PDP photo

 

By

Mbizo Chirasha

 

Dear President (Garwe), Zimbabweans stood by you in the previous political storm in November and the deed was done. It’s your turn now to fulfil the promises and the needs of the masses.

We need results from you Mr Government. Your administration has a lot that is dirty to clean and bugs to fumigate. We greatly require a better Zimbabwe. We can’t have a country that remains held down by factional politics, violence and disrespect of the rights of ordinary citizens. We want sanity, peace and freedom to prevail in our beloved land.

We are calling out loud for free and fair elections and the arrest of all corrupt individuals despite their portfolios and links to the top echelons of power. We want less talking and more doing from ministers and the bureaucracy. Yes we are giving you a chance to prove your salt and sugar.

The Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Campaign will not stop to voice for the best of Zimbabwe, our brave voices and voices of solidarity continue to versify and voice through poetry in the quest for a fruitful and peaceful country that we all walk and talk freely without fear. We implore you to lead peacefully in the rebranding of this once beautiful but now crumbled state, Dzimbadzemabwe.

Brave Voices, Your Pen And Your Voice Will Always Reshape Zimbabwe, Aluta Continua – Mbizo Chirasha (Campaign Originator/Instigator)

 

 

 

 

DEAR DAMBUDZO MARECHERA

 

 

Your mighty pen once foretold this era

Your ‘House of Hunger’ has been here

Now we wish it gone!

Today the gun crossed the sun

Somehow it was so much fun

We all danced saturated with rays of hope

Sneering slanderous slogans is no more our dope

Down that path we now know we won’t cope

Our empty bellies bragging with belief

Our hash tags bagged every relief

That our land will wilfully churn paupers no more

May the blissful songs of the povo resound forevermore

Ding dong bells and sopranos of merry mirth

Encapsule the momentous merriment of rebirth

All we have is our firm faith

That our fingers won’t fail the worker again

But will prop up our ‘House of Stone’!

Such a journey Dambudzo – we never walked alone!

 

 

(By Cosmas Mairosi – a performance poet born and bred in rural Zimbabwe. He trained as a primary school teacher. At the moment, he is living and working in South Africa. To Cosmas, poetry is life. To him art does not mean anything unless it comments on issues that directly affect human life)

 

 

 

 

FRAGMENTS

 

 

Kill me not for my words.

I am a library of our culture.

Do not kill our elephants either.

It is our tusk to use our trunks to draw water for droughts.

Let me live and I promise futures with thousand breaths.

Kill me and all you have are protests.

Itai Dzamara was a bird of a different kind,

Whose beak beat against windows to shatter the glass.

Let us remember our warriors

My country, tea pot land whose water is yet to bring to boil.

Whose cows still owe us milk, and honeycombs our honey.

I was stung by a million bees when last I thirsted for sweetness.

Tell our bees I’m no enemy.

I have planted flowers for their cause.

The smoke from my fire need not anger them, as I hold nothing against their Gods.

 

 

(By Mbonisi Zikhali – I am a humanitarian, carer of our grandmothers and grandfathers. I am a warrior for truth, and leader of our youth. I am the new Zimbabwe, along with my brothers and sisters)

 

 

 

 

FORLORN GLORY: ZIMBABWE

 

 

Deathly silence opened its

Cavernous mouth and mourned;

With soulful shaky moans,

The earthly doors shut open

The fangs of peace,

That spewed the poison of restoration.

The silence of revolution, unhindered,

Chugged on –

The old man stirred

Upon the kingly throne

Spectacles on the bridge

Of his flaring nose

As he teetered, tottered blindly

On the edge of a canyon.

His fire flies flit past the fleet

Of dazzling nothingness

Celebrating eons of impish barking

At the helm of a country

Mired in gloom and cracked smiles.

The forlorn look of glory

Lifted the veil off the sherds

Of brokered peace;

The broken piece of the life that was

Many suns ago,

When the earth knew fertile sweat,

Limply fell to the ground

A snarly smile on its face.

