PERSONA POEMS ABOUT THE CIVIL WAR

BY THE AMERICAN HISTORY 11TH GRADE STUDENTS AT URBAN ASSEMBLY INSTITUTE FOR MATH & SCIENCE EDITED BY CAITS MEISSNER & BRODIE CRAWFORD

All poems copyright 2012Design & Layout by Caits Meissner

Poems written by high school juniors as part of the Urban Assembly Institute for Math and Science and Urban Arts Partnership’s Art Integration American History classes.

Special thanks to classroom teacher Brodie Crawford, teaching artist Caits Meissner, Urban Assembly Institute for Math and Science and the Urban Arts Partnership for

their support, guidance and resources

1. Leading the Life, Canice Munroe2. The Wounded Soldier Who Wondered What’s Next?, Rema Bryce3. Evil, Shaneil Da Silva4. The Tree, Sadia Aktar5. The Sweet Smell of Memories, Precious Aduware6. ‘Stache, Lucey Monize7. Black Lace, Thania Baez8. The Union Chair, Alyssa Taylor9. The Sorrowing Sword, Khassandria Chin10. I am a Sword, Monifa Abrams11. The Clock That Sees All, Amanda Robinson12. Angel of the Battlefield, Elizabeth Adesanya13. Black and White, Tameika Holder14. Refuge (The Tent), Kawana Matthews15. I Memorize Them, Christele Semi16. Untitled, Clishell Sealey17. Retelling the Blood, Tessa Lee-Thomas18. The Heart of a Soldier, Yamira Gonzalez19. The Boots, Elizabeth Thomas20. The Blood Shed, Mosi Hinds21. Growing Up Too Fast, Kaylah Walker22. I Hear All, I See All, I Feel All, Surquonna Soleyn23. The Mother Tree, Sydney Johnson24. Who Am I?, Eboni Caldwell25. Runaway Slaves, Olivia Liverman

TABLE OF CONTENTS26. Slaves, Maria Victory27. Charles Hayworth, Maya Spiers28. Fighting Wolves, Skye Jones29. We Are Colored Soldiers, Tanya Tanis30. Ready, Kwaalia Dantzler31. Untitled, Anonymous32. Heartbroken Tree, Regine Prittler33. Slave WOman, Nadgee Whitfield34. Alone in Mary Beth’s Cell, Nicole Britton35. Gone, Kenya Smith36. Dead Man, Kelsie Dove-Williams37. The Nurse of the Union, Xiomara Isaac38. The Infirmary, Natalie English39. Untitled, D’Leslie Jarvis40. Still Alive! Issis S. Torres41. Just Sitting, Tamara Fitzgordon42. Dying Slowly, Jasmin Nizam43. The Pillar and the Ruins, Ashley Triblet44. The Jacket of War, Shantia McArthur45. Lifeline: “Survival,” Oneesha Dixon46. Cotton, Camiel Walkes47. John Brown’s Shirt, Armanie Thomas 48. Burned Tracks, Jenny Lazarre49. Hot Flames, Rolanda Gill50. Drummer Boy, Mariam Hassan

In our American History eleventh grade class at Urban Assembly Institute for Math and Science, we had the opportunity to integrate art projects into the curriculum through Urban Arts Partnership. Lucky for us, we have an unbelievably creative student body who were not only up for the task, but really owned the experience of using art to bolster their learning and comprehension of the subject. What arrived what you see in this book: these daring, bold, moving poems.

The poems were a product of an in-depth project using primary sources to study history. As part of the project, students chose from two groups of primary source documents relating to the U.S. Civil War. While the first group of documents was varied, consisting of letters, speeches, political cartoons and posters, the second group of documents was composed exclusively of photographs from the peri-od- battle scenes, portraits of leaders, soldiers, and others. Students wrote their pieces in the voice of a character or object from a historical Civil War photograph. In artistic terms, we call these “persona poems.”

After researching these primary sources, students were tasked with writing a five to seven paragraph persuasive essay relating to ways in which primary sources can be be limited or unique in their perspective of events. Their poems were an interesting study in whether or not photographs, which appear to always “tell the truth,” are indeed, reliable. As they quickly found out, we were able to re-write history through an imagined voice. Of course, studentsresearched and used their knowledge of the era to create these voic-es, but even still, how much has creativity and art shaped what we know of history? It’s an interesting thought to ponder.

INTRODUCTION

Intro

To our students, thank you for your dedication and effort. These poems, as read in class during our open mic, or here in these pages, are all affecting, important and engaging to read. You took a difficult task and spun it to gold, here are living, breathing historical fiction accounts that allow a reader to enter into the Civil War era from a personal perspective. This book is proof of your successes. We hope you share your work far and wide!

In thanks, inspiration, history and poems,

Caits Meissner, Teaching Artist &Brodie Crawford, Teacher

GENERAL CUSTER AND MEMBERS OF THE GENERAL CAVALRY

I stand here before them all I leadI am their influence like the parent bird teaching the baby bird to fly they heed to my every callI am powerfulthis power is not something I hold in my hands not the sword that sneers at the enemy with warrior cries from the blade it strikesit is not something I hold in my mindbuilt with structured thoughts of obligationsbut it is something my soldiers hold in their hearts their minds set, they are serious about their performance in the tasks they are assigned all understanding their roles in the situations of the now accepting any possible outcome trusting in my every decision staring at me with genuine respect and admirationnever has anyone made me so proud to be who I am, do what I do and hope the way I have to know of my influence, that I can impact lives in this waytouching hearts of manymy pride is not only in them but their drive and determination their support of this side, their utmost faith in their beliefs they fightthey’re focusedI help them find themselvesmaking decisions that affect their future motivation to live at all costs, but cope with loss leading them to victory no matter what I lead, they followthough they lead me to do my job everydayadmire them all,The Union

LEADING THE LIFECanice Munroe

It’s hot and gloomyand the battle’s raging all around.This table’s very uncomfortable andI remember getting injured, but I wonder how bad it is.

I can hardly feel my leg and breathings just a waste of breath.the doctors around me are talking saying cut his leg off.This fallen soldier is welcomed home.

