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History Elegy Poems | Elegy Poems About History

These History Elegy poems are examples of Elegy poems about History. These are the best examples of History Elegy poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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Details | Elegy |

My Return To Normandy

High on the Normandy cliffs
Looking out over Pointe du Hoc
As cold Atlantic winds whisper out
The names of the brothers I left behind
Now only fine marble monument shadows
Dot the trenches and empty emplacements 
As the final testimony of the fallen
Still ringing frightened with those desperate voices
Proclaiming both their lives and death
That they were ever here…

In the emerald hills of Collville Sur Mur
I can still hear the phantom naval shells screaming
Underneath the crying of men
Pulverized and dying in their comrades arms
All for the belief of the land from which they hail
While the roaring waves wash the still bloody sands
In and endless and rending cycle
That silent cacophony of brother and foe
Call out to me still for comfort and aid
Asking only to be remembered…


Details | Elegy |

The Darkest Day

Burning eyes, I cannot believe I'm alive
Smoke fills the air and it makes me so scared
My brain is cloudy and slow, and I see myself upside down on the ground
People are screaming, I hear loud crashing
Everything begins falling
I know I won't make it out alive.
The building is breaking the whole place is shaking
And I get up to run for my life
My hands scraped and bloodied, my skirt, torn. 
There's no time to mourn.
My hair is matted and wet, and I crash into a person I had just met
Making my way down the stairs, I think about how this is all unfair.
In that split second there's another BOOM 
And impact
Throws me down to my doom.
But a hand grabs me and pulls me up,
I would say something but I can hardly gulp.
I can't see and my savior leads me.
There's a ringing in one ear, but none in my other.
I scream in frustration, and my vision goes under.
Deep darkness overwhelms me.
There is pain in my arms and I just want to leave
Leave this chaos of a world, this place where the smoke curls and whirls.
My body shuts down as I slowly fall on the ground and my life flashes before my eyes.
But it is okay. This is all I can take
And then I hear sirens and people.
I smile at them because I know it is too late.
I close my eyes then. This was the end.
I see the light and I give up the fight.


Details | Elegy |

Light at the End

When it hits my chest
It would not lay me to rest
It cannot bring about my end
So long I refuse to bend
Death on my chest
Is but a test
On my will to live up
To see if I would give up
The Giver would allow the pain
After seeing my faith on life
He would restore me again.
Death test is but in the while
Of a second
After which we can go on.


Details | Elegy |

THE DROWNING MAN

As I look pitifully at the expression of the drowning man; 
Picturing how he works his way, 
Trying his capability; pleading Nature for his life back.
As the going gets helpless, 
The drowning man makes scratches at the bank of the rushing brook;
 Gathering a sum of clay tightly in his fist; 
Death has his hands on him, 
Moving alongside him, through the mindless brook; 
Bearing him without mercy; stealing from humanity so helpless.


Details | Elegy |

Better accomodations for a God

Better Accommodations for a God
Oh Stately spire from distance seen.
Your young visage, causes you to preen .
Your Circular face, shows no time.
Boisterous Bells, comfort minds Divine.
Though haughty and Sanctimonious you are. 
You owe your fame to a kin not far.
Upon a plain that shares the name
You were given in another King’s Reign
Not still grand like you.
Henges  strewn from nature’s rage
Resided their God of another age.
Blocks of stone, that simple people Raised.
Not long before, they shared a Cave.
Both sites no more sanctified.
People built them at a sacrifice
Money and Sweat and their Lives.


Details | Elegy |

Grandfather

My Grandfather High-backed chair facing the corner, Window over books so cherished Loved. Like the greatest of scholars, but still humble He was a trove of stories Air of silence on a place once full Of stories from a time past, A time of honor and courage and duty Of country and spirit; fighting an enemy Made from indescribable evil. Tales of valor, sand, and bullets Lions and machine guns, young men in battle Fighting for their lives. Knowing the enemy was like a jackal Cruel and twisted, an army of evil He witnessed it all First hand, in the heat of the day And cold of night. Tales passed on, spoken In a way that conveyed such knowledge That one was to sit in amazement, and hear it Firsthand from the chair facing the corner. Like a throne of deep thought. The day he left this world, I wept. Seeing him not but a day before, It was harder than I could have imagined. The pain is real, but so were the memories And so the legacy of the veteran lives on. The chair sat vacant, but I felt him there. The books on the shelf, the other treasures Left behind held him here on earth While the memories anchored him in our hearts. The man in the chair shall never be forgotten And the stories shall pass far into the generations.


Details | Elegy |

BYRON'S BONFIRES

BYRON’S BONFIRES

Byron’s life was full of fire
Some from passion’s strong desires
Some from temper, child spoiled--
Too much paper--desk embroiled

But he suffered sacred fire
Shelley’s wretched funeral pyre
On strange shores his friend succumbed
Drowned so far away from home

Fighting valiant-- Greeks allied
Keeping paper by his side
Used a fire to keep warm--
Daunting rain that did him harm

After death friends burned B’s words
What a shock if people heard
Thoughts that Byron dared to write
Deeds he carried through by night

Thus his words sung to the flames
Protecting friends from nasty names--
Luck-charmed  chimney to embrace
Ash-thoughts of man so wrong defaced.

