Mbizo Chirasha sent Kubatana some gut wrenching words to mark Zimbabwe’s independence. Have a read:

State of the Nation

dreams and thoughts floating in stinking
bubbling sewer streams
broken pipes
broken voters
broken ballots
broken roads

banks stink hunger
stomachs of dust laden kindas thunder war
poverty shriveled chests of mothers luggage sorrow baggage
sorrows blooming like flowers every season

mothers cutting the freedom cake
with aluminum tears foiled faces
children munching the FREEDOM
cream with poverty rugged
yellow maize teeth
fathers celebrating with election chopped arms

ministers mecerdes swimming in highway potholes
corruption, the vaseline that polishes the floor of the state
flowers of Justice died with last decade sinking sun
daughters eat political regalia like omelet for breakfast
sons eating torn diplomas and
soot laden certificates for supper

peasants eating the smell of the sun
voters enjoying the perfume of propaganda again
mentally sodomized
the scars of the last season
is the signature of the next election
wounds of last winter bloom another pain in this winter

diggers of the truth bring me jugs filled with lemon juice of justice
bring the ladder to the jewel laden bethel of freedom
i am drunk with barrels of orange bitterness

freedom is the placard on your chest?
democracy is how you shake your fist?

freedom sing me a song
erase these wounds from the charcoal of violence
machetes signatured leadership name tags on mother breasts
pink bras coughing blood beside dead ballot boxes
bullets wrote epitaphs for funerals of children unlimited
black cockerels drinking black eggs in dying winter nights
black nights
acid of politics bleaching the trust of the flag
colors melting in the vaseline of grief

bring me the sneeze of murenga
download the cough of nehanda from her chest
blow the wind into the ears of mutapa stone
silence went with them to sleep, away from today’s wind

wind of change changed its compass
barometers cant stand the pressure
godfathers breakfasted promises of change
bathing with some bath-soap in froth filled tubs of corruption

rise for me the sun, that i see the club mixed color of the east
sink the sun for me that i smell the smelling breath of the west.

paparazzi smiling to the bank after recycled headlines
i am tired of the rhetoric

sing me the song of self discovery
for my identity is beyond the lotion of my skin
my identity is beyond the paint of my eyeballs
and the vaseline on my tongue
it is beyond the state of the nation

the nation that i baptize in my poetic ritual cleansing

the moonrise with chopped breasts
the sun rise with scarred forehead
I am a poet born in grapevines of colonial bitterness
and groomed in apple groves of freedom hatred

liberation. what?

light me better candles for another poem
a poem with freedom rhythm
and liberation rhymes

that politicians will weep in the hovels of their slogan rituals
and voters hear the real jesuses of their stomachs
that fat cats decide to run or to dance
and big fish fried by the oil of metaphors

political ghosts turn in their graves
after a ritual of poetic grapes
the sweetness and bitterness of words
repent dictators into democrats

for the womb that carried this freedom griot
have eaten grains of sand for lunch in the villages of dust
that last smelt the state motorcade last ballot season

This entry was posted on April 20th, 2010 at 10:51 am by Bev Clark and is filed under Activism, Governance, Inspiration, Reflections, Uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.