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Jennifer Mackenzie. Borobudur
borobudur. JENNIFER MACKENZIE
First published 2009. This e-book editon 2011. Transit Lounge Publishing. 95 Stephen Street. Yarraville, Australia 3013. www.transitlounge.com.auinfo@transitlounge.com.au. Copyright © Jennifer Mackenzie 2009. This book is copyright. Apart from any fair dealing for the purpose of private study, research, criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part may be reproduced by any process without written permission. Inquiries should be made to the publisher. Every effort has been made to obtain permission for excerpts reproduced in this publication. In cases where these efforts were unsuccessful, the copyright holders are asked to contact the publisher directly. Cover photograph: Trey Ratcliff at www.stuckincustoms.com Internal photographs: Hardy Hartono Gunawan Design by Peter Lo Printed in New Zealand by Astra Print. Transit Lounge is a proud member of the. A.P.A (Australian Publishers’ Association) and. S.P.U.N.C. (Small Press Underground Networking Community)
4 AD. sails, sailcloth flapping. over a sea red with sunrise. regular breeze, taking its breath with. the beads of the monk. stepping off, sandal strings twisted round the wrist. feet into water hot with sunset. salt balm, and not a word spoken. as the boat glided off on the. horizontal, prosperous calm. a palanquin greeted Gunavarman. noble ambassador of Kashmir. whose goods amounted to no more. than the usual instruments of a monk’s toilette. plus a copious robe. sleeping under the splendor of the equatorial stars. and then to a dawn as large as a man’s life. to the grumbling of porters hoisting up the palanquin. their ankles deep in coarse sand. stumbling over rocky terrain the litter fell apart. the black-teethed guides vanished into the forest. weeks of walking later. feet cut, and a demeanour registering little of the wild. the rattle of bamboo as tiger stalked. or the ripping cry of birdsong high in the clouds. as if heaven itself had been cleft. at the edge of a teak forest. Gunavarman stopped at a bathing pool. decorated with banners. red as blood, a gold sun and moon crudely attached. they rattled about him as he sank into the sulphorous depth. gathered his yellow robe attached to a tree. ballooning like that sail which had brought him there. to Tarumanegara. to a gathering of thatched huts. set low to the ground. and a complicated pathway cleared of brambles. to a meeting hall tall as two men. he sat upon a cloth very like the banner at the pool. until admitted to an inner chamber where. upon an ivory throne his limbs so polished. that they could themselves have been of that substance. reclined the Prince of Taruma. Gunavarman presented him with scriptures. bound up in a sandalwood box. afterwards the Prince displayed his house’s casket. some silver ivory a rope of pearls. months later over the same terrain. an Orissan bride for the Prince. a sculptor a priest some traders in cloth. who loaded their empty trunks. with ivory and medicinal plants. Kanwa, walking north heading for Palembang. 790 AD, came upon a disused bathing pool. and a water tank refreshing the thirst of birds. a stele battered Sanskrit script ‘I, Gunavarman …’ he rested amongst the tangled undergrowth of the site. the sky became his frame. a bronze Vairocana appeared among the clouds. remained with him till his feet dipped into the sea. to catch the ferry
SAMARATUNGA. it is twenty years since I was last in the presence of a Sailendra. Samaratunga lived in an open-aired pavilion, his presence hidden from his subjects by heavy cloths drawn about the sparely carved pillars, flowering vines festooned over the rafters, a small courtyard planted with jasmine, the odd plot of bamboo. For the glory of the Buddha and for the glory of the Sailendras, he said, lifting his sketches out of the parcel of silk: A mighty Meru of my imagination. a mighty stupa of dimensions to confound you, you miniaturist, carver of small shrines. unravelling sketch after sketch. a man-made rock-faced hemisphere. he wanted me to cower but I was on fire. a thousand possible