"traditionally" poems
"My mouth hasn't shut up about you since you kissed it. The idea that you may kiss it again is stuck in my brain, which hasn't stopped thinking about you since, well, before any kiss. And now the prospect of those kisses seems to wind me like when you slip on the stairs and one of the steps hits you in the middle of the back. The notion of them continuing for what is traditionally terrifying forever excites me to an unfamiliar degree."
May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 7:43 PM UTC
This little man that I know with money in his sockets and routine in his pockets has self proclaimed that he is a tight *** When I envision a *** such as this, I imagine a bundle -- of securely aggregated, perfectly sharpened number two pencils. The businessman just shy of adulthood and too tired to remember –even the beginning of his of disclosure, denied his struggle to acclimate a multifarious lifestyle, appropriately suggested in the form of a triangle, and a circle, both of which embody polar opposing adaptations of humanistic routine.
The two shapes: The circle, denies the break in motion by imposing a constant cycle of diligent compression, there is no room for pause only steady flow and relentless drive. This influence of life impression slows down the heart, body, and soul while speeding up time. This particular commitment accommodates the dry colorless beings that embrace and accept boxed imprisonment.
Traditionally, the triangle denotes rhythmic patterns that elevate and drop to a point in which imposes a healthy reflective pause: progression, reflection, balance. As stated, as a provincial approach, a regular triangle flat on its base, peaking at the top represents a healthy, solid life routine. In contrast, the triangle can be flipped upside-down introducing an entirely new dynamic, composed of flat-lined monotony, tapered off to a regressed realm of destruction, regret and disorder. Despite the uniqueness of the standard triangle model to the man in question, it is important to compare the negative reflection, for it applies to the entirety of this investigation.
We used to be lovers, he and I. We shared my giant pillow-top that I bought on the black market for a meager two-hundred fifty. -- A mere steal at that rate.
We occasionally exchanged ideas, mainly about ethical concerns related to globalization and the environment.
I attempted to give him a cooking lesson once, but that failed, indefinitely. The bust was not my doing, but simply, a great disinterest on his part; or better yet an inability of not being better than me at something.
Everything has gotten so crowded.
Jan 18, 2010
Jan 18, 2010 at 1:17 AM UTC
Hello friends & wishing you all a very
An auspicious & prosperous DIWALI.
"You aim always for a new glow for a whole year;
Hard work glows your day for the time
Likewise Light is a glowing nature
It is a hope, faith and light shine in your life,
A Candle glows for an hour;
Matchstick glows for a few seconds;
But a wish glows forever.
Here is my wish for a glowing Diwali and glowing year till next time....
..............HAPPY DIWALI...............
On this auspicious festival of Diwali
I wish & pray that, may everyone Life filled with a Sparking color of happiness & Light of Prosperity. May this world & people of this country live with a calmness & Fortune for love.
Diwali is one of my favorite festival & it is also the festival of light where houses are decorated with candles & many more things, making it a perfect festival, it is also one of the most beautiful festivals celebrated around the world through Indian culture, it seen a metaphor instincts for self-improvement and as well representing for a new beginnings. It involves a strong belief in giving to people in need, and performing every ritual by traditionally, a time for new clothes to be worn & Indian sweets is seen as a varieties of colours and flavours are eaten during the celebrations.
So wish you a happy diwali & May this writing platform of hellopoetry continues as the same mark of living, an originality of making a talent into a magic light.
Again, like every festival I use to mention to invite from my heart to all this cheerful people so I am inviting everyone to be a part of Indian festivals and culture... everyone is most welcome to India..
India is Country to experience different Tradition, with a beauty of joy, beauty of passion, beauty of love , beauty of art & beauty of everything that you have never experienced before...
reality is the real life.. ....
Thank-you..
-Chirayu!.
Oct 29, 2016
Oct 29, 2016 at 9:45 PM UTC
Hello friends & wishing you a very auspicious & prosperous DIWALI..
..............HAPPY DIWALI...............
On this auspicious festival of Diwali i wish & pray that, may everyone Life filled with a Sparking colors of the happiness & Light of Prosperity. May this world & people of this country live with a calmness & Fortune of love.
