in exile

+in exile: a departure +ianlennartsurraville

Saturday, January 12, 13

2


T. E. Lawrence, Seven Pillars of Wisdom

DEDICATION

To S.A.

I loved you, so I drew these tides of men into my hands and wrote my will across the sky in stars

To earn you Freedom, the seven pillared worthy house, that your eyes might be shining for me

When we came.

Death seemed my servant on the road, till we were near and saw you waiting:

When you smiled, and in sorrowful envy he outran me and took you apart:

Into his quietness.

Love, the way-weary, groped to your body, our brief wage ours for the moment

Before earth's soft hand explored your shape, and the blindworms grew fat upon

Your substance.

Men prayed me that I set our work, the inviolate house, as a memory of you.

But for fit monument I shattered it, unfinished: and now The little things creep out to patch themselves hovels

in the marred shadowOf your gift.

so these tides of menacross the sky

To earn Freedomeyes shining

came.

Death

smiled in sorrowful envy

quiet

the momentBefore the blind

Men prayeda memory of

shattered , unfinished little things

in the marred shadow

+dedication

3


+third of May 1808, El tres de mayo de 1808 en Madrid, by Francisco José de Goya y Lucientes (1746 - 1828)


oui …

I just wonderhow long it would takefor me to clean this crimson stain on my soil,

wiping and scrubbing on my knees maddeningly, ferociouslywith my hands, my feet,and perhaps with my face and my tongue, as well,

until every piece of this bewildering frailty is being scraped, carved out.

arrêtez, s’il vous plaît.

I am not done yet. not untilthe very last stain.

let all the estrellas of Madrid fall tonight

and leave my Spanish night sky to silence.

+estrellas of Madrid

estrellas.

all the stars in the skyare falling in Bonaparte’s bosom,

les couleurs blindedla Marseillaise deafened.

tonight,all that glisters is no longer star1 in Madrid.

all the flickering, twinkling pairs of estrellaspiled and bunchedinto a flourishing crimson swirl, and one faint thought:whose madness am I subscribing to under this starless Spanish night sky?

and whymust one protest forthe validity of his existence standing under his own sky?

first, Mamelukes’ absurd blades and now, blind French muzzles.

would you please wipe clean the blood you spilled on the groundbefore you die?

5

1 “All that glisters is not gold.” Cervantes, Miguel de. Don Quixote, Part II, XXXIII.


6


“ lopsided; no one would understand immediately.” Sembat, Marcel

(and who asks for an under!anding here?)

i thought of killing myself 64 times today. i counted every measure of its weight. and in each dwelling, i remembered you and e. the notion of be

c

it became an unfinished letter.

a phone call.and i could write no more. routines suffocate me.my mind begins its numbing cluttering.you seem millions miles away and i just want tostrip every single word from this page naked.and plunge into the Mediterranean.perhaps then i would hear her voicemuffled and distanced

--justifiably.i need a new blank page.

my pen labors with a collaborationof many dots, lines etching mad at its tip.

a repetition that neither adds nor dilutes.a memory, already not present.

unattached.

at the end of a riv.

the sea begins, she,

where the river ends

no.

sea takes in

when river ends.

my feet could notpersuaded to tell

difference betweentwo as

my eyes

could.

perhpas the most

thing: being without ey.

you no longer see. you only r

a few.

blindness could

be a choice.

i’d rather die all the deaths of the world than bei ng remembered like that. an exhale of meaningl ess breath, spewing out my name carved dead o n the face of stone. god granted me no compass ion of dying a quiet. unknown, death.

it was an inevitable conversion. what once preoccupied the mi nd no longer held its meaning before all the deteriorating asp ects of the reality.di"osition.what was so hard about letting go often was the fact you knew that you would solely miss wha t you were letting go now in th

e most recent future. [:]no apparent or plausible return in sight.

that’s a torture.

in that incident of torturous be ginning of a journey, you have no definite end in sight in which you would find relief.

everything had a measured exi stence.

and my dizziness lasted exactly

5 minutes and 52 seconds. and

returned exactly

6 seconds later.

ing here is much stronger than my imagination allowed my courage to be here. it was a ridiculous journey.

home was never for mind’s quietness. a complete opposite, rather. my journey only took 15 minutes until i reached the quietest hell in my sight.

