R: IT’S A LONG WAY TO LINGGARJATI

In the woods on Ciremai there’s a  linggam and a yoni
Where’s Sunan Gunungjati’s soul of teak peaked in samadhi
In a clearing by a stream now reamed with rubbish and graffiti
As it lubricates the loins of Linggarjati

Then a tidal wave of walis washed Java’s northern coast
Leaving heaps of haunting hantus heaving homeless on the slopes
Before they hightailed for the heights, crater-bound these critter ghosts
Thrusting up through the crusts of Linggarjati

And the trees were strung with tension where the blades of Hadramaut
Tried to clip Arjuna’s bowstrings when the ambushes jumped out
Could a drop of Zamzam water quench these Java lava louts?
As they microwaved blistered Linggarjati

Fed from the land fresh orang laut, stormleiden orange lords
Spice-happy culture vultures with blunt manners and sharp swords
Who sucked three orange-bloeming centuries until a yellow orb
Orced three crop cycles out of Linggarjati

Hiroshima’s apocalypse, Merdeka’s aching birth
Turk Westerling’s atrocities, pemudas’ flaming turf
Brit - Trojaned Surabaya, Dayang Sumbi’s  scorching earth
Roared a gory overture for Linggarjati

Wired by fire that never ceased, longing honourable peace
Schermerhorn and Sutan Sjahrir strove to stun the beast
By dialogues slow dropping well below the crater’s heat
In a tableau’d  bungalow at Linggarjati

Milord Lampson, Big Killearn, was the mediating Brit
With Pak Rosihan Anwar wearing his adjutant’s kit
Trying to find a bed that’s big enough the lord at large to fit
No blankets inimical on Linggarjati

No, no blanket enemies, just Batavian helpmeet bolsters
Mohammad Roem’s done roeming, Van Mook’s pistol’s in its holster
And Tirtoprojo’s tropic waters will cleanse Max van Poll’s dry polders
If reality prevails at Linggarjati

Leavened by de Boer and Gani, in sevenly elevation
They rose to stone the festering crows’ predestined conflagration
No sinking back, endorse the fact, a new created nation
Has been dedicated live at Linggarjati

The truce is trampled, backlash whips the grass and stirs the stinkweed
The grief “police” with rotting teeth dismisseth peace as chickfeed
For three long years till tears of peace on Hague’s round table grail bleed
Which first stained oblong teak of Linggarjati

So if you’re sick of ducking stuck ups in Jakarta’s Atlantean poles
Racing rats for fat patricians, trawling malls with sprawling trolls
And the durian jam’s dam sticky, why not take a country stroll?
To the lorien limbs of Linggarjati

Yes, take a little trip back to nineteen forty-six
You can rise from Cirebon, three kratons, finisian ships
Or descend from Kuningan’s prehistorical township
To the capsulated time of Linggarjati

It’s no high-tech conference center with power points and virtuality
But these Spartan beds and bolsters were far closer to reality
As seven strong men bridged east and west in shared commonality
In what’s now the Museum of Linggarjati

View the photos on the walls, journos type on terraced walls
And white shirts and baggy trousers are de rigeur for them all
But who’s that Vivien Leigh, unfatigued in army overalls?
Who glamourized the halls of Linggarjati

And honour men like Schermerhorn and Sutan Sjahrir who
Can stand with Gandhi, Mandela and Winston Churchill too
(Who said that “Jaw, jaw, jaw” beats “War, war, war” the whole game through)
As they clawed their way to peace at Linggarjati

Dachlan Cartwright    Jakarta October 2007.  Teacher, writer, editor.