Thabani Khumalo

Thabani Khumalo Poems

Thabani Khumalo Biography

No, I have not fathers, I have only sons proceeding into progeny and I'm completely wary that I'm not wrong. I can't be wrong. Half a dozen fathers of mine bygone - the dilettante terminals especially on living matters. Yes, today, they are deeply burdened by the particles of the rammed down particles of the soil - the soil that grounds a home stationed far away - faraway in an unholy shrine on the other side. A history in this very minute obsolete. Yes! an archaic history that is today utterly obsolete. Khumalo oh Khumalo my progeny, Khumalo my very infinite beginning and Khumalo my finite end. The very end is as the very beginning, for I was there to train up a son; a son deemed a serpent of two heads, two bodies and two tails, a Devil interposing the mind of a man and causing him very intricately complex forms of absolute fear - even the lord of paradise is one the fears therein. Where they positively postulate the future, I get to only remember the negative past - the past herein are all the continuous affairs of the tracking yesteryears. In the very end, I'd have meant for all of this to be an incitation of my secret life. Oh the heavy burden of leading profound degrees of blinded living. I will occasion it in vivid color and in elucidated brightness. I'm about to exhume the most grievous experiences of my buried treasures, I will reveal my skeletons while I am still in this difficult life of being in a resounding exile. Arbitrarily, if you therefore murder and bury a Devil of dark deeds and watch his offspring grow morose under impossible clusters of prevailing ills, can you ever retinance and sap of a cluster of your nagging guilt? Rather you pour in ounces of wine to cherish the living joys of the incumbent returns and chant a triumphant cause then, now and forevermore. I believe there's such a thing as they've known as quid pro qou. I am a dark spirit of the haunted valley, a deadly demon without a corporeal value. Such, for the sake of a finite beingness, I must occupy the dead and the burden ridden souls, only the empty and detestful of life. I am the evil that creeps between the thick ether of a denser night. Thus it is true what I say, this is indeed an incitation of my secret life. I will bring it forth in vivid color and in elucidated brightness. Behold I had had too many despairing losses and my poor soul deteriorated from always being utterly bereft. I was ultimately needful to fabricate losses of my own and of which I'd be able to regulate, perhaps there would emanate a release thereunto. Ones I'd handle through the entirety of the time while present in living space - affirmatively into infinity and the promising beyond, ones of which I'd determine the panorama of a problem they'd pose, ones whose caliber I'd determine and be able administer through a lot of maneuvering devices. So I set off into the dark depths of the infernal abyss on the deepest down low. It is a road that many wise men of living ambition do outrightly dread; a scary road of a thorny muck, only traveled by competently crazy born hard knocks - a road spared to only travel a materially unfavored few. As many as they are deliriously courageous to explore, is certainly as many as they are inevitable to perish - and by perish I imply a resounding and eternal doom. That is apt for all who confront the other dimension of the unknown or question the legitimacy of the Almighty God - taking a trip into one of the dark sides, a dark side that casts a biting cold blow into the core of a soul - a thing the body of a person has never been trained to stomach since the mysterious manufacture of a human soul. These facade a compartment of my spiritual anatomy - a scary demon that my mind alone knows. A lingering idly God whose tide is the fullest measure of ungainly pain. From the deepest part of my heart, I still raise a plea for survival. At a certain point of this continuous existence, I submerged into the infernos alone to fry as per the judgment of my prospective former works of evil. Down there I wailed a wail of an outrageously calibrated shrieking tone - all of the first abyss was forced to turn away from my irritating noise and shut their ears tight. Everybody there had been doomed to die and I was one of those souls that were meant to fry forever in the mounds of everlasting charred ambers. Enturbulated as the occurence was, and yet I cared to glance into some of the ravished souls. There I saw an emptiness searing the hollow creatures we once regarded as societal men, so all those men must had been completely lost about the concerns of a true, because their spirits still linger there. None of them were of this world or the one before or the one coming next. With the sucking in of each burning breath-gulp, they all continued to slowly and tortuously ail. Just like dead