The Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Campaign

January 10, 2018 Poetry , POETRY / FICTION

USAID Zimbabwe photo

 

By

Mbizo Chirasha

 

Our Pen – When poets Speak open your eardrums (20th Brave Voices Poetry Journal). Our country needs some cleansing politically, socially and economically. Let the leadership give us hope and light.

We can’t continue to entertain violence, banks with yawning emptiness, hungry stomachs and news headlines of political factional fights. We need clean water, good roads and decent housing. Let’s put our hands more on resuscitating the lives of the people from the cemeteries of bad economy, corruption gangrene and moral decadence.

Let slogans, trivial political vendettas and intra political party violence be things of the past. Let violent politicians and activists be brought to book for the purpose of peace and harmony in Zimbabwe. We cannot be a country that is always run by and through trivial vendettas. Let all political parties rise up to the occasion and grow up politically.

Our country is much resourced and every Zimbabwean need must benefit from them. Slogans, cheap propaganda and political frivolity cannot take us anywhere.

Mr President let the governing party set the pace and the proper political standards. We can no longer tolerate to wallow in the ancient political mess again. Zimbabwe needs investors, technology, money and inputs as well as well as a viable industry.

The Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Campaign will continue to speak through poetry (Forever We Rise For A Better Zimbabwe), thank you our Solidarity and Brave Voices. Brave and Solidarity Voice, let your pen and your voice reshape Zimbabwe. TOGETHER WE RISE! (ALUTA CONTINUA)- Mbizo Chirasha.

 

 

 

 

PARLIAMENT OF CANNIBALS

 

 

The chamber is full of cannibals,

eating the dreams of the people, munching the hope of mothers

garnishing the flesh of the country

drinking up the passion of the state with ambition

 

 

(By Mbizo Chirasha – the Originator/Instigator of the Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Campaign( Brave Voices Poetry Journal-Tuck Magazine , Word Guerrillas Protest Poetry Journal – Zimsphere Magazine, Poets Free Zimbabwe blog- MiomboPublishing) Mbizo Chirasha is the participant of International Human Rights Arts Festival , Exiled in Africa Program in New York , United States. The Poet is a member of Global Arts and Political Alliance)

 

 

 

 

ALLIGATORS OF JORDAN

 

 

Lord, I wish to cross the river Jordan

But the enemy has planted alligators in the riverbed

The blood of fallen brethren doth colour the water red

Lord, I pray for a coat of mail for my protection

I need your Cross to pass this fang-infested junction.

Wolves in sheepskin have descended on the fold

Virgins ravished in temple courtyards, left to wail in the cold

Giants of Nephilim are preying on the poor and the weak

Golden Calves are now mushrooming everywhere every week

In yon caverns of Sinai should tarry not our Moses

Bring the holy-writ stone tablets to dash these idols to pieces!

Lord, we are your humble flock, in supplication solemn

We will neither raise a finger nor condemn

For it is by grace that we gain our merit

So blasphemy we will not commit.

Master, since you said, ‘Let the weed flourish with the crop,’

they shall be separated at harvest time is our hope.

Give your flock hearts of discernment, our Creator

Let not our gentle hearts break since we have the Comforter

Wash us anew with the blood of the Lamb

We shall conquer only through the blood of the Lamb!

 

 

(By Cosmas Mairosi – a performance poet born and bred in rural Zimbabwe. He trained as a primary school teacher. At the moment, he is living and working in South Africa. To Cosmas, poetry is life. To him art does not mean anything unless it comments on issues that directly affect human life)

 

 

 

 

FORGING FAIRER FUTURES

 

 

Tyranny, release trembling masses

From your iron fists henceforth

We’ve been blessed by blood baths

Bad blessings bringing belching

Belching poignant political poisons

Belching soul slaughtering slogans

Destiny sucking slagons set up

To drunken drowsy dreamers

To mortgage millions of masses

In exchange for dark dyed drainers

Of vanishing village veins and vans

Tyranny, truncated truths told

For ages have bred bold brothers

Ready to rescue our rotting ranges

Ready to rinse rusty rooms and roads

Ready to roll away bloody rubble

Ready to pave paths with peace pebbles

Ready to illuminate lands with love

That we may forget filthy fellows

That we may forge fairer futures

 

