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.

Irina Tuiu

Hylda Sims
 

Ca urmare la scrierea Romanului meu

Ma trezesc, zapacesc la un poem micut.
Mananc un bol de iaurt, imi spal hainele
apoi ma duc sa aduc posta si fac patuls, prea tarziu
pana acum, gandesc, sa ma apuc de proza.

la care nu pot visa in baie; termene limita
este ceea ce eu am nevoie – exact ceea ce am:
randuri goale, pom, fara radacina, negru pe alb
sa se re-aranjeze in mile de cuprins bine – turnat.

Tot sadit si in mod serios retezat de ramuri
cu fiecare ramurica incordata pe o sfoara
intre timp poemul vigurios creste si infloreste
udandu-se de rime, un lucru indepedent

nu prea multe de facut decat sa il intorci la soare,
tulpinile se vor indrepta, petalele vor canta.