nazar 2013 08 online

BAŞ KABÎMÎZDAON THE COVER Kevin Marshall Chopson

Photo: Noah Emerson Chopson

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

2albrecht haushofer

Guilt - Taksirat4marin sorescu

Muhasebe6ahmet ğewat

Susmam!8taner muratscythia minor (little crimea)

Kókten sesler - Temúçin (XX)

10jack peachumvirginia, usa

Aunt TeensieTropical Storm - Yoda boranThe Dean - Dekan

14rudy ch. garciacolorado, usa

Memorabilia26musa jalil

To a Little Bird28kevin marshall chopsontennessee, usa

InterviewOn the Sleeping Body of God - Allahnîñ ğatîp yuklagan kewdesíneI Have Seen My Death Three Times - Eğelíme úş kere rast keldímIntaglioKeep the Wild at Bay

36reshma pandya-bhattmaharashtra, india

Dance tonightChoked

38edmund spencer

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

40susana huseyncrimea

Photoshop: Crimea, Monument for Sunken Warships in Aqyar-Sevastopol

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

CONTRIBUTORSMEMBALAR Kevin Marshal ChopsonNoah Emerson ChopsonRudy Ch. GarciaSuzana HuseynReshma Pandya-BhattJack PeachumQHA

2 Nazar Look www.nazar-look.com

albrecht haushofer (1903 - 1945)


Guilt I am guilty,But not in the way you think.I should have earlier recognized my duty;I should have more sharply called evil evil;I reined in my judgment too long.I did warn,But not enough, and not clearly enough;And today I know what I was guilty of.

Taksirat …taksiratlîman,Amma túşúngeníñdiy tuwul.Wazipeme taa ewelden ğúklenmelí edím;Yamanlîgîñ atîn sesímní taa bek kóteríp aytmalî edím.Pazla túşúnúp kaldîm.Kóz aştîrağak boldîm,Amma bonî ne yeteğek kadar, ne de aşîk-aşîk yaptîm.Búgún de bílgením taksiratlî bolganîmdîr.

(Taner Murat’îñ terğúmesínde)


marin sorescu (1936 - 1996)


Muhasebe AstîmîzgaKara bír sîzîk TartîpHesap zamanî kelír. Dewletlí bola yazgan bírkaş sîramîz.Gúzel bola yazgan bírkaş sîramîz.Zekiy bola yazgan bírkaş sîramîz.Bírkaş kere Bírtakîm daklar man, terekler men, suwlar man rastlaştîk(Ka-yerlerde ekenler? Saw m-ekenler?)Bolarnîñ hepísín toplasañ aydîn bír keleğek eter-Ke bíz onî zaten yaşadîk. Súygen bír kîskaayaklîmîz manBízní súymegen hep şo kîskaayaklîSîfîr eter. Yaşîmîzdan şerígí úyrenúw men geşkenBírkaş miliyart ğemlík sózí yaparOlarnî bír kenarga itep yawaş-yawaş ílímínden kurtulduk.Soñînda da, bír kaderBír kader taa (bo da kaydan şîkkan eken?)Ekí yapar (Bírewsín yazîp ekínğísín kolda tutarmîz,Kím bílír, belkí akíret te bardîr).

(Taner Murat’îñ terğúmesínde)


ahmet ğewat (1892 - 1937)


Susmam Men bír gúlmen, ğúk astînda ezílgenmen, kardaşîm,Súyúm bílmez bír mahkúmmen, gúzel zardîr sîrdaşîm,Damgalanîp şînğîrlanîp atîlganman zindanga,Karlî-buzlî ğehennemler mesken bolgandîr maga. Maga sóz ber, músaade et, kaşangaşîk susağakman,Buhranlarîñ-hiğranlarîñ mápísínde kalağakman?Neşín susup konîşmayîm, insanlîkta payîm bar,Mením ana watanîmdîr suwurulgan bo diyar. Neşín susup konîşmayîm, Túrk ğurtîdîr bo toprak,Oguzlarnîñ, elk kaanlarnîñ watanînda kímdír, bak !Bo dúnyada azatlîknî şan-şóhretten ústún tutAlşaklîknî, ğaltakşînî, rezíllíkní sen unut! Neşín susup konîşmayîm, men iyliyím hîyanet?Kayda súygí, kayda watan, kayda da kaldî millet?Men bír gúlmen, ğerím altîn, soyîm gúmúş, ózím aş,Atam mahkúm, anam sefil, elím herşiyge muhtaş. Men Túrúk ewlatîman, deren aklîm, zekáam bar Kaşangaşîk omîzîmda gezeğektír şo ğawlar? Ne kadar ke hakkim de bar, húkúm de bar, men barman,Zúlmge karşî isiyanğîman, ezílsem de heş susmam.

(Taner Murat’îñ kelíştírmesínde)


jack peachum virginia, usa


Aunt Teensie(Mecklenburg County, Va., 1948) A witch-woman was Aunt Teensie. Brown skin color-wrinkle of new cure tobacco-leaf, carrying herself along on a tall walking-stick– pace the step and stride of ancient lost caravans,at her beck, darksome news out of old Niger,in her voice night and the desert-winds crossing Punt. Two hands on my head holding me,dark eyes behind steel-rim spectacles peering down, “Dis boy got worms! I kin fix dat!” She was already older than the pyramids when I knew her,odder than Sphinx and fresher than the Nile flow.I fled– and she delighted in my small-boy fear. They shared sweet tea from a mason-jaron a sunny summer porch in August– she spoke to my grandmother in riddlesand my grandmother answered.

for A.T.


Tropical Storm Ponds form where should be grass,sodden branches shake in the howling wind–downpours and thunder, ominous noises in the south–and you, uninvited guest from the faraway Gulf,you overstay any reasonable visit!Begone– time for you to move on!A bluejay takes shelter under a dripping tree,looks in my window– demands I make it stop raining!

Yoda boran Otlak bolmasî kerek yerde kólşíkler ibaret bolaulugan ğelde sallangan kaytîk dallar- ğawun man gúdúrdemeler, kúneş betten ogîrsîz sesler- bír de sen, ziyaretní fazla uzatkan uzak Aylaktan dawetsíz mísápír!Ketsí, endí ketmeñ zamanî.Bir mawî-soyga tamîzdîrgan bír terekníñ astînda taldalanîp,penğíremden karap ğawunnî toktatmam íster!

(Taner Murat’nîñ terğúmesínde)


The Dean(East Carolina, Greenville, N.C., August, 1962) Addressing us from corner of the college newspaper office,imparting to us the wisdom of his office– of his generation–a florid middle-aged man from New Jersey,overweight, sweating, gasping a bit in summer heat– “Be careful what you say– we can still keep th’ Nigras out!If they don’t know they can attend this school– don’t know they have a legal right to come here– don’t tell ‘em! Maybe they just won’t apply!”

