In early 2003, I began an epic poem inspired by the Romantics. While this is only an excerpt, it captures much of the emotion that went into the entire piece—a tribute to all great souls who are forgotten in their lifetimes. This particular pericope highlights a schism between Mother Earth and God as creation concludes on the seventh day. Much of the first-person depiction of man is inspired, not surprisingly, but John Milton’s Paradise Lost.
So out upon unspoken ages hence,
re-tried the pox our Mother
wrecked with rod!
And God, who is from history,
pre-empted Her appointments,
prophylactic set on fecund days—
no more will Mother tempermental
wake the midwives of the stars!
Sure will be the ego of the Dame
when spritely spirits usher,
landscapes groveling in empty canvas.
But He who deigns to give Her pause,
settle things She knows beneath the business of the earth,
has also met Creation, full and wide!
For then, at this, His seventh occupation,
the bright and human guide has much to do:
tend, conceive, obey, discern, and try.
It is the new wherein our victim Kings
crusade; truth redeemed, if all
the living shuns the lie
are with Godward pomp constructed.
Ah! There is a rupture on the day
that is but wavers in the wind—
how it is in sin I came to greet the Lord;
that mixed in odd emotion
but certain called this uncertain spirit forth—
no more in trial—no more!
For I have found the Judge enthroned
and sentence passed from bench.
On this day I write full heart
and utmost naked before my God:
In your service, Creator Lord, I suffer my
rotten self to be.