Nazar 2014-05

BAŞ KABÎMÎZDAON THE COVER UTE CARSON Photo: Caitlin Maria Carson-Rottino

Copyright reverts back to contributors upon publication.The full issue is available for viewing online from the Nazar - Look website.For submission guidelines and further information, please stop bywww.nazar-look.com

CONTRIBUTORSMEMBALAR Elena BottsUte CarsonCaitlin Maria Carson-RottinoJack PeachumTom SheehanAli Tal

2maya angelou

When I Think of Death - Ólímge túşúngendeWhen Great Trees Fall - Balaban terekler túşkendeTouched by an Angel - Bír melegíñ tiyíşínde

6luçiyan bílaga

Kerametlí dúnya tajîn basîp ezmem

8taner muratscythia minor (little crimea)

Kókten sesler - Temúçin (XXIX)

10elena bottsnorthern virginia

tell me that i am living somewhere else and that it is better there#2464577east coastcommuter trainslone

14ali talengland, uk

Unbounded Void (IX) 24ute carsontexas, usa

Bread of Affliction/Bread of Love - Şegíşúw ótmegí - Súygí ótmegíThe Secret that Only Babies Know - Sáde bebekleríñ bílgen sîrîMy Gift to Life - Hayatka bakşîşîmOnce More for Real - Hakkîykatîn bírtaa

28tom sheehanmassachusetts, usa

A Kommando Loose in Maine (II)

34jack peachumvirginia, usa

Proem: Hootchie KootchieFlaneur’s Creamation - Kalpazanîñ kúlún şîgarmasîA Wish for Karma in Virginia - Virğiniye’dekí karma úşún bír tílek To the Sweetheart of Jockey’s Ridge - Atlî Tepesíndekí oynaşîma

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

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

maya angelou(1928 - 2014)

2 Nazar Look www.nazar-look.com

(1928 - 2014)


When I Think of Death When I think of death, and of late the idea has come with alarming frequency, I seem at peace with the idea that a day will dawn when I will no longer be among those living in this valley of strange humors.

I can accept the idea of my own demise, but I am unable to accept the death of anyone else.

I find it impossible to let a friend or relative go into that country of no return.

Disbelief becomes my close companion, and anger follows in its wake.

I answer the heroic question 'Death, where is thy sting? ' with ' it is here in my heart and mind and memories.'

Ólímge túşúngende Ólímge túşúngende, soñ zamanlarda da bo fikir akîlîmnî kayet sîkî ğoklar, kúnlerníñ bírínde perdahlez atkanda şo sepa şayîrînda yaşaganlarnîñ arasînda endí tabîlmayğagîm túşúnğesí men raát-raát uzlaşaman.

Men óz ólímím men razîlaşîp başkasîñ ólímíne kelgende onî kablet-almam.

Bír arkadaşnîñ ya bír tuwgannîñ kaytîmsîz álemíne kírmesí men heş añlaşmam.

O zaman imansîzlîk eñ yakîn dostîm bolîp artîndan ófke kelír.

Suwalîmnî ğígítşe sorarman: “Ólím, aşşî iyneñ kayda?” ke ğewabî “míndadîr góñílímde, akîlîmda, katírímde.”

(Taner Murat’nîñ terğúmesínde)

(1928 - 2014)

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

When Great Trees Fall When great trees fall,rocks on distant hills shudder,lions hunker downin tall grasses,and even elephantslumber after safety.When great trees fallin forests,small things recoil into silence,their senseseroded beyond fear. When great souls die,the air around us becomeslight, rare, sterile.We breathe, briefly.Our eyes, briefly,see witha hurtful clarity.Our memory, suddenly sharpened,examines,gnaws on kind wordsunsaid,promised walksnever taken. Great souls die andour reality, bound tothem, takes leave of us.Our souls,dependent upon theirnurture,now shrink, wizened.Our minds, formedand informed by theirradiance,fall away.We are not so much maddenedas reduced to the unutterable ignoranceof dark, coldcaves. And when great souls die,after a period peace blooms,slowly and alwaysirregularly. Spaces fillwith a kind ofsoothing electric vibration.Our senses, restored, neverto be the same, whisper to us.They existed. They existed.We can be. Be and bebetter. For they existed.

Balaban terekler túşkende Balaban terekler túşkendekayalar úrker uzak tepelerde,aslanlar ğaşînîp otîraruzun boylî otlarda,filler bírem iteşíptaldalanmaga karar.Balaban terekler túşkendeormanlarda,kíşkene şiyler túşer sessízlík íşíne,tuygularîkemírílíp korkînî aşîp geşer. Balaban ruhlar ólgende,şewremízdekí hawağeñgílleşíp nadirleşír, kîsîrlaşîr.Kîskağa solîş alîrmîz.Kózímíz kîskağa kórerağîtkan ayanlîk man.Bírden uşlangan hafîzamîzinğeler,aytîlmagan nezaket sózlerí,adalîp yapîlmagangezíntíler kemírer. Balaban ruhlar ólíphakkîykatîmîz olarga baylanîpbízní taşlap keter.Ruhlarîmîz,olarîñ peslemesíne baylî,şúndí kurup tarayîr.Zihinlerímíz, olarîñ aydînlîgîndan píşím men kaber alîptúşúp kalîr.Bíz añlatîlmaz ğahillík karañgîlîgîna, suwuk kuwuşlarda bîrakîlganîmîz kadar akîlîmîznî oynatmadîk. Balaban ruhlar ólgendeBíraz wakîtan soñ yawaş-yawaş,her zaman kayidesíz, tînîşlîk şeşegí aşar. Aralîklaryuklatuwğî şagîlgan tíríldemelerdiybírşiylerge tolîp kalîr.Yeríne kelgen tuygularîmîz, heşbírwakît eskísí gibí bolmadan, kulagîmîzga şîbîrdar.Bar edíler. Bar edíler.Ístesek bíz de bolîrmîz. Hem bondan taa árúw bolîrmîz. Olarîñ bar bolganîna.



(1928 - 2014)

Touched by an Angel We, unaccustomed to courageexiles from delightlive coiled in shells of lonelinessuntil love leaves its high holy templeand comes into our sightto liberate us into life. Love arrivesand in its train come ecstasiesold memories of pleasureancient histories of pain.Yet if we are bold,love strikes away the chains of fearfrom our souls. We are weaned from our timidityin the flush of love's lightwe dare be braveand suddenly we seethat love costs all we areand will ever be.Yet it is only lovewhich sets us free.

Bír melegíñ tiyíşínde Bíz, zewuktan súrgún etílípğesaretke alîşmaganlarbízní kurtarîp yaşam íşíne azat etmegesewda yúksekte múbarek tapînagîn taşlapkózímízníñ aldîna kelgenşíkğañgîzlîgîñ kabîgînda sarîlîp yaşarmîz. Sewda kelgendeetek kuyrugîndan veğit te kelíreskí zewuk katírleríkadmiy ağî hikáyelerí.Gene de, ğesaretlí bolsaksewda íşímízdekí korkî şînğîrlarîn koparîp atar. Biz şegínúw sútúnden kesílípaşk nurîñ basîmîndağúrek tabîpbírden aşknîñ maliyetí bútún barlîgîmîz-bolağagîmîz ekenín kóremíz.Gene de bízní boşatîp kurtargansáde sewdadîr.



luçiyan bílaga(1895 - 1961)


(1895 - 1961)

Kerametlí dúnya tajîn basîp ezmem Kerametlí dúnya tajîn basîp ezmemhem ğolîmdaşeşekte, kózde, erínde ya kabírderastlay turgan sîrnî akîl şalîştîrîp men óttírmem.Başkalarnîñ nurîderen zulmetlerde saklî kalgan añlaşîlmaznîñ tîlsîm gúzellígín buwar,lákin men,men arttîrarmam ğarîgîm man evrenníñ sîrîn,hem tîpkî aynîñ kaltîrawğî ak nurlarîkeşe sîrîn azaytmadan, akísíne, taa bek óstírgení gibí,men de múbarek sîrnîñ keñ şeşegíndenkarañgî awlakka servet koşarmanwe añlaşîlmagan herşiytaa bek añlaşîlmazlarga deñíşírmením kózím astîndake men súyermenşeşek te, kóz de, erín de, kabír de.

(1919)



scythia minor (little crimea)www.tanermurat.com

Kókten sesler - Temúçin (XXIX)

Kesím 63Tírílígímde

Kók-Kuşî Otşî Yasugay Batîrnîñ

vaziyetín karaganda:- Bolağagî boldî. Başîñda esíñ

bolganda aytağaklarîñnî aytîp taşla, kerek şiylerní ázírliyík! - dep, karap şîkkan edí.

- Móñlík, ullarîm kíşkene, taa. Bo ballarîmnî men óstíríp yetíştír-almadîm. Men ólsem, korantam, ballarîm ebediy kayîp bolîp keteğekler. Ne kadar yîkpalsîz ekenmen, ballarîm kayîp bolağak. Kím karar diysíñ, onlarnî? Túşúnsem, ğúregím kanay. Artîmda kalağak kíşkenekíy íníleríñní sen korşalap olarga baş bol, kóz bol, Móñlík! Tul kalağak ğeñgeñe de yardîm etíp arka bol! Ulumnî kóríp kalağak bolaman. Maga, barîp Temúçinímní bolgan yerínden alîp kel, Móñlík! Oga aytağaklarîm bar. - degen edí şo wakît, Yasugay Batîr, Móñlíkten yardîm ístep.

- Kaár etme, Batîr! Sóz beremen. Men barman, babam bar, yedí tane ğetken ulum bar, delíkanlî hepísí. Bíz brakmamîz ballarîñnî. Bíz korşalarmîz, bíz kararmîz, bíz aş brakmamîz onlarnî. Sîrtlarîn ğerge tiydírmemíz. - dep ketken edí, Móñlík, Temúçinníñ artîndan.

Móñlík ketken soñ, íşerge kírgen ballarnîñ artîndan Ğaraka Eslígen de kírge edí:

- Turaman, men turaman, ulum bergen sózníñ artînda. Koñgîrat sózí berdík, Yasugay. Ğaraka Eslígen bar, bo sózníñ arkasînda. - dep.

