BAŞ KABÎMÎZDA ON THE COVER
Kevin Marshall Chopson Photo: Noah Emerson Chopson
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 albrecht haushofer Guilt - Taksirat 4 marin sorescu Muhasebe 6 ahmet ğewat Susmam! 8 taner murat scythia minor (little crimea) Kókten sesler - Temúçin (XX) 10 jack peachum virginia, usa Aunt Teensie Tropical Storm - Yoda boran The Dean - Dekan 14 rudy ch. garcia colorado, usa Memorabilia 26 musa jalil To a Little Bird 28 kevin marshall chopson tennessee, usa Interview On the Sleeping Body of God - Allahnîñ ğatîp yuklagan kewdesíne I Have Seen My Death Three Times - Eğelíme úş kere rast keldím Intaglio Keep the Wild at Bay
36 reshma pandya-bhatt maharashtra, india Dance tonight Choked 38 edmund spencer Travels in Circassia, Krim Tartary, &c. (XIV) 40 susana huseyn crimea Photoshop: Crimea, Monument for Sunken Warships in AqyarSevastopol
CONTRIBUTORS MEMBALAR Kevin Marshal Chopson Noah Emerson Chopson Rudy Ch. Garcia Suzana Huseyn Reshma Pandya-Bhatt Jack Peachum QHA
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albrecht haushofer
(1903 - 1945)
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Guilt I am guilty, But not in the way you think. I should have earlier recognized my duty; I should have more sharply called evil evil; I reined in my judgment too long. I did warn, But not enough, and not clearly enough; And today I know what I was guilty of.
Taksirat …taksiratlîman, Amma túşúngeníñdiy tuwul. Wazipeme taa ewelden ğúklenmelí edím; Yamanlîgîñ atîn sesímní taa bek kóteríp aytmalî edím. Pazla túşúnúp kaldîm. Kóz aştîrağak boldîm, Amma bonî ne yeteğek kadar, ne de aşîk-aşîk yaptîm. Búgún de bílgením taksiratlî bolganîmdîr. (Taner Murat’îñ terğúmesínde)
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marin sorescu
(1936 - 1996)
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Muhasebe Astîmîzga Kara bír sîzîk Tartîp Hesap zamanî kelír. Dewletlí bola yazgan bírkaş sîramîz. Gúzel bola yazgan bírkaş sîramîz. Zekiy bola yazgan bírkaş sîramîz. Bírkaş kere Bírtakîm daklar man, terekler men, suwlar man rastlaştîk (Ka-yerlerde ekenler? Saw m-ekenler?) Bolarnîñ hepísín toplasañ aydîn bír keleğek eterKe bíz onî zaten yaşadîk. Súygen bír kîskaayaklîmîz man Bízní súymegen hep şo kîskaayaklî Sîfîr eter. Yaşîmîzdan şerígí úyrenúw men geşken Bírkaş miliyart ğemlík sózí yapar Olarnî bír kenarga itep yawaş-yawaş ílímínden kurtulduk. Soñînda da, bír kader Bír kader taa (bo da kaydan şîkkan eken?) Ekí yapar (Bírewsín yazîp ekínğísín kolda tutarmîz, Kím bílír, belkí akíret te bardîr). (Taner Murat’îñ terğúmesínde)
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ahmet Ä&#x;ewat
(1892 - 1937)
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Susmam Men bír gúlmen, ğúk astînda ezílgenmen, kardaşîm, Súyúm bílmez bír mahkúmmen, gúzel zardîr sîrdaşîm, Damgalanîp şînğîrlanîp atîlganman zindanga, Karlî-buzlî ğehennemler mesken bolgandîr maga. Maga sóz ber, músaade et, kaşangaşîk susağakman, Buhranlarîñ-hiğranlarîñ mápísínde kalağakman? Neşín susup konîşmayîm, insanlîkta payîm bar, Mením ana watanîmdîr suwurulgan bo diyar. Neşín susup konîşmayîm, Túrk ğurtîdîr bo toprak, Oguzlarnîñ, elk kaanlarnîñ watanînda kímdír, bak ! Bo dúnyada azatlîknî şan-şóhretten ústún tut Alşaklîknî, ğaltakşînî, rezíllíkní sen unut! Neşín susup konîşmayîm, men iyliyím hîyanet? Kayda súygí, kayda watan, kayda da kaldî millet? Men bír gúlmen, ğerím altîn, soyîm gúmúş, ózím aş, Atam mahkúm, anam sefil, elím herşiyge muhtaş. Men Túrúk ewlatîman, deren aklîm, zekáam bar Kaşangaşîk omîzîmda gezeğektír şo ğawlar? Ne kadar ke hakkim de bar, húkúm de bar, men barman, Zúlmge karşî isiyanğîman, ezílsem de heş susmam. (Taner Murat’îñ kelíştírmesínde)
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jack peachum
virginia, usa
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Aunt Teensie (Mecklenburg County, Va., 1948)
A witch-woman was Aunt Teensie. Brown skin color-wrinkle of new cure tobacco-leaf, carrying herself along on a tall walking-stick– pace the step and stride of ancient lost caravans, at her beck, darksome news out of old Niger, in her voice night and the desert-winds crossing Punt. Two hands on my head holding me, dark eyes behind steel-rim spectacles peering down, “Dis boy got worms! I kin fix dat!” She was already older than the pyramids when I knew her, odder than Sphinx and fresher than the Nile flow. I fled– and she delighted in my small-boy fear. They shared sweet tea from a mason-jar on a sunny summer porch in August– she spoke to my grandmother in riddles and my grandmother answered. for A.T.
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Tropical Storm Ponds form where should be grass, sodden branches shake in the howling wind –downpours and thunder, ominous noises in the south– and you, uninvited guest from the faraway Gulf, you overstay any reasonable visit! Begone– time for you to move on! A bluejay takes shelter under a dripping tree, looks in my window– demands I make it stop raining!
Yoda boran Otlak bolmasî kerek yerde kólşíkler ibaret bola ulugan ğelde sallangan kaytîk dallar - ğawun man gúdúrdemeler, kúneş betten ogîrsîz seslerbír de sen, ziyaretní fazla uzatkan uzak Aylaktan dawetsíz mísápír! Ketsí, endí ketmeñ zamanî. Bir mawî-soyga tamîzdîrgan bír terekníñ astînda taldalanîp, penğíremden karap ğawunnî toktatmam íster! (Taner Murat’nîñ terğúmesínde)
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The Dean (East Carolina, Greenville, N.C., August, 1962)
Addressing us from corner of the college newspaper office, imparting to us the wisdom of his office– of his generation– a florid middle-aged man from New Jersey, overweight, sweating, gasping a bit in summer heat– “Be careful what you say– we can still keep th’ Nigras out! If they don’t know they can attend this school – don’t know they have a legal right to come here– don’t tell ‘em! Maybe they just won’t apply!”
