{"id":49,"date":"2020-04-23T14:34:00","date_gmt":"2020-04-23T14:34:00","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.holdsuponhappiness.com\/index.php\/2020\/04\/23\/a-poem-for-thursday-78\/"},"modified":"2020-10-26T20:45:00","modified_gmt":"2020-10-26T20:45:00","slug":"a-poem-for-thursday-78","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.holdsuponhappiness.com\/index.php\/2020\/04\/23\/a-poem-for-thursday-78\/","title":{"rendered":"A Poem for a Thursday #78"},"content":{"rendered":"\n\n\n\n
<\/a><\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
Photo by\u00a0<\/span>Charlotte<\/a>\u00a0on\u00a0<\/span>Unsplash<\/a><\/td>\n<\/tr>\n<\/tbody>\n<\/table>\n

N\u00e2zim Hikmet was a Turkish poet, playwright, director, and novelist. His poems have been translated into more than 50 languages. He spent much of his life in prison for his political beliefs.<\/p>\n

it’s 1962 March 28th<\/i>
\nI’m sitting by the window on the Prague-Berlin\u00a0<\/i>
\ntrain<\/i>
\nnight is falling\u00a0<\/i>
\nI never knew I liked<\/i>
\nnight descending like a tired bird on a smokey\u00a0<\/i>
\nwet plain<\/i>
\nI don’t like<\/i>
\ncomparing nightfall to a tired bird<\/i>
\n
\n<\/i>
\nI didn’t know I loved the earth<\/i>
\ncan someone who hasn’t worked the earth love it<\/i>
\nI’ve never worked the earth<\/i>
\nit must be my only Platonic love<\/i>
\n
\n<\/i>
\nand here I’ve loved rivers all this time<\/i>
\nwhether motionless like this they curl skirting the hills<\/i>
\nEuropean hills crowned with chateaus<\/i>
\nor whether stretched out flat as far as the eye can see<\/i>
\nI know you can’t wash in the same river even once<\/i>
\nI know the river will bring new lights you’ll never see<\/i>
\nI know we live slightly longer than a horse but not nearly as long as a crow<\/i>
\nI know this has troubled people before\u00a0<\/i>
\n\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0and will trouble those after me<\/i>
\nI know all this has been said a thousand times\u00a0<\/i>
\n\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0before<\/i>
\n\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 and will be said after me<\/i>
\n
\n<\/i>
\nI didn’t know I loved the sky<\/i>
\ncloudy or clear<\/i>
\nthe blue vault Andrei studied on his back at Borodino<\/i>
\nin prison I translated both volumes of War and Peace into Turkish<\/i>
\nI hear voices<\/i>
\nnot from the blue vault but from the yard<\/i>
\nthe guards are beating someone again<\/i>
\nI didn’t know I loved trees<\/i>
\nbare beaches near Moscow in Peredelkino<\/i>
\nthey come upon me in winter noble and modest<\/i>
\nbeaches are Russian the way poplars are Turkish<\/i>
\n“the poplars of Izmir<\/i>
\nlosing their leaves…<\/i>
\nthey call me The Knife…<\/i>
\n\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 lover like a young tree…<\/i>
\nI blow stately mansions sky-high”<\/i>
\nin the Iglaz woods in 1920 I tied an embroidered\u00a0<\/i>
\n\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 linen handkerchief\u00a0<\/i>
\n\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0to a pine bough for luck<\/i>
\n
\n<\/i>
\nI never knew I loved roads<\/i>
\neven the asphalt kind<\/i>
\nVera’s behind the wheel we’re driving from\u00a0<\/i>
\n\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0Moscow to the Crimea\u00a0<\/i>
\n\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0Koktebele<\/i>
\n\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 formerly “Goketep\u00e9 ili” in\u00a0<\/i>
\n\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 Turkish<\/i>
\nthe two of us inside a closed box<\/i>
\nthe world flows past on both sides distant and\u00a0<\/i>
\n\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 mute<\/i>
\nI was never so close to anyone in my life<\/i>
\nbandits stopped me on the red road between<\/i>
\n\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 Bolu and Gered\u00e9<\/i>
\n\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 when I was eighteen<\/i>
\napart from my life I didn’t have anything in the<\/i>
\n\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 wagon they could take<\/i>
\nand at eighteen our lives are what we value least<\/i>
\nI’ve written this somewhere before<\/i>
\nwading through a dark muddy street I’m going<\/i>
\n\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0to the shadow play<\/i>
\nRamazan night<\/i>
\na paper lantern leading the way<\/i>
\nmaybe nothing like this ever happened<\/i>
\nmaybe I read it somewhere an eight-year-old<\/i>
\n\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 boy<\/i>
\n\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0going to the shadow play<\/i>
\nRamazan night in Istanbul holding his<\/i>
\n\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 grandfather’s hand<\/i>
\nhis grandfather has on a fez and is wearing the\u00a0<\/i>
\n\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 fur coat\u00a0<\/i>
\n\u00a0 \u00a0 with a sable collar over his robe<\/i>
\n\u00a0 and there’s a lantern in the servant’s hand<\/i>
