Abayomi Azikiwe photo

 

By

Mbizo Chirasha

 

 

The DisGrace Mugabe regime has popularized itself through brigades of violent youths, youth who have foolishly dumped PEACE for MADNESS. Grace is known for fighting whoever fails to toe her line with rough fists of violence and also through her uncouth, foul compost deserving vulgarity, while her overzealous, bootlicking and mustard fed puppies wound the freedom of her opponents.

It is common knowledge that some clueless, attention-desperate and corrupt lunatics are heftily paid to assault, beat or rather kill for this self-imposed, money guzzling, bedroom anointed political green horn Grace Mugabe. The political shoe she is trying to wear is not actually her size, the political shoe is bigger than her finger-size feet; she should just wait to grow and avoid wetting political sheets (The political sheets and the national mats are already stinking juvenile stale waters). They are sometimes when mothers force morsels of sadza down babies’ throats.

This is the same crisis in Zimbabwe as Mugabe is desperate to fix the future of his desperate queen. The high office jacket is an oversize one for her, given her recent empty public political rants, diplomatic gaffes and unbridled power grabbing speed. Zimbabwe is today drowned in this sheer leadership arrogance, untold suffering and violence because of her selfishness.

The COZWA violent brigades claim that they are a brood under the warm and polished wings of the high office (VANA KUNA AMAI, PANE MWANA NDIPO PANAAMAI SLOGAN). These COZWA youth intimidate and attack anyone in Zimbabwe from Musicians to Zealots to Political pundits without any restraint from Grace and her anointing bishop, Mugabe.

It is proof beyond the shadow of clear doubt that Grace Mugabe has inherited violence as a lubricant to oil her political ego from her husband – a full time African Dictator. Last week alone we witnessed the beating and public assault of Sten Zvorwadza, leader of a genuine Vendors UNION in Zimbabwe. It is of public knowledge that no arrests were made but as we speak right now a lot of young people who booed the self-anointed monarchical Mugabe queen are haunted day and night, while several of  them have been already charged for undermining the authority of Grace Mugabe. MADNESS!

Grace needs to be reminded that when you see the captain sleeping at work, be weary the titanic is fast sinking, better not create more enemies than friends. Zimbabwe has been turned into a physical boxing ring. The Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Campaign continues to voice against the machinations of your careless regime, the regime that continues to guzzle our economy, the regime that is making us a laughing stock, the regime that has pruned us of our morality and dignity, the regime that has turned our country into a police state. This Disgraceful regime of corruption, self-appointment, nepotism, tyranny and bedroom cabinet meetings.

The Zimbabwe We WANT POETRY CAMPAIGN (BRAVE VOICES POETRY JOURNAL, WORD GUERILLAS PROTEST POETRY AND POETS FREE ZIMBABWE) will not be silent and will continue to rattle the weak bones of this hypocritical, toothless and failed regime. Aluta to all poets from around the world and our Zimbabwean Voices, Brave Voices, Let your pen and your voice defend you and the suffering Zimbabwean masses – Mbizo Chirasha.

 

 

 

 

Extracts (from A LETTER TO THE PRESIDENT)

 

 

36

 

I met this country early in my life, naked and virgin

Its dimples glowing with the passion of the masses,

smiles hot with ambitions of the patriots

Now am lost in the dimness of a broken state

 

37

 

I see them children of the povo,

Sitting on the rubble of their slums,

mangy dogs licking their bottoms

Hovels heaving with sorrow and tears

Flags waving goodbye to voters dripping with blood

In the name of freedom and the totem of the republic

Children are licking their poverty day and night.

 

 

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

 

 

 

 

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 all 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 DECREE

 

 

Look at how he whoop it up in a splendid modus

Uncertainties thwarted- For the mate brought liberty

A bitter fruit bored Chimurenga wars, what a triumph

With the sentimental mandate base to unite as one

It was yester that matter, Now the jollify impedes

Profoundly and the kin left so vulnerable in this

Forlorn citadel. A blank eye drawn to complement

Brother’s cheerful maze in wiles so deceitful awry

Tis today of a noble time that stimulate our grief

The gloomy thoughts yet be endured on a morrow

With all the jollification, A bliss in our tribulations

Yet still the fruit so vinegary and brought impartialities

Till the brother shall be filled with the sense of obligation

For this kin, only till then social justice be gotten

And I will revel to bless the profanity

In jubilation of this sweet-bitter sovereignty all claim.

