clarahsu – Page 28

The Artist Way

Writers workshops, conferences, editorial services…there are definitely enough activities out there to help a writer write, network, get onto a “platform” and published. The road to success is attainable. Maps and guidebooks are available for purchase. Attending a writers conference is like visiting a place of hope, where you can learn what’s hot in the industry, how to write a best seller and turn it into a money-making series, how to “connect” with fans and keep them, etc. The glory to be the next discovered talent is just a snap of the fingers away.

But the way of the artist goes on a different paradigm. The urge to create supersedes fame, recognition and money. Attractive and perhaps necessary as these elements are, they cannot replace the continuous need to explore, break through, find the voice within the voice that is the artist’s job.

They say today’s artists have to do everything to make it happen. It may very well be the case. Turning artists into businessmen, the world may not understand that artists are best when they are left to do what they do. But as artists, we must not forget.

By A Pondering Pond

Evening. Walking up a steep flight of steps, I found myself looking down at the old city of Mardin (Turkey). Behind me was an immense building structure made of stones. An iron gate was left open at an entrance—an invitation—and I entered its courtyard. A large pond was in the middle, fed by a fountain at the far end of a wall. The trickling water sound lured me and I was able to enjoy a moment of solitude before a guard caught my presence, stepped out of the shadow. We couldn’t speak to each other, but he led me to Mehmet Bayram, a young man who was working on the computer in a room, and he spoke a little English.

“Come back tomorrow and meet my uncle. He will be happy to tell you about this place.”

I had inadvertently wandered into the Zinciriye Medresesi. Built in 1385, it was now used as a school for Kurdish, Aramaic and Arabic language studies. The uncle, Yıldırım, worked at the school and spoke seven languages.

“Do you know the significance of water in a building?” He asked, but eager to give me the answer. “There are three. First, it is a natural sound barrier, like the one that you see, separating one classroom from another. Second, it is soothing to the nerves. Third, if you want to tell a secret, best to do it next to a waterfall so no one may eavesdrop on you.”

Mehmet showed me a photo of himself taken at the pond. The subject and its reflection—which is real and which is illusion?

Chemically Challenged

If someone said to me when I was young: “Nosebleed is caused by a chemical imbalance in your body .” I might have appreciated chemistry as a subject more. Instead, studying symbols and formulas bored me. Now that I’m at an age when the body starts breaking down, I realize it is all chemistry and I have to become my own chemist in order to keep myself healthy.

A cup of coffee a day seems a mild indulgence. But that cup of coffee proved detrimental when I started experiencing palpitations. Why did it turn on me at midlife? I stopped drinking coffee entirely but whenever I smelled the rich aroma my nose would twitch like a mouse’s.

Maybe it is stress, and stress causes the body to react chemically. Vacationing in Turkey recently, I had the espresso-like Turkish coffee and their “American” Nescafe almost every day. Palpitation was a thought in my mind but it never happened. What does it say about this body of fluid? Maybe it was the combination with the nargile (water pipe) that balanced my yin and yang!

Khubs, Tea, And The Sahara Omelet

Bari came to dinner on his motorbike. Helmet, jacket, and his signature black turban that he wrapped around his neck. From an already breaking paper bag he pulled out one item after another: tea pot, jars of spices, a tin can of sugar, mint, coriander, tomatoes, eggs and Moroccan bread (khubs).

“I’m making mint tea and omelet.” He announced.

“My father thinks he is diabetic,” I told Bari. “I don’t think he’ll go for the tea. As for the bread, it’s too hard on his teeth. I think the only thing he can eat is the omelet, but don’t make it too spicy.”

Celebrating Thanksgiving with a ninety-year-old man, everything had to be soft.

But when Father saw the bright green mint stuffed in a cup he became curious. And the bread, which I toasted in the oven, came out hot and crispy on the outside. He smacked his lips as he tasted the mint tea. “Sugar!” He smiled, and drank heartily.

The omelet reminded me of the Sahara (where Bari came from) with sand (cumin and ras el-hanout) and stones (green peas and tomatoes) and the large sun (the eggs, scrambled and cooked with lots of liquid).

Toward the end of the meal, Father figured out how to eat the khubs too, dipping the bread into the mint tea to soften it. Now he was satisfied.

“Bari, you are a good cook.”

Bari smiled. He loved my father.

Sacred Food Drive

The room was once again warm and stuffy. Poets were reading to the theme of food. Joan Gelfand, poet and activist, brought in a large mailing envelope to collect money for the San Francisco Food Bank. Some of us brought packaged food. People kept coming in to listen. Dan Brady, our hosts, counted over seventy people in the cafe at one point.

How much was Joan able to collect? Was it a successful evening? In the bigger picture it is never enough. Corporations have been cutting back with their contributions and I think San Francisco is just shy of being qualified for federal funding. But in a small way we have actively participated in raising the consciousness of helping the needy, put some money down, give some food away. Miracles happen when we stir the cosmic soup and we walk away knowing that some way some how things will change for the better.

Dance Of The Galliformes

Early morning. Rain was just beginning to come down. I saw them, in their magnificent feathered coats, standing in front of a still closed business office as if waiting to get in. This was El Sobrante, suburb, a shopping center parking lot. We came here to drop off our cats at the Vet. We didn’t expect to see a performance of the most magical kind.

“What are they?” Dore asked in a whisper. Blue eye-shadowed and scarlet faced, their long necks gracefully curved, their blue-black wings gently stretched as they stepped delicately and silently.

“Wild turkeys.” I whispered back.

