Wednesday, May 26, 2010

Vashti by Bhekumuzi Tshuma


I came to you with my heart,
As a loving shepherd,
An innocent lamb did I come;
Expressing my naked thoughts,
Yet you rejected me with your lips
Dammed me with your eye
And you cursed me with your heart;
Today I come to you with gifts of lyric,
A bracelet of deceit I use
A ring of flattery I have used
A bouquet of cacti I compliment,
I clothe you in a white garment of sarcasm
Much to your satisfaction,
With lying lips I ornate your neck,
For earrings
I sting your ears with honeyed words
No meaning beyond their expression-
Which you have been tickled by,
I crown you with a veil of irony,
With a scepter of duplicity I honour,
Yet you accept me:
Now am I wrong to call you vein
The moon came shining into my life
Like a beam of light in my heart
All darkness was exposed…
Darkness has descended
The expensive sky robbed
Of her precious jewelery:
The moon has gone on vacation
The stars are nowhere to be seen
The sun has retired to his summer villa
What remains of the once colourful sky:
Dark, Grey clouds every where

Empty Confesions of Time by Nkosilathi Sibanda


Of lived fantasies at dark spots,
to the hard to remember night outs,
coupled with joys and fears.

Of all men met, most of whom slept.
Of told passion and hurt,
to the sacred doings of the bedroom,
to the young, ego-full minds of trials and tests,
to the cries of mothers and babies.

Of times when lessons were taught,
to the torrid times when help was sought.
From the struggles of finding the self,
to the victories of accepting what’s ours,
in the company of pain and rejection.

As time is a tradition,
gold rings and music were the reason.
Of the times where weed, locks and perforated pants of the time,
became tired friends of life.

Up until the gods take theirs, life still
rolls in the music I sing to feel myself,
in the presence of friends,
in the joy that never ends

Of all things done in life
it’s a revelation of self.
A life worth living.

Through The Park by Busisiwe Khanyile


Through the park I did dwell
I loved a boy and loved him well
He came and took my heart from me
And now he wants to set me free...

One day, he had a strange girl on his knee
And told her things he never told me
Now I understand why
For she was far prettier that I...

I went home straight that night and said,
"Mother dear, I'm going to bed"
My father came home that night
He searched for me, from left to right
Through my bedroom door he broke
And saw me hanging from a rope...

"Oh daughter dear, what have you done?
You've killed yourself for one man's son"
He took a knife and cut me down
And on my dresser, this note was found...

Dig my grave, and dig it deep
Of marble stone from head to feet...
And on my stone place a dove
To show the world I died for love...

Ileya (Homecoming) by Rezthapoet Afolabi

I go home
without the charity, that I took to the city
Home, I go back
With hands clenched in tight fists
The only thing I take back is this,
Me.
Electricity, I leave behind
Erratic in nature
Shouldn’t cause up to a day
Change in time and comfort.
So home I go
Without water, running from a pipe
Without night clubs, night life and the lights
I go home,
Brick walls in my background
For home, with the mud walls
Is my background.
Right now, I stand where the tar ends
the Bolekaja* stops, and the dust starts
For my abode lie beyond these forests
Same that bear the herbs
Leaving the comfort of medical hospitals,
pharmacists and their pills
I heard that
Baba Ewejoko*, still is alive
So I shall get the necessary treatment whenever I get ill.
On my way home
Home of many misters, without the “Biggs”
Home of the farms,
where we harvest and roast yams
Home of where I’ll wash my draws
With the water fetched with a draw.
I draw to this, my home in lines
Of footprints, along this path that I follow
Drawn by the aroma of burukutu*
And the wooing, from Baba Aduke’s bicycle
Whose tireprints, lead me on the road to this home, sweet home.
Happy that now as I go
Though without the charity I took to the city
Home I arrive, for this year’s Ileya* celebrations
With hands clenched in tight fists
And the only thing I’ve brought back is this,
The Me,
that didn’t forget his roots
and the son of who he is.
_______________________________________
*Bolekaja – rickety old bus.
*Baba Ewejoko – usually the name of the village herbalist
*Burukutu – locally brewed alcoholic drink
*Ileya – Literally means home coming. But it is the Yoruba coinage for
Eid-l-Kabir that Muslims celebrate, and every member of an
extended family is expected to visit the family house in their
respective places of origin, towns or villages during this
celebration.

How I Feel by Bubelo Thabela Mlilo

I feel great, encouraged.
I feel like the master of this being, me
I feel like I run my world.
I feel like I am the master of my thoughts the creator of my world.
I feel like I attract my achievements and non achievements.
I feel like I am in control.
I feel like I am rock solid.
No one can bend me nor break me.
No one can have me wrapped around their finger.
I am mover and a shaker.
I am a trend setter.
I am button proof no one holds the remote of my emotions.
I feel like I have found my lost self.
I feel like I am a strong firm character.
I feel bold, underlined and bright like a shining star.
I feel good, I feel acknowledge

He Is Back by Lilian Dube

His grandmothers are in black
Heading for the chapel
Weeping no more
He is not part of them-

He left home
&two unborn sons
Five years ago
Skipped the border
Landed somewhere
In Yewville
Or was it Hillbrow?

