Original Song: “The Paper Mill Bridge Song” with Prose Commentary
My original song “The Paper Mill Bridge Song” was inspired by the beautiful Whitewater River in Indiana and its relationship to the beautiful relationship I have enjoyed for over half a century with my wonderful husband, native of the little town of Brookville, Indiana.
Introduction and Excerpt from “The Paper Mill Bridge Song”
My husband, landscape artist Ron Grimes, created the video featured in this article to accompany my original song “The Paper Mill Bridge Song.” He wrote the following introduction to the piece and placed his video on YouTube:
A celebration of life and love as witnessed by the Paper Mill Bridge over the Whitewater River in Brookville, Indiana.
September 10th, 2022. Linda and I walked to the middle of the new Papermill Bridge. I wanted to capture some scenes for this video. As soon as I started videoing, this Canada Goose flew right over us and honked as it if it were saying, “I want to be in your video.” It was a gift.
Innovative Chorus
The song undergoes an unusual arrangement; instead of an ordinary chorus, it features an middle octave which behaves as a second octave and chorus that gets repeated at a the end of the song.
The Paper Mill Bridge Song
Here’s where people paddle canoes Down the Whitewater River. I stand here on Paper Mill Bridge. Watch the water and remember The day we walked along the bank, Sand so warm to my feet. We talked about cattails, rocks, and stars And the moss that grows on old trees.
These are the things that fill my day, Things we’ve done together. Sunshine streaming down through the leaves, A storm in the clouds or snow in the fields. River water runs through my veins. The stars light up my eyes. Love for you turns in my heart Like the sun burns through the sky.
Through the years my heart has filled With love for this old river. I stand here on Paper Mill Bridge. Watch the water and remember The day we paddled down the stream, A cool breeze on my shoulders. The sun shone bright over Paper Mill Bridge And I knew I’d love you forever.
These are the things that fill my day, Things we’ve done together. Sunshine streaming down through the leaves, A storm in the clouds or snow in the fields. River water runs through my veins. The stars light up my eyes. Love for you turns in my heart Like the sun burns through the sky.
My original song—”The Paper Mill Bridge Song”—focuses on one relationship that progresses from good friends to life partner. In the opening verse, the friends experience a quiet walk and talk along the river. In the final verse, the life relationship is solidified.
First Octave/Verse: The View from the Bridge
Here’s where people paddle canoes Down the Whitewater River. I stand here on Paper Mill Bridge. Watch the water and remember The day we walked along the bank, Sand so warm to my feet. We talked about cattails, rocks, and stars And the moss that grows on old trees
The singing narrator is standing on a bridge, which turns out to be the subject of the song, the Paper Mill Bridge. She begins to report on the activities that are locally common to that bridge. The bridge spans the Whitewater River—a river in mideastern to southern Indiana—and from its perch one can from time to time see canoers paddling their barks down the river.
The narrator then focuses on a memory that is important to her regarding her hike along the riverbank with a friend. During that pleasant stroll, the two friends casually conversed about river-related entities such as water reeds that look like “cattails” and other features of nature such a “rocks and stars.”
The narrator recalls that her feet enjoyed the luxury of the warm sand. They also held forth about the fact that moss grows on old trees—likely that the moss grows mostly on the north side of those arbolian creatures.
Second Octave/Chorus: Recurring Images
These are the things that fill my day, Things we’ve done together. Sunshine streaming down through the leaves, A storm in the clouds or snow in the fields. River water runs through my veins. The stars light up my eyes. Love for you turns in my heart Like the sun burns through the sky.
The chorus has an usual placement, standing the middle of the song and containing an equal number of line as each verse, instead of following each verse with fewer lines. Essentially the piece offers three separate octaves, even as the middle octave performs as a chorus.
In this innovative chorus, the narrator has placed a heavy emphasis. While she has offered some concrete details in the opening verse-octave, in the chorus-octave she is stating a general take on what she may likely be thinking about during this particular time period in her life.
She thus has been focusing mentally on things that she and her friend have enjoyed together. But then she adds two images in the first quatrain of the chorus-octave that allow her thoughts to show their natural influences as she experiences weather conditions—specially the warmth of spring and summer and the cold of fall and winter.
The second quatrain of the chorus-octave becomes even more generalized: she is a creature of the river, so closely attuned to river culture that it seems that the very waters of the river flow “through [her] veins.”
The narrators suggests that her happiness is enhanced as if by starlight. She then asserts that she loves her friend with the same intensity that causes the “sun” to burn “through the sky.” The hyperbole serves to suggest the strong emotion that this narrator feels for her friend, their relationship, and the natural features that they have experienced together.
Third Octave/Verse: The Passage of Time
Through the years my heart has filled With love for this old river. I stand here on Paper Mill Bridge. Watch the water and remember The day we paddled down the stream, A cool breeze on my shoulders. The sun shone bright over Paper Mill Bridge And I knew I’d love you forever.
The third octave/verse again focuses on the narrators thoughts about her friend, and now it becomes apparent that they are indeed life partners. But first she places that river into her affections; she has come to love the river, and again, she is standing on the same bridge with pleasant memories coming to the fore.
This time she remembers that like the other folks one might see canoeing down the Whitewater River, she and her partner did such paddling. That day she recalls that she felt a breeze on the skin; it was a “cool breeze”—indicating that it was likely early to mid-spring.
However, she then asserts that over that bridge the sun was beaming down in bright rays. And suddenly, her heart told her then as it is telling her now that she would continue to hold her partner in her heart “forever.”
Second Octave/Chorus: Recurring Images Again
These are the things that fill my day, Things we’ve done together. Sunshine streaming down through the leaves, A storm in the clouds or snow in the fields. River water runs through my veins. The stars light up my eyes. Love for you turns in my heart Like the sun burns through the sky.
The purpose of the repetition remains the exact same purpose that is held for all choruses in songs: to emphasize the sentiment expressed in the verses and perhaps add an extra image or two.
Linda Sue on the new Paper Mill Bridge – Constructed1977– Photo by Ron W. G.
Image: Robert Bly – NYT– Robert Bly striking one of his melodramatic poses
Robert Bly’s “The Cat in the Kitchen” and “Driving to Town Late to Mail a Letter”
The following sample pieces of doggerel “The Cat in the Kitchen” and “Driving to Town Late to Mail a Letter” by Robert Bly exemplify the style of the poetaster and the types of subjects he addresses.
Introduction with Text of “The Cat in the Kitchen”
Two versions of this piece of Robert Bly doggerel are extant; one is titled “The Cat in the Kitchen,” and at the other one is titled “The Old Woman Frying Perch.” They both suffer from the same nonsense: the speaker seems to be spouting whatever enters his head without bothering to communicate a cogent thought.
Bly’s 5-line piece “Driving to Town Late to Mail a Letter” consists of a fascinating conglomeration of images that results in a facile display of redundancy and an unfortunate missed opportunity.
Robert Bly’s penchant for nonsense knows no bounds. Most of his pieces of doggerel suffer from what seems to be an attempt to engage in stream-of-consciousness but without any actual consciousness. The following summary/paraphrase of Bly’s “The Cat in the Kitchen” demonstrates the poverty of thought from which this poetaster suffers as he churns out his doggerel:
A man falling into a pond is like the night wind which is like an old woman in the kitchen cooking for her cat.
About American readers, Bly once quipped that they “can’t tell when a man is counterfeiting and when he isn’t.” What might such an evaluation of one’s audience say about the performer? Is this a confession? Bly’s many pieces of doggerel and his penchant for melodrama as he presents his works suggest that the man was a fake and he knew it.
