.000-07:00

Now we go to dance and sing
In the consecrated shades;
Round the secret holy ring,
With the matrons and the maids.
Thither I must haste to bring
The mysterious early light;
Which must witness every rite
Of the joyous happy night.

Let us hasten let us fly
Where the lovely meadows lie;
Where the living waters flow;
Where the roses bloom and blow.
Heirs of immortality.
Segregated, safe and pure,
Easy, sorrowless, secure;
Since our earthly course is run,
We behold a brighter sun.
Holy lives a holy vow
Such rewards await them now.

Chorus Of Bird(Aristophanes)

2009-09-15T10:02:00.000-07:00

Chorus Of Bird

Ye... Children of Man! whose life is a span,
Protracted with sorrow from day to day,
Naked and featherless, feeble and querulous,
Sickly calamitous creatures of clay!
Attend to the words of the Sovereign Birds,
(Immortal, illustrious, lords of the air),
Who survey from on high, with a merciful eye,
Your struggles of misery, labor, and care.
Whence you may learn and clearly discern
Such truths as attract your inquisitive turn;
Which is busied of late with a mighty debate,
A profound speculation about the creation,
And organical life, and chaotical strife,
With various notions of heavenly motions,
And rivers and oceans, and valleys and mountains,
And sources of fountains, and meteors on high,
And stars in the sky . . . We propose by and by,
(If you'll listen and hear,) to make it all clear.
And Prodicus henceforth shall pass for a dunce,
When his doubts are explained and expounded at once.

Our antiquity proved, it remains to be shown
That Love is our author and master alone;
Like him we can ramble, and gambol and fly
O'er ocean and earth, and aloft to the sky;
And all the world over, we're friends to the lover,
And when other means fail, we are found to prevail,
When a Peacock or Pheasant is sent as a present.
All lessons of primary daily concern
You have learnt from the Birds, and continue to learn,
Your best benefactors and early instructors;
We give you the warning of seasons returning.
When the Cranes are arranged, and muster afloat
In the middle air, with a creaking note,
Steering away to the Libyan sands,
Then careful farmers sow their lands;
The crazy vessel is hauled ashore,
The sail, the ropes, the rudder and oar
Are all unshipped and housed in store.
The shepherd is warned, by the Kite reappearing,
To muster his flock, and be ready for shearing.
You quit your old cloak at the Swallow's behest,
In assurance of summer, and purchase a vest.
For Delphi, for Ammon, Dodona, in fine
For every oracular temple and shrine,
The Birds are a substitute equal and fair,
For on us you depend, and to us you repair
For counsel and aid when a marriage is made,
A purchase, a bargain, a venture in trade:
Unlucky or lucky, whatever has struck ye,
An ox or an ass that may happen to pass,
A voice in the street, or a slave that you meet,
A name or a word by chance overheard,
If you deem it an omen, you call it a Bird;
And if birds are your omens, it clearly will follow
That birds are a proper prophetic Apollo

A Song Of Despire(Pablo Neruda)

2009-09-15T09:57:00.000-07:00

The memory of you emerges from the night around me.
The river mingles its stubborn lament with the sea.

Deserted like the dwarves at dawn.
It is the hour of departure, oh deserted one!

Cold flower heads are raining over my heart.
Oh pit of debris, fierce cave of the shipwrecked.

In you the wars and the flights accumulated.
From you the wings of the song birds rose.

You swallowed everything, like distance.
Like the sea, like time. In you everything sank!

It was the happy hour of assault and the kiss.
The hour of the spell that blazed like a lighthouse.

Pilot's dread, fury of blind driver,
turbulent drunkenness of love, in you everything sank!

In the childhood of mist my soul, winged and wounded.
Lost discoverer, in you everything sank!

You girdled sorrow, you clung to desire,
sadness stunned you, in you everything sank!

I made the wall of shadow draw back,
beyond desire and act, I walked on.

Oh flesh, my own flesh, woman whom I loved and lost,
I summon you in the moist hour, I raise my song to you.

Like a jar you housed infinite tenderness.
and the infinite oblivion shattered you like a jar.

There was the black solitude of the islands,
and there, woman of love, your arms took me in.

There was thirst and hunger, and you were the fruit.
There were grief and ruins, and you were the miracle.

Ah woman, I do not know how you could contain me
in the earth of your soul, in the cross of your arms!

How terrible and brief my desire was to you!
How difficult and drunken, how tensed and avid.

