HISTORY POETRY COMPETITION VICTORY
PARADE
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Mail Call Journal is pleased to present the Winners of the
Fall 1998 History Poetry Competition
American Civil War Category Winners
First Place I Second Place I Third Place I Honorable Mentions
General History Category Winners
First Place I Second Place I Third Place I Honorable Mentions
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AMERICAN CIVIL WAR CATEGORY
WINNERS
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"I Remember Shiloh" by Michael Darling
Hours before the battle,
it was such a peaceful day,
"We'll whip them boys fore supper time",
you could hear some braggart soldiers say.
Some were smiling, others crying,
but all men felt the fears.
Most of all they called on God,
when the laughter turned to tears.
I remember Shiloh, the dogwood trees, the sounds.
The cannon roar, the musket fire,
bodies like cord wood, lying stacked upon the ground.
The screams of men, that bloody pond,
battles won and lost.
When I remember Shiloh,
I can't help but count the cost.
When the fight was over,
two terrible days had past.
Brothers had killed brothers,
thousands had breathed their last.
Once handsome men lay crippled now,
disfigured for all time,
that battle made no sense at all,
that there war was such a crime.
Yes I remember Shiloh, the dogwood trees, the sounds.
The cannon roar, the musket fire,
bodies like cord wood stacked upon the ground.
The screams of men, that bloody pond,
battles won and lost,
when I remember Shiloh,
I can't help but count the cost.
When I remember Shiloh,
I can't help but mourn the lost.
About the Author
Biography - Michael Darling is a resident of Savannah, Tennessee.
About the Poem
This poem was written just prior to a performance of a play called "Shiloh", in which the author was playing the part of a Civil War soldier. Without referencing or favoring Union or Confederate, the poem is about an old soldier remembering his participation in the 1862 Civil War Battle of Shiloh, Tennessee.
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"Battle of Mission Ridge" by Nicholas Buswell
We cannot forget the bold mountains before us,
Nor the camp in the valley, in years long ago,
The blue lines of battle - our flag floating o'er us -
On the heights far above us, a resolute foe.
From the crest of each mountain their cannon are bristling,
And the face of each hillside is grim with the Gray,
Where line above line their bay'nets are glist'ning,
Entrenched and awaiting the bloody affray.
Nor long do they wait, for the columns of Granger,
Out from the center, are sweeping the plain;
Are cheering and charging, regardless of danger,
Where death-dealing missles are falling like rain.
On the right, the heroes of Hooker are forming;
They charge cross the valley; they cheer as they go;
The bold heights of Lookout are gallantly storming;
Are striving, are driving, pursuing the foe.
A sulphurous mantle, the mountain enfolding,
Creeps steadily onward and up the steep way,
Till shouts of the loyal are loud, on beholding
Our flag on the crest, at the close of the day.
The vale is now vacant where Sherman was camping;
They stem the dark flood at the hush of the night;
Along the broad valley their columns are tramping;
Are nearing the tunnel; are climbing the height.
On right, left and center the battle is raging
From brow of the mountain to valley and plain;
And doubtful the contest the Union is waging;
And woeful the sight of our comrades there slain.
The foe in confusion, in darkness retreating,
Encumbered the highways, as southward they flee;
The sound of the bugle and drums loudly beating -
Our army pursuing - well remembered by me.
We cannot forget the dead and the dying
That cumbered the crest, as the smoke cleared away;
When there, side by side like brothers, were lying
In death's calm repose, both the blue and the gray.
Nor can we forget the brave comrades we carried,
And laid, side by side, in the long shallow grave;
Nor the field on the hillside, where those heroes were buried,
To await the reward of the true and the brave.
About the Author
Biography - Nicholas Buswell is a resident of Barrington, Illinois.
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"Field Hospital" by Jeanne Losey
It really wasn't much to see,
A field hospital tent,
A hectic, bloody kind of place
Where wounded soldiers went.
Sam thought he was a doctor once,
But now, he simply feels
That he's a butcher of mankind
Instead of one who heals.
He sees the broken bodies that
His skill can never mend,
But, as he tries, he asks himself,
"Will this war never end?"
He's out of chloroform, and now
He's out of morphine, too.
No way to help to deaden pain
For what he has to do.
There's no equipment for his needs.
He does the best he can.
His soul is sickened by the sight
Of what man does to man.
They bring men in; he'll operate;
He can't turn them away,
For he's a doctor. He will help
Both men in blue and gray.
