||[Sep. 14th, 2008|10:15 pm]
The last full moon of summer is bright, producing extravagant nocturnal contrasts. Deep shadows might conceal anything, while all that is moonlit seems terribly exposed. This afternoon, I filled the bowl of water I have under the lilac bush for the birds. It will soon catch a tiny moon, but for now it lies dark. The birds were happy to have fresh water to assuage the discomforts of a hot afternoon. I watched large blue jay drink, and a hummingbird darted above, vainly seeking nectar from the long-dead lilac blossoms. An acorn dropped onto the metal roof of the garage beyond the back fence, shattering the tranquility. Summer seemed near its fevered end. Tonight the still and birdless air remains balmy, but the smell of summer-dry grass is accompanied by hints of a deeper scent; the decaying leaves now moldering in those shadowy corners the moonlight fails to reach. Autumn won't be long delayed.|
The most morose of lunar poems for
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 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.