reconstructions of his clumsy images. came to mind. he drew a soft moon gaze slowly down over his anger. his shuttered eyes half-opened. a blaze of ancient jewels. Go to Nalanda, stay at least ten years. Go to Sanchi and follow the carving of the great monks. Go to Ellora thrive among the artisans of the Mahayana. Come back with your hands trembling with wonder. and expertise. I was transfixed in a pale jade lake of emotion. but this substance resembling water. was on fire. hot as the fire in which the smith submerges the kris. my hands took the parcel. fortunately. my years at court displayed that I was all grace. my eyes lips expression motionless. in keeping with the deity. Samaratunga offered gold new robes. I left him went out into the air. blue with longing. and wept. trek through forest. a salt merchant’s boat to the port. languished happily for a month in the Moorish quarter. to China
HALLUCINATION:THE WHIP MEN. came to a clearing late morning boys swinging in the banana groves villagers peeping through stone fences it was the masks we saw first white glistening smooth as alabaster red lips cruelly curled smudged cheeks lashing out like fiery-tongued cobras at stray young men foolish enough to provoke were rope-whips cracking in the vacant white air of the courtyard their costumes were of dried banana leaves three-bodies width across occasionally a woman approached with offerings laid on the temple step they have been doing this all day the afternoon sun plastering the skin lifted masks for the odd sip of water black mouths spouted like water jugs they rocked trance-like side to side two leapt up danced as if in a fury knees raised elbows elongated shoulderblades pinched a flowing between them like the ocean at sunrise sensuous as shells in one leap their costumes ripped away they swam in the moonlight white masks floating rose lips an offering to the moon. we spent the night. our mats rolled out. under the cart of a traveller. in the land of demons. no charm no chant. could allay it
awaiting the treasures. I, Gunavarman, lived my early life on an island in a great river, raised by my father and elder brother. Our simple hut rested on a narrow strip of land; reeds grew high about our clearing. My father was a master sculptor. When there were no large projects on the mainland, he worked at miniatures, sending them across the waters by raft. My brother, Kanwa, spent time at the monastery in Palembang copying the manuscripts. He said that he was treading water, awaiting the treasures … I am alone. my father is away. preparing for the casting of a bronze tripitaka. my brother is away. in seclusion in Palembang. copying the great works. preparing for the nectar. I practice my script in his honour. I am going to be a Prince’s companion. I draw on bark, my subject from the Gandavyuha. my hands belong to a new facility. I sit in the clearing in front of our house. birds large as hawks fly into the garden. they are red, and black, and white. I draw them, and say. they are birds of transformation. I go into our house. later on I come into the garden. the birds are gone. at dawn I leave the island. on our small boat. fourteen years in the company of two. heron’s wings. glistening in the sun-washed rain. perfect sea shells turning dipping. as clouds roll in from the south. mist fine as spun yarn settles beneath. them. disappearing from view herons’ wings
SEASONS. dry season trees leaves crackling. turning in upon themselves. dream of the ocean. and then weep for their canopies. water: our eyelids roll about. in the hot season the road is full of stones. horses galloping through heat haze. battle-hungry men out on an expedition. hail Sun the Avenger
689 AD. I Tsing, Chinese traveller, eminent translator, installed as advisor to Jayanasa, employs a bureau of monks who work tirelessly under his tutelage. It is 689 AD and I Tsing steps aboard a ship bound for China. He hands a merchant a request for supplies of paper and Cantonese ink ‘Just at that moment the merchant found the wind favourable and raised the sail to the utmost height. I was thus conveyed back to China, although not myself intending to go home.’