\n\u00a0 \u00a0and I can’t contain myself for joy<\/i>
\nflowers come to mind for some reason<\/i>
\npoppies cactuses jonquils<\/i>
\nin the jonquil garden in Kadikoy Istanbul I<\/i>
\n\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0kissed Marika<\/i>
\nfresh almonds on her breath<\/i>
\nI was seventeen<\/i>
\nmy heart on a swing touched the sky<\/i>
\nI didn’t know I loved flowers<\/i>
\n\u00a0friends sent me three red carnations in prison<\/i>
\n
\n<\/i>
\n
\n<\/i>
\nI just remembered the stars<\/i>
\nI love them too<\/i>
\nwhether I’m floored watching them from below<\/i>
\nor whether I’m flying at their side<\/i>
\n
\n<\/i>
\nI have some questions for the cosmonauts<\/i>
\nwere the stars much bigger<\/i>
\ndid they look like huge jewels on black velvet\u00a0\u00a0<\/i>
\n\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 or apricots on orange<\/i>
\ndid you feel proud to get closer to the stars<\/i>
\nI saw color photos of the cosmos in Ogonek<\/i>
\n\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0magazines now don’t<\/i>
\n\u00a0 \u00a0be upset comrades but nonfigurative shall we<\/i>
\n\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0say or abstract<\/i>
\nwell some of them looked just like such\u00a0<\/i>
\n\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0paintings which is to<\/i>
\nsay they were terribly figurative and concrete<\/i>
\nmy heart was in my mouth looking at them<\/i>
\nthey are our endless desire to grasp things<\/i>
\nseeing them I could even think of death and not<\/i>
\n\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0feel at all sad<\/i>
\nI never knew I loved the cosmos<\/i>
\n
\n<\/i>
\nsnow flashes in front of my eyes<\/i>
\nboth heavy wet steady snow and the dry<\/i>
\n\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 whirling kind<\/i>
\nI didn’t know I liked snow<\/i>
\n
\n<\/i>
\nI never knew I loved the sun<\/i>
\neven when setting cherry-red as now<\/i>
\nin Istanbul too it sometimes sets in postcard<\/i>
\n\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0colors<\/i>
\nbut you aren’t about to paint it that way<\/i>
\nI didn’t know I loved the sea<\/i>
\n\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0except the Sea of Azov<\/i>
\nor how much<\/i>
\n
\n<\/i>
\nI didn’t know I loved the clouds<\/i>
\nwhether I’m under or up above them<\/i>
\nwhether they look like giants or shaggy white<\/i>
\n\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0beasts<\/i>
\n
\n<\/i>
\nmoonlight the falsest the most languid the most\u00a0<\/i>
\n\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 petit-bourgeois<\/i>
\nstrikes me<\/i>
\nI like it<\/i><\/p>\n

I didn’t know I liked rain<\/i>
\nwhether it falls like a fine net or spatters<\/i>
\n\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 against the glass my<\/i>
\n\u00a0 heart leaves me tangled up in a net or trapped\u00a0<\/i>
\n\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0inside a drop<\/i>
\nand takes off for uncharted countries I didn’t\u00a0<\/i>
\n\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0know I loved<\/i>
\nrain but why did I suddenly discover all these\u00a0<\/i>
\n\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0passions sitting<\/i>
\nby the window on the Prague-Berlin train<\/i>
\nis it because I lit my sixth cigarette\u00a0<\/i>
\none alone could kill me<\/i>
\nis it because I’m half dead from thinking about<\/i>
\n\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0someone back in Moscow<\/i>
\nher hair straw-blond eyelashes blue<\/i>
\n
\n<\/i>
\nthe train plunges on through the pitch-black<\/i>
\n\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0night<\/i>
\n\u00a0<\/i>I never knew I liked the night pitch-black<\/i>
\nsparks fly from the engine<\/i>
\nI didn’t know I loved sparks<\/i>
\nI didn’t know I loved so many things and I had<\/i>
\n\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0to wait until sixty<\/i>
\nto find it out sitting by the window on the\u00a0<\/i>
\n\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 Prague-Berlin train<\/i>
\nwatching the world disappear as if on a\u00a0<\/i>
\n\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 journey of no return<\/i>
\n
\n<\/i>
\nThings I Didn’t Know I Loved<\/i>
\nN\u00e2zim Hikmet
\n
