ÍŞÍNDEKÍLER CONTENTS 2 amy lowell Ğîr
3 piraye kadriy-zade Hasret
4 taner murat scythia minor Kókten sesler - Temúçin (VIII)
BAŞ KABÎMÎZDA ON THE COVER Michael D. Brown, PhD Photo: Jianhua Guo, PhD
6 valery petrovskiy chuvash republic, russia Back Cover Rule
7 kalvala suguna prasad andhra pradesh, india I Love World - Men dúniyanî súyemen
30 alan dennis harris michigan, usa First Time for Everything
34 dan rubins nevada, usa How to Fall in Love Sticks and Bones Migratory Pattern of the Mid-20’s Family Vagabond Waiting
36 austen roye texas, usa Push Down & Turn (excerpt)
38 edmund spencer Travels in Circassia, Krim Tartary, &c. (III)
40 valiulla yakub (yakupov) - assassinated tatarstan - july 19, 2012 Photoshop - Valiulla Yakub, Tatarstan's Deputy Mufti
8 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 COMPUTER GRAPHICS SAYAR SÎZGAĞÎSÎ Elif Abdul Hakaan Kalila (Hakan Calila) CREATIVE CONSULTANTS ESER KEÑEŞÇÍSÍ Sariy Duran
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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gary beck new york, usa Battered City
10 j. j. steinfeld prince edward island, canada Nostalgia and Predicting the Future Incomprehension At Any One Instant Which Brings Us to What?
12 fieldshop puducherry, india The Dark is Rotten
18 michael d. brown nanjing, china Interview On sale The Axe Gliding gracefully in stillness President Barack Obama
22 w. jack savage california, usa The Awards
28 muhyiddin ibn arabi Wonder
29 li po Down From The Mountain
CONTRIBUTORS MEMBALAR Gary Beck Nancy Beck Michael D. Brown, PhD Fieldshop Jianhua Guo, PhD Alan Dennis Harris Vlad Kidanov Dilaver Mehmetdjan (Memecanov) Valery Petrovskiy Kalvala Suguna Prasad QHA Austen Roye Dan Rubins W. Jack Savage J. J. Steinfeld Brenda Whiteway John Wiltshire
Nazar Look 1
amy lowell
(1874 - 1925)
Ğîr Oh! Ne kadar gúzel bírşiy bír şeşek bolmak Baş sallap kúneşke, Bel búgúp, soñra ğaylanîp Ğelíñ yawaş eskenínde; Kóteríp karap, yokardan, Múst kenarlí bír fílğan, Kokîlarga tolî ğazîñ kúneşínde. Oh! Ne kadar gúzel bírşiy bír gómelek bolmak Konîp bír şeşekke, Kîrpmak boyalî kanatlarîn, Kuwanmak yaşagan sáátíne. Şeşek aşmasî Altîn oşagî Her şeşek fílğanînda eñ uzak góñíl derenlígínde. Oh! Ne kadar gúzel bírşiy bír bulut bolmak Mawîlîkta ese-ese, Atmak kólgeler daklarga, Seslí-seslí, teleslene-teleslene, Şayîrlarîñ derenlígíne Onlarîñ selleríne Awgan gúdúrtúlerí men mawî tumanlî tajlarîn saklagan yerleríne. Oh! Ne kadar gúzel bírşiy bír dalga bolmak Parlanmak kumluklarga, Brakmak tartîlîp artka Keñlík topraklarga. Kókkuşagîñ ğarîgî Bek nurlîdîr şagîmî Sarî kumlarda ğaşîngan merğan kuwuşlarîñ masallarîn aytkanda. Bek yakînda ólír şeşekler; Bír kún yaşar bóğekler; Bulutlar ğawunlarda írer-píter; Tek dalgalar oynaşa-oynaşa Túkenmiy kalîr soñsîzlîkka. Şalîşîrlar şabalana-şabalana Búgún túşúmúzge kelgenlerden taa balaban bír deñíz yaratmaga. (Taner Murat'nîñ terğúmesínde)
2 Nazar Look
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piraye kadriy-zade
(1921-2010)
Yanîmdan geşe ekspressler, Sorayman onlardan neler, Kayda dostlar, Asiyada mî? Yoksa endí Yaltada mî?
Hasret Ğañî tufan óttírmedí Hárp ómírím sóndírmedí, Bolsam da búgún hayatta, Kaálbím tútiy hakkîykatta. Dostlarîm zilímní şalmay Poştağî da mektúp salmay Belkí bírsí hatîrlaydîr, Kókte yîldîzdan soraydîr.
Ya hayalga daldîlar mî? Ğúregím ğana talaşa Kalk karmalaşa, Etrafîmda boş suratlar Bír-bíríne karîşalar. Kózlerímní kîrpaman-kîrpaman Tenha bír yer karaştîraman, Kol dorbamnî karîştîraman Kalgîp-kalgîp otîraman. Mení ekspress alîp ketmiy Dostlarîmdan selam kelmiy Oyak-boyak hep talpmaman Yan bír yerde toktalaman.
Fikirlerí de meñkídír Belkí bír yerde bekliydír? Ya trení toktalîp kalgandîr Ya da totlanîp kalgandîr?
Kalk bír-bírín itep kaga Mení bolsa ğerge ğîga Ğataman ğerde, kúneş ğaga Kózlerímden yaşlar aga Herkez şaşîp maga baga.
Garaga barîp toktalaman, Ondan-bondan soraştîraman, Belkí bírsí kelgendír dep Góñílímní ózím alaman.
Dostîm, yaz sen maga mektúp Kelmeseñ de selam etíp Keşíkse de kaber yolla, Bíraz góñílímní sîrla!
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Nazar Look 3
taner murat
scythia minor
www.tanermurat.com
Kókten sesler - Temúçin (VIII) "Bek nezaketlí ekensíz. Sápír saylamasînda da, bek uzlukşî ekensíz. Tañrî korşalasîn! Şúndí bírsíne atîn aytîp bírşiy aytsam kúlúp ğíbereğekler, taa - şaka yaptîk - dep" oyladî Bodonğar. - Ey, endígí kîmîznîñ dadîn bír alîp karadîm. Endí men sîramnî kaşîramandîr, taa, Bokşî Bay. - dep ğewapladî Bodonğar. "Ne bolsa, bolsîn! Kawga şîksa, şîksîn! Şaka bolsa, kúlúşsúnler, pítsín!" dep túşúnúp atkan edí şo laflarnî. Kúlúp ğíbergen kíşí şîkmadî, amma. Ne de darîlgan. Herkez íşíne karay. "Hakkîykatîn bonlarnîñ ádetlerí bonday m-eken? Yoksam, soñîna şîgağagîna tuzsuz látifení zorlay bereler mí?" Bírew o yerníñ kíşísí tuwul. Herkez herkez men konîşa edí. - Ulá, yarîn aw sîram keliyatîr, kertíklí ğayga da túşe sîram. Ánaw kertíklí ğay kímde eken, bílmiysíñíz mí? - dep bakîrdî Bogdan, herkezníñ kulagîna barsîn dep. - Ána, Boktadîr, taa! Búgún o alîp ketken edí, ya. Kelgende ondan sorawuyarsîñ. Başka kímde bolağak? - dedí bírsí. "Atkîşlarî da sîra man eken. Hep şo tertípten ğúre eken. At şelebílígí de pítmiy eken, bonlarda. Bok atî da şîkkan, endí, karasî. O da kalmay eken. Hepísín atî bonday, tatlî-tatlî, búlbúl sesí gibí óte eken mí?" Şay-típ túşúnúp, konîşîlganlarga kulak asîp turganda, kózíne bírşiy ílíşíp kaldî. Bogdannîñ oñ kulagînda sîrga bar. Óbírsílerínde yok. Bodonğarnîñ sabîrî taşîdî. Bír an ewel aydînlanağak bola. Bokşî Bay dep aytîlgan kíşíge aylanîp: - Sîrgañ bek yakşî! Yañgîşmasam, elamet! Kara Kîtay malî mî, şo? - dep aşîp attî lafîn. Tuwul, tuwul. Kartbabamnîñ kolîndan şîkkan, bo. Gúzelğe şeber eken -
4 Nazar Look
diyler - kartbabamnî. - dedí bo, kopayakopaya batar kulagîn Bodonğarga aylandîrîp. - Ána, bízde de bar bo gibí bír ádet, bízím akaylarîmîzda da sîrga tagîp ğúrgení kîrlî. Lákin bízde bala ekende kulagîn teşíp tagalar. Bízde de hep şo, kóre-se. Kastalangan er balanîñ oñ kulagîna sîrga teşígí aşîlîp, sîrga tagîlatan. Er balaga kîz
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taner murat
scythia minor
www.tanermurat.com urbasî kíysetíletan. Onî óttíreğek bolgan yaman kuwatlar bonday etíp aldatîla. Balanî ğoklap turgan ğinler bonday etíp kaytarîla. - Mína, er balaga kîz urbasî kíysetílgenín bílmiy edím. - Ay, bílmegeníñ ne? Maw kuwatlar kolay-kolay kuwulur mî? Sáde sîrga taktîrîp aldatîlîr mî? Ayhay, amma yetmez ke. Balaga kîz urbasî da kíysetílír. Onîñ atî da deñíştírílír. - O da ne demek? - Ána, kastalîknî ketírgen kuwatlar begenmiyğek bír at kondîrîla, taa, balaga. Şay-tmeseñ bala yaşaytan mî? Ólír, taa. Onday, onday. Hakkîñ bar. Añladîm, endí. Demek, bo îrknîñ inanîşînda, er bala kastalansa atî deñíştírílewuya eken. Kastalangan balanî yaşattîrağak inanîşî man oga şírkín bír at tagîla eken. Osal bír at tagîlîp, balanîñ atîn óttírúwğí kuwetler begenmese, balanîñ ólmiyğegíne inanîla eken. Şírkín at kondîrîp, oñ kulagîna sîrga tagîp, kîz urbasî kíysetíp, bo gibí kurnazlîklar man er balanîñ yardîmîna kele ekenler. Óttírúwğí kuwetlerden korîyğak kurnazlîklar. Bo ádetler bek eskí eteklí bolmalî. Ogaşîk başka yerde heş kórmegení, heş eşítmegení úşún, burun-burundan kalmadîr. Şúndí, torasîn aytağak bolsa, onday şiylerní heş kórmiy, heş eşítmiy demesí bek dogrî tuwul edí. Bo îrknîñ kíşíleríne uşap oñ kulagîna sîrga takkan erkek kórgen edí. Kórmiytan mî? Takmasî korîwğî bolganîn da eşítken edí. Bír túşúngende, sîrga tagîp ğúrgenler bo kuğurlî îrknîñ ádetíne bek uzak tuwullar, ya. Belkím de takma manasîn ózí árúw úyreníp, añlamagandîr, şúndúgeşík. Belkím de takkan kíşíler tîpkî bonlarday inanîp tagalardîr, balalîgînda kastalansa. Bondan ayîrî şo da bar ke Bokşî Baynîñ, Bogdan Doggannîñ kulagîna tagîlgan sîrgalar moşaklî. Moşaklar da mawî-biyaz, mawî-sarî, "yaman kóz" nazar moşaklarî. "Yaman nazarlar şoga tiyíp kaytsîn!" dep, herkez balasîna kóz píşímínde "yaman kóz" nazar moşagî takmaytan edí
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mí? Ya da "Bala ğúreklí bolsîn! Ğesaretlí bolsîn! Kastalîkka ğol aşkan maw ğinlerge ayak tírep, onlarnî kuwmaga kuwat ğîyîp toplasîn!" dep, ballarga ğúrek píşímínde "ğúrek moşagî" tagîlmaytan edí mí? "Moşak úş, yedí, ya dokîz teşíklí bolmalî!" dep aytmaytan edí mí, herkez? Bonîñ úşún moşaklarnî úşer, yedíşer ya dokîzar top etíp, takmaytan edíler mí? Ya da, moşaktop yeríne úş, yedí ya dokîz teşíklí balabanbalaban moşaklar takmaytan edíler mí? Árúw karasañ, bo îrknîñ sîrga takmasî okadar da sîratîşî tuwul eken. Soñra, "Er bala kastanlansa kîz urbasî kíysetmek keregír" dep başka yerlerde de, bazî kartlarnîñ aytkanîn eşítmegen edí mí? At deñíştírmek ádetí de kayet ğaygîn tuwul edí mí? Herkezde bar edí de, bo ádet! Bútún îrklarda! Eskí atî uymay kalsa, bír takma atî atmasî yeterlí tabîlmasa, kemálge kelgenler bírem at deñíştíríp ğúre edí. Ólgen ballarnîñ kîrkî geşkení men, atî ğañî tuwgan bír balaga berílmiy edí mí? Tabiy, ğañî tuwgan balaga eskí at azgana deñíştírílíp kondîrîla edí, tîpkî-tîpkî ólí atîn atmaktan kaşa edíler. Bír de, kayet aytuwlî bír kíşíníñ kîrkî geşkení men, hep şonday yapîlmaytan edí mí? Bír batîrnîñ ólímínden soñra bútún îrklar onîñ atîna oñîp kalmaytan edí mí? Batîrnîñ atî bír dalga gibí bútún îrklarnîñ ústúne atîlîp şo şakta tuwgan ğúmle er ballarga konmaytan edí mí? Tamam, Bodonğar bo îrknîñ osal, yakîşmaytan atlarî man bír túrlí uzlaşmayğak eken. Fakat bír karaganda da, îrknîñ at awuşturma ádetí ózí bílíp, ózí razî bolgan ádetlerge, heş te, heş uzak tuwul eken.
