BAŞ KABÎMÎZDA ON THE COVER Steve Rushton Photo: Lorrain Baggaley
NAZAR LOOK Attitude and culture magazine of Dobrudja’s Crimean Tatars Tomrîğa Kîrîm Tatarlarîñ turuşmamuriyet meğmuwasî ISSN: 2069-4784 www.nazar-look.com email@example.com Constanta, Romania FOUNDER & EDITOR-IN-CHIEF BAŞ-NAŞIR Taner Murat EDITORS NAŞIRLER Emine Ómer Uyar Polat COMPUTER GRAPHICS SAYAR SÎZGAĞÎSÎ Elif Abdul Hakaan Kalila (Hakan Calila) CREATIVE CONSULTANTS ESER KEÑEŞÇÍSÍ M. Islamov
Copyright reverts back to contributors upon publication. The full issue is available for viewing online from the Nazar - Look website. For submission guidelines and further information, please stop by www.nazar-look.com
2 christina rossetti Dúrkí 3 bekir çobanzade Bír saray kurağakman 4 taner murat scythia minor Kókten sesler - Temúçin (X) 6 jack peachum virginia, usa Paparazzi to Duke and Duchess of Kent In the Mountains - Daklarda Lady of the Evening - Akşam katunî 10 christopher leibow utah, usa Interview Abandon - Bazgeşúw Handstand Blue Filter The Last Days of Venetian Exile More Bird Saint Alexander Blok Paris of The Occident Two 16 graham masterton england, uk Ex-voto 20 steve rushton england, uk Dear Silent Sirens in Subatomic Stations - Aziz tîmgan dúdúk ğerastî atom kaşamaklarînda 22 kong fuzi - confucius The Master Said 23 william cullen bryant October 24 katherine givens new jersey, usa Writer The Language of the Heart Mind Vs. Heart
26 john patrick hill california, usa Interview Second Lady in Waiting Soul Olmec 33 austen roye texas usa and he’s never on time. citizen. clarity. opening night at the prisoner’s cinema. the weight 36 fieldshop puducherry, india Sarameya Comes 38 edmund spencer Travels in Circassia, Krim Tartary, &c. (V) 40 dilyaver memedjan (memedjanov) crimea (ukraine) Photoshop - Khan's Palace at Night - Bakhchisaray, Crimea
CONTRIBUTORS MEMBALAR Lorrain Boggaley Fieldshop Katherine Givens John Patrick Hill Christopher Leibow Graham Masterton Dilyaver Memedjan (Memedjanov) Jack Peachum Austen Roye Steve Rushton
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Dúrkí Men ólgende, ğanîm, Şalma dúrkí maga; Gúl, kólgelí añdîz, Otîrtma başîma; Ústúm otlîk bolsîn Şiy ğawunî ğawsun; Atîm ya añîlsîn, Ya da unutulsun. Kózím kólge kórmez, Tuymam ğawun ğawsa; Kulak ta eşítmez Búlbúl ğîlaganda; Kóríp túşlerímde Ne tañ, ne de batîş, Mutlî añîp berermen, Hep dewletlí, bagîş. (Translated by Taner Murat)
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Bír saray kurağakman!... Bír saray kurağakman!... Han bolmasîn íşínde... Kul, îrgat, aşlîk, horlîk, kan bolmasîn íşínde... Taşînî yat ellerden ketírtmem hiç, Ğetíşír óz ğurtumda çîkkan kerpiç... Bek yuksek bolmasa da kók tóbesí, Temellí bolsîn, aydînlîk her kóşesí... Penğeresí keníş bolsîn, kírsín îşîk, Ğarlîga her kapîsî bolsîn aşîk... Kesmesín kîbla ğelín heş bír úynúñ, Bolmasîn karaltîsî "felan biy"níñ... Bír saray kurağakman: han bolmasîn íşínde, Kul, îrgat, aşlîk, horluk, kan bolmasîn íşínde... Ğîyayîm ast-úst etíp ğatkan ğerín O eskí zor ğígítler kemíklerín... Bularman balçîknî yogîrayîm, Her kabírge: "Kemík" dep bagîrayîm... Şay etíp izgúleşsín dórt duwarî, Şeşmesí, şeşeklerí, keñ azbarî... Taptama izgú ğerní endí íşsíz, Sal saray, kur dewletíñ, bolsîn eşsíz... Bír saray kurağakman: taş bolmasîn íşínde, Hep kemík, hep ğan bolsîn, ğaş solmasîn íşínde, Aş bolmasîn íşínde... 1920, 22 mayîs, Lozan.
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Kókten sesler Temúçin (X) Kesím 23 Şonday kaldî Onlar ketken soñ, taa da, bírewge bírşiy añlaştîrmay, ğúmle ğemaát bírden konîşmaga başladî. Bír máálde tílí bek kalabalîk bolgan Bogdan Doggan sesín kóteríp, Bodonğarga karadî: - Yakşî kartşagayîñ bar eken. Bízge de ber, bíz de şîgayîk bírgún, kartşagaylî awga. Mína, yarîn maga túşe sîra, men de attîrîr edím şonî, terakay. - dep. Herkez eşítíp, ğewapka merak etíp, úynúñ íşí tîmîp kaldî, bíraz. "Sízdiy etken ğayga sîra man kírgenlerge beremendír, taa" dep oyladî Bodonğar. Índemiy, eşítmegen kíşí boldî. Başka yakka aylanîp karap, Bogdan Doggannîñ yúzúne bírem karamadî. Sír bermegenín kóríp, herkez bolmayğagîn añladî. Şo man, meselení atlap geştíler. Şonday kaldî. Kesím 24 Kambîrlarda, Túyrende Akşam bolayatîr edí. Bodonğar, "Akşamgaşîk úyúme barayîm!" dep, kartşagayîn alîp: - Sawluk man kalîñîz! - dedí, tîşarga şîgîp. Satîlgannîñ nenesín kóríp, atnîñ yegeríne askan awundan yarîsîn şeşíp: - Mína, bír sorpalîk, píşíríp íşersíñíz. Satîlganga yakşî kelír, kastalîgî şalt kaytar. - dep berdí. - Tañrî razî bolsîn! - dep kabul ettí, apakay. Soñra atîna míníp, dúrkí şala-şala, Bodonğar úyúne kayttî:
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Kambîrlarda, Túyrende Kún-akşam, yarîkólge Gúlterek degendiy yok Búlbúller nayme óte. Kambîrlarda, Túyrende Kîzdan yoktîr ziyade Dúniya tolî kîz bolsa Ğúrek súyer bír tane. Kambîrlarda, Túyrende Ay da tutuldî kókte Şayîrga ğarîk atkan Sarî gúl gibí biyke. Kambîrlarda, Túyrende Ğol ayîrîlîr ekíge Tersím kaytîp wuruldum Karap yeşíl kózíñe. Kambîrlarda, Túyrende Yîldîz kuyula ğerge Kóbísí tutanaklî Şáşleríñe óríle. Kambîrlarda, Túyrende At saptî kírdím dertke Kayîş kadanga kíydím Súzúp íşten kemíre. Kambîrlarda, Túyrende Órdek konîp suw íşe Suw uydurulgan eken Yúzúñ aldîma túşe. Ekínğí kún erten men Bodonğar kartşagayîn alîp, atîna míníp, gene yeşílbaş awuna şîktî. Kartşagaynî attîrîp şîkkan soñ, ekíndíde, "Hem kîmîz íşermen, hem yeşíl kózlí sarî biykení kóríp kalîrman" túşúnğesí men tora şo îrkka, Túyren Kambîrlarîndan ogîrap, bardî. Bír kún ewel kartşagaynî sorap karagan edíler, bonîñ meselesí kapalgan. Bírtaa soramaga góñíl tab-almadîlar. Zaten ondan soñra Bodonğardan bírşiy soramaga góñíllerí bolmayğak eken. Ne kímlerden
