The Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Campaign

April 24, 2018 Poetry , POETRY / FICTION

Albert González Farran/UNAMID photo

 

By

Mbizo Chirasha

 

 

Drumbeat- “Raising Mukondi” Phase1 (Brave voices Poetry Journal 41 –The Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Campaign) is this time of the year in partnership with Campio Burns Group- “From Ashes of the Fire”. We are in solidarity with the burn survivors, Solidarity with Victims of Xenophobia, domestic and political violence, we are in solidarity with victims and survivors of burns, burning and domestic violence, we are in solidarity with the victors who managed to pull through defying the aftermath scars, pain and trauma.

 

We say write it, say it, talk about it, tell a story. We say poetry heals and Words are a form of therapy. Let Poets from across the globe write on this CAUSE alongside victims of burns, violence, xenophobia and refugees’ maltreatment. Let’s tell our story through poetry, testimonials and flash fiction.

 

The Intervention is offered space at the Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Campaign platform (100 thousand poets for peace-Zimbabwe on Facebook). The Campio Burns Group – “From Ashes of the Fire” is founded by Beulah Faith Kay, an advocate for peace, life skills coach, Poet and a literary arts activist. She works alongside other great people around the world. The organisation is doing great through integrating burn survivors into communities telling their story.

 

We are proud to say that poetry is a refreshing form of therapy that serves heals scars, wounds and burns from inner to the outer. We continue to invite our poets, new voices, regular voices, victims and now victors to send through poetry above mentioned CAUSE AND THEMES to MBIZO CHIRASHA. Thank you Nigeria, Kenya, South Africa, Pakistan, Cameroon, India, Zimbabwe, United States of America, Liberia and Zimbabwe for taking part. We are looking forward to have more poets in the next 5 set of journals to be published.

 

Here is a brave mouthful from Beulah Kay, the Founder of Campio Burns Group- “ From Ashes of the Fire”-“ “Raising Mukondi” is a Campio Burns Group project (www.campioburns.blogspot.pe) partnered by the “Zimbabwe We Want Poetry” Campaign, led by Mbizo Chirasha. The project is a consequence of Campio’s “Face to Face with burns” Campaign and bears evidence of global awareness and the literary activism of poets and writers across the world. Activists who have been touched by the stigma and brutality of burns abuse of refugees, women and children.

 

Their pens speak and their ink never dries. It calls for the world to listen and cries out for xenophobia and burns abuse and stigma to stop! It cries out. This project has taught me that anyone can be burned… at anytime and anywhere anyhow. #awareness Edgar Langeveldt – recipient of the Prince Claus Award – Mbizo Chirasha.

 

 

 

 

BURNT FACE – FORGIVEN

 

 

In the blink of an eye you scarred me for life

Burnt Face was the taunt that cut like a knife

The trauma, suffering, pain and tears

How did you live with your guilt for all these years

 

Your absence and silence, I ask you to reflect

What path my life took due to your neglect

It took years of struggle to break down the mental bars

That forced me to focus so much on my physical scars

 

A mother’s love and courage made me grow strong

She blamed herself for your actions for far too long

Dear lord I want to be normal in every way

Each night I prayed to god for the scars to go away

 

As a child I only saw today not how the future would look

As an adult I put my thoughts and memories into a book

Cathartic as it was, I grew to understand

It was all an accident and nothing was planned

 

If one day I get the chance to look you in the eyes

You will see me as a phoenix from the ashes I will rise

To offer you forgiveness for all that has been done

My life is full of love and joy and my journey has been won!

 

 

(By Annette Swann – an Australian Author and Burns Survivor of 43 years. Annette also serves as a Goodwill Ambassador for the South African CAMPIO Burns Group and has a Bachelor of Arts Degree in Public Relations and Communications and a Diploma of Multimedia. Annette is a freelance writer and editor with many years experience in Public Relations, Marketing and Business Management. Originally from Melbourne, she moved to Queensland in 1991 and still lives there with her husband and their three adult children. She loves vegemite on toast, sunny days by the pool, karaoke with friends, laughing hysterically with family and socialising and holidays with her husband, Jason)

 

 

 

 

THE SECRET SOCIETY

 

 

It was an ear-splitting slap.

