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NA LISTI Od 04.8.2010.g. /
LISTED SINCE August 4th, 2010 among leading European magazines: 
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All Rights Reserved
Publisher online and owner: Sabahudin Hadžialić, MSc Sarajevo & Bugojno, Bosnia and Herzegovina MI OBJEDINJUJEMO RAZLIČITOSTI... WE ARE UNIFYING DIVERSITIES |
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Mbizo Chirasha, Zvishavane District, Zimbabwe
Mbizo Chirasha is an internationally acclaimed performance poet, writer, and creative projects consultant. He is widely published in more than Seventy-five journals, magazines, and anthologies around the world. He was the poet-in-residence: from 2001-2004 for the Iranian embassy/UN Dialogue among civilizations project; the United Nations Information Centre - 2001-2008; Convener/Event Consultant THIS IS 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 2003 Mbizo was a delegate of Zimbabwe International book fair to the Goteborg international book fair in Sweden . He perfomed at Nordic African Insititute and Swedish writers union.A delegate to the Unesco photo novel writing project in Tanzania, Mbizo is the Official poet in residence for the ISOLA/ international conference of oral literature 2010 in Kenya.Mbizo is Chirasha is widely profiled in both local and abroad media institutions. His poetry books Good Morning President is Published in UK and Whispering Woes of Ganges and Zambezi is published by an Indian/American Publisher Cyber wit Press. A lot of more anthologies are under review by other publishers.Mbizo Chirasha the Founder /Operations/Creative Director of Girl child Creativity Project, the newly founded Urban Colleges Writers Prize. Curator and Producer of GirlchildVoices Fiesta/100 thousand poets for change program in Zimbabwe. Coordinator of Zimbabwe -Nigeria Literary Exchange.
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VILLA AMIRA, Street Ante Starčevića 33,
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LP vinyl sell from
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Raskršće svjetova - Zora čovječanstva
Zatomljeni drugačijim mislima, vođeni sopstvenim željama, u susretu sa onima, drugačijim (samo naizgled), nestaje narod(i) koji živjeti traže. Mržnja, ljubav, borba, patnja, buđenje...život...smrt...Sve okusivši, Afrika ništa drugo ne želi do opstati na Raskršću svjetova darujući svijetu Zoru čovječanstva. Civilizacija koju mi poznajemo urušava nade civilizacije koju ne želimo...upoznati. No, dovoljno je pročitati pjesme Mbizo Chirasha i pred nama će se, ničim do poetikom izazvan, rasprostrijeti prekrasni ćilim uznesenja. Grubo tkan, ali toplo istkan. Riječ urednika Sabahudin Hadžialić 27.12.2012. 
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The crossroads of the Worlds -
Dawn of the mankind Silenced with different thoughts, guided by own desires, encountering with those, different (just seemingly), dissapears the nation(s) who is asking to live. Hate, love, struggle, suffering, awakening ... life ... death ... all having tasted, Africa does not want anything more than to survive at the Crossroads of the worlds by giving the world the dawn of mankind. Civilization that we know collapses the hopes of the civilization which we do not want to...meet. However, is is just enough to read the poems of Mbizo Chirasha and in front of us will, no caused by anything else but challenged through poettry, spread the wonderful carpet of ascension. Coarsely woven, but warmly weaved. Editor's word Sabahudin Hadžialić 27.12.2012. |
Lumumba
Leopard never lost its colour
Bones that manured flowers of the revolutions
Blood watered the trees of freedom
Lumumba we still stand on the edges of your crucifixion [Katanga], watching the drama
Of your rising with the new sun and sons of Black Africa
Kalinga- linga
A daughter of revolution fed on rich political nutrition
With a smile bandaging scars of the streets and falsehood by political demons
Fingers burnt in pseudo democratic pans of the West, what a political humor
I see you smelling love through the thick dew of corruption and robots
True heroes and heroines swallowed up in the deep silence of chingwere and uzambwera
[Cemeteries of the poor]
Leopold hill shadows faking dances to the throbbing rhythms of vumbuza drums
Kalinga- linga- your rising sun will soon spread the beauty of its fingers in the skies of Afrika
Haiti my generation
Haiti, Haiti ,Haiti
Sorrow stole the heart of the land
Lungs of the east suffocating
South heaving with heavy smell of sweat
The west drunk with blood
The north intoxicated in tears
Death whispered terror in the marrow of this land
And the land became death, lungs of the earth heaved with,
Death of the beloved
Deathly wings flapping down green bushes, love eaten by darkness
Babies buried themselves, mothers went way smiling love
Seekers of divine run buzzing in bee-hive collective
Singing eulogies and laments in this perspective
Haiti Haiti Haiti
Don’t go to bed, with tears in your tender heart
And sweat of grief on your thighs
Darkness is swallowed by light
Energized sun springing eastwards
Heaven smiling to souls that went unwilling
Crimeless generation, when nature call even kings whimper.
