Reuters photo

 

By

Mbizo Chirasha

 

 

Drumbeat- “Raising Mukondi” Phase2 (Brave voices Poetry Journals – The Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Campaign is this time of the year in partnership with Campio Burns Group- “From Ashes of the Fire”.  We are in solidarity with the burn survivors – Solidarity with Victims of Xenophobia, domestic and political violence, we are in solidarity with victims and survivors of burns and domestic violence, we are in solidarity with the victors who managed to pull through defying the aftermath, scars, pain and trauma.

 

We say write it, say it, talk about it, tell a story. We say poetry heals and words are a form of therapy. Let Poets from across the globe write on this cause alongside victims of burns, violence, xenophobia and maltreatment of refugees. Let’s tell our story through poetry, testimonials and flash fiction.

 

The Intervention is offered space at the Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Campaign Facebook platform (100 thousand poets for peace-Zimbabwe on Facebook). Campio Burns Group –“From Ashes of the Fire” is founded by Beulah Faith Kay, an advocate for peace, life skills coach, Poet and a literary arts activist. She works along with other great people around the world. The organisation is doing great through integrating burn survivors into communities by telling their story. We are proud to say that poetry is a refreshing form of therapy that serves heals scars, wounds and burns from inner to the outer.

 

We continue to invite our poets, new voices, regular voices, victims and now victors to send poetryrelating to the above mentioned cause and themes to Mbizo Chirasha. Thank you Nigeria, Kenya, South Africa, Pakistan, Cameroon, India, Zimbabwe, United States of America, Liberia  and Zimbabwe for taking part – Mbizo Chirasha

 

 

 

 

REAL FREEDOM

 

 

Every freedom ends up in slavery –

This is universal

then from every slavery

you have to win freedom,

an enduring struggle as difficult,

those enslaved dreamt freedom.

There is no real freedom per se

All freedoms are relative

because all freedoms are

Dependent on others’ freedom too,

Freedom therefore is collective –

To be politically worked out.

 

 

(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)

 

 

 

 

HOPE

 

 

 

Amidst the sandstorms in life

Caught like a dry leaf in west wind

Every second is eternal pain

 

Eyeless in the sea of loneliness

Praying for a drop of hope

And vacuum spreads it’s wings in mind

 

A flash of tender beauty

With delicate blushes

Sprinkle hope for bright days

 

 

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

 

 

 

 

NEW VOICES

 

 

I hear new voices

reverberating the same old ideas

same interest,

No change.

 

Old wine in new bottles.

 

 

(By Sitidziwa Ndoya – Poet and Writer)

 

 

 

 

BLAZING SUN INTHE SKY

 

 

Blazing sun in the sky

Dazzling sunflowers on the earth

Delights parched hearts

 

The world shivers and shrinks in heat

The brave plant mocks at powerful sun

Many sunflowers stare at sun with grace

 

 

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

 

 

 

 

BELOVED MOTHER (Your Soul is not defeated)

 

 

When all else has failed and you feel frail,

you still remember, they depend on you.

Mother with undying love, keeping the smile of your youth.

You swallow your pride, no work is too hard.

You sell by the road-side, you clean their homes.

You travel far, you work their fields, and they laugh at you.

You had a dream, you children had made it.

You will work towards it, nothing else matters.

Ooh Beloved Mother, your soul is not defeated.

 

You gave him your love, you gave him your all.

My child, submit, for that is right.

Those words keep coming, an echo in your ears.

How were you misled, how was he not real.

You still cook and clean, a slave to love.

But he has forgotten, he found him new love

you are heartbroken, you cling to hope.

In all those struggles, you pray for his return.

Ooh Beloved Mother, still your soul is not defeated.

 

You lie awake at night, to nurse your sick child.

I see a heart bleeding from within, you feel their pain.

When your child looks at you, you beam with a smile.

I know you have your fears, you are trembling inside.

You just want to take away the pain.

You can do anything to make them feel better.

You blame yourself, you question your abilities.

Remember you do your best, when you hold them in your arms.

