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Oh, Really
This Fresh Creation
of Works without form
Says without Starting
and Starts before Born
This has no reflection
Yet said to reflect
Then carry one's Heart
towards what to expect
Freshly creates
Where time holds in stance
Life carries Completion
The form is a Dance
At the end of each Dance
LOVE'S Spirit Remains
You Like it , just name it.
Gifts come without names
...
by John Edward Culp
December 10, 2016
Category Archives: CHAOS
Poetry from Erkin Vohidov
Erkin Vohidov
Homeland missing Do not travel to any higher place No matter how far away the shore, "Hello" he smiled One of my Uzbek cousins will surely oppose it. The morning when in Colombo we landed, For the first time, he became a propeller. Then this city is stinky and humid, It was Fergana that caught my eye. In Madoras, the translator is Uzbek They spoke the same words in eight languages. He is dressed in a white robe, He used to put ointment on the Afghan child. After rebuilding the castle of light, He crossed the Euphrates Arab room liked the sun. He grew cotton by taking water from the Nile, In the heart, Africa is strong. He appeared like Joseph in Egypt, In Yemen, it seemed to me Hotam. This is a clear feeling - no matter what One's own person is thrown into the eye like fire. Today, when I returned from a long trip In my first line I made you inevitable - Hey, you, my friends, are far from the country A belt tied to the service of the country! I know what a burden of suffering hijran is, What painful months and years to wait. I know that you miss Uzbekistan, Always awake in the depths of your eyes. It is a world within a world, One sight is a lifelong obsession. Earth's gravity is easy to overcome The love of Mother Earth cannot be separated. Stay healthy my friends, Return home safely from a distant place. I wish, never, never fate Do not separate us from Uzbekistan...
Translator: Nilufar Rukhillayeva(1st year student of the Faculty of Foreign Philology of the National University of Uzbekistan named after Mirzo Ulugbek)
Poetry from Jake Cosmos Aller (one of nine poems)
God's Confession I was sitting alone In a god-forsaken bar the Cosmos Bar in Soi Cowboy Bangkok, Thailand On the lunatic fringes of society Twenty drinks too sober In the ass end of a Friday night booze binge On the bad part of town Over by railroad tracks Heading to hell As fast as I could drank it down Enjoying my lonely drink Drinking by my lonesome self With my partners Jimmy Bean, Jack Daniels, The Walker brother Evan Williams And his old Granddad Just drinking one bourbon, one scotch, and one beer and hanging with Jack Daniel's gentlemen’s club A crazed bum With a thousand-year stare Walks up to me He begins Muttering to himself Nutty nonsense Crazy words In a lunatic's voice He had the look Of one possessed By his demons Only he can see Or hear Possessed by a secret knowledge Only he knew Despite myself I was fascinated By this lunatic's tale So I stopped him And said “Say, crazy little Dude! So what's your game, Anyway?” The short little dude Stopped his insane prattle Starting at me With that thousand-year-old stare Just another washed-up lunatic Too many drugs His mind blown away Down too many rabbit holes Too many bad nights On the wrong side of life An ACID causality From the 60s Been down so long It looks like up to him He looked at me And proclaimed his story He reared up And filled up the room And lifted the bar On his finger And stared down at me From the sky And said “Since you asked I am Allah The Alpha and Omega Ganesh Kali Jupiter Jehovah Shiva Zeus And a billion other names The real deal The original dude of dudes The Sultan of Swing God of hosts And the father of that Jesus dude But no one knows me Any more No one cares They think I am irrelevant They think I am dead They think I am a fairy tale From some olden, ancient time That my work is done I looked at him Carefully now And what did I see An old man With that lunatic look But there was something else He was crazy Sure. Yeah Out there Bat sh… looney tunes But perhaps he was the real deal I mean why not In this materialistic age Why would God not be a wandering lunatic wandering around loose Talking to low lives like me In a bar On the highway to hell So I looked at him And invited him to share His tale of cosmic woe God tells me “Well, it's like this Many a year ago People believed in me But one day They quit believing in me they moved on And they went on without me As they left me My powers got weaker and weaker And so eventually I became What you see today A broken-down drunk Hanging out Looking for a handout Looking for some company Or at least a free dinner” And he laughed and laughed And I looked at him And saw the beginnings of the end And the ends of the beginnings I saw a million planets Flash by Trillions of people Thinking all at once Thoughts filled my head Lights flashed And I knew He was telling the truth But it did not matter In this day and age Of materialism God has no role God is truly dead And so I bought him a drink And walked out of the bar still twenty drinks too sober Profoundly saddened From what I had seen God was dead And we had all conspired To kill him Long live God
Christopher Bernard reviews Cal Performances’ Blank Out, an opera by Michel van der Aa
The Trauma of Memory
Blank Out
Cal Performances
Berkeley
How many of us have ever been caught in a lie? Or caught others in a lie? Or caught ourselves in a lie – to ourselves?