Dekan(Kúntuwarbetí Karolin, Greenville kasabasî, Şimaliy Karolin, Awustos, 1962) Hitabetíp bízge darúlfúnun ğeridesí daiyreníñ kóşesínden,ózníñ nesílníñ aydînlîgîn bíz men paylaşîpNew Jersey’lí orta yaşlî, yaşatkan,mazallî, terlí, yaz aylarnîñ sîğagînda bíraz túyúlúp tar nefes algan bír akay:“Awuzuñuzdan şîkkan laplarga sak bolîñîz, Zenğiylerní gene uzak tutayîk!Eger bo mektepke yazîlmalarî múmkin bolganîn bílmeseler,kanuniy hakklarîndan kabersíz kalsalar,bo yerge yazîlîp kelmezler. Sakîn bírşiyler aytîp kaşîrmañîz!”



Memorabilia

Prologue

“Surely all material things have a form of

sentience, even the inorganic: surely they all exist in

some subtle and complicated tension of vibration

which makes them sensitive to external influence and

causes them to have an influence on other external

objects, irrespective of contact.” [from “Edgar Allan

Poe,” Studies in Classic American Literature, by

former N.M. resident D.H.Lawrence, 1923]

Introduction

The “enchantment” in the artifacts Chaneco

found throughout his cabin arose from various

manifestations of love. Supernatural attributes

appeared later, principally from those he vilified as

the “estranged dragons.” Here, briefly, is their history:

Eons ago on a Tamaulipas beach, the conch

resounded over Quetzalcoatl's departure. Earlier, an

unwarranted nap had transmogrified a young

gargoyle's jaws into a permanent yawn, in pewter.

The leather wallet's Spanish inscription

Rudy Ch. Garcia's speculative stories have appeared in anthologies Latinos in Lotusland, Needles and Bones, and Kingdom Freaks and Other Divine Wonders, as well as Rudy Rucker's Flurb webzine and

AntiqueChildren.com.

He considers himself a Chicano/mestizo author, is a founder & contributor to the Chicano lit blog LaBloga.blogspot.com and works as a Denver, Colorado-area primary teacher.

Read about his debut, alternate-world epic entitled The Closet of Discarded Dreams on discarded-dreams.com, published by Damnation, Books, 9/12.

mapped the location of Aztlán, 100 sandstorms

erasing the details. His vows as Sentinel prevented

Chaneco's accepting the sacrifice that accompanied

the handcrafted silver necklace handed down from

each amá to her hija. The ornate silver ring belonged

to a member of the mexicano secret society defending

the land grants from Anglo invasion. After the bronze

people's fate was sealed, the ring, abandoned on

Chaneco's doorstep.

The porcelain, Japanese doll forever smelled

of jasmine because a teenager hid the love token

under a juniper, before entering Manzanar. In the late

50s, Chaneco himself carved the guitarist statuette to

cure a famed young Chicano's agony over

commercial success.

One little blue car was simply an antique toy,

its steel from the failed mine of the owner's father. The

stuffed toy black bear--accidentally cast out a car

window--its protector restrained from following. Three

Plains indios figurines left at a campground helped a

boy survive until confiding dark secrets to them

became moot.

The Dominican couple's wedding portrait--

Chaneco's only memento of one daughter, her

existence and assassination, long squelched. Some


discarded-dreams.com

Italian sunglasses' gradient UV-protected lenses and

stainless steel hadn't protected their owner after

Chaneco discovered that her “scholarly research”

would add notches to her headboard. But the

Canadian girls returning from Cancún probably loved

him. Chaneco watched the departing roadster carry

off their unabashed frivolity, until the moon rose.

Only the tear-shaped nickel-iron meteorite

held genuine enchantment, imparted by Chaneco's

mentor to ward off dragons. However, due to faulty

memory of his charmed longevity, Chaneco

remembered only that object's full history when he

began spring-cleaning of the adobe…

* * *

Except for the scores of amethyst-toned

dragons’ tears strung alongside his amulet, Tomás

Chaneco Martinez had never considered himself

much of a collector. Things like photos, Anasazi

arrowheads or the bultos and santos artifacts his

northern New Mexican neighbors collected might

remind him of friends, lovers and comrades left

behind as he continued his tasks as Sentinel.

The bleached pine boards of his adobe's

porch creaked under his weight.

Yes, near-immortality had its downsides:

among others, an onerous solitude that came and

went, although after a few centuries, tended to linger

longer each passing decade.

Tomás Martinez couldn't even afford to keep

his nearly completed woodcarving; the complexity of

emotions he'd imbued into the walnut stock would

force him to sell or give it away, rather than let it

remind him of its inspiration.

He placed the dark sculpture beside his

ancient whittling knife, much as he set aside his

sorrow, to inspect the abstract image of his last

apprentice. Her death wouldn’t be avenged today,

nor soon, but the opportunity would come.

“Qué maravillosa era,” he said, enunciating

each syllable, his eyes glistening, remembering her

valor, her bonds to both the natural and Otherworld,

rare to find in modern times. In a way, he'd loved her,

too, for that which had made her unique.

“Enough sentimentality.” He tore his eyes

away toward the cabin.

As was habit, he brushed his roughened

hands on overalls that had seen better days and

distant washings and lowered his head to avoid the

doorway's cottonwood viga. With his fingernails he

combed his bushy eyebrows and ran them on

through his thick locks of black hair.

The sooty feel of his fingers meant, “Time for

a bath,” he thought. “What is it--June again?” Then

out loud, “Would that I could as easily wash away

other burdens.”

Pausing past the threshold, he surveyed the

books, journals, manuscripts, the hundreds of

painted, printed or transcribed documents covering

the adobe's shelves, offspring of his quest for lost

sorcerer-lore. He didn't consider himself their

collector, but instead compared himself to an Aztec

warrior dutifully maintaining his favorite macquahuitl

weapons, the obsidian-tipped machetes. His own had

an engraved ironwood handle, a parting gift from

Moctecuzoma I.



The passage of each fifty-two-year cycle

reinforced his need for documentation to support a

failing memory; he'd organized the library so as to

prevent his staring at a book’s cover, wondering if

he'd already searched its pages for clues.

Also sprinkled about his one-room home lay

heirlooms and knickknacks given to him for reasons

forgotten, perhaps as in-kind payment for deeds

extraordinaire, or some he might have found in an

arroyo or on a desert path during his Trek. What

unsettled him was that no matter where he placed

them while reorganizing, in time they relocated

themselves, somehow.