Şay píşíreğek bolîp Şal-Aynîñ ğurtuna kírgen Elinaynîñ artîndan, Kók-Kuşî da bargan edí:

- Síz de kóríp, konîşîp kalîñîz. Ekewñúz de. - dep.

Soñra:

- Vaziyetí bek awur. Endíden soñ oga sawluk karamaz. Ğanî, ondan, yakînlarda, yúzún kaytarağak. - dep aytkan edí.

Ballarî, korantasî toplaşkanda:- Men bo kalgan konagîmîzdan

toñîldîm, ballar. Bíz Kulan Daknîñ etegíne kóşíp ketiyík, o yerlerí taa yakşî. - degen edí, Yasugay.

- Babay, zayîflagansîñ da. Takatsîz kalgansîñ da. Seníñ ğolga şîkmaga hálíñ bar mî? - dep sakîndî, ballar, ğoldan.

- Uyuñuz! Herkez uyusun! Aydî, herkez, tîşardan toplap başlasîn! - dep şîkkan edí şo wakît Elinay Biyke.

Uydular, Yasugay Batîrnîñ sózíne herkez uydî.

- Mende, endí, umut kalmadî. Heş zuw-şuw etmiy, tírílígímde, Kulan Daknîñ etegíne alîp ketíñíz. Ólsem, mewtam Temúçinníñ emanetínde. O ayîrsîn mezarîmnî. - aytîp taşlagan edí Yasugay Batîr, biykesíne de.

Kesím 64Şárem bolsa

Móñlík, şîgîp Dej Seğannîñ úyúne

şapkanda, kópke barmay Elinay alar, Eslígen alar, Yasugaynî tóşegí men kóteríp mógedekníñ íşíne ğatkîzdîrdîlar. Ğúmle kîzmetke Eslígen men Móñlíkníñ yedí ulî ğúklendí. Ekí konaknî da ğîyîp, ğolga şîktîlar, Kulan Daknî ógíne tutup.

Ğolda, Elinay Biyke Yasugaynîñ başîn uşundan ketmedí. Kasta, ğolda kózín aşkanda, oga şay dep ayttî:

- Eger, kîsmetím bolîp, ólmiy, bír kaş sene taa yaşagan bolsam, Tañrînîñ yardîmî man, ballarîmnî óstíríp íşímníñ soñîna şîgar edím. Olarga terbiye beríp şîkmaga wakîtîm, ómírím bolmadî. Men, bírkaş sene taa, saw bolgan bolsam, ballarnîñ ğúgún ne saga, ne de rast kelgen koñşîma ğúklemez edím. Bolarnî túşúnsem, delíreğek hálge kelemen.

- Şay-típ konîşma! Şîkmagan ğanda umut bar, Yasugay. - dedí Elinay Biyke.

- Seneler men şalîşkanîm keteğek. Eger men ólsem, zawallî ballarîm


scythia minor (little crimea)www.tanermurat.com

hakkîykatîn arkasîz kalağak. Taldalan, Elinay, men ólgen soñ. Taldalanmasañ, kópke barmay, koğasîz-atasîz ğok bolîp ketersíñíz, túsúñúz bírem kalmayğak. Şondan korkîp, ókíníp, óleğekmen...

Aytkanîna dewam etíp bolmadî. Ğatmak kerek boldî. Bírtaa kózín aşkanda:

- Bek şegíşemen, Elinay. Kanîm tartîlayatîr, takatîm kesíliyatîr. Belkím bírtaa konîşmaga şárem bolmayğak. Akel, ballarîmnî, sízlerden sawluk ístep kalayîm! - dedí.

Toktattîlar, kerwannî, ğolnîñ ortasînda. Babasîn, koğasîn kuşaklap óptíler, sîypaladîlar.

- Men ólgenşík Temúçin kelse, katîmda tursun. Mením ózímden kaberím bolmasa da, men geşkende, o, katîmda bolsîn. Ğolga şîgîñîz, ğolga! Şárem bolsa, hasretlí topragîma barayîm, ánda óliyím. - dedí Yasugay Batîr.

Ğónedíler. Úş yaşînda Temúge men beş yaşînda Kağigun, nenesín-babasîn katînda kaldîlar. Temúlúnní de kuşaklap tuta edí Elinay. Kókírekte edí, taa, kîzşîk. Keşe, ballar yuklap kaldî. Telege toktamadan kete. Sabaga dogrî Elinay Biyke de yuklap kaldî, bír parşakay. Agarayatîrganda Kağigunnuñ:

- Babamîz óldí, neniy! Bír tamla kanî kalmadî, neniy! Óksíz kaldîk, neniy! - dep, úrkken, zîrîldagan sesínden, korka túşúp turdî.

Temúçin men Móñlík ğolda edíler, taa. "Temúçin katîmda bolsîn" muratîna, "Temúçin kelsín, aytağagîm bar" muratîna barmay geştí, Yasugay Batîr, dúniyasîndan. Ayt-almadî, aytağagîn, Temúçinge. Susup kettí.

Kesím 65Borîşlîsîñ

"Sen borîşnîñ başîna şîk! Bízge

kalganga kaár etme, bíz yaparmîz!" degen edí Dej Seğan, Temúçinge, Móñlík men barabar şîgîp ketiyatîrganda. Onlar atlarîn sílkíp ketkende, artîndan bír tînîş karap turgan soñ, Dej Seğan Ğotan Anaga aylanîp:

- Men koñşîga kadar barîp ondan bír elşí ístiyğekmen. Dórt tane, kapîday, ğetken ulî bar. Bírewsún ayîrîp, mení kaytarmaz. - dep atîn şabîp awuldan şîktî.

Şerík sáát şabîp koñşîsîn awuluna barîp toktadî:

- Kayîrlî kúnler, koñşî! Ğalbarsam, dórt uluñdan bírsín, bír elşílík úşún ayîrîp, maga bagîşlar ekensíñ mí? - dep.

- Bagîşlamaytan mî, koñşî? Balabanîmnî al, kerek yeríñe ğíber. - dedí koñşîsî.

Ğol úşún ayîrîlgan ğaş, ázírlep yegerlep atka sekírewuydî. Dej Seğan oga úş kere artlî-artîndan añlatîp, bírtaalap, ğónelíşín, barağak yerín, aytağagîn, úyretíp berdí.

Burkan Kaldunnuñ ğónelíşín tutup, elşí, ğel gibí esíp, ğolga túştí. Atlarnî awuştura-awuştura, keşe yegerde yukumsurap Burkan Kaldunga barîp, Burgî Kókíregíne míndí. O yerde, úy soraştîrdî. Úyní úyreníp, awuluna barîp toktadî. O yerde, şonlarnî ayttî:

- Ímlí şalkalî, Úriyañgay balasî, polatşî Zarğiyuday Eslígen, Batîrîñdan buyuruk:

Ulun alîp, awga ketseSen Batîrga ğoldaş bolîrsîñ.Karakulak TeregíneAtnî patlatmaga borîşlîsîñ.

- Atîm ázír, şabîp bardîm. Sawluk

man bar, elşí! - dep karşîladî polatşî.Aytağaklarîn aytîp, elşí, o yerden şalt-

şalt ayîrîlmaga karar berdí. Atlarîn aylandîrîp, tebíp, ğúrek ğeñgílígín karap, ğok bolîp kettí.

Zarğiyuday Eslígen atîna míníp şaptî. Artîna karamadî, Karakulak Teregíne dogrî ğol tutup şapkanda.

Koğasî ókten kayîp bolganî man, apakayî ózín ğerge brakîp, şabalana-şabalana, ğîlamaga başladî. Úş balasî da, Ğelme, Ğawurkan, Subutay, bír ğagada íñgírdep, kózlerín şíşírte edíler.

(dewamî keleğekke)


elena bottsnorthern virginiao-mourning-dove.tumblr.com

Elena grew up in Maryland, and currently lives in Northern Virginia.

She's been

published in over twenty literary

magazines in the past few years.

She is the winner of four

poetry contests, including Word Works Young

Poets'. Her poetry has been exhibited at the Greater

Reston Art Center.

Check out her poetry book, "a

little luminescence" at

allbook-books.com. Her visual art has won her several

awards.

Go to o-mourning-

dove.tumblr.com to see her

latest artwork.


northern virginiao-mourning-dove.tumblr.com

tell me that i am living somewhere else and that it is better there this is a poem about how the river became horses tossing their dumb manes, the white rising into the sky before yourbrown eyes, exposing momentarily sacrosanct, ardent universes inside and still eventhe consequence of your bones wrendinginto a deciduousness of this so carefully sunlit:keep on breathing, keep on all through the o'clocks of the dreaming earth, your little feet make continualimpact on the soil, their shockless pretense somehow deeplyvolatile, all that i say, i say again;you are profound in your minutestbends. i took my shoes off and my joints' degeneration was an illustration.i stood up and sat down and saw dragonflies everywhere. here was a space that through the hours was without dust. #2 you are a loose translation of electric fuzz in the atmosphere of a small town when it should be raining while i am a sound one pitch lower than a helicopter landing in a small town where it should be raining. everything i say is an understatement and my favorite time of day is the sunset word affinity in the ruined city, i can't write words that anyone could hold unless i write them to you but you don't hold them. i am inconsolable always inconsolable,,, today at 3:08 p.m. i count the hours until the little death of evening and think of the trivial devastations of people's lives and wonder if maybe if you were here enough one day, you would not think about what you think about in the car alonebut i am the mountains crumbling into an unsentimental horizon, another byproduct of bad vision i am the tripping daylight hoping there is no redemption,the industrial plateau in sunlit ruination,and that no one will say thank you anymore.




