by 
“. . . i am the stone you left for the dead
i am the tree bark oozing with the blood of age
i am the riverbed flowing with the mucus of age . . . “
Mbizo Chirasha, Anthem of the Black Poet
My breasts are dry of milk in the climate of this heat
My earth ejaculates platinum and uranium
anus of my rock puff pure gas and crude oil
The clay of my heart binds together the dust of my dreams
Forests of my mind sagging with coco beans and coconuts
I am tired of bullet and paparazzi gossip
I am a country eating peanut and bananas
I am the flower of want, whose bloom was pruned by madness,
Whose holy nectar was imbibed by mad drunkards?
I am a nightmare, poets and prophets bring back my wildness
© Mbizo Chirasha
WEDNESDAY WRITING PROMPT
Much thanks to Mbizo Chirasha for sponsoring this week’s writing prompt. Mbizo says, “We remain resilient in the quest for justice, freedom of expression, and upholding of human rights through Literary Activism and Artivism. ALUTA CONTINUA!”
THEME: We ask this week for poems written in response to Zimbabwean Poet in Exile. This is to help us create awareness of the plight of our fellow poets like Mbizo and other dissident writers and artists who are actively fighting authoritarianism, despotism, and kleptocracy. We very much appreciate your participation in this week’s unusual and important prompt and look forward to reading what you write.
- please submit your poem/s by pasting them into the comments section and not by sharing a link
- please submit poems only, no photos, illustrations, essays, stories, or other prose
PLEASE NOTE:
Poems submitted through email or Facebook will not be published.
IF this is your first time joining us for The Poet by Day, Wednesday Writing Prompt, please send a brief bio and photo to me at thepoetbyday@gmail.com to introduce yourself to the community … and to me :-). These are partnered with your poem/s on first publication.
PLEASE send the bio ONLY if you are with us on this for the first time AND only if you have posted a poem (or a link to one of yours) on theme in the comments section below.
Deadline: Monday, November 11 by 8 pm Pacific Time. If you are unsure when that would be in your time zone, check The Time Zone Converter.
Anyone may take part Wednesday Writing Prompt, no matter the status of your career: novice, emerging or pro. It’s about exercising the poetic muscle, showcasing your work, and getting to know other poets who might be new to you.
You are welcome – encouraged – to share your poems in a language other than English but please accompany it with a translation into English.
Jamie Dedes. I’m a freelance writer, poet, content editor, and blogger. I also manage The BeZine and its associated activities and The Poet by Day jamiededes.com, an info hub for writers meant to encourage good but lesser-known poets, women and minority poets, outsider artists, and artists just finding their voices in maturity. The Poet by Day is dedicated to supporting freedom of artistic expression and human rights and encourages activist poetry. Email thepoetbyday@gmail.com for permissions, commissions, or assignments.
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Recent and Upcoming in Digital Publications Poets Advocate for Peace, Justice, and Sustainability, How 100,000 Poets Are Fostering Peace, Justice, and Sustainability, YOPP! * The Damask Garden, In a Woman’s Voice, August 11, 2019 / This short story is dedicated to all refugees. That would be one in every 113 people. * Five poems, Spirit of Nature, Opa Anthology of Poetry, 2019 * From the Small Beginning, Entropy Magazine (Enclave, #Final Poems), July 2019 * Over His Morning Coffee, Front Porch Review, July 2019 * Three poems, Our Poetry Archive, September 2019
“Every pair of eyes facing you has probably experienced something you could not endure.” Lucille Clifton
Jamie Dedes' THE POET BY DAY Webzine 
In Response to Mbizo Chirasha Freedom Poetry
For I sang the freedom song for years
in vain, in pain,
One day I will return
O my homeland ,my heaven, land of
pure peace,
I am the native child, born in captivity
my feet never touched my beloved soil
I breathed but for a while in mother’s
lap,
In sleep, led away, far away, to refuge
One day I will return, I sang my song-
It is a nightmare
futile dream of the happy return
my earth oozes martyrs’ blood spills
resounds with raped women’s screams
burns with saffron spreads in wide fields
weeps with weeping willows in the streams
One day I will return, and I sang my song,
in vain, in pain
I am the houseboat abandoned
I am the ‘shikara’ floating,empty
I am the moaning water of Dal
I am the aroma of sweet apples
I am the snow of mountain tops
I am the color of pansies and lotus
I am the music of the ‘rubaab’
I am the child of a captive state
One day I will return I sang my song
in vain, in pain
But now my heart is silent,my voice
stilled, my feet in fetters, my home
locked, my road blocked, guarded
I am tired of pellets bullets and gas,
I am cold like a stone, no ‘Kangarri’
I carry , no greens or beans I cook
I am but a listed item, a numberless
number, a lost identity, snatched
wrenched annexed conquered
My song of freedom rings aloud
but can anyone hear? Will anyone
come? Will anyone cry for me? Or
my land, to set free? Perhaps one day,
if the music sails on, reaches the stars
Showers the rain which pours free
and washes away the mud of captivity
breaks the chains lifts the barriers and
calls-
Come Your land is yours, gone is the
enemy- but I woke up again, in pain
in vain,
I hear the fearful scream-heavy boots
shaking the soil, tearing up roots
I do not wish to sing, but pray, hope
It is all a dream-
In vain I sing, in pain I try to-sleep
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To The Defenders of Freedom
When peaceful protest fails
and protesters are put in jails
then forces must stand
bravely to defend the land-
In attack
outnumbered ten to one
crawled under enemy tank
martyred to glory, sank in
body, blood in native sand
In loyalty
you saved the land
blasting enemy tanks
with bravery supreme
grenades in hands
In honor
you remain for ever you live
those who die a life they give
and repel the enemy aggressive.