On the back wall below two erotic paintings

popular in the nineteenth century, past the dust,

desiccated moths and spider web clusters, and atop

the large rolltop mesquite desk, the memorabilia and

other objects had gravitated to one spot.

He hadn't set them there; he would have

thrown them out had he touched them, he knew.

Perhaps a guest trying to be helpful had arranged

them so.

The desk beckoned, making his body teeter.

The mementos held little significance for

Chaneco, except for the nickel-iron meteorite, he now

remembered--a teardrop shape from the Barringer

impact thousands of years ago, a gift from a mentor

who'd explained he'd picked up the stone while still

warm.

For no reason, he also remembered that 500

years ago when Moctecuzoma I had delegated him

and the other fifty-nine sorcerers to find the lost

homeland Aztlán, Tomás Chaneco couldn't have

guessed he'd never see the azteca capitol again--not

until after the gachupines had leveled and replaced it

with their Mexico City.

On the desk's lower level an ornate ring from

an eighteenth century mexicano secret society

reminded him he'd once been a member of the

sorcerer priesthood, back when he and his comrades

had befriended or fought divine, winged beings and

other dangerous forms, one of which had taken his

mentor. Transformed into birds, the others had flown

into Aztlán where no dragones could enter. The same

transformation had affected him differently, deferring

death, perhaps forever.

Next to the ring sat a handcrafted silver

necklace, possibly an heirloom handed down mother-

to-daughter for generations, though not as long ago

as when his comrades had reported Aztlán's location

to Emperor Moctecuzoma. The report had been

burned or buried beneath the rubble of Aztec

civilization.

Later he had come to understand his

comrades had stationed him here as a Sentinel who

could repeat their work and relocate Aztlán, should

the need arise. It had.

By 1710 when the dragons resurfaced for

their cyclic foraging, he'd learned locating the

homeland was crucial to solving “the dragon

problem.” His duties had carried him throughout

northern Mexico and into the U.S. Southwest.

Now he stood here in rural New Mexico

wasting time, he realized, staring at trifles he doubted

were his, not that he remembered who they'd

belonged to.



The collection had accumulated at the desk's

rim: toy vehicles; the soiled, stuffed black bear;

figurines of American indigenes; a statuette of an

ethnic guitarist with pale skin; a Japanese doll that

still emitted wisps of jasmine. The worn wallet with

Spanish inscriptions and the pair of cracked, clip-on

sunglasses--upright as if pantomiming mouse ears.

They could've been the common keepsakes

of anyone anywhere, except for their annoying habit

of communicating in an unintelligible tongue, at times

loud enough to distract his reading or disturb his

sleep.

Had they let loose with their jabber only at

night, he would've attributed it to a bruja who had it

out for him; the pinche witches had done such

before. But no, these objects broke out in oral

exchange even during the day.

At the moment they held their chatter down.

He stared at each, straining to hear meaning in their

“conversation.” Early on, he'd thought the sounds

might be a degenerative product of his great age.

After all, men of his profession weren't immune to the

degradations of living too long, but nothing else in his

surroundings taunted him with hallucinations. No, it

was something else.

He knew what the something else amounted

to. This cacophonous harassment was the dragons’

reprisal, petty interference with his planning, his

dreams. “He” had again beaten and driven the

dragons back to their lairs. The cost had been high:

two shamans, several apprentices and many ordinary

humans, with he the lone survivor. Of course, he

would have preferred directly, physically confronting

them, aided by apprentices, but his other

responsibilities superseded any head-to-head battles

with them. That was not his role.

“Qué lástima!” he said at the thought, though

the real pity was his newest apprentices hadn’t

matured, weren't ready, and postponement of

another conflict was crucial to minimizing casualties.

In that last encounter, the greatest danger

both he and the dragons faced had been exposure.

Generals, bureaucrats and entrepreneurs, here and

in Mexico, had learned of the battle and nearly

discovered the creatures’ existence. It would have

gone ill for the world had they done so because 21st

Century society would've disturbed the shaman-

dragon balance. Civilization could have bested the

dragons, but would've destroyed the future.

“Mmmm… glo, mla… qua ko--”

If he concentrated, sometimes he could

distinguish which object had spoken. Thus he heard

the striated seashell, which he recognized as a type

inhabiting Tamaulipas beaches. It appeared to be

“debating” with the photo of two inebriated, bare-

chested women in a plaza fountain, their attire limited

to a veneer of greenish suds covering the enlarged

aureoles of their breasts that dominated the photo's

foreground.

“Mar, mra, sa…” Silence followed, as if the

photo had outclassed Concha the seashell. Or

perhaps Concha’s basic interests now centered on

the nipples in the photo, their prominence reminding

it of young, full-rayed starfish it had straddled on the

ocean floor.

“Pendejo,” he scoffed, for letting his mind



wander. The objects hadn't resumed their chatter,

assumedly because he'd listened too closely and

might learn their secrets. He went out to check the

sky; he'd deferred duty long enough and hoped his

prediction of a calm night would prove accurate.

* * *

“Mra--… Ca, sra--”

He ignored their banter when he reentered,

threw himself into the padded rocker facing the door

and front window. Though certain he was on

schedule, the unforeseen might require quick

reactions, so best to keep vigil. Releasing a sigh, he

closed his eyes and willed his body to relax. Had he

wanted, he could have fallen asleep; sorcery always

sapped his spirit-body, even as a young man. Such a

long time ago that had been.

Within half an hour his vigilance waned; he

relaxed more, repeatedly having to yank his eyes

from closure. Dear rest, dearer sleep, but not his to

enjoy as if he were ordinary. Perhaps later, christened

with a bottle of mezcal, he thought.

“Mran, mro--” Then a long break. Then

repetitions of “Mra-- mra--”

“And a mumble to you as well, my fine

animatedly inanimate friends. What mierda do you

shovel? Or is it deviousness you conspire?”

“Mrook.”

The shell's breaking into bits as it hit the floor

echoed long like miniature armies clashing, like tiny

shield and spear, sword and bone meeting at

midfield, ending lives--the last echo too weak to

escape the battlefield, able only to hover.

“Mrak mra--”

Leaning forward in the rocker, the viejito

locked his aged knees around clasped hands,

tightened his shoulders, stretched his back.

“Qué hicieron?” It was more habit than

question; they'd tell him nothing. “Qué hicieron con la

Concha?” He checked the desk; yes, it was the shell.

Or had been.

The objects had assumed new positions, in

different groupings. Backed by their “allies”, the

vehicles formed a semicircle, like a breakwater

protecting the shore of glossy pictures, huddled,

overlapping one another, including the wedding

portrait, possibly of an African couple.

