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Visit to Antietam

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  • Charles Cingolani
    Visit to Antietam 1. Alone I walk into this quiet landscape from the east, up to a knoll to look out upon hordes of dark color gathered in terrible rituals mid
    Message 1 of 5 , Mar 8, 2005
      Visit to Antietam

      1.

      Alone I walk
      into this quiet landscape
      from the east, up to a knoll
      to look out upon
      hordes of dark color
      gathered in terrible rituals
      mid fire and smoke
      that darken the sun--
      I hear sounds now,
      the rhythmic thud of cannon
      from distant corners
      and from the hills
      a muffled rumbling of drums.

      From behind, couriers gallop past me
      straightway into throngs
      up to where ruffled flags sway,
      to those mounted high with swords drawn,
      about to unleash their flexing lines
      to collide with columns coming on.

      I watch them shift and fan
      then clash as distant volleys crackle
      in long orange ribbons where smoke is rising--
      then, like healed limbs, broken lines rejoin,
      smaller now but whole,
      to thrust once more
      into spiraling bursts of yellowy orange.

      Is that a cornfield on the distant plain
      not far from where the spire stands?
      I see stalks moving like men
      advancing and falling back
      in wild infernal whirling,
      hear savage yells ripping through space,
      while as I watch,
      that field of green
      is reaped by frenzied swathings
      turns brown now, then grayish,
      is slashed and shredded,
      then ravaged in geysers of fire.

      I see you, man in blue, your back to me--
      in haste your lines heaving forward
      like waves, cresting and curling
      to splash in smoky spume onto a road
      that cuts the fields in two--
      alas, facing you I see
      four fixed columns of reddish gold
      bursting as one,
      halting your forward drive--
      there where dark mounds are rising.

      And far off to my left
      a long snakelike movement
      bloating at a bridge
      behind which the hills
      are streaming with fire
      as if hell's crucible were spurting
      out a thousand pores
      directing its flow of sparkling orange
      toward that crossing,
      while on this side
      clotting masses keep swelling
      until one small dark artery,
      giving way to pressure,
      breaks over into
      that brimming inferno
      to wind its way forward, slowly,
      as if protected by
      some wondrous wall.


      2.

      From what vision am I awakening?
      These are but fields, hills.
      There a church, a bridge.

      But listen to the silence--
      silence speaking of loss
      of homage, of gratitude.
      Silence hovering over sacred soil,
      a canopy spread over rituals
      once performed on these fields:
      our sacrifice, our oblation,
      our holocaust that made us whole.

      Forbid all levity here!
      Bar all distraction!
      Ban every cloaked entrepreneur!
      Even marble disturbs.
      There is no enactment
      no fitting into frames.
      Silence alone befits this hallowed place--

      As does the hidden violet
      that blooms in spring for you
      who left your life here
      that September seventeen
      eighteen hundred and sixty-two,
      brothers mine,
      from New Hampshire, Wisconsin and Maine.

      As does the windhover
      standing perfectly still on the breeze,
      head high, breast thrown forward,
      emblem of valor, image of yours,
      brothers mine,
      from Texas and Carolina and Rhode Island.

      As does the lark
      climbing aloft on eager wings
      mornings in June to sing
      of gratitude to you,
      brothers mine,
      from Mississippi, Texas, and Tennessee.

      As does the lone tree on the slope
      standing there still,
      the áged veteran, presenting arms,
      now with effort, for you,
      brothers mine,
      from Arkansas, Pennsylvania and Ohio.

      As does the solitary girl
      walking slowly in the fields,
      her eyes fixed on the ground
      her heart on you,
      brothers mine,
      from Louisiana, Alabama and Georgia.

      As does the water in the stream
      winding through this landscape,
      a watery emblem, a banner unfurled,
      Holocaust inscribed thereon,
      or Antietam, place of your sacrifice,
      and ours, brothers mine,
      from New York, Virginia and Vermont.


