Nazar Look 2013-09

BAŞ KABÎMÎZDA ON THE COVER

Ram Krishna Singh Photo: Kumar Vikram Singh

NAZAR LOOK Attitude and culture magazine of Dobrudja’s Crimean Tatars Tomrîğa Kîrîm Tatarlarîñ turuşmamuriyet meğmuwasî ISSN: 2069-4784 www.nazar-look.com nazar.look@mail.com Constanta, Romania FOUNDER & EDITOR-IN-CHIEF BAŞ-NAŞIR Taner Murat EDITORS NAŞIRLER Emine Ómer Uyar Polat Jason Stocks COMPUTER GRAPHICS SAYAR SÎZGAĞÎSÎ Elif Abdul Hakaan Kalila (Hakan Calila) CREATIVE CONSULTANTS ESER KEÑEŞÇÍSÍ M. Islamov

Copyright reverts back to contributors upon publication.

The full issue is available for viewing online from the Nazar - Look website.

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2 nikita síteneskúw Sagînuw ğîrî 4 abdulla aliş Tuwgan awul 6 taner murat scythia minor (little crimea) Kókten sesler - Temúçin (XXI) 8 rabindranath tagore Who Is This - Bo kím eken 10 don darkes kwazulu-natal, south africa Zululand Rosetta Stone Zuluwstan’nîñ Rosetta Taşî 14 ali tal england, uk Unbounded Void (I) 20 petar miloshevich serbia Photoshop: Mausoleum of poet Khoja Akhmet Yassawi (1093-1166) in ancient Hazrat-e Turkestan, now in Kazakhstan 22 nazim hikmet A Sad State Of Freedom 24 outa doukan The Abode of Mine - Mením ğurtum Had I Not Known - Kabersíz bolgan bolsam

26 ram krishna singh jharkhand, india Interview Valley of Self - Óz-ózímníñ şayîrî I Am No Jesus - Men Isa tuwulman On Her Birthday From the Window Solitude I Can’t Hide Fears 36 vladimir nicolas quebec, canada Tao of Love - Súygí Tawo’sî 38 edmund spencer Travels in Circassia, Krim Tartary, &c. (XV)

CONTRIBUTORS MEMBALAR Don Darkes Thao Le Petar Miloshevich Vladimir Nicolas Kumar Vikram Singh Ram Krishna Singh Winny Singh Priya Sinha Ali Tal

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nikita sĂ­teneskĂşw

(1933 - 1983)

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(1933 - 1983)

Sagînuw ğîrî Sesíñníñ katînda uzanîp ğatkan edím.

Kayet árúw edí şo yerde, sîğak kókíregíñ de şekelerímní saklay edí. Ğîrlaganlarîñnî akîlîma bírem akele-almayman.

Belkí keşeleríñní dolaşîp şîkkan dallar man suwlarnîñ bír şarkîsî edí.

Ya da sózlerníñ astînda ólíp kalgan balalîgîñ şarkîsî edí. Ğîrlaganlarîñnî akîlîma bírem akele-almayman.

Awuşlarîm man zúlúfúñde oynay edím.

Kayet akís edíler sen de endí koşmay edíñ mení hesapka.

Neşín ğîlaganîñnî akîlîma bírem akelealmayman.

Belkí sáde kúnbatîş kaswetíñ yúzúnden edí.

Ya da góñíl meselesí men ğuwaşlîktan edí.

Neşín ğîlaganîñnî akîlîma bírem akelealmayman.

Sesíñníñ katînda uzanîp ğatîp sení súye edím.

Aralîk 1956 (Taner Murat’nîñ terğúmesínde)

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abdulla aliĹ&#x;

(1908 - 1944)

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(1908 - 1944)

Tuwgan awul Arkadaşîm albumîna

Dúnya gezdím - tabalmadîm heşkayda Súygen tuwgan awulîm Balîklî Sendekídiy mol bír baylîknî Ğer kókretíp oñgan aşlîknî Sendekídiy adil kalîknî Sendekídiy ğumart kalîknî Ogramadîm heşbír wakîtta…

(Taner Murat'nîn kelíştírmesínde)

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scythia minor (little crimea) www.tanermurat.com

Kókten sesler - Temúçin (XXI) Kesím 38 Kayduw Kaandan atkan obalar: Tayğîwut, Besút, Oronar, Koñgîtan, Árúwlat, Sóyínít, Kaptîrgaş, Geñíş Kayduwdan úş ul tuwdî: Bay Şoñgîr Wahşiy, Ğarakay Liñgúy bír de Ğawğin Órtegay. Bolar edí Kayduwnuñ úş ulî. Úş kardaşnîñ eñ balabanî, Şoñgîr, erlígíne ğeter-ğetmez, at toralatma meselesí boldî. Yorîmî kereksíz, aşîk nedenlerden tekmíllengen atî, Bay Şoñgîr Wahşiy.

Tumbinay Seğan, Bay Şoñgîr Wahşiyníñ tek ulî, "Mazalî, dómbelek bolganşîk, bek akîllî, bek seğadîr" dep aytîla edí. Bay Şoñgîr Wahşiyníñ kógínden Tumbinay Seğandan geşken dal Temúçin alar betke ata. Ğeñkte ayagîna múyúz mañlaylî súmún kadap tîgîrttîlar Bay Şoñgîr Wahşiyní. Kuwetínde, kîrklarnîñ başînda ólíp kettí, wahşiy ğeñkşí. Ğarakay Liñgúy, Kayduwnuñ ortanğîsî, biykesínden tek ul kórdí. Bo bala da, atî Señgúm Bílge, dogmîş kardaşî Tumbinayga uşap, gúzelğe bílmatlî eken.

Atî Ambakay, Ğarakay Liñgúyní, Señgúm Bílgeníñ dalîndan, tek kuwantkan ul torînîdîr.

Mína, bo Señgúm Bílge men onîñ ulî, Ambakay, atasîn akîlî man, bala ósken soñra atasî-ulî bír-bírsínden heş ayîrîlmay, katîna-kanatîna başka kîsîmakraba da toplap, íşkíyew alîp, bağanak tartîp, Tayğîwut obasîn yaptîlar.

Atasîn şalt akîlîn bílíp, balasîn kuwetlí bílegíne gúweníp, kúní kelgende Ambakaynî hakaan kóríp, Tayğîwutka ulusnuñ keleğegí bírem tíretíleğektír.

Temúçinníñ babasî, Yasugay Batîr, bo Ambakay Hakaan man zamandaştîr.

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Taa torasî, Yasugaynîñ ğaşlîgî, Ambakaynîñ hakaanlîgî man óbíştí. Ğeñk alanlarnîñ kartşagayî, Bay Şoñgîr Wahşiy, artîndan ayagîna tartîlgan súmún men túşúrúlgende, Tumbinay Seğan ulî ğaşlîgîna ğetíp bólíkníñ mañlayîna otîrsa da, Ğarakay Liñgúy amğasî o man kóríşíp, ádet kuwalanmasî ístedí. Tumbinay Seğannîñ razîlîgî man, şondan soñra anasîna saygî borîşî, Ğarakay Liñgúy amğasîna ğúklendí. Bír seneden, atî Besútay, ğeñge biykesínden tuwgan, Ğarakay Liñgúynúñ bír ulî taa boldî.