The Cat in the Kitchen
Have you heard about the boy who walked by The black water? I won’t say much more. Let’s wait a few years. It wanted to be entered. Sometimes a man walks by a pond, and a hand Reaches out and pulls him in.
There was no Intention, exactly. The pond was lonely, or needed Calcium, bones would do. What happened then?
It was a little like the night wind, which is soft, And moves slowly, sighing like an old woman In her kitchen late at night, moving pans About, lighting a fire, making some food for the cat.
Commentary on “Cat in the Kitchen”
The two versions of this piece that are extant both suffer from the same nonsense: the speaker seems to be spouting whatever enters his head without bothering to connect a cogent thought to his images. Unfortunately, that description seems to be the modus operandi of poetaster Bly.
The version titled “The Cat in the Kitchen” has three versagraphs, while the one titled “The Old Woman Frying Perch” boasts only two, as it sheds one line by combining lines six and seven from the Cat/Kitchen version.
First Versagraph: A Silly Question
Have you heard about the boy who walked by The black water? I won’t say much more. Let’s wait a few years. It wanted to be entered. Sometimes a man walks by a pond, and a hand Reaches out and pulls him in.
In Robert Bly’s “The Cat in the Kitchen,” the first versagraph begins with a question, asking the audience if they had heard about a boy walking by black water. Then the speaker says he will not “say much more” when, in fact, he has only asked a question. If he is not going to say much more, he has ten more lines in which not to say it. However, he then makes the odd demand of the audience that they wait a few years.
The speaker’s command implies that readers should stop reading the piece in the middle of the third line and begin waiting”a few years.” Why do they have to wait? How many years? By the middle of the third line, this piece has taken its readers down several blind alleys. So next, the speaker, possibly after waiting a few years, begins to dramatize his thoughts: “It wanted to be entered.” It surely refers to the black water which is surely the pond in the fourth line.
The time frame may, in fact, be years later because now the speaker offers the wobbly suggestion that there are times during which a man can get pulled into a pond by a hand as he walks by the body of water. The reader cannot determine that the man is the boy from the first line; possibly, there have been any number of unidentified men whom the hand habitually stretches forth to grab.
Second Versagraph: Lonely Lake Needing Calcium
There was no Intention, exactly. The pond was lonely, or needed Calcium, bones would do. What happened then?
The second verse paragraph offers the reasoning behind a pond reaching out its hand and grabbing some man who is walking by. The pond didn’t exactly intend to grab the man, but because it was “lonely” or “needed / Calcium,” it figured it would ingest the bones from the man.
Then the speaker poses a second question: “What happened then?” This question seems nonsensical because it is the speaker who is telling this tale. But the reader might take this question as a rhetorical device that merely signals the speaker’s intention to answer the question that he anticipates has popped into the mind of his reader.
Third Versagraph: It Was Like What?
It was a little like the night wind, which is soft, And moves slowly, sighing like an old woman In her kitchen late at night, moving pans About, lighting a fire, making some food for the cat.
Now the speaker tells the reader what it was like. There is a lack of clarity as to what the pronoun “it” refers. But readers have no choice but take “it” to mean the phenomenon of the pond reaching out its hand, grabbing a man who was walking by, and pulling him into the water because it was “lonely, or needed / Calcium.”
Thus this situation resembles what? It resembles soft, night wind which resembles and old lady in her kitchen whipping up food for her cat. Now you know what would cause a lonely, calcium-deficient pond to reach out and grab a man, pull him into its reaches, and consequently devour the man to get at his bones.
Alternate Version: “The Old Woman Frying Perch”
In a slightly different version of this work called “Old Woman Frying Perch,” Bly used the word “malice” instead of “intention.” And in the last line, instead of the rather flabby “making some food for the cat,” the old woman is “frying some perch for the cat.”
The Old Woman Frying Perch
Have you heard about the boy who walked by The black water? I won’t say much more. Let’s wait a few years. It wanted to be entered. Sometimes a man walks by a pond, and a hand Reaches out and pulls him in. There was no Malice, exactly. The pond was lonely, or needed Calcium. Bones would do. What happened then?
It was a little like the night wind, which is soft, And moves slowly, sighing like an old woman In her kitchen late at night, moving pans About, lighting a fire, frying some perch for the cat.
For Donald Hall
While the main problem of absurdity remains, this piece is superior to “The Cat in the Kitchen” because of two changes: “malice” is more specific than “intention,” and “frying perch” is more specific than “making food.”
However, the change in title alters the potential focus of each piece without any actual change of focus.The tin ear of this poetaster has resulted in two pieces of doggerel, one just a pathetic as the other. Robert Bly dedicates this piece to former poet laureate, Donald Hall—a private joke, possibly?
Introduction with Text of “Driving to Town Late to Mail a Letter”
Technically, this aggregate of lines that constitute Robert Bly’s “Driving to Town to Mail a Letter” could be considered a versanelle. The style of poem known as a versanelle is a short narration that comments on human nature or behavior and may employ any of the usual poetic devices. I coined this term and several others to assist in my poem commentaries.
Robert Bly’s “Driving to Town to Mail a Letter” does make a critical comment on human nature although quite by accident and likely not at all what the poet attempted to accomplish. Human beings do love to waste time although they seldom like to brag about it or lie about it, as seems to be case with the speaker in this piece.
Driving to Town Late to Mail a Letter
It is a cold and snowy night. The main street is deserted. The only things moving are swirls of snow. As I lift the mailbox door, I feel its cold iron. There is a privacy I love in this snowy night. Driving around, I will waste more time.
Commentary on “Driving to Town Late to Mail a Letter”
This 5-line piece by doggerelist Robert Bly simply stacks untreated image upon image, resulting in a stagnant bureaucracy of redundant blather. The poet missed a real opportunity to make this piece meaningful as well as beautiful.
First Line: Deserted Streets on a Cold and Snowy Night
It is a cold and snowy night. The main street is deserted.
The first line consists of two sentences; the first sentence asserts, “It is a cold and snowy
night.” That sentence echoes the line, “It was a dark and stormy night, by Edward George Bulwer-Lytton, whose name became synonymous with atrocious writing for that line alone.
There is a contest named for him, “The Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest,” with the subtitle where WWW means “Wretched Writers Welcome.” The second sentence proclaims the emptiness of main street. The title of the poem has already alerted the reader that the speaker is out late at night, and this line supports that claim that he is out and about so late that he is virtually the only one out.
This assertion also tells that reader that the town must be a very small town because large towns will almost always have some activity, no matter how late, no matter how cold.
Second Line: Only the Swirling Snow
The only things moving are swirls of snow.
The second line reiterates the deserted image of the first line’s second sentence, claiming that the only movement about his was the swirling snow. Of course, if the street were deserted, there would be no activity, or virtually no activity, so the speaker’s redundancy is rather flagrant.
The reader already knows there is snow from the first image of a cold and snowy night; therefore, the second line is a throwaway line. The speaker is giving himself only five lines to convey his message, and he blows one on a line that merely repeats what he has already conveyed, instead of offering some fresh insight into his little jaunt into town.
Third Line: Cold Mailbox Door
As I lift the mailbox door, I feel its cold iron
The third line is incredible in it facileness: the speaker imparts the information that he can feel the cold iron of the mailbox door as he lift it before depositing his letter. Such a line might be expected in a beginning poet’s workshop efforts.
The speaker had to have a line that shows he is mailing a letter, and he, no doubt, thinks this does it while adding the drama of “lift[ing] the mailbox door” and adding that he feels the coldness in the letter-box’s iron.
It’s a lame drama at best; from the information offered already both the cold iron and lifting the mailbox lid are already anticipated by the reader, meaning this line adds nothing to the scene.