      3.

      As I turn now to leave
      mighty towers of white clouds rise
      mid rumblings of distant thunder
      off to the west
      beyond these silent fields.

      On parting from this landscape
      the pace quickens,
      there is no laming.
      Led unawares to this temple
      of silence,
      I have been awakened.

      This memory, implanted,
      will wax--
      from this day forward
      it will transform every doing of mine
      to fit into my changed world.


      from: http://geocities.com/clcing/
    • G E Mayers
      Charles, What visit to Antietam prompted this poem? Very respectfully, G E Gerry Mayers Confederate Signal Corps, Longstreet s Corps ... From: Charles
      Message 2 of 5 , Mar 8, 2005
        Charles,

        What visit to Antietam prompted this poem?

        Very respectfully,
        G E "Gerry" Mayers
        Confederate Signal Corps,
        Longstreet's Corps



        ----- Original Message -----
        From: "Charles Cingolani" <clcing@...>
        To: <TalkAntietam@yahoogroups.com>
        Sent: Tuesday, March 08, 2005 12:14 PM
        Subject: [TalkAntietam] Visit to Antietam



        Visit to Antietam

        1.

        Alone I walk
        into this quiet landscape
        from the east, up to a knoll
        to look out upon
        hordes of dark color
        gathered in terrible rituals
        mid fire and smoke
        that darken the sun--
        I hear sounds now,
        the rhythmic thud of cannon
        from distant corners
        and from the hills
        a muffled rumbling of drums.

        From behind, couriers gallop past me
        straightway into throngs
        up to where ruffled flags sway,
        to those mounted high with swords drawn,
        about to unleash their flexing lines
        to collide with columns coming on.

        I watch them shift and fan
        then clash as distant volleys crackle
        in long orange ribbons where smoke is rising--
        then, like healed limbs, broken lines rejoin,
        smaller now but whole,
        to thrust once more
        into spiraling bursts of yellowy orange.

        Is that a cornfield on the distant plain
        not far from where the spire stands?
        I see stalks moving like men
        advancing and falling back
        in wild infernal whirling,
        hear savage yells ripping through space,
        while as I watch,
        that field of green
        is reaped by frenzied swathings
        turns brown now, then grayish,
        is slashed and shredded,
        then ravaged in geysers of fire.

        I see you, man in blue, your back to me--
        in haste your lines heaving forward
        like waves, cresting and curling
        to splash in smoky spume onto a road
        that cuts the fields in two--
        alas, facing you I see
        four fixed columns of reddish gold
        bursting as one,
        halting your forward drive--
        there where dark mounds are rising.

        And far off to my left
        a long snakelike movement
        bloating at a bridge
        behind which the hills
        are streaming with fire
        as if hell's crucible were spurting
        out a thousand pores
        directing its flow of sparkling orange
        toward that crossing,
        while on this side
        clotting masses keep swelling
        until one small dark artery,
        giving way to pressure,
        breaks over into
        that brimming inferno
        to wind its way forward, slowly,
        as if protected by
        some wondrous wall.


        2.

        From what vision am I awakening?
        These are but fields, hills.
        There a church, a bridge.

        But listen to the silence--
        silence speaking of loss
        of homage, of gratitude.
        Silence hovering over sacred soil,
        a canopy spread over rituals
        once performed on these fields:
        our sacrifice, our oblation,
        our holocaust that made us whole.

        Forbid all levity here!
        Bar all distraction!
        Ban every cloaked entrepreneur!
        Even marble disturbs.
        There is no enactment
        no fitting into frames.
        Silence alone befits this hallowed place--

        As does the hidden violet
        that blooms in spring for you
        who left your life here
        that September seventeen
        eighteen hundred and sixty-two,
        brothers mine,
        from New Hampshire, Wisconsin and Maine.

        As does the windhover
        standing perfectly still on the breeze,
        head high, breast thrown forward,
        emblem of valor, image of yours,
        brothers mine,
        from Texas and Carolina and Rhode Island.

