Shahid, Come And Witness
Shahid,
Come and WITNESS,
The illusions of peace;
Under the serene shades of Naseem Bagh
Everything puts up a sober show,
And i'm forced to forget
The blood on the streets (of Lal Chowk)
The broken glasses(of the ''Dignity'Showroom)
The blurb of the new books on Kashmir
(by eminent''squalors'') ,
resting on the shelves of The Atlantic Book Shop.
Oh! the complacent lilies,
Growing beside the graveyard;
Sheer white, untouched by grief.
Well-clad and pompous,
Speaking;
But not our own lanuage,
Discussing,
But not our own culture,
Our history, our heritage,
Living,
A life haunted by death,
A life of begged 'dignity'.
Oh! the complacent lilies,
The children of graveyard,
Sheer white, untouched by grief.
Are not the gallons of gore,
Enough to paint your petals red! !
And dont you feel to piece together
A mothers heart torn apart,
The pieces of broken glass! ! !
Said tell them,
About the burden of Other's narrative,
About the natives;
The best writers of their own history.
Oh! the hiers of generational corruption,
Come out of these phelegmatic ghettos,
Come out with your eyes wide-open,
With your hearts human! ! ! ! !
Enough is enough,
The cynical answer is Hitler;
I've watched you Romano on BBC,
And gone with you to Auswich,
The bare brute of power,
The pair of your ageing eyes
The irrevocable human losses,
The ugliness of history,
Commiseration and heart-felt sympathy.
Yet, Hitler has his appeals,
You are silent,
Silently murdering our cause,
Your complacency, your brutality because,
Your hearts beat without
The music of revolution.
Can't you come out.....
Can't you come out.....
The vicious cycle of history goes on,
Among the rosy illusions of peace.
poem by Feroz Rather
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Related quotes
The History of Now
The recording of culture is history;
but our culture is more than that.
It's the world of human action,
and the myths we make of the fact.
The recording of history is culture,
but our history is more than that.
It informs a hidden agenda.
Unconscious of motive we act.
It's the history of now, the history of now.
It's only the present that exists as endowed.
It's the history of now. The moment - KAPOW!
That knocks you right over and muddies your brow.
Through the prism of language, we know what we know.
We carry our baggage and stories of woe.
Victor and vanquished pride cannot budge,
the dead weight of hatred and ancestral grudge.
We fight our good fights with our hand on our heart;
the music is swelling as loved ones depart.
As sheep to the slaughter, the script cannot chart,
a course more ignoble: the propagandist's art.
The recording of history is culture,
but our culture is more than that.
More than the great individuals,
the scholars so love in their tracts.
The recording of culture is history;
but our history is more than that.
Not simple dates or statistics,
the full horror and gore still attracts.
It's the history of now, the history of now.
A strange contradiction that makes sense somehow.
It's the history of now, a mystery and shroud.
The past and the future: best fiction allowed.
poem by David SmithWhite
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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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River Lilies
Saw a boy three lilies white,
Lilies in the river,
Half heart-open to the light,
Full of golden arrows bright,
Each a silver quiver.
Lilies, lilies, lilies white,
Lilies in the river.
Said the boy, “I’ll pluck you there,
Lilies in the river!”
Said the lilies, “If you dare
You shall drown, or homeward fare
Dripping and a-shiver!”
Lilies, lilies, lilies white,
Lilies in the river.
Wilful still the boy would clasp
Lilies in the river;
Tumbled in ere he could grasp,
Scrambled out with puff and gasp,
Plucked no lilies ever.
Lilies, lilies, lilies white,
Lilies in the river.
poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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Broken Glasses (2)
It's all broken glasses falling on the floor
Piece by piece breaking even more
One becoming two with each and every blow
A tree of glasses will never grow
Broken glasses on the floor
A million pieces becoming more
Each piece alone starts to shine
As though each one were becoming alive
A million pieces lie on the floor
Broken glasses broken to the core
They make me cry with their silence alone
As though they believe that all hope is gone
And the light that shines on the edge of a piece
Is like an un-witnessed tear of the pain unseen
As though when the pieces stop falling
All the glasses stop fighting
And chose to shine no more
Broken glasses falling on the floor
What can I say what have I more
Broken glasses I adore
Like a silent heart beat being ignored
Broken glasses are alive
Broken glasses are the life
Of a character broken deep inside
poem by Hafeni Nghidinua
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The ugly human face
Wailing with tears and
Helplessly in commotion,
All of you’re telling to write
The history of hatred, enmity, killings,
The history of human ugly face.
