BAŞ KABÎMÎZDA ON THE COVER
Tejaswini Kale Photo: Glenn Xavier
NAZAR LOOK Attitude and culture magazine of Dobrudja’s Crimean Tatars Tomrîğa Kîrîm Tatarlarîñ turuşmamuriyet meğmuwasî ISSN: 2069-4784 www.nazar-look.com nazar.look@mail.com Constanta, Romania FOUNDER & EDITOR-IN-CHIEF BAŞ-NAŞIR Taner Murat EDITORS NAŞIRLER Emine Ómer Uyar Polat Jason Stocks COMPUTER GRAPHICS SAYAR SÎZGAĞÎSÎ Elif Abdul Hakaan Kalila (Hakan Calila) CREATIVE CONSULTANTS ESER KEÑEŞÇÍSÍ M. Islamov
Copyright reverts back to contributors upon publication. The full issue is available for viewing online from the Nazar - Look website. For submission guidelines and further information, please stop by www.nazar-look.com
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2 elmara mustafa (mustafayeva) crimea Terek 3 şakir selim Akmesğit bazarînda 4 taner murat scythia minor-little crimea Kókten sesler - Temúçin (XIII) 6 john patrick hill california, usa Obsidian and Diamonds Obsit men Elmaz taşlarî 8 bhadauria manish singh gujarat, india The Democracy: Incorporated 14 aiysha jebali scotland, uk Fighting for Breath - Solîk úşún şabalanmak 18 tom sheehan massachusetts, usa Midwife Legacy 22 tejaswini kale maharashtra, india Interview Symphony - Simfoniya Poetry The Hanging Avidya 28 abay qunanbayuli Book of Words (I)
34 thomas hardy Transformations At a Lunar Eclipse The Two Soldiers 36 deborah finkelstein massachusetts, usa Toddler Ode to Echinacea Divorce Court New Year's Eve The Shepard Protects 38 edmund spencer Travels in Circassia, Krim Tartary, &c. (VII) 40 aziz ahmet crimea Photoshop - Marmoset Inhabitant of Yalta Kazka Zoo
CONTRIBUTORS MEMBALAR Ahmed Aziz Ahmet Deepak Deborah Finkelstein John Patrick Hill Aiysha Jebali Tejaswini Kale Thomas Hardy Elmara Mustafa (Mustafayeva) John-William Noble Bhadauria Manish Singh Tom Sheehan Glenn Xavier
Nazar Look 1
Terek Ómír – bo ğenk tuwul, ómír – zalim oyîn, Kók kuşagîn yollar ya da şaytan toyîn… Bo tek saga baglî, seníñ álemíñe Seníñ sóník-sónmez íşkí alewíñe! Tek men takdiríme karşî şîktîm aman, Baş egmedím oga. Geşer de bo zaman. Deren yukulardan uyandîrdîm bahtnî, Ózím elleríme aldîm bo saf tahtnî Kar boranlar íşínde gúl kibí aştîm, Kelgenge, geşkenge nurlarîmnî şaştîm, Kara dertní biyaz kuwanş íle wurdîm, Yúz kere ğîgîldîm, yúz bír kere turdîm. Bíl, her kastalîknîñ óz ilajî da bar, Renklí hayal kúşúnden ğîgîla duwar, Amma oga sabîr, temíz íşanş kerek, Çúnkí tek ğarîktan ósíp şîga terek! 23.11.2012
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Akmesğit bazarînda Akmesğitníñ bazarînda kaynay adam deryasî, Bírí ala, bírí sata takan-tukan keryasîn. Bír soy millet bo bazarda, hepísí para peşínde, Bútún internasional aluw-satuw íşínde. Dew kewdelí gurği tura: kartal burun, çot sakal, Tízíp koygan karşîsînda bír ğemidan portakal. "Dorogoy" diy, "morogoy" diy, muşteríní aldata, Gurğistanda ateş yana, o Kîrîmda mal sata. Azerler men ermeniyler ğan beríp ğan alganda, Ğanîm-ğanîm topraklarî ğenkte viran bolganda, Óz ğurtunî taşlap ketken bo "delovoy" herífler Akmesğitníñ bazarînda dollar deñíştíreler. Ğemge toygan koraz kibí kîrmîzî bet bír çeçen Altîn sata gizlí-kapak, o da ğurtundan geşken. Bo bazarda osetin de, abhazî da aylana, Ey, sen, dúnya! Hepísí para kazîgîna baylana. Ayîp tuwul bazarlarga şíngeneler tolganî, Bo zawallî millet bilmiy Vatannîñ ne bolganîn. Akmesğitníñ bazarînda tíledím Ak-Taalyadan: "Milletímníñ ewlatlarîn sakla bonday beladan!"
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Kókten sesler Temúçin (XIII) Bodonğar Muñgak ínísín sagînîp karamaga şîkkan Bugay Katagîy akasî, "Bo bolsa-bolsa mutlak Onan Múrenníñ aşa şayîrîndadîr" dep, aşaga dogrî ğol aldî. Múrenní boylap, "Şonday-bonday atka míníp ğúrgen, şonday-bonday bír kíşí..." dep, úyúyden, her kíşíden, haywanîndan-kuşundan soraştîrîp kete. Karay-karay, karay-karay Túñgelík Kurakan şayîrîna kóşíp kelgen bólíkníñ awuluna da yetíşíp bara. Bo yaklarda tîpkî seníñ aytkanîñday, bonday bírewsí bar. - dep şîga şo bólíkníñ kíşílerí. - Şonday-bonday, badiy bet bír ğaş mî? - dep soray Bugay Katagîy. - Îhî! Ána, şonday. - diyler. - Kara ğallî şal atî míngen bírsí mí? dep soray Bugay Katagîy. - Degeníñdiy bírsí - diyler. - Atnîñ sîrtî kotîrlî, súyúlí de kesík, yarî súyúllí bír at. - dep sîzîp bere Bugay Katagîy. - Kíşísí men, atî man, seníñ bergenleríñe şîgaramîz. - diyler. - Tokîşa, bek tokîşa. - dep aytalar. - Katînda bír kartşagayî da bardîr. Hergún kúneş kaynatkanda bízden geşíp kîmîzîn íşer. - dep yardîmlarî tiygeníne kuwanalar. - Ka ka-yerde? Ka-yerde otîra bo kíşí? Úyúne toralatsañîz! - dep kuwanmaga başlay Bugay Katagîy da. - Aaa... Bonî sorasañ, bílmiymíz. diyler. - Kayda konîp ğatkanîndan kaberímíz yok. - diyler. - Bízde sáde kîmîzîn íşíp, sóyín
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baskanşîk, akşam ústí şîgîp kete. - diyler. Obírlerí men tokîştîrsañ aşîkkóz bírsí aralarîndan şîgîp, şay dedí: - Yakînlarda íş kóríp turadîr. Mína, ánaw yaktan karağel wurganda kîş boraganî gibí uşup kelgen túylerní-túklerní kóresíñ mí? Ána, ána! Kîş karînday keliyatîr, da. Onîñ kartşagayî atîlîp ayîrgan yeşílbaşlarîndan bolsa kerek. Başka kartşagaylî yok, bo yakta. Kórmedík. Bo máállerde şîgîp keletan. Beklep tur bír tînîş, şúndí awnî kapap kelír. Bo máálde keletan. Kesík bír aradan soñ, Túñgelík Kurakannîñ óz betínden, şayîr aşasîna túşúp, bír kíşíníñ keliyatîrganîn kórdíler. Bíraz yakîn keliyatîrganda, yetíşír-yetíşmez Bugay Katagîy akasî Bodonğarnî tanîp aldî. Kuwana-kuwana atîn abdîrtîp karşîsîna şîktî. - Íním, bek sagîndîm sení, kardaşîm! - dep. - Men de sagîndîm sení, Bugay akam, men de! - dedí Bodonğar da. - Túşlerímní ğoklap tura edíñ. Sóyínsóyín túşúme kelíp kona edíñ, íním. - dep súrttí Bugay Katagîy torlanîp kalgan ekí kózín. - Árúwsúñ mí? Ka-tesíñ? Árúwler mí, sawlar mî, akam alar? - soradî Bodonğar. - Akañ alarnî ğalbartma, Bodonğar! Bolganî bolîp geştí. Endí, ka-tiyík? Anamîznî seslemiy, úyretíp taşlaganlarîn atlap yañgîştîk. Yapkanlarîmîzdan bek utanamîz. Sen kíşkenesíñ, ya. Bízní bír kere bagîşlamak zorîndasîñ, íním. "Ínímízní alîp kel!" dep ğíberdíler. Sení úyge alîp kaytaman, başka şáreñ yok! - Keldím, Bugay akam, keldím. - razî boldî Bodonğar. Bugay Katagîy ínísí men bonday etíp tabîşkan soñ, onî katîna alîp, ekewí de wakît kaybetmiy Onan Múrenníñ óz betníñ ğónelíşín tuttular. Aka-kardaş talaşîr, atka mínse hakklaşîr.
