The Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Campaign

January 24, 2018 Poetry , POETRY / FICTION

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By

Mbizo Chirasha

 

Shaking off the dust, Poetry has since ceased to be an entertainment pill alone. Poetry has since become a weapon of mass instruction, a sword for social change and political correctness.

The Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Campaign will not sleep with acid in the mouth, Poets will always spit the word vitriol to burn political systems that stink. We were party of the processes and mobilization that led to the demise of the Mugabe regime through WORDSPEARS. We raise our voices so that vile, vice, crime and corruption STOP.

A special mention to Michael Graves for his insightful Article on Poetry on Social Change, thank you all contributing poets. Together We Rise – Mbizo Chirasha.

 

 

 

 

WOUNDS

 

 

erase these wounds from the charcoal of violence

machete signatured leadership name tags on mothers’ breasts

pink bras coughing blood beside dead ballot boxes

bullets wrote epitaphs for funerals of children unlimited

black cockerels drinking black eggs in dying winter nights

black nights

acid of politics bleaching the trust of the flag

colours melting in the Vaseline of grief

 

 

(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)

 

 

 

 

VOICE OF WILSON WAISON

 

 

With each morning comes a new genesis

That today would craft a dissimilar, Then

The echo of my voice to be perceived too

As it outs the grief that lies within the soul.

For father, disillusionment was all he could

Bore for the progeny, Though he allegedly

Spoke of the liberty he sort to have crafted

I never blamed him for his lameo progression

Time did vote me a bastard, that was when

I rose eyebrows and violently outed savage

For even the Phoenix had done unjust to my

Concern, Tatty retention was his upbringing

Even the ethical echo of the drum could not

Impact his thoughts, Traditional trails to have

Strain, What a shame? Not ever did his acts

Pleased any in the forlorn ancestral domains

For change he inevitably crafted the thirsty

Women and man did vote him a villain awry

Yet brothers and sisters so blind fold falling

For his schemes, That did brought conflicts

A handful of petty silver coin torn down into

Pieces the resistance that had stormed out

And eventually terror was all the deed could

Would post in the domains of Zimbabwe….

Then I realised that the struggle was indeed

Endless yet still inevitably crafted, Now the

Brother against brother, slaying each for only

Rounds of applause, Really was the situation

Even the blue suited comrade drew a blank on

This kin as he stripped my back, Then questioned

His conscience in that political storm which too

Caused social dilemmas. Victimised by my own.

Then came that day, In the new dispensation

Again another day, A dawn that maybe mine

Agitation and grief be eased with the seize

Power to the people is Democracy was, yet be.

To stood firm and vote for justice is the zeal

That burst within the guts of the brother, For

His phase was a dazzling light of enlightenment

Even not to condemn those now with the mighty.

If it is a chance, I wait not to see whether surely

I will dance to the drum once again… Thoughts

Patience paid before not today or tomorrow

It is time brother you show off what you gut.

I am weary in motherland, to have been borne

In a free doom domain, Some to say liberated

Really? where are the tangible benefits of the

Struggle my grandpa dropped for… Chinamora

Chaminuka the diviner and his prophecy to

Rekindle the blaze once more. A genuinely

Crafted revolution is what I stand for, no doubt

To die for if this riffle outs blanks in the battle.

I am tired of the hide and seek in the political

Arena of my motherland. The son of soil at heart

If ever there be a phase to post a cheer let it be

Soon for later I willsummon Nehanda and Kaguvi

My bone will rise again as promised. But this

Phase in the nob of my indite with which incite

A riot not ever been seen. Alas I will shout with

Vengeance to awaken the ashes of liberation.

 

 

(By Tynoe Wilson Waison – I am Wilson aka lowlife diarist with the zeal to embroid the societal restriction logo that herald our misery as poets, writers and the society)

 

 

 

 

IMAGINE THIS WORLD

 

 

Imagine a world without anybody!

What good is it than to be dead?

 

Imagine a world without labourers?

How much are you investing into machines?

 

Imagine a World without carpenters!

Check out wood works around you

 

Imagine a World without road side hawkers!

Think about any of them who saved your time

 

Imagine a World without butchers!

You’ll have to buy your meat, kill and cut it (unless you’re a vegetarian)

 

Imagine a World without a cobbler.

When you have a slight tear in your expensive shoe, you do away with it.

 

Imagine a World without a poor person

there would be no respect, no servant, no office.

 

Imagine a World without a rich person

Who’s going to help out the other?

