Poetry Bulawayo

I perform with broken ribs caught up in a sugar stampede Bruised by baton sticks stomped by booted feet A running nose remnants of teargas in my nasal passages I stand on shaky feet having walked into town A crowded bus for the return journey Buttocks of someone's wife against my groin I stand dizzy A packet of maputi for lunch The water is dirty I have diarrhoea I stink Have learnt to bath with a liter of water The smell of smoke Cooking with a thorny bush fire I stand here and talk about it I will be accused of being an imperialist stooge I need a bulletproof vest They will graduate from baton sticks to guns. After I am gone I won't rest they will set up roadblocks Harass the mourners And ask ‘where is the police clearance ?’     Previously published in the anthology FIRE IN THE SOUL: 100 poems for human rights by New Internationalist and Amnesty International.

Image - iharem.com  long before Barack Obama In 1962 my father toiled in Quincy, two weeks, no more, and saw no blacks except for two young ladies who moved like swans busing dishes in a farmer's cafeteria. Daisy badges on their uniforms announced their names, their years of service. He still remembers how throughout his meal he wanted to stand, a stranger in a seersucker suit, and shout: "How can you live here? Where, except in church, can you clap your hands in emancipation?"

Image - madamenoire.com It maybe me, but that l doubt   It is not me who sang that song; it was the song that made me sing   It was not me who said those words, but it’s the thoughts l had bottled inside me   It still is not me who was there; it is me who only stood up to myself   It still is not me who had that shadow but rather it is the shadow that had me. Trust me it wasn`t me.   It is not me but it`s the life l share with myself   It is not me who ponder with my thoughts but it’s the thoughts which take me yonder   It wasn`t me who came there but my nobility took me there   Oh that, that l did not say to you, it just came out of my mouth   The smile, it wasn`t me who flashed that smile, for it takes more muscles to smile than to frown   Then it wasn`t me who was there.   It’s not me who stood there & made you smile   For my presence does not put a smile on any face   It wa...

Image - oaklandnorth.net Half were on Facebook a quarter were asleep the rest were feigning alertness whilst waiting for tea break The ones on Facebook and the ones sleeping were also waiting for tea break.

Image - flickr.com Dear Comrades Welcome to our congress We are not here to impress As in order of introductions Not the list of sanctions Here there are dogs, Chickens and pigs Elephants, awls, lions and you Yes, you Dogs have no respect They bark at our esteemed visitors Bite our private partners They fuck in public They leak the dirt of other dogs They find joy in eating leftovers

Image - 2morecents.wordpress.com Once, Somewhere in the loss of true memory Our black was beautiful You must remember US, When being black was the most vivid of dreams Raindrops wetting to life those landscapes within An idea brightest in the blackest of times Because it was then, that point of creation And then light Now being black is a nightmare A lonesome memory trapped in third world politics Education systems that blind our ability to dream Arrested development as we slave in modern day plantations Structured to seem to mind as our salvation A nightmare from which if we sleep We may never awake Black was a feeling once A mood dressed in the most moving of music When drums would sound the pulse pace of warriors Mbiras the guidance of those alive within us When the most eloquent of tongues exhaled words to life A young man’s guitar Would sound to the Heartbeat of the most virtuous sister As they moved within the rhythm of l...

I will as I promised, Attach your poetry to a kite, And let it out of the window, ... ... So it soars, high above our heads. I shall, As I promised, you my little cousin, Paint it bright, your poetry, So that we will gaze at it, Floating in the sky, And we will also be seeing, Beyond it, The blue sky, Where the heavens are, Where eagles play, And swallows fly. I shall, Dear young Primrose, Fly it on a bright and sunny day, When everyone can breathe, The crystal clear morning air, And see the sun shine, As brilliant as it could. I will fly your poetry, On Christmas day, Maybe it will snow, Or it may rain, Whatever the weather's mood, I shall fly it out, Bright and happy lines, Smiling onto our faces, Celebrating the birth of a baby king, And you my cousin shall smile, Together with a million other smiles, Oh what a happy day? To see the works of your hand, Floating in the works of the Creator's hand, And then we shall sing, A hap...

Photo by Mgcini Nyoni As the dollar rises Each day I count the rays of the sun Piercing my grouchy skin To blackness it has never before seen As the dollar rises Each day so do my hopes and dreams Dreams of a proper meal A day A slice of bread, with the Morning rain And morning tea In a fragile cup of porcelain frivolity Yes, a proper dream Of a hope for my children’s children... As the dollar rises Each day I do dream of a cool day Of morning dew touching my clear skin As the morning rain Pit-Patters on the little horizon A proper dream A slice a day A hope for my children 's children Just a proper dream.

Image - quintessentialfeline.wordpress.com I missed you- the very moment you turned to go into that Harare train, I saw the cold night already – the racked night red and empty I shivered put my hood-on my hands in my pockets and walked away from warmth …with a broken heart!