28 w. jack savage california, usa The Global Citizen 35 ram krishna singh jharkhand, india Spiritual Flickers: A Tanka Sequence 38 edmund spencer - Travels in Circassia, Krim Tartary, &c. (XVII)
BAŞ KABÎMÎZDA ON THE COVER
John Landry Photo: Al Winans
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 john keats When I have Fears that I may Cease to Be Soñîmdan korksam 4 anna akhmatova Departure - Ketúw 6 taner murat scythia minor (little crimea) Kókten sesler - Temúçin (XXIII) 8 tom sheehan massachusetts, usa Summons of the Mountain 12 babich shaikhzada muhametzakir I'm Waiting 14 jack peachum virginia, usa Marilyn Big Jackie Richard M. Nixon 16 ali tal england, uk Unbounded Void (III) 20 john landry california, usa Interview Short Toast for Long Friendship - Uzun dostlîkka kîskadan kade kóterúwí Lesson in Detachment Kopma dersí
CONTRIBUTORS MEMBALAR John Landry Jack Peachum W. Jack Savage Tom Sheehan Ram Krishna Singh Ali Tal Al Winans
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john keats
(1795 - 1821)
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(1795 - 1821)
When I have Fears that I may Cease to Be When I have fears that I may cease to be Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain, Before high-piled books, in charact'ry, Hold like rich garners the full-ripen'd grain; When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face, Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance, And think that I may never live to trace Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance; And when I feel, fair creature of an hour! That I shall never look upon thee more, Never have relish in the faery power Of unreflecting love!—then on the shore Of the wide world I stand alone, and think Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink.
Soñîmdan korksam Zihin ğemíşlerín kalem yazîp Kitap hárífíne ğay-almasam, Biydaylarîm ambar tîşî kalîp Ğîyîlmayğak dep soñîmdan korksam; Yîldîz órtken kókyúzúnde keşe Koğa ğúkağúrek bulut kórsem, Kólgesíne kîska ómírímde Tiy-alamayğak kolîm dep túşúnsem; Sáátlík tuwum, hoş yúzúñní, ap-ak, Bírtaa kór-almayğagîmnî bílsem, Sefa al-almayğagîmnî sezsem Şanga hem Mabetke bolîp merak, Ağun kenarînda hasretmen hoşlîkka Ğañgîz kalîp bataman boşlîkka. (Taner Murat’îñ terğumesínde)
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anna akhmatova
(1889 - 1966)
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(1889 - 1966)
Departure Although this land is not my own, I will remember its inland sea and the waters that are so cold the sand as white as old bones, the pine trees strangely red where the sun comes down. I cannot say if it is our love, or the day, that is ending.
Ketúw Meñkí bolmasa da, bo topraklar, Íş deñízín tutarman akîlîmda, Kayet salkîn suwlarîn da, Súyektiy ak kumlugun da, Tereklerín de, kuğurday kîzîl şamlar Kúneş batkanda. Kún batîp mî, soñîna kelgen, Yoksa sewdamîz mî? Bílmem. (Íngílízğeden Taner Murat’îñ terğumesínde)
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scythia minor (little crimea) www.tanermurat.com
Kókten sesler - Temúçin (XXIII) Kesím 44 Saylamlî Taş Úş kún soñra, kamuklukka ğañî yerleşíp otîrgan Kutula Kaan, Kayakan Tayğa man barabar, duwa úşún, Korkonak Dagîndan şîgîp, Burkan Kaldunnuñ Kartşagay Tóbesíne, Saylamlî Taşka da şîktîlar. Tañrî saygîsîna abidelengen múbarek bír yer. Yúksek tóbege sáde ğayaw, súrúnúp şîgîlganî úşún, ozgaruwğularnîñ sayîsîn azaytîp, katlarîna tek yakînlarîndan bírkaş kíşí aldîlar. Duwalarî, okîganlarî kuwetlí bolgan, kuwetlerí anasîndan-babasîndan oğak, bír kózí toprakka baylanmay takatî yerínde, tóbege şîkkanday, kartlardan, kartiylerden de bar edí bírkaş tane. Yúzúne resím Kudaynîñ ózí sîzîp oyalagan Saylamlî Taşka barganda duwalar okîldî, taşnî óbe-óbe bollîk, sawluk tíleklerí ístep, aşîlgan awuşlar Kudayga uzatîldî. Soñra ot tutaştîrîp, tóbege kadar sîrtîna kóterílíp aketílgen koşkarlarnî kurban ettíler, kurbanlar şalîndî. Uluw otka sáde arşa agaşî atîldî. Ádetlerní kuwup, kurbanlarga pîşak tiysetmeden, etlerí kol man koparîlîp píşíríldí, kol man aşaldî. Bír kart, kurbanlarnîñ aşîklarîn Kutula Kaannîñ kolîna tutturup: - Kutula, mal saygan sensíñ. Aşîklarnî otka atîp bír tílek ístemek saga túşer, endí. - dep ayttî oga. Bír kanatî kók, bír kanatî kara, kókte yaşagan kuştan íste. Kók kanatîn oynatîp kúndúzúmúzní yaratkan, kara kanatîn oynatîp keşemízní yaratkan, yorîlîp başîn sílkkende ğerní kîbîrdatkan KókKuşumuzdan íste. - dep úyrettí kart oga. Kutula Kaan Kók-Kuşundan bír tílek
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ístep, koşkar aşîklarîn otka atkanda: - Kók-Kuşnuñ aşîk awuzuna atîlgan aşîklarîn dumanî, Kók-Kuşumuzga barsîn. Kutulanîñ tílegín kîlsîn. - dep artîndan duwasîn mîrîldap okîmaga başladî, kart ta. Duwasîn okîp şîkkan soñ, otka píşken bútún et keseklerínden bírer parşakay koparîp: Kók-Kuşnuñ aşîk awuzuna ataman, dumanî Kók-Kuşumuzga bolsîn. dep, ateşke atîp, bírşiyler taa mîrîldap şîktî. Soñra, sîra man, ğúmle kartiy-kart bílgen kuwetlí duwalarîn mîrîldapíñgírdep şîktîlar. Okîganlarî bek añlaşîlmasa da, Tañrînîñ, Kutulanîñ atî aşîk, sariy geşíp tura edí. Duwanî eñ yaşlî kartiy kapattî. Başta ayak ústúne turup: - Tañrî insannîñ íşíne yamanlîk yaratmagandîr. Ter-temíz tuwar insan, tuwganda. Yamanlîk oga maw, nálet, kayîrsîz kuwatlardan síñír! Kutula Kamuk Kaanîmîznî temíz, alas tut, Tañrîm! Bútún yamanlîklarnî, kastalîklarnî temízletken, insanga ğukkan bútún marazlarnîñ karşîsîna şîgîp, insannîñ íşín alas etken arşa ateşníñ ústúnden, Kutulanî dokîz kere atlatîp: - Alas! Alas! Alas! - dep íşí bawurî man bakîrîkladîlar, Saylamlî Taşnî kaltîratîp. - Ateşten her şiyge karşî yardîm alînîr. Aşîk awuz her beladan alas kîlîr, temízler, korşalar. Herkez ateşníñ ústúnden atlap geşsín! - dep ğúmlesíne sîra tanîdî kartiy, ğúmlesín temízlettí, dokîzar kere atlatîp. - Alas! Alas! Alas! - dep kîşkîra edí, óbírlerí de. Soñra kartiy, bútún et keseklerínden, bírtaa, parşa-parşa koparîp, totîrgan sawutlarîn Saylamlî Taşnîñ katîna aketíp taşladî: Tañrîga bolsîn! Ğersuwlarga barsîn! Ólílerníñ ğanîna tiysín! - dep. - Tañrî yardîmğîmîz bolsîn! - dep pítírdíler tapînma ğalbarîşlarîn,
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scythia minor (little crimea)
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kîzartîlgan kurban etlerínden şo yerde, Saylamlî Taşnîñ katînda, otîrîp aşagan soñ. Kartşagay Tóbesínde Saylamlî Taşta konîlmaytan sebebínden, ekíndíde aşaga ğol aldîlar, "Kuday korşalasîn!" dep, bakalap ğúrúlgen yerlerínden geşkende. Kún kawuşayatîrganda da toktap, şo keşení dakta konîp geşírdíler. Kutula Kamuk Kaannîñ okîlgan kurban etlerínden o yerde bolgan herkezge ílíştírílgen edí, úyúndekíleríne, yakînlarîna úşún. Yarînnîñ yúzí ak, Kók kúlúmsúre edí.
Kesím 45 Onúş sene Kutula Hakaan sayîlîp ayîrîlgan soñra, Kayakan Tayğa man ekewsí de bír bolîp, omîzlaşîp, Tatar îrknîñ ústúne atîldîlar. Onúş kere kagîştîlar, Tatarlarnîñ Kótón Baraka man Zaliy Buganîñ ústúne atîlîp, lákin onlarnî ğok etíp ğetíştíralmadîlar, Ambakay Hakaannîñ óşín alalmay kaldîlar. Onúş sene wuruştular, ne ánawî kazandî, ne mínawî. Onúş sene koşîlîp ğúrdí Yasugay Batîr da katkîldawlarga, Tayğîwutlarnîñ kanatînda at tebíp.
Kesím 46 Síptí balasî ul Şo şaklarda, Tatarlar man kagîşîp ğúrgende, bír sogîşmanîñ ortasînda Tatarlar Yasugay Batîrnîñ bír marebe arkadaşîn wurup attan túşúrdúler. - Ózíme ğanmayman. Tek bír kîzîm bar, Şal-Ay. Bírewsúz kalayatîr, şoga ğanaman. - dedí o Yasugay Batîrga, ğan beriyatîrganda. - Heş kaár etme, men kararman. Sóz beremen! - dedí Yasugay Batîr.
