William Butler Yeats’ reputation stands him as one of the towering figures of twentieth-century poetry, a master whose lyrical skill and evocative imagery earned him the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1923.
William Butler Yeats: A World-Class Poet
Many of William Butler Yeats’ poems, including “The Second Coming” and “Sailing to Byzantium,” reveal a profound sensitivity to the human condition, blending Irish myth with modern innovation.
Yet, beneath his celebrated poetry lies a less triumphant endeavor: A Vision, a sprawling metaphysical treatise first published in 1925 and revised in 1937. In A Vision, Yeats attempts to create a comprehensive system—a poetic ethic—that would unify history, personality, and art under a single rubric.
Despite Yeats’ stature as a world-class poet, A Vision represents a resounding failure. Far from establishing a coherent ethic, the work emerges as a cacophony of misguided notions, revealing Yeats’ superficial and often erroneous grasp of the Eastern religious traditions he claimed to have deeply studied.
Yeatsean Audacity
Yeats’ ambition in A Vision may be understood as the epitome of audacity. Supposedly inspired by automatic writing sessions with his wife, Georgie Hyde-Lees, beginning in 1917, the poet believed he had received revelations from spiritual “instructors” that offered a key to understanding human creativity as well as history.
The result was a system based on a cyclical theory of history, symbolized by interlocking gyres—conical spirals that represent the rise and fall of civilizations over 2,000-year periods. (For a discussion regarding the error of the gyres, please see “William Butler Yeats’ ‘The Second Coming’.”)
Yeats divided human personalities into 28 phases of the moon, each corresponding to a specific type, and posited that art, history, and the soul were governed by these cosmic rhythms. His goal was not merely philosophical; he aimed to craft a poetic ethic, a lens through which his poetry could be both generated and then interpreted.
This ambition, however, was challenged by Yeats’ intellectual limitations. While his poetic genius thrived on intuition and ambiguity,the success of a work such as A Vision demanded precision and coherence—qualities it sorely lacks.
Scholars such as Richard Ellmann have noted that Yeats himself admitted to the work’s thinness and opacity, famously remarking in a letter to Ethel Mannin that he wrote it “to keep myself from going mad” [1]. The treatise’s reliance on occult sources, including theosophy and Rosicrucianism, already situates it on shaky ground, but its most glaring and distressing failure lies in Yeats’ mishandling of Eastern religious concepts, which he claimed as foundational influences.
An Eastern Mirage: Yeats’ “Romantic Misunderstanding”
T. S. Eliot labeled Western misunderstanding of Eastern philosophy and religious concepts “Romantic misunderstanding.” He could have been pointing directly to Yeats in this evaluation.
Yeats’ engagement with Eastern religion was not a passing fancy. He was introduced to Hindu philosophy through his association with the Theosophical Society and his friendship with figures such as Sri Mohini Chatterjee, an Indian philosopher whom Yeats met in 1885. Yeats’ fascination deepened with readings of the Upanishads and the Bhagavad Gita, texts he revisited throughout his life.
In A Vision, Yeats explicitly invokes these traditions, particularly in his concepts of reincarnation, the eternal self, and the interplay of the pairs of opposites—ideas he aligns with his gyres and lunar phases. Yet, a closer examination reveals that Yeats’ interpretations are not only idiosyncratic but fundamentally at odds with the traditions he sought to integrate.
Take, for instance, Yeats’ treatment of reincarnation. In Hindu and Buddhist frameworks, reincarnation (samsara) is a process governed by karma, the moral law of cause and effect, aimed at liberation (samadhi in Hinduism, nirvana in Buddhism, salvation in Christianity).
The Brihadaranyaka Upanishad, a key text Yeats references, describes the soul’s journey as a quest for union with Brahman, the universal consciousness or God (as that concept is understood in Western culture) [2].
Yeats, however, reimagines reincarnation as a mechanistic cycle tied to his gyres, devoid of moral progression or spiritual liberation. This watering down of the concept of reincarnation obliterates its deep, spiritual purpose in the lives of humanity.
His 28 phases of the moon assign fixed personality types—such as the “Hunchback” or the “Saint”—with no clear path to transcendence, reducing a dynamic process to a deterministic wheel.
Again, Yeats misunderstanding results in a fatal flaw that limits the Eastern concepts to mere thought experiments, not profound truths that guide individuals on spiritual paths to a definite goal.
Scholar Harold Bloom observes Yeats’ limited awareness of Eastern religious concepts by suggesting that the poet’s understanding of reincarnation amounts to little more than a parody; in Yeats system the soul is trapped rather than liberated [3].
Similarly, Yeats’ appropriation of the Bhagavad Gita’s concept of dharma (duty) is distorted beyond recognition. In the Gita, Krishna advises Arjuna to act according to his rôle as a warrior, emphasizing selfless action within a cosmic order [4]. Yeats, however, interprets dharma as a fatalistic submission to historical forces, as seen in his analysis of civilizations’ rise and fall.
His gyres suggest that human agency is illusory, a stark departure from the Gita’s call to active participation in one’s destiny. This misreading reflects not a deep study but a superficial cherry-picking of Eastern ideas to bolster his preconceived system.
A Cacophony of Contradictions
The intellectual incoherence of A Vision extends beyond its Eastern distortions to its internal structure. Yeats’ gyres, meant to symbolize the dialectical interplay of opposites (primary and antithetical tinctures, in his terminology), collapse under scrutiny.