And now I say and know
battles have been fought
public protests prevail
as Freedom must be saved
at all cost-
or else, all is forever lost
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Respected Jamie Ji
In Freedom
In Freedom There is Fear
When a close and dear
one, is no more,
In Freedom there is blood
When all you made in life
Is washed away in flood;
In freedom there is sacrifice
When all you claim and own
Is taken away without a price;
In freedom there is liberty
For many just a statue
fights, no rights, nor equality;
In Freedom there are letters
promises and false hopes
soon you are in iron fetters;
In Freedom I was born
I never saw my land
I long for its beauty
In dewdrops shining
In the morn;
In Freedom there is a gift
treasure not and you find
it floating by and adrift;
In Freedom there is ease
calm and harmony, hold
it strong for eternal peace
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I don’t think Mbizo is a nightmare. We are the nightmares – the privileged and the enforcers of privilege.
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I think the nightmare referred to is Africa under the imposition of the international corporate monster, so yes you are right, Mike. In the West we can’t help but be part of that even though some of us – you and me and others – deplore it.
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“The Emperor’s New Changes”
(Raanana, September 11, 2016)
A hundred thousand poets for change
That’s us.
That’s what we called ourselves last year
And the year before.
So they’ve stopped lynching the poets in Arabia?
They’ve stopped stoning the raped women in Kabul?
What about the mutilation of genitals of young girls?
So they’ve stopped burning down Black churches in Bama?
Stopped desecrating the lands of our Sioux brothers?
How about the carbon they’ve dumped in the atmosphere?
Did they stop that?
Do they believe now the earth is too warm to live on?
Are philosophers kings yet?
Are kings philosophers?
I don’t mean to be cynical
But it doesn’t seem like much has changed since last year.
We’ve read a few poems,
That’s all.
Come to think of it,
Have we really changed,
Except for getting a year older?
If that’s change
Then we better change change
So that it’s palpable
So that we can feed people with it
So that people can walk tall from it
So that people can protect themselves with it
So that people can make love to it
Until change is done changing
And the world is all the Republic we need.
(c) Mike Stone
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“Birdsong”
A small bird landed on the branch of an old tree
Where other loudly chirping birds were perched.
The other birds on this branch twittered critically
And decided she was not one of them.
If you want to perch on our branch, they said to her,
You’ll have to cut off your right wing like all of us
And the little bird saw that the other birds
Had only their left wings. But how do you fly, she asked.
One of the birds responded by jumping off the branch,
Flapping his left wing and spiraling downward
Until he crashed beak first into a rock.
To each bird, according to its needs, the other birds tweeted.
The little bird flew to another branch on the old tree.
If you want to perch on our branch, they said to her,
You’ll have to cut off your left wing like all of us
And the little bird saw that the other birds
Had only their right wings. But how do you fly, she asked.
One of the birds responded by jumping off the branch,
Flapping his right wing and spiraling downward
Until he crashed beak first into the hard tree root.
To each bird, according to its capabilities, the other birds chirped.
The little bird flew to another branch on the old tree.
If you want to perch on our branch, they said to her,
You’ll have to cut off both your wings like all of us
And the little bird saw that the other birds
Had no wings. But how do you fly, she asked.
One of the birds responded by jumping off the branch,
But having nothing to flap, plummeted down
Until he crashed beak first into the hard ground.
