The Traveling Shoes, Again

A poem about epiphany.

Photo by Noah Buscher on Unsplash

Is an epiphany the light you go looking for, and find at the end of your search? Or is it the light that calls you to start searching in the first place?

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EPIPHANY


Night after night you watch them overhead,
a million fiery dancers in slow distant pirouettes,
horizon to horizon in the dark;
night after night, the dance, till you almost believe
you hear the tune that spins them so.

Then one night, weaving through the dance you know,
a new one, with a new tune – just that extra spark,
that extra hum, a song really, you almost believe
you hear the words: This way. Come and see.

Night after night the tune, the song, until one day
you lace up your traveling shoes, take your bearings
on this new pattern in the dance, take to the road,
headed where? That way. Time to go and see.

The journey takes the time it takes.
A few you meet are headed in the same direction
for the same reason; you travel on together.
Night after night, before sleep, you look up again
and listen. This way. Come and see.

You travel and you travel, and one day
there you are, in the place the dance has brought you.
Music burns into bright and silent knowing.
You were led this way. Here is what you came to see.

Led this way, to this place. And having come
and seen, you know you cannot stay.
You know another journey lies ahead,
its path lit from that silent brightness
held in your heart as compass, now, and crown.

The traveling shoes, again. The bearings taken
on this new knowing, and you are away,
back to days on the road, back to your watch,
night after night, of that slow distant dance
above you, wondering when this quiet light inside

was kindled first. When your first journey ended
in the place the music brought you? Or on some night
of travel, following that song? Or in secret, somehow,
through all the years of nights you watched and listened?

Distant again, you hear the music
from the dance above; it sounds like laughter.
Close your eyes, stargazer. Sleep away your questions.
Rise with the morning, take your bearings,
know what you know. Now, that way. Go and see.

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[You can listen to an audio version of the poem using the little widget above the photograph.]

This is another poem that began life as an essay. (I think I’m done with those now, but you never know.) It’s an oddity in that it’s much more … generally worded than most of my poems. It’s a generalized telling, first of all, of the ancient tale it describes, the visit of the Magi to Jesus and Mary and Joseph; it turns their journey into a universal come-and-see story. Also the imagery in it is fairly general — practically abstract, for a poet who’s usually preoccupied with nitty-gritty sensory detail. So, a one-off, but it seemed to want to be written this way. Does it work? You tell me.

Back to smells and tastes and weather reports and the rest of the nitty-gritty next week, I promise. In the meantime, happy New Year! I wish you comfortable shoes and all the light you need for any journeys you make in 2024.