Autobiography by Nazim Hikmet

Autobiography

I was born in 1902

I never once went back to my birthplace

I don't like to turn back

at three I served as a pasha's grandson in Aleppo

at nineteen as a student at Moscow Communist University

at forty-nine I was back in Moscow as the Tcheka Party's guest

and I've been a poet since I was fourteen

some people know all about plants some about fish

I know separation

some people know the names of the stars by heart

I recite absences

I've slept in prisons and in grand hotels

I've known hunger even a hunger strike and there's almost no food

I haven't tasted

at thirty they wanted to hang me

at forty-eight to give me the Peace Prize

which they did

at thirty-six I covered four square meters of concrete in half a year

at fifty-nine I flew from Prague to Havana in eighteen hours

I never saw Lenin I stood watch at his coffin in '24

in '61 the tomb I visit is his books

they tried to tear me away from my party

it didn't work

nor was I crushed under the falling idols

in '51 I sailed with a young friend into the teeth of death

in '52 I spent four months flat on my back with a broken heart

waiting to die

I was jealous of the women I loved

I didn't envy Charlie Chaplin one bit

I deceived my women

I never talked my friends' backs

I drank but not every day

I earned my bread money honestly what happiness

out of embarrassment for others I lied

I lied so as not to hurt someone else

but I also lied for no reason at all

I've ridden in trains planes and cars

most people don't get the chance

I went to opera

most people haven't even heard of the opera

and since '21 I haven't gone to the places most people visit

mosques churches temples synagogues sorcerers

but I've had my coffee grounds read

my writings are published in thirty or forty languages

in my Turkey in my Turkish they're banned

cancer hasn't caught up with me yet

and nothing says it will

I'll never be a prime minister or anything like that

and I wouldn't want such a life

nor did I go to war

or burrow in bomb shelters in the bottom of the night

and I never had to take to the road under diving planes

but I fell in love at almost sixty

in short comrades

even if today in Berlin I'm croaking of grief

I can say I've lived like a human being

and who knows

how much longer I'll live

what else will happen to me

This autobiography was written 

in east Berlin on 11 September 1961 

(Trans. by Randy Blasing and Mutlu Konuk)

Love Poem with Tumor and Petrified Dog by Kaveh Akbar

Love Poem with Tumor and Petrified Dog

There is a tumor in my sacroiliac joint 

and snowflakes in my coffee. 

I’m in Iowa with the cats

and you’re in Pompeii.

You send a video: lizards rushing into limestone

which remind you of being a kid in Florida. 

In Florida we memorized sonnets

while leaping around green anoles. 

I’ve forgotten the poems. 

Your black tights, even in that heat. 

Mostly that’s what I remember.

It’s okay to say it straight. 

Like: I’m scared, still,

that I might be dying. 

Pomegranates growing from Pompeiian ash, 

scandalizing propriety—

you send a picture and I do not say,

It just looks like a tree

or Another of God’s secrets 

wasted on me. 

Which part of the mind 

gets you to the soul?

I am reading St. John of the Cross,

a character you might’ve put in a poem:

In the evening of life,

we will be judged on love alone. 

Some petrified dog. Table bread,

a painted doorway. 

You’ve been with me forever.

You know all my angels.

How could I say no to you, 

taking off your earrings to kiss me?

The Dictator in Prison by Adèlia Prado

The Dictator in Prison

 

The dictator is writing poetry,

poor fellow,

poor us for saying

poor fellow,

since he, too, has a memory

to conjure orange trees,

little bowls of pudding,

laughter and pleasant conversation—

a paradise of lowly delights.

The impatiens have barely opened

and the bees are already busy among them,

turning the day perfect.

Let’s not ridicule the bloodthirsty man

who, under the eyes of the guards,

pours his desire—equal to anyone’s—

into a notebook:

I want to be happy, I want an elastic body,

I want a horse, a sword and a good war!

The dictator is devout,

he observes his canonic hours

like the monks in the choir,

and dozes over the Koran.

I who live outside the walls

tremble for the fate

of a man who pounded the ground

with his iron boot.

Let no one interrupt the outcast’s prayer

or ridicule his verses.

God’s mercy is strange,

its mystery crushing.

