https://mail-attachment.googleusercontent.com/attachment/?view=att&th=153a42aae01496bf&attid=0.7&disp=inline&realattid=f_im50yv1n6&safe=1&zw&saddbat=ANGjdJ-oqgnkVoPYF6pSVersCzuHFxeVkx3IqR3TZfzYjg6zNen6iYQnCe_624jwdkrn35MMifc99-kefEbj5tDE-j_yNB907sOQ5geoLO3AODvKfsz3jfbEnhjzzWsjs5_Q-t0faKfAVWNJwlkPOTCz1rlbsiFTM6rK5cIL6ee2Ey80etUxFYf5BikVsUzpvv1BcHIjU-OxMZRvYi3dLEN8MXn2cygzmUV6eLqEUbz3X50N4GnZyNYWWmsE_0RQLegIgiLXnHP6LEJwN_wE6SUhre419wqpzaxw98JU7HWTFLNWTTGgMrvuYc3MOSdGJ5Yn5oGi5pi4EezDlP9-EeuzulXR_KWgPUklw1PgbjqN6bpwtfOFEi1IOiZLYn-7qyJbjLbb76qi1Zl20nKFXgEL7ysVVw5RshL0DzilU19K_gynoqYShySE0aEXAo6Htw2PgKcQkL4uGSlxymB8oWauSB8uLCzI9TO6L8bpRotu90je-S3dfxMoCSxJ34egMjAoDFy4AcpqjUi1RS126WXZxLksVfbt00wwASD9Ab4n4fVfqsOuJksTxGOVprIIgAyCWmnLnpxw8Eddmcs0Y_L_YTi_s0UZjO1lP1XpSxCQvvSPJkL0nhVJK8iVcF9T1AMNJMt4zLxN8ks9jmLO Brandon Svongwa  a Young Poet from the  misty  mountains  of Mutare. The poet was met  by the bloggingPublisher  during  the United States of America Harare  during  the Black History Month   2016 Poetry and Live Literature Intiative – miombo publishing.

THE BLACK ANARCH

I’d only sacrifice to die then resurrect for the love, passion, affection for Africa, Ubuntu!
I said, I’d only sacrifice to die then resurrect for the love passion, affection for Africa Ubuntu!

The sights and sounds of AFRICA echo from the ancient era
Dominated by Tshaka, Mzilikazi, Lobengula and Babejani
Now the adroit lyrical conveyance perpetuated by Nas
And other lyrical giants who claim to shutter the modern age with eye lids
Groove and melody conspire with the immaculate drum
Illuminating from the king’s court and slum
Men dancing joyfully
Women clapping wilfully
Circulating the bonfire in calculated cultural ethics of appraising the higher
Prior to the great feast of assortments
Cow hooves, pig tails, tiger whiskers
Delicate as any African bowl can get

I’d only sacrifice to die then resurrect for the love, passion, affectation for AFRICA, Ubuntu
Slave ships and slave masters
Huge whips and Fake pastors
All in the eccentric grandiloquent colour of white
But they were not holy, pure or divine
Kunta Kinte alongside many Africans sold into distant foreign land
Hard labour, forced allegiance
Sheer negligence led to traumatising injuring
Blood oozing, riffles shooting
They watched, they died, they perished
Under the shadow of Negro enlightenment endorsed by local textbooks
Sealed with straight looks

I would only sacrifice to die for the love passion, affectation for Africa, Ubuntu
Because deliberation without definition is the void of dimensional liberation.

PURPLE RIBBON

Like a purple ribbon
Strapped around your waist
I won’t hesitate to gather you up
Consume your whole
And demolish all
Like a purple ribbon in the air
I dance freely
To the healing
Sounds of nature and joy
A seductive caricature and toy
Like a purple ribbon
Tied to the gift box
I shall get lost
In thought, be your host
For a night
Take it light
Remember I decorate the package
As caged birds sing
We shall ride without a blink
Like a purple ribbon
I need not reason
Casually take me for every season
Of purple ribbons

MOTHER –CHILD

12 o’clock midnight
A blood curdling
Blood clotting shout
Perforates the silent night into a sieve
It’s a young woman mourning from the pangs of labour
As her foetus surges through her anatomical canal
By a series of contractions and fluctuations
With the sweat of her labour precipitating from the smoke
And the soot stained rafters of the mud
Finally, the young mother embraces her bundle of joy
The rest of the relatives welcome the newly born baby
With ululation and celebration
Thoughts of loss and gravitational fear penetrate her mind
To them she cannot cast a blind eye
Or whistle a tune refined through years of vending
Chipo will grow to be a big girl-pretty
Acquire a job, subsequently a mega salary-petty
Whether lucky uncle Crocodile will spare her forbidden fruit
Or leave her to boss Lion who is more brute
To wonder is to be a mother
To lose is to be a mother
As gaining is to a father
Uncouth and myopic towards bridal gains
Mother prays the child is a boy
Who will only require clothes and a car toy
Chipo wishes she were a boy
Not a girl often abused down the rail

 

