Nazar Look 2014-04

BAŞ KABÎMÎZDAON THE COVER “Abdullah Tukay, kemalînda”“Gabdulla Tuqay, Maturity” Artist: Rushan Shamsutdinov

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CONTRIBUTORSMEMBALAR Rushan ShamsutdinovTom SheehanRam Krishna SinghAli Tal

2nikita síteneskúw

DuwaElifAnaktarîñ kaytarîp bermesí Gúzellík yamanîÓzresím Túşúnğe 1 Túşúnğe 2HaykuwKararnameManzúme

6taner muratscythia minor (little crimea)

Kókten sesler - Temúçin (XXVIII)

8gabdulla tuqay (abdullah tukay)

Shuraleh The Water Maid A Tale about a Goat and a Sheep Mother’ prayer

18tom sheehanmassachusetts, usa

A Kommando Loose in Maine (I)

26chuya nakahara

A Bone - Bír súyekPoem: An Evening in Spring - Manzúme: Bír baár akşamîPoem: Evening with Sunlight - Manzúme: Kúneşlí akşamPoem: Sad Morning - Manzúme: Kaswetlí saba

31ali talengland, uk

Unbounded Void (VIII) 36ram krishna singhjharkhand, india

Nude Delight - Şîpalaklîk zewukîLet’s Meet - Tabîşayîk

38edmund spencerTravels in Circassia, Krim Tartary, &c. (XXII)

NAZAR LOOK Attitude and culture magazine of Dobrudja’s Crimean Tatars

Tomrîğa Kîrîm Tatarlarîñ turuş-mamuriyet meğmuwasî

ISSN: [email protected], Romania FOUNDER & EDITOR-IN-CHIEFBAŞ-NAŞIR

Taner Murat EDITORSNAŞIRLER

Emine ÓmerUyar PolatJason Stocks

COMPUTER GRAPHICSSAYAR SÎZGAĞÎSÎ

Elif AbdulHakaan Kalila (Hakan Calila)

CREATIVE CONSULTANTSESER KEÑEŞÇÍSÍ

M. Islamov

Nazar Look 1www.nazar-look.com

2 Nazar Look www.nazar-look.com

nikita síteneskúw(1933 - 1983)


(1933 - 1983)

Duwa Mení bagîşlap yardîm et kózímní ğuwup kaytar şiyleríñ kórínmez tuwuşunayúzúmní. Mení bagîşlap yardîm et kaálbímní ğuwup kuy parmaklarîñnîñ arasîndanğan buwun. Mení bagîşlap yardîm et kóteríp at ústúmdeneskí kewdemní ezíp turganğañî kewdemní. Mení bagîşlap yardîm et kóteríp at ústúmden.tabiyatîmnî awurtîp ağîtkankara melekní.

(Taner Murat’nîñ terğúmesínde)

Elif Taa uzaklarda, uzaynîñ ortasîna taa yakîntúkenír kaálbím. Başîm, mayşîrak alewídiy,kórínmegen kollarîñda ğanîpsîğak kózlerín kaybetíp turar. O ğarîgînkaradakî-deñízdekíbulutsuz kewdesínden pesler. Hem muğizelí şikáar hem aşlîk yardîmî – ğeryúzí,Muğizelí suwsama fîrsatî – deñíz.Herzaman sîğak kózlerín kaybetken,kolarîñnî ğakkanyawaş alew.


(1933 - 1983)

Anaktarîñ kaytarîp bermesí Senísagînmay tura-alganîmnîsagînaman. Kaswet, o túşúnğe tuwulo bír madde. Aşa onî, eger kím men aşayğak kíşíñ bolsa! Hayat ağîsî maddedír, tuwul siyíretmesí. Senísagînmay tura-alganîmnîsagînaman.


Gúzellík yamanî Sení tuwurganîm yîkpal ekenín dep aytmam. Sáde bír muğize ekenín aytarman. Ólmemege kara, súyerkem,Eger başîna şîga-alasañ, ólmemege kara. Mením ómírím kettí,seníñ de yîkpalîñ. Tek aytağak şiyím şodîr, ke ekewmízníñ yaşagan yeríbo dúnyadîr.



(1933 - 1983)

Ózresím Men konîşkanbír kan tamgasîndan başkabírşiy tuwulman.


Túşúnğe 1 Mením kóríşíme kóre şayiríñ óz şagî yoktîr; şaknîñ óz şayirí bardîr, hem umumiy, her kaytîm óz şayirín kórer.


Túşúnğe 2 Sízge bírşiy aytağak bolaman, bír kere taaaytkan bolsam da: men şayirge bek inanmam,men şiirge inanîrman.


Haykuw Karañgîlîknî karartîp, mína ğarîk kapîlarî.


Kararname Mení unutsalar unutsunlar çúnkí kollarîma kúnúm kalmaz, kolsîz da tabarman şáremní.Mení bîrakîp ketseler ketsínler çúnkíayaklarîmnî súymen, men hawa man da ğúrermen.Bírózím kalsam da kalayîm çúnkíkanîm deñízge agîp keterzaten.Yer bar. Bútún kabîrgalarîm parmaklîk engelídiy kóteríldí.Yeterlí ğarîk bar. Kózlerímyúz kapatkan tek yúzlúk kórer.Ama o mevğut bolmay taa, onîştan yer bar, yer kóp, bar.


Manzúme Aytsî, kúnnúñ bírínde sení tutupayagîñ tabanîn ópsem,ondan soñra, óbúwúmní ezmiyğek bolîp, sen bíraz topallap ğúrer edíñ, tuwul mî? ...



scythia minor (little crimea)www.tanermurat.com

Kókten sesler - Temúçin (XXVIII)

Kesím 62Íste kudamdan razîlîk

Móñlík atka atlap, tozlata

dumanlata Dej Seğannîñ úyúne barîp toktadî ke Yasugay Batîrnîñ sózlerín yeríne akelsín. O yetíşíp barganda Dej Seğan úynúñ aldînda íş kóre edí. Bír-bíríne alîşkan ekí bala da, Temúçin men Bórte, óteberí uzaklîkta, bír terekníñ katînda, oynap tura edíler.

- Dej Seğannîñ úyún karap ğúremen. - dep toktattî, Móñlík, atîn, Dej Seğannîñ katîna.

- Dogrî yerdesíñ, ğolşî. Men bolaman, Dej Seğan.

- Mením de atîm Móñlík, Móñlík Baba dep aytîlaman, Koñgîratlardanman. Yasugay Batîrdan elşílík men keldím. Kaberler yaman. - dedí.

- Kayîr-ola! Aydîsa, úynúñ íşíne buyursa! - dedí Dej Seğan úynúñ kapîsîn kósteríp.

"Ózím de yaman şiyler sezgen gibí bola edím, ya" oyî man, elşíní íşerge kírsettí. Elşíní otîrtîp, bír kade suw uzattî. Soñra kadení yeríne salîp, ap-ak şîrayî man tîşarga şígíp:

- Temúçin, kelsí balam terakay! Aydî, bíraz íşímíz bar. - dep bakîrdî, ballar oynagan betke karap.

Temúçin men Bórte ğuwuruşa-ğuwuruşa keldíler.

- Bórte, sen barîp neneñe bíraz yardîm etíp tur! Kara, eşkí sawup bírózí ogîraşa. Bar, otîr katînda, belkím bírşiy kerekse yardîm etersíñ. - dep kîzîn kuwgan soñra, kíyewún alîp úynúñ íşíne

kírdíler.- Mína, balam, úyúñden kaberğí

keldí. Aydî, ekewmúz katlî-katîna otîrîp, barabar alayîk şo kaberní! - dep elşíge karap bekledí.

Móñlík Baba ayak ústúne turup, aşaga karadî. Soñra ekí kózín yokarga tígíp, her ğúmleníñ aldînda esín deren-deren tartîp, elşílígín bakîra-bakîra şakîrdî:

- Yasugay Batîr aw moñlîgî şegíp kaldî. Aw moñlîgîndan, raát yukî yuklay almay, kózkapaklarî aşîk. Temúçinní bek kîdîra, Temúçinní bekliy tura. Ulî man barabar awga şîgağaklar. Koñgîlîndan ayuw kuwup, kaytarağaklar. Yoksam, Batîr, moñlîgîn atîp, kózín ğumup, raát yukusun al-almayğak. "Íste kudamdan razîlîk, bellet uluma buyuruk!" dep ğíberdí.

- Ayse, kudam şonday moñlî-kaswetlí túşken bolsa, ulî şîksîn, ketíp kórsín! - dedí Dej Seğan, nazarî aşada.

Bo sózlerní eşítkende Temúçin, sessíz kalîp, başîn aşaga aldî. Soñra tîşka şîktî. Artînda, Dej Seğan:

- Yalan dúniya! Yalan dúniyam! - dep, túşúnğelí-túşúnğelí kaldî.

Bala úynúñ artîna ğaşînîp, o yerde şoñkayîp ğîlay edí. Bórte de, katîna kelíp, ses şîgarmay, şoñkaydî. Bírkaş dakka ewel kúlúşe-kîşkîrîşa oyîn oynay edíler. Şúndí, arkadaşî Temúçin, ğîlay-ğîlay kózyaşlarîn síle. Kîz da toktat-almadî, kózyaşlarîn. Baya sessíz-sedasîz otîrgan soñ:

- Ne bolawuydî saga, arkadaşîm? Bo moñlîgîñ kaydan şîgawuydî? Karakaber aldîñ mî, yoksam? - dep soradî kîsîk sesí men, korka-korka.