Her head bounced off the wall and hit the floor with a thud

His dentures slipped to the corners of puffy lips;

The stench of fermented mash all too familiar.

 

Whack

Swish

Boom!

Ribs

Lips

Broken

Cracked

Size 12’s with split soles

working boots of a disgruntled man

 

Frills and polka dots were stained with bourbon and blood;

Her bruised blue eyes traced the coffee stains along the wall,

her ponytail he yanked till her scalp bled

 

The mother of 2 was dragged from kitchen to bedroom,

to be a wife.

 

The phone screamed into the bloody fight.

The male voice bleeped confidently –

 

“You have reached the home of Reverend Simons and his family.

We are not available but please leave your number………..”

Snores reverberate through whisky breath.

Everything goes bump in the night

Broken, Broken

Reverend Simons and his family were broken.

Katy slipped her battered body out of bed and limped to the study where she would prayerfully guard her sacred secret –

 

Pain split her head like a lightning bolt

Tomorrow they would bind her wounds as they had always done for the past years….

conspirators they were –

 

The dentist, The Doctor

And the Reverend.

 

They were all, broken.

But some stories are best kept hidden –

for a broken home, like Katy’s home

was better than no home at all.

 

Upstairs 7 year old Melissa snuggled close to her big sister –

“Don’t cry Mandy, I will pray for you,

maybe God will send us help”, she whimpered.

 

The sun yawned into a new day;

Little Melissa placed a single rose over her mother’s buried secret

The night claimed Katy’s life.

Beside her shattered dreams

The dentist and the doctor,

the Reverend and his congregation

lift their voices in solemn praise –

 

***”Nearer my God to Thee”, they sing.

Nearer to thee – “

 

Though like a wanderer

the sun gone down

darkness comes over me –

my rest a stone;

yet in my dreams I’d be

nearer to Thee.

 

What a Holy night

when reverend Simon took Katy’s life –

A heart attack they said.

On Sunday he will preach,

“We miss our Katie”.

And the congregation will mourn

And weep with guilt.

 

 

***Nearer my God to Thee” is taken from a hymn written by Sarah Flower Adams.
“Katy’s Secret” is a work of fiction based upon real documented incidences.

 

 

(By Beulah Kay aka Jambiya Kai – 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)

 

 

 

 

THUS PLUNGED DEEPER

 

 

And the haze she was –

Write me a bio of her

Or for me

Press the search button

For me to know –

The high is ‘ice’,

Or popularity’s fall

That was too early, these –

Unless enough spiritualized

In their dark maze lost –

Thus plunged deeper

And deeper –

Law of diminishing return

Wanting, they impossible

Assigning fears on others –

For they know not

That from a rise there is fall

Without anybody’s mistake

The quick rapid fame

You stair upon

May be a quicker descent

Or it may be a right

Freedom speakers are giants

As adamant to destroy

Dissent and plain freedom –

As tyrant falls upon the innocent

Or she not knowing

In real world who protect

Rabbits are called chickens

And have therefore

To put a patient fight up.

 

 

On Nasim Najafi Aghdam
– Conversation with George T. Everette

 

 

(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)

 

 

 

 

FEAR

 

 

Raised in harmony and tranquillity, from infancy

Never was I poised between these storms that’s

Disillusionment and Disparity, tolls in prevalence

Childhood being and been a bliss, gone by blast

 

Hell on earth is the odds, a sour bite of truths

so savage and raves the minds a milestone away

Escapism votes my fate through veto, sad thots

Derived each second of this phase of livelihood.

 

Once the brave diva that raised an innocent son

Descendant to the wise crown tore apart the tires

readily a nob that had been strained and fragile

to have pulled the string all will point vehemently.

 

What shall it became this lifeless experience cast

Fist upon fist, pound of flesh bled… oozes blood

Stained be the cordial relation strained due to…

Due to… These episodes brought about my fears.

 

 

(By Wilson Waison Tinotenda. A poet and flash fiction writer. The editor of Deem.lit.org and its founding father. A human rights activist, an ardent follower of the Zimbabwe We want campaign)

 

 

 

 

QUESTIONS?