He asserts that history oscillates between unity and multiplicity, yet his examples—such as the fall of Troy or the rise of Christianity—are cherry-picked and lack rigorous historical grounding. Scholar Northrop Frye critiques this approach, arguing that the poet’s historical cycles are poetic fictions masquerading as metaphysics, unsupported by evidence or logic [5].
The treatise’s reliance on vague assertions—for example the suggestion that the end of an age, which always receives the revelation of the character of the next age, is represented by the coming of one gyre to its place of greatest expansion [6]. Such bland unexplained statements further muddy the work’s claims.
Moreover, the 28 lunar phases, intended as a typology of human character, devolve into arbitrary categorization. Yeats assigns historical figures like Shelley (Phase 17) and Napoleon (Phase 20) to these phases, but the criteria are inconsistent and subjective.
The system’s complexity overwhelms its usefulness, leaving readers with a tangled, labyrinthine taxonomy rather than a meaningful ethic. As critic T.R. Henn has avered that the work is less a philosophy than a privately concocted mythology, a wobbly scaffolding for Yeats’ imagination that collapses under its own weight [7].
The Poetic Ethic That Never Materialized
Yeats’ stated intention in formulating his treatise was to establish a poetic ethic, a poetic framework that would elevate his art and serve as a guide those who consume his art. Yet, A Vision fails to come together as either a practical guide or a philosophical statement.
Unlike Dante’s Divine Comedy, which integrates a clear Christian cosmology into its poetry, or Rabindranath Tagore’s works that reveal the Eastern concepts as they are meant to be understood through a poetry that resonates with appropriate imagery as it reveals those concepts, A Vision remains detached from Yeats’ best poetry; its unhinged rhetoric is a like a raft let loose to the wind.
Poems such as “The Second Coming” draw loosely on its imagery—for example, the “widening gyre”—but their power lies in their ambiguity, not in the treatise’s labored explanations. Scholar Helen Vendler has suggested that Yeats’ great poems transcend A Vision, and that they succeed despite it, not because of it [8].
This disconnect underscores the work’s failure as an ethic. An ethic, poetic or otherwise, requires clarity and applicability—qualities A Vision sorely lacks. Its esoteric jargon and convoluted diagrams (the gyres, the wheel, the unicorn) alienate rather than enlighten, rendering it inaccessible.
Even the most devoted Yeatsean acolytes have struggled to reveal any logic or utility in the work. Yeats’ Eastern borrowings, far from lending depth, expose his misunderstanding of traditions that emphasize simplicity and direct experience over intellectual abstraction.
The Zen Buddhist principle of direct insight, for instance, stands in stark contrast to Yeats’ overwrought theorizing, highlighting the huge gulf between his system and the philosophies he seemingly admired.
A Poet’s Folly
William Butler Yeats’ legacy as a poet is unassailable; his poetry remains a testimony to his genius. Yet, A Vision reveals the limits of that genius when applied to systematic thought.
Sadly, intended as a poetic ethic, the work instead emerges as a cacophony of wrong-headed ideas, its Eastern influences warped by misinterpretation and its structure undone by contradiction.
Yeats’ deep study of Hindu and Buddhist concepts, so proudly proclaimed, proves shallow in execution, a veneer of exoticism atop a fundamentally Western occult framework.
The treatise stands not as a triumph but as a cautionary tale: even a world-class poet can falter when straying too far from his craft. In the end, A Vision is less a vision than a mirage—a grand but misguided attempt to impose order on a world that resists such human intervention on a grand scale.
The following sampling of poems are from Mr. Sedam’s second published collection, The Man in Motion.
1 THE QUICK AND THE DEAD
As friends of the deceased we stood outside the plot and spoke of many things; I said that I was a teacher and it came out he was too, somewhere up North, he said, a good community — good school, no foreigners, Negroes, or Jews in fact, he said, no prejudice of any kind.
2 SAINT GEORGE
He says he has a problem and I say: Tell me about it because he’s going to tell me about it anyway so it seems he was making love with his wife last night or thought he was when right in the middle of it she stopped and remembered he hadn’t put out the trash for the trash man the next morning so he asks: What would you have done? and I say: Get up and put out the trash which of course he did but he still doesn’t know why and I reply: You must slay the dragon before there is peace in the land.
3 FACES
A funny thing happened in the war and you’ll never believe it but there was this Jap Zero at ten o’clock low so I rolled up in a bank and hauled back on the stick too fast and nearly lost control and when I rolled out again there was this other Jap (He must have been the wingman) flying formation with me.
We flew that way for hours (at least four seconds) having nothing else to do but stare each other down, and then as if by signal we both turned hard away and hauled ass out of there.
We flew that way for hours (at least four seconds) and when I looked again he was gone— but I can still see that oriental face right now somewhere In Tokyo standing in a bar there’s this guy who’s saying: a funny thing happened in the war and you’ll never believe it but there was this American. . .
4 EXPERIENCE
Then there was that night in Baton Rouge Jack and I went out on the town looking two looking for two And we saw these two broads at the bar and I said There’s two Jack but yours doesn’t look so good but he was game So we grabbed them and wined them and dined them with champagne and steak I remember forty-four bucks to be exact And when we walked out of that place I slipped my arm around the pretty one an whispered let’s go up And she said whadaya think you’re gonna do And I said not a goddam thing and left her flat And Jack took the dog-face one home And made a two-weeks stand of it and come to think of it I never chose a pretty girl after that.
5 NOSTALGIA
(For Lee Anne)
Call it the wish of the wind flowing from a dream of dawn through the never-to-be forgotten spring of our years running swiftly as a lifetime flying like a vision borne Slim Indian princess wedded in motion dark hair streaming sunlight and freedom floating on the cadence song drifting shadow-down in the distance my daughter riding bareback on a windy April afternoon.