Diwali is one of my favorite festival & it is also the festival of light were houses are decorated with candles & it is one of the most beautiful festivals in Indian culture, coincides with Hindu New Year and is seen as a metaphor for self-improvement and as representing new beginnings. It involves a strong belief in giving to people in need, and is also traditionally a time for new clothes to be worn & Indian sweets is a variety of colours and flavours are eaten during the celebrations....May this writing platform of Lettrs continues as the same of making originality of marking a talent into a magic light... so I am inviting everyone to be a part of Indian festivals and culture... everyone are most welcomed to India..India is Country of Carnival with different Tradition, different culture , with beauty of joy, beauty of passion, beauty of love , beauty of art & beauty of everything that you have never experienced before... ....Thank-you..
Nov 11, 2015
Nov 11, 2015 at 7:14 AM UTC
I may not do things traditionally
But I'll get them done eventually
If they're the things that are right for me
I'll be okay and set myself free.
In this life of turbulent strife
pitted and ripe with rotten tripe
a sunlight bright pains my sight
but your soothing ice cools my vice
The aid you paid is not ready made
it gives me hope I'm not just a dope
your love is more than a pity rope,
slivered and raw it gives me splinters
But luckily i'm in for a treat
more than a friend sent to mend
oh yes, you're more, my candy store
settle my sweet tooth you randy *****
unwrap the rainbow you insane *****
ride the rhythm of my *** prism
a rod shaped crystal built like a missile
cocked locked and loaded it cant miss-ya.
explodin' and remoldin' the fabric of time
an infinite blanket wraps us entwined
in a frantic romantic purely satanic
ritual of reality, the utmost sensuality.
Jun 20, 2013
Jun 20, 2013 at 11:51 AM UTC
An absence reversed
Beheld
Belonging
Fuming lush greenery seemingly
Between the frothing
Soup and lather twinkling
Speaking
"Tradition may act dishonestly"
All and sundry
Trails along merrily
For traditionally
All is how it should be
Belonging to one and only.
Binding
A trade between the thin lines
A baking sheet made sprayed messy
Artists in threes
Shakers of mountains for invisible ease
The truth is simply
Things done traditionally
All-in consuming historically.
Flesh
Released
Is fresh
Relief
Hidden in the fabric's sleeve
A gaping passage of air and breeze
Racing electricity
Breathtaking silk from worms
And worms eaten by birds
Tradition
Sewing the dresses of Empress the third.
Halt
Her plea worth salt and sugar
Still
Like the skater's
Minted odour
Hope
Distances the valleys low dipped to the everlasted rivers
Where a time arrives for eternal celebration.
The embellishments of
Unwavered tradition.
Oct 9, 2018
Oct 9, 2018 at 1:10 PM UTC
[PART ONE]
xeroxed, RT'd and plagiarized
so many times on so many blogs
tween blogs to republican blogs
to blogs in Russia and
blogs no one ever scrolls though...
original content is prey
but I have a warning for they:
overrated, over-shared
content aggregators beware
the lines you swap can
rot and ware
the World Wide Web
does not care.
[PART TWO]
original content
original contests
original continent
original controversy
original coordination between strangers
original calvary riding their connection into the battlefield of internet memes; creating nothing and sharing everything
[COMMENTARY]
original nothing, nowhere, nobody except facebook "Funny Vidoes!" & "Cool Quotes!". 'Like' pages whose sole originality lies within their own existence but nothing they share. They steal from the rest of the web and re-post what they find for out-of-the-loop troglodytes; often done so in inferior context and with no perspective. The 'refried beans' phenomenon, I call it. I find it fitting because 'refried beans' are a double misnomer. The name comes from 'frijoles refritos' - which means 'well-fried' not 'refried'. They are also never traditionally fried more than once. Yet the name sticks, it gets repeated, it gets re-shared and now that's what they are: refried beans. This phenomenon is why I believe art and all original content eventually become so over-shared and overrated that it's no longer interesting but irritating. These three parts of the poem "Original Content" are separated in abstract authorial presentation. The author has clearly expressed his dislike for the disjunct un-imagination of the internet and presents it as such.