My pen is dried up,
Tell me in which medium,
And language should I write.
Where to begin and
Where to end
Such history of human ugly face.
Oh! Betrayer
You’re telling me to wipe out from the history
Of such human ugly face,
That shattered and shook human conscience,
That haunts the face of those innocent people,
Killed and hurt; widows and orphans.
That hums: that reminds.
Telling me just to close my eyes.
But I’m not blind.
Telling me not to speak,
But I’m not dumb.
Telling me not to write the truth,
But I cannot write anything but the truth.
How can I deceive the history where I belong?
Human memory is short,
Tears would dry up,
The blood would be washed away with time
But the silent words, written in the heart of each human ugly face
Imbedded forever and immortal.
Let me dip the pen in the smeared blood,
The blood of all religions, caste, creed and colour, poor and rich,
The thick blood of those innocent persons.
poem by Dr.bhagya Chandra Rajkumar
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Dont Stop For No-one
Dont stop for no-one
And then it goes on
(repeat 3 times)
One day my father said to me
its time for you to leave,
But dont wait for me, its pre-destiny
Dont wait around for someone to believe in
You know, history dont stop for no-one
Just like moses waiting on the mountain
You know, history dont stop for no-one
Dont hang around in the babylonian gardens
You know, history dont stop for no-one
(? ) tourist attraction
You know, history dont stop for no-one
Dont stop for no-one
And then it goes on
(repeat)
Sometimes I told I must confess
To a life of tenderness
But I just repeat what he said to me:
dont close your eyes because seeing is believing
You know, history dont stop for no-one
(? ) child, fighting for a meaning
You know, history dont stop for no-one
Dont dream too long, its time to awake now
You know, history dont stop for no-one
Like sleeping lucy waiting for a kiss now
You know, history dont stop for no-one
I think you know the way its gonna go now
You know, history dont stop for no-one
From aztech kings to new york queens
And then it goes on
song performed by by Heaven 17
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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That Which Plagues the History Bandits
The History Bandits swinging...
Swinging in History roll.
Up comes one leader,
Ousted or assassinated by another.
The complaints of many
Feeding the avarice of one,
Makes the humdrum into history.
An idealist Wilson, a vengeful Clemenceau or
A prudent Lloyd George...who wishes to know?
The inspiring evil Hitler or politically capitalistic Americans
Or the fearless bloody Communists...
Mould the mounds of history.
A guilty country pleading innocence,
A Rasputinian government brought down by Rasputin
Or a prince who fashioned the legends of the creatures that
Plague the human existence.
What makes History?
Of what use is History?
The questions that plague the History Bandits.
Take up the sword of ink,
Oil the wheels that turn in your head,
And ponder anew on the questions that
Makes you wonder.
Go forth the History Bandits...
Go forth, and claim your rightful path.
poem by Cheryl Jacob
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There is no history of mankind, there are only many histories of all kinds of aspects of human life. And one of these is the history of political power. This is elevated into the history of the world.
quote by Karl Popper
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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There is no history of mankind, there are only many histories of all kinds of aspects of human life. And one of these is the history of political power. This is elevated into the history of the world.
quote by Karl Popper
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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You Tell Me Of Your Australian History
You tell me of your Australian history your ancestors were British and Irish pioneers
But your history in this Land is not an old history just two centuries and twenty years
And in time that may seem quite a long span though the combined life spans of three people nothing more
Your ancestors hardly were Aussies they came here from a distant shore.
The first Australians have lived in this Country for longer than most care to know
Their ancestors came here from Asia more than sixty thousand years ago
They are indigenous to this Country all others have links to elsewhere
Yet they still struggle for recognition and that to me seems quite unfair.
