Poems by Nazim Hikmet, New York, 1954
Poems by Nazim Hikmet, New York, 1954
Poems by Nazim Hikmet, New York, 1954
THE POETRY OF Nazim Hikmet first reached us in America during the world-
wide movement that won his release in 1950 from a Turkish dungeon where be
had been tormented for thirteen long years. We felt an immediate kinship with the
poet who from a distant prison wrote to Paul Robeson:
And as we read his verse it seemed incredible that we should have made his
acquaintance so late. For here, unmistakably, was an artist who belonged with
Neruda and Aragon among the great poets of our age.
We learned that his poems, smuggled out of prison, were passing from hand to
hand throughout Turkey. They appeared without his name, yet they were
unfailingly recognized. For the oppressed people of his land saw Nazim Hikmet’s
signature in the plain speech which is their speech, in the daring realism, the
irresistible optimism and love and longing for freedom. And across the frontiers
his lines rang out to all people who treasure beauty and peace.
Born in Istanbul, in 1902, the son of a high government official, Nazim Hikmet
started writing poetry at the age of fourteen, while a student at the Naval
Academy. Following World War I, when large sections of Turkey were occupied
by the forces of Anglo-American imperialism, he joined the national
independence movement. Escaping from Istanbul, he came in close contact with
the peasants and workers who inspired his militant poems. He abandoned his
naval career and took part in the bourgeois nationalist revolt between 1919 and
1922 against the Ottoman rulers backed by the Allied powers.
The young poet was deeply stirred by the Socialist Revolution in Russia, and in a
later autobiographical work he vividly describes how he, the grandson of a pasha,
became a Communist. His acceptance of Marxism was indeed the turning point in
his life and poetry. To see socialism in the making, Hikmet visited the young
Soviet state in the early 1920’s, at a time, he wrote, “when the waves were
storming the heavens, when one-sixth of the globe had given the wheel of history
a sharp push forward...” In Moscow be developed a close friendship with
Mayakovsky, whose poetry, with its directness and its strong accent on serving as
well as leading the people, was to influence his own work powerfully. Upon his
return to Turkey in 1925, Hikmet was seized by the police and thrown into the
Ankara jail for three years. From then on his life was to be a series of heresy trials
and jail sentences in the midst of which he turned out ever more popular poems,
plays, political essays. In his poems of the 1920’s and 1930’s, deeply imbued with
patriotism, he continued to attack the capitalist powers that threatened a new
world slaughter. In other writings he held up to contempt those hirelings of the
imperialists who were betraying progressive Turks to the political police. “Enter a
house where there is a plague, but do not take one step across a threshold where
there is an agent provocateur, “he wrote in typical vein. “And if your hand
accidentally touches his, wash it seven times. And I will tear up my only holiday
shirt and give it to you for a towel.”
In 1938 the great people’s poet of Turkey was given a 28-year jail sentence by a
court holding star chamber proceedings aboard a battleship. It was charged that
some of his poems had been found among Black Sea sailors and Military
Academy soldiers. Actually these poems were then available in any bookstore.
But this did not prevent a conviction for “spreading communistic ideas,” a phrase
which Hitler had already made familiar and which McCarthyism was to echo in
our own land.
But nothing could silence Nazim Hikmet, as we can see from the poems in this
collection. Despite an ailing heart and the sadism of his jailers, be rose to new
heights of creative power during the thirteen years of his imprisonment. In our
time we have had a great literature produced in prison by dauntless anti-fascist
fighters. We have had Julius Fuchik’s Notes From the Gallows, the letters of
Danielle Casanova, the last testament of Gabriel Pen, and indeed the letters and
poems of American political prisoners. Nazim Hikmet’s songs from jail are
noble and triumphant. In solitary confinement the fighter-poet warms his cold cell
with “the great flame of anger and proud hope.” It is he who sustains those who
are not behind bars.
