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.

Roxana Mandrican

Hylda Sims

Despre romanul meu nescris

Ma trezesc, schitez o poezie
Mananc un bol de iaurt, imi spal hainele
Pregatesc posta si-mi fac patul, e prea tarziu
Si ma gandesc sa ma apuc de proza

Ce nu poate fi conceputa in baie, termene-limita
Iata ce imi trebuie-e chiar ceea ce am:
Versuri moarte, desradacinate, negru pe alb
Am sa le schimb in mile de proza

Aranjata si atent curatata
Cu toate ramurile stranse cu o coarda
iar poemul meu voinic creste si infloreste
se hraneste din propria-i seva

nu ramane decat sa-l lasam la soare ,
radacina-i va fi viguroasa iar petalele vor canta.