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10 Examples of Nirwan Dewanto's Poems

Nirwan Dewanto and Examples of His Poetry- Nirwan was born in Surabaya, East Java, on September 28, 1961. While still in high school he wrote poetry; His works were published in magazines including Kuncung and Kartini. After graduating from high school, Nirwan studied at the Bandung Institute of Technology in Bandung, West Java, from 1980 to 1987. After earning a Bachelor's degree in Geology, he then moved to Jakarta.

His writings have been published in the People's Mind, Kompas, Suara Karya Minggu, Buana News, Kalam, and others.In 1991 Nirwan became a speaker at the National Cultural Conference. He is then better known for talking a lot about culture. Nirwan was the editor of Kalam magazine when it was launched in February 1994, with the writer Goenawan Mohamad. In 1996 Nirwan published a collection of essays entitled Senjakala Budaya. Two decades since it was stated, the weakness of Indonesian Culture: The 1991 view was exposed by Putri Karyani, blogger Kompasiana, who rejected Nirwan's postmodernist premise about the position of science in culture.

Nirwan served on the jury at the first Equator Award, in 2001. Nirwan later stated that the selection process was not good, so that the jury often did not understand the works being judged and sometimes judged the works arbitrarily. In the same year he produced the poetry anthology Book of Worms.

Nirwan won the Equator Award in 2008 for the poetry anthology Heart of the Queen Bee; This award also includes an honorarium of Rp. 100 million. Short story writer Seno Gumira Ajidarma, a judge, stated that the anthology is a monumental work. In 2010 Nirwan produced an anthology of poetry entitled Buli-Buli Lima Kaki. The following year several of his works were performed alongside music by Dian HP and Nirwan's wife, singer Nya Ina Raseuki; Nirwan also read poetry at the event.

Below are 10 examples of Nirwan Dewanto's poems that you can listen to.

Blind Swimmer

Ten or a thousand
fathoms ahead, it's plain.
And the current that guides
him is like a tear in a robe
the cape he stole.
No difference jellyfish or virgin
closer to her back which was
growing and bruisedat the same time
by the late May drizzle brush.
It's like going back to the
bay, where the sails are white
must be jealous of his eyes.
But he just stops, stops in
the middle, where is his hair
disperse like blue algae
or dark like parasitic roots
so how the lighthouse is
hesitated to look at him.


Juan Gris's Three Violins

Lying on the tray, it's still convex
with strings tensed by white-and-white
the sheet of the songthat was on top of it. And a
pipe smelling tobacco andmaybe a bunch of wilted grapes
diligently flanked her whenshe was so doubtful of the
purple and brown that shouldbe hers. On the top of his neck
only curved like ablack arabeska so that it
will no longer puff uplike a cassowary egg
but soaring like the sunset at the fingertips.

Part of her back slowlyflattened out as the strings
disappeared betweenthe folds of the white linen
and yellow which keepstwo pseudo-sleeves until
the halma board in frontof it is blue like morning
like his immortalmirror. Turns out they're
both Siamese twins wholove to copy backgrounds
with the back to greenhis body only a hundred
fragments of circlesand triangles of devotion
brown mahogany wallpaperand table wood grain
when the eyes are justplaying with mats and gems
when Partita Bach had to interrupt the orange and soot.

Calm like Japanesepaper, as if it stretched from
the edge to the center.The strings are just a line
the gap multiplier betweenthe sky at dawn and
the bottle of ink waitingfor the painter's hand
which had already dimmed two blood-red ribbons.
The color of air, he should beable to separate the brown lumps
of the table and the graydoor that are fighting over white
but was blocked by a pieceof Corinthian pillar floating
between blue and blackthat wanted to hurry home.
He really was toopatient, so all the
gaps buried the painterwho had made him
bushel, like smoke andmist. Unknowingly he
gave himself up to Chineseink as wide as the sea
which is now locked by the neck of the bottle which is like his neck.


Sunny side up
—for Sigmar Polke

Only the eyes have finished
The blue of the ocean can weigh
This tired shell trembled.
Only fingers ever dispute
With blood red smoothly walking
Curved like this devil's back.
Only the heart that occasionally squeezes
In the cellar is worth pitying
The crack that held this bubbling slime down.
Only paintings that are willing to be overgrown
The moss green immediately separates
The female egg from the fire egg.
Only poets who are not finished
Exploring the white area will be rewarded
Real hunger in this yellow center.
But only the tongue is really saturated
By salt must be able to follow
Flat poetry burned in this empty tray.



Like a green bag filled with
blood stops believingin the ground,
like a sheathlesspomfret sliding
down the edge of the promontory,
like a pot full of curry gravy
exhausted by the embers,
like eight months pregnant
ready to choke on a male rod,
(unlike the heart of a plantain,
though it cracksin the blind rain)—
this is your painting when your
thirst swings betweenwhite and soot,
picking up the fruitfrom the bottom of the
night, the fleshlesslook of the scariest place
a row of seedslike tiger's hooves,
while your tongueis simply amazed.


Farthest Rose

You are the seed of the morning
rain, I am the oldumbrella of envy.
You're the tearson the fingertips,
I'm the handkerchief of the sun.
If you're in a red dress, I'll
have a hand on your belly.
But you're also a pool of
blood, when I don't love you.
You're the mirror too waiting,
I'm the face that purifies you.
Spill all the blood, until
your heart is full of coals.
You're the owner of the full day
rain, I'm theumbrella too hidden.
Come on, hurry tothe gray January,
for I'm drooping tothe edge of the song.