(dewamî keleğekke)
Nazar Look 5
chuvash republic, russia
http://www.facebook.com/valery.petrovskiy
Back Cover Rule She’d never know that I was about to marry her. And how would she know: I never had said a word about it then and later, when we parted. Later her mom was going to say me something: she was riding by bus and I stood there at a bus stop. Then she gave me a wave; she was waving fiercely as if she had something important to say while there was nothing to talk about. However, I had a talk to her dad accidentally, at a bus stop once again. I came over to him to say that she was a nice girl and I was sorry it happened so. I mean that nothing really happened, and it was inconceivable that we had parted. Remember she treated me a tart, a kind of fancy cake. Marvelous it was, I never tasted anything like that! They were one and all as if it were not she to cook, looked so regular, none squashed nor mashed, no cream jut out, very accurate indeed, not like home made. Nothing to wonder, she had a German granny, Granny Irma! And her granny, when I’d first dropped in at their place, uttered following me, “It’s not one after to marry…” Surely then I came for no particular reason. I mean I just asked her to take a stroll with me, and that’s all generally speaking. Well, nothing came of it; and I don’t know what prevented me from marrying her. I don't think I did anything wrong, nothing to cavil at. And then it was all over as her granny had predicted the other day, Granny Irma, her last name was Sibert. I learned it by chance; the girl had another last name, an ordinary one. I had little talk to her Granny, I just gave a greeting when I came to my girl-friend, that’s all. I mean I never hailed Granny like “Guten Tag”, by no means. We had nice dates first. I used to treat her to a cocktail, something like “bloody Mary”: two fingers’ high mango juice against one finger of vodka put in along a knife’s edge. She was not like drinking it; it seemed she liked the way I bothered with her. Actually it was striking to look out for the juice and vodka boundary against the
6 Nazar Look
light, and then get the juice from the very bottom. with a tip of one’s tongue A difficult task it was, we w o u l d n ’ t manage it at first.
Photo: Vlad Kidanov
valery petrovskiy
And then it was all over at once, I just don’t know the reason, nobody to blame, not Granny Irma Sibert in any case. Actually she was very much like an elementary school teacher, an elderly one: lean, whitish, wearing glasses with a thick lens. And I’d had such a teacher on my first grade: Anna Pallna, a strict one, she was rather elderly, neat and tidy. She accepted all of us for Pioneers. She wasn’t supposed to do it actually but seemed to be the main person about it, and it was she to admit us. Afterwards she said that we were a unit of Pioneers to bear a hero name then. The third “A” had been the name of my class earlier, not bad I think, but I didn’t utter a word against her because nobody did. Possibly pioneers were not to dispute with an elder one. There were The Young Pioneers’ Rules printed on the back cover of each notebook, but I don’t remember them but one: Pioneer sets an example to everyone, that’s all. Anna Pallna said the unit should be named after Hero Pilot Fedotov. I wasn’t aware of such a hero, and it seemed that nobody knew him, but he was voted through. They all raised their hands as if yielding. With my two friends I hid my hand under a desk. We had come to an agreement about voting for hero agent Kusnetzov who struggled bravely in the Germans’ rear. But Anna Palna wouldn’t ask me about him, and there was no dispute at all in order I could tell them. I’d rather tell you what name the agent had in the Germans’ rear, would you like to hear? “Sibert, Paul Sibert!”
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kalvala suguna prasad
andhra pradesh, india
I Love World I love world I love world which is full of beauty and devotion when first drop of rain kissed the earth when rain starts its rhythmic drums on rocks when the sunflower winks its eye for handsomeness of sun There are no bounds to my joy I love this world which is filled with beauty when the rainbow become ornament to sky when air touches the face of the rose when tides of ocean touches the seashore There are no bounds to my joy I love world which changes every minute when the little hairy caterpillar changes to become a beautiful Honey bee The moment Nightingale sings with joy By seeing the spring of nature The moment when a little bud born on flower plant The moment two small leafs come out from earth By jointly as if doing salute to the earth for giving birth to it
Men dúniyanî súyemen Men dúniyanî súyemen Men gúzellíkke-dúrústlúkke tolî dúniyanî súyemen síptí ğawun tamîzîmî topraknî ópkende ğawun taşlîklarga dawullarîn dúmbúrdetkende kúntabak kírpík şalganda kúneşíñ gúzellígíne Ğelen tabîlmaz mením kunagîma Men gúzellík men tolî bo dúniyanî súyemen kókkuşagî kókní súslegende hawa gúl şîrayîna tiygende dalay kabarmasî ğagaga tiygende Ğelen tabîlmaz mením kunagîma. Her dakkada deñíşíp turgan dúniyanî súyemen kíşkene túklí tîrtîl kalîbîn deñíştíríp gúzel bír Balkurt bolganda Búlbúl kuwana-kuwana ótken wakîtîn Tuwanîñ baárín kórgende Şeşek atkan ósímlígíñ tomîrşîgî tuwgan wakîtîn Topraktan ekí yapragîñ pîşkîrgan wakîtîn Bírleşíp sañke topraknî selamlap tuwurmak úşún (translated by Taner Murat)
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Nazar Look 7
gary beck
new york, usa
www.garycbeck.com Gary Beck has spent most of his adult life as a theater director. His chapbook 'Remembrance' was published by Origami Condom Press, 'The Conquest of Somalia' was published by Cervena Barva Press, 'The Dance of Hate' was published by Calliope Nerve Media, 'Material Questions' was published by Silkworms Ink, 'Dispossessed' was published by Medulla Press, 'Mutilated Girls' was published by Heavy Hands Ink and 'Pavan and other poems' is being published by Indigo Mosaic. A collection of his poetry 'Days of Destruction' was published by Skive Press. Another collection 'Expectations' was published by Rogue Scholars Press and 'Dawn in Cities' and 'Assault on Nature' are being published by Winter Goose Press. His novel 'Acts of Defiance' is being published by Trestle Press and 'Extreme Change' is being published by Cogwheel Press. His original plays and translations of Moliere, Aristophanes and Sophocles have been produced Off Broadway. His poetry has appeared in hundreds of literary magazines. He currently lives in New York City.
8 Nazar Look
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gary beck
new york, usa
www.garycbeck.com
Battered City The explosion caught me by surprise and knocked me off my feet. I was one of the lucky ones. I hadn't reached the building yet. The blast, shock waves, flying glass, metal and concrete shards killed I don't know how many, and wounded many more. I may have hit a wall with a thump that would leave me bruised for weeks, but I was intact. A quick personal body search confirmed my instant diagnosis. I tested the various parts of the apparatus and found they still worked. Everything hurt, but I got up and joined the other walking wounded, who were going to aid the victims with the best survival chances, at least until emergency services arrived and took over. If they arrived. Secondary explosions went off nearby, indicating that al Qaeda had closed the access routes for ambulances and fire trucks. This seemed to be the standard type of terrorist attack that had become painfully frequent. A medium-size office building without any particular political, economic, or military significance was targeted. A suicide bomber detonated himself in the lobby at rush hour, then improvised explosive devices were set off nearby to prevent assistance from reaching the site. I had developed some skills in evaluating survivor's chances and although I still had misgivings, I tried to the best of my ability to practice humane triage. It was a harsh process that hardened my heart to suffering, but it was the only choice, except for shirking responsibility to my fellow victims. They needed my help. I might need theirs soon. You never knew these days.
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This was one more tragedy in the series of organized attacks that had recently swept the city. The first series targeted open-air markets. The pattern was simple. A suicider detonated himself, killing and wounding dozens. When the crowd panicked and stampeded, a second bomber detonated himself and killed many more. After several markets were devastated, people shopped elsewhere. The next series targeted cineplexes. Bombers detonated devices filled with nails in three or more screens at the same time, killing hundreds. People stopped going to the movies. The most recent attacks were the unexpected assaults on average workers, in average buildings, and was sorely testing the morale of a people under siege. I managed to grope my way through the smoke and set about the horrible task of separating those who had a chance to survive. Other men and women were doing the same thing and we worked quietly, without supervision and cooperated whenever we reached the same victim. Blood, broken human bodies, and severed parts were everywhere. The moans, cries and screams of the wounded were getting louder. Facial expressions were either anguished or bewildered. We did our best for hours. At last the sound of approaching sirens told us that help would be here soon. I stared at a terrified young woman's face and whispered soothing words, as I tried to stop the arterial flow above her missing leg. Help would not arrive in time for her. EMS finally took over. I knew there would be no work today, so I headed for the subway, fervently hoping they wouldn't bomb it before I got home. I couldn't help thinking that it was time to pack up the family and leave New York City.
