Category Archives: Historical

The Beautiful One

a poem by

Nefertiti the beautiful one,
Nefertiti spoke
From mounds of sand and
Heaps of loose stone
Her body has become heavy
And centuries of sickness has invaded her.
Her name was
What lifted Akenaton’s heart.
Now under a boundless sky
The pulsating passion
Lie locked in a granite hollow
And her youth, beauty, power
All edited in collected writings.
She misses the barges up the Nile
And a call of a heron
In the high wind.
She urges the passerby to
Delve into her
To decrease the leagues
Between her and
Violet immensity.
Her breasts fall forward
Her lungs swelled out
With air
She stretches out from the
Abyss of deep time.
And time looses meaning.
The air, the very air
That you and I breathe
Nefertiti breathed
Unchanged, unaltered through centuries.

Consumer of History

a poem by

Banking on inherited memories rejuvenates me.
As and when I remember the memories
That me and my people long to cherish
And those me and my people despise to relish
To remember not as memoirs
But as inerasable scars.
The nation, the geography, the war, the leaders
The language, the temples, the forts and those statues,
And the ethnicity
Then comes the innate xenophobia
That declares me and my people as more equal than others;
And others do live in History’s mischief,
Bloodshed as part of the living
And for the living of me and my people,
And the making of the histories
That I and my people have today
As glorious moments of the past for the present
But for those who produced this wicked ‘hero’
That is unexplainable.
The Unforgettable’s enigmatic inexplicable
And this makes me feel the heroic deeds
And the unheroic moments as great periods
And people who built that fort and this temple.
I only consume History.

Producer of History

a poem by

Learning from the past bloopers
I reconstruct the future through THIS present.
And those present here.
There is NO present as such
For humans live in past glories
And memories that are painful
To think about the future
And the prospective futures.
Those (are) perceived either in fear or in hyper ambitions.
The past seems to me
A mere wars- the wars fought
For a feudal by feudals
Or those whose slaves-
(Both physical and social)
Those kings and their courtesans
Those numerous wives and those concubines
The titles and the moribund army
The modern PROMOTERS of democracy
Yet the common man was ‘there’
But not living.
I exterminate all the above
Including the democracy,
The dictatorship of the prolitere,
The religious kingdom, the Islamic republic.
Egalitarian society for all- the inclusive growth.
I will have equality
Where people are equal
In all but something
Giving room for
Those like I who would like to produce
History- future history.
I produce History
Not for History’s sake
For myself– my sake.

Friendship, the best culture

a poem by

The intruders plundered the riches of the nations and spread their culture;
They introduced their language and religion through schools and hospitals;
They developed science and technology and reaped materialistic benefits;
When the people woke up they split the nations and left them to fight themselves ever.

The spiritually developed Eastern nations struggle to come up economically and socially;
Ignorance, disease and poverty keep the liberated nations suppressed, depressed and oppressed;
The heavy population of the new nations starve, suffer and struggle;
In addition to this, the exploiter nations spread pollution and disease
And advise the developing nations to protect environment for world safety!

The long suffered nations readily succumbed to the tricks of the communist intruders;
Wherever communist ideals dominated there all stagnation deep rooted;
The communist dictatorship put the nations under deep despair and deprivation;
At long last again many nations woke up to see reality eye to eye and
Threw out communist dictators to breathe liberty with hopes of prosperity.

After the two World Wars the modern world broke into two blocs:-
One half supporting America and the other half supporting Russia;
The militarisation of the two blocs vied with each other;
Land, water and air became the testing places for the stock-piling of weapons!

The spy net works watched each other the installations of the war weapons;
Fear, suspicion and envy ever kept alive cold war between the two blocs;
Many governments were toppled and the puppet rulers installed then and there;
Through their satellite nations they fought with each other often to test their might.