Fourth Line: “There is a privacy I love in this snowy night”
There is a privacy I love in this snowy night
This line offers the real kernel of poetry for this conglomeration of lines. If the speaker had begun with this line, perhaps revising it to “I love the privacy of a snowy night,” and let the reader go with him to mail his letter, the experience could have been an inspiring one.
The images of the cold, snowy night of privacy, the deserted main street, the swirls of snow, the mailbox door could all have been employed to highlight a meaningful experience. Instead, the poetaster has missed his opportunity by employing insipid redundancy resulting in the flat, meaningless verse.
There is a major difference between Wright’s poem and Bly’s doggerel: Wright’s speaker is believable, genuine, authentic. Bly’s empty verse is quite the opposite in every aspect, especially as Bly’s speaker proclaims he will ride around “wasting more time.” That claim is non-sense. Does he actually believe that mailing a letter is a waste of time? If he does, he has not made it clear why he would think that. It just seems that he has forgotten what the poem is supposed to be about.
In Memoriam: Robert Bly December 23, 1926 – November 21, 2021
Requiescat in Pace.
Poetaster Robert Bly, one of the greatest flim-flam artists that po-biz has ever foisted upon the literary world, has passed on to his reward. Still, Bly remains one of the sacred cows of the contemporary literary world—so often praised that most critics, scholars, and commentarians shy away from pointing out the failings of this celebrated poetaster.
Ironically, among his hagiographies will remain criticism like the one by Suzanne Gordon, “‘Positive Patriarchy’ Is Still Domination: ‘Iron John’: Robert Bly’s devoted followers seem not to grasp what his message really means to women.”
While his recycled mythos, Iron John, surely earned him more financial rewards and much more recognition that his doggerel ever had, that twisted tome will also remain as testimony to the man’s warped thinking. Ironic indeed that the man who thought of himself as a feminist turned out not to have had a feminist bone in his body.
I met Robert Bly at Ball State University during a poetry workshop in the summer 1977. He held private sessions to offer us budding poets criticism of our poetic efforts. As I approached him, he planted a big kiss upon my lips before beginning the critique. Shocked at the impertinence, nevertheless, I just figured that was his way and then flung the incident down the memory hole.
The advice he offered regarding my poem was less than worthless. For example, I had a line, “slow as sorghum on the lip of a jar.” He called that vague and suggested that I somehow work my grandmother into the line, something like “my grandmother’s jar had a rim of sorghum.” (I was 31 years old at the time, but no doubt looked little more than 12).
That idiotic suggestion has colored my view of the man’s poetry, even more than his deceitful claims of “translations.” At the same workshop, he had taught a group of us how to “translate” poems, which was little more than reworking other people’s actual translations.
Anyway, may he rest in peace. He was persistent in his folly, and although William Blake infamously opined, “If a fool persists in his folly, he becomes wise,” it remains doubtful that claim actually applies, especially in Bly’s case.
“There is a price to be paid for criticizing Obama.” —Jack Cashill
Barack Obama’s “Pop”
In Barack Obama’s “Pop,” the speaker is sketching what appears to be a father-figure—likely Frank Marshall Davis—and offering a glimpse into the relationship between the two. Obama called his maternal grandfather “Gramps,” rendering it unlikely that the father-figure in this poem is Stanley Dunham.
Introduction with Text of “Pop”
The spring 1981 issue of Feast, Occidental College’s literary magazine, published two poems, “Pop” and “Underground,” by erstwhile literary prodigy Barack Obama. According to Jack Cashill, long-time researcher of Obama’s literary efforts, Obama’s writings [1] suffer from, “awkward sentence structure, inappropriate word choice, a weakness for clichés,” and “the continued failure to get verbs and nouns to agree.”
Obama’s poems suffer from similar language indignities but also include further issues relevant to poems, such a faulty line breaks, confusing mixed metaphors, and inappropriate use of surrealist images.
Although readers can forgive a 19-year old for adolescent scribblings in non-sense, especially in poems published in a college lit mag, what they cannot do is discern that this particular adolescent was showing any potential to produce a future writer.
Likely, the future, and now former, occupier of the Oval Office could have become a capable interpretive reader, and it is possible that Barack Obama would have served more admirably as an actor [2] than writer or president.
Barack Obama possesses a unique charm that could have been employed in creative ways, if he had kept his focus on the humanities and entertainment fields instead of politics and government. The Obama administration, tainted by incompetence and corruption [3], has altered the American political landscape more intensely than any other in American history.
For this misdirection, Barack Obama is less to blame than his handlers, beginning with political American terrorist Bill Ayers, continuing with political hacks David Axelrod and Valerie Jarrett.
His coterie of political advisors steered him in a direction that has enriched Obama and that coterie financially, instead of enriching society in a humanitarian field of endeavor. The former president’s piece titled “Pop” consists of one 45-line versagraph [4]. The piece’s awkward, postmodern codswallop represents much of what is despicable and destructive in most postmodern art.
Pop
Sitting in his seat, a seat broad and broken In, sprinkled with ashes, Pop switches channels, takes another Shot of Seagrams, neat, and asks What to do with me, a green young man Who fails to consider the Flim and flam of the world, since Things have been easy for me; I stare hard at his face, a stare That deflects off his brow; I’m sure he’s unaware of his Dark, watery eyes, that Glance in different directions, And his slow, unwelcome twitches, Fail to pass. I listen, nod, Listen, open, till I cling to his pale, Beige T-shirt, yelling, Yelling in his ears, that hang With heavy lobes, but he’s still telling His joke, so I ask why He’s so unhappy, to which he replies… But I don’t care anymore, cause He took too damn long, and from Under my seat, I pull out the Mirror I’ve been saving; I’m laughing, Laughing loud, the blood rushing from his face To mine, as he grows small, A spot in my brain, something That may be squeezed out, like a Watermelon seed between Two fingers. Pop takes another shot, neat, Points out the same amber Stain on his shorts that I’ve got on mine, and Makes me smell his smell, coming From me; he switches channels, recites an old poem He wrote before his mother died, Stands, shouts, and asks For a hug, as I shink, my Arms barely reaching around His thick, oily neck, and his broad back; ‘cause I see my face, framed within Pop’s black-framed glasses And know he’s laughing too.
Commentary on “Pop”
The man addressed in Obama’s “Pop” is likely Frank Marshall Davis, long thought to be Obama’s biological father [5]. Barry called his Grandfather Dunham “Gramps” [6], not “Pop.”
First Movement: Sheltered Young Man
Sitting in his seat, a seat broad and broken In, sprinkled with ashes, Pop switches channels, takes another Shot of Seagrams, neat, and asks What to do with me, a green young man Who fails to consider the Flim and flam of the world, since Things have been easy for me; I stare hard at his face, a stare That deflects off his brow; I’m sure he’s unaware of his Dark, watery eyes, that Glance in different directions, And his slow, unwelcome twitches, Fail to pass.
The speaker places his father-figure in his usual chair where the latter is watching television, enjoying his “Seagrams, neat.” The man, called Pop, begins accosting the young man by flinging at him a rhetorical question: “What to do with me?”
The speaker asserts that Pop thinks his young charge is just a “green young man / Who fails to consider the / Flim and flam of the world.”
Pop counsels the young man that the latter’s sheltered existence is responsible for the young man’s failure to recognize the “flim-flam” world. The speaker then stares at the old man, who exhibits a facial tick, while his eyes dart off “in different directions / And his slow, unwelcome twitches.”
Frank Marshall Davis Is “Pop”
While many reviewers of this poem have interpreted Pop to be Stanley Armour Dunham, the maternal grandfather who raised Obama, the former president’s hagiographer, David Maraniss, in his biography, Barack Obama: The Story, reveals that the poem “Pop” focuses on Frank Marshall Davis [7], not Stanley Armour Dunham.