Fire does not burn one bush, every time
I will sing you a song, a
Eulogy, crimeless generation
Haiti, Haiti, Haiti
Drink cups of hope with delight
Drink mugs of peace with hope
Light the candle lights, listening to silent freedom coming
Whispering moments of redemption
Haiti, crimeless generation
I am on your lap, from somberness to the day when laughter laugh again
To the dawn when flowers bloom again
Smiles triumph shadows
Haiti, Haiti, Haiti
Rise and see the smiling sun
Blue Lemons
iam the earth pregnant with poetic skulls and skeletons of prose
dawn of my poem strip nights naked
iam the nudity of truth and the rhythm of birth
with my heart dressed in pain
bring me the poetic grapes
and the metaphoric lemons
my mind is hanging like tobacco leaves
bring me the skeleton of my passion
and rhythm of my poetic license
i see killers praying for silence and peace
i see the bleaching faith of my country
hope floating in detergents of propaganda
purple buttocks of morning sitting over fire and enduring faith
i hear the grief of slogan lashes and propaganda
sjmboks in the night of the ballot
i am you and me
my poetry is a menu of provocation
and imagination, as dove of words coo-, in the dawn
in my mental trees
iam the nudity of truth
and the rhythm of birth
i itch the syphilis of sunshine city
and the hepatitis of the city of skulls
blue lemons, black , white , brown ,yellow poem
Black Oranges
Xenophobia my son
i hear a murmur in the streets
a babble of adjoining markets
your conscience itching with guiltiness like
genital leprosy
your wide eyes are cups where tears
never fall
when they fall the storm wash down bullet drains
and garbage cities
come nomzano with your whisper to drown,
blood scent stinking the rainbow altar
darfur, petals of blood spreading,
perfume of death choking slum nostrils
slums laden with acrid smell of mud and
debri smelling like fresh dung heaps
fear scrawling like lizards on Darfur skin
kibera, i see you scratching your mind like ragged linen
smelling the breath of slums and diesel fumes
the smoke puffing out through ghetto ruins is the fire dousing the
emblem of the state
belly of Zambezi ache with crocodile and fish
villages piled like heaps of potatoes against the flank
of eastern hills
farmlands dripping golden dripping dew
sunshine choking with vulgar mornings
dawns yawning with vendetta filled redemption songs
drums of freedom sounding fainter and fainter , blowing away in the wind
when streets rub their sleep out of their eyes
villagers scratch painful living from the
infertile patches of sand on this earth whose lungs
heave with copper and veins bleeding gold
ghetto buttocks sit over poverty,kalinga-linga
corruption eating breakfast with ministers,kabulonga
with shrill cries of children breaking against city walls
shire river tonight your voice rustled dry , like the scratching of old silk
Politicians grow everywhere like weeds
land of ngwazi,yesterday crocodiles breakfasted on flesh
owls and birds sang with designated protocol
ngwazi your cough drowned laughters and prayers
your breath silenced rivers and jungles
Mozambique
the belief and gift of my poetry
sweat wine poured to absent , long forgotten gods and goddesses
soft kiss spent on golden virgins before they aged into toothless grannies
the rhythm of samora
heartbeat of chimurenga
drumbeat of chissano
today mornings blight in corruption
a social anorexia
Abuja guns eat you more than disease
I loved you before you absorbed poverty as sponge
soaking out water
before rats chewed your roof
before you conceived men with borrowed names and totems
ghost of abacha guzzling drums of blood and gallons of oil
wiwa chasing shadows of babangida past delta of treasures
Buganda cruelty is a natural weapon of a dictator
poor lives buried under rubbles of autocracy
pregnant mothers with eyes gouged out by bullets , pushing their guts
back into their bellies
luanda
a roar of old trucks
a whine of motor cycles
a rumble of dead engines
America frying its fingers in oil pans of your kitchen
where Europe fry , America roast
Angola, if you cough, America catch a fever
angola quench my parched lungs with a spoon of oil
i see the naked thighs of your desert hills
Barotseland Setswana
a servant positioned with trust
American green bloomed your desert shrubs
your loyalty is sold to she who offers the next meal
Barotseland of seretse
Somalia
your lips burnt brown with exposure of rough diet
you are muffled voice , cursed and drowned into deep silence
the smell of aged incense and stale coffee
a tune piped by the shepherd on moutainside,only
to be half heard by and quickly forgotten by villagers
Ghana
the anthill of black seed
coast blessed with gold
once a young girl full of sap and strength
once perfumed with richness and sacredness
you shared your salt and sweat fro freedom
today you a like a woman who sleep with a pillow
between her legs anticipating a miracle of man
coast of ivory
i see faces tight as skin of drum in moonlight
ivory coast, once the smoke and smell of human excitement
tonight bullet burrow into your belly like rats into sacks
of Thai rice
you are the broken pot we patch to put on shelf again.