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www.tanermurat.com Kesím 26 Ne mañlaylî, ne súyúllí Ğolda, Bugay Katagîy alddan, ínísí de, Bodonğar, bírkaş adîm artta kalîp, keteler. Bír máálde Bodonğar, arttan, akasîna: - Akam, akam! Kewde yakîşîr kuyruklî, mañlaylî, urba yakîşîr eteklí, yakalî. - dedí. Akasîndan ne "Dogrî", ne "Yañgîş" ğewabî keldí. Bo sózlerní añlamay kalgan Bugay Katagîy, ne değegín bílmegení sebep, índemedí. Başîn aylandîrmadan, ğolîna karay berdí. Bír máálden Bodonğar, taa da akasîn artîndan: - Kewde yakîşîr kuyruklî, mañlaylî, akam. Urba yakîşîr eteklí, yakalî. - dedí. Akîlî şo sózlerníñ manasîna ğetmiyğe, aka Bugay Katagîy gene eşítmegen kíşí bolîp, taa da bír laf kaytar-almay kaldî. Ána, ğoldan kete-kete, Bodonğar arasîra, arttan, aldda ğúrgen akasîna şo sózlerní ayta bere. Soñînda Bugay Katagîy akasîn túñkúldettí şîktî: Kîşnîñ ayazînda akîlîñnî suwuklatkansîñ mî, ne? Aytağak bolsañ aytawuy, aymayğak bolsañ pítír, endí! Míyímní aşayatîrsîñ! Akasîn kîzdîrgan eken. Bír máálge kadar Bodonğar susup kaldî. - Bugay abiy, senden bírşiy sorasam bolîr mî? - dep başladî gene, Bodonğar. - Sora, bakalîm, Bodonğar! - Sen, kîmîz íşílgende kartî, sápírí sayîlmay, tógerekliy sîrasî man íşílsín dep eşíttíñ mí, heş? - Îhî, eşíttím. Kórdím, bírem. - Añlatsî terakay, maga da! Bo ne píşím ádetler eken, akam? Kayday ádetler, bo? Bonlar barabarlîk ádetlerí. İnsanlîknîñ eñ eskí eteklí ádetlerídír.
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İnsanlarnîñ arasînda ayîrîlîk tanîlmay. Herkez bír bolîp yaşay. Yapîlağak íşler túz sîra man yapîlîr. Ána, kîmîz íşmesíne kelgende de, hep şonday, túz sîra man íşílír. Onlar başka insanlarga yamanlîk yapmasîn úyrenmedíler, taa. Eskíden bútún insanlar bonday etíp yaşay ekenler. İnsanlar sáde tuwanîñ yaratkan awun awlap, ğemíş men şegírdegín ğîyîp, aralarînda kawga-tmiy, idalaşmay yaşay ekenler. - Akam, bolîr mî, onday şiy? Bonday burun-burundan eskí ádetlerní şúndúgeşík ka-típ te kîrîp pítírmegen ekenler? Şúndúgeşík ka-típ ğok bolmay kelgen ekenler? - "Ka-típ?" dep sorasañ, bonîñ ğewabî bek kolay. Bíz de tîpkî onlar gibí tuwaga saygî kósteríp, sáde awğuluk man tuwada ósken ğemíşní, şegírdekní toplap yaşamaymîz mî? Onday tuwul mî? Topraknî gene barabarlîk hálde tutmaymîz mî? Ána, bo hálde aşlîk şîkmaganşîk, onlarga bírew tiymiytan. Şay-típ aylana-aylana kelgenlerdír, búgúngeşík. - Akam, búgún úyle awgan soñ, kelíp mení Túñgelík Kurakanda beklegeníñde, o rastlap kórgen îrknîñ ne balabanî bardîr, ne kíşkenesí. Yamanî yok, yakşîsî yok. Mañlayî yok, kuyrugî yok. Seníñ añlatkan barabarlarday, hepísí bírdiy! Tekmílí bírdiy kíşíden bolgan îrk, kolay beğerílgen bír îrktîr, akam. Onlarnî başkalarî beğergenşík, bíz barîp beğerewuyayîk! "Tekmílí bírdiy kíşíden bolgan îrk, kolay beğerílgen bír îrk. Mína, bonlarnî añlatmaga şalîşa eken Bodonğar íním, men de manasîna bar-alamay, akîlsîzday, oga kîzîp turaman" dep túşúndí Bugay Katagîy aka. Soñra: - Ayse aytkanîñ gibí bolsa úyúmúzge barganîmîz man, herbírímíz aramîzda kóríşíp añlaşayîk, oga kóre de şo îrknî barîp beğeriyík. Hakkîñ bar, Bodonğar, kewde yakîşîr kuyruklî, mañlaylî, urba yakîşîr eteklí, yakalî. Mañlaylarî, yakalarî bolmasa, mañlay, yaka bíz bolawuyayîk.
(dewamî keleğekke)
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Obsidian and Diamonds Our Earth Mother, in Her spins through the Universe and Solar System, Lays within the Sun's Grand Gifts of Fire. Continually, we experience these Flames in the Earth's Passing Horizons, A Time Line arc of Dark-to-Light-to-Dark, To Light‌The morning colors of High Blues, Oranges, Yellows & Reds tell the presence of Sun's Fiery Skirt upon the Earth. Just like the candle Flame, With it's Blue interior surrounded by a Yellow, Orange, Red Dew-Drop of light, Our miraculous daytime sky of Blue is the soft interior of this Blaze upon Earth. Clouds are the Smoke of Mother Earth, from this Fire, And from the Friction of Her spin within the Forever Curve Of the Planets Planes and Her gyroscopic Dance Amongst the Stars. In our sleepy time rest of Night, we pass from within this Fire to Renew Within the Vast cold Oceans of Dark. Our Lives are A Balance from within this Light And this Dark. A Peaceful Balance, set amongst Star and Earth Temples. A Positive/Positive Universal Balance. We are the Dance Between, Obsidian and Diamonds.
