Via-Grapevine-II

VIA GRAPEVINE 2POETRY ANTHOLOGYCompiled byBrigitte PoirsonPhinithi NATE IV Ntelekoa

Published by Via GrapevineFirst Published 2014Copyright ©Via Grapevine 2014No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by anyelectronic, photographic or mechanical means, including photocopying andrecording on record tape, or Laser disk, on microfilm, via the internet, byemail, or by any other information storage and retrieval system, withoutprior written permission by the publisher..ISBN : 978-0-620-59709-8Project Manager & Editor:Brigitte Poirsonbrigitte.poirson@wanadoo.frSpecial thanks to Kukogho I Samson for his editing contribution, and toM'hamed Kanour and Wale Owoade for their kind support.Cover Design & Typesetting:Inkhorn Medianate_iv@graphic-designer.com@nateiv_sa#VGIIFacebook: Via GrapevineNB: We reserve the right to edit and/or expurgate works submitted to meet oursubmission criteria. Opinions expressed herein do not represent the views of theproducers of Via Grapevine.

IndexDedicationForewordIntroductionPRELUDE: REVOLUTIONARY WRITERSOku-ola Paul AbiolaOladeji AdiatuAdedayo Adeyemi AgarauClaire Alips PoUwaoma AllisonPassy AmaraegbuCamagu Litha BacelaChristopher ChakwanaNwakanma ChikaEsther ChirimangombeSello Alpheus ChokoeDike-Ogu ChukwumerijeKannadasa DasanAlex Nyasha DubeFriday Ogbole EmmanuelJon Manuels EnekeleOwokere Asuquo EtimChief Fani-KayodeJack Vince FidelisShittu FoworaZibusiso Gazi-JosephsTony HaynesDanisa Jacqueline HlongwaneHlamulo HosanaComet Keydien HudsonAlozor Michael IkechukwuAlbert JungersM’hamed KanourKar A Ghoun Khan

Motshedisi L.B. KhantsiMadu Chisom KingdavidVuyisile KoahelaErnest MackinaNakita Nokwanda MasekoLiann Gabriel MatabaneKakoi MathekaMokhethi N’Script MoeketsiMotlatsi MohaseNapo Robert MokoenaLefa Charles MokuweMotlatsi MotsekiTeboho Joseph MtabaneKakoi MathekaTereska MuishondMandy NdasiloTebogo G.H. NdlovuKarabo Godwin NeelsPalesa NogePhinithi NtelekoaOmphile O’ DimpaneAlfred OffeiAni Michael OnyedikachiMoses OparaWale OwoadeSizakele PhohleliBrigitte PoirsonFelix Chibuisi PromisePheello Michael RaselloKukogho Iruesiri SamsonKay ShingwenyanaOlawale Michael ShowunmiTulile SigucaThuthula SodumoZalisile TerrenceNeo Thipe

Kagiso TlagaeTrio of TrioletsNomthandazo TsembeniKingsley Ayi UkpanyangJason ValteinAbigail Van RooyenPhillippa Yaa De VilliersPeter ZowaENVOI: THE POETIVIST’S PLEDGE

DEDICATIONVia Grapevine II is dedicated to Albert Jungers, a mentor, a friend, and afather to so many poets included in this anthology. He departed whilethis anthology was in preparation,and will be affectionatelyremembered.

FOREWORDHere we are again, and I once more face the daunting task of saying a wordor two regarding Via Grapevine's second offering.First and foremost, immense credit is long over-due to our friend, BrigittePoirson, whom I had the pleasure of spending time with in Paris. She hasbeen an ambassador of African literature for quite some time now. Hercontribution to the Via Grapevine project (not to mention her authorialvoice) speaks volumes.To assert my point, allow me to take a leaf from thedust jacket of her book:In Poems from the Free County, author Brigitte Poirson rousingly celebratesSouth African freedom. Her own heritage from the Free County is also invoked,with its history of fighting subjection.The poem “She knew when to loom”... makes the shadowy presence of aSouth African maid vividly enigmatic...she returns to South Africa in “I remember acolour time”... Poetry that unites experiences in two hemispheres, seeking humanunity with impassioned idealism.An extolling review from Free State Library Services aptly eulogized hertireless efforts in making the body of VG a noteworthy gem. We are foreverindebted to her.Life does imitate art (even somewhat herewith), as Via Grapevine lived upto its literary designation. Via the grapevine - word of mouth - the projecthas seen a remarkable growth that can only be described as apt. Thus, ViaGrapevine now boasts such luminaries and torch-bearers of the word, thatwhen I look at my contribution to this project which continues to exceed ourexpectations with each volume, I cannot help but feel both humbled andoverwhelmed. We have authors, journalists, bloggers, performers (the listgoes on), who have come to embody what we call a VGnary Communion.We are thankful beyond measure to all the guest-poets for allowing us topublish matters of the heart for readers to relate in this quasi-ontologicalendeavour.Here is the pass down the rabbit- hole.Phinithi NtelekoaVia Grapevine co-founder

INTRODUCTIONEinstein feared that the day that technology will surpass our humaninteraction, the world will have a generation of idiots. The poets publishedin our first poetry anthology have achieved the exact opposite: they haveused human interaction to offer a generation of talented African authorsthanks to technology. And the elating raw spirits of Via Grapevine 1 havenaturally led us to distil a second, more refined vintage.Volume 1 has successfully mapped out its route through the literary world.It has allowed many young talented poets “on a writing spree”, as NapoMokoena once put it, to wire words and minds. And from an e-anthology, itevolved into a printed book.Now an electronic compilation of poems may seem the ultimateopportunity to share poems. It enables the authors to reach the furthestshores and show appreciation at the speed of light. Yet all the poets felt thesame urge to see these electronic particles actually materialize into a book.Not only do paper and ink feel more concrete and are felt to challenge time,but the printed version gives every word-lover the status of a true writer, asupreme form of recognition, and a reason to believe their work willsurvive them.Via Grapevine 2 boasts seventy-two guest-poets, among whom some greatnames, side by side with junior poets. It develops much along the samelines as its elder. It mostly revolves around Africanity in the broaderacceptation of the term. And the five continents are now represented.The concept remains unchanged: to reflect diversity in all its dimensions. Itis still about wooing words and joining poetry, exchanging the most variedexperiences or feelings through permanent textual relationships.The objectives are similar. The aim is not to compete, but to complete oneanother's talents. The reverse of what the corporate world will too oftenimpose. The poets simply merge pixels, so as to create a nexus of words thatmay help the world to go round.Is poetry about words, nothing but words? Judging from where the authorsdip their pens, they are deeply immerged in reality. Their pens are filled up

with the ink of life from A to Z, from agony or absurd, to zest or zenith, asthe choice of the Abiola to Zowa name-list points to. Considering the rangeof topics they tackle, from collective rape, abortion, gangs or oppression,to love, spiritual awareness or sheer joy to quote but a few-, the poets doexemplify that their art is at the heart of the world. They trace the intricaciesof the human soul, explore the depths and pitfalls, as well as the sunlightsof existence.On the sociological, satirical, intellectual, sexual and spiritual rainbow,they do not write along the same colour lines. But they do share the samerays of the Verb which compose the VG light. One poet once disclosed onthe networks that he does not “shed no tears”, he “shed poems”*, thusmaking it clear poetry and life are inextricably linked. And may it berecalled that in a number of situations, if one does not turn to words, onewill turn to the sword, the latter being but an anagram of the first. Theauthors then act as the custodians of their own sanity, but also of theirhopes, and the readers' just as much.Indeed poetry must be loved, not only because we need it, but because itleads us to cultivate the qualities required to produce it, the veryintellectual tools we will discover we need, if we are to save ourselves andour world.It is our wish that you will sail with the guest-poets from wherever you hailto wherever they blaze their trail.Brigitte PoirsonVia Grapevine co-founder* Igbekeleoluwa Salawu.

REVOLUTIONARY WRITERSPRELUDEIt has been reverberatedBy our generation that generatedThe message often underratedWithin the revolutionary movement:We are revolutionary writers,Bringing enlightenmentWith an element of excitement.We do not need our revolutionTo be exposed and televised.We read and write what is not advertised.We are revolutionary writers:We are soldiers of light.We are but what is right.We speak from the heart.Authenticity is our art.We paint pictures of life and featsVisualized in the streets.We are revolutionary writers:We are inspiration in its purest, rawest form.We speak to inform.We wear our hearts as a uniformPortraying our school of thought.We penetrate time with a rhymeEffortlessly engraved on a dimeWorth more than just a penny.We are revolutionary writersWho speak like freedom-fighters,With a tight fist in the air,Singing struggle songs with flair.

We dwell in the world's background,In the word's foreground,Where real soldiers are found,Where hungry minds are fedWith our poetic food of thought,Where brainwashed mindsAre declared dead,Where the thirsty acknowledgeOur godly knowledgeOf life, as evergreen as the sedgeFound near the living water.We are revolutionary writers:We go to war like warriors,Using the pen as a weaponOf mass distraction.We reflect self-consciousnessOn broken mirrors,Inspired by creative madness,Artistically comprehendedBy the greatnessOf the poetically retardedWho live in the lanes of life,And fight for survivalWith the knifeThat marked our territory,Preserved our history,And told the storyOf our revolutionWith the blood engraved on the soilThat has the same colour as our skin.We are revolutionary writers.We are not obsessively addictedTo the drug of recognitionThat many fall prey to.

We are free.We are the key;The revolutionIs the ignition.We are the innovatorsOf the age of realizationThat gave the revolutionThe mandate to change the constitutionOf the nation.We are the freedom writersThat belong to an institutionSpeaking for the voiceless in expectation,For great voices with imagination,And assiduously giving inspirationTo the victims of mental oppression.We are revolutionary writers,Disciples of mental freedom,Prophets of wisdom,Apostles of a poetic kingdom,Poets in search of more colossal values than stardom.We are revolutionary writers:We use our sharp wordsAs weapons to smuggleAnd cut through the struggleTo survive physical and mental abuse.We are the revolutionary writers.Mokheti Moeketsi

OKU-OLA PAUL ABIOLA (pauldesimple)He hails from Ijebu-ode, Ogun state, Nigeria. After attending S.S. Peter and PaulPrimary School, then Baptist Academy ( Obanikoro) in Lagos state, Nigeria, heproceeded to The Federal Polytechnic, Ilaro, Ogun state, Nigeria, where hegraduated with a Higher National Diploma in Electrical Engineering. He is apublished poet, playwright and blogger.THE GENESISAt the meeting of the eldersAnd community leaders,Stood the master of masters,To address the greatest of matters.“I want to subdue the earth”, he said.“I want humanity under control”, he continued.“Whom shall I send?” he asked.Who shall go for me?” he concluded.“I am the best for this mission,The only one with concoction,That will catapult us to our destinationWith no crack in our formation.I shall make them hate education,Take away their youth's affection,Make their government starve them with utmost passion,And create divisionsAmong their institutions.”“You have spoken well, illiteracy.What a fantastic delicacy!...But I smell fallacy!I do not spend such currency!”Then hunger spoke forth:

“I am the giver of wealth,The upholder of breath,And of faith.Let me go to earth:In no time the work is done.”“O, my beloved hunger,Beautiful as you are,Many are immune to your anger!I want a better offer.And to go on this operation,I will not send corruption,For man is the smartest one in creation:He will fathom my mission,And proffer a lasting solutionTo my destruction.So I shall give them all a different dimension,To those in government: misappropriation,To the legislator: budget allocation,Men in black: check-point collection,- 'Weigh your particulars' for simplification-To the government-worker: papers in motion,The manager: zero additionThose in business: profit generation,The student: malpractice in examination,- 'Egun' for familiarization-,And to that child on errands: tip off to action.”* Egun: a Yoruba slang word meaning: examination malpractice...

BACK IN THOSE DAYSBack in those days,The days of clay-plays,I built a house for my fatherTo lay his head forever.Life then was like bread and butterWith a cup of tea to make it better,A bed of blooming rosesWhere excitement never ceases,Like the Eden of oldWhere all glittered like gold.But now I live on the streetWith no sandals for my feet,Tattered clothingAs my covering,And no room, it seems,To hunt for dreams.And my fatherWaits furtherFor a dreamGone dim.

DEJI ADIATUBorn in 1977, he studied International Relations at the University of Lagos, the Arabiclanguage at Dirasa Khasa in Egypt, and Community Interpreting in London. Living inmany countries has increased his cultural awareness, enabled him to speaknumerous languages and develop a fine sense of relationships.Deji's work "No Tit for Tat" is published in the Perception of Infinity by Poetry.com. Hisother works include "I’ll Be There", "The Moon Above Tonight", " Pie Chart","Destined" and "Cherish", to mention a few.He currently resides in Australia with his partner and children. As a qualifiedinterpreter, he does casual interpreting in Sydney. He works as a recruitmentconsultant in Canberra, and also does extra on motion picture productions inSydney.TREAD MY SHOESAbout me, say something,Clear, far from riddle,For you know nothingOf me, enough to be little.I have journeyed the forest,Plain, desert and sea,Grown wise at the peak of Everest:Bunch of aches, brief joy seen.Till you know the count of snowFalling in slow pace, unlike the dropping rain,Or split a moment, and live my shadow,Can you then comprehend my days of pain?A stab on my back now stings as mere insect bite.Mesmerised?I cannot crack and break to whine for a while.Likewise, long gone the flair to smile.

How will you know the count of snowFalling ahead a shivering nose,Or tread my shoes with strainless toes?For then, could your tissues absolve my daily dose?Rough, tough as a thug of warFar beyond the lines of peace...What horror more could life bear?Scarred from wounds, but at ease.

MOTHERLANDPie Chart:Success, accomplishment,Detoured and delayedBy an effect in the momentConcisely ordained,Perpetual tombolaEncrypted in the life cycleOf an entrapped mammal,As our lives in hands with wand circle,Hands of foggy mind,Plus feet of twisted legs:Of what note will ye be heldWhen dreams are gone, cut short as pegs?American Dream, where art thou?Opt for African, too weak to rise,For still numb from days of shock!Dream, dream a real dream,Unlike the one felt when asleep.Pause to think for a moment.Isn't it a mere fantasyThat we can dwell hand in hand together?For only in dreams, while asleep,Do we live in lasting serenity.

ADEDAYO ADEYEMI AGARAUBorn in Nigeria in October 1994, he is currently studying Nutrition and Dietetics atthe Federal Polytechnic in Ede, Nigeria. He defines himself as a word warlock.NIGERIAThe memoirs of your evergreen existenceWere carved on the peak of your mountainsBy the hands of ancient ancestries,In memory of your gleaming greatness.Magnate in resources among the entire nation,Clad in billowing garment of unique essence:Your scents muffle pure frankincense,Magnificent tower made of gold!The milk of your golden breast traverses taste.Honey flowing from your chest is salubrious.In you are found many waters teeming with life.Your name is proclaimed by alien voices.Your untainted beauty transcends imagined paradises.In you, champions are raised and buttressed.The remnants of war find repose in you,And you bestow upon them your largess.

RAIN DROPCascading tears of heavenUnto earth are given,Breaking her clogs,Pleasing the godsWith more ediblesUpon their tables...This same blessingOf late turned to mourning,When an army, hungry,From these tiny tears, many,Ate up the whole land,Leaving us with wet sand...So today again,As the sky begins to brayAnd clouds gather to breakHeaven's shuttersFor another downpour.The gods dither...We mouth much prayerTo the maker.

CLAIRE ALIPS POBorn in the universe of poetry, she has also grown up in the unearthly and wonderfulworld of animals. After a Master's degree in Environmental Sciences at theUniversity of Franche-Comté, France, she has worked for one year in Paris with theFrench national network for the protection of raptors, birds she likes to husband andfly. She has just created her own business as a consultant in ecology and wildlifemanagement.OUR FEATHERSOur feathers which fly from heaven,Hallowed be your names,Blessed be your wings,You, outstanding on earth, as you are in heaven.You were honoured in the Eagle of Caesar's legions,Beloved by the great Holy Roman Emperor,From the little Kestrel for the DamselTo the Duke's private TiercelAs white as the light of the Holy Spirit,You have the world at your talons.You are the prophet.But you always pay for our treasons.The musketWas for the priest,As the SakretWas for the desert men of the Middle East.Great falcons of the rulers,Above us, sinners,You, the great clawed,Only you,Were allowed to enter the household of God.

God gave us his own child:The chilling owl.But men are doomed,Men are fooled:Instead of taking this raceWith grace,-Forgive them, Father, for they know not what they do-They crucified it on your church-door.Mother Nature,Doomed by your own Creature,Let down by men,Don't you have a future?I refuse to fall the prey of birds of ill omen.Holy Mother Nature,Pray for us, sinners, now and at the hour of our death.After my last breath,I would rather become the spiritual food of the great vulture,Than the victim of human sharks.Please let me leave my clayAs a fruitless daughter of Eve,To become a powerful eagle-queen rising in the azure,Flying free forever,Gliding with the kind Red Kite.I have too much love running through my veins,And not enough hate running through my brain.Blessed be the human beingWho, looking at the sky,First met the acrobatic Robin!Blessed be the one who has ever seenThe White Jerkin:He once saved a man's life!

May he do it twice:May he help the human gender to revive!So forgive us our sins against You,And lead us not into self-destruction,But deliver us from our evilness.Feather friends from above,Owl always love you.

WORD!To the great South African poet, Pheello Rasello.The word is your sword!Become a white knight:You will fightAll injustices,Correct all the culprits!The word is your sword!Poetry is your reward.You strike a positive cord:Always striking for the ones you adored,Always biting for those you abhorred,Just perfect among the world of rhymes you explored.The word is your sword!Until your very last breath,You will die for rhythm and rhyme.Being a word-killer is your single crime.Remember us now and ever after,Since you are an angel,A word-birdLooking after the herdOf your followers,Wielding wordsLike no others.

UWAOMA ‘God'scare’ ALLISONBorn in Aba, Abia State, Nigeria, in 1994, he graduated from Good Shephered Int'lsecondary School, Aba, and is a prospective undergraduate. He got fondly inclinedto literature, psychology and philosophy, and started writing poetry in 2011. He isalso a playwright. He does not specialize in one particular form of poetry, but isknown for his metaphysical verse, following the leads of John Donne and WilliamShakespeare.METAE ven men of antique ages,N one ever reckoned the root of this,I n-puzzled by the same realityG rounded in generality,M istaken by their quest for truth,A nd too perplexed, because of youth,T o get a thick root to what is,I n search of "why is" and "how is",C resting mounts of philosophy,R eaching forth for a masked reality.E arly as then to late as now,A ll has rested as has always been.L etting reality show us howI t and all wonders shall be seen,T ill the time it dissolves and quitsY ou shall not espy its real spirit.“CAST”The actions on this stage,The writings on the page~

Of global existence,The scripts of the playwright:The three-personed authorAbove the sky and cloud's heightIs the all-present spectatorAdept in omniscience.He writes. He prompts...directsThe characters, the souls.Even he who neglectsThe writings on the scriptAnd leaves his acts with holes,He condones, lets him act,All his errors being skipped,Ignored and sacked.Because his heart is with grace,Error has laid a paceOf a contrary race,And ruled each actor's mindWith a sense of this kind:Though you do him disgraceAnd rile his jovial face,I know there is always spaceFor you in his wide grace.But I tell them in soothThis wisdom is a false truth.The grace that so seems wideMay also end your ride.Do make his scripts your guide.Melt in your acts, be mild.Do make this now lain hay,While under this sky there is a ray.Hasten! Avert his rage,While your act is still on stage!

PASSY AMARAEGBUA Nigerian-born poet, he published poetry in the American anthology entitled 'AVoyage to Remember' in 1996. 'Flames of the Soul', a self-published anthology, wasreleased in 2009. A multi-gifted writer, Passy has also been a columnist and acommentator. Now the publisher of a family magazine, 'Successful Family', he runsan NGO, and lives in Lagos with his family. Passy holds a doctorate in Psychology,and is of the Positive School of thought.THE GREATESTThere exists a form of care and candour.Besieged by unbridled callousness and cruelty,Oppressed by humiliating wickedness and wizardry,Provoked by unnumbered foes and fiends,Burdened with multitudes of demands and damages,It remains unbowed and unconquered.Instead, it rises to rescue.It recuperates and restores others.Love truly is the greatest,The uncontested greatest.There exists a type of care and candour.Troubled and trampled on every side,Hunted and harassed for the umpteenth time,Mangled and mutilated mercilessly,Beaten, battered and bent,It still refuses to bow to tin-gods.Instead it rises to illuminate dark paths.Like a compassionate mother, it forbears.As the fountain of life, it flows unhindered,Soaring like the eagle:It is spelt l-o-v-e.There exists a type of care and candourThat mocks danger and death,

Wearies wickedness and wantonness,Conquers malevolence and manipulation,Transcends Machiavellian gain and glory,Tames troubles and terrors,Seems to lose the best and all,Yet gains the ethereal and eternal.It transforms the worst of mortals,Holds, helps and heals the human soul.It is indeed the greatest of all human virtues!