Dekan (Kúntuwarbetí Karolin, Greenville kasabasî, Şimaliy Karolin, Awustos, 1962)
Hitabetíp bízge darúlfúnun ğeridesí daiyreníñ kóşesínden, ózníñ nesílníñ aydînlîgîn bíz men paylaşîp New Jersey’lí orta yaşlî, yaşatkan, mazallî, terlí, yaz aylarnîñ sîğagînda bíraz túyúlúp tar nefes algan bír akay: “Awuzuñuzdan şîkkan laplarga sak bolîñîz, Zenğiylerní gene uzak tutayîk! Eger bo mektepke yazîlmalarî múmkin bolganîn bílmeseler, kanuniy hakklarîndan kabersíz kalsalar, bo yerge yazîlîp kelmezler. Sakîn bírşiyler aytîp kaşîrmañîz!” (Taner Murat’nîñ terğúmesínde)
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Rudy Ch. Garcia's speculative stories have appeared in anthologies Latinos in Lotusland, Needles and Bones, and Kingdom Freaks and Other Divine Wonders, as well as Rudy Rucker's Flurb webzine and AntiqueChildren.com. He considers himself a Chicano/mestizo author, is a founder & contributor to the Chicano lit blog LaBloga.blogspot.com and works as a Denver, Colorado-area primary teacher. Read about his debut, alternate-world epic entitled The Closet of Discarded Dreams on discardeddreams.com, published by Damnation, Books, 9/12.
Memorabilia
mapped the location of Aztlán, 100 sandstorms erasing the details. His vows as Sentinel prevented Chaneco's accepting the sacrifice that accompanied the handcrafted silver necklace handed down from each amá to her hija. The ornate silver ring belonged
Prologue “Surely all material things have a form of sentience, even the inorganic: surely they all exist in some subtle and complicated tension of vibration which makes them sensitive to external influence and
to a member of the mexicano secret society defending the land grants from Anglo invasion. After the bronze people's fate was sealed, the ring, abandoned on Chaneco's doorstep.
causes them to have an influence on other external
The porcelain, Japanese doll forever smelled
objects, irrespective of contact.” [from “Edgar Allan
of jasmine because a teenager hid the love token
Poe,” Studies in Classic American Literature, by
under a juniper, before entering Manzanar. In the late
former N.M. resident D.H.Lawrence, 1923]
50s, Chaneco himself carved the guitarist statuette to cure
Introduction
found throughout his cabin arose from various of
love.
Supernatural
attributes
appeared later, principally from those he vilified as the “estranged dragons.” Here, briefly, is their history: Eons ago on a Tamaulipas beach, the conch resounded over Quetzalcoatl's departure. Earlier, an unwarranted
nap
had
transmogrified
a
young
gargoyle's jaws into a permanent yawn, in pewter. The leather wallet's Spanish inscription
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famed
young
Chicano's
agony
over
commercial success.
The “enchantment” in the artifacts Chaneco manifestations
a
One little blue car was simply an antique toy, its steel from the failed mine of the owner's father. The stuffed toy black bear--accidentally cast out a car window--its protector restrained from following. Three Plains indios figurines left at a campground helped a boy survive until confiding dark secrets to them became moot. The Dominican couple's wedding portrait-Chaneco's only memento of one daughter, her existence and assassination, long squelched. Some
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discarded-dreams.com Italian sunglasses' gradient UV-protected lenses and stainless steel hadn't protected their owner after Chaneco discovered that her “scholarly research” would add notches to her headboard. But the Canadian girls returning from Cancún probably loved him. Chaneco watched the departing roadster carry off their unabashed frivolity, until the moon rose. Only the tear-shaped nickel-iron meteorite held genuine enchantment, imparted by Chaneco's mentor to ward off dragons. However, due to faulty memory
of
his
charmed
longevity,
Chaneco
remembered only that object's full history when he began spring-cleaning of the adobe…
remind him of its inspiration. He placed the dark sculpture beside his ancient whittling knife, much as he set aside his sorrow, to inspect the abstract image of his last apprentice. Her death wouldn’t be avenged today, nor soon, but the opportunity would come. “Qué maravillosa era,” he said, enunciating each syllable, his eyes glistening, remembering her valor, her bonds to both the natural and Otherworld, rare to find in modern times. In a way, he'd loved her, too, for that which had made her unique. “Enough sentimentality.” He tore his eyes away toward the cabin.
***
As was habit, he brushed his roughened hands on overalls that had seen better days and
Except for the scores of amethyst-toned dragons’ tears strung alongside his amulet, Tomás Chaneco Martinez had never considered himself much of a collector. Things like photos, Anasazi
distant washings and lowered his head to avoid the doorway's cottonwood viga. With his fingernails he combed his bushy eyebrows and ran them on through his thick locks of black hair.
arrowheads or the bultos and santos artifacts his northern New Mexican neighbors collected might remind him of friends, lovers and comrades left behind as he continued his tasks as Sentinel.
The sooty feel of his fingers meant, “Time for a bath,” he thought. “What is it--June again?” Then out loud, “Would that I could as easily wash away other burdens.”
The bleached pine boards of his adobe's porch creaked under his weight.
Pausing past the threshold, he surveyed the books, journals, manuscripts, the hundreds of
Yes, near-immortality had its downsides: among others, an onerous solitude that came and went, although after a few centuries, tended to linger longer each passing decade.
painted, printed or transcribed documents covering the adobe's shelves, offspring of his quest for lost sorcerer-lore.
He
didn't
consider
himself
their
collector, but instead compared himself to an Aztec
Tomás Martinez couldn't even afford to keep
warrior dutifully maintaining his favorite macquahuitl
his nearly completed woodcarving; the complexity of
weapons, the obsidian-tipped machetes. His own had
emotions he'd imbued into the walnut stock would
an engraved ironwood handle, a parting gift from
force him to sell or give it away, rather than let it
Moctecuzoma I.
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discarded-dreams.com The passage of each fifty-two-year cycle
guessed he'd never see the azteca capitol again--not
reinforced his need for documentation to support a
until after the gachupines had leveled and replaced it
failing memory; he'd organized the library so as to
with their Mexico City.
prevent his staring at a book’s cover, wondering if he'd already searched its pages for clues.