Funny, he thought, they were not usually

allowed near the others.

At the opposite end several items faced their

“rivals”, with a pewter gargoyle in lead position, its

jaws gaping. To the rear others waited. Midway

between the two “armies”, the guitarist statuette lay

prone, eyes half-shut.

“Cosas, you push too far,” Tomás said, “no

matter that spirits or dragons are involved.” It might be

time to box up and recycle them out by the road, let

someone who found value in them cart them away.

But bequeathing evil to an innocent

scavenger, especially a neighbor, would be

irresponsible. “I must use other means to end this

baroque charade.”

His vexation yielded to returning fatigue, so

he didn't rise.



Peering out the window, he noted Evening

Star’s light choked by the rarefied grit from distant

power plants. He let the rocker’s momentum die of

friction, content the time approached. He let his

eyelids sag, his burly lashes sliding past one another,

tangling, stroking tensed eyes. He wouldn’t let

himself dream; but he released his mind to wander,

an exercise that avoided thought, yet enlisted his

subconscious into sketching the future.

Animal smells and sage-to-pine aromas from

the hills mixed with those of the house, filling his

nostrils, informing him of the doings of prey and

predator. Carried by cool, moist drafts, dust from the

rugged Sangres mingled with traces of his neighbors'

ruts and dung.

Sometimes his exploring subconscious

carried him to transcendental places evoking dim,

fond memories, like as an infant warmed in his own

squishy excrement, the moment before squirming

from discomfort.

Now he envisioned himself floating,

descending a huge muted waterfall into the aqua

pools below, then rotating in a whirlpool gradually

losing its impetus. The cascade's honey fragrance

almost made him yank himself awake--a brief

anticipation, like a flash at vision’s periphery.

To maintain the trance, he locked his eyes

half-open. Vague forms atop the desk, all aligned,

reminding him of a wave suspended before a beach.

Their mumblings waned and grew, like surfy foam

created by an underlying sandbar. The imagery made

him chuckle; for an instant he wondered if they had

heard, endangering him. But no, the buoyant

sensation persisted, he appeared safe, had no need

to terminate the vision.

What he next witnessed would become the

seed of nightmares until his life-spirit passed to the

Other Realm, etched into his brain, never to fade.

A pair of scintillating emerald eyes peered

from each object--even the meteorite--attempting to

mesmerize, imprison him in their scrutiny.

He tried returning to the waterfall pools, their

blue-green color too similar to the eyes'--more than a

coincidence, he knew, less than auspicious. When he

initiated the usual steps toward consciousness, his

head throbbed, exploded, sending him to the brink of

convulsions. Brutal pain stabbed his eyes. By the

time he realized the torture wouldn't pass, the assault

had reached a level that would've made ordinary

men faint. His disciplined training managed to

dampen a yearning to scream.

Retreating from consciousness worked; the

pain subsided, though still lurked at mind’s edge.

Back and forth, he tested alternate routes around the

torture. He envisioned himself as a deer confronting

a jaguar blocking a trail. To the left, the right, over,

under, and alongside his stalker, each a path of lethal

promise. Double feints and triple dashings resulted in

the same, as useless as his teeth-gnashing and

facial contortions.

Exhaling a feint of surrender, he took in the

reek of someone different--the Others--torn by loss

and loneliness; their smell penetrated his private Self.

Strange and estranged beings. They belonged not

here, nor anywhere else imaginable. Once he'd

gauged how out of place and time they were, he



recognized their vulnerability. Now he could awaken.

Wetting his lips and sitting upright, he

widened his eyes and blinked, raised his arms. He'd

returned, in control again. Escape should have been

more difficult; later he'd determine why it hadn’t been.

For now, there was another matter.

The photos and their compatriots lay strewn

around the desk's legs, but no musician figure nor its

shards to indicate it had “died” like Concha. Other

items lay scattered on the desktop as if tossed there.

Tomás recognized his immediate inclination to grab

and trash the whole batch wasn't the best idea. That

which was easy rarely was.

He rose and went out to the water pump,

doused his head and washed his face with the spigot

opened wide. He shook off what he could and let the

wind dry the remainder. Hours had passed during his

trance, but, he told himself, at least he'd only lost

time. From the house came sounds of something

heavy, crashing. Furniture thrown against the wall?

Best to ignore them, for now.

Approaching southeasterly clouds held the

seasonal promise of rain. Following the valley

contours, they merged and suddenly strengthened

into a super-cell mass recalling his whirlpool, though

inverted, their crimson base gathering over his

adobe. He never thought of moving to safety because

none existed. Not anywhere in New Mexico. Not for

him.

Noise like boulders tumbling and crumbling

into a deep canyon shook the earth, scattering birds

that had had no warning. Then deep green ice balls

began pummeling his homestead, grapefruit-sized,

many smaller. They struck the ground, home and

trees, as if to target him by sheer random hits. Tomás

gestured toward the cottonwoods, passing them some

of his protective energy.

Although this prevented denuding of the

trees, some ice balls ricocheted toward Tomás, a few

striking him, hungry for him, encouraged by his blood

and bruises. He staggered.

In a few moments he would recoup his energy

to better defend himself, but he also knew that in too

many moments the frozen projectiles might render

him unconscious, his battered body and demolished

home the only evidence of a twister gone evil.

Despite the storm drowning out his screams--

“Nunca me aguito, not in your brief lifetime would I

give up, anyway, Gran Tornado!” he heard raucous

laughter from within the cabin. “So, you cabrones

enjoy this? If I survive your makers' bad weather, later

we will see how funny you are.” The laughter ceased.

Soaked, Tomás unwound his arms from about

his head. With one hand he reinforced the shielding of

the trees. He rotated his other hand, pressing upward

against the torrent. When the icy cannonballs' impact

crushed them into lime raspa that dripped onto his

lips, he licked the slush and smiled.

The inundation stopped. The wind slowed.

Clouds broke, drifted into a northerly migration until

disappearing. The sun warmed.

Tomás stooped, wiped his face and looked to

his forest. “Qué creen? Would a ceremony of Re-

creation be appropriate?” Perhaps, he thought. “Or do

we need an elaborately prepared, Tezcatlipoca ritual

to end the relationship with our friends inside?”



Probably not necessary. The trees offered no

comment.

He didn't need one. The storm meant the

objects in the house acted as a beacon, a magnet for

absent masters who'd located him, too easily.

Though the memorabilia hadn't created the tornado,

they'd aided their controllers. It was time, he told

himself, though not to care or wonder.