www.tanermurat.com bolganîn, ne kaysî îrknîñ balasî ekenín, ne atîn, ne kaydan kelgenín, ne kaysî yakka ketkenín. Bírşiy, bírşiy. Bodonğarnîñ ózí de bo kíşílerníñ kím ekeníne beş para bermedí. O kúní de şadîrnîñ íşíne kíríp, boş tapkan bír yerge yerleşken soñ, sîrasî kelgende kîmîzîn íştí. Óşek kaynatîp otîra edíler, tîpkî bír kún ewel. Yoksam! Şúndí barganda íşerde úş biyke taptî amma tínewúngúsúnden sáde bír tanesí bar. Şo biyke de, bír kún ewel kuşaklaşîp turgan akaynî taşlap, búgún Bogdan Doggan man oynaklaşa. "Ay, men bo íşten bírşiy añlamadîm. Zaten akîlîm ğetse. Mínaw apakay
tínewúngúsún taşlap búgún başka koğaga bargan mî, şo? Akaylar aş kaşkîr gibí bírbírsín beklep tura ekenler mí? Biykeler ísterístemez tekmílín súyúp eglendíre eken mí? Kaysî akay bolsa, kímge bolsa, kol uzatîp ğúre eken mí? Bo îrkta kaysî-bírsí kímkí ekení bellí tuwul mî, şo? Ay, inanîlmaz bír şiy! Koşak sózní bílmiy eken mí, bonlar? Bo neday hál? Bo neday kip?" dep, bírşiyge kulak asmagan kíşí bolîp, oy oylana edí. Ne kadar oylansa da, akîlîn ogîraştîrsa da, añlay-almagan şiyler bar. Akîlîna akîl koş-almay.
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Paparazzi to Duke and Duchess of Kent Expectations of privacy? Ancestry’s no such expectations! Swiving on a corner pediment at Stonehenge, history nods, Arthur begats a kingdom, stars are dying and being born, seasons pass, language and art spring from his spunk. Saxons canoodle under thatch, in a crowded room, rats listen, and lice, relatives nearby, children wide-eyed, keen to know– the old peasant woman cries out, begs for more, her hairy snatch highly visible by light of the dung-fire. Chaucer’s lady-wife seldom sucks her fingers, but grease runs down her arms to her elbows anyway– and she’s not above licking her plate.. When she farts at table, angels sing. Shakespeare, Marlowe, Sidney, they piss where they want, in the street, backstage, certainly in the spectator’s gallery– as for the rest? Gardez Loo! Look out below!
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In the Mountains Winter came quickly by the high road. Spring and summer went out by the low, the valley road, and left the world to autumn. He, Fall, came slowly, tracing delicate fingers along the surface of dusty farm windows, writing his name on the faces of leaves blown upward by the wind. One morning there was a sheet of ice over the river. This morning I had to break the spring free. When last I saw you the leaves were flying– .. now the house sits dark in a field of white, the honking cry of the last wild geese falls out of the western sky.
Daklarda Kîş şalt keldí anağoldan. Baár men ğaz aşadan kettíp, şayîr karağolîndan, dúniyanî braktîlar kúzge. O, Kúz, yawaş keldí, inğe parmak ízí taşlap kóy úyleríñ tozlî penğíreleríne, atîn yazîp ğelíñ alîp ketken úşkan yapraklarîñ yúzúne. Bír saba akkan suwuñ ústí bîzlap kaldî. Bo saba Baární şeşíp ğíbereğeklí boldîm. Sení soñ kórgenímde yapraklar úşúp tura edí… şúndí úyúm karañgîda kaldî şólíñ aklîgînda, soñ şól kazîñ zurna bakîrmasî kúnbatarîñ kóklerínden şîgîp kele. (Translated by Taner Murat)
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Lady of the Evening She’s in her beauty tonight– and how lovely– luminous, riding high, dressed in her best yellow gown, playing the part of doting girlfriend– peeking down shyly from behind a veil of cloud! But, oh, the bitch– she’s betrayed us again – last night she was with the sun! When we weren’t looking, she crept into his room– this morning just after dawn– I caught her leaving his side!
Akşam katunî O dúlberlígíndedír bo akşam – we ne kadar gúzel kóríne – ziya, endamlî, eñ yakşî entársín kíyíp, nazlî yáre oyînîn oynaganda – Búlút órtísínden yalşan kóz atkanda! Amma, ay, kanğîk – bízní taa da aldatkan - bo keşe kúneş men barabar edí! Bíz óz íşímízge karaganda, o yawaş onîñ odasîna kírdí – bo saba tañ aşkanda – pîsîp şîkkanîn kóríp aldîm. (Translated by Taner Murat)
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www.chrisleibowart.wordpress.com Christopher Leibow is a vagabond poet, and visual artist, and a performer of small slights of hand. He has been published in numerous journals and online including Juked, Interim, Barrow Street, and Cricket Online Review. His art has appeared in Lumina, 491 Magazine, and has been a featured artist online with Cha: A Journal of Asian Writing and OFZOOs. Mr. Leibow currently lives in Salt Lake City with his cat El Guapo.
Interview TM: Christopher, when did you start writing and why? Christopher Leibow: I started late, probably around 19. I was moved by something a friend related to me and I ended up writing a poem about it, which was strange because I never really read poetry. In my home, we did not have poetry books - very few books at all, and yet that was my response when moved. I think ultimately we are all born poets until it is slow erased from who we are by adults. TM: How important is poetry for you? Christopher Leibow: Poetry in a way, is my life, it’s how I approach the world, it’s how I digest it, make sense of it, create magic out of it. TM: What or who inspires your poetry? Christopher Leibow: For me it is love. I am a love poet in a country of bankers, in a country that has turned love poetry in greeting cards. The poem that is being published in Nazar Look was inspired by my love for a radiant and beautiful woman named Sveta. I don’t really believe in the idea of a muse, but I do believe that beautiful moments shared create their own magic, which then translates into poetry. TM: What makes your poetry unique or magical for the readers? Christopher Leibow: I think when someone reads my poetry they can experience an intense tenderness. Like one of my favorite lines from Mayakovsky, "I can be irreproachably gentle, /Not a man -- but a cloud in trousers". TM: Does the writing process happen easily for you? Christopher Leibow: Yes and No. When I am in love, it spills forth, when I am not it takes more work. If I am reading poetry constantly, it is much easier than if I am reading technical manuals. TM: What is your cure for writer’s block?
