Well humanities is a broad subject matter, including:ancient and modern languages, literature, history, philosophy, religion, visual and performing arts (including music). Additional subjects sometimes included in the humanities are anthropology, area studies, communications and cultural studies. Given this definition it is easy to find poems in any related areas, here are a few.

On Love and Religion

When I am in love
it is like worshipping
Longing is the temple
Kissing is Heaven and Earth

When I am worshipping
it is like being in love
Praying is sweet whispering
Enlightening is the climax of the soul

Being in love is deifying the object
beautifying, privileging, and immortalising
Man and deity attract as opposite sexes
Life is ruthless medium for both

Love needs longing
just as a deity must be distant
Marriage deletes the space
just as there is no religion in Heaven

A deity is an eternal lover
A lover is a temporary deity
So, some who have failed in love
turn to religion, which is nearby

Love plants seeds
The deity becomes seeds himself
The soul is conceived
What follows nine-months pregnancy is faith



How to Prove 'Doctors are Lower than Prostitutes'

If we agree on two seemingly reasonable assumptions
we can prove the morality of doctors is lower than that of prostitutes
The first assumption is:
in a fully commercialised society everything is a commodity
so all professions are businesses for making money
The second assumption is:
making money from agony and from pleasure are different -
the higher the degree of compulsion, the lower the morality
Then, it follows that a doctors morality is lower than a prostitute's
Because when a doctor says "no money, no treatment"
he is blackmailing a person in crisis
While when a prostitute says "no money, no sex"
she is merely trading goods for goods
So, a man in a white coat is not necessarily an angel
and a tall hospital can be lower than a brothel
Is this strange?
But this is the new ethics of a fully commercialised society

Rainbow of Humanity

What color are hands sifting through rubble
uncovering bodies buried deep?
Reaching, receiving...the broken and dead
tragedies in the wake of a storm.

What color are hands soothing and comforting
gently caressing wiping away tears?
Healing, holding...refusing to be enemies
accepting all they encounter.

What color are hands folded in prayer
forgiving, accepting without judgement or blame?
Celebrating, respecting...embracing
uniqueness of individual color and enthnicity.

These are the hands of the human rainbow
Gloriously illuminating humility of spirit.
Spectacular shades of cultures and beliefs
blending...
black, brown, red and white
unwavering...



Humanity i love you

Humanity i love you
because you would rather black the boots of
success than enquire whose soul dangles from his
watch-chain which would be embarrassing for both

parties and because you
unflinchingly applaud all
songs containing the words country home and
mother when sung at the old howard

Humanity i love you because
when you're hard up you pawn your
intelligence to buy a drink and when
you're flush pride keeps

you from the pawn shops and
because you are continually committing
nuisances but more
especially in your own house

Humanity i love you because you
are perpetually putting the secret of
life in your pants and forgetting
it's there and sitting down

on it
and because you are
forever making poems in the lap
of death Humanity

i hate you

I love the previous poem by ee cummings


The History of Now

The recording of culture is history;
but our culture is more than that.
It's the world of human action,
and the myths we make of the fact.

The recording of history is culture,
but our history is more than that.
It informs a hidden agenda.
Unconscious of motive we act.

It's the history of now, the history of now.
It's only the present that exists as endowed.
It's the history of now. The moment - KAPOW!
That knocks you right over and muddies your brow.

Through the prism of language, we know what we know.
We carry our baggage and stories of woe.
Victor and vanquished pride cannot budge,
the dead weight of hatred and ancestral grudge.

We fight our good fights with our hand on our heart;
the music is swelling as loved ones depart.
As sheep to the slaughter, the script cannot chart,
a course more ignoble: the propagandist's art.

The recording of history is culture,
but our culture is more than that.
More than the great individuals,
the scholars so love in their tracts.

The recording of culture is history;
but our history is more than that.
Not simple dates or statistics,
the full horror and gore still attracts.

It's the history of now, the history of now.
A strange contradiction that makes sense somehow.
It's the history of now, a mystery and shroud.
The past and the future: best fiction allowed.