TIME TO QUITWhen you have tried to tame the tempest,Turned from temper-tantrum,Got tempted and tempered instead,Turn around and tear the verdict.When heavily attired you run,Unguarded and unaligned you prance,Unprotected, and the crowd cheers,Turn around and quit.If a sow your neighbour become,The vulture your bosom friend be,Yet the crowd celebrates you,Quit quickly or die.When your conscience leans on lucre,Or your joy hooks to sycophancy,When progress still marks your path,Turn quickly or burn.When your sight grows hazy,Or your goal faces corruption,It is time you turned.Or would you become a jackal?

CAMAGU LITHA BACELAHe lives in Welkom, South Africa, and describes himself as humble, free-spirited,intellectual and optimistic. He “flocks to poetry for sanity and direction”. Poetryanchors him, and highly influences his growth and maturity.SOLDIERS OF PURPOSEWe are soldiers of purpose,Built for change.Don't you think it strange:Mankind saved?We are soldiers of purposeBorn into bloodlines of sins and curses,Bars and clubs- the new churches-,Attracted to life in reverse,The world left converse.An illness dispersed,Tongue turned coarse:You can play with fire a number of times,Before you get burnt.Expectations down with dirt,Lips together with hers,Zips to skirt:Bull's eye to the flirt.Chest to breast:Time to rest.Heart to hurt:Hard to herd.Absurd at first.Titters, tatters,Accelerated levels of pitter-patters,

Bodily fluids and sweat scattered,Success delayed, dreams shattered,Choc to chick,Chick to choc:Too late to stop.Tick-tock,A baby born out of wedlock…In the hype of it all, you used no rubber.In the light of it all, a child is now a mother!We are soldiers of purposeBorn into bloodlines of curses,Eyes wide-open to a rude awakening:Consciousness is brought into a worldEddying without direction.We are soldiers of purposeLiving a contradiction,Forgetting God is composition,Deceived by misconceptions of beauty,Going the wrong direction,Leading a life ruled by sex and sensation,More on impulse than contemplation.Drunk and pregnant, kids at eleven pay no attention.Such issues should be called to mention!What is happening to life today?Immorality and people look away.Pre-marital sex sounds so frequent…The sight of unmarried pregnant ladies can never be decent.We are soldiers of purposeBorn into bloodlines of sins and curse,Into a world where the pretentious crumble- no time to rehearse,Quick to fall for habit:Sin the carrot,

Man the rabbit,Innocent kid branded a faggot.Just how messed up can the world get?

CHRISTOPHER CHAKWANAAn Undergraduate Textile Technology student at a University in Zimbabwe, a poet, afiction writer, an avid blogger and an educator at heart, he is passionate aboutresearch work in the field of sciences, issues pertaining to climatic change, and onissues that relate to women empowerment . He is a charter member of the Rotaractclub of Matopos based in Bulawayo, Zimbabwe Club, a club involved in charity work.He is currently living in Mutare, Zimbabwe.LETTER FROM THE OTHER SIDEI am that seed denied a chance to grow,That early morning cock who did not crow:Terminated without my will.I am the child you aborted,That child you denied the warmth of your womb,The tenderness of your breast,That child you relegated to the tomb.But I refuse to rest.Because I am that child whose loss you did not grieve,That child you denied the right to live,You obliterated mercilessly,Annihilated, callously incinerated.I am the soul from whose life you separated,Whose death you celebrated.I am that sad soul you destroyedWith the abortion pill you employed,That being you erased,That life which can never be replaced.Dear mother,I am that child on your conscience,Your secret, but your daily grievance.Like a stain, my memory will forever be your daily pain.I am your mental anguish.You disposed of me like rubbish.I am the life that could have been,

Quickly deprived of the rightTo see the light,That child who hopelessly lost his life without a fight.I pour out my heart, as I writeThat which you do not want to hear.I refuse to rest. I write this letter to you without fear,To you, mama, from where I hide:This is my letter from the other side.

NWAKANMA CHIKAHe lives in Lagos. He is a post-graduate student of Anthropology at the University ofNigeria, Nsukka. His poems have appeared on Ghana poetry foundation, theSociety of Young Nigerian Writers anthology, Word Up and Scribbled Poetry blog.His poem 'Sleeping with the dead' won the Eriata Oribhabor poetry competition in2012.BEYOND THE RAINBOWThere resides no gold,But the wizard of OzConjuring altered egos,Beyond the rainbow.Where monarch butterfliesSkid on umbrellas of petalsIn well-manicured gardensFertilized by ash,Swiped lives,Like touch screens,Awake in a trance,Slaving for the system.Beyond the rainbowsIs where we find democracyRed-dressed, arm-wrestledBy corporate machines.The butterfly of moralityProbes not its proboscisOn the petals of politics,Nor sucks its nectar.Beyond the rainbow

Is where we locked GodBehind the bars of religion,Sealed in dogmatic boxes.Society is prickedWith ideological needles,Our reactions, our norms,Forged in philosophical labs.Beyond the rainbow,Beauty is the mirror's customer:Sanity in my insanity,Since a big brother defines my reality.Beyond the rainbow lies heaven,Nirvana of our fantasies.But fantasies are treasuresBeyond the rainbows.WHERE MORTALITY WITHERS“The paper?My plate.”I serve wordsLike a buffet,Chopped upIn chapters,Meat ballsFor stanzas.With you,Have I slain words,The corpseBuried in books,The blood of ink!~

Have I smearedOn the skeletonsOf history!Like a gong,I hear your callFrom afar.Like a waterfall,I am drawnTo make loveIn between linesMade on sheets.The silenceOf your voiceIs louderThan a thousand thunders.The stingOf the scorpionIs but a kiss,Compared to your venom.Like clay,Minds you mould.Like clay,Kingdoms you broke.Like dropletsOn still water,Far and yonder,Is the breath of your power.No tombstonesFor my grave,Where mortality withers away,Hanging,Head hung,DrippingIn this morbid stateOn my pen's stake.

ESTHER CHIRIMANGOMBEShe is preparing a BA in International Relations, with the hope to work in the UnitedNations as an ambassador. She has good experience in public speaking, and hasbeen in several competitions. She has performed before national and internationalpoet-laureates. Freedom comes from expression, and poetry, her passion, isemancipation. Wander into her mind, and you will find that words bounce from theinner walls, wanting to be set free.HOMEI have looked and searched for homeIn places where man has not set foot.All I have is questionsFor only the heart to answer.If it is a place where souls are freeAnd minds at rest,Then this is the place I seek...This skin tells one story,But the accent tells another...I long to know where to belong,For I am foreign in my landAnd alien in the land of others.If I could scream on rooftops, I would.If I could walk aimlessly, I would.I would, but only when reaching home.Will home not come to me?Because this flesh needs rest,The spirit needs comfort...I have searched ...Oh, I have searched.So why will home not come to me?Men will fix their eyes on me,And ponder and wonder:Why? When? How?...

But I, too, am a student seeking knowledge.I, too, thirst to find where home is,Where to let my spirit dance.So leave me be, on this pursuit of happiness.UNLEASHEDUnravelling the past,Waking the pain from its sleep,You turn a soil that has so much been at peace,And dig for stones and bonesThat have long been forgotten.You paint days red,Choosing not to live on,Because in you yesterday is still breathingAnd tomorrow is suffocated by that memory,And fearful of your presence.Your eyes barely hold any promise,But bear only the skeletons of shattered vows.Tears stream down your cheeks,Yet those drops, empty, no longer have a meaning,For you have cried a million tears before.A fire burns in you,That spreads and turns everything you touchInto ashes.You wish to be freed from this demon,But this demon is you,So you cannot flee from yourself.And those you love, overwhelmed with fear,Hide away in corners,Away from this devouring spiritThat dwells in you.~

SELLO ALPHEUS CHOKOEBetter known as Zila, he was born in 1992 and raised in a small township calledSeshego. He studies towards a BSc in Computer Science at the University ofLimpopo, South Africa. A performer both in acting and poetry, he started writingpoems while in high school. He has performed for ' The Great and The Stars' theatreproduction, the Performing Arts Centre at the University of Limpopo, and theUniversity of Limpopo English Society.I AM DEATHI am despicable: I am Death.You are trying to justify my existence.Your mood is shuttered by the presence of my essence.I have existed since the beginning of Time and EarthAnd am synonymous with Nature, when she takes her course.You would think I am the hideous angel from the dark-side,I am a demon, I am evil,I am the devil.But no! I am divine, holy and godly,Though wherever blood is shed, I exist!Day or night, summer or winter, I persist.My mission: the holocaust, Nine Eleven.I was there, causing mass confusion,Peeping in disguise at the good, the bad,The ones with gold.You preach, you pray,The saints and the gullible:I take lives at once. I am Death.Abortion or miscarriage, I even strike before birth.I reside within the brain cellsOf the psychotically suicidal and homicidal,Quickly strip souls of their flesh in a flash.I am too much of a mystery, better seen leaving than coming.You live a sorrowful life in my anticipation.Life is just a vacation: your home is death.

I will come in stealth,Steaming to steal your last breath:I am Death.~WE LOST TOUCHInside the walls of the heart,At the centre of pains,Souls drifted apart,Left with broken chains.At the core of our lust,In the sea of no compassionLies, crushed, our trust.Hate is now our passion.Love slipped out of our hands.What once began now ends.The heart is lost in the grass.It lies down like broken pieces of glass.Gone are the days we used to laugh.They faded somewhere along the rough.Either we crossed the line, or we went out of line,Because now we walk a mile and barely smile…

DIKE-OGU CHUKWUMERIJEHe studied Law at the University of Abuja, and Development at SOAS, University ofLondon . He is an Abuja Literary Society (ALS) Poetry Slam Champion, and thewinner of the maiden edition of “The African Poet Nigeria”(TAPng) National PoetrySlam Competition.He is a literary advocate and a dedicated social activist, whose passion for changefinds expression in his works. He has self-published several books, including thehighly acclaimed poetry collection, “The Revolution Has No Tribe: ContemporaryPoetry on African History, Culture and Society”. One of his novels, “The AfricanAmerican”, was long-listed for the 2012 Wole Soyinka Prize for Literature.OKWESILIEZE (He Who Is Destined To Be King)Today I saw a mysterious thing,A thing that vexed me to my very soul.I saw the black man dressed like a king,But crouching in the shadows with a begging bowl.His children were starving in fields of cassava,Dying of diseases the palm-kernel can cure,Homeless in a land of rock and timber.“Why are you begging?” He said: “I am poor.”Today I saw a mysterious thing,A wonder so great I cannot tell it.I saw the black man dressed like a king,But lying in the dust, crying at my feet.His legs were sturdy like the palm tree.His forests were rich and teeming with game.His muscles rippled like the proud Zambezi.I told him: “Get up!” But he said: “I am lame.”Today I saw a mysterious thing,So shocking I have no words to say.

I saw the black man dressed like a king,But standing like the lost men by the highway.He huddled in a cage that had no gate.He could see where the keys to his chains were kept.He stood in clamps, but they had no weight.“Why are you here?” He said: “I am trapped.”Today I saw a mysterious thing.How can I tell such a horrible story?I saw the black man dressed like a king,But sharing a sleeping mat with poverty.His poverty was a fat man with a bulging stomachLying on his back beside a pot full of treasure.This conviction was all that he lacked:That he could get up and make his own future.From the collection, “The Revolution Has No Tribe: Contemporary Poetry onAfrican History, Culture and Society” available at Silverbird Bookshop and alsoonline on Amazon.

AFRICA…….MY AFRICAHer face is a desert,Her soul is a valley,Her heart is a mountain plunging to the sea.She cries like a waterfall;She weeps like a river;She howls like a rainstorm heavy with thunder.Her veil is a mist;Her dress is the forest.The moon is a pendant she wears on her chest.Her womb is a land,A bitter-sweet place,Her children, like tears running down her face.The waters that bathe her,The world that surrounds her,The people that scuttle around and analyze herAnd put her in tablesAnd in databases,That break her to bits and place her in phases,They learn about you,But never from you.They study you,But are never inspired by you.But love is to breathe in.Nothing else suffices,Nothing else can find the spark within the ashes.So come, let us walkBy rivers and histories,By crumbling cities and forgotten stories,Not doing a course,Not seeking a cause,Just finding each other,Just Poet and Muse.

KANNADASA DASANBorn Manoharan in Bangalore, Karnataka State, India, in I962, he still lives therewith his wife, his son and his daughter. He completed his Master of Arts degree inpolitical science, then entered the Indian postal department where he is still working.Over the past twenty years, he has been chosen best poet of the month' more thanseventy times by a Bangalore Thamil Association, and been published in a greatmany Thamil magazines. He has also participated in seven Thamil TV talk shows.He has been inspired by famous Thamil poets, such as Bharathiyar or his discipleBharathidasan, and Kannadasan, whose name he has adopted as KannadasaDasan, Dasan meaning disciple or student. In 2012 he started translating Thamilpoems into English, and writing in English on new as well as traditional subjects.THE ART OF LIVINGIf Heaven refusesTo give you a room,Do not worry:Create a heaven for yourself !If the door did not open on Friday,Break it on Saturday !If bread was not given on Sunday,Take it on Monday !If he holds all the fame,Snatch it from him !If he asks you to tell his name,Tell your name!When he says all are great,Show him a court !When he says all are bright,Show him the blind !And tell himTo learn the art of living !

Just teach himTo have a heart for loving !~“POOR MAN"There are four types of men:Rich and poor,Wise and fool!The rich are called the wise men,The poor fools!What does this mean?Scarcity is the greatest shame:Whom can I blame?Poverty is a flame!It takes away one's fameAnd even one's name:Poor is his name!Some live in luxury,Others in misery:Where is the treasury?Greatness comes from charity.The rest is futility.Giving is veracity!You have good thoughts,Utter sweet words:All will be wasted!This world only needs currencies.Count your chores!Dead are the poor!

ALEX NYASHA DUBEBorn in Bulawayo, Zimbabwe, in 1990, he grew up without his father. In 1999 hemoved to South Africa for three years. Back to Zimbabwe, he went to Cyrene HighSchool , where he was nurtured by a teacher , Mrs S. Nkomo, who had noticed hisearly talent for literature. He is currently living with his mother in England.MINIONS OF THE NEW WORLD ORDERWelcome, minions of the new world order,To the times those ideals of capitalists you and I love to engender:Treachery, trickery,Mockery, tomfoolery,Bastards born out of the wedlock of sincerity,Stewards of an existence blurred by obscurity,Philandering phonies of feigned philanthropy,Flippant fools who fancy these fallacies for infinity.Vulnerable though we do admit we are,Because these maligning maladies have been taken too far,Zombies we have become,Stupid by the strident strings of changeThat in our ears have been strummed.Evilly dressed in an elegant number,Advertised in flare, we ourselves have truly become dumber.This world, once a glistening glorious butterflyTaken back to a sad caterpillar that can seldom fly,Stripped stark naked of its once abundant diversity,Now is a desolate, null fallow stretch of atrocity.These are the works we owe to the opportunistsWho our tomorrow plunder as relentless pessimistsMeditating extravagant total use of the world's natural opulence:A deplorable display of deleterious abhorrence.

We, the disciples, now follow the scents of the anointedThat pervade the air with their corruption,Trail the tails of the contemptible, sly foxes of disruption,Slaves and servants to a domineering sect of our own kind,Prisoners chained by the locksWhose keys we are too numb to find.This is the new world order we, minions, have begun to embrace,The system that has seen us, with our stakes,Wine and dine with the hatched eggs of sinister snakes...CUPID'S PONDIn the chasms of Cupid's pondOf which all lovers are duly fond,Trickles the sweet taste of our bond,From whose pleasure we cannot abscond.In this pond where lovers collide,In this rhythm our love shall glide.On this tidal wave we will slide,Where the angel of love never lied.For in Cupid's pond glow arrows,Regal and mighty like the Pharaohs'.Their synergy digs deep and burrows,And the mind of haters still narrows.Join me to enjoy its flavour so sweet,And listen to the birds, as they tweet.Touch my heart, as it races to beat,So glad it is, at this beautiful feat...~

FRIDAY OGBOLE EMMANUELBorn in April 1979, he holds several titles: a Higher National Diploma in Secretarialadministration (HND), a Post Graduate Diploma in Education (PGDE), and a PostGraduate Diploma in Management (PGDM). He has worked with Oceanic Plc, nowEcobank. Reading and writing are two of his favourite passions.I HAVE A DREAMKeep holding on to hope,Though it seems all is lost.Hopelessness is neither bought nor sold,Neither is hope.I had no shoes.On bare feet I marched to school,Not among elites.I became a president.Twenty-seven years I served the terms,And my children grew to adultsWithout seeing my face…But I too became President.They thought I was a dummy,And judged my grades terribly.But my mind applauded them.I envisaged they needed Microsoft,And I willingly became their employer,Soon a billionaire.The son of a Kenyan immigrant,Whose hope was hopelessness,I went in pursuit of happiness…Now I stand tall among men,

Admired by the whole world.I became president.Then I fell by a swimming pool,I was diagnosed with spinal fracture,Written off soccer by orthopaedics…The Ballon d'Or I yet won.I aspired for offices and positions,And in all I failed.My persistence did not wear out.The best President ever I became.Where is hopelessness amidst hope?Only you can tell.

PASS ME NOTHe:“Weary my soul has been.Only on you can I lean.Whilst others thou art calling,Pass me not by.Cadavers litter in my environs,Awaiting vultures hovering.Whilst others thou art calling,Pass me not by.Crevice, crevasse and crestsI have sought for thee.Whilst others thou art calling,Pass me not by.”.She:“Right down to the deepest pit,Right through the slightest slitWhere your soul and mind might slide,I shall always stand by your side.My silent voice always fills the void.No word of mine can you then avoid.Others will call, smile or harass,But no word of yours shall I pass.”In collaboration with B. Poirson

JON' MANUELS ENEKELEBorn in Nigeria in 1976, he studied law, and is now a legal practitioner. His love forreading and writing naturally brought him to poetry.MARATHONAllThroughThe night,ISawYouRacing,Panting,Stretching,Sweating,Bracing,And hugging.TheTape...In my heart.ThroughAllThe night,YouHave meThinking,Pondering,Wondering,Craving,

Yearning,Wishing...,And lusting.You are mine,InMyHeart...In my dream,AllThisHappened!NowIAm blushing...Truly,IAm dreaming.Awake,IAmThinking…Of you.

SEVENTY TIMES SEVENWhen justice is forced to sit,Arm-twisted,In the open stalls of the market,Forced to be haggled upon,Fill in the blanks, and you will see usIn a free-for-all hobnobbing with bedlam,Where the weak and the old,The young, poor and helplessBecome footstools for the rich!Oh, this canon so etched,Beautifully emblazoned on slate, that reads:"Turn the other cheek when slapped,Regardless of the pain, shame or embarrassment",Is largely of the same purpose!Forgiveness still has its bar peggedAt seventy times seven per day.The reprisals and retributions are uncalled for.

