Nazim Hikmet

Selected Poems

A PARICHAYA -UNITY
PUBLICATION
FIRST INDIAN EDITION: APRIL 1952.

PUBLISHED BY
ASOKE GHOSH

PARICHAYA PRAKASHANI

63, DHARMATALA STREET,

CALCUTTA13.

PRINTED AT

PRINTKRAFT LTD., CALCUTTA 13.

ENGLISH TRANSLATIONS

BY COURTESY

MASSES AND MAINSTREAM.

COVER DESIGN BY

SATYAJIT ROY

Rupee one annas eight only

Copyright Reserved
 NAZIM HIKMET
There are some men who do not die. It is as impossible to kill them as it is to
imprison laughter, to tie a noose round the neck of happiness, or to plunge a
dagger into the heart of a song.

Nazim Hikmet was put in solitary confinement in a Turkish dungeon by a

Government which hated his poems. He was seriously ill with a heart disease
towards the end of his long confinement on a prison term of 23 years. The Turkish
Government thought they had finished with Nazim Hikmet.

Imagine their disappointment when they found they had imprisoned only
half the man! For had he not himself written to his doctor:
"If the half of my heart is here, doctor,
The other half is in China
With the Red Army advancing towards the Yellow River."

Nazim Hikmet was denied newspapers, letters, visitors. Yet he addressed his
friends in his poems, Ahmet the driver, and Yakup the schoolteacher, and he went
back into the ancient history of his country and sang of the hero, Galip Usta.

Only one half of his heart suffered with ANGINA PECTORIS; the other half
"beat with the most distant star." The flesh and blood that the massive stones of
his Turkish jail could not grind to dust, addressed itself to children and old men,
saying:

"We will see happy days, children,

We will see happy days ......”

He knew that his audience was the simple, ever-growing, ever-loving, people
of the world. His voice rang out from his dungeon, his poems travelled on scraps
of paper throughout his country, crossed the seas and brought fire to the hearts of
all men.

He sang of the loves and desires of simple men, who wanted to "eat at a
white-clothed table," and he also sang with the fierce determination of men who
have had a lifetime of suffering and who are determined to drag the sun out of the
cruel heart of a jungle society:

"Victory will be snatched with teeth and nails"

“And nothing will be forgiven."

Last year, the year in which Nazim Hikmet was awarded the International
Peace Prize, the Turkish Government was forced by a world-wide wave of pro-
tests to free the man they could not kill.
 And their defeat is the victory of all men who love children and sailing-boats
and violins.

March 31, 1952 David Cohen

I
 ABOUT ART

Real art is the art that reflects life. One can find in it all the conflicts,
struggles, inspirations, victories, defeats, and love of life, and all the aspects of
human personality. Real art is the art that does not give false ideas about life.

The new poet does not recognize separate languages for poetry, prose and
talking. He writes in a language that is not made-up, false, artificial, but natural,
lively, colourful, deep, extremely complicated-that is, a simple language. All the
elements of life exist in this language. The poet does not have a different
personality when he writes than when he talks or fights. A poet is not a
degenerate dreaming that he is flying in the clouds, he is a citizen, engaged in life,
organizing life.

NAZIM HIKMET
 CONTENTS

OPTIMISM

PERHAPS

IF NOT TONIGHT

FAREWELL

MICROCOSMOS

WRITTEN ABOUT THE WALL OF IMPERIALISM SURROUNDING THE

EAST THAT WAS SHOVED BACK INTO THE MEDITERRANEAN SEA
FROM IZMIR AND WILL SOON BE FORCED BACK TO THE INDIAN
OCEAN FROM BOMBAY

FROM THE EPIC OF SHEIK BEDREDDIN

IT IS SNOWING IN THE NIGHT

SUNDAY

FROM THE EPIC OF THE NATIONAL INDEPENDENCE STRUGGLE

SOME OF THEMAHMET THE DRIVER

THE LEGEND OF THE BLACK SNAKE

ABOUT VICTORY

LETTERS FROM PRISON (1942-1946)

FROM THE EPIC OF THE SECOND WORLD WAR

ADVICE TO A FELLOW PRISONER

YOUR HANDS AND THEIR LIES

ANGINA PECTORIS

THE FUNNIEST CREATURE

THE TWENTIETH CENTURY

THE ENEMIES

SINCE I WAS JAILED

YOU AND ME

TO PAUL ROBESON

THE FIFTH DAY OF A HUNGER STRIKE

GRAFTING

YOU ARE MY COUNTRY

MORNING

EVENING STROLL

A SAD FREEDOM

THAT IS THE QUESTION

 OPTIMISM

We will see beautiful days, children

we will see sunny days.
We will sail our speedboats into the open sea, children
we will sail them into the bright blue open sea. …
Imagine going full speed
the motor turning
the motor roaring.
Oh children who can tell
how wonderful
to kiss when your speed reaches 100 miles…

True for us today

there are flower gardens on Fridays, on Sundays
only on Fridays
only on Sundays. …

True today
we admire the stores on lighted streets
as if listening to a fairy tale,
those stores with glass walls
seventy-seven stories high.

True when we cry for an answer

the black book opens for us:
the jail.
Leather belts seize our arms
broken bones
blood.

True now on our table

there is meat but once a week.
And our children come home from work
like pallid skeletons.

True now....
But believe me
will see beautiful days, children we will see sunny days.
We will sail our speedboats into the open sea
we will sail them into the bright blue open sea...

1930
 PERHAPS

Perhaps I,
long before
that day
Swinging at the end of the bridge
Will cast my shadow on the asphalt

Perhaps I,
long after
that day
A trace of gray beard on my clean-shaven chin
Will still be alive

And I,
long after that day
If I remain alive
Leaning against the walls
in the city squares,
Will play the violin on holiday evenings
For the old men who, like me, survived the last struggle
All around us lighted sidewalks in a wonderful night
And the footsteps of new people
Singing new songs.

1930
 IF NOT TONIGHT
If not tonight
tomorrow
night
I will go to jail...
Not a leaf stirring within myself
Like an undisturbed sleep, my mind
is quiet
at ease.

My mind
is quiet
at ease:
For I am watching the blue sky
like a newborn child.
Yesterday
I went out on the city square
and said:
"Let us not kill our brothers
let us not die
for Them!”

1930
 FAREWELL

Farewell
my friends
farewell!
I am carrying you in my heart
deep in my heart
and my struggle in my mind.
Farewell
my friends
farewell!
Don’t line up on the shore
like birds in picture-cards
to wave kerchiefs at me
I want none of this.
From head to toe
I see myself in the eyes of my friends
Oh friends
brothers in struggle
brothers in work
comrades
Farewell without words.
The nights will fasten a lock on the door
The years will knit their net on the windows
And I will shout the song of the prison
As a fighting song.
We will meet again,
my friends,
we will meet again
Together we will laugh at the sun
Together we will fight
Oh friends
brothers in struggle
brothers in work
comrades
Farewell.

1931
 MICROCOSM1

When the starlight flowing into my eye like a golden drop

Pierced the darkness
of space
for the first time,
there wasn’t one single eye on the earth
looking into the sky....
The stars were old,
the earth was a child.

