34 edmund spencer Travels in Circassia, Krim Tartary, &c. (VI) 36 aziz ahmet crimea (ukraine) Photoshop: Rock near Zincirli Madrasah, Crimea
BAŞ KABÎMÎZDA ON THE COVER Alan Haider Photo: Robert Haider
NAZAR LOOK Attitude and culture magazine of Dobrudja’s Crimean Tatars Tomrîğa Kîrîm Tatarlarîñ turuşmamuriyet meğmuwasî ISSN: 2069-4784 www.nazar-look.com nazar.look@mail.com Constanta, Romania FOUNDER & EDITOR-IN-CHIEF BAŞ-NAŞIR Taner Murat EDITORS NAŞIRLER Emine Ómer Uyar Polat Jason Stocks COMPUTER GRAPHICS SAYAR SÎZGAĞÎSÎ Elif Abdul Hakaan Kalila (Hakan Calila) CREATIVE CONSULTANTS ESER KEÑEŞÇÍSÍ M. Islamov
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 by www.nazar-look.com
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2 sara teasdale Ólím şefik bolsa - If Death is Kind 3 abdullah tukay Óz-ózíme 4 taner murat scythia minor Kókten sesler - Temúçin (XI) 6 steve rushton england, uk Interview Series 3, #1 Series 3, #11 The Foundry, London, 2009 This Poem 10 alan haider florida, usa Interview Mirage Clothes Stuck 14 phyllis burton england, uk Portrait of a Dream 20 charlotte bronte Life 21 khalil gibran A Blade of Grass 22 alan dennis harris michigan, usa The Caterpillar at the Window 30 sonnet mondal west bengal, india Africa - black to blood Life with the Ferry’s Night Horn The Place where Souls are Born The Priest in Me
CONTRIBUTORS MEMBALAR Aziz Ahmet Phyllis Burton Alan Haider Robert Haider Steve Rushton Alan Dennis Harris Sonnet Mondal
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Ólím şefik bolsa
If Death is Kind
Belkí ólím şefik eger kele-alsa, Múst íşínde keşe kaytîp dúniyaga Deñíz ğolîn tabîp koklar edík biyaz Kelínkolî otlar şógíp aşalarga.
Perhaps if Death is kind, and there can be returning, We will come back to earth some fragrant night, And take these lanes to find the sea, and bending Breathe the same honeysuckle, low and white.
Túşer edík keşe ğuwaş ğañgîragan Deñíz ğagasîna uzun-uzun seslí, Bír sáát úşún geñíş yîldîz ğarîgînda, Tabar edík kunak, azattîr ke ólí.
We will come down at night to these resounding beaches And the long gentle thunder of the sea, Here for a single hour in the wide starlight We shall be happy, for the dead are free.
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Óz-ózíme Tíliymen bolmaga men insaniy ganiy Tíliy góñlím bolmak aliy-valiy Bilfiil súyemen bahtîñ Tatarîm, Kórmege ğanlîlîk wakîtîn Tatarnîñ. Tatar bahtî úşún men ğan atarman: Tatarman men, ózím de şan Tatarman. Hesapsîz kóp mením milletke vaatîm, Kîrîlmaz mî vavî, vallahiy álem?
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Kókten sesler - Temúçin (XI) Bondan ziyade şo da bar, başka nazardan. Ğúregí awur. Ka-típ te bolmayğak eken? Toktap pítmiyğek bír kagîşmada, kalíbí túp-túp ata tura, "Belkím yeşíl kózlí sarî biyke de şîgar ortalîkka" dep. Şîkmadî. Şo kúní kóralmay kayttî. Bondan soñra hergún ekíndíde awdan kaytîp, şo îrktan geşíp, kîmîzîn íşken soñ, akşam ústí úyúne kaytatan edí. Sarî biykení kóralmay bírkaş kún geştí. O biyke katîlmaytan edí, íşkíge. "Bírşiy bolgan eken mí, şoga? Bariy uzaktan bír kóríp kalsam" túşúnğesí men bírgún kaytağakta, atîna baylap askan awnuñ yarîsîn şeşíp: - Satîlgannîñ kiyípí kayday? Árúw boldî mî? - dep Satîlgannîñ şadîrîna súrúp kírdí. - Árúw, tírílgen. Ğúr! - dep karşîladî nenesí. Íşerde, toplaşîp tígíş tíkken dórt-beş apakay bar. Sarî biyke de bolganşîk, tígíşíne karay beríp, íşíne tagîlîp kalgan yeşíl kózlerín kótermedí. - Abiyní tanîysîñ mî, kîzîm? - dep soradî nenesí kîzîndan. - Tanîyman, mení satkan abiy. - dep ğuwurup kuşaklawuydî Satîlgan, Bodonğarnî. Onîñ kollarînda yeşílbaş bar. Kolîndakîlarîn nenesíne uzatîp: - Tañrîga şúkúr, awum yakşî kete! Mína, Satîlganga bír sorpalîk akelgen edím. - dep berdí. - Mína, abiy órdek ketírdí, ya. Síz de, endí, bíraz sak bolîp píşíríñíz şo yemeklerní, neniy! - dep nenesíne akîl beríp şîktî kîzşîk. - Ne o, Satîlgan? Şîmarayatîrsîñ gálba? "Neniy alar nezetlí aş píşírmiytan" dep aytayatîrsîñ mî? - kaşlarîn burdî Bodonğar, kîzganday, kórsetúwğí parmagîn sallatîp. - Píşíreler, ğanîm. Aşlarî bek nezetlí bola. Lákin bazda-bír, oñgarîp ta salalar. Mína, tínewún ğanîm badiy sorpasî ístegende, "Sorpanîñ túbí tuttî" dep ayttîlar. Yazîk tuwul mî? Kazanga bíraz kózín aşsalar, túbí tutulmay,
aşar edík, taa.