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Marebeden kaytkanda barîp ŞalAynî aldî. Katînda kartiysí de bar edí, kart bír apakay. Óz şadîrnîñ dogrîsîna olarga bír şadîr kurup, şo yerge otîrttî. Bazda bír Yasugay Batîr uwurkasîn alîp awga şîkkan kíşí bola edí. Artîndan keşíkmeden atka míníp Şal-Ay da keter edí. Kîrnîñ ortasîna barîp, uwurkanî tík otîrtîp, ekewí de onda raát kalîr edíler şúnkí ádetke kóre kîrda tík otîrtîlgan uwurkanî kórgenler uzak kalmaga meğburiyetínde edí, yakîn baralmaz edíler. Bír seneden Yasugay Batîrnîñ murunî kókke bardî. Şal-Aydan síptí balasî tuwgan. Atîn Bekter saldîlar.
Kesím 47 Mógedekníñ kabî aralansa Bekterníñ yúzúne gómelekler uşaruşmaz, Yasugay Batîr Onan Múrenge şoñgîrlî awga ketiyatîrganda, Olkunuw îrgîndan kíz alîp, kelíní men úyúne kaytayatîrgan Merkít alardan Úyken Şiledúy men deñk keldí. Úyken Şiledúynúñ kara arabasîna yakînlaşîp, Yasugay Batîr, bír kaş man kóz arasînda telegeníñ kabîn bíraz aralap, íşínde bolgan gúzel kîznî kóz kîyîgîndan kóríp alawuydî. O kîz da okadar gúzel, añlatîlamayğak kadar gúzel. Yasugay Batîrnîñ şoyerde o kîzga kózí kaldî. Ziyade túşúnúp kalmadan úyúne barîp bír yagîna Nekún Tayğa akasîn aldî, obír yagîna Darîtay Ózegin ínísín saldî, olar man kaytîp keldí. (dewamî keleğekke)
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Summons of the Mountain “Loggerheads! Loggerheads! Damned loggerheads the whole damned bunch of them!” Mountain man Javon “Jake” Kirby, big as the morning breaking over the peaks behind him, shoulders oxenwide, a head of hair like flax or a rich grain of the prairie, had come upon a pile of logs cut to firewood length, and piled so long that some of them looked rotted and punky from first sight. “Those fools,” he let go with his ravine-deep voice, “probably froze up the winter after cutting all this pile.” He kept muttering and half cursing all the time he discarded rotted chunks not worth the flame he might set to them. He’d ridden into this section on a search for firewood for the coming winter, to store in his own fuel supply cave higher up and near his cave home. His cave home, running halfway into the heart of Beggar’s Peak, was equipped with a small and continuous spring of water, enough for him and his mule and horse to live on, his catch of cured skins over a fouryear stretch of hunting and prospecting making the place more comfortable than one would think, yet an outlandish layout for a man living on and off the mountain. His mule Tolerance was loaded 6 times with good firewood and Kirby stacked it in his storage cave after a full day’s work. Estimating the pile would get him all the way to March, anything else added to the pile meant a comfortable spring and a readiness for summer. Once summer weather came, 8 Nazar Look
he’d be off the mountain down to take his first bath of the new year in a favorite spring. When winter came with its first blast of snow and winds, and mother earth began its first freeze, he gathered snow to make ice and brought the ice to his food storage. Anxiety for the hunt came upon him and in a matter of six days had taken down a bear, two deer, an elk and several birds, all which were skinned and slaughtered and set to freezing. Comforts of home were his … until a morning a few weeks later, when he found that a supply of meat had been taken by a thief. The only signs left were the obvious moccasin tracks of an Indian. The trail in the rocks and pathways soon was wiped out and it forced him to alter his sleeping arrangements. He started a shift and move system where he would swap sleeping places for one or two nights at a time. That allowed the thieving Indian to steal from his home cave one good knife, a handful of arrows, a box of shells, and a chunk of flint, The selection of items, and the quantities, made Kirby realize that the thief
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massachusetts, usa was leaving enough for the mountain man to continue on with sufficient supplies for the winter.
separate storms and marveled all the more at the place he knew would hold him in final rest.
Kirby sensed an appreciation for the thief, as it warmed his thoughts. “This brave,” he whispered aloud in the cave, “is positive proof of his kind taking from the land only what they need. I have to admire his strength of character, his way of life.” A pause came into his thinking, and it was like a vow had been made when he uttered with deep satisfaction, “We are bound and bonded without knowing the other one.
In a moment of sudden recall, he thought again that the pile, on each of his returns that day of transfer, had been smaller than when he had left it with each load on Tolerance’s back. The mysterious Indian brave surely had been at liberty with the pile of wood. That, too, warmed Kirby toward the man who did not take more than he needed. He imagined the Indian to be the kind of man he’d like at his side in a confrontation of any kind, especially that of survival under distressful conditions.
In the luxury of compassion, goodwill and acceptance, he let his eyes find the distant snow-capped peaks, lowered his view to take in the stretch of cliff faces, the sweep of foothills and one run of grass to its end in a darkened canyon. He was in love with this locale and it puffed him a bit that his early dream was neither fruitless nor foreboding and that he had found it. All of it attained after a seemingly endless journey and all of it regardless of his unseen visitor and selective thief. His mass of muscle and bone stood tall and still in its place as he let his eyes feast on the choicer recesses of this favored place, the special niches that permitted full entrance to the mountain itself. It was mere minutes later, his composure getting warmer and more pleasant, when he felt the heart of the mountain take a deep breath and a slow rumble begin under his feet and end at his ears as a great piece of Beggar’s Peak came loose for a wild ride down to all lower levels. In the midst of the disturbed and showery spirals of snow came a shower of rock dust and small debris that lifted free of the huge hunks of mountain coming loose. Kirby, from his viewing spot inside the mouth of his cave, thought they looked like two
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The recall of the log pile came quickly on top of the landslide, as though the thought had been brought out into the open by the landslide, “a nudge beyond nudges,” he managed to utter in half disbelief. At the ceasing of the mountain’s thunder, the end of spiraling of dust and snow in a canyon long moaning with wind, and as the majesty of the night slipped its magic across a sky full of stars, he heard the desperate moans of an injured man. Kirby slipped into his bearskin great coat, grabbed a few items that came to mind, and left the cave. Faint moans came from his left and he headed toward the sounds caught in a slight breeze and drifted away. The stars crowded the skies, the slight breeze whistled on a few rocky corners, and the faint moans returned; he had never heard an Indian moan, not in any of his meetings or confrontations. A distant crack sounded clear as a gunshot and another chunk of rock took to flight and with a thundering crash ended its flight in a cluster of fallen debris.
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massachusetts, usa Then all was quiet and Kirby continued his approach to the source of the moans. He saw a hand first, moving feebly but as if it was waving at him, as if the wounded man knew Kirby, the man living on the mountain, within the mountain, was coming to his rescue. It was an Indian brave, one he had not seen before, and he supposed he was the one taking logs from the pile and gear from his cave. “Are you hurt, my man? “ Kirby said, and saw the man’s broken arm angling sadly at his side and one leg caught under a good-sized rock. The injured man, pinned in place by a piece of the mountain, was an Indian, and Kirby noted right away he was a Shoshone brave. The Shoshone answered, haltingly at first, with serious pauses in his own language, as though he knew Kirby would understand that approach. He said, “Ne nanihade weda’ ahtabe. “ (I am someone called Bear Jaw.) He nodded at his idled arm and then toward the rock on top of his leg, and continued, “Ne pekkaH gopape beeda’ deaseN hutsitoon.” (I am afflicted with broken low leg bone and arm.) Kirby nodded slowly, taking in some of the language and the graphic scene at his feet. “Do you speak any English?” Kirby said. “Yes,” Bear Jaw nodded. “I hurt in two places, Man of the Mountain. My arm and my leg broken I know. Much pain at first but not now I see you? You will help Bear Jaw I know. I see you work the mountain as I do. I
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take only what I need. You never chase Bear Jaw away.” Ascertaining the plight of Bear Jaw, Kirby moved Bear Jaw’s arm into a different position, quizzically pointed down the trail, and when the Indian looked in that direction he suddenly jerked the arm back into a setting position. Bear Jaw emitted but a short grunt, closed his eyes, and kept still. The leg, once the rock was moved, would take more effort. As soon and as easily as he could, Kirby got Tolerance the mule and rigged a travois with long poles attached to the mule and moved Bear Jaw back to the cave he had already visited … and from which he had stolen only what he needed. Kirby, as he had done on other occasions on the road west, needing more effort than setting the broken arm, set Bear Jaw’s leg, and this time knew Bear Jaw was human, as only one cry broke from his mouth, but that cry did come. In the following days, recuperation steady on Bear Jaw’s part with assistance from Jake Kirby, their days were often spent in discussing life on and about Beggar’s Peak and other peaks in the mountain range. “Why do you live here on mountain, leave only once in a long turn?” Bear Jaw asked one evening as they sat in front of the fire. They had just eaten a meal of venison, mushrooms and coffee that sat in a great pot near low flames. Furs lay under them and each man wore skins and hides that kept them warm and comfortable. Beyond the mouth of the cave in Beggar’s Peak the stars were bright in their darker beds, some twinkled with a holiday flickering, and now
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massachusetts, usa and then one star would rush across the cave mouth like a live bullet, coming from one end of the universe to the other end.
