+in exile: a departure +ianlennartsurraville

2
 3

T. E. Lawrence, Seven Pillars of Wisdom

+dedication
DEDICATION

To S.A.

I loved you, so I drew these tides of men into my hands so these tides of men
and wrote my will across the sky in stars across the sky
To earn you Freedom, the seven pillared worthy house, To earn Freedom
that your eyes might be shining for me eyes shining
When we came. came.

Death seemed my servant on the road, till we were near Death

and saw you waiting:
When you smiled, and in sorrowful envy he outran me smiled in sorrowful envy
and took you apart:
Into his quietness. quiet

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

ours for the moment the moment
Before earth's soft hand explored your shape, and the blind Before the blind
worms grew fat upon
Your substance.

Men prayed me that I set our work, the inviolate house, Men prayed
as a memory of you. a memory of
But for fit monument I shattered it, unfinished: and now shattered , unfinished
The little things creep out to patch themselves hovels little things
in the marred shadow in the marred shadow
Of your gift.
+third of May 1808, El tres de mayo de 1808 en Madrid, by Francisco José de Goya y Lucientes (1746 - 1828)
 5

estrellas.

all the stars in the sky

are falling in Bonaparte’s bosom,

les couleurs blinded oui …

la Marseillaise deafened.
I just wonder
tonight, how long it would take
all that glisters is no longer star1 for me to clean this crimson stain
in Madrid. on my soil,

all the flickering, twinkling pairs wiping and scrubbing

of estrellas on my knees
piled and bunched maddeningly,
into a flourishing crimson swirl, ferociously
and one faint thought: with my hands,
whose madness am I subscribing to my feet,

+estrellas of Madrid
under this starless Spanish night sky? and perhaps with my face
and my tongue, as well,
and why
must one protest for until every piece of
the validity of his existence this bewildering frailty
standing under his own sky? is being scraped,
carved out.
first, Mamelukes’ absurd blades
and now, blind French muzzles. arrêtez, s’il vous plaît.

would you please wipe clean the blood I am not done yet.
you spilled on the ground not until
before you die? the very
last
stain.

let all the estrellas

of Madrid fall
tonight

and leave my Spanish night sky

to silence.

1 “All that glisters is not gold.” Cervantes, Miguel de. Don Quixote, Part II, XXXIII.
6
 ian surraville
it became an unfinished letter.
who punishes your god?
he who answers my questions in silence. my pen labors with
a phone call. he who silences my answers to questions.[?] a collaboration
and i could write no more. of many dots, lines
routines suffocate me. etching mad at its tip.
my mind begins its numbing
cluttering. a repetition that neither adds
you seem millions miles away nor dilutes.
and i just want to a memory, already not present.
strip every single word from this
what are you asking that he does not answer?
page naked. unattached.
and plunge into **
the Mediterranean. it was an inevitable conversion.
perhaps then i would hear what once preoccupied the mi
her voice nd no longer held its meaning
muffled and distanced

c
before all the deteriorating asp
disposition.
--justifiably. ects of the reality.
*
i need a new blank page. what was so hard about letting
i’d rather die all the deaths of the world than bei go often was the fact you knew
ng remembered like that. an exhale of meaningl that you would solely miss wha
ess breath, spewing out my name carved dead o t you were letting go now in th
n the face of stone. god granted me no compass e most recent future. [:]
v er.

wn
r i ion of dying a quiet. unknown, death.
?
fa
kno whom he tw
evening light smears through
nd o
n
id,
u by
a small window in the room[.] h e e e sa o as no apparent or plausible return
at t i n s , s h
s. t in sight.