But, when he's done his best for them,
They leave. He'll never know
If they're sent to a prison camp
Or if, to home they'll go.
Exhaustion puts him into bed,
But there, instead of dreams.
He sees the wounded men again,
Hears agonizing screams,
"Don't cut my leg off!" "Save my arm."
"Dear God, why can't I see?"
"I'll be a helpless cripple now.
What will become of me?"
The doctor wakens, drenched in sweat,
To face another day.
He hates the things he has to do,
But he can't walk away.
The hospital is waiting, and
His patients need him now.
Without his skill, a lot will die.
(And some will, anyhow.)
About the Author
Biography - Jeanne Losey is a resident of Shelbyville, Indiana.
Roots - Losey had a great, great, great uncle who died at the 1864 Civil War Battle of the Wilderness, Virginia.
About the Poem
Losey has written at least 50 poems about the Civil War. She got her start on this topic when a reenactor friend of hers suggested that she write a poem about the Civil War.
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"Ebon Soldier" by Catherine Hunter Wise
In silence of the guns
Post bloody slaughter's fray
I walk a soldier's grave detail
At end of battle's day.
I walk among the fallen
All clad in tattered gray
And ponder on the stories
That brought them to this day.
I sort through the bodies
And shroud the lifeless clay
I pause a moment to honor
My foe fallen on this day.
Though I wear the blue
And this soldier wore the gray
I puzzle of his life
Before this fateful day.
His darkness says to me a slave,
And yet, he's clad in gray
For Dixie he has died,
None more ever brave.
And I wonder of his story
And question why he fought
But something tells me glory
That a freedman might have sought.
Though truth be locked by death's embrace
I know he was no slave,
For as I gazed upon the darkie's face
I recalled the charge he made.
I searched a moment for a name
Or perhaps a trinket to tell
And came upon a letter
He'd surely meant to mail.
It spoke to his beloved
A wife or sweetheart true
It spoke of lonely nights
And battles against the blue.
He told of longing for his home
And a future for a son.
He spoke of quiet hearthsides
When day's work was done.
There was no word of Union
Nor of Dixie or Robert E.
He just spoke of family
And a land he called his own.
I sat upon the bloodied ground
And looked into my soul
And wondered if I fought
For such a worthy goal.
He died for land and country
He died for hearth and home.
So I buried him with honor
And added words my own.
Cry not fair dark lady
His thoughts were last of you,
And so he died most bravely
For home, and love, so true.
About the Author
Biography - Catherine Hunter Wise, a resident of Alpharetta, Georgia, has been published in national and regional publications on various topics including women soldiers in the American Civil War, reenacting, and the care and training of horses. An American Civil War reenactor, she portrays a female cavalry trooper disguised as a man. She is also the Commander of the US/CS Military Women's Association, and a member of the 2nd Georgia Cavalry, the 12th Tennessee Cavalry, and Hampton's Legion. In addition to giving lectures about the women soldiers in the Civil War, she recites her poetry for memorial and dedication ceremonies, as well as around campfires at reenactments.
About the Poem
"In our day of political correctness," says Wise, "it is a little known and unpopular fact that there were over 50,000 black Confederate soldiers. These were free men who volunteered to fight for their country - the Confederate States of America. A well known, and well respected Son of a Union Veteran, Son of a Confederate Veteran, Civil War reenactor, and historian was recently killed for publicly speaking about these black Confederate soldiers. ‘Ebon Soldier' is a fictional poem dedicated to the memory of Eddy Page, a black man who portrayed a black Confederate soldier."
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"Fredericksburg" by Wes Rine
Stood the gallant Pelham
& unleashed his thunderous guns
Where many a Union Mother
Lost a cherished a son
Pelham above the battles din
Inspired the Yankees dread
The snow that cold December morn
Was stained a crimson red
Lee watched in awe from Marye's Heights
The work then being done
It is good Marse Robert said
To find courage in one so young
Georgians loosed a sheet of flame
From along the Sunken Lane
The fiery Cobb would never more
Unsheath his sword again
Confusion rent the Union ranks
Amidst this leaden rain
But duty pressed them onward
Across the whitened plain.
The Irish bore the flag with pride
& did not falter there
Meagher's sword above the fray
Uplifted in the air
War in sullen majesty
Held court among its own
& reaped a handsome harvest
Before that wall of stone
A cold wind blew o'er the field
Where the dead & wounded lie
The living cry to quench their thirst
The dead cannot reply
Kirkland heard the urgent pleas
Compassion stirred his soul
The thought of death could not deter
This angel from his goal.