Temúçin ğîlap toktay almay, konîş-almay. Bír máálden Bórte, taa da, ğúregí atîla-atîla:

- Bír yeríñní awurttuñ mî, yoksam? - dep soradî.


scythia minor (little crimea)www.tanermurat.com

- Kózí aşîk, babam mení kîdîra... - dedí o wakît Temúçin.

- Tañrî ağîp, yardîm etsín! - dedí kîz.

Ekewí de şo yerde, úynúñ artînda şoñkayîp kaldîlar.

- Tew, n-íşliy eken bonlar? - dep karadî Ğotan Ana, Bórteníñ nenesí, onlarga. Íşín yarî taşlap, kollarîn etegíne súrte-súrte, katlarîna barayatîrganda, ğîlaganlarîn abayladî. Bírkaş dakka ewel koğasî man úyge kírgen yabanğînîda kóríp, şoyerde añladî:

- Way, balaşîgîm, ne boldî? Kímge ğîlayatîrsîñ, ulum? - dep kuşaklap aldî Temúçinní.

- Babama, Batîrga!- Tañrîga arka ber, balam! Tañrî

kuwet bersín! Kel, bír suw íş, aydî, balam! - dep Temúçinní aketíp suw íşírtíp, betín ğuwdî.

Íşerde, karakaberge inangîsî kelmegendiy, şaşîrîp kalgan Dej Seğan, Móñlíkten:

- Kudamnî kórdíñ mí, ózíñ kózíñ men? - sorap, ne bolganîn añlamaga karay edí.

- Yasugay akam bek kasta bolîp ğatîr, tóşekte ğatîr:

"Tóşekten túşiyím" deseTóşekten túşer hálí bírem yok.Túşúp, "Míniyím" deseMíner hálí bírem yok.

- Míndan şîgîp ketkení bírkaş kún,

aptasî tolmay, taa. Bírşiyí yok edí, saw-saglam. Okadarlîk hálí kaldî mî, endí? Bariy, yemegín aşay mî? Ara-sîra awuzun aşîp, tíl-awuz bere mí?

- Şîrayî-túsí kalmadîBoyî-postî kesíkrdîBuwunlarî mayîştîOkkasîndan bek attîErínlerí morardîTílínden sesí taydîĞandan umut azaydîAzgana kúní kaldî.

Temúçin kírdí úyge, bír dereğege

kadar ózíne kelgende.- "Ğel kuwsun!" dep ğíberdí, Yasugay

Batîr. Ázírsíñ mí, Temúçin? - dep soradî Móñlík.

- Ázírmen. Babamnîñ başka aytkanî bar mî?

- Bar, "Ádet yerínde tabîlsîn!" dep ayttî. "Alînağak-beríleğekníñ başîna şîksîn!" dep ayttî.

Şo man Móñlík Baba, Temúçinní alîp kettí. Keteğekte, Bórte, Temúçinge:

- Sen borîşnîñ başîna şîk, men beklermen! - dep sawlukmanbarîn ayttî.

- Borîşîñnî başînaşîk aket! - dep ayttî Ğotan Ana da.

- Senden başka kórmiymen, bíz barabar kartayağakmîz. Sen borîşnîñ başîna şîk! - dedí, taa da, Bórte.

- Borîşîña kara sen, başîna şîk! Bízge kalganga kaár etme, bíz yaparmîz! - dedí Dej Seğan.

- Tañrî sízden razî bolsîn! - dep, Temúçin awuldan şîkkan soñ, Móñlík Baba man barabar, artîna karamay at teptíler.

Móñlíkníñ kelgen ğolîndan ketmedíler, tora Kulan Daknîñ betíne yúzún tutup şaptîlar. Onlar Kulan Daknîñ etegíne barîp ğurtlarî man tabîşkanda keş edí, bek keş, Temúçinníñ atasî, Yasugay Batîr, geşken edí.

(dewamî keleğekke)


(1886 - 1913)

Shuraleh (A mythical horned demon, which inhabits the forests of Tatarstan) In vicinity of Kazan there's a village named Kyrlai,Their chorus is the mightiest when its cocks in loud cry.Not that born was I in Kyrlai, but I stayed there for a while,Hard at work with harrowing, sowing, harvesting - all in due time.I remember thick black forest, by the village like a wall,I remember field and lawn, soft as velvet in the dawn.Would you think that village's big? - No, my dear, not at all.Here is fresh water taken from the cheerful spring hole.Air isn't cold or hot - it's all comfortable there.When the raspberry - strawberry paint red the nearest lawn,In a blink of eye your pail will be filled with their lot!Fascinating land! Pines, fir-trees like the guardians stay alert,Often used to rest beneath them, turning powerful twice more.Here or there seeing mushrooms, sorrel, buds or flowers' blossomUnder birch or aspen-tree - having been obsessed too close to themSuch a balmy air's here from those blooming fragrancies,Colored blue and colored yellow, variegated red, white, lilac!And so motley butterflies are, making rivalry to bloom,Flying, taking off and coming, - fed with nectar are they all!And you feel sometimes as if birds of Paradise are singing,Making heart stop sweetly still, and your soul wings do quiver.All in one place, here they are! - theater, orchestra and ballet,Concert, circus, boulevard - all that makes you ever jolly!Huge as Khan Chingiz's troops, like the giant with thousands headsEndless forest starting there, as deep ocean rise in waves.I see through the ancient time, our forefathers lived in,Their glory, their names, lovely stories, lovely viewsOf their honorable state.As if curtains on the stage open are againAnd at last you see them all, wondering what we are now -Still, we are the sons of Lord blessed!


(1886 - 1913)

II I described the summer beauties, - autumn, winter are ahead.Maids innocent and black eyes will be featured a bit later.Sabantui celebrations, horse race, holidays on siteIf I each of them remember, I'll be too far from my path.Well, you see, that I'm diverted, thinking of the village fun,Would you tell me what's the title? - «Shuraleh» is signed above.Wait a minute, please, my dear, friend of mine, you see my puzzleIn the moment when the village views again come into my mind. III And of course, that dense thick forest as we see it nearbyIs a home to wolves and foxes - every beast of pray alive.Here a bear is sure to meet you, if you hunt him in a brake,These are common things to hunter - seeing hare, facing elk.But they say, black forest's homeland for the evil spirit crew:Devils, werewolves and goblins, shuralehs are frequent, too.Why not? Endless forest shows miracles, as do the skies -Many miracles in heaven, never seen and never tried! IV That's a nice start to my story - small narration that I tell:It was summer full-moon evening, when Dzhigit left home, he dwelt,Making horse-way to the forest - needs some firewood to get.Stars were twinkling in the sky, horse was mettlesome, indeed —In a blink the dense drew nearer, and Dzhigit was inside it.Fascinating silence seized him, when he looked around, amazed.Dzhigit took to work at once, cutting firewood with ax.Oh, indeed, Dzhigit was master of his job, and quick at work,Night was flying by, invisible, as his ax was cutting log.Taken breath was light and free, and cool air braced Dzhigit,Ax in hand, - and there was nothing to retard him in his deed.Suddenly, the tranquil air has been broken by a cry,And the woodcutter has shuddered, as if bitten by a fly.Then he stood alert, all ear, to see Something on the path -


(1886 - 1913)

Was it spirit or a human, or a werewolf's black mouth?Who was that disgusting monster, smiling such an awful smile?Ugly nose of the being touched his chin, as long as knife.Long thin hair of a beard, knotty all from top to toe,Deep black eyes without eyelids were sparkling as a coal.He was somewhat like a human, thin and lean, - if not a horn,Black horn, finger-size was leaning, middle forehead sticking on.Neither daylight, nor in night-time could you stand his look - God save!Though his crooked arms had the fingers, straight and long as are the nails. V So they stared at each other for a long time, and DzhigitBravely asked the ugly being: «Who are you and what's your wish?»«Don't be scared, you, the human, I am not an outlaw.Nor as innocent as baby, -1 am used to cheat you all.When I see the lone person in the forest - tickle guy,Now I see that you are single, and I dance for joy and cry!Show me your fingers quickly, let me closer to 'see,You'll play titi-titi-titi - titillating game with me!»«Well, I'm not against at all, no objections but at firstMeet my will, it's not as big...» — «Tell me everything you want.I'm at your disposal, only hurry up, I'll keep my word».«Well, I see that you agree with my offer, - learn it now:See that heavy fir-tree beam? If I help you, on your turnWill you take it to my truck?Beam is chopped on your side — easy carry, easy go!Take the log by split and thus let us draw it on the slow.Have you caught idea? - then hurry up, you, timber-cow!»Shuraleh has followed strictly orders told him by Dzhigit,Quickly fixed his fingers in long and deep split of the beam.Now I think, you are aware, what woodcutter plotted on:There was a wooden wedge in open mouth of the log.Sly Dzhigit was very tricky, slightly hammering his ax.Shuraleh was quite submissive, sure that he winner was.Wooden wedge was loosened free by the knocks of ax at last,Shuraleh's ten fingers were clutched by the beam - so fast!That was moment, Shuraleh cried of pain and saw the trick,Pleading with his forest brothers to release him in a blink.Shuraleh was begging Dzhigit, praying him as saint:


