Leo
7th May 2006, 02:45
Here are some poems by Nazim Hikmet, a Turkish communist poet. Please write your thoughts about them.
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Ancient History
Far away, we come from,
far away…
Still in our ears,
the thunderous sound of slinging stones.
With neighing wild horses,
forests on mountaintops,
surrounded with bloody animal bones
are the edges of the path we followed.
Again, however
Like a large bottomed young mother’s
tense, pregnant belly, is fertile,
water being shaken in our flasks.
Far away, we come from…
A dead meat smell is smoking
from the leather of our boots…
Afraid,
from the sound of our footsteps
bloody dark years are
taking off like a winged animal…
And burns, in the darkness
the one who goes at front’s arm
his arm, tense as a fire arrow…
Far away, we come from,
far away…
We didn’t lose our bonds with far away…
Far away, we come from
far away…
And finally
by burning our hair:
in the house of darkness, we will set up a fire
we will break, with our children’s heads
their dark window glasses!
And the ones coming after us,
instead of behind iron bars,
will watch from vine gardens
spring mornings, summer nights…
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Past and Future
The Beginning
Since we stood up and begun walking
Since our arm became longer than ever
and since we discovered wheel and fire
we are the ones who destroy, and create
we destroy and create in this beautiful world.
on the path we followed, footsteps we left are bloody,
on the path we followed, coordination of mind, hand and heart
in the earth, rock, plate, canvas, iron and plastic.
Is it our bloody footsteps, on the path we will follow too?
Will this path end in a hellish dead end?
1
Our days wait in palms of children
Our days are seeds, in their palms
From their palms, they will grow.
And children can die tomorrow
and not from a deadly disease,
and not from a tragic accident,
and children can die, like old soldiers, tomorrow
and children can die, in the light of atom clouds,
and even ashes will not remain,
only their shadows.
In the darkness of nowhere.
A dead sea I see right there,
covered with dead fishes.
In the darkness of nowhere
days, we will never live
disappearing with children’s palms.
2
There was a city.
Now it’s just ruins…
There were five cities.
Now they are just ruins…
There were hundred cities
Now they are just ruins…
Poems won’t be written for destroyed cities anymore,
Poets will be no more…
You see a street from your window.
Your room is warm.
Black hair on white pillow…
Men with coats, trees with snow…
You won’t see the window…
neither the street
nor men with coats, nor trees with snow.
No one will cry for the dead,
Eyes will be no more
Hands will be no more
Darkness of nowhere, under a tree
A destroyed tree…
On the top of that tree
Passed the clouds that kill.
Don’t take me to south,
I don’t want to die…
I don’t want to die,
don’t take me to north…
Don’t take me to west,
I don’t want to die…
I don’t want to die,
don’t take me to east…
Don’t leave me here,
take me somewhere.
I don’t want to die,
I don’t want to die.
On the top of that tree
passed the clouds that kill.
3
With our falling houses, more than two billion we are,
women, men, children…
Bread is not enough for all of us,
books are not enough either,
but sorrow
is everywhere
so is pain.
Freedom is not enough for all of us.
Freedom can be enough for all of us however
and sorrow from love
and sorrow from sickness
and sorrow for getting old
can very well be
the only kind of sorrow we see.
Books can be enough for all of us.
We can live, as longs as forests.
We just need to prevent, disappearance of days we haven’t lived yet
with children’s palms,
We just need to prevent, the darkness of nowhere,
for living by fighting for freedom and bread…
4
God is our hands, our mind
God is everywhere,
In earth, rock, plate, canvas, iron and plastic
and in coordination, of whom the artist is hidden…
People! Stand up:
for books, trees and fishes,
for wheat, rice and sunny streets,
for black, golden hair and children.
Our days wait in palms of children
Our days are seeds, in their palms
From their palms, they will grow….
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City That Lost It’s Voice
Motion:
Zero…
City is
silent.
Clenched the jaw of blank-blank city
Year is nineteen empty-empty,
In blank-blank month…
Street is empty,
run from side to side.
Street is empty,
completely empty;
like my pocket…
Water isn’t running anymore,
motor sounds are no more,
no more wheels turning around.
Wind:
blowing the name of Mister Ford in the street:
throwing a colorful advertisement
in the ground…
Three men,
three men standing…
First is carrying in is arm,
a broken violin
Second has a hat in the head
a jacket in the back
Third is naked like a hairy ape…
Street…
Whistling recklessly,
stretching your neck,
cross the street.
No more fear of being crushed
motor sounds are no more
no more wheels turning around.
Wind:
is not smiling any more.
Police whishes all around…
Three men,
three men standing
and a drunk, while singing his song,
is kicking the ground.
Don’t yell in the middle of the street,
NO WAY!
You can’t tame the road!
NO WAY!
won’t talk; the city that lost it’s voice:
unless it’s not touched by
THEIR
hands, locked in their pockets
natural rockets…
Three men,
three men standing…
First is carrying in is arm,
a broken violin
Second has a hat in the head
a jacket in the back
Third is naked like a hairy ape…
Three men
disappearing in darkness…
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Dreaming
Coming in full speed from Far Asia
and reaching Mediterranean like a steed
This world belongs to us.
