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.

Florentina Yvonne Penciu

Hylda Sims
 

Despre a nu scrie romanul meu

Ma scol, imi bat capul cu o poezioara
Mananc un bol cu iaurt, imi spal hainele
apoi aduc propteaua si fac patul, prea tarziu
acum, gandesc eu, ca sa cobor sa scriu proza

ce nu poate fi nascocita in baie; termene limita
sunt ceea ce-mi trebuie-exact ce-am primit:
randuri moarte, turtite, dezradacinate, in negru pe alb
pentru a rearanja in mile de intriga preschimbata in soi bun

toate ordonate si scoase cu sarguinta
cu fiecare varf de ramura intinsa pe o sfoara
in timp ce hotarata poezie creste si infloreste
udandu-se singura, un lucru independent

careia nu prea mai ai ce sa-i faci altceva decat s-o intorci spre soare,
tulpinile sale se vor indrepta, petalele-i vor canta.