what made me really depressed today:

Facebook doesn't load in the People sidebar,* what do I do?

Some people are currently experiencing a problem getting their Facebook contacts to load into the People sidebar. This is because of a Facebook change, and we are currently working hard on a fix.

In the meantime, you may be able to get People to return to normal by following these steps:

Mac, Windows, Linux
1. Login to Facebook
2. Click the "accounts" link at the top of the page.

If this doesn't work, try this:

Mac
1. Open the Flock menu
2. Click "Preferences"
3. Go to the "Advanced" tab
4. Within that tab, go to the "Update" tab
5. Click "Force Service Updates"
6. Restart Flock

Windows
1. Open the Tools menu
2. Click "Options"
3. Go to the "Advanced" tab
4. Within that tab, go to the "Update" tab
5. Click "Force Service Updates"
6. Restart Flock

Linux
1. Open the Edit menu
2. Click "Preferences"
3. Go to the "Advanced" tab
4. Within that tab, go to the "Update" tab
5. Click "Force Service Updates"
6. Restart Flock

For up-to-the-minute updates on this bug, check out Flock on Twitter.

*the most interesting thing in the flock browser, and the most important thing in my life

guess it runs in the family

Rumah indahmu
(written while watching Tita* playing water at San Diego Hills**)
Endang Johani***

tercapailah kini yang kau cita
diam di bukit luas cakrawala
rumput hijau memangku danau

kalau tidak di hari tuamu
maka biarlah di hari abadimu
senyum bidari
nyala lilin
menyambutmu
karena kau pulang di hari jadimu

riang cucumu mengecipak sejuknya air
yang mengalir di pinggir makammu
kutahu kau damai di alam sana
karena makammu indah penuh bunga

                                             18/02/08****

Di makam tua
(written otw from bekonang***** to skh******, very sleepy)
Endang Johani

dua orang lelaki
dua generasi
berjongkok di kerikil makam
mencabut perdu, memungut daun bertebaran
menyapu jejati di tanah hujan
berdoa kepada tuhan yang hampir dilupakan
kupandangi mereka, mengharukan

lalu kutaruh bunga di atasnya
bapak/yangkung, ibu/yangti
dan adik bayi mungil di kaki makam
yang kini dipangku Tuhan

                                            21/03/08

*my mom's granddaughter, not from me
**actually in Krawang
***my mom, yesterday she asked, as she handed me these poems, 'how do i join your Bunga Matahari thing?'
****the day after my dad, her husband, died
*****a little village outside solo where my mom's family comes from, also ray sahetapy's village in opera jakarta, because arswendo atmowiloto who wrote the script came from this sleepy, incestuous village, too. so did srimulat
******sukoharjo, the kabupaten town next to solo, we were going to a wedding there

I have long carried the following thought(s)/emotion(s) in my head:

  The next installment in my Nunzia Nanzio stories where we leave mike d. and rob g. and go on a walk around the block where they live:
  The people who live on and around this narrow, tree-lined, strip remember nothing, have no memories of their past, anything, except for an instinct to use whatever devices they find waiting for them in their shops every morning.
  So the bakers will switch on the oven and bake palmiers. The newsagents will turn on their cash machines and give early-rising people with take-away cups of coffee in their puffy hands their exact change for a copy of today's newspaper and a carton of milk. The lesbian shopkeeper will start roasting coffee beans for her Vitalux coffee machine. It gleams in the pre-loved dullness of her bookshop. It is called ————
  Everything works. But nothing means anything.

no pun*

so sophor didn’t come after all. not that i really put any elbow into making her come. and rescue me.

so thought mike d.

so now he’s left with a half-drunk latté, a sober, glistening palmiere and a honeycomb retriever the size of a horse. go away you filthy bastard.

so said mike d. to the dog. to the sober palmiere. to the birds. to the world.

so, gum trees, do you know where i can find rob g.? you haven’t seen him recently? i haven’t seen him recently! useless ass.

so shoes, take me, anywhere anywhere anywhere i don’t care. to the artisan coffee shop next door we go!

so, napalm death scum tee, this street has nothing but artisan coffee shops! where will we go to escape bread products of southern italy?!

so, levi’s 512 loose fit, it’s gottta be, if there are times in the history of man when things just gotta be then why hasn’t she come to me?

so tell me, what are you?

so am i robot, not a human, too?

so let’s go back to the world, to the business of making things click like a well-made box. shall we visit the artisanal organic organic over there? yes, i am talking to you my beloved jacket of mao.

so so so, life has boiled down to this eh? another coffee at three to wash down the pad thai at everyday the same hour same eatery with an awful fun for a name. everything’s just

so. let’s just get back down to the story, of how mike d. is looking for the missing rob g. and how can you fit all that into a paperback that is just plane fun?

so, no more siestas for the mind.

so tell me crisp, perfect biscotti, why in the dawn of someone’s life, dreams of faulchion and perfect shields of gold, of ambrosia and foxy iris bold, still can’t convince me that life will be any thing but just so-

so?

*part four of yeah,

Kimura Kaela*

"I went to Fiji for 3 days

But I had the flu the whole time

I couldn't go out to sea for dinner

I've still got a runny nose now

And on the third day

Angelina Jolie came wearing this

Skin-tight black wedding dress

And quaffed 3 tall glasses of wine

—White

At the houseboat dinner that

I couldn't attend

Because of my runny nose

I don't know. People tell me

I slept for 3 days

So couldn't have seen Angelina

Jolie coming to see us

But now I've got this pretty, high, nasally

Voice like Kimura Kaela

All thanks to my 3-day dream of

Angelina."



