Nazar Look 2014 Sem:2 by Anticus Multicultural Association

Nazar Look Attitude and culture magazine of Crimean Tatars in Dobruja Tomrîğa Kîrîm Tatarlarîñ turuş-mamuriyet meğmuwasî Sene/Year: 4, Yarîyîl/Semester: 2, Sayî/Issue: 43, 7/2014

Kóstenğe / ConstanŃa, Romania

Nazar Look

ISSN: 2069-5616 www.nazar-look.com nazar.look@mail.com Constanta, Romania

ON THE COVER: BAŞ KABÎMÎZDA: ALLEN FORREST City Life - Woman Holding Cat ink on paper, 12x9, 2014

FOUNDER & EDITOR-IN-CHIEF BAŞ-NAŞIR Taner Murat EDITORS NAŞIRLER Elif Abdul Jason Stocks COMPUTER GRAPHICS SAYAR SÎZGAĞÎSÎ Hakaan Kalila (Hakan Calila)

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

Nazar Look Íşíndekíler / Contents

Íşíndekíler / Contents

Adam Mickiewicz........................................ 4

(1798-1855)...............................................4 The Ackerman Steppe.................................4 Ak-Kerman kîrî...........................................5 Baktschi Serai............................................6 Bakşesaray ...............................................7 On Juda's Cliff ...........................................8 Ayuw-Dakta ..............................................9 Lucian Blaga ............................................ 10

(1895-1961)............................................. 10 Vreau să joc!........................................... 10 Bír oynagîm keldí! .................................... 11 Pământul ................................................ 12 Ğeryúzí .................................................. 13 Din cer a venit un cântec de lebădă............. 14 Kókten bír kuw şarkîsî keldí ........................ 15 Întrebări către o stea ................................ 16 Bír yîldîzga suwallar .................................. 17 Michael Skakun ........................................ 18

new york, usa........................................... 18 Ğangan ğerge baskanda (I) ....................... 18 A.J. Huffman ............................................ 21

florida, usa............................................... 21 Gold Wrench ........................................... 21 Altîn aşkîş ............................................... 21 The Magic of Disguise ............................... 21 Kalîp deñíştírmesíñ tîlsîmî........................... 21 Ahmet Yalçınkaya .................................... 22

konya, turkey ........................................... 22 Hikâye ................................................... 22 The Story ............................................... 23 Sevda .................................................... 24 Love ...................................................... 25 Sevgi ..................................................... 26 Adoring .................................................. 27 Taner Murat ............................................. 28

scythia minor (little crimea)......................... 28 Kókten sesler - Temúçin (XXXI) .................. 28 Brandon Marlon ....................................... 38

ontario, canada......................................... 38 Sailing to Mecca....................................... 38 Kábe'ge ğelkeñ ........................................ 39 Tom Sheehan ........................................... 40

massachusetts, usa ................................... 40 Home is the Sailor from the Sea.................. 40 The Boy Who Dug Worms at Mussel Flats..... 47 Tamer Mostafa ......................................... 50

california, usa ........................................... 50 Duck Slaughter ........................................ 50 Mausoleum ............................................. 51 Drifting................................................... 52 Ho Cheung Lee......................................... 53

Sap Yi Suk Gung (Grand-uncle 12)...............53 Alan D. Harris ........................................... 58

michigan, usa .......................................... 58 Fall Ball...................................................58 Not Today ...............................................59 Honoring the Un-resuscitated .....................60 Time ......................................................61 Waiting Room ..........................................62 Allen Forrest............................................. 63

british columbia, canada ............................ 63 City Life - Men on Bench............................63 Skateboarders 6 .......................................64 Berlin in the 1920s 2 .................................65 City Life – Woman Posing with Mirror..........66 Greeks 3 Rolling the Hoop..........................67 Lana Bella ................................................ 68

california, usa .......................................... 68 War: What Is It Good for?..........................68 The Child is Gone .....................................69 Jerry Mullins............................................. 70

virginia, usa............................................. 70 “Town Drunk” ..........................................70 Jack Peachum........................................... 72

virginia, usa............................................. 72 Undocumented.........................................72 Grass .....................................................73 Abbu ......................................................74 Margaret Karmazin ................................... 75

pennsylvania, usa ..................................... 75 Aid and Abet............................................75 Kevin Marshall Chopson............................ 81

tennessee, usa ......................................... 81 In Nineteen Sixty-Two...............................81 Life As a Field ..........................................82 M.J. Cleghorn ........................................... 83

alaska, usa .............................................. 83 The Baptism ............................................83 Gary Beck................................................. 85

new york, usa .......................................... 85 Symphony of the City ................................85 Questions of War......................................85 Desertion, or Treason? ..............................86 Iraq Dilemma...........................................88 Biofuel Confusion......................................89 Bombs Bursting in Iraq ..............................91 American Intervals....................................92 The Long View .........................................93 Elegy to The Child Soldier ..........................94 Battlefield ...............................................95 The Spoils of War .....................................96 State of the Union .................................. 102 Edmund Spencer .................................... 105 Travels in Circassia, Krim Tartary, &c. (XXV) 105 Nazar Look 2014 Prizes .......................... 108 Pushcart Prize XL Nominations ............... 108

hong kong ............................................... 53 3

Nazar Look (1798-1855)

Adam Mickiewicz (1798-1855)

The Ackerman Steppe Across sea-meadows measureless I go, My wagon sinking under grass so tall The flowery petals in foam on me fall, And blossom-isles float by I do not know. No pathway can the deepening twilight show; I seek the beckoning stars which sailors call, And watch the clouds. What lies there brightening all? The Dneister's, the steppe-ocean's evening glow! The silence! I can hear far flight of cranes-So far the eyes of eagle could not reach-And bees and blossoms speaking each to each; The serpent slipping adown grassy lanes; From my far home if word could come to me!-Yet none will come. On, o'er the meadow-sea! (Translated by Edna Worthley Underwood)

Nazar Look Adam Mickiewicz (1798-1855)

Ak-Kerman kîrî Boylayman hesapsîz deñíz-derya togay, Boylî yeşíllíkke at-arabam batar, Ústúm kópík-kópík, tajyapragî ğawar, Ada-ada şeşek her yagîmda ğalday. Oy belletmez yawaş derenleşken keşe, Ğol kóstergen yîldîz karayman yokardan. Ne bar eken şonda, ğatîp balkîldagan? Bozkîr deriyasî, Turla suwî geşe! Súkút-dawuşsîzlîk! Uşkan turna sesí, Şîbîn man şeşegíñ hoş múzakeresí Búrkút kózí barmaz uzaklîktan óter; Ğîlan tayîp otlîk arasîndan geşer; Algaydîm bír kaber uzak kalgan ğurttan! Almazsîñ, ğúre-ber deñízdiy otlaktan! (Taner Murat’îñ terğúmesínde)

Nazar Look Adam Mickiewicz (1798-1855)

Baktschi Serai In ruin are the spacious, splendid halls With frozen forest of white columns where The Tartar Khan his palace builded fair, Where loneliest the shrilling cricket calls. The ivy blackens over shining walls Enscribing in gigantic letters there Some curse Belshazzar-like: Beware! Beware!-Then black as crepe from crested columns falls. Within the burnished banquet room there sings The fountain of the harem pure and clear, Just as of old it sang in twilights drear. But whither love and fame speed--on what wings? When all things else must perish these endure! Yet both are gone! The fountain ripples pure. (Translated by Edna Worthley Underwood)

Nazar Look Adam Mickiewicz (1798-1855)

Bakşesaray Mîrap ketken geñíş, fewkaláde zallar, Toñîp kalgan biyaz sútun ormanlarî, Tatar Kaannîñ kurgan gúzel saraylarî Ğîrlak seslerínden, ğañgîzlîktan şîñlar. Eskí kalawlarnî sarmaşîklar kúyer, Dewdiy háríf kurup maw náletler yazar, Sak bol, sakîn! Sak bol! Kargaydîr Belşazar, Soñra kara tokîday sútunlardan túşer. Bír suw şîrîltîsî ikram odasînda Harem şeşmesínden taze, berrak kele, Eskílíkte kaswet şalganday kólgede. Şóhret men aşk hîzî kaysî kanatlarda? Herşiy ğoytîlganda onlar pítmiy kalîr! Gene de ğok bolgan. Pak suw dalgalanîr. (Taner Murat’îñ terğúmesínde)

Nazar Look Adam Mickiewicz (1798-1855)

On Juda's Cliff On Juda's Cliff I love to lean and look On waves that battling beat and break with might, While farther seaward in a bland delight, I see them shining where a rainbow shook. On Juda's Cliff I love to lean and look On waves that like sea-armies swing to sight, To send upon the shore their billows white, And, ebbing, to leave pearls in every nook. Thus, Poet, in your youth when storms are wild And passions break upon the heart and brain, To leave their ruin there--shipwreck and waste-Pick up your lute! Upon it undefiled You'll find song-pearls that your heart-deeps retain, The crown the years have brought you, white and chaste. (Translated by Edna Worthley Underwood)

Nazar Look Adam Mickiewicz (1798-1855)

Ayuw-Dakta Ayuw-Dakka míníp kararman aşaga Atîlîp ğayîlgan yúğe dalgalarga, Uzaklardan kelír sefalar íşínden, Kîzîldap-sílkíníp alkîmîn yerínden. Ayuw-Dakka míníp kararman aşaga Sallangan temaşa ordî dalgalarga, Ğagalarga taşîp atar ak kópíkler, Kaytîp alay yerge ğayrar dúrdaneler. Seníñ, Şayir, ğaşlîk wahşiy boranînda, Góñíl-akîlîñnî ğeñíp alsa merak, Taşlap ğîgîntînî - enkaz, şóplík, batak Al kolîña utnî! Pak ut man kolîñda Tabarsîñ kaálbíñe dúrdanelí dúrkí, Yaşîñ neğasetsíz, temíz, ap-ak tajî. (Taner Murat’îñ terğúmesínde)

Nazar Look Lucian Blaga (1895-1961)

Lucian Blaga (1895-1961)

Vreau să joc! O, vreau să joc, cum niciodată n-am jucat! Să nu se simtă Dumnezeu în mine un rob în temniŃă - încătuşat. Pământule, dă-mi aripi: săgeată vreau să fiu, să spintec nemărginirea, să nu mai văd în preajmă decât cer, deasupra cer, şi cer sub mine şi-aprins în valuri de lumină să joc străfulgerat de-avânturi nemaipomenite ca să răsufle liber Dumnezeu în mine, să nu cârtească: “Sunt rob în temniŃă!”

Nazar Look Lucian Blaga (1895-1961)

Bír oynagîm keldí! Ey, bír oynagîm keldí, heşbírzaman oynamaganîmday! Allah bellí bolmasîn mením íşímde, mápíste kelepşelí ğatkan bír kul. Ey, dúniya, kanat ber maga: bír ok bolîp ğarîp alayîm kayriymútenahiyetní, kókyúzúnden başka şiy kórmiyím her yagîmda, yokarda kókyúzí, aşada kókyúzí ateşleníp te aynayîm nur dalgalarînda , sîratîşî kîzîşmalarnîñ íşínde, azat nefes alsîn Allah mením íşímde, “Mápíste ğatkan bír kulman!” dep túnkúldemesín.

Nazar Look Lucian Blaga (1895-1961)

Pământul Pe spate ne-am întins în iarbă: tu şi eu. Văzduh topit ca ceara-n arşiŃa de soare curgea de-a lungul peste mirişti ca un râu. Tăcere apăsătoare stăpânea pământul şi-o întrebare mi-a căzut în suflet până-n fund. N-avea să-mi spună nimic pământul? Tot pământu-acesta neindurător de larg şi-ucigător de mut, nimic? Ca să-l aud mai bine mi-am lipit de glii urechea - indoielnic şi supus şi pe sub glii Ńi-am auzit a inimei bătaie zgomotoasă. Pământul răspundea.

Nazar Look Lucian Blaga (1895-1961)

Ğeryúzí Otlakta artîmîzga yaslanîp ğattîk: sen de, men de. Íríp mayşîraktay kúneş sîğagînda hawa aga edí ğîlgaday boylap şayîrlarnî. Awur bír sessízlík basîp karalarnî kaálbímníñ túbíne túştí bír suwal. Ğeryúzíñ maga heş aytağak şiyí yok mî? Bo hem ağîmasîz geñíş, hem óldírúwğí sessíz ğeryúzíñ, yok mî, heş aytağak şiyí? Onî árúw eşítmege saldîm ğerge kulagîmnî, hem şúphelí, hem ğeñílíp, tuyup ğerníñ astînda kaálbíñ dawuşlî atîşîn. Ğeryúzíñ ğewabî edí.

Nazar Look Lucian Blaga (1895-1961)

Din cer a venit un cântec de lebădă Din cer a venit un cântec de lebădă. Îl aud fecioarele ce umblă cu frumuseŃi desculŃe peste muguri. Şi pretutindeni îl aud eu şi tu. Călugării şi-au închis rugăciunile în pivniŃele pământului. Toate-au încetat murind sub zăvor. Sângeram din mâni, din cuget şi din ochi. În zadar mai cauŃi în ce-ai vrea să crezi. łărâna e plină de zumzetul tainelor, dar prea e aproape de călcâie şi prea e departe de frunte. Am privit, am umblat, şi iată cânt: cui să mă-nchin, la ce să mă-nchin? Cineva a-nveninat fântânile omului. Fără să ştiu mi-am muiat şi eu mânile în apele lor. Şi-acuma strig: O, nu mai sunt vrednic Să trăiesc printre pomi şi printre pietre. Lucruri mici, lucruri mari, lucruri sălbatice - omorâŃi-mi inima!

Nazar Look Lucian Blaga (1895-1961)

Kókten bír kuw şarkîsî keldí Kókten bír kuw şarkîsî keldí. Gúzellígí şîpalak ayagî man konğa basîp geşken bakireler sesler. Men de seslermen, sen de. Rahipler duwalarîn kapattîlar ğeryúzíñ ğertóleleríne. Alayîsî toktap kírt astînda óldí. Kollarîm, túşúnğelerím, kózlerím kanay edí. Inanağak bolgan şiyíñní boşîna karaysîñ. Toprak sîr bîzîltîsîna tolgan, ama ókşesíne bek yakîn, mañlayîna da bek uzak. Karadîm, dolaştîm, mína şalayatîrman: kímge tapînîr ekenmen, nege tapînîr ekenmen? Bírew insan şeşmelerín zerlep şîkkan. Men de bondan kabersíz kollarîmnî daldîrdîm olarîñ suwlarîna. Şúndí de bakîrîp turaman: Ey, tereklíkte-taşlîkta yaşamaga láyîk tuwulman endí. Kíşkene şiyler, balaban şiyler, wahşiy şiyler - óttíríñíz kaálbímní!

Nazar Look Lucian Blaga (1895-1961)

Întrebări către o stea Stea care subt carul cel mare abia licăreşti nedumerită-ntre şapte lumini, a cui stea eşti? Eşti steaua lui Verde-mpărat - duhul nemântuit? Ce sărbătoare scuteşti? Ce ceas împlinit? Aperi un mare mormânt, sau vreo apă vindecătoare? Păzeşti un norod, o cetate, sau numai o floare? Peste ce suflet, peste ce sfinte recolte veghezi mistuită subt vinete bolte? De eşti a mea, păzindu-mi anul şi vatra, n-aruncă nimenea după tine cu piatra?

Nazar Look Lucian Blaga (1895-1961)

Bír yîldîzga suwallar Ğîlpîldamaga zorlangan yîldîzîm, Úyken-Ayuwnîñ astînda, şaşîp kalgan yîldîzîm, kímíñkísíñ, yedí ziyanîñ arasînda? Bolasîñ mî, boşatîlmagan ruh, Yeşíl Kamuknîñ yîldîzî? Kaysî bayramnî bagîşlarsîñ? Kaysî tolgan sáátní? Kîymetlí bír mezar korîrsîñ mî, ya şifalî bír suw? Kíşí mí, kerman mî, ya tek bír şeşek mí karaganîñ, árúw? Kógergen kubbe astînda kaysî ğannî korşalarsîñ, kaysî múbarek egínní? Meñkí bolsañ, korîp maga hem ğurt, hem yaş, heş atmadîlar mî, aytsî, başîña balaban taş?

Nazar Look Michael Skakun new york, usa

Michael Skakun new york, usa

Ğangan ğerge baskanda (I) Bír ulîñ tezkiresí

Babam úşún, hem Çaym Çaykel Sîkakun appabamnîñ katíríne kím 1940 yîlnîñ Haziran ayînda Polagîstanga Soviyetlerníñ daldîrîp kírmesí sîrasînda ólgen, hem Çaya Eloviç Sîkakun kartanamnîñ katíríne kím 8 Aralîk 1941’de biñlerğe Nawgurdeklí men barabar óldírílgen. Ğennetlerde ruhlarî namútenahiy yaşam súrsín, Aramîzda nimetlerí soñsîz kalsîn. Mikayil Sîkakun

Neşín eken bílmem, ekí yaklîmîz, hem inanmaganîmîzga inanîrmîz, hem kabletmegenímízden kurtula-almamîz. Michel de Montaigne

Başsóz 1999 senesíñ kîşînda Taze balalîgîmdan berítlí men bír insanîñ sîrdaşîman. Kíşkene bala ekende Babam mení aldîna otîrtîp hayatîñ makullarîna karşî kelgen korkîzdîruwğî bír hikáye añlatîr edí. O kadar ğanlî, o kadar tuygîlî añlatîr edí ke tap soñda bo hikáye ózíme tîpkî óz terímdiy kol man tutulur bír yakînlîk kazanîp hayatîmîñ mayasî boldî. Inanîlmaz óldírmelerní, korkîzdîruwğî kan tókmesín añlatkan bír ifade edí, ağîmasîz bír marebe ifadesí, ama herşiyden ewel kayide we maneviyat tuwaşlamasî, azat emel men koyî tírílík 18

íşkuduwî karîşîp ortaga şîkkan kuğurlî amalgamîñ hikáyesí edí. Yaşam hewesí men fesat selikesín órgen, şáresízlík men kurnazlîgîñ bír tokîmasî edí. Bír wakîtlar hem rawin talebesí, hem musarnik (bír ahláak sopîsî) bolîp ğúrgen bír insanîñ aldatuwğîlîkka ka-típ ogîraganîn úyrendím, Múseviylígín saklamaga yúzórtísín kaş kere deñíştírgenín, soñînda da naziy askerleríne ka-típ koşîlganîn men Búrúklin’níñ gúwenlígínde úyrendím. Babamîñ kaderge ayak tírep marebede bútún yaşap kórgení mení bek ağîndîrdî. Anasîñ-babasîñ şîmartîlgan tek balasî, sofîlîk derenlíklerín aktargan bo bala tírí kalmaga akîldan zor geşken muwameleler kelíştírgendír. O geşken uydurmalar sîzîgî eñ sarp túşúnğelerní bírem ozar. Babamîñ şo zamanlarda oylap yapkanlarîna men búgún de şaşîp kalaman. Ahláaklî hayatîn bîrakîp Waffen SS ğenk dúniyasîna kírgen. Lituwaniyelí yeşiwa úyrenğísí efsane hayatî – yúksek dirayetí men, maneviy sagînuwî man, awur peşmanlîk ğollarî man – íster-ístemez wahşiylígíñ kuşagîna saklanmaga meğbur kalgan. Herşiyden ewel mením úşún bo bir insanîñ ğeñílmez ğañgîzlîgîñ hikáyesí edí. Zor zamanlarda insan bír araga kelíp toplaşîr, şonday alîşîp kalganmîz. Ama Babam, tersíne, kaytarîlîp óz şokragîna atîlgan soñ, hayatta bírózí kalîp ózín yaşamî man yakînğa bírdiy bolgan, saklî-saklî, tek parşadan, ózíne láyîk ğañî bír kímlík yakîştîrgan. Hem ogîrsîzlîgîndan kaberlí, hem soñî bellí bolmaganîndan kaberlí, gúwensíz bír hayatîñ íşíne Babam ózín atîp ğíbergen. Bo kader zaten bízím koranta atîmîzda bardîr: Sîkakun orîsşa atlamak demektír, sekírmek ifadesíndedír, hem atlî Kazaklarîñ atíklígín, hem korkîsîzlîk añlamîn taşîgan bír sózdír. Mením fikíríme kóre Babam marebede ekí aygîrîñ ústúne míníp dórtnallî şabîp karañgî tawlar, şaşîrtuwğî ğarlar atlap turgan. Babamîñ gúzel hikáye bakşîşî her ğuma Şabat sîpîrasînda şeşektiy aşar edí. Ótken wakîtlar kóz aldîna alînganda Babam úşún ne mesafe, ne de zaman kalîr edí. Şarap kadeleríñ şîñgîrtîsîndan, kúmúş mayşîraklîgîñ kîzîldamasîndan marebeníñ raátsíz kaşak hayaletlerí yawaş-yawaş yúkselíp

Nazar Look Michael Skakun new york, usa aramîzga kíríp yerleşír edíler. Şabat kúnlerí ótken zaman man şúndígí zaman unutturmaz bír zamandaşlîk yaratîp kayanaşîr edíler. Bíz ólíleríñ toplantîsîna koşîlîp aralarîna yerleşíp otîrar edík. Babamîñ sesí men olarîñ kewdesíz kaytawazî bírleşíp balaban bír ses kafesí yaratîr edíler. Başka túrlí de bolmaz; her zaman bízím katírlerímíz Şabatîñ ana añlamîna baylî kalgandîr. "Sení Mîsîr memleketíñ kullîgîndan kurtargan Rabbimíz Allahnîñ kudretlí kolîdîr, bonî herzaman akîlîñda tutup unutma; onîştan Şabatnî şereflí tutmak Rabbimíz Allahîñ emírídír,” dep aytar edí Inğíl. Babam Almaniye memeleketínde kul túşken edí, kefaretí baya keş kelgen bolsa da, şo wakîtlar Allah yúzún bo dúniyadan alîp başka yakka kaytarganî úşúndúr, onîştan bízím úşún Şabat kîymetlerní yeríne kaytarîp salmasî zamanîdîr. Onîñ hikáyesí herzaman Idíş tílínde Nawaredík dep aytîlgan Nawgurdek kasabasîñ yaklarînda manzúmege tolî manzarasî man başlar edí, hem edebiy ğukağúreklíler, hem túşkórer Yahudiy ğaşlarîñ murtaza memleketí. Narus tawî, tozterek, berrak kóllerí men şerşewelengen bo sînîr kasabasî Ademm Miskiyebiç şayiríñ tuwgan yerí edí, súrgúnúnde Waymar’da Gewtege ziyaretke bargan, James Fenimore Cooper man barabar Romanîñ etraflarîn dolaşkan, Ralph Waldo Emerson’ga Parijní tanîtkan Polak milliy şayir. George Sand’nîñ ónderlep aytkanîna kóre, ózí hem ahláaklî túşúnğelerín, hem ata ğurtî Polagîstannî kalay ela ğurt kóríp akîlînda otîrtkan, şoga uşap o da Siyon peygamberleríñ arasînda otîrmalîdîr. Başkalarî onîñ sîrğîlîgî zaman-zaman Kabalanîñ metafizik sebatîñ ózídír dep itiraf ete edíler. Hem torasîdîr, Miskiyebiçníñ Pan Tadewus destaniy şiirí Nawgurdek men onî sargan ormanlîk ğennetíne okîlgan bír şúkran şarkîsîdîr. Babamîñ bakîşî Şîlosberk dep aytîlgan efsaniy Tepe Kermanîna barîp toktar edí, ortaşaklarnîñ mîragan bír hisarîñ kalîntîsî, bír “taş Vayiz” gibí tepege yerleşken bo dúniyanîñ şalîm satmasîñ katírí. Onîñ ğaralî yúkseklíklerínden “fîşîrdagan ormanlarîñ" sesín eşítíp Polagîstannîñ batîşîndakî sert ğeller sîpîrîp algan boylî otlaklarnîñ kópírgen dalgalarîna karap turar edí. 1044 senesínde

kurulgan Nawgurdek ğeryúzní ekíge ayîrîp bólgen bír araşîk gibí edí. Sîrt bette suwlar Niyman vasîtasî man Baltik Deñizge agar; kúneşte kuwatlî Ózí suwîna toplaşîp Karadeñízge, soñra dogrî mawî Ak Deñízníñ suwlarîna koşîlîr edí. Bo nurlî álemní akîlîna akelíp babam her zaman taa inandîruwğî bír píşímde añlatîr edí. Bír memleketke góñílín şo kadar kúş men baylagan başka bír insan men heş tanîmadîm. Babam 10 Emírlerní síptí bo kasabada yeşítken edí, Kúntuwar Awrupanîñ Yahudiylerníñ bazî aytuwlî din başî yaşagan yerí, Rawin Isaak Elkanan Sípektur, Rawin Yekiyel Mikel Epşîtayn we Baş Rawin Yoyzîl Hurwis’nîñ kasabasî. Onîñ aşîklamasîna kóre Nawgurdek tola arasîna kalanîp yaşagan bír Ínğíl gibí ortaga şîgar edí. Sîrasî kelgende toprak, ğennet, ya ğehennem bolîr edí; kîş wakîtînda karlarîñ íşínde kómílíp ğatar, baár kelgende ğennettiy ğennettiy yeşírír edí. Amma 1939 senesínden soñ, eskí şaklarda Kudús’nîñ kúneş betínde kápírler balasîn kurban etken yerí, Ğehinnom şayîrîna uşagan. Bo Polak taşra kasabasînda Babam yaşam man ólímníñ balaban ólşísín tapkan. Hem Nawurdek bír musar merkezí eken, dogrî tabiyat okîtkan bír múnzeviy úyretúw akidesí. Musarlîk sîkî dúrústlíkní din kayidesíñ makam yúkseklígíne akelír edí. Musarlîk insan şalîmîñ ateşín sóndíríp talebesín akîlîna ademden ewel búrşe yaratîlganîn akelír edí. Insannîñ kalîmsîzlîgî, Allahnîñ soñsîzlîgî hem túşúnğeníñ kurtaruwğî kuwetí musar talebeleríñ akîlîndan heş şîkmaz edí, E.M. Forster’níñ sózleríne razî bolganday etíp: “insannî ğok etken ólímdír; onî kurtargan ólím túşúnğesídír.” Olarîñ inanîşî o kadar ğiddiy edí ke olar hergún akîrzamannî şalgan zurna seslerín bekler edíler. Nawgurdek men yakînlarî musarlîk akîl aktarîlgan, sebep soyîlgan, ekíyúzlík, aldatuw we kurnazlîknîñ tîş kenarlarî kesílíp atîlgan yerí edí. Maneviy yúkselúwge baylangan ahláak teşkermesí men moyîn búgúw Múseviylerní terk-í dúniyalî ózíne razî bolazlîk kenarîna kadar akelgen bír “Múseviy Tolstoylîk” yaratkan. Hakkîykattan, “Alímlík kúnsáátí” soñ şalîşmalarînda, Tolstoy Talmut’tan musarlîkka kayet uygun bír ğúmle aktargan: “Bazî 19

Nazar Look Michael Skakun new york, usa arkadaşlarîñ maktar, bazîlarî eleştíríp sení taksiratlî tutar; sen eleştírgenlerge yakîn, makataganlarga uzak kalmaga kara.” Soñînda bo, eñ bek saglamtúşúnğelí, moñlîk we nayme píşímínde ifade etílgen, hasitlík ğeriyanîna uşap dinge peşmanlîk kayretí ketíríp ruh yúkseltken, Yahudiylerníñ bír dindarlîk şekílí sayîlîr edí. Ama soñra marebe başlap Nawgurdek tewúkeníñ zor miydan parşasî hálíne keldí. Hayat ağî bír hiyeroglif yazîsîna deñíştí. Babam bolarnî aşîklamaga şalîşkan bolsa da boşîna ogîraştî, bír hikmet şegíşmesí bolîp kaldî. Tek bonî añlap kaldîk ke Nawgurdek’níñ yaşamî pítíp, bír kalîntî parşasî bolîp, tewúkege kawuşîp, Babam ayîrîlîp başka yerlerge ketmek zorînda kalganda, sáde şo wakît bo kasaba Babamîñ hayallarîna karîşîp her zaman úşún ólímsíz bír yer bolganîn. Babam Purust’nîñ zaman fikirínde bír asîl elke bolgan: “Herzaman tek hakkikiy ğennet, kaybetken ğennetímízdír.”