Kúlúştúler. Bodonğar kîzşîknî yokarga
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kótere-kótere óptí. O da kîşkîrîp-kîşkîrîp kúle. - Kîzîm, abiyníñ kolî ogîrlî. O satmagan bolsa sení maga, şúndí de kasta ğatar edíñ. Árúw bolîp ğúrmeñ úşún esenlíkní bo abiy ketírdí. Oga ne dep aytağaksîñ? - Ogîrlî kolîña sawluk, abiy! - dedí kîz. Bodonğar da óz kókíregínden ğúrek moşaklarîn şîgarîp: - Saga da uzun-uzun ómírler, Satîlgan kîzîm! Mína, geşenlerde kayet kîymetlí bírşiy satîp, bo moşaklarnî kazangan edím, ya. Bonlarnî saga bagîşlayatîr, abiyíñ. Oga kerekmez, endí. Oga nazar tiymiytan. - dep moşaklarnî kîzga tagîp şîktî. "... tiymiytan" degende de, sarî kîskaayaklînîñ kóz kîyîgîndan atkan nazarî man ózínkísí, bír an úşún bolsa da, kesíşíp aldîlar. Bír an úşún, kakğa bír an. Kîskaayaklî, bírşiy bolmaganday, íşíne, tígíşíne, karay berdí. "Hoşîna ketmiymen. Mením betke ğîygîn tuwul. Tañrî belasîn bersín, bonday etken şîrayga!" ókíne edí Bodonğar, úyún ğolîn tutup, kîskaayaklînîñ meraksîzlîgîndan. Kúnler geştí. Bodonğar şo sarî biykení ne kadar unutağak bolsa da, akîlîna kele bere. Şonî bírgún kaşîrağagîna ózí-ózín îşandîrîp, kúygen ğúregín sóndíreğek bolîp tîrîşa edí. Bonday etíp, şo kaşîrma kaswetín de şege. Ka-típ kaşîrîr eken? Bolîr mî? Bolatan mî, endí? Îrgî bek kalabalîk. Oga kelseñ, bírózí. Ayhay, biyke de onî súyúp bír bolsalar, şáresí tabîlîr edí. Amma kaydan? Kún de şo îrkka barîp biykení bír kóríp alganşîk kaş kún geşe edí. Kóríşkende de nazarlarî bír kesíşse, okadar. Şoyerde yúzún başka istikametke kaytarîp, yeşíl kózlerín başka yerlege karata. Bellí, onî begenmiy. Begense kaydan-kaydan añlatîp taşlar. Ózí de begeníleğek ğígít tuwul, ya. Ózíñ akalarîñ begenmiy ayîrgan soñ, şotakîl gúzel bír biykeden ne bekliyğeksíñ? Saga wurulup bayîlmasîn ístiysíñ mí? Akşamlarî úyúne ğol alganda, ğolda şírkínlígíne peşman etíp, dúrkí şalîp parşalana edí: Onekí órdek arasînda Tanîr mîsîñ atasîn? Ózíñ ğígít şakîrasîñ Ózíñ ğatîp yuklaysîñ. Hergún "Geşmem" dep aytsam da Túyren Kambîrlarîndan Akşamgaşîk ğolsîrayman Nazarîñnî ğoklayman.
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www.tanermurat.com "Geşmem, geşmem" tewb-etsem de Túyren Kambîrlarîndan Íngír ózímden kaytaman Ka-tiyím? Dayanmayman. Tañrî belamnî bergeydí Gágáalî şîrayîm man Suw kaytîmîna karayman Sógíne de kargayman. Tawdan geşsem kuşlar kaşîp Toktaytan kîywaldawdan Bírden dallar sessíz kala Men gúzel ğansîrayman. Beş kardaşnîñ arasîndan Men soyga uşamayman Ayîrdîlar, muñgak kaldîm Şo órdek şîrayîm man. Beş kardaşnîñ arasîndan Men soyîmnî kuwmayman Şatlasa taş, takatsîzman Gene sarî kollayman. Dórt kardaş tuwdî kúneştiy
Beşínğí men, badiy bet Keşke tuwmay bolmagaydîm Ğok bolsîn bonday kîsmet. Íşler onday ketíp turdî, bír-ekí ay. Şo sarî kîskaayaklîdan kesín bír elamet yok. Ózí kîmîzga da heş koşîlmay. Başkalarî bolsa, yakîn hergún o yerde. Úylí mí? Koğasî kaysî eken? Koğa-moğa da şîkmay miydanga. Bo yagî árúw, ğanîm. Amma ne faydasî bar ke? Ána, ka-tsín? Keşe bolsa, yukusî da kelmiy. Dúrkí mîrîldamaganşîk kózkapagî awurlaşmay: Kuş uşturup ğúregímden Múren betke awup turgan Toñka, kîyîş, ğagasîndan Geşer edím índemeden. Saklî-saklî maga kóre Bazî túşúp, bazî atta Bazî suwnuñ kîyuwunda Bekler edím tereklíkte. Íşím tartîp yúz bin kere Ya bír nazar, ya bír kelam Umut etíp kún de akşam Batar edím kadelerge. Herkez tuydî, ka-típ bílmem Sízden geşkenímde akşam Túşúnğelí suratîmdan Şîbîrdaşîr edí álem. Aytsa bírew, tuwul yalan, Sení ğoklay ğúremen men Múren betke, múren betten Kumlî, taşlî, ğagasîndan. Bírgún tînîk uzaklarga Ketkenímden alsañ kaber Mením kadarîmdan beter Alîşmay kal yoklîgîma! Bazda-bír, ómír dadîn ğoytar, kíşí de ózózíne kîzar. Şo sarî kîskaayaklîdan ne bír umut kóríp, ne şonî akîlîndan şîgarîp, kún-kúnden hálí taa perşan, o yerlerden ayîrîlîp ketmek Bodonğarnîñ túşúnğesíne taa temellí kelíp konar edí. "Bo karap dúniyada ğañgîzman!" dep keter edí yukusuna, her keşe.
(dewamî keleğekke)
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srushton13.com
Interview
Steve Rushton: Too many to count – I am a compulsive editor.
TM: Steve, how do you know when poetry is your calling?
TM: How much of a poem do you write before making the decision to throw it out?
Steve Rushton: When you keep waking at four in the morning. TM: Describe poetry in three words. Steve Rushton: Lines of writing TM: Did you ever ask yourself, "Why am I writing?" Steve Rushton: No. TM: Are you happiest reading or writing? Steve Rushton: Writing. TM: Rhyme or free verse? Steve Rushton: Both. TM: Is the title important for your work? Steve Rushton: Yes. It sometimes contains a little bit of information that I can’t fit into the poem, or it’s my favourite line from the poem – so in effect you are reading it twice. Or sometimes it’s the first line of the poem, so the poem starts a bit like a scratched record that repeats once then carries on.
Steve Rushton: Sometimes if it’s not working, I think it’s not working this year, so I’ll put it to bed until next year. TM: Can you talk a little about your relationship to the arts. Steve Rushton: I was trained as an artist a painter. I still paint, but I have stopped painting with paint. I started writing poems to try and understand this move away from painting with paint, and the decision to paint with food instead. I used to paint with paint Now I paint with food See infinity in powdered turmeric Or a soy sauce stain A splash of red wine Or Linghams 100% chilli sauce “a mild piquant relish And appetizer of delightful flavour” Though problematic drying time
TM: How many evaluations does the poem go through before you are satisfied with it?
