Hylda Sims

On Not Writing my Novel

I get up, puzzle on a little poem
I eat a bowl of yoghurt, wash my clothes
then fetch the post and make the bed, too late
by now, I think, for getting down to prose

which can’t be dreamed up in the bath; deadlines
is what I need - exactly what I’ve got:
dead lines, espaliered, rootless, black on white
to rearrange in miles of well-turned plot

all bedded in and diligently pruned
with every branchlet tensioned on a string
meanwhile the sturdy poem grows and blooms
self-watering, an independent thing

not much to do but turn it to the sun,
its stems will straighten up, its petals sing.

Hilda Verkony

Hylda Sims
 

Despre cum nu mi-am scris romanul

Ma trezesc, lucrez la un mic poem,
Mananc un bol cu iaurt, spal haine,
Apoi iau corespondenta si fac patul; e prea tarziu
Acum, cred, ca sa ma apuc de proza,

Care nu poate fi conceputa in baie, termene limita
Imi trebuie—si am reusit:
Versuri vlaguite, incarcate, dezaxate, negre pe alb,
De rearanjat in naratiuni solide, la nesfarsit

Sadite bine si ajustate cu grija
Cu fiecare ramurea intinsa pe un rand,
In timp ce darzul poem creste si infloreste
Hranindu-se singur, ceva independent

Nu-mi mai ramane decat sa-l expun la soare,
Tulpina-i se va inalta, florile-i se vor deschide cantand.