The words murderer: Afrizal Malna

I confess that he is my muse. The material aspects of ‘urban existence’ implied (sometimes rolled out) in his poems, as though letting us to cogitate the genuineness of our identity as a human living in the society. Moreover, the ‘self approachment’ idea delivered in some of his pieces also ‘discover what actually exsist’ towards our existence.

Stylistically, Afrizal’s poetry is characterised by syncopated rhythms, non sequiturs, and broken sentences. Early in his poetic career, he occasionally seemed to delight in simply listing a string of mixed images in his poems. Objects also frequently metamorphose in his work. He seems keen on finding links between objects in his poems, seeking – in his own words – a “visual grammar of things”. This intimation of secret connections among objects informs much of his poetics.

Despite of the difficulty to ‘pierce’ his poems, like many poets do, there always be traces within the words, the sounds, and how they form our consciousness about the meaning. I remember what he said ‘Writing is such living outside names, a medium to forget words,’ which has taught me to cherish words and treat them as a form of attachment. However, the more we engage with his poems, the more layers of meaning are revealed.

Afrizal, rather than just being a poet, is a literary worker whom relies upon exploration, travel, research and engagements with others for his productivity. There is little romance to this poet’s life; just much work and much curiosity.

Yes, he is the man.

Below are some of his translated poems (taken from internet):

 

Train in rainy season

for 10 days i have been in a train,
returning and going to the same city. in
that train my eyes are always focussed on the
passengers’ bags. i ask if maybe there is a
swimming pool inside their bags. maybe there
are also restaurants for dinner. but their
bags are silent like themselves. maybe the
passengers are building a house inside their
bags, when they are silent. when all of the
passengers start to sleep, i play with their
bags. i enter their bags. ow, i find chocolate and
salted egg. faded name cards. i put on the clothes they
carry in their bags, then i make a dinner party
with the clothes in their bags, like
opening a city.

don’t cry anymore, i say. outside, time is
walking behind us. outside, there are no
more bags in which to hide ourselves.

Little taps on the knee

i tap my knees, there is a land collapsing. listen.
this land is like a saturday night that has died.
like a river strolling across a bridge. knees are
not like cities you build in the mouths of exhaust
pipes. not the sort of happiness that rustles like a
plastic shopping bag, a place where people throw
the night away in chatter and search for a brief
embrace out of the usual loneliness. the usual
embrace. damn. like a broken dish, leaving a
black hole within. and i stand and my knees are
already gone. my knees have already left my
body. then i throw out this body without knees.
i throw it out near the window. i am alarmed.
just where am i now? outside the window or
within the window. who was thrown away? did i
throw my own body out of the window, or did
the window throw me out? how do i find my way
now apart from my body? later the cats are
partying on saturday night. they make a
country out of broken dishes. i see broken dishes
on saturday night. i see the broken pieces of
saturday night in a black hole gaining muscle. i
hear my knees suppress all of it. about a land
collapsing on your pillow. about the book of
matches in your body.