The Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Campaign

April 6, 2018 Poetry , POETRY / FICTION

Ze photo



Mbizo Chirasha



Welcome to Journal 40 of the Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Campaign. To Michael Organ, great great thanks for this our great partnership. Your excellence and creative commitment is immeasurable. Thank you again for celebrating with us Women’s Voices through POETRY in Tuck Magazine.

We celebrate this literary experience among nations as together we continue to rise. We stand proud as poets because of the blessings by working with this publication – Great Brave and Amazing Solidarity Voices Aluta Continua.

It was a great, brave and creative month of March. Together We Rise Comrades and Friends. Let’s participate more on our facebook platforms for the betterment of poetry and our quest for change through Words. Poetica Infinita – Mbizo Chirasha.








Breathe fresh air in sun shine

You may be a count on statistics

Some binned paper and marked –

Your poor teacher who daily

Two miles run and three walk

Up a steep hill, – but that’s not matter

That what matter is a shade

An assigned dignity and to avoid

Mass dropouts you may like to

Award your esteemed attention

And then derive results hanging to

Scarecrows, most of them landing

To either battle poverty or cough blood –

The girl-children only to remember

Having written on mud with pots

Made of clays and tablets of wood

That once there had been a happening

In the beginning of their lives –

They shall gain nothing of worth though

But know that somewhere civilization

Grants rights and their share of due

Is somewhere buried enroute –

Albeit they are breathing more freedom

Than we do in suffocation of classrooms.



– On a photograph of primary students in North Waziristan







‘This, then, is the great humanistic and historical task of the oppressed: to liberate themselves and their oppressors as well.’

Paulo Freire


Liberate them too –

Oppressed of the world,

Liberate the oppressors

That they disband and retire

To peace, in peace live –

Or in peace lay, freed ultimately,

From their acts of oppression.



(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)








I’m more afraid of the sharp teeth of love

Than the dubious faces of humans

I can handle the faces

But I can’t handle love.

Love is smoother than a mudfish

It can easily slip down my hands

Love is as deep as the ocean

I can easily be drowned in it

Love’s waves are as big and frightening

as the ugly figure in my dreams

They scare me even before I get closer to them

Love produces a sweet and charming sound

That’s if you are a little bit aloof from it

Love is kind and gentle when it is well fed

But a tiger when its stomach is rumbling.

Love can be a friend if you want it to be one

But never you make it an enemy.

I remember love once welcomed me at the market square,

I felt its warmth and enjoyed its softness

I hadn’t no money, so it offered me a coin

My heart rushed to fetch my father’s old drum

It drummed and drummed and drummed

Till its leather grew weary

Yet this sweet and gentle friend I met

Had turned its back, singing to Susy.

It was a melodious song

And I couldn’t disturb.

Love is like a loincloth

Ready to cover any guitar.

The market square is its abode here

In towns, it dwells in churches during dying hours

It freely gives wine to those in bars and clubs

Ô here, it gives us bush meats, yams, cassava

And even splits our woods, fetches water for us

And gladly taps from our palm trees.

Love is like a broken glass

You see your face in its broken pieces

Yet can’t help yourself from bundling them.



(By Nnane Ntube – A Cameroonian who is passionate about creative writing. A teacher of languages (French and English) but she is currently furthering her studies at the Higher Teachers’ Training College, Yaoundé. Her poems The Lost Bond, The Pains I Feel, Hungry Voices, Change, Trust in Tears, A Child’s Dream, are published by Spill words press. Her poem, The Visitor featured in a magazine in Zimbabwe; The poems, The Pains I Feel and If I am Your Rainbow appeared in an anthology of Gender Based Violence, #Wounded which will soon be published in Zimbabwe by the POWAD group (Poets With A Difference). Her poems Before I Met You and As I Hold Your Hand are forth coming in a wedding day anthology in Zimbabwe. She is a social critic, a youth activist for peace and an aspiring actress)








Humans are seemingly unforgiving,

ungracious to the one who falls,

merciless even after the fallen rises –

Yet the humans will cast

a casual glance at

teachers whose lives deny;

Politicians who wave big dreams

Preachers who preach lies

sport fraudulent hashtags,

fake healings and scams.

The human indulges scandal

that divides churches

and corporations;

The Human adds gossip that

tears families apart;

The man part persecutes

the smoker, the cannabis grower

but drinks till drunk;

raps nonsensical in his stupor;

The same stones the adulterer

but eats till stuffed and rotund

himself a Lady Chatterley’s lover.

Deception jails the swindler

but buys Mercs and Bentleys

from the widows fund.

Pride refuses the street child

but pulpit pleads for his min-mistresses –

like a cunning skunk.

Oh ye hypocrites

Brood of vipers

Soothsayers and cheaters

When will your ay be ay

and your nay be nay.

Pluck out your eye

Cut off your limbs

Snip your tongues

Don sackcloth and ashes;

Mourn for yourselves

for your thievery –

rip at your hair for

your oppressed state;

rent your garments and

realise that you’re wearing

the wealth of those you steal from,

the richness of their inheritance

you hoard as your own.

The Hu man is unforgiving

Yet weeps for his sin,

Cries for grace,


for mercy,

yet does not return the gold

to those he solicited it from.

Weep in your treachery oh Hu man

Turn from your wicked ways

from your pulpit auctions

from your loathsome actions

and right the wrong

or burn in a sea of lava’d gold

‘Specially brewed for

your going home.

join the throng of

other Hu man bones

where your lies will not be covered

by the herb man’s stones.

