Mbizo Chirasha is a Creative Communities Expert, Opinion maker/ Contributing Writer/Columnist{World Pulse/www.worldpulse.com/mbizo chirasha,Bulawayo 24 news.com/www.bulawayo24.com/mbizochirasha}, Blogging Publisher/Writer/Editor, an internationally acclaimed Performance poet, Creative /Literary Projects Specialist, Mbizo Chirasha is the Resident Coordinator of 100 Thousand Poets for Change-Global in Zimbabwe. He is also the Advisory Council Member of ShunguNaMutitima International Film Festival in Zambia, an Advocate of Girl Child Voices and Literacy Development .He is the Founder and Projects Curator of a multiple Community, Literary, and Grassroots Projects including Girl Child Creativity Project, Girl Child Voices Fiesta, Urban Colleges Writers Prize, and Young Writers Caravan. Mbizo Chirasha has worked with NGOS and other institutions as an Interventionist [using creative arts as models of community education, information dissemination and dialogue].The interventions include HIV/AIDS Branding Project [Social Family Health Namibia 2009 - 2010], HIV/AIDs Nutrition Project [Catholic Relief Services 2006] , Arts for Drought Mitigation[Swedish Cooperative Centre2006] He is widely published in more than Hundred Journals, Magazines, and Anthologies around the world. He Co-edited Silent Voices Tribute to Achebe Poetry Anthology , Nigeria and the Breaking Silence Poetry anthology,Ghana.His Poetry collections include Good Morning President ,Diaspora Publishers , 2011 , United Kingdom and Whispering Woes of Ganges and Zambezi,Cyberwit Press ,India ,2010. He was the Poet-in-Residence from 2001-2004 for the Iranian embassy/UN Dialogue among Civilizations Project; Focal Poet for the United Nations Information Centre from 2001-2008; Convener/Event Consultant This Africa Poetry Night 2004 - 2006; Official Performance Poet Zimbabwe International Travel Expo in 2007; Poet in Residence of the International Conference of African Culture and Development/ ICACD 2009; and Official Poet Sadc Poetry Festival, Namibia 2009.In 2010 Chirasha was invited as an Official Poet in Residence of ISOLA Conference in Kenya. In 2003 Mbizo Chirasha was a Special Young Literary Arts Delegate of Zimbabwe International Book Fair to the Goteborg International Book Fair in Sweden. He performed at Sida/African Pavilion, Nordic African Institute and Swedish Writers Union. In 2006 was invited to be the only Poet /Artist in Residence at Atelier Art School in Alexandra Egypt. In 2009 was a Special participating Delegate representing Zebra Publishing House at the UNESCO Photo –Novel Writing Project in Tanzania, Mbizo Chirasha also work as a Performing Poet for Educational, Diplomatic, International, National, Media and Cooperate organizations .He also works as a Proof Reader/Editor , Poet /Writer in Residences for Institutions , Media Relations Strategist for projects, GirlChildVoices /Talent Advocate, Literacy Development Activist and Creative/Literary Projects Advisor/Specialist. Credentials Member - Zimbabwe Writers Association Member- Creative Writing Group Zimbabwe Member of the Jury- International Images Film Festival Resident Coordinator- 100 Thousand Poets for Change Global Contributor – Stellenbosch University Literary Project/Slip net Member /Contributor- World Pulse Graduate- Chitaqua Reading Project/US Embassy ,Certified social media practitioner-Young Nation/ US Embassy, Prize winner Aids out of Africa Project- United States, Founder- Creative/Literary and Girl child Projects Producer/Curator- Girl child Voices Fiesta Member/Mentor- Writers International Zimbabwe, Mentor- Zim talent Hunt, Former Volunteer Poet in Residence- United States Embassy, Harare. I am the true song The song sleeping dead in the hospital bed of my mind Song suffering from poetic hypertension Song heaving from poetic chronic fever I am the song of holy tongues and sacred whirlwinds Iam song ,the language of mothers I am the song in the womb and steel breasts of mothers who survived the wind I am the song whose darkness sit in the granite hearts of villages I am the song once tuned in the military vests and bullet proof helmets of war skeletons in night vigils I am the song of June nights and empty streets I am the sacred song and the holy tune of mothers incubating more dreams in the warmth of generations. Empty Dream Bring me the undergarments of the state and vests of Parliament I see rains of hatred pounding the face of juba Socialists and mongers breakfasting human delicacies Political drunkards lolling feeble voters to night mares and empty dreams New born democrats buried without traces of memory under the hot hard granite of politics Souls drooping in misery When will sunlight cast blessings to these cemeteries? Green lives decomposing in concrete corridors