Word Of The Week: Griot

Word of the Week: Griot
Pronounced: GREE- ût or, GEE-uht.
The u (û) has a short “uh” sound. It’s like you are trapping the “uh” sound in your throat so that it doesn’t flow out of your mouth. Think of the words “hut” or “gut” when sounding out the second syllable of this word.

A Griot is a storyteller originating from West Africa. They are bestowed the gift of communication by their elders which goes hand in hand with the gift of entertaining the masses. You will find numerous griots- authentic, home raised griots- in almost any part of West Africa.

These gems of the West African community are well versed in the literary arts. They are traveling performers whose stage is usually a space of land in their local village or a community miles away.

In addition to storytelling, griots inform their audience about history and genealogy. They are also preservers of tradition and heritage. They are musicians who exalts praise and worship while engaging in fellowship with their audience through the instruments they play and the songs they sing.

Griots are socially responsible people who are like ambassadors to the community. They are humble and kind souls in their own right. They are wise men (and women) who admonish their community through proverbial lessons. Griots are peacemakers who sometimes mediate on various issues or disputes. They are also brave people well skilled in defending and protecting their community when necessary.

Don’t be pursuaded by the glamorized images of griots you might see or hear about in western world. Becoming a griot is not easily obtained. It takes many years of training and development before the chosen successor can go out into the world with this gift. Training begins at a very early age by an elder in the family. This is how the gift, or tradition is passed down through the generations. Stories, history, certain musical instruments and traditional accounts are just some of the valuable things taught during the training.

Griots are also known by their alternative French name, Jali, or Jéli. The name has two different spellings but only one way of pronouncing it. DJEHY-lee. Think of the word fudge when pronouncing the J word in French, “djuh”…. “djehy”…. DJEHY-lee. French is the principal language spoken in many parts of West Africa.

See you next week with another word. 🙋

~Arose

Article written by Arose N Daghetto for Literature Voodoo blog

_______________________________

 

For more information on griots, please visit these sites:

http://www.seckoukeita.com/my-story/my-culture/

http://www.bucknell.edu/Documents/GriotInstitute/What is a Griot.pdf

 

*****Disclaimer*****

All photos, drawings and writings belonging to other artists featured on this blog are solely for entertainment or illustrational purposes only. I do not own nor do I have any desire to take credit for any photos, artwork or writings not belonging to me. They all belong to the rightful owners of the work and the original websites they came from.

This excludes my own personal writings and photos I share on this blog which are always indicated and credited under my name and periodical company.

 

 

Author Spotlight: Derek Walcott

Derek Walcott: A Poetic Genius

By: Arose N Daghetto for Literature Voodoo blog

 

Born in Saint Lucia in 1930, Derek Walcott was a poet whose writings thrived on challenging the human mind and social consciousness. His poetry unveiled the marriage between the beauty of the islands and its continual growing pains of post colonialism.

Walcott gave readers candid and sometimes dreamy perspectives of life through the eyes of Caribbean men and women. He paired his poetry with his artwork which further indulged readers with visuals of those perspectives. He enabled readers to breathe in the spirit of these characters. We get to walk in the characters’ shoes. We feel their love or their heartbreak. We experience their wins and grieve along with them during their losses. And because Derek Walcott’s work often included excerpts of his personal life experiences, we are given the opportunity to become acquainted with the man behind the poetry.

In Hilton Als’s tribute article to the late poet entitled, “Derek Walcott, A Mighty Poet Has Died” (The New Yorker, March 17, 2017), Als fondly recanted his interview with Walcott:

“I felt as though I had always known him- not known him, exactly, but seen him, been in his aura, his history…”

Als used many positive words to describe who Derek Walcott was. One of those words was complex. Although one might question how could saying a person is complex be positive, if you read his article (provided below)*, you will see where he meant it in a good way.

Derek Walcott was complex. He was complex in the sense of creativity and intellectualism. He was a poet, painter, playwright and journalist. Intellectually, he was a Nobel Prize laureate, a professor at Boston University, which is one of North America’s leading Ivy league schools. He was also the founder of the Boston Playwright Theater. Furthermore, he was honored by The Order of the Caribbean Community, The Order of Chivalry and The Most Excellent Order by Queen Elizabeth II, who elevated his name to Sir Derek Walcott. These are only some of the many credentials and high honors Walcott received during the course of his prestigious writing career.

