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Alone I arrive, walking from Frederick
over the gaps, across gentle hills
out onto a knoll
to view this burnished landscape.
Before me I see
countless writhing rows
of indiscernible shapes
gathered in terrible rituals
mid fire and smoke
that darken the sun.
From distant corners I hear
the rhythmic thudding of cannon,
and from fields
astir with figures converging
the eery muffled rumbling of drums.
From behind, hoofing sod aloft
couriers gallop past
straightway into throngs
to where ruffled flags slant,
to men mounted, with swords drawn,
about to unleash their flexing lines
to collide with columns coming on.
I watch them shift and fan
then clash head-on
as distant volleys crackle
in long orange ribbons
where smoke is rising—
after which shattered lines rejoin
like healed limbs,
smaller now but whole,
to lunge 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,
savage yelling ripping through space.
Before my eyes that field of green
being reaped now by frenzied swathings
turns brown, 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 plunge forward
like waves, cresting and curling
to splash in smoky spume onto a road
that cuts the fields in two—
Facing you there in sunken trences
long streaks of reddish gold
bursting in ordered alternation
repelling your forward drive—
you fall where carnage itself piling high
staves off all further slaughter.
And far off to my left
a long snakelike movement
bloats at a bridge
behind which the hills with fire erupting
become hell’s crucible spurting its flow
of fiery orange
from ten thousand pores
toward that stony arched crossing.
On this side amassed,
clotted masses surge and retract
propeling one small bluish artery
into that brimming inferno
to thrust its way forward,
unscathed it seems,
as if being ushered through
some slender shielding sheath.
As they advance
random shooting stutters,
from further distance fired.
Then of a sudden,
from nowhere at my left,
I observe one last
yelping onslaught,
one vicious blitz.
What had advanced
seeks refuge now
falling back to the bridge,
to protecting water.
As with the suddenness of their arrival,
the spirited chargers quit the field,
scamper back up over their hill.
Then a moaning quiet
settles over the fields,
as night sets in.
2.
From what vision am I awakening?
These are but fields, hills.
There a church, a bridge.
But linger here, listen to silence.
Hear it speak—
of homage, of loss, of gratitude.
Silence hovering over sacred soil,
a canopy spread over rituals
once performed here,
a sanctuary of silence
enshrining that offering, that oblation,
that began to make us whole.
Forbid all levity here!
Bar all distraction!
Ban every cloaked entrepreneur!
Granite, even marble disturb.
There is no enactment
no fitting into frames.
Silence alone befits this hallowed space—
as does the hidden violet
that blooms for you in spring,
for you who left your life here
that dire September seventeen
eighteen hundred and sixty-two.
You, unknown, unsung brothers mine
from Georgia, Connecticut and Carolina.
As does the windhover riding the air
on wingsbeats stalwart and soft
holding perfectly still
above the plot where you fell,
a crest of valor, a living monument
emblazoned on high for you
valiant brothers mine
from Tennessee, Maryland and Iowa.
As does the lark
climbing aloft on eager wings
as morning dawns
trilling scales of gratitude to you
for daring to die
for convicions you held,
contrary, insoluble—
until that war you waged
for those before you,
for those who followed,
gentle brothers of mine
from Texas, Mississippi and Rhode Island.
As does that ancient tree on the slope
standing yet on weary feet,
the aged veteran, presenting arms,
still saluting you whom he saw fall,
himself to fall, last of all,
gallant brothers mine
from Pennsylvania, Ohio and Arkansas.
As does the solitary girl
who with grace walks the fields,
her head erect, her feet treading soil
moistened with the spirit
soaked into it with the blood you shed.
She takes strength from it to live
despite loss, grief and pain.
Your gift to her, dear brothers mine
from Wisconsin and Alabama and Maine.
As does the murmuring water in the stream
that winds through these Maryland fields,
the living, pulsing emblem,
the watery banner unfurled,
Holocaust inscribed thereon
but Antietam called,
our awful reminding word
for the deed you rendered—
the cleansing required
to join us, to fuse together,
cherished brothers of mine
from Virginia, Colorado and New Jersey.
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 the pace quickens.
There is no laming.
Led once unawares
to this temple of silence,
a fresh awareness
of what here was wrought
has been instilled, awakened.
The bravery, honor, courage,
the horror, pain, the dying.
Knowledge such as this waxes,
changes one, makes happen.
Farewell, holy ground.
Farewell, brothers mine
whom I have found in the stillness
hovering over this hallowed shrine.
I found you alive, arisen,
have heard your voices
begging, clamorous, pleading,
that what was here begun
be completed, be done.
That finally we become one
in thinking, in dealings,
in the living of our lives—
that the struggle find end
in making ourselves worthy
of this our home, our land.
My Son's great great great grandfather Hershel V. Glenn with the 15th Alabama was captured at this quaint little village during the battle. He was paroled a month later and took out after 'em again. He survived the trip up the Little Roundtop to shake hands with the 20th Maine and managed to elude capture that day and made it to the last handshake at Appamattox Court House in 1865.
Charles, this poem brings back memories of my own visit to Antietam some years ago, though I'm sure I never expressed my feelings so eloquently at the time.
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