*found this in my notebook, can't be sure if it's mine hence the "   "

draining camp*

feeling all alone in this world mike d. reaches into an old bookshelf half-filled with The Little House Cookbook, a seventh-hand copy of L’immoraliste and two lunchboxes of non-rarity basketball cards.

in this alternate universe Patrick Ewing can fly is fly the shit.

but really what he really wants is Sophor really.

but as always in times like this people you need are always needed elsewhere.

Sophor, datanglah, aku tak ingin menjadi seperti orang-orang di lagu Flaming Lips itu. he hasn’t forgot them? but why hasn’t he just come? the wall is always open.

what (strange) language is that (strange) man speaking?

don’t you know? it’s mike d. le poète fantastique!

Aramaic? doesn’t sound like it.

you’re impossible.

impossible is everything.

including Sophor coming here to rescue me today.

why, i only need her to sprinkle Krispy Kreme original glaze coating on the dough of this earth so everything sticks and stays and my rubber boots can carry me through to rob g.!

those boots, monsieur, are made for waddling.

i know, i know. an eskimo gave it to me. i could hardly see his face for all the fur.

you mean on his windcheaters?

actually, it was her .... the fur? it was antler’s. a fourteen-pointer.

you know a lot about the world m. d.

i know, i know. an eskimo gave it to me. i could hardly see his face for all the fur.

didn’t you just say that?

i know, i know. etc.

*part three of four, the first here, the second here

Abdoh Rinbo's Odyssey

pulang gampang bagimu al-wajid
yang selalu menemukan detik ini juga apa yang ingin kau temukan

jalan pulang menembus semak belukar
telur paskah bercat ungu menempel di lebam mata

kau tak punya alasan untuk bermurah hati al-mu'akhkhir
kau yang maha bisa menggagalkan segalanya

tapi sudilah berikan kami kapal portugis
dengan layar setengah terbakar pun tak apa

asal tak kau cat langit malam dengan tinta cina
o al-dhar kau yang maha penyiksa

biarkan angin dan konstelasi bintang
menuntun kami pelan-pelan, ke ithaka

pulang kantor gandengan tangan dengan ney di sini

AL-SHU'ARAA'

'Lihatlah, penyair selalu dibuntuti oleh orang-orang yang kalah
lihatlah mereka terseok-seok di setiap ngarai yang mereka lewati
menjual obat yang tak pernah mereka minum sendiri.'

Tapi Al-Mudhill, Tuhanku Yang Maha Penghina
pilihan apa lagi yang kupunya
kalau kau telah berkomplot dengan Plato dan mengusir kami dari cetak biru surgamu?

Selain kata-kata yang mengalir di benang-benang optik antar dunia
9 to 5 Waraney di sana, siesta sepanjang hariku di sini
O Al-Qabidh, Tuhanku Yang Maha Membatasi?

Memang enak kau punya paling tidak 99 nama
kami hanya punya satu
itupun sering salah dieja.

jaringan puisi liberal didirikan di sini

HIKAYAT USMAN BIN AFFAN VOL. 1

di sudut tendanya usman bin affan menghitung merjan mengkilap
upeti kurir yang mengantar pesan menyerah dari raja-raja sejazirah arab

tahun depan, kordoba! pikirnya. dielusnya janggut yang keriting seperti sulur anggur
dibelainya kuran dari kulit onta, percikan-percikan darah di sudutnya

ya muhammad, jalan pedang membawa kejayaan lebih cepat
daripada badai gurun melenyapkan pucuk tenda pedagang kurma!

di paris akan aku tegakkan, scimitar dan bulan sabit
di puncak bukit montmartre, akan kubangun masjid di sana

dengan hamam gratis di basement-nya, buka 24 jam
bagi kita laki-laki yang selalu berkeringat darah!

sebentar lagi ya muhammad, akan kusempurnakan kitabmu
dengan tinta emas dan sampul kulit manusia-manusia kafir

lailahaillallah muhammaddarrasulullah
biarkan aku menyulap mukjizat atas nama-namamu.

hasil beradu pedang dengan ney di sini

general stuw peed*

tanda pangkat di bahu jendral itu sudah lama tidak disetrika
kerut-kerut menyaingi cakar ayam di sudut-sudut matanya

diam-diam si jendral suka menulis puisi. segepok telah ditulisnya,
di sela-sela menulis skenario kamera ria, 'produksi indonesia

menunjang sistem senjata armada terpadu', bualnya,
tanpa pernah percaya di lautan pun panser bisa berjaya

semua ia simpan rapi di bawah kasur, di samping tumpukan playboy tua
madonna, juni 1985, betapa lebat bulu tangannya!

suatu hari ditulisnya puisi buat istrinya, yang selalu setia
membuatkan teh dengan iris-iris jahe yang mengambang di bibir gelas

seperti mayat-mayat Falintil yang ditembaknya sendiri
tahun '75 di perbatasan Dili

dia ingat, sungai yang dia tak kenal namanya itu
tidak cukup coklat untuk menyembunyikan merah darah yang menebar seperti awan

dibayangkannya istrinya, perempuan berseragam daster
dengan bordir beruang di dada kirinya

sungguh cute, kenapa selalu ditinggalkannya?
tour of duty? alasan saja!