flesh of children roasting in your belly, Darfur
Forty years after dawn
We burnt drums and exiled the drummers
Still holding cows for other villagers to milk
Undergarments of the banks stink like garbage
Forty years after dawn
State plans still dressed in torn overalls of the parliament
Bullet speak louder than ballot
Forty years after dawn we discovered no totem of truth
And flowers of freedom never bloom
Forty years after dawn
Blood smells more toxic than pesticides in the lungs of the cities and nostrils of the villages
Diary of the Povo
Another whistle from election fervent fathers
Another ululation from slogan drugged mothers
In chimoio we roasted bullets like mealie cobs for breakfast
In nyadzonia we boiled grenades like cassava for lunch meals
In magagao we munched parcel bombs like tropical fruit
In gorongoza, we learnt totems of war and syndromes of propaganda
Today, our ears are deaf with sediments of slogans
We are the povo
Stomachs belong to the state
Kalanda , we are raised through the smoke and stink of dumping sites,
In dusty broken streets of dingy shanties
Chilling culture of poverty whipping our backs and slapping our scarred faces
Kalanda , we passed through rough fingers of the state
Purity of sisters corrupted by bowls of spaghetti in district light cafes
Kalanda, their smiles plant want than wheat on our doorsteps
Exiled pauper
Patriot of home in the squalor of my exile
Pauper who brewed the revolution and never drink from the gourd of freedom
In this exile, power is the game of bullet than the ballot
We built water tanks but we still buy water
Peasants have no cassava to feed babies but helicopters to fly them to propaganda stations
Dream of Rain
This is the land that fed our dreams
Wind suffocated in the yellow smoke of wheat
Our fields’ crimson red and clouds gray with millet sheaves
Pans hissing with oil baking bread
Gleaming thighs of our days sweating under the rain season sun that bloomed,
The flamboyant flowers
Weeds of hunger already been exiled
Guyana
Raised through the bowls of sweat in millet acres
Through the forests of bullets shells and wounded earth
Guyana is not the mist of forgotten and tired centuries
It is the petal whose scent perfumed the stink of revolutions
Dear Mother
I am the womb aborted in the Baghdadis of grenades
I am a fetus suffocating in the mist of politricks
I am the archaeology that you can study for your Ph.D.
I am the cemetery of unused minds
I am the tomb of spent bullet shells
I am the tombstone without inscriptions of the dead history
I can nibble poverty roasting my brothers and sisters
Mother Africa, your back is breaking under the burden of ancient humiliation
You fought deadly battles even in the absence of man
You are the victim of darkness
See grime and dust for juvenile feeding
Grenades for infant toys
Listen to the cries and fight of struggles
To the song of the wind
To the sufferers who fed on grain despair
To the discord
Of second class citizens
Dear mother bring the flowers that I enjoy the sweetness of the revolution before sunset
Deny to rust in silence
Deny to dance in ignorance
Children of mother Africa, let us mouldy share from one plate
Of oneness
Contemplate history and see into the future, let us not read history, let's
Make history
Prepare for the odyssey of pan-African progress
Prepare for the dance offering so waited and germinate the seeds of African renaissance
The seeds of black flowers.
