BAŞ KABÎMÎZDA ON THE COVER
Poet Qul Sharif, XVI century, 120x200, 1997, watercolor, temp.,
Art. Rushan Shamsutdin (Shamsutdinov)
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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32 larry lefkowitz israel The City 36 jude conlee california, usa And You Will Not Hear This, Either 38 edmund spencer Travels in Circassia, Krim Tartary, &c. (XII) 40 esma kasar crimea Photoshop: Kóktóbel. Golden Gate, Crimea 2 pablo neruda Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair - Yígírím sewda manzumesí men bír umutsuzluk ğîrî 5 Book Launch Dream Land - Хаял Мекяны 6 djahit sitki tarandji I Want a Country Memleket ístermen 8 taner murat scythia minor (little crimea) Kókten sesler - Temúçin (XVIII) 10 roger smith british columbia, canada Mum 16 Crimean Tatar Ethnic Clothing, Accessories and Decorative Art 22 tom sheehan massachusetts, usa Lover, Not Yet Lover 28 pir sultan abdal I Addressed the Yellow Crocus 30 lucian blaga Mirror Deep
CONTRIBUTORS MEMBALAR Jude Conlee Lily Hyde Zinure Ismayil (Ismaylova) Esma Kasar Larry Lefkowitz QHA Leyla Seythalil (Seythalilova) Rushan Shamsutdin (Shamsutdinov) Tom Sheehan Roger Smith
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pablo neruda
(1904 - 1973)
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Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair XX Tonight I can write the saddest lines. Write, for example, “The night is starry and the stars are blue and shiver in the distance.� The night wind revolves in the sky and sings. Tonight I can write the saddest lines. I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too. Through nights like this one I held her in my arms. I kissed her again and again under the endless sky. She loved me, sometimes I loved her too. How could one not have loved her great still eyes. Tonight I can write the saddest lines. To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her. To hear the immense night, still more immense without her. And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture. What does it matter that my love could not keep her. The night is starry and she is not with me. This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance. My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her. My sight tries to find her as though to bring her closer. My heart looks for her, and she is not with me. The same night whitening the same trees. We, of that time, are no longer the same. I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her. My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing. Another's. She will be another's. As she was before my kisses. Her voice, her bright body. Her infinite eyes. I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her. Love is so short, forgetting is so long. Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her. Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer and these the last verses that I write for her. (Translation by W. S. Merwin)
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Yígírím sewda manzumesí men bír umutsuzluk ğîrî XX Bo keşe eñ dertlí koşîknî yazarman. Mesela, şonî: “Keşe yîldîzlar man tolî, uzakta balkîldagan mas-mawî yîldîzlar man.” Keşeníñ ğelí kókte ğîrlap-ğîrlap aylana. Bo keşe eñ dertlí koşîknî yazarman. Men onî súydúm, arada bír o da mení súydí. Búgúngúsúndiy keşeler boyînda onî kuşaklar edím. Soñsîz asman astînda óbíp-óbíp alîr edím. O mení súydí, arada bír men de onî súydúm. Kîymîldamagan şo keñ kózlerní ka-típ te súymezsíñ? Bo keşe eñ dertlí koşîknî yazarman. Onîñ yoklîgîna túşúnúp. Onî kaybetkenímní abaylap. Engin keşení eşítíp, onsîz da taa engin kalgan keşení. Tízmelerím de tîpkî otlakka şiy túşkendiy ğanîma túşer. Onî saklap ğîymaga sewdam ğetmegen bolsa, ka-tersíñ, ka? Keşe yîldîzlî bolsa da, o yok endí katîmda. Hepísí bo. Uzaklarda bír ses ğîrlay. Uzaklarda. Onî kaybetkeníme góñílím karardî. Kaytarîp akelgendiy bolîp, kózím onî karap turar. Onî kaálbím karap tursa da, o yok endí katîmda. Keşe heş deñíşmedí, hep şo tereklerní agartîp turar. Bíz, o zamanlarnîñkílerí, deñíştík. Endí men onî súymem, şúphesíz, amma kat-típ te súyer edím. Kulagîna barmaga sesím ğel men bír bolîr edí. Başka bírísíñkí bolîr, tîpkî ewelkísíndiy, mením ópmelerímden ewel. Sesí de, balk-balk kewdesí de. Namútenahiy kózí de. Endí men onî súymem, şúphesíz, amma belkí de súyemendír. Sewda ne kadar kîska súrer, ah, unutmasî da ne kadar uzun alîr. Búgúngúsúndiy keşeler boyînda onî kuşaklap tutkanîm úşún, Onî kaybetkeníme ğúregím heş razî bolmay. Belkí onîñ yúzúnden şekken bo soñ ağîmdîr, Oga bagîşlagan soñ koşîgîmdîr. (Terğúmesí Taner Murat’tan)
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http://www.15minut.org/article/britanskaja-kniga-o-vozvraschenii-krymskih-tatar-vyshla-v
News article in Russian:
BOOK www.nazar-look.com
DREAM LAND ХАЯЛ МЕКЯНЫ by
Lily Hyde
The Crimean Tatar translation of Lily Hyde’s “Dream Land” has been launched at the Crimean University in Simferopol on 21 May. The book was translated by Leyla Seythalil (Seythalilova) who is a teacher at the Crimean Engineering and Pedagogical University. Ibraim Ozdenoglu, a Crimean Tatar who lives in the United States, sponsored the print run. The book is distributed for free to schools, libraries and universities and it’s capturing the attention of young audiences who are surprised to find two things about Lily. The first is that she lived many years in Ukraine where she closely knew the Tatars and she became enamored with Crimea’s charms. The second is that she is one of those people who can tell your story better than you. The author holds out hope for the Turkish, Russian and Ukrainian translations, and for the Romanian version which is waiting for funds for more than a year.