#$ semblance of my gaze ... back at me.i am consumed by the desire that measures the distance of one’s validity only aside from it own being, catering an indespensable calamity one’s own choosing --or not choosing--could no longer render any diffece in the outcome. isn’t that how madness earns its title? or at least, the sense of

such? [.]

who punishes your god?he who answers my questions in silence.

he who silences my answers to questions.[?]

rather beingcould be mor

convenientbeing on a con

stant quest toawaken to

.

while being res a complet

transformaon the part of

seeker,

being not con ends as soonlong as

the mere sense acc

t is to be

perceived--

or not the acy is at

tained is a secy and far less

nificant matt .

evening light smears through

a small window in the room[.]a portion is clawed through the rough hewn stone walledging an intermittent line of window sill.

a portion is diluted by a sheer

linen curtain strewn carelessly[,]

awashing what filters through

with a sense of resignation[,]

shadowing its hem’s uneasy rest over the window panel.

and when all the light’s reflections and shadows’ entitiescomingle in an awkward

entanglement on the ashen floor[,]no collaboration of words could depictwhat just laid itself there.

that’s where her mind halted its movement.

chaos -- my utter incomprehension.chaos–y%.

*

**

* Piano Sonata No. 4, E flat major, Op. 7. Beethoven, Ludwig van.** Une vue de Notre-Dame (View of Notre-Dame), 1914. Matisse, Henri.

omposition in #e marginfor b.a.

what &ver dispo

ssesses.

unkno)by whom?

[...]

[ ]

much more an

$

no *fference of h$

what are y% asking #at he does not answer?

ian surraville

being not–

[.]

in where


+king Saul Falling on his Sword, Chagall, Marc (1887 - 1985)

8


now swung and buried deep as my master’s strength could muster his end’s end to its finality,i know I will not move. many layers have I crossed, countless mass

penetrated.

at each pause of one’s last sigh destined for an unforeseen rest

brief,

i trembled an eternity unfolded.

one just does not die alone .

eternity is now mine to ponder. may no one unworthy touch and disturb my end’s rest.

speak to me not

of the distinction between the breaking dawn and the fading darknessfor it isnever for your rhetoric.

the thin air of day’s earliest light can no longer bear such perverse words of yourvanity, your shallow tongue.

for the sake of my beloved and my god,i will stand here firmuntil my last breath of freedom expires in eternity.buti will never, never, never...

move.

such insolence,such fruitless endeavors.

your world?

All your blood-thirsty wars.All the angry faces of your god--

i have no need for your god.

the residue of your passing decays in my breath, fuming madnessof your mindin every utterance.

and no matter how much i stive to dwell on this barren land alone,

my solitude

is simply insufficient to restorea sense within.

the burial of words, it is.

look at me not, i plead.

you who fearyour own perishing, let the price of disillusionmentof the paradiseyou yourself dare not step into be of your ownundertaking.

i will face my enemies with fear and reverence, but I will not move. true, he may be stronger in arms,more abundant in resources, sharper in wisdom,superior in counsels, vast in number, mightier in weapons, but I will not move.

+sword

9


10“night a!er night, summer and winter, "e torment of #orms, $ arrow-

like #illness of fine wea"er, held "eir c'( wi"'t interferenc)

l*tening (had "ere been

any one to l*ten) from $ u+er rooms of "e empty h'se only gigantic

chaos #reaked wi" lightning c'ld have been heard tumbling and

tossing, as "e winds and waves -.o(ed "emselves like "e amorph's

bulks of levia"ans whose brows are pierced by no light of reason, and

m'nted one on top of ano"er, and lun0d and plunged in "e darkness

or "e daylight (for night and day, mon" and year ran 1apelessly

to0"er) an i-ot games, until it seemed as if "e universe were ba2ling

and tumbling, in brute confusion and wanton lu# aim- lessly by itself.