Cemetery of kisses, there is still fire in your tombs,
still the fruited boughs burn, pecked at by birds.

Oh the bitten mouth, oh the kissed limbs,
oh the hungering teeth, oh the entwined bodies.

Oh the mad coupling of hope and force
in which we merged and despaired.

And the tenderness, light as water and as flour.
And the word scarcely begun on the lips.

This was my destiny and in it was my voyage of my longing,
and in it my longing fell, in you everything sank!

Oh pit of debris, everything fell into you,
what sorrow did you not express, in what sorrow are you not drowned!

From billow to billow you still called and sang.
Standing like a sailor in the prow of a vessel.

You still flowered in songs, you still brike the currents.
Oh pit of debris, open and bitter well.

Pale blind diver, luckless slinger,
lost discoverer, in you everything sank!

It is the hour of departure, the hard cold hour
which the night fastens to all the timetables.

The rustling belt of the sea girdles the shore.
Cold stars heave up, black birds migrate.

Deserted like the wharves at dawn.
Only tremulous shadow twists in my hands.

Oh farther than everything. Oh farther than everything.

It is the hour of departure. Oh abandoned one!

A Song Of Despire
PABLO NERUDA

The Saddest Poem(Pablo Neruda)

2009-09-15T09:49:00.000-07:00

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.

Write, for instance: "The night is full of stars,
and the stars, blue, shiver in the distance."

The night wind whirls in the sky and sings.

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

On nights like this, I held her in my arms.
I kissed her so many times under the infinite sky.

She loved me, sometimes I loved her.
How could I not have loved her large, still eyes?

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
To think I don't have her. To feel that I've lost her.

To hear the immense night, more immense without her.
The night is full of stars and she is not with me.

That's all. Far away, someone sings. Far away.
My soul is lost without her.

As if to bring her near, my eyes search for her.
My heart searches for her and she is not with me.

The same night that whitens the same trees.
We, we who were, we are the same no longer/

I no longer love her, true, but how much I loved her.
My voice searched the wind to touch her ear.

Someone else's. She will be someone else's. As she once
belonged to my kisses.
Her voice, her light body. Her infinite eyes.

I no longer love her, true, but perhaps I love her.
Love is so short and oblivion so long.

Because on nights like this I held her in my arms,
my soul is lost without her.

Although this may be the last pain she causes me,
and this may be the last poem I write for her.

The Saddest Poem
PABLO NERUDA

Profile Of Dorothy Law Nolte Ph.D

2009-09-15T09:41:00.000-07:00

Dorothy Law Nolte Ph.D. (1924-2005) is a lifelong teacher and lecturer on family life education, and is the author of the poem "Children Learn What They Live," which has been translated into 20 languages and is used the world over by parents and educators. The mother of three, grandmother of three, and great grandmother of five, she lives and works in southern California.

Children Learn What They Live(Dorothy Law Nolte Ph.D)

2009-09-15T09:38:00.000-07:00

If children live with criticism, they learn to condemn.
If children live with hostility, they learn to fight.
If children live with fear, they learn to be apprehensive.
If children live with pity, they learn to feel sorry for themselves.
If children live with ridicule, they learn to feel shy.
If children live with jealousy, they learn to feel envy.
If children live with shame, they learn to feel guilty.
If children live with encouragement, they learn confidence.
If children live with tolerance, they learn patience.
If children live with praise, they learn appreciation.
If children live with acceptance, they learn to love.
If children live with approval, they learn to like themselves.
If children live with recognition, they learn it is good to have a goal.
If children live with sharing, they learn generosity.
If children live with honesty, they learn truthfulness.
If children live with fairness, they learn justice.
If children live with kindness and consideration, they learn respect.
If children live with security, they learn to have faith in themselves and in those about them.
If children live with friendliness, they learn the world is a nice place in which to live.

Profile Of Nizar Qabbani

2009-09-14T11:17:00.000-07:00

Qabbani was revered by generations of Arabs for his sensual and romantic verse. His work was featured not only in his two dozen volumes of poetry and in regular contributions to the Arabic-language newspaper Al Hayat, but in lyrics, sung by Lebanese and Syrian vocalists who helped popularize his work.

