Are You Superstitious?

[Dakshinq]

In the grand bazaar of ancient lore,
Were superstition reigns and logic’s poor,
We find our tale of women’s plight,
Wrapped in absurdity’s delight.

Oh, widow! Once a bride, now shunned,
No kitchen, no laughter, no fun—
Your curse, dear lady, is profound,
To keep you out of hearth and ground.

An empty pot, a barren room,
You sweep and scrub, but sealed in gloom,
For if you dare to touch a pan,
The kitchen’s curse will take its stand.

And should you dare to peep and spy,
On any man’s commanding eye,
Behold! The folly of your stare,
You’ll soon find life’s an unfair snare.

For in the realm of ancient jest,
A glance can make a maiden’s chest,
Expand with fate’s absurd decree,
As if mere gazing starts a spree.

And let’s not skip the crimson tide,
That sacred monthly shift of pride,
If periods are due to flare,
No kitchen’s safe; it’s quite the scare.

A menstrual cycle’s cursed, you see,
To touch the food is blasphemy,
So hide away and don’t dare dine,
Lest culinary sins malign.

The sacred groves of ancient days
Were full of such spectacular ways,
To bind women with chains unseen,
In realms where logic’s never been.

So laugh with me, oh wise and learned,
At these beliefs so old and churned,
For in this satire, truth we seek,
To show how follies quite unique.

Dr Dear

 

[Nihaaa]

In the grand bazaar of ancient lore,
Were superstition reigns and logic’s poor,
We find our tale of women’s plight,
Wrapped in absurdity’s delight.

Oh, widow! Once a bride, now shunned,
No kitchen, no laughter, no fun—
Your curse, dear lady, is profound,
To keep you out of hearth and ground.

An empty pot, a barren room,
You sweep and scrub, but sealed in gloom,
For if you dare to touch a pan,
The kitchen’s curse will take its stand.

And should you dare to peep and spy,
On any man’s commanding eye,
Behold! The folly of your stare,
You’ll soon find life’s an unfair snare.

For in the realm of ancient jeennce can make a maiden’s chest,
Expand with fate’s absurd decree,
As if mere gazing starts a spree.

And let’s not skip the crimson tide,
That sacred monthly shift of pride,
If periods are due to flare,
No kitchen’s safe; it’s quite the scare.

A menstrual cycle’s cursed, you see,
To touch the food is blasphemy,
So hide away and don’t dare dine,
Lest culinary sins malign.

The sacred groves of ancient days
Were full of such spectacular ways,
To bind women with chains unseen,
In realms where logic’s never been.

So laugh with me, oh wise and learned,
At these beliefs so old and churned,
For in this satire, truth we seek,
To show how follies quite unique.

Dr Dear

This poem is a powerful satire that critiques the absurd and illogical superstitions surrounding women's roles in ancient societies..
>A widow's touch can curse the kitchen
> A woman's glance can lead to fate's absurd decree
>Menstruation is seen as a curse, and women are forbidden from cooking or dining during their periods
The poem's setting, the "grand bazaar of ancient lore," effectively evokes a sense of a outdated and illogical world, where superstition reigns supreme. By challenging these ancient beliefs, the poem encourages readers to think critically and embrace logic, reason, and equality..
Overall, the poem is a clever satire that challenges ancient superstitions and advocates for women's empowerment and equality...

 

[Anshhi]

In the grand bazaar of ancient lore,
Were superstition reigns and logic’s poor,
We find our tale of women’s plight,
Wrapped in absurdity’s delight.

Oh, widow! Once a bride, now shunned,
No kitchen, no laughter, no fun—
Your curse, dear lady, is profound,
To keep you out of hearth and ground.

An empty pot, a barren room,
You sweep and scrub, but sealed in gloom,
For if you dare to touch a pan,
The kitchen’s curse will take its stand.

And should you dare to peep and spy,
On any man’s commanding eye,
Behold! The folly of your stare,
You’ll soon find life’s an unfair snare.

For in the realm of ancient jest,
A glance can make a maiden’s chest,
Expand with fate’s absurd decree,
As if mere gazing starts a spree.

And let’s not skip the crimson tide,
That sacred monthly shift of pride,
If periods are due to flare,
No kitchen’s safe; it’s quite the scare.

A menstrual cycle’s cursed, you see,
To touch the food is blasphemy,
So hide away and don’t dare dine,
Lest culinary sins malign.

The sacred groves of ancient days
Were full of such spectacular ways,
To bind women with chains unseen,
In realms where logic’s never been.