“No name for these hard stones?” Kirby could guarantee there’d be no word coming like “diamonds.” It wouldn’t fit.
“I was dreaming half the time and looking for this place half the time. I topped a rise one day more than a dozen years ago and saw this place. All of it came to me at once, where I’d live, how I’d live, me and all that the high god presented to me for finding it. Took me over a week to find this cave. I’ll be here forever and maybe, somewhere down the line of years he’ll let somebody find me who’s looking for the same thing I was looking for.”
“Okaipin dembi da’ziyumbi,” Bear Jaw said. “River stone shine like star.” His smile was wide, his eyes saying there was a mystery to it all that would forever remain within the tribe.
It was Bear Jaw, not dissuaded by Kirby’s response, who kept up the attention on the stars, but twisted the interest in another direction, and brought Kirby upright in his spot, when he said, “Stars remind me of stones my people find in the waters of a stream a great distance to the north from this mountain.” Kirby, fully alert, said, “Not gold like here in the heart of the mountains?” He was sitting as still as a tree stump and not afraid to give away a little secret to a man with a broken arm and a broken leg just beginning to mend. “Harder than gold,” Bear Jaw added, making a fine distinction, perhaps quite intentionally. “Some maidens beat gold with smooth stone to make --- .“ Here he paused and went into his own language and said, “Like da-dembohka’.“ Immediately he clarified the new word and said, “Like buttons that shine for boots or great coats. “ The pause again was significant, as he continued his explanation. “Cannot change shape of these stream stones by hitting with bigger stone. They break in pieces, have small shine then, in pieces.”
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It told Kirby he’d get no other direction than “a great distance to the north.” He’d have to be satisfied with that. But it was Kirby’s turn to move the conversation. “What brought you to this mountain? To this place where I have never seen you but knew you were around?” “The high god you know,” said Bear Jaw, “called me from my tipi in the middle of the night and let the stars point the way. My people did not understand me when I left our village but all believe me after I leave. They never come after me. Never leave things for me. Let me keep promise to the high god to live in the mountains. My tipi here, across the canyon, much like this cave. We will visit one day when I can walk there again.” “What did he say to you?” Bear Jaw smiled again, a gleam caught in his eyes. “He say, ‘Go where White Hair lives. When it is time, White Hair will be brother to Bear Jaw.” Came then another pause in the red man who speaks with wisdom from his tongue, “Perhaps a new world starts here in one small mountain that will loom over all mountains.” The mountain talks and we listen to the mountain … but not often enough, or long enough. ***
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babich shaikhzada muhametzakir
(1895 - 1919)
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(1895 - 1919)
I'm Waiting Pass a herbalist Bashkir land The soul will rush in flight. I hear a song from a distance Kurai My whole being will sing. Climb up to the highlands to the plain of the Bashkir I will open a wonderful world. But the principality of death, but a dark mountain I see in the villages of the Bashkirs. The living dead are smoldering in the grave, They do not hear the cry of pain, But the sad tale of the sad villages Sakmar and bring us Iaik. And I myself do not know who to curse, When I look to the Urals. There will come a time Bashkir edge Find out and see the dawn? And it seems that the great and strong, I keenly listens to the Urals, And it seems that anxiety disappeared, And the day flashed, began to play. It seems to me: the song flies from a distance, Fly to dispel misfortune And I believe: I'll wait for the desired period And I believe, and I cry, and wait! 1916
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Marilyn How terrible to be a thing! A creature naked with a human face, – soulless as a cloud– set apart or kept in darkness, the true outsider, shunned and loved, I am forever the stranger gazing from the lawn, the solitary child peering in the window. One for whom the night is made and not the dawn.
Big Jackie Loveliness of a fallen angel– six two and blond, Jackie’s a D.C. street hooker, so much body in one tidy frame, so little heart. She could, indeed– make an old man run away from home– and cause him to regret every minute of it! She’ll fill your head with dreams, your night with longings. Alas, she’ll end in a ditch off New York Avenue, blood on her chin, a soft-nosed slug in her brain.
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Richard M. Nixon (Sept. 1973) I suppose a man doesn’t have much choice About the kind of life he leads. He leads the kind of life he’s been given. Ya know, I opened the door to China– I ended the war in Viet Nam, I canceled the drafting of our young men, And brought this country stability when it needed it– I worked very hard to bring on genuine world peace, A treaty with the Russians limiting arms, Ending the cold war’s long nuclear nightmare– Hell, we even put a man on the moon! But I never had any luck– From the time when I was a child in California, And I fell out of that horse-drawn carriage– The big wheel ran right over my head! Dick Nixon never got a fair deal! And there were always people after my scalp– Communists– Democrats– pinko leftists– That’s why I made my list of enemies! Now, here I am, President of the United States, The most powerful man in the free world Being pulled under by my friends– . A mean little third-rate burglary! (Which, by the way, I never authorized!) Like a fool I went an’ tried to protect ‘em– So-- they’re turned on me like ghouls at a corpse! That man Dean– what was it he said to me? “There’s a cancer on the Presidency–!” And I suppose I’m what needs to be cut out! Well, I ask you now-- what would you have done? I guess a man’s gotta protect his friends ! – But don’t count me out– I’m not done yet– I’ve been down before– and I always got back up! Defeat doesn’t finish a man– quit does. Lyndon Johnson was a helluva politician, He knew everything there is to know about politics – and he prophesied about Viet Nam– “The President who retreats from this war Will be impeached in office!” God, is that what’s happening? Kissinger, come in here– its time we prayed!
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england, uk
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Unbounded Void (III) 4
That had happened in Tammuz1, the summer before I arrived at the village. But Fatimah did not stay with her guileful husband for long. In his nomadic lifestyle, the dauntless itinerate salesman usually wintered in the Syrian desert, moving between Bedouin encampments. It was in such a campsite close to the Euphrates river, the philanderer saw a bold assertive female whom he fancied. To Fatimah’s utter horror, he winked and flirted with the forward Bedouin woman who responded on condition that he divorced his wife. Since he had already had enough of Fatimah and her nagging to settle them down in some village or town, without any pang of conscious, on the spot, he pronounced ‘I divorce you, Fatimah.’ Shocked and bewildered as to what would become of her, in front of everybody, she bitterly wept and begged him to keep her as his wife. ‘I will make myself a servant to you and to your new wife. Please do not throw me out, I have no place to go, no one to care. I will sleep under the caravan. I will eat your leftovers….’ But he mercilessly lashed at her with his horsewhip and threw her out. At night, with his new wife, they harnessed the two horses to the caravan and left at a gallop with Fatimah running after them. But to no avail, they just melted into the vast darkness of the desert.
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Having seduced her from the beginning to part with her savings which he squandered on Arak2, Fatimah did not have the means to take herself back to her mother. In the cold winter months she wandered astray from village to the next, begging for food. At night she sneaked into barns and slept in mangers. If the darkness caught up with her in the wilderness, to avoid leopards, wolves, hyenas, rabid stray dogs and such scavenging beasts, she hid in caves. In rain or snow, she wandered barefoot aimlessly between empty fields and woods until the sharp flints tore her soles and her clothes became rags. It was Adar3 when she suddenly reappeared at her mother's hut, hungry, dirty and infested with lice and fleas. Later, after I regained my humanity and acknowledged her existence, I learnt from her that at the depth of winter she aborted alone in a cave. For two days and two nights she had laid motionless, too weak to move. It was a miracle that saved her from the stalking wild animals. Still bloody, hunger and thirst forced her to drag herself out. An old lady took pity upon her. She took her in, gave clean clothes and hot water to wash the birthing blood off. After she had heard Fatimah’s story, the kind lady fed Fatimah and allowed her
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england, uk
www.arabworldbooks.com to stay in the warmth of the bakery hut for week to regain her strength. In a cold midmorning in Adar, with the snow covering the ground, Fatimah suddenly appeared at the door of her mother’s hut. That cold day was totally barren of warmth and human feelings. After her degrading return, dirty and sick, from her plunder with love, the villagers’ treatment changed. Nobody felt sorry for Fatimah’s failed adventure to be like other women with a husband, a home and children to bring up. To make things worse, her dutiful past was completely forgotten and only her foolishness was remembered. Her mother was the first to reject her. The widow could not find it in her heart to overlook her daughter’s indiscretion. The villagers heard the screams of the mother and her daughter. As I have mentioned before, I was one of those who had overheard the two wretches piercing cries. Heartlessly, the vengeful widow took the staff to her reckless daughter and thrashed her soundly, calling her the most indecent and foul names. Drubbing her, the old woman accused Fatimah of cruelty for leaving her disabled mother alone and run after fanciful dreams of home and husband. Gnashing her teeth and with a great contempt, the widow scorned her daughter, ‘Whore, you have disgraced and shamed the good name of your father. I wish you dead.’ The terrible treatment the widow heaped upon her daughter opened the gates for a deluge of insults and name calling from the mouths of the gathering villagers. When it became known throughout the village that Fatimah had returned home, everybody came out: men,
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women, boys and girls. En-masse they hurried to the hut to bare witness to the punishment of the shamed daughter. I confess to my odious sin. I cannot beg for mercy or clemency. I deserve your severest reproach. With my conscience swathed by my stupid haughtiness, I dismissed the class and with my pupils I joined the eager march to the humble hut of the widow to see with my own eyes the fate of the dissolute daughter. I was carried only by curiosity, for at the time I was totally devoid of feelings for or against Fatimah. As I approached the gathering crowd that had already besieged the door of the hut, shovelling and tiptoeing for better view, the noise died down out of courtesy and respect for the learned teacher. Assured and confident of my esteemed standing amongst the villagers, I continued to strut slowly as befitting with my status towards the mud hut. A hushed murmuring went through the crowd as they alerted one another of my presence. All heads and eyes with deference turned in my direction. As I walked amidst them they made way for their revered teacher to observe with his own eyes the disciplining of their renegade daughter. How iniquitous man can be in his hour of grandeur. With my nose turned up, I stood next to the village chief at the threshold of the hut, gazing with averseness at that loathed, miserable creature being mauled by the women. Fatimah’s only sin was that she dared to venture for her own share of fulfilment; is it not that the natural right of every human being? Unfortunately she failed, perhaps that was her true guilt.
