The Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Campaign

December 29, 2017 Poetry , POETRY / FICTION

Reuters photo



Mbizo Chirasha


The Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Campaign is a late Christmas gift to daughters, sisters, mothers, grandmothers and women at large. It is a composition of brave and solidarity voices dedicating time and verses to women and their voices.

Women in politics, social and religious spaces need to be respected for the betterment of our African nations, in particular Zimbabwe. Women also need to be given positions of influence in all spheres of society, they can’t remain lagging behind like in ancient history. Women are great providers of peace and harmony.

Women should also have access to their social and economic necessities including sanitary pads, education and employment. Young girls in schools are abused because of poverty and women in politics are discriminated upon because they are deemed weak by the other gender. The new Zimbabwean Cabinet and the new ANC Party Executive (South Africa) are a testimony for us all to see.

The Brave and Solidarity Voices continue to speak for the weak, the poor, the deprived,  the segregated and the abused through poetry. Thank you to the Brave Poets from Pakistan, Nigeria, Kenya, and South Africa and of course the Brave Voices from Zimbabwe. Thumbs up to followers of our journal and our social posts on Facebook. Brave Voice Your Pen will always reshape Zimbabwe, Africa and the world at large. ALUTA CONTINUA! – MBIZO CHIRASHA.








The African Savanna

I was not crafted from your soil.

My feet cracked not from walking miles in your shoes.

This is what you say –

yet my heart laboured as it poured its blood for your ebbing life.

My eyes dried like autumn leaves

as it dreamed your dreams

stared into your vacant spaces

and watched the darkening of your sun. Bony fingers drained of sleep;

my convictions seeping into

yellowed scrolls;

squeezed through prohibited potholes

I’m not like you –

our southwestern, eastern northern borders crisscross,

but our skin and kin are not same

that’s what you say,

though the matching molecule

of life flows through our veins,

our fears and fight intricately woven

in our mother’s womb.

The soil we tread is hers;

borders cannot chain

my purple passions.

I have eaten from

your wastelands and tasted

the bitter wines of servitude

that now burn inside my belly,

Is the red you breathe not mine –

Are we not the African

who cheer our liberation

from the cup

of a bloody savanna

that feed our herd and cattle –

We are the same

say I,

We are African



(By Beulah Kleinveldt/Jambiya – Jambiya is an emotive writer and storyteller who weaves the tragedy and victory of the human experience into a tapestry of memorable imagery and metaphor. She speaks with honesty on the socio-spiritual challenges of our time. Jambiya’s works are trail to a feast for those accustomed to the jaded perfunctory cleverness of modern wordsmith)








The government demand for applause

for buying women past their menopause

some sanitary pads

whilst girls in their adolescence

move about with the back of their skirts

damp and scarlet!

Like red ink pads for date-stamps.

The repressive oligarchy is aggrieved to deliver soundly.

The confused hands of the cabinet have marred

its official suit

and have long decided its shameful lot.

Watch its rapid suicide!

The rope awaits in the elections.



(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)








Give me the ballot box

And fairness will prevail without hoax

For I don’t booze

Or snooze

Give me the ballot box

If you really care about votes, folks

For I don’t smoke

Nor take no coke

For my observations is legitimate

And legible

Give me the chance let me run the campaign

All the provinces and districts

For my slogan is peace love and harmony

For I cannot fool the people

But provide and fulfil their expectations

Give me the office I will eliminate corruption

And the main objective is to eradicate starvation

Give me a pen

For I’m sane.



(By Sydney Saize – A freedom fighter spearheaded piercing the heart of misrule maladmistration, corruption and injustice. Socio-political commentator only narrates the political ills and suffers the consequences)








Bamboozle Matshelela:


I’m against coups

and those against coups.

There will always be a man

To my left, and to my right

Listening to things I have not said.

God’s random calligraphy misnomer Time

Is the graffiti of a rabid dog vanquishing madness

In a paint shop.




Joan Apple:


The labourer sunsets loves,

No more shall the sun plunder

The salt our tears for his lover.

Swift retribution works in a moment

though coming a thousand sunsets.

Sweet symphony of cooing doves!




Nananet Buhayo & Ryan Siyaya:


(Joint statement)

Isn’t they destroyed our Paradise

Because their roofs were blue

And hours hit like pa! on the eyes

Because we put them gu-gu-gu

Of irons picked everywhere?

Now they no what it fills like

To run away with no underwear.







