Visit To Antietam
by Charles L. Cingolani
-used by permission of the author
1.
Alone I arrive, walking
from Frederick over the gap
onto this burnished landscape
out to a knoll
to see before me
countless writhing rows
of indiscernible shapes
gathered in terrible rituals
mid fire and smoke
that darken the sun -
I hear sounds now:
from distant corners
cannon in rhythmic thudding,
and from the fields
where movement takes place
the dire muffled rumbling of drums.
From behind, couriers gallop past
hoofing sod aloft
straightway into throngs
to where ruffled flags sway,
to men 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 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 -
alas, facing you I see
four fixed columns of reddish gold
bursting as one
repelling your forward drive -
you fall where carnage itself piling high
will stave all further slaughter.
And far off to my left
a long snakelike movement
bloats at a bridge
behind which the hills
with fire erupting,
hell’s crucible spurting
its flow of fiery orange
from ten thousand pores
toward that stony arched crossing.
On this side
those clotted masses
ever surging and retracting
propel one small bluish artery
into that brimming inferno
to thrust its way forward, unscathed,
as if being ushered
through some slender shielding sheathe.
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 made 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
on 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
a crest of valor
a living monument
emblazoned on high
above the plot where you fell
valiant brothers mine
from Tennessee, Maryland and Iowa.
As does the lark
climbing aloft on eager wings
as morning dawns
trilling scales of gratitude
for that struggle you ended
for us who followed,
gentle brothers mine
from Texas, Mississippi and Rhode Island.
As does the ancient tree on the slope
standing yet on weary feet,
the áged 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 -
with grace she walks the fields,
her head erect
her feet treading soil
from which a spirit still seeps
that you bled into it.
She takes strength from it to live
despite loss and pain,
cherished brothers mine
from Wisconsin and Alabama and Maine.
As do the murmuring waters
in the stream
that winds through these Maryland fields,
the living, pulsing emblem,
the watery banner unfurled,
Holocaust inscribed thereon
but Antietam called,
awful word that calls to mind
the deed you rendered -
the cleansing required
to make us see as one,
beloved brothers 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 from this landscape
the pace quickens, there is no laming.
Led once unawares
to this temple of silence,
I have been awakened.
What here took place,
implanted in me will wax -
that implosive understanding
of what the purging meant
through honor, bravery, courage, honor
through horror, suffering and death
that had to happen
before we could be healed,
made worthy of our land.
From this day forward
this intruding awareness
seared into memory
demands completion -
a finishing of our struggle
for freedom, liberty for oneness,
as our Founding Fathers
conceived them for us.
Farewell, holy ground.
Farewell, brothers mine
whom I in the silence of these fields
have found and heard,
passing on their covenant to us.