 

 

(By Richard Mbuthia – a teacher, a poet, an editor and a motivational speaker. He studied English and Literature at Kenyatta University in Nairobi. He has great passion for. To him, the rhythm and verve of poetry are ingredients of a great love story. The twenty six letters of the alphabet amaze him with their ability to foster change – their volatility and aptness cannot be gainsaid)

 

 

 

 

PROPHECIES FROM REPTILES

 

 

Hails ourselves black botanists

We wine and dine with animals

We talk and listen to them

They talk and listen to us

We exchange wisdom with them

Listen comrades, reptiles say

Our kinsman has begun the chameleon game

His colours have begun changing

His thirsty tongue darting in and out

He fears armoured kingmakers

Will dethrone him if colours turn red.

Listen human brethren, reptiles say

Our kinsman has begun the snake dance

His venomous fangs are starving

He has uprooted family soldier ants

And crowned them family messengers

To sever them from village arsenals

Across the void of homing futures

We can hear galloping cloves of horses

We can hear clanging sounds of swords

We can hear wailing infants in Harare

Trapped in new battles against misery

And stagnation and oppression and torture

Trapped in endless clashes against overstays

Be warned human friends, reptiles say

From the bottom of the Zambesi

 

 

 

TO THE CROCODILE

 

 

Welcome crocodile, be warned crocodile

Soil not our jewel, taint not our mind’s file

Don’t suck our people, don’t drain us again

This land isn’t a pregnant woman in pain

Crush us not with your blood-thirsting fangs

We are still crippled by Uncle Bob’s pangs

Oh crocodile, hold your age-sharpened canines

Oh crocodile, carpet not our land with spines

Zambesi demands respect, return her dignity

Zambesi deserves peace, uphold her sanctity

We all fought wars, we fought for prosperity

Confiscate not our game, serve us not poverty

Bob on revolution stooled, we vomited him

If you try caging us, we’ll flush you like him

 

 

(By Nsah Mala – an award-winning writer, poet, motivational speaker, and youth leader from Cameroon. The author of three poetry collections, Chaining Freedom (2012), Bites of Insanity (2015), If You Must Fall Bush (2016), Nsah Mala’s short story ‘Christmas Disappointment’ won a prize from the Cameroonian Ministry of Arts and Culture in 2016. In the same year, another story of his received a Special Mention in a short story competition organised by Bakwa Magazine, the leading online literary journal in Cameroon at the moment. His French poem was cited in the novel En compagnie des hommes by the internationally-accl­aimed, award-winning Franco-Ivorian writer and poet Véronique Tadjo in August 2017. His forth poetry collection in English, Constimocrazy, will soon be released by a US small press while he is finishing a collection in French, Les pleurs du mal. He has read poetry in Africa and Europe)

 

 

 

 

WHEN ANCESTORS RULE A NATION

 

 

Streets will surely stink of sickness

Stored in the rotten minds of many as

Development turns old and outdated

Static still where the people’s growth was last halted.

When ancestors rule a nation and refuse to go away

What we get is a catastrophe like Zimbabwe

Where a wrinkled Mule-gabe, is a mule too stubborn to flog.

He warms the presidential villa with his

enfeebled old rickety ass

And when asked why he has refused to retire

he responds with a fart.

When ancestors rule a nation,

Africa becomes it perfect replica’

Poverty and hunger; the rule of the day .

Strife, death and avarice leads everyman’s way.

When ancestors rule a nation.

Oh Lord help their ignorant lass.

They young lose the power they are meant to nurture

And get buffoon by many aged lass.

The Lloyds in their over sown suits

Renders useless our undeveloped schools.

What is education if not the emancipation of a man

To birth new ideas for his people.

When ancestors rule a nation,

And oh lord we are tired of it,

The people are left with no choice but to hit the streets

For this revolution has reached its peak.