Akîlîna akelíp yaşamîn añlatkanda Babam kuğurday ğîmşap yawaşlar edí, men de onîñ katírlerí men barabar ósíp onîñ hayat ağîsîñ bír parşasî bolîp kaldîm. 1960’larnîñ kîş Şabatlarînda, úyleawgansoñ, men Babam man saba duwasîndan kaytîp sinakók kapîsîn tartîp ğabar edík. Buruklindekí musar sinakógímíz toladan kalangan sîradan bír binada tabîla edí, Amerikanîñ ğagasîna taşîngan Nawgurdek yeşiwa mektebíñ binasînda. Babam taa da zaman ğayîn kaytarîp ğaşlîk hayatîñ sayifalarîn añlamaga başlar edí. Bazîda bír aşîk, kolay añlaşîlgan bír ses men, bazîda da ağîsîndan buwulîp-ğîlamsîrap, aksiyetlí we maksatka kelíşmegen bír resím sîzar edí: katíp úş kere ustalîk man kímlígín deñíştíríp hayatîn kurtarganîn.

(Dewamî keleğekke)

Nazar Look A.J. Huffman florida, usa

A.J. Huffman florida, usa

A.J. Huffman has published nine solo chapbooks and one joint chapbook through various small presses. She also has two new full-length poetry collections forthcoming, Another Blood Jet (Eldritch Press) and A Few Bullets Short of Home (mgv2>publishing). She is a Pushcart Prize nominee, and her poetry, fiction, and haiku have appeared in hundreds of national and international journals, including Labletter, The James Dickey Review, Bone Orchard, EgoPHobia, Kritya, and Offerta Speciale, in which her work appeared in both English and Italian translation. She is also the founding editor of Kind of a Hurricane Press. www.kindofahurricanepress.com

Gold Wrench

The Magic of Disguise

I am broken beyond what a simple screw can fix which leaves us standing, staring at opposing sides of one bed. I wring my hands raw, but you only smile, twist your ring tighter and tighter before I remember it glitters around my neck.

Fairy dusted wings blink below branches in spring. Electric sparkle resembles firefly.

Kalîp deñíştírmesíñ tîlsîmî

Altîn aşkîş Men bîzîkman maga şáre adiy nurbat tapmaz kóz akîytîp kaldîk bír tóşegíñ karşî yagînda. Kollarîmnî uwsam da awurtîp sen tek kúlímsírep sîgarsîñ yúzígíñní taa sîkî, taa sîkî akîlîma kelgenşík ke ğîltîrawî moyînîmnî sargan.

Periy kóz kîrpkan tozlî kanatlar báárde dallar astînda. Şagîlgan ğîlpîltî sañke ateşbóğegí.

Nazar Look Ahmet Yalçınkaya konya, turkey

Ahmet Yalçınkaya konya, turkey Ahmet Yalcinkaya was born in December 1963 in Giresun, Turkey, and grew up in Germany. He has studied engineering, robotics, management and business at various universities in Turkey, USA, Uzbekistan and Sweden. His poems, essays, letters, interviews, and poetry translations have been published by newspapers and journals like Zaman, Al-Ahram Weekly, Impact, Avaz, Harman, Das Licht, Mavera, Yosh Kuch, Kiragi, Endulus, Poezia, Carmina Balcanica and others. Some of his poems have been translated into languages such as English, Uzbek, Arabic, Tamil, Turkmen, Azerbaijani, Romanian, German, and published abroad. After his first collection Daglarda Yer Yok (Poems, 1997, “There is not any place in the mountains”), other works like Yetim Kalan Siirler (Poems, 2001, “Orphan Poems”), Yuragimning ko’z yoshi (Selected Poems, 2001, in Uzbek, “Tears of my Heart”) , Özlem Sularında (Selected Poems, “In the Waters of Longing”, e-book, 2004, printed, 2005) have been published. He edited and published also the poetry anthology Poems of the Night (2005, 2008) together with Richard Mildstone.

Hikâye zaman yaprak sarısıydı o gün ve kadın ihanet doğurdu sedeften yedi bağbozumu yaşandı çığlık çığlığa yedi çağ devrilmişken zaman aksak yürüyordu o gün kan kırmızı olduğu söylense de yılan doğdu birden sular ağır ağır çekildi / yok düştü o gün pusuda karayeller bir alevi boğdu zarifce ve durdu salkımları beklermiş gibi durdu yedi gün uyumayan değirmen

Nazar Look Ahmet Yal癟覺nkaya konya, turkey

The Story time was yellow at that day like a leaf and the woman gave birth to betrayal pure of mother-of-pearl so shown seven harvesting of grapes have been passed with cries and shrieks while seven periods had been overthrown time was walking lame at that day although it is said to be bloody red the snake was born at once waters have withdrawn slowly / lacking fell down that day northwestwinds have choked a flame gracefully in an ambush and the mill stopped, got down stopped as if waiting for bunches of fame, for dawn and stopped the mill which did not sleep for seven days (Translated by Richard Mildstone)

Nazar Look Ahmet Yalçınkaya konya, turkey

Sevda ben her sabah bu yolun başına gelirim geçeceksin diye buradan beklerim, beklerim ve beklerim... uzakta göründüğünde kafesine sığmaz yüreğim, lâleler açar içimde... anlatılmaz bir sıcaklık sarar bedenimi tepeden tırnağa yanarım... yolda kim var kim yok görmem, göremem. ağaçları görmem ve sen yaklaştığında donar kanım, donar melekem donar canım... geçip gidersin, ha varım ben ha yokum umurunda mı senin, dünyanın ya da güneşin evime döndüğümde bir hayali taşırım benliğimle... sebep var yine karanlık ve soğuk geceyi atlatmaya bir sebep daha yarına çıkmaya, yine koşacağım ertesi sabah aynı yolun başına

Nazar Look Ahmet Yal癟覺nkaya konya, turkey

Love I come every morning to the beginning of this street thinking that you will pass from here I wait, wait, and wait... when you are seen from far my heart does not fit to its cage, tulips bloom in me... an inexplicable warmth embraces my body I burn from top to toe... I do not see who is on the street, I cannot see. I do not see the trees and when you approach freezes my blood, freezes my mind freezes my soul... everything freezes in me you just pass by, it does not change anything whether I exist or not it does not matter for you, for the world or for the sun when I return home I carry a dream with me... there is still a reason again to overcome the dark and cold night still a reason for me, another reason to reach tomorrow morning, I will run again, I will run again the following morning to the beginning of the same street (Translated by Richard Mildstone)

Nazar Look Ahmet Yalçınkaya konya, turkey

Sevgi saçına urgan desen dolasan ruhuma boynuma geçirsen razıyım bıçak diye tırnağını sineme saplasan hayallerimi kessen anılarımı bölsen elimden alsan dünü, alsan yarını razıyım kirpiğine ok desen ve vursan düşlerimi, gecelerimi vursan razıyım gözlerin güneş diye aklımı kavursa, sesimi dağıtsa sormam neden, nasıl veya niye pazara çıkarsa beni, satsa razıyım çünkü bir çift kanattır gözlerinin alevi, huzurdur can kuşumu yedi kat semaya uçurur

Nazar Look Ahmet Yal癟覺nkaya konya, turkey

Adoring if you name your hair a rope whip my soul with it tighten my neck i am willing if you take your fingernail as a knife strive in my breast cut my day dreams split my memories take my yesterday from me, take my tomorrow i am willing if you name your eyelash an arrow and prick my dreams, prick my nights i am willing if your eyes like sun sear my mind, scatter my voice i do not ask what for, how or why take me to bazaar, sale i am willing because the flame of your eyes is a pair of wings, is peace it makes my life bird fly to heaven to the seven stairs of sky (Translated by A. Edip Yazar)

Nazar Look Taner Murat scythia minor (little crimea)

Taner Murat scythia minor (little crimea)

Kókten sesler - Temúçin (XXXI) Kesím 1 Yetíşken bolsam Yasugay Batîr toprakka berílíp, Kulan Daknî óz awuşun gibí tanîgan, şalkasînda polatşî tamgasî taşîgan, Úriyañgay balasî, Zarğiyuday Eslígen ğolnî kesíp şo kúznúñ soñ kúnlerínde úyúne barganda, úyúndekílerí onî kóríp bek kuwandîlar. Soñra otîrîp: - Atasîn ğatkîzdîrağak koñgîlnîñ íşíne kíriyatîrganda, íşínden, dogrîmîzga kunan ayuw şîktî. Balaga heş şáre brakmay, Temúçinge atîldî. Dokîzînda Temúçin bala, korkmay-kaşmay ayuwnuñ mañlayîna almansúk ğabîştîrîp, mañlayîn ğarîp aldî. Soñra, "Ulusnuñ zanaatşîsîna, ustasîna tiygen, ulusnuñ keleğegíne tiyer. Hakkîmnî elal etemen" dep, babasîn sózlerí men, ólím borîşîmnî síldí, Temúçin bala. "Batîr babamnîñ eğel tóşegíne yetíşken bolsam bonî ísteğek edí menden. Batîrnîñ alağagîn, bereğegín başîna şîktîm. Ádet yeríne keldí" dep ğanîmnî kaytardî, Temúçin bala. Tañrî korşalasîn Temúçinní, ke yoktîr ğeryúzúnde onday bala, onday insan! - dep añlattî Zarğiyuday Eslígen, apakayîna, ullarîna. - Tañrî korşalasîn Temúçin balamîznî! dedí apakayî. Tañrî korşalasîn Temúçinní, 1 emúnemízge ğetkízdírsín, kamuklukka ğol aşsîn! dedí newğiwanlar da, Ğelme, Ğawurkan, Subutay. Ayuw etí kîzartîp Yasugay Batîrnîñ kurban etínden aşadîlar, duwa okîdîlar. Awuz suwî kuruganşîk duwa okîdîlar. Suw íştíler, taa da okîdîlar, taa da suw íştíler, taa da okîdîlar.

emúne - 1. ald 2. mañlay

Kesím 2 Balanîñ bolağagî Yasugay Batîr ğîyîlîp Úriyañgay balasî, Zarğiyuday Eslígen úyúne bargan soñ, şo kîş, kaydan-kaydan, Temúçinní mesele etken bír súrúw dúrkúler, hawalar uyduruldî, aytîldî: Bar eken, dep aytîla, Taa dokîzga barmagan Temúçin degen bala Ayuw tîgîrtkan. Kara mañlaylî súygen Yalan tuwul, kalk aytsa, Kamuk kanlî bar eken Temúçin bala. Kím kórgen, onga barmay, Hakknî ayîrsîn mínsíz? Ósíp kaan ğetse, ayhay, Temúçin óksíz. Şo balanî korşala Tañrîm, bír kanat uzat Yetíşsín kamuklukka, Temúçin ewlat! Bíz karípmíz, kabersíz Kara yazîlgan mañlay Temúçinní kór, ğetkíz, Korî, Ğer Anay! Tañrîm! Wur, wurguñ kelse, Akayga, apakayga, Ğaşîn at ğúregíme Tiyme balaga! Tañrîm! Mení kótekle, Eger şaytanîñ tutsa, Tiyme sen Temúçinge, Patlat başîma! Bala ğanî sagînsañ Al beş-altî úyúmden Tek azaytma sen îrknîñ Keleğegínden! Tuwa Sokîr tuwgandan Bekliy-bekliy kîlawuz Sózíñden burulmadan Susup turduk, uz. Kókte, ayt, onday bolsa, Bíz mátúwmúz, ğumukkóz, Ádetten tutulmasa

Nazar Look Taner Murat scythia minor (little crimea) Berílgen bír sóz. Tañrîm hesap bílmeseñ Tutayîk, koşîp para Kókke sayî beğergen, Atayîk saga. Bílmem, terazíñ koptî Ya sokîr kaldîñ mî, ne? Başsîz taşlasañ îrknî, Tokîmî kete. Mawîkóz batar itiy Yarîboy tuwar ğuta Bíz píttík mañlay bekliy, Bolsîn şo bala! Buktuk egínşílerden Alay sînîr taşkala Bír mañlay kerek, Kókten, O da, bo bala! Şîk, Tañrîm, bízní korî, Sabîr taşîdî, endí! Balanîñ bolağagî Bogîndan bellí! Ózí kabersíz, Temúçinníñ atî-namî şîgîp, kaan bolmasa da, eñ azdan mîrza bolîp ğúre edí. Karamañlaylînîñ góñílínde, kalknîñ ğúregínde.

Kesím 3 Altmîşlarîma bastîm Bír îrknîñ urbasîna ğukkan tozlar, mañlayî saylagan ğolîndan şañgîp konar, ústúne. Mañlay tek ğónelíş ğolda sîgîşîp kalsa, ne bolağak? Oñda taş duwar, solda soñsîz ğar, aldda ne şatal ne de makas bar. Tek bet. Sayla! Mína, Yasugay Batîrnîñ ólímínden soñra íster-ístemez karar almak man karşî kelíp kalgan Elinay Biyke de, boga bek uşagan. Kakğa ğónlí ğoldan ketiyatîr edí. Korantasî, ógíne aşîlîp aşaga awgan şo ğolnîñ taşlarîna súrúnmek zorînda. Ğolîña tígílgen taşlar, balabanî bolsîn, ufak şakîl taşî bolsîn, tarak taşî bolsîn, "Geşeğek kuwetíñ bar mî?" dep soramaz. Abîn, súrún, geş! Eger kuwatîñ tutsa. Tayğîwut kîşlasîna barîp yerleşken soñ, bírkaş kúnden, Ğaraka Eslígenní şakîrdî, katîna, Elinay Biyke. Baya beklep Elinay Biykeníñ kózí

ğerden alînmaganîn, awuzî aşîlmaganîn kóríp, şakîrîlgan Ğaraka Eslígen şay dedí: - Balam, aytmalîsîñ akasîna, kardaşîna! Ğañî ádet şîgar-almazsîñ! - Árúw, akam. Şonday yaparman. - dedí Elinay Biyke de. Sabaga, Móñlíkníñ ekí ulî elşílík men şîgîp kettí. - Elinay Biyke ğíberdí. Íníñ, Yasugay Batîr geştí. Darîtay Ózeginge de ózíñ kaber etersín. dep toktadîlar, bír haftalîk ğolnîñ soñînda, Mañka Kîyannîñ úyúnde. Ğandî, kúydí, úş aynîñ íşínde dak gibí-dak gibí ekí kardaşîn kaybetken Mañka Kîyan akasî. Ğandî, kúydí. Kurumagan edí ekí kózí: - Başîñ saw bolsîn, Elinay! Tañrî sabîr bersín! - dep Tayğîwut kîşlasîna kelíp, kapînî aşkanda. - Dostlar saw bolsîn! Seníñ de başîñ saw bolsîn, Kîyan akam! - ğîlap ğíberdí Elinay Biyke, onî kórgende. Kondî, bír keşe, Mañka Kîyan, óksíz ballarnî kuşaklap, sîypalap, óbíp. Erten, Móñlíkníñ ballarî kelíp, Temúçin alarnî oyînga alîp kettíler, tîşarga. - Bariy íníme de, Darîtay Ózeginge de ózíñ bír kaber etken bolsañ, Elinay. - dedí o wakît Mañka Kîyan. - Saga taşladîm, bo íşní. - Men ğíberiyím bír elşí, senden keldí, dep. - ğoklap kaldî şo sózní, Mañka Kîyan. - Bolmaz! - dedí Elinay Biyke. - Yazîk, yazîk! Mína, bonday kúnler kele, yazîk, darîlîp ğúrgeníñíz. - dedí Mañka Kîyan. Elinay Biykeden bílmedí, Darîtay Ózegin, Yasugaynîñ geşkenín. Mañka Kîyandan bíldí. Taa úş ay bolmay, geşíp ketken Nekún Tayğa akasîndan tul kalgan apakayîn alîp karagan Darîtay Ózegin, Elinay Biykeden kaber almayğa, Tayğîwut kîşlasîndan geşmedí. - Mením, yakîn Yasugaynîñ yaşînda ulum 29

Nazar Look Taner Murat scythia minor (little crimea) bar, Elinay. Maga yakîşmaz, endí. Ózím zor ğúremen. Kartman, altmîşlarîma bastîm. Sen ğaşsîñ, otîzîña barganşîk, taa bar. - dedí Mañka Kîyan, keteğekte. - Saw bol, men sáde ádetní kuwdum. Sawluk man bar, Kîyan akam! - dep ozgarîldî.

Kesím 4 Ğîlar edí Şonday, Koñgîrat Móñlík alar man barabar, Tayğîwut îrknîñ katîna barîp, şo kîşnî atlap kîştan şîktîlar. Takatsîz şîraysîz kalgan Elinay Ana ara-sîra bír kóşege ğaşînîp, sagîngan koğasîn artîndan ğîlar edí: Bíliyím kaydan Sen aytmay şîksañ? Ázírliyím ne Sîr ketúwúñe? Onday etíp geşe edí kîş, ğîlay-ğîlay.

Kesím 5 Kargar edíler Ateş, túşken yerní ğagar. Şo kîş, óz kaswetíne, óz íşíne karap yaşagan Kîyan man Koñgîratlarnîñ tîşînda, Tayğîwut kîşlasînda, ómír aldîna karap, yaşam tomalana-tomalana kete edí. Sîguwğî kîşka mugay şîgîp, insanlar, sîra tertíplep, akşamdan-akşam bír úynúñ íşíne sîgîşîp toplaşîr edí. Yaşlîsî, kartî yarîkeşege kadar kîmîz, boza, şay íşíp óşek kaynatîp otîrganda, ğaşlar da ayîrî kora sîrasî tîgîrtîp, ayîrî úyde ğîyîn artîndan ğîyîn yasap geşíre edíler, şo kîşnî. Ána, şo toplantîlarda, şo ğîyînlarda, Tayğîwut karamañlaynîñ erínínde de, Temúçin balanî mesele etken dúrkúler-şarkîlar aytîla başlagan. Túşúk ses men aytîlsa da, aytîldî. Şîbîrdap aytkan bolsa da, kalk şîbîrdadî. Kalknîñ ğúregí ğîlîndî, keleğekke umutî óstí, Temúçin balaga uydurulgan manzumení, hawanî aytkanda.

kólekeníñ artînda da mugay maksatşî kóríp, karşî niyetlí kóre edí. Kalknîñ şalganî Tayğîwut mañlaylîknîñ kulagîna da şalînganda, mañlaylîknî kîzdîrdî bolsa kerek, onlar Kîyanlarnî, Temúçin balanî şeg-almay başladîlar. Aşîk awuzî man maktar edíler, karañgî ğúregí men kargar edíler.

Kesím 6 Ğîltîrawundan túşkendiy Barîp başîn Tayğîwutka tîgîp kalgan kîşnîñ soñ kúnlerí edí. Elinay Ananîñ bírsí aşîk, beşí saklî ğîlawî pítmiy. Ánawga-mínawga koşîlmay edíler, dertine karay edíler. Ğaraka Eslígenníñ, Móñlíkníñ ğurtî man katlî-katîna, bír-bírsíne alîştîlar. Şúkúr ke onlar bar, şúkúr ke ağun yaratkan sîrasînda, nadir bolsa da, Tañrînîñ akîlîndan geşíp, dúniyaga şonday insan şegírdegí de atkan. Bír yaktan awnuñ tazesín akelíp konanîñ katîna kondîralar, bír yaktan kelíp yakşî sózí men insannîñ ğesaretín tíriyler. Bek yardîmğî boldîlar. Móñlíkníñ ballarî da, yaş arasîna karamadan, Elinay Ananîñ ballarîna yakîn kalîp, onlarga hem arkadaşlîk, hem akalîk yapîp ğúrdúler. Yasugay Batîrnîñ ğenazesínden başlap, bír-bírsíne ortak sayuwî kún-kúnden ósíp, Kók-Kuşî Otşî man Temúçinníñ arasînda sîkî bír arkadaşlîk başlagan edí. Ekewnúñ arasînda geñíş bír terbiye ayîrîlîgî bolsa da, onlar bír-bírsín şahîs ayîrîlîgîn ne kadar tiyerlí, ne kadar kîymetlí bolganîn añlagan edíler, Yasugaynîñ ğenazesínde. Bír-bírsín ayîrîlîgîn bolganî gibí kabul etíp, sayîp, onlarnîñ şahîsiyetí, arkadaşlîgîna aláyîkşî tuwul, arkadaşlîk belí boldî. Şo baár, nartay2 bír kún, ğanî balîk ístegen Ğaraka Eslígen torînlarî man bírlíkte, karmak alîp múren ğagasîna şîktîlar. Temúçin alar da kettíler, onlar man barabar. Onlar ketken soñ, "Balîknî tutkan oñmaz, aşagan toymaz, satkannîñ da bír pul kadar parasî bolmaz!" dep, yedí ulnuñ atasî, ğîygîn salaylî Móñlík, tawlay awuna şîktî. Elinay Biyke şadîrnîñ aldînda íş yasap turganda, katîndan geşíp kettí. Atkîşîn, uwurkasîn alîp.

