Every Friday we'll have The Friday Poem. (A capitalized title--and italicized!--so you know it's official and whatnot.) Famous poets, obscure poets, amateur poets, whatever poets--just a poem to end the week.
Like this one:
Angina Pectoris, by Nâzım Hikmet
If half my heart is here, doctor,
the other have 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 nirhgt, 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 red apple: my heart.
And that, doctor, that is the reason
for this angine 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.
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