Handstand Blue Filter
Christopher Leibow: The first and most important thing is to read. The second is to find other ways to create. When I am not writing I find
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www.chrisleibowart.wordpress.com myself doing visual collages. Maybe writer’s block is a need to get past words to what it is that needs to be expressed. Even as a poet and even with my love of words, I still stumble over them every day. TM: Tell us about your visual arts works. Christopher Leibow: Whenever my words are in the earth waiting for Spring, I find other ways to express myself. Collage seems like the closest similarity to poetry. Some of my pieces feel more like a visual poem than a “collage.” TM: Does your work have social, political, cultural and or personal messages? Christopher Leibow: I like to think it is nonapologetic for love. Culturally, I think American men seem to apologize for being in love, as if there is something less male in the “being in love” I embrace the beauty and power of it, and, through my writing, show the courage it takes in this world to love. I have had people complain that
The Last Days of Venetian Exile
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my poetry is not political enough and when they do, I share this Mahmoud Darwish quote, "Every beautiful poem is an act of resistance". TM: What is the worst part about being a writer and artist? Christopher Leibow: I think to be successful as a writer and artist one needs to be open to the world. I think the worst part is by being so open, you feel more, and to feel so much can be exhausting. Some days I do not want to be a poet. TM: What is your biggest anxiety about your writing life? Christopher Leibow: The anxiety I think all writers have, will anyone read what I write and will it move them? TM: What is the biggest misconception about you?
www.chrisleibowart.wordpress.com Christopher Leibow: That what I write is not real. I think by being a love poet in an unbelieving world, sometimes I am perceived as not being in touch with the real world that what I write is but a dream. I reject that whole-heartedly. I embrace love in full acknowledgement of the injustices and cruelty of the world. I embrace love in the realization of everyday life. The passion of love and poetry is not just found in the ecstatic song of lovers under a harvest moon, but is found making a home, tending to a sick child, holding a lover who is afraid or suffering, in the stillness of death. This to me is all love poetry. TM: What are you currently working on?
TM: What were you doing ten years ago? Christopher Leibow: Beginning the greatest adventure of my life, and not living for someone elseâ€™s idea of who I was and what was the right thing for me. I learned to want something for myself, to finally live and love my own life. TM: What do you hope to be doing ten years from now besides writing? Christopher Leibow: Sitting on a porch, watching my child running around the yard chasing a dusty mutt of a dog, and my lover sitting next to me writing a poem about it.
Christopher Leibow: I am working on a two act play about loverâ€™s only communicating through text messaging, and the audience is allowed to witness what they really feel and at the same time read the messages that are sent and witness the disconnect that the fear to be open creates.
Paris of The Occident Two
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Abandon for Sveta “The torment of caution often exceeds the dangers to be avoided. It is sometimes better to abandon one's self to destiny.” — Napoleon Bonaparte
"Для любой путь, который вы выбрали, есть другой, отказываться от." — Anna Borisnova Bakunin
Together we unhook the stars from the sky and throw them at each other, laughing, chasing each other across the heavens. We make up the rules as we go like the gods before us – abandoning every thing, till we are bare. We count down to zero and begin from nothing to make the life before the dream and the dream the life – From here we share each others portion of infinity and rename the days; You, I, We, Them,— no, no, we rename them, Eyes, Lips, Check, Hands, Heart, Soul, Live. And our counting has already passed a thousand days and our counting has passed a thousand joyful kisses, and our counting has passed a thousand sleepless nights — while all those who counted on us are left behind. And together in our abandon we watch the innumerable falling stars and listen to the blood course beneath each others skin surging with so much necessity.
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Bazgeşúw Svetka'ga “Kóbísí sakînuw şegíşmesí zorlîgîñ şegíşmesíñ fazlasîdîr Bazda-bír kaderge karşî kelmekten bazgeşmelímíz.” Napoleon Bonaparte "Kaysî ğolnî ayîrsañ da, bír almaşî bardîr, bazgeşúw." Anna Borisnova Bakunin
Bíz ekewmíz yîldîzlarnî kókten sógíp atarmîz bír-bírímízge, kúle-kúle, kuwalaşîp ğennetlerde. Kayidelerímízní kerekkende yaparmîz bízden ewel tañrîlar etkendiy – bazgeşíp herşiyden, şîpalak kalganşîk. Artka sayarmîz sîfîrga kadar başlap heşbírşiyden ewelkí hayatîmîznî túş etmege, túşúmúzní hayat – Bondan soñra soñsîzlîgîñ parşalarîmîznî paylaşîp kúnlerge ğañî atlar tabarmîz: Sen, Men, Bíz, Onlar – yok, yok, başka túrlí: Kóz, Erín, Ğara ízí, Kol, Góñíl, Tîn, Tírí. Saymamîz da biñ kúnní baya geştí saymamîz da tatlî-tatlî biñ óbúwní geştí, saymamîz da biñ yukuswuz kalgan keşemízní geştí – bo arada bízge gúwengenler artta kalîp. We ekewmíz bazgeşmemízde karap turamîz sayîlmaz awgan yîldîzlarga seslep karşîlîklî kan agîşlarîmîznî ten astînda ósíp turgan bek kereklí.
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www.grahammasterton.co.uk Graham Masterton is the author of over 100 horror novels, historical sagas, thrillers and sex instruction books. A former editor of Penthouse magazine, his first horror novel THE MANITOU was filmed with Tony Curtis playing the lead role. His late wife and agent Wiescka introduced his work to Poland in 1989 and he is now one of the best-known authors in that country. Recently he has been promoting an anthology of Balkan horror.
the crowds. Henry had no choice but to follow her, as much as he didn’t like being jostled. A gaptoothed man leered right in his face, holding up a necklace strung with large red chilli-peppers.
“Señor Foster! This way, señor!” Henry stepped out of the shadow into the sunlight and into the middle of the marketplace. All around him, stalls were selling melons and tomatillos and decorated leather belts and scarves and holy statuettes and sticky-looking cakes and dishwashing brushes and bottles of Radiante floorcleaner. Mariachi music was playing loudly from competing loudspeakers precariously wired on top of the stalls, and the noise of shouting and laughing and dogs barking and parrots squawking was so deafening that Henry felt as if he had found himself in the middle of a riot. He caught up with Esmeralda, who unexpectedly took hold of his hand, as if he were a child rather than a forty-five year old man with thinning brown hair and a flappy white linen suit. “You said that you wanted souvenirs, señor,” she reminded him. “Well, yes. But something artistic, you know. Something truly Mexican, of course. But reasonably tasteful. I can’t give the head of my sociology department a plastic cactus.” “We will find something for you, señor,” said Esmeralda, and continued to tug him through
“Show your girlfriend that you are hot stuff, señor!” “She’s my guide, “Not my girlfriend.”
He didn’t know why he had felt obliged to say that. Esmeralda after all was stunningly pretty, with shiny brown curls and feline eyes and a mouth that seemed to be permanently pouting. The only trouble was that she was young enough to be his daughter. “I know what we buy for you!” she said, as she pulled him through the acrid smoke that was wafting across from a carne asada stall. “I know exactly for sure what you would like!” She led him down a shadier alley by the side of the marketplace, where old men with faces like wrinkled gourds were sitting on doorsteps together, smoking. At the end of the alley there was a makeshift stall constructed of packing-cases and blankets and sacking. A roughly-painted metal sign outside the stall said Retablos. Inside, a woman was sitting on a kitchen chair with an easel in front of her, painting a small sheet of metal with enamel paints from twenty or thirty different little brightly-colored pots.