“in .3ng "e garden urns, casually filled wi"

wind-blown plants, were gay as ever. violets came and daffo-ls. but "e

#illness and "e b3ghtness of "e day were as #ran0 as "e chaos and

tumult of night, wi" $ trees #anding "ere, and "e flowers #anding

"ere, looking before "em, looking up, yet behol-ng no"ing, eyeless,

and so ter3ble.”Virginia Woolf.“Time Passes, VII.” To $ Ligh"'s)

(134-5)


the torment of stillness heldwithout interference. listening the emptyhouse streaked with the winds and wavespierced by no light of reason, mounted, lunged and plunged in the darkness shapelessly togetheruntil it seemed as if the universe were in brute confusion and wanton lust. in spring, casually filled withwind-blown plants, the stillness of the daywere as strange as the tumult of night, beholding nothing,eyeless, and so terrible

+plunge

11


12


+provokatör

Nazım Hikmet Ranbu adamsattı arkadaşını;

sattı altın bir tepside arkadaşınınkanlı, kesik başını...

bu adamın ayaklarında dolaşıyorkorku,

gölgesi gibi.. karanlık bir su gibi yaşıyor

bu adam.

güneş batınca her akşam,kaldırımlarda karısının donunu sürüyerek, parmaklarının ucuna basıp yürüyerek

size doğru yaklaşan odur. siz tanıyın onu

kalbinin boynunda sallanarak seslenenmel'un çıngırağından,

ve bilin ki onundöküyor parça parça cüzzam illeti

ruhununetini...

bu adam bugün açtır. açtır ama,kaybetti bu adamdakudretli ve büyük açlık bile kudsiyetini...

a dostlar, bu adam güneş batınca bir akşam

sattı arkadaşını; sattı altın bir tepside arkadaşının

kanlı, kesik başını...

this mansold his friend;

sold on a golden platter his friend’sbloody, severed head ...

over this man's feet wanderingfear,

as its shadow ... as a dark water lives

this man.

when the sun sets each evening,on sidewalks his wife’s pantie shuffling walking on his tiptoes

towards you it’s him who is approaching. you get to know him

on his heart’s neck, swinging, tollinghis disturbing bell, and

know thatthe malady of leprosy is tearing off piece by piece

his soul’sflesh ...

this man is hungry today. hungry, butlost in this maneven the greatest and biggest hunger its sacredness.

friends, this manwhen the sun set on one evening

sold his friend; sold on a golden platter his friend’s

bloody, severed head ...

13


+[prelude]

[on an express train north bound12 september 2001. wednesday: a day after.

she isn’t home yet.

18 september 2001. tuesday: one week.

i need to reprint ‘missing person’ poster. perhapsa thousand more.

25 september 2001. tuesday: two weeks.

hung up on a reporter.

2 october 2001. tuesday: three weeks.

hair comb, tooth brush, scarf, lipstick. anything with DNA.even the slightest. 9 october 2001.

tuesday: four weeks.flickering street lamp

a war started 2 days ago in her name.

16, 23, 30 october 2001. tuesdays: seven weeks.

cnn. numb.her morning.

17 november 2001. saturday: 67 days.[halt.]

funeral.new haven, connecticut:

with no body.rain lines,

nobody.

to boston]

penn station, new york:

five minutes.windows alight with gray.

a drizzling day.wiping off fog on the window with my bare hand.

[halt.]

new rochelle, new york:

there is no indication of movement.

used to definethat fair line of fracturebetween my night and

crisscrossing wet air.

this dwindling sense of being makes a sweeping progressioninto a scenic perversion.

there is no relevance in my disposition.

[halt.]providence, rhode island: lakes.

boats. sea. docks. birds.

14


empty waterfront walks. lifeless street lamps.

no one is sitting on the bench.

ripples on the surface of waterbridge

all that is passing-by;all that is passed-by.

every bit of my vision is being ripped

away …

by the velocity of what moves

me.

the only thing left behind: the frame of window in which i and everything else in theworld dwell in

momentarily.

[halt.]

route 128, massachusetts:

a seeming sense of determination and consistencyin everything else

in motion.

but the only thing that is movingis what moves me right

now.[halt.] back bay, boston,

massachusetts:

who could dwell on a supplementary notion of another’s

being inpassing?

(you were what moved me.every passing element that screamed past outside our window was butan illusion.)

[halt.]

south station, boston, massachusetts:

she is not waiting here,either.