(1886 - 1913)

«Oh Batyr, release, forgive me, save me for God's sake!Swear you, oh mighty human, forward since todayI shall serve your will and never dare to attack!And your progeny and offspring never be unsafe,And my brothers in the forest will take care of them.Strolling in the forest never will be blame.Let's make peace, you see, enough I am chastised, bless you God!Do you like my troubles and pains?» - suffered poor creature, crawled.Silently Dzhigit was leaving for his home without a word,Seeing no other reason in the monster's screams and oath.Holding horse by bridle gently, stepped he forward, free to act...Seeing that he wouldn't follow him, Shuraleh said in despair:«Pitiless you are and hostile to the peaceful Shuraleh,Only thing before you leave — tell me name of yours, Dzhigit!Hope, that hearing my voice, brothers rescue me tomorrow -If me only to survive - then they ask the name of wrongdoer».«Well, calm down and be quiet, - said the daredevil boldly, -«Past» my name is, understood? I should be your elder brother.Now I'm leaving, say good-bye, and don't worry, cheer up!»Shuraleh still screaming, weeping asked for pity more and more,Pleading, threatening, entreating, loosing head of grief and sorrow:«Help! Release me from the split! Crime against me is sure -Past has squeezed my fingers, cheat! Devil, gangster, killed me, poor!»In the dawn the shuralehs came to see him on the place:«Crazy, silly, senseless creature, long and loud is your cry,Shut your mouth and be silent, for your screams too stupid are,Squeezed your fingers in the past, then why are crying you at moment?!»

(Translated from Tatar into English by Lalja Gilmanova)


(1886 - 1913)

The Water Maid (Told by a country boy) IТhe summer day was hot and sunny, and I was swimming in the lake; A splash of water, games so funny and dives I liked to take. This merry way I did enjoy my playing for an hourAnd certain was I not to sweat, moreover short I was of power; So quickly I ran out of the lake to put my clothes on.But what was wrong? A sence of fear! And all my friends were gone! To leave the place I was about, but suddenly I saw a bridge.And on the bridge I saw an awful woman. Was she a mermaid or a witch? In the daylight, broad and clear, golden combs of hers I saw. She was doing her long hair, I had doubts no more. Breathless, frightened even shocked stood 1 there not so long; In the shade of old thick trees I felt tremor in my knees. Having combed her thick long hair, splashing water in the air In the waves she dissapeared. Oh, my Lord, I so feared. As for me I ran towards the bridge, thoughtless was of course that siege. But how great was my surprise: golden combs of hers beheld my eyes. What I did - I looked around. Not a single soul was seen.Like a thief I took one from the ground. Oh, of me it was so mean. Seeing nothing on the way, I was rushing far away.I was burning in the fire, would I get through all that mire? Time was endless, so I thought, looked around, her I sought. What I saw was awful, scary. I was followed by the fairy. «Will you stop? Don't run away! How unlucky is the day!»Shouting she was chasing in a line. «Don't you know the comb is mine?» I was trying to escape, she was roaring like an ape. In the field I was alone, being followed by her moan. Running this way so fast, came the village into view at last.


(1886 - 1913)

Soon the dogs began to bark, it was such a nice good mark. «Bow-wow-wow», - the dogs were barking, after her they all were darting, «Now it's your turn, be afraid, good-for-nothing ugly maid». So the business being settled, though the creature was too nettled; I achieved my evil goal. Heavens! I was on a roll! On my coming to my place, rushing home at such a pace, Told my mum I with a burst that enormous was my thirst. I showed her a comb of gold, tried to look so brave and bold, Words of mine that it was found seemed to her to have no ground. IIFarewell! The sun went down and at once I went to bed. I was lucky not to drown. Thanks to God I wasn't dead. While I was upon my pillow, sleep did not befall on me.I heard knocking at the window. Oh, my God, I wished to flee. Notwithstanding all that noise, I behaved like real boys.But my mum was soon awake, would she know I was a fake? «Who is there making dogs to bark? Who is walking in the dark? Decent people stay at home, night is not the time to roam!» «People call me Water Maid and of gold my combs are made. One was stolen by your boy, give it back, it's not a toy!» In the sky the moon was bright. I was left by all my might. Trembling I lay in my bed. If I could, I would have fled. She was knocking all the time. Her concern was very prime. Water dropped from her long hair, was she only my nightmare? Mother quickly took the comb, threw away it from my home. Prompt she was to lock the door, she wished troubles no more. When we got rid of the maid, to the Lord she humbly prayed. Then she scolded me in time, stealing things was such a crime. Since that time I understood, let it be a thing or food,Not to touch and not to take what was left not for my sake. (Translated from Tatar into English by Aydar Shamsutdinov)


(1886 - 1913)

A Tale about a Goat and a Sheep Once there lived a man together with his wife.So often were they troubled by the life.Perhaps it was because they had a goat and a sheep,Which were so thin and even couldn't leap. «Wife, listen», said the man one day, «You know how short we are of hay. I'd like the goat and the sheep the real life to taste.For what they eat is just a waste». Without arguing the wife said to the man: «Let them together leave us, that's your plan. Of course, my husband, right words you've said. What's use in them? They've never even bred». The goat and the sheep were at a loss,But they obeyed; the man was their boss.So in a grief like this they took a bagAnd made the way through fields along the crag. In silence walked they rather long.The world for them was like a mournful song,And only God knew why them he ledTo see so suddenly a dead wolfs head. The goat full of fear wouldn't touch the head, The sheep was also scared, almost dead. Thus, stood they both close to the head, «You are to touch it», they to each other said. The goat said, «Oh dear sheep, so strong you are!»The sheep replied, «But bravery of mine from yours is so far»Thus, two companions, having chicken hearts,Were too afraid to take it in the hands.


(1886 - 1913)

At last they took a hold of that big head And seizing by the ears to their bag they fled. Soon the monstrous head was in the bag, so deep. What a relief they felt, the goat and the sheep. So further walked and walked our two friends.The road seemed for them to have no end.But soon they saw a fire in the dark.«Let's there spend the night», the goat's was remark«Bad wolves are certain not to come to it. We shall be safe, the place is so lit». The goat wisdom saw in this advice. And hoped it wouldn't turn to have a vice. Close came they up to this bright light. What a nightmare saw they in the night. Four wolves were sitting close to it And boiling water for some meat. The goat and the sheep when saw this sight, The hearts of theirs sank; they got a lot of fright. «Oh, wolves, my friends, you are all here!» The goat said not to betray her fear. How happy were the wolves when them they saw; «The meat has come itself, we don't wish more. We shall be quick to catch them both. The meal will be the best, we take an oath». The goat said, «Don't think too much about meat. We have a lot of it in our bag, so neat. Don't waste your time, oh sheep my dear friend, We have a nice wolfs head for them to lend». The sheep was quick to take it out of the bagAnd showed it to the wolves without any lag.So using moments when the wolves received this smash,The goat went on cutting this enormous dash. The goat said «How stupid one can be?This tiny one offends my friends and me. We have twelve heads, so take a bigger one, You should respect my friends, it isn't fun».


(1886 - 1913)

The sheep, thanks to our God, caught this trickTo take the same head out of the bag she was so quick,And when in front of them another head was laid.Oh, poor wolves! Believe me. They were so much afraid. The wolves forgot the thought of eating. They only thought of rapid leaving. And having made the minds to run away, They waited for a chance to be on their way. The eldest wolf soon rose and then he said: «l guess for our meal we'll need some bread. I'll go to the village to look for some, My friends, I promise quickly back to come». Thus their chief went to the village for some bread. Time passed, but their waiting seemed to have no end. Of course, the eldest one was wise enough to flee. And this result was definitely to foresee. The wolves got frightened even more, For their chief was one who knew the law Of being fast and swift to run from danger, Especially if you met an awful stranger. The eldest one was followed by another soon, Who in his turn home went to take a spoon. Again in vain they waited for some time, But leaving friends for them was not a crime. The other two were also soon away, They didn't want to take part in the fray. The goat and the sheep soon felt a relief. It was the God who helped them and belief. The fire soon warmed up two our friends, They even cooked a meal from odds and ends. And having eaten, they rested for a while, The night was spent on such a soft big pile. The goat and the sheep woke up at dawn, They took the bag which saved them from that mourn Again they made the way through fields and woods, But as for us, let's part with them for goods. (Translated from Tatar into English by Aydar Shamsutdinov)


(1886 - 1913)

Mother’ prayer Evening comes to the Tatar village; the magic bright moon is in the skyUnder its light all seems silver: houses, roofs, fields nearby Very silent. Working people fell asleep because they’re tiredFrom the sunrise till the sunset they are working very hard Any sound heard around, even barking of the dogsBut in one house in the suburb a little trembling light still burns An old woman in that house has knelt down on a prayer rugAnd her soul is soaring now very high in heavens’ hug She has raised her hands in prayer and her wish is only oneShe is whispering with devotion asking God to bless her son Bitter tears are slowly rolling down her wrinkled faceDo you really suppose that God will not shed His grace?