He held a canteen to the lips
& heard the soldier pray
For the comfort of a loved one
At Fredericksburg that day
One final charge, Burnside deemed
Would make the rebels flee
But valor had done all it could
Against Old Bobby Lee.
About the Author
Biography - Wes Rine is a resident of Wichita, Kansas.
About the Poem
The author's inspiration for this poem came from the Fredericksburg, Virginia, battlefield itself - the stone wall, Marye's Heights, and the monument dedicated to Richard Kirkland.
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"The Bloody Lane" by Vernon Dutton
We are the Bully Boys of Wright's Georgia Men.
We came on the field when the battle looked so grim.
We reinforced the North Carolinians in the middle of the line.
My company dwindled during the day until we were only nine.
My God how ferocious it was: the shot, the shell, the roar.
I knew this was my dying day. My pards fell by the score.
We held the Yanks a while. Then broke on the left and the right.
Dead now were the Bully Boys of Anderson and Wright.
How can I explain the carnage: the blood, the death, the gore?
It will be etched in my memory from now and for ever more.
We fired our volleys fast, but our officers yelled for more.
The lane was littered with our dead. They were stacked by the cord.
The Yanks came up to the fence, but three times we drove them back.
I even held the rails so they could not be unstacked.
They struck at us with their bayonets and I got punctured in the side.
My Pard to the right was pierced in the heart. He screamed like a Banshee and
died.
We all had now entered that blood lust: the bane of the human mind.
We cared for only killing though outnumbered all down the line.
We screamed our Rebel Yell and called to our Gods of War.
We were no longer in the Christian Mode. We were men of Oden and Thor.
The dead lay stacked along the line. There was no one to come and help us.
We broke as Barlow hit our flank and Posey decided to leave us.
The Yankees flowed to our left and right. For the first time fear grabbed our
hearts.
I had no want of a Northern Prison. Of that, I wanted no part.
We ran and reformed for a time in the middle of Piper's corn.
But we were pressed sorely by Richardson's advancing horde.
Our officers had been shot down all along the way.
Sergeants took their places and kept us in the fray.
We broke and reformed two more times, but it was so strange
how moments ago we had been beserkers and killed as if deranged.
But now we wanted it all to stop. The Yanks were on a rampage.
At last we were saved from annihilation when our artillery got their range.
We took cover behind a stone wall. Twenty cannon protected us now.
We reassembled and headed back to fight. This was all our officers allowed.
As we got back to Piper's Lane, I stumbled and fell to the ground.
My side was now streaked with blood, but my thinking was still sound.
I wondered if my children would remember in years that lay ahead
that I had gone to defend our land from invasion's fearsome dread.
As death slowly took me, my sergeant found me there.
He promised to tell my folks of how bravely I did expire.
So you see this brief ode tells my story true.
I have Crossed the Dark River and now I'm gone from you.
I wait for your coming to recount old times again.
I was a Bully Boy of Wright's Georgia men.
About the Author
Biography - Vernon Dutton is a resident of Little Rock, Arkansas.
About the Poem
During the 135th Anniversary Battle reenactment of the 1862 Battle of Antietam, Maryland, the author's unit portrayed Wright's Brigade of Anderson's Division. This brigade reinforced Anderson's brigade and Hill's division in the Bloody Lane scenario. As they were forced out of the lane by the Union forces, Dutton saw reenactors playing dead in the lane and all around the field. He described this as his first "period rush." He says, "I was transported back to 1862. It was only momentary, but I have never experienced anything like it.
"This poem came to me about 3:00AM after the battle scenario and I wrote it down to get an emotional release from the feelings I still carried from the battle. The poem is a combination of three things: what I experienced at the reenactment, what occurred at the actual battle, and some ideas I got from a song."
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GENERAL HISTORY CATEGORY WINNERS
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"Eulogy: The Veterans of Vietnam" by Irma French
Our country called us once again
To fight a war we could not win
In jungles, silent, dark and green
Miasma filled, we dies unseen
And left no mark that we had been.
We held our country's banner high
Unfurled and etched against the sky
While, all unknowing, lesser fools
As we lay dying, changed the rules
Nor heard our battle-weary cry.
Poured forth in anguish and despair
Sent heavenward in silent prayer
While choppers swooping overhead
Retrieved the living and the dead
And lifted us into the air.