OWOKERE ASUQUO ETIMA language consultant and mobile content expert, he is a Nigerian poet from Oro, asouthern minority ethnic group in Akwa Ibom State. With poetry, he is poised to makethe world better through an actual representation of life's reality.MAY EDEN KNOW PEACEMay Eden know peace!May the source of all races see bliss.May the land where rivers meetCry not of a drought of peace.May Eden know peace!May Abel's blood cry no more.May Cain cease to be accursedAnd his descendants bear no more his cross.May Eden know peace!May our source of strengthsTear us not apart,And make not our children stray off their tents.May Eden know peace!May the sacrifice of sweat and bloodFrom our ancestors till dateBe accepted as a token in exchange for love.May Eden know peace!May the children of IshmaelCo-habit with the brothers of Christ,And both drop the rift to save our land.May Eden know peace!May Eve know the serpent's deceit

And decline it, that Evil we may defeat,And put Eden where its glories seat.May Eden know peace!May Jezebel withdraw her troops.May sanity return to our youth,So we can restore our morality let loose.May Eden know peace!May the traitors be known by name,So that their heads Justice shall serve on tray,And they will be identified by their ill-fame!May Peace quench my thirst!May Peace irrigate our land!IGUANABefore me, strut passes an iguana.I do not hurt him, but him I admire.Our quarter is not friendly ,But he manages to exist freely.I live his life.Majestically I strut on life.I smile at the illThat seeks my will,Play with the fireThat smokes my desire,Kiss the lipsThat gulp my spit!But life struts on.Then squeeze me hard,So my life does not fall off…~

CHIEF FANI-KAYODEAdewunmi Abdulateef Fani-Kayode (meaning "the beloved of the Lord") is aNigerian politician, essayist, poet and lawyer. He was born in Lagos, Nigeria, inOctober 1960 to Chief Victor Babaremilekun Adetokunboh Fani-Kayode and toChief (Mrs) Adia Adunni Fani-Kayode.He is an Ile-Ife chieftain of Yoruba descent. After completing studies at CambridgeUniversity, UK, he proceeded to study Nigerian law and theology.He has composed numerous poems and essays. He was a Special Assistant (PublicAffairs) to President Olusegun Obasanjo (2003-2006), and the Minister of Cultureand Tourism of the Federal Republic of Nigeria (2006), and finally the Minister ofAviation (2006-2007).THE LAST SONG(Summer 1982, in the South of France and Athens)Fondest memories.Those were the days,The best days of our lives.So young, so free, so vibrant, so happy,We had the world at our feet.We were full of life.Where did all those wonderful years go?Our joy was complete.No fears. No worries.No responsibilities. No concerns.Now we are old and fading.Now our time is almost done.Now we know how cruel and hard this world can be.Now we call God night and day,To shield and provide for our partners and loved ones.Now we know what our parents went through.Now it is our children's turn to be full of joy.

I will not write poems and love songs again.The world is too ugly, too harsh, too cruel for that.Too many hearts have been broken,Too many souls have been betrayed and abandoned.Too much hurt is in the air.Too much want, too much poverty,Too much suffering.Here I sign off forever.To all those I once loved:I was never good enough for any of you.My bed of roses is made.The show is over, the night begins.From today I sleep, and I sleep forever.My queen shall continue the march of life,And other kings and generals will arise.Wow...wake up...wow,What a nightmare.Thank God.Did you think you could get rid of me so easily?No way.Come on, and give me a beautiful smile:How can I stop writing love songs,When the sun still shinesAnd your beauty still lies radiant at my doorstepAnd in my heart?No.I will write and write, until I am no more.And you will feel and enjoy that manifest joy and abundanceThat still resides in my Spirit-filled soul.This is not the last song.This is just the beginning.

JACK VINCENT FIDELIS ‘Jack Vince’He was born in the seventies to parents from the Igala extraction of Kogi State in theMiddle Belt region of Nigeria. His father was a soldier, so he attended Nigeria Army'smilitary primary and secondary schools in Maiduguri, north eastern region, where hewas born and bred. He reads Mass Communication at the University of Maiduguri,and has been a practising journalist doing freelance in the print and broadcast media.He got introduced to poetry at a very tender age by Irish missionary Catholic priestsand sisters, and has lived with it ever since.LIKE THE EAGLEEschewing customary orbit,He rises without limits, and his habitPropels the celestial sage with attitudeTo soaring pedestals of desired altitude,With an imbued penchant for gliding,While those who go a mere flyingAre void of the sage's adrenal overload,Even at the point of a spurring goad.Lighten your mindWith desires of a positive kind.Unlike the windy troupe,The doomed pathetic group,Soar like the eagle,Enthroned on Everest, always regal.

OLD MAJOROld Major has still not retired:Pensionable, but 'not tired'.Imperialists he chased away,Yet on the 'throne' he is up until today,Making nonsenseOf feats achieved with a high senseOf patriotism and valour,Now stripped of honour,Like one living in squalor."I'm a patriot, I'm a nationalist!Won't vacate 'cause o' the pen of a journalist!Presidency? My birthright!Your complaint? Well, that's human right!"From the fringes of Carthage to the Cape of Good Hope,All Old Majors are one and the same:Acting lame.The lands have lost hopeAt the crowns of the benighted continentWhere hunger and lack are quite pertinent.Now the hurricane brings painWith strokes of a piercing cane.The heat is felt at the north,And to the south winds fast move forth.Old Major! Mr Grey Hair without wisdom,Foolish old king without a kingdom:The greatest performerNever is the self-righteous reformer,But one who retiresBefore being discarded like expired tyres!

SHITTU FOWORABorn in Lagos Island, he finds relief in reading and in weaving his thoughts aroundwords. He lives an ordinary life on the outside, but a hundred different ones in hismind, the lives of a hundred characters, dozens of scenes, rebels, hunters, lovers andactivists: each life a story, each character with a tale. He currently resides in Kaduna,where he works as an IT Specialist.CLANGING: THIS IS NOT A POEMThis is not a note about Ex-Lovers.It is about the stunning, unbefriendable beauties across the world,Fenced away by the unseen wings of space.This is not an epistle.It is about the La-Di-Dahs who,In the 4745 days of their love-lives,Never even bothered to send a love-letter,Never received the gift of a rose either.This is not a poem per se.It is a reminder never to hold back a good thing,Because you are just the temporary custodian of a heart:A baby's heart seething.This is not a battleground.It is the gun-sound of your heart-shotsTearing my body to a debris.This is not about heartaches and breakups.It is about trusting my teen daughter not to rely on my opinionTo date a guy I know not from Eve.This is not about stringing words,Or painting hieroglyphic prescriptionsFor blind patients.It is about a deaf man blowing a cello to dead men walking.This is not about uncertainty or errata.It is about cats caterwaulingAt the sight of hapless dancing butterflies.'This is not' about sextractions or macho-quotients.

It is about knowing the truth,Tasting the truth, yet testing the truth,In order to believe the lies.This is not a poem,So I need you to stop looking out for tropes,Where there is no imagery or symbols.This is not about dance macabre.It is lilting on a foot, and scratching your itch,When all you got is the peppered nails of hunger.This again is not about smashing.It is about varying pleasure with pressure,Twitching and switching at tongue-speed,At mastered angles of attack.This is not about amnesty or honesty.It is about the travestyOf handing hoodlums the consentOf reincarnation with blazing cudgels.This is not about incarceration.It is about death coming,Brandishing kisses, and sayingIn a familiar dreamy voice:'I bring you good news from yonder'.This is not a screaming contest.It is a whimpering release,Sliding disbelief into disaffection,And expecting anything short of regrets.This is not about a loveless world.It is about finding a best friend,And hoping not to be friend-zoned for life.This is not about getting lost in lust.It is about you looking for me,And me finding you at the crossroads.This is not about making heaven or love.It is about ascending to the climax of freedom,And resisting return to the waste and chaos of landfills.

This is not about 'red things', red chilli pepper,Red-lips,Bloody hot things you dare not sup with your mouth.It is about the riotous fluxes singing blazing loadstones.This is not about banking on God,Or maidens seeking sexual deposits.It is about temples where miracles are procuredWith banged-mints in the bank of God.This is not about guns.It is not about school-kids.It is not about news-men and new lies.It is about unaccounted cadavers whisked off at birth.This is not about emergencies and hospitals.It is about caregivers decapitating invalidsTo allow beds for jaundiced parents of haemophiliacs.This is not about birth-marks or stretch-marks.Rather, it is about the stub that registers the sacrificesYou will never need to make again.This is not about defloration on a tomb-slab.It is about rage tattooed on the inner thighsOf forsaken kids.This is not about Fate or Faith.Neither is it about the Gospel.It is about indissoluble lies frothingIn fabricated mouths.This is not a dirge,Nor is it a requiem in the funeral of a killer.It is about the unshed tears for kidsWho died kissing bombs in sleep,Believing they were toys in real life.This is not a preachment about God.It is a soliloquy about demigods selling dogsTo feed their gods of unbelief.This, I say, is not your everyday verses,Or clichéd words strewn on paper.

It is about the wounded linesYou hear with your eyes,The forked words inveigling your eardrums.This is not about selfishness.It is not even about you.It is about the me in you,The you in me:It is about us.

ZIBUSISO ’Desperat Zeejay’ GAZI-JOSEPHSHe was born in 1985 in the Cape Flats, Capetown, South Africa. He dropped out ofschool after his mother's death, lived on the streets as a drug dealer and user, fell inlove with the pen, but also with a gun. A gang leader took him in and, “gangs gangingup against one another, cops chasing after them”, he experienced life in prison. Alongwith painful family and personal events, this deepened his natural love and skill forpoetry. He has been inspired by many authors such as Rod McKuen, but also KingJudah and the Inner Circle group.He sees himself as a stand up poet, musical poet and an anthology author in thefuture. So far he has written some three hundred poems, five of them recorded astracks, and a few on print with the works of other poets. He lives in Johannesburg, butas he enjoys a large fan base in the USA, he plans to relocate there to join hismentors.He has founded an AIDS/HIV awareness group. As he clearly puts it, he is still agangster, of words and flows. He is still an addict, of poetry, ink and paper. He stillloves his toy, his gun now the pen he shoots at the paper with. He was a gangsterthen, he still is, now of poetry.BEYOND MOUNTAINSThe clouds begin to gatherBeyond our heads.From the top of the mountains birds whistle,As trees wave to each other.The vegetation spreads smiles.Over the heights, the mountains' dark cloudsCarry water flows on their bosom.On their chests they hold floods:The season's changes draw nearer.Armed bands march forwardTowards the royal house, the palace.Trying to trace my shadow I attempt.The humid weather escapes my presence.

The Mediterranean is in open arms.Swallowing the Red Sea got her eyes to the very heavens,To warmly embrace lifeAnd take in the saturating source.Some ordained it Doomsday.Those were inferior soulsLooked down on as helpless creatures.It rains on top of the mountains,Thunderous watery land of stones.Beyond, Kopies * are readyTo welcome the top waters.So am I,The weakest creature.* kopies: Afrikaans for hillock

TO THE MISCARRIED ONEAs I looked at your momma's glowing face today,She wondered why I penetrated my eyes deep that way.She turned aside,And I stared at the mirror and began to cry.My thoughts she could not read or discern,But I broke down: why did you leave before you even began?You see, we anticipated to hold you in our arms.You escaped even our touch.You perished just after you were made,As you were feeding through your momma's veins.An embryo, that is what you only grew to be.The womb that conceived you became your grave, I see…“She is amazingly beautiful, sweetheart”…Would you have been a girl, you would have had her eyes and heart.Her chocolate skin flawless,The beauty of her eyes' deepness:I see you from her, dear:A mirror of you is right here.All we are left with is a handful of dissolving hopesBreaking promises like a single cord rope.The pain is piercing like a million poisoned arrows,A thousand strokes from the Pharaohs.Pastors I do not turn to, to claim it is God's will:To take the innocent, is it, really?

We drown in our own bubbling cisterns of tears,Ensnared and captured by our magnetic fears.Let the wicked world end, we pray,To destroy death, the last enemy and pain.I do not know the reasons,As I push aside the unanswered questionsAs to why you perished,Maledicting the only blessing you were…Like dewdrops you enlightened our hopes,Saturated us like temporary blossoms.I know the pain hidden behind her breast,The sorrow proofed by this vest.But we love you beyond death,Death you made to before birth.

TONY HAYNESA lyricist, songwriter, poet, music publisher, producer and author, he was born in1960. He is a complete artist, who has written lyrics to melodies composed by thebiggest names in R&B and pop music.He has authored thirty-four children's books, and produced kid's music based onsome of the most successful animated characters in the world. In particular Tonywrote and produced audio products featuring Bugs Bunny, Looney Tunes, TheAnimaniacs, Pinky & The Brain and The Looney Tunes Lovables for Warner Bros.Tony Haynes began his professional career in 1981 writing songs with Al McKay &David Bryant. In the course of time, collaborating with so many song-writers led him toproduce songs like “Powerlight” by Earth, Wind & Fire, among others. His songs havebeen recorded on “ over two hundred albums, selling in excess of sixty million copiesworldwide”. They have earned sixty gold and multi-platinum awards.As a poet, he sees what he does as his mission in life, which is “to create poetry worksthat touch a person's heart, soul and day-to-day life”. He loves “ inspiring people toimagine, hope, dream and believe”. Tony is considered “the Foremost Practitioner ofAcrostic/Spiritual Poetry”. His books focus on “ inspiration and enlightenment utilizingthe acrostic method”. His poetry has been published in online magazines, blogs,anthologies and books all around the world. (adapted from Wikipedia)ENERGY MATTERSE nergy matters.E nergize me with your smile,Q uietly compile the dataU nique to my profile,A nd I will give you theories,L ectures and objectives,S timulating many new perspectives.M y ambition is what it has always been:C onvince you to grow the garden within.S o energy matters,Q uintessential is its flow,

U nveiling the true source ofA ll we do and do not know,R e-energizing consciousness with the seeds our hearts renew.E nergy matters invariably, but what matters most is you,D espite what you have concealed…I can see passion blooming in your energetic field.

MEANT TO BEW e never really knowI f things are meant to be,T ill these precious thingsH ave fled to where things flee.A nd when they finally goL ike petals in mid-flight,L ife will show you if these things were wrong or right,M oving you to tears or the brightest smileY our world has yet to see in quite a while.H enceforth just know that things,E ach thing that breeds concern,A t times may spread its wings,R etreat and then sojournT o dwell off in the distance…So by all means set them free!And if a thing returns,Then it was meant to be.

DANISA JACQUELINE HLONGWANEShe is an electronics engineering student from South Africa. She has a project called“act of random kindness project” that assists students with bursary, scholarship andjob training information. The project also offers two hundred and fifty kids party-packsevery year, and offers disadvantaged primary school children hand-gloves and hatsin winter. She loves poetry, for it is a silent, yet loud bondage that unites people fromdifferent cultures, races and places.SELF-PROCLAIMED FOOLAddress me as “Your Highness,King of earthly dwellers”.My castle is located in the centre of the world,And the world revolves around my command.The sun rises and sets to bow to me.My words cut like sharp swords.I make the hard coresStumble and tumble.When I speak,You ought to keep silent and listen.So why bother to utter your own words?Maintain them to your barren mind.Your factual affirmation is not required.For I know who I am:The king of the world by birthright.Don't you dare to call me by my first name,Nor my last,You, peasant!My name is reserved for queens and kings.Not even the princess, nor the prince, calls me by my name.I am the jury and the judge of the earthly dwellers.I shall prosecute you,Based on your attire, attitude and earthly possessions.And bribe me not,Or you shall feel my rigorous and ruthless sentence!…Until I die…

SILENT TEARDROPSAwakened by a kick on the door,Frightened by my mother's screams!Barely awake…They grab me,Force me down,Slash my panties.His accomplice holds my hands,Opens my legs, and gags me.The rebel leader takes off his pants.With a sinister smile, he tells me to be ready.I hear my motherScreaming,Soliciting,Praying.I become deaf to my mother's appeals,Blind to my surroundings.My physique quivers.Fear weakens me.He rapes me with dignity and jollity,Stealing my innocence,Tearing me apart,Violating me physically,Emotionally,And spiritually.Silent tears embrace my cheeks.Pain numbs me.Praying Death to save me.Pleading with the world to be hallow and swallow me.

My silent teardrops tell a storyOf being alive, but murdered at the age of eight,Of the pain my being had to endure,Of my anger towards men who are addicted to rape like heroin.My silent teardrops are words that I cannot utter.

HLAMULO HOSANAA student at the University of Limpopo, South Africa, he is f rom Tzaneen.For himwords written on a page are voices waiting to be heard, and poetry gives cogencyto the meaning of what he wants to share.LISTEN TO NATURELook up and listen to Nature:She has a story to tell.Like a tree,You have your own fruits to bear.Embrace uniqueness.Do not compare.Shrubs remind youThere is a need to take care.Peach and grape are not engaged in a warfare.Established in differentiation,Each complementsVariety through originality:That is fair.Look up and listen to Nature.She has a story to share.A seed germinates to its full potentialFrom which it hails.Through seasons and grazing,Each must prevail.With the first fruits,Victory is not proclaimed.From foul visitations, the blossom then is tried.From your shadow,Shelter will be found.

The howling of the nightRegisters the dedication of the prowl.Like a tree,Look up, and listen to Nature:She has a story to spin.Variation was not imposed,Though natural selection was composed.The myth of character specialisationIs not the perpetuationOf speciation.Your genomeSpeaks of no missing cariotypes.A breath of fun resembles something engraved,An 'I love you' carvedOn my bark,Eternal markOf my haven on Earth.Like a tree,Look up and listen to NatureTelling youTo take care.

COMET KEYDIEN HUDSONA South African poet from Nelspruit, he lives in Bloemfontein, South Africa.AWAKEAwake my energy, guiding spark!Send me soaring to purpose, on mark!Alert, alive to all that can be,Seeking, shining, as far as I see !Awake my mind, you, bittersweet toolWhich leads one to be true or play the fool!Weakened thoughts grasp, away from the core,Leave us weary, hungry, wanting more…Awake myself to who I can be!Uncluttered visions reside in me,Potential greatness that is I.There are no limits under the sky!Awake myself to my truthful worth,Love, light, perfection, peace, joy and mirth,Creative fire, gift deep inside all!Intuition beckons: heed its call!Awake my heart, and step into love!Melt young scars away, and rise above!Confusion's kiss once led me astray:I turn to myself to mute the fray.Awake my truth, thou, grand unmasked self,Hidden, buried, found: authentic wealth,Our life's purpose, comfort, joy and ease,Guidance from within, eager to please!

Awake my spirit - fears set aside-Soul's perfection, fervent, loving guide,Flowing love, our birthright, path, desire,Flame burning bright from this heavenly fire!IF YOUIf you dress nicely,He says you are a snob.If you dress sexy,He says you are filthy.If you argue with him,He says you are stubborn.If you are quiet,He says you are stupid.If you call him,He says you are needy and clingy.If he calls you,He says you should be grateful.If you don't love him,He will try to win you.If you love him,He will leave you.If you don't sleep with him,He will say you don't love him.If you do,He will say you are easy.If you tell him your problems,He will say you are irritating.If you don't,He will say you don't trust him.If you lecture him,He will say you are scary.~

If he lectures you,It is because he cares.If you break a promise,You cannot be trusted.If he breaks it,He had to.If you cheat,Expect it to be over.If he cheats,He expects to be given another chance.Either way…You never win.

ALOZOR MICHAEL IKECHUKWUA serving naval officer from Anambra state, he was born in Lagos in the mid-eighties.He was a teacher for three years, before he joined the Nigerian Navy in 2005. Heattended the Nigerian Navy Basic Training School ( Rivers state), the Nigerian NavyFinance and Logistic School ( Abia state), and the Nigerian Navy Intelligence School(Lagos state).He now intends to pursue a degree in Intelligence Gathering and Analysis, and tostudy French. Alozor also holds a World Bible School certificate and is an activemember of “Alliance Francaise”.His poems, which follow no definite structure or pattern, have been described bymany as deeply focusing on the inner working of the human mind. He employs auniquely crafty technique in his writing, and “ his quiet and reserved personality is agreat influence visible in his verses”. According to K I Samson, “his style is intriguingand provocatively innovative”, and according to Alozor, his poems are “emotionalescape routes”.ONE AT A TIMEOne at a time is the step of life.Take a leap when you get to a pit;Else, down the pit you will dive.When you resurface, your bearing is lost.Slow and steady is the race of life.Never look back, since it is lost and gone.When you meet setbacks, make a dive,Bypass it, never leaving your lane.As bold as the hawk you should be,Your eyes as sharp as the eagle's,So all that walks your lane you can seeAnd promptly treat according to size.Never overlook anything on your way.Never take those sweet spots the way they are.They are never the best places, if I may say.