After all, they were primarily man-made;

most had never had life of their own; there were few

residual life-forces to contend with, other than their

endowment of animation. But despite their benign

threat, something held him back, but not from worries

for himself. No, he felt sorry for the things.

Then again, that wasn't true, either. More

likely, he commiserated with whichever humans had

deposited a bit of mind or heart or soul, had infused

their humanity and creativity into the pieces. Even

those of unnatural substance might carry bits of

Spirit. Some had perhaps served loftier forces, like

the Life Passions; others, evil or triviality. No matter;

they all had to be dealt with. He accepted he would

lose something of himself in the process.

He gathered splinters to start the fire, but

would need a log or two for the kind of heat that

would leave only ash and melted globules.

More clamoring from the cabin. Something

else large, smashed. More mumbling, as if they'd

guessed his intentions. Not that they could stop him.

In the horno, he arrayed splints in the Four

Directions, placed matches in the middle to

emphasize his Centering, and lit the kindling. As he

watched flames build, he reconsidered the

possessed accumulation, allowing them a last

opportunity to profess their origins, their import. Had

he remembered that such and such had been

contributed by so and so on this or that occasion, he

might have spared it. For instance, the black couple’s

wedding photo should have stood out in his mind

because he'd never known many negros, from

anywhere.

He added small limbs to the burning; in the

concentrated horno heat, they quickly caught.

No, not many negros. Híjole!--at this

moment, he could only remember one, and that

wasn't her. He inserted three birch logs. It was time.

Remounting the porch, he pondered the little

blue car, the stuffed animal, the sunshades. Nothing

came to mind. Any of them might have been left by

one of the countless families who'd visited as far

back as his first day in the valley.

“Chingaus,” he swore aloud. “I must

remember to work on my memory, and soon, or I will

one day not find my way home because I forgot my

address.”

It was a poor joke, since no numbers

adorned the adobe and the dirt strip out front bore no

road sign. It had always just been called The Road to

the Viejito’s.

Stopping at the doorway, he considered

rolling a cigarette for the blessing required upon

entering, but it struck him as futile. Demonic spirits

inhabiting the bric-a-brac would not flee from such;

they were more powerful. Besides, once he

destroyed their hosts, their cursedness would end.



He turned to relish the cottonwood leaves

fluttering in hundreds of rhythms. The wind-generated

flickering of light through the trees reminded him of

an anthill, its tunnels lit up as drones carried out

thousands of tasks and relayed hundreds of

messages through the colony. The image tore at him,

threatening to flush his mind with snips of his life

released from their confinement. He suppressed the

nostalgic chaos, spun and entered.

A gray mist seeped out floorboard gaps,

filling in the barren room. Furnishings had

disappeared, along with the shelves' contents,

leaving only what was mounted on walls and rafters,

and the barely visible desk. His entrance disturbed

the haze, creating eddies that cleared space around

the desk. The objets d’art and objets d’otherwise

waited while he ploughed the mist.

When he stopped within arm’s reach, the

mist refilled, obscuring his view. Against the smoky

backdrop, floating in sympathy to the mist, the

waterfall pools reappeared as a glowing pantomime

of his dream. With the back of his hand he swatted

back and forth, dismissing the phantasm, and with his

other, he corralled the memorabilia, swept them onto

the lower desktop. He formed a basket with his shirt

bottom and shoveled them in. The fog dissipated,

surrendered, he thought.

Once outside he emptied his bundle through

the horno portal. “Now I need my spirits,” he

whispered jokingly. Returning to the cabin he saw the

library and furniture had been returned, along with the

years of dust and cobwebs. “They could have at least

kept the dirt.”

As he took another step, fog again flooded

the room. Tomás trod on, noticing it appeared thin,

weakened. But he only thought that until, out of the

room's furthest corner, five glistening tentacles lunged

to entrap him. Tentacles like those of an octopus, thick

as a man's thigh, covered with rough boar-like bristles

that smelled more of sewer than sea bottom. With

jagged blue talons, not suction cups.

Because of its amber body, he knew what

malevolence they belonged to--Tieholtsodi, the

dragon-like water creature of Navajo legend, of a

hundred fangs and eight-inch spikes that ran down its

spine. According to legend, it no longer threatened

humans and had never possessed tentacles. Thus,

this Tieholtsodi was an aberration.

“Hijo de su--” Tomás cursed as he drew on

enchantment, hoping to prevent the talons from

shredding more than his clothes. As he completed the

invocation--“Hasta que se acaba el mundo!”--his world

did seem about to end.

One tentacle, thicker and half again as long

as the others, lashed out, whipping around like a

maddened rattlesnake, toppling and smashing

bookcases, and shearing everything off the walls. It

drew back, slammed the old man free of the grasp of

the other tentacles, crushing him against the wall. The

smaller tentacles approached his limp body like

serpentine waves.

Tomás Chaneco Martinez might have

remained unconscious. His battered heart and

centuries-old body, worn by trials and tragedy that had

bested many others, could have relinquished their

connection to Earth, and allowed him to rejoin the



Otherworld. But the loosened arrows, tepoztopilli

spear, and other weaponry mounted to the

cottonwood vigas above chose this moment to drop.

His obsidian-tipped macquahuitl fell, cleaving loose a

chunk of his inner thigh. Tomás's scream wrenched

him conscious, while surprising and causing

Tieholtsodi to hesitate, rewarding the old man

precious seconds.

In one smooth motion the Sorcerer grabbed

the ironwood handle and leveraged himself against

the floor to rise. He launched the weapon spiraling

past the tentacles clear into the monster's mouth.

Instead of a death-scream, what clamored through

the cabin resembled the bursting of a huge man-o'-

war.

Tomás Chaneco crossed his arms to hold his

shoulders; he sighed deeply and shut his eyes.

“Another, different dragon. What will they think of

next?” Ignoring his bloodied thigh, Tomás wandered

through the dissipating fog, tripping over books and

furniture, striking his shin. “Qué pinche porquería!

Now, where is it?”

Brushing through the rubble with his feet, he

finally found an intact bottle of mezcal and small cans

of grapefruit juice. He mentally dampened his

bleeding so as not to pass out; stitching it up could

wait. “In all this untidiness, I hope I can find a needle

or fishhook and twine--something to do the job. And I

hope I can find another bottle, for anesthetic

purposes.” He bent down again to pick up a dragon's

tear left by Tieholtsodi and pocketed it.

What exited the cabin looked more like an

elderly homeless man who'd been beaten by a gang

of suburban kids sadistically venting their manhood.

What stood on the porch was sketchily clothed; with

each wind gust tatters of cloth waved like prairie

grass. This walking clump of special humanity shed

particles of caked blood and occasionally a cracked

blue talon with each of his steps. The latter he'd later

pick up, cleanse and add to his amulet.

