Related quotes: Notoriously, history books are warm...

History Lessons

Notoriously, history books are warm
and bland.
This one is smaller, neatly compacting
years into large print pages.
Somehow, the near coverless book
reappeared from the long, dim
Nun's library, dug up, specifically for
a reprisal of the 1918 Influenza Revisited.

It was a custom to pass out last editions.
A clear out of the aging history Teacher's
Library section.
An acknowledgement of the past
pressed onto a pupil for a masked honor.
Smells of old lockers, chesty
coughs, and fatigue. So many class
smiles and collective ease.

The book holds the marks of many
boys' notes, hen-pecked bits of scratch paper.
History written within history.

poem by Mary Anderson
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Related quotes

Open Book's Monologue Part 5: Welcome To The Library!

Welcome to the library! come one come all
Welcome to the library! come with your brethren on this wall
Welcome to the library! come all you books tattered or new
Welcome to the library! come tired and overdue

Yes welcome to the library the place where you're most mundane
Yes welcome to the library the place where you're to endure most pain
Yes welcome to the library where you'll sit unwanted
Yes welcome to the library where you'll sit haunted
Yes welcome to the library where everyone's just like you
Yes welcome to the library where we're all books too!
Yes welcome to the library where you can take comfort
Yes welcome to the library where In the fact you're no longer unique
Yes welcome to the library You're just pen marks ink

Departing the library? I think not, even if you get out we'll bring you back
Departing the library? Here you rot, but we'll dust you to ease your passing
Departing the library? Don't make me laugh, here you're black and white
Departing the library? Nobody argues on your behalf, look more amassing

Welcome to the library! A place of keeping and safety
Welcome to the library! Take your place you'll like it, just wait and see
Welcome to the library! New books don't mind the old they're disillusioned
Welcome to the library! You've sold your soul... but it's too late for you

so WELCOME

poem by David Knox
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The History Of You And Me

Everytime you think of me.
Write it all down in your diary.
And never forget you were mine.

'Cause you can write a book about love.
And you can write a book about history.
The history of you and me..

On every page that you write.
Move your pen, with those old memories of me.
Holding me in your arms.

'Cause you can write a book about love.
And you can write a book about history.
The history of you and me..

Try not to miss a word.
Don't miss a single word, about those old romantic nights.
The nights you spent with me.

'Cause you can write a book about love.
And you can write a book about history.
The history of you and me..

Yaahh! The history of you and me....

Love Song Poem By Kim Robin Edwards
Copyright 1990,2009..
ALL rights reserved..

poem by Kim Robin Edwards
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War Is Our Worlds History

I Look into a history book.
And what do I see?
Pain and agony, death and suffering,
I see history that tells a lot about our world.
War!
Our world's history is war.
It is the pain and agony, the death and the suffering,
I see large fields of dead bodies,
I see our heritage being destroyed by other people
because it is not what they believe in,
I see people begging for mercy, but they do not get it
instead they get a bullet in the head.
In our history I see many mistakes in which we can learn from,
but we obviously we do not.
They say not to judge a book by its cover,
to me this quote means nothing to our history.
Our history is our cover,
and the book is filled with pain and agony, death and suffering.
Plain and Simple
War!

poem by Christian Cervantes
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History is a living horse laughing at a wooden horse. History is a wind blowing where it listeth. History is no sure thing to bet on. History is a box of tricks with a lost key. History is a labyrinth of doors with sliding panels, a book of ciphers with the code in a cave of the Saragossa sea. History says, if it pleases, Excuse me, I beg your pardon, it will never happen again if I can help it.

quote by Carl Sandburg
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Black History Month

In January...
There they are making history.
In February...
There they are making history.
In March...
There they are making history.
In April...
There they are making history.
In May...
There they are making history.
In June...
There they are making history.
In July...
There they are making history.
In August...
There they are making history.
In September...
There they are making history.
In October...
There they are making history.
In November...
There they are making history.
In December...
There they are making history.

But...
It's nice to know
The shortest month of the year
Was chosen to celebrate
The great deeds of African-Americans!
However...
It is those LEAP YEARS,
That really have the blacks jumping for joy!