Keenly attuned to everything that goes on in the outside world, he writes poems
of towering force during World War II, impatiently awaiting the rout of the
Nazis, exulting in the power of the Soviet people to defend socialism. His humor,
his faith, his love of the people cannot be quenched. “My strength in this big
world,” he writes, “lies in not being alone.” And he is with the fighters for
happiness everywhere, in Spain, in China, in India, in Africa, in our own country.
The prison walls disappear as he sees his brothers everywhere bent over him in
the night, and his heart swells with pride and gratitude.
His release in 1950, following a hunger strike that brought him close to death, was
a joyous triumph for his friends throughout the world. It was made possible by the
defenders of peace who had found inspiration in his songs. Progressive American
writers took a modest part in the fight for his freedom with a protest
demonstration, sponsored by Masses & Mainstream, in front of the Turkish
consulate in New York. They were aware that U.S. imperialism bears a heavy
responsibility for the fact that reaction rules in Turkey, financed and armed by the
Truman Doctrine, the Marshall Plan, and NATO. Our link with the life of
Nazim Hikmet is by no means remote. His latest poems, written in the Soviet
Union, in the Chinese People’s Republic, in Czechoslovakia and other democratic
countries where he has found a welcome refuge, seem addressed directly to us
with their warnings against resurgent fascism and the drive of Wall Street to a
new war of world conquest.
In a recent letter to young French poets, Hikmet spoke of the need to achieve
above all a lucid, full communication with audiences of plain people. He is
scornful of those decadents who perversely to be measured by the smallness of
their coterie. Few living poets have so amply and persuasively demonstrated the
truth that poetry draws its main strength from the struggles and hopes of the
people. His verses ring with partisanship. There is no division between Hikmet
the political poet and Hikmet the lyrical poet. With consummate artistry he has
achieved that synthesis of the fighter and the creator, the distinct individual and
the representative man of the masses, which is the hallmark of greatness in our
time.
OPTIMISM
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 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
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
1
This is a fragment from an epic on the life and death of an Indian revolutionary, Benerjee,
published in 1934.
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.
THIS MAN
stopped on his way
and chained.
1934
THE WALL OF IMPERIALISM
(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.
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....
LIKE A SONG SUNG TOGETHER2
(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 fourteenth 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 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 afight 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. The movement was crushed in a brutal way. Sheik Bedreddin
and Mustafa Berldujeh 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.
It was hot
2
From the “Epic of Sheik Bedreddin.”
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 Murat was coming.
The Royal order issued to Murat
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.
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.
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.
1936
DRIZZLING3
It is drizzling,
scarily
in a low voice
like a talk of treason.
It is drizzling
like a renegade’s white and naked feet
running on the damp and dark earth.
It is drizzling.
In the market of Serez
in front of a coppersmith’s shop
my Bedreddin is hanging on a tree.
It is drizzling.
It is late on a starless night.
Getting soaked in the rain
the naked flesh of my sheik is swinging
from a leafless branch.
It is drizzling.
The market of Serez is mute,
the market of Serez is blind.
3
From the “Epic of Sheik Bedreddin.”
In the air the cursed sadness of silence and blindness
The market of Serez has covered its face with its hands.
It is drizzling
1936
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
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.
ABOUT VICTORY
1941
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.”
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.
II
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
IV
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
VII
4
Mount Olympus, near Bursa
VIII
IX
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.
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.
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.
***
**
**
**
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.
**
1945
ADVICE TO A FELLOW PRISONER
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.
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,
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.
ABOUT DEATH
And you,
Ahmet Jemil, the writer!
I saw with my own eyes,
your coffin lowered in the grave.
It even seemed to me,
that the coffin was a little too short.
PLEA
This country shaped like the head of a mare
Coming full gallop from far off Asia
To stretch into the Mediterranean
This country is ours.
1948
1948
TO PAUL ROBESON
October 1949
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.
1948
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.
May 1950
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.
1951
1951
EVENING STROLL
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.