ditulisnya sebuah sajak, tentang dia dan istrinya
dan penginapan tua di jogja, tempat mereka minggat

bertahun-tahun lalu. malam tahun baru, kembang api mekar
di langit kota. ia melihat istrinya berdiri di dekat jendela

berseragam daster yang sama, diam menatap langit
yang menyala-nyala.

ingin disapanya istrinya yang waktu itu masih pacarnya
tapi dia merasa malam terlalu dingin, dan dia hanya kembali meringkuk

menarik selimut semakin tinggi
menutup dagunya.

jendral itu ingin sekali menambah satu bintang lagi di tanda pangkatnya
menyematkannya di bahu istrinya yang setia: jendral besar (anumerta).


*judul dicuri dari sini

hikikomorikami

dongeng buat coreng

youre like deep inside a big cave where nobody can see you

not even those wolves

youre wearing a miniskirt made out of tree bark and one of those bras made of polished coconut shells

youre painting bisons and moons and stars and wolves on the damp cave walls

in the dark

the bisons will turns out like wolves and the moons like stars and the stars like you

you paint them with yr own blood

menstrual blood

though youre not regular

last time was september and now its april

according to the stick calendar you keep off yr head

so mostly you cut yrself with a lil piece of glowing rock

broken off a stalactite

and yr blood glows too as if in cahoots

then one day youre half asleep

when from the corner of your eyes you see

a light moving in

its a small light

like a kunang2

but you hvnt seen the light for so long

like 200 years

and you dont know anymore what that moving yellow thing is

you try to say the word out loud so you remember

but you forgot you havent spoken to anyone for 200 years

so what comes out was just gibberish

lousdfiusbfsudyc;oiasb;ch;s!

asbdfsldbyflyrfoweyo!

youre so frustrated you start to tear at yr hair and yr coconut shell bras except youve worn them for so long theyve grown into yr skin or yr sin into it who knows

yr SIN into it! wow thats better!

so finally you just run at the little yellow light that floats in the darkness like the darkness was a slow river

and you swam in the darkness

and the light gives off this scent

that makes your head feel so light

like youve got no head

and you feel so happy

and you wanna hug the light

but it was so small it kept escaping your embrace

so you think

but youve got no head so you wonder how you cd still think

and think how u cd still wonder

you think maybe you could just sing to the light

after all you went to the cave 200 years ago when you felt so lonely

maybe the light was lonely too

maybe it would like to listen to something pretty

like a lullaby

something that wd remind it of its mothers bosom

her gendong batik

how warm and safe that must feel

so you start to hum that song

you still cant remember or say the words

cos you hvnt spoken in 200 years

but you know the notes cos you used to play the piano

and youve got good ears

and in human language it still sounds like dcvfklbslbfh;obf;obyf;

isbdcfiscflibye

oiyeroiybeiybeyv

except to the light it sounds beautiful

its so beautiful

the little light slows down

then stops

right in front of yr chest

yr coconut-shelled chest

you could almost touch it

but you were too busy singing

because the words start to make sense now

n n a b b

n n n i a oo oo

niii aaaa nooo bbbb ooo

nih       nah

ni na

bbbb

ooooo

bbboooooooo

and the light is so happy it stops moving entirely

it feels so safe and warm

and you can feel it too

the cave

the hairy bisons on the walls

the world

the everythings safe and warm like a mothers bosom

and the light doesnt even realise it starts to grow dim

dimmer

and dimmer

and you were so caught up in singing and listening to yr own words
that you dont realise the light

when you raise yr head to see if it was still there listening to you

WAS GONE

the pretty little light was gone!

you cant believe it

just as much as you cant believe youve started to speak human words again

what use are human words in a world without light?

the next day you tell yrself never to pay so much attention to any single light like that again

you paint yr bisons and yr wolves and yr stars and you sign it THE END

the begin*

ning marsha was the name of a pattaya girl who got lost in her head and wandered into a narrow strip of artisan breadshoppes, smelly secondhand bookstores and flakey air jordans hanging from telephony wires above streetcorners.

they say people deal drugs under the air jordans. or hand-made brogues. no one knows.

anymore.

or ever?

but let’s just forget mike d. and rob g. and ms. marsha for a while. how long is a while? maybe 3 postings, 2 weeks, an hour, maybe forever. let’s just talk about the place where they live. let’s just talk.

adults like to call a place like that, “home”.

they like to say, “for human beings are nothing without a place they can call ‘home’.”

they like to say things in sentences that begin with, “for ...”

i like sentences that end.

that don’t have words you feel you have to ‘ ’ when you transcribe them.

a pub named after a pub in cheshire, england. or new england. a mini market that sells mouldy farmer’s bread in my literal memory. a cafe manned by a woman wearing black aprons with white cummy milky stains in my dreams. a ghost from a noh play. his name was benji. he was gay.

when you talk about a place you can’t tell a story. or maybe you can, but i don’t.

because i’m stupid.

i like to sit on a cloud and mock jupiter as he panics in his orbit around the sun.

from where i am i can see mike d. running around a blue dot on the ground looking for rob g.

ning marsha reaches out her hand trying to catch mike d.’s attention. his eyes. the cardigan rip on his elbow. anything.

but nothing a woman can do can turn the mind of a man away from another man.

from up here ning marsha’s outstretched hand looks like an emdash.

like this: –

*lanjutan dari cerita dan program kemarin

My Ocean Runs In Your Eddy

I would marry you
today

since your jawline
matches mine

and that good woman
at the old palace said

'there's not
a better sign.'