Weep oh Hu-Man,

Oh politician, preacher,

teacher, leecher –

Return the wealth

to the poor you stole it from

then turn from your

seemingly winsome

but wicked ways,

uproot the weed,

the fake and fruitless

and be saved.



(By Beulah Kay aka Jambiya Kai – 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)








I too don’t want to be someone

You know to spill blooms

I know to work round the year

You don’t care for remarks

I too don’t care for remarks

But sometimes some pricks disturb me

You are divine I’m human

An owl hooted nonsense

Silent were great Doctorates

Nincompoop sang a horrid song

Pretend to work and be a leader

The followers to pretend

No place for true work worker?

No shame to cut, copy and paste

You blooms you don’t copy

You are yourself

I’m myself



(By Gopichand Paruchuri – International recognized Publisher, Academic and great English Poet in India)








If woman would ennoble and build one another up

Embrace differences, hues and colours

See the beauty and talent in one another

How amazing and beautiful it would be.

If woman would cheer one another on

Assist and encourage love and inspire

Shun and abhor jealousy and evil desires

How harmonious and peaceful life would be







If you had stayed perhaps things would have been different

Maybe things would not have been so difficult

Maybe Mother would have been happier

Maybe the heat of the fields would not have scorched us so much

And we would have laid on softer sheets

And ate better meals

Our sandals would not have torn beneath

Nor holes grown out of our stockings

But you left and we grew sadder

Yet Mother grew stronger

Though wrinkles and lines of worry crept on her face

Our education was never denied

She worked tirelessly for us to be cared for

And today we say

Sweet Mother

Dear Mother

Thank you Mother

Perhaps your leaving gave her strength

And made her who she is today

A woman of courage and determination

Of confidence and wealth

Perhaps your leaving was for the better

For we are stronger and the bruises have healed

And in my little way I praise every woman toiling and working hard

The sun will not scorch you by day

Nor the moon by night

Help will always come

Perhaps it will be for better







Your whirlwind blows my way

Easing into a gentle gale

Tapping at my window sill

Changing the weather for me

Your whirlwind yanks off layers

Exposing hidden treasures and bangles

These bangles are tribal circles

Every etching closes a cycle

Your peaceful airy breeze

Child of your eminent whirlwind

Brings inspiration and ideas

Awakens passions and longings

You are a muse for liberation

The old heavy locks are broken

Summer’s sunlight shines above

The breath of your tender gale



(By Temitope Aina – writes passionately and inspiringly and her themes are love, peace, harmony and self development. She loves to read African literature and is enamoured with poetry. She writes from Lagos, Nigeria)








There’s power in what we speak

So we’ve got to speak life. Got to do away with the stressful strife. Bar the negatives, focus more on the positives.


If we choose life, then we’ve got to choose our words. What we speak when spoken comes alive. When we state our thoughts they can become affirmed. Like a tick beside the box it’s a YES and its confirmed.


There’s power in your voice

So what you voice you’ve got to choose

Got to do away with negative utterances leading on to negative instances. Death to all your blessings, death to all the good, believe me what I say is true. So focus more on the good instead of the bad. Absorb the beauty all around you and give thanks.


The power is yours it’s in your voice

The strength is within your choice

So let’s take care of what we glorify when we speak. Speak power speak life.



(By Khadijah Finesse – Artist: Composer in Verse/Song Writer/Performance POET and Advocate of girl child issues and rights)








Cocooned in obsess

Languishing in mess

Leaving no room for mercy.

Dribbling in vigorous pace

Like a tornado dissing place.

For the storage, the purse.

With the highest bidder to purchase.

Always on point to solve the case.


Valuable memento which enables

Carefree jotting without mumbles.

With speed dropping words like marbles.

You spell parables

Softly cleaning the rumbles.


Forever I yearn

You vigilant pen.

For I always carry

Soothing for me, you are merry.

There is never a moment you are curly.

Till my last breath I marry.

Adorable as chilled Sherry.



(By Chrispah Munyoro – currently a student of Applied Art and Design, Graphics and Website Programming at Kwekwe Polytechnic College in Zimbabwe. Munyoro is a talented writer, journalist and a dedicated Design Artist. She is natural linguist, fluent in many languages among them English, Shona, Esperanto, Setswana, Swahili, Italiana and Yoruba. She began as a columnist writing feature articles in the Gweru Times in Midlands Province Capital of Zimbabwe. She has worked as a Midlands Chapter Chairperson of the Zimbabwe Association of Freelance Journalists. Munyoro was once a Zimbabwe Representative at Zone IV Regional Youth Games in 2014 Bulawayo in the boxing discipline. The multi-disciplinary artist is registered under AIBA the international body of boxing. The Writer, Artist, Poet, Journalist and athlete has been writing poetry since her tender years and she has participated in various writers, poetry, journalism and sports)








Save me

From my madness




My limbs

Scarcely covered



My roots

Grasping truths


My substance


I stand

Reminding myself

I am worthy


By judgments


My place



My faith



(By Pamela Sadler – Life can get messy and when it does, she writes! Pamela Sadler, a white flag from the home of the grave and land of the free. Surviving vast multitudes of trauma, she is an endless source of hard truth. Her sensitive nature promotes a humbling emotional experience for all. Acceptance and persistence led this widow to believe words are the birthplace of freedom. She invites you to join her healing journey as she spells out a voice from within. Let freedom ring!)






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