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djahit sitki tarandji
(1910 - 1956)
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I Want a Country
Memleket ístermen
I want a country let the sky be blue, the bough green, the cornfield yellow let it be a land of birds and flowers
Memleket ístermen Kók mawî, dal yeşíl, tarla sarî bolsîn; Kuşlarîñ-şeşekleríñ diyarî bolsîn.
I want a country let there be no pain in the head, no yearning in the heart let there be an end to brothers' quarrels
Memleket ístermen Ne başta dert, ne góñílde hasret bolsîn; Kardaş kawgasîna bír nihayet bolsîn.
I want a country let there be no rich and poor, no you and me on winter days let everyone have hose and home
Memleket ístermen Ne zengín-pîkare, ne sen-men farkî bolsîn; Kîşîñ kúní herkezíñ úyí-barkî bolsîn.
I want a country let living be like loving fromthe heart if there must be complaint, let it be of death
Memleket ístermen Yaşamak, súymek gibí góñílden bolsîn; Bolsa bír şikáyet, ólímden bolsîn.
(translated by Bernard Lewis)
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(Taner Murat’nîñ kelíştírmesínde)
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scythia minor (little crimea) www.tanermurat.com
Kókten sesler - Temúçin (XVIII) Kesím 31 Belgúnút, Búgúnút, Katagin, Salğîwut îrklarî Úriyañgay Adañka îrgîn ğeñíp, barlî bolîp, beşkardaş bír kaytîm barabar kóşekona ğúrdúler. Seneler aga başladî. Akalarî Belgúnútay ózíne láyîk bír kîz man úyleníp, kesík bír aradan soñra: - Búgúnútay íním, sen geşersíñ mañlayga. Endíden soñra mením ballarîm bolîr, bek kalabalîk bolîrmîz. - dep bír ğolmakasînda onlardan ayîrîlîp kettí. Mína, Dobun Mergen men Alan Kuwanîñ ulî Belgúnútaydan, Belgúnút îrgî tamîr attî. Belgínler ya Belgínlík îrgî atî man da tanîla edíler. Artîndan Búgúnútay úyleníp ayîrîldî: - Bugay íním, bólíkníñ mañlayî saga túşer endí. - dep, o da kettí óz ğolîndan. Mína, Dobun Mergenmen Alan Kuwanîñ ulî Búgúnútaydan, zaman man Búgúnút îrgî şîktî. Búyí îrgî, Búyúğúler, Búyúğúlúk îrgî da diytan ekenler onlarga. Bugay Katagîy da kettí hep şonday, akasî alarîna uşap. Mína, kún kete-kete, Alan Kuwaman bír şîra ğarîk gibí dumannîñ ulî, taştay, kayaday kuwetlí Bugay Katagîydan, Katagin îrgî óstí. Kattîlar, Kayalar, Kattîlîk, Kayalîk îrgî. - Ayse men de úyleníp ketiyím endí, kardaşîm. Herkez ózníñ úyún karar, taa. dedí Bugatuw Salğî da Bodonğar ínísíne, bólík sáde ózleríne kalganda. Onday ettíler. Alan Kuwaman bír şîra ğarîk gibí dumannîñ ulî, kuğurlî, ğúrúşlí, sallanasallana ğúrgen Bugatuw akasî da gúzel bír kîznî alîp, óz ğolîna kettí. Mína, onîñ ketken şo ğolîndan
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Salğîwut îrgî şîktî. Salğîwut îrknîñ atasî şo kuğurlî ğúrúşlí, sallana-sallana ğúrgen Bugatuw Salğîdîr. Şonday etíp bír-bírsínden ayîrîlîp ketken edíler, beş kardaş. Belgúnút, Búgúnút, Katagin, Salğîwut îrklarî şonday tuwdî. Kesím 32 Alîp kenarga salganîñ zararsîz Dórt akasîn kerwanlarîndan şañgîtîlgan tozlar konîr-konmaz, Bodonğar karşîdakî úyge kíríp, súyúp algan yeşíl kózlí sarî kîskaayaklîsî man dórt kózníñ arasînda kóríşíp, ekewí akîl koştîlar: - Kayday? Raátlígíñ yerínde mí? - dep soradî Bodonğardan kîskaayaklîsî, úyge kírgenínde. - Ne bílyím? Bíraz... Ka-típ aytayîm? - adaştî o. - Yúzúñdeñ bellí, yúzúñe karap añlayman. - dedí Adañkan Úriyañgağin. - Aka alarîm atlarnîñ tuyaklarî ayîrî kaza başladî. Íşímden sañkem bír terslík şîga. - Şîgar ya, koğam. Ne kadar gezíp tozağaksîñ, endí? - Boşîna nefes karîjlama. - dep sorawun artîna itep, ğawapsîz brakmaga karadî Bodonğar. Brakîlgan tînîk aranîñ artîndan, gene apakay yagîndan túyúmleníp, konîşma kalgan yerínden dewam ettí: - Fakat onday da bolmay, ya, akay. "Hem ğanarman, hem kaytarman!" man bolmaz. Kímden bo kaşuw? - Men unutmak úşún súymem, bír súysem de unutmam. - dedí Bodonğar yeşíl kózlerge batîp. - "Súygenímízge atatan, súygenímíz ğúklenetan" dep aytîlmay mî? Ózíñe túşúnmeseñ, súygeníñe túşún bíraz. - dedí kîskaayaklîsî da, kózlerín ğerge kaytarîp. - Ne degeníñní bílesíñ mí? Kárí ne? Onî ayt sen! - dedí Bodonğar. - Alîp ta bír kenarga salganîñ bír zararî bolmayğak, ya. - dedí Adañkan