Wrists in blood, jaws are clenched, bare feet
and this ground like a rug made from silk
This hell, this heaven belongs to us.
Close the doors of hatred, never open them again
destroy the slavery of man to man,
This wish belongs to us.
To live, as free and independent as a tree
and as united and brotherly as a forest,
This dream belongs to us.
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Today is Sunday
Today is Sunday…
They took me out, for the very first time to sunlight today.
And I, for the first time in my life, noticing that sky is
so far away from me
so blue
so large, surprised,
stood without any motion.
Than, I sat on earth with respect
and I put my back in the wall.
At that moment, there were neither falling into waves
nor struggle, nor freedom, nor my wife
Earth, sun and I…
I am happy, I feel life…
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Traitor
Yes, I am a traitor, if you love your country, if you are patriots, I betrayed
my homeland, I am a traitor.
If homeland is your farms
if homeland is what is inside your safes and checkbooks,
if homeland is dying out of fucking hunger,
if homeland is freezing like dogs, and suffering from diseases in summer
if drinking our red blood in your companies is homeland
if homeland is the nails of your lords,
if homeland is fences of your guards, if homeland is police baton,
if your payments and salaries are homeland
if homeland is military bases, military bombs, navy and cannons
if homeland is not to escape from our rotten darkness…
Alright, I am a traitor, but this kind of treason is something to be glad…
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Them
They who are numberless
like ants in the ground,
fish in the sea,
birds in the air,
who are cowardly and brave,
ignorant and wise,
and childlike,
and who destroy
and create,
Everything is written for them, they are life…
They, believing in a lie
throw their flags down
abandoning their own struggle
run to their homes
and who laughs like a green tree
and who cries endlessly
and who swears heavily is them,
Everything is written for them, they are life…
Iron
coal
and sugar
and red copper
and love, oppression, and life
and sky
and desert
and blue ocean
and sad river roads,
fortunes of farms and earth
can be different one morning,
one morning, from the edge of darkness
when they stand up
putting their heavy hands in the ground
They have written the most beautiful poem
They have drawn the most beautiful painting
Many things were said about them,
and about them
“They have nothing to lose but their chains”
said an old man…
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Since I Was Thrown Inside
Since I was thrown inside
the earth has gone around the sun ten times.
If you ask it: "Not worth mentioning
a microscopic scan."
If you ask me: "Ten years of my life."
I had a pencil
the year I was thrown inside.
I used it up after a week of writing. If you ask it :
"A whole lifetime."
If you ask me :
"What's a week."
Since I've been inside
A man did his seven-and-a-half
for manslaughter and left,
knocked around on the outside for a while,
then landed back inside for smuggling,
stayed six months, and got out again;
yesterday we had a letter - he's married,
with a kid coming in the spring.
They're ten years old now,
the children who were born
the year I was thrown inside.
And that year's foals, shaky on their spindly long legs,
have been wide ramped, contented mares for some time.
But the olive seedlings are still saplings,
still children.
New squares have opened in my far off city
since I was thrown inside.
And my family now lives
in a house I haven't seen
on a street I don't know.
Bread was like cotton, soft and white,
the year I was thrown inside. Then it was rationed,
and here inside men killed each other
over black loaves the size of fists.
Now it's free again
but dark and tasteless.
The year I was thrown inside
the SECOND hadn't started yet.
The ovens hadn't been lit at Dacha,
nor the atom bomb dropped on Hiroshima.
Time flowed like blood from a child's slit throat.
Then that chapter was officially closed.
Now dollars and rubles are talking about the THIRD.
Still, the day has gotten lighter
since I was thrown inside.
And "At the edge of darkness,
pushing against the earth with their heavy hands,
THEY have risen up" halfway.
Since I was thrown inside
the earth has gone around the sun ten times.
And I repeat once more with the same passion
what I wrote about THEM
the year I was thrown inside :
"They who are numberless
like ants in the ground,
fish in the sea,
birds in the air,
who are cowardly and brave,
ignorant and wise,
and childlike,
and who destroy
and create,
Everything is written for them, they are life."
And anything else,
such as my ten years here,
is just small talk.
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The Strangest Creature on Earth
You're like a scorpion, my brother,
you're in a cowardly darkness like a scorpion.
You're like a sparrow, my brother,
you're in a sparrow's flutter.
You're like a mussel, my brother,
closed as a mussel, tranquil.
And you're dreadful
as the mouth of an extinct volcano, my brother.
Not one,
not five,
you're in millions, unfortunately.
You're like a sheep, my brother,
when the cloaked drover raises his stick
you join the herd at once
and almost proudly run to the slaughter house.
You're the strangest creature on earth, that is,
even stranger than the fish in the sea
which doesn't know the sea.
And in this world, this tyranny
is thanks to you.
