Spotlighting Pan-African Poetry

Biography

Voice of the land

Enlarge poem

Haunted by silent faces

of the many Petersons unknown;

The different Bikos with their skulls torn,

I enter into an age where new struggles are born.

I exist in a mind of I alone

that fails to escape the larger whole

Where future Johnsons with no guarantee

of reaching twelve

Sit on tombstones with seeds of teenage

mothers barely grown.

I mourn my own; a mass grave with no name on it.

My soul; I do not have it,

God holds it for safekeeping from Lucifer

who threatens to take.

He threatens to reap where he did not sow.

You see, what I saw were the faces of the many baby

Jordans untold.

The different Thatos with their molested bodies stoned.

Disowned by this land that swallows its own

This land where life remains an illusion

and death a permanent reality

When death actually

swore he was just a visitor here.

But now he has built institutions and nurseries

for his rodent sons to nurture their appetites for

human flesh, now his seed lies deeply rooted

within this land that once held pride in

knowing the soles of my feet,

My feet never once rejected this land

But now she rejects the feet of my soul

Leaving me down on my knees

Yet denying defeat

My heart resides in this land of broken promises

Making it hard for my tongue to escape

the bread and butter politics.

On my chicks tear lines recite distraught odes

of the distraught povo1

On long bread and mealie meal queues,

their hungry smiles exposing

teeth greened by the over consumed covo.2

Sweaty armpits concocting a unified odour:

a defiled scent of a poverty

common to the majority.

Automatically, their shapeless faces

display postures of angry demons

waiting to be appeased when the usual announcement

accelerates their minds dis-ease: wapera upfu!

Hawu, wapera njani 3 when it just got here?

In fear my sight narrowly escapes

the about to erupt brutal scenes,

Only to collide with povertys mean grin

Standing between my home sweet home

and prospects of pastures green.

Now, watch how these urban dreams

scheme against those we

Once upon a time called heroes and sheroe.s

Now her she grows like shadows

in the path of black sons who flow where she floats.

She bloats a pungent of decay inviting in night forces

that molest virgin lasses in the sleep of their dreams.

Now the majestic wombs of yesterday

today are barren buckets of evil that yields nothing

but a disease for death to identify as its next of kin.

It’s no secret: he just loves his skin on skin.

But what lies between

his pants is a castrated version of the future:

All is bleak yet my tongue continues to seek

What once was the dream of a distraught poet

whose heart remains homed in this land

that once held pride in knowing the soles of my feet.

My feet never once rejected this land

But now she rejects the feet of my soul

Leaving me down on my knees yet denying defeat.

1 Povo- Masses

2 Covo- green vegetables, (a much more affordable source of relish.)

3 Wapera upfu! -The mealie meal if finished.

Hawu, wapera njani ñ How did it get finished (when it just got here)

Mercy Dhliwayo

Featured Poem:

We Men

Enlarge poem

It is cold in the city streets.
Blood in multiple sheets
Corrodes the centre of our peace
As we walk at ease
While the devil in our mist
Moves with an urban twist in his feet.
His body exalts sepulchral heat.
His breath rigs the stench of rotting carcasses.
His face is a mask that canvases
The abstract images
Of those butchered over the years.
The badge of honour he wears
bears the horrors and tears of the masses.
Dark clouds hang over the earth when he passes
Vying for souls of innocent lads and lasses
And in men he stands, with fearless calm,
A symbol of what the human race has become.

It is the fall of the rising sun
As you and I succumb
To the weaker men that we have become
People of the sun
How come we have become
what we have become

We men have become
fulfillers of apocalyptic prophecies.
While our tongues proclaim victory
Over those buried in unmarked cemeteries
Our skulls remain
Marked by the curse of Cane
Because the blood we have spilled, is the same
As the one that flows in our veins.
Hatred holds us in chains
Now we wave
Pangas in our brotherís faces.
ìI want blood,î it urges.
For the money and power you worship
You hand it over in your brotherís skull for a chalice.
While you struggle to sleep in your palace
The mother you have forsaken
Stands shaken by the sight of her sons
who move one with the mark of can.
Hands blood stained: mother pained
as a sibling dies.
A lover cries.
The wind sighs
As the blood in your eyes
Identifies me as you next victim
Yet the blood in your veins identifies me
as your next of kin.
And the hatred within
Exposes you for the weaker man
that we men have become.