EXPERIENCE UNTOLD

He lurked behind the graves
Chasing empty shadows across
The plain adorned with roses
Black and darker than the hewn
Gyrations propelling him back and forth
Destroying erect crosses like a violent storm
Too wayward and torpedic to fathom
But perhaps reviving the fallen heroes
Dead to the ground with unsung memories; Experiences untold
Reek rake ripe
An ageing disposition mounted on a grave
So broad to accommodate many a knave
Scribbling million nouns and verbs
Across the juke boxed paper
Convulsing rhythmically in consonance with every ink
Spat and spattered from the pen
Structures similar to Egyptian hieroglyphics
Relatively tumbling in reversed crescendo from the top
Haphazardly clustered at the broader bottom
Gripping fear as a grotto prick
Form and style simultaneously enhanced
Two years forward, three aback
Remittance Zambezi flawless
Jaws dropped, teeth agar
Nouns of ancestors
Verbs of struggle and unimaginable agony
Plastered and bricked to the pyramid
Symbolic and real to the naked eye only

https://mail-attachment.googleusercontent.com/attachment/?view=att&th=153a42aae01496bf&attid=0.6&disp=inline&realattid=f_im50yv185&safe=1&zw&saddbat=ANGjdJ9Ayux_5Uv4Byzx7pF80xCviZ0CGa8Rd-K2sAoBuzbqJ78lAOzqwBBBX9Pit81k6sF1UfLFJeg6mLcK240DESZfx5TKpRo6d63UA5iPxSG25Z5JPSjgSt1A-i75hsbmVY0osaTiCnI93F8iE-l2ehNTuODE0OqkI7CpJdreC2d3012iAiTF__5aqpwNcqe8S2Dske3P5uFYtpQfuzTlCt7xKzN67rgZ1iS7DRWUYvdF9xzZ7woympJQuPIBKDhRhqpXF54PqZyWQQtEfvzEAWjZaH_4H8jrLCf1E4ykwuqEU6usy0P9T8jWEvLT2ngggjtxF69ovB-Zg99DD68nKL1F2wx7pKA4ljpeHbh2RH-97iFOMd8vF_4esS4H-sKthLCdBacz2BEnor1WqBAM8qAYYN5WX12E67ZMwuC0TS-anW9bk0O-MoZqNH_WDytRRfIXpmt8tyfdU8ODLNA2y7_kEes4w7CPNOAJZdsAhT1MjFDJq3x3OicAwR93E7sN_ssNG0wgGZJYBbR37uix8XHq_6fMgPcXLrdBVjcUFw9pRUpmfwr8V7FUkWW26Fv_XXpAjrIDnaqXpG3fOTqACnIoq9iiqpIwpzzD5A07G-B76PuMJqlEefVRyKg5A7ISzj7iZksgfiYrGLJXPoet and his Life           -Greatness, in reiterating the pedagogy of the Bard of Avon, is a virtue, an element of our completion as humans. Whether born with it, or not it is divinity conferred or attained by one’s mortal exploits, one inalienable fact is that all men, women and children strive to amass all the accolades, to lead a meritorious passage from the cradle to the grave, hence, true to Shakespeare’s paradigm, greatness therefore is not just a prerequisite but also a desire which all people have to satisfy, it is indeed in quintessence of our existence, the impetus of our endeavours and the ever glowing horizon that keeps us sailing till we reach the golden shore.
To talk of any man in a true and befitting way requires one to capture the merits that he has attained and that alone is a mammoth task, for the ability to live a life of empathy, to love and leave amiable records of your existence is an accomplishment which deserves the greatest of honour. How much more gargantuan it is then to chronicle the life of a man so decorated in exploits, herculean in stature and mettle and insurmountable in bearing and indefatigable in acumen and sagacity ? Brandon Svongwa epitomises what Shakespeare envisaged when his quill regurgitated that saying.
His illustrious record of excellence consists of an enviable service as the headboy of his school Hartzell as some may know it is an eclectic citadel of greatness, where being an ordinary student of the institution already sets one as a Minton upon the minnows…what more being the headboy of such a pagoda of excellence…it is not with hyperbole or deliberate guile as his friend that I say this , nor is it by my fond acquaintance to him, but truly he is a man who deserves to have a stature equal in magnitude and grandeur, to be erected in capture and commemoration of his achievements.
The golden cord of greatness is not cut short, but trickles down to his esoteric gift of words. To compose a piece of literature is a feat which almost everyone can do, however, to animate words in a godly ability, to breathe life into words so that they transform those fantasies confined to the folds of our imagination into tangible, coherent realities which we do not just consume by our minds but also marry with our hearts, that, that to me marks a true wordsmith. If I could collect the tears I have shed from reading his work which has evoked my emotions, even Lake Kariba would not be big enough a receptacle. If I were to record the instances of pure hilarious paroxysm I have experienced while reading his work, I would write a list that would make the wall of China second in length. He is a gifted writer , a rare wordsmith and a demagogue who with words alone could conquer Rome under the watch of Julius Caesar.
Just like the bildungsroman of a novel protagonist, Brandon’s exploits not only shift but also transcend from one realm of greatness to another…the disciplines may differ but one congruent factor in all is greatness. Whether as a literary Zues harnessing his verbal thunderbolt that charges the readers with inspiration and stupefaction or as a darting endurant Spartan on the sports field, as a friend exchanging a hearty tete-e-tete, as an uncle tucking his niece to bed…all these are beautiful pieces that make up the eye catching mosaic of his life thus far. Hence his greatness is not is not just communicated by the silverware that hangs above his mantelpiece but in his ability to be modest. He is also a frequent performing poet at the monthly Shaurai Music and Poetry session curtsey of the National Art Gallery.

7 thoughts on “A griot from beyond the foothills!

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