AND NOW THE POETS SPEAK :CORRUPTION
Syphilitic gangrene, clutching the hard iron phalluses of the state with a grip.
Cartel is scandalous cousin of corruption. A newly coined media lingo revealing the stink of underhand cabalistic dealings in the heave of darkness.
Scandal corruption’s obedient eunuch. Extortion corruption’s enslaved maidservant. Cartels self-enriching power mongrels defining the politics of economic levers. Their rapist hard intercourse with the echelons of state’s purse leave banks heaving in depression. Suffering from inflationary candidiasis.
The cabal of sweat boozers. Blood imbibers spiting leftovers of the country into dungeons of sufferance.Corruption, unrepentant cannibalistic wolves sipping fresh hot blood without restraint.It is political oven roasting peasants struggling to cut soil for survival. Corruption graduates heartless sycophants,
Revolutionary rejects and bloodsucking imbeciles on to apexes of state conveyor belts.
Corruption, pseudo democratic locusts holding hands with neo-colonialists. It is the ambition of political bed hoppers.Perverts swarming to burn the country into cinders of shame.It is donor fertilized intellectuals pimping their souls for glasses of whisky and okra smeared drumsticks.Corruption.Corruption is media zealots recycling shaved editorials for the moronic master’s dollar stashed brown envelopes
.It is the sweat of a poverty smitten vendors pounded to pulp by rabid heartless brutes
Corruption. Fat bead of tears of a peasant granny counting loses after the death of a breadwinner in charcoals of political heat
.Corruption is bureaucrats squandering in glittering motels in thick of night only to stretch hands to neighbors at dawn.It is pundits fitting a country in their torn pockets like we do when picking wild fruits in village hills.It is silencing voices of reason yearning for freedom.Corruption, green horns fanning violence for global relevance,
Bunkering for fame in Westminster Hall of fame and salutations in glitterati of super-power red carpets. Corruption is drugging clueless juveniles to maim their mothers
It is eating the people’s promises and roasting voters for dinner. Corruption is gagging of scribes, poets, griots, singers. Silencing Masons of expression and carvers of revelations
…Corruption, tired chest of a parliamentarian releasing a saliva ball of insults and vendetta.
AND NOW THE POETS SPEAK (Remaking the Zimbabwean Nation through Literary
Activism and Poetry of Resistance).
For more information, latest submissions, notices and other creative projects .CONTACT the BRAVE VOICES POETRY JOURNAL CURATOR, MBIZO CHIRASHA at miombopublishing@gmail.com or through Facebook Messenger.

 

 

 

 

 

mushava mushava
STAN MUSHAVA is a Zimbabwean poet and journalist. His poetry and prose collection, Survivors Café, won in the National Arts Merit Awards (2018) Outstanding Fiction Book category. Mushava’s journalism and creative writing has appeared in This Is Africa, Newsday, The Herald, The Standard, The Southern Times, Moto and few other Zimbabwean outlets.
THOMAS MAPFUMO (TAFIRENYIKA)
With comrades like these who fears terrorists?
Liberators who bundled the swastika into a fist
Are nightly shooting hungry youths into silence.

Tafirenyika, husky prophet in the wilderness,
This cannot be what you meant by Zimbabwe;
The great nation you sang of is nowhere in sight.

You would think wisdom favours the mighty,
But our protectors butcher mothers in flight.
To be poor in this land is to be an accessory.

Tafirenyika, your Zimbabwe is up in smoke;
Everything is consumed except the iron yoke.
At twenty-eight I have embraced all my fears.

Twice your songs have brought me to tears;
Your visions morph into daytime nightmares
When I see how far we wandered from them.

Tafirenyika, cops truckload grannies like game.
Davos make-up hides the mercenaries’ shame,
Five months apart blood flowing in the streets.

You sang that comrades would give us peace,
But the leaders were fighting for their own piece.
Ask for yours; lead showers from jeep windows.

Tafirenyika, the taxman empties even our pillows
But while we grease our collars a wind winnows
The worker’s crumbs from the treasury basket.

Your teary prayer, Chipatapata, is still pending;
Pray another for comrades to stop clout-chasing
While the grim reaper is on government payroll.

Tafirenyika, life is no longer at home in hospitals;
You would think hospitals are orchards of apples,
Doctors keeping away from austerity-torn patients.

When you spoke, griot, we took you for a pessimist,
Now we are stuck with a one-way way ticket to hell

 

chrispah3

CHRISPAH MUNYORO is currently a graduate of Applied Art and Design, Graphics and Website Programming. at Kwekwe Polytechnic College in Zimbabwe . Munyoro is a talented writer, journalist and a dedicated Design Artist. She is natural linguist, fluent in many languages among them English, Shona, Esperanto, Setswana, Swahili, Italiana and Yoruba. She began as a columnist writing feature articles in the Gweru Times in Midlands Province Capital of Zimbabwe. She has worked as a Midlands Chapter Chairperson of the Zimbabwe Association of Freelance Journalists. Munyoro was once a Zimbabwe Representative at Zone IV Regional Youth Games in 2014 Bulawayo in the boxing discipline. The multi-disciplinary artist is registered under AIBA the international body of boxing. The Writer, Artist, Poet, Journalist and athlete has been writing poetry since her tender years and she has participated in various writers, poetry, journalism and sports.