6DESAFINADO
(For Allen Ginsberg, et al)
Through this state and on to Kansas more black than May’s tornadoes showering a debris of art — I saw you coming long before you came in paths of twisted fear and hate and dread, uprooted, despising all judgment which is not to say that the bourgeois should not be judged but by whom and by what, junkies, queers, and rot who sit on their haunches and howl that the race should be free for pot and horny honesty? which I would buy if a crisis were ever solved in grossness and minor resolve but for whom and for what?
I protest your protest its hairy irrelevancy, I, who am more anxious than you more plaintive than you more confused than you having more at stake an investment in humanity.
Some things were never explained even to me, and of course they would tell it his way but I believed in her because I chose to believe and you may be sure of this: A man’s biological role is small but a god’s can be no more that it was I who was always there to feed him, to clothe him to teach him, and nurture his growth— discount those foolish rumors that bred on holy seed for truly I say unto you: I was the father of Christ.
At least part of your message is clear, thou shalt not kill except in certain seasons and thou shalt not commit adultery except in certain regions and thou shalt not lie except on incredible things like carrying five tons of tablet stones down mountains.
9 INDIAN COUNTRY
Can it be enough to wake in the morning to find in a land above all others the generosity of spring a summer’s desire the sky like a psalm unfolding a season for lovers?
Stay, do not be afraid walking hand in hand with me through the gentle wilderness the glorious heart of it I know this country better than I know myself better let me share it with you this immortal scene— how can you close your eyes?
10 REGENERATION
Something in me and the abiding dust Loosed an imprisoned force And I became a man at the age of twelve Proclaiming myself above women I decided to be a trapper up North But tried the near creek first Caught a muskrat that turned me weak Cried boys tears then came back strong Finding maturity was thirteen Growing soft on animals and girls.
11 FOREVER CALVIN
Life had seldom been good to him and the cloth he had always denied but faced with the new theology he stood with his beer and replied: “People been sayn’ God is dead but I know that old sonofabitch is still alive.”
12 MYSTIQUE
My thoughts are on the ring of morning my insight beholding the sun— I will say she is not beautiful or shall I say, no more beautiful than the average of her age an average girl in plain blue sleeveless dress with soft brown sling-back shoes and matching purse but for the silver dragonfly . . . ah yes! the silver dragonfly as delicate as her slender hands her red-gold hair her high born face or the white lace of her brassiere, which brings my focus to the nearer things the rainbow from the window the warm wet sound of rain the clear clear air.
13 CASUALTIES
Admission of reality that time can bend a memory am I a victim of my own credulity or did I see the dark blood flow from such savagery . . . unbelievable that I was even there that I remember and forget so easily the brain is lensed like that protects the image sometimes dims forever unless a matching pattern focuses the scene joins two worlds the then and now . . . and then it was no ordinary war a time some unseen power had set the stage for me an unemployed pilot, I happened along a spectator of the invasion until the airplanes came— Admission . . . they brought the casualties in and laid them on the tables of the ship’s wardroom where only hours before we ate our peaceful fare no white-clad nurses here, no softer graces no operating room decor I would identify but my only experience is a football knee and nothing in the past could conjure this: a casual would brings no trail a shattered arm or leg they amputate of mangled flesh in disarray they sew a captain missing half his face the jawbone almost gone what primal instinct saved his life? they can’t decide he crawled back on his own . . . another with both hands taped down to his arms his wrists nearly severed he says his pistol jammed as he was struck a sword— a more immediate concern he also has a bullet in his chest, they probe the fevered flesh that forms the hole almost lose him Shock! a call for plasma the way that nature saves her own or takes in death if the blood is pooled too long the surgeon quietly explains— Admission . . . the other details I forget or something doesn’t want me to recall it is only the surgeon who comes through clear to me whose raw exposure captured me record the butchery whose eyes knew me as I stood fascinated by his sight— at three A.M. they bring the last one in his back a confusion of shrapnel and blood but almost perfect pattern of designs a gaping hole with radiating lines a mortar shell— his face like the grey dawn precipitates the storm he is barely conscious now moving through another world perhaps the only peace he’ll ever know— the stoic surgeon stares and then starts in deadens down with morphine with speed to equal skill and then in rare expression, he’s feeling with his hands searching for something like fish under a log he has a memory now pulls out a bloody jagged hunk smiles and drops it in the pan I’m holding and for the first time notices me and for the time I’ll do a pilot orderly? why not incredible but then how callous I’ve become beside, I can perform and I am remarkably calm he knows, sustains my balance talks of fishing all the while until the fragments are found later much later our two worlds match again he sews with a feminine stitch hands leading heart compassionate in his touch Surprisingly the human skin is very tough he says cuts easily, punches and tears hard the consistency of leather remembering how my mother sewed my shoe way back there he tugs and pulls, but carefully the sergeant groans from pain I ask? no, reflex action he explains the pain comes later much later more thread! will he ever get their wounds sewed up? how neat the stitches come a patchwork quilt, a Frankenstein design and finally done his genius shows, he’s made another man but what about his kind and if he lives how does he survive? what cursed the learned doctor after time and after twenty-five years what monster roams to haunt the tortured mind? Admission . . . it is unbelievable the punishment the human body can absorb or what the mind can hold at least for awhile until the patterns match the greatest pain comes later . . . much later.
