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.

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.

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.

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Gettysburg – Pickett’s Charge

Pickett’s Charge from a position on the Confederate line looking toward the Union lines, Ziegler’s Grove on the left, clump of trees on right, painting by Edwin Forbes

The poem posted here is from the Gettysburg section of my book, Private Hercules McGraw: Poems of the American Civil War.  It details what could have happened, what could have been said.

If you’re interested in purchasing a copy, here’s a link to do just that – http://www.amazon.com/Private-Hercules-McGraw-Poems-American/dp/1937536149/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1341278577&sr=1-1&keywords=private+hercules+mcgraw

_________________

Pickett’s Charge

1

Longstreet wanted Pickett up front
’cause his men were fresh. Reckon
that was fair enough. All the clashing
I been doing had turned my bones to jam.
Willy was none better neither. Saw Pickett
squawking here and there. I suppose he wanted
to cross that field as much as I did. He stormed
by us before we started marching. His hair
hung down round his ears like Sampson’s
and he smelt like a spilt bottle of perfume.
I figured all that tang might just spice
some Yankee eyes, make every Fed shoot crooked.
He smells like a girl, Willy said.  I couldn’t disagree.

2

Our big guns were leaning
on the Feds’ line hard.
Lee figured it’d buckle
like a dry stick and us boys
would step up, fell Billy
after Billy like a forest
of blue trees, but I’d seen
enough to know that the plan
to plan on is the plan
that zags when you want
it to zig. Lee’s plan was like petting
on a scared dog – it may look harmless
but you always get bit in the end.

3

Seemed like each time I placed
one foot in front of the next,
Yankee artillery clanged
against the dirt I stepped on sending
plumes of earth so high I’m sure
Heaven’s floorboards were sullied.
Air was heavy with grime and smoke –
made breathing harder than whistling
underwater. Soon I was stepping over
lumps of men, pieces big and small.
Someone’s ear slopped against my chest,
hung there like a sticky fish.

4

Willy and me never got near
that Billy line.  He stepped
into a hole. Got stumbled up.
As I reached out to help him,
I seen his head start to burst
like a strawberry thrown against
a stone wall – except it happened
real slow like. His head cracked
here and there and the cracks
stretched across his face jagged
as lighting snaps – but he kept
his eyes right one mine.
Cracks got deeper, wider.
Skull started separating into pieces–
islands floating on a map.
But like I said, his eyes seem to fix
right on me until they leaked
all their sight and Willy slumped
down like a pile of wet rope.
Willy’s dead, I thought.
Good for him. Yup, good for him.

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Please Live – Poem 13

Here, Everly’s heart turns toward the boys he now must command, his former students, and his heart breaks.

And if you’re interested, I revised my previous post.

Please Live

June 4, 1861 – Entry II

Boys – I once taught
you to march to the thump
of your own soul, the music
of your own mind. And now,

like mindless fools, you shuffle
across this dirt, burdened
by the commands
of buffoons draped in blue,

adorned with gold.
Yet, each time you obey
their orders, abandon
your thoughts as a child

abandons his will
to a stern father, you defy
this war and teach your soul to live.
By God, please live.

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March Right, March Left – Poem 12

The harsh realities of camp life…

Drill

June 4, 1861

Heat, cursed heat…
I’d wager my inheritance –
even the stones that burden
these fields part
jagged lips to complain,
open dusty pores to sweat.

The men march and turn,
left then right. Clouds of dust
billowed like smoke and earth parted
its crusted lips to describe its pain
and let fly the vapors of hell
in one long sigh.

Camp – Poem 10

 Continuing with my developing manuscript, here’s the next poem, poem 10. Lt. Everly attempts to settle into camp.

Camp

June 1, 1861

Tents stretch across green fields –
row upon row. Their white canvas
wings bend toward earth –
a host of praying angels.

Boys caress their new guns
as if they coddle the silk
of a young lady’s skin,
each out to fills his lungs

with honor and valor
and return home
a king of war.
Small fires burn, dot the camp.

Here they gather, sharing rations –
not fit for dogs. Yet, each boy
believes he swallows
an earned spoil of battle.

Will these children pound
their hearts after they sip
the bitter ale of blood?

Related articles

• Wife – Poem 8 (thelintinmypocket.wordpress.com)
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• Charge, Sang a Boy – Poem 7 (thelintinmypocket.wordpress.com)

Seasons: A Memorial Day Tribute

 

Seasons

It’s like a season passed in the blink
of an afternoon. This morning
I smiled at black-eyed-susies
reaching above the grass and clover.
Bees hummed from bloom to bloom
like politicians knocking on doors,
mustering votes. Breeze carried scents
of earth and honey – sweetest spring day
that ever filled my lungs. Made me wanna
touch something soft, something special –
maybe the hand of a Charleston beauty.

But after a day of trading spit and smoke
with a regiment of Billies, this pretty spot
done shed all its pretty. Blood has a queer smell,
like a bog choked with sour fish,
but it don’t mud a patch of ground
like water does. Blood turns dirt
into syrup – walk in it too long
and you get all gummed up.
And the dead are leaking blood all about.
From here it looks like a herd of fellas
decided to nap, but they ain’t waking up
no time soon. You can see their last thought
carved on each of their faces. It’s never fear or anger.
Mostly it seems like sorrow to me, like they know
they just lost memory and hope all at once.

Don’t seem like spring no more.
What season is it? It’s a season for breathing –
at least while you still can.

_______________

Thank you to all who have fallen.

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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.

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We Return to Sip the Blood

Although I posted this poem just over a year ago, after reading the article linked to here, I felt it appropriate to post again. It suggests that the Civil War was much bloodier than originally thought.

Headstones at Antietam National Cemetery mark the graves of soldiers killed during the Battle of Antietam in Sharpsburg, Maryland. (Credit: Corbis)

Here’s a link to the article: http://www.history.com/news/2011/06/06/civil-war-deadlier-than-previously-thought/

Blood

The blood smeared on that letter,
the blood smeared on my skin,
on the earth – I knew all of it.
Still do. I know how it becomes

lazy if it sits still too long,
seems to curdle thick
as cream. I’ve watched it puddle
near the broken skulls of men

who dipped their shoulders
and charged against the tide
of hell. It makes dirt
sticky as syrup, invites

the flies to sip its sugar –
but if you step in it, it gets angry,
splashes up, wraps its fingers
around your leg as if it wants

to pull you deep into itself.
Every drop – an abyss:
you can’t swim out of