PALACE OF MERRY GO ROUND SAGA

Sybaritic horror-stuck, replaying of Hiroshima
Rob Roy pickpocketing glittery shimmer
Bay of blue waters muddy
Serenity and peace reaping madness
Illusions, dreams, hopes fading into dystopia
Destruction of the great Utopia
Reckless breeding atocia
Sphere sprouting false acacia
Realm one booming with Kwaito
Hive of a bene placito
Massaged by gunfire
Veld silently kissed by fire
World turning a blind eye
On the bullets robbing innocent lives by the blink of an eye
A group of owls, insatiable and egomaniacs
Christening intellects into maniacs
Essence of humanity and dignity is lost
Help erased into thin air when needed most
Future an equation of mystery
Souls becoming nemesis thunderbolts of misery

 

chidora

TANAKA CHIDORA,is a literary critic, blogger and writer who teaches literary studies at the University of Zimbabwe. He is currently writing his first novel titled MAGAMBA HOSTELS. It is some kind of auto-fiction which, as he claims, is meant to bridge the gap between a lie and truth.
SILENCE (After the infamous internet shutdown in Zimbabwe)
Silence’s overcoat
Stifling the squirms
Of those who live under its suffocating stink
Silence’s cold hands
Caressing the wasteland
Whose dimples are the pools
of gangrene swelling
From the diseased bodies
of its undead
Now silence is—-
Fuck the shut up!!!

nancy ndeke
NANCY NDEKE is a widely published poet of international acclaim. Her writings and poetry are featured in several collections, anthologies and publications around the globe including the American magazine WILD FIRE, SAVE AFRICA ANTHOLOGY, WORLD FEDERATION OF POETS IN MEXOCI CITY. SHE IS A RESIDENT CONTRIBUTOR OF THE BRAVE VOICES POETRY JOURNAL .Ndeke is an international poet with her own books and collections under her creative belt.

ZIMBABWE

Zimbabwe the land with pests In quest,
Somewhere with pestilence pestering in earnest,
Killing hope in deals corrupt tempests,
When only yester praise sung your bounty,
No more moral or right but jitters count,
Coffers dry like coffee beans with weevils,
Zimbabwe Orphans in dying dirge dances,
Of hunger and diseased ignorance,
Politics of eating afloat everywhere,
Who shall this flow stem,
And heal the land once great,
Now on a blink of fall further,
A skeletal frame awaiting Messiah save.

11.
Diamond wills and gold shafts tells the land,
Of grains and granaries bursting with abundance,
The merry and mellow on the meadows green,
Song of farmers and merchants fair in deal,
Rapture of bells calling for a seasons wedding,
The joy of living and dying at times appointed,
No more the known now unknown,
Men with paper knowledge grabs that fair,
Asking for praise paid in tears,
The land weeps with injure,
Shame a common denominator to all,
O Zimbabwe once a gem aglow,
Who bewitched you with rot,
That now be smirk your old glory lol !

TYNOE WILSON .jpg
WILSON WAISON TINOTENDA, an aspiring poet, human rights activists, page poet, flash fictionist as well as an editor of the Deem.lit.org ( Deem literature organization ). Born on the seventh of January 1998 at a local clinic in Chitungwiza of great svikiro, Tsuro Chaminuka. A Zimbabwean by birth and originates from Malawian tribe. The son of one Godwell Waison and Angeline Mandimika, being the first in a family of two, Annah Waison, little sister .Popularly known as the Lowlifediarist, has archived to compile and publicize two great ebooks entitled, THE STREET WHISPERS and the other one PAGES OF THE DIARY. He contributed to many journals online, The Kofi Annan tribute, African boy child campaign, The Ghetto Symphony Orchestra .
|MERCY KILLERS

Are we not the mercy killers ourselves
To have deprived brother a soul in the
Rampage… To have deprived families
And devoid too only left a tatty memo

Are we not the mercy killers ourselves
To have claim immunity after the deed
Beast upon beast, ramp upon ramp to
Manifest in the so called harmony city

Harare bred the playgrounds of abrupt
Perverse behaviour of the brother in blue
And his grey top revealing the untold
Suffering, born victim of circumstances

Harare where brothers in blues and grey
Open fire to citizens and the press turns
Be inarticulate and off relevance…Damn
We are muted yet we long to burst cries

Aren’t we mercy killers? If we screen the
Scenery of the drowned brother in Seke
Nyatsime river caused terror, Flooded ?
Ironic is not it ? Mercy killers, mongers

Aren’t we mercy killers? If we screen the
Scenery of the fatal accident along Seke
And fail to pay grief to the fallen brother
In the same Seke road our cameras rom.

 

KHAN

Dr. SAQIQULLAH KHAN ( Solidarity Voice) 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.)

OF BLOCK WALLS

‘Bureaucracy is a giant mechanism operated by pygmies.’
Honore de Balzac

So lucky you, – you are without
The glum inefficiency of block walls –
Where military is seen progressive –
In regressive bureaucracy when
People live, – defined as public –
Verbocrap, jealous of perk and pay
Formidable without humor
Or rare smile the master conspire.
Let’s the country go and sticks
To the log, – his wood table he leans on,
And the largest repository of quotes
All wisdom of free men fired at him,
But the good news is that
Its inefficiency is much cause of freedom –
Or ire it invites for it the face
Volatile and invisible of what government is,
Or sits the State stable by doing nothing
Making the done impossible indeed
Kill emotion and brutal in core
Outward crispness of white is but –
Camouflage with cup of tea hide
Or report a committee or type again
Still signature at the end of worthless
Paper, – a task like pushing the bell
Subordinate tremble or to next chair.
Hardly a decision is made, hardly
He himself relieved or relieves the rest
Self styled competent of sychphants fond
His little circle of political laterals
His ladder he in his pocket carry
Upthere he fixes against any power-wall
He can wait an oppurtune moment
Capitalise on the changing scenario –
Although some might other books read
But never a life as this worth cherish
Although he rides his old car long.
And where the State is redundent practice
Learned otherwise and wise of conduct
You might wonder he has a family
Childten, but hold – they might be –
Abroad for the big university
Or he now struggles after meagre earn
Compete the estate agents or contractors
Thus fallen in class he regrets his years
Taling exploits to grand children

NGAM cAMENGAM EMMANUEL BEYIA, Cameroonian born is poet, educationist, and an advocate of socio-political change. His writings address various issues and every reader is likely to find one that suits their interest. His works have been published in magazines and anthologies the world over. He has also received numerous awards of recognition
He studied in THE UNIVERSITY OF YAOUNDE 1, Cameroon, where he obtained BA in French and English. He then enrolled into Higher Teachers Training College, graduated with a bilingual diploma. Upon graduation has been teaching in local High schools in English speaking Cameroon.

