Ben bir küçücük sevdalı kuştumBen bir küçücük sevdalı kuştum
Aklım ermedi ellere uçtum
Yaban ellere, diken ellere
Gurbet ellere, gurbet ellere
Ben bir küçücük ak tomurcuktum
Aklım ermedi, kış günü açtım
Ala yellere, bora yellere
Kara yellere, kara yellere
Yuvasız kaldım karlara düştüm
Sılasız kaldım, çöllere düştüm
Uçsuz bucaksız yollara düştüm
Yılan yollara, yalan yollara
Duman yollara, duman
7 Kasım 2011 Pazartesi
Söyle rûhum sevdân beni kaç yıl yakacak
Söyle rûhum sevdân beni kaç yıl yakacak
Söyle rûhum sevdân beni kaç yıl yakacak
Ben saramadım seni eller mi saracak
Bil ki ömrüm senin aşkınla solacak
Ben saramadım seni eller mi saracak
Beste: Ûdî Hırant (Kenkiloğlu)
Güfte: Ûdî Hırant (Kenkiloğlu)
Makam: Hüseyni
Usûl: Aksak
Form: Şarkı
Seslendiren: Şükrü Türkmen
Kânun taksimi: Atilla Akıntürk
Hüseynî Makamı Sayfasına Git
Müheyyâ oldu meclis sâkiyâ peymâneler dönsün
Müheyyâ oldu meclis sâkiyâ peymâneler dönsün
Müheyyâ oldu meclis sâkiyâ peymâneler dönsün
Bu bezm-i ruh bahşın şevkine mestâneler dönsün
Terennüm:
Gel gel gel işvebazım gel
Gel gel gel çâre sâzım
Ter di l ite ne nen te nen te nen nen
Na te ne dil li ney vay yâr
Yâr mestâneler dönsün
Beste: Râkım Elkutlu
Güfte: Bâki
Makam: Hüseynî
Usûl: Düyek
Form: Beste
Hüseynî Makamı Sayfasına Git
Menekşe kokulu yârim
Menekşe kokulu yârim
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Kime arz edeyim halim
Elimdem aldılar yârim
Yârim al beni, al beni
Al da sinene sar beni
Yârim gül damlası, damlası
Yâri sîneye sarması
Menekşesi biçim biçim
Ölürüm yar senin için
Bir buse ver başın için
Yârim al beni, al beni
Al da sinene sar beni
Yârim gül damlası, damlası
Yâri sîneye sarması
Menekşesi tutam tutam
Arasına güller katam
Ya ben nasıl
Victor Halfwit: A Winter's Tale, by Thomas Bernhard
As a child I didn't read books. At least, I have no memory of doing so. My teacher in primary school once read to us James & the Giant Peach, and I enjoyed that, so why didn't I rush straight to Roald Dahl's other books? I don't know. Still, it can't be true that I didn't read because, a few years ago browsing in a small shop dedicated to children's books, I found a display of Ladybird Books' Well Loved Tales, reprints of editions I recognised as part of my childhood.
The moment I saw the cover of The Gingerbread Boy, involuntary memory washed over me. My fascination with the image of the gingerbread boy himself is particularly distinct. I can see now that he is running away but then, as a child, it wasn't so clear. I could see only a two-dimensional figure, though of course "two-dimensional" meant nothing to me. His odd way of running must have made me wonder what he was doing exactly; it didn't look like running. And why is he smiling? I'm sure I didn't know, and this is why I found it mysterious and captivating. But the distance between the content of my innocence then and my knowledge now is almost impossible to close outside of that momentary wash.
Other features in the series have a similar if slightly dimmer aura: the size of the elves against the shoes in The Elves and the Shoemaker, the presence of the pea beneath the layers of blankets in The Princess and the Pea, the contemplative demeanor of the ape in The Beauty and the Beast and the disdainful remove of the black goat in The Three Billy-Goats Gruff (which looks like it influenced the cover of U2's October). I should be clear: these are not Proustian reveries in which remote times and places merge into one, but something less grand, a fleeting sensation, a shadow of memory. I have no memory of the stories, only the images and the fascination they summoned then returns to me in placeless, wordless memory.