Not enough people have heard about the genius known as Derek Walcott, especially those of the younger generation. I didn’t know who Derek Walcott was either. A beautiful friend I once knew introduced me to his poetry several months ago.

There is still more to learn about this poetic genius. A humble genius who often used his gift to mentor and advocate other upcoming writers. His poetry did more than just earn him a place on the elite list of world literature’s greatest writers of all time, it secured his place there. Like Chaucer, Homer and Shakespeare, Derek Walcott’s masterpieces should be on the syllabus of every middle school, high school and college English classes.

Derek Walcott wore many hats in his lifetime before and after he became a world renowned poet. The genius may be gone physically, but his voice will live on forever through every book he wrote and every legacy he left behind. Long live Derek Walcott. Long live Saint Lucia. Stay beautiful and never give up on your hard work for a better tomorrow.

 

“Doubt was his patron saint, it was his island’s,
the saint who probed the holes in his Saviour’s hands”

“(despite the parenthetical rainbow of providence)
and questioned resurrection; its seven bright bands.”

“Saint Thomas, the skeptic, Saint Lucia, the blind
martyr who on a tray carried her own eyes,”

“the hymn of black smoke, wreath of the trade wind,
confirming their ascent to paradise. “

 

~ Tiepolo’s Hound by Derek Walcott, 2000

 

_______________________________________

* Hilton Alt’s article:
https://www.newyorker.com/culture/culture-desk/derek-walcott-a-mighty-poet-has-died

 

*****Disclaimer*****

All photos, drawings and writings belonging to other artists featured on this blog are solely for entertainment or illustrational purposes only. I do not own nor do I have any desire to take credit for any photos, artwork or writings not belonging to me. They all belong to the rightful owners of the work and the original websites they came from.

This excludes my own personal writings and photos I share on this blog which are always indicated and credited under my name and periodical company.

It’s Official. Literature Voodoo Now Under Construction

What can you expect to see on the new and improved Literature Voodoo? Lesser poems. More cultural articles. More concise. It’s that simple.

• Articles will cover a variety of topics related to the literary arts. They will be engaging, entertaining and reader friendly.

• Profiles on language, spirituality, and other forms of entertainment from cultures around the world, especially those of the African diaspora

• Word of the week

•  Writing tips and resources to help writers succeed further in their writing goals

• And more!

Here’s to breathing new life into this website. Sending positive enlightenment to every person this blog reaches.

Ase.   🙏

Stay tuned.

~Arose N Daghetto

 

*****Disclaimer*****  

All photos, drawings and writings belonging to other artists featured on this blog are solely for entertainment and illustrational purposes only. I do not own nor do I have any desire to take credit for any photos, artwork or writings not belonging to me. They all belong to the rightful owners of the work and the original websites they came from. 

This excludes my own personal writings and photos I share on this blog which are always indicated and credited under my name and periodical company.

Samba: A Brazilian and International Phenomenon By Arose N Daghetto

SAMBA: A BRAZILIAN AND INTERNATIONAL PHENOMENON© 

By Arose N Daghetto

 

Did you know that Samba music and its dance was created by African slaves who migrated to the city of Salvador, Brazil, which is one of if not the largest population of Afro Brazilians?  Samba is of several success story to come out of the African diaspora, for it is a culture that’s taken Brazil and the world by storm.

 

Samba came from humble beginnings, tracing back to the Salvador, Brazil.  The city of Salvador is also known as Bahia (which means, “Bay” and is also called “The Bay of All Saints”,  a place where not only Samba was born, but a place where Orixas and Candomblé religions were born.  These religions are rich in Congolese, Yoruba, Togo, Nigerian, Ghanaian and Benin cultural influences from Africa.  This is also where many of the African Slaves came from and this area of Brazil is one of the first places all African slaves were brought to before being dispersed to different parts of the South, Central and North America.

 

Salvador is also the birthplace of the famous Capoeira, which is a martial arts that combines dance and music. Capoeira was originally a self-defense mechanism the African slaves practiced to use against their slave masters. Capoeira was used by African warriors to prepare for war against rival tribes. Having such captured warriors among the community of slaves, they secretly used these moves to train one another for combat and protection. Capoeira involves kicks, head butting, acrobatics, leg sweeps, slapping, elbowing, punches all incorporated in dance. 