Dawn Rising
see many voices rising with the sun
sharp spears of the sun ,undulating with coming freedom
mother was there during liberation
i will be there for the other liberation
a revolution of million voices
voices of children of song
children of the soil
children unborn ,children born
voices of hunger in the gutters
voices in memory of those gone by the wind of madness
voices of vendors whose tomatoes squashed in days raids
voices whose taxes perished on talk tables
voices riddled by sanctions
voices roasted by imperialism
one million voices
from a country whose spirit is chimurenga
whose breath is nehanda
whose scent is the mist of matopos
voices of freedom coming
voices tired of honey coated promises
i am one of voices freed by my poetic words
drinking from poetic grape fruit
born with sugar and salt words on my tongue
i am mother Africa raving metaphors
i am a slave of my verbal bravado
iam singer of africa untold
iam the blak poet
the bread of revolution
the rose blooming liberation
million voices sing me a song
i dedicate this satire to you
Identity Apples
I am a fat skeleton, resurrecting
From the sad memories of dada
And dark mysteries of animism
I am Buganda
I bleed hope
I drip the honey of fortune
Makerere; think tank of Africa
I dance with you wakimbizi dance
I am Tanganyika
I smell and fester with the smoke of African genesis
I am the beginning
Kilimanjaro; the anthill of rituals
I am the smile of Africa
My glee erase the deception of sadness
My tooth bling freedom
I am myself, I am Gambia
When others seep with bullets stuck in their stomachs
I sneeze copper spoons from my mouth every dawn
I am the Colombia of Africa
I am the Cinderella of Africa
Where mediums feast with the ghost of Kamuzu in Mulange trees
Here spirits walk naked and free
I am the land of sensations
I am the land of reactions
Coughing forex blues
Squandermania
I still smell the scent of Nehanda’s breath
I am African renaissance blooming
I stink the soot of Chimurenga
I am the mute laughter of Njelele hills
I am Soweto
Swallowed by Kwaito and gong
I am a decade of wrong and gong
I am the blister of freedom vomited from the belly of apartheid
I see the dawn of the coming sun in Madiba’s eyebrows
I am Abuja
Blast furnace of corruption
Nigeria, the Jerusalem of noblemen, priests, professors and prophets
I am Guinea, i bling with African floridirization
I am blessed with many tongues
My thighs washed by river Nile
I am the mystery of pyramids
I am the graffiti of Nefertiti
I am the rich breast of Nzinga
I am Switzerland of Africa
The rhythm of Kalahari sunset
The rhyme of Sahara, yapping, yelping
I am Damara, I am Herero, I am Nama, I am lozi, I am Vambo
I am bitterness, I am sweetness
I am Liberia
I am king kongo
Mobutu roasted my diamonds into the stink of deep brown blisters
Frying daughters in corruption microwaves
Souls swallowed by the beat of Ndombolo and the wind of Rhumba
I am the Paris of Africa
I see my wounds
I am rhythm of beauty
I am Congo
I am Bantu
I am Jola
I am Mandinga
I sing of you
I sing Thixo
I sing of Ogun
I sing of God
I sing of Tshaka
I sing of Jesus
I sing of children
of Garangaja and Banyamulenge
Whose sun is dozing in the mist of poverty
I am the ghost of Mombasa
I am the virginity of Nyanza
I am scarlet face of Mandinga
I am cherry lips of Buganda
Come Sankara, come Wagadugu
I am Msiri of Garangadze kingdom
My heart beats under rhythm of words and dance
I am the dead in the trees blowing with wind,
I can not be deleted by civilization.
I am not Kaffir, I am not Khoisun
I am the sun breaking from the villages of the east with great inspiration of revolutions
Its fingers caressing the bloom of hibiscus
Liberation!
