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BAŞ KABÎMÎZDAON THE COVER Kevin Marshall Chopson
Photo: Noah Emerson Chopson
Copyright reverts back to contributors upon publication.The full issue is available for viewing online from the Nazar - Look website.For submission guidelines and further information, please stop bywww.nazar-look.com
2albrecht haushofer
Guilt - Taksirat4marin sorescu
Muhasebe6ahmet ğewat
Susmam!8taner muratscythia minor (little crimea)
Kókten sesler - Temúçin (XX)
10jack peachumvirginia, usa
Aunt TeensieTropical Storm - Yoda boranThe Dean - Dekan
14rudy ch. garciacolorado, usa
Memorabilia26musa jalil
To a Little Bird28kevin marshall chopsontennessee, usa
InterviewOn the Sleeping Body of God - Allahnîñ ğatîp yuklagan kewdesíneI Have Seen My Death Three Times - Eğelíme úş kere rast keldímIntaglioKeep the Wild at Bay
36reshma pandya-bhattmaharashtra, india
Dance tonightChoked
38edmund spencer
Travels in Circassia, Krim Tartary, &c. (XIV)
40susana huseyncrimea
Photoshop: Crimea, Monument for Sunken Warships in Aqyar-Sevastopol
NAZAR LOOK Attitude and culture magazine of Dobrudja’s Crimean Tatars
Tomrîğa Kîrîm Tatarlarîñ turuş-mamuriyet meğmuwasî
ISSN: 2069-4784www.nazar-look.comnazar.look@mail.comConstanta, Romania FOUNDER & EDITOR-IN-CHIEFBAŞ-NAŞIR
Taner Murat EDITORSNAŞIRLER
Emine ÓmerUyar PolatJason Stocks
COMPUTER GRAPHICSSAYAR SÎZGAĞÎSÎ
Elif AbdulHakaan Kalila (Hakan Calila)
CREATIVE CONSULTANTSESER KEÑEŞÇÍSÍ
M. Islamov
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CONTRIBUTORSMEMBALAR Kevin Marshal ChopsonNoah Emerson ChopsonRudy Ch. GarciaSuzana HuseynReshma Pandya-BhattJack PeachumQHA
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albrecht haushofer (1903 - 1945)
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Guilt I am guilty,But not in the way you think.I should have earlier recognized my duty;I should have more sharply called evil evil;I reined in my judgment too long.I did warn,But not enough, and not clearly enough;And today I know what I was guilty of.
Taksirat …taksiratlîman,Amma túşúngeníñdiy tuwul.Wazipeme taa ewelden ğúklenmelí edím;Yamanlîgîñ atîn sesímní taa bek kóteríp aytmalî edím.Pazla túşúnúp kaldîm.Kóz aştîrağak boldîm,Amma bonî ne yeteğek kadar, ne de aşîk-aşîk yaptîm.Búgún de bílgením taksiratlî bolganîmdîr.
(Taner Murat’îñ terğúmesínde)
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marin sorescu (1936 - 1996)
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Muhasebe AstîmîzgaKara bír sîzîk TartîpHesap zamanî kelír. Dewletlí bola yazgan bírkaş sîramîz.Gúzel bola yazgan bírkaş sîramîz.Zekiy bola yazgan bírkaş sîramîz.Bírkaş kere Bírtakîm daklar man, terekler men, suwlar man rastlaştîk(Ka-yerlerde ekenler? Saw m-ekenler?)Bolarnîñ hepísín toplasañ aydîn bír keleğek eter-Ke bíz onî zaten yaşadîk. Súygen bír kîskaayaklîmîz manBízní súymegen hep şo kîskaayaklîSîfîr eter. Yaşîmîzdan şerígí úyrenúw men geşkenBírkaş miliyart ğemlík sózí yaparOlarnî bír kenarga itep yawaş-yawaş ílímínden kurtulduk.Soñînda da, bír kaderBír kader taa (bo da kaydan şîkkan eken?)Ekí yapar (Bírewsín yazîp ekínğísín kolda tutarmîz,Kím bílír, belkí akíret te bardîr).
(Taner Murat’îñ terğúmesínde)
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ahmet ğewat (1892 - 1937)
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Susmam Men bír gúlmen, ğúk astînda ezílgenmen, kardaşîm,Súyúm bílmez bír mahkúmmen, gúzel zardîr sîrdaşîm,Damgalanîp şînğîrlanîp atîlganman zindanga,Karlî-buzlî ğehennemler mesken bolgandîr maga. Maga sóz ber, músaade et, kaşangaşîk susağakman,Buhranlarîñ-hiğranlarîñ mápísínde kalağakman?Neşín susup konîşmayîm, insanlîkta payîm bar,Mením ana watanîmdîr suwurulgan bo diyar. Neşín susup konîşmayîm, Túrk ğurtîdîr bo toprak,Oguzlarnîñ, elk kaanlarnîñ watanînda kímdír, bak !Bo dúnyada azatlîknî şan-şóhretten ústún tutAlşaklîknî, ğaltakşînî, rezíllíkní sen unut! Neşín susup konîşmayîm, men iyliyím hîyanet?Kayda súygí, kayda watan, kayda da kaldî millet?Men bír gúlmen, ğerím altîn, soyîm gúmúş, ózím aş,Atam mahkúm, anam sefil, elím herşiyge muhtaş. Men Túrúk ewlatîman, deren aklîm, zekáam bar Kaşangaşîk omîzîmda gezeğektír şo ğawlar? Ne kadar ke hakkim de bar, húkúm de bar, men barman,Zúlmge karşî isiyanğîman, ezílsem de heş susmam.
(Taner Murat’îñ kelíştírmesínde)
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jack peachum virginia, usa
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Aunt Teensie(Mecklenburg County, Va., 1948) A witch-woman was Aunt Teensie. Brown skin color-wrinkle of new cure tobacco-leaf, carrying herself along on a tall walking-stick– pace the step and stride of ancient lost caravans,at her beck, darksome news out of old Niger,in her voice night and the desert-winds crossing Punt. Two hands on my head holding me,dark eyes behind steel-rim spectacles peering down, “Dis boy got worms! I kin fix dat!” She was already older than the pyramids when I knew her,odder than Sphinx and fresher than the Nile flow.I fled– and she delighted in my small-boy fear. They shared sweet tea from a mason-jaron a sunny summer porch in August– she spoke to my grandmother in riddlesand my grandmother answered.
for A.T.
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Tropical Storm Ponds form where should be grass,sodden branches shake in the howling wind–downpours and thunder, ominous noises in the south–and you, uninvited guest from the faraway Gulf,you overstay any reasonable visit!Begone– time for you to move on!A bluejay takes shelter under a dripping tree,looks in my window– demands I make it stop raining!
