todaysdocument:

The Fall of Atlanta:

The city of Atlanta, Georgia fell to Union forces under Major General William T. Sherman on September 2, 1864, following a six week siege after the Battle of Atlanta on July 22, 1864.

Photos from the series: Selected Views from “Photographic Views of Sherman’s Campaign” by George N. Barnard, Photographer, 1862 - 1865

The impact of the fall of Atlanta was instrumental in the eventual victory for the Federal forces. It boosted morale in the North and insured the reelection of President Abraham Lincoln which meant that the war would continue to the South’s capitulation. Until then, with no major Confederate Army left to contest Sherman and his men, he would order them to move east, towards Savannah, and from there, north into the Carolinas. Unopposed, Sherman’s Army brought the war to the heart of the South and to its civilian population.

These photos are from a series by George Barnard. Once an employee of Matthew Brady Studios, Barnard worked for the Topographical Branch of the Army Engineers after December 1863. Assigned to Sherman’s Army, he captured many of the images of the Atlanta Campaign on early photographic equipment.

via The Atlanta Campaign of 1864: The Camera at War

(Be sure to follow atlantahistorycenter's series of Civil War Letters for more!)

Fascinating

(via npr)

“When she was a child, 
my love carried a road map in her hand 
the way other girls carried handkerchiefs.” 
― Roman Payne, The Wanderess

True.

“When she was a child,
my love carried a road map in her hand
the way other girls carried handkerchiefs.”

― Roman Payne, The Wanderess

True.

Southern Gothic

I am reminded of Neruda’s lament:
“Tonight I can write the saddest lines”

My sunburnt skin is thirsty.

You see,
I am here …


The wine is sweet.
Cicada songs vibrate in the
Thick Southern night.

My sunburnt skin is thirsty.

You see,
I am here …


“Tonight I can write the saddest lines”
I imagine your breath on my breast, and sigh.

AUGUST
(By John Updike)

The sprinkler twirls.
The summer wanes.
The pavement wears
Popsicle stains.

The playground grass
Is worn to dust.
The weary swings
Creak, creak with rust.

The trees are bored
With being green.
Some people leave
The local scene

And go seaside
Bungalows
And take off nearly
All their clothes.

AUGUST
(By John Updike)

The sprinkler twirls.
The summer wanes.
The pavement wears
Popsicle stains.

The playground grass
Is worn to dust.
The weary swings
Creak, creak with rust.

The trees are bored
With being green.
Some people leave
The local scene

And go seaside
Bungalows
And take off nearly
All their clothes.

THIS
(by A.R. Ammons)


time will wash
away

so

clean not a
cry

will

be left in
it

(abandoned factory; Saxony; photo mine; iphone 5)

THIS
(by A.R. Ammons)


time will wash
away

so

clean not a
cry

will

be left in
it

(abandoned factory; Saxony; photo mine; iphone 5)

Close, close all night
the lovers keep.
They turn together
in their sleep,Close as two pages
in a book
that read each other
in the dark.

Each knows all
the other knows,
learned by heart
from head to toes.

― Elizabeth Bishop, Edgar Allan Poe & The Juke-Box: Uncollected Poems, Drafts, and Fragments

Louise Crane and Elizabeth Bishop

Close, close all night
the lovers keep.
They turn together
in their sleep,

Close as two pages
in a book
that read each other
in the dark.

Each knows all
the other knows,
learned by heart
from head to toes.

― Elizabeth Bishop, Edgar Allan Poe & The Juke-Box: Uncollected Poems, Drafts, and Fragments

Louise Crane and Elizabeth Bishop

I got to hang out with Jay Leno tonight. So I’ve got that goin’ for me …

If anyone asks you
how the perfect satisfaction
of all our sexual wanting
will look, lift your face
and say,

Like this.

When someone mentions the gracefulness
of the nightsky, climb up on the roof
and dance and say,

Like this.

If anyone wants to know what “spirit” is,
or what “God’s fragrance” means,
lean your head toward him or her.
Keep your face there close.

Like this.

When someone quotes the old poetic image
about clouds gradually uncovering the moon,
slowly loosen knot by knot the strings
of your robe.

Like this.

If anyone wonders how Jesus raised the dead,
don’t try to explain the miracle.
Kiss me on the lips.

Like this. Like this.

When someone asks what it means
to “die for love,” point
here.

If someone asks how tall I am, frown
and measure with your fingers the space
between the creases on your forehead.

This tall.

