Tumgik
#the moon and the yew tree
mothprincess · 1 year
Photo
Tumblr media
Sylvia Plath, from “The Moon and the Yew Tree,” Ariel
15K notes · View notes
gennsoup · 1 month
Text
I have fallen a long way. Clouds are flowering Blue and mystical over the face of the stars.
Sylvia Plath, The Moon and the Yew Tree
111 notes · View notes
petaltexturedskies · 1 year
Text
Tumblr media
Sylvia Plath, from the moon and the yew tree
218 notes · View notes
typewriter-worries · 1 year
Text
Tumblr media
The Moon and the Yew Tree, Tory Dent
[ Text ID: How I would like to believe in / tenderness --- ]
117 notes · View notes
llovelymoonn · 2 years
Text
some of my favourite poems i've read this month:
emily jungmin yoon bell theory
sumita chakraborty dear, beloved
s.j. fowler violence on the internet
david bromwich separate dwelling
a.m. sullivan symbols for deceit
g.e. murray arts of a cold sun: "long story short"
john murillo upon reading that eric dolphy transcribed even the calls of certain species of birds,
tory dent the moon and the yew tree
alice fulton personally engraved
112 notes · View notes
ozornalldead · 1 year
Photo
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
Suzuki Harunobu, Hares and Autumn Full Moon, Edo Period; Sylvia Plath, “The Moon and the Yew Tree”, 1961; Richard Adams, Watership Down, 1972; The Moon and the Yew Tree, Anthony Cockayne, 2014
16 notes · View notes
whisperthatruns · 2 years
Text
The Moon and the Yew Tree
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. Fumey, 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 all be 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.
Sylvia Plath, Ariel: The Restored Edition: A Facsimile of Plath’s Manuscript, Reinstating Her Original Selection and Arrangement (HarperCollins, 2004)
23 notes · View notes
puresephone · 2 years
Text
“How I would like to believe in tenderness.” — Sylvia Plath
13 notes · View notes
mothprincess · 1 year
Photo
Tumblr media
Sylvia Plath, from “The Moon and the Yew Tree,” Ariel
144 notes · View notes
leftit · 2 years
Text
Tumblr media
Sylvia Plath's draft of "The Moon and the Yew Tree" from Ariel
17 notes · View notes
petaltexturedskies · 6 months
Text
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.
An excerpt from “The Moon and the Yew Tree” by Sylvia Plath
37 notes · View notes
sdheath · 5 days
Text
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
0 notes
bipolarsupernova · 5 months
Text
Tumblr media
1 note · View note
Text
Tumblr media
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 at my feet as if I were God,
Prickling my ankles and murmuring of their humility.
Fumey 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 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.
0 notes
zonetrente-trois · 8 months
Text
0 notes
Text
Tumblr media
0 notes