On the desk's lower level an ornate ring from an eighteenth century mexicano secret society
Also sprinkled about his one-room home lay
reminded him he'd once been a member of the
heirlooms and knickknacks given to him for reasons
sorcerer priesthood, back when he and his comrades
forgotten, perhaps as in-kind payment for deeds
had befriended or fought divine, winged beings and
extraordinaire, or some he might have found in an
other dangerous forms, one of which had taken his
arroyo or on a desert path during his Trek. What
mentor. Transformed into birds, the others had flown
unsettled him was that no matter where he placed
into Aztlán where no dragones could enter. The same
them while reorganizing, in time they relocated
transformation had affected him differently, deferring
themselves, somehow.
death, perhaps forever.
On the back wall below two erotic paintings
Next to the ring sat a handcrafted silver
popular in the nineteenth century, past the dust,
necklace, possibly an heirloom handed down mother-
desiccated moths and spider web clusters, and atop
to-daughter for generations, though not as long ago
the large rolltop mesquite desk, the memorabilia and
as when his comrades had reported Aztlán's location
other objects had gravitated to one spot.
to Emperor Moctecuzoma. The report had been
He hadn't set them there; he would have thrown them out had he touched them, he knew. Perhaps a guest trying to be helpful had arranged them so. The desk beckoned, making his body teeter. The mementos held little significance for Chaneco, except for the nickel-iron meteorite, he now remembered--a teardrop shape from the Barringer impact thousands of years ago, a gift from a mentor who'd explained he'd picked up the stone while still warm. For no reason, he also remembered that 500 years ago when Moctecuzoma I had delegated him and the other fifty-nine sorcerers to find the lost homeland Aztlán, Tomás Chaneco couldn't have
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burned or buried beneath the rubble of Aztec civilization. Later he had come to understand his comrades had stationed him here as a Sentinel who could repeat their work and relocate Aztlán, should the need arise. It had. By 1710 when the dragons resurfaced for their cyclic foraging, he'd learned locating the homeland
was
crucial
to
solving
“the
dragon
problem.” His duties had carried him throughout northern Mexico and into the U.S. Southwest. Now he stood here in rural New Mexico wasting time, he realized, staring at trifles he doubted were his, not that he remembered who they'd belonged to.
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discarded-dreams.com The collection had accumulated at the desk's
them,
aided
by
apprentices,
but
his
other
rim: toy vehicles; the soiled, stuffed black bear;
responsibilities superseded any head-to-head battles
figurines of American indigenes; a statuette of an
with them. That was not his role.
ethnic guitarist with pale skin; a Japanese doll that still emitted wisps of jasmine. The worn wallet with Spanish inscriptions and the pair of cracked, clip-on sunglasses--upright as if pantomiming mouse ears. They could've been the common keepsakes of anyone anywhere, except for their annoying habit of communicating in an unintelligible tongue, at times loud enough to distract his reading or disturb his sleep.
“Qué lástima!” he said at the thought, though the real pity was his newest apprentices hadn’t matured,
weren't
ready,
and
postponement
of
another conflict was crucial to minimizing casualties. In that last encounter, the greatest danger both he and the dragons faced had been exposure. Generals, bureaucrats and entrepreneurs, here and in Mexico, had learned of the battle and nearly discovered the creatures’ existence. It would have
Had they let loose with their jabber only at
gone ill for the world had they done so because 21st
night, he would've attributed it to a bruja who had it
Century society would've disturbed the shaman-
out for him; the pinche witches had done such
dragon balance. Civilization could have bested the
before. But no, these objects broke out in oral
dragons, but would've destroyed the future.
exchange even during the day. At the moment they held their chatter down. He stared at each, straining to hear meaning in their “conversation.” Early on, he'd thought the sounds might be a degenerative product of his great age. After all, men of his profession weren't immune to the degradations of living too long, but nothing else in his surroundings taunted him with hallucinations. No, it was something else. He knew what the something else amounted to. This cacophonous harassment was the dragons’ reprisal, petty interference with his planning, his dreams. “He” had again beaten and driven the dragons back to their lairs. The cost had been high: two shamans, several apprentices and many ordinary humans, with he the lone survivor. Of course, he would have preferred directly, physically confronting
“Mmmm… glo, mla… qua ko--” If he concentrated, sometimes he could distinguish which object had spoken. Thus he heard the striated seashell, which he recognized as a type inhabiting Tamaulipas beaches. It appeared to be “debating” with the photo of two inebriated, barechested women in a plaza fountain, their attire limited to a veneer of greenish suds covering the enlarged aureoles of their breasts that dominated the photo's foreground. “Mar, mra, sa…” Silence followed, as if the photo had outclassed Concha the seashell. Or perhaps Concha’s basic interests now centered on the nipples in the photo, their prominence reminding it of young, full-rayed starfish it had straddled on the ocean floor. “Pendejo,” he scoffed, for letting his mind
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discarded-dreams.com wander. The objects hadn't resumed their chatter, assumedly because he'd listened too closely and might learn their secrets. He went out to check the sky; he'd deferred duty long enough and hoped his
escape the battlefield, able only to hover. “Mrak mra--” Leaning forward in the rocker, the viejito locked his aged knees around clasped hands,
prediction of a calm night would prove accurate.
tightened his shoulders, stretched his back. ***
“Qué hicieron?” It was more habit than question; they'd tell him nothing. “Qué hicieron con la
“Mra--… Ca, sra--”
Concha?” He checked the desk; yes, it was the shell.
He ignored their banter when he reentered,
Or had been.
threw himself into the padded rocker facing the door
The objects had assumed new positions, in
and front window. Though certain he was on
different groupings. Backed by their “allies”, the
schedule,
quick
vehicles formed a semicircle, like a breakwater
reactions, so best to keep vigil. Releasing a sigh, he
protecting the shore of glossy pictures, huddled,
closed his eyes and willed his body to relax. Had he
overlapping one another, including the wedding
wanted, he could have fallen asleep; sorcery always
portrait, possibly of an African couple.
the
unforeseen
might
require
sapped his spirit-body, even as a young man. Such a long time ago that had been. Within half an hour his vigilance waned; he relaxed more, repeatedly having to yank his eyes from closure. Dear rest, dearer sleep, but not his to enjoy as if he were ordinary. Perhaps later, christened with a bottle of mezcal, he thought. “Mran, mro--” Then a long break. Then repetitions of “Mra-- mra--” “And a mumble to you as well, my fine animatedly inanimate friends. What mierda do you shovel? Or is it deviousness you conspire?”
