← The Slowdown: Poetry & Reflection Daily
The Slowdown: Poetry & Reflection Daily
1251: On Living by Nâzim Hikmet, translated by Randy Blasing and Mutlu Konuk
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I'm Major Jackson, and this is the Slowdown. Putting away the dishes one morning, first light blazing up the kitchen, I said to the fork, I love you, fork. Then I said it again to the spoons and then to the Slowdown mug, and to every item lifted from the dishwasher. My walk that morning brought forth the world in Technicolor piercing green trees, a blue sky screeching loud as a free jazz concert, a jogger's passing smile. Soft, otherworldly, the earth hummed and throbbed. At a stoplight, I was suddenly filled with an inexplicable joy. My day of explosive happiness was counterintuitive. My inner world was actually gray. A family member has been battling cancer, another a victim of hurricanes. And then there was myself, ever negotiating the psychic demands of being present in a world where kindness fills in short supply. But, as the speaker in today's poem acknowledges, living is tough work. But live we must, we must live extravagantly, with purpose and meaning. On Living by Nazem Heckman 1. Living is no laughing matter. You must live with great seriousness, like a squirrel, for example. I mean, without looking for something beyond and above living. I mean, living must be your whole occupation. Living is no laughing matter. You must take it seriously. So much so, and to such a degree that, for example, your hands tied behind your back, your back to the wall, or else in the laboratory, in your white coat and safety glasses, you can die for people, even for people whose faces you've never seen, even though you know living is the most real, the most beautiful thing. I mean, you must take living so seriously that even at 70, for example, you'll plant olive trees, and not for your children, either. But because although you fear death, you don't believe it. Because living, I mean, weighs heavier. 2. Let's say we're seriously ill, need surgery, which is to say we might not get up from the white table. Even though it's impossible not to feel sad about going a little too soon, we'll still laugh at the jokes being told. We'll look out the window to see if it's raining or still wait anxiously for the latest newscast. Let's say we're at the front for something worth fighting for, say there in the first offensive on that very day, we might fall on our face, dead. We'll know this with a curious anger, but we'll still worry ourselves to death about the outcome of the war, which could last years. Let's say we're in prison and close to 50, and we have 18 more years, say, before the iron doors will open. We'll still live with the outside with its people and animals, struggle and wind. I mean with the outside, beyond the walls. I mean, however and wherever we are, we must live as if we will never die. 3 this earth will grow cold. A star among stars and one of the smallest, a gilded mote on blue velvet. I mean this, our great earth, this earth will grow cold one day, not like a block of ice or a dead cloud even, but like an empty walnut. It will roll along in pitch black space. You must grieve for this right now. You have to feel this sorrow now, for the world must be loved this much. If you're going to say I lived the Slowdown is a production of American Public Media in partnership with the Poetry Foundation. This project is also supported in part by the National Endowment for the Arts. On the web@arts.gov to get a poem delivered to you daily, go to slowdownshow.org and sign up for our newsletter and find us on Instagram at Slowdown Show Give your loved ones the gift of poetry this year with Poetry Magazine. Poetry's gift bundle includes a one year print and digital subscription to the magazine, plus a limited edition tote bag. Your loved ones will receive 10 beautifully curated volumes of contemporary poetry and unlimited digital access through the Poetry Magazine app. It's a gift that lasts all year. Subscribe today@poetrymagazine.org slow that's poetrymagazine.org slow.