 

Whenever the slave masters questioned their act, they explained it was simple form of dance and celebrating with each other. It didn’t take much to convince their masters how innocent and harmless the dance was. Perhaps to each other, who probably endured a few scrapes and bruises in their “harmless” dance.  

 

Brazil continues to have highest population of African descendants, most of them live in lower middle class communities or Favelas, which is like African Americans who live the inner city, to put in a nice way or ghettos, to put in a not so nice way.  

 

Afro Brazilian singer, Gilberto Gil once said in an interview that Afro Brazilians knew more about their African identity than those of African Americans, because done so well in preserving their cultural and religious identity.  Slavery in Brazil had much more of an upper hand over their slave masters because they outnumbered their oppressors over time and was able to gain control over their freedom better than those African Slaves that populated the south-eastern regions of the United States.  That’s a fascination discussion that I will have to get into further detail on in another blog.

 

Anyway Getting back to Samba music, other cultural influences helped to greatly diversify the Samba identity in Brazil such as the descendants of Portuguese, Spanish Italian and Native American.  Today, there are many sub styles of Samba music, you got Jazz samba, rock samba, Samba R&B Samba, reggae Samba, hip hop Samba.  The music is undeniably a euphoric experience. You can see the joy on the musicians faces as they work up a sweat beating those various percussions and strumming those various sized guitars. The singers are smiling, laughing, hypnotized by the intense rhythms and lyrics.  It’s always a party anytime you hear the Samba.  Even sad sambas makes you want to get up and dance!  Samba is the antidepressant to the most depressed soul and hope to the pessimist. 

 

As time and generations evolve, Samba takes on new and different faces in the music genre.  In the more current decades, many Brazilians express their dislike for Samba music, claiming it’s old and out with the times. Kinda like Americans were with Disco music back in the late 1970’s.  Nevertheless, the number of those who love Samba music is outnumbered in the nation and many artists work hard to keep the beauty of this music genre very much alive.  Samba schools have been established to teach people about Samba music, dance, and culture.

 

Samba has long been enjoyed by not only Brazilian natives, but Americans, French, Caribbeans, Germans and others around the world.  Samba remains to be the Face of Brazil’s attractive and sensuous identity. So whenever you’re feeling sad and can use a little pick-me-up, or if you feel like listening to something culturally invigorating, pull up a Samba or Bossa playlist on your Pandora radio.  Once you listen to it, you will never look at music the same again!

 

Article (not pictures) © Copyright 2012 by Arose N Daghetto for Black Girl Down Publications. All Rights Reserved.

 

Retribution For The Old By Arose N Daghetto

RETRIBUTION FOR THE OLD©

                          ~Written by: Arose N Daghetto

 

Jamaican me not

Rastafar I ain’t

Carib be not in me

Not by friendship

love

passion 

or relation.

 

 

Nah mon

No ire in me

Me African American

The one you call lazy

 Motivational-less

Anti American

who’s allergic to work,

responsibility

and positivity.

 

 

The African American you see

by the dawn’s early light

to be some babylonian ho

that’s good enough to go into

but not good enough

to bare the seed of life from

based on your so-called

I in I conspiracy theories

 

Who the fuck are you

to demote me from humanity

 like a hemorroid on the assinine

I gave you love

You gave me pain

Threw dirt in my face

and prayed me to shame

at the hands of your almighty Jah…

 

What happened to Jah Not Dead?

Have you forgotten

the meaning of the song mr. priesthood?

They try to kill the black population…

I thought “they” were the caucasian

not the diasporic African nation.

 

I wasn’t born in the West Indies

or in Haiti

I’m not from Trinidad or Tobago

I’m not the Boriqua sista

from the isle of Puerto Rico

I’m not the girl from Impenema

Or some moça in the favelas of Brazil

But African blood runs in my veins

as in theirs and in yours

so why throw rocks at me,

your distant cousin?

 

Why is it that these people know more

about being poor but noble

and all I know

is how to be poor and stay poor…

according to you.

Is Jah dead to me but not dead to you,

tongue killer of the black population?