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scythia minor (little crimea)
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Úriyañgağin. Bodonğar ayak ústúne turdî. Moñlîmoñlî, íşín tartîp, aşaga karaybergen biykesíne karadî: - Mením kuwetím seníñ katîñdadîr. dep. Kúnúm bolganşîk, men de katîñdaman, Bodonğar. - dep katîldî kîskaayaklîsî. - Bílmem, íşím taraydî. Sañkem ómírníñ íşí men tîşîn arasîn kîdîra turgandayman. Ka-ter ekenmen? Kapîdan ğan karap apakayîna bo sózlerní aytkan soñ, Bodonğar óz úyúne barîp ğatagîna kírdí. On-onbeş kúnge kadar ómírníñ íşí men tîşîn arasîn kîdîra turgan soñ, şo yaklarga kelíp bír îrknîñ yerleşkenínden kaber aldî. Saba, atîna míníp, kîskaayaklîsîna: - Bo yaklarga bír îrk yerleşken dep aytalar. Sápírlíkke barağakman. - dep kettí. - Katîlganîmnî bílesíñ. Eñ árúwsí bo. Kózyaşlarîm kalmadî. - dedí Adañkan Úriyañgağin. - Mením ğanîm, ómírím keter ke seníñ kózíñden kakğa kózyaşî akmasîn. sózlerí men teptí Bodonğar atîn. Kúneş betke ğolga şîkkan koğasîn artîndan kol salladî, Adañkan Úriyañgağin. Soñra, koğasî awuldan şîgar-şîkmaz, tuyak ízleríne, ğuwurup úyden şîgargan, bír meşerpe sút atîp: - Tañrî ğolîmîznî, kîsmetímízní aşsîn! - dep, duwa etíp kaldî. Şo kelgen îrk yakîn eken, ğolda bír sóyín konîp, ekínğísí onlarnîñ ğurtunda sápír bolîp koñdî. Karakalk, igí kíşíler eken. Onlar da Bodonğarnî árúw kíşí kóríp, ziyade pazarlîk yapmadan, şalt añlaştîlar. Akasîínísí alarî katînda yogîn añlap, Bodonğarga yardîmğî bolağak ekenler. Ne demek o? Onlar az kalabalîk mî? Nedret kíşíler mí? Okadar akaylarî, ğígítlerí bar. - Sen dert etme, bíz barmîz mínda, Bodonğar! Añlaştîk, ya. Bíz kararmîz bo íşkke. Sen raát úyúñe kaytîp óz íşíñe karay ber! Sawluk man bar! - dep ozgardîlar saba-
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saba Bodonğarnî, akşamgî kóríşmelerníñ soñînda karşîlîklî yararlanîp. Koğasî aşîk yúzlí kaytkanîna Adañkan Úriyañgağin ziyadesí men kuwandî. - Kaşanga? - dep soradî o. - Haftaga. - dedí Bodonğar. Añlaşmalarîna uyup, şo Bodonğarnî sápír etken îrknîñ akaylarî, ğígítlerí, oga yardîmğî boldîlar. Onlar kesílgen kún, Bodonğarnîñ akasî-ínísí alarnîñ yeríne, onîñ awulnuñ aldîna kelíp, at oynattîlar. Şîjgîra-şîjgîra kamîş kaktîlar. Zuw-şuwnuñ íşínde, Adañkan Úriyañgağin merak etíp dayan-almay, barîp şo delí gibí hawalarnî-kóklerní dúbúrdetken, ğerní sallatkan akaylarnîñ, ğígítlerníñ artîndakî mógedekníñ íşíne bír kóz atîp kelewuydî. - Ne diysíñ, begendíñ mí? - dep soradî ğañî urba kíygen Bodonğar, ğañî urba kíygen biykesínden. - Fazlasî man. - keldí Adañkan Úriyañgağinníñ ğewabî. Kara telegeden túşken kelínní herkez begendí. Ğaş, dúlber bír kîz, Bodonğar saylamasîn bíle eken. Şo kelínníñ kelgeníne eñ kóp Adañkan Úriyañgağin kuwangandîr. Endí onîñ: - Íş bosagañ boş, bo íşníñ başîna şîkmalîsîñ! - dep ayta bergení bolmadî. - Bosagañdan bírew şîga tursun, bír zararî bolmaz. - degení píttí. Bírşiy yapmalîsîñ, tóşep kondîrtawuy, akay! - dep míyín aşap turganî kettí. Men kartayatîrman, kyor tuwulsuñ. Bír şáre tap! - demedí. - Kîzmetíñe ğúklen-almayman endí. Ğúkke dayan-almam. Seníñ taa yaşîñ kaş? - ayta bergení de soñîna bardî. (dewamî keleğekke)
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roger smith
british columbia, canada
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fingers and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “You just got up,” he told his sister. “Go look in the kitchen. There’s no food. Mum said Dad lost his pay. They blame us kids for losing things. Then he loses his pay.” Pat snickered. “You don’t get it, do you?” she asked. “That’s what she told you?” Michael nodded. “That’s what Mum said,” he muttered. “Dad lost it.”