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Obsit men Elmaz taşlarî Bízím Ğer-Anayîmîz, aylana turup Káyinat man Kúneş Kuruluşunda, Kúneşíñ íşíne Koğaman Ateşler bagîşlar. Turmadan, yaşap turamîz bo ateşlerní Ğerkúreníñ Geşken Ufuklarînda, Bír Zaman Sîralamasî ğayî Karañgîdan-Aydînlîkka-Karañgîga, Aydînlîkka…Saba Yúksek Mawî, Portakalrengí, Sarî man Kîrmîzî renklerí Ğeryúzí ústúnde Kúneş Ateşí Eteklígíñ bolganîn añlata. Tîpkî mayşîrak Alewíndiy, Íşíndekí Mawîsî man Sarî, Portakalrengí, Kîzîl şiy tamlasî man şewúrúlgen, Tîlsîmlî kúndúz Mawî kógímíz Ğeryúzún kaplagan bo Alewníñ ğîmşak ózegídír. Bulutlar Ğer-Anayîmîzîñ tumanîdîr, bo Ateşten şîkkan, Aylana-aylana Soñsîz Burumga okalanmasîndan, Gezegen men Yîldîzlarnîñ arasînda topaşlanîp oyanamasîndan.. Keşeníñ kalgan yukumsuraw wakîtînda geşermíz bo Ateşten Karañgî teñízníñ salkîn Ayînuwuna. Yaşamîmîz bo Aydînlîk man bo Karañgînîñ íşínden yaratîlgan bír Terazídír. Raát bír Terazí, Ğer men Yîldîz tapînaklarîñ arasînda. Bír Bolîmlî/Umum Bolîmlî Terazí. Bíz bír oyînmîz Obsit men Elmaz taşlarîñ arasînda.
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bhadauria manish singh
Photo: Deepak
gujarat, india
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Manish Singh born on 3rd, is a poet and short story writer. He is pursuing his doctorate in the Realm of Indian English Poetry. He has penned many short stories. Recently he has published his first compilation of 50 poems called "World: Inner and Outer."
The Democracy:
he felt quite humiliated when chief editor of the group asked him to interview a layman running a kind of chain stores in some of the very
Incorporated
prominent places of the capital city Delhi. Mr. Satyanarayan, a victim of India’s uncertainties,
Anurag, a correspondent of leading news channel; is a superstar amongst the whole tribe
of
journalists
working
in
this
entertainment business. Yes the 24 x 7 channels serving sizzlers of politics, carved issues, manipulated question- hour sessions, tele-shops with all sort of spice and Indian Tadka*( an Indian way of giving final touch to recipes with spices) and of course little bit of news to go with it. Anurag has interviewed a whole swarm of leading and constitutionally elected kings called ministers across the nation. Many times he has literally entered in to verbal riot with such politicians and then asked for their autographs and requested them for photographs. He has a long list of such photographs and autographs. But today
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not the political and economical but the atmospheric one. He has lost everything against the mighty tides of river Koshi in Bihar nearly a year ago. His fate brought him to Delhi. Satyanarayan found a place in a chawl near railway track. Satyanarayan, a clerk working in a small firm turned a hawker selling ice-cream at the India Gate. And today Satyanarayan has three stores selling some unique products one near India Gate, other at Jantar Mantar, and one at Ramlila Maidan. Satyanarayan came in to lime light when an English News paper published a story about his unique business strategies and products. Editor gave these briefings and ordered Anurag to return with a complete story on the man. Anurag reached India Gate with his crew to interview Satyanarayan. He reached a shop
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called Democracy Incorporated, he asked
and hopes. They wanted me to get marry and
cameraman to take a snap of the sign board
settle but nature has some other plans. The
of the shop. Satyanarayan was expecting
same Koshi River which used to irrigate our
them and he was ready with his friends and
farms and dreams engulfed all; leaving
business partners. He warmly welcomed
nothing behind except a big zero to make a
Anurag and introduced himself and his
new start. And being a clerk I know center is
partners.
the
the best place to hang around. And yes I
and
hanged around here many places and actually
microphones. Anurag started his questions in
spent few nights under tents which were made
style.
for few people doing hunger strike against the
Interview
necessary
setting
started
after
all
of
cameras
Anurag: The very first thing that I want to ask is the name of your shop and story behind it.
government. It provided me shelter for my first few days here in Delhi, and taught me few secrets to survive here. I found my business
is
partners there only. First one of them is
“Democracy Incorporated� and India is a
Ramakant; my friend who used to run a
democratic nation and one thing that I learnt
tailoring shop near Ramlia ground. And
so far is to become a big man you have to sell
second one is Subodh his brother; my second
democracy in this nation. More you sell and
partner who used to sell ice-cream for a local
more you grow bigger and bigger. As far as I
firm on a cart there on commission basis and
know this name is not a trademark of any
he was also the guarantor for my getting a job
other firm. And, my partners wanted some
in the same firm as a new ice-cream man.
English name for the shop though they don’t
Ramakant and Subodh shared their hut with
know English.
me. Their house was so small but not their
Satyanarayan:
Yes,
the
name.
It
Anurag: So Mr. Satyanarayan from Bihar to chawl near railway track here in Delhi and now owing shops and interview in a well known English news paper. Satyanarayan: Yes it has been a tough one to begin with specially after losing my parents
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hearts. They are also like me though they were not as practical as I am. They came here from Kutchh of Gujarat. More of water undid my dreams and lack of water dried theirs. Anurag: Yes but what about such a swift upliftment and radical shift.
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Satyanarayan: Yes it is a radical shift and
wind up his campaign suddenly after some
hardly a year has passed since then. It all
day. Believe me it was the second biggest
began with the Anti Corruption movement of
shock for me after the death of my parents.
Appa Saheb. He tried to put this corruption stricken land on the ventilator of Satyagrah. He was trying to awake the nation from its
Anurag: So it ended with the campaign of Appa Saheb?
long and deep slumber. And suddenly the
Satyanarayan: No, it was just like gaining the
crowded place became over crowded. I don’t
height and going in to a brief period of
know about the nation but it awakened a
stagnation. It stopped but only for a time being.
business idea in my mind.
We
I along with
earned
a
good
amount
and
were
Subodh took a small loan from Ramakant to
discussing what to do with the amount then
start a tea stall. We took a risk, as there was
some one told us that now Swami Shadevji is
not any tea-stall here and I know my tea-holic
starting a campaign against black money. It
nation can’t do without tea. The idea worked
took only a second for us to decide. We took a
like a charm as we had the monopoly. The
shop on rent near the Ramlila ground, we also
campaign was gaining momentum as common
hired few men to sell tea, caps, posters, water
people too started to come here, few came
bottles, wafer packets, samoshas and even
here to join Appa Saheb, few to get captured
few hand operated fan to beat summer heat.
on national news channels, few to pass their time and few to just pick pocket and steal some new shoes. We watched the great
Anurag: So it was all easy gains and gathering for you people?