I try and speak and respond, no.But he put the rag on my face and I fell asleep.I wake up in excruciating pain like a bullet going through my skull.The clock tells me an hour passed.

My leg doesn’t hurt anymore I wonder.I look down and notice it’s gone.F*CK my life, I scream.What can I do now if I have no leg?

I lay here and wonder what’s going to happen now?If death and fate is all I’ve got…

THE WOUNDED SOLDIER WHO WONDERED WHAT’S NEXT?Rema Bryce

DOCTORS PREPARING TO PERFORM AN AMPUTATION ON A WOUNDED SOLDIER

It’s hot and gloomyand the battle’s raging all around.This table’s very uncomfortable andI remember getting injured, but I wonder how bad it is.

I can hardly feel my leg and breathings just a waste of breath.the doctors around me are talking saying cut his leg off.This fallen soldier is welcomed home.

I try and speak and respond, no.But he put the rag on my face and I fell asleep.I wake up in excruciating pain like a bullet going through my skull.The clock tells me an hour passed.

My leg doesn’t hurt anymore I wonder.I look down and notice it’s gone.F*CK my life, I scream.What can I do now if I have no leg?

I lay here and wonder what’s going to happen now?If death and fate is all I’ve got…

THE WOUNDED SOLDIER WHO WONDERED WHAT’S NEXT?Rema Bryce

My life is full of EVIIIIILLLall I do is cause paincrying, *sounds of whipping*screams, Aaaaaaaah!Yells, Whyyyyyyy!Cursing, F*ccccckkkk!my life is full of bloodwhen people see me they run like a marathonthe words that come out of their mouth is the flames of hell, the hatredI don’t know why I hurt or cause painI am a puppet control by handsthe pale white man uses me like a toolthey pick me up with their clammy handsput me against the bodythen push me forwardthen pull me backas I cutakin & bonethe blood splashes everywhereafter my work is donethe person is missing a limbthen on to the next personto start the evil again

EVILShaneil Da Silva

EVIL This process was easy, because it was able to get my self in the boys perspective. I learned that I am actually good at writing and coming up with ways to make a poem rhyme. I would do this again, because I think it makes you a good writer.-Mariam Hassan

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CONFEDERATE SOLDIERS AFTER THE BATTLE OF CHANCELLORSVILLE

The process of writing this poem was easy for reasons such as placing myself into the roots of a tree. Being an object is hard, but to see yourself frozen in a moment of time (the picture), it’s easy to reflect on what you’ve been through. I learned about the battle of chancellorsville and how it was part of the war. I also learned that when covering a topic like the civil war, it’s not just one broad topic, but it is more in depth and gets very specific once you begin to learn about it.

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-Sadia Akhtar

We spoke, lectured like body languageI tried to give a speech of opiniontopic of conversation was deathsomething I never understood.

But I always had a million explanationsI saw it as a relieflike putting an over worked heart to restit goes through its beating and achesometimes chiseled in all parts.

I didn’t want to go through beatings and aches.But I did.

I wanted for them to hear my voiceso I shook my branches, trying to stop the violencebut they stomped upon my rootsthe guns triggered and went off, but the bullets missed the targetsand instead hit my body, my stemI am only a tree, but I, too, have feelingsbut they did not notice such.

Well, I wanted no more torture, no more too-good-to-be-truesnever being what they seem, but exactly what you thoughtscreeching of lies going silent as your voice is humbledpeace and silenceor is it when they finally got hold of the tongues-that speak of peacethat speak of death.

When bullets are done crying, and there is nothing but silenceis this why no one ever knows how death sounds?there’s no survivors to describe it.You see, death… It can pull tears out of a dry well of a heartor even the barks of my bodyeither it being an ambitious bullet from an abusive home that lacked directionor the pulse of the heartnaturally harmonizing with holy trumpets which lacked bassgrowing up seen death as life’s dead beat baby fatheryou don’t see him your whole life and when you do, it’s too latedeath is death.

And you’ll never know what it’s like until you stop living.

THE TREE Sadia Aktar

We eatyou eatwe all eatand wonderWhat would it be like again to eat a home cooked meal?To sit down at the dinner with clean clothes.To laugh.To smell the sweet smell of breakfast in the morning.But after all that work is doneit’s time for dinnerand when someone asks, “who cooked this?”You know you cooked your best O’ sweet memories that will never be forgotten. But then again, we sit down together and thinkwhat our next move will behow to protect ourselves from the opposite sideto stick with each other and say to each otherwe are family nowwe eat, we sleep and fight togetherwe fight for the better butnever for the worstwe always stick our biggest foot forward andthe smallest back

THE SWEET SMELL OF MEMORIES Precious Aduware

SOLDIERS IN A CAMP, EATING

I am more than just hair on the upper lipI hang off a man who got shot in the hiphe didn’t bother to duck or to dipso he lays dead as I hang on his lip.This man worked hard, and you can tellhe worked so hard to the day he fell.So I hang here as a piece of historyand I can tell his story.As he lay here dead, I still curl upthe smell so bad, I wanna hurl up.It’s a shame, he was so lovedI’d know, I was there from the beginning of--beginning of life, he had a wifeand kids to go along.His last lunch, his last brunchbefore he went to battleit’s shown here, in the picture therebefore he got shook like a rattle.

‘STACHELucey Monize

The first person perspective is more powerful than the narrator because it’s like a backstage pass to your personal autobiography on your thoughts. Instead of narrator telling the story, the reader gets to hear it right out of your heart. -Amanda Robinson

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ROSE GREENHOW, CONFEDERATE SPY

Black lace eating at the cotton sings slowly a sweet song while the ribbon caresses itself, watching the rifle watch patiently the bullet, the bullet watching fearfully the soldier. See the bullet dance it’s ritual dance on air, on flesh, in flesh swinging like on a pole silver and cold, enveloped in its heavy darkness, we fall quick.

The trim on and around me gulps the seeping smell of burning flesh. Wrapped in a hostile distance is a telegraph of truth.Ticking, tempting freely is the clock watching, watch as time slips and dips and trips and ticks, things keep twisting deadly like locks and threads and threats. Veiled cape on my face, on my body, en mi rostro.