Mum
“You poor little kid,” Pat sneered. “That’s not what she meant. I know what’s It’s happened before. Lots of times.”
“Mum’s gone!” Pat
rolled
happened.
her
eyes.
“So?”
she
demanded. “She’s gone shopping.” Michael shook his head violently. “No,” he snapped. “She’s really gone. She can’t have gone shopping anyway. She’s no money.” “She left it here?” Michael shook his head again. He hesitated, looking straight into his sister’s eyes, and tugged his pants up higher before saying, “She’s got no money. There isn’t any. That’s why there’s no food.” “Course there’s money,” Pat retorted. “Dad got paid yesterday. Mum just hasn’t done the shopping yet.” Michael squeezed his nostrils with his
She
hesitated
for
emphasis
before
adding, “Mum has no money because Dad lost it betting.” Michael looked puzzled. “Betting?” he asked. “Betting on what?” Pat shrugged. “Who knows? He says he fools the tax man by taking cash. But it just makes it easier at the bookies. He’s so stupid he’d bet on a three-legged horse.” Michael’s jaw dropped. “That’s why Mum has no money?” he gasped. “That’s why there’s no food?” Pat nodded. “Sounds like it,” she told her brother. “So what else is new?” Michael wiped his nose again as he thought about what to say.
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“So where could Mum have gone?” he finally asked. “If she’s got no money?”
“She never told me,” he whined. “She never said nothin’.”
Pat shrugged again. “Don’t know. She
“Ços you’re just a ten-year-old kid,” Pat
never just goes for a walk. She’ll have gone to
laughed. “Why should she tell you? You don’t
borrow money. She’ll have to get something.
know nothing what goes on.”
We have to eat.”
Michael snatched his jacket from the
Michael’s eyes widened in surprise. “Borrow? Where?”
done
back of a chair and walked to the door. “I’m gonna look for her,” he declared. “I
“Annie up the road most likely. She’s
still think she’s…she’s gone. Somewhere else.
it
She hasn’t gone to Annie’s. “
before,”
Pat
explained,
sounding
exasperated. “Lots of times.”
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His sister shook her head. “Somewhere
The old man glared at him. “You gonna
else? Doubt it,” she scoffed. “She never goes
move on your own or do my dogs have to move
anywhere except the shops…and anyway, it’s
you?” he snarled. “You kids make me sick.
pouring down.”
You’re all good for nothin’.”
“I’ll find her,” he snapped. “You’ll see. I’ll find her.”
Michael kept looking down at the dogs straining on their leashes. He’d wanted a dog
Michael stepped out into the desolate street and slammed the door behind him. He stood for a Mument looking each way, the rain
for a long time, but his Dad always said it would just mean another mouth to feed, and so it had never happened.
hammering on his head, his nose dripping, and
He stepped into the road without
then he began walking down the street towards
glancing at the old man and shuffled around the
Annie’s house.
dogs, watching them carefully.
The white curtains there were still
He went through the park gates and
drawn tight across the windows and he could
where the trees offered some protection from
see no sign of any lights through the colored
the rain paused under an oak tree to look
glass panels in the front door. He huddled
around. The tennis courts and bowling greens
deeper in his jacket and shoved his hands in
were deserted and the flower beds were empty
his trouser pockets. The rain was soaking
and black. Rain drops splashed into puddles
through his thin jacket and his shoulders were
and the wind whipped the tree branches. Even
damp. He’d forgotten to put a plastic bag
the crows had sought refuge.
in
his shoes to cover the holes in his soles and his feet were already wet and cold. The only other place he could think of
The only shelters in the park were those for spectators on the grassy area in front of the bandstand and beside one of the bowling
where his mother might have gone was the
greens.
park, so he trudged to the end of the street and
bandstand, oblivious to the driving rain, and as
turned right towards the park gates. With his
he came closer he thought he could see a dark
head down against the wind he didn’t see an
shape inside. He hesitated briefly and then
old man approaching holding two large, obese
walked faster. When he turned under the
dogs on short leashes until the dogs’ growls
overhanging roof he realised the shape was his
made him look up.
mother huddled in a corner.