Indian drama. It suited us and our business,
Satyanarayan: Not all that easy Mr. Anurag, I
but the real hero was Ramakant for us.
remember once we have caught in the middle
However illiterate Ramkant, he didn’t fail to
of hostile crowd when police men were doing
read the situation. He came up with idea to
lathe charge, Ramakant was badly injured and
sell Gandhi caps, and I added few ready made
I nearly got trampled. We got injured many
anti corruption posters and slogans in the
times. And let me tell you few times police
selling menu. And would you believe we used
thrashed us deliberately as we refused to
to earn nearly ten thousand a day. We were
provide tea and water free of cost.
more than happy but Appa Saheb declared to
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Anurag: Oh! So such incidents must have
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made you cautioned. Satyanarayan: Yes it made us cautioned. And we only realized that we can sell other items like first aid and pain killers too. Our business expanded with every such agitation and movement.
have to say, you people are excellent business men. So I know something actually a lot, about your business now. You sell items like Gandhi Cap, Posters, Banners, Black ribbon, candles and what else?
And recent protest against the
Satyanarayan: We are also selling firs aid kit,
gang rape incident at Delhi gave a new turn to
a cheap raincoat: a kind of plastic hood you
our business.
can say, we sell helmets, knee guards, air
Anurag: How? Satyanarayan: This is the biggest since now. And now we have highest demands for the
masks with free goggles. And in future we may sell bullet proof jacket too. Anurag: Why bullet proof jackets?
candle and black ribbon. We sell flowers and
Satyanarayan: You can never know these
banners too. We even tried to sell rain coats
frequent lathe charges can lead to another
and air masks but we did not succeed much.
Jaliawala Buagh too. So in case we should be
We tried to find the photo of the victim but
prepared.
failed to do so. However we did our homework watching your news channel only. Your channel telecast a story on ongoing protest and few people were protesting with a blank photo frame having the assumed name of victim. We did the same and earned a lot buy selling such frames. And once my innocent friend Subodh came up with idea to sell
Anurag: One thing Mr. Satyanarayan, don’t you think you people are heartless? And don’t you think you are making a mockery of all these protests and agitations? When people are fighting for securing our nation and human rights what you are doing, except doing business and playing with emotions?
stones but we rejected. It would have been
Satyanarayan: Mr. Anurag first you should
illegal and it can be considered like selling
peep in inside. You have no rights to say so.
arms and ammunition to such people or to
What do you do? You hold microphones and
new Maoist as our politicians say.
chase politicians; you make some one hero
Anurag: Very interesting Mr. Satyanarayan. I
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today and a zero tomorrow. Don’t you people create propaganda out of nothing to run your
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shops? Yes
for
me
you
are
also
the
I know the democratic kings of this throne.
shopkeeper, I sell some goods but you trade
They can never be leaders and these protests
on emotions, you trade on selling tears, anger
will go on like this. I agree topic may change,
and hopelessness. He is one of you who didn’t
style of protesting may change but we are
stop one of the protesters who put himself on
ready for that. This is what you call well
fire at a cross road few months back. He was
adaptability.
busy shooting his burning carcass with camera. It was not necessary for him to save the man, the bigger priority was to get a story, and what is better than a sad story of a fool man who burnt himself for getting justice? So stop your patriotic drama, we are very accustomed now. These people doing protest here have very short memory and senses. Their sluggish faculties are very lazy, they do
Anurag was about to ask something but then his phone rang. He received phone because it was the Editor on call. He gave the news of rape victim’s death and asked Anurag possible.
to
reach
Anurag
studio gave
as
early
as
the
news
to
Satyanarayan and rushed back to his studio.
not ignite easily. And if it ignites, they
Satyanarayan and his friends joined their
extinguish very fast. Politicians are masters in
hands and prayed for the brave heart soul
doing so. They do it by giving some baseless
for few minutes and then started their usual
promises and few high levels of inquiries.
discussion for the business.
Anurag was speechless, those burning words made him silence. He was not
***
accustomed for such situation where line of fire can be directed towards him. However like a perfect politician adapt journalist he diverted the topic. Anurag: But, what is the future of you business? I mean these protest and agitations will not be here all the time. Satyanarayan: We don’t have any such fears.
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Nazar Look 13
aiysha jebali
scotland, uk
http://aiysha17.hubpages.com/
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http://aiysha17.hubpages.com/ Aiysha Jebali is a mixed race writer hailing from Scotland and Tunisia. She grew up in a single parent family and as a young carer. She has starred in films made in the UK, and used to have a modelling career. She is now an English teacher in Hungary, working at Sárospataki Református Kollégium Gimnáziuma.
Photo: John-William Noble
She started writing poetry at age six due to a fear of speaking. She was severly bullied and lived a difficult home life as a young carer. She found that potery meant that she could express herself freely. This ability stuck with her and she says that she writes when she has conflicting emotions about something.
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Nazar Look 15
http://aiysha17.hubpages.com/
Fighting for Breath A pillow is pressed down upon her face. She is truly held in its embrace. So many stand and watch The breath draining from her chest. But they refuse to empathise, As they know no such oppress. She screams in the silence, to no avail. All those with the power to save, selfishly fail. People are so ego-centred it would seem. Is it because they are too damn scared to intervene? No. It's because their bank balance will surely rise. Even if it does mean her unfortunate demise. She struggles against this encompassing force. But it simply pushes down harder, with no remorse. She let's out her last breath, her body goes still... Surely corruption has had its fill? But no, instead it carefully selects its next, to hold in its sufficating vex.
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Solîk úşún şabalanmak Yúzúne bír yastîk basîlgan. Kuşaklamasînda tutulgan. Kóp kíşí ayakka turup karay Kókírekten agîp ketken solîkka Amma heşbír yakînlîk tuymazlar Çúnkí bonday bír şegíşúw kórmegenler. O, sessízlíkte, bakîra, Lákin faydasîz. Yardîm ete-algan sîrasîn kaşîra Sáde men bolayîm dep. Galíba sáde ózíne túşúne bo álem. Yardîm korkîsîndan m-eken? Yok. Bankada hesabîñ mutlak yúkselmesínden Faydalansalar da onîñ yîkpalsîz ólímínden. O da şabalanîp tura bútún kuwetínden Amma taa bek bata Peşman etílmeden. Soñ solîgîn da kaşîrîp Kîbîrdamay kalgan... Tabiy ke fesatka tolgan. Lákin o şúndí karay başkasîna, Onî da buwup ğanîn ğakmaga.
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Nazar Look 17
Midwife Legacy On his twentieth wedding anniversary, and pondering various presents he might acquire for his wife Amanel, Viktor Drovnovich, a land manager in the eastern section of Pskov Province, scanned the offerings in Karpenko’s store front as he headed home from a three-week separation. The trip would take him two days, with a night spent at Madame Estelle’s Inn on the Tver road to halve the journey. He looked forward to that stop, for he left Madame Estelle always carrying good will and good spirits, warming him up for the return home. Earlier on this assignment, which took him away from home for long stretches, he had met and talked one lengthy afternoon with Karpenko. He trusted the shopkeeper and, having missed the anniversary celebration because of this assignment, felt a deep need to carry home a sign of his thought. And so it was, driving his carriage up to Karpenko’s shop that his gaze fell at length on a watering vessel sitting like an icon against the back wall of the display. A taste of custom and antiquity slipped into his consciousness. A number of images settled upon him, after which came awareness of the vessel’s fashionable handle and its mysterious display of age. One of the images was an elderly craftsman with a miniature hammer tapping metal into shape. Drovnovich recalled at the instant an old custom that had not taken place years earlier in the marriage, the washing of the midwife’s hands after the birth of his daughter, and he did not know that his wife, of late, had been unfaithful to him, with a music teacher from another village.