 

 

(By Akor Emmanuel Oche – a Nigerian Poet, Critic, Essayist and Thinker. He is secretary of the Africa Haiku Network and CEO of Ochebooks)

 

 

 

 

ONE ROSE

 

 

Won my heart

Your grace

Dispels gloom

Did you bloom to fade?

Did you fade to bloom?

You flame my thoughts

You are immortal

You are a saint

For centuries

You hold our hearts

I adore you

In words

And paint

In phrases

For sheer love

And share to the world

 

 

 

HOPES

 

 

Hopes

Colourful hopes

Lovely dreams

So many in one heap

Chill morning

Colourful dreams

Some in store

For tomorrow

There is tomorrow

There must be tomorrow

Atleast for dreams

Expecting dreams

I spend these long hours

Till tomorrow

 

 

(By Gopichand Paruchuri – a 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)

 

 

 

 

WHO HAD A DREAM?

 

 

So Luchi asks who had a dream,

Obvious answers pop up no need to bash your brains,

Mari talks of Martin and Kendrick too,

Might as well been rhetory coz Luchi says Obama and 2Pac as well,

Rappers got dreams for sure The Game went and sang bout the dream,

I on the other hand had many dreams,

Hell I still have plenty more,

Luchi got the nerve to ask did they come true?

A moment or two passes looking for the truth,

Truth is the system fucked everything up for me,

Forced me to change dreams as much as I changed underwear,

Whoa we are angry here Pam interjects,

Hold on Pam,

The system stole my hope and my innocence,

So innocently I stole,

I didn’t want to but how could i survive if I remained innocent,

Pam admits its true and frustrating,

Let me go on Pam,

The problem with the system is it tries to manipulate us to live another man’s dream,

You see I could have been a doctor,

My dream was to touch lives,

Dead or alive,

But the fees dropped me from high school,

Oh but like Pac’s dream ‘Still I Rise’,

I did become a doctor,

On the street corner I can doctor you any lie,

Examine you from afar,

Make a diagnosis of what you lack and prescribe to you a stolen phone,

I am a doctor indeed,

My friend was a genius and she too dreamt of being a doctor,

The system done made my friend a doctor of any man’s privates,

On the street corner at night she senses your sexual deficiency,

Her prescription is her opened legs and you get sexual healing,

Her dream of being a nurse came true,

That old man’s up and down is a dream come true she is a night nurse,

Another product of a stolen dream,

Why should i still be living the Martin Luther dream,

It was his and his dream created room for me to dream my own dream,

 

Yes Luchi we had dreams,

We still have dreams,

Still the system rapes us and steals some of them,

It forces us not to dream at all,

To just close our eyes and bam see nothing,

But they can kill some of our dreams not all,

We get up wipe the dirt of our elbows and dream some more!

 

 

(By Aleck T Mabenge – a thought leader, Word Versifier from Kwekwe, Zimbabwe)

 

 

 

 

ANOTHER AGONIZING ERA

 

 

The ancient diadem has fallen

but only to be picked up by another ogre.

Whilst the senile villain gropes for his spectacles; puzzled

the throne and the crown have been already seized.

With no drastic acts of aggression

the move has been dramatized,

to hide its blood thirsty claws

in the bushy furs of complicated intentions

and so to shun foreign concern and intervention.

The audience are as equally jovial as the spectators.

It’s merry time.

The news have confirmed the theme,

upon all media platforms.

It’s no secret at all!

The three decade hegemony

has been at last scared

to succumb

to bare drills of disobedience.

It’s transition by mischief.

We’ve been drifted into another agonizing era

if not era.

 

 

(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)

 

 

 

 

BLACK DIAMONDS

 

 

We are black diamonds

Of the tribe of Judah

Marching in unison

Towards the gates of Zion,

Your hatred and your venom

Can bind us never!

Your oracles of slavery

Will never be our history

Great deities of negritude

Bring us together,

We march on out of Babylon

With the shackles broken.

 

 

(By Theodora Chirapa)

 

 

 

 

WHERE ARE THE CARPENTERS?