And the details of the poem all point to the truth of that revelation.That Obama’s grandfather, who raised him, would be addressing such an issue with his young charge is untenable. If the boy is incapable of considering the “flim-flam” of the world, whose fault would that be? It would be the person who raised the kid.
Obama’s relationship with Frank Marshall Davis, however, provides the appropriate station for such a topic of conversation. Davis took it upon himself to help the young Obama see the world through the lens of a black man in America.
Again, if “things have been easy for” the young Barry, it has been the grandfather who made them easy; thus, for the grandfather to be accosting the boy for that supposed flaw would be absurd.
Obama’s grandfather introduced the boy to Davis for the purpose of providing Barry with the advice of an older man who had lived the life of a black man in America. The Dunhams were heavily invested in identity politics as likely members of the Communist Party, as was card carrying member, Frank Marshall Davis [8].
The grandfather was of the inclination that he could never guide a young black boy in certain areas but that Davis could. Whether that sensibility is accurate or not is the topic for another day, but the topic being discussed by the speaker of this poem precludes the poem’s addressing Obama’s white grandfather.
Faulty Line Breaks
Many of the bad line breaks [9] in the poem demonstrate the amateurish nature of the poetaster, who makes the rookie flaw of ending several lines with the definite article “the.”
About Obama’s use of line breaks, poet Ian McMillan sarcastically observes [10]: “Barack likes his line breaks, his enjambments: let’s end a line with ‘broken’ and start it with ‘in’ just because we can!”
Second Movement: Surrealistic Encounter
I listen, nod, Listen, open, till I cling to his pale, Beige T-shirt, yelling, Yelling in his ears, that hang With heavy lobes, but he’s still telling His joke, so I ask why He’s so unhappy, to which he replies… But I don’t care anymore, cause He took too damn long, and from Under my seat, I pull out the Mirror I’ve been saving; I’m laughing, Laughing loud, the blood rushing from his face To mine, as he grows small, A spot in my brain, something That may be squeezed out, like a Watermelon seed between Two fingers.
The speaker then employs a surrealistic style as he continues to describe his encounter with Pop.
The speaker listens politely, nodding occasionally, as the old man declaims, but suddenly the speaker is “cling[ing] to the old man’s “[b]eige T-shirt, yelling / Yelling in his ears.” Those ears have “heavy lobes,” and the old man is “still telling / His joke.” But the speaker then asks Pop, “why / He’s so unhappy.”
Pop starts to respond, but the speaker does not “care anymore, cause / He took too damn long.” The speaker then pulls out a mirror from under his seat.
The confusion here mounts because the speaker had just claimed he was clinging to Pop’s shirt and yelling in the old man’s ear, which would have taken the speaker out of his seat. This confusion adds to the surreal nature of the episode.
After pulling out the mirror, the speaker asserts that he is “laughing, / Laughing loud.” What he does with the mirror is never made clear. But during his outbreak of laughter, Pop “grows small” shrinking to a “spot in [the speaker’s] brain.”
That tiny spot, however, “may be squeezed out, like a / Watermelon seed between / Two fingers.” This shrunken seed image of the speaker’s pop implies a level of disrespect that is quite breathtaking as it suggests that the speaker would like to eliminate Pop from his mind.
Third Movement: Smelling the Stain
Pop takes another shot, neat, Points out the same amber Stain on his shorts that I’ve got on mine, and Makes me smell his smell, coming From me; he switches channels, recites an old poem He wrote before his mother died, Stands, shouts, and asks For a hug, as I shink, my Arms barely reaching around His thick, oily neck, and his broad back; ‘cause I see my face, framed within Pop’s black-framed glasses And know he’s laughing too.
The speaker observes that Pop “takes another shot, neat,” but he probably means that the old man took another sip; it is not likely that the father-figure is measuring out each swig with a shot glass.
With this swig, Pop “points out the same amber / Stain on his shorts that I’ve got on mine, and / Makes me smell his smell, coming / From me.” During the exchange, while clinging to Pop’s shirt, the speaker has stained Pop’s shorts.
And Pop wants the speaker to realize his blame for the stain. At least, that’s one way to interpret the smelling the stain scene.
Others have inferred a sexual reference in the “smelling” scene, but that requires too much of a stretch, that is, a reading into the text what is not there and not implied.
Pop then changes TV channels and “recites an old poem / He wrote before his mother died.” He then rises from his seat, “shouts, and asks / For a hug.”
The younger man realizes his smallness in comparison to the size of Pop: “my / Arms barely reaching around / His thick, oily neck, and his broad back.” But the speaker sees himself reflected in Pop’s “black-framed glasses.” And now Pop is “laughing too.”
The reference to a poem written before Pop’s mother died also eliminates Grandfather Dunham as “Pop.” Dunham was only eight years old, when he discovered the body of his mother who had committed suicide.
The notion that an aged man would be quoting a poem that he wrote before he was eight years old is patently absurd. Plus there is no evidence that Grandfather Dunham ever wrote any poetry, while Frank is famously known as a poet, as well as his other endeavors in political activism and pornography.
“Shink” Is Obviously a Typo and “Know” Is Likely “Now”
Much has been made of the obvious typo in the line, “For a hug, as I shink, my.” The word is obviously “shrink.” Pop had shrunk to the size of a watermelon seed a few lines earlier, and now the speaker shrinks as he realizes how much smaller he is than Pop.
It is quite possible that in the last line “know” is an additional typo, for the word “now” would be more appropriate. It would be nonsensical for the speaker to say he “knows” Pop is laughing when he is right there looking into his face. But it makes sense for him to report that during the hug Pop also begins to laugh.
Interestingly, the editors of the New York Times quietly corrected the “shink” to “shrink” when they published the poems on May 18, 2008, in an article under the title, “The Poetry of Barack Obama [11]”. The editors did not correct the obvious error “know” for “now” in the last line.
Sources
[1]Jack Kerwick. Jack Cashill’sDeconstructing Obama. American Thinker. February 25, 2011.
Malcolm M. Sedam – Book Cover, The Eye of the Beholder
The Eye of the Beholder
Chronicle Press, Franklin OH, 1975
The following poems are from Mr. Sedam’s third published collection, The Eye of the Beholder.
Declaration by poet
Whatever I am or ever hope to be I am in truth reborn in poetry.
1 ON THE DAYS THAT I SAW CLEARLY
On the days that I saw clearly in the quandary of time’s coming, my intellect strayed and I could not escape I drank intoxicating myths but I created no gods, and then the leaves fell from the tree and I recognized you as the new ghost of the sun –
Though I sensed the contradiction I was afraid to wait while time came circling the seasons and I was renewed in its flight so I have written you into being and if this divine seed should fail so be it, for I was saved when I gave the miracle a chance.
(A slightly different version appears in Between Wars.)
2 ABRAHAM AT MORIAH
Trusting His promise: Unto thy seed will I give this land; I went on and on believing that my descendants would be many like the sands among the sea, that He would make of me a great nation — I sired a son when I was very old, proved I had magical powers perhaps so great I challenged even His, for jealously He asked me for this son —
My will divined the purpose of the Rod, no man would kill his son for any god, and knowing well His promise I had blessed I thought it time to put Him to a test and so with Isaac I traveled to that place and took along a ram just in case.
(A slightly different version appears in Between Wars.)
