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.
 

Angela Craescu

Hylda Sims

Despre cum nu-mi scriu eu romanul

Ma trezesc, imi bat capul cu o poezioara,
mananc un iaurt, imi spal rufele,
apoi imi verific cutia postala, fac patul, cred ca acum
e prea tarziu sa ma apuc de proza

ce nu o pot compune in baie; deadlines -
asta imi trebuie, exact asta am:
linii moarte, ingradite, fara radacini, negre pe fundal alb,
pe care sa le rearanjez in kilometri de intriga frumos povestita,

totul bine fixat si atent taiat,
cu fiecare ramura intinsa pe un fir,
in timp ce poezia robusta creste si infloreste
hranindu-se singura cu apa, independenta,

nu trebuie decat sa o asez in loc insorit
si tulpinile i se vor indrepta, petalele vor canta.