Friday, April 21, 2006

Fred's Poems: "On Living"

"On Living" by Nazim Hikmet
translated by Randy Blasing and Mutlu Konuk


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 life.
Living is no laughing matter:
              you must take it seriously,
              so much so and to such a degree
      that, for example, your hands are 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.


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.


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 must feel this sorrow now—
for the world must be loved this much
                                          if you're going to say, "I lived"...



Blogger Dr. S said...

If these were Fred Pfeil's favorite poems, I think he and I would have been famous friends.

8:04 PM, April 21, 2006  

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