Tayğîwut mañlaylîgî, Ambakay Hakaan emanetín bergenínden berítlí ulusnuñ bírlígín kolîndan kaşîrsa da, maksatî ónderlíkte. Her

O uzaklaşîp ketken soñ, Elinay Biyke

nartay - kúneşlí, ğarîklî

Nazar Look Taner Murat scythia minor (little crimea) úyúne kíríp bír ískembege otîrdî, túşúnğelítúşúnğeli: - Bo akay maga uwurka kósteríp ğúre mí, şo? Akîlîmnî oynatkanman, kalbî! Bondan soñra Móñlíkníñ ewelkísíndiy ğîltîramaganday boldî, ğîltîrawundan túşken.

yîldîzî sañkem

Kesím 7 Kîdîrlez baş parmagî Şo baár, Ambakay Hakaannîñ ekí kaanîşasî, Orbay man Sokatay, Kîdîrlezge ketíleğek sîrasî, óz arasînda añlaşîp, índemiytîndamay aldîn alîp şîgîp kaştîlar. Barabar ketíleğegínden kaberí bolgan Elinay Biyke, beklep turup artta kaldî. Bo oyînga akîlî ğetkende, ne kadar aşîgîp barsa da, onlarnîñ artîndan ğetalmay kaldî, niyaz-ibadetke de keşígíp bardî. Kîzîp íşínde tut-almay, bíle-bíle keşíktíríp artta kaldîrgan Orbay man Sokataynîñ yúzúne atîp saldî. Ekewsúne de! - Ka-te maga da aytîp kelgen bolsañîz? Tílíñíz ğabîşağak edí mí? - dep. - Ay, sen akîlîñnî uşurtkansîñ mî? Bo hakkîñnî kaydan taptîñ? - dep kaytarawuydî Orbay, sañkem bo olayga ázírlengen. - Karasî sen Olkunuw sábiyşígíne! Ay, sábiy, sení. Olkunuwdan kelgeníñní ne şalt unutkan ekensíñ. - dep katîlawuydî, şoyerde, Sokatay da. - Endí, Yasugay Batîr ólgen soñra, "ógíz óldí, ortaklîk ayîrîldî" degendiy, kíşkenekíy ballarîm man tul kalganîmda, ullarîmnîñ kuwatî-úykenlígí yokta, men de sîrada kalîrman, dep, ótíñíz patlayatîr mî? Mína, sízní beklep keşígíp keldík. dedí Elinay Biyke, aşuwundan kaltîrap. - Ay, sakîn şo şîrayîñ man "Bíryerlerge şîgayîm" deme! - dedí Orbay, hazzetíp. - "Şaytan!" dep artîñdan taş atarlar. - dep koştî Sokatay da, ekewleşíp kúlúşúp. - Mína, herkez sîpîraga otîrîp şîkkan bírem. Bíz kaldîk. Taa ne kaldî, endí? Sáde konak

deñíştíríp kóşeğekte, bízní tursatmay, bízden ayîrîlmañîz kaldî endí, bízní ğañgîz brakîp, kózímízní uzaklarga karatîp. - dedí Elinay Biyke. Ğanî şîkkanday, kanîşa Orbay, Elinay Ananîñ aldîna sekíríp şîgawuydî: - Karasî sen oga! Sen kím bolgan ekensíñ? Şakîrmayğagîmîz bolsîn. Tuwulsuñ şakîrîlatanlardan, Tuwulsuñ aldîna salînatanlardan. Karasî sen maga! Kaysî tawda óskensíñ? Awuz suwutmayğagîmîz bolsîn. Aşarsîñ, mína! Eger tabîlsa. Awuzuñnî ğelge aşarsîñ, tabîlmasa. Awuzun kópírte-kópírte, "Aşarsîñ, mína!" degende orta man kósterúwğí parmaknîñ arasîna baş parmagîn parmaklîklap, kanîşa Orbay zerín tóger-tókmez, obír yaktan tuldaşî Sokatay da şîktî, boy uzata-uzata: - Aylansî sen maga! Ka-yerde úyrengensíñ? Ğoklamayğagîmîz bolsîn. Tuwulsuñ saylanatanlardan, Tuwulsuñ ğalbarîp beríletanlardan. Karasî şoparga! Kaydan şîkkan ekensíñ? Ğalbarmayğagîmîz bolsîn. Ğutarsîñ, mína! Eger yetíşse. Awuzuñnî kókke aşarsîñ, berílmese. Baş parmaklarnîñ şonday etíp sîgîştîrmasî fazlasî man zor bír íş bolsa kerek, ke zamandaş ekí kaanîşanîñ bútún kanî tóbeleríne şîgîp, yúz-bet kalmay kîzarîp, başlarî da awur-awur, bír yakka burulup túşewuya, kulak omîzga yaslanganşîk awup. Kîstîrîlîp kalgan Elinay Biyke, parmaklîklangan ekí baş parmaknîñ arasîndan, kîyîşîp kîzargan ekí şîraynîñ arasîndan, kopkan kîyametníñ íşínden, zor iteşíp kutulup: - Ekí yalanğînîñ sózíne gúweníp salgan umutuma karşîlîk al-almadîm. Kabaát mende, umut etmiyğek edím. - dep tartîldî. 31

Nazar Look Taner Murat scythia minor (little crimea) - Aydî, aydî, awuzuñdan şîkkan laflarîña sak bol! Katunlarga tíl uzatîp ğúriyatîrsîñ mî? - dep kîşkîrdî Orbay.

- Ğanîm-kózím, Orbayşîgîm, sak bol, şo! Şo maskaranîñ yúzúnden bír belaga ogîrap turmayîk. Korşala ózíñní! Tînîşîñnî al, azgana!

Oga Sokatay da katîldî, de ánawga, de mínawga karap:

- Ay, sábiy sení, Elinay Biyke. Şáreñe kararmîz, tokta sen! Mutlak, ğolîñnî tabarmîz!

- Onday bolatan, ya, onday bolatan. Endí, Ambakay Hakaan ólgen soñra, "baş ketken soñ, şáş úşún ğîlamazlar" degendiy, ekewmúz de ekí tul apakay kalganîmîzga, kaanîşa sîrasînda kalîrmîz, dep, ótí patlayatîr, kór-ese!

- Boga, kereklí ğezasîn atmasak, akîlî başîna kelmez. Boga, eñ awur ğezasîn atîp, yúzúne túkúrmelímíz! Fazla-fazla tekmíl kalknî toplap túkúrtmelímíz, yúzúne-yúzúne.

Kîzîp kîzîşkan kanîşalar omîz-omîzga, koltîk-koltîkka, totlangan tenğíre gibí ğîykîldayğîykîlday, ğumurduk sallap kósteríp: - Kuwatîmîznî unutma, yoksam şoyerde kîrlarga şaptîrîlîp atîlgan nogaylar gibí yaşamañ keregíp kerekmiyğegíñe túşúnewuyarmîz! - dep boy attîlar, ğañgîz, túñkúldep kalgan Elinay Biykege.

Kesím 8 Bír kamîrdan Şo Kîdîrlez ekíndísí, Elinay Biykení sîgîştîrîp algan soñ, Orbay man Sokatay tenkasîna kelmiy kaldî: - Ay, Sokatayşîgîm, bo álem bek yaman eken. Yaluw-maluw kalmagan eken. Ay, boga inanîlmaz. Ne ğesaret! Ne başkótermesí! - Tekmíl kabaát bízde ke, Orbayşîgîm, bízde. Ne bolîr diysíñ, Olkunuwda tuwgan terbiyesízníñ sózín, bótenín, karşîlîksîz braksañ? Ána, şo bolîr. - Şúndúgeşík şonîñ terbiyesízlígíne ka-típ te dayangan ekenmíz? Kaysî yúzden karşîlîksîz kalgan ekenmíz? - Baştan kabul etmiyğek edík, katîmîzga. Almayğak edík, ğalañgayaklarnî. Ána, "Sábiy" dep, "Óksíz" dep, ağîp alganîñ şo bolîr. Başîña bela bolmaga şalîşîr. - Mína, yúzúmúzge atkan awur-awur sózlerí şúndí bírem akîlîma kele bere. Kara, kara! Ğúregím kókíregímden şîgağak. Kara ka-típ atayatîr! Bo yúzsúznúñ sózleríne ğúrek dayana mî? 32

- Kaysî ğezanî atsak ta, onîñ íşíne kelír, Sokatayşîgîm. Karamañlay ne añlar ke? "Tul apakayga ğeza atîp ğúreler" derler. Atîmîz şîgar. - Kuwayîk, ayse, kuwawuyayîk! - Kuwsak ta, hem kalkîmîzga, hem başka îrklarga óşek meselesí bolîrmîz. Tamam, bo ğenabetlerden kutulmak bírínğí íşímízdír lákin bo ğoldan inğe-inğe ketmelímíz. Mína, konak deñíştíríp kóşeğekte artta kalsalar, o zaman kárlí şîgar edík. Óz kalpazanlîgîndan, eríníp máálínde turmaganîndan bolsa, eñ yakşîsî. Óz miskinlígínden artta kalîp kerwandan ayîrîlîp ğoytîlsa, bírew bírşiy ayt-almaz. - Ebet, mutlak, hakkîñ bar! Boga men de túşúnúp tura edím, ya. Ayttîm mî, şo? Amma katíp keter ekenmíz, tuydurmadan? Bo da bar, Orbayşîgîm. Bírew "Şonlarga da tuydurayîk bo ğóneme kaberín" dese, ka-termíz? Elinaynîñ katînda kaynaşkan bír súrúw edepsíz bar, balşîbîn anasîn ğoklaganday. Kún-kúnden de bonlarnîñ sayîsî da óse, kóresíñ, bílesíñ. - Yasaklarmîz, Sokatayşîgîm, yasaklarmîz. - Bondan soñra kalk kózímízní şîgarîp turmasîn! Aydî, karşîmîzga şîgîp "Ay, kanîşalar, delírgensíñízdír, taa. Delírgen bolmalîsîñîz. Tul apakay man balasî taşlap ketílír mí? " demege ğesaret et-almasalar da, artîmîzda kaynatîlgan óşekníñ sebepşísí bolîp kalmayîk. - Bolîp kalmamîz, heş korkma. Bo íşníñ aldîna kerek kíşílerní itermíz. Tarkutay Kírtlík men Tódóyen Gírteníñ dogrîsîna bírew şîg-almaz. Onlarnîñ kózí bek kara. Onlarnîñ aldîna şîksîn da karasînlar. - Bek árúw, bek yakşî túşúngensín,

Nazar Look Taner Murat scythia minor (little crimea) ğanîm. Bonlarnîñ sózínden bírew sapmaz. Bo íş bolîp pítken sayîlîr. Hem bíz men bír kamîrdanlar.

Kesím 9 Kírlílerden kutulağakmîz Orbay man Sokatay, Tarkutay Kírtlík men Tódóyen Gírtege ogîralga3 ğíberdíler. "Kaysî dakta kaşkîr ólgen?" dep túşúndí akaylar, ogîralganî alganda. - Buyuruñuz, sízní sesliymíz! - dep kírdí Tódóyen Gírte, kaanîşalarga barganda. - Kaanlîkka, hakaanlîkka túşúnmek Tayğîwutluknuñ eñ tuwadan hakkîdîr. Yañgîşayatîrmîz mî, yoksam, Tarkutayşîgîm? Yañgîşayatîrmîz mî, Tódóyenşígím? - dep başladî Orbay katun. - Yok, yañgîşkanîñîz ne? Hakaanlîk bízge túşmiyğek te, bízden başka kímge túşsún? Bízge túşer, sáde. - dedíler, bír-bírsíne karap. - Ayse, neşín sessíz kala ekenmíz? Dost yeríne tutkanîmîz, kózín hakaanlîkka tíkken, viyra astîmîzdan-artîmîzdan íş kóríp ğúre. - dedí Orbay katun. - Sewaptîr dep alganîmîz yalanğînîñ bírsí, saklî oyînlarnîñ uzlukşusî eken. Kelír-kelmez, bízní mañlaylîktan túşúrewuyağak bolîp ğúre. - dedí Sokatay katun da. - Ne bar? Ne boldî? - dedíler, Tarkutay man Tódóyen, añlamay kalîp. - Ne bolağak? Mína, Elinay Biyke kalknî óşíktíríp ğúre. "Her keşe túşúme kele, Temúçin ulum, ulus hakaanî bolîp. Bo Kudaydan bír elamettír, ulum Hakaan bolağak" dep kalkîmîznî aldata, kózín baylap oynata. - Bízím kalkîmîznî mî? Eşítkenleríñíz dogrî mî? - dep taağúplendíler, akaylar. - Dogrî bolmaytan mî? Bír de yalmay, yúzúmúzge karap, bízge bírem kúlúp ayta, edepsíz. O bízden ústún eken. Boktay-boktay balasî túşúne kaan bolîp kelgen eken. - dedí Orbay katun. 3

ogîralga - dawet

- Uluna dúrkí-şarkî uydurganî ğetmiy, endí bo túş meselesín de şîgardî. Kalknîñ kózín baylap kalknî oynata. - dedí Sokatay katun. - Maksatî ne? Maksat ózí boysînîp, bízní aşalatmak. - dedí Orbay. - Boktay balanîñ kulagîna kaanlîk hoş kele başladî. - dedí Sokatay. - Bír murunbok. Astîna siyíp ğíbergen bír murunbok. Taa, yaşî kaş? - dedí Orbay. - Ambakay kettí, yok endí. Bízdiy kaanîşalarga saygî kalmadî. Bírewní de kaşîrmay herkezníñ aldîna şompayîp şîkkanî da, aslî. "Ğanîna ğeter" dep túşúnmiy herkezní ğarîp alganî da, aslî. - dedí Sokatay. Orbay katun ğîlap ğíberdí. Sokatay katun ğîlap ğíberdí. Tarkutay man Tódóyen, kaynap, taşîy yazdîlar. - Demek, kayîrsîzlarnîñ túşúne kaanlîk kele başladî. - dep kaynay Tarkutay Kírtlík, ğîlagan kaanîşalarnî ağîp. - Kaysî daktan kutulgan ekenler? - dep kalmay, Tódóyen Gírte de. - Bíz bolmasak n-íşleğek ekenler? Ne bogîm aşar ekenler? - diyler. Yebereğekler, taa. Bír awuş ğalañgayaktan, ğalambaştan, ne bolağak şo? Bírtakîm nankyor tuwul mî? - diyler. Orbay man Sokatay ğîlap kózyaşlarîn sílíp, sózíne dewam ettíler:

pítíríp,

- Aytîñîz bakalîm, bízím katîmîzdasîñîz mî? - dep. - Ka-típ bolmayîk. Ambakay Hakaannîñ kíşílerí tuwulmuz mî? - dedí akaylar. Síz sáde buyuruktan kaber beríñíz, bíz ğeñkşímíz. Ne deseñíz, o bolîr. - Yap deseñíz, yaparman. Boz kógerşín başînday, başlarîn kollarîm man burup itke şaptîrîp atarman. - dedí Tarkutay Kírtlík. Atla deseñíz, atlarman. Başparmaklarîmnî moyînlarîna batîrîp buwarman, bírliy-bírliy bogaz esín kollarîm man sîgîp tarayttîrman. - dedí o wakît Tódóyen Gírte de. 33

Nazar Look Taner Murat scythia minor (little crimea) - Bíz bolar man barabar sîpîraga otîrmak tuwul, barabar es tart-almayğakmîz endíden soñra. Şo alşak, kírlílerní, şo ğenabet, miskinlerní bírtaa kórgímíz kelmiy. - dep saldîlar, kanîşalar. - Bíz merhametlímíz, nankyorlarnîñ ğanîn ne almak, ne de ğakmak ístiymíz. Men sáde, Tañrîga duwa etemen. Artta kalsalar, ne kárlí! dedí Orbay katun. - Síz heş kaár etmeñíz, Tañrî úykendír, duwalarîñîznî kabul eter. Ístegeníñíz gibí bolîr. dep kettíler, Tarkutay Kírtlík men Tódóyen Gírte. Ekí kaanîşa kuwanîp kaldî: - Niyse, yarîndan kírlílerden kutulağakmîz. - dep.

Kesím 10 Aştan ólsín, kaltak Dogrî eken "Đptiradan insan ğangan" dep aytîlganî. Bótenğí kaanîşalarnîñ şaytan oyîna, Tarkutay man Tódóyenníñ karşî kelmesín brak, şoyerde koşîlawuydî. Bo túrlí oylarga asîl ğuguwğî bolganlarîndan, "Ózlerín kaptîrîp otîrdîlar" demesí bek dogrî şîñlamaz. "Kusurga kalmañîz fakat bo oylarîñîzga koşîl-almamîz" dep aytmadîlar. Bonî aytmadîlar, onlar: - Bízím úşún zewuk. - dep kettíler. Soñra, kúní kelíp bo kîzmetníñ karşîlîgîn alağaklarîn bílíp, ğúmle ğurtnuñ ğemaátíne sîrlay kaber etíp, ertesí kún yapîlağaklarîn tertíplep, herkezní kaynattîlar: - Elinay Biyke bok gibí balasîn kaan otîrtağak bolîp ğúriyatîr. Óz akîlîndan, herkezní suwsuz aketíp suwsuz akeleğek, taa. Ózín ğónetkísí kele, taa, kalknî. - dedíler. - Bondan soñra Elinay Biyke alar man konîşkanîñîznî, kóríşkeníñízní eşítmiyík. Bonday etkenlerní de kanatîmîzda, kuyrugumuzda, ístemiymíz! - dedíler. - Bo apakay aşîk bír ortamda Tayğîwutnî síleğek bolayatîr. Otakîlga da kím dayanîr? Yeter, endí! Bo apakay aramîzda bolgan bútún kópírlerní 34

ğaktî. Yarîn saba, konak deñíştíríp kóşeğekte, şonlarnî tursatmay ketíñíz, alayñîz! Kalsînlar ózbaşîna, anasî-balasî. Óz şáresín ózlerí kórsínler, endíden soñ. Ayse ne, endí? Ne bogîm bolsalar, bolsînlar. - dedíler. Bo yalanlardan, bírew kaldîrîlmay, herkezge pay beríldí. Bonday etíp konakta saklîsaklî ázírlíkler başladî. Tañga dogrî keliyatîrganda, başîna íşkí súzgendiy yukusundan turup, Tayğîwut îrgî dawuşsuz-sedasîz şadîrlarîn toplamaga başlaganda: Her şiy ázír. Mógedekler buyuruguñuzda, sízden bír şîmar bekliy. - dep bardîlar, kaanîşalarga, Tarkutay Kírtlík men Tódóyen Gírte. - Íşníñ başîna şîkkanşîk az kaldî. Bíz mañlayga geşermíz. Bírer-bírer kóşíp artîmîzdan kelsínler. Bír ayhay sedasîz ketsínler, sessíz bolmamîz kerek. Síz ekewñúz artta kalîp, sakîn bírewní kózíñízden kaşîrmañîz! - dedí kaanîşalar. - Ístegeníñízdiy bolîr. - dep, onlar artta kaldî. - Ey, ayîrîlmak zamanî keldí. - dep kóştí, kaanîşalar. Artîndan, bírer-bírer ğónep, Tayğîwut telegelerí Onan Múren şayîrnîñ aşasîna kettí. Herkez şîgîp ketkenşík Tarkutay Kírtlík men Tódóyen Gírte artta, kóşúwní kózden geşíríp kaldîlar. Herşiyden kabersíz bír karamañlay: - Elinay Biykeníñ ğurtuna barîp kaber etewuyayîm. Bílmiyler, gálba. Yuklaylar. - dep şîkkanda, tayak man karşîlandî, arkasîna. - Kalsîn! Aştan ólsín, kaltak! - dedíler, Tarkutay man Tódóyen.

Kesím 11 Ğîltîr taşlar sîzîlsa Elinay Biykeníñ ğurtuna kaber etmeden, ana-bala ğañgîz taşlap, tîñk demeden, Tayğîwutlarnîñ ketiyatîrganîn tuyup, Koñgîrtay Ğaraka Eslígen korkîsîz, ğatagîndan atawuydî ózín, mínewuydî atîna, şabîp şîktî dogrîlarîna, onlarnî kaytarağak bolîp. Onî kórgende Tódóyen

Nazar Look Taner Murat scythia minor (little crimea) Gírte şolay ayttî, awuzundan şo sózler şîktî: - Deren suwlar kurup kaldî Ğîltîr taşlar sîzîldî! Bonlarnî atkan soñra, ğolîna ğúre berdí. "Tayğîwutlarga bayîlmam amma ka-ytiyím? Bonlarga ğalbarmasam Yasugay Batîrnîñ ewlatlarî ğok bolîp kettí" dep, Ğaraka Eslígen gene artlarîna túşúp, onlarnî kaytarmaga karadî. Lákin kaş kere artlarîndan bakîrîp, aldlarîna şîgîp, ğalbarsa da, kayîr etmedí. O da gene artîna kaytmay, kararî artkan bolsa artkandîr, azaymasî azaymadî: - Deren suw kurup kalawuymaz. Her geşíp ketken atnîñ togasî ğîltîr taşnî sîzawuymaz. Síz ánawnuñ-mínawnuñ awuzuna karaganîñîz, ne? Sakalî agarîp túşkenníñ awuzuna da bír kulak salîp karañîz! - dep bakîra tura edí, de aldlarîna geşíp, de artlarînda kalîp, Ğaraka Eslígen. Ğaba, artîna aylanmay, taa bek tebíp keteler. Amma Ğaraka Eslígen de kolay-kolay bazgeşíp, bonday bír turumga moyînîn búgewuyganlarîndan tuwul edí. Onlarnîñ artîndan o da at tebíp, şakîra turdî: Yapmañîz onday şiy, yazîktîr! Tuwgansîñîz. Ekí tuwgan ğat bolmaz. Şáresízimkáansîz taşlap ketmeñíz, şonlarnî! Onlar da, bírekí tul apakay, bír awuş óksíz. Đyne ótken yerden ğíp te óter. Ne zararî tiyer diysíñ, bo sábiyşíklerníñ, sízge? Eñ balabanî on-onbír yaşînda, taa. Bírtaa túşúnúp karañîz. - Ğaraka Eslígen, bízní kîzdîrağak bolasîñ, gálba. Yeter, ğol ber, kayt endí! Yoksam, arkañ kîşîy başladî mî? - dep bakîrdî oga, kîyîş-kîyîş karap, atîn bír an úşún toktatîp turgan Tódóyen Gírte. Aksakallî gene kaytmadî, artîndan kalmay şakîra edí: - Yazîk, Tódóyen, yazîk! Ka-te artîñîzga tagîlîp ğúrse onlar da? Ne zararî bar? Ğañgîz kalsalar beğer-almazlar, bílesíñíz. Yazîk tuwul mî, Yasugay Batîrnîñ sábiyleríne? Yabanğî tuwulsuñuz, ya. Sáde Ambakay Hakaannîñ namusî úşún atasî onúş sene ózín otka atîp ğúrdí. Kutula Hakaan man Kayakan Tayğanîñ kanatî bolîp ğúrdí, talawğusî bolîp ğúrdí, arkasî bolîp ğúrdí, onúş

senelík kanlî-kanlî wuruşmalarînda. Bariy atasîn katírí úşún ayîrmañîz şonlarnî bírkaş sene, ğetkenşík! Kaşkîrga şoñgîrga ğem bolîp ğok bolmasîn şonlar, Yasugay Batîrnîñ şegírdegí bola, onlar da. Kaytîñîz, yazîk tuwul mî? - gene bazgeşmeden, awuzun suwutup. - Sen kaytkan bolsañ, sen. Senden gúna kettí. Endí úyúñe kaytkan bolsañ, Ğaraka Eslígen, úyúñe. - dep bírtaa artîna karap kîşkîrdî Tódóyen Gírte sabîrî taşîganday. - Onlarnîñ eğelíne sebepşí bolmañîz! Ya bírewní ğíberíñíz! Onlarnî da alîp kelsín, ayîp tuwul mî, ayîp? - dep gene ayîrîlîp ketmedí aksakallî, kuyruktan. Tap soñda Tarkutay Kírtlíkníñ sabîrî taşîdî. Katînda ğúrúp ketken bír kíşísíne karap: - Gene bo. Akîlîn oynatkan. Kaysî ğesaret men karşîmîzga şîga bere? Aydî, zîtîma kete başladî, oynatîñîz terakay şo arsîznî! - dep şîmar ettí. - Aydîñîz, ğaşlar! - dep bakîrdî kíşísí bírkaş ğaşka karap. Eglenme zamanîdîr. Mîzrak-súngí oyînîna koşîlağak bolganlar şîgîp artîmdan kelsín! Şoyerde kuwanuw bakîrîşuwlarî şîgarîp bír top mîzraklî ayîrîlîp artîna kayttîlar. Bírden sarîlîp alîngan Ğaraka Eslígen ortada ğalbara: - Yapmañîz! Ni-yşliyatîrsîz? Ni-yşliyğek bolayatîrsîz? - Ka, kóriyík, Ğaraka Eslígen. Ka-típ kaytarağak ekensíñ sen, bízní? Bízní kaytargîñ kelse, tokta ayse, saga bír kaytarma oyînî oynatîp ketiyík. Bír súngí kaytarmasîndan ne diysíñ, oynagîñ kele mí? - dep her taraftan itiy-túrtiy kúlúşe edíler. - Arkasî kîşîdî, kartnîñ. Arkasî. Uwup alayîk bíraz. Okalayîk, arkasî kîşîgan bolsa. - dep bakîra bírsí. - Yok, ka-yerden şîgardîñîz şonî? Arkasî kîşîganî ne? Kótí kîşîyatîr, kótí. - ğewap bere başkasî. Alay yaktan itelgen aksakallî, atnîñ moyînîna sîkî-sîkî sarîlsa da, at ústúnde kalîp ziyade dayanmadî. Đtiy-itiy ğîktîlar, tolî şuwal gibí 35

Nazar Look Taner Murat scythia minor (little crimea) ğerge awup kettí. Korkî íşínde tíz ğúgúnúp ğay bolawuydî, mañlayîn ğerge, tízlerníñ arasîna alîp, ekí kolî man da eñsesín ğapmaga karap. - Yapmañîz! Ğaş ğígítsíñíz. Mením yaşîmda bír akay man ogîraşkanîñîz ne? Ka-ttím men, sízge? Ğalbaruwlarnî eşítmiy kúlúşken mîzrakşîlar óteberí uzaklîkka ğîyîndîlar, yúz arşîn kadar, atlarîn ğuwurta-ğuwurta. - Temellí túrtúp, ya başîna nesíne wurup, arsîznîñ gúnasîn alîp turmañîz! - dedí eñ yaşlîsî. Kótín níşanlañîz, taayiy. Ğîmşaklîgîn túrtmege karañîz! Arasînda, Ğaraka Eslígen turup kaşağak bolawuydî. Onîñ bo haleketí Tayğîwutlarnîñ íşíne taa bek yaradî. O atîna barîp atîn tutkanşîk, onlar da atîn şaptîrîp artîndan keldíler. Bírer-bírer ğekíre-kîşkîra geşíp, şalkasîn teşíp şîktîlar. Haleketíne biñ peşman bolgan Ğaraka Eslígen, teşílíp alîngan şalkasîn awurganîna dayanmay, taa da tíz ğúgúnúp kalaşlandî, başîn korîy-korîy. Tayğîwutlar kaytîp katîna keldíler: - Akay, ne bolayatîr? Ğanîñ awurdî mî? Fazla wurduk mî, yoksam? Mîzraknîñ tersí men wurgaydîñîz taa, ğaşlar. Sáde bír oyîn oynağagîmîznî ayttîm da. Aytmadîm mî? Kel, akay, bír suw beriyím! Íş terakay suw! - dep suw nambukasîn uzata. Aydî, íş te soñra esíñní başîña toplap, úyúñe kayt, endí artîmîzdan kelme, sakîn!

