Dear crew of The Broken Binnacle,
I’m afraid we Binny Boys have been slacking our sails when it comes to writing poetry lately, so I’m happy to say that I’m writing to you on this fine day to share a poem!
On that note: beginning this Saturday, I will be doing my best to share a weekly poem with you, some Saturday sonnets, if you will. The poetry will mainly be my own work (bear with me), but there will also be poetry from the other boys as well if they should find themselves inspired by the muses.
In the meantime, I want to say a few words about today’s poem.
First, I’m ashamed. I grew up in the beautiful Shenandoah Valley my entire life and have always failed to learn, at least as much as a young man should, the history of the place—and by history, I primarily mean the Civil War. It’s certainly not a cheerful subject, but it’s one that I’ve failed, still fail, and will always fail, to fully understand and appreciate. It wasn’t until last Summer that I first watched the movie Gettysburg and it wasn’t long after that that I spent a Sunday afternoon peeling voraciously through The Civil War: An Illustrated History.
Watching and reading the stories that filled this stage of history was a journey I had never truly undertaken; and there were times I was filled with deep remorse at such pain and loss, then the next moment inspired and moved by the courage of certain deeds and men. That said, Front Royal and the Shenandoah Valley share a strong connection to this bloody and critical phase of American history—a history that seems so distant yet hardly is.
Nevertheless, because of his war campaign in Virginia, General Stonewall Jackson has a special historical role in the Shenandoah Valley. The primary inspiration for this poem arose, then, from Jackson’s last words before dying from his battle wounds. The first two lines of this poem are his alleged last words verbatim. Coincidentally, the anniversary of his death is May 10th, four days from now. I say this with all honesty: I was unaware of this until a few days ago. Then again, there is no such thing as coincidence. Think of this poem as his deathbed soliloquy. Stonewall’s soliloquy.
Of all the poetry I’ve written in my short life so far, this one has taken the longest to write, and, like most art, or attempt at art in this case, will never really be finished.
At least not here.
“Let us cross over the river and rest
Under the shade of the trees.”
Let us seek home’s return,
Lest we, forgetful of fading myths and dreams,
Fail to discover—or rediscover—the gate into the garden.
I have become Cain; my brothers lie dead,
And for varied reasons of the heart, which sigh and groan,
While in these Virginia valleys of which I’ve confided
My deepest secrets and reckless dreams, I’ve grown
To see my youth has left a man with sins unpardoned.
~
They call me Stonewall, and here I stand, nay,
Here I lay in pants of breath now short’ning.
This rolling stone now comes to rest; that I may
Rest in some peace of mind knowing I gave everything,
Even if to a dying cause, on the field of conviction while others stood by.
Take me hot or cold, but lukewarm? No.
Lord, I have missed something of truth,
But truly have I sought, even if failed to know,
Your narrow way—I who am uncouth,
And blind. I only see the walking trees as shadows in my eyes.
~
For those that have knowledge, that they might tremble,
For knowledge is a fearful gift that calls
Those who’ve received it to account for, and to double,
The talents, the gift, and withal
To cultivate the seeds of faith with love, and dread.
But late has wisdom come to this weary soul
And body spent from battle. For while I regret
That death was my companion, with whom I shared my gruel,
Heaven was my aim. But unto me a heavy debt
Has built from negligence of mercy as I approach my final breath.
~
Old death and glory, are they the same?
For these egregious glories that war has wrought
Have brought the death of kin. The reign
Of Northern power will pass but come to naught
When the evils we have sown today grow as thorns tomorrow.
For something will grow from the sowing of our day.
Whether it be the chaff or the wheat, brambles
Or blossoms, these are the fruits we will pay
Our posterity—and shall we leave them shambles?
Or shall we soothe our sons’ and daughters’ future sorrows?
~
The tree of knowledge and the tree of life:
Both seem to offer death—are they the same?
We carry on with Cain’s old strife;
Abel’s blood spills from suits of blue and grey,
As the trees stand by as witnesses and shed their leaves likes tears.
For I may be a rebel, but all to God rebel,
Who, for manifold reasons, have taken up either
The color of the blue, who in greed prefer to revel
In Mammon; while we the grey here fetter
Brothers from the Baobabs: yet the sin of both"?—’twas fear.
~
Yet, there are men that, while still too few,
And while most come with half-filled hearts,
Come with purpose just and true,
And, for that purpose, will here depart
In life or death but leave unwritten marks upon this page of history.
Such souls have sown the greater share
Of justice, and, when cavalry thundered,
When cannons roared and muskets flared,
Have sought to show what lies just under:
Mustard seeds amidst the weeds—sparks of God’s divinity.
~
The way is winding on and on,
Around beyond the bend which seems
Endless; on both sides a desert yawns.
If only there was water, or a stream,
Running through the sycamores, which offer soothing shade.
For there must be a refuge from this raging sun,
Somewhere on this way to rest; a Tree where birds
Might trill and nest; where I might file refund
For all my wasted time, when I concurred
With death, with sin, and failed in faith.
~
I shall cross the river now and rest under the Tree,
Let me sleep in its sweet shade where grow the fruits of mercy.