I use the mess of life And make it messier Burn to bring out The individual qualities Of various dried fluids
Series 3, #1
Series 3, #11
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srushton13.com But working with these remnants Am I just negotiating another novel strategy Or is there a chance to see beyond artifice Before habit closes the door again? (Paintings Without Paint) My painting and my poetry influence each other, feed off each other you could say. For example, I had an exhibition of burnt paper plates in London, and wrote a series of poems to be part of that exhibition – the poems imagined a cult of the paper plate, like a new religion. One of those poems is on YouTube, and is called ‘The Burning Of The Paper Plate’ (http://youtu.be/e1MXkfSRRl0 ). TM: Do you have other writers or artists in your family? Steve Rushton: Yes, Mum was a celebrated actress when she was younger. I remember as a child watching amazed at her performances of lead roles (Medea, Long Day’s Journey Into Night) at the Everyman Theatre in Liverpool. My brother Phil writes poetry, and has published acclaimed books, translating American war poetry (especially from Iraq) into Italian – he lives in Naples. TM: How would you describe ambiance of your workspace?
the
Steve Rushton: It’s a kitchen. The dishes are usually done. Tea and coffee are waiting to be drunk. TM: Is there a time of day or night when you have energy that is more creative? Steve Rushton: I start work early, before it gets light. I like writing as it gets light. TM: What is the worst job you have ever had? Steve Rushton: Selling potatoes and eggs door to door – that was a bit grim. The Foundry, London, 2009
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srushton13.com TM: Tell us about your book, "Sweet Sex Education Teacher From Chichester"? Steve Rushton: It’s available to buy online at amazon.co.uk or waterstones.com. The publishing imprint (Not Your Average Type) had this idea of square shaped books with only one poem in them, like the sleeves for hit records of the past. What I wanted to do with this format is, take a poem and break it down, so there were only a few words to a page. Then as you turned the pages, phrases
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would be both part of and separate from the story in the poem. For me this made the connection between art and poetry - words enjoyed for their shapes on the page as well as for their part in a poem. I designed the cover for the book with this idea in mind too. Also, as a development of a press release for "Sweet Sex Education Teacher From Chichester", I wrote a poem called “This Poem”
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srushton13.com This Poem This This This This This
poem poem is poem is anyone poem is anyone who ever said or did something poem is anyone who ever said or did something and secretly dreamt that repercussions could change their over-regimented lives
This poem is a manifesto This poem is a manifesto for a new art - cubist collage without the collage modern art without the modern art This poem is a manifesto This poem is a manifesto for a new poetry - Dylan Thomas without the words, bawdy seaside cards but not, children’s books with only a few words to a page. ‘Look said Jack’. This poem is a music manifesto This poem is a Ramones record, but shorter, a Chuck Berry song without the guitar breaks a Beethoven piano sonata without the piano This poem is This poem is a cliff-hanger – Whatever next This poem is a place where art and poetry meet neither an illustration of the other This poem is tangible and lovely This poem is single, waiting for you TM: How important do you feel it is for a poet to embrace modern technologies? Steve Rushton: Modern technologies are opportunities, and it would be crazy not to use them. What I like as a poet is, it’s easy to push your work around. As a painter, you have to store paintings, frame paintings, and hire vans to transport paintings to exhibitions. It’s so much easier for a poet - emailing poems to journals, publishers. It allows you to get on with writing, without the logistics that go with being a painter. Mind you, painting’s great too – the physicality of it. TM: What is ahead for Steve Rushton? Steve Rushton: I am working a themed collection of poetry – the idea that all the poems in a collection are on a similar theme, talking to each other, arguing, contradicting each other, with different voices presenting different arguments. This excites me. Also I am teaching my students the history of photography – a new subject for me – that’s exciting too.
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alan haider
Photo: Robert Haider
florida, usa
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Alan Haider is an American writer who currently resides in South Florida, where he was born and raised. His work has appeared - or is forthcoming - in print publications such as Turbulence, The Main Street Rag, Star*Line, and Bête Noire, and in various zines online.
Interview TM: Alan, why do you write? Alan Haider: I feel a need to contribute. I think that inside, everyone wants to contribute to society in one way or another. TM: Picture poetry in three words. Alan Haider: Breathing heavy truth. TM: What do you find most challenging about writing? Alan Haider: Being honest with yourself and showing it to others. TM: Who are your biggest creative influences? Alan Haider: Michael Dickman and Eduardo C. Corral. TM: Is your work process fast or slow? Alan Haider: Definitely fast. TM: How many evaluations does your work go through before you are satisfied with it?
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Alan Haider: There is no set number of evaluations, and publication does not stop the process. In most cases the piece either evolves or it is discarded. However, here and there a piece reaches a stage where it is not discarded and no longer needs to be changed. TM: Do you admire your own work? Alan Haider: I am very difficult to please, but occasionally I find myself admiring a phrase or two. TM: Is there a question you find surprising that people ask you about your work? Alan Haider: This is the first time I've answered questions about my work. TM: Are you happiest reading or writing? Alan Haider: When I find something really good, reading trumps writing. TM: Describe your writing routine. Alan Haider: I write every day. I start by reading for 10-15 minutes. The minute inspiration strikes—or if I reach a natural breaking point—I sit down and write. I either use my laptop or a sharpie over a used sketchpad (I used to be an art student and I have piles of sketchpads full of gesture drawings). If I get stuck I take a walk past a
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field behind my house or I read more. TM: How would you describe the ambiance of your workspace? Alan Haider: Disorderly but clean. White tile and sparse furniture surrounded by things that didn’t fit in other rooms.
Mirage I climbed the wall to find a desert Crossed the desert to reach a ghost town An abandoned village inhabited by machines
TM: What is the best advice you have been given as a writer?
Gears turn in the solemn machines that make the rain
A: Write from truth.
Even the broken pieces
TM: When you are not writing, what do you like to do?
The grinding of the band is too loud for my head
Alan Haider: play music.
Read, paint, draw, or
TM: What is the worst job you have ever had? Alan Haider: As a stock boy I occasionally had to clean a public bathroom. Those bathrooms got pretty filthy. TM: What are you working on now? Alan Haider: I am in the process o f compiling poems for a chapbook I hope to have published some time next year.
We all fit together in some way
I can’t drink and I want to leave The crowded night is long and lonely Cheap desire overwhelms sensibility I have no choice but to turn I am a cog The screw twists Souls are drawn upward like water Logic is choked by desire There are notable changes taking place Forgive me for not giving you the time of day I could not forgive you There is no time now for decisions The waters build into a flood And the erg is washed away
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Stuck Clothes I open my eyes like burnt hands and shove them into the butter The butter melts into white light and shines truth I can see my misdeeds I close my hands around the light And everything becomes dark In my mind I still see what we did The decisions were rarely good but still we must wear them
Time has stopped First it crawled and then it quit The ground is frozen concrete and asphalt No children turn down my street The blades of grass are razor sharp The sun has been replaced Flashlights shine in the dark Clothes are a costume we learn to wear Night is a blanket that never lifts I believe things will move again even if it’s just to die The ice will crack and the sun will rise
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phyllis burton
england, uk
http://www.phyllisburton.com
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http://www.phyllisburton.com
Phyllis J. Burton lives in England and is the author of two published books: PAPER DREAMS and A PASSING STORM. She also writes short stories, one act plays, and poetry.