464577 i'm one long street with no end to the sunset, the 555 telephone wires sparking into the night like miniature electric suicides and i have i guessone emotion, it's the colour of youreyes when you're not thinking, the one in the mirror sitting on the bathroom 735countertop like a michelangelowaiting for the clothes to become warm again, tossinglike thoughts in a sleepless mindas they drylate at night but in the morning, it's the same cirrus 681weightlessness in my ankles as they dipunder this construed reality or whateverlike don't leave the cups on the tableor they'll sing little tears of condensationall over the tableclothonce you've left, no half-glanceback. 0332

east coast i am raining a clean rain, the eggshell sky balanced so barely on my grassy spine; into the uncertainty that doorstepsyour colour green not green eyes. i amsitting on a formed cloud of nothing and imaginingthe metamorphosis of a face, how the backyards of childhood, yesterdays likelittle dogs that ran awayfrom home, close into the butterflyglances and simple reenactmentsof your freckled sideways glancesswinging and swinging under the canopy of spring, brewing nostalgia until the trees prematurely bend, as if the blood in our arteries were an afterthought in the so, nearly tragic underlying stillness of us like little animals rolling over in the grass and blinking and blinking brighter-than-real-life-eyes speaking a dream and the uncannily body warmth spilling into the ever-growing earth and atmosphere. care lessevery morning, shedding more flower petals, my skin less soluble, i was never really a physical quantity more than sunlight or the aftermath of starling's first flight.



commuter trains in the hollow bones of the earth, the man-made catacombs resound withour transparent solids movingbetween glass and glass, escalatorslifting us in a universal faithlessness,the way we forget ourselves in the beat-beat-beat of the lightsis insignificant death, the only story told in the grand spaces through which the tremblings of our bird-caged ribsspeak in other languages, and the motionlessness of a hundred peopleis borne relentlessly over the earth.

lone a lonely doe all speckled in stardust dances in hindlegs before the tourists and runs runs runs runs into the gold-spangled river just as the sun dowses its fiery head in the waves rocking sedately their way to the ends of the continenti am searching for someone who traipsed drunkenly through the green wooded peripheries of my daily life and inhindsight, stumbled into puddle upon puddleof mesmerized rainwater where it sitstransfixed by earthen contour, rainbowingoutward the new universes who spiral as perplexedly aslittle girls on a playground because everyday you braidyour own hair and washthe sea onto your face and cry"help, i'm lost, or at least, looking to be",and so on, and thenfor hours sit, sputtering minutes throughwishing wells so i guessnow the moon's eclipsed by your dumb breath and the sleepy folds of yourshoulderblades when you turn over and over beneath the dark storm of sky and the starsthat seep right back into youreyes, those perniciously flightlessdove eyes whose sole keep could not merely be the fatal entrapment of mine.


england, ukwww.arabworldbooks.com

Unbounded Void (IX)

10

I don't know where to begin to justify my guilt before you. But primarily to myself and that is the hardest of all things. How did I become so barren of feelings on the eve that was supposed to be one of the happiest days in my life? It is the dream day of every male and female. You may say, if you have read this far of my confession, ‘He has the right to hate her. She was forced on him.’ sovereign

From the first night Fatimah and I were alone, I treated her with severe politeness. My mind was made up that as soon as the scandal had died down, I would divorce her and leave either to a faraway village. I even began to hate teaching and decided to go back to Damascus.

No doubt that was how the village worthies had understood my submission to the forced marriage. To protect Fatimah, they laid down that hefty deferred dowry of money and expensive house furnishings to be registered in my wife’s name. Of course, I am a man of my people and had the dreams of their young men. I imagined my wife to be of a socially suitable family and to possess beauty pleasing to my masculine ego.

Since the first day of my marriage to Fatimah, there was present in my mind a permanent hissing sound, torturing me, ‘Did I lift her to my level or I have fallen into the dirt with her?’

Like the poor, the beaten and the silenced of all times, on the night of our wedding, Fatimah stood dumb. In my permanent exile here with harsh stars whirling through my eyes, I often wander if she had sensed the thoughts that were flashing in my head. Although, she had no knowledge of the circumstances that brought us together under one roof, she just heeded what the village chief’s wife had told her. Submissive and confused, I cannot imagine she had, even for a second, had the will or energy to quiz her fate.

With tears standing in her eyes, Fatimah once told me, ‘Ali, everyday I wished there would be no morrow.’

After our marriage she kept her solitude though the village women tried to befriend her as she had become the wife of the Damascene teacher who was probably, in cash terms, the richest man in the village. When it was time for the marriage contract to be signed, the man who had put it down on paper asked, ‘Who has the empowerment to sign on behalf of the bride.’

Her cousin shouted, 'I do,’

No man present bothered to query the fact if he had actually discussed with Fatimah the subject of her marriage or had sought her permission to be her signatory. It was the common practice that only the bride’s father or the guardian’s agreement needed to sign the



marriage contract.

In my opinion then, and my chariot of haughtiness was pulled by galloping Arab stallions of pride and delusion, marrying Fatimah had lowered my standing and the sooner I would divest myself of this burden the better it would be. I felt that my dignity had been debased amongst the fellahin. My mind was made up that I would not bring the news of my forced marriage to my parents. It would be very demeaning to them.

No women joined Fatimah on her wedding night but for the splendid wife of the village chief. Not even Umm Ahmad whose jealousy was the direct cause of all that had happened, worried herself in the least by the changed fortunes of Fatimah. To tell you the truth, after my wedding she kept aloof and refused working in my house. When Fatimah's health deteriorated, I begged Umm Ahmad to help me look after my sick wife, but she refused and exhibited insolence.

She smacked her jaws loudly in the manner of Arab women and said, ‘By the Names of the Creator, that is all Umm Ahmad needs, to be a servant to Fatimah.’

My wedding procession to my bride consisted only of the notable village chief. Sensing my apprehension and my hesitant footsteps, he pushed the nuptial room door open. For a long while we remained standing at the doorstep. Fatimah’s emaciated figure stood in the middle of the floor with the red veil that I had bought her the day before, covering her face. She was also wearing the black dress and the wooden clogs with the tassels. Not in a million years could I have imagined at the time of buying them that they would become her

wedding dress.

I stood on the doorway surreptitiously peeking glances at my wife. There was that the unbridgeable gulf of purgatory separating my heart and mind. My heart attempted to glow like the fire in the noqra whilst my mind shivered with glacial cold. As it was the way of Arab brides, with her head bowed in submission, Fatimah stood next to the bed which the village chief’s wife had for us. My bride was totally covered and showed no parts of her bony body but her scared blue veined matchsticks fingers. In the flickering golden light of the oil-lamp, they looked rough and dirty and their nails were black. At that highly charged moment my stomach turned and I felt nauseous.

I could only think, ‘With these blackened nails she scratched the dumps, searching for scraps of food. O Allah what is my sin to deserve such punishment!’

My detestation to the goodheartedness that had brought me to this spiteful village, grew darker.

The village chief finally pushed me through the doorway into the conjugal room, saying, 'Be gentle with her.’

He then closed the door after him and left me alone with my abhorred fate and my meek woman. Like any eligible young man, I had often used to imagine my bride standing veiled before me. With excited eyes and a beating heart I would eagerly lift the cover off her face and see a girl as pretty as the face of the full moon. Instead of a dream bride, there I was standing facing covered Fatimah, the lowliest woman in existence. It must be possible for you to appreciate my mental state, my nausea rose more painful with every passing seconds,



churning my stomach that I had to hold myself from throwing up.

Probably, it would not be an exaggeration if I say I felt like some one who had been chained and blindfolded and brought to the edge his dig up grave, expecting to be pushed into it at any moment.

Although Fatimah was the first woman I found myself alone with and was within my reach, she failed to excite me in the least. Finally, I could not bring myself to touch her and dismissed her in a dry, wronged voice, ‘The limits of Allah are between you and me woman.’

To my horror, Fatimah shook violently under her veil before she irately pulled it of her face, contorted with anger. Her unexpected reaction perplexed me. I will never forget that moment and I remember all our moments together and cherish them all for they are the only nourishment I take in my otherwise starved existence. My cruelty at that specific moment exceeded any crime I would commit against her. How were the flames lit in her eyes and they were her most beautiful features? Where did that golden glow enter from?

Fatimah did not speak but removed herself to the other side of the room. I knew then that I had wounded her deeply. That was the first time that I had realised that the scorned creature was a sensitive being. Now, as I limp along the empty dust lanes of the village, I curse my arrogance for not thinking of her reaction at that sublime moment and she must have thought, finally the mercy and compassion of Allah had touched her.

Fatimah showed no objection when the village chief’s wife led here to be my bride. Because of her apparent submission, the village

chief's wife thought that poverty, ill-treatment and hunger had drained Fatimah of her senses. But my wife did not loose any of her faculties. Her mind was sharp and always alert. Although her logic was naive and instinctive due to her impoverished upbringing, nonetheless her common sense was straight and direct. At the instant when the groom was before the bride, her lips must have quivered at the thrill of receiving mine. Her body must have raged with the passion of love. What did the criminal groom do? I rejected her with a blind loathing, blaming her for crimes she was wholly innocent of.

During the following two months, I gradually learned to live with my new situation and at times I even began to smoulder in her lambent eyes. Yes, despite my stern look and frowning, her closeness scorched the male in me and in my thoughts I lusted for her. This old fool disguised his true feelings by maintaining the appearance of the pained, injured victim. My face wore the permanent mask of dominance and aloofness. After finishing her housework, Fatimah sat on the doorstep behind the pupils.

Of course, one by one the children had gradually returned to the school a few days after my false exposure. The majority of the villagers realised that they had hastily assumed my guilt; yet a few to this day, in their diaspora, still harbour some doubts.

In a tumultuous meeting in the mathafa to decide my future in their village, the village chief took a pragmatic stand and told them, ‘If we expel him we are not likely to have another teacher for a long time. Whether he is guilty or not, we must not forget that he did do the honourable thing and veiled the Fatimah’s



honour. I say for the benefits of our children, we keep the teacher.’

After the pupils were dismissed, I normally maintained a glum silence, insisting that she should be beholden to my extreme sacrifice by lowering myself and consenting to marry her. In a time darkened by arrogance and oppression, this idiot forgot that Fatimah suffered a lifetime of hurt. In fact her presence in my house had shielded from hurt, harm and gave warmth and food, the two crucial requirements for survival in this snowbound village. The esteemed teacher believed that for her to be related to him was the biggest insult he could ever endure. If anybody pointed to her and said, ‘There goes Fatimah; she is teacher Ali's wife, you know.’ I wished the earth would open and swallow me.

