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.
 

Oana Teodora Ionescu

Hylda Sims

Despre cum nu-mi scriu romanul

Ma trezesc si imi bat capul c-o poezioara
mananc un bol de iaurt, clatesc vreo bluza
aduc apoi corespondenta si-mi fac patul
prea tarziu de acum sa ma apuc de proza

ce nu se poate ticlui in baie; imi trebuie
termene limita – ce-am eu mai exact:
randuri goale, suspendate, dezradacinate, negru pe alb
de rearanjat in pagini de subiect bine inchegat

toate fixate si taiate cu sarg
cu fiecare ramura pe sarma intinsa
in timp ce poemul infiripat creste si infloreste,
hranindu-se singur, independenta deprinsa

nu prea ai ce sa-i faci decat sa-l rotesti dupa soare
tulpinile-i se vor indrepta, faptura-i de cantec va fi cuprinsa.