The stars are far from us

but so very far
so very far. …
Our world is small among the stars
but so very small
so very small. …

And Asia
is one fifth of the world,
And India
is a country in Asia.
Calcutta is a city in India
Benerjee is a man in Calcutta.

And I am bringing you the news:

In India
In the city of Calcutta
they stopped on his way
A man who was walking
and they chained him.

And I don’t bother anymore

to lift my head toward the bright skies.
If the stars are far,
if the earth is small
I don’t care at all
I don’t mind. …

1
This is a fragment from an epic on the life and death of an Indian revolutionary, Benerjee,
published in 1934.
I want you to know that I find
more astonishing
more powerful
more mysterious and gigantic

THIS MAN
stopped on his way
and chained.

1934
WRITTEN ABOUT THE WALL OF IMPERIALISM SURROUNDING
THE EAST THAT WAS SHOVED BACK INTO THE MEDITERRANEAN
SEA FROM IZMIR AND WILL SOON BE FORCED BACK TO THE
INDIAN OCEAN FROM BOMBAY

That wall
That wall
is rising like a second Balkan in the Balkans.

That wall, that wall…

They are shooting our people
in front of that wall!
Every single foot of land along that wall
has its long epic,
as long
as that wall.
They are plucking the male organs
of those who die in front of that wall
to make youth serums
for the strawlike, syphilitic skeletons
of the millionaires!
The millionaires
buried in the flesh of whores
are listening like a radio-concert
to the death orders
given in front of that wall
with bullet sounds!
That wall
there is a mobilization in front of that wall.
A mobilization more widespread
more accursed
than in 1914....

Just as darkness
in the sunlight runs to hide in a hole
imperialists are running
to this mobilization...
The League of Nations of the British warships
the diplomat with gunpowder-scented white gloves
the producer of rotten human flesh
the imperialist general,
the Second International,
The philosopher
who fertilizes and digs the soil
of “Religion”
to pick up its poisonous flowers,
and writes his works on bank-notes,
The poet in love with permanganate,
the chemist who sells death rays
all are mobilized
mobilized
under the banner of that wall.
That wall
That wall, that wall,
They are shooting our people
in front of that wall....
 FROM THE EPIC OF SHEIK BEDREDDIN

In the preface to the "Epic of Sheik Bedreddin”, published in 1936, Nazim

explains that while in prison he read a distorted history of a popular uprising that
took place in Turkey, in the XIVth century. He felt so disgusted with the biased
and sketchy treatment of this revolt that he decided to write a long epic which
would do it justice. Nazim wanted to show that Turkish history is not devoid of
heroic uprisings of the downtrodden masses against their oppressors. The uprising
of Sheik Bedreddin was not only confined to the Turkish masses. The Greek and
Jewish inhabitants of the region called Karaburun, in the western part of Anatolia,
across from the island of Chios, also participated in this struggle for a better life.
The peasant disciple of Sheik Bedreddin, Mustafa Berklujeh, led the revolting
people in a fight against the overwhelming forces of the Ottoman Empire headed
by the Royal Prince Murad. The movement of Sheik Bedreddin was a primitive
type of communism aiming at common ownership of land, tools, foodstuffs,
clothes, everything except the women. The movement was crushed in a brutal
way. Sheik Bedreddin and Mustafa Berklujeh were hanged. They became martyrs
and their followers never lost their faith in ultimate victory.

It was hot
very hot The heat was like a knife with a bloody handle
with a dull blade.

It was hot
The clouds were loaded,
ready to burst
to burst right away.

Without moving, he looked down

from the rocks
his eyes, like two eagles, descended over the plain
There
the softest and hardest
the stingiest and most generous
the most loving
the greatest and most beautiful woman
the EARTH
was about to give birth
to give birth right away.

It was hot
He watched the horizon at the end of the earth
with knitted eyebrows.
Plucking children's heads
like bloody poppies in the fields,
dragging naked shrieks in its wake,
a five-crested fire came gushing from the horizon -
the Royal Heir Murad was coming.
The Royal order issued to Murad
was to reach the land of Aydin
and fall on Mustafa, the follower of Bedreddin.

It was hot,
Mustafa the follower of Bedreddin looked
he looked, Mustafa the peasant
looked without fear
without anger
without a smile
he looked straight ahead
standing erect
he looked.

The softest and hardest

the stingiest and most generous
the most loving
the greatest and most beautiful woman
the EARTH
was about to give birth
to give birth right away.

He looked
From the rocks Bedreddin's braves looked at the horizon
The end of this earth was getting closer and closer
on the wings of a bird of death carrying a Royal order.

Those men looking down from the rocks

had opened this earth
with its grapes, figs, its pomegranates,
its cattle with hair blonder and milk thicker than honey,
its narrow-hipped and lion-maned horses,
had opened it like a brother's table
with no walls and no boundaries.

It was hot
He looked Bedreddin's braves looked at the horizon
The softest and hardest
the stingiest and most generous
the most loving
the greatest and most beautiful woman
the EARTH
was about to give birth
to give birth right away.

It was hot
the clouds were loaded
the first drop of rain, like a sweet word
was about to fall to the ground

Suddenly,
as if flowing from the rocks,
pouring from the skies,
growing out of the ground
like the latest product of this earth,
Bedreddin's braves jumped on the Royal Heir's army
They were clad in seamless white shirts,
bare-headed
bare-footed, their swords naked.

They fought fiercely

Turkish peasants from Aydin
Greek sailors from Chios
Jewish merchants
the ten thousand comrades of Berklujeh Mustafa
plunged like ten thousand axes
into the forest of the enemy.
The ranks with red and green flags,
ornamented shields and bronze helmets
were torn into pieces
but when in the pouring rain the day passed into evening
the ten thousand were but two thousand.

To be able, singing all together

to pull the nets together from the sea,
working the iron into a lace together,
to be able together to plough the land
and eat all together the figs as sweet as honey,
to be able to say;
All together
Everywhere
In everything
But on the cheek of the beloved,
the ten thousand gave their eight thousand.

They were defeated.

On the seamless white shirts of the vanquished
The victors
wiped their bloody swords
And the earth they had tilled together
with brotherly hands
like a song sung together
was trodden under the hoofs
of horses born in the Palace of Edirne.

1936
 IT IS SNOWING IN THE NIGHT

Neither to hear voices from the world beyond

nor strive to bring into my verses the “unfathomable”
nor search for the rhyme with the care of a jeweler,
no beautiful words, profound discourse
Thank God
I am above
well above this tonight.

Tonight
I am a street singer, there is no talent in my voice;
my voice is singing for you a song you will not bear.

It is snowing in the night,

You are at the door of Madrid.
In front of you an army
killing the most beautiful things we own,
hope, yearning, freedom and children,
The City....

It is snowing
And perhaps tonight
your wet feet are cold.
It is snowing
And while I am thinking about you
a bullet might be hitting you right now;
then for you no more
snow, wind, day or night...