[PART THREE]
original authors losing control of their audiences who believe they are the creators and the artist's art is somewhat shareable
original miscommunication between web 1.0 and web 2.0 reality
original alphabet they use to type on their keyboards
original grammar they learned in school
original money their gov't printed
original content they re-post
original refried beans
original content
orginal contet
ogrinal cotent
ognal ctt
oc
.
Mar 9, 2014
Mar 9, 2014 at 10:01 PM UTC
I
I am often attracted to things unhinged. Not necessarily (traditionally) romantic, more akin to an unwillingness to ask permission, one who might say It was never your permission to begin with and not be angry or upset about having to say it. Few are so willing to evaluate situations without the overwhelming cloud of emotion. Judgment fully withheld, kind banter catching wind. A needed immediacy.
Jean-Michel Basquiat was aware of the past. He pretended to not care if you did not like his paintings. Part of him was upset some people did not understand. Basquiat strangled history down to basics: music, culture, society (not the same thing), generations of family after family. His point was not for you to obtain this. This was his conscience—tangible. Brain processing. Synthesizing. To him it was so simple. I refuse the word primal because it is misguided, it does not factor purity, clarity. Sugar Ray Robinson told Basquiat to stop painting the background. Tuxedo told Basquiat what words to place and where.
So much of my art is stripped and lucid and enacted with only me in mind.
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 9:16 PM UTC
[PART ONE]
xeroxed, RT'd and plagiarized
so many times on so many blogs
tween blogs to republican blogs
to blogs in Russia and
blogs no one ever scrolls though...
original content is prey
but I have a warning for they:
overrated, over-shared
content aggregators beware
the lines you swap can
rot and ware
the World Wide Web
does not care.
[PART TWO]
original content
original contests
original continent
original controversy
original coordination between strangers
original calvary riding their connection into the battlefield of internet memes; creating nothing and sharing everything
[COMMENTARY]
original nothing, nowhere, nobody except facebook "Funny Vidoes!" & "Cool Quotes!". 'Like' pages whose sole originality lies within their own existence but nothing they share. They steal from the rest of the web and re-post what they find for out-of-the-loop troglodytes; often done so in inferior context and with no perspective. The 'refried beans' phenomenon, I call it. I find it fitting because 'refried beans' are a double misnomer. The name comes from 'frijoles refritos' - which means 'well-fried' not 'refried'. They are also never traditionally fried more than once. Yet the name sticks, it gets repeated, it gets re-shared and now that's what they are: refried beans. This phenomenon is why I believe art and all original content eventually become so over-shared and overrated that it's no longer interesting but irritating. These three parts of the poem "Original Content" are separated in abstract authorial presentation. The author has clearly expressed his dislike for the disjunct un-imagination of the internet and presents it as such.
[PART THREE]
original authors losing control of their audiences who believe they are the creators and the artist's art is somewhat shareable
original miscommunication between web 1.0 and web 2.0 reality
original alphabet they use to type on their keyboards
original grammar they learned in school
original money their gov't printed
original content they re-post
original refried beans
original content
orginal contet
ogrinal cotent
ognal ctt
oc
.
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 12:42 PM UTC
You may think Halloween's great
But it's the one holiday that I really hate
All the little sweet-toothed children
Always forget to brush their teeth
Even the one's that normally floss
When it's me vs. the candy, I've traditionally lost
Oh Halloween, I despise you
And all the cavities you bring
The SweetTarts and the lollipos
Caramel apples with nuts on top
Hershey's and Reese's
Skittles and all their sugary pieces
M&M;'s and Snickers
Why don't we just give out stickers?!
Jolly Ranchers and Gummi Bears
Instant cavities, everywhere!
So when October comes to an end
I wait for the patients they're sure to send
Filling after filling after filling
Children crying while I'm drilling
I don't like it, despite the business it provides
On the night of October 31st, I always hide
Not wanting to fuel the tragedy that always ensues
I hate Halloween, I really, really do.