Mína, Besút obasî, Ğarakay Liñgúy men tul ğeñgesínden tuwgan baladan tamîr atkandîr. Şo baladîr, Besútay, Besút alarnîñ atasî.

Kayduwnuñ ózeginí Ğawğin Órtegaynîñ ulî-torînî baár selí gibí taşîgan soñ, onlar ayîrî ğol kazîp, altî oba yarattîlar: Oronar alar, "Şîñlawğular" obasî Koñgîtan alar, "Árúwlúk" obasî Árúwlat alar, "Sóyíndiy Esmeríler" obasî Sóyínít alar, "Ğutuklar" obasî Kaptîrgaş alar, bír de Geñíş alar.

Kesím 39 Bay Şoñgîr Wahşiyníñ ulî, Tumbinay Seğan Babasî Bay Şoñgîr Wahşiy ğeñkte wurulgan soñ, amğasî Ğarakay Liñgúy, Tumbinay Seğandan kanat astî ğeñge almak razîlîgîn kelíp ístegenínde, ekewsún de alağak bolîp bargan edí. Bay Şoñgîr Wahşiyden tul kalgan, onîñ soñ saw kaytkan ğeñgínde kazanîlgan, ğap-ğaş ğeñk şikáarî, nikáasî ğañî kîyîlgan, ekínğí ğeñgesí de bar edí, şo ğeñgesín de merak etíp bargan. Lákin o barganda, babasîn mezarî suwumadan Tumbinay Seğan bólíkníñ mañlayîna otîrgan, babasîn ğapğaş tul biykesín korşalap, óz bosagasîn íş yagîna geşírgen, onîñ saygîsîna ózí ğúklengen edí.

Bay Şoñgîr Wahşiyníñ tul biykesí, rahmetlíníñ uluna nikáalî barîp, Tumbinay

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scythia minor (little crimea)

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Seğanga, ekí ul taptî.

Bírínğísíne at takkanda, Tumbinay Seğan, ínísí bolmaganîn, óz ulî bolganîn kabul etíp, Kabul atîn láyîk kóríp, Kabul dedíler.

Mína, başta kaan ğetíp, soñra Kara Kîtay Uzun Kalawnuñ sîrtînda yaşagan ğúmle boylarnî, îrklarnî bírleştíríp mañlayîna otîrağak, bo baladîr. Kabul Hakaan dep aytîlağak, bo bala, Bay Şoñgîr Wahşiyníñ tul biykesí tuwurgan bala, Tumbinay Seğannîñkîsî kabul etílgen bala.

Kabul Hakaan, Temúçinníñ babasî, Yasugay Batîrnîñ kartbabasî bola.

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Kabulnuñ ínísí tuwganda, oga "Sîr" dedíler, anasî man atasî. Şay degen soñ, balaga Sem atî tagîldî.

"Kalk aytawuymaytan, aytsa da torasîn aytatan" degen bír sóz bar, ya. Ána, bo balaga da bastîrdîlar. Belkímlí Kabul akasîndan ayîrîp, boga Seğan Ulî dedíler, atî Sem Seğan Ulî kaldî. Onîñ da tek bír ulî boldî, Búlteğí. Búlteğí de ğetkende, ondan ewel yaşagan atalarîna uşap, ğeñk alanlarînda batîrlîgîn miydanga şîgarîp, batîr tanîlîp, batîrlarnîñ sîrasîna kíríp kaldî. Búlteğí Batîrdîr onîñ tam atî. (dewamî keleğekke)

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rabindranath tagore

(1861 - 1941)

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(1861 - 1941)

Who Is This I came out alone on my way to my tryst.

But who is this that follows me in the silent dark?

I move aside to avoid his presence but I escape him not.

He makes the dust rise from the earth with his swagger; he adds his loud voice to every word that I utter.

He is my own little self, my lord, he knows no shame; but I am ashamed to come to thy door in his company.

Bo kím eken Tabîşmamnîñ ğolînda ğañgîz şîktîm.

Ama bo kím eken, sessíz karañgîlîkta mením artîmdan kelíp turgan?

Bír kenarga tartîlîp karşîsîndan kaşağak bolaman ama ondan kurtula almam. Şalîmî man ğerníñ tozîn-topragìn şañgîtîp turar; her aytkan lapîma ózíníñ yúksek sesín koşîp turar.

O mením kíşkenekíy óz-ózímdír, ay Allahîm, heş utanmaz; ama onî katîma alîp seníñ kapîñnî şalmaga men utanîrman.

(Taner Murat’nîñ terğúmesínde)

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kwazulu-natal, south africa www.dondarkes.com

The author apprehensively admiring a cheetah , the fastest land animal on earth.

They are highly endangered. This one is part of a breeding program. She is nevertheless wild and keeping a watchful eye out for any prey and could tear his through out without warning.

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kwazulu-natal, south africa

www.dondarkes.com

Following a number of exciting and successful careers in Construction, Manufacturing, Information Technology, Franchising and Entrepreneurship Don finds himself combining them all into his new role as an Author.

He repudiated his Psychology degree in the midseventies prior to serving his mandatory National Military Service in a top-secret Electronic Warfare unit, clandestinely deployed in Rhodesia, (Now Zimbabwe) a horrendous episode, for which he later received a medal. During the eighties, at the height of apartheid, together with (then) illegal “black� partners he built a successful manufacturing company. Following a series of traumatic events he sold it and opted-out to buy the yacht upon which he was shipwrecked together with his wife, five year old son and four year old daughter. After returning destitute to South Africa he rode a ripple in the dot.com wave and sold his Internet start-up in order to distribute organic chocolate and to research a challenging historical novel exploring an intriguing link between the Jewish Holocaust and Madagascar.

Currently, together with his wife, son and two daughters they reside aboard their yacht-in-progress whilst his fantastic family works together to build another yacht and he works on several books with a common denominator; his love of history and his belief that fact is stranger and far more interesting than fiction.

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kwazulu-natal, south africa www.dondarkes.com

Zululand Rosetta Stone I shared a vision with a young Zulu man as disenchanted as I am with the way we are teetering on the edge of genocide.

We put that aside and he told me how putting running water into homes and kitchens in Zululand has destroyed his culture.

Angazi I said, placing my hands palms upwards on either side of me, level with my shoulders, in the Zulu language gesture that means -I don’t know.

He explained.

“You see, today when an unmarried maiden needs water she goes to the kitchen in her parents’ home and opens the tap.

Before the tap they would go down to the river.

The young men knew this and would court them there and so the Zulu nation would bond, breed and thrive.

Now the maidens stay at home and the young men spill their seed upon the dry earth.”

Then I shared my vision with him.

A Rosetta Stone.

