A Poem from my Forthcoming Book

I thought I’d share a poem that will be featured in my new book, The Journals of Lt. Kendal Everly: Poems of the American Civil War. Lost in a murderous shroud of war and hate, Everly kills an enemy, a young Confederate solider.

A dead Confederate soldier

Silken Filaments of Salvation

August 4, 1861 – Entry IV

His neck was thin. My fingers
slid around it as they might caress
your neck, Elizabeth. Yet, it was slicked
with blood so it felt as if I tightened

my grip around a fish. Hunched over
like Notre Dame’s bell ringer, I pulled
his head closer to mine. He might
have thought I meant to kiss him.

My heart, my mind, both bubbled
with some foul Satanic froth,
both marvelled at the deepening color
of his face, a deep purple, a fine wine.

I gulped the dying gasps of this boy
as if his death would envelop me
with the silken filaments of salvation.
My fingers tightened. His neck grew

thinner, a wet string. His mouth,
like a gate, opened, dark and wide,
attempting to conjure breath. His limbs
flailed attempting to embrace the air.

His eyes, opened wide like globes.
Damn you, I screamed. DAMN YOU.
And then, there was death. He was still
And I was lost. Dear God, I am lost.

Tic Toc

Several weeks ago, I discussed one of the reasons why I write – I wonder. I sit and let my mind wander. It takes me all over the world. It takes me to imaginary lands. It ushers me through time. Sadly, it can’t bless me with extra time. As of late, I’ve had no extra time…none. That’s one of the reasons why the word “Hammer” appears in the subtitle of this blog. Writing is hard work. Sometimes, finding the time to write is even harder work. Still, I was able to write this poem. It’s from my developing manuscript The Journals of Lt. Kendal Everly: Poems of the American Civil War.

Some Men

Some men – their blood is thick.
When their skin rips, their blood
doesn’t run like the blood of other men
It seeps: honey, syrup. It seeps.
Sweat can’t thin it. It doesn’t trickle.

It smears. Like a swab of paint,
it smears across a man’s skin.
Crimson paint. The color of barns
and rose petals and apples.
Like honey, it seeps. Other men,

their blood spits from their wounds,
streams across a quilt of air,
splatters the ground:
spilt wine, sweet, sweet wine.
But some men: their blood is thick.

Bull Run Revision

Thanks to the fine criticism of a good friend, the poem featured in my last post has been revised. One poem has become two.

Still, I Tremble

July 20, 1861

A force has gathered,
mighty enough to fracture
Achilles’ spirit. Lincoln presses us

to blood and battle;
we are his dogs. Gen. McDowell
will unleash us, but he unbinds

a legion of pups. Tonight,
I dread not death. It will visit
me when it wills. Still, I tremble.

As a Moth

July 20, 1861 – Entry II

Soon, fate will call me to lead,
to carve the battlefield with my courage,
and rally these boys with each drum

of my heart. As a moth follows a flame
to its death, I fear I’ll usher my charge
into hell’s foulest fire.

Related articles

• On the Eve of Bull Run (thelintinmypocket.wordpress.com)

On the Eve of Bull Run

I again return to my developing manuscript, The Journals of Lt. Arthur Kendal Everly. In this poem, Everly sits on battle’s treacherous brink, the battle of First Bull Run.

Please comment. I value your opinions.

Moths to a Flame

July 20, 1861

A force has gathered,
mighty enough to fracture
Achilles’ spirit. Lincoln presses us

to blood and battle;
we are his dogs. Gen. McDowell
will unleash us, but he unbinds

a legion of pups. Tonight,
I dread not death. It will visit
me when it wills. Still, I tremble.

Soon, fate will call me to lead,
to carve the battlefield with my courage,
and rally these boys with each drum

of my heart. As a moth follows a flame
to its death, I fear I’ll usher my charge
into hell’s foulest fire.

Related articles

• When a Story Happens… (thelintinmypocket.wordpress.com)
• Civil War & Wine at The Winery at Bull Run (winecompass.blogspot.com)

Gettysburg: July 2 – The Peach Orchard

I’d be remiss if I failed to turn both mind and heart to the hell and glory that was Gettysburg.

Before the Civil War, Gettysburg was best known for its orchards of delicious fruit. One Gettysburg peach orchard at the intersection of Wheatfield Road and Emmitsburg Road became the scene for a confrontation between Longsteet’s Confederate troops and Sickles’ Union troops. It was the scene of intense fighting on July 2, 1863 from approximately 4pm to 6:30pm when Longstreet ordered the Confederate infantry assault (http://www.visit-gettysburg.com/gettysburg-peach-orchard.html).

Collapse of the Peach Orchard Line – Gettysburg by Bradley Schmehl

I wrote the poem posted here for a anthology titled New Jersey’s Civil War Odyssey. If you’re interested follow this link for further information – http://njcivilwar.com/.