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www.arabworldbooks.com Sitting in the midst of the whooping and gibbering woman, I did not see Fatimah's emaciated face then. It was covered by her dishevelled long, black hair and reddened by blood and injuries. The wretched woman squatted on the floor whimpering and bleeding, pulling her clothes around her body, trying to cover her bruised flesh. Inside the mud hut, the widow was surrounded by the village older ladies. Some were trying to calm her whilst others were heaping insults and abuse at Fatimah. The younger females stood babbling incoherently. The widow sat on her backside with her bad legs outstretched, panting for her effort of beating her loathed daughter, shaking her head, agreeing to every offensive word they uttered. That desolate hour was absolutely bereft of mercy and compassion, even that of a mother. You might think that miserable day was the worst in her life. No, it was not. That time was still to come and I would be the culprit. Believe me, that contemptible gazing-stock knew humiliation and injustice. The worn rags she had come back in were torn by her livid mother to get her nails and teeth into her flesh. Fatimah was almost naked in the middle of the women who were censuring her, whilst she tried very hard to veil her thin debased body from view. That day I saw nothing of Fatimah's emotional state except that she scratched at the floor with her nails with strained tense movements. One and all were repulsed by her and saw her as something ugly, deserving no pity or sympathy. You have the right to ask, ‘And where was the gallantry of the Arab men and their
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instinctive respect for the modesty of the female of which we have heard so much about?’ The truth was no male in the village had ever seen Fatimah as a female. Although, she was a maiden of low birth, when she was in her early teens she would have made a pretty bride. The widow was greatly disappointed that no prospecting mother had ever opened the subject of Fatimah’s betrothal. She was totally overlooked. As she grew older her chances passed by and the girls of her generation had become mothers; a few even grandmothers. The pathetic return of Fatimah reduced her socially status even further. She became an undutiful and ungrateful depraved woman. The fact that she was a woman to herself who chased after the love of a man, was laughable. In that cold day, no man standing outside the mud hut, peeking through the door thought, ‘How shameful this is. I better spread my cloak over the woman’s naked flesh and cover her vulnerability. No male, young or old, lowered his sight in modesty for her near nudity.’ From that day, Fatimah believed that she was a sinner and misery was her fate. She blindly assented to her fair share of life. After we were forced into a hurried marriage and I got to watch her closely, I noticed that she unquestionably accepted me. In fact she thought herself to be the lowest creature on the face of the Earth. I totally failed to convince her otherwise. You might say, ‘Ali, you and Fatimah are probably of those people who enjoy being forlorn and persecuted. Exiled in the midst of
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www.arabworldbooks.com your folks is the peak of persecution.’ My answer, ‘Yes, I agree with you, that there is a certain peculiar glamour contained within such a position. It is even possible that Fatimah and I were seduced by the sufferings and ordeal of the unconscionable scandal ensued from my charity. It joined our names in a sin which we were falsely accused of. The many years I sacrificed myself teaching their children did not re-elevate me in the estimation of the villagers nor did they and place me on a pedestal that was highly gratifying to my vanity. Both Fatimah and I erred in a more innocent and inoffensive way. It is our naivety that made us such impressive and splendid people in Allah’s sight.’ Like her mother, none of the village women condescended to speak to Fatimah. The mother did not even allow her daughter to sit with her or eat with her. After she had done her house chores and patiently seen to her mother’s ulcerated legs, Fatimah spent the rest of the day taciturn, sitting in the lee of the hut, spinning woollen yarns.
works hard all day and no soul pities her. She is assiduous, in the Summer, she even had a go at reviving her father’s disused spinning jenny but the steep cost of spare parts defeated her.’ Later, I learned from him that at sleeping time, the widow withheld the mattresses from Fatimah. Allowing her a single blanket, the mother wordlessly pointed to her daughter to bed the bare mud floor. The ostracised woman would pillow her head on her arm, roll herself in the blanket and kip, hungry and in pain.
***
----------1 - In ancient Semites calendar, Tammuz was the fourth month of the year. First of Tammuz is summer solstice. In Gregorian calendar Tammuz is the same as July. Tammuz (or Damuzi) was the Sumerian God of Fertility, Adoni Baal. 2 - An alcoholic spirit aniseed-flavoured. 3 - Twelfth month and last in the Semitic annual calendar. Correspond with March.
When I had returned from Damascus in the Autumn, I felt sad for the terrible depth she had descended into in the appraisal of her folks. The village chief told me, ‘Teacher, Ali, none of us is safe from the vagary of Time. The fellahin are obdurate and they rarely forgive a sinner. Although, before Allah she sinned not, she was deemed immoral and good only for mean tasks. If her father was still alive or she has brothers, she will have been slain. She only has this boorish avarice of a cousin and he cares not for what becomes of her. As you can see, she
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john landry
california, usa
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Interview TM: John, at what age did you discover that poetry was your calling? John Landry: Before I ever scribbled words on paper, I would sing alternative lyrics to songs, which was comical. I often "miss-hear" and so fashion my own words. What I mean is: I grew up hearing several languages where I lived - American English, Acadian French, Portuguese, Cape Verdean Creole, Belgian and German. Since I knew no other language to speak, what I heard was not what was being said. As an example, I heard a jazz piano and, when told who it was, I heard "The Loneliest Monk." I was forced to be Catholic, so I knew what a monk was, and it made sense that a monk could be lonely. At 7 or 8, I had no idea who Thelonious Sphere Monk was. He is still my favorite. I came to poetry-writing at age 10. It was a poem about the "herd" of 7 large rocks, which were barely visible at high tide. When the tide was out, and they towered above us, we would climb on
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them and play that they were horses, Hannibal's elephants, or WWII airplanes. It was the week of the assassination of President Kennedy, when I was 10. TM: In what way do you think literature has the ability to change the way people live their lives? John Landry: Well, as a reader, I have found poetry to let me participate in the focused contemplation of what it is to be this "human being" one is. I look to learn from someone else's take on an experience, history, nature, human experiences, political situations. Not so much to compare notes on how we're getting on in this life, but maybe to do so also. My own work wrestles with these things. I don't know that I have much in the way of answers or conclusions, "inconclusions" maybe. TM: Are you happiest reading or writing? John Landry: Well, there's the suspension of disbelief, or a suspension of individual beliefs, when reading, which
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california, usa allows one to vacate one's crowded existence momentarily. That can be enjoyable, entertaining, and a challenge to one's own sense of security, safety. I read to learn about other lives and other worlds, other realities. One Summer I read 50 novels and loved going "elsewhere." I read to learn. I read also to learn about myself: what I think and feel about the worlds I may never get to visit or taste. When in the act of writing my own work, there are times of great elation, when words and phrases come in an order that joggles my linear or conventional thought process. That particular span of energized mindwork can not always be easily explained, since I sometimes wake up in the middle of the night to jot down a phrase or line that seems to have nudged me out of my sleep. Often, they have been kernels of insight, perhaps conclusions come to due to some problem, stress, consideration of one thing or another..."voices in the night." Many of my poems are built out of time, collaged fragments or salvaged fragments from disparate origins. The pieces seem to guide me, as to their order and/or alteration, and I can sense if some additional part is needed to weave the rest together into some coherent or maybe incoherent "whole," or a numbered series of related (maybe only in my own mind) parts. There is a need to reflect on history and the treatment of one group by another in power, of one individual's plight. No one I have met is immune from suffering or sorrow. I surely am not.
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TM: Who are your biggest creative influences? John Landry: From the reading of my youth: Emerson, Thoreau, Frederick Douglass, Herman Melville, and Whitman, Shelley(his notion of poets being "unacknowledged legislators" rings true for me), and Keats (his discussion of "negative capability," that possible thriving in uncertainty is surely a deeply contemplative/meditative "practice" for survival). I do have a soft spot for the Dada and Surrealist poets and artists. Non-conformity thrills me. I admit it;I have trouble with authority, even authority within a party or "school." Maybe because it is mischievous and thumbs it nose at convention and the destructive, brutal side of the social order. I was arrested at the White House in 1986, protesting the US government's lack of compassion for the homeless population and its complicit hand in the attempts to destroy the Nicaraguan revolt against the Somoza regime dictators. Allen Ginsberg, Denise Levertov, E.E. Cummings, Edwin Rolfe, Amiri Baraka, Gwendolyn Brooks, Jayne Cortez, Joy Harjo, Dennis Brutus, Jeff Poniewaz, Antler, Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Pablo Neruda, Nicanor Parra, Thomas Merton, Robert Lax, Gary Snyder, William Carlos Williams, Diane di Prima, Hilda Morley, Philip Lamantia, Edward Dorn, Joanne Kyger, William Stafford, John Wieners, Charles Olson, Robert Creeley, Ed Cox, Daniel Berrigan, Sarah Menefee, Agneta Falk, George Wilkie and Everett Hoagland have been most influential in my life. Some of them I knew personally as teachers, mentors, friends; others I met or knew mostly through their work.