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www.grahammasterton.co.uk “Buenos días,” said Esmeralda. amigo quiere comprar un retablo.”
The woman turned toward them. She must have been about forty years old, with high, distinctive cheekbones and hooded eyes that were as shiny and colorless as ball-bearings. She wore a black scarf twisted around her head and a black dress with gray serpentine patterns on it. “Ah,” she said, and her voice was deep and throaty, as if she had been chain-smoking Delicados cigarettes since she was old enough to breathe. “I have been waiting for you, señor.” “Excuse me?” said Henry. Without another word, the woman stood up and went to the back of her stall. She produced a small package wrapped in newspaper and handed it to him.
your accident. Sometimes I can do that. It depends on who you are, and which saint will preserve you. In this case it is La Virgen de los Remedios, Our Lady of the Remedies. She told me many weeks ago that you were coming, and what would happen to you, and how your life could be saved.” Henry said, “What? You think I’m going to be run down by a truck?” “All fates are unavoidable, señor.” “I’m going to be run over by a truck and I’ll cut my own arm off to get free? That’s insane.” The woman shrugged. “I do not decide the future, señor. I will sell you this retablo for twenty dollars. You will be able to thank Our Lady even before she has saved you.” “This is sick,” said Henry. “This is totally
“What’s this?” Henry asked her.
“Your retablo, señor. Ex-voto.”
He twisted his hand from Esmeralda’s grasp and started to stalk back toward the marketplace.
Bewildered, Henry unwrapped the newspaper. Inside was a thin sheet of metal with a shiny picture painted on it, like a scene from a comic-strip. It showed a city street, with a crowd of people standing on the sidewalk. A man in a white suit was lying in the middle of the street, with one arm pinned underneath the chassis of an overturned truck. He was cutting his own arm off with a large saw, and there was blood all over his sleeve. Up above him, floating in the sky, there was a saintly figure dressed in blue and gold, and attended by golden cherubs. “I don’t understand,” said Henry. “It is simple,” the woman told him, pointing to the man in the white suit with a long, silver-polished fingernail. “People come to me when they have survived a terrible accident, or a life-threatening sickness, or maybe they have been robbed and nearly killed. I paint for them an ex-voto, a thank you to the saint who saved their lives, which they will put up on the wall of their church. “In this case I have painted yours before
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Esmeralda called, “Señor Foster! Señor Foster! Wait!” But Henry refused to turn around and angrily shouldered his way through the crowds. He crossed the marketplace and walked back along the shadowy arcade that led to his hotel. His whole life people had treated him like he was some kind of a dupe and even now he was here in Mexico on business he was still being taken for a mark. He felt hot and sweaty and embarrassed and outraged. If he hadn’t been so angry, maybe he would have looked to his right before he stepped out into the blinding white sunlight at the end of the arcade and across the street in front of the Soledad Hotel. An old Dodge truck loaded with oil-drums hit him at no more than fifteen miles an hour, but it knocked him through a wooden barricade that had been erected around a twelvefoot deep excavation in the street, where the sewers were being replaced. He fell right to the bottom, amongst the
www.grahammasterton.co.uk sewer-pipes, and then the truck skidded on the dusty surface of the street and dropped into the hole on top of him, with a shattering, ramshackle crash. He opened his eyes. It was gloomy and surprisingly chilly at the bottom of the excavation, and there was a strong smell of sewage and gasoline. He tried to sit up but found that he couldn’t move an inch. His right shoulder was crushed under the right nearside wheel of the truck, and the truck itself was jammed at an angle. He looked up. He could see anxious faces peering down at him from the sunlit street. “Señor Foster!” a girl called out, and he recognized it as Esmeralda. “Are you hurt, señor?” “I can’t – I can’t get out,” Henry called back, his voice blurry with shock. “My arm…it’s stuck under the wheel.” “Señor Foster, you have to get out. The truck is pouring gas.” “I can’t. It’s my arm.” Henry could hear Esmeralda talking to some of the men up on the street. Then there was a long pause. The stench of gasoline was growing stronger and stronger, and it was making his eyes water. It suddenly occurred to him that he was going to be roasted alive, down at the bottom of this stinking pit. That was how his life was going to end up, and he had never even found anybody to love. It was then that he heard a clanking noise. He lifted his head again, and realized what it was. A large carpenter’s saw was being lowered down to him on the end of a length of cord. It came to rest next to his left hand. He stared at it in horror. Esmeralda called down to him, “It is terrible, señor, I know! But what choice do you have?” Henry picked up the saw and positioned it against his upper arm. The crosscut teeth were
so sharp that they snagged in the fabric of his linen coat. He closed his eyes tight, clenched his teeth, and pushed the saw as hard as he could. It cut through his coat and his shirt, and ripped into his skin. He had never felt anything so agonizing in his life, and he screamed, or he thought that he screamed. He was deafened with pain. He dragged the saw back, and then pushed it across his shoulder a second time, cutting through muscle. So much blood welled up that his whole sleeve was flooded bright red, but he realized that he would have to push even harder, or cutting his arm off would take hours. He pushed a third time, so forcefully that the teeth cut into his bone. But the saw also skidded against the iron sewer-pipe, and set off a spark. There was an instant whoompph of exploding gasoline fumes, and Henry’s face was seared by a blast of three hundred degree heat. His hair flared and shrivelled and his eyes were fried. Henry blazed like an effigy. His linen suit turned brown and shrank and fell apart. His skin was scorched scarlet, and then charred black. But unlike an effigy he sawed harder and faster, with the jerky motions of one of those little figures on a weather-vane. Within a few minutes he was a mass of flames, but he kept on sawing and screaming until he had cut right through his upper arm. He dropped backward, blackened and smoking, but free. The painter of retablos had joined Esmeralda in the street above. She laid her silverpolished nails on Esmeralda’s shoulder. “Le Virgen de los Remedios, she warned him,” she said, in her throaty voice. “He had no faith in her, no trust. But the Virgin of the Remedies…she has a remedy for everything, even that.” Our Lady of the Remedies had come to his rescue. Copyright © by Graham Masterton, 2011
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england, uk srushton13.com
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Steve Rushton Was born on a peninsula With Liverpool on one side And the Welsh hills on the other An artist and poet He lives in London Teaches art history And was a drummer His first book, Sweet Sex Education Teacher From Chichester, a poetry single published in 2012 by Not Your Average Type, tells the story of a furtive meeting, and emotions that can follow such an encounter.
Dear Silent Sirens in Subatomic Stations
Aziz tîmgan dúdúk ğerastî atom kaşamaklarînda
Dear silent sirens in subatomic stations A few questions
Aziz tîmgan dúdúk ğerastî atom kaşamaklarînda Bírkaş soraw,
Occasional bleeping – Is it a sign that you’re inwardly weeping?
Arada bír biplemeñíz – Tuwul mî, íşíñízden ğîlap belletmeñíz?
Do you long for a time When to cry out loud will be fine?
Bír zamanlar boşlîk we húrriyet Yaşar edí ğîlaw, şegesíz mí, hasret?
Do you dream of disorder in cold corridors The echoes of boots
Sagînmadîñîz mî, salkîn aralîklar Ayak – tapîrdagan,
The slamming of doors And people in panic while you blow your horn?
Kapî – tars wurulgan, Kíşílerní, sesízíñzní şîgarganda, korkîp kaşkan?