Nazar Look 9
Photo: Brenda Whiteway
j. j. steinfeld
prince edward island, canada “Nostalgia and Predicting the Future,” from An Affection for Precipices (Serengeti Press, 2006) by J. J. Steinfeld, copyright © 2006 by J. J. Steinfeld. Used by permission of the author.
Nostalgia and Predicting the Future nostalgia should be kept in mind, the entertaining drunk proclaims smirking at unearned sentience theatrical in both despair and song-and-dance absurdity you transcribe the blunted scene you’ll rearrange it later your own singing and dancing nothing to write home about or to use as existential barter with ghosts or demons or lovers for the rest of your life however long that might be you will deal with nostalgia and predicting the future by classifying and re-classifying the tiny portions of your authenticity like an alchemist who has forgotten a lifetime of secrets
10 Nazar Look
"Incomprehension,” from An Affection for Precipices (Serengeti Press, 2006) by J. J. Steinfeld, copyright © 2006 by J. J. Steinfeld. Used by permission of the author.
Incomprehension Incantations and sinister strategies for worship I never did understand your politics your schemes and formulas for reshaping the world your defiance of the ebb and flow of ordinariness. The world, you hemmed and hawed, could be held in the palm of the hand and like a spruced-up Polyphemus— maybe even ten times larger than the mythic giant big eye, enormous hands, mouth like a river of vehemence— blow ungently on the assemblage and laugh as they flutter into spectacle and history but not comprehending what you have done you, as baffled as any fabled creature, as exaggerated as any legend, heroic or villainous, rearranging the incantations and sinister strategies for worship. I stand transfixed as you rip off your clothes scar yourself with poems brag about your immensity and soar into the calm, comforting mystery of it all.
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j. j. steinfeld
prince edward island, canada “At Any One Instant,” from An Affection for Precipices (Serengeti Press, 2006) by J. J. Steinfeld, copyright © 2006 by J. J. Steinfeld. Used by permission of the author
At Any One Instant At any one instant, even as you put your whiskey glass on the table and look out the window at a disoriented little bird chirping a song from your past you can reasonably assume that somewhere in the world, among the comings and goings among the words and gestures, the kind silences and cruel silences, most if not all of the following are occurring: the licking of lips over desire or over thirst the losing of a coin or an entire wallet the loss of faith or misconstrued lovemaking a kiss that makes even dying seem bearable someone turning precisely one hundred someone bemoaning their agedness someone praying for more time a voice cursing a dictator tears being shed for a misdiagnosed life shouts against the verdicts of the body a little boy or little girl falling off a bicycle or from the unconcerned branches of a tree an inadvertent betrayal a cunning, calculated rumour destined to break a heart or end an embrace and someone thinking about you or about to.
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“Which Brings Us to What?,” from An Affection for Precipices (Serengeti Press, 2006) by J. J. Steinfeld, copyright © 2006 by J. J. Steinfeld. Used by permission of the author.
Which Brings Us to What? I fail to recognize the name despite the fanfare and full-page ad I fail to appreciate the illusion despite the flames and gigantic creature I fail to comprehend the eternal despite the fears and ancient promises I fail to grasp the meaning despite the words and modern texts. Which brings us to what? An admission of failure, certainly, and a desire to renegotiate both life and longing. Too bad, it doesn’t work that way. Go back to the movies of your youth see what you’ve missed and begin an accurate count of which actors have departed and see if you can convince anyone past or present that you had been in that movie house waiting to grow up.
Nazar Look 11
fieldshop
puducherry, india Hailing from Kerala a southern state of India, Fieldshop is now a resident of Puducherry, another state in India, for employment purpose. He is a postgraduate in English, and had been in the Government service. Now he is retired. He is interested in writing, and feels he has a good flair for writing. He believes Kerala is one state blessed by nature for its scenic beauty.
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The Dark is Rotten Forward Mind is a vehicle of all passions of life; all feelings, all thoughts, all sensations; all instincts, reason and intuitions in the life of a man, the life of the world, the human race, from the young years of human history. A stream that contains everything, rolling from the conscious levels to the unconscious levels, where the repressed experiences and the archetypal elements are boarded. Here is the beast’s den. The beast, the
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fieldshop
puducherry, india elementary, the uncouth savage of every mind. The repressed desires, instincts, zigzagging the confounded ravines of this dark subside, thirsty and hungry, yearning for expression. Above its sheaths, the conscious levels, smothering the sinews of the natural vigor, from the realm of culture and civilization, the religious and social dogmas, framing a code for the life and its ways, evolved down the centuries of social history-where the conscious is victimized in the conflicts of beliefs, suppressing the ego instincts. Life’s sinister twilights, its scorching sadness, its serene evenings of happiness and the opulent cheer of festivity, its uncouth fears, all are at conflicts – suppressing the real vigor and instincts of man. Behind its veils, the beast runs about on its silent paws, drifting along with his own breezy instincts, in its heat and darkness, in its lanes and gutters, hunting the end-satisfaction. A prey to eat, a mate to date, to grow, to exist. Clad in its glyptic, glossy ornamental vestments of an opulent culture, the beast lived. Before the high priests of life, he was the youngster of the humanity and behind its smoke screens, he was the beast of all passions, animal instincts. He was the offspring of Moloch, that divine beast of thirsting passion. He was a maniac. Sanity has become a forlorn story, left somewhere in the greens of life never to be revived. Within the cabins the beast boomed up, loomed up. The fondling love of an old mom shut him up in her wrinkled bonny arms against the oddities of a vagrant astray father. The raging passion hugged and trapped him like a spider, in the balcony landings. The cruelty of the drunken nights of the father figure were haunting his soft armours. His beliefs, education, the taught dogmas of the Church engirded him. He wanted to escape. He could not find the hard reality. Fostering up a dream, he was rotting in the chilly nights. He could not help when he fell into the mossy gutters of life. He was failing in the chilly nights. His entangled wisdom could not understand it! The scorching sense of debility was driving him madly along the dark lanes!
criminal. What was his failure? What eternal peace of mind he longed for? *** Scene Blind darkness... The dead dark gives birth to nocturnal sounds. Long buzzing sounds... Rustling winds... tick-tick beats... Sounds from the loneliness... Lonely earth in the dense of darkness... Moments tick-tick by. A long hysterical laughter emerges. Long it goes... Stammers... silence. A pause. Again a mad laughter, long and stammers... goes down and slowly its silent end. A commanding voice is heard, from the outer circle of the darkness. Voice: (Loud, stiff, stern and commanding) Silence! Will you? Silent moments tick-tick... Again from the midst of the darkness, the laughter starts, suddenly ends in a satiric chuckle. Reply: (Resisting, pathetic and submissive, musical) Nooooooooo... uuuu... hhh! You pppfool! Meddling fool! (Stammering) Ddddrown in those mossy pits! Huhhhh! Voice: (Mild, attractive, sweet commanding) See! Do You? Me? Do You?
and
(with force) See the light of the eyes The light.. Calm! Sleep... sleep... I see the typologies. Fossils of dead vigour. Reply: (Resisting, yet submissive in rancorous tone.) Wr... wrinkled sack... drown... get lost. Rapacious typhoons, carry him off! Voice: Noooo I will not... Obey me... (Chuckles.)
He was a psychopath, and a made
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Nazar Look 13
fieldshop
puducherry, india Silence for some moments. Tick-tick beats, that of the heaving heart... A suppressed laughter, satiating but dying down... Suddenly a flash of dim light on the stage. It grows... Dim light fills the stage. In the light is seen a shabbily dressed young man; uncombed hair dirty faced, unshaven, tattered shirt, loose trousers, bare feet, tired looking.. The laughter from him grows. His face changes to the expression of some beastly satisfaction.. He is in an attempt to embrace something beyond his reach, something in his imagination. The thick lips are open in that flash of satisfaction. The light dies down slowly. The laughter ends. The Youngster: Ah Ahhhhhhhh! (A sigh of satisfaction. Again darkness. Pause) Voice: Do You? Do you see my eyes? The light of the eyes? (Dominant voice) You see... see! The Youngster: (A tired yielding voice) Mmmmmm! Mmmm! (Sniggers) Light flows into the scene and grows bright. The young man in the same shabby attire and form is sitting leaning to a mound. A rocky mound. Tired, silent sleep weighing on his lids, snoozing. The scene is a marsh, evidently it is the end part, of an extending expanse, to some unseen end, in the back with marsh marigolds and marsh mallows. The scene is rather a rough spot in the marsh Rustling winds, snickering streams chattering. Moments. The light slowly fades dim. A spotted pool of light enters with a man in his middle ages, neatly dressed and a commanding gesture. He takes long slow paces, comes near the dozing young man. The light shakes him up, and he with eyes aghast, stares at the stranger. He
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starts up,... but something defeats him... goes down, eyes down,... trying to look up. The Oldman waits for some time, and retires to take seat on a mound at the front left corner. Time ticks away at a dim voice. Both are sitting at the extreme ends of the front stage. The scene in the middle is laid bare. Dim light. Pale light in the darkness. Tick-tick beats. Serene moments. It slows down. Buzzing winds. The Youngster: (The long disheveled hair he combs with the hand, his feelings evidently irritated.) Hhhhh... (A grin) The rotten fields of ancient vigour. (turns and looks back) Hhhhh... (sardonic laughter) My Dalia... My Rose... The dead spirits! (pause) I breathe... The fire damp I breathe.. The stinking putrid! I am dying... The lions of Africa. The toads of the wild... Leap... tap my senses. (Pause, sound of rustling winds. Tick-tick beats... ) A floating natant leaf... I am... The wet wind pierces my ears... (A shrill. Tone of rejection.) It stinks. Stinking smell of the rotten rose. Rotten fields of lost vigour. Spirits of the dead trail along... The pain in the heart reminds of the dead. The pale crimson twilight of the sinister midsummer day. Festive cheers of rancorous smiles. (sardonic look, grins... suddenly his face turns bright.) Oh my flowers! My Rose! My Violet! My darlings! My garden of Polynesian aroma! My blood! My flesh! (complacently) Hhhhhhhh... (laughter of satisfaction) I have you in your bare skin. (Pause) The light fades. Tick-tick beats. A pool of light as from torches falls in the middle stage at the back. The youngster and the old man are
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fieldshop
puducherry, india outside it. Slowly a black figure is exposed, in the light. His neck is adorned with chains of skulls and bones He wears a piece of animal hide in the loins, a belt of bones around the hip. A cluster of feathers adorn his head as a royal crown. The body is painted crudely. A long sword in hand. Altogether a ferocious look. Rolls of smoke rising in the middle stage. Sounds wild animals roaring. The Youngster: The land was barren. The harvest failed in the summer‌ (Expression of fear in his face.) He starts up at the scene... I was again the victim. (Complying tone) The submissive victim before the smoking alter (Pause) In my garden of flowers they saw my death. (Flinching) The smoke ate into me. Suffocating. The heat of the flames into me... They saw my death. Before the Solutrean priests.The gods of Bal. The thirst of the land for water. (The scene fades. Dim light again.) Old man: Those years and those days are no more. Dead for the future to enter upon. But those days live in thoughts and in feelings. The putrefied past from which the thoughts and feelings took their life. Archetypal. The Youngster: (Mood of reminiscences) The rotten life. Decayed feelings. To a future. Time moved like a millipede. Dirty scrawling in the mud. Crawling away from the stale past. (Scrabbling) I was afraid of the snakes. Venomous as they. In the holes. The blood boiling in the heat of the sultry weather. I am Croesus, the Lord of feelings. Oh my Lord thou art in heaven! And my gods who art in stones. (Questioningly) Where are you? The God of my imagination? He is not yours. (Pausing, scrabbling hatefully) A sin?