GIVE THEM HOPE

The iroko fell
Frenzy swallowed Unity Square
Ebullient crowds gathered
Cheering and dancing
Honking car horns with
Flying flags of national hues
Jubilant of an end of tyrannic dynasty
The dewy hope evaporated with sun’s
primal rays and left soil baked dry
The animal spirit still lurked
The wolve spirit leading
The snake had only sloughed
in camouflage, for music and
dance never changed
The knocked-kneed legacy
of brutal repression in
a fermented economy was
carefully and proudly preserved
Where had the promised freedom gone to?
Was this just another mickey mouse campaign?
Why can’t people’s frustrations
be switched off like Internet cuts?
The crocodile can no longer shed tears now
It’s time to listen to the shrieks of an agonised bunch
restore hope and take away morphined
youths from the streets and restore hope
Stop the fire and looting out there
It’s time to keep the army in the barracks
Give food to the hungry and jobs to youths
It’s time to bring back the scarce dollar
It’s not time to tell people to sell cars and buy bikes
It’s not time to jail freedom fighters for righting wrongs
It’s time to sit around the table and sought out things
It’s time to bring back hope, reviving a festered economy
for though the songbird was slaughtered,
but it’s song remained long after.

smeetha,
SMEETHA BHOUMIK (Solidarity voices) is an artist, a poet, and she curates poetry at WE, as Founder of Women Empowered-India (WE). She is Chief Editor – ‘Equiverse Space – A Sound Home in Words’
GLOW

Yours – both tears & nectar – they touch you
& caress your brave ways as you flow on;
your cheeks – heavenly prisms of beauty
of a promise quite like that of dawn.

Your measures, like hope, they are your own,
make them when the tides are low
make them when the tides are high,
make them , but make them your own.

All the world will come at you with its
tape measures, its hour-glass & pince-nez
to plumb your worth, to mark your success
only you know of course they are worthless !

Whoever can know of your unique charts, your
maps, your steps, your inner light on darkened paths?

MAGODO
CATHERINE MAGODO –MUTUKWA is a poet and fiction writer who believes every woman is a story to be told and heard. She takes time to weave words of experience from untold stories of women who have loved and laughed, cared but cried, their feelings or unfeeling in light of what life has bestowed upon their different paths.
Her works have also been published in various online journals and anthologies.
OF BITTERSWEET LITTLE NOTES

Teach me the song of resilience
and
let me murmur not,
in the deep darkness peering
through my place of patience,
revealing
the agony of this burden of untold
stories
and of voices within my voice.

Teach me the song,
that
makes me feel heard,
clawed out by the need to be
understood in the absence of
free speech,
free verse carrying the scars of
yesterday seemingly without an end
spiraling in and out of words
dragging it all into consciousness
if only,
to put a balm on the wound ripped
open
by
desperation of hopelessness.

Teach me the song of my kindred,
to place my hands on my chest when
I feel my heart leap no more,
trapped in knots of notes unsung…
teach me that song of bittersweet little
notes

 

zg 2
DR. ZACHAROULA GAITANAKI was born in Athens on November 30th, 1966. Now, she is a small farmer and lives with her family in Arcadia. She writes poems, articles, short stories, essays, novels and review of book. She is also a translator of books of poetry. She is a life member of the “World Academy of Arts and Culture” / “World Congress of Poets” (which awarded her the title of the Honorary Doctor of Literature), of the IWA, the “WPS”, the “Poetas del Mundo” and the “Asociacion Mundial de Escritores. She has published twelve books.

WHEN…

There are moments,
that Poets owe to keep silence:
When birds sing,
rivers flow their water quietly,
sun shines and warms everywhere
and people live in harmony.
And there are times
that Poets own to cry out:
When the sky is getting dark
from smoke of rockets’ and fires’,
sea is darkening from oil
and sea-gulls are dying from pollution.
When sun isn’t warming all the people
and children are unhappy.
When ear spreads panic,
fear and death,
leave behind ruins,
cripples and shuttered devastated dreams.
Then, Poets owe to write.
Making pen a weapon,
a message and a hope.
Till they come again these moments
that Poets owe to keep silence.

 

alain rwanda

ALAIN JULES HIRWA is a writer and poet living in Kigali, Rwanda.
THE HISTORY OF BRAIN DRAINANGE

I’m six
the TV screen sells the American dream to my big brother
he packs his luggage with his brain
mother turns him into a bank account
before he says a goodbye absentmindedly
as if dying
his coffin turns to be an airplane

the next year, on Skype
my brother glows like the bulb in our house
he teaches me to search the USA
in my school notebooks
because
to go there costs the intelligence of another nation

I’m eighteen
the main topic of the discussion among my classmates
is a recent graduate of our school
who the USA plaited dreadlocks
in a photograph tha’ he sent to our principal
as an achievement to our school

we see him marrying a white woman
and all of us spend the whole night in our classroom
studying

I’m nineteen
waiting for heaven to fall from the sky

two of my classmates enters into the USA’s house of dreams
in my eyes
they join the Happy Ever AfterTM

I loathe my motherland
fills ten or a thousand USA university scholarship application forms

I’m twenty
tonight, my home stinks of domestic violence
my mother’s tears
are loads I must carry
as I walk towards my own house of hunger
to become one with my father

as I wait for this poverty
to take on me as an abusing husband
a house phone rings
to take my brains to the USA factory
and I run away
without looking back at my mother’s sobs

 