Onlarnîñ artînda, esín ğîygan soñ, Ğaraka Eslígen ayak ústúne zor-zar tura boldî. Kopkan zuw-şuwundan korka túşúp, atî tap uzaklarga barîp toktagan eken. Ğaralarnîñ aşşîganîndan zor ğúrúp, onîñ artîndan şatañlay-şatañlay kettí. Atka míneğek hálí kalmagan bolsa da, telbewlerínden tutup atîna tírene-tayana ketse, úyúne kaytmasî taa kolaylî bolîr dep túşúne edí. Bírden kók gúdúrdegen gibí boldî. Artîna aylanîp karaganda, Tayğîwutlar taa da aygîra-ókíre ústúne keliyatîrlar. Ótme bastîrmasî, ok tízúwúnde, artlî-artîndan tagîşîp ğeldiy keliyatîrlar. Túşúneğek zamanî yok, kírpídiy tomalanîp ğalbarmaga başladî: - Kók Tañrîm, sen yardîm kîl! Ğer Anayîm, sen mení taşlap ketme! Sízsíz atlay almayğakman... Başlarî ğerge tiye yazîp, ğergeşík bír karîş kalgan, atlarnîñ bír yagîna sarkîp kelgen Tayğîwutlar şalka ğarasîn bírtaa karîştîrîp aldîlar. Soñra kartnî sóge-sóge, arada-bír kúlúşúp, ğok bolîp kettíler. Artta brakîlgan, kîrda kan íşínde kalgan, eslí bír akaynîñ kewdesí. Ğaraka Eslígenníñ kózíne kóríntíler tógíldí. Dúniyasîn unuttî.

renklí-renklí

Kesím 12 Íşím burulganday

- Saw bol! - dep nambukanî kaytarîp

Ğaraka Eslígen Tayğîwutlarnîñ kaşîp ketiyatîrganlarîn tuyup toktatağak bolganda, başka yaktan ózín atîp Elinay Biyke de şîkkan edí. Ğurtnuñ aldîndan Yasugay Batîrnîñ bórí başlî bayragîna ğabîşîp, atka atladî. Tayğîwutlarnîñ bír kîsîmî Tarkutay Kírtlík alarnîñ artîndan tuwul, konaktan başka bír ğoldan şîgîp ketken edí. Onlarnîñ aldîna şîktî Elinay Biyke. Onlar zaten Yasugay alarnîñ îrgîndan edíler lákin Tayğîwutlarga koşîlîp ğúre edíler.

- Aydî, endí úyúñe kayt! - dep Tayğîwutlar yawaş-yawaş, sóleníp, ketiyatîr edíler:

- Añlay almay kaldîm, íşímde bír buruklugum barday. Ka-yakka, bízní taşlap? - dep şîktî Elinay Biyke aldlarîna.

Kírpí gibí tomalanîp ğaşîngan Ğaraka yawaş-yawaş aşîlîp kolîn suwga uzattî. Ğiwarînda atlarîn oynata turgan ğaşlarnîñ yúzí yazîklaganday bola edí. Şalkasî aşşîy, atlarnîñ şañgîtkan tozîtopragî kelíp aşîk kanlî ğarasîna kona edí. Tañlayî kurup kalgan. Suwnî kóteríp awuz-awuz toktamay íşken soñ: berdí.

- Yazîk, ulá, karípke! Óteberí tersí men wurgaydîñîz, taa. Sáde korkîzdîrmamîz kerek edí, bír parşakay. Óttíre yazdîñîz kart kíşíní.

- Sen ulusnuñ satuwğusî ekensíñ. dedíler, başîn aşaga alîp. - Uydurma! Bonlar uydurma, bonlar bóten! Bo iptira! Bonday zamanlarda bírlík bolmak

Nazar Look Taner Murat scythia minor (little crimea) bírínğí yerde túşmelí. Yúzí ğañî geştí, unutawuyduñuz mî, Yasugay Batîrnî? Unutawuyduñuz mî, bayragîn? - dep bakîrdî Elinay Biyke, kolîna algan bayraknî sallay-sallay. - Kereksíz sorawlar soraysîñ. - dedíler. Agîzdîrmanî kewdesí men toktatîp, onlarnî kaytardî, Elinay Biyke. Amma o îrk ta, ziyade geşmeden, sessíz, Tayğîwutlarnîñ artîndan gene şîgîp kettí. Onlarnîñ şañgîtkan tozîna karap: - Zaten sízde gúna yok. Sízge gúwengen kabaátlí. - dep kaldî, kaárlí-kaárlí, ğúregí ğîgîk, Elinay Biyke.

Kesím 13 Eğel tóşegínde Móñlíknín ullarî, şalkasîna bírtaa kadalgan mîzraklarnîñ awuruwundan akîlî karîşîp ózín kaybetken Ğaraka Eslígenní tapkanda, katîna konîp, sarîp algan şoñgîr toyî kopkan edí. Bírkaş dakka taa keşígíp bargan bolsalar, kózín, ğarasîn şópliy başlayğak ekenler. Hálí bek zor edí, kartnîñ. Telege akelíp, ğurtuna telege men akettíler. Ğolda kózlerín aştî. Koñgîratlarnîñ ğîbîr-ğîbîr, kayet ğaralî, awurup, sîrtî-şalkasî kan íşínde, Ğaraka Eslígenní tóşek men akelgenín kórgende, onlarîn artîndan Temúçin de kírdí, úyleríne. O kírgende, sesín ğoyta yazgan Móñlík, parşalanîp babasîndan kóre edí: - Barmagaydîñ, ya, sen de, babay. Bílesíñ şonlarnîñ kayîrsîzlîgîn. - dep. - Unutma, Móñlík, eger ólsem! Bíz Koñgîratmîz, sózínden kaytmagan Koñgîrat. Ólím tóşegínde ğatkan kíşíge sóz berdík. Eger şo kíşíní aldatmaga tursak, kúl bolsîn Koñgîrat korantam! dedí Ğaraka Eslígen Móñlíkke, yarîmólí, yarîtírí sesí men.

- Ne bolawuydî, kartbabay? Ne bolawuydî, saga? - dep soradî Temúçin, katîna kelíp, bolîp pítkenlerden kabersíz. - Babañ bek árúw kíşí edí, ulus bírleştíreğek bolîp ogîraşa edí. Babañ bír yerge toplap akelgen ğúmle îrknî kaynaştîrîp, alîp kettíler, Tayğîwut tuwganlarîñ. Dogrîlarîna şîgîp, toktatîp, kaytarağak bolganîmda, mîzrak man karşîlandîm. Mína, algan payîmnî kóresíñ, yapkanlarîn kóresíñ. - dep añlattî Ğaraka Eslígen. - Dayan, Ğaraka Eslígen! Dayan, kartbabay! Dayanmañ kerek. - dep ğalbardî Temúçin. Soñra, şáresízlígínden, ğekíre-ğekíre şîktî tîşarga, onî Kók-Kuşî Otşî arkadaşî: - Heş sîrasî tuwul, sení tuymay. - dep, ğataknîñ katîndan tartîp algan soñ.

Kesím 14 Bír súrúw kalpazan Ğaraka Eslígenge ğanî awurup, tîşarda, awulnuñ ortasînda aylana-aylana ğîlagan, bakîrgan Temúçinníñ katîna kelíp, o man barabar ğîlagan, bír súrúw apakay man ğalañgayakğalañgayak balaşîk ta toplaşkan edí. Ekí ğurtnî totîrgan tul apakay man óksíz bala. Onlarnî da taşlagan edí Tarkutay man Tódóyen alar, Tayğîwutlarnî alîp kaşkanda: - Manasîz ğúk taşîp ğúreğegímízge, ázír onlarnî da taşlawuyayîk. Anasî alar tapmaga bíldí kalay, karamaga bílsín şolay. Madem ke şabalanmaga bíldíler, şabalana-şabalana óstírsínler, endí. Sáde aşap, íşmek bílgen, bír súrúw kalpazan. - dep.

(Dewamî keleğekke)

Nazar Look Brandon Marlon ontario, canada

Brandon Marlon ontario, canada Brandon Marlon is a playwright, screenwriter and poet from Ottawa, Canada and received his B.A. (Hon.) in Drama and English from the University of Toronto and his M.A. in English from the University of Victoria. His poetry has been published in various publications including Poetica, Yalla Journal, The Victoriad, The Trinity Review, UC Review, The Deronda Review, Emunah Magazine, Lantern Magazine, Bywords.ca, U of T Magazine, Swept Media, The Steel Chisel, Calliope, and Grey Sparrow Journal. www.brandonmarlon.com.

Sailing to Mecca Upright amidships, the qadi and mufti rowdily quarrel over doxies as the fleet of plying dhows and feluccas nudges Arabia’s coastal stretch and thankful pilgrims yank at brackish seaweed to garnish shared gruel with fortune. Leaping ashore, the zealous signal flanking cameleers to hastily stir, avid to stamp a trail of footmarks rambling until the inland bourne whose magnetizing Ka’aba beckons the pious and invites them to kiss the kiswah with a lifetime’s fervor.

Nazar Look Brandon Marlon ontario, canada

Kábe'ge ğelkeñ Kadî man múftí ayak ústúnde kemí ortasînda kawga-típ idalaşîrlar súyerkeler úşún, ğelkeñlíler-şektírmeler donanmasî túrtep alîr sozîlgan Arap deñíz kenarlarîn, múteşekkir hağîlar şorak deñízotî koparîp oñsîn dep atarlar adiy omaşîñ íşine. Karada sekírer, kayretlí işaret, ağelelí karîşar ekí yaktan deweğí, bír sîra ayak ízí bîrakmaga aşîgar entígíp şólníñ şeşmesíne kadar, kol sallap mîknatîslî Kábe sufî şakîrar óptíríp kiswesín bír kez ómírde.

Nazar Look Tom Sheehan massachusetts, usa

Tom Sheehan massachusetts, usa

Home is the Sailor from the Sea At the Rialto Saloon in Point of Interest, Nevada, after what was undoubtedly a difficult ride for most horsemen, Burl Edwards, a Navy veteran, had ridden from San Francisco just to lean on this bar before he headed home. Here he had had his last drink with his father, Sullivan Edwards, some eight or nine years earlier, in 1874, an unsettled adventurous spirit taking him off to sea. Now he was but ten miles from home after a trip nobody else in the room or in all of Nevada might have accomplished. It was not just the rough 500 miles from Mares Island Naval Base to Point of Interest, Nevada ... with some other interests en route. This sailor'd been farther and deeper into dangers, made tougher decisions that others' lives depended on, seen more of the top of the world than all the Rialto customers put together, and survived where none of them likely would have come out alive. Rough and ready was he, a sense of timing built into his make-up, and an innate ability to see what made some men tick in their roles in life. There were times that sense proved some men were lacking where others were heroic. Life in many places is accompanied by chance, and what else you might find around it. The young but experienced Edwards might have said, anytime he was back in America proper, "I've been there and seen most all of it," or what might sound like that. Perhaps it was an element of temperament and taste, or the devouring curiosity that comes with adventure, or a hunger for other and newer space, but Burl Edwards, armed with these attributes, was one tough dude, though he was not a dude; not in the least, and not because of the clothes he wore, or the manner he dressed in them. Something about him said, along with his actions, a full statement about himself: "I can make myself at home anyplace I drop the reins or serve my thirst. On my hip I carry a Navy Colt .44 revolver a dying shipmate gave me with his last breath, his very last breath, just an hour before I slipped his body off a huge icepack into Alaskan waters with a commensurate salute." 40

Three of the Rialto's working women had immediately and with some admiration looked upon Burl Edwards as a stranger, and a new breeder type; he was a picture for them, cleanshaven, showing blond curls on his neck and at his collar, blue eyes that could open conversations from either side of a meeting of the sexes, long and rugged fingers showing a bit of foreignearned music in their simple application of holding a glass, just the way some women might envision such a grace. The handsomeness of the man was very apparent to them, enough to make them stare dreamily at him, life being unsettled enough as it was in the daily grind. Burl Edwards, for sure, had raised all eyebrows at his entrance to the Rialto with the odd mixture of clothes on his rugged frame, salvaged from his navy career, over for good now that he was home, though his garb had not called for "all" the attention. He wore a Russian fur hat, an Eskimo sealskin vest, a rifle that had not been used for a thousand miles plus and for which he paid $10 in a used gun shop, and a pair of spurred boots bought from the widow of a man killed in a gunfight. The boots had been the best deal of all. He was comfortable with his clothes and gear though he was fully aware of the odd looks he was receiving. Such looks or passive curiosity, as it proved, did nothing for him, coming or going, and the whiskey at hand settled an old argument within him: anything out of the ordinary is unusual with some people his shipmates had dubbed "half-souls." The bartender said, as he poured another drink, "You sure enjoyed that drink, Mister, so the next one's on me. You passing through Point of Interest? I think a good drink is worth a little light conversation when all these other dudes are hard at messing up their day." He released a short harumph of a laugh. "My name's Max Gilbert and I own the place." "Then you've been here no more than eight or so years," Edwards said, much to Gilbert's delight. "You've been here before and you hit the time right almost on the minute hand. I'm coming up on five minutes to eight years owning the whole

Nazar Look Tom Sheehan massachusetts, usa thing." His smile was still in place as he spread his arms after looking at his pocket watch. "You bought it from Silky Smithers. Is that right?" Edwards had the drink to his lips when Gilbert shook off the question by saying, "In a manner of speaking. I won it in a card game, a game that Silky should not have been in." No explanation followed, and Gilbert walked away as though a mystery should remain a mystery. Edwards, at that point, was a mystery to the bartender and to all the patrons in the saloon; he didn't recognize a single one of them though looks came furtive, sidelong, looking for some kind of information that might feed the general curiosity abounding in the room as though he was supposed to alleviate all their questions. He could have done that so easily. About eight years earlier he had wandered away from town and eventually ended up on the Jeannette, a bark-rigged wooden steamship he knew had been built in England in 1861. It was commissioned as the British gun vessel Pandora and was sold in 1875 for an Arctic voyage. A New York newspaper owner, James Bennett, eventually purchased the boat in 1878 and renamed her Jeannette. She was sailed from Europe under control of the U. S. Navy's Lieutenant George Delong who had planned with Bennett to use the ship to try to get to the North Pole. Under an agreement, the Navy provided officers and crew for the North Pole expedition, Bennett paying for all other expenses. The Jeanette was refitted at the Mare Island Navy Yard in San Francisco Bay with new boilers and other equipment, and the hull was heavily reinforced to withstand and navigate among Arctic icepacks, which constantly endangered ships in northern waters. In July, 1879 the Jeannette, under DeLong's command and according to her log book, sailed with four other Navy officers, twenty-three enlisted men, one being Burl Edwards, and three civilians. Visiting Alaska, she stopped at Unalaska and Saint Michael, where two Inuit dog drivers with their dogs and sleds joined the boat's complement. The Jeannette then called on an eastern Siberian port to refuel, went through the Bering Strait and headed for Wrangell Island in Alaskan waters. The ship was frozen in the icepack on September 6, 1879 but was carried the next twenty-two months by drifting ice for several hundred miles in a northwestward direction, until June 12, 1881. That day her hull was smashed open by the crush of ice and she sank the next day after all boats, equipment and

provisions were off-loaded for a long journey on foot across ice to reach open water north of Siberia. Eventually, as Edwards would tell some of his new friends in Nevada, only thirteen of the crew survived the sea in an open boat, perhaps 11 of them died on the tundra after they landed, and supposedly only two men returned to civilization. But Edwards, separated from others, found survival with an Eskimo group. His stories were long and emotional and filled with admiration for Eskimos. Burl Edwards came home in the year 1883, a year that had come around the corner in a hurry. This seemed so to his father who had rushed into town at the prompting of a neighbor, yelling out his good day and, "Sully, I saw a stranger ride into town earlier dressed like he's been livin' with Eskimos and he's the spittin' image of your son, Burl, I ain't seen all the years since Martha left me." Sullivan Edwards slid out of the saddle at the Rialto rail, rushed inside and hugged his son in a long and hardy grip. Reunion soon reigned in the Rialto. "The bar's open," yelled Burl's father, the crowd rushing to get its share and the small talk starting in one corner; "By God he don't look like no cowboy I ever seen," said one cowpoke at a table, by name of Spurs Spurrier, "not with them duds, a hat like he's been born a foreigner and been pokin' fun at the hats we wear, a vest like he's an Eskimo and a funny look on his face like he don't believe anythin' he sees, that's meanin' us, me and you, Sparky, spendin' more time here than anybody in town, us reg'lars. If he's to look funny at either of us, he gets what's comin' to him, father or no father that's a rancher." Sparky Tottingham, by all who knew him from older events, was ignitable, on the spot ignitable, as one townie was generally credited with saying numerous times, "That Sparky can git lit quicker 'n a sparkler, and he ain't got no proper name but his nickname." Spurrier patted the side arm in his holster and his pal Tottingham slapped the table top with a loud bang. If Edwards had been at that table, heard that conversation, he'd have known they were "half-souls." As it was, he didn't have to budge very far before it came up in a louder conversation, which the senior Edwards tried to still with an additional round of drinks. The drinks were finished off in a hurry but the idle and irritating chatter continued with Spurrier and 41

Nazar Look Tom Sheehan massachusetts, usa Tottingham until the elder Edwards stomped back to their table, slammed his fist on the top of it and said, "If I was a pup I'd smash you down with my bare fists." The wise but unfortunate retort from Spurrier was, "Well, I see you got a pup over there with you. What's he up to in them duds he's awearin'?" He received his reply from the seaman's rifle stuck in his mouth by Burl Edwards coming to his father's aid. "Taste the iron before you taste the lead, old half-soul, before you're all kinds of alloy and sorely mixed up in this life. If you apologize to this elderly gent who's been buying you drinks and who's my father I haven't seen in a long haul, I'll let it go, but if you're not so agreeable, we sure can find agreement other ways." He was standing over the table looking like a select man posing for the sculpting of a testimonial statue. Impressive he was, impressive and measurable to the whole of the saloon crowd. Slowly withdrawing the wet tip of the rifle barrel from Spurrier's big mouth, casually, not in the slightest rush, he rubbed the rifle tip through the crook of his left elbow as if getting rid of germs, turned his back on the pair at the table and rejoined his father at the bar. All that crawling time of wiping the rifle tip clean, it was pointed directly at Spurrier, informing Spurrier and everybody else in the saloon that he would entertain no surprises. Not in the least. And never once did he seemingly acknowledge the other man, the one called Sparky. Alternate periods of silence and buzz made awkward ways through the patrons of the Rialto, some of the buzz being recognition of the sailor/cowboy come home from his earlier years as plain cowboy. One old timer, sipping an hour on his beer of the day, declaring, "That boy had an adventure workin' on him since he could walk. I 'member his pa findin' him down at the riverbank one time like he was gonna float off 'n' visit anybody he could find. Scared old Edwards half way to Hell, kid was gone for hours. He musta knowed what was comin' along with that boy. Some of 'em come that way. My Paulie went off to Pilgrim Hill once just to deliver a package for Alden Smithwyck and ain't seen him since 'n' I can't do no more searchin' but worryin' takes all the time anyway." Two drinks were waiting on the bar for the pair of Edwards, Gilbert the bartender smiling and nodding his head with more of his own thanks, and managed, in a later aside, to offer a bit of advice to young Edwards; "That noisy fella, Spurs, is a bad one. You got him cowed now, sure as 42

shootin', but the one you gotta watch is that quiet one, Sparky. He ain't to be trusted no way in Hell. He ain't said much of anythin', but talkin' ain't his way." His eyes finished off the incomplete statement with a sour-faced and positive declaration and an imaginative smoky finger as he attended another customer. When the Edwards duo left an hour later, headed for home like it was always going to be there come Hell, high water or Alaska, darkness was setting its way off the peaks, along the river bank, out past the end of town where the trail twisted with the river before the trail rose to the east and pointed the way to the Two Caliber spread. The ride was comfortable, uneventful even in the darkest areas where a struggling moon had begun its own ride. Sullivan Edwards watched his son study the rising of the moon and the position of the stars as though he was reading a chart. He said, "You know your way around up there, Burl? I haven't ever made any sense of them but that they hang around forever in their own way." "Well, that's part of it all, Pa. You can count on them if you can see them. If there's no clouds you can find your way east, west, north or south and most of the in-betweens. At sea you have to know what they'll give you. It's not like a trail the Indians cut out a hundred years ago or the cows bring up with their push for water. If there's too many clouds to see the stars, I can make do here, with knowledge of the peaks, how the rivers run up or down, or a hundred other signs. At sea, it's like the boys say, 'a whole other world.'" The father, looking back over his shoulder, said, "Think those two boys from the saloon will try to square things away with us, try to get even with that rifle poke. He never saw that comin' at him in the blink of a cow's eye?" Burl Edwards could have pounced on the "us" his father had announced, which meant he was still the top dog, the sharer in all things to do with the family. He turned sideways in his saddle and qualified his own thoughts on the matter, "One of them isn't ever going to do anything, Pa, but follow the other gent's lead. He's the one I'll look for, but first I got to see Mom and give her a present I bought in Alaska." He looked up at the moon still working its way over a peak, saw the Big Dipper tell its silent story, and heard a shipmate, part-time astronomer and full-time story teller, explaining the role that Orion played in the heavens while it was nailed against the deep blue of the night sky and the almighty universe itself going every which

Nazar Look Tom Sheehan massachusetts, usa way on its own. That part-time astronomer had said of Orion, "That bunch of stars has more secrets tied to it than any other bunch of stars up there in the Milky Way, the universe, and all the other worlds put together. I heard that from one of the old Indian folks who said it came down the line to him all the way from the beginning. Said his folks knew more about the stars than anybody and learnt a lot of it from drawings on cave walls and deep cuttings."

Myra Edwards was a bounteous, round-in-theface happy woman, but never happier than when she heard the unmistakable voice of her son from outside, from the tie rail in front of the house, and her husband's generous and hearty laughter also in joyous accompaniment. She couldn't remember how long Burl had been gone. Suddenly, as she stood transfixed in her kitchen, alone, a whirlwind happening within her body, being "taken over again," she saw him at age ten when she first noticed what she'd call "the long look in his eye." That feeling came back to her in a rush, the awareness that her little boy wouldn't be little for long and there would come a kind of separation. Acutely, as if it had happened only moments ago, that feeling had returned and she felt like Owl Who Speaks Thunder, the shaman of a local tribe, exhorting her to be aware of all tendencies, all motion, all things that mattered to her. The first time he had said to her, in a swap of goods, "Winter comes twice, ice melts twice, fire logs run away in the smoke." It had drawn her imagination and she had had her husband gather and stack twice the amount of wood he had planned on. It was all used up by the fiercest winter the family and the ranch, had ever encountered. So aware, so agonized, yet so happy, she swept her boy into her arms, amply hugging and kissing him, the full grown man he had become, at one and the same time, her kitchen immediately turned upside down, her excitement obvious. Burl, caught up in his own excitement, handed her the carefully wrapped present that he had carried many miles, though neither of them would ever know how far. It was wrapped in a cured leather skin that had earned a shine from handling and tied with leather thongs with Navy knots practically needing a code to untie. After she hugged him for an eternity, she held the package in her hands. There seemed no tendency to open the present right away, but she added a quick and logical dictate to that appearance:

"You've filled out, Burl, grown fully, and you've been gone a long time. Obviously you have learned something in the time you've been gone. I'll just think about what the present is for a few days, maybe until next week, next month, wondering, after all this time, what you brought home for me, what made you choose it, what you were thinking. Is that okay with you?" She hugged him again and ushered him directly to a seat at the table in the kitchen; mother's work was at hand She smiled widely, clapped her hands, tousled the hair of both men in her life and said, "I suppose you men will want a drink or two to celebrate. I'll go right along with that." Three glasses came right onto the table and she poured the drinks, the aroma coming to her quickly as well as views of other years in quick succession.. They had a grand homecoming. In the morning, Burl heard early kitchen work being done in a quiet manner, but pots and tins were not usually quiet in his mother's hands. Burl swung the blanket around him and went to the kitchen just as the sun was barely coming upon the house. His father came barefoot from the bedroom, pulling up his pants. His eyes were forcing themselves open. "Don't go outside, either one of you," she said, a threat in her voice. "I've been cooking since four this morning, never heard anything, but we've had company. Don't go out until you've had breakfast. You won't like what you see." When her husband rushed for the door, she looked at Burl, shook her head, and added, "The first thing he'll do is come and get his rifle." Her husband came in cursing loudly, and grabbed his rifle from over the fireplace and grumbled about where he had left his boots the night before. "Those sons of bitches, he said. "One of our best cows is out there, cracked on the skull and dragged right into our yard here on two ropes still tied around her neck. Both our hired hands are over in the north canyon bedded down with the herd, so they wouldn't have heard anything during the night." With boots on he went back outside followed by his son, also carrying a rifle, the one last in someone's mouth. Sullivan Edwards walked around the cow, bloodied, two legs broken, bones showing through the breaks. With his belt knife he cut lose the two ropes and tossed them aside.