3 SMOKE SIGNALS
Remembering that lost date of steam’s demise I looked upon my race across the rise as utter foolishness that smoke pall was a diesel in disguise a carboned copy of that trim production-line machine — but still the fact remained here was a reasonable facsimile of a train and so I stayed and watched until the red caboose had traced its path across the plain —
While in the early Western morn I tracked the fading echo of the horn and heard the rising rhetoric of the roar converge upon an elementary point in the objective distance the SD-45’s had been impressive both in strength and size but in the wide reflection their dissonant pronouncements would always be a prose rendition of power —
Then from the East over the sun of some forgotten dawn the black cloud of a whirlwind marked the sky the silver rails resounded with a cry a K4 whistle chimed a holy sigh like a mystic revelation the air became committed to the cause the farmers stood in momentary pause the earth rose up in thunderous applause as the Broadway Limited went flashing by in a golden symphony of speed and sound —
And when the fantasy had passed I stood there smiling to myself as I basked in the wondrous pollution of that day shaking the soot screen from my clothes brushing the cinders from my hair coming face to face again with reality at last I drove away looking for some other telltale smoke knowing I would always find a poem in every lost horizon.
4 SECOND COMING
In the dawn between time and tomorrow I lie awake and watch you as you sleep curled on the pillowed breath of love’s last pleasure your eyelids flutter as you dream and I am filled with a persistence of desire to touch your moon-gold reverie but I do not awaken you for you appear above my senses in another world your beauty silhouettes the morning sky beyond this earthly reality — all good things are at least twice lived I accept you in the dream and fall in love with you again.
(Another very different poem title “Second Coming” appears in Between Wars.)
5 UNDERSTANDINGS
I have 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 that 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.”
(This poem also appears in The Man in Motion.)
6 THE SHORTEST DAY
Today we live unnaturally in the eye of a peaceful calm where here upon this high and lonely ground our isolated isle defies the storm by the will of the gods a typhoon rages furiously out at sea and for two hundred miles we are surrounded a conspiracy of the clouds has stopped the war —
I should write those details to you now about the great Osaka strike but strangely my hand moves without me as if it were drawing a power outside itself fusing my long since calculated words with imagery that I could not relate when I was so careless with time and so I await watching a tireless soaring gull while Keith is drawing a pencil sketch of me he wants to make a record of this day to contemplate our meaning in the war a mirror of every mission that we fly and this picture is mine when he is finished — “What color shall I make your eyes?” he asks, “What mood do you prefer,” I say, “you have the choice of blue or gray or green to match the shades of my chameleon mind.” He chooses green, the philosophical one to please my faint resemblance to himself he squares the jaw and set the cheekbones high then squints one eye and makes my nose too long but I am pleased that having come this far the small resemblance ends for we are not alike —
Keith’s eye are azure blue his build is slim and frail he has a painter’s fine artistic hands and he is not the fight pilot type which is precisely why I love this man he is the last innocent of the war —
He is almost finished, he says he wants to check the color of my eyes again but when I turn toward the light he frowns perplexed:
“Your eye are now a penetrating blue.” And I am not surprised — for the last hour I have been thinking so clearly of you that you could be lying with me in the sun — I watch the rolling ocean swells rising and falling like the breathing of the world remembering that day beside the lake the towering moment when we soared across the sky in perfect rhythm and our breathing became as one —
“What were you thinking of?” he asks but I do not tell him I was thinking of you It is too intimate, too risqué I say that I am thinking of a land faraway with a valley view and a meadow slope with a sleek smooth runway —
He smile conditionally but not quite satisfied: “I guess your eye are mostly blue,” he says, “I think I’ll change the color of them now,” But I say, “Wait awhile and look again — they’ve always had a mind to change their own.”
He listens to my mood intently and maybe I have given myself away humming to a tune of Tokyo Rose I have written you five poetic lines when I become patiently aware that he is not looking at me at all but staring at the satiated sun and only then do I record the sound of a fighter engine’s high pitched whine —
I watch it knifing through the sky my instincts bristle with the cry the hot blood races to my brain and I am fortified once more for war —
“The mission’s rescheduled for tomorrow,” he says, “we’ll be passing through the outer rim tonight.” And I note a straining distance in his voice — the wind has risen, the surf is crashing near and in the falling light I watch he shadow disappear as he despairs: “I see something about you now I wish I hadn’t seen gray is the color of a killer’s eyes your eye have turned a shade of steely gray”;
I look away I focus on the waves the great repository of the sea I cannot bear to gaze upon his face the premonition of his death engulfs me — “Then what color shall they be?” he asks — I see the blazing guns, a reddening sky the lethal flak that traps the atmosphere I slam the throttle wide and clear the air: “Gray must necessarily be a part of me for I would survive, but color them blue or color them green color them anything but gray.”
The storm is come fast, we turn to go but even in the closing night I know that he will die no gentle boy can live long in this war —
Silently we walk into the wind my arm around him in last affection: “It is finished,” he says, “Here is my gift to you and this is my flesh and blood the soul and spirit of my youth and maybe I can find the way again someday, after it’s over” —
“”What are you thinking?” he asks. “About the picture,” I say, “I’ll treasure it always,” but I do not say: I am thinking of tomorrow . . . how frail is tomorrow.
7 NO GREATER LOVE HATH…
(For Keith Weyland)
Flying toward the strange white night we thought of deliverance from the terror of choice, the difference the splendor of our scheme we could not sleep and refuse tomorrow’s voice; compelled we thrust the unknown with outstretched wings, a naked bond between and then a distant light when we had come alive — a flame burst over the harsh beauty of the sea and Keith was gone.
(A slightly different version appears in Between Wars.)
8 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 sea cut my remembering and I awoke in flames
9DESAFINADO
(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.
(This poem also appears in The Man in Motion.)
10 MIGRATION
I have walked the hills for years and have never seen a burning bush though I have seen a few miracles so call me a pantheist if you will for I know it makes you feel better to know that I believe in something —
You think that you hear the grass grow, but Genesis and Spinoza told me nothing I saw it! The mosquito drinking may blood the oriole weaving its basket nest and I rose from the reflective trees lemming-like swimming in the sky until I filtered into the plan of orderly defeat and exquisite show —
I breathed the thin pure air and suffocated from the strange loneliness.
(A slightly different version of “Migration” appears in Between Wars.)
11 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.
(A slightly different version of “Nostalgia” appears in The Man in Motion.)
12 GOLGOTHA
(For Mary, One of my Students)
When I proclaim the world is flat and that I’m searching for an edge I am only rounding a vision for you — I stand, a son of man, not God and I could be called Paul as well as Peter — I speak for our sons and daughters and had I known, it should be thus explained that we have all failed in our historical sense there was manipulation at the manger Saul died on the way to Damascus and Simon was wholly afraid —
Only from that shipwreck of faith did l learn to walk upon the water so what matter, then, you call me in this place a heretic, to give the cup and cross for I accept knowing I can live through a long series of deaths believing in your all-essential good and would not change your world in any way except to lead you gently into spring.
(A slightly different version of “Golgotha” appears in Between Wars.)
13 THE GRAND-CHILD
(For Annette)
As of this moment he is the center of life’s celebration the incarnation of the holy seed and all the concentrated joy that love can share in the two short months of his existence — he mostly sleeps contented with his role we say he smiles as if we know but whether he does or why we do not care for all we need to know is that he is dependent upon his mother
And he is greedy for her now that much he feels and understands finding his connection by the stars the moon surrounds his eyes flowing from the land of milk and honey where she clasps him to her firm full breast growing inside of her the fiercest hope as from the moment when he burst from life she offered him up to the world as a sacrifice without blemish or blame and she exists for him holding the frailest heartbeat of his being because he is helpless without her is reason enough for she is his mother bearing the burden of his claim —
When he was forming in her shadow she felt a oneness with his mind the urgent purpose of man’s genius thrusting through the galaxies of time — as he awakened in her psyche he heard the lullaby of her soul the tranquil message of the cosmos answering life’s mysterious call —
But where did her instinct stop and intelligence begin? she cannot tell or explain swelling with the confidence of love her breasts are rounder than the sun and more bountiful her body warms the labor of his breath wrapped in primordial memories she brings a spiritual certainly to the geological past — he sighs across the vastness of creation reaching for his senses in the skies proclaiming everything that’s human the Garden and the Fall the halo round the Manger the handprint on the cavern wall
And whether it was her will or whether or not God planned it that way she is more beautiful than the role she plays she holds our rendezvous with immortality and more the knowledge-blood that links us with the stars and through him she restores our faith and for him we would praise her name she is the Alpha of the Universe, the Soul this woman-child, creator child Grand-Child Earth Mother of us all.
