Saturday's poem: Nazim Hikmet: Things I didn't know I loved

"I have no silver saddled horse to ride,
no inheritance to live on,
neither riches nor real estate-
a honey pot is all I own.
A pot of honey
               red as fire!"
Nazim Hikmet
About My Poetry

THINGS I DIDN'T KNOW I LOVED

Nazim Hikmet

it's 1962 March 28th
I'm sitting by the window on the Prague-Berlin train
night is falling
I never knew I liked
night descending like a tired bird on a smoky wet plain
I don't like
comparing nightfall to a tired bird

I didn't know I loved the earth
can someone who hasn't worked the earth love it
I've never worked the earth
it must be my only Platonic love

and here I've loved rivers all this time
whether motionless like this they curl skirting the hills
European hills crowned with chateaus
or whether stretched out flat as far as the eye can see
I know you can't wash in the same river even once
I know the river will bring new lights you'll never see
I know we live slightly longer than a horse but not nearly as long as a crow
I know this has troubled people before
and will trouble those after me
I know all this has been said a thousand times before
and will be said after me

I didn't know I loved the sky
cloudy or clear
the blue vault Andrei studied on his back at Borodino
in prison I translated both volumes of War and Peace into Turkish
I hear voices
not from the blue vault but from the yard
the guards are beating someone again
I didn't know I loved trees
bare beeches near Moscow in Peredelkino
they come upon me in winter noble and modest
beeches are Russian the way poplars are Turkish
"the poplars of Izmir
losing their leaves. . .
they call me The Knife. . .
lover like a young tree. . .
I blow stately mansions sky-high"
in the Ilgaz woods in 1920 I tied an embroidered linen handkerchief
to a pine bough for luck

I never knew I loved roads
even the asphalt kind
Vera's behind the wheel we're driving from Moscow to the Crimea
Koktebele
formerly "Goktepé ili" in Turkish
the two of us inside a closed box
the world flows past on both sides distant and mute
I was never so close to anyone in my life
bandits stopped me on the red road between Bolu and Geredé
when I was eighteen
apart from my life I didn't have anything in the wagon they could take
and at eighteen our lives are what we value least
I've written this somewhere before
wading through a dark muddy street I'm going to the shadow play
Ramazan night
a paper lantern leading the way
maybe nothing like this ever happened
maybe I read it somewhere an eight-year-old boy
going to the shadow play
Ramazan night in Istanbul holding his grandfather's hand
his grandfather has on a fez and is wearing the fur coat
with a sable collar over his robe
and there's a lantern in the servant's hand
and I can't contain myself for joy
flowers come to mind for some reason
poppies cactuses jonquils
in the jonquil garden in Kadikoy Istanbul I kissed Marika
fresh almonds on her breath
I was seventeen
my heart on a swing touched the sky
I didn't know I loved flowers
friends sent me three red carnations in prison

I just remembered the stars
I love them too
whether I'm floored watching them from below
or whether I'm flying at their side

I have some questions for the cosmonauts
were the stars much bigger
did they look like huge jewels on black velvet
or apricots on orange
did you feel proud to get closer to the stars
I saw color photos of the cosmos in Ogonek magazine now don't
be upset comrades but nonfigurative shall we say or abstract
well some of them looked just like such paintings which is to
say they were terribly figurative and concrete
my heart was in my mouth looking at them
they are our endless desire to grasp things
seeing them I could even think of death and not feel at all sad

I never knew I loved the cosmos

snow flashes in front of my eyes
both heavy wet steady snow and the dry whirling kind
I didn't know I liked snow

I never knew I loved the sun
even when setting cherry-red as now
in Istanbul too it sometimes sets in postcard colors
but you aren't about to paint it that way
I didn't know I loved the sea
except the Sea of Azov
or how much

I didn't know I loved clouds
whether I'm under or up above them
whether they look like giants or shaggy white beasts

moonlight the falsest the most languid the most petit-bourgeois
strikes me
I like it

I didn't know I liked rain
whether it falls like a fine net or splatters against the glass my
heart leaves me tangled up in a net or trapped inside a drop
and takes off for uncharted countries I didn't know I loved
rain but why did I suddenly discover all these passions sitting
by the window on the Prague-Berlin train
is it because I lit my sixth cigarette
one alone could kill me
is it because I'm half dead from thinking about someone back in Moscow
her hair straw-blond eyelashes blue

the train plunges on through the pitch-black night
I never knew I liked the night pitch-black
sparks fly from the engine
I didn't know I loved sparks
I didn't know I loved so many things and I had to wait until sixty
to find it out sitting by the window on the Prague-Berlin train
watching the world disappear as if on a journey of no return

19 April 1962, Moscow
Translated by Randy Blasing and Mutlu Konuk (1993)

Nazim Hikmet (1902-1963) is considered Turkey's greatest 20th century poet, although his work was suppressed in Turkey for over 50 years. It is only recently that Hikmet's citizenship was restored by the Turkish Government.