And if we are starved, tired, covered with blood
and if we're still being crushed like grapes for our wine
the fault is yours,
- though I can't bring myself to say it -
but a lot of it, my dear brother, is yours.
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The Great Humanity
The great humanity is the deck-passenger on the ship
third class on the train
on foot on the causeway
the great humanity.
The great humanity goes to work at eight
marries at twenty
dies at forty
the great humanity.
Bread is enough for all except the great humanity,
rice the same,
sugar the same,
clothes the same,
books the same…
They are enough for all except the great humanity.
The great humanity has no shade on his soil
no lamp on his road
no glass on his window
but the great humanity has hope
you can't live without hope.
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On Living
1
Living is no laughing matter:
you must live very seriously
like a squirrel, for example
I mean without expecting anything other than living,
I mean living must be your whole occupation
You must take living seriously
I mean to such a degree that
for example, your hands tied behind your back,
your back pushed to the wall,
or else in a laboratory
in your white coat and safety goggle,
you must be able to die for people
even for people whose faces you have never seen,
even though you know the most real
the most beautiful thing
is living.
I mean, you must take living so seriously
that even at seventy, for example, you must plant olive trees -
and not for your children, either
but because, although you fear death, you don't believe in it,
because living, I mean, weighs heavier.
2
Let's say we are seriously ill, need surgery -
which is to say we might not get up
from the white table.
Even though it's impossible not to feel sad
about going a little too soon,
we'll still laugh at the jokes we are told,
we'll look out of the window to see if it's raining,
or still wait anxiously for the latest newscast.
Let's say we are at the front -
for something worth fighting for, say.
There, in the first battle, on that very day,
we might fall on our face, dead.
we’ll know this with a weird anger,
but we'll still worry ourselves madly
about the outcome of the war, which could last years.
Let's say we're in prison
and close to fifty,
and we have eighteen more years, say,
before iron door opens.
Still we must live together with the outside
with it’s people, animals, struggle and wind
I mean with the outside beyond the wall.
I mean, however and wherever we are,
we must live as if we will never die...
3
This earth will grow cold, a star among stars
and one of the smallest
a gilded mote on blue velvet
I mean this, our huge, great world.
One day this earth will grow cold.
not like a block of ice
or a dead cloud even
but like an empty walnut it will roll along
in endless blackness.
Right now, this must be grieved
- you must feel this sorrow now -
for the world must be loved this much
if you're going to say "I lived"...
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Of Your Hands and Lies
Grave like all stones,
sad like all songs sang in prison,
clumsy, heavy like all beasts of burden,
and like hungry children's offended faces, your hands.
Skillful, light like bees,
full like milky breasts,
brave like nature,
and hiding their friendly touch under their rough skin,
your hands.
This world is not balanced on the bull's horn,
this world is balanced on your hands.
And human beings, my human beings,
they feed you on lies,
but you're starving,
you need to be fed with meat, with bread.
And without eating fully even once at a white table,
you leave this world which has lots of fruits
on its every branch.
Human beings, my human beings,
especially in Asia, in Africa,
Near East, Middle East, Pacific islands,
that is, more than seventy percent of all people,
you're old and absentminded like your hands,
you're curious, amazed and young like your hands.
Human beings, my human beings,
my Europeans, my Americans,
you're smart, bold and forgetful like your hands,
like your hands you're quick to persuade,
easy to get rid of...
Human beings, my human beings,
if the antennas lie,
if books lie,
if the poster on the wall and the advertisement in the column lie,
if the naked calves of girls on the screen lie,
if prayers lie,
if lullabies lie,
if dreams lie,
if the fiddler at the tavern lies,
if moonlight on hopeless nights lies,
if words lie,
if colors lie,
if voices lie,
if living on your hands
everything but your hands
and everybody lie,
it's to make your hands obedient like clay,
blind like darkness,
stupid like dogs,
so that your hands won't become fists,
rebel,
and so that in this mortal, in this livable world
where we are guests for such a short period,
this merchants' rule, this tyranny won't end…
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Advice for Political Prisoners
If instead of being hanged from your neck
you're thrown inside
for not giving up hope
in the world, nature, and people,
if you do ten or fifteen years
apart from the time you have left,
you won't say,
"Better I had swung from the end of a rope
like a flag" -
you'll put your foot down and live.
It may not be a pleasure exactly,
but it's your solemn duty
to live one more day
to spite the enemy.
Part of you may live alone inside,
like a stone at the bottom of a well.
But the other part
must be so caught up in the flurry of the world
that you shiver there inside
when outside, at forty days' distance, a leaf moves.
To wait for letters inside,
to sing melancholic songs,
or to lay awake all night, staring at the ceiling
is sweet but dangerous.
Look at your face from shave to shave,
forget your age,
watch out for lice
and for spring nights,
and always remember
to eat every last piece of bread -
also, don't forget to laugh heartily.
And who knows,
maybe the woman you love will stop loving you.
Don't say it's no big thing :
it's like the snapping of a green branch
to the man inside.
