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Nâzım Hikmet Ran

 



Nâzım Hikmet Ran (January 15, 1902 – June 3, 1963) commonly known as Nâzım Hikmet was a Turkish poet, playwright, novelist, screenwriter, director and memoirist. He was acclaimed for the "lyrical flow of his statements".

 Described as a "romantic communist" and "romantic revolutionary", he was repeatedly arrested for his political beliefs and spent much of his adult life in prison or in exile. His poetry has been translated into more than fifty languages.



On Living

Nazim Hikmet 

 

I

 

Living is no laughing matter:

            you must live with great seriousness

                        like a squirrel, for example—

   I mean without looking for something beyond and above living,

                        I mean living must be your whole occupation.

Living is no laughing matter:

            you must take it seriously,

            so much so and to such a degree

   that, for example, your hands tied behind your back,

                                            your back to the wall,

   or else in a laboratory

            in your white coat and safety glasses,

            you can die for people—

   even for people whose faces you've never seen,

   even though you know living

            is the most real, the most beautiful thing.

I mean, you must take living so seriously

   that even at seventy, for example, you'll plant olive trees—

   and not for your children, either,

   but because although you fear death you don't believe it,

   because living, I mean, weighs heavier.

II

 

Let's say we're seriously ill, need surgery—

which is to say we might not get up

                                    from the white table.

Even though it's impossible not to feel sad

                                    about going a little too soon,

we'll still laugh at the jokes being told,

we'll look out the window to see if it's raining,

or still wait anxiously

                        for the latest newscast. . .

Let's say we're at the front—

            for something worth fighting for, say.

There, in the first offensive, on that very day,

            we might fall on our face, dead.

We'll know this with a curious anger,

        but we'll still worry ourselves to death

        about the outcome of the war, which could last years.

Let's say we're in prison

and close to fifty,

and we have eighteen more years, say,

                        before the iron doors will open.

We'll still live with the outside,

with its people and animals, struggle and wind—

                                I  mean with the outside beyond the walls.

I mean, however and wherever we are,

        we must live as if we will never die.

III

 

This earth will grow cold,

a star among stars

               and one of the smallest,

a gilded mote on blue velvet—

              I mean this, our great earth.

This earth will grow cold one day,

not like a block of ice

or a dead cloud even

but like an empty walnut it will roll along

              in pitch-black space . . .

You must grieve for this right now

—you have to feel this sorrow now—

for the world must be loved this much

                               if you're going to say "I lived". . .

From Poems of Nazim Hikmet, translated by Randy Blasing and Mutlu Konuk, published by Persea Books.