14 SELF ANALYSIS
Often I have wondered from where I came something of motion wind and cloud and wing high unity the sky was my medicine dream an identity, I suspect . . . I never was born at all I fell from another world was found by a savage tribe ran through my Indian youth followed rivers and leas talked with birds climbed ancient trees then beholding all things I found creativity— all my years of learning have taught me only what I knew as a child.
15 INCONGRUITY
Theirs is a house, a show place of antiseptic rooms marked: His and Hers with climb marks on his walls and halls that lead to nowhere (they wouldn’t dare) and yet they have three daughters which their friends assure me came naturally.
16 APRIL
Then from the winter grief and the tree’s last clinging the dead leaf falls to be born in time’s intricate weaving from the sentient sleep it awakes to behold life believing . . . and you thought the spring would never come— Arise My Love, arise for love has performed a miracle.
17 HIGH SIERRA
And try as I would today I could not walk that objective distance away to write a universal poem that symbolized all metaphors of love profoundly beautiful sensitive to wordways, more sensitive to height the clearest view the path ran always toward the sunlight always to you, in lines as free as taking you into my arms feeling the flow of your warmth creation smiling upon me.
18 JURISPRUDENCE
Yes, yes, I know the tree belongs to you but your mistake was planting to close to the line— possession being nine-tenths of the law your branches leaning heavily my way, I have picked the apple on this side and I intend to eat every damned on of them.
19 MIRRORS
And now my daughter what shall I say to you when only yesterday I learned to know myself I cannot tell just where I end where you begin or when it was I loved and lost and won the perfect picture of my ego —
I know the cruelty that reprimands your nature you feel too much you love too much you give too much and I would make you man, like me hardened and warm vulnerable and sound hidden between poems doubting . . . believing . . . no, it is not so I would not rule you and corrupt your beauty, you declare in the desperate desire an intimate loneliness a weakness yet laden with power a possible greatness — then what shall I say to you? you have written me a poem, really, it is almost good . . . really, too much like me.
20 ORIGINAL SIN
“And as life must always contemplate death.”
Now and again in a crowd I’ll see that look in someone’s eye that searing stare of endless pain a desperate longing for the sky . . .
a tremor in the sun, a hurried cry — “This is Blue Four bailing out!”
the convoluting sight, a silver streak the searing flash, a rolling red-orange flame but someone calls: “He’s clear! He’s clear!”
we see him floating free, momentarily safe billowing white against the perfect blue like an angel removed from evil—
God’s merciful arrangement? the decision was never his he is falling into the enemy’s hands and the guilt of war goes with him —
he gathers in his chute, hopelessly alone we circle one more time but none of us can save him, standing on the crest of his years he waves his last goodbye — Paul Williams . . . the loneliest man I ever saw.
21 CREATION
I will allow to my plan one dream of man’s own choosing that he may break his earthly bonds and exist beyond reason and Adam and Eve looked upon each other and behold, they were overjoyed!
22 DOWN TWO AND VULNERABLE
Whose knees these are I think I know her husband’s in the kitchen though he will not see me glancing here to watch her eyes light up and glow;
My partner thinks it’s rather queer to hear me bidding loud and clear between the drinks before the take the coldest bridge night of the year;
She give her head a little shake to ask if there is some mistake five no-trump bid, their diamonds deep and one finesse I cannot make;
Those knees are lovely warm and sleek but I have promises to keep and cards to play before I sleep and cards to play before I sleep.
23 UNTOUCHABLES
If you will ride with me in the warm and velvet rain and stay discreetly on your side I will write for you the most beautiful love poem of your life.
24 THE DEATH OF GOD
Look at me Father beneath the grime and blood a soft-faced boy fading in your sight, severed from the power to make the sign one arm dangles, the other grasps my side; Listen to me Father and hear the red flood rain the morning with low moaning black whispers marching in armies of shadows exposing, exploding the expedient lie, the cold thought crawls pain-studded, shouting cutting the sacred threads from all tomorrows;
Time and the sun are staring sending gods and heroes to their places; while yet I live and slowly shed my robe I witness your death as you witness mine.
25 LETTER
Before all colors fade before you are gone I’ll hold to this memory of you, I see you in that gown like wine two shades of purple pink and purple red of passion drawn, deep down I wandered weak from want of you then knew your warmth and drank my fill and filled the caverns of my mind and sewed the hills with vineyards fine that I each year might touch the spring again — when you are gone, and surely you are I know it now for the words are beginning to come.
26 FORGOTTEN SPRING
And I awake in the veil of morning from shadow dreams unfound unknown there is no sight or sound but the rain in the willows and I have forgotten when it was that came in May with the scent of spring and a trace of the forest bloom — I arise and go to the window and search in the darkness to feel the lifeblood touching the night with my hands recalling the smallest things transformed in rain the linden flowers the redbud lane and I return and I am young in my shadows reflecting a sequined day of warmer years when children walked the emerald springs remembering nothing but dreams nothing but sleep sleep Sleep that come a thousand miles beyond a distant sorrow the forest road and garden flowers dissembled torment settled the terror of unearthly storms from sounding dreams of heartbeats falling falling asleep asleep and I awake to know not to know what lonely river fills the tortured mind a soul’s denial why nether light unveils a ghost of time condemns tomorrow somewhere the dead is watching exists is calling something I have lost has troubled me awakens me calls me to sleep sleep the broken frames of memory close asleep open and I awake to the black veil of mourning painfully conscious of that final hour and one forgotten scene the wringing hands the labored breath a tension crowded room the moral madness of his sight the faded flowers the dreaded tomb, but I am old, have shed my tears — sleep! give me sleep! I want no memory of that time and avalanche of lifeblood fallen drowning in a sea of slime the shadow man more child than man was dying . . . dead and life removed is dead calls to me to silence and sleep sleep sleep that goes a thousand miles beyond perpetual dawn the spring was morning the sun had healing powers I stood at the window beside my mother and Albert walked along the garden flowers and called: come, Marcene, let’s go mushroom hunting.