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(Murmurs in a pathetic voice; a sardonic smile on his face) What is a sin? Given birth and I live. Do you put me under reins? Like a colt for you to mount on? Yeah! My filly, I waited. Where were you then? (Pause) Hhhhhh... (Sniggers and starts calmly in suppressed tone.) They told me My horse godmother told me. Ham shackled. I waited. I smelt the sweat of the rough garibaldi and the loose breasts within. The skinny hands enveloped me. Stringent. I felt the initial sense of hatred..... The gods in the stone stared at me. Their painted eyes stared. The beads slipped through my fingers. The body and blood in the ciborium! My wisdom confined in the narrow ramparts of the convictions. Moments. The sounds stop. The light fades. Tick-tick beats. A pool of light falls at middle stage in the back. A narrow grove appears. The fertile soil has given rise to fast growing trees and bushes. The green boughs arching in lessens the width of the lane. Green all green. The youngster getting up himself, gropes along into the lane. He turns, his face pleasant. An energetic and complacent smile spreads. Old man: (From the dark) It is hortative. Stories of life start from the ethnic beginnings. The Youngster: (Heedless and highly enlightened.) The Green. The smiling youthful nature. I was the green bough. I was the green fruit. The breeze rustling past me. The leaves cuddled me.
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fieldshop
puducherry, india The birds shrieked shrill.
Her eyes! Lidless eyes gazed.
Hhhhhhhh (boyish laughter)
Explored me.
The barks were rough, the leaves rustled me.
(Mutters in a low voice. Beating his sleeves)
In the purple twilight of the dusk.
The rapping charm makes me armless.
In the gleaming rays of the dawn. (A pause.)
Rose! My Rose. (Pause) I felt, I hate.
Where is the nest of my dove?
You inert colt. (a changed voice) she said.
(Sounds of birds etc)
The sun of summer was dry.
My puppy dear!
I slept beneath the dying tree.
(A puppy’s barking sound and murmuring of it’s affection.)
No water. The colour lost, scent lost. Lost dried, died.
My kitten (A kitten mews.)
(He turns into a thoughtful mood)
(Pause looks up; with a sigh, grinning) My fruitful wisdom Hhhh... (An ironical laughter) (A sound a woman calling, a shrill sound at its feminine treble)
Let her die. I Croesus have wealth. I guard them. And sleep in my cold rocky hole. In my veins cold blood flows. (Suddenly turning)
Mom: Tommmmm! My child. Where are you? Tommmm... My child don’t break your legs!
Why you stare at me? (Pause, turning back)
The Youngster: She calls! Her love calls! (Moments. The scene fades. Darkness. Again the pale dim light. The youngster is seen back in his seat.)
Don’t you hear? Don’ you? (Husky voice) Knocks at the door.! The midnight of a vagrant man. (Thoughtfully) That beast begot me.
The Youngster: One day when my face was bruised, The kitten scratched my face. Its paws soft, sharp wild nails. (A laughter of wild satisfaction.) Hh... Hh My hairs stood up at the muscle pull. Icy sensation in the heat. My face in her paws.
The architect of a ruined family. (Silence for some time. Sounds knocking at the door. A male sound follows.)
of
The Male sound: Idiot asleep? Open the door. (Drunken voice.) (Sounds of a family quarrel. Moments. Sounds die down. Calm atmosphere in the scene.)
And gleaned at me
16 Nazar Look
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fieldshop
puducherry, india Old man: The family is a compartment of relationships. The emotions a net work demanding a security in life in day today matters. It should not have been in the self desired styles.
tight make every taken
The Youngster: (deeply thoughtful) Ka my soul. The reason went along questioned. Empirical thoughts. The laws came across questioned. Dogmatic. Ancestral values. Traditional dogmas. Through the verbal transmissions. Unchanged, conventions.
snail
pace
changes
of
Your snowy lips! On those sands of the shore. My passion boiled. In the red blood. Stormy, waves rose to beat us down. The night embraced us. I should not fail. (Frenzied mood) Bruises of feelings, oozing blood of the oestral passion. Wild, hot, strong... Cold at last. In the high rise waves. Eh! Nothing happened. Cold body...
Are they humbug?
Cold feelings...
Hypocrites. Fearful.
Cold flesh...
Afraid of what they framed.
(confessing, irritated tone)
Coloured foolishness. (Silence) In the cold mornings of winter. Under the holy airs of the benediction, Aromatic, incense burning in censors, The beads of the rosary whispered through the lips. Took the housel like savoir vivre.
I Hate! Jasmine! The sands and the waves took her from me! (Light fades. Flow of white light at the back. A sea shore. On the shore, sucked by the sands, is the dead body of a young girl, in her teens, her clothes only partly covering her nudity. Sounds of sea waves. The youngster moves in, staring and muttering.)
I prayed. I believed. The Youngster: Jasmine! (Reminiscences flash on his face. Grave philosophical turn of mind. In the grave silence is heard from a distance, sounds of church bell. Moments.) Old man: These are feelings bread by the beliefs for the good life. Calm. Feel consoled. The Youngster: I burned... (suddenly the calm expression changes.)
(The scene fades. Dim light.) Old man: The wild and the beast. Ethnic forces of the unconscious. The changing faรงade of a psychedelic. The Youngster: (intolerably) Knocks at the door! (Listening) It is midnight. The clock tells. That beast begot me. (Beating the shirt sleeves, and checking up the trousers)
Jasmine... My darling! I loved you...! You said you would come.
(to be continued)
And you came. I could not resist.
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Nazar Look 17
michael d. brown
nanjing, china
Michael D. Brown, PhD is the recipient of the New York State Senator's Award for poetry; author of 17 books including six volumes of poetry, Michael lectures on circuit internationally, provides literary reviews for universities worldwide, and is currently teaching Chinese PhD's in China's former capital city, Nanjing. Professor Brown's poetry has appeared in numerous journals over the past 20 years. A new poetry collection is slated for 2013 and the poems from this upcoming collection have been featured in 24 magazines from November 2011 to June 2012. A few of those journals include The Tower Journal, Ygdrasil, Ink Well & Quill, Nexxus, and The Commonline Journal.
Photo: Jianhua Guo, PhD
18 Nazar Look
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michael d. brown
nanjing, china
Interview TM: Michael, at what age discover the poetry in you?
life and celebrate each day for the gift that it is. Recognize the beauty and the treasures surrounding you and your role and place in the scheme of things. did
you
TM: Who has influenced you over the years?
Michael D. Brown: I discovered poetry around 4 or 5 years of age as my father introduced Robert Frost and Emily Dickenson to me. I played with words and realized as early as I began to write sentences around 6 or 7 years old that I had an affinity with words and poems.
Michael D. Brown: Many writers have influenced me a few favorites: Emily Dickenson, Richard Wilbur, William Stafford, and my former college professor, William Heyen (author/poet “Noise in the Trees”)
TM: What sort of thing did you write about when you began?
Michael D. Brown: Yes, in part as how a poem sounds is critically important, even during the process of writing and editing poets listen to how words sound (Voice) and the music both internally and externally that the words produce.
Michael D. Brown: I first wrote poems about nature and the curiosity that was naturally in me as a young child. My earliest poem was titled “The Fly” The poem tells the story of a fly getting caught in a spider web. TM: Are there any themes that particularly attract you as a poet, things that you feel you would like to write about? Michael D. Brown: I am particularly interested in universal themes especially love, death, betrayal, truth, and the human experience. TM: What has sustained your passion for poetry up to today?
TM: Is poetry about being heard?
TM: Do you believe poetry is relevant today? Michael D. Brown: Poetry is very relevant as art and also for social commentary and poems reach people in ways that only poetry can. Poems stay with the reader and the words return to us many times over the years. Poetry allows us to enjoy insights in life that we often miss; observations and connections that may require illumination. TM: Writing or reading?
Michael D. Brown: My love for language and words continues to stir in me and this passion allows me to enjoy life and to retain my contagious enthusiasm for the art of poetry. I get a real rush from reading good poetry and an even greater rush when I write something I am very happy with.
Michael D. Brown: I enjoy both reading poetry and writing it. I suppose for me the greater joy is writing a poem, but this does not happen without reading often. The more I read the more I write. Reading helps to prime the pump and poems flow from me more freely if I am reading a lot and not only poetry but fiction and non-fiction as well.
TM: What is the overall message that you wish to convey to your reader?
TM: Rhyme or free verse?
Michael D. Brown: My overall message which runs throughout the greater body of my poems is a simple message: Love your
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Michael D. Brown: I enjoy both but do have a preference for free verse.
Nazar Look 19
michael d. brown
nanjing, china
TM: Inspiration or perspiration? Michael D. Brown: Both equally apply and sometimes the desire to write is there with little or no inspiration and sometimes I just sit down and bleed as Hemingway put it. TM: How poetry?
important
is
the
title
in
Michael D. Brown: Very important for me and I often write the title last when inspiration hits. The title should be the easiest part but this is not always the case. The title must work together with the body of the poem even as the head of the body is important to the whole of the body. Every word in the poem flows out from the title and the reader should gain the sense that the title is the source. TM: How do you ignite your creativity? Michael D. Brown: Reading is an ignition key for me as I find myself shopping for words and ideas. Listening to conversations in movies where the writing is superb helps to generate poems as well. I also like reading great quotations. TM: What is your biggest challenge in your creativity? Michael D. Brown: The biggest challenge is writing quickly when inspiration hits; quickly enough to get the whole poem out on paper. TM: What is the best thing anyone has ever said about your writing? Michael D. Brown: I have heard many wonderful compliments and perhaps the best occurred at a reading I did at a large wedding when 300 people stood and cheered for five minutes after I read my poem “The Marriage proposal.” The minister said to me ”he had performed over 600 weddings and never saw a reaction like this at a wedding before.”
has been a great satisfaction to you in your life? Michael D. Brown: Writing poetry has been one of the most significant joys in my life. I love words and they seem to love me back. I derive much from writing and it’s more than just a release; it seems to have the power to heal a wounded heart and even recover hope. TM: What are your writing/publishing goals for 2013? Michael D. Brown: My writing goals for 2013 include publishing a new poetry collection. Thus far I have written over 80 new poems while living and working in China since August 2011. Upwards of 31 literary journals have published or agreed to publish these new poems. My goal will include promoting this new book internationally and having it translated into several languages including Mandarin. TM: What advice would you give to those newly inspired poets? Any final thoughts? Michael D. Brown: Write every day and do not allow yourself to become discouraged by rejection letters. Take part in writer workshops and learn as much as you can about writing. Read poetry and analyze the poems of the best writers. Play with words and do not be afraid to take some risks as you attempt to set yourself apart from others. Enjoy what you are doing and promote your work.
w a S
, l o b
! l e ha
c i M
TM: Is writing poetry something that
20 Nazar Look
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michael d. brown
nanjing, china
On sale Those rejoicing at the rumors of my death are not the ones I still owe money. For years it was the soup keeping me alive -secret broth passed down by some priests. With that soup I knew I could live reckless, faring sumptuously every day. Some say out of control spending also an addiction, like sex or drugs: I never purchased sex, I never purchased drugs, only soup from the priests on sale.