Once I thought myself to be strong as steel and steadfast as rock. How did I weaken and descend into this uncertain being speaking foul language. What a blind fool Ali was. If only I could relive one of those days again. If I could retrieve just one hour to throw myself at her feet and beg for her forgiveness. Maybe you have begun to perceive that I was trying to show Fatimah the goodness and greatness of the man who lifted her from the dirt and condescended to marry her. I was after her absolute and complete gratitude and respect. She must bow before me in recognition of my generosity and munificence. That was how I felt in those far off days; a perfectionist. If I attempted a deed, I strained every nerve and sinew in my body to achieve it. I never made do with half solutions. Was I not driven by my idealism to leave the comfort of Damascus to live in this rustic backward village, kneeling in reverence before Zion?

11

But how does hate die and how is love borne? The olden Arab maxim states that Love is borne from the travail of desire and Hate is the abortion of desire. One gives joy and the other denies it. Love is man’s first emotional of rapture and the first expression of torment. Love is the evolved instinct of survival and propagation. Which one of us, Fatimah or I, felt love first? Did either of us start it? There can be only one correct answer to all of these questions, I really do not know. One day Love pushed the door of our hearts and entered unannounced. Our love was the fulfilment of our deepest urgent needs to be complete. My love for Fatimah emerged unaided and within seconds annihilated all the obstacles that I had put in its way to extinction. Love broke in my heart and brought me down to earth with thud and then I was still seated atop the throne of selfishness and conceit. Love smashed the gates of my cell and freed me from the enslavement of arrogance and haughtiness.

Fatimah and I lived a silent existence. She remained taciturn and I avoided speaking to her unless I had to. Living with me under the same roof was the only thing I ceded to her from my greatness before her insignificance.

It is the norm in Arab lands that the mother of the bride brings breakfast to the newlyweds the morning after. The under lying reason is for the mother to check on the wellbeing of her daughter, as rape and beating are common on wedding night. It was the village chief’s good wife who played that maternal role. Carrying a large round brass try on the crown of her head, she knocked our door then shyly pushed it ajar the merest slit. Seeing the couple



sitting at either ends of the room, the village chief’s assumed Fatimah was playing coy and she called out, ‘Good morning to the happy couple. I have brought you a hearty breakfast.’

She called us both to sit down to eat. Fatimah gave me a piercing look and I held my tongue. How humble of me, I allowed her to share our first meal with me. For my beneficence and condescension my reward should be in the highest place in Paradise in the shade of Allah’s Throne.

As there was nowhere else to escape to in the evenings I went straight home from the mathafa. I found the room warm and my bed was made and Fatimah sitting alone by the noqra fire waiting for me. During all that turbulent period of incommunicado, Fatimah proved to be an excellent housewife. The house was always clean, my clothes washed and without ever grumbling she cooked whatever food I had brought.

O yes! The reverence and veneration with which those pastoral villagers used to meet me with had greatly reduced even vanished in certain people.

Coming home in the evenings from the mathafa, without uttering a word, not even a greeting, I would first remove my tarbush, jacket and tie and hang them on a nail I had dug in the wall. To maintain the trousers crease, I always laid them flat under my mattress. It was a habit which I picked from my older brothers when I was a wild, amorous teenager, roaming the cobbled lanes of old Damascus. Now I wear the black baggy trousers of the fellahin. After I had wore my night-shirt, I removed my trousers, turned my face to the wall and slipped under the quilt.

Reading this, it will occur to you to say, 'The fact that you are an Arab man, taking your clothes off in the presence of a woman must have meant that you accepted the realities of your marriage.’

The confined small space we lived in forced upon me to undress in her presence. However, I always made sure to take my clothes off behind her back and to slip on my night shirt before slipping off my legs out of my trousers. After dimming the oil-lamp, Fatimah went to bed still fully dressed. During the night, if she had one of her coughing fits, I lost my temper and complained for disturbing my sleep. To muffle the sound, she buried her head under the quilt. Our nights were still but for the sounds of wheezing and coughing.

As I have mentioned, since the moment she entered my house I met her with stern but polite silence. I showed no hint of what was flaming in my chest. On the contrary I was always gloomy and taciturn. When occasionally the convictions that had brought here were called into question, I would get extremely irate and my tongue would quickly loosen up. I would curse the stupid naivety that had took out of my familiar world to this alien rustic existence.

Some days I would feel so claustrophobic and saw Fatimah as my prison warden. The feeling that the cell was tightening around me to such an extent that I thought it would crush me and I could not breathe. It was at such a moment of asphyxiation that I would lose my temper and angrily yell at her. The timid creature would retreat to the back of the room fearful that I might hit her which, by the way, I had never done.



To punish her I would explained the greatness of my humanity and that I only married her to save her from the revenge of her uncouth cousin.

I would say and my nose turned up in the air, venting my wrath, 'I am a gallant and dislike wronging anyone. I am a free man and there is nothing that tie me to this backward village.’

I would-be to Heaven that every second of every day I weep rivers of blood for every insulting word I made her hear. How did I allow my hurt pride to tell her, 'O you! Do you understand? It is not possible to take you to Damascus to see my parents. It is very embarrassing. If a friend or a relative visits me, they must not know that you are my wife. Go and stay at your old hut until they leave.’

But that remnant that had once sheltered her and hid her poverty vanished. Just before the summer vacation and my expected return to Damascus, Fatimah's cousin married off one of sons; no doubt he financed the wedding from the extortionate dowry he demanded from me. The cousin installed his newly wedded son his wife in the old widow’s hut.

To avoid the embarrassment I would feel from the disparaging looks in the eyes of any guests who might visit me, I made it abundantly clear to her, ‘You listen carefully. If I have visitors, I will tell them you are the servant.’

My deeply wounded pride was blinding my heart. My words must have fallen like sharp knives cutting through her think flesh into the bones. I issued the orders and Fatimah obeyed them without ever questioning or answering back. Silence and that flaming look in her eyes ruled our barren lives. You may not believe this,

there came a time when I thought the fires burning in her eyes were not of her slighted pride, but because she was forced to marry me. To these heights of ignorance I was carried by my conceit.

Although, the time seemed to drag on, the end of Nisan suddenly was upon us. Most of the boys left school to help their families in the fields. To the few pupils who were still coming to class, I announced the end f the school year and I began preparing myself for going home. In my sick mind, the problem that shared my room and at night laid under the quilt coughing out her lungs, grew bigger. Of course, accompanying Fatimah to Damascus was totally out of the question. Even the thought of it was too ridiculous to be contemplated. Constantly, part of mind was hissing, ‘No, I am not coming back to this primitive place.’

However, the altruist inside me intervened again. Although, I was dead serious about terminating our uneven marriage, that troublesome something residing within my soul, which might be called the conscience of a do-gooder, insisted on postponing the decision until the start of the next school year. It seemed that subconsciously I had already made up my mind to come back. You might think that the hefty deferred dowry I had signed to was stopping mew from divorcing Fatimah and never coming back. In truth the dowry was not an issue my calculations.

You will probably find this hard to swallow. After the terrible way I had treated her, before leaving, I deemed it to be my duty to guarantee her a source of income and a safe place to live in now that the son of her cousin had move with his new wife into the old hut. I



was certain if stopped the rent on the house and did not provide her with the provisions before I left, her future would be bleaker than her past.

To my great astonishment one afternoon after I had eaten my lunch and retreated to sit by the noqra, Fatimah suddenly said in a soft voice, ‘Ali, I thank you. You have been very kind and generous to me. You go to your family. With all my heart I pray that Allah, Muhammad, Ali1 and the pure infallible Fatimah2 will guide on your way.’

As she spoke the flames in her eyes were subdued and replaced by a gleaming smile. She lowered her face but I could see her eyelids were brimming with tears.

So she had been watching me and deciphering my moods and actions. ‘She must be lot more intelligent than I have originally thought.’ flashed in my head.

I closed my eyes and made up my mind not to abscond but to leave things as the were, unresolved. Before departing, I had privately asked the village chief to keep an eye on her during my absence. I went away, I made sure my silos had with floor and grains and just before embarking on my trip, I put six liras in her palm, saying to myself, ‘I will divorce her on my return.’

I was away all the of summer months. In rowdy Damascus I concealed the news of my marriage from everybody. Avoiding the angry daily marches against the French occupation and I indulged myself in simple pursuits. When I was not reading, I socialised with my family and friends, reflecting upon the unsolved challenge I left behind.

One evening, during an interruption of

the gunfire whizzing, my father unexpectedly said, ‘Ali, your mother and I want you get married. Let us find you a suitable bride.’

Straining to keep a straight face, I answered him, ‘God willing, my father.’

12

It was suddenly Elul3, the most beloved month of the year to the fellahin. It was an ‘in-between’ Baal-seasons, the annual Sabbath, a time for rejoicing. The threshing floors were winnowed and the silos, secreted within the walls of their homes from the tax collectors, were filled with grains and sealed. To the fellahin, Elul was a measure of the year when they could forget about the land and busy themselves with their own propagation. At the close of day under the pure azure canopy of the sky, studded with twinkling stars, the men and woman crowded the forms of joy to sing and dance to their hearts’ content. The merrymakers revelled and rejoiced, celebrating the weddings and circumcision of their sons. When all was done, exulted in the stillness of a darkness lanced by shooting stars canopied by the Milky Way and millions of other galaxies, the villagers slept soundly.

Having built a wall of secrecy and silence around myself to avoid the seepage of the news of my shameful marriage, during the summer vacation I kept my own counsel. With everybody involved in one way or another in the inflamed revolution, there was little to occupy my mind in Damascus. Apart from reading (mostly novels) and preparing some sort of syllabus for my third year pupils, the holiday



seemed to linger on and I felt boxed in and longed for the village gossips. Almost behind my conscious mind, I often found myself wondering how was Fatimah coping alone: as if she had not spent a whole life of loneliness. On occasions I even felt concerned about her welfare and if I had left enough provisions and cash so she would not be in need during my absence.

The only notable thing that penetrated my walls of silence was the lack of news about the whereabouts of blessed Nader. Everybody I knew was aware that he was arrested in Haifa but no one was acquainted with what might have happened to him during his incarceration.