Through a lifetime of writing, Qabbani made women his main theme and inspiration. He earned a reputation for daring with the publication in 1954 of his first volume of verse, "Childhood of a Breast," whose erotic and romantic themes broke from the conservative traditions of Arab literature. The suicide of his sister, who was unwilling to marry a man she did not love, had a profound effect on Qabbani. Thereafter, he expressed resentment of male chauvinism and often wrote from a woman's viewpoint and advocated social freedoms for women.

He had lived in London since 1967 but the Syrian capital remained a powerful presence in his poems, most notably in "The Jasmine Scent of Damascus." After the Arab defeat in the 1967 Arab-Israeli war, he founded the Nizar Qabbani publishing house in London, and his became a powerful and eloquent voice of lament for Arab causes.

Qabbani was a committed Arab nationalist and in recent years his poetry and other writings, including essays and journalism, had become more political. His writing also often fused themes of romantic and political despair.

Qabbani's later poems included a strong strain of anti-authoritarianism. One couplet in particular -- "O Sultan, my master, if my clothes are ripped and torn it is because your dogs with claws are allowed to tear me" -- is sometimes quoted by Arabs as a kind of wry shorthand for their frustration with life under dictatorship.

His second wife, Balqis al-Rawi, an Iraqi teacher whom he had met at a poetry recital in Baghdad, was killed in a bomb attack by pro-Iranian guerrillas in Beirut, where she was working for the cultural section of the Iraqi Ministry. Nizar Qabbani died in London of a heart attack at the age of 75.

Language(Nizar Qabbani)

2009-09-14T11:13:00.000-07:00

When a man is in love
how can he use old words?
Should a woman
desiring her lover
lie down with
grammarians and linguists?
I said nothing
to the woman I loved
but gathered
love's adjectives into a suitcase
and fled from all languages.

Language
NIZAR QABBANI

My Lover Ask Me (Nizar Qabbani)

2009-09-14T11:12:00.000-07:00

My lover asks me:
"What is the difference between me and the sky?"
The difference, my love,
Is that when you laugh,
I forget about the sky.

My Lover Ask Me
NIZAR QABBANI

Oh, My Love (Nizar Qabbani)

2009-09-14T11:09:00.000-07:00

Oh, my love
If you were at the level of my madness,
You would cast away your jewelry,
Sell all your bracelets,
And sleep in my eyes.

Oh, My Love
NIZAR QABBANI

The Trial (Nizar Qabbani)

2009-09-14T11:07:00.000-07:00

The East receives my songs, some praise, some curse
To each of them my gratitude I bear
For I've avenged the blood of each slain woman
and haven offered her who is in fear.

Woman's rebellious heart I have supported
ready to pay the prize - content to die
if love should slay me, for I am love's champion
and if I ceased, then I would not be I

The Trial
NIZAR QABBANI

Sajak Putih (Chairil Anwar)

2009-09-03T23:15:00.000-07:00

Bersandar pada tari warna pelangi
Kau depanku bertudung sutra senja
Di hitam matamu kembang mawar dan melati
Harum rambutmu mengalun bergelut senda

Sepi menyanyi, malam dalam mendoa tiba
Meriak muka air kolam jiwa
Dan dalam dadaku memerdu lagu
Menarik menari seluruh aku

Hidup dari hidupku, pintu terbuka
Selama matamu bagiku menengadah
Selama kau darah mengalir dari luka
Antara kita Mati datang tidak membelah...

Doa (Chairil Anwar)

2009-09-03T23:14:00.002-07:00

kepada pemeluk teguh

Tuhanku
Dalam termangu
Aku masih menyebut namamu

Biar susah sungguh
mengingat Kau penuh seluruh

cayaMu panas suci
tinggal kerdip lilin di kelam sunyi

Tuhanku

aku hilang bentuk
remuk

Tuhanku

aku mengembara di negeri asing

Tuhanku
di pintuMu aku mengetuk
aku tidak bisa berpaling

Hampa (Chariril Anwar)

2009-09-03T23:14:00.001-07:00

kepada sri

Sepi di luar. Sepi menekan mendesak.
Lurus kaku pohonan. Tak bergerak
Sampai ke puncak. Sepi memagut,
Tak satu kuasa melepas-renggut
Segala menanti. Menanti. Menanti.
Sepi.
Tambah ini menanti jadi mencekik
Memberat-mencekung punda
Sampai binasa segala. Belum apa-apa
Udara bertuba. Setan bertempik
Ini sepi terus ada. Dan menanti.