Yoda boran Otlak bolmasî kerek yerde kólşíkler ibaret bolaulugan ğelde sallangan kaytîk dallar- ğawun man gúdúrdemeler, kúneş betten ogîrsîz sesler- bír de sen, ziyaretní fazla uzatkan uzak Aylaktan dawetsíz mísápír!Ketsí, endí ketmeñ zamanî.Bir mawî-soyga tamîzdîrgan bír terekníñ astînda taldalanîp,penğíremden karap ğawunnî toktatmam íster!
(Taner Murat’nîñ terğúmesínde)
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The Dean(East Carolina, Greenville, N.C., August, 1962) Addressing us from corner of the college newspaper office,imparting to us the wisdom of his office– of his generation–a florid middle-aged man from New Jersey,overweight, sweating, gasping a bit in summer heat– “Be careful what you say– we can still keep th’ Nigras out!If they don’t know they can attend this school– don’t know they have a legal right to come here– don’t tell ‘em! Maybe they just won’t apply!”
Dekan(Kúntuwarbetí Karolin, Greenville kasabasî, Şimaliy Karolin, Awustos, 1962) Hitabetíp bízge darúlfúnun ğeridesí daiyreníñ kóşesínden,ózníñ nesílníñ aydînlîgîn bíz men paylaşîpNew Jersey’lí orta yaşlî, yaşatkan,mazallî, terlí, yaz aylarnîñ sîğagînda bíraz túyúlúp tar nefes algan bír akay:“Awuzuñuzdan şîkkan laplarga sak bolîñîz, Zenğiylerní gene uzak tutayîk!Eger bo mektepke yazîlmalarî múmkin bolganîn bílmeseler,kanuniy hakklarîndan kabersíz kalsalar,bo yerge yazîlîp kelmezler. Sakîn bírşiyler aytîp kaşîrmañîz!”
(Taner Murat’nîñ terğúmesínde)
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Memorabilia
Prologue
“Surely all material things have a form of
sentience, even the inorganic: surely they all exist in
some subtle and complicated tension of vibration
which makes them sensitive to external influence and
causes them to have an influence on other external
objects, irrespective of contact.” [from “Edgar Allan
Poe,” Studies in Classic American Literature, by
former N.M. resident D.H.Lawrence, 1923]
Introduction
The “enchantment” in the artifacts Chaneco
found throughout his cabin arose from various
manifestations of love. Supernatural attributes
appeared later, principally from those he vilified as
the “estranged dragons.” Here, briefly, is their history:
Eons ago on a Tamaulipas beach, the conch
resounded over Quetzalcoatl's departure. Earlier, an
unwarranted nap had transmogrified a young
gargoyle's jaws into a permanent yawn, in pewter.
The leather wallet's Spanish inscription
Rudy Ch. Garcia's speculative stories have appeared in anthologies Latinos in Lotusland, Needles and Bones, and Kingdom Freaks and Other Divine Wonders, as well as Rudy Rucker's Flurb webzine and
AntiqueChildren.com.
He considers himself a Chicano/mestizo author, is a founder & contributor to the Chicano lit blog LaBloga.blogspot.com and works as a Denver, Colorado-area primary teacher.
Read about his debut, alternate-world epic entitled The Closet of Discarded Dreams on discarded-dreams.com, published by Damnation, Books, 9/12.
mapped the location of Aztlán, 100 sandstorms
erasing the details. His vows as Sentinel prevented
Chaneco's accepting the sacrifice that accompanied
the handcrafted silver necklace handed down from
each amá to her hija. The ornate silver ring belonged
to a member of the mexicano secret society defending
the land grants from Anglo invasion. After the bronze
people's fate was sealed, the ring, abandoned on
Chaneco's doorstep.
The porcelain, Japanese doll forever smelled
of jasmine because a teenager hid the love token
under a juniper, before entering Manzanar. In the late
50s, Chaneco himself carved the guitarist statuette to
cure a famed young Chicano's agony over
commercial success.
One little blue car was simply an antique toy,
its steel from the failed mine of the owner's father. The
stuffed toy black bear--accidentally cast out a car
window--its protector restrained from following. Three
Plains indios figurines left at a campground helped a
boy survive until confiding dark secrets to them
became moot.
The Dominican couple's wedding portrait--
Chaneco's only memento of one daughter, her
existence and assassination, long squelched. Some
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Italian sunglasses' gradient UV-protected lenses and
stainless steel hadn't protected their owner after
Chaneco discovered that her “scholarly research”
would add notches to her headboard. But the
Canadian girls returning from Cancún probably loved
him. Chaneco watched the departing roadster carry
off their unabashed frivolity, until the moon rose.
Only the tear-shaped nickel-iron meteorite
held genuine enchantment, imparted by Chaneco's
mentor to ward off dragons. However, due to faulty
memory of his charmed longevity, Chaneco
remembered only that object's full history when he
began spring-cleaning of the adobe…
* * *
Except for the scores of amethyst-toned
dragons’ tears strung alongside his amulet, Tomás
Chaneco Martinez had never considered himself
much of a collector. Things like photos, Anasazi
arrowheads or the bultos and santos artifacts his
northern New Mexican neighbors collected might
remind him of friends, lovers and comrades left
behind as he continued his tasks as Sentinel.
The bleached pine boards of his adobe's
porch creaked under his weight.
Yes, near-immortality had its downsides:
among others, an onerous solitude that came and
went, although after a few centuries, tended to linger
longer each passing decade.
Tomás Martinez couldn't even afford to keep
his nearly completed woodcarving; the complexity of
emotions he'd imbued into the walnut stock would
force him to sell or give it away, rather than let it
remind him of its inspiration.
He placed the dark sculpture beside his
ancient whittling knife, much as he set aside his
sorrow, to inspect the abstract image of his last
apprentice. Her death wouldn’t be avenged today,
nor soon, but the opportunity would come.
“Qué maravillosa era,” he said, enunciating
each syllable, his eyes glistening, remembering her
valor, her bonds to both the natural and Otherworld,
rare to find in modern times. In a way, he'd loved her,
too, for that which had made her unique.
“Enough sentimentality.” He tore his eyes
away toward the cabin.
As was habit, he brushed his roughened
hands on overalls that had seen better days and
distant washings and lowered his head to avoid the
doorway's cottonwood viga. With his fingernails he
combed his bushy eyebrows and ran them on
through his thick locks of black hair.
The sooty feel of his fingers meant, “Time for
a bath,” he thought. “What is it--June again?” Then
out loud, “Would that I could as easily wash away
other burdens.”
Pausing past the threshold, he surveyed the
books, journals, manuscripts, the hundreds of
painted, printed or transcribed documents covering
the adobe's shelves, offspring of his quest for lost
sorcerer-lore. He didn't consider himself their
collector, but instead compared himself to an Aztec
warrior dutifully maintaining his favorite macquahuitl
weapons, the obsidian-tipped machetes. His own had
an engraved ironwood handle, a parting gift from
Moctecuzoma I.