 

 

Nuclear weapons

Are not the stuff

That sweet kisses are made from;

Nor is war

The electric blanket

That keeps the world warm

From the frigid cold.

Rather, we need carpenters of solutions

At the negotiation table.

So where are the carpenters?

 

 

(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 Dispora 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)

 

 

 

 

NHAU YEUROMBO (Story of Poverty)

 

 

Iyi ihondo inokunda hondo yepfuti

Tisapira ziso risingaone kunhau iyi

Haisi yokutombotsvairira seri kwesasa chimhukutira

Mangwana tingazochema nyika yaita mamvemve

Upenyu nemweya weupenyu waparadzwa munyika

Vacheche vasina chezivo nevachangoyaruka

Masaimba nevakwegura vasisina simba

Vose vatakura mutoro unenge gomo risina ukwiriko

Kodzero dzavo nhasi hapachina

Vanasikana voroodzwa kuti mhuri irarame sakare

Madzimai oita zvisingafungidzirwi kuti vararame

Vasimudza nguo kumaAvenues

Chembere nemvana musiyano tsvata!

Upenyu hwevechidiki, ramangwana renyika

Hwava ura hwakaturikwa pachitsiga

Kuturikwapo kumirira makunguo

Havana zororo kana pokuisa musoro

Zvazvinodaro, vamwe vanezvakapfurikidza zvavanoshandisa

Zvinorwadza moyo semudzimu wabuda pambeveve

Ngatiitei maonera pamwe, chuma chomuzukuru

Nhau iyi iregoremera divi rimwe setsvimbo

Tochiita mushandirapamwe wamajuru akaumba churu

Ukororo nokurwisana zvisati zvava muvanhurume

Shuviro yezvinangwa zvebudiriro

Chivavarirwa chokupedza urombo

Chiregova gudziramukanwa chiroto cheharahwa

Muupforododo hwehope, kurota ichiyamwa.

 

 

(By Simbarashe Jongwe – a poet, born 32years ago in Bikita. I grew up in Gutu under the guidance of my grandmother, Mbuya VaZimuto, who was a very good storyteller. I went to Metero CPS and Guzha secondary school. My poetry journey begins on 17&18 September 2004 during a BWAZ facilitated Workshop. I fight for women and children’s rights. To me, poetry is the mother of freedom. I am also an avid reader)

 

 

 

 

EPISTLE TO THE LATE ONE

 

 

Dear Bingu.

What you changed in this nation

From pointless to point

From fruitless to fruit

All are slowly going into vain

Now we are feeling pain

This nation is on fire

We are dying like chicken on Christmas day.

Corruption, oppression

Gluttonousness, deflection

All have taking a lion’s share in this nation.

Transactional sex, money,

Drugs and alcohol

All are ruling the life of our future leaders.

No courage, no hopes, no love, only hatred

Education is losing value

Our girls are losing value

Boys are becoming hooligans

Politicians turned into stealers.

Others turned into gossipers

Pastors are turning into criminals

Churches are changing into fashion houses

Media has turned into propaganda system

Parliament is now a nursery school.

Oh Bingu, send us your spirit

May be it will demolish all these problemata

And chase all these pains from us.

 

 

(By Emmanuel Douglas Mulomole – Poet and our Solidarity Voice from Zambia)

 

 

 

 

ROBERT MUGABE

 

 

I let my pants down on Robert Mugabe street

fed up of the politics; I needed to shit.

On that wall adjacent was that poster of you-know-who,

I tore it down had his face lick my ass

and his HAND wipe that shit off my butt cheeks

“taste that shit dick-tator, that’s what your people are having for breakfast, lunch and dinner”. I screamed.

satisfied with myself,

I went on to read about how the other HAND fingered disGRACE

apparently that one is too old to finger-fuc..

wait…

explain to me why the thought of a state sponsored funeral just crossed my mind

 

 

