Straw-blond

Today I was walking in the old city region of Istanbul and passing a bookstore by. As always I had a quick glance at the books shown and suddenly the face of our famous poet Nazim Hikmet drew my attention. It was a collection of his poems translated into English. I rushed inside to check the book and to look if his best poem "Saman Sarısı" (Straw-blond) is also inside...and the answer is yes! Since previously I had trouble with finding the poem translated into English on internet I decided to buy the book and post it myself. The book is a wonderful collection by the way, absolutely recommended for anyone with English skills. You can find it in Amazon.

So here follows one of the best poems ever from a truly great poet, enjoy!

STRAW-BLOND

                                             to Vera Tulyakova,
                                            with my deep respect    
 

                                                                             I

at dawn the express entered the station unannounced

it was covered with snow

I stood on the platform my coat collar raised

the platform was empty

a sleeper window stopped in front of me

its curtains were parted

a young woman slept in the lower berth in the twilight

her hair straw-blond eyelashes blue

and her full red lips looked spoiled and pouting

I didn’t see who was sleeping in the upper berth

unannounced the express slipped out of the station

I don’t know where it came from or where it was going

I watched it leave

I was sleeping in the upper berth

                                                           in the Bristol Hotel in Warsaw

I hadn’t slept so soundly in years

and yet my bed was wooden and narrow

a young woman slept in another bed

her hair straw—blond eyelashes blue

her white neck long and smooth

she hadn’t slept so soundly in years

and yet her bed was wooden and narrow

time sped on we were nearing midnight

we hadn’t slept so soundly in years

and yet our beds were wooden and narrow

I’m coming down the stairs from the fourth floor

the elevator is out again

inside mirrors I’m coming down the stairs

I could be twenty I could be a hundred

time sped on I was nearing midnight

on the third floor a woman was laughing behind a door

            a sad rose slowly opened in my right hand

I met a Cuban ballerina at the snowy windows on the second floor

she flashed past my forehead like a fresh dark flame

the poet Nicolas Guillen went back to Havana long ago

for years we sat in the hotel lobbies of Europe and Asia

              drinking the loss of our cities drop by drop

two things are forgotten only with death

the face of our mothers and the face of our cities

wood barges swim into the wind early mornings in winter

                like old rowboats that have cut themselves loose

and in the ashes of a brazier

       my big Istanbul wakes up from sleep

two things are forgotten only with death

the doorman saw me off his cloak sinking into the night

I walked into the icy wind and neon

time sped on I was nearing midnight

they came upon me suddenly

it was light as day but no one else saw

a squad of them

they had jackboots pants coats

arms swastikas on their arms

hands automatics in their hands

they had shoulders helmets on their shoulders but no heads

between their shoulders and their helmets nothing

they even had collars and necks but no heads

they were the soldiers whose deaths are not mourned

I walked on

you could see their fear animal fear

I can’t say it showed in their eyes

they didn’t have heads to have eyes

you could see their fear animal fear

it showed in their boots

can boots show fear

theirs did

in their fear they opened fire

they fired nonstop at all buildings all vehicles all living things

at every sound the least movement

they even fired at a poster of blue fish on Chopin Street

but not so much as a piece of plaster fell or a window broke

and no one but me heard the shots

the dead even an SS squad the dead can’t kill

the dead kill by coming back as worms inside the apple

but you could see their fear animal fear

wasn’t this city killed before they were

weren’t the bones of this city broken one by one and its skin flayed

weren’t bookcovers made from its skin soap from its oil rope

   from its hair

but there it was standing before them

like a hot loaf of bread in the icy night wind

time sped on I was nearing midnight

on Belvedere road I thought of the Poles

they dance a heroic mazurka through history

on Belvedere road I thought of the Poles

in this palace they gave me my first and maybe last medal

the master of ceremonies opened the gilded white door

I entered the hall with a young woman

her hair straw—blond eyelashes blue

and no one was there but us two

plus the aquarelles and delicate chairs and sofas like doll furniture

and you became

               a blue-tinted pastel or a porcelain doll

or maybe a spark from my dream landed on my chest

you slept in the lower berth in the twilight