IMULANE POET ,.jpg

IMMULANIE MAKANDE is the current Vice President of the Poetry Association of Malawi. He is a teacher of English and History. He is an advocate for peace in Africa and he writes to empower girls and women. Born on 1st December, 1986, Immulanie is working on his first poetry anthology.
These faces were smiling
They came from where winds raged
And here, they found worthy settling
Instead, misled, raped, slaughtered, caged
Like a million pimples on her face
Stay the citizens’ huts, disease ridden
Living with monsters who deserve death
When all they fought for was ‘self-driven’
Failed leadership, corrupted change
Broken sleep, disturbed dreams
Wars fought, unchanged trends
Good lands, good people but puppet regime
Disease worsen without reckon
And healing is a thought coming second
These faces were smiling
They came from where winds raged
And here, they found worthy settling
Instead, misled, raped, slaughtered, caged
Like a million pimples on her face
Stay the citizens’ huts, disease ridden
Living with monsters who deserve death
When all they fought for was ‘self-driven’
Failed leadership, corrupted change
Broken sleep, disturbed dreams
Wars fought, unchanged trends
Good lands, good people but puppet regime
Disease worsen without reckon
And healing is a thought coming second

michael

MICHAEL MWANGI MACHARIA is a poet based in Kenya. He is interested in the arts in various forms including photography, fine art, music and dance. He was anthologized in Echoes Across the Valley (2000) and has contributed articles in local newspapers. He also enjoys identifying and promoting youthful talent.
WIND OF CHANGE

Smoking out the peasants
from their hovels of love
Humility,sharing and fulfillment
Driving them out with bullets
Making them queue to ballot
Put their approval to plunder
Senseless accumulation and murder-

The urgent wind of change
blows across a hapless continent
Demanding a new deal
The right price for natural wealth
That lies awaiting exploitation
For the good of all her children.

ombara.
AUTHOR OMWA OMBARA is a Political Asylee, an investigative journalist, poet, vocalist, performing and visual artist. She is author of a Memoir, “God’s Child on The Run.” She holds a postgraduate diploma in journalism and mass communication and a BA degree from the University of Nairobi. She is a former Bureau Chief, The Standard Group, Co-founder of Tujipange Africa Media and #Kumechacha Africa Diaspora Saturday Breakfast Show in US. Her passion for standing up to power and corrupt leaders in the media circles is unmatched. Her experience in journalism spans 20 years
GRIEVE NOT FIR EARTHLY TREASURES

Grieve not for earthly treasures
Lost umpteenth times along the way
Mortal pleasures that seem so heavenly,
Delicious, enticing, tantalizing, safe
Smile and be grateful for what nature’s
placed along your way
There are many that fell along the path, who missed nature’s tray

Be not contented with earthly gifts –
These are mere tools
Life fondly offers
To help us survive through the journey
Whose rugged paths and slippery highways
Make it unsafe from time to time

The journey from mysterious worlds –
From other worlds that were before I was
Through this world which is, where I am
Until I cross over to yonder shores, where I shall be
Where the sun sets in its full splendor and glory and never tires
Where spirits rest and dwellers’ fate lie deep
In a secret world hidden in nature’s womb

A world I shall forego, when I grow old and weary
To future worlds still unknown

Sometimes we tend to cling
And hold on to nature’s gifts so dearly
Like ticks behind the ears of a sickly cow
Yet these are only temporary kits
To guide us through the journey
When weary feet that long have trod
And weary hearts that thirst for drinks
Make their “final” journey

Material things like food and shoes and vanity
And farms and trees and cars and gold and power
Are mere earthly pleasures we shall soon forego
For use by other pilgrims, just like those before us did
And those to come will in the never ending passage of lives sojourn
To worlds both known and unknown

Grieve not for earthly treasures
Trust not in earthly pleasures
Lost somewhere along the way
Shed off mortal passions that seem heavenly
Delicious, safe, enticing
Enjoy it, treasure it, savor it, then let it go!

arabambi joseph a

ARABAMBI OBALOLUWA is a 26 year old poet and a student at Federal University of Technology Minna Nigeria.
CRAVE FOR POWER
Under the moody moonlight I sat
Observing the rumbling and creaking of this world
Gazing at the moving up and down of people
Feeling the effete cold breeze itching the skin
With all diligence, I searched my inner self
Thinking intensively about the slipping and falling down the mountain of this nation’s Jack and Jill
Mind full of thoughts, I stared up at the stars
Not a single one gave a smile of consolation
Not one gave a sparkle of hope
Even the moon was filled with pity and sorrow
The sky so cloudy that not a bird could visit relatives
The crickets so dump that they couldn’t snarl at the weather
Feet so weak and cold to trend the paths
The street filled to the brim with emptiness
Humans so dead as empty to hum or whistle
Some waiting for death to say hello
Though at a fixed point of broad light dreaming
My mind and soul surveys the nooks and crannies of the nation
Imagining what the country was like and that it is becoming
Not a thing was I able to fathom
Better off the devilish crave for power
Nothing was I able to pin point
If not the unbalanced rationality about power
The puny turns big when crowned power
As extreme as a rat could be in its jurisdiction
Snarls like a lion when handed power
Everywhere filled of the false educated hooligans
The country laying waste from their pestilential acts of brutality and ignorance
Can the chicks escape these fierce pointing claws of the hawk?
And where are the protection capable mother fowls?
Even the protecting walls turn weapons for destruction
Resulting from their bitter craves for power
Not that to be staffed power isn’t right
As good honey is to the mouth, such is power
Just that, cats can’t be stock keepers at cold rooms
Rather butter a meal for the baboons
Still at dilemma at the state of the active mayhem
Chewing the curd of what my eyes saw and my mind thought
My heart wandered around like a lost soul
Seeking for remedies and possible way outs
Though hope and survival tends lost
Is there a doctor anywhere that can cure?
Any drug capable of healing the insanity for power?
There has to be help!
There has to be rain to quench this drought
Let the sick be healed for the sake of a new dawn
Let the ill rationales be taught the ways of wisdom
For power isn’t a tool for the fools and greedy
But, a factor for a desirable change.

organic Star,

STAR OKPEH is a passionate African writer and Poet from Nigeria whose works have appeared on Atunispoetry.com, award winning anthologies, magazines, Journals and was formerly a Judge at the Poetry Planet, Philippines. Star is the Head Of Writers at the Portal Network International, Publisher at StarWrite Productions, Member of Writers Space Africa and Author Of The Dance Of Dawn. She is also an editor and devotes time in coaching young Poets on the essence of Poetry

BLOOD IN OUR WINE.