JOURNEYS TO THE INTERIOR. I used my cell for storage. in ten years at Nalanda. barely spent a night in it. wandering the streets. journeys to the interior. my wrists my palms my fingertips. in those days burned with passion. I followed the itinerary. near the stupa at Sanchi. I stayed with a large family of dancers. I learned a little from them. that stone and dance could be. equivalent. that in the weathering of stone. I anticipated my own weathering. in the elegance of gesture. I could traverse that weathering like a god. when I visited the stupa at Sanchi. I could not see it as it was. but as at some other place. in the jungle south of Merapi. its constituency grave. as if aware of a volcanic origin. when I left I was presented. with a miniature of that great work. it did not glow under the sun’s vibrant heat. but brooded as if waiting. for rainstorm and the blossom of. the kenari tree to mark its surfaces. it was in this sense that. my skin felt lonesome. taking in the bathing ritual with relish. when the bell sounded for bathing time. I joined the thousand others heading. for the outdoor pools. or plunged my face smeared with clay. into the steam rooms. staying until almost loss of consciousness. in the heat. then stepping out onto a cold black floor. garlands of fresh flowers. arranged like a painted frieze. and out into the streets. their lavish markets and impromptu gatherings. a spectacle rich enough to taunt. the thin bands of my consciousness. as this phantasmagoria paraded past. placed it in the amulet around my neck. in that invisible interior casket. I held the beauty of those years. torn circumstances. I look back at you now. a sliver of ruby, and a rainbow
THE RETURN TO JAVA. sea black as the stone awaiting us. soft lapping to the shore. the boat left me at a village. shadow figures were rising for the day’s labour. lamps lit over flat sand. patches of salt near the river. the slap of wet garments on the laundry slab. pottery dotting flat sand. awaiting a customer. I bought a small bowl, memento of return. stayed with the salt toilers till dawn. no message to build had been received. as my return was open knowledge and. the village harboured no one of a courtly ambience. I determined immediately to return. to my old monastery. to work on the miniatures of my heart’s desire. to see once again the jangga shoots twining over. the pavilion’s aren roof, spilling freely down. and the wind-blown kerangga petals. sprinkled over them like crushed jewels. to see once again my tiny room. with the one window overlooking a valley. of decorative coconut palms. I took them into the carving. shaded by mist. sentiment was jubilant, but. the hand created the patterns of sustenance
WORKING THE STONE. working the stone. stone idly lying on the river bank. catching the beauteous form. at the moment when it is that. particular shape. moment of holding, that imperceptible. breach between being and becoming. rock being of transformation. its loose soil scatters like crumbs of grain. damp underside thick with lichen. its blank face taken into the arms. of my master craftsman. who traces upon it. an exquisite troupe of veiled dancers. set into place on a motley foundation. its subject faces the vacant air. rain water plunges over. the dancers’ faces. in an elemental grief. and as I lay in the clouds. I dreamed that I lay upon a. lotus in the middle of the ocean. and there above me towered. four-sided Mount Sumeru with rows of stairs: gold, silver, sapphire and amber. upon which wishing-trees sprang up. as if freshly sprouted. and a thousand fluttering victory banners. unfurled in the sweetest of breezes. I was taken into a great space. which appeared both endless and confining. at the one time. it was as if I had alighted on a great wheel. the circumference of which could not be witnessed. above me, Maitreya’s tower stood. reaching out to touch its golden bricks. my hand passed through air. within its niches boddhisattvas moved freely. knowing well they were a mirror to a mirror. for a thousand other gilded towers. kept company in that silent space. terraces: inner (unlimited space) stupas: reflection upon. Great Stupa: tiny gold statue (Vairocana) in 804 I studied at Chang’an with a disciple of the great Amogavajra, who had visited Java long ago
Acknowledgements. The author acknowledges assistance for this project from the Marten Bequest Travelling Fellowship for Poetry, and from the Felix Meyer Travelling Fellowship from the University of Melbourne. The Botanist Lost at Lake Maninjau originally appeared in Meanjin. A full research bibliography would run to several pages, but I would like to mention some texts of particular relevance. P.J. Zoetmulder’s Kalangwan, (Martinus Nijhoff, The Hague, 1974) is a wonderful source for Old Javanese poetry, some of which appears in my rendition in Borobudur. The Seasons in Borobudur is from Monaguna’s Sumanasantaka, Canto 28, in Kalangwan, p.193. The presence of Javanese poets as characters in the text is of course poetic license on my part. Sources include Soewito-Santoso’s Boddhakawya Sutasoma: A Study in Javanese Wajrayana, (International Academy of Indian Culture, New Delhi, 1975,) and S.Supomo’s Arjunavijaya, A Kakawin of Mpu Tantular, 2v.,(Martinus Nijh off, The Hague, 1975). Prapanca’s Negarakertagama is available in a number of translations. Yoshito S. Hakeda’s Kukai: Major Works, (Columbia, New York, 1972) and Jan Fontein’s The Pilgrimage of Sudhana,(Mouton, The Hague, 1967) and Vasudeva Agrawala’s The Deeds of Harsha –being a cultural study of Bana’s Harshacarita, (Prithivi Prakashan, Varanasi, 1972) were inspirational sources, as were Samuel Beal’s Buddhist Records of the Western World,(Oriental Books, Delhi, 1969,) which gives an account of journeys across China to India by monks in search of manuscripts, and O.W Wolters’ Early Indonesian Commerce,(Cornell, Ithaca, New York, 1967)