I am hidden beneath a million hands, trapped between a million men.Wear me out, turn me inside out; I need to bathe in your despair and your secrecy, lie upside down on your thrill.

Hang me out to dry, I need to freeze and feel the heat.Ride me up on my silhouette, make me whole, come to me now.I see you fly mid-air, drive by with flare and swiftly you miss, you, plunge.

BLACK LACEThania Baez

Born of the great willow in central New Jerseycreated by the sweat blood and tears of freed slavesmy name is Union Chair My loyalties can be found carved into the butt of my seathere I stand at the age of six,like the drummer boy standing in the ranks I am not a soldier,I am a citizen with pride the traitors of my people sit and smile,but soon their fate will reach them How I got here was an obstacle faced with strengthbecause my journey was the length of my ties to the northI’ve lived all these years with great pride in my people So the year the union fallsI, too, will crumble

THE UNION CHAIR Alyssa Taylor

I chose to write from the perspective of the “little black dress” that the little girl is wearing, because I thought it would be interesting to show what the girl had been through, through the dress. The dress is watching ev-erything around her that occurs. The poem being told in the voice of the dress as opposed to the third person narration is more powerful. Hearing the truth from the person who experiences it always has more detail and is more interesting. Five people might all be eye witness accounts, but all five of those people will not have seen the same thing. This is why it is important to examine all first persona accounts closely. When you do, you can pick at the different pieces of the puzzle to find the truth. -Thania Baez

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Writing the poem was difficult. I learned a lot about how prisoners of war were treated. I also learned that I notice a lot of small things that other people don’t recognize. I would do this project again because it is a creative way to learn about a subject. -Alyssa Taylor

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I chose to write from the perspective of the “little black dress” that the little girl is wearing, because I thought it would be interesting to show what the girl had been through, through the dress. The dress is watching ev-erything around her that occurs. The poem being told in the voice of the dress as opposed to the third person narration is more powerful. Hearing the truth from the person who experiences it always has more detail and is more interesting. Five people might all be eye witness accounts, but all five of those people will not have seen the same thing. This is why it is important to examine all first persona accounts closely. When you do, you can pick at the different pieces of the puzzle to find the truth. -Thania Baez

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Writing the poem was difficult. I learned a lot about how prisoners of war were treated. I also learned that I notice a lot of small things that other people don’t recognize. I would do this project again because it is a creative way to learn about a subject. -Alyssa Taylor

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If I was a bird I wouldfly away from the gruesome view.If I was a horse I wouldrun away from the sounds of terror. But I am a swordTRAPPED in the hand of a man in blue and brass.Forced to pierce the sides of manand ride along side a galloping beast.

Blood shedmy blade stays red.I know many identitiesbut no names. I should go around with no shamebut I am partially the one to blame,or misplaced organsarms, hands, heads, legs.If only I could beg, to STOP the madness!If only I could cryand wash the pain away.Wash the hands of these brutal men fighting-each other, their own people.

But I can’tBecause I am just a sword, a sorrowing sword.

THE SORROWING SWORDKhassandria Chin

UNION CAVALRY SOLDIERS THE BATTLE OF VICKSBURG

I am a sword I live to fight and fight to live by my partners side day by day but the pain never go away.I lay those helpless soldiers to rest as if they were tired.Never feel pity and fear for themblood dripping all over me.In my hometownI fight dailywe are undefeatable.I am a sword,I live to fight and fight to live.My partner and I are like two peas in a pod.I am a sword.At the end of the day when we winmy partner and I relax and reminisce on the damage we’ve done,in our hometownour streets of Richmond, Va.

I AM A SWORD Monifa Abrams

Photos can be reliable sources for information, but they also can’t, be-cause a picture is worth a 1,000 words, but also people can make many different assumptions about a photo. -Dakira Colclough

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PORTRAIT OF CLARA BARTON, CIRCA 1866

Tick-tock, I’m watching youyeah you, over there, hurting your brother, enslaving your sisterhunting them with the hunger of a lionyears have passed as I watched you screw upover and overWhy do you hurt each other? Why do you segregatewhat is supposed to be a Union, a fellowship?Its like you just can’t get righta broken record playing over and over againyou need to stop this crap!Time passes on and on, but it just seems to gets worsewhen I die, I do not want to be surrounded by the decayed bodies of my cousins and dried blood on my faceI want to die surrounded by love and new lifeknowing that a change is made in the way we livetick-tock, I will always be watching you

THE CLOCK THAT SEES ALLAmanda Robinson

Clara, calm, clever, and caringwilling, daring, helping and lovingmen bleeding and hurting like a girl during her bad “time of the month”screaming and yelling surrounding her everydayeven though they are not from her kids The men in hospitals beds, babies in cribsher heart is as strong as a bodybuilderthe chair she sits on feels honoredthe arms on the clock races against the northwatching her save more livesstoic yet heroichelping men free slaves of the South

ANGEL OF THE BATTLEFIELDElizabeth Adesanya

Black and white image like the TV screenlike a person waiting to take a photo48 years of living, Clara Bartontaking care of the soldier, teaching othersyou know... something like the motherly roleas the clouds come togetheras the wind whispers my different occupationsI sit and stare at the clockmy life is hectic like the streetsmy job wears me outin the end, I feel that it’s worth itblack and white image like the TV screendoing something positive, creating the Red Crosswas like waiting for grass to grow48 years of living, Clara BartonCatholic, living in Maryland, teacher and nursea still black and white portrait of success

BLACK AND WHITETameika Holder

ABRAHAM LINCOLN AT THE BATTLE OF ANTIETAM, 1862

In the photo it looked like Abraham Lincoln was doing something undercover. I had a lot of questions on why there were two men standing next to him in front of a tent. Then it looked like he was in the middle of nowhere. I wanted to know what he was doing there. First, I came up with a few questions on what I thought was going on in the picture. Then, I analyzed what the caption was saying. Based on the caption I did a little research on what and where the picture was taken. I felt like coming up with a crazy problem and giving life now to one of the things in the pic-ture that would help me figure out how to write the poem. -Clishell Sealey

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I saw and I heardbut I refused to crythe thought that my little boys had died.Emotions took over‘cause only a few returned.The rest lay somewhere farmutated and burned.It was just that morning that I watched them prepareI stood and admired as they flaunted their gear.Oh! How handsome my boys looked!In their navy, pleated frocks and dark boots.My boys that returned do not seem the same,they stand before metheir faces masked with grime and blood stains.Ugh, my stomach pierced with pain.My throat tight,and teeth clenched,I just couldn’t cry.I swore words at those men in gray,I signed myself and began to pray.I asked God to forgive them for what they did to my boys.My eyes watered,I had the urge to weep.I caught myself,and held it back.For they are MY boys,and enduring weakness is not a choice.For I am their refuge,I must remain strong.

