The Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Campaign

October 3, 2017 Poetry , POETRY / FICTION

AP photo

 

By

Mbizo Chirasha

 

This is for you Mr. Mugabe. It is not a secret that you and other struggle revolutionaries were part of a successful attainment of Zimbabwean independence in 1980. It is not a secret right now that you have deliberately squandered your reputation and revolutionary credentials and that your selfish actions have pruned  the dignity of Zimbabwe into moral nudity, political nakedness and economic raggedness. It is no secret that people are tired of your rulership, dictatorship and your long stay at the helm of the now politically and morally tattered Zimbabwe.

Your biological children are living large in foreign hotels, your wife shops at Gucci and spits in the face of everything and everyone. Your trips are gobbling millions of dollars further straining the empty national purse. You have appointed your relatives on strategic and power positions – FAVOURITISM, CORRUPTION at its highest level.

It is not a secret that you and your inner family are enjoying everything in Zimbabwe while Zimbabweans suffer. Poor Zimbabweans queue for paltry cash for nights and nights while your sons trailblaze in expensive beer binges, your other son hoarding the latest cars. Where is the forex coming from? DAYLIGHT ROBBERY.

Mr. Mugabe, we used to admire you, your oratory touch and revolutionary correctness, but you have lost the touch, the touch of the truth, the touch of the rights of the masses, the touch of the LIVES of Zimbabweans. It is not a secret that you have duped us of our rights through violence and your MAFIA style security intelligence.

Mr. Mugabe we call upon you to help Zimbabweans by becoming true and sincere, just agree that you have failed and pass the power button. It is not a secret that all the comic antics displayed by the diplomatically clueless and political greenhorn Grace Mugabe are results of your desperate moves to stay in power for a longer time. It is not a secret that many a civil servants are tired of your tactics and deliberate succession crisis that has brought the country to its knees. It is not a secret that people disappear, are beaten and imprisoned for telling the truth in Zimbabwe. It is not a secret that young girls are raped and subjected to diseases.

Surely where are heading to, a true revolutionary will always fight and accept the truth, for the truth sets all of us free. The truth knows no sacred cows. It is not a secret that you are your own Judas Iscariot. You have destroyed yourself, our country and your legacy.It is not a secret that Zimbabwe has heartburn of a new leader.

Brave Voices continues to unmask these vices for the better and redemption of Zimbabweans. We want to thank the support given by poets/Word guerillas to the Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Campaign. LET YOUR PEN AND YOUR VOICE DEFEND YOU AND THE SUFFERING ZIMBABWEAN MASSES- ALUTA–  Mbizo Chirasha.
 

 

 

NO ONE IS COMING TO SAVE US

 

 

No one is coming to save us
From the horrifying monsters
That chase us through the forests
Of battling inequities,
That choke us when we lie down.

No one is running behind us
As we approach the cliff;
The rock face that leads the way
To broken bones, broken hearts, broken dreams.

No one will save us
From the venomous waters
That barricade us,
Thwart all hope of reaching existence.

No one will save us
From the horrendous death
That lurks in the corner
Holding his cold sickle
Hooded face, bony hands
Welcoming us into the depths of hell.

No one will save us.
Only we can save ourselves
From the large gathering hands
That squeeze our blood for their shrines
For our submission, our silence.

We can save ourselves,
The tree of freedom is watered
By the blood of martyrs.
Ours is blossoming
Unstoppable.

 

 

(By NEHANDA – a fast rising poet, a gender issues interventionist, bold and rustic, an observer of social injustices with a watch out eye for the development of mass consciousness)

 

 

 

 

DIRGES MY COUNTRY TAUGHT ME

 

 

Canto I

Half despondent,
Half persistent,
I huff and puff the smoke of my exhaustion;
This is what we were born for:
We are not cankers that chew the Rose
But maggots for carrion,
Half-dead statesmen
Spinning yarns and yore of lore
And draw at the wisp of foe
Gone, gone long ago before I saw
The shore beyond my mother’s door.

Long the smoke of that war
Has cleared,
Our fog the halitosis of stale ambition
And bread that beguiled the dead,
Enthroned us in their stead;
Cradled by the womb for the tomb.
So this is what we were born for.
I raise my eyes to the shore of yesteryear,
Not a decade past but history repeats itself,
Cooking oil evaporates on the shelf,
The fuel queues winding serpents of witchcraft
Snorting the powdered corpses of the hordes
Who trusted in gods and the guided choice;
Fool who waged papers against veteran killers!