Ooh Beloved Mother, still your soul is not defeated.

 

Mother, awake at the crack of dawn.

Dragging your cracked feet on the dusty roads.

Tilling the dry land with unending hope.

Heat plates your bare back as you cross the field.

When you sit, your child sucks on your almost dry breasts.

Your body is shaking from hunger, your sweat feels like blood.

The skies are clear, no promise of rain.

I know you pray silently, and put up with the pain.

Ooh Beloved Mother, still your soul is not defeated.

 

Mothers, stay strong. Mothers, the art of nature.

Mothers, keep giving. Mothers, change the world.

Mothers, let out your voice, we celebrate you.

Ooh Beloved Mothers, your souls will never be defeated.

 

 

(By Vivian MaMoyo Mabenge – I am a Zimbabwean born lawyer and poet who is passionate about story-telling and provoking thought on a wide range of socio-political experiences in our communities. I find inspiration from listening to people’s stories and searching within myself for that part of me that can relate to such stories. I dream of a community that is free to engage in conversation and action for the benefit of its people, especially those who cannot voice their opinions and grievances. I dream of peace, justice and heath for all. I know through our collective effort on this platform, a lot can be achieved)

 

 

 

 

LIFE’S SCHOOL

 

 

I was born in a school into a school,

that automatically made me a born scholar,

learning everyday under life’s school,

Privileged to also have life as my surreal teacher.

 

Her voice calm, soothing and gentle as the sea breeze,

This classroom large enough to host the world,

One subject, encompassing a wide range of what it is,

Her lessons either easy or hard have you nod.

 

She is the only Teacher in all her school’s faculty,

her lectures accurate both in arts and sciences,

Play with her and have your entire being turn faulty,

with your recovery a prolonged resilience.

 

This school’s motto says “results strictly based on GIGO”

This forewarning means you can’t succeed based on logistics.

You either graduate a nonentity, a sung or unsung hero,

Endeavour as much as you can to remain pragmatic.

 

She has her good side and also her bad side,

She doesn’t care if you are of the good ones or bad,

After letting you feel you’ve arrived, she puts you off stride,

When you think all hope is lost, your face turns a popular ad.

 

I’ve been into this school Ever since I was born,

and I can only graduate when I drop my last breath.

It’s not just a school, it’s also a race all must run,

though all run, only few graduate from this school great.

 

I have successfully excelled in some of this school’s tests,

Also have I successfully failed some of its trials.

Unlike normal tests where you skip the difficult ones for next,

before you try it here, get ready for so many denials.

 

Never ever think of graduating after skipping a class,

for your punishment for such might be to start afresh.

Remember be anxious for nothing, in everything, RELAX!!

Repeating a phase is far much good than restarting from imbuk.

 

Though in different classes, we’re all in this school of life,

With same teacher who knows none by name or status, but work.

Together we all are in this movement called life,

I wish to rest my pen here, as I bid us all best of luck.

 

 

(By Ambassador Daniel Amakor (ADA) – a young Nigerian playwright, short story writer, actor and poet, who took into professional writing since 2013 and has since then served as a local poetry consultant. He has all forms of poetry beautifully interwoven to form a unique and formidable style of writing with its main purpose to cause necessary transformation. His writing subject ranges from the ultramicroscopic things on earth to the most significant things around. Having written for tele stages and journals, he was awarded a barge as an outstanding poet. Ambassador Daniel Amakor lives in Abia state, Nigeria)

 

 

 

 

IT WILL SURELY COME

 

 

The sea and the clouds

I cannot hold back the tides

But I hold you with the hands of my heart

I crop my minds with inspiring thoughts

I have seen the gold in my heart

I cannot hold back the hands of time

I have been waiting

I know one day

I will tingle the ears of the winds

It will surely come

It will surely come to those who wait

Don’t you rush in a hurry

Don’t you worry

Keep your eyes on the gold of your heart

Listen and learn to create with the voice within

The voice of greatest can withstand the test of time

The sea and the clouds

I cannot hold back the tides

But I hold you with the hands of my heart

I live in my imperfections

But I am ready to learn

Teach me the ways of dreams at the break of dawn

Don’t give up on me

As I hold on and anchor my hope to you

It will surely come like the sunrise

I sing and dance in the garden of my heart

You have shown me diamond in my heart

The sea and the clouds

I cannot hold back the tides

But I hold you with the hands of my heart.

