Readings Recorded: Robert Okaji at Malvern Books in Austin TX

Links to Robert Okaji’s reading courtesy of Jeff Schwaner.

Jeff Schwaner's avatarTranslations from the English

If only Len had stopped by on his way from Turkey to pick me up in his private jet, I might have made it out to this reading in Austin a few days ago. Luckily, the poet was recorded sharing his work with a responsive crowd. There are too many great lines and great poems squeezed into fifteen minutes for me to quote, but there is talk of snail sex, love darts, spreadsheets, rain forest bridges, wind, trust, love, and the moon. Thanks to all the folks at Malvern Books who I will never meet for recording the reading and posting it here. Robert’s own website, O at the Edges, is also well worth traveling to. Enjoy!

View original post

from Son of the Morning Star: Custer and the Little Bighorn by Evan S. Connell: burying the dead

While responding to a number of questions posed by Colonel W.A. Graham, Godfrey described his first visit to the Custer battlefield. He seems to have been startled by the colors: “The marble white bodies, the somber brown of the dead horses. . .tufts of reddish brown grass on the almost ashy white soil. . .” He observed that from a distance the stripped men resembled white boulders, and he heard West exclaim: “Oh, how white they look! How white!”

More than two hundred bodies and about seventy animal carcasses had been exposed to the June sun for two or three days when burial parties went to work. Pvts. Berry and Slaper remember being assigned to this duty on the twenty-seventh, Varnum went to work on the twenty-eighth, and there are reports of burials on the twenty-ninth. Soldiers detailed to hide the remains were overcome by nausea, vomiting and retching while they tried to dig graves, so the business was simplified. Bodies thought to be those of officers were nudged into shallow trenches. Each officer’s name was written on a slip of paper which was inserted into an empty cartridge and the cartridge was hammered into the top of a stake or a length of lodge pole set beside the trench.

Those thought to be enlisted men were hastily concealed beneath sagebrush or a few shovels of dirt. Some attempt was made to identify them though not much. Few could be recognized. Very often the features were distorted by fright or anguish.

from Son of the Morning Star: Custer and the Little Bighorn by Evan S. Connell: on the difficulty of translating Native American names

Oglala is difficult to translate. There was a derogatory gesture among these people–flicking the fingers–which might be likened to throwing dirt, and long ago when they resolved to separate from their Brule relatives the Oglalas expressed their feelings with this gesture. According to Hyde, “we have always known that the name Oglala means scattered, divided.” He thinks it could have originated during the eighteenth century when the Oglalas attempted, like the Minconjoux, to raise crops and were therefore spoken of contemptuously as dust-scatterers. Which is to say, somebody was finger-flicking the Oglalas, not vice-versa. Maybe everybody did it, just as today a certain insulting gesture is commonplace. But the word might have meant wanderer, and because on one government treaty it has been spelled O’Gallalla there are those who suspect these Indians must be Irish.

A City and He Himself by Güven Turan

To dream of the sea
Even when looking at the sea
This is what he has long been doing
And imagining he is in a city
With trams along its streets
On yellow cut-stone edifices
Darkening iron balconies
The sound of pigeons
Pigeon droppings on the windows
But these are dreams
Neither opposite him nor
Anywhere

translated by Suat Karantay

On This Road by Ferit Edgü

The road’s asphalt
The sea so smooth
Soon, much too soon the day is done

The forest’s dry
Is the water ice
So that we
All of us, all of us have been deceived

The mountain’s steep
The road’s a threat
The sea so rough
How many how many how many
Have gone astray on these roads

translated by Jean Carpenter Efe

YOU’RE by Nazım Hikmet

You’re my bondage and my freedom
my flesh burning like a naked summer night,
you’re my country.

Hazel eyes marbled green,
you’re awesome, beautiful, and brave,
you’re my desire always just out of reach.

translated by Randy Blasing & Mutlu Konuk