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| The Hungry Soul: Songs for the Spirt |
 |
The Artist as Mystic
By Patricia A. Burke
What is a mystic? Curiosity led me to my Random House Unabridged Dictionary, a wonderful tool for anyone who loves words the way a poet loves words. The mystic, by definition, is someone who is concerned with gaining insight into the mysteries beyond ordinary human knowledge and understanding through direct experience of the divine or immediate intuition in a state of spiritual ecstasy, which I would describe as an experience of union with all that is.
It seems to me that the artist has the same job description, exploring the mysteries through direct experience and intuition. The artist then shares that experience with an audience through image and metaphor, which in and of themselves are experiences beyond ordinary human knowledge and understanding. The artist does not seek to communicate information about this experience of spiritual ecstasy, or epiphany, but offers the audience a doorway through which they may enter into the ecstatic.
I offer two poems, explorations of the mystery, which I hope will open that doorway. The first opens us to the possibility of what can happen when we pay exquisite attention to the outer world with a sense of curiosity and the second is an exploration of the mysteries of the inner world.
Pond LilyIt's hard with words
to paint
the underwater cathedral
where a slender green stem, rooted
in the rocks below, threads its way
toward the late August sun,
through rippled waves
like the textured
pattern of stained glass.
A reflection of the blower's
rhythmic breath,
never two the same, they reach
back upon themselves,
above the smooth surface pond.
The single strand,
capped in cloven green,
prays
with hands clasped
in silent pulsing frames
as flecks and golden streamers
paint her head shimmering.
And suddenly my dangled
feet are holy too, immortalized
by the same silk
of lapping wave
beneath the smooth surface pond.
A Different Dimension
Secret words
which cannot be spoken
were sung to me
from some unknown mouth,
like a mother's lullaby
soothing
yet fierce in its promise
of broken bough
and fallen cradle.
Where do these words spring
but from emptiness –
that deep interior pool,
where nothing exists
and all things matter.
They surfaced on billowing clouds
like apples eager for the bob.
I reached out with my own mouth,
shapes and sounds
beyond recognition
beyond meaning.
Then,
for one moment I was nothing
but breath,
these two hands moving
and leaves fluttering
on the strange
echo of swollen trees
outside her window.
copyright 1996, Patricia A. Burke. All rights reserved.
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