-from #Philtrum


Of course I understand you,

your kiss-shaped utterance

is the venomous snarl of police:

They hiss like you entice

with rough words like ‘Nharo’.

Don’t be hung up on how I do it,

just let’s converse and drink.

Tomorrow I might be different,

Diffident, indifferent or just not defer.

You’ll have to speak in English

or I’ll answer in my tongue.

You’ll genuinely not here me,

With no conviction to be convincing

I’ll pretend to share a position.

Tomorrow I might remember

The scars on my mother’s heart

Blacker in the soot of immolation,

Her tithe to the god Survival

For escaping a genocide so intent

(by men speaking your tongue)

To kill me, her only son, before I was born.

Your country and prosperity are propped

On the bleached fibulae of my kin.

Ancestor I can forgive,

But relatives…too close

To perception, to time, to paranoia;

Have we truly found unity and accord

Or is the cock fattening the bull?

But let’s converse and drink,

Nyemwerera utsukise zuva,

Chinoburuka chinomhara zvakataurwa.

Zvanasi, tirinjiva, shiri dzisina mitupo.

Ndatomhara, ndawana wupfumi kwawuri.

Hapana chinokosha kufura zvatiri nhasi,

Kana Mwari, kana denga








Let us be festive in this merry season,

And remember the adultery of a god

Who raped a woman for the reason

Of murdering the son that spawned.

Nailed to a tree for the sins of mankind,

The bastard of the sky raised by a man

Who only carved wood so he could mind

For his wife and kids, twelve of them.

Let us be thankful for our salvation;

For we fell when our first ancestors

Gave in to the god’s cruel temptation,

And made Seth fuck his own sisters.

O child, give thanks to this god Santa,

He buys the gifts, not your mother!



(By Philani Amadeus Nyoni – 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)








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.







You dwelt in solitude

Yearning for a universe

That sought love and beauty

In the solitary places

Inhabited by monks and sages.

We listened and marvelled

At your lofty song

The seeds that you sowed

Before your hasty departure.

You built lofty imagery

A mountain of words,

Committed to the quest

For fairness and peace.

Do you smile

in eternal unbroken slumber ,

At the rich harvest of words

Celebration by the youth

You infected with laughter?







Our past echoes with glories

That were silenced by History

Inscribed by inky feather

On tablets of foreign scholars

Who fled with our knowledge

Our confidence in the ways

That defined us.

We forgot ourselves

As we strayed from paths

Paved by our ancestors

Since the primordial times…


We profess the alien tongues

Better than erstwhile masters

Even as we look their way

For solution to self-made woes

Rich Market for their garbs and guns

Armed with beggarly bowls

Wealth trapped under our feet…



(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)





VIVA Zimbabwe



Calamities to have rose and poised

The brothers and sisters, comrades

Since the idea behind only spoke of

Immunity and never our sovereignty

To render nor our liberties to grand.

Viva Mwana wevhu, Viva Zimbabwe

For the phase reached today spells

Confidence in mutual peace and unit

Never will the masses be Dis-Graced

Better prospects we all look forward to



(By Tynoe Wilson  – I am Wilson aka lowlife diarist with the zeal to embroid the societal restriction logo that herald our misery as poets, writers and the society)





THE VOICE of Julius Muriithi



Today I’m told of independence

I know how the head of state minces no words

In celebration of 54 years of independence

I am reminded of Mau Mau

And bushy wars

Where men ached to live freely!

But I wonder whether I kiss the Whiteman’s ass longer

The taste of his small cock dangling all over the world

I am left singing national anthem in a foreign tongue

Questioning whether independence spells bullets or the silence that comes with it!

Our diamonds have turned us into weaves

Bombs taking control

Corruption tasting sweet!

The fruits of Mau Mau!

Maybe we should write of an elegy for the revolution!



(By Julius Muriithi – Muriithi Kariuki is Black anti-religion humanist who lives and writes from Lamu, Kenya. He is student of International relations and diplomacy)








Luke’s tragedy, its plain enough to see,

since haven’t you and haven’t I been there? –

was his fondness for Christianity,

which taught him how to hope, how to despair.

‘The hope of everlasting life, denied

me hope of selflessness on earth,’ he cried.

‘I might as well have been a Hamlet clowning,

or Jesus with his paradoxes

(boxes inside boxes inside boxes);

I who witnessed Ophelia drowning.

