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Transcript of Nazar 2013 07 online
BAŞ KABÎMÎZDAON THE COVER Mausoleum of poet Ferdowsi(940 - 1020) in Tus, Mashaad, Iran Photo: Nimavojdani
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 Aziz AhmetJames S. DorrSuzana HuseynYen NguyenNimavojdaniHal O'LearyQHA
2rudyard kipling
If… - Eger…5book launch
Looking Back - Short Stories of Our Time
6mikayil múşfik
Úyrendím8miftahettin akmulla
Başkurtlarîm, okîmak kerek!
10taner muratscythia minor (little crimea)
Kókten sesler - Temúçin (XIX)
12james s. dorrindiana, usa
Moons of Saturn24ferdowsi
Alas for Youth28tu fu
The Winding River30yen nguyenfrance
Too True to Be Good34hal o’learywest virginia, usa
From WhenceThere’s Something ElseThe Struggle
38edmund spencer
Travels in Circassia, Krim Tartary, &c. (XIII)
40aziz ahmetcrimea
Photoshop: Crimea, Chameleon Cape That Changes Its Color During the Day
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
rudyard kipling(1865 - 1936)
Nazar Look 3www.nazar-look.com
(1865 - 1936)
If... If you can keep your head when all about you Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,But make allowance for their doubting too;If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,Or being hated, don't give way to hating,And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;If you can meet with Triumph and DisasterAnd treat those two impostors just the same;If you can bear to hear the truth you've spokenTwisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools: If you can make one heap of all your winnings And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,And lose, and start again at your beginningsAnd never breathe a word about your loss;If you can force your heart and nerve and sinewTo serve your turn long after they are gone,And so hold on when there is nothing in youExcept the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!' If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,' Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,If all men count with you, but none too much;If you can fill the unforgiving minuteWith sixty seconds' worth of distance run,Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!
4 Nazar Look www.nazar-look.com
(1865 - 1936)
Eger… Herkez ğoldan sabîp taksiratlî sení tutkandaSen akîlîbaşînda eger kala-alsañ;Saga bírewníñ îşanuwî kalmagandaSen olarîñ şúphesín de hesapka koşîp ózíñe eger gúwene-alsañ;Beklep turup sen beklemekten yorîlmay eger kalsañ,Ya da seníñ hakkîñda yalan aytîlganda yalan eger kullanmasañ,Ya da sení bírew şeg-almaganda sen ğúrekke eger ğatsañ,Allegím bolmasañ, şalîm eger satmasañ; Túş kulî bolmadan túş eger kóre-alsañ,Túşúnğeleríñní maksat etmeden túşúnúp eger kala-alsañKelíp Zafer men Felaket ekí yalanğînîñ karşîsînaNe kazandîm dep kuwansañ, ne de kaybettím dep ğîlansañ;Ğetímsízlerní aldatmaga deñíştírílgen aytkanlarîñnîEşítmegen kíşí eger bola-alsañ, Ya da ómírğe kurgan şiyleríñ mîraganîn kórgendeÍşíñní baştan alîp olarnî eskí alatlarîñ man bírtaa eger yarata-alsañ,Kaybetíp te herşiyní baştan alîpKayîplarîñnî heşbírwakît sóz eger etmeseñ; Meğalsîz kalganda ğúregíñní, asabîñnî, akîlîñnîZorlap eger kullana-alsañ,“Dayan” degen kararîñ tîşînda íşíñde bírşiy kalmagandaTíreníp kókírep eger bere-alsañ.El-álemge koşîlîp namuslî eger kala-alsañ Ya da kîrallar man gezíp insanlîknî eger unutmasañ,Ne dúşmanga, ne dostîña darîlsañ,Ne bírewní alşak túşúrúp, ne bírewní kóklerge şîgarsañ ; Ağîmasîz her dakkagaAltmîş emgek saniyesí eger koşsañDemekk ke bo dúnya señkíBondan da ayîrî, ulum, Insan boldîñ demektír.
(Taner Murat’îñ terğúmesínde)
BO
OK
Looking BackAnthology of Short Stories
htt
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azar
-look.
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Featuring:
Tantra BenskoCarly BergUte CarsonRudy Ch. GarciaMargaret KarmazinJames D. Reed
W. Jack SavageTom SheehanBhadauria Manish SinghHollis WhitlockSamuel K. WilkesAbigail Wyatt
6 Nazar Look www.nazar-look.com
mikayil múşfik(1908–1939)
Nazar Look 7www.nazar-look.com
Úyrendím Hayat nedír, suwal berdím ózíme, Manasîn şeşeklerden úyrendím. Yaşap-yaşap kagîşmaknî, súymekní Kaálbímdekí tíleklerden úyrendím. Bír ğay aldîm şîkmak úşún şikáarga, Rastkeldím bír gúzel kózlí nikáarga. Níşan alîp ok atmaknî, ne şáre, Taş ğúreklí meleklerden úyrendím. Suwlar gibí kópíkleníp taşmaknî, Eller gibí yúksek daklar aşmaknî, Biñ bír emel arkasîndan kuwmaknî Túrlí-túrlí ğúreklerden úyrendím. Kaber bolsîn her tazege, her ğaşka Insan bala, hayat oga eglenğe... Men gúdúrtí koparmaktan eñ başta Alew kózlí ğalkînlardan úyrendím. Hayat nedír, ólím nedír, boş suwal, Sewda nedír, hiğran nedír, bír hayal, Men bolarnîñ esasîn, mína, al, Hep şekken emgegímden úyrendím.
(Taner Murat’îñ kelíştírmesínde)
8 Nazar Look www.nazar-look.com
miftahettin akmulla(1831 - 1895)
Nazar Look 9www.nazar-look.com
(1831 - 1895)
Başkurtlarîm, okîmak kerek! Başkurtlarîm, okîmak kerek, okîmak kerek!Aramîzda ğahiller kóp, okîgan siyrek.Ural’dakî ókírgen ayuwdan korkanşîk,Ey, tuwganlar, ğehaletten korkmak kerek! Iltifat et: okîmaktandîr şerefler,Ğahillíkten kelíp turar zor afetler,Okîganlar kókte uşar, suwda yúzer,Yoktîr onda evliyadakî kerametler. Okîganlar bo dúnyada ğelal bolîrHaram degen kóp şiyler helal bolîrYîkpal, dewlet kutugun aşayîm deseñ,Ílím, húner bírden-bírge temel bolîr. Altîga bírní koşîp, sayî on bolmay.Sáátní aldga beríp, tún kún bolmay.Bílím arslandan kúşlí batîr,Şoga atlanmay seníñ túşúñ heş oñ bolmay.