 

 

Who are you really are?

You were happy that you are a father.

Now like a rabbit munching your own seed you sow.

Devouring the fresh water with no mercy.

What can I label you mother?

With the pains you went through labour.

Biting your own flesh and blood.

With the venomous urge of evilness.

You were to be the protector, caregiver.

Now squashing life of your child like a pig.

Baby-dumping the order of the day.

De-flowered girls like price hikes.

By the parents, relatives and friends.

Devil’s incarnates so gluttonous for money.

Perverts with insatiable lust.

Humans masquareding as hungry vultures.

 

Girl Child, a target.

Emotionally destroyed.

Forever in fear.

Always silently hurting.

Never to trust.

Breathing without willpower to live.

Your heart turned to stone.

Shivering your best friends.

Nightmares your blankets.

 

The creator please bring justice.

To this wicked world.

Which had become the enemy of the girl child.

 

 

(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)

 

 

 

 

LIFE CHANGES

 

 

The scars so real

Within and without

The blazing tongues eating at every soul that tried to rescue..

His cry of pain dying down with the seconds ticking.

Overwhelmed with the lashing and boring like the nails on our Lords hands and feet.

 

Tossing and turning at the thought

Years down the line…

A fire firing up, not a sight to behold.

The scars bear witness of the same

Who was once human

Only human as they walk

A nose gone

An eye gone

The skin that was so silky and smooth

Now a fold of burnt flesh

Ah! Beauty is a word for a time

 

Children running away in fright

Away from their mother..

All mirrors destroyed

For she cannot bear the reflection of who she has become

It eats into her very being…

All she wants, her children to accept her

It wasn’t her fault…

She was at the right place…

At the wrong time..

 

At last…a reprieve!

The red cross had come to her aid

But the money….

She looked to the skies and cried!

The attendant watching keenly

 

Wondering how a human could be so faceless!

A picture she carried with her of the days when SHE WAS!

A far cry from what she had become

 

She gave her a listening ear

Saw her previous self…

Tried to maintain her calm..but a tear escaped from her eye…

She would help this woman retrieve her lost glory…….

 

The plastic surgery was a success!

But what about the thousands that did not get a guardian angel?

The mother of two walked away a happy beautiful mum…

Her children stealing glances at her,

Wondering if she was the one!

 

 

(By Caroline Adwar – a fast 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)

 

 

 

 

BIRTH, DEATH PANGS

 

 

She lay in the maternity ward

Bleeding, screaming and flailing;

While he lay in the other woman’s embrace

Mewing and purring in pleasure.

The child in her belly kicked

And slid head-first into the world;

On her prey the woman’s embrace further tightened

Like the clutches of a python demented.

The umbilical cord was severed

Then the new-born screamed,

And as he was being shooed by breast-milk

So was the man from the python’s breast busy a-suckling.

The ward was filled with ululations of joy

Welcoming into the world the bundle of pleasure born out of birth-pangs;

Meanwhile, the python was crushing the man’s bones,

Licking at his pain, before swallowing him whole.

 

 

(By Richmore Tera – a Zimbabwean poet, short story writer and freelance journalist. He is the author of the poetry monograph, “Here Leaves Silently Fall” which was published by Arts Initiates in 2009. In November 2017, Tera was appointed as the Zimbabwean Ambassador of the Museum of Words by the Cesar Egido Serrano Foundation, a non-governmental organisation based in Madrid, Spain, for advocating for unity and peace through his works)

 

 

 

 

JUNGLE JUNGLE

 

 

We are in jungle

Ghosts mingle

And hunt in single

 

Innocent girls

Lost their voice

Blood trickles

And soak in darkness

Jungle jungle

We are in jungle

 

Wails of suffering

Coil our earth

And plead for justice

Jungle jungle

We are in jungle

 

Rotten minds

And poison hearts

Probe in darkness

To hunt the innocent

Jungle jungle

We are in jungle

 

Political brutes

With demons’ pride

Ride on money and power

Making hell on earth

Jungle jungle

We are in jungle

 

Our hearts are heavy

Our tears are eternal

Our pens should strike

And weed out the demons

Jungle jungle

We are in jungle

 

 

(By Gopichand Paruchuri – International recognized Publisher, Academic and great English Poet in India)

 

 

 

 

WE FEAR NO GUNS!