Penerimaan (Chairil Anwar)

2009-09-03T23:12:00.000-07:00

Kalau kau mau kuterima kau kembali
Dengan sepenuh hati

Aku masih tetap sendiri

Kutahu kau bukan yang dulu lagi
Bak kembang sari sudah terbagi

Jangan tunduk! Tentang aku dengan berani

Kalau kau mau kuterima kembali
Untukku sendiri tapi

Sedang dengan cermin aku enggan berbagi.

Persetujuan Dengan Bung Karno (Chairil Anwar)

2009-09-03T23:10:00.000-07:00

Ayo ! Bung Karno kasi tangan mari kita bikin janji
Aku sudah cukup lama dengan bicaramu
dipanggang diatas apimu, digarami lautmu
Dari mulai tgl. 17 Agustus 1945
Aku melangkah ke depan berada rapat di sisimu
Aku sekarang api aku sekarang laut

Bung Karno ! Kau dan aku satu zat satu urat
Di zatmu di zatku kapal-kapal kita berlayar
Di uratmu di uratku kapal-kapal kita bertolak & berlabuh

Diponegoro (Chairil Anwar)

2009-09-03T23:09:00.000-07:00

Di masa pembangunan ini
tuan hidup kembali
Dan bara kagum menjadi api

Di depan sekali tuan menanti
Tak gentar. Lawan banyaknya seratus kali.
Pedang di kanan, keris di kiri
Berselempang semangat yang tak bisa mati.

MAJU

Ini barisan tak bergenderang-berpalu
Kepercayaan tanda menyerbu.

Sekali berarti
Sudah itu mati.

MAJU

Bagimu Negeri
Menyediakan api.

Punah di atas menghamba
Binasa di atas ditindas
Sesungguhnya jalan ajal baru tercapai
Jika hidup harus merasai

Maju
Serbu
Serang
Terjang

Karawang Bekasi (Chairil Anwar)

2009-09-03T23:08:00.000-07:00

Kami yang kini terbaring antara Krawang-Bekasi
tidak bisa teriak "Merdeka" dan angkat senjata lagi.
Tapi siapakah yang tidak lagi mendengar deru kami,
terbayang kami maju dan mendegap hati ?

Kami bicara padamu dalam hening di malam sepi
Jika dada rasa hampa dan jam dinding yang berdetak
Kami mati muda. Yang tinggal tulang diliputi debu.
Kenang, kenanglah kami.

Kami sudah coba apa yang kami bisa
Tapi kerja belum selesai, belum bisa memperhitungkan arti 4-5 ribu nyawa

Kami cuma tulang-tulang berserakan
Tapi adalah kepunyaanmu
Kaulah lagi yang tentukan nilai tulang-tulang berserakan

Atau jiwa kami melayang untuk kemerdekaan kemenangan dan harapan
atau tidak untuk apa-apa,
Kami tidak tahu, kami tidak lagi bisa berkata
Kaulah sekarang yang berkata

Kami bicara padamu dalam hening di malam sepi
Jika ada rasa hampa dan jam dinding yang berdetak

Kenang, kenanglah kami
Teruskan, teruskan jiwa kami
Menjaga Bung Karno
menjaga Bung Hatta
menjaga Bung Sjahrir

Kami sekarang mayat
Berikan kami arti
Berjagalah terus di garis batas pernyataan dan impian

Kenang, kenanglah kami
yang tinggal tulang-tulang diliputi debu
Beribu kami terbaring antara Krawang-Bekasi

Malam (Chairil Anwar)

2009-09-03T23:05:00.000-07:00

Mulai kelam
belum buntu malam
kami masih berjaga
-Thermopylae?-
- jagal tidak dikenal?-
tapi nanti
sebelum siang membentang
kami sudah tenggelam hilang

Menjadi Penyair Lagi (Acep Zamzam Noor)

