I
When I was 18 and 19, I was literally prolific, which literally means that I literally wrote or produced loads of literally literary stuff, mostly poems. In the crystal ball of hindsight, I can confirm now that the quality was, generally, suspect. We're totally driven by a "publish or perish" mentality. There's a new poem by somebody every other day. Nowadays nobody writes and reads poems, not while we're being rounded for sedition or listening to Anwar Ibrahim.
I wrote only Malay poems. Not Pantun, you know, dua tiga kucing berlari and the like. But Sajak, "Aku ini binatang jalang..." and so on. You're right, Sajak is a lot more exciting. It's kind of free for all with no rules to obey: the lines don't have to rhyme, a line may contain just one word like "ah", and one glorious set of Sajak may contain just one line with one word "ah". The main advantage of this variety is, you can always blame the readers if they don't understand it. There's in fact a sub-genre called "Sajak Kabur" where only its writer and her husband know its meaning (if there's any). These grey products, just like the grey imports, are technically illegal.
I can't recall writing any English poems at any time. Not at school, not at home, never at work. I worked for 30 years non-stop but never wrote a single line of poem. Petronas maybe a fun-loving, Fortune 500 company, but it's fiercely poetry unfriendly. Papers and letters all had tight templates and standard words and expressions, leaving absolutely no room for poetry.
I'd never been exposed to English poems because the secondary school I went to was purportedly a serious science-stream school. We're groomed to become brain surgeons. This science-or-shame doctrine was understandable. In 1970, there were only 14 Malay doctors and 29 Malay engineers in the whole country. Compare that with 140,000 Malay doctors and 1,400,000 Malay engineers now. Latest available statistics show that there are more full-time doctors than full-time farmers in Kelantan now.
Instead of learning period poetry, we learned periodic table where Oxygen is O and Iron is Fe. Chemistry and poetry may have vastly different contexts, but they exist for the same objective: to confuse you. In my school, there's no written regulation but poems or anything that resembled poetry were practically outlawed. Aspiring writers were summarily dismissed as fringe and subversive and jambu or simply up to no good. So we went underground and found a clandestine dead-poets society.
With an old Olympia typewriter, poems would just flow and flourish, pretty and plentiful. All in sajak form, in passionate Malay, some shone, some shite. One left-leaning guy wrote a poem with a stirring line "kita gantung kutang-kutang". I can't remember what had really pissed him. Nobody was happy that we're an all-boys school. He must be having some kind of premonition while crafting that precious line because he's now a high court judge. Gantung, your honour, gantung, ha, ha.
For more than 40 years I was in literary hiatus, which is a pity because I'm quite talented. At least, I think so. I'm now a passive follower of four active poetry social groups (Penyair Malaysia, Jom Sastera, Anjung Puisi, Puisi Maya). Plenty of poems posted but they all lack fire. Mostly dry and dreary, products of a persistent publish or perish mindset. But at least these people are very determined and brave enough to plod on and write. Even six years into retirement with mind now free of fuss and fetters, I've not written one line. Truth is, I'm still struggling to find the spark to restart my literary crush.
It finally came.
II
My mother had been admitted to Universiti Hospital (now called PPUM) since early December for something I could never understand. Her shoulder was bulging like a balloon and the pain was unbearable. The four of us (her children) took turns to be by her side. She's officially 86 and dialysis-dependent. With an average age of 60, we're not much younger either. It's a four-bed ward and it's fairly comfortable for any age.
I can tell you that caring for the sick isn't easy. Well, you didn't say it's easy. It's not so much the physical part, she's not too difficult. It's the emotional side. Watching her struggle to eat and lift her head could break you psychologically. It's times like these you become contemplative, philosophical and, well, serious. Suddenly it dawned. Why didn't I write? Yes, why not, since I'm talented and, now, serious? I could almost feel the adrenalin. I must write. I wanted to write. I wanted to write a poem.
I was soon on fire. Thinking and labouring for ideas and the sexy words for my poem. It's not easy to restart anything if you're already 40 years old. I'm past 60. You can't use the plebeian or prosaic words like makan, pencen, boss, mydin for a poem. It has to be the more pretentious language like senja, musim, berlalu, kamar, aku.
My sick mother was my inspiration, my muse, if you like. Sitting by her bedside with my oversize android, it's easy to write and delete and write and delete. After toiling for more than two weeks, I finally managed to come up with some semblance of poetry. Born on the banks of Kelantan river, I couldn't resist an imagery and allusion of water and river. I can promise you it's an easy read since this is my first foray after 40 years.
berdiri di tebing kamar
mengusap jiwa yang terdampar
berkali aku diamuk soalan
begini jugakah akhirnya nanti?
nafas yang patah dan payah
meminggir bibir yang tipis.
I can't recall writing any English poems at any time. Not at school, not at home, never at work. I worked for 30 years non-stop but never wrote a single line of poem. Petronas maybe a fun-loving, Fortune 500 company, but it's fiercely poetry unfriendly. Papers and letters all had tight templates and standard words and expressions, leaving absolutely no room for poetry.