Thinking about roses and gardens inside is bad,
Thinking about seas and mountains is good.
Read and write without resting,
and I also advise weaving
and making mirrors.
I mean, it's not that you can't pass
ten or fifteen years inside
and more -
you can,
as long as the jewel
on the left side of your chest
doesn't lose its luster.
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The Last Bus
Midnight, the last bus.
The conductor cuts the ticket.
Neither bad news are waiting for me at home,
nor a feast of drinks.
For me, it's departure that waits.
I walk towards it without fear
and sadness.
The great dark comes very near by me.
I can look at the world
calmly and at ease, now.
No longer surprises me a friend's treachery,
a knife stabbed in my back.
It's in vain, the enemy can't hurt me now.
I passed through the forest of idols
using my axe
how easily they all came down.
I tested the things I believe in, once more,
most of them turned out pure, I'm thankful.
I had never shone so brilliantly,
never been so free.
The great dark comes very near by me.
I can look at the world
calmly and at ease, now.
I raise my head from my work to look around,
suddenly comes from the past
a word
a smell
the gesture of a hand.
The word is friendly,
the smell beautiful,
the hand is waved by my love.
The call of memory no longer makes me sad.
I have no complaints of memories.
I don't complain of anything, in fact,
not even of my heart
aching nonstop like a big tooth.
The great darkness comes very near by me.
Now neither the minister's pride nor the clerk's claptrap.
I'm pouring bowls of light over my head,
I can look at the sun without my eyes dazzling.
And perhaps, what a pity,
the most cunning lie
will no longer deceive me.
Words can't make me drunk anymore,
neither anyone else's, nor my own.
That's how it is, my rose,
death is now awfully close.
The world, is more beautiful than ever, the world.
The world, was my underwear, my robe,
I started undressing.
I was the window of a train,
now I'm a station.
I was the inside of the house,
now I'm its door unlocked.
I love the guests twice as much.
And the heat is yellowier than ever
the snow purer than ever.
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Farewell
Farewell
dear friends,
farewell!
I bear you in my heart -
in the heart of my heart,
My revolt within my head.
Farewell
dear friends,
farewell!
Do not line the quay
waving handkerchiefs.
That is quite unnecessary.
To see myself reflected
in your eyes
is enough.
O friends,
fellow-workers,
people-in-arms!
Here is my farewell
without a single word.
Night will not bolt the door behind me,
the years will embroider cob-webs
over the windows
of my house,
while I yell
the Prison Song
like a cry of war.
We'll meet again
dear friends,
we'll meet again.
We shall smile again under the sun,
fight once more together,
O friends,
fellow-workers,
people-in-arms,
Farewell!
Gone
Night and snow on the window-panes…
The rails gleam in the white night
reminding you of going
and never coming back.
In the third-class waiting room
a woman is lying,
with bare feet,
a black kerchief round her head.
I walk up and down.
Night and snow on the window-panes…
Inside some people are singing -
a song my friend loved
so much.
His favorite song,
his favorite,
his-
Friends, do not look into my eyes,
I am trying not to weep.
In the white night the rails gleam,
reminding you of going
and never coming back.
A woman in a black kerchief
is lying
in the third-class
waiting-room,
with bare feet.
Night and snow on the window-panes.
Somewhere inside they are singing.
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I Love You
I kneel down: I look at the earth,
the grass,
insects,
little stems blooming with blues.
You are like the spring earth, my love,
I'm looking at you.
I lay on my back: I see the sky,
the branches of a tree,
storks on the wing,
a waking dream.
You are like the spring sky, my love,
I see you.
At night I light a campfire: I touch fire,
water,
silk,
silver.
You are like a fire lit beneath the stars,
I touch you.
I go among people: I love people,
action,
thought,
struggle .
You are one person in my struggle,
I love you.
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A Sad State of Freedom
You waste the attention of your eyes,
the glittering labor of your hands,
and knead the dough enough for dozens of loaves
of which you'll taste not a morsel;
you are free to become a slave-
you are free to make the rich richer.
The moment you're born
they plant around you
mills that grind lies
lies to last you a lifetime.
You keep thinking in your great freedom
a finger on your temple
free to have a free conscience.
Your head bent as if half-cut from the nape,
your arms long, hanging,
your saunter about in your great freedom:
you're free
with the freedom of being unemployed.
You love your country
as the nearest, most precious thing to you.
But one day, for example,
You may proclaim that one must live
not as a tool, a number or a link
but as a human being-
then at once they handcuff your wrists.
You are free to be arrested, imprisoned
and even hanged.
There's neither an iron, wooden
nor a tulle curtain
in your life;
there's no need to choose freedom:
you are free.
But this kind of freedom
is a sad affair under the stars.
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Walking
Walking;
by leaving ones who can’t walk
behind like empty streets,
by tearing air apart,
like a sword,
by facing darkness,
walking!..
Walking;
by feeling heads of your friends
near your own and
putting yours instead, to darkness,
putting your heart in your fists,
walking!..
