Poetry and My Jiddah

yusuf achmad

In early morning stillness,
my jiddah greets me again.
After whispering prayers
through the hush of night—
with a thousand soft blessings—
urging me to rise:
to worship,
to work,

though none of that matters to her.
She wants only to love,
to lead me
to the One beyond all things.
 
“Subḥal khair,” she says each morning.
With gentle hands,
she pours shay into a lepek,
“Come, while it’s still warm,”
her voice a flame of cheer.
Her loving call
drowns even the beckon of morning poems.
No stanza competes
with her small porcelain bowl.
 

This lepek of her shay—
a power no verse can match.
Not mist-kissed rivers
of golden Nyamplungan
nor lines of flowing poems
can rival her warmth.
 
In the steam of her cup,
my longing unravels.
The poem may coax me—
may even charm—
but her lepek stirs
my tears to fall.
I drink and drink from the rim
as I would from morning verses
or from the smile of jiddah
who waits for me
without end.
 
Surabya, June 23 2025