The regrets in loving them is not always far.Never try to side-step any step.Never run away from the difficult spot.The next step is as important as the last:Ignore it, and all is lost.As you strive to finish up the race,Be mindful of those on the way, offering you water.Some waters can set you ablaze.Remember there is nothing as late as later.These are the rules of the game.Keep these rules,And you will rise to fame.The winner will be no one else but you.IF AMNESTY IS THE KEYThey carried arms to fight their causeOf ravaged farms and streams of curse.They waged their fight with thunderous might,Worsening their plight for a future so bright.With flowing blood,They threatened the nation's livelihood.No longer could the nation standTheir violent brand.So for the sake of the economy,They were granted amnesty….Then from nowhere these came,Fomenting fear in 'a Holy One's name,~

Littering their streets with vulture's food,Rearing rifts where peace once stood.With weird intentionsThey threatened the nation's existence.Without pity they destroy.With the inhumane means they employ,And for the sake of fair play and unity,They were offered amnesty,Whereas our tomorrowsAre uncertain,And we are in sorrowsAnd under pain.The nation has mortgaged our future.Our tomorrows obscured, no hope to nurture:Our tempers are slowly rising.Collectively, it might yield an uprising.But if amnesty is the key,Why wait for our violent plea,After swimming in frustration's sea?In advance, grant us amnesty!

ALBERT JUNGERSAn Anglican priest living in upstate New York with his wife, a psychiatric nurse, hestarted writing poetry at the age of six. Acclaimed as a mentor and a “father” by manyof the poets in this anthology, he died in May 2013.REFRAME THE QUESTIONSitting on a powder keg,Playing with matches,Sitting on a Roc's eggTo see what hatches...Free to possessAnd carry arms:Who will assessThe one that harms?If I my angerCannot control,Then that hungerWill take its toll...If I should chooseTo act in fear,Someone will loseWhat they hold dear...What is insanity,If not that?What is cheeseTo a hungry rat?End the violence`Is easy to say,But who has senseTo find the way?

OH, ALUU ! (1)Oh Aluu, Aluu, Aluu!I was the one who stripped you naked.I was the man who beat you with sticks.I was the woman who spat as you passed.I was the child who silently watched.I was the flame in your necklace of shame!Oh Aluu, Aluu, Aluu!I answer to your name...(1) The reference is to the murder of four young students beaten and set ablaze inthe Aluu community, Rivers State, Nigeria.

M'HAMED KANOURA poet, writer and translator, he was born in 1988 and raised in Gzoula, Asafi, inMorocco. He has studied English and Literature at the University of Marrakech. Hewrites in English and Arabic. He has won literary awards, first in Marrakech with“Through My Glare”, then in Alexandria, Egypt, with Arabic poems : “The Night Alsohas a White Colour”, and “Outflow of the Night”. He regularly publishes short stories,poetry and literary essays in different magazines and papers around the world.THROUGH MY GLAREMy face in these eyes,Shining towards the sky all the time…My shape is a novel with a thousand chapters,My hair, a forest of thoughts.My eyes are decades of worry,My lips, an open door.My ears receive the howls of the wind.My nose is a statue looking for some lost spirit.My body is too weak, as Hercules was not.My heart is arrested there, searching for freedom.My back is affected by the past, like an ancient wall.My hands are the wings of a birdThat has just escaped from a trap.My feet are quickly driving me towards the future.To nowhere am I running, without a fixed level.I am sentient enough with my semblance.My face in the mirror…I watch a tidy man's scene with many interpretations.Have a gaze at it: it is deep and brightening.Realize the motivation:What really goes on with this reflection?There would be no disturbance.Just give me that white pen.I will write about your beauty.

I would show some reality about this mood.How mysterious are the man and I?Do not take us with you in this heat time,Do not push us inside your dreams.You will see such dusk,Due to the night, so dark.And I am just a night bird.My face in the murmuring stream:Wet and dry: the alternative all the time.Do you like this race?All this vitality is carelessly being wiped away.I look forward to the oblivious chair…Who has the key to stop the tragedy?It is forever more a simple destiny,Without imagination, but messy.It causes a bit of horror inside the iron core.What is beyond the mountains?The needles in the smooth path are confusing the soul.The soul is still running wild under lovely trees.Trees are inside a scary jungle.Though there is an exit,I am fixed in my way,And I am fixed in my way.

KAR A GHOUN KHAN“Of plebeian background”, he moved from East to West to study and work in the fieldsof Psychology, Philosophy and Classical Greek. He currently works in non-academicenterprises.HEAR THE SILENCEHear the silence...Where things untoldAre left to do the talking.Hear the silence...Where words are bornWithout pain or moaning.Hear the silence...Where buried sunsRise from graves, shining.Hear the silence...Where Earth and LightMeet in sacred kissing.Hear the silence...Where lips of dustGive voice to meaning.Hear the Silence?

A TALE OF TIME FORESHADOWEDI hear strange feet in the stairs!Is it a light or a shade ascending?The rustling of her dress is rough,And heavy her step on the landing.Her colour is deep, such as the sunCan never give and never take back,The colour of death, the colour of blood.An irrepressible heart of no pityShe carries under her coarse robe,A bosom of indistinct fire and gore.Infernal blaze has forged her irons,Fangs sparking at the grindstone of Time.She works deliverance from a clock that never stops.It is not Peace she brings to ungrateful peoples.It is no Blessing she bestows on contentious bones.But License she grants everyoneTo now do their worst.

MOTSHEDISI L.B. KHANTSIShe was born in Klersdorp and raised in Mafikeng in the North West province in SouthAfrica. She went to Nelson Mandela Metropolitan University. Her love of books andwriting was developed during her high school years, when she volunteered to be alibrary assistant. She was also exposed to the art of story-telling by her mother. Shestill keeps both a personal and poetry journal and writes regularly. She is currentlyresiding in Johannesburg, in Gauteng province, where she works as anadministration clerk in a HAST clinic.AGORAPHOBIC CLAUSTROPHOBIAThe walls are closing in,Smaller and smaller,Yet I cannot come out.I see it coming,This huge human wall,Closer and closer towards me,Yet I cannot get away.The room shrinks more and more.My head begins to spin,Yet I cannot come out.You promised I would never be alone.Now these people are stealing my air!Yet I cannot get away.I cannot breathe,I suffocate!The walls are closing in!They are stealing my air,Breathing it in greedily, consistently,A vast moving mass of bodiesIn a conspicuous vast piece of land!

My lungs constrict.I need to come out.I need to get away.I am in the middleOf a full panic-attackOn this God-forsaken,Spinning globeOf overcrowded,Organised chaos:My fear.~STILLNESS SPEAKSStillness speaksThrough the deafening silenceOf my calm, chaotic thoughts,Of my peaceful, restless spiritScreaming silent prayers,Silently calling upon my ancestorsTo dance and laugh with meAmong the weeping willows,As sorrows usurp my joyIn the sunny savannahOf my chilled soul.Stillness speaks,As an angel exhalesStillness…

MADU CHISOM KINGDAVIDA student in history and international studies at Imo State University, Owerri, he isNigerian. When not writing, he can be found researching and singing.FORGIVE US, AFRICA!Africa,The home of nameless wonders,Where the spumes of ZambeziGreetThe snow of KilimanjaroAt sunrise,Where constellationsBabysit pearled mangrove forestsAnd the alley of baobabsOf Madagascar,When darkness occupies the eyes of the sky,Forgive Us, Africa!Forgive Us...In those yearsOf bitter civilization,We loved the devil moreThan we loved you.We called youAncient,Barbarian,Crude,The dark continent,Only to drag your name down...But is it not folly

To call you The Dark Continent,When you were the firstTo taste the fruit of civilization,When there existedGreat kingdoms,From Fatimid to Kushite,And from AssumiteTo Songhai,Before we came?Forgive Us,The most wanted brideOf the world.We sucked your proud breasts of dawnDry,Forced our wayThrough the canal of your womanhood,And pilfered your treasures,Leaving legacies of poverty and dependency...Today,We are swarmingIn the hive of glory,You,Sinking in the mudOf lasting nightmares...Africa, Forgive Us!Forgive our tortoise-minds.We gave you the Bible,We taught you how to prayWith your eyes closed.When you opened them,

We had your tasty land,And you had the Bible.Forgive Us,For we have made youA dumping paradiseOf hazardous substances,And their noxious perfumesBring horrible sicknessAnd death to your children.Forgive UsIn our sermons of hatred:Black Satan, white Jesus,Black is evil, white is holy,And Ham your descendant.Forgive Us, Africa!We exiled your fathers,Poisoned King Jaja of OpoboAnd murdered Muhammed Attahiru I.We brought downYour ancient homesteads,Destroyed your blooming empiresWith the superiority of our arms.Forgive Us,Who exported millionsOf your childrenFor more than three hundred years...Ndo* to your childrenWhose lives ebbed awayAt Goree Island,

ThoseWhose blood fertilized our soil,And thoseWho forged silence in their chains,Jettisoned as foodFor the fish of the seas...The African ChildrenReading this pieceShould forgive us.For the evil committedAgainst your raceIs unforgettable,But forgive us...* “Ndo”: “sorry”in the Igbo language

VUYISILE ‘Thelonious Monk’ KOAHELAHailing from Evaton North, Vaal Triangle, South Africa, he currently studies traumacounselling. Literature is his life.THE LABYRINTH OF DAEDALUSThere was an intricate maze that disturbed his mental calm...Daedalus: he felt he needed some escapism from this mental dun...For some unimportant reasons and complicated feelings,He thought of the sun...His identity rising to its full magnitude in destructive power,He warned his son...The labyrinth of Daedalus created a heart-shaped prism,And lit up a colourful mindBrighter than any quasar in cosmic beltsAnd any refined golden metal.Icarus was an adjacent life and a useful tool,The son of a handy craftsman that would beget his watery doom.What a contradiction, to die in the hands of a life-giver,From the source of heat and light…He had the skill to trap his Minotaur,To question perceptions.To tame the dark art, he started from conceptionTo morph reality and all its sensationsInto a cartoon.Now he is funded by the governmentTo convince souls lost in the labyrinth that they can fly.The board is stained by writings,When he lectures animations on the art of getting by.There is nothing more paralysingThan submitting your judgment to this fellow.Reason becomes a seasonal practice

You seldom engage your mind intoIn the silence of this flow.Magnifying the aching in his mind makes him stare hard,As he swoops through his guard…And now, Icarus, prided with the urgeTo orchestrate the fall of Apollo,Regurgitates his father's words into the openness of the sky,Standing firm on his psychological preparationsTo take this flight solo.Is your life wax, Icarus?Up to the sun he goes,Not hesitant, not fazed...Then down in the sea he falls.And he should soon die in it.BLACK CANDLE-LIGHTBlack candle-light...Black light, illuminating through skin pores,So we adjust the white with tans,Turn them to brown with the sun as our source...The son, as our sores are healed with cross-reference,And blasphemies aligned with the laws,-Spells broken by biting bitter apples-Breathes bibles beneath black skin-arteries to ease our flaws.Nonsensical sexual scandals roam the net,As if scoured from the earth.And snake-skinned claws,A blatant mockery of pitiful empathy gestures,Are given as tokens of gratitude to my mental enemies.So I speak the evident psychedelic poetry to alter-egosOf personalized individuals and swiftly altered personalities,Have them looking through their third eye~

To witness their future disassembled by the minute:Monk meditation,Monk medication.Physicists could not make out my structural formula.I am my own gratification!The truth of the lost future generationLies in the semen of your spiritual masturbation.So you have physical misconceptions and wired wi-fi connections!I dare to call the world an illusion.Religious confusions make for pitiful conclusions.Let us celebrate the delusion!Flame the fame of the foolWho does not adher to the doctrine of your propagation!Hide this conspiracy from the eyes and ears of the inquisitive!Blacking out from the black candle light enlightenmentAs my initiative,I speak with an outlandish skin colour,And a blind desire to rule the world...You need more than a bright light shining on your thoughtsAnd oozing from your tongue-tied words, meant to inspire...Everyday, a new attire:Saviour first, next day betrayer.Lukewarm water is non-existent in the course of Nature!Look, even if my flesh should expire,My words will mount the Zion of unknown dimensions forever!Your skin has too many layers...Invent a god to swallow our prayers!

ERNEST MACKINAHe is a writer, amateur photographer, poet and blogger from Bulawayo, Zimbabwe.He has written articles featured on various online magazines, and poetry posted onvarious blogs. He is currently studying for his Master's degree at the NationalUniversity of Science and Technology in Zimbabwe, where he is also employed as aTeaching Assistant in the department of Library and Information Science. He is alsopassionate about charity work, and strongly believes in promoting peace throughservice.HOUSE OF STONEA conical towerStanding more than a thousand stones tall:The royal works express native majesty.No foreign dilutions in the creation of this dome.The towers iconically stand in the shape of a cone.Fort Victoria built on a fortress,Poised for warriors' victory!Fifteenth century Mutapa! *The Rozvi *,In granite layers, builders of stone recounting an untold storyOf Great Zimbabwe's glory!When the fortress crumbled,Blood was spilt, and it became untold gory.Tribes that stayed there to resideShielded their integrity using cow hides.Kings, Princes ruled over multitudes of livesIn the Age of Iron,A time when a royal fistWas best fitBy this palace.A nationHeld together,CohesionStanding tall:

No need for mortar:Dzimba dza Mabwe,*The House whose foundations tremble with granite,Is an ancient civilisation,An Ironsmith's ingenuity,Africa's tribute,An ode to this formidable repository of our cultural heritage!The kingdom of Zimbabwe, immortalized by eight birdsThat flew away in cages to lands unknown,Slowly making their way back home,Wondering if they ever would,Slipped away like soap-stones,Ransacked by mercenaries.Amazed at African riches,You will never believe,Seeing the seeds of goldSuch as granite steps would glow-Nyatsimba Mutota-*,That such a great empire would fall!?*Mutapa: This was a Shona kingdom which stretched between the Zambezi andLimpopo rivers of southern Africa in the modern states of Zimbabwe andMozambique.*Rozvi: an empire established on the Zimbabwean Plateau by Changamire Dombo*Dzimba dze Mabwe: House made of stone*Nyatsimba Mutota: A warrior Prince sent to find salt

LETTER TO MY FOURTEEN-YEAR-OLD SELFI look at the image of you in this portrait I am holding. I see those hazeleyes that twinkle in sombre moments, and make dampened spiritssparkle into renewed hopes. Young and innocent: a spitting image ofwho I once was.Looking at this picture is like staring at a mirror with time-travelfeatures; it is a moment I reel in and immensely cherish. Your teenagemind, clean of the corrupt images of delinquency and flashes oftruancy, instead has naïve dreams that have not yet been gunned downby the gravity of reality.I know you do not hurt as I do. And even though we look the same, youare better-looking than me. But I recognize you from the dreams weshare, both fulfilled and unfulfilled.Dear Fourteen-Year-Old Self,I envy your freedom,Yearn for your innocenceWith a sense of nostalgia.Your presence lingers on, as I carry your scent.I recall your freedom to be innocent,And recollect the endless opportunities and beauty in your youth.Sitting back here on this old bed whose dreams we share,I cannot help but flashback to the time I was you.Reminiscing about you is a memory I celebrate,And every time I stare at this picture,It is as if I was going through old belongingsAnd reading the old scraps of poemsI would scribble during break-time and prep recess.So here is some advice from your Twenty-Four-Year-Old Self:Seek motivation.Yearn for wisdom.Obtain understanding.

Choose reason over emotion.Think in the heat of an argument.Celebrate the first rains.Write a letter to paranoia.Realize the power of conversations.Realize that 'old house' is your home.Appreciate your taste in music.Realize your greatest strength lies in these words.Realize it is in this silence that your thoughts turn so violent.Wait for the gentle breeze... and listen to it.Please remember, my dear Fourteen-Year-Old Self:Pursue truth.Advance knowledge.Calculate danger.Anticipate love.Install faith.Always believe.Be earnest.Never forget:Be earnest,Yes, honest.Contemplate righteousness.Hurt less,Hate less,Be earnest:I am Ernest, and you are me...Never give up on we!Your Twenty-Four-Year-Old Self.

NAKITA NOKWANDA MASEKOShe was born in February 1991 in the expansive space between the Swaziland andMozambique borders in Mpumalanga. She has been reading for as long as she canremember, but has only been writing for a few years. She loves Art in its many forms.She has completed her Honour's degree in Economics at North-West University'sVanderbijlpark campus in South Africa (Gauteng Province).BLUE, THE SUNCHILDThe scars singSongs composed by deaf children.Melodies hummed by sleeping voices, they dream in songs,Lyrics written on the mirrorThat has become an extension of my palm,Lines snaking their way into a funeral song sung too late.Tears drop, patterned like a black rose,Petals hiding intentions misplaced in pocketsFilled with candy-wrappers.She is asleep in the corner,Knees slightly bent, as though she had fallen asleep during prayer.Her chest follows the push and pull of the river within her.She weeps: hold me, mother.Wrap your arms tight around me, until I drown in your scent.Tell me he will not come for me, when I am alone.Tell me the door will not openTo expose the garment of mismatched coloursI clothe my spirit with,To hide the stain of an innocence lost too soon.Tell me the world will not demand an explanationFrom a mouth whose only experience with words was a screamPulling eternity into the present to ease the burden of knowing.Tell me the light will not die, when I close my eyes,Because I have already seen the insides of these eyelids:They burn with the vastness of a story left untold,

The one about how strangers never come, when you are in a crowd,Or how heavy legs become,After miles spent running from the illusion that is self,Then remembering “illusions are most believable,When they look solid”.The scars burnFrom fires lit by the memories left in the hands of ancient women,Those women who have to balance the sticksThey stuck into a can of fireTo burn away the bridges keeping them connected with the earth,Keeping them above the earth.It is so dark down there, so keep them floating.And when they finally stop breathing, turn them into ash,And offer them to the wind as a token of peace.But first, let them know their hands are steadier than they think,So they can still hold us up;Tell us stories and teach us how to danceTo the ebb and flow of childrenWho learned the art of breathing from the roots of a willow.Let them know their voices are the fires that lit our lives,When the creator said “let there be light”.She wakes,Eyes stained with truth, and hands bloodiedFrom digging up the hardened earthInfested with the dreams our mothers never harvested,Because life had somehow tricked them into believingThey could never have come first,They had no right to hope the clouds could hold on to their secrets,Hold on to their dreams, so they could one day be rained into us,And we would be kind enough to live them into existence.

LETTER TO MY FATHERYou are a museum of memories I cannot walk away from,Like scars that dance to colour my skin,A silent prayer dangling from quivering lips,A burnt-out revolution moving on broken feet.I carry you in my heart, the way the wind carries songsSung by deserts left to their own loneliness.Once, you were the wind that moved me,Almost embraced me,Forged comfort into my mother's breasts,Until her nipples became a home for my lonely heart.You claimed me as yours, until doubt itself ceased to exist.But the disappearance of doubt turned you into a shadowChasing itself.Now the taste of your memories lingers on the tip of my tongue,Seeking some space to call home.What happened to you?To me?To us?To the moments that named us one,The moments created from bottles nicknamed purityBy those who drowned under fond memories of you?Sadly, I have none.Though I wish I did.Maybe that way you would not be the shadowChasing my waking moments.Dear father,In my clearest memory of you, you are sitting on top on my mother,Trying to strangle her with her own dress.Your anger makes you oblivious to me screaming behind you.I am five years old. I do not know you.Later, you become the comfort zone without any comfort.Your eyes become the window through which you escape,Never to be found by me.

I wonder how she found you, the woman who kept your heart…But let's not speak of her. It breaks my heart.Dear father,Did she ever write you love letters sent with kisses?Did they take up all your pocket space?I hope she loved you harder than I ever could.

LIANN GABRIEL MPAHLELE MATABANEBorn in 1985, also known as «Blaque», he is a student who has been an enthusedwriter since before time allowed him to fully express himself. He grew up in theTownship of Ga-Rankuwa in Pretoria. While currently studying to be a ComputerSystems Engineer, he is still waiting for his poems to be placed where publishers andreviewers can appropriate his overall reach. Among others, he has written articles foran online publication known as “conciousness.co.za” . He has performed on stagesfor the Street Poets (TUT Poetry a.k.a Spoken Word Society). He does not considerhimself a thoroughbred writer yet, but he shows “hope and promise”.TELL A PERSON“Tell a person what they want to hear,And soon their fear will disappear",For sometimes raw truth is bitter-hearted,And in its deeps unfurl images departed,Like kisses that slit the partition of closed lips,Or waists that handle curves of hips.A spoken word from furtive sourcesWill ring out from romances aborted,When all that was meant was straight walk.At times, what she demands is but pillow-talk,Unaware that truth has the beauty of a Black HawkStriking, phantom-like, feedingOn dainty swallows: no bleeding."Tell a person what they want to hear,And soon their fear will disappear".Forward, but not to yourself,For in the self one's stealth lacks health.Speak your mind and hear its offer,But keep yourself to your being's coffer.“Tell a person what they want to hear,And soon their fear will disappear".If you give what you receive,

Then giving is only half of what you perceive.Clear your mind to see a truth,But know that truth is not for youth.In the end your mind will be the overseerOf a docking path for your thoughts and your dearTo take you to the edge of aging proper."Tell a person what they want to hear,And soon their fear will disappear".A lie it can be, but it will be their choice,Like speaking up and giving voiceTo desire beyond what you can deliver,Like running fast, but getting ...silver.Look, I want to say what you want to hear,To say what you feel is here...Inside my heart speaks your demand,But as it speaks, you release my hand,For you are demanding that I should beMore than what you are to see.I say what you want to hear,And hope your fear will disappear.But in my words you look and say:"A lie is what you are today.”

