Remembering you is goodin prisonamid the newsof victory and deathas my fortieth year passes...
Remembering you is goodyour handforgotten upon a blue dressyour hairwith the grave softnessof the earth of my beloved Istanbul.
This joy of loving youis like a second person inside me...
The smell of geranium leaveson your fingertipswarm and comforting The invitation of your flesha hotintense darknessscored by vivid red lines...
Remembering you is goodor writing about youas I lie on my backin prisonthinking of such and such a dayat such and such a placeof some words you saidnot of the words so muchbut of the world and you within them...
Remembering you is goodI must carve some things for you againa jewel boxa ringI must weave a length of thin silkthen jump upand clutching the window barsshout what I have written for youto the innocent blueof freedom.
Remembering you is goodin prisonamid the newsof victory and deathas my fortieth year
At this late houron this autumn nightI am filled with your words.
Eternallike time like
Nakedlike an
Heavylike a
Words which sparklelike stars.
Your words came to mefrom your heartyour headyour
Your words delivered
Your words were sadthey were
Your words were human.
September 20,
Our son is sick his father in prisonyour heavy headfallen in your tired palmsthe laughter drained from your golden eyes.
Peoplewill surely carry peopleon to sunnier daysour son will get wellhis father out of prisonyour golden eyeswill fill with laughter once more...
Our fateis the world's fate.
September 21,
Reading booksyou're there inside
Hearing songsyou're inside
Eating my breadyou're sitting before
Or at my workyou're before me.
You're my "silent partner"everywhere.
Although we cannot
Although we cannot heareach other's voices.
You're my widow of eight years.
September 22,
What is she doing nowthis second, this very second?
Is she at home, outside,working, lying down, on her feet?could she be raising her arm?
O my love!how this movement baresher strong white wrist!
What is she doing nowthis second, this very second?
Perhaps she has a kitten on her lap,she's petting it.
Or, perhaps she's walking, about to step.
O those feet I cherish,those feet which bring her to meon tip-toe when days are dark...
And what is she thinking about,of me?
Or, who knows,why the beans take so long to cook?
Or, even,why the majority of men are so miserable?
What is she thinking nowthis second, this very second?
September 23,
The loveliest seais the sea not yet
The loveliest childis the child not yet
Our loveliest daysare those we have not yet lived through.
And the loveliest word I would say to youis the word that I have not yet said.
September 24,
Squatting,
I look at the earthI look at the grassesI look at the insectsI look at the deep blue flowers opening from stems.
I look at you, my love,
You are like the spring earth.
Stretched out on my back,
I see the skyI see the tree's branchesI see the storks flyingI see you, my love,
You are like the spring sky.
Lighting a night fire,
I touch the fireI touch the waterI touch the clothI touch the silverI touch you, my
You are the fire lit beneath the stars.
Inside of people,
I love peopleI love actionI love thinkingI love my struggleI love you, my love,
You are a person inside my struggle.19459
Mhorns blare in the yardsoon they will close the cell doors.
This prison termis longer than the othersnearly eight years now...
Living is a labor of hope, my love,living is a serious businesslike loving you...
September 25,
They enslaved usthrew us in prisonmeinside the wallsyououtside the walls.
But that is nothing,the true evil is thatknowinglyor unknowinglya man carries the prisoninside himself...
Most of the menfallen to this stateare honorablehard-workinggood men,and deserve to be lovedas I love you.
September 26,
Thinking of youis a beautiful thinga hopeful thinga thing like hearingthe most beautiful songfrom the world's most beautiful voice...
But hope no longer is enough for meI no longer want to hear the song—I want to sing it...
September 30,
Above the mountainthere is a cloudswollen with sun above the mountain.
Another daypassed without youwith and without the world another day.
They will open soonin bursts of rednightflowers will open in bursts of red.
Soundless bold wingscarry our separationthat separation like an exilefrom the homeland...
