This poem ended up being the title piece for my second collection, The Ectopic Epiphany.
It’s a complex four-part poem, rather long as far as my work goes, and it evolved very quickly. It’s interesting, but true: every time I read it, I get a little something new out of it. I hope that’s not just me.
The Ectopic Epiphany
I.
An idea implants itself,
a minute too early
or a decade too late,
in the mind of an individual
whose life was moving along
just fine without it.
Its tendrils seek blood
and begin seeping life
from the consciousness
that spawned its pre-mature
birth to a world that was
just fine without it.
And so begins the battle:
A mind beside itself
with fear and hope,
pleasure and pain, as it wonders
“could this really come to be?
Can I make this real?”
II.
A mother knows when the child she carries
struggles with foot and fist and bone
or submits to the gentle sailboat tumble
and sleeps, awaiting nature alone
within a liquid cocoon, protected
but battered with constant quasi-blows.
Afloat in amniotic silence,
the child waits, and hopes, and grows.
This germ of human consciousness,
this miracle of creation’s power,
this parasite, this leech, reminds us
just how strong we must be to cower.
To let another choose our pathway,
to submit completely, to choose
to go the way another leads us,
but lead the leader in silent ruse.
Just as the deepest of new ideas
leads the dreamer on a painful quest:
To space, or deepest ocean trenches,
inside the mind, or, young man, west!
This germ of human creativity,
this miracle of God’s image in us
this parasite, this leech of energy
is the genesis of all that ever was.
III.
Refine, rewrite, resuscitate,
design, deny, then deviate,
confine, connect and correlate
these thoughts that form a dirty slate
Unfold, unveil, unintentionally
embolden, fail, then functionally
retold, embrace the rationally
tunneling vulgaris fides* known nationally.
IV.
A man who knows the truth
is labeled “heretic”
by a crusty, crumbling leader
of a crusty, crumbling sect.
His proofs are shot down
his reasoning muddied
his open-mindedness shunned
by the empty-headed masses,
who watch with awe and shame
mixed with dreadful joy
as a man who knows the truth
burns alive, chained to his papers.
If you enjoyed that poem, you may like the collection. It’s available in print on Amazon