Mari Jadikan Maret Desember Lagi

dan biarkan hati

bermultiply

di ujung jari.

grave design

terakhir kali aku mengunjungimu o nenekku yang sudah kulupakan bau gendong batikmu

aku masih punya ide-ide idealis tentang bagaimana kuburan seharusnya

tentang nisan bertatahkan kata-kata mutiara yang dijiplak dari oscar wilde

atau paling tidak, keats; sesuatu yang membuat orang tertawa sekaligus berkerut dahinya

tapi sekarang o nenekku yang sudah kulupakan bau gendong batikmu

aku hanya bisa memandang padi kuning yang merunduk di sekitar kuburanmu

kerikil di atas makammu yang berhiaskan daun jati kropos membentuk hati

sungai kecil dengan air kemricik yang menembus earphones ipod-ku

(aku sedang mendengarkan leif erikson o nenekku yang sudah kulupakan

bau gendong batikmu: it's like learning a new language!—semua ini)

di dekat pintu masuk; bebek-bebek berbaris oleng bersama cah angon yang

o nenekku yang sudah kulupakan bau gendong batikmu! kali ini ternyata

seorang kakek-kakek dengan benjolan-benjolan kusta di jari-jarinya

begitu lambat waktu berjalan di sekitar kuburanmu o nenekku yang sudah kulupakan

bau gendong batikmu, aku bisa menghitung berapa lembar lumut baru telah tumbuh

di sisa-sisa tanggul yang menandai jalan pulang ke rumahmu sejak terakhir kali

aku mengunjungimu. lihatlah! o nenekku yang sudah kulupakan bau gendong

batikmu, petani-petani bermalasan merendam kaki di sodètan bengawan solo,

melambaikan tangan yang berkerak lumpur ke arah clurit berkarat di tanganku.

tapi tak ada rumput untuk disiangi sore ini di makammu o nenekku

yang sudah kulupakan bau gendong batikmu! yang ada hanya keinginan aneh

untuk tinggal dan menjahit baju lebaran dari daun-daun jati yang bertebaran di sekitarmu.

I Wear Black On The Outside, Because Fat Is What I Feel On The Inside

And If These Lines Seem A Little Strange, That's Because You Are

i wasn't the one who shot down saint-ex, believe me!

i know what i want now. i want to walk the empty streets of a busy city. early evening, orange light. a greenish river moving upstream. i want to go into a comic books store near closing time. the store will be unattended. piles of acme novelty library vols. 45-75 as high as the sky. i will browse thru vol. 47 in the french traduction, about how jimmy corrigan lost his brain stem in a freak batobus accident and now he's the stupidest kid on earth. the stupidest kid on earth in a coma. i will leave the comic books store, 'tis called galacticos, and i will leave the door open. exposed to the recently falling snow. i will walk to the direction of this park i know, since i had been spending to much time there listening to the sun, and i will find a bench, wet with dew and snow, sit down and read a sang ram* in the dark. in the morning (the night i spent sipping wine, red, straight out of the bottle) i will watch the leaves on the nameless (to me) trees turn from yellow to green and i will watch with amazement and nonchalantly a bronze of condorcet grow wings on the spats. morning hermès, i'd greet him, would you like a mcdonald's coffee and a mcmuffin? no, he'd say. get me something from the hotel rimbaud at the rue descartes. and off i'll go, with that morning's copy of le figaro under my left armpit. i will get the petit déjeuner and totally forget about condorcet. then i will go to CBGB's and watch the velvet undergound in its original (trans)formation. nico would still be hot, though she never was. they will jam with neil hagerty and serge gainsbourg will pelt them with his white calf skin repetto zizi hommes. i will feel crap seeing so many talented people on and off stage and i will catch the lastest métro to la flèche d'or and watch an imitation white stripes dressed in blue polkadots. the watered-down beer will cost 10 euros and i will be a millionaire, having just received my heritage money from the flaubert estate and i'll spend the rest of the money on a grand apartment overlooking place victor hugo and i will play petanque with holiday_sendiri on the velvet carpet. we go hungry after 30 minutes and we'll walk down jalan jaksa and look for a cheap soto betawi. there's one but they've run out of the goat's eyes and there's no way we'll eat at an establishment like that. it's not even 5 a.m. not yet. so she says why don't we go to bladok and order an omelette with melting cheese inside instead? sure, that's only a 24-hour non-stop flight on emirates with a quick transit in dubai. let's go. do you wanna get an a/w marni dress at periplus to go? to go with yr dilapidated copy of de nijs/niewenhuys's faded portraits! the frogs were all over batavia early last century. sure, why not, i like losing my head in the clouds. aren't the girls pretty in this sleepy royal javanese town? i'd say majestic if they weren't all wearing sandals made of swallows. ah, you complain too much, life is what you make out of nothing. then i will make nothing out of life haha hoho heehee. let's just go rafting on the brown river and be a couple of smartasses and call it brownwater rafting. you do that. i do that? i do a lot of things but never things that make money, or dust out of reputations. okay then, let's just go burn bridges and watch slamet gundono play wayang with the flames. let's.

