A Triumphant Yawp!!

I did it. It’s done. Save for a few minor edits and revisions, my second manuscript, The Journals of Lt. Kendal Everly: A Story of the American Civil War, is done and should be on book shelves later this year.

It was tough nut to crack, much darker than my first book, but it’s done and I’m happy.

Here’s the book’s first poem, the first entry in Kendal Everly’s journal. Everly is a teacher and a pacifist. He writes this not long before the Civil War begins.

English: Gen. Charles Griffin (1825 – 1867) (as Captain), career officer in the United States Army and a Union general in the American Civil War. He rose to command a corps in the Army of the Potomac and fought in many of the key campaigns in the Eastern Theater. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

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.

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A Civil War Apocalypse

New Jersey poet Adele Kenny has challenged me again. Via her blog, Kenny recently tasked her readers to write an “Apocalypse” poem. You can read Kenny’s challenge here. My effort is posted below. It’s a poem from my new manuscript,
The Journals of Lt. Kendal Everly: A Story of the American Civil War. My protagonist, Lt. Kendal Everly, a school teacher, a pacifist, is about to be brutally enveloped by war. To a degree, he is about to face a personal
Apocalypse. Everly, wrapped in rage, has already stabbed his adversary, a young Confederate soldier (detailed in a earlier poem); now, Everly straddles his foe, bends over him, and wraps hisfingers around the boy’s neck.

Lost

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.

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On my Horizon…

I’m an author, a little know, unimportant author, but
still, I’m an author and I get excited when I get to do author type
things. Here are a few of those things.

1. There is chance, a small chance, that New Jersey poet David Vincenti and I will have the opportunity to take our Voices from
History poetry tour to the Massachusetts Poetry
Festival this spring.

2. Fellow Anaphora Literary Press authors and
I are hoping to arrange a New York reading. 3. My second
manuscript, The Journals of Lt. Kendal Everly: A
Story of the American Civil War, is almost complete.

Details to follow.

Confederate Ghosts

The poem posted below is taken from my developing
manuscript, The Journals of Lt. Kendal Everly: a
Story of the American Civil War. I thought it well
met a writing challenge presented on New Jersey poet Adele Kenny’s
blog, The Music In It. The
challenge is to write a “mysterious” poem. Would you like to read
the challenge? Just visit Adele’s blog.
In this journal entry/poem, Everly imagines his enemy,
Confederates. What will they be like? He wonders for he is soon to
meet them. Let me know what you think. Confederates July 17,
1861 – Entry Two Night comes and my heart finds its
rest. But daylight: a cursed time, when the enemy unfurls long
shadows, long fingers that stretch from behind the wrinkled hide of
trees and stones, scratch promises on the wind: blood and death.
Damned, foul ghosts: gray, so gray.

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A Certain Kind of Snow

It’s snowing here in Northern, New Jersey. Four to six inches will fall by midnight, says the weatherman.

In the book I’m reading, The Snow Child by Eowyn Ivey, there is a passage that describes a certain type of snow fall. It reminds me of the snow that is falling now. I share it with you here.

Through the window, the night air appeared dense, each snowflake slowed in its long, tumbling fall through the black. It was the kind of snow that brought children running out their doors, made them turn their faces skyward, and spin in circles with their arms outstretched.

Good writing. Simple and tangible.

Go oustide and be a kid again.

Writing Challenge: Christmas and the Civil War

I posted this poem last year, but thought to post it again when I read New Jersey poet Adele Kenny’s writing challenge. Basically, Adele challenged her readers to write a Christmas/winter poem. You can view the challenge here.

I enjoyed the colloquial aspects of this poem. All spelling mistakes are made on purpose. The poem is inspired by an actual letter written by a Civil War soldier to his wife. Let me know what you think.

Merry Christmas.

Private Levi McCormick Writes His Wife: Christmas 1864

I bin down with squirts.
My backend’s raw as a sun bernt scalp
and cold air snaps at me
when I drop my trousers.

I borrow’d some clothes.
Had to wash mine, bein’ so smelly.
Ther hangin’ on a tree limb near the fire –
stil they be frozen, stiff as a ten day corpse.