2009-09-03T12:32:00.001-07:00

Melva, di Karang Setra, kutemukan helai-helai rambutmu
Di lantai keramik yang licin. Aku selalu terkenang kepadamu
Setiap melihat iklan sabun, shampo atau pasta gigi
Atau setiap kali menyaksikan penyanyi dangdut di televisi
Kini aku sendirian di hotel ini dan merasa
Menjadi penyair lagi. Bau parfummu yang memabukkan
Tiba-tiba menyalinap lewat pintu kamar mandi
Dan menyerbuku bagaikan baris-baris puisi
Kau tahu, Melva, aku selalu gemetar oleh kata-kata
Sedang bau aneh dari tengkuk, leher dan ketiakmu itu
Telah menjelmakan kata-kata juga
Kini aku sendirian di hotel ini dan merasa
Menjadi penyair lagi. Helai-helai rambutmu yang kecoklatan
Kuletakkan dengan hati-hati di atas meja
Bersama kertas, rokok dan segelas kopi. Lalu kutulis puisi
Ketika kurasakan bibirmu masih tersimpan di mulutku
Ketika suaramu masih memenuhi telinga dan pikiranku
Kutulis puisi sambil mengingat-ingat warna sepatu
Celana dalam, kutang serta ikat pinggangmu
Yang dulu kautinggalkan di bawah ranjang
Sebagai ucapan selamat tinggal
Tidak, Melva, penyair tidak sedih karena ditinggalkan
Juga tidak sakit karena akhirnya selalu dikalahkan
Penyair tidak menangis karena dikhianati
Juga tidak pingsan karena mulutnya dibungkam
Penyair akan mati apabila kehilangan tenaga kata-kata
Atau kata-kata saktinya berubah menjadi prosa:
Misalkan peperangan yang tak henti-hentinya
Pembajakan, pesawat jatuh, banjir atau gempa bumi
Misalkan korupsi yang tak habis-habisnya di negeri ini
Kerusuhan, penjarahan, perkosaan atau semacamnya
O, aku sendirian di sini dan merasa menjadi penyair lagi

Prajurit Jaga Malam (Chairil Anwar)

2009-09-03T12:31:00.001-07:00

Waktu jalan. Aku tidak tahu apa nasib waktu ?
Pemuda-pemuda yang lincah yang tua-tua keras,
bermata tajam
Mimpinya kemerdekaan bintang-bintangnya
kepastian
ada di sisiku selama menjaga daerah mati ini
Aku suka pada mereka yang berani hidup
Aku suka pada mereka yang masuk menemu malam
Malam yang berwangi mimpi, terlucut debu......
Waktu jalan. Aku tidak tahu apa nasib waktu !

Sajak Seorang Tua Untuk Istrinya (WS Rendra)

2009-09-03T12:29:00.002-07:00

Aku tulis sajak ini
untuk menghibur hatimu
Sementara kau kenangkan encokmu
kenangkanlah pula masa remaja kita yang gemilang
Dan juga masa depan kita
yang hampir rampung
dan dengan lega akan kita lunaskan.
Kita tidaklah sendiri
dan terasing dengan nasib kita
Kerna soalnya adalah hukum sejarah kehidupan.
Suka duka kita bukanlah istimewa
kerna setiap orang mengalaminya.
Hidup tidaklah untuk mengeluh dan mengaduh
Hidup adalah untuk mengolah hidup
bekerja membalik tanah
memasuki rahasia langit dan samodra,
serta mencipta dan mengukir dunia.
Kita menyandang tugas,
kerna tugas adalah tugas.
Bukannya demi sorga atau neraka.
Tetapi demi kehormatan seorang manusia.
Kerna sesungguhnyalah kita bukan debu
meski kita telah reyot, tua renta dan kelabu.
Kita adalah kepribadian
dan harga kita adalah kehormatan kita.
Tolehlah lagi ke belakang
ke masa silam yang tak seorangpun kuasa menghapusnya.
Lihatlah betapa tahun-tahun kita penuh warna.
Sembilan puluh tahun yang dibelai napas kita.
Sembilan puluh tahun yang selalu bangkit
melewatkan tahun-tahun lama yang porak poranda.
Dan kenangkanlah pula
bagaimana kita dahulu tersenyum senantiasa
menghadapi langit dan bumi, dan juga nasib kita.
Kita tersenyum bukanlah kerna bersandiwara.
Bukan kerna senyuman adalah suatu kedok.
Tetapi kerna senyuman adalah suatu sikap.
Sikap kita untuk Tuhan, manusia sesama,
nasib, dan kehidupan.
Lihatlah! Sembilan puluh tahun penuh warna
Kenangkanlah bahwa kita telah selalu menolak menjadi koma.
Kita menjadi goyah dan bongkok
kerna usia nampaknya lebih kuat dari kita
tetapi bukan kerna kita telah terkalahkan.
Aku tulis sajak ini
untuk menghibur hatimu
Sementara kaukenangkan encokmu
kenangkanlah pula
bahwa kita ditantang seratus dewa.

