The Humble Life

The Humble Life

History,

who writes it?

Not the farmer tilling

his thoughts at 5am,

letting the air of morning

seep between dreams

and the day to come.

No, he has mouths to feed:

hay for the horses,

grass for the cows,

a leftover carrot for his son.

Milk doesn’t flow on its own,

but through the dexterous rhythms

that practiced fingers play.

He scatters piles of seeds behind him,

hoping a few ears will grow.

He bends the water down the rows

dug beneath the relentless sun.

And if fruit yields, then he sings

and eats little, and plants more.

Where are the feathers for a quill?

On the chickens or in his pillows.

The ink he has to dip from

is as deep as his daily routine:

viscous, dark, and tough to remove,

a struggle even if it brings him joy.

He may write, but with his hands

and for the families he can touch

And he may speak, but his words,

like his efforts, take years to sprout.

So then, history,

who writes you?

While a learned man, twirling

a pen in one hand and time in the other,

types out the grievances of the past,

or the way old values are like rags

soaked and smelling of oil

ready to be burned

on the torch of progress,

while he cycles through tragedy and comedy,

like newly released plays

and mourns with one actor

and laughs at the next,

while the rich man pays no price

for publicity, but a smile,

and claims to be a savior

to far-off unseen lands,

while we listen to the news

and sift the truth with our shaking

and careful shucking of lies

or not, as we may in our idle stupor,

even now, as in ages past,

it is not wind trudging through

the corn fields and rice patties,

but men and women

who cover their heads for protection,

who sense the weather in their knees,

who know the weight of the seasons

because they carry on their shoulders

the silence of their ancestors,

too busy to speak to a deaf world

of their hard-fought happiness.

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While I was driving home tonight, I got to thinking about how history is written. In many books and stories that I go through, a plot device I have often seen again and again is that of a supposed history: a history that the main characters and the readers take for granted only to discover later that through slow and careful change by those in power, those with pride or lack of courage or ill intentions, important truths were covered up. I believe that to be the case today - we don't know the whole truth from the version of history we get today. That being said, I think some important snippets of information remain, enough to provide some wisdom for those who search. For instance, history has cycles. It has been said that those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it. I often think about how each new generation is quick to dismiss the old as if it wasn't accumulated from thousands of years of learning, as if now suddenly, and only now, the truth has suddenly been learned. In general, I would say that those with titles, power, and pelf have been the types to write history, or re-write it according to their rebellion of choice. Nowadays it is popular to be a rebel against the traditions and thinking of the past and I imagine it has been so for a long time. On the other hand, in general I would say that the humble good people in this day and age, and likely throughout history, have also tended to be the least likely to stand up and shout. I believe there's much to learn from the ways of the past.  Not that there aren't examples of righteous and powerful leaders, but they are fewer than we would like. That is, in essence, what this poem is about.