In the middle A Zulu Poem on either side English and Afrikaans translations.

On every school desk in South Africa Building understanding and reconciliation.

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kwazulu-natal, south africa

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Zuluwstan’nîñ Rosetta Taşî Sayîsîz insanîñ kanîn tókmesí meseleníñ kenarînda mením kadar umutsuz Zuluwlardan ğaş bír akay man bír túş paylaştîk.

Bo meselení bír kenarga bîrakîp o maga Zuluwstanîñ úyúne-metbesíne suw tartmasî onîñ atalardan-analardan kalgan ádelerín ka-típ bîzganîn añlattî.

“Angaziy” dedím, ekí kolîmîñ awuşlarîn omîzîma kadar ekí yagîma kóteríp. Zuluwğa “bílmem” añlamîna kelgen bír kol hareketí.

O da maga añlaştîrdî: “Mína, kayday bolganîn añlatayîm, búgún delíkanlî bír kîzga suw kerekse babasîñ úyúnde bolgan aşkanaga barîp musluknî aşar.

Musluktan ewel kîzlar derege keter edí.

Bonî bílgen ğaşlarîmîz da o yerge barîp kîzlarga kelíne edíler Zuluw milletímíz şonday etíp gúwende kalîr, kóbiyíp óser edí. Şúndí kîzlar úyde kalîp ğaşlar tukumun kurgak yerge şaşalar.”

Soñra oga kórgen túşúmní añlattîm: Bír Rosetta Taşî.

Ortasînda Bír Zuluw Manzúmesí ekí yagînda da Íngílízğe men Afrikaans terğúmesí. Ğenubiy Afrikanîñ her mektep sîrasînda añlaşuw man aklaşuw.

(Taner Murat’nîñ terğúmesínde)

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ali tal

england, uk

www.arabworldbooks.com

Ali Tal is a Jordanian who has been living in the United Kingdom for most of his life. He writes about the Levant from a temporary and historical view points.

He has several books and short stories

Unbounded Void (I) 1

published, both in English and in Arabic.

'Unbounded Void' is a novella that you might like to read, especially considering the current situation in the Middle East.

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When you read this woebegone title, you might feel weary and say, ‘Why so much darkness?’, then turn the pages for something more cheerful to fill your time. Please, do not prejudge me before you have read my full confession. I will put myself in the dock before

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www.arabworldbooks.com you and appoint you judge and jury. I swear I will confess all of my crimes. If my story does not satisfy your curiosity, you have the right to be angry and even to curse me. I immediately give my word that I will accept your judgement whether it is just or unjust.

In order that you may feel the depth of my unbounded pain and understand the reasons for inflicting it upon myself, I will start from the beginning. I promise to be brief and to the point.

I hope you will read my confession to the end and with a sympathetic heart. If you have heard about the death of Fatimah alone and forsaken, you might scoff at my request and say, ‘How could I pity him. Didn’t he knowingly leave her to die alone in the tent of isolation?’

That was my crime and it was not the worst. To convince you of my heavy burden of guilt, I straightaway say, ‘If happiness ever dares to cross my path, I will defeat it, for I am a man choking on the haughtiness of his love. That is my greatest punishment.’

To make my story complete, I shall tell you of my roots. Seeing me now stricken in years living in the unrelenting void, you might be surprised to know that this lame, old human wreck was once a handsome young man with family and friends. I was not born a son to this village, prostrating in reverence on the Golan Heights before adoni1 Baal2. The rider of the clouds is evermore enthroned in the pavilions of Zion, shinning proud upon the highest peak of Mount Hermon, the source of rivers.

My mother begat me in Damascus to a cloth merchant. He was an only son who had inherited from his father a ohow to transfer footnotes at the endne door shop in souk

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Hamadieh. Like all mortal parents on this Earth, mine also surrounded their fledglings with love and care. They took very little for themselves to afford to feed and shelter me and my siblings.

My childhood was during the turmoil of the Great War which in these part is called ‘the Voyaging Perdition’. It was a time of chaos and extreme hardship upon the lands of Semites, in particular, those of the Fertile Crescent, Iraq and Syria.

In my parents’ house there were many rooms. Now, my home is this sparsely furnished ruined space which is still standing after the war.

My room is supported by one surviving semicircular arch built way back of lime and stone. On the cold concrete floor is spread a worn straw mat, on it I sit and sleep. To one corner are dirty piles of earthenware plates, pots, pans and washing. In this cold snowbound day in midwinter, the only cover I have to keep warm are these two threadbare blankets, in which I am wrapped. There is one thing of which I have plenty of; that is books. They are scattered everywhere. The only sounds I hear are the echoes of my pupils inharmoniously reciting, ‘Aleph Baa jeem.…’ 3 My dreadful dilemma, limping aimlessly about the empty village lanes on my staff, is not because I don’t comprehend the full, awful truth, but because I fully do. I grew up between the cobbled lanes of old Damascus, whilst the poets were lamenting the defeat at Maysalun4. The fall of the Ottoman empire, left the Levant in chaos.

The triumphant march of Gouraud, the French General, into the Syrian capital signalled the irreversible division of the Amorites tribes of modern times. Henceforth, we became citizens of different countries to do business or to go to

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www.arabworldbooks.com war against each another.

King Faisal I, our naive Bedouin Sheikh, said, ‘The honourable man's word is his bond.’5 But imperialism took its timedishonoured course and the lands of the Prophets yielded to the covetous hissing of its revengeful enemies. We ate from the forbidden fruits and were exiled from Paradise. The face of Earth was furrowed by the tyranny of many aggressors. Darkness put out the lanterns of eternity, and Leviathan rose from the bottom of the black deep, keeping us under the yoke of the egotistical imperialists, making martyrdom our only inheritance.

The Floods came and at long last the ark touched land. From it emerged a new bread of heroes. The progeny of Adam was replaced by a postdiluvian race of beings whose feet stood firm upon the clay from which they were cast.

As Baghdad then Damascus began to shake off the shackles, a glimmer of hope lanced the black horizon of sins, foretelling the birth of a bright age of glory. Seeing the might of our oppressors, our Magi preached, ‘Knowledge and science have elevated those who want to keep us low.

We must teach our children the new sciences.’

The glorious, optimistic nineteen thirties beamed upon the Eastern Mediterranean with great expectations. When the golden chariot of Shamash6 bussed the tongues of Heaven’s blue flames, the idealistic youth said, ‘My suitcase is my village.’

I absolutely believed in this axiom. I was one of those idealistic young men, who, if they were suddenly struck by a compelling conviction, they were immediately

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overwhelmed by it. At once I wanted to travel to a village to educate the next generation.

At the age of twenty one, I decided to become a teacher. My father gave me the look of pity for he had once experienced the enthusiasm and rile of youth and loudly shouted for the dignity of the Arabs amongst the nations. He often alluded that he also was behind the barricades at the battle of Maysalun. But, the passage of the Redeemer had mellowed him and his aspiration did not exceed the wellbeing and prosperity of his immediate family.