omposition
d
e a beg ver en t w een
a portion is clawed through the s ri e
the re the ce b
in the margin for b.a.
rough hewn stone wall e e re n that’s a torture.
wh
ses. ed to t
diff
s
e
e
h
ke r end sposs suad
edging an intermittent line of ell t

sea n rive er di e per

window sill. o . s i n s . in that incident of torturous be
n

whe at riv ld not

t a rath ginning of a journey, you have
s. e
h
y e r
w
a portion is diluted by a sheer b ut e c on b e no definite end in sight in whic
o u w itho sta venie ing no h you would find relief.[...]
c nt q
linen curtain strewn carelessly[,]
y feet g : b eing u e
nt t t co
h a u
in st t l d
er [.
awashing what filters through m s n
eye le th wh o b bein be m
with a sense of resignation[,] my d. n s i b ] e w . i l e e aw g o everything had a measured exi
o ul s t se b a f tran bein ake on a c re
c o m s f g stence.
shadowing its hem’s uneasy rest
t he m reme bei orm req
n
n to on

being not–
s l y g a t u i b
over the window panel. hpa on the n
me ot co n on s a co
io re ein
per l l. you p e r n t m
g. and my dizziness lasted exactly
e a rcei e t e h e ple
and returned exactly
r se t v sen nds p a 5 minutes and 52 seconds.
and when all the light’s reflections e a ine ed-- s eo as s rt of t e
ong
6 seconds later.
n o l d i sa w h f a c o o i t s
and shadows’ entities sec ether comp n and seeke
you ond or
comingle in an awkward
u l d a r not lishm long r,
co ya e a
entanglement on the ashen floor[,]
n ess nd the a nt is s
d f a c t to
blin r le u
ss s ality be
ign is a
no collaboration of words t “ lopsided; no one would understand immediately.” Sembat, Marcel
(and who asks for an understanding here?)
ific
could depict ant
ma

is
what just laid itself there. tte
r.
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
much more
that’s where her mind halted ing here is much stronger than my imagination allowed my courage to be here. it was a ridiculous journey.
an
its movement. [.]
i ce.
ch o
ea 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.
chaos–you.
b
this semblance of my gaze ... back at me.
chaos -- my utter incomprehension.

where
in
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
no difference of his
* Piano Sonata No. 4, E flat major, Op. 7. Beethoven, Ludwig van. 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
** Une vue de Notre-Dame (View of Notre-Dame), 1914. Matisse, Henri. such? [.]
8

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

 9
now swung and buried deep as my master’s strength could muster the residue of your passing for the sake of
his end’s end to its finality, decays in my breath, my beloved
i know I will not move. fuming madness and my god,
many layers have I crossed, of your mind i will stand here firm
countless mass in every utterance. until my last breath of freedom
expires in eternity.
penetrated. and no matter how much i stive but
to dwell on this barren land i will never, never, never
at each pause of one’s last sigh alone, ...
destined for an unforeseen rest
my solitude move.
brief,
is simply insufficient
i trembled an eternity to restore
unfolded. a sense within.

+sword
one just does not die the burial of words,
alone . it is.

eternity is now mine to ponder. look at me not,

may no one unworthy touch i plead.
and disturb my end’s rest.
you who fear
speak to me not your own perishing,
let the price of
of the distinction between the breaking disillusionment
dawn and the fading darkness of the paradise
for it is you yourself dare not step into
never for your rhetoric. be of your own
undertaking.
the thin air of day’s earliest light can no longer bear
such perverse words of your
vanity, your shallow tongue. i will face my enemies
with fear and reverence,
such insolence, but I will not move.
such fruitless endeavors. true, he may be
stronger in arms,
your world? more abundant in resources,
sharper in wisdom,
All your blood-thirsty wars. superior in counsels,
All the angry faces of your god-- vast in number,
mightier in weapons,
i have no need for your god. but I will not move.
10
“night after night, summer and winter, the torment of
storms, the arrow-like stillness of fine weather, held their
court without interference. listening (had there been
any one to listen) from the upper rooms of the empty
house only gigantic chaos streaked with lightning could
have been heard tumbling and tossing, as the winds and
waves disported themselves like the amorphous bulks of
leviathans whose brows are pierced by no light of reason,
and mounted one on top of another, and lunged and
plunged in the darkness or the daylight (for night and
day, month and year ran shapelessly together) an idiot
games, until it seemed as if the universe were battling
and tumbling, in brute confusion and wanton lust aim-
lessly by itself.