John Berger claims that Hikmet is one the great poets of the 20th Century. Berger wrote;

His work is about the universal nature of love and the fraternity of beauty; he was one of those rare people who matched his actions with words.

Hikmet was born in Thessaloniki, (now part of Greece) and had a Polish grandfather.  After the crushing defeat of the Ottoman Empire in WW1 and the occupation of Turkey by Western, European and Russian powers, Hikmet left Thessaloniki to fight in the Turkish War of Independence in Anatolia. He was unable to return after Thessaloniki became part of the Greek nation state.

He was an outspoken revolutionary and a dedicated political activist and communist who was first jailed in 1924 at the age of 22 for working on a leftist magazine.

In total he spent 18 years in prison in Turkey as a political prisoner.Because he spent so much of his life in prison, Hikmet's poems are the letters of a political prisoner, full of passion, optimism and love.

Hikmet was awarded the World Peace Prize in 1950, the same year he gained his release from prison after 12 years, following an international campaign for his release led by Picasso, Paul Robeson, Bertrand Russell, Pablo Neruda and Jean Paul Sartre. Within a short time of being released he was again forced into exile from Turkey in 1951.

He spent the last 13 years of his life in exile from Turkey. He died in Moscow in 1963, where he is still buried, although there are moves to return his remains to Turkey.

Blog pieces featuring Hikmet's poetry is here.

An article about Nazim Hikmet for a Festival in Amsterdam in 2015 to consider the contemporary relevance of his work is here.

Budgets and freedom for whom in Australia?

Nazim Hikmet's poem A Sad State of Freedom is a reminder of the illusions of freedom hoisted on us by the corporate and political elite. 

The illusion of these 'democratic' freedoms is very real today as Australians and West Australians come to grips with the horror and cruelty of 'austerity' budgets imposed on them by Federal and State Governments. 

These are budgets that dispossesses the less well off, to fund more largess and wealth for the already well off, the rich, the super-rich and the corporations.

A detailed assessment of the Federal budget by Bill Mitchell, one of Australia's leading economists is here.

There has been no time in this country's history when an elected Government has so brazenly dispossessed the less well off, in order that the already well off, the rich, the super rich and big business prosper even more.

A Sad State of Freedom

by Nazim Hikmet

You squander the gleam of your eyes, 

the sparkling toil of your hands, 

to knead  dough for countless loaves of bread

of which you'll taste not a morsel; 

you are free to slave for others-- 

you are free to make the rich richer. 

                                You are free.

The minute you are born, they swarm around you 

and build mills of lies which grind till the day you die.

All this great freedom is yours to bury your head in your hands

                         and rack your brains about freedom of conscience;

                                You are free.

Your head is bent as if they cut it at the nape, 

your arms weigh down at your sides, 

All this great freedom is yours to drift here and there.

                         out of work, jobless,

                                You are free.

You love your country with all your heart,

but some day they might sell it, maybe to America,

All this great freedom is yours so you may be sold

                         or become an air base:

                                 You are free.

Wall St grabs you by the neck with its cursed hands:

You might be shipped out to Korea some day.

All this great freedom is yours to fill a grave

                         or to take the name of the unknown soldier:

                                  You are free.

You say man must live not as a tool, or number or cog,

but like a human being.

All this great freedom is yours for them to handcuff you,

                        yours to be jostled, jailed or even hanged:

                                  You are free

No iron curtain, no bamboo curtain, no lace curtain in your life

No need for you to choose freedom:

                                  You are free.

This freedom is a sad thing under the stars.

Nazim Hikmet (1902-1963) is considered Turkey's greatest modern poet.

He was outspoken, revolutionary and a dedicated political activist and communist who was first jailed in 1924 at the age of 22 for working on a leftist magazine. He spent 18 years in prison in Turkey as a political prisoner.

Many of Hikmet's poems were written in Sultanahmet Jail in Istanbul where he was imprisoned for many years for his political beliefs. Sultanahmet was the first jail built in Istanbul in 1918. It is now a luxury hotel.

Hikmet was awarded the World Peace Prize in 1950, the same year he gained his release from prison after 12 years, following an international campaign for his release led by Picasso, Paul Robeson, Bertrand Russell, Pablo Neruda and Jean Paul Sartre.