My mother gave him a soothing look and said, ‘Wipe your face with the Name of the most Compassionate. Pray for Ali’s safe return. My Baal7, teaching is an honourable profession.

There will always be children to teach.’

Thinking that I would not last a week in the wilderness of the Golan Heights, my father gave me enough money to last me a month.

With the whole of the Arab World roused by the nineteen thirty-six revolution against the French, British and Italian mandates, at the end of the first Tishrin8, I packed my suitcase and left the blood-soaked ancient lanes of Damascus to the bus-station, heading for the Golan Heights.

2 I arrived at this village on the back of my jennet which I had bought from the livestock market in Al Qunaitra, the main town on the Heights. Except for walking, riding was the only way of getting around the steep terrain.

Although a mule would have been sturdier and more suitable for the heights, a donkey was all I

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www.arabworldbooks.com could afford. Please forgive me if I do not say the name of my village; you might also come here to convince me to leave. How could I ever leave these war torn ruins for their soil was made sacred by the feet of Fatimah. Barefoot, she walked the dirt lanes as a child and as a young woman.

When I arrived at my final destination, the autumnal night had already drawn its thick black cloak bejewelled with stars. The village vista was hidden from sight. All that was visible were faint orange lights of oil lamps or candles, peeking from square windows. Fearful and anxious of such unaccustomed ominous shadowy darkness, I asked a passer-by to direct me to the house of the village chief who was expecting me. We had communicated through the secret ‘Fight for Independence’ committee.

The following morning, and the fellahin awaken the birds in their nests, the news of my arrival had spread far and wide and was on everybody's lips. The village worthies, in their best raven-black serwals9, shirts and white kofeahs led their sons in successions to greet me and introduce themselves.

Later, I learnt from the village chief that no teacher had appeared amongst them since the days of Sultan Abdul-Hamid, forty or more years before. Whoever wanted to teach his son to read and write, waited until the boy was old enough to cope with the hardship of the daily journey back and forth to the school in Al Qunaitra.

The populations in the tyrannical domain of the Ottoman Empire were confined to their domiciles by the excessive road tolls.

Denuded enlightening cities, the meagre population of the eastern Mediterranean lived in

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an archipelagos on a limitless sea of darkness. If necessity forced somebody to travel, they fell prey to thieves and highwaymen. Morbid tales were abound of ghouls, jinn and the chilling darkulail. These were morbid beings, inhibiting the ubiquitous ancient ruins, feeding on the blood and flesh of unwary night travellers.

Therefore, it was no surprise that I was ignorant of what laid behind the walls of old Damascus.

Outside their safety I felt like an alien.

When the light of day exposed what the darkness had veiled, the crudeness that manifested itself shocked and nauseated me.

Straightaway, I wanted to go back home. In the city we thought we were poor, but poverty here was much more biting and the shabbiness of the children was more ragged and depressing.

Sensing my revulsion, the village chief, a wise old man, took me aside and said, ‘The morrow is ours, my son. Your devotion is to teach us the names which the bleak centuries had effaced. Please, be our torch on these fields scented by sage and thyme.’

This unusually impressive figure, whom everybody called the village chief, was that extraordinary phenomenon: a man about fifty who looked more spry than most men half his age. Of reflective disposition, he had the aura of a person who had been around and done things.

His manners were elegant and his speech was eloquent. The lifespan of the villagers of the time rarely past forty. At fifty the village chief was considered to be an old man. There was a permanent smile in his kohl-blackened eyes. His thick greying moustache covered his mouth that if he talked or laughed, his few remaining yellow teeth protruded from behind the hair.

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www.arabworldbooks.com To flatter my ego, he took me in a procession through the village. Perhaps no such ceremonial parade had swaggered upon its dirt lanes since the ancients exhibited the effigy of Astarte10 with drums and cymbals. Bordered by groves of olden groves of silver olives and vineyards of grapes, what became my sacred village clung precariously to the steep slopes below the ramparts of Baal’s snow white pavilions. The village humble houses, each with a private courtyard, were built of stone quarried from the rocks they sat upon and gleamed rosy red in the morning sun.

When the village chief took me around the village, its inhabitants, in their simple, cheap cloth wears, were lining the lanes, leading to his capacious house. On the whole, the villagers looked clumsy and shy with raven dishevelled hair and short unkempt beards. Due to their menial work they were broad shouldered with heavy overhanging beetle eyebrows and furrowed foreheads. The young men were thicklipped and had an unfriendly aura with stubborn downcast gaze that seemed to be ashamed of something.

The appearance of the smart young Damascene teacher in his extravagant city attire, tarbush, suit and tie, must have marked a special occasion in their drab lives. The fathers rushed to shake my hands and the cheeks of young women and maidens, standing behind the dry walls of their gardens, flushed in admiration. The unexpected reverence with which I was received, pleased my vanity and bought me over. I felt like a king graciously granting my subjects a few moments of my revered presence. That day the village chief made a feast in my honour, which, after the

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noon prayer, was attended by all the village males. The guests filled the mathafa11 and spilled out into its courtyard. My host made me sit atop two mattresses laid in the forepart of the room.

Surrounded by glances of respect and gratitude, we dined on a banquet of chickens and onions roasted in olive oil and sprinkled with sumac and thyme.

The fellahin were never really able to cope with alternative ideas but passionately professed the belief of their ancestors. In the epochs of decline, generation after generation spent their whole lives indubitably writhing under the weight of tradition as if it were a boulder that had fallen on them and crushed them into apathy. In appearance the country folks closely resembled their conviction, weary and hackneyed. Their daily life was a matter of habit and an invariable belief that they were of noble decadency. For long under the yoke of oppression, they blithely seemed to indulge themselves in some unconscionable fantasy about their own splendid lineage and history.

The villagers would gather together in groups and build around themselves invented walls that allowed nothing strange to trouble their mediocre existence. They did things because they found their fathers doing them.

Because they were supposed to be pious, they never sought new knowledge unless it was sanctified by holy men. They attended all prayers to confirm their contentment in a world full of troubles and injustices.

For weeks afterwards, the villagers took it in turn to invite me to their humble homes to dine. Eventually the day came when I began to enjoy the loaves of millet and sage and dribble at the sight of baked burgul and onion buns.

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england, uk

www.arabworldbooks.com I spent all the winter in the village but for a short visit to my parents in Damascus. The simple country life suited my temperament. I enjoyed the plain food. The respect to the honoured teacher beguiled my vanity and I became the village celebrity. If the tax collectors came to demand France's share in the fellahin’s toil, I spoke on their behalf. Normally the tax collectors were our countrymen supported by a coterie of mandatory soldiers. With a baby French, I tried to translate what the village chief had told me. I explained to them the poverty of those hand-to-mouth people and that they themselves were more in need of help. They had no money to spare and if their wheat or barley was confiscated, their children would sleep hungry. The failure of one Baal season was the nightmare that everybody feared. It would bring a famine.

