The Scottish poet John Burnside wrote "History" in response to the September 11 terrorist attacks against the United States. The poem's speaker, whom readers can interpret as Burnside himself, is flying kites on a beach in Scotland with his son in September 2001. Distracted by "the news" and plagued with a "muffled dread" about the future, the speaker tries to counter his anxiety by grounding himself in his surroundings in the present. The poem suggests the value of reconnecting with nature, paying loving attention to the world at hand, and protecting innocence. Burnside published "History" in his ninth poetry collection, The Light Trap, in 2002.
The speaker is flying kites as the sand ripples along the beach and the smell of gasoline from Leuchars (a neighboring town that houses a Royal Air Force base) wafts over the golf course. The distant, blue-gray tide is very low. Other people are out for a run or pausing to stare up at the fighter jets that tilt and change direction in the morning sun.
The speaker's mind is preoccupied with recent events and filled with dull fear and anxiety about what might happen next.
The speaker gets down on his knees in the sand with his son, Lucas, to collect seashells and small rocks. They discover signs of life amidst all the broken, washed-up bits: snail shells, scraps of razorfish, and stains from seaweed and other sea life left on rocks that have been worn smooth by the tide.
Sometimes the speaker thinks that people's identities have less to do with who they're related to or where they're born and more to do with the gap between the world they lay claim to and what they dream about on days like today, when the kite's string is pulled taut in the wind while the speaker's body is planted firmly on the beach.
Because despite being boxed in by their possessions, what really anchors people to the rest of the world, the speaker says, are all these things they notice in the water as they read from the book of the ocean, with its pink and blue sea creatures mingling with a child's innocence.
Sometimes the speaker gets completely overwhelmed at the thought of losing it all—the whole planet and everything that lives in it. People give up so much to the virtual world that they barely even notice the push and pull of each other's bodies and hardly take in the moment unfolding in front of them. They don't notice the way light and weather subtly change, or the humble, more immediate events taking place all around them: a fish getting caught in an ocean current; the sleepless koi in city ponds, their beautiful bodies held captive, stuck in their own slowly shifting gold skins; empty jars filled with fish eggs or little fish or goldfish brought home from the fair as the radio plays.
But this is the real issue, the speaker continues: how can people live in this precious, beloved world without hurting it or each other?
A small child on the beach, picking through the driftwood and dried-up seaweed, confused by the markings on a seashell.
And his parents on the big mounds of sand, with their kite tethered to the sky, its line taut.
How can people be patient or live with fear and yet, in spite of it all, pay close attention to what can't be saved?
"History" alludes to the September 11 terrorist attacks against the United States. The speaker is visiting the beach with his family, his mind heavy with "the news" of the attacks and distracted by uncertainty over what's going to happen next. His mind also drifts to less obvious but still imminent dangers, such as environmental destruction and the alienation caused by an increasingly capitalistic, "virtual" world. The only real way to counter this constant hum of fear, the poem suggests, is to be deeply aware of your immediate surroundings. In other words, people should remain "attentive" to the present rather than getting so caught up in the big stuff that they overlook the "quiet, local forms of history"—the little things going on right under their noses.
As he wanders the beach with his family, the speaker grapples with his fears about the world he lives in. He describes people on the beach "stopping to watch" the "war planes" flying past as well as his own "muffled dread" about the consequences of the attacks. The poem takes place in "West Sands," a beach in Scotland, so it's less that the speaker feels immediately threatened than that these events have brought up bigger questions about the general state of the world. At a time when people are "confined by property" and in danger of losing their connection to the earth in favor of "the virtual," the speaker feels overcome by fear and anxiety.
Yet the speaker keeps coming back to the present moment, suggesting that there's something anchoring about paying close attention to what you can actually see and touch. The speaker says he "knelt down in the sand" with "Lucas" (his son), "gathering shells and pebbles and finding evidence of life in all this / driftwork." And because the speaker believes it's all too easy to "scarcely register the drift and tug / of other bodies" in today's "virtual" world, he pays close attention to "the moment as it happens," noticing "the fish lodged in the tide" and the subtle "shifts of light." The poem suggests that staying rooted in these small, "quiet" moments can help fend off the "dread" and despair of violent, uncertain times.