Who’s to blame while we brandish pens at eternity?
Pattering black ink on darker canvass of perpetuity?
What is vanity?
In a moment of clarity I sought myself;
After an eon of contemplation I knew I was not lost
Though the ground be familiar
In the trek of a circle. I knew I was not lost
For I have come again to undeny
What my eye once vivified but I
Chose blindness. I saw I was not lost
For he who claims eternity
Must first own a moment.
I dug myself into the filth of the day,
The excrement of banal tongues
That call the truth of my eye a lie;
The ancient demagogues whose hearts pump the blood
Of our unformed offspring, cast with ambition
Into the pit of oblivion and never-to-be.

Beatrice, I am in hell, don’t come find me.
I and my kin of Ignavi sweetness,
For I saunter and wander behind Cockerel’s banner.
The wasps that wrap their sting around my flesh
Tattoo the truth I must transcribe.
So give me your shroud Beatrice,
Press it to my wounds and read my truth,
Unlearn the rhythm of my name, in-turn
Unbury me from your heart
Where my best is interred,
And fill your lap with God’s moulding clay.
I am condemned Beatrice,
By my coward ways and meandering words
To this vestibule of hell.
Sword and scabbard are one
Even while blood is wine
As they dine on the foetuses of a hope
We set to the moon when we could dream.
Turn from me my oh Beatrice;
Have you not read the post at Acheron’s edge?
“Abandon hope all ye who enter here?”

 

 

(By PAN, 17 Philani Amadeus Nyoni – a Zimbabwean born wordsmith. He has written award-winning poetry for the page, the stage and the screen. He has also written articles and short stories for various publications, local and international)

 

 

 

 

AK-47

 

 

Click !, click, click!
The shell hits the ground,
with a thud;
A bullet breaking free
from a blood hungry gun –
Thither drops a body spree,
dead on the ground –
-from a distance a cracked eye
envies the bullet cast high.
A sharp cry In disdain pierces
the sea of noise to part –
a flood of tears, her loss.
Guerrilla; brother falls flat
by the sister’s smoking Burrell
Seconds prior they played
house with mucus stained faces.
Before the black plague of war,
ate child from mother – set
brother on sister; sowed seeds
of disdain and confusion.

 

 

(By Nyashadzashe Chikumbu A rising Zimbabwean Poet, Citizen Rights Activist and Student)

 

 

 

 

WAIL BRAVE VOICES!

 

 

Files have leaked out!
The truth is now viral.
No propaganda can triumph
to gloss over or contain it.
The disfavored are on the death list already
to die man managed cruel executions
whilst the lowly rewarded Gestapo’s
would fix their shing-moo blind eyes on the victims’ genitals
responding in frantic hysteria
to the discotheque
of the jeering gunfire’s.
Wombs of the nabbed,
hijacked
and abducted
are provoked to ache with rhythmic spasms
of concentrated misery and despair
as their products in cold blood
are ruthlessly massacred.
Journalists,
Poets,
all Activists,
strikers on strikes,
protestors; protesting!
and demonstrating demonstrators
rounded up and bundled
in fetters.
Their crime no felony at all.
Condemned by prejudice out of Court
just for speaking out.
I question such a rule!
A baby who cries not will die
in his silence
in his mother’s cradle.
Do their brutish indifference serve to oversee the wisdom
in our traditional proverbs?
Do their might challenge the essence of the people’s constitution and rights?
Must this, their deviation
enjoy success and reign condoned?
Never!
Away with a system which hanker that its citizens were mute!
Down with a system which long that its people were blind!
We are potential warlords
but are no means warmongers.
We mean not to play the aggressor,
nonetheless we harbor no intention to be slaughtered
in our beds.
This time we will flood the streets
for the freedom of our unfairly suppressed voices.
Indeed by this we mean freedom.
Wail brave voices
till there are no more choked throats!