When I arrived back in the village early in the first Tishrin, I found one and all joyously happy with the fruits of their toil. However, my third return to the village went unnoticed. There was no sign of the usual welcoming committee that used to meet me in the past. In fact, apart from my pupils, who excitably congregated around my jennet, nobody bothered to cheer me.

My relation with Fatimah resumed its previous course. A taciturn existence seemingly barren of life and love. Nevertheless, there was an obvious shift of our attitudes towards each other. Fatimah seemed much more relaxed and she confidently moved about the house, cooking, baking, seeing to her house chores, washing and mending my clothes. Although my anger towards her had mostly dissipated, I still could not reconcile myself to the way she was forced upon me. The thought of divorce was, on the face of it, still on my mind but it occurred to me less. Had I allowed myself to look or examine our situation, I would have seen all the signs of a comfortable married life going on.

When the school opened its doors the number of boys increased further. Now, there were grades one, two and three. The rise in the intake kept me diligent, settling the second and third year pupils into work whilst I busied myself with the new first year boys. In the mornings I was mostly pensive, giving lessons or thinking of what to teach. During the afternoons, after the school had finished, I kept myself busy marking exercise books, preparing homework of about the lessons we just had. As usual, the evenings I spent with village men in the mathafa, acquainting myself with what had happened whilst I was away, in Damascus. The idea of divorce went to the back of my mind.

As you can see, without the presence of Fatimah the school would have been very difficult to run. She industriously saw to her housework, freeing me to concentrate on my schoolwork. Some sort of regularity had overtaken our life together. Apart from the company of the good wife of the village chief, Fatimah kept aloof from the rest of the village women, even though some of them had tried to befriend her. After she had finished her morning chores, my wife seated herself at the doorstep behind the boys. Time and again I noticed her inaudibly voicing the words the boys were chanting.

Upon this amiable but taciturn lifestyle winter arrived early to the Golan Heights that year. The first Kanon4 made a dramatic entrance with thunder, lighting and heavy rain. Laden with mud-covered ploughs, the horse-pulled carts moved slowly back on the muddy tracks to the village. The first day of the second Kanon5 was exuberantly met with the beacons of the Ghozalih6. The high blazes marked out the villages on the Golan Heights and on the flat



plateaux below. It was traditional in the countryside to celebrate the winter solstice with drums and cymbals and huge bonfires that were lighted at the highest point in the hamlets. By the middle of the second Kanon the temperature had dropped below zero and frost bit the ground sharply.

By Christmas thick white sheets of snow swathed all the peaks of the Lebanon mountain ranges. As if by magic, slopes and vales turned into hotbeds of innocence and effaced the sins of its people. How weak man is before the renewed majesty of Nature. After It grew old and the autumnal khamsin7 winds weathered the summer meadows, the hungry Wheel of Time turned in its orbit and winter again settled on the Golan Heights. The winds expanded the day over the night. Nature was again a newborn, promising a beautiful season and a verdant Nisan, coloured red by the wounds of No’mon8.

When I woke up to that direful morn, I found the room was cold and swathed in dimness. Curiously, I peeked around me in the obscurity, wondering what was the time and if Fatimah was unusually still asleep. Over the previous month of silent existence, a routine had been established to our mornings which we both adhered to it very closely. Since Fatimah had shared my room and straw-mat, I woke up to find the room had been lit and the fire in the noqra was stoked up. Thinking she must have overslept and probably it was still early, from under my bellow, I pulled out my watch and checked the time. It was nearly seven. I immediately jumped out of my bed and lighted the oil lamp, whining to myself, ‘It is nearly seven. O Allah! I am late.’

When the light from the oil lamp

instantaneously swallowed the gloom, I was astonished to see that Fatimah was already awaken. I cussed and coursed her laziness for a few seconds. Though she must have heard me move about, she did not stir and remained staring out of the window at the snowfall in the yard, giving little importance to what was I doing. Thinking, ‘There is not time to quiz her, now. The boys will start arriving at seven thirty.’

I kept my mouth shut and promptly started the morning routine by myself. Wearing nothing but my nightshirt, I suddenly felt cold and began to shiver and straightaway went to the noqra and added more charcoal and woods to the embers. Whilst I was waiting for the fire to take hold, I found myself intently staring at Fatimah with odium. At that moment enwrapped by ignorance, an evil thought flashed in my mind and I envisioned my wife to be my jailer, holding the key to my freedom. A dreadful brain wave of woe crossed my mind and screamed in my skull, ‘If only she dies!’

Whilst the water kettle was warming up on the range, I dressed, and put on my heavy black overcoat and wrapped my head with a kofeah to keep warm. When I stepped out to cold wind blew on my face and almost turned and went in side and walked to the toilet, carrying the kettle with hot water. I hurriedly did the ablution in the relative warmth of the blackened bakery hut. Since the shepherd’s daughter did not usually come when the snow was falling, I put hay for the goats and donkey and covered their pen with a large canvas and stabled it to the ground. Even after I had done the morning prayer, Fatimah did not move from the window nor did she prepare my breakfast as she regularly did. I glared at her and angrily mumbled under my breath, ‘Ignore her, Ali.



Allah only knows what is going on in her small mind.’

The fire took hold and soon the room warmed up. All the time worried that the remaining half hour was waning, I tidied the place and folded the mattresses, hers and mine, and stowed them away. I made myself a simple breakfast of olive and goat cheese and sat down alone by the noqra to eat it. After I had cleared the breakfast, I readied the room with books and slate slab to receive the boys then I returned to my seat by the fire.

All the while Fatimah remained in the same position. A strange feeling gripped me for a second. Suddenly I saw her as the martyr Nader and I had once watched her through the window, dejected and hungry, suckling the goats’ udders in their pen. For a few seconds, a sympathetic emotion willed up in my bosom and I looked at Fatimah with compassion. A soft voice mumbled inside my head, ‘This morning, her faced seems paler than I remember it.’

She suddenly turned and faced me. Whether, it was embarrassment or to avoid the flames in her eyes, I lowered my gaze. When I looked up again, our eyes met for a long moment. I noticed that the fire in her eyes had been extinguished and the dark shadow of an imploring smile on her cold, blue lips lingered; but she did not speak.

How astonishing the human heart is. Even when it was feeling compassionate, my seat of thought remained closed up against her pain and sorrow and only a few seconds before I had prostrated in front of my God to pay the fees of Paradise. The goodness, benevolence and prayers of all creation since the beginning of Time to the death of the last being, will not wipe

the sin I committed that most evil morn. I refused to hear her silent question. It was obvious that she was not well, but I remained resolutely silent. What inanity made me sit down to my food and not ask her to join me.

When the first boy arrived and knocked on the door, I opened and let him in. The snow was still falling and it was very cold to make him stand in the courtyard. On his appearance, Fatimah got up. She enwrapped herself in a blanket and left. Through the window, I saw her enter the bakery hut. The four hours teaching filled my morning and I only reflected upon my wife’s situation once or twice. When the school broke for the lunch, I told those pupils who had braved the weather and come to school to have the afternoon off.

(to be continued)

______________________

1. Ali is first cousin of prophet Muhammad and the forth guided Caliph. Ali is greatly venerated by the Shiites, some even deify him.2. Fatimah is one of the four daughters of prophet Muhammad and the wife of Ali. The icons of Fatimah replaced those of the virgin Mary (Maryam) in the affection and veneration of Muslims, in particular Shiites. Fatimah is also called Al Zahra (Venus).3. The sixth month in the ancient Semites calendar. Equivalent September4. The nine month of the ancient Semites calendar. Equivalent to December.5. The tenth month of the year. Equivalent to January.6. Ghozalih is the celebration of winter solstice which is the first day of the second Kanon.7. A south easterly hot dust laden wind.8. No’mon (sounds similar to Sim’on (Simon)) is equivalent in meaning to Adonis in the Western sense. Gorged by a boar, the blood from the wounds of No’man (Adoni Tammuz) annually turns the fields red with poppies, anemones and wildflowers.


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Bread of Affliction/Bread of Love When she met him in her twentiesher shoulders were ladenwith the weight of affliction. Death had come early with dispassionate intensity.Fleeing her homeland at four,she witnessed the ravages of war,towns and villages reduced to rubble,mortally wounded soldiers along the roadside.When she lost her father,suitors comforting her mothercame in and out of their livesas through revolving doors.Then an interminable hospital staywhere countless displaced childrensuccumbed to deadly fevers. She swallowed the bread of affliction. He offered to help shoulder her burden.“Death is not the last word, Love is.”She was not so sure. When did the dough begin to taste less bitter?While working side-by-side? Raising children?Dealing with the ordinary ups-and-downs?Enjoying each other’s company?Or when his cool palms cupped her eyesas she waited in the darknessfor nightmares to pass?Over time imperceptiblyher shoulders lifted and straightened. One glorious morning years lateras the candle of old age flickeredon their rickety breakfast table,they smiled and talked, content to share the daily bread of love. She felt a lightness of being.

Şegíşúw ótmegí - Súygí ótmegí Yígírím yaşlarînda onî tanîgandakîzîñ omîzî şegíşúw awurlîgî manğúklí edí. Koyî suwukkanlî ólím erte kelgen edí.O, ğîgîp-ğakkan marebení,mîragan kóyní-kasabanî,ğaralanîp ğol boyîna tízílgen ólí askerlernídórt yaşînda kóríp memleketínden kaşkan edí.Babasîn kaybetkendehayatlarînda artlî-artîndanaylangan kapîlardan kuwalaşkanday anasîn ğúregínalağak bolgan kíşíler kíríp şîkmaga başladî.Soñra kastakanada soñsîz bír kaluwğeñúwğí ateşten sayîsîz ólgen ballarîñ arasînda. Kîz şegíşúw ótmegínden aşap karagan edí. Ul kîzîñ ğúgín taşîmaga yardîm eteğek boldî.“Sózníñ soñgîsî Ólím tuwul, Súygídír.”Kîz boga emin tuwul edí. Kamîrîñ aşşîlîgî ne zaman kaşa başlagan eken?Omîz-omîzga beríp ogîraşîp şalîşkanda mî? Bala óstírgende mí?Bírí-bírísínden zewuk alîp kuwanganda mî?Ya da kîz karañgîda korkîlarnîñ geşmesín beklepekí kózín ulnîñ suwuk kollarî kapatkanda mî?Tuymay kalîp, zaman man kîzîñ omîzî kóterílíp túzeldí Yîllar soñra, şanlî bír sabakartayuw mayşîragîñ şagîmîndaerten yemegíñ ğartî konasîna otîrîpsúygíníñ tatlî ótmegíñ sepasîn paylaşîpkúlúmsúrep añlatmaga başladîlar. Kîz yaşamdan kiyíp alîp raát boldî.





