Shout Out from Miomboyour Profile Photo– In this hot and suicidal month of October. Miombo presents to you one Titan of  verses Jabulani Mzinyathi. Whose poetry, short plays  and essays  are widely  read in Zimbabwe and around the globe. His Poetry is suicidal hot  like  October. His metaphors and proverbial expressions resonate with the  scorching summer sun.Jabulani is our second Poet to be featured  in our  new project Time  of  the Poet. The main objective  of this project is to inspire young poets in Zimbabwe, Africa  and around the globe.Happy October month! Please contact Miombo on



Exiled Farmer{tribute to Chenjerai Hove}

Now you are at home

At home in exile

That is the conundrum

Then you left

This unbearable psychiatric ward

Hear the demented voices

There in the red hills of home

Those deranging reverberations

The rattling of the bones


Hear the words of the prophetess

That spirit of resilience

Now you are up in arms

Those daggers are drawn

Exile , keep your bags packed

Turn ploughshares into swords

This is what time dictates

And now the poets speak

What is this hen pecking its own eggs

I shall remember that incisiveness

Forgetting is a heinous crime


Freedom time is here 

Image result for zimbabweans demonstrate images

Voices deemed discordant

Voices to be silenced

Voices that are morgue bound

See their resilience still


Shattering the walls of conservatism

Refusing to be shackled

And trampled under jack boots of intolerance

Voices seeking self liberation


A new dawn is rising

Go tell it on the mountains

Over the hills and everywhere

That the machin




Candle flame


The brilliance

The moth in a dance of death

Drowned in the hot wax


The goat

At the python

A hypnotic stare

In a flash

The sweetness turns caustic





Now back home

You mask the truth

Fantasies in the fore

Now you return soulless

A gaunt and derelict being

You embarked on self dehumanization

Now a pollutant you return

Warped ideas you bring

An unwelcome stranger you are

Reviled and rejected everywhere

Though you are worse than the prodigal son

These open arms welcome you

For forsaking home you are forgiven





In this blood

The thud of the adze

Chipping off the rough edges

The craftsman’s inner spirit

Sweetly embedded in the medium

Then mutilated

Then annihilated

‘Thou shall not have any other gods’

Then the message is warped


In this blood

Those songs

The evocation of the spirits

The immense musical appreciation

These are the roots

Posterity shall have no parched throats




I dawdled and dithered

Then boom

Off it went

Shattering falsehoods


Shedding off the hypocrisy

Shattering conformity

Iconoclastic thunder clap

That is the essence

The truth is an offence

That rock off my shoulders

A giant step forward

A preparation for a cataclysm

This is my searing spirit

A riot of emotions

This is my searing spirit

A riot of emotions

This is between light and darkness

These are cymbals of my feelings





In the cosy arms

The cosy arms of Eros

The resonating cymbals of passion

Our galloping hearts

The blooming booming emotions

The fruits of that intensity

This flood of memories

This flood




She thinks in terms of caste

The Brahmins up there

Untouchables in menial tasks

Those inhuman barriers

The foul smelling segregation

She looks me in the eyes

The man you see she doesn’t

The colour of my skin is the issue

Deep inside I hear the explosions

Our impending shattering of conservatism

This gripping passion is colourless




Snippets of political debate

Speculation rife

The senselessness of it

The impending cataclysm

Fucking the desperation

The allure of trinkets

Throw in the Pan African spirit

Then you have a clear picture

The poet behind this creation

The right dose of reggae music

In the air the distinct smell of ganja

The colonial legislation cannot snuff it out

The flood of contradictions

The angelus still stealing souls

The struggle within the struggle

Oblivious of the annihilation

Talk of love I scurry for cover

Many a time I have fucked the desperation

I hear the jingle of coins

The rustle of crispy notes

The stinking lies told

The mind reeking of false modesty

Wallowing in this defilement

This place is one big psychiatric ward

Give me ignorance to accept this blindness

This blindness leading me into an abyss

Then there is this hollowness

There is this daemonic void




This aching heart

Burning on the cinders of rejection

This raging storm

That healer time will abate

Though the mark be indelible

The pain shall be stale

After the winter there shall be spring

That freshness sprouts

Nature exhibits her charms

This aching heart

The grieving shall be gone ,gone

Time the healer shall wave the magic wand

That excruciating pain shall be gone

Hope shall reign supreme




That soap bubble burst

That plaster fell off

That was the unmasking

A revelation of what was askew

That meteor streaked across the sky

It was a passing sparkle

It was a dry barren wind

All it left was a parched mind

Nowhere to find solace

Is Ecclesiastes the panacea?

Is it that happiness abides in sadness?