October 1,
The wind flows byno cherry branch moveswith the same wind twice.
Birds chatter in the trees:wings poised for flight.
A closed door:waiting to be thrown open.
I want youI want life to be as lovelyand friendly and good as you.
I know this feast of miseryis not yet finished.
But it will be finished...
October 2,
Both of us know, my love,they taught usthe hunger, the shivering,the withering exhaustion,the separation from each other.
Still, we have not been forced to killnor tasted the moment of being killed.
Both of us know, my love,we can teach themto fight for our peopleto love each daya little strongera little more from our souls...
October 5,
Clouds pass, heavyand swollen with news,
Crushing in my fistthe letter that hasn't come yet,
Tears in the corners of my eyes,goodbyes said to the endless earth,
And I want to shout:
Piraye!
Pi-ra-ye!
October 6,
At night, the wind carries the cries of menacross the open
At night, there is danger still in strayingacross the open seas.
This field, unplowed for six years,still bears the tracks of tank
This winter, the snow will coverthese untouched tracks of tank treads.
Ah, my dearest, the antennas are lying againso that the merchants of sweat can closewith 100% profits.
But those who have returned from Azrail's feasthave returned with their decisions made...
October 7, 1945I've become unbearable againsleepless, petty, cross.
You can seeI'm working one daylike a blasphemous shrewlike a raging animal.
And thenI'm on my back the next dayfrom morning to eveninga lazy folksong in my mouthlike a cigarette that has gone out.
The hateand the pity I feel for myselfhold me totally in their grasp.
I've become unbearable againsleepless, petty, cross.
As always,
I'm unfair.
Without any reasonor any possibility of one,and even though it's a vile humiliationI can't help it,
I'm jealous.
Forgive me...
October 8,
Last night I had a dream:
You were sitting at my feet,
You raised your head,
Your enormous golden eyes to me,
And asked a question,
Your wet lips opened and closed,
But I didn't hear your voice.
The hour struck as though
There was good news in the night.
Whispers of endlessness in the air,
My canary in its red
Singing the Song of Memo.
The small cracking sounds of
Pushing and lifting the earth,
And the just and triumphant
Of some gathering comes to my ear.
Your wet lips still opened and closed,
But I didn't hear your voice.
I awoke in a nervous uncertainty.
I had fallen asleep over my book, it seems,
But I am wondering
Whether all those voices were not your voice?
October 9,
Looking in your eyesI am drunk with the smell of warm earthlost in a wheat field among the stalks...
Your eyesare like an eternal substance, changing endlesslypits without bottom, with flashes of green...whose secret is given up a little each daybut never completely surrendered.
October 10,
When I leave the prison to meet my
And when we turn for the last timeto look at the city,
We shall be able to say these words, my love:"Though you never made our hearts rejoice,we worked hard as we couldthinking we could make you happy.
Roads to happiness lead on, as life goes on.
We are content, our hearts are satisfiedwith the bread we earned;
Our eyes bear the afflictionsof separation from your light.
See, we have comeand now we are going.
May you be happy,city of Aleppo..."October 18,
We are one half of an applethe other half is this enormous
We are one half of an applethe other half is our
You are one half of an appleI am the other halfwe are two...
October 27,
The smell rises from the
The waves hum on the
Autumn is here with its full
And intelligent earth...
My love, the year has reached its maturity.
It seems that we have
Perhaps a thousand years' worth of life,
But we are still wide-eyed
Running hand in hand in the sun...
October 28,
Forget the flowering almond trees.
Why think of that which cannot be regained?
Dry your wet hair in the sun,
Your hair with the smell of ripe fruit,
That shines, heavy and damp, with redness.
My love, my love,the season is autumn...
November 5,
From above the roofsof my distant city,passing the tipof the Marmara sea,flying overthe autumn
Came your voice—moist and mature—For three minutes.
Then, the telephonewas closed downlike pitch darkness...