“in spring the garden urns, casually filled with

wind-blown plants, were gay as ever. violets came and
daffodils. but the stillness and the brightness of the day
were as strange as the chaos and tumult of night, with
the trees standing there, and the flowers standing there,
looking before them, looking up, yet beholding nothing,
eyeless, and so terrible.”

Virginia Woolf.“Time Passes, VII.” To the Lighthouse. (134-5)

 11

the torment of
stillness held
without interference. listening
the empty
house streaked with

+plunge
the winds and
waves
pierced by no light of reason,
mounted, lunged and
plunged in the darkness
shapelessly together
until it seemed as if the universe were
in brute confusion and wanton lust.
in spring, casually filled with
wind-blown plants,
the stillness of the day
were as strange as the tumult of night,
beholding nothing,
eyeless, and so terrible
12
 13

+provokatör

Nazım Hikmet Ran

bu adam
this man
sattı arkadaşını;
sold his friend;
sattı altın bir tepside arkadaşının
sold on a golden platter his friend’s
kanlı, kesik başını...
bloody, severed head ...
bu adamın ayaklarında dolaşıyor
over this man's feet wandering
korku,
fear,
gölgesi gibi..
as its shadow ...
karanlık bir su gibi yaşıyor
as a dark water lives
bu adam.
this man.
güneş batınca her akşam,
when the sun sets each evening,
kaldırımlarda karısının donunu sürüyerek,
on sidewalks his wife’s pantie shuffling
parmaklarının ucuna basıp yürüyerek
walking on his tiptoes
size doğru yaklaşan odur.
towards you it’s him who is approaching.
siz tanıyın onu
you get to know him
kalbinin boynunda sallanarak seslenen
on his heart’s neck, swinging, tolling
mel'un çıngırağından,
his disturbing bell,
ve bilin ki onun
and know that
döküyor parça parça cüzzam illeti
the malady of leprosy is tearing off piece by piece
ruhunun
his soul’s
etini...
flesh ...
bu adam bugün açtır.
this man is hungry today.
açtır ama,
hungry, but
kaybetti bu adamda
lost in this man
kudretli ve büyük açlık bile kudsiyetini...
even the greatest and biggest hunger its sacredness.
a dostlar, bu adam
friends, this man
güneş batınca bir akşam
when the sun set on one evening
sattı arkadaşını;
sold his friend;
sattı altın bir tepside arkadaşının
sold on a golden platter his friend’s
kanlı, kesik başını...
bloody, severed head ...
14
+[prelude]

[on an express train north bound

12 september 2001. wednesday: a day after. to boston]

she isn’t home yet. penn station, new york:

18 september 2001. tuesday: one week. five minutes.

windows alight with
i need to reprint ‘missing person’ poster. perhaps gray.
a thousand more.
a drizzling day.
25 september 2001. tuesday: two weeks. wiping off fog on the window with my bare hand.

hung up on a reporter. [halt.]

2 october 2001. tuesday: three weeks. new rochelle, new york:

hair comb, tooth brush, scarf, lipstick. anything with DNA. there is no indication of movement.
even the slightest.
9 october 2001. tuesday: four weeks.
flickering street lamp
a war started 2 days ago in her name. used to define
that fair line
16, 23, 30 october 2001. tuesdays: seven weeks. of fracture
between my night and
cnn. numb.
her morning.
17 november 2001. saturday: 67 days.
[halt.]
funeral.
new haven, connecticut:
with no body.
rain lines,
nobody. crisscrossing wet air.

this dwindling sense of being

makes a sweeping progression
into a scenic perversion.

there is no relevance
in my disposition.

[halt.]

providence, rhode island:

lakes. boats. sea. docks. birds.