REFUGE (THE TENT)Kawana Matthews

In the home of the Renaissance I was createdby the hands of a craftsman I was madeon the driest land and the wettest road I was shared. On the day that imprints the hearton the day that burns the mindson the night that souls shareon the nights that scare uson the days that groups revoltI am used.Click, Click! On this day filled with black cloudsa valley of reda river of tearsI memorize for those after me. Here stands a man with a visionwhose heart fills with passionlike the river Thames. He saves the people with skinthe color of Cacaowhose backs extended this nationwhose sweat and tears nourished this landI memorized them.Click, Click!

I MEMORIZE THEMChristele Semi

It’s 1862, we are two years into the warit’s the Civil WarUnions haven’t won a battle yetlike men dying

Who would have known thisthat this day would bewould be the bloodiest day ever

these tents stand tall tall like Abraham, who is on the right of me

the trees stand on postthey stand on post watching for the enemiesWho is the enemy?Well, not me.

This disagreement I have with Mr. Lincoln it isn’t compared to the Confederate like men dying

I don’t agree!My disagreement is stronger than the Confederatethe grass ran faster than the WIND itselfbut it’s 1862, we are 2 years into the war

It’s the Civil War the grass told me we WON!we won the battle of Antietam the bloodiest day ever

He, Mr. Lincoln, holds the Emancipation Proclamationit’s there within his handhe is ready to share it with everyoneit declares “that all persons held as slaves”within the rebellious states“Are, and henceforward shall be free.”Yes, I don’t agree with him only because I don’t care.

You can come to the conclusion, the conclusion that I am cold hearted.

UNTITLEDClishell Sealey

On very cold winters when people were astray us trees in the field we stand and we staysome are very young & some of us are oldfor instance Mr. Barky with his 150-year soul on long winter nights we trees we gather round some of us look happy, and others with a frown Mr. Barky here so long knowing all about the past sits and tells a story of the old crazy past.He tells a story of the Battle at Savage Stationseeing humans fight was such a frustrationthe men were killing like a predator on prey blood was everywhere like a splatter of red paint He yelled, “Right here we stand, men died tall!”I was here when the battle happened; I was here for it all. Dead men, wounded or in shock, lying downmy trunk was clutched by hands of bodies on the ground. That day I stood tall and brave for those menall surrounded me, I felt like their friendI felt like a fighter or a helper in this war for the Battle of Savage Station was really hurtful and wrong.But as I reflect and I tell you this story America now is kind of hearty in its gloryfor difference were settled and changes were made so I love this country for I was there and still am here for then and now to enjoy its glory days

RETELLING THE BLOODTessa Lee-Thomas

WOUNDED SOLDIERS AT THE BATTLE OF SAVAGE STATION

I chose to write from the perspective of a tree because trees don’t do much, but in the photo, if you look close-ly, it looks as if the tree is comforting these people or giving them support. Wars today are very cruel and tragic. Many men may get wounded but due to the fact that we have new medical techniques, and medical assisting, we are able to save a lot more men. -Tessa Lee-Thomas

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A war is a fight of powerin which some of no return fear knocked on the door of each soldiers’ conscious faith answered with courage and strengthas a great path is takentrees are allies to those who know them bestblood is spilled of the great warriorsThe Grim Reaper holds the souls who didn’t give enough wind blows with the whisper of those in rejoycement

THE HEART OF A SOLDIERYamira Gonzalez

PORTRAIT OF A CHILD COMBAT SOLDIER (PROBABLY CONFEDERATE) WITH COLT

REVOLVER ON BELT. PHOTO TAKEN IN NASHVILLE, TN IN 1860

I’m usedI’m wornI rest on the ground and taste the dirtI guideI walkI’m strong enough to take the pain andeat up the blood of my enemiesI can feel the sweat and the tearsof my owner. It’s like a flood overtaking my insidesI carry and leadthe guiltthe madnessthe painthe hurtof a little boy who isimmatureandunwisemy ears hurt as the bullets and peopleexchange words with each otherwhen I step on the battlefield“am I fighting on the correct side or am I wasting away?”he is the corrupted king, while I am the dirty peasant who is there to please him.I must show my loyalty, I must not rip apart or my honor will be broken.I guide, I walk, I carry, I lead, I am broken.

THE BOOTSElizabeth Thomas

I wrote from the boot’s perspective because I wanted to write from a perspective that isn’t common. My topic can relate to the modern world because in the modern world there are still children working to provide for their families and some children are dying from labor. -Elizabeth Thomas

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The cannons pulled though

knocking everyone down like a football player. The bullets penetrating through their skin. The blood running out like a waterfall. Dead bodies flying across the sky. Dead bodies hitting the ground. Bouncing up and down like a ball. Dead bodies in the gutter. Take me home. Get me out of this place. I am eleven years old. Pleasant Hill is a field of blood shed.

