Reuters photo

By

Mbizo Chirasha

This one is for the Zimbabwean Leader and the regime that has since failed us.  Firstly, I want to greatly thank Tuck Magazine, a Canadian magazine for Politics, Human Rights and Arts, through its versatile Editor, Michael Organ who have agreed to partner with our Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Campaign   and publish our articles and poetry for a wider international audience. The Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Campaign is a one year project founded by exiled Zimbabwean Poet, Writer, Social Justice Activist Mbizo Chirasha to use poetry as a sharp double edged sword against human rights abuses, violence, intimidation, corruption and dictatorial tendencies by the Mugabe led regime.

Words are powerful and words are unstoppable.  Let thank you also the poets feayured below.  We have begun a CREATIVISM revolution; Poets and Word slingers cannot be silent or stand aside while the country is falling apart. Things have fallen apart in Zimbabwe. Poets Rise, Brave Voices – “Let your pen and your voice defends you and the suffering Zimbabwean masses”. Poets and Writers around the globe, you are also invited to contribute your voices to this (CAUSE) – Mbizo Chirasha.

The Canary Of Our Time

They say ZANU-PF
is breaking up
like the arctic ice melting
due to global warming
vanishing into explosive oceans.
They say ZANU-PF
is breaking up
but no one notices this
except a few newspaper people
using puzzling mirrors.
They say ZANU-PF
is breaking up
startled by the sight of the in-fighting
disruptions, resignations, cleansing
leaving a lot of people stranded.
They say ZANU-PF
is breaking up
but they always forget that
a revolutionary party eats itself
in order to rejuvenate its own Napoleon

(By Tendai Rhinos Mwanaka – a multidisciplinary artist, editor, writer, scholar from Nyanga, Zimbabwe)

Alluta Continua

Zimbabweans!
Why do you sit in relaxation
As if you got all that you wanted
As if all that you were promised was fulfilled
As if all your dreams
finally
and triumphantly became a reality!
Do you think Chitepo
Fought and died past the cause of his fight?
Got its logical meaning!
Do you think that when the freedom fighters perished
The struggle for freedom perished too?
It is still in being by other means
To be fought to the bitter end
By no one but you!
So

… Aluta Continua!

Aluta continua, Zimbabwe!
We’re not yet free
Open your slothful eyes
You will realize
These mine words of wisdom is the very truth
We are still a million miles afar
From our real and total liberation
So let the struggle continue Zimbabwe
Aluta continua!

My fellow country folks!
How long shall we stand aside and look?
As if the dead heroes shall rise again
To fight on your behalf
And offer you freedom
As if there shall be a miracle of Manna from Zion
As if in the time of Exodus
Let the struggle continue
Aluta continua my people
Aluta continua!

(By Sydney Haile Saize I– Rastafarian and unpublished self-exiled poet. Zimbabwean by birth and African by origin)

The African Sun

Where you not there?
When the demons that haunts the nights, broke my door
to share the pun.
Casting its shadowed tentacles-
over my sun.
Bespectacled I watched the hearse
play fiddle with my sons –
taking them on a leash
down earth’s wardrobe.
Was in not you? To dry hope
with your skyly stove;
only to wash it with
white tear soap.
When dust washed my face
dry where you not there?
Now you play the pope –
calling us your sons dear sun.
When the ground grew
cracked with thirst-
to suck my plants down, tripping
my animals to death.
Where you not there cast-
High above us, lo-custs

(By Nyashadzashe Chikumbu –   a young Zimbabwean poet and a student majoring in medical studies)

The Dance With A Devil

The Dance with a devil leaves you on the damned floor,

A whirl with a dervish waits deriding only dance flaws,

The piper pays the members they get the pound of flesh they paid for,

As they dance they a dazzle just a pound more,

Of your heart and your soul and your deep, deep core,

That’s why I’m sitting out their number,

as their devil of a fugger claps his hands and screams an encore, While a weak-soul monster holds a Lion’s mouth, think it can’t ROAAAAR….?

Got my eye on the window when I fly know exactly what I ran for,

As the King of Joy lightly comes down upon the whole war,

And tells the devil, not this one, he’s my son and one I died for….