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He
chose
to
walk
towards
the
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She was staring straight ahead with her
your mother, and I can’t feed you. And the
arms wrapped around her chest. Her hair hung
rent’s due,” she told him. “We’ll be on the
in wet strands from her head. Her glasses were
street.”
covered in tiny beads of moisture. Michael thought she had never looked so old. He sat down beside her, wondering what to say. He wanted to reach out and touch her, but something stopped him. The only sounds were an occasional sob from his mother and the rain hammering on the shelter’s roof. Michael watched the tears flowing down her wrinkled white skin. Finally, he said, “Let’s go home, Mum.” She didn’t move. “Come on, Mum,” he pleaded. “It’s cold out here. And we’re soaking wet.” She shook her head. “I can’t,” she told
“I can get a ‘paper route,” Michael said. “They’re always looking for kids.” His mother shook her head. “You’re too young,” she told him. “You’re only ten. And you should be in school right now.” He wiped his nose on his sleeve. “I’ll tell them I had to go to the clinic. They won’t care. And I’ll tell the newspaper people I’m older. They won’t care either. I look older anyway,” he insisted. “Pat says I don’t, but the other kids say I do. Then I can help.” He was surprised to see his mother smile, even if it was only a softening of her mouth and her eyes were still dead.
him, her voice so soft he had to lean forward to
“Pat says you sometimes borrow from
hear her. “I’ve nothing left. I can’t cope
Annie,” he told his mother. “That could get us
anymore.”
through a few days, right?”
“I’ll help more,” Michael promised. “So’ll Pat. We can do it.” He reached out cautiously and put a hand on her arm. Her coat was sodden and cold, and when she didn’t respond he let his fingers slip away. “We can talk to Dad,” he assured her. “We can make him different. You’ll see.” His mother shook her head again. “I’m
When his mother didn’t answer he stood. The rain still dripped from his hair and his nose was running. He could feel the chill damp going through his body. “Come on Mum,” he urged her, reaching out to touch her shoulder. “Let’s go home. Please.” His mother finally shrugged and began to move off the bench. The cold and dampness had made her stiff and she moved awkwardly
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until she was upright. Michael held his hand
better dry my hair a little. Don’t want to drip on
out and she took it gently and squeezed his
her carpet.”
fingers.
When the front door burst open they
“Shall we go to Annie’s?” he asked. “On our way home?”
turned together to see Michael’s father standing on the step beaming at them.
His mother took her glasses off with her
“Just took a minute off work,” he told
other hand and shook some of the water off
them. “Had to tell you. I still had some money in
them.
my pocket last night. And I bet on a long shot “Let’s just go home,” she told Michael.
“Don’t want Annie to see me like this. I’ll get dried off first.”
and it paid off. 100 to one!” He brandished a wad of bills in front of his face. “See?” he almost shouted. “We’re on
They walked hand in hand through the
easy street!”
park gates. The wind had picked up even more,
Michael looked up at his mother. Her
and the rain drove into their faces. Michael let
expression did not change as she moved
the mucus from his nose run down onto his
towards the door and slammed it shut.
lips, tasting the sweetness on the tip of his tongue. When
He wanted to applaud her, but his arms and hands were still too cold, so he walked up
they
reached
their
house,
Michael stabbed the doorbell several times. When his sister didn’t answer his mother
behind her and buried his face in her back. She had never felt so comforting and reassuring.
fumbled in her coat pockets for the key with cold, stiff fingers, and when she found it Michael took it and opened the door.
***
They pulled their shoes off and peeled away their coats. “Can I stay home?” Michael asked. “It’ll take a long time for my coat to dry.” His mother nodded.
“I don’t need a
coat to just go to Annie’s,” she said. “But I
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Photos: Zinure Ismayil (Ismaylova)
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Photos: Zinure Ismayil (Ismaylova)
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Photos: Zinure Ismayil (Ismaylova)
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Photos: Zinure Ismayil (Ismaylova)
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Photos: Zinure Ismayil (Ismaylova)
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Photos: Zinure Ismayil (Ismaylova)
tom sheehan
massachusetts, usa
Lover, Not Yet Lover And so it was, plain and simple, a necessary thing to do, an oath moving in one’s self at the beginning of resolve, a slow upward presence, a climbing of spirit, so that he saw it coming as if from a field of mist caught out atop a pasture, the morning young, dew spread and spent under the sun exerting itself always, and with it all he saw the outcome, how it would come down the line swift as a memory in some far place where he was out of this habit range, this wide place he might have called home grounds except it was not solicitous at the time, and that memory, as stark as it might be at the finish of its appearance, would come like that same mist off the grass, at first as conceivable, then as probable, and finally, with a conscious note of
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tom sheehan
massachusetts, usa
thanksgiving, come whole and moving and it would be her in a final presence in the same place, in his heart and not his mind, in his heart and not behind his eyes where he thought he’d see it again and again, in his heart and not in his hands the way he’d recall her at odd moments of the night with a twist and a turn and a sigh, but sleep now a dread enemy, sleep an impossibility, sleep that came of wretched evasion and long mourning, and just as always she’d be visible in a new haven, looking at him, her chin in hand, blue eyes as wide as ever, and sending him that continual message, only to have it waylaid by someone other than either one of them, another body in her place, a new touch, a new taste, a woman of thought, a woman possible, perhaps around the corner, perhaps at the next cup of tea, perhaps a pair of eyes he’d know would be her eyes in the second place of their coming, and he’d roll over and hate himself and cry his poor soul to sleep. Where it all began and might end had come upon him as surprise comes to any alert soul, her illness an unaccustomed turn, a brevity of concern at first, a slight indication of some small piece not working, the way it happens in ordinary door chimes, the least of importance, for the knock would follow and the entrance conducted and the gaiety loosed once more, or then, more thorny, as in a clock
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massachusetts, usa where a spring might be caught unawares or a
that huge place to the outside, the evening
notch filled with debris or a gear snagged, and
blessing her tired moves, her muscles, her spirit
time, by the minute, would go its way, or an hour,
looking for nourishment for the day to follow, for
to the end of the month where some due would
surely repetition was the sin there.
get undone, unfinished, lost.