Nazar Look Tom Sheehan massachusetts, usa Burl, now in his pants and boots and a hanging shirt, gun belt in place, rifle in one hand, picked up the two ropes. His father didn't notice, but his mother saw Burl studying the knots in the ropes, how the loops went, where the sure knuckles came in the knots, what else he might glean from their knotted composition. She kept such thoughts to herself; it was her way not to embarrass her husband with finds or secrets he had missed in his observations ... it had always made for the healthiest of marriages. But she managed to say, "Nice homecoming for you, son. Did you gents step on some toes in town last night?" Sullivan almost exploded. "That son of a bitch last night, the big mouth, I ought to go in there now and kick his ass all over town." He was spinning around in his anger like a top spins, in place, and then a slight wobble took hold of him. Burl said, in a measured and sure tone that perked his mother's interest and intelligence in a hurry, "It isn't the mouthy one, Pa. It's the other gent. Spurs is not the fellow who set this. It was the other fellow, the one they call Sparks, not the one who doesn't like iron in his mouth. But we'll surprise him by going the way he won't expect us. Right through his buddy, Spurs, the talk of the galley." Sullivan Edwards shook his head in wondrous doubt, while Myra Edwards, secretive on some things, quite open on other family matters, smiled at the years that had topped her son's thinking, whatever it was, whatever it intended. Her small wonder of a boy was now a grown up wonder, and a stalwart hero and survivor of a harsh naval experience and, with his return, a future rancher of means. She laughed inwardly at that as she thought, "Ah, the east and west meet, the cowboy and the sailor do mate up." She knew she might as well put all her change on the table and count it out, so she said, without a trace of coyness in her tone, "When are you gents going back into town to square this away?" She looked out the window at the trussed up and dead cow, read the serious invisible signs employed by the perpetrator and knew quick action would be the best method of revenge for whatever comes out of it, for it would be revenge. The innocence of the cow in the incident might have made another woman cry seeing the protrusion of sharp, broken bones, one eye busted free, two legs broken, and the awful sense of revenge, anger and hate welling up in her 44

usual "too-busy-am-I Tomfoolery."

for

that

kind

"Not me," issued from under her breath, for the trail to this very location had been a long one from Missouri, her first born buried en route in a lost and lonely place along the way, never to be visited again, she knew without doubt, because it would never be found again. Her morning prayers for him, already said, were said again, making repetition feasible, amenable. But she had kept serious thoughts on the job, kept them working, worked them into knitted or crocheted patterns spread about the house, in each room, as visible as she was: Happiness is not where you are, but what you allow around you. ... Relationships come with clasp and the last fingernail and are not accidents of shallow touch. ... Time doesn't have a whistle or a gong. ... Mountains move and so does Time, but the speeds are different. She looked sneakily, sideways, at her son Burl, gone for so long, back in the bosom of the family to be enjoyed, and to make amends when required; It was what older sons were born for. And out here, beyond Missouri, beyond the great river, beyond the lost graves, those needs were inevitable the way the west moved in continuous motion. A few hours after breakfast, and after the dead cow was tended to, the two Edwards men tied up at the far end of the Rialto rail, at Burl's insistence. Overhead the sun was a brilliant flame of orange as it soared between clouds, as it poured sunshine onto the whole of Point of Interest through the same breaks in the clouds. The pair walked casually past the horses gathered there, and the younger Edwards studied each horse as he passed by them, stopping twice to check out two horses, both grays, all the while his father kept shaking his head. Burl had not said a whole lot on the way into town, except to say, "The man who dragged our cow left a marker on his work." The Rialto, of course, came to full attention when the Edwards tandem walked in and went straight to the bar where Gilbert at the bar asked, "Beer or whiskey, gents?" Openly, he spotted the change in clothing that the returned sailor was wearing, those making him look like a working cowboy; the Stetson, old as Box Mountain perhaps, sat square on his head, the shirt had a worn but clean color, the denim pants slim by choice and discolored by wear wrapped under a gun belt primed with a Navy Colt .44, which, to the bartender and a few older

Nazar Look Tom Sheehan massachusetts, usa men in the room, looked as mean and as tough as the man at the drinking dais who was obviously delivering a message to someone in the room, of whom Gilbert would make no mistake selecting. "Bit of both," Burl Edwards said, his voice in immediate ascension, marked for close listening, the far corners of the room coming to rapt attention, poker hands being dealt coming to halt, creaking chairs leaning their weights in silence. "We come to fetch a yellow-belly cow killer. Dragged a cow almost to our doorstep, two legs broken, one eye lost, and dead as a marlin spike. Now you tell me, Mr. Saloon owner, what kind of a patron would someone like that be, yellow all the way through his guts, or just yellow on the back of his neck or down that thin little yellow stripe that crawls down his back and hides from everybody's eyes in his all-year-rounders? You know, those duds he ain't washed once since a year ago Tuesday next and I can smell him from up here even with a strong whiskey in my nose." Not once had he looked at the table where Spurrier and Tottingham sat, not once in any portion of the special delivery message to the Rialto-at-large. He swallowed the shot of whiskey, picked up his beer, held it aloft, and said, in a firmer and louder voice, "Here's to the yellow belly wherever he's hiding at this moment, and to his best pal, who's not as yellow as him because he did not dare to do what his yellow-belly pard did to a damned harmless cow that ain't got no way to hit back even to anybody wearing that much yellow-tothe-bone way under his dirty old year-rounders he'll wear until they go to tatters on some prairie yardarm." Burl the sailor, as if he were on the waves again, or the immense icepack that carried him and his shipmates months on end and hundreds of miles, faced the throng of patrons as he had faced polar bears, wolves, and the madness of a crazy, riflewielding, partly-clawed prospector he'd met in an Alaskan gold field. He figured then he was halfway home to Point of Interest, Nevada and another threat in front of him against that journey's completion. Each of those appointments had been met with courage, ingenuity and utter confidence. He'd been a crew watchdog; now he was the family watchdog. At the back of his head was the phrase his mother had crocheted in a frame beside the mirror in the hall; Who sings to my family sings to me, and I hear all the curses too.

For the hundredth or so times, he realized how far her words travelled to get to him. One place was near the top of the world; another was at the Rialto Saloon in Point of Interest, Nevada. There was nothing like home teaching, he had boasted to his shipmates and had told them countless times about his mother's methods, and one other saying stitched on the wall and in his mind forever: The least expected is always the last on the horizon, so don't wait on Santa Claus. Spurrier made the first attention-grabbing move, tapping Tottingham on the shoulder, accompanying it with the age-old gesture of ignorance, the hunch of his shoulders and a hands-up and silent gesture that said, "Are you goin' to take that from him, Sparky? From that stupid sailor?" and then looking around for support for his questions, as though he had some part in arousing his pal from the dumb silence at their table. Tottingham ignored him completely, keeping his eyes on Burl Edwards the way a lion tamer has to tend his fanged subject ... or face the consequences, the awful consequences. The old man of the Edwards was not so noticeable, not so formidable, or so he thought as he started to find new things, prominent new things, about the younger of the clan, the way he had directed a clear and clean challenge right at his feet, where he sat at the table, where he now felt the chip on his shoulder was heavier than ever before. Tottingham might have said to himself, "I'd better not mess with this gent, no matter what he looks like, even though he doesn't look as different today as he did yesterday: there's a power emanating from the sailor boy I'd not ordinarily contend with." On the other end of things, Spurs Spurrier and his stupid talk bothered him, and had already pointed him out to every person in The Rialto as the man who sure looked like he had been the one who killed a helpless cow and dragged it into the Edwards' yard and who sat here challenged, so he might as well stand up and face the music. Noisy Spurrier, it appeared, wasn't about to let it go. Wasn't his pard the toughest thing ever to sit a saddle, flop a pistol out of a holster, hit what he was shooting at ... and every time? No matter what the target was, how big it was, how small it was, how fast or slow it moved? Wasn't he? "Whadya say about this make-believe cowboy wearin' an old gun, Sparks? He don't look as tough as some gents you've took care of, does he, Sparks? Does he?" He was getting animated 45

Nazar Look Tom Sheehan massachusetts, usa while egging his saddle pard into a sure-fire easy fight. "He looks light enough for me to take." His smile was wide and cocky, but in the same breath of words he was wearing thin on a lot of folks ... that included Gilbert the bartender and owner of The Rialto, the many patrons in The Rialto, the two Edwards men standing at the bar, and most of all, his own pard sitting right at the same table. The Rialto crowd, from the tension at the table, knew something was afoot in their midst. "Okay," said Sparks Tottingham, throwing both hands into the air. "Okay, you want him, Spurs, you got him. Go get him." He held one hand out as if he was an usher at the church showing the way to a nervous groom-to-be. Bustle, ado and snickering snuck around the room swift as a quick draw calls attention to its motion. Fear crossed Spurs' face as if an inner torch had lit it up. "I didn't mean it all like that, Sparks. Not like that. Hell, I didn't drag that cow in there. I can't tie them knots like you can, those ones you learned on the Mississippi like you said. No sir, I ain't no fair mix for him like you are." Gilbert, ashamed himself, almost said it, but Sparks Tottingham, suddenly aging, feeling the power of self-measurement, grabbing at full manhood, said it first, "Why the hell don't you get on your damn horse, Spurs, and get out of town, all the way out, before I ever catch sight of you again. Now git." His voice had risen, and so had Spurs Spurrier, amazement crowding his face, standing, walking backwards to the door, his hands checking the way through the crowd behind him, as though he was going to get shot in the back. In a matter of echoed seconds, his horse took off down the main road of Point of Interest and nobody, for sure, would ever see him again.

Inside, between the table of interest and the bar, the space seemed like a vacuum, silent, not quite holy, but a change, a transition, taking place in front of everybody. And that vacuum was altered like it might never be altered again in the same kind of situation. Sparks Tottingham, face gone ashen gray, hat tipped back on his head, placed his hands palms down on the table. He spoke directly to Burl Edwards; "I'm so damned sick and tired of him I couldn't stand any more of him. Y'all know I killed that cow cause I was mad at how you stood up to me. I don't know if I can outdraw you, but it sure don't look like it'd be worth it. You got a ton of guts and it looks like you got them from your Pa there, and I never had none of that. Not one minute of it from the first day I was born. Not one minute of it." There was loss and loneliness and honesty now invested in his voice, a whole wagon-load of it. "I worked some as a kid on the big river on a few boats before I come out here and I'd sure like to know what you did and where you went in the Navy. I'll pay what I owe for the cow and I'll apologize to the woman of the ranch and to them what cleaned up that mess. Hell, I'd even go to work for you if you'd give me the chance." His head shook in doubt, as if he didn't believe what he had just said to practically the whole damned town of Point of Interest. "Hell," he said, "I came out here to be somebody, not a coal stuffer on the river, not hid down below all the time and never gettin' to see any of where we went along the river." Silence stood at attention in The Rialto, and Gilbert, a man with keenness in his bones, said, "The bar's open. I think we just celebrated big time in Point of Interest, and I'm pretty sure we've just seen a new hire taken on at the old Two Caliber Spread.

Nazar Look Tom Sheehan massachusetts, usa

The Boy Who Dug Worms at Mussel Flats First there was a smaller sail out on the water. And then there wasn’t any sail, as if it had been erased. Bartholomew Bagnalupus did not blink at the contradiction his eyes gave him. There were things like mist and eyespots and vacuums of sight. Been there, had that, he thought, as he swung his short-handled curled pitchfork into the earth of Mussel Flats. Another bucket of worms he’d have before the tide would drive him off the flats. Out on the bay the light sail boats were running under the small breeze, and in the slash of waters that would cover the stretch of Mussel Flats before the day was half old. Young Bartholomew Bagnalupus, sixteen by a few weeks, thought the sails looked like napkins off his mother’s table, the way they folded in triangles, ran the breeze as if the front door had been opened and whipped them from the table. Contrast was never far from his mind as he dug in the muck for worms, at four cents a piece from the bait shop. …the white sails out there on the bay and him on his knees here in the muck. The sun, insisting it was fire, cussed its way across Bart’s shoulders. The bucket was only half full of worms, gray water, sand and minute debris, and his short angled fork dug into the muck of Mussel Flats in the way only he could attack it. His grandfather, the great Bartholomew himself, had shown him how to worm when Bart was just out of diapers. “On your knees, boy, ‘cause that’s the way the good Lord wants you serving. On your knees and your eyes wide open. Never forget that.” Now his eyes were open and the salt was into every crevice of his body. He thought it an iodine, a thinness with the point of a stiletto. His body ached the way it did every afternoon, his knees sore, sneakers sopped and loaded with mud, the sun past ignition, his mind filled with the being of

salt, with his grandfather, with the waters of the ocean that had taken his father. If there were railroad tracks at this end of town people would have said Bartholomew Bagnalupus lived on the other side. He was a worm digger, a clam digger, a hauler of kelp. At the back of his mind, some awareness pulled him into another consciousness. At a different level, more pronounced, it was a severe yank, and one he knew would be folly to ignore. Be alert to your own voice, old Bartholomew had said. Be alert. He stood up to get a better view of the small bay now growing under the tide, the tide’s reach coming in over the flat land. As he put his hand up a visor over his eyes, stories of old Bartholomew flooded him and he fastened onto the first of the legends of the old man now sitting in a chair in the sunroom of his daughter’s house. As a youngster of eighteen, in the little village of Pratolino outside Florence, his grandfather’s Saturday task was to take horse and wagon and crops about fifteen miles to the market for sale. It was repetitious and boring and offered little escape from the centuries old drudgery of the rock-strewn farm. The Cohorts were long gone. The Legions were long gone. Adventure was long gone. Pieces of mountains came up profusely through farmlands. Italy rendered little but continual labor. So one Saturday morning Bartholomew Bagnalupus, yearning for more, hearing the voice inside his body, sold the crop, then sold the wagon, then sold the horse and bought a ticket on a ship headed for America. Seventy years later, three wives later, fifteen children later, thirty-five grandchildren later, he could still demand attention from his youngest and last grandchild, and the fourth one to bear his name. There had been a sail out there and now there wasn’t. Bart dropped his pitchfork and raced toward the water. His sneakers were filled with water and muck and he struggled in parts of the flats. Out on the water he could see the half silhouette of a capsized sailboat, but saw no 47

Nazar Look Tom Sheehan massachusetts, usa movement. In minutes he knew he’d be in the water so he took off his sneakers and dungarees at the banking. Then he thought about his wallet. Pulling it from his pocket he placed it under a flat stone that would be there when the tide was out again. Bartholomew Bagnalupus, fourth of the name, worm digger, from the other side of the tracks, dove into the water off Mussel Flats and cut his strong arms through the water like a propeller. As if a buoy had found release from a tangled underwater line, a girl popped to the surface a few yards from the overturned sailboat. Air and noise and blubbering came from her mouth, and one arm swung like a hen’s broken wing against the water. In a few strokes he was at her side, grasped her in his arms, pulled her close to the boat. Bart held her against the hull and could feel her body pressing back at him, the curves and softness he had only dreamed about. Blonde tresses swung like leather traces over her eyes, thick, knotted and rope-like. The one arm that had swung idly now wrapped about his neck. Her lips were soft looking. Against him her breasts were softer. A knee, lightly, accidentally, not quite harmlessly, touched at his groin. He could feel the new action in his body. Even above the salt in his nose, at his eyes, a new essence came to him, filling his head. Listen to your body, old Bartholomew had said. Now he was listening. He was listening and it was the girl who spoke. “God, you smell good,” she said as her second arm swung limply about his neck. Her whole frame was pushed against him. “Thank you for jumping in. I’d have been all right except for the line that caught at my foot. But I think I’ve hurt my arm. Do you always dig out here?” Bart could not answer. Had she smelled saltresidue, shaving lotion, pasta, sauce from the back of the stove, the harsh cut of liberally dosed garlic, the riches of his mother’s kitchen? He knew what she smelled like. It was new; it had smooth edges to it, and then a cutting edge. It filled his head. If he had socks on they would have been knocked off his feet. And her body, even in the water, was warm and fresh and totally new in 48

experience against his body, floating against him the whole length, all the curves and softness bending to his bends, following his contours. Suddenly he realized he was in his skivvies, practically undressed, and aware of an erection starting on its route. What an embarrassment! Yet her eyes were telling him something, even as a voice came to them over the water: Marcy,are you okay? Her eyes closed once, she leaned against him the whole way, and said, “You’re precious.” The voice came from another boat. It was Marcy Talbert’s father, the banker, the man who owned most all of Pressburn Hill off the old pond, who owned Vinegar Hill and Applepine Hill and Cutter’s Pond itself and practically half of Rapid Tucker’s Pond. The broad, heavy-chested man was in the water and lifting his daughter into the other boat and climbing back aboard. His hand came down to Bart Bagnalupus. “Come aboard, son. I’m damn glad you were around.” Bart did not accept the hand, his erection still somewhat in place. “Thank you, but I left my wallet back there under a rock.” I’d be embarrassed to hell, he thought. Over his shoulder he looked, back at the expanse of Mussel Flats. Time and tide had closed down on him and the rock was now under water. “Not going to find it now, son. Come aboard.” His hand came back down to Bart. His eyes were big and pleasant, and the face kindly though he had not shaved this day. “I know you’re in your skivvies, son. She told me. It’s okay. She don’t mind, I won’t mind. She’s mine and she’s precious, even if a little headstrong.” Those were not harsh banker’s eyes looking down at him, not a banker’s hand extended fully to him. “I’ll have to dive for it,” Bart said. “It’s all I have and my mother needs it. My father was lost in his boat a few years ago.” “You the one always digging for worms out here?” The hand came again, still fully extended. Bart took it and the big man hauled him out of the water in one swift movement. His erection was gone. He felt shrunken and weak and his breath

Nazar Look Tom Sheehan massachusetts, usa suddenly came in loud gasps. The banker threw a blanket over Bart’s shoulders. "Was your father the one who tried to get that other crew out of the storm when their boat went under?” “Yes, sir, that was him.” The girl Marcy was staring at him, first at his face and then at his crotch. A redness ran all across his face. She smiled again. A haunting and passing beauty glowed on her face. Bart felt he’d never see this same beauty again in his life. “Knock it off, Marcy,” her father said. “Why don’t you kiss him and let it go for now.” Bartholomew Bagnalupus said to himself, I better listen to this man the same way I listen to my grandfather. Hesays things you have to find for yourself. “That arm looks bad, Marcy. We better get you down to see Doc Smithers.” The girl with the soft lips, the warm frame, the deliciously new body, spoke up. “I won’t go see that drunk. He’s always peeking down my blouse or up my skirt. Take me to Doc Higgins. He tends to business.” Bart was listening. Learning was coming at him from every direction. This girl was beautiful, willful, and independent. Gray-green-hazel eyes were knocking his socks off. Her father threw Bart a pair of swimming trunks. Bart put them on. Marcy still smiled at him. They ran ahead of the breeze, all the way into the marina. Banker Talbert drove them to Doc

Higgins’ office. Marcy was but bruised. Bart was just chilled. Then the banker drove Bart home. He spoke to his mother. “He saved my daughter’s life, Mrs. Bagnalupus. He’s not hurt, but if I were you I would not let him out of the house before tomorrow. Doc says he might have a reaction. Keep him inside and rested. He’ll be okay tomorrow. Tomorrow’s a great new day. You and your son please come to dinner at my house tomorrow evening. My daughter demands it and I concur. I’ll come and get you at five-thirty.” He looked at the two teen-agers sitting on the steps. “I think they have already had some kind of mental correspondence.” His eyes were light and friendly. At the end of the porch an old man rocked away in an old rocking chair, alert, nodding. Early the next morning, when Bartholomew Bagnalupus clomped out onto the muck of Mussel Flats and the tide had gone out to sea, the rock he had hidden his wallet under was sitting on the mud like a pancake. The wallet was stuffed with hundred dollar bills. The first thing he thought about was handing it to his mother, seeing the glow on her face. Then, seeing Marcy’s face and the face of her father, he began to wonder how he would handle it all. But all along his body, though, he could feel the softness of the girl in the water, knew the smell of her in his nostrils, could hear her straightforwardly saying, “God, you smell good.” If he told the old man in the sunroom, he’d nod and smile, nod and smile.

Nazar Look Tamer Mostafa california, usa

Tamer Mostafa california, usa

Tamer Mostafa is a Stockton, California native whose writing has been influenced by many, but directly affected by the teachings of Joshua McKinney, Alan Williamson, and Joe Wenderoth. His work can be found in past issues of Confrontation, The Rag, Poets Espresso Review, Stone Highway Review, and Phantom Kangaroo.

Duck Slaughter A son with a Rubbermaid dish tub, and a father, walks outside through the sliding screen door, a 7-inch mincing knife stabbed into an orange tree. At 21, the son runs to catch the flea market duck with clipped wings waddling through the jalapeno garden. Once caught, it is transferred to the father who holds the abdomen and thighs while ordering to â&#x20AC;&#x153;apply more pressure this time.â&#x20AC;? The son, in his perfected motion, swings the knife with one hand, jumps back to the concrete patch to avoid the blood sprayed grass blades. The father covers the thumping torso with the tub and begins his trips to the kitchen. After the rattling stops, the son flips the tub, severs the head, scorches the skin with boiling water. Before his father can return with more water, the son, careful not to burn his fingers, starts to pluck the feathers away two handfuls at a time.

Nazar Look Tamer Mostafa california, usa

Mausoleum Drunk one night, a buddy and I snuck onto our old high school grounds at night, sweeping wet grass onto our sneakers until we reached a pair of floodlights that stood at the edge of a dark field. Powered by a generator, it took a few turns of the key for the engine to turn over, and the lights to reach full power. We had our month of conditioning here, the rite of passage that preceded basketball tryouts to prove we could still stand after the abuse. We could see the shadows of our youth jump-squatting the length and back, tag-team sprints, the over-and-unders that crossed our feet until we fell. I called out to my friend, asking if he remembered our first day when he threw up near the fence, calling for someone to come help. He remembered, that no one came, just looked and walked the other way. I stood by the generator, resting my hand atop the flap, letting the vibrations shake my skin. My friend, thinking of how to go back, went into the fog hovering the field, directly in the lightâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s path as if at full capacity, they possessed magical powers that could melt him down years, scorch the scars, so he could have another chance. Not wanting to be seen by the passing cars and neighboring houses, I turned them off, but kept the key for the next time he wanted to see himself running for something, for the next time he wanted a reminder.

Nazar Look Tamer Mostafa california, usa

Drifting The drizzle sifts through the linens I carry on my back that shift with every drunken stumble. Past the wrinkled city council signs lining the lawnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s edges, wrinkled as a meal ticket, I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t hope to stay in this smoked concoction of night, this city and its deceptions, a firm form of dreaming under the winged tree branches. A house stands as it should, surrounded by hot fog and dew, basis and single story, raccoon claws forming on the top. The passing car horns fly close to the curb to send a wet message gilded with mud and maple leaves.

Nazar Look Ho Cheung Lee hong kong

Ho Cheung Lee hong kong

Ho Cheung LEE (Peter), Ed.D., resides in Hong Kong where he teaches and writes. He earned his doctorate from The University of Hong Kong with a thesis on teaching reading. His poetry has appeared in aaduna, FIVE Poetry Magazine, Poetry Pacific, Red Booth Review, The Chaffey Review, The Interpreter’s House and elsewhere. His short stories have also been published in Eastlit, Miracle Magazine, River Poets Journal and The Oddville Press. He is the founder and Editor-in-Chief of BALLOONS Lit. Journal (www.balloons-litjournal.com).

Sap Yi Suk Gung (Grand-uncle 12) It sounded as if it was pouring beans and marbles as the elders pushed the Mahjong tiles collaboratively in circles. Aunt Ling-ling was still complaining about how she had missed her opportunity to win the last game when she was in the North seat in the North Wind. The four gamers occupied most of the living room, which was almost shadowed in pink by a blossoming peach tree against the wall. The housemaid received a red packet for her extra contribution on this second day of the Lunar New Year. She brushed the fallen petals into a heart shape before removing them. The grandfather, in his nineties, was resting on this black-leather massage chair, wearing his striped pajamas, enjoying the jubilation in his limited mobility, through his remaining senses. Roger had been in the guest room with Chris and Cherry. The three cousins had not been seeing each other as much as before since they started their studies abroad. Roger found an old family album sleeping under the bed. He killed at least three silverfish guarding the book — the balls of tissue paper wrapping them were placed causally in a lonely corner. Roger flipped through the pages carefully.

finger carefully across the standing figures in the group photo. There were two rows of people, all dressed up, clean and decent. The clothing looked particularly new. The two old ladies were seated at the centre. The man and boys were in suits and darkcoloured ties, while the young females wore glittery jackets with knotted buttons. They all stood straight in front of the camera and wore the same expressionless faces against the flowery backdrop. Cherry named the older people one after another, with more difficulty as the faces got younger. “This boy is your dad, no?” Cherry pointed at a young boy of around eight years old, standing on the left end. His jacket was a bit over-sized compared to his small body. Both his chin and ears were pointed and a straight nose was prominent on his unlined face. His eyes were filled with wonder. “He looked rather handsome.” “No, that’s not him.” Roger corrected her. “My dad’s this one, on the wooden horse.” “Oh yeah. But who’s this handsome lad then?” Cherry was attracted by the boy. “That seems to be the one who Grandma and Grandpa forbid our parents to talk about.” Roger said with hesitation. “Am I right, Chris?”