The riches of my flesh exceed your feast and leave your members looking sorely poor”…

I spread my wings and take the sky light,

Happy just to sit tall, up … right?! “

(c) 2017 (E.H. Langeveldt, A Poem Dedicated to Poets. Langeveldt is Zimbabwean award winning Comedian, the first recipient to receive the Prince Claus Award – An International for Arts, Culture and Human rights)

My Love, My Motherland

A dark cloud hangs over me
As I roam aimlessly through the valley
Looking for home
Home that never exists
Except when I turn on hope
A hope that trickles
Into the depths of my soul

If I were to love you
Dear motherland
Would I love only you?
Or would I look at other mothers
Suckling their babies
With their breasts full of milk
While I still suckle on your withered breast
With puffs of dry milk
That choke me
When I try to cry out in pain

Would I love only you motherland?
If I had to compare you to other mothers
Who cook for their children
Nutritious meals that keep their offspring plump
While my kwashiorkor ridden body
Longs for a full plate

What reason do I have to stay motherland?
When other mothers call to us
Knowing you and your sons don’t care for us
How can I stay when those who fought to set you free
Never give us a chance to love you too
To fight for you
Those who fought for you
Have made you their possession
Forgetting we are all you children

Dear soul taker,
Take everything away from me
And leave me my mouth and see
My words are bullets
My mouth is a gun
See if I can’t shoot the enemy
Who stands in front of me
Claiming he has me at heart
Claiming he will die for me
Yet he is afraid of death

Take away my mouth
And hand me a grenade
See if I won’t remove the pin
Throw it at the enemy
Who stands on the podium
Claiming to know freedom that only he knows

If I were to love you motherland
I would love you unconditionally
I would love you with all I have
Alas! I can’t for your sons
have taken your beauty
Sold it to greedy men who know nothing about you
Men who have spoiled the beauty inside and out

But my bullet words will bring them to their knees
And my gun will take them hostage
Until they give me back my love,
My motherland

(By NEHANDA – a poetess,   academic and gender justice activist, She’s bold and rustic, an observer of social injustices with a watch out eye for the development of mass consciousness)

Nadir

His story is over Zimbabwe!
A story of the land’s natives.
His story is a story
of their derailed wagon-life
hard and grueling to pull along.
This, here
his story of them,
is a color television set
showing vivid pity-triggering
images!
of the human tattered life
persisting,
tearing
beyond repair like an old curtain in an idol temple
with no one to care for.
The story from him
a story of them; Zimbabweans!
Is frightening,
horrifying,
a story of dire poverty-missiles
viciously exploding
killing!
bloodily craved beloved victims
daily
but out of accepting bribe.
This is a story
he told
of them; a despairing society
angry!
hungry!
thirsty!
in wait!
for the resurrection of democracy
to buoy up the sinking lives
above the turbulent waters of abject poverty.

(By Blessing T Masenga – A fiery poet through his writings tirelessly and boldly seek to strip nude the oppression and the violations of basic human rights that the harnessed press minimize coverage of)

Slum

A slum is a fart of a dying city, smelling the scent of aborted republics with hoodlums burning republics in charcoals of hatred,
while republics beat their burnt flesh, mothers wince , licking their stab wounds
A slum is the wounded soul of a burnt republic, it is rubble haunted by propaganda
A slum is a ball of saliva released from the tired scarred chests of parliamentarians,
It is a township castrated by verbal diarrhea, slang and skokian

Harare , once fresh , now stale urine choking the breath  of the slogan oriented  toyi-toyi comrades
Khayelitsha- you are the golden sun setting over hills
Bangui, you are the dance of a puppet
A slum is a republic in intensive care infected by propaganda diabetes and slogan asthma
Eczema, itching the skin and the soul of the state
It is a gang of roaches drinking the super cream milk of the state

