Smith & Sun
The message of the yew tree
The message of the yew tree
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Two bark inspired rings, one sterling silver and one bronze.
For my very first collection, I was inspired by Sylvia Plaths poem 'The Moon and The Yew Tree'. I've come back to it here, drawing from the textures of bark to create these two separate or stackable rings.
Cast in silver, with its calming Yin energy, it is intrinsically linked to the moon (and therefore Plath's poem). The Incas referred to it as “Tears of the Moon,” and throughout history, silver has been associated with numerous goddesses connected to lunar energies: Artemis, Mawu, Cerridwen, Hecate, Sina, Diana, the High Priestess, Selene, Bendis, Coyolxauhqui, Ch’ang-o, and Ix Chel, to name just a few. Silver is a spiritual metal and an astral conductor, aiding in establishing contact with the souls of the departed. Perhaps this is why relics of saints are often stored in silver containers?
Cast in bronze, this metal is known to increase the potency of your ritual and it possesses a unique beauty that is recognised by many cultures, including being on of the earliest metals for forging mirrors. It is also a happy zingy metal - which pairs beautifully with silver.
I actually carved these as a pair but figured people might want them separately.
Silver: Size P
Bronze: Size 0 1/2
The Moon and The Yew Tree
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.
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