Dispossessed by the Northern invaders they never did get back their Land
And that they are now ruled by white people I find that hard to understand
You talk of the history of this Land as if it were only two hundred years old
But then suppose the history of the ancient Dreamtime by white people will never be told.
I was not even born in this Country which makes you more Aussie than I
And though I'm not Nationalistic or Patriotic my heritage I won''t deny
You talk of your pioneering ancestors but why talk of Human history at all
If the history of the first Australians you do not see fit to recall.
You tell me of your pioneering ancestors but one fact you tend to ignore
That they were not born in this Country they came here from a foreign shore
You''d swear by you the Human history of this Land was only two centuries old
But the true history of this great Country by your type will never be told
poem by Francis Duggan
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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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Grief Promise Me To Leave ' Part 1
It’s a conversation between my heart and my grief at the same time
GRIEF PROMISE ME TO LEAVE (PART 1)
My heart: you promised me in the last days that you are leaving me
My grief: I loved your spirit; I found my settlement and safe in it and I
Think I will stay forever
My heart: but you promised me, and here you are broken your promise to me
My grief: I felt that you always need me so I took eternal place inside you
My heart: I didn’t need you in fact I’m tired of your vicinage to me
My grief: no you didn't see anything from me until now, it's just the beginning
My heart: what's wrong with you, you always by my side? Why you prevent the happiness to get inside my heart? And if it came in, you you will gave her only five seconds why?
My grief: I used on your broken heart
My heart: isn't there another hearts to live in it why mine?
My grief: yes there is, but I (ardent love) your soul
My heart: please go away; go away, my yearning will kill me...
My grief: ask your self? Is it possible leaving a heart his desire grief?
My heart: find another me, there is a lot of hearts are waiting
My grief: I can't? Because I lived in a heart his beatings get used on me
My heart: please mercy my wounds
My grief: I’m sorry, but this is our life
My heart: mercy my tears, my eyes dry out cause of you
My grief: I can't leave you
My heart: my friends abandon me
My grief: then they are not your friends
My heart: they left me alone and broken sitting on your chair
My grief: don't worry you are the victorious
My heart: I miss them
My grief: they are not useful for you? Cause I reside in you when you know them
Quiet
My grief controlling totally in my heart now
My heart: you are like the sword cutting me every time you come near, but I will be patient, yes I will be patient for you grief, I will...
My grief made a mockery laughing
My grief: the age rewarding me for this
My heart closed his eyes in a silent way... wait... there is a (happiness whisper) comes and cross me silently, but its mute cause the grief was controlling me totally.
happiness whisper: forgive me my friend i have no place between you, I’m died from along long time, I just came to see is grief still in your heart or he left you so I can take a place between your heart, forgive me my friend the grief is my master.
The conversation is so quiet and the calmness spread through them
My heart: don't leave me like that, come to me just for a moment I wanna taste your happiness that you got between your whispers.
Happiness whisper has left me in silent and quiet way
my heart: where are you my grief come to me, come to my heart that you used to be always, give me new promise, then may be you will reside in a heart for someone else me.
My grief: I will leave you just in one case? When I see the world opened his armful for happiness, love, and safe. In that time I want you give me the signal to leave you! !
My grief is killing my heart now
My grief: now I want you hear me your words about love that you kept torturing me in it
My heart: ok. You are the only one I’ve got now
Trust me
Cause I know the pain...
The pain is over here and over there,
Pain in my heart pain in my soul,
Pain in my skin pain in my bones...
Trust me
Cause I know the cold nights...
It’s when my heart freezing, my eyes clouded and I won't close it,
Cause I scared to see the darkness and fell the silence,
oh my God I’m closing my eyes, I can't take it any more ahhhh.....
Now I’m afraid to open it cause I don't want be alone again...
Trust me
Cause I know the loneliness...
It’s when I don't get to hear from you,
Loneliness when I know you are not here by my side,
Loneliness when I’m thinking silently about you...
Trust me
Cause I know my soul...