of history The feet of history dragged in this grief laden earth. Our Madness Gossip the passion of broken cities Silence sacred literature unknown Where babies are tired of condom balloons and generations stolen by lunatics Hope and rain evaporating in the cloudiness of horizons Dreams drowning in dysentery, visions erased by malnutrition Child soldiers drinking soft eggs and cockerels in nights of nostalgia This earth bear scars and blood stains of years under the regime of rubbles Scars of poetry and epitaph written in blood, scars of bones and shadows buried in the womb of this earth. Contradictions Baby professors weeping for MacDonald’s and pizza in city colleges Gangsters fanning plumes of branded cigars reading from the green money that have become the ritual and the prayer Martyrs and poets killed in their prison of their minds Rifle sputum erasing memories of prophets and griots Griots that sing songs of lives roasted in millet and coffee plantations Griots who planted songs in intestines of this earth pregnant with memories of Hitler and contradictions of Osama The earth that carry the sweat of kunta kunte and the beauty of shaduf and pyramids The earth sagging with the crude mind of Menelik and bones of Shaka Zulu.
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Ngozi Olivia Osuoha is a young Nigerian poet/ writer and a graduate of Estate Management. She has some experience in banking and broadcasting. She has published some works abroad in some foreign magazines in Ghana, Liberia, India and Canada, among others. She enjoys writing. UNEMPLOYMENT A TRIGGER OF CRIME Shattered heart with a sorrowful song Unheard voice writing a faint note Broken wings, much uncaptured Spiral like a whirlwind Viral like an ill wind, Longer than the train Complex with coaches Multiple in phases and stages, Unemployment, a trigger of crime. Boring, belittling and burdensome Lonesome, worrisome and cumbersome Tempting, traumatizing and terminating Misguiding, misleading and mistreating Debasing, degrading and devastating Disgusting, disturbing and discouraging Undignifying, ungilding and unyielding Bewitching, besieging and bewildering Unemployment, a trigger of crime. > Beast of hate, brother of ignorance > Son of wickedness, father of backwardness > Pain of parents, ache of guardians > Bill of family, anger of relatives > Burden of friends, rage of mates > Blindly enslaving the mind > Excruciatingly burning the future > Frustratingly, crumbling strengths > Unemployment, a trigger of crime. > > A bulldozing cankerworm > Dwindling our growths, > Dimming our lights > Fertilizing our weaknesses > Killing our green hope, > The harlot raping our youths > The thief stealing our dreams > The ring of prejudices: > Unemployment, the trigger, the crime. > Anoucheka Gangabissoon is a Primary School Educator in Mauritius. She writes poetry and short stories as hobby. She considers writing to be the meaning of her life as she has always been influenced by all the great writers and wishes to be, like them, immortalized in her words. Her works can be read on poetrysoup.com and she had also appeared in various literary magazines like SETU, Different Truths, Dissident Voice. She has also been published in Duane’s Poetree and also in an anthology for the Immagine and Poesia group. Her poems are often placed in free online contests. The Selfishness in me Selfishness is an attribute of the fallen Why, we were meant, initially To serve as we would deem to be served upon Yet, how mistaken was the one from whom we spawned Selfishness and greed abound in us To such an extent that When faced with us Our Maker cringes and hurts! Why, it is said that being human Requires us all to be made of imperfection It is said that only the divine Can claim to be perfect Pray, I do know that I have a divine part in me From it I have birthed In it I do bask And to it, I shall return Yes! If I could, I would exorcise the human in me So that I could always shine As the manifestation of a divine entity An entity being yet a mystery! Then, I am sure, I would not be so selfish Then, would I accept my given due Care not for the mundane Serve it, yes, obviously But always, at the same time, relish my own being Pray, I have been made to be as I am Shaped and sculpted minutely Human, yes, woman, yes But one so awakened! Imperfect yes, but still, somehow, perfect! Perfect because I was willed to be! Yet, selfishness also forms part of my attributes I am after all, a fallen being Why, may I be thrust upon the paths of perfection So that I may Be as selfless as a sacrifice in the name of love! Storming out Never! We do all grope on to life As if life were all that was We do all hold on to it As if it were some sort of bliss! Even if we do know not what lies