stories – Gratiagusti Chananya Rompas

in the garden of the orange trees

Posted on April 23, 2014December 11, 2015 by violeteye in English, Photos, Poetry

how can i not stop to see you, your hair sparkles like sunshine on clear water. i think i hear you reciting stories of kings and the psalms on your miradors. but i never see your lips move, in the garden of the orange trees.

a short story

Posted on May 19, 2009February 10, 2015 by violeteye in English, Poetry

afterlife in a glass of orange juice
a pierce at the centre of my chest

i thought the sounds of the world are not that amazing
and i grew tired of my own reflection on my mobile phone screen

i was an itch that would never go away
the ghost in your grandmother’s picture

and all the while you stay still
soaked in your bathtub

rubadubdub

i like stories
ending with somebody drowning

and smelling good

“ruangan ini ditutup & disegel”

Posted on May 1, 2009February 10, 2015 by violeteye in English, Poetry

we used to look outside
commenting on the many lives passing by our window at the corner
thinking we should at least have a bit of fun while we waste ours

though only secretly

and in our big little heads we wanted to believe
take pride even
in having total control of the process
we thought this wouldn’t have happened if we hadn’t let it

and so we told stories
none of them ours
held on to the neverending,
hopefully like the night,
glasses of cheers
laughed sinister laughs
pleasant to our heartless ears

while inside
we had the suspicion this could actually be

love,

prayed hard for it,
then washed it down with
jokes
they brought tears to our hopeless eyes

then one night we held hands under the table

another we tried to look more drunk than we really were
(after you kissed me in the rest room)

and now we are looking in
at the dusts sitting in our chairs

(what would we say about us?)

and we walk
home

say

Posted on July 28, 2008February 10, 2015 by violeteye in English, Poetry

leaves are rustling with your hair when you look through the window, vines curl up your back telling you stories of dissipating days and dreams,

you wait for him to say
to say

           you wait

           for things
           not to happen

for a kiss that leads to no more
for hands to let go
for words to not be said
for teardrops to fall from the brink of her nose
for the night to end
for boredom and sleep
for every failure to rest and sink in

          and never be forgotten

you wait for them to stay
to stay.