Best Prehistory Poems
[David Kavanagh’s recent poem, ‘Of Infinity’ so
astonished me in its similarity to my own pet
theory, that I was inspired to finish this poem
that I had been struggling to get right.]
***
All the ingredients there ever were
The atoms of everything ready to stir
All of the molecules in you and me
Have been in existence since prehistory
It’s sheer mathematics it simply must be
Our atoms exist in perpetuity
All that there was is all that there is
And all that there is is all there will be
One big Earthly spice rack, our ‘from’ and our ‘to’
Yesterday’s old becomes tomorrow’s new
A smidgen of this and a teaspoon of that
A pinch and a sprinkle made me… and my cat
And when I lay down for my very last time
New life will come using bits that were mine
Because when we die we return to the rack
To season the new with whatever they lack
Though space ships go up and there’s asteroid hits
Our Earth doesn’t gain or lose that many bits
So cave men and mammoths and tyrannosaurs
Had bits that are mine and bits that are yours
The atoms that make up the grasses and trees
The monkeys, the bats, the horses and bees
Might one day be water or silver or tin
Or even your great, great, great granddaughter’s gin
So whether we’re burnt or laid into the ground
We’ll be going spare when the time comes around
It may be our iron or maybe our salt
For all that we are does not become nought
We’re made from ingredients from way back when
And someday we’ll all be ingredients again
And someone that you may have lost in your past
Perhaps you’ll rejoin in the same blade of grass
Himmelsscheibe von Nebra
Von Raubgräbern beschädigt
Relikt aus der Bronzezeit
Abbild von Mond und Plejaden
Bronze, Goldblech und Malachit
Ein einmaliges Artefakt
Jetzt im Museum von Halle
The Sky Disc of Nebra
Damaged by swag diggers
A fine relict from Bronze Age
An image of moon and Pleiades
Bronze, golden metal and malachite
What an unique artifact
Now in the museum of Halle
El Disco de Cielo de Nebra
Dañado por excavadoras de robo
Un vestigio fino de Edad de Bronce
Una imagen de luna y Pleiades
Bronce, metal de oro y malaquita
Artefacto tan único
Ahora en el museo de Halle
Note. The Sky Disc of Nebra (Saxony-Anhalt, Germany) is a bronze disk with applications of
gold and apparently show astronomical phenomenons and symbols of religious application
areas. It is presumed to be the worldwide oldest concrete image of the sky and one of the
most important archaeological finds from the Bronze Age. The disk was found by swag
diggers in July 1999 in a stone chamber on the Mittelberg near the town of Nebra. It is
now part of the "Landesmuseum für Vorgeschichte Sachsen-Anhalt Halle" (State Museum of
Prehistory Halle). The circular disk is approx. 12.6 in in diameter and about 0.18 in
thick in the centre and 0.07 in at the rims. Based on associated finds (a bronze sword,
two axes, a chisel and fragments of spiralled bangles), the disk was probably buried in
1600 B.C. and made between 2100 and 1700 B.C.
Details and pictures can be seen on http://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/Himmelsscheibe_von_Nebra
Dame Judy Dench
Loves to fish for Tench
When she fixes her motor
She uses a wrench
If she’s feeling tired she sits down on a bench,
DJD is polylingual;
Her favourite language is French,
When she has a pooh in the morning
It causes a stench
DJD is a strong woman,
When Germans talk about her they call her ‘mensch’,
If she gets excited
Her buttocks they clench
When DJD gets dehydrated
Her thirst she will quench,
She is a fine looking woman,
But never call her a wench,
DJD did military service
She learnt to dig a slit trench,
She's into prehistory
And loves to visit Stonehenge,
DJD don't take no -
If she is dissed she'll get her revenge
She is super organised
When she does her filing she uses a big hole punch
If she gets hungry mid morning
She pauses for brunch,
If Helen Mirren calls round they go out for lunch,
DJD is very intuitive
and likes to follow a hunch,
Her off shore investments
Protected her from the credit crunch,
She's a feisty lady -
A reporter asked if 'she had a carer'
Well he got a bunch
Of fives from this diva
But to her friends she is staunch,
Even Harvey Weinstein - DJD protected his paunch,
Said she had a tat of his name on her bum
Cos her career he relaunched
With Victoria and Albert -
She never gives an inch
If Bond is stuck in a ditch
She pulls him out with a winch,
She takes on all the bad guys,
You never see her flinch,
When delivering a soliloquy
She makes it look like a cinch
She should be world president,
Donald J Trump would be the first one she would lynch!
