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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=468494" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>A Spring Piece Left In The Middle</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Taut, thick fingers punch<br>the teeth of my typewriter.<br>Three words are down on paper<br>  in capitals:<br>SPRING<br> SPRING<br> SPRING...<br>And me -- poet, proofreader,<br>the man who's forced to read<br>two thousand bad lines<br> every day<br> for two liras--<br>why,<br> since spring<br> has come, am I<br> still sitting here<br> like a ragged <br>  black chair?<br>My head puts on its cap by itself,<br> I fly out of the printer's,<br> I'm on the street.<br>The lead dirt of the composing room<br>  on my face,<br>seventy-five cents in my pocket.<br>  SPRING IN THE AIR...</div><div style="margin:10px 0">In the barbershops<br> they're powdering<br> the sallow cheeks<br> of the pariah of Publishers Row.<br>And in the store windows<br> three-color bookcovers<br> flash like sunstruck mirrors.<br>But me,<br>I don't have even a book of ABC's<br>that lives on this street<br>and carries my name on its door!<br>But what the hell...<br>I don't look back,<br>the lead dirt of the composing room<br>  on my face,<br>seventy-five cents in my pocket,<br> SPRING IN THE AIR...<br> <br>  *<br>  <br>The piece got left in the middle.<br>It rained and swamped the lines.<br>But oh! what I would have written...<br>The starving writer sitting on his three-thousand-page<br>  three-volume manuscript<br>wouldn't stare at the window of the kebab joint<br>but with his shining eyes would take<br>the Armenian bookseller's dark plump daughter by storm...<br>The sea would start smelling sweet.<br>Spring would rear up<br> like a sweating red mare<br>and, leaping onto its bare back,<br>  I'd ride it<br> into the water.<br>Then<br> my typewriter would follow me<br> every step of the way.<br>I'd say:<br> &quot;Oh, don't do it!<br> Leave me alone for an hour...&quot;<br>then<br>my head-my hair failing out--<br> would shout into the distance:<br> &quot;I AM IN LOVE...&quot;<br> <br> *<br> <br>I'm twenty-seven,<br>she's seventeen.<br>&quot;Blind Cupid,<br>lame Cupid,<br>both blind and lame Cupid<br>said, Love this girl,&quot;<br>  I was going to write;<br>  I couldn't say it<br>  but still can!<br>But if<br> it rained,<br>if the lines I wrote got swamped,<br>if I have twenty-five cents left in my pocket,<br>   what the hell...<br>Hey, spring is here spring is here spring<br>   spring is here!<br>My blood is budding inside me!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>  20 and 21 April 1929<br>  <br>  <br>Trans. by Randy Blasing and Mutlu Konuk (1993)</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Nazim+Hikmet">Nazim Hikmet</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=468494" data-title="A Spring Piece Left In The Middle de Nazim Hikmet" data-description="Taut, thick fingers punch
the teeth of my typewriter.
Three words are down on paper
  in capitals:
SPRING
 SPRING
 SPRING...
And me -- poet, proofreader,
the man who's forced to read
two thousand bad lines
 every day
 for two liras--
why,
 since s..."></div>
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