When I’m No Longer Loved
by You and other poems
by Andre Septiawan
Translated from Indonesian into English by Sebastian Partogi
Ketika aku tak lagi kau cintai
Ketika aku tak lagi kau cintai
Laut di Teluk Bayur menguap
Kapal-kapal dagang gagal merapat, yang tertambat urung berangkat
Demonstrasi tukang panggul kian marak
Sumpah serapah berceceran dari mulut para awak
“Pantek! Jancuk! Pukimak!”
Pelabuhan jadi tengkak, pajak jadi mangkrak
Dan karenanya Jakarta kekurangan kayu manis, santan kelapa hitam hangus, lada dan bawang yang diimpor sejauh Alahan Panjang busuk di darat, beras Solok tanak berderai, rumah makan Padang hentikan produksi gulai, rendang tak lagi terjerang, tak terhidang lagi menu apapun di etalase pajang, turis-turis litak tak sempat terkenyangkan, pariwisata mendemam, negara pun defisit anggaran.
Lantas akan jadi apa ibukota
tanpa harum rendang dan aroma cinta kita?
Pariaman, 2021
When You No Longer Love Me
When you no longer love me
The sea on the Bayur bay will evaporate
The trade ships will fail to arrive, the anchored ships will not sail
The coolies will fill the streets with protest
The crew will spit their curses
“Pantek! Jancuk! Pukimak!”
The ports will collapse, the tax will be tossed
And because of this, Jakarta will run out of cinnamon, charred black coconut milk, peppers, and onions from the far lands of Alahan Panjang will decay at shore, rice from Solok will fall into pieces, Padang restaurants will not cook curry, rendang will not be boiled, there are no longer feasts behind glass windows, tourists will not satisfy their hunger, tourism will reach a fever pitch, the nation’s economy will collapse.
And what will the capital city be without the sweet smell of our rendang
the aroma of our love?
Pariaman, 2021
Antar Kota Antara Kita
Telah sampai pula padaku
kabar kau yang naik angkutan menjuru trayek baru,
menuju kota paling bergaya di sudut sebuah peta
yang semakin kecil skala bandingannya; itu berarti petaka!
Aku tahu, memang telah lengang simpang jalan menuju kotaku yang bengkalai.
Paving trotoar yang dulu ramai kini diobral di meja gadai.
Tiang-tiang lampu telah jadi tua,
jadi lapuk,
jadi bungkuk,
jadi santap malam nasib buruk.
Matahari buta dan toko-toko obat beraksara Cina telah bertukar baliho apotek yang dicetak dalam huruf Braille di depan kantor walikota lama.
Taman kota digusur jadi losmen tempat jin buang anak.
Orang-orang kembali menunggang angin jinak.
Halte tempat kita baku-temu itu kini berganti kedai ciu dan arak.
Memang tak banyak pilihan tersisa;
Memang tak ada,
kau pun hilang selera dan membanting stir ke tanah Jawa!
Dari hari ke hari, bulan ke bulan, tahun ke tahun
Aku setia menanti kau maujud sehabis siuman mabuk opium
Namun sampai berpuluh kali kalender diganti,
aku tinggallah kerak bandel di pantat kuali
Hingga di suatu tahun kabisat kau kirimkan sebuah pesan singkat,
bertajuk salah alamat,
“Bandung bagiku hanyalah Bukittinggi yang pindah koordinat,
Dengan garis lintang yang terlonsong ke selatan,
Dengan garis bujur yang tersorong ke timur.”
Aduhai, sudahlah hidup bagai orang tengah mati
Cinta bertahun tak menjadi
Bandung-Pariaman, 2018-2021
The City Between Us
The news has finally reached me
you took the bus towards a new trajectory,
to the most stylish city on the outer margins of the map
the smaller the scale; the bigger the disaster!
I know, it is quiet in the road to my abandoned city.
The crowded paved road is now on display at the pawn shop.
The streetlight has aged,
collapsed,
slouched,
cursed with fate.
The blinding sun and the drugstores with Chinese letters have been replaced with the Braille banners of pharmacies across from the former mayor’s office.
The city garden has been razed to build a guest house for djinns.
People have once again left with the wind.
The terminal where we would meet has transformed into a liquor shop.
It’s true. There are not a lot of choices;
It’s true. There is nothing left.
Even you have lost a taste for our city and detoured to Java!
Day after day, month after month, year after year
Faithfully, I wait for you to recover from the intoxicating spell of opium
And still, even after dozens of calendar years,
I’m nothing more but the cracked surface of a cauldron
Until one leap year, when you sent me a message,
with the subject: wrong address,
“For me, Bandung is Bukittinggi. It has merely moved coordinates,
A horizontal line losing its way towards the south,
A longitudinal line sliding towards the east.”
Aduhai, haven’t we had enough of a life half-lived
of years of love, unfulfilled
Bandung-Pariaman, 2018-2021
Hari-hari Dalam Seminggu
Kuingat lagi hari-hari bala
Serupa gaung trauma kerja paksa di zaman Romusha.
Pada ingatan miris perihal ayahku yang berangkat shalat jumat di hari kamis
berjaket Levi’s, bercelana gamis.
Tentang ibuku yang membenci hari sabtu,
tetapi selalu ingin kembali jatuh cinta setiap kali malam minggu.
Perkara sepasang adikku yang gencar mengancam tuhan,
agar menurunkan firman khusus menetapkan hari senin sebagai hari libur nasional.
Juga tentang aku yang tak pernah tahu,
bahwa di hari rabu di hari ulang tahunmu adalah hari yang sama di hari hilang tahunku.
Itulah, seperti halnya sejarah gedebok pisang tua,
bukankah tak pernah ada yang peduli pada prakiran kiamat di hari selasa?
Ya tuhan, jika hari penghabisan dan penghisaban itu tiba
dapatkah sekiranya kami sekeluarga masuk surga
sekalipun tak punya kenalan orang dalam diatas sana?
Pariaman, 2021
Every Day of the Week
I remember the cursed days
The echoing trauma of labor in the Romusha era.
The melancholy memory of my father heading to Friday prayer on a Thursday
his Levi’s jacket, gamis pants.
My mother who despised Saturdays,
but longed to fall in love in the evening.
My siblings who held God in contempt,
so that he would command Mondays as a national holiday.
And how I never knew,
that your birthday fell on the same Wednesday as mine.
This is why, as with the case of history,
isn’t it true that no one cares about doomsday prophecies that fall on every Tuesday?
Dear God, if this is the end of days, if the day of reckoning arrives,
will you let our family into paradise
even if we are but strangers to the souls up there?
Pariaman, 2021
Andre Septiawan was born in 1995 in Pariaman, West Sumatera. He writes poems and short stories. His first book, entitled Suara Murai was published by Comma Books/KPG in 2018.
Thank you to Sebastian Partogi for translating Andre’s poety.