Smith & Sun
Clouds are flowering. Blue and mystical over the face of the stars
Clouds are flowering. Blue and mystical over the face of the stars
Couldn't load pickup availability
For me, Plath's poem is about detachment, disillusionment & inadequacy - her melancholic mind fails to comprehend the beauty of its surroundings, owing to the despair that dwells within her mind and soul.
But this poem also reminds me of the importance of walking your own path, never mind institutions and everyone else's opinion - do you own thing
It's not meant to be a downer of a ring!
This beefy bronze pinky ring was produced as a one-off prototype. It is engraved with a line from Sylvia Plath's poem - UK size K ½ but it can be adjusted up to one full size larger. If you would like a similar ring, please email with your specifications and one will be made specially for you.
From our AW19 collection: The Moon and The Yew Tree
Inspired by the Sylvia Plath's poem:
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.