So, our mothers cursed the grave
To the River in their rage.
Amidst the tunnels of our souls
Thirst was a hunger in those days.
A child would cry till mountains fall
Upon our frightened heads
Whimpering in hopelessness
When war is in the air.

We hid in those autistic nights
Breaking fasts with cries.
Our fingers itched to touch our God
If he was still alive.

The brooks did travel out of town
Our world was mourning wild.
The streets were slaughtered in the dark
Our wines were full of blood.


Zlatko Kraljić (Solidarity Voice) was born in 1962 in Croatia. Now he works and lives in Velenje, Slovenia. He is a painter, a poet, and a writer and a recipient of many national and international awards in the field of literature as well as visual art. For drawings he received ‘Zlata Paleta’ in 2000, the highest national award in Slovenia given by the Association of Art Societies Slovenia. In ‘Ex tempore’ competitions he received first places in Šaleška dolina (2001) and in Krško (98), a monetary award and special mentions in Piran (2001), an award for veduta of the city of Velenje and many more.
Member of the Society of Croatian Writers.
WHERE IS MY HOME ,ANGEL

they have uprooted my roots, anchored in the gutters of Mura multiplied, cloned, catapulted me, to European and non-European countries have sold me, for coins, replanted, transplanted, quartered, fertilized my beauty restricted to four parts, then deprived of perfection in
the netted vans distributed, by the coal power plant planted
to recycle the sulphur and the guts, never watered,
dependent on the acid rain, that nibbles on me, tickles me, they left me gave me a shovel and a pick to hoe around myself
they have uprooted me the black sights and vistas put before my eyes employed me as an air pollution indicator, as a test rabbit, a tester of water in the testing center, as a bio-purification plant,
a wind turbine, a signpost to the coalmine’s tourist Centre,
implanted as a virus in the landfill,
as a ticket seller for the art performances, a diver in the reeking lake, a policeman in the protests, a porter at the church’s entrance, amateur preacher, backup mayor, granite cube catcher,
high booted peasant, a friend and a butcher of animals, salesclerk in spar, for coins they have transplanted, quartered me,
and I fear every gust of wind,
in case it uproots me

victor wesonga

VICTOR WESONGA is of Kenyan nationality. He stays in Kenya. A Literature enthusiasts with roots immersed in Engineering. In the republic of letters, I read to internalize and learn .My submission comes from his unpublished anthology, MILITARISTIC STAIRWAY.

EMBERS FROM RHODESIA:

Closer coming, cocooned by the fear of volatile
Words, wound around wands of affluent cultures,
And journeys jogged across distant lands,
With wee will to free the land from white hands,
But big with intent, to plague, prick ‘n pack off
Plights of blacks and sloshing white vultures,
Freshen blacks breaths, stretch in breeze on all fringe flanks
That makes man, even wild game and plants
Far and wide in vastness of Rhodesia,
Whet with the appetite to
Have absolute savour of peace that hangs
Hitherto on heaves free sky, in pristine world over,
And to darn eclectic smiling sun of awards to
Relate straight, but to the azure of heart
That’ll ever be of Rhodesian story!

Poor souls that this journey trudged their soles,
Pushed by the sniffs of heat baked soil
Sodden with blood that cried out loud,
In the sun of day and moon of night,
Stars of dawn, even dust of evening, tight
But to rollup oppression, often and foil
Rhodesians regressions,
Bulawayo’s corruption and Harare’s toils
Trampled by fly away inflations,
But to the souls with murder infest,
Gluttons and loners whose faces, grimaced
With theses of their paymasters to serve,
And whiffs of the bones that lives once bloomed,
Bones that on soil walked, with brains to tame gloomed
Injustices, psychological strewn, remain ever pruned past
Seeds of yore, larger than life left lifted high, last with dust
Never floating away, but now watered down by
Blood of bold old, scold, scorned, scowled.

Oh, ‘ts true! Sheer sure power to a few bakes mendacities,
That hides sleaze but beams bright with blight that aborts
On skins of civics, even megacities,
How true or sweet is power? How peculiar is it’s argot?
Even in land yonder, Rhodesia impinges
With deleterious kiln of quash

14292316_10208941194198481_7967443890244862024_n

Borut Petrovič Vernikov was born on 21st March 1955 in Ptuj, Slovenia, now he lives in Ljubljana. He is poet and literary criticist. He was self-employed writer for several years, now he works as a financial advisor. He publishes at Slovene literary magazines – Dialogi, Sodobnost, Naši razgledi etc. He also wrights literature rewievs that was published at Radio Slovenia, also a lot of his poems were read on that radio station. His second book was published at Center for Slovenian literature, now he is preparing his third book. Nowdays he publish poems at literar magazine Locutio and Poiesis. His poems were also published at Antology of Facebook page Poiesis and at Antologhy Spread poetry, not fear (Poiesis, Ljubljana, Slovenia, april 2018). His poems were choosen in international book of poetry »Friends« (published by: Kultura snova, Zagreb, Croatia), which included 108 poets.
PRAYER

To be a tree
so that
birds may nest
in its crown

To be a word
that kisses freedom
hidden in the locked cage
of life

To be a key
that opens the door
so that the traveler may enter
into embrace of love

Amen

 

 

james coburn

JAMES COBURN is an Oklahoma poet in the United States of America. Coburn has always valued the subtext of life and seeks to reveal its undercurrents. He believes indifference is the enemy of man as it is the benefactor of ignorance, racism and xenophobia. Coburn is currently collaborating with Nairobi poet Brian Kasaine on a book of poetry. His first book of poetry “Words of Rain” was published in 2014. The book was a finalist for an Oklahoma Book Award. In 2016, ten of his poems against terrorism and to save the Sunderbans (wetlands) were published in “Onnyodhara” (The Alternative Way) Eid-special issue festival edition in association with “Anushilon” (The Culture & Literature Society) the National Literary Organization of Bangladesh. Coburn is a 2013 inductee of the Oklahoma Journalism Hall of Fame. He has been published in several anthologies. Three of his poems were published in Canada’s Tuck magazine in 2017-18. He has served as a resident poet at NonDoc.com.
NARCSISIST

He accepts nothing
which shall not fill
his bank account.
He is the center of his
own universe,
like a gaping black hole
swallowing every direction
except his own.