 

(By Nsah Mala – an award-winning poet and writer, motivational speaker and youth leader from Cameroon. He is the author of four poetry collections: Chaining Freedom (2012), Bites of Insanity (2015), If You Must Fall Bush (2016), and Constimocrazy: Malafricanising Democracy (2017). His short story “Christmas Disappointment” won a prize from the Cameroonian Ministry of Arts and Culture in 2016. In December 2016, his short story “Fanta from America” received a “Special Mention” in a BAKWA Magazine short story competition. In July 2017, the internationally acclaimed and award-winning Franco-Ivorian writer Véronique Tadjo quoted his French poem “Marché mondial des maladies” in her novel En compagnie des hommes. His French poem, “Servants de l’Etat”, won the prix spécial e-cahiers littéraire de Malraux.org in December 2017. His poems and other writings have appeared (are forthcoming) in anthologies and magazines like Stories for Humanity, Modern Research Studies, Spill words Press, Tuck Magazine, Dissident Voice, Scarlet Leaf Review, Better than Starbucks Poetry, Miombo Publishing, Parousia Magazine, Vanguard HIV/AIDS and Sexuality Awareness Anthology 2017, The Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Campaign, and Best ‘New’ African Poets 2017. His French poetry collection is forthcoming)

 

 

 

 

NHETEMBO YARAMBA KUPERA (a satire)

 

 

Unondishungurudza.

Musha wose ndinokokorodza.

Ndichida kupa dama.

Asi iwe hausati wapera kunyorwa.

 

Une zvidhinha

Zvemadimikira, nyaudzosingwi,

Samhende mabhegi aripo ari tii,

Mudetembi ndiripo,

Asi chiripo charamba

Kuti upere,

Kana newewo unenge unoramba kupera

Kunyorwa.

 

Nhetembo wandishaisa hope.

Haudi mamwe mabhiridha, vavaki

Asi ini chete.

Neniwo ndinoda kungokuvaka

Ndiri ndimene, ndega chete,

Ndozoisa chikwangwari

Cherangu zita pane wako mudhuri.

 

Ndinoshuvira kudai ukasawondomoka,

Handisi muvaki sewechiRozvi.

 

Nhetembo, chipera kani

Ndigokubikira doro raunoda kukupembedza uende mitunhu.

 

 

 

HANDIZIVE ZVAZVINOREVA

 

 

Chirungu kana chichinge chandipa chirungurira chiShona ndinokiya-kiya; Wani ndiwo waMai vangu mutauro handisi Popayi;

 

Kana paine zvamada taurai

Chingotii dyoo, madimikira chimbomirai;

 

Bvunzai wangu muzukuru Mudiwa hatina hukasha,

Kana ndege munokwira nayo iyo iyi kasha;

 

Ndipimei zvenyu pachikero, handireme,

Ndiri munhenga, peperutsai zvenyu kana kusvika muchadenga;

 

Handizive zvazvinoreva,

Chandinongoziva chete ndechekuti ndaneta nekunyombwa ndakangoti shoyoyo.

 

 

(By Richmore Tera – Poet, short story writer, playwright, actor and freelance journalist who once worked for Zimpapers (writing for The Herald, Sunday Mail, Kwayedza, Manica Post, H-Metro) as a reporter but currently focusing on his creative work. Currently, he is the Associate Editor of Chitungiwza Central Hospital’s weekly online newsletter. His works have been read in Zimbabwe, Africa and the Dispora in various publications which he contributes to. He is the author of the monograph, “Here Leaves Silently Fall, a collection of poems, which was published by Arts Initiates in Namibia in 2009)

 

 

 

 

THE HEIGHT OF FOLLY

 

 

Nothing has changed and shall ever change.

