History Poems

You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may tread me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.
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The night has been long,
The wound has been deep,
The pit has been dark,
And the walls have been steep.
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One heavy day I ran away from the grim face of society and the dizzying clamor of the city and directed my weary step to the spacious alley. I pursued the beckoning course of the rivulet and the musical sounds of the birds until I reached a lonely spot where the flowing branches of the trees prevented the sun from the touching the earth.

I stood there, and it was entertaining to my soul - my thirsty soul who had seen naught but the mirage of life instead of its sweetness.
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I wish I could take a quiet corner in the heart of my baby's very
own world.
I know it has stars that talk to him, and a sky that stoops
down to his face to amuse him with its silly clouds and rainbows.
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'My teacher wasn't half as nice as yours seems to be.
His name was Mister Unsworth and he taught us history.
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i am accused of tending to the past
as if i made it,
as if i sculpted it
with my own hands. i did not.
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I said unto myself, if I were dead,
What would befall these children? What would be
Their fate, who now are looking up to me
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Where are your monuments, your battles, martyrs?
Where is your tribal memory? Sirs,
in that gray vault. The sea. The sea
has locked them up. The sea is History.
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History has to live with what was here,
clutching and close to fumbling all we had--
it is so dull and gruesome how we die,
unlike writing, life never finishes.
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Density of the room
Filled with gloom
Ahead, nothing emerges
The four walls
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Bottomless pits. There's on in Castleton,
and stout upholders of our law and order
one day thought its depth worth wagering on
and borrowed a convict hush-hush from his warder
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Canonised when dead, cannonaded when in life,
Lofty your thoughts that savour of content
But loftier the craftmanship
More congruent in symmetry
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Sharpening the cells in cerebrum and cerebellum
Through meditation, arts, knowledge and strategy
With emotion, motion of sad and happy persons
From the history up to date and the moving pages
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Budger of history Brake of time You Bomb
Toy of universe Grandest of all snatched sky I cannot hate you
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That distant valley
Far below
Was I...as a child
........Eons ago
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Little maidens, when you look
On this little story-book,
Reading with attentive eye
Its enticing history,
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The white woman across the aisle from me says 'Look,
look at all the history, that house
on the hill there is over two hundred years old, '
as she points out the window past me
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The history of my stupidity would fill many volumes.

Some would be devoted to acting against consciousness,
Like the flight of a moth which, had it known,
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There is a section in my library for death
and another for Irish history,
a few shelves for the poetry of China and Japan,
and in the center a row of imperturbable reference books,
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history
is a surface pool of water
stir the water
muddy the depths...
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'This history will break the heart of every human being who has a heart that can be broken.' - Kurt Vonnegut, The Sirens of Titan

i look at a tree
and there's history there
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History,
There is a history
Hidden
In history
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You hate how our history books are written
How it says the many races and beliefs we have smitten,
You want to read how we fought and won our liberty from Britain
But, not about the slaves or native Americans we had stricken.
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For sale: Putin's Russia. Greedy history.
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I trying to write the history
Of distraught and devastated mankind.

N.B. Suggested titles or secondary ones: History of Mankind, I Trying to Write, Re-write History, My Undrstanding of History. I Trying to Write, Re-write History, came it first to the mind.
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Itihaas, History/ Kalpurusha, The Immortal Representative of The Age (Hindi to English)

Prithvi ka itihaas, / Samya ka itihaas, /Manushya ka itihaas (History of Earth, / History of Time, / History of Man) Title: Itihaas, History
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The Greek word is Historia…we call it history…it's the seeking of knowledge and the knowledge gained from that inquiry.

It has been mostly men who have transcribed history…as a general rule…which has allowed their version of history to be the one we learn in school.
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The Poet will publish my poem, "My Mother's History" in an upcoming anthology on Cultural Identity. My ethnic background is a bit complicated. Depending upon how I look at it, I have 18 to 20 nationalities in my tangled family DNA.

From my father's side of the family, I inherited a German family name, Scandinavian blue eyes, with ancestors coming from France, Germany, Finland, Denmark, Lapland, Norway, Netherlands, Russia, Sweden, Ukraine, and somehow the Basque region. I also have some Jewish ancestry and a trace of Mongolian ancestry as do most people of Eastern European background. And my DNA test also claims that there is some Italian ancestry somewhere and perhaps Spanish ancestry.
From my mother's side of the family, I am part Scot, part Irish, part French, part Dutch, part Cherokee and part Nigerian. Since she was part of the lost tribe of the Cherokee Indians, her story is particularly complicated as her ancestors fled before being enrolled in a tribe and lived in the Ozarks intermarrying with other Indian tribes, Scot and Irish settlers, and escaped slaves. In any event, there are so few people in her ethnic group -perhaps 25,000 that they don't show in DNA tests. Since her parents show Cherokee that means I am anywhere from 1/8 to 1/8 Cherokee. I met my uncle once and he looked Cherokee to me.
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Latest Poems (My WhatsApp Poems & Others)
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