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 – 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.
Posted in American Civil War, Battle, Blood, History, Lt. Kendal Everly, Manuscript Development, Poem, Poetry, Writing
Tagged Blood, Civil War, Hammer, Time, Writing
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/
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
Posted in American Civil War, History, Poetry, Soldier's Life
Tagged AmericanCivilWar, amywinehouse, Blood, Civil War, History, Pete Doherty, United State, Wars