[Transcript] This is how she makes me feel – Anis Mojgani

 

 

This is how she makes me feel
by Anis Mojgani

This is how my wife makes me feel

Like a nuclear reactor power plant that harnesses not any strange harmful energy
but rather the energy of the sun
of daisies
of golden marbles
filled up past my brim

Behind me there is a rainbow
The nuclear reactor that I am, harnesses the power of rainbow
Capturing the whole spectrum of color and light

This is how she makes me feel

Like a great grey stone tall tower rising up out of the ocean
From my room at the top of that tower
I watch the world
There is nothing but ocean for so far
From up here, the ocean looks like it is the biggest thing in the universe
From up here, it is the universe

From my window, sitting atop the top of universe
Watching its waves of water moving, unison, together
I feel like maybe,
I am bigger

This is how she makes me feel

Like I was seventeen
Running slow-motion through a field lit with light
Particles of dust, moving through the air
The sun burning their bodies
Perhaps, it is dust
Perhaps, it is magic dust

Perhaps, this magical dust is what I am made from

I open my eyes, and
everything I see floats
I’m on a boat
It is night
The world has calmed itself
Just to hold me, inside all that is dark
Just to rock me gently

This is how she makes me feel

The subway chamber of Moscow
I am vaulted,
I have giant chandeliers hanging from my underground ceilings
I glow with so much light,
I am a ballroom for the trains of Russia

If you happen to be a child that has climbed down my steps
to yell into my body
Those echoes will bounce their way across those vaulted underground ceilings
This happens all the time

My dark tunnels are filled with these sounds

This is how she makes me feel

Like I would live forever
Like there is nothing that could possibly harm me
Like this body will somehow stay so young, so perfect

There are cities growing inside my chest
These cities all look like New York in the 50’s
Every building is tall enough to touch a cloud
Every automobile is a convertible
All the men wear hats and neckties
The women all have beautiful shapes of color upon them

Someone has saved a baby
There is a parade
Someone has saved every baby
There is the biggest parade
moving through my streets

The skies explode with ticker-tape
Strangers kiss on every corner,
their kisses are what make me live forever

This is how she makes me feel

Like honey and trombones
Like honey and trombones

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Jalan

Tepat,
merekam.

Jalan di atas
jalan,
di atas
jalan.

Tapi
tak pernah,
si anak pulang.

Ibu tenggelam,
tanah ditelan,
air.

21 Februari 2018

Dalam pikiran.

via tirto.id. Tim Labfor Bareskrim Pori melakukan olah tempat kejadian perkara (TKP) pasca runtuhnya bekisting pierhead pada proyek kontruksi pembangunan tol Bekasi-Cawang-Kampung Melayu (Becakayu) di Jalan D I Panjaitan, Jakarta, Selasa (20/2/2018). ANTARA FOTO/Aprillio Akbar.

[Transcript] Nora Cooper – I Won’t Write Your Obituary

I Won’t Write Your Obituary
by Nora Cooper

You ask if you could call to say goodbye
if you’re ever gonna kill yourself.

Sure,
but I won’t write your obituary.
I’ll commission it from some dead-end journalist
who’ll say things like ‘at peace’, ‘better place’, ‘fought the good fight’,
maybe reference the loving embrace of capital-G god at least four times,
maybe quote Charles ‘fuckin’ Bukowski, and I won’t stop them
because I won’t write your obituary.

But if you call me, I will write you a new sky, one you can taste,
I will write you a DIY cloudmaker, so on days
when you can’t do anything, you can still make clouds,
in whatever shape you want them.

I will write you letters, messages in bottles and cages and orange peels
in the distance between here and the moon and forests and rivers and bird songs
I will write you songs,
I can’t write music, but I’ll find Rihanna
and I’ll get her to write you music,
if it’ll make you want to dance a little longer,

I will write you a body whose veins are electricity,
because outlets are easier to find than good shrinks,
but we will find you a good shrink,
I will write you 1-800-273-8255,
that’s the suicide hotline.

We can call it together and, yeah
you can call me, but I won’t tell you it’s okay;
that I forgive you.
I won’t say goodbye, or I love you.
One last time.

You won’t leave on good terms with me.
Because I would not forgive you.
I won’t read you your last rights,
absolve you of sin, watch you sail away on a flaming Viking ship,
my hand glued to my forehead,

I will not hold your hand steady around a gun,
and after I won’t come by to pick up the package of body parts
you would have left specifically for me,

I’ll get a call like, “Ma’am, what would you have us to do with them?”
and I’ll say, “Burn them, feed them to stray cats,
throw them at school children,
hurl them at the sea.”