The soul sometimes leaves the body, the returns.
When someone doesn’t believe that,
walk back into my house.

Like this.

When lovers moan,
they’re telling our story.

Like this.

I am a sky where spirits live.
Stare into this deepening blue,
while the breeze says a secret.

Like this.

When someone asks what there is to do,
light the candle in his hand.

Like this.

How did Joseph’s scent come to Jacob?

Huuuuu.

How did Jacob’s sight return?

Huuuu.

A little wind cleans the eyes.

Like this.

When Shams comes back from Tabriz,
he’ll put just his head around the edge
of the door to surprise us

Like this.


From ‘The Essential Rumi’, Translations 
by Coleman Barks with John Moyne

If anyone asks you
how the perfect satisfaction
of all our sexual wanting
will look, lift your face
and say,

Like this.

When someone mentions the gracefulness
of the nightsky, climb up on the roof
and dance and say,

Like this.

If anyone wants to know what “spirit” is,
or what “God’s fragrance” means,
lean your head toward him or her.
Keep your face there close.

Like this.

When someone quotes the old poetic image
about clouds gradually uncovering the moon,
slowly loosen knot by knot the strings
of your robe.

Like this.

If anyone wonders how Jesus raised the dead,
don’t try to explain the miracle.
Kiss me on the lips.

Like this. Like this.

When someone asks what it means
to “die for love,” point
here.

If someone asks how tall I am, frown
and measure with your fingers the space
between the creases on your forehead.

This tall.

The soul sometimes leaves the body, the returns.
When someone doesn’t believe that,
walk back into my house.

Like this.

When lovers moan,
they’re telling our story.

Like this.

I am a sky where spirits live.
Stare into this deepening blue,
while the breeze says a secret.

Like this.

When someone asks what there is to do,
light the candle in his hand.

Like this.

How did Joseph’s scent come to Jacob?

Huuuuu.

How did Jacob’s sight return?

Huuuu.

A little wind cleans the eyes.

Like this.

When Shams comes back from Tabriz,
he’ll put just his head around the edge
of the door to surprise us

Like this.


From ‘The Essential Rumi’, Translations
by Coleman Barks with John Moyne

The Work

(By Allen Grossman)

A great light is the man who knows the woman he loves
A great light is the woman who knows the man she loves
And carries the light into room after room arousing
The sleepers and looking hard into the face of each
And then sends them asleep again with a kiss
Or a whole night of love
                                             and goes on and on until
The man and woman who carry the great lights of the
Knowledge of the one lover enter the room
                                                                               toward which
Their light is sent and fit the one and the other torch
In a high candelabrum and there is such light
That children leap up
                                         unless the sea swallow them
In the crossing or hatred or war against which do not
Pray only but be vigilant and set your hand to the work.

The Work

(By Allen Grossman)

A great light is the man who knows the woman he loves
A great light is the woman who knows the man she loves
And carries the light into room after room arousing
The sleepers and looking hard into the face of each
And then sends them asleep again with a kiss
Or a whole night of love
and goes on and on until
The man and woman who carry the great lights of the
Knowledge of the one lover enter the room
toward which
Their light is sent and fit the one and the other torch
In a high candelabrum and there is such light
That children leap up
unless the sea swallow them
In the crossing or hatred or war against which do not
Pray only but be vigilant and set your hand to the work.

CHILDHOOD

By Margaret Walker


When I was a child I knew red miners
dressed raggedly and wearing carbide lamps.
I saw them come down red hills to their camps
dyed with red dust from old Ishkooda mines.
Night after night I met them on the roads,
or on the streets in town I caught their glance;
the swing of dinner buckets in their hands,
and grumbling undermining all their words.

I also lived in low cotton country
where moonlight hovered over ripe haystacks,
or stumps of trees, and croppers’ rotting shacks
with famine, terror, flood, and plague near by;
where sentiment and hatred still held sway
and only bitter land was washed away.


(Photo - found)

CHILDHOOD

By Margaret Walker


When I was a child I knew red miners
dressed raggedly and wearing carbide lamps.
I saw them come down red hills to their camps
dyed with red dust from old Ishkooda mines.
Night after night I met them on the roads,
or on the streets in town I caught their glance;
the swing of dinner buckets in their hands,
and grumbling undermining all their words.

I also lived in low cotton country
where moonlight hovered over ripe haystacks,
or stumps of trees, and croppers’ rotting shacks
with famine, terror, flood, and plague near by;
where sentiment and hatred still held sway
and only bitter land was washed away.


(Photo - found)