trees, I watched their bodies crumble into dust or a thing that supports the mere life of an insect. The thermal there was truly unbearable in an arbitrary scale. No human soul is compatible enough of such indictment and punishment. None of us really managed to survive. Bit by bit I watched my body pale as I wobbled closer and closer to the relentlessly opened shoel. I longed and yearned for my soul to give up the ghost and abruptly collapse into a permanent demise, but death would not oblige. I prayed again for my body to die and as I may care to recall, I prayed in truth for the very first time. I so did recurringly until I learned no God of paradise watches over our pitiful souls, we the generation of obstanant men who refuse to repent our sins are darned to eventually die. The Jehova of Heaven may have now turned into a formidable or a deliberately menacing foe. Cursed depressions, perhaps the glorybound Jesus of Nazareth is not mine. I'm certain that my redeemer at this moment doesn't live, as does the common redeemer who managed to put together such a long lasting eon, so I might resolve to harboring sorcerers beneath my mangy wing of feathers dark, for me to be able to make it to the long anticipated finishing line of this blind race. I'm afraid that I may turn into an vengeful, folly-filled wizard that will end up getting turned into a statue of stone, and slowly weather into particle of gravel soil, in a billion plus a billion years on top. Teach this to my son when I'm too dead to stand face to face and utter a fatherly discourse. Teach this to my son when he has been proven to be all grown up, or has a bearded ugly face like my own. I felt all alone and abandoned in life for the very first time. Yet, a feeling of deepening lug, anger or riveting annoyance, I have none and there's no real love lost - it might perhaps be that I have never learned to incline my heart to the ways of true love, or those of real trust. There surely is not an impartial God with unconditional love for all mankind. Solong as man like me are still nurtured enough to survive infancy, prolonged and calculated bias will never cease. We must all simply remain prepared for a complete end because we will always fail to return to innocence, all of humanity fall very short of the capacity to retain any sound wisdom. There always is another team that stands against us in the planetary field of high-speed play, or in a bloody battle between us - the principality puppets, or in a brutal and endless intergalactic war. Listen to the words of the one who stands in the desert, because there sure is a healer who prays for the health of our bodies to reach the object stage. My mind tells me that no man shall kneel and weep at another's mercy for superstitions to smoothly flow, or for a dovetailed life to correctly engage like a perfect cog wheel. Tell Angel I said that he shouldn't stand about my grave and grieve when I'm buried low - a small sized full skeleton lying beneath the earth. I don't anticipate myself to rise from any dying depth, but to ride on the height like a sport of surfing the oceanic wave. I will have to live up to the Khumalo name that I am meant to be; to become a scourge and spread out like a quick transmitting pandemic, for I've been condemned by being trained to lie down and I got trampled upon like a rug under feet. Scientifically wrong things have been grooved into my systems for too long in this very short life, we were all victimized by the ignorance of the importance of traveling hours. There's too little time for me to rectify many things, so I may need some of the ghosts to come at my supplication and fix that high percentage of my life they have destroyed. I have lost everything I didn't have to lose because I hadn't at all any mass of. I have even lost in places I didn't figure to have places or to have anything. I walk alone now that every aspect of existence has become my problem of the most direst extant. Once I lived alone and gyrated madly in the haunted forest. I was all alone and that's when I slept under a tree. It came rain and it came the high water... I was there inbetween a hard surface and a rolling stone. It was a bed of rocks and a stone onto which I rested my profile's temple, out there all alone, covered by the giant engulf of darkness beneath the shining stars. In my blood, I'd feel the whole planet take new shape as it grew older and a lot more fragile, hear the crawling and the slithering creatures in the tall grass - yet I wasn't rattled above the real need to sleep. None of those creatures meant any threat above the beat-ness of my decaying soul. I needed sleep and therefore, in the middle of the night, I wisely chose to lay me down. Another part of my life became a secret then, and there I had enough ground to create for myself a secret plan in complete silence and solitude. I'm sure that our