It is snowing.
Before you stood at the door of Madrid
saying “no pasaran”
you must have been living somewhere.

Who knows
Perhaps
You came from the coal mines of Asturias
Perhaps around your head a bloody bandage
hides a wound you got in the North.
And perhaps you were the one who fired the last shot in the suburbs
while the “Junkers” were burning Bilbao.
Or perhaps you were a hired hand
on the farm of some Count Fernando Valeskeras de Cordoban
Perhaps you had a small shop on the “Plaza del Sol”
you sold colorful Spanish fruits.
Perhaps you had no craft, perhaps you had a beautiful voice.
Perhaps you were a student of philosophy or law
and your books were crushed by the wheels of an Italian tank
on the campus of your University.
Perhaps you did not believe in heaven and perhaps you have on your chest a little
cross hanging on a string.

Who are you, what is your name, when were you born?
I have never seen, I will never see your face.
Who knows
Perhaps it looks like the faces
of those who beat Kolchak in Siberia;
Perhaps it looks a little like the face
of someone who lies on the battlefield of Dumlupinar4
you might even look something like Robespierre.

I have never seen, I will never see your face,

you have never heard, you will never hear my name.
There are between us seas and mountains,
my cursed helplessness,
and the “Committee of Non-Intervention.”

I cannot come to you

I cannot even send you
a case of cartridges
fresh eggs
or a pair of woolen socks.

And yet I know,

in this cold snowy weather
your wet feet guarding the door of Madrid
are cold like two naked children.
I know,
everything great and beautiful there is,
everything great and beautiful man has still to create
that is, everything my nostalgic soul hopes for
Smiles in the eyes
of the sentry at the door of Madrid.
And tomorrow, like yesterday, like tonight
I can do nothing else but love him.

December 25, 1937

 SUNDAY
It's Sunday today
For the first time today
They let me out in the sun
And for the first time in my life
Amazed to find the sky so far away
so blue
so huge

I stood there motionless.

Then full of awe I sat on the ground.
I pressed my back against the white wall.
No idle dreams at this moment
no struggle, no freedom, no wife.
The earth, the sun and myself...
I am happy.
1938
 FROM THE EPIC OF THE NATIONAL INDEPENDENCE
STRUGGLE

This epic describes the struggle of the Turkish people to overthrow their
Ottoman rulers, as well as the yoke of foreign imperialism, which took place in
the wake of the first World War (1919-1922). Turkey, then known as the Ottoman
Empire, had participated in World War I as an ally of the German Empire. The
Ottoman Empire was the "sick man of Europe," defeated, occupied by British,
French and Italian forces, and betrayed by her own rulers who collaborated with
the occupation forces.

The decadent Ottomans signed the infamous treaty of Sevres that reduced
Turkey's existence to nothing but a small piece of rocky land in the interior of
Anatolia. To make matters worse, Greek monarchists inspired by British
imperialists sent out an army of mercenaries which invaded the whole of Western
Anatolia.

In the midst of this situation the great drama called the struggle for national
independence unfolds itself. The poor, starving masses of Turkey who carried the
burden of exploitation on their shoulders for centuries, led by Mustafa Kemal
Ataturk, took the initiative of throwing out of the country the imperialists, as well
as the ruthless Ottoman monarchs. Those masses "...at dawn... from the edge of
darkness... press their heavy hands against the earth and stand up," they become
heroes.

Some of the poems that form this epic relate the story of the whole people,
while some tell of the exploits of single individuals. It is the first-hand account of
an eyewitness, of a participant in the National Independence Struggle, Nazim.
himself.

Written in jail, around 1940, this epic which was never published was passed
from hand to hand, from mouth to ear, all over the country.

Those who are as numerous

as ants in the earth,
fish in the sea,
and birds in the air;
Who are cowardly,
brave,
ignorant,
learned,
and child-like;
Those who destroy
and create;
Only their adventures are in our book.

Those who, deceived by the temptations of the traitor,

drop to the ground the flags they were holding,
And leaving the enemy in the battlefield
run away home.
Those who draw their swords against scores of renegades,
Who laugh like a green tree,
Cry without reason,
And curse mother and wife,
Only their adventures are in our book.
The fate
of iron
of coal
of sugar
of red copper
of textile
Of love and ruthlessness and life
of all the branches of industry
of the sky
of the desert
of the blue ocean
Of the gloomy river beds
of the ploughed soil and of the cities,
their fate changes one morning at dawn.
At dawn when from the edge of darkness
they press their heavy hands against the earth
and stand up.

They are the wisest mirrors

reflecting the most colourful shapes.
In our century they were the victors,
they were the vanquished.
A great deal was said about them
And about them it was said:
"They have nothing to lose but their chains."
 SOME OF THEM
It is three thirty
the squad is in its position
on the Halamur-Ayvalik railroad.
Corporal Ali from Izmir
straining his eyes in the darkness
looked one by one at the men of the squad
as if he was never to see them again...
The first man on the right was blond
the second dark
the third stuttered,
but there was no better singer
in the whole company.
The fourth one was certainly craving for some sweets.
The fifth was going to shoot the man who shot his uncle
the very night he would reach Urfa after being discharged.
The sixth,
the man with incredibly large feet,
was being sued by his brothers
because he left his land and only ox
to his old immigrant wife.
And because he always stood guard for his friends
he was called in the company "the crazy man from Erzurum."
The seventh was Osman, son of Nehmet,
he was wounded in the Dardanelles, at Inonu, at Sakarya,
and he can take some more wounds
and still stand straight
without blinking his eyes.
The eighth,
Ibrahim
would not have been so scared
if his white teeth did not keep chattering
and knocking against each other...
And Corporal Ali from Izmir says:
the rabbit does not run away because he is afraid
he is afraid because he runs away.
It is four o'clock.
In the sector of Black Mouth and Willow River
the 12th infantry division
the eyes in the darkness fixed on the distance
the hands near by on the trigger
everybody is in place.
The chaplain,
he only gunless man in the dugouts...
the man of the dead...
sticking a broken willow twig in the direction of Mecca
started his morning prayer
bending his head
and clasping his hands.
His conscience is at ease,
heaven is an eternal rest.
Whether they defeat the enemy or are defeated
from the field of battle he will with his own hands
give to the Almighty the souls of the martyrs.
It is four forty-five.
In the vicinity of Sandikli
villages...
The cavalry man with a black hanging mustache
was standing next to his horse beside a maple tree.
The horse from Chukurova
was beating its tail against the darkness
with blood on its knees
and foam on its tether...
The fourth company of the second cavalry division
with its horses, swords and men
was smelling the air.
Far on the rear, in the villages a cock crowed,
and the cavalry man with the hanging black mustache
though he did not know how and when they would come
had faith in the days of revenge, comfortable and beautiful.
In Kojatepe in his observation post
the sentry with the woollen calpack
was standing with his smiling mustache
beside his Mauser.
Suddenly he saw “HIM"2 five feet away on his right.
The generals were behind "HIM."
"HE" asked the time.
The generals said "five o'clock."
He looked like a blond wolf.
His blue eyes were sparkling.
He walked up to the edge of the abyss,
leaned forward and stopped.
Bouncing on his thin long legs
he was going to jump from Kojatepe to the Afyon Hills
sliding like a star in the darkness.