The stage came when the world destroying weapons the two Super Powers developed
And then only realised that both could not survive if they used such weapons;
They realised too it was better to settle their differences through friendship;
Then friendship became the best culture to be adopted among world nations.


a poem by

A thought was born in the dark shadows of a colony,
In the cradle of European imperialism,
In countries where people were in darkness all year,
Even as the sun never set on the empire.

And the thought was not of revenge,
Not of retribution, not of vengeance,
It carried a tender humanness,
About fighting for rights without violence.

And the thought spread with the breeze,
Through villages, towns and cities,
And the empire built on years of wars,
Couldn’t stand the litmus test of peace.

The empire crumbled succumbing to the human spirit,
But the thought died with it too,
And today we wait for another atrocity,
That shall light the torch of non-violence

Changing Times

a poem by

History tells us of what went past,
good and bad, of kings and tyrants;
of times when might was right,
when slavery was a natural state.

History tells us of wars and annexations,
of conquests and subjugations,
of expansions and colonisations,
of strong haves and weak have-nots.

History tells us of revolts and revolutions,
of rise of liberty and equality,
of man’s rights to life and freedom,
of emergence of civilized democratic nations.

History tells us of coming of the Age of Reason,
when old faiths became inadequate,
and new faith in reason was thin,
and a new age of confusion was born.

What history of our era will we leave behind?
Will it be of a regression to the animal in man,
or of rise of a co-operative global community?
The ever changing Time will pen this chapter.


a poem by

Its all over for now
And perhaps, for the next four years to come!
Months of hard work has come
to an end all of a sudden.
Whatev’r the outcome, it was great!
The people have given their verdict
as to who should lead the country
once again!
And this is how Democracy works;
A deep divide exists howev’r
amongst the voters today;
There can be just one victor;
The other concedes defeat.
It is time to unite;
It is time to heal;
It is time to understand the fact that
A few thousand voters can change
A nation’s destiny!
The loser is NOT really a loser!
He had mustered almost half the votes;
He represents a colossal figure of hearts
That are still behind him
So, the victor should NOT gloat,
Nor revel or lose his head;
He was just lucky to stay ahead,
For, God was by his side.
Now is the time to think
And ponder why so many
Voted against him;
Now is the time to sink
The differences and work
For the common good of all.
There is no time to waste;
And one mustn’t be in haste;
A nation has problems beset,
That have defied solutions yet.
Emotions will run high;
Many will simply cry;
For success that was nigh,
Eluded the other guy.
But this is how it works-
the people’s mandate!
Forget the past mistakes;
Start afresh today;
There are problems galore;
And come will many more!
For now, the elections are o’er;
Heal the hearts that are sore!

(Dedicated to the US President, George W. Bush,
Winner of the Nov 2004 US Presidential Elections)


a poem by

Eye wash, white wash
Wash bin, dirty stain.
Money wash, laundry bank.
Banks collapse beating drum sticks
Cleaning robes, garments, clothes.
Great garb along the lines
Washing white, hanging dry.
Cash bright, dizzy height,
Short sight blind vision…
Resort to aggression…
Change hands, soiled again;
Blood stain.


a poem by

Violence begets violence
Vicious circles
Unending litter, strewn on streets-
No more killings. It’s useless
to play back ignorance.
Hurt past stories bring bitter memories;
Ruin; present existence.
Should the world recall
Slavery injustice?
Sure that would create
A make alive miseries.
So my friend, look ahead
Touch one another courageous.
Inspire peace ideal, practical scrutinise.
Study well consequences learning to sympathise.

The French Revolution

a poem by

The nobility lived in palaces grand and exquisite
With servants thousands and thousands.
To sweat, toil, starve and to be hit,
The third estate was chosen.

The clergy worst in its own way
Comprised cold-blooded rogues
With hearts of stone that often may
Hide beneath sacred robes.

When the third estate petitioned for bread,
“Let them eat cake”
Without mercy the queen said,
Unaware of the revenge they would take.