He let out a grito into the trees, to the valley's

edge, “Ajuuua, mundo! I am still here!” and then

mumbled, “I just wonder what pobre is going to have

to clean up that mess.”

He squatted by the oven, his knees inches to

the sides of his jaws. The first swallow of alcohol

reassured him he'd reentered the Land of the Visible

and the Awake. “Sacre bleu cheese!” he exclaimed,

squinting and grimacing at the liquid's strangling of

his throat. “What were those borachos drinking when

they cooked up this batch of bliss!” He spit some into

the horno, adding blue and flare to the flames.

Photos, the stuffed bear--these quickly

ignited. Plastic, leather and rubber took longer. He

knew the iron-nickel piece that had fallen from the

sky would retain its form, since only the heat of its

birthplace could change its nature. But when the fire

was done, the meteorite would be cleansed.

The flames changed hue and intensity,

depending on what last reached flammability. Yet, he

knew the oval, green miasmas weaving through the

fire, the eyes full with colors of colliding galaxies,

would never burn. They who used the artifacts

against him were letting him know their hunt would

not end here nor today because they would go on,

using other objects, or living beings.



By the time only coals beamed

incandescently, he had nearly finished the mezcal,

the cans empty and crushed underfoot. He gestured

the bottle toward the fading heat, offering it a last

shot.

“Now, the next time you so powerful dragons

decide to engage in mischief, consider the

consequences.” He took a sip.

“It is not that I mind you watching me. I too

watch my enemies.” He tilted the bottle higher for the

last drops.

“But when you use little things like these to

bother me, I will get rid of the little things.” He

laughed, letting out a short burp, and tossed the

empty into the coals. It bounced once, teetered, but

stopped nearly upright.

“And when all the little things are gone, there

will only be you and me left. Then what will we do?”

Standing to loosen his cramped muscles--

first his arms, then chest and legs--he then headed to

the porch.

“Mrak, mrak.” He spun around. The tilted

bottle gradually lost shape, like a glass blower's

experiment gone freakish. But on the mezcal label, its

large centered letters Z and C glowed--each bearing

an emerald eye--before bursting into a fireball that

collapsed the bottle, then mushroomed three meters

up and outward, singeing the old man. His defensive

enchantment held; Tomás Chaneco never flinched.

As abruptly as it had erupted, the hell-fire expired. A

squat, lava-like mound lay where the horno had sat.

Without warning, an unusually late cloudburst

unleashed, drenching everything. No matter it couldn't

last, Tomás considered it the last small insult, so he

straightened up, defiantly, lifted his face for a bathing,

opened his palms for cleansing and his mouth to drink

of the refreshment.

Chuckling, he slipped in the mud and landed

on his butt. “Cabrones!” His hands to his cheeks, he

broke out in helpless laughter, a resigned hysteria.

“Maybe I needed a new horno, anyway.” After

managing to stand, his chuckles degenerated,

intermixed with spasms of severe hacking--a duel of

cough and laughter that dropped him again to his

knees, like a terminal smoker comically flaunting

mortality. Almost simultaneously, his laughter and the

rain stopped.

Wiping what mud he could from face and

hands, he settled on the steps, took up knife and

statue for the final touches. His thigh could wait. To

keep out mosquitoes, he reached over and slammed

the door.

A moment later he reopened it, just in case.

* * *

("Memorabilia", © 2009-2012 Rudy Ch. Garcia, first appeared in the anthology "Needles & Bones" published by

Chrysography, 2009)


musa jalil (1906 - 1944)


To a Little Bird All 'round us sand. A chain of dreary barracks,Surrounded on all sides by barbed wire.We're just like beetles delving in our dunghills.This is our lodging. This is where we're mired. An alien sun arises o'er the hilltops,I wonder why it always looks so grim?It doesn't warm, its beams do not caress us,It's just a blotch of lifeless pale chagrin… From off the field that stretches to the forestThe sound of mowing every morn is heard.But yesterday there flew into our prisonTo sing for us a kindly little bird. My dear one, you have picked the wrong enclosure,It's dangerous to come to sing in here.You've seen yourself-the heartache and the bloodshed…This camp's a vale of hopelessness and tears. Oh welcome wanderer, do answer quickly:When will you soar again into the blueTo wing your way unhampered to my country?I have a favour to request of you. In my unvanquished soul this last entreatyHas lived in hope for many, many days.My fleet-winged friend! Go, speed you to my country,To its vast fields the poet's song convey! My people will immediately know youBy your sonorous voice and spear-shaped wings.And they will say: Tis tidings of the poetFrom distant parts the feathered songstress brings. Our deadly foes have put him into shackles,But nothing that they did could break his will.Though in captivity, the poet's message,No force can manacle, no force can kill… The free-born poem of the captive poet,You, my winged one, hasten to our home.And though in foreign country I should perishMy song will live undying 'mongst my own! August 1942

(Translated by Lydia Kmetyuk)


kevin marshall chopson tennessee, usa


Interview

TM: Kevin, how do you know when poetry is your calling? Kevin Marshall Chopson: Language impressed itself upon me at an early age. I discovered that the power of language had an almost magical effect on people. At first, it was a simple realization that I had the ability to persuade my parents or my friends to allow me to have my way. I believe many, or most, poets had this same sort of experience. Then as one pays closer attention to how one strings the words together and, ultimately, how these words sound, one begins to write more deliberate “incantations,” in order to speak things into existence. Simultaneously, I believe that most poets realize that they are looking at the world a bit differently. One senses this, all of this, very early on, I think. This deeper perspective on reality and what lies beyond it, and this intense fascination with language, somehow presents itself to the poet before he or she enters the teen years.