Peaches

The Peach Orchard
Longstreet charges Sickles’ Line
Gettysburg: July 2, 1863

Before the Johnnies arrived, I found myself trying
to fill my nose with the sweet smell of peaches –
close as we were to an orchard.

Dozens of them hung from the trees
like little green bells. Guess they needed
more time to grow. Newark doesn’t smell

like sugar, all brick and factory,
so I dreamt those peaches were ripe and bleeding
sugar all over me, but then Rebs barreled

through that orchard, snapped me
from my thoughts like a baby from a nap.
Battle haze started choking air and lung.

Lead hummed by my head like pestered flies –
Now, the Rebs didn’t want peaches.
They were after the artillery I was charged

with firing.One Reb got so close that I heard
him yell Give us dem guns. So I screamed back
Come and get’em, but in my mind

I was defending peaches. We would
have done a better job too, but men were tripping
on shot up horses. One horse was squawking

like an old maid scolding us all
for not playing nice, but it shut its snout
and died soon enough. We fought a while,

and the Rebs never got my guns,
but I bet those bastards battered up
that orchard just to rile my spirit.

A man wants what he wants,
and, by God, I wanted them peaches.

Related articles

• Commemorating the Battle of Gettysburg, with a twist. (uloop.com)
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Night Terrors

The poem posted below is from my growing second manuscript. It takes he form of a journal entry written by a Federal officer son after his first battle experience. I was hoping to garner some comments from a few Civil War buff, re-enactors, and other history fans. Is the poem legit? Does it represent a plausible reaction?

Night Terrors

July 30, 1861

Each explosion
continues to bellow,
to thunder the caverns
of memory. The clang

when life claps death -
terrible knell.
Blood drips.
Bones splinter.
Boys scream.

These are the gremlins
that filch my sleep
and foul the breath of night.

Related articles

• For young Civil War re-enactor, history is passion (mysanantonio.com)
• We Return to Sip the Blood (thelintinmypocket.wordpress.com)

The Peach Orchard and Christmas

The poem below focuses on Gettysburg’s Peach Orchard and the battle that raged therein; however, there is a connection, albeit slight, to Christmas. The poem is taken from my forthcoming book, Private Hercules McGraw: Poems of the American Civil War.

 The Peach Orchard

We steamed up through this orchard of peach trees.
It was as hot as a pan sizzling ham, and them peaches,
strange enough, made me think of Christmas –
each one hanging like a pretty bell. But I couldn’t hear

no music. Only clanging my ears was able to capture
was musket pop and a whole lot of screaming.
Screaming turned to cheering once Gen. Barksdale
spurred his horse and bolted out before our charge

like a mongrel after a piece of meat. He cut
the air above his head with his sword, swinging it
like he meant to slice the noggins’ off the whole Billy army.
And the way that hair of his trailed behind him,

just like Santa’s locks when he scoots in that sleigh of his,
made me think us Southern folk has a chance to do some damage.

Bull Run and the War’s First Civilian Casualty

The Henry house after the 1st Battle of Bull Run

July 21 marks the anniversary of the 1st Battle of Bull Run, also know as the 1st Battle of Manassas. The battle claimed the War’s first civilian casualty, Judith Carter Henry.

“When the battle began on the opposite hill, artillery shots were coming threateningly near (to the Henry house). The family first considered trying to move Mrs. Henry, 85 years old and bedridden, to Portici, the home of Robert Lewis, one mile southeast of the Henry home. But in the growing confusion, that was out of the question.

There was a spring house to the southwest in a depression that seemed less exposed. They carried Mrs. Henry there, only to have her beg to be taken back to her own bed. This was done as soon as they realized that the spring house was no safer than the dwelling.

While the Henrys were gone, Confederate snipers had taken up hiding positions in the home. In an attempt to dislodge the Confederate sharpshooters in the house, Union Artillery Captain James B. Ricketts turned his guns and shelled the house.

A shell hit Judith Henry’s bedroom and the bed on which she lay was shattered. She was thrown to the floor, wounded in the neck and side, and one of her feet was partially blown off. Ellen Henry sought refuge in a big fireplace chimney during the bombardment, and her subsequent deafness was attributed to injury to her eardrums from the violent concussion produced by the shelling.

Judith Carter Henry died later that afternoon, the first civilian casualty of the Civil War, and was buried in the garden she loved” (http://www.civilwarwomenblog.com/2008/06/judith-carter-henry.html).

Here’s a poem for Mrs. Henry. It’s in the voice of one of the Confederate snipers who was positioned inside the Henry home.

