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Nazim Hikmet. Some Poems

Nazim Hikmet. Some Poems

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Some poems of Nazim Hikmet, translated by Nilufer Mizanoglu Reddy
Some poems of Nazim Hikmet, translated by Nilufer Mizanoglu Reddy

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Published by: Mrs Nilufer Mizanoglu Reddy on Jun 07, 2009
Copyright:Attribution Non-commercial

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06/26/2013

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NAZIMHIKMET
 POEMSTRANSLATEDBY  NIL
Ű 
 FERMIZANO
Ğ 
 LUREDD
Bare FeetThe Pupils of the Hungry OnesThe Song of the Sun DrinkersA Tale of SeparationTestamentPrison Letters: IstanbulBitkiler IpeklisindenBefore the Time Runs Out, My RoseTo Asian and African WritersFrom the Epic of the National Independence StruggleThe Multitudes1918-1919: The Story of the Black SnakeThe Month of August: Our WomenBlue-Eyed Giant, Tiny Woman and HoneysuckleTo Paul RobesonMy Idea of a SailorTo my UncleTo my Martyred UncleMy own UncleTo my CounctryFor my Martyred UncleFor my Martyred Uncle- 2Samiye’s CatThe Youth[Untitled – 2 poems]In Five Lines
 
 YALNAYAK 
BARE FEET
The sunover our headsa turban of fire.parched earth
chariks
*
for our bare feetBeside usa peasantmore dead than his old mule he's not besideushe'sin our boiling blood. No wrap on theshouldersno whip in handno horse, no cartno gendarmeswe passed throughvillages like bear-densmuddy townsbald mountains.That's how we traveled in that land! We listenedto the sound of stony fields in the watery eyesof the old oxen. We saw thatthe earth does not yieldits golden ears of grainto black ploughs.We didn't travel as if in a dreamNo,we reached one rubbish heap after another. That's how wetraveled in that land.We knowwhat that landis longing for.This longingis made uplike a materialist's mind, this longingis for mattermatter!Low-lying
*
charik 
– simple peasant shoe made of raw hide
 
hovelswith dour façadesare lined upin streets like mole holes.Jinn-eyedpigeon-tonguedwearers of fine cotton turbans sit cross-leggedin stores.In front of thempeasants with chapped solesin rawhide
chariks.
A burly gendarmedrags a couplewho committedadultery in a field.In the coffee housethe master dervishhankering after the novice intones deeply"Lahavle-ve-la"spits on the facesof the couple.Over therein this sleepy squalid run-down townlove is not romanticIts soul is hungryfor two lively words: STEAMELECTRICITY!If you're not blindyou can see thatthis soil-faced farmhandand his sunken-chested son- a survivor of the Caucasus front - have thefingernails of the tax collectorclawing at their headshe wants to be buried right herewith his daughterhis wifehis oxcartclutching the last clump of his soiland die with themright hereand be buriedwith them.The mountains and the fields are longing passionately like a desiring

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