Walking;
knowing that there is an ambush,
there is certain death
ahead
Walking…
Walking;
While laughing
from your heart
walking…
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Ancient History
Far away, we come from,
far away…
Still in our ears,
the thunderous sound of slinging stones.
With neighing wild horses,
forests on mountaintops,
surrounded with bloody animal bones
are the edges of the path we followed.
Again, however
Like a large bottomed young mother’s
tense, pregnant belly, is fertile,
water being shaken in our flasks.
Far away, we come from…
A dead meat smell is smoking
from the leather of our boots…
Afraid,
from the sound of our footsteps
bloody dark years are
taking off like a winged animal…
And burns, in the darkness
the one who goes at front’s arm
his arm, tense as a fire arrow…
Far away, we come from,
far away…
We didn’t lose our bonds with far away…
Far away, we come from
far away…
And finally
by burning our hair:
in the house of darkness, we will set up a fire
we will break, with our children’s heads
their dark window glasses!
And the ones coming after us,
instead of behind iron bars,
will watch from vine gardens
spring mornings, summer nights…
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Past and Future
The Beginning
Since we stood up and begun walking
Since our arm became longer than ever
and since we discovered wheel and fire
we are the ones who destroy, and create
we destroy and create in this beautiful world.
on the path we followed, footsteps we left are bloody,
on the path we followed, coordination of mind, hand and heart
in the earth, rock, plate, canvas, iron and plastic.
Is it our bloody footsteps, on the path we will follow too?
Will this path end in a hellish dead end?
1
Our days wait in palms of children
Our days are seeds, in their palms
From their palms, they will grow.
And children can die tomorrow
and not from a deadly disease,
and not from a tragic accident,
and children can die, like old soldiers, tomorrow
and children can die, in the light of atom clouds,
and even ashes will not remain,
only their shadows.
In the darkness of nowhere.
A dead sea I see right there,
covered with dead fishes.
In the darkness of nowhere
days, we will never live
disappearing with children’s palms.
2
There was a city.
Now it’s just ruins…
There were five cities.
Now they are just ruins…
There were hundred cities
Now they are just ruins…
Poems won’t be written for destroyed cities anymore,
Poets will be no more…
You see a street from your window.
Your room is warm.
Black hair on white pillow…
Men with coats, trees with snow…
You won’t see the window…
neither the street
nor men with coats, nor trees with snow.
No one will cry for the dead,
Eyes will be no more
Hands will be no more
Darkness of nowhere, under a tree
A destroyed tree…
On the top of that tree
Passed the clouds that kill.
Don’t take me to south,
I don’t want to die…
I don’t want to die,
don’t take me to north…
Don’t take me to west,
I don’t want to die…
I don’t want to die,
don’t take me to east…
Don’t leave me here,
take me somewhere.
I don’t want to die,
I don’t want to die.
On the top of that tree
passed the clouds that kill.
3
With our falling houses, more than two billion we are,
women, men, children…
Bread is not enough for all of us,
books are not enough either,
but sorrow
is everywhere
so is pain.
Freedom is not enough for all of us.
Freedom can be enough for all of us however
and sorrow from love
and sorrow from sickness
and sorrow for getting old
can very well be
the only kind of sorrow we see.
Books can be enough for all of us.
We can live, as longs as forests.
We just need to prevent, disappearance of days we haven’t lived yet
with children’s palms,
We just need to prevent, the darkness of nowhere,
for living by fighting for freedom and bread…
4
God is our hands, our mind
God is everywhere,
In earth, rock, plate, canvas, iron and plastic
and in coordination, of whom the artist is hidden…
People! Stand up:
for books, trees and fishes,
for wheat, rice and sunny streets,
for black, golden hair and children.
Our days wait in palms of children
Our days are seeds, in their palms
From their palms, they will grow….
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City That Lost It’s Voice
Motion:
Zero…
City is
silent.
Clenched the jaw of blank-blank city
Year is nineteen empty-empty,
In blank-blank month…
Street is empty,
run from side to side.
Street is empty,
completely empty;
like my pocket…
Water isn’t running anymore,
motor sounds are no more,
no more wheels turning around.
Wind:
blowing the name of Mister Ford in the street:
throwing a colorful advertisement
in the ground…
Three men,
three men standing…
First is carrying in is arm,
a broken violin
Second has a hat in the head
a jacket in the back
Third is naked like a hairy ape…
Street…
Whistling recklessly,
stretching your neck,
cross the street.
No more fear of being crushed
motor sounds are no more
no more wheels turning around.
Wind:
is not smiling any more.
Police whishes all around…
Three men,
three men standing
and a drunk, while singing his song,
is kicking the ground.
Don’t yell in the middle of the street,
NO WAY!
You can’t tame the road!
NO WAY!
won’t talk; the city that lost it’s voice:
unless it’s not touched by
THEIR
hands, locked in their pockets
natural rockets…
Three men,
three men standing…
First is carrying in is arm,
a broken violin
Second has a hat in the head
a jacket in the back
Third is naked like a hairy ape…
Three men
disappearing in darkness…
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Dreaming
Coming in full speed from Far Asia
and reaching Mediterranean like a steed
This world belongs to us.