KAKOI MATHEKAAlso known as Edi Son Kiley on the social networks, he was born in the nineties andraised from a humble background in Nairobi, Kenya. He began writing poetry at theage of seventeen. After lacking school-fees, and because of family problems, hesought comfort in writing verse. The pain and challenges he had faced inspired hisfirst piece: "Heart of Stone". Later on, he performed his poetry in church, and atvarious public or community gatherings. He has written a lot of pieces, among which“Purple Single, Savages In The Name of Tribe”. Helping the needy is one of hispriorities along with writing, because he believes his talent can change the world.PROPHET OF WORDSI have become a Prophet full of words.I see words that are yet to come,The sky shining bright with words.It is who I am: the Prophet full of words.My eyes see the people as verbs,See the roads as joining words.It is who I am:The Prophet full of words,Surrounded by living verbs.A kiss on the calendar,And my eyes transform an aeon to a month,A month full of words.For I am the Prophet full of words.When I take a step to the land my Ancestors once loved,I hear the verbs sing like stars.For here, the stars are singers,And words celestial lightThat brightens the infinite, colourless sky!But who among theeIs strong enough to carry what I see?For the sight is carried,And it needs someone strong like me,

The Prophet full of words,Someone strong enough to break the rules of a poem,Be it composed by Poe or warmed by William…I am the Prophet.Someone like you,But a prophet full of words.THE DEAD MAN HAS NO PEACEIt is a cityWhere the souls have no peace.Here the dead are crying,For even in their gravesThey are being scattered,Piece by piece,Not by the soil,But by men still alive,Still walking,Not because the mortals are into rituals,But because the mortals have occupied the spaceAnd forgotten to reserve a place to burry themselves.Here they are busy buying land,Building castles,Growing real estate.And as they build their mansions,They forget about where they will rest.The greediest are grabbing graveyardsTo build five-star-hotels.And here are the dead, lying in expensive caskets,While everyone is running east, running west,Not in search of a deceased friend,But in search of some landFor the dead man to rest.There now stands a bungalow,~

Where the rich man was due to rest.And when they go,They have to share the graves,For here the dead man's peaceIs placed on an hour glass:Whenever it is full,Another man will inherit that grave.Here the dead man has no peace,Never rests.The graves have all to be recycledFor the rich and poor wandering dead.

MOKHETHI N'Script MOEKETSIHe lives in Bloemfontein. A South African poet and the author of a poetry bookentitled: “I came, I saw and I conquered”, he is a member of “The Archives”.DEATH IS PROUDDeath is proud once again.Death finds joy in our pain.We cry during the dark cloudCaused by death, roaring loud,While it dances in its rain.Death, you are proud once again.Death, you pass us onIn the most tragic ways.You find peace in our sorrow.When you are present, we bow.We never see tomorrow.Death, you are like an arrowShot from a bow.You show no mercy, you are numb,When our time has come.Death, you are proud once again.The sound of our cry is so loud!We hopelessly fear your presence.To you, Death, we are always bound.You reside around the corner of life.You even break down the walls of survival,As you come aroundOver and over again.Death, you are so proud.Death, you are a catastrophic disasterFound in accidents, incurable diseases,

Suicide and murder.Death, you dwell well everywhere you go,Death, let me not hear, see or even feel you.The angels of fate are always with you,While the demons of life are obscure to you.Death, you are proud once again.There is no poetry in this letter,So I hope that makes you feel better.Do not be so ecstatically proud,Death. Wherever you prove clever,We can only see a dark cloud.But nothing in you is profound,Hence we celebrate life,Though we cry, when you are found.Birth is the beauty of life,While you, Death, are the beast.You find pleasure when we die.As we are your daily feast,Death, come, find us in our sleep,Perhaps then you will feelA little less proud.Death, you are proud once againDeath, let it be knownWhen you come my way,So that I can sleep.When you decide on my release,Come, find me while resting in peace.Perhaps then you will disappear.“Rest In Peace” is a song you serenely wrote as a peer…Death, you are proud once again.Death, I wish you to taste your own medicine,And overdose on it, and die a tragic death.

You have lived by the sword:Now Death, I want you to die by the sword.Death, you know my name and fate,Hence you are waiting for me,Wherever you are.But Death, be proud for the last time:As I am eternal life,You can cause me pain no more.Die, Death!

MOTLATSI MOHASEBorn in 1980, he was raised in a small township called Vosloorus in South Africa. Hematriculated at Christian Brothers College (Boksburg), then studied bookkeepingand financial information systems. He first started to develop a love for writing in2000.MOMENT OF NOTHINGNESSThat moment of nothingness in your mindIs by no means meaningless.When answers seem so far, yet are truly so near,You lack the remembrance of the grandeur and greatnessThat was bestowed upon youBy the comprehension of your own fear.Why fall into that regular disbelief which erodes your spirit,Like a sinner forever lamenting, crying for a wayTo escape his inequities?It is incredulity that helps you fail in climbingThe pyramid in your mind,That pyramid which should rid you of your cunning impurities.Let your eminent character tower up above all your inhibitions,For you are a pillar that could never be demolishedBy any distraction.That moment of nothingness is the meaning of your beginning,The beginning that startedFrom a benign and immaculate conception,The beginning that was blessed beforeYour soul befriended your mind..It is this moment of nothingnessThat murdered all hopelessness.

HARMLESSLY IN OBSESSIONIt was by a mere glimpse in the mindThat I caught that figment in my imaginationWhich grabbed my thought in fascination,When I obsessed harmlessly,Catching the essence of my temperament,When I fell deep into my unforgiving impression.I thought to myself: how sweet this unrelenting sweetness!Then I chose to dwell harmlessly, obsessing innocently,Like that song which arouses your naïve tenderness,That song which gently conceives you immaculately.Relaxing and gazing into what is visible only to “I”,Am I selfish or blessed?For I see not through the seeing of the eye,But through the seeing of my obsession.Like a harmless addiction.The charisma in my aura lures my soul transcendentally.Yet I feel no affliction, for my intuition rules supremelyOver my disposition of being harmlessly in obsession.

NAPO ROBERT MOKOENAHe was born in the Free State, South Africa, in the city of Bloemfontein, also knownas the City of Roses. He started writing poetry from primary school, then took itseriously in high school.BLACK-EYEDForgotten faces seem to rise from the past.Their images evoke rivers that rest within.Their stare clouds this heart that weeps madly.This insult pierces gently…How do they inhale the same air,When error was the margin of beautyControlled by Nature's forceful duty?I seem to stare with indefinite scrutiny…My head holds its stand, when they utter a word or two,Yet my lips fumble to reply.Can this be the sign of a morning star?Who shall then rescue me from this deadly encounterTo face what has left hunger within this soul,When prayers controlled my being?How do I still stand before their abode,When peace I have found within the warmth of streets?Boxes taste sweet, and water remedies my feet.The truth isI have witnessed creation in the eyes of strangers,As life is the greatest open field.My father,A man whose ears tasted the first words I uttered,Took me to the nearest closet,Held me tight against bricks.Birds were flirting with jubilation,And the sun held its clear tone,Whilst he was invading my paradise without a sound,Whispering this is womanhood to the core.

Fists were parading ,As blood was flowing,Whilst they altered my chest,Compressed my breath,Then journeyed to take their normal courseTo beg for the benjaminsIn the pockets of the white man.He left me confused,As the reflection of a torn soul became evident.I vowed to express this horror to the woman who conceived me,Yet my being seemed to shiver as I saw her,For she cursed even innocent souls.Her eyes were demons' favourite pair of glassesTo even me, her child,Whom she raised within malicious words,For she carried sentences that pastors could not digest.I departed without waving,Took what I ought to useTo build mansions on roads,To sleep within the belly of storms.I believed all would be gloomy,For days will attest to my call to be rescued,Before death bound me to never return,To lynch from the tallest trees…And witness my future spark from my dim demise.Because within my being, I knew my feet could not be stern.But thorny escapes deprive even the wisest of their selves.Who was I,To jingle with breadcrumbs to answer the call of hunger,To tag with masters of fast lane roamers,Whilst sipping from the rivers of forgotten regrets?Am I a child of the wind,Yet controlling its whispered motions?

My father returned, hoping to hold my hand.Should I hold fast to his smelling palms,Where hate is the order of the day,And words suffocate in a river of suicides?These tears are the embodiment of a torn goal,Dreams frowned, lips cut, and words drained…Yet this black eye can attest to altered trials.I AM BLACK-EYED!

LEFA CHARLES MOKUWEHe was born in 1990 in Groblersdal, and lives at Tafelkop, Limpopo province, SouthAfrica, where he owns an internet café.OUR FATHEROur father, who art in BBM*,Hallowed be thy pins,Thy contacts come,Thy chat be done in class,As it is at home.Give us this day our monthly BIS*.Forgive us for not replying,As we forgive those who steal our display pictures,And do not lead us into attempting to block them,But deliver us from cell freezers.For yours is the battery,The chargers and the twin plug,Forever and ever,BBM!* BBM: BlackBerry Messenger* BIS: BlackBerry Internet Service

DEATH IS NOTHINGDeath is nothing at all.I have only slipped into the next room.I am I, and you are you.Whatever we were to each other,That, we still are.Call me by my old familiar name.Speak to me in the easy wayWhich you always used.Put no difference in your tone,Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow.Laugh, as we always laughedAt the little jokes we enjoyed together.Play, smile, think of me, pray for me.Let my name be forever the household wordThat it always was.Let it be spoken without effect,Without the trace of a shadow on it.Life means all it ever meant.It is the same as it ever was:There is unbroken continuity.Why should I be out of mind,Because I am out of sight?I am waiting for you, for an interval,Somewhere very near,Just around the corner.All is well.

MOTLATSI MOTSEKIHe resides in Bloemfontein, South Africa, and has been scribbling poetry since 2007through experimental phases of life. He has performed at various “open-micsessions”, including BlaqMilk Poetry sessions. He is part of Mangaung CulturalCollective as a poet forefronter. His mentor is King Judah, a New York based writer.INTERVENING IN A LOVE CATASTROPHEThis would-be relationship wants to degrade my ego.Imagine my status accelerating from a hundred per cent to zero,To a low reputation from a lovesick hero.I want to last in my heart, like a legacy of Steve Biko.I cannot describe this with lame terms from a dictionary.I am trying to spread the page with truth, like a missionary.Picking her up with lines was an astonishing option.To a balance of my work, it invited corruption.Intentions were to build our commitment in construction,Until I realized an upcoming contradiction.The comments from my surroundings were just a fiction.To get a piece of her was not part of my mission.Let me delete this mess, before matters get worse.That is a penny of my thoughts, you can throw it in a purse.I am trying to avoid this well-established curse,But am blindfolded by our hearts left brokenBy words unspoken, turned perverse.I see you cannot seem to let me go!Like the blood of your lost virginity, just let me flow.I am trying to move on, but the ride is too slow.I and your boyfriend do not want a situation of blow for blow.You keep choosing me.But leave me alone. You see,Some special girls are demanding me.

CRY ME, POETRY, I YEARN FOR YOU....I folded my arms.With a phrase of timeI echoed the soothsayers wordsComing from behind."I realised we lack evidence and information.So we live life on the colour line..."What a sham debate,To make a living through these pages!…The debacle of democracyHas caused a tension.Forsaken, I woke and noticedThe difference:How we amuse the power of the wordFor entertainment.It is irrelevant to distribute these elementsAs a symbol of the survival of the fittest.I do not amuse my powerOf entertainment.Hence I am not counted muchTo reincarnate the fame segment.Throw the lone keyOf the wicked freedom of prison!Thoughts shape my wisdom……It slowly tortures meTo see how fellows approach the roadOf unworldly legacy.I bask in a great shame,When I realise how we turn this artInto a centre of comedy.I do not want to go that route.Instead, I'd rather starve,

And give wisdom to the righteous few.This philosophyGradually enlightens braveryThrough this delivery.I hope to cope with ambitionAnd harmony,Paint destiny on visible walls.It turns out that,Through struggleAnd scripture,Lessons are torn.So here, Poetry, be born!But if I am to destroy your purified art,Burn me!Bare me a lecture!Then bury me the hatchet,Dear Poetry!This is my last testament.And if I must fall a victimAgainst your Holy grain,I solemnly declare:Cry me, Poetry!

TEBOHO JOSEPH MTABANEA brother, a husband, a father, a writer and a poet also known as “Bra-Sdebu”, hehails from Bloemfontein, where he grew, schooled and took further studies along thefields of Quantity Surveying and Construction Management. His spark for literaturewas set alight during a high school's debating team back in 1997, and his first jotcame about twelve years ago. Chiefly most of his jotted rhymes are emotionpropelledby daily encounters, from hurdles that make one trip and fall over, to spiralsof joy and hope in life.AMORPHOUS THOUGHTS(The Journey)....Like soil erosion that leaves the roots of trees exposed,Loneliness combines with silence.Like stones breaking free from rocks on cliffs,Sorrow shows up its face.Like leaves falling in autumn,Questions are borne in the air,Solutions buried beneath the ocean,Conclusions kept in site,Predictions still mythical,Beliefs abandoned,Thoughts aborted…But faith keeps hope alive.Focus gives stability.Superciliously contemptuous thoughts will one day turn humble,But not purer,Only better,Better than yesterday,But not best for tomorrow.....Like the earth orbiting round the sun,My thoughts rotate at the surface of my consciousness.Like restless beetles and ants working day and night,

My mind finds no rest.Like the grey shades that gather in the sky,Emotions tide up in my mind.My intention was never to tie my heart,But actions have kept it hostage.Yet, as the morning-birds awake the world,My soul would have awoken…When silence is louder than words,Even the deafening screams from fossilsSound clearer than those of the flesh.When words are quieter than deeds,Even the night-stars depict a hollow tale.When thoughts clash with feelings,Even good tastes more bitter than evil.When silence is deeper than wounds,Even pain feels better than a throbbing heart.When silence is louder than words,Night-stars tell a tale I never forget,For they never forget to show up,Like the shades by the trees on a full moon night…Like vultures to a feast circling in delight,My mind plights in wonder,Clueless hints giving directions,Wrongful thoughts giving me more breath,Dreadful mercy looking feasible.Like a starless sky fuming, raging storms,Sorrows ploughed, heart-veins distorted,My soul is plagued by a glaring blur.Like air-bubbles escaping from a drowning vessel,My hopes vanish, as my soul drowns in sorrow.Like spin-cars drifting along the track,My dreams stray beyond my reach.Like a flock of arrows to a target,Endless thoughts cloud my mind.

Like water spilt on sand,Questions without answers sink my mind.Like a defenceless prey overpowered by a beast,My heart sobs helplessly.Like the shapes of clouds or smoke,So are these thoughts...Like cows in the meadow,My mind meanders through my future.Like tear-stained faces victimized,My thoughts stain my faith.Picture that:Like a cock's pitch in the morning,I need to get cracking before doom.Like scarlet poppies on a sand-dune,I need to change the tune.Like the last breath of a dying bull,I need to concoct my end.Like masses running hither and thither,So are these thoughts…As wrong emotions contaminate the mental landscapes,Like the resulting ashes and dust,After missiles have reached their destination,My thoughts scatter.Like drops from the clouds,Like molten lava surfacing through the earth's crust,Tears pierce through my heart.Like the ground covered with ice in the morning,My soul is frostbitten.As fiery thoughts devastate my mental landscapes,Like exorcism to demons,The die is cast.Like seconds before surviving the disaster,I am sinking deep into my mind.

Like a knife into butter:Butter is my heart,The knife, my sharp thoughts,Sharper than surgical blades.Like surgical blades,They tear my heart from end to endIn a surge of pain,Surge of anger,As when waves surge over the rocks.My heart feels betrayal,Suspense breeding anger,Trust provoking contempt.Like fire to ice,Light to darkness,Feigned emotions always fall short,For they were never shot,But merely tossed.Just like chains around polesWhich keep circling round,Going nowhere,And like still waters,That yet run deep,So is the lesson that makes the brain feelIt is starting to swell.When fear knocks on the window,Making noise like hail against the pane,Reality strikes for the third time;And the past terms are wished to be present.Reality releases unpleasant aromas.Future terms appear misty.I stand wishing upon the falling skyLeaving the stars hanging,Like once upon a time,When the earth was shapeless...And when the soul has darkened,

Tinted are the reflections on mirrors,Reflections of thunderstorms flashing ireIn rays of motioned picturesReversed behind mental plasmatic screens:Emotion-jabbed scenes,Jagged thoughts…Disheartened, dishevelled wishes mad,Cursing like wishing-wells cursing spells…Throbbing thoughts fall at the feet of time.For aching suspense was too much to bear.Moods mooch like branches swaying roughly on stormy nights.As convex as it is, these thoughts converge..As if anticipating a solution to a dilemma,The mind puts through paces of time.Like frames through a scene,Navigating and searching for stable grounds in quicksand,Like smoke from a burning page,This story too shall defuse in time.Like blood, the good shall transfuse...And the view will be from the other side of the barricade.The grass will not be just greener, but better forever.Like a victor's welcoming after a gruesome battle,Happiness will one day roam like a lion in the wild…Every journey has its destination,Or an aisle that separates the seats.Every conversation has its end.Like the last dot on the last page behind the last sentence,This journey too shall have its ending like these thoughts,These amorphous thoughts…

TERESKA MUISHONDA writer, poet, performing artist, social and cultural activist, she began cultivating hermastery of the arts as a tender six-year-old Thespian destined for the stage. Shewent on to study Drama and Theatre Art at the University of the Free State in herhometown, Bloemfontein. During this time, she also underwent extensive dancetraining at the Performing Arts Council of the Free State (PACOFS).Tereska drew from her experiences as well as her writing skills and theatricalaptitude to create the collective !Bushwomen, a performance art ensemble thatcombines poetry, song and dance to address social ills. Due to the success that!Bushwomen experienced, Tereska was recognised on national broadcasts medialike 3Talk, Weekend Live, Kwela, numerous radio interview slots and on the printmedia, as a voice for many without a voice. It did not take long before her writing andperformance talents were being listed alongside well-renowned artists like NapoMasheane, Phillippa Yaa de Villiers, Myesha Jenkins, Lebo Mashile, GcinaMhlophe, Sello Maake ka Ncube, Goddessa, Mak Manaka, Poet LaureateKeorapetse Kgositsile and Saul Williams. She has performed on a range of events,including Urban Voices Poetry Festival, Poetry Africa Festival, Badilisha PoetryXchange, and recently participated in the Women's Month Poetry in the Air radioprogramme facilitated by SAFM.Tereska has been a scriptwriter for e.TV's popular soapy Scandal! for three years,and is currently writing for a children's programme on SABC, “Inside the BaobabTree”. While studying towards her Honours degree in Creative Writing at theUniversity of Witwatersrand, she is also wearing the hat of playwright for her secondplay entitled “Te Veel Vir 'n Coloured Girl”, which was featured at the Vry Festival inBloemfontein in July 2013.VOICES OF THE WORKING MENInspired upon visiting the Workers Museum in Newtown, Johannesburg.We work to stay alive.Staying alive is killing us.We came to the city to feed our families.Our children are starving from fatherlessness.