 

Guess Im not good enough

to sit on the same rock as you

and pass the dutchie

while we speak Marleynese

How dare you look down your nose

at me

Leaving me in the poverty

and the one love

I thought we shared together

I see how you continue

to move up in the world

with your same blooded bride

who you feel is more qualified

to be the woman

you SWORE to everyone you knew

I could never be…

 

You live the life of champions

with your lactating skeeze

unrighteously at your side

while I eat the breakfast of champions

off the breast milk of a cow

headed to slaughter

with no sugar on top…

While you fight to stay

in your posh New York neighborhood

rubbing elbows with the elite

with your little Jr. in tow

I continue the fight the den of lions

in the dust you left behind…

 

You said I’m a miserable person

but you made me miserable

How can a righteous man

drag a pure woman down

under the ground

only you can answer that,

since you claim to be 

the Twelfth Tribe of Benjamin…

 

You played lightening

by raising your hand

to strike me down

You tore down everything

that took me 22 years to build

You walked out on me

while I crawled behind you

on my hands and knees

begging in tears

before you filled my lungs

and my vision

with the smoke

of your screaming tires.

Then you come back 

some dozen years later

to finish where you left off,

verbally assaulting me

trying to bring me back in the day…

And I’m the one to look down upon,

the so-called lazy, irresponsible

African American woman

you’ve been told

to date but never marry?

 

I’m sorry, who the fuck are you again?

 

They don’t need to try and kill

the black population

the black population is already dying…

the African

in the American me is dying…

my womb,

the source of life

and the throne of womanhood

is dying…

My faith spills like blood

on the ground.

Love is the killer.

Jah heard the laughter of my enemy

and took from me

to give to him

the desires of his heart.

To me…

Jah is dead.

 

 

Poem (not picture) © Copyright 2012 by Arose N Daghetto for Quiet Storm Enterprise. All Rights Reserved.

War Stories of a Single Woman By: Arose N Daghetto

WAR STORIES OF A SINGLE WOMAN ©

                                      By Arose N Daghetto

                                       

It’s not easy being a veteran soldier

battling on the frontlines of single life…

The longings, the urges,

the wanting to be wanted,

the needing to be needed,

the loving to be loved…

Living life solo doesn’t compare

To living life spoken for…

There are no purple hearts

only broken hearts.

There are no salutations,

no tributes to my victories

or my fatalities…

See my wounds?

I got this discolored one

across my stomach

when I was a POW:

Prisoner Of being a Woman.

I got this other one along my side

when I was MIA:

Misrepresented In America.

The long welts all over my back

were the number of times

I’ve been whipped by karma

in Vietnam.

The footprints all over my body?

Well, that’s when I was

pounced on by chauvinism

in Kuwait

and strung up by my own burka

in Afghanistan.

I was sentenced

to female circumcision

In Sudan,

Sent back to my homeland

castrated by a man called Black…

I’m caught like a deer in headlights

Trapped in a den of wolves…

Some have HIV

Others have another STD

They’re out to get me…

If I make it out here alive

I’ll reconsider

Proposing to abstinence.

This ugly scar between my breasts

is from all the open heart surgeries

performed by the Great Physician.

He had to exhume my blackened heart

and replace it with a new one…

It was a long process

that took several operations

in order to be reconciled with my body

so I could make it out of intensive care

and into recovery.

People say I’m not missing out on anything

I’d like to see them say that

when they put themselves in my shoes.

I want to see how tough they are

surviving days without the very people

who make their identity;

Their husband and their children.

Let’s see if they can make it twenty-four hours

Being manless, sexless and childless.

Tell me if they won’t crack up

if they don’t drop dead first 

from a massive panic attack.

I can handle those things

because I was born to be a soldier…

preparing for combat is my specialty,

fighting to the death is all I know

I was cultivated that way by society.

I learned the hard way

how to speak up for myself,

and how to handle men

Who like to beat on women.

I take pride in being a soldier

because I have the ability to go without

longer than anybody else can.

There are times I wish I can be a civilian…

I heard a lot about the benefits

to being a lady.

I try to conduct myself as one

but certain circumstances

won’t allow me to be one for long…

I have to cuss people out

after being stood up.

I have to live with being the target

for lovers to execute their PDA in front of…

I spend more time being Superman

than being Superwoman.

I have a lot of Lois Lanes to rescue…

I’m beginning to think I really am

Superman.