It’s smashed to three parts,
The first is happy,
The sec is sad,
The third is full of misery,
Ahhh... now I can fell in my soul,
Happiness was never meant for me...
Trust me
Cause I know my heart...
Aches...
Broken...
Scattered around...
Ahhh.... my heart is killing me...
My heart need to heal by some glue...
All of that because of.... ahah (keep chocking) .
My grief: enough, enough, what is all that! !
My heart: you put in me the eternal grief, you put in me the unceasing yearning, you put in me all the kinds of illusions and more, so take it it's yours....
My grief: I will leave you now my friend; I will leave you my friend.
But I want you remember that a part of me will stay in you forever…
poem by Damn Angel
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The Rest Is History
Saw you across the room
Felt somethin stir inside my soul
Knew Id never be the same
Now that love had taken hold
Then when you touched me
There was no doubt
You unterstood what my heart was all about
And the rest is history
The story of you and me
For all eternity
The record will show
Well fill up the pages
Romance for the ages
There for the world to see
The rest ist history
Before we spoke a word
My heart told me you were the one
When you pressed your hand to mine
I knew my life had just begun
Like some old movie
Music filled the night
Lost held each other tight.
And the rest is history
The story of you and me
For all eternity
The record will show
Well fill up the pages
Romance for the ages
There for the world to see
The rest ist history
And the rest is history
The story of you and me
For all eternity
The record will show
Well fill up the pages
Romance for the ages
There for the world to see
The rest ist history
History ...
The rest is history.
The rest is history.
song performed by by LeAnn Rimes
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Still I Belong To History
You won’t get my name
In the scrolls of history
yet I belong to history
I am witness to the broken hopes
Shattered desires
Treachery and exploitation of
The human being
I have suffered in silence
I am suffering in silence
I would suffer in silence
Suffering is my destiny
I have suffered all those moments
And have died
Asphyxiated
Slowly…
When the last ice age engulfed the whole world
I was giving the last homage to my dead father
Spreading petals on his corpse
My father suffering from gout
His hands were broken from his childhood days
I was not a Neanderthal
Annihilated by the homo erectus
Simply sufferer of alienation
misfit
In a society of warriors
I was a stone carrier
Ill-paid, hungry, thirsty and weak
Still carrying giant stones on my shoulders
To construct pyramids
To make Pharaoh immortal
To stitch him in the sheets of history…
When the compassionate Joshua –Jesus Christ was being nailed on the cross
I was boiling with anger
But couldn’t do anything
No one came with me
Among thousands gathered
Numb
Impotent
When Nero was castrating
the handsome Sporus
after making him a bride
and taking out his eyes
lovely eyes
I stepped alone
to fight the debauch
His sentries caught me
And killed me
When they were beating, throwing stones on Mahveer
I had fallen on the stony road
Sobbing and weeping
When the prophet Hazrat Muhammad
Gave the message of Islam-
Peace and proclaimed-al hamdu Lillah
Praise to God
Thank God!
I joined his small group of
The downtrodden and poor
The ferocious animists pounced upon them
Attacked
Pelted stones
I too was wounded
And killed
When the libraries of Alexandria and Nalanda were burnt
And the books were burned to boil the
water of Hammams (Public bathhouse)
my blood boiled
I wanted to shout-
Don’t bury the books
Save them
They contain knowledge of our big brains
But fear made me numb and dumb…
I am a mute spectator of
A coward and decadent society
Where came Buddha,
Mahaveer,
Jesus,
Marx
And Gandhi
The layers of exploitation
Went on affixing day after day…
I am a hidden
Left out hero of the journey through graveyard
Centuries after centuries
So I am a man of history
Though my name has not been mentioned in history
Still I belong to history
poem by Pankaj Prasoon
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Were History
You look to me for some outstanding meaning
You got the devil in your eyes and nothing in your soul
If you think Im gonna sell myself, then you must be dreaming
Theres no way, Im gonna fall into your hole
You never seem to help me when Im bleeding
You gotta knife for a tongue and youre tearing at my heart
I thought you were a friend, but in truth you never liked me
You lied and cheated us from the start
You are wrong, love doesnt last forever
Youre nothing new there is no mystery
Now youre gone you thought you were so clever
You and me are now history, were history...