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This day also marked the birthday of his only child, Anyet, now thirteen, for whom he had purchased a set of books on the history of music, and a piano now a delicate diversion in her life. The two events tumbled him all the way back to Anyet’s birth and the midwife Zyridia. The balance of the day, after the birth, centered on Zyridia leaving the Drovnovich home without having her hands washed of the birth, as was the custom. Both Drovnovich and his wife worried about the omission for a long time, their not having a proper vessel for the ritual in the new marriage. Having no more children, and no need for such a vessel, and as Anyet grew into a young beauty filled with love and talent for music, the worry fell away from their concern. But here, in front of him, as prominent in the shop window as if it had come posted to him, advising him of an unpaid obligation, loomed a vessel they would have used in the washing of Zyridia’s hands. It was a vessel from the far past, “An aquamanile,” Karpenko soon disclosed, “as old as the rivers, I swear to you, Drovnovich, as old as the rivers, and carried by cavalry riders and other soldiers through the long years, the way prizes are captured from strange towns they pass through. Often these warriors tender such prizes into family hands or, by need, outward for token gain. So it came to me, from the far west, I swear on the holiest of pacts.” In its deep past, dreamy and dramatic Drovnovich wondered what the vessel had contained above and beyond its regular use: What brew for what mind, what panacea for what pain, what elixir for what medieval alchemist searching for his grain of gold? As an aside, he put in a prayer for its holiness, for its next liquid measure would add a final signature upon the midwife and finish the
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blessings on his child. Karpenko’s hand, in a grip on the present, dropped onto his shoulder. “Aha, it is a prize,” he exclaimed with sovereign authority, “worthy of any midwife,” which said he knew of Drovnovich’s past problem. Zyridia, in her own way, had said nothing at her departure, but the look on her face remained at Drovnovich’s doorway far beyond mere recall. Drovnovich felt accessible to a further image that leaped upon him as he remembered his father, a soldier for years, coming home from one campaign with a noisy sack over his shoulder. The contents were never seen by young Drovnovich, but he remembered the family had dined like royalty for weeks and weeks of that leave until his father was re-assigned, sent west, and never to be seen again. Once, years later but before he met Amanel at a fair, an old soldier passed through their village and confirmed that he had tended his father as he lay dying at the edge of a forgotten village in the west. “He said your name a few times,’ the old soldier said, “like it was a prayer. It has taken me many years to get here. Once I began moving with the horses to all the fairs, I knew I would find you someday. But it was a small village, the village of his death, and quite like yours, though the name is gone forever.” His father’s history had come to an end, but Zyridia’s was not finished, or Amanel’s. As Drovnovich drove his carriage along the flat road toward Madame Estelle’s for his overnight stay, he smiled often at Karpenko’s arguments about authenticity.
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Nazar Look 19
“This aquamanile carries full authority with it, my friend Drovnovich, full authority. I can almost see a black-robed teacher and craftsman hammering it out of base metals that he had thinned for the purpose. With every hammer hit, every corner or edge filed to true smoothness, I can see him calling on the Great Overhead to embellish it with good works. It will become for you a purity, this vessel, a purity. It will make amends for the original slight, make for a new truce in life. And if you will, call the midwife to your home and bestow the forgotten goodness upon her. She will smile once more in your home. It shall be warm again. Anyet, at her beloved piano, shall help her celebrate.” Drovnovich, as he rode, was pleased with Karpenko’s touch on history. Did the two not think alike? It was a
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good sign. A short way from Madame Estelle’s Inn, Drovnovich placed his hands on the package containing the set of books for his daughter and the antique watering vessel, half thinking how one measures a valuable commodity. The touch coming back through his fingers was sincere and carried promise. His smile was authentic, and the reins sat light in his hands. Life was good. A fine meal was before him, a few glasses of wine, a friendly conversation with Estelle, and a needed sleep. Estelle, a favored friend, must have seen his carriage coming down the road, for she met him at the front steps. She spent much of the evening, before Drovnovich went off to sleep,
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gabbing with him and other roomers, flitting and dancing around the parlor like a damsel fly, colorful as ever. “Drovnovich,” she exclaimed at one point, “I am pleased to see you again. It has been a few weeks since you have travelled on this road to my place of business. It is a treat to have you here once again in my rustic abode.” She again offered a hand, which he kissed lightly, like a count or a baron from the cities. “My pleasure, Madam. It is pleasant here. Always a joy to rest my bones, settle my mind. Soon, after this delicious wine holds me, I will retire. I have accomplished half my journey. Tomorrow comes and I will see my darlings.” Estelle said, “Sleep well in this halfway home, rough it is, but halfway on your journey.” To which she added, “I have placed netting about your bed to keep bothersome insects away and a resilient piece in the window. We have had some complaints recently from our guests and I want to make sure you will not be disturbed. May only the stars enter with their shine and the dreams of Morpheus be yours this night.” She kissed him on the cheek. Drovnovich slipped the aquamanile out of the package and set it on the mantle above the crude fireplace for the night, exposing its charm, letting dreams ensue from it, thinking of Karpenko’s final words. After a solid sleep, Drovnovich rose in darkness, placed the aquamanile hastily back in its package and wrapped it up again. He ate a meager breakfast of rolls and coffee, said his goodbyes to Estelle and her servants and drove off in the carriage in early light, his spirit riding miles ahead of him.
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At home he enjoyed the company of his daughter playing a few songs. Anyet, at receipt of her gift, was thrilled, reading portions of the books at will, finding new energies coming at her. With a serious hug, she clasped her father and thanked him many times. “You are so thoughtful, father, I wonder how you think of such gifts.” Then he retired to bed with Amanel. His sleep was as good as the one the night before. Sleep called him quickly just as he heard Amanel say for the third time that the vessel was a fine present and would be commissioned the following week, after Zyridia had come back from a long visit elsewhere, and after he had, she was sorry to say, gone off on his new assignment. Drovnovich was in Tver many days later, checking on a huge holding of his employer, when word came that Amanel, hysterical, had run out of her home with the piano teacher right behind her, screaming that a spider in the watering vessel had slipped Cossack-quick into her ear. It was said that when she heard music rising from the inside of the vessel, she placed it close to her ear to better hear the sounds, which must have given the spider the chance of release. Amanel died in the arms of Zyridia later that afternoon, after the midwife had been called to assist her. And Zyridia’s hands, unknown to Drovnovich, had not as yet been washed.
***
Nazar Look 21
tejaswini kale
Photo: Glenn Xavier
maharashtra, india
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Tejaswini is from Mumbai, India. She is a student of literature. She likes to read, dance, and learn languages. She creates stories and poetry.
Interview
translated Marathi. TM: How work?
