When in search of ideas, one will seek those artists whose work carries a craft, music, and intellectual heft. But what of that? In time, politics dies as it ages with the current mores. Ultimately, the work that thrives is that which can be read and reread. While this observation might seem obvious, it is not so when one thinks of the publisher who, amid ‘good intentions’, utilizes image for a book sale. In fairness, most publishers resort to this, albeit the academic carries it under the guise of ‘good intention’. Everything is subjective, and as long as the politics are appropriate, craft is not only irrelevant, but doesn’t seem to exist.
Perhaps this is why Australian poet Judith Wright has been so overlooked. While she does have poems on feminism, it is not Academic Feminism. Nor does she resort to political screeds. Instead, she focuses much on nature, which I suppose is considered passé. (But then, so did a small-named poet called Emily Dickinson.) No, I am not referring to the nature triteness of Mary Oliver (who is easy to parody—just talk about light, birth, plants, and some dull feeling of renewal while walking in the woods). Yet as contrast, here is a Wright poem that I have regularly revisited, especially when writing my most recent collection:
Nameless Flower
Three white petals float
above the green.
You cannot think they spring from it
till the fine stem’s seen.
So separated each from each,
And each so pure,
yet at the centre here they touch
and form a flower.
Flakes that drop at the flight of a bird
and have no name,
I’ll set word upon a word
to be your home.
Up from the dark and jungle floor
you have looked long.
Now I come to lock you here
in a white song.
Word and word are chosen and met.
Flower, come in.
But before the trap is set,
the prey is gone.
The words are white as stone is white
carved for a grave;
but the flower blooms in immortal light,
Being now; being love.
Being absent of political agenda, academics simply don’t know what to do. Without politics and ‘identity’, this would mean they must resort to craft—that impossible thing. While I don’t mean to be too snarky, my previous essay, ‘Choose Your Quarrel: Why Creativity Can’t Be Taught,’ delves further into this drudgery.
In just examining Judith Wright’s poem, one can notice the repetition and alliteration. There is no flower that we know of, as it remains ‘nameless.’ Instead, we see it from afar, as an observer:
Three white petals float
above the green.
You cannot think they spring from it
till the fine stem’s seen.
So separated each from each,
And each so pure,
yet at the centre here they touch
and form a flower.
The poem begins with the observation—parts of a flower—white petals that float above green, the fine stem, wherein we are then given each from each and each so pure—here they touch and form (ultimately) a flower. Parts of something that form another something.
Flakes that drop at the flight of a bird
and have no name,
I’ll set word upon a word
to be your home.
Up from the dark and jungle floor
you have looked long.
Now I come to lock you here
in a white song.
This verse not only carries excellent music, but words are used appropriately and cliché is avoided. As example, the use of ‘dark’ is done in the literal sense, in reference to the jungle floor itself. Contrast that with the ‘white’ song, which is an inversion of ‘light.’ Then, onto the final two stanzas:
Word and word are chosen and met.
Flower, come in.
But before the trap is set,
the prey is gone.
The words are white as stone is white
carved for a grave;
but the flower blooms in immortal light,
Being now; being love.
The final stanza I would argue is the weakest, as it contains some clichés; ‘immortal light’ and hence what keeps this from being a great poem (the penultimate stanza is much stronger, as it evokes a Venus fly trap perhaps?). Yet as one of the poems culled from her merely ‘very good to excellent’ selection, this poem holds up well.
Judith Wright, who wrote mostly in form and involved herself with nature, does have poems where she engages in a kind of politic, as expressed in her poem ‘Australia 1970’, wherein she is addressing the human position within that of nature:
Die, wild country, like the eaglehawk,
dangerous till the last breath’s gone,
clawing and striking. Die
cursing your captor through a raging eye.
Die like the tigersnake
that hisses such pure hatred from its pain
as fills the killer’s dreams
with fear like suicide’s invading stain.
Suffer, wild country, like the ironwood
that gaps the dozer-blade.
I see your living soil ebb with the tree
to naked poverty.
Die like the soldier-ant
mindless and faithful to your million years.
Though we corrupt you with our torturing mind.
stay obstinate; stay blind.
For we are conquerors and self-poisoners
more than scorpion or snake
and dying of the venoms that we make
even while you die of us.
I praise the scoring drought, the flying dust,
the drying creek, the furious animal,
that they oppose us still;
that we are ruined by the thing we kill.
Now, note how this poem not only evokes the best of Robinson Jeffers, but that the speaker engages in a rebellion against mankind in defense of nature:
Suffer, wild country, like the ironwood
that gaps the dozer-blade.
I see your living soil ebb with the tree
to naked poverty.
Die like the soldier-ant
mindless and faithful to your million years.
Though we corrupt you with our torturing mind.
stay obstinate; stay blind.
All around, the country dies and is suffering, as nature is not cruel but indifferent. And yet, who are we humans to invade such a place? The final two stanzas reveal the speaker’s intent vis-a-vis nature versus mankind:
For we are conquerors and self-poisoners
more than scorpion or snake
and dying of the venoms that we make
even while you die of us.
I praise the scoring drought, the flying dust,
the drying creek, the furious animal,
that they oppose us still;
that we are ruined by the thing we kill.
By the poem’s end, we can conclude that humans ultimately ruin all, which in turn, ruins humans. This is a wonderful poem that comments on the cycle of life as it relates to death and the prolongation of humankind.