(Taner Murat’îñ kelíştírmesínde)
10 Nazar Look www.nazar-look.com
scythia minor (little crimea)www.tanermurat.com
Kókten sesler - Temúçin (XIX)
Kesím 33Barim Şîgîratuw Kabuwğî Batîr
Ázír awulga, ázír tóşelgen mañlay
şadîrnîñ bosagasîn íş betíne, yarîsînda bír toy man, nikáalî ğaş kelínníñ atî zamannîñ íşínde íríp kettí, onîñ atîn akîlana akelgen, yaşagan kíşí kalmadî. Şo atî unutulup kalgan kelín, mañlay yeríne kelíp kongan senesí tolayatîrganda, Bodonğarga bír ul taptî.
O balanîñ ğutuk ekení taa kíşkenelígínden bellí bolgan. Anasî emízdíreğekte ekí kolî man anasîn kókíregíne ğabîşawuya eken. Kurutsa da, kolîndan ğíbermiy. Óskende de şo, taa.
- "Nedret kap, kóp şayna" derler, balam! - diytan eken anasî man babasî oga, sîpîraga otîrganda.
- Bíraz yawaş aşa, obîr bolma! - diytan ekenler.
O gene seslemiy, onday tuwgan ke. Awuzuna kabîp, şaynamay ğutawuya. O man bír sîpîraga otîrganlar sîpîradan toymay tura ekenler.
- Bo ğutuk bízge aş kaldîra mî? Şaynamay ğutawuya da. Ka-típ toyayîk? - diy ekenler.
- Sîpîraga salîngan aşlarnî bír ğelmawuz gibí kabawuya da, başka kíşíge toymak sîrasî kele mí? - diy ekenler.
Ána, bonday etíp, onîñ aşaganîna hergez taağúplene- taağúplene, oga Kabuwğî namî kalgan.
Ğúrmege başlaganda da Kabuwğunuñ bír ayagî óteberí kesík bolganî da bellí boldî. Bír yakka bíraz sallanîp, topallaganday ğúrgeníne, "Kesík Bağaklî" diy edíler oga. Şo man atî Barim Şîgîratuw Kabuwğî boldî.
Lákin ğígítlík, bağaknîñ uzunluguna-kesíklîgîna karamay eken. Ğígít bolganî, ğígíttír. Batîr bolganî, batîrdîr. Soñra, atka míngen soñ, bír ayagîñ bír parşakay kesík
ekení bellí kala mî? Kaydan? Onîñ ğúregí, korkîsîzlîgî, ğaşlîgînda síptí katîlîp bargan sogîşmalarîndan suw ústúne may şîkkanday bellí bolîp miydanga şîgawuydî.
Barim Şîgîratuw Kabuwğî Batîr dedíler oga.
Kesím 34Zewúriyt îrgî
Atî unutulup kalgan Barim Şîgîratuw
Kabuwğî Batîrnîñ nenesí, ğaş kelín bolîp úynúñ mañlay yeríne konayatîrganda, nikáasî kîyîlîp, şo yarîsînda bolsa da gene yasalgan toyî sîrasînda, Bodonğar man Adañkan Úriyañgağin ázírlep salgan bakşîşlarîn da kabul etken edí. Hep şo wakît, ádetlerníñ taptalmasîna yer kaldîrmay, kelínní alîp kelgen kíşílerge kaysî bírsí kímge salînganîn añlata-añlata, kayînana-kayînata alarî úşún ázírlengen bakşîşlar da beríldí. Şo kíşílerní de kuwandîrmaga unutmadîlar. Onlar da bakşîşlarîn kabul etken soñ, barlî bír îrktan bolmasalar da, ádetke uyup, kayînana-kayînata alarîndan kíyewúne ğíberílgen bakşîşnî alîp kelgenlerín ayttîlar. Şo kíşílerníñ mañlaylarînda kelgen, kelínníñ akasî konîştî:
- Bodonğar, babam-nenem alar bek begeníp kaldîlar, kíyewún. Bíz de, kelínníñ akalarî, tatalarî bolîp, sení bek súydúk. Kelíp azbarîmîzdan, úyúmúzden kelín saylap alganîña, aytkanîmday, bílgeníñdiy, bek barlî bolmasak ta, saga karşî saygîmîznî kóstereğek bolamîz. Bízím de saga akelgen bakşîşîmîz bar. - dedí o.
Soñra, katînda bolgan ekí ğaşka aylanîp karap:
- Babam alarnîñ Bodonğarga ğíbergen bakşîşnî akelíñíz! - dedí.
Ğaşlar, kelínní alîp kelgen mógedekke ğuwurawuyup, bakşîşnî túşúrúp, kolîndan tutup akeldíler. Ğap-ğaş bír kîz, kelín men akran, kelínníñ tatasîn kîzî, kelín men barabar ósken ekenler. Bírsí úyleníp keteğekke, ekewnúñ kózlerí bozlanîp kalgan eken. Herkezní kuwantağak bír şáre tabîlgan. Hem onday boldî. Bodonğar man Adañkan Úriyañgağin ziyade kuwandîlar. Bodonğar onî kabul etíp, oga şoyerde Adañkan Úriyañgağin
Nazar Look 11www.nazar-look.com
şadîrnîñ katîna bír şadîr taa kurdurtawuyup, ğaydîrtawuyup-tóşettírewuydî.
Bo kîznîñ atî da zamannîñ íşíne batîp kettí. Lákin ízí ketmedí. Onîñ ízíne, tuwganda, kelínníñ tatasîn kîzîndan bolganîna, Zewreday dedíler.
Zewreday, Barim Şîgîratuw Kabuwğî Batîrdan soñra tuwdî, ondan kíşkene, Zewredaynîñ bírkaş tatasî ekí ulnuñ arasîn baya keñiytkenler.
Dórt ulun bírdiy etíp súye edí Bodonğar. Íster Adañkan Úriyañgağinden ekí ulî Zadarday man Bagariyday bolsîn, íster Barim Şîgîratuw Kabuwğî bolsîn, íster Zewreday bolsîn, ayîrmaytan, bírdiy súyer edí.
- Alayñîz mením ulumsuñuz. Men ketken soñ, paylarîñîznî bírdiy etíp bólíşírsíñíz, añladîñîz mî? - dep, ólímínden soñra ne bolağagîn da aytîp taşladî.
Zewreday kíşkene ekende, eñ kíşkene bala tuwul mî? Ózeginní herkez başka túrlí súyer. Zadarday man Bagariyday delíkanlî bolîp başka şiyler men ogîraşîp turganda Barim Şîgîratuw Kabuwğunuñ ekí kózí babasînda, "Way, way, babam Zewredaynî taa kóp súye!" dep. Zamanînda ózí de tîpkî şonday súyúlgenín unutkan.
