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By

Mbizo Chirasha

 

We always say something, something meaningful for both political and social change in our nations. The greed hasn’t stopped yet, as we continue the poetic wailing, politicians are still stealing. Zealots are still killing and you wonder where the world is going with greedy politicians who continue to defy the voice of the masses.

Africa is being plundered day and night. Zimbabwe has since become a haven of political violence, greed, poverty and corruption. The few remain holding the cake of the nation while many wallow in abject poverty. We work in the fields and dance to dust at rallies for them to reap.

We are not going to be silent. We shall write, speak and voice through poetry. The masses need poverty, political violence and corruption to end. Thank you again voices Together We Rise – Mbizo Chirasha.

 

 

 

 

POLITICS: A FOUL SONG

 

 

A song

sung off-tune

often

than clinically

a melody

tepid

tastelessly foul

danced to by all

unfortunately

the greedy rich smiling

as they enjoy the fat meat

at the high table

of national stakes!

And the poor hungry wailing

As they bury their youth

and old dying

from politics’ blood thirsty Pangs!

 

 

(By Gerry Sikazwe – an emerging Zambian poet whose poems have been featured in local and international literary magazines and presses such Tipton Poetry Journal, Tuck Magazine, The Global Zambian Magazine, Dissident Voice, Nthanda Review, AfricaWriter.com, etc. Further, he manages a poetry Facebook page and a blog. He writes to shape opinions by ridiculing, questioning, inspiring and teaching in his poems. He is currently attending University at The University of Zambia reading Adult Education with Mathematics)

 

 

 

 

THE AWAKENING AGE

 

 

O ye who travel the meridian line,

May the vision of a new world within you shine.

 

May eyes that have lived with poverty’s rage,

See through to the glory of the awakening age.

 

For we are all richly linked in hope,

Woven in history, like a mountain rope.

 

Together we can ascend to a new height,

Guided by our heart’s clearest light.

 

When perceptions are changed there’s much to gain,

A flowering of truth instead of pain.

 

There’s more to a people than their poverty;

There’s their work, wisdom, and creativity.

 

Along the line may our lives rhyme,

To make a loving harvest of space and time.

 

 

(By Ben Okri – Nigerian poet and novelist)

 

 

 

 

YOU FORGIVE ME TOO

 

 

I have forgotten everything and all,

You forgive me too –

But that yours have not been

An inflict, – for I let it go,

For whatever the inflicts

Sufferings of beyondness, that –

You mother like children

Or you are child to –

That I be solely the responsible –

That I wish my life and soul

Could have thousands of pieces

That I add a prolongation

To the extremes of existential ends –

Or like my hands were tendrils

Upon the entanglements of your hair –

Giving up on abysmal desires,

And my heart with ache part

Thinking that you too shall fall apart.

 

 

(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)

 

 

 

 

GHETTO DIARIES

 

 

On the stoop of the bluff

I howl deviations

In a muffled loud voice

To reminisce,

I perceive the Warsaw ghetto

With its punitive conditions,

All we leave for are toils

Stop! Stereotyping

The ghetto cries.

Minority isn’t my fate

Ethics now veiled

In this economic hardship

Were comrade against brother?

Sister struggles mother

Only because of bread,

It is so absurd brother fattens

Like a baobab as she thins like biltong.

Solely the diaries inscribed mirrors

The ghetto’s social restrictions

For the comrade opt to ghettoize this brother,

Toils I live to endure.

Bare footed I trod

Heading for the salvation

Of the herd of my own sentiments.

Claiming space for this bred,

In this forlorn global village

Of an insensitive populace,

Striving to attain the goal

In sage as there

Is a thin line between,

Justice and vengeance

Love and hatred

Deems and dreams

Lowlife diarist, ghetto diaries

 

 

(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)

 

 

 

 

DREADING THE NIGHT

 

 

Eyes bulging with tears

Yet another night of terror

The tears run freely

The rivers on her youthful face

Tears of pain and anguish

Her lips twitch in an unintended half smile to brighten her young son’s

He was a sweet boy

Did not deserve to know her pain

She would shelter him all she could

The beast must not find him awake

Mama, he called

Touched her bulging eye pockets

His little finger so innocent

Carried away, an involuntary tear dropped from it….

He wiped it away

Keenly looked into her eyes…

One …at…a time

Mama, his soft voice questioned

Did he……?

No child….another drop…

She smiled broadly, to deter him

It was etched in his heart…

His mother’s tears.

Tonight, he would not sleep

His mind made up

He would wait until he came

To see why his mother cried

To comfort her.

Tonight……

He walked in….angry!

Food was served…still angry

Warm water for his hands…still angry

He ate in silence…then the blows

Tonight, he would not let him beat her

Not while he was in the house!

He rushed to his mother’s side

on his little head, it landed

Her little boy…….

She gathered him in her arms

Stared into the eyes of this beast!

Tonight…she would leave

Tonight!

No more pain…No

Not in his hands

Mother nursed her son to health

But who would clear his young memory of this beast?

Keep the child safe

Safe from hate.

Safe to live

Live a full life.

 

 

(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)

 

 

 

 

I STOPPED SMOKING WEED

 

 

Rhetorics.

Nicodemus academicians;

Phariseean siblings.

Thieving sons of frogs

Parading wares stolen from our coffers.

 

Crocodile tears.

Public show off affection.

After milking a cow

They rape it too.

 

Now they woke us

To a monotonous vibe:

2022 Vote for me:

Development,

Zero tolerance to corruption.

 

Baba I stopped smoking this weed….

 

 

 

 

KIKUYANA LAND

 

 

The men are castrated,

Their minds greased with darkness,

In the hope of productivity

And keeping alive Big Daddy…

 

Upon the hungry and powerless,

Violence is an national anthem in Kikuyana land.

Vampire prey upon their own kin and blood.

And are capped heroes of the struggle.

 

Kikuyana land has vomited its own;

Now dining with the former Pharaoh.

The onions of Egypt aren’t bad after all…

 

 

 

(By Nyasha Musimwa – Poet and educator living Kenya)

 

 

 

 

 

The Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Campaign