The tax collectors answered with that same adage by which tyrants rule, ‘We are only doing our job.’

Sometimes the tax collectors accepted payment by instalments, but more often they demanded the tax in full or they would confiscate the land. Under such threats, the fellahin, who could not imagine life devoid of farming the land, had no choice but to borrow from the usurers. In its long history, Syria knelt under varying degrees of tyranny, but the injustice that Fatimah had suffered surpassed all. It was of the making of her own people and that made it more bitter and painful. You might begin to understand why I failed to convince her that in the eyes of God and in humanity, she was equal to everyone. Sorry, I have dwelt too long and I promised to be brief, but I think it is important that I make the picture complete to

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help you appreciate my situation. Leave us of that now and let me tell how my regard to Fatimah began to change. How my careless glances changed to passionate looks then into an overwhelming love that bonded me to this village forever. (to be continued) ________________ Notes: 1. Adoni means my Lord. It was wrongly Hellenised to Adonis to mean handsome. (see shortly) 2. After the Elyon (Aliy or El the God of Gods), Baal was the most important deity in the Semites pantheon. In modern times Baal serves as an adjective describing farming that relies only on heavenly (rainwater) irrigation.

3. As in A B C. Alphabets 4. In 1920, a ramshackle Arab army of ill-equipped demobbed soldiers and freedom fighters were defeated by the French at the caravansary of Maysalun. The remnants of Arab legions in the Ottoman Army formed the short lived Arab Kingdom of Syria. The Arab army was demobbed by the British in preparation for the French occupation of Syria.

5. Faisal verbally agreed with the British to form a Kingdom in Natural Syria (Syria, Lebanon, Palestine and Jordan.

6. The goddess of Light. The sun is feminine in Semitic.

7. Baal here means husband.

8. The first Tishrin corresponds with October. First day of the first Tishrin was the autumnal equinox.Based on rotation of earth around the sun (the four seasons), the ancient Semitic calendar is the basis of all other calendars In modern times the Eastern Mediterranean countries adjusted their calendar to match the Gregorian calendar. The autumnal equinox now falls on the 23 of Elul (September, see shortly).

9. baggy trousers.

10. Astarte, Ishtar or Isi (Isis) are the Semites’ Goddesses of love,.

Astarte corrupted by the Greeks to Aphrodite.

11. Men's gathering room.

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serbia

http://sr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Корисник:PetarM

20 Nazar Look

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serbia

http://sr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Корисник:PetarM

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Nazar Look 21

nazim hikmet

(1902 - 1963)

22 Nazar Look

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(1902 - 1963)

A Sad State Of Freedom You waste the attention of your eyes, the glittering labour of your hands, and knead the dough enough for dozens of loaves of which you'll taste not a morsel; you are free to slave for others-you are free to make the rich richer.

The moment you're born they plant around you mills that grind lies lies to last you a lifetime.

You keep thinking in your great freedom a finger on your temple free to have a free conscience.

Your head bent as if half-cut from the nape, your arms long, hanging, your saunter about in your great freedom: you're free with the freedom of being unemployed.

You love your country as the nearest, most precious thing to you.

But one day, for example, they may endorse it over to America, and you, too, with your great freedom-you have the freedom to become an air-base.

You may proclaim that one must live not as a tool, a number or a link but as a human being-then at once they handcuff your wrists.

You are free to be arrested, imprisoned and even hanged.

There's neither an iron, wooden nor a tulle curtain in your life; there's no need to choose freedom: you are free.

But this kind of freedom is a sad affair under the stars.

(Translated by Taner Baybars)

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outa doukan

(cca 1432 - 1486)

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(cca 1432 - 1486)

The Abode of Mine The abode of mine Adjoins a pine grove Sitting on the blue sea And from its humble eaves Commands a view of soaring Fuji.

Mením ğurtum Mením ğurtum Bír ak-şîrşîlîk man píteşíp Mawî deñízníñ ğagasînda otîrar Başîaşada şaşaklîgîndan da Yúkselgen Fujiy’níñ kóríníşín sîmarlar. (Íngílízğeden Taner Murat’nîñ terğúmesínde)

Had I Not Known Had I not known that I was dead already I would have mourned the loss of my life.

(Translated by Yoel Hoffmann)

Kabersíz bolgan bolsam Zaten Ólí ekenímden Kabersíz bolgan bolsam Ğîlap ğanar edím Kaybetken hayatîm artîndan. (Íngílízğeden Taner Murat’nîñ terğúmesínde)

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jharkhand, india

www.rksinghpoet.blogspot.in

Photo: Winny Singh

Ram Krishna Singh, an Indian English poet, has been writing for about four decades. Professionally an English language teacher in a technical university in Dhanbad, India, he has published more than 160 research articles, 175 book reviews and 37 books, including Sexless Solitude and Other Poems (2009), Sense and Silence: Collected Poems (2010), and New and Selected Poems Tanka and Haiku (2012). His haiku and tanka have been internationally read and appreciated. web: www.rksinghpoet.blogspot.in ; email:profrksingh@yahoo.com

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jharkhand, india

www.rksinghpoet.blogspot.in poets and writers can be influential by, what someone calls, “the force of imaginative insight.”

They can be helpful in bringing about inner harmony and balance in an individual, negotiating life in a highly tense or disturbed body politic, rival impulses and ideals, or conflicts and hostilities.

Interview

TM: Professor Singh, at what age did you discover the poet in you?

Ram Krishna Singh: Perhaps, at about 12 or 13, when I composed my first poem in Hindi, which appeared in the children’s magazine supplement of a Hindi daily Aj (Varanasi).

TM: Do you have other writers or artists in your family?

Ram Krishna Singh: Yes, my youngest brother and two of my sisters have also been dabbling in poetry and short story in Hindi, but I doubt they are active now.

One of my uncles made a living by drawing, painting, making cinema slides,advertisements etc.

It seems to me that our family has been blessed with good imaginative faculty.

TM: Has literature the ability to change the way people live their lives?

Ram Krishna Singh: Even if the appeal of literature depends on the sensitivity of readers,

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Though I have no taste for didacticism in poetry, nor do I seek to preach or debate issues, I do believe people of one culture can understand the values of others through diverse literary exposure/interaction. This can help open their minds to grasp how one might be a full human being, with whom one could communicate, and at the same time live in the light of values widely different from ones own.

So literature as negotiation of differences can make changes in the way people live their lives.

TM: Help me understand your work. How would you describe it?

Ram Krishna Singh: As I said, I don’t stand for didacticism or preaching in poetry. Rather, I write a poem to seek a release from myself as much as from others; to feel free by unburdening myself, and experiencing an inner balance, feeling, probing, sensing, recalling, or whatever.If it turns out to be a good poem, it has beauty and meaning created out of a pressing sense of inner emptiness.

It stimulates some sensuous, spiritual, or exalted pleasure, or generates some physical, emotional, or psychosexual sensation.

I love brevity, rhythm, and ‘coloring of human passion,’ personal, lyrical, honest, and free expression, with seriousness in reflection and interpretation.