[halt.]

15


i. Vlăsiei:

allured by the wind-- its whispera firm sway--her soul�s truest form exposedin shredsof hypocrisy and pride,all rolled up like dried fig leaves,crusting and shattering.a time to brush’em off?

outside the window, there is no breathing roomin between each destination where her namevaguely marks the boundary of my furtherdistancing.all the countless petals shattered into starsunder my sky the momentmy wind-dried lips could traceher last kiss no longer.

only the diminishing consequence of a passing moment.

an act of remembrance should begin perhaps at the end of one�s resignation in longing:

wrote your name on the river, and it drifted to a foggy sea just to vanish off at first sight of moonlight,waning on the horizon.

wrote your name on the wind, and it was torn into unutterable reflections of ambiguityas the rain splattered my voice muteon the earth.

+five sketches of silence: from București, fall 2010

16


ii. Gara de Nord București: two rails

posted

iii. 25 Decembrie 1989:

walking down Șoseaua Kiseleff

iv. Piaja Revolujiei:

no more distance to be

misty air. v. Biserica Kretzulescu: why should

this man

on the platform:Budapest 19:25,Istanbul 14:10.

and one kiss for memory.

from Acul de Triumf, they disputed over whether Ceaușescu Geniul din Carpajistained this Romanian earth with 64,000

pursued. frozen ground.cold penetration. one’s drift essentially demands an illusion.

cloudy sky. foggy street. street lamps are alighting to lifeas the evening inches in her grey presence.

on the tree whose face marred, stricken,and in sorrow be

a kissfor a thousand farewells

or 1,000 lives during that winter what a soul cannot perceive my feet are chasing after the bleak trace of

my piety?

unspoken.one unpredictable separation, conceivable for one extreme union.

of madness.

(63,000 must make an astounding difference

its #esh often does: the rush ofa faithless union.

shattering shadows of all things present and past

why must my sanity bethe curse

in one’s bloody amnesia?) an ephemeral pleasure. on the cold, stony pavement. of his bewildermentone dream.one too many dreams.

from Timișoara an incessant drive for what is soon all will cease:its fruitless efforts to persevere,

for the pricei never incurred

then to București not ful$lled. its vain passion to possess, in the $rst placewe satat a café over chilling

and $nally at Tărgoviști: her soul its tearful agony to strive. my memories.

over his torn #esh?

cups of espresso. for all who take her memories.all it accounted for was the truthour eyes gazedat one undeniable fact:the journeyhas not yet ended.

the sword will perish by the sword,so all who take the gunwill perish by the gun.

is imprisonedby the full knowledge of its vain end.the vainer, the deadlier,the more attractive.and a wandering thought:

all. things were supposed to be differentbefore this death;things are supposed to be differentafter this life.

whatever drawn near who can distinguish the darkness evening light #oods in the space

the consequence to the end, from the soul? and whitewashes the wallwe are destined to,at this very moment of

forced to surrender, her sigh of despair the only difference now into a blindness. my re#ection

intermittent waiting,it might not be too bad an idea to seek a sense ofdirectionamong the tides of passing feet,

was more passionate than any cry of jubilation.

and anger is a capacityno one s existence should

is the journey that took placein between the surface of her skin to the farthest limit of my mind, from a blissful ignorance of delicacyto an agonizing knowledge of solitude.

now the only constructof this medieval semblance: i aman intolerable similarity of his silence.

bashing their empty echoes be weighedagainst my eardrums. against. when i $nally close my eyes

at the verge of this light,people die in living; la revedere, Elena. amounting no suppositionpeople live in death. and Nicolae. for relevancyand i have about an hour so to your madness, at every diminishingleft to ponder upon your grievance. consequence of a passingthe two. moment,

it’s still too early to senda Christmas greetings i will no longer befor her. here

for her.


no word can appropriately reflect on resignation insulated by fear.

(가을 끝머리,

삐쳐나온

한 자락 산 빛.눈이 부셨다.

at a fading hem of the late fall, with one strayed fragment of her splendid light,

the mountain blinded me.)

a prediction for a certain consoled despair. the weight of one’s beingas severing repatriation for what is being lost

is sustained in knowledge.

an impaired heart is accursed to remain unchanged.