I am now fascinated by this fascination: what is its cause? If the gingerbread boy's oddness stands out, the others are not so clear. With adult knowing one may apply Freudian analysis to the blankets, aligning perhaps with Kafka's disgust at his parents' unmade bed, but I think the explanation is much simpler: they each manifest the part of the story that writing cannot contain. That is, the fascination created by storytelling itself, the inexplicable enchantment of the imagined world. Perhaps this is why graphic novels are so popular now, and my own puzzlement at this popularity – and an inability to share in it – is due precisely to my lack of childhood reading. This is no doubt true, but I think there's a deeper reason.
In 1837, Soren Kierkegaard wrote there were two ways of telling stories to children with "a multitude of false paths in between".
Kierkegaard contrasts the two paths of storytelling to the false paths which "crop up by coming beyond the nanny position but not staying the whole course and stopping half-way". But how can modern writers stay the whole course if full transparency means knowingness inimical to fascination? It can't be a coincidence that the most popular children's books of recent years – JK Rowling's and Philip Pullman's – are enjoyed by many of the same readers, albeit "ironically". Postmodernists need sincerity too.
Thomas Bernhard's story for children, Victor Halfwit: A Winter's Tale, first published in Austria in 1966 with the subtitle "a winter's tale not just for kids", and now translated by Martin Chalmers and published by Seagull Books in an extraordinarily extravagant illustrated book, may be an example of Kierkegaard's false path. Had it been closer to a graphic novel, it may have found one of the other two.
The story itself is typical Bernhard: dark and charming, brutal and funny, moving and disturbing, all at the same time. That is, not each of these in turn but all at the same time. A doctor in Traich is walking to Föding through the "high forest" late one night – "this is what you have to picture" he says, the time of night is important – on his way see a patient with "an ailment of the head", when he stumbles upon a man lying in the snow, unable to move. From his prone position he introduces himself as Victor Halfwit, a man with two wooden legs: "the locomotive tore them from my body!". Victor is delighted as, had the doctor not arrived just then, he would surely have died of the cold and, "as you know, the most horrible death occurs when one freezes to death." You can expect children to love this. The rest of the very short story is taken up with Victor's explanation of how he came to be trapped in the high forest and what the doctor does to help him.
I've noted before how interrupted routines, particularly interrupted walking routines, recur in Bernhard's fiction: the early novel Gargoyles and the later novel The Cheap-Eaters are not included there but suit comparison with Victor Halfwit, the first featuring a doctor on his rounds meeting grotesque characters, the second a scientist missing one leg changing restaurants on a whim. So what difference does having illustrations make to the Bernhardian experience? One particularly effective feature is emphasis of the comedy. The doctor notices that Victor is even more delighted when he learns of his rescuer's profession. He is happier than if he had been a plumber, an electrician, a baker or a farmer. In a normal book, this information would take up two lines of text, three at most, which one would scan without pause. Here it covers ten pages! Two pages count for the doctor's comments, then there are two for each profession mentioned. On first reading, each page provokes smile upon smile as the unnecessary excess increases. Each page-turning pause is a perfectly-timed caesura. Yet while the collages representing each profession in the abstract are impressive and fun, they seem more decorative than illustrative. (You can see more at Sunandini Banerjee's Facebook page.) Had each been related directly to the story and the interaction of characters, I wonder how much more captivating they would be. A regular graphic novel reader, one for whom illustration itself is a narrative, would be a better judge. Perhaps they would be enchanted by the illustrations just as I was by the Ladybird books. However, I longed for the straightforward representation offered by the latter. In the former, nowhere is the doctor or Victor Halfwit depicted. Sometimes there was little compulsion to look at anything but the words before turning the page. Perhaps, however, if they had been depicted, each caesura would have been missed as one studied the relation of one character to the other before reading the text.
Late on, there is a two-page spread featuring eight wooden grotesques in a distinctly medieval Germanic style, one of whom I decided looks like Victor Halfwit. This emphasised to me what the rest refuses and which I missed. Perhaps though, as the doctor says: "this is what you have to picture".