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The passage of each fifty-two-year cycle
reinforced his need for documentation to support a
failing memory; he'd organized the library so as to
prevent his staring at a book’s cover, wondering if
he'd already searched its pages for clues.
Also sprinkled about his one-room home lay
heirlooms and knickknacks given to him for reasons
forgotten, perhaps as in-kind payment for deeds
extraordinaire, or some he might have found in an
arroyo or on a desert path during his Trek. What
unsettled him was that no matter where he placed
them while reorganizing, in time they relocated
themselves, somehow.
On the back wall below two erotic paintings
popular in the nineteenth century, past the dust,
desiccated moths and spider web clusters, and atop
the large rolltop mesquite desk, the memorabilia and
other objects had gravitated to one spot.
He hadn't set them there; he would have
thrown them out had he touched them, he knew.
Perhaps a guest trying to be helpful had arranged
them so.
The desk beckoned, making his body teeter.
The mementos held little significance for
Chaneco, except for the nickel-iron meteorite, he now
remembered--a teardrop shape from the Barringer
impact thousands of years ago, a gift from a mentor
who'd explained he'd picked up the stone while still
warm.
For no reason, he also remembered that 500
years ago when Moctecuzoma I had delegated him
and the other fifty-nine sorcerers to find the lost
homeland Aztlán, Tomás Chaneco couldn't have
guessed he'd never see the azteca capitol again--not
until after the gachupines had leveled and replaced it
with their Mexico City.
On the desk's lower level an ornate ring from
an eighteenth century mexicano secret society
reminded him he'd once been a member of the
sorcerer priesthood, back when he and his comrades
had befriended or fought divine, winged beings and
other dangerous forms, one of which had taken his
mentor. Transformed into birds, the others had flown
into Aztlán where no dragones could enter. The same
transformation had affected him differently, deferring
death, perhaps forever.
Next to the ring sat a handcrafted silver
necklace, possibly an heirloom handed down mother-
to-daughter for generations, though not as long ago
as when his comrades had reported Aztlán's location
to Emperor Moctecuzoma. The report had been
burned or buried beneath the rubble of Aztec
civilization.
Later he had come to understand his
comrades had stationed him here as a Sentinel who
could repeat their work and relocate Aztlán, should
the need arise. It had.
By 1710 when the dragons resurfaced for
their cyclic foraging, he'd learned locating the
homeland was crucial to solving “the dragon
problem.” His duties had carried him throughout
northern Mexico and into the U.S. Southwest.
Now he stood here in rural New Mexico
wasting time, he realized, staring at trifles he doubted
were his, not that he remembered who they'd
belonged to.
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The collection had accumulated at the desk's
rim: toy vehicles; the soiled, stuffed black bear;
figurines of American indigenes; a statuette of an
ethnic guitarist with pale skin; a Japanese doll that
still emitted wisps of jasmine. The worn wallet with
Spanish inscriptions and the pair of cracked, clip-on
sunglasses--upright as if pantomiming mouse ears.
They could've been the common keepsakes
of anyone anywhere, except for their annoying habit
of communicating in an unintelligible tongue, at times
loud enough to distract his reading or disturb his
sleep.
Had they let loose with their jabber only at
night, he would've attributed it to a bruja who had it
out for him; the pinche witches had done such
before. But no, these objects broke out in oral
exchange even during the day.
At the moment they held their chatter down.
He stared at each, straining to hear meaning in their
“conversation.” Early on, he'd thought the sounds
might be a degenerative product of his great age.
After all, men of his profession weren't immune to the
degradations of living too long, but nothing else in his
surroundings taunted him with hallucinations. No, it
was something else.
He knew what the something else amounted
to. This cacophonous harassment was the dragons’
reprisal, petty interference with his planning, his
dreams. “He” had again beaten and driven the
dragons back to their lairs. The cost had been high:
two shamans, several apprentices and many ordinary
humans, with he the lone survivor. Of course, he
would have preferred directly, physically confronting
them, aided by apprentices, but his other
responsibilities superseded any head-to-head battles
with them. That was not his role.
“Qué lástima!” he said at the thought, though
the real pity was his newest apprentices hadn’t
matured, weren't ready, and postponement of
another conflict was crucial to minimizing casualties.
In that last encounter, the greatest danger
both he and the dragons faced had been exposure.
Generals, bureaucrats and entrepreneurs, here and
in Mexico, had learned of the battle and nearly
discovered the creatures’ existence. It would have
gone ill for the world had they done so because 21st
Century society would've disturbed the shaman-
dragon balance. Civilization could have bested the
dragons, but would've destroyed the future.
“Mmmm… glo, mla… qua ko--”
If he concentrated, sometimes he could
distinguish which object had spoken. Thus he heard
the striated seashell, which he recognized as a type
inhabiting Tamaulipas beaches. It appeared to be
“debating” with the photo of two inebriated, bare-
chested women in a plaza fountain, their attire limited
to a veneer of greenish suds covering the enlarged
aureoles of their breasts that dominated the photo's
foreground.
“Mar, mra, sa…” Silence followed, as if the
photo had outclassed Concha the seashell. Or
perhaps Concha’s basic interests now centered on
the nipples in the photo, their prominence reminding
it of young, full-rayed starfish it had straddled on the
ocean floor.
“Pendejo,” he scoffed, for letting his mind
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wander. The objects hadn't resumed their chatter,
assumedly because he'd listened too closely and
might learn their secrets. He went out to check the
sky; he'd deferred duty long enough and hoped his
prediction of a calm night would prove accurate.
* * *
“Mra--… Ca, sra--”
He ignored their banter when he reentered,
threw himself into the padded rocker facing the door
and front window. Though certain he was on
schedule, the unforeseen might require quick
reactions, so best to keep vigil. Releasing a sigh, he
closed his eyes and willed his body to relax. Had he
wanted, he could have fallen asleep; sorcery always
sapped his spirit-body, even as a young man. Such a
long time ago that had been.
Within half an hour his vigilance waned; he
relaxed more, repeatedly having to yank his eyes
from closure. Dear rest, dearer sleep, but not his to
enjoy as if he were ordinary. Perhaps later, christened
with a bottle of mezcal, he thought.
“Mran, mro--” Then a long break. Then
repetitions of “Mra-- mra--”
“And a mumble to you as well, my fine
animatedly inanimate friends. What mierda do you
shovel? Or is it deviousness you conspire?”
“Mrook.”
The shell's breaking into bits as it hit the floor
echoed long like miniature armies clashing, like tiny
shield and spear, sword and bone meeting at
midfield, ending lives--the last echo too weak to
escape the battlefield, able only to hover.
