A Spring Piece Left In The Middle
Taut, thick fingers punch
the teeth of my typewriter.
Three words are down on paper
And me -- poet, proofreader,
the man who's forced to read
two thousand bad lines
for two liras--
has come, am I
still sitting here
like a ragged
My head puts on its cap by itself,
I fly out of the printer's,
I'm on the street.
The lead dirt of the composing room
on my face,
seventy-five cents in my pocket.
SPRING IN THE AIR...
In the barbershops
the sallow cheeks
of the pariah of Publishers Row.
And in the store windows
flash like sunstruck mirrors.
I don't have even a book of ABC's
that lives on this street
and carries my name on its door!
But what the hell...
I don't look back,
the lead dirt of the composing room
on my face,
seventy-five cents in my pocket,
SPRING IN THE AIR...
The piece got left in the middle.
It rained and swamped the lines.
But oh! what I would have written...
The starving writer sitting on his three-thousand-page
wouldn't stare at the window of the kebab joint
but with his shining eyes would take
the Armenian bookseller's dark plump daughter by storm...
The sea would start smelling sweet.
Spring would rear up
like a sweating red mare
and, leaping onto its bare back,
I'd ride it
into the water.
my typewriter would follow me
every step of the way.
"Oh, don't do it!
Leave me alone for an hour..."
my head-my hair failing out--
would shout into the distance:
"I AM IN LOVE..."
both blind and lame Cupid
said, Love this girl,"
I was going to write;
I couldn't say it
but still can!
if the lines I wrote got swamped,
if I have twenty-five cents left in my pocket,
what the hell...
Hey, spring is here spring is here spring
spring is here!
My blood is budding inside me!
20 and 21 April 1929
Trans. by Randy Blasing and Mutlu Konuk (1993)
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Comments about this poem (A Spring Piece Left In The Middle by Nazim Hikmet )
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