Óseğek, batîr bolağak, ğiwan Barim Şîgîratuw Kabuwğunuñ, Zewreday ínísí men, arasî bonday edí, yîldîzlarî uzak kalîp tabîşmaytan, kíşkenekíy Zewredaynîñ anasî, bír tuwumda, bír namurnuñ soñ kúnlerínde, ğok bolîp ketkenínde.
Barim Şîgîratuw Kabuwğunuñ nenesí men, kartayîp túşken Adañkan Úriyañgağin, Zewredaynîñ anasîn artîndan tókken kózyaşlarî kurur-kurumaz, helwasîn kawurup kokîsîn şîgarîr-şîgarmaz, Bodonğar bír kúnlúk yergeşík şakîrîldî. Kîş, taygalak mî, taygalak. Ne men karşîlağagîn bílmeden, tolîyday buznuñ ústúnden kettí. Ketúwí, şo! Ólím şakîrgan eken! Ğolda, ayagî ayna gibí buznuñ ústúnde tayîp, ayagîn sîndîrîp atî túşken. Ondan tutup, şuwurga kakkan, ekí boylîk kar baskan. Balta man kazîp ayîrdîlar Bodonğarnî buzlarnîñ arasîndan. Baárge karşî... Her yaşam başka bír ğoldan keter amma soñî gene aşşî-aşşî. Of, of!
Bodonğar ğok bolgan soñ, kíşkenekíy
scythia minor (little crimea)www.tanermurat.com
Zewredaynî Barim Şîgîratuw Kabuwğunuñ anasî alîp karadî. Kayet kesík bír ara úşún, kîrlî ketmedí. Barim Şîgîratuw Kabuwğî hergún kawga şîgarîp, anasîna bakîra başladî:
- Saga ne, neniy? Lázîm bolmagan zahmetke ózíñní atkanîñ ne? - dep.
- Kerek-kerekmiy, bo bala da babañnîñ ulî. Sení óstírgen soñ, kuyruguñdakî bír súrúw kîz kardaşlarîñnî óstíriyatîrganda, endí, koğamnîñ uluna kelgende zahmetíne karayğakman mî? Kírewuysun şo da kîz kardaşlarîñ arasîna. Bírşiy bolmaz.
- Adañkan Úriyañgağin karawuysun. Ne karamay? Bútún kún úyde de. Başka ne íşí bar?
- Ay, Adañkanga atkanîmîz ne? O kart ta, balam. Kartaydî, endí yapp-almaz. Ekí dúniya bír kelse de yapp-almaz. Onda bala hewesí kaldî mî?
- Yapp-almaz, yapp-almaz! Yapmaytan mî, endí? Yapar, yapar! Ne? Seníñ hewesíñ bar mî? Sende başkalarnîñ balasîn karaganday hewes bar mî?
- Şonday etíp konîşma, ulum! Ayîp tuwul mî? Íníñdír, bíz kararmîz, taa.
Ínlíkní-mínlíkní ğebíne tîgîp ózí men alîp ketken eken, Bodonğar, soñgî ğolîna şîkkanînda. Barim Şîgîratuw Kabuwğunuñ awuzuna túşken balaşîk, kutulmadî. Şo-bo degenşík, Kabuwğî kaptî ğíberdí. Zewreday Adañkan Úriyañgağinge beríldí, başka şáre yok. Kóp ketmeden, oba hakklarîndan da şîgarîldî. Bodonğardan kalganlar, arasînda bólíştí, úş akasî. Zewredayga bírşiy yok, sañkem yabanğî.
Zewreday, ósíp bólígínden ayîrîlmak kararîna bardî. Bólígínden boş kolî man ayîrîlsa da, yawaş-yawaş óz şáresíne ózí karap, úyleníp balasî, torînî boldî. Onîñ ballarîndan, torînlarîndan, Zewrit alar keñiydí.Mína, Zewrit îrknîñ atasî şo baladîr, şo Zewreday. Anasîndan-atasîndan óksíz kalgan, şo bala.
(dewamî keleğekke)
12 Nazar Look www.nazar-look.com
james s. dorrindiana, usa http://jamesdorrwriter.wordpress.com
Nazar Look 13www.nazar-look.com
http://jamesdorrwriter.wordpress.com
Moons of Saturn
Phoebe, with her retrograde motion...
We laughed about that when the Voyager
photographs were on TV. Her real name was
Phoebe, named for the mother of the Sun. Or
that's what she said.
"You must be Enceladus," she said on a
different night, when the news showed the
space probe closer to Saturn. Never mind my
real name or background. "Enceladus was the
most powerful of the storm giants. Savage, yet
noble. And, according to the Greek legends, he
was born not in the usual way, but from the
spilling of his father's blood."
"Shouldn't I be Iapetus instead?" I asked.
"The creator of man? Or, more to the point, the
moon whose orbit is closest to Phoebe's?"
"No," she said. "Between us, we
encompass all the moons" – that was before
Mimas' pictures were broadcast – "you next to
the brooding bulk of Saturn, the god-devourer of
his children, and me the outermost moon of
them all."
"And you with your retrograde motion," I
said. "Withershins to the others' orbits."
Discovered in 1898, the TV continued,
flashing back to the Voyager pictures. Phoebe
circles more than eight million miles from
Saturn, one of only two of the moons with its
orbital plane tilted at an angle to that of the
rings...
"Another difference. Another out-of-
stepness," I said.
We laughed again, Phoebe and I.
Phoebe, with her passion for ancient legends
and myths; her fascination not so much with
science, as with the fantasies that could be spun
from it.
As for me, as I say, never mind my name
or my background. You may have known me.
James S. Dorr is a short story writer and poet working primarily in the dark fantasy and horror genres with occasional diversions into mystery and science fiction, with nearly four hundred
appearances from Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine to The Yellow Bat Review.
Dorr's collections include Strange Mistresses: Tales of Wonder and Romance and Darker Loves: Tales of Mystery and Regret from Dark Regions Press and the all-poetry Vamps (A Retrospective)
from Sam's Dot Publishing.
14 Nazar Look www.nazar-look.com
http://jamesdorrwriter.wordpress.com
Suffice it to say I had money enough, willed to
me by an aunt, that I needn't work unless it held
my interest. That I had had a good education.
That Phoebe and I loved each other
deeply.
* * *
Discovered in 1789...the TV news said.
This was for Mimas.
