Monday, July 06, 2020

D eux (ou mille) poèmes vibrant

Je pense à vous (à cause de cette sortie si merveilleuse) en lisant Sylvia Plath…

Poppies in October 

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. 

Poppies in July 

Little poppies, little hell flames,
Do you do no harm? 

You flicker. I cannot touch you.
I put my hands among the flames. Nothing burns. 

And it exhausts me to watch you
Flickering like that, wrinkly and clear red, like the skin of a mouth. 

A mouth just bloodied.
Little bloody skirts! 

There are fumes that I cannot touch.
Where are your opiates, your nauseous capsules? 

If I could bleed, or sleep! —
If my mouth could marry a hurt like that! 

Or your liquors seep to me, in this glass capsule,
Dulling and stilling. 

But colorless. Colorless. 



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