lives are being minutely recorded in correct words somewhere, so this was the second quest of the death volume. Right in the middle of the night, when I had no one and nothing to recourse to, I felt myself - over and again - arrive at the final destination of the demise episode. This is how the story began to unfold, and these words may be a gift of revelation about some of the deep secrets of life in its supposed generalities - and the revelation of some of the hidden details so long man breathe. Many things will come to bare, solong the spirit retains the attachment to the mind. Time quickly elapsed, the stars of the high sky aligned and a beautiful child was born, somewhere upon the dusty surfaces of the conquered planet. During the biting cold and windy winter in the gnostologically appalling year of 1949, Sithembiso J was born having fallen foul of the royal paradigm and ousted completely off his true purpose - whatever he didn't think it was; he must have grown up too fast and neglected to load up his wits, his parents may not have expected him to grow up that quick, nor did they anticipate themselves to raise any child that quick: my father was raised to just be a dead-beat street fighting fellow without a dynamical focus of his own life. When my father was born, the crows flew above the precinct while the eagles flew significantly lower until they landed upon the thatch of his house. So he was quickly throbbed into a radically confounding life because he was feared, by both his parents, to die of the spells of witchcraft, that were supposedly being cast directly into his blood by the working hands of evil people. Having been evacuated far enough to shun his home, by distance out of sight and by memory, out of mind, he was damned into exile then and forevermore, yet greatness out of him was simmering tacitly at a rate of a universally phenomenal wonder, and a child would be conceived in July of '84 for a kingdom over a beautiful land; the sacred land of Barmby. The eon had been in the long wait of a savior who'd sacrifice his life for a good cause, without having to die or spill blood like the others who walked the less traveled path in both the long and recent past - and even in the archaic history that transpired in the days of yore. Though the morrow was mucked totally by yesterday's absolute alarms, the god I wake up to beg everyday remains at the brink of imparting salvation - nothing more but mere salvation, only that and nothing more. I was designed, at conception, to believe that there is a blessing dangling somewhere in the etherial zenith and pending with my name tagged on its shiny wrapping cover. Except for the blood that runs in my veins, only this is the heritage I received from my father before he gave in to the depressive pressures of the world and later passed on. He passed on wearied and torn, he went onto the other side where the greener grass does not ever get bitten by frost: may his soul rest in everlasting peace, even though he died worried and tormented by a self destructive demon. He took a lot of time out to make a rope before he was found hanging dead from a protruding branch of a very tall tree. Time quickly elapsed, the stars of the high sky aligned and a beautiful child was born, somewhere upon the dusty surfaces of the conquered planet.)

The Best Poem Of Thabani Khumalo

My Love

The star that shines in the secrets sites of life,
As dark as night or the way to the ruthless grave -
Sewn within the soul of a bothered alien peasant man
Strolling the nights like knights heart-driven to save.

Strong in character for his love is his worry,
So he lets go all that he loves and acts unwary,
And many better than he lie cold about the Waltloo complex
And only he has troubles of not reaching his goal.

Rumbles of the omnibus that conveys his secret love to sophisticated slavery
And there she wearies her brow in the place of a systematically sloathing man
While he descends the mountain where cold alone he lies at night among the straw-y grass
O! how love is a material issue buried within the soul of an anguished man.

Some men work a little and get gain not hard-fought for prior to the passing in the fore
And happily they live there till then and ever-more with minimul being the moan
And the love we so seek after - they get without the excruciating pain
And that - then after - to our pain is a grain for it will propagate and multiply.

Who am I to reproach for all this shame? Before I fade and wonder away
For all do labor for the woman's cheer: and a crave of nature filling empty heart holes
But yet alone upon the mountain I sleep without the thousand prayers I once said in vain.
She loves me not for she loves being paid and she sees me not for she sees his pay.
O! how love is a material issue buried within the soul of a anguished man.

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