Portrait of a Dream
helpless moth hovering and flitting over a flame and I ran towards him. I could feel the sun filtering through the gently swaying palm tress circling the courtyard. A
I couldn’t believe it, my dream man was
heady perfume exuded from the tropical plants
back and my heart pounded with excitement. He
surrounding the ornate fountain in the centre and
stood on the other side of the courtyard, staring at
the sound of water trickling and flowing over
me: I was totally lost and under his spell again.
stones, was like gentle music to my ears. This
“Come to me, please come to me,” he
was a peaceful paradise interrupted only by the
murmured. His voice was as soft as velvet and it
sound of bees, fluttering their sun-drenched
floated as if on a zephyr breeze. His full-length
golden wings around me.
robe had golden edges that gleamed like the early morning sunshine and his long blond hair moved gently.
He was magnificent. A cry of pleasure
escaped from my lips as his outstretched arms beckoned to me. “Come to me my dearest. It is time and I need you… oh how I need you,” he pleaded.
eyes bored into mine, piercing my soul and Pure
joy, strange distantly remembered love, longing and peace settled over me like a warm silken blanket. I was being cosseted beyond my wildest dreams. I was a compliant and happy slave, a
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I woke suddenly.
It was dark and the
digital clock beside me glowed clinically: it was only 5 a.m. I heard the insistent sound of a police car’s siren as it sped beneath my window. groaned.
I
I needed to be back in that beautiful
courtyard with him. Instead, all I could hear was
Recognition flared briefly as his deep blue heightening my already receptive senses.
I was nearly there…
the rainwater splashing and gurgling noisily down the drainpipe outside my window. I sleep alone, but not by choice, you understand; you see my husband Michael had decided one morning several months ago, that we were no longer compatible. His feelings for me had gone, been extinguished or whatever else you
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may say about the loss of love. He’d moved out the following day, the rat, and only last week, the final divorce papers had been signed.
married for eight childless years for heaven’s sake. As usual, my eyes searched for Michael’s familiar shape beside me. But for once, the fact that he wasn’t there didn’t fill me with pain and Instead, I was filled with a kind of
wondrous optimism. Throughout my life, my dreams had conjured up a man with deep, gentian-blue eyes and long flowing hair. Unaccountably the dreams had stopped once I’d married Michael.
zonked. I had a disturbed night.” “What, another one?”
Of course, I still miss him - we’d been
anguish.
“Sorry, I was fast asleep - I’m absolutely
Now
“Yes,” I replied with an expansive yawn. “Are you doing anything today?” “Nothing special. I’ve got some shopping to do and the garden needs weeding.” “Really Sue,” her friend retorted.
“What
happened to that fun-loving beautiful blond, slim girl I used to know? Michael’s a bastard. He’s not worth all this angst.” “I know!” “You know?” her friend said.
they’d started again, only this time I’d allowed my
“Yes, and from now on I’m going to think of
dream man’s eyes to pierce my vulnerability and
him as my ex-husband.” Wow, the words had at
finally my soul.
last been said.
With a languid sigh, I stretched and snuggled back under my duvet. I wanted to be with the man who had always had such a profound effect upon my senses. If I couldn’t have him in reality, then I would have to be with him in my dreams… The next thing I knew was the sound of my mobile phone ringing and fumbling sleepily, I picked it up.
What brought this on, I asked
myself? “Well done,” Liz continued, “I knew you’d come to your senses one day.” “Liz, do you remember me telling you about the strange dreams I used to have?” “Yes, they involved a rather dishy man, didn’t they?” Liz chuckled throatily. “Well, last night I dreamt about him again and now I find that I don’t give a fig about Michael
“H… Hello.”
any more. Isn’t it great? And I have this strange
“Hi Sue. You took a long time to answer.”
feeling that something momentous is going to
It was my best friend, Liz.
happen today.” “Momentous?”
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http://www.phyllisburton.com
“Yes. You don’t think that I’m going mad, do you?”
in London would be perfect. I climbed out of bed and rushed into the
“No, of course not: realism has reared its
bathroom. I stared at my reflection in the mirror
head at long last and about time too. And yes,
and was surprised to see that my eyes looked
something momentous IS going to happen today.
brighter: in fact, they positively sparkled, but why?
You’re coming up to London with me.”
I walked downstairs with a renewed spring in my
My head suddenly “zinged” as a pair of
step and minutes later, I managed to eat some
blue eyes swam enticingly before me and my
breakfast, lots of it in fact, which was strange
heart missed a beat. “Well, I suppose I could,” I
because ever since Michael had left, I’d merely
replied.
been picking at my food!
“Good. We’re catching the 9.37 a.m. train
I could hardly contain my excitement as the
to Waterloo and then we’re going to the National
train pulled slowly into Waterloo station, but Liz
Gallery. It’s ages since we’ve been and perhaps it
insisted that we had a cup of coffee first. We sat
will encourage you to start…”
at a small table in the station forecourt, but I couldn’t get rid of an all-pervading feeling of
“What?” “…painting again?” she teased. “You can’t possibly let all the hard work you’ve done in the past, go to waste:
it’s just sitting there in your
“Oh, I don’t know, my heart is not in it any more, but London sounds wonderful… and Liz?”
you ready?” Michael was never
interested in art, unless it appeared in girlie magazines of course.”
The National Gallery was wonderful as
“Why today?” “A flash of
inspiration perhaps, anyway we should be at the station at 9.20. You know what the ticket queues can be like, so you haven’t got long. Bye.” Liz could be
bossy sometimes, but she was right, a few hours
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“Are
“Least said. Come on.” Liz walked off.
“Yes.”
“Bye,” I said into thin air.
“Right,” Liz said, draining her cup.
“Yes, I can’t wait.
garden shed.”
“I don’t know,” she said.
urgency.
usual: the building exuded an unhurried aura of respectability and each room was a delight. There were so many differing styles, colours and sizes of pictures painted by people long since dead, but whose lives lived on in the images they had created. Time seemed meaningless as we walked from room to room. And yet, I had the strangest
Nazar Look 17
http://www.phyllisburton.com
feeling that I was being drawn along by an
bottom of the picture.
invisible thread. But where was it taking me?
struggled for life in one of the cracks, which like
The second I walked into the next gallery, I
A lone white flower
the branches of a tree, spread randomly across the canvas.
knew. A huge painting dominated the room.
It
was beautiful and it glowed with vibrant colour. “This is what I came here to see,” I told Liz
She looked at me. “What do you mean, Sue? I thought that I arranged this visit.”
“Wow, you’re strange sometimes. Come on let’s find the restaurant.
