Monday, May 17, 2010

memories लिखे stones


I count the words in the rain.
Raindrops in which,
A lifetime trembles to take shape.
And we walked that ever-shifting line-
Between the ocean and the land.
Measuring our own fragility-
Against the ways of the tides.

We remain dedicated to this pattern-
That reveals as much as it cancels.
Like nudity that hides inside itself.
Within which a life happened.
Which filled our senses-
Lingering on this beginning.

The days slipped away touched-
By the sun that sinks like a,
Song running through our hearts.
We were a song, yet-
We were trees most of our lives,
Of our necessary self-doms.
Perfection in things always missing.
Out of which we made sacrifices.
On raged-ends of human doubts.

Guide my hand to touch your heart,
Between the scars.
Leaping into tongues!

We entered into each other’s menu.
Savouring sweetness for a living.
The soft shadows of your voice.
The voice you never learned to use.
The unspoken things within words.
We delved into experience and,
Reached for lives furrowed by sorrows.

Memories like stones, like-
Perennials coming back in summer.
Laughter opposes a sad breeze.
Like the way light enters a time.
Lighting our world on fire.

Friday, May 14, 2010

अ वर मेमोरिअल फॉर MUGABE

i wrote this poem in 2008, and when i wrote it i was so troubled with Mugabe such that even seeing his image on the television was haunting. it was that time when things were unbelievably difficult for Zimbabweans, this poem is part of my collection of poems, VOICES FROM EXILE, that will be published in Ireland, by Lapwing poetry in August---enough of this, please have a loook at the piece and comment, or even pass it on


He never touched a gun.
Not even in Mozambique.
He never died in a battle.
Or liberated a prison camp.

He fought the war of leadership.
Killing rivalries-
Chitepo and Tongogara
Are still unclaimed.

He fought with the generals-
Of great respect, short mind.
He fought every adjacent difference.
And the masses he longed for,
But never understanding them,
Despised them.

He fought his own wars-
And there is no medal-
Nor a memorial for such brutalities.
There is not even a suitable court to try him.

How could a single man wipe out millions?
In and outside his country.
And gorge thousands in daylight,
For over three decades-
Whilst the whole world keeps mum.


i would like you to have a look at this poem. i wrote it when i was 20 years old, in 1994, and i had been missing my rural home and childhood where i grew up


I remember I was a child once-
Some years ago I loved one.
Year, times I have been happy.
I remember, weren’t there sweet little
Tappy, a friend, I dearly remember him.

When I look back to those years,
I remember the cheerful old ways.
By break of dawn we are at the river.
So chilly and cold we all shiver.
I remember how serene and silver-
The river was as we fetched water.

The sun brightly shinning over Mozi Mountains.
Spreading his sparkling warm fingers.
Over lush green hills and valleys, lingering-
Bright blue mist sneaking from picturesque banks.
We could hear the birds singing up the sky.
A sweet lovely song from far away.
Was it a song of a young man in love?

I remember sitting under our Mususu tree.
A tree as old as grandma Helen.
So immortal like the rock of ages.
Eating from Grandma’s black clay pots.
Pumpkins, yams, sweet potatoes and nuts.
I remember my sister, a garrulous glutton.
Gire, do you still remember that tonnage,
Of sweet eatings, aha I want to laugh-

At how you would brood over everything.
Like mother hen over her little things.
Jealous of any hands, eyes and mouths-
Directed at your tonne of those full mouths.
I remember me and my brother Bernard-
Gourmands were these two little brats.
Aha, so sweet and funny were the times.

I remember playing in dusty fields and paths.
A game of soccer during late winter days.
Rhaka-rakha, fish-fish, bottle dunhu, till dusk.
Never thinking of anything but play.
And like angels in paradise, who was a girl?
All equal- boys and girls enjoying gaily.
Until we were hot and naught from play.

We all swarm like bees for the river.
All that shrieking, giggling, splattering-
Water flown so far into the sky-high.
I remember playing “Chitsvare” in Nyajezi.
At deep sage green “Tanganda” pool.
Ask our fathers they swarm there past.
I remember diving from high above-
Into the cool sweet waters of Tanganda.

Was it
buttered pumpkin leaves and “Sadza”?
goat’s meat, fresh vegetables and Sadza?
“Rupiza” or “Mutakura” from cowpeas?
I remember eating delicious and tasty meals.
Our stomachs bulging tightly and shiny, like honey-
We washed down with sweet sour “Mahewu”.
Cupfuls of sweet sour down our throats.

“Hwai, hwai huyai”, merry sweet little voices were-
calling on young innocent sheep that we were.
“Tinotya”, what do they fear so clear a night?
A full moon wonderfully probing and bright.
Like distant campfires, stars sparkling untiring.
“Mhomhi”, they are all gone to “Mutare”.
The wolves will never come back, not for us.
Do come please, “Chiuyai henyu”.

Trudging, treading, oh to thunder of flying legs, hello!
Bumping against one another, a tiny blot of humanity.
Here we come-, fast, deftly and cleverly.
Oh thin air here! Aha Josephina is caught.
Until left only was Enia, our revered cat.
But no, she can’t go past us.
Yet those times have gone past.

We change fastly, notice, we never!
Swept along the tide like waters in the river.
With nostalgia we admire youths rover.
What if we could go back, we all ponder?
Do the waters in Nyajezi go back, up the terrain?
Like dark flooding waters, big trunk trees and stones-
They make new pools, ravines, beaches and courses.
These scars we have are notices of changes and times-

Roads, paths and places we have gone through.

इ हवे अचिएवेद ME


The palimpsest bliss is the green-glimmer of the sun corona.

People in huge---, terribly huge numbers as they dip into shadows

and their meanings are lost.

The colours of those distant rocks: grey, gold--- deep amber!

A line of brown grey, pale-pasted ribbons of rocks

are like hues of an egret’s feathers---, flying past me, the past:

It is like rocks flying on their own fingers.

The faint sound of voices fixing into my memories

and bestowing the inward view to give myself a little rope

to haul inwards.

I know it, I have always known it:

that something is broken inside me.

It is an ancient conceit

to think that there is only one sound in this entire universe

and everything else is just echoes of that sound.

But I will tunnel in like victims always surviving this abuse

by speaking to fish in my own dreams

without even the need to respond to myself.

There is nothing I can do now but don’t ever think

that I am a coward, for once I was in love,

and I loved her so much more--- that wild, wild shore.

And now I am thankful that I have achieved me.

For you are studying me intimately and I am in these tamed records

but you only have a face to measure me by.

But don’t sheath your blade; draw the blood of a finger

and create your own river.

Who owns this river passage?

Not you, none of us, no one is----.

More transparent than these muddied waters

that are the blood waters of our fingers