‘And you can write down this,’ poor Luke then said,

‘write down that what I witnessed was a birth

and not a … I don’t deny that she was dead

when they packed her, putrid, in the earth,

sprinkled with pansies, violets, and rue;

too many courtiers, mourners too few …

my birth, you understand; rebirth, I mean.’

Heraclitus and his paradoxes

(boxes inside boxes inside boxes).

Everlasting life’s not worth a bean

Unless it’s Jack’s, ‘cos then there’s still a risk.

Don’t look at me, I merely write it down,

serpent reader, eyes like a basilisk.

It’s Claudius, not I, who wears the crown.

All that is, I write, neither hot nor cold,

my Dear John, neither timorous nor bold.

As I was saying, I wanted to be

devoted to my fellow human being,

unreflecting, engrossed, not foreseeing;

so I renounced my immortality.

The rest is silence, but for one thing more:

Luke’s comedy, like yours old friend, and mine,

and whoever makes the beds at Elsinore,

is diabolical and divine.

There’ll still be hope, and still there’ll be despair,

whoever runs her fingers through your hair.

But when the spirit vomits Luke Warme out,

Old Possum and his paradoxes

(boxes inside boxes inside boxes),

he’ll get to his feet, shake himself, and shout:

‘No hope have I of everlasting life –

most selfish, mean, ungenerous hope of all.

I give my purse to my enemy’s wife –

put that in your pipe and smoke it, Paul!

I risk my life for a stranger drowning;

risk my morals for a villain clowning.

I am philanthropic, altruistic…

when I’m humbled I’m humbled, exalted,

exalted…’ at which point poor Luke faltered,

fell forward… falling… the fall… and was sick…







A hallelujah of Heuglin’s robins

wakes me from a troubled sleep, troubled not

by regrets or misgivings but by hymns,

hymns of mosquitoes, high-pitched, pin-thin; prick

of crickets, strident cicadas, squirrels

bickering; and the blessing of soft rain

on a tin roof. Smell the frangipanis –

their blossoms, the milk of their bark, rotting

leaves, rotting into humus, life-giving

soil – earthworms, chongololos, flying ants;

and smell that neighbourly ham: pineapple,

cloves, basted with beer and honey: baking.

Expectant pets get meaty bones, rubber

toys, kapenta soaked in leftover soup.

Here comes the postman for his Christmas box,

here the garbage men, ZESA, WATER; queues

and queues of the homeless, the unemployed,

the downtrodden, the hungry and thirsty,

the poor in spirit, the mourners, the meek,

the merciful, the peacemakers, the pure

in heart, the righteous; for theirs is the love

of a Jewish man who was sacrificed

so we may celebrate his birth, and so

we may learn that death makes life beautiful.



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








My old gun

Bring me son, my old gun,

Rusted, my peace is over –

That I am done

In the way

That my rushing blood

A destiny find, my helpless

Hands, at last, a purpose live,

A cry to battle, to an honor die.







No one taught the wind, nor to the leaves

The pine sings its chords, not even Pythagoras,

Tan Sen derived lessons from listening, tuning

To the seven notes, or chords of combination.


Aristotle taught walking; Socrates in dialogue

Plato’s ideal is a spoken word, above the written.

Since we imitate nature, just a bit of it, and we learn.

A camera for an eye, a static image for the changing

Reality. We make statues, we are stuck with. We make

Outlines, divide; a poor human copy –third, fourth or fifth.


Conversations sometimes settle into wonderful poems,

In trance new words are born, twist this way or that,

Therefore, ‘trance-figured’, and therefore, ‘except’ and

‘That I am left with no choice, but to love you

Because I owe this to you for your beauty…’


The moment you touch me, I bleed, and bleed;

The moment your finger strikes the right string,

I like the echo in the sound board, sing and sing.

What a rascal art thou love! The whole earth

Is the floor. We are all dancing to our customized inner tunes.



(By Sadiqullah Khan – 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)







The old self has faded,

clings to her soul in an

unflattering manner,

with revealing holes, all

in tattered fashion

weighing heavy on lean

shoulders and dragging

her down with its ancient


She said…

I’ll unwear it, unbuckle

its burdensome load off

my back


sew myself new,

the way women are


to stitch themselves up

while carrying raging storms








she paints a portrait

with a faraway look

as a guiding eye

searching memory while

listening to the loud

silence speaking volumes


she hangs it carefully on

the walls of her mind

with the vision of poetry…

of poetry of struggles and

its fathomless miseries

and long-suffering of her


the dawn of this truth finds

her unexpectedly, thrusting

daggers in her heart

then, she stains the canvas

of tomorrow with the paint

of undying hope,

not even man-made history

can ever erase.



