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.

Daniela Radu

Hylda Sims
 

Despre cum nu-mi scriu romanul

Ma trezesc, ma framant cu o poezioara
mananc un castron cu iaurt, imi spal hainele
apoi iau corespondenta si-mi fac patul, e deja
prea tarziu, cred, sa mai pot trece la proza

care nu se viseaza-n baie; termene
de ele am nevoie – si chiar am:
termeni fara viata, insirati, dezradacinati, negru pe alb
sa-i aranjez in kilometri de intriga care suna bine

înfofoliti şi potriviti cu grija
ca fiecare ramurica altoita si legata,
cu timpul poemul brut creste si-nfloreste,
isi potoleste setea, independent fiind

se-ntoarce inspre soare, doar cat a fost menit
cu radacini bine-ntinse si petale in cant.