"The Year of the Guillotine," Phoebe
broke in, as if the announcer were talking to her.
"Of revolution and blood in France."
"Shhhh," I said as the voice went
on...discovered the same year as Enceladus –
there was a shift as a picture of my moon
formed on the TV so they could be compared –
Mimas orbits less than 120,000 miles from its
parent, while Enceladus, the next moon out...
"No," Phoebe said. "Saturn was never
our father. You, Mimas, the storm giants, I, were
all born of Gaea and Uranus. Saturn, too, was a
son of Uranus."
"I know, Phoebe," I whispered. I kissed
her.
"Wait," she said. "Before, I'd forgotten
Mimas, the innermost moon. The one of our
siblings who freed Earth's volcanoes. And now
they say there are other, tiny moons even closer
to Saturn than he is. But last night I had a
dream about Mimas. And you and me. The two
of you are bound together – discovered the
same year – and thus, somehow, Mimas is
bound to me also."
"I heard you scream last night," I said.
"While you were sleeping. It was only once, so I
didn't wake you."
"I haven't been feeling well," she said.
"It's probably nothing."
I kissed her again, harder this time, and
she kissed me back. That night we made love in
front of the TV while Voyager's arc swung it
closer to Saturn. We watched, in each other's
arms, as the pictures formed on the screen.
Saturn. In some cultures, called the
"Death Planet." Phoebe started, then kissed me
quickly. To astrologers, said to be the ruler of
Capricorn, lord of winter. Saturn was known
from ancient times...
We watched. An orange globe appeared,
strikingly oblate.
...with a diameter 9.4 times that of the
Earth, and yet a day on Saturn's surface lasts
less than eleven hours here on Earth...
Nazar Look 15www.nazar-look.com
http://jamesdorrwriter.wordpress.com
"That explains the flattened poles," I said.
"That fast a rotation. Centrifugal forces would..."
"Maybe," she said. "But look at those
swollen stripes and patterns. It moves too fast.
And see – Enceladus, think of what it would
look like from your orbit. From my moon, it
seems like just a jewel in the sky, but from
where you are, it must be enormous."
I tried to imagine it filling my vision.
Rising over a rock strewn plain, over so huge an
arc it looked as though it must crush, of
necessity, any object that dared stand beneath
it. But then, the TV picture pulled back...
...the rings...
Phoebe gasped. We hugged each other.
...believed by some scientists to have
once been an asteroid, sucked, vampire-like,
from its proper orbit when it came too close. In
time, gravitational forces destroyed it...
I stood again on Enceladus' surface,
seeing the rings now shoot from the huge disk
like two immense arrows. In my mind, I saw
them on edge, because only Phoebe and
Iapetus have orbits that deviate from the rings'
plane to any appreciable degree. Here, though,
the space probe approached from an angle,
slightly below, as it wove its complex path
around Saturn...
...what scientists call Cassini's Division,
forming a wide gap between what we now call
the A Ring and B Ring. But look. Now we can
see there are more. A C Ring, possibly D and E
Rings. And, outside the A Ring, a narrower
pattern is coming in focus. It isn't smooth-looking
like the rings we've seen, but looks almost as
though it were made from two long, separate
strands and braided...
I laughed out loud. Phoebe had braided
her hair that evening. I nuzzled the back of her
neck and kissed her. She didn't respond.
"Phoebe?" I whispered.
I saw she was sleeping.
* * *
I carried her up to bed that night, and the
following night too. Then, at her request, I made
her a new bed – a sort of a nest – on the living
room floor in front of the TV. I went out during
the day and left her watching the pictures, then
joined her afterward to watch the news and the
evening specials.
Sometimes the pictures we'd see would
be new ones, broadcast by Voyager as we sat,
arms around each other. More often they'd be
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ones received already – that she'd seen
already – but half the time she couldn't
remember.
And sometimes she'd say she did
remember...a picture being sent for the first
time.
"Perhaps it was in a dream," she would
say. "Or something I read – I just thought I saw
it."
I worried about her.
On the third day I called a doctor to
come and see her. She protested – "I just feel
faint sometimes" – but I insisted. He gave her a
thorough examination, but found nothing wrong.
He gave her a tonic.
He thought that she might use a bit more
fresh air.
She laughed when he'd left us. "You
know I prefer the indoors," she said. "I just – I
don't know. Since I was a girl, I've always
enjoyed the feeling of waking while still in a
dream. I just feel more tired now."
She took her tonic. I tried it too at her
insistence, at night when we watched the
Voyager probe start its long ascent back
through the moons of Saturn. Mimas, a ball of
ice from what the scientists said on TV.
Enceladus, my moon, mostly ice too, scarcely
more than 30,000 miles farther out than the
orbit of Mimas.
"I dreamed of you and Mimas again last
night," she said. "How you – and I, too – are
bound together. I dreamed of Rhea, its mineral
surface sparkling with jewels."
Rhea was still just a dot in the distance
on the TV. Yet Phoebe went on.
"I dreamed of the mining colony there.
Oh, maybe not right now, but in the future they'll
go there for gem stones. You'll see, Enceladus."
I almost could see it when I closed my
eyes. The pressure domes. The space-suited
men digging into the rock. But then, when I
opened my eyes again and gazed at Phoebe, I
saw she was paler.
I called a new doctor. We lived on a back
road, outside the city, and soon there was a
succession of doctors plying their way across
the countryside to our home. They gave her
tests of various sorts, but none could find
anything wrong with Phoebe, at least not
physically. Some prescribed pills.
On my way back from work – oh yes, I
still worked then. Never mind what I did. But
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one afternoon, on my way home, I drove
through a different part of the city than I usually
went through. On an impulse, I stopped and got
out of my car.
I'd already stopped once before at a
drugstore for Phoebe's pills, although I was
convinced they were doing her no good. But
now, as I looked at the stores around me, I had
an odd feeling of having once stood in this very
same part of the city before. It couldn't be true,
unless years ago – it was near the city
university, in what once had been a student
residential section but since had degraded to
one of those over-the-hill hippy neighborhoods,
rife with herbalists and Tarot readers, "New Age"
gear and shops advertising magic stones and
"Pyramid Power." And yet, I knew when I turned
the corner, I'd find still another doctor for
Phoebe.
His sign was a three-by-five index card
pasted onto a doorframe. I knew where to find it.
I knew I would find it.
It said Dr. Mimas.
I raced up the stairs to a dingy hallway
and, without looking, I knew to open the door to
my left. Inside was an elderly, tired-looking man,
his beard – somehow I knew it once had been
fire red – the color of old, much-trampled snow.