His energy pollutes life on earth
in an all-consuming parade
of torching land,
flooding sea coasts,
feeding trash to whales.

Beware of a man
who ushers out science
as a lie,
projecting a void of superstition.

Crossing horizons,
resonating through chaos,
lift people away from puffed up madness.

 

PROSPER KAVUNIKA Prosper is a Zimbabwean Afrocentric poet ,social commentator and a provocative writer born in December of 1985. He grew up in Chitungwiza where he did both his primary and secondary education. Besides poetry he finds comfort in writing short stories . Some of his work has been featured in the Tuck Magazine. Currently he is working on a short story entitled Dual Sim.
PICTURES OF UNTOLD STORIES

What then shall I say….
When masses are being massacred
When our voice is made void
When the puppeteers purport to be at the pulpit
Instead of receiving butter and bread
I am battered in broad day
I am told to remain calm in calamity
Communication is turned into commotion
Corruption camouflaged as cooperation
Songs I may sing a thousand
Words I may write a million
Still the pictures linger in my eyes
Pictures of my untold stories

 

Miroslava Panayotova 3

MIROSLAVA PANAYOTOVA graduated from the Plovdiv University majoring in Bulgarian philology. Her whole lot of poems, stories, tales, aphorisms, essays, criticisms, translations, articles and interviews in periodicals and collections. PANAYOTOVA’s books include Nuances(1994), God of the senses( 2005), Whisper of leaves( 2017), Green feeling( 2018); Two collection of stories: An end and then a beginning( 2017), The path of love(2018),Two eBooks: Laws of communications /aphorisms/( 2018) Old things /poetry/(2018).She is a member of the Union of the Independent Bulgarian Writers and a member of the International Association of Independent Writers “Sodrujestvo”.
COUNTRY
Witless day, witless night,
the lies on the screen.
And nobody turns out bad
in the plundered country.

We live day to day, for a moment,
from bill to deferment.
The thief is only great,
he gains a new point.

We are silent
and we howl
but without a voice.

They wash every word.
Before it reaches us,
we are turned into foliage.
ШУМА / или ДЪРЖАВА
Безумен ден, безумна нощ,
лъжите от екрана.
И никой не излиза лош
в държавата обрана.

Живеем ден за ден, за миг,
от сметка до отсрочка.
Крадецът само е велик,
печели нова точка.

Мълчим и вием,
но без глас,
промиват всяка дума.

Преди да стигне
тя до нас,
превърнати сме в шума

amy de la haye 1

AMY de LA HAYE (1967). Since 1990 individual, social involvement, cultural diversity, emancipation and ICT have been her field of work. She worked at various government agencies as an ICT teacher, educational advisor, cultural worker and web editor. She became a kind of lost in the chastity of her years. Work hard on that career and ignore the desire of your inner self. A few years ago she picked up her pen again and started listening to the calls of her interior. As a cultural entrepreneur she is busy with poetry, reciting, (script) writing, filming. ‘On the cutting table of life’ is her debut collection (2016). Together with the poet Gerhard te Winkel she published ‘Zomerzotjes’ (Summer Follies) in 2018.
GOD
are your angels sleeping,
are your messengers yet awake,
your people down here
are torn apart by bombs
in large numbers

Where are you God?
I was looking for you in holy books,
between the lines
in stories of oral traditions
in countless opinions
from your own creatures
In the goodness of my fellow man
I found You – in vain

I sought You in hope that was left
when fate covered mercilessly
what life had brought
from the early life light,
I was looking for You in the promise
of a loved one, a Judas
who later cut my heart in two

God, they told me to search for You,
on Fridays in the Mosque
others shouted an irrevocable No!
pretended to find you on Saturday
in the synagogues,
also others tried to bind me
and swore cheerfully
that you were everywhere in the church on Sundays

Jehovah’s at my doors
presented you in many scents and colours
God, the dogmas flew abundantly around
no mortal human wanted to hear
my intelligent sharpness. Drifting
and rabid- the revolt
focused on the secret
the knowledge came to me slowly

The illusion of distraction -inspiring
me for years in a row-
now knowing. You are all directions
in every end, every beginning, every moment
in every fraction, in between and halfway
You are where I allow You to be

Then I saw You in the faithful eyes
of an animal. In the reflection
of sunlight on water. In the trees
seeing my stumbling
when I wanted to get out of the autumn,
dazzled by all the splendour of colours
that this season has tried
to show me, while I just wanted to die
in a stylish fashion. It turned out not much later
that I found you also in the pain
tearing all my intentions apart

I saw you in the stuffed veins
of elderly hands
transparent softness
that even now, at the shortening of the days,
still hold history
I found you in minuscule rewards
in friendships- gold rim
For long my thinking -redundant-
is now liberated of illusions and
distractions. I go peacefully and struggle
for love in all small things.
Translated to from Dutch to English by HANNIE ROUWELER

 

bina

 