14 OBJECTIVE CASE
From symbols of love I grew a tangle of eyes and feet and could I have stayed there I would have been secure but I insisted on a room with a view — one yank And I came from darkness one smack and I felt tomorrow and falling backwards I cried an eternity.
(A slightly different version of “Objective Case” appears in Between Wars.)
15 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.
(The poem, “Regeneration,” also appears in The Man in Motion.)
16 CLOTHES MAKE THE MAN
I have noticed that we are both impeccably dressed, but that you prefer to make your appearance in black and white, while I prefer a variety of colors. this difference, I believe, stems from the fabric of our hair shirts; yours seems to scratch you while mine only tickles.
(“Clothes Make the Man” was first published in the Ball State Teachers College FORUM, Spring, 1963. A slightly different version appears in Between Wars.)
17 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.
(“Conceptions” also appears in The Man in Motion.)
18 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.
(“Down Two and Vulnerable” also appears in The Man in Motion.)
19 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.
(“Saint George” also appears in The Man in Motion.)
20 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.
(“Incongruity” also appears in The Man in Motion.)
21 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.
(“The Quick and the Dead” also appears in The Man in Motion.)
22 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 . . .
(“Faces” also appears in The Man in Motion.)
23 MISSION IMPOSSIBLE
My mission, if I choose to accept it (and when did i have the chance to refuse) was to go the the Garden as a secret agent create dissension, subvert their intention and start an intellectual underground development —
And so I went, it was a living (someone had to do the dirty work) disguised myself as a diplomatic snake a suave and beguiling rake who with clever persuasion oozing charm for the occasion engaged the dame in conversation advanced her mind in education convinced her that the world’s salvation was in spreading women’s liberation around but the plan was never sound —
It was not the apple on the tree that bothered Him it was the pair on the ground and when they donned those ridiculous fig leaves I laughed and was found as the lecher of privacy a Devil with primacy — And so it was, and so it shall always be the Secretary has disavowed any knowledge or connection with me.
24 THE GREEN MAN
He came through the Indian summer of my youth a drifter in those bleak depression days dropped off a slowly moving drag freight at the crossing by our house and changed the outer limits of my years —
No ordinary hobo, he was a minstrel with a magic overview wore a derby hat, a green serge suit complete with watch fob and velvet vest and he had a twinkle in his eye for me as I followed him down the shiny tracks wandering through the exploits of his past toward the river and the water tank to the hobo jungle of forbidden ground where all the summer he would disappear then reappear the next week and the next dropping off the slowly moving drag freight, and back into my life again —
The boundaries of my years were marked by rails the bend down by the depot of the West the grade that crossed the trestle to the East until he came and opened far and wide those legendary lands where railroads ran and all the distant places he had been a boomer engineer on the Cleveland, Cincinnati, Chicago and St. Louis see, it’s right there on that car he would say CCC & St. L., the Nickel Plate behind the Santa Fe with every train that passed he told a tale of the Frisco, Seaboard, Burlington, Southern the Lehigh Valley and the Rio Grande he knew the scenic miles of every road and he had run on almost all of them — And so each night I searched the atlas maps until I found the route of every story of his life rebuilt his history and built a greater legend of my own following him around, his worshipping shadow who told him that I liked him as he was as he liked me, he said, because I was still a simple unspoiled boy who had a home and had a family too which seemed to me a burden at the time but it was roots, he called it, a continuity a sense of place where someone cared a somewhere that belonged to me as he would turn me back toward the town and disappear into the jungle on forbidden ground —
But I was left with wondrous smells and sounds of talk behind the leaky water tank of acrid smoke from cooking fat and stronger coffee hot and black of Sterno fumes and bootleg booze and stories of those boomer years from men who drifted down and out and back into our town again until the autumn came and traced a winter path of games and school where I got lost in football and in books forgot the Green Man with the magic overview assumed that he like all his comrades had drifted South to warmer lands as they were prone to do —
And then one day I came home armed with girls and heard my father tell the awful tale about the big explosion that shook the sky that morning about the Green Man it seemed that he had money after all ten thousand in a secret money belt or maybe closer to a thousand, I recall of maybe only several hundred but no matter a legend always outweighs any truth but the truth was he dropped off at our crossing one last time and walked on down the cold December tracks into that jungle of forbidden ground he wrapped himself around some dynamite and blew up every memory of his past burst the boundaries of my boyhood mind and wrecked the world with his exploded view of bones and flesh and greenbacks raining down upon the fields and tracks and people pouring in from miles around to gather the blood-stained money from the ground —
Then I received a letter in the mail the only letter I received that year postmarked that day, a note with one word: Thanks attached, a railroad ticket to St. Louis, and a crips new twenty-dollar bill.
25 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
(A slightly different version of “Night Train” appears in The Man in Motion.)
26 CATHARSIS
As an incurable romantic and a lover of Indian lore I took every story I read on faith as any good Christian would never once questioning or never thought I should until I was almost twenty -one believing that the fuel behind those frontier prairie fires was the gift of the Great Spirit to his Indian children like manna from heaven or something like that until the realization came quite suddenly one day when I thought of it and the truth that had to be that buffalo chips couldn’t possibly be anything else but excrement or to put it scientifically a turd is a turd is a turd such thinking which prompted me to apply to another sacred tale: how Jonah got out of the whale . . .
27 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 and 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 — but 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.
(A slightly different version of “Experience” appears in The Man in Motion.)
28LEE ANNE
(On Her Seventh Birthday)
Walking this side of her when trees are bare and distance sharpens the cold into a clear necessity a turning goodbye as time reveals her role — what wisdom lies behind the voice when she asks, “Why are we walking his road?”
(A slightly different version of “Lee Anne” appears in Between Wars.)
29 RELATIVITY
Truth is relative, they say, and incest too which would be amusing if it weren’t so close to being true which leaves you laughing when you think of your mixed-up Male emotions watching this lovely in her white bikini rising from the waters of the pool shuddering at the thought of all those lecherous bastards staring at her the same way you stared until you suddenly realized she was you own daughter.
(A different poem by the title, “Relativity,” appears in The Man in Motion.)
30 MYSTIQUE
My thoughts on the ring of morning my insights 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 the rain the clean clear air.
31 BLUE ANGELS
And I will rise on wings of splendid fire and trace a thousand love poems for the earth’s desire —
And I will climb through towers of timeless space and lift my ardent longing to the sun’s embrace —
And I will soar across the endless skies and seek the precious moment where the deep heart lies —
And I will glide down halls of velvet white and spread the golden morning with a god’s delight —
Love will I bring to you life will I sing to you beauty becoming you faith to ascend —
You look at me amazed? I will being again . . .
32 CATCH
She trips on her attraction testing the angle of my line “You fishing for something?” she asks alluringly and I answer “No” as matter-of-factly as I can and she says: “Well then you’d better take you pole out of the water.”
33 PENALTY
Our drives arched high and long and out of sight we cleared all obstacles and visualized the green but when we searched we would have settled for the trap because we both found we had an unplayable lie.
34 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.