He knew how it would happen.
He’d know his loss more than separation, more than death.
It began for him, across a room in that friend’s home where people mixed in merriment
She had the last words saved up for a
and talk of another loss and celebration, the
delivery meticulous and persuasive: “Do not stop
babble and groundswell moving in slight waves
what you are doing; do not chase after me in any
keeping all corners alive not with the same words
hurry; and in all loyalty and bound by this
but with the same intents … the look, the
promise, find someone to talk to, to read to, to
approach, the answer, the assent without a
release to.”
sound, agreement working the fields of the
He brought himself back to a new day where it would begin for him, coming that ordinary way, in a soft hour of evening as the sun tipped its hat goodnight at the kitchen window and across the room in a friend’s house he could see her acknowledging again one of her last days, in that special way she had of salutation, reminding him how everybody on God’s hard earth loved her, the patients whose cries she could
hug,
the
nurse
orderlies
that
she
trumpeted to all and sundry, how they had come
bodies in the large room, in the field of his body, that new pair of eyes saying all the things he might want to hear, putting aside judgments and comparisons, putting aside the cause of the initial attraction, because her eyes were running with the words he could not hear but understood, the way semaphore flags at the lip of an aircraft carrier can spell its position and its acceptance to a pilot winging his way home, out of gas, praying for the lap of safety, the parts all together for maybe the last time in this life.
from devastation and nothing to hope for, unto
Later, the stub of afternoon coming spent,
this place of hope, agreeing with her that all
the one with the announcing eyes would point
should be pain free and exalted in their dignity,
out the window to three children of the
even as all those days dwindled into sobs few
neighborhood playing in a side lawn of a neat
heard but her at the door of the room, at the end
house whose red bricks had taken on a dusky
of the hall, with the last step from the inside of
red hue the sun has some days in late summer,
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massachusetts, usa whose hedges were trimmed by a barber with
face, across the lenses of her eyes in the way
comb and scissors, and whose windows must
those children ought to be seen, in a choice part
have been dressed by a quaint old lady who had
of the inner eye, a roll call brought to bear with
asked for one more turn at decoration to carry
their histories coming on, the schools of their
her name and her last thought caught up in a
growing years assembled piecemeal in the new
pairing of colors.
fiction as though they were now promised, or had been promised long before these new parents
This mere stranger for the moment, who had come from across the room at the beginning
had come on the scene to make their wishes, to say their prayers, to offer their thanksgivings.
of her place in all of this, with her own loss, stared at the children, a light falling across her
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Her voice had a mysterious quality in it.
Nazar Look 25
massachusetts, usa “Let’s make them ours.” She said it with soft
herself, a grace emanating from that aura
passion, with an eye on their clocks, and with
unseen as music but the tempo and the
solemn promise, as if it had already happened,
unbidden language coming along with it, the
that mini-adoption, that quick attachment. “Let’s
rhythm of a woman who moves with ease into
watch them whenever we can, as obliged we
the depth of a man where she assimilates,
would be, enjoy their goodness ahead, their
absorbs, animates by a motion so subtle to this
coming small sadness, see them leap up and
day it still overpowers him .
onward, and hold them dear as we ought in the She moved like the appreciation of a
silence of our hearts. That is the most of love I can muster.”
mountain morning hovering over a lake, a mist slow in ascension to translate into an unseen
The words that followed might have been spoken before, by her of the past. “Let’s be in love again, each of us, with all possibilities for as long as we can.” She took his hand and held it close and in another moment he knew she’d move his hand upon the promise. The nights would say their names and it would be enough to hear the soft syllables.
level
allowing
iridescence
of
innumerable
growths to appear in a painting his eyes said existed solely for his vision, at the moment no other person seeing what he was seeing; and in its climbing into a nothing that did exist for his wonder and awe, became the other side of the lake, she in one image he had put away for all time as that one image to salvage him from despair and loss so unequivocal it promised no future to his natural hunger and need; knowing
And so the way it was supposed to
from the inception she was a dream come alive
happen, it did, love advancing the soul’s
for him, this woman, a mere mist at first, coming
illumination of inner light, the mass of it coming
alive, a smile wide as horizons, coming alive, a
at once, at first an illusion so beautiful it was
voice saying she was real, coming alive, its tone
previously unimagined, and then, after his
so meticulous and full of clarity it struck him with
wanton sleep was beset and circulated with toss
lightning delivery, the first word coming alive his
and turn and turmoil, and with a side glance at
name, the very first sound saying she was
once mistrusted but leaving a hard dent in his
thinking of him and beset with the energies and
memory, she moved from the covey of her own
want that had littered his days and nights steady
shadow into the scan of his horizon, and remains
as cast-off memories shunted aside but never
in that one spot, that totally owned place by
letting go, the other truths hanging on, past dear
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massachusetts, usa life.
whip soft as bee flight, as positive, her grasp His name came softly in the night, in the
essential.
truth of darkness, on the breath of a woman
Then,
in
brevity
of
concern,
of
moving the way only a woman moves, a
conscience, he heard her voice as from the far
languorous length of her, a gloried broadness, a
end of a tunnel, or the top of a mountain so
hip
as
distant it was out of sight, the soft syllables
identification, into his mind before all else, into
advancing on him the way balm dissolves worry
the spirit sitting there alone and waiting for the
and fright, the way it descends on the ache in a
word, the gesture, the hand sending its touch on
spirit.