Greener pasture
So green
He lost himself
In the dense undergrowth
Apprenticing in thievery
Full-time job
Three other part-timers
A broad hipped
Pastime
With a body to offer
&MORE

He came back
Three days ago-
There is he
There, face up
In the roughhewn
Coffin that has just
Bankrupted his mother-

In Bulawayo The Streets Are Big by Mthabisi Phili

on the absence of coffee at a coffee shop

the shiny coffee-pot-glimmer provoking
the scent reverberating into hungry nostrils,
the man sitting outside is cursing the morning paper,
beggars are on their routine check for pennies
the music rides on the vibrating coffee waves-dire straits
the beauty maybe not –exposes her legs with
tight neat jeans that fit like fish scales,
the wedding convoy passes with the pomp and
noise and rush of pink and white balloons on
car sides-

in Bulawayo the streets are big and wide –remember
the ox-drawn wagons had to turn in those long gone sunsets
of the Matabeles and the Pioneer Column-
in Bulawayo the streets are big
three big women are learning on their cars
dishing out gossip only the rich can afford,
the music is beautiful and the morning is fading and
and the ice cold rave of a Mercedes flashes fast past
in Bulawayo the streets are big …

National Healing by Abel Phiri

Lest 's exhume a man from the cemetery
a well built grave
awarded a proper burial,
who earned one
an unsung hero buried in a mass grave
a feckless drunkard in an improvised grave
drainage, or a makeshift grave at the backyard garden.

lets exhume a man from the grave
ask him how it is in the land of the dead
are there springs or winters ?
are there shona ?
do they clap their hands preliminary to receiving things?
do they remember anything?
how they where scaled and burnt to death?
or maybe they are white
they talk to in laws hands in pockets,
what components make a man when shed there is no man?
is it the flesh, mind or the soul ?

Let's exhume self from vile conspiracy
do we have flesh, medium for sharing pain
do we think of others ?
lets exhume self from vengeance
ask being how we live if soulless
if as atrocious as death
let's exhume ourselves from the grave
and ask how how we live if we are dead

Misunderstood love by Amos Kufata

I loved you,
and learnt to live without you!
I should have followed my heart,
Or that fate,
But because of you, I fought it!
I felt the pain of that.
I listened to your voice,
And made a wrong choice!
When punished, you where never close,
Then I saw you as a withered rose,
Not much you could bring,
Maybe a song of sad love,
or just a kiss,
Of which god would curse me for taking it!

Togetherness by Clemence Chinyani

When you stand I rise,
Remember what they say, true,
Members of a body,
They perform in unison,
Harmony is it not what it is?
Yes, birds of a feather, I mean of a flock,
It means the same, the creator,
Made us more for the reason,
There is power in many.
I saw your tears,
And heard your fears,
This trust between us,
Never has to fail to materialise,
For not to claim, what we care not for.
When we are together, great cities we find,
Large spaces we occupy,
Progress we realize,
Never looking at colour,
For its just a shade,
Never looking at tribe,
For it is only a smaller family,
But looking at us as humans,
Who together can stand,
And hold one another’s hand,
Then we will see true victory.

Togetherness by Clemence Chinyani

When you stand I rise,
Remember what they say, true,
Members of a body,
They perform in unison,
Harmony is it not what it is?
Yes, birds of a feather, I mean of a flock,
It means the same, the creator,
Made us more for the reason,
There is power in many.
I saw your tears,
And heard your fears,
This trust between us,
Never has to fail to materialise,
For not to claim, what we care not for.
When we are together, great cities we find,
Large spaces we occupy,
Progress we realize,
Never looking at colour,
For its just a shade,
Never looking at tribe,
For it is only a smaller family,
But looking at us as humans,
Who together can stand,
And hold one another’s hand,
Then we will see true victory.

You by Clerence by Clerence Manamike

Raindrops splash onto my zinc roof.
The sound is magnified
Like a thousand horses galloping on my roof
I hold my pillow tighter
and try to imagine it is you
I succeed
That impish grin and devilish glitter in his eyes
When he took you away
Like a man taking away a priceless trophy
The sonnafa....
No, you wouldn’t approve of that
My bed has suddenly turned into an ocean
And I’m drowning in it
It takes but a few moments
For me to realise...
The ocean is not the bed
but my very own tears

The City by Fred Nwonwu

We traverse her jumbled length
Ever hailing corner and street totem
By name, yet
The city knows us not

Hidden eyes follow her concrete strength
In secret beds too squalid for them
Can't forget
The city knows us not

Years we've served yet her myth
Remain deeper for any to redeem
Only dig in, fight
The city knows us not

Daily blood sacrificed upon her feet
More yet will be given up for when
She summons, yet
This city knows us not

Her name I hear is glory meant
Her alias I know is murder's bane
Your soul she gets
This city knows us not

This is a useless poem by Busisiwe Khanyile

This is a useless poem because I hate the fact that you hate the fact that I'm in love with you...
But I love tha fact that you once did...
It cuts me deep, whereas, I have to drill it down to the fact that I hate tha fact that I once had you...