Wrists in blood, jaws are clenched, bare feet
and this ground like a rug made from silk
This hell, this heaven belongs to us.
Close the doors of hatred, never open them again
destroy the slavery of man to man,
This wish belongs to us.
To live, as free and independent as a tree
and as united and brotherly as a forest,
This dream belongs to us.
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Today is Sunday
Today is Sunday…
They took me out, for the very first time to sunlight today.
And I, for the first time in my life, noticing that sky is
so far away from me
so blue
so large, surprised,
stood without any motion.
Than, I sat on earth with respect
and I put my back in the wall.
At that moment, there were neither falling into waves
nor struggle, nor freedom, nor my wife
Earth, sun and I…
I am happy, I feel life…
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Traitor
Yes, I am a traitor, if you love your country, if you are patriots, I betrayed
my homeland, I am a traitor.
If homeland is your farms
if homeland is what is inside your safes and checkbooks,
if homeland is dying out of fucking hunger,
if homeland is freezing like dogs, and suffering from diseases in summer
if drinking our red blood in your companies is homeland
if homeland is the nails of your lords,
if homeland is fences of your guards, if homeland is police baton,
if your payments and salaries are homeland
if homeland is military bases, military bombs, navy and cannons
if homeland is not to escape from our rotten darkness…
Alright, I am a traitor, but this kind of treason is something to be glad…
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Them
They who are numberless
like ants in the ground,
fish in the sea,
birds in the air,
who are cowardly and brave,
ignorant and wise,
and childlike,
and who destroy
and create,
Everything is written for them, they are life…
They, believing in a lie
throw their flags down
abandoning their own struggle
run to their homes
and who laughs like a green tree
and who cries endlessly
and who swears heavily is them,
Everything is written for them, they are life…
Iron
coal
and sugar
and red copper
and love, oppression, and life
and sky
and desert
and blue ocean
and sad river roads,
fortunes of farms and earth
can be different one morning,
one morning, from the edge of darkness
when they stand up
putting their heavy hands in the ground
They have written the most beautiful poem
They have drawn the most beautiful painting
Many things were said about them,
and about them
“They have nothing to lose but their chains”
said an old man…
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Since I Was Thrown Inside
Since I was thrown inside
the earth has gone around the sun ten times.
If you ask it: "Not worth mentioning
a microscopic scan."
If you ask me: "Ten years of my life."
I had a pencil
the year I was thrown inside.
I used it up after a week of writing. If you ask it :
"A whole lifetime."
If you ask me :
"What's a week."
Since I've been inside
A man did his seven-and-a-half
for manslaughter and left,
knocked around on the outside for a while,
then landed back inside for smuggling,
stayed six months, and got out again;
yesterday we had a letter - he's married,
with a kid coming in the spring.
They're ten years old now,
the children who were born
the year I was thrown inside.
And that year's foals, shaky on their spindly long legs,
have been wide ramped, contented mares for some time.
But the olive seedlings are still saplings,
still children.
New squares have opened in my far off city
since I was thrown inside.
And my family now lives
in a house I haven't seen
on a street I don't know.
Bread was like cotton, soft and white,
the year I was thrown inside. Then it was rationed,
and here inside men killed each other
over black loaves the size of fists.
Now it's free again
but dark and tasteless.
The year I was thrown inside
the SECOND hadn't started yet.
The ovens hadn't been lit at Dacha,
nor the atom bomb dropped on Hiroshima.
Time flowed like blood from a child's slit throat.
Then that chapter was officially closed.
Now dollars and rubles are talking about the THIRD.
Still, the day has gotten lighter
since I was thrown inside.
And "At the edge of darkness,
pushing against the earth with their heavy hands,
THEY have risen up" halfway.
Since I was thrown inside
the earth has gone around the sun ten times.
And I repeat once more with the same passion
what I wrote about THEM
the year I was thrown inside :
"They who are numberless
like ants in the ground,
fish in the sea,
birds in the air,
who are cowardly and brave,
ignorant and wise,
and childlike,
and who destroy
and create,
Everything is written for them, they are life."
And anything else,
such as my ten years here,
is just small talk.
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The Strangest Creature on Earth
You're like a scorpion, my brother,
you're in a cowardly darkness like a scorpion.
You're like a sparrow, my brother,
you're in a sparrow's flutter.
You're like a mussel, my brother,
closed as a mussel, tranquil.
And you're dreadful
as the mouth of an extinct volcano, my brother.
Not one,
not five,
you're in millions, unfortunately.
You're like a sheep, my brother,
when the cloaked drover raises his stick
you join the herd at once
and almost proudly run to the slaughter house.
You're the strangest creature on earth, that is,
even stranger than the fish in the sea
which doesn't know the sea.
And in this world, this tyranny
is thanks to you.