after We refuse to let go We battle and battle for our life As if it were the best thing that could have happened to us! Pray, what lies after might just be better What lies after might be just as it has been so widely philosophized What lies after Might be that which might quench our thirst Rub off our misery and end our turmoil! But then, we do all have a life to live We do all have to grope on to it For holding on to life, is just another duty Yes, a duty imposed upon us The very second we took birth We are to take care of our body We are to battle for its welfare Even if, when placed in the universe We are like blinded maggots Seeing not even up to the tips of our noses! Pray, I hold on to life as well But I do keep my mind up in the clouds Yes, there is where I shall realize That nothing about life did ever matter There is where I shall realize That existence can be a bliss! I guess then that groping on to Earthly life To an Earthly body To an Earthly consciousness And to an otherworldly hope Is worth its rightful due! The monster of my heart The monster of my heart roars Hungry, evil bent Wishing merely to appease its hunger The monster of my heart is scarred Hurt and paining from Fate’s powerful blow! The monster is powerful Having taken birth out of unreciprocated love Having grown and bred on resentments Having gathered strength on its own hurt ego The monster roars! None can bring it down None can kill it The monster knows that it is invincible The monster relishes of being such! But then, lo! like a freshly spawned rainbow A soothing ray of light from my soul Shows itself, and Faced with it The monster bows down The monster submits The monster accepts defeat A ray of light, being in essence, a total mystery A ray of light, having not been explained by anyone A ray of light, of unknown origin A ray of light, so totally baffling A ray of light, yet, so impressive As to be able to calm, the roaring monster Of my heart, Back to its self willed sleep! Habib Omolade Akewusola is a corp member, serving in Plateau State, Jos. Called a social critic by colleagues, Habib's poems have been published in major Nigerian dailies and scores of online literary platforms. SPIRITUAL DISCO By: Habib Akewusola & Barrister Whyte Habeeb I pray in slang Blessings flow in gang, Trumpet plays her best sound, Final moment, man runs to sand. Success ignites perfected plan Networking soul relate ancestors of a clan godlike man, successful evil, Loved by his people. Ink speaking truth, sold little more than twenty e-books, Think before you think Modern spirituality seems so expensive. Born in India in 1981, Alok Mishra is a teacher and an award winning poet. He has had a keen interest in writing poems since a very young age. His poems have been published in various journals and websites in several countries. He loves to write spiritual and romantic poems. My Lovely Bud O my lovely bud, I wish you To be my flower, You are one Who can decorate my bower That is desolate And sends idea Gloomy To my conscious. If I am not your sun, Moon is not far From your glance. My eyes are always stuck To your face Waiting veil of pink petals To be opened. Winter's night terrifies me As my flower is beyond my view. You have many a hue Which enhances Your beauty, The only thing That can overcome my fear. O my dear! O my dear! O my dear! Awake My Lovely Child The light wind comes From the east Conveying The soothing warmness Of golden beams; Afterwards whispers In my half slumbering ears. “Awake my lovely child, Quit all that is not mild. Why don’t you dance? I have approached to you In your big chance.” The whole time of the first day Crept, Not touching a golden ray. I dare awake On the second one; All the members are anxious For the sun. My True Lover Having veiled myself, I am sitting And waiting for thy coming, Taking a belief in the core of my heart That thou wilt come and unveil me. I am afraid how I will face thou, As I did infidelity With my evergreen lover. I am afraid how I will show My injured limbs That I could not save From the cruel hands of night - kings. I am afraid how I will address thou My only lord, As I did pass Through many a yard. I am afraid how I will allow My trembling conscience to be one with thine, As it was once a defiant one Without having an impending effect. I am afraid how I will surrender my desire to thou, As it was once An unruly king of a narrow empire. A lot of seekers groped my anatomy, But none could touch the throne of thine. By thy grace, I am able to save the holy place That is witness of my love. Come and unveil me So that my all fears May go, And only two may remain. Angel Edwards from Vancouver BC is a member of SOCAN, BMI and VMA and she owns a small music publishing company.She currently performs