The Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Campaign

February 23, 2018 Poetry , POETRY / FICTION

Reuters photo



Mbizo Chirasha


DRUM ROLL – Poets are eagles that pick what the ordinary eye cannot easily pick. Poets are little or super prophets and prophetesses who foresee the storms, the winters and summers befalling their communities. They speak to leadership for political change and social sanity. True patriots pray for no evil but they see evil and voice against it.

The Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Campaign is a platform that will always take the Zimbabwe governments and other governments to task and to sanity. We are a section of poets who are not asking for a government dime and sympathy. We are true patriotic poets yearning for freedom of the people, for the rights of the people, for better lives and for peace.

We want the truth, the truth only, peace only and nothing else, respect of rights only and nothing else, good governance only and nothing. Yes we shall continue to write, to speak and to voice for what is right. We demand a true leadership, we demand a true Zimbabwe, we demand a peaceful home.


Thank you greatly to Comrade Jabulani Mzinyathi for the opening poem TUMULTUOUS TIMES and Thank you bravely to all other participating voices. Aluta to Hadaa Sendoo our Guest Poet from Mongolia. BRAVE AND SOLIDARITY VOICE your pen will always reshape Zimbabwe – Mbizo Chirasha.








Then you left in a huff

The living was getting rough

The vortex of violence

The raging fiery inferno

Some say you ran away

The fire razing your home

That you had to extinguish

In the still of the night

You left for another country

That country called exile

There to face horrors of rejection

Family ties brutally severed

The turbulence within

Today tumultuous times still

The news from what was home

What still is home to you?

The mind gripped by anxiety

The bags you pack and unpack

Hearing of the fragile peace

Hearing of self-seeking politicians

Your mind in turbulence still

Conflicting stories reverberating

Throwing your mind into a whirlpool

Trying to bridge that gap

The gap between truth and lies

The tumultuous times dog you still

Well you are not alone in this

The tired masses back home wait

Dying in anticipation of respite

Retaining that resilience still

Swallowing that drug called hope

Trying to look back into the future

Yearning for a lustrous future

Wondering whether the trust is misplaced

Wondering whether the leopard changed spots

For the first cut is the deepest

For the cock will always crow

And the dove will always coo

Waiting in anticipation of the good times

When the wounds will heal

When African laughter will resonate

And the world will join in the fun



(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)








Ripples of bubbly flow

Fresh and sparkling like precious stone

Lifesaving to hungry soul

Give me a drop…only a drop

Of precious diamond…glittering in the morning sunrise.

Save, I pray, our life stream

Our gem, an endangered species has become

Slimy oils you unleash on the already pained life giver

The clutter and litter strangling its very own survival

The fish and coldblooded breed dying in cold blood

Our heritage, calls like wimp

It’s voice barely audible

Its sweet tastelessness a grim taste

Of oils, pulp and waste..

No longer sweet tastelessness!

Living our death

Day after day

Closer to the grave

Helplessly we peep

Who will save our once clear gem?

Let our hands our pains heal!

Our backs must break to heal

To heal our ailing streams

Our streams of life giving precious liquid stone.

Breath of life to give

Strength to our weak limbs

Inject our drive, my plea

Water, our lifeline, preserve







Take me to Paradiso, land of my dreams.

Land of clean promise,

Promises not akin to piss forgotten once delivered for relief has come.

Paradiso where energy begs not to be called,

where water cries not to drop as tear drop down our metal pipes,

where our children gladly find book and ink to write their childhood stories in broken beautiful childlike writing, where they play ‘tapo’,`catch me’,’blada’ ,

Where beautiful laughter rises to the heaven lies unhindered.

Take me to Paradiso, where my grandfather and grandmother are well cared for,

Not a limb broken for careless pothole unfilled,

for broken glass littered where workers paid by my hard earned sweat ought to have swept,

But NO! they haven’t got ‘haki yao for the last seven months!

Take me to Paradiso!

Where caregivers are healers and not killers and dream cheaters,

Where daggers are problem solvers and not throat slitters!