It is the fall of the rising sun
As you and I succumb
To the weaker men that we have become
People of the sun
How come we have become
what we have become

Where is the power
In spilling the blood of the other
The skulls you gather
Are not trophies of victory
but emblems of lost humanity
the death of we
decay of society
at the hands of our own callousness
what happened to the love and togetherness
the kindness and ones
harness the beauty of the otherness
embrace the essence of life
revive the unified force of positivity
because together as one
we were better than what we men have become

How does this featured poem make you feel?

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  • Optimism (2)
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  • Inspiration (0)
  • Reflection (2)
  • Captivation (0)
  • Peace (0)
  • Amusement (0)
  • Sorrow (0)
  • Vigour (0)
  • Hope (0)
  • Sadness (0)
  • Fear (1)
  • Jubilation (0)

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Biography

Mercy Dhliwayo (better known by her stage name, Xtreme Sanity) is a slam poet, emcee and an emerging writer and photographer. Born in Bulawayo, Zimbabwe, Xtreme started off as a rapper in 1997 and later branched off into poetry and spoken word in 2005 as a first year student at the University of Limpopo.

Xtreme has performed on various platforms which include, but are not limited to, the Intwasa Festival, the University of Limpopo Heritage Festivals, The Black Market Ace’s Annual Charity events; the Canimambo Free Form Musical Festival as well as various festivals hosted by Shindig Awe and the Fire on the Mountain Festival. She has also taken part in the SABC 2’s Lentswe Poetry Project Competition in which, through her poem, Survival Techniques, she won under the HIV/AIDS Category in Limpopo Province (2007) and went on to represent the Limpopo Province under the same category at the national level of the Competition (2008).

She has further featured in the Black Markets PLK Hip Hop Mixtape (2006); Face the Music Hip hop Timeless Mixtape (2007), the Essential Words (2011), the Shindig Awe: Have we put out the fire Compilation (2012) and the African Fem MC’s Mixtape (2012).

Apart from recordings, her poetry has been published in the the Have We Put out The fire Journal, and in the Sunday News newspaper as well as online. Apart from being a poet and an emcee, Xtreme also writes short stories.

Mercy Dhliwayo

Biography

Mercy Dhliwayo (better known by her stage name, Xtreme Sanity) is a slam poet, emcee and an emerging writer and photographer. Born in Bulawayo, Zimbabwe, Xtreme started off as a rapper in 1997 and later branched off into poetry and spoken word in 2005 as a first year student at the University of Limpopo.

Xtreme has performed on various platforms which include, but are not limited to, the Intwasa Festival, the University of Limpopo Heritage Festivals, The Black Market Ace’s Annual Charity events; the Canimambo Free Form Musical Festival as well as various festivals hosted by Shindig Awe and the Fire on the Mountain Festival. She has also taken part in the SABC 2’s Lentswe Poetry Project Competition in which, through her poem, Survival Techniques, she won under the HIV/AIDS Category in Limpopo Province (2007) and went on to represent the Limpopo Province under the same category at the national level of the Competition (2008).

She has further featured in the Black Markets PLK Hip Hop Mixtape (2006); Face the Music Hip hop Timeless Mixtape (2007), the Essential Words (2011), the Shindig Awe: Have we put out the fire Compilation (2012) and the African Fem MC’s Mixtape (2012).

Apart from recordings, her poetry has been published in the the Have We Put out The fire Journal, and in the Sunday News newspaper as well as online. Apart from being a poet and an emcee, Xtreme also writes short stories.