(By Catherine Magodo-Mutukwa – a poet and fiction writer who believes every woman is a story to be told and heard. She takes time to weave words of experience from untold stories of women who have loved and laughed, cared but cried, their feelings or unfeelings in light of what life has bestowed upon their different paths. Her works have also been published in various online journals and anthologies)








She just wants to be alone,

lonely with her own thoughts…

embraced by nature,

wishing she could hug the wind;

whisper into her ears

‘take me with you please’

truth be told,

she’s sick and tired of being sick and tired,

she smiles

she laughs

she shouts

yet she sheds dry tears.

We see them not,

for they are hid behind the mountain of courage,

covered under the cloud of hope.

Here we are today,

praising the visible beauty,

when she’s busy fixing the inner beauty we broke…

the heart has bled,

and emotions have sped into her mind

knocked her down to her knees

but she’s still fighting.

I hope we won’t charge her for locking the world outside,

she needs to heal and pick us one by one

selecting only the worthy vine to produce tasty wine,

one day’s one day

it shall be well for the free spirit,

and she shall sing of the good new days

emanating out of the brutal past.



(By Jurgen Troy Namupira – Poet, Writer and Zimbabwean creative artist)








Season with the aroma of the clouds

combing the cloud’s field with wakeful hands

when hope beats the drum of time

in season like this

we wait for the path that leads to a day beyond today

in a moment like this

we wait counting the hands of time

with a measuring eyes we look for more

to quench the taste of wants

we have come a long way as a wayfarer

Traveller at a cross roads

where decision are made to birth a new journey

we are on a journey to arrive at the same destination

it is the places we visit that makes the journey long

it is time comrades to visit the earth and plant words

and wait patiently for the hands of harvest.

In a season like this

we live on the good will of the season



(By Oladipo Kehinde Paul – Great Nigerian Writer and fast rising poet)








Crocodile magician

joy trick?

Pitch hope

chorus spiral love

even bring it on Sunday

raising a smile musk

for your crocodile ego spilling

float forwarding bible verses

along to a converted band

like an ash from the past

you are trying to remember what it looked like

and give home

deserted joy?



(By Pasi Gunguwo – International Poet, Actor and Artist from Zimbabwe)





KUTSVAGA (Shona for HUNTING, a satire)



Ndakamutsvaka muvanhu,

Muzviso zvavo,

Mafambiro avo,

Kwavaibva nekwavaienda

Asi handina kumuwana.

Ndakatevera vanhu,

Dzimwe mhandara munzira

Dzichiputsa chirongo,

Majaya miseve kutaira kumakunguwo,

Harahwa kusasikwa pamutariro.

Ndaive mugotsi mavo,

Nzeve kwanga kuteerera zvavaitaura,

Yaingove njopisi njipisi chete,

Kuzama kuvabata,

Chiripo chakandibata.

Hevo apamateru, vosvika pamharadzano,

Vombundikirana, ndiye zizadzadama ipapo pamhene,

Vachitsika zvose zvakarasirirwa,

Ranehanda ndonzwa roridza tsamwa.

Hevo sesedzanei vakananga kurwizi,

Munzira dzavo vachisunga chishwe,

Harahwa kumashure inopingwa nechishwe,

Tsaiya yowa nekupwanyika pakarepo,

Kana kuihorera, kuinama, zvichabatsirei,

Ani wacho?

Ndakaramba ndichivatevera,

Kurwizi, dzavo hanzu katanu,

Tangei rima rizere nemarize nemafeso,

Pedzezvo votuhwina zvavo

Vana vevanhu.

(Chikwee sechichabvarura denga

Kutsemura matombo,

Kudonhedza madzvinyu akazambira mushana).

Mumativi avo, zvaiva zvimwechetezvo,

Vamwe vachichera mvura yasakadzwa nendove yevanhu

Pamwepo nekubvondorwa,

Vamwe vachikukuzva nekuraura hove;

Ndakamutsvaka muzviso zvavo

Asi handina kumuwana.

Ndakati rega ndimbozorora,

Ndokugara pasi ndakazembera chigutswa

Chemuti wainge wabva muguborwa,

Ndati ringei, ndokuona varume vaichera jecha nemapiki nemafoshoro,

Vachirikanda murori yaipwitititsa chiutsi chinokachidza,

Ndakakabva ndakosora, ndokusimuka,

Ndoonderera mberi nekumutsvaka.

