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Best Famous Nazim Hikmet Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Nazim Hikmet poems. This is a select list of the best famous Nazim Hikmet poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Nazim Hikmet poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of Nazim Hikmet poems.

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by Nazim Hikmet | |

Lion In An Iron Cage

 Look at the lion in the iron cage,
look deep into his eyes:
 like two naked steel daggers
 they sparkle with anger.
But he never loses his dignity although his anger comes and goes goes and comes.
You couldn't find a place for a collar round his thick, furry mane.
Although the scars of a whip still burn on his yellow back his long legs stretch and end in the shape of two copper claws.
The hairs on his mane rise one by one around his proud head.
His hatred comes and goes goes and comes .
.
.
The shadow of my brother on the wall of the dungeon moves up and down up and down.


by Nazim Hikmet | |

Autobiography

 Oh, both my shoes are shiny new,
And pristine is my hat;
My dress is 1922.
.
.
.
My life is all like that.


by Nazim Hikmet | |

Optimistic Man

 as a child he never plucked the wings off flies
he didn't tie tin cans to cats' tails
or lock beetles in matchboxes
or stomp anthills
he grew up
and all those things were done to him
I was at his bedside when he died
he said read me a poem
about the sun and the sea
about nuclear reactors and satellites
about the greatness of humanity


by Nazim Hikmet | |

About My Poetry

 I have no silver-saddled horse to ride,
no inheritance to live on,
neither riches no real-estate --
a pot of honey is all I own.
A pot of honey red as fire! My honey is my everything.
I guard my riches and my real-estate -- my honey pot, I mean -- from pests of every species, Brother, just wait.
.
.
As long as I've got honey in my pot, bees will come to it from Timbuktu.
.
.


by Nazim Hikmet | |

Angina Pectoris

 If half my heart is here, doctor,
 the other half is in China
with the army flowing
 toward the Yellow River.
And, every morning, doctor, every morning at sunrise my heart is shot in Greece.
And every night,c doctor, when the prisoners are asleep and the infirmary is deserted, my heart stops at a run-down old house in Istanbul.
And then after ten years all i have to offer my poor people is this apple in my hand, doctor, one read apple: my heart.
And that, doctor, that is the reason for this angina pectoris-- not nicotine, prison, or arteriosclerosis.
I look at the night through the bars, and despite the weight on my chest my heart still beats with the most distant stars.


by Nazim Hikmet | |

Our Eyes

 Our eyes
 are limpid
 drops of water.
In each drop exists a tiny sign of our genius which has given life to cold iron.
Our eyes are limpid drops of water merged absolutely in the Ocean that you could hardly recognize the drop in a block of ice in a boiling pan.
The masterpiece of these eyes the fulfillment of their genius the living iron.
In these eyes filled with limpid pure tears had failed to emerge from the infinite Ocean if the strength had dispersed, we could never have mated the dynamo with the turbine, never have moved those steel mountains in water easily as if made of hollow wood.
The masterpiece of these eyes the fulfillment of their genius of our unified labour the living iron.


by Nazim Hikmet | |

The Strangest Creature On Earth

 You're like a scorpion, my brother,
you live in cowardly darkness
 like a scorpion.
You're like a sparrow, my brother, always in a sparrow's flutter.
You're like a clam, my brother, closed like a clam, content, And you're frightening, my brother, like the mouth of an extinct volcano.
Not one, not five-- unfortunately, you number millions.
You're like a sheep, my brother: when the cloaked drover raises his stick, you quickly join the flock and run, almost proudly, to the slaughterhouse.
I mean you're strangest creature on earth-- even stranger than the fish that couldn't see the ocean for the water.
And the oppression in this world is thanks to you.
And if we're hungry, tired, covered with blood, and still being crushed like grapes for our wine, the fault is yours-- I can hardly bring myself to say it, but most of the fault, my dear brother, is yours.


by Nazim Hikmet | |

Today Is Sunday

 Today is Sunday.
For the first time they took me out into the sun today.
And for the first time in my life I was aghast that the sky is so far away and so blue and so vast I stood there without a motion.
Then I sat on the ground with respectful devotion leaning against the white wall.
Who cares about the waves with which I yearn to roll Or about strife or freedom or my wife right now.
The soil, the sun and me.
.
.
I feel joyful and how.


by Nazim Hikmet | |

Its This Way

 I stand in the advancing light,
my hands hungry, the world beautiful.
My eyes can't get enough of the trees-- they're so hopeful, so green.
A sunny road runs through the mulberries, I'm at the window of the prison infirmary.
I can't smell the medicines-- carnations must be blooming nearby.
It's this way: being captured is beside the point, the point is not to surrender.


by Nazim Hikmet | |

Don Quixote

 The knight of immortal youth
at the age of fifty found his mind in his heart
and on July morning went out to capture
the right, the beautiful, the just.
Facing him a world of silly and arrogant giants, he on his sad but brave Rocinante.
I know what it means to be longing for something, but if your heart weighs only a pound and sixteen ounces, there's no sense, my Don, in fighting these senseless windmills.
But you are right, of course, Dulcinea is your woman, the most beautiful in the world; I'm sure you'll shout this fact at the face of street-traders; but they'll pull you down from your horse and beat you up.
But you, the unbeatable knight of our curse, will continue to glow behind the heavy iron visor and Dulcinea will become even more beautiful.