 

 

We fear no Guns!

Guns cooked this anthem and flag

We live with Guns

Their staccato is our alarm at dawn

And melodies for our sleep

 

We eat with Guns

Oh the trembling of our pale lips

As we breathe their stringent fart everyday long

 

We fear no Guns!

 

We fear no Guns!

Our brothers intercourse them in bed,

While our fathers fondle them like how they pluck our virginity

 

We eat guns.

The mud we swallow in a basin of food stock in our mouths

We munch grenades and belch out war in our slums

Guns are castrating our peace

 

We fear no Guns!

 

Guns are our concubines

They give birth to children of war

Children reared in their cold bellies and poverty sadden shanties

 

We praise Guns

Guns of revolution that turned bitter,

Guns of freedom still born

 

We fear no Guns!

 

Guns, the rhythm and song of villages,

Guns, the another child of the another

Guns, African infectious disease

We are born warlords and warladies

 

We do not fear Guns!

 

 

(By Nnane Ntube – A Cameroonian who is passionate about creative writing. A teacher of languages (French and English) but she is currently furthering her studies at the Higher Teachers’ Training College, Yaoundé. Her poems The Lost Bond, The Pains I Feel, Hungry Voices, Change, Trust in Tears, A Child’s Dream, are published by Spill words press. Her poem, The Visitor featured in a magazine in Zimbabwe; 3Mob.com. The poems, The Pains I Feel and If I am Your Rainbow appeared in an anthology of Gender Based Violence, #Wounded which will soon be published in Zimbabwe by the POWAD group (Poets With A Difference). Her poems Before I Met You and As I Hold Your Hand are forth coming in a wedding day anthology in Zimbabwe. She is a social critic, a youth activist for peace and an aspiring actress)

 

 

 

 

THESE OLD “BOYS”

 

 

They hinge on their mental virginity,

Like bees they swarm around them

As they seek to devour refugee in their innocence

 

Their eyes are like that of chameleons,

Scanning in an orbit for what can lure their appetites and machines, They drool at them like tortoises, maneuvering like tortoises, Splashing mud everywhere and too careful not to get dirty,

They devour their caged hearts by cushioning them,

They corrupt their taste buds with flirtatious speech,

Massaging their souls with electrifying looks

In they dive to their death day

A life of splendour,

Germinating an irresistible bond

WITH THESE OLD BOYS.

 

 

(By Vanessa Kalukwete – aged 20 and currently studying Psychology at the University of Zimbabwe. She is in her first year, second semester. She is a poetry fanatic and enjoys reading novels during her leisure time)

 

 

 

 

WHEN THE ELECTION APPROACHES

 

 

The Pharisee spends blank nights.

Countless manipulative strategies spiralling

the web of his corrupt mind. With messianic zeal this

Sanctimonious political bootlicker combs countryside nooks

in flashy limousines as if to mock the foot users.

Bearer of nude promises of hope, fussy of rival’s activities,

resorts to stage fake shows of fame to canvass support.

Mesmerizes local populace with temporal tranquilizers.

Resolute to remain up there, while the wretched down here.

Election fever attains pitch, his melody becomes mellower,

His tongue sweeter, his attitude humbler.

In a hurly-burly of a political party, the plaster saint

magically entrances the bewildered masses with a litany of envisaged projects.

 

Dust settles on hope, vicious cycle restarts on the rails of stagnation.

Catapulted to glory, he turns eyes to the skies.

Ghetto dwellers rehearse same songs of sorrow.

Wallow in mud of poverty, smiles buried in high mortality.

Heath, education, economy depreciate in the wicked hands of greed and self-interest.

Roads remain death traps .The downtrodden licks deep wounds of deception.

 

 

(By Beyia Ngam Emmanuel – Ngam Emmanuel is a Poet, Writer, an advocate of political justice and a High School Teacher. Ngam graduated from Higher Teacher Training College that earned a Diploma in Languages (French and English). Writer, Teacher, Poet Emmanuel enjoys reading and gardening)

 

 

 

 

LOVE

 

 

It hurts.