Beyond the parking lot was a stretch of woods. A low wall stood between them. After several rounds of whirling on the concrete “stage” they began to climb the wall. Some made a leap and got on to the top easily. Some needed help, and we could hear soft cries of the birds as they encouraged and heaved their mates up and over.

When at last the dancers left, Dore looked at me. His eyes were glazed and his face emotional.

“I’ll never eat another turkey in my life.” He said.

Stone Bridge and Castle Ruin

The water ran shallow, winding idyllically down the canyon. It was difficult to imagine this area of Hansankeyf would be flooded in the next three years—project dam. Two gigantic stumps, remnants of an ancient bridge, stood at a distance upstream. I walked down to the edge of the water and stood next to the Tigris River.

Residents of the area drew water from the river using rubber hoses. Chickens ran about and children picked up whatever in the sand and played with them. Some boys came over to us, exuberant in their hellos. “Bon bon, bon bon,” they cried. Oh their teeth were black like old men’s.

A castle ruin sat atop the hill. At the summit was a cemetery of dried winter grass and weathered tombstones. A mosque stood at a distance. They would witness the disappearance of the present landscape, hundreds of cave dwellings, the villages, and the construction of the dam. The saga of new replacing old in brisk pace—by men instead of nature.

Photos by Dore Steinberg.

The Steps Of Mardin

We walked, under the nearly full moon, down the ancient stone steps. The old city of Mardin was vibrant with small shops selling vegetables, soaps, clothing and sundries. The sound of rolling metal shutters followed us. It was early evening. The shops were closing, and with them, out went the lights. But the moon was high and the sky was clear. A minaret was shining like a bejeweled tower. Here and there a glow from someone’s window guided us. For centuries people continued to live in these stone-cut dwellings and cats scaled the walls like flying ninjas.

Mardin was a city overlooking the plains of Mesopotamia. Built on the side of the mountain, the city had one narrow main street. In recent years, it was “discovered” and is becoming a tourist spot.

We spent the evening at the Karmer cafe, ran by a women cooperative. A group of young men were playing music—guitar, baglama and a tambourine. They sang, song after song, with laughter and lots of smoking in between. I was moved to write, listening to their music. Time was forgotten. When I finally looked up, it was close to midnight. The music was still going. But when I started to put my coat on, they stopped. Maybe we were each other’s muse. I wouldn’t know for sure.

Photos by Dore Steinberg

The Dengbej of Diyarbakır

Daylight was quickly fading at 3:30 in the afternoon. I hurried, trying to catch up with Dore and Musefa, a Kurd we met at the courtyard of the famous Olu Camii Mosque in Diyarbakır. When we told Musefa we wanted to go to the Dengbej house, he gladly took the lead.

“We have to be quick.” Musefa kept looking at his watch. “The Dengbejs have been singing since morning and they may not stay at the house for very long.” We trod down one alley after another, cobble-stoned streets and high walls on both sides . Soon I lost sight of the men’s back. A young woman appeared beside me. “Dengbej?” She smiled. I nodded. She walked with me to the next corner and pointed to her left.

The Dengbej house was a traditional building with a courtyard. A few old men were leaving as we entered. Musefa spoke to them and they greeted us with a dignified nod, and walked back with us into a room lined with chairs. The Dengbejs sat down. One began to sing.

He was telling a story in verse. Along with his recitative, his high tenor voice often dwelled on a pulsated note, and each verse ended with an abrupt sigh. He was Pavarotti in a command performance. In his hand was a string of prayer beads he fingered as he sang. When he finished he shook our hands and left.

Another old man began to sing. His voice was low and husky and his pulsating notes were more tremulous. As he sang there was a twinkle in his eye and his facial expressions were that of ironic resignation. I found myself laughing despite the fact that I didn’t understand a word. Musefa later explained that it was a story of unrequited love.

After the performances we went outside. A few of the Dengbejs were still hanging out at the courtyard. One of them came up to me.

“Chine?”

“Evet.”

He started talking to Musefa excitedly. I heard the word “helicopter” several times. When he finished he wanted Musefa to translate.

“He said the English word “helicopter” came from the Kurdish language. “Heli” is bird…”

Their oral tradition has few to pass on. The Dengbejs come together daily to pass time, singing to each other. They will carry their music to their graves. But perhaps the Dengbejs will ride a helicopter to heaven, where all the angels may gather for a feast of song-story.

Photos by Dore Steinberg

Foley’s Books Review

Many years ago at a workshop I was asked to describe who I am. I thought it was easy, as I had considered myself a musician and a lover of music. But when I wrote the word “music” down it just wasn’t right. There was no excitement or energy in my claim. Genuinely puzzled, I stayed up all night, thinking; and when I could barely open my eyes one word slipped into my mind: “adventure”. Then, another: “unpredictable”. These words aroused in me a strange kind of exhilaration and I realized who I am was not what I do and love, but my nature.

I met Jack Foley at John Rhodes’ SF Poetry TV show. When he showed an interest in my work we quickly became friends. Jack with his inexhaustible knowledge guided me into the jungle of possibilities to explore the self, the mind and its multiplicity.

As I write this, yesterday has turned into today. I want to remember this date: November 18, 2011. It was significant in my poetic journey because Jack has written a commentary about my book of short stories (Babouche Impromptu) and some recent poems. It was posted on Alsop Review. I have re-posted the piece on this blog under “Reviews”. It is the first significant commentary of my work written by a critic who understands where I’m coming from, and leaves the door open to where I’m going.

Photo by Koichiro Yamauchi.