Solo
I dont like your face
I dont like your eyes
I dont like your lips, I hate your lies
This times the last time its goodbye time
You are wrong, love doesnt last forever
Youre nothing new there is no mystery
Now youre gone you thought you were so clever
You and me are now history, were history...
Were history, were history
I dont need you and I dont care
Were history, were history...
song performed by by U. D. O.
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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History?
Has history taught us nothing
but tales and ancient lies?
All wrapped up in stories
not told us by the wise?
Told by the vicars who consecrated death
Told by the rulers
with power in their breath.
Passed on in written words
in books the masses read,
never questioned, never disputed
in the minds they lead.
Slanted stories still present
right to our present day.
Foes of peace seen as heroes
in ungodly ways
and as we live the history writers
will pen each blazing act
as benificent for these difficult times,
more fiction than true fact.
So those who follow in our steps
will read our history book
and what they read will be fantasy
with a different look.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Love: The History (Radha-35)
The history will not speak of you
No one was aware of it
Though
I had known
The history today,
so embarrassed and unprepared
had not been able to cuddle you
In its lap
Who will it answer?
And you refused to be a goddess
You were well aware
That
It was not useful for you
To be a goddess
After waiting for someone
For unlimited ages
You still aspire to
Continue waiting
Still frozen as an unknown monument
Half destroyed
Just because
You can remember me in your mind
You chose to remain human.
Had the history knew
History after history would come up after
And would be accountable
To the successor.
The questions would only return
To the history itself
Striking back the infinity (emptiness)
The history stands with bowing head
In front of you
Not able to measure your emptiness.
How will it understand your waiting?
Before so many ages
And so many ages ahead
You keep searching to whom
round and round
With your unflickered eyes.
poem by Subrat Pradhan
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Untitled 5
An exile captive, severed from his home,
Torn from the friends he loved in life's sweet spring;
Heart-broken toils, while still his sad thoughts roam
Back to the past which now no joys can bring;
Vainly he seeks compassion and relief
In human hearts around, to cheer of soothe his grief.
As hard the steel, so hard the flinty rock,
Whose grating echoes jest but at his woe;
The quivering iron yields but to the shock,
While down his bosom's height the cold drops flow,
His bleeding hands show many a sanguine spot,
Though seen by human eyes, by human hearts forgot.
There's not a sigh his spirit's grief hath sped,
There's not a dew-drop wrung by tyranny,
Nor yet one scorching tear his sould hath shed,
Nor bloody stain of silent agony,
But God hath seen, and hath recorded true,
To render unto man according to his due.
poem by Owen Suffolk
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0082 The New Grave
You brought your watercolour kit.
For it’s so picturesque – the smallish church
in the centre of the village
like a mother hen at drowsy midday
surrounded by her chicks;
the red-white flag of Saint George
the only sign of life, fluttering like
an aerial footnote to history
(or for some, a corner of a foreign football field…)
but there’s a new detail in the picture
since last you sketched here:
the newest arrival is the oldest: death;
the oldest signifier is the fresh-turned earth.
The uninvited thought squirms across the mind
like the exposed worms of that rich soil,
how reassuring to be buried in this ideal
picture-book of continuity amidst the change,
a country churchyard. A cemetery
has no geography and thus no history
save in the hearts of families;
here, all is reassuring
except to broken hearts which time will heal
all bar the scar.
Already, the bunch of daffodils
in the empty honey jar
have bowed to that same death;
reminding us that graves are spun around
a hundred and forty years of family history:
she’ll remember how she loved her Nan
who died at seventy-something
for all her own seventyish future years.
Rest in peace means something here.
Meanwhile, the daffodils thrive, dotted
among the graves, as unconcerned
as the soft rubber tyres of the hearse
now catching at the Spring’s reaching foliage
as it approaches at a perfectly-judged pace
down Church Lane, returning peace to peace.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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