Each poem is incantation true: a plaintive cry in darkest night a squeal of boundless sheer delight a prayer for fragile tender hopes a spell to cast love's binding ropes And so I now, in faith, incant: These poems I write with dread aflame Such dreams I dare not even name A pledge to prove amidst all strife These verses mark undaunted Life.
On Knowing
The day you finally grow up is the day when you finally realise that after all you have learnt and all that you know You actually know very little about the universe about the stars that hang in the night sky about the planets that swirl in the darkness of space about the human heart and its flits and sighs We blind ourselves with laws and theories and books and pages until most of us forget that what passes for our knowledge is just a mere drop in His ocean a humble letter in the book of Existence So talk a little slower walk a little lower as you sail along through life's angry ocean because you and I we are finally grown up enough to know that we know too little.
On Growing Old
One of the best things about growing old is that I am no longer worried about what my friends would say about my hair or my clothes or what car I drive or where I live I can damn well do whatever I want: cut my hair short wear batik to work drive my beat-up Japanese car live in my small cozy home with my wife and my cat sleep in all weekend read Marx watch the sun go down from our balcony watch stand-up comedy all night on Netflix They say growing old is frightening and painful I say hogwash Be yourself Be original Be old.
On Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass
On Nothingness
Tentang Malam Kekuasaan / On The Night of Power
Tentang Tenang yang Tiada Tercium
Engkau memandang penuh hukum Tatkala takdir rahmatmu ranum Aku bertenang di hilir ini Meraut seberkas mimpi tersuci Semua sindiran berbalas senyum Tenang hati tiada tercium Jalan gegasmu penuh gerigi Mukim hatiku damai abadi Untuk engkau, jalanlah engkau Untuk aku, haluan aku.
Tentang Kerusuhan
Dalam gelita jiwa merusuh Dihujanrejam tusukan resah Tertugu aku dalam gelisah Setiap malam aku terbunuh!
Tentang Keterpakuan
Aku masih terpaku di sini Dalam ruang legar yang penuh tekateki Bergelut dengan rasa gerun dan sangsi Terkesima menatap deruan hari.
On Pushkin’s Onegin
Inspired by Harold Bloom, I have been trying to read more poetry in recent years, and hence have been dabbling with Whitman, Dickinson and Bishop amongst others.
Pushkin’s Eugene Onegin, of course, is one of the classics of Russian literature. I’ve read most of Tolstoy and Dostoevsky and Chekhov, but have never read Pushkin until recently.
One of the most impressive things about the translation by Stanley Mitchell that I have just recently read is that the translator has apparently kept to Pushkin’s rhyme and metre, this itself having been inspired by Byron’s Childe Harold.
The story itself isn’t all too complicated – a story of spurned love and a broken-down friendship, all of it enveloped in a narrative of ennui and disenchantment. Eugene Onegin is a dandy who spurns the dandy’s life, retreating to his recently-inherited estate, where he falls into friendship with Vladimir Lensky, a young poet and romantic who lives in a neighbouring estate. Lensky is engaged to Olga Larina, a spirited and merry young girl, whose elder sister Tatiana – more melancholic and ruminative – inevitably falls for Onegin. Her love is spurned by Onegin, with tragic results for all four protagonists.
With any translation, but especially of poetry, one must rely on the translator to give a sense of the power and subtlety of the original text. I can’t read Russian to save my life, but the English translation itself is so masterfully done, that it makes me wish I could read this text in its original incarnation. The translator/poet subtly captures the rollercoaster emotions of youthful love, and does not spare his protagonists in his clear-eyed view of how we humans often bring about our own disappointments and disenchantments, through our own impatience and arrogance.
Kat often points out that when I really enjoy reading a book, I would be incessantly updating her on what I’ve been reading. Unfortunately for this ride, I was fairly silent. I enjoyed the read, undoubtedly, but I think that after the high of James Agee’s A Death In The Family, most other texts were always going to fall short.
Overall, this was a 4-star ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ read. Recommended for poetry lovers, and those who enjoy Russian literature.