Bach's Concerto No. 1 in C-Minor
by Nâzım Hikmet (1902 – 1963)
Fall morning in the vineyard:
in row after row the repetition of knotty vines,
of clusters on the vines,
of grapes in the clusters,
of light on the grapes.
At night, in the big white house,
the repetition of windows,
each lit up separately.
The repetition of all the rain that rains
on earth, trees, and the sea,
on my hands, face, and eyes,
and of the drops crushed on the glass.
The repetition of my days
that are alike,
my days that are not alike.
The repetition of the thread in the weave,
the repetition in the starry sky,
and the repetition of "I love" in all languages,
and the repetition of the tree in the leaves,
and of the pain of living, which ends in an instant
on every deathbed.
The repetition in the snow -
the light snow,
the heavy wet snow,
the dry snow,
the repetition in the snow that whirls
in the blizzard that drives me off the road.
The children are running in the courtyard;
in the courtyard the children are running.
An old woman is passing by on the street;
on the street an old woman is passing by;
passing by on the street is an old woman.
At night, in the big white house,
the repetition of windows,
each lit up separately.
In the clusters, of grapes,
on the grapes, of light.
To walk toward the good, the just, the true,
to fight for the good, the just, the true,
to seize the good, the just, the true.
Your silent tears and smile, my rose,
your sobs and bursts of laughter, my rose,
the repetition of your shining white teeth when you laugh.
Fall morning in the vineyard:
in row after row the repetition of knotty vines,
of clusters on the vines,
of grapes in the clusters,
of light on the grapes,
of my heart in the light.
My rose, this is the miracle of repetition -
to repeat without repeating.
Warsaw, 23 February 1958
translated from Turkish
by Randy Blasing and Mutlu Konuk
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Thanks for sharing. I hope you enjoyed it.
Here is another:
On Living
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 you're seriously ill, need surgery--
which is to say we might not get
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 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" ...
Trans. by Randy Blasing and Mutlu Konuk (1993)
Nazim Hikmet
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