“Mrak mra--”
Leaning forward in the rocker, the viejito
locked his aged knees around clasped hands,
tightened his shoulders, stretched his back.
“Qué hicieron?” It was more habit than
question; they'd tell him nothing. “Qué hicieron con la
Concha?” He checked the desk; yes, it was the shell.
Or had been.
The objects had assumed new positions, in
different groupings. Backed by their “allies”, the
vehicles formed a semicircle, like a breakwater
protecting the shore of glossy pictures, huddled,
overlapping one another, including the wedding
portrait, possibly of an African couple.
Funny, he thought, they were not usually
allowed near the others.
At the opposite end several items faced their
“rivals”, with a pewter gargoyle in lead position, its
jaws gaping. To the rear others waited. Midway
between the two “armies”, the guitarist statuette lay
prone, eyes half-shut.
“Cosas, you push too far,” Tomás said, “no
matter that spirits or dragons are involved.” It might be
time to box up and recycle them out by the road, let
someone who found value in them cart them away.
But bequeathing evil to an innocent
scavenger, especially a neighbor, would be
irresponsible. “I must use other means to end this
baroque charade.”
His vexation yielded to returning fatigue, so
he didn't rise.
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Peering out the window, he noted Evening
Star’s light choked by the rarefied grit from distant
power plants. He let the rocker’s momentum die of
friction, content the time approached. He let his
eyelids sag, his burly lashes sliding past one another,
tangling, stroking tensed eyes. He wouldn’t let
himself dream; but he released his mind to wander,
an exercise that avoided thought, yet enlisted his
subconscious into sketching the future.
Animal smells and sage-to-pine aromas from
the hills mixed with those of the house, filling his
nostrils, informing him of the doings of prey and
predator. Carried by cool, moist drafts, dust from the
rugged Sangres mingled with traces of his neighbors'
ruts and dung.
Sometimes his exploring subconscious
carried him to transcendental places evoking dim,
fond memories, like as an infant warmed in his own
squishy excrement, the moment before squirming
from discomfort.
Now he envisioned himself floating,
descending a huge muted waterfall into the aqua
pools below, then rotating in a whirlpool gradually
losing its impetus. The cascade's honey fragrance
almost made him yank himself awake--a brief
anticipation, like a flash at vision’s periphery.
To maintain the trance, he locked his eyes
half-open. Vague forms atop the desk, all aligned,
reminding him of a wave suspended before a beach.
Their mumblings waned and grew, like surfy foam
created by an underlying sandbar. The imagery made
him chuckle; for an instant he wondered if they had
heard, endangering him. But no, the buoyant
sensation persisted, he appeared safe, had no need
to terminate the vision.
What he next witnessed would become the
seed of nightmares until his life-spirit passed to the
Other Realm, etched into his brain, never to fade.
A pair of scintillating emerald eyes peered
from each object--even the meteorite--attempting to
mesmerize, imprison him in their scrutiny.
He tried returning to the waterfall pools, their
blue-green color too similar to the eyes'--more than a
coincidence, he knew, less than auspicious. When he
initiated the usual steps toward consciousness, his
head throbbed, exploded, sending him to the brink of
convulsions. Brutal pain stabbed his eyes. By the
time he realized the torture wouldn't pass, the assault
had reached a level that would've made ordinary
men faint. His disciplined training managed to
dampen a yearning to scream.
Retreating from consciousness worked; the
pain subsided, though still lurked at mind’s edge.
Back and forth, he tested alternate routes around the
torture. He envisioned himself as a deer confronting
a jaguar blocking a trail. To the left, the right, over,
under, and alongside his stalker, each a path of lethal
promise. Double feints and triple dashings resulted in
the same, as useless as his teeth-gnashing and
facial contortions.
Exhaling a feint of surrender, he took in the
reek of someone different--the Others--torn by loss
and loneliness; their smell penetrated his private Self.
Strange and estranged beings. They belonged not
here, nor anywhere else imaginable. Once he'd
gauged how out of place and time they were, he
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recognized their vulnerability. Now he could awaken.
Wetting his lips and sitting upright, he
widened his eyes and blinked, raised his arms. He'd
returned, in control again. Escape should have been
more difficult; later he'd determine why it hadn’t been.
For now, there was another matter.
The photos and their compatriots lay strewn
around the desk's legs, but no musician figure nor its
shards to indicate it had “died” like Concha. Other
items lay scattered on the desktop as if tossed there.
Tomás recognized his immediate inclination to grab
and trash the whole batch wasn't the best idea. That
which was easy rarely was.
He rose and went out to the water pump,
doused his head and washed his face with the spigot
opened wide. He shook off what he could and let the
wind dry the remainder. Hours had passed during his
trance, but, he told himself, at least he'd only lost
time. From the house came sounds of something
heavy, crashing. Furniture thrown against the wall?
Best to ignore them, for now.
Approaching southeasterly clouds held the
seasonal promise of rain. Following the valley
contours, they merged and suddenly strengthened
into a super-cell mass recalling his whirlpool, though
inverted, their crimson base gathering over his
adobe. He never thought of moving to safety because
none existed. Not anywhere in New Mexico. Not for
him.
Noise like boulders tumbling and crumbling
into a deep canyon shook the earth, scattering birds
that had had no warning. Then deep green ice balls
began pummeling his homestead, grapefruit-sized,
many smaller. They struck the ground, home and
trees, as if to target him by sheer random hits. Tomás
gestured toward the cottonwoods, passing them some
of his protective energy.
Although this prevented denuding of the
trees, some ice balls ricocheted toward Tomás, a few
striking him, hungry for him, encouraged by his blood
and bruises. He staggered.
In a few moments he would recoup his energy
to better defend himself, but he also knew that in too
many moments the frozen projectiles might render
him unconscious, his battered body and demolished
home the only evidence of a twister gone evil.
Despite the storm drowning out his screams--
“Nunca me aguito, not in your brief lifetime would I
give up, anyway, Gran Tornado!” he heard raucous
laughter from within the cabin. “So, you cabrones
enjoy this? If I survive your makers' bad weather, later
we will see how funny you are.” The laughter ceased.
Soaked, Tomás unwound his arms from about
his head. With one hand he reinforced the shielding of
the trees. He rotated his other hand, pressing upward
against the torrent. When the icy cannonballs' impact
crushed them into lime raspa that dripped onto his
lips, he licked the slush and smiled.
The inundation stopped. The wind slowed.
Clouds broke, drifted into a northerly migration until
disappearing. The sun warmed.
Tomás stooped, wiped his face and looked to
his forest. “Qué creen? Would a ceremony of Re-
creation be appropriate?” Perhaps, he thought. “Or do
we need an elaborately prepared, Tezcatlipoca ritual
to end the relationship with our friends inside?”