TM: Do you have other writers or artists in your family? Kevin Marshall Chopson: No, at least not in previous generations. My wife Susan, however, is an “icing” artist. She has a bit of a reputation for being one of the best cake makers in the southeastern United States; and, she is also a fairly accomplished potter. My son, Noah, and daughter, Alexandra, have a number of interests in the arts - graffitti, photography, filmmaking, writing, acting, etc. TM: Are you happiest reading or writing? Kevin Marshall Chopson: I love to read but I must say writing pleases me more. I’m not sure if “happiest” is the right word for me, however. I have to admit that I am not a very “happy” person. The creative process is more satisfying, fulfilling, than reading, I suppose. But, both are absolutely necessary. For me, they work in tandem. TM: Who are your biggest creative influences? Kevin Marshall Chopson: Ralph Waldo Emerson, Henry David Thoreau, Rainer Maria Rilke, Annie Dillard, Adam Zagajewski, Wislawa Szymborska, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Herman Melville, Stanley Kunitz, and a fairly healthy number of philosophers, photographers, painters, and filmmakers. TM: Were you always wondering


about the issues you now wonder about? Kevin Marshall Chopson: I suppose my interests have just gotten more specific over time. As an adolescent, and throughout my teenage years, I became and remained interested in the beauty and power of nature, the transcendent power of isolation in developing the intellect, the mystical; and, I developed a compassion for those that are marginalized in society (probably because I was marginalized, at least to a certain degree …). Those interests have been with me since I was young. Now, perhaps, my perspective is just a bit more refined. TM: Whom do you picture as the ideal reader of your work? Kevin Marshall Chopson: I don’t really know. I’m a bit of a cynic, so this is a really difficult question. I connect well with students, I think, and with “regular” people. With academics, perhaps not so much, which is interesting because I consider myself an academic, at least in the traditional sense. Two great American poets, Billy Collins and Ted Kooser, have answered this question in verse. I like their answers. TM: How many evaluations does your work go through before you are satisfied with it? Kevin Marshall Chopson: I do stop reading my poems for possible revisions until they are published. That doesn’t

mean that each poem goes through a number of revisions, it simply means that with each rejection of a submitted poem, I take another look at it. In the beginning, I take a rather traditional approach: the poem is written and then it is set aside for a few weeks, then I take another look at it and see if it still does what I wanted it to do. It is rare that a poem appears in its “final” form the first time the words hit the page. It has happened with my work but it is rare. TM: Is your work process fast or slow? Kevin Marshall Chopson: Slow, I suppose. I don’t sit down with the intention of creating a brand new work. I go looking for poems. Whenever I go out into the city for an art opening or into the country for a hike, I always carry a small notebook. I sketch. I gather lines. I try to remain open to what I am seeing and record what comes to mind. Later, I will develop those ideas into a poem or a number of poems. TM: How would you describe your work? Kevin Marshall Chopson: I am primarily a lyrical poet. One who focuses on a small scene that lends itself toward some sort of unspoken revelation. I try to capture that scene in language that sounds inviting. I often compare my work to the work of a still life painter. TM: What do you hope readers will


take away from your work? Kevin Marshall Chopson: I hope they full nudged a bit, toward a greater, or perhaps simpler, truth. I hope they feel the words in their mouths as they speak them out loud. TM: Do you admire your own work? Kevin Marshall Chopson: I try to like my poems. I have to know when they seem “right.” But admiration, I suppose, is a tricky business until the power of one’s work is validated by a fair chunk of society at large. TM: You are a teacher. Do you exchange work with your students? Kevin Marshall Chopson: I share six or seven of my own poems with students every year. Almost all of those poems are poems that have been published. I believe I should only share work that has been validated by publication; when an editor of a magazine, journal, or anthology accepts your work, then it must be “good” on some level. I think it is important for my students to know that I am a “working” writer and to some degree a “successful” poet. My students have the opportunity to read their works in progress in class, whether it be my college classes or my high school classes, on a number of occassions, opening an opportunity for gentle criticism and kind suggestions. I also publish an in-school journal named Wild Honey, which gives them the opportunity for publication.

TM: What do you do to recharge your batteries? Kevin Marshall Chopson: I like going to art openings. I make a habit of attending at least a half a dozen a year. I like hiking, although I do not do as much as I used to, and I love to travel. Travel now, however, is mostly restricted to the attending of conferences. This year I will attend Tennessee’s state conference for English teachers, which is in the Great Smokey Mountains, and the national conference in Boston, Massachusetts. I am anticipating delightful and inspirational moments at both. I will be giving a presentation at the former, reading some of my poetry. I also love watching documentaries and dabbling with this art “installation” idea I’ve come up with. TM: How do you feel about the aging process? Kevin Marshall Chopson: I have to admit I am frustrated with the whole notion of aging. Coming to terms, gradually, with what life “means” is a constant struggle. It’s easy to just become distracted and focus on having “fun,” relish in the notion of having “earned it.” I am a late bloomer, however; I still feel that my best work lies ahead. I am a young, young fifty-nine. My father just passed away - he was ninety-four. My mother is eighty-four. I am relatively healthy, so I hope to be around a while. I do enjoy the idea of becoming “sage-like” but part of that is knowing that one must stay connected to contemporary times in order to stay


relevant. I grow and then shave off several beards per year. That process serves as an ongoing metaphor for how I engage “aging.” TM: In what way do you think literature has the ability to change the way people live their lives? Kevin Marshall Chopson: I know it has the power to change lives. I have seen that power in the classroom. Art, in all its forms, has that ability. My presentation in the Great Smokey Mountains this year is titled “Perhaps It Could Be Said by the Poem: How Art Could Save Our Professions, Our Students, and the World.” Literature, when “properly” presented can make us kinder, gentler, smarter, and more understanding of each other - within any given society and between societies. The problem is getting students, and people in general, to understand that that power is real. It is much more difficult today. Our world’s current obsession with technology, materialism, and superficiality makes it extraordinarily difficult for art to make an impact; but, it is possible. We must continue to present the fully developed, thoughtful, written word as something that has value far superior to the sound-bite world that most people live in. We must continue to develop and present “stories” that have the ability to make people cry, to move their hearts, and to move that spiritual aspect of their intellects. We must not allow science and mathematics to fully destroy the importance of the humanities. Literature, and all of the arts, keep us

human. TM: Can Heaven exist on earth? Kevin Marshall Chopson: I suppose not. The whole concept of Heaven implies a pure and separate place - a holy place. We can, however, experience bits of Heaven on Earth: pure and separate moments of peace and beauty that allow us to feel like we have, albeit briefly, transcended this somewhat more murky place. The creation of literature helps us to experience some of those moments, as do the experiences that inspire us to write, and, finally, as does the reading of what has been created. TM: What are you writing right now? Kevin Marshall Chopson: I am putting the finishing touches on a one-act play entitled Metaphysics: Or, The Causes of Friction. It’s a blend of poetry and drama, influenced by Dadaism and elements of the Theatre of the Absurd. I am also working on a series of political poems that are a bit more confrontational than my usual work. Kind, I hope, and beautiful, I hope; but, still, confrontational.

* * *


On the Sleeping Body of God On the sleeping body of God,we press our ears and listen for the hollowed breathing,deep and rich like a cave. We cover His chest with beads and flowersas each movement of slumber dwarfs our selfish prayers.