 

 

(By B T Masenga – a bold word guerilla, a fiery poet through his writings tirelessly and boldly seek to strip nude the oppression and the violations of basic human rights)

 

 

 

 

BY LETHAL PUISANCE

 

 

Militia turned their rifles
on us.
I know that fear.
Soldiers, 18 or so
wanted our blood,
we had to get out –
I know that fear.
Dogs in Harare hated black skin
I just about made it in –
I know that fear

The naked hostility
in Bulawayo
shifted shingles up my spine,
that had my hair stand erect
like the needles of a porcupine;
My eyes twitched
and my knees buckled –
I bailed once or twice.

Poets are speaking,
songs are sung.
There is a global intensity
seeping through the density
of veiled ignorance.
A colossal cauldron
of repressed vehemence
is being stirred.

And amongst the masses
are brave hearts
who stand poised
and purposed.

I am an African
crying for an unfettered South Africa;
and an unzipped Zimbabwe;
do our tears not flow
from the same stream –

My pen is my weapon,
words my slugs.
If these bayonets posed no peril
the poet would be free to rise
and roam as the pen willed;

But he is not.
His ingenuity is besieged
by a spirit much greater
than mere man;
a diabolical esprit de corps;

a roaring lion ready to
pounce and devour;
to blot out the sway
of words and
It’s political puissance

If they failed in literary influence
why are our poets
cuffed behind bars.
Fret not –
there is a drum that thunders
through the base of “Besi”,
cuts into Kariba and across
the plummeting drapes
Of Victoria falls –
It grants power to all.

We must write
and sing our songs
of freedom
and Liberation –
Our ink untraceable
Our mark indelible
Our melodies indescribable.

Our legacy and lyrics

Lethal.

 

 

(By Jambiya an emotive writer who weaves the tragedy and victory of the human experience into a tapestry of memorable imagery and metaphor? She speaks with honesty on the spiritual and social challenges of our time. Jambiya’s works are a must read for those accustomed to the jaded perfunctory cleverness of modern wordsmiths)

 

 

 

 

MADIRO AGOJINA (SELFISHNESS)

 

 

Enyu madiro aGojina
Okupai kuda kuuchirwa pamisangano
Kokupa kureva mano
Se une zano
Wekwako uchiponda
Uchishungurudza
Nekudzvanyirira chembere nevane mukaka pamhino
Unongonakirwa nekupakura mashoko ekushoropodza
Mhezi tanzwa nekukwenya
Apa nzara munyika chisero yapfunya
Pfuma yeruzhinji mopfachura semhuri pachenyu
Ruzhinji tichidya nhoko dzezvironda
Kuona wanoshupika monyomba
Ndoireva idi ini zvangu mwana wazuro rino
Ruzhinji harina cheruviri
Wazamawo kuita mabasa emaoko
Mari yonzi mumabhanga haiko
Yotengeswa michovha nemubvandiripo Gorereza
Kutsvaga hake kunyorwawo mumapepa nhau epurezha
Nhaka yeZimbabwe maiita kanyama kanyama
Isu takati fawawa setisina ziwo
Asi chandoziwa chisi hachieri musi wacharimwa
Nerimwe gore dzichazowa ngano

 

 

(SHONAPOEM- depicting how Mugabe and family are squandering the rights of the masses by selfish actions)

 

 

(By Sydney Haile Saize I – a Word guerilla, a fighter of human rights, a Word slinger in the Campaign against despotism)

 

 

 

 

ZIMBABWE

 

 

Harare tonight you sleep a full sleep, may be
after a sunset of a nationalist and democrat table talk
cactus and roses blooming together
your sunshine eaten by rough talk and hate verbs
pavements designed by banana peels and potholes extended from
robot less highways
that beggar still linger around the freedom corner/Julius nyerere avenue
the blind woman grioting around liberation street/Herbert chitepo
Bulawayo your sacredness is bound
by bones of mzilikhazi and breath of lobengula
place of killing , dissidents and innocents
died when bullet wind swept your nights
tell me how many times you coughed blood
a place of kings , Ntabazinduna

Kwekwe
your intestines pregnant with gold ,copper , iron and more
heart of the nation
where soils heave with wealth
crocodiles depleted your dignity
leopards stole the color of your rhythm
flex your muscles and claim your heartbeat

Masvingo Ezimbabwe
great Zimbabwe, pride robbed
changamire and mutapa turning their in magic stones
inflation eroded your pride
corruption rode your back
blood corroded your dignity
cry for a ceremonial cleansing
land of sacred , land of rituals
land of silence

Mutare
mist of inyanga sneeze glee and laughter in your back
while chimani- mani cough out threats and thoughts
lungs of marange choking with diamonds
corrupted fields
defamed wealth
here in the land of the east , i see
the scarred face of the sun
chopped breasts of the moon
villagers tired of toyi toyi
patriots damned by hunger
peasants freezing in propaganda
revolutions eating kindergartens
butcheries of human flesh
winter elections erected poverty.

