MP- PAN is a fast rising sculptor of words , armed with the literary chisel to shape ordinary verse into thought provoking metaphor and satire. PAN is a brave word soldier in this generation of Underground and Protest Poetry.His creative prowess is proven by his verbal dexterity and artistic presentation . The poet is a solidarity and contributing member to the Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Campaign and Brave Voices Poetry Journal(Poets Free Zimbabwe Concept. Dear reader meet the Word guerilla PAN( Philani Amadeus Nyoni) . You are welcome to send your comments , likes and also follow our blog site . Contact us at firstname.lastname@example.org- MBIZO CHIRASHA
DIRGES MY COUNTRY TAUGHT ME
I huff and puff the smoke of my exhaustion;
This is what we were born for:
We are not cankers that chew the Rose
But maggots for carrion,
Spinning yarns and yore of lore
And draw at the wisp of foe
Gone, gone long ago before I saw
The shore beyond my mother’s door.
Long the smoke of that war
Our fog the halitosis of stale ambition
And bread that beguiled the dead,
Enthroned us in their stead;
Cradled by the womb for the tomb.
So this is what we were born for.
I raise my eyes to the shore of yesteryear,
Not a decade past but history repeats itself,
Cooking oil evaporates on the shelf,
The fuel queues winding serpents of witchcraft
Snorting the powdered corpses of the hordes
Who trusted in gods and the guided choice;
Fool who waged papers against veteran killers!
Who’s to blame while we brandish pens at eternity?
Pattering black ink on darker canvass of perpetuity?
What is vanity?
In a moment of clarity I sought myself;
After an eon of contemplation I knew I was not lost
Though the ground be familiar
In the trek of a circle. I knew I was not lost
For I have come again to undeny
What my eye once vivified but I
Chose blindness. I saw I was not lost
For he who claims eternity
Must first own a moment.
I dug myself into the filth of the day,
The excrement of banal tongues
That call the truth of my eye a lie;
The ancient demagogues whose hearts pump the blood
Of our unformed offspring, cast with ambition
Into the pit of oblivion and never-to-be.
Beatrice, I am in hell, don’t come find me.
I and my kin of Ignavi sweetness,
For I saunter and wander behind Cockerel’s banner.
The wasps that wrap their sting around my flesh
Tattoo the truth I must transcribe.
So give me your shroud Beatrice,
Press it to my wounds and read my truth,
Unlearn the rhythm of my name, in-turn
Unbury me from your heart
Where my best is interred,
And fill your lap with God’s moulding clay.
I am condemned Beatrice,
By my coward ways and meandering words
To this vestibule of hell.
Sword and scabbard are one
Even while blood is wine
As they dine on the foetuses of a hope
We set to the moon when we could dream.
Turn from me my oh Beatrice;
Have you not read the post at Acheron’s edge?
“Abandon hope all ye who enter here?”
FOUND SCROLL OF TUMBUKTU
As humanism to The Renaissance,
Ubuntu calls the children of Afrika;
From Nubian Nile, to sublime Azania
The conga summons you to the dance!
Dispel the archaic for the ancient!
Is the reason the reason, or reason
That holds the bloom from season?
Call to the mountain sapient!
The lore of Christiandom is as holey
As these borrowed robes upon our souls.
Hearken now for eternity calls
Writhing are the serpents of the holy!
Thirst ye for the waters of the living,
There was a heaven before we were stolen,
Had we no gods ere Yahweh was given?
Your peers of old await your freedom!
No donkeys with horns to call unicorns
That tread guilt streets paved with gold
Stolen from the Motherland since so old
No hell no Eden, no Iblis’ horns!
Children of rape, denounce your father!
Children of cannibals, what’s for supper?
So blessed and wealthy; how do you suffer,
Roar now loud and silence thunder!
Tendebantque manus ripae amore
Not for home but the far bank,
Away from home, oh far shore!
Not the familiar for it was blank,
Bleached to bone in famine.
Not of health, of hunger rank.
Not to God, no name divine,
But to neighbour cried salvation;
From home, not sulphur and brine.
Not from Justice’s condemnation;
The putrid shadow of the law,
Her pinions hollowed with corruption.
And what of those who did not go?
Some their pleasures found fulfillment,
Vultures! their lot is to devour
Other bodies, broke and spent,
Too feeble to run to new pastures,
Though the bread no sacrament.
Some beguiled by wayward pastors,
Who preached of sin to the absolved,
Some’s old faith in ancient masters,
Too ovine to see weak bonds dissolved.
Yet some with love for home and country
A thirst to see its puzzle solved.
If never solved, if never free,
To bow untamed on matriarchal ground,
Buried ‘neath the mphafa tree.
Philani Amadeus Nyoni (is a Zimbabwean born wordsmith. He has written award-winning poetry for the page, the stage and the screen. He has also written articles and short stories for various publications, local and international)