The Axe Belonging to grandfather splits logs for the fire always going with the grain, so when the burglar broke in late night, end of August 2011, splitting him with the grain - not so easy; bones splinter, sinews snap like cords unplugged from a socket; one blow removing enough bark wrapped around a thief uproots every evil inclination passed down thru Adam’s seed.
Gliding gracefully in stillness My canoe cuts across the lake sharp as new shears clipping stalks of wheat; the half- moon of the sickle blade, dull from thrusting in and gathering up, yet I paddle on my left turning right -hearing geese and seeing them at play are separate joys I compound with both my eyes and both my ears; I only understand solitude in the peristaltic wave of the lake. I am gliding gracefully -quietly remaining perfectly still, hush on the translucent surface of the lake.
President Barack Obama Shocked to see in my lifetime, the first African American President of the United States: Now I know most anything doubted can be believed. Years later I still pinch myself Perforating reality, assuring history has not been rewritten, removing the face of change for exchange; returning the past -the black and white stillsdiminishing lucid living color‌
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Nazar Look 21
w. jack savage
california, usa wjacksavage.com
"Walter" Jack Savage is a retired broadcaster and associate professor of Film Studies who now writes full-time. He is the author of five books: two short story collections and three novels including his latest, The Children Shall Be Blameless. Jack and his wife Kathy live in Monrovia, CA.
22 Nazar Look
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w. jack savage
california, usa
wjacksavage.com
The Awards As Jerry arrived at the Five Star Hotel in Toronto, being not much of a traveler, he might have been a bit overwhelmed. He seldom left his Minneapolis home, and Canada was a foreign country, after all. Still, what celebrity he did enjoy, even as a writer, had prepared him for affairs such as these. Besides, Jerry was fond of writing about the people he was not; tall, urbane, notably goodlooking. For that reason, he preferred fitting in rather than standing out, and as was the case that day, he had intentionally dressed down to check in, thinking that, it might discourage reporters and that sort of thing. He wore a leather jacket, jeans and a turtleneck sweater. As he walked up to the counter, his smile was half-returned by the woman who said “Can I help you?” in a way that suggested something other then his intention to check in. Jerry was not what you’d call confrontational. He walked away from trouble whenever he could. But the one thing you never wanted to do to Jerry was to treat him like he was out of place or not up to par in some way. Any kind of a slight shown him would result in his walking out the door without a word. So it was 'tread lightly' time and whether she knew it or not, the next thing out of this woman’s mouth would determine a great deal more then she suspected. “I hope so,” he said, laying his garment bag over his suitcase. “A Mr. Anderson with the Awards Committee told me he’d meet me here. My name is Nelson, Jerry Nelson.” “May I see your identification?” she said. It was her second mistake. There would not be a third. Her request lacked the same warmth missing in, ‘can I help you?’ and seemed more like going into an all-night diner looking so bad the waitress asks if you could pay for the food you ordered upfront. But even if he had imagined those things, she left out his name; as in ‘can I see your identification, Mr. Nelson?’ and would that it were not so, not even a ‘please’ to soften the omission. “I need to show identification to meet
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someone from the Awards Committee in this hotel?” he asked. “Tell me, do you ask all your guests to show their identification?” She wasn’t ready for two questions and chose to answer the last. “Well yes. As a recipient this year, I thought I’d expedite your checking in now while Mr. Anderson is delayed. We do have to establish proper identification to check in all our guests.” “No, I won’t be doing that, but it’s a moot point now. Could I leave a message for Mr. Anderson? He said he’d meet me, but the plane got in a little early and so.... well, he’s not here anyway. Could I leave word with you where I’m going?” “I’m sure your reservation is in order, Mr. Nelson, but I do need to verify your identification to proceed. I assure you we meant no….” “None of that is necessary, my dear,” he said. “If you’d just tell Mr. Anderson that Jerry Nelson decided to stay at another hotel and when I get there, I’ll call?” At this, a man looking as though he outranked the woman he was dealing with intruded by saying, “Can I help you?” “No, as you can see, I’m being helped, thank you,” he said. To the woman he said again, “Could you pass that along, please?” “You say you’re Mr. Nelson?” said the man. “No, I didn’t say that to you. To you I said I was being helped.” “Mr. Nelson, I’m sorry if there was a problem,” he said. “My name is Johnson. Your room is ready. Mr. Anderson arranged for everything. I’m sorry for any inconvenience.” “There’s no need to apologize. I would however like assurance that my message for Mr. Anderson would be passed along?” “As I say, sir. Your rooms are ready; a suite actually,” he hit a small bell. “Well, perhaps I could write out the message and leave it for him there when he finds
Nazar Look 23
w. jack savage
california, usa wjacksavage.com
I’ve gone elsewhere?” A young man in a uniform was suddenly at his side and the man behind the counter nodded. As the young man reached down to pick up his garment bag and suitcase, Jerry reached down and picked them up first. “No,” he said. “I’m not staying here. I’m not sure why you’re not understanding.” “Whatever has happened, Mr. Nelson, I can assure you is only a misunderstanding. I should have been here to greet you personally. I just stepped away for a moment. I apologize for any inconvenience.” “This is no inconvenience,” he said. “The young lady with whom I dealt was fine. I have simply decided that I will stay at another hotel. Now, I can carry my own modest suitcase and garment bag through the lobby and out through the front door to get a cab. All I want from you or the hotel is to pass along a message to Mr. Anderson. Can you do that?”
“Jerry? Jerry?” said Kenneth Anderson; Assistant to the Chairman of the Awards Committee. Jerry thought for a moment about ignoring him, but then stopped and turned. A man with a winning smile and another expensive suit came walking up quickly and extended his hand, which Jerry shook. “I’m Ken Anderson; we spoke on the phone?” “Hi Ken.” “I’m so sorry I’m late.” “Not a problem, Ken. In fact you’re just in time. I’m trying to leave this hotel and there’s been a lot of opposition. I came here and decided to stay elsewhere and well, it’s turned into a bit of a problem. Do you suppose you could walk with me and stay while I get a cab?” “No, I mean, what’s the problem? We have a suite all ready for you. I saw to the details myself; your favorite beer…”
“Yes, Mr. Koller,” said Jerry. “How do you do? I’m having some difficulty being understood. I hope you can help me.”
“Ken, please,” said Jerry. “We’re not taking a vote here. Koller and Johnson at the desk and now you. That’s done with. I just want to stay elsewhere and I’m, I mean, I’ll never walk back in here again. This is turning into a rather bad experience.”
At this, Mr. Johnson spoke up. “There’s been a misunderstanding, sir. Mr. Nelson….”
“Jerry, whatever it is, please,” said Ken. “I’m certain we can work it out.”
“Is there a problem?” asked a man in an expensive suit. “I am Emile Koller, the manager.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Johnson,” said Jerry. “Mr. Koller, I am trying to leave this hotel and get a taxi. For the last five minutes I have been seeking assurance that a message for Mr. Anderson, who was supposed to meet me, will be delivered, and I can’t seem to get it.” “Mr. Nelson, would you come with me, please?” he said. “We would be more comfortable in my office.” “No, Mr. Koller. I do not care to be more comfortable or for anything but to be understood. If you can’t handle that, I’ll simply be going and I'll try to reach Mr. Anderson later.” He turned with his suitcase and garment bag and headed for the front door. Halfway across the lobby, he heard his name.
24 Nazar Look
Ken lowered his voice. “This is the finest hotel in the country; one of the very finest in the world. Whatever has happened, please, please allow me to take care of it. I’m at fault. I should have been here.” “Why did you just lower your voice?” Jerry asked. “Don’t they know they’re one of the finest hotels in the country; the world? Wait a minute. I think I’ve got it now. I’m the one who should be embarrassed because I don’t want to stay here. That’s it, isn’t it? Anyone who wouldn’t want to stay here somehow doesn’t know how good a hotel this is and is therefore in jeopardy of being deemed unacceptable to stay here.” “Jerry please, lower your voice. That’s not it
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w. jack savage
california, usa
wjacksavage.com
at all. There’s been some kind of misunderstanding. Let me deal with it. Let me get you checked in and I’ll see to everything else.” “Ken, why can’t I go to another hotel? What’s wrong with that?” “It’s a matter of national pride, as well. We put our winners up in the finest hotel. We take care of everything. Again, this is all my fault. I should have met you at the plane. If I had, none of this would have happened. Please, I beg you. Don’t do this.” “No, you’re right,” said Jerry. “I guess I didn’t understand. I’ll tell you what though; I need to go for a walk or something. Go ahead and have them check me in; take my bags up and everything and I’ll see you later.” “Wonderful,” he said. “Ah, but they’ll need your passport; for a copy.” “No,” Jerry said. “I’ll stop at the desk when I come back and they can make a copy then.” “Why don’t you give it to me now and I’ll get you checked in and bring it right back?” Jerry took a deep breath and looked around. When he did so, it seemed as though the entire hotel staff was watching him. “I’m going to say goodbye now, Kenneth,” he said. “I am leaving this hotel and leaving this country; now, today. Give the award to anyone you like. But if anyone tries to change my mind from this moment on until my plane gets in the air, I will call a press conference, and at that press conference I promise you that I will make you, the awards committee and this hotel wish you had never been born. Instead, here is what you will say: Mr. Nelson arrived in the country and fell ill before checking into the hotel. After being treated at a local hospital, he got on a plane and went home and will be unable to attend the awards ceremony. He asked that you, Kenneth Anderson, receive the award in his place.” “Excuse me?” said a voice from behind. Jerry had become nearly furious, and turned around to see a middle-aged woman
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holding one of his books. “Mr. Nelson?” she said, with a tentative smile. “Yes,” he said. “Could you possibly sign your book for me?” she asked. “Of course,” he said, looking for a pen. The woman held up a pen and was visibly thrilled to be in his presence. Jerry smiled, took the pen and said, “May I know your name?” “I’m Jane Haden, but could you please sign it to Harriet; my mother?” “Of course,” he said. “We’re your biggest fans,” she said, wringing her hands. “Our group took the train from Niagara to see you accept the award. Frankly, I was only hoping for a glimpse of you. I can’t believe I’m here.” “A group, you say,” he said. “Where are you from, dear?” “Sandusky, Ohio; our book club and some of our families. Most of us have never been out of the country; even here in Canada. It’s quite a thrill for us. Your writing…there’s no one like you and as I say, we’re your biggest fans. Mother isn’t feeling well or she’d be here with me. This is so nice of you.” “Not at all,” he said, handing the book back to her with a smile. “Where are you staying? Perhaps…I’d like to meet you all. I doubt many of my readers would go to such lengths.” “Oh, there’s more then just us, Mr. Nelson. But it would be so nice if you could…or we could come to you?” “Nonsense,” he said. “I have some time now if it’s convenient. May I call you Jane?” “Please.” Jerry turned back to Ken, who had watched with interest. He reached in his inside jacket pocket and pulled out his passport.