It’s likely few can say, to any of these questions, “Not me. No. Not ever.”
Though when it comes to a trauma – an accident, a crime, a moment of misjudgment with catastrophic consequences – there may be many who adamantly assert, “No! Not me! Not ever!”
Blank Out, a compelling chamber opera by the Dutch composer Michel van der Aa, who conceived, directed and developed its libretto, probed these and related matters in a violently imaginative way – enigmatic at first, sometimes mystifying, but in the end deeply moving – at a performance I saw at UC Berkeley’s Zellerbach Hall on a recent April evening.
A work that addresses the psyche’s dialectics of reality and denial in the aftermath of loss, it bracingly incorporates film, music and live action to examine the darker corners of authenticity. In the opening act of what amounts to a three-act drama played without pause, a beautiful young woman (played by Sweden’s celebrated Mozart soprano Miah Persson) takes the stage to sing, in fragments of sometimes surreal verse, of an event long ago at her seaside home – an event she must relive over and again, without end or resolution, in which her young son disobeyed her orders not to go out further in the water than “up to his belly button,” and drowned.
A screen projects at first one, then two images of her as she sings in duet, then in trio with herself. She unwinds a bit of narrow cloth from a spool. She walks to a table at the edge of the stage and manipulates a dollhouse-sized cottage and a fragment of its neighborhood in front of a camera. The image abruptly appears onscreen and she walks and sings before it, creating a curiously uncanny sensation, seeing her blur and blend in with the toy home; memory, fantasy, childhood dream and present-day illusion, enwrapped in a single embodiment.
But there is something off; this is not just an elegy for a lost child, though at one point the woman stops singing and speaks directly to the audience. The lovingly infatuated young mother describes the special joys and oddities of her boy – his games, his little dramas and comedies, his pretending his beach blanket was a flying carpet held to earth by little piles of stones at its corners – with a transparent pleasure that seems to preclude mourning or lament. The lack of tears is both moving and strange. She describes their last evening together, when the television set caught fire and while it was being repaired, they drove in their VW beetle to a nearby eatery for a pizza (his very first).
The screen begins fluctuating between images of the dollhouse cottage and of the real home it is based on, isolated at the far edge of a field and toward which the camera moves as on an angel’s-eye drone. The woman becomes increasingly abstract as images of the boy are seen distantly, just visible turning a corner of the house, when the camera cuts to a close up and the “boy” suddenly dominates the screen – no boy now but a middle-aged man.
The screen projection changes with equal drama: the 3D goggles I was given in the lobby now prove their worth as the film goes three-dimensional, and a dialectical drama between stage and screen – the screen seeming to become an extension of the stage, the stage an extension of the screen – incorporates the drama we are seeing: two fantasies become two realities, two realities two wishful dreams.
The boy’s dream is of what might have been against the overwhelming guilt of reality on that day decades ago: it was not the boy who drowned, but his mother who drowned saving him.
The second act is commanded by the exceptional singing of Roderick Williams as he enacts a dream of loss and remembrance while his young mother fades in and out, sometimes one, sometimes multiple, always alone, on the stage infinitely far away from him: the screen is a wall between them, built of reality and fantasy, of light and stones. He becomes the young boy, playing his carefree games, teasing his mother, tossing melodies back and forth with her, then in anguish remembering his one misstep that led to a loss that cannot be repealed.
The third act is a transcendent blending of the 3D film, the stage, the dollhouse cottage, the actual home and its memories, the music (now combining a chorus with the continuing sampler and electronic accompaniments to the singing), and even the VW beetle, symbol, or perhaps a better word is incarnation of the insouciant joys and silliness of childhood, the happy discovery of pizza, the nightly child’s baths, the boy’s favorite game of jumping from chair to chair in the living room (because touching the “lava-covered” floor would mean instant death), the funny episode with the hot pebbles he once swallowed because he wanted to “taste their heat,” the endless non-tragedies, the exuberant follies, and the one endless tragedy that ended childhood in a rage of flying stones and wrecked car and a storm of autumn leaves and blinding light beneath the silence of the sea.