salutation
as
much
signature
a linen full of sound but so silken and smooth it was as if his name came carried there first, the manner of the passage as much invitation as any invitation might be broadcast from soul to soul, the call heard and the reply sent outward, the elegant length of her reduced, brought closer, a loop in its coming, a grasp, a homing brought to bear his all, an ascension of will silent at first but then pounding in his heart, and then to his mind where it evolved as the transfer of love more monumental yet existing in that languorous depth beneath him in a grip only her kind owned. He said her name, and it rose pious, devout, though of a second nature, an element about in the night like an unseen feather on unseen air but letting off a whisper of sound, a whisper of such promise and continuity it came
It was necessary now, he thought, the time arrived for it to happen, and he moved a ways and looked behind him and saw how far he had come in this loneliness, in this short time, and it was bigger than an ache, and it moved on him as slow as he thought about himself and then her, and there was silence he could not comprehend, which made him think of being a distant star looking back here and saw himself less than he was and knew the difference, knowing nothing of time, only of manner --- how it happened, not why, not where, but knowing the form of it. It was her. ***
of soul salvage, of mere dreaming, of harnessed energy, of the ultimate connection of essence and turmoil mixing the grander ingredients where imagination alone is the king, the guidepost, the
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pir sultan abdal
(ca. 1480–1550)
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(ca.1480 - 1550)
I Addressed the Yellow Crocus I addressed the yellow crocus: “Where dost thou overwinter?” “Dervish, our winter death is birth, we sleep our deaths within the earth.” I addressed the yellow crocus: “What sun shines bright beneath the earth?” “Dervish, sunlight dreamt the soil’s bower, thus we bathe in mighty power.” I addressed the yellow crocus: “Why is your jaundiced face so pure?” “Dervish, our skin reflects us well, for fearing God we fear no Hell.” I addressed the yellow crocus: “And are your parents living still?” “Dervish, this ground is mother’s womb, those darkened clouds our father’s room.” I addressed the yellow crocus who revealed itself a dervish: with scripture inked upon its tongue and rapture under brightest sun. Pir Sultan stands with dervish kin face full of crocus-light and skin; bright-bearded servants under sun crocus and dervishes are one. (Version from the Turkish by Jack Brae Curtingstall)
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lucian blaga
(1895–1961)
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(1895 - 1961)
Mirror Deep Whenever gaping in a well myself as clear the day can see the one I am, was and shall be. Whenever gaping in a well ‘pon old my face all guesses tell Heaven and Earth’s mingling spell. Whenever gaping in a well godmothers lost deep down I bet a mirror hold ‘fore me, eyne met. Whenever gaping in a well my fate I see, my name forget.
(Adapted translation Axel H. Lenn after "Oglinda din adanc", vol. CE AUDE UNICORNUL, 1957-1959, by Lucian Blaga)
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larry lefkowitz
israel
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The stories, poetry, and humor of Larry Lefkowitz have been published widely, including in the following publications: The Literary Review, A Cappella Zoo, Third Wednesday Review, American Film, Midstream, Old Hickory Review and in anthologies and online, including fiction in many genres, serious poetry and light verse.
intense. Dark shadows move between the buildings on the streets themselves, in the shadow of the buildings, black interstices flowing around the white lacunae, the only contrast to the brightness. I come to the fountain, pause as always to watch the water cascading down, splashing, sparkling where th sun’s rays touch it. Nearby is the oak tree, its
The City
branches spread wide. Luminous flying insects dart between the branches. I pass through the archway. The city is old, paved in cobblestones. I walk upon the familiar cobblestones, feeling their hardness under my feet. A stream runs
It always starts the same. A view of the city from the hill, white, bleached, the sun reflectig off the buildings. I see the familiar path which leads down the hill, descending in serpentine coils. And always the city, white and unshimmering in the clear air. Once more I start toward it, down the path. The same objects mark the way, glistening in the warm afternoon sunshine. As I come to each, I look for the next, and thus come to the base of the hill and the outskirts of the city. The heat becomes more
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through the city. I cross the bridge and pause to watch the fishes flash silver scales toward the sun. They appear transparent in the clearness of the water, silvery forms against the white watery background. The bridge continues as a path that crosses a courtyard and ends in steps that lead to a building. I climb the steps and pass between two columns, vertical shafts of light in the sun, and through doors which, as always, are open awaiting me. I follow the corridor the length of the building and come to
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the same room, which I enter. The room is
shadows. I run past them as uin the dream, past
empty except for a picture on the far wall. I
the fountain and the gurgling water, through the
approach the picture. I am unable to focus on
pillars. The objects all fall into place as I knew
the subject. I strain to see it. My effort is
they would. The heat is unbearable. Everything
useless, the picture fades.
is brightness except for the shadows which appear only for a moment before disappearing.
The dream is always the same.
