Le Chemin Des Clones © Layachi Hamidouche. Image Source: The Chess Art Thread.
There will be a barely visible penumbral eclipse of the moon tonight, the second of three lunar eclipses this year. The moon will just touch the Earth's shadow. Astrologers take note of this event's symbolic significance. Dark Star Astrology sees this eclipse as a moment when our demons, false faiths, and illusions are exorcised:
Be that as it may, here is a little Sylvia Plath to contribute to astrologers' promised atmosphere. This is a poem in which the poet finds only desolation in hauntingly beautiful images and symbols, perhaps an apt parallel to Dark Star's prediction of lunar eclipse disillusionment (Hat tip: The Chess Art Thread):The Lunar Eclipse May 25 2013 is at 4º Sagittarius which sits between Acrab and Dschubba both on the forehead of the Scorpion. These stars have a somewhat fiendish reputation. Neptune forms a T-square to the eclipse, god or grand delusion depending on at what vibration you tune into. The geometry of the chart looks like the slicing off of heads by the revolutionary blade of Uranus square Pluto. These “heads” will be false gurus and people at the very top of the churches. Neptune is about devotion, it rules the age of Pisces which is coming to an end. This eclipse could start the process of dissolving those belief systems that have been retarding humanit[y']s spiritual evolution. ... The eclipse asks what is real pure universal love and what is just overpowering sexual infatuation, which many of us mistake for love. Neptune’s promise of a soulmate does not guarantee Happy Ever After. In fact the more one yearns for redemption through love, the more one will find oneself disappointed. The same goes for any religion that promises a savior.
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.
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 knuckle and terribly upset.
It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quite
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