*the sequel to lorrie moore's anagrams, by stephen dixon of i. fame.

the end*

the last time mike d. saw rob g. was at an indian restaurant called passage to india. it was missing the ‘the’ or the ‘a’, he cannot quite remember. words are just dead neons anyway, ha.

the restaurant was at the back of an alley, with a blue garbo at the front, and a statue of ganeca, with the head of a pug, next to the sky.

they said the chef was from the north of india. where the river is yamuna, never the gangga, and the coconout trees haven’t produced milk since 324 BC. that’s why the food is drier, and the chai tastes like earth.

rob g. explained everything to mike d. he knew so much about the world, he looked into everything lovingly.

they ordered a thali, a dosa, and a dessert called jamun, or gulab, or jamun gulab, whichever way they called it the only thing they remember was the sauce that the chef said came from a special breed of honey. bee, you mean, corrected rob g. i knew how you grew up too, mon chef d’restaurant indienne, you never learned how to think clearly, consoled rob g.

the chef dropped his head, or his hat, they cannot quite remember.

before the end of the meal suddenly.

suddenly.

so.

rob g. said he had to split. the bills? asked mike d. no, some trees, answered rob g.

with those words rob g., or was it mike d., disappeared into thick air because the air in the restaurant was indeed thick with scents of jasmine, clove and a pair of sandals made of disused wires.

mike d. never saw rob g. again.

his heart hurt so aching-

ly.

that’s how you avoid adverb in a sentence.

destruct

-ively.

until one day, the day mike d. bought himself a shiny blue radio.

p.s. this is a picture of the restaurant:















































there is no picture of the restaurant.



*first published as the first part of a four-part storee on thursday, 23 november 2006, in another seecret blog. slightly modified to this model. the next three installments will follow tomorrow, the day after, and the day after the day after.

mountain do

Lucky that my breasts are small and humble
So you don't confuse them with mountains

-Shakira

i like mountains

from a distance

i even like going up them

in a car

but there's nothing i like more

than this

going at 80ks/h

in a modern-day horse-powered cart

blue cloud-covered lawu on my left

the twins merapi merbabu on my right

the sun disappearing in its own rays

the possibilities of climbing

the reality of keeping yr feet on the ground

of never ever having the drive to get anything done

at nowhere near 13,000 thousand feet above sea level

Eulogi untuk seseorang / Eloge de l'autre ... par BungaMatahari et CCF Jakarta

Start:	Mar 22, '08 2:00p
Location:	Blitz Megaplex, Grand Indonesia Lt. 8, Jl. MH Thamrin No.1 Jakarta Pusat

Start: Mar 22, '08 2:00 pm
Location: Blitz Megaplex, Grand Indonesia Lt. 8, Jl. MH Thamrin No.1 Jakarta Pusat

Printemps des poètes / Bulan Puisi 2008
“ Eulogi untuk seseorang / Eloge de l'autre “

Sabtu, 22 Maret 2008, pk.14.00 – 20.00 (satu sesi pembacaan puisi setiap jam)
bersama Komunitas BungaMatahari (http://bungamatahari.org ) & Otak and Chair (http://www.myspace.com/otakandchair).

Blitz Megaplex, Grand Indonesia Lt. 8, Jl. MH Thamrin No.1 Jakarta Pusat. Tel. 235 80 200. http://www.blitzmegaplex.com

Puisi tiba !

Ya, bulan Maret akan menjadi puitis…
Di Jakarta, di tempat yang tak terduga,
Berani membaca puisi
Dan didengar oleh orang lain !

Telinga menyimak dan mata terbuka,
Jangan heran ketika tiba saatnya
Anda menjadi saksi
Kejutan dan hadiah misterius.

Ikutilah langkahnya…
Namun, tentunya Anda tahu…
Bulan Puisi telah hadir untuk Anda.

BungaMatahari (BuMa)
BungaMatahari (BuMa) adalah komunitas bagi siapa saja yang mencintai puisi dan ingin berbagi dalam suasana bebas dan bersahabat. Dengan semangat "semua bisa berpuisi", BuMa mempromosikan puisi kepada masyarakat luas sambil bereksperimen dengan cara-cara segar untuk menjelajahi dan menikmati puisi. Pertama muncul pada 19 April 2000, BuMa yang berbasis mailing list (milis) aktif mengadakan dan berpartisipasi dalam berbagai acara di ruang publik. Awal tahun 2006, BuMa menerbitkan Antologi BungaMatahari. Pada tahun 2007, CCF Jakarta bersama BuMa menyelenggarakan « Banjir Puisi di Stasiun ! » di Gambir, Jakarta sebagai bagian dari perayaan Printemps des Poètes 2007.
===================

La poésie s’invite !

Oui Mars peut être poétique…
A Jakarta, partout où on ne l’attend pas,
Osez clamer des vers
Qu’un autre saura entendre !

L’oreille attentive et l’œil ouvert,
Ne soyez pas étonné, si à votre tour
Vous pourrez témoigner de ces
Evénements surprises et cadeaux mystères.

