Univeristi Malaya – Borderless

Poetry and translation from Malay 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.

Bunga rampai — fresh flower potpourri used in Malay festivities and funerals. From Public Domain.

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

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Poems by Isa Kamari

THE KING

I bow to you, King.
I bear the torment of your sadness
in the embrace of my sleep.
May it transform into glad tidings
for the days of your people.
This exploration is to find your throne,
which has disappeared from our hearts.
For my love to you, King.

JASMINES

Earth jasmines, sky jasmines,
a string of jasmines encircles the heart,
jasmines poured with water from the hills,
jasmines sprinkled by a pinch of compost.
Seven rivers, seven clouds—
rain pelts onto forlorn petals.
Beauty is in the form,
beauty to the eyes,
beauty is the hand that tends to the soil,
beauty is the fingers that caress the leaves,
beauty is the cut on the arms of the gardener.
The scorching sun,
the shade from the foliage,
bountiful is the soul of the tree that delivers,
witness to a life devoted to hard work,
with the laws of nature as the axis.
Strong roots clench the earth,
shoots look up high to the sky.
Stand firmly, the soul sings.
Blossoms waft fragrant dreams.
Earth jasmines, sky jasmines,
bloom in the early morning.
Say your prayers,
introduce yourself.

BETEL LEAVES

To be at the top
is to function at the bottom,
upholding responsibilities and trust,
strengthening shared roots.
The fragile branches are free to stretch,
the green leaves spread wide.
Wild betel, untouched betel,
covers the soil, climbs the trellis.
To be at the peak
in essence is to grow shoots,
carrying fertile hopes and dreams,
giving way and space to grow,
to climb each posting energetically,
to qualify for the position when seasons change.
Lofty betels, heavenly betels,
reach for the stars, greet the clouds.
To be in the ceremonial receptacle
in essence is to uphold tradition,
surrendering to the preservation of culture.
Typically chewed with lime, slicing problems,
mature-red in speech,
tracing the lives of roots and shoots.
Wild betel, untouched betel, lofty betel,
heavenly betel, courtship betel, customary betel,
weaving values and the essence of leadership
entrenched in tradition.

HOME

Free souls wouldn’t be easily bored
by mentoring and demands,
for it’s the stable self
that gives rise to liberation.
And that’s called freedom —
it isn't about release without aims,
just like city folks,
released from home or work,
wander aimlessly at shopping malls,
seek excitement from novelty and transience.
It isn't that Life doesn’t require variety,
or it isn't that the soul doesn’t long for fun.
It’s just that we who claim to be free
are easily entrapped in useless pettiness
that we spread in the city
without ever realising
that we haven’t returned to the doors of our hearts,
although we’ve stepped afoot
onto the compound of the house.