This way. Come and see.

A poem about Epiphany

Photo by Gage Smith on Unsplash

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In some ways this is exactly the kind of poem you expect to get from me. In other ways, maybe, not so much. More about the “not so much” below the poem; let’s have that first.

[Speaking of “below the poem:” Substack has been shifting things around behind the scenes, I guess, and below the poem is now where you’ll find the little audio widget. I didn’t forget, I promise!]

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EPIPHANY                                                                                    2023


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 almost you believe
you hear the tune that spins them so.

Then one night, weaving through the dance you know,
a new dancer, a new tune — just that extra spark,
that extra hum, a song really, till almost you believe
you hear them singing.  This way. Come and see.

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

The journey takes the time it takes.
A few you meet are traveling the same roads
for the same reason; you find a way together.
Night after night, before sleep, you look up, watch,
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. This 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 light inside

was kindled first. When your first journey ended
where 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 on your questions.
Rise with the dawn and take your bearings,
know what you know. Now, that way. Go and see.

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Put this poem next to, say, "The Innkeeper's Wife" from a couple of weeks ago, and you’ll notice some things. Right, she’s on about a Bible story again. Stars here, stars there; check. Wait, though, where’s anything about water and straw and blankets? Where’s anything about peoples’ faces?

Well.

“Epiphany” is a poem adapted from an essay — a church newsletter column, actually — and it shows. I’ve done my best to revise the prosiest language out of it, but I left in the essay’s central conceit: to write about a specific legend, the visit of the Magi after the birth of Jesus, in general enough terms that it could apply to any experience of epiphany. The result is a poem that’s less rooted in the senses and more up-in-its-head than anything else I’ve invited you to read.

Does it work? Reading it makes me cry, and that’s something, but I may be working with more than one bias here. Let me know what you think.