 

Imagine a World where everyone owns a car

What time would you get to your destination?

 

Imagine a world without security personnel!

How much anarchy have you handled?

 

Imagine a world without bankers!

A world Without Medical personnel!

A world Without leaders of all kinds!!

A world Without teachers in all levels!!

A world Without manufacturer of all things!!

A world Without scientists/researchers!

A world Without law makers!

Imagine a world without any talented person in it

A world where everyone has the same thing as an occupation and do it the same way

Imagine a world without you!

And imagine a world without us.

 

What can you see in this world?

What can you say of this world?

It’s a world of the blind,

It’s a world you can’t live in,

It’s a world I can’t live in.

A world in the world of no world

It’s a world that has returned to its original state “form and void”.

 

Every single one of us is a product of purpose,

Entangled into one program, a program of love,

Of help,

of peace,

of agreement and

of multiplicity.

We are one big family.

Without you,

I can’t survive.

Without me,

you can’t survive.

Without us,

they can’t survive,

Without them,

we can’t survive.

We all are interconnected to everyone in the world in some way,

You can’t stand alone,

I can’t,

We can’t

They can’t,

But together, we all must!!!!!

Let’s embrace respect

Let’s embrace love

Let’s embrace peace

Let’s do it for ourself

Let’s help everyone live.

 

 

 (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)

 

 

 

 

VOICE of Temitope Aina

 

 

It’s a learning curve

It’s experience

It’s maturing

It’s loving

It may involve leaving

And new doors opening

Poignant goodbyes

Warm welcomes

Silent queries

Unanswered questions

It is life

Therefore.

 

 

(By Temitope Aina – I am Temitope Aina. Born August 16, 1978. I studied Accounting at the University of Lagos, Nigeria. I love writing poetry ,reading and classical music. I am married with three children)

 

 

 

 

I DON’T KNOW ANYTHING AT ALL

 

 

I don’t know anything at all

Nothing about how our hard earned freedom

Is being snatched from us

By false men

Wearing fake smiles

Preaching their deceiving gospel

Of prosperity

I don’t know anything at all

Nothing about how my father

Is working overtime

Only to be thanked by letters

That do not bring food to our table

I don’t know anything at all

Nothing about how my mother

Wishes she could break off her arm to feed us

Our hungry stomachs growling

For delicacies we only see in books

Our mouths dry from crying for a morsel of sanity

I don’t know anything at all

Nothing about the blistering soles

That belong to my sister

As she begs for a bit of happiness

For a speck of love from a world that claims to love all

What I do know

Is we live in a fake world

Full of fake smiles,

False promises

Fake love

Fake peace

Fake freedom.

What I want to know

Is where my father’s fat cheque is?

Where is the food for our table?

Where is the love that my sister begs for all day?

Where have all the real people gone to?

 

 

(By Chido J Ndoro – A fast rising poet, scholar and child rights activist)

 

 

 

 

THE BOURGEOISIE’S BLASPHEMOUS DREAM

 

 

You are poor.

What a shame!

You have no car to lure beautiful ladies.

You have no mansion to hide from God when committing adultery.

You have no money to hire a lawyer on the Day of Judgement,

or even to bribe the devil,

to suspend his fire when it’s your turn to catch hell.

What a pity to be poor!

 

 

(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)

 

 

 

 

FOOLS PARADISE

 

 

Fools’ Paradise

Fair is foul

Foul is fair

Fact is false

False is fact

The weak rules

The strong works

The impotent dazzles

The potent bears

Subordinary becomes extraordinary

Maintains same deficiencies

With shameless reasons

For decades & generations

Can’t write but gets a doctorate

Can’t speak but gives speeches

Can’t communicate

But ghosts will help

You tell others to improve

You ask others to polish Skills

You act pain to learn things

Excusing for lack of time

Before sitting in the chair

Did you try at all ?

Then you said I’m a back bencher

And no opportunity to learn

How long ?

Life long!

You write history!

Your own history!

Trying to make innocent believe

Your foolish words and deeds

Preserve your picture intact.