Victoria Anderson-Throop   12/03/12 ©
Juja, Kenya   Africa


Details | Elegy |

History

I am lonely, lying on 
my bed,
Not forlorn, I've 
history on my head,
Kings' honour,
wars that emporers 
waged,
The death toll, the 
faces hungery, pale,
I am lonely, lying on 
my bed,
Not forlorn, I've 
history on my head,
Bleeding horses, 
tumbling on bodies 
dead,
Injured soldiers, who 
bore iron hoofs,
Wanting water, 
panting for breath,
I am lonely, lying on 
my bed,
Not forlorn, I've 
history on my head,
The castle that makes 
you wonder,
Wasn't for purpose of 
astonishment,
They made it to hide 
them, feel a little safe,
Wasn't that broken? 
Killed, looted men.
I am lonely, lying on 
my bed,
Not forlorn, I've 
history on my head.
God made the holly 
man, angels were 
afraid,
They warned their 
almighty, questions 
were raised,
God denied all that, 
and with pride He 
said:
Ye know nothing of 
what your Lord 
intend.
I am lonely, lying on 
my bed,
Not forlorn, I've 
history on my head.


Details | Elegy |

Poem written near a Cemetery 1 of 2

Poem written near a Cemetery  1 of 2
On 13th February 2012

While moving near the walls of a cemetery, 
I saw the glimpse 
Of a bunch of some tiny wild flowers,
Blooming in the golden Sunlight falling on them, 
They were waving their simile, 
With every gush of wind,
On the monument of a deserted grave.

For me it was a new and exciting experience, 
To enter in that cemetery of eighteenth century,
What had brought me to that spot,
Where those wild flowers were still smiling,
Remains a mystery
Every time, I think and rethink. 

I saw hundreds of monuments and tombs,
After entering in that preserved cemetery, 
Some were telling the story,
Of the grandeurs of its dwellers,
While others were there,
Standing without a crown or a story.

The grave on which, I saw those flowers,
Was not showing an appealing face, 
Age had withered its luster and charms,
And time had left its marks on its face.

Being in the last line of that cemetery 
It was waiting in the long queue,
For some kith and kin of Sophia Ress,
May come some day and  
The face of that noble soul’s grave, 
May once again obtain its lost glory and grace.

There I found those lonely wild tiny flowers,
Still blooming and smiling and dancing,
With every gush of wind,
Telling silently a beautiful story of its dweller,
As if, they were paying their homage,
While remembering her lost songs and images.

In the morning hours of the Autumn,
The tree leaves were falling, 
Everywhere on the ground,
And some were even falling on me,
Either to tell the universal truth, 
Of the inevitable departure of everyone’s one day 
Or perhaps to accompany me, 
In that graveyard of all those,
Who were totally strangers for me.

After watching that grave and 
Appreciating those tiny flowers,
I explored each and every tomb and monuments,
Standing in the memory of those British,
Who had lived a royal life during those days,
When they lived here and ruled my country, 
For a very long time. 

Ravindra 
Kanpur India 18th Feb. 2012  concluded in Part 2



Text of the Stone on Sophia Rees Owen

"Text of the Stone on Sophia Rees Owen
In the memory of Sophia Rees Owen 
The beloved wife of H T Owen Esqr. 
Of the H C Civil Service, who died on the 27th 
Nov.1834 aged 31 years 11months and 18days.
Leaving her husband and Six children to lament 
Her loss. She was a sincere friend, a truly 
Attached wife and a devoted Mother.......







Details | Elegy |

SAPPHO'S FALLING STARS part 1

                                            SAPPHO’S FALLING STARS     (Part one)


I am descendent of Odysseus
	Hero of the past
Have I kin—I know not—I may be the last--
The Trojan War and Helen made my family's blazing fame
Thus magnified by Homer was made our honor and ancestral name

I stand this day the General of the fallen men that the Fates have tossed
across the Siren Sappho's way—
now foolishly slain-- my Fallen Stars    	 
                      		such a ragged few
                                       in this paltry breath of a moment
                                      			of mere delay--

Inconsequential time in history 
                                                                                          forever lost—


at their honor’s cost


for Mine, a Mighty Name
excuses easily such inconsequential blame
                                                                         
I cannot weep—I cannot pray

                      Such sacrifice of brave men
	              Lifeless , While I stand whole
	               Due to my folly 
                      Sucks the breath stark from my soul

Yarns and lore of Heroes—I know
Babe……. to youth……… in manhood……..
Each far-flung hour, day upon dew-kissed day
Nurtured ever cherished in the sweet talk of the female-breast-kissed way
      	Absorbed sensuous tactics laced with salty woman taste--so learned
	Intimately known as my manhood blossomed

Intimate Initiate—once
You, Sappho, sought my need –-
Intimate follower once—
                                I ate your passion delicious sauced with greed

(part two posted)............................................





Victoria Anderson-Throop  12/18/12 ©


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