“You recognize everybody?” Roger showed Cherry a stained yellowish monotone picture of what looked like a family. “Or anybody?”

Chris was a few years older than the other two and used to being the leader of the cousin group. He lowered his minicomputer and joined the exploration on the floor.

Cherry sat down on the floor, never minding her new blue skirt bought especially for the festival. She ran her

“Yeah, that’s Sap Yi Suk Gung.” Chris asserted with conviction. He put down his device, crossed his long legs, and 53

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younger than my mum. A very small uncle, he was.”

“Sap Yi? He ranked twelfth in the line?” Cherry was interested to know more about the past. “And what’s Suk Gung? I’m sorry I’m no good with family trees.”

“Yeah, so?” Chris asked. “His mother was young. That’s what happened decades ago when the practice of multiple wives was allowed.”

“Yes, he ranked twelfth. And Suk Gung means he is the younger brother of your grandfather, Miss Westerner,” Chris answered and he was glad and ready to give another lecture. “Grandpa’s mother had eight children, you see here? But he also had a second mother.”

“But why are they not talking about him anymore then? I mean Sap Yi Suk Gung.” Cherry asked.

pushed himself forward to between Roger and Cherry.

squeeze

“A concubine,” Roger added. “Not exactly, because this second mother was never officially married to Grandpa’s father. You see?” explained Chris. He turned at the door to check if it was well closed, and continued with a markedly lower voice. “That woman, who Grandpa called Mui Yi, had given birth to four children. But the first three couldn’t make it pass their first year. It was war time I think. Only the last son, who was this Sap Yi Suk Gung, survived. And he was the youngest in his generation. Including the eight children from Grandpa’s mum and the deceased three, Sap Yi Suk Gung was the twelfth in line. His birth mum loved him so dearly and I heard from my dad that he was the smartest among all the people in the family. He should have been highly gifted. He recited the multiplication table at the age of three. I think he shocked the entire family. You know, they sold household items in a small shop in Wan Chai during that period. Knowing numbers gave them great advantage. So Sap Yi Suk Gung was a gem in Great Grandpa’s eyes .” “So, this boy was my mum’s uncle?” Cherry tried to work out the relationships. “Your mum should call him Sap Yi Suk, and we call him Sap Yi Suk Gung because we are a generation lower,” Roger said to Cherry. “But technically,” Chris made a correction once again, “Cherry, you are on the daughter’s line, so you should call him Kau Gung, instead of Suk Gung. But…whatever. I don’t want to confuse you further.” “That doesn’t bother me,” Cherry said casually. “But, look, he was really 54

“He died mysteriously,” Roger said with an exaggeratedly low and trembling voice. “Heard from dad.” “Not exactly. Not that I know of.” Chris frowned. “Just say it. What happened to him?” Cherry demanded. “Am I allowed to talk of him?” Chris asked. “Why don’t we consult the Mahjong players out there and ask for permission?” “Hey, don’t waste time!” Cherry complained, hearing Roger’s laughter. “Okay, just joking,” Chris went on. “Sap Yi Suk Gung was abducted…” The door of the room was suddenly flung open. Raymond, a healthy-looking business man arrived with a wide welcoming grin. “Gung Hei Fat Choi everyone!” he said to his cousins, who all rose from the floor to greet him. Raymond gave a pair of red packets to each of them as they exchanged words of fortune. Raymond was the firstborn son of the firstborn son of Grandpa, so, by custom, he was like the heir to the throne. Grandpa adored this grandson so much that he had even said, ages ago, that this apartment would be Raymond’s after he passed away. Yet Raymond had business trips quite frequently and it was rare to see him at family gatherings, except for big festivals or celebrations. The familiar smell of sizzling turnip cake soon filled the room as the housemaid pan-fried it in the kitchen. The older people out there began talking about buying flats and renovations, all the while hitting the plastic tiles on the carpeted table. Cherry pulled Raymond to the centre of the room and closed the door again. The four of them sat in a circle with the album in the middle, so that made two circles of people in the apartment. The elder group was dealing

Nazar Look Ho Cheung Lee hong kong with money while the younger pursued knowledge from a time capsule. “What’s happening here?” Raymond was not too aware of the open book on the floor. “We’re exploring the dark side of our family!” Roger joked. “You heard of Sap Yi Suk Gung?” “He-who-must-not-be-named? What about him?” Raymond did not expect such a topic for a New Year gathering. “I only heard from dad in the old days that he used to have an uncle who was younger than him! He was lost somehow and they did not want to mention him anymore, and that seems to be it.” “But what happened to him?” Cherry asked the others. “Chris was explaining please continue,” Roger said.

just

now,

“Want some good stories? Give me all your red packets first!” Chris said with a forced seriousness. He had got more playful as he aged. The other three people gave him a few hits on his head and cheek and words they would not use to the elders. The laughter died down and Chris continued. “Okay, okay. There was a holiday break of some sort and Mui Yi took her son back to Gong Mun to visit relatives. That’s Grandpa’s home town in Guangdong Province. Mui Yi had some people living there. And one day Sap Yi Suk Gung went up to a hill with his distant cousins or kids around the place and the mothers and all. He was around ten or eleven. That was supposed to be a usual afternoon. And suddenly, while the kids were having fun in the meadow, a bright light appeared in the clouds. A bright light! And it shot down to the ground. The thing landed with a big thrust of air and blew leaves and twigs everywhere. It was said to be an oval object, the size of a normal house. It had a rough or patterned surface and it was glowing in daylight. The kids were scared and they all ran to their mothers, except Sap Yi Suk Gung, who was rather attracted by it. Unlike the others, he ran towards the object while his mother yelled like a wild animal. As he was about to touch it, the thing glowed even brighter, very bright.

The people had their eyes covered and the next moment, the light was, like, switched off and the object was gone, along with Sap Yi Suk Gung. He was never seen since then.” “What the…?” Cherry did not quite believe what she had heard. “Yeah,” Chris anticipated the response and continued with pleasure. “I guess that was the reaction of everyone who heard the story. The witnesses talked among the villagers but, you know, they didn’t go to school much and they thought Mui Yi was cursed. She didn’t have a proper marriage and her first three babies died so early, then this last one was taken by the some sort of divine power, as the villagers called it. The people whispered rumours that she must have done something terribly bad in her previous life that she was not allowed to have children this life, and all that. The villagers did not call for an investigation, but only ignored Mui Yi as if she was a monster, or they were scared that she would bring misfortune to them. Mui Yi stayed at the hillside most of the time since the incident, crying every day, mumbling words, yelling and praying, looking for her boy. You can imagine what sort of days she had. “Some people who were a bit more lenient to her tried to persuade her to go back home but she refused every time. And, after a few months, she broke down completely. She was found dead on the stone steps in front of her house.” “That’s very sad,” Cherry said. “Grandpa didn’t do anything about it?” Roger inquired. “Did he go to Gung Mun to help find him? That was his little brother, after all!” “I asked the same question but my father told me that Mui Yi and Sap Yi Suk Gung were no longer living with Grandpa’s family at that time. They were growing distant and, you know, in those days the means of communication were not very advanced. When Grandpa heard that Sap Yi Suk Gung was missing, it was already some weeks later. Probably he thought he could do nothing about it. And Grandpa was also like those villagers, he thought that Mui Yi was cursed. He thought it was a pity that his brother was gone, but I think he just 55

Nazar Look Ho Cheung Lee hong kong made up his mind not to talk much about it. Not in front of me at least. The information only came through rumours. And that was all. You have a different version Ray?” “Uh…,” Raymond was so focused on the dialogue that he was not prepared to join in. “I mean…yeah…uh…no, I don’t. I mean yeah I’ve heard of this but somewhat less detailed. And I wouldn’t be able to tell it this well anyway. Just…just heard from dad ages ago. But I wasn’t very inquisitive. So…” “I have seen his pictures before, but have never really known about him like you do,” Roger spoke to Chris. “I haven’t even seen his picture by the way,” Raymond said, suddenly paying attention to the open album on the floor. “You’ve got some here?” “This one, this small one,” Roger lay a finger on the body of the slim boy in a suit, on the left of the photo. Raymond tilted his head to look at him. And he decided to turn the book to a position to suit his eyes. And at that point, he knew for sure he needed to drag his head lower for a closer look at the black and yellowish figure. Raymond’s eyes were a sensitive scanner now, searching for the smallest details. His focus shifted from point to point around the face of the tiny boy. He seemed to be trying to recognize a childhood friend whom he had not seen for decades. The other three cousins did not say a word as Raymond seemed to be working on something particularly hard. “Uh…” Raymond uttered with a hard frown; the skin between his brows was squeezed into deep valleys. As his eyeballs were still flicking within the tiny face, an old story came back to him.

It was a sunny day in the summer before last. Raymond was just leaving home in his car, for the airport. He was in a hurry as something had already slowed him down in the kitchen. He used his best skills to whirl his way out of the car park. Just as he accelerated past the main gates of his 56

building, a person appeared from nowhere, right in front of his car. Raymond forced the moving vehicle to a stop with a harsh shriek from the wheels. He saw the person fall, even though the car did not hit him. Raymond got out of the car and approached the one sitting on the ground. It was a child of around ten, wearing a suit and tie, however inappropriate under the hot weather. Raymond asked if he was hurt. The boy stared at Raymond in return for half a minute, as if something interesting was happening on his face. The path was private and, at that moment, no other vehicles were going in or out. Raymond had an uninterrupted interaction with the small person. “Do you understand me, boy?” Raymond asked him again, trying to stretch his arms to help. “Can you get up?” The boy gave a blank expression at first, and finally offered a slight smile. “Do you need to go to the hospital?” Raymond asked slowly, and looked around to see if the property officer was around. “Uh?” Raymond thought he had missed what the boy said, but in fact he had not responded a word. The boy just sat there and looked at Raymond. He shifted a little, he stretched his legs and retrieved them relaxingly as if he was in bed. His shorts were clean and his legs were gleaming like dolphin’s skin. But Raymond dared not to move him because he thought he might have broken bones somewhere. There was no one else around and that left Raymond with no option but to call for help. He fished his phone out of his pocket and flicked the lid open. However, the screen indicated that there was no reception. No matter where he tried to position the phone in the air, there was still no network. The boy’s head followed Raymond’s every movement. Raymond looked at his watch and was getting really impatient. He was in a losing battle against the time for his flight. He began to think that the boy was not hurt, but he was still just sitting on the ground and blocking the car. Raymond crouched in front of him and inquired again. “What is your name, boy?”

Nazar Look Ho Cheung Lee hong kong “You can call me Sap Yi,” the child finally spoke. His Cantonese had a village accent. “I ranked twelfth in my family.” “Okay, Sap Yi, listen…” And there came a strong horn blowing from a bright red Ferrari behind Raymond’s car. Raymond stood up and tried to gesture to the driver that there was somebody injured on the path in front. But as he turned back to the boy, he was nowhere to be seen, as if he had not even been there in the first place. Raymond looked in every direction and checked under his car to find him, but his effort was in vain. Another strong blare from the horn stopped Raymond’s search and he got back into his car and left the scene immediately. On his way to the airport, he kept thinking about the peculiar event that had just taken place and was questioning whether he might have had a hallucination due to his job pressure. That was his first unexplainable experience and he thought he might want to ask the property officer for the video captured by the CCTV. He arrived at the airport late and, as he expected, he missed the flight. But what he did not expect was that the commercial building in New York, where he should have been for his meeting, would be smashed by a hijacked plane and collapse completely. He watched the TV news with his wife in his arms, wondering at how closely he had escaped from being a part of the debris. He thanked God for causing him to stay home, but he never mentioned to anyone that it was that vanishing child that kept him from flying. Raymond was not at all a fan of the inexplicable. The businessman did not think he would ever be meeting the boy again, nor did he want to do so. But, in some way, the boy found him once more.

“Uh…” Raymond was staring at the boy with the familiar face in a fifty-year-old photo of his family. “Could it be…” “What’s

interesting?”

Roger

asked. “Uh…no…I mean, he looked very much like Grandpa,” Raymond finally made up an answer. “Did he?” Roger pulled the album closer to him. Cherry was saying something to Chris, while Roger was commenting on some other things he discovered from the photo. It was only Raymond whose mind was not functioning at that moment. And there were three knocks on the door. The housemaid came in with a big smile. “Sik dak la,” she used her limited Cantonese to tell them the food was ready. The door was left open and there came a roar from the senior gamers outside. It was either that somebody had a ridiculously big win in the last game or that they simply cheered for the hot dishes ready on the table. And then, a lady’s voice came through the noise. “Come out kids!” Aunt Ling-ling said loudly. The grown-up children then left the room one after another. Raymond, the last one to move, took a last glimpse at the closed album under the bed, and halfconsciously joined the boisterous group to chat about other random topics for the rest of the festival.

Nazar Look Alan D. Harris michigan, usa

Alan D. Harris michigan, usa

Fall Ball The nights are cooler as the daylight dims in these late season opportunities to throw the ball around and get in a few more at-bats That’s why we squeeze in double-headers while we’re still able to pick up a bat look the pitcher in the eye and clear the bases one more time All the while our only goal at season’s end isn’t to finish first but to look up at God and be called safe at home

Nazar Look Alan D. Harris michigan, usa

Not Today The sand on the beach recognizes her footsteps as each grain moves aside out of respect and appreciation for her loyalty Her gait is more cautious than the year before as the sea gulls pay attention in hopes sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll spill the contents of her picnic basket The lifeguard tips his sunglasses as she returns a smile like strangers do who understand that there are bonds in familiarity All the while waves caress her feet flirtatiously carrying messages from Virginia Wolff and Edna Pontellier But with pockets full of stories and free of stones she smiles at the invitations and whispers â&#x20AC;ŚNot today

Nazar Look Alan D. Harris michigan, usa

Honoring the Un-resuscitated Friends gathered in the dining room of the nursing home to share whispers and suspicions Was the old girl dead when the nurseâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s aide found her slumped over her hospital bed-rail? Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s no secret that the nursing home staff adheres to a strict Do Not Resuscitate policy Did she have a chance to live another day? Would she have wanted one? What were her dying words? Was she alone? These are the topics that crisscross the dining room tables as each resident takes their turn honoring the latest escapee who found her way home

Nazar Look Alan D. Harris michigan, usa

Time Father never wore a watch Mother said he lost it as for me I never had one to lose my own wife feels I fear Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d lose mine as well sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s on to something as loved ones often are but I suspect the truth lies in those empty spaces between the father and the son who longs to be just like him living life without a constant reminder of how little time we both have left

Nazar Look Alan D. Harris michigan, usa

Waiting Room Heaven has a Waiting Room carpeted and clean despite old magazines with Godâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s address cut-out strewn about in no particular order like the souls in line to have their temperature taken fearing the scale Because the doctor is in and he knows the difference between big bones water weight and a guilty conscience

Nazar Look Allen Forrest british columbia, canada

Allen Forrest british columbia, canada

City Life - Men on Bench ink on paper, 9x12, 2014

Nazar Look Allen Forrest british columbia, canada

Skateboarders 6 ink, 12x9, 2014

Nazar Look Allen Forrest british columbia, canada

Berlin in the 1920s 2 ink on paper, 12x9, 2013

Nazar Look Allen Forrest british columbia, canada

City Life â&#x20AC;&#x201C; Woman Posing with Mirror ink on paper, 9x12, 2014

Nazar Look Allen Forrest british columbia, canada

Greeks 3 Rolling the Hoop ink, 12x9, 2014

Nazar Look Lana Bella california, usa

Lana Bella california, usa Lana Bella lives in California where she is a wife and a stay at home mom to two wonderful children.

War: What Is It Good for?

By By By By

the august glory which this empire confounds the holy chaos which these victories resound the haunting silence which eternity denounces the ghostly dells which anguish gains ground,

By By By By

the booming drums where new innocence pleas the weeping maidens where their lovers are freed the proud father where his young son was at sea the flowing banners where somber mothers grieve,

By By By By

the cunning hands who draft the battles' scrolls the silent beggars who are left by the days of old the scarlet coats who dress their muskets in gold the fallen lives who pass on at the evening toll,

By By By By

the running creek how the crimson sea sleeps the fiery gospels how the armed marches keep the trumpets rasp how the swords clash deep the tarnished letters how the grown men weep,

By By By By

the trees with frosted limbs when the sun wakes the flesh of their flesh when the courage makes the noble youth when he fells his foes in shakes the thin retreating war when proud citadels break,

By By By By

the thousand doubts why countless carnage gain the ugly lies that set too deep why the blood stains the pipes made moan why the perished die in vain the lined mass graves why the grievance's chained.

Nazar Look Lana Bella california, usa

The Child is Gone The autumn leaves fell, the gray noontide cast The wind swept wide, the barren moor arched back The granite stone house was yonder garden patch The airless chambers echoed of jarring hollow glass The winding staircase laid thick with lingering past The stained ink-shadows of a rustic tale once glad The chalices of ivory and dried perfumed flasks The rosewood armoire sat purring a saffron cat The cream-stitched tulle gown and ivory-silk hat The honeyed maiden sealed tight the sleep door's catch The crumbly white and ghostly glow laid vast The lone cellist pitched low on the terrace flat The flowing brook verged by the mud-caked path The shrouded envoy trailed slow the coffin black The preacher crooned tenderly the hymnal ballads The cleric cap was on his head a ratty thing of contrast The air with its scathing strife, dusky gray in wash The earth faded in cold torrent of cascading ash The timbered crate descended into fresh dug crack The loose dirt strewed in, the acid rain hailed fast The mourners wept alongside her graveyard's grass The anguish drenched coasting snowy lilacs mass The slumbering bones encased in heavy coffin cask The stoic specters ferried her upon the maiden voyage.

Nazar Look Jerry Mullins virginia, usa

Jerry Mullins virginia, usa Jerry Mullins grew up in central West Virginia, and has lived in the Washington, DC suburbs in recent years. His work has recently been published in or is forthcoming from Columbia University Journal-Catch and Release, Wilderness House Literary Review, The Broadkill Review, and New Plains Review.

“Town Drunk” People ask me “Why do you seem to like being the town drunk?” Well, when I get asked that every once in awhile, I think about it. Then I tell them, just like I am reading a list. “Number one, I can get away with a lot, in fact almost anything. “Second, people don’t expect much from me, and I like that, because I don’t have to dance to anybody’s tune to please them. I can act almost any way I want to and nobody says anything, and I can dress any way I want, either dress down and people expect that, or dress up. I look pretty good when I am cleaned up. I do have my self-respect you know. “And last, I think it’s funny looking at the so-called respectable people around town I know are drinkers, and hiding it. I see them in the liquor store and we talk. Drunks talk to each other, you know. It takes one to know one, like they say.” I’m not sure how I started drinking and got this way. It just seemed to creep up on me. It could be I come by it naturally, since my Dad and Grandfather were the same and they loved that rot gut moonshine that ruined their minds. That was the business they had, making and selling it, way up in the country. But I like living in town. Now don’t ask me what I will do with the rest of my life. I am not fit to do much of anything else. I am good at being a drunk, people like to sit and talk to me and I can go up town and sit for hours talking. Mainly with a drink in my hand of course, but there are a lot of people to 70

talk to like that. You would be surprised at some of the the things you hear about these people who are supposed to be respectable, the lawyers, doctors, undertakers, store keepers, and on and on. But I want to be respectable too, in my own way, even if I can’t work more than a few days without getting run off from whatever job I talked my way into. But I am working on getting a disability pension because of my condition. Maybe that is the ticket. Sometimes I think I am the luckiest guy in the world. Doing exactly what I want to do, when and how I want to do it, with nobody to bother me. Except for that lady down at the Disability office. She is still bothering me. Well, to get a disability pension you have to do all this paperwork and swearing you are telling the truth and on and on. I got Luther, one of the wags around town to help me with that because he loves legal stuff and thinks he is a lawyer or judge or something and is pretty good with words. So he helped me with the paperwork and gave me a ride down to the Disability office and talked all twenty miles down the river road driving me crazy. So I was sitting there in the interview for my disability claim and a little worried about how it would go. The lady was just a little younger than me, nice enough and dressed like an oldfashioned school teacher, with what they call sensible shoes, and she pulls out this long form on a clipboard. I get a little more worried because every time in my life when somebody pulls out a clipboard I have been messed over one way or another.

Nazar Look Jerry Mullins virginia, usa She started in, “Now you know we don’t necessarily normally approve people with an elective behavior problem. That means if you are doing something harmful to yourself by choice we may not be able to help you. So if you are ending up with cirrhosis of the liver maybe you should be talking to a doctor, not me.”

So I could tell she was getting a little suspicious and I want to change the way we are going but it looks like we are too far along already, and she raised her eyebrows a little more and said “Are these mainly ladies we are talking about here?” And she looks at me funny and she can tell I am getting a little nervous.

Well right away I knew this might be some trouble so I sit straight up in that hard chair, and say, “But you know both my Father and Grandfather had liver problems so it might be just running in the family line.”

Now the cat is too close to being out of the bag so I go, “Well, a variety of people actually and it depends on the job and the time of year. But we are only talking a couple times a week in the afternoon when they want me to come by and it is only maybe $50 or sometimes $100 a week.”

“Well, I am not here to lecture you about drinking, but were they both drinkers too?” “I don’t know. I can’t say because they both passed away by the time I was a young boy. But maybe so from what I heard,” I told her. “Is this condition of yours long term?” “Only until it kills me,” I say with a little smile and hope she sees some humor in that. I don’t like dealing with people without a sense of humor. But she tilts her head a little like she is thinking, and raises up her eyebrows if you know what I mean, and it looked like she didn’t want to joke around on this. “So how do you get money to live on because the numbers I see on the form don’t add up to enough to live on,” she asked me. “Well”, I said, “I don’t need much because I stay with some family most of the time but I do need enough to live regular like most people. I do some handyman work around town for people because there are a lot of older people and older ladies by themselves who can’t keep up the houses. So a couple afternoons a week I go round and find little twenty or thirty dollar jobs.” “But you don’t have a car to get your tools around, looking at your paperwork,” she said, “so what kind of work is this?” “I use their tools or if it’s outside work their garden tools, and sometimes we just sit and talk, some about the work and some about other things,” I said.

“Yes, I see” she said, like she has made up her mind on something and she’s writing really hard on the form on the clipboard, and looks up at me with a funny look in her eye, almost a smile, and said, “Well I never put anything like this on these forms before, but it sounds like I should put ‘Ladies home companion’ or whatever they call it these days”, with a little laugh. So I figured she did not really put that “Companion” stuff on the form. So right there I knew I wasn’t in too much trouble and maybe I even saw her eyes get a little wide and big for a minute and that always tells me something. I didn’t say a word but I started to sweat like a hog and you know hogs don’t sweat but this one did, and I wanted to get out of there. “This may call for a home visit,” she said next, “especially since you say you live in someone else’s house. Do you have your own private entrance?” “Yes, it’s a private place, and a visit would be fine,” I say, “but I hope we can get the disability done and everything set up before then.” “I don’t think that will be a problem,” she says. And I got out of there fast. And the disability benefits thing is working out just fine. But that damned disability office lady is still bothering the hell out of me right to this very day.

Nazar Look Jack Peachum virginia, usa

Jack Peachum virginia, usa

Undocumented (On hearing Kudzu Vine has reached Canada, Aug. 20, 2012) Just look at me now – where I’ve been and what I’ve done! I’ve traveled up the whole east coast, Florida to Maine – I embrace the Great Lakes, Buffalo and Syracuse! A pause to study my route in Michigan’s U.P. – soon, I’ll cross the border when the patrol isn’t looking, I’ll creep over some dark night on the coat-tails of a tourist – No passport, no papers to show, no national anthem to sing! Someday, from the suburbs of Montreal, I’ll commute in daily – and, later, perhaps, I will take up farming in Manitoba.

Nazar Look Jack Peachum virginia, usa

Grass Along the lawn I lie, my ease at noon, the sun warm on my back-or sometimes, in the lull of evening, amid tabletalk of worm and beetle, comes keening of molespeech, old groundhogs chuckling deep underground. And always, I hide a thousand sins – odor of decay, dead bird or animal, lost coins, a ring, a spoon, a shard of glass, a key to someone’s house – dropped long ago – the bastard child buried near the climbing rose. In autumn, I will pull the leaves up over me and dream of crocus in winter snow, the sound of human voices in the distance, roots traveling under my feet.

Nazar Look Jack Peachum virginia, usa

Abbu My name is Abbu – and I’m a very old man – indeed, so old it seems sometimes I can remember the Ottomans – although I would’ve been very young at the time. Pardon, my mind isn’t as clear as it used to be! My family has lived in the same big house in the hills above Hayfa for generations. It must be mentioned that I abide well with my Jewish neighbors – as well as Christians, Bahai, and even the Americans and Europeans who sometimes pass through. I’m a religious man – I pray every day – and not just at the required times. My children are all gone now, removing themselves to somewhere in faraway Egypt – they don’t trust the Israeli governance. My wife – may the Prophet bless and remember her – is long ago deceased – my house has been lonely, very lonely. I’ve spent much time with my servants, the halls and corridors echoing to meager footsteps where once was a large active family and much laughter. In the grounds behind my house – the gardens where the olive trees grew. All my life I’ve loved and nurtured these trees – my children as much as ever the offspring of my loins – some of them more than a thousand years old! My father knew these trees, my grandfather – and further back and back – the family named them, each one. I sat among them when I was a child, talked to them, prayed among them – every day I walked in the olive grove. This afternoon, the soldiers arrived. They pulled their trucks to a halt in the driveway beside the house and came in. They gave me one hour. “But I’ve no truck or vehicle!” , I pleaded – “If I leave I must walk!” “Walk then,” said an officer, “Walk old man!” And he added, “God gave us this land!” Later, as I trudged along the road, two servants behind hauling clothes, keepsakes, and the remnants of my life, I came to a place in the highlands where I could glimpse both the sea and the Stella Mous at the top of Mount Carmel. And when I looked back, I saw smoke gathering in the heavens from where they were burning the olive trees.