Funny, he thought, they were not usually allowed near the others. At the opposite end several items faced their “rivals”, with a pewter gargoyle in lead position, its jaws gaping. To the rear others waited. Midway between the two “armies”, the guitarist statuette lay prone, eyes half-shut. “Cosas, you push too far,” Tomás said, “no matter that spirits or dragons are involved.” It might be time to box up and recycle them out by the road, let someone who found value in them cart them away. But
bequeathing
evil
to
an
innocent
“Mrook.”
scavenger,
The shell's breaking into bits as it hit the floor
irresponsible. “I must use other means to end this
echoed long like miniature armies clashing, like tiny shield and spear, sword and bone meeting at midfield, ending lives--the last echo too weak to
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especially
a
neighbor,
would
be
baroque charade.” His vexation yielded to returning fatigue, so he didn't rise.
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discarded-dreams.com Peering out the window, he noted Evening Star’s light choked by the rarefied grit from distant power plants. He let the rocker’s momentum die of friction, content the time approached. He let his eyelids sag, his burly lashes sliding past one another, tangling, stroking tensed eyes. He wouldn’t let
sensation persisted, he appeared safe, had no need to terminate the vision. What he next witnessed would become the seed of nightmares until his life-spirit passed to the Other Realm, etched into his brain, never to fade.
himself dream; but he released his mind to wander,
A pair of scintillating emerald eyes peered
an exercise that avoided thought, yet enlisted his
from each object--even the meteorite--attempting to
subconscious into sketching the future.
mesmerize, imprison him in their scrutiny.
Animal smells and sage-to-pine aromas from
He tried returning to the waterfall pools, their
the hills mixed with those of the house, filling his
blue-green color too similar to the eyes'--more than a
nostrils, informing him of the doings of prey and
coincidence, he knew, less than auspicious. When he
predator. Carried by cool, moist drafts, dust from the
initiated the usual steps toward consciousness, his
rugged Sangres mingled with traces of his neighbors'
head throbbed, exploded, sending him to the brink of
ruts and dung.
convulsions. Brutal pain stabbed his eyes. By the
Sometimes
his
exploring
subconscious
carried him to transcendental places evoking dim, fond memories, like as an infant warmed in his own squishy excrement, the moment before squirming
he
envisioned
himself
floating,
descending a huge muted waterfall into the aqua pools below, then rotating in a whirlpool gradually losing its impetus. The cascade's honey fragrance almost made him yank himself awake--a brief anticipation, like a flash at vision’s periphery. To maintain the trance, he locked his eyes half-open. Vague forms atop the desk, all aligned, reminding him of a wave suspended before a beach. Their mumblings waned and grew, like surfy foam created by an underlying sandbar. The imagery made him chuckle; for an instant he wondered if they had heard, endangering him. But no, the buoyant
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had reached a level that would've made ordinary men faint. His disciplined training managed to dampen a yearning to scream. Retreating from consciousness worked; the
from discomfort. Now
time he realized the torture wouldn't pass, the assault
pain subsided, though still lurked at mind’s edge. Back and forth, he tested alternate routes around the torture. He envisioned himself as a deer confronting a jaguar blocking a trail. To the left, the right, over, under, and alongside his stalker, each a path of lethal promise. Double feints and triple dashings resulted in the same, as useless as his teeth-gnashing and facial contortions. Exhaling a feint of surrender, he took in the reek of someone different--the Others--torn by loss and loneliness; their smell penetrated his private Self. Strange and estranged beings. They belonged not here, nor anywhere else imaginable. Once he'd gauged how out of place and time they were, he
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discarded-dreams.com recognized their vulnerability. Now he could awaken. Wetting his lips and sitting upright, he widened his eyes and blinked, raised his arms. He'd returned, in control again. Escape should have been more difficult; later he'd determine why it hadn’t been. For now, there was another matter. The photos and their compatriots lay strewn around the desk's legs, but no musician figure nor its
many smaller. They struck the ground, home and trees, as if to target him by sheer random hits. Tomás gestured toward the cottonwoods, passing them some of his protective energy. Although this prevented denuding of the trees, some ice balls ricocheted toward Tomás, a few striking him, hungry for him, encouraged by his blood and bruises. He staggered.
shards to indicate it had “died” like Concha. Other
In a few moments he would recoup his energy
items lay scattered on the desktop as if tossed there.
to better defend himself, but he also knew that in too
Tomás recognized his immediate inclination to grab
many moments the frozen projectiles might render
and trash the whole batch wasn't the best idea. That
him unconscious, his battered body and demolished
which was easy rarely was.
home the only evidence of a twister gone evil.
He rose and went out to the water pump,
Despite the storm drowning out his screams--
doused his head and washed his face with the spigot
“Nunca me aguito, not in your brief lifetime would I
opened wide. He shook off what he could and let the
give up, anyway, Gran Tornado!” he heard raucous
wind dry the remainder. Hours had passed during his
laughter from within the cabin. “So, you cabrones
trance, but, he told himself, at least he'd only lost
enjoy this? If I survive your makers' bad weather, later
time. From the house came sounds of something
we will see how funny you are.” The laughter ceased.
heavy, crashing. Furniture thrown against the wall? Best to ignore them, for now.
Soaked, Tomás unwound his arms from about his head. With one hand he reinforced the shielding of
Approaching southeasterly clouds held the
the trees. He rotated his other hand, pressing upward
seasonal promise of rain. Following the valley
against the torrent. When the icy cannonballs' impact
contours, they merged and suddenly strengthened
crushed them into lime raspa that dripped onto his
into a super-cell mass recalling his whirlpool, though
lips, he licked the slush and smiled.
inverted, their crimson base gathering over his adobe. He never thought of moving to safety because none existed. Not anywhere in New Mexico. Not for him. Noise like boulders tumbling and crumbling into a deep canyon shook the earth, scattering birds that had had no warning. Then deep green ice balls began pummeling his homestead, grapefruit-sized,
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The inundation stopped. The wind slowed. Clouds broke, drifted into a northerly migration until disappearing. The sun warmed. Tomás stooped, wiped his face and looked to his forest. “Qué creen? Would a ceremony of Recreation be appropriate?” Perhaps, he thought. “Or do we need an elaborately prepared, Tezcatlipoca ritual to end the relationship with our friends inside?”
Nazar Look 21
discarded-dreams.com Probably not necessary. The trees offered no
possessed accumulation, allowing them a last
comment.
opportunity to profess their origins, their import. Had
He didn't need one. The storm meant the objects in the house acted as a beacon, a magnet for absent masters who'd located him, too easily. Though the memorabilia hadn't created the tornado, they'd aided their controllers. It was time, he told himself, though not to care or wonder. After all, they were primarily man-made; most had never had life of their own; there were few
he remembered that such and such had been contributed by so and so on this or that occasion, he might have spared it. For instance, the black couple’s wedding photo should have stood out in his mind because he'd never known many negros, from anywhere. He added small limbs to the burning; in the concentrated horno heat, they quickly caught.
residual life-forces to contend with, other than their
No,
not
many
negros.