 15
empty waterfront walks. (you were what moved me.
lifeless street lamps. every passing element that
screamed past outside our
no one is sitting on the bench. window was but
an illusion.)
ripples on the surface of water
bridge [halt.]
all that is passing-by;
all that is passed-by. south station, boston, massachusetts:

every bit of my vision she is not waiting here,

is being ripped either.

away … [halt.]

by the velocity of what moves

me.

the only thing left behind: the frame of window

in which i and everything else in the
world
dwell in momentarily.

[halt.]

route 128, massachusetts:

a seeming sense of determination and

consistency
in everything else
in motion.

but the only thing that is

moving
is what moves me right
now.

[halt.]

back bay, boston, massachusetts:

who could dwell on a

supplementary notion of another’s
being in
passing?
16
i. Vlăsiei:

allured by the wind--

its whisper
a firm sway--
her souls truest form
exposed
in shreds
of 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 room
in between each destination
where her name
vaguely marks the boundary
of my further

+five sketches of silence: from București, fall 2010

distancing.

all the countless petals shattered

into stars
under my sky
the moment
my wind-dried lips
could trace
her last kiss
no longer.

only the diminishing

consequence of a passing
moment.

an act of remembrance should begin

perhaps at the end of ones
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 ambiguity
as the rain splattered
my voice mute
on the earth.
ii. Gara de Nord București: iii. 25 Decembrie 1989: iv. Piața Revoluției: v. Biserica Kretzulescu:

two rails posted walking down Șoseaua Kiseleff no more distance to be misty air. why should this man
on the platform: from Acul de Triumf, pursued. cloudy sky. on the tree
Budapest 19:25, they disputed over frozen ground. foggy street. whose face
Istanbul 14:10. whether Ceaușescu cold penetration. street lamps are marred,
Geniul din Carpați one’s drift alighting to life stricken,
and one kiss stained this Romanian earth essentially demands as the evening inches in and in sorrow
for memory. with 64,000 an illusion. her grey presence. be
a kiss or 1,000 lives my feet are chasing my piety?
for a thousand farewells during that winter what a soul cannot perceive after the bleak trace of
unspoken. of madness. its flesh often does: shattering shadows why must my sanity
one unpredictable separation, the rush of of all things present be
conceivable for one extreme union. (63,000 must make an astounding difference a faithless union. and past the curse
in one’s bloody amnesia?) an ephemeral pleasure. on the cold, stony pavement. of his bewilderment
one dream. soon all will cease: for the price
one too many dreams. from Timișoara an incessant drive for what is its fruitless efforts to persevere, i never incurred
then to București not fulfilled. its vain passion to possess, in the first place
we sat and finally its tearful agony to strive. over his
at a café over chilling at Tărgoviști: her soul my memories. torn flesh?
cups of espresso. for all who take her memories.
all it accounted for the sword is imprisoned all. things were supposed to be
was the truth will perish by by the full knowledge different
our eyes gazed the sword, of its vain end. before this death;
at one undeniable so all who take the vainer, things are supposed to be
fact: the gun the deadlier, different
the journey will perish by the more attractive. after this life.
has not yet ended. the gun. and a wandering thought:
evening light
whatever drawn near who can distinguish the darkness floods in the space
the consequence to the end, from the soul? and whitewashes the wall
we are destined to, forced to surrender, into a blindness.
at this very moment of her sigh of despair the only difference now my reflection
intermittent waiting, was more passionate than is the journey that took place now the only construct
it might not be too bad an idea any cry of jubilation. in between the surface of her skin of this medieval semblance:
to seek a sense of to the farthest limit of my mind, i am
direction and anger is a capacity from a blissful ignorance of delicacy an intolerable similarity
among the tides of passing feet, no ones existence should to an agonizing knowledge of solitude. of his silence.
bashing their empty echoes be weighed
against my eardrums. against. when i finally close my eyes
at the verge of this light,
people die in living; la revedere, Elena. amounting no supposition
people live in death. and Nicolae. for relevancy
and i have about an hour so to your madness, at every diminishing
left to ponder upon your grievance. consequence of a passing
the two. moment,
it’s still too early to send
a Christmas greetings i will no longer be
for her. here
for her.
18
no word can appropriately reflect 언듯
on resignation insulated by fear.
걸음을 멈춘다.
(가을 끝머리,
삐쳐나온 outstretched with, now, bony branches,
한 자락 산 빛. under one nameless tree
i finally arrived
눈이 부셨다.
suddenly
at a fading hem of the late fall,
with one strayed fragment of to pause my journey.)
her splendid light,
while her conflicting visions dash to and fro,
the mountain blinded me.) predicting the course of souls’ calamities.

