Evening poems for Piraye

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It is so beautiful to remember you
as I hear news of death and of victory,

as I sit in prison, at an age over forty.

How beautiful to remember your hand,

lying forgotten on a blue sheet,
and the noble softness of your hair,
soft like Istanbul soil.
The serene joy of loving you
is large as a second person inside me.
I remember the smell of geranium leaves
which lingers on your fingertips,
the sunny comfort and invitation of your flesh:
its hot, thick darkness, barred with red bands.

How beautiful it is to remember you,
to write about your memory,
to think as I lie on my back in my cell
of what you said someplace on some day,

and not of what you said
but the world of how you said it.

This beautiful remembering.
I must carve you some wood again:
   a drawer
   a ring,
weave you meters of thin silk.
And urgently
I must leap from my place
seize the bars of my room
and call out what I wrote for you
into the milkwhite blue of freedom.

It is beautiful to remember you
as I hear of deaths and victories,
while I am in prison,
and my age is over forty.

 

September 20, 1945

On this fall night
at this late hour, I am full of your words;
they are eternal as time and matter are,
naked as the eye, heavy as the hand,
words that shine like stars do.

Your words came to me,

made of your heart,

of your head, your flesh.
Your words brought you to me,

became mother, woman, companion to me;
these words of sorrow, of suffering,
these joyous, hopeful, heroic words
   were to me as human beings are.

September 21, 1945

Our son is ill,
his father here in prison,

and your heavy head in your hands: 

the state of the world is our state.

People carry people towards better days.
Our son will be healed,
his father set free,
your golden eyes filled with laughter.
 

Our state will be the world's state.

September 22, 1945

I read and the book
has you inside it,
the song I hear has you.
I sit and eat my bread
and you sit across me,
whenever I work,

you watch me.
You who are everywhere
willing and ready,

I cannot speak to you,

or hear your voice talking.

As if you have been

widowed these 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?
If she raises her arm,
I know it will bare her white, thick wrist,

make it naked.

What is she doing now?
Perhaps she is stroking

a little cat on her knees,
or walking, about to step forward
with those feet that bring her daintily to me
on each of my dark days.

And what is she thinking?
About me? Or perhaps about
the beans which are so hard to cook,
or the misfortunes of so many?

What does she think,
right now, at this now what is she thinking?

September 24, 1945

The most beautiful sea is that not yet seen,
the most beautiful child is not grown,

the most beautiful of our days
are yet to be lived.
And the most beautiful words I want you to hear
are the words I have not said.

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September 25, 1945

It is nine.
The sound has come from the yard,
the cell doors will close.
Prison has been long this time
somewhat long, eight years.
Living is a hopeful thing, my love,
a serious thing, like loving you.


September 26, 1945

They have enslaved,
imprisoned us:
I within the walls
and you without them.

But this is a small matter.
What is truly terrible:
how inside so many people are prisons,
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 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 is exile from one's country.

 

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Piraye'ye Saat 21-22 Şiirleri by Nazım Hikmet

Translated September 6, 2020

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