Like everyone, I too pass through time, through unfulfilled desires, dreams and passions, through

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jharkhand, india

www.rksinghpoet.blogspot.in meaninglessness and purposelessness of an existence which questioningly stares into my eyes all the time just as I try to preserve all those small moments that offer pleasing sensations and rest to my otherwise disturbed nerves and inner being.

I also experience poetry in the brief interfusion with sex which has a rare subtlety of awareness. I feel myself in words that acquire their own existence in the process of making in a form I may have no control over: I read a new meaning in and through my verses that are often an extension of myself.

TM: Who are your biggest creative influences?

Ram Krishna Singh: Since I have been mostly reading new and less known poets writing in English, I can’t mention any big creative influences as such.Yet, I must acknowledge the impact of my American poet-professor friend, late Lyle Glazier (of Vermont), whom I met in 1971-72 as a student and with whom I stayed in touch for about 25 years till his death. He was my best poet-critic friend. In fact I learnt from him how to edit a poem.He helped me edit my first collection, My Silence (1985). Reading his poetry, I discovered my own poetic sensibility.

Then, the Psalms of the Bible have been my another influence, perhaps.

TM: Do you have preferred themes? Were you always wondering about the issues you now wonder about?

Ram Krishna Singh: I don’t know. My fundamentals have remained unchanged. I have touched many themes: individual passion, mythical awareness, human relationship, social consciousness, and become my own veil and revelation.The themes of spiritual search, an

28 Nazar Look

attempt to understand myself and the world around me, social injustice and disintegration, human suffering, degradation of relationship, political corruption, fundamentalism, hollowness of urban life and its false values, prejudices and superstitions, loneliness, sex, love, irony, intolerance, hypocrisy etc seem to be prominent. In my haiku there is a deeper perception of the quotidian as well as things in their complex simplicity.

Then, there is the theme of social reality, which is not devoid of the private and sexual. The use of erotic metaphors reveals the hidden truths about the individual or his /her social consciousness. In fact, in the oriental poetry and art, sexual experiences illumine inner realities and are not different from other human experiences such as eating or sleeping. There is some sense in love of the self through exploration of the body, or naked physicality, leading to love of the divine, or man and woman as one. Erotic theme or imagery in my poetry has a transpersonal dimension.

Perhaps, the problem is not sex/sexuality but social attitude, false morality, hypocrisy, the socio-sexual standards that determine ‘civilized’ norms, that discriminate, enchain, and debase honest aspirations.

TM: Is your work process fast or slow?

Ram Krishna Singh: It’s fast, I think. I have written most of my poems in the spirit of ‘here and now’. Shorter poems – lyrics, haiku and tanka – simply happen anywhere,anytime. It takes hardly 10 minutes to complete it. A long poem (beyond 15 lines or so) may take half-an-hour and some times, intermittently, a day or two!

As far as prose writing is concerned, it takes some planning, reasoning, and note-making—

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jharkhand, india

www.rksinghpoet.blogspot.in understanding what I need to write—and then write, and edit, revise and re-write, till I am convinced that it meets the purpose of writing.

TM: How many evaluations does your work go through before you are satisfied with it?

Ram Krishna Singh: Since a poem literally happens—I may get inspired by anything, anybody, any event, any person—I rarely revise or evaluate it. A weak poem makes me aware of its deficiency right at the start and I try to improve it within the first half-an-hour, or forget about it.

May revise/rewrite it after a day or two.

In fact, so much seems to be happening subconsciously or unconsciously that it is difficult to say what will inspire or get expressed when, where, or how. But when an empathetic poetreader makes some suggestion for improvement, I am always open to change.

TM: Rhymed poems or free verse?

Ram Krishna Singh: I don’t think I ever tried to write rhymed verse in English. I have written only free verse.

TM: Where do you write?

Ram Krishna Singh: The source of creative inspiration has always been mysterious. When and where it happens, nobody can say. I have composed poems while walking, eating, taking bath, defecating, reading, praying, interacting, travelling, or just relaxing.

TM: Is there a time of day or night when you have energy that is more creative?

Ram Krishna Singh: No. There has never been a fixed time for my creative energy to be active. It

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may be spurred anytime,by my personal experiences with people in waking life, my dreamt dreams, seeing good paintings, or reading good writing.

For academic or critical writing, however, morning hours seem more effective.

TM: What gives you most enjoyment from your poetry? Do you admire your own poems?

Ram Krishna Singh: It pleases me most when a poem is published, or appreciated by a poet/critic.

And, if someone’s comment reveals certain aspects of a poem I am not aware of, I am naturally inclined to appreciate it more.

TM: When you write a poem, do you start with the title first? Or do you write the poem first and think of the title after?

Ram Krishna Singh: The truth is, I am very poor at titling my poems. I am yet to compose a poem with title integral to it. In fact, I believe in giving no titles to my poems. Titles tell too much, as Lyle Glazier once observed.These interfere with readers’ freedom of imagination. But if I suspend some poems by titles, it is only to facilitate their individual identification or separation from the rest of the poems. That’s all.

TM: Why are modern poets neglecting the rules of poetry?

Ram Krishna Singh: It’s perhaps because they’re not aware of the rules, or because they vie with each other to subvert and create something different! This is also reflective of the decline in reading, learning, and industry, and shabbiness in human behavior and intellectual habits.

TM: How do you balance reading and writing?

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jharkhand, india

www.rksinghpoet.blogspot.in

Ram Krishna Singh: If one has no time to read, one can’t write. As simple as that. Having said that, I must admit that I read everything—good, bad, trash, technical, journalistic, aesthetic, serious, literary, non-literary, popular--and try to absorb it.

Maybe, sometimes use it, too, if it’s good.

Otherwise, forget it. My forgetting is faster than my remembering.

As for its process, let me also say that I have always tried to keep the academic writer separate from the poet in me, though when I review, or do a critical article, the academic in me is also active.

I have also tried to maintain a balance between my academic activities that give me my bread and professional status, and poetic creativity that gives me an identity in Indian Writing in English but not money. Now that I have considerably reduced my academic reading (or research), I hope I will concentrate more on poetry practices internationally. I also need to read more to enjoy than to write as a reviewer, critic, or academician.

TM: Do you exchange work with your students?

Ram Krishna Singh: If you mean exchange of my poems with students, it’s NO.I mostly teach ‘English for Science and Technology’ (EST) skills to

Photo: Priya Sinha

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jharkhand, india

www.rksinghpoet.blogspot.in undergraduate and postgraduate students who have little time to read literature. The M.Phil (English) students do read my poems as part of their Indian English writing course. A couple of them have also explored my poetry for MPhil and PhD dissertations.

Since my poetry is available on the internet (as also in the library), interested students read it on their own, and sometimes interact with me also. Some of them meet me to show their poems.

TM: Will you only preface a good book?

Ram Krishna Singh: Yes. You’re right. The book must motivate me to say something fresh, or worth saying. A good book, however, stands on its own and needs no one for its introduction. So, I must match its level to be able to preface it!

