Poppies in October / Sylvia Plath

Poppies in October

Sylvia Plath


Even the sun-clouds this morning cannot manage such skirts.

Nor the woman in the ambulance

Whose red heart blooms through her coat so astoundingly --


A gift, a love gift

Utterly unasked for

By a sky


Palely and flamily

Igniting its carbon monoxides, by eyes

Dulled to a halt under bowlers.


O my God, what am I

That these late mouths should cry open

In a forest of frost, in a dawn of cornflowers.


פִּרְחֵי פָּרָג בְּאוֹקְטוֹבֶּר / סילביה פלאת'


אֲפִלּוּ עֲנָנֵי הָרוֹם הַבֹּקֶר לֹא יוּכְלוּ לְהִסְתַּדֵּר עִם אֲזוֹרִים כָּאֵלֶּה.

גַּם הָאִשָּׁה בָּאַמְבּוּלַנְס

שֶׁלְּבָבָהּ פּוֹרֵחַ לָהּ בְּמִין אָדֹם נִדְהָם-כָּל-כָּךְ מִבַּעַד לַמְּעִיל.