TM: Tejaswini, language?
what
is
your
native
Tejaswini Kale: My native language is Marathi. It is mainly spoken in the state of Maharashtra, India. TM: When did you realize you wanted to study literature? Tejaswini Kale: In my first year of graduation, I was introduced to literature as subject. The love I had for reading accentuated my interest in literary studies as I got to read enlightening books and poetry. TM: Are writing?
you
happiest
reading
or
Tejaswini Kale: Both, actually. Reading gives me delight, and writing-finishing a piece of writing, rather- gives me a feeling of satisfaction. TM: Do you have other writers or artists in your family? Tejaswini Kale: My aunt- my father’s sister- is a translator. She has recently
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two
books
would
you
from
English
describe
to
your
Tejaswini Kale: My work is very closely related to my experiences as a person. Though I read quite a lot of poetry, I deliberately try to stay away from getting influenced by the style of other poets. While I consider myself an amateur poet, I think my style of writing is uniquely me. TM: Is your work process fast or slow? Tejaswini Kale: Both, actually. A poem might stay in my head for months together, but when it comes to writing it, I think it processes fast enough. I usually write with a steady flow (sometimes a sudden rush), and I never quit the verse halfway. TM: Who are your biggest creative influences? Tejaswini Kale: I get influenced by Nature, mostly. And when it comes to people, it is the ordinary people who capture my attention- like a poor farmer toiling in the fields, an underpaid sculptor, a poor beggarwoman who is a mother. For me, these people are the true creators.
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TM: How many evaluations does your work go through before you are satisfied with it? Tejaswini Kale: Mostly, I write overnight and edit as I read it again in the morning. Sometimes, I also make changes as I type it onto the computer. So, 2-3. TM: How often do you submit work and how much of your work is accepted versus rejected? Tejaswini Kale: I have started submitting my work only recently- since October 2012. I submit quite a lot of verse and a few stories occasionally. I have submitted around 20 poems and 2 short stories to say, 10 journals. And 7 of my poems have been selected so far.
Tejaswini Kale: I have a very delicate digestion system, which is why I avoid dining in restaurants. Also, there is a considerable growth in outlets like CCD and Barista which provide mediocre food, coffee, and service but charge more than what they deserve. There is a place, though, which suits my digestion and my wallet: Café Excelsior. It is an old Parsi place, established in 1919. The food there is wholesome and delicious. If you are a delicate and poor poet like me, I’m sure you’ll love it! TM: What are you writing right now? Tejaswini Kale: I recently wrote two more poems. And a story is still just in my head, I haven’t yet begun writing it.
TM: Do you meet with a writing group or exchange work with other writers?
TM: Where do you see yourself in ten years?
Tejaswini Kale: Yes, I go for poetry meets, and they are pretty intimate as very few people turn up. At the poetry meet, we read published poets and in the last half hour or forty-five minutes recite poems written by the participants.
Tejaswini Kale: I see myself as an established poet in the literary circuit of India.
I also share my poetry with a few friends who suggest changes, or sometimes just give me their opinion. TM: What do you do to recharge your batteries? Tejaswini Kale: I usually read to recharge my batteries. I also paint (t-shirts), and meet up with friends to de-stress. TM: When a friend comes to Mumbai, where would be a great place to have dinner?
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Symphony
Simfoniya
The poem stays stuck. Like water too light to fall to earth.
Manzúme ílíşíp kalgan. Suwday ğeñgíl ğerge ğawa-almay.
The grey cloud casts a shadow on a patch of dry ground: a promise of deep brown dampness.
Boz bulut kurî bír tarla parşasîana kólgesín ata: kawerengí kaytîklîgîñ adaklamasî.
I see a bird sitting on a naked tree silhouetted against a blue-grey sky.
Bír kuş kóremen yapraksîz terekte kongan yúzún ayîrîp boz-mawî kók rengínden.
A poem had burst forth as the bird hopped, and flew; taking it away in his tiny beak.
Bír manzúme pîşkîrdî kuş ta sekíríp uştî; onî kíşkene gágáasîna alîp kaştî.
Words free of paper lingering in the sky come down inky: a symphony of harmony age old.
Káátten kurtulgan sózler yawaş-yawaş kókten múrekkeplí- múrekkeplí ğerge ğawar: eskí şaknîñ ses uyuşmasî simfoniyasî.
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Nazar Look 25
Poetry A squirrel hops on the concrete like poetry. The basil peeps out of the bars of the windowit's tender green aura looks like poetry. Tears brim on the contours of my eyes, silentlya wave rushing to shore; sounds like poetry. A smile stretches the many stretches of the paths yet to tread. Ranges like poetry. The green leaf trembles in the strong wind, the plant grows crooked for want of the sun. But they stay. Etched like poetry.
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The Hanging We came away from our world. Far away. Climbed a rock, went around it several times, and marvelled at the charming miniature world below. Looking for solitude, for an existence better than ours; Suspended as if on a Judgement Day gone wrong, white souls hung out on the horizon to dry, wronged.
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Avidya* A conch, a bell, a pebble: solitary sounds from the beginning of time. The yellow flame of life, the very first, shines on in a silver lamp.
The history of this land, the philosophies of existence I search everywhere, but here: the incensed sanctum at home. An educated alieninexperienced, uncomprehending. *Ignorance.
Water from the five rivers: wanderers meeting on golden soil; a tale of friendship that flows, rippling in quiet corners never known. The goddess with the veena, the warriors in a chariot, a dancing figure, destroying; a still disquiet, creating. Destruction and creation: the way of the world. The script holding wisdom, the symbolsthe universe.
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Book of Words (I) WORD ONE Whether for good or ill, I have lived my life, travelling a long road fraught with struggles and quarrels, disputes and arguments, suffering and anxiety, and reached these advanced years to find myself at the end of my tether, tired of everything. I have realized the vanity and futility of my labors and the meanness of my existence. What shall I occupy myself with now and how shall I live out the rest of my days? I am puzzled that I can find no answer to this question. Rule the people? No, the people are ungovernable. Let this burden be shouldered by someone who is willing to contract an incurable malady, or else by an ardent youth with a burning heart. But may Allah spare me this load which is beyond my powers! Shall I multiply the herds? No, I cannot do that. Let the young folk raise livestock if they need them. But I shall not darken the evening of my days by tending livestock to give joy to rogues, thieves and spongers. Occupy myself with learning? But how shall I engage in scholarship when I have no one to exchange an intelligent word with? And then to whom shall I pass on the knowledge I will have amassed? Whom shall
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I ask what I do not know myself? What's the good of sitting on a desolate steppe with an arshin in hand trying to sell cloth? Too much knowledge becomes gall and wormwood that hastens old age if you have no one by your side to share your joys and sorrows. Choose the path of the Sufi and dedicate myself to the service of religion? No, I'm afraid that won't do either. This vocation calls for serenity and complete peace of mind. But I have not known peace either in my soul or in my life—and what sort of piety can there be amongst these people, in this land! Educate children, maybe? No, this, too, is beyond my powers. I could instruct children, true, but I don't know what I should teach them and how. For what occupation, for what purpose and for what kind of community am I to educate them? How can I instruct them and direct their paths if I don't see where my pupils could usefully apply their learning? And so here, too, I have been unable to put myself to any good use. Well, I have decided at length: henceforth, pen and paper shall be my only solace, and I shall set down mythoughts. Should anyone find something useful here, lethim copy it down or memorise it. And if no one has anyneed of my words, they will remain with me anyway. And now I have no other concern than that.