The moment I saw the cover of The Gingerbread Boy, involuntary memory washed over me. My fascination with the image of the gingerbread boy himself is particularly distinct. I can see now that he is running away but then, as a child, it wasn't so clear. I could see only a two-dimensional figure, though of course "two-dimensional" meant nothing to me. His odd way of running must have made me wonder what he was doing exactly; it didn't look like running. And why is he smiling? I'm sure I didn't know, and this is why I found it mysterious and captivating. But the distance between the content of my innocence then and my knowledge now is almost impossible to close outside of that momentary wash.
Other features in the series have a similar if slightly dimmer aura: the size of the elves against the shoes in The Elves and the Shoemaker, the presence of the pea beneath the layers of blankets in The Princess and the Pea, the contemplative demeanor of the ape in The Beauty and the Beast and the disdainful remove of the black goat in The Three Billy-Goats Gruff (which looks like it influenced the cover of U2's October). I should be clear: these are not Proustian reveries in which remote times and places merge into one, but something less grand, a fleeting sensation, a shadow of memory. I have no memory of the stories, only the images and the fascination they summoned then returns to me in placeless, wordless memory.
I am now fascinated by this fascination: what is its cause? If the gingerbread boy's oddness stands out, the others are not so clear. With adult knowing one may apply Freudian analysis to the blankets, aligning perhaps with Kafka's disgust at his parents' unmade bed, but I think the explanation is much simpler: they each manifest the part of the story that writing cannot contain. That is, the fascination created by storytelling itself, the inexplicable enchantment of the imagined world. Perhaps this is why graphic novels are so popular now, and my own puzzlement at this popularity – and an inability to share in it – is due precisely to my lack of childhood reading. This is no doubt true, but I think there's a deeper reason.
In 1837, Soren Kierkegaard wrote there were two ways of telling stories to children with "a multitude of false paths in between".
The first is the way unconsciously adopted by the nanny, and whoever can be included in that category. Here a whole fantasy world dawns for the child and the nannies are themselves deeply convinced the stories are true […] which, however fantastic the content, can’t help bestowing a beneficial calm on the child. Only when the child gets a hint of the fact that the person doesn’t believe her own stories are there ill-effects – not from the content but because of the narrator’s insincerity – from the lack of confidence and suspicion that gradually develops in the child. The second way is possible only for someone who with full transparency reproduces the life of childhood, knows what it demands, what is good for it, and from his higher standpoint offers the children a spiritual sustenance that is good for them. [Trans. Alastair Hannay, the ellipsis is in the original]I suspect with graphic novels the problem for me is that the graphical content cannot bestow a beneficial calm, and this is because, put as simply as possible, the novels that drew me into reading (and thereby bestowed calm) were adult novels aware of what they cannot contain, an awareness necessary to form and content (Proust's would be the earliest example) which nevertheless sought that lack against nature. And the addition of graphics to a text is a shortcut, an unwitting act of insincerity. Perhaps I was too far from childhood fascination to maintain ready access to it, while those readers with an uninterrupted passage from the freedom of childhood books to reading for social integration and acceptance feel drawn to the beneficial calm afforded by the gesture of sincerity implicit in graphic novels, even if that means they are told, inevitably, by someone who knows the stories are not true.
Kierkegaard contrasts the two paths of storytelling to the false paths which "crop up by coming beyond the nanny position but not staying the whole course and stopping half-way". But how can modern writers stay the whole course if full transparency means knowingness inimical to fascination? It can't be a coincidence that the most popular children's books of recent years – JK Rowling's and Philip Pullman's – are enjoyed by many of the same readers, albeit "ironically". Postmodernists need sincerity too.
Thomas Bernhard's story for children, Victor Halfwit: A Winter's Tale, first published in Austria in 1966 with the subtitle "a winter's tale not just for kids", and now translated by Martin Chalmers and published by Seagull Books in an extraordinarily extravagant illustrated book, may be an example of Kierkegaard's false path. Had it been closer to a graphic novel, it may have found one of the other two.