(A slightly different version of “Adam” appears in The Man in Motion.)
35 THE PRODIGAL
There was a time when I came here and sang these hymns with a friendly face that was before I was engraved with the beauty of the heavenly clutter and the peaceful rust —
As for my request today I don’t quite remember the name of the song but it goes something like, “Don’t it beat Hell how Jesus loves us.”
36 DEATH OF A MARINE
Watching the imperial call draining away his will the thing I remember most: the incredible blue of his eyes, more than the blood-soaked shirt more than the shell-torn isle more than the greater war of our last words: “You’ll see a better day, ” I started — He smiled and was gone.
(A slightly different version of “Death of a Marine” appears in Between Wars.)
37 MEMORIAL
(To the Fifth Marines)
Dim are the February dead whose memory blooms like monumental flowers fade from the color of red on graves forgotten —
Praise God we are made to forget that yearly rains obliterate the dread and yet each spring by God’s own hand I feel the memory grave cut deeply crocus blooms — blues eyes staring straight ahead.
38 BANZAI
Now in the evening tide the warring clouds have moved on to the west and closing in the purple light the gaping wounds that once were manifest — the moon walks slowly through the mist reflecting sands in prismed dew and wind and wave have reconciled the spring the surf rolls low on Kango Ku — and March lies hopefully subdued a scent of greentime permeates the air Mt. Suribachi spreads her healing shadows and scarred and burned out landmarks disappear —
The island is secure they say our battle lines extend to every beach all pockets of resistance have been neutralized the last revetments have been breached as night descends the tempo of our lives has calmed that violence of the blood is buried deep we settle back content in carefree talk and turn relaxed to almost peaceful sleep —
What was it that awakened us? the moon is down the night breathes heavily without a sound the sulfurous smoke seeps from the sands a cloud of creeping fear expands it reaches out with evil hands what was that tremor underground? or was it the echo of a dream an overflowed subconscious stream that surfaced through the nightmare maze to flood our nights with haunted days our reason drifts upon the waves but instinct warned us of the scheme a shot rings out then ricochets and we come instantly alert!
Something is amiss we search the darkness of the cliffs beyond the anchorage of the reef a solitary ship blinks shadowless then suddenly a blazing trip-flare arches high its eerie light hangs in the sky a terror grips the atmosphere death’s bulging eye stare far and near grey shadows crawl then disappear but we are certain they are lurking in the cave somewhere — In the deceptive silence we seek the solace of our own a wish impossible we are together but alone to face a desperate enemy — like the Apaches of old whose bravery mounted with the light we fear dying in the night a soul released will never find it way and wonder throughout eternity . . . but we embrace the menace by necessity . . . a closer sound, the groan is real a guard lies dying in the sand nearby another trip-flare soars aloft the ghostly shadows multiply a spectre looms against the light our over-anxious guns reply a piercing scream invades the night Banzai! Banzai!
The earth spews out the demon hordes of hell they rise before us everywhere to slash and kill the horror of old tales becoming true — the flash of swords and knives black phantoms leaping from the night’s disguise some are beheaded in the mad surprise of their momentum but we are afraid to move they can disprove our ground of safety we can only wait patiently in darkness Over the chaos a company leader takes command and orders us to hold a line his remarkable poise and presence of mind breaks the confusion but they are committed to the end the smoking sand erupts again Banzai! May you live a thousand years! their fanatical belief has led them on to a sacrificial death more practical than life to die believing in Bushido heaven of sacred war and certain honor they can never surrender — they come on charging, screaming, shouting the incantations of the Samurai they throw themselves upon our guns hysterically for they are determined to die — the battle scatters in sporadic fire they fall like martyrs in their fateful hour that religious discipline Marines inspire has seen us through — Banzaiii . . . was it a whisper or a sigh the distant echo of a lonely cry the endless searching of a soul for immortality?
As dawn prevails our lost alliance with the sun renewed the carnage that the light reveals for us is cold reality but they lie peacefully, their souls secured we toss their lifeless bodies in the trucks like wood this final contest of the gods we have endured the island is ours.
39 ODD MAN OUT
When I think of the whims of capricious gods or should I give myself credit for being in the right place at the right time —
As time went on we gained a confident superiority taking the initiative in search and destroy missions designed by Brass to keep the pressure on targets of opportunity — that day we found one hiding in the trees an armored train, innocent camouflage until we saw the tell-tale blinking lights — we fell upon it in crescendos of sound submerging in the waves of flak joyously surfacing again and again reminiscent of our boyhood games the danger seemed contrived, unreal three passes and nothing happened . . . nothing — we circled out, reformed again and headed for the sea when someone called: “Green Four’s missing, where is he? “Phil – who saw him go down?’
No one – we searched the near perimeter the land lay soft and sullen, contradictory to war no wreckage or conspicuous fires, a clear horizon . . . nothing — we left him there, somewhere, tomorrow’s fate confirmed that there was nothing we could do to save him to acclaim him, to mark his name to say that he was ever there nothing to sustain his mother who later would cry in her anguish that he was made a sacrificial lamb no one to explain how souls disappear in death’s shadows Phil Steinberg, last casualty last man in the strafing run.
40 JOSEPH
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.
(A slightly different version of “Joseph” appears in The Man in Motion.)
41 POEM TO MY FATHER
(On His Seventy-fifth Birthday)
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 had passed us by but then as I became mature and unafraid we 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.
(A slightly different version of “Poem to My Father” appears in The Man in Motion.)
42 AUGUST EIGHTH
Night and the unfathomable waters night and the killdeer’s cry and for all these years and for all the invisible shadows of one so loved —
Thirty years is barely enough time to forgive that god for the scars that witness the memory clearly this year I came down to the shore again to seek the heat of that oppressive sun to feel the cold awareness still on my voice is the prayer speak to me, teach me, tell me why the soul of that great mystery defies the dead — close upon me now life’s longing the loss of touch the disappearing meaning still the fear of separation find in me the reciprocal force love is my need love is the price I will pay — The sun was almost down we were sitting in the room when the phone rang — they old us: “Albert has drowned.”
(The Lake)
Waiting . . . waiting . . . . a broken circle gathered by the shore – someone said: You will remember the date, 8-8-38. all eights – easy to remember —
he’s down in the north bay about four hours ago the boys were swimming from the boat when the storm came — And for the first time I saw my mother the look upon her face a falling stillness of the waves a mirror deepened by the night like a great heart stopped . . . except in the shadows the splash of oars rowing . . . rowing . . . back and forth back and forth dragging with hooks . . . dragging . . . a tension in the rope a tearing of the flesh the hooks take hold Caught! a confusion of darkness – then shouting – they have found him in twenty feet of water – Gently, lift him gently do not disturb the dead who from their sanctuary would open the question of love — they wrap him in a blanket not before she sees the tightened throat the suffocated eyes Death as it is written! Death by water! God will make an end to all flesh.
(The Funeral)
She sat beside the grave as from the beginning he lay in his blue gabardine suit against a mountain of flowers, none absorbed her beauty or sweating bodies confused her sight with sounds of weeping, and of prayer and of silence and for the first time I saw my mother the cold wet demon shining in her eyes where once her soft smiling covered him a hatred escaped, but controlled, she stayed and held his hand until the last — Before my vision they lowered him away Albert my almost brother the first disintegration an end to all flesh as it was written — They buried him on a treeless hill brutal in the devastating sun where withered flowers fell down and joined the darkness of the earth — Dim in my memory his auburn hair and morning strength his august height, red color of life fading . . . fading . . . Albert, what should I feel after thirty years?