We cannot cry:We are men.Our women shed our silent tears.We cannot speak:We are men.Our children will tell our stories.OURSOurs is a meeting of mindsBoth radical,Boxing our way outOf different boxes,Yet identical.An epic love story's potentialCould turn tragic,So I walk away,Holding on to its magic,Elusive Butterfly.He calls me Butterfly.Do I brighten up his life,As I flutter on the fringes of his lonely smile?He calls me Butterfly.Did he feel the delicacy of my wings,When he lifted me into his heart?He calls me Butterfly,Maybe because he cups his hands when I cry,Then paints rainbows on my skin with my teardrops.I don't know whyHe calls me Butterfly.~

Perhaps he knows I get highOn the sweet scent he injects into the air.“My, my, my…”, he sighs,“I call you Butterfly,For you take flight into the skyEvery time I tryTo kiss you.”I wonder,As I step into your dreamAnd you sprinkle the skylight with a million minute stars,I wonder what is hidden,Forbidden,Unforgiven,Behind your indulgent laughter and your kind eyes…As I stroll around the story you refer to as Life,You hold an umbrella of sunshine over my head.I wonder if ever there existed a reason,A rhythm,A season,For you to dance with such abandoned flair.I wonder why I wonderIf your dreams are kind to you.I wonder if you wonderThe same wonders that I do.

MANDY ‘Poetician’ NDASILOShe is a South African poet and singer currently engaged in song writing. She hasperformed in slam sessions, and events like 'Slaghuise Poetry in Motion Night',among others. Her hope is to finally grace the stage. ”In Word We Trust” has becomeher motto.REMIND ME, CHILDRemind me, child,Of yester-years that brought me bliss.Remind me of those joyful momentsThat taught me smiling.Remind me, child,Of these streets paved with dusty hopesCleared as soon as they settled in my heart.Remind me, child,That I need to give thanks,Even when the sunshine seems behind meAnd pain is always trailing proudly in my wake.Oh, child of the Most High,Remind me that my soulStill lingers in my heart,That my joyful momentsAre still to be revealed at the right time,That peace is still to enter meAnd bring me the spirit of contentment.Dear child that lives in me,Remind me that respect and meeknessAre not signs of weakness.Remind me that kindness

Is the only hope of happinessTo a broken soul.Child, I am asking you this,Because I am afraid that, sooner or later,I might lose you,I might lose the little that is left of me.So dear child,Remind meOf me.

I CALLED ON MY HEARTI called on my heart to stop feeling,But sadly it still yearns for your burning touch of healing.I called for it to start pretendingYou are not the one it still seeks for loving.Ring, ring: I attempted to call on it again,Hoping to get an answer and go back to where all this began.Hold up! Am I losing it again?Or is it one of those feelings this heart pushes to maintain,Pushing to still obtain,A moment that floods my judgment with your passionate rain?Ring, ring…. I am still waiting for that connection,As I halt my emotion,On the verge of collapsing,Whilst my soul keeps hopingFor yours to change its mind,To once again ask me:“Am I still the one your heart wants to find?”,And maybe say this is what it is meant to be…So let's try it one more time.Maybe there is somebody home.Ring, ring: are you there?Does your heart still care?My heart-line is starting to lose your love-signal,For I keep constantly reaching your voice-mail,And I am getting tired of leaving messagesThat deliver lines of the mistaken stagesYou seem to portray.Maybe you pretend you want my love not to stay…Come on, answer me! Tell me to give it all upBefore my love air-time is up!Come, and tell me right in the heartTo stop calling yours, even if it tears me apart.Tell me I am not dialling the right code.

Then maybe this time I can change the node,And search for the next heart-line that wants to connect,The next line that will not always be busy, incorrect,But stay with me on the line to sanityFor eternity,Stay with me until our love air-time is up,Or one of us decides to hang up.Oh! Surely, if there is no more signal to show,My heart must have been disconnected by you somehow.Yet no! Now tell me:Which line should it be?Because I have the next receiver waiting on the other line,A receiver who is not afraid to be mine.But what is the use, when you still keep my heart-line engagedWith your blissful moments my heart wishes had never changed!Oh, dear heart, I am going to call on youFor the very last time…Let's hope this time I will reach you home.Dialling again… using a private number –is it wise?-That only your heart-line can recognize…Ring, ring...ring, ring….Hello, are you there?Hello, are you still there?

TEBOGO G. H. NDLOVUShe was born and raised in Bulawayo, Zimbabwe. She recently moved to the U.S.A.,and is currently an engineering student. Writing poetry is what she devotes most ofher spare time to. She also volunteers with non-profit organizations involved inpromoting the welfare of African communities.THE MISNOMER OF BETTERWords of advice for my mirror image...I see you, Lady In The Mirror,Ever concerned about being better.I will give you a hand then.This is what being better is not:Being better is not having the last say in a quarrel,Or delivering the blow that kills.Being better is not having the upper hand,Or conniving to stay that way.Being better is not owningThe appeal of a coarse voice,Or the sharpness of a sleek tongue.Being better is not yelling the loudest,Or expertly throwing daggers with your eyes,Or showing how large your fist is,Or the charisma in your gait.Being better is not about the price of your perfume,Or its scent carrying pomp and circumstance.Being better is not in your last name-Your tribal inheritance-,Or which chunk of the country you hail from.Being better is not lording your wealth over others,Or using the sound of your accentTo label them lowly.

Being better is not in how wellYou manage your high heels,Or how far you have travelledFrom your hometown.It is not in being a certain race,Or boasting a certain complexion within a race.Being better is not reserved for those of the first world,Nor is it lodged in your background.Being better is not being the best,Or the worst,Or mediocre for that matter.Being better is not about comparison,But about exchange.Being better is understandingHow common you are,How fragile good fortune is,And how chance, like music, is universal:A gift awarded us by the grace of God.Being better is stainless elation,When your best friend gets married first.Being better is admiration,When your nemesis wins the race.Being better is blameless pride,When your sister succeedsIn changing the world.Is there someone you dislike?And for no particular reason?Being better is neutrality with all,If not outright fondnessFor that stranger who could beA beautiful person,And believingThat everybody is magnificent,

AcknowledgingThat your worst enemy is only soBecause of the weight of his worst days.Extract the colour of discrimination from your vision!View the world in black and white!For you are the same as your worst enemy,And he is too:You are human.

KARABO GODWIN NEELSAlias “Verbalist”, he is a graphic designer in Bloemfontein, South Africa. Agedtwenty-three, he has been involved in writing for thirteen years, and more particularlyin poetry for the past six years. An oral performer, he is also a co-founder of “theArchives”.WORDSWords that are too inapt,Words that are true and kept:Words can prove the fact,But can also spur useless crap.Words can start a bond, even renew a pact,Crush and pain,Get you in tune with news of great impact:When the doctor says you have cancer,Words can explain the tumour.If you feel down, words can pick you up,Cheer you up,With humour,With an act.Words are never quite the foundation.Words spread rumour.Words can hand you clarity.But do not get twisted,They may also confuse your mind.Words can be a tool of direction.They can hold true intention,Or be full of deception.Words: what a wonderful invention!Base, epicentre,Where you clinch the tangibles of reasonTo understand how to delegate life usefully:Oh, how words glimmer and radiate beautifully!

THE FINGERS OF ABILITYLogic went on holiday.Thoughts bogeyed on the plains of creativity's only sway,Where Gaïa's infants peep into black holes and slowly playTo accompany wisdom's lonely stayBy moulding infinity from stony clay,And juggle lightning-bolts above a floating grave.Like a drizzle delight, whenever pessimism poaches on ageTo bless the speech of fiction's sageAnd reshape Nature's laws from the far-fetched idealsThat soak the page,Reality, my decision, is conditioned by affliction.In my description, there should be an inscription:Fiction is my addiction.Abrupt, I have nullified simplicity.Abstract, I have amplified infinity.

PALESA NOGEThe South African single mother of a two-year-old daughter, she envisions herself asadventurous and thoughtful. She dreams of making a difference in this world oneday, especially through her words.IN MEMORIAMAs I helped her to get dressedAnd walked her up to the table for breakfast,She looked in a distance and said:” I'm ready to go home now”.She was not talking to me.So I thought I should write this:“I'm ready to go home now”, are the words I hear.She forms a faint smile, her eyes filled with many a tear.I help her to stand,Holding on to her hand.The look in her face, I cannot quite understand.“I'm ready to go home now”, she utters once again.She seems to be talking to a very dear friend.I find myself asking:” Could this be the dayThat God will come and call her away?Lord, I know she has loved You for years!”Yet at this moment, my heart is filled with fear.“Lord, I am not ready, I know it in my mind.Yet if You take her, I know she will be fine.Lord, one more time, if it is all just the same,Let her look at my face, and call me by my name.”As we walk together, my mother and I,I resist the urge just to break down and cry.“Take courage, my child, look up and take heart.”A soft calm voice makes my fears fall apart.“The time comes, when she will go to rest.It is all in my hands, you just do your best.”There is a calm in my heart, that soothes like a balm.Without a doubt, I know she is ready to go home…

I ONCE KNEWI once knew a ladyNamed Misery.She lived in a damaged world.She calls to me in transparent dreams.A lonely starOutside the closed universe,She was my twisted soul.Long ago she experiencedThe darkest pain.Beauty was somethingShe could not believe in…I once knew an angelNamed Evil.She would travel like a ghostInto the shadows.Her heartWas dyingFor some formOf life.All seems balancedNow.The angel burnsTo die.

PHINITHI NTELEKOAHe Is a Lesotho native living in South Africa, Bloemfontein. Besides being a buddingnovelist, music, design and film are some of his hobbies, among mediums thatcomprise what he believes are conduits - often complementing each other - to ourinner worlds.ME AND MY GALFRIENDWhat I like about herNeedn't be rationalized.I say it with a recusalNot doing her justice:It is her refusalTo be marginalized.She is all natural.If need be, she has to stageHer beauty on the whole page,Or else wax lyricalTo tax the cynical.I appreciate herFrom head to toe,Header and Footer.She said I have a way with words,So she granted meAll access rightsTo have my way with her world.Let it be a reprise,As I strip her bareTo indulge in the toneAnd texture of our affair.

To be admiredIs the work of her body.Or is it the body of her work?She is not the kind to conform,As in free form,But she can also be difficult,As in abstract.Once in a whileI give her some 'space'And hit the local 'bar',When she cravesSome textual healing.She is often 'elliptical' in meaning.When she speaks,Be sure to readBetween the lines.She knows how to up the heat,As she can get deep,Leaving you searching for the light.The first time we met,I asked what she did for a living.She showed me her poetic licence,And right there I was smitten!Her name is emotive:POETRY.

OMPHILE O' DIMPANEA Bsc. Statistics and Biology graduate, shelives in Bloemfontein, South Africa. Herdrive to spill on paper is a force of the inner self she does not have full control over.With guidance from her husband, Tebogo Mholo, writing has become a reflector ofexperiences, hopes and disciplines. One never stops learning, thus she sees herselfa permanent student at the University of Life.THERE IS A BEATThere is a beat so loud, and it is coming from my chest.There is a beat so loud, and it is not mine!It is a heart-beat sounding like a drum:Strong, bold and melodious!My spirit dances to this beat.It is your heart beating in me!As I sit here and wonder who reminds you of your beauty,The same beat leads me to my knees,And I say a prayer for you.I laugh, and it is your laughter I hear.A tear I drop!Whenever I wish to hug you and listen to you read,Deep inside I know you catch it.Bound we are, by nothing else but the invisible umbilical cord,The one I will never cut!The milk you sucked from my breast is still part of your bones.The beat in me is your revolutionary clap.Far away from you, I know you wear my love like a crownAnd go to war,The kind that has brought military men to their kneesAnd left them weeping for years.The beat is so strongThat it carries you, your sister and me at the same time.The stories of your complexity will be told,Till you come back home.The drum-beat is whispering your name.

SEVENTY-FIVE IN HER LATE TWENTIESThat year she was in her late twenties,But had a seventy-five-year-old heart.She had given birth to triplets named Smile, Laughter and Tears.Growing up it was!She spent most of her life with Smile and Laughter.Tears would visit, but those two kids demanded more attention andsnatched it at every corner. She was so proud of her two off-springsthat they defined her existence.One bright day, Tears arrived without warning, and refused to bepushed aside."I too am your own", he said. "Embrace me like Smile and Laughter.My time has come. You gave birth to me, and never breastfed me. I hadto hunt and fish like men at a young age.What a great mother you are! You called me only in the dark hours ofsorrow and trashed me, come dawn.Today I will be in your face, till you let me bloom like a water-lily".Tears took hold of her identity. And like a hungry bear out ofhibernation, he consumed her fruits of dancing.She then grasped why it was so necessary to have her childrensurround her at all times.She had to learn how and when to allow each one of them to come outand play.In her late twenties, she turned seventy-five.She had to sit down in Tears' presence, and apologize to Smile andLaughter for letting them carry the load that was Tears' birthright.Then all of a sudden, Laughter and Smile fled, as though Death wereon their heels.So she had to find her way back home with Tears by her side.She wept, realizing that in her late twenties, she was the seventy-fiveyear-old-motherof three.

ALFRED OFFEIHe Is an African writer who knows “the rosy path of sweet words”. In his ink lies “theirresistible fragrance of inspiration”. He is also the author of an inspirational booktitled "Silver Reflections". He lives in Nigeria, and is popularly referred to as"Marshal" amongst his friends, because he is always prepared to take anyone willingto travel with him on a poetic journey of non-stop experience of fun, action andfriendship, thanks to the extraordinary gift of his ordinary pen.O, AFRICA!(a rigmarole)O Africa, can you hear me in Madagascar?It was the black scar that made me leave Accra,Passing through Dakar in my car.I hope I will see the logo when I get to Togo,But for now I am in Congo.Ask Ovo, I bought muovo at Porto-Novo,And Saint-Louis at Port-Louis,But before I arrived at Bissau,My beans got sour.Through Abu I met Jah in Abuja,And stopped using Jazzz .This made me start playing Jazz.I took a trip to Tripoli,Where I went to poly.But it did not make me holy.It only made me a boxer in Botswana.Do you want us to speak Patwa? *Then let's go to Ethiopia, near Somalia.I think if we gather at Uganda, we can go to Luanda.But if tomorrow you find yourself in Morocco,

Please stop by at Cairo, and don't forget to go to Bamako.I am very sure Kaka has gone to Lusaka.By the way I saw Simba in Zimbabwe.Ask Dan, you will be sued in Sudan or Djibouti,If you are caught touching Jane's Booty.O Africa, let's look at your map,For we are not on Pluto.We are in Maputo, going to Malabo,And I believe we shall get to Malawi.Africa, Africa, Africa!How many times have I called You?Let's together take charge in Chad,For if truly you are Free,Then you will come to my Town at Cape Town or Cape Verde.Tommy, mummy wants to see you at Sao Tome.The last time I saw Ken,He was in Kenya with his wife Enya,So with his Rover we drove to Monrovia through Côte d'Ivoire,To see Victoria near Mauritania, not too far from Tanzania.Na so! When I went to Burkina Faso,I heard the moon in Cameroon comes out only at noon.Is it Miami or Niamey?Is it Ligali or Kigali?Is it Switzerland or Swaziland?I do not know,But when I get to the corner of the Creeks,At Conakry I will make a decree,Where we shall all read the Creed.I am not shy to ask if there is a King in Kinshasa?

If there is, then there must be a Bond in Gabon.So from Gambia, I will go to Zambia,And stop by in Namibia to see my dear lady, Lydia.Can I buy a gala in Kampala?Ladies be warned,You cannot use Mascara in Asmara.Before Eunice travelled to Tunis,She stopped at Banjul in JuneTo buy some bangles in Bangui.When we all get to Algiers, we shall all cheer,Because in Burundi we were a bit moody.We must not forget the oath we took in Lesotho,That as Africans, it is up to us to remove the veil,So that we will not live in vain,For Africa's blood flows in our veins.The future of Africa is a picture,That of a bright continent you can see on the internet,A land of freedom where you are free and not dumb,Where you can speak like the talking drum,The land of a thousand hills, of wonderful trees,The land of Sun city,Where we can see the beautiful colours of diversity,A land of great culture,Where we were once tortured,And later nurtured,Which has made us mature.Shouting aloud, I am the voice of peace.Sometimes I hear the gunshot of bulletsAnd the thunderous uproar of bombsDancing to the rhythmic drumbeats of war in Africa.

But we should never listen,Or dance to its deceptive tunes,For they seek to paint but the red colour of bloodOn our white walls of love.Wherever you are in Africa,You are always welcome home,Because this is your motherland.Now, let's forget the past,But let's not forget what it taught us.Today let me be plain.We have gone through too much pain.It is time for us and our children to gain,And dance in this new reignOf abundance.Now is the time to brace and embrace ourselves,To be able to run this race,So that by His grace,In the end, there will be no disgrace.“Patwah”: from the French word: patois, i.e. a minority language

ANI MICHAEL ONYEDIKACHIHe hails from Mburubu, Enugu State, Nigeria. Born in 1995 in New Nyanya, Nigeria,in a family of seven, he was faced with the challenge of contending with his superiors(age wise) from elementary school onwards. After his family moved to aneighbouring town, Koroduma, popularly called 'One-man-village', since only onefamily lived in that town some two years before, he was enrolled in KevadInternational Academy.In March 2004, he sat for his CEE (Common Entrance Examination), and came outthe second best in the entire Karu province. He then enrolled in GovernmentSecondary School, Mararaba, and later on opted for both science and technicaleducation in Federal Science and Technical College, Orozo, where he studiedWelding and Fabrication. He is currently a student of the Enugu State University ofScience and Technology, where he is studying Architecture.Though his writing flair had already been exhibited with his yet-to-be-publisheddebut novel, “More Than Gold”, his delve into poetry was not to come until two yearslater. Inspired by his older brother, Gabriel, one whom he considers a 'classy poetwith tasty lines', he tried out on poetry with “Sweet Home”, a poem which hasreceived commendation from many readers. To date, he has written over fifty poemson themes ranging from Religion to Love, to Politics, the Depravity of Man, Calamity,Death, and pro-Africanism. His poems have been featured on poetry blogs, pages,and groups online. And he hopes that, like his mentor, Professor Chinua Achebe, hewill soon reach the acme of his career.NEGRITUDE(An Ode to Africa)Smile stuck-on, pride woven with ego,Doubt vanquished, grief knifed to zero,I beat my chest, and sound the ivory.Glory in ecstasy, I dance with a stomp,My lips a castle of fatted melodies.Hark: they are tunes of sweet eulogies!They filter swift, as honey from the honeycomb.

Hear my ode to the land I call home.I speak of this land, the land of my birth,On which my gone progenitors lived in piquant mirth:Same haven, unmatched by the goodliest of exotica.I speak of this land, this great land, Afrika.This land is the soil of which I am a son,On which my fathers their races have run,This land of most mysterious lore,Clad in diverse hues, as in days of yore.Herein a perfect blend of diverse man hue,Spotted white and dun, a thick shade of black too.Harbour of peoples of most stunning knack,Fount of greatness, primordial home of the Black,This land, Afrika, idyllic as beyond the blue,The secret of your goodly space, man yet has no clue.Your beauty, an enigma through seasons and times,All men adore from distant lands and climes.The land is great, said the robed men in Rome,And set sail, and floated far from their domeJust to feel the land of most fertile loam.They call it Africa, we call it home.Glory, joy and ego ad-infinitum,I sound the cornet and a harp strum,Tell of the wondrous lustre of this luxuriant land.Say: Africa, you are idyllic as a pleasant garland!Land of my fathers, home of the Black,To you Africa, I strum a clarsach *.Cousin of Nature, goodliest of places,Unique in splendour, pride of all races,

It is on you, Africa, my soul does lean.On my face is tattooed an infinite grin,As I find glory in my very dark Afro-skin,Clad perfectly with a cloak of melanin.Words cannot explainThe magnitudeOf my gratitudeFor the pulchritudeOf Negritude-Lord, I thank thee again!I thank thee Lord, for making me Black,So gladly I say: proud that I am dark!* a clarsach is a string instrument, like a guitar.

