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.

Ramona Zamfirescu

Hylda Sims
 

Despre cum nu mi-am scris romanul

Ma trezesc, imi framant creierii cu o poezioara
Mananc un castron de iaurt, imi spal hainele
apoi ma duc sa-mi ridic corespondenta si-mi fac patul,
prea tarziu ca sa ma mai apuc acum de proza,
care nu poate fi nascocita decat in baie; am nevoie
de termene limita si tocmai asta am:
randuri limitate, ciorne, dezlanate, negru pe alb,
de aranjat din nou intr-o nesfarsita intriga bine conturata
toate pregatite si scurtate cu asiduitate
cu fiecare crenguta intinsa pe o ramura
intre timp poemul creste zdravan si-nfloreste
hranindu-se singur, o creatie libera
pe care nu poti decat sa o inalti spre soare,
tulpinile sale se vor indrepta, iar petalele vor canta.