Kings are gone

But you are born

To rule the world

In borrowed feathers

Past and present

You pretend to work

You sit and stare

The world works and runs

You talk of love

You talk of commitment

You talk of dedication

Repeating words like parrot

These kings are on the rise

New tribe with no regard for words

You cut copy and paste

You are a social programme

Written by God almighty

You boldly say ‘ I can’t say “No”

You are big fool

You said No to values

The notes you gathered

A testimony of this

 

 

(By Gopichand Paruchuri – Poet – Lecturer in English – Interest in Literature – Keen on Travelling, Head of the Department of English and Vice Principal at Guntur, Studied MA in English at Acharya Nagarjuna University)

 

 

 

 

ON POETRY AND SOCIAL RESPONSIBILITY

 

 

Poetry is one of the most dangerous, most powerful, and one of the most unorganized forces in the world.

Consider the effect that a single poet can create on the human psyche.

Shakespeare, Rumi, Rimbaud, Dylan, Poe, Pound, Dickinson, Baudelaire, Cummings, Neruda, Yeats, Plath, Ginsberg, Burns, Bukowski, Dylan Thomas, Blake, Frost, Wordsworth, Whitman, and countless others.

Poetry combined with music was powerful enough to play an important part in helping to change the social face of my country in the 1960’s. If you were there to witness it, you know exactly what I mean. One of the most famous pieces of poetry of that decade begins: “How many roads must a man walk down/before you call him a man…”

Poetry soothes the aching heart. It kindles the flame of love. It is a precursor to inspiration. It calls men to sail a sea that they otherwise might not. Poetry performs a catalytic function between conditions: a bridge between disassociation and engagement; between non-involvement and responsibility; between denial and consideration.

At some point, a piece of poetry left a mark on you that was indelible. You still can recall it. That quality in poetry can bring change to the world – literally.

If poetry is not also used to bring about needed change in social and political conditions, it denies a fundamental aspect of its basic purpose, and to this degree and in this way, it lies fallow.

Poetry is not bound by physical barriers. It is not stopped by walls. It can infiltrate elitist compounds, and pierce the walls of fortresses and prisons. It can bypass embargoes as easily as a breeze travels down a city street. I am writing from a redwood forest in California. You are reading this. Distance is not a barrier to poetry.

One of the reasons that poets are held in contempt by those who use force to suppress, is that while poets command the very, very real skills to inflame the spirit of those who are oppressed and move them to active social change or even open, violent revolt; that ability is far too often used by poets for nothing beyond introverted maunderings, voiced in cautious, hushed, whiny tones. As a result, suppressors find spitting on poets a very safe thing to do.

Poetry is powered by the human spirit. It is carried in the hearts and minds of the people. Historically, ideas have toppled empires. All social movements – all of the changes in history – have been sparked by communication.

 

“…I am the song on the lips

of slaves.

I am sire to the million whispers in the night;

before the riotous dawn.

I am the throbbing life blood;

the hope that breathes yet, beneath the heel

of the iron boot.

And awaits its time.

And I am that time

which will come.

I am the driver of men, beyond broad, deadly

expanses, thirsting

for new worlds.

I am the line

plotted past the edge of charts.

I am the dreams beyond those

yet dreamed.

I am the new voice of songs yet

to be formed on the lips of

those yet to be born.

And I am the dawn

of a new Age…”

 

Poetry once lacked the proper distribution system. We now have a distribution system which is more powerful than any in the history of Earth – the Internet. Change can now potentially take place “one reader at a time” on a very, very broad scale. Poetry does not need to sway six billion people in order to achieve its goal. It only has to reach and affect those with significant influence, or reach a significant number of people, for change to occur.

What if we had a million poets creating life-changing pieces in a wave which is directed at a single point of oppression? Or directed at a focused, few points of suppression? Think about it. What kind of effect might we then create?

It is time to send the tyrants screaming into the night, pursued by a wave of voices that no number of bullets can ever kill.

Poetry can change the world. But only if it is wielded, not proffered. Get organized. Pass it on.

 

 

 

Night Must Fall on the Regime

 

 

The time has come.

Night must fall on the regime.

You, whose proper function is to serve.

You, who turn your country on the roasting spit of oppression,

charring humanity to black flakes over

the painful fires of violence; seasoned

with the smell of fear.

This is not the way of humanity!

You do not speak for me!

You could once commit your perverted crimes shrouded in secrecy.

But now, worldwide

awareness of your atrocities is just a URL click away.

The video taken with the phone of

the man in the street – upon whose neck

you once could stand with impunity

– and posted to the web, makes

secrecy no longer your option.

No longer your shield.

To sit silent and do nothing while you continue, degrades me

and stains each of my brothers and sisters with shame.

To permit you to persist, reduces the humanity of each one

of the inhabitants of Earth.

Each one.

This is NOT the way of a leader.

This is not the way of humanity.