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Probably not necessary. The trees offered no
comment.
He didn't need one. The storm meant the
objects in the house acted as a beacon, a magnet for
absent masters who'd located him, too easily.
Though the memorabilia hadn't created the tornado,
they'd aided their controllers. It was time, he told
himself, though not to care or wonder.
After all, they were primarily man-made;
most had never had life of their own; there were few
residual life-forces to contend with, other than their
endowment of animation. But despite their benign
threat, something held him back, but not from worries
for himself. No, he felt sorry for the things.
Then again, that wasn't true, either. More
likely, he commiserated with whichever humans had
deposited a bit of mind or heart or soul, had infused
their humanity and creativity into the pieces. Even
those of unnatural substance might carry bits of
Spirit. Some had perhaps served loftier forces, like
the Life Passions; others, evil or triviality. No matter;
they all had to be dealt with. He accepted he would
lose something of himself in the process.
He gathered splinters to start the fire, but
would need a log or two for the kind of heat that
would leave only ash and melted globules.
More clamoring from the cabin. Something
else large, smashed. More mumbling, as if they'd
guessed his intentions. Not that they could stop him.
In the horno, he arrayed splints in the Four
Directions, placed matches in the middle to
emphasize his Centering, and lit the kindling. As he
watched flames build, he reconsidered the
possessed accumulation, allowing them a last
opportunity to profess their origins, their import. Had
he remembered that such and such had been
contributed by so and so on this or that occasion, he
might have spared it. For instance, the black couple’s
wedding photo should have stood out in his mind
because he'd never known many negros, from
anywhere.
He added small limbs to the burning; in the
concentrated horno heat, they quickly caught.
No, not many negros. Híjole!--at this
moment, he could only remember one, and that
wasn't her. He inserted three birch logs. It was time.
Remounting the porch, he pondered the little
blue car, the stuffed animal, the sunshades. Nothing
came to mind. Any of them might have been left by
one of the countless families who'd visited as far
back as his first day in the valley.
“Chingaus,” he swore aloud. “I must
remember to work on my memory, and soon, or I will
one day not find my way home because I forgot my
address.”
It was a poor joke, since no numbers
adorned the adobe and the dirt strip out front bore no
road sign. It had always just been called The Road to
the Viejito’s.
Stopping at the doorway, he considered
rolling a cigarette for the blessing required upon
entering, but it struck him as futile. Demonic spirits
inhabiting the bric-a-brac would not flee from such;
they were more powerful. Besides, once he
destroyed their hosts, their cursedness would end.
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He turned to relish the cottonwood leaves
fluttering in hundreds of rhythms. The wind-generated
flickering of light through the trees reminded him of
an anthill, its tunnels lit up as drones carried out
thousands of tasks and relayed hundreds of
messages through the colony. The image tore at him,
threatening to flush his mind with snips of his life
released from their confinement. He suppressed the
nostalgic chaos, spun and entered.
A gray mist seeped out floorboard gaps,
filling in the barren room. Furnishings had
disappeared, along with the shelves' contents,
leaving only what was mounted on walls and rafters,
and the barely visible desk. His entrance disturbed
the haze, creating eddies that cleared space around
the desk. The objets d’art and objets d’otherwise
waited while he ploughed the mist.
When he stopped within arm’s reach, the
mist refilled, obscuring his view. Against the smoky
backdrop, floating in sympathy to the mist, the
waterfall pools reappeared as a glowing pantomime
of his dream. With the back of his hand he swatted
back and forth, dismissing the phantasm, and with his
other, he corralled the memorabilia, swept them onto
the lower desktop. He formed a basket with his shirt
bottom and shoveled them in. The fog dissipated,
surrendered, he thought.
Once outside he emptied his bundle through
the horno portal. “Now I need my spirits,” he
whispered jokingly. Returning to the cabin he saw the
library and furniture had been returned, along with the
years of dust and cobwebs. “They could have at least
kept the dirt.”
As he took another step, fog again flooded
the room. Tomás trod on, noticing it appeared thin,
weakened. But he only thought that until, out of the
room's furthest corner, five glistening tentacles lunged
to entrap him. Tentacles like those of an octopus, thick
as a man's thigh, covered with rough boar-like bristles
that smelled more of sewer than sea bottom. With
jagged blue talons, not suction cups.
Because of its amber body, he knew what
malevolence they belonged to--Tieholtsodi, the
dragon-like water creature of Navajo legend, of a
hundred fangs and eight-inch spikes that ran down its
spine. According to legend, it no longer threatened
humans and had never possessed tentacles. Thus,
this Tieholtsodi was an aberration.
“Hijo de su--” Tomás cursed as he drew on
enchantment, hoping to prevent the talons from
shredding more than his clothes. As he completed the
invocation--“Hasta que se acaba el mundo!”--his world
did seem about to end.
One tentacle, thicker and half again as long
as the others, lashed out, whipping around like a
maddened rattlesnake, toppling and smashing
bookcases, and shearing everything off the walls. It
drew back, slammed the old man free of the grasp of
the other tentacles, crushing him against the wall. The
smaller tentacles approached his limp body like
serpentine waves.
Tomás Chaneco Martinez might have
remained unconscious. His battered heart and
centuries-old body, worn by trials and tragedy that had
bested many others, could have relinquished their
connection to Earth, and allowed him to rejoin the
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Otherworld. But the loosened arrows, tepoztopilli
spear, and other weaponry mounted to the
cottonwood vigas above chose this moment to drop.
His obsidian-tipped macquahuitl fell, cleaving loose a
chunk of his inner thigh. Tomás's scream wrenched
him conscious, while surprising and causing
Tieholtsodi to hesitate, rewarding the old man
precious seconds.
In one smooth motion the Sorcerer grabbed
the ironwood handle and leveraged himself against
the floor to rise. He launched the weapon spiraling
past the tentacles clear into the monster's mouth.
Instead of a death-scream, what clamored through
the cabin resembled the bursting of a huge man-o'-
war.
Tomás Chaneco crossed his arms to hold his
shoulders; he sighed deeply and shut his eyes.
“Another, different dragon. What will they think of
next?” Ignoring his bloodied thigh, Tomás wandered
through the dissipating fog, tripping over books and
furniture, striking his shin. “Qué pinche porquería!
Now, where is it?”
Brushing through the rubble with his feet, he
finally found an intact bottle of mezcal and small cans
of grapefruit juice. He mentally dampened his
bleeding so as not to pass out; stitching it up could
wait. “In all this untidiness, I hope I can find a needle
or fishhook and twine--something to do the job. And I
hope I can find another bottle, for anesthetic
purposes.” He bent down again to pick up a dragon's
tear left by Tieholtsodi and pocketed it.