1909 Translated from Tatar into English by Zelfiya Minnebaeva


massachusetts, usa

A Kommando Loose in Maine (I) Jaeger Brecht believed he could be anybody, and sound like anybody; he could preach what he practiced. Hot August of 1944 clamped down around him, three or four miles beyond the fence of the Prisoner of War (POW) camp near Houlton, Maine. Jaeger Brecht, escapee, was headed for Oxbow, perhaps fifty miles away through the forest and, hopefully, a girl he had not seen since 1932. He would become again what she had known. A stiff breeze put a chill on the back of his neck despite the heat. But he was free and in a thick forest, almost like being at home in Bavaria. Semi-darkness brought solitude and time for thinking. Fragrance from balsam fir trees sneaked into his senses and reality and recognition crept into him; his chest nearly burst with expectation coming slowly in waves. For the last five months he’d been nothing but a kriegsgefangen, a prisoner of war, with no shackles but confined behind a high wire fence, time sitting its weight on his back, but now he was free… Obersleutnant Jaeger Brecht of the Werwolf, the Jagd-Kommando, with a gifted

command of languages, an artful eye for mimicry, and free in the world. It was about time! When he questioned how he had managed all this, appraising the last dozen hours among other elements of time, Brecht knew the answer… he was a soldier, right down to bone and the marrow, every last ounce. Luck, he believed, had no part in it at all… not in any of this get-away-quick stuff. And, on the plus side, he was more than a soldier; he was a Kommando. He was special. This POW thing was but a momentary disgrace; he’d see to that. Precision, planning and precision, were cut and dried for a soldier. Cut and dried, he’d make his way home. And all these years in uniform he had remembered Liza Van Dammen, who once in


massachusetts, usa

glory days of 1932 visited relatives in Bavaria. She was the prettiest girl he had ever seen. They had spent the summer together, pushed into each other’s lap by their parents. The effects of one war were not over for the mere youngsters while another war loomed across the face of Europe. This new threat was followed by All Things German in general: the Lindberg kidnapping in America, Germany yet smoldering down to its roots from the last war, Hitler and the Nazi party making dire noises in the cellars and byways and back alleys of Berlin, Nazi newspapers inciting riots between Nazis and Communists, Herman Goering being elected president of the Reichstag, and much of Europe holding its collective breath. With all that background the young German and the young American escaped into each other. They were young and beautiful. At sixteen, under a moon and beside a lake, they made love, each for the first time. In that initial madness they made love every night for a week pending her return home. Imagination carried them to undreamt horizons, undreamt realities. She had never known such passion; he had never seen such whiteness or imagined such hunger, how it carried from one day to the next. World-wide hysterias in the making welcomed their loving, made a place for it even as history gathered speed by the day. A small island with only two trees on it, in the middle of a lake, served as their trysting place; each day they rowed out

and back, to and from love, from and to the world. Later, from home, for months on end, passion close in her fingertips, spelling it out, she wrote religiously, letters full of love and poetry, erstwhile promises and mountains of hope, until he replied that he had joined the army and would have difficulty communicating with a girl in America. In due time it would become verboten. In the army, as his role in it developed, he was too busy to miss her letters. In the states, back in Oxbow, Maine, she was afraid to write; the German touch, and all it promised to carry in the coming years, piled too fully on her. Part way through his appraisal in the forest, Brecht affirmed his stance, a belief in his rigorous self; he was a soldier, yea und fur immer, who happened to need a change of clothes, a proper walking stick, a knife for protection, different shoes, and a girl who could remember passion. Food would come to the hungry in a straightforward manner, a snare, a club, theft in the night. Survival against all odds had been his army course. The targets and obstacles came listed in his mind. But recently, relayed from the guards at the camp, he heard the hard and unbelievable words that German army officers had tried to kill Hitler. How often would chance intervene in his plans, in other’s plans? Was it luck that Liza’s family had settled in Maine? Was it luck when he said to one snotty American


massachusetts, usa

officer, “Please don’t send me to Maine. It’s too cold there.” He could prime the innocents. It was his duty. Acquiescence and good fortune rose from the ploys in his acting. Again he thought of her at the lake, how he had been suffused with her beauty. For nearly a week the moon had been their bounty, laying its gold on them, touching their blood with a long reach. She had a certain neatness that called on him, but she held to no routine in her lovemaking, nothing neat or coy about her passion. And when he cupped her breasts the first time, he was frozen in place. All the parts stayed with him. It was as though a picture had been taken by his hand, then by his mouth. Yet he had not taken seriously the poetry that she wrote, and now, bound by forest, he was scrambling to remember some of the lines Liza had written. Not much came back to him, a few straggly lines of little import, a few tender words. Of course, those words now gained new relevance. Perhaps she kept some of that love; he would have to rekindle all of it; it would be required. After his quick review, hungry, miserable in dirty prison clothes, he headed for thicker woods, the pine scent, sent all the way from Bavaria, drawing him on. On the plus side he was able to count on a few tools: Even in his present condition he had impeccable use of

English, which, with a little practice, he could use to modulate a northern New England dialect, also impeccable in delivery. For kicks, he could become anybody. Three of the guards at camp had been perfect targets for him, and he aped them to a “T.” Innumerable times he could hear the echo of his nasal and abrupt rendition of “Ayuh,” the exact way he had heard other service people, “Maniacs,” he was told, who used it continually in his presence. Each time he was imbued with not only a declaration, but a veritable truth: When he was on stage, he was the supreme actor. Comfort normally came to him in solitude, and deep woods meant solitude. It was the best place for thinking; but it was here where the word about army officers planning to assassinate Hitler had freed a small stream of doubt. All of it had to be put together. Back at the camp, everybody believed he was a plain Wehrmacht soldier, oblivious of the “big picture,” a corporal as dumb as they come. That mimicry he could carry off as well as any role. Yet behind him sat a dozen successful trips behind Allied lines, which had been completed before his capture. And currently a map of Maine sat in his head, where he could see lakes and rivers over the long run of the state, and one small town that might house the only chance he had for true escape. It had been a half dozen years since his parents had received letters from Liza’s parents because of the war, but he remembered looking at a map of the state back


massachusetts, usa

then, the romance of far places playing tunes with his imagination. Brecht kept recounting himself, reforming old strengths after imprisonment, after escape. There was a time he dotted every I and crossed every T that came his way. His uniform, crisp and clean at any hour, could be hung and worn again an hour later, fresh as a newborn. The medals on his chest were lustrous, and warranted; in the eyes of many he’d been a hero, courageous, a courtier of death in any sense, and palatable to the broad spectrum of the Nazi media at home. Far at home. He was a product of his times, and now he breathed the air and the scent of the forest, the rush of fragrant balsam fir trees and white spruce, now and then some sugar maple. In a new valley a new smell rose on the wind, perhaps honey bees working their tails off. Hunger, though it would tend to govern his actions, would have to stand in line, wait its turn. He’d live off the land, but shun roads, railroads, the curves and shores of lakes and rivers, even minor streams where anglers might play their secret pools. The balsam fir trees that surrounded him were much like the Norway spruce and silver fir of the Bavarian forests. Here as there, animals would feed off the trees, the moose, the squirrels, the white-tailed deer. He

had all ready seen crossbills and chickadees. Sufficient food would be found in his line of march. Behind him, though, the war was a shambles, had become too messy even in the planning. He had seen it coming, the way little sins were allowed to become cardinal errors in life, positions, even in armor and supplies, all across the face of Europe and in all the battle zones. He’d been behind the lines in North Africa, and Italy, and captured in France; the world was shrinking for Germany, a chokehold growing with daily reports circulating in the camp; the Allies in Paris, American paratroopers in his favored St. Tropez, the vast machine of the German army now susceptible. The escape from the camp had been a solo effort from the outset. As usual, he had difficulty in finding comrades worthy of chance and charade; they had become too comfortable, too chatty and ingratiating with their wardens. The Americans at the camp were too generous, almost forgiving in their daily work, turning their backs on minor transgressions, letting footholds develop. All this was crucial to him as he planned his escape; he had to trust the Americans’ easy manners, their obscene laziness. Only the sergeant with the hard eyes and the dark birth mark on half his face would be a worthy opponent. He could remember his first mission, leaving


massachusetts, usa

timed explosives in a fuel dump after he had walked right past a dolt of a guard, saying the C.O. had sent him for a battery replacement for his Jeep. “Shit, man, they send me back from my recon outfit because I fucked up and I end up a fucking nursemaid for some asshole 90-fucking-day wonder. Will wonders never cease?” He had slipped his arm over the guard’s shoulder and then slipped the knife in the guard’s gut, twisting it home. War is hell, he had thought as the knife made its way through flesh, encountered bone, turned again in his hand. War is hell. He almost said, “Son,” seeing the young face of the guard as it passed by him heading into eternity. Valhalla, he might have whispered, hearing old brass echoes, Wagner beating about in his own blood. Excitement in the handle of the knife. He’d have to watch the ounce of sentiment that played at his backside, like a dash of condiment long forgotten on the shelf, but holding its true flavor. Nights were as bad as war, as all the gathered acts mounted for his review. Often he prayed for forgiveness, but he had been commissioned for this, this way of making his way in the world, and the war… he was a sneak, a thief, an impersonator, but an actor who one day would be on the world’s finest stages, his name on marques, in headlines, women aching for his torso. He saw himself in London, Moscow, Paris, New York, stepping out in front of the lights, Hamlet, Lear, old Hal himself, and he would