In its final moments, the poem describes parents flying kites that are "plugged into the sky" while their toddler, "sifting wood and dried weed from the sand," is "puzzled by the pattern on a shell." These images suggest that the parents are caught up in what's going on in the world at large (they’re looking up at the sky, and "plugged in" suggests not being able to take their minds off the news). By contrast, the child is focused on something small and perplexing in front of him; he is ignorant of and thus unbothered by the "history" being made. His fascination with the tiny shells and pebbles on the beach suggests that focusing on what's right in front of you is one way to "be alive [...] and do no harm."
Still, the poem doesn't suggest the parents are wrong to be worried about the future. On the contrary, it suggests that people can be "afraid" and "attentive to the irredeemable" (i.e., things that can't be saved) at the same time. Indeed, the poem implies that the world itself is "irredeemable"—all those little lives broken apart by the sea's waves and washed to shore suggest that nothing lasts, even in the best of times. Yet there's beauty and value in paying close attention to them. Thus, the poem illustrates that one can't fixate entirely on big-picture stuff—life is just as much about the minutiae as anything else.
The speaker of "History" believes the central "problem" of life is "how to be alive / in all this gazed-upon and cherished world / and do no harm." Shaken by violent events, he's sorting out his own relationship to both "local" and global history—and wondering how to exist on this planet without contributing to humanity's violence against other people and nature. Though the poem offers no pat solutions, it honors the gentle curiosity and openness often displayed by children. Children's innocence, the poem suggests, encourages a meaningful connection with and respect for one's surroundings.
The speaker says that "what tethers us to gravity and light"—that is, what really keeps us connected to the world and to each other—includes "the rose or petrol blue / of jellyfish and sea anemone / combining with a child's / first nakedness." This nakedness symbolizes the child's purity, reflecting the idea that he has not yet been corrupted or marred by the world. The speaker's son doesn't know or care about "the news," and the "dread" and anxiety that plague his parents haven't dampened his enjoyment of this day at the beach. That nakedness also makes the child vulnerable (he could easily get stung by those jellyfish!), but he is far too absorbed in the details of what he can see and touch to really care: the "shells and pebbles," the "smudges of weed and flesh on tideworn stone," the "pattern on a shell." His innocence allows him to remain attentive to something as small and immediate as "the pattern on a shell," to mingle with his surroundings without an undercurrent of fear.
The speaker begins the next stanza by declaring, "Sometimes I am dizzy with the fear / of losing everything." Filled with anxiety about world events, the speaker seems to feel a protective instinct toward the sweetness and purity of childhood. He "kneels" to be closer to his son, and together they look for "evidence of life" amidst the "snail shell" and "shreds of razorfish." This suggests both the speaker's tenderness toward his child and that they both care about what happens to the disoriented creatures that have been washed to shore.
The poem suggests that this loving and protective attitude toward "living creatures" is part of any adult's responsibility in a violent world. The speaker isn’t just concerned with protecting his "toddler," but also with showing him how to be a caring and gentle person. He is "patient" and "attentive" to the moment they're sharing, and "register[s]" the bodies around him—his son's, but also those of "jellyfish and sea anemone." These acts of care don't exactly negate the fact that there are "war planes" flying by, but they do suggest that a more humane and caring world is possible—and that it requires getting in touch with our childlike selves: the side of us that's innately curious about, trusting of, and respectful toward the planet.
For the speaker of "History," identity isn't about "kinship nor our given states." That is, it's not about who we're related to or where we're born. Instead, what "makes us who we are" transcends human-made categories: it's "something lost between the world we own / and what we dream about behind the names / on days like this." In other words, some core of humanity exists beyond the boundaries of the society that humanity has created—beyond the "names" (like "St. Andrews West Sands") and the property that "confine[s]" us. What ultimately connects us and makes us human, the poem suggests, involves our relationship to the earth itself, to nature: the often-ignored "book" that teaches us "who we are."
The family's choice to fly kites on the beach in the wake of "the news" of the terrorist attacks isn't arbitrary; it suggests the necessity of reconnecting to nature in times of violence and despair. Indeed, the colorful life that the poem describes—the "rose or petrol blue / of jellyfish and sea anemone"—inspires curiosity and joy. Nature "combin[es] with a child's / first nakedness"—the vulnerability and openness of feeling small and humbled by nature—to create wonder where before there was only "dread."
Nature—"the book / of silt and tides"—instructs people to be amazed, delighted, and in tune with its "shifting" presence. We may get carried away by the overwhelming tides of history, but the poem suggests that to pay attention to nature is to learn how to heal our relationship with the earth—and to minimize the horrible ways we harm it and ourselves. Broadly, then, the poem presents nature's diversity, vibrancy, and wildness—and the deep love they inspire—as a potential antidote to war and human destruction. When human history becomes chaotic, the poem suggests that renewing our relationship to nature helps ground us.