 

 

 

IN STREETS

 

 

In streets brother attacks brother in rage

Devoid of anyone sage, sister against her

Own blood only because of bread… Riots

The domain turns be sombre each second

Suffering from political ulcers so inflicting

Its flames bursting with the zealous minds

To ease, tension bred betwixt the comrade

And cease the days terror at once, tonight

If not peace to yield, and this violence burst

Storms in streets, brought ablaze the Citadel

Yorke stained blood of the comrade whipped

In his decency by the brutal touches, YOUTH

The animal instinct propelled by those with

Seats if not the Augustus house then be the

Grand Citadel at verge of impedance, Shame

Brought to play by circumstances and LEAGE

 

 

(By TYNOE WILSON – a rising Zimbabwean poet, a Word Slinger and a rights Activist. An impetuous mastermind so zealous to out the muddling and crippling societal affair through stanza)

 

 

 

 

LOST

 

 

Life is a-mazing;

a mire of obstacles

and obsolete dreams –

an intelligence of

tracking systems

and instant gratification,

the here and now –

demands of a society lost in

tranquilisers and tots

suppressants,

anti-depressants.

A mallemeule of

Of mental massacre.

Hope hope hope –

give or I’ll shoot.

Give me hope.

Puff your final Padron,

you who entertains vultures

and feeds our offspring

as offal.

Hope hope hope

inject hope into

our tranquilisers

and tots;

hope –

give me hope.

 

 

(By Jambiya – 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)

 

 

 

 

COMFORT STATION

 

 

The pit latrines high

above us -let out a roar.

Thunder, as it were God

dancing the waltz.

We raised our greasy heads

hiding , shame beneath our chins.

Smiling as a flood of chicken bones,

overripe apples raced our way.

Hunger, ticking the soft part

of our guts.

To a wormy laughter.

Bowing heads in servility

We dined our fill of the

regurgitated empire.

 

 

(By Nyashadzashe Chikumbu – a young man , whose very ambitious, and strives for complete self expression. Very interested in all words of art strives to see art gaining its former glory.  A Poet and Follower of Marxist Principles)

 

 

 

 

THE ROAD TO PEACE IS COVERED

 

 

Bullets

No matter how shiny

No matter how small

There’s only one purpose

To make a man fall.

No matter the reason

No matter the aim

There’s only one purpose

A life is to claim.

No matter the colour

No matter the race

There’s only one purpose

Which is, to erase.

The bullets keep flying

without any need

For that only purpose:

To make mankind bleed.

If all the men’s bullets

Would turn into birds

To carry a message

All over this world

Then finally bullets

Would no longer do harm

And LOVE would be purpose

And our only arm.

 

 

(By Elke Lange – International Artist and Writer)

 

 

 

 

SOLIDARITY VOICE

 

 

My eyes painted your picture

My ears echoed your song

My silence wrote an epic on you

The air is heavy with your memories

I swim in an mirage of uncertainty

Now I drown in the sea of ambiguity

 

 

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

 

 

 

 

STREETWISE

 

 

I beg O…

In the name of this almighty!

Is the underlying disguise

I see all day long

In the city or town streets

I walk ho…

See them crippled our society

submit to lazy individuals

Allow them take along,

Every sweat earned

You being run over

The song of a hawker-city council attendants stampede,

The noise from the law enforcers step our thread bare buttocks

And the cold gun barrel rest on our naked necks

While we are nothing more than sits

To the low high officers of the peoples

A meal a day

We stay focused of being rained on dirty politics

Have you heard?