Voice of the land

Enlarge poem

Haunted by silent faces

of the many Petersons unknown;

The different Bikos with their skulls torn,

I enter into an age where new struggles are born.

I exist in a mind of I alone

that fails to escape the larger whole

Where future Johnsons with no guarantee

of reaching twelve

Sit on tombstones with seeds of teenage

mothers barely grown.

I mourn my own; a mass grave with no name on it.

My soul; I do not have it,

God holds it for safekeeping from Lucifer

who threatens to take.

He threatens to reap where he did not sow.

You see, what I saw were the faces of the many baby

Jordans untold.

The different Thatos with their molested bodies stoned.

Disowned by this land that swallows its own

This land where life remains an illusion

and death a permanent reality

When death actually

swore he was just a visitor here.

But now he has built institutions and nurseries

for his rodent sons to nurture their appetites for

human flesh, now his seed lies deeply rooted

within this land that once held pride in

knowing the soles of my feet,

My feet never once rejected this land

But now she rejects the feet of my soul

Leaving me down on my knees

Yet denying defeat

My heart resides in this land of broken promises

Making it hard for my tongue to escape

the bread and butter politics.

On my chicks tear lines recite distraught odes

of the distraught povo1

On long bread and mealie meal queues,

their hungry smiles exposing

teeth greened by the over consumed covo.2

Sweaty armpits concocting a unified odour:

a defiled scent of a poverty

common to the majority.

Automatically, their shapeless faces

display postures of angry demons

waiting to be appeased when the usual announcement

accelerates their minds dis-ease: wapera upfu!

Hawu, wapera njani 3 when it just got here?

In fear my sight narrowly escapes

the about to erupt brutal scenes,

Only to collide with povertys mean grin

Standing between my home sweet home

and prospects of pastures green.

Now, watch how these urban dreams

scheme against those we

Once upon a time called heroes and sheroe.s

Now her she grows like shadows

in the path of black sons who flow where she floats.

She bloats a pungent of decay inviting in night forces

that molest virgin lasses in the sleep of their dreams.

Now the majestic wombs of yesterday

today are barren buckets of evil that yields nothing

but a disease for death to identify as its next of kin.

It’s no secret: he just loves his skin on skin.

But what lies between

his pants is a castrated version of the future:

All is bleak yet my tongue continues to seek

What once was the dream of a distraught poet

whose heart remains homed in this land

that once held pride in knowing the soles of my feet.

My feet never once rejected this land

But now she rejects the feet of my soul

Leaving me down on my knees yet denying defeat.

1 Povo- Masses

2 Covo- green vegetables, (a much more affordable source of relish.)

3 Wapera upfu! -The mealie meal if finished.

Hawu, wapera njani ñ How did it get finished (when it just got here)

Featured Poem:

We Men

Enlarge poem

It is cold in the city streets.
Blood in multiple sheets
Corrodes the centre of our peace
As we walk at ease
While the devil in our mist
Moves with an urban twist in his feet.
His body exalts sepulchral heat.
His breath rigs the stench of rotting carcasses.
His face is a mask that canvases
The abstract images
Of those butchered over the years.
The badge of honour he wears
bears the horrors and tears of the masses.
Dark clouds hang over the earth when he passes
Vying for souls of innocent lads and lasses
And in men he stands, with fearless calm,
A symbol of what the human race has become.

It is the fall of the rising sun
As you and I succumb
To the weaker men that we have become
People of the sun
How come we have become
what we have become

We men have become
fulfillers of apocalyptic prophecies.
While our tongues proclaim victory
Over those buried in unmarked cemeteries
Our skulls remain
Marked by the curse of Cane
Because the blood we have spilled, is the same
As the one that flows in our veins.
Hatred holds us in chains
Now we wave
Pangas in our brotherís faces.
ìI want blood,î it urges.
For the money and power you worship
You hand it over in your brotherís skull for a chalice.
While you struggle to sleep in your palace
The mother you have forsaken
Stands shaken by the sight of her sons
who move one with the mark of can.
Hands blood stained: mother pained
as a sibling dies.
A lover cries.
The wind sighs
As the blood in your eyes
Identifies me as you next victim
Yet the blood in your veins identifies me
as your next of kin.
And the hatred within
Exposes you for the weaker man
that we men have become.