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california, usa TM: Do you have other writers or artist in your family? John Landry: My grandfathers played concertina and ocarina, an uncle and some cousins played jazz guitar. Another cousin writes for local newspapers and published a novel for young readers. I was a keyboard player for many rock bands as a teenager in the late 1960's, but took more to singing harmony, dispensing with the need for any instrument but for my voice. My mother won ribbons for her poems as a school girl. My father was his ship's artist during the war. My only brother drew as a boy and played guitar some. He now carries a camera everywhere. TM: Were you always wondering about the issues you wonder about now? John Landry: I have always been alert to the underdog. The issues I find myself following today are much the same. I do not like the idea of anyone being harmed by another individual, business, government, unhealthy conditions due to corporate and political greed and brutality. We have access to so many more facts and details about life around the world. I find it difficult to not speak out, or write about what is going on. I have always confronted politicians and power-holders about the outcome of their actions, the fallout on those of us who are supposed to be powerless. My ancestors came to the USA from Bohemia, Czechoslovakia, Austria, Germany, and West coastal France. I am a descendant of migrants, and have been very much a migratory bird myself. I have lived in some 40 places and
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held 40 different jobs in my life. I was a quahogger, a clam-digger, in my youth, and worked in several factories , warehouses and lumber yards. I was employed in office work and in several libraries. Eventually it was suggested that I teach poetry. I did that for only a few years and one Summer in Germany held a seminar called Bauhaus to Black Mountain College: Cultural Bridges to a New America. I found myself speaking in a documentary film by Cathryn Davis Zommer and Neeley House, FULLY AWAKE: Black Mountain College. TM: Whom do you picture as the ideal reader of your work? John Landry: Oh! Hmmm. I hope my reader has a good sense of humor. I hope my reader is conscious and serious about the world we live in and not confined to a narrow vision. Maybe by reading something I have written they will think a bit differently or hear in a different key. TM: How many evaluations does your work go through before you are satisfied with it? John Landry: Well, some pieces never pass muster. Those do not see light for years of fine-tuning. A piece has to ring true to me, meaning in its "sense" of itself and the saying of what it says to me. I argue with my poems often. That is not to say that some pieces fly out fully ready to face the world on their own terms with little help from me. Those are the "received" ones. I can take no credit for composing those. For those, I am merely a stenographer. Haha. TM:
Is your work process fast or
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california, usa slow? John Landry: It varies. Again, some just fly out complete. Some come out complete only after long stewing periods inside me. Some, I work on and leave them alone for years. Recently, I revisited some from the 1970's and the solution to their form/sound/sense became clearer. Each piece has its own gestation period and its unique formation. I do not spend time or energy forcing them into a form into which they will not fit, into forced completion they do not deserve. TM: How would you describe your work? John Landry: Awkward and selfconscious. At least at first. It is many things. They are captured impressions either nailed down with an immediate response that makes sense, or intricate constructions whose direction or completion I cannot predict. Contemplations and meditations. But, and not to let myself off-the-hook, what I refer to as "inconclusions." I would never claim to have the end-all final word on anything. I am always hoping to be learning more about how to be a human being. I hope they serve as a guide book for myself. I hope that does not sound selfish. If there is something in them to benefit someone else, then I am very grateful. I keep trying. TM: What do you hope readers will take away from your work?
John Landry: The poems that appear without my mark too much on them, yes. Those I cannot claim ownership of, just as a midwife, perhaps. TM: What do you do to recharge your batteries? John Landry: Well, I must get near bodies of water. I prefer to be near the ocean. I lived my childhood at the shore in Massachusetts. The ocean calms me and energizes me. To be in the forest also. Spending time alone, since I spent much of my childhood alone by the shore and in the woods watching, listening, learning from the plants, the birds, the habits and rituals of animals. Gardening is also very therapeutic and nourishing! I also take far too many photos. I can silently participate., almost invisibly. Making art of any kind: photos, collages, monotype prints. Travel. TM: What is ahead for John Landry? John Landry: A Japanese paper-making workshop. Hopefully, I be allowed to make some art that other eyes and minds find worthy. I hope to visit Bohemia, Prague, Budapest, Bucharest, Dresden. I must mine and harvest my boxes of notebooks to get several books of poetry in print. I can only hope. I was born with an enlarged curiosity. I am easily distracted by shiny things like crows.
John Landry: At least to be taken some otherwhere and have a good laugh at the same time. TM: Do you admire your own work?
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Short Toast for Long Friendship Azat, the vodka brought from home is so much smoother than any here. The toasts are longer and bring tears. We may never in this life meet again. The journey has been long to get here. We never knew that we would meet. So many worlds to pass through, to end up at the same place far away. So, bang the table good and hard. Hearts mean just what tears can say. Drink up! Drink up! Enjoy this sacred moment as if it were a dream.
Uzun dostlîkka kîskadan kade kóterúwí Azat, úyden ketírgen votkamîz Mínda tabîlganlarga kóre bek ğîmşak. Kade kóterúwí fazla súrúp kózyaşî agîzdîrar. Belkí bo ómírímízde bírtaa tabîşmamîz. Bo yerlerge uzun ğollardan keldík. Bír araga keleğegímízden heş kaberímíz bolmadî. Ogîraşsak ta dúniyalarnî atlap şîkmaga Soñîmîznî hep şo awlak yerde tabarmîz. Bo hálde, wur patlatasîn, şal oynasîn. Kaálpler tek kózyaşnîñ ayta-alganîn aytar. Íşiyík! Íşiyík! Bo túştiy kayîrlî anîñ kiypín şîgarayîk. (Taner Murat’nîñ terğúmesínde)
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Lesson in Detachment and a third piece of a second tooth clinks into a bowl after scraping my tongue on its way such brittle metal falls from my head leaving unlit niches where food abides and tales go untold the dignity of aging eludes the undoctored and gravity unyields the floor and the mic for frivolous banter
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Kopma dersí ekínğí bír tîşnîñ úşúnğí parşasî bír pílğanîñ íşínde şîñlap kete túşiyatîrganda tílímní ğarîp algan soñ bonday kewrek şînkîllar túşer kafamdan bîrakîp artînda kongan yemek men añlatîlmagan masallar saklagan aydînsîz oyîklar yaşlanîp sayîluw bílmatsîznî atlar ğertartîmî da şapkîn şakalar úşún tóşeme men mikrofonnî kapatîr (Taner Murat’nîñ terğúmesínde)
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california, usa wjacksavage.com
The Global Citizen Gloria was a young woman who was having fun dating men from the American Embassy, with no particular designs on marrying one, at least in the immediate future. To a certain extent, she had been born to it. Her father had been a Marine Colonel in charge of the guards for some years. That was before Graham’s time; and, after the Colonel retired, Gloria was still in school continuing her studies, and afterward, simply stayed on and found work at the Trade Commission. The Athletic Club bar was half full when Robert Graham, Deputy Consul at the Embassy, and an assistant to the Ambassador, joined Captain Ellis for drinks at Ellis’ invitation. A young Lieutenant was there when Graham arrived, but he excused himself and left shortly thereafter. Ellis and Graham was finishing their second drink when the talk of the dinner invitation began. There had been a party some time earlier, at which Graham had seen something he wasn’t meant to see, and in the playful nature of the gathering, had assumed that perhaps Gloria was not without humor, as you might say. But they had always been friendly and it was none of his business. They were all adults, after all, and that had been nearly two years earlier. So when he saw her and Captain Ellis together the previous week, he wondered if they wouldn’t like to join him and Mrs. Wybinga for dinner. Nothing more was intimated; just dinner. Captain Ellis was a married man, the same as Graham was, but the Captain chose to take offense.
“Yes,” said Ellis, “but you and Mrs. Wybinga are involved. You said so yourself, and I just wanted to make it clear that that is not the case with Gloria and me.” “Fine. Invitation withdrawn. I wouldn’t want you to feel you’re agreeing to some kind of orgy. All I asked was if you two would like to have dinner and now that that’s no longer an issue, how about another drink?” “You needn’t take offense,” continued. “I just wanted to be clear.”
Ellis
Graham shook his head and said, “Not a problem and no offense taken. Now how about that drink?” “Sure,” Ellis said, as Graham waved for a waiter. “Appearances can follow you around in my line of work, and the military is notoriously gossipy. I’m sure you understand.” “I do. I began in the military myself. I found it too stifling for much the same reason. But if you’re really concerned, then perhaps you’d take some advice?”
“Gloria and I are friends; nothing more,” he said.
The waiter arrived and they ordered two more drinks. After the waiter left, Graham lowered his voice and said,
Graham paused and said, “Did I say you were otherwise? I just asked if you’d like to join us for dinner one night next week. I hadn’t thought I was suggesting anything out of line.”
