Field Lines

november 2009 -

Field Lines

In this field we gaze upon, call upon and fight one another
for strings of poetry. my field is sparse yours chaotic. hah
hence all I plant is elephant grass. let it be ransacked
by the hapless girl around whose waist slips a sickle
(I know how she slips in to explore the field quietly
whenever I’m away for but one week) because your eyes
are apple-red, and here I cannot grow their seedlings. but
I will carve in pain, slice sharply. because my fingers are
used to pruning coffee tips and cinnamon at each season
of exchange

in sweet sugarcane, in bitter bile, where will
field lines meet with songs that mark
hhe mountain's cold sound? people say only in Silungkang
where weaving sharpens time, the place of
grey-faced women and story smiles. there
the coldest stories are sewn. with threads of doubt

but doesn't cold also bite into the vale's water? let
the chief voice poems wrested by tragedy. about
events mal-aligned, events stomached differently, events
that stab at one another’s guts. and all of them strings of poetry
woven pale, with hands still filled with barren emptiness

I come the doubter, stifled by fear, my stomach steaming stones. because
we are two fields calling savagely at one another. and only in poetry do our voices
dash. because your eyes are apple-red and I have planted elephant
grass. remembering the exploits of a girl around whose waist
slips a sickle. but it's ok, strings of poetry will continue to unravel
no matter how it's tugged and released every time answering itself

Kandangpadati, 2008

(Translation by Kadek Krishna Adidharma)