What exited the cabin looked more like an
elderly homeless man who'd been beaten by a gang
of suburban kids sadistically venting their manhood.
What stood on the porch was sketchily clothed; with
each wind gust tatters of cloth waved like prairie
grass. This walking clump of special humanity shed
particles of caked blood and occasionally a cracked
blue talon with each of his steps. The latter he'd later
pick up, cleanse and add to his amulet.
He let out a grito into the trees, to the valley's
edge, “Ajuuua, mundo! I am still here!” and then
mumbled, “I just wonder what pobre is going to have
to clean up that mess.”
He squatted by the oven, his knees inches to
the sides of his jaws. The first swallow of alcohol
reassured him he'd reentered the Land of the Visible
and the Awake. “Sacre bleu cheese!” he exclaimed,
squinting and grimacing at the liquid's strangling of
his throat. “What were those borachos drinking when
they cooked up this batch of bliss!” He spit some into
the horno, adding blue and flare to the flames.
Photos, the stuffed bear--these quickly
ignited. Plastic, leather and rubber took longer. He
knew the iron-nickel piece that had fallen from the
sky would retain its form, since only the heat of its
birthplace could change its nature. But when the fire
was done, the meteorite would be cleansed.
The flames changed hue and intensity,
depending on what last reached flammability. Yet, he
knew the oval, green miasmas weaving through the
fire, the eyes full with colors of colliding galaxies,
would never burn. They who used the artifacts
against him were letting him know their hunt would
not end here nor today because they would go on,
using other objects, or living beings.
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By the time only coals beamed
incandescently, he had nearly finished the mezcal,
the cans empty and crushed underfoot. He gestured
the bottle toward the fading heat, offering it a last
shot.
“Now, the next time you so powerful dragons
decide to engage in mischief, consider the
consequences.” He took a sip.
“It is not that I mind you watching me. I too
watch my enemies.” He tilted the bottle higher for the
last drops.
“But when you use little things like these to
bother me, I will get rid of the little things.” He
laughed, letting out a short burp, and tossed the
empty into the coals. It bounced once, teetered, but
stopped nearly upright.
“And when all the little things are gone, there
will only be you and me left. Then what will we do?”
Standing to loosen his cramped muscles--
first his arms, then chest and legs--he then headed to
the porch.
“Mrak, mrak.” He spun around. The tilted
bottle gradually lost shape, like a glass blower's
experiment gone freakish. But on the mezcal label, its
large centered letters Z and C glowed--each bearing
an emerald eye--before bursting into a fireball that
collapsed the bottle, then mushroomed three meters
up and outward, singeing the old man. His defensive
enchantment held; Tomás Chaneco never flinched.
As abruptly as it had erupted, the hell-fire expired. A
squat, lava-like mound lay where the horno had sat.
Without warning, an unusually late cloudburst
unleashed, drenching everything. No matter it couldn't
last, Tomás considered it the last small insult, so he
straightened up, defiantly, lifted his face for a bathing,
opened his palms for cleansing and his mouth to drink
of the refreshment.
Chuckling, he slipped in the mud and landed
on his butt. “Cabrones!” His hands to his cheeks, he
broke out in helpless laughter, a resigned hysteria.
“Maybe I needed a new horno, anyway.” After
managing to stand, his chuckles degenerated,
intermixed with spasms of severe hacking--a duel of
cough and laughter that dropped him again to his
knees, like a terminal smoker comically flaunting
mortality. Almost simultaneously, his laughter and the
rain stopped.
Wiping what mud he could from face and
hands, he settled on the steps, took up knife and
statue for the final touches. His thigh could wait. To
keep out mosquitoes, he reached over and slammed
the door.
A moment later he reopened it, just in case.
* * *
("Memorabilia", © 2009-2012 Rudy Ch. Garcia, first appeared in the anthology "Needles & Bones" published by
Chrysography, 2009)
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musa jalil (1906 - 1944)
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To a Little Bird All 'round us sand. A chain of dreary barracks,Surrounded on all sides by barbed wire.We're just like beetles delving in our dunghills.This is our lodging. This is where we're mired. An alien sun arises o'er the hilltops,I wonder why it always looks so grim?It doesn't warm, its beams do not caress us,It's just a blotch of lifeless pale chagrin… From off the field that stretches to the forestThe sound of mowing every morn is heard.But yesterday there flew into our prisonTo sing for us a kindly little bird. My dear one, you have picked the wrong enclosure,It's dangerous to come to sing in here.You've seen yourself-the heartache and the bloodshed…This camp's a vale of hopelessness and tears. Oh welcome wanderer, do answer quickly:When will you soar again into the blueTo wing your way unhampered to my country?I have a favour to request of you. In my unvanquished soul this last entreatyHas lived in hope for many, many days.My fleet-winged friend! Go, speed you to my country,To its vast fields the poet's song convey! My people will immediately know youBy your sonorous voice and spear-shaped wings.And they will say: Tis tidings of the poetFrom distant parts the feathered songstress brings. Our deadly foes have put him into shackles,But nothing that they did could break his will.Though in captivity, the poet's message,No force can manacle, no force can kill… The free-born poem of the captive poet,You, my winged one, hasten to our home.And though in foreign country I should perishMy song will live undying 'mongst my own! August 1942
(Translated by Lydia Kmetyuk)
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kevin marshall chopson tennessee, usa
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Interview
TM: Kevin, how do you know when poetry is your calling? Kevin Marshall Chopson: Language impressed itself upon me at an early age. I discovered that the power of language had an almost magical effect on people. At first, it was a simple realization that I had the ability to persuade my parents or my friends to allow me to have my way. I believe many, or most, poets had this same sort of experience. Then as one pays closer attention to how one strings the words together and, ultimately, how these words sound, one begins to write more deliberate “incantations,” in order to speak things into existence. Simultaneously, I believe that most poets realize that they are looking at the world a bit differently. One senses this, all of this, very early on, I think. This deeper perspective on reality and what lies beyond it, and this intense fascination with language, somehow presents itself to the poet before he or she enters the teen years.