The pains can’t be scratched.

You can’t go for surgery.

They penetrate deep down the heart.

 

See God.

He had to watch his only son.

Die.

Of humiliation, pains, insults.

For the people He loved.

 

See mothers.

They have to endure hard labour.

It feels like the bones are break-in.

It feels like the world is suddenly falling on you.

just to meet the baby the will love.

Forever.

 

When we love we fly to the moon.

Effortlessly.

No rocket science is required.

When we fall out of love.

We land safely on the feet.

Bare foot.

Stepping on the pieces of glass.

Yes that’s what it feels like.

Every step leaves a trail of blood stains.

Every step leaves wounds upon wounds.

 

Love is a beautiful thing.

By all means fall in love.

if it fails you will become an inspirational speaker.

If it works you become Dr Love.

If it is complicated, like me

 

 

(By Rumona Apiyo Nanyinza – Poet and Coordinator Kenya Chapter at Kasoma Africa)

 

 

 

 

UGANDA! ACID RAIN!!!

 

 

Mother’s green parrot told me,

“Acid fall like rain in Uganda”,

with a bucket I journey,

we need some in the chemistry lab.

 

I wished for red roses

but found blood,

for how lips and noses

were found burnt!

In the falling of a button of tear,

a babe’s face is wrinkled like foams of bear.

In the short snapping of fingers,

beauties wilter like dead flowers,

head blessed with hair turn bald!

Bones exposed as skins scald!

 

Acid! A terrible fashion designer!

Folding the head with the neck,

giving a permanent mask to Uganda,

a scary mask! What a wreck!

 

See- the madness caused by a drop!

As it splash on a lion’s tail,

should Uganda be left unsolved?

Or this becomes an annual tale.

 

Let those flowing rivers of acid;

be drunk by the thirsty sun!

or let the devil drink it like gin,

for how many more skull shall it burn?

 

 

(By Ibrahim Clouds – Nigerian poet. He spends 90% of his time in seclusion, meditating, reading spiritual books and writing. 
He studied science for three years in Wesley college of science Elekuro Ibadan Nigeria. He is currently studying architecture in the polytechnic Ibadan Nigeria. He was born a poet, identified as a poet since he was 4 years of age and started writing 5 years ago)

 

 

 

 

CHILD OF THE STRUGGLE

 

 

I was born within the struggle

amidst glowing embers

Raging fires

and screams that threatened to tear the sky apart.

 

They named me Struggle.

 

I grew up with the struggle

and the struggle took me to other struggles.

With my namesakes

also called Struggle

We obliged, for that was the only way we could survive the struggle

and its other struggles.

 

Now we are in another struggle

Where struggles are the order of the day

And no matter how much I struggle

Still I can’t erase my name Struggle

From my birth certificate

For that is what I am –

A child of the struggle.

 

 

(By Richmore Tera – a Zimbabwean poet, short story writer and freelance journalist. He is the author of the poetry monograph, “Here Leaves Silently Fall” which was published by Arts Initiates in 2009. In November 2017, Tera was appointed as the Zimbabwean Ambassador of the Museum of Words by the Cesar Egido Serrano Foundation, a non-governmental organisation based in Madrid, Spain, for advocating for unity and peace through his works)

 

 

 

 

HOW CAN WE BREATHE?

 

 

when our throats are held by the hands of oppression

or live,

when our nostrils,

blocked by mucus of corruption?

 

I do hear that there is light at the end of every tunnel.

But what then happens to me,

a black child,

with black blood,

birthed under poisoned skies

Poisoned skies that oozes the steam of darkness?

 

Aduke and Amoke,

my sisters.

Come,

Join me at the table.

Join me so that we can look each other in the face.

Let’s make the table ready.

so that when hunger comes through the rumbling streets of our stomachs, we can rub each others tummy.

 

Abayomi my brother!

How long are we going to use sleep to chase away thirst?

For how long are we going to watch our future seep away like a leaking fuel tank?

 

stop looking at me.

Speak to me before I invite mama’s segi’s devils to take me home.