Would that be more fun than just staring at floors? Bolmaz mî, taa eglenğelí, ğerge karagandan? I wrote this and thought Şay túşúnúp yazdîm bonî Am I right? Yours, the man at the desk Who stares at you night after night
Bar mî, hakkîm? Bekşíñízden selam, Sízge kózín tígíp turgan hergún akşam. (Translated by Taner Murat)
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The Master Said The Master said, “It is by the Odes that the mind is aroused.” It is by the Rules of Propriety that the character is established. “It is from Music that the finish is received.” The Master said, “The people may be made to follow a path of action, but they may not be made to understand it.
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October Ay, thou art welcome, heavenâ€™s delicious breath! When woods begin to wear the crimson leaf, And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief And the year smiles as it draws near its death. Wind of the sunny south! oh, still delay In the gay woods and in the golden air, Like to a good old age released from care, Journeying, in long serenity, away. In such a bright, late quiet, would that I Might wear out life like thee, â€˜mid bowers and brooks And dearer yet, the sunshine of kind looks, And music of kind voices ever nigh; And when my last sand twinkled in the glass, Pass silently from men, as thou dost pass.
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new jersey, usa
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Writer The pencil is my brush. The page is my canvas. Words are my paint and literary devices are my strokes. I am an artist of the mind, for I use language to inspire imagery in the imagination.
Katherine Givens is a college student but a writer at heart. Her poetry has been or will be published in Inclement Poetry Magazine, Literary Juice, The Rusty Nail, BareBack Magazine, Blood Moon Rising Magazine, and Miracle e-zine. Her short stories will be published in upcoming issues of The Enchanted File Cabinet and The Rusty Nail.
The Language of the Heart Do not pay heed to those that doubt. Shove all their practical warnings out. Follow the path your heart has paved. Be sure your dreams are always saved. Even if horrid threats should follow, at least your life was never hollow. Listen to what may come from within, not the peers that see hope as a sin. Never shed a tear when they are near, for they shall try to exploit your fear. Do not let the pressures conquer you. Stay proud and strong for what you shall do.
Mind Vs. Heart Logic and statistics Might shed light on an evil, But the human soul Is the only capable judge. Mortal pain and suffering Cannot be felt by numbers and graphs. Compassion is the key To understanding misery. The mind is blind To what only the heart can see.
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Interview TM: John, how did you get into art? John Patrick Hill: Art has always been a language for me. Since the miraculous coronal friction fires the meteor I witnessed as a child were emblazoned upon my forever eyes, through years when it was difficult to express myself otherwise, art took a shy and quiet me, and allowed myself to travel and converse through spirit and imagination. My mother was also very creative and there was an artful energy with our entire family. Pictures of great art and classical music in my childhood home also played a big part. We had three prints by Canaletto that sent my spirit traveling to wherever those paintings suggested. The light and the tiny figures held the definition of exquisite for me as a child. And listening to the instruments of classical music on our old Victrola were the tap roots of my expression and creative beginnings. TM: What did you do before or during becoming an artist? John Patrick Hill: My father thought art wouldn’t pay the bills, so it became almost a secret operation for me to create. But, that probably added to all the fun. There were many jobs over the years intermingled with my work. Once, I was almost killed while working labor at a cement mine. There was a coal silo to clear, and a caged stair case led to the cat walk that slanted a way to the top. But, without more than a few steps into the stairwell, I was overtaken by fear. It took me many minutes to pull myself up to the top, hand-over-hand. Then the fear eased and I was able to make it out across to where the other workers were. While we were there cleaning up the dust and debris, our leader flopped open a hatch built into the roof and told us to empty the trash there. We all obeyed, but minutes later, our real boss was yelling up to us. 10 stories up, he was yelling at us all to come down. We learned later that by opening that hatch the coal inside could have ignited and
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killed us in a grand and fiery explosion. I don’t think artists can separate themselves from their life and their art. I can’t truthfully describe a before or after. Life continually nurtures and teaches artists by all we are. The tragic also has its ways of guiding the beautiful. TM: Was your education helpful, or a hindrance? John Patrick Hill: I can say that all my instructors have been very supportive of me. Many have seen inside me, life that I could not see for the conditions about me. The nuns from the Catholic grade school of my young days still appear, as does Mrs. Morgan who ran a choir for us, and allowed me onstage to drum before the school. My high school and junior college teachers also continue to give toward my living well. Sometimes, it is the smallest of gifts from these teachers that allows me the strength to try and continue. I continue to say that life is a Positive/Positive experience. TM: How important is art for you? John Patrick Hill: Art is equality, is truth, is Peace, Is as the Very Sunlight upon our lives and the Very Dark of the Universe. No more important than any other truth of Life, but one
john patrick hill
Second, 2009. Carved granite mix. 4”x 3.5”x 10” www.nazar-look.com
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Lady in Waiting, 2009. Carved granite/quartz. 4.5”x 2.5”x 5” 28 Nazar Look
every other truth would have to struggle to live with, without ART. TM: What or who inspires your art? John Patrick Hill: The Goddess and God move my hand to create. With that, in junior college, I studied under James Savoy. He gave a very rounded approach to art, with many methods of creating developed. At the University, I began in studio art, but switched to art history, because I could not afford the expensive paints my teacher wanted us to have. From there I became inspired by the artists and cultures I was studying. Today, I can be inspired by truths expressed by others. By the unique qualities of beauty in another, and the endurance of the many on our collective road to Peace.
enlisted to stabilize places of environmental harm. One such suggestion is for the Scottish Highlands to be replanted in the ancient trees that used to grow there. Other places will be worked to correct mismanaged lands and rivers and seas and oceans, and to see animal and plant life is again living strong with us, people. TM: Is your work process fast or slow? John Patrick Hill: There is a style of my painting where I can complete a work in about 20 minutes, less at times. A fair sized piece of 4’x 4’. And yet, I can be honest in saying that I have been working for about 20 years, on my current project. Many nuances of time in between also find their completion in how I work.
TM: Did the place where you grew up have an influence?
TM: Has your work changed much since your early efforts?
John Patrick Hill: This question steps to where I am right now. I was recently shot at while collecting stone for my work. With this, I am having to renew my experience of having grown up under the sphere of the military as a child. For many years, I have been cultivating total Peace unto myself, but slowly, I am also renewing truths from my childhood for the very influence they spelled for my young soul. The swirling winds rebuild the truth that if I seek Peace sans all those in the military, I will be making enemy where none belongs and my energies did not intend. If I offer my hand and my love to those in the military, along with all else, we then become friends who can work toward Peace together. I grew up in an area surrounded by military installations, and where NASA has a very important space satellite operation. This information is available by internet, so I do not feel I am disclosing anything new, (sorry anyone with the State Department or the DOJ!!), but the truth of such an upbringing still plays on my life today. All I can see is Peace and I feel the militaries of the Earth, will slowly be scaled down, as our nations again learn what it is to cooperate and care for one another. In time, instead of a military force, we will have work force. This work force will be
John Patrick Hill: In 2007, while hanging some of my work with my gallery director, Maryam Seyhoun, (Seyhoun Gallery, West Hollywood, CA) she asked me if I could create jewelry for her. To that point, I was attentive to jewelry and had actually worked a broken watch with a diorama into the case, but that was all. Maryam has truly touched me to the core of my soul. Her family still lives in Tehran, Iran and the whole complex war scene established and worked around and around there has left her silent to my many questions, but that has given me the direction to truly reach out to her art senses and pull at the Peace that life has for all the interests at stress now in and around Iran, her home country. For it is what I have sought myself, as a Metis Indigenous person of the United States. Peace. In my early efforts, art was more about grasping ahold of the techniques which allowed me to make art. In time, the sense of life imbued me and I sought actively to express through my work; today the vastness of the possible is what takes my breath. It seems so childish to look upon the Sun and say, “That is a star!”. But imagine this:
TM: What makes your work unique or magical for the viewer?
