This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary.

it is that time of the year again. i don't know why death comes so frequently around the holidays but several of my friends have lost dear ones in a short time. or is it maybe we jus pay attention to it more? is it because we become more sensitive of how it is to be alone?

whatever the reasons, i feel for my friends. it is also because i have expressed the same, have known the thorn in the heart and the pebble beneath the saddle. i am a horse so all i know is to move ahead regardless of whether or not i know what direction i'm headed into.

unlike some journeys, some destinations can't be known...




The Moon and the Yew Tree

by Sylvia Plath

This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary.

The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.

The grasses unload their griefs on my feet as if I were God,

Prickling my ankles and murmuring of their humility.

Fumy, spiritous mists inhabit this place

Separated from my house by a row of headstones.

I simply cannot see where there is to get to.

The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right,

White as a knuckle and terribly upset.

It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet

With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here.

Twice on Sunday, the bells startle the sky——

Eight great tongues affirming the Resurrection.

At the end, they soberly bong out their names.

The yew tree points up. It has a Gothic shape.

The eyes lift after it and find the moon.

The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary.

Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls.

How I would like to believe in tenderness——

The face of the effigy, gentled by candles,

Bending, on me in particular, its mild eyes.

I have fallen a long way. Clouds are flowering

Blue and mystical over the face of the stars.

Inside the church, the saints will be all blue,

Floating on their delicate feet over the cold pews,

Their hands and faces stiff with holiness.

The moon sees nothing of this. She is bald and wild.

And the message of the yew tree is blackness—blackness and silence.