The Secret that Only Babies Know A duckling forms a permanent bondwith the first object it sees—mother duckwho clucks to it to follow.A human mother relishes the sweet nectar of her baby,its breathing comforts her, her hands move tenderlyall over its tiny body,her lullabies are a soothing sleeping potion. But a baby knows bestthe smell of its mother’s skin,her morning smell,her evening smell,her summer smell,her winter smell.There is no other! I spool back the yearsand inhale my mother’s scentwhose fragrance remains like a tropical flower’s after nightfall.My little hands reach up as I bury my nosein her neckand recall its enchanting aromalong after I am back in grown-up time.

Sáde bebekleríñ bílgen sîrî Bír órdek balasî síptí kórgen şiyíne baylanîp kalîr –wakîldap şakîrgan ana órdekke.Bír insan anasîñ góñílí bebegíñ tatlî balózín koklap aşîlîr,bebegíñ solîşî okşalawdîr, şefkatlî ana kolî kíşkenekíy kewdeníñ ústúnde gezípayneniyí bír raát yukî suwîdîr. Ama bebegíñ eñ árúw tanîgan şiyí anasîñ ten kokîsîdîr,onîñ saba kokîsî,onîñ akşam kokîsî, onîñ yaz kokîsî, onîñ kîş kokîsî. Başka kokî yoktîr! Yîllarnî artîna egírípmústí keşe hawasîn kokîtkan yoda şeşegídiy tartaman íşíme nenemíñ kokîsîn.Kíşkene kollarîm manmoynîndan tutupkómemen íşíne murunumnîakelíp akîlîma bayîltuwğî gúzel rayihesín uzun senelerdír ósíp kemalíme kelgen soñ.




My Gift to Life The sun gives me energy and moon dreams,but Life gave me my children.Now that the dolls are donated to Goodwillfor other children to cherish,and the embroidered lace pillowcase of the old baby cribstored away for the next generation,I have a gift to give to Life--the countless possibilities my children embody which glow like the colors of the rainbow.

Hayatka bakşîşîm Men kúneşten kuwetímní alîrman, túşúmní aydan, ama hayat maga ballarîmnî berdíŞúndí, koklalarîmîznî aketíp pîkare ballarnîñ kuwanmasî úşún bagîşlapeskí beşíkníñ oyalî yastîgîn keleğek nesíl úşún saklayatîrganda,mením de Hayatka bagîşlayğak bír bakşîşîm bar - kókkuşagî renklerídiy ğîltîraganballarîmnîñ aşkan sayîsîz ğollarîn.


Once More for Real Now that I have children and grandchildren of my own,the beloved faces of my childhoodemerge from the pastas if through a clearing in the mistand explode into light.The fragrance of my mother’s sweet perfumeas her lullabies fill my dreams.My father’s stories resurfacingfrom the deep recesses of my mind.Even my childhood dog’s cold noserubbing against my cheekreawakens vivid joys.If memory is alivethe dead are alive.If only I could hug themonce more for real.

Hakkîykatîn bírtaa Şúndí ózím balam-torînîm barda,sañke tuman kóterílíp ğarîk patlaganday bola, ótken balalîgîmda súygen yúzlerím ortaga şîkkanday bola.Beşígímde ayneniyler aytkan nenemíñ tatlî kokîsî túşlerímní totîra.Akîlîmîñ derenlígínde kalgan babamîñ aytkan masallarî yokarga şîga.Balalîgîmda betímní súrtúp koklaganitíñ suwuk murunî bírem ğanlî kunaklar uayandîra.Akîlîñda tírí kalsa,ólíler tírí kalîr.Keşke olarnî hakkîykatîn bírtaa kuşaklay-alsam.



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A Kommando Loose in Maine (II) From behind him, as if from nowhere, motion and near-muted sound, a breath beyond a whisper, arrived at the same time. Brecht, in control, turned slowly, afraid to show surprise, afraid to look suspicious, and saw an old man standing practically in his back pocket. He had heard no approach, not a snapped twig, not a rustled leaf. This old man, a native for sure, and at least 80 for sure, wearing glasses, rubber boots as black as bad mushrooms, carrying a bamboo fishing rod in one hand and a metal tackle box in the other hand, was staring at him. Brown-rimmed spectacles were lopsided on his head, sitting over one ear as if pinched in a way, set awry by a frown. A wide, punished nose, extra broad at the bridge, logged with experience at some kind of physical action, crinkled in curiosity. His eyes were almost hidden in wild eyebrows, thick, black, untrimmed, as dark as they must have been half a century earlier. A wicker creel rode on one hip, part of his uniform. A red and black checkered lumberjack shirt, buttoned closely at each wrist and at his throat, marked neatness and long habit. A large Adam’s apple sat atop the neckline button as prominent as a pork loin hanging in a

butcher’s window. If the old man were to fall down, Brecht would not be surprised, but he was a survivor and a history of tenacity showed like a written biography; hard chin and jaw line, three dark marks of age on his forehead bigger than usual freckles, the nose a relic from more than one argument, an old daring hanging about in his face, a daring not all used up by any means, and curiosity by the pound. “You lost, son?” The old man’s voice was soft and sure, as though he held the answer to his own question. He could have been a teacher at the head of a classroom, knowing everything behind the lesson. “You knowed someone hereabouts? You knowed Liza?” He marked the clothes that Brecht wore, the boots, the belt buckle, then rested on Brecht’s eyes. “You got yourself a name, being for a stranger?”


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“Rawlins they call me, whenever it’s not late for supper, and then it makes no difference what I’m called.” A smile came with his humor, easy as aces as part of his new face. “Yes, I know someone here.” He felt he had become a Maine person, and the language and inflections of service personnel back at the camp hung out in whispers for him to cling to. “Never too late for feedin’, you might say if you was asked.” A minor snort of disdain was added, like needed punctuation. The man repeated his question, with a hint of surprise caught up in his words. “You knowed Liza?” The old man looked back at the house and the window with a light in it, a window on the second floor, obviously a bedroom window. A shadow moved through glowing light morning was catching up with. There was an art form to the old man’s questioning, as with a teacher at the chalkboard where a poser was marked and the solution salted away for this extreme moment where doubt, question and curiosity were playing games with one another. Brecht, aware he was the subject of deep appraisal, conjured up an instant liking for the old man, protective of a younger neighbor, unafraid of a younger stranger. He also assumed the old man was a damn good fisherman. The

bamboo fly rod was likely as near old as its carrier. Other attributes, maintenance, neatness, proper care of property of any value, came in short order, even as Brecht felt the deep penetration of doubt and curiosity settle into his body.Carlton Ebbers stood Brecht right up, stiff as a ramrod, when he yelled, “Liza, Carlton Ebbers sittin’ out here with this here gent says he knows of you.” In the bright morning air, his voice carried clearly to the house. Her head came fully out the window. “Who is it, Carlton? What’s his name?” “Says his name is Rawlins.” Brecht jumped in, yelling “Jaeger” as clearly as he could. He looked at the old man and said, “Jaeger Rawlins,” as if explaining himself. Liza’s voice rang out. “Jaeger! Jaeger! I’ll be right out. Give me a minute. It’s okay, Carlton. I know him! I know him!” Liza, in a housecoat, bolted from the back door seconds later, and his name came rushing from her mouth, her lungs, her whole body mass carried in her cries. “Jaeger! Jaeger!” Those cries even shook up old Carlton Ebbers. Across the yard she rushed, birds by the dozens flitting and leaping about from the birdhouses, all in her wake. One hand held the blue robe at her waist.


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When she stumbled and loosed that hand, both men could see she wore nothing underneath the robe. Carlton Ebbers smiled at old mystery and Jaeger Brecht went all the way back to 1932. Liza was swept up in Jaeger Brecht’s arms, and her arms wrapped around her old lover.Carlton Ebbers dropped his eyes and then looked off at a piece of the sunrise sitting in the break of balsam firs crowding a small rise. The bamboo fly rod came elevated, then pointed tip first down a path, and he moved off, saying, “I’ll leave you folks to rememberin’, while I go to fishin’.” He was out of sight in a whisper of seconds. Not a note of his departure was heard, as muffled as his approach had been. They were alone for the first time in twelve years. Liza strained against Jaeger Brecht, bending against him her whole length, her breath searching for proper space, movement, expression. She inhaled him. Old scents rushed back, imagination running well ahead of them, catching up many of her parts, old touches breathing new life on their own. Came in a maddening rush the magic he once controlled in his hands. “Jaeger. Jaeger, how did you get here?” “Is anybody in the house?” he said. When he was suddenly hit with her perception of him, he

thought caution must be simmered, tempered. “It’s so good to see you again, Liza. You’re still beautiful, like a flower that’s still blooming. May I come in? I need food, I’m famished.” Release and rush hit him at the same time. “I’ll tell you everything, Liza, but I must rest too. I have been running away for a long time now. I want my running away to be over and done with.” Once again he was on-stage. It sounded exactly like the excuse she had wanted, the one that would carry her through dreams, promises, and all accountabilities from the past. But right then, twisted in the middle of doubt and discovery, Jaeger Brecht didn’t know who he was, didn’t know who he wanted to be, or was trying to be. She was lovely yet, the remarkable face hardly aged a moment from what it had been. And she was directly from morning freshness, a liberating and innocent freshness. She smelled so good and clean, so unlike his own person, so unlike all those confined in the prison camp. This was a dreamt freedom circulating all around him, this freshness, this newness. He had no idea how long it would last. “Jaeger, where have you been? What happened to you? You know I’ve been crazy for you ever since I met you. And all this time, it’s been agony, years of agony. What has the war done to you? I prayed for you every day. Every day of my life since then.” Her arms had only felt this


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comfort in that long ago. “Oh, this stupid war.” Total moments from the island had come back to her, though she knew they had never been far away. Want, at last, was flooding her, all that pent up want she had controlled for a dozen years. His beard was rough on her face, the harsh reality of return softening its impact. The one fist of two hands was solid on her back, like determination, like an anvil, hard like a new promise being made. He was older, of course, she thought, but more handsome. A man now, a full grown handsome man, though tired looking, who had come back after all the loneliness. She breathed him in again, a long and deep breath that plummeted down through her body, finding all the old places, the hidden places. A strong scent of her own forestland also rode on his person; there came the balsam and pine and deep wood solace that rode in such aromas, herself a woods person, who would have loved at another time to have gone off with Carlton Ebbers looking for breakfast brookies. Brecht, as though reading her mind, looked back to where Carlton Ebbers had disappeared into the woodlands, all the alarm systems within him clicking back on. But not a leaf moved, not a pine needle, not a discarded shadow to show that an old man with spectacles alop, and a bamboo fly pole pointing his way through underbrush, had left the scene.