I explained my problem. About Phoebe's
sickness. He asked to know more and I told him
about how we watched together as Voyager's
pictures formed on the TV. He held up his hand
then.
"You are Enceladus?" he asked.
I nodded, startled. "I haven't told you my
name yet," I blurted.
"Perhaps I guessed it," he said. "Or
perhaps I had reason to expect you. We are like
brothers, you and I, although maybe not in the
usual blood way." He handed me a dust-covered
bottle, about the size of a whisky bottle, and
then he smiled up at me. "I once knew Phoebe."
"What is this?" I asked.
"Another tonic for Phoebe," he said, his
face again serious. "It's artemisia – oil of
wormwood. As a tincture, sometimes called
absinthe. In its true form it's not exactly legal
these days, but it won't do her harm and, if you
try it with her, it may help you to relax as well."
I looked at it dubiously. "How much?" I
asked. He named a price that seemed
surprisingly low to me and told me to come back
if Phoebe got worse. I paid him and left and,
when I got home, Phoebe and I tried a spoonful
together.
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It seemed to perk her up a little, at least
for a while. I turned on the TV and we watched
together as pictures of Tethys, then Dione
appeared.
...both discovered by Cassini in 1684,
nine years after his observation that Saturn's
rings were divided in two. And now we have
proof there's a second moon in Dione's orbit, a
"Dione B," that circles the planet sixty degrees
ahead of its namesake. Cassini had already
discovered the moons Iapetus and Rhea...
"I had a dream while you were away,"
Phoebe said when the announcer had finished.
"It was about the stone of Rhea. Once, when
the universe was young, some fell to Earth. It
fell on the hillside, in the forest behind where we
live now..."
"Yes?" I prompted when she became
silent.
"A moment," she said. She closed her
eyes.
"I dreamed of a cabin, built in the
woods." Her voice was chantlike. "A steepled
roof, with openings to let light in..."
She fell silent again and I saw she was
sleeping. Quietly, I put on my shoes and crept
out of the house and into the forest. I climbed
the hillside. The sun had set, but in the
moonlight I saw, near the top, a jumble of stone
that cropped out through the underbrush. Some
of it sparkled – gneiss, most likely – yet, in the
pale light, it flashed, multi-colored, as if it were
studded with precious jewels.
That night, I dreamed of Phoebe's cabin
too.
* * *
In spite of the absinthe, Phoebe's
condition worsened nightly. I called more
doctors, many whose theories lay in less than
traditional medicines, yet, like the others, all
were baffled. I sought out Dr. Mimas again and
told him, were she to die, I wished to die too.
But all he would tell me was "Share everything
with your love, Enceladus. Share in her dreams
that you may both be free."
I thought, then, of the cabin we dreamed
of. I quit my work and had plans drawn up. I
hired men to build it.
During the days I supervised the cabin's
construction to make sure all details were done
right. I had the men work fast – within a day,
the first of the massive rock walls was standing
and, by the week's end, the jeweled peak of its
pyramid-shaped roof was set in its place.
Although I was unused to physical labor, I did
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this last with my very own hands. I had not
exaggerated when I told Dr. Mimas that, if it
must be that Phoebe would die, I wished to die
with her.
And throughout all this frantic activity,
Voyager continued its measured path out
through the moons.
Tethys, the Diones, all fell behind in the
wake of the space probe. Phoebe – my Phoebe
– slept most of the day now, waking only for the
nightly reports on its progress. A sparkling jewel
appeared on the TV – another ice moon, the
announcer said.
But this was Rhea.
Phoebe started, visibly shaken.
"Hush," I told her. "I've built your cabin,
just as we dreamed it." I gave her her tonic, and
took some with her, a half cup for each of us.
"I've had it built in the woods, like we saw it
within our minds. The tall, pointed arches, the
peak of the roof, the cut stone of the floor. I've
put in a couch for you so, if you wish to, you can
lie out there..."
She half rose to kiss me, to show her
thanks, and I sat by her side as the pictures
continued.
Next on Voyager's journey, the TV said,
we'll come to Titan, discovered in 1655 by the
Dutch astronomer Huygens...
"Titan," she whispered, "the namesake of
all of us. The first discovered."
"Yes," I whispered back. "But this is
Rhea. See. On the screen now. The cratered
surface..."
So the nights went on. Titan now filled
Voyager's sky while Phoebe dozed fitfully in my
arms. I half-dreamed with her, seeing not just
the globe on the screen, but its surface as well
– its methane fountains vaporizing in orange
haze, filling the air, its sparkling liquid nitrogen
pools, its view of Saturn, peeking through
clouds, like the moon of our own Earth seen
after a storm.
And still she worsened. She didn't even
wake when Hyperion filled the screen. Two-
faced Iapetus, black rock on one side and ice on
the other, passed silently too, with Phoebe only
stirring slightly. Then Phoebe, the moon – my
Phoebe's namesake – appeared, a glowing red
point on the screen.
My Phoebe half-opened one of her eyes.
I gazed at her lips as she tried to part them.
"See," I whispered – I shouldn't have
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said it, but seeing her paleness next to the
image drove the words from my lips.
"See," I told her. "Even your moon has
more color than you do."
"No!" she screamed. "All I see is blood
color."
She sat bolt upright.
I tried to calm her. Held her close to me.
Shared her medicine – a half cup for each of us
– just as before when she'd started at the
passing of Rhea.
"It's all right," I told her. I kissed her
cheek, startled myself at its coldness.
"No," she said again. "Look at the blood."
I closed my eyes, trying to imagine, but
saw only darkness.
"Again, Enceladus. Let your mind reach
out. Turn where you're standing and look behind
you."
I did so. I felt her standing beside me. I
turned as she did and suddenly saw the sky fill
with redness.
"What is it?" I whispered.
"Disaster," she said. "The miners of
Rhea. A meteorite has struck their colony,
breaking its dome. The air is rushing in..."
"Out," I corrected. "Rhea is airless. They
said on the TV..."
"They lied, Enceladus. Don't you see?
The miners are there now, not just in the future.
But the air of Rhea is poison."
"What can we do then?" I felt her push
from me. Felt more than saw her fade into the
distance.
"I am bound with Rhea. We both are. Not
just with Rhea, but all of the moons, and all who
live on them. But I cannot help them – I'm too
weak already. You must go to Titan..."
I strained to listen as her voice faded,
then came back again, like a radio signal in the
far distance.
"...must journey to the surface of Titan
without me, Enceladus. There is a Wizard who
has a serum. A brilliant alchemist. Only with that
can you save the miners. Only with that can you
save my life with theirs..."
