THROUGH A GLASS DARKLY - ANTIETAM - SEPTEMBER 17, 1862
1./ 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.
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.
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
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 convictions 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.
trilling scales of gratitude to you
for daring to die
for convictions 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.
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 our thinking, our dealings,
in the living of our lives—
that the struggle find end
in making ourselves worthy
of this our home, our land.
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 our thinking, our dealings,
in the living of our lives—
that the struggle find end
in making ourselves worthy
of this our home, our land.
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SUMMARY:
Photograph from the main eastern theater of the war, Battle of Antietam, September-October 1862.
NOTES:
Reference: Civil War photographs, 1861-1865 / compiled by Hirst D. Milhollen and Donald H. Mugridge, Washington, D.C. : Library of Congress, 1977. No. 0127
AUTHOR:
Charles Cingolani
PHOTO: CREATED/PUBLISHED
1862 September 17.