It’s only a New Year in your hysterical and demi-crazy mind.

The sun is still rising and setting just as before,

and so is the moon and the stars are still loyal to their divine command,

to them given at creation.

I see hypocrites and pagans,

trying to become normal and to revolutionize anew their ways.

This whole heap of momentary insanity; a crippled inspiration from the Roman calendar!

Time cannot be counted by the ticks of your toys

or can it be stuck upon a chart.

Time is a single breath

divinely preserved between birth and death.

Time is life!

Man should live their lives in love throughout!

not in pretence, trying to be born again, yearly

because to him is a New Year.

 

 

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

 

 

 

 

BLACK BILE

 

You hug me so tightly

I can hardly breathe.

Your ecliptic phrases

squeeze my heart

till its contents lie

wasted at your feet.

You are a silhouetted sting

whose intimidation cakes our skin.

Like scissor-hands you

snip away at our reserve

with maddening cuts and scars.

What shards are these that

whisk our spirits

into milky broth;

why can you not leave us be?

What humour is this

that has left us limp,

red nosed and crushed.

Eyes bleeding memories

of moments bludgeoned into dust.

Your preoccupation has us

retching in disgust;

our wounds, festering pools

of self-pity.

You are the Loch Ness monster

that huff and puffs

through our collated lives.

You smash our plans

into disarray;

fragment our hearts into

a million pulsating bits.

You kill many who pine

for dead old days

when freedom reigned fair.

Oh pity pity pitiful is the one

who sees not you might,

and toys with your swirl of

hell-brewed drudge and dread.

You are an unwanted need;

the breeze that cools the burn,

a reminder that at every turn

we are alive – feel and bleed.

Your expulsion is our

gradual pained release

from graves dug;

of unyielding seeds,

withering lovers and warriors

buried beneath our feet;

So the story goes;

sadness has dealt many blows

but hush now baby

don’t you cry

sadness won’t be passing by.

We prefer to spin these hacks

than obsess about

the monster’s breath

that licks our necks

And so the story goes –

that in the cauldron of spiffs,

if its black it’s bad and sad

 

 

 

MOTHER

 

 

What have you done?

Stop this revolutionary disease.

Am I the consequence of poverty?

A plaything that stirs a man’s virility –

like a mannequin who boasts her lost virginity.

Is this how victims are sold

like monkeys in a

darkened cage alone?

Perhaps hope will someday

deliver me from this hell

of candy-coated popsicles

and dresses too tight

for a little girl parading at night –

her charred masked face

displayed behind a glass cage.

Sex, Sex, Sex…..

My sheet exposed

for all to see.

What man would want

this soiled stained me –

Laugh you fools,

you foolhardy Pharisees

who amuse yourselves

with my plight –

you who cackle as I fight

for just a moments respite;

a moment to breathe with ease.

My pores implore you leave

me to my own device,

to confront this demon that

has left me like a crispy,

creepy thing for life;

MOTHERRRRR!!!

Other faces are caged not;

come face my face

save me from this fate

upon which my masters sit –

Sticky, slimy seedy slips

of paws….STOP! your paws!

Laugh you cowardly vipers,

face my face.

Mother!

What have you done!

 

 

(An excerpt from the play, “RED” – when a burn survivor is sold)

 

 

(By Beulah Kleinveldt/Jambiya – Jambiya is an emotive writer and storyteller who weaves the tragedy and victory of the human experience into a tapestry of memorable imagery and metaphor. She speaks with honesty on the socio-spiritual challenges of our time. Jambiya’s works are trail to a feast for those accustomed to the jaded perfunctory cleverness of modern wordsmith)

 

 

 

 

MISTRESS TO A THOUSAND DEITIES

 

 

A new day dawn is upon us

Tomorrow starts today

And Cupid still got me gravelled at your feet

You are a mistress to a thousand deities

Yet I have chosen to love you in silence

For in silence, there is no rejection

Why are you biting your tongue?