Note: 'Black History Month' along with other
works of interest can be found in...

*'MindPrints from Untouched Places-VOL I'*
~Now available online at a PC near you~

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Library

That is why it is called library
Where stand all books buried
Built with huge grant amount to carry
Impressions of dead poets for all that past sorry

New generation wants fast result
Press the Google button and everything is built
Right from old warriors to new breed if politicians
History is on hand and can be seen as produced by the magician

Time is not far off when "library" word may become extinct
Boards may remain with sign but not more called distinct
All work and manuscripts may be stand converted
Into "e" governance and whole of the past may be subverted

It is our glorious past and heritage
We have maintained it as history on page
Many old scripture still find their place
They are the sacred heritage and must be preserved in any case

"Go and have reference from library" may become thing of past
The past may not only remain as past but soon deteriorate last
Few of the pages may speak about glorious death of civilization
Where as we need them as our only witness for old link and new relation

poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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The History Teacher

Woman!

Where exactly
Did you put me
In the women's history?

Am I History?
Or a part of it?

And for how long you are lacking me in;
Between
Your History,
Women's History, and
Your archives?

Does time make sense to you
As a History teacher or
As a History professor?

Cause', History, buying time, and rejuvenation
Are for emperors.

Are you making me
An emperor?

Or a Faeroe?
If so,
How precise your are?

And if you can't feel my present presence
how possibility could you feel me through your archives?

poem by Atef Ayadi
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For My History Teacher

I’m sitting in class,
My eyes about to close,
I hope teacher don’t see,
I hope she don’t see me.

Bored out of my mind,
Falling so behind,
Cannot concentrate,
I came to class too late.

Although I was on time,
My body was I mean,
My mind is still outside,
From class trying to hide.

What does all this mean?
I haven’t used it yet,
How can I retain it,
When already I forget?

And then she walks over,
That teacher of mine,
A smile in her eyes,
A gentle one at that,
She puts her hand on me,
And sets me kind of free.

Now here I am in class,
Learning about the past,
About history,
And what it did for me.

How we can learn,
From mistakes of old,
Of people so different,
Some so very bold.

Some stood against oppression,
Some stood against the wrong,
Some said it with dignity,
Some said it with a song.

I owe it to them,
And teacher here to hear,
What they did for us,
And no longer fear.

That knowledge is so dull,
No longer hurts my brain,
No longer hurts my skull,
It will surely keep me sane.

The past is the future,
Unless I stay awake,
So I can benefit,
There’s much more at stake.

Than I thought before,
Before I got to class,
Thank you History teacher,
For bringing to life the past.

I never got bored in History class, because I had a wonderful History Teacher. This is for her.

poem by Aisha Sherazi
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Tomes

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,
the ones you can turn to anytime,
when the night is going wrong
or when the day is full of empty promise.

I have nothing against
the thin monograph, the odd query,
a note on the identity of Chekhov's dentist,
but what I prefer on days like these
is to get up from the couch,
pull down The History of the World,
and hold in my hands a book
containing nearly everything
and weighing no more than a sack of potatoes,
eleven pounds, I discovered one day when I placed it
on the black, iron scale
my mother used to keep in her kitchen,
the device on which she would place
a certain amount of flour,
a certain amount of fish.

Open flat on my lap
under a halo of lamplight,
a book like this always has a way
of soothing the nerves,
quieting the riotous surf of information
that foams around my waist
even though it never mentions
the silent labors of the poor,
the daydreams of grocers and tailors,
or the faces of men and women alone in single rooms-

even though it never mentions my mother,
now that I think of her again,
who only last year rolled off the edge of the earth
in her electric bed,
in her smooth pink nightgown
the bones of her fingers interlocked,
her sunken eyes staring upward
beyond all knowledge,
beyond the tiny figures of history,
some in uniform, some not,
marching onto the pages of this incredibly heavy book.

poem by Billy Collins
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Tomes

I have nothing against
the thin monograph, the odd query,
a note on the identity of Chekhov's dentist,
but what I prefer on days like these
is to get up from the couch,
pull down The History of the World,
and hold in my hands a book
containing nearly everything
and weighing no more than a sack of potatoes,
eleven pounds, I discovered one day when I placed it
on the black, iron scale
my mother used to keep in her kitchen,
the device on which she would place
a certain amount of flour,
a certain amount of fish.