BINA SARKAR ELLIAS [1949] was born in Bombay, India. She wears multiple hats as a poet, fiction writer, art curator, and founder-editor-designer-publisher of International Gallerie, an award-winning arts and ideas publication since 22 years. Her book of poems Fuse has been taught at Towson University, Maryland, USA, and selected poems have been translated into Urdu, Chinese, Arabic and French. Her recent book of poems When Seeing Is Believing is a selection of poems responding to images. She has given talks at various global venues and has received a Fellowship from the Asia Leadership Fellow Program 2007, Japan, the Times Group Yami Women Achievers’ Award, 2008, India, and the FICCI/FLO Award, 2013, India, for excellence in her work. Bina Sarkar Ellias believes she is a global citizen who lives and works from Mumbai, India.
PURPLE POEMS OF ZIMBABWE

they have not forgotten~
these sentinels of history
these comrades of “yacarana”
the jacaranda trees.
“yacarana”, once christened
by Brazilian natives
were migrants in Rhodesia
land of the Africans.
for a hundred years
and more, in their new home
they resplendently blazed
their purple poems.

they have not forgotten
that the tenuous thread
of the continent is stained
with blood of the dead.
for a hundred years
and more, in the African sun
they witnessed the web
the colonisers spun
of snaring land that
was not theirs
of trading the hungry
defeated slaves.

they have not forgotten
through the seasons’ flow
the pain and humiliation
of a hundred years and more.
the white wave swept
through fertile fields
through the land of treasures
and its precious yields.
they polished the ebony
with a new tongue and belief
they white-washed their land
with their own leitmotif.

they have not forgotten
the patina of age
and beneath its white surface
the black man’s rage.

they have not forgotten~
these sentinels of history
these comrades of “yacarana”
the jacaranda trees.

 

ADRIATIC
Adriatik Jaçe was born on 21.05.1971 in Përmet. After graduating from high school, he continued his studies in Tirana University. The passion for literature started when he was very young, passion which it grow throw years, as well as numerous reading, was transformed into poetry and creative spirit.
The diversity of life, Life metaphysics and deep sensation experience, those are the basis of this poetic creativity, which comes through symbolism and metaphor, that is used on creative style and creative art for the moment.
WHO WOULD NOT WANT THIS LAND
.
The land is black, reddish and brown.
The soil stick,
…. when rain shoot down that thirst ..

…. when the Lord forgets to sand the lust of sun …
The sun often disgraces it….
… the arrows of love, send to the wonderful chocolate, vertically .. Well in vain as they say, sun ..
Do not feel ashamed.
Dont even care…
The land here is divided, the whole is hungry, thirsty
Is greedy …
It sucks and swallows anything that falls on it and stays slightly still .. The mouth is always open and waits.
It is like a monster…
It keeps a lot under this land.
It is speechless.
Only when hungry it opens the mouth.
Or, except when cleaning the surface, is excepted…
It is without ears, without mouth and without eyes.
Ah! How many things has seen this land.
Once reddish, once black and once brown, its color .
How often, more and more often, has been hidden in its zgafellat; demons, cries, blood … ………….
Eh … they’re calm.
Walking happily …
They grab what they see, what thay can reach …
Nothing is prohibited for them.
No.
They …
Build houses, they’ve cars, women …
Their appetite is excellent.
Their appetite is greedy …
And land sees, listens, but does not speak.
There the land is voiceless.
How much they love this piece of land!
They talk about patriotism, their heroism … they laugh with a monster’s smile … There, they are filthy,they desire is shining with the humans poverty. They are addicted in precious stones.
They record their memories, how to tell the time, the things of their existence. …………….
She is young, beautiful!
In her body, sings with lymph, the death too.
Walk,in the cells, the tissues hit the neurons.
She feels her body loses it..
The body is getting heavier..
She sees herself in the mirror and revive, beyond the remnants of death.. Runs through the night to catch the horrible night..
That night, when she saw herself, slave of lust.
Looks terrified …
… besides the white smiles in the dark and the felt, hands touching at her body.. She tried to move..
She tried to talk..
But no.
She could not, hands holding her, holding every moving part, and her mouth close. She listens …
Forging moderate offspring in the night lining..
And the animals, who screamed hotly, left the line between them … Then everything was gone down…
A noise from the car in that terrified night ..
Tried to gather the pieces of her soul
Pull away, moving, body pieces..
She ran with the night, smiling to death …
………………
It was distorted …
The sweat was sucked into the skin in salt crystals.
Her clothes don’t fit her no more …
… in her body that looks like enter in water, from the fatigue of collecting the particles of diamond … Nor open the mouth, while she erodes the land or the sand..
The yellow eyes followed his movement.
They watched everything.
… even the thoughts..
But,she belonged to yellow eyes, with yellow dresses for their gods… She walking slowly with her life for just some crumbs.
While in the eye retina, diamonds dance..
Returns ..
Even today, she was taken the daily food …
………………..¬…
He could not understand his own life without the closed airy rooms in the far palace. He could not understand his bed, blankets and silk beds.
He could not understand his life without women, dancers, singers … He could not understand his life without the caviar, the truffle, the champagne and the daisy … He could not understand his life without the precious stones, the foreign currency packages … Eh how many have fought!
What the sticks had put on that rocket …
He settled quietly in the distant palace, restored by the evil gardener, over the uninhabited land … On land that does not hide crimes ..
That did not excuse …
……………….
Meanwhile in the sky was a curse of the mother of a more diligent soul, the father …. Perhaps once, when God has free time, he will hear …
Maybe….
As the next ship parts from the port running to Asia…

 

 

 

GENE
GENE BERRY is an Irish Poet, Art Therapist, Counsellor, Hypnotherapist and Psychotherapist. He has been published widely both at home and internationally and his poems have been translated into Arabic, Irish, Hindi, Albanian and Italian.

Barry is founder of the Black water Poetry group and administers the world-famous Blackwater Poetry Group on Facebook. Barry is also founder and chairman of the Blackwater International Poetry Festival.