\n<\/i><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Photo by\u00a0Charlotte\u00a0on\u00a0Unsplash N\u00e2zim Hikmet was a Turkish poet, playwright, director, and novelist. His poems have been translated into more than 50 languages. He spent much of his life in prison for his political beliefs. it’s 1962 March 28th I’m sitting by the window on the Prague-Berlin\u00a0 train night is falling\u00a0 I never knew I liked night descending like a tired bird on a smokey\u00a0 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\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0and will trouble those after me I know all this has been said a thousand times\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0before \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 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 beaches near Moscow in Peredelkino they come upon me in winter noble and modest beaches are Russian the way poplars are Turkish “the poplars of Izmir losing their leaves… they call me The Knife… \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 lover like a young tree… I blow stately mansions sky-high” in the Iglaz woods in 1920 I tied an embroidered\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 linen handkerchief\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0to a pine bough for luck I never knew I loved roads even the asphalt kind Vera’s behind the wheel we’re driving from\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0Moscow to the Crimea\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0Koktebele \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 formerly “Goketep\u00e9 ili” in\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 Turkish the two of us inside a closed box the world flows past on both sides distant and\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 mute I was never so close to anyone in my life bandits stopped me on the red road between \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 Bolu and Gered\u00e9 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 when I was eighteen apart from my life I didn’t have anything in the \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 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 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0to 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 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 boy \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0going to the shadow play Ramazan night in Istanbul holding his \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 grandfather’s hand his grandfather has on a fez and is wearing the\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 fur coat\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 with a sable collar over his robe \u00a0 and there’s a lantern in the servant’s hand \u00a0 \u00a0and 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 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0kissed Marika fresh almonds on her breath I was seventeen my heart on a swing touched the sky I didn’t know I loved flowers \u00a0friends 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\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 or apricots on orange did you feel proud to get closer to the stars I saw color photos of the cosmos in Ogonek \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0magazines now don’t \u00a0 \u00a0be upset comrades but nonfigurative shall we \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0say or abstract well some of them looked just like such\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0paintings 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 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0feel 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 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 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 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0colors but you aren’t about to paint it that way I didn’t know I loved the sea \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0except the Sea of Azov or how much I didn’t know I loved the clouds whether I’m under or up above them whether they look like giants or shaggy white \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0beasts moonlight the falsest the most languid the most\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 petit-bourgeois strikes me I like it I didn’t know I liked rain whether it falls like a fine net or spatters \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 against the glass my \u00a0 heart leaves me tangled up in a net or trapped\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0inside a drop and takes off for uncharted countries I didn’t\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0know I loved rain but why did I suddenly discover all these\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0passions sitting by the window on the Prague-Berlin train is it because I lit my sixth cigarette\u00a0 one alone could kill me is it because I’m half dead from thinking about \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0someone back in Moscow her hair straw-blond eyelashes blue the train plunges on through the pitch-black \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0night \u00a0I 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 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0to wait until sixty to find it out sitting by the window on the\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 Prague-Berlin train watching the world disappear as if on a\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 journey of no return Things I Didn’t Know I Loved N\u00e2zim 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