2
HIM – Mustafa Kemal Ataturk, leader of the independence struggle
 AHMET THE DRIVER

What were we saying Ahmet my son?

Leaving on your right the shops of the casters,
you turn toward the Long Market
at the comer, on the left, the book peddlers:
the Story of the Palace of Crystal
six volumes of History by Jevdet
and "the Art of the Cuisine"..

Cuisine means kitchen,

that is, to cook a meal.
I love stuffed mackerel.
You can hold it by its gilded tail
and eat it like a bunch of grapes.

A cavalry, group is riding ahead of us

they have just turned to the left...
You go down straight to the Long Market,
Chairmakers, backgammon-pawn makers,
rosary makers...
And you the native of Istanbul,
since you are used to the skill of your own hands,
you are puzzled by the people of Istanbul;
you say how subtle and varied their skills are.

The Mosque of Rustem Pasha,

then the rope makers...
At the rope makers they sell
enough ropes, cords, and bells made of moulded bronze
to equip a hundred sail-boats
and innumerous mule caravans.

The Prison Gate,

Father Jafer,
in the distance the Fishmarket,
and the dried fruit sellers...
We are on the fruit quay.
I am longing for that sea
with its rowboats and barges,
with its sunny watermelon peels.

Is my left back tire leaking?

I should get down and take a look...
Once we took the slow boat from the Fruit Quay
and went to the wishing well in Eyup.
Her hands were short and plump
and her legs were slightly bowed
but her eyes were like green olives
and her eyebrows arched like crescents.
As we came to the Rustem. Pasha mosque
the one with the white scarf..

The tire is leaking;

if we don't find a way out of this trouble...
Let's see Father Jafer.

The truck number three stopped.

Darkness,
jack,
PUMP,
hands,
his swearing hands, angry because they have to swear.
While working on the tire and the old wheel
Ahmet remembered:
One night he was carrying his paralytic grandmother
from one couch to the other and the poor woman...

The inner tube is torn from end to end,

No spare
tire.
To shout for help in the mountains?

You are from Suleymaniye Ahmet my son!

This truck number three was entrusted to you alone.
And also remember the sheep
that was hanged by its own leg.
Undress, driver Ahmet from Suleymaniye!
So, he got undressed
Coat, trousers, shorts, shirt and calpack
and the red sash
leaving Ahmet naked but for his boots
went inside the tire
and blew it up.

This a Nihavent3 song.

A city on the seashore
her white scarf ..

3
A style in classical Turkish music
We are making thirty per hour.
Hold on old truck that is wearing me out
hold on so that the mountains can see
Ahmet the driver stark naked.

Hold on my lion-hearted!
No man
has ever loved
with such pitying hope
any machine.
 THE LEGEND OF THE BLACK SNAKE
The people of Antep are good shooters,
they can shoot a flying crane right in the eye,
a running rabbit on its hind leg.
They stand on their Arabian horses thin and tall
like a crisp, green cypress tree.

Antep is a hot
Antep is a tough place
The people of Antep are good shooters
The people of Antep are brave.

The Black Snake

before he became the Black Snake
was a farm hand in the Antep villages.
Perhaps he was contented,
perhaps he was not contented.
- they did not give him to think about these matters -

He used to live like a field mouse

and was as cowardly as a field mouse.
Bravery is possible only with horses, guns and land.
He did not possess horses, guns and land.
His neck was as thin as a straw
his head was enormous.

The Black Snake

before he become the Black Snake
when the enemy entered Antep
was brought down by the people of Antep
from the pistachio tree
that hid his fear.
They drew a horse under him
they put a gun in his hand...

Antep is a tough place

on the red rocks
are green lizards.
Hot clouds in the air
drift forward and backward...
The infidel was holding the hills
The infidel had guns
the people of Antep were crushed in the flat plain
the infidel was pouring shrapnels
the infidel was tearing the earth from the roots.
The infidel was holding the hills
The blood of Antep was flowing.
The shield of the Black Snake
before he became the Black Snake
was a rose bush in the plain.

This bush was so tiny

his fear and his head were so big
that he was lying flat
without putting a bullet in his barrel.

Antep is a hot,
Antep is a tough place
The people of Antep are good shooters.
The people of Antep are brave.
But the infidel had guns
Fate was ineluctable
the people of Antep
would leave the flat plain to the infidel.

Before he became the Black Snake

the Black Snake did not care at all
if Antep was given to the infidel until doomsday,
for they had never allowed him to think.
He lived on the earth like a field mouse
and was as cowardly as a field mouse.
His shield was a rose bush.
He was lying flat under the rosebush.

From behind a white stone

a black snake
put out its head.
Its skin was bright and shiny
its tongue fork-shaped
its eyes redder than fire.
Suddenly a bullet
came and hit its head
it fell and died there.

The Black Snake

before he became the Black Snake
seeing the end of the black snake
shouted at the top of his voice
the first thought of his life:
"Take a lesson, my heart' he said,
"death found the black snake behind the white stone,
"it will find you too even if you hide in an iron trunk."
And when he who had been as cowardly as a field mouse
ran and jumped forward
the people of Antep, were roused
they followed him.
They beat the infidel on the hills.
And to him who had lived like a field mouse
who had been as cowardly as a field mouse
they gave the name of "Black Snake."

This is the story we have heard

and in the first part of our epic we wrote this story
just as it was told to us;
the story of Antep
of the people of Antep
and of the Black Snake
who was famous for years at the head of his guerillas.
 ABOUT VICTORY

Your hands pressed on the wound

biting your lip till it bleeds
you must bear the awful pain.
Hope is now but
a bare and ruthless shriek.
Victory
will be snatched with teeth and nails
and nothing will be forgiven.
The days are dark
the days are bringing news of death.
The enemy is harsh
cruel and sly.
Our men are dying in the struggle
- Yet how they deserved to live –
Our men are dying
- so many of them –
As if with their songs and flags
they were out for a parade on a holiday
so young
so reckless...
The days are dark
the days are bringing news of death.
With our own hands we burned most beautiful worlds
and our eyes can no longer cry,
Leaving us a little sad and hard
our tears are gone
so this is why
we have forgotten how to forgive...
The goal we have to reach
will be reached shedding blood,
Victory will be snatched
with teeth and nails
and nothing will be forgiven.

1941
 LETTERS FROM PRISON (1942-1946)

My only one
in your last letter
You say:
“My head is aching
my heart is bewildered.”
you say:
“If they hang you
If I lose you
I cannot live.”

You will live my darling wife,

My memory will fade like black smoke in the wind.
You will live, red-haired sister of my heart.
In the twentieth century
mourning the dead
lasts but one year.

Death...
A corpse swinging at the end of a rope,
I cannot resign my heart
to such a death.
But be assured my beloved
that if the hairy hand of the hangman
ties a rope
around my neck,
they will look in vain
into the blue eyes of Nazim
to see fear.