The choral additions were sung by the Nederlands Kamerkoor. The libretto includes fragments from the writings of the South African poet Ingrid Jonker, who died young of suicide.
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Christopher Bernard is a co-editor and founder of Caveat Lector. He is also a novelist, poet and critic as well as essayist. His books include the novels A Spy in the Ruins, Voyage to a Phantom City, and Meditations on Love and Catastrophe at The Liars’ Café, and the poetry collections Chien Lunatique, The Rose Shipwreck, and the award-winning The Socialist’s Garden of Verses, as well as collections of short fiction In the American Night and Dangerous Stories for Boys. His children’s stories If You Ride a Crooked Trolley . . . and The Judgment of Biestia, the opening stories of the Otherwise series, will be published later in 2023.
Essay from Mamatkasimova Sitora
From one street of my life paths... I remember...My childhood began in a beautiful place called Mirzaabad and still continues in the warm embrace of this place. When I was young, I remember waiting for my mother's hot loaves in the oven to be ready... I have loved books since I was young. And this light led me to the "Knowledge Competition" held earlier at school. Because I fell in love with the book, I became the absolute winner of the republican stage of this competition. It is not surprising that the feeling of interest in creativity awakened in my heart even then. I still remember the first poem I wrote in my school days: Hello, my daughter-in-law is Spring I miss you so much I was waiting for you to come You are a beautiful garden. Here, you entered my beautiful nature Spreading the scent of flowers to the green world, Now don't go to other countries Your daughter Sitora will miss you. It's true, maybe this poem, which came out of my young heart at that time, has no rhyme, no meaning, but it was the first melody of a young heart... Years have passed since then. The golden pages of the book invited me to Gulistan State University. I remember my high school years... When I was preparing for Oliykhoh, I read books under an umbrella despite the snowflakes and raindrops falling. Perhaps, because of these hardships, I have achieved the happiness of being a student... I would like to thank life and fate for these great rewards. I bow down a thousand times to my parents who stood by me and supported me in my bold steps. I still have high hopes for life. Praise be to my God who created me... I am thankful that my life is beautiful and bright... Currently, I am teaching and educating young people at school 34, Boyovut district. When I see hope for life and confidence in the future in young souls, my interest in life increases. The high status of "MASTER" coming from their tongues makes me hope to live yet. Maybe my life is beautiful with such memorable moments...
Essay by Yodgorova Billurabonu Shuhrat
The essence and development of translation between the 19th and the 20th centuries.
Communication is the basis for human societies. Contact between communities is the basis for translation. Whether by conflict or cooperation, translation has been involved in the evolution of societies and it has evolved with them. Translation has an effect on the relationships between peoples, between people and power and between power and people. Translation has been instrumental in the formation of writing and literary culture in every European language (‘European’ here refers to more than the geographical area of Europe, as defined today). Indeed, the history of international contact and cultural development, within and beyond Europe, can be traced by noting the routes of translation.
Translation is still of the utmost importance in the affairs of a world that has gone through the rapid technological development called modernization, which furthermore has enhanced international relations to the point where people feel they can legitimately talk of ‘globalization’. While this development is far from having reached all parts of the world in equal measure, it is true that science, media, entertainment, commerce, and the many forms of international relations embrace the globe so extensively now, that translation becomes an almost overwhelming issue, indeed a ‘problem’ (the notion of the ‘problem of translation’ has a long and colourful history). Many see a possible solution in the adoption of a single global language, and it seems that English is well on its way to taking on this international role, as Latin did in the very different circumstances of the Late Middle Ages and Renaissance.
The history of translation theory can in fact be imagined as a set of changing relationships between the relative autonomy of the translated text, or the translator’s actions, and two other concepts: equivalence and function. Equivalence has been understood as “accuracy,” “adequacy,” “correctness,” “correspondence,” “fidelity,” or “identity”; it is a variable notion how the translation is connected to the foreign text. Function has been understood as the potentiality of the translated text to release diverse effects, beginning with the communication of information and the production of a response comparable to the one produced by the foreign text in its own culture. Yet the effects of translation are also social, and they have been harnessed to cultural, economic, and political agendas: evangelical programs, commercial ventures, and colonial projects, as well as the development of languages, national literatures, and avant-garde literary movements. Function is a variable notion of how the translated text is connected to the receiving language and culture. In some periods, such as the 1960s and 1970s, the autonomy of translation is limited by the dominance of thinking about equivalence, and functionalism becomes a solution to a theoretical impasse; in other periods, such as the 1980s and 1990s, autonomy is limited by the dominance of functionalisms, and equivalence is rethought to embrace what were previously treated as shifts or deviations from the foreign text.
