Evening poems for Piraye
It is so beautiful to remember you
through news of death and of victories,
in prison, at an age over forty.
How beautiful to remember
your hand, forgotten on a blue cloth
and in your hair the noble softness
of Istanbul soil, which I love.
The serene joy of loving you
is large as a second person inside me.
I recall the leaf of the geranium
that leaves its smell on your fingertips,
its sunny comfort and the invitation of your flesh:
a hot, thick darkness, barred with red bands.
How beautiful it is to remember you
and to write of your memory,
to think lying on my back in my cell
of what you said on some day
in some place,
and not of what you said
but of the whole world of you saying it.
I must carve you some wood again:
weave you meters of thin silk.
I must leap from my place
seize the bars of my room
and call what I wrote for you
into the milk blue of freedom.
It is beautiful to remember you
while I hear of deaths, victories,
while I am in prison,
while my age is over forty.
September 20, 1945
On this fall night
at this late hour, I am full of your words;
lasting as time and like matter,
naked as the eye, heavy as the hand,
words that shine as stars do.
Your words came to me,
made of your heart, your head, your flesh.
Your words brought you to me,
became my mother,
my woman, my companion;
these words of sorrow, of suffering,
these joyous, hopeful, heroic words
were as human beings are to me.
September 21, 1945
Our son is ill,
his father here
in prison, and your heavy
head in your hands
tired hands: the state
of the world is our state.
People carry people towards better days.
Our son will heal,
his father will leave
his prison cell,
your golden eyes will laugh.
Our state will be the world's state.
September 22, 1945
I read and the book
has you inside it,
I hear a song: it has you.
I sit and eat my bread
and you sit across me,
you watch me.
You who are everywhere
willing and ready,
we cannot speak or hear
each other's voices.
You have been the wife
of the dead for eight years.
September 23, 1945
What is she doing
now, in this moment?
Is she home, or in the street
working, or lying down, or standing?
She may have raised her arm,
and I know how this bares
the white, thick wrist of my rose.
What is she doing now?
Perhaps she strokes a little
cat on her knees,
or is walking, about to step forward
with those feet that fill the kernel
of my heart, which bring her daintily to me
on every darkened day.
And what does she think
is it me?
why the beans are still uncooked,
or why so many
in the world are so poor.
What does she think now,
right now, at this now what is she thinking?
September 24, 1945
The most beautiful sea is not yet seen,
the most beautiful child not grown,
the most beautiful of our days
are yet unlived.
And the most beautiful words I want you to hear
are the words I have not said.
September 25, 1945
It is nine.
The sound has come from the square,
the cells will close their doors.
This time prison has been long
a little long, eight years.
Living is a thing of hope, my love,
a serious thing, such is loving you.
September 26, 1945
They have enslaved,
I within the walls
and you without them.
But this is a small matter.
What is truly terrible:
how the insides of so many
people are prisons,
of good, honest, hardworking people,
who deserve to be loved as I love you.
September 30, 1945
To think of you is a beautiful
and hopeful thing, like hearing
the most beautiful song in the world
from the voice of greatest beauty.
But hope does not fulfill me.
I no longer want to hear songs
but to myself start singing.
October 1, 1945
Above the mountain is a cloud
burdened with the evening sun.
This day I have been denied you,
been denied half the world.
But soon there will bloom
the red night flowers,
and in the sky, brave, silent wings
will bear away our separation,
which is as profound
as exile from one's country.
Piraye'ye Saat 21-22 Şiirleri by Nazım Hikmet
Translated September 6, 2020