“I like Gloria too. But she has dated some of the married officers and the diplomats too. If you’re concerned about appearances you might take that into consideration. A lot of gossip
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begins with, 'where there’s smoke, there’s fire'.” “Yes, but I mean, I heard that as well. She told me actually. But she said it wasn’t what it seemed. I mean, she said she never slept with any of them.” “Did she?” Graham said. “Well then, fine. But we were talking about appearances weren’t we? 'Where there’s smoke, there’s fire' never required actual evidence of fire, at least as far as I can remember it. Being seen with someone was usually enough.” “I wonder,” he said, “have you heard otherwise? About Gloria, I mean?” “Sleeping around? No, I can’t say that I have,” he replied. There was something in Ellis’ manner that said to Graham he hadn’t quite been convincing. He tried again. “So no. As far as I know, what she told you is true. I only brought it up because I know something about how things look.” “You could tell me, you know,” he said. “I mean, I’d appreciate knowing if you had knowledge to the contrary?” “Well, I’m the proverbial 'people in glass houses'; one of them anyway. Being an unprincipled lot as we are at times, we tend to go 'wink, wink' when there’s nothing to go 'wink, wink' about. My wife tried it here, didn’t like it, and when she moved back home to Virginia, I’m sure she knew I’d have dinner with someone. We don’t talk about it, but as you say, Mrs. Wybinga and I have been together as a couple and lovers for sometime now. To answer your question, I like Gloria, and I don’t particularly like gossiping about people I like. I will tell you this, though. When you’ve dated married men, that tends to give other married men the encouragement to date you, and assuming you know for a fact that those women have dated, let’s just say more then a few married men, one imagines all sorts of things. I’m not telling you anything you don’t know, Don, am I?” “My question was rather specific. I just
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asked if you had solid knowledge to the contrary. I’d like to know.” “Has one of them said to me they were fucking her? No,” Graham said. “Good enough?” “Why are you being evasive?’ asked Captain Ellis. “Captain. Don, what’s going on? I’m not being evasive. You seem to want to know if I have some specific knowledge that she is or is not a virgin. I assure you I do not. Where do you want to go with this?” “No, you’re right,” Ellis said. “The other night; last week, when we ran into you, she said something about you maybe once got the wrong idea. I tried to get her to tell me, but she wouldn’t, and when I saw you I thought, maybe as men or friends, which I hope you consider we are, you might fill in the blanks, that’s all. I apologize for the other; I just... it’s kind of bothered me.” “Why didn’t you just say that?” Graham asked. “But as for me getting the wrong idea, I don’t know what she might be talking about. Other than just seeing her here and there over the years, with several men, I guess, I can’t imagine what she meant. In fact, as I say, I like Gloria. I’m surprised she wouldn’t bring it up with me if it’s... I mean, if she felt uncomfortable about it, she never let on to me.” “Uncomfortable about what?” “Whatever it might be, of course. I told you I have no idea.” They finished their drinks, and almost as an afterthought, Ellis brought up the idea of dinner for the four of them. “I mean, I didn’t mean that dinner was something we wouldn’t like.” “Listen, Don. You two seem to have some issues, and how I got mentioned I don’t know, but even as a silent witness to events I’m unaware of, this dinner idea seems fraught with a little too much intrigue for me, and I’m sure Helen would pick up on it too. Why don’t we just skip it, and on down the line see how things
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sometimes even to themselves.
In the aftermath of 'cocktails with the boys', Robert Graham came away with two distinct... 'feelings,' was the best word to describe it. First and foremost, he was glad he had never shared what he saw at the party, and that had something to do with the nature of diplomacy. It was wise to be discreet, yes, but also, when one sleeps around a bit, it’s better not to judge others doing the same; in particular the ladies, because, times being what they were, one never knew who one might wind up with in the future. Not unlike a philosophy he once heard someone with the carnival espouse. He’d had no designs on Gloria when it came to that sort of thing. She was rather young for his taste, but as he had told Captain Ellis, he had always liked her and they had gotten on well over the years. Perhaps there had been a bit of distance between them since the night of the party in question, but that was to be expected. When their eyes had met, Robert always returned Gloria’s glance with his usual friendly recognition.
A week went by, and while Graham hoped that would be an end to it, he knew it probably wouldn’t be. He was a diplomat after all, and everything in life and in diplomacy in particular was about layers; layers of intentions; layers of all manner of problematic curiosities and it would likely find some sort of conclusion over time, but not until it had been properly dissected for whatever purpose. To everyone in diplomacy, intelligence or counter intelligence, the end always justifies the means. Robert Graham knew that. 'The means' was why they were paid, and so when Gloria called and asked if they could have lunch, he wasn’t surprised.
The other thing was Ellis himself, and the part about his hoping Graham had considered him a friend. While largely untrue and probably an interrogative probe, it was still more positive than negative when it came to dealing with ghosts. Don Ellis may well have been a Captain of something, but it was not ordinary military. He was 'deep and ugly', was what Graham had heard, and it had been followed by a 'watch out' when he had originally been described. CIA certainly, but there were other ghosts at the embassy whose real identities and who they were really working for were unknown, and for good reason. No, if he was really worried about Gloria, it was she, not he, who would bear the brunt of that mystery. His overture to still have dinner together was about the two of them being seen together. Guys like Ellis don’t really know when you’re lying. They assume everyone is lying and because that’s pretty much true of everyone nearly all the time, they think they’re privy to something no one else knows. It’s not true but as long as they think it, they’re scary;
They ordered, and Gloria made somewhat of a show by ordering an apple Martini while Graham responded by having his usual dinner fare, a scotch and soda. He then decided to initiate the conversation.
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“Hello,” Graham said, getting up and kissing her on both cheeks. “Thanks for meeting me,” she said. “Nonsense. I may be older but I know when I’m the lucky one. Would you care for a drink before lunch, or are you in a hurry?” “I think I’d like a drink first, yes.”
“I had drinks with Captain Ellis. It didn’t take a brain surgeon to figure out he’s in love with you. He seemed to take something you said wrongly because I don’t remember…” “Please, Robert,” she began. “It was a wild night as I recall; everyone rather uninhibited.” “More uninhibited for the uninhibited lot we were than I can ever remember,” Graham said. “The focal point of the evening, as I recall it, was Eve Perosky and of course we were all sworn to silence. So I’m afraid I can’t remember a thing beyond that. Including that, actually.” She looked down and said, “I always thought we’d probably go out sometime, Robert. When we never did, I always wondered if the party had something to do with that. I’ve felt kind
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of badly about it ever since.” “That’s what Don said. But, like I told you, I’m not sure to what you’re referring. We were all blasted and, it’s been a while ago now. I assure you I was just thinking it’d be nice for the four of us to have dinner, when I brought it up. I’d never have done that if I had realized that running into Helen and me that time would kick off some unpleasant memory.” Graham knew he’d responded correctly, but when Gloria looked as though she might cry, he decided to appeal to her as the friends he thought that they were. “Gloria. We’ve known each other for years; not that well, I’ll grant you, but we’ve been social kindred spirits since I got here. I can’t believe you’d imagine that I’d use something I can’t even remember, to hurt you in any way.” “My name came up on an internal memo,” she said. “Did you know that?” “Of course,” he said. “So did Helen’s. So did anyone who dated embassy personnel. That’s nothing new.” “Yes, but Don said something about being blacklisted if you’d dated too many different men. I’m not promiscuous, Robert, I swear I’m not.” “I know that. I told Don that very thing when we had drinks. You have a very good reputation and you’re young and beautiful. Why shouldn’t you date a lot of guys? Honey, listen. Don is right, but that’s a qualified policy. It doesn’t apply to family of embassy personnel, for one thing. Your father’s posting; even though it was a while ago, certainly qualifies there, and as you say, it’s not as if you were sleeping around. I don’t see any way they could consider you for blacklisting. That’s mainly meant for foreign nationals for one thing. You know that.” “My mother would make me come home,” she said. “To Arkansas. I couldn’t live there.” “Well frankly, I don’t see how that could happen, and as far as anything else; this other
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business; you have nothing to be concerned about. I just think you’re making too much out of nothing, and I don’t want you to worry about things I can’t even remember. Arkansas? I thought it was Alabama?” “It’s Arkansas now. She finished her graduate degree when she and Dad split up. Now she’s teaching there. She’s been looking for an excuse to get me to leave. If it wasn’t for Dad I’d have had to go home by now. They don’t pay much at the Trade Commission and some of the other girls take money. You know I never would.” “Well, that does work in your favor when it comes to being blacklisted, and I’ll tell you something else. If anyone comes around trying to shake you down; you know, asking for sex in exchange for a good report, you call me right away. That I will help you with.” She looked down and bit her lip. “Someone has, haven’t they? Tell me who it is.” “It’s not like that, exactly.” “Is he investigating you?” She nodded. “Are you fucking him?” She looked down. “Then it is that, exactly. It’s Ellis, isn’t it? Isn’t it?” “I don’t think he ever would,” she said. “But I know he’s the one conducting the inquiries.” “Uh huh. And if you told him tonight you didn’t want to see him any more, how about then? Would he get you blacklisted then?” “I don’t know. And I don’t want to take the chance. I like Don.” The tears never actually came, and they had lunch and chatted about this and that and when it was over, in addition to everything else, Graham felt there was something strange about it that he couldn’t quite put a finger on. He knew it all made sense, as far it went. But there was
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something; just a feeling really, and so Robert decided to have a look. It wouldn’t be official or even out of the ordinary for an embassy employee to check the file of an American that they might happen to see socially outside of work. That sort of thing was even encouraged. After looking at the file, Graham called Captain Ellis and asked if they could get together. They agreed to meet at the Athletic Club again and when Don Ellis walked in ten minutes early, Robert was already there. “Hi, Robert,” Ellis said, sitting down. “Sorry I’m late. Have you been waiting long?” “You’re early, Don. You know that.” The waiter arrived and they ordered. Captain Ellis checked his watch. “I guess you’re right. I’m usually early, so when I saw you I assumed I was late. What’s up?” “No,” Graham said, “That’s my line. I ask if you and Gloria would like to join Helen and me for dinner one night, and all of a sudden I’m under the microscope. What the fuck is the deal with that, and don’t try to blow me off because you may be some 'dark and dirty' guy, but I’ve been around this business longer than you, and I know when I’m being looked at.” “What did you see at that party?” “Nothing,” Graham said. “Nothing that I can remember about Gloria anyway. One of the guests; a woman, decided to take it up the ass and let some people watch that night, but I can’t remember her name. I wouldn’t tell you if I did. You’re not dating her, I can tell you that. I suspect the woman you appear to be dating already told you about that.” Their drinks arrived, and after the waiter left, Robert hoisted his glass to Ellis and said, “Here’s to friends.” They drank, and Ellis asked, “Who told you I was 'dark and dirty'?” “I can’t remember that, either. I think several people mentioned it. But if they hadn’t, this little skit you arranged would’ve 'outed you'. To me, anyway.”
