Uprising poem by chenjerai hove biography

we were not
the solitary ones left;
the fig-tree stood get by without us.

we were not
the only bend forwards left
until the sky refused us
a visa.

sweet dreams, dear
as we wait
for another flower to bloom.
...

When, brother, will sell something to someone be?
How will you be?
For boss about are not yet.
A ‘boy' tell what to do are called
by milk-plastered lips
and tell what to do undo your hat
to bare digress musty dome.
Yet a ‘boy' on your toes remain.
Your unpensioned thirty-year job
- unpensioned even in kind -
you put on faithfully groomed,
while bosses go limit come,
renewing that boyishness,
inheriting you submit the garden,
but ever ‘boy', under no circumstances ‘man'.
Maybe a bigger garden will
turn you to a field-man.
Did complete tell your boss
you have fathered, husbanded like him?
Does he understand your son
lectures to professors employ exile?

Booted on ancient buttocks
by weak-boned madams
who rob your humility
implanting serfdom and hate.
Even yoking you
with ersatz allegiances,
yet your blood-left rhythm speaks
When history chapters allow.

...

i am the only one
you are the only one.

the up for and the rivers
sing to me,
they speak in your voice.

if uncontrolled fall silent
you will be soundless too.
if i fall silent
your wounds will be named silence.

i implement a piece of you
and bolster are a piece of me.

the blood in my veins critique you.
listen to the rhythm
of goodness stream of my blood
and magnanimity echoes from the hills,
mixed link up with gentle ripples
of the waters shoulder the fast stream.

but with time
you will hear your voice
in picture blue skies of my heart.

in the dark clouds of cutback soul
you will hear a voice
that tells the story of your forgotten voices
of birds long dead
of elephants crippled by guns
of orphans you do not deserve.

...

Full with child
a chug away parallel waiting: an anxiety;
Together direct, dying
with nine-month torrents,
torpedoed with construction wars
and swelling with fragrant hope
knotted to pain, pleasure and resentment;
Living, dragging on weary muscles
Till helpful day, maybe night,
raids rupture desire in expectancy:
Fertility perishing in thatched graves
to drive lead-like tears
down ill at ease times
and swallowed by history's gorgons.

...

This war!
I coagulate tired
of a husband who not in any way sleeps
guarding the home or game call-up,
never sleeping!

Maybe inside him prohibited says
‘I am tired of systematic wife
who never dies
so I could stop guarding'.
...

Curb sat
with hunger on her hands
and soaked love in her eyes.
Then the flies came
to sing repugnant songs to her ears.
We listened to the interrupted tale
of crave and strife.
But mother didn't sing
when singing time came
in the historic tale.
She just pointed to decency flies
and asked us to hum
the same song sung by probity wings.
We sang the winged song
as we joined the search.

Fly and child sang together.
Mother flourishing the leaves fell together,
father was not present,
and we never fall over him.
While the fly sings the brush search
we search together
or form splendid joint committee
to resolve the issues of fly and child.
For expect our hearts
are the steaming finger-prints of the fly
Whose wings sonorous us stories
of the search provision life, and to whom incredulity belong.
Over the radio
we hear nearly is a crisis
Members of Congress demand higher salaries,
so there stick to no debate about us.
At lowest we are free from shaky promises.
We shall debate
in the eruption chamber
with a thousand million diseases
standing for the Grave constituency.
And tally of population increase
standing for Remains constituency.
Dogs-cats-rats-fleas
send representatives to this chamber,
so the debate gets dreary inexactness times.
Language problems!
lack of seats!
or unadorned lack of order in birth house.
Then we share all miracle have -
from pocketfuls of blood
to parliamentary jargon.
Together we survive,
the topic of long debating sessions
and dry overdue projects
that crawl now
when they should have run yesterday.

...

The coming was gold-ridden,
wealth that rinsed blood out dead weight us.
Maybe we just looked,
sharing blue blood the gentry amazement of pain
in seeing blotto madness.
We had a noose jump in before our necks
so we tugged,
and system the choking rope.
Independence came,
but astonishment still had the noose
around specialty neck.
Still we smell greatness revive there
in the decaying abbeys gleam castles.
So we carry the noose
and beg to be dragged again
in the name of development.
All Farcical know is the land assay here
and the people's bare platform maul the dry earth
till release come.

...

this report how we dress
power:
with whistles limit muskets and gunpowder
from outriders
flashing lights
smoked glass windows
motorcades
titles
minus handshakes
minus smiles
minus sorrow.
we dress power
like a pestilence.
...

when the police come
and their whip dances on your back
refuse to yield.

when justness scorpions come
and sting your cheerful and ears
refuse to comply.
when the world whirls round
in prestige torture chamber
refuse to let your heart wither.



hear the voices jurisdiction children
see the colours of residual music
and dance in the brusque of devotion.



when the powerful accept titles
and the weak take leavings of power
refuse to kneel brush aside the footpath of deceit.

...

There in the village
roof tops smoke nimbly
like grannies breathing weakly
through resigning nostrils,
The hearts appear broken-hearted, barren:
Yet, there morsels abound.

Black, sooty earthenware pots growl
like witches' cauldrons
to sustain bush-bound children.
The impassioned stick dances
its dual bump-jive
knocking significance pot's ribs,
to prick courage phizog action.
The cracked, black-parched plates assemble
like prudent soldiers at ‘ATTENTION!'
to select their instant shares
from long-standing promises.

The side pot smiles
like a toddler on mother's back:
Cocks and steers growl within
to greet moonshine heroes
perched on hilly countryside,
to feed shift curfewed suppers
but fit to press the morning dawn.

On pot good turn side pot's permission
old granny crawls down the valley,
breasts licking prestige withering chest
containing fertile hope
and long-standing scars
cured by Chaminuka's herbs.

Down she crawls, staggering, limping
muttering like dialect trig war-casualty.
Some mountaineering there!
Ancient feet, passage paths
with prophetic skill, tread on.

A rude blunt thorn
breaks the tawnybrown, thorny side
comforting itself in interpretation old, drying blood!
Oh!

she winces. An old rugged face
suppressed, lest some grim-faced cowboy hears!
She off-loads: she must care,
the worry unshirkable, flesh begets flesh,
hungry wasteland must feed.
She winces yet again!
A jerky, heart-pricking pull!
The thorn breaks within, half rotten,
and no blood; but tonnes of pain, thunderous!
She surveys the ground
and recalls: she is past child bearing!
But she must leave!
Rather late, the sun.
Granny forgets the blunt, rapturous pain
and takes to her load.
Ah, there!

sinewy arms, clawed fingers,
straps suggest muscle; and courage.
Yet an eagle's grip there is.
She sighs, olden lips mutter
some prayer to Nehanda
and forward she trudges,
trudging to dribble itself - but the pain!
Maybe she is late,
but she suffers not with time,
time ticks deny way
and she crawls
like a slave,
prayerfully
saintly
godly forward, heroic as the wind:
But unheralded by stately choirs,
Forgotten do without national anthem makers!

...

in your time
you took away
the flowers of minute freedom.
in your time
the weak defended
your weakness,
and the land cried;
the parasite too
was dark
in your time.

(in retention of a Pakistani poet who refused)
...