 

 

(By Anu Soneye– a young Nigerian poet born on November 20, 1999 in Ile-Ife, Osun state, Nigeria. He writes both lyrical and narrative poetry. His interest lies in the painting of reality with the colors of literature. He also delves into writings related to the state of the African society, specifically, his country, Nigeria. He is a writer who sees writing above being a mere act. For him, writing is an unavoidable art, a necessity and a beneficial addiction)

 

 

 

 

LOST SYRIA

 

 

gun rushes and sleeps

Beside Syrians windows

In pillow form

 

exploded midnight

And hit the Line of crisis

That

jumps in to slippery conflict

 

Kpao! Kpao!

Was the only sound hear

in breeze

Of Footprints wonder

As the greeny fund

Of guns distract the

Cities of beautiful Syria

 

From Damascus to Ghoutta

The dust and sand

Rise in disaster to swim

Children in blood

and

Crust women

in cemetery

 

Freedom lie

in Flood

And hatred rise

in peace

As love falls like snow

 

A beautiful city

Is now the city

Of burning crisis

 

Oh God

I weep in tears

Oh Allah

I bow in shame

 

In prayer I prostrate

and say,

Oh Allah

Free Syria

to everlasting peace

And passionate love

 

For its melodious name

the world praised

is now the bloody headlines

of creeping medias…

 

 

(By Mohammed Cheto Jalloh – A Liberian by nationality and a Student of the African Methodist Episcopal University (AMEU). I am a Child’s right advocate, poet and a Pan Africanist. Over the 7yrs I have dedicated my time in speaking out for children whose right are violated on a daily basis and most often I use poetry in speaking out how I feel about such act. Most importantly, my top priority and prayer is to see Africa totally free from the hands of the Whites and rise above all continent)

 

 

 

 

MY GAZE ATOP GONE

 

 

But that’s where my gaze atop gone

My home a ruin and my kith –

Wept blood, – O in such dark I swam,

That to my breast when I looked

And to my frock when I glanced

Nothing but there I saw suppressed Silence and lot of fearful a sigh –

Nor the lost one from my memory go

Or those brutally killed those captive

The scars neither heal cures not work,

Resolve unless with justice is not made

Admittance a-collective assault if not admit.

 

 

(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)

 

 

 

 

DRY SEASON

 

 

In this dry season

We sow hope

To reap thorns and thistles

Mother poking children

Jab the nation to starvation

Sickening the nation with confusion

Their corruption

The victims of elections

Are ready for the coming polls

Ridiculous

It’s a pity we are like adopted children

Now only my mind is what I consider divine

What I know all promises are so blossoming

But fulfilling them is not a bed of rose

Can’t fool the youth with yesterday’s delights

It’s high time the ground need cultivation

Societies are weeping over transformation

Revolution or reformation

 

 

(By Sydney Haile Saize I – a word guerrilla, a fighter for justice and a Poet in Residence for the Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Campaign. Haile is also a journalist, social change activist and a writer)

 

 

 

 

CRACKED CALABASH

 

 

Cracked and bundled in a heap is my broken calabash

Vicious vampires vent their vengeance on my varnished calabash Properly poking my pot to proper pieces

Their rage still roars like a lion in a cage

Venting their bloody blows on my broken calabash

Their breath stinks like dog carcasses in open space

A sad song sang by special sad singers sounds around my calabash

But nothing that is evil last forever

The waves of the sea rises and falls every day

Just like an elevator goes up and comes down

The waves will flow and patch up the broken pieces of my calabash Endurance is an assurance and forbearance is a virtue

My calabash will stay broken but not for long

The broken calabash will soon live and sing a new song!!!

 

 

(By Milimo Chinimbwa – Radio Personality, Educationist, Arts Projects Administrator, Writer and Poet)

 

 

 

 

WHO?

 

 

Shall listening to my anguish

shall wipe away my tears

shall bandage my wounds

shall feed my famished ones

Shall patch my scars

Who?

 

Shall kill the hyenas in my kraal

Shall wrestle these crocodiles

Shall stump out these corrupt pests

Shall grind these walking ineptness

Who?

 

Shall stand like a rock

Shall lift the dying hopes

Shall kill these social pests

Shall be our reborn Savior

Who?