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WORD TWO In my childhood I used to hear the Kazakhs jeering at the Uzbeks: «You Starts in wide skirts, you bring your rushes from afar to thatch your roofs! You bow and scrape when you meet someone, but you insult him behind his back. You are afraid of every bush; you rattle on without stopping, and that's why they call you SartSurts». Encountering Nogais, the Kazakhs would ridicule and scold them, too: «The Nogai is afraid of the camel, he soon gets tired astride a horse and takes his rest walking. Runaways and soldiers and traders — all of them hail from the Nogais. Nokai is what you should be called, not Nogai!» About the Russians they used to say: «The red-headed Urus, once he spies an aul, gallops fit to break his neck towards it, permits himself to do whatever comes into his head, demands to hear all the rumours and gossip, and believes everything he is told.» «My God!» I thought then with pride. «It turns out that the whole wide world has no worthier and nobler people than the Kazakhs!» Such talk rejoiced and entertained me. But this is what I see now: there is no plant that the Sarts cannot grow, no land that their merchants have not visited, and no such thing that their nimble
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fingers cannot contrive. Their laymen live in peace and seek no enmity. Before there were any Russian merchants around, the Sarts provided the Kazakhs with clothes for the living and burial robes for the dead, and they would buy up from the Kazakhs droves of cattle that father and son could not agree to divide between themselves. Now, under the Russians, the Sarts have adopted the innovations more quickly than others. Exalted beys and learnt mullahs, craftsmanship and luxury and courtesy—the Sarts have all these. I look at the Nogais and see that they can make fine soldiers and that they bear deprivation stoically. They face death with humility, protect schools and honour religion — they know how to work hard and grow rich, and to dress up and have fun. Not we Kazakhs, though: we labour for their beys for a crust of bread. They will not let our beys into their homes. «Hey, you Kazakhs,» they say, «our floor is not for your dirty boots to trample on.» I will not speak of the Russians. We cannot hold a candle even to their servants. Where has all our erstwhile joyfulness gone? Where is our merry laughter?
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towards the people around him. WORD THREE Where lies the cause of the estrangement amongst the Kazakhs, of their hostility and ill will towards one another? Why are they insincere in their speech, so lazy, and possessed by a lust for power? The wise of this world long ago observed: a sluggard is, as a rule, cowardly and weak-willed; a weak-willed man is cowardly and boastful; a braggart is cowardly, stupid and ignorant; an ignoramus has no inkling of honour, while a dishonourable person sponges on the sluggard — he is insatiable, unbridled and good-for-nothing; he bears no good will
The source of these vices is our people's preoccupation with one thing alone: to own as much livestock as possible and thus gain honour and respect. Had they taken up arable farming or commerce, had they been interested in learning and art, this would never have come to pass. Parents, having increased their own herds, will do their best to ensure that their children's herds grow ever fatter, so that the livestock can be left in the care of herdsmen and they can indulge in a life of idleness — gorge themselves on meat and koumiss, enjoy beauti ful women, and feast their eyes on fast horses. Eventually, their winter pastures and grassland become too small and, using their influence or position, they will by hook or by crook buy up, wheedle or seize pastureland from a neighbour. That person, fleeced as he is, will in turn put pressure on another neighbour, or else will have to leave his native region. Now, can these people possibly wish one another well? The more poor there are, the cheaper their labour. The more numerous the destitute, the more abundant the free winter pasturage. My neighbour is eager for my ruin, and I am eager for him to fall into penury. Little by little, our concealed animosity grows into an open and bitter enmity. We bear malice, we litigate, we split
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into cliques and bribe influential people for support, so as to gain an advantage over our opponents, and we scramble for the emoluments of rank. A loser will not toil and sweat — he will seek affluence in other, devious ways; he will show no interest in either commerce or tilling the land — he will side now with one, now with another party, selling himself and existing in misery and disgrace. There is no end to pillage on the steppe. If there were unity amongst our people, they would never condone a thief who, making adroit use of the support of one group or another, continues his brazen robbery. Honest sons of the steppes are the victims of criminal charges based on false accusations, and are subjected to humiliating interrogations. Witnesses are produced ready to swear to what they have never seen or heard. And all this in order smear an honest person and bar him from high office. If the persecuted man, to save himself, turns for aid to these same rascals, he will sacrifice his honour; if he refuses to bow to them, he is certain to be unjustly charged; he will suffer hardships and privations, unable to find a place and occupation worthy of him. Having gained power by deceit and trickery, the head of the volost avoids honest and modest folk like the plague and seeks allies amongst people of his own kind, crafty and crooked, whom he is fearful
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of antagonising. A new saying has gained currency now: It's the person, not the matter, that counts. In other words, success depends not on the Tightness of the matter in question, but on the cleverness of the person involved. The volost chiefs are elected for a three-year term. They spend their first year in office listening to all kinds of grievances and complaints: «Don't forget that we elected you!» Their second year is given over to fighting possible future rivals, and the third year to their campaign for reelection. What then is left? Watching my people sink deeper and deeper into discord, I have come to the conclusion that the volost chiefsshould be elected from among men who have had at least some Russian education, however little. If there are none,or only persons whom people do not wish to nominate, then let the volost chiefs be appointed by the uyezd authorities and the military governor. This would be beneficial in several ways. First of all, ambitious Kazakhs wouldhave their children educated; secondly, the volost chiefswould no longer be dependent on the whims of local mag nates, but take their orders from the higher authorities. To avoid the inevitable objections and denunciations, an ap¬pointee should not be subjected to any local control and verification.
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We have had occasion to see the futility of electing biys in each volost. Not everyone is capable of dispensing justice. In order to hold a council «on the top of Mount Kultobe», as we say, it is essential to know all the laws passed down from our forefathers: Kasym-khan's «Radiant Pathway «Esim-khan's «Ancient Pathway» and Az Tauke-khan's «Seven Canons». But even these laws have become outdated with the passage of time and require amendment and infallible interpreters, of whom there are few, if any, amongst our people. People who know Kazakh ways well say: «When two biys get together, there is sure to be four disputes». The lack of a supreme judge and the even number of biys hearing a case only complicates the adjudication of disputes. Why increase the numbers of biys? Would it not be better to elect three educated and intelligent men in each volost for an unlimited term of office, only replacing those whose behaviour is unseemly? Let legal disputes be settled by two arbiters, one chosen by each party, and an intermediary acceptable to both. Only if they failed to ascertain the truth and come to terms would the dispute be taken to one of the three permanent judges. Then lawsuits would not drag on so long. (to be continued)
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Transformations Thomas Hardy poems via Transformations Portion of this yew Is a man my grandsire knew, Bosomed here at its foot: This branch may be his wife, A ruddy human life Now turned to a green shoot. These grasses must be made Of her who often prayed, Last century, for repose; And the fair girl long ago Whom I often tried to know May be entering this rose. So, they are not underground, But as nerves and veins abound In the growths of upper air, And they feel the sun and rain, And the energy again That made them what they were!
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At a Lunar Eclipse Thomas Hardy poems via At A Lunar Eclipse. Thy shadow, Earth, from Pole to Central Sea, Now steals along upon the Moon's meek shine In even monochrome and curving line Of imperturbable serenity. How shall I link such sun-cast symmetry With the torn troubled form I know as thine, That profile, placid as a brow divine, With continents of moil and misery? And can immense Mortality but throw So small a shade, and Heaven's high human scheme Be hemmed within the coasts yon arc implies? Is such the stellar gauge of earthly show, Nation at war with nation, brains that teem, Heroes, and women fairer than the skies?