Jan 21, 2011
Jan 21, 2011 at 2:56 PM UTC
Bismillah IrrahmanIr Raheem.
The sun and earth are in love,
Their lifelong love properly,
Supplied us with fields in the organic form of
As being, we are traditionally kind farmers,
Who return in common the love towards all,
let’s us all, celebrate this love
In this glorious day as a Pongal day!!!!!
Wish you All Happy Pongal!
Wish you Happy….. Makara Sankranti, Lohri, Sakraat & Makraat, Uttarayan, Suggi, Magh Saaji, Ghughuti, Makra Chaula, Kicheri, Pousha Sankranti, Magh Bihu, Shishur Sankraat, Makara Vilakku, Maaghe Sankrat, Tirmoori, Songkran, Pi Ms Lao, Thingyan, Mohan Songkran.
May this day bring us all Happiness, Wealth and comfort to all struggling farmers around the world and to my native Tamil peoples.
Let’s Celebrate this day as a start of every civilization with sweetness, courage and With New Hope.
Allah Khair…..Khairul Rabul Alameen Yah Arrahmanur Yah Raheem
Ummah Thurab – Badshah Khan.
©UT-BK 2019
Feb 9, 2019
Feb 9, 2019 at 3:45 AM UTC
: LAST NIGHT—
I watched a ***** internet video;
a man getting halved by an Elevator.
It was a slow process.
— LISTEN:
I am not really sure if I want
to think about it at the moment— and
I certainly don't want to write it out. That would require me
a stretch of contemplation —AND
a reach to be descriptive on my part, or at least
not to be redundant.
No,
In order to tell you about it,
I would really need to Stress the details that
got me: That really human kind of **** you know? LIKE:
the expressions on his face, and how closely his step brought him to near freedom—just outside that metal box. Just before it came down hard, and took 50% of the **poor ******* with it.
It was the manner in which he got stuck that pushed me There, and
not traditionally.
Think long-ways.
The exact scenario from my nightmare so far back— with a single deviation. Setting.
Of course, inside my twisted anti-fantasy: it was the antagonist was suffering, also this character I had come to know by name and action.
...Anyway that segment shocked me.
And I don't get shocked that often.
It was a sort of fate that I never actually thought I would observe in person. There is always the stopping point when watching gore online and that was mine.
Apr 24, 2015
Apr 24, 2015 at 2:17 AM UTC
if i die young, know i died unhappy and life’s unfair,
if i grow old and die traditionally,
know i died unhappy and life was a misery
i’d tell you a tale
of all of my life’s history
but it would all be derailed and all sound pale
in the words of my mouths contradictory
so i’ll leave you with my frail words for the cemetery;
if i die young, know i died unhappy and life’s unfair,
if i grow old and die traditionally,
know i died unhappy and life was a misery
when i’ll die, i’ll die artistically
candle lights, speaking words lyrically
and if youll ask me if i could go back and do it all again, if i’d make a change,
i’d say in a heartbeat
and if i did, i wouldn’t have to repeat
if i die young, know i died unhappy and life’s unfair,
if i grow old and die traditionally,
know i died unhappy and life was a misery
for i didn’t do it my way,
i did it life’s way
if a decision could have swayed
me in another direction,
i would be happier, in the life of my correction,
that got lost and died with life
while i waited to come back to mine
so if i die young, know i died unhappy and life’s unfair,
if i grow old and die traditionally,
know i died unhappy and life was a misery
and to my life, i miss you
and to my cat-child, i miss you
and to my moms eyes, i miss you
and to my sister-child, i miss you
and to what was once mine, i miss you
May 12, 2025
May 12, 2025 at 8:06 PM UTC
Morning sun splashes
molten gold over ripe wheat fields,
Spellbound, stands a village lass,
she feels like a dragon fly, fragile but mirthful,
her spirit soaring high above the clouds,
one of those uncommon moments in her life,
when she felt something beyond words happening to her
she doesn't know how she forgets her dreary life
in which one day is just like any other.
Demure village belle, in her bright colored
patch-work dress, traditionally worn by women,
in Northern Indian villages, bathed in sun, walks alone,
through the winding village path, crossing fields.