Today ...
... the golf links;
"History" begins with an epigraph that establishes its setting: "St Andrews: West Sands; September 2001." The poem takes place on a beach in Scotland sometime around the 9/11 terrorist attacks on the United States—an enormous event in world "history." It's possible that the poem is set on September 11 itself, with the speaker describing what he is doing as the tragedy unfolds across the ocean. Alternatively, it takes place a few days later, as the world continues to grapple with the enormity of the event and what it means for the future.
The speaker focuses on, or at least tries to focus on, his immediate surroundings: "Today," he says, he is flying "kites" on the beach. The sand is "spinning off in ribbons," a reference to the patterns left by the tide, while "that gasoline smell from Leuchars"—a nearby town with a Royal Air Force base—is "gusting across" the links of the local golf course.
The use of present participles (those "-ing" verbs) ground the poem firmly in the moment while also conveying the flow of time; this scene isn't static but in constant motion. Enjambment adds to that sense of movement as well, pulling the reader smoothly down the page. Note, too, how the poet frequently indents lines, creating a kind of see-sawing sensation as the reader's eye moves back and forth across the white spaces on the page.
The sibilant alliteration of "sand spinning" evokes the quiet, peaceful beauty of this landscape, but the mention of the smell of petrol hints at the tension and danger lurking in the background. The firm /g/ alliteration of "gasoline," "gusting," and "golf" suggests the strength of the scent of that gas, which is certainly not what one expects to smell while walking alongside the ocean.
the tide far ...
... the morning light—
Unlock all 191 words of this analysis of Lines 6-11 of “History,” and get the Line-by-Line Analysis for every poem we cover.
Plus so much more...
Get LitCharts A+today ...
... what may come—
I knelt down ...
... on tideworn stone.
At times I ...
... to the shore
and though we ...
... first nakedness.
Sometimes I am ...
... of other bodies
scarcely apprehend ...
... beyond the sands;
the long insomnia ...
... hum of radio
but this is ...
... on a shell
his parents on ...
... to the irredeemable.
The speaker describes a toddler (who might be the speaker's son Lucas, or perhaps another child at the beach) playing in water that's filled with pink jellyfish and greenish-blue sea anemones. The speaker says that these creatures are "combining with the child's first nakedness." This nakedness symbolizes the child's innocence, purity, and vulnerability. These qualities, the poem implies, are what allow the child to essentially become one with nature in this scene. And it's the loss of this innocence, the poem suggests, that later separates people from their surroundings and from each other.
For now, the child isn't distracted by what's going on in the news but instead is focusing on the world in front of him. He's also quite vulnerable in this state, of course; both sea anemones and jellyfish can sting. Yet the child doesn't seem to worry about that. He isn't yet aware, perhaps, of how the world can hurt him, and this grants him a sense of openness and curiosity that adults often lack.
The speaker is flying kites at the beach, attempting to enjoy the day with his son even as earth-shaking "history" is unfolding across the globe. Throughout the poem, the speaker begins to blur the lines between the kite and his own body, and the kites ultimately seem to symbolize the tug that people feel between remaining present in the moment and tuned in to world events.
The speaker describes "our lines raised in the wind / our bodies fixed and anchored to the shore." Those "lines" literally refer to the kite's strings, but they might also reflect the idea that though the speaker is in Scotland, his mind is "raised in the wind" like the kite—soaring well past his immediate surroundings. Later, the speaker describes "parents on the dune slacks with a kite / plugged into the sky / all nerve and line." The phrase "plugged into the sky" seems to refer to both the kite, high above in the sky, and to the parents, who are "plugged into" the news (and perhaps watching for more "war planes" to fly past). Likewise, "all nerve and line" could describe both the kites' taught strings and the parents' rigid, brave, anxious bodies.
Finally, those "lines" might also represent human beings' links to other people; the shared web of humanity, the poem suggests, transcends both our physical bodies and the artificial borders we've imposed on the earth.
The poem is heavily enjambed. The speaker spreads thoughts and images out across multiple lines, slowing things down, creating anticipation, and lending the poem a thoughtful tone. The use of frequent indentation and white space further encourages readers to take their time with each new piece of "history" that the poem introduces.