your white neck long and smooth

you hadn’t slept so soundly in years

and here in the Caprice Bar in Cracow

time speeds on we’re nearing midnight

separation was on the table between the colfee cup and my glass

you put it there

it was the water at the bottom of a stone well

I lean over and see

an old man dimly smiling at a cloud

I call out

the echoes of my voice return without you

separation was in the cigarette package on the table

the waiter with glasses brought it but you ordered it

it was smoke curling in your eyes

it was at the end of your cigarette

and in your hand waiting to say goodbye

separation was on the table where you rested your elbow

it was in what went through your mind 

             in what you hid from me and what you didn’t

separation was in your calm

            in your trust in me 

it was in your great fear

to fall in love with someone out of the blue as if your door burst open

actually you love me and don’t know it

separation was in your not knowing 

separation was free of gravity weightless I can’t say like a feather

         even a feather weighs something separation was weightless

         but it was there

time speeds on midnight approaches

we walked in the shadow of medieval walls reaching the stars

time sped backward 

the echoes of our steps returned like scrawny yellow dogs 

they ran behind us and in front

the devil roams Jagiellonian University

digging his nails into the stones

he’s out to sabotage the astrolabe Copernicus got from the Arabs

and in the market place under the Cloth Arcade

he’s with the Catholic students dancing to rock ’n’ roll

time speeds on midnight approaches

the red glow of Nowa Huta lights the clouds

there young workers from the villages cast their souls along with iron

burning into new molds

and casting souls is a thousand times harder than casting iron

the trumpeter who tells the hours in the bell tower of St. Mary’s

    Church

sounded midnight

his call rose out of the Middle Ages

            warned the city of the enemy’s approach

and was cut off by an arrow through the throat

the herald died at peace

and I thought of the pain

of dying before announcing the enemy’s approach

time speeds on midnight recedes

like a ferry landing gone dark

at dawn the express entered the station unannounced

Prague was all rain

it was an inlaid·silver chest at the bottom of a lake

I opened it

inside a young woman slept among glass birds

her hair straw·blond eyelashes blue

she hadn’t slept so soundly in years

I closed the chest and put it on the baggage car

unannounced the express slipped out of the station

arms hanging at my sides I watched it leave

Prague was all rain

you aren’t here

you’re sleeping in the lower berth in the twilight

the upper berth is empty

you aren’t here

one of the world’s most beautiful cities is empty

like a glove pulled off your hand

it went dark like mirrors that no longer see you

the waters of the Vltava disappear under bridges like lost nights

the streets are all empty

in all the windows the curtains are drawn 

the streetcars go by all empty

           they don’t even have conductors or drivers

the coffeehouses are empty

           bars and restaurants too

the store windows are empty

           no cloth no crystal no meat no wine

           not a book not a box of candy not a carnation

and in this loneliness enfolding the city like fog an old man try-

   ing to shake off the sadness of age made ten times worse  by

   loneliness throws bread to the gulls from Legionnaires Bridge

            dipping each piece in the blood  

            of his too-young heart

I want to catch the minutes

the gold dust of their speed stays on my fingers

a woman sleeps in the lower berth in the sleeper 

she hasn’t slept so soundly in years

her hair straw-blond eyelashes blue

her hands candles in silver candlesticks

I can’t see who’s sleeping in the upper berth 

if anyone is sleeping there it isn’t me

maybe the upper berth is empty

maybe Moscow is in the upper berth

fog has settled over Poland

                       over Brest too 

for two days now planes can’t land or take off ,

but the trains come and go they go through hollowed·out eyes

since Berlin I was alone in the compartment

the next morning I woke to sun on snowy fields 

in the dining car I drank a kind of ayran called kefir

the waitress recognized me

she’d seen two of my plays in Moscow

a young woman met me at the station

her waist narrower than an ant’s

her hair straw-blond eyelashes blue

I took her hand and we walked

we walked in the sun cracking the snow

spring came early that year

those days they flew news to the evening star

Moscow was happy I was happy we were happy

suddenly I lost you in Mayakovsky Square I lost you suddenly no

  not suddenly because I first lost the warmth of your hand in

  mine then the soft weight of your hand in my palm and then

  your hand

and separation had set in long ago at the first touch of our fingers