My dreamland…makes it happen

In the true spirit of unity.



(By Caroline Adwar – a rising Poetess, an English and Music Teacher in Kenya. She started writing poetry while in high school and she is a fanatic of old English poetry writing traditional style, rhyme, repetition, alliteration and assonance. She is currently experimenting African free verse and her poetry will soon be published in Kenya, Zimbabwe and other International platforms. Caroline is a Bachelor of Education Arts (English and Music) from the Kenyatta University in Kenya)








This was not easy to fight

The iron fist and this was not easy –

To clinch my right, – and peoples’

From the monster’s jaw.

I gave it a tough time

And most of the times I won –

You too can win

If steadfast, with patience

And perseverance

You if be single, weak and even

A woman. You can win it.


-To Asma Jahangir, a rights activist, on her sad demise.



(By Sadiqullah Khan – The Brave Voices Poetry Journal Solidarity Voice from Pakistan, 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)








Should we pay the bill, for all we’ve

Done in this life?

Why do our tear-filled eyes

Meet with no sympathy, from other eyes?

Should I, without greed,

Face certain death

And must I compromise to find freedom?

Is it only fortune-telling

That brings me peace?

Will I live

With inexpressible pain hidden

In the deepest recesses of my heart

While I put on a show of happiness?

Will I always endure humiliation –

At the final moment

Let go of the hand of pain

Amid the sounds of dawn’s raindrops, let the earth’s breeze

Close my eyes?



(By Sendoo Hadaa – a poet and translator of international renown. He has lived in Ulaanbaatar, capital of Mongolia since 1991. He has won awards for poetry in India, the USA, Canada, Greece, China, and Russia, including the Mongolian Writers’ Union Prize. Since 1989, he has published 15 books of poetry. Sendoo’s recent collections of poems include “Sweet Smell of Grass” (in Persian 2016), “Aurora” (in Kurdish 2017), “Mongolian Long Song” (in Georgian 2017), WENN ICH STERBE, WERDE ICH TRÄUMEN (in German-Mongolian bilingual 2017)”Mongolian Blue Spots” (in Dutch,2017), and ” A Corner of the Earth”(in Norwegian 2017). Sendoo Hadaa’s influence transcends national and ethnic borders and he is recognized as a great poet of the 21th century. In 2006, he founded the ground-breaking World Poetry Almanac, which he continues to edit. Presently he also served as co-Chairman of the Council of Writers and Readers of the Assembly of Peoples of Eurasia, in Russia)








If I can’t pay my rates they disconnect

If they don’t deliver I must still connect

If they don’t remunerate me, my accounts they charge

If I deposit and they are bankrupt, I must not charge

If I fail to offer my services they charge

If they fail to remunerate me I’m not supposed to charge

If I fail to prepay the disconnect

If they sell empty voucher its load shedding, I’m loading with an X I pay my water bills yet I still fetch water from afar

I pay my water bills they feed me Vibrio cholee

I Pay ZINARA yet its only parts of tar abandoned in potholes

I Pay ZINARA like I am paying for funeral insures and road angels

I pay my tax and they drive V8s, V12s yet there are no schools

I pay my tax yet there are no hospitals and more prisons, including all their offices I pay my health bill yet it’s like doctors trained community service, why can’t they give up? The teachers has been reduced to baggers and destitutes, the police has Been dragged to mere municipality dogs after vendors, the Army plain Puppets to politicians, ministries are now tree monies which they only Have the spell to pluck down our toil just because they have a comfortable seat. The local authorities are now local theatre clubs where saga and plots substitute Service delivery, they just are squandering. All their offices are prisons, they Occupy criminals guided accordingly; I’m loading an X.







Zimbabwe has a population of 16.15 billion by 2018.

With 95% unemployment and 100%

inefficient governance, what does one have to do

To secure their employment and freedom by November 2018?

Add realisation of who is causing your problems

To confidence and subtract fear and voter apathy.

