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.

Veronica Stoianovici

Hylda Sims
 

Despre cum n-am scris romanul


Ma trezesc, ma tot gindesc la un mic poem
Mananc un bol de iaurt, imi spal hainele
apoi iau corespondenta si fac patul, prea tarziu
cred, pentru a încerca sa scriu proza

ceva la care nu poti visa in baie; scadente
asta imi trebuie – exact ce am obtinut:
randuri frante, supraetajate, neintemeiate, negru pe alb
pentru a fi rearanjate in siruri nesfarsite de intrigi bine ticluite

toate sadite si ingrijit curatate
cu fiecare ramurica intinsa pe o sfoara
in timp ce poemul inchegat creste si infloreste
udat de propria-i seva, este independent

nu trebuie decit sa-l intorci catre soare
tulpinile i se vor indrepta, petalele-i vor canta.