THE BLOOD SHEDMosi Hinds

Day and night I stand herelike a dog waiting for Yankeesto try and break in.I realize now that I am a10-year-old child who works forthe Confederate Army. I amputting myself at riskfor being here right now.I ask myself everyday“How could I be so stupid?”I’m too young too die!In mamma’s eyesI’m becoming a man butI’m growing uptoo damn fast…

GROWING UP TOO FASTKaylah Walker

I am black, old, new and scared.My job is to replenish the earth.I am the grounds you walk on, fight on, bleed on.I hear all, I see all, I feel all.Boom! The battle has started.I hear the sound of bullets piercing in the bodyas it’s sharpened by the ribs. Time and time has gone by,you’re still here.I hear your heart beating, can you?Ahh, what’s that I hear?It’s the sound of the prayer of your blood.It has stained me, now I am old. Shh! The battle is over,the sun has gone down.It is dark, no more light,which means no more lives.Oh gosh, no! I think I’m gonna be sick.The taste of your blood, it’s bitter and bad to my grounds.Oh wait, hallelujah! It’s rain.It’s come to wash away my sins,and give me new baptism and life. Good and brand as new,I can replenish again.The sun has come up,which means new lives.Ahh, man! Boom! Crash!It all starts again.

I HEAR ALL, I SEE ALL, I FEEL ALL Surquonna Soleyn(ALL IN THE VOICE OF THE SOIL DURING BATTLE)

SOLDIERS GUARDING A BATTLEFIELD TELEGRAPH STATION, 1864

The soil drew my attention in the photo because it made me wonder and think about if I was the soil, how would I feel if battles were always taking place on my grounds? -Surquonna Soleyn

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RUNAWAY SLAVES, PHOTO TAKEN IN CULPEPPER, VA , 1863

I wrote from the perspective of the tent. I see many connections to today's world. I see that some people may be running away from things, not slavery, but other problems they are having in their life and they need a safe haven or a place of peace. Everyone wants to feel safe, free and at peace, and this project helped me realize that everyone needs this at some point in their lives. -Eboni Caldwell

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RUNAWAY SLAVES, PHOTO TAKEN IN CULPEPPER, VA , 1863

Now let me seewhere you ought to go where you want to be, I am the mother tree.

Let my plants and young guide you through the night, set up shop here, let me take care of you for the night, Let my trunk hold your tent up high, let my soil be where you lie. Use my branches to start a fire let me give you the warmth you need I shall suffer because your strength strengthens me. As you’ve bled I will bleed, my love for your perseverance is why I will fight for you to be free.

THE MOTHER TREE Sydney Johnson

I shelter them within, who ran away from themaway from the hands that has African Americans in themthe non-stop working the blood shedthe separating of familythe whipping of every backsideas the blood gushes out they hope for a change a place where they can be safea place like mewho protects and watches out for many African AmericansI am always behind this tree inconspicuous as I can beI am this place of restthe place of shelterthe place of hopethe resting place of the wounded as time goes on and they all leave me hereI wonder am I being used? What is my purpose?The answers finally come to me,I was created to protect not just one but many slavesrunning for a better lifeI am the reason these runaway slaves have a better lifeI am behind this tree to make a differenceto help those in needI am a tent because I shelter those withinI protectI watchmore importantly, I help make a difference

WHO AM I?Eboni Caldwell

Two negros on the run, one old and one young.Morning, noon and night, we stick together if we have to fight. This tent we call our shelter, this is home for now. When we see the sunrise again. We are up on the journey. Two negros playing hide and seek until the white man announces, “game over.”

Culpepper, Virginia is all we know, all we been and all we see. White nan tells us when to stop and go, the scar never fades, they remind us why we should go. All around the town we go, our mission never ends,until next time we start again to see were our journey begins…

RUNAWAY SLAVESOlivia Liverman

My name is Billy I am30 years old, I sit here on themark, beside my partner Chris.2 runaway slaves. I am black like the dirtthat’s coming off my skin. On this field sitting with nowhereto go other than sleeping in a lousy tent.I walk by faith, not by sight, but my faith was to flee from the paths I’ve chosen. I always sit back and ask myself why did I run away?What did I ever do to become such a slave? Is it because of the color ofmy skin? Am I worth it? My dreams lay in the palm of my hands, the nastysmell of the Culpepper, Virginia wind that matches my deathful body odor,like the nasty smell of the trash around the atmosphere. I ask myself wheream I? All these leaves on the floor flying around in a circle. Billy: Chris! We are nowhere near freedom.Chris: Billy, day after day I wish of a better life or one day we’ll get capturedback into our slavery days.

SLAVESMaria Victory

Running like a cheetah, cutting twigs and grass out of our way. Wanting to get my family safely to the North. Using the North stars, that whispered “ Go here & there.” The noise sounds like sirens warning us that we won’t make it.

Dog’s bark keeps us on edge like we are on a cliff. Traveling from forest to other’s man land give us the darkest moments, losing ourselves in our own escape. Only goal is to make it North. Safe with my family. I am free at last but what are we going to do, now we worry. I see the poster up for black soldiers. I enter the draft leaving my family behind knowing that I will be back some day. Learning that I’m helping my brothers & sisters become free. I shoot the confederates because of what they done to us for years. Learning that life is something you have to make the best of, not the worst.

CHARLES HAYWORTHMaya Spiers

- We do this everyday.- Watching the power of our gun pray. - Just two black guys in the army. - Fighting and shooting behind me. - Hoping we won’t die tonight.- Because I don’t want to go night, night.- The people on the other side drop- like children on ice.- like nuts on a tree. - My bullets fly like cats and dogs. - As if we was fighting wolves.