 

 

(By Oladipo Kehinde Paul – Nigerian Poet and Educator)

 

 

 

 

VIRGILIAN

 

 

Whenever my spirits are dipped –

My arm an oar lift and sway

Whenever human  Timbuktu is what

My very meager power demand –

Whenever I my tear hold back

To sad pillow whenever I my head lay

And my anger whenever is my revenge –

Whenever I with ardent desire wish

That I plot the return of bravest me –

To my followers story of strong relate

Virgilian either become pick hero’s tale –

That it’s the pride of men in strength

Patience of the women that resile

That mettle of nations tested against.

 

 

(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)

 

 

 

 

SHAME

 

 

We sympathized shame

Brought it on the table to discuss

Our groaning hearts confined to bleed

Simulating hilarity faces

A nation pulverized

Economic models evolving to rip the poor citizens

Political bigger heads living wantonly

Shamelessly neglecting voices of a suffering mass

Parading ego to revel their victims in applause

Shame, left me dazzed

With my pen bleeding ink

Vomiting impetus forces of victory

A mind in my story

Dictators I’m sorry

For expressing my worry

Worries of a real revolution

A change of cir’ es not persons

Both partisans and peasants eating alike

Not only when the cow piss the shit the farmer jubilates

People needs food in their plates

Rallies and propaganda ain’t our production

The effects are now embedding in our DNA.

 

 

(By Sydney Haile Saize I – a word guerrilla, a fighter for justice and a Poet in Residence for the Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Campaign. Haile is also a journalist, social change activist and a writer)

 

 

 

 

FRESH LEAVES

 

 

 

Fresh leaves

Tender blooms

Hope buds

Full delights

in blazing days

 

Your zeal

More powerful

Than summer heat

 

 

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

 

 

 

 

FEAR

 

 

Oh, your presence is paralyzing, those multiple mental battles you have won.

Your ugly cousin doubt, jubilantly announcing your arrival, but who invited you here?

You infiltrate homesteads and nations alike; your roots have dug deep into innocent souls.

How long will our people have to endure your bitter fruits?

 

You are the ice-cold behind the feet of a bride-to-be, causing her to flee the alter

Scared of a future with no forecasted honeymoons.

You know that she left behind a man with a bruised ego and shattered dreams?

You stood there watching another series of dreams evaporating into the sky

As you shamelessly flashed your toothless grin, doing your victory dance.

 

You quietly sneaked into my  Timbuktu’s yard, into her son’s mind

He was dismissed from a meager job, but all he could see was you, disguised as the end

You told him that he was done for, about how useless he was

And he was found hanging from the poles of his mother’s hut

With her favorite doek tied around his young neck.

 

If you were a color, you would be an ugly shade of grey, black glazing for a glossy touch

As you wear your cloak of pride adorned with spikes and thorny bits

You walk around carrying a box full of blades as you destroy the flesh on your way in and out

The discomfort that you are, heart pounding, sweaty palms and a mouth as dry as the Kalahari

A blackout later, after you have sucked the light out of a burning spirit.

A jealous lover beats his woman to a pulp for wanting to leave, the love died, she wanted out.

You whispered to him, “

Another man is going to touch her delicate skin, kiss the lips you have kissed, eat from the same plate you ate in” and he believed you.

If he couldn’t have her, no one else would, her blood on his hands, splashed on his white shirt, a canvas of pain and regret, but it was too late.

He will spend the rest of life running, from himself.