        As does the lark
        climbing aloft on eager wings
        mornings in June to sing
        of gratitude to you,
        brothers mine,
        from Mississippi, Texas, and Tennessee.

        As does the lone tree on the slope
        standing there still,
        the áged veteran, presenting arms,
        now with effort, for you,
        brothers mine,
        from Arkansas, Pennsylvania and Ohio.

        As does the solitary girl
        walking slowly in the fields,
        her eyes fixed on the ground
        her heart on you,
        brothers mine,
        from Louisiana, Alabama and Georgia.

        As does the water in the stream
        winding through this landscape,
        a watery emblem, a banner unfurled,
        Holocaust inscribed thereon,
        or Antietam, place of your sacrifice,
        and ours, brothers mine,
        from New York, Virginia and Vermont.


        3.

        As I turn now to leave
        mighty towers of white clouds rise
        mid rumblings of distant thunder
        off to the west
        beyond these silent fields.

        On parting from this landscape
        the pace quickens,
        there is no laming.
        Led unawares to this temple
        of silence,
        I have been awakened.

        This memory, implanted,
        will wax--
        from this day forward
        it will transform every doing of mine
        to fit into my changed world.


        from: http://geocities.com/clcing/









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      • G E Mayers
        Dear Charles, WHEN did you visit Antietam NBP to occasion your writing this poem? Please do not send extra copies to the group of your poem. Very respectfully,
        Message 3 of 5 , Mar 8, 2005
          Dear Charles,

          WHEN did you visit Antietam NBP to occasion your writing this poem?

          Please do not send extra copies to the group of your poem.

          Very respectfully,
          G E "Gerry" Mayers
          Confederate Signal Corps,
          Longstreet's Corps



          ----- Original Message -----
          From: "Charles Cingolani" <clcing@...>
          To: <TalkAntietam@yahoogroups.com>
          Sent: Tuesday, March 08, 2005 12:14 PM
          Subject: [TalkAntietam] Visit to Antietam



          Visit to Antietam

          1.

          Alone I walk
          into this quiet landscape
          from the east, up to a knoll
          to look out upon
          hordes of dark color
          gathered in terrible rituals
          mid fire and smoke
          that darken the sun--
          I hear sounds now,
          the rhythmic thud of cannon
          from distant corners
          and from the hills
          a muffled rumbling of drums.

          From behind, couriers gallop past me
          straightway into throngs
          up to where ruffled flags sway,
          to those mounted high with swords drawn,
          about to unleash their flexing lines
          to collide with columns coming on.

          I watch them shift and fan
          then clash as distant volleys crackle
          in long orange ribbons where smoke is rising--
          then, like healed limbs, broken lines rejoin,
          smaller now but whole,
          to thrust once more
          into spiraling bursts of yellowy orange.

          Is that a cornfield on the distant plain
          not far from where the spire stands?
          I see stalks moving like men
          advancing and falling back
          in wild infernal whirling,
          hear savage yells ripping through space,
          while as I watch,
          that field of green
          is reaped by frenzied swathings
          turns brown now, then grayish,
          is slashed and shredded,
          then ravaged in geysers of fire.

          I see you, man in blue, your back to me--
          in haste your lines heaving forward
          like waves, cresting and curling
          to splash in smoky spume onto a road
          that cuts the fields in two--
          alas, facing you I see
          four fixed columns of reddish gold
          bursting as one,
          halting your forward drive--
          there where dark mounds are rising.

          And far off to my left
          a long snakelike movement
          bloating at a bridge
          behind which the hills
          are streaming with fire
          as if hell's crucible were spurting
          out a thousand pores
          directing its flow of sparkling orange
          toward that crossing,
          while on this side
          clotting masses keep swelling
          until one small dark artery,
          giving way to pressure,
          breaks over into
          that brimming inferno
          to wind its way forward, slowly,
          as if protected by
          some wondrous wall.