And if we are starved, tired, covered with blood
and if we're still being crushed like grapes for our wine
the fault is yours,
- though I can't bring myself to say it -
but a lot of it, my dear brother, is yours.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Great Humanity
The great humanity is the deck-passenger on the ship
third class on the train
on foot on the causeway
the great humanity.
The great humanity goes to work at eight
marries at twenty
dies at forty
the great humanity.
Bread is enough for all except the great humanity,
rice the same,
sugar the same,
clothes the same,
books the same…
They are enough for all except the great humanity.
The great humanity has no shade on his soil
no lamp on his road
no glass on his window
but the great humanity has hope
you can't live without hope.
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On Living
1
Living is no laughing matter:
you must live very seriously
like a squirrel, for example
I mean without expecting anything other than living,
I mean living must be your whole occupation
You must take living seriously
I mean to such a degree that
for example, your hands tied behind your back,
your back pushed to the wall,
or else in a laboratory
in your white coat and safety goggle,
you must be able to die for people
even for people whose faces you have never seen,
even though you know the most real
the most beautiful thing
is living.
I mean, you must take living so seriously
that even at seventy, for example, you must plant olive trees -
and not for your children, either
but because, although you fear death, you don't believe in it,
because living, I mean, weighs heavier.
2
Let's say we are seriously ill, need surgery -
which is to say we might not get up
from the white table.
Even though it's impossible not to feel sad
about going a little too soon,
we'll still laugh at the jokes we are told,
we'll look out of the window to see if it's raining,
or still wait anxiously for the latest newscast.
Let's say we are at the front -
for something worth fighting for, say.
There, in the first battle, on that very day,
we might fall on our face, dead.
we’ll know this with a weird anger,
but we'll still worry ourselves madly
about the outcome of the war, which could last years.
Let's say we're in prison
and close to fifty,
and we have eighteen more years, say,
before iron door opens.
Still we must live together with the outside
with it’s people, animals, struggle and wind
I mean with the outside beyond the wall.
I mean, however and wherever we are,
we must live as if we will never die...
3
This earth will grow cold, a star among stars
and one of the smallest
a gilded mote on blue velvet
I mean this, our huge, great world.
One day this earth will grow cold.
not like a block of ice
or a dead cloud even
but like an empty walnut it will roll along
in endless blackness.
Right now, this must be grieved
- you must feel this sorrow now -
for the world must be loved this much
if you're going to say "I lived"...
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Of Your Hands and Lies
Grave like all stones,
sad like all songs sang in prison,
clumsy, heavy like all beasts of burden,
and like hungry children's offended faces, your hands.
Skillful, light like bees,
full like milky breasts,
brave like nature,
and hiding their friendly touch under their rough skin,
your hands.
This world is not balanced on the bull's horn,
this world is balanced on your hands.
And human beings, my human beings,
they feed you on lies,
but you're starving,
you need to be fed with meat, with bread.
And without eating fully even once at a white table,
you leave this world which has lots of fruits
on its every branch.
Human beings, my human beings,
especially in Asia, in Africa,
Near East, Middle East, Pacific islands,
that is, more than seventy percent of all people,
you're old and absentminded like your hands,
you're curious, amazed and young like your hands.
Human beings, my human beings,
my Europeans, my Americans,
you're smart, bold and forgetful like your hands,
like your hands you're quick to persuade,
easy to get rid of...
Human beings, my human beings,
if the antennas lie,
if books lie,
if the poster on the wall and the advertisement in the column lie,
if the naked calves of girls on the screen lie,
if prayers lie,
if lullabies lie,
if dreams lie,
if the fiddler at the tavern lies,
if moonlight on hopeless nights lies,
if words lie,
if colors lie,
if voices lie,
if living on your hands
everything but your hands
and everybody lie,
it's to make your hands obedient like clay,
blind like darkness,
stupid like dogs,
so that your hands won't become fists,
rebel,
and so that in this mortal, in this livable world
where we are guests for such a short period,
this merchants' rule, this tyranny won't end…
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Advice for Political Prisoners
If instead of being hanged from your neck
you're thrown inside
for not giving up hope
in the world, nature, and people,
if you do ten or fifteen years
apart from the time you have left,
you won't say,
"Better I had swung from the end of a rope
like a flag" -
you'll put your foot down and live.
It may not be a pleasure exactly,
but it's your solemn duty
to live one more day
to spite the enemy.
Part of you may live alone inside,
like a stone at the bottom of a well.
But the other part
must be so caught up in the flurry of the world
that you shiver there inside
when outside, at forty days' distance, a leaf moves.
To wait for letters inside,
to sing melancholic songs,
or to lay awake all night, staring at the ceiling
is sweet but dangerous.
Look at your face from shave to shave,
forget your age,
watch out for lice
and for spring nights,
and always remember
to eat every last piece of bread -
also, don't forget to laugh heartily.
And who knows,
maybe the woman you love will stop loving you.
Don't say it's no big thing :
it's like the snapping of a green branch
to the man inside.
Thinking about roses and gardens inside is bad,
Thinking about seas and mountains is good.