This is a useless poem because I was once told that you gotta want something hard enough to get it...
And yet, I wanted it so bad, I lost it...
I always say, I don't cry 'cause I give my pen tha pleasure of flowing ink tears....
But I'm not goin' to say I've been teary eyed but I'm reaching that stage...

Actually, I've reached a stage whereas I'm writing useless poems to give an act of love...
But I always ask myself, why love when love hates me so much????

There's room for everything in a full heart, room for nothing in an empty one but only room for you in mine...
I express myself through poetry and my emotions are neither added nor imitated...
But now are rotations of what I portray myself as...
Like turn a smile upside down...

This is a useless poem because it's not gonna be considered but hope never raised any dust...
This is a useless poem because no words can describe what i feel, but I am no dictionary....
This is a useless poem because I don't wanna love, whereas, you don't me....
But this is a useful poem because now you know I share a deep affection with you...
My only hope is so i can too be your Boo, see???

Postscripts by Lilian Dube

And Yes, they've written the letter for us in hieroglyphics
Signed it, sealed it for us, calculated all the logistics
Penned the address, some place here or there
Now it's left for us to send it
&Yes Ma'am we'll do it
Post it but let us first add on the postscripts
words that go along the lines of
PS Apologies
there are no full stops
Lying is a continuous emulation, no punctuation
These are just their words, words &words
Our words go along the lines of
PS Apologies
even us are too young to read the language
So read in between the lines, these blank spaces
Our mind's confines which represent freedom
&what our words cannot express...
But Yes Ma'am, we'll do it, send it
Even if it be to the hangman
&our names be the first on the hangman's list-
We'll sure do it, post it
But let us first add on these postscripts
With all our respect due to you....

Soldier's Tale by Tinashe Muchuri

Once upon a time
Twenty of us set out
to accomplish an assignment.

Ten became prisoners
Five were not lucky with death
Three disappeared
Two of us survived
This is news for my commander.

To the nation
we would say
We killed
fifty rebels
and captured
twenty bandits.
None of us were injured.

Operaion Talk, Taura, Khuluma by Mthabisi Phili

There is no poetry these days
only my love for you remains
there is no poetry these days
the industrial workers walk on home ….
there is no segregation these days even racists are seen in queues
no there is no poetry these days
no meat no food –even water goes on vacation
there is no nothing these days
only my love for you remains-

The Stroke of Midnight by Takawira Dururu

Some die before midnight in the old day,
Others are born after midnight in the new day,
The other will live to see many days to come,
The other lived and saw many days that passed.
The former never saw the beauty of yesterday,
The latter will never see the gloss of today.
Fortunate am I for seeing the sun rise,
For I have seen the best of the two days.

A stranger in your own home by Willard Goora

If news about your coming home from the fields,
Is sweet to the family,
If family and work are separated by great mountains, rivers and oceans.
If menus change because you are coming home,
If even toddlers can tell the difference,
Yet others till their fields just like you,
But come home daily,
And their coming makes no news.
Then without you knowing it,
You may have become one,
A father by remote-control,
A stranger in your own home.
If upon arrival the kids mistaken you for their uncle,
If they realize it and quickly retort, “No, daddy…,”
If every-one laughs at the kids’ folly,
Then without you knowing it,
You may have become like one,
A soldier coming from a war in a foreign country,
A stranger in your own home.
If you get home from the fields,
And you are shocked you own a house,
If you don’t want to go back because you are gratified
If you only go back because of duty in the family,
Then without you knowing it,
You may have become one,
A father of seasons,
A stranger in your own home.
If your wife cant live without you when you aren’t there,
If she cries for you before you come home,
But when you come you find even eating habits are totally different,
And you have to learn each other all over again,
And the things that never used to matter now matter,
Then without you knowing it,
You may have become one,
An earth-mover that makes a very nice road,
But never gets to enjoy a cruse on it when it’s finished,
A stranger in your own home.
If when you come you find bedroom habits are totally changed,
If you find the bedroom is now a play-ground for kids,
If no-body seems to notice except yourself,
Then without you knowing it,
You may have become one,
A disenfranchised member of a ‘was once a family’ set-up,
A stranger in your own home.
If the sun is rising and setting in the wrong directions in your world,
And it isn’t any bother to you,
If you throw destine to fate and fold hands,
Then without you knowing it,
You are becoming a permanent one,
A spectator and cheerer of your own life.
A stranger in your own home.

Dropouts [ 2006 by Mthabisi Phili

I’ve forgotten some of the moments
Of the campus mates I learnt with
Poverty x-rayed me out of school –
Or was it God’s will?
So when I meet them now
I panic –fumble my dusty files for their names,
the security guard by Express Shop is friendly-
says a big hello and packs his bags to go….
it’s quickly turning dark
and I have forgotten some of the names….

Remembrance by Beaven Tapureta

When your words pinched the last out of me
I became an outlaw of love,
Lost the route to the garden of the Doves
Then I found a piece of you

In one dejected drawer in my heart
A memento
A dusty piece of undying love

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