In many ways, Judith Wright’s male companion poet would be Robinson Jeffers who, while underrated himself, is not as underrated as she. So what is it exactly behind why Wright is not more well known? Is it that she is Australian? Or that she is a woman? As contrast, why when academics mention Black women poets, they immediately reach for Maya Angelou and yet seem to overlook Gwendolyn Brooks who was, after all, the first Black woman poet to earn the Pulitzer Prize? Well, the answer is both simple and not so simple. First, culture reaches for what is fashionable and that which is fashionable is that which is easy to understand. (Think Mary Oliver in terms of trite nature poetry.) Quite simply, the best of Brooks’s poetry does not devolve into bumper sticker thinking, and nor does Judith Wright’s. But Mary Oliver does. There is nuance within the work of both Brooks and Wright, and nuance requires understanding. Or to put it simply, thinking is hard.
Now, let’s move onto a wonderful poem that evokes not only the best of Emily Dickinson, but surpasses her:
Eroded Hills
These hills my father’s father stripped
And beggars to the winter wind
They crouch like shoulders, naked and whipped
Humble, abandoned, out of mind
Of their scant creeks I drank once
And ate sour cherries from old trees
Found in their gullies fruiting by chance
Neither fruit nor water gave my mind ease
I dream of hills bandaged in snow
Their eyelids clenched to keep out fear
When the last leaf and bird go
Let my thoughts stand like trees here.
Note the intriguing imagery, where these hills are ‘beggars’ to the winter wind, as they ‘crouch like shoulders’ that are abandoned, as their gullies are ‘fruiting’ by chance. Then, the speaker asks for her thoughts to stand, or to remain, ‘like trees here’ after the last leaf and bird have gone. Is this merely a nature poem or does it delve into something more existential and philosophical?
As contrast, let’s compare the familiar Emily Dickinson poem:
I’ll tell you how the Sun rose –
A Ribbon at a time –
The Steeples swam in Amethyst –
The news, like Squirrels, ran –
The Hills untied their Bonnets –
The Bobolinks – begun –
Then I said softly to myself –
“That must have been the Sun”!
But how he set – I know not –
There seemed a purple stile
That little Yellow boys and girls
Were climbing all the while –
Till when they reached the other side –
A Dominie in Gray –
Put gently up the evening Bars –
And led the flock away –
While this was one of the first poems of Dickinson that I not only resonated with but also got me into her poetry, Judith Wright goes beyond Dickinson via her similar themes. With Dickinson, we are presented with a ‘birth’ of the sun over the hills, where her hills wear ‘bonnets’ while Wright’s hills are abandoned, stripped, and out of mind. Dickinson spotlights her hills as a sort of beginning—a new life, while Wright’s hills are bleak, cold, and spoken in the past tense. Dickinson is more about the sunrise and its ultimate end (as indicated by the ‘evening bars’) while Wright’s poem is more of a declaration—a command. ‘Let my thoughts stand like trees here,’ the speaker insists, while the remaining hills are fearful and in need of bandage. Between the two, while I love you Emily, Judith’s poem is better, richer, and excels further with its use of language.
Now, onto another:
The Diver
The diver pausing on the tower—
draws in one breath—
the crest of time, the pride, the hour
that answers death—
and down to where the long pool lies
marks out his curve;
descending light that star-like flies
from air to wave
as summer falls from trees and eyes,
and youth, and love.
Then, from the rocking depths’ release,
naked and new
the headfirst man springs up, and sees
and still to do—
the tower to climb, the pause to make,
the fill of breath
to gather in—the step to take
from birth to death.
Then, you who turn and climb the stair
and stand alone—
with you I draw that breath, and dare,
time’s worst being known.
Note how Judith Wright takes a rather common event as someone diving into a pool and uses that as a metaphor for living life until death. The music is omnipresent and flows naturally, as it might within water. The narrative moves from one image to the next, and all done so organically. She takes a rather classic theme of birth and death and the steps one makes and expands that into time and aloneness:
Then, you who turn and climb the stair
And stand alone—
With you I draw that breath, and dare,
Time’s worst being known.
What is life but something that we dive into? The image of the pool as life and the diver as the individual who plunges, headfirst, into that unknown pool; to draw in breath is to cease breathing for a moment and to therefore become closer to death, wherein life surpasses in youth and love and summer—only for one to have to gather one’s self and climb up the tower. This is a wonderful poem that incorporates music, metaphor, and form. And to think this is merely one of many of Wright’s rich poems that can be found within her copious collection.
In short, the future of great writers is dependent on you, reader. Don’t take it for granted that you ‘get it,’ and so therefore by default everyone must. They don’t. Rather you—young man or woman—the artists of the future world depend on you. If you see it, say it. Great art is elevated, omnipresent. Stand like trees.
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If you enjoyed this overview of Judith Wright’s poetry, consider supporting us and get patron-only content on our Patreon page. This will help the growth of this site, the automachination YouTube channel, and the ArtiFact Podcast. Recent episodes include a discussion with Jessica Schneider on her poetry collection, a glimpse into Minneapolis poet Bruce Ario’s life and times, and a climate activist’s take on Ted Kaczynski’s Unabomber Manifesto.
More from Jessica Schneider: For the First Time: Malik Bendjelloul’s “Searching for Sugar Man” (2012), From Inside The Visual Mind: On Mick Jackson’s “Temple Grandin” (2010), The Onset of Evil: Michael Haneke’s “The White Ribbon” (2009)