Love Chronicle from an Eastern Land eBook Roy Flindall
Download As PDF : Love Chronicle from an Eastern Land eBook Roy Flindall 
This selection of traditional Malay pantuns chronicles a rustic romance, as constrained by the rigid conventions of kampung life in time past. It is a poetic window on to a vanishing world. Within the cluster of timber dwellings that form a native kampung, romance and courtship were common themes of conversation. Speakers chose poems from a traditional repertoire to match the occasion, frequently adapting old verses or inventing new ones. In this book the Malay quatrains are reproduced alongside the translations into English, illustrating the rhythm and structure of the originals. The author includes footnotes to give us further insights into a culture far different from our own. The exotic setting of a Malay kampung forms a backdrop to the experience of romance in its many phases love at first sight, passion, doubts, separation, longing, cheating and marriage. And, of course, living happily ever after.
Love Chronicle from an Eastern Land eBook Roy Flindall
Asia is a bird of paradise and we are attracted by its light buzzing as if we were mesmerized in our hearts. We fall in love at first sight in this Garden of Eden and we try to forget the vultures and hyenas that roam around, waiting for the slightest opening for their voracious hunger. It is all nothing but small touches of beauty and feeling, so small and delicate that we have to make ourselves small to be able to perceive and receive them. We shrink in our body and our heart swells in proportion. Every moment is a new bubble of sentiment and each bubble pops up in our eyes and leaves an after-sight that perdures on our retinas. This author tries to capture that flimsy and flying, escaping and evanescent moment between the fullness of the bubble and its instantaneous popping, that very moment between being and non-being, between feeling and not feeling, between love and the absence of love. Everything is so transient that we are made minuscule in front of life that is nothing but a sequence of non-permanent essential non-existence. Anicca. Flindall has captured this deeply Asian frailty of existence and the immensity and insignificance of love as some kind of impermanent compensation for this ever changing reality. There is some sense of suffering which is often nothing but sadness in those poems because the tiny moment of pleasure in each poem is surrounded by the sharp teeth of time, jealousy, envy and plain impossible survival. I want to retain the poem #9 and its mysterious symbolism and heart-warming sentiment: "Four bowls and five cups here on hand / For us to set out neatly on the tray; / Four fellows and five friends, an unequal band / On the verandah flirt and play." Nostalgia of the flirting, sadness of the unequal band of fellows and friends, that unequal unbalance is so close to the Buddhist suffering in front of the evanescent nature of life. And yet there is maybe some kind of more western vision in that hope someone may help you in the dark, like in the poem #88: "With beads my knapsack brims. Of these beads there / Is just one moulded from the gelam bark. / Stretch out a hand and help me climb the stair, / Fearless I have travelled through the dark." I deeply remember the beads of my hope to reach some higher spiritual level that I have been carrying forever and ever since my first consciousness of life. I deeply remember the texture of the beads of hope I moulded from the bark of Sri Lanka when I was there, and the attempt to climb to the top of this sacred rock of Pidurangala. I do remember the friendly lead and hand given to me by Thera Sumedha to lift my soul and my body to the top, so close to the sky that I could hear the singing of heaven. Life is just a succession of pleasurable instants that multiply our vision through the kaleidoscope of a multifarious scattering of rose petals under our mental feet. Those poems are just so many petals of so many roses under so many of our mental steps, and mentally we are centipedes.Dr Jacques COULARDEAU, University Paris 1 Pantheon Sorbonne, University Paris 8 Saint Denis, University Paris 12 Créteil, CEGID
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Love Chronicle from an Eastern Land eBook Roy Flindall Reviews
Asia is a bird of paradise and we are attracted by its light buzzing as if we were mesmerized in our hearts. We fall in love at first sight in this Garden of Eden and we try to forget the vultures and hyenas that roam around, waiting for the slightest opening for their voracious hunger. It is all nothing but small touches of beauty and feeling, so small and delicate that we have to make ourselves small to be able to perceive and receive them. We shrink in our body and our heart swells in proportion. Every moment is a new bubble of sentiment and each bubble pops up in our eyes and leaves an after-sight that perdures on our retinas. This author tries to capture that flimsy and flying, escaping and evanescent moment between the fullness of the bubble and its instantaneous popping, that very moment between being and non-being, between feeling and not feeling, between love and the absence of love. Everything is so transient that we are made minuscule in front of life that is nothing but a sequence of non-permanent essential non-existence. Anicca. Flindall has captured this deeply Asian frailty of existence and the immensity and insignificance of love as some kind of impermanent compensation for this ever changing reality. There is some sense of suffering which is often nothing but sadness in those poems because the tiny moment of pleasure in each poem is surrounded by the sharp teeth of time, jealousy, envy and plain impossible survival. I want to retain the poem #9 and its mysterious symbolism and heart-warming sentiment "Four bowls and five cups here on hand / For us to set out neatly on the tray; / Four fellows and five friends, an unequal band / On the verandah flirt and play." Nostalgia of the flirting, sadness of the unequal band of fellows and friends, that unequal unbalance is so close to the Buddhist suffering in front of the evanescent nature of life. And yet there is maybe some kind of more western vision in that hope someone may help you in the dark, like in the poem #88 "With beads my knapsack brims. Of these beads there / Is just one moulded from the gelam bark. / Stretch out a hand and help me climb the stair, / Fearless I have travelled through the dark." I deeply remember the beads of my hope to reach some higher spiritual level that I have been carrying forever and ever since my first consciousness of life. I deeply remember the texture of the beads of hope I moulded from the bark of Sri Lanka when I was there, and the attempt to climb to the top of this sacred rock of Pidurangala. I do remember the friendly lead and hand given to me by Thera Sumedha to lift my soul and my body to the top, so close to the sky that I could hear the singing of heaven. Life is just a succession of pleasurable instants that multiply our vision through the kaleidoscope of a multifarious scattering of rose petals under our mental feet. Those poems are just so many petals of so many roses under so many of our mental steps, and mentally we are centipedes.
Dr Jacques COULARDEAU, University Paris 1 Pantheon Sorbonne, University Paris 8 Saint Denis, University Paris 12 Créteil, CEGID
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