27 EDELWEISS
Then I will tell you about beauty it is the miracle revealed on a winter day that in a careful moment flowers a barren land and leaves tomorrow wherein we walk from snowy graves reborn seven times over, touch me then for that is beauty the only kind I understand what matters now is that I remember for the longest possible time the longest day when beauty is covered with sorrow . . . this too shall pass away.
28 SUMMER PLACE
Still my awareness can say what happened there — there was such a time and such a woman there was a river flowing a blood so dramatically clear there was a windwalk flowering through the trees an endless stream of light that marked the year — how do I measure your loveliness? I see you again like willow wand summer sun shining and free and unashamed love and the slowly spreading leaves care and the greatest gift we claimed — calmer then we knew our way we gathered life around us like a golden cloak and wore it every day.
29 LONELINESS
On that October afternoon under the maple bordered streets the canopy of memory closed every Godly sound when Billy Lambert died — the rainfall felled and crushed red leaves bled through bitter wine and I drank paralyzed like any man too stunned to reason why too brave to cry, they said, they took my silent grief what sixty pounds could give as proof like theirs, standing for strength — they did not know that I was eleven without faith.
30 FARFALLA
It seems inevitable now that I should find you again at mid-summer, when I came down from the spring I walked along in the rain thinking of you your form and being as warm and secure as nature’s cocoon knowing that someday soon you would arrive with the sun beautiful and alive.
31 ALCHEMIST
From the imagery of the past with the metaphorical present the match is made sometimes obvious but more often than not a sixth sense tells us it is there and apparently without reason we know because we have tried — a poem is not tricked not willed into being, with or without us it comes with a mind of it own a substance of rhythm and tone base metal some unknown alchemy has turned to gold.
32 FOR REASONS UNKNOWN
“The Board after review of the crash that took the lives of fifty-eight people, has ruled, the probable cause: a loss of control, for reasons unknown.”
To one who must review the will of impossible gods this crash leaves in its wake man’s torn identity For Reasons Unknown; the probable cause, an altimeter’s difference, an obvious loss of control but who can comfort oneself on finding death at this expense; here in the residue of grief, a coat, a toy, a case the charred remains of lives the lived before the shrouds, once with a burning intensity, a chemistry sublime now an horrendous blending shattered by time For Reasons Unknown; only a few hours before when there was hope we were intrigued by their heights, sensation of pride and power in that moment of brilliance, a soul’s magnificence then a wall and a new dimension of mind; again we have met in this place, the corridor of death where we are no longer strangers to the hard intelligence: that the dream is impenetrable for them and for us and for them it is all or nothing, and if it is nothing . . . but then, how foolish is forever, For Reasons Unknown, cancel flight fifty-eight.
33 CONCEPTIONS
If I were a woman I would become great with child if only to test my creative power to bring a fertilized egg into being proof positive that my reproductive prowess exists but being a man I can still stare at sperm unbelieving that there is anything great with me having no conception of conception I’m disturbed when she asks me: “Aren’t you proud to be a father?” and I answer yes and no no for the biological act, yes after the fact I fulfilled my responsibilities and earned my right to that to be called Father? no, with no awareness of conception I knew only, still felt only the pleasure, so I would alter the master plan somewhat —
a woman should be wired for light and sound and at the time conception like an exciting pinball machine her body would glow and the lights would come on and bells would ring and out of her navel would pop a card which would say: Big Man with your wondrous sperm this time you the the jackpot! keep this card and in nine months you can collect.
34 PHD
I continued upward ignoring signs of the northern sky until I crossed the subtle circle and arrived at the pole; I sat in frozen silence reflecting an impotent sun and when I left that place my direction was necessarily south.
35 DIVINE RIGHT
“And God saw every thing that he had made and behold, it was very good.” Genesis 1:31
All of God’s creatures have purpose they say, including me and even I may prove it yet and even a mosquito proved it once, Texas breed, Matagorda brand he sat upon my hand and sucked my blood, innocently without checking my rank and mismatched as we were he filled too full to fly and fluttered fitfully flopping like a frog, so heavily wing-loaded I smashed him flat than sat back on my throne and praised my bloody competence.
36 PATHFINDER
Two roads diverged in the yellow woods And I knowing I could not travel both impetuously cried: To Hell with decisions! And struck off through the woods.
37 BEAUTY AND THE BEAST
“I thought you were strong for Jenny?” “Well you know how she is— Wears three coats of makeup, Flat chested, legs too short, And without contacts—ugh!”
Which reminded me of the time He introduced me to Jenny— Lavender eyes, satin skin And bosom and legs enough . . .
“Oh yes and another thing You wouldn’t have guessed: We broke up last week.”
38 DISCOVERY
Between the first and the last there is a part of us that lives outside ourselves where we can see held in life’s rhythm our first encounter with immortality, no joy specific could cry that pleasure proclaiming what we are but if we could tell this tale where no one cared to know we would live it again that intimate discovery like Adam and Eve we were the first two people.