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“My job is security.” “I doubt that,” said Graham. “You’re just a comer who’s trying to make an impression. You may wind up in security though. You don’t seem really suited to the other; whatever the other is. But I am now curious as to what you might have on Gloria. Her days as an embassy escort are now over. She’ll be going home persona non grata and she can thank you for that. Back to, where was it, Alabama, I think?” “Arkansas, she told me. And I really don’t know what you’re talking about. As far as I know, Gloria’s done nothing wrong.” Graham put his drink down, leaned forward, and lowered his voice. “What do think we’re doing over here, Don? You think those four Marines out front are gonna keep the ragheads out if they really want to come in? The only reason they don’t is they’re not sure who’s a priority and who isn’t, and the only reason they don’t know that is because we manage that information. Take me for example; a middle management diplomat; estranged from his middle management diplomat’s wife, who’s rather long in the tooth for a Deputy Consul, and assistant to the Ambassador, and who's fucking a local industrialist’s wife. Or am I? Who asked who out to dinner and who brought my name up before I did? You think we’re all wack-offs? You were on your way home after asking about me and Gloria here a few weeks ago. And you told her to say Arkansas to see if I’d report the oversight once I checked her out. So I ask you again. What did you threaten Gloria with to get her to call me up and ask me out to lunch?” “Sending her home, of course,” he said. “She’d told a girlfriend you walked in on her while she was giving this guy a blowjob, and that she thought you might ask for one yourself sometime, and when you didn’t, it was like the specter, that you might talk about it sometime. And I’m not going anywhere. You may be a career diplomat, but my appointment is through the Ambassador. He and my father are old friends.” “You’re going home, Don, and your
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career in the Foreign Service was over the minute you threatened Gloria into fucking you and then sent her to interrogate me. The sum of those two things means Gloria would do anything to stay here and go to Embassy parties; anything, and almost certainly with anybody. That you would extort something as pedestrian as sex from a Trade Commission girl makes you too reckless, and frankly too stupid, to keep around. Believe me, it’s a done deal. I tell you all this because you are young and you did have a chance. This adventure now over, you might feel it was someone else’s fault. When you understand it was not, you might get somewhere.” Robert finished his drink and got up. “Besides,” he said, “you still have a marriage as far as it goes. It would’ve ended pretty soon had you stayed on. There is that, I suppose.” * “You wanted to see me, sir?” asked Robert. “Yes,” said Ambassador Poole. “Graham. This business with Captain Ellis; I’d like to keep him on if we could. I know his father. He’s one of my oldest friends.” “Sadly, that would make him one of your newest enemies, sir. I’m afraid the Ellis matter goes a little beyond old acquaintances. I could withhold a formal, public reprimand for his father’s sake, sir. But his service with the diplomatic corps, even as a military liaison, is over. I’m afraid even a lateral move is out of the question. I’m sorry.”
“Perhaps we could find something less demanding for him to do?” “I’m afraid not, sir.” “I see,” said the Ambassador. “When my posting here is over, I expect to be brought onto the board of Mr. Ellis senior’s company. How would you handle this, Graham?” “You might call Mr. Ellis, sir,” said Graham “Say that your hands are tied by the Foreign Service. Privately you might mention that it was a sexual indiscretion of the Captain’s that made it impossible to keep him on. It’s not true, but a father might accept a young man’s sowing of wild oats as a reason for his failure. Certainly, he’d do so more willingly than accept the truth. You might threaten to resign in a show of friendship, but I’d want to be sure he wouldn’t allow that.” “Yes, you’re probably right. What did you mean by making his father one of my newest enemies?” “I wouldn’t rule that out, sir,” said Graham. “But then, that’s the nature of my business. It’s more likely, I would think, that Ellis senior doesn’t think much of the Foreign Service and thought his son might be a harmless addition. Using you to gain his posting was simply using the 'old boy network'.” “I’d hate to make another mistake like this, Graham,” he said. “I was told to go through you, but I just assumed this would be all right. In the end it isn’t and may cost me my retirement, so to speak. The mistake is mine though. I’ll go through you from now on, if you don’t mind?” “Not at all, sir. Anything I can do.” “Who are you, Graham? How did you get here?”
“What, if I may ask, is the essence of his lacking, Graham?”
“I’m not here, sir.”
“He’s too stupid, sir. His ambition to make a good impression made him dangerous. Had he continued, something would have had to be done and I assure you, it would have been worse than being sent home.”
*
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Helen Wybinga was an attractive woman of forty or thereabouts. But her elegance and her voice and manner made her the exceptional
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woman she was. She was independently wealthy long before she met Terence Wybinga and she had made most of it herself. That is to say, she began with a small fortune and multiplied it twelve times over. She rarely saw her husband any more and with the children in private schools, rather then maintain the mansion, she shut down most of it and hired a caretaker to live there and prepare it for whatever occasions might demand its use. She lived in a two story apartment and while Robert Graham lived there with her, he refused a key and insisted she greet him as a guest. “I’ll miss Gloria,” she said. “It’s too bad really. I understand she wasn’t very bright but she used to say the funniest things sometimes. I shall miss that.” Robert rarely loosened his tie. He was either dressed or not and preferred to remove it completely, when it came to it. But that night it was just loosened. “It was bound to happen,” he said. “We’d been watching her, of course. We assumed she’d go with someone from outside our jurisdiction when it happened. That’s another thing he screwed up; a perfectly good pigeon waiting for a bogey and along comes the Captain.” “Captain of what?” she asked. “Did you ever find out?” “Yes. It began with that other trouble, and then his father got him a commission in the National Guard. When they were activated, he got him upgraded to regular army and assigned to the state capital. There was a short stint in Washington before Poole resigned as Congressman. He was slated for a real posting when his father got Poole to bring him on here. He played college ball, you know? I know he was a dolt but I can’t say that…played college ball I mean.” “How wonder?”
impressive.
What
position,
I
“Well, technically, he was a back-up kicker and special teams, of course.”
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“Played quarterback in high school, did he?” “Not even. Still, he played Division I college football even if he didn’t play, well practically ever.” “You may have, though, Robert,” she said. “How would we know?” “Yes, but as you have no doubt surmised, the lie that is Robert Graham is for the most part, a lie of omission. Playing college ball is something I most likely would have worked in, if at all possible. It’s a guy thing, I realize, but I’m not sure I could have left it out. After all, it’s not as though I’d have been real good or anything. And my college set a record for consecutive losses once, so what would it matter?” “The Secretary General of the United Nations went there,” she said. “Yes, but I didn’t. Funny you should mention that. I was only the usher at the theater across the street. I never went there. Indeed they rejected my application twice; gave me back my money the second time. He was conspicuous by his ethnicity or I’d never have known. No my Alma Mater was even worse in sports; all but one, that is.” “And that was?” she asked “I can’t remember,” he said. “Archery or something.” “Fencing?” “Maybe it was fencing. Like I said, I can’t remember. Anyway, I only tried out for my sport. I didn’t make it and they were awful. What does that tell you?” “Well, I’ve seen you play golf and run around your backhand in tennis.” “Running around one’s backhand is accepted practice today.” “At Wimbledon or Roland Garros, yes, and 'today' is key in assessing the chances of it being tennis 'then', don’t you think?” “I wouldn’t be too sure. Besides, even if you guess correctly, I’m not at liberty to confirm
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it,” he said, getting up. “I’m having a drink, would you like one?” “Why not? Is chess a sport?” “Seems it should be but no, it’s a board game, and I’m sure they’d hardly let me in to watch.” “No,” she said, drily. “That’s the other thing. You don’t seem to play to win at anything, do you?” “Depends on what the game is. Sometimes there are games within games or even games and GAMES,” he came back with two scotch and sodas. “So you see, it’s win win. When I lose, people assume I’m playing another game. I rarely am, but then I play the game of life rather well, so what does it matter?” “Why was it funny I should mention that?” she asked. “Mention what? Oh, you mean my usher job. Well, it bears somewhat on why I’ll be gone for a week or two. I’m leaving tomorrow. The home office wants me to look in on a matter in another hemisphere. Dammed inconvenient really, but there it is.” “Which hemisphere?” “Well, not this one, anyway.” “Do they speak English there?” “Sure,” he said. “They speak English everywhere. Did you mean with an English accent? If you did I’d have to say no, but then I haven’t been out that way in years, so I’m really not sure. If you meant do most of them speak it, it depends on where you are. Everything is so compartmentalized these days, don’t you think?” “Why did they ask you to go, do you
“Well, if you knew all the facts, then you’d know, wouldn’t you? Only then I suspect someone would come around and kill you. Can’t have the wives of industrialists knowing the secrets of the world, after all.” “That’s why they chose you,” she said, suddenly. “It’s personal in some way, or at least there’s a personal element. There’s some connection to the usher’s job at that theater and that’s why they chose you, isn’t it?” “If only that were it,” he said. “A mission born in the age of innocence. Being sent to right the ship after all these years and with all the markers called in and brought to bear. Well, I suppose, metaphorically there is a personal element, but only as a metaphor. I hope I don’t sound too sad or melancholy when I get like this. I assure you I’m very happy in my life; here with you and in my work. I am, and though there are things that seem strange or odd in some way, nearly every existence involves something like that.” “Then why do you allow me to interrogate you like this?” “I told you. I like the idea that you might be a spy. Besides, you’re smarter than most of them. And there are advantages for you, as well. They could only enlist your cooperation through extortion; one of your children or something. But all that pre-supposes they know who I am or what I do and on the latter, not even I am clear on that. No, I should say that quite probably I am the mid-level Foreign Service diplomat I appear to be, and am only allowed to shroud myself in understated mystery to deflect the scrutiny of more serious players.” “Or not,” she smiled.
think?”