I no longer heard her. Instead I heard a
ringing of chimes and a rushing of winds. I
opened my eyes and saw I was hurtling through
orange clouds, my ship's rockets blazing.
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Below me was rock. Rock, and nitrogen
pools, and fountains.
I knew, somehow, where the ship's
controls were, and I steered to a landing.
I disembarked. I felt the wind whistling
around my spacesuit, wondering how I could
hear through its plastic coated metal. I strode
through jagged, red colored mountains, across
yellow plains. I swam frozen, brilliant blue rivers
– I don't know how, in my heavy clothing. Suffice
that I did it.
I saw the animals. Dinosaur-like, green
scaled creatures that munched on crystal.
I came to a cave.
I threaded my way between two huge
boulders and descended a twisting passage, my
way lit by a red-orange glow. I came to a vast,
level-floored hollow, domed over with purple and
brown and gray rock. And I saw, his back to me,
a giant clothed in robes as black as the empty
space Saturn and its moons whirled through.
I wondered what to say. Then words
came to me and, even though my faceplate was
closed, I heard my voice echo as if in challenge.
"I am Enceladus, he who was born of his
father's lost blood. I seek the Wizard" – I knew
his name now! – "the Wizard Iapetus, maker of
humankind."
"Then you seek your own brother," the
figure said, turning slowly. I realized as he said
the words that I was a giant too. "You come to
save Phoebe, our mutual sister, but you are too
late. The serum is used up."
"No!" I shouted. I stopped as Iapetus
pushed back his hood. I gazed at a face as
double-sided as the moon that bore his name,
one half the white of the purest snow and the
other dead black – the black of his clothing.
"No," I said again, now in a whisper. "I
come for the miners. The serum is for them.
Through them I'll save Phoebe."
Iapetus laughed. "Don't you see, my
brother, that in my power is both death and life.
I am the father of Prometheus, bringer of fire.
The father of Atlas, who holds up the sky. The
father of man, yes. But, just as I preside at
birth, the death of all mankind is also mine to
withhold or bestow."
"I understand only that I need the
serum." I lunged at Iapetus, striking with both
fists. I forced him backward.
Iapetus raised his own hands to defend
himself. "Wait my brother. You don't understand
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yet. Don't you know that death is needed – for
in death is new life?"
I found myself armed now with sword
and shield, while my adversary counterattacked
with net and trident. The net of his words. I
found myself tangled, then, with a shout, I
shook them from me.
"If I must destroy you, so be it, Iapetus. I
will have the serum. Or, if I cannot and Phoebe
is doomed, then you must kill me too."
I rushed at Iapetus, striking blindly,
pushing him backward once again. Without his
net he was helpless before me. I lunged. I
twisted. I opened his chest, his shoulder, his
belly. I laughed in my triumph.
But still he struck back at me – one final
blow.
"You don't understand yet. She's dead
already."
I felt the trident's points tear the inner
part of my thigh.
I felt myself falling.
I heard my brother's voice, far away. "It is
not for you to attack me, Enceladus. For that I
curse you: That you will recover. That you, the
strongest of all my brothers, are doomed to live
on..."
* * *
...I woke to the memory of clashing
chimes. To a rushing of air. I woke at Phoebe's
side, clutching her coldness within my arms. I,
the youngest of the sons of Uranus and Gaea,
formed when my father's life splashed onto the
ground of my mother.
I knew what I must do.
Slowly, painfully, feeling my wound stiffen
with each step, I carried her body out into the
woods, to the cabin I'd had built. I laid her gently
on the couch I had furnished it with when I'd still
hoped she might use it in her recovery.
I loosened her clothing, then kissed her
softly.
The following morning I went to the city.
I sought Dr. Mimas, but, when I arrived at
the building where his office should be, I found it
boarded up. It didn't matter. I knew, if I looked, I
could find a new source of absinthe elsewhere.
More important, I searched out a
slaughterhouse that would sell me cows' blood
and ask no questions. That became my new
tonic. I found a medical supplier who sold me
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catheters and needles, tube arms, pressure
bulbs and bottles. I bought a second recovery
couch to set next to Phoebe's.
I knew our blood types matched. We had
been tested some years in the past. And I had
had a good education, including a smattering of
medical knowledge.
Enough to do what I knew I had to.
That evening I began the first of
Phoebe's transfusions. Her pulse, when I felt it,
was still nonexistent, but now, at least, when I
looked at her cheeks I saw traces of color.
When the transfusion was done, we made love,
my stroking as gentle as it had been the first
time we'd done so.
Of course she didn't respond that night,
or the next, or the next. But still, every evening, I
gave her my blood, mixed with a tablespoon of
absinthe bled into the catheter, then, every
morning, renewed my own strength with the
blood from the slaughterhouse. Blood and
absinthe – Dr. Mimas' tonic. Semen. Life fluid.
Just as my father had granted to me. At least
her disease was now in remission.
And every evening, winter or summer, I
opened the louvers in the roof of our pyramid
cabin to show her the stars. I took to reading
ephemerides so I could point out the position of
Saturn.
In the fourth year, I built a telescope with
a mirror so we could watch the moons together
during our lovemaking. Happy enough her
condition was stable.
Oh, you wouldn't know me if you were to
see me on the street now, even though we might
once have been the best of friends. The nights,
the transfusions, the love take their toll.
I've paled and I've lost weight. My skin
peels in sunlight. The blood from the
slaughterhouse – I need more and more now –
I scarcely eat otherwise – brings me less
strength now than when I first started.
My wound, after all this time, has not yet
healed.
But Phoebe, ah, Phoebe...
* * *
Phoebe, of late, has shown signs of
improvement.
(First published in the July 1993 issue of Tomorrow)
`
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ferdowsi(940 - 1020)
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(940 - 1020)
Mausoleum of poet Ferdowsi in Tus, Mashaad, Iran.
Photo: Nimavojdani
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(940 - 1020)
Mausoleum of poet Ferdowsi in Tus, Mashaad, Iran.
Photo: Nimavojdani
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(940 - 1020)
Alas for Youth Much have I labored, much read o'er Of Arabic and Persian lore, Collecting tales unknown and known; Now two and sixty years are flown. Regret, and deeper woe of sin, 'Tis all that youth has ended in, And I with mournful thoughts rehearse Bu Táhir Khusrawáni's verse: "I mind me of my youth and sigh, Alas for youth, for youth gone by!"
(translated by R. A. Nicholson)
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tu fu(712 - 770)
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(712 - 770)
The Winding River Returning every day from court, I pawnspring clothes. The river sees my drunken mien;my boozing debts mount up all over town.Men do not often live three score and ten.The butterflies go deep into the flowers,the dragonflies on wing among the drops.The passing time is always rushing hours;no time to know you: separation stops.