(By Sinkende Mashayangombane  – Son of Ntu, a part of a poetry collective called SoNtu (sons of Ntu) advocating for the knowledge of God and self. his poetry comes from the heart, from day to day experience, from a 360° observation of the society he lives in and the rest is prophecy from the universe screaming loud in the eardrums of his soul. he is a sensitive soul that feels everything, see everything through bi-polarised and writes it all down, in verses and chapters)

 

 

 

 

VERSES

 

 

The world looks strange from here

I stood on a babelian tower, to peer into the grey face of a distant future;

desperately hoping to see glories of the promised land

I train ears to savour the seasonal songs of love & promise

But, what arrests my eyes is glaring sight of blood, torn flesh & broken bones

What arrests my ears, are cries of agony, chorused

by wailing canons, detonating teargas canisters, fire-breathing guns & wielding batons

whilst smashing brains & scattering dreams

in the wake of a long-awaited new dawn.

 

.

I’ve been spat, like a worm, from a gecko’s mouth

I miss the warmth of mai’s womb

and the sweetness I sucked from her breast

But, age is adamant! I’ve been

cast–like a cheerful ray of light–far away from home

and those I shared the breast with, won’t allow me back

I run in rain of dreams, for the door of your heart

Welcome me, with real appetite, into you

and ignore angels of darkness; you befit me

like a cloth and its wearer!

 

 

(By Wafula P’Khisa – a poet, writer and teacher from Kenya. He has been published in The Legendary, Aubade Magazine, Basil O’ Flaherty Journal, Scarlet Leaf Review, Lunaris Review, Best ‘New’ African Poets 2015, Best ‘New’ African Poets 2016 and elsewhere in the world. His poetry is revolutionary, combative and (sometimes military)

 

 

 

 

MECHANICAL MINDS

 

 

He sat there in that dark

shady corner.

Crafty hands waving glee

with mis-Chief.

Media fingers spread over acres.

Those puffed up finger nails

injecting that corridor, corrosive

syllabus.

Into their tender back side flesh

they cried in harmony.

Their brains rotting in

solitary confinement.

A mechanized solidarity march.

 

 

(By Nyashadzashe Chikumbu  – I’m a young man, who is very ambitious and strives for complete self expression. Very interested in all words of art strives to see art gaining its former glory. If there is need to add more flesh (a very adapt follower of the Marxist principles) Very experimental)

 

 

 

 

VOICE

 

 

So I sailed on the sand

To a land in the skies and above the heavens.

Beneath the gates of Hades I found light,

Encountered the serpent himself

Who had cast a rift between heaven and Earth

He who fought the Creator

And all these heavenly beings.

He who rebelled and became a threat to the Most High

Failed his course,

And roams about in search of souls

Blinked to my eyes and it echoed

The secrets of Heaven and Earth openly into my ears in a loud whisper

Saying have no fears son of man

For all the power you beseech is inside of you

Just reach out for the stars

For they are buried in your eyes

And if for a second you feel down

Don’t you worry, don’t you worry child

Heaven has a plan for you

In the pitch dark silence, I beamed

With the brightest smile that darkened the sun

Opened my eyes and realised

I was trapped the midst of

my worst nightmares

Tears are the only words

That explains my joy

So I smile the tears back into their sockets

Because I know who I am

I am the world the world has been waiting for

I am the word words could not describe

I am a miracle that awaits the greatest Oracles

I am S Kojo Frimpong son of Joseph Yaw Frimpong

We are the sons of God

Who are you to stand against us

As we set forth to write our destinies

We write ours, so can you

It all depends on the paintings of words

That rains from your mouth to germinate great oaks

Heaven and Earth

 

 

(By S Kojo Frimpong – A writer from West Africa Tema, Ghana to be precise. A lover of poetry and a reading addict)

 

 

 

 

UNFOLDING ERA

 

 

My sweat

My bread

My brows

No ploughed frowns

Your laws

No flaws

Amazing grace how sweet the sound

We all should sing along

Past experience is a very sad one

The present should be vital

My strength

My worthy

My vote

My piece of earth

Dazed youths

Demoralized

 

 

 

NAME THE SOURCE

 

 

Whose politics do we acknowledge?