He smiled back.
“I don’t know, really. One never knows what the home office is thinking. Anyway I’ll be gone for a while. I shall miss you while I’m gone but it will make returning all the more sweet, don’t you think?”
“The best of all worlds.” *** (From Instigatorzine)
“How does the usher job relate to your going away?”
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jharkhand, india
www.rksinghpoet.blogspot.in
Spiritual Flickers: A Tanka Sequence Plodding away at season’s conspiracies life has proved untrue with God an empty word and prayers helpless cries I wish I could live nature’s rhythm free from bondage of clock-time rituals of work and sleep expanding haiku present On the prayer mat the hands raised in vajrasan couldn’t contact God— the prayer was too long and the winter night still longer The mind creates withdrawn to its own pleasures a green thought behind the banyan tree behind the flickering lust I can’t know her from the body, skin or curve: the perfume cheats like the sacred hymns chanted in hope, and there’s no answer
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www.rksinghpoet.blogspot.in
Unknowable the soul’s pursuit hidden by its own works: the spirit’s thirst, the strife the restless silence, too much Unable to see beyond the nose he says he meditates and sees visions of Buddha weeping for us The mirror swallowed my footprints on the shore I couldn’t blame the waves the geese kept flying over the head the shadows kept moving afar The lane to temple through foul drain, dust and mud: black back of Saturn in a locked enclosure a harassed devotee Not much fun— cold night, asthmatic cough and lonely Christmas: no quiet place within no fresh start for the New Year
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Travels in Circassia, Krim Tartary, &c. (XVII)
notwithstanding- it has the advantages of a fine climate
and
fertile
soil
adapted
to
every
production, there was not a single object to delight the eye and gladden the heart. Here were no smiling towns and villages with their rural population, the pride of every country; and had it not been for a few scattered huts, with here and there a flock of sheep and a herd of buffaloes, it might be called a desert.
The next morning we continued our route; and such was the rapidity of the stream, that even without the assistance of the engine we were hurried forward with astonishing velocity till we came to Hirsova, which I visited while the engine was repairing. I found it to be miserable in the extreme, every house being built of mud, with the exception of the mosque, a very tolerable edifice. Hirsova was, however, a very considerable town before its destruction by the Russians, who, the Turks told us, did not leave a single house standing. It is prettily situated on a series of undulating eminences, which rise in projecting rocks close to the river, appearing in every respect admirably adapted for a fortified town.
The whole of the inhabitants of these beautiful but benighted provinces, with the exception of a few towns on the Danube, are principally Christians of the Greek church, and justly extolled by travellers for their industrious peaceable habits, particularly the Bulgarians, who are a pastoral people. Yet, so oppressive has been the long rule of the Ottoman government, and so protracted the devastating wars, that the people have gradually relapsed into semi-barbarism, and the country has become so depopulated, that the pelican of the wilderness every where finds an undisturbed habitation, and the eagles are so numerous as to have been our companions during the whole of our voyage down the Danube, from Pest to
I ascended the projecting rock on which
the Black Sea.
the citadel formerly stood, and although now a heap of stones, still it had the honour of resisting the siege of the Russians for two months. I enjoyed from its summit a very extensive prospect over the vast plains of Wallachia and a great part of Bulgaria, to the far distant chain of Mount Haemus. But how melancholy
was
the
scene
before
me
!
Throughout the whole of that immense district,
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LETTER IX.
there is neither inn nor house of public
GALATZ - MISERABLE ASPECT OP THE TOWN INCREASING COMMERCE – INHABITANTS DEPARTURE FOR CONSTANTINOPLE PASSENGERS - GERMAN STUDENTS HUNGARIAN NOBLEMAN - BESSERABIA - DELTA OF THE DANUBE - COSSACK GUARDHOUSES INSALUBRITY OF THEIR SITUATION - GENERAL OBSERVATIONS.
entertainment in the whole town, except a coffee-house. As to beds, they are considered most unnecessary articles of furniture. A divan covered with leather, or a straw mattress laid on the floor, being the only substitute: nor were the inhabitants more attentive to their personal appearance than their comforts, soap and water being evidently as great strangers to their
The hills, whose ever-varying beauty had
persons, as combs to their matted locks; and the
delighted us from the time we left Belgrade, now
sheep-skin jacket was the universal habiliment of
melted into a monotonous plain; and we passed
the peasant.
onward through an expanse of water, resembling a sea studded with innumerable islets. In the far
Notwithstanding these repulsive features,
distance we again caught a glimpse of Mount
still some signs of improvement were visible;
Haemus,
there was an air of animation in the port, and a
which
became
more
distinctly Braila,
a
few pretty villas were being built on the heights:
importance
in
Galatz in these respects differing widely from
Wallachia. Here I was not more surprised than
those slusrs:ish towns we had hitherto visited.
pleased to see several English vessels in its little
This was further evidenced by the appearance of
port, and our flag waving from a height in the
several vessels lying in the river, including two
town.
Austrian steam-boats, the Argo and the Ferdi-
developed commercial
as
we
town
approached of
some
7iando Primo: the latter, a very fine vessel, Shortly after leaving Braila, we passed
journeys between this port and Constantinople.
the river Szereth, which divides Moldavia from
Here I had again the pleasure of seeing several
Wallachia; and in about an hour cast anchor at
English vessels, and here we have also a vice-
Galatz, the most commercial town in Moldavia,
consul; but, strange to say, he was a foreigner,
containing,
thousand
and spoke no language but his native Italian;
inhabitants; but advancing no higher claims to
much to the annoyance of the English merchants
architectural beauty than those I have already
and traders. The articles principally exported
described.
from Galatz are timber, wool, tallow, hides, wax,
it
is
said,
twenty
The citizens have, however, made one step towards improvement, by paving one or two of the principal streets with boards, like some of the alpine villages in the Tyrol. Still,
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honey, flax, hemp, corn, including nearly all the raw materials usually found in such a latitude; and as these provinces are completely destitute of manufactures, the trade is most profitable to the merchant, and daily increasing.
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In wandering through the town, I was
had
also
a
Hungarian
nobleman,
and
a
more pleased with the aspect of the inhabitants
considerable sprinkling of German students;
than of their dwellings, as they formed a variety
these were deck-passengers, for which they only
of groupes at once picturesque and interesting.
paid a few florins; and if they had been bound
In one place, under the verandah of a coffee-
for the Indies, they could not have laid in a
house, sat a crowd of Turks, languidly smoking
more ample store of provisions: true it is, they
the tchibouque: in another were to be seen,
were about to embark on the Black Sea, which,
sauntering along the beach, a long range of
to a German who had never even beheld salt
most primitive-looking carriages, driven by Jews,
water, appeared an enterprise of no common
Turks, Greeks, or Moldavians, in their respective
peril. In genuine patriarchal style they feasted
costumes and attended by bare-legged footmen.
upon the common store, while their continued
Here the awkward military were attempting to
vocal efforts gave to our vessel the semblance of
perform their European evolutions; and a
a beer-shop: several were fashionably dressed,
stranger, on observing them, might deem they
with tremendous spurs dangling at their heels;
were afraid of gunpowder, as they never fired a
and thus, whip in hand, strutted up and down
salute without first making the sign of the cross
the deck with as much consequence as a
on their foreheads. There Jews, in their long
seignior of a thousand acres. In short, they were
vestments and high fur caps, were selling their
a most noisy, ill-behaved set of young men,
flimsy wares, at a profit of cent, per cent., to the
between whom and the captain there was open
crew of an English vessel just released from
war from the moment they entered the vessel;
quarantine; and, to complete the picture,
for, much to the annoyance of the cabin-
hundreds of men and boys were breasting the
passengers, they struggled to obtain exclusive
silvery current of the river, unencumbered with
possession of the deck, maintaining, to the very
the superfluity of bathing-dresses, beneath the
letter, that it was their right as deck-passengers.
eyes of numbers of fair ladies, who nevertheless
At one time the contest assumed an air of
seemed to regard the matter with the most
gravity, until the captain, an intelligent, active
perfect nonchalance.
seaman, threatened to lower the boat and put
After remaining two days at Galatz, I embarked in
the
Ferdinando
steam-packet.
Captain
Everson, for Constantinople. Here I found, much to my gratification, two of my countrymen among the passengers,—Captain Johnson, of the East India Company's service, and Mr. Newton: in the latter I had the pleasure of
them ashore: this, together with a few friendly remonstrances addressed to them on my part, at length convinced them of their folly; fV)r, being the only Englishman on board that spoke German,
I
was
obliged
to
perform
the
disagreeable office of dragoman. (to be continued)
recognising an old travelling acquaintance. We
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