In the dim light of my last morning

I will see my friends and you,
and I will only
take to the grave
the sorrow of an unfinished song.

My wife, my own
my tender-hearted bee
with eyes sweeter than honey!
Why did I ever write you
they wanted a death sentence,
The trial is only just starting
and a man’s head cannot be plucked
like a turnip.

Don’t give it another thought.

All this is a distant prospect,
if you have some money
buy me flannel drawers:
I have sciatic pains in my leg.
And don’t forget
the wife of a prisoner
must always have cheerful thoughts.

II

The wind flows and passes,

The same cherry branch never swings twice
in the same wind.
On the tree the birds are singing:
Wings want to fly.
The door is closed:
it has to be forced open.

I want you:
Life should be beautiful like you,
A friend, a beloved like you...
I know, the banquet of misery
has not yet come to an end,
But it will end.

III

Kneeling I am looking at the earth

I am looking at the branches with their bright blue blossoms
You are like the spring earth my beloved
I am looking at you.

Lying on my back I see the sky

You are like spring, you are like the sky
My beloved I see you.

At night, in the country, I built a fire, I touch the fire

You are like a fire lit under the stars
My beloved I am touching you.
I am among men, I love mankind
I love action
I love thought
I love my struggle
You are a human being inside my struggle my beloved
I love you.

IV

Beyond description - they say - the misery of Istanbul,

Starvation - they say - is reaping so many lives,
Tuberculosis - they say is so widespread.
Tiny little girls they say -
in back alleys, in movie houses.

Bad news is coming from my distant home town:

the city of honest, industrious, poor people
My real Istanbul.

My darling, it is the place you live in,

It is the city
I carry on my back, in my bag
Wherever I am exiled, wherever I am jailed,
I bear in my heart like a sharp pain
caused by the loss of a child.
It is the city
I carry in my eyes like your image.

It is nine o’clock
the bell rang on the square
the cell doors will be closing any minute.
Prison lasted a little too long this time
eight years.
To live is a hopeful job my beloved
To live: it’s just as serious as to love you
To think of you is a beautiful
a hopeful thing...
But hope does not satisfy me anymore
I don’t want to listen to a song
I want to sing my own song.

VI
Warm and lively
like blood rushing from a vein
the South winds are blowing.
Listen to the tunes
the pulse beats slower.
It must be snowing on top of Uludagh4
and the bears up there
on the reddened chestnut leaves
must be lost in a sweet and beautiful sleep.
In the plain the willows must be undressing
The silkworms will soon shut themselves in.
Autumn will soon be over
The earth is about to fall sound asleep
Another winter will pass
and we will warm ourselves up
at the fire of our wrath
and of our sacred hope.

VII

Our son is sick

His father is in jail
Your heavy head is resting on your tired hands
We are at the same point, this world and ourselves.

Men will carry men

From bad days to better days
Our son will get well
His father will come out of jail
You will smile deep in your golden eyes
We are at the same point, this world and ourselves.

VIII

The most beautiful ocean

is the one we have not yet seen,
The most beautiful child
has not yet grown up.
Our most beautiful days
are those we have not yet lived.
And the most beautiful things I would like to tell you
I have not yet told.

4
Mount Olympus, near Bursa
 IX

I saw you in my dream last night

you lifted your head,
you looked at me with your amber eyes
your moist lips were moving,
but I couldn’t hear your voice.

Somewhere in the dark night the clock strikes like bright news.
I can hear eternity whispering in the air
“The Song of Memo”5 in my canary’s red cage,
in a ploughed field
the noise of the growing seeds cracking in the earth,
and the righteous uproar of a glorious crowd.

Your moist lips were moving

but I couldn’t hear your voice.
I woke up swearing.
I had fallen asleep on my book.
Among all these voices,
didn’t I hear your voice too?

5
Memo was a “Robin Hood” who, with his band, robbed the rich to give to the poor. “The Song
of Memo” is a folk song in his praise.
 FROM THE “EPIC OF THE SECOND WORLD WAR”

We who had a pleasant time in this world

without spoiling our hands in drudgery
could we say that we have lived?
It would be the same thing
even if we survived for another hundred years
there is only today,
there is no yesterday;
And the end of that hundred years too will come soon.
I envy Bedreddin, Darwin, Pasteur, Gorky, Marx,
and Edison;
Believe me, not for their fame and their reputation,
The Mosque of Sultan Selim is still standing in Edrine
Though Sinan has passed away
A long time ago…
 What I envy them for
is their having fought and created with love and enthusiasm Yes
Sir,
their having lived a hundred percent as long as they were alive.

***

Jevdet Bey was lost in contemplation of the stars

the sky was like a sparkling, phosphorescent sea.
The sky was tired, endless, gloomy and warm
Jevdet Bey put his glasses on with great seriousness
(as if there was a book in the sky and he was
going to read it.)
- Like slave-ships with black sails
lands loaded with men are passing, following each other:
Africa, the Pacific Islands, China, India,
the Near and Middle East (including Anatolia)
without counting the merchants, manufacturers, lords and so on,
one and a half billion
not match sticks
but MEN.
One and half billion men are passing through the sky...
Jevdet Bey is thinking tirelessly.
There are a lot of beautiful things in this world
which make life worth living
and yet, apple of my eye, the men in the black-sailed ships…
For a long time Jevdet Bey could not take out of his mind
the image of these black-sailed ships
Then a single man sitting, all huddled up,
appeared in front of him,
he saw him clearly as if he could touch him:
he could see him squatting on the quay below
and up in the stars.

His knees thrust up

his hand as furrowed as a ploughed field.
- Oh My Lord, thought Jevdet Bey,
how can a man be so tired.
How many hours does he work every day?
twelve?
thirteen?
fifteen?
Who knows what he is thinking about?
My God, how little I know about real men.
And how strange,
they are as much alike as two apples,
this man
 and for instance a king, an emperor.

Both eat, digest and eject

In this respect they are no different
from the caterpillar, the elephant,
or even the artichoke.
And the king, the emperor…
How did the king - the emperor, get into my mind?
I saw him in a film recently,
he was watching a football match
he was making funny sounds, clapping his hands
yes sir, he looks a little like a simpleton.
How strange
His Majesty’s wife is a member of the grocers’ class
Well anyway a freckled, fat woman
she should only know what I think of her...
Jevdet Bey laughed
his big white mustache escaped from between his teeth
he looked at the stork sleeping under an orange tree.
- How lucky you are, he said, how lucky you are Pilgrim Father
you are not able to think.
No, I am lying, apple of my eye,
to be able to think is happiness,
a dreadful happiness sometimes
but happiness anyhow.
Jevdet Bey put his big mustache back in his mouth
he closed his eyes
and enjoying his dreadful happiness
fell asleep on his easy-chair.
I look up;
I see a submarine up,
high up above my head,
yes sir, just like a fish,
silent like a fish within its armor, in the water.
The light up there is aqua green,
yes sir.
it’s all green up there,
all bright
millions of candles are shining up there like so many stars.
Up there, Oh... my wandering soul,
the first moving flesh of our world is up there,
the secret voluptuousness of a silver washbowl,
yes sir, the secret voluptuousness
of a washbowl with a bird design.
And the red hair of the woman in whose arms I am,
Up there colorful weeds and rootless trees
 and whirling creatures of the ocean world.
Up there are life, salt and iodine,
our beginning is up there, pilgrim father
up there is our beginning.