Laissez-vous faire…
Le Printemps des poètes, pourtant
Vous le savez : vous ne pouvez y échapper…

BungaMatahari (BuMa)
BungaMatahari (BuMa) est une communauté ouverte à tous les amateurs de poésie qui souhaitent librement et amicalement faire partager leur passion. Convaincue que "tout le monde peut faire de la poésie", BuMa essaie de promouvoir la poésie au public tout en expérimentant des moyens inventifs pour découvrir et apprécier la poésie. BuMa, communauté poétique sur liste de diffusion électronique fondée le 19 avril 2000, organise et participe à de nombreux événements partout dans la ville.

En début 2006, BuMa a publié l’Anthologie de BungaMatahari. L'année dernière, BuMa collaborait déjà avec le CCF pour organiser le Printemps des Poètes 2007 « Gare à la Poésie ! » à la Gare de Gambir, Jakarta.

bulan tak kusam ketika malam purnama*

malam tak peduli makin bulan makin terang
makin memang di kota ini makin lama makin
jarang kita mendongak makin menunduk
sehingga seperti bom yang meledak di hati
waktu makin akhirnya tanpa sengaja makin
menengadah dan di atas sana bulan bulat
sempurna makin sempurna dengan cincin
putih mengurungnya makin gila karena awan
malas pula makin muncul makin membuat
kita makin yakin sesuatu pasti makin akan
terjadi di ujung malam ini makin yakinlah kita
makin lama awan pun tak tahan makin dan mereka
riang makin gembira membentuk serigala
celeng kelinci dengan tato angka 4 di pipinya
makin balkonilah malam ini makin dingin lantai
di punggungku makin deras bah keluar dari
mulut malam makin hilang cairan kuning makin
berbusa di botol botol yang makin hijau
makin kosong makin bergetar kuping berbuluku
makin merah mata delimaku makin putih
bulu bulumu makin bergetar di bawah sinar
makin purnama makin perak makin basah makin
             hitamlah moncongmu makin serigalalah kamu makin aku             

*dicuri dari catatan pinggir goenawan mohamad, 'cermin', tempo 13 januari 2008

ia menulis cerpen seperti danarto

ia menulis cerpen seperti danarto

ia menulis cerpen seperti danarto tapi judulnya seperti rendra

ia menulis cerpen seperti danarto tapi judulnya seperti rendra dan pendek seperti lydia davis

ia menulis cerpen seperti danarto tapi judulnya seperti rendra dan pendek seperti lydia davis tapi realis-marxis seperti gorki

ia menulis cerpen seperti danarto tapi judulnya seperti rendra dan pendek seperti lydia davis tapi realis-marxis seperti gorki dan sentimentil seperti nh. dini

ia menulis cerpen seperti danarto tapi judulnya seperti rendra dan pendek seperti lydia davis tapi realis-marxis seperti gorki dan sentimentil seperti nh. dini tapi tetap avant-garde seperti stephen dixon

ia menulis cerpen seperti danarto tapi judulnya seperti rendra dan pendek seperti lydia davis tapi realis-marxis seperti gorki dan sentimentil seperti nh. dini tapi tetap avant-garde seperti stephen dixon dan lucu seperti lorrie moore

ia menulis cerpen seperti danarto tapi judulnya seperti rendra dan pendek seperti lydia davis tapi realis-marxis seperti gorki dan sentimentil seperti nh. dini tapi tetap avant-garde seperti stephen dixon dan lucu seperti lorrie moore tapi juga liris seperti william t. vollmann

ia menulis cerpen seperti danarto tapi judulnya seperti rendra dan pendek seperti lydia davis tapi realis-marxis seperti gorki dan sentimentil seperti nh. dini tapi tetap avant-garde seperti stephen dixon dan lucu seperti lorrie moore tapi juga liris seperti william t. vollmann dan menohok seperti pram

ia menulis cerpen seperti danarto tapi judulnya seperti rendra dan pendek seperti lydia davis tapi realis-marxis seperti gorki dan sentimentil seperti nh. dini tapi tetap avant-garde seperti stephen dixon dan lucu seperti lorrie moore tapi juga liris seperti william t. vollmann dan menohok seperti pram dan fantastis seperti gogol

ia menulis cerpen seperti danarto tapi judulnya seperti rendra dan pendek seperti lydia davis tapi realis-marxis seperti gorki dan sentimentil seperti nh. dini tapi tetap avant-garde seperti stephen dixon dan lucu seperti lorrie moore tapi juga liris seperti william t. vollmann dan menohok seperti pram dan fantastis seperti gogol tapi gagal

this is why i envy the young:

'cerita bunga / bunga m.'
oleh Alifia NW Kelas 1A2 SDN Sudimara 03

mawar mau berenang di
dekat sawah melati sudah
tidak mau berenang lagi
mawar mengadu melati tapi
melati bertanya gimana
kalo kita mengantar ma-
war tapi mawar tidak
mau begitu melati mau
ke puncak mawar kaget
mawar ikut ke puncak mawar
ingin berfoto-foto tapi melati
cuma mau mengantarkan kambo-
ja. mawar tak usah ikut HiH
melati mendengar suara ketukan
keras di pintu ternyata tulip
ada apa tulip ternyata kamboja
di ancol dan siapa yang mau
ikut mawar ya akhirnya semua
ikut oke berarti mawar se-
tuju semua tertawa

'cerita bunga / baikan'
oleh Alifia NW Kelas 1A2 SDN Sudimara 03

anggrek mempunyai 10 butir kelereng
melati mempunyai 30 butir kelereng
sedangkan bugenvil tidak punya
kertas punya 14 butir kelereng
jatuh dari tangan bunga kertas
bugenvil mengambil kelereng ker-
tas kelereng kertas sekarang 13
kertas mencari-cari kelereng yang
hilang bugenvil punya 1 kelereng
kertas minta satu kepada bug-
envil (to be cont'd)

the clarity of passion

white

as the carnation of yr hospital issued apron

o nightingale

u queen of king county !

with the clarity of passion i go

under the union jack

his majesty's tailor in his infinite wisdom

had embroidered in gold across yr racks !