Silence is already killing me

My heart is burning

I need the devil between your legs to quench my thirst

For a taste of your hell fire

because that is where I was Forged

There is a war going on between shadows

And ghosts like myself in the after world

And as much as I try to die

I find myself walking amongst men

Because I was born of death

It may take a life to conquer death

And a heart to tame this war

But how can I stop this war

If my heart itself is at war?

And if our love can’t stop this war

then nothing is worth dying for

 

 

(By S Kojo Frimpong – A writer from West Africa Tema, Ghana to be precise. A lover of poetry and a reading addict. My greatest influence is Joseph Yaw Frimpong a Ghanaian writer)

 

 

 

 

FIRE

 

 

It scotches the soul

Charred remains we see

One left to wonder why

Hopelessness and despair

Groping for reasons

Our very own scorching us….

Just the other day

Saviours to our souls.

Had done our best

Had sacrificed our pride

Like sheep headed to a place

Not knowing to our slaughter

Our own, the butchers

Feeding in our siblings…

Saviours of our souls.

On the pedestal you are

Us your minions

Praising the demigods

Busy like bees pillaging

Ogres double mouthed

Policies that emasculates

Burning our nationalism

Saviours of our souls.

Time our own Judge

Scales of justice to be

Your piety trashed

Your hording gnawed

And we to witness

A tumbling tower..

Saviours of our souls.

Fire that burns us

Stoked by You

Fuelled by you

Corruption…

Nepotism…

Egoism-

Tribalism-

Saviours of our souls.

 

 

(By Patrick Kamau – a graduate in literature and special education from Kenyatta university. He hails from Murang’a County in Kenya. Currently he is a special education teacher. Kamau loves reading, making friends and writing poetry. His dream is to publish an anthology in collaboration with other like-minded poets)

 

 

 

 

POVERTY

 

 

I thought the world was fair,

So I gave life my soul I laid it bare,

Though I knew struggle consumes the air,

By chance today was my first time watching Conair,

Oh you may laugh but I had never seen this gadget with my pair,

Of eyes, poverty is a trap cause life is unfair,

Too bad my birth was the step that led me into its snare,

I kick, I scream, I twist, I turn yet its grip tightens on a life in despair, The system is happy, hell it just hit a 16 under par,

A few strokes, to induce a few drops of sweat,

To be rewarded by a Martini, shaken do not stir,

And as I shake that canister that is the closest I get to a life that’s fair, At the end of the day, as I lay in my shack to sleep,

The dust of poverty settles in my hair…

 

 

(By Aleck T.Mabenge  – I am a passionate poet who writes for the love of poetry and as a way to have my voice heard on a broad range of issues. My poetry is influenced by the socio-economic-politica­l issues of the day worldwide. My hope is my message reignites the dream of our fathers of a prosperous, peaceful Zimbabwe whose people look forward to brighter future free of social ills, disease and injustice)

 

 

 

 

WINDOW SHOPPING

 

 

In June I’m expecting to be a father

But what’s the heck I’m just a window shopper

Yesterday we were flattered by promises

That employment will be flooding all premises

Bet the market will be full of mangoes

Boutiques ran by brothers from Lagos

My pockets are burst

The system owe no trust

Basic commodities are scarce like strippers

The economy is haunted by tycoons and snippers

I have to be a father

But I’m still a window shopper

Tell the president I’m tired of window shopping

While they’re whooping and champagne popping

The morrow is coming when I have to be dad

Tired of the rentals

I need my own hideout

I’m about to be a father

But still I’m a window shopper

I always take a hike

The fares I can’t afford even the squeeze up

Tell the ministers I need my own car

“Cause I wanna be a dad and be a star.”

 

 

 

DREADLOCKED POET

 

 

A Dreadlocked Patriot

I’m a patriot with dreadlocks

My image is scary, folks

I have a spirit of the Mau Mau

My heartbeat is a sound of Nyahbinghi drums

Kete drums

Congo drums

Uhuru Uhuru my black skin

Skin -scorched by the sun

The sun that blazed my father in the sugar plantation

My pregnant mother shrinking face whipped to line in the wine-press

I’m a dreadlocked poet

Painted as a rebel

Rebelling against what?