**

Hans Muller from Munich,

before he became a submarine sailor
in the spring of 1939
was the third private from the right
in the fourth squad
of the sixth regiment
of Hitler’s Storm Troops.
Hans Muller from Munich
used to love three things:
1—Golden-foamed barley water
2—Anna, plump and white like Prussian potatoes
3—Red cabbage
Hans Muller from Munich
recognized three duties:
1—To salute his superiors with lightning speed
2—To swear by his gun
3—To stop at least three Jews a day
and curse their ancestors
Hans Muller from Munich
had three fears in his mind, in his heart, on his tongue:
1—Der Fuehrer
2—Der Fuehrer
3—Der Fuehrer

Hans Muller from Munich

had a happy life
until the spring of 1939.
And he was surprised to hear
Anna with her flesh as white as Prussian potatoes
and her voice as stately as the C in a Wagnerian opera
complain about the shortage of butter and eggs.
He used to tell her:
- Just think Anna,
I will wear a new battle belt,
I will wear shiny boots,
You will wear wax flowers in your hair
we will walk under swords crossed over our heads.
And positively
 we will have twelve children, all boys.
Just think Anna
if in order to eat butter and eggs
we don’t make guns and pistols,
how could our twelve children fight tomorrow?
For they were never born,
yes sir, for before his wedding night with Anna
Hans Muller went to the war himself.
And now, in the autumn of 1941,
at the bottom of the Atlantic
he is standing in front of me.

His thin blond hair is wet

bitterness on his red, pointed nose
and sadness at the edges of his thin lips.
The twelve sons of the native of Munich could not fight
Although he is standing next to me,
he is looking at me from afar
as the dead look at one’s face.
I know that he will never see Anna again
never drink barley water
and never eat red cabbage.
I know all these, apple of my eye,
but he doesn’t know it,
his eyes are a little wet
he does not wipe them.
He has money in his pocket
which does not increase or decrease.
And the funniest of all
he can’t kill anybody anymore
and he can’t die again.
Soon his body will swell,
and he will go up;
the seas will rock him
and the fish will eat his pointed nose.
Don’t say what a beast, Pilgrim father
You too are a beast but an intelligent one.
And Jevdet Bey looked fondly at his stork...
The perfume of the organe trees pervaded the night.
Jevdet Bey and his stork were in the garden.
They had brought a radio to the garden.
London was giving the Atlantic war news.
Jevdet Bey lost in his thoughts,
was dreaming he was at the bottom of the Atlantic.
Its long red bill
hanging on its white breast
its wings clipped short,
standing on one leg the stork was dozing.
Down in the port, the Mediterranean,
naked, like a young mother.

**

The comrades are sound asleep

Ahmet from Turkestan is sleeping in the hall
on his right the Ukrainian Yuncherka
the Annenian Sagamanyan on the top bed,
the smell of sweating men, of army coats...

Ivan sat on his bed

and yawning bent down toward his boots.
He took off the left one,
then lifted up his head and listened:
there was a hum outside
the door opened wide,
the guard yelled: to arms!

They jumped up,

It was Ivan who was out first,
one foot with a boot
the other without.
The big forest on the south-west is burning
the air is like blood flowing ceaselessly
the guns are roaring, the guns are roaring…
High above an air squadron passed.
the first enemy tanks appeared in the south,
six steel monsters following each other.

The year is 1941

the day June 22,
Ivan had never quarreled with anybody in his life,
he had never felt hatred toward any nation.

**

Under the snow from end to end

under the snow the lonely street.
Over the snow the partisan:
her feet naked
her arms tied at her back
in underwear,
She is walking before the bayonet
 going from one end to the other.
The guard was cold, they went to the shelter.
The guard warmed himself up, they came out.
This lasted from ten at night to two in the morning.
At two o’clock the guard was changed
And the partisan sat
Motionless on the wooden bench.

The partisan
is eighteen years old.
The partisan
knew that she would be killed soon.
To die and to be killed:
the difference was small in the flame of her wrath.
And she was too young and too healthy
to be afraid of death, to grieve.
She looked at her bare feet:
they were swollen
they were frozen and chapped, and red all over.
But the partisan
was beyond pain.
She was wrapped in her anger and her faith
just as she was wrapped in her skin.

**

Her name was Zoya,

she told them she was called Tanya.
Tanya!
In the Bursa jail, your picture is in front of me.
Perhaps you have not even heard the name of Bursa.
My Bursa is a green and a gentle place.
In the Bursa jail, your picture is in front of me.
The year is no more 1941
the year is 1945.
Your people are not defending the gates of Moscow anymore
At the gates of Berlin your people,
our people,
all the people of an honest world,
are fighting.

1945
 ADVICE TO A FELLOW PRISONER

Just because you did not give up your hopes,

for the world, for your country, and for humanity
they either send you to the gallows,
or put you in jail,
for ten years, for fifteen years
or, who cares, for even longer.

Never say,
“I wish I were swinging
at the end of a rope like a flag”
you must keep on living,
perhaps, living is not a pleasure any more,
but it is your duty
to spite the enemy
to live one more day.
In your jail one part of yourself may be all alone
like a stone at the bottom of the well
But the other part of you
should mingle so with the crowds of the world
that in your jail you will tremble
with every rustling leaf forty days distance away from you.
It is sweet but dangerous
to wait for letters,
and to sing sad songs,
to keep awake till morning
with your eyes fixed on the ceiling.
Look at your face whenever you shave
forget your age,
protect yourself from lice
and from the spring evenings.
And then you should never forget
how to eat your bread to the last crumb
and how to laugh heartily.

And who knows,

maybe your woman doesn’t love you anymore,
(don’t say it is a small matter
to the man in jail
it is like a young limb broken off the tree).
It is bad to dream about the rose and the garden;
and good to think of the mountains and the seas
I would advise you,
to read and write without any rest,
to take up weaving,
and to cast mirrors.
So it is not impossible to spend
ten, fifteen years in a cell
or even more,
it can be done
Provided under your left breast
That precious gem
The jeweled heart stays bright.
 YOUR HANDS AND THEIR LIES

Your hands, solemn like stones;

sad, like tunes sung in prison;
huge, massive, like draft animals;
your hands like the angry faces of hungry children.

Your hands, deft and industrious as bees,

heavy, like breasts full of milk,
valiant as nature,
your hands hiding their friendly softness under rough skins.