TM: Do you have other writers or artists in your family? Kevin Marshall Chopson: No, at least not in previous generations. My wife Susan, however, is an “icing” artist. She has a bit of a reputation for being one of the best cake makers in the southeastern United States; and, she is also a fairly accomplished potter. My son, Noah, and daughter, Alexandra, have a number of interests in the arts - graffitti, photography, filmmaking, writing, acting, etc. TM: Are you happiest reading or writing? Kevin Marshall Chopson: I love to read but I must say writing pleases me more. I’m not sure if “happiest” is the right word for me, however. I have to admit that I am not a very “happy” person. The creative process is more satisfying, fulfilling, than reading, I suppose. But, both are absolutely necessary. For me, they work in tandem. TM: Who are your biggest creative influences? Kevin Marshall Chopson: Ralph Waldo Emerson, Henry David Thoreau, Rainer Maria Rilke, Annie Dillard, Adam Zagajewski, Wislawa Szymborska, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Herman Melville, Stanley Kunitz, and a fairly healthy number of philosophers, photographers, painters, and filmmakers. TM: Were you always wondering
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about the issues you now wonder about? Kevin Marshall Chopson: I suppose my interests have just gotten more specific over time. As an adolescent, and throughout my teenage years, I became and remained interested in the beauty and power of nature, the transcendent power of isolation in developing the intellect, the mystical; and, I developed a compassion for those that are marginalized in society (probably because I was marginalized, at least to a certain degree …). Those interests have been with me since I was young. Now, perhaps, my perspective is just a bit more refined. TM: Whom do you picture as the ideal reader of your work? Kevin Marshall Chopson: I don’t really know. I’m a bit of a cynic, so this is a really difficult question. I connect well with students, I think, and with “regular” people. With academics, perhaps not so much, which is interesting because I consider myself an academic, at least in the traditional sense. Two great American poets, Billy Collins and Ted Kooser, have answered this question in verse. I like their answers. TM: How many evaluations does your work go through before you are satisfied with it? Kevin Marshall Chopson: I do stop reading my poems for possible revisions until they are published. That doesn’t
mean that each poem goes through a number of revisions, it simply means that with each rejection of a submitted poem, I take another look at it. In the beginning, I take a rather traditional approach: the poem is written and then it is set aside for a few weeks, then I take another look at it and see if it still does what I wanted it to do. It is rare that a poem appears in its “final” form the first time the words hit the page. It has happened with my work but it is rare. TM: Is your work process fast or slow? Kevin Marshall Chopson: Slow, I suppose. I don’t sit down with the intention of creating a brand new work. I go looking for poems. Whenever I go out into the city for an art opening or into the country for a hike, I always carry a small notebook. I sketch. I gather lines. I try to remain open to what I am seeing and record what comes to mind. Later, I will develop those ideas into a poem or a number of poems. TM: How would you describe your work? Kevin Marshall Chopson: I am primarily a lyrical poet. One who focuses on a small scene that lends itself toward some sort of unspoken revelation. I try to capture that scene in language that sounds inviting. I often compare my work to the work of a still life painter. TM: What do you hope readers will
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take away from your work? Kevin Marshall Chopson: I hope they full nudged a bit, toward a greater, or perhaps simpler, truth. I hope they feel the words in their mouths as they speak them out loud. TM: Do you admire your own work? Kevin Marshall Chopson: I try to like my poems. I have to know when they seem “right.” But admiration, I suppose, is a tricky business until the power of one’s work is validated by a fair chunk of society at large. TM: You are a teacher. Do you exchange work with your students? Kevin Marshall Chopson: I share six or seven of my own poems with students every year. Almost all of those poems are poems that have been published. I believe I should only share work that has been validated by publication; when an editor of a magazine, journal, or anthology accepts your work, then it must be “good” on some level. I think it is important for my students to know that I am a “working” writer and to some degree a “successful” poet. My students have the opportunity to read their works in progress in class, whether it be my college classes or my high school classes, on a number of occassions, opening an opportunity for gentle criticism and kind suggestions. I also publish an in-school journal named Wild Honey, which gives them the opportunity for publication.
TM: What do you do to recharge your batteries? Kevin Marshall Chopson: I like going to art openings. I make a habit of attending at least a half a dozen a year. I like hiking, although I do not do as much as I used to, and I love to travel. Travel now, however, is mostly restricted to the attending of conferences. This year I will attend Tennessee’s state conference for English teachers, which is in the Great Smokey Mountains, and the national conference in Boston, Massachusetts. I am anticipating delightful and inspirational moments at both. I will be giving a presentation at the former, reading some of my poetry. I also love watching documentaries and dabbling with this art “installation” idea I’ve come up with. TM: How do you feel about the aging process? Kevin Marshall Chopson: I have to admit I am frustrated with the whole notion of aging. Coming to terms, gradually, with what life “means” is a constant struggle. It’s easy to just become distracted and focus on having “fun,” relish in the notion of having “earned it.” I am a late bloomer, however; I still feel that my best work lies ahead. I am a young, young fifty-nine. My father just passed away - he was ninety-four. My mother is eighty-four. I am relatively healthy, so I hope to be around a while. I do enjoy the idea of becoming “sage-like” but part of that is knowing that one must stay connected to contemporary times in order to stay
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relevant. I grow and then shave off several beards per year. That process serves as an ongoing metaphor for how I engage “aging.” TM: In what way do you think literature has the ability to change the way people live their lives? Kevin Marshall Chopson: I know it has the power to change lives. I have seen that power in the classroom. Art, in all its forms, has that ability. My presentation in the Great Smokey Mountains this year is titled “Perhaps It Could Be Said by the Poem: How Art Could Save Our Professions, Our Students, and the World.” Literature, when “properly” presented can make us kinder, gentler, smarter, and more understanding of each other - within any given society and between societies. The problem is getting students, and people in general, to understand that that power is real. It is much more difficult today. Our world’s current obsession with technology, materialism, and superficiality makes it extraordinarily difficult for art to make an impact; but, it is possible. We must continue to present the fully developed, thoughtful, written word as something that has value far superior to the sound-bite world that most people live in. We must continue to develop and present “stories” that have the ability to make people cry, to move their hearts, and to move that spiritual aspect of their intellects. We must not allow science and mathematics to fully destroy the importance of the humanities. Literature, and all of the arts, keep us
human. TM: Can Heaven exist on earth? Kevin Marshall Chopson: I suppose not. The whole concept of Heaven implies a pure and separate place - a holy place. We can, however, experience bits of Heaven on Earth: pure and separate moments of peace and beauty that allow us to feel like we have, albeit briefly, transcended this somewhat more murky place. The creation of literature helps us to experience some of those moments, as do the experiences that inspire us to write, and, finally, as does the reading of what has been created. TM: What are you writing right now? Kevin Marshall Chopson: I am putting the finishing touches on a one-act play entitled Metaphysics: Or, The Causes of Friction. It’s a blend of poetry and drama, influenced by Dadaism and elements of the Theatre of the Absurd. I am also working on a series of political poems that are a bit more confrontational than my usual work. Kind, I hope, and beautiful, I hope; but, still, confrontational.
* * *
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On the Sleeping Body of God On the sleeping body of God,we press our ears and listen for the hollowed breathing,deep and rich like a cave. We cover His chest with beads and flowersas each movement of slumber dwarfs our selfish prayers.