Golgotha episode 911
Ballot defecating shadows of hunger over
poverty creased napkins of my mind
Slums farting anopheles into the gutters of my blood
Long departed hunters urinated bullets into iron uterus of
war tired peasants
giving birth to atomic bombs
and suckling grenades
media wizards imbibing propaganda salami
and slogan pizza
hunger mandraxed rabbis licking fingers after chalk dust noon meals
i am a word dynamite fumigating corrupt economic bedbugs
sucking out the fertility of our sunshine
clouds of hungry bellies rumble with formulae
sunrise with virus graffiti scribbled on its forehead
moonrise with roaches corrupting its eczema eaten breasts
bread buttered with tustiville blood, sanguages cheesed with
Darfur wounds
gore dripping diamonds auctioned for flesh guzzling guns
brown teethed nights grazing green mealies before fingers
of dawn caress vendetta wounded minds
unrepentant Ngo bishops pimping vulnerables for fat cheque books,gong and bling
greenback laureates double crossing peacecrats and warcrats in donor shebbens
economic whores dipping their sperm-ducts in diplomatic brothels
paparazzi gutters vomiting garbage of spray painted columns
slogan dogs parodying Hiroshima farce and bag dad comedy
greenhorns licking leftovers of propaganda braai packs after ballot arithmetic
undersized zealots fitting political g-strings in springs of delimitation
political morons mastering propaganda syllabus in their gimmick-
tired memories.
i am a poetic chlorine puritising political mental conveyor belts
from the crude oil of corruption
i am a metaphoric lotion peeling off eczema of the decade election hepatitis
Leopard never lost its colour
Bones that manured flowers of the revolutions
Blood watered the trees of freedom
Lumumba we still stand on the edges of your crucifixion [Katanga], watching the drama
Of your rising with the new sun and sons of Black Africa
Kalinga- linga
A daughter of revolution fed on rich political nutrition
With a smile bandaging scars of the streets and falsehood by political demons
Fingers burnt in pseudo democratic pans of the West, what a political humor
I see you smelling love through the thick dew of corruption and robots
True heroes and heroines swallowed up in the deep silence of chingwere and uzambwera
[Cemeteries of the poor]
Leopold hill shadows faking dances to the throbbing rhythms of vumbuza drums
Kalinga- linga- your rising sun will soon spread the beauty of its fingers in the skies of Afrika
Haiti my generation
Haiti, Haiti ,Haiti
Sorrow stole the heart of the land
Lungs of the east suffocating
South heaving with heavy smell of sweat
The west drunk with blood
The north intoxicated in tears
Death whispered terror in the marrow of this land
And the land became death, lungs of the earth heaved with,
Death of the beloved
Deathly wings flapping down green bushes, love eaten by darkness
Babies buried themselves, mothers went way smiling love
Seekers of divine run buzzing in bee-hive collective
Singing eulogies and laments in this perspective
Haiti Haiti Haiti
Don’t go to bed, with tears in your tender heart
And sweat of grief on your thighs
Darkness is swallowed by light
Energized sun springing eastwards
Heaven smiling to souls that went unwilling
Crimeless generation, when nature call even kings whimper.
Fire does not burn one bush, every time
I will sing you a song, a
Eulogy, crimeless generation
Haiti, Haiti, Haiti
Drink cups of hope with delight
Drink mugs of peace with hope
Light the candle lights, listening to silent freedom coming
Whispering moments of redemption
Haiti, crimeless generation
I am on your lap, from somberness to the day when laughter laugh again
To the dawn when flowers bloom again
Smiles triumph shadows
Haiti, Haiti, Haiti
Rise and see the smiling sun
Blue Lemons
iam the earth pregnant with poetic skulls and skeletons of prose
dawn of my poem strip nights naked
iam the nudity of truth and the rhythm of birth
with my heart dressed in pain
bring me the poetic grapes
and the metaphoric lemons
my mind is hanging like tobacco leaves
bring me the skeleton of my passion
and rhythm of my poetic license
i see killers praying for silence and peace
i see the bleaching faith of my country
hope floating in detergents of propaganda
purple buttocks of morning sitting over fire and enduring faith
i hear the grief of slogan lashes and propaganda
sjmboks in the night of the ballot
i am you and me
my poetry is a menu of provocation
and imagination, as dove of words coo-, in the dawn
in my mental trees
iam the nudity of truth
and the rhythm of birth
i itch the syphilis of sunshine city
and the hepatitis of the city of skulls
blue lemons, black , white , brown ,yellow poem
Black Oranges
Xenophobia my son
i hear a murmur in the streets
a babble of adjoining markets
your conscience itching with guiltiness like
genital leprosy
your wide eyes are cups where tears
never fall
when they fall the storm wash down bullet drains
and garbage cities
come nomzano with your whisper to drown,
blood scent stinking the rainbow altar
darfur, petals of blood spreading,
perfume of death choking slum nostrils
slums laden with acrid smell of mud and
debri smelling like fresh dung heaps
fear scrawling like lizards on Darfur skin
kibera, i see you scratching your mind like ragged linen
smelling the breath of slums and diesel fumes
the smoke puffing out through ghetto ruins is the fire dousing the
emblem of the state