Gweru
i see uniform less children trudging through
winter corridors, barefooted
you are colder than joburg,though emotions
boiled during elections
cockroaches breeding other cockroaches in
once midlands hotel
emptiness , hunger ,cold and thoughts
city of progress , rewrite your progress

Rushinga
death threatened even the dead and their shadows
when struggle returned back to war
on the road again fighting enemies of the state their sons
perfume of human flesh roasting in charcoal of violence
March was cruel than april
this season was a parody of nazi Hitler

Kariba
i like how zambezi vomit fish
crocodiles eating rot and sun
hippos dancing the moonshine
zambia whispering copper in your ears
you are regaining your light.
zimbabwe
let fabrics of madness bleach in acid of reason

 

 

(By Mbizo Chirasha Founder, Editor and the Promotions Executive at Large of the Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Campaign)

 

 

 

 

POVERTY

 

 

Like some part of our culture
Deeply engraved in our veins
Part of our identity
Is this the life our forefathers fought for
In the dark woods at night
Sleepless nights of fighting
Fighting with an enemy
The white colonialist who took our rights away
Fighting with the enemy for land
The same land that is filled with potholes today
The same land we have but hunger still lurks in the shadows
The same land we own but with empty pockets
So i ask myself sometimes..
Is the war really over..?

We fight
Fight daily with our friends
Fighting to get to an ATM first
Fighting because someone cut in line in the queue
Fighting for survival
Survival of the fittest is what it has come to
What we know now
Grow up and hustle

So prices start to go up
Scared to look at the calendar you might see 2008
Though its 2017, but that would mean 2018…
See?
Hanz zvakaoma,
So we grew up thinking zvichanaka
But still still hama, zvakaoma,
Ende ma1,, ndoinonz dhakwaz
No wonder people are busy getting drunk and high
To try and remind themselves the crude meaning of happiness..
So they say it is…

 

 

(By Alfred Masunda – Cde Citizen, upcoming poet and Visual Artist)

 

 

 

 

THE POET…and His INVISIBLE DRUM

 

 

When the poet ceases to speak
and silence ensues,
his drum takes over, loudest at
his darkest,
playing on its own, driving rhythm,
pounding beat on
heat with words from
scabbed, putrid lips now
uttered no more,
blasting of rhetorical-metaphors
of ancient traditions mixed
with dreams of the future
there’s no dancing to his
languid song, just idle
observation of unfolding events
‘neath a veil of hushed
tribulation like a revelation of
a gaping hole and its
gurgling breath
ensnaring the very essence of
life within its chords
let him, oh! let him not be
judged when his hands play
the invisible drum to a world now
deaf to the ancient echoes
lost to the winds of generations
past.

 

 

(By Catherine Magodo-Mutukwa – a poet and fiction writer who believes every woman is a story to be told and heard. She takes time to weave words of experience from untold stories of women who have loved and laughed, cared but cried, their feelings or unfeelings in light of what life has bestowed upon their different paths. Her works have also been published in various online journals and anthologies)

 

 

 

 

BEFORE NOW!

 

 

I used to see you inside my future,
standing at the gates
With Your face veiled
Like a bride
Welcoming her groom

Now,
Looking at my future
I see a tomb
Sealed by a heavy stone
And behind the stone
Stands seven surgeons
And Ob)adi£ Himself
Fixing a broken heart

In front of the stone
Stands two fierce angels
With swords sharp enough
To divide diamonds to pieces
Unwelcoming a loving heart
From temparing with
My heartless being

 

#Poems_From_The_Graves

 

(By S Kojo Frimpong – a writer from West Africa Tema, Ghana to be precise. A lover of poetry and a reading addict)

 

 

 

 

The Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Campaign

Editor review

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