The Two Soldiers Just at the corner of the wall We met — yes, he and I — Who had not faced in camp or hall Since we bade home good-bye, And what once happened came back — all — Out of those years gone by. And that strange woman whom we knew And loved — long dead and gone, Whose poor half-perished residue, Tombless and trod, lay yon! But at this moment to our view Rose like a phantom wan. And in his fixed face I could see, Lit by a lurid shine, The drama re-enact which she Had dyed incarnadine For us, and more. And doubtless he Beheld it too in mine.
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Deborah Finkelstein has an MFA in Creative Writing from Goddard College, Vermont, USA. Her poetry has been published in Haiku Novine, Serbia; Gin’yu, Japan; FreeXpresSion, Australia; Valley Micropress, New Zealand; Ibbetson Street, USA; and other magazines, newspapers, and anthologies. She teaches Creative Writing in Boston.
Toddler
Ode to Echinacea
She takes naps to recharge,
Layers of pink petals
You take naps to shutdown.
encircle the golden center,
She wears purple tights,
attracting butterflies.
You wear control top hose.
Orange monarchs
She sings in the grocery store,
circle purple cones.
You wait for the privacy of the shower.
Red admirals dine with
She takes an hour to eat,
black swallowtails,
You scarf down food in between clients.
their white-spotted black wings
She loves the box,
like Broadway footlights
You like the present.
shining on pink petals.
She talks to everyone, You wait to be addressed.
The wood nymph lands
She questions everything,
for a quick taste.
You question nothing,
Its translucent
Except why you can’t be more like her.
wings with gray sketchings and giant black spots on blue spots
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on white spots,
Divorce Court
like giant eyes watching my every move.
divorce court outside the window, snowflakes fall
These diners feasted
no two alike
on echinacea for centuries, but I gather it for a first meal, initially attracted to its healing beauty, and the other diners.
New Year's Eve
The flower’s healing power,
new year's eve
a secret known to wise women,
resolutions, promises, regrets—
passed down generations;
noisemakers
powers, but now to its pink
now at every corner drugstore. Pills, tinctures, teas, lemonade, sports drinks claim ingestion leads to healing. My stomach empty, my body is healed through my eyes.
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The Shepard Protects The shepherd protects his sheep from the wolf, and sends the wolf to his neighbor’s farm.
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Travels in Circassia, Krim Tartary, &c. (VII) LETTER IV. CHARACTER OF THE MAGYARS - THEIR LOVE OF LIBERTY - PATRIOTISM - ADOPTION OP THE HUNGARIAN LANGUAGE AS THAT OF THE COUNTRY - LIBERTY OF THE PRESS LITERATURE - CONSTITUTION OF HUNGARY ABJECT CONDITION OF THE SERF - PRIVILEGES OF THE NOBILITY. I have already slightly alluded to the variety of tribes inhabiting Hungary. To describe the characteristics of each minutely, would lead me too much into detail ; but I must not omit to mention a few traits of the lords of the country, the Magyars, distinguished from every other by a proud, haughty, bearing, and a form finely proportioned, indicating strength and agility, although their height seldom exceeds the middle size ; the eye is fiery, and the expression of the countenance extremely animated ; this is much improved by the mustachio, which is never parted with, from the first dawn of manhood to the extreme verge of life. The Magyar may also be known not less by his customs and manners, than by the form of the towns and villages he inhabits. He is fond of spacious streets, houses, and rooms: the interior, however, is never crowded with furniture, for the peasant is abundantly contented if he can procure a table and a couple of benches, which serve as seats by day, and beds by night. True to the Nomaden life of his Asiatic ancestors, he is always to be found on the vast and fruitful plains of this extensive country, preferring the rich pastures, where his flocks and herds may roam at pleasure,
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and where he himself may indulge in the sports of the field, to agriculture. He therefore leaves the more laborious employment of raising grain, as unworthy a free son of the forest, to the Sclavonian, German, and Wallachian boors. The Arab of the desert never practised the virtue of hospitality with more unbounded liberality than the Magyar. The stranger is ever sure to find a cordial welcome, not only in the chateau of the magnat, but in the hut of the peasant. Their character is also distinguished for bravery, sincerity, and open-heartedness, and their manners for a sort of straight-forward bluntness, indicating a greater love of truth than courtesy. Strongly attached to liberty, they are impatient of control, and submit with a bad grace to any new laws which may tend to encroach, even in the slightest degree, upon their national independence ; consequently, the well-ordered Austria, with all its complicated government machinery, has never been able to impose upon them the yoke of passports, and a hundred other vexatious ordinances; hence the traveller, who has once passed the frontier, may journey throughout the whole of Hungary without the slightest interruption. The Magyar is also so patriotic, that he not only tells you, but also firmly believes, that his country is the freest and greatest in the world. Without questioning the truth or fallacy of this conviction, there cannot be a doubt that an entirely new epoch has arrived in the history of Hungary, and that she may date her regeneration from the day she extorted from her German king permission to adopt the Hungarian language as that of the country. This measure will not only tend to cement the various races of which the population is composed, but create a national feeling in all classes,—a feeling which it had been the constant policy of Austria, from the period when the Hungarian sceptre first passed into the hand of her monarchs, to repress. To this end the great magnats of the land were cajoled by courtly flattery, which produced the desired effect ; for, until the present moment, never was a country
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more neglected by its landed aristocracy.
and secure.
Prior to this important concession, the Latin and German languages were adopted by the government, the diet, and the public tribunals ; they were also used in all the national documents, and even in commercial transactions. Whereas, we now find all the great men of the country, men as eminent for their talents as their high rank and wealth, engaged in perfecting their native language and literature. Authors are encouraged by pecuniary assistance, supplied from funds contributed expressly for that purpose, both by the diet and voluntary contributions; and as no law exists to control the press, the Austrian censorship not being recognised by the Hungarian government, we find the publication of a newspaper at Pest, advocating the most liberal principles, sanctioned by authority. Several works also have been recently written, alike remarkable for truth of argument and energy of diction, demonstrating the necessity of reforming the various abuses in the national institutions : and many of the magnats being themselves authors, have imparted an additional impetus to literature. With these aids, in addition to steam navigation and commerce, we may confidently predict, that the regeneration of the Hungarian people will gradually but certainly advance, till their social and political institutions, purified of their numerous abuses, shall be placed upon a basis at once firm
Indeed, if we contemplate the constitution of Hungary as at present established, and examine each separate part, how numerous are the reforms required, how various the difficulties to be surmounted, before the country can be pronounced in a healthy state. The situation of the peasant, and the absurd rights of the nobility, are still the most prominent evils in the social fabric, even though much has been already done to ameliorate the condition of the serf. It is true, he is no longer the absolute property of the lord of the soil, yet his situation is scarcely less dependent ; for besides the heavy tax imposed on him by his seigneur, both in labour and produce, he is obliged to support, in conjunction with the citizen, the heavy impositions of the government, military and civil ; while, on the other hand, the privileges of the noble are valuable and exclusive. He alone can hold possession of landed property, he alone is exempt from taxes, custom-house duties, and from the necessity of maintaining the military by billeting, &c. In short, on his own domain, the noble of Hungary is a species of independent sovereign.
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(to be continued)
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Marmoset – Inhabitant of Yalta Kazka Zoo, Crimea
aziz ahmet
crimea
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Qul Sharif Mosque in Kazan