bring all his past with him… every damned ounce of it. Berlin would be his own, a thespian’s town, his town. Yet he was aware the war would never leave him, the scars as deep as blood and then deeper, his knife as keen as the one in a surgeon’s hand, just as sharp and just as deadly. Immersed in thought, caught up in himself by an impulsive idea, and emerging from a thick patch of brush, he was halted by the sight of an old man slowly plodding on a slightly worn trail twenty or so yards across an open glade. A fishing rod pointed upward over one shoulder and a creel hung on the opposite hip. Across his chest, a bandolier of lures, sat the ammunition of a fly fisherman. Brecht felt a pinch of recognition; the man looked like his grandfather, who might have worn the same gear and the same clothing as he set out for a day of fishing; the lumberjack shirt buttoned to the collar, sleeves cuffed and buttoned, corduroy pants making a music he could almost hear. How far had the man come on this path? Was there a fishing cabin nearby? Did he have companions? Reluctance overcame Brecht as he withdrew from possible sight; the slight recognition of pleasure was erased. All his training took over; if he made a mistake, relaxed a moment too long, he would end up paying for it. He could not suffer himself to be so indulgent; it would mark him a loser. There shall be no confrontations, were words and beliefs he


massachusetts, usa

must stand by; he could not be enticed, pleased, excited by any ordinary contact… ordinary contacts can carry such inordinate revelations. Be ever alert, he affirmed again and again. Ever alert. You are a soldier. A Kommando! Thoughts of Liza could not be allowed to imperil him, he avowed. Yet the thoughts of her had crossed his mind, at the ends of flighty reveries… on the island, between the two pine trees, her all around him, and their passion buried in the moon’s yellow prison. Her richness came back at a moment’s notice. Those were moments he fell into a beautiful Hell. Ah, Kommando, he said, Life moves on, and the island disappeared and the twin trees and the yellow moon, and the throb deep inside, the sense of pushing on a body, and the body pushing back. Some hours later, in a small dale full of shade and sweet smells, he saw a flicker of life, and a doe rose slowly, looking about as if for directions or odor detection. For a short time he felt her sheer and innocent beauty. It was knocked aside by the thought of someone, like himself, feasting on her meat. “Life is made that way, Cookie,” he softly muttered, in practice of his on-stage presence. One movement of his hand to his mouth, him at full surprise, and the doe bolted off, a white

flash leaving her signature. Bird calls came from the orchestra of shade above him, probably set off by the doe, everything in the forest caught up in linkage of one sort or another, life spelling itself out. He thought he’d best be aware of the connections, for he was now in the chain of life that the forest sustained. Animals, like the deer and moose, and every sort of bird, must live on and off the trees and brush and herbs that spread their arms in a thousand ways. Back at the camp, whenever talk about the forest opened up by guards or support personnel, he absorbed all he could, filing it away for later use. Now he was at that “later,” and it was not luck that brought him this far, not in any manner. Often he wondered how he’d find Liza, or how he’d find her… what memories for her were still vivid, recollective, favored? Too much had passed between them, even in spite of the years without word. Images came at him, forced up from below by her personal richness, which, he had to admit, had never been experienced again. But she was merely an out now, a means to an end, and the weight of that sudden judgment beat its way into his mind. He absorbed his own punishment, yet realized it was a bare rationalization; he could be good at that. On the other hand, animal life abounded, as part of the forest choir; birds at all levels of the scale were resonant in the thick trees all around, as if he were in a large aviary in Berlin or some other


massachusetts, usa

cosmopolitan center; nature’s introduction was progressing with a full texture of song and secret sounds coming from deeper, darker or higher places in copse and thicker growths. A small stream at one place came into a small glade and he pictured a pond or a lake behind it, pushing at the mouth of this stream. Hunger was stirring in his gut and the black flies were extremely aggravating. Security shot uppermost in his mind, though; keeping out of sight, gambling for food only when absolutely necessary, creature comforts, all in abeyance, being the least of his yearnings. Two hours later he had found a change of clothes in a small cabin at the edge of a pond sitting in a small valley with an L shape. One end of the pond, he was sure, could not be seen from the other end. He found pants with a blue stripe, a blue shirt with a torn pocket, and the treasure of a pair of boots that fit him, though with many miles underfoot. The rutted path to the cabin had been overgrown to a point it looked unused for many months. He had sat quietly behind a row of trees watching it for hours. The wait produced in the cabin, besides the clothes, a can of salt sitting on a shelf, whose contents he wrapped in foil; a bottle of catsup that he left for the next tenant or visitor; and a can of tuna fish. The tuna fish, saturated in oil, was a treat for him. With care he buried the prison garb under a rock a hundred yards away, the empty tuna can was crushed and thrown into a deep pool of the stream.

A day later, a night’s sleep under boughs under his belt, the outlook on escape looked brighter. There was no way she could forget how they had simmered that first night and then burst into week-long flames. And now, he was sure, he was within Oxbow territory. It would not be long. A week after his escape from the POW camp, Brecht was hiding in the brush behind her house. Everything in sight caught his scrutiny, his measurement. He could have frolicked he felt so good, the fifty or so miles from Houlton were behind him and Maine morning sunlight, the raw power of it, bathed all the structures at this end of a dirt road. In all he counted in proximity of the house a dozen birdhouses hanging from tree branches or sitting atop poles. Three very busy birdhouses sat but a hand’s throw from one window of the house and early feeders, a kind he did not know, bounced about like marbles loose in a jar. Each of the three birdhouses appeared newly painted, some even artistically decorated. Only the entrances of each house were dark, and he saw such entrances near eaves of the main house and at the eaves of a large barn. Liza, for sure, was artistic, and that too made him feel good. The Maine sun added to her color schemes as the birdhouses showed off a sense of brilliance, the way art exhibits are seen by a first-time observer.


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From where he stood, sundry paths, other than the one he had used, went off in different directions, their trail marks faintly distinct in grass and low brush. Apple trees, among other trees, were scattered around the house as if the house a hundred years earlier had been built in the middle of an orchard. A new aroma, thin as a sheet of air, made him hungry, though he could not identify the odor source. It was as though its identity was creeping up on him and he looked behind him to make sure nothing was nearing his hiding place. Nothing moved but leaves and birds and the vapor-like waves of unseen heat. Leafy grape vines clung to a series of thin trees and poles and would provide cover when he approached the house. Other structures sat fully in sunlight, lit up from antiquity, all well-worn, having been long put to regular use. There was a barn with repaired doors but a dipping ridge pole, a henhouse of sorts with wire windows, an outhouse between the barn and the house leaning with an odd tilt, a tire hanging from a tree on a length of rope that a bare wind touched slightly, and, finally, an old car rusting at the far end of a small garden plot, young trees at the onset of embracing it. Before long the vehicle, by slow corrosion and tenacious tentacles, would be absorbed into the landscape. He imagined again an old voice, coming from a long distance in the past, saying, “This too shall be dust.”

The rustic America Liza had extolled in her visit to Bavaria was there in front of him. Earlier, in false dawn, in an upstairs window in the shadowy morning, he had seen her, had seen her for the first time in a dozen years. Her laughter came back in a heady maneuver, and the sense of vibrancy she had unleashed those dozen years past also returned as he saw her nude with a soft light behind her. Parts of the recall had lain hidden for those years, as if their appearance would knock him out of timing or routine. He was a soldier first, trying for a full escape. Yet, in the morning light, there was an eruption at the sight of her bathed in the yellow sunlight. If he was able to see her alone, what would he say to her? How would he start? Had it been too long for anything to come out of this trip, all this planning? He shut off that thought and put it away. It would happen. It had to happen.

(to be continued)


chuya nakahara(1907 - 1937)


(1907 - 1937)

A Bone Look at this, it’s my bone, a tip of bone torn from its flesh, filthy, filled up with woes, it’s the days of our lives sticking out, a blunt bone bleached by the rain. There’s no shine to it, innocent, stupidly white, absorbing the rain, blown back by the wind, just barely reflecting the sky. Funny imagining, seeing this bone on a chair in a restaurant packed to the gills, & eating mitsuba leafy & boiled, a bone but alive. Look at this, it’s my bone, & is that me staring & wondering: Strange, was my soul left behind & has it come back where its bone is, daring to look? On the half dead grass on the bank of a brook in my home town, standing & looking – who’s there? Is it me? A bone sticking out a bone stupidly white & high as a billboard.

(Translation from Japanese by Jerome Rothenberg & Yasuhiro Yotsumoto)

Bír súyek Karasa boga, mením súyegím, etínden kopkan bír súyek uşî,kírlí, dertke tolî, hayatîmîzîñ bellí bolîp turgankúnlerídír, ğawun agartkankyor bír súyek .Heş balkîldamaz,sabiy, akîlsîzğa ak,ğawunlarnî emer,esken ğellerden kaytarîlîr,kókyúzún şuwasîn zorlanîp akseter.Bír restawuranttasolîngaşîna kadar oralîpískembede otîrgan,kaynatîlgan mitsuba ğepare yapragî aşap turgan bo súyekní kórmekkúldúrúwğí hayaldîr,bo bír súyektír ama tírí bír súyek.Karasa boga, mením súyegím, siyíretíp karagan kíşí de menmen: kuğurlî,artta kalgan ğanîmkaytîp kelgen eken mí,súyegí bolgan yerínekaramaga ğesaret etíp?Kím bar eken,kasabamda, bír ózen kenarîndayarî ólí otlaktakím otîrîp karay eken?Ózím ekenmen mí? Bellí bolîp turganbír súyek,akîlsîzğa ak, karatakta kadar boylîbír súyek.

