Poetry Reading Reception at The Rotterdam City Hall

It was a long day at the Schiphol airport, 23 years ago
The summer sun faithfully sent its glare
Meadows were through radiating tulip shades
Street car wheels crunched, water rippled in Heerengracht
Rivers surmounting streets. The sea blockaded, country of wooden shoes
Rails spread out, over rhythm of precision
Flocks of Holstein Frisian, dove wings clapped over the Dam
The Queen’s Palace guard, the Round Table Conference halls
Giant harbour, godowns and wounds of War
Throng of people at the Rotterdam City Hall. A welcome reception
Various countries sent their poetry architects and engineers
Everybody laughing, all smiling, holding small glasses
Suddenly I remembered my great-great-great grandfather
From previous century. Five to six generations ago
Back from Mecca, along with his two best friends
And his disciple Peto Syarif from Bonjol, the brave one
Urging people to take arms to confront Dutch soldiers
They donned spotless garbs, white headgears
He was captured. Died hanging from the gallows
They hid his remains, his grave not announced
Dear Hadji Miskin, our great-great-great grandfather
Where were you buried
In which valley, which hill, which sea
Your remains hidden by colonial soldiers
Suddenly I woke up at the Rotterdam City Hall reception
One and a half centuries later
Everybody laughing, all smiling, holding small glasses
Whose hand did the knot on the gallows
To Hadji Miskin’s neck
In this reception everybody laughing, smiling, sipping
Whose hands, whose hands, whose hands
Perhaps, so I thought, great-great-great grandsons of the soldiers
Perhaps, one of them was present here
What if I made a small announcement
“Attentie, attentie,”
Clicking my small spoon to my glass
These people politely turned to me
“Excuse me, aaa, did your great-great-great grandfather
Come to my village last century
And join the Paderi War?”
Everybody was surprised and silent
“Pardon me, aaa, but my great-great-great grandfather
Was arrested and hung
In that war. His name was Hadji Miskin
His remains was not delivered to my family
Did your great-great-great grandfather told you about, aaa,
The hanging of a white garbed gentleman
His village was Pandai Sikek at the foot of Singgalang Mountain
White headdressed, and his grave unannounced?
Any information, at all?
My problem is, there had been no information whatsoever
From Koninklijk Bataviaasch Genootschap van Kunsten en Wetenschappe
None. I just would like to know the whereabout of his grave. That is all
I did not carry folded revenge card deep down in my wallet. None.”
The hall was very quiet like a deserted cemetery
In a scorching summer afternoon, two o’clock
It was so impolite, a guest of Rotterdam Kunststichting
To pose this sort of question. He was belated
For one and a half centuries.

1993

Coffee Spattering the Forest

Three million hectares
of newspaper pages
to be eaten by flames
This morning’s edition
four fingers long
two straight and even columns
unloaded from the back of a pick-up
Dawn at the printers
piled on the asphalt
put in order by the sellers
before the sun is risen
thrown into front yards
picked up by the servants
placed on the dining table
looked at in passing
while straightening one’s tie
with the wife, tidying her hair
and the children running around
a morning full of things to do
Marmelade on finger tips
and bread clutched in one hand
Crossing one’s arms
coffee spills on the reading matter
spattering three million hectares of newspaper
two immensely long columns
The fire dies, the forest smoulders
The damp newspaper is folded four times
placed in the woven hard-plastic basket
and thrown away
that very morning
at precisely thirty past seven.

1988

Does the Sound of Pines

for Ati

Does the sound of pines
Whistle and roar at you
Do you hear for one fleeting moment
The rustling of leaves coming loose

The lines of blue hills
Break out into a melody
Banks and ranks of cloud
Sparkle like gold jewelry

Does the sound of pines
Whistle and roar at you
Do the wide oceans of corn
Churn those waves of sound.

1973

Nine Sea Gulls of Tuan Yusuf

Now imagine I was holding the fence
of Tuan Yusuf’s first grave
and had a close look of the earth
that once absorbed his corpse.
Then observe my exit from the mausoleum
visiting the next four graves with four parallel markers
no names engraved except 99 Adjectives of God.
Four remains lay parallel here
they might be Tuan Yusuf’s
ulama, field commanders
they might be from Makassar, Bugis or Banten

Now imagine a black cannon
pointing at Africa’s horizon.
Follow me stepping back three centuries
remembering the West Java battles
when Tuan Yusuf was chief commander

Listen to the Faure wind whining
coming from two oceans shaking hands
at the northernmost cape
or at the freezing South Pole

Look at the leaves drifting in autumn
around the reddish bay
whispering softly whenever colours come and go

Can we picture Tuan Yusuf the sufi
deep, zikr enveloping his soul
his thought flowed through bamboo split pens
in red and black ink
seeping into three languages

Fantasize bones of the brave one
in a coffin
sailing more than 10,000 kilometers through two oceans
the west wind slapping seven sails
at the Celebes shores threw anchor
and people sobbing, lowering Syeikh Yusuf solemnly
into Lakiung earth
close to the place where his mother Aminah
bleeding giving birth

It is burdensome for me
to draw the imaginary lines of your face
as photography did not belong to your century
no painter was ever assigned by the bureaucracy
to do your five colour acrilic portrait
but I just envision
the masculine face of a 65 years old,
penetrating and enlightening eyes
light beard, deep voice, slim physique
speaking fluent Makassar Bugis Arabic Dutch and Malay

Those Low Land people were scared of you
the Governor and managers
of the crooked VOC business
deep down respected you.
But they had to exile you to Batavia, Ceylon,
and further 10,000 kilometers to Africa
as they did not want to be distracted
collected gold coins
neatly catalogued in iron imperialist trunks

Syeikh Yusuf, what was the format and physiology
of your genius and fearlessness?

Now have a look at the fog turning into round clouds
slipping down the Table Mountain
gracefully
facing two oceans

I feel autumn winds saying
you enjoy freedom today because three centuries ago
Syeikh Yusuf trampled barbed bristling weeds
and conquered forests of rattan thorns
for you

I hear zikr flows
dissolved into seven sea gulls flying
their wings rippling and singing.

Cape Town, 26 April, 1993.