I'd never been exposed to English poems because the secondary school I went to was purportedly a serious science-stream school. We're groomed to become brain surgeons. This science-or-shame doctrine was understandable. In 1970, there were only 14 Malay doctors and 29 Malay engineers in the whole country. Compare that with 140,000 Malay doctors and 1,400,000 Malay engineers now. Latest available statistics show that there are more full-time doctors than full-time farmers in Kelantan now.
Instead of learning period poetry, we learned periodic table where Oxygen is O and Iron is Fe. Chemistry and poetry may have vastly different contexts, but they exist for the same objective: to confuse you. In my school, there's no written regulation but poems or anything that resembled poetry were practically outlawed. Aspiring writers were summarily dismissed as fringe and subversive and jambu or simply up to no good. So we went underground and found a clandestine dead-poets society.
With an old Olympia typewriter, poems would just flow and flourish, pretty and plentiful. All in sajak form, in passionate Malay, some shone, some shite. One left-leaning guy wrote a poem with a stirring line "kita gantung kutang-kutang". I can't remember what had really pissed him. Nobody was happy that we're an all-boys school. He must be having some kind of premonition while crafting that precious line because he's now a high court judge. Gantung, your honour, gantung, ha, ha.
For more than 40 years I was in literary hiatus, which is a pity because I'm quite talented. At least, I think so. I'm now a passive follower of four active poetry social groups (Penyair Malaysia, Jom Sastera, Anjung Puisi, Puisi Maya). Plenty of poems posted but they all lack fire. Mostly dry and dreary, products of a persistent publish or perish mindset. But at least these people are very determined and brave enough to plod on and write. Even six years into retirement with mind now free of fuss and fetters, I've not written one line. Truth is, I'm still struggling to find the spark to restart my literary crush.
It finally came.
II
My mother had been admitted to Universiti Hospital (now called PPUM) since early December for something I could never understand. Her shoulder was bulging like a balloon and the pain was unbearable. The four of us (her children) took turns to be by her side. She's officially 86 and dialysis-dependent. With an average age of 60, we're not much younger either. It's a four-bed ward and it's fairly comfortable for any age.
I can tell you that caring for the sick isn't easy. Well, you didn't say it's easy. It's not so much the physical part, she's not too difficult. It's the emotional side. Watching her struggle to eat and lift her head could break you psychologically. It's times like these you become contemplative, philosophical and, well, serious. Suddenly it dawned. Why didn't I write? Yes, why not, since I'm talented and, now, serious? I could almost feel the adrenalin. I must write. I wanted to write. I wanted to write a poem.
I was soon on fire. Thinking and labouring for ideas and the sexy words for my poem. It's not easy to restart anything if you're already 40 years old. I'm past 60. You can't use the plebeian or prosaic words like makan, pencen, boss, mydin for a poem. It has to be the more pretentious language like senja, musim, berlalu, kamar, aku.
My sick mother was my inspiration, my muse, if you like. Sitting by her bedside with my oversize android, it's easy to write and delete and write and delete. After toiling for more than two weeks, I finally managed to come up with some semblance of poetry. Born on the banks of Kelantan river, I couldn't resist an imagery and allusion of water and river. I can promise you it's an easy read since this is my first foray after 40 years.
berdiri di tebing kamar
mengusap jiwa yang terdampar
berkali aku diamuk soalan
begini jugakah akhirnya nanti?
nafas yang patah dan payah
meminggir bibir yang tipis.
matanya jernih
memandang tetapi tidak melihat.
namun suaranya pantas dan jelas
memanggil dan menerimaku.
betapa tenang dan bebas
hati yang sudah menyerah.
tiada lagi niat dan hasrat
resah atau amarah
di muara usia yang panjang.
kepedihan yang kaudatangkan ini tuhanku
mungkinkah buatku
agar aku lebih cair dan hampir?
apakah makna yang terkumpul
di fikiran yang sudah dihanyutkan
arus ubat dan air ini?
apa mungkin bertahun keperihan
dan kasih yang mengalir
dibayar dengan penantian sehari?
ah, siapakah yang dicari
antara beratus nama yang diimbau
dari lipatan ingatan?
Soalan dan soalan terus melanda
bagaimana harus kurungkai
malam ini
di sini.
She passed away on 25 December.
I'll never write a poem again.
memandang tetapi tidak melihat.
namun suaranya pantas dan jelas
memanggil dan menerimaku.
betapa tenang dan bebas
hati yang sudah menyerah.
tiada lagi niat dan hasrat
resah atau amarah
di muara usia yang panjang.
kepedihan yang kaudatangkan ini tuhanku
mungkinkah buatku
agar aku lebih cair dan hampir?
apakah makna yang terkumpul
di fikiran yang sudah dihanyutkan
arus ubat dan air ini?
apa mungkin bertahun keperihan
dan kasih yang mengalir
dibayar dengan penantian sehari?
ah, siapakah yang dicari
antara beratus nama yang diimbau
dari lipatan ingatan?
Soalan dan soalan terus melanda
bagaimana harus kurungkai
malam ini
di sini.
She passed away on 25 December.
I'll never write a poem again.