39 POEM TO MY FATHER
On His Seventy-fifth Birthday
For as a man stands for love— and now after the gift of our friendship when I am alone to see myself for what I am, how slow was my awakening, and it seemed too many years you had passed us by but then as I became mature and unafraid they made the bond enduring when we discovered we walked the same valley of age and wisdom respectfully different, feeling the same imprints hearing the same footfalls following the same river to the ultimate sea— foreseeing that day of silence I need no tears to purify the past: this was the gift of the gods For as a man stands for love there will remain his legacy an everlasting moment the memory of the nobility of man.
40 YOKOHOMMA MISSION
(After Twenty-fiveYears)
What the years have taken away what I forget to remember and what lasts forever in dreams that burned the imprint on my mind . . .
Flying across that lonely shield of space the interwoven contrails streak the malevolent sun high and clear at twenty thousand feet down a flawless sweep of sky— We have formed to protect the second wave of bombers long-barreled B-29s with huge block letter markings on their tails three hundred in a massive glare but one that stands out over all the letter R Remember How they came the enemy in swarm like magnificent fireflies in black and green with big red suns on their wings confused our aim skywalked our tracers missing four and hitting one he spins away angrier in death then life again the engines strain moving upward climbing to regain ah precious altitude the run is perfectly aligned—
We have broken off momentarily giving way to the black flak highway blanketing the run the first unfolded far behind the second overled the third more accurate scores a bomber falls away, hesitates then dies rolls over slowly explodes the sky churns with debris another in its death throes yet another, and another vectored down the line moving moving onward Here they cone again! scattered, less reckless now they’ll never understand another pass would run our fuel tanks low one almost playfully tags along we clobber him impatiently move on always moving full throttle maximum RPM abuse the trim damn the machine always straining always climbing The name of the game is survive and some are delivered and some luck out and some are determined to die but what is left of skill is gone . . . A Kamikaze! A mid-air! one of theirs and one of ours a final terrible embrace falling falling away unforgiven a cripple falling far behind another going down another R Remember the unbearable emptiness the invisible force of time of sailing, drifting, soaring always moving wind driven by some mysterious mind of wheeling, climbing, floating—
Then suddenly the departure point I turn for one last look at life transfixed in war’s psychotic stare the horrifying tower the hell we made for a million souls in flames that outlast fire the pinpoint accuracy of this day twenty-five years ago, a quarter of a century and Yokohomma is still burning.
41 DIALOGUE INTELLECTUAL
You call that poetry? That was my intention. Well it’s not good poetry. By whose contention? Mine! Which makes you a critic? Yes, now here’s a good line, Whose is it? Mine. Is it part of a poem? No, it’s only a line. You could never finish it? Yes, that’s true. Well add this pseudo intellectual schmaltzy phrase. What’s that? Up you!
42 UNDERSTANDINGS
I had heard these aunts before damn their fat Victorian souls who gathered in our house those poor depression days for grand reunions with gossip of the years and I the slender one too young too male to hear that day hid behind the door and combed their conversation for tidbits dear for boys too mean to bore and in the painful hour they took my subject sex and tore to bloody shreds all acts of manly fire of passion and desire all aunts but one who would become my favorite in the end she said: “The way I see it girls the way you should it don’t hurt me none and seems to do George a power of good.”
43 REFLECTIONS
What would I keep for beauty’s sake to cherish your presence in me not you but the essence of you even more than the intimate part of me you took with you— I smile at your face in the mirror looking at me my countenance radiant, taut-muscled confident and so sure that I am a man, with you I, too, am beautiful.
44 BLOOD ROOT
Then I becoming I considered then the flower from winter’s spring where I was I who found the trail of God’s creation who could hold beauty walking on touching every bloom of nature — it took me a long time to grow up from winter’s need where I was I like love it was a wind fragile flower and when I pick it it bled.
45 GORDON CHRISTOE
I remember his confident voice his high-flying banter the sound of his chattering guns that echoed his laughter then the Samurai came and shouted his name and Gordon disappeared in a black whisper.
46 DEATH OF A FIGHTER PILOT
Falling through legend and sky his vision a flaming mirror spinning away and away all promise of life lost in the lonely cry: I’m going in.
47 RELATIVITY
And so you are real but how long will you last? I have learned not to ask playing these god games to reconcile the past, yes, we’ll make too much of it our pleasure and crowded lament but why not the sands run low on dreadful wisdom.
48 VERTIGO
The sky was down the clouds had closed the chance a vast and inlaid sleep then magnified the trance, so set in power I saw the phantom dance that sent the brain dials spinning . . . abruptly the earth cut my remembering and I awoke in flames.
49 NIGHT TRAIN
Loneliness and a faraway whistle loneliness stirring the wind loneliness swelling the moonlight a storm swept song callling calling COMMmmee . . .
He’s hard out of Glenwood now trailing his midnight smoke a symphony on steel coming from someplace, somewhere from places of never before from fabulous lands and scenes dreamed in my book of days closer closer He’s rounding the curve downgrade on rambling thundering rods pulse like my heartbeat pounding pounding he whistles our crossing now his hot steam severs the air
COMMmmee . . . COMMmmee . . . A WAY e-e-e Straight through the town, throttle down deafening sound the summer night made aware screaming upgrade exhaust in staccato rhyme telling the world of his climb rolling on Arlington now high on his whirling wheels gaining the crest of the hill going to someplace, somewhere to fabulous lands and scenes pulse like my heart beat calling calling COMMmmee . . . COMMmmee . . . A WAY e-e-e
50 SCARLET TANAGER
I look at him as he looks at me in sly appraisal and I think he must be a discriminating bird to choose my woods for his mating show, but still I know that recently he came North from the land of the Chavante* and could it be that he sees in me only the image of another stage?