In the poem's opening stanzas, enjambment mirrors the wandering nature of the speaker's thoughts. He gets getting pulled into long digressions about everything that's happening "today":
—the sand spinning off in ribbons along the beach
and that gasoline smell from Leuchars gusting across
the golf links;
[...]people
jogging, or stopping to watch
as the war planes cambered and turned
in the morning light—
The scene unfurls down the page, pulling the reader deeper into the scene and building anticipation. The reader has to keep going if they want to know what, exactly, is happening while the speaker is flying kites; it takes multiple lines to arrive at the end of the sentence, and even then, the speaker interrupts his own thoughts and goes on so many mental detours that the reader has to exercise some patience to stay with him.
The enjambment of lines 15-16 works similarly:
I knelt down in the sand
with Lucas
gathering shells
and pebbles
The speaker stretches the scene out by essentially cutting lines in half, and as a result, the poem spends more time with this image of his son and encourages paying close attention to the scene at hand.
Enjambment also makes the poem's language more difficult to pin down at times, as phrases slide into each other and it becomes unclear where one thought ends and another begins. This is a deeply philosophical poem without easy answers, and the use of enjambment adds to its slipperiness and ambiguity. For example:
At times I think what makes us who we are
is neither kinship nor our given states
but something lost between the world we own
and what we dream about behind the names
on days like this
It's not clear which clause "on days like this" belongs to. Is the speaker saying that something is lost "on days like this" or that it's "on days like this" that "we dream about [something lost] behind the names"? The slippery language might reflect the slippery nature of identity itself, as well as the inherent connection between human beings regardless of "kinship" or "our given states."
Unlock all 147 words of this analysis of Caesura in “History,” and get the poetic device analyses for every poem we cover.
Plus so much more...
Get LitCharts A+Select any word below to get its definition in the context of the poem. The words are listed in the order in which they appear in the poem.
A beach in Scotland.
"History" has a highly unusual form. Its 73 lines are broken into 9 stanzas of vastly different lengths (the shortest stanza is 2 lines long, while the longest is 23). Lines also vary widely in length, with some consisting of a single word. The poem also uses a great deal of white space: many of its lines are indented, often beginning halfway across the page. This pulls readers' eyes back and forth, perhaps mimicking the way the speaker and his son survey the beach for "evidence of life." The poem's shifting appearance might further evoke the speaker's uncertainty about the future as well as the sensation of being tugged between two realities: the speaker is pulled between his immediate surroundings on the beach and the world of "the news" that fills his "mind." He's trying to remain present with his son but can't entirely ignore the "muffled dread of what may come."
"History" starts out in free verse. Its lines vary in length and sound contemporary and conversational rather than rigidly controlled. Frequent indentation pulls the reader's eye back and forth across the page, perhaps evoking the movement of the tides or the way the speaker's awareness shifts from his immediate surroundings on the beach to the attacks happening across the ocean.
Starting with the fourth stanza, however, the poem slips into a relatively steady iambic pentameter: a meter in which lines contain 10 syllables that follow an unstressed-stressed pattern (da-DUM). Here are lines 23-25 as an example:
At times | I think | what makes | us who | we are
is nei- | ther kin- | ship nor | our giv- | en states
but some- | thing lost | between | the world | we own
Iambic pentameter is arguably the most familiar meter in English-language poetry, known for the way it mimics the natural cadences of English speech and famously used by William Shakespeare in his poetry and plays. It thus feels like a very appropriate meter for a poem titled "History": the meter connects this contemporary poem to deep literary tradition, elevating its language and suggesting that the image of a child playing in the sand or flying a kite is no less a piece of "history" than anything else. The steadiness of that iambic meter also creates a musical, predictable rhythm in the poem's second half as the speaker philosophizes about humanity, connection, and nature.
Note that the poet often breaks lines of iambic pentameter into two parts, as in lines 65-66:
and do | no harm
a tod- | dler on | a beach
There's in fact a stanza break between these lines, but, thanks to enjambment, they read aloud like a single line of iambic pentameter. The poem's meter adds sonic cohesion and consistency to the poem; at the same time, the use of white space like this keeps the poem from feeling stiff or rigid. It also draws the poem out, encouraging readers to really take their time and consider each moment in the poem as it happens.
"History" doesn't use a rhyme scheme, instead turning to subtler alliteration and assonance to add pops of musicality and sonic interest. The lack of a steady rhyme scheme keeps the poem sounding both contemporary and conversational rather than performative.