          2.

          From what vision am I awakening?
          These are but fields, hills.
          There a church, a bridge.

          But listen to the silence--
          silence speaking of loss
          of homage, of gratitude.
          Silence hovering over sacred soil,
          a canopy spread over rituals
          once performed on these fields:
          our sacrifice, our oblation,
          our holocaust that made us whole.

          Forbid all levity here!
          Bar all distraction!
          Ban every cloaked entrepreneur!
          Even marble disturbs.
          There is no enactment
          no fitting into frames.
          Silence alone befits this hallowed place--

          As does the hidden violet
          that blooms in spring for you
          who left your life here
          that September seventeen
          eighteen hundred and sixty-two,
          brothers mine,
          from New Hampshire, Wisconsin and Maine.

          As does the windhover
          standing perfectly still on the breeze,
          head high, breast thrown forward,
          emblem of valor, image of yours,
          brothers mine,
          from Texas and Carolina and Rhode Island.

          As does the lark
          climbing aloft on eager wings
          mornings in June to sing
          of gratitude to you,
          brothers mine,
          from Mississippi, Texas, and Tennessee.

          As does the lone tree on the slope
          standing there still,
          the áged veteran, presenting arms,
          now with effort, for you,
          brothers mine,
          from Arkansas, Pennsylvania and Ohio.

          As does the solitary girl
          walking slowly in the fields,
          her eyes fixed on the ground
          her heart on you,
          brothers mine,
          from Louisiana, Alabama and Georgia.

          As does the water in the stream
          winding through this landscape,
          a watery emblem, a banner unfurled,
          Holocaust inscribed thereon,
          or Antietam, place of your sacrifice,
          and ours, brothers mine,
          from New York, Virginia and Vermont.


          3.

          As I turn now to leave
          mighty towers of white clouds rise
          mid rumblings of distant thunder
          off to the west
          beyond these silent fields.

          On parting from this landscape
          the pace quickens,
          there is no laming.
          Led unawares to this temple
          of silence,
          I have been awakened.

          This memory, implanted,
          will wax--
          from this day forward
          it will transform every doing of mine
          to fit into my changed world.


          from: http://geocities.com/clcing/









          Yahoo! Groups Sponsor
          ADVERTISEMENT





          --------------------------------------------------------------------------------
          Yahoo! Groups Links

          a.. To visit your group on the web, go to:
          http://groups.yahoo.com/group/TalkAntietam/

          b.. To unsubscribe from this group, send an email to:
          TalkAntietam-unsubscribe@yahoogroups.com

          c.. Your use of Yahoo! Groups is subject to the Yahoo! Terms of Service.
        • Teej Smith
          ... I don t think the extra copies were Charles s fault. I ve been getting double messages from this group all day. Teej
          Message 4 of 5 , Mar 8, 2005
            Gerry Mayers wrote:


            >
            > Please do not send extra copies to the group of your poem.

            I don't think the "extra copies" were Charles's fault. I've been getting
            double messages from this group all day.

            Teej
          • Harry Smeltzer
            Ditto (no pun intended). Harry ... From: Teej Smith [mailto:teej@nc.rr.com] Sent: Tuesday, March 08, 2005 9:17 PM To: TalkAntietam@yahoogroups.com Subject: Re:
            Message 5 of 5 , Mar 8, 2005
              Ditto (no pun intended).



              Harry



              -----Original Message-----
              From: Teej Smith [mailto:teej@...]
              Sent: Tuesday, March 08, 2005 9:17 PM
              To: TalkAntietam@yahoogroups.com
              Subject: Re: [TalkAntietam] Visit to Antietam



              Gerry Mayers wrote:


              >
              > Please do not send extra copies to the group of your poem.

              I don't think the "extra copies" were Charles's fault. I've been getting

              double messages from this group all day.

              Teej













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