Within a short time of being released he was again forced into exile from Turkey in 1951. He spent the last 13 years of his life in exile from Turkey. He died in Moscow in 1963, where he is still buried, although there are moves to return his remains to Turkey.

His poetry was suppressed in Turkey for over 50 years. It is only recently that Hikmet's citizenship was restored by the Turkish Government.

Hikmet's poetry is characterized by a wonderful generosity of spirit and a powerful sense of human solidarity.

My first encounter with the poetry of Turkish poet Nazim Hikmet was in John Berger's book of essays Hold Everything Dear. One of the essays in Berger's book is a dedication to Hikmet and his poetry.

My earlier blog posts on Nazim Hikmet are here

Nazim Hikmet: Fourth Series from Rubaiyat

Nazim Hikmet Fourth Series
from Rubaiyat*
(translated by Randy Balsing & Mutlu Konuk)

1.
To conquer lies in the heart, in books, and in the street,
in mother's lullabies, in the announcer's news:
to know-it's a  great happiness, my love-
to know what's past and what's to come...

2.
Our arms are branches heavy with fruit :
the enemy shakes and shakes us,
and the better to harvest our fruit
they don't chain our feet, they fetter our minds....

3.
As long as you love
and love as much as you can,
as long as you give your all to your love
and give as much as you can, you are young.....

6.
In this business you must be hard and a little proud:
not cruelty, grief or sorrow
but death alone
           must see you surrender ......

Nazim Hikmet (1902-1963) is considered Turkey's greatest modern poet.

Hikmet began writing his rubaiyait in prison in December 1945, when he was into his eighth year of a 28 year prison sentence as a political prisoner. 

He was outspoken, revolutionary and a dedicated political activist and communist who was first jailed in 1924 at the age of 22 for working on a leftist magazine.  He spent 18 years in prison in Turkey as a political prisoner.

Hikmet was awarded the World Peace Prize in 1950, the same year he gained his release from prison after 12 years,  following an international campaign for his release led by Picasso, Paul Robeson, Bertrand Russell, Pablo Neruda and Jean Paul Sartre. 

Within a short time of being released he was again forced into exile from Turkey in 1951. He spent the last 13 years of his life in exile from Turkey. He died in Moscow in 1963, where he is still buried, although there are moves to return his remains to Turkey.

His poetry was suppressed in Turkey for over 50 years.  It is only recently that Hikmet's citizenship was restored by the Turkish Government.

Seyla Benhabib on the sigificance of global protests

"Democracy thrives on the interplay of formal representative institutions and the energies of civil society and the voices and noise of the streets."
Seyla Benhabib

For those of us who operate in the spaces of civil society, citizen led social action and social movements, Seyla Benhabib in an interview in Dissent magazine The Gezi Park Protests and the Future of Turkish Politics poses some important questions arising from the wave of global recent protests that swept through Turkey, Brazil, the Middle East, North Africa and Eastern Europe. 

Benhabib explores the implications of the recent protests across Turkey, particularly the protests that took place in Gezi Park in Istanbul.

One of the critical questions posed by Benhabib is whether this global wave of protest can transform itself into some form of organized presence in representative democratic institutions.

These new protests are also the cries of anguish of a new generation who is facing a bleak economic future—at least in Europe and the United States. There is a deep generational anxiety that is galvanizing these protests, with twenty-somethings realizing their prospects may be worse than those of their parents for the first time since the Second World War.

The student movement of 1968 was also global and had spectacular qualities. But principally this movement was guided by varieties of left-wing ideology. There were certain categories through which the world was interpreted, such as imperialism. Today, neoliberal globalization has scrambled our old categories: who are the imperialists? The United States, or China, or Saudi Arabia, all of which are exercising hegemony and regional influence in different ways?

Today’s movements are more diffuse ideologically and programmatically; they cherish politics in the first person more than conceptual abstractions; they are pragmatic and, at their best, they want a deliberative voice and the power to shape the whirling and buzzing vortex of globalization around them. For me, the question for the coming decades will be whether this contentious political energy, which I find so beautiful and hopeful, can translate into some vision of a better future society. There is, at the present, a huge “democratic disconnect” between the street and the parliaments, the public square and the courthouse.
By contrast, the student movement of 1968 took the “long march through the institutions” and produced the political leaders of the next generation, such as Daniel Cohn-Bendit, Joschka Fischer, and Otto Schilly in Germany; Bernard Kouchner in France; and in the United States, Jesse Jackson, Bill and Hillary Clinton, John Kerry, and even Barack Obama, who in no small measure owes his political orientation to his mother, a child of the sixties. Will this also be the case with your generation? I don’t know.