I Have Seen My Death Three Times I have seen my death three timesthrough the eyes of women I loved – my presence completely and fully gone. I stood before them as they prepared to meet someone new. They painted fresh colors on their cheeks and lips, wearing clothes that I had not seen before.They were more beautiful than I couldremember – childlike once again, pure, ready to feel the heat of a fresh hand. I surprised them, holding flowers. It nearly escaped my view – the casket had been prepared, the grave had been dug, and this, this was the moment that followed my death.

Eğelíme úş kere rast keldím Súygen kîskaayaklîlarîmnîñ kózíndeeğelíme úş kere rast kelípbarlîgîmnîñ bír-tamam ğok bolganîn kórdím. Olarnîñ karşîsînda turdum olar başkasî mankóríşmege ázírliyatîrganda. Betleríne-erínlerínetaze renkler súrgenler, kíygen urbalarîn şondan ewel heş kórmegen edím.Bílgenímden taa gúzel kóríne edíler –baladay, pak, taze kolnîñ sîğaklîgîn tuymaga ázír. Kolîndakî şeşeklerín sezíp şaşîrdîm.Az kaldî abaylamayğak edím – tabît ázírlengen, mezarkazîlgan, bo da eğelímníñ arkasîndan hemen kelgen an eken.



Intaglio Rusty murals on the beach, etched in sand by retreating tide. Each wave a guided blade, a wash, and stroke of pen. One long, frameless image – mindlessly carved, yet sure. Pearled grains tightly woundin lines of curves and arcs, Underfoot and boundless,shaded with western light.

Keep the Wild at Bay We try to keep the wild at bay, we try but cannot stop the truth. There it is, in the urine, in the blood, in the incessant clawing at the door, the moonlit shadow digging in the night. The enduring worm profligates at will, the blind teeth of moles canal below us. Saragossan eels portage a dam,cross brick, then slither through grass and riprap –the hunt for current that carries them home. Spiders walk inside our mouths, gently wesleep and swallow these tiny bits of krill. We try to keep the wild at bay, we try, but cannot stop the truth.


reshma pandya-bhatt maharashtra, india

“I am a home-maker from Maharashtra, India. I have studied English Literature and writing has always been a favorite. My other interests are photography, reading and painting. I have just begun writing poems and hope to continue doing so.”


Dance tonight Fly high,alright if you dont make it fine.Be free.Be light.Take your mind offand dance tonight.Lonely was your worldbut it wont be now,life is full of ups and downs. Because I will be thereto hold you tight.Be free.Be light.Take your mind offand dance tonight.

Choked It's hard to writewith no ideas in my mind.Breathing heavilyin distressalso does not help.It is loss of words.Yes.That's the hurdle.No clarity.No emotions. Just restlessness. it's hard to expressthe pain.The brain hasbecome the drain.No feelings. No words.Its choked howeverwith dullness, sadness,restlessness.


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

LETTER VII.

WHIRLPOOLS OF THE DANUBE - VETERANI CAVERN - ROMAN ANTIQUITIES - MILANOVA - PASSPORTS - MEHADIA MINERAL BATH -

EFFICACY OF THE WATERS - BEAUTY OF THE SURROUNDING COUNTRY - NEW ORSOVA - DETENTION OF THE STEAM-BOAT BY THE PACHA - VISIT TO THE PACHA - AUSTRIAN TIMIDITY - CATARACT OF THE DANUBE - PANNONIA THE FIRST STEAM-BOAT THAT PASSED IT - WILD CHARACTER OF THE

SCENERY - PRINCIPALITY OF WALLACHIA - KLADOVA - TURKISH PILOTS.

In my last letter I informed you of our

arrival at Golubacs, and I felt not a little

pleased to learn that our bark was now about

to glide through some of the most beautiful

scenery of the Danube. The mountains

increased in altitude as we advanced, and the

curves in the river formed a succession of the

most charming lakes, till we came to the

whirlpool called Tachtalia, an object of great

terror to the navigators ; and not without

some reason, for many a vessel has here sunk

to rise no more: even so lately as the year

1833, we were informed that five were

wrecked.

This danger arises from the

circumstance that the bed of the river is here

entirely formed of isolated masses of

perpendicular rocks, between which it is

necessary for the pilot to steer with great

caution, but more particularly when the water

is shallow ; for should a vessel deviate from

the right channel, it runs the risk of being

carried away by the impetuous violence of the

stream, and dashed to pieces by the foaming

surge, as it rebounds from rock to rock. The

difficulties in the navigation have, however,

been considerably lessened within these few

years, by the judicious efforts of the directors

of the steam navigation on the Danube, who

have caused the most dangerous rocks to be

blasted; so that at present the only hazard

arises from the negligence of the captain, who

may employ an inexperienced pilot.

We journeyed on through a

continuation of whirlpools, surrounded by

scenery of a similar character to that I have

already described, till we came to the cavern

Piscabora, famous for having been so bravely


defended by the gallant Austrian general, M.

Veterani, against the Turks in 1692; since

which time it bears his name. This excavation,

entirely the work of nature, is capable of

containing from six to seven hundred men,

independently of an adjoining cavern well

adapted to serve as a powder-magazine ; and

from its situation in the rocks, is not only

impregnable, but completely commands the

river. Its importance as a military position

seems to have been discovered by the

Romans, for we find the remains of an

inscription to that effect in its vicinity : indeed

we are every where reminded in the countries

near this part of the Danube, of the dominion

of the Roman empire. On the Servian side,

there are the remains of the road cut by

Trajan along the sides of the rock, now used

by the peasants as a foot-path; together with

the tablet erected to immortalize the conquest

of Dacia by the same emperor. It bears the

form of a scroll, supported by winged genii,

having on each side a dolphin, and in the

centre the Roman eagle ; but in consequence

of the barbarous custom prevalent among the

Danube boatmen, who here stop with their

vessels and kindle fires, it has been deplorably

mutilated ; so that the only portion of the

inscription now visible is the two first lines,

IMP. C/ES. D. NERV/E. FILIUS. NERVA

TRAJAIMUS. GERM. PONT. (MAX) IMUS, . . .

A few miles further, a pretty modern village,

built by Prince Milosch and called Milanova,

after his son Mila, gladdens the eye of the

traveller ; and at Alt Orsova, the last town in

Hungary, we were again obliged to remain four

hours, while the Austrian authorities affixed

their signatures to our passports, whereas a

quarter of an hour would have been amply

sufficient for the purpose. Here I lost the

society of my venerable and respected friend,

Count Esterhazy, who was proceeding to the

baths of Mehadia, one of the most amiable

and excellent men I ever travelled with, and

whose memory, even if I had no other

reasons, would be sufficient to induce me ever

to respect Hungary and the Hungarians.

(to be continued)

nazar 2013 08 online

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