It is the fall of the rising sun
As you and I succumb
To the weaker men that we have become
People of the sun
How come we have become
what we have become

Where is the power
In spilling the blood of the other
The skulls you gather
Are not trophies of victory
but emblems of lost humanity
the death of we
decay of society
at the hands of our own callousness
what happened to the love and togetherness
the kindness and ones
harness the beauty of the otherness
embrace the essence of life
revive the unified force of positivity
because together as one
we were better than what we men have become

How does this featured poem make you feel?

  • Amazement (0)
  • Pride (0)
  • Optimism (2)
  • Anger (0)
  • Delight (0)
  • Inspiration (0)
  • Reflection (2)
  • Captivation (0)
  • Peace (0)
  • Amusement (0)
  • Sorrow (0)
  • Vigour (0)
  • Hope (0)
  • Sadness (0)
  • Fear (1)
  • Jubilation (0)

Voice of the land

Enlarge poem

Haunted by silent faces

of the many Petersons unknown;

The different Bikos with their skulls torn,

I enter into an age where new struggles are born.

I exist in a mind of I alone

that fails to escape the larger whole

Where future Johnsons with no guarantee

of reaching twelve

Sit on tombstones with seeds of teenage

mothers barely grown.

I mourn my own; a mass grave with no name on it.

My soul; I do not have it,

God holds it for safekeeping from Lucifer

who threatens to take.

He threatens to reap where he did not sow.

You see, what I saw were the faces of the many baby

Jordans untold.

The different Thatos with their molested bodies stoned.

Disowned by this land that swallows its own

This land where life remains an illusion

and death a permanent reality

When death actually

swore he was just a visitor here.

But now he has built institutions and nurseries

for his rodent sons to nurture their appetites for

human flesh, now his seed lies deeply rooted

within this land that once held pride in

knowing the soles of my feet,

My feet never once rejected this land

But now she rejects the feet of my soul

Leaving me down on my knees

Yet denying defeat

My heart resides in this land of broken promises

Making it hard for my tongue to escape

the bread and butter politics.

On my chicks tear lines recite distraught odes

of the distraught povo1

On long bread and mealie meal queues,

their hungry smiles exposing

teeth greened by the over consumed covo.2

Sweaty armpits concocting a unified odour:

a defiled scent of a poverty

common to the majority.

Automatically, their shapeless faces

display postures of angry demons

waiting to be appeased when the usual announcement

accelerates their minds dis-ease: wapera upfu!

Hawu, wapera njani 3 when it just got here?

In fear my sight narrowly escapes

the about to erupt brutal scenes,

Only to collide with povertys mean grin

Standing between my home sweet home

and prospects of pastures green.

Now, watch how these urban dreams

scheme against those we

Once upon a time called heroes and sheroe.s

Now her she grows like shadows

in the path of black sons who flow where she floats.

She bloats a pungent of decay inviting in night forces

that molest virgin lasses in the sleep of their dreams.

Now the majestic wombs of yesterday

today are barren buckets of evil that yields nothing

but a disease for death to identify as its next of kin.

It’s no secret: he just loves his skin on skin.

But what lies between

his pants is a castrated version of the future:

All is bleak yet my tongue continues to seek

What once was the dream of a distraught poet

whose heart remains homed in this land

that once held pride in knowing the soles of my feet.

My feet never once rejected this land

But now she rejects the feet of my soul

Leaving me down on my knees yet denying defeat.

1 Povo- Masses

2 Covo- green vegetables, (a much more affordable source of relish.)

3 Wapera upfu! -The mealie meal if finished.

Hawu, wapera njani ñ How did it get finished (when it just got here)

Comments

Your email address will not be published.