Who has time to be a woman.

when you gotta be the trinity:

mother, father, breadwinner.

That’s how I earned the title Superman

‘cause I can do it all and do it well.

So I must really be a man

wrapped in a woman’s flesh…

a veteran soldier designed for combat

who has plenty of ammunition

(in my mouth and my fists).

There is only one more thing I need

to make my look complete…

and that’s a pair of cast iron balls.

Poem (not pictures) © Copyright 2008, 2011 by Arose N Daghetto for Quiet Storm Enterprise. All Rights Reserved.

Slinging Iron By: Arose N Daghetto

SLINGING IRON ©

                                 Written By: Arose N Daghetto

I’m in a chain gang…

standing in a single file line,

singing the same old love songs

along with all the other

iron slinging women

while pounding on iron hearts

trying to get in

but he won’t let me in.

Back to back to the broke down back

the new man becomes the new enemy…

Status Quo is yelling in my ear

about my biological clock,

torturing me with images

of women in my age range

and younger who been married

or engaged to say the least… 

This line of women slinging iron

is getting thinner and thinner…

I’m wiping the sweat off my brow

noticing I’m doing most of the work

By myself…

My muscles are sore

but I got to keep pounding

and grunting

and singing

much more than complaining

trying to make Status Quo happy

because Status Quo says I don’t get paid

unless I meet it’s expectations,

I don’t eat unless I break through

the very last iron on the crossroads track…

I don’t get revered

unless every train coming and going

comes and goes softly,,,

and smoothly.

Lord, I don’t want to disappoint

Status Quo

I got an ego to find

and reputation to defend…

I’m still working

While seeing my former iron slingers

leaving the tracks for a better life…

They’re being celebrated

for the work they completed

while killing time

on these broken down tracks…

I’m trying to catch up with them

so I can get to where they are…

but I’m losing sight of the goal

and I can’t do that

’cause Status Quo hates

when I take too long

doing the work laid out for me…

Status Quo is watching me like a hawk,

hissing at me everytime my gung goes ho

and my head ’em up goes bottom down

and my grunts turn to groans

and my groans turn to cries

and my cries turn to screams

Lord, why did You create my body

to work slower than everyone else?!

Why did you create my brain

to catch on to things

slower than everyone else?!

Why did you create my features

to fall below the standards of beauty?!

Why did you create me to fail

the paper bag test?!

Why did you create my name

to be associated with words like

least deficient, most imbalanced, truly unfit,

definitely unqualified, a little “off”

and a bit “out there”?!

Lord, why am I still slinging iron

while the rest of the women

are sitting on pedestals

in the finest gowns

sipping champagne

throwing their heads back

giving one of those Miss America laughs

and thanking God they’re not where I am

anymore…

I make up my own song

since I have no one to choose one

by starting off the first verse

and everyone else follows suit…

I sing through my tears

sing through my aching muscles

sing through my worn out bones

sing through my lust

sing through my loneliness

sing because I got an ego to find

a reputation to defend

and a very impatient Status Quo

to satisfy.

Poem (not pictures) © Copyright 2008, 2011 by Arose N Daghetto for Quiet Storm Enterprise. All Rights Reserved.

Hunger By Arose N Daghetto

Hunger ©

                                                      Written By: Arose N Daghetto

Feed me

not with food or wine

but with words of knowledge,

a heapful of philosophy.

My mouth is open to receive

the tiniest morsels of science

with an ounce of musings

and a slice of scholastics.

I want raw, homegrown

organic truth

with a twist of theory

and a harvest of reason.

Saturate my mind

with juicy academia…

Interdiscipline me with culture

and probiotic rhetorics

That will strengthen

my immune system

to fight off ignorance

and resist inflammation

of free radical lies.

I want to prime the pulp

of history

where evolution flows

and feast on logic

handpicked from crops

of certified research.

I want to savor a mouthful

of slow braised direction

that’s been simmering all day

with a pinch of patience…

If you do this

I will be full and satisfied,

but come tomorrow

I’ll be back

for a second helping.