Open flat on my lap
under a halo of lamplight,
a book like this always has a way
of soothing the nerves,
quieting the riotous surf of information
that foams around my waist
even though it never mentions
the silent labors of the poor,
the daydreams of grocers and tailors,
or the faces of men and women alone in single rooms-

even though it never mentions my mother,
now that I think of her again,
who only last year rolled off the edge of the earth
in her electric bed,
in her smooth pink nightgown
the bones of her fingers interlocked,
her sunken eyes staring upward
beyond all knowledge,
beyond the tiny figures of history,
some in uniform, some not,
marching onto the pages of this incredibly heavy book.

poem by William Taylor Collins
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Dead Library

There they go, bearing him in tears;
another gift for termites and earthworms,
another place in history foregone.
Just humus to the soil for all his toil.

Had I known, the poor fellow cried,
a break from pursuit of wealth and health
I would have taken to make felt
my Name in the pages of history.

Jets, cars and chariots all shall fade.
Castles, plantations all shall be obscured
with time's demise but history salutes
those who march on it in inky lines.

They that add no lines to the living
library get dead alongside their texts.
Selfishly, they read and saw nothing to write.
Read by none, their texts are in the Dead Library.

Mazi Ikechukwu Bismarck Oji
18th June,2010

poem by Ike Bismarck Oji
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Three Kinds of People

The books of my history
Begins with comedy
And end with tragedy
“Son”, do you know this
Spontaneous?
If you don’t know
Don’t mind
Your father will tell you.

There are three kinds of people
But the history knows only two
The first are foxy foxes
Who do right things and
Great good deeds
They stand at the top of history

The second are mad dogs
Who do wrong things and
Great evil deeds
They stand at the bottom of history

The third are piggy hyenas
Who are neither wise nor foolish?
Who cannot do right or wrong?
The history doesn’t know them
They have no chapter in history book

Can you choose among them for
Your inspiration and if you
Can heed my advice
The foxes are the best stars
To stick to.

poem by David Aoloch Bion
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History why do we care

History
a famous person dies
History
a war rages
History
a new invention
History
a building opens
History
what happens if something happens to me
is that history?
no....
So why do we care.....

poem by Andrea Thepoet
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How Long Have You known

History book the look that
gave away the library?

poem by Is It Poetry
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Books

The universe (which others call the library). . .
-Jorge Luis Borges

Books which are stitched up the center with coarse white thread
Books on the beach with sunglass-colored pages
Books about food with pictures of weeping grapefruits
Books about baking bread with browned corners
Books about long-haired Frenchmen with uncut pages
Books of erotic engravings with pages that stick
Books about inns whose stars have sputtered out
Books of illuminations surrounded by darkness
Books with blank pages & printed margins
Books with fanatical footnotes in no-point type
Books with book lice
Books with rice-paper pastings
Books with book fungus blooming over their pages
Books with pages of skin with flesh-colored bindings
Books by men in love with the letter O
Books which smell of earth whose pages turn

poem by Erica Jong
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Child Of Febuary

Sweet beautiful intelligent divine being
Created by two hearts with lost souls
Combined in one body
Care was taken to take and place your heart into it
A soul born by society
Raised in hellish half-ways or half of a home
Not knowing where your history began
The future pathways you would take were set clear
By others of lighter color
But you chose different
You walked right with your two left feet
On shards of glass you tiptoed
In muddy waters you swam
Like your ancestors in the 1800's before slavery was slammed
You sped through stop signs
And race riots and sit-ins
Speeding pass 100
And jumped into the public pool
That was once a colored pool
Screamed at the top of your lungs in the school library on Malcolm's birthday
While ripping up history books
Cause what the white man took
Cannot be sealed in a history book
Of chapters 13 and 14
Or in an annual parade
Cause what's in your heart wasn't made to be celebrated in just February

poem by Zainab AbdulMalik
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