Now multiply that by the sum of registering to vote

And voting. Divide the product with the difference

You gate after subtracting Thugs from governance,

The answer you get is the gateway

To your job and freedom




(By Collen Gaga – an Activist Poet, who writes to advocate for democracy and protection of human rights though going beyond to write about other social aspect of life. He is Currently Studying for a Bachelor of Science in politics and public management at MSU Zimbabwe. His poetry career started since childhood with reciting other people’s poetry and developed to blogging and commenting on other literature works like music and poetry. Currently working on a Shona anthology of Poetry to be named Gapu ReRairo, Collen is still rising the in the spheres of literature)








From the corridors of doom.

The wicked smell of burnt hopes.

Like a blasted bomb.

Hovering, darker than black.

Blinding the skies.

Are choppers pouring stench.

Spraying the perfume called tear gases.

So cruel, with their speed.

Cutting life like a red hot sword.

From what was once a golden sceptre.

Blood is flowing, colouring everything.

Vomit being the special meal.

Bathing in salty sweat.

Quenching thirst by pus.

The flesh being ravaged strategically.

Ohhhh the skeletons are dancing.

Their voices so muffled and terrible.

Soaring every grain of land.

No helper, their brains scattered.

The phantasmal scenario.

Blood taken for toasts.

By the vampires.

Smiling for a mile in jolly.

The human flesh being bried.

Chuckling while they put salt.

Which tastes like the pepper.

To dare that you are in pain.

You face the wrath from Hades.

Licenced by hell.

Miss you, cherish you.

The once great blemis.

Of peace and serenity.







The river is aware of the tide of the waves.

Dangers of Lucifer’s angels had claimed the throne.

In deep waters upon.

Every tidal wave.

Crystal placid lays a bay of blue waters.

Lord bless me with rainbow, you are with me.

The moon, sun, enchanting wind.

To wake the tidal passion within my heart.



(By Chrispah Munyoro – currently a student of Applied Art and Design, Graphics and Website Programming. at Kwekwe Polytechnic College in Zimbabwe. Munyoro is a talented writer, journalist and a dedicated Design Artist. She is natural linguist, fluent in many languages among them English, Shona, Esperanto, Setswana, Swahili, Italiana and Yoruba. She began as a columnist writing feature articles in the Gweru Times in Midlands Province Capital of Zimbabwe. She has worked as a Midlands Chapter Chairperson of the Zimbabwe Association of Freelance Journalists. Munyoro was once a Zimbabwe Representative at Zone IV Regional Youth Games in 2014 Bulawayo in the boxing discipline. The multi-disciplinary artist is registered under AIBA the international body of boxing. The Writer, Artist, Poet, Journalist and athlete has been writing poetry since her tender years and she has participated in various writers, poetry, journalism and sports)








‘It is beautiful that I, here and now, am alive.’

These boulders. These hamburger buns, baps, bannocks, batter-

cakes. That elephant shrew nibbling a rusk; that dassie

sunning itself on the slope of an English muffin.

That kite ascending, swooping; the rise and fall of dough;

my hopes, rising and falling in this, now, northern light.

Henry James might have recorded its tones: ‘the perfect

middle of a splendid summer afternoon’. Only,

this is autumnal, a balmy dry season. Stanzas

of paper bark flutter in the ascending smells, part

recollection, part forgetting, of loaves and fissures.

Pubescent leaves of Combretum molle, the velvet

bushwillow, caress the healthy cheeks of our only

daughter, Ruth, as she clambers away from me.

Ben, our oldest child, is writing something facetious

in the visitors’ book while Joe, our infant, helps his

mother prepare the tea, with spicy biscuits and cream

scones, fish paste rolls and smelly cheese. The preterhuman

inspiration, expiration: dwalas and gullies,

domes and cavities, lips and cracks – sprouting maidenhair

ferns, vellosia, resurrection plant, flame lilies,

clubmoss, lichen, and the ooze of nutrients that we,

in this place of reflecting rills and considerate

stones, will savour in our afternoon family tea.