Can the past be interred in shallow graves?

Is it that time is the healer?

These dying embers shall glow afresh


‘ Hence it is that poetry demands a man with a special gift for it, or else one with a touch of madness in him ;the former can easily assume the required mood, and the latter may be actually beside himself with emotion’ page 1472 THE BASIC WORKS OF ARISTOTLE




Bombarding body and soul

Dabbling in debauchery

Trying to get to the bottom of things

Black sunlight- a conundrum

Tracking down the word hoard

Realising the same fate

Creating this hollow ring

Turning to alien philosophies

Leafing through Aristotle’s Thoughts

Imbibing Pedagogy of the Oppressed

Turning here to Roget’s Thesaurus

To the Oxford Dictionary turning

Proclaiming that I am autochtonous

Entangled in this confusion

Expressing righteous indignation

This fascination with whirlwinds




Beggar’s artful voice modulations

Pricks not long lost conscience

The hardness of cold steel

That is the scheme of things

The beggar chants the refrain

Upenyu hwakasiyana-siyana

Chill gusts of indifference blow

Maybe some consciences are pricked

Still the beggar flaunts his artistry

The beggar’s observation in his finger tips

There is that deep chasm

The distance between his needs and my wants

Am I not my brother’s keeper?

Songs of sorrow issue from the pavements

Behind these lines the pity and disgust




No seed shall prosper

For your womb is cursed

Every seed sown shall be chocked

Only thistles and thorns grow

Goblins you shall bear

For forsaking the gift of motherhood

In vain you shall labour

Babies cries shall haunt you

The sprouting seedling you extirpated

Bear now the indelible scar

Your days shall be full of vampire shrieks

Wolf draped in sheep’ skin




With mud and spittle

Now we receive sight

This turbulence

The bloody dawn

These demented voices

Taking nothing for granted

This poem is evidence of treason

The grip tightens on shrivelled balls

Children learn these caustic lessons

Savour this succulence

Fly, fly without perching




Trust not

Those smiles

Those assurances

Like dew they dissipate

Those vows

Heartfelt they are not

See the selfishness

That rabid dog snarl

Ask for divine intervention

What was his fate ?

The fate of doubting Thomas

To deflate their egos

Feed on this  skepticism

For the fullness of life




Gradually the grieving gives way

The wound time the healer heals

That erstwhile vicious blow dissipates

Time waves its therapeutic wand

The freshness of life wafts in

After the storm comes calm

Taste the succulence of time tasted wisdom

Reality submerges false modesty

Those urges soar to the summit

That pain is relegated to the backseat

Intense feelings take to the high table

That is the height of this therapy

Can one forever wallow in grief

See the  enormity of this conundrum




They take to podiums

They slander

They ridicule

Bringing to shame

Men of integrity

Belittling them

Hear the ululations

The deafening ululations of  sycophants


They take to podiums

Exposing their demonic ways

Shameless propagandists

Taking advantage of  the gullible

They shit and piss in those faces

See the abuse

Those men of little minds


They take to podiums

Preaching the gospel of hatred

Trivialising noble ideals

To the wise mocking themselves

In their relentless efforts to mock others

Frothing at their loud mouths

Exposing themselves to scorn


They take to podiums with impotence

Exposing their barrenness

Exposing their vanity

Exposing their desperation

Their words shall not take root

In the minds of the discerning

Forever we shall salute men of honour

Though they be subjected to vitriolic attacks

Time shall be the judge


‘The first opinion that is formed of a ruler’ s intelligence is based on the quality of men he has around him. When they are competent and loyal he can always be considered wise, because he has been able to recognize their competence and to keep them loyal. But when they are otherwise, the prince is always open to criticism ;because his first mistake has been in the choice of his ministers.