 

 

(By Tshepo Phokoje – Poet, writer and human rights Activist from Botswana)

 

 

 

 

OF THE BIG CUTS

 

 

Back then in the times

When hard life was good and taste

I never minded oversized cuts

My father reasoned I would outgrow them

Ever since I set on this mindset

Big is good and small is better

Despite my mother shrilling on the cut

All things are made to last

Democracy is just one big size

I will outgrow the hardships of oppression

 

 

(By Sheperd Zengeya – Poet, Writer and Activist from Zimbabwe)

 

 

 

 

ASCENSION THURSDAY

 

 

As you go up to the heavens dear Lord,

Sprinkle unto this desolate land thy mystical colors,

Standing crestfallen, flooded by bloodbath,

Smitten by violent strife and hate.

 

Let the mystery in these colors

Absorb the awful sights of war.

Let this Mystical fragrance,

Perfume our broken hearts

 

Let thy mystical presence

Silence the whizzing bullets

stop the pounding of war machines

healing overburdened hearts.

 

Let thy mystical strength

Melt away teary eyes of

Grieving souls who’ve lost

all in sizzling flames

 

Let the mystery in these colors bring

Healing to the oppressed, who

depressed, see their sun slipping

sleepily away over the horizon.

 

Let thy mysterious tidings

Intone new songs in our hearts

Let men hear now with their hearts

Take us through this tunnel of pain

to enjoy the spoils of peace.

 

 

(By Ngam Emmanuel – A renowned Cameroon educator, poet, advocate of peace and justice and wordslinger)

 

 

 

 

NO MERCY

 

 

She was an orphan

both parents gone

her name when translated meant mercy

But when she was scorned, sworn

or violently beaten. No sign of mercy

was she shown.

 

A beautiful young mother

of three was she.

Her curves still amazingly firm

of birthing two beautiful girls and

a bonny boy all under the age of nine

her body showed no sign.

 

Still grieving the untimely death

of her second husband

Young widow of twenty-seven that she was

barely a year since his death. She fell

for the charms of a man she thought

would fill the void her late husband had left.

 

Thought he’d give her

the love and care she craved and missed

Lonely for the warm comforting arms of security. The feeling of being desired

the taste of being kissed.

 

Loneliness for affection

blinded her to his aggression

His lies, cheating, jealous rages

the ultimate lack of respect

Manifest through violence.

 

Demoralized, beaten down and ashamed

He planted the seed of low self-esteem

deep within her being. So she accepted

His make-up kisses, after being beaten

Black and blue. Strangely and sadly looking upon the bruises and marks

as proof of loves existence.

 

Ignoring numerous voices of reason

Voiced by by concerned friends, neighbours

Onlookers even passers by.

All dire warnings and advice fell on deaf ears

Returning all with a smile so jaded

Yet beautiful still. Self esteem so low

Reduced to shreds by constant abuse

She appeared to just not care.

 

Eventually when she came up

As from one drowning. Reaching up

From under all the abuse.

Unfortunately it was too late.

 

For in the throes of merciless physical abuse

She succumbed to her wounds.

She’d been beaten to death.

Aged just twenty-seven

When in his alcoholic haze

Realising she was dead her abuser fled

 

 

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

 

 

 

 

WHISPERS TO THE BROKEN HEART

 

 

Calm your broken heart

Favored one

Why weep at dawn and through the night

Why wall yourself in and mourn

 

Truly you loved and now you hurt

your lover went his way

His love so poignant so excruciating

yet you have seen another day

 

Beloved, lovers come and go

Love yourself even more

give yourself the chance to grow

like a seed buried in the soil

 

The memories make you cry

they are a lesson in disguise

the time has come yes this is the year

to prune your wings and fly

 

Maturing comes with pain

you have fully come of age

you need support and those whose love

can tenderly show the way

 

A man loves but human he is

you are the spiritual anchoring

so stop giving where unappreciated

and resist begging to be uplifted

 

You have survived so many storms

Now he carried the roof away with his hurt

Let the rain pour in and wash away

The sham collection he called love

 

Love yourself dear mine first

Cry but open your eyes even more

Life is a journey not a race

There are many companions along the way.

 

 

(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)

 

 

 

 

The Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Campaign