as a solo acoustic electric singer songwriter guitarist. Her poems are included in two international poetry anthologies "Mind Paintings" and "Between Earth and Sky" from Silver Bow Publishing and her poetry and stories have been published in dozens of literary magazines in several countries. Her poem "Morning Flight" was published in The Long Islander Newspaper in "Walt's Corner" April 23 2015. http://www.reverbnation.com/AngelEdwards https://itunes.apple.com/ca/artist/angel-edwards/id282564414 https://thegalwayreview.com/2016/05/02/angel-edwards-at-the-edge-of-paradise/ Angel is preparing her first poetry, short stories book. Endless Echo The ashes of our impassioned love Which time has succeeded to quell Burn in smoky memory Tattered fragments An Endless echo raw desire Tender nostalgia In August 2015 Alan Britt was invited by the Ecuadorian House of Culture Benjamín Carrión in Quito, Ecuador as part of the first cultural exchange of poets between Ecuador and the United States. In 2013 he served as judge for the The Bitter Oleander Press Library of Poetry Book Award. His interview at The Library of Congress for The Poet and the Poem aired on Pacifica Radio, January 2013. He has published 15 books of poetry, his latest being Violin Smoke (Translated into Hungarian by Paul Sohar and published in Romania: 2015). He teaches English/Creative Writing at Towson University. NOTES I saw the prettiest bird I’ve seen in a long time yesterday. A brief spark of electricity igniting dark leaves of our Norway maple. It was a female cardinal. Tawny ones with hints of Autumn are nice, but this one glowed golden head to tail. & that mask! Breathtaking! Exquisite bird! I called to her, & she listened briefly with many things on her mind. But, yesterday, a brief spark of electricity stirred the silt & ignited sunken leaves in my blood. IMMUNITY Immune to what addicts us; that’s the ticket. Immune to wanting that wanting will someday levitate our lives above the ocean’s indigestion of particles that attach themselves to minutiae, to hours that prefer to be crows sifting universes inside atoms advertised on the National Geographic channel. Immune to ancestral tarpon scales-- impressive as they were-- & organs like razor wings from Jimi’s offhanded Stratocaster. * * Clocks like pandas. Sardines flicker cable TV in a room black as coal. Cathedral fluffs dust off moldy robes for sake of the afterlife. But what about the babies? What about moms & pops & taxes that suck the life? We should know all that. Trouble is, monster runs on fumes from our existence, & we’re stuck in some 3rd world psychological aberration & mugging barber poles like Laurel & Hardy-- my family four times removed from yours, if you know what’s good for you. * Blood is ink that impregnates. So, love is thicker than blood, quantum love. Mississippi with its shoals & alligator logs, Mississippi with the will to survive, Mississippi says I need to think this through—Mississippi that enjoys a good gypsy tango of Spanish moss flogging the soggy shoulders of mangroves. Mississippi fog. Holistic Mississippi. ORCHID Orchid’s raspy tongue leeching pearl tissue, spotted armpits, spiraling throats of infatuation like dirty dishwater down the drain. Orchid: Fort abandoned early on like a splinter in the balls of the upper Northwest—get that splinter out of my testicles or I, I pray, rocking to & fro, to & fro, to & fro like a neon mantis sizing up unsuspecting pumpkin & charcoal colored moth loitering, minding its business as I do mine. MOURNING DOVES IN ST. CROIX Mourning doves shadow yuccas beneath my breastbone wedged between volcanic rocks Behind two drooping arms of a night-blooming cactus, I touch an emerald crown hummingbird. Onyx waves slosh my salty atoms inside moonlit coquinas. FIRST GRINDER POEM (Punish the monkey and let the organ grinder go.) ~Mark Knopfler So it goes as long as grinders blend servitude with industrial souls, hereafter. But, what if, suspend your Freudian suspenders & grind like Rimbaud-- flash Laertes’ blade fanning the flames of melancholy & Arthur dreaming of carbines, grind that junta tin grinder weaving the salt of the banished into atoms long before preschool was an Easter egg hunt for one faded tortoiseshell in a sapling before stumbling upon a nest of cracked lavenders with tangerine swirls. Grind like grinding is revered above ice angels melting graves, Albuquerque sunsets, mother earth, mustard earth squished between the damage done by whispering instead of speaking our crazy minds. When did we abandon our minds, & has the Great Experiment grown deaf to the black widow logic of an empathetic suspension bridge that won’t scare the living shit out of mothers & grandmothers? |
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