Umbrella
A Journal of poetry and kindred prose


S. Thomas Summers

is a teacher of Writing and Literature at Wayne Hills High School in Wayne, New Jersey.  He is the author of two poetry chapbooks: Death settled well (Shadows Ink Publications, 2006) and Rather, It Should Shine (Pudding House Press, 2007).

His poems have appeared in several literary journals and reviews, among them The English Journal, MiPo, 2River View, The Pedestal Magazine and The Loch Raven Review.  Summers also leads workshops for high school and middle school English teachers.

These poems are from a work in progress, Private Hercules McGee: Poems of the Civil War. He lives in northern New Jersey with his wife and children.

 

 

 




—Back to Poetry Contents—

Four Poems of the Civil War

Skirmish

I ain’t no lady, but marchin’
in this cold almost scrapes
the man right off ya.

Last night it been snowin’ a bit.
When the mornin’ chased us up,
grass poked through the white

like whiskers on an old
man’s face. Traded a few
shots with a band of Yanks.

Saw Joel take one in the belly.
By the time I got on back
to help, he was gone.

Looks like he squirmed
his way deeper into the wood.
Blood smeared after ’im

like slime behind a snail.
Had a cat once. It took sick,
slinked off and died in a barn

corner under my milkin’ stool
so I figure I’d let Joel crawl
to Jesus. Don’t want

ta be interfering. Some time
ya just need to die.


Drummer Boy
He’s propped against that rail fence,
a forgotten marionette.
Limbs dress rotten wood

as delicately as silk ribbons
in a French lady’s hair
and his blue coat is so wet

with blood it glimmers
in the sun—dark satin.
But his hands: rigid as stone.

Go look—fingers clamp
tight about dem drumsticks
like Christ’s fingers

about the world’s chosen.
Boy’s strummin’ a harp now.

 

Dey Come

Dey come like bits
of dat up north snow—
snow dressed in blue, gold

buttons. Dey sed I
be free now. Sed I
wuz my own massa.

Den dey took my shoes
my old massa giv me,
burnt da house I

slep in. Took da dollers
massa giv me at Kissmis
times—da dollars I

wuz savin’ fo when I
be free. Yessim, I
free now—Tank Jesus

fo dem white solders—
I a massa of ashes.


Shallow Graves

Noah must be sniffin’ `round these woods
cause Lord’s got it rainin’ like days of old.
I wouldn’t drop my jaw if the mountains
let go their roots and started driftin’ easy
as fresh cut logs. We march over a pasture
where dead Rebs are buried in hasty graves—
gravediggers must’a heard us coming
cause they forgot to lean on their shovels.

Rain strokes the earth so hard, loose dirt
pulls off like old blankets. Dead Johnnies
stretchin’ in the mud. Funny how I feel akin
to them. Half expect they might like walkin’
with me a mile or so, tell me they killed Feds,
but none of it personal. None of it hate.

Still, I can’t stomach it long—
bones showin’ through their skin and all.
Hell, they stink pretty bad too. But they
stunk when they was breathin’.




 
<< Previous Poet
Next Poet >>