Downton Addict

I admit it. I’ve become captivated by Downton Abbey, a television show. Here’s a short description.

The series, set in the fictional Yorkshire country estate of Downton Abbey, depicts the lives of the aristocratic Crawley family and their servants in the Edwardian and post-Edwardian era — with the great events in history having an effect on their lives and on the British social hierarchy. Such events depicted throughout the series include news of the sinking of the RMS Titanic in the first series; the outbreak of World War I, the Spanish influenza pandemic, and the Marconi scandal in the second series; and the Interwar period and the formation of the Irish Free State in the third series (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Downton_Abbey).

My wife and I watched season one and two over my Christmas vacation. Season three began last night.

I’ve been enveloped by the history the program represents. The aristocratic culture, shall I say, lends itself to several advantages. Yes, there’s the money, but that’s not I refer too. I refer to the time to explore.

In Downton, there’s a tremendous library complete with leather sofas, a fireplace, dark wood floors draped with rich carpets, and exorbitant paintings of regal men on horses. Oh yes, I’ve forgotten the books…hundreds: Shakespeare, Keats, Byron, Swift, etc.

Finally, there’s a desk, a place to think, to ponder, to wonder, and to write. I want that desk, those books, that fireplace, those carpets, and the time to think, ponder, wonder, and write.

 

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Sunday Poem: Peace

I’m hoping, from now on, to post a poem each Sunday. This one is from my book Private Hercules McGraw: Poems of the American Civil War. At this point in the book, Private McGraw has just finished a day of fighting at Gettysburg. He is broken and tired. Night envelops all and, for a time, there is peace.

Union soldiers at rest.

Rest in Peace

Night came on, so hell seeped back
into earth for a time. Dragged all the hoot
and holler with it, all the pop and bang,

but the air – it was still slicked
with Satan’s stench: ash and death.
For the first time, I envied the dead.

They no longer needed to wonder –
would a Yankee cuss plant some lead
in their bellies or what Heaven is like.

Flies still buzzed around some. The hum –
like ma hushing me to sleep
when I still feared the dark. Funny –

I spent a whole night snoring
next to dead men. Purest
moments of peace I ever had.

SAVE HISTORY: THE NATIONAL GUARD MILITIA MUSEUM OF NEW JERSEY NEEDS OUR HELP

The following is a portion of a press release I received today from the New Jersey Civil War Heritage Association.

SEA GIRT, N.J. (November 23, 2012) – The National Guard Militia Museum of New Jersey in Sea Girt was quite literally swamped by Hurricane Sandy. Because of the destruction incurred, the museum has been closed until further notice.

The museum professional staff is proactive, however, and with the help of dedicated volunteers and professional conservation and restoration experts from the New Jersey National Guard and New Jersey State Archives, the US Army’s Center for Military History, Fort Belvoir, Virginia, and the Louisiana and Illinois National Guard museums, among others, is working hard on a “Jersey comeback.”

A new museum, bigger and better than the old quarters, is planned, and the museum will continue to expand its mission to narrate to New Jerseyans the stirring story of the state’s military history. The museum is in the process of requesting assistance in attaining those goals from both state and federal governments and private foundations. Initial response has been very encouraging.

In the short run, however, much still has to be accomplished in the stabilization and conservation of museum artifacts, and establishing an immediate cash flow to meet unexpected needs is paramount. Private donations to bridge this situation are needed and welcomed by the museum’s 501-3 (C) support organization. These tax-deductible contributions may be mailed to The National Guard Militia Museum of New Jersey, 151 Eggerts Crossing Road, Lawrenceville, NJ, 07648. Checks should be made out to the NGMMNJ and be marked for “disaster relief.”

History plays such a vital role in all of our lives. To appreciate it is to appreciate both the present and the future. If you can help out, please do.

Thank you.

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.

When Hurricanes Strike…Write

Hurricane Sandy unleashed her might and fury on the Northeast last night. My family and I spent hours in the dark, listening to winds rage and trees fall. Thanks be to God, our home wasn’t damaged and our power was restored this afternoon. Neighbors and friends were not as lucky.

As Sandy swallowed us and all, I picked up a pen and wrote a poem. A night of nature’s ferocity compelled me to think of man’s ferocity. I wrote of the the First Battle of Bull Run. In this poem, my developing manuscript’s title character, Lt. Kendal Everly, enters the battle. A teacher, Everly inadvertently leads some of his students into the fray.

Thunk and Thud

Like a spear’s tip,
I pierced the fray.
My students, my boys,

chained their resolve to mine:
together, our voices twisted
into one horrid cacophony,

a chorus greater than hell’s
demon song. My sword, drawn
and splitting the air before me,

caught the sun, blazed
like a blade aflame.
And that heart, that thunk

and thud, beat against my brain.
Louder now: so maddening loud.

Dueling Characters

Scott’s great snake. Cartoon map illustrating Gen. Winfield Scott’s plan to crush the Confederacy, economically. It is sometimes called the “Anaconda plan.” (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I’ve a friend, a fellow poet, who reads everything I write. Well, at least everything I send him. He, William, read and commented on each poem in my book Private Hercules McGraw: Poems of the American Civil War. He’s also read and commented on every poem in my ever growing, soon to be published second book, The Journals of Lt. Kendal Everly: Poems of the American Civil War.