My stomach’s
rumbling like an approaching storm.” I’d found the thing for
which I’d been unconsciously seeking and all Liz wanted to do was eat! “Would you mind if I stayed here for a while?” I said, sitting down on a bench. “I’ll only be a few minutes.” “OK, but don’t be too long.” I watched Liz as she wandered off and turned my attention back to the painting. It had been unsullied by the passing years and still clearI felt that I’d seen it before and
searched for the artist’s name. A small sign said “Rebecca…”. I couldn’t identify her surname, but it was dated “1527”. My heart missed a beat when my eyes strayed towards the intricate marble floor at the
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at me. I felt confused. Vague memories fluttered thread pulled me again. I looked upwards. Then… I saw the man of my dreams! Two deep-blue eyes stared back at me
“Well, yes you did, but…”
cut and alive.
Déjà vu… déjà vu, the flower screamed like butterflies in my mind and… the invisible
in great excitement.
My heart sank.
By now, my heart was thumping.
from the canvas.
He had a glorious head of
golden hair like a halo…
I shuddered and took
an involuntary breath. Suddenly, I heard a deep penetrating sigh and I turned round. A man of about thirty now sat beside me, his long blond hair drawn back into a ponytail. His handsome face seemed familiar to me somehow, he was broad-shouldered and even though he was sitting down, I could see that he was tall. He wore a faded blue denim jacket, jeans and brown sandals and he too was staring at the painting. “My dreams… aarrhhh, it’s a miracle,” he whispered. His soft velvety voice was as mellow as the sands of time. “Now I know why I was drawn to this place.” “Sorry. What did you say?” He turned to me and smiled… and my heart flipped. I was looking at two deep gentian pools into which I wanted to plunge and lose all reason.
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http://www.phyllisburton.com
“I said, it’s a miracle, and I am beginning
gentle, yet persuasive. “And so were you.”
to understand.”
“I was?”
“Understand what…?” I spluttered. “The picture: painted.”
My mind continued to deny the
inevitable.
I remember it being
“Yes. You must remember… you painted this
He looked away and a few tears
picture and afterwards you fell into my arms each
began to fall down his handsome face, which he quickly brushed away. “But you can’t possibly remember it being painted… this picture is dated 1527!” His voice grew even softer. “Yes, I know it was. I was there.” He looked at me again and… I couldn’t even begin to describe the feeling that spread over me. I felt alive… joyful… and… oh, so whole. I tried to bring myself back to the reality
night.” “I did…? But…” “Will this help you to remember?” inside his jacket he produced a flower:
From it was
bruised but instantly identifiable and pressing it into my hands, he leant over and kissed me.
“My
sweetest Rebecca, how long I have waited for you. I thought I had lost you.” All my doubts evaporated in an explosion of recognition.
of the National Gallery… Liz… and even
“Rebecca? Yes, I remember now. You gave
Michael. But none of it mattered any more: my
me this flower at the end of the sitting. Anthony, how
reality was the nearness of this man… this
could I have forgotten?”
beautiful man who was sitting beside me. He WAS the man in the painting and my dreams and what was more, I had loved him aeons ago.
“Our time has come, sweet Rebecca.” “Yes, Anthony. Our time has indeed come. I too have been waiting for you… but in my dreams… always in my dreams.”
A long forgotten name came to me. Anthony… my dearest Anthony! I sat up straight, and tried to close my mind to what was happening. I don’t believe in reincarnation, I told myself fiercely: the whole thing is fanciful and ridiculous. “I was there,” he repeated, his voice
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He stood up, took my hand and pulled me towards him. “And in mine also, and it has been so long. Come with me, Rebecca,” he pleaded. And forsaking all else, his willing slave followed him. ***
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Life Life, believe, is not a dream So dark as sages say; Oft a little morning rain Foretells a pleasant day. Sometimes there are clouds of gloom, But these are transient all; If the shower will make the roses bloom, O why lament its fall? Rapidly, merrily, Life's sunny hours flit by, Gratefully, cheerily, Enjoy them as they fly! What though Death at times steps in And calls our Best away? What though sorrow seems to win, O'er hope, a heavy sway? Yet hope again elastic springs, Unconquered, though she fell; Still buoyant are her golden wings, Still strong to bear us well. Manfully, fearlessly, The day of trial bear, For gloriously, victoriously, Can courage quell despair!
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A Blade of Grass Said a blade of grass to an autumn leaf, “You make such a noise falling! You scatter all my winter dreams.” Said the leaf indignant, “Low-born and low-dwelling! Songless, peevish thing! You live not in the upper air and you cannot tell the sound of singing.” Then the autumn leaf lay down upon the earth and slept. And when spring came she waked again - and she was a blade of grass. And when it was autumn and her winter sleep was upon her, and above her through all the air the leaves were falling, she muttered to herself, “O these autumn leaves! They make such a noise! They scatter all my winter dreams.”
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The Caterpillar at the Window
caterpillar) enriched the world of the child, before returning back out the window to the unknown reality of life beyond. I was fascinated by the book.
But only in retrospect that has
aged over five decades can I admit that I saw my young self, living in an enclosed limited world—complete with a window, installed to both My earliest memories of grade school
tempt me to crawl, climb, or fly through when the
include story-time at the Noble Elementary
right opportunity came. The world outside the
School library in Detroit. It was first grade. I was
window beaconed and frightened me at the
shy and awkward, but eager to learn.
same time.
My class would gather once a week at
I went home after that day in the library
the school library while the teacher read us all a
and got busy, as busy as a little guy with pencils
book. I sat on the floor with my legs folded. One
and crayons could get. After several hours, I
day that stands out from all others is the
reproduced the story on unlined paper, complete
afternoon I carefully listened to my teacher read
with pictures and narration. In a way, it was my
a story about a caterpillar—or was it a butterfly?
first book report. I think my mother thought of it
For me, the main character was neither insect
as an assignment and helped me create a
form, it was the window from which this small
heavy stock front and back cover. She bound
creature entered the home of a child who could
the pages between the covers together. It had
not go outside to play. Years later I would come
the look and feel of a real book—my first
to redefine the window not as a character, but
publication!
as a McGuffin—a term for a motivating element in a story that is used to drive the plot. It actually
Although it was not an assignment, I
serves no further purpose. But this window
turned it in anyway. I can still recall just how
opened to a world, which I was too young to
pleased
know about. I saw it as a window to the future,
elementary
to what comes next for the caterpillar and the
Remembering back, I now feel she, in some
butterfly and me.
measure, was simply thrilled that a young
my
teacher school
was effort
with at
my
first
plagiarism.
student had given her his undivided attention. I The book described how the butterfly (or
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have since learned that unconditional undivided
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attention is what most teachers, professors,
together in the hallways. Those adult gatherings
spouses and priests hope for, but rarely expect
often foreshadowed an important alteration of
nor receive.
the world as I knew it. Now this was about 10
This was the beginning of self-doubt in my own writing abilities. Even at that young age, I criticized myself for lack of creativity. All I did that day, 50-something years ago, was to duplicate the version of events that had been read to the class. However, that sweet first grade teacher appeared genuinely impressed. She read my version to the class at the next story-time.