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John Patrick Hill: After many trials near death and of very difficult times, I have found that living without winning or losing, and in complete Peace has proved the most ease and beauty I have ever lived. Without competition, I have allowed my whole spirit to be guided by the Magic of the Creation. I pray daily that I am able to give this through my work. Peace is a choice. Living in Total Peace is a choice. We do have the opportunity to live in forgiveness with one another and allow ourselves to dance the wonderful dance that Peace is. We have done so in the past, we can do so again today. I think it will take an Earth’s peoples living in total Peace with one another, before we are able to
access the technologies necessary for interplanetary travel. The fight for interests keeps us from working together. My idea for an electric vehicle is a simple one, but I feel for the fight for oil and that money, that it has not been able to formulate into the minds of designers or engineers. I think it is the fight that keeps those truths from being allowed into minds who could otherwise see. TM: How has the environment shaped the art you produce? John Patrick Hill: It has heightened my thoughts on what we can do. For some time, I assisted a friend in picking medicinal plants in
Soul, 2009. Carved petrified palm root. 10.5”x 2.5”X 3.5”
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our local mountains (www.buffalosage.org).
TM: What is the worst part about being an artist? John Patrick Hill: Pricing, and all the details that go into bringing a price to the public to pay for my work. I don’t know if I will ever be able to give the viewer or collector any nuance of the life I have lived in order to be where I am at right now. For many years, I was crippled with lead poisoning, and that has taken time away from me that could have proved the strength of my career. At 47, I am having to build where at 27, this would have been already solid, without the poisoning. I am having to approach the entire art world as someone with no experience. As an emerging artist. I am not arguing against the fact of this, it is truly what has occurred to me. But, the details in going about producing what I feel my art is worth has never been a strong point for me. So much of my work has been destroyed, given away, and thrown away due to years of difficulty fueled in part by the lead in my system. To this day, I am still without a functioning studio and gain tools and materials in small bunches, when extra monies arrive. I often cry for this, but work on knowing I must, if I am ever to cross the chasm my travails caused. TM: Do you go into any contemporary art prizes, and why? John Patrick Hill: I don’t think there are better and worse artists, or better and worse pieces of art. Each is the story of that particular person and their particular experience on Earth. For the reality we all share, competitions are a method where art can continue. They select the story they wish to tell. But, I generally do not enter into competitions. TM: Working towards an exhibition, is it a discouraging task? John Patrick Hill: An exhibit is like the winds circling birds follow on an upward rhythm to the place where they wish to be. They follow Creation in order to gain that ability toward that
new place of being and their expression of happiness can be seen and felt with every feather of their outstretched wings. It is truly exciting to have spread my wings in search of high winds to fly! TM: Have you had much connection post sale with purchasers of your works? John Patrick Hill: Generally, this has not occurred, except for talks I have had after a time years ago when I was creating garden art for clients. I was carving stone and creating metal works, and at times I would see the customer again to learn how all was going. But, I have not had enough experience with this to say I have the experience in order to answer the question as an experience. TM: What are you currently working on? John Patrick Hill: There is a conservancy near that wishes a small public art piece for a trail head they worked to see saved from development. The Redlands Conservancy. There is still an opportunity to create other public art pieces and I continue to pursue those. I wish to create temples. I am also creating small stone sculptures for a gallery network in Laguna Beach, California, www.lagunaart.com. Still in development is a project to place medicine in the Gulf of California and the Gulf of Mexico for healing toward Sea Life and the Oceans and how we relate to Life in this way. There is a small connection with this work with that of Dr. Stephen Greer of the Disclosure Project. And this work is furthered by a smaller project to coordinate ancient magic and energies into our present. I am still sending out the idea about a fan assembly that can assist electric vehicles with created energy toward greater driving ranges. I’ve also been speaking of a variant on large wind generators. And, I work to replant the seed of Peace by describing how our ancients were once cooperative toward each other, and how that was turned away by mistrust, and how the sighting I made as a child of a very large meteor, may bring that trust back. My work continues toward an exhibit destined for El Colegio de Michocan in
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Michoacan, Mexico in conjunction with exhibit with the Seyhoun Gallery. Research continues, while I work to create miniature oil paintings livened by jewelry and assemblage arts, and jewelry with case works. The paintings will speak of the ancient people of West Mexico who’s story is being told with greater detail as work by archeologists in Mexico continue to dig and process ceramics and much more across the Mexican states of Nayarit, Jalisco, and Colima. To go with these details on their lives, I am also working to include peoples who may have traveled and traded into the area, from as wide a circle as I can truthfully imagine. Japanese, Chinese, Polynesian, South East Asian, and
North and South American are easy paths, but I am also looking at wider circles to include a major find I made that is growing in importance. This the Easter Island / Spider Rock connection and through shared work of Robin Heath, a circle I found that continues on one straight line all around the Earth, and points to a very early cooperation of peoples from all over the planet. I am looking for Peace from our ancestors in order to bring that forward to our violent and war like times today, to show us all, that we have lived Peace before, we can manage that again. I pray my voice humble enough to share this knowledge.
Olmec, 2009. Carved serpentine stone from local mountains. 3.5”x 2”x 4”.
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My latest work, god save your mad parade, is a thirty-three piece collection of poetry both narrative and otherwise, written over the past several months, sporadically, depicting at length the moments comprising a contemporary perspective of a world far too evolved for its own good. The pieces were kept intentionally short and concise so as to adhere to the general attention span of the average American reader. Our culture is being defined by the works of dead men. I wanted to write something of substance of course, but maybe a bit more specifically, a series of letters to those few who find themselves frustrated or displaced by the state of contemporary art, something distinctly ours, untouched by the academics, the formalists, the fadsâ€Śsomething new and accessible and all our own.
and heâ€™s never on time. Vincent comes stumbling down the stairs with his shades on and he's muttering something about Theo, how Theo never wrote back, how Theo never cared, not really, no matter how much he said he did or pretended to and i don't know what to tell him, this is all so sudden, he's only been living here a couple of weeks and already he's lost it. this was supposed to be good for him and look at him throwing himself around the room, pitiful, he should be up in the room i made up for him, working. Vincentâ€™s happy when he's working, it calms him like nothing i've ever seen, he's not such an animal when he's got something to tend to. he's got to keep busy or else he'll wind up falling down my stairs as he does now. i fold my arms. he's been drinking. i have too, you don't see me bothering anybody and in my own home this is happening, who would've thought? "i'll do it," he says, "don't think for a second that i won't do it." i don't say anything. "i'll go out in the field and do it all over again! i swear!" he's crying now, i can see it. he falls to the floor, lands in his spit
and drops the bottle. it tips, spills all over the rug and the rug is white and the wine is red, see, it'll never come out. it's empty now, but he picks it up anyway and sets it upright. some time passes. he sobs and sobs. i don't say a word. then he looks at me and wipes his face with his hands. "sorry," he sputters, "sorry about the rug." he gathers himself, stands up, holds himself upright against the wall. he's panting. "i'll be upstairs," he says. "o.k., Vincent." on his way up he turns. "i may have thrown up in your shoes." "o.k., Vincent."
citizen. the laureate providing a public reading on behalf of a national tragedy
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will look out at his audience and see only the mass grave the bomb falling the cross-fielded hill but they rarely ever call him or her up from the ranks to provide the service their title requires since in such a circumstance any prose or poem will fall short in comparison to the national platitudes or the twang single spun dizzy on the radio that everyone must rise for and only a traitor wouldn’t appreciate…remove your cap…on and on… the laureate holds a heavy obligation toward his nation and must be more than a writer in any sense, but a patriot, too, staying inside the national lines, void of all agenda but THE agenda… so, there laureate, for all the pomp and medals and checks provided, an expectation in tow, may as well be skipping stones across a manmade lake.