With blunders crooked

Erred to be mend

Bruises and wounds being nursed

And the sucklings narrating sad stories

Of blood, pain and terror

Which name do we bear?

When we fuss and fight

Past the neutral resolution of recursion

Muted with doubts and accusation

Faces wearing uniforms of brutality

Commissioned to silence hungry bellies

The economy ought to be resurrected

Formalized

And revitalized

Whose bread are we going to eat

If scarce is wheat

And the land lavished to corrupt gluttons

Who neglect national food security

Only tantalizing the languished community

A hungry man is an angry man.

 

 

 

ART IS SELF EXPRESSION

 

 

As I am now

A free voice

Speaking

Expressing

Narrating

Jotting events of necessity

With no strings attached

Let not dogs haunt me like ghosts in the night

Let not my voice be suppressed

Downpressed and silenced

Let not my patriotic credentials be questioned

When I reveal the demons that are partaking with the clergy

And when you feel like my poetry is a two edged sword

Piercing your soul

Let not your hand smite my starved back

When you will feel like you are challenged your liberal conscience

Because my poems are not there to seek recognition

But to refuse to be labelled in harmony with hypocrisy

Let not my labour be taken for granted

When I detest slavish conditions

As I am here now

A poet

Writing

Rhyming

Revealing

So let not your hearts be troubled

When I report news that is accurate

Only in your disadvantage

And chant songs rebuking your savage

For my quest is only to transform

And enjoy a media free society in verse form

Unchain the harnessed media

 

 

 

SAME OLD CHAINS PAID GOLD

 

 

The chains that have been chaining us

Are but the same old chains painted in gold

But the pain is still unfold

And more neo-sad-stories untold

If the cabinet don’t monopolize on its own

It turns to westernize and starve its people

It’s sad to know that we jumped from a frying pan

Eventually fall in the fire again

How can we rebuild a promising structure

With rubbles which are supposed to be cleared off the infrastructure

Zimbabwe what are we going to be?

Destitutes and beggars?

Is this the revolution?

Or its part of the revelation?

We need to draft a better constitution

Come the next election.

 

 

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

 

 

 

 

HOPE DZANDAKAROTA

 

 

Ndakati ndivete parukukwe rwangu

Ndakaneta zvangu nemafindifuva ebasa

Ini rotei zvinhu zvakandikatyamadza,

Ndakarota mbavha mbiri dziri pamharadzano dzenzira

Chiri chibatabishi kurwira chikwama chavabvutira imwe mhuri

Mumwe wacho akaita mudiki zvishoma anga achikanda makobvu nematete

Kupomera mukuru wacho kuti atora pfuma kubva muchikwama umu makore awanda

Isu kunzwa izvozvo takaviruka nehasha ndokukomba uya mukuru

Tikati midzimu yako yadambura mbereko

Haungadyi pfuma yakawanda kudaro uri wega

Mukuru uya aona zvamumomotera ndiye regedzei chikwama chiya ndokutendeuka otarira nzira yekumatongo ake,

Isu sarei takakomba chikwama chiya pamwepo nevamwe varume vakanga vakapakata mapfumo

Pakazoita akadanidzira kuti chikwama chiya chipiwe mbavha iya yakanga yasara

Pakazorongwa rimwe zuva

Apo vanhu vese vedunhu vakakorombwedzana

Chikwama chiya ndobva chatambidziwa iya mbavha yakaita yechidiki zvishoma

Mhururu nemheterwa zvinodzivira nzeve zvikaparurwa

Ngoma ikaridzwa tikadzana,rukuruva ndiye togo-o!

Tikadzokera kumba tiine mufaro unomhanyisa ropa

Nokuti takanga tazviita!