TM: When you are not writing, where would we most likely find you?

Ram Krishna Singh: At home, watching TV, or reading newspapers, or some literary journal or magazine. There is nowhere else to go! Dhanbad is no good for a poet writing in English. Nor is there a better place, away from the campus, to go to.

TM: What is the best place to have lunch with a writer in Dhanbad?

Ram Krishna Singh: Dhanbad is essentially a coal city with no culture of its own. Since it is now one of the fastest growing cities of India, a few good hotels have come up but I doubt these provide the desired ambience for a writer to have lunch or dinner. Yet, I discovered a Resort early this year.

One can leisurely drink, eat, and chat there.

Ram Krishna Singh: One can google my name to find me on the web,but one can view some of my work on the following sites: http://rksingh.blogspot.in/ http://profrksingh.blogspot.in/ http://rksinghpoet.blogspot.in/ http://www.lit.org/author/R.K.Singh http://www.indianfaculty.com/Faculty_Articles/FA 20/fa20.html http://ezinearticles.com/?expert=Ram_Krishna_Sin gh http://collectedpoemsofrksingh.blogspot.in/2010/11 /sense-and-silence-collected-poems- of.html http://indiasaijikiworlkhaiku.blogspot.in/2006/07/rk-singh.html http://www.penpoetry.com/allpoetry/ram-krishnasingh.html http://www.linkedin.com/pub/ram-krishnasingh/17/195/890 TM: What is ahead for Professor Ram Krishna Singh?

Ram Krishna Singh: I badly need a change from the present deadly monotony of existence in the maze of routine: it has been a long journey from loneliness to frustration to depression, on the one hand, and search for purpose and meaning of life, on the other.Now, I eagerly look forward to a relaxed, retired life, with freedom to do or pursue whatever interests me-- to visit places I couldn’t, to read books I couldn’t, and to enjoy and discover myself, reading, writing, travelling, or whatever. ***

TM: Where can we find you on the web?

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jharkhand, india

www.rksinghpoet.blogspot.in

Valley of Self

Óz-ózímníñ şayîrî

I don’t know which psalms to sing or which church to go to feel the flame within for a while

kaysî mezamirní okîp ya kaysî kílsege barağagîmnî bílmem íşíndekí alewún yaşap

sit or lie still with faith weather the restlessness brewing breath by breath

otîrîp ya uzanîp ğatîp inanş man solîş-solîşka raátsízlígíñ kaynamasîna karşî kelmege

I don’t know the god or goddess or the mantra to chant when fear overtakes my being and makes me suffer

kaysî tañrîga ya tañrîşaga tapînîp kaysî mantîranî okîyğagîmnî bílmem barlîgîmnî basîp korkî şektírgende

plateaus of nightmares paralyzing spirit to live and be the promised fulfillment

kara túşler kîrlarî yaşaw ruhum man oñma sózímní felşke tutturup

I see no savior come to rescue me when mired I seek freedom from myself:

kelíp kurtarağak kurtaruwğî kóre-almayman batîp ózímden azatlanmaga karaganda:

my ordeals are mine alone in the valley of self I must learn to clear the clouds soaring high or low

şegíşmelerím sáde maga kala óz-ózímníñ şayîrînda bulutlarnî aşmaga úyrenmem keregír aşada-yokarda taya-taya uşa-uşa (Taner Murat’nîñ terğúmesínde)

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jharkhand, india

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I Am No Jesus I am no Jesus but I can feel the pains of crucifixion as a common man suffer all what he suffered— play the same refrains— at times cry and pray hope for better days ahead despite lack of love diminishing strength failures, ennui and blames for sins I didn’t author I am no Jesus but I can smell the poison and smoke in the air feel for humankind like him carry the cross and relive my dreams I am no Jesus but I can feel the pain of crucifixion

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jharkhand, india

www.rksinghpoet.blogspot.in

On Her Birthday

From the Window

I want the best of life for you but you too must understand what I can’t do

Tall houses appear to grow like trees from the plane slowly rising high

you must be patient and do what you can— I can’t create the fruits I may create space for you to stand but I can’t become the legs you must run the race on your own and be what you dream the redness of mars and the whiteness of moon merge in you

people turn tiny with cars water birds and beasts in the summer flame nervously worried watch the moving mass of clouds from the window eternal patterns nature’s wonder on the edge a streak of orange thousands of lights twinkle in colors like stars— seat belt fastened

you have worlds to conquer and miles to go, my dear you must rear the goose and have the gold each day

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jharkhand, india

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Solitude

I Can’t Hide Fears

I don’t seek the stone bowl Buddha used while here: She dwells on moon beams

I couldn’t make my bedroom church reading psalms and Lord’s prayers

I can see her smiling with wind-chiseled breast in sexless solitude her light is not priced but gifted to enlighten the silver-linings

the light of my lamp and the portion of my cup couldn’t lift my soul mired in passions and silence of the morning the confessions couldn’t remove my anguish of ages nor the tears and cries strengthen faith hope and love – the rock slips the grip for enemies within don’t halt my body glues to the ground seeking darkness of the womb and joys

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vladimir nicolas Photo: Thao Le

quebec, canada

He is born on september 2, 1979 in Cap Haitien at Haiti.

Living in Montreal (Canada) since the years 90s, he published in 2007 his first book of poetry titled "Azrael", dedicated to his deceased mother, Ruth Louis. In 2008, the French book publisher Le Manuscrit contracted him for publishing his poetry book titled "Automato et humanus" with Cyberpunk culture themes such as a world fell under a global dictactorship ruled by all-mighty corporations and a population sentient robots sharing the planet Earth with the human clones named Mann while mankind, the original homo sapiens is on the edge of extinction.

Writing both in French and English languages, he is writing his first short stories and novels since 2010.

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quebec, canada

Tao of Love Lovely warm light, everybody is dreaming and awaiting Or great curse, but powerful enough to devour us.

Voyagers in that life, human livings need love.

Early or Later, we meet Love's curse and blessings.

Súygí Tawo’sî Gúzel sîğak ğarîk, herkez túşúnde kóríp beklegen Ya da balaban kargîş, ama bízní ğutmaga kadar kúşlí. Şo hayatnî kîdîrîp gezgenlerge, ğanlî insanlarga súygí keregír.

Erte bolsa da, keş bolsa da, Súygíníñ kargîşî man, kayîrî man tabîşamîz.

(Taner Murat’nîñ terğúmesínde)

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Travels in Circassia, Krim Tartary, &c.

(XV)

Promenades are laid out with shady alleys in the vicinity, and several fine hotels have been recently constructed and fitted up with every accommodation for the visitors, who may here indulge in all the moderate luxuries of life for about a dollar a-day!