(Translated from Chinese by Simon M. Hunter)
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yen nguyenfrance
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france
Too True to Be Good Translated from French by Andy Pham The ringing of his cell phone resounded like a response to his black thoughts. He hesitated, then with a resigned sigh, fumbled in his pocket. As feared, the call was from Jaclyn, the editor-in-chief of the weekly news The Challenge.“Anthony,” she roared into the unit, “you're supposed to send me your... ”“You'll have it by this evening”, he hastened to answer. “I just need to make some corrections.”“Six pm at the latest. I won't tolerate any more delays.” Anthony understood what she meant. He could not blame her. In recent weeks, he felt more and more difficult to submit his weekly page. Yet this section, he had obtained it indefatigably three years ago. He remembered how everything was easy then. He laid short story after short story, without any incident, private or professional, that could dry up the flow of his writing. Jaclyn had nicknamed him her golden eggs' goose. He began to be known for his style, direct and abrupt, and his way to get to the heart of the subject and the psychology of hi]\s characters. His name, slowly but surely made its
way into the narrow circle of established short story writers. Then suddenly, his brain was as if wrapped in fog even more compact than butter. His last piece was only a tasteless copy of one of his former stories. Mechanically, he thrust the phone into his pocket and headed uptown, insensitive to the hatching of spring around him. Pedestrians were numerous on this luminous day. Smiling and focused, middle-aged tourists with I love New York t-shirts photographed The Empire State Building while listening to the tour guide describing the legendary skyscraper. A group of youths walked before Anthony, and their carefree and enthusiastic look reminded him of his lost zest. A few snatches of conversation reached him. "I don't like him", a high-pitched voice said. Then someone else added: "He has a face of a murderer." Is it possible to have a face of a murderer? He had rather heard more about a particular skull. He rummaged his hand in the mass of his tousled hair and palpated his head. What did his skull look like? An empty shell or a shell loaded with darkness. A black screen recently overshadowed his memories and thoughts. He would be incapable of saying where he had been, what he
Yen Nguyen writes mostly short stories. Her work has been published at The Miskatonic Herald, Fiction 365, and The Stone Hobo.
Yen Nguyen currently lives in France and regularly travels to Southern California in the summer.
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france had done lately, besides being harassed by Jaclyn who absolutely wanted his text within the deadline. Uh! for example, on Sunday, March 8, his mother had attempted to contact him all day. Where was he? What was he doing? But did it matter? Wouldn’t it be better trying to fill this page right here and now? He doubted he could make it. Some stress was necessary for his imagination to start. But he only felt a kind of lethargy, like the one that followed an intense activity or violent feeling. Street performers drew crowds in front of the library on Forty-Second Street. Without paying real attention, Anthony continued to listen to the youths who marched in ranks in front of him. They crossed the Bethesda Terrace in Central Park where a fountain threw its water jets, which when falling back, broke into bubbles and foam in the pond. A woman in a red dress was leaning on a boy whose shirt dripped water. She shook him and shouted, "I'll kill you." "I'll kill you" repeated Anthony and the phrase trotted in his head as he turned the corner of East Drive and Seventy-Ninth Street and lost sight of the group of youths. It is true that everyone experiences at some point in his life the desire to kill. It can overwhelm you for a multitude of reasons. Look, this morning, he had also a fierce desire to rush to the newspaper office, throw himself on Jaclyn and beat her black and blue to death.
No, it was not true. In his current state, he had no desire except to be left alone. He shrugged, dismissed from his mind the bloodied image of a Jaclyn succumbing to his blows. Come on, he thought, I could write about a man who killed a woman because she deceived him. Commonplace but still appealing topic. Anthony closed his eyes and let his imagination work: the woman was blossomed and ripe and appetizing, all in flesh, flexible, undulated, insatiable and the man madly in love with her. But she saw other people behind his back. The man unmasked her one day. She insulted him and called him a loser. He rushed at her, grabbed her by the hair - she had it long, smooth and shimmering - he pulled her towards him, approached his face close to hers and whispered "I'll kill you" before making her fall and striking her skull with the baseball bat which, by chance, was there. Then, to be sure that his work was well finished, he dragged her up the stairs and gave her a kick. She rolled down the steps. Her body twitched like a dislocated doll before coming to rest on the landing. She was lying at the end of her fall on her back, her right leg folded under the body. The blood had spurted from the head; one of her low-fronted shoes had flown to the middle of the living room... The image he had created in his mind was so vivid that Anthony had to open his eyes. He had stopped without realizing in front of a kiosk where a newspaper front page headline displayed Police Actively Searching for Joanna’s Assassin followed by an article about a young woman murdered in
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france
her home. The culprit is still on the loose, the journalist concluded, adding that several motives, including crime of passion, were considered by the police. Anthony laughed: "What was I saying? I just need to add some details. For example, a blue shark tattoo on the woman’s right thigh, a souvenir of her love with a sailor. A gold necklace without pendant, half torn during the collapse. A house in rather modern style. Yes, that should work.” He opened his laptop. As the words appeared on the screen, his ideas clarified. He found the setting evoked by the woman. He took particular care to describe the bedroom. Occupying half of the room, the bed was covered with a swelling quilt, dark red in the middle of which laid a large fringe of white lace that went tapering to the foot of the bed. A thick carpet, soft where we wallowed well. On the dresser, a statue of a nude couple in a scabrous position; on the walls, portraits of women with lascivious curves, and in the closet … in the closet ... tramp! Oh but what a tramp! No wonder that her man was about to burst out in anger! Ultimately, she had it coming! His fingers taped away incessantly. Sentences followed each other smoothly and effortlessly. He seemed to live himself the time of the crime. Jaclyn’s eyelashes fluttered when Anthony jumped to her office and gave her his work. Jaclyn’s eyelashes always fluttered when she was happy. They fluttered even harder when she went through the entire text. “Hey, I didn't know you were so well versed in the dark side," she said as an excuse for her bad mood this morning. Anthony had forgiven
her long ago. He felt light, as if the fact of pouring his aggressiveness on paper had erased the numbness of his brain. They smiled at each other. Her, thinking what a strange boy he was; him, thinking to himself, she was perhaps his Muse. When the article appeared, the police captain Clarkson in his office in the sixth precinct frowned, thinking he held his killer in a very singular way. Descriptions and details of the crime, unknown to the press, were reported with astounding accuracy. Who, apart from the police, could be aware of the blue shark, baseball bat, closet or shoe flown to the center of the living room? No doubt remained when the fingerprints found on the crime scene proved to be those of Anthony. The police retrieved clothes that belonged to him, curled up in his basement, dirty, stained with the victim’s blood. For Anthony, everything became clear. Rejected lover, he had acted in anger on this Sunday, March 8th, precisely when his mother had tried to reach him. A veil had descended over his brain, creating this transient partial amnesia that would later allow his lawyer to argue temporary insanity. “Is my skull the one of an assassin?” he wondered, and this concern enabled him to turn away from his overwhelming memory.
