Brunei Darussalam – Borderless

Women wearing *baju kurongs* and men wearing *kain sampings*. From Public Domain

OIL LAMPS

We did not taste chicken unless it was Hari Raya.
Mats laid on the corridor floor in front of ten doors— 
the barrack houses at the end of Ramadan 
decorated by oil lamps at each corner. 
The gloomy village turned bright.
Each family brought out trays of varieties of dishes and cakes, 
the feast welcoming Shawal.
The call of prayer from the radio, 
followed by the hymns to glorify God. 
Life in the village was indeed harmonious, 
although sprinkled with misunderstandings, 
slighted feelings throughout the year.
Exchanging delicious food, 
extending congratulatory wishes, 
laughter and tears flowed unimpeded.
The young proceeded to the field, 
ignited the fuse of bamboo cannons 
stuffed with carbide powder fodder. 
The new moon was welcomed by blasts, claps, and cheers of happiness.
Flames of oil lamps swayed in the breeze, 
resplendent till the morning, 
before going to the mosque in groups, 
wearing the baju kurung and kain samping.


THE BENCH

The melodious magpie on the bamboo twig, 
the passing breeze welcomed the chirping. 
Sitting on a dilapidated wooden bench, 
the thick canopy of the mango tree, 
village folks rested in the shade, 
calming the tremors of troubled hearts.
The hardship evident in the sighs, 
still hopeful of tomorrow’s dreams, 
drying the sweat of weariness. 
Honest earnings chased away worries.
A pinch on the thigh, a cry of pain,
laughter and jokes were shared merrily, 
teasing the maiden sitting by the door, 
smiling sheepishly, welcoming attention.
Recollecting a slice of an old tale, 
fun and camaraderie were reminisced, 
firm and amicable bonds were fostered.
It’s but a memory. It’s but a memory. It’s but a memory.
Now alone in a room, 
gazing at the handphone screen, 
chatting aimlessly in social media— 
do we remember and long for the dilapidated bench, 
crafting old tales, forging firm and amicable bonds?
Do we remember and pine 
for the maiden sitting by the door?

CUSTOMS

Customs are not like banana fritters 
coated with rice flour, dipped in hot oil, 
served instantly, crispy and delicious, eaten warm, 
accompanied by sips from a cup of black coffee.
Customs are like rain 
that falls according to the weather. 
It’s always there, although infrequent, 
temperamental and purposeful, 
sometimes an inconvenience— plans thwarted— 
but always invigorating 
and instils a sense of acceptance.
If received with gratitude, 
directed with perseverance, 
and tempered with wisdom, 
life is beautiful with droplets of grace, 
life is fertile with the pouring of bounties, 
life is prosperous with love bestowed.
Customs make the earth supple. 
Customs make the village noble.
Customs make a people well-mannered.
Once in a while, 
relish a crispy banana fritter 
and sip warm black coffee 
while it rains cats and dogs. 
Momentary disruption of plans, 
the alleys and roads flooded— 
a moment of reflection, 
a moment of appreciation of the day, 
inherent in droplets of grace, 
inherent in the pouring of bounties, 
inherent in love bestowed.
Shifting of time and signs 
so the soil is tilled with purpose, 
so the village gathers and collectively agrees, 
the people ready to realise 
aspirations of good character 
and respected stature.

SIN

Sin is the earth, 
Sin is the water, 
Sin is the air, 
Sin is the fire, 
moved by a rebellious heart, 
whispered by a vile intention.
Yes, Sin is the arrogance. 
Yes, Sin is the pawn of power. 
Yes, Sin is shamelessness.
Sin is a human, 
who is given a will without limits, 
without pity, who wants to be the reigning deity, 
who wants to be the undeterred devil: 
also, a human who chooses to want darkness, 
wants to cheat, gorge, and be satiated:
the snake slithering in dark crevices, 
the scorpion hiding in an undetected nest, 
the leech waiting for prey in wetlands.
But Sin is the smelly compost that cultivates, 
the cracked mirror that reflects form, 
despondent valleys that look up to the summit, 
tumultuous sea flowing from the openness of estuaries.
If the earth, water, air, and fire 
are cleansed by seven skies, seven rivers, and seven blossoms, 
moved by a modest heart, 
whispered by a sincere intention, 
Yes, the Sin will change to Repentance. 
Yes, the Sin will change to Obedience. 
The Sin will become Blissful and Fragrant. 
Humanity.