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I Have Seen My Death Three Times I have seen my death three timesthrough the eyes of women I loved – my presence completely and fully gone. I stood before them as they prepared to meet someone new. They painted fresh colors on their cheeks and lips, wearing clothes that I had not seen before.They were more beautiful than I couldremember – childlike once again, pure, ready to feel the heat of a fresh hand. I surprised them, holding flowers. It nearly escaped my view – the casket had been prepared, the grave had been dug, and this, this was the moment that followed my death.
Eğelíme úş kere rast keldím Súygen kîskaayaklîlarîmnîñ kózíndeeğelíme úş kere rast kelípbarlîgîmnîñ bír-tamam ğok bolganîn kórdím. Olarnîñ karşîsînda turdum olar başkasî mankóríşmege ázírliyatîrganda. Betleríne-erínlerínetaze renkler súrgenler, kíygen urbalarîn şondan ewel heş kórmegen edím.Bílgenímden taa gúzel kóríne edíler –baladay, pak, taze kolnîñ sîğaklîgîn tuymaga ázír. Kolîndakî şeşeklerín sezíp şaşîrdîm.Az kaldî abaylamayğak edím – tabît ázírlengen, mezarkazîlgan, bo da eğelímníñ arkasîndan hemen kelgen an eken.
(Taner Murat’nîñ terğúmesínde)
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Intaglio Rusty murals on the beach, etched in sand by retreating tide. Each wave a guided blade, a wash, and stroke of pen. One long, frameless image – mindlessly carved, yet sure. Pearled grains tightly woundin lines of curves and arcs, Underfoot and boundless,shaded with western light.
Keep the Wild at Bay We try to keep the wild at bay, we try but cannot stop the truth. There it is, in the urine, in the blood, in the incessant clawing at the door, the moonlit shadow digging in the night. The enduring worm profligates at will, the blind teeth of moles canal below us. Saragossan eels portage a dam,cross brick, then slither through grass and riprap –the hunt for current that carries them home. Spiders walk inside our mouths, gently wesleep and swallow these tiny bits of krill. We try to keep the wild at bay, we try, but cannot stop the truth.
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reshma pandya-bhatt maharashtra, india
“I am a home-maker from Maharashtra, India. I have studied English Literature and writing has always been a favorite. My other interests are photography, reading and painting. I have just begun writing poems and hope to continue doing so.”
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Dance tonight Fly high,alright if you dont make it fine.Be free.Be light.Take your mind offand dance tonight.Lonely was your worldbut it wont be now,life is full of ups and downs. Because I will be thereto hold you tight.Be free.Be light.Take your mind offand dance tonight.
Choked It's hard to writewith no ideas in my mind.Breathing heavilyin distressalso does not help.It is loss of words.Yes.That's the hurdle.No clarity.No emotions. Just restlessness. it's hard to expressthe pain.The brain hasbecome the drain.No feelings. No words.Its choked howeverwith dullness, sadness,restlessness.
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Travels in Circassia, Krim Tartary, &c. (XIV)
LETTER VII.
WHIRLPOOLS OF THE DANUBE - VETERANI CAVERN - ROMAN ANTIQUITIES - MILANOVA - PASSPORTS - MEHADIA MINERAL BATH -
EFFICACY OF THE WATERS - BEAUTY OF THE SURROUNDING COUNTRY - NEW ORSOVA - DETENTION OF THE STEAM-BOAT BY THE PACHA - VISIT TO THE PACHA - AUSTRIAN TIMIDITY - CATARACT OF THE DANUBE - PANNONIA THE FIRST STEAM-BOAT THAT PASSED IT - WILD CHARACTER OF THE
SCENERY - PRINCIPALITY OF WALLACHIA - KLADOVA - TURKISH PILOTS.
In my last letter I informed you of our
arrival at Golubacs, and I felt not a little
pleased to learn that our bark was now about
to glide through some of the most beautiful
scenery of the Danube. The mountains
increased in altitude as we advanced, and the
curves in the river formed a succession of the
most charming lakes, till we came to the
whirlpool called Tachtalia, an object of great
terror to the navigators ; and not without
some reason, for many a vessel has here sunk
to rise no more: even so lately as the year
1833, we were informed that five were
wrecked.
This danger arises from the
circumstance that the bed of the river is here
entirely formed of isolated masses of
perpendicular rocks, between which it is
necessary for the pilot to steer with great
caution, but more particularly when the water
is shallow ; for should a vessel deviate from
the right channel, it runs the risk of being
carried away by the impetuous violence of the
stream, and dashed to pieces by the foaming
surge, as it rebounds from rock to rock. The
difficulties in the navigation have, however,
been considerably lessened within these few
years, by the judicious efforts of the directors
of the steam navigation on the Danube, who
have caused the most dangerous rocks to be
blasted; so that at present the only hazard
arises from the negligence of the captain, who
may employ an inexperienced pilot.
We journeyed on through a
continuation of whirlpools, surrounded by
scenery of a similar character to that I have
already described, till we came to the cavern
Piscabora, famous for having been so bravely
Nazar Look 39www.nazar-look.com
defended by the gallant Austrian general, M.
Veterani, against the Turks in 1692; since
which time it bears his name. This excavation,
entirely the work of nature, is capable of
containing from six to seven hundred men,
independently of an adjoining cavern well
adapted to serve as a powder-magazine ; and
from its situation in the rocks, is not only
impregnable, but completely commands the
river. Its importance as a military position
seems to have been discovered by the
Romans, for we find the remains of an
inscription to that effect in its vicinity : indeed
we are every where reminded in the countries
near this part of the Danube, of the dominion
of the Roman empire. On the Servian side,
there are the remains of the road cut by
Trajan along the sides of the rock, now used
by the peasants as a foot-path; together with
the tablet erected to immortalize the conquest
of Dacia by the same emperor. It bears the
form of a scroll, supported by winged genii,
having on each side a dolphin, and in the
centre the Roman eagle ; but in consequence
of the barbarous custom prevalent among the
Danube boatmen, who here stop with their
vessels and kindle fires, it has been deplorably
mutilated ; so that the only portion of the
inscription now visible is the two first lines,
IMP. C/ES. D. NERV/E. FILIUS. NERVA
TRAJAIMUS. GERM. PONT. (MAX) IMUS, . . .
A few miles further, a pretty modern village,
built by Prince Milosch and called Milanova,
after his son Mila, gladdens the eye of the
traveller ; and at Alt Orsova, the last town in
Hungary, we were again obliged to remain four
hours, while the Austrian authorities affixed
their signatures to our passports, whereas a
quarter of an hour would have been amply
sufficient for the purpose. Here I lost the
society of my venerable and respected friend,
Count Esterhazy, who was proceeding to the
baths of Mehadia, one of the most amiable
and excellent men I ever travelled with, and
whose memory, even if I had no other
reasons, would be sufficient to induce me ever
to respect Hungary and the Hungarians.
(to be continued)