(The Room)
Afterward we gathered together for that final prayer the circle broken and broken again, we asked His blessing knowing it would never be the same, the heavens rent, the sun came down — no sign — no promised rainbow — God will make an end to all flesh! I knew and I would believe no more but she rose as from an ancient strength and said: “Thy will be done” That was all. Gently, treat her gently do not disturb the dead, God was her need God was the price that I paid And through all these years and through all the invisible shadows I remember the face of my mother and the child that died in that room.
43 DAYBREAK
And love shall be death’s alternative —
and when that time has come when there is no tomorrow when the moon has lost its shadows in the sheer disclosure of the stars come then and walk with me above the earth’s illumination you will find my true reflection in the hazel blue of sanguine skies
and I will live again in our beginning of love and beauty unfolding the first opening of my eyes.
44 SUNDAY MORNING
I have looked down that far valley with my country boy’s awe of the city and marveled at their heights spires over stained glass lights bells sending God-like sounds their one great tower inaccessible, echoes redemption but when I think of creation I turn away lifting my eyes unto the hills searching for that one tall tree that I can climb.
45 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.
(A slightly different version of “Loneliness” appears in The Man in Motion.)
46 OFF THE RECORD
[for Hart Crane]
You were never a distance swimmer and neither am I and I like you have roamed the world in search of a tribal morn —
but with a bourgeois instinct for survival and an artist’s propensity for the sea I am learning to walk up the water and given any luck and enough time perhaps I can even tell you where the stones are.
47 BLOOD BROTHERS
We who had never learned patience rose from the cloistered walls became the searchers creation born became the sufferers torn from the fact of the sun — Icarus would they believe what you and I have known we dare and fell from grace but we have flown.
(A slightly different version of “Blood Brothers” appears in Between Wars.)
48 INTRIGUE
Wandering on a snow-night with the autumn of things a linden grove in the purple lea of time the heart leaves with her beauty, knowing that snow inevitably covers the nature of things and I never knew her — then why do I grieve?
(A slightly different version of “Intrigue” appears in Between Wars.)
49 WINTER DAWN
At first when the seed opened I found nothing but time and the subtle essence produced a flower then from the dream silence a distant drum throbbed and in a summer mood I was born – was it real? I yielded the pillow and in the red moon I saw the gods depart — it is quiet once more.
(A slightly different version of “Winter Dawn” appears in Between Wars.)
50 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.
(The poem, “Edelweiss,” also appears in The Man in Motion.)
51 ICONOCLAST
Time and proximity created the image with an unlikeness to any realness and it stood motionless while the flowers formed from the shadows of a spring song —
Time and propriety weighted its wings with the incense of summer mysteries but it grew restless in the growing storm wondering and searching autumn prophecies —
Time and anxiety tangled and taut tested it magic to tangible touch and it broke with a kiss — and she ran away scattering the pieces in the dying wind.
(A slightly different version of “Iconoclast” appears in Between Wars.)
52 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.
(The poem, “Gordon Christoe,” appears in Between Wars.)
53 AL BARAGHER
When that burst of flak tore off your wing and sent you spinning through the sky, you looked just like a maple seed floating into the water on a bright May-day,
I’m sorry you were chosen to remind me of spring.
(A slightly different version of “Al Baragher” was first published in the Ball State Teachers College FORUM, Spring, 1963.)
54 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 wound brings no travail 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 captures 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 but 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.
(A slightly different version of “Casualties” appears in The Man in Motion.)
55 LAST 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.
(A slightly different version of “Last Letter” appears in The Man in Motion under the title “Letter.”)
56 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.
(A slightly different version of “November” appears in The Man in Motion.)
57 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 searching 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.
(A slightly different version of “Original Sin” appears in The Man in Motion.)
58 RENDEZVOUS AT MT. FUJI
Vectored into eternity the legend fell as the Japanese morning disappeared into the hills we with the look of eagles discovered ourselves skyward taught beyond our will — there in the advent of blood we formed the incongruous ring of our childhood days, we were the smallest things bare understandings circling a stranger god — again the old apprehension turned on the honor point, climbing, throttles forward our endurance shuddered under the weight — heading toward that unknown fastness the sun lined our cry with the last whisper of spring, we were old at twenty-three — it was a good day to die.
(A slightly different version of “Rendezvous at Mt. Fuji” appears in Between Wars.)
59 GOLD STAR MOTHER
Since time has made me generous I would give one more medal for that war to the woman who brought me back alive or so she believed, and still believes and it doesn’t really matter what I believe that I was always more aware than she of all those sons and mothers not so lucky — but she was always more prepared than I secure in her narrow theology that God was on her side which leaves me doubtful and surprised as I was that day when she said benignly: “I knew you were going to come back — I prayed for you”
60 WINTER SOLSTICE
Today there is a brooding softness in the air the snow’s first fall surrounds the hills with heightened sound a silhouette of memory fills the sky lonely floating through the trees like tears lovely when the heart is warm —
I sought the solace of the woods to reminisce the summer’s lost awareness wandering afar upon familiar ground I searched the penetrating cold for meaning breaking a simple path into the white unknown —
Another year and I have gown according to my nature the inner voice I hear is like a bursting heated stone the death I see is real but I have chosen there is a greater poem within me waiting to be born —
As love is more beautiful than death deeper and more compelling I know that where I walk the crusted snow will melt again into the mystery of life transformed once more the earth will call the genius of spring —
This year I feel will be unlike any other today I heard a snowbird sing.
61 AFTER THE STORM
The time was then as now, in April memory washed, the midnight theme running down still perceptive sands the rain in water verse of dark wind hot and wet called to human cry, a faraway loneliness moon strands covering the clouds like imploring hands searching belief, then fatal emptiness halving my age without consent broke on the frozen silence the isle of the beginning where I was born again at twenty-three fully aware of a too vast promise a disbelief
Out of the chaos, inhuman cries moans from a field hospital scent of battle night and sand and violent land volcanic, hot a crater pulsing red, through dark depression of Shrapnel in a man, his age halved unaware of his small boy’s cry that found its voice in pain: “Father I’m scare —stay with me.”
And when I touched him the storm struck fire rolled on waves like thunder guns in crisis and still I touched him wholly afraid to feel his hand believing in my power and still I touched him and because I was the stronger spoke as his father moved his head up from the water and closed the wound, and he slept peacefully, too peacefully I breathed cautiously willing the next heartbeat then felt the failure heard the hurried blood saw the red pool on the sand moon strands covering a face of disbelief then waxy stillness fell upon the sky like blinding grief, condemning life and dream dropped the white-bled hand reached down and touched my own and felt nothing . . . emptiness . . .
Then I awakened fully alert to strangeness past forced to present remembering the storm beside the lake the scent of April night and sand the sleep-out on the shore and from faraway and close, and closer then
again a small boy’s cry: “Father I’m scared — stay with me.”
And when I touched him the storm struck fire burst through terror dream and shadow moon strands lighting the sky with understanding: that love had saved him and still I touched him to feel his hand believing in my power and because I was the stronger withheld the brutal blow and spoke as God and Father resurrection the April dead.
62 BENEDICTION
Then in the evening when the sun comes down slowly and silently to relax quietly in the earth’s enchantment and watch the moon-mist sound and the night protects you and the flower-wind blesses you and the stars grow big around you and the song of the whippoorwill calls to the dawn —
Only such beauty stills my insecurity from too much happiness your arms around me strong and warm to assure me that life is real and eternal that love has survived that truly we are children of God and to sleep now on the meadowed lespedesia* in peace that passeth all understanding.
As with Between Wars and The Man in Motion, finding copies of Mr. Sedam’s The Eye of the Beholder may prove challenging. Currently on Amazon, there are two copies available: 1 used, priced $19.75 and 1 collectible, priced $18.75, and again by checking back from time to time, you may find others become available.
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