but I still lost you suddenly

on the sea of asphalt I stopped the cars and looked inside no you

the boulevards all under snow

yours not among the footprints

I know your footprints in boots shoes stockings bare

I asked the guards

didn’t you see

if she took off her gloves you couldn’t miss her hands

they’re like candles in silver candlesticks

the guards answered very politely

we didn’t see

a tugboat breasts the current at Seraglio Point in Istanbul

behind it three barges

awk awk the sea gulls go awk awk

I called out to the barges from Red Square I didn’t call to the

  tugboat captain because he wouldn’t have heard me over the

  roar of his engine besides he was tired and his coat had no

  buttons

I called out to the barges from Red Square

we didn’t see

I stood I’m standing in all the lines in all the streets of Moscow

and I’m asking just the women

old women quiet and patient with smiling faces under wool babushkas

young women rosy-cheeked and straight—nosed in green velvet hats

and young girls very clean and firm and elegant too

maybe there are frightful old women weary young women and 

    sloppy girls  

         but who cares about them

women spot beauty before men do and they don’t forget it

didn’t you see

her hair straw-blond eyelashes blue

her black coat has a white collar and big pearl buttons

she got it in Prague 

we didn’t see

I’m racing the minutes now they’re ahead now me

when they’re ahead I’m scared I’ll lose sight

of their disappearing red lights is

when I’m ahead their headlights throw my shadow on the road

   my shadow races ahead of me suddenly I’m afraid I’ll lose

   sight of my shadow

I go into theaters concerts movies

I didn’t try the Bolshoi you don’t like tonight’s opera 

I went into Fisherman’s Bar in Istanbul and sat talking sweetly

   with Sait Faik I was out of prison a month his liver was hurt-

  ing and the world was beautiful

I go into restaurants with brassy orchestras famous bands

I ask gold-braided doormen and aloof tip—loving waiters

hatcheck girls and the neighborhood watchman

we didn’t see

the clock tower of the Strastnoi Monastery rang midnight

actually both tower and monastery were torn down long ago

they’re building the city’s biggest movie house there 

that’s where I met my nineteenth year 

we recognized each other right away 

yet we hadn’t seen each other not even photos 

we still recognized each other right away we weren’t surprised

   we tried to shake hands 

but our hands couldn’t touch forty years of time stood between us 

a North Sea frozen and endless

and it started snowing in Strastnoi now Pushkin Square 

I’m cold especially my hands and feet

yet I have wool socks and fur—lined boots and gloves

he’s the one without socks his feet wrapped in rags inside old

  boots his hands bare

the world is the taste of a green apple in his mouth

the feel of a fourteen-year-old girl’s breasts in his hands

songs go for miles and miles in his eyes death measures a hand’s-span

and he has no idea what all will happen to him

only I know what will happen

because I believed everything he believes

I loved all the women he’ll love

I wrote all the poems he’ll write

I stayed in all the prisons he’ll stay in

I passed through all the cities he will visit

I suffered all his illnesses

I slept all his nights dreamed all his dreams

I lost all that he will lose

her hair straw-blond eyelashes blue

her black coat has a white collar and big pearl buttons

I didn’t see

II

my nineteenth year crosses Beyazit Square comes out on Red Square

and goes down to Concorde I meet Abidin and we talk squares

the day before yesterday Gagarin circled the biggest square of all

  and returned

Titov too will go around and come back seventeen—and-a-half

  times even but I don’t know about it yet

I talk spaces and shapes with Abidin in my attic hotel room

and the Seine flows on both sides of Notre Dame

from my window at night I see the Seine as a sliver of moonlight

  on the wharf of the stars

and a young woman sleeps in my attic room

mixed with the chimneys of the Paris roofs

she hasn’t slept so soundly in years

her straw—blond hair curled her blue eyelashes like clouds on her face

with Abidin I discuss the space and shape of the atom’s seed

we speak of Rumi whirling in space

Abidin paints the colors of unlimited speed

I eat up the colors like fruit

and Matisse is a fruitpeddler he sells the fruits of the cosmos

like our Abidin and Avni and Levni

and the spaces shapes and colors seen by microscopes and rocket

  portholes

and their poets painters and musicians

in the space of one—fifty by sixty Abidin paints the surge forward

    the way I can see and catch fish in water that’s how I see and

    catch the bright moments flowing on Abidin’s canvas

and the Seine is like a sliver of moonlight

a young woman sleeps in a sliver of moonlight

how many times have I lost her how many times have I found

