Poetry: The Flowering Wound
by James Waller
To write is to become exposed; to have your armour and your shield lifted from you so that the energy of truth may penetrate and fill you. The substance of this penetrating force may vary. It may be serene, strange or blissful. It may be disquieting or thrilling. It may also be powerful, dark and frightening. It is the latter I wish to talk about, not least because it is the season of Easter, a time when many honour the penultimate embodiment of the Flowering Wound.
During the first week of March in 2005 I experienced a creative energy which tore through me like a hurricane. In three frenzied days and nights I wrote the thirty five poems which constitute my third collection, titled Blinded Bulls. Blinded Bulls literally wrote itself. It was as if all the pores of my spirit were open and all the harrowing pain of the world was rushing in, to the beat of a dark drum, upon a tongue en-flamed with verse. This was both a magical and deeply traumatic experience. It was my first real encounter with the dangerous mission of art which seeks nothing less than to feel everything and to transform everything in its crucible. It would not be an exaggeration to say that in being opened by this energy I was wounded, and that in its transformation into art the wound flowered: into flowers of painful healing and poignant beauty.
One particular poem in Blinded Bulls, titled Ships describes the pain of exposure in relation to this energy:
“Wings of shadow move / At a mysterious bequest / A cloak has fallen to the floor / Naked / Exposed / Feel the pain / In my voice / A voice of searing spears / Thrown at the raging bulls / In one momentous hour of rain - / With hands of bronze / Discovery holds out its cup / For the journey / Of distant / Ships / Chained / On humanity’s horizon.”
Another poem, Blinded Lethe, brings the symbol of Christ into resonance with the creative experience:
“I am breathless with discovery / And wounded by the glare / Of the gored and shrapnelled child / Bronze fists of anger immeasurable / A wing of leaden death / You make me transparent / With your pain / Now I understand Christ / Whose limbs flared and shone / Like mirrors / Like glass / Which shattered and fell / In a rain of transcending passion / Upon the fields / Of blinded Lethe / Who, feeling glass soft as snow / Looked up in astonishment / At the son of man.”
The astonishment here is as much my own, directed at the breathless awakening of images which erupted before me in the act of creation. A ferocity of anger and insight propels this awakening; the poet's voice accelerates into clear transparency and utter clarity made possible by a lucid rage against inhumanity.
Christ's limbs flare and shine, as if he were a self-igniting crystal, made so by the levels of suffering he transforms into pure light and positive energy. This description parallels that of a Buddhist meditation practice called 'Tonglen'. In Tonglen the practitioner breathes in the suffering of others as a 'dark light', which attacks the 'self-cherishing centre' (the ego). The 'dark light' is transformed into pure light which radiates from the practitioner to benefit the sufferer. ( Palmo, Tenzin. Reflections On A Mountain Lake. Allen & Unwin, 2002; Chapter 10. )
When I first read about Tonglen I was struck by its resonance with my experience as a writer. There is a synergy here between the spiritual and the creative practitioner which goes beyond articles of faith or belief. It is purely experiential; an energy of rage and pain penetrates one's being and is transformed into forms of wonder. This is the mission of the artist, whether he or she likes it or not!
The call of the artist to serve, to grow and transform is unremitting. These thoughts bring to mind the last stanza of Boris Pasternak's poem Night: “Keep awake, keep awake artist! / For you are eternity's hostage / And a prisoner of time.” ( Pastenak, Boris. Poems 1955-1959. Collins Harvil 1990; p 115 )
Recently ships have emerged in my imagery as symbols of the quiet progress of the spirit. Even amidst the chaos of Blinded Bulls they appear, almost as a premonition on the horizon. In a recent sequence titled The Call the ship appears as a personification of the self. It finds itself called to a space titled the chamber. It is both compelled and repelled by this call. The ship is filled with both longing and reluctance to answer and to enter. And so it is, I believe, with the spiritual journey. To 'keep awake', to answer 'the call', to accept 'the burning cup', to feel the pain of others and to transform this pain is the challenge of every artist, and indeed every human being. To respond is to rise above fear, above apathy, above comfort and above even the self. It is to become exposed, in the knowledge that one may be wounded in one's exposure, and that from this woundedness flowers will arise, flowers of wonder and hope.