A populace is NOT your collection of personal toys

to be played with, and bled!

You pathetic, wanton child!

There is no pride in this.

Only decrepitude.

Stalin was thus.

Hitler was thus.

George III was thus.

The Masters of the Inquisition were thus.

These are your brothers-in-spirit.

If the only reasoning that you will respond to

is a knife at your throat,

then consider that you are now on notice.

Your lies and deceit will birth the bloody tumult.

I weep for your countrymen.

I weep for my brothers and sisters.

It is time.

Night must fall on the regime.

I am the poet.

And I live in a billion minds.

We are the dreamers of dreams.

And we will prevail.

Your remains will blow away on the fresh winds of morning

before the rising sun of a new day.

There are a million voices waiting to take my place.

A million songs being honed.

A sky-full of razor-sharp arrows that are all aimed at your heart.

Our songs live in the minds of your people.

Our songs form the million whispers in the night

before the riotous dawn.

Our songs feed the throbbing life-blood of hope

that breathes yet beneath the heel of the iron boot.

Awaiting its time.

And that time has come.

For the sake of humanity.

For the sake of songs yet to be formed

on the lips of those yet to be born.

Night will fall on the regime.

You cannot dull my advance.

Your suppression only sharpens

my quill and broadens my legend.

We live as one unturnable wave of forward motion.

And we speak for humanity.

We will outlive you.

We will outlast you.

You who would crush all hope.

You are my enemy.

This is personal.

I am the singer of songs.

I am the dreamer of dreams.

My brothers and sisters and I inspire the future, and craft

the inspirational blade that even now thirsts for your throat.

There are more poets on Earth than you can count.

And more than you can ever crush.

You cannot stop us.

The time has come.

Night will

fall on the regime.

 

 

Author’s Note: Though this piece was originally written about poetry, its premise applies to all forms of art and the artists that power them. We are all in an unprecedented position to influence not only our culture, but the combined cultures of the planet. And who better to do it? Politicians have been wearing this hat for millennia and have driven themselves as a group into a generally distrusted and despised condition of existence. It is only fitting that we, as artists, bypass and handle. Not as those who would govern the culture, but as those who illustrate the direction that a culture should properly take in its evolution from the existing scene to a more ideal scene, and provide effective encouragement and motivation for the achievement of that evolution. As artists, it’s our job and should be our united.

 

 

(By Michael Graves – Acclaimed poet Michael Graves writes from a sometimes gritty metaphysical point of view. This is poetry for people who believe that there is more to life than meets the eye, and that the human spirit is far more resilient than for which it’s ever been given credit. To download a e-free book of his poetry, please click this link and click on the red button that says “Free Ebook: A Glimpse Beyond” https://­hugohousepublishers.c­om/product/­messages-bottle-paper­back/)

 

 

 

 

POOR GOD

 

 

He floats no political party

He is not a presidential candidate

He has no running mate,

Never graduated from any college

Has no account with the Swiss bank,

Not a drug baron

And runs no brothels.

He has no religion

Not a suicide bomber

Never a racist

Not a hollywood actor

Not a WWE superstar

Not a crazy hiphop artist

Not a world footballer.

Too shy to be seen

Too calm to be heard

Too reserved to be noticed

Poor God, no investment

No wife, no children,

Poor God; poor heart,

Depressed, sad and troubled.

POOR GOD I REALLY PITY YOU

I AM JUST WONDERING

 

 

(By Ngozi Olivia Osuoha  – Poet, Writer, Justice Activist and Broadcaster)

 

 

 

 

TAKING IT FOR A JOKE

 

 

Perhaps there is therapy in it

When we take it for a joke

The putrid and ubiquitous foul stench

Firmly ensconced in society’s nostrils

Perhaps it is about normalising the abnormal

For a state of equilibrium is the ultimate desire

 

We have termed it our national sport

As it devours our very souls

Like the leaping tongues of a veld fire

And now we take it for a joke

This cancer gnawing our very essence

There is an abundance of justification

And the state of equilibrium is reached

 

Everything now has a price tag

If they had their way they would

Packaging oxygen and selling to able buyers

And the poor would not live a day longer

Yes, they are already steeped in it

And we still take it for a big joke

 

 

(By Jabulani Mzinyathi– a Zimbabwean to the marrow. A firm believer in the peter tosh philosophy that there will be no peace if there is no justice. Jabulani is a pan African and a world citizen)

 

 

 

 

 

The Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Campaign

 

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