(By John Eppel – John lives in Bulawayo and has 18 publications of poetry and prose to his name, including collaborations with Julius Chingono, Philani Nyoni, and Togara Muzanenhamo)








The Mindless Ones

They move to any tune

The owner of the dance

Is willing to play

So long as he can pay

Without any great philosophy

Driven by blind passion

Resentment for society

That possibly erased them

From kernels of memory…

Nobody remembers them

Till the occasional moment

To ease ire

Vent the bitter bile

Boiling like volcano within

Unseen by day.

They are nameless

Heroes who never appear

In newspaper headlines

Or the prime time

Frames without faces

Behind mask of smoke

Glowing in the flame

Taking the blame

Warriors ready to goe

Without a cause

For the sake of the living.



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








courage is lacking

on this plain of salt

courage is not to be found

and so we’re acquiescent

the tree is lonely

but we do not

provide, we are

drawn inward, safer

to silently rage, when

a voice asks, “how long do

you endure?” you simply

turn aside, the wood is

lonely, whorls run deep,

the wood is cheap, you

go shopping the beautiful

pen is a work of art, I

bough it on eBay, my father

died on a plain of salt, my

mother died in a deep pond,

the exile failed his examination,

the ant is a warrior, what you

love is another breath, when

you fly please observe the rules

and come safely home

how you manage is when

the breeze rises, subtle, slow,

cross the creek, avoid

mud in the marshes, find

hard trail and consider

a ring of rock for morning

fire, coffee in the pot, the sky

boils over, life clings, death rings

a boy stands at my fire, he

lives inside of me, I do with him

what is required, we are seventeen

and do not feel free

poor wood, poor tree

we lack courage to

move, we may only go

into the preserve

and pretend, we look at

Saturn’s rings, oh what a

sight, the bright timid tiny

light, I stayed late into

the spite, maybe I did not

like the night, what do planets

do? do they fight? you may

curse, yes you might

but you will be a cinder

after snow falls on your hair

and leaves a trail of ashes

in memory of the boy

who doused flames

with water from a canteen,

he stood back to see the smoke

turn into a tree



(By Neeli Cherkovski – an internationally known poet living in San Francisco California. He is the author of many books of poetry and prose. His latest collection, Elegy for My Beat Generation,” it’s published by lithic press)








Lovely souls

Beautiful dreams

Fluttering fancies

Caught my eye

Arrested my feet

Unknown waves

Gripped my mind




Everlasting memory



(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)








Elections! Elections!

what have they changed?

Just bearer-cheques to bond-notes.

Democracy! Democracy!

what has it improved?

Only multiplicity of confused political parties.

Coalition system! Coalition system!

A misty in the coffee-mug.

Promises! Promises!

how many have you fulfilled?

The roads are full of some yearning craters.

Slogans! Slogans!

when will they cease harassing our weary eardrums?

We are done of parroting.

Development! Development!

what have you so far developed?

State brutality?

Victimization and torture acrobatics?

Progress! Progress!

can it be real whilst it’s held in stagnance?

Peace! Peace!

with all of you always thickly guarded?

Freedom! Freedom!

If its prevalent then the media must be removed those harnesses.

Unity! Unity!

then why this tribal chasm

between Shonas and Ndebeles?

Changes! Changes!

reshuffling the same swollen heads?

Excuse me comrades,

we have just set out

to correct your decadent politics.



(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)








There they go into their nest

To tryst

Basket with bottle of claret

Discs of biscuit

In hand.


Arm in arm

They stroll down

The candle-lit corridor

Conversation muted

Whispers of delight

Fires burning bright

In pumping hearts.


For a moment

The world is at peace.

Overflowing with love.

Tender hugs.

Kisses sent via the post.

Kisses emailed.

Kisses Facebooked

From one backwater to another.


The cockatoo

Displays her bright plumage.

Pipes a ballad

Summoning her partner

Who obliges

And comes flying

With a sprig of rose

In his beak.


The aroma of good baking

Wafts from the oven:

Chocolate cake

For candle-lit dinner.


The world is at peace.

And the brassiere

And the trousers fall

In ecstatic bravado.

Wish the prices would fall

In similar fashion




(By Richmore Tera – a 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 Diaspora 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)






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