I was born in Bulawayo Zimbabwe in 1989, educated there until I came to South Africa to study law at Wits. I began writing prose at the age of thirteen, when I was fifteen I began to write poetry when I fell in love with the romanticism after being exposed to William Blake’s songs of Experience and Songs of Innocence. Two years later still in high I entered my first competition the ‘Girls College Literary Competition’ which was a very prestigious competition probably the most prestigious at high school level gathering over 450 poems each year.
I was awarded a first class award in 2006, wrote the following year and won the competition. Joined Zimbabwe Poets For Human Rights in 2008 which I am still a member of to date. Moved to SA in 2009 lay dormant for a year and this year began slamming came second at House of Hunger on 24 April. Currently working on the POELITICS project which gathers protest poetry from all over the world by contemporary poets with Poetry Bulawayo launching it on 30 June.
PS. You can also look at the profile they did on me on the blog link if you feel you need more my the link below is to the blog then another link to Poetry Bulawayo who also published one of my pieces a month ago
At World’s End
Last night I shed this mortal shell,
I crossed to neither heaven nor to hell.
I became a phantom spirit lost,
I simply became a ghost.
As my spirit hovered, below I saw
Legions of men locked in beastly war.
Fierce warriors, lords of war,
Strict disciples of martial law
Convened together at world’s end.
They duelled to see who would be last to stand
When the hurly burly was done,
Macbeth’s war lost and won.
There were men with the skill of gods
Deriving their strength from the cheers of crowds
Who blurred their trumpets in ecstatic clamour.
Each had his name inscribed upon his amour,
Mortality they sought to filter from their vein,
Immortality they sought to claim from man,
They were fierce warriors to make any man shiver,
Yet they battled with neither sword, spear nor quiver.
As they gathered under the African blue,
It dawned to me and at once I knew
There would be heroes and martyrs born on that ground,
While time stood between the victor and the crown,
There would be praises composed from those very stands,
And history would be written with new words.
The warriors of the world gather among us,
Yet no Xerxes, no Chaka, nor Leonidus.
An Argentinean warrior renounced for his fancy
Has turned General, brought a warrior named Messi,
While the Portuguese clamour for a man named Deco,
The African crowd hollers for one named Teko.
They will not duel with arms of iron or steel,
Yet sharp blades, sharp blades of green they will feel
As they slide to sow victory’s seed.
Many of them, many will bleed,
Though this battle seeks no blood from any man, just a tear,
A simple tear, joy or disdain. Drums of praise vibrating while fear
Of the clash moves the chests of men in similar fashion,
Crowds deafening, they roar their heartfelt passion
For those that bear the banners of home to glory
Or dire straits. Scribes draw thy pens. This story
Must be retold with fierce articulation,
The story of sixty four nations
And their legions locking horns
On African dust. May the forces that be
Guide the vision of the combatants clear,
May they guide the strong to the glory of the sun;
And the death of the weaker be an honourable one.
– end –
Ode To Mortality
Mortal hearts that breathe
The breath of the Almighty,
Do you have no fear for death?
You walk ever so highly
Fulfilling your heart’s desires
Quelling your loins’ lusts.
Have you no fear for fires
Of sulphur and brine? Fast
They burn, slow they consume.
They burn out the sanity before
The flesh. Perhaps you presume
That with fortunes you will forego
The pending doom; The Pending Doom.
Does your life have a price?
What king’s ransom are you worth?
Fashion is a good disguise,
Yet too poor to beguile death.
Mansions too a good sheath
Against nature’s bestiality,
Yet incompetent against the scythe
That executes mortality.
– end –
That Which I Am
I speak to defy all odds
And rise to duel all lords
That seek to take that which I have
With iron hand and heart that’s brave.
My breath is wind and form is dust,
And in the good Lord lies my trust.
A brave windy dust, that is me,
Bound in flesh yet in spirit free.
No chain nor shackle binds my noise,
No torture weapon harms my voice.
I have denied Mammon the honour
Of betrothing me to his daughter,
I have no relations with treachery.
I speak the truth and yes my fancy,
I have no fear for giant nor for elf,
I serve my God, my love and self.
In heart and countenance I am me,
I am because I simply chose to be.
My voice is piercing proud and loud,
Though my feet stand on no cloud.
I keep my joy in my heart not hand,
And my will is firm, it cannot bend;
Thus the joy which today I bear,
Will be mine again on coming year.
The next one too, the next and next,
And so as long as lives this text,
My joy and name are not forgotten,
Though my flesh may then be rotten.
So dear friend when I someday depart,
Please remember me within your heart
As I am in mine, as I am in my eye,
A man whose true self cannot die.
– end –