NAGARA

Towards dusk, my steps arrived at Senggigi Beach the sun is only seven inches from the horizon As I thought, the sun will look as red as anger that I always keep deep, even though it's hard Anger, my father said, is not good to spill On Senggigi beach, in beautiful Lombok men and women, young and old be a pilgrim and a mere prayer all close to the sea let the body be licked by the tongue of the waves then stare blankly into the clouds then ducked down and cast a spell then raise a sliver of hope I ducked and wanted to embrace the waves but too soon gone, as fast as he came I finally said something like to a friend long time no see, let alone joking O good waves and always stunning it's me, Adam's great-grandson who is walking in Job's footsteps to be stranded here, like Hidir looking for students convey my prayers, to the throne nun in sane sense When I wake up, the sun is perfect sinking at the horizon line feels right, darkness covers my soul su Now is the time for me

The pieces of this poetry book were composed with the spirit of sharing fortune like the kawis. Or as taught by the teachers, carrying the intention of dulce et utile. At least meet the rules of literature, even if only a speck. Thankfully there is knowledge. About the depth, ah that's far-fetched. Most importantly, not distant from the reader, the community. Because it narrates about daily life and the city. related to the occupants. Although there are actually a collection of old poems, which have not or have not found readers, except for yourself. Which was written when I was still in school. At FIB Undip, Semarang. But as suddenly, decades later, after communicating with the poet Almukarom Doddi Ahmad Fauji (DAF), I was moved to really want to reassemble the collection of poems scattered everywhere. Also in memories, which are very difficult to trace back. Because the power of memory, it turns out, is not much. Memories, it sucks to pretend to say; "What is so-so doesn'

Doddi Ahmad Fauji Not only in Andalas the hills line up as solemn as Gautama in uninterrupted retreat From the Panenjoan, it seems that they are in line beyond Sparta's ships who besieged Troy We're just dust beach arch and rock formation leaving a magic handprint The hand that drains the Seven Curug marking the lost Sawarna far away, on the horizon before names are given All fairy tales are inconceivable leads to an Authority And not in Cyprus, nor in Santorini The curse was recited, incarnating Simalakama form a row of spice forests being the snake whisper lodged in each of the pawned breath You, you know, my sweet Lucifer with a pair of pinkish red nipples are the twin cities, Bucharest and Budapest which is delayed I explore the curves but hopefully the day after tomorrow, the good is blessed Sukabumi, 2016 * Has been published in the poetry anthology Jangjawokan (2016)

Sensory reasoning in poetry, for me, always gets the achievement so that the poetry that is written is easier to understand. Sensory reasoning means, testimony to this nature according to the five senses. Someone wrote something like, "I hear the roses are blooming in the morning." If you read it at a glance, there could be no problem. But does it really sound like the rose bloom? Phrases that are meaningful according to the senses of roses are written, "the skin blooms in the morning." Based on sensory reasoning, we can disassemble a poem, is it steady, or is it still violating sensory reasoning? Let's take a look at the poem written by Warsono, entitled FOUR FOUR EIGHT EIGHT. Open the door with the walls of the board I stepped on the ground floor I think this is hope So that life is not too hard "I opened the clapboard door," would it be called clapboard, or was it made of plank? Doors are doors, and walls are walls. The most appropriate word to desc

Thieves and thieves silence along with my words Hi my inner children speak without tilting your head do not walk occasionally while digging his own grave promise me and hold my fingers  see I am here in an abandoned black city the burials sun corpse friends Only your eyes that still save the river when the mountains summarizes the sleep of the moon someone I call his name is the one who keeps the knife in the eyes stabbed my rhymes until I found delayed consciousness God, I said like to friends presumably You are according to my preconceptions generous who is never poor pin it on my chest as an emblem of appreciation I promise, then I grip your fingers

MY BROTHER, this feeling I can no longer hide. Entering the second phase of puberty, I fell more and more in love with the three most rational things, namely the sea, the twilight, and you.  I love the twilight that falls and settles in the arms of the pilgrims of love. They plucked a wandering orange color from the violet strands, and composed them into heavy verses, to lure back his runaway lover to Mol, tempted by the pink lipstick, which was sprayed with capitalistic machines and a nuclear reactor. The sky became as small as breadcrumbs, and had no meaning for the townspeople. In the City Center, which is punished by pollutants, it is true that there are never seen any stars as a marker of sky sovereignty Of course I fell in love with the whole of you, who always cheerfully danced like the ronggeng horse from the shard, labeled as the base of the left. The way you inhale kretek and inhale lung poison reminds me of Yelisaveta Petrovna, who is loved by all Russian people for legalizi