The story itself is typical Bernhard: dark and charming, brutal and funny, moving and disturbing, all at the same time. That is, not each of these in turn but all at the same time. A doctor in Traich is walking to Föding through the "high forest" late one night – "this is what you have to picture" he says, the time of night is important – on his way see a patient with "an ailment of the head", when he stumbles upon a man lying in the snow, unable to move. From his prone position he introduces himself as Victor Halfwit, a man with two wooden legs: "the locomotive tore them from my body!". Victor is delighted as, had the doctor not arrived just then, he would surely have died of the cold and, "as you know, the most horrible death occurs when one freezes to death." You can expect children to love this. The rest of the very short story is taken up with Victor's explanation of how he came to be trapped in the high forest and what the doctor does to help him.
 |
| From Victor Halfwit illustrated by Sunandini Banerjee |
I've noted before how interrupted routines, particularly interrupted walking routines, recur in Bernhard's fiction: the early novel Gargoyles and the later novel The Cheap-Eaters are not included there but suit comparison with Victor Halfwit, the first featuring a doctor on his rounds meeting grotesque characters, the second a scientist missing one leg changing restaurants on a whim. So what difference does having illustrations make to the Bernhardian experience? One particularly effective feature is emphasis of the comedy. The doctor notices that Victor is even more delighted when he learns of his rescuer's profession. He is happier than if he had been a plumber, an electrician, a baker or a farmer. In a normal book, this information would take up two lines of text, three at most, which one would scan without pause. Here it covers ten pages! Two pages count for the doctor's comments, then there are two for each profession mentioned. On first reading, each page provokes smile upon smile as the unnecessary excess increases. Each page-turning pause is a perfectly-timed caesura. Yet while the collages representing each profession in the abstract are impressive and fun, they seem more decorative than illustrative. (You can see more at Sunandini Banerjee's Facebook page.) Had each been related directly to the story and the interaction of characters, I wonder how much more captivating they would be. A regular graphic novel reader, one for whom illustration itself is a narrative, would be a better judge. Perhaps they would be enchanted by the illustrations just as I was by the Ladybird books. However, I longed for the straightforward representation offered by the latter. In the former, nowhere is the doctor or Victor Halfwit depicted. Sometimes there was little compulsion to look at anything but the words before turning the page. Perhaps, however, if they had been depicted, each caesura would have been missed as one studied the relation of one character to the other before reading the text.
Late on, there is a two-page spread featuring eight wooden grotesques in a distinctly medieval Germanic style, one of whom I decided looks like Victor Halfwit. This emphasised to me what the rest refuses and which I missed. Perhaps though, as the doctor says: "this is what you have to picture".
6 Kasım 2011 Pazar
BAKLAVA,BAYRAM KAHVALTI SOFRAMIZ
KURBAN BAYRAMINIZI KUTLAR ALLAH KÖTÜ GÜNLERİ GERİDE BIRAKIP HUZURLU, SAĞLIKLI GÜNLERDE KUTLAYACAĞIMIZ BAYRAMLARA ERİŞTİRSİN
BAYRAM KAHVALTI SOFRAMIZ
BAYRAM KAHVALTI SOFRAMIZ
Kıymalı açma börek
Galeta unlu poaça
Şehriye salatası
Şekerpare
Pizza
Peynirli pörsellenmiş biber sarması
Baklava
1/2 kahve kaşığı sirke
1 su bardağı süt
200 gram tereyağ
1/2 su bardağı sıvıyağ
2 çorba kaşığı yoğurt
1 tutam tuz
Aldığı kadar un
ŞERBETİ
8 Su bardağı şeker
6 su bardağı su
ÜZERİNE
500 gram tereyağ
ARALARINA
400 gram ceviz
AÇMAK İÇİN NIŞASTA
YAPILIŞI
Tereyağ eritilir.Ö ncelikle sıvı malzemeleri ve tuzu bir kabın içinde hepsini karıştrıyoruz,elenmiş un azar azar ilave ederek yumuşak bir hamur yoğurulur.Hamur 15+15+15+15 olarak 60 beze yapılır. Nışasta ile tabak büyüklüğünde açarak aralarına nışasta serpip her 15 katı üst üste koyup merdane yardımıyla tepsi büyüklüğünde büyütüyoruz, tepsiyi sıvı yağ ile yağlayıp hamuru yerleştiriyoruz her 15 kat yufkanın arasına dövülmüş ceviz serpip resimdeki gibi keserek eritilmiş tereyağını döküp 250 derecede ısıtılmış fırında hafif kızarana kadar pişirip ateş 160 dereceye düşürülülür iyice kızarıp içininde iyi piştiği anlaşılınca fırından alınır, tatlı sıcak şerbet ılık olacak .