As an art therapist using the medium of poetry, Gene has worked in libraries, hospitals, primary and secondary schools, with Narcotics Anonymous, Youthreach, retired people’s groups, Alcoholic Anonymous, asylum seekers and with numerous poetry groups.

CHEWING HER CUD

Without asking he told me
that the old boat had tugged her
out to a place where the religious
fill their dreams, to where an audience
of repaired grandparents play

I begged him to dismount from
the saddle of remorse he was riding
to polish the parlour and dress each
room with favourites of flowers
and long ago visited photographs

Dine with dreams I told him
unpack the contraband
swim in glorious memories and
reap the unseen sown by forefathers
tend to memories borrowed from the future

Standing for his first time he exhaled
‘she was the bull’s red rag’,
he swallowed,
‘a Dante inferno and yet
I loved the bones of her’.

 

 

 

uche naija
UCHE AKUNEBU is a teacher of journalism at the international institute of journalism Abuja and Open University. Immediate vice chairman of association of Nigerian authors, Abuja chapter. A public scholar, poet and prolific author.
UNTIL!
The vultures
Leave the skyline
And creeping creatures
That gives the creep
Leave the pathway
The sixth finger
Will not falter.
Until!
The monsters in our midst
Midwiving miseries
And staccato of sorrow
Still stare at us
We shall turn to exorcists
For the sake
Of those frightened.
Until!
The nation wedded
By colonial instrument
Continue to be under the yoke
Of ruthless rulers
Without compassion
And vicious vermin’s
Visiting with vicissitude
Our resolve remains resistance

 

 

jambiya3

JAMBIYA KAI aka BEULAH KAY is an avid writer and supporter for and of the Tuck Magazine (Canada); 100 Thousand Poets for Peace Campaign – (Zimbabwe); Miombo Publishing; Poetry in the Blood, and other online Journals. Her works are also read on The Dear John Show.

Currently Jambiya Kai is working on “4 Seasons in a Day” – an artistic collection of short stories, prose and poetry.

Jambiya can be contacted at jambiya1@gmail.com or her works may be reviewed online at https://¬jambiya1.blogspot.com¬/

Beulah Kleinveldt is the founder and CEO of The Campio Burns Group; a revolutionary activist against burns abuse and gender based violence. She serves as Creative Arts Content and skills Developer and Playwright for Provincial Government Cape Town) – mentoring Youth at Risk.
POETIC JUSTICE
Dying embers –
afterbirth clinging to an aborted dream;
a miscarraige of justice that roused sleeping dogs;
The Zimbabwean scam –
Perpetrators of hubris who rap hypnotic lyric to a lullaby of perfunctory promise.
Renaissance clowns juggling crystal balls and meths,
but nobody’s laughing.
The ark of truth is on death-row
walking the green mile –
brave voices barred by political cons who have crossed the line and violate the codes of humanity.
but truth shall not be silenced,
it shall not quiver in its mission to dislodge the tongue of vice and crime.
Humpty Dumpty will fall,
crack his head against a wall
and all men,
will fail to put Humpty,
back together again.

 

THE JOURNAL CURATOR
MBIZO CHIRASHA is certified as a Global Literary Influencer by Directorio Mundial de Escritores through Academia Mundial de Literatura, Historia, Arte y Cultura. Recipient of PEN Deutschland Exiled Writer Grant (2017) Literary Arts Projects Curator, Writer in Residence, Blogs Publisher, Arts for Human Rights/Peace Activism Catalyst, Social Media Publicist and Internationally Anthologized Writer, 2017 African Partner of the International Human Rights Arts Festival Exiled in Africa Program in New York.2017 Grantee of the EU- Horn of Africa Defend Human Rights Defenders Protection Fund. Resident Curator of 100 Thousand Poets for Peace-Zimbabwe, Originator of Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Movement. African Contributor to the Table of Words Demer Press International Poetry anthology edited by Hannie Rouweler in Netherlands. Solidarity Member of Global Alliance for Politics and Arts. African Participant to the 2014-2020 World Poetry Almanac Anthologies series in Mongolia edited by Hadaa Sendoo. Co-Editor of German Africa Bilingual Collection with German International Translator Andreas Weiland in 2016 (http://www.street-voice.de/SV7/SVissue7.html).2003 Zimbabwean Young literary Delegate to the Goteborg International Book Fair Sweden ( presented at Nordic Africa institute, Swedish Writers union , SIDA Diplomatic luncheon , Radio Dialogue , Swedish International library Association , Sweden National Education Summit).2009 Poet in residence of ICACD ,international Conference of Africa Culture and Development courtesy of African Culture Development Institute .Founder of the GIRLCHILDCREATIVITY PROJECT. Curator of MIOMBOPUBLISHING, miombopublishing.wordpress.com and PERSONALITIES OF INSPIRATION,personalitiesofinspiration.wordpress.com., http://www.en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mbizo_Chirasha

 

 

mothers

BRAVE VOICES POETRY JOURNAL- A weekly platform of poetry for resistance, literary freedom of expression and protest Poetry in pursuit for a peaceful, just, non-dictatorial and nonviolent environment with a special focus on Zimbabwe , Africa and other nations around the globe through poetry , Flash fiction ,arts , brave voices and literary activism. Contact the Curator/EDITOR of the Brave Voices Poetry Journal MBIZO CHIRASHA at miombopublishing@gmail.com , post on MIOMBOPUBLISHING Facebook Group or Inbox the Curator on Facebook Messenger

Mbizo Chirasha. Miombo Publishing Header Image. a publishing platform for young and EXPERIENCED fiction writers

2 thoughts on “BRAVE VOICES POETRY JOURNAL 57: AND NOW THE POETS SPEAK (Remaking the Zimbabwean Nation )

  1. Poetry is a great teacher. Words are nutrients of the soul and mind. Big up to all who participated. Shout outs to Wilson, Prosper, Chrispah and Beulah. Kip the pen on the paper.

    Liked by 1 person

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.