Poem (not picture) © Copyright 2011 by Arose N Daghetto for Quiet Storm Enterprise. All Rights Reserved

Collard Greens and Rusty Water By Arose N Daghetto

COLLARD GREENS AND RUSTY WATER ©

                                                 By: Arose N Daghetto

They used to call my mama Miss Laura Green Jeans

Because she made the best damn pot of Collard Greens

Turnip and mustard greens also set the ghetto scene

Finger lickin’ good greens that always reign supreme

Tender greens seasoned with one or two ham hocks

Pressure cooked ’till the steam shot out that big ass chit’lin pot

Just one wiff of the aroma would draw an instant flock

Even the pushers and pimps formed a line from around the block

Everyone wanted a taste of Mama’s home made collard greens

Like dope is to an addict, her greens made you a veggie fiend

She didn’t need no competition to crown her the Soul Food Queen

Just a sample of her greens makes you wanna holler and scream

One day I had to ask, “Mama, what is the secret recipe?”

She said, “Baby ask me that question when you turn twenty-three.”

I asked her why I had to wait so long to find out the mystery,

And she said, “Because at seven, you hardly remember your ABC‘s.”

So I waited and waited as my birthdays came and went

While I enjoyed Mama’s greens that continue to be heaven sent

They were the main attraction during New Year’s, Easter, and Lent

Wowing every guest that filled the table from ladies to gents

Sixteen years, a high school diploma and a college degree later

A corporate bred nine to fiver is made out of this Mass Communicator

Mama’s now a retiree but continues to be the #1 Soul Food caterer

Preferring to cook as a hobby rather than a means of making paper

I said to her, “Mama, today I turned twenty-three,

Now are you gonna reveal that secret recipe to me?”

She said, “My last born baby girl, how proud am I to see

Your loyal heart keeps you so close to your daddy and me.

You could’ve run away to marry that funny talking New Yorker

But you chose to remain my happily unmarried daughter

You deserve to know my secret recipe, every ounce, every quarter

What makes your mama’s collard greens so famous is a pint of rusty water.

*From the book, “Anger Management: A Collection of Urban Poetry

Poem (not picture) © Copyright 2008, 2011 by Arose N Daghetto for Quiet Storm Enterprise. All Rights Reserved.

The Necessities of Manhood (Written By Arose N Daghetto at age 19)

NECESSITIES OF MANHOOD©

         ~Written by Arose N Daghetto

        Former Dancehall King turned Satellite Installer, Prince “Debo” Marley IV was a man in his late thirties who finally decided to settle down and live a more righteous life. His enormous music career gave him everything he ever dreamed of accomplishing fast cars, huge homes, and obliging groupies. His dream career also gave him everything he didn’t want such as backstabbing friends, crooked business deals, numerous baby mammas and more missed bullets than he could count. Quitting the music business to settle down in a low-key lifestyle was his saving grace.

         Prince stood at the altar waiting for his bride- a woman was with him when he was a minimum wage fisherman working on the shores of Ocho Rios, Jamaica- to be escorted down the aisle. Dressed in a tuxedo with his long dreadlocks pulled back neatly, his cocoa skin smooth and soft under the church lights, he indeed made a handsome groom. He didn’t believe in marrying in the church, but in respect of his girlfriend’s strict Seventh Day Adventist family, he was willing to honor their wishes.

       Prince struggled with committment during his wait.  He didn’t feel at peace with his decision to be a one woman man. His past life of heavy partying and reggae to the dawn kept him divided.

       Prince’s quiet fidgeting. An old heart to heart conversation Prince shared with his dearly departed Uncle quieted his fidgeting. His rigid posture softened as he reflected on the conversation his uncle shared with him a long time ago. The playback of his uncle’s heart to heart conversation sounded like he was in the sanctuary, still speaking life lessons over his twitching shoulder. The words penetrating Prince’s ears instantly took him back to his adolescent years in Ocho Rios.

       Although he strayed from his Uncle’s sharp cutting words of discretion, Prince never ceased to share his Uncle’s words of wisdom to several of his estranged sons, nephews and cousins during their rites of passage over the years. He would speak to the boys with the same spirit of his uncle.

       Prince’s eyes settled on the lavishly decorated altar. The chestnut table was the old load dock where he and his uncle shared many Sunday afternoons fishing on. The glare coming from the well polished golden cross blinded him at first. His eyes later adjusted as he saw the silhouette of his uncle standing on the dock.