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

Dear Mr. Baldwin

How we come into the world is a mystery,
The lives we live a mere déjà vu,
Our today is only a re-run of a day lived in the past,
The pain of seeing peril beforehand,
And know that your heels are too numb under you.
How it feels to be driven by predestination
To an end you would never choose on your own
Grandma saw it coming,
A future so unbecoming.
A bird flew past,
And Granny knew it was an omen,
I thought she was being too superstitious,
But then she was African ,
She had the instincts.
Then a bad flu past,
And we were one short at dinner,
She still sets his plate down side up,
Just to keep the bleeding wound open,
She had lived in his embrace for over half a century,
And it was worthy the tears.
I cried together with her,
Coz we both thought life had not been fair.
But worse was saved for later
Today I sing that song, the sweet song of sorrow,
Indeed, it is a sweet song of sorrow,
appealing to the ear and offending to the heart,
you hear it once,
and naturally you take up to dancing,
you digest the words,
and you realize it’s an omen,
a bad one and you snap in regret.
You sing it once and you live it every day
So appealing to the eye,
And obnoxious on the tongue,
You eat it once and you belch it every morning,
Indeed it is a sweet song of sorrow.
A noisy outside,
And an inside as quiet as a grave,
So silent yet so far away from peace,
The painful memories of a spoilt past,
And the aching thoughts of a blurred future,
The twin breasts feeding my headaches.
Planted in the corner of my paradise apartment,
And with a twitching hand, I gently wipe my floral curtain aside,
To peep through the window,
And catch a glimpse of the busy ghetto streets,
There he is, just as normal as any other kid,
Having his own fill of rounds,
I hear them shout his name,
His strike has flashed through the posts,
And again he is their hero.
To him Monday is like Tuesday,
Thursday like Sunday,
All days are the same, even today,
He celebrates a goal on the street ,
And doesn’t mind one on the calendar,
But today I will have him a few candles to blow,
That’s my boy, our boy.
And I’m learning to be proud of him.
Yes, I write to you Mr. Baldwin,
As if to a friend,
But the blood that exists between us,
We both know,
Not only is it cold but rather frozen,
Your father’s hectares, it is common knowledge,
Waxed green on my Grandpa’s sweat,
On his back you built your granaries,
Then also came my father,
Raised in the same religion of piety,
So good a man he was to you,
He never as much as stole a cob for us,
Yet in return, you descend on his daughter,
Even without reason,
Is it day for night ?
Hate paid in return for love?
Your impiety, Mr. Baldwin,
So gross, I still feel it deep in my skin,
Either my pen will run dry,
Or my pad be flipped to the last clean sheet,
Otherwise I won’t stop writing you this,
Not that I love you now,
Neither coz I still resent you,
But because I’m ambivalent, rather flummoxed.
So happy with his friends,
He even ignores his belly’s cry for bread,
They lift him off the ground,
Throw him into the air,
And their hands are always a safe landing ground,
His name is their war-cry,
A genius they see in him ,
A genius I see in him too,
The smile, the confidence, the innocence,
Then my tear glands turns loose,
And the curtain slips out of my trembling hand,
I feel my ground give away under me,
Sweat from my temples,
Mingles with tears from my eyes,
Runs down to my cold-wrapped torso,
Then a re-run of an eleven years old nightmare.
He who eats an unripe fruit,
Gets a bad taste,
Or worse, an uneasy tummy,
Just how nature defends itself,
But what befalls a heartless libertine,
Who strives on the belly of a screaming bra-less teenager,
Hate a man for knocking you down,
But more so, for laughing at you down,
Those we run to for a stroke ,
Usually have their whips ready for our backs,
My own dad tied me to seduction,
Ignored my tears for a continued perk of crumbs,
He called me a nymph,
And you laughed,
The daughter of Jezebel,
And I realized why I was raised by a single parent.
With my head straight up,
I snap down to my crotches,
Then my eyes hit on to his prize giving day portrait,
Hanging loose on the blue wall,
The devil only begets a devil,
So they say,
But life taught me a different truth,
The devil can and had given birth to an angel,
Yet, I close my eyes,
And still wish none of it ever happened,
I always tell myself it was only a bad dream,
A snap moment in an alternate world,
But there he is,
Up in the frame,
Looking me straight in the eye,
As a memorabilia saying,
‘Mom, here I am, a souvenir picked from your grisly past.’
It feels like a blackout,
Both hands on the belly,
Not that it’s aching,
Confirm if it’s there,
My mother hasn’t died,
I’m only crying,
I’m not a widow,
I was never married,
Neither am I a bear rob

(By Bartholomew Fisherman Mukucha)

The Epicenter of war

In the wake of a globally malevolent gestapo;
on the rotisserie of fraud and corruption the goat and rising smoke does little to ease epic landslides and governmental malfunction.

Without doubt,
howl our hatred of bigotry and racism,
Crucify the psyche of “massa” and assemblies responsible for crimes against humanity – the persistent subjugation of an already weakened people.

rinse the dictator’s stain from our dreams
exorcise our inferiority complex
banish the buggers from our midst,

Illuminate our paths but then, sit silently and consider that the futility of our exploits hinges on the absence of true sanctity –
without it every man will become what he hates –

a bigot –
a plunderer,
collector of spoils,
his renaissance like chaff in the wind

Yes, Lets be sure to prune the countless colorful columns of oppressors and slave masters who govern our shores;
South Africa, Kenya, Zimbabwe,
The African lists grows –

Yet, have we not perhaps, if our fight is not against flesh and blood, become the victims of our own factions and cattle logged sagas?
Surely then our pens must ink the heart of this matter –

Indeed, we must beat our fists into the air and shriek our revolutionary disgust,
We must courageously pursue our purpose

but we also have to become more than a virtual voice in a wilderness of pronounced prejudice,
making way for the kingdom of God that is at hand –
unless of course we believe there is no God.

Let us not forget to hoist our flags against injustice,
minacious leadership –
satan’s spawn
segregation,
degradation and
disintegration –

Plunder holocaustic mindsets that threaten the human race –
And while we combat this contagion let us also remember to be the pillar of transformation that advocates
inner peace;

Let us not forget
that man’s heart is the epicenter of war –
that in crying for liberation
it is the soul of a man that hungers even after his belly has been fed –

Let us not forget?

(By Beulah Kleinveldt AKA Jambiya, is 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)

The Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Campaign