Sweet melodies from a blind street bagger

Leaves us all opened mouthed

The disabled is always our hero

Making us feel safe on the naked streets

I wish you knew my fate

I don’t but the street herbalist does

He is a god on the street

For a near Wesley brown or silvery coins

His tongue sees my future

Am more alert at the law enforcers

The low high officers of the law.

Whose rubber boots massages our buttocks

His gun barrel threaten our souls

And we kindly curry him on our backs

Of the street acrobats

Have you seen how beautiful they are

How aggressive they live

How patient they can be

They are the accommodating souls

Help them or not!

They won’t mark your face

Let you pass without calling u ‘sister’ or ‘brother’

A day later with the same plight.

They simply need a savior

A savior to lead them to classroom doors,

Studios and Art galleries

Or fashion shows

They need someone to hold their hand to the right direction

Hear them play in an appropriate stage

Play the drum sets with the right band

Dance for the right artist

They need a library to borrow books from

Not a bowl with two desperately tired coins waiting for a good Samaritan to pass by!

A beggar, yes a beggar on the street

You need stop playing foul

Someone needs not pity in the name of able physiques.

What a lazy lad you are!

Pessimistic opportunist!

We need laws to punish such,

Not for being lazy

But for the injustice they do…

Harmlessly needy souls of the community

disabled members of our states.

They don’t need beggars to lead them to the streets

When they don’t want to be there in the first place.

When all they need is for the beggar to leave them alone!

To walk in the streets of towns and cities

As they head to their places of work!

 

 

(By Caesar Obong – inspired by Spoken word, Western pop, traditional African music and world music. While he embraces so many kinds of musical genres, languages and universal themes, he has always kept his African heritage and Ugandan roots at the core of his musical identity. His poetry is embraced with acoustic backing which gives poetry a unique identity)

 

 

 

 

Coup De Grace

 

 

Remember that woman who fell

From grace like the chopper she felled

In that version of our dear War boldly written

At her coronation, undone when she had fallen?

She doesn’t matter now, let us talk of the Crocodile

Who took her place. Sitting as though in Moses’s Nile

Was recently found in his blood; wounded by ice-cream,

‘cussed of high gunpowder treason and treacherous plot.

L’ Auteur has drawn and released and he hath been shot:

They’ve put him out of his misery. In his eyes flashing dim

I saw the reflection of the chessboard upon which a Pawn

Risen from minute stature and minutes; to palace prawns

Stepped forward. Both bishops and rooks seem powerless

To deter her intention. One more step and she will harness

All the power any piece can imagine in this checked space.

Soon she dares the armed Knights to salute her: “your Grace.”

Quoth the Bard: “No more the Thane of Cawdor shall deceive

Our bosom interest! Pronounce his present death and receive

With his former title (Lady) Macbeth.” Fair is foul and foul is fair,

Beware of sleep, Duncan, beware, thick is death in Inverness’s air!

 

 

(By Philani Amadeus Nyoni – a 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)

 

 

 

 

WHILE WALKING

 

 

I see the trees and go there

as if they were mine

no use to explain, the art is needy

and careless

nature takes no care, it sends

angry sparks and

draws a line, I want to be

inside of the trees, hard to explain

how I feel, insignificant,

slightly deranged, never

could sit still, always

able to complain, I see

the trees, I see a burning bush,

a puzzling sense

of creation, an “I Am” who

steps out of the story

to make me sick of

mourning, sick to death

of memorial services and

cremation, sick of

bodies covered by

shrouds, I am also

“I Am” and unable to

let go, I hold the trees

they are firm and

silent on the street

where I walk, orderly,

well taken care of

a calm afternoon, no one

else is here, only a few cars

passing, I see the trees

and circle the sidewalk

and touch a tree,

pick some leaves, they

make me think of memory,

of more savage

times, of treed without mercy

on the ridges of cliffs

where I saw fire and heard

the distant lights

from foreign countries

blinking, a tree will stand

alone one day, but not

today, do not get confused

by these trees, hold

a row of them until

four plots in the concrete,

appear, beautiful

flowers, orange an red

and white, a bus passes

cold wind rushes down

Guerrero Street

a few more blocks,

I know the corner

where my bus will stop

 