I knew that I must laugh before they carried me away and then I was carried away with laughter and now they have carried me away.
52 ZIP CODE
From that red restlessness understanding they would accept no compromise they left without a word between.
53 TIPPECANOE BATTLEFIELD
Walking through legend and tale I thought I saw Indians charging in feathered lines and calm Kentuckians gathering war-scalps— wandering too far I saw Harrison the magnificent riding his white stallion and . . . the thing I remember most about war was its bloody confusion.
54 MOON GLOW
So beautifully she could express desire — we had walked along the woods enamored of nature and ourselves; the moon grass an infinite sky the warm repletion a cry — come, she said, the children will be returning.
55 HARVEST
You will remember this time the love that holds this place born from a season of growing when we bled into each other from long histories and found all our futures foretold;
Now it is clear from our height this time is God’s artistic best, the sun revolves in a velvet line the winnowing need drawn from our childhood — Harvest . . . when the seek of the human heart knows assurance.
56 HOMECOMING
No one seemed to know him but he impressed us as he led the vocabulary parade; obviously he was a college man suave in dress submerged in manners and we could se his class ring when he picked his big nose.
57 PERCEPTIVO
If you’ll remember that day we barely met and yet I know all about you, I listened to your poetry but long before that — there is something in every woman that inevitably gives her away and you, my dear, were wearing exquisite pink shoes.
58 HAPPINESS
The storm cometh, the moment grows pale —
nothing in my memory ever dies, I remember our search for the sun that great straining upward formation flying like exotic birds spreading our wings on the day, and then a sudden flame — a terrible calm . . . happiness like a solitary leaf breaks off and falls away.
59 MARTY
(Who came without an appointment)
Softly she came with a folder under her arm, clutched tightly a countenance between a smile and a frown, she could go quickly either way, and then she spoke her mind in metaphor and rhythm, disgressed* in imagery that give her mood away and finally she told me she wrote poetry which I had already discovered before ever reading a word.
*”Disgressed” is an obvious typographical error. I suggest that the best reading of this line would be “dressed in imagery.”
60 ADAM
For over a week you have appeared in my sleep and I find myself seeking you endlessly — should I deny what I am, alone and awake a shadowless man tomorrow his glory gone like a season? and when you close upon my flesh then leave me naked and afraid should I deny what you are the storm of your coming and from its center the heart of emptiness the blood that cannot touch or give until it commands existence? I feel at this moment of birth the death of all things but let God speak honestly the power was given me to weigh with immortality and rather than let this moment pass away I will awake and create a poem which is woman which is life.
61 NOVEMBER
And you my friend tell me what you will there are some things you will never hold not even their innocent birth or trembling growth or color of life or last breathing;
In the bright façade of June you have said: Time has no end the sun to command has stood still and day and night are one immortal light like this summer I think I know why I hesitate as though I had never known the beauty of which you speak almost as if your voice could alter distance conjure love or call creation’s fire which I cannot believe
When years have hollow eyes I marvel I even remember the flight the scene of desire removed you think I dream what I write but think what you will — I have seen what winter can do.
62 GROUND FOG
Her night’s commitment soft and sultry, I touched the quintessence distilled five times fondled the moon disguised five times filtered the sky diffused five times and caught her mood . . . all this while sitting on my hands.
63 SILENT TREATMENT
I would not speak as a matter of fact I was determined not to give in this time because I was By God Right! and I was, I did not speak though I did smile as I carried her up the stairs.
64 INTERSTATE 75
Believing and I would believe against all possible odds against the inroads of roads against the factory walls against all concrete and steel that nature will always be real when I can write poetry at seventy, driving south and trail two lovers through the slow warm passage of time.
65 V J DAY
Appropriately we were airborne during the lull flying in our time testing out and staying sharp just in case when suddenly and literally out of the blue it came the pronouncement: “Iwo Tower to all planes — it’s all over boys — the War’s over!” a stunned long static unbelief before someone broke the spell — “Yahooo! Yahooo!” then everyone turned on how many times we yelled I can’t recall we firewalled all controls and rocked the sky in rollicking release but then the voice of God himself cut in the Squadron Commander: “All right you guys let’s knock it off — Remedy Red leader to all flights join up with me over the island and fly the tightest formation of your life.” we closed in fast and stacked down on his wing locked inside, reset the trim and leveled for the show — he waved how beautiful that square and hawk-nosed face bright like the Leo sun in terrible relief the pain and anxiety gone, drawn dangerously close to sentimental words — I settled back in throttles and controls chose my new horizon aware of every feeling and desire becoming strangely awed by the sight of my hand the flesh and blood that was in me the hope of tomorrow alive at last believing that a miracle had really happened the War was over, that I was human again.
66 THEN SUDDENLY
Then suddenly as if I had always known I loved you as naturally as breathing.
67 AND I
And I lifted against the burning heart of a woman’s heart and I drunk with your beauty.
68 AND LOVE IS
And love is that joy of giving of finding oneself profoundly acceptable in the sight of another.
69 REPRIEVE
On a day that I had chosen to die I was stopped by a child standing in the doorway.
70 ETERNITY
Flying the terraced night among the stars death-mirrored — is it possible I see the hereafter?
71 MEMORIAL — TEN DAYS AFTER
Silence to silence these faded geraniums tell me that happy people have no history.
71 ID 111
Life: Meets hourly, daily A non-credit course.
72 PERFECTION
Listening to a baby’s laughter — perfection . . . a short poem.
