"chickamauga" poems - Hello Poetry

JOHN BROWN'S body under the morning stars. Six feet of dust under the morning stars. And a panorama of war performs itself Over the six-foot stage of circling armies. Room for Gettysburg, Wilderness, Chickamauga, On a six-foot stage of dust.

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1.5k

Carl Sandburg

Old Osawatomie

JOHN BROWN'S body under the morning stars. Six feet of dust under the morning stars. And a panorama of war performs itself Over the six-foot stage of circling armies. Room for Gettysburg, Wilderness, Chickamauga, On a six-foot stage of dust.

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TWO Swede families live downstairs and an Irish policeman upstairs, and an old soldier, Uncle Joe. Two Swede boys go upstairs and see Joe. His wife is dead, his only son is dead, and his two daughters in Missouri and Texas don't want him around. The boys and Uncle Joe crack walnuts with a hammer on the bottom of a flatiron while the January wind howls and the zero air weaves laces on the window glass. Joe tells the Swede boys all about Chickamauga and Chattanooga, how the Union soldiers crept in rain somewhere a dark night and ran forward and killed many Rebels, took flags, held a hill, and won a victory told about in the histories in school. Joe takes a piece of carpenter's chalk, draws lines on the floor and piles stove wood to show where six regiments were slaughtered climbing a slope. "Here they went" and "Here they went," says Joe, and the January wind howls and the zero air weaves laces on the window glass. The two Swede boys go downstairs with a big blur of guns, men, and hills in their heads. They eat herring and potatoes and tell the family war is a wonder and soldiers are a wonder. One breaks out with a cry at supper: I wish we had a war now and I could be a soldier.

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1.4k

Carl Sandburg

House

TWO Swede families live downstairs and an Irish policeman upstairs, and an old soldier, Uncle Joe. Two Swede boys go upstairs and see Joe. His wife is dead, his only son is dead, and his two daughters in Missouri and Texas don't want him around. The boys and Uncle Joe crack walnuts with a hammer on the bottom of a flatiron while the January wind howls and the zero air weaves laces on the window glass. Joe tells the Swede boys all about Chickamauga and Chattanooga, how the Union soldiers crept in rain somewhere a dark night and ran forward and killed many Rebels, took flags, held a hill, and won a victory told about in the histories in school. Joe takes a piece of carpenter's chalk, draws lines on the floor and piles stove wood to show where six regiments were slaughtered climbing a slope. "Here they went" and "Here they went," says Joe, and the January wind howls and the zero air weaves laces on the window glass. The two Swede boys go downstairs with a big blur of guns, men, and hills in their heads. They eat herring and potatoes and tell the family war is a wonder and soldiers are a wonder. One breaks out with a cry at supper: I wish we had a war now and I could be a soldier.

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An old black vulture landed in a tree overlooking Chickamauga Creek; gave me a sidelong glance. I thought of Edward Abbey, critic of government agencies, professor and park ranger. Abbey is buried in an illegal grave; a cairn of stones covers his remains. His friends saw to his request, wrote on one stone, “Edward Abbey, no comment.” The nemesis of Glen Canyon Dam desired no memorial, got one anyway. He always said he’d come back as a vulture next time, just seemed fitting. I looked up into the oak, said, “Hey there Ed, looks like a good day for flying.” Abbey didn’t say a word just gave me that sidelong look, the old buzzard.

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Jun 11, 2015

Jun 11, 2015 at 11:05 PM UTC

ray-zimmerman

Reincarnation

An old black vulture landed in a tree overlooking Chickamauga Creek; gave me a sidelong glance. I thought of Edward Abbey, critic of government agencies, professor and park ranger. Abbey is buried in an illegal grave; a cairn of stones covers his remains. His friends saw to his request, wrote on one stone, “Edward Abbey, no comment.” The nemesis of Glen Canyon Dam desired no memorial, got one anyway. He always said he’d come back as a vulture next time, just seemed fitting. I looked up into the oak, said, “Hey there Ed, looks like a good day for flying.” Abbey didn’t say a word just gave me that sidelong look, the old buzzard.

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