Remembering you is good
in prison
amid the news
of victory and death
as my fortieth year passes...

Remembering you is good
your hand
forgotten upon a blue dress
your hair
with the grave softness
of the earth of my beloved Istanbul.
This joy of loving you
is like a second person inside me...
The smell of geranium leaves
on your fingertips
warm and comforting
The invitation of your flesh
a hot
intense darkness
scored by vivid red lines...

Remembering you is good
or writing about you
as I lie on my back
in prison
thinking of such and such a day
at such and such a place
of some words you said
not of the words so much
but of the world and you within them...

Remembering you is good
I must carve some things for you again
a jewel box
a ring
I must weave a length of thin silk
then jump up
and clutching the window bars
shout what I have written for you
to the innocent blue
of freedom.

Remembering you is good
in prison
amid the news
of victory and death
as my fortieth year passes...
1942

At this late hour
on this autumn night
I am filled with your words.
Eternal
like time like matter
Naked
like an eye
Heavy
like a hand
Words which sparkle
like stars.
Your words came to me
from your heart
your head
your body
Your words delivered you
mother
woman
comrade
Your words were sad
they were bitter
hopeful
heroic
Your words were human.
September 20, 1945

Our son is sick
his father in prison
your heavy head
fallen in your tired palms
the laughter drained from your golden eyes.

People
will surely carry people
on to sunnier days
our son will get well
his father out of prison
your golden eyes
will fill with laughter once more...
Our fate
is the world's fate.
September 21, 1945

Reading books
you're there inside me
Hearing songs
you're inside me
Eating my bread
you're sitting before me
Or at my work
you're before me.
You're my 'silent partner'
everywhere.
Although we cannot speak
Although we cannot hear
each other's voices.
You're my widow of eight years.
September 22, 1945

What is she doing now
this second, this very second?
Is she at home, outside,
working, lying down, on her feet?
could she be raising her arm?
O my love!
how this movement bares
her strong white wrist!
What is she doing now
this second, this very second?
Perhaps she has a kitten on her lap,
she's petting it.
Or, perhaps she's walking, about to step.
O those feet I cherish,
those feet which bring her to me
on tip-toe when days are dark...
And what is she thinking about,
of me?
Or, who knows,
why the beans take so long to cook?
Or, even,
why the majority of men are so miserable?
What is she thinking now
this second, this very second?
September 23, 1945

The loveliest sea
is the sea not yet traveled
The loveliest child
is the child not yet born
Our loveliest days
are those we have not yet lived through.
And the loveliest word I would say to you
is the word that I have not yet said.
September 24, 1945

Squatting, I look at the earth
I look at the grasses
I look at the insects
I look at the deep blue flowers opening from stems.
I look at you, my love,
You are like the spring earth.
Stretched out on my back, I see the sky
I see the tree's branches
I see the storks flying
I see you, my love,
You are like the spring sky.
Lighting a night fire, I touch the fire
I touch the water
I touch the cloth
I touch the silver
I touch you, my love
You are the fire lit beneath the stars.
Inside of people, I love people
I love action
I love thinking
I love my struggle
I love you, my love,
You are a person inside my struggle.
1945

9 PM
horns blare in the yard
soon they will close the cell doors.
This prison term
is longer than the others
nearly eight years now...
Living is a labor of hope, my love,
living is a serious business
like loving you...
September 25, 1945

They enslaved us
threw us in prison
me
inside the walls
you
outside the walls.
But that is nothing,
the true evil is that
knowingly
or unknowingly
a man carries the prison
inside himself...
Most of the men
fallen to this state
are honorable
hard-working
good men,
and deserve to be loved
as I love you.
September 26, 1945

Thinking of you
is a beautiful thing
a hopeful thing
a thing like hearing
the most beautiful song
from the world's most beautiful voice...
But hope no longer is enough for me
I no longer want to hear the song-
I want to sing it...
September 30, 1945

Above the mountain
there is a cloud
swollen with sun above the mountain.
Another day
passed without you
with and without the world another day.
They will open soon
in bursts of red
nightflowers will open in bursts of red.
Soundless bold wings
carry our separation
that separation like an exile
from the homeland...
October 1, 1945

The wind flows by
no cherry branch moves
with the same wind twice.
Birds chatter in the trees:
wings poised for flight.
A closed door:
waiting to be thrown open.
I want you
I want life to be as lovely
and friendly and good as you.
I know this feast of misery
is not yet finished.
But it will be finished...
October 2, 1945

Both of us know, my love,
they taught us
the hunger, the shivering,
the withering exhaustion,
the separation from each other.
Still, we have not been forced to kill
nor tasted the moment of being killed.

Both of us know, my love,
we can teach them
to fight for our people
to love each day
a little stronger
a little more from our souls...
October 5, 1945

Clouds pass, heavy
and swollen with news,
Crushing in my fist
the letter that hasn't come yet,
Tears in the corners of my eyes,
goodbyes said to the endless earth,
And I want to shout: Piraye!
Pi-ra-ye!
October 6, 1945

At night, the wind carries the cries of men
across the open seas
At night, there is danger still in straying
across the open seas.
This field, unplowed for six years,
still bears the tracks of tank treads
This winter, the snow will cover
these untouched tracks of tank treads.
Ah, my dearest, the antennas are lying again
so that the merchants of sweat can close
with 100% profits.
But those who have returned from Azrail's feast
have returned with their decisions made...
October 7, 1945

I've become unbearable again
sleepless, petty, cross.
You can see
I'm working one day
like a blasphemous shrew
like a raging animal.
And then
I'm on my back the next day
from morning to evening
a lazy folksong in my mouth
like a cigarette that has gone out.
The hate
and the pity I feel for myself
hold me totally in their grasp.
I've become unbearable again
sleepless, petty, cross.
As always, I'm unfair.
Without any reason
or any possibility of one,
and even though it's a vile humiliation
I can't help it,
I'm jealous.
Forgive me...
October 8, 1945

Last night I had a dream:
You were sitting at my feet,
You raised your head, turned
Your enormous golden eyes to me,
And asked a question,
Your wet lips opened and closed,
But I didn't hear your voice.
The hour struck as though somewhere
There was good news in the night.
Whispers of endlessness in the air,
My canary in its red cage
Singing the Song of Memo.
The small cracking sounds of seeds
Pushing and lifting the earth,
And the just and triumphant humming
Of some gathering comes to my ear.
Your wet lips still opened and closed,
But I didn't hear your voice.
I awoke in a nervous uncertainty.
I had fallen asleep over my book, it seems,
But I am wondering now
Whether all those voices were not your voice?
October 9, 1945

Looking in your eyes
I am drunk with the smell of warm earth
lost in a wheat field among the stalks...
Your eyes
are like an eternal substance, changing endlessly
pits without bottom, with flashes of green...
whose secret is given up a little each day
but never completely surrendered.
October 10, 1945

When