SPEAK NOW

or forever hold yr grief.

jon spencer was so much better in his wife's band and they had this song called 'what the fuck'

yeh basically what ive been wanting 2 say 2 myself all nite since i completely fucked up in this thing*

wtfhyd

theres a why somewhere there 2

but who gives a fuck

who the fuck

*for those who give a fuck about such things, the reason why i think i fucked up is not the same as the reason why people think i fucked up

ditilik dunia sastra nyata

Start:	Mar 12, '08 7:00p
End:	Mar 12, '08 9:00p
Location:	Teater Utan Kayu, somewhere off pramuka

MGR (mohamad guntur romli) posting ini di apsas (Apresiasi-Sastra@yahoogroups.com):

Undangan Diskusi TUK: Menilik Sastra Dunia Maya
Rabu, 12 Maret 2008, 19:00 WIB
Diskusi MENILIK SASRA DUNIA MAYA
Narasumber: Akmal Nasery Basral & Hasan Aspahani.

Dunia maya (cyberspace) adalah dunia tanpa batas dan bisa memberi peluang kepada siapa pun untuk berkaya. Sastra di dunia cetak sangat relatif dan terbatas hadirnya: seminggu sekali di koran, sementara industri buku tak jarang mesti berpikir seribu kali untuk menerbitkan karya sastra. Berbeda dengan di dunia maya: ruang mahaluas yang disediakan cuma-cuma. Meski ada yang menganggap dunia maya semacam “pelarian” bagi mereka yang sering dikecewakan oleh dunia cetak, komunitas sastra dunia maya terus tumbuh subur, blog dan website pribadi tak henti bermunculan dan secara rutin menampilkan karya-karya sastra si empunya. Lantas, bagaimana menilai karya-karya sastra yang tumbuh di sana? Apa sumbangannya terhadap khazanah sastra kita? Benarkah fenomena ini bisa dianggap sebagai “pelarian”, atau pencarian ruang yang lebih luas? Adakah corak dan karakter karya sastra yang khas di ruang maya bila dibandingkan dengan media cetak? Ikuti dan ramaikan diskusi yang menghadirkan Akmal Nasery Basral (wartawan, novelis, pengelola milis Apresiasi Sastra) dan Hasan Aspahani, penyair, wartawan, pengisi blog “sejuta puisi”).

wawan eko yulianto (berbagi-mimpi.blogspot.com) posting ini:

Re: Undangan Diskusi TUK: Menilik Sastra Dunia Maya

wow, TUK merangkul sastra cyber :D. btw, kenapa nggak sekalian juga mengajak saut situmorang yang termasuk orang lama di sastra cyber, mas guntur? kayaknya, asyik2 saja mengajaknya. lagipula, ini kan tidak kontraproduktif terhadap saut situmorang atau TUK :D.

btw, saya kepikiran begini: kalau kita membicarakan sastra dunia maya tapi masih memikirkan "bagaimana menilainya", sepertinya ini akan menjadi diskusi orang sastra daratan memandang sastra cyber. kalau memang sudah diresap-hayat-nikmati, sepertinya sastra cyber itu menerapkan benchmark yang berbeda dan penikmatannya juga ... yah ... harus berbeda. ya, kita sendiri yang mengandalkan pada google.com atau blogsearch.google.com untuk menghantarkan kita pada karya tertentu (atau langganan milis agar ada karya2 yang diantarkan kepada kita), dan setelah itu, tinggal kita saja menikmatinya atau tidak. kalau menikmatinya ya... sebagai apresiasi mungkin bisa kita masukkan comment, tapi kalau tidak ya langsung saja cari karya yang lebih asyik.

itu sih menurut hamba. nggak tahu lagi ya yang lain ... benua ketujuh ini sangat luas, seperti buku yang halamannya sejumlah butir pasir di pantai (dikutip dari siapa hayo? :D), seorang redaktur adalah kemusykilan yang memiliki wujud (halah!). ya... kalaupun untuk mengatur lalu lintas di satu "negara" tertentu di benua tersebut, paling-paling hanya bisa dilakukan oleh moderator ... tapi ya... itu cuman untuk satu "negara" saja. kalau untuk keseluruhan benua ketujuh ... yah ... semuanya kembali kepada diri kita masing-masing. :D

from malang with salam hormat,

wawan eko yulianto

saya posting ini:

Re: Undangan Diskusi TUK: Menilik Sastra Dunia Maya

god youre such a liar mgr. saut (cant u even say his name?) tidak 'benar-benar mengerti, mengamati, terlibat langsung ... di dunia maya?' who do you think youre talking to? idiots? ah ya, youre the idiot. kalau anda bisa berpendapat begitu, andalah yg sama sekali tidak mengerti tentang dunia maya indonesia. saut sudah jd redaktur cybersastra saat enda nasution jg belum mulai ngeblog, puisi2nya sdh dipajang di authorsden sejak 2002 dan tentunya esei2nya sudah lama memenuhi inbox penikmat milis sastra indonesia.