FIGHTING WOLVESSkye Jones

AFRICAN AMERICAN UNION SOLDIERS FIGHTING NEAR DUTCH CANAL GAP, VIRGINIA

MEMBERS OF THE 54th MASSACHUSETTES INFANTRY, DATE UNKNOWN

WE ARE COLORED SOLDIERSMore than 1800,00 on foot 10,000 by sea, dark as the night we obeyed the white seaswift as the beeswe sting the enemy we fought the battle at Fort Sumnter and lostbut the war was wondenounced, put down, and just fish in the gutterno compensation on the front lines but were always the once to die firstwe fired aimlessly groaning and moaningthe sounds of sexual tormentwe died at the hands of our masters slaves of the white man slaves of this war

WE ARE COLORED SOLDIERSTanya Tanis

I wrote in the perspective of how the soldiers felt because none of the soldiers were smiling at all. They all had solemn faces so I wrote in the perspective of how they were treated in the time of the Civil War. One can apply this to the world where we can volunteer to do something, but feel the free work we did was in vain. This is exactly how I believe the soldiers felt. -Tanya Tanis

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We sit like dogs waiting for food I take a deep breath as I sit and wait with all the othersI went through my training and worked just as hard as kids in a sweatshopI’m sweatingit’s hotter than a slave ship in hereeveryone is ready and confident and I’m secretly panickingI’m a nervous wreck!I’m a black soldier on a mission a scared black soldier on a missiononce these doors open it’s wartime and I have to at least try to be strong for my teamI guess I should be proud of myselfI am one of the not so many black soldiersmy team are now all of a sudden big babies because we are getting closer to that timemy heart is playing a song and I don’t know if I’m able to keep upmy legs are weakweaker than my breaththe doors open and I can see the other sidethey look readyI just don’t know if I am

READYKwaalia Dantzler

I’m just 26 years old.Why am I holding a rifle in my hand?I guess in 1866 that’s what you call a workingman.I have nothing but anger on my face,but since I ran away this must be my place.Kill or be killed is my motto.Sometimes I wish I were white,I’d have money like I won the lotto.I close my eyes and look left and rightAll of a sudden I’m in an alleythere’s nothing but black that surrounds me.Then I open my eyes and see a group of African Americans,being shot and killed innocently. Fighting a war that we aren’t apart of.So I go back to my question.Why am I holding a rifle in my hand?Then shot, I am on the floor. With no medication I speak my last wordlong live the colored men at war.

UNTITLEDAnonymous

The tree is against slavery when she hugs the tree. She feels her pain and sees what she goes through in her everyday life. Branches are falling off. When he sees what she goes through, it breaks him apart, literally. I lived in the south where everything took place and I witnessed everything. I’m very old. I work everyday. I see slaves working their asses off and the slave owner just kicks back. It breaks me down to see all of this. The day is dull, cloudy like an old cemetery.

HEARTBROKEN TREERegine Prittler

A slave womanworking for the white manuneducated but knows her rightslooking for freedomeven if it costs her life, she’s willing to fighta slave womanworking for the white manfar away from her familywonder will she ever see them againa slave womanworking for the white manbeing treated unequalwondering,“will I ever be free?”“Will I ever see the light?”Or, “will I have to continue this struggle through the night?”

SLAVE WOMANNadgee Whitfield

PORTRAIT OF A SLAVE WOMAN, DATE UNKNOWN

I decided to write on the perspective of the camera. I learned that a leader has to be calm and strong even when the environment around them is not. When I look at the modern world, I see many leaders. A lot of these leaders have huge responsibilities and when they are weak, cannot show it. -Christele Seme

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This hasn’t been the first slave.I came back another year thinking I was stronger but the cleansing hasn’t done a thinganother woman I seealone in Mary Beth’s celllong, slender, and made of steelI’m as weak as a cancer patientI hold up this forty year old woman yet againshe pulls and tugs at my arms as she pleads for freedomMary cries me a river every nightI can’t help but watch as Master Aaron enters day by day to get only one thingas she refuses, he doesn’t hesitate to grab that broomI wait as the dark takes my spaces so I won’t have to see anymoreI’m sorry.

ALONE IN MARY BETH’S CELLNicole Britton

DEAD CONFEDERATE SOLDIER AT THE BATTLE OF PETERSBURG, 1865

1865.Petersburg, VA.Confederate soldier dead.My job is done.He’s dead now,he’s dead like the old stems in the ground,like the dirty smell of the south.I feel accomplished.I reached my goal.Now the devil locked his ugly soul.My job is done.My bullet is deep in his sour flesh,my trigger was his deathbed.My aim was crisp, like the back of his rusty shoes.The only thing is… I’m dead too.That was my last bullet.My third strike.I’m a cat and I gave him my 9th life.Now my dumb ass is right behind him.Should of saved that bullet, but my mind saw red.So much for being a hero…Now we’re both dead.I’m gone.

GONEKenya Smith

Dead man, Dead manLying on the floor Dead man, Dead manCrying with out sound Dead man, Dead manDid the war do this to you? Dead man, Dead manI’m curious to know who abused you Dead man, Dead manthe war was cruel to you, now you’re not here to know what your daughter would do for you Dead man, Dead manWe are always here for you

DEAD MANKelsie Dove-Williams

Dead man, Dead manLying on the floor Dead man, Dead manCrying with out sound Dead man, Dead manDid the war do this to you? Dead man, Dead manI’m curious to know who abused you Dead man, Dead manthe war was cruel to you, now you’re not here to know what your daughter would do for you Dead man, Dead manWe are always here for you

DEAD MANKelsie Dove-Williams

I was able to translate this photo into my poem because after I looked at how many soldiers dead skeletons were lying on the field, and how the workers were just throwing them on top of each other on the stretches, just to dump them into a hole, it made me think about the lives of those soldiers. Soldiers are supposed to be honored when they die, they’re supposed to have a memorial because they gave their lives for their country, but in this photo, these soldiers were not being honored, they were disrespect-ed. I wrote the perspective I chose because sometimes we need to realize that soldiers go out on battlefields and fight for their country, but at the same time they are also human beings who have dreams and family and things they want to do with in life. -Jasmin Nizam

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Deceive those not of my world.I do not care for those who care for me.Deception and destruction of their trust.It is a two-way road on the path of healing.In sickness and in health,I will destroy you from the inside out.You will never see the outside of this tent.Never again will you see your family.And the last we will see of you is a box and gruesome envelope.Filled with evidence of you. Confederate scum.Your days and nights.A record of your fights.And how you got sick and died?Well, let’s just keep that between you and me.This crudely-made syringe mocks you.It smiles through its needle.You’ll only feel a pinch.Yes I am a nurse.But who says I’m here to make you feel better?Your death sentence was that battle on Bull Run.And that dose of morphine will make you sleep a lot longer than anticipated.Cry through that fever for your mother.Your grey eyes are rainclouds.It will do you no good.The curtain will close.Your time recorded.Like a train, you are right on time.And like an owl, I will descend onto my next victim.Silly confederates, you never see it coming.

