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[xmca] On the occasion of 11th of June

Dear all,

We have a poet, here in Turkey, Nazim Hikmet (1902 Thessaloniki - 1963
Moscow), that Turks are very proud of. He is for us like, let's say, what is
Pushkin for Russians, and like Pushkin, a universal man.

Living in exile from 1950 to 1963, he is buried in Novodevichy Cemetery in
Moscow, the same cemetery where Lev Semyonovich Vygotsky rests.

I send this poem for Vygotsky's living memory, knowing that "he lived" and
he will live for ages with his unique contributions for a better (human)
life on the earth.



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 a 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 seventy, 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.


Let's say you're seriously ill, need surgery -
which is to say we might not get
                    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 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 fifty,
and we have eighteen 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.


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'' ...

Nâzım HİKMET <http://www.siir.gen.tr/siir/n/nazim_hikmet/index.html>
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