ŞERBETİ
8 su bardağı şeker 6 su bardağı su ile kaynamaya başlayınca limon suyunu sıkıp altınsarısı rengine gelene kadar kaynatılır, yarım su bardağı soğuk su katılıp biri iki taşım kaynar.
5 Kasım 2011 Cumartesi
Anıtkabir'in öyküsü: Anıtkabir hakkında bilinmeyenler
Anıtkabir yapılmadan önce rasat (gözlem) istasyonu bulunması dolayısıyla Anıttepe'nin ismi Rasattepe idi. 906 rakımlı bu tepede, MÖ. 12. yüzyılda Anadolu'da devlet kuran Frig uygarlığına ait tümülüsler (mezar tepeleri) bulunuyordu. Anıtkabir'in Rasattepe'de yapılmasına karar verildikten sonra bu tümülüslerde yapılan arkeolojik kazılardan çıkarılan eserler bugün Ankara Anadolu Medeniyetleri Müzesi'nde sergileniyor.Anıtkabir'in yerinin seçilmesi için görevlendirilen komisyon 1 Mart 1941 tarihinde uluslararası bir yarışma açtı. Yarışmaya, Türkiye, Almanya, İtalya, Avusturya, İsviçre, Fransa ve Çekoslovakya'dan toplam 47 proje katıldı. Bu projelerden üç tanesi komisyon tarafından ödüle layık görüldü. Milli konu ve kavramları daha iyi ifade etmesi ve araziye uygunluğu nedeniyle, Prof. Dr. Emin Onat ve Doç. Dr. Ahmet Orhan Arda'nın projesinin uygulanmasına karar verildi. 9 Ekim 1944 tarihinde yapıma başlandı. Anıtkabir'in inşası 9 yıllık bir sürede 4 aşamalı olarak 1953 yılında tamamlandı.
Onbeş yıl boyunca Ankara Etnografya Müzesi’ndeki geçici kabirde kalan cenaze 10 Kasım 1953 günü Anıtkabir'e nakledildi. Etnografya Müzesinde bu kısım halen Atatürk’ün anısına hürmeten sembolik bir kabir şeklinde korunuyor.
Atatürk'ün naaşı, mozolenin zemin katında doğrudan doğruya toprağa kazılmış bir mezarda bulunuyor. Ziyarete açık olan, mozolenin birinci katı olan şeref holündeki sembolik lahit taşının tam altında bulunan mezar odası Selçuklu ve Osmanlı mimari stilinde sekizgen planlı kümbet tarzında piramidal külahlı, tavanı geometrik motifli mozaiklerle süslü. Zemin ve duvarlar siyah, beyaz, kırmızı mermerlerle kaplı. Mezar odasının ortasında kıble yönünde kırmızı mermer sanduka yer alıyor. Mermer sandukanın çevresinde Türkiye'deki bütün illerden, Kuzey Kıbrıs Türk Cumhuriyeti ve Azerbaycan'dan gönderilen toprakların konulduğu pirinç vazolar bulunuyor."Bu taşındır diyerek Kabe'yi diksem başına...
Yine bir şey yapabildim diyemem hatırana!"
İstiklal Marşı şairi Mehmet Akif Ersoy'un, Çanakkale Şehitleri şiirinden.Mustafa Kemal Paşa Samsun'dan Ankara'ya ne şartlarda ve nasıl ulaştı? Atatürk'ün Ankara yolculuğunun bilinmeyen öyküsü: Ankara Beynam Ormanları ve Beynam Atatürk Evi...
Kurtuluş Savaşı bu evde kazanıldı: Atatürk ve Fikriye Hanım'ın öyküsü...
Sakarya Şehitleri Anıtı ve Sakarya Köyünün öyküsü...
Ankara Anıtkabir'den görüntüler...
Inside Ataturk's Mausoleum, originally uploaded by voyageAnatolia.
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