Híjole!--at
this
endowment of animation. But despite their benign
moment, he could only remember one, and that
threat, something held him back, but not from worries
wasn't her. He inserted three birch logs. It was time.
for himself. No, he felt sorry for the things.
Remounting the porch, he pondered the little
Then again, that wasn't true, either. More
blue car, the stuffed animal, the sunshades. Nothing
likely, he commiserated with whichever humans had
came to mind. Any of them might have been left by
deposited a bit of mind or heart or soul, had infused
one of the countless families who'd visited as far
their humanity and creativity into the pieces. Even
back as his first day in the valley.
those of unnatural substance might carry bits of Spirit. Some had perhaps served loftier forces, like the Life Passions; others, evil or triviality. No matter; they all had to be dealt with. He accepted he would lose something of himself in the process. He gathered splinters to start the fire, but would need a log or two for the kind of heat that would leave only ash and melted globules.
“Chingaus,”
guessed his intentions. Not that they could stop him. In the horno, he arrayed splints in the Four matches
in
the
middle
to
emphasize his Centering, and lit the kindling. As he watched
flames
22 Nazar Look
build,
he
aloud.
“I
must
one day not find my way home because I forgot my address.” It was a poor joke, since no numbers adorned the adobe and the dirt strip out front bore no road sign. It had always just been called The Road to the Viejito’s.
else large, smashed. More mumbling, as if they'd
placed
swore
remember to work on my memory, and soon, or I will
More clamoring from the cabin. Something
Directions,
he
reconsidered
Stopping at the doorway, he considered rolling a cigarette for the blessing required upon entering, but it struck him as futile. Demonic spirits inhabiting the bric-a-brac would not flee from such; they
were
more
powerful.
Besides,
once
he
destroyed their hosts, their cursedness would end.
the
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discarded-dreams.com He turned to relish the cottonwood leaves
As he took another step, fog again flooded
fluttering in hundreds of rhythms. The wind-generated
the room. Tomás trod on, noticing it appeared thin,
flickering of light through the trees reminded him of
weakened. But he only thought that until, out of the
an anthill, its tunnels lit up as drones carried out
room's furthest corner, five glistening tentacles lunged
thousands
of
to entrap him. Tentacles like those of an octopus, thick
messages through the colony. The image tore at him,
as a man's thigh, covered with rough boar-like bristles
threatening to flush his mind with snips of his life
that smelled more of sewer than sea bottom. With
released from their confinement. He suppressed the
jagged blue talons, not suction cups.
of
tasks
and
relayed
hundreds
nostalgic chaos, spun and entered.
Because of its amber body, he knew what
A gray mist seeped out floorboard gaps,
malevolence
in
had
dragon-like water creature of Navajo legend, of a
disappeared, along with the shelves' contents,
hundred fangs and eight-inch spikes that ran down its
leaving only what was mounted on walls and rafters,
spine. According to legend, it no longer threatened
and the barely visible desk. His entrance disturbed
humans and had never possessed tentacles. Thus,
the haze, creating eddies that cleared space around
this Tieholtsodi was an aberration.
filling
the
barren
room.
Furnishings
the desk. The objets d’art and objets d’otherwise waited while he ploughed the mist.
they
belonged
to--Tieholtsodi,
the
“Hijo de su--” Tomás cursed as he drew on enchantment, hoping to prevent the talons from
When he stopped within arm’s reach, the
shredding more than his clothes. As he completed the
mist refilled, obscuring his view. Against the smoky
invocation--“Hasta que se acaba el mundo!”--his world
backdrop, floating in sympathy to the mist, the
did seem about to end.
waterfall pools reappeared as a glowing pantomime of his dream. With the back of his hand he swatted back and forth, dismissing the phantasm, and with his other, he corralled the memorabilia, swept them onto the lower desktop. He formed a basket with his shirt bottom and shoveled them in. The fog dissipated, surrendered, he thought. Once outside he emptied his bundle through the horno portal. “Now I need my spirits,” he whispered jokingly. Returning to the cabin he saw the library and furniture had been returned, along with the years of dust and cobwebs. “They could have at least kept the dirt.”
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One tentacle, thicker and half again as long as the others, lashed out, whipping around like a maddened
rattlesnake,
toppling
and
smashing
bookcases, and shearing everything off the walls. It drew back, slammed the old man free of the grasp of the other tentacles, crushing him against the wall. The smaller tentacles approached his limp body like serpentine waves. Tomás
Chaneco
Martinez
might
have
remained unconscious. His battered heart and centuries-old body, worn by trials and tragedy that had bested many others, could have relinquished their connection to Earth, and allowed him to rejoin the
Nazar Look 23
discarded-dreams.com Otherworld. But the loosened arrows, tepoztopilli
of suburban kids sadistically venting their manhood.
spear,
the
What stood on the porch was sketchily clothed; with
cottonwood vigas above chose this moment to drop.
each wind gust tatters of cloth waved like prairie
His obsidian-tipped macquahuitl fell, cleaving loose a
grass. This walking clump of special humanity shed
chunk of his inner thigh. Tomás's scream wrenched
particles of caked blood and occasionally a cracked
him
blue talon with each of his steps. The latter he'd later
and
other
conscious,
weaponry
while
mounted
surprising
and
to
causing
Tieholtsodi to hesitate, rewarding the old man precious seconds.
pick up, cleanse and add to his amulet. He let out a grito into the trees, to the valley's
In one smooth motion the Sorcerer grabbed
edge, “Ajuuua, mundo! I am still here!” and then
the ironwood handle and leveraged himself against
mumbled, “I just wonder what pobre is going to have
the floor to rise. He launched the weapon spiraling
to clean up that mess.”
past the tentacles clear into the monster's mouth. Instead of a death-scream, what clamored through the cabin resembled the bursting of a huge man-o'war.
He squatted by the oven, his knees inches to the sides of his jaws. The first swallow of alcohol reassured him he'd reentered the Land of the Visible and the Awake. “Sacre bleu cheese!” he exclaimed,
Tomás Chaneco crossed his arms to hold his
squinting and grimacing at the liquid's strangling of
shoulders; he sighed deeply and shut his eyes.
his throat. “What were those borachos drinking when
“Another, different dragon. What will they think of
they cooked up this batch of bliss!” He spit some into
next?” Ignoring his bloodied thigh, Tomás wandered
the horno, adding blue and flare to the flames.
through the dissipating fog, tripping over books and furniture, striking his shin. “Qué pinche porquería! Now, where is it?”
