! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! FaustPrologue 2   ZEITGEIST In Absentia ! ! From The UnTUTORED pen of Nomad Soul - MMI  ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !

Preface

 

This document contains, a poetic essay based on the prologue of Faust - Book I and a narrative poem written and called after one of my teachers, who unceasingly gives me hope and reason to keep writing -- poetry and prose.

 

    I have read the English translation of the prologue by David Luke from Oxford University Press and the Turkish one by Nihat Ülner from Öteki Yayınevi, not the original German text itself. I am still reading Faust in both languagues. I feel indebted to include thanks to the library of Edirne High School for providing me the Turkish translation of Faust - Book I.

 

    Soon after hearing of Faust for the first time, I was recommended to read and requested to write a composition about its prologue. It was again my literature teacher who plunged my mind to the deep waters of Faust and who actually shared the Turkish text with me. Starting from the taste of the Turkish reading, I was confronted by many reasons to order a recently published English translation of the book. After a short search for the available English translations of Faust, I found the translation published under the title "Oxford World's Classics" most appropriate for my use as it was given the winner of the Europen Poetry Translation prize of the year.

 

    My personal addition to the prologue, when compared to the extreme accuracy in the use of language reached by David Luke with the English translation of Faust - Book I, is rather wanting. As for the Turkish translation, I will aim to establish a better poetic sense --than that of Nihalt Ülner's-- spread throughout the text.

 

    FP2 - "Zeitgeist in Absentia" begins where the original prologue ends with the director's words. There, the new players come in; Zeitgeist and then Nomad Soul(I) and his(my) literature teacher with a rather short part in play. The story is based on the fictional dialogues between the characters.

 

    The narrative poem written and called after my literature teacher bears the title "Daydream" and deals mainly with the personal description of her and the usual problems of our times related with the time itself.

 

    You will also find other short writings on the first few pages and a glossary at the end of this rather short publication, where you will learn what words were meant to mean. "Absentia", for example, stands for a place where every good thing is missing, where true presence is absent. Or, "abusage" for poetry as while writing, a poet has to use the words in an unusual --rather abnormal-- way.

 

    I wish you an enjoyable reading.

 

"I admire not what I write but upon what I write." - Nomad Soul

 

Author,

 

 

Çetin Sert

PROLOGUE

DEDICATION

April 4th, 2001 | Edirne

 

Dedicated to Hülya Yayla Tosun

 

Nyx with her blinding cover folds my soul,

Stars seem false and moon my only guide.

Yet neath her light, I yet do as many foul

As I would do if I with evil would abide.

 

As Ahmed says through his ageless page,

Sun takes hope and brings you your truth

And moon's lies on earth will never age,

For man nor himself nor her shows any ruth.

 

My mooned eyes see not by sun's light.

My mind sees indeed not my two eyes,

To finish left shapes, left in light's fight,

Amidst all the unshaped for its shape it dies.

 

My nomad soul to my epitaph fast rides,

Gets off his unicorn and within his tears,

With moonlit pen on my stone he writes

And these stand there when he it cleans:

 

There lies not a mind but there lies Çetin,

Death embraced him with shapeless fear.

Let a dream come and break this routine;

Minds like his mind shall ever lives bear.

 

Nomad soul finishes my unfinished mind,

And gets on his unicorn to ride waywardly.

Even then comes a sight of unknown kind,

Mouths a word, says Done well uncowardly!

 

I am Death, the ever wandering sickle.

Surprised I am you are but only a soul.

I have seen many a soul all wholly fickle;

None ever strived to stand against the dole.

 

Now let my ear, hear what you will say.

Speak, I am to give, this time not to get.

Now tell me how, I can this fault repay,

But be fast, tell; where shall I him re-set?

 

In all the sky, all the stars begin to shake,

Moon tears clouds, for herself to hide.

Now naughty trees, a still form do take,

No growing still has confidence inside.

 

Oh my Death, it was but one moment!