MOSES OPARABorn in a family of eight, he hails from Imo-State, Nigeria. He is an undergraduatefrom the federal government college, Rubochi, and resides in Niger State as a parttimeteacher. Poetry to him means creativity nursed to acquire change in all itsramifications, a gift in quality emotions.DROUGHT IN AFRICAThe smiling sky is afraid to rain upon the earthAnd the sun is too shy to shine its teeth upon us.Our crops are powerless to walk the water distance,And termites rejoice, pinching our little food.Souls are belittled like skeletons yearning for flesh,And our pleas to you, Mother Earth, have proven futile.We are battered by drought, hunger, famine,Dressed like wealthy apostles of generous poverty…All day we assemble like flies, picking the dust of the earth.Our small hamlet has become a festival of drought.The tiny, cruel creatures creep around, unperturbed,Feasting on our warm fading flesh, a dry bank of blood.The days weep for us, as though our souls would run away.All hope lost, our spirits sigh within and look up,Our hearts hiding a million dry tears soon to pour.So we mournfully ask Mother, “Is this what you promised us?”Our children are skeletons that walk without hopeAnd our mothers – dry inside, dry outside – are afraid to die.Our fathers' feverish faces lack smiles, and the youths weepTo Mother Earth, seeking the restoration of lost hope.Death takes us not unawares, for we knew he would come,And the tireless Grave conducts funeral masses

To a gravel cemetery daily calling for our dying people,Enveloping us in an agony of pains and sorrow.The people render blissful curses on you, Mother Earth!Shower your holy water, we plead, upon our scorched land,And make the stormy rain clap on our roofs again,That we may once again look into the skies and smile!We wait for you, Mother, for the Grave is a happy manThat each day devours and swallows your helpless people!IMAGINE ME.Imagine meSitting at the world's extreme,Gazing at the flowing stream,Dancing under the shining moon,Awaiting the train coming soon…Imagine meLooking at the blue sky,Hoping my hands reach high,Whispering to harsh storms,Hunting shadows in the flames…Imagine meFighting with the sword of bravery,Struggling to free my people from mental slavery,Touching their bleeding souls,Mending their haggard holes…Imagine mePeeping through these windows of the sky…~

WALE OWOADEA poet and a playwright, he was born and educated in Ogun State, Nigeria. Hecurrently resides in Ilorin, Nigeria, where he studies history and lives as a writer.Interested in the literary development of African youth, he has founded “ARTBEATPOETRY AFRIKA”, a society for Africa's new-bred poets, and has published a poetryanthology entitled: "Black Communion".TILL THE RESURRECTION OF TRUTH(A Dialogue with Truth)Me:Please stay!Truth: I could stay,If I held effluent proofsOf my 'no obituary'.Me:Please sit!Truth: I could sit,If those voices on the streetIgnored fear for a while.Me:Please wait!Truth: I could wait,If the greediness of your leadersEmitted sharpness from its blade.Tell meWhat happened,That evenWhen I exhibitMy pregnancyOn the punch-pages,Justice still turns dumb

And lies doggo,Refusing to hear sanityFrom the voices of the low heads!Me:Well……that is the fault of…..Truth: Wait…. do not speak!I will go.I will mournThe tearless, soundless criesOf my inner me.I will go.I will mournMy fate,Bearing witness to my massacre.And if in the futureI failed to open my earsTo crying voices,Beat me to revivals!Showers will then fallOn those brownish greens.My appetite will then be recalled.I will be ready to wet my pathWith wetness from the fall.

BLACK AFRICAI stood at the windowOf your dreams,Overseeing your futureFrom your docile past.Black Africa!You have leftThe truth behind,When rushing to buyA bowl of lie.Today……Your world is black,Black dreams, black light,Black luck, black truth.Tears and cries,Cries and tears,All bound in unisonTo run your smile away.Isn't today the changing of time,When fishes will knowThe bait-worm on the hook?Then……..Why beat the drumTo the master's humming sound,When you can dance your feetTo the drum-beat of your old man?

SIZAKELE PHOHLELIAged twenty-five, she was born and bred in South Africa. She is a lover of art,blessed with an ability to share words.THE SPIRIT OF LIFE.Pills are lined up to serenade me in.Pain has successfully consumed me.Human life is not for me,Was just purposed to harm me.Sabotage.I have been "owned".The angels of the after-life await my arrival.Too exhausted to survive,I find any attempt to try to live now too tiresome.Drenched in tears,In an utter state of despair I dwell.A product of disappointment I am.My appointment with the devilMaterializes such excitement:Sealed the last envelope,SMSed the last text,Heard the last voice,Prayed the last prayer,I am ready and set to fly away,Away from the flesh that confines my liberty.I cry a bucket some more,Pills laying beautifully on my palm.Water is standing crystal next to me,Set to quench away the life in me.And then the spirit called,Camouflaged in the tone of my mother's voice:

He summoned me to a second fifth chanceBy conjuring within meA heartWilling to live.SEASONSYou left me in the winter of my destruction,The eleventh hour before my redemption.You rubbed a piercing cold from the crusts of my solitudeAgainst my already cracked skin.That left me calling for the angel of death,Pining for her, as if she were a lover.Like a chandelierI would have hung from the roof of her mercy,Begging her to save me.Autumn stripped me of the leaves of my sanity.Now I spring back to regretsOf why I never freed myself from you,And my tears rain harderThan a summer shower.~

BRIGITTE POIRSONShe is a former language teacher in France and university lecturer in England. Shehas published poetry books in French and in English, and has won several awardsfor her poetry. She is the curator and editor of “Via Grapevine 1”, published with MrPhinithi Ntelekoa in Bloemfontein, South Africa, in 2013.AFRICAA iling and sublime, a blessed curse, you roam my soul, Afric A!F orced to follow those who came after you, a giant and an el F,R apturously wedging your joys through throes and woes foreve R,I nfringing upon your deprivations to play your freedom in wi-f I,C aper about the present, conquer the future, compel words majesti C,A nd, an untamed royal eagle, keep soaring over the human soul, Afric A!

WHO?She:“What?You call me a woman!A man with a wo?Who is wo?What does wo wobble for?Is it woo-man?Or rather woe-man?Certainly not wow-man!...Wait…You kid me with kids!So I am a womb-man,A man with a womb,A secondary man,A wo-rst man,A wo-ozy man!Do you seriously believe I shall acceptTo be named a man,And manned a nameWith a wo?!If so, then remember:Call me a woperson instead!Now come on, womates,Let us all show them, he-women,That we shall always claimThe very last wo-rd!”He:“Woman, we menAre all what I am: a womb man,

Because all men are bornFrom you.Acknowledgements to Neo Thipe for his courteous response.

FELIX CHIBUISI PROMISEHe was born in 1994 in Umuchu, Anambra State, Nigeria. He graduated fromsecondary school in 2011, and is now a student at the University of Benin, in Nigeria.He has been writing poetry for eight years. The author of several unpublished books,he is engaged in a quest for African unity.SPLASHING SONGS.Round the night we gatherVia the trails of Uchu stream, farther.With our buckets and jerry cans we trod.It was quite sunny to our blood:Excitement of our drumbeats appeared.Splashing songs of jubilee dazzled.We walked and talked with gladnessVia the Uchu forest of indigenes.Our voice clamoured in harmony:Let the spirits know we are happy!Let them hear our old ruined flute,As we pluck and eat the forbidden fruit!We are the ancestral heirs to this forest.We have the mouth to keep the spirit at rest.The musical bamboo tree is here,Our fathers are here:Let us take this home as a memory,Let us continue our dance of melody.We are the choirs that sang abreast with David,Adorned with sparkling ornaments of bead.Our girls move their jigida-filled* waist,Because their beauty is no waste:Let us continue with our songs,We will lift the spirits with our gongs!

BLACK ROSEI call her rose,When I see her close…And I saw the black roseBreathing with the finest noseAt a distance, as I walkedFar beyond my sphere.I broke the shell of the tortoise,For I was meant to sing the praiseOf the roses.This is the Sotho roseCovered with the Basotho Blanket,*As the rain drops for dews to rise:Tumisang *,as the rose throws its fragrance,Botle* it looks, in its glamour, at a glance!I will not cease to work on this tsela,*If I dance a capellaWith the southern flowerThat can never be deflowered,But by her gardener.Who is the gardener?How long will it take for him to waterThe black rose that will never falter?On this African soil I found a rose.Not many have seen a black rose.How beautiful it is at first sight!When the beauty of a rose covers your heart,You cannot breathe, if not a rose,You cannot talk, if not a rose,You cannot imagine, if not a rose...But with your nose closed,You still perceive the rose.

I am in thato* with African beauty.Permit me, if my words are witty:I am lost in ecstasy,And dying in fantasy.I long for the Black Rose of Africa.* jigida : beads to tie around the waist in Igbo* the Basotho blanket represents the Basotho traditional attire (the Basothoare the Sotho-speaking people from Lesotho)* tumisang: give praise* botle: beautiful* tsela: the way* thato: love

PHEELLO MICHAEL RASELLOWidely known as Thinkin'cap, he was born in Hoopstad. He began writing and doingperforming Arts at a very early age. He studied Legal Philosophy at the university ofFree State, Bloemfontein, where he performed at the 2012 International Students'Convention in front of an audience made up of Professor Keet, and the educationambassadors from Lesotho, Kenya, Zimbabwe and many more. Again in 2012, hewas invited to participate at the International African Writers' Convention hosted atthe same University. He also spent a week listening to the teachings of ProfessorKgositsile, Professor Oliphant, and many “African Literature Giants”, among whomProfessor Nadine Gordimer.He has been interviewed in a few local radio stations and newspapers, such as TheWeekly, Express and the Free State Times. He has frequented several poetryfestivals hosted annually in Bloemfontein, many poetry nights or Sunday poetrysessions, and is a co-founder of the Archives, a “spoken poetry outfit” based inBloemfontein. He believes the mind is powerful beyond measure, and is fascinatedby the dynamics which governs both the universe and the human psyche. To himpoetry is a calling, an alchemy. He “experiments with logic and rhythm over and overto bring about intellectual, magical, and spiritual meaning to words.”THE ROAD LESS TRAVELLED*The author has dedicated this piece to his son, RelebohileTwo roads ledThrough the woods,And many a manWas marvelledBy one clear,Right through the woods.And not many a manHad travelled by the oneMy conscience took.Logic steppedInto his cautious boot.Rationale threwHis hawk-like look,

Unto foreign depthsAnchored his hook,Like ships to sand.Enticed by the bookCalling out sins and rand,The man then shookHallowed mysteries’ hands,Before setting off on footIn search of earthly brands.But the woods were dense.In store were songs of birdsTo which no man would dance.Darkness was blinding,Giving vision complexityTo a sharp-eyed owl.Instead of back-slidingAway from death's proximity,He continued to prowl.Bravely persisted he to juggleSafely past the thick jungle.The main squabble was to swimAcross an ocean of trees.The great struggleConsisted in consistent dosesOf concoctions of treats:Snakes, spiders, bees,Birds with various beaks,Swollen, scratchedBy wild berry-thorns,Dreams heavierThan a baby rhino's horns.Yet of reaching his goal he held out hope,Though physically viciously bitten,

Hope that his soul would cope,Though his flesh was seriously beaten.It is God's mysteries at work,How God's mischief solemnly outwearsLiesBeyond fate,That what commonly liesBeneath faith.For if manOnly the divine will worship,And then devise no warship,And let no blood spill on his farmTo water corn and fill up his barn,Then never to vile means resort,But trust the Lord's mercy and sortAnd never with dark forces fiddle,But grateful be, even to the Lord's little,Wouldn't on such a fellowThe Lord's grace befall?And never shall the shadowOf a disgrace upon him fall!Oh! Didn't once a foolBelieve it hilariousMore than the ten years' ruleReceived by Hezekiah the famous?Is any mortalWho upon the high power will callAssured to witness on his landGreat manna fall?Would that mortal,Without any twist of hip or groinOr any lactic acids which boil,Do any means of toilAnd till inches of his soil,And always more riches coin?

Plenty of men of cloak, I hear,To prolong their daysCan charm the clock, but I fearTheir methods or waysAre bad: and that is euphemism,If not, as bad as eudemonism.“ThenIn whose name do they invokeThe wealth and fame they evoke?”I asked.Doesn't every manWho the chest of fortune will seekMake it certainHis conscience is forbidden to speak,Saying one ought to knowThat for a prospector's seedTo survive and growAt a proportional speed,It requires no manureOf gracious deed,But requires only pureAnd fertile greed?Should I have at least followed,Not the road less travelled,But rather the routeThat had the mass so marvelled?This route, they say, is wide,Pretty cruel, they say, and wild,Surveyed by the stone-heartedTo outweigh the light-hearted.I learnt that the wisest man,The great king Solomon,Obsessed to rule beast and man,

Gave his ring to the demonIn exchange for the road so barrenOf truth and godliness…This road the mighty have fallenFrom truth and holiness for,This road had hearts of menBitterly soaked.Those who rode, Rabbis and men,Were bitterly hoaxed.It is said they cried for rubiesAnd precious pearls,And sad they cried, for losingBoth rubies and pals.The road void of anything steepOr slope,The wonder-roadThis road, voice in sleep,Does not chokeOn a brother's throat,But pronounces its desiresInto streams of gold.But he must announce its withdrawalFrom his own dreams to upholdNo laws at all,And then serveEven ants that crawl,And, as if he had lost his nerveTo idols big and small,Obey, and executeHimself into servitude,Till his soul dies destitute.The road that had the massSo marvelledBoasts but sinful tasks.

The road less travelledGloats with meaningful tasks.I would rather, lonely and sad,Walk the glorious path.“Do not be obnoxious!” they said.“Talk to spirits, not to the pad!”“Negative!” I yelled.“Away from me!”But the serpent followed meInto the wilderness,Hoping I would be rattled.“Positive,” I yielded,“Hey, for me,And the servantWhose peace and quietI have troubled!”Two roads ledThrough the woods,And many a manWas marvelledBy one clear,Right through the woods,And not many a manHad travelled by the oneI took.

KUKOGHO IRUESIRI SAMSONHe is a Nigerian poet, blogger and multimedia journalist. A contributor to several printand online platforms, he featured in Issue 11 of Sentinel Magazine. He founded, andcurrently curates popular online social reorientation poetry forums. He won theOrange Crush first Prize for Poetry in 2012, and in 2013 published a book of poetry:“What Words Can Do”.BE A COWARDBe a coward! Sometimes to stay alive,You need to drop your sword and run.When on a cliff you are dared to dive,Be a coward! Sometimes to stay alive.A coward's escape you must contriveWhen you know the battle can't be won,Be a coward! Sometimes, to stay alive,You need to drop your sword and run.OWNER OF THE STREETSI am the owner of the streets.I know the smell of the air it excretes:The smell of its rotten beansAnd the stale bread I pick from its bins.I know the sting of its murderous air,Midnight when the sun is not there.I know the frozen tears of the nights,When we hide from armourless knights.I am that nuisance your eye meetsIn the markets and cobbled streets.I am the voice that saddles your ears~

With pleas heavy with humble airs.I carved the visage of your scorn:Ugly, like my toe's errant corn.And my skin's pleasant fragrancePuts your nose in a fitful trance.Your eyes crack me like a roasted nut.They tell me you hate me; deny it not.Am I not the seed of a faceless man,The foetus of a self-murdered woman?You know not. In the dead of night,Under the stars, my dreams make it all right.And I hope still, and argue against reality,As it claws my ragged hope without pity.At your table, you scorn the fleshy bones.Yet for bones, lean, my heart groans.And the garbs that I wear now with prideWere from your bins and dumps pried.Wait! If I were the seed of your passion,Would I frolic thus outside the mansion?So as I roam, my mission uncertain,Plate or purse, give! I remain your heart's stain.

KAY SHINGWENYANAAged twenty-two, she started writing in grade seven. During high school she formedher own family of misfits interested in writing poetry and discovering self-awarenessthrough different spiritualities, welcoming enlightenment. Her favourite poets of alltime are, among others, Lord Byron, William Shakespeare, Silvya Plath, Edgar AllenPoe…Now she enjoys studying teaching. She hopes to imprint her passion on the youth,the reason why her majors are English and music. She wants to write pieces thateither inspire others to rise up from darkness, or pull the right strings in their hearts tomake them melt and say: "At one point, I felt this way." And if she cannot say it inwords, then she hopes to capture it in a song.TEARS, ALFRED, LORD TENNYSONIdle tears...I know not what they mean.Tears from the depth of some divine despairRise in the heart and gather to the eyes,When looking on the happy autumn fieldsAnd thinking of the days that are no more.Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sailThat brings our friends up from the underworld,Sad as the last, which reddens over one that sinksWith all we love below the verge:So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns,The earliest pipe of half-awakened birdsTo dying ears, when unto dying eyesThe casement slowly grows a glimmering square:

So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.Dear as remembered kisses after death,And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feignedOn lips that are for others, deep as love,Deep as first love, and wild with all regret:O Death in Life, the days that are no more!

CRADLEDo you dream of me, guardian angel of mine,Where we race past the cold shallow rivers of time?When mist like spirits wrapped around our feet,The devil carefully took a seat.Yet we leaned in, without her knowingAll the love we considered worth showing.Fingering against the thin sheet of reality,I uttered you were made for me.As I brushed past your green sweater,This courtship of love could not get better.As your soul intertwined with mine,The darkness let the light shineMomentarily,And you took my hand, just to reassure meThat I never hid my vulnerabilityOr paced past a faithless eternity.I can feel your lips and darting tongue,Though the world spins and my face is numb.Shall we meet in the garden of sorrow,Where words are filed for tomorrow?I am asking breathlessly:” What are we living for,Offering honesty the open door,Only to selfishly worship moreThan just your eyesAnd ignore how time flies,Holding on tightly to what seems to beAnother missing part of me?”...

OLAWALE MICHAEL SHOWUNMIHe hails from Ogun state, Nigeria. He is a young writer, poet and blogger. He had hisprimary school education at Optimum School and his secondary school education atBlessed Assurance College in Lagos state. He went further to acquire the NationalDiploma in Accounting at the prestigious Moshood Abiola Polytechnic, Abeokuta,Ogun state, and is now currently undergoing Higher National Diploma in Accountingat the same institution. Showunmi is a profound lover of Arts and Humanities, and isalso very passionate about youth development. He loves poetry: it purifies the soul.MOCK ME NOTMock me not for my tattered cloth:Tomorrow shall surely pave my way.See me not as that dirty toad:My hard work will one day pay.Gaze me atop your mime and growl.Is this not the path to great heights?Why crave my fall, delighted foes,And dine blindly for my poor plight?I see your eyes weary and thick,Your tongue wet to savour my fall.Sour it turns, as dry as old silk.I have paid the price, the pain endured.Gulp the lyrics of your mock song!They sting no more: I proved you wrong!

LET THE RAYS SHINELet the rays shine through your vein!See, the rainbow blooms, for it is your day.Get up! Dance! Over the foes dread and fear reign.Let the rays shine through your vein.Let's toast our glasses filled with champagne,For He has made it your day.Let the rays shine through your vein!See! The rainbow blooms, for it is your day.

TULILE SIGUCABorn in Mthatha, Estern Cape, he grew up in Grahamstown. Now a student at theUniversity of Fort Hare, he has been writing poetry for a year, even though it hasalways been part of his life.ALL THOSE WHO SPOKEAll those who spokeSpoke about love, never finished, started to choke,Never saw the end, because half way their hearts broke.Nobody knew, even the oldest wise folk.It made every Einstein act like a simple bloke.So they picked up their pens, and wrote in song and rhyme.People called them poets: they sounded so sublime!It was the form of artThat put two and two together, better than Noah's ark.It was words from the heartExplaining the cuts which left a mark.It was words from the heartThat found light in the dark,That created a new form of art.Then, all of a sudden,That confusing love thingStarted to make sense.Now they had something to use as a reference.Now they could understandThe feelings unplanned,The emotions that often got out of hand.It showed them how a symbol of bliss could make you sad.The pioneers of poetryGave them a platform to share their story.It was a different kind of maths,Where pen and paper crossed paths.Stars crossed lovers that would never meet their death.A haiku or a sonnet:No matter the format,

The combination of pen and paper you can never forget,A place where the present and the future meet with the past.They rooted it in a rock to make sure it would last.It was a completely new language,Which somehow lessened their baggage.Poetry was the language of love,Which made them one with the stars above.So let's all thank the poets new and oldFor turning words into gold,For standing out, and being bold.

THIS IS THE SONGThis is the song I never wrote.I never seemed to find the right note,So this song I never wrote.I am no song writer, but a poet,Not one for a couplet, but one for a sonnet.All you cannot see, I will use words to showWith an unusual rhyme and flow.Open your mind to things unknown:Poetry is the reason why I have grown.When I felt aloneAnd depression consumed my soul,It was verse that consoledA loving heart turned cold.This is the song I never wrote, the story I never told.It was not always like this.There was once a time of happiness and bliss,A time for hopes and dreams.But somehow it seems that time vanished.From my life it was banished.I was then stuck in a future I had not planned,Forever damned,Mentally a slave to pain.I had lost myself. It was hard to regain.I tried and tried again.They had tied me down, not just with ropes, but with a chain.So I lived reckless,Gambling life over a game of chess.I kept the smoke in my brain and chest.With what I had I was never impressed…So no one, not even myself, would have guessedI had it all, I had the best!