For some unfathomable reason

I am not the prisoner.

My compassion is too large

to be my own.

He who invented hearts

loves this poor wretch with mine.

(translated by Ellen Doré Watson)

Hidden Things by Constantine P. Cavafy (Two Translations)

Hidden Things

 

From all I did and from all I said

they shouldn’t try to find out who I was.

An obstacle was there and it distorted

my actions and the way I lived my life.

An obstacle was there and it stopped me

on many occasions when I was going to speak.

The most unnoticed of my actions

and the most covert of all my writings:

from these alone will they come to know me.

But perhaps it’s not worth squandering

so much care and trouble on puzzling me out.

Afterwards –in some perfect society –

someone else who’s fashioned like me

will surely appear and be free to do as he pleases.

 

(Translated by Daniel Mendelsohn)

Hidden Things

 

From all I did and all I said

let no one try to find out who I was.

An obstacle was there that changed the pattern

of my actions and the manner of my life.

An obstacle was often there

to stop me when I’d begin to speak.

From my most unnoticed actions,

my most veiled writing—

from these alone will I be understood.

But maybe it isn’t worth so much concern,

so much effort to discover who I really am.

Later, in a more perfect society,

someone else made just like me

is certain to appear and act freely.

 

(translated by Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrard)

The Gods Abandon Antony by Constantine P. Cavafy (Two Translations)

The Gods Abandon Antony

When suddenly, at midnight, there comes the sound

of an invisible procession passing by

with exquisite music playing, with voices raised—

your good fortune, which now gives way; all your efforts’

ill-starred outcome; the plans you made for life,

which turned out wrong: don’t mourn them uselessly.

Like one who’s long prepared, like someone brave,

bid farewell to her, to Alexandria, who is leaving.

Above all do not fool yourself, don’t say

that it was a dream, that your ears deceived you;

don’t stoop to futile hopes like these.

Like one who’s long prepared, like someone brave

as befits a man who’s been blessed with a city like this,

go without faltering toward the window

and listen with deep emotion, but not

with the entreaties and the whining of a coward,

to the sounds—a final entertainment—

to the exquisite instruments of that initiate crew,

and bid farewell to her, to Alexandria, whom you are losing.

(Translated by Daniel Mendelsohn)

The Gods Abandon Antony

When suddenly, at midnight, you hear

an invisible procession going by

with exquisite music, voices,

don’t mourn your luck that’s failing now,

work gone wrong, your plans

all proving deceptive—don’t mourn them uselessly.

As one long prepared, and graced with courage,

say goodbye to her, the Alexandria that is leaving.

Above all, don’t fool yourself, don’t say

it was a dream, your ears deceived you:

don’t degrade yourself with empty hopes like these.

As one long prepared, and graced with courage,

as is right for you who proved worthy of this kind of city,

go firmly to the window

and listen with deep emotion, but not

with the whining, the pleas of a coward;

listen—your final delectation—to the voices,

to the exquisite music of that strange procession,

and say goodbye to her, to the Alexandria you are losing.  

(Translated by Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrard)

Weather Forecast by Adélia Prado

Weather Forecast

 

The spirit of rebellion

also called hopelessness                                                              

has begun another sinister round.   

His dark and cold come straight from hell.

I was expecting happy days from May,

but so far the only sunny thing was Albertina’s news

that she was chosen to sing “Jesus is the bread of heaven.”

That’s bread without butter, Albertina,                                             

just so you know.

We eat it with bitter herbs

(Translated by Ellen Doré Watson)  

Cul-De-Sac by Andrea Cohen

Cul-De-Sac

Like all tyrants,

my mother made

decrees. The last

straw was the law

that said: no frogs

inside the house.

The lousy universe!

I was seven and ready

to flee with nothing. At

least take a sandwich,

my mother said,

tucking a foil brick

into the kerchief

I’d tied to a stick. I

was a real hobo.

I barely watched her

watch me walk off.

I got all the way

to the cul-de-sac

and sat down to eat.

It was a sandwich

full of grief––

grief and salt,

grief and tomatoes,

grief and cheese.

How far into

far did I go?

How is it

my glass of milk

was still cold

when I got home?