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.

Stefania Ileana Tarcomnicu

Hylda Sims
 

Despre cum nu mi-am scris romanul

Ma trezesc, ma tot gandesc la un mic poem
Mananc un bol de iaurt. Imi spal hainele
Apoi, iau corespondenta si imi fac patul
E prea tarziu, acum, cred, sa ma apuc de proza.

Ceva ce nu poate fi visat în baie. Am nevoie
De termene limita – si exact asta am.
Versuri goale, rasfirate, fara sens, negru pe alb
Rearanjate in fire narative bine tesute.

Toate bine sadite si pigulite atent
Cu fiecare crenguta, intinsa ca o coarda
In timp ce poemul strasnic creste si înfloreste
Hranindu-se singur, o creatie independenta.

Nu sunt multe de făcut, doar sa o rasucesti spre soare
Tulpina sa se va înalta
Petalele sale vor canta.