Her smile conceals the pain, the thorns on her path give,
walks miles and miles in scorching tropical sun,
to the common well to get the water filled
in an earthen *** carried on her head.
Her silver ankle bells, incessantly tell the tale of
harassment and violence, cheating, bullying, all that,
by ruffians, tricksters, con men and the like prowling,
on the wayside.Her own family members are no less!
**"It's all in a woman's life" she mumbles, curses fate-
something she has not fully understood, is this
why fate mostly interferes with the lives of women?**
Aug 4, 2013
Aug 4, 2013 at 2:50 PM UTC
To be wed ceremonies
Traditionally brisk time
Wintery- divine sacred
rituals
She elevates every success to the
Sublime
Inner power bells of chime
Sometimes resistance
Need more patience
Internal flame Solstice
Too many humans come
with a price looking into
envision unto whatever will-do
Internal flame nowhere to be tamed
Who is to blame no red carpet
Why do they call it fame?
Winter Solstice chilled wine
Shared/unpaired/homebound
On- our- own- time
Christmas time prayer of hope
Feeling land-locked on tight rope
All disguises internal flame bruises
Masquerade party
On a deserted Island all booked
But where are the people shell- shocked
Dreams are dangerous internal fire
Sleepwalked no life desired
Some people have it all well- stocked
In the apartment minds go deadlocked
Looking out of a window if we can only
see the same beautiful sky
So many endangered species
no
wings
to- fly
Looking at the bottom
the big family dish
My only wish
Seeing our loved ones
In a starfish*
Jul 9, 2023
Jul 9, 2023 at 11:07 AM UTC
Folklorico serenades the street
from an open third floor window
a rhythmically refreshing sound
compared to the silence
the calming silence
of south 2nd street
in Brooklyn
hardly escaping the shadow
of the metropolitan center
this little pocket has escaped
the hustle and bustle
that traditionally defines New York
the chatter from the stoop
three gentlemen discussing
'stop and frisk' and 'being processed'
the corner store as old
as the neglected blue mailbox
that now serves as a canvas
for local taggers
new eateries and humming bars
full of new immigrants
out of staters, artists
from places not so welcoming
to their brand of queer
here on this quiet street
I watched the new grow
among the old
this place was a garden
of concrete, culture
and dreams
Jul 29, 2014
Jul 29, 2014 at 2:02 AM UTC
The audience, silent, took a breath in unison
Included in the orchestra was every instrument imaginable
Banhus and Gadulkas played folk and polkas
The brutish brass, bodyguards and protectors of stringed melodies
Included in the orchestra was every instrument imaginable
A concert harp, plucked by fingers long, smooth and sharp
The brutish brass, bodyguards and protectors of the woodwind class
Saxophones provided a melancholy lilt, the timp was traditionally built
A concert harp, stroked by running fingers, smooth and sharp
Every sharp and flat note was passed through the throaty reeds of oboes
Saxophones reminiscent of ‘jive’, the timp in its size had nowhere to hide
This exhibition of musical traditions played late into evening with no intermissions
Every sharp and flat note accounted for, motifs carried whispers of folklore
Banhus and Gadulkas, swapped stories with bassoons and bagpipes
The exhibition had finished, piano keys rested, every note has its operatic death
The audience, silent, took a breath in unison
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 8:56 PM UTC
Her physical body wants to hide
I felt her pain as she cried
Her story will never be revealed
For she has not yet healed
She was a mirror of my subconscious fears
Her heart was full of broken gears
She made me feel weak
Yet she was the geek
For she belittled my attractions towards her
Her parents must have caused her such blur
To remove her freedom to love unconditionally
She was not modern but lived traditionally
So she can only love one man
She had no other plan
Her fears ****** the joy out
For she could not understand how it was all about
I felt her pain as she cried
The only difference is I lived while she had already died
Oct 3, 2017
Oct 3, 2017 at 10:55 AM UTC
Masculinum Hyppeastrum,
monstrum;
the man eating
botanica,
the endlessly flowering plant,
had enough of me.
Went to sleep,
or worse,
he perished.