Recently, William made the following observation. “Here, in The Journals of Lt. Kendal Everly, more than with the rebel series, Private Hercules McGraw, you seem to isolate on the singular enemy ["the man I was to kill"] rather than the mass – as if these soldiers fight soldiers rather than armies.”

William also commented, “It seems that the Union liutennant is more self-absorbed and takes his action as against individuals. The tenor of the Confederate representative has a nobler essence – suggesting the poet has a sympathy for the settled character of the South.”

Hmmmm? Do I like one character (Hercules) more than another (Kendal)?

I need to think this one through. Fascinating.

Related articles

• Private McGraw Receives Stellar Review (thelintinmypocket.wordpress.com)
• Voices From History (thelintinmypocket.wordpress.com)

Writing Challenge: Migration

Once again, I’m posting a poem to meet New Jersey poet Adele Kenny’s writing challenge. Adele has tasked me to write a poem that somehow deals with a migration. In this poem, from my developing manuscript The Journals of Lt. Arthur Kendal Everly: Poems of the American Civil War, Everly, the poem’s speaker, laments on his new title. He is now a lieutenant in the United States Army. He’s been given his uniform. He’s been given his gun. He’s made a a noble, terrible migration.

Visit Adele’s blog to read her challenge.

Blue Suit

May 25, 1861

Indeed, burdened
with the robes of war,
I’ve been named lieutenant.

Gold buttons, as bright
as Ares’ eyes…and a sword
hanging from my hip,
a bolt of Zeus’ fury.

I’ve been given a pistol.
It’s cold and heavy – a dead thing,
but something terrible beats
within it, wicked and hungry.

I fear that in some tomorrow,
I’ll be asked to feed it.

Related articles

• Private McGraw Receives Stellar Review (thelintinmypocket.wordpress.com)
• Empathizing with Your Characters: His Hell, My Hell (thelintinmypocket.wordpress.com)

Private McGraw Receives Stellar Review

Civil War historian and author Scott L. Mingus, Sr. recently read and reviewed my book Private Hercules McGraw: Poems of the American Civil War. He liked it!

Scott Mingus authored Flames Beyond Gettysburg: The Confederate Expedition to the Susquehanna River, June 1863, The Louisiana Tigers in the Gettysburg Campaign, June-July 1863, and several other books.

Posted here is Mingus’ review in its entirety. You can also visit Mingus’ website Canonba!! and read the review.

S. Thomas Summers is a poet and writer who maintains a literary blog, Lint in My Pocket: Writing with Some Ink and a Hammer. The New Jersey high school teacher doubles as an adjunct professor in writing at a community college.

Anaphora Literary Press has recently released Summers’ new book, Private Hercules McGraw: Poems of the American Civil War, which currently retails for $15 on amazon.com.

The book traces in vivid and often gritty poetry the story of a fictional Confederate private, Hercules McGraw, who enlists at the start of the war with two friends. Among his motivations is his love for Martha Lane, a Southern belle. He believes that he needs to acquire a slave and better his economic status to have a chance with Miss Lane.

Summers skillfully weaves the McGraw story with a backdrop of issues of slavery, militarism, human emotions, and the horrors of warfare. McGraw moves over time from a starry-eyed volunteer soldier who struggles with his emotions after shooting his first Yankee to a grizzled and realistic veteran who no longer wants anything to do with acquiring a slave or courting Miss Martha. He instead becomes a man of peace and compassion, and loses his racist attitudes toward the black race.

Along the way, he watches the deaths of his two pals, fights at Shiloh and Gettysburg, and endures the life of a Confederate soldier fighting for a lost cause. All the while, he grows as a man as his attitudes and his war experiences reshape and remold him.

Private Hercules McGraw: Poems of the American Civil War

S. Thomas Summers

Anaphora Press, 2012, $15

ISBN 978-1-937536-14-5

Related articles

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• Writing Challenge: Shadow (thelintinmypocket.wordpress.com)

Book Presentation and Reading: Vernon, New Jersey

Today, I was able to present my book, Private Hercules McGraw: Poems of the American Civil War, to a small, but enthusiastic hometown crowd. Members of Vernon, New Jersey’s historical society well received my poetry. Better yet, they asked questions about the book – its construction and the history it presents. A fine discussion ensued.

Thanks, Vernon.

By the way, the guy in the photo…it’s me.

Writing Challenge: Shadow

Here’s a poem that I think fits, however not perfectly, the writing challenge offered on poet Adele Kenny’s blog, The Music In It. Adele asks her readers to write a shadow poem. If you’re interested, follow this link to Adele’s challenge.

This is one of the first poems in my developing manuscript, The Journals of Lt. Arthur Kendal Everly: Poems of the American Civil War. In it, Everly, a teacher, fears that war is imminent.

——-

This is the Place

April 1, 1861

Here, beneath these trees –
oak and ash – shadows lay
like blankets spread
for a community of picnics.
I feast on a moment’s song:

breezes, still laced
with March’s chill, weave
as ribbons about these limbs,
Giggling children dart
behind stalwart trunks

hiding from each other and me –
children teasing me, their teacher,
as I walked to school.

But this spring rumbles.
Men who drape themselves
in the dark robes of politics

brandish words as warriors
brandish swords –
and I am afraid.