Nazar Look 25
w. jack savage
california, usa wjacksavage.com
“Ken, I, ah, could I ask you to get me registered. I’m going with Jane…oh, I’m sorry. Jane Haden, this is Kenneth Anderson. Ken is with the Awards Committee.” “How do you do?” he said. “May I ask if you were able to get enough seats for the ceremony?” “Oh,” she said, “we couldn’t afford that. But we were told it’ll be on TV here in Toronto.” “How big is your group, Mrs. Haden?” “There are eighteen of us in all.” “Mrs. Haden, on behalf of the Awards Committee, we would like all of you to be our guests at the ceremony. There’ll be a small reception at the theater afterwards. I know I join with Mr. Nelson in hoping your group can be there for that?” “Oh, I can’t believe this,” she said, with tears forming in her eyes. “Thank you so much.” “Ken, I’ll catch up with you later,” said Jerry. “I’ll see you then.” As they walked away, Kenneth was joined by Emile Koller and could hear Mrs. Haden thanking Jerry again for his gesture. “Not at all, Jane,” said Jerry. “What... what might we stop and pick up that would cheer Harriet, do you think? Does she like flowers?” As they disappeared through the doors, Kenneth sighed and asked Koller, “How did you do it?” “The bellboy told me she’d been lurking near the entrance with a copy of his book for hours. I thought it was worth a try.” “And he had the presence of mind to tell you? You might have management potential there, Koller. Thank you.” Kenneth sighed deeply and asked, “What happened? Do you know?” “I’m not sure,” he said. “I’ve already let Johnson go. He had one job; checking in the Awards recipients. He fucked it up. I haven’t decided about the girl yet, but she’s off the desk for good. Maybe it was something in her manner;
26 Nazar Look
something about showing his identification, she said.” “Yes, he didn’t want to give me his passport, either,” said Kenneth, shaking his head. “You go to New York, they grab your dick and finger our women and this penny-dreadful prick gets a guy canned over showing his ID. Fucking Americans.” He handed Koller Jerry’s passport and said, “Can you get this taken care of, Emile.” “Of course,” he said. “Leave it at the desk,” I’m sure he’ll expect to pick it up from there.” Jerry never returned to the hotel that night but was right on time for the afternoon press conference the next day. He seemed appropriately thrilled to be there, complimentary to his hosts in every way and to the city as well. That evening, he joined the other winners at the gala dinner, raved about the food without taking one bite of anything and was literally the star of the ceremony; personable to everyone, including staff, doted on by his new friends from Sandusky, Ohio, at the theater reception afterward and especially by Jane Haden’s mother, Harriet. At the private reception back at the hotel ballroom, he was glib, funny and only drank bottled water. There was no one he didn’t thank or express delight in having met. Somewhere around midnight Jerry went to the men’s room and never returned. His suitcase and garment bag were still in his room and had never been opened. Indeed, his room had never been used at all. At the desk they said he asked for his passport and left the hotel by cab just after twelve. After checking with the airline, Kenneth Anderson was told Jerry Nelson had traded in his first class return ticket for coach on the redeye to Chicago, leaving at 1:15am with a connection to Minneapolis. At Toronto International Airport, Kenneth used his VIP credentials to get through to the gates and found Jerry sitting alone and staring out onto the runways. “Hello Jerry,” he said, with a smile. Jerry stood up and smiled back, and the two shook hands. “Hi Ken. You didn’t need to see me off.”
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w. jack savage
california, usa
wjacksavage.com
“I know that, but you slipped away so abruptly I wondered what was up? You never used your room and even left your suitcase and garment bag behind. Even so you were the hit of the entire Awards ceremony this year; enough contradictions to make me curious. What’s going on?” Jerry shook his head and shrugged, “Just going home, Ken. Give my stuff to the Goodwill and apologize to the hotel for me for yesterday, would you?” He sat back down and Ken sat with him. “How many people did they fire over that deal?” “Just one that I know of; that Johnson.” “I hate these fucking things. Something always goes wrong and I wind up wishing I’d never come. I’m not really an ugly American, you know. I mean I try very hard not to be.” “What happened at check-in anyway?” He smiled and shook his head. “Enough damage has been done, don’t you think? Besides, nothing happened really. She just asked to see my ID and I... I don’t know. I just went off I guess. I was…probably just looking for an early getaway. We know you don’t like us. Frankly, I wish you’d keep this to Canadian writers. God knows you have plenty of good ones; great ones. It’s not like I deserved it.” “Where is your award anyway?” “Sandusky, Ohio by tomorrow. The Hadens are going to show the rest of their book club and then send it on to me; nice people. Can you imagine; coming up to see me accept an award, like that? I couldn’t believe it. I’ll tell you, they made it all worthwhile for me.” Jerry looked at Ken and stood up. Ken stood up too. Jerry offered his hand, which Ken took. “Thanks for everything, Ken,” he said. “I’m sorry about yesterday. I hope you get a good one next time. Oh, and thanks for what you did for those people; the Sandusky people. They were really thrilled.”
had,” he said. “Everyone thought so. We couldn’t have been luckier and you couldn’t have been more deserving. I just wish you had enjoyed yourself more.” “If I had the capacity to enjoy myself, Ken, I wouldn’t be staying home creating other worlds and other people for strangers to enjoy, would I? For what it’s worth, I enjoyed acting like a deserving, witty, personable award recipient today and tonight; for you and for me. And if you were responsible for getting a guy fired; probably a guy with a family for just ‘stepping away’ for a moment yesterday, you’d have stayed with bottled water, too. This is why people like me should just stay home, which is what I plan to do in the future. That is until the next time someone calls me up and starts telling me how wonderful I am and starts using words like ‘honor’ and ‘deserving’ and all that. And I get excited and say yes. And then I get there and realize I am who I am, and who I am is a person who should just stay home. But it’s okay. There’s no need to feel sorry for me. I create wonderful worlds with wonderful people in them. I’m just not one of them. The writing should speak for itself, not me.” They called Jerry’s plane. “I’d ask if you could see if you could get Johnson his job back, but I suppose with these big hotels, an example has to be made. Good luck with the Blue Jays this summer. Thanks again.” Ken watched Jerry disappear through the doors of the gate, and headed back up the concourse. He would see that Jerry’s suitcase and garment bag were shipped back to his Minneapolis home and would include a letter, thanking him for his participation and congratulating him on his award. He’d speak with Emile Koller at the hotel but he knew, as did Jerry, that someone had to go down for his behavior. Ken also knew that he had been the one at fault. If he’d met Jerry off the plane as he had planned, none of that would have happened. Perhaps Jerry needn’t have been reminded that life would never be as good for him as in the stories he created. In the end though, maybe he did.
“Jerry, you were the best winner we’ve ever
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Nazar Look 27
muhyiddin ibn arabi
(1165-1240)
Wonder Wonder, A garden among the flames! My heart can take on any form: A meadow for gazelles, A cloister for monks, For the idols, sacred ground, Ka'ba for the circling pilgrim, The tables of the Torah, The scrolls of the Quran. My creed is Love; Wherever its caravan turns along the way, That is my belief, My faith.
28 Nazar Look
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li po
(701 - 762)
Down From The Mountain As down Mount Emerald at eve I came, The mountain moon went all the way with me. Backward I looked, to see the heights aflame With a pale light that glimmered eerily. A little lad undid the rustic latch As hand in hand your cottage we did gain, Where green limp tendrils at our cloaks did catch, And dim bamboos o'erhung a shadowy lane. Gaily I cried, "Here may we rest our fill!" Then choicest wines we quaffed; and cheerily "The Wind among the Pines" we sang, until A few faint stars hung in the Galaxy. Merry were you, my friend: and drunk was I, Blissfully letting all the world go by.
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Nazar Look 29
alan dennis harris
michigan, usa
owlsnest.proboards.com
First Time for Everything I walked around the block to Grandpa’s house. I’m glad he lives so close. It sure helps on days when I’m bored with nothing to do. Doing nothing at Grandpa’s is a whole lot better than doing nothing when Mom’s around. Grandpa at least has the courtesy to say “Don’t touch that!” Mom would rather say, “Could you please give me a hand, Honey,” all day long. Besides, my so-called friends down the street had a sleep-over and didn’t invite me. If I’m going to be unpopular I might as well be at Grandpa’s house. We can be unpopular together. The first signs of spring were all around me. There were Robins searching for worms and the sound of lawnmowers in the air replaced the sound of snowblowers. When I got to his place I found him in the garage, just where Dad said I’d find him—putzing around. Grandpa was finally put away his snow shovel. He hung it on his garage wall next to the leaf rake. I quietly followed him around until he noticed me. “Don’t you have something else to do?” Grandpa asked. “Nope.” “Well,” he said. “I need to get my lawn mower out of the garage today.” “OK—need some help,” I asked?
did. “Nobody in middle school drives a car,” I reminded him. “I don’t have a license to drive.” Grandpa shook his head. “Since I don’t have a license to listen to your whining, you are on your own, soldier.” “But...” I said. “But nothing,” he replied. “There’s a first time for everything, including but not limited to driving a car. Listen up, Soldier. Turn the key in the ignition. Place your foot gently on the brake. Move the stick shift to R for Reverse…and slowly lift your head out of your butt…I mean your lead foot off the brake.” “Left foot?” I asked. “Right foot!...Lead Butt,” Grandpa growled. “The left foot is for the clutch.” “What clutch?” I asked. “The clutch on my old Ford,” he replied. “I forgot…this is an automatic.”
He smiled. Grandpa reached into his pocket and pulled out a single key. He tossed the key to me and I caught it. “Good catch.”
I nervously climbed into the car. “Do you remember which pedal is the brake or did you forget that too?” I asked.
I pointed at the car key hooked on the wall near the front of the garage and replied, “Where do you want me to stick this?”
“The one that doesn’t look as used,” he answered.