(Ingílízğeden Taner Murat’nîñ terğúmesínde)


(1907 - 1937)

Manzume: Bír baár akşamî úynúñ kalay tóbesí píríj pişkotlarîn aşarbaárdír, akşam tîñîşîn almaktasaklî kúller solîp kalîr yakîndabaárdír, akşam raátlenmekteay, bír bostan korkîlîgî – eken mí, eken mí?bír at kíşnemesí de? – bírşiy eşítmemsáde şamîrlangan mehtaptopallagan bír baár akşamî dakîzîl tamgan şólde bír tapînagîñ artîndamaysîz kalgan arabamîñ tegerşígí detek bílgen şiyím tewúkiy búgúnúm kókyúzí men daklar mení mîskîllar, mîskîllarúynúñ tóbesínden bír tola yerínden oynaganşúndíden soñsîzgaşîk baárdírakşam sózsíz aldîna ketípbír tamarîñ íşínde óz ğolîn tabar

Poem: An Evening in Spring the tin roof eats the rice crackersspring now the evening’s at peaceashes thrown underhand soon turning palespring now the evening’s at restah! it’s a scarecrow – is it or is it?& a horse neighing? – nothing I hearonly the moon shining slimes itself up& an evening in spring limps behinda temple out in a field dripping red& the wheels on my cart lose their greasethe historical present was all I knowthe sky & mountains mock me & mock mea tile has just peeled loose from the roofnow & forever it’s springthe evening is moving forward & wordlesswhere it finds its way into a vein


Manzúme: Bír baár akşamî úynúñ kalay tóbesí píríj pişkotlarîn aşarbaárdír, akşam tîñîşîn almaktasaklî kúller solîp kalîr yakîndabaárdír, akşam raátlenmekteay, bír bostan korkîlîgî – eken mí, eken mí?bír at kíşnemesí de? – bírşiy eşítmemsáde şamîrlangan mehtaptopallagan bír baár akşamî dakîzîl tamgan şólde bír tapînagîñ artîndamaysîz kalgan arabamîñ tegerşígí detek bílgen şiyím tewúkiy búgúnúm kókyúzí men daklar mení mîskîllar, mîskîllarúynúñ tóbesínden bír tola yerínden oynaganşúndíden soñsîzgaşîk baárdírakşam sózsíz aldîna ketípbír tamarîñ íşínde óz ğolîn tabar



(1907 - 1937)

Poem: Evening with Sunlight hills retreat from mearms crossed over chest& sunsets colored goldenmercy coloredgrasses in fieldssing oldtime songson mountains treesold hearts remote & stillhere in this time & placeI’ve been meat of a clama babe’s foot stamps onhere in this time & placesurrender stubborn intimatearms crossed walking off


Manzúme: Kúneşlí akşam tepeler aldîmdan kaşîp keter kol bírleştíríp kókírek ústúndealtîn renklí kúnbatîşlarî damerhamet rengíndemeralarda otlareskí ğîr ğîrlardaklarda terekleruzaklarda sessíz eskí góñíllerbo yerde, bo zamanmen bír karzak etí edímtamgalî bír bala ayagîbo yerde, bo zamanteslím akís yakînîmkol bírleştíríp geşer.



(1907 - 1937)

Poem: Sad Morning sound of a brookcomes downthe mountain:spring lightlike a stone:the water runningfrom a spoutsplit open:more a grey-hairedcrone, her storypouring out.mica mouthI sing through:falling backwardsinging:drying upmy heartlies wrinkled:tightrope walkerin betweenold stones.o unknown firebursting in air!o rain of echoeswet & crowned!............................... clap my hands clappingthis way & that


Manzúme: Kaswetlí saba bír ózen sesíkelír aşagadaklardan;baár ğarîgîbír taştay; bír şeşmedenakkan suwşaşîray;hikáyesí kuyulganboz şáşlí bír ğadî da.tara taşlîk awuzundandúrkí aytarman;utanîpşalîrman;kaálíbímníkurutkanburuşuk yalan; ğíp ğambazî eski taşlararasînda. ay, hawada patlagantanîlmaz ateş!ay, tajlangan kaytîkğañgîrtîlar ğawunî! ...............................şarpîlday beríñíz şarpîldawğî kollarîmşonday da, bonday da



england, ukwww.arabworldbooks.com

Unbounded Void (VIII)

9

htOn hearing the muezzin's call for the night prayer, I stopped marking exercise books, promising myself to finish them on my return. I banked up the fire so that the room would be warm when I get back from the mathafa. Although the day had been sunny, the night was bitterly cold. After wearing my boots and overcoat, I decided to go to the mosque then to mathafa as it had been my habit. Peculiarly, that night I was the only man to pray behind the Imam. Although he normally was cool towards me which I had attributed to his jealousy of my success, that evening, to my surprise, he shunned me altogether and even did not return my greetings.

Before my arrival into the village to teach, the Imam, who was a semiliterate old bearded man, had been a Qur’anic teacher. My sudden appearance had deprived him from this easy income.

The village chief had told me, ‘The

muezzin can only recognize the letters and only read them disjointed.’

Having a gammy leg which prevented him from being of any use in the fields, from a very young age the muezzin’s parents had enlisted him as a helper to the then Imam. He taught the young boy to decipher the letters and a few chapters from the Qur'an by heart.

On leaving the mosque, I headed to the mathafa. From a distances I could hear the load ructions and assumed a fight must have broken out. As I come closer to mathafa, the adolescents boys, who habitually stood outside it, must have announced my looming arrival to the raucous crowd inside. The noise gradually abated then stopped altogether. When I entered and to my surprise the room was packed with the glum faces of men and youths. I came upon a mute, thick suspenseful atmosphere you could cut with a knife. Not being aware of any crisis happening, I assumed that the tax collectors had visited the village whilst I was in Al Qunaitra. As it was the custom, before removing my shoes at the threshold, I bid the grim gathering the evening greetings. But I received a silent reply.

Manifestly, something was awry. Usually on my entrance, all the men present would rise up in due respect and vie with each other to seat me in their place. That evening, instead of the customary warm greetings, I was met by taciturn, accusing and suspicious glares. Astonished by this strange, uncharacteristic reception, I sauntered in, intent on sitting next to the village chief to find what had happened.

To my great embarrassment, neither he nor the two men sitting on either side of him bothered to say, ‘Take the weight off your feet, teacher, Ali, come sit here, in my place.’

Feeling insulted, my face reddened with



my rising discomfiture. I was about to rebuke them for their bad manners when the village chief moved sideways, gruffly saying , ‘Sit, here.’

Still not privy to what was going on, I sensed the fuming ambience and thought that was, somehow, connected to me. I seated myself cross-legged next to the chief. It was usual that after a new arrival had seated himself, greetings would flow from mouth to mouth, ‘You have arrived at your home’ or ‘May your evening be bountiful’.

No such words were forth coming. Even more strange, the young man who normally hand the new arrival a cup of Arab-coffee, did not move from his seat.

After a strained pause, I lent towards the village chief and in a hushed voice asked him, ‘May Allah bring your problems to satisfactory outcomes. The Mighty hinders Shaitan, did anything untoward happen during my absence in Al Qunaitra?’

Before answering, for a long second he accusingly glowered hard into my eyes. As though he was stifling his anger, he said, ‘Teacher Ali, we are aware that we live at the edge of calamity. But we value our honour higher than our lives.’

Although still in the dark as to what had happened, his obscure words alarmed me. Feeling the silent tension encircling me, I replied with a question, ‘Allah forbids, has anybody been dishonoured?’

Uncomfortably, I sensed that all eyes were peering inside my head. The village chief again took his time before he looked fiercely at me and said, ‘It is better that you veil the woman’s honour before the story gets out of hand.’

Feeling enraged by the appalling

accusation that closely touched upon my venerated person, my moustache began to quiver furiously with indignations. Trying not to express my mounting ire in words, in a dry suffocating voice I replied, ‘Be careful what you say, village chief. What do you mean? What woman are you talking about?’

'Fatimah.’ The reply was immediate and unhesitant.

On hearing her name, my anger somewhat subsided and turned into worry for her physical safety as if her well-being was my priority. In an apprehensive voice, I quizzed him, ‘What do you mean? Has anything bad happened to the destitute creature?’

Forthwith, the whole room erupted in a captious cacophony of entangled angry commotion. The circle of glowering eyes suddenly found a voice and serious accusations flew from all directions. The man on the other side of the village chief bawled loudly in disgust, ‘We are at the end of Time. No blood nor honour flow men’s veins.’

Another censured me openly, ‘Teacher, you buy her bloomers and we trust you to teach our children morals and manners.’

What I had dreaded most and everybody had been expecting at last gave vent to his rage. When from his seat on the right side to me, Fatimah's cousin jumped to the middle of the room, knelt on his right knee, and brandished his ‘aqal1 above his head. I began to realise the situation was deteriorating, things might get out of control and realised that I would not be able just to get up and leave.