 

 

(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)

 

 

 

 

THE OLIGARCHS

 

 

Do not be taken in by their egrets’ snowy wings

Or be inveigled by their phalanx format in flight,

Do not be enchanted by their long, landly legs stealthy

Amongst the sleeping golden grasses

Or be deceived by their yellow pelicaned mouths

Or spelled be by the curvy grace of their swanned necks…

Follow the spoors of their treads and you will find them at banquets

Dining with Devil himself, with lengthy silvery spoons

Scooping mouthfuls of maggots into their guts

Squirming maggots from the spread on their host’s table;

Follow their lead and you will see their

Angelic companies in the city’s madden

Seeking out friendlies, those living off the dumped, rotting dead

Squabbling amongst themselves over the hulk of a carcass

The humongous corpse of Chinua Achebe’s country.

 

 

(By Opeyemi Joe – writes from Ibadan. He’s had his works featured in journals, reviews and anthologies the world over. He likes soccer and singing, in that order. He is also a geologist)

 

 

 

 

BEAUTY BEHIND SCARS

 

 

Once as beautiful as morning,

now victims of circumstances.

New deformed bodies from

Their mistakes or that of men,

accidents that took them unawares,

And the wickedness of man

unleashed upon their innocent bodies.

Tears weren’t enough,

the pains were no match,

their loud cry had no effect,

as their bodies took it all.

Abnormal shape they’ve got,

a new way of life to live.

Eyes that seeks for our love,

Soul that yearns for our care.

Angels before the burn,

angels within after,

Still with their big hearts

in that deformed body.

If you happen to come across one,

try looking beyond the figure standing,

For only then will you see

beauty behind the scars.

 

 

(By Ambassador Daniel 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 ultramicroscopic 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)

 

 

 

 

OF KUNDUZ

 

 

That is a struck beauty –

Kunduz is a small cat paw motif

– It was ringing in my head –

They mix pomegranate red

With indigo from leaves, – they mix too –

Red with earth and blasted with

Gun powder, – they die in celebration –

That’s how they have been

Killed, by whatever army, name

A militia or secretly massacred

Totalling a few number of –

One hundred thousand, or many –

 

They wore white turbans

They had an accomplishment

On their big heads, – they had

Their mothers waiting –

 

You kill them

They kill them

 

One of my would be loves

Was a Kunduz carpet –

A premeditated possession

That in its rich-austere shaded hue

Of maroonness and ultra

Or a fade like my breaking heart cherish

Which found its place

To go with a mournful sigh

 

Live with scars

Like many an ancient cities of East

Live with scars.

 

 

On the bombing of Madressah students in Kunduz, Afghanistan

 

 

(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)

 

 

 

 

EXPRESS MYSELF

 

 

These walls can never incarcerate my parietal lobe or sensory cortex

These leg iron chains are a frailty and can’t hostage my concentration

Yes they say prison has robbed my sanity and thus inanity because

I find vanity in manifesting the desires of my heart in these expressions

These iron bars are too small to suppress my meditation, you see comrades

The strong suit of my attention grasps every destination,

I mean my deep thoughts got me slaying in chains. You see

All these graffiti in the walls, all these drawings, painting, singing

And chanting you witness from this tank, are a reality of my imagination and

Enhanced interrogation techniques cannot suffocate my expression or

Demolish the exhibition of my imagination neither can any abuse

Abuse my expression because I still have to express the oppression

So on whatever condition, I still have every reason to believe I’m still

Living because after all I can enjoy the fantasies I have of my heart through expressing.

I have experienced all the mysterious jungles of my desires and you

all these walls around us comrades, live to tell the story my eyes long to see.

Chains don’t ever block expressions here is a beautiful lady, enjoy cdes

 

 

 

FLY WITH ME

 

 

I will fly away with the wings of my mind

I will fly to the end of the sky

I will fly with the thoughts of victory

I will fly and fly with words

Strength for my growing heart

I will fly with eyes of vision

I will fly with thoughts of victory

There is magic in belief

just spread the wings of your mind

fly with me

away with songs of victory

 

 

(By Oladipo Kehinde Paul – Nigerian Poet and Educator)

 

 

 

 

 

The Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Campaign

 

Editor review

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