Instead of being reassured by the objects which
Distressed with the recurring dream, I consult a doctor. I answer the anticipated questions, and state that I am not overworked. The doctor recommends more exercise, less heavy eating, a change in the usual schedule of
come and pass exactly as the dream, I become more and more firghtened. Faster I run. Everything is happening more rapidly than the dream. The fright is replaced by dread, but a dread mixed with expectancy. I round the oak,
daily events. More examinations follow. The doctor
refers
me
to
a
psychiatrist. The
psychiatrist concludes that there is nothing significantly abnormal and sends me back to the doctor. The doctor suggests a vacation, a cruise perhaps. The boat trip is relaxing. Quiet days on deck only rarely interrupted by overly conversational women. The ports of call are less relaxing but I find them interesting. In the last port I leave the others who were on the ship and set off inland alone. Days are spent slowly passing through villages, and then one day I clear a hill, beneath which I see the city. I run down the hill, following the curves of the path, toward the buildings which stand like calcium towers, passing the shadows. The buildings are whiter than in the dream, a bleached white that hurts my febrile eyes and remains, ghostlike, when I shut them. The brightness of the sun is everywhere.
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The
only
contrast
are
the
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its black branches outlined in white like a hand thrust against the sky. The sky is bright, too bright to look at. There is no sun to be seen now but the sky is bright. I pass through the the arch; it casts no shadow. I run across the cobblestones. My feet make no sound on them. All as the dream. Am I in the dream? Over the bridge. The silver fishes flash. Up the steps, noiselessly. The doors are open as I knew they would be. Down the corridor. My heart is beating. I feel it rather than hear it. At each beat a flash of light pounds my eyes. Breathless, shaken, fearful, I enter theroom. The picture is waiting. It looms ahead of me. The room is bright. I cannot see because of the brightness. And then I see: I am beyond the dream. I recognize the picture, the terrified face, the distended eyes, the outstretched hands, and in the background the city. It is I. The picture grows bigger and bigger. I stretch out my hands . . . ***
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jude conlee
california, usa
http://inwhichjudewrites.blogspot.com
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http://inwhichjudewrites.blogspot.com
And You Will Not Hear This, Either I speak with no words; you’re unaware of my usage of language to convey any sense of sense; and this is the non-listening that gets me, it gets me every single time, because I would want to believe that you, you who promised to listen to me whenever I needed it – this betrayal in not heeding me in full and skimming over my voice as you skim over words that do not serve you; I deem it treachery of the highest degree; that of making me realize the futility of my own words.
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Travels in Circassia, Krim Tartary, &c. (XII)
The Hungarian side of the Danube now presented one vast plain covered with immense flocks of sheep, herds of cattle, horses, &c., attended by most patriarchallooking shepherds. But to return to Turkish Servia: - this interesting country is fast advancing in civilization under the sway of Prince Milosch, who, though originally an uneducated peasant, is yet worthy, by his talents and virtues, of the high station to which fate has advanced him. He has given a constitution to his people, left trade unfettered by restrictions, his ports on the Danube are open to ships of every nation, and foreigners are encouraged to settle in the country for the purpose of assisting to civilize the natives. Another benefit resulting from his administration, is the safety with which a traveller may now journey through his dominions: whereas, only a few years since, the roads were infested by bands of robbers. His system of police is at once simple and efficacious: for whenever a robbery or murder is committed, the inhabitants of the nearest village or town are made responsible for the deed; and must either find the delinquent, or pay a considerable fine. Another regulation of the law is, that should any article of value be found on the highway, it must be left on the spot where it was discovered; the presumption being that
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the owner will return and claim his property. However singular this method of governing may appear to more civilized nations, yet in this it has certainly the effect of making the people, who are not yet emerged from primitive barbarism, honest. The dress of the Servian peasantry is not unpicturesque, consisting of a red cap, a linen tunic descending below the knees, confined by a leather belt embroidered with silk or wool; over this is worn a drab-coloured jacket with red facings: they no longer carry arms, but have instead a long knife stuck in the girdle. The women who, from their small Grecian features and well-formed feet and ankles, deserve the appellation of pretty, were also becomingly attired. They did not appear confined to any particular head-dress: some wore a shawl; others a turban; but the better classes a red Grecian cap, confined by a band of plaited silk the same colour as their hair. The peasantry on the Hungarian side of the Danube, a Sclavonian race, had adopted a different costume: the men wore for a head-dress a curled woolly cap, somewhat resembling a mop without a handle; and the women, whose attire was bizarre enough, were clothed in a manycoloured woollen petticoat, which descended to the knee, and was then finished with a broad plaited fringe that came down to the ankle. Do not suppose that these plaits were connected with each other; on the contrary, each hung like a separate pendant; and when the fair creature stepped, or a gust of wind set the rattling fringe in motion, the effect was very ludicrous; and, certainly, of all the feminine accoutrements it was ever my lot to behold in Europe, these were the most unique. The women of both countries were generally employed in spinning from the distaff; and I frequently saw them thus
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occupied, and at the same time carrying a pail of milk on the head, and an infant slung behind in a basket. The scenery on the Servian side of the river continued to improve, being finely wooded; while that of the Hungarian had nothing to relieve the monotony, except a continued range of guardhouses belonging to the military cordon to which I have before alluded. The object that next arrested my attention was the town and castle of Semendria. The castle is a most singularlooking building, of a triangular form, consisting of twenty-seven towers joined together by curtains apparently of solid
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masonry. No doubt, a fort of this description is extremely formidable when defended by Turks, owing to their known obstinacy when fighting behind stone walls; but it does not come within the pale of what may be called a regular fortification of the present day. After descending the river a little further, we came to a succession of these Turkish fortifications, all more or less in a dilapidated state. (to be continued)
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