Seen me plenty of them.
Anyway, send on a box. I need a scent of home.
Tell the boys mery christmas.
I’ll be lookin’ for that christ star whilse I wate.

Poetry Reading – Yup, I’m At It Again

Bridgewater Public Library

Sorry for the late announcement, but…

Tuesday, December 4

S. THOMAS SUMMERS (me) and JIM BERKHEISER

Somerset Poetry Group

Bridgewater Public Library
Meeting Room C
1 Vogt Dr., Bridgewater
7 PM Free

Open Reading to follow featured readers.

Contact: 908-526-4016 or

Bob Rosenbloom: 732-371-3817
bloom306@yahoo.com

Bud Berkich
amnestyblackcat@aol.com

Here In the Sticks

Fellow Anaphora Literary Press author Aline Soules recently posted the following passage on her blog.

It’s time to reflect, as fall creeps in, about crossroads. I periodically reach a set and wonder which direction to take. Work is good, but too all-consuming at the moment. I’m house hunting, too. Despite having a nice condo, I’m out in suburbia and would rather be closer to the bay and its cultural opportunities. I think I’m just tired of driving back and forth. I usually get restless in spring, but this year, it’s hit me in fall. Who can explain it? The weather is lovely (no snow, as in Sault Ste. Marie earlier this month–brrr!), my condo is pleasant, my work is fulfilling–yet I’m restless. I feel selfish, as so many others are far less well off than I, but I can’t still that restless feeling. Just have to wait and see what happens.

I’m drawn to Soules statement regarding suburbia and the cultural opportunities of a more populated area. I live in the Northwest corner of New Jersey, Vernon, New Jersey. The photo posted above is just a mile or so away from my home. I could post more: farms, silos, cows, bears, deer, etc. I’m surrounded by “the Sticks.”

Ironically, Vernon is not far from Manhattan, a cultural opportunity Mecca: poetry, art, music, etc. try, I loathe the city. I need the country, the trees, the quiet, the wind. All of these things inspire me to write. The city…it inspires me to get back to the county – and get back quick.

Guess I’m just a county bumpkin.

Writing Challenge: Weather

On her blog, New Jersey poet Adele Kenny has challenged her readers to write a weather poem. Kenny writes, “We don’t have to be meteorologists to have an interest in the weather, and we all talk about the weather often enough (for some, it may be the easiest topic of conversation). Weather certainly happens to all of us, making it something that all people have in common. Weather may not be the only determinant for our emotions and moods, but it does seem to play a role, and it really can affect our thoughts and productivity. People who suffer from Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD) experience moods very strongly associated with the weather. Think about it: how do you feel on a rainy day, on a sunny day, on a snowy day, and when severe weather is in the forecast?

This year there has been an abundance of rain in my corner of the world. A hot, humid summer, and days of rain again this week with unseasonably warm temps, and high humidity (just as I was ready for some crisp, clear autumn air). With global warming, hurricanes, tornadoes, and floods so often in the news, I thought it might be interesting to write about weather conditions and how they make us feel. Extending that thought, I wondered how we might use “weather” to write poems that go beyond the obvious. That’s this week’s challenge!”

Here’s my answer to that challenge. My poem, not particularly focused on any element of weather, is weather infused. Kind of, anyway.

 

 

Methuselah Knew

And all the days of Methuselah
were nine hundred and sixty nine years,
and he died.
Genesis 5:27

Methuselah knew how to build a good fire,
how to scrape the scales
off a trout without bruising its flesh,
and to rise as the sun spilt
over eastern hills
because dawn was the best time
to grapple with the grief of dead sons.

Methuselah avoided stepping on ants,
understood the worth of a thick beard.
His memory pocketed friends
like specks of jasper and gypsum.
He polished them at twilight
recalling the strength of their handshakes,
the slant of their smiles.

He knew to sit patiently on tree stumps
amidst the birch and sycamores,
to munch on almonds and peer
through the wood waiting
for tomorrow to cover him like moss.

Slow and silent.
Lost to the world.
At ease with his ghosts.

Perhaps tonight, I’ll take off my shoes,
let the backyard grass seal
the gaps between my toes,
hum a song I’ve never heard,
and toss acorns at the moon.

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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