Asi handina kumuwana.

Ndakaenda kuchiteshi chemabhazi,

Ndokuona mhomho yevanhu vaikwidza nekudzika,

Vaikwira nekuburuka,

Vaitenga nekutengesa,

Kuba nekubirwa,

Kudhakwa nekudhakisa.

Ndakati regai ndibvunze vezvingoro,

Kuda vaigona kunge vakamuona,

Asi vakandiseka.

(Chikwee sechichabvarura denga,

Kutsemura matombo,

Kudonhedza madzvinyu akazambira mushana).

Ndakaenda pane muparidzi aive munzira,

“Tsvakai Jesu achawanika.

Ipai nemoyo yenyu yose,

Ndiko kuti muzopinda muhumambo hwedenga.”

Ndiro yakatenderera,

Maoko akapinda muhomwe, muzvikwama,

Kuraura mari,

Ndiro ikadzokera kumuridzi yoshinyira.

Ndakatarisa muvanhu, asi handina kumuwana.

Ko aivepi, akahwandepi?

Ndakati regai ndimbonogora ndichitonhodza pahuro,

Ndokupinda maive muzere nechiutsi chinokachidza,

Rima, asi muine zvitaitai zvemwenje,

Maguro-kuro achingotamba-tamba

Sevaridzi avo vaiungiri mubishi kutamba

Kumimhanzi yainge itsatsemura nzeve,

Kupeperetsa matenga emidhuri mirefu-refu neruzha rwikuru.

Vainge vakakochekerana,

Varume nevakadzi, varume nevarume,

Vakadzi nevakadzi, majaya nemhandara,

Ndumure nevabvezera.

Chiripo-ripo ndakabva ndabuda ndisati ndambogara pasi.

Ndakati regai ndiende kupwere,

Kazhinji pwere dzinoona zvatisingaone,

Pwere dzinocherechedza, dzoona zviso,

Dzochengeta mupfungwa, diti nemeso,

Asi pwere dzakandiseka,

(Chikwee sechichabvarura denga,

Kutsemura matombo,

Kudonhedza madzvinyu akazambira mushana).

(icharamba ichiendera mberi)



(By Richmore Tera – 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)








If I were a poet,

I will cook my poems with good ingredients

Polish their plates with everyday words

Scrub the floor white with catharsis

Start the stove with enjambment

Put the rhymes into the pot,

And to rhymes I’ll add irony and litotes

For the presence of modernism,

I would leave the meters for other forms.

To create well enough IMAGERY for an awesome taste, I’ll also add my assonance.

To paradox, simile. To simile, metaphor.

Instead of pathos, I would add satire missed with hyperbole for great savour.

I would boil some alliteration with personifications to cause it to chyme,

Then to make this poem soup last,

I will fill it with epistrophy and homonyms.

After this, I would serve this poem in a well-designed tray of onomatopoeia and chilled Repetition to make it last long to any that eats of it.

But Since I am no poet,

I’ll continue eating poems as though they have no form and style.



(By Ambassador Dan Amakor – African Writer and Poet)








I was foretold of a woman

whose beauty like the sun

doth shine.

A virtuous man , whose wit

none can confine.

Passed mildly the thought

of a woman so pure and rare.

In this cruel dungeon of a

a world

Lo , upon your face he gazed.

Like lightning I was sneered

with the beauty of such a face.

A sweet rose of sixteen

He vowed to wait till he could smell.

The scent of a divine flower

named after the sweetness of honey.

A date with destiny they set-

For a day as rare.

That their hearts may lock

as one.

All my treasures, sighs, tears, oaths and letters kept for this time due to me.

Pamela I shall never have all thee

If thou be not by my side.

I Mutsa all the world I shall

vanquish for your delight

as grace.

If thou be by my side.



(By NYASHADZASHE CHIKUMBU I’m a young man, Poet and Writer, whose very ambitious, and strives for complete self-expression. Very interested in all words of art strives to see art gaining its former glory)







The Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Campaign

Editor review


  1. Jambiya December 29, at 09:21

    Mbizo Chirasha - thank you your introductory narrative draws a clear distinction of the role of women in the home, society and political cabinets - We should become a force to be reckoned with. A weapon of mass destruction. ... pens that never run dry. we must fight this war of oppression and abuse and rise as eagles - poised on mountain tops; ready to scoop up tear asunder all forms of tyranny. Thank you for helping us be eagles.


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