Photos,
the
stuffed
bear--these
quickly
ignited. Plastic, leather and rubber took longer. He knew the iron-nickel piece that had fallen from the
Brushing through the rubble with his feet, he
sky would retain its form, since only the heat of its
finally found an intact bottle of mezcal and small cans
birthplace could change its nature. But when the fire
of grapefruit juice. He mentally dampened his
was done, the meteorite would be cleansed.
bleeding so as not to pass out; stitching it up could wait. “In all this untidiness, I hope I can find a needle or fishhook and twine--something to do the job. And I hope I can find another bottle, for anesthetic purposes.” He bent down again to pick up a dragon's tear left by Tieholtsodi and pocketed it. What exited the cabin looked more like an elderly homeless man who'd been beaten by a gang
24 Nazar Look
The flames changed hue and intensity, depending on what last reached flammability. Yet, he knew the oval, green miasmas weaving through the fire, the eyes full with colors of colliding galaxies, would never burn. They who used the artifacts against him were letting him know their hunt would not end here nor today because they would go on, using other objects, or living beings.
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discarded-dreams.com By
the
time
only
coals
beamed
unleashed, drenching everything. No matter it couldn't
incandescently, he had nearly finished the mezcal,
last, Tomás considered it the last small insult, so he
the cans empty and crushed underfoot. He gestured
straightened up, defiantly, lifted his face for a bathing,
the bottle toward the fading heat, offering it a last
opened his palms for cleansing and his mouth to drink
shot.
of the refreshment. “Now, the next time you so powerful dragons
decide
to
engage
in
mischief,
consider
the
consequences.” He took a sip. “It is not that I mind you watching me. I too watch my enemies.” He tilted the bottle higher for the last drops.
Chuckling, he slipped in the mud and landed on his butt. “Cabrones!” His hands to his cheeks, he broke out in helpless laughter, a resigned hysteria. “Maybe I needed a new horno, anyway.” After managing
to
stand,
his
chuckles
degenerated,
intermixed with spasms of severe hacking--a duel of cough and laughter that dropped him again to his
“But when you use little things like these to
knees, like a terminal smoker comically flaunting
bother me, I will get rid of the little things.” He
mortality. Almost simultaneously, his laughter and the
laughed, letting out a short burp, and tossed the
rain stopped.
empty into the coals. It bounced once, teetered, but stopped nearly upright. “And when all the little things are gone, there will only be you and me left. Then what will we do?” Standing to loosen his cramped muscles-first his arms, then chest and legs--he then headed to
Wiping what mud he could from face and hands, he settled on the steps, took up knife and statue for the final touches. His thigh could wait. To keep out mosquitoes, he reached over and slammed the door. A moment later he reopened it, just in case.
the porch. “Mrak, mrak.” He spun around. The tilted
***
bottle gradually lost shape, like a glass blower's experiment gone freakish. But on the mezcal label, its large centered letters Z and C glowed--each bearing
("Memorabilia", © 2009-2012 Rudy Ch. Garcia, first appeared in the anthology "Needles & Bones" published by Chrysography, 2009)
an emerald eye--before bursting into a fireball that collapsed the bottle, then mushroomed three meters up and outward, singeing the old man. His defensive enchantment held; Tomás Chaneco never flinched. As abruptly as it had erupted, the hell-fire expired. A squat, lava-like mound lay where the horno had sat. Without warning, an unusually late cloudburst
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Nazar Look 25
musa jalil
(1906 - 1944)
26 Nazar Look
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To a Little Bird All 'round us sand. A chain of dreary barracks, Surrounded on all sides by barbed wire. We're just like beetles delving in our dunghills. This is our lodging. This is where we're mired. An alien sun arises o'er the hilltops, I wonder why it always looks so grim? It doesn't warm, its beams do not caress us, It's just a blotch of lifeless pale chagrin… From off the field that stretches to the forest The sound of mowing every morn is heard. But yesterday there flew into our prison To sing for us a kindly little bird. My dear one, you have picked the wrong enclosure, It's dangerous to come to sing in here. You've seen yourself-the heartache and the bloodshed… This camp's a vale of hopelessness and tears. Oh welcome wanderer, do answer quickly: When will you soar again into the blue To wing your way unhampered to my country? I have a favour to request of you. In my unvanquished soul this last entreaty Has lived in hope for many, many days. My fleet-winged friend! Go, speed you to my country, To its vast fields the poet's song convey! My people will immediately know you By your sonorous voice and spear-shaped wings. And they will say: Tis tidings of the poet From distant parts the feathered songstress brings. Our deadly foes have put him into shackles, But nothing that they did could break his will. Though in captivity, the poet's message, No force can manacle, no force can kill… The free-born poem of the captive poet, You, my winged one, hasten to our home. And though in foreign country I should perish My song will live undying 'mongst my own! August 1942 (Translated by Lydia Kmetyuk)
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Nazar Look 27
kevin marshall chopson
tennessee, usa
28 Nazar Look
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TM: Do you have other writers or artists in your family?
Interview TM: Kevin, how do you know when poetry is your calling? Kevin Marshall Chopson: Language impressed itself upon me at an early age. I discovered that the power of language had an almost magical effect on people. At first, it was a simple realization that I had the ability to persuade my parents or my friends to allow me to have my way. I believe many, or most, poets had this same sort of experience. Then as one pays closer attention to how one strings the words together and, ultimately, how these words sound, one begins to write more deliberate “incantations,” in order to speak things into existence. Simultaneously, I believe that most poets realize that they are looking at the world a bit differently. One senses this, all of this, very early on, I think. This deeper perspective on reality and what lies beyond it, and this intense fascination with language, somehow presents itself to the poet before he or she enters the teen years.