(홀린 듯 빛에,

마음에

이끌리는데로

정처없이 발길

을 돌린지어느덧

spellbound. by light,and by heart. being drawn to an aimless wandering

a time too long ago)

fate is an empty rhetoric for the wishful,

(앙상한 가지만 뻗친

어느 이름 모를 나무 아래

다다러서야언듯

걸음을 멈춘다.

outstretched with, now, bony branches, under one nameless treei finally arrived

suddenly

언듯

걸음을 멈춘다.

outstretched with, now, bony branches, under one nameless treei finally arrived

suddenly

to pause my journey.)

while her conflicting visions dash to and fro, predicting the course of souls’ calamities.

(그 요란스럽고

셀 수 없던

푸른 약속들.those noisy, innumerable green promises.)

in shattering elements of this envisioned void, the only consolation to be foundis a principle:

one defines her existence comparatively.

an immeasurable preponderance.no emotion is of a lesser quality in comparison.

(단 한 줌 차거운 입김에

미련없이

매몰찬 결별로 모두

저토록 가벼이

떨어져 나갈 수 있다는사실.

just a hint of cold air, without longing,could turn all into a cruel break, free and away--

that fact.)

and the prudence to love defines her residing grief within. again.driven to the last corner of life’s blind alley, this inevitability is only among the easiest of all choices.

(내 가슴은

슬픔에 놀라워하고

조롱당한다.

+aftermath: (겨우나무冬木, winter tree)

18


19

free and away--

that fact.)

torn between the unseenand the unreachable.

철 지난 약속들일랑

and the prudence to love de$nes her residing grief within. (그래도 아름다움은 하나씩, 둘씩 털어버려야겠다.

again. 제 자리를 지키는데 있지 않았을까?driven to the last corner of life’s blind alley, this inevitability is only among the easiest

but would not her beauty i too must,

of all choices.

(내 가슴은

be intact,having remained in place?)

shake offthese dwindling promises

슬픔에 놀라워하고 조롱당한다. mesmerized. disillusioned. who has the $nal say on what is being lost?

like the unseasoned leaves, dried and twitched

my heart is surprised by sadnessand is thus ridiculed.)

neither men nor gods can be prudent enoughto keep vigilance

by one, by two.i must shake off.)

the only prospect before this lossi mull at the edge of my lips.

sunrise brings the traces of the forgotten— a cadence of her diluted dreams,

that would at least providea welcome acceptanceto those bewildered footsteps torn between

(나도

말라 비틀어져

(이젠,

더 이상 인연에 구애받지 않는다.the unseenand the unreachable.

(그래도 아름다움은

제 자리를 지키는데 있지 않았을까?

빛깔만 요란한 저 잎새들처럼 철 지난 약속들

일랑

하나씩, 둘씩

그리고 차마

쫓아가지 못해 엉겨붙은 아쉬움과 미련.

but would not her beauty 털어버려야겠다. 이 긴 겨울밤be intact, 내내having remained in place?) i too must, 온 몸을

신 들린듯mesmerized. disillusioned. who has the $nal say on shake off

these dwindling떨며, 흔들며

what is being lost?neither men nor gods can be

promiseslike the unseasoned leaves,

날려 보내야 하리.

prudent enough to keep vigilance before this loss dried and twitched

by one, by two.

now,i no longer am restrained by her fate.

i mull at the edge of my lips. i must shake off.) and(나도 sunrise brings the traces of the forgotten— this lingering sorrow and regret

말라 비틀어져 a cadence of her diluted dreams, from not being able to go after her,

빛깔만 요란한 (이젠,저 잎새들처럼 철 지난 약속들일랑

더 이상 인연에 구애받지 않는다. 그리고before this long winter night is exhausted,i must shake

하나씩, 둘씩 차마

쫓아가지 못해

my entire body, trembling

털어버려야겠다.

i too must,

엉겨붙은 아쉬움과 미련. like a medium, letting all go #ying.)

shake off 이 긴 겨울밤 내내 pertaining to one and only remedy i resigned

these dwindling promises 온 몸을

신 들린듯

on her stare.

like the unseasoned leaves, 떨며,Saturday, January 12, 13

+an evening in exile

20


That is no country for old men. The young In one another's arms,W. B. Yeats dreams. yes.this is no country for old men,but the young ones forget to dream here for they forget to fall asleep.

bilmiyorumthe songs you sob, as I pass through your fog. So let land bewhat you gesture to … and what you do.