a prediction for a certain consoled despair. (그 요란스럽고

the weight of one’s being 셀 수 없던
as severing repatriation 푸른 약속들.
for what is being lost
those noisy,
is sustained in knowledge. innumerable
green promises.)
an impaired heart is accursed to remain
unchanged. in shattering elements of this envisioned void,
the only consolation to be found
(홀린 듯 is a principle:
빛에,
마음에 one defines her existence comparatively.
이끌리는데로
정처없이 an immeasurable preponderance.
발길을 돌린지 no emotion is of a lesser quality in comparison.

어느덧 (단 한 줌 차거운 입김에

미련없이
spellbound. 매몰찬 결별로
by light, 모두
and by heart. 저토록 가벼이
being drawn 떨어져 나갈 수 있다는
to an aimless
wandering 사실.

a time too long ago) just a hint of cold air,

without longing,
fate is an empty rhetoric for the wishful, could turn all into a cruel break,
free and away--
(앙상한 가지만 뻗친
어느 이름 모를 나무 아래 that fact.)
다다러서야
and the prudence to love defines her residing grief within.
언듯 again.

+aftermath: (겨우나무冬木, winter tree)

driven to the last corner of life’s blind alley,
걸음을 멈춘다. this inevitability is only among the easiest
of all choices.
outstretched with, now, bony branches,
under one nameless tree (내 가슴은
i finally arrived 슬픔에 놀라워하고
조롱당한다.
 19
free and away-- torn between 철 지난
the unseen 약속들일랑
that fact.) and the unreachable.
하나씩, 둘씩
and the prudence to love defines her residing grief within. (그래도 아름다움은 털어버려야겠다.
again. 제 자리를 지키는데 있지 않았을까?
driven to the last corner of life’s blind alley, i too must,
this inevitability is only among the easiest but would not her beauty
of all choices. be intact, shake off
having remained in place?) these dwindling
(내 가슴은 promises
슬픔에 놀라워하고 mesmerized. disillusioned. like the unseasoned leaves,
조롱당한다. who has the final say on dried and twitched
what is being lost?
my heart is neither men nor gods can be by one, by two.
surprised by sadness prudent enough i must shake off.)
and is thus ridiculed.) to keep vigilance
before this loss sunrise brings the traces of the forgotten—
the only prospect i mull at the edge of my lips. a cadence of her diluted dreams,
that would at least provide
a welcome acceptance (나도 (이젠,
to those bewildered footsteps 더 이상 인연에 구애받지 않는다.
torn between 말라 비틀어져
the unseen 빛깔만 요란한 그리고
and the unreachable. 저 잎새들처럼 차마
철 지난 쫓아가지 못해
(그래도 아름다움은 약속들일랑 엉겨붙은
제 자리를 지키는데 있지 않았을까? 아쉬움과 미련.
하나씩, 둘씩
but would not her beauty 털어버려야겠다. 이 긴 겨울밤
be intact, 내내
having remained in place?) i too must, 온 몸을
신 들린듯
mesmerized. disillusioned. shake off 떨며,
who has the final say on these dwindling 흔들며
what is being lost? promises 날려 보내야 하리.
neither men nor gods can be like the unseasoned leaves,
prudent enough dried and twitched now,
to keep vigilance i no longer am restrained by her fate.
before this loss by one, by two.
i mull at the edge of my lips. i must shake off.) and
this lingering
(나도 sunrise brings the traces of the forgotten— sorrow and regret
a cadence of her diluted dreams, from not being
말라 비틀어져 able to go after her,
빛깔만 요란한 (이젠,
저 잎새들처럼 더 이상 인연에 구애받지 않는다. before this long winter
철 지난 night is exhausted,
약속들일랑 그리고 i must shake
차마 my entire body,
하나씩, 둘씩 쫓아가지 못해 trembling
털어버려야겠다. 엉겨붙은 like a medium,
아쉬움과 미련. letting all go flying.)
i too must,
이 긴 겨울밤 pertaining to one and only remedy
shake off 내내 i resigned
these dwindling 온 몸을 on her stare.
promises 신 들린듯
20