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clarity. we’re the bastard sons of an electric generation! we’re a mob of illegitimate sons and arbitrary daughters! we’re going to outlive the Mayan ruins! we’re full speed and breakneck! we’re out and open! we’re carrying torches to hell! we’re legion! and god we’re bored. the clerics are adrift with their candle-wax choreography the books cough dust onto the black ash pulpit the bells are pounding one another into iron sheets the sparks crack wild in all that ceremonious black. what a drab dull thing your war was maneuvers and bayonets. we’ve got liquid flames! we’ve got HQ’s on the moon! we can shoot light through a man’s skull from a birds’ nest in Wyoming! it’s easy! we don’t go to war no more! we go on vacation! and everybody comes back well-to-do! trim those wicks! we can’t die! it’s all over! turn down the sheets! make up the guest bedroom! we’re on our way and we’re here for the weekend!
opening night at the prisoner’s cinema. they’ll go on strike: the postal workers the sorters the carriers and never again another solid bound commemorative correspondence between two or more interesting people, the pigeon is to go the way of the cassette, so long. but forward, ok, so many and maybe myself a part of it pacing bitching pissed spewing 1940’s documentary footage for the sake of conservation, integrity of word sound voice, preserve the six gallery readings, bring it back back back but what’s back there is a few hundred thousand shovels stuck in a few hundred thousand commemorative plots. it’s enough to remember, that’s all, if for no other reason than it must be, it’s our only option, as I sit pompous bored with headache behind the eyes scanning hemingway’s letters thinking, jesus, how a man manages to base a literary career on swordfish and dead bulls, and outside the kids run by afternoon yelling, school’s out, work’s done, down the hall the air clicks on, and I write you and nobody and everyone else a halfwit letter of my own to toss in the pile, everyone living or not looking back thinking yes, what a time it must’ve been to be alive.
the weight the idea was write your way out always has been write your way out and they want to know about your influences who you’ve read you you’re reading and I’m still writing and still reading too but one of the most difficult aspects of the whole charade is to continue to do these things while remaining unchanged unshaped unmoved by the influences appreciating them respecting them for what they are and were but moving along into the next phase the next task leaving them in their places respectfully to remain as they are as they were dragging nothing behind you taking nothing with you whistling along the way.
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Sarameya Comes She is gone. Slowly whimpering in heart and mind, she stepped along the aureate lay of the sand pebbled yard. The roses she catered all these years shook adieu in the early summer morning breeze. Do they smell around her always? The door of the car slammed and the misty white smoke fumed out the exhaust, as the iron body reverberated in a new found energy. So much hurry to go? It still reverberates the tympanum. Just now. No, a few hours back. Past the grilled gates and off , puffing up red dust. The frame of the back wind shield, showed her head reclining on his shoulders, becoming one. Was she sobbing as she walked into the car, shed a tear, for a parting sorrow, and then the happiness lying ahead ? In her new found home. Into it. The other world. The other life. Getting transformed. In her being . One chapter is closed and the other is blooming to fly around. Forget petty mind, forget. to be forgotten.
Recline in the couch. The eyelids wonâ€™t close even for a nap. The after noon breeze heats up, sweating all over. All a naught. Splashed drop to the smithreens. Vacuum. From this verandah till the kitchen. In these rooms the walls reverberate the chirping little bird, that flew out of the cage. No rustles. No rantering. Heaving loneliness that pinch the heart with needle tips. Is this the beginning or the end? The dog headed black walking stick rests in the show case, waiting the next turn. The third generation it waits to support till the grave. The dog head yelps. Mind whines. Waiting for the final union. Come out letâ€™s be together and for
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each other. For some more time to tread on this earth over these possessions the vainglory earnings of a life time effort. Does everything go in vain? Some more time to be counted. Count down starts. A few more steps. Mortal years wait for immortality. Mrtyu. Leave all and dissolve in the eternity, being lost , self lost, existence lost. Count back. Turn around. In memories. All in vain. Have they all been fruitful? Satisfied? Never fulsome? Here the love ends. From the cradle till the last steps down to go. Fly away. The love ends for another phase. Craving cradle, wetting all along on all fours, on faltering steps, naughty eyed, like a swift all over, all about everywhere , deep in school, shy in growth, in fulsome from caterpillar, bursting out from the cocoon to fly off, a butter fly. Chirping, mewing, spuming, fuffing hurlyburly, nimby- pampy, little one. Lids weigh down. Breeze cools sweat. Swevens of colours behind the eyelid frame kaleidoscopic figures. Smelling rose and jasmine, from flower to flower, fluttering large wings. All to be blurred red black and lost in the dark. Jejuneness. In a mist. Fogging mind. Faded vision. Blood pressures up breaking arterial walls? Was she Electra? Behind the closed doors, her room is a vacuum. She has arranged the remaining left overs tidy. The picture paintings on the wall she had done, and hung have gathered dust. Fading water colours. Have they lost the charm that once rippled the aesthetic feelings? Have they lost the vision that they borne? Amidst, the picture of the woman who bore her. Carried her. Fed her. Brought her up. Lost to her. The neon blitz . An existence lost. Shadows are lengthening. Cold sway of the devilish night overpower the fading day.
Piceous shadows in the waning moonlight. Scuzz. Lost behind the dark shadows. The table served a little supper. Gulp. Swallow. Around the verandah. Drifting like a natant leaf. Bitches yawl Beatles and frogs rent the night air. Is it to be a pluvial night? Sarameya visiting with his master? Amavasi setting in? Ephemeral predictions being revered? She is off. Far. In camera. The sylphs of new found love. Kundalini wakes up. Under the blooming parijatha giving life. She was electra. Through years swinging between the even and the uneven. The finite and the infinite. To be herself. Moulted. The cover of one life is off. To a new life. Has she forgotten me? Plum grown. Ripe. Her own in mind and body. Of the cage to her place on earth. To be torn apart. Nurtured and grown apart. Grafted out. Oh, the mind goes blank. All nil and void. Jejuneness. Reaping solitude. The devils of solitude. Fires of desires put out. Graying Ixtaab calls.