Grandpa smiled. He giggled to himself. “What’s so funny?” I asked. “Stick it in the ignition, genius, and back the car out of the garage,” Grandpa answered. “Then I can get my lawn mower out.” I didn’t see this coming. I’ll bet his glass eye
30 Nazar Look
“You’ve never taught Driver’s Education, have you?” I said. “No,” he replied. “I don’t have a license for that either.” “Wait a minute,” I said. I concentrated on placing my right foot over the least worn pedal. I had to stretch just a little for my foot to reach what I hoped was the brake. “What do I do with my left
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alan dennis harris
michigan, usa
owlsnest.proboards.com foot?” “Well, obviously—you tap along to the music,” he answered. I took a deep breath and turned the key. I jumped as the radio started blaring out loud. “Obviously, you need a hearing aid!” I shouted over the sound of the radio. “What?” Grandpa asked. I grabbed the shift control and moved it from P to R. The car shook. It stayed in its spot, but it shook. I shook a little too. I looked over at Grandpa and I was pretty sure he was shaking also. “Let me get the H…E…double hockey sticks out of here!” said Grandpa as he limped quickly out of the crowded garage. As he stepped out of the way…by a good ten feet, he shouted, “Ease the right foot off the brake!” I did. I was scared. I took another deep breath and I eased. I slowly eased my right foot off what I hoped was the brake and the car backed up. For a moment in time, I was one with 2000 pounds of metal. We traveled together, this old car and me, about 35 feet down the driveway. I looked up and saw Grandpa chasing me and waving his hands. “Put your foot back on the brake!” he screamed. I did. I did it a little too hard, maybe because Grandpa startled me or maybe because there is a first time for everything…including but not limited to braking. The car came to a sudden and jerky stop. As Grandpa ran up to me I simply looked around and smiled, hoping everyone in the neighborhood was out to watch me drive for the first time. But no one was there. The street was empty. There was not one friend, not one stranger, not one stupid sister who witnessed my first time behind the wheel. “P! P! Put it in P!” Grandpa shouted. “I did!” I shouted back. Then I turned the car off and tossed him his key back. I opened the car door and stepped out. “What’s next?” I asked. Grandpa smiled and said, “A whole world of firsts, Soldier.” We started walking back to the
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garage and he asked, before?”
“Ever push a lawn mower
“I mowed your lawn last year and the year before that and the year before that,” I answered. “My mistake,” he admitted. “Behind the wheel of my car you looked like my knucklehead son. I don’t remember that he had ever asked to help mow my lawn before.” “Dad might surprise you,” I said. “Remember, there’s a first time for everything.” “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” said Grandpa. “When I die, I’ll be surprised if he cares.” This was the first mow of the year. We took turns pushing the mower. When I wasn’t pushing I was picking up sticks and branches that had fallen during the winter. There were some left over leaves that had to be raked up from last fall. Grandpa reminisced about the olden days when you could burn your leaves in the streets. The smell of burning leaves would fill the neighborhoods. Today, the smell of burning leaves would bring the Fire Department. I put the leaves in a bag to go to a dump where people can smell them there. I also picked up a couple old newspapers that never made it to Grandpa’s porch and candy wrappers—mostly Kit Kats. After we finished with the yard I asked, “Can I move the car back?” Grandpa gave my question some serious thought. Then he asked a serious question. “Do you think you’ll knock down my garage?” “No,” I answered seriously. “But, can I wait until one of my friends walk by?” Grandpa looked up and down the street. There was no one in sight. He then looked at me, or maybe through me, passed me, maybe in my past, or somewhere in my future. I wasn’t sure what he saw but I know his glass eye saw something. “I see,” he said. “What do you see?” I asked. He nodded his head and said, “I see you driving around the block.” “No way!” I shouted. “Hop in, Soldier—but give me time to get my
Nazar Look 31
alan dennis harris
michigan, usa
owlsnest.proboards.com
seat belt on.”
down-right scared to the D-word…death.
I looked up and down the block. Disappointed that I didn’t see anyone I said, “But there’s nobody watching.”
“I don’t know if I am scared to fail or scared to succeed,” I confessed.
“Look on the bright side,” replied Grandpa. “Do you see any innocent bystanders?” “Nope,” I answered. “See any police?” “Nope.” “See your mom or dad?” “Nope.” “Then let’s roll,” ordered Grandpa. I looked over at him as his glass eye widened, watching as I turned the key. The old car started right up again. Grandpa sat grinding what teeth he had left and braced both arms upon the dashboard. “Thanks,” I said as I gently put the shift control in R and eased my foot off the brake. “Don’t mention it,” he said. “No, I really mean it,” I replied as the car rolled backwards into the street. “I really meant it, too,” he said. “We’re both dead meat if we get caught.” I put my foot back on the brake and moved the shift control to D. “D is for Drive, right?” I asked. “For now it is, unless we crash,” Grandpa said. “D is for Dummy if we get caught. D is for Death which we may wish for if we get caught.” “So…D is for—don’t get caught,” I said. “A letter to live by,” replied Grandpa.
“There’s a first time for everything,” Grandpa said. “Now step on the gas pedal and get me around the block—the grass will not cut itself.” So I gave it gas for the grass. The car lunged forward. Grandpa just stared out the windshield. As the car chugged along he quietly held on to the dashboard. For the first time in my life I was in charge—of 2,000 pounds of moving metal. As we came to the end of the block I brought the car to a halt. The stop sign seemed satisfied that somebody finally did what it asked. But up until that moment only Grandpa and the big red Stop Sign knew that it was me behind the wheel. The car was easy to steer, easier than I thought. I turned to the left and decided to drive by my best friend, Adam Barker’s house. Most cars go faster than they should through our neighborhood. I have never seen anyone get a ticket for speeding. I guess people are used to fast cars. I wondered if I would be noticed for driving slow. I sure hoped so. As the car got close to Adam’s front yard I knew I was driving slow enough to be noticed. It was perfect. It was better than perfect. In front of Adam’s house were Adam and his little brother Nicky along with a group of kids invited from school. As the car inched closer I could feel the butterflies filling my stomach, trying desperately to get out. “Get down,” I shouted. “What?” “Grandpa, shouted.
please
hide!
Get
down!”
I
So there we sat in the car in front of Grandpa’s house. I looked over at him almost hoping that he would end this adventure and tell me to pull back into the driveway. His glass eye returned the stare.
I didn’t have to tell him again. Grandpa bravely let go of the dashboard and laid down on the front seat.
He whispered, “What are you afraid of, Soldier?”
The speed limit around here was 25 miles per hour. Grandpa’s car rolled up to the Barker home at about 13 miles an hour. I smiled as I felt
That was a good question. Are butterflies in your stomach a sign that you are afraid? If so, I was
32 Nazar Look
“Just like hiding from the Japanese and your grandmother,” whispered Grandpa.
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alan dennis harris
michigan, usa
owlsnest.proboards.com the stares of Adam and the other kids still there from the sleep-over—George, Mark and Bobby. Little Nicky just ignored me. I purposely did not stare back. I tried to look like an everyday normal middleschooler driving his Grandpa’s car. But out of the corner of my eye I caught their stares. I have heard adults talk about their one shining moment. I was sure as sure can be that this was mine. “Did they see you?” asked Grandpa. “They saw me,” I replied. “All eyes were on me and all mouths were open—except Nicky’s. Thank you, Grandpa.” “Like I said,” he said, “Don’t mention it.” “This has got to be my one shining moment!”
“What else?” “I’m waving back,” Grandpa whispered. “Now keep the wheel straight, Soldier. We’re almost out of the woods.” We traveled far enough that Grandpa finally announced, “We’re in the clear.” I popped my head up just enough to see that we had somehow not crashed and it was time to pull into Grandpa’s driveway. I pulled the car all the way up and into the safety of the garage. “Did they see me?” I asked. “Your knucklehead father stood there with his mouth open,” answered Grandpa. “It was a beautiful sight.” “Are we in trouble?” I asked.
“Let’s hope not,” Grandpa replied. “Now step on it, I have to go to the bathroom.”
Grandpa smiled and said, “Since they did not see you, we are not in trouble for letting you drive.”
“Oh, oh,” I muttered. Another one of Grandpa’s bathroom problems would definitely ruin my one shiny moment. My right foot stepped on it. The car sped up to 19 miles an hour. I rounded the corner and back down our street. “Oh, oh,” I muttered again.
“But won’t they think it was strange that your car drove you around the block with no one behind the wheel?” I asked.
Grandpa popped his head up and said, “What do you mean—Oh, oh?” Up ahead a van was heading our way. I recognized it. “Oh, oh means I know that van up ahead.” Grandpa’s glass eye focused on the mini-van moving towards us. “Quick, get down,” Grandpa shouted. “What?” I said. Just as I noticed Mom’s van, pulling into our driveway I laid myself down on the front seat. “Don’t panic,” whispered Grandpa. “Act like everything is normal.” So that’s exactly what I did. As Grandpa sat in the passenger seat of his car smiling at Mom and Dad, I carefully drove passed our house at 19 miles an hour as I laid down across the front seat.
“Let me think about that,” he said. “Your knucklehead father already treats me like a stranger, so I must be strange.” “That’s true,” I said. “And it would not be the first time he ever accused me of driving with no one behind my wheel,” Grandpa explained. “We’re fine, Soldier. At ease.” I took a deep breath and thought about what we did. I thought about it over and over. “We did it!” I said. “We did it! Do you think my friends will ever forget?” “Nosireebob,” Grandpa replied. “They saw what they saw. They may punch up the story a bit. Years from now they’ll say you were only 12 years old.” “I am 12 years old!—and today and today only, the coolest kid on the block.” “There’s a first time for everything,” Grandpa reminded me. “Now let’s mow some grass.”
“What’s going on?” I asked. “They’re waving,” Grandpa answered.
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Nazar Look 33
dan rubins
nevada, usa
Dan Rubins is a B.F.A. grad from the University of Nevada, Reno. He has a penchant for single malt scotch, and autumn in the West. He likes the way brown sugar is like wet sand, and the smell of gasoline.
How to Fall in Love
Sticks and Bones
Wrap palm with hers, Touch thumb over top Of silken flesh.
Stick girl, she was called – Ankles that matched wrists, Knees that matched elbows; Beanpole dame, two by four.
Match pupil for pupil, Iris for brown iris. Shove out name from between lips. Admire the curve of hers as she answers back. Go home. Have a drink. Think of all the things you'll never say. Have another drink.
Twenty-four weeks in, Stick girl’s shaped like a branch – Thick and solid for nourishing; For perching; for holding up. With my mangled roots I rest on her strength, But I fear my sideways growth Will one day drag us down. She strikes in me A feeling like scaling a redwood– I mustn’t look down Only pull. A feeling that our roots, Now entangled Wont come undone But for a hole in the earth. A feeling that I must grow; Must suck the pure light; Must stick to the straight And narrow.
34 Nazar Look
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dan rubins
nevada, usa
Migratory Pattern of the Mid-20’s Family Vagabond They said if I was strong enough to flap, then I was strong enough to glide; to fly; to wave my own feather. I glue my new nest together with sweat, and blood from knuckles that have been scraped by doorframes and hidden staples in box springs. Every box roams from the center of my new hardwood to its right and natural place in the chaos. I’ve always thought maple made a nice floor, dense but with give, for incubating my life, But Is my beak strong enough to crack the grain for myself?
Waiting Every squeaky-metal springing latch of the hydraulic door from the labor department is a hopeful let down about news of your arrival – The scene in the movie where the father comes out in a nurse’s smock, takes off the silly hat and says “it’s a boy!” and everyone hoorahs and hazzahs and gathers around. But it’s not a boy yet – it’s a breached little body Coming butt-first into a head-first world. It’s a c-section, but the only section we’re seeing is the waiting room and We have Nothing To do But Wait.