Teen Bride

I can't cry, because your skin is mangosteen brown. You can no longer jump, because my face is almost rusty. Indeed, since childhood I have only known your shadows: for I am an animal tamer, you are the pin of the rope. (Remember. When I roared incessantly, you just didn't want to come back. You lovers of the abyss below, I worship the high heavens.) Until those shameless pilgrims pulled us to a bridge of roses and said, “Look, how commensurate these two twins are." A rope of wild rice roots they tied to your feet and mine. Under the hood of the Milky Way I erased them one by one, but left a mere figure and drove him across the river and called him Father. Then I tried to miss you, even though you were was on my lap like an egg wriggling in its own nest. You said, "Adam, hurry up and feed me so we can grow up." Your chest is gleaming but only filled with wind, I know. Let me start spinning linen or other fabric (I'm not sure) so that tomorrow we can dare to look in the mirror. And on your tongue I stick mine so that we no longer thirst. "Eve, don't promise to love me," I cried, threatening the Father that flashed in your eyelids.


Church Bells

My enemies lead me to sing
while hugging the tallest towers
but for the sake ofLatin robes for the dead I
have only learned to besilent as tongues of fire.


Without title
—to Mieczyslaw Gorowski

Postman in the distance
It is your own father
Delivered your letter this morning
To your mother's grave.
You pluck and float
My three strands of hair to the shadows
Your father and immediately cheered
That I am the postman.
Too many roads so
Your dad can't wait to find
The most perfect tomb in the world—
So he opened all the letters
Until he finds a
Contains three strands of my hair
What he recognized as three
Count for him to come back.
I dance in front of your mother
When you wrote that letter
In the middle of the stage while
Denying the rhyme of my feet.
On the road between me and your father
Towering post office where
You put in a letter for
Pull out three strands of your hair.
Darling now it's night
And a new letter will be sent
Tomorrow—only if you dance
And your father came to the stage.
The postman fell asleep in the tomb—
I pulled him to the bonfire
When your mother ran away from me
Into her own womb.



You begged formercy to the raindrops
after pulling theroots to the porch face
while I allied with the grain
to dare to kiss the mouth of the sun.


—to Gregory Sidharta Soegijo

The thirteen of us sat: the table is very long, the stage is too roomy. He and I are like two stars far apart, two twinkles trying to exchange vibrations. He was at the other end, as if on top of a peninsula: his face was covered in darkness, almost complete darkness. But he seemed to grow closer to each of us. Really, we were afraid that our faces would rub off on hers, but we were happy to smell her body between our hunger. I knew he recognized us one by one; whereas we were like students who, half-dumb half-arrogant, could only guess each other's names, and suspect each other which of us would betray first.

He looked in all directions, at our faces, and behind the nape of our necks, at the ships that came and went down below. Meanwhile we trembled silently, afraid to let go of her form. So I like to imagine that one or more of us will get rid of him before midnight, before we get really drunk and mad at each other. May in the morning we no longer fight or see our armies exterminate one another: and we will get back our country, our homeland, each one, in peace.

I heard him say at the height of our hunger, (hope I'm not mistaken), "One of you will give me up." Perhaps no one else listened to it but me, for we began hastily touching the plates and saucers with hands that still contained traces of blood and pus and sap, stains that had moved to the skin of the hides. We have just said goodbye to all our guns and trains, so that we may become more adept at negotiating and dining. Indeed we have washed our faces until they shine, so that we are no longer impersonators who freeze from behind. Look, we've moved so fast into this banquet hall, through the layers of walls, denying the smothering of the maze.

But he moved faster than we did, because he knew we would come here with the face of a saint, and he described himself as a mere sinner. He allowed his form to be engulfed in mist, even to dissolve in mist; he left the wounds invisible (but soon, be patient, he'll show some of them—puncture holes in both palms and right side of the stomach). When we arrived, he was already waiting at the most purple end, while we could only dwell on these fiery red dots, where halos would adorn our heads. In a tree in the garden he said to us, (hope I'm not repeating too much for you), "Tonight, before the rooster crows, you will deny me three times."

Didn't we fail to limit the space in which we had to stare at each other? Look, it turns out that we are only surrounded by a wall of wind, and our ears are still wandering the world there, seeking the whispers of all our enemies and allies, although we want to carefully heed his last proverbs. We heard the shrieks of the birds and the crashing of the waves as he began to touch his bread, and the long echoes intertwined with his voice. And we imagine his fingers gleaming like the tip of a sword and yet soft as the crown of a pandan leaf, and the bread like a lump of flesh, believe me, like our fearsome flesh. No, we will not give our meat to anyone, so we believe he broke the bread and distributed it to all of us saying, (hope I'm not quoting it for my own sake), "Take it, eat it, for this is my body."

Perhaps we were wrong: we thought the arena was surrounded by olive and date trees. Why do we now see lush kana, clams, and hibiscus flowers surrounding us? Why do we forget whether our treasure is season two or four, when we feel we have followed him reading the most secret books, glorifying women, impeaching the kings of the world, or preaching on a hill? Every now and then a fishy smell from the sea rose to this enormous table, reminding us that our ships were still loaded with weapons and that our soldiers in the camps were waiting for our signal when they should start attacking. We patiently dreamed of the golden-orange light of dawn spilling onto his face, and the brilliance of that face would surely corner the twelve of us as some kind of apostle who could not compete with him forever.

Suddenly the long-fixed figure to my left—how our faces look alike, and we wear the same moss-green robes, and I think we've fought on a curvy bank or under a crossbeam—crys out, “We made him where he is. here. Let's judge him because he will indeed be a true martyr. We've been fighting over him for too long as our commander. Isn't he too brave for this world?"


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