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Kevin Marshall Chopson: No, at least not in previous generations. My wife Susan, however, is an “icing” artist. She has a bit of a reputation for being one of the best cake makers in the southeastern United States; and, she is also a fairly accomplished potter. My son, Noah, and daughter, Alexandra, have a number of interests in the arts graffitti, photography, filmmaking, writing, acting, etc. TM: Are you happiest reading or writing? Kevin Marshall Chopson: I love to read but I must say writing pleases me more. I’m not sure if “happiest” is the right word for me, however. I have to admit that I am not a very “happy” person. The creative process is more satisfying, fulfilling, than reading, I suppose. But, both are absolutely necessary. For me, they work in tandem. TM: Who are your biggest creative influences? Kevin Marshall Chopson: Ralph Waldo Emerson, Henry David Thoreau, Rainer Maria Rilke, Annie Dillard, Adam Zagajewski, Wislawa Szymborska, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Herman Melville, Stanley Kunitz, and a fairly healthy number of philosophers, photographers, painters, and filmmakers. TM:
Were
you
always
wondering
Nazar Look 29
about the issues you now wonder about? Kevin Marshall Chopson: I suppose my interests have just gotten more specific over time. As an adolescent, and throughout my teenage years, I became and remained interested in the beauty and power of nature, the transcendent power of isolation in developing the intellect, the mystical; and, I developed a compassion for those that are marginalized in society (probably because I was marginalized, at least to a certain degree …). Those interests have been with me since I was young. Now, perhaps, my perspective is just a bit more refined. TM: Whom do you picture as the ideal reader of your work? Kevin Marshall Chopson: I don’t really know. I’m a bit of a cynic, so this is a really difficult question. I connect well with students, I think, and with “regular” people. With academics, perhaps not so much, which is interesting because I consider myself an academic, at least in the traditional sense. Two great American poets, Billy Collins and Ted Kooser, have answered this question in verse. I like their answers. TM: How many evaluations does your work go through before you are satisfied with it? Kevin Marshall Chopson: I do stop reading my poems for possible revisions until they are published. That doesn’t
30 Nazar Look
mean that each poem goes through a number of revisions, it simply means that with each rejection of a submitted poem, I take another look at it. In the beginning, I take a rather traditional approach: the poem is written and then it is set aside for a few weeks, then I take another look at it and see if it still does what I wanted it to do. It is rare that a poem appears in its “final” form the first time the words hit the page. It has happened with my work but it is rare. TM: Is your work process fast or slow? Kevin Marshall Chopson: Slow, I suppose. I don’t sit down with the intention of creating a brand new work. I go looking for poems. Whenever I go out into the city for an art opening or into the country for a hike, I always carry a small notebook. I sketch. I gather lines. I try to remain open to what I am seeing and record what comes to mind. Later, I will develop those ideas into a poem or a number of poems. TM: How would you describe your work? Kevin Marshall Chopson: I am primarily a lyrical poet. One who focuses on a small scene that lends itself toward some sort of unspoken revelation. I try to capture that scene in language that sounds inviting. I often compare my work to the work of a still life painter. TM: What do you hope readers will
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take away from your work? Kevin Marshall Chopson: I hope they full nudged a bit, toward a greater, or perhaps simpler, truth. I hope they feel the words in their mouths as they speak them out loud. TM: Do you admire your own work? Kevin Marshall Chopson: I try to like my poems. I have to know when they seem “right.” But admiration, I suppose, is a tricky business until the power of one’s work is validated by a fair chunk of society at large. TM: You are a teacher. Do you exchange work with your students? Kevin Marshall Chopson: I share six or seven of my own poems with students every year. Almost all of those poems are poems that have been published. I believe I should only share work that has been validated by publication; when an editor of a magazine, journal, or anthology accepts your work, then it must be “good” on some level. I think it is important for my students to know that I am a “working” writer and to some degree a “successful” poet. My students have the opportunity to read their works in progress in class, whether it be my college classes or my high school classes, on a number of occassions, opening an opportunity for gentle criticism and kind suggestions. I also publish an in-school journal named Wild Honey, which gives them the opportunity for publication.
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TM: What do you do to recharge your batteries? Kevin Marshall Chopson: I like going to art openings. I make a habit of attending at least a half a dozen a year. I like hiking, although I do not do as much as I used to, and I love to travel. Travel now, however, is mostly restricted to the attending of conferences. This year I will attend Tennessee’s state conference for English teachers, which is in the Great Smokey Mountains, and the national conference in Boston, Massachusetts. I am anticipating delightful and inspirational moments at both. I will be giving a presentation at the former, reading some of my poetry. I also love watching documentaries and dabbling with this art “installation” idea I’ve come up with. TM: How do you feel about the aging process? Kevin Marshall Chopson: I have to admit I am frustrated with the whole notion of aging. Coming to terms, gradually, with what life “means” is a constant struggle. It’s easy to just become distracted and focus on having “fun,” relish in the notion of having “earned it.” I am a late bloomer, however; I still feel that my best work lies ahead. I am a young, young fiftynine. My father just passed away - he was ninety-four. My mother is eightyfour. I am relatively healthy, so I hope to be around a while. I do enjoy the idea of becoming “sage-like” but part of that is knowing that one must stay connected to contemporary times in order to stay
Nazar Look 31
relevant. I grow and then shave off several beards per year. That process serves as an ongoing metaphor for how I engage “aging.” TM: In what way do you think literature has the ability to change the way people live their lives? Kevin Marshall Chopson: I know it has the power to change lives. I have seen that power in the classroom. Art, in all its forms, has that ability. My presentation in the Great Smokey Mountains this year is titled “Perhaps It Could Be Said by the Poem: How Art Could Save Our Professions, Our Students, and the World.” Literature, when “properly” presented can make us kinder, gentler, smarter, and more understanding of each other - within any given society and between societies. The problem is getting students, and people in general, to understand that that power is real. It is much more difficult today. Our world’s current obsession with technology, materialism, and superficiality makes it extraordinarily difficult for art to make an impact; but, it is possible. We must continue to present the fully developed, thoughtful, written word as something that has value far superior to the sound-bite world that most people live in. We must continue to develop and present “stories” that have the ability to make people cry, to move their hearts, and to move that spiritual aspect of their intellects. We must not allow science and mathematics to fully destroy the importance of the humanities. Literature, and all of the arts, keep us
32 Nazar Look
human. TM: Can Heaven exist on earth? Kevin Marshall Chopson: I suppose not. The whole concept of Heaven implies a pure and separate place - a holy place. We can, however, experience bits of Heaven on Earth: pure and separate moments of peace and beauty that allow us to feel like we have, albeit briefly, transcended this somewhat more murky place. The creation of literature helps us to experience some of those moments, as do the experiences that inspire us to write, and, finally, as does the reading of what has been created. TM: What are you writing right now? Kevin Marshall Chopson: I am putting the finishing touches on a one-act play entitled Metaphysics: Or, The Causes of Friction. It’s a blend of poetry and drama, influenced by Dadaism and elements of the Theatre of the Absurd. I am also working on a series of political poems that are a bit more confrontational than my usual work. Kind, I hope, and beautiful, I hope; but, still, confrontational. ***
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On the Sleeping Body of God On the sleeping body of God, we press our ears and listen for the hollowed breathing, deep and rich like a cave. We cover His chest with beads and flowers as each movement of slumber dwarfs our selfish prayers.
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Nazar Look 33
I Have Seen My Death Three Times
Eğelíme úş kere rast keldím
I have seen my death three times through the eyes of women I loved – my presence completely and fully gone.
