Agus R. Sarjono
Agus R. Sarjono Poems
Please do not aim me, a rifle wriggles and shivers.
Shut up! Yells the hand. I have to shoot those kids.
But they are still very young! Look at their adolescent smiles
and they demand nothing but your welfare too.
...
At the heart of a bloody history
I found Paul Celan secretly taught
the mother of time and the seeds of night to walk.
...
Allow me to introduce myself,
my name is Dysphoria,
with a little bit of gaiety.
...
Dear editors,
allow me to make some complaints
and a small suggestion. That crane
on the river bank has been standing there alone
...
You must be demoratic.
Alright, but please pull your fist
from my forehead. Shouldn't you be…
Shut up! It is entirely up to me whether my fist
...
You are gorgeus, said the golf course
to a grass flower quivering in the wind.
The grass flower bent. They remember
rice fields, vegetables and buffaloes rustling hurrying
...
Its time for birds humming and butterflies.
thousands of sadness became songs. Saxophone
spraying the rain between glass, cigarette smokes
and more jokes (you call it's dread) of us.
...
Agus R. Sarjono Biography
Agus R. Sarjono (born 27 July 1962 in Bandung, West Java, Indonesia) is an Indonesian poet and author.[1] In 1988, he graduated from Department of Indonesian Literature of IKIP Bandung, and then finished his postgraduate program in Universitas Indonesia at the faculty of literature and cultural studies in 2002. He writes poems, short stories, essays, critics, and drama, which have been published in Indonesia, Malaysia, Brunei, and several journals in Germany, France, Netherlands, England, and the United States. His poems are included in more than twenty anthologies.)
The Best Poem Of Agus R. Sarjono
Tears of Rain
Please do not aim me, a rifle wriggles and shivers.
Shut up! Yells the hand. I have to shoot those kids.
But they are still very young! Look at their adolescent smiles
and they demand nothing but your welfare too.
Don't you often curse your small salary, your limited
opportunities, that you have to trot here and there
picking a fistful of rice?
Do not aim me, the rifle wails.
Shut up! This is not a personal problem, the hand scolds.
This is a political problem. One or two lives
have to be sacrificed.
But this isn't about numbers, not about one or two
but about a mother lamenting her loss,
about the termination of someone's life
about the discontinuity of someone's future. About the rights of...
Shut up, you piece of equipment! You're just a tool
so don't argue. Arguments are for politicians in the councils.
But those politicians are only thinking about themselves! The rifle replies.
They never care about you, about them,
or about the poor and the oppressed.
They care for nothing other than their own interests.
Bang! The horrific sound startles the rifle. Nooooo......!!!
Bang! ...bang! ...bang! ...bang!
It's done... the hand murmurs. This is insane! The rifle cries.
I don't know, whispers the hand... I don't know... I'm tired.
I just want to go home and have a rest. Hopefully my wife
and my children are safe back home.
Then the rifle transforms itself into rain. Endlessly pouring
its tears.
Translated by Nikmah Sarjono
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