No cheering crowds, no banners waved
No marching bands in cadence played
A song of welcome from our land
No welcome for the vets of ‘Nam
Anonymous, we stayed.
Forgotten now and far from home
In fields of death, we died alone
A wrongful war in ‘Nam, they said
Too late for us, already dead
And more to die unknown.
Remember us, in torment cried
The men and women who survived
That nightmare war, from grace we fell
Heal our wounds and make us well
In memory keeping those who died.
At last your country heard your call
Upon a black and granite wall
Forever etched your names in stone
In gratitude to you alone
On which the changing seasons fall.
Caressed by tears and loving hands
This monument forever stands
In sweet repose, your legacy
In honor of the vets of ‘Nam
Rest quietly, rest quietly -----.
About the Author
Biography - Irma French was born in Mobile, Alabama, in 1928 and has lived there all her life. Married for 33 years, she is a a mother of five and grandmother of one. She has always been a history buff and loves stories and poems about the American Civil War.
Roots - French's husband's cousin was a prisoner of war in a northern prison camp in New Orleans during the Civil War. French's daughter had been a member and President of the Children of the Confederacy, Mobile Chapter.
French's first cousin died in a helicopter crash during the Vietnam War. The husband of another cousin won the Congressional Medal of Honor for his heroism in Vietnam.
About the Poem
"I wrote this poem about the Vietnam veterans because I was appalled and heartsick at the way in which those who survived the war were treated and the reception they got upon their return from that terrible war (those who did return)," French says. "I never debated the wrongness or the rightness of that war. To me, there was only one point. And that point was that when their Commander-in-Chief called upon these courageous men and women to serve their country, they did so bravely and gallantly.
"This poem was written in honor of and in memory of those patriotic men and women who sacrificed their health, their limbs, and their lives for their fellow countrymen."
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"Sand Creek: Wilderness Lost" by James Thompson
Red, red the Cheyenne
flowed red,
seeping
into the sand,
the white, white sand
of Sand Creek.
Black Kettle's flag
would save them,
stars and stripes.
They huddled, unarmed
beneath the flag
at Sand Creek.
Red and white stripes
flew over head
promise
of protection: lies
for the dead
of Sand Creek.
Red, red the Cheyenne
flowed red,
seeping
into the sand,
the white, white sand
of Sand Creek.
Survivors fled, told the tale
of the dead
Cheyenne,
soldiers wore the scalps:
women and children
from Sand Creek.
Cheyenne lands: Colorado,
wilderness lost:
treaty,
white man's black ink,
Cheyenne red flowed
from Sand Creek.
About the Author
Biography - James Thompson is a resident of Baytown, Texas.
About the Poem
This poem chronicles the massacre of peaceful Cheyenne at Sand Creek by Colonel John Chivington's Colorado Volunteers and the subsequent loss of their lands by treaty.
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"Korean Bein' " by Paul Sperou
They sent me to Korea,
Yea, sent me there to fight,
I stood upon a hilltop,
in the middle of the night.
Two casualties to get me there,
Two died to get me home,
all the way on the Pacific,
on the white caps and the foam...
The heat would sweat you dry,
the cold would freeze you blue,
along with dysentary ongoing,
was my dehydration too...
The hole I dug was crooked,
no level spot for miles,
The "Marine Crotch" was your mother,
the chow line was her smile...
Sweat the horseflies climbing up,
fight the dizzy sliding down,
and the river water taste,
was never so profound...
Some shot, some screamed, some hollered,
but I came back alive,
The enemy destroyed the trees,
The snipers made us dive,
and thirty year-old C-rations,
would surely make us thrive,
with hillsides always muddy,
and sentry all night wrong,
I got so awfully punchy,
Life became an Asian song...
My discharge came in early,
about a month ago,
I served as a civilian,
when it was time to go,
And so I was a fighting man,
I learned to shoot my BAR,
Then came back home to disbelief,
that I had fought so far,
It's not correct politically,
to mention Heartbreak Ridge,
or even of the Punchbowl,
and even what was true -
I must treat it, like a fairytale,
while all of those who died -
I guess must have -
epitaphs that read -
It Must Have Been - I Lied!
About the Author
Biography - Paul Sperou is a resident of Sun City, California.
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"The Poem of Pavel Antipovich" by Leslie Elam
Grey and the smoke is acid
And we have been awake with the cold forever
Here under the guns
Was I born
In this ruin of a factory
My Mother, My Family, all
With the cold, the Volga to our backs.