He felt all, the joy, anxiety and love.

Bring him back to the eyes of innocent

He would not want anything above.

 

"Her eyes" he said, "were as hot as the sun,

I could not look or looked but in fear.

When within her eyes, a fest in me begun,

Feelings went off, my mind did blear.

 

 

There was more life in her hand's palm,

Than any land to any flower can give.

If I die before, let her word be psalm,

Let this psalm be my new life to live.

 

If time takes her away from our sights,

Lines or strokes her visage shall recite.

Then death will see how in vain he fights,

For longer arts for shorter lives be site."

 

Bring him death, let him eternally look

Upon the beauteous face of Mrs. Hülya!

Let him write, and write a great book,

Then dedicate to her, here or in Anglia.

 

Death in shame gathers the night's cover,

And re-covers the sky so brightly blue.

He then gives not flowers but one flower,

To my soul he says, This is for every hue!

 

Çetin will raise from his sleep this noon,

Him I re-bring, his sun, the unused pen.

I give him sun, you keep away from moon,

Or he on earth, will soon be mine again!

 

And this I do, for he bears love at heart

Or he his earth would not ever reach.

Let fair daydreams be his one fair art,

And let this art him his self truly teach.

 

Then noon comes, and I am come along.

Death gives me my life and says I indicate

Debt, to who does teach to her I belong;

Thus my verse to my teacher I dedicate.

 

Çetin Sert

PROLOGUE

MOONLIT

pRELUDE

 

Nomad Soul

Alack Cynthia! ... tell me now !

I'm a stranger to the gods above.

Then how far can I go alone,

Lacking the music; Muses' sweet tone ?

 

Cynthia

Your journey, poor friend, will never end.

To every mind, you your self will lend.

What rider can ride traceless away,

Your ink will make you found a-night or a day.

 

Nomad Soul

Calling my pen of worth would be my rude,

Many a shepherd sing hymns with a flute.

Yet, with my words I can not sing,

As worthier pens me my fears bring.

 

Cynthia

Are you a fool or such a fool do you seem?

I bear sun's light and with it ever beam.

To fear its power, I have no reason.

I can't be blind and my mind self-prison.

 

Nomad Soul

False lucifer of eternal darkness, listen!

Beneath you poets write, oceans glisten.

With an ever-pale face you vividity spread

Over lines, over pens, over all that is read.

 

Can you not give me one beauteous face,

Who will teach me, whose path I can trace?

Or you will talk but will have talked in vain,

Or I with thoughts will my poor self disdain.

 

Cynthia ...

If all the beauty I have in mine account,

All earthly beauties will to you recount,

Time shall cease and oceans sing of me,

But when praising you, you can not be.

 

a voice in far distance

There is no soil, no leaves in sight

Against their world I won my own fight.

In mind I dreamed, in dream I found,

A world so mine own, and my own sound.

 

...

 

Amidst laughing foams I am now alone

Amidst happy songs I sing my lonely tone.

But my shiny foams while I here sing,

I wonder if you my words will away wing.

 

"My loneliness upon friendly seas I cry

With my tears my happy seas slowly die.

Why like the oceans evenings lack my mind,

Can one searching me, me in my absence find?"

 

... Cynthia

Look! There is a girl there swinging afeard,

Who will see her, who will make her heard?

Haste over there, for she swings in mind,

Let her among words, her eternity find.

 

I will let winds be your hasty stallion.

It shall let you be not like Pygmalion;

He carved a mere statue out of ivory,

They all will hear and tell your story.

 

In her afraid eyes, I read such art;

She shall give you, not words but her heart.

Not just all her blood but her mind too

Thus her words you your song will woo.

 

Yet your way is too remote from day,

Let not any ghost with your soul play.

My time is up now I should pass on,

I wish at the end you will have won!

 

Now, I descend you my fairest Muse.

But being blind if you her use abuse,

Then poorer you are than the poorest on earth,

For he sees all, you see not even your worth.