Liza said, “Oh, Carlton’s just going fishing on the stream, looking for brookies, looking for breakfast. He’ll be gone a few hours, and he usually minds his own business. He was worried about me seeing a stranger here, that’s why he yelled out to me. He’s a dear neighbor who lives about a mile away. He’s always looked out for me ever since.” She did not finish that thought. She came alert about her robe and closed it, other instincts crowding her mind and body. She took his hand. “Come in,” she said, “please come in. Let me cook for you. You can shower and shave, get a change of clothes. Tell me everything later, the war and all. I hate it. I have hated it since the day it started.” Her hands pulled at him. “Nobody else is home. My parents died within months of each other from the same accident. Five years ago. My aunt and uncle live here with me, in my house, but they’ve gone to visit a son in Vermont and a grandson who is going off to the army next month. He’s just turned 18. He’s a boy, a mere boy.” He showered, shaved, dressed in comfortable clothes she had found in a quick search. Sunlight poured into the room through two windows facing east, the rays falling across a table with a red and white checkered tablecloth, and spilling onto the floor. She had kicked her slippers loose and they sat in the sunlight, being measured,


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optioned. He thought about her legs and what he remembered of their shapely presence. Now they lined up faintly behind the fabric of her robe. She cooked at a huge black stove that filled a corner of the room, her feet bare, telegraphic. A vase of flowers stood in the middle of the table. Other vases and potted plants crowded the two windowsills. Their aromas fought their way through bacon odor. When he sat to eat he kept looking at her still in her robe, the bacon rolled into itself, the eggs like sunrise on the plate, coffee kicking him in the gut. But her freshness kept coming back to him. As she stepped near him, he put his arms around her, felt her quickness, felt her shaking as if she had never stopped shaking from the island. He did not eat. They went off to her bed. They loved the morning away. He told her everything. “I’ve been a soldier. If I’ve been nothing else in all this time, I was a soldier. I had a duty. I did my duty. I was good at it. I was very good at it until I was taken prisoner.” Liza, reveling in Brecht’s arms, still inhaling the now and the past in splendid return, said, “Do you know German army officers tried to kill Hitler, tried to bomb him?” She added, “With complete justification,” as if she was accenting both their stands on the issue. “Do you know what an evil he has become?” There was no way around it, the war had to be mentioned repeatedly, with Hitler right in the mix of it, even as she enjoyed the slightest touch of

Brecht’s hands, the smell of him, the corners of his mouth the way he said some words, as if he was trying to relax back into something old, something believable, a lifetime recaptured. “That has bothered me lately, and a great deal. I don’t know who has betrayed me, my officers, my leaders in the army, or Hitler himself. All these days in the forest by myself, running, hiding from fishermen, stealing property, it has preyed on me. Now I find you again. When they brought me to the camp at Houlton, the day I arrived, I’ve thought of nothing but you since then. Thought of nothing but getting here. To see you. To be free.” “Oh, Jaeger, you can stay here with me until the war is over. You can be my cousin Rolf from Sweden, a true neutral. We can say you lost your papers, or something. We can fool all of them. My aunt and uncle know all about you. I told them almost everything. They know how much I’ve missed you. You can learn how to farm, tend chickens and pigs, be free, go fishing with me.” She laughed, the joy flooding hers senses. “We can go fishing for breakfast brookies, do them up in corn meal, drop an egg in place, pumpernickel toast, smell morning coffee in the woods like we’re being mesmerized.” Her smile flashed her exposed soul. She had almost said, “Like we’re married.” All her lost years ran into each other, at the exact


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same time as Carlton Ebbers was talking to the sheriff in Oxbow. His face was red, he was out of breath and his fishing gear dropped someplace back in the Oxbow forest, thrown aside as he marched his way to the center of town. “You better shake a leg on this, Harold. Don’t go dallyin’ on me. I tell you now, will tell them in court if that’s what you’re worried about, that this man is probably the escaped German POW from Houlton we been hearin’ about on the radio. He has this here hair cut too short for the likes of Oxbow. There’s a line right across the tops of his ears, like a Marine haircut, like a German Army haircut. Liza probably knows him from someplace, like from a visit back there years ago. Her father used to talk about it at the inn. She has a heart for him, that I’m damn sure of. Near collapsed in his arms. Don’t near do that with strangers, not none of our girls.” “What the hell do you know about a German army haircut, Carlton, and young love for that matter? You were even too old back there all the way to 1917. Too old now. My god, man, we got to have more than a guess on this. The Flatlanders would laugh us silly if we get smoke out of no fire on such stuff. Besides all the to-do we’d shake out of the trees, I hear we’ll have more than a million people in the state tonight watchin’ the solar eclipse old Mother Nature has planned for us. Be awful crowded for laughs.”

The whole deck of cards was snug up Carlton Ebbers’ sleeve. “Well, Harold, I’ll just have to tell you what kicked it all the way in for me. Comin’ here I went to my Walter’s fishin’ cabin on the Nighthawk, near The Toe Line Lodge, and those there duds that Liza’s friend is wearin’ belong to my son. I gave them to him for extra fishin’ clothes for his cabin, dryin’ out stuff. My old police pants, my old shirt, even my old boots. I’d know them anyplace, with the patch Elbert Derrin stitched in where the ‘coons wanted to eat the fatty sweat outta one a them one night. Them boots’re not where they’re supposed to be. He’s not about to march them right on past me, girl or no girl. No sir, not at all, not with my grandson Alfred over there right on the edge of Germany this here damned minute.” The sheriff of Oxbow nodded his agreement to the old man.

* * *


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Proem: Hootchie Kootchie A small carnival, on the edge of town just outside the limits.

The first time I was ever in the tent, I was sixteen. The show was already underway– a bare-breasted blonde woman was dancing at the front of a little stage up off the grassy ground. She was not young, but attractive, with big boobs and stripping down to the buff. (You had to pay extra, another fifty cents, to see her buff: did I mention, I was sixteen?)

She was not a natural blonde and I loved her pudenda, the roundness of her thighs, the curly fringe of hair at her belly. When she turned round and shook her naked fanny at us, I knew what I wanted for Christmas. Then a sailor elbowed his way down front– bell-bottoms, sailor cap and all– he looked up at her and began to make noises, lewd remarks. She told him to shut up– he reached for the woman and she smacked his hand away– finally, his hand managed to grab her thigh just above the knee. She stopped wiggling and jumped out of her high-heel shoes with a quick bounce– reaching down and grabbing a shoe, she left the stage and went after the sailor waving her footwear– a naked woman chasing a sailor around inside the tent– her tits bouncing mightily to cheers of the male crowd.

At first the sailor thought it was funny– he chuckled and laughed– until she cornered him and made a noise and a man came in under the back wall of the tent– a very large man with a livid red scar down one side of his face and a big moustache– he was carrying a Louisville Slugger on his shoulder.

The sailor squawked once, ducked under her arm, and departed the tent-flap. I caught a quick glimpse of him hurrying up the midway.

The blonde declared the dance over and the man with the baseball bat watched us all file out.

Never mind, I’d seen her buff.


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Flaneur’s Creamation Put a hat on my head—soft gray felt—A red silk tie—my black shoes polished and shined—Let the flame lick at the hatbrim, consume the crown,Let the fire loosen my tie, wear out my shoes—Thus I stroll by shop windows where angels peer out.On Paradise Boulevard they’ll stop to look—Someone will turn and whisper, “He writes very brief—very literate—little poems!”

Kalpazanîñ kúlún şîgarmasî Başîmda malakay, kúlrengí ğîmşak kíyízden,Kírmîzî yúpekten kîravat, ğîltîr-ğîltîr boyalangan kara ayakkabîm,Álew ğalaganday malakay kenarîn, tajîn túketkendiy,Ateş şeşkendiy moyînbagîmnî, ayakkabîmnî parlaganday,Melekler piyda bolgan túkáan ğamlîgîna şonday etíp bararman. Toktap kararlar Ğennet Ğaddesínde.“Kayet edebiy, kîska-kîska şiirler yazar!”dep aytar bírísí başîn kaytarîp.


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Virğiniye’dekí karma úşún bír tílek O zamanlar dórt penşelí, uzun kuyruklî -eger bírtaa ğanlanma úşun bolsa -karañgîda keñiyíp ğîltîragan kózlí,adañkaalgî bílímlí –insanîñ her şabasînda mení karama!Penğírede kúneşlengen koğaman erkekmîşîk bolîrman,Wiliyamsburk’nîñ eñ aydîn ğaz sabasîndasení kózetíp, mîyîklî bír kúlúmsúrew geşíp ketkeníñde.

A Wish for Karma in Virginia Four paws then—a long tail—If reincarnation be a fact—eyes that expand and shine in the dark ,knowledge beyond your ken—don’t look for me in any human endeavor!I’ll be a biggish tomcat sunning in a window— the brightest summer morning in Williamsburg—watching you—a whiskered smile as you pass!


