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Charles Cingolani

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Posts posted by Charles Cingolani

  1. Thomas Merton (1915-1968) was a contemplative monk who spent 27 years inside the walls of a Trappist monastery in Kentucky. Only in his last year was he permitted to travel at any length. Even though he was never at Auschwitz this poetry places him there so as to let a generous sensitivity and tenacious faith like his respond to this horrendous calamity. Merton stands for all those who, in the light of Auschwitz, ask the question: where was God, and in so asking expose their belief to severe trial. Merton's struggle with this question was lived out elsewhere. Only the location has been shifted in the poetry that follows.

                                                                                                                                   Monk in Auschwitz

     

     

     

  2. Visit to Antietam

    We Are All Brothers

    by Charles L. Cingolani

    I

     
    Alone I arrive, walking from Frederick
    over the gaps, across gentle hills
    out onto a knoll
    overlooking 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 up to lines of men
    where a ruffled slanting flag is held,
    to a figure mounted, with sword drawn,
    about to unleash his flexing array
    to collide with columns coming on.
     
    I watch them shift, align, 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 a white church stands?
    I see stalks moving like men
    advancing and falling back in wild infernal whirling,
    while savage yelling rips through space.
    Before my eyes that field of buff cornstalks
    being reaped now by frenzied swathings
    slashed now then shredded,
    ravaged in fiery geysers
    spewing red and orange.
     
    I see you, men in blue, your backs to me—
    barrels and bayonets glistening in the sun
    your lines plunging 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 trenches
    long streaks of reddish gold
    bursting in continuing ordered alternation
    repelling your forward drive--
    You fall where carnage itself piling high
    staves off all further senseless 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 ghastly flow of fiery orange
    what seemed to be a thousand pores
    down at that stony arched crossing.
    On this side amassed,
    clotted lines surge and retract
    ramrodlike, propelling one small bluish artery
    over into that brimming inferno
    to thrust its way forward, unscathed,
    as if 'twere led through a red fiery sea
    inside some slender shielding sheath.
     
    As they advance random shooting stutters,
    from farther distance fired. Then of a sudden
    out of nowhere at my left,
    one last yelping onslaught, one final vicious blitz.
    What had advanced seeks refuge now
    falling back to that bridge,
    as if to protecting water.
     
    As with the suddenness of their arrival,
    the spirited gray chargers now quit the field,
    scampering up over their hill
    to regroup and await the hour
    of fiery retribution.
     
    Then a moaning quiet settles
    over the twitching fields
    while nightfall settles in...
     
    II
     
    From what vision am I awakening?
    These are but fields, hills.
    There a church, a bridge.
     
    I must linger here, listen to silence, hear it speak—
    of homage, of gratitude, of loss.
    Silence hovering over sacred soil,
    its canopy spread over rituals once performed here
    to form a sanctuary to enshrine that offering,
    that atonement, that oblation
    for a had-to-be war of our own making.
     
    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 on air
    on wingsbeats stalwart and soft
    holding perfectly still above the plot where you fell,
    a crest of valor, a living marker cross
    emblazoned on high for you valiant brothers mine
    from Maryland and Iowa and Tennessee.
     
    . . . 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-- that war alone could settle
    for those before you, for those who followed,
    determined brothers of mine
    from Texas, Mississippi and Colorado.
     
    . . . as does that ancient tree on the slope
    still standing there on weary feet,
    the agéd veteran, presenting arms,
    saluting you whom he saw fall,
    himself to fall, last of all,
    gallant brothers mine
    from Pennsylvania, Rhode Island and Arkansas.
     
    . . . as does the solitary girl
    walking across the fields with grace,
    her head erect, her feet treading light
    on soil moistened with a spirit soaked into it
    with your blood there 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 stream
    that winds through these Maryland fields,
    that living, pulsing emblem,
    that watery banner unfurled,
    Holocaust inscribed thereon but Antietam called,
    that plaintive name for the deed you rendered:
    the cleansing required to be one,
    to fuse us together,
    cherished brothers all together
    from Virginia, Ohio and New Jersey.
     
    III
     
    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 by a knowing hand 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,
    transforms, makes happen.
     
    Farewell, holy fields. Farewell, brothers mine
    whom I have found in the stillness
    enshrining this hallowed ground.
    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 the change required
    of heart and mind
    to make us worthy
    of this our home, our land.
     