Shadows of the moon lit night like the terracotta army swing around. Sedentary and sedate in the dead calm. Sciomachy goes the mind. Easels spark in the eyes gleaming red. Red fire. Turning a rampike void of water, to earth manuring new breeds. Gypsy mind wanders. Unknown fears grip petering out energy. Tinnitus reverberate the head. Rantering crepuscular creatures. Still void.
Panchabhootha breaking up. Destruction of ahankara. Dissolution of tanmatras. Mrtyu brings tamas Sarameya comes. Indriyas depart. Blues of the dead night breeze through the shadows brushing past stubbled cheeks, sweating along wrinkles, cooling down the body draggling down along the sloarplexes, losing weight, floating like a natant leaf the devils gloat shining red eyes of piceous shadows arch above swinging huckles burning eyes red hot calling and pushing blood fills all along the vessels writhing whining to burst the heart bursting apart far to fly out to the infinity where the small spot of star blazes on a little face glibs over eyes in ecstasy of eros she wonâ€™t see the fool lying head down hands tied in the tarot fort waiting judgement or abstersion, to leave leaving the panchabhoothas eyelids weigh hard waning energy the cold icy devil creeps the up to swallow the mortal being the being flies off, off to brahmam to the cosmic dance all faces round up hung faces weeping sorrow clamps down bidding adieu to the destinations to pass through all lives deep in the cosmos reborn and be over It is time to go. Leave. Weep awhile and get back after the pyre subsides. These shores are the end and the beginning. Child donâ€™t cry. Today was mine, tomorrow is yours . *** Sarameya: Dog of the god of death: Hindu mythology Amavasi: Moonless night Ixtaab: Goddess of suicide Mrtyu: Death Panchabhootha: The five elements Indriyas: Five senses Tanmatras: Parts of body minute elements Ahankara: Feeling of self
Love born borne, brought up. Will she be remembering those past., her pets around., the blooming roses, the little love birds, everything? She is in her buxom debonair spirits, Her roses stop smelling , unwatered droops to the earth. Around the little breeze whispers and whimpers.
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Travels in Circassia, Krim Tartary, &c. (V) LETTER III. Spring fain at Pest â€“ Magyars - Various tribes of Hungary - Singular aspect of the people Races - Public dinner at the Casino - Similarity of manners between the Hungarian magnats and the English - Hungarian hospitality Passport. As I happened to be at Pest during the great spring fair and the races, I was not only provided with ample materials for amusement, but an opportunity of seeing the motley population of natives and strangers, which are usually attracted on this and similar occasions ; for, though the Magyars, who have given their name to Hungary, are the greatest landed proprietors, and hold the reins of government, yet they are inferior in numerical force to the Sclavonians, (or Totoks,) the original inhabitants. These are divided into at least half a dozen separate tribes, each speaking a different patois ; and if to them we add the colonies of Germans, Wallachians, Greeks, Armenians, French, Italians, Jews, and Gipsies, speaking their own languages and retaining their national manners, customs, and religion, we may term Hungary a miniature picture of Europe. My first lounge was through the fair, which afforded as many groupes for the painter, as for the observer of life and manners; the Babel-like confusion of tongues was endless, and the costume and appearance of the motley tribes could not have been equalled in variety by any other fair in Europe, or even by the most entertaining maskers that ever trod the Piazza San Marco, or the Corso at Rome, because here each performed his natural character. The most prominent figures in the group were ever the proud Magyars; particularly those just arrived
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from the provinces. The dress of some of these noblemen was indeed singular, consisting of a tight sheep-skin coat, or mantle, the woolly side inwards; while the other was gaudily embroidered all over with the gayest flowers of the parterre, in coloured silk, among which the tulip was ever the most prominent. Those whose wealth permitted it, were to be seen habited in their half-military, halfcivil costume; and you might in truth fancy, from their haughty demeanour, that you were beholding a feudal lord of our own country of the middle ages, as, mounted on their fiery steeds and armed with sword and pistols, they galloped through the parting multitude, upon whom, when the slightest interruption occurred, they glanced with scorn and contempt. Among crowds of Jews, Turks, Greeks, Armenians, Tyrolians, Germans, Sclavonians, Italians, and Hungarian peasants, were groupes of gipsies, their black matted locks shading their wild sun-burnt countenances, exhibiting their dancingdogs, bears, and monkeys, or playing a lively tune for the amusement of the surrounding multitude, these itinerants being the popular musicians of Hungary. In another part of the fair, mountebanks on elevated platforms were relating the exploits of the famous robber Schrubar in the great forest of Bakony; or the ravages committed by the dreadful monster, half-serpent, half-flying dragon, that lately rose out of the Balaton lake, together with the most veritable history of the re-appearance of the renowned Merman, who had inhabited, for the last two years, his own extensive domain, the Hansag marshes. All these astonishing marvels, besides hundreds of others, were listened to by the peasants, not only with attentive ears, but open mouths, and were illustrated by paintings as large as life, depicting the extraordinary wonders, executed in a style which set all imitation at defiance. Bread, cakes, cheeses, vegetables, &c., were heaped on high in the streets, with the owners of each separate pile squatted in the midst. The savoury odour of multiplied stalls of frying sausages attracted some gourmands; whilst others feasted on the lighter refreshments of
pastry, which the accomplished cuisiniers were preparing for their gratification. But the popular viand was evidently the crayfish, which all ranks, however otherwise engaged, were incessantly consuming; nor did they in this manifest any deficiency in go没t as the flavour of the little dainties was really excellent, and I have rarely seen them exceeded in size. Indeed, to thread the mazes of this great Hungarian fair, so as to obtain a view of its rarities, was an undertaking of no little difficulty, on account of the immense pyramids of wool, hides, tobacco, and other raw materials, which ever stood in the way ; and as these articles were most tempting baits to the cupidity of the Jewish traders, they might constantly be seen making use of all their cajoling eloquence, while prevailing upon the artless peasant to dispose of his wares at a price little more than nominal ; when, however, the case was reversed, and the gaudy
merchandise of the Jew and Armenian traders induced the peasant to become a purchaser, the balance of trade was considerably against him. But, perhaps, of all the various groupes over which my eye wandered, none more strongly arrested my attention than the Saxon colonists: these were attired in the same costume in which their ancestors some centuries gone by had emigrated from their father-land, their blue eyes and heavy quiet countenances forming a striking contrast to the vivid glances of the half Asiatic people around them. Nor were their moral traits less distinctively defined ; for the prudent German, well knowing he was in the society of some of the most accomplished pick-pockets on the continent, wisely determined that they should not prey upon him, for he did not once remove his hand from his pocket; while his good woman never failed to keep watch behind, attended by her little ones, who, on the approach of the half-wild gipsy, timidly covered their flaxen heads in the many folds of mamma's cumbrous petticoat. I would, above all things, recommend every traveller who may visit Pest during the spring fair, not to leave it without taking a morning's ramble through the town; he will then see thousands of men, women, and children, lying about the streets, beneath the piazzas, or in the numerous barks on the river, with no other covering save the canopy of heaven and their own sheepskin mantles : he will also, still more to his surprise, behold them anointing their persons with lard, in order to protect themselves during the day from the effect of heat, and the bites of vermin and insects. (to be continued)
Nazar Look 39
dilyaver memedjan (memedjanov)
Khan's Palace at Night - Bakhchisaray, Crimea
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Qul Sharif Mosque in Kazan Ahat Jami Mosque, Donetsk, Ukraine