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Atlî Tepesíndekí oynaşîma Ğoys úşún (Nag’s Head, N.C., 63-níñ yazî) Ğaş edík o zamanlarda, sewdalî, karargan soñ tîrmanîp Tepege şîktîk,şo kum tepeleríne şîkmaga ka-típ te ogîraştîk!Ústúnde yîldîz bar edí, inğe bír hilal,yemínler-tílleşmeler, kólgelerde, yîldîz ğarîgînda seníñ yúzúñ.Aşadakî seviyege kaytkanda hayat bízní ayîrî ğónlerge akettí.Şúndí, mínda, bastîrmaga wurgan salkîn ğelíñ takîltîsînda,búgún akşam saga túşúnúp,yokarga bírtaa tîrmanîp şîga-almayğagîmnî bílíp bolarnî yazayatîrman.

To the Sweetheart of Jockey’s RidgeFor Joyce(Nag’s Head, N.C., Summer, ‘63) Young then, in love, we went to climb the Ridge after dark– and how we struggled getting up those dunes!Atop were stars, one thin crescent of moon–vows, promises– your face in starshine and shadow. On the level again, life took us different directions.Now, here– this evening– thinking of you– a cold wind taps at the pane– I write this knowing I could never make that climb again.


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

After leaving the friendly roof of my kind countryman, we soon lost sight of the sea, and journeyed onward through a most romantic country. In one place we wandered through a narrow valley, bounded by gently swelling hills, clothed to their summits with luxuriant grass or odoriferous shrubs; then, again, cantered over a level sward, a perfect carpet of green velvet enamelled with a thousand flowers, whose balmy fragrance in some degree rendered endurable the scorching rays of the sun. Numerous little fountains babbled down the slopes, and then meandered through tiny vales, on their way to swell a more considerable stream: nature off'ering to the indolent inhabitants the means of extensive irrigation, of which any people but the benighted Turks would most gladly avail themselves.

In every direction was to be seen the finest land, if properly cultivated sufficient for the support of a dense population; and numerous picturesque sites, on which a hundred towns and villages might be erected. But, alas! what did we find? Solitude and desolation. Every step proclaimed the benumbing rule of the Osmanlis, and the few wretched inhabitants we encountered wore the stamp of poverty, degradation, and the most abject slavery. In short, the whole of the scattered huts we passed in our route from Chanak- Kalesi on the Dardanelles to Troy would, if collected together, scarcely form a moderately sized village, and the fertile soil itself appeared as much accursed, as if the lovely heavens had showered down pestilence.

With the exception of an hour spent with Mr. Landor, we passed the greater part of the day

on horseback, and either from fatigue or the great heat, my companion was excessively languid, and towards evening displayed every symptom of severe indisposition: writhing with pain and faint with debility, he would gladly have laid down in the fields in preference to continuing his route. Hence, in consequence of the snail-like pace at which we moved forward, we did not arrive at the Scamander till it was quite dark; and, to add to our annoyances, we found the river so swollen by the late rains, that our suridji declared he would not ford it, as he should certainly risk the loss of his horses.

Now, as the glimmering lights of the little town of Bournarbashi were distinctly visible on the opposite side of the river, and evidently at no greater distance than a quarter of a mile, the intelligence, to an exhausted invalid and a hungry man, was certainly any thing but gratifying. Feeling, however, assured that the object of our knavish guide was to extort money, and being equally confident that I could swim across a much broader river, even if it was too deep to ford, 1 resolved upon making the experiment. I therefore sought a spot marked by the tracks of horses' hoofs, which would indicate that the natives were accustomed to use it; for remember that this country is entirely destitute of any road, save those made by the Romans. I soon met with the desired track, when I dashed into the stream, and found, thanks to the taste of the Turks for short stirrups, that I should reach the opposite shore perfectly dry. My companion mustered courage enough to follow my example; but, alas! by the time we reached Bournarbashi, the stars were twinkling in the heavens, instead of the lights in the windows.

We rode to the house of the agha, to which we had been recommended by the consul, Mr. Landor. However, as these primitive people had resigned themselves to repose soon after sunset, we found the whole of the inmates in the land of dreams. Not contemplating the prospect of


sleeping on the stones with any degree of satisfaction, we knocked loudly at the door; when we received as a response the chorus of half a dozen dogs in the court-yard, and the united howl of all the curs in the town. Such an uproar could not fail to rouse the inmates from their slumbers; but instead of popping their nightcapped heads out of the windows, as would have been the case in Europe, a party of fair dames made their appearance, parading the house-top enveloped in long flowing garments muffled to the eyes, looking precisely like so many ghosts.

The ladies immediately and peremptorily informed us that we could not be admitted, as the agha was absent. This I knew to be the common pretence made use of to get rid of strangers in Turkey; and as the door had already given way beneath our repeated thundering, we entered, well knowing that the presence of a Giaour would soon conjure up at least the spectre of an agha, however distant he might be in propria persona. The plan succeeded; for the lord of the mansion and his attendants immediately made their appearance, and a comfortable supper was soon served, consisting of a fowl stewed with gourds, a pilaff, fine olives, dried fruit, and excellent bread, composed of wheat and maize.

My first care was, however, devoted to my travelling-companion, who had thrown himself on the divan absolutely writhing with suffering. Upon requesting to know what I should procure for him, he begged me to infuse a large dose of cayenne pepper in half a pint of strong wine or brandy; when, strange to say, the fiery draught acted like a charm, and restored him immediately, not only to health, but to a comparatively good appetite. This strong stimulant, the baron informed me, had cured him more than once of an intermittent fever, of which disease he felt convinced he had just suffered an incipient attack. When supper was ended, we availed ourselves of the cushions and coverings with which the divan was plentifully

supplied, and soon forgot all our troubles and inconveniences.

Whether in consequence of the recommendations of our consul, or through gratitude for the douceurs we had presented to the attendants, I cannot pretend to determine; but certain it is, the agha evinced towards us the most marked courtesy, and not only provided an excellent breakfast, but mounted his horse and accompanied us the next morning on our exploring expedition.

This shows that either a decided improvement has taken place in the feeling of this people towards the Giaours, or that gold has a powerful effect in softening bigotry. At all events, it is to be hoped that future travellers, whose curiosity shall lead them to visit these countries, may, through the influence of one or the other, be allowed to pursue their way without molestation, which unfortunately has not hitherto been the case. Our agha guide pointed out the various eminences and sites which tradition and the writings of the antients have connected with the history of Troy, with which he seemed perfectly familiar, and, for a Turk, well-informed and communicative.

Before I left Troy, I rode to the extensive ruins of the Alexandrian Troy, near Eski Stamboul; visited the islands of Lesbos and Tenedos, — lands celebrated in the annals of love and art, for they were the countries of Sappho and Alcseus; bathed in the crystal stream of the Scamander, where the royal sisters of the heroic Hector washed their garments; and traced the classic Simois to its source in the mountains, from whence I ascended Mount Ida, the abode of the gods. In short, there was not a single locality of interest, associated with the history of Troy, that I did not repeatedly visit.

Unless I were convinced that you are not one of those incredulous matter-of-fact men, who doubt the existence of every thing not susceptible of demonstration, I should spare you the repetition



of my feelings and impressions when I visited that classic region, and of the delight I experienced in wandering along the banks of the lovely streams that fertilize the Trojan plain. Here that city once stood which has been immortalized, not by the perishable sculptor nor the crumbling column, but by the eternal verses of Homer; and although not one stone of that celebrated city now stands upon another, not one fragment of its palaces remain to tell of its grandeur, not even a trace is left of its existence, save in the writings of the antients; yet do not these contain sufficient evidence to convince the unprejudiced mind, that on the site once occupied by the heroic Troy, the miserable village of Bournarbashi is now built?

For myself, as I most piously believe every sentence of the historical details of the Iliad, it was indeed a pleasure to link every surrounding object with some event in Trojan history, and to recall to my imagination the glorious deeds of the great heroes of antiquity; and though the sapient pedant may pity me for revelling in delusion, yet I may equally compassionate him for being chained too closely to realities.

I went over the ground, with Homer for my guide; and if the Iliad had only been written yesterday, the site, the various mounds, eminences, and rivers, could not have been more accurately described. There is the identical plain between the Hellespont and Mount Ida's encircling chain, at whose base is situated Bournarbashi, exactly nine miles from the shore.

We also find the source of the Scamander close to the town, near the city gate of Troy, called Scean, precisely as the bard described it: besides many other corroborative circumstances, which it would be tedious to enumerate. Again, how admirably adapted was this site for that of a great city,—a fine luxuriant plain, watered by fertilizing rivers communicating with the sea, and no doubt navigable for the small vessels then in use. The

abundant springs of pure water, which here have their source in an immense rock, would also supply an additional inducement to the wandering tribes of old, with their fiocks and herds, to select this spot on which to pitch their tents.

As a proof that the siege of Troy was not a creation of the bard of antiquity, did not Alexander the Great visit it, and offer up sacrifices to the gods on the tomb of Achilles? At a later period, did not Csesar make a pilgrimage to this spot, hallowed by deeds of heroism? when, it is recorded, considerable remains of the city still existed; and the opinion is very generally entertained, that Alexandria Troas was principally built from the ruin of its namesake.

On an eminence above Bournarbashi stands the tomb of Hector, supposed to be the Pergamus: it is unlike every other of the tumuli found here, which consists of earth only, and may be compared to a pyramid of disjointed stones. This tomb is well worthy of a visit, were it only for the enjoyment of the superb prospect it commands over the surrounding country. The Scamander and the Simois are seen meandering through the plain beneath, bounded in the far distance by the Thracian mountains in Europe and the promontory of Segeum, now called Cape Janissary. It also includes a slight glimpse of the Hellespont, appearing like an arrowy river, together with the consecrated tumuli on its banks, occupying, according to Homer, precisely the same spot as did the camp of the Greeks during the siege of Troy. In the centre of this interesting picture we see elevated the mound which bears the name of Ilus, and a little to the right the gigantic tomb of Cesutus; while in the back ground, towering above all, rises Mount Ida, with its snow-crowned pinnacle Gargara, from whence the gods themselves regarded with astonishment the heroic deeds of man!

(to be continued)

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Nazar 2014-05