I must have said something nasty
about his size;
doesn't flower anymore,
all dried out,
doesn't do a thing,
his onion is weeping.
Christmas roses,
as I call the girls,
lost the will
to live.
All my,
previously green, flora
is pointing her leafless finger
at me.
I've done nothing,
that's the problem.
I forgot all about my green plants;
the environment is wrong,
there is too much acidity,
and that's my fault.
I will search
under the garden snow
for snow drops,
I left to themselves
two years
February,
my snow tears.
For colour,
I have lemons and limes,
green and yellow;
sitting on a traditionally,
blue, hand-painted
Chinese china platter.
River Yangtze
is still running through my mind.
Chai,
Lemon tea and lemonade.
~
Author Notes
*Flowering plants from Bahia : Hyppeastrum sp.
From the 1970s, many plant novelties from Bahia
came to light with the expeditions carried out
by Howard Irwin and collaborators
of NYBG (USA) and by Raymond Harley
from RBG-Kew (UK). This provoked a renewal
of interest, among botanists, in the flora of Bahia*
(3-1-07)
Oct 14, 2010
Oct 14, 2010 at 3:43 PM UTC
Twenty-three and coming from my teens
I’ve developed along already categorized genes,
By those who think they know me,
When I’m only twenty-three with a molding mentality
I was once vicariously raised through parentally guided means
Socially slit by those that promised me prosperity if I was studious,
Taught the importance of individuality,
Yet forced to be obedient
Then indoctrinated with an educator’s prescription,
An addiction they picked up in a higher institution
I’m finding it hard to follow your lead, when you found nourishment in my youthful innocence,
Socially stitched through generationally fostered fixes
Notions that you could promise me providence,
I’ve been cradled in a crib riddled with termites
Time shows little sympathy for those who have yet to comprehend the promise of a six foot end,
Yet you trained me to believe you didn’t domesticate me
Despite being conceived in a place I was not well received,
You taught the importance of obedience
Yet I’m finding it hard to accept your ancestral credence,
When this place has been passed along bloodlines,
When my generationally guided grandparents' felt the final close of their eyes,
And left me a world pieced together by both atrocities and glimpses of humanity
I’m finding it hard to speak in a world with such narcissistic sympathies of the traditionally raised
Yet I’m socially sutured by the fact that I still breathe,
While being born in a place that once found stability through a slave trade,
A middle passage that led to a devious democracy
I’m so grateful we can mend what barbarians once began,
I’ve had time to age, enough to take the reins,
Though before we build our shrines of this age,
You can still pray for something beyond the grave,
Yet never forget how we've been stranded, left here to continue, or to fray,
To humanize a species that earth derived,
Or to let the braids of life untwine and give way,
During our generations' stay.
Apr 24, 2012
Apr 24, 2012 at 9:25 AM UTC
(For better understanding read my poem Abhimanyu (part-1))
TRANSLATED BY KARISHMA JI (Thanks to her)
When Kurukshetra* was burning in the flames of war
God of death had opened his third eye
When the heads of men were being chopped
When Jackals were tearing apart the corpses on the ground
When blood thirsty men were waging war against themselves
When arrows notching the bow caused uncountable deaths
Goddess of war was dancing on mortal bodies
Wicked witches laughed at the loss of human lives
Laps of mothers were suddenly empty
Dust covered the parting of hair where vermilion was once applied**
The fire which raged the whole nation – Bharat
Was the great war, known as Mahabharat***
Earth was covered with blood and tears
Chariots overran the bodies of men
Warriors were trying to quench their greed
Trying to slake their bloodlust
These were the descendants of the same ancestor
Some were younger brothers and some were their elders
But brotherhood was sacrificed to statehood
Eyes shone only with passionate savagery
* Kurukshetra – name of a battlefield
** Traditionally, Hindu women apply vermilion to a parting of their hair after marriage
*** Mahabharat – an epic narrative of the battle of Kurukshetra
Jul 22, 2016
Jul 22, 2016 at 12:26 PM UTC
on every girls sixteenth birthday
traditionally,
her mother would drape a necklace
crafted out of silver
around her neck
and one day - she'd do the same.
no one would hear her whisper her wish,
due to the chorus of birthday melodies
escaping her loved ones lips.
she'd hug her mother
and dance with her father
until they went home.
but her parents had died too young
so she draped a necklace
crafted out of rope
around her own neck.
she couldn't hear the singing,
for she lay six feet under ground -
the height at which her father once stood.
but it didn't matter,
as her wish had been granted.
she lay hugging herself,
incased in wood.
she could sleep at last,
blanketed in a layer of earth,
for now - she was home.