Readers can assume that the speaker of "History" is John Burnside himself, given that he mentions his son "Lucas" and the poem takes place in his home country of Scotland. The speaker thus isn't necessarily directly impacted by the 9/11 terrorist attacks that inspired the poem, but he clearly still grapples with the fear and uncertainty of living in a violent, increasingly "virtual" world. He is flying kites with his son but part of his mind is elsewhere, distracted by "the news" of the attacks as well as by "the muffled dread / of what may come." At the same time, he believes it's his responsibility to be "patient" and "attentive" to his immediate surroundings. He seeks to counterbalance his fear and anxiety by embracing the present moment with his son and by appreciating and safe-guarding the "gazed-upon and cherished world" right in front of him.
The poem establishes its setting right up top: it takes place on West Sands beach in St. Andrews, a seaside town in Scotland, in September of 2001. The 9/11 terrorist attacks on the United States thus lurk in the background of the poem. These attacks killed nearly 3,000 people and remain the deadliest in world history.
The speaker repeats that the events of the poem are happening "today," grounding himself in the present. It's not clear if the poem actually takes place on 9/11 itself or a few days after the attacks; either way, the "news" has clearly shaken the world, sending waves of "muffled dread" across an ocean. The speaker and his family are flying "kites" on the beach but can smell "gasoline" wafting over from the nearby town of "Leuchars," known for its Royal Air Force base. People stop their walks and jobs along the beach to look up as "war planes" soar past, and there is a muted yet palpable sense of anxiety about what's going to happen next.
The speaker and his son, Lucas, are combing the beach for washed-up shells and pebbles, "finding evidence of life" among the "driftwork." Distracted by the looming threat of violence and chaos, the speaker tries to remain attuned to "the quiet, local forms / of history" happening all around him. This means paying attention to things like the "fish lodged in the tide" and subtle "shifts of light / and weather." Appreciating "the moment as it happens," the poem suggests, is one way to exist in an increasingly violent, volatile world.
The poem then ends with the speaker juxtaposing the image of his child sorting through "wood and dried weed" on the beach with that of his parents, who hold a kite that's "plugged into the sky." The imagery suggests two very different ways of dealing with fear, danger, and uncertainty. The parents are "plugged" in, their attention turned up and away from the beach; the toddler, meanwhile, is fully absorbed in what's in front of him.
John Burnside is one of Scotland's most prolific and awarded writers, having published 20 books of poetry, 11 novels, and various nonfiction books8. Burnside's influences include the writers Herman Melville, Marcel Proust, Nathanael West, and Don DeLillo (who also famously wrote about 9/11 in his 2001 essay In the Ruins of the Future and his 2007 novel Falling Man).
Burnside published "History" in 2002 in his ninth book of poems, The Light Trap. The poems in this collection deal primarily with humanity's perceptions of and relationship to the natural world. In this way, Burnside picks up the mantel of 19th-century Romantic poets such as William Wordsworth, Transcendentalist writers such as Ralph Waldo Emerson and Henry David Thoreau, and more modern, nature-focused poets like Robert Frost.
There have also been many literary responses to the events of 9/11. For example, British poet Simon Armitage inhabits the voice of an English trader trapped in the World Trade Center in his "Out of the Blue" sequence.
On September 11, 2001, the Islamist extremist network al-Qaeda launched four coordinated terrorist attacks on the United States. Terrorists hijacked four planes, deliberately crashing two into New York City's World Trade Center (a.k.a, the Twin Towers) and one into the Pentagon (the headquarters of the U.S. Department of Defense); the fourth plane crashed into a field in Pennsylvania following a fight with passengers on board. Nearly 3,000 people, hailing from 102 countries, were killed.
Burnside's poem alludes to the attacks without mentioning them directly, instead noting only that the poem takes place in "September 2001" and that the speaker is preoccupied with "the news" and a "muffled dread / of what may come."
"History" also nods to deepening ecological concerns. By 2002, when "History" was published, the consequences of global warming were becoming abundantly clear. Burnside is a proponent of "deep ecology," a philosophy that argues for the innate value of all living things regardless of whether they're considered useful for human purposes. This outlook informs the poem's call to exist in "this gazed upon and cherished world / and do no harm."
The Poem Out Loud — Listen to a reading of "History."
The Poet's Life and Work — A biography of Burnside from the Poetry Foundation.
A Light Trap — Jonathan Bate reviews Burnside's ninth poetry collection, in which "History" was published, for the Guardian.
9/11 FAQs — Learn more about the attacks to which Burnside's poem alludes in this FAQ sheet from the 9/11 Memorial and Museum.