- 7 days ago
- 2 min read
Letter to Nazim Hikmet
Unlike us, you didn't deserve the time.
You didn't rob or rape or harm a soul.
Your biggest crime was speaking out
against injustice, giving a voice
to the voiceless. Us.
You spent years in a cage
for those “radical acts,” suffering silently
as you scribbled verse on toilet paper,
but you never turned bitter;
your heart—
that mysterious little organ
we regard as “more than flesh”—
retained its luster, preserving
every facet. Shimmering
along the damp, lonely walls
of its ventricle caves.
My chest aches at the mere thought of it.
Still, I'm unworthy. Beside you,
none of us are or ever will be.
We'll spend the rest of our lives
wondering how something so quiet,
so gentle & old, flourished in hell.
2.
I can't imagine it was easy
surviving on water
& chickpeas,
or planting your feet in the muck,
turning one-ply into olive leaves.
I can only imagine what it was like
living in a dungeon. I have never
had to choose between writing poetry
or having a clean ass. & I never will.
My blessings blossom in the clouds;
their holy dew quenches
the composts of pulp that I unsettle
while pressing pen to page,
honoring the remains
of something
meant to outlive me.
I'll be wormfood
while it roots
through the walls
containing it.
Time won't let me
waste a drop of ink
on that sentence. That you wrote
in spite of all odds, in spite of all
consequences, & still considered
others equal, absolves you
of any childhood sins,
unlawful actions,
like the time you played Ahriman,
smiting a million ants with a stone—
carefree & meteoric as the night.
3.
Nazim, your glorious dispatches prove
that it's our solemn duty, as prisoners,
to live, that it's a privilege to discover
all that we never knew we loved.
& will always love. Too many things to count:
art, music, literature, independent women,
spring rain,
summer breeze,
autumn leaves,
winter hail,
a silent cellblock of brothers
& husbands & fathers & sons
united in their love of freedom.
Empowered to overcome ourselves.
Had we met, I'm sure we'd be friends—
honored to fight & die beside each other—
but the stars aren't swayed by our hubris.
So now that you're gone
I feel the need to tell you
what I'd never
have the heart to tell you
face to face…
4.
You didn't die
because your heart was weak;
no, you “died”
because your heart was too delicate,
too precious for the world to handle,
like a carnation
inside a child's fist—
broken but still brilliant.
PM DUNNE is a writer, artist, and critic from New York. He is the proud recipient of two Edward Bunker Awards and a PEN Writing for Justice Fellowship. His work has appeared in Peripheries, Spectre, and Tupelo Quarterly among other publications. Read more at pmdunne.substack.com.