Aug 30, 2013
Aug 30, 2013 at 5:52 PM UTC
LOBOLA
Let me drift you away from the idea that lobola is buying your wife. No! It isn't. As black families, we believe that parents raise kids and once the kids have grown and are independent they get to now take care of their parents. Now! We know that once you get married, that might change because now you will be having your own family to take care of. We know that as men, that never really changes...you still get to take care of your parents and a family of your own hence there is no lobola for men. Now as women, we acknowledge that you are going to get married and go live by your in-laws or some place else and traditionally it is believed that you are never to come back home since you have been "taken". Understandably so because you are now part of a certain family and have broken the cord from yours. Fast forward to lobola therefore as a man who is taking away a woman from a family which she was taking care of, you ought to leave them with something so that they may continue living or surviving since you are taking away their "bread winner". Back in the days lobola was paid by cows, because with livestock you are rich and can survive for many years. The idea of lobola started being an issue and misunderstanding when it converted to hard cash. Which shouldn't have because it is still the same concept...with a certain amount of money you should be able to take care of your family and survive. How lobola got misinterpreted as buying your wife is not well understood however it could be presumed that it is because of the attributes that contributes to the price tagging. Your behaviour, achievements, ability to reproduce etc are what contributes to the billing. Which honestly shouldn't be an issue because parents know that with the achievements that you have you were going to take care of them well...very well. With the manners that you have...you will respect your husband and be obedient towards him. You will bear kids for your husband and gave a big family. Everyone is happy. All in all to able to understand the concept of lobola you have to understand culture and tradition but you are going to say "times have changed" and you are now modernised.
Mar 19, 2016
Mar 19, 2016 at 5:18 AM UTC
Most of my relatives are distant,
But some have the ability
To bring me into an elevenses of life,
And one particular person
Is my cousin, Teresa.
I call her Terry for short.
That doesn't change how spectacular she is
To me, though!
Terry and her family traditionally visit my family
To ring in the New Year.
This New Year, just on a ten-minute car ride to a local town,
Terry talked to me about her plans for her birthday,
And her favorite books to read as of lately:
Weedly-Deedly (about a nice dragon)
And PuddleBooks, which include children characters
Such as Yolanda Yells-A-Lot.
A year or two backward,
I wouldn't have taken the topic so seriously
As I am one to easily laugh about anything
Depending on what thoughts are in my mind usually.
However, as long as I don't know fully the plot, the scenes
Of what happens in such fiction as the PuddleBooks series,
I am clueless to the lessons and learnings
I could easily miss.
There should be a warning everywhere
Not to look down on what we think we outgrow
As long as lessons are everywhere
For all ages.
There was also a time,
Many moons ago,
When my aunt had the cousins arranged
Seated on a couch
For a picture or two.
I became irritated and uncomfortable
Being claustrophobically shoulder-squished.
Upset, I curled on the floor and cried
In front of everyone in the room.
The first gesture that Terry offered me
Was a hand to pull me up from the carpet,
Of which I accepted,
Like a ***** toward a penetratingly loving Samaritan.
Before my relatives departed today,
My aunt told me how stellar Terry's memory is
And can be.
My aunt backed her claim strongly
By telling me how Terry remembered a quiet morning
Where she and I were the only ones awake
And I made waffles for her.
You don't have to go to a concert
To make special memories.
You're not required to know all
Or be all
To be recognized.
And my cousin Terry, alive and well,
An interactor for sure,
Doesn't need the sky
To be a soul of sunshine.
Jan 3, 2019
Jan 3, 2019 at 12:56 PM UTC