Mith Will Not Make Us Morrel

Here is another fragment, as I continue to revise Bouk 6 ov The Song ov Elmallahz Kumming. These are the opening stanzas of Mith Will Not Make Us Morrel.

Warevver Elmallah ternd, thare wer throngz.
Behiend him krowdz raezd a mitee din.
Befor him thay rusht, gathereeng in a krush.
Grate lamps and torchez, shaddo and fume.

He touk a deep breth.
Hiz nostrelz bern with the aerz,
Like smoke the oxxajjen choekt him.
The werl infuezd hiz blud.

    “O how mennee ajez sins I knu Yur Prezzens?
    “How mennee jenneratenz tu retern?
    “O, louk at my werk, my eddiffis of Soel
    “Koyeld in kaos; Yur Hows, it bernz.

    “I went ammung them
    “Tu glorraffy Yur Name.
    “I passt thru thaer mist
    “Tu rowz thaer Soelz.

    “The krowdz wake up.
    “Thaer breth kwik and akrid.
    “Frum thaer dreemee deziyerz,
    “Naeshenz, thay stampeed.

    “Frum thaer dreemee vizhenz
    “Mith bekumz rellijjen.
    “Wut ar theze illuzhenz
    “Devolven frum the Trueth?

    “Wut ar theze miths?
    “Katheedralz bilt uppon them.
    “But tennamments for justis,
    “And mersee haz no hoem.”
 

Master Immij, Moelten Immij

The following poem is part of a long narrative, written as a collection of short, lyrical, semi-discontinuous image/moments. It is taken from Bouk 6 ov The Song ov Elmallahz Kumming. Bouk 6 is the story of a Jewish woman’s attempts to escape the net of European nazism during the Shoah. Altho many of the images and ideas in this 36 line poem are connected to previous scenes and images in the 5 prior books, I hope it can still be read and appreciated on its own.

This poem presented particular difficulties to me because of its technical requirements. I am trying to capture the fluid, morphic nature of thought thru the fluid, morphic semi-rhyming of the poem. In the course of arriving at this stage in the poem, I have written enough stanzas, and versions of phrases, to easily quadruple its length. In this post I am presenting only the poem, itself. In my next post I will pull back the curtain, and show some of the phases of the poem’s aural, visual, and conceptual development.

As always, your critical feedback will be of great value to me.

Master Immij, Moelten Immij
    Devowwerd.
The areyanz kame down like a woolf on the foeld,
    Like a woolf in the koeld
    Lakking trueth in thaer kode.
And thay bernd owwer bouks and thay bernd owwer marterz.
    How thay glorreed in thaer fiyer.
    How thay glowwerd and thay merderd.
This land wuz goedless and I, I dident kno it,
    And I, I shoud hav fled it,
    And now insted I feed it.

    Hu ar theze spekterz?
A long-horn ram iz lasht tu a log .
    He chaenjez tu a man,
    Chaend tu my hand.
A preest undressez me in hiz rume;
    So plezzent, I swune.
    Like a beest. Unkleen.
A temptress deklaerz, "faeth will be restord."
    Swaerz she iz an empress.
    A raeth, she faedz.

    Owtlawz stok me intu my dreemz.
My Soel haz rooten deep in this soyel;
    By degreez I abzorbd it.
    Deeplee I am soyeld.
Beests and goests rize owt ov the grownd,
    Poke at my chest,
    Kroek in my throet.
I am shatterd, a meerer, a fase in eech frag.
    Sum point and akkuze.
    Sum faent with abbuse.

    Wuended by hope.
Ar yu areyan woryerz, godless and wield?
    Yur handz ar not bluddee.
    Yur glans iz not brutish.
Torn by my oen remors and disgrase,
    I kan taest my teerz
    Az I choke on my feerz.
Yu glare like a kween and deklare az I kowwer:
    ‘Servile no mor,
    ‘Yu serven ov the Lor.'

Old caravanserai in Beysehir, Turkey

Working on a fair copy of a poem in book 6 of The Song ov Elmallahz Kumming. The poem is fairly short, 36 lines, but because of some technical complexities, it has gone thru untold numbers of revisions. I'm closing in, and will publish it here, soon, with a peek behind the surface, to some of the discarded and unrevised lines. In the meantime...

I continue to work on digitizing and restoring slides of Turkey taken in 1983 and 1986. I intend to use some of them for my ebook, Ottoman Beachcomber. Yesterday I came across this image, which allowed for some surprising results. Here's the original, a shot of a ruins of a rather grand caravanserai (pre-industrial truck stop; caravan resting place) in Beyşehir (pronounced BAY-sha-heer), a small town in south central Turkey.

There wasn't much I could do with this to enhance it while remaining true to its realism. But then again, as I see it, realism is just the surface of things. With not much effort, I found a lot of color lurking behind the surface. First this:

Which quickly revealed this:

Then this:

And then finally, taking some color away, this:

Who knew there were all those gemstones in the matrix of stone and the mortar mix? In 1983 when we first came across this site, this last picture approximates what I saw. The image prior to the last one is what I speculate Nancy saw when she clicked the shutter.