73 DISTILLATION REPORT
God: the neutral spirit with which man blends impossible proofs.
74 WEATHER REPORT
Marriage: that marrow exposure a temperature inversion as we grow older.
Publication Status of The Man in Motion
As with Between Wars, securing copies of Mr. Sedam’s The Man in Motion requires some research. Currently, no copies are available on Amazon, but by checking back from time to time, one might become available.
The late poet, Malcolm M. Sedam, exemplifies the Socratic command implied in the oft-quoted, “The unexamined life is not worth living.”
Fighter Pilot
Malcolm M. Sedam served in World War II as a fighter pilot, flying bombing missions in the Pacific theatre. Then he settled down to a life in business and started a family. His war experience served to enervate him, and he began to question the efficacy of devoting his life solely to making money.
Businessman
Mr. Sedam asked himself, “How many suits can a man wear in one day?” So he decided he had to make his life about more than business and money. He returned to school, and, as William Stafford would say, he revised his life.
Teacher
Mr. Sedam traded in his life as a successful businessman to become a teacher to make his life more meaningful. He taught American history, English, and creative writing at Centerville Senior High School in Centerville, Indiana, from 1962-1964.
After receiving his M. A. degree from Ball State University, he taught at an extension of Miami University at Middletown, Ohio, until his death in 1976. Miami-Middletown offers a Malcolm M. Sedam English scholarship and awards in creative writing named for the beloved professor, the Malcolm M. Sedam Awards.
Poet
But Malcolm Sedam, called Mac by his friends, did not only serve as a teacher; he also wrote poetry and plays. He published three collections of poems: Between Wars, The Man in Motion, and The Eye of the Beholder. His play The Twentieth Mission has been performed at Playhouse in the Park, in Cincinnati, Ohio, and on many college campuses.
“It happened to me”
Mr. Sedam’s second collection of poems, The Man in Motion, brings together an eclectic assemblage from the personal “Nostalgia” to the political “For Reasons Unknown.” The book was published in 1971 by a small now-defunct Chronicle Press in Franklin, Ohio, but it is a smart, handsome publication, and the poems offer a delightful journey into the life of the man who flew fighter planes in World War II and then later became a teacher and poet.
In the preface, Mr. Sedam claims his poetic experience by stating, “Let me speak for my own poetry that it happened to me that I lived, enjoyed or suffered every scene and that these poems are the essence of these experiences.” He was a passionate man, who demanded from himself that he live every moment to the height of its possibility.
Continuing his introduction, Mr. Sedam declares, “Hopefully, for art’s sake, the poems will give pleasure and satisfaction both to the critic and the average reader, but in a test of belief, I seek that man, any man (critic or average reader) who values flesh and blood feelings above clever word manipulation.” He strove always for the authentic, the genuine, to the best of his ability.
Tribute to Mr. Malcolm M. Sedam
Entering my junior year at Centerville Senior High School in the fall of 1962, I was privileged to study with a teacher, Mr. Malcolm M. Sedam, who employed collegiate pedagogical methods. His teaching style fostered critical thinking in addition to learning the facts about the subject.
The subject was American history. Mr. Sedam had served as a fighter pilot in the Pacific theater in World War II. He attributed his worldview that urged him live each moment to the fullest to his war experience; he wanted to pass that urgency on to students. Thus, he felt that critical thinking was the most important practice that high school students needed.
Conducting the required junior year course in American history as a college course, Mr. Sedam discussed each issue in detail with background information, including additional facts not dealt with in the textbook. He connected the dots, so to speak, and encouraged us to ask questions. He also allowed us to respond and make connections during class discussion. He required outside reading as well, with oral and written reports.
Testing consisted of two parts: short identification of five to seven terms and three essay topics; we were required to write on two of the three. This method required us to organize material and make connections to demonstrate that we understood what happened, how, and why—not merely when.
This method also forced us write complete sentences, instead of just selecting answers from a multiple-choice test or merely fill in blanks, as most high school tests were fashioned. This methodology gave us practice in expository writing that usually had to wait until college.
During that same school year, Mr. Sedam often ended a class session by reading his poetry to our class, and a number of students expressed interest in a creative writing class. Mr. Sedam was able to offer that creative writing class the next year, so as a senior, I again sat for a class with Mr. Sedam.
My specialty was poetry; I had dabbled in poetry writing since my grade-school days at Abington Township Elementary School. I had not really thought of what I wrote as poetry, but having a rôle model in Mr. Sedam awakened in me the aspiration to write real poetry. Mr. Sedam encouraged us to write in the genre that most interested; thus, I began my study of poetry, and I have continued studying it, writing it, and writing about it ever since those high school days.
I had the privilege of studying with Mr. Sedam for only two years in high school from 1962-1964. Mr. Sedam later became professor of English at Miami University at Middletown, OH. The following is a tribute to Professor Sedam from one of his Miami students; it appears on the Miami page titled 10 Reasons We Love Miami:
Professor Malcolm Sedam was an English professor at Miami Middletown. He taught the art of writing from the viewpoint of a life fully lived, and believed true written communication came from the soul rather than from the end of a pen. Whether he was at the head of the classroom or sharing a table in the student break area, Professor Sedam entertained us with his stories of flying P-51 Mustangs in the Pacific during World War II, his childhood experiences growing up in Indiana, and other adventures. My two years in his classroom became a place to express passionate perspectives – a skill that carried me through college, career, and life. – John Atkins ’79, Stafford, Va.
It is with great appreciation for Mr. Sedam’s example and encouragement of my writing that I offer this memorial to my former American history and creative writing teacher.
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