Ah, Vladimir Ullalov if you were here
You could remember
When the spring ice gave way
To the currents of sturgeon,
The flowers, I can't remember their names,
Only their white glow, like the white of birch trees
The smoke white
Cold white
Death white
Cold earth if the Nazi comes.
When did we last have hot tea?
My hand is frozen to the gun
Like the old woman, the kopecks interest on the Gold watch,
A dirty death.
Demetri, can you see
New banners, new drums, new horizons
Yet it is the guns of August that call
For our Mother, Ruskaya, the Volga.
Has the cold caught you in its dream?
They have better coats and boots
Warm gloves.
They lack the dream not courage or bravery
They will not conquer.
The bullet whines, Feydor Grachev
You who held the boy's hand
Saw him and his mother die
Saw the hospital fire
Saw them die and died yourself
I knew you as a child in Smolensk
Remember me
In the mass production of death
Dead leaves from November's trees
The wooden wheel turns one spoke
Time and time turns
I can hear it solemn and it never stops
The long slow march
It they come............
About the Author
Biography - Leslie Elam is a resident of Altadena, California.
About the Poem
The historical background of the poem is explained by the author:
"At the siege of Stalingrad, the Red October Tractor Factory on the banks of the Volga (the ruins which still stand to this day) was one of the final hold outs against the Nazis before the counter attack took place. It was manned by old people whose average age was 70, and young boys, many of them 10 to 12 years of age. They fought, buying time, until the counter attack could be mustered. They died in the ruins of the factory. They are today, among the great heroes of Russia. Stalingrad, today Volgograd, is the location of the great war memorial to the heroes of the Great Patriotic War, the Russian name for World War II. It is ironic or perhaps just that the great battle for the liberation of Russia occurred on the banks of the Volga since the river itself is perhaps the heart of Russia. It is fitting that the memorial is located here. There is no other memorial like it in the world. The Russians revere their war dead as perhaps no other nation can or will. The poem, I hope, conveys the dedication that the Russian people have for the Motherland regardless of politics or ideology."
This poem is written about Pavel Antipovich Krenekov, a rifleman, who died in defense of the motherland at Stalingrad, December 12, 1942, age 17.
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"Ancient Wonders" by Kevin Radcliffe
On the west bank of the Nile, stand the tombs of ancient kings
Geometric structures, smoothed out by stone casings
"The Granaries of Joseph" the pyramids some named
Fantastic man-made mountains, throughout the world proclaimed
On the banks of the Euphrates, from the palace looking on
The hanging terraced gardens of ancient Babylon
Blossomed fragrant flowers and palm trees growing high
Exotic plants and waterfalls most pleasing to the eye
On the western coast of Greece, in Olympia town
The temple of the sacred grove, housed a statue of renown
Flesh of ivory, robe of gold, and throne of precious jewels
The statue of the god Zeus, carved by sculpted tools
In the town of Ephesus, viewed by the naked eye
The Temple of Artemis towering to the sky
In honor of the Greek goddess, Diana was her name
Burned down in 356 B.C., Herostratus set the flame
In the city of Bodrun on the Aegean Sea
A gigantic marbled monument carved majestically
Conceived by Artemisia, for her husband Mausollos
Adorned royal tomb, the Masoleum at Haicarnassas
A gigantic bronze statue of the sun god, Helios,
Astride the harbor entrance, in the lovely isle of Rhodes
Construction of the Colossus, twelve years to complete
Reaching to Olympus, an amazing feat
On the isle of Pharos, in Alexandria harbor
A monumental lighthouse served as a watchtower
A shrine to Savior Gods, it shone its beacon bright
Ensured sailors safe return, through a stormy night
The Pyramids of Egypt, have stood the test of time
A tribute to man's genius and creativity sublime
So too the Seven Wonders, shine through the ages bright
As that ancient beacon shone in the Alexandrian night.
About the Author
Biography - Kevin Radcliffe is a resident of New York, New York.
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Other History Poetry Competition Winners
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CONGRATULATIONS TO ALL WINNERS
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History Poetry Competition Victory Parade Home Page
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MAIL CALL JOURNAL
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Views expressed by the
winners of this competition in their poetry
do not necessarily reflect those of the
competition sponsor.
All material is copyrighted by the respective authors.
The Fall 1998 competition
closed September 15, 1998.
Updated January 2006