THE NURSE OF THE UNIONXiomara Isaac

NURSE TREATING WOUNDED SOLDIERS, DATE UNKNOWN

It’s obvious that a nurse’s job is to make patients feel better, You can tell she’s caring for them because she has bottles and a platter in her hands and she is standing between the soldier’s beds. I made an in-ference to what her intentions were and my poem spun off from those small ideas and my little periods of inspiration. -Xiomara Isaac

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My dear son,

I miss youcan’t wait to come homethe infirmary is dark and cold like a winter nightpatients come and go like the moon comes and goes at nightsome have been shotand some need amputations the days get shorterand the nights get colder.I just can’t wait ‘til I get home…

THE INFIRMARYNatalie English

BURIAL DETAIL AT THE BATTLE OF COLD HARBOR

The picture shows a group of African-American men cleaning up dead bodies on the Battlefield of Cold Harbor. It looked gory and disturbing. I wrote as a dead person still cheering his side on. I decided to do that because if he was still alive, he would’ve wanted to keep fighting. -Issis Torres

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Watching everyone around me being blown away by the grenades. Their bodies in the air are volcano lava being spewed out. Fighting for abolishment of slavery. Fighting for the future, a brighter day that will be better for our children and their children’s children. Precisely planning out potion. Attacking the grey hounds who try to steal sheep, freedom and equality. Charging into the war with pride, bravery, and strength. Then it hits me, like a big ball of fire, the cannon ball. My body lays scattered on the ground, my spirit rises and I see my dead body. I fought like a mother lion protecting her cubs. I cannot fight anymore. I’ve fought as much as I could before the Lord has said my time was up. I watch my body decompose. I am now a skeleton. The remains of a soldier. The remains of an almost free slave. The remains of an African descendent. The remains of a person trying to change the future. My soul is a story of the Confederate win that should not have been. A seven mile sea of dead Union soldiers stretch from Bethesda Church to the Chickahominy River. 15,500 dead. 13,000 were our Union patriots. My spirit helplessly watching Mother Na-ture and her pets maul and destroy my body. I am a Union soldier that died fighting for the freedom of slaves and myself. A fierce buck protecting my equality, knocking antlers with the opposers. Why was I not properly buried? Why was I left there to die? Why was I not recognized as a respected soldier? Did I not sacrifice my life so that the generations to come would have a better future? Cold is what the harbor, and the hearts of the people who left me there to die, have in common.

UNTITLEDNatalie EnglishD’Leslie Jarvis

BURIAL DETAIL AT THE BATTLE OF COLD HARBOR

The picture shows a group of African-American men cleaning up dead bodies on the Battlefield of Cold Harbor. It looked gory and disturbing. I wrote as a dead person still cheering his side on. I decided to do that because if he was still alive, he would’ve wanted to keep fighting. -Issis Torres

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I look back and still have the same feeling as I did at that very mo-ment. Trying to be as ready as possible, doing all the drills, preparing for a brutal war, sleeping in disgusting places, almost as disgusting as sleeping in your own feces. They attacked us once more, the Union I mean. They tried to attack us like the starving wolves that attacked the dead bodies of my friends on the battlefield. They ripped off the rotting flesh of the bodies that have been there only a few days, leav-ing only bones. Not only were they shot, murdered, and killed, but also they were eaten. I still watch around with pride. I’m not going anywhere, I refuse. Here is where I continue to fight. My spirit re-mains protecting my fellow soldiers, I leave my lifeless body pieces lying on the ground, but they’re still alive, because I’m here, and it won’t change, and neither will slavery. Slaves are ours, they belong to us and our states will remain separate. This country is ours. We are the South; the Confederates, and we will end up on top. We are strong, as strong as a hungry and dangerously huge beast. We’re lions attacking our prey. There will continue to be blood and death as long as our sides shall fight. We may not have as many people and we may not have as good weapons, but they’re in our home, and that’s OUR benefit.

STILL ALIVE!Natalie EnglishIssis S. Torres

I’m just sitting here wondering why? Will that be in the future?Digging and digging; Dead bodies arise in the mist of my sight Collecting more and more bodies Wondering, thinking Am I related to them? I don’t knowSitting here feeling the souls screaming for helpSitting next to the bodiesWhy are other people acting like it’s normal, but it’s not WONDERING WHY?!

JUST SITTINGNatalie EnglishTamara Fitzgordon

All of a sudden all you hear is screamingall I see is bullets flyingwe were three of us, relaxingbut before you know it, we had our guards sky high upbullets flying as bodies are dropping“Take cover,” I screamI felt as the sun hugged meI ran behind the old mango treeas I drop down to my kneesI’m alive but I’m dyingI feel something warm dripping down my bodythis tree is sucking my soul upas the soil is absorbing my blooda slight turn my body tookall I see is bloody bodiesI know, I know I’m dying slowlyI’m on my knees please, lord, let me liveBut yet I’m lifelessI feel my heart slowing downI see my daughter’s frownand all of a sudden everything frozemy heart stopped and my eyes closed

DYING SLOWLYJasmin Nizam

Death in the air.ruins every wheresouls and slavesbuildings destroyed by fire.Slaves burning.Me, the pillar in Charleston, South Carolina,I’ve felt it and seen it all.The dry hot air around me.The confederates tried to break me downbut I stand tall and strong.Death is around me like a graveyard.The confederates lost.The unions gained.Lives were here working.I felt their spirits, I see them in the air.I felt their pain.Souls were here and souls are gone.I am just the ruins and pillar that was leftafter the union destroyed my state.

