To you biographers of Caesar,
            I am that murdered general, 
a Roman nose engraved on silver coin;
an alabaster column in perfect Roman order,
            a sword, a plough, a prefect,
a century of soldiers—
a bumper crop in Tunis or in Spain.

 To you biographers of Peter, 
            I am that Prince Apostle,
a Hebrew man enshrined beside the Po;
a traitor and evangelist fell prey to Roman order,
            a sword, an ear, a net for men,
a century of soldiers—
an empty cross along the Apis train.     
            
 To you biographers of Arthur,
            I am that coming high-king,
a Celtic myth in Celtic pride entwined;
a pauper and a prince, once, before the Roman order,
            a sword, a stone, a chalice, 
a fief of noble soldiers—
the Cup of Christ long kept by England's swain.   
             
 To you historians of Athens,
            I am that naval power,
the wisdom of my people long beheld;
Master over Sparta before the Roman order,
            a sword, a fleet, the polis, 
a city-state of scholars—
the light of pagan Europe in my blade.   

 You genealogists of Adam,
            I am the father sinner,
God's firstborn from the dirt of Eden's shade;
a farmer and a workman, the sewer of disorder, 
            a sword, a tree, the rocky earth,
left to my warring children—
their history still in my image made. 



  
  

I wrote this maybe 15 years ago while I was reading Leaves of Grass.  The poem is really nothing like “To a Historian,” but I loved that title so much.  I think that was the impetus.