Nazar Look Margaret Karmazin pennsylvania, usa

Margaret Karmazin pennsylvania, usa

Margaret Karmazin’s credits include stories published in literary and national magazines, including Rosebud, Chrysalis Reader, North Atlantic Review, Mobius, Confrontation, Pennsylvania Review and Another Realm. Her stories in The MacGuffin, Eureka Literary Magazine, Licking River Review and Words of Wisdom were nominated for Pushcart awards. Her story, "The Manly Thing," was nominated for the 2010 Million Writers Award. She has a stories included in STILL GOING STRONG, TEN TWISTED TALES, PIECES OF EIGHT (AUTISM ACCEPTANCE), ZERO GRAVITY, COVER OF DARKNESS, DAUGHTERS OF ICARUS, M-BRANE SCI-FI QUARTERLIES, and a YA novel, REPLACING FIONA and children’s book, FLICK-FLICK & DREAMER, published by etreasurespublishing.com. http://margaretkarmazin.blogspot.com/

Aid and Abet

A man I met at a stranger’s party told me the story. At the time, I was going through an exhausting divorce and glad just to go somewhere, anywhere at all. I was staying with my cousin Karen in another state to attend the funeral of one of our uncles and after that was over, she said, “Would we be disrespectful if we went to this party? I told my friend I’d go long before Uncle Wayne died and she’s counting on me.” The party took place in the bottom rear apartment of a large, brick Victorian home on the river. A lucky find for a pad, I thought when I saw things set up outside on a pretty patio and how the grassy lawn sloped down to the water. It was late September and still beautiful out. After introducing me to the hostess, Karen disappeared with her into the kitchen and I was left to roam about. “Hi, I’m Noel,” said someone behind me and I turned to see a dark, thin, academic looking man in his late thirties. He had his hand out, so I shook it and said, “I’m Leslie.”

“Not from around here - your accent.” “No,” I said, “and not from where I live now either.” This elicited the expected questions as to where I lived and where I originated from, which I answered and followed by explaining how I came to be at the party. He didn’t seem particularly interested in details about me, something I have grown used to with people I meet in social situations. Instead, he gave the impression of wanting to talk about him, perhaps even unburden himself. I have always been good at detecting this in people and in this case, my impression turned out to be true. Possibly he’d been searching for the right stranger all along, even for years, to which he could tell his story. “Can I get you something?” he asked and returned with two bottles of Michelob. We moseyed towards the water and sat down on lawn chairs. Other guests milled about inside and on the patio. “Do you live near our host?” I asked. I was actually enjoying the fact that Noel did not ring my bells sexually. I wanted to relax, to just be two human beings talking and he seemed to want the same thing. I figured I 75

Nazar Look Margaret Karmazin pennsylvania, usa

was not his type either. I am mesomorph and busty, more the physical ideal of a man’s man, not usually the wiry sort with an air of exclusivity, as was Noel.

“I came to handle some particulars of my grandfather’s estate,” he said. “I used to live here.” I would learn later from my cousin than no one at her friend’s party knew him. Apparently, he had met up with some of the guests in a restaurant where they were dining earlier and they’d suggested he follow along. “I’m a therapist in Seattle now,” he said. “But years ago, did my residency here at Lockland State Hospital.” “I used to want to become a therapist,” I said. This was true, but by now I knew myself better and that it wouldn’t have worked out. Either I would have trouble maintaining patient confidentiality or I would snap after listening to people whine about the same problems for months to years. For God’s sake, have the guts to leave the bastard, I’d probably snap at some shrinking woman. Or why would you expect your kids to love you, you selfcentered jerk, to some disgruntled man. “You look like a therapist,” he said. I would have guessed that I looked more like a low paid writer, which I was. I laughed. “What was it like working in a mental hospital?” “Occasionally all right, most often terrible. One sad woman did nothing but write the letter M repeatedly in neat little rows. The staff joked that she must have once worked in the M&M factory.” My face must have registered disapproval because he added, “They had to let off steam - medical workers everywhere need their gallows humor or they’d go nuts themselves. She wouldn’t talk; no one could get out of her what the M’s meant. 76

“Another woman had cut off two of her toes. Told me that the toes were trying to burrow into the ground and if she didn’t let them go, they would eventually pull her into the earth.” “Wow,” I schizophrenia?”

said.

“What

was

it,

“With a bit of other things,” he said. “Though not everything can be labeled. I suppose the psychiatric community would consider me heretical since it loves to neatly categorize all. Hence the famous DSM, but in real life, not so easy.” “I own a set of those and read them cover to cover,” I said. “What did you think?” “Interesting, though I couldn’t help but laugh at the parts covering people in foreign cultures. Can’t remember the cases off hand, but situations where people had paranormal experiences. I think one was a poltergeist. The writer totally ignored the fact that other people witnessed the events, not just the ‘patient.’” “I remember the one you’re speaking of,” Noel said. “Some of the case workers need to read Charles Fort.” “This is another reason I could not be a traditional shrink,” I said. “They choose to ignore the vast body of evidence of the paranormal - an elephant in the room. They are completely materialistic.” Noel sipped his beer. “I did something unethical and illegal when I worked at Lockland. Do you want to hear about it?” What a question. “Of course.” He glanced around, like a TV character up to no good. No one paid attention to us, for which I was grateful. Being an introvert, I hated having to appear jovial when it went against my basic nature. Someone on the patio was jiving to the music coming from inside the

Nazar Look Margaret Karmazin pennsylvania, usa

apartment, apparently hoping to get everyone going. “I’m going to get us more drinks first,” he said. “Same thing or something different?” He seemed to want to make sure that I stayed where I was. “Same,” I said, and he returned with the beers and a plate of nachos. “I could have lost my license for what I did,” he began, “could still lose it.” He looked at me pointedly. “But sometimes you feel have to do something that is against the grain of society. If no one ever did, where would we be?” “No United State of America for one,” I said. “My third year at Lockland, I graduated to more interesting cases. Instead of shuffling, drugged men who barely spoke, I was given patients on the fourth floor. Two men who had murdered their families while they slept, a woman who’d set her twins on fire and another one who, according to the report, had kidnaped a state congressman, tied him up and painted him green. She’d done this all by herself, which was amazing since she was only five foot two and weighed a hundred and ten pounds.”

“She used nylon and bungee cords. And yes, she duck taped his mouth shut. I guess she had it all in her bag. Then, before he woke up, she spray painted him green. It’s a wonder it didn’t kill him. Right in his face. She took off, walking down the road and hitchhiked home since he’d been the one to drive her there.” “Who found him and why did she do it?” I asked. “He was lucky. It was offseason for lake visitors but a couple of hunters were up for bow season and saw the car. They knew the owner was in Florida and went to investigate. The congressman tried to pay them to keep quiet, but they called the cops.” He paused to eat a chip. “The reason she did it? Well, she told me in our first therapy session that the congressman was antienvironment. Anything brought up for consideration concerning environmental protection, the man did his utmost to block. Everything she stood for, he was against and everything he stood for she was against. ‘It was me or him,’ she said. ‘I had to do it.’” “Wow,” I said.

“Yes. Pretended to be a prostitute and got him to somebody’s dumpy cabin on a lake. Amazing what a horny politician will endure for some action.”

“At the time of the kidnapping, certain groups were trying to get a bill through the state congress for greater protections for water and wildlife from gas and oil company drilling. The congressman was the leader of the opposition. In addition to that, he was an asshole, known for cavorting with prostitutes while his materially comfortable wife turned a blind eye.”

“So,” I said, “after he was out, she tied him up. With what? Did she duck tape his mouth shut?”

“I see,” I said, enjoying a vicarious thrill at what his patient had done. It was apparent that Noel had enjoyed that same thrill.

He gave me a look. “You sound like you’re familiar with this kind of thing.”

“Unprofessional of you,” I said.

“Did she drug him?” I asked. “Then tie him up?” Being a Law & Order fan, I liked detail.

I smiled.

“What? I hadn’t yet done anything.” “That you vicariously enjoyed what she’d done.” 77

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He didn’t deny it. “Just wait, it gets worse.” “So what did they do to her? Find her incompetent to stand trial? Guilty, but insane? Not sure of the terms these days. Was she stuffed into a little room and drugged till she shuffled too?” “Basically, yes, though she never shuffled. She had unbelievable fire in her.” “What she beautiful?” “I suppose you could say she was beautiful, yes. I really shouldn’t be telling you all this.” “You never mentioned her name, did you? For all I know you’re making it up. So what else did you talk about in therapy then? Her potty training, how she felt about her mother?” Noel looked off into space while he drank from his bottle. “We talked about quantum physics. About metaphysics, space travel, karma, genetics, religion versus spirituality, the destruction of the planet, art, travel, alien abductions, fairies, cooking, dancing, archeology, you name it. She was fascinating.”

us a blank look before reentering the apartment; she probably had forgotten who I was and had no idea who Noel was either. Noel said, “Yes, I suppose I was in love with her.” He sighed. “She was a genius and an artist. Artists are allowed, even expected to be a little crazy.” “A little? She could have killed the guy. If no one had come along, he would have died.” He halfheartedly nodded. “Good thing she’s locked up,” I said, “before she hurts someone else with her fanaticism.” He didn’t respond. “Um, she is locked up, right?” Since he wasn’t hitting the nachos, I began in earnest. He scratched his ear. “Well, no. This is why I’m telling you this whole thing. I helped her to escape.” I sat up straight and looked at him “What did you do, let her just sneak out the door?”

I finished my beer and stifled a burp. “You were in love with her,” I said.

“Pretty much,” he said. His voice had an undertone of unease and I understood that he wanted my approval - me, this nobody stranger.

Three people noisily ran past us, announcing that they were going swimming. In addition to the fact that they were fully dressed, the temperature was probably in the low seventies and the water cold by now. They jumped around at the water’s edge, threatening to push each other in and I just wanted them to disappear and leave Noel and me in peace. Suddenly the hostess ran out, obviously riled up, and told them to stop fooling around, that her idea of a good party was not having to call the fire department to save people. Chastised, the trio sat down on the grass and one lit up a joint. The hostess shot

“I thought about helping her escape during a field trip but aides went along, so it would be difficult. Instead, I set her up outside with a locker at my health club. I put a gym bag in it containing toiletries, her meds, clothing, shoes, a jacket, false ID and some cash, then had her memorize the combination and slipped her a guest pass for one workout. The health club was three miles from the hospital, but she said she could walk it. I drew her maps, made her memorize everything. We waited for a day with a temp in the low eighties and no rain predicted. She put on a regular outfit like she wore everyday, a T shirt, pair of

Nazar Look Margaret Karmazin pennsylvania, usa

sweat pants, sneakers, had her lunch as usual and then went outside for recreation. I managed to be out there at the same time, claiming I needed some air too, and distracted the techs, aides and patients by showing them tricks with a yo-yo. I’m very good with a yoyo. While I was doing this, she managed to get herself behind a clump of bushes and trees in front of where I’d made an opening in the fence. Basically, just lifted it up from the bottom; it was chain link. She had to scrabble in the dirt to get under, but she did it because when it came time for her to be in recreational therapy at two pm, she was a no show.” “Wow,” I said. “What did they do?” “They sounded the alarm, of course. They locked down and searched everywhere, interviewed patients and staff, including me, but I swallowed a Xanax and managed to behave as normally as I could. Later they questioned me in more detail since I was, at the time, serving as her therapist. Of course I’d been nowhere near where she slipped out so they had no reason to suspect me.” “Well, outside,” I said with some impatience. “What about outside? Surely someone would have seen her.” “I’d hidden a paper bag in the bushes there. It contained a wig, fake glasses and a long black T-shirt. She just slipped it all on and made off like a bandit.” “I could use a Diet Pepsi, “ I said and he jumped to get me one. This time he returned with a plate of cookies and another beer for himself. “How many years ago was this and did you ever see her again?” “Three years later, we met up in Oregon. I’d always wanted to live on the northwest coast and went out for a job interview. She still lived under the fake ID and I found her online. She came up for the four

days I was staying. You can see how many rules I broke. My life is in your hands. Well….” he said, “I would deny everything.” But he didn’t look sure. “How did that go? stable?”

Was she mentally

“She was back on meds. Under control, but some of her personality was gone. Said she was unable to make art. At the time, she was doing or trying to do giant collages. She had four of them in shows and had sold two. But on the meds, she couldn’t work. It was like they cleaned out her mind,” she said. “Left nothing for her to say. “I didn’t take the Oregon job, but while out there got a lead on one in Seattle and extended my trip. She didn’t go with me but headed back to Indiana where she’d been living. I gave notice at Lockland and moved to Seattle.” I cracked open my Diet Pepsi; it made a satisfying hiss. “So… did you get together out there then?” He looked off into space. “Do you remember that case in the news a few years back? The one where eco-terrorists blew up that factory that was polluting a lake? Killed four people. They claimed they thought no one was inside?” “I don’t remember that one,” I said. “Well, guess who.” “She must have gone off her meds,” I said dryly, then regretted my flippancy. “Four people died because of me,” he said. His voice caught. I didn’t know what to say. He had indeed made a foolish decision. “Foolish” isn’t even adequate to describe it. But people made crazy decisions all the time. Probably most of them made lucky escapes or never learned about the far-reaching consequences. 79

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“I guess,” I finally said, “that lawyers and judges do that kind of thing frequently and have to live with the results. You know, people they defend or let go who go on to rape or murder.” He looked at me sharply. “I never thought about that. But it doesn’t lessen my guilt. I’ve considered turning myself in more than once. Maybe a lot lately.” What would I do if I had done something like this? Since I wasn’t the one carrying the burden of guilt, how would I actually know? “Could you confess to a priest or something? I don’t know. See a shrink? I’m not saying this to be facetious; I mean seriously.” “I was never sure if confidentiality would cover my situation. Would a therapist who has another therapist for a patient report the patient/therapist’s ethical and legal transgressions? I researched this online but could not find the answer and therapy confidentiality involving legal matters varies from state to state. As for telling a priest or minister? I am not religious. They would have me praying when I don’t believe in it.” “You don’t believe in prayer?” I said. “There have been some studies outside of religion.” “No,” he said firmly, “I don’t.” This turned me off a bit. I find atheists as annoying as religious fanatics - both so sure they have all the answers. Both so stupidly wrong. “Well, then,” I said a bit curtly, “what would be the point of turning yourself in? You’d be punishing yourself to what end?” “My debt to society?” he said. His voice wavered a little. I shrugged. “What the hell is ‘society’? A nameless blob. I don’t see the point.” I felt unreasonably exasperated with him. He didn’t say anything. 80

“Wouldn’t it make more sense to do something good for the world to atone rather than getting yourself locked up in hell? That would serve no purpose whatsoever. But even if you help one person on the planet, you’d be doing something.” He stared straight ahead, out over the water. Someone behind us shot off a firecracker. “Oh, no,” I said. “If they’re starting that, I’m out of here.” He said, “I see your point. Maybe find the families of the people affected by the explosion.” I shrugged. “I don’t think it matters who. Just help someone. It all goes into the pot, so to speak.” He looked at me but did not comment. “Well,” I said, hoisting myself up and suddenly feeling drained, “I think I need to get back to my cousin’s and get some rest. Gotta long drive home tomorrow.” He jumped up and extended his hand. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you so much for listening. You’d make a good therapist.” “No, I wouldn’t,” I appreciate the compliment.”

said.

“But

It was good to be on the road the next morning, a relief. Though in the light of the new day, I felt less annoyed with the man, a bit more sympathetic. I wondered how susceptible he still was to the charms of certain patients. The world was interesting. All the people in it, screwing up right and left. Soon I would be home to continue my own brand of screwing up.

Nazar Look Kevin Marshall Chopson tennessee, usa

Kevin Marshall Chopson tennessee, usa

In Nineteen Sixty-Two Amidst the gently rippling ponds of Jerry’s Island, a small patch of marshland, I sit on the beach and watch dragon flies light on cattails and snake grass – a brief pause between miracles. The multiple wings lift and fall in sacred measures, timing my thoughts. Not a house in sight, nor a human voice within ears’ reach, I hear the gentle twist of sand as I rise to mimic their every move. I am nine years old.

Nazar Look Kevin Marshall Chopson tennessee, usa

Life As a Field Irrigation wands perform their circular magic over drying fields in summer â&#x20AC;&#x201C; each morning, each new visitation, liquid manna. From the air I too am green, planted full with ripening soy. I see what moves above is transient and yearn for its slice of silver â&#x20AC;&#x201C; the object it mirrors. My leaves drip.

Nazar Look M.J. Cleghorn alaska, usa

M.J. Cleghorn alaska, usa M.J. Cleghorn was born in Anchorage Alaska. Her Athabaskan and Eyak heritage gave her a love of poetry. M.j. now lives and writes near the banks of the Matanuska river in the Palmer Butte, Alaska, where the moose, wild dog-roses and salmonberries provide unending joy and inspiration.

The Baptism When a baby was born in the village, the fishermen were quick to name a godfather. And for as long as anyone could remember, it was Oscar. He was every child’s godfather born over the last 50 years. Oscar was a silent man, with a weathered silence that comes from living and dying on the sea, a lifetime of fishing seasons— good and bad. He was a strong man, if not a little mysterious, some thought. When a baby girl was born to the Aleut daughter-in-law and son of the old Swede, the family named Oscar as her godfather. The old Swede, big Ed, was a friend of Oscars’ in their early days. It was Ed who followed Oscar out in a storm to hunt for Oscars’ son. Oscars’ son, lost at sea. 40 years past.

Wordless— as only fisherman can be, they scanned the sea, and the sky wondering what lay in store for them tomorrow. The sun was sinking under the horizon and the tides went out as they picked up the nets and walked home to their suppers. ~ It had been a poor fishing season, like the last and the one before that. But the morning dawned full and fair weathered. It was a dangerous time, the lull between summer and fall fishing. Hard gale winds blowing in from the Baltic and lightning across the Gulf of Alaska could curse a crew with certain death or bless their tug with a belly full of fish. “You can almost smell winter in the air,” they would say to each other, chugging out into deep icy waters.

Slipping two bottles of beer into his worn wool coast, big Ed painfully walked through town down to the water’s edge to find Oscar.

The little fleet formed a flotilla and headed out to test their luck. They did not fear drowning as much as they feared starvation.

Oscar saw the old Swede come up over the steep cliff and smiled.

“A little under the weather Oscar? This will pick you up!” Big Ed had brought his old friend a loaf of his wives’ sourdough bread and some rosehip tea.

“I thought you could use a hand with those nets..." And so they sat near the shore drinking bottles of beer and watching the waves break over the rocky beachhead, talking of nothing and understanding each other perfectly. “That s.o.b. doctor was so drunk it took Emil and me both to drag him out of bed and hold him up in the cold shower. Couldn’t sober him up! -and what do you know, the baby didn’t want his help anyway! That’s the way it should be, Ed." The old Swede was dying. But it seemed like a small thing as he sat with to a man whose son was gone. A son he could only talk to in his prayers. His body never washed ashore.

“A little,” Oscar answered setting out a can of butter next to his friend. Ed sat at the wooden table in the tiny kitchen filled with Wilma’s pots and cake pans. Oscar’s wife had died the Christmas his son was lost at sea. After that it seemed that Oscar lived on coffee and cigarettes, pilot bread, dried fish and an occasional bottle of beer. Big Ed pulled a pocket knife from his jacket, and wiping the blade on his pant leg, cut two big pieces from the warm loaf. Oscar sat and stared out his window— down, down across the zig zaged rows of rickety ramshackle houses, down, past the rusty cannery— down to the rocky shoreline. 83

Nazar Look M.J. Cleghorn alaska, usa “Broken.”

“The clouds are moving in,” Big Ed raised his head, looking at nothing in particular. “I hear the winds…” Big Ed and Oscar ate their bread and drank two cups of black coffee each. Oscar stood up. He looked at his old friend square in the face. “Thank you Ed.” Ed looked at the coffee grounds in his chipped cup. “Tomorrow’s the baptism. Sunday. Noon. They are going to call her Wilma.” Oscar smiled. When Ed looked up he was gone. ~ Midnight. The fleet had not returned and the fishermen’s wives began to gather at Zenia's— big Ed’s wife— house. There was coffee and Russian tea, a few cans of salmon and salt bread put out to eat. By one o’clock the fleet had still not returned, the same by three, then four. The hurricane-force gale winds had flattened the few trees surrounding the little fishing village, scattering them like broken dolls. Then the fog rolled in thick and sharp, like the breath of a monster from the bottom of the sea. More than once the fishermen’s wives heard their husbands swear they had seen the creatures. The women spoke quietly, if at all. Some knit while others absent mindedly played cards or cradled crying babies. “I’m going down to the dock and the signal house.” The women looked on expectantly as big Ed buttoned up his jacket and pulled on his hat and heavy rubber boots. “Come help me get out the door,” When Big Ed opened the door, the women formed a barricade behind it. “Hold steady!” big Ed hollered, stepping out into the black howling winds. The strength of the gusts took the old Swede by surprise— like a hard hit to the head. Big Ed’s fisherman boots were no match for the rain-turned-ice on the broken boardwalk that snaked down to the little harbor. Tripping over a wobbly railing, he slid halfway to the shoreline, landing face down on a rocky sand bar. “The wind’s not the worst of it,” Ed thought as he tried to move his leg. 84

~ One by one the fishermen’s little tugs were hauled in. One by one they reached home and the arms of their wives and children— who were praying and waiting for their return. All were now safe and sung, all but one, that is. “It was Oscar who found us, after he towed the last boat in we lost sight of him. That’s when we found Big Ed.” Big Ed had come to the next day, in bed with a set leg. “The baptism is noon Sunday,” were his only words. The fishermen and their wives and children gathered in the tiny hand hued church erected on the little bench above the village for the baptism. They had no priest; they honored what mattered to them by gathering together and sharing a few good words. Weddings. Baptisms. Burials. Fisherman lived by simple luck, what others called faith. Leaning on one crutch, Big Ed limped his way up to the front of the room. He scooped up the baby, and buttoning her up in his old wool coat. “I told Oscar, the baptism was noon Sunday.” Big Ed made his way out of the church down the boardwalk to the docks, followed by the rest of the village. Stopping at the shores edge he stood and watched the tide come in. Raising the baby up in his arms towards the sky, he turned to the little crowd. “Wilma, I baptize you in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost,” then gently dipping her in the waves of sea foam, he turned back towards the sea. “Here

your

Goddaughter,

Oscar:

Wilma.” The fisherman and the families were making their way back home when a boy who was lagging behind came running, shouting and waving a broken piece of wood— washed up and ripped from Oscar’s tug by the storm— on it painted in big black letters The Godfather. And the only sound was the sound of the waves crashing to shore and a few shrill cries of gulls, as everyone bowed their heads.

Nazar Look Gary Beck new york, usa

Gary Beck new york, usa

Symphony of the City Discordant orchestra rent by untuned instruments, the underlying hum of engines sound the theme of endless din. The clack of workmen moving pipes, the bumpthump of delivery trucks, the unrythmic thud of hammer, the voices of children cavorting in the playground serenade the senses, varied sensual sounds interrupted by crash and bang, handymen, repair crews, horn-blowing motorists aspiring to be soloists, daytime throb of labor. Nighttime crack of gunfire, shrieks and howls of citizens in torment under constant assault, reveal the melody of your anguished composition.

Questions of War In ancient wars generals led from the front, compelled to face the foe to set an example for apprehensive troops who soon would confront axmen and spearmen eager to drink their blood. Gunpowder changed warfare, bringing death from afar, beyond reach of the sword, which had made war personal. Generals moved behind the lines to survive longer, 85

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but still were close enough to direct the battle. Long-range artillery and far ranging aircraft made generals decide to move further to the rear, safe from intrusive bombs that interfered with planning. Once generals felt secure they quickly got comfortable, sheltered from perils of the field, ordered better food and drink than was provided to the soldiers fighting in the trenches, and began to forget the creed to always lead by example and soon were detached from daily threats to the troops. Yet American families didn't understand why a general's life was worth more than a soldier's who was much closer to danger and entrusted their children to reassuring leaders, who avoided the question of whose lives were more precious, experienced combat troops, or rear-echelon generals.