This world does not rest on oxen’s horns,

this world is carried by your hands.
And men, Oh my men!
they feed you on lies,
while you are starving
while what you need is meat and bread.
And without once eating at a white-clothed table
to your heart’s content you leave this world
and its fruit-laden trees.
Oh men, my men!
Especially those of Asia, of Africa,
of the Near East, the Middle East, the Pacific Islands,
and those of my country,
who are more than seventy per cent of humanity,
like your hands you are old and musing,
yet like them, curious, enthusiastic and young.
Oh men, my men!
My European, my American,
you are alert, you are daring,
yet forgetful like your hands,
and like your hands you are easy to dupe,
easy to deceive…

Oh men, my men,
if the antennas lie,
if the posters on the walls lie, and the ad in the paper,
if the printing presses lie,
if the bare legs of the girls lie on the white screen,
if the prayer lies,
if the dream lies,
if the lullaby lies,
if the tavern fiddler lies,
if after a hopeless day the moonlight lies at night,
f the words lie,
if the colors lie,
if the voices lie,
if all those who exploit the labor of your hands
and everything and everyone lies,
except your hands
it is to make them pliant like clay
blind as darkness,
stupid as shepherd dogs
and to keep them from revolting
and from bringing to an end
the money-grabber’s kingdom and his tyranny
over this transient though wonderful world
where we are for but so short a stay.
 ANGINA PECTORIS

If the half of my heart is here, doctor,

The other half is in China
With the army going down towards the Yellow River.
And then every morning, doctor,
Every morning at dawn
My heart is shot in Greece.

And then when the prisoners fall asleep,

When the last steps go away from the infirmary
My heart goes off, doctor,
It goes off to a little wooden house, in Istanbul.
And then for ten years, doctor,
I have had nothing in my hands to offer my people,
Nothing else but an apple,
A red apple my heart.

I watch the night through the bars

And in spite of all these walls lying heavily on my chest
My heart beats with the most distant star.
It is on account of all that, doctor,
And not because of arterio-sclerosis,
Or nicotine or prison
That I have this angina pectoris.
 THE FUNNIEST CREATURE

Like the scorpion, brother,

You are like the scorpion
In a night of horror.
Like the sparrow, brother,
You are like the sparrow
In his petty worries.
Like the mussel, brother,
You are like the mussel
Shut in and quiet.
You are dreadful, brother,
Like the mouth of a dead volcano.
And you are not one, alas!
You are not five
You are millions.
You are like the sheep, brother,
When the cattle-dealer, clad in your skin, lifts his stick
Right away you join the herd
Almost proud, you go running to the slaughter-house.
So you are the funniest creature
Funnier even than the fish
That lives in the sea yet does not know the sea.
And if there is so much tyranny on this earth
It’s thanks to you, brother,
If we are starved, worn out,
If we are skinned to the bones,
If we are crushed like grapes to yield our wine –
I can’t bring myself to say it’s all your fault,
But a lot of it is, brother.

1948
 THE TWENTIETH CENTURY

“Let’s fall asleep now

and wake up in a hundred years, my beloved. ...” J

NO
I am not a deserter,
Besides my century does not frighten me,
My wretched century,
Blushing from shame,
My courageous century,
great
and heroic.

I have never grieved I was born too soon

I am from the twentieth century
And I am proud of it
To be where I am, among our people is enough for me
And to fight for a new world....

“In a hundred years, my beloved....

No, earlier and in spite of everything -

My century dying and reborn
My century whose last days will be beautiful
My century will burst with sunlight, my beloved, like your eyes.

1948
 THE ENEMIES

They are the enemies of the towel weaver Rejep from Bursa
the enemies of the fitter Hasan from the Karabuk factory.
They are the enemies of the poor peasant woman Matcheh
the enemies of the farmhand Suleyman.
They are your enemies, my enemies,
the enemies of every thinking man.
Our fatherland, which is the home of these people,
they are, my beloved, the enemies of our fatherland.

They are the enemies of hope, my beloved,

the enemies of the running water
of the fruit-laden tree,
of a growing and improving life.
For death has put its stamp upon their foreheads
- decaying teeth, rotten flesh –
They will tumble down and go away
never to come back again.
And surely, my beloved, surely,
in this beautiful country, Liberty
will walk around freely
will walk around in its most glorious outfit
in workingman’s overalls.

1948
 SINCE I WAS JAILED

Since I was jailed

this earth turned ten times around the sun.
If you ask the earth
"nothing worth mentioning,
a microscopic time."

If you ask me:

"Ten years of my life."

The year I was jailed

I had a pencil
Writing constantly I used it up in one week,
If you ask the pencil:
"A whole life."
If you ask me:
"What of it, a couple of weeks."

Since I was jailed

Osman who was sentenced for manslaughter
got out of jail for a while
then came back for smuggling
served six months and got out again.
A letter came yesterday, he is married
he is going to have a baby in the spring.

The babies who had just been conceived

the year I was jailed
are ten year old children now.

The thin, long-legged fillies of that year

Have turned some time ago into comfortable, wide-hipped mares.

But the olive shrubs are still shrubs

still children.

Since I was jailed

new public squares have been opened in my distant city
and my folks
are living in a strange street
in a house I have never seen.
 The year I was jailed
The bread was as white as cotton,
then it was rationed,
here, inside the jail people fought
for a piece of black ration as big as the fist,
Now you can buy it freely again
but it is black and tasteless.

The year I was jailed

the SECOND ONE had just started
The Dachau crematoriums were not yet burning
the Atom bomb had not been dropped over Hiroshima..

Time flew like the blood of a strangled child

Then that chapter was officially closed
American dollars are now talking about the THIRD ONE.
But since I was jailed
days nonetheless are brighter.

And "From the edge of darkness

they pressed their heavy hands against the pavements
and stood up" halfway?6

Since I was jailed

the earth turned ten times around the sun
and with the same insistence I repeat once more
in the ten years I spent in jail
all I wrote is for them;
for "Those who are as numerous as ants in the earth
fish in the sea, and birds in the air,
Who are cowardly, brave
ignorant, learned,
and child-like,
Those who destroy
and create,
Only their adventures are in my songs”, 7
and all the rest
- say my ten years in jail -
is just idle talk.

1948

6
Quotes from an earlier poem (See “the Epic of the National Struggle.”)
7
Quotes from the same poem as above.
 YOU AND ME

We are half of an apple

The other half is our huge world
we are half of an apple
the other half is mankind
you are half of an apple
I am the other half
you and me!

October 27, 1949

 TO PAUL ROBESON

They don’t let us sing our songs, Robeson,

Eagle singer, Negro brother,
They don’t want us to sing our songs.

They are scared, Robeson,

Scared of the dawn and of seeing
Scared of hearing and touching.
They are scared of loving
The way our Ferhat7 loved.
(Surely you too have a Ferhat, Robeson,
What is his name?)

They are scared of the seed, the earth

The running water and the memory of a friend’s hand
Asking no discount, no commission, no interest
A band which has never paused like a bird in their hands.

They are scared, Negro brother,

Our songs scare them, Robeson.

October 1949
 THE FIFTH DAY OF A HUNGER STRIKE

Brothers,
If I can’t tell you well
What I have to tell you
You will excuse me,
I am slightly dizzy, nearly drunk,
Not from raki
From hunger, just a little bit.