 

 

(By Brighton Busybee Muponda – is a Zimbabwean author born on the first of November 1986.He stays in the city of Masvingo, Zimbabwe. He­ co-authored a poetry anthology called Dzinonyandura which was written in Shona, a native language spoken by the majority of people in Zimbabwe)

 

 

 

 

THINK

 

 

The miasma of propaganda

Pierced with difficulty

this side of the line

Sand whipped up

stinging the eyed

upon poking

its demise

 

 

(By Rich Unger – Oy! how best to describe wry smiles of the world, from Love, to Pained, to Wonderment, with words tongue tipped as peeks into the Archetype stuttered thru perception’s filter of a mere human Visual Psychophysicist tempo’d with grace? Playing with Words for Understanding)

 

 

 

 

MR STONE

 

 

I see you are mute,

Dumb to my pleas,

Bleeding knees….

Blisters at your citadel.

I see you are mute,

Your countenance astute,

My pangs of hunger alien,

My anguish a sing song.

I see you are blind,

You eyes camouflaged,

Blinkers that hides humanism,

My liberty emasculated.

I see you are nonchalant,

My siblings you eat,

My sweat you siphon….

My labour you enrich with.

Mr stone,listen….

A day has dawned,

Every song dissipates…..

My anger simmers,

A boiling pot that tilts,

And your deafness….

A wail of a slaughtered ram,

A new day of liberty.

Kama

 

 

(By Patrick Kamau)

 

 

 

 

THE REPUBLIC OF MOTHERHOOD

 

 

I crossed the border into the Republic of Motherhood

and found it queendom, a wild queendom.

I handed over my clothes and took its uniform,

its dressing gown and undergarments, a cardigan

soft as a creature, smelling of birth and milk,

and I lay down in Motherhood’s bed, the bed I had made

but could not sleep in, for I was called at once to work

in the factory of Motherhood. The owl shift,

the graveyard shift. Feedingcleaninglovingfeeding.

I walked home, heartsore, through pale streets,

the coins of Motherhood singing in my pockets.

Then I soaked my spindled bones

in the chill municipal baths of Motherhood,

watching strands of my hair float from my fingers.

Each day I pushed my pram through freeze and blossom

down the wide boulevards of Motherhood

where poplars bent their branches to stroke my brow.

I stood with my sisters in the queues of Motherhood –

the weighing clinic, the supermarket – waiting

for Motherhood’s bureaucracies to open their doors.

As required, I stood beneath the flag of Motherhood

and opened my mouth although I did not know the anthem.

When darkness fell I pushed my pram home again,

and by lamplight wrote urgent letters of complaint

to the Department of Motherhood but received no response.

I grew sick and was healed in the hospitals of Motherhood

with their long-closed isolation wards

and narrow beds watched over by a fat moon.

The doctors were slender and efficient

and when I was well they gave me my pram again

so I could stare at the daffodils in the parks of Motherhood

while winds pierced my breasts like silver arrows.

In snowfall, I haunted Motherhood’s cemeteries,

the sweet fallen beneath my feet –

Our Lady of the Birth Trauma, Our Lady of Psychosis.

I wanted to speak to them, tell them I understood,

but the words came out scrambled, so I knelt instead

and prayed in the chapel of Motherhood, prayed

for that whole wild fucking queendom,

its sorrow, its unbearable skinless beauty,

and all the souls that were in it. I prayed and prayed

until my voice was a nightcry

and sunlight pixelated my face like a kaleidoscope.

 

 

(By Liz Berry – Guest Poet with her guest poem on the 16 DAYS OF GENDER ACTIVISM, introduced to us by one great poet and mentor- Phillippa Yaa De Villiers)

 

 

 

 

THE RACE

 

 

They dashed off the blocks

hitched and got hitched

Some continued the quest

earned titles and accolades

Some donned the uniform

took to marches and parades

Some took to the collar

turned into great padres

Some took to public podiums

always on the limelight

Some took to the stage

and graced the big screen

Some took the pen

weaving songs and dreams

Some appeared and disappeared

just like shooting stars

Ahead there were countless souls

Behind many out o’ breath-

Everywhere on this road victims

succumbed to mystical existence

 

 

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Campaign