I don’t care, I don’t want them,
I don’t want your heart.
It’s not yours anymore,
it’s just a heart now.

And I already have one.

I don’t want your lungs,
just deflated birthday party balloons
that can’t breathe anymore.

I don’t want a jar of your teeth as a memento.
I don’t want your ripped off skin,
a blanket to wrap myself in when I need to feel
like you’re still here.

You won’t be there.
There’s no blood there,
there’s no life there,
there’s no you there.
I want you, and I will write you – so many fucking dead friends poems before,
that people will confuse my tongue with your tombstones
and try to plant daisies in my throat
before I ever write you and obituary,
while you’re still fucking here.

So the answer to your question is,
“Yes, if you’re ever really gonna kill yourself.
Yes, please, call me.”

Seperti Pilek

Seperti pilek.
Sebuah keadaan sakit yang sangat mengganggu diri,
dapat mengganggu orang lain pula.

Terutama bagi mereka yang membenci suara sentrap-sentrup rongga hidung,
atau terganggung dengan pemandangan lubang hidung yang kebasahan,
atau sekadar jijik dengan visual yang membuat mual.

“Hentikanlah meler-mu itu!”

Bagaimana caranya?

Aku hanya bisa berteman dengan pilekku ini.

Aku suka menggunakan tisu untuk mengeringkan hidungku,
walau tidak ramah lingkungan,
karena sampahnya menggunung di bawah bantalku.
Dan tentu mereka tidak suka dengan itu.

Ada juga orang yang suka membuang ingusnya di kamar mandi,
karena tisu membuat cuping hidungnya kering.
Dengan keras dia membuang ingusnya.
Dan tentu saja mereka tidak suka dengan itu.

Ada juga orang yang memilih tidur saja di kamar,
memberhentikan dunianya ketika pilek melanda.
Memilih untuk istirahat,
menghangatkan dada.

Menghilanglah dia dari peredaran.
Dan tentu saja mereka tidak suka dengan itu.

Menghentikan pikir,
melantunkan dzikir,
melafalkan doa,
atau
memakan pisang,
memakan cokelat,
atau
meminum air,
atau
bercerita dengan khusyuknya.

Dan tentu saja mereka tidak suka dengan itu.

Teman,

Apapun caramu berteman dengan pilekmu,
jika itu nyaman,

dan tak menambah sakit dirimu,

ketahuilah,

itu benar.

Hari Ini (Puisi dan Ilustrasi)

November 2016 yang lalu seorang teman mengunggah ilustrasi berikut dengan keterangan kutipan puisi saya (September 2013). Bertanya-tanyalah saya kepada diri sendiri ketika tidak menemukan ada di mana puisi itu. Jadilah setelah membongkar beberapa email dan percakapan, saya menemukannya. Dahulu versi Bahasa Inggris berjudul ‘Today’ pernah saya unggah di blog ini, namun saya turunkan. Inilah sepotong dari Hari Ini.

Hari Ini

Kau menakuti ketidakpastian bersamaku
Aku mengigil memikirkan ketidakpastian tanpa bersamamu

Kita menakuti hal yang berbeda
Walau kita berbagi kepastian, dengan bersama ataupun tidak
Dengan bersama atau tidak pun, kita juga berbagi ketidakpastian

Aku membenci ketidakpastian
Seperti, sepuluh butir Panadol yang bisa aku telan, dan mungkin aku akan tetap hidup, atau aku akan mati
Seperti, mungkin hari ini hujan, dan ketika hujan, mungkin akan berhenti, dan mungkin akan deras, mungkin akan tercurah, mungkin akan gerimis

Manusiawi, ketika manusia takut

Tapi di malam aku mengajakmu terbang
Aku memungut kemerdekaan dan mengikat kain menutupi mataku
Itulah mengapa aku tidak takut

Dan kita melompat dari titik tertinggi, dari barisan bukit di balik kota

September 2013

Body language

One of the meanest thing I do to my body: to let it starve
And: to let it thirst
To let it cry without knowing why

To let it lose its language
The one our tongues took so long to learn
And now I just can not decipher

What does it mean to have a fever?
What does it mean that rivers,
Rivers of salt water released from the springs of the eyes
Could be so searing on the skin of my face

Forgive me, and let us be
Let us be amazed, once more
With the words we’ve known so long