Things I Didnt Know I Loved

 it's 1962 March 28th
I'm sitting by the window on the Prague-Berlin train 
night is falling
I never knew I liked
night descending like a tired bird on a smoky wet plain 
I don't like
comparing nightfall to a tired bird

I didn't know I loved the earth
can someone who hasn't worked the earth love it 
I've never worked the earth
it must be my only Platonic love

and here I've loved rivers all this time
whether motionless like this they curl skirting the hills
European hills crowned with chateaus
or whether stretched out flat as far as the eye can see
I know you can't wash in the same river even once
I know the river will bring new lights you'll never see
I know we live slightly longer than a horse but not nearly as long as a crow
I know this has troubled people before
 and will trouble those after me
I know all this has been said a thousand times before 
 and will be said after me

I didn't know I loved the sky 
cloudy or clear
the blue vault Andrei studied on his back at Borodino
in prison I translated both volumes of War and Peace into Turkish 
I hear voices
not from the blue vault but from the yard 
the guards are beating someone again
I didn't know I loved trees
bare beeches near Moscow in Peredelkino
they come upon me in winter noble and modest 
beeches are Russian the way poplars are Turkish 
"the poplars of Izmir
losing their leaves. . .
they call me The Knife. . .
 lover like a young tree. . .
I blow stately mansions sky-high"
in the Ilgaz woods in 1920 I tied an embroidered linen handkerchief 
 to a pine bough for luck

I never knew I loved roads 
even the asphalt kind
Vera's behind the wheel we're driving from Moscow to the Crimea 
 Koktebele
 formerly "Goktepé ili" in Turkish 
the two of us inside a closed box
the world flows past on both sides distant and mute 
I was never so close to anyone in my life
bandits stopped me on the red road between Bolu and Geredé
 when I was eighteen
apart from my life I didn't have anything in the wagon they could take 
and at eighteen our lives are what we value least
I've written this somewhere before
wading through a dark muddy street I'm going to the shadow play 
Ramazan night
a paper lantern leading the way
maybe nothing like this ever happened
maybe I read it somewhere an eight-year-old boy
 going to the shadow play
Ramazan night in Istanbul holding his grandfather's hand 
 his grandfather has on a fez and is wearing the fur coat
 with a sable collar over his robe
 and there's a lantern in the servant's hand
 and I can't contain myself for joy
flowers come to mind for some reason 
poppies cactuses jonquils
in the jonquil garden in Kadikoy Istanbul I kissed Marika 
fresh almonds on her breath
I was seventeen
my heart on a swing touched the sky 
I didn't know I loved flowers
friends sent me three red carnations in prison

I just remembered the stars 
I love them too
whether I'm floored watching them from below 
or whether I'm flying at their side

I have some questions for the cosmonauts 
were the stars much bigger
did they look like huge jewels on black velvet
 or apricots on orange
did you feel proud to get closer to the stars
I saw color photos of the cosmos in Ogonek magazine now don't 
 be upset comrades but nonfigurative shall we say or abstract 
 well some of them looked just like such paintings which is to 
 say they were terribly figurative and concrete
my heart was in my mouth looking at them 
they are our endless desire to grasp things
seeing them I could even think of death and not feel at all sad 
I never knew I loved the cosmos

snow flashes in front of my eyes
both heavy wet steady snow and the dry whirling kind 
I didn't know I liked snow

I never knew I loved the sun
even when setting cherry-red as now
in Istanbul too it sometimes sets in postcard colors 
but you aren't about to paint it that way
I didn't know I loved the sea
 except the Sea of Azov
or how much

I didn't know I loved clouds
whether I'm under or up above them
whether they look like giants or shaggy white beasts

moonlight the falsest the most languid the most petit-bourgeois 
strikes me
I like it

I didn't know I liked rain
whether it falls like a fine net or splatters against the glass my 
 heart leaves me tangled up in a net or trapped inside a drop 
 and takes off for uncharted countries I didn't know I loved 
 rain but why did I suddenly discover all these passions sitting 
 by the window on the Prague-Berlin train
is it because I lit my sixth cigarette 
one alone could kill me
is it because I'm half dead from thinking about someone back in Moscow
her hair straw-blond eyelashes blue

the train plunges on through the pitch-black night
I never knew I liked the night pitch-black
sparks fly from the engine
I didn't know I loved sparks
I didn't know I loved so many things and I had to wait until sixty 
 to find it out sitting by the window on the Prague-Berlin train 
 watching the world disappear as if on a journey of no return

 19 April 1962
 Moscow

Form: Free verse Comments

Literary Analysis

This literary analysis was generated with AI and may contain interpretive differences. Provide your analysis in the comments section.