I
was
surprised
in
how
my
classmates offered the same undivided attention that I had given to the original version. My reputation as a writer was launched. I entered the adult world, carrying with me this childhood memory. Years later, I would complete a teaching minor in psychology while waiting on my student teaching assignment in a local high school English class. But that day never came; life got in the way. Yet I haven’t wasted all those psych and English courses. They helped me wrestle with the fundamental question of my youth: Was I subconsciously the caterpillar or metaphorically the butterfly? ***
years before the 1971 Pontiac School bus bombing. Desegregation was not in the news yet,
certainly
not
something
my
parents
discussed in front of me. Once the hallway huddles broke up, my teacher walked into our room. She took a deep breath and explained that today new people would be in the building, different people, people that did not look like us. ‘Don’t be afraid,” she said. I learned firsthand that telling children not to be afraid doesn’t work well. Later that day when I saw the busload of black children walk through the halls of our school, I was overcome by both fear and confusion. I didn’t know why they were there. I didn’t think they had permanently transferred, but the situation foretold exactly what my allwhite school in the heart of northwest Detroit could expect in the very near future. After that day, Noble Elementary’s color scheme saw significant changes with each passing year. In time, I would become one of the vanishing white minority. I didn’t have a lot of friends in school. When the new (non-white) kids started showing up, they stuck together, but even among their
Unknown to me, my world began to
group one could find folks like me—nervous
change. One day the teachers were huddled
loaners unsure of change. I soon made friends
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Nazar Look 23
with two I’ll always remember: Sylvia Porter and
Sylvia had little in common with Levon.
Levon Thompson. In retrospect, it made sense;
She often wore the same floor-length dress all
the lack of friends was something all three of us
week long. I remember the first conversation I
had in common. I learned two things from my
ever had with her. It was a special day, the day I
first two black friends. Levon taught me not to
read my first poem in front of the class. I wish I
listen to big-mouthed white kids or adults who
had saved it. All I remember was that it involved
boasted
crap.
a bird and a Sycamore tree. It had to be a
Levon lived on Oakman Boulevard, a half mile
Sycamore tree for the line to maintain its iambic
away from my house on Greenlawn, but a world
tetrameter beat. But soon after I recited my
away socio-economically. He lived in a home
rhymic verse, the school staff once again
three times bigger than my own, which made
huddled in the hallway. As soon as our teacher
sense because after comparing notes I learned
returned to the room, she announced in a
his father earned three times more money than
shaking voice that the President had been shot
my dad. Still, Levon was just a normal kid,
and asked all of us to put our heads on the
untouched by the arrogance that money often
desks and say a prayer for the life of John F.
plagued other students. Fifty years later, I can
Kennedy.
still see his wonderful smile.
significance my first poem would ever have. But
the
we-are-better-than-them
Unlike other kids both black and white, Levon carried his school books in a leather briefcase. One day the contents spilled out onto the ground. Among the papers was a crudely hand drawn bull’s-eye with faces cut out of the newspaper taped to the drawing. I recognized Hitler right away. There was also Jesse James, Genghis
Khan,
Attila
the
Hun,
Stalin,
Khrushchev and one particular man whose face was taped at the center of the target. I had to ask who the man was. Levon told me his name, but I had never heard of him. “That’s Klu Klu Klan,” he said.
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This
event
postponed
any
it started a friendship, although officially that friendship began the next school day. I didn’t understand why, but we had the next couple days off of school. When we returned the news had already confirmed that President Kennedy had died of his wounds. I found Sylvia at recess that first day back, in the playground, crying her eyes out. I asked her what was wrong. Her response was more like a confession. “I didn’t pray for President Kennedy, and now he’s dead.” All I could say was, “It’s not your fault.” In time, we had many more conversations.
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Whereas Levon and I were often trading
attention, nervously smiling in silence. It wouldn’t
back and forth which one of us would have the
be the last time. She paused and finally pulled
top grade on a test or a paper, Sylvia struggled.
the trigger on the answer I wanted to hear,
But she was able to do something I had never
“There’s a first time for everything.” So without
mastered—she could reach out and ask friends
any fan fair, I broke the gender barrier at the
for help. Sylvia’s desire to do better was greater
Future Teachers of America club. I started going
than my own, maybe greater than anyone I
to club meetings where I listened to teachers of
knew. I thought of her as a butterfly, willing and
different subject areas say how wonderful the
able to take flight through any window with both
teaching profession has been to them. In
ease and confidence despite not knowing what
addition to these meetings, I found myself being
was waiting on the other side. Over the years,
taken out of my own scheduled classes from
we often did our homework together. I frequently
time to time to tutor younger students. I enjoyed
found myself assisting her to the point where
the experience but was amazed how any
she’d say, “I get it!” I believe hearing those
assignments I had missed in order to provide
words lead me to my own self-discovery—I
one-on-one tutoring were credited to me as
found I liked helping others learn.
though I received an “A”. This was a little
That led to a decision I made in fourth or fifth grade which stands out as being one of the first scary things I ever did on my own. It was like a window had opened up and I decided to
disturbing. I never wanted credit for what I didn’t do. It was hard enough to be acknowledged for what I did. As the years go by, my feelings have not changed in this regard.
crawl or fly through it. An announcement had
***
been made over the school PA system asking for new female recruits to the FTA, the Future
The
Encyclopedia
Britannica
was
a
Teachers of America club. I gathered my
wonderful tool, which my parents provided for
strength and approached the teacher in charge
me. The roof over my head, the food on my
of the club. Now she informed me that they had
plate, and a complete set of encyclopedias were
never had a boy in the FTA, at least not at
the greatest gifts my mom and dad could have
Noble. I didn’t know how to respond. I just stood
ever given me. As the world continued to change
there, balanced on the metaphoric windowsill,
around our once all-white neighborhood, I
not wanting to fall backwards. I stood at
pretended none of these changes involved or
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Nazar Look 25
affected me. I simply withdrew to my room and
usage and vulgarity, I had only heard the more
would spend hours and hours reading each
popular vulgar use of pussy (many times)
alphabetically
encyclopedia
around the playground. I hope it is not the least
volume. It got me through many papers, through
bit noteworthy, but I did use my Encyclopedia
history class, English, and even science.
I
Britannica to look up pussy and several other
found the resource even more valuable once
cuss words. However, I never found an
the school district decided to expand the Noble
academic explanation for terms we only use in
Elementary School to include the junior high
anger or in the absence of adult supervision.
categorized
grades, seventh through ninth.