Yes my poems are all bitterness

Anger

Misery and boredom

Exposing those blinded by stardom

I’m a dreadlocked patriot

A very angry poet

Hungry

Jobless

Disadvantaged by poll tricks; black politics

I suffered apartheid in my father’s loins

Yes I’m still nursing the wounds of colonialism

And a lot of untold suffering in this black governance

Of fellow patriots who turned rebels

Rebels who are devouring the flesh of its citizens

I’m a dreadlocked poet

Crying for a good government

And good opposition leaders

My strength is in these words

For my physical looks betrays my cause

I’m determined to be free

Freedom is a must

And I have to define it in my own terms

Terms that guarantees my existence

My dreadlocks are a reflection of rebellion

Remember I’m a downtrodden citizen

Whose voice shutted

Shunned

Look now I’m a victim refusing to be re-victimized.

 

 

(By Sydney Saize – A freedom fighter spearheaded piercing the heart of misrule maladmistration, corruption and injustice. Socio-political commentator only narrates the political ills and suffers the consequences)

 

 

 

 

NEW YEAR DELUSIONS

 

 

After having failed the previous years,

More plans were made ahead of next year

With few days left to wrap up the year.

Many resolutions to fill this year.

They seem to have forgotten their fears,

reasons why they failed though very near.

Deep down this spasmodic mind of theirs,

Only mere wishes could be found there.

 

Long list of what they are quitting:

Smoking, swindle, spurring, sinning,

Fingering, flirting, faltering, fighting,

Looting, lechery, lurking, lying.

With few good things they would be doing;

Improving, imparting, influencing,

Recompense, reorganizing;

Gladly giving generous gifts.

Yet, otu abughi eziokwu,

All this things are very untrue.

Though their list suffers overkill,

They end up achieving none or few.

 

I feel that I’ve not been sounding nice,

I also know this a piece of advice.

One word is enough for the wise,

STOP!; consult your spirit to decide.

Don’t wait for a new year to make a resolution,

There’s always room for daily resolutions.

Sincerity works together with determination,

Perseverance pushes you to achieve that vision.

 

 

 

BLACK NEW YEAR

 

 

Dancing joyfully for a

glorious crossover to

a new year,

With New year wishes

humming all over.

Phone calls, text messages

all interpreting goodwill’s.

Their Smiles saying

“I made it”

Their Hearts

Ready for changes.

Resolutions made,

Prayers for the year said,

Goals for the year set,

Seed of faith sown,

Prophecy to see

year end germinates.

Minutes after,

Walking home to

continue the celebration,

Birds scampered to safety,

Fireworks ceased,

Greater firework takes over.

Sporadic gunshots

Great Bloodshed

Blind search for shelter,

Cries of fear

Of pain

Of death

A Painful crossover to death.

celebration,Expectations,

resolutions, Everything,

Have been Cut short.

Gunmen had gone

No link, no trace.

Leaving a bitter

first day gift,

Comprising of

People to mourn

Bodies to bury and an

Indelible memory on this

BLACK NEW YEAR’ day

 

 

(By Ambassador Amakor (ADA) – a young Nigerian playwright, short story writer, actor and poet, who took into professional writing since 2013 and has since then served as a local poetry consultant. He has all forms of poetry beautifully interwoven to form a unique and formidable style of writing with its main purpose to cause necessary transformation. His writing subject ranges from the ultramicrosopic things on earth to the most significant things around. Having written for tele stages and journals, he was awarded a barge as an outstanding poet. Ambassador Daniel Amakor lives in Abia state, Nigeria)

 

 

 

 

TRUE VOICE of Elke Lange

 

 

Was true then, is true now, more than ever.