Quickly the situation escalated and it went from bad to worse. I felt a sense of abounding black panic creep into heart. In a



typical fellahin theatrical gesture, the cousin flung his aqal into the noqra fire as a sign of his extreme outrage. The foul stench of burning goat hair immediately began rising in blue columns above the fire, making the atmosphere even more acrid and threatening.

His two sons immediately followed jumped from their seats and knelt next to him on bending knees. The pair also brandished their aqals then flung them over the fire. The black repugnant smoke darkened the room further. Heartened by his son’s support, Fatimah’s cousin raised his kofeah above his bold head began flourishing it in the air. His greying plaits were flinging from side to side. A deafening cacophony of supporting voices broke out. In terror I looked at the village chief. He pressed on me knee with his as if to say, ‘I am not abandoning you.’

In a roaring voice that rose above the hubbub, the cousin taunted me, ‘By the graves of all my ancestors, I vow by the honour of my sisters, Fatimah and her fornicator will not see the morrow. I am their beheader.’

The pungent smoke rising from the singing aqals dimmed the light of the oil-lamp to near shadows, making the atmosphere even more glum. A youth who had recently got married to the daughter of Fatimah‘s cousin and had not yet started to shave, rushed to the middle of the mathafa. He, too, threw his aqal into the fire. Wielding his kofeah and shaking his long plaits, in a thundering but trembling voice he vowed, 'I am with you my father-in-law. Our honour is one’

In those gone-by days, the men of the fellahin took great pride in the length of their plaits. Early every morning, youths vied with women to wash their heads with bulls' urine. It was thought to be a balsamic tonic for hair.

Heartened by the extra support, the cousin let everyone know, 'All you present here be witnesses to my vows, I swear by all the Names of Allah, Fatimah, forever, your name will be shame and disgrace upon me and upon my sons. From this day on, the spilling of your blood is lawful to me, my sons and their sons to the seventh paternal grandparent.’

My anger reached its zenith as I began to comprehend the terrible dimensions of the charges that had been heaped upon me. Shaking with outrage from the top of my head to the bottom of my soles, I bellowed, contemptuously, 'Have you gone mad, you miserly old man? You are a coward and cannot kill a fly. Do not wrong me and that helpless woman.’

As my sense of indignation became overwhelming I flew into a passion. I publicly chided him, 'In the name of shame, since when have you and your sons had honour and thought Fatimah was your kin? Where is your honour when she walks hungry and naked in the village lanes, scavenging from dumps? Where is your kinship and protection when children throw stones at her? You are coarse, mean very stingy. Although you have three wives you cook yourself. You put behind lock and key any scraps of food left. These men sitting here, speak ill of your avarice and cowardice.’

My voice rising with my anger above the mathafa‘s hubbub, I went on tongue-lashing him for a few minutes. The verbal quarrels raged until everybody who had something to say had said it. I am sure you can imagine how quickly the situation deteriorated into a quagmire of false allegations that the cousin’s face and mine were mere inches apart. Had it not been for the intercession of the village chief, we were about to barter blows. Most of the people present,



especially the younger men, sided with the relative of Fatimah against me. They accused me of taking advantage of my position to dishonour them.

In the rising temperature of the exchanges, somebody shouted the words, 'Fatimah is a whore and an adulteress and you are a fornicator.’

The mere mention of the word whore made the blood of the cousin’s sons and son-in-law boil. The three charged towards me threatening, ‘I must kill you. I must kill you to cleanse my honour.’

The village chief and other worthies of the village jumped up to their feet and stood between us. A seated older man who had kept silent until then, yelled from behind the men standing in the middle with the stink and smoke hovering over their heads, reminding everybody, ‘Fatimah is not a virgin. She is a divorcee. By the laws of the clans you cannot kill the man until you kill the woman.’

Alarmed that the matter had reached the discussion of bloodshed, the village chief turned into the frenzied mob and, using his full authority, he warned them, ‘I remind you all that no adultery or rape had taken place. The laws of the clans say, if the woman is a widow or a divorcee, then the man must marry the woman. Her dowry is double those of a female of a similar social status.’

You cannot imagine what grief and bitterness enveloped my entire body and soul. I was railing with bane. Of course, the idea of wedding had been long held sacred in my heart but now it was suddenly seized upon by those ignorant people. My marriage dragged me in the village dirt lanes before other fools whom I might encounter and star at me in an unrecognisable

form.

Although, somewhat relieved to come out with my skin unscathed from that extraordinarily deadly impasse, I realised that I had to yield to the village chief’s ruling. But great deal of furores continued to erupt from Fatimah’s cousin and his sons, objecting to the pronouncement, affirming that their honour could only be cleansed with blood. Whilst they continued to make spectacle of themselves, the men separated into smaller groups, discussing the village chief’s verdict. For a while it seemed to me that they had altogether forgotten me. You cannot imagine how much I wished for that.

Leaden with troubles, I heavily carried myself back to my seat where I sat taciturn, barely taking notice of what was going on around me. I sat staring blankly at the floor but inside my mind there was a tempest of dread swirling, thinking, ‘How I will explain all this to my parents, my father in particular. From whichever angle I look at it, it is bad news.’

Yet, at that moment I was unable to think of the obvious which was divorcing Fatimah, leaving the village and never return.

Maybe out of guilt for putting me in this life and death situation, the village worthies came and sat facing me. Speaking on their behalf, their chief in a decorous tone he said, ‘To avoid further threats and the possible spilling of blood, teacher Ali, we think that marriage is the only rational outcome.’

I do not know how I found my voice again. Trying to assume a sensible attitude the catastrophe that was befalling me, I said, ‘Gentlemen, I am in your hands, but I want you all to know I bought the clothes for that poor woman out of charity. There was not an ounce of bad intent in me.’



Within an hour, I found myself signing my contract of marriage to Fatimah. Of course, the timid woman had no knowledge of what was happening in the mathafa on her behalf. Although, everyone knew that she was a divorcee and by the laws of the clans she could stamp her own marriage contract with her seal or fingerprint, no man thought of consulting her. To make the situation even more absurd, the cousin hushed his sons and started to haggle over the dowry. No doubt covetous of my talked about wealth, he insisted that the advanced dowry must be five liras paid to him.

It is no exaggeration if I say that probably was the largest sum of money he or most of the villagers ever possessed. Only a few months earlier he had sold his cousin for a bundle of sheeted apricots and a pound of molasses worth no more than a few piasteres.

Undoubtedly pondering the possibility that I could divorce Fatimah and leave the village, its the worthies had stipulated in the marriage contract that in case of divorce; a diadem decorated by ten English gold sovereigns2 and thirty silver coins; a gold nose-ring; a necklace of blue beads; an anklet with bells; a fleece, four woollen mattresses and four double damascene cotton quilts; a bureau mounted with mother of pearls and a carved chest. These items were written in Fatimah's name as her delayed dowry in the event of divorce. Reading what was going through my mind, the village chief added, ‘Ali, we hope your marriage will be long and fruitful, but we have to guarantee the poor woman has something to live on if you leave her.’

Fatimah never asked for any part of her dowry. The truth was, that she really never knew that all those things were hers until I told her. By

the standard of the fellahin women, she was probably their richest. When I described to her the events of that night, the pained look in her eyes would forever haunt me. Her soft, sweet reply resounds in my head with every breath I take, ‘Ali, you are the embers of my heart. I wish for nothing more than your pleasure. Your smile is my real dowry.’

The village chief's wife carried the clothes, which I had bought that fateful afternoon, to the hut with a plate of food. Fatimah was sitting in dark, when the woman told her, ‘You deprived of the Mercy of Allah, Heaven has opened its gate for you this night. On the morrow you will be lead to your groom. Teacher Ali’

Years later, I asked the village chief’s wife, ‘How did Fatimah receive the news of her engagement when you told her?’

The good woman said, ‘That night I found Fatimah alone in the darkness of her hut. She was rolled in a ball in a threadbare blanket. She must have smelled the food which I was carrying before seeing it in the light of my lantern. I am not sure she heard me when I told her the Heaven this night has opened Its gate for you, on the morrow you will be wedded to teacher Ali. She just grabbed the food and greedily devoured it.

* * *

________________________1. A black goat hair headband worn to hold the kofeah down.2. As the Bedouins only believed in gold currency, to engage them to the fight against the Ottoman army in Jordan, the British, through their agents such as Lawrence (of Arabia), were liberal with their plentiful sovereigns that, in their usage, they replaced the Osmanly (Ottoman gold money).


jharkhand, indiawww.rksinghpoet.blogspot.in

Nude Delight The coiled divinerenews eternityin the body's cellsfed on sensuous sweetnessand moment's littleness for years fleshly reignseemed spirit's radiancein the deep pitnow suddenly sparks the itchfor heaven's nude delight.

Şîpalaklîk zewukî Burumlî mewlatuygî tatlîlîgî manwe an ufaklîgî mankewdeníñ kanelerínde peslengensoñsîzlîknî tazeler senelerdír ğismaniy húkúmruhnuñ ziyasî gibi kóríndíderen şukurdaşúndí bírden kîşîntînî tutaştîrakókleríñ şîpalaklîk zewukî úşún.