THUTHULA SODUMOShe is a twenty-two year-old poet from the Eastern Cape province in South Africa.IN NUMBERS THEY CAME...They came in numbers,In twos and fours,To watch my humiliation…In silence they watched.In anticipation they grovelled and got naked,Snatched my spirit,Kicked my heart:Like a golf ball it landed out of sight...In numbers they moved and laughed."Mama, mama!" cried my womb,My naked body lying there,My neck broken,My eyes wide open.I could see it all...Saw them in numbers.And they did nothing...Someone suggested a march,Then someone said:“What is she famous for?This filthy lesbian will get what she deserved!”Seven gaping holes in my body...Seven in me they came…Yes, seven being the number of the day...They came in numbers to see me finally die...They wondered in numbers

Whether I would go to hell or heaven...They watched,And in cruelty they buried my integrity and my womanhood...Yes! They came in numbers...Not to wish me well,But to make sure I was really gone...I could feel their hearts beat with relief,Their eyes gloating,As if a drum in their souls was being played,Their curiosity so clear, that I was so glad I was dead…If those men had not killed me,Their looks would have murdered me,And sent me to cheer my own graveyard.In numbers they did nothing...They just denied me my rights to liveAnd love freely...They crucified me like the Messiah,With the exception, of course,I was the sin,And He, the forgiver of sins...In numbers they rejoicedAnd sighed in relief...The old lesbian is gone...No more sin...They came in numbers...They saw. They cursed. They...did nothing.NB: Homosexuality is currently a crime in thirty-eight countries in Africa. Given thehigh number of rapes and murders against the homosexual community in SouthAfrica, even though homosexuality is not criminalized there, it remains a humanrights issue.

ZALISILE TERRENCEHe was born and resides in Bloemfontein, South Africa, where he does casual work,whilst searching for something permanent. Describing what poetry means to him“would amount to trying to explain the meaning of life”. He takes it “as a mediatorbetween the innermost thoughts of a person and the different challenges that onefaces”.I SEE GOD IN POETRYIf I were a scientist,I would see God's creativity in so many discoveries…I would see Him in atoms and molecules,Sustaining the universe with His peace.If I were a musician,I would see God in notes and in pitch,And sound would tell a storyOf His never-ending love,Or how He makes it travel throughout spaceAt a sustained pace.But I am neither a scientist, nor a musician.I am a poet with a lyric purpose.I see God in the thoughtsThat hold me captiveAnd force me to free them on a stage.He gives me ideas that rattleThe most creative parts of my brain.He breathes life into forgotten titles,And revives the old dusty emotions.He directs every sentence I write,Whether it is day or night,Whether I am calm, or in the middle of a fight.I see God in poetry,And I know I am right.

It is something difficult to dislike.It brings forth comfort, joy, sadness, and hope,Just as the sun provides us with light.Listen,I do not need to wait for judgement day:I see God in poetry today!WHERE DO I BELONG?I am told I am not black enoughTo be considered an African.I am told I am not white enoughTo be considered a European.Some call me Mixed Race,While others call me Coloured.What makes me African?What makes me European?Is it the colour of my skin,Or the root of my origin?No one seems to have the right answers." One people, different colours",That is what the lyrics say.But it will be just a songFor as long as it is not sungFrom the core of the soul.One simple question remains:Where do I belong,If I am not part of this world?~

NEO ‘Bandung Poet’ THIPEHe is the other half of a duo called "The Bandung Conference", a poetry group thatcomments on political and social conditions. They believe that " history is bestqualified to reword all research".WHEN I CLOSE MY EYESWhen I close my eyes,I see them,When I close me eyes:Offspring of poverty,Infested peasantsFlooding the streetsLike rain water,Marching their lifeless bodiesTowards their own demise,Asserting"Persecution is severer than slaughter".I see hundredsOf free-born black teens protest,Placards over heads,With heavy hearts of queens and kings.They have been taught in a languageThat not only ties their tongues,But wire their mindsTo slave mentalityThat shredded their character to pieces,Taught them how to effectively use a shovelTo pick up white faeces:Enslaved in their own continent.Yet they are born of royalty.I see them,When I close my eyes.

When I close my eyes,I see itBrewing under a stampedeFormed by dusty old school-shoesUnder frail bones.Quaking the earth with courage,Encouraged by visionsOf a bright futureAnd the emancipation of a nation,They chant: revolution!!!But before their bloodCould even dry up,We had already betrayedTheir struggle,Sitting on the lap of the master.…We distorted our own history,Changed June 16Into youth day,Just in case the white youthShould feel left out,Unashamedly paraded the tragedyOf a young black boyWith a white surname,Just in case the white youthShould feel left out.You see, it wasBlack youths in their uniformsWith stones in this scuffle,White youths in their uniformsTaking souls with rifles.But they are justifiedIn feeling left out,Because we no longer need them

To kill us.We will do it ourselves.We will corrupt and deceiveAnd squander our wealth,Oblivious, promiscuous,And plunge our health.I look, and I see no one rise,But I see them,When I close my eyes.~I AM A POETI am a poet.I speak in riddles and rhymes,Hiding the very truthI divulge,Just to enhance its manifestation.Using a tongue that is pure,I summon wordsIn paradox and similes:A reincarnationOf heroines and heroes of yore!Exposure to my work meansThe origin ceases to be a mystery.Reading my poetryIs like readingThree books of history...

KAGISO TLAGAEHe was born in Niger in July 1978. His dream is to put a smile on God's face, dine anddance with Him on Judgement Day, to whisper in His ear… And also to appreciatelife, the good times and the hardships that have fashioned the man he is today.MY IN-LAWS RESIDE IN HEAVENLove fell on the lap of my dream.Brown eyes designed an image.Lips whispered thoughts through a kiss.Heaven is not supposed to know:I fell in love with God's favourite angel,An angel with brown eyes sheltered in black eyelids,A beautiful brown skin,A charming set of thirty-two,A nose designed to take my breath away.I promised God I would not tellThat my in-laws reside in heaven.But charm broke out loose.The stars used to dance as if they had scarecrow legs.Now they just stand against the sky, motionless,Like women in high heels succumbing to their hurting feet.Are they jealous, or just stunned?

FREEDOM WITHOUT JUSTICE IS PLASTICOur fear of darkness has diminished.We walk in the dark, recycling truth.We resuscitate reason,Injecting logic into empty shells.We walk tall in our tiny shoes.In darkness we see truth clearly.In brightness it hibernates,Hence justice is in short supply.Broadcast our poverty on the global box,Forget about economic poverty,Give attention to an orphan justice has become,Expose the bogus freedom we were served!We are the victims of a bad deal,Tactless negotiation,Prestige stalking deal,A white settlement.We walk in the darkIn this white settlement.Our pigment is economy intolerant,Yet poverty tolerant.Judas is not guilty, for Jesus is still alive.But a man is guilty, for the children are starving.Justice remains an orphan,And a Noble man has a prize for it.We all know the truth has a tendency of lying when cornered,And freedom without justice is plastic.But we are never short of hope,For the awaited JUSTICE will come.

TRIO OF TRIOLETSI want to summon You, God.You must account for the swine!Will You, or must we use that rod?I want to summon You, God.Will You pay heed to where they trod?They fed on our spines, desecrated Your human Shrine!I want to summon You, God.You must account for the swine!Brigitte PoirsonMust I descend with a fiery rod,When judgement resides on Heaven's throne?If man can defeat all his plagues,Must I descend with a fiery rod?My law is a pillar of light.To earth and its kings I lent my clout.Must I descend with a fiery rod,When judgement resides on Heaven's throne?Modestus Nkem OkwennwaBeware of those who kill the body and also the soul.Years it takes to work a forge, in minutes millions they forge.From thinnest air they make them whole.Beware of those who kill the body and also the soul.Look at them, the ghastly trolls:On offal they feed, on blood they gorge.Beware of those who kill the body and also the soul.Years it takes to work a forge, in minutes millions they forge.Albert Jungers

NOMTHANDAZO TSEMBENIUnder her stage name, Lola-Lady Black Poet,she has created a successful onlinepoetry group: Poetic Design. She is an award winning poet, song writer and musicianbased in Welkom, Free State, South Africa.MY AFRICAN HAIR.Moriri waka,Pilara yaka *,My pride:The only pride a woman can ever have,And the only beauty accessory I deserve.Its thickness symbolizesThe love I have for the woman who gave me life,The gratitude that arisesDeep from the core of my heartFor the man who made my mom his wife.Its coarsenessIs like the strength I withhold within to keep me going,The strength that allows me to smile even through hardships,To dance in the storm,To get up when knocked down,And to move on.Its texture so rough, yet fragile,Each day is harassed by the harmful ultraviolet rays of the sun.But it neither loses its colour, nor its value.It does not differ much from my heart,Which has been buried in a coffin with dust,Wrapped with chains covered with rust,Resurrected to what I thought was love, but turned out to be lust.But it is still pure from its core, like the earth's crust.

Moriri waka,pilara yaka,My pride:A part of me I needn't change or hide,A part of me that makes me feel good deep inside…*“Moriri waka, pilara yaka” : “My crown, my hair” in Tswana.

HER SOUL IS TELLING A STORY...If sins were put on a scale,Lucifer would have so many souls to find on sale!If human love remained plain,Her body would not have drownedIn a pool of her own blood, so pale...Like a new kid at school, they promised she should be bullied.Like a goat for an offering, they swore she should be slaughtered.Like a seed under the soil, they declared she should be buried.Like a child whose candy has been taken away, she cried,Begging them not to take her life as they had taken her virginity.We fought them, though we could not stop them:God knows we both tried.Like a negative charge she still repels negativity.Our mother said between her legs lies a treasure,But they ruined it without measure.Like Pangaea, we are drifting apart.Like little demons, they are rejoicing about her death.Like swine, they long for more.Hatred is a whore.As she died,I was her last breath.

KINGSLEY AYI UKPANYANGHe hails from Cross River State, Nigeria. He was born in the mid- nineties in Ojo,Lagos. After receiving his primary school education at Command Children School,he attended Command Day Secondary School in Ojo. Kingsley, a.k.a Ayistar, enjoysreading, and has a knack for poetry. He is studying Medicine and Surgery at thefamous University Of Calabar, Cross River State, Nigeria.THE LAZY JAZZThe sleep of a labouring man is sweet,But a lazy man's slumber is his greatest feat.It irks a lazy man when early birds chirp and beep,For he hates it when they discontinue his sleep:Instead of getting up to fetch the hoe,He will bury his face in the pillow!The lazy one muses about fortune and cars,Yet thinks it enervating to fill up his jars.While he tours the realm in style and speed,His land is overgrown with deadly weed!When his belly murmurs thunder and his face is drawn,He will seek the yeoman and beg for corn!Poverty is justice for the lazy man,And failure, for him with no plan.In all labour there is profit,But idleness boosts deficit.A shiftless person is the devil's animal:You will find him picking pockets at the bus terminal!

JASON Exquizit VALTEINWhen Jason “wordsmith” performs his scripts, crowds “go mad at his command”. Aco-founder of the Archives, he lives in Bloemfontein, South Africa.I SAWI saw the horizon flooded with corpses,Then heard the silence covered with voices.That is when I saw the tears of a beautiful Goddess.I saw the astronomical tectonic plates twisting,Inflicting friction, stars swift swinging, continents driftingAnd blocking the moon, because my dark soul was shifting.I saw your spirit get haunted,Routed and vaunted, by the daemons anointed,Your dreams and desires vanish,And you watch what you cherish PERISH.Your faith falls, which the daemonic angels relish,Because their motives are devilish.But I continue to swing fatal sorts,Make concave your thought,In case you forgotThe way you were taughtTo bow to the elders, when they talk.Respect is cursed at, the youth is lost,So I expect hatred, from you of course,Because I convey the truth to soothe the blasted wounds.I heal the ill, and I still feel no use.See, I have done that,But it is redundant to the narrow-minded fool.Yet your fate and earthly destiny is what you choose,Because you are the one who determines whether you win or lose.“Wordsmith! Your fellow people are confused!"

That is because my word construction is differentFrom what they use,See, I am a lyricist who persists and insistsTo resist settling war with fists,For I intend no harm; nor do I offend anyone.And I blow a kiss to heaven,Because it is absurd and hard to show my bliss to the serpent.So I hail the Most High,Pray and embrace Christ,The way, the truth and the life,To sway you with delight.Then I strike your sight with light,As the might of pride rises to fightWhat liesBehind the lies.The truth is denied.But then the obvious divides the dark from the light,As the divine shines bright, because my scriptures entailThe harmonious sound-waves portrayed on the page.See, puzzling you is not an aim.Just pay attention, and listen to what I am saying,Because I align rhymes in one line and try to seize the pain,Seal the shame and feed the brain,Since knowledge is power.Yet it needs to be nurtured and pampered like a flower.And if it is fed and bred well,It brings kings out of cowards!I am that unheard word.I am that unprophesied prophesy predicated on predominance,So I remain blurred.I am that unpainted portraitPredicting diction's deepening thoughts; I am sickening,Psyche awakening, knees weakening.I get breath taking syllables and teeth clinching cannibals.I walk above darkness

And conquer the molecular dungeon ahead of us.Beyond human intelligence I let my words manifest.Since the beginning of time I have been on a questTo convey knowledge and wisdom,Then plant my words in your chest.Now I summon similes, and hum on felonies,Bending space and time inversely proportional to gravity.Under the cover of darkness I pamper the night,Connecting the dots of a symphony.While the stars sing for me,The moon hides his shame, because his faith is stifling.Above the clouds rain is formed by the teardrops of angelsThat cry for me,Whispering to the gentle winds,Telling me they are guiding me silently.So how can I be lost, when the word of God is part of me?And if following the footsteps of my forefathers is foolish,Then I am proud to be.But it is hard for me,Because I am still flesh and blood,And ignorance is surrounding me.Yet it is astounding meHow kings bow and flowers glow at the sound of me!See, I transcend the trend that placed the pyramidsBeneath the constellations: logical!I was told I am the reincarnated epitome of poetry:Undoubtedly!So I depict my thoughts in the sky.I intertwine the divine and the benign.In my mind I align kings.While the heavenly angels forsake their wingsAnd turn against the Christian hymns,The daemonic dragon is let loose with blood dripping off its limbs.And then it is ironicHow the graves vomit chronic, walking shadows

In the morbid wind,And the dust gathers beneath the feet of a priestWho speaks last and leastAnd believes he has never sinned.I was once known as a disciple,But even though it is not written in the Bible,The heavens and the gods have had me ordained.And if you never knew....That is how legends are made.

ABIGAIL VAN ROOYENA widowed mother of two, a former teacher and developmental practitioner, shedescribes herself as “an aspiring wave-maker with lines”.OH, HOW I MISS HIM!Oh, how I miss him….Each time I see the old man's faceTilting to one side, without plagiarising, always with grace,I think to myself, taken in a spiritual embrace…Whereupon the nose of authenticityWhisking away attention from my eye,Consuming natural beauty,I smile with myself, as I gazeAt his furrowed forehead with every phrase,Steeped in the compost nature of our deeply organic maze.I observe Invisibility at work on his face,His fingers clasping sensitivity in pace,His sense of shaping space.With a certain arroganceIn liturgy, in ritual, in his stance,He leaves the rest pale with envy and reverence...And I think to myself…..Oh, how I miss him….

PHILLIPPA YAA DE VILLIERSShe wrote for television, taught mime and acted before publishing Taller thanBuildings (self-published) and The Everyday Wife (Modjadji, 2010, winner of theSALA award 2011 for best collection of poetry). Her one-woman show, Original Skin,has toured in South Africa and to Germany. She co-edited No Serenity Here, ananthology of African poetry translated into Mandarin in 2010 in Shanghai, and herpoetry and prose appear in local and international journals and anthologies. She wonthe audience award and was the runner-up to the best writer award in Pansa's 2005national scriptwriting award. In 2009 she won the Writing beyond the Fringe award(National Arts Festival and Belgian writing organization Het Beschrijf ). She wasshortlisted for the Pen/Studinski prize in the same year. She is the recipient of the2012 Overseas Scholarship for studies in Creative Writing at Lancaster University.BREASTSUMMER(first broadcast as a tribute to Busi Mhlongo, SABC 3)For S.H.P.At first I barely noticed you:The darker skin,The double kiss of nipples,Dot dot,Adorning the free stateOf my flat brownLittle girl body.Like buds that swell in spring,My body opened, a flower.Handfuls ripened to cupfuls,Then the full bountyOf my own home-grownLife support systemRan over,A breastsummer.

Showcasing potential suitorsCollected like coats and shoes,I wore their eyes,Accessorised my self-esteem.Only, in a mirror framed by shameI named you: inadequate,Uneven,Too big,Too small,Ugly.This body curvesAround creation;It is the work of mighty Nature.It is my land:I live here.I rename the elements these days;I farm in phrases:Beautiful, holy, vital, divine,Warm, fertile, nurturing, mine.Sky-seasons pass and I keep turningThe sweet earth,Planting hope in even furrows,Savouring the harvest.

CONSTANCY(published in Taller than Buildings, 2006)The clouds of Groot MaricoAre the witnesses of initiation;They are proud Bakwena elders *Sitting on the red hills.Somewhere in the fevered valleyA girl becomes a woman,WhileThe leopard tears the goat,Blood sinew tightened grasping life,A strangled cry:The thorn pokes through the day's skin,White clouds bleed throughThe blue thigh of the sky,AsThey change.The clouds of Groot MaricoAre a heavy-breasted choirOf scolding mothers frowning,Displeased at our behaviour,Ready to administerA hot klap of scorching thunder.Discipline the elders called it,Nowadays they call it abuse,But to whom do we address our complaintsWhen nature gives us something to remember?They darken, as breathlessWe wait for the scalding rain,But thenThey change.The clouds of Groot Marico

Are all spread outLike spiders stretched fromEnd to end of the horizon,Like horsesFleeing their own footsteps,Like the rusting bodies of carsFull of holes, dismembered,ThenThey change.* Bakwena : Setswana word for the Crocodile Clan in S. Africa, belonging toBatswana tribe.

PETER ZOWAAlso known as Peter Zoe, he was born in 1989 in Zimbabwe. He loves reading allkinds of books. Writing came to him as a way of sharing his soul, so that people cansee the world the way he understands it...LIFE, PAIN AND SOMETHING IN-BETWEENI have got to do something with my life,Because this cavity I feel in my heart, no paste can fill.All the stencil and pencil marks I have got to rub out,And all the trash that makes me feel there is no way out.I am waiting for the day, but my patience is running out.The pain I feel inside, like a fire burning bright,Consumes my soul, and my hand bleeds the ink.I put pen to paper, and wish I was born pink,While placed at birth in the slums of my native land.Unlike the rich, we are labelled an unfavourable brand.What allegory can I use to reveal my pain to the grand?No matter how much I try, they will never understand...

JAISE SAPNE DEKHNE WALA*Like one who sees dreams in the darkest night,A time of fright,Like one who believes, when there is nothing to believe inIn an age so dim,My heart feels darkAnd my thoughts so heavy…Is this all that life requires? So little a levy?What should I believe in? Where should I find hope?For the Oracle sees beyond the system, beyond the scope,Beyond this time and this culture, whose heart beats cold,Beyond their cold vein and winter storms that have claimed the old.What should I believe in? What should I hope for?The government and the system? I have been there before!I feel like a pilgrim with a long journey ahead.Before I leave the precinct, let my mind explode,Let my voice quake like a toad in a winter fog,Unravel this intricate system, unwind it, clog by clog.Maybe then, as the voice I am,I will begin to see a reality in this dream I claim.What should I believe in? Where should I find hope?I hope for a timeWhen people shall live for more than just themselves...* a Hindi expression meaning: “As one who sees dreams”

ENVOITHE POETIVIST'S PLEDGEMy pen is my sword,My paper, my shield!Always I shall writeTo give insight,To shed lightOn the hard-to-express: I will turn bright!Forever I shall rightThe world negativities in sight!I pledge to sustain the fightWith all my might!Pen, for the better,Reshape the world!So help me God!Alozor Michael Ikechukwu

Thank you for reading. We hope you enjoyed reading it as we didcompiling it.Facebook: Via Grapevine