I live in a town where all things go in
reverse. The bushes grow reversely,
shrink smaller back into seeds, and roll back
into the past-life seeds. The river flows
reversely, very swiftly. My friends,
my nephews and nieces, my siblings, and
my parents walk reversely, and
steadily become smaller, younger.
Helplessly, I stand, watch, and cannot grasp
things back. The brains think reversely
into the prehistory; the handwritten
pages decrease, turning reversely for
never being lost. The ruined house of the
neighbor girl is built reversely, becoming
back the house of her young days. The
voices, familiar and unknown, talk
reversely into the afternoons and
noons and nights, calling up the wronged ghost
of a priest whose enlightened shout wakes up
the legendary copperhead, which slithers
and crushes a corner of the forest. A
tornado blows reversely, peels away
the layer of sedimentary rocks,
and shows thousands of ancient cities, where
millions of bricks become new again to
build countless clusters of towers, and where
the waving hands, smiling lips, colorful
clothes, villages, crow’s cries, and flocks of birds
fly reversely into the sunshine arc.
I solely stand, lonely.
Translated into English by Phan Tan Hai
Original poem titled "Song Lui" -- written in Vietnamese by Inrasara.
[If somebody asks] how old are you?
[My answer should be] it may be 90, it may be 2
[Does it matter any] if I am true.
We are, in fact, grains for the birds
Seek our salvation in a pack of cards.
Make love [illicit?] to the queen of hearts.
[Refrain]
We are for birds
We are for birds and bees
We are a pack of cards
Burst at the seams
We are old (..) I may be bold
Our stories are very well- told [prehistory, protohistory and antihistory]
In our shoes [Nike] pin balls rolled [ballet]
[Refrain]
We are for birds
We are for birds and bees
We are a pack of cards
Burst at the seams
[I must speak the truth]
In essence, we are a big fart [Cosmologists, beware]
A dwarf in a Mumbai City Mart [May be Manhattan, if you prefer]
A rectangle as the head of Bart
We eat our shorts and Springfield tart
[ You may order Plutonium wafers in nukesauce if you are smart]
And book rooms at (The Grand Del Mar)
Run our eyes on [motheaten] Marco's yellow chart
[Refrain]
We are for birds
We are for birds and bees
We are a pack of cards
Burst at the seams
So when we finish our dreams
we must go to the pips and pimps
We are gyrating wimps
Natural philosophy, Tims.
[Refrain]
We are for birds
We are for birds and bees
We are a pack of cards
Burst at the seams.
Our natural philosophy, Tims.
ancient hope
a moderately heavy mass of emergent winds, kick up sleeping debris from the surrounding space, spreading its floating carpet, singing in concert with sultry wings, humid and upwardly ascending, gathering behind it a light dusty snow shower of bitter loess, of tiny things, the soil of flesh sinew and bone, of cause and effect, of ages that have fallen away, echoing, buried deep within, far-flung fading cries, silently settling low.
herein lies a prehistory of things, events unknown, slurried in imagination, untenable, sure of almost nothing, the strata of movement, upheaval in reverse motion, nature singing its eternal cry, cyclic, a randomness in chaos builds to a crescendo of brilliant flashes, all photon- energetic, where mineral flotsam radiates outward forming obscure patterns, falling in space, finding place as if by intrinsic design, where oh where is that idiomorphic template not seen?
of wandering magi, of fading sand trails, of swollen feet and the everlasting verve that tugs at the heels, pushing one forward to that acid moment, strangled in the dust of vanity, crawling to the utmost height where the fall of sands, grain on grain, restate their inability to bond fast, washing over and out into the depths where a proto-historic humility silently sleeps covered, quiet and alone.
there are tools in the heart of the earth, a broadband principle of collective accumulations, scattered here and there, everywhere, no obvious settlement map; the white noise as drone amongst the minerals and biologic debris, commingling with an earnestness to bond further afield, scaffolding across great divides, as time shrivels with movement, hampering the curious eye of they who search within, the inquisitive nose sniffing up musty ridden time, the cranky deposits pay no attention, their work is done.
He
Sits
Waiting
Patiently
On the white heather
With green and gold enamelled head.
A
Late
Summer
Visitor
Lazing in the sun :
A dragonfly with lace-like wings.