     
     
  3. Visit to Antietam
    by
    Charles L. Cingolani
    I

    Alone I arrive, walking from Frederick
    Over the gaps, across gentle hills
    Out onto a knoll
    Overlooking 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 up to lines of men
    Where a ruffled slanting flag is held,
    To a figure mounted, with sword drawn,
    About to unleash his flexing array
    To collide with columns coming on.

    I watch them shift, align, 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 a white church stands?
    I see stalks moving like men
    Advancing and falling back in wild infernal whirling,
    While savage yelling rips through space.
    Before my eyes that field of buff cornstalks
    Being reaped now by frenzied swathings
    Slashed now, then shredded,
    Ravaged in fiery geysers
    Spewing red and orange.

    I see you, men in blue, your backs to me—
    Barrels and bayonets glistening in the sun
    Your lines plunging 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 trenches
    Long streaks of reddish gold
    Bursting in continuing ordered alternation
    Repelling your forward drive—
    You fall where carnage itself piling high
    Staves off all further senseless 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 ghastly flow of fiery orange
    From what seemes to be a thousand pores
    Down at that stony arched crossing.
    On this side amassed,
    Clotted lines surge and retract
    Ramrodlike, propelling one small bluish artery
    Over into that brimming inferno
    To thrust its way forward, unscathed,
    As if 'twere led through a red fiery sea
    Inside some slender shielding sheath.

    As they advance random shooting stutters,
    From farther distance fired. Then of a sudden
    From out of nowhere to my left,
    One last yelping onslaught, one last vicious blitz.
    What had advanced seeks refuge now
    Falling back to that arched bridge,
    As if to protecting water.

    As with the suddenness of their arrival,
    The spirited gray chargers now quit the field,
    Scampering back up over their hill
    to regroup and await the hour
    of fiery retribution.

    Then a moaning quiet
    Settles over the twitching fields
    While nightfall settles in.

    II

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

    I must linger here, listen to silence, hear it speak:
    Of homage, of gratitude, of loss.
    Silence hovering over sacred soil,
    Its canopy spread over rituals once performed here
    To form a sanctuary to enshrine that offering,
    That atonement, that oblation
    For a had-to-be war of our own making.

    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 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 on air
    On wingsbeats stalwart and soft
    Holding perfectly still above the plot where you fell,
    A crest of valor, a living marker cross
    Emblazoned on high for you valiant brothers mine
    From Maryland, Tennessee 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—that war alone could settle
    For those before you, for those who followed,
    Determined brothers of mine
    From Texas, Mississippi and Colorado.

    . . . as does that ancient tree on the slope
    Still standing there on weary feet,
    The agéd veteran, presenting arms,
    Saluting you whom he saw fall,
    Himself to fall, last of all,
    Gallant brothers mine
    From New Jersey, Rhode Island and Arkansas.

    . . . as does the solitary girl
    Walking across the fields with grace,
    Her head erect, her feet treading light
    On soil moistened with a spirit soaked into it
    From blood you shed there.
    She takes strength from it to live
    Despite loss, grief and pain.
    Your gift to her, dear brothers mine
    From Wisconsin, Alabama and Maine.

    . . . as does the murmuring stream
    That winds through these Maryland fields,
    That living, pulsing emblem,
    That watery banner unfurled,
    Holocaust inscribed thereon but Antietam called,
    That plaintive name for the deed you accomplished.
    The cleansing required to fuse us
    To make of us one,
    Cherished brothers all of mine
    From Virginia, Pennsylvania and Ohio.


    III

    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 my pace quickens.
    There is no laming.
    Led by a knowing hand 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,
    Transforms, makes happen.

    Farewell, holy fields.
    Farewell, brothers mine
    Whom I have found in the stillness
    Enshrining this hallowed ground.
    I found you alive, arisen,
    Have heard your voices
    Begging, clamorous, pleading
    That what here was 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 the change required
    Of heart and mind
    To render us worthy
    Of this our home, our land.



    Copyright © 2006

    Source

  4. BPPoemsCover1_sm.jpg

    Cities have long been an object of poetic contemplation. This poetry about a small Western Pennsylvania town attempts to reawaken the past and infuse meaning and newness into happenings one takes for granted. It expresses awe at what is seemingly trivial, it slows down to express wonder at the commonplace. It does this with plain language that penetrates beneath the sensual surface of the events of everyday life for the hidden, mysterious component that reveals the beauty of life’s experience.