 

(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,” published by lithic press)

 

 

 

 

CHRISTINE

 

 

Her sobbing eyes reveal pain

She brought him a daughter and a son

But now remorse washes her love as rain

If she could wait it’s only in vain

He ran away from responsibility

Only to bring misery and uncertainty

She have to father the children too

Taking a husband’s role, who proved being a fool

Yes, Christine sob when she reminisce

How she fell in love with a hypocrite

When he used to pretend to care

Until she had love to share

He left them fatherless

Without a man to call, dad

As if he was dead

He chose to abandon his family when he’s needed most

Christine have to pay a single mother’s cost.

 

 

(By Sydney Haile 1 Saize – a Word guerrilla, a fighter of human rights, a Word slinger in the Campaign against despotism)

 

 

 

 

IN THIS TOGETHER

 

 

Africa is beautiful but have no love for her children

all have become fugitives!

all have gone into exiles!

overseas into foreign arms;

the very same cold arms that once embraced Africans with cruelty,

are warm and hugging them today with love.

Abandoned by our biological mother,

adopted by a loving and caring step-mother.

African tragicomedy!

Don’t laugh or weep alone.

We are all in this together.

 

 

(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)

 

 

 

 

ODE TO FATHER LANCE

 

 

O tranquil environment that sighs

With heart beats of a white man’s hands.

A stone become the church

Whose memories surpass the seventeen

Years of her initiator’s benevolence.

Today the world sings an ode to the Reverend Father,

A father who devoted his life to spread the gospel

In Africa and beyond,

A father who devoted his life to cast away spells of hypocrisy

With military precision,

And with determination

He preached with vigor and valor.

Today the world sings an ode to Father Lance

Whose charismatic heart touches many souls,

Leaving them demanding for more especially when he dances.

A father who would chastise his flock when they go a stray

Yet none would dare go away.

A Father whose resilience is beyond reproach.

O in the faraway lands of Todonyang’,

Mzungu’s name is entrenched in the peoples’ hearts.

With his missionary initiatives

Community outreaches have blossomed,

Young souls give back to the society

A Father whose sobriety touches humanity.

Today the world sings an ode to Father Lance

Whose counsel reverberates the corridors of knowledge

‘The God of a First Class is the God of a Re-take’

O the whiteness of his hair

Like the white robes Christ wore

Display the Solomonic wisdom bestowed in his psyche.

Today the world sings an ode to Father Lance,

Whose baritone voice caresses the altar every

First day of worship and

With a euphonic disguise the church joins in harmony

Singing along the peace that the Man of God harmonizes.

O Father Lance,

In you the church got many servants

Who in your footprints they seek to imitate.

I say thank you to the Maryknoll Fathers

For sending you this far

To come and serve and not to be served.

O what an inspiring soul you have.

In you the ills that eat our nation

Got reproof without a shudder of fear,

The malignant erosion of social justice

Spanned through your typed summons like the Rift Valley,

Your hope for a nation united echoed

In our hearts,

A hope one day this will turn to be true.

Today the world sings an ode to Father Lance

Whose prayers yield miracles,

On that fateful day a miracle- Lance Mahiri

Got healing,

Today he dances and reads the Bible with zeal,

O a look at the past paints a picture of what is real

Now enveloped in this song that I sing.

In these lines that my heart reveals

In these lines that my soul couldn’t conceal,

A glimmer of long life is what I dedicate

To you my Father,

Whom I felt loved and care for in my life.

O today KUCC sings an Ode to Father Lance

Who will be missed in many years to come,

Whose memories will linger in many hearts,

Today the world sings a song of a priest who

Devoted his life to serve and not to be served,

Thank you God for such a Man!

 

 

(By DEDAN ONYANGO Alias MTEMI – a Masters student of Literature. He is budding poet and literary enthusiast. He hails from Kenya, a land which inspires his creative life – A POET INSPIRED BY HIS MOTHERLAND)

 

 

 

 

The Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Campaign