The increasingly interdisciplinary nature of translation studies has multiplied theories of translation. A shared interest in a topic, however, is no guarantee that what is acceptable as a theory in one field or approach will satisfy the conceptual requirements of a theory in others. In the West, from antiquity to the late nineteenth century, theoretical statements about translation fell into traditionally defined areas of thinking about language and culture: literary theory and criticism, rhetoric, grammar, philosophy. And the most frequently cited theorists comprised a fairly limited group. One such catalogue might include: Cicero, Horace, Quintilian, Augustine, Jerome, Dryden, Goethe, Schleiermacher, Arnold, Nietzsche. Twentieth-century translation theory reveals a much expanded range of fields and approaches reflecting the differentiation of modern culture: not only varieties of linguistics, literary criticism, philosophical speculation, and cultural theory, but experimental studies and anthropological fieldwork, as well as translator training and translation practice.
Any account of theoretical concepts and trends must acknowledge the disciplinary sites in which they emerged in order to understand and evaluate them. At the same time, it is possible to locate recurrent themes and celebrated topoi, if not broad areas of agreement. The Latin poet Horace asserted in his Ars Poetica (c. 10 BC) that the poet who resorts to translation should avoid a certain operation—namely, word-for-word rendering—in order to write distinctive poetry. Here the function of translating is to construct poetic authorship. In a lecture entitled “On the Different Methods of Translating” (1813). Moreover, Louis Kelly has argued that a “complete” theory of translation “has three components: specification of function and goal; description and analysis of operations; and critical comment on relationships between goal and operations” (Kelly 1979:1). Kelly is careful to observe that throughout history theorists have tended to emphasize one of these components at the expense of others. The component that receives the greatest emphasis, I would add, often devolves into a recommendation or prescription for good translating.
It would be interesting to note that translation theory during this period are rooted in German literary and philosophical traditions, in Romanticism, hermeneutics, and existential phenomenology. They assume that language is not so much communicative as constitutive in its representation of thought and reality, and so translation is seen as an interpretation which necessarily reconstitutes and transforms the foreign text. Nineteenth-century theorists and practitioners like Friedrich Schleiermacher and Wilhelm von Humboldt treated translation as a creative force in which specific translation strategies might serve a variety of cultural and social functions, building languages, literatures, and nations. At the start of the twentieth century, these ideas are rethought from the vantage point of modernist movements which prize experiments with literary form as a way of revitalizing culture. Translation is a focus of theoretical speculation and formal innovation.
In conclusion of this scientific research, the main essence of translation process helped to develop that sphere faster and more efficiently during XIX and XXʼs centuries, which nowadays with the contribution of that works, the field of translation is much more improved.
Author: Yodgorova Billurabonu Shuhrat qizi
Student of BukhSU Foreign languages Faculty.
Poem from Lindsey White
Anyone Hungry? Mom pushes herself away from the table with a loud squeak from the chair legs. My body slumps, full from a satisfying meal. I don’t feel like speaking tonight. My mind is already clouded, but I listen to mom, always loud and dramatic. Dad’s breathy laugh drifts through the kitchen as my sister finishes her story, and the hum of the heater turns to warm us all. “Dessert?”, Mom offers, walking back with her homemade peanut butter pie. I can hear Dad smile without looking at his face. Peanut butter pie is his favorite. My mother sits in front of me, closer to the heater, a woman who is always cold no matter the season. She makes a comment about my sister. The word “selfish” slices the air, a knife sharper than what she used to cut our roast beef. Tension rises with the heat in the kitchen. Their voices clash against the ceiling. Dad, complacent to conflict, puts his hands up in a T as if he is a referee. “Time-out, time-out”, he says. I stare at the bottom of the heater. No one hears him. My sister's voice starts to shake. Focus on the hum of the heater. Focus on the floor. Sparks sneak out the edge of the black box. My heart quickens its beating. No one notices a thing, but I see a spark touch the wood floor, see it grow into a flame, stretch its vengeful fingers towards my mom's chair. She screams. I don’t think. The cord is right next to me, so I reach. The hum of the heater stops its singing, and I am left to stare at the black hole tattooed on our kitchen floor.