Setelah Bo Juyi dan Burton Watson
Tidak juga tua, tidak juga remaja
hampir kepala empat, sebentar lagi
setengah abad.
Semua biasa saja, tidak ada yang
istimewa—
pekerjaan pertamaku, bernafas lalu
menjadi tua.
Ya,
bakat aku punya, tapi aku juga pemalas:
Jujur saja, dari pada tivi aku
lebih suka jendela.
Begitu gajian, sekejap kemudian aku
hidup dalam kemiskinan
nasi warteg rasanya rendang dan
halte adalah keindahan.
Kamar yang sempit bukanlah masalah,
asal ada buku, gitar dan harmonika.
Buka buku, tutup. Buka lagi. Tutup.
Buka lagi—tidak ada yang kubaca,
sekali waktu, kutiup harmonika.
Selesai.
Lalu pagi. Naik bus lagi. Masuk
telat lagi.
Sore. Waktunya pulang, membayangkan
tilam lalu lelap.
Kerja itu buat kepala pening,
untungnya aku tak pernah sakit
meski perut, kau sudah tahu, hanya
itu alasan hidup.
Kau tahu, dari hari ke hari,
hidupku begitu-begitu saja.
Membaca lagi dan lagi, sajak yang
itu-itu juga, sajak yang nempel di
tembok kamar—
sajak yang kutulis, kubaca sendiri, sendiri, dan berkali-kali.
Sajak, hanya sajak yang biasa saja dan tidak ada yang istimewa.
sajak yang kutulis, kubaca sendiri, sendiri, dan berkali-kali.
Sajak, hanya sajak yang biasa saja dan tidak ada yang istimewa.
808 A.D.
After Po Chü-i and Burton Watson
Not too old, not young anymore,
almost three dozen years gone by.
Not a failure, not a success—
my first real job, a job to grow old in.
Some potential, too lazy to use it:
I’d watch TV but I like the window more.
My money gets spent when I have it;
cheap food tastes good too, and a small room’s enough.
Even a smaller room would be fine,
a shelf of old books, guitar with no amp.
The books I just flip through and don’t worry about too much,
the guitar is for noodling around on my own.
Mornings on the bus; I get to the office late.
Evenings it’s back home, go to bed early.
Working out’s too much trouble, and my body’s all right,
some belly to keep me company.
So there you have it, day by day, month after month.
Rereading this poem taped to the wall—
that’s the only reason I wrote it.
No genius, not stupid either.
almost three dozen years gone by.
Not a failure, not a success—
my first real job, a job to grow old in.
Some potential, too lazy to use it:
I’d watch TV but I like the window more.
My money gets spent when I have it;
cheap food tastes good too, and a small room’s enough.
Even a smaller room would be fine,
a shelf of old books, guitar with no amp.
The books I just flip through and don’t worry about too much,
the guitar is for noodling around on my own.
Mornings on the bus; I get to the office late.
Evenings it’s back home, go to bed early.
Working out’s too much trouble, and my body’s all right,
some belly to keep me company.
So there you have it, day by day, month after month.
Rereading this poem taped to the wall—
that’s the only reason I wrote it.
No genius, not stupid either.
[versi asli: http://www.theparisreview.org/poetry/6058/808-ad-damion-searl]
No comments:
Post a Comment