* * *
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hal o’learywest virginia, usa
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west virginia, usa
From Whence We have a universe… from whence and where?Must we conclude beginning without end,Defying reason, turning to a prayer?We’re left a puzzle we cannot transcend. Must we conclude beginning without end?It’s not a thought that we can tolerate.We’re left a puzzle we cannot transcend.But yet the need to know will not abate. It’s not a thought that we can tolerate.The tendency is, just to let it lie.But yet the need to know will not abate.Our better nature will insist we try. The tendency is just to let it lie.The quest for answer will not go away.Our better nature will insist we try.That’s what we’re left with much to our dismay. The quest for answer will not go away,Defying reason, turning to a prayer.That’s what we’re left with, much to our dismay,We have a universe. From whence and where?
36 Nazar Look www.nazar-look.com
west virginia, usa
There’s Something Else With both an open mouth and open mind,There being naught of which I could conceive, I came into this crazy place to find,The answer to life’s riddle is BELIEVE There being naught of which I could conceive,The only choice was just accepting this.The answer to life’s riddle is BELIEVECould there not be a choice we should not miss? The only choice was just accepting this?Dismiss the word BELIEVE. It is untrue.Could there not be a choice we should not miss?There is a choice, there’s reason. Think anew. Dismiss the word BELIEVE. It is untrue,A fault an honest man cannot ignore.There is a choice, there’s reason. Think anew.Belief’s a superstition .to abhor, A fault an honest man cannot ignore.I came into this crazy place to findBelief’s a superstition to abhor,With both an open mouth and open mind.
Nazar Look 37www.nazar-look.com
west virginia, usa
The Struggle Let’s halt man’s inhumanity to man.Our history will make it understood,Though we’ve had evils since it all began,They stand in sharpest contrast to the good. Our history will make it understood,While evil deeds can never be denied,They stand in sharpest contrast to the good.The evidence that’s there, we cannot hide. While evil deeds can never be denied,We’ve empathy asleep within the heart.The evidence that’s there we cannot hide.While evil boldly amplifies it’s part. We’ve empathy asleep within the heart,The empathy lies struggling with the greedWhile evil boldly amplifies it’s part.A victory to them, we can’t concede. The empathy lies struggling with the greed. Though we’ve had evils since it all began.A victory to them, we can’t concede.Let’s halt man’s inhumanity to man.
38 Nazar Look www.nazar-look.com
Travels in Circassia, Krim Tartary, &c. (XIII)
A short distance below Palanka, the
Hungarian mountains in the upper Banate,
approached nearly in conjunction with those
of Servia on the opposite bank, and gradually
contracting the bed of the river, from about
two English miles in breadth to little more
than a hundred paces, converted the majestic
stream into a tempestuous torrent. The
impetuosity of the river continued to increase
in violence till we came to the famous rock
called Babakaly, rising out of the centre of the
river. Here the roaring of the waters as they
lashed its flinty sides, the ' romantic ruins
perched on the summits of the rocks, the
multitude of eagles hovering around, and the
wild character of the country, combined to
form a scene of singular beauty and grandeur
far superior to any, even the most sublime, of
the upper Danube.
During the wars between the Austrians
and Turks, this was the most formidable pass
of the river: here the latter erected the
fortified castle of Golubacs, perched on the
summit of a stupendous rock; now only
remarkable as a picturesque ruin, and for the
singularity of its architecture, with its nine
towers, some square, others round and
triangular.
Near this place we found a range of
caverns, famous for producing the poisonous
fly, too well known in Servia and Hungary
under the name of the Golubacser fly. These
singular and venomous insects, somewhat
resembling musquitoes, generally make their
appearance, during the first great heat of
summer, in such numbers as to seem like vast
volumes of smoke; their attacks are always
directed against every description of
quadruped, and so potent is the poison they
communicate, that even an ox is unable to
withstand its influence, for he always expires
in less than two hours. This results, not so
much from the virulence of the poison, as that
every vulnerable part is simultaneously
covered with these most destructive insects;
when the wretched animals, frenzied with
pain, rush wild through the fields till death
puts a period to their sufferings, or they
accelerate dissolution by plunging headlong
into the rivers.
Nazar Look 39www.nazar-look.com
The shepherds of these countries,
taught by experience the time of their
approach, anoint every part of their flocks and
herds, unprotected by nature, with a strong
decoction of wormwood; to which, it appears,
these flies have a great antipathy. In addition
to this, the shepherds keep immense fires
constantly blazing; around which the poor
animals, aware of their danger, tremblingly
and patiently congregate. Kind nature has,
however, mercifully ordained that their
existence shall be most ephemeral; for the
slightest variation in the weather is sufficient
to destroy the whole swarm; hence they
seldom live beyond a few days. Indeed their
very production seems to depend upon the
state of the weather: for in those summers
when the thermometer continues low, they
never make their appearance, except in
diminished numbers; whereas, when great
heat and drought prevail during the whole of
that season, they have been known to swarm
two, or even three times, although even then
their existence is always extremely brief.
Their ravages are principally confined
to the surrounding countries of Servia and the
Hungarian Banate: but Count Esterhazy
informed me, that on some occasions they (or
at least a similar species of fly) have extended
their flight as far as his estates in the
neighbourhood of Presburg, when their attacks
were fatal to numbers of his cattle. The
peasants for this, as for every other
phenomenon, have resorted to a miracle for
explanation; and tell us that in these caverns
the renowned champion, St. George, killed the
dragon, whose decomposed remains have
continued to generate these insects down to
the present day. The probable supposition
however is, that when the Danube rises, which
it always does in the early part of summer, the
caverns are flooded, and the water remaining
in them becomes putrid, and produces, during
the heat of summer, this most noxious fly. The
inhabitants of the country, many years since,
closed up the mouths of* the caverns with
stone walls, for the purpose of preventing their
egress; but the expedient availed nothing, and
the rushing of the waters against the sides of
the rocks, in process of time, destroyed the
useless defence: so that it must be evident,
either that the insects are not generated here,
or that the caverns have subterraneous
communications with some other outlets at
present unknown.
(to be continued)