(Taner Murat’îñ kaytarmasînda)


jharkhand, indiawww.rksinghpoet.blogspot.in

Let’s Meet Before the bananas ripelet's meet at least once lest the fog dampen passionlet's water our love the sun is bright this morningand night's promising let's meet and unfreeze winterof years, drink some wine restore warmth of faith and hopeand heal the breaches without black goggles for seeinglet's meet at least once

Tabîşayîk Muz píşkenşíkeñ az bír kere tabîşayîk heweske suw sepmesín tumanga kaldîrmadan sewdamîznî suwlayîk kúneş bo saba aydîndîrkeşe de ğúrek berúwğí tabîşîp erítiyík yîllarîñ kîşînbíraz şarap íşíp inanş man umut sîğaklîgîn kaytarîpayîrîlîşka derman tabayîk árúw kóstergen kara kózíldírík takmadan eñ az bír kere tabîşayîk

(Taner Murat’îñ kaytarmasînda)


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

Upon leaving the packet, the Pacha invited Captain Johnson, Mr. Newton, and myself, to take coff'ee and smoke a pipe with him at his chateau. After threading our way through an awkward squad of young tacticoes, we entered a vast anti-chamber filled with the attendants, who were drawn up in military array to receive us : these were the kefF-jis, tchibouque-jis, and toiitoon-jis of his excellency, a motley tribe, black, white, and brown. We then passed into a spacious saloon, where the great man was seated on a rich divan, close to the window, enjoying the cool sea breeze. The spiritual monitor, the moullah, sat beside him, indolent and heavy-looking as a camel ; and though I intend no disrespect to the priesthood, I cannot help saying that he was one of the most unprepossessing men I ever beheld, his cadaverous countenance exhibiting a mingled expression of malignity, ferocity, and fanaticism. He was, in fact, a personification of envy, hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness, seated in the most inappropriate juxta-position with the god of good cheer ; for the Pacha was the beau ideal, in appearance, of good fellows.

On entering, we made our salutations d la Turque, which the inveteracy of European habits rendered somewhat difficult; however, as we were already in some degree familiar with these essential observances in oriental manners, we did not perpetrate any remarkable gaucheries. The Pacha, in return, broke through the line of demarcation between the Mussulman and the Giaour ; for he arose, and made as near

an approach to a smile as his sense of the dignity of a Pacha would permit, and politely motioned us to be seated.

After a decorous lapse of time had intervened, and exactly at the moment prescribed by etiquette, our host, through the medium of the dragoman, bade us welcome. Then came another interval of silence, for, be it remembered, the high rank of a Pacha will not permit him to chatter incessantly. This pause continued till the darling tchihouque, the beloved friend of the Turk, the substitute for mirthful conversation in visits intended to be gay, and the welcome filler-up of pauses in those intended to be ceremonious, made their appearance. These were presented in due ceremony by the proper officer, the tchibouque-ji, who crossed his hands on his breast and knelt on one knee as he introduced, with a neat little pair of silver tongs, the atesh (fire) into the bowl: when the important ceremony of ignition was concluded, he made another salutation, and retired. The pipes were really splendid, of the purest Turkish cherry or jessamine, with superb amber mouth-pieces. In short, their length and magnificence were befitting the state of a Pacha.

The coffee followed, which was served on a gold tray by four herculean slaves as black as ebony, who knelt on presenting it ; and then retired to a corner of the room, where they remained like statues till we had finished. The fragrant fluid, which was so excellent that a tea-spoon full might be diluted into a quart in England, was poured into cups of the finest porcelain, each reposing in an external cup of pure gold, prettily pierced and filigraned.

When we had taken coffee, conversation commenced. The Pacha expressed a hope, that the differences which had just arisen between England and the Porte, respecting the unfortunate affair of Mr. Churchill, would be speedily and amicably arranged ; and also, that


the alliances between the two governments might be cemented more closely. To this, of course, we made suitable replies, and after a few additional observations by our host, another hiatus ensued in the conversation ; but at this time it was of such an unreasonable length, that we made some slight demonstrations of our intention to depart.

At this moment, a second party of slaves entered, carrying a massive silver tray filled with confectionary : these were followed by two others, one bearing a silver-mounted bottle containing perfumed water, and the other swinging by a chain, in the same manner as the sacristans in the Catholic churches, a silver filigree censer, from whose apertures issued the most agreeable aromatic vapours. One of our party, whose olfactory nerves were not accustomed to this stimulus, unfortunately broke out into a violent fit of sneezing, which sadly disconcerted his gravity, and absolutely curled the mouth of the Pacha into something that might be construed as a smile. Having, therefore, received all the honour prescribed by oriental politeness, we departed, highly gratified with the urbanity of our host, and his courteous reception.

I shall now give you a slight description of what, perhaps, we may call the hall of audience, and which may serve for every other to which I may have occasion to introduce you, for they are nearly all similar in their appointments. The walls were painted a light green, and the floor covered with a superior species of matting, here called Egyptian.* As to furniture, there was none, unless we extend that appellation to a boarded seat, raised about fifteen inches from the floor, and carried around three sides of the room : this, covered by fine woollen cloth, and supplied with an abundance of cushions, bears the name of divan, and forms no bad substitute for a sofa to him who would

take a siesta, or smoke a tchibouque.

An Arabic inscription was painted in black letters over the door, to preserve the inmates from the evil eye ; and a few verses from the Koran ornamented the walls. The whole taste and ingenuity were expended on the ceiling, which was curiously wrought in tessellated woodwork; and being evidently recently painted in blue and gold, in the arabesque style, had a very pretty effect.

I had almost forgot to mention, that my kind host, finding I was about to extend my travels through the neighbouring provinces, furnished me with a teskere, which he said would every where insure me, not only a hospitable reception from the Osmanlis, but horses for travelling; and by presenting it to the aghas of every town and village, it would oblige them to procure me a night's quarter, provisions, &c.

LETTER XII.

CHANAK-KALESI - JOURNEY TO TROY - TURKISH HORSES - HUNGARIAN TRAVELLING COMPANION - VISIT TO OUR CONSUL, MR. LANUOR - ASPECT OF THE COUNTRY - APATHY OF THE TURKS - SERIOUS INDISPOSITION OP MY COMPANION - KNAVISH SURIDJI - SCAMANDER - BOURNARBASHI - HOUSE OF THE AGHA - MOONLIGHT PHANTOMS - HOSPITABLE RECEPTION - HUNGARIAN REMEDY FOR INTERMITTENT FEVER - COURTESY OF THE AGHA - SITE OF TROY - PROSPECT FROM THE TOMB OF HECTOR.

In my last letter, I mentioned our arrival at the castles of the Dardanelles. We landed at the town, (called by the Turks Chanak-Kalesi, from its potteries,) which clusters about the



castle on the right shore: this, like every other I had seen in Turkey, was a filthy congregation of narrow lanes and pestilential alleys. It is, however, a great resort for shipping, as vessels are often detained in this port for several months by contrary winds; and I cannot but think, that a few towing steam-boats stationed here would find constant employment, and prove a lucrative speculation.

While our horses were preparing, we inspected the curiosities of the town, a most meagre collection. The variety of costumes and features exhibited by the Turks, Greeks, Armenians, Franks, and Jews, amused us for a time; but that soon passed away, and we became tired of observing a melange of people, who, however they might differ in other respects, agreed in sitting more than half the day upon carpets, smoking the eternal tchibouque. We had not even the pleasure of finding our own consul; for in the late conflagration, that laid more than half the town in ashes, his dwelling was also included, which obliged him to take up his temporary residence at a village a few miles distant.

My two countrymen and the Hungarian, to whom I before alluded, entertained, like myself, the intention of visiting the site of Troy. But when the wretched hacks of horses made their appearance, the courage of the party sunk to Zero,—no doubt partly influenced by the feverish heat at which the thermometer then stood; and of our little party, the brave Magyar alone consented to bear me company. Indeed, the pommels of the Turkish saddles, the jolting trot of the horses, and the intermittent fever of Asia- Minor, might well deter any man who valued his comfort and health from undertaking the expedition: however, my curiosity and natural buoyancy of spirit overcame every consideration. Behold me, therefore, mounted on a saddle as broad as a cradle, with two loops

of ropes for stirrups; and these so short, that my knees nearly reach my chin.

We were accompanied by a young Israelite, who acted the part of dragoman and suridji; and as the Magyar wore his half-military costume, with a brace of silver-mounted pistols in his girdle and a sabre by his side, we presented to the wondering eyes of the Osmanlis rather a warlike appearance. This was probably the reason, together with the humiliated feeling produced among the people by the late successes of the Christian arms, that instead of being pelted with stones, too often the fate of former travellers, we were saluted with nothing worse than a few grins and hisses from the women and children.

Our route for several hours lay along the sandy coast of the Dardanelles, and at every breeze that blew, the mobile dust transferred itself into mouths, eyes, and ears: add to which, the scorching sun drank up all the moisture of our frames. Vain was every attempt we made to allay our thirst; but fortunately, when at its height, we arrived at the residence of our consul, Mr. Landor, who, with true English hospitality, welcomed us to an excellent dinner; and those only who have been placed in similar circumstances, can estimate the boon at its full value. Our host, who had resided in this part of Turkey several years, amused us with a variety of anecdotes of the people, to whom he appeared much attached: he represented them as extremely well conducted, crime very rarely occurring, notwithstanding they are only a few degrees removed from barbarism, and left almost entirely to their own guidance. Their system of police is similar to that I have before described as established by Prince Milosch in Servia.

(to be continued)

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