    These poems are more than a nostalgic recounting of memories and occurrences. They have to do with the essence of reality and as such they are insights into the way people see things and the way they live in small towns across the nation.

    The Butler Pennsylvania Poems

  5. Newtown, Connecticut

    14 December 2012

    by Charles L. Cingolani

    Angel of evil do not descend on this sunlit town in early morning,

    First grade not yet accustomed to the day, coats crowded on hooks,

    In corridors the scraping of boots, busy hands adjusting at desks,

    The bell has rung, their teacher greets, she hovering over them.

    Toward the windowsill a sidelong glance, the candle the wreath.

    Their Christmas nearing. Still so new at six.

    Be merciful angel, do not alight. Stay winged, pass on over.

    .

  6. Visit to Antietam

    by Charles L. Cingolani

    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.

    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 hells 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 farther 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 begun here

    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.

    Source

  7. Monk in Auschwitz
     

    Thomas Merton (1915-1968) was a contemplative monk who spent 27 years inside the walls of a Trappist monastery in Kentucky. Only in his last year was he permitted to travel at any length. Even though he was never at Auschwitz this poetry places him there so as to let a generous sensitivity and tenacious faith like his respond to this horrendous calamity.

    Merton stands for all those who, in the light of Auschwitz, ask the question: where was God, and in so asking expose their belief to severe trial. Merton's struggle with this question was lived out elsewhere. Only the location has been shifted in the poetry that follows.

  8. Visit to Antietam

    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.

    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 . . .

    Continue reading the poem.

  9. While playing the piano I am finding out that the fingers do a lot of things right, if I just let them. That means that I have to stop thinking about fingering the right notes. Focus more on the beauty of the sounds. Maybe this is one of the lessons [for living] I should have learned a long time ago. Learn to forget myself.

    Quote from Monk's Progress ~

  10. Visit to Antietam

    by Charles L. Cingolani

    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.

    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 align

    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 a 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 fiery geysers

    spewing red and orange.

    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 trenches

    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 there.

    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

    propelling one small bluish artery

    into that brimming inferno

    to thrust its way forward,

    unscathed, as if 'twere led protectedly

    through some slender shielding sheath.

    As they advance

    random shooting stutters,

    from farther distance fired.

    Then of a sudden,

    out of nowhere at my left,

    I observe one last yelping onslaught,

    one final vicious blitz.

    What had advanced seeks refuge now

    falling back to that bridge,

    to protecting water.

    As with the suddenness of their arrival,

    the spirited chargers quit now the field,

    scamper back up over their hill.

    Then a moaning quiet

    settles over the fields

    while night settles in.

    2.

    From what vision am I awakening?

    These are but fields, hills.

    There a church, a bridge.

    I must linger here, listen to silence,

    hear it speak—

    of homage, of gratitude, of loss.

    Silence hovering over sacred soil,

    a canopy spread over rituals

    once performed here,

    a sanctuary of silence

    enshrining that offering, that oblation,

    that conciliation

    for a had-to-be waring

    of our own making.

    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 on 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 it saw fall,

    itself to fall, last of all,

    gallant brothers mine

    from Pennsylvania, Ohio and Arkansas.

    . . . as does the solitary girl

    walking with grace across 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 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 us together,

    cherished brothers all

    from Virginia, New Jersey and Colorado.

    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 by knowing hand

    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,

    transforms, makes happen.

    Farewell, holy fields.

    Farewell, brothers mine

    whom I have found in stillness

    enshrining this hallowed ground.

    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 the change required

    in heart and mind

    that make us worthy

    of this our home, our land.

    from: Source

    CLC4.jpg

  11. Höchenschwand, Baden Württemberg, Germany
    Charles Cingolani, onetime seminarian, teacher, served in the U.S. Army, studied and taught in the States and abroad and now lives in Germany. He is the author of The Butler Pennsylvania Poems.
    His In the Wheat : Songs in Your Presence are poems about early spiritual awakening. He has written Civil War poetry and poems about Auschwitz. He has a volume of Collected Poetry.
    His interest in German literature led to his translations: Poetry of Eduard Mörike in English and the translation of fairy tales and poetry by Richard von Volkmann-Leander.
    Charles maintains two blogs: The Butler Pennsylvania Blog
    and a blog for Seniors: Monk's Progress.
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