gue tahu kalian di tuk punya kebiasaan—meminjam kata yg sering dipakai saut—asersif, tuan mgr. mungkin lu bahkan udah gak sadar lagi lu lagi melakukan ini. coba lu baca lagi surat lu di bawah, sudahkan anda memberikan satu pun bukti untuk semua pernyataan anda (terlepas dari benar tidaknya sebenarnya pernyataan anda itu. hahaha im being generous here.)? let me answer that for you, just in case youre too much of a nob, NO.

mikael.

sekarang saya jadi pembicara menggantikan HAH (sejuta-puisi.blogspot.com) yang tak bisa datang. HAHAHAHAH.

dan teaternya tidak ada wi-fi, bgmn sy bisa memamerkan add-ons terbaru browser flock sy!?

datang yah, cd be a potential bitchfest. or it cd be totally lame. im all bitched out.

ilir-ilir live undead

setahun sebelum bapak saya meninggal (dua minggu yang lalu, hence the lack of posting) ia memesan salah satu temannya, pengamen di bus bianglala nomor 44 jurusan cileduk-senen, untuk menyanyikan lagu ilir-ilir saat ia nanti menghadapi sakratul maut.

tapi teman ini ternyata cengeng sekali dan menolak masuk ke kamar ICU bahkan sebelum bapak saya mulai kritis.

untung, ternyata bapak saya pernah mendownload lagu itu ke itunesnya dan secara tidak sengaja ikut terupdate ke ipod saya. jadilah, selama sejam terakhir sebelum bapak saya meninggal saya pasang lagu itu on continuous repeat di telinga kanannya (di sekitar telinga kirinya terlalu ribet dengan selang-selang mesin CCVH yang memompa darah langsung dari jantungnya karena ginjalnya sudah berhenti berfungsi).

saya orang jawa dan setengah hapal lirik lagu itu, tapi saya tidak pernah tahu artinya apa. seorang bude menjelaskan beberapa malam setelah bapak saya meninggal, setelah ia dan adik-adiknya termasuk ibu saya bersama-sama secara spontan menyanyikan lagu itu setelah teman bapak saya yang tadi sekali lagi gagal menyanyikan lagu itu setelah saya minta karena malah menangis tersedu-sedu.

ternyata arti lagu itu kira-kira begini (saya ambil dari sini, karena saya terlalu malas menulis kembali penjelasan bude saya):

Ilir-ilir, ilir-ilir
tandure wus sumilir
tak ijo royo-royo
tak sengguh temanten anyar

Bait di atas di atas secara harafiah menggambarkan hamparan tanaman
padi di sawah yang menghijau, dihiasi oleh tiupan angin yang
menggoyangkannya dengan lembut. Tingkat ke-muda-an itu dipersamakan
pula dengan pengantin baru. Jadi ini adalah penggambaran usia muda
yang penuh harapan, penuh potensi, dan siap untuk berkarya.

Bocah angon, bocah angon
penekno blimbing kuwi
lunyu-lunyu penekno
kanggo mbasuh dodot-iro

Anak gembala,
panjatlah [ambillah] buah belimbing itu [dari pohonnya].
Panjatlah meskipun licin,
karena buah itu berguna untuk membersihkan pakaianmu.

Buah belimbing yang seringkali bergigir lima itu melambangkan lima
rukun Islam; dan sari-pati buah itu berguna untuk membersihkan
perilaku dan sikap mental kita. Ini harus kita upayakan betapapun
licinnya pohon itu, betapapun sulitnya hambatan yang kita hadapi.

Anak gembala dapat diartikan sebagai anak remaja yang masih polos
dan masih dalam tahap awal dari perkembangan spiritualnya. Konotasi
inilah yang sering muncul seketika bila orang Jawa menyebut 'bocah
angon'.

Namun pengertiannya dapat pula ditingkatkan menjadi
pemimpin, baik pemimpin keluarga, tokoh masyarakat, ataupun pemimpin
formal dalam berbagai tingkatan.

Dodot-iro, dodot-iro
kumitir bedah ing pinggir
dondomono, jlumatono
kanggo sebo mengko sore

Pakaianmu berkibar tertiup angin, robek-robek di pinggirnya.
Jahitlah dan rapikan agar pantas dikenakan untuk "menghadap" nanti
sore.

"Sebo" adalah istilah yang dipergunakan untuk perbuatan 'sowan'
atau menghadap raja atau pembesar lain di lingkungan kerajaan.

Makna pakaian adalah perilaku atau sikap mental kita.
Menghadap bermakna menghadap Allah.
Nanti sore melambangkan waktu senja dalam kehidupan, menjelang
kematian kita.

Mumpung padhang rembulane
mumpung jembar kalangane

Manfaatkan terang cahaya yang ada, jangan tunggu sampai kegelapan
tiba. Manfaatkan keluasan kesempatan yang ada, jangan menunggu
sampai waktunya menjadi sempit bagi kita.

i just really like that line 'pakaianmu berkibar tertiup angin, robek-robek di pinggirnya.' and i wonder what the song would sound like if covered by say, slayer. would it be like:

Mumpung padhang rembulane

Solo King

mumpung jembar kalangane

Solo Hannemann

?

Life at nearly 32

I need a second wind



and all I've got is the wind