The treasury with not a single penny
Roused the indolent king,
Who, to fill the treasury with money,
Appointed Turgot to do the thing.

Antoinette, with her own selfish mind,
Dismissed the efficient one
For committing mistakes of no kind;
The dismissal’s reason known to none.

The Estates General was convened
With the first and second estate.
The majority of the population intervened
For disallowing the third estate.

Marched the crowd in mad rage
To the nearby tennis court.
Men, women and children of all age
With determination, swore an oath.

Then they stormed with bitterness
The great Bastille prison.
Never before did the world witness
Such dauntless courage in unison.

That was the beginning of the revolution
That shook the pillars of despotism
And led kings and queens to the revelation
Of people’s power- a realism.

The guillotine was employed all day
In every part of France,
Taking heads off in a silent way
From nobles in a trance.

For ten full months, terror reigned
In the nation called France.
Robespierre held the country’s reins
In his own bloody hands.

The Reign of terror ended
When the French peoples’ factions,
With the same guillotine executed
Robespierre for his bloody actions.

France was made a Republic
With Liberty, Equality and Fraternity,
Much to the joy of the public,
Who believed this to last for eternity.

The belief proved to be wrong
When the legend of Napoleon,
Courageous, intelligent, brave and strong,
Took over france with his garrison.

The magnificence of his wonderful rule
Even today the world wears.
His mortal body devoid of soul
The “Dome des Invalides’ bears.

Village Chorus

a poem by

Village chorus sing songs sweet in green fields
Just band hard when render deeds those candid,
Trust the chants relent harvest and boost yields
I quest lore cores what help needs bards placid?

Change rhymes and tunes to suit exact seasons
Wipe out stress and strain the mellow rhythms,
Croon yore yells, still tell tales of those regions
Carols, spell myths and mystics of past themes.

No written scripts! brain mantle is only source
Eras ere, change true themes and trill new calls,
Aged the sane guild, and stand as rare resource
Chorus, reveal culture scarce through the shrills.

I swear and compile those songs that serve well
Scan the scripts and print them future use of all.

Born to Lead

a poem by

(This poem is written for the legend Che Guevera)

In a village where seeds are sown and crops grown
a young mother named here son Ernesto
from early age to his untimely demise
Ernesto became a legend which no cuban denies
raised in a family of extensive education
high hopes were expected for Ernesto’s occupation
but his name was burnt into history
for reasons that are considered military
a soldier of fortune who strived for success
because Ernesto knew that failure means death
from Argentina he arose as a guerrilla in the mist
to cuba he was swept to face his conquest
Fidel Castro and Ernesto over threw the government
with new ideas to operate the new parliament
power was seized that very same day
Castro, was still called Castro,
but Ernesto was named Che
and a few months after they’re victory
Che was the centre of a conspiracy
to cease the beating of Che’s heart was the plan
so Cuba could bury they’re sacred man
Che was a father, a husband, a son
and all that was abolished when the bullet left the gun
Che Guevera the legend, the myth
the revolutionary who still exists
teachers who knew him knew he would succeed
and teachers who knew him, said he was born to lead.

Ajantha and Ellora

a poem by

The carvers
before and after Christ,
had cut marvels
out of rocks
of Deccan Plateau,
in awing Ajantha
and enchanting Ellora.

The vaulted roof
above the nave,
the Viharas for the monks,
three storeys with chapels,
the Stupas,
and the mural paintings
on the walls and ceilings,
the rock-hewn doors!!…
make us petrified with surprise.

We don’t turn renegades.
We fail to decipher
the myths and mystic inscriptions
of the Jain, the Buddhist and the Hindu.
We stand spell-bound
seeing the skills of those sculptors.

If Maria ( Evil) had succeeded
in wooing Gautama to seek
a jewelled Wheel of Empire,
then Buddhism would have made fertile
even the far east plains of Africa.