But I did find an excellent use for the
Among the changes, which I continued
encyclopedia one day when Mr. Ford divided us
to ignore, was the integration of the teaching
all into groups and gave us a class project to
staff, especially after the summer riots of 1967.
work on. I suspect the lesson plan called for
That’s when my favorite gym and health teacher
teaching us cooperation as much as anything. I
was hired at Noble. He was a tall, well-built
was in a group with three other young men,
black man who spoke with the simplicity,
Roland, Alfred,
wisdom, and country charm of Andy Griffith. His
unmemorable enough that after 50 years I have
name was Mr. Ford.
forgotten his name. I suspect he has forgotten
Mr. Ford was bolder than the gym and health teachers I had ever known previously. One of the first difficult lessons he ever taught was on the human body. Even though Human Sexuality was not yet debated as proper and/or controversial curricula, Mr. Ford brought in a 45 of Tom Jones belting out What’s New Pussycat. I was both embarrassed and fascinated at his well-delivered lecture regarding the proper use of the word, pussy. Frankly, I had heard Pepe Le Pew use the term pussycat well before Tom Jones, but up until Mr. Ford made his point about the difference between correct word
26 Nazar Look
and
another
student
just
mine as well. The subject matter of our designated project was, The History of Sports. We were to work together and divide the research among us. Each of us would have our own day to present in front of the class our particular portion of the project. Mr. Ford had the individual groups get together and plan our strategy for research and presentations. Roland was the quietest kid in the class, but he was clearly the most interested in our little group project. Alfred was the most interested in doing absolutely nothing, and I feared he would risk our collective integrity. We divided the labor in a way that made sense to us at the time. Since I
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was the only one with the home encyclopedia
had raised the bar for the entire class. Mr. Ford
collection, I volunteered to check out what
was beaming with pride. Just to verify he heard
Britannica had to say on the subject of Sports. It
what he heard, Mr. Ford questioned Roland
turned out that Sports had more pages of
after the presentation to make sure that the
research devoted to it than the Korean War or
lesson
Theodore Roosevelt.
understanding to take root.
So I did what I had done in the past. Just like the day I mimicked the story-time theme of
about the chronologic development of Sports in human history. This was only seventh grade and
others in the group to read it just as I could at home. We decided that this research was good
allowing
true
in what part of the world did sports originate?” Roland confidently answered, “In North Africa. The Egyptians wrote about competitive games in their hiero…glyphics.”
the encyclopedia was as much of a primary source as I understood such to be. I wanted the
in
“So Mr. Gardiner, (Roland’s last name),
the caterpillar (or butterfly) and the window, I copied word for word what my encyclopedia said
succeeded
Mr. Ford applauded He put his arm around Roland and announced to the class, “Now that’s how a presentation should be made.”
enough and that each of us would study a portion and present on it. Roland volunteered to
Each day we all took turns giving our
take the earliest recorded classical history of
portion of the assignment in front of the class. I
sports and the other two took sections in
was bad, but Alfred was worse. He was so
medieval sports and 18th-19th century sports. I
unprepared that Mr. Ford became suspicious
left for myself modern sports.
that Alfred had done nothing to earn credit for the information he tried to present. Then it
When it came time for the usually quiet Roland to make the first presentation, he was well prepared. He did not use notes of any kind. Roland studied the rote I had given him so well that it flowed from his lungs like a preacher’s sermon. The earliest recorded history of sports grabbed the undivided attention of the entire
happened. I got called to the teacher’s desk before the next class. Mr. Ford asked me in private if it was true that I had distributed everyone’s
specific
assignment
to
them,
including Roland. I nervously explained that I had used my Encyclopedia Britannica to look up the history of sports and did in fact share that
class, especially the smiling Mr. Ford. Roland
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Nazar Look 27
information with the rest of the group. Given his demeanor upon hearing my answer, I felt that I had done something terribly wrong. Later he called the other three boys together to have a not-so-private conversation. I couldn’t hear everything. But one sentence was clearly audible: “Never, ever let a white boy do your work for you!” I liked Mr. Ford, but I couldn’t see the harm in what we did. Only one of us had the Encyclopedia Britannica. I really didn’t do that much, just copied word for word what was published in a book the others had no access to. There was no Kinkos to go to and I suspect that if I had simply allowed each one to borrow my book then everything would have been fine. But I learned that day how other lesson plans can be at play. Mr. Ford was teaching at multiple
*** A couple years later, one April night, a special news announcement came over the TV. Martin Luther King, Jr. had been murdered. I and the few remaining white kids in the school did not return to Noble Elementary and Junior High the following week. My world, everyone’s world, was changing very fast. Before I knew it, my parents had bought a house in Livonia. My father took the morning off from work and drove me to Noble for one last time to officially disenroll and return my books. I had always been uneasy about change. Up until that moment, I had done pretty well by ignoring it, hoping change would not affect me. That was about to end as I could no longer ignore it. As my father spent time in the principal’s office collecting my records, I was told to return my books to each class. I went from room to room.
levels. I found myself as a non-participant, an
In the social studies class it seemed like
outsider for the particular insight he was
the black female teacher was waiting for me.
determined to instill in these boys.
Another teacher was by her side. They did not
I still wish I could go back in time and stand by Roland, who proved what an excellent student he was during his presentation. But I suspect that desire simply demonstrates just how much of an outsider I really was, and still am.
28 Nazar Look
smile. My teacher took my book and said, “Alan, I want you to see something before you go to your new school.” The other teacher just firmly nodded her head. I was uncomfortably taken by surprise when she opened the teacher’s Grade Book. We were never allowed to see someone else’s grades, yet they pointed
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to one of my classmates and said, “We just want you to know that you are not the only one getting an A in this course. We have other good students here too, and we’ll have many more long after you’re gone.” I looked down in silence at the name of the other student who was doing well. I was proud to see that it was my friend, Sylvia Porter. They were showing me the grades for each of her quizzes, tests, and class paper. We had studied together for several of these assignments. What they convinced me of was that our cooperation had merit. But the final lesson they attempted to teach me was far darker. I never said a word. I gave them a fake smile and turned to leave the class for the last time. I saw Sylvia seated in the corner by herself. We exchanged real smiles. I felt pretty good knowing that Sylvia didn’t need any more help studying. I was finally down to my mathematics book. Math was on the second floor, far from the office. As I reached the top of the stairwell, I was met by a small group of black males. Either I had never seen them before or the bright sun from the stairwell window made it more difficult to
see
facial
details—or
maybe
I
didn’t
recognize hate. The tallest boy of the group looked me in the eye and said, “I thought we got rid of all y’all?” The word honky may also have been hurled at me. Then something happened
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sonnet mondal
west bengal, india
http://www.sonnetmondal.com
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http://www.sonnetmondal.com
Africa - black to blood Sonnet Mondal is the founder and editor in chief of The Enchanting Verses Literary Review. He has written nine books of poetry and has been featured in several famous international literary publications like the Penguin Review, Two Thirds North, International Gallerie magazine, World Poets Quarterly to name a few. He is the pioneer of the 21 Line Fusion Sonnet. His latest book is Diorama of Three Diaries, Authorspress, New Delhi.