Like
A
Fossil,
Motionless,
From prehistory,
An insect frozen in amber.
As
A
Larva
He’s waited
Five years water-bound,
Finally free, he flies away.
I like to read and think about
Tyrannosaurus rex,
and gigantic brontosaurus,
with his long and slender neck.
Pterodactyl was a reptile
that flew just like a crow.
I wouldn't want him overhead,
with me stuck down below.
Their skeletons are on display,
so everyone can see 'em.
They're in a place--I think it's called
the dinosaur museum.
I've seen these creatures on TV,
in movies, and in books,
so I guess someone must really know
exactly how they looked.
But I wish someone would tell me
how they determined whether
these critters were upholstered with
hair, or scales, or maybe--feathers.
In the elemental
Lies the trangression
In the captive recesses
Prehistory enhanced with
The bindings of developmental
Snowfall, arching beyond
Never grounded but when compressed
Understood
Epiphanous nobility attained yet
Never closer but by starfall
It sat still watching.
Then a dash, as it saw me
– that damned rabbit.
How, where, had it breached my defences
to eat my veg
to reduce my broccoli to stalks
my leeks to the ground.
I was approaching the village.
It sat still watching.
Then a dash this way then that.
Clunk.
The rear mirror showed it
dead.
I felt bad
to have taken life
– that life of my foe
a foe with fur soft to touch
whose relations had been our pets
to care for
and yes feed.
I am not a lord over creatures
but one myself
with foes and favourites
having a prehistory
of being predator and prey
with no soft fur.
I desire peace and prosperity
but am bound by an instinct
to control
to survive
beyond what is good.
When the resurrection comes
how will I be
with the Easter bunny?
Preterists want back their laurels lost, fingers crossed.
Predators pray for their ruling permanence at the rest's cost, fingers crossed.
So many fingers, so much paltriness; So soon their crossing, their anagnorises so late.
Commanding o'er the entire terrestrial has always been the fickle finger of fate,
from which no one can e'er escape, from prehistory up to date.
Be you owning mansions grandiosely gilt or holding royal sword's hilt,
unaffordable is this finger's slightest tilt-----
Power and prestige, worth and wealth, quick as a wink, all sink into silt.
Magnitude, the depth of sleeping oceans
where bright eyed creatures, unseen by
man, prisoners of prehistory,
denizens of deep emotions,
swim a primeval mystery
unsolved and undefined.
Sometimes they caper crazed and blind,
lashing with trident tongues or
languorously wrapping suckered limbs,
engulfing the nerves, the much maligned
attract of secret wicked things,
the smoke of silt and dread.
And still immortal words are said
to motorise the mouths and eyes of
men and women ruthlessly
at loggerheads on ocean beds,
"I love you" spoken ceaselessly
in the timeless seas of time.
a fragment of before
prehistory rhetorical relic
some long ago thought
where imagination blooms
as reality withers
not quite dead
our dreams
become fermentations
something to sip
when it is time to believe
to have passion
in a worthwhile cause
but what do we know
beyond today’s wishes
and tomorrow’s intentions
the future is a horizon
we have yet to see
what we will remember
comes much later
after what is
ceases to be
I am sunk deep
in the dark of this day,
peer out of a hollow
that holds the tribe's history
drawn in ochre on a rock wall.
Outside is a numb, frozen world
that yields little food. Animals
are scarce and I am kept alive
by stealth and making most
of the meager offerings that
fall to my spear.
I hate being here,
imprisoned in a poem, placed
in this icy wasteland of prehistory,
cold, abandoned in a pocket of time
by a poet sitting in a warm room
in the twenty-first century.
Note.
Winter Solstice will occur
on the the twenty first of June
for us southern hemisphere
tribes.
Every moment your breath touches is filled with completeness—you held the whole universe
On the tip of your tongue (and keep it spinning and dancing and singing moment by moment).
Your love is the great predatoral roar,
The soft caressing tongue of a lioness
It hides in every misty crevice and majestic mountain; in
Every sunset and sunrise and dainty wild flower. The cause of your great sacrifice (a chasm,
Gaping down to the center of the deepest soul
blacker than the inside of nothing, filled with all the horror from
prehistory to post oblivion
Uncountable hearts from innumerable holocausts)
As you were rejected by yourself, by your father, but your eternal companion
You cried out, and were sucked in (It Is Finished.)