Desertion, or Treason? Once when our country still made things in the heyday of World War II, lots of our workers were happy and harbored secret fantasies of becoming millionaires. Granted they never believed it, but they hoped their kids would get rich and until globalization their offspring still had a chance. After our jobs and capital kissed the U.S.A. goodbye, because it cost too much at home to make a sufficient profit for those who never made enough 86

Nazar Look Gary Beck new york, usa

and only wanted to make more, the solution was quite simple, go where everything is cheaper. It cost too much to retool the factories that could compete with new technologies abroad that replaced expensive labor with automated work systems that didn't require benefits. So the workforce once considered the backbone of our country was allowed to dwindle away, with no concern that the future basically offered servitude for holders of low paying jobs. Yet some economists assert this is a normal evolution from a farm economy, to factory economy, then to service sector jobs. Eighty percent of our workers have been demoted to servants with a useful side benefit, servants rarely become strikers, thus allowing corporations to dictate economic turns to the subservient people. Now gone and never to return, our factory jobs went to Asia, or welcoming third world countries eager to accept the money pilfered from our nation's workers, now reduced in purchase power, forced into a lower life style. There are many moral questions for those who have in abundance regarding their obligations to those who live in poverty, but lack of ethics has prevailed and laissez-faire is the practice. A few earn enormous profits, the rest struggle to survive, often barely more secure than peasants in the middle ages. More than three million jobs went abroad since 2000 and never will return, 87

Nazar Look Gary Beck new york, usa

now enriching China, still enriching Japan, still bringing poverty to American shores. It is quite obvious that either stupidity, or surrender to greed suborned national ideals, permitting the powerful to exploit everyone else. Our system has declined and no longer may produce saviors who will preserve the future of our children.

Iraq Dilemma Political opponents of the administration invoked the ghosts of Vietnam that still haunted the nation, though many tried to forget, and raise specters of defeat for our venture in Iraq. Granted that it was foolish to make war in the Mid-East without a clear-cut mission, a pacification plan, an exit strategy, but why blame our president when congress voted for war, our people endorsed the war, except for foolish dissidents easily dismissed. So we were in a quagmire that was nothing like Vietnam, but still consumed our soldiers and still devoured our treasure. Then former war supporters loudly demanded withdrawal of our troops, or else they'd cut off the funds for our soldier's plane fare home. The lords of industry made sufficient profit 88

Nazar Look Gary Beck new york, usa

selling war equipment and were kindly listening to clamors for retreat. They accepted a cease fire as soon as it was practical and soon discovered the horror we unleashed.

Biofuel Confusion Gas emissions choke the world. Ministers of greed chortle as profits sustain their power, letting them ignore perils that fossil fuel is creating for poor and privileged alike. Oppressive regimes are sustained, their people bought or suppressed in a world oil dependant, making Earth more polluted. Oil profits cushion our masters, support our enemies, pay for weaponry, fund plots against civilization. We are trapped in oil servitude, manipulated to consume what the lords of profit decide until the haves become sated, while have-nots simmer in anger. Yet leaders of the U.S.A. ignore the problems of fossil fuel and accept the poisoning of air, earth, water, our future, while means of survival become obliterated, and we are oblivious to wanton destruction of our children's tomorrows. The tyranny of oil decrees higher speeds on highways, higher prices for fuel, larger vessels for shipment, longer pipelines for transport, regulated production for economic control that determines consumption, which insures dependency on a diminishing resource 89

Nazar Look Gary Beck new york, usa

that may do more good than harm, but punishes us for usage that we only seem to protest when prices go up at the pump. Our leaders propose alternative energy, presenting various options from silly to futile. One recent popular choice is corn-produced ethanol that eager advocates assert will replace costly, toxic oil. Greedy farmers rush to plant bigger and bigger corn fields, planting fewer and fewer crops that feed animals and man, so everything will cost more, while animals and man will eat less. Corn is a row crop that adds to soil erosion, contributes to pollution, needs tons of fertilizer, huge amounts of pesticides, expends large amounts of fuel to grow, harvest and dry, which causes nitrogen runoff that consumes vital oxygen. This alternative fuel makes almost as much greenhouse gas as the gasoline it replaces further depleting the soil, competing with food production. Some leaders wave the banner of green claiming corn-produced ethanol an alternative to fossil fuel, but that is merely illusion. Our energy dependency on diminishing fossil fuels threatens the world's food supply as farmers plant less wheat, rice, peas, rye, other crops, increasing the price of grain that feeds our livestock, poultry, us. In the pursuit of more profit more acreage will be used for corn, further depleting the food chain. If the entire U.S. corn crop was used to produce ethanol, 90

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it would only replace twelve percent of U.S. gas consumption, lead to rising prices for processed and staple foods, affect the relationships of food producers, consumers, all nations of the world, threaten global poverty, threaten food security in the global food system, slightly annoying the haves, further distressing the have-nots. Using gasoline and ethanol is burning a candle at both ends consuming itself wastefully in our endless lust for energy. Windbags urge wind or solar power that cannot answer our demands for more and reliable power. When fossil fuel is exhausted and ethanol depletes the earth and the wind no longer blows and the sun no longer shines, we're left with few alternatives except nuclear energy, or huddling in caves again.

Bombs Bursting in Iraq The biggest killers in Iraq that murdered American troops were powerful roadside bombs, considered responsible for four of five combat deaths in a struggle against chaos. Yet at home politicians claimed it wasn't their fault we're fighting there, President Bush should be blamed. To some the war was a mistake. Others thought it was proper. It matters not who's right or wrong when our sons and daughters are dying. Despite our fears we won the war with incredible efficiency, a minimum of casualties. 91

Nazar Look Gary Beck new york, usa

Our problems began when we were ill-equipped to win the peace. History will or will not answer the questions about our decision to disband the Iraqi army, to purge sunnis from the government, to neglect to establish order when the opportunity was thereâ&#x20AC;Ś. And other multiple mistakes. But our politicians criticized the war, the same war they voted for, and demanded we bring troops home and weren't really concerned that improvised explosive devices were the biggest killers of our troops, and didn't make urgent demands to develop new devices to protect our threatened soldiers who were fighting in Iraq.

American Intervals When the New World was first settled common people constructed the illusion of freedom, encouraged by their masters lusting to pluck tantalizing fruits of a continent ripe for exploitation. Soon settlers grew tired of constraints, moved west, until they ran out of west and were lured to opportunities in burgeoning cities, promising relief from feudal toil of farming. Then another revolution spawned the machine age, static serfdom for its workers who banded together against mechanized oppression. For a while it seemed that humble toilers could compel 92

Nazar Look Gary Beck new york, usa

begrudging overseers of power to share benefits of effort. But share is alien to oligarchs, whose only mantra is more, who took their riches elsewhere and only paid a pittance to undemanding foreigners, abandoning former workers to rust in decaying cities of industry.

The Long View Short-term tenants on the indifferent earth greedily grubbed their way to accumulation, first survival weapons, spears, fire, meat, furs, fuel, primitive requirements necessary to insure desired continuation. The exercise of power won storage space in caves of comfort, allowing distribution in varied times of need, or for public rewards of vital commodities for services rendered by loyal followers. The innovation of cities provided greater space for storing more goods, permitting more resources, regardless of weather, or enemy siege, to sustain a household, personal bodyguards, constabulary, armies, until one controlled many. This is history's lesson, briefly contradicted by illusions of democracy.

Nazar Look Gary Beck new york, usa

Elegy to The Child Soldier Recruited by brutal abusers too callous to care about them, children are brainwashed to commit dreadful crimes against humanity, as terrible as those afflicted on the innocent children themselves. The first condition to convert children into deadly weapons is a failed state that can't protect children from being abducted, or enticed by opportunists to enlist in warring armies. How easily children's minds are altered by ruthless warlords, who don't allow refusal, promise an end to hunger, protection from harm by magic, the comfort of belonging. Once in the grip of warlords, the merely vicious bandits plundering a troubled land, there is no escape until death, except for the fortunate few who manage survival. And the horrors they see forever blemishes them, until immune to pity they carry out massacres, unimaginable bloodbaths the form of hygiene practiced. In the still protected U.S.A. we are shocked at a child killer and cannot conceive of children burning other children alive, pounding babies to death in mortars, as if they were grinding grain. Children are exploited by cruel thugs and criminals, and automatic rifles become toys for child's play. Suddenly a twelve year old is a dangerous weapon.

Nazar Look Gary Beck new york, usa

When Iran issued plastic keys to open the gates of heaven for thirteen year old children who cleared Iraqi minefields by sacrificing their bodies, there were no outraged protests. When warlords teach child soldiers life and death depends on spirits conjured up by their commanders, distilled in oil and amulets, children do unspeakable things, moved by supernatural fears. When the world finally noticed terrible atrocities the U.N. passed a protocol that combatants must be eighteen, but neglected to provide means of enforcement.

Battlefield Our troops trudged through Baghdad streets fearing ambush from hidden snipers, roadside bombs, other fatal means that kill our men and women. Yet soldiers and marines obeyed orders, went in harm's way on dangerous Baghdad streets, while our politicians, generals and admirals, far from combat zones, made decisions in safety about hi-tech weapons that may or may not be used in future war fought with hi-tech systems that will promise victory. As our troops patroled perilous Baghdad streets, our leaders sat in comfort behind the firing lines imbibing vintage wines like chateau generals behind the firing lines 95

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of World War I trenches, so far from troops they lost loyalty down, an officer's obligation to value troops more than personal ambitions even at cost of career, an ethic forgotten on the harsh road of advancement that hardens the heart to concern for the lives of weary troops, who fought a different kind of war than our generals would prefer. In a democratic nation founded on patriotic myths it is difficult to accept that corruption rules the land and public personae mask ulterior motives leaving many citizens without recourse for liberty and justice. So we submerge into tv, neglect public duty which encourages our leaders to obey special interests that build billion dollar weapons for admirals and generals who overlook basic need of personal body armor for volunteers serving in a distant, hostile land, who guarded vulnerable crosswalks of dangerous Baghdad streets.

The Spoils of War The United States of America never fought a war of self-defense, but inherited a tradition from European forebears to fight for land, resources, other valuables. As industry developed we resorted to armed conflict for our share of markets, foreign and domestic.

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We always claimed a righteous cause, our masters cynically knowing the way to rouse the nation's wrath against the selected enemy. After the guns fell silent the dead were quickly forgotten, except by family and friends. The wounded soon were neglected, except by family and friends, until they also lost interest. Many clever ex-soldiers quickly sought public office, while memories of their triumphs were convertible to rewards. Most soldiers who survived our general's leadership and hostile actions of our foes, rapidly returned to civilian life with no transition from the battlefield and were easily abandoned by once supportive leaders, because they were no longer needed, until World War II began, when we became a global player. Then the lords of profit remembered the threat of the bonus marchers, who after World War I were promised rich rewards for their sacrifices, which were conveniently forgotten. So betrayed veterans marched on Washington D.C., demanding government keep its pledge. Instead they met Douglas MacArthur, who crushed their hopes with troops and tanks. And the lords of profit realized that the legions had seen a bigger world then the trenches of World War I and would not be as easily duped as veterans of earlier wars., they devised a plan to tempt the returning legions with promotion to middle class, made possible by education with the G.I. bill of rights. And the veterans flourished. Newly armed with higher incomes 97

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they joined the consumer crusade with ever-growing fervor, acquired goods and services, endorsing the hallowed principle of frequency of replacement, manipulated by tv accepting blindly they were what they bought. The children of this nouveau class wallowing in luxuries unimagined in ages past, were effortlessly deceived into expecting entitlements, were expertly deluded by the unexpected success of the civil rights movement, America's last noble cause, into believing they mattered. Then the children of comfort freed from toil in the fields, rescued from crush of factories, turned attention to Vietnam with righteous indignation, protested the evils of war, refusing to join the legions manned by sons of the poor, sent to Asian jungles with the banner of democracy. When our bitterest war ended, the children of comfort rejoiced, celebrating their victory over the forces of evil. They could never imagine that old ordnance was expended so new ordnance could be purchased, with enough new markets so the war was no longer needed and the lords of profit were glutted. Still married to the cold war whose temperature fluctuated with a corrosive agenda, the lords of profit chose technology to replace manpower, preferring low cost volunteers to man hundred-million dollar planes, to man billion dollar ships and avoid the casualties 98

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that always distressed America. So eager volunteers were permitted little wars while the soviets were a threat, but when they had a great fall the lords of profit discovered they no longer had an enemy suitable for massive warfare, and without massive warfare they couldn't expend old ordnance so they could sell new ordnance. The lords of profit consulted the oracle of Delphi, Tiresias, the blind prophet, Rosanna, the gypsy seeress, the pentagon crystal ball and other intel sources who were all in agreement that an enemy was needed, a monster, but not a real threat and they selected Sadaam. He qualified on every count. He was a genuine monster, a violent aggressor of low moral rectitude, oppressor of the weak, addicted to torture and most conveniently lacked long range aircraft, lacked long range missiles, and couldn't attack the U.S.A. We manufactured an issue, Sadaam's mad lust to obtain weapons of mass destruction. If that wasn't pretext enough to confuse our many skeptics, his connection was discovered to international terror, so the generals and admirals were allowed to unleash blitzkrieg. Nothing was more satisfying to the neglected military then to overwhelm an enemy with only moderate casualties, which pleased the suspicious public, who had feared defeat in the desert, but now were given a victory 99

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and gladly awarded a triumph to the returning legions. And the lords of profit were sated. Satiation doesn't last long when the coffers of industry, the pockets of politicians, the lunch pails of the working class were not as full as they could be. And these groups were useful as the lords of profit continued to plunder the land of its treasures, breaking down sovereign borders, sending jobs and capital abroad. So the usual solution of military adventure with the usual restrictions on collateral damage caused the usual disasters. And the usual scapegoats, the defenseless military became targets of public scorn. And the men and women warfighters, despite dedication to duty were sacrificed by the bureaucrats. As we approached the twenty first century conditions economic and social weren't positive domestically and people were becoming restless, for the lords of profit had removed well-paying jobs with security and cast many families adrift, leaving little alternative to accepting a lower life style, an end to their American dream. Once again a war was needed to divert our demanding people. Once again we unleashed blitzkrieg on appropriate recipients, who we blamed for our many ills, and they were rapidly defeated, but spited us by resisting our efforts at pacification, knowing that we'd soon lose our taste for prolonged battle. Our politicians were divided. Most of them had their own agenda. Many spoke for special interests. 100

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Many opposed the war in Iraq. Many claimed to be patriots. Many professed love for their country. Yet the problems facing our nation always seemed more difficult to solve and a spirit of despair emerged that further drained our resolution. Then the voices of clamor were raised by liberals and conservatives, some demanding get out of Iraq, some demanding stay the course, and while our sons and daughters were fighting fanatic enemies, each day the media published the list of our sons and daughters killed or wounded in battle, further breaking down public morale. Our nation was further divided into different citizen groups, some who'd turn out to find a lost child, others who'd stay home and complain. Their differences grew more extreme. Bitterness infected the people further weakening their resolve to deal with confusing issues which delighted the breeders of sheep in a world of ravenous wolves. Then the lords of profit gloated as dissension rendered the land, preventing deeper inquiries into the future of the land menaced with so many dangers that our people were in despair. Those who still managed to care were overwhelmed with the burdens that an entire nation should share, while threats of terror numbed the land. Our legions stationed abroad strategically placed on foreign shores to counter conceivable threats, were unnoticed by the media, unless they committed war crimes, since the media were focused on Iraq and Afghanistan, distracting us with body counts from domestic problems that would insure our children's future. 101

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We do not know what tomorrow brings, but citizens who are hopeful that the promise of America is not beyond redemption for those who believe in ideals in the land where many strive to better the lot of our people, seek oracles of fulfillment and must learn to be aware of the dangers of false prophets.

State of the Union My fellow citizens. I fear the future of our bountiful nation is in imminent danger of survival. The nuclear family has been supplanted by the dysfunctional family, dumbing our children. Many public schools, except for the privileged, are academies of failure creating purposeless legions of disaffected youth, denied, by a moribund system, a sense of achievement, so they repay us daily with anger and madness to punish our neglect. We can only wonder if the schools are well-meaning. In our once bountiful nation, with more churches and sects than any other nation, religion in all its forms will not suffice to avert calamity. Lost wars haunt our land. The war on crime, drugs, poverty, other crusades 102

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designed to deceive our trusting people that our government of, by, for, etc., is concerned with our well-being. We can only wonder who is well-meaning. In our struggling nation corporations rush abroad, abandoning the origins that allowed enrichment, until swollen with appetite for endless profit they renounce the people who nourished them, leaving the service sector beckoning our youth to diminishing comforts. Yet we act surprised when rejected offspring erupt in tragic violence, while custodians of tomorrow, failing in their duty, are richly rewarded. We can only wonder how we remain well-meaning. In our besieged nation the air becomes more toxic, the water more tainted, the food supply more tasteless in a land divided, at peril as never before of unavoidable conflict between children of endurance and heirs of privilege, whose only catechism is 'after us, the deluge'. The wielders of power slyly disassembled the blue collar working class whose sons and daughters lost tools of resistance to endless abuses by the lords of profit. We can only wonder 103

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how long we will be well-meaning. In our declining nation more hated than feared abroad, more confused than certain at home, illegal hordes of aliens swarm our porous borders, encouraged by political correctness allowing amateur architects to construct the tower of Babel, until the clamor of foreign tongues frays lines of communication between established communities, legitimate colonists, illicit intruders. And the lords of profit securely perched above turbulence gloat in satisfaction as we are distracted by mindless diversions, tv, sports, electronic amusements that allow no cognition of long-term danger. Detached from issues of reality we are easily discarded. My fellow citizens. The state of the union is threatened and we can only wonder if it is too late for well-meaning.

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Nazar Look Edmund Spencer

Edmund Spencer

Travels in Circassia, Krim Tartary, &c. (XXV)

Instead, however, of the ruthless slaughter 1 have seen perpetrated on similar occasions in Christendom, the more merciful disciple of Mahornet, contented with ridding himself of the nuisance, was quite careless as to the fate of his neighbour; for the little plagues were quietly placed upon the deck, and left to the full enjoyment of life and liberty. But this boon, though no doubt very agreeable to them, was not so to the few Franks on board, who regarded with dismay a process so likely to people their garments with an unwelcome population. The Frank passengers consisted of merchants flying from the plague, which now raged with great virulence at Smyrna, a town at no time remarkable for its salubrity, from which cause probably arose the circumstance of which these gentlemen informed me; namely, that such was the malignity of the cholera when it desolated this unlucky town, that hundreds of persons were swept into eternity in five minutes after the attack of the epidemic. Aided by steam, we overcame both the impetuosity of the current and a stiff breeze in our teeth; and gliding rapidly along, soon passed Gallipoli, now only interesting as being the fatal spot on which the Turk first planted the Crescent in Europe. We then entered the magnificent basin of the Propontis, usually called the Sea of Marmora, from the island of the same name. The

country on the Asiatic side possessed a few poetic features, but the scenery in general was neither picturesque nor romantic; and the few towns and villages were so miserable as to render the aspect still more gloomy, which was only relieved by the distant prospect of Mount Olympus, whose snowy ridge, even divested of its classical associations, formed a sublime feature in the landscape. Indeed, every thing considered, the approach to Stamboul by the sea of Marmora is far less striking than that by the Bosphorus; for it is not till we have doubled the point where the seraglio is erected, and enter the Golden Horn, that the magical panorama of the Ottoman capital bursts upon the view. The attention of the traveller is immediately arrested by its peculiarly favourable situation, appearing alike calculated to give laws to the world, or to engross its commerce. The straits of the Bosphorus and the Dardanelles, if properly fortified, and defended with only moderate courage, might bid defiance to any attack by sea; and its fine bay, the Golden Horn, sheltered from every wind, is suflSciently deep and capacious to receive the ships of every maritime nation. By the same narrow channels, she commands at once the trade of the north and the south; and when the canal, now in progress to unite the Danube with the Rhine, shall be completed, the merchant of Constantinople will then possess a secure medium of transit for the luxuries of the east to Hungary, Germany, and the capital of Great Britain. Yet, though blessed with all these advantages, in addition to a climate the most delightful and a soil producing all that can cheer life, we find the inhabitants miserable; and instead of an opulent commercial city, the poorest metropolis in the world. Never, indeed, was a 105

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people more blind to their interests than the Turks; when, by the exercise of only a moderate share of common sense and industry, they might have poured into their capital the riches of the earth. That the Russians should be desirous to establish themselves at Constantinople can be no matter of surprise; and we must almost feel astonished at the forbearance of the young emperor, when conqueror of Adrianople, that he did not march forward and secure the glorious prize, even at the hazard of a general European war. Having contemplated for some time, with feelings of the warmest admiration, this most picturesque of all cities; having glanced from palace to seraglio; from mosque and minaret to chiosk and brightly painted summer villas; from cypress, plane, and vine-clad hills, to the mysterious recesses of Scutari's interminable cemetery, the romantic acclivities of Bulgurlu, and the blue mountains of Asia Minor; I reluctantly stepped into the light cn'ik., and darted rapidly across the Golden Horn to Pera, the infidel suburb of proud Stamboul. But whoever would paint the horrors of semibarbarism in their most vivid colours, has only to land and wade through the abominations of this den of disease. How sincerely I regretted that I could not have remained for ever in a blissful dream respecting its beauty, for all the promises held out by its external appearance were too glaringly falsified. I found myself, on landing, in narrow unpaved streets, covered with every imaginable description of filth and dirt. Then the canine population: here thousands of lazy, mangy curs, their wolflike aspect rendered still fiercer by hunger, lay in the middle of the streets, exactly in the spot over which the passenger must pass. These wretched animals, being considered by the Turks unclean, are left without a master or a home, their only shelter being the gateways and benches, and their only sustenance the miserable food they can find in the streets; and even this is disputed by the vultures, who hover over the

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town in numbers, constantly on the watch for prey. When it happens, which is not unfrequently the case, that the dogs by their utmost industry can only procure scanty gleanings, they send forth such loud and repeated howlings, that a Frank feels much inclined to extend towards them a wish similar to that uttered by the tender- hearted Nero for his beloved subjects. As these Stamboul plagues are infected with the true Turkish antipathy to Giaours, they seldom fail to attack every Christian stranger, inflicting on some occasions the most serious injury. A melancholy instance of their ferocity is related by the inhabitants of Pera, which occurred not long since. A Frenchman, the master of a brig, having spent the evening with a friend, set out after night-fall on his return to his ship, at anchor in the port; but whether he had called to visit a friend, lost his way, or indulged too freely in the juice of the grape, is not known: certain it is, that the next morning all that remained of the miserable man were his bones and attire. Throughout the whole of this city and its suburbs, there is nothing that deserves the name of a street, narrow lanes being their legitimate appellation. In that quarter called Galata, the great resort of the maritime population, we seldom meet with any other specimens of humanity than drunken sailors, or boys and women of the most degraded class; who may be seen issuing out of cabarets which emit such unsavoury exhalations, that it would be difficult to find their parallel in any other part of the world. Such are the objects that meet the vision of a stranger on his first landing. To arrive at Pera, I was obliged to pass through the Turkish champs des 7norts, a dense grove of gloomy cypresses, crowded with white tomb-stones; and as these are adorned with immense turbans, they now appeared, enveloped in the shades of evening, exactly like a host of ghosts glaring from their shadowy recesses. On entering Pera, I was somewhat relieved by the aspect of a few clean houses, and

Nazar Look Edmund Spencer

open shops filled with European manufactures. This is the principal quarter appropriated to the residence of the rich Franks; and although the cleanest and best built of all the suburbs, it is still a miserable place, and more deserves the name of a labyrinth, so totally destitute is it of the slightest pretensions to regularity. Most of the large houses look like wooden barracks, and the late fire gave the whole suburb a peculiarly desolate aspect. Here are situated the houses, or rather sheds, of the ambassadors; for as the greater number of their mansions were burnt, they now reside at their country-houses, in the pretty villages of Therapia and Buyukdere. In this quarter we find two or three Greek and Italian inns; of these the principal is the European hotel, but the English generally prefer residing at the pensionat of M. Giusepino, in the Strada Santa Maria. The charge is a ducat per day, which includes a very good breakfast, dinner with a bottle of wine, tea, and a sleeping-room; and when compared with the other dirty inns and

lodging-houses, recommended.

cannot

too

highly

I had the pleasure to find domiciliated at Giusepino's, a pleasant party of English travellers, including my friend Mr. Newton, together with Colonel Considine and several British officers who had come to Constantinople in consequence of an invitation from the Turkish government, for the purpose of instructing the troops in European tactics. But unfortunately, a short time previous to their arrival occurred the unlucky affair of Mr. Churchill, which had so materially interrupted the harmony between the Ottoman Porte and the British legation. Hence it was doubtful whether the officers would be employed; they had, however, been most cordially received by the Seraskier Pacha, the minister of war.

(to be continued)

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Nazar Look Nazar Look 2014 Prizes

Nazar Look 2014 Prizes

Pushcart Prize XL Nominations (for work published in 2014)

Nazar Look Prize for Poetry - Taro Aizu Fukushima, Japan - Laila Shikaki Ramallah, Palestine

Nazar Look Prize for Short Story - Tom Sheehan Massachusetts, United States - W.J. Savage California, United States

Nazar Look Prize for Tatar and Altaic Literature - Ahmet Yalçinkaya Konya, Turkey

Nazar Look Prize for Visual Arts - Shikhova Alsou Ildarovna Tatarstan (today in Russia)

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Ram Krishna Singh Jharkhand, India - Let’s Meet (Nazar Look, issue 40, April 2014) Ute Carson Texas, United States - Bread of Affliction-Bread of Love (Nazar Look, issue 41, May 2014) Jack Peachum Virginia, USA - A Wish for Karma in Virginia (Nazar Look, issue 41, May 2014) Gary Beck New York - Symphony of the City (Nazar Look, issue 43, Sem.2, 2014)

Kevin Marshall Chopson Tennessee, USA - May (Nazar Look, issue 37, January 2014) Alan D. Harris Michigan, USA - Broken Hip - Lost Sock - Waiting Room (Nazar Look, issue 42, June 2014)