They attack with the guerrilla style. Eyes become one with the interstices between jungle leaves dancing a tribal dance of death and when the real predator looks in your eyes you will realise its race is what we call human. Swamps as hungry as African rivers abound in dead bodies. The starving crocs discard them. They have peeped, rising heads from the calm river beds to watch the poison of African wars, drugs and unkindness being poured in those bodies. The hairs of the African lions have grown thick to cover the ears from sounds of bullets and cries of orphans. Those fighting like war dogs are not enemies; they are rebels supported by a civilization crushed by a juggernaut. The men in force wanted their ladies as a promise to protect them and now the rebellion starts as a sound of a canon fire in the darkest parts of Africa. Soldiers and rebels renamed as predators and survivors struggle to see their own Africa.
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http://www.sonnetmondal.com
Life with the Ferry’s Night Horn Every night at 2 a.m., the ferry speaks of its presence. Its grave horn is like the midnight call of an old night guard- bold and stout. A gaseous image of flowing waters sublimes into solid imagery inside the eyes of those learning to be nightwalkers. The thin howling of a stray dog never dilutes the atmosphere but seems to salute its presence in its disobedient ways. If we were ever to invite aliens to this earth such nights will be the food to their wonder and awe. Gone days of life peeps through the window of nostalgia and memories set themselves up into a house of playing cards to break down with each passing wind and reform with the ambient serenity. Life seems to decipher its aesthetic worth in such darkness punctuated by horns of the Ferry.
The Place where Souls are Born The abyss echoes in silence as warm wafts of winds mate with cool currents. Like the breath of yearning, the deep void trembles with
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http://www.sonnetmondal.com each passing sound and leaves a sense of appeal behind. Concealed and unheard deeds of the Gods and Goddesses must be in such places where bats too find their vision obstructed by a deep mist of fumes as if emerging from the heavenly friction of Godly beings. Darkness- something where black spots gets absorbed seems to pave the best place for the birth of souls.
The Priest in Me Fingers shiver in cold but the oil in scalp flows down, one with sweat, down my cheeks. Winter calms my body while my soul melts down in mortal waste. My muse blinks as a beacon in a moonless night. The virtue of forgiveness struggles to escape through the calm rain forests of my mind. The trees watered by my kind self has let the Godly Winter to chain my arms. They are still cold fighting with my sweat tickling from the head. A fight between the immortal and mortal make me a priest standing in front of a warfare.
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Travels in Circassia, Krim Tartary, &c. (VI) My first excursion in the environs was to the plain of Rakos, famous for being the spot on which the Hungarians, in their primitive state, were accustomed to hold their Diet under the free canopy of heaven; and now not less famous for being; that on which the first races were celebrated in Hungary, under the auspices of Mr. Gordon, formerly our ambassador at Vienna. These races, which are some of the best I have seen out of England, differ in nothing from those in it, except that, towards the conclusion, the peasants perform matches, encouraged by the society for promoting the breed of horses ; and as they ride in their peculiar costume, and without saddles, the exhibition of at least a dozen such wild-looking jockeys is always productive of much mirth and fun, as it generally happens that more than half the riders are most unceremoniously hurled to the earth. A vast concourse of people had assembled to witness them ; and as the weather was exceedingly fine, I enjoyed not a little the novel spectacle of thousands of cavaliers galloping over the field ; and I knew not how sufficiently to admire the accomplished Hungarian equestrian, who, in his splendid hussar uniform, firm in the saddle, and light and elastic in action, seemed as if formed to guide the spirited animal that carried him ; and so appropriate were they to each other, that the beauty of each appeared destroyed when separated. We had, besides, every species of vehicle, from the elegant barouche of the magnat, down to the primitive car of the peasants, not unlike in form to the arabat of the Nogay Tartars; and to describe the motley tribes of spectators, would only be to repeat what I have already said when giving you an account of the fair. About three o'clock in the afternoon, we
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returned to Pest to partake of a public dinner at the casino of nobles; where, if it had not been for the difference in the language, and the Asiatic countenances of the guests, I might have concluded I was at an English public dinner; the cooking, attendants, toasts, speeches, cheering, every thing being completely in the English style. Indeed, of all the foreigners among whom I have mixed, there are none who assimilate themselves more closely to our national manners and customs than the Hungarian magnats, nor any who receive a Briton with more cordiality: our language is universally spoken, our literature is generally studied, and I found our best publications in the library of the casino, and on the tables of every nobleman I visited. The gentlemen who composed our present party, were among the most influential, wealthy, and enlightened of the Hungarian patriots. Do not, however, let this word be understood in a political sense: I only mean that they have consecrated their best energies to the benefit and improvement of their country; and as you have resided some time in Vienna, and are well acquainted with the Hungarian people, I feel a pleasure in giving you the names of a few of the most distinguished. Besides the chairman, Count Etienne Szechenyi, to whose patriotism I have already alluded, there was Count Louis Karolyi, the distinguished president of the Agricultural Society, several members of the noble families of the Esterhazys, the Festetics, the Nadasdys, the Hunyadys, &c., together with your friend, the talented young advocate M. Fasner, to whose kind attentions I have been deeply indebted. On becoming a member of the casino, my author's vanity was not a little gratified at finding on the table of the reading-room, my work on Germany; and as a few of my intimate friends were aware that to me belonged the paternity of the unclaimed foundling, it proved the means of introducing me to several gentlemen, who rendered me every kindness that friendship and hospitality could dictate. But, perhaps, in nothing more did they evince this, than in the very liberal
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manner with which they provided me with facilities for making my projected tour through Hungary on my return from Constantinople. In order to estimate these courtesies at their full value, you must remember that the public conveniences for a traveller in this long-neglected country are " few, and far between." A hotel, even on the great road, is a rarity, and when you do find one the accommodations are generally wretched; while the luckless traveller on the crossroads, or in the remote provinces, must think himself fortunate when he can find a bed in a cottage, should he be unprovided with letters of recommendation. Then for a conveyance, he must for the most part be contented with his own good steed, who will carry him over mountains and fields whenever, which is very often the case, a road is not to be found. My friends, anticipating these petty dĂŠsagrĂŠmens, furnished me with a species of passport, which important little document invested me, pro tem.y with all the privileges of a Hungarian. Hence, whenever I presented it, every Magyar throughout Hungary and Transylvania was obliged, according to established conventional courtesy, to receive me as he would one of his own compatriots, and to provide me with every necessary accommodation, such as horses, refreshment, bed, &c. This instrument was written in the Hungarian language, which cannot claim the slightest affinity with any other now spoken in Europe, being evidently of Asiatic origin. The few Turkish words, however, furnish no rule that its origin is Arabic, as they are probably remnants of the Ottoman rule in this country ; still, whatever may be its derivation, respecting which there are many conflicting opinions, the sounds are pleasing, and I understand it is extremely rich and expressive. (to be continued)
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Rock near Zincirli Madrasah, Crimea
Qul Sharif Mosque in Kazan