THE PILLAR AND THE RUINSNatalie EnglishAshley Triblet

1860, SHERMAN’S MARCH TO THE SEACHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA

PORTRAIT OF ULYSSES S. GRANT, COMMANDER OF UNION FORCES

Who am I?I am the symbol of your respect and endurance.Who am I?I am the one that is worn only during warand then left to hang without a chance.You ask who I am?I’m the representation of persistence and achievement.My stars are your struggle as I am your authority.Not once have I seen the bright side to life,and I have always been right there, as the gun was aimed without regret.Without me there would be no guidance, no leadership.But then again, what is my true purpose?To build them up, or watch them fall?

THE JACKET OF WARNatalie EnglishShantia McArthur

SLAVES WORKING IN A COTTON FIELD, CIRCA 1863

I need it for survival,Like a cub needy for its mother.

Sweat jumps off my face as I bleed like a leaking faucet.My back aches as it cranks with a merciless roar.

This plant, white as snow, but more deadly than it appears.It pricks as its vines intertwine with these peasant hands of mine.

I need it for survival,To feed the mouths I’ve watched over, to feed my own being as well.

The scorching Southern sun beams its rays against my already darkened skinas it blankets me.

1863, no mercy for a colored like me.Can’t find no salvation, no given deeds.

AnotherDay in

TheField

Pickin’Cotton

AndSeeds.

I need it for survival,The white man is my lifeline for now.

LIFELINE: “SURVIVAL”Natalie EnglishOneesha Dixon

SLAVES WORKING IN A COTTON FIELD, CIRCA 1863

I’m a cotton, I’m a cotton, I’m a cotton!I’m in your shirtI’m in your sockI’m in you stockingI’m a cotton, I’m a cotton, I’m a cottonI get picked from a bunch like I am rottenI am cotton!Get in your throat and you die, it’s very shocking!Now I’m a killer, I’m a killer, I’m a killerAnne’s allergic to me so ima’ kill her.I’m a killer!But I’m still cotton.Fuzzy and round like rotten pepperoni toppings.I’m am cotton!

COTTONNatalie EnglishCamiel Walkes

The photo showed showed a lot of grief and anger because of their facial expres-sions. Also, it seemed to be a moment they was off-guard, which made it feel more realistic. I wrote from the female in the picture because I figured slaves that were women had a harder time with their needs while they worked. I strongly feel like there is slavery still in existence in our present day lives. It isn’t easy to identify, but there is a definite effect of inequality. -Oneesha Dixon

I wrote my poem from the perspective of cotton because it played an important role in slavery lasting so many years. -Morgan Michelle

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PORTRAIT OF JOHN BROWN, DATE UNKNOWN

In generations to come I’ll be referred to as the “fabric of our lives”what most people don’t take into consideration the lives it takes to pick this “fabric.”Ashamed to be made of cottonI fight to demolish those “cotton dictators”to let those innocent people freeI adapt to one person’s thoughtsJOHN BROWNa soon to be hero, he will make a difference in many livesit may not be self-evident to some, but it soon will!We help desperately to free these peopleas if they were in a burning building with no way outtheir masters suffocate them with work like the smoke would when it uprisesthe only difference is there is no alarm to warn them of the killer flamesJohn’s goals were clear: to abolish slavery once and for all!Finally, it’s time to fight for what’s fair.We Fought, We killed but we were caught,trailed for treason against the commonwealth of Virginiawe were sentenced to hang... but we didn’t careas long as John Brown’s name was followed by “was a hero”we have accomplished our goal.The time has come for our execution; we stand on the stage for our final moments of lifeThen the floor opens... we are gone, gone like the birds in the winter timeI hope in later times there is a new strategy for picking the “fabric of our lives”

JOHN BROWN’S SHIRTNatalie EnglishArmanie Thomas

ATLANTA, GEORGIA AFTER BEING BOMBED AND BURNED BY THE UNION ARMY, 1864

Fire runs across the ground faster than a preying cheetah.Growing louder, angrier: a lions roar.Memories, hope, comfort disintegrated with the tracks to ash of black.Ownership, a thing of the past, but of the things on our back.Black clouds, smokey air, and foggy streets.Cry you a river with the tears we weep.Sherman’s march to the sea cased sadness, caused sadness to run through town like a virus.All in the name of freedom for all.Our cries of pain didn’t cause them to stall.November to December of 1864, they wouldn’t stop marching until they caused the Confederate to fall.

BURNED TRACKSNatalie EnglishJenny Lazarre

The flames have died downcold nowshattered like glassmy railways lay torn

buildings, once so tallmy soldiers,only a few of them noware able to stand tallbrick by brick many have fallen

now Iain’t afraid to sayI’ve fallen.scattered like children’s toys.Uniformed in bluethose little bulliespull off the heads of my little grey dressed men.Those little bulliesgrab my trains off their tracksthey throw hot rocks:at me,ny toys.Catch flame.My toys catch flame,I catch flame.

I hold a flag.To confederacyI pledge.

I holdmy own,

Rolanda GillHOT FLAMES

The flames have died downcold nowshattered like glassmy railways lay torn

buildings, once so tallmy soldiers,only a few of them noware able to stand tallbrick by brick many have fallen

now Iain’t afraid to sayI’ve fallen.scattered like children’s toys.Uniformed in bluethose little bulliespull off the heads of my little grey dressed men.Those little bulliesgrab my trains off their tracksthey throw hot rocks:at me,ny toys.Catch flame.My toys catch flame,I catch flame.

I hold a flag.To confederacyI pledge.

I holdmy own,

Rolanda GillHOT FLAMES

still burning fromwithinI refuseto lay down.I set fireto my self,my own

I ratherdecease at my own handthanone of a Union man.

They are my peoplethey fight for the youngbecause we are the future I throw rockshit pans beat with sticks just to make soundsthe sounds I hope to play for them to wake them up wanting to drum for themI’m black for a reasonborn with pride born with rhythm I’m drummer boyI learned to play with the wisdom I have I ran away from home to help my family I have a dream a dream that we are equalmy skin don’t matter because I was born hereI shall fight for my country one day we shall stop seeing black and white

Mariam HassanDRUMMER BOY

The process of writing this poem was easy and fun because I got the chance to write the poem from an intangable object. I got the chance to learn more of the poem and interpret the feeling I got just from looking at the portrait. I would surely do it again. - Armanie Thomas

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