The Prince by Machiavelli page 124



 Image result for mzwakhe mbuli




A cry for a home


Confined like a caged bird


The fight courses through veins and arteries

During those days

In these days

Where lies are said to be truth

And the truth is an offence

Shall we ever know the truth

People’s poet you are not alone

Have you been made an outcast

An outcast in a society you fought for

Mzwakhe is prison your home





Herded into stadia

Like sheep to the slaughter

To be dipped like cattle

The ticks of opposition eradicate

We the gullible

To be protected from powerful orators

The art of circumlocution

That they have mastered

The Socratic laugh resonates

Hooligans on the rampage

For reason must be propagated

Fear paces up and down

The corridors of power shake

The cupboards brimming with skeletons

Official history now is shredded

That trial now has begun

Our collective conscience- the prosecutor

Posterity the judges




Hear the beautiful tapestry

Woven from the consciousness

See the images of freedom

That undulating beat

That pronounced bass guitar

That punchy drum kit sound

The catchy congas and bongos

Now is the redemption time

Chills in the spines of the wicked

They shall be scattered and shattered




Grandmother told me

Yes she did


She told me

Of the emasculation


Of the dumping

Nowhere near the prime land


Today these sandy soils

Today the barrenness


That resilience

That resilience


Every grain of it

Shall set all the slaves free




That charting of fresh paths

Slashing the thistles and thorns

Shattering the glass houses

The glass houses of conservatism

Shocking your English sensibilities

Moulded by Shakespeare, John Donne, Ben Johnson

Carew and Marvel among others

This emotional outburst

The imagination will blossom

The stream of consciousness rolls

Jolted , you will sit up and listen

Keep not posterity away from its share

Its share of this wealth

Shatter, scatter the shell of conservatism

Virgin lands must be tilled

The rivers must be navigated

Constrict not the flow of thoughts




I cringe at the sight

Of  shit


The shitstem

You call system


The shit

That poverty is


Unbridled corruption

Of the shit classes


Shit in their mercedeses

Offending the air we breathe


Shit that builds mansions

In the midst of squalor


Everywhere is the shit

Spreading disease


Shit that keeps me away

From the glamour

From the glitter of my land


I cringe at sight of shit

Stinking shit

That keeps this poem  in shit

The censor’ shit


Give me blindness

For sight hurts

Give me ignorance

For it is bliss




Years of moonlighting

White arse licking

Dirty dishes washing

Wailing and wishing

The lies told are stinking


It’s not the land of opportunity

It is the land of uncertainty

Skin heads and shit heads love to kill

Black people pain and death give them a thrill

Down my spine runs a chill




What relay race

When the baton is not passed

What competition

When there is one competitor




The rubber stamp

Squashed testicles


Virility long lost

Keep the wigs

The irrelevance

Thugs unleash

Castrate the so-called intellectuals

Dissenting voices drown

Rule anarchy rule

That is revolution

Sow xenophobia

Separation of powers

Let the west have that

Laws come from the barracks

Public dissent crush

Hold them forever in terror





It shall be so children

When the right time comes

The prophets still speak today

Through the deft brush strokes

Through the incisive chisels

Through the plethora of musical instruments

The prophets still speak today

Through the prancing lines of prose, poetry and song

Those that do not understand today

They shall wallow in mental squalor

Those that do not understand today

They shall tomorrow sink in deep regret

Listen to the prophets in timelessness

Listen to the prophets in the garden of inspiration

Listen to that divine inspiration

Listen to this divine inspiration

Listen to the prophets forever




Yarn  after yarn is spun

The spin doctors

Hammering us relentlessly

Vicious propaganda

Political party thugs

Amassing degrees in violence

Capped in the morgues

Fireworks displays

The flaming petrol bombs

Conspicuous by its absence

Is the truth

The excruciating pain of today

The succulent fruit of tomorrow

The truth is an offence

It shall never be a sin

The brimming cupboards

No more shall they hold skeletons




Voices in the dark

Dark voices


Voices in the dark

Shaking my conscience


Voices baying for blood

Deranged voices

Voices full of hate

Nocturnal voices



Voices, voices, voices

Voices, squalor laden


Those night voices

Passing, passing ceaselessly



Jabulani calls himself a prophet,  a poet and  a philosopher. To him ‘POETRY’ is the short form for person of extraordinary talent. He has had poems and short stories published in several publications,among them are the following: The Chronicle, The Citizen, Moto Magazine,  Mahogany, Journal on Social Change and Development, Compost[USA], NgomaYokwedu[ Bwaz]. Crackling Voices of Budding Writers[Bwaz], Whispers in the Wings[anthology, amazon books] One Ghana One Voice[ezine].Jabulani has also been deeply involved in legal writing.

He was once a columnist for Moto Magazine and back then for professional reasons operated under the name Pro Deo. He has also written  a lot of short plays. One  of his popular plays, What Goes Around Comes Around was performed by Great Zimbabwe University students in 2014.

Jabulani was awarded a Diploma for Excellence by the Scottish International Open Poetry Contest [1997].  He was also a finalist in the Edgars Stores Competition in the 1990s.

 Jabulani has also a lot of unpublished works that comprise a novella entitled  ‘ Derailed’ and a Chishona  novel entitled ‘ Mumambure’. Jabulani has collections of poetry which he calls ‘Voices’. Free verse is what jabulani dabbles in. He has no sacred cows and is a socio-politico critic who writes not out of anger but righteous indignation. He is greatly inspired by reggae singers and in particular the late great Peter Tosh

4 thoughts on “Time of the Poet-Mzinyathi, Titan of verse!

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