Summary

Nazim Hikmet's poem places us beside a train window on a night journey from Prague to Berlin, where motion, memory, and sudden self-knowledge flow together. The poem is spoken in the first person, but the voice is less a private confession than a restless inventory of all the things the aging poet realizes he has loved without naming them before: the earth, rivers, sky, trees, roads, flowers, stars, snow, the sun, the sea, clouds, moonlight, rain, and even the night itself. Each recognition arrives in passing, as if the world were revealing itself only when viewed through distance, illness, exile, or the chance stillness of travel.

The poem's movement is cumulative and reflective. What begins as simple observation gradually becomes a meditation on memory, politics, art, love, and mortality. The train carries the poet through Europe, but the deeper journey is inward: scenes from Moscow, Istanbul, prison, youth, and love interrupt the present and show how his life has been stitched together by places and elemental things. There is a tension between his irony and his tenderness, between the need to resist sentimental language and the fact that feeling keeps breaking through. By the end, the poem suggests that full awareness often comes late, and that love may be recognized most sharply when time is nearly spent and the world appears in danger of vanishing.

Theme

  • Late discovery of love - The poem is built around the speaker's repeated realization that he has loved many aspects of the world all along, only understanding it clearly at the end of life.
  • Memory and association - Each landscape or element opens into a chain of remembered scenes, showing how perception is inseparable from personal history.
  • Travel and displacement - The train journey frames the poem and mirrors the speaker's broader condition of movement across countries, languages, and states of being.
  • Mortality and time - The speaker's growing awareness of age and approaching death gives the poem its urgency and its bittersweet calm.
  • Political imprisonment and freedom - Brief references to prison, guards, and translation remind readers that private reflection is shaped by a life lived under surveillance and constraint.
  • Love as a widening vision - The poem treats love not as romance alone but as a receptive way of seeing the earth, weather, cities, and the cosmos.

Literary Devices

  • Anaphora - The repeated opening pattern of not having known something created a steady rhythm that gathers emotional force and emphasizes the speaker's slow awakening.
  • Free verse - The unmetered, conversational form suits the poem's wandering movement through memory, perception, and reflection.
  • Cataloguing - The long list of natural and man-made things the speaker loves creates a sweeping sense of abundance and makes the poem feel like a life being summed up in fragments.
  • Juxtaposition - Everyday travel details sit beside prison scenes, childhood memories, and cosmic imagery, heightening the contrast between the ordinary and the profound.
  • Metaphor and simile - Images such as night descending like a bird or the heart moving like a swinging child give inner feeling a vivid external shape.
  • Allusion - References to literature, cities, magazines, and historical places deepen the poem's cultural range and place the speaker inside a broad intellectual world.
  • Irony - The speaker often undercuts his own comparisons and observations, creating a voice that is both self-mocking and deeply sincere.

Symbolism

  • The train - The train suggests passage through time, exile, and the unstoppable movement of a life nearing its end.
  • The window - The window marks the border between inner reflection and the passing world, making the poem's discoveries feel both immediate and detached.
  • Night - Night represents not only darkness but also contemplation, loneliness, and the approach of death.
  • Rivers - Rivers symbolize change, continuity, and the impossibility of returning to the same moment twice.
  • Trees - Trees stand for rootedness, endurance, and the quiet dignity of ordinary life.
  • Stars - Stars point toward wonder, desire, and the human wish to grasp what remains distant.
  • Rain and snow - These weather images suggest feeling in motion: sometimes enclosing, sometimes cleansing, always temporary.
  • Sparks - The sparks from the engine can suggest brief flashes of insight or life itself, sudden and fragile against darkness.

Tone

Hikmet's tone is meditative, self-aware, and gently ironic, with brief flashes of wonder and unease. He sounds like someone correcting his own earlier blindness, speaking with the calm authority of age but also with surprise at the richness of what he has overlooked. The mood for the reader is reflective and moving, but also shadowed by transit, imprisonment, and the sense that beauty is appearing at the edge of loss.

Historical Context

Nazim Hikmet wrote as one of the major Turkish modern poets of the twentieth century, shaped by political commitment, imprisonment, exile, and wide-ranging contact with international literature and revolutionary culture. His work often blends personal feeling with public history, and this poem reflects that mix by joining intimate recollection to references that move across Turkey, Russia, and Central Europe.

The poem also belongs to a modernist tradition that values free verse, collage-like memory, and a speaking voice alert to the textures of ordinary life. Its attention to trains, cities, prisons, translations, magazines, and cosmic imagery fits a twentieth-century world defined by mobility, ideology, and rapidly expanding ways of seeing.

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