belly of Zambezi ache with crocodile and fish
villages piled like heaps of potatoes against the flank
of eastern hills
farmlands dripping golden dripping dew
sunshine choking with vulgar mornings
dawns yawning with vendetta filled redemption songs
drums of freedom sounding fainter and fainter , blowing away in the wind
when streets rub their sleep out of their eyes
villagers scratch painful living from the
infertile patches of sand on this earth whose lungs
heave with copper and veins bleeding gold
ghetto buttocks sit over poverty,kalinga-linga
corruption eating breakfast with ministers,kabulonga
with shrill cries of children breaking against city walls
shire river tonight your voice rustled dry , like the scratching of old silk
Politicians grow everywhere like weeds
land of ngwazi,yesterday crocodiles breakfasted on flesh
owls and birds sang with designated protocol
ngwazi your cough drowned laughters and prayers
your breath silenced rivers and jungles
Mozambique
the belief and gift of my poetry
sweat wine poured to absent , long forgotten gods and goddesses
soft kiss spent on golden virgins before they aged into toothless grannies
the rhythm of samora
heartbeat of chimurenga
drumbeat of chissano
today mornings blight in corruption
a social anorexia
Abuja guns eat you more than disease
I loved you before you absorbed poverty as sponge
soaking out water
before rats chewed your roof
before you conceived men with borrowed names and totems
ghost of abacha guzzling drums of blood and gallons of oil
wiwa chasing shadows of babangida past delta of treasures
Buganda cruelty is a natural weapon of a dictator
poor lives buried under rubbles of autocracy
pregnant mothers with eyes gouged out by bullets , pushing their guts
back into their bellies
luanda
a roar of old trucks
a whine of motor cycles
a rumble of dead engines
America frying its fingers in oil pans of your kitchen
where Europe fry , America roast
Angola, if you cough, America catch a fever
angola quench my parched lungs with a spoon of oil
i see the naked thighs of your desert hills
Barotseland Setswana
a servant positioned with trust
American green bloomed your desert shrubs
your loyalty is sold to she who offers the next meal
Barotseland of seretse
Somalia
your lips burnt brown with exposure of rough diet
you are muffled voice , cursed and drowned into deep silence
the smell of aged incense and stale coffee
a tune piped by the shepherd on moutainside,only
to be half heard by and quickly forgotten by villagers
Ghana
the anthill of black seed
coast blessed with gold
once a young girl full of sap and strength
once perfumed with richness and sacredness
you shared your salt and sweat fro freedom
today you a like a woman who sleep with a pillow
between her legs anticipating a miracle of man
coast of ivory
i see faces tight as skin of drum in moonlight
ivory coast, once the smoke and smell of human excitement
tonight bullet burrow into your belly like rats into sacks
of Thai rice
you are the broken pot we patch to put on shelf again.
flesh of children roasting in your belly, Darfur
Forty years after dawn
We burnt drums and exiled the drummers
Still holding cows for other villagers to milk
Undergarments of the banks stink like garbage
Forty years after dawn
State plans still dressed in torn overalls of the parliament
Bullet speak louder than ballot
Forty years after dawn we discovered no totem of truth
And flowers of freedom never bloom
Forty years after dawn
Blood smells more toxic than pesticides in the lungs of the cities and nostrils of the villages
Diary of the Povo
Another whistle from election fervent fathers
Another ululation from slogan drugged mothers
In chimoio we roasted bullets like mealie cobs for breakfast
In nyadzonia we boiled grenades like cassava for lunch meals
In magagao we munched parcel bombs like tropical fruit
In gorongoza, we learnt totems of war and syndromes of propaganda
Today, our ears are deaf with sediments of slogans
We are the povo
Stomachs belong to the state
Kalanda , we are raised through the smoke and stink of dumping sites,
In dusty broken streets of dingy shanties
Chilling culture of poverty whipping our backs and slapping our scarred faces
Kalanda , we passed through rough fingers of the state
Purity of sisters corrupted by bowls of spaghetti in district light cafes
Kalanda, their smiles plant want than wheat on our doorsteps
Exiled pauper
Patriot of home in the squalor of my exile
Pauper who brewed the revolution and never drink from the gourd of freedom
In this exile, power is the game of bullet than the ballot
We built water tanks but we still buy water
Peasants have no cassava to feed babies but helicopters to fly them to propaganda stations
Dream of Rain
This is the land that fed our dreams
Wind suffocated in the yellow smoke of wheat
Our fields’ crimson red and clouds gray with millet sheaves
Pans hissing with oil baking bread
Gleaming thighs of our days sweating under the rain season sun that bloomed,
The flamboyant flowers
Weeds of hunger already been exiled
Guyana
Raised through the bowls of sweat in millet acres
Through the forests of bullets shells and wounded earth
Guyana is not the mist of forgotten and tired centuries
It is the petal whose scent perfumed the stink of revolutions
Dear Mother
I am the womb aborted in the Baghdadis of grenades
I am a fetus suffocating in the mist of politricks
I am the archaeology that you can study for your Ph.D.