Isa Kamari has written 12 novels, 3 collections of poetry, a collection of short stories, a book of essays on Singapore Malay poetry, a collection of theatre scripts and lyrics of 3 music albums, all in Malay. His novels have been translated into English, Turkish, Urdu, Arabic, Indonesian, Jawi, Russian, French, Spanish, Korean, Azerbaijan and Mandarin. Several of his essays and selected poems have been translated into English. Isa was conferred the S.E.A Write Award from Thailand (2006), the Singapore Cultural Medallion (2007), the Anugerah Tun Seri Lanang (2009) from the Singapore Malay Language Council, and the Mastera Literary Award (2018) from Brunei Darussalam.

He obtained a BArch (Hons) from the National University of Singapore in 1989, an MPhil (Malay Letters) from Universiti Kebangsaan Malaysia in 2008 and is currently pursuing a PhD programme at the Academy of Islamic Studies, Univeristi Malaya. His area of research is on the problem of alienation and the practice of firasat (spiritual intuition) in selected Singapore Malay novels.

The Lost Mantras is a collection that blends spirituality, Malay cultural heritage, and universal human experience. First published as part of Menyap Cinta (Love Greetings, 2022, Nuha Books KL), these poems are like a bridge between mysticism and everyday life, where traditional images (betel, jasmine, kris[1], oil lamps, setanjak[2]) are woven with Qur’anic echoes, prayers, and existential questioning. The collection carries a Sufi resonance—always circling back to longing, humility, surrender, and beauty as signs of God. The poems are not only lyrical but also function as cultural memory: they preserve Malay traditions, communal practices, and village life, while situating them in a cosmic framework of faith, sin, and redemption. The use of Malay customs, rituals, and objects is powerful: it asserts that spirituality is not abstract but embedded in heritage. This makes the collection uniquely Southeast Asian despite its universal in appeal.

[1]A dagger

[2] Malay headgear

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

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More Poems by Isa Kamari

DAWN

Hey, the morning breaks!
Hey, the faithful sun!
Hey, the disappearing dew!
Hey, the layered air!
The breath desires,
the soul asks:
Who do you greet?
Have you pondered, sons of Adam?
Death awaits, life prolongs.
Have you realised, progenies of Eve?
The earth is impregnated and layered by purpose.
The one that you welcome is the morning,
The one that you coax is the sun,
The one that you touch gently is the dew,
The one that you breathe is the air.
The gift of death,
life fulfilled,
accompanies the inevitable:
morning, sun, dew, and air.
A breath dissipates, a soul obliterates.
Nothingness. Gone.
Hey!

THE FIELD

The green grass is a mother’s heart,
the velvet of love for her children.
Although stepped upon by mischief and transgression,
she distils dews of hope
that her children would grow with the sun.
The earth is the preparation of a father:
soil and compost for his children
where character would be rooted.
Barren or fertile,
he digs into his responsibility and self-worth,
as long as the rain nourishes his age.
Grass flowers are the children
who only know the joy of the wind
for as long as their dreams
have not landed on earth
and kissed the grass.

MOLTEN EARTH

This moment,
we’re walking in the rain,
accompanied by a bluish rainbow
and red birds with purple blood.
If they’re heading towards the dais,
we have yet to embrace the longing.
When the moon is in tears,
it’s just ill-suited for us to sail
on the orange henna sea.
In truth,
we verily love the eagle
that flies in the desolate morning.
If not for ravens like you,
our forest would be infested with rabbits.
Give us white wings;
we want to fly with blue birds
that return to reciprocate love.
We want to taste milk.
Is it for us only urine,
the manifestation of love by dogs?
Sound your prayer call in our shacks
so that our tears
are not just to bear
the pain and bitterness
of a plate of rice.
If your pensiveness is just to reminisce
the sufferings of night longing for day,
our tears have flowed
from the earth’s molten belly,
which are stepped upon
by saints like you and them
who have cast curses
upon us wretched souls.

POTPOURRI

The screw pine thrives on damp soil,
next to the swampy pond.
It spreads its green in the wild;
roots clench the earth we tread upon.
The jasmine grows on the lawn,
marks the boundaries of property.
Sturdy branches, leaves flourish;
petals open, greet the clouds.
The sliced screw pine in a receptacle,
the jasmine blossoms spread on the tray,
perfume sprinkled to enhance the scent:
the potpourri of bunga rampai welcomes guests.
The ceremony officiated by the qadi,
the couple duly married,
customs and culture celebrated in fragrance,
religious laws honoured on the dais.
The shaving of the baby’s head,
first steps on the soil,
the coffin carried to the grave—
the potpourri of bunga rampai
adorns every domain,
binding firmly entire life’s moments.