Brothers,
Those of Europe, of Asia, of America,
I am neither in jail nor on a hunger strike,
In this month of May, I am lying on a lawn at night,
Your eyes are close over my head, shining like stars,
Like the hand of my mother,
The hand of my beloved,
The hand of life.

Brothers,
You have never deserted me,
Neither me, nor my country, nor my people.
As much as I love yours
You love mine, I know it.
Thanks, brothers, thanks.

Brothers,
I don’t intend to die,
If I am murdered
I will go on living among you, I know:
I will live in Aragon’s poems
- In his lines telling about the beautiful days to come –
I will live in Picasso’s white dove,
I will live in Robeson’s songs
And above all,
And best of all,
I will live in the victorious laughter of my comrade
Among the dockers of Marseilles.

To tell you the truth, brothers,

I am happy, fully happy.

May 1950
 GRAFTING

The field was ready:

Its dark flesh as naked as a newborn child.
The field was ready:
Its thick damp lips half-open...
It did not have to wait too long:
At dawn, like small live worms dropping from above
the seed started pouring.
The earth quivered from pleasure,
closing and opening
closing and opening
she drew in the pouring grain.

And then languorous

Twice as beautiful
Sweaty and swollen
the earth stretched.
She could now say "I am stronger than death"
for she was pregnant...

The bees rushed from the hive toward the sun

in front the queen, the virgin
Her wings as thin and transparent as a delicate hum
Her waist slender and fragile
Three red belts on her golden haired belly
The strongest of the males caught up with her
And up above in the sky, close to the sun,
thorny, delicate feet intertwined.
The grafting lasted but one second
The female shook and freed herself
The male fell down
- its flesh tom apart -
from high above to the earth.

The window of their room opens on the forest

Under the heavy summer clouds the forest
was dark, damp and warm inside, like the womb.
On the face of the man a light,
the reflexion of the eyes of the woman below.
Suddenly the rain poured over the forest.
The woman closed her gray-green eyes,
In her half open mouth her damp teeth, shiny and white,
Deep, very deep, in her heart she felt the warmth of the rain...

The river is flowing like a beating vein.

The tree is standing with its bitter fruits and its thorny branches
It is standing useless and wild.
The axe shone like a song in the sun
The trunk of the tree was cut in the middle
The trunk was old, dark and wet
it nearly bled.
The cut was opened with a grafting knife
The end of the stylus thrust in.
This cut,
this wild trunk, now carried the auspicious token
of a whole new world to come
with thornless branches
thin-skinned, sweet fruits,
and wide, broad leaves.
 YOU ARE MY COUNTRY

You are the field

I am the tractor
You are the paper
I am the typewriter
My wife
The mother of my son
You are a song
I am the guitar
I am a damp, warm windy evening
You are the woman strolling on the quay
And watching the lights on the other side.
I am the water
You are the one who drinks it.
I am walking along the street
You are the one who opens the window
To wave at me.
You are China
I am the army of Mao-Tse-Tung
You are a fourteen-year old Philippine girl
I am rescuing you
From the hands of an American marine.
You are a village in Anatolia on the top of a mountain
You are my city the most beautiful and magnificent
You are a cry for help,
You are my country
The footsteps running towards you are mine.
 MORNING

I woke up.
Where are you?
In your own home.
You still can’t get used
To being in your own home when you wake up?
It is one of the odd consequences
Of staying in jail for 13 years.

Who is the one sleeping next to you?

It is not loneliness, but your wife
She is sleeping soundly like the angels.
Pregnancy becomes the woman.
What time is it?
Eight o’clock
You are safe until evening
Because it is not customary
for the police to raid a house during the day.

1951
 EVENING STROLL

You are out of jail

And no sooner out
You made your wife pregnant
Offering her your ann
You are strolling, in the evening, around your neighborhood
Her belly comes up to her nose
Gracefully she carries her sacred load.
You are respectful and proud.
The air is cool
A coolness like the hands of a cold baby
You feel like taking them in your palms
and warming them.
The cats of the neighborhood are at the butcher’s door
On the top floor his curly wife
Her breasts on the window sill
watching the evening.
The half-lit sky is clear
Right in the middle lies the evening star
Like a glass of water, bright and shiny.
The Indian summer lasted long this year
Though the mulberry trees have turned yellow
The figs are still green.
Shahap the typographer, and the younger daughter of Yani the milkman
Have gone out for an evening walk
Their fingers clasped.
The grocer Karabet’s lights are on.
This Armenian citizen has not forgiven
The massacre of his father in the Kurdish mountains
But he loves you
Because you too did not forgive
Those who smeared this black stain on the forehead of the Turkish people.
The tuberculars of the neighborhood
The bedridden patients
Are looking through the window panes.
The son of the washerwoman Huriye
Sadness on his shoulders
Is going to the coffee house.
Rahnii Bey’s radio
is giving the news:
In a country in the Far East
People with yellow moon-shaped faces
Are fighting a white monster.
From your own people they sent there
4500 Mehmets
To kill their own brothers.
Your face is blushing
from anger and shame
And not just in general
A purely personal
a helpless sadness.
It feels as if they had pushed your wife from behind
rolled her on the ground
and she lost her baby;
Or as if you were in jail again
And they were forcing the peasant-gendarmes
To beat the peasants.

The night fell suddenly

The evening stroll is over
A police car turned into your street
Your wife whispered:
Is it to our house?
 A SAD FREEDOM

You sell the care of your eyes, the sight of your hands
You knead the dough of all earthly goods
Without ever tasting a single bite.
With your great freedom you slave for others
With the freedom of turning into Croesus
Those who make your mother weep
You are free.

From the moment you are born they climb on your head
Their lie-mills grind endlessly throughout your life
With your great freedom, your finger pressed to your temple, you think
With the freedom of conscience
You are free.

Your hanging head seems severed from our neck

Your arms are dropping at your sides
With your great freedom you roam around
With the freedom of the jobless
You are free.

You love your country as your dearest friend

Some day they sell it, perhaps to America,
And you too, with your great freedom,
With the freedom of becoming an air base
You are free.

Wall Street grabs at your throat - their hands be cursed –

Some day they send you to Korea perhaps.
With your great freedom you fill a grave....
With the freedom of becoming the unknown soldier
You are free.

I must live, not as a mere tool, a number, a means,

I must live like a man, you say
With your great freedom they fasten your handcuffs
With the freedom to be jeered, to be jailed, or even to be hanged
You are free.
No iron curtain, no wooden curtain, no lace curtain in your life
No need for you to choose freedom
You are free.

This freedom is a sad thing under the stars.

 THAT IS THE QUESTION

All the wealth of the earth cannot quench their thirst

They want to make a lot of money
You have to kill, you have to die
For them to make a lot of money.

No doubt they don’t admit it openly

They hang up colorful lanterns on the dry branches
They send running on the roads glittering lies
Their tails all covered with tinsel and spangles.

In the market-place they are beating the drums;

Under the tents, the tiger-man, the mermaid the headless-man,
The acrobats in pink shorts on the straight wire
All have heavily made-up faces.

To be duped or not to be duped

That is the question.
If you are not duped you will live
If you are duped you will not.

1951