I am the cemetery of unused minds
I am the tomb of spent bullet shells
I am the tombstone without inscriptions of the dead history
I can nibble poverty roasting my brothers and sisters
Mother Africa, your back is breaking under the burden of ancient humiliation
You fought deadly battles even in the absence of man
You are the victim of darkness
See grime and dust for juvenile feeding
Grenades for infant toys
Listen to the cries and fight of struggles
To the song of the wind
To the sufferers who fed on grain despair
To the discord
Of second class citizens
Dear mother bring the flowers that I enjoy the sweetness of the revolution before sunset
Deny to rust in silence
Deny to dance in ignorance
Children of mother Africa, let us mouldy share from one plate
Of oneness
Contemplate history and see into the future, let us not read history, let's
Make history
Prepare for the odyssey of pan-African progress
Prepare for the dance offering so waited and germinate the seeds of African renaissance
The seeds of black flowers.
Dawn Rising
see many voices rising with the sun
sharp spears of the sun ,undulating with coming freedom
mother was there during liberation
i will be there for the other liberation
a revolution of million voices
voices of children of song
children of the soil
children unborn ,children born
voices of hunger in the gutters
voices in memory of those gone by the wind of madness
voices of vendors whose tomatoes squashed in days raids
voices whose taxes perished on talk tables
voices riddled by sanctions
voices roasted by imperialism
one million voices
from a country whose spirit is chimurenga
whose breath is nehanda
whose scent is the mist of matopos
voices of freedom coming
voices tired of honey coated promises
i am one of voices freed by my poetic words
drinking from poetic grape fruit
born with sugar and salt words on my tongue
i am mother Africa raving metaphors
i am a slave of my verbal bravado
iam singer of africa untold
iam the blak poet
the bread of revolution
the rose blooming liberation
million voices sing me a song
i dedicate this satire to you
Identity Apples
I am a fat skeleton, resurrecting
From the sad memories of dada
And dark mysteries of animism
I am Buganda
I bleed hope
I drip the honey of fortune
Makerere; think tank of Africa
I dance with you wakimbizi dance
I am Tanganyika
I smell and fester with the smoke of African genesis
I am the beginning
Kilimanjaro; the anthill of rituals
I am the smile of Africa
My glee erase the deception of sadness
My tooth bling freedom
I am myself, I am Gambia
When others seep with bullets stuck in their stomachs
I sneeze copper spoons from my mouth every dawn
I am the Colombia of Africa
I am the Cinderella of Africa
Where mediums feast with the ghost of Kamuzu in Mulange trees
Here spirits walk naked and free
I am the land of sensations
I am the land of reactions
Coughing forex blues
Squandermania
I still smell the scent of Nehanda’s breath
I am African renaissance blooming
I stink the soot of Chimurenga
I am the mute laughter of Njelele hills
I am Soweto
Swallowed by Kwaito and gong
I am a decade of wrong and gong
I am the blister of freedom vomited from the belly of apartheid
I see the dawn of the coming sun in Madiba’s eyebrows
I am Abuja
Blast furnace of corruption
Nigeria, the Jerusalem of noblemen, priests, professors and prophets
I am Guinea, i bling with African floridirization
I am blessed with many tongues
My thighs washed by river Nile
I am the mystery of pyramids
I am the graffiti of Nefertiti
I am the rich breast of Nzinga
I am Switzerland of Africa
The rhythm of Kalahari sunset
The rhyme of Sahara, yapping, yelping
I am Damara, I am Herero, I am Nama, I am lozi, I am Vambo
I am bitterness, I am sweetness
I am Liberia
I am king kongo
Mobutu roasted my diamonds into the stink of deep brown blisters
Frying daughters in corruption microwaves
Souls swallowed by the beat of Ndombolo and the wind of Rhumba
I am the Paris of Africa
I see my wounds
I am rhythm of beauty
I am Congo
I am Bantu
I am Jola
I am Mandinga
I sing of you
I sing Thixo
I sing of Ogun
I sing of God
I sing of Tshaka
I sing of Jesus
I sing of children
of Garangaja and Banyamulenge
Whose sun is dozing in the mist of poverty
I am the ghost of Mombasa
I am the virginity of Nyanza
I am scarlet face of Mandinga
I am cherry lips of Buganda
Come Sankara, come Wagadugu
I am Msiri of Garangadze kingdom
My heart beats under rhythm of words and dance
I am the dead in the trees blowing with wind,
I can not be deleted by civilization.