November 8,
The last southwinds have begun to blowwarm and humminglike blood pouring from a vein.
I listen to the weather:it's pulse is slowing down.
There is snow on Olympia's peak.
On the Kirezli plateauthe bears with great charm and majestylie down on the chestnut leaves to sleep.
The poplars on the plain undress.
Silkworm eggs will be taken soonto their winter shelter.
Autumn is about to end,
The earth to enter its pregnant sleep.
And we will pass again one more winterwith this great rage inside,warming ourselves in the fireof our sacred hope...
November 12,
They sayit doesn't allow description—the misery of Istanbul.
They saythe people are crushed by hunger.
They saytuberculosis lurks everywhere.
And the young girls, they say,are taken in the ruinsand in theater loges.
This black news comesfrom my distant city,from the city of hard-workinghonest people,from the real Istanbul,
My love,from the city which is your home,which I carry on my back in a bagwherever I am exiledwherever I am in
Which I bear in my heartlike the grieving for a lost childlike your imagewhich I hold in my eyes...
November 13,
Although you'll find carnations stillin vases now and then,seeds are being scattered in the fieldsplowed up long ago for plantingand olives, stuffed with oil,are being picked now.
On one side we're moving into winteron another the earth is being openedfor the seedlings of spring.
As for mefilled with longingand heavy with impatiencefor great travels,
I am lying in Bursalike a ship at anchor...
November 20,
Take out from your chestthe dress you worethe first time I saw youand dress uplike the spring trees.
Put in your hair the carnationI am sending you from prison,
Lift your broad foreheadwhite and creased with those linesthat should be kissed,
And by no means look tiredor worried on such a day.
The wife of Nazim Hikmet must be beautifullike the flag of a rebellionon such a day!
December 4, 1945A hole wore through the ship's hullthe slaves cut to pieces their chainsthe wind from the northeast blewabout to hurl the ship upon the rocks.
This worldthis pirate shipwill sink.
Whatever happensit will sink.
And we will createa free, spacious, hopeful worldlike your facemy Piraye...
December 5,
They are the enemies of hope, my love,the enemies of a lifethat grows and developsof a tree that bears fruitof water that flows.
Because death is stamped on their foreheads—their teeth rottheir flesh decays—They'll disappearand never come back.
And surely, my love,surely this lovely country of minewill be a garden of brotherswithout masters or slaves...
December 6,
Enemy to Recebthe towel-maker in
Enemy to Hasanthe fitter in Karabük
Enemy to the woman Hatçethe village
Enemy to Süleymanthe
Enemy to
Enemy to
Enemy to thinking men.
My love, they are the enemyof the country which houses them.
December 7,
On the plaintrees burn in a final effortspangles of goldcopperbrass and bronze.
Hooves of oxenslowly, softlytwo by two sinkin dampened earth.
And the mountains are soaked and graysubmerged in mist...
It's finished.
Perhaps this day is allthat is left of autumn.
And now the wild geese wing pastheading for Iznik lake.
Something cool in the airlike the smell of soot in the airthe smell of snow in the air...
Now to be outside!
Now to charge a horse straight for the mountains!"But you don't know how to ride," you'll say.
Don't laugh at meand don't be
This new love of natureI've acquired in prisonI love almostbut not as muchas I love you...
And both of you so far away...
December 12,
Snow suddenly set in at nightmorning began with crowsscattering from white branches.
Winter on the Bursa plainpast the eye's reachingrecalling endlessness.
My love, the seasonburst through to changeafter continuous struggle,
And proud,working hard beneath the
Lifestill pushing onand up...
December 13,
Damn, the winter has come down hard.
Who knows what's happened to youand to my Istanbul.
Have you coal?
Can you get wood?
Stuff newspaper in the window cracks,and go to bed early.
There's nothing in the house to sell,
I know...
Even when we shiverhalf hungryhalf
Even in this we are in the majorityin our countryin our cityin the world.
December 14, 1945
