Literature, personal

[PERSONAL/CERPEN]: SAJAK BERANTAKAN

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credit: Satria Pasthika (Mt. Argopuro, 2015)

Dikira mudah menjadi pujangga? Apa yang mengalir dari rongga hati menyusupi jemari menjelma tinta di atas kertas lusuh, atau dalam kasus saya, layar berpiksel sekian.

Dikira mudah menjadi pujangga? Apa yang menjalari relung hati, meresap sesak ke dalam nadi dan jantung berdegup, ekspresinya berupa lantunan huruf dan untaian suara bergemuruh rasa. Kilat di kala hujan bulan Juni bakal malu dibuatnya.

Dikira mudah menjadi pujangga dengan rasa penyair? Dikira mudah menjadi penyair dengan rasa pujangga? Memangnya suatu karya bisa mencapai parameter kelayakan hanya karena ia memiliki rima? Saat deretan kalimat menjulang setinggi gedung pencakar langit, berlari ke empat arah mata angin bak kompas kehilangan magnet, membuat pusing tujuh keliling sekalipun nirfaedah dan nihil arti.

Lantunan huruf dan untaian suara berkata itu datang dari peluh merajuk dan pacu adrenalin dan darah di dalam nadi. Apa yang dirasakan dalam fraksi momen tidak akan pernah sama seperti pada tiap butiran di dalam jam pasir. Itulah keistimewaan sang hati. Dan apapun yang tercipta dalam tiap fraksi momen akan terkristalisasi sempurna pada vial-vial mungil.

Sajak berantakan ini ditujukan bagi yang gemar berpikir dan menuangkan rasa, asa, dan isi kepala. Dikira menjadi pujangga dengan rasa penyair, atau pun sebaliknya, tidak membutuhkan segepok ilmu dan segenggam kesabaran dalam merajut prasasti keabadian diri?

Sang pujangga menitipkan sekeping hati pada tiap kisah yang terukir, momen yang tertangkap. Karena ia mengungkap lalu mengubur. Akankah kisah itu bakal bertahan hidup sebagaimana sang pujangga meniupkan ruh ke dalam jasad tinta dan kertas? Atau, dalam kasus saya, ke dalam layar berpiksel sekian.

Deretan sajak itu pantas menerima maaf dari mereka yang pelit untuk bersikap adil dengan memberinya tatanan bahasa dan rasa. Memangnya mereka tidak mampu berpikir sebagaimana kamu yang mengukir?

Sekarang, buka lembaran baru, kemudian lontarkan kata maaf. Lalu kita mulai lagi. Segalanya memang bukan tentang rasa, tetapi segalanya berawal darisana.


Note: Well, I do not mean to be a grammar Nazi but please if you are using your own native language, do it justice and serve it right. What we write is not only to attract the crowd, ut also to impress, enlighten, and bring joy for our own sake. Make a better quality of your creation, thrive for more, acquire for more. It’s never been about how far you can go to reach out the world, but it is how the way to inspire and touch the heart, the head, the mind, the soul. Once the idea is there, it can never be killed.

And no, I’m not even saying that I’m good enough. Here is a perpetual learner with razor-like brain and a sharper tongue to begin with. 

Literature

[KISAH]: JINGGA KALA SENJA – AKSARA

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credit: mabrurisirampog.wordpress.com

ACT I – AKSARA

SCENE I. An Apartment, San Francisco.

It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love-
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me-
Yes!- that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we-
Of many far wiser than we-
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.

-Annabel Lee, Edgar Allan Poe

There we sat, not in the kingdom by the sea, but in his own room, the clock on the far wall was clicking unrelentingly thus making such eerie sound reverberating to each nook and cranny; it was rather a peculiar night: still, dissolved like diluted ink, almost disquieting in its serenity.

I was a child and he was a child, though people would address us as mere teens with our blissful and joyous adolescence days, but here we were, not in the kingdom by the sea, with I reading this poem to him. I did not have to make him to listen to my regular reading because he had always been conveniently fascinated by it, maybe it was my voice or somewhere between the verse. I would never know. I liked it when he would be completely captured in my reading, tilting his head to one side without uttering a word, his careful eyes bored into mine, we barely broke the staring-contest just because I had memorized each word by the heart.

When I reminisce to this memory, it was vivid and bright, perfectly clear. Just like a pictureperfect memory, there was only he and I, with the limitations reaching infinity, crystallized in this moment forever. I restored it in the secret box at the back of my head.

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