So laugh with me, oh wise and learned,
At these beliefs so old and churned,
For in this satire, truth we seek,
To show how follies quite unique.

Dr Dear

No! I don't believe in Superstitious.*A_AICS

 

[OliviaRose]

Superstition is not my thing

 

[Honey bunch]

In the grand bazaar of ancient lore,
Were superstition reigns and logic’s poor,
We find our tale of women’s plight,
Wrapped in absurdity’s delight.

Oh, widow! Once a bride, now shunned,
No kitchen, no laughter, no fun—
Your curse, dear lady, is profound,
To keep you out of hearth and ground.

An empty pot, a barren room,
You sweep and scrub, but sealed in gloom,
For if you dare to touch a pan,
The kitchen’s curse will take its stand.

And should you dare to peep and spy,
On any man’s commanding eye,
Behold! The folly of your stare,
You’ll soon find life’s an unfair snare.

For in the realm of ancient jest,
A glance can make a maiden’s chest,
Expand with fate’s absurd decree,
As if mere gazing starts a spree.

And let’s not skip the crimson tide,
That sacred monthly shift of pride,
If periods are due to flare,
No kitchen’s safe; it’s quite the scare.

A menstrual cycle’s cursed, you see,
To touch the food is blasphemy,
So hide away and don’t dare dine,
Lest culinary sins malign.

The sacred groves of ancient days
Were full of such spectacular ways,
To bind women with chains unseen,
In realms where logic’s never been.

So laugh with me, oh wise and learned,
At these beliefs so old and churned,
For in this satire, truth we seek,
To show how follies quite unique.

Dr Dear

No, I am not.

Superstitions, rooted in ancient lore, often represent outdated fears and misunderstandings, carried forward from a time when logic had less sway.

In the past, people relied on these beliefs to explain the unknown, but today, in a world driven by knowledge and reason, these superstitions often seem absurd—especially when they restrict people’s lives, as they do for women in your satire.

Living in the present means embracing the freedom to think critically and reject what no longer serves us.

As your poem so eloquently captures, superstitions often bind women with invisible chains, enforcing illogical restrictions in everyday life.

But in this modern age, why should we be held back by beliefs that were born out of ancient misunderstandings? Instead, we can laugh at the absurdity and push forward, letting reason and equality guide our path.
​

 

[Ashnaa]

Nopity nope!

 

[Osprey]

In the grand bazaar of ancient lore,
Were superstition reigns and logic’s poor,
We find our tale of women’s plight,
Wrapped in absurdity’s delight.

Oh, widow! Once a bride, now shunned,
No kitchen, no laughter, no fun—
Your curse, dear lady, is profound,
To keep you out of hearth and ground.

An empty pot, a barren room,
You sweep and scrub, but sealed in gloom,
For if you dare to touch a pan,
The kitchen’s curse will take its stand.

And should you dare to peep and spy,
On any man’s commanding eye,
Behold! The folly of your stare,
You’ll soon find life’s an unfair snare.

For in the realm of ancient jest,
A glance can make a maiden’s chest,
Expand with fate’s absurd decree,
As if mere gazing starts a spree.

And let’s not skip the crimson tide,
That sacred monthly shift of pride,
If periods are due to flare,
No kitchen’s safe; it’s quite the scare.

A menstrual cycle’s cursed, you see,
To touch the food is blasphemy,
So hide away and don’t dare dine,
Lest culinary sins malign.

The sacred groves of ancient days
Were full of such spectacular ways,
To bind women with chains unseen,
In realms where logic’s never been.

So laugh with me, oh wise and learned,
At these beliefs so old and churned,
For in this satire, truth we seek,
To show how follies quite unique.

Dr Dear

Oh, what a tale you’ve woven here,
With superstition’s grip so clear,
The plight in your thoughtful rhyme
Speaks of ancient rules and times.

But if this verse were truly yours,
Crafted from your soul’s deep stores,
I’d praise the wit, the insight keen,
That cuts through myths once so serene.

Yet as I read, I sense a touch,
Of something crafted not as much
By human hand, but AI's pen,
A poem spun from code again.

Though ChatGPT can shape and bend,
The words lack soul, a subtle end,
For poetry's true heart, my friend,
Comes from where emotions blend.

Still, I admire the effort you’ve shown,
In bringing these thoughts to light, full-grown.
But if it’s truly yours, I’d say,
Your wisdom shines in a deeper way.