Súygen kîskaayaklîlarîmnîñ kózínde eğelíme úş kere rast kelíp barlîgîmnîñ bír-tamam ğok bolganîn kórdím.
I stood before them as they prepared to meet someone new. They painted fresh colors on their cheeks and lips,
Olarnîñ karşîsînda turdum olar başkasî man kóríşmege ázírliyatîrganda. Betleríne-erínleríne taze renkler súrgenler,
wearing clothes that I had not seen before. They were more beautiful than I could remember – childlike once again,
kíygen urbalarîn şondan ewel heş kórmegen edím. Bílgenímden taa gúzel kóríne edíler – baladay,
pure, ready to feel the heat of a fresh hand. I surprised them, holding flowers. It nearly escaped my view – the
pak, taze kolnîñ sîğaklîgîn tuymaga ázír. Kolîndakî şeşeklerín sezíp şaşîrdîm. Az kaldî abaylamayğak edím –
casket had been prepared, the grave had been dug, and this, this was the moment that followed my death.
tabît ázírlengen, mezar kazîlgan, bo da eğelímníñ arkasîndan hemen kelgen an eken. (Taner Murat’nîñ terğúmesínde)
34 Nazar Look
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Intaglio
Keep the Wild at Bay
Rusty murals on the beach, etched in sand by retreating tide.
We try to keep the wild at bay, we try but cannot stop the truth.
Each wave a guided blade, a wash, and stroke of pen.
There it is, in the urine, in the blood, in the incessant clawing at the door, the moonlit shadow digging in the night.
One long, frameless image – mindlessly carved, yet sure. Pearled grains tightly wound in lines of curves and arcs, Underfoot and boundless, shaded with western light.
The enduring worm profligates at will, the blind teeth of moles canal below us. Saragossan eels portage a dam, cross brick, then slither through grass and riprap – the hunt for current that carries them home. Spiders walk inside our mouths, gently we sleep and swallow these tiny bits of krill. We try to keep the wild at bay, we try, but cannot stop the truth.
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Nazar Look 35
reshma pandya-bhatt
maharashtra, india “I am a home-maker from Maharashtra, India. I have studied English Literature and writing has always been a favorite. My other interests are photography, reading and painting. I have just begun writing poems and hope to continue doing so.�
36 Nazar Look
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Choked Dance tonight Fly high, alright if you dont make it fine. Be free. Be light. Take your mind off and dance tonight. Lonely was your world but it wont be now, life is full of ups and downs. Because I will be there to hold you tight. Be free. Be light. Take your mind off and dance tonight.
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It's hard to write with no ideas in my mind. Breathing heavily in distress also does not help. It is loss of words. Yes. That's the hurdle. No clarity. No emotions. Just restlessness. it's hard to express the pain. The brain has become the drain. No feelings. No words. Its choked however with dullness, sadness, restlessness.
Nazar Look 37
Travels in Circassia, Krim Tartary, &c. (XIV)
some reason, for many a vessel has here sunk to rise no more: even so lately as the year 1833, we were informed that five were wrecked. This
danger
arises
from
the
circumstance that the bed of the river is here LETTER VII.
entirely
formed
of
isolated
masses
of
perpendicular rocks, between which it is WHIRLPOOLS OF THE DANUBE - VETERANI CAVERN - ROMAN ANTIQUITIES - MILANOVA - PASSPORTS - MEHADIA MINERAL BATH EFFICACY OF THE WATERS - BEAUTY OF THE SURROUNDING COUNTRY - NEW ORSOVA DETENTION OF THE STEAM-BOAT BY THE PACHA - VISIT TO THE PACHA - AUSTRIAN TIMIDITY - CATARACT OF THE DANUBE PANNONIA THE FIRST STEAM-BOAT THAT PASSED IT - WILD CHARACTER OF THE SCENERY - PRINCIPALITY OF WALLACHIA KLADOVA - TURKISH PILOTS.
necessary for the pilot to steer with great caution, but more particularly when the water is shallow ; for should a vessel deviate from the right channel, it runs the risk of being carried away by the impetuous violence of the stream, and dashed to pieces by the foaming surge, as it rebounds from rock to rock. The difficulties in the navigation have, however, been considerably lessened within these few years, by the judicious efforts of the directors
In my last letter I informed you of our
of the steam navigation on the Danube, who
arrival at Golubacs, and I felt not a little
have caused the most dangerous rocks to be
pleased to learn that our bark was now about
blasted; so that at present the only hazard
to glide through some of the most beautiful
arises from the negligence of the captain, who
scenery of the Danube. The mountains
may employ an inexperienced pilot.
increased in altitude as we advanced, and the curves in the river formed a succession of the most charming lakes, till we came to the whirlpool called Tachtalia, an object of great terror to the navigators ; and not without
38 Nazar Look
We
journeyed
on
through
a
continuation of whirlpools, surrounded by scenery of a similar character to that I have already described, till we came to the cavern Piscabora, famous for having been so bravely
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defended by the gallant Austrian general, M. Veterani, against the Turks in 1692; since which time it bears his name. This excavation, entirely the work of nature, is capable of containing from six to seven hundred men, independently of an adjoining cavern well adapted to serve as a powder-magazine ; and from its situation in the rocks, is not only impregnable, but completely commands the river. Its importance as a military position seems to have been discovered by the Romans, for we find the remains of an inscription to that effect in its vicinity : indeed we are every where reminded in the countries near this part of the Danube, of the dominion of the Roman empire. On the Servian side, there are the remains of the road cut by Trajan along the sides of the rock, now used by the peasants as a foot-path; together with the tablet erected to immortalize the conquest
IMP. C/ES. D. NERV/E. FILIUS. NERVA TRAJAIMUS. GERM. PONT. (MAX) IMUS, . . . A few miles further, a pretty modern village, built by Prince Milosch and called Milanova, after his son Mila, gladdens the eye of the traveller ; and at Alt Orsova, the last town in Hungary, we were again obliged to remain four hours, while the Austrian authorities affixed their signatures to our passports, whereas a quarter of an hour would have been amply sufficient for the purpose. Here I lost the society of my venerable and respected friend, Count Esterhazy, who was proceeding to the baths of Mehadia, one of the most amiable and excellent men I ever travelled with, and whose memory, even if I had no other reasons, would be sufficient to induce me ever to respect Hungary and the Hungarians. (to be continued)
of Dacia by the same emperor. It bears the form of a scroll, supported by winged genii, having on each side a dolphin, and in the centre the Roman eagle ; but in consequence of the barbarous custom prevalent among the Danube boatmen, who here stop with their vessels and kindle fires, it has been deplorably mutilated ; so that the only portion of the inscription now visible is the two first lines,
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Nazar Look 39