SAJAK SEORANG TUA UNTUK ISTRINYA
WS RENDRA

Hari Ini Seperti Juga Heri Kemarin (Seno Gumira Adjidarma)

2009-09-03T12:29:00.001-07:00

hari ini seperti juga kemarin
tak lagi terbandingkan, antara nasib antara sepi
kemudian rawan, jatuh di bumi
lantas seperti kemarin-kemarin : matahari pagi

Tapi Sutardji Coldjum Bachri

2009-09-03T12:26:00.000-07:00

aku bawakan bunga padamu
tapi kau bilang masih
aku bawakan resahku padamu
tapi kau bilang hanya
aku bawakan darahku padamu
tapi kau bilang cuma
aku bawakan mimpiku padamu
tapi kau bilang meski
aku bawakan dukaku padamu
tapi kau bilang tapi
aku bawakan mayatku padamu
tapi kau bilang hampir
aku bawakan arwahku padamu
tapi kau bilang kalau
tanpa apa aku datang padamu
wah!

TAPI
SUTARDJI C.B.

Kredo Puisi Sutardji Coldjum Bachri

2009-09-03T12:23:00.000-07:00

Kata-kata bukanlah alat mengantarkan pengertian. Dia bukan seperti pipa yang menyalurkan air. Kata adalah pengertian itu sendiri. Dia bebas.
Kalau diumpamakan dengan kursi, kata adalah kursi itu sendiri dan bukan alat untuk duduk. Kalau diumpamakan dengan pisau, dia adalah pisau itu sendiri dan bukan alat untuk memotong atau menikam.
Dalam kesehari-harian kata cenderung dipergunakan sebagai alat untuk menyampaikan pengertian. Dianggap sebagai pesuruh untuk menyampaikan pengertian. Dan dilupakan kedudukannya yang merdeka sebagai pengertian.
Dalam puisi saya, saya bebaskan kata-kata dari tradisi lapuk yang membelenggunya seperti kamus dan penjajahan-penjajahan lain seperti moral kata yang dibebankan masyarakat pada kata tertentu dengan dianggap kotor(obscene) serta penjajahan gramatika.
Bila kata dibebaskan, kreatifitaspun dimungkinkan. Karena kata-kata bisa menciptakan dirinya sendiri, bermain dengan dirinya sendiri, dan menentukan kemauan dirinya sendiri. Pendadakan yang kreatif bisa timbul, karena kata yang biasanya dianggap berfungsi sebagai penyalur pengertian, tiba-tiba, karena kebebasannya bisa menyungsang terhadap fungsinya. Maka timbullah hal-hal yang tak terduga sebelumnya, yang kreatif.
Dalam (penciptaan) puisi saya, kata-kata saya biarkan bebas. dalam gairahnya karena telah menemukan kebebasan, kata-kata meloncat-loncat dan menari diatas kertas, mabuk dan menelanjangi dirinya sendiri, mundar-mandir dan berkali-kali menunjukkan muka dan belakangnya yang mungkin sama atau tak sama, membelah dirinya dengan bebas, menyatukan dirinya sendiri dengan yang lain untuk memperkuat dirinya, membalik atau menyungsangkan sendiri dirinya dengan bebas, saling bertentangan sendiri satu sama lainnya karena mereka bebas berbuat semaunya atau bila perlu membunuh dirinya sebdiri untuk menunjukkan dirinya bisa menolak dan berontak terhadap pengertian yang ingin dibebankan kepadanya.
Sebagai penyair saya hanya menjaga--sepanjang tidak mengganggu kebebasannya-- agar kehadirannya yang bebas sebagai pembentuk pengertiannya sendiri, bisa mendapatkan aksentuasi yang maksimal.
Menulis puisi bagi saya adalah membebaskan kata-kata, yang berarti mengembalikan kata pada awal mulanya. Pada mulanya adalah Kata.
Dan kata pertama adalah mantera. Maka menulis puisi bagi saya adalah mengembalikan kata kepada mantera.

Aku Ingin Sapardi Djoko Damono

2009-08-24T11:40:00.000-07:00

Aku ingin mencintaimu dengan sederhana
dengan kata yang tak sempat diucapkankayu kepada api
yang menjadikannya abu.

Aku ingin mencintaimu dengan sederhana
dengan isyarat yang tak sempat disampaikan awan angin
yang menjadikannya tiada.