+an evening in exile

 21
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 Frost is too gloomy for i still dream of her with my eyes That is no country for old men. The young
was everything but an easy reading wide open. In one another's arms,
T.H. at a patisserie there is no clarification as yet W. B. Yeats dreams.
when her head was found on this brisk Turkish evening, to what divine ambition yes.
in the oven. Whitman perhaps too jovial of this universe’s mastermind this is no country for old men,
no mad person i know of for its sentimentalism, one’s loss of love but the young ones forget to dream here
would die for someone else’s and Virginia Woolf too scattered could comfortably be justified, for they forget to fall asleep.
sympathy for conversations. but it indeed is
or love. a curious thought to ponder, bilmiyorum
madness is her own sake, Henry’s “Friends in San Rosario” sitting in the centre of Anatolia, the songs you sob, as I pass
and discontent her own deprivation. or Maupassant’s “La Parure” some 5,000 miles from home through your fog. So let land be
could have been perfect as the crow files. what you gesture to … and what you do.
“perhaps, had i remembered to bring Our horses galloped in foams
one should remember a copy of either. towards the still sea, Mahmoud Darwish perhaps
there once were 55 lines but as for now, i am settled for Oktay Rifat utters. already knew of this tragedy
before April infamously cursing whoever translated and one should rightly call all this where all the years’ endeavor
was labelled as the cruellest Nazim’s genius a madness, in one’s path
by Eliot. into my daydreaming lullaby. a delightful madness. is but a passing gesture of madness.

“Sylvia surely have remembered that: my mother used to tell
scraping him--and everything thereof--off, breeding her versions of
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing many famous stories
Memory and desire. i later found out to be
a sweet sensation.” of Tolstoy, Dostoyevsky,
or even W. Somerset Maugham
Nazim Hikmet writes a long--too as bedtime stories
long--poem, I am about to fall asleep until i finally fell asleep.
reading him. my childhood dreams then
Ankara in the late November. were composed of
the first snow hasn’t the desperate measures of
come about over Kızılay’s evening, one human life’s struggles
and the Abdul’s Rose has for or against another,
cheated on the season where all the utter failures
yet again one could surmise of in life
to blossom its lies were as ordinary
on the street for sale. as the coming of the night.
you must admire
Rose’s salesperson “i thought of thinking of you
from Istanbul before the first snow fall
before your wallet is opened in Kızılay.
to be emptied a repetition makes things
in “one minutes” easier in motion.
by his talented tongue like the last words of your farewell,
and fingers. kissing each side of my cheeks,
still lingering
over my ears:
me, too.”
from Macedon, they say,
Euripides’s last imagination
is a mother to tear apart
her son’s flesh
under Dionysus’s
divine spell of madness
and to carry his head down
to her house in great pleasure
as a boasting trophy.
Should I then ask Euripides
for whose sake should I
consult to send
my Dionysus for the homeland
whose amnesia stirs
no memory of my name?
it’s my third cup of türk kahvesi.
should be the final drop
on my ever craving tongue
if i ever wanted to fall asleep
tonight under
this 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 whisper
of her desire and longing.
that daughter of a prophet …
(who required of your faithfulness,
and who your loyalty?)
so bring me
a blank piece of paper
so that i can write a love poem
to you
tonight.
let all the passing moments of your gaze
be the thrill of my heart
and the pleasure of my lips
even for the one surreptitious pause
of our lives entwined.
and we will close our eyes
together
to 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.)