Earthquakes elect not to raze these hills
and thunder goes awry hitting somewhere.
No civil war rent off the idols.
Volcanoes erupt not in these sylvan retreats.
If alien missiles with nuclear warheads
fall on these relics of human wonders,
let shame bring on themselves.

Maha Rana Pratap Singh (Rajasthan, India)

a poem by

Never he was a vassal to the Moghul,
Who led a Turkish mob to plunder
And annexe the Princely States of Bharat.
“God alone is my suzerain and not a Turk”,
He thundered and kept his word till his end.
His gallant steed Chetak matched his prowess
And vied for glory with his master Rana.
When the subdued kings lost their queens
or wedded to the Sultan their daughters,
Rana Pratap, Mewar’s Rajput Chief
Proved a lion to show the pride of his race,
By bowing not his head to Delhi.
Those who bent their knees at the Court of Moghuls
Couldn’t sit, chat and dine with him.
This insult rankled in the mind of Man Singh
Who led the army of Akbar, The Great,
And he hinted for a war with Delhi.
Missions sent to bend Rana’s heart
Failed to make any dent, and crumbled.

Hakim Khan Sur, though a Pathan
Fought at front for Rana’s army.
He had no myopic spell of religion.
He liked Rana, who treated the women
of the vanquished foe with reverence
And stood high in morals among the kings.
The randy Turks never learnt the laws of war.
They were nefarious and lawless mobs from afar.
Sur laid his life for the sake of Rana
On the first day of war at Haldighati.
The brave Bhils stood by the marvellous Rana
And Haldighati amidst Auroville hills
Turned to red with blood and saffron-turbaned heads.
Guerrilla warfare, so Rana chose
To save his men with swords and bows from guns.
Akbar’s forces couldn’t single out Pratap
To capture him alive or dead.
Breaking all the cordons, Pratap advanced
To strike at Man Singh seated on his elephant.
Chetak hopped aloft and Pratap hurled his spear
At the shameless lieutenant of Delhi.
But Man Singh escaped while his mahout fell dead.
And in the fiery fight, Pratap got trapped.
Man Singh’s faeryderm swung a sword from it’s trunk
And Chetak got a lethal cut at it’s leg.
A deadly blow also fell on Rana.
Jhala Man, the wondrous Chief of Rana
Snatched the royal emblem from Rana’s head
And bore the brunt of attack on his King.
His Chieftains tried hard to whisk Rana off
And he sallied out with his injured horse.
Jhala Man was mistaken for Rana,
And the hostile men surrounded him and killed.
Rana beat a retreat into the hills,
But two Moghuls pursued him for his head
For them to be awarded with royal gifts.

Crossing a rivulet Chetak neighed and fell,
The first time in his life to feel remorse
And breathed his last on Rana’s lap.
Rana took the saddle off his Chetak
And shed a Master’s tears on his closing eyes.
An estranged brother of Rana Pratap,
Serving under the imperial Akbar,
Chased the blood thirsty Mughuls,
severed their heads and saved his brother,
Whom the people adored as the hero.
He pleaded with Rana to mount on his horse
And hurry into the Ghatti hills deep and dense,
Where the Mughuls dared not to enter,
As the Bhills under Panja would spray stones
From the hide-outs, Nature shaped in those hills.

The loss of all his ferocious fighters
In sanguinary battles fought often,
Made Rana grievous, and he exiled himself
Into the desert, with remaining men.
He had a wise Minister to salvage
And urge him again to wield the sword
Against Delhi dreaming to swallow Bharat.
Bhama Shah, his boundless wealth to Rana gave
And the lion of Mewar defied again
And rallied his men to regain his fort.

Akbar ceased from futile wars with Rana
And turned his ire to the West of North.
Rana ruled in peace to the ease of all.
A cut on his leg put Rana on his bed.
In his nebulous vision, he saw his horse
And his soul bade bye on being pledged
That his Mewar would not bow to Delhi
And flew up mounting on his Chetak.