We are neither left nor right, the other birds sang.
The little bird flew to another tree
And sang a two-wing song for you and me.
November 10, 2019
(c) Mike Stone
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“What Use Is Beauty?”
What use is beauty
If it merely masks an inner ugliness,
If it just confuses us
Like too much wine
Making us think we’re gods?
What good is truth
If falsehood is far more useful
For getting what you need or want
And easier to believe by far
Besides, who has time for truth?
What purpose does freedom serve
If it only starves us
or makes us lonely?
Most prefer a bond or two
To a mindless multitude.
What’s the point of words
If they are not the right words,
The precise ones that we think
Or those that others want to hear?
October 12, 2019
(c) Mike Stone
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“Blessed Are the Rich”
Blessed are the rich
For they shall inherit the meek
And enslave them.
Blessed are the rich
Who will inherit new worlds to suck dry
After they have sucked dry our only world.
Blessed are the rich
Who make their own blessings
And the gods to bless them.
Cursed are the poor
Who bow down to worship
The gods of the rich,
Who count the blessings of the rich
Who are sucked dry by the rich
Who are enslaved by the rich.
Cursed are the poor
Who bless the curse of meekness
For their children to inherit.
September 20, 2019
(c) Mike Stone
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“Hatred”
And the prophet stood among a few people.
In the marketplace of ideas, there were many prophets
But this prophet spoke quietly. He said
Hatred is not a state of mind
That one can enter and leave at will;
It is a road that starts in innocence
Leading ever downhill
And ends in unplumbed evil.
I don’t tell you turn the other cheek
When struck, as another prophet said,
But I say don’t answer hatred with hatred.
Hatred comes from ignorance of others,
Thinking they are not like us,
That they don’t love their children
Or honor their parents
Or fear for their future as we do.
Why not answer hatred with hatred?
Because it creates a circle without exit or break
And perhaps their hatred comes from
Honoring their past or fearing their future.
What should you do?
When you understand those whom you call “other”
You will know what to do, and hate
Will wither like dry tumbleweed in the desert
Because there is no other,
There is only us.
August 20, 2019
(c) Mike Stone
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Lovely poems. Thank you, Mike!
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“Then as Now”
The sweet pungency of rose and violets
Floats on the gentle breezes
And down the road a ways the church bells toll
As they did then.
At the shooting range, you still see bullet holes
But they buried all the targets in mass graves,
Not helter-skelter like some graveyards,
But very orderly as they were then.
The tall poplar trees surround electric fences,
They seem inviting, leaves rustling in the breeze,
A nightmare inside a blonde and blue-eyed dream,
As it was then.
They scrub the showers, ovens, and the smokestacks,
The red brick raw and spotless.
A pile of shoes stands in silent accusation
But no one hears, then as now.
August 2, 2019
(c) Mike Stone
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Silent, poor, innocent, youth
They witness democratic loot
Corruption rise,
And businessmen fight when
Economic slowdown
They are blown into religious fight
They seek a person with opposite ions
When their grief rise
You call me activist, but
I must also sleep the long night
Well, activism
I haven’t wished for it, nor consented to it
I only love my nation.
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artivist artifice artemis bolt
artivist artifice artemis bolt
wring out a dream and give despots a jolt.
artemis arm&fist activist strike
shake out a mindset and shore up a dyke.
artifice artdoesthis anarchist grow
muralize justice for over and throw.
antidote anecdote anthemnote strive
make visitations of souls kept alive.
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Thank you, Gary!
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Hi Jamie,
Here’s my first response:
How To Be Corrupt And Be Seen As Honest.
Here is the syllabus. This will be a tough course.
Introduction will focus on the psychopathology of hard business and unwavering pursuit of profit.
We will teach you how to see people as things. Your mother and father will be unrecognisable to you, as will your kids and spouse. They are merely objects to be maneouvred.
Main course content.
1. How to steal money from public coffers, whilst supporting charitable causes. How to steal food from babies mouths, how to watch the poorer become poorer.
2. How to store stolen money in off shore accounts, defended by laws not available in your home country.
3. How to employ PR to defend your reputation, white wash your actions.
Good luck on the course.
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Thank you, Paul!
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My first….
:: exiles ::
i heard on the radio.
they decided to walk.
he asked her what she had..
nothing she said, nothing.
money? nothing, nothing,
nothing. nothing.nothing.
nothing left except my girls.
i have not lost them, we hold hands,
hold hands, hold hands.
we have nothing.nothing. nothing left.
they decided to walk.holding hands,
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Thank you, Sonja!
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