Read and write without resting,
and I also advise weaving
and making mirrors.
I mean, it's not that you can't pass
ten or fifteen years inside
and more -
you can,
as long as the jewel
on the left side of your chest
doesn't lose its luster.
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The Last Bus
Midnight, the last bus.
The conductor cuts the ticket.
Neither bad news are waiting for me at home,
nor a feast of drinks.
For me, it's departure that waits.
I walk towards it without fear
and sadness.
The great dark comes very near by me.
I can look at the world
calmly and at ease, now.
No longer surprises me a friend's treachery,
a knife stabbed in my back.
It's in vain, the enemy can't hurt me now.
I passed through the forest of idols
using my axe
how easily they all came down.
I tested the things I believe in, once more,
most of them turned out pure, I'm thankful.
I had never shone so brilliantly,
never been so free.
The great dark comes very near by me.
I can look at the world
calmly and at ease, now.
I raise my head from my work to look around,
suddenly comes from the past
a word
a smell
the gesture of a hand.
The word is friendly,
the smell beautiful,
the hand is waved by my love.
The call of memory no longer makes me sad.
I have no complaints of memories.
I don't complain of anything, in fact,
not even of my heart
aching nonstop like a big tooth.
The great darkness comes very near by me.
Now neither the minister's pride nor the clerk's claptrap.
I'm pouring bowls of light over my head,
I can look at the sun without my eyes dazzling.
And perhaps, what a pity,
the most cunning lie
will no longer deceive me.
Words can't make me drunk anymore,
neither anyone else's, nor my own.
That's how it is, my rose,
death is now awfully close.
The world, is more beautiful than ever, the world.
The world, was my underwear, my robe,
I started undressing.
I was the window of a train,
now I'm a station.
I was the inside of the house,
now I'm its door unlocked.
I love the guests twice as much.
And the heat is yellowier than ever
the snow purer than ever.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Farewell
Farewell
dear friends,
farewell!
I bear you in my heart -
in the heart of my heart,
My revolt within my head.
Farewell
dear friends,
farewell!
Do not line the quay
waving handkerchiefs.
That is quite unnecessary.
To see myself reflected
in your eyes
is enough.
O friends,
fellow-workers,
people-in-arms!
Here is my farewell
without a single word.
Night will not bolt the door behind me,
the years will embroider cob-webs
over the windows
of my house,
while I yell
the Prison Song
like a cry of war.
We'll meet again
dear friends,
we'll meet again.
We shall smile again under the sun,
fight once more together,
O friends,
fellow-workers,
people-in-arms,
Farewell!
Gone
Night and snow on the window-panes…
The rails gleam in the white night
reminding you of going
and never coming back.
In the third-class waiting room
a woman is lying,
with bare feet,
a black kerchief round her head.
I walk up and down.
Night and snow on the window-panes…
Inside some people are singing -
a song my friend loved
so much.
His favorite song,
his favorite,
his-
Friends, do not look into my eyes,
I am trying not to weep.
In the white night the rails gleam,
reminding you of going
and never coming back.
A woman in a black kerchief
is lying
in the third-class
waiting-room,
with bare feet.
Night and snow on the window-panes.
Somewhere inside they are singing.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I Love You
I kneel down: I look at the earth,
the grass,
insects,
little stems blooming with blues.
You are like the spring earth, my love,
I'm looking at you.
I lay on my back: I see the sky,
the branches of a tree,
storks on the wing,
a waking dream.
You are like the spring sky, my love,
I see you.
At night I light a campfire: I touch fire,
water,
silk,
silver.
You are like a fire lit beneath the stars,
I touch you.
I go among people: I love people,
action,
thought,
struggle .
You are one person in my struggle,
I love you.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
A Sad State of Freedom
You waste the attention of your eyes,
the glittering labor of your hands,
and knead the dough enough for dozens of loaves
of which you'll taste not a morsel;
you are free to become a slave-
you are free to make the rich richer.
The moment you're born
they plant around you
mills that grind lies
lies to last you a lifetime.
You keep thinking in your great freedom
a finger on your temple
free to have a free conscience.
Your head bent as if half-cut from the nape,
your arms long, hanging,
your saunter about in your great freedom:
you're free
with the freedom of being unemployed.
You love your country
as the nearest, most precious thing to you.
But one day, for example,
You may proclaim that one must live
not as a tool, a number or a link
but as a human being-
then at once they handcuff your wrists.
You are free to be arrested, imprisoned
and even hanged.
There's neither an iron, wooden
nor a tulle curtain
in your life;
there's no need to choose freedom:
you are free.
But this kind of freedom
is a sad affair under the stars.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Walking
Walking;
by leaving ones who can’t walk
behind like empty streets,
by tearing air apart,
like a sword,
by facing darkness,
walking!..
Walking;
by feeling heads of your friends
near your own and
putting yours instead, to darkness,
putting your heart in your fists,
walking!..
Walking;
knowing that there is an ambush,
there is certain death
ahead
Walking…
Walking;
While laughing
from your heart
walking…