  her and how many more times will I lose her and find her

that’s the way it is girl that’s how it is I dropped part of my life

  into the Seine from St. Michel Bridge

one morning in drizzling light that part will catch Monsieur Dupont’s

  fishline

Monsieur Dupont will pull it out of the water along with the blue

    picture of Paris he won’t make anything of my life it won’t be

    like a fish or a shoe

Monsieur Dupont will throw it back along with the blue picture of Paris

the picture will stay where it was

the part of my life will flow with the Seine into the great cemetery

  of rivers

I woke to the rustle of blood in my veins

my fingers weightless

my Fingers and toes about to snap off take to the air and circle

  lazily overhead

no right and left or up and down

I should ask Abidin to paint the student shot in Beyazit Square

    and comrade Gagarin and comrade Titov whose name fame

    or face I don’t know yet and those to come after him and the

    young woman asleep in the attic

I got back from Cuba this morning

in the space that is Cuba six million people whites blacks yellows

   mulattoes are planting a bright seed the seed of seeds joyously

can you paint happiness Abidin

but without taking the easy way out

not the angel-faced mother nursing her rosy—cheeked baby

nor the apples on white cloth

nor the goldfish darting among aquarium bubbles

can you paint happiness Abidin

can you paint Cuba in midsummer  1961

master can you paint Praise be praise be I saw the day I could die now

      and not be sorry

can you paint What a pity what a pity I could have been born in

      Havana this morning

I saw a hand 150 kilometers east of Havana close to the sea

I saw a hand on a wall

the wall was an open song

the hand caressed the wall

the hand was six months old and stroked its mother’s neck

the hand was seventeen years old and caressed Maria’s breasts

its palm was calloused and smelled of the Caribbean

it was twenty and stroked the neck of its six—month-old son

the hand was twenty—five and had forgotten how to caress

the hand was thirty and I saw it on a wall near the sea  150

    kilometers east of Havana caressing a wall

you draw hands Abidin those of our laborers and ironworkers

   draw with charcoal the hand of the Cuban fisherman Nicolas

who on the wall of the shiny house he got from the cooperative

   rediscovered caressing and won’t forget it again

a big hand

a sea turtle of a hand

a hand that didn’t believe it could caress an open wall

a hand that now believes in all joys

a sunny salty sacred hand

the hand of hopes that sprout green and sweeten with the speed

     of sugar cane in earth fertile as Fidel’s words

one of the hands in Cuba in 1961 that plant houses like colorful

     cool trees and trees like very comfortable houses

one of the hands preparing to pour steel 

the hand that makes songs of machine guns and machine guns

     of songs

the hand of freedom without lies

the hand Fidel shook

the hand that writes the word freedom with the first pencil and

    paper of its life 

when they say the word freedom the Cubans’ mouths water

as if they were slicing a honey of a melon 

and the men’s eyes gleam

and the girls melt when their lips touch the word freedom

and the old people draw from the well their sweetest memories

      and slowly sip them

can you paint happiness Abidin

can you paint freedom the kind without lies

night is falling in Paris

Notre Dame lit up like an orange lamp and went out

and in Paris all the stones old and new lit up like orange lamps 

  and went out

I think of our crafts the business of poetry painting music and so on

I think and I know

a great river flows from the time the first human hand drew the 

  first bison in the first cave

then all streams run into it with their new fish new water—grasses

   new tastes and it alone flows endlessly and never dries up

I’ve heard there’s a chestnut tree in Paris

the first of the Paris chestnuts the granddaddy of them all

it came from Istanbul the hills of the Bosporus and settled in Paris

I don’t know if it’s still standing it would be about two hundred

   years old

I wish I could go shake its hand

I wish we could go lie in its shade the people who make the

   paper for this book who set its type who print its drawings

   those who sell this book in their stores who pay money and

   buy it who buy it and look at it and Abidin and me too plus

   the straw—blond trouble of my life

                                                                                                                            1961

(Translated by Randy Blasing & Mutlu Konuk)

                                                                                NOTES

Abidin: Abidin Dino, a famous Turkish painter.

Sait Faik: A Turkish writer mainly famous for his short stories

Avni: another famous Turkish painter (Avni Arbaş)

Levni: Ottoman miniaturist

Vera Tulyakova: lover of Nazim Hikmet, a blondie of course