Upon approaching the Turkish fortress

This pretty bath, which I visited some

Neu- Orsova, an officer belonging to the

years since, has become, partly in consequence

garrison hailed the vessel, and informed us that

of the steam navigation on the Danube, (from

unless we were provided with a firman we could

whence it is only distant a few leagues,) and

not pass : this intelligence was any thing but

partly from the inherent efficacy of the waters,

agreeable, for neither the captain, nor any of

extremely popular. They were known to the

the

Romans, who called them—from the high

document.

temperature of the water, exceeding forty-seven

between the captain of the steamboat and

degrees of Reaumur, and also probably from the

several Austrian officers, passengers ; and at

copiousness of the supply exceeding that of any

length it was agreed that we should return to

other in Europe, " Thermae Herculis ad aquas."

Alt-Orsova till the firman could be procured. I

passengers The

possessed matter

was

the

desired

long

debated

found, however, that the captain, a very spirited There are twenty-two springs, nine of

man, was inclined to go forward, on the ground

which are at present in use ; and if we may

that permission had been already generally

believe the accounts of their healing powers,

accorded for the free navigation of the Danube ;

they effect a cure in most chronic cases of

I therefore proposed to the Austrian major, that

scrofula, cutaneous diseases, rheumatism, gout,

we should proceed together to the fortress, and

contractions of the limbs, consumption of the

learn from the Pacha himself the cause of our

lungs, diseases of the eyes, &c. Nor do their

detention. After long debating the matter, pro

sanative qualities constitute the only attraction

and con, like a true German, he at length

of these baths, for the surrounding country is

consented ; and accordingly, attended by an

beautiful, abounding with romantic valleys and

officer of the sanitary guard, we set off for the

lofty hills. In addition to this the climate is so

fortress, a miserable half-ruined building.

mild, that we find the fig, and other trees peculiar to southern climes, growing wild in the

We were immediately introduced to the

woods ; and at the same time so genial, that the

Pacha, a fair-complexioned fine-looking man,

most delicate invalid may remain exposed to the

about forty years of age, with a most patriarchal

air until a very late hour in the evening.

beard ; he was dressed in the Turkish uniform, a

38 Nazar Look

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dark blue frock coat, light blue pantaloons, and

of established authority ? Impossible. Suppose

a red cloth cap with a very large blue silk tassel.

the Pacha should take it into his head, that

He received us most aff'ably, and his manners

sending a few bullets at ours was a duty

would have done no discredit to a courtier of St.

incumbent upon him, are we to sacrifice our

James's.

our

lives for a foolish firman ? No. Proceed, captain,

negotiation, coifee was brought in, which, as is

if you will ; but we must, though very

invariably the case in Turkey, was excellent, and

reluctantly, bid you adieu ;" and they instantly

served in a style of much elegance. The tray was

quitted the vessel, leaving me not only to the

covered with an embroidered napkin, edged with

enjoyment of a hearty laugh with the captain at

silver fringe ; and the cups, of the finest Chinese

their expense, but also the honour of being the

porcelain, rested upon silver stands.

first traveller who had journeyed down the whole

Previous

to

commencing

The Austrian officer, who spoke the Turkish language fluently, introduced me to the

of the lower Danube in a steam-boat to the Black Sea.

Pacha. The worthy Turk, upon learning that I

After proceeding a little further, we came

was an Englishman, received me with the most

to the famous cataract of the Danube, called by

marked courtesy; and when we had taken coffee

the Turks Demirkapi, or the iron gate, so termed

and smoked our tchihouques, we related the

because it was formerly deemed impassable ;

object of our mission, to which he Hstened with

but now, in consequence of the height the river

the most poUte attention. After dehberating a

had attained, we crossed this formidable pass

few minutes with his officers, he replied, that he

without much difficulty. Thus our steam-vessel

had received instructions from his government

was the first which had accomplished this

not to permit any foreign vessel to pass down

somewhat perilous feat, the directors of the

the Danube without a firman; "but," continued

steam

he, smiling, "my orders do not include a

provided carriages for the conveyance of their

mandate to fire, in case you choose to proceed

passengers by land over this part of the route.

on your own responsibility. In that event,

To obviate this inconvenience, it is proposed to

however, I shall send an express to my superior

cut a canal on the Servian side, the company

officer, the Governor Pacha of Widdin." We then

preferring this alternative to that of deepening

made our conge and departed.

the bed of the river, which would be a most

Upon detailing the particulars of our interview to the remainder of the passengers, they with one consent announced their intention of quitting the boat. " What !" said the welltrained Austrians, " journey on in open defiance

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navigation

company

having

hitherto

expensive undertaking. Indeed, upon surveying the ground through which it is intended to pass, we cannot avoid coming to the conclusion that a canal had formerly existed there, most probably the work of the Romans ; which, on their expulsion from the country, fell into disuse, and

Nazar Look 39

in process of time became filled up.

ices,

The Demirkapi cataract, unquestionably the most sublime part of the Danube from its source in the Black Forest of Germany to the Euxine,

is

considerably

heightened

in

picturesque effect by the wild character of the surrounding country. Here the majestic river, pent up in a narrow channel, rushes between stupendous rocks down the descent with the rapidity of lightning, and with a crash so tremendous as to overpower every other sound ; while the foaming surge, as it broke with violence over the deck, and lashed the sides of our vessel, gave to the river the appearance of

exquisite

confectionary,

and

delicious

wines. The lady, however, did not forget to tell us that she was nobly born, and bitterly lamented the want of society in the desert which now formed her residence : still she did every justice to the character of the Wallachian peasants, describing them as honest, kindhearted, and obliging. She also informed us that provisions were extremely cheap,—meat not more than a penny a-pound, poultry, bread, and excellent wine equally reasonable ; so that it would appear from her account, that a man might here live like an alderman for about twenty pounds a-year.

the sea when agitated by a storm. Nor was this

After bidding farewell to our kind host

all; for before our arrival at the cataract, we had

and hostess, we passed over to the Servian side,

to pass through a continuation of whirlpools and

and took in two Turks as pilots. It was rather a

inconsiderable waterfalls, which, though not

novel spectacle to an Englishman to see these

dangerous, added very much to the romantic

turbaned fellows at the helm of a steam-packet,

character of our voyage.

and to hear our Italian captain giving the words

We had now passed all the horrors of the Danube, and the turbulence of the stream gradually

subsided.

The

right

bank

still

continued Servia, while on the left we had the principality of Wallachia, at whose first town, Kladova, we cast anchor. During the time occupied by the authorities in signing our passports, the captain and myself accepted the invitation of the agent of the steam-vessel, who resided here. Our host and his wife, a pretty little

woman,

were

Hungarians

:

they

of command, " Ease her,"—" Stop her,"—" Go on," in broken English. Indeed, in whatever part of the world I have travelled in a steam-boat, or by whomsoever commanded, whether Turk, Greek, Itahan, German, or Russian, still I heard a repetition of these words, though sometimes delivered with such an accent as rendered them almost unintelligible. Thus they will probably become naturalized in the language of every nation adopting steam navigation. (to be continued)

entertained us most hospitably, and I was not a little surprised to find in this remote part of the world, among many other luxuries of the table,

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Nazar Look 39