Mahmoud Darwish perhaps already knew of this tragedy where all the years’ endeavor in one’s pathis but a passing gesture of madness.

(who required of your faithfulness, and who your loyalty?)

so bring mea blank piece of paperso that i can write a love poem to youtonight.let all the passing moments of your gaze be the thrill of my heartand the pleasure of my lipseven for the one surreptitious pause of our lives entwined.and we will close our eyes togetherto dream all the forgotten dreams of this land, longing to be craved, dressed in desire,eating and drinking at will.

yes, Sylvia,I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead. (I think I made you up inside my head.)

Que seraitil arrivé si elle n'avait point perdu cette parure? Qui sait? qui sait? Comme la vie est singulière, changeante!Comme il faut peu de chose pour vous perdre ou vous sauver!

from “La Parure” by Guy de Maupassant

“i am afraid Sylvia’s madness was everything butT.H.when her head was found in the oven.no mad person i know of would die for someone else’s sympathyor love.madness is her own sake,and discontent her own deprivation.

“perhaps,one should remember there once were 55 lines before April infamouslywas labelled as the cruellest by Eliot.

“Sylvia surely have remembered that:scraping him--and everything thereof--off, breeding Lilacs out of the dead land, mixingMemory and desire. a sweet sensation.”

Nazim Hikmet writes a long--too long--poem, I am about to fall asleep reading him.Ankara in the late November. the first snow hasn’tcome about over Kızılay’s evening, and the Abdul’s Rose hascheated on the season yet againto blossom its lies on the street for sale. you must admire Rose’s salesperson from Istanbulbefore your wallet is opened to be emptiedin “one minutes”by his talented tongue and fingers.

Frost is too gloomy for an easy readingat a patisserieon this brisk Turkish evening, Whitman perhaps too jovial for its sentimentalism,and Virginia Woolf too scattered for conversations.

Henry’s “Friends in San Rosario” or Maupassant’s “La Parure” could have been perfecthad i remembered to bring a copy of either.but as for now, i am settled for cursing whoever translated Nazim’s geniusinto my daydreaming lullaby.

my mother used to tell her versions ofmany famous stories i later found out to beof Tolstoy, Dostoyevsky,or even W. Somerset Maugham as bedtime storiesuntil i finally fell asleep.my childhood dreams then were composed ofthe desperate measures of one human life’s struggles for or against another, where all the utter failures one could surmise of in life were as ordinaryas the coming of the night.

“i thought of thinking of you before the first snow fallin Kızılay.a repetition makes things easier in motion.like the last words of your farewell, kissing each side of my cheeks, still lingeringover my ears: me, too.”

i still dream of her with my eyes wide open.there is no clarification as yet to what divine ambitionof this universe’s mastermind one’s loss of lovecould comfortably be justified, but it indeed isa curious thought to ponder, sitting in the centre of Anatolia, some 5,000 miles from home as the crow files.Our horses galloped in foams towards the still sea,Oktay Rifat utters.and one should rightly call all this a madness,a delightful madness.

from Macedon, they say, Euripides’s last imagination is a mother to tear apart her son’s fleshunder Dionysus’sdivine spell of madness and to carry his head downto her house in great pleasure as a boasting trophy.Should I then ask Euripides for whose sake should I consult to sendmy Dionysus for the homeland whose amnesia stirsno memory of my name?

it’s my third cup of türk kahvesi. should be the final dropon my ever craving tongue if i ever wanted to fall asleep tonight underthis ay and yıldız,closing my eyes under the alluring shades of sheer curtains,fragrant ruffles of her hair, supple, bare skin,intermittent rush of her undone breath, and that endless whisperof her desire and longing. that daughter of a prophet …

21


in exile

Documents

starless spanish night

unfinished little thingsin

unfinished letter

estrellas of madrid

en madrid

crimson stain

tides of menacross

marred shadowof