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Nazar Look 35
austen roye
texas, usa
Born and currently residing in Cleburne, Texas, a small town just south of the Dallas/Ft. Worth area. Twenty-three years old, author of numerous poetry collections, two novels and a series of creative non-fiction collections. Previously published numerous pieces through Chrysalis Press, Vagabondage Press, Lummox Press and The Battered Suitcase, among other independent literary magazines. Held jobs as a projectionist, waiter, copy boy, grocery bagger, bookseller and bank teller. Austen works, drinks and writes. Big fan of independent presses, street art, bookshops and DIY work ethics.
Push Down & Turn (excerpt) My 2011 work is a collection of experimental poems designed to convey an ongoing narrative, a plot in and of itself; one ongoing thought process of a character trapped in his own story and writing his way out. One piece rolls into the next without the interruptions things like titles and page breaks create. The collection was written in a manner void of all
so it seems the more I thought about it the more I realized it wouldn’t show if I kept trying to pry it up out of me so I sat back and thought about houses and taxes and groceries thought about payday loans and pawn shops and elevators thought about anything but this line or this piece (if that’s what this is) thought about the hours spent upright at this desk in this house or the other and the way things were before it was so cluttered and heavy with dust and notebooks the circled stain to my right from years of so many glasses on so many nights underweight pale drunk always one line away from something great and now this room and heavy imprints
36 Nazar Look
literary restraint and, unlike most poetry collections (if that’s the category it falls into), compiled to make each individual piece a part of a larger story, running together instead of standing alone as individual works, many of which were published by various literary magazines throughout the year. The title of the collection, Push Down & Turn was taken from the advice the lid of my Prozac bottle gives me each morning before heading out to punch the clock.
of ink on top, drawers stuffed with scraps of this and that hoarded away for all these months serving their own senseless purposes such as they are or aren’t… either way as for today I’ve unearthed something of value perhaps not considerable value but alive nonetheless and it testifies to the meaning of the dull unmoving moments that define the gaps between the action (if that’s what it is) and age-old look-back remember-whens that come in the form of stains and dust stains and dust stains and dust to shape the now. in all honesty, this story isn’t much of a
story at all, really, but it’ll have to do because this is all there is. the characters are important, the setting is important, the time period is important, but nothing is as important as the way in which this information is delivered to the reader. here begins the mechanics of art and therefore the end of it. as for me, I’ll stick with what I know, the only way I know how. “write what you know and nothing you don’t…” etc. etc. on and on, generation to generation. imagine if that rule wasn’t a rule, the way this story isn’t a story; professional chefs writing screenplays, preachers tending bars, acrobatic lawyers flipping through hoops in Saturday-night circus tents, window washers taming lions. there, that vision alone could disprove the write-what-you-know theory. then again, anything I say would do the same because
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austen roye
texas, usa
I know nothing.
I’m leaving.
also, no matter what I label this or anything, story or not, someone will say different and someone will agree and no one will be right or wrong. someone will find meaning where there is none, which is lucky for me.
my view from the window is in actuality my wall before me, desk in front of me, no wheels but keys rattling at my fingertips, no wonder the backseats, no horn but my own breathing and even no wonder breathless moments that’s barely there. of sad-song thought.
ask the ghost poets if they have any idea what they really meant, if they really knew exactly what they were talking about when they wrote long, scrawling lines about strawberry stones or cobweb bridges. or, leave it as it is and depict it as you see fit, because that is the point of the pointlessness, the meaning of the meaninglessness.
the last-minute marriages, no wonder the fear of moments spent alone.
the drunk from the last trip, he’s there with his wife and she’s bringing him drinks from downstairs. he’s shouting, “stop the train!” and they’re all laughing along with him but most everyone else is annoyed. I drink quietly and move back to my own car, take my seat.
I am not nearly alone as I pretend to be.
it’s Friday;
no wonder, no wonder.
no wonder the carsick years, days of ear-study, memorizing rhythm in an earth-tone room, tapping a size nine shoe with the toe-holes.
we’ll all be sorry tomorrow.
no wonder uniforms directing traffic in cities here and there, fast forward we make a stop, the drinking man slings a films of blurred moving groups of people, so, in a way this is a story bag sped-up streaks of headlights on midnight after all; over his shoulder, staggers downstairs with highways. the staged vintage art films, his the planned history of contemporary it’s about you and nobody, sunglasses on; he’s talking dirty and visuals. me and somebody else, life clinging to in its entirety and death in the rail as he steps down. he makes it, no wonder our sock its pinhole, everything and he’s gone drawer secrets. the emptiness of and we go on without him. his wife walks everything. alongside it can’t be this heavy, shaking her head. can’t all be drudgery, lucky for me also, the fact can’t all be that same bored that a story like this can Ahead, that’s where landscape only end in one way… I’m going. staring at itself and back at you. and suddenly I’m telling my wall a story it’s already we can’t all cry the I’m back home; heard before. way they did abandoned railroad town with in 1945. sparks on rails, thousand of dollars gradually worth of flattened pennies discarded bouncing back, can’t all scream fifty-page poems on tracks, piles of wood blocks devoured to thousands packed in galleries, by centuries of wheels. walking alone after the storm blew can’t all walk into the dark with through town with a one-way ticket, eyes wide open, can’t find meaning I’m waiting for the train, on to the next sets of eyes turned in what’s been presented, can’t all be it’s coming to take me upwards, fascinated by supermarket shelves, to the city. can’t all look up at big-city ceilings. seeing it all pass overhead and looking Downstairs by the dining car they’ll be out over the cattle-fields, roads spiraling walked home, sat down, began selling beer, wine and spirits and it will miles in every direction and wondering. to write and stopped. all be severely overpriced but I’ll buy a couple of small bottles like last time and no wonder we can’t help but strive when the light’s just right, sit in the observation car, glass domed, for headache-mornings face first in I’ll leave like lightning and windows for walls, and sip slowly ‘til it apartment toilets. no wonder the allburn just as bright. tingles and the world is something worth day sleeps on bare mattresses. no looking at again. wonder the smoldering centerpieces you’ll on bar-top tables. see. see, even when I speak briefly of home I move on to the next scene where no wonder the pair-ups, that is why it exists at all.
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Nazar Look 37
edmund spencer Travels in Circassia, Krim Tartary, &c. (III) LETTER II. Island of Czallokoz - Hungarian peasants - Comorn Beautiful scenery - Gran - First impressions of Pest Hotel - Count Szechenyi - National Museum – Improvements in the town - Environs. A short distance after leaving Presburg, the Danube divides into two great arms, and forms the island of Czallokoz, twenty-four leagues in length, and fourteen in breadth. It is considered very fertile; and the multitude of villages scattered over it, with the agricultural fields and numerous flocks and herds, impart to the landscape a very pleasing effect. Still, as the whole surface is flat, the monotony of the scenery would not be sufficiently relieved, were it not occasionally broken by the endless water-mills, together with the heavily-laden boats drawn against the stream by fifty or sixty horses; and these being driven by some of the wildest-looking human beings in Europe, form one of the most novel features on the Danube. The Hungarian peasant, it is true, advances many and strong claims to originality of costume, yet in this respect he is entirely eclipsed by the Danube boatmen, whose attire consists of trousers as wide as petticoats, coarse hemp tunics, and monstrous broadbrimmed hats; while their legs and feet are left exposed alike to the burning sun, and the rudest blasts of heaven. But it is the wild expression of their swarthy, weather-beaten countenances, aided by a profusion of sable hair streaming over their shoulders, and the loud howling chorus with which they cheer their horses, that imparts to them an appearance so savage, that you might deem yourself transported a thousand miles from civilized Europe. Leaving Raab to the right, we soon after passed Comorn, the principal town of a comitat, still strongly fortified, and justly entitled to the epithet of the "maiden fortress;" for, during the whole of the wars and invasions to which Hungary was exposed, it was never captured. Here the arms of the Danube unite, and being increased by the accession of the deep waters of the Waag, form a superb stream, which hurried us on with great velocity till we arrived at Gran, a very considerable town, and capital of a comitat. The noble edifice now erecting on a rock overhanging the town, is intended to be the residence of the archbishop, primate of Hungary, one of the wealthiest and most influential magnats in the kingdom. The scenery now exhibited on the banks of the Danube, was superior in grandeur to any I had seen
38 Nazar Look
since leaving Vienna : mountains of porphyry rose up on either side, adorned with ruined castles and convents ; and as our river had become swelled by the waters of the Gran, its already contracted channel seemed scarcely sufficient to contain the foaming tide : there was the fine old town of Wissegrad, with its many towers and spires rearing their stately forms among the clustering vines on the hills ; while elevated on a lofty peak proudly rose, in all the splendour of decayed magnificence, the royal residence of the kings of Hungary. Then, after passing a succession of amphitheatres, formed by the windings of this most serpentine of rivers, a few inconsiderable towns and villages, and a perfect city of water mills, we cast anchor at Pest, having completed our journey in fifteen hours. As my Hungarian friends at Vienna had been most eloquent in praise of the beauty of the towns of Buda and Pest, they had become in some degree familiar to my imagination; and I candidly confess, after making a few deductions on the score of national vanity, the first coup d'oeil fully answered my expectations. On one side you have a most imposing view of the fine old city of Buda, swept by the vast stream which here, some what impeded in its progress by a majestic curve, swells into a foaming surge. From its banks, the proud city gradually ascends the lofty mountain amidst the varied foliage of terraced gardens; the whole crowned by the citadel and the splendid palace of the Palatinate, which increase, in no inconsiderable degree, the loveliness of the surrounding landscape. Pest, on the opposite bank, has not the advantage of a commanding situation, being built on a plain; yet, when viewed in detail, it is an infinitely more beautiful town, and the public and private edifices are of a superior class. This is principally owing to the patriotic feeling which has lately prompted the Hungarian magnats to embellish their own capital instead of the imperial Vienna; and while rambling through the interior of the town, or along the banks of the Danube, we are constantly reminded, by the frequent occurrence of fine modern buildings, of the wealth and taste of the inhabitants. Should this laudable spirit of improvement continue, it is not improbable that Pest and Buda, which we may consider as one town, will ere long eclipse Vienna: the climate is more salubrious, the situation far superior in a commercial point of view, and now that steam navigation is established, it has every prospect of becoming a flourishing port. Add to which, it
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edmund spencer is the metropolis of a kingdom, with a rich patriotic nobility, a population of nearly * fourteen millions, and a soil unequalled in Europe for fertility. In short, this fine country is now commencing a new epoch, having been hitherto kept back by the unnatural rule of a stepmother; but steam navigation has given her an accession of strength and vigour, that bids fair to place her in a short time at a high point in the scale of European civilization.
(to be continued)
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Nazar Look 39
valiulla yakub
- assassinated
Photoshop - Valiulla Yakub, Tatarstan's Deputy Mufti
tatarstan - july 19, 2012
(yakupov)
40 Nazar Look
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