Poetry International Poetry International
Gedicht

Joko Pinurbo

Patrol

Rows of armored vehicles move backwards and forwards through the sad lines
of my poems. In a dimly lit corner the commandant briefly catches a glimpse
of a demonstrator behaving in a suspicious way. He orders his troops to get
ready, and tells them to block every road. Suddenly there is utter panic. Words
give way to chaos and fall to the ground. The commandant screams: “Where
have you hidden that skinny little poet, whose body looks like a skeleton? He
has just sharpened his pen and it is very dangerous.” A patrolman, gathering
his courage, says: “He has a stomach ache, sir, and is shitting in the toilet.
Perhaps he is committing some terrible outrage there!” “Damn!” the
commandant loudly curses. Then he orders his men to continue their patrol.
In the very last letter of my poem, the poet emerges from the bathroom,
patting his stomach. “That feels better,” he says. His words, so completely
nervous before, now explode with cheer and affix themselves to their previous
positions. In the distance he can hear explosions, and fires burning, destroying
the bodies of the dead.

Patroli

Patroli

Iring-iringan panser mondar-mandir di jalur-jalur rawan di seantero sajakku. Di sebuah sudut yang agak gelap komandan melihat kelebat seorang demonstran yang gerak- geriknya dianggap mencurigakan. Pasukan disiagakan dan diperintahkan untuk memblokir setiap jalan. Semua mendadak panik. Kata-kata kocar-kacir dan tiarap seketika. Komandan berteriak, “Kalian sembunyikan di mana penyair kurus yang tubuhnya seperti jerangkong itu? Pena yang baru diasahnya sangat tajam dan berbahaya.” Seorang peronda memberanikan diri angkat bicara, “Dia sakit perut Komandan, lantas terbirit-birit ke dalam kakus. Mungkin dia lagi bikin aksi di sana.” “Sialan!” umpat komandan geram sekali, lalu memerintahkan pasukan melanjutkan patroli. Di huruf terakhir sajakku si jerangkong itu tiba-tiba muncul dari dalam kakus sambil menepuk-nepuk perutnya. “Lega,” katanya. Maka kata-kata yang tadi gemetaran serempak bersorak dan merapatkan diri ke posisi semula. Di kejauhan terdengar letusan, api sedang melalap dan menghanguskan mayat-mayat korban.
Joko Pinurbo

Joko Pinurbo

(Indonesië, 1962)

Landen

Ontdek andere dichters en gedichten uit Indonesië

Gedichten Dichters

Talen

Ontdek andere dichters en gedichten in het Indonesisch

Gedichten Dichters
Close

Patroli

Iring-iringan panser mondar-mandir di jalur-jalur rawan di seantero sajakku. Di sebuah sudut yang agak gelap komandan melihat kelebat seorang demonstran yang gerak- geriknya dianggap mencurigakan. Pasukan disiagakan dan diperintahkan untuk memblokir setiap jalan. Semua mendadak panik. Kata-kata kocar-kacir dan tiarap seketika. Komandan berteriak, “Kalian sembunyikan di mana penyair kurus yang tubuhnya seperti jerangkong itu? Pena yang baru diasahnya sangat tajam dan berbahaya.” Seorang peronda memberanikan diri angkat bicara, “Dia sakit perut Komandan, lantas terbirit-birit ke dalam kakus. Mungkin dia lagi bikin aksi di sana.” “Sialan!” umpat komandan geram sekali, lalu memerintahkan pasukan melanjutkan patroli. Di huruf terakhir sajakku si jerangkong itu tiba-tiba muncul dari dalam kakus sambil menepuk-nepuk perutnya. “Lega,” katanya. Maka kata-kata yang tadi gemetaran serempak bersorak dan merapatkan diri ke posisi semula. Di kejauhan terdengar letusan, api sedang melalap dan menghanguskan mayat-mayat korban.

Patrol

Rows of armored vehicles move backwards and forwards through the sad lines
of my poems. In a dimly lit corner the commandant briefly catches a glimpse
of a demonstrator behaving in a suspicious way. He orders his troops to get
ready, and tells them to block every road. Suddenly there is utter panic. Words
give way to chaos and fall to the ground. The commandant screams: “Where
have you hidden that skinny little poet, whose body looks like a skeleton? He
has just sharpened his pen and it is very dangerous.” A patrolman, gathering
his courage, says: “He has a stomach ache, sir, and is shitting in the toilet.
Perhaps he is committing some terrible outrage there!” “Damn!” the
commandant loudly curses. Then he orders his men to continue their patrol.
In the very last letter of my poem, the poet emerges from the bathroom,
patting his stomach. “That feels better,” he says. His words, so completely
nervous before, now explode with cheer and affix themselves to their previous
positions. In the distance he can hear explosions, and fires burning, destroying
the bodies of the dead.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Prins Bernhard cultuurfonds
Lira fonds
Versopolis
J.E. Jurriaanse
Gefinancierd door de Europese Unie
Elise Mathilde Fonds
Stichting Verzameling van Wijngaarden-Boot
Veerhuis
VDM
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère