Monday, 23 May 2011

On Not Writing My Novel by 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

Hylda Sims, Sayling the Babel (London: Hearing Eye, 2006), 67.

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