It’s no good believing in somebody else

If you can’t believe in yourself

You give them the reason to take all the power and wealth

It’s no good you trying to sit on the fence

And hope that the trouble will pass

‘Cause sitting on fences can make you a pain in the ass

If there’s something you find to believe in

Then the message must get through

So don’t just sit in silence

When you know what to do

Turn it up, turn it up, make it louder

Turn it up, turn it up, make it louder

There’s no conversation if nobody speaks

And nothing gets done in the end

There’s no confrontation when fantasy makes you its friend

So much injustice, too many lies

We don’t have to look very far

But nothing will change if we leave things the way that they are

If there’s something you find to believe in

Then the message must get through

So don’t just sit in silence

When you know what to do

Turn it up, turn it up, make it louder

Turn it up, turn it up, make it louder

If there’s something you find to believe in

Then the message must get through

so don’t just sit in silence

When you know what to do

Turn it up, turn it up, make it louder

Turn it up, turn it up, make it louder.

 

 

(By Elke Lange – International Artist and Creative Exchange Expert based  in Spain)

 

 

 

 

NEW YEAR EVE

 

 

‘Tis a beautiful evening:

Human voices and laughter

From inns and row of shops

Along dusty windswept streets.

A gold speckled sky

Silvery stars and yellow moon

Breathing a warm breeze

Upon a calm blissful earth

Yearning for peace and rest…ice from Kenya again.

 

 

(By Michael Mwangi Macharia – a poet based in the Rift Valley region, Kenya. He contributes literary and education articles to the Kenyan dailies. He is also involved in directing, adjudication of music and drama. He has developing interest in History, fine art and photography)

 

 

 

 

BEGIN HUMBLE (THE VOICES)

 

 

Begin humble and remember those –

Who the night did not celebrate,

Those who with life grapple,

Those ill those who ail numberless,

Whose eyes wait endless

For a happening in their hallow living

Merriment be a resolve onward –

Much talked about peace and erst love,

Let’s our thought inward introspect

It’s a moment to meditate and ponder –

Our habits correct and actions delineate

Our intents holy our hearts big –

Our success cherish and with care

With hope and blessings into new year

Tread. Let’s not forget let’s not forget –

Whilst we cross a league thenceforth on.

On New Year 2018

 

 

 

THOSE WERE THE DAYS (THE VOICES)

 

 

And those were the days that

We were flock of sheep and those

Days when to learn to lead

Happened to be behind and harken –

We will not go into disease

We will not go into drought and famine

We would go to the howness

Of the multitude of immense and long

Painful happenings that in abundance

The children died of hunger

And women delivered bloodless

Still births. There were military

On both sides. They all wore boots –

They howled in the same tongue

And there were roaring planes

Of a hundred different flags

Fires and bombs rained and they who

Shouted on the screen and they

Allowed live burials and in the tropics

They made them homeless –

You have your arm in lion’s teeth

But the divine in you and your lone

Effort, your friends indeed, dear friend

That you alone stand against a might

Of extremely weaker strength lacking

Courage to meet your eyes –

For you live a moral life bestowed to few.

 

 

(By Sadiqullah Khan – Dr Sadiqullah Khan is a gifted poet of immense insights and creativity. Writing on a range of subjects his themes are social, spiritual and politically aware. Looking the domains of day to day living, delving deep into the sufferings and joys he seems to be the voice of dispossessed and the vast majority of poor he passionately identifies, yet his art touches the high mark of existential writing, unique in style and composition, he appears to lead his own genre. He belongs to Wana, South Waziristan in Pakistan)

 

 

 

 

For #ahed_tamimi

 

 

There is a fire in your palm

That speaks for all injustice;

It is the rage of genocide

From Rwanda to Gukurahundi,

From power to power

The plight of the innocent

Tower to tower. Fire to fire,

Your palm against fire power.

There is a fire in your palm

I wish was in mine for see:

The pen would be mightier

Than gunpowder and I’d free you

Back to the dunes you call home.

But there is fire in your name;

It burns of promise.

 

 

(By Philani Amadeus Nyoni – 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)

 

 

 

 

The Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Campaign

 

 

0 Comments

No Comments Yet!

You can be first to comment this post!

Leave a Reply