In
Pinkerton’s poem, Preston mentions her stepson, William, who was killed at
Second Manassas. Preston also speaks of “Thomas” – Thomas “Stonewall” Jackson –
who also taught at VMI and whose first wife was Preston’s sister, Elinor
Junkin, who died in childbirth. Jackson, of course, is one of the great martyrs
of the Confederacy, shot by Confederate skirmishers on May 2, 1862, near
Chancellorsville, Va. The sentries mistook Jackson and his staff for Union
cavalry. The general was hit by three bullets, two in the left arm and one in
the right hand. Doctors amputated the arm and Jackson died May 10 from
pneumonia and complications of the field-hospital surgery. The message Gen.
Robert E. Lee sent after Jackson’s arm was amputated has become holy writ for
many Southerners: “Give him my affectionate regards, and tell him to make haste
and get well, and come back to me as soon as he can. He has lost his left arm,
but I have lost my right.”
Preston
continued writing into the late 1880s, when she became blind. Her husband died
in 1890 and she followed in 1897. In her life is distilled the life of the divided
nation, with her roots in the North and South, and so much death by war and
otherwise. Pinkerton’s 116-line poem may be read as a continuation of “Crossing
the Pedgregal,” the four Civil War-related dramatic monologues collected in Taken in Faith: Poems (2002). One of
those poems, also titled “Crossing the Pedregal,” is also spoken by a woman
left behind – Mary Custis Lee to her husband, Gen. Lee, in the final days of
the war. In the poem, Preston is writing on July 21, 1891. Her final lines transcend
American history and speak for all who are humanly frail:
“When
I was small I thought perhaps there was
A
place of rest for us sometime, somewhere,
Where
no one called and no one cried aloud.
I
sometimes thought of death as offering that.
Your
God is still my God and yet his Son,
Merciful
and forgiving, now eludes me.
My
sins are manifold. I feel myself
Exemplary
of the seven and faith a state
I
must remake each day, never a fixed
And
steadfast thing like Thomas’s or yours.
As
each sense fails, my consciousness narrows.
A
deep fear comes and not a childhood dream.
I
am not ready for my death. I fear
My
fear’s betrayal of my long-held faith.
Nor
is there anyone to comfort me,
Unless,
in some form God shapes for our souls
I
trust that you are here, that I am heard,
In
the broken conversation we call prayer.”
I
suspect Helen has never written more moving lines than these. The depth of
feeling is almost unbearable. I think of the lines she addressed to a late
friend in “Coronach for Christopher Drummond”:
“Whether
Jonson's grieving prayers,
Or
Milton's rich designs,
Or
Melville's rugged verse,
Or
Winters' densest lines,
“Your
mind knew the intent,
Your
voice wakened the sound—
The
sleeping beauty pent
In
chambers underground.”
Also
in the latest Sewanee Review are
three poems by R.L. Barth from a sequence titled “The Battle of Dien Bien Phu.”
Barth, one of the most industrious of poets, publishers and editors, is a
Marine Corps veteran of Vietnam. Here is “A Radioman at HQ Overhears Gen. Cogny”:
“`.
. .Now, Castries, listen carefully:
Cease
fire, but no white flags. You see?’
“And
so, at last, it comes to this:
Honor
reduced to pedantry.”
[For
more on Preston see Margaret Junkin
Preston, Poet of the Confederacy: A Literary Life (University of South
Carolina Press, 2007) by Stacey Jean Klein.]
1 comment:
I have been a frequent reader of your blog for two years, but have not commented before. Thank you for publishing such thoughtful entries on such a regular basis. I sometimes save several and then dive in on a weekend morning with my coffee and a record on. I just had to let you know how precious your words are to me. Thanks x
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