I am not Kaffir, I am not Khoisun
I am the sun breaking from the villages of the east with great inspiration of revolutions
Its fingers caressing the bloom of hibiscus
Liberation!
Golgotha episode 911
Ballot defecating shadows of hunger over
poverty creased napkins of my mind
Slums farting anopheles into the gutters of my blood
Long departed hunters urinated bullets into iron uterus of
war tired peasants
giving birth to atomic bombs
and suckling grenades
media wizards imbibing propaganda salami
and slogan pizza
hunger mandraxed rabbis licking fingers after chalk dust noon meals
i am a word dynamite fumigating corrupt economic bedbugs
sucking out the fertility of our sunshine
clouds of hungry bellies rumble with formulae
sunrise with virus graffiti scribbled on its forehead
moonrise with roaches corrupting its eczema eaten breasts
bread buttered with tustiville blood, sanguages cheesed with
Darfur wounds
gore dripping diamonds auctioned for flesh guzzling guns
brown teethed nights grazing green mealies before fingers
of dawn caress vendetta wounded minds
unrepentant Ngo bishops pimping vulnerables for fat cheque books,gong and bling
greenback laureates double crossing peacecrats and warcrats in donor shebbens
economic whores dipping their sperm-ducts in diplomatic brothels
paparazzi gutters vomiting garbage of spray painted columns
slogan dogs parodying Hiroshima farce and bag dad comedy
greenhorns licking leftovers of propaganda braai packs after ballot arithmetic
undersized zealots fitting political g-strings in springs of delimitation
political morons mastering propaganda syllabus in their gimmick-
tired memories.
i am a poetic chlorine puritising political mental conveyor belts
from the crude oil of corruption
i am a metaphoric lotion peeling off eczema of the decade election hepatitis
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Copyright © 2014 DIOGEN pro culture magazine & Sabahudin Hadžialić
Design: Sabi / Autors & Sabahudin Hadžialić. Design LOGO - Stevo Basara.
Freelance gl. i odg. urednik od / Freelance Editor in chief as of 2009: Sabahudin Hadžialić
All Rights Reserved. Publisher online and owner: Sabahudin Hadžialić
WWW: http://sabihadzi.weebly.com
Contact Editorial board E-mail: [email protected];
Narudžbe/Order: [email protected]
Pošta/Mail: Freelance Editor in chief Sabahudin Hadžialić,
Grbavička 32, 71000 Sarajevo i/ili
Dr. Wagner 18/II, 70230 Bugojno, Bosna i Hercegovina
Design: Sabi / Autors & Sabahudin Hadžialić. Design LOGO - Stevo Basara.
Freelance gl. i odg. urednik od / Freelance Editor in chief as of 2009: Sabahudin Hadžialić
All Rights Reserved. Publisher online and owner: Sabahudin Hadžialić
WWW: http://sabihadzi.weebly.com
Contact Editorial board E-mail: [email protected];
Narudžbe/Order: [email protected]
Pošta/Mail: Freelance Editor in chief Sabahudin Hadžialić,
Grbavička 32, 71000 Sarajevo i/ili
Dr. Wagner 18/II, 70230 Bugojno, Bosna i Hercegovina