        He could see his uncle raising his hand, bringing an index finger to the back of his ear. For the first time in decades, he heard his uncle’s words…

Look bwoy, he say
Come dung, sidung…
You waan be a man?
First you gotta establish a reputation
The more fresh fish yuh bring in
The more credit is added to yuh name,
But not to yuh pocket
 You waan prove you tough?
Then yuh gotta hab a stomach fuh booze
and da lungs fuh ganja.

Yuh muss prove you got di stamina fuh di ladies,
Be har winji or swatti, nedda dehya-
If you never got one dem yet, den act like yuh did.
Ooman like har man tan pon it lang,
So make she proud an’ har girls dem jealous
By acting like yuh pack di wood dat make dem good babies
even if yuh neva father one a day in yuh life.
These rules were muh bread in muh days of yuut.

Look bwoy, he say
Coo yah!
You waan win an ooman’s heart?
You muss learn how ta show yuh love to she
without weakenin’ di knees.
Keep har in check
When she begin ta tink she da boss!
Dat shows har you in charge.
Nuh make dem see yuh wutless, bwoy!
Always be two steps ahead of da sistren…
Ovastan, be nuh easy
Cah mi naa waan find yuh ass a chi chi.

Ooman, she cleva ya kno’…
She baan baby in di world…
Your bredda be da one ta cock it up,
But all di while baby callin’ you daddy!
Ya mon, Yuh nuh see it?
Kill mi dread, mi nuh lie!
Di gal dem give yuh sweet agony when she wanna
but she wicked as da ‘gator when she naa get har way
Ooman caan bruk a brudda
That’s why yuh muss hab plenty of ready on di side

But behold young soldier,
Set standards in life
Lay down the fuckery an’ follow Jah
Always give thanks fuh all tings Jah blessed
‘Cause Jah kyarri yuh closer dan yuh mudda o brudda.
There be no I an’ I when it come to Jah.
‘im naa lead yuh stray, bwoy
Jah know, mi tell di trut,
dey nuh odda way!

Hear me, bwoy,
I’m gwan put di fiya in yuh…
Yuh muss never forget who you are
fuh you are an example!
Always give utmost reespek ta yuh elders
for they paved da way
and make you the person yuh oughtta be.
Be nuh saap fuh nuh wan
Or let sum skettle’s punaani put di Obeah pon ya
an’ shame me to da grave!
Be nuh eaz haad to di lessons I tell yuh
I-diate on wat I taught you
Follow every principle to a T
Fuh dem i-tal necessities to yuh manhood.

      Prince felt the warm of tension as everyone’s eyes set heavily upon him as the altar faded back into view, this time with the Pastor standing in front of it.  His eyes swept the sanctuary to see horrific expressions of concern and gaped open mouths.

      The room was so silent he could hear a pin drop. He realized that the Pastor just asked him the same question a third time. His eyes rested on those of his beautiful yet worried bride. Prince flashed his signature lady-killer smile, gave a firm nod and said, “I do.”

Short Story (not picture) © Copyright 2010 by Arose N Daghetto for Quiet Storm Enterprise. All Rights Reserved.

Literature Voodoo: Celebrating the African Presence in Literature and Culture Around the World

“You whose day this is,

make it BEAUTIFUL

Get out your rainbow colors,

that it may be beautiful.”

~Nekoosa Indian Poem

Literature Voodoo is a page honoring writers and artists for their contributions to literature and the arts. Although writers and artists of African and Caribbean descent have a foundational role here, other equally important contributors include those of Latino/Brazilian, Native American, Creole, and Polynesian decent. There aren’t enough works out there from writers and artists of these backgrounds. Hopefully that will change with the help of this blog.

You will find the works of legendary and rising award-winning writers sharing the same platform as writers the world has yet to hear about. Their works will have an opportunity to shine in a way that reflects their cultural identity and artistic gift.

The goal of this blog is to do two things:

1) Entertain readers from all walks of life on the cultural beauty behind the poems/spoken word, prose, short stories, books and art showcased on this blog.

2) Educate readers on the enchanters behind the craft through their biographies, author spotlights, writer profiles and personal essays.  

All the work featured on Literature Voodoo is credited to the authors and artists of the work respectfully. They reserve all the rights to their work.

Let’s Celebrate our global culture through the richness of literature and art!

Bienvenue! 🙂

Arose N Daghetto

Creator, Author, Cultural/Linguistics Scholar