Apologies

We poked our muskets out them windows
looking for boys get’up in blue. I wanted to pop
one with a feather in his hat. Feathers meant
the Johnny wearing it was important. But this

old hag was screaming something awful
in the next room. I’d swear, sharp as it was,
she could skin a coon with that shrieking.
Shut up, lady, I yells. I’m trying to pluck

some feathers. Right then the war barreled
through that house like a horde of spooked
buffalos – artillery, damned artillery.
Whole house shook. Dust settled over me

like sugar on a cake. My ears were humming
and my head was thumping, but I crawled
over to see if that old bitty was ok. Found her
sprawled in  a mess of dust and blood.

Artillery must of grabbed her foot when it flew
by cause she was missing one. Just a bone
was left poking out her leg. I told her I was sorry
for yelling at her, but she didn’t seem to care for apologies.

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• First battle of Civil War still relevant ()

Charge!

On this day in 1863, Maj. Gen. George Pickett, along with three other Confederate generals, advanced on the Union line under the command of Lt. Gen. James Lonstreet.  Earlier, Longstreet attempted to convive Gen. Robert E. Lee that the charge would fail. He was right.

The infantry assault was preceded by a massive artillery bombardment that was meant to soften up the Union defense and silence its artillery, but it was largely ineffective. Approximately 12,500 men in nine infantry brigades advanced over open fields for three-quarters of a mile under heavy Union artillery and rifle fire. Although some Confederates were able to breach the low stone wall that shielded many of the Union defenders, they could not maintain their hold and were repulsed with over 50% casualties, a decisive defeat that ended the three-day battle and Lee’s campaign into Pennsylvania.^[1] Years later, when asked why his charge at Gettysburg failed, General Pickett replied: “I’ve always thought the Yankees had something to do with it(http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pickett’s_Charge).”

In the poem posted below, I’d try to capture, through the eyes of a Confederate soldier, Longstreet;s frustration – how it could have happened. The poem is from my manuscript Private Hercules McGraw: Poems of the American Civil War.

Pissing

Off pissing behind a tree, I saw Lee trading
words with Gen. Longstreet. Had to admit it –
Lee looked more like Camelot’s
king then one of us southern folk. His hair
was as white as God’s. And the way he moved –

more like floating than walking. Surprised me
that Longstreet had the brass to spit on Lee’s opinion
the way he did. From what I gathered,
Lee wanted us to charge at a rock wall
way over yonder. Yanks were choking

the ridge beyond that wall. Our big guns
were already barking away like a horde
of hungry hell hounds hoping to put a dent
in the enemy line. We was gonna plug that dent
with a bit scream and shit, scare them Billies

back to Abe. Seemed Longstreet was sure as certain
that we’d all be as easy to shoot as blind ducks
in a mud pool once we started charging `cross
that yonder I mentioned. I pissed a bit more,
squeezed it out like juice from an orange.

I figured it was the last piss I’d be taking –
At least until I pissed in Jehovah’s outhouse.

Related articles

• Is James Longstreet considered a hero in the southern US (wiki.answers.com)
• On This Day… (thelintinmypocket.wordpress.com)

Confederate March

Lt. Gen. John C. Pemberton, CSA

On this day in 1863, the Union army defeated the Confederates on the Big Black River in Mississippi and drives them into Vicksburg in part of a brilliant campaign by General Ulysses S. Grant. The Union leader had swung his army down the Mississippi River past the strong riverfront defenses, and landed in Mississippi south of Vicksburg. He then moved northeast toward Jackson and split his force to defeat Joseph Johnston’s troops in that city and John C. Pemberton’s at Champion Hill.

During the engagement at Champion Hill, a Confederate division under William Loring split from Pemberton’s main force and drifted south of the battlefield. Pemberton was forced to retreat to the Big Black River where he waited for Loring’s troops. Loring, however, was heading east to join Johnston’s army because he believed he could not reach Pemberton. While Pemberton waited for Loring on a bridge over the Big Black River, Grant attacked (http://www.history.com/this-day-in-history/battle-of-big-black-river-mississippi).

The events described above reminded me of the poem I post here. It was written well over a year ago and shared on this blog before. I promise to post some new material shortly.

Confederate March

Regiment marched by us once –
Day after some rain. They stepped from fog,
gray and quiet, as if formed in mist.
Two by two. Step by step.
Their feet sank into earth –
a mud thick as lard.

One said It’s the grave wantin’ us
before them Yanks send us to hell
with a bang and a bullet.

I liked the sound the mud made
when those boys picked up their heels:
wet and sticky. Kinda like the sound
my kisses made when Martha Lane
let me taste her. Over where

the ground got hard, plumes of lavender
reached hip high. The air sweetened
as each column brushed against
the blooming thicket. Honey bees
hovered above the color,

garnished the morning with heavy hum.
Cannons bellow beyond the hills
to the north as the troop quickened
its pace. And then they was done,
disappear like spirits behind another

blind of fog. Right about then,
I started wanting Martha all over again.