Maxwell Mutami
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
Poetry
Thanks very much. It has taught me never to give up. Many people generally consider poetry tough and therefore very few walk into a bookshop to buy a collection of poetry. As a result of this sad development, many publishers are no longer interested in this genre of literature. I tried many a time to sell my manuscript, but all I got were rejection slips that cited the unmarketability of poetry. Getting published seemed to have opened many doors into the world of publishing. It has actually rekindled hope in me. When I write I have a message I die to convey to the world and that can only happen when the book is published. I will never look back in writing, even when getting published may seem impossible at the time. What I know is some day, through tireless searching the work will see the dawn of the publishing world. Since publication of the anthology several other publications followed. I became part of three different collections of poetry, short stories and micro-stories. Today as I speak, I just received a message that my first children’ s book “Bingo the Greedy Little Dog” is now out. I am very excited. The poems in the collection depict the state of Zimbabwe - past, present, and future. Are the poems a direct response to the present economic difficulties in Zimbabwe ? Do you see hope in the future of the country? Well, to a large extend the poems are a chronicle of the experience of people in my contemporary society as well as my own experiences. Being a citizen of Zimbabwe , it logically follows that much of what is covered echoes the country’s situation. Issues covered touch on such things as unemployment (as you rightly put it - economic difficulties), social decadence, as in poem “What society is this?”, issues of squatters and many others. The issues delt with are no new subjects. These are issues that come out in the newspapers and magazines. What I merely did is add a bit of feelings to them. Take for instance the poem “Evicted Squatter”, I wrote it in 1992 when I was still in high school. It was published that year in a local paper now defunct, called The Shoppers Guide. It shows the strong feelings that tear through a person tagged a squatter, who gets removed from a place he calls home. When many people read it now they think probably I was inspired by Murambasvina to write the poem yet it’s not the case. As of hope, am very much hopeful that we will return to normalcy, of course it’s all a function of time. No dust will perpetually float in the skies. Some day it will settle down. We will all begin to see clearly. If you look at the first poem in the collection, “When the dust settles” the persona is reflecting on what their country would be like when all problems are solved. The voice of the persona has a lining of hope. All we need is cross the bridge Most of your poems show your awareness of poetic form. Most follow a rhyme scheme; is there a relationship between this form and the subject matter? Not really. I would actually call myself a victim of the clash with poetry of such writers as John Donne, Andrew Marvell, William Shakespeare, Ben Johnson and many other Elizabethan poets. Their choice of words and word-play amused me so much. You will find that the rhyme scheme in my poetry is to a large extent an attempt at adding rhythm to my verse. Rhythm gives poetry a good taste and life. It becomes sweet and a living voice What is the intended readership of your poetry? Do you ever grapple with the issue of what language to use to write your poetry? My poetry is intended for everybody, anywhere in the world. The newspapers tell you that in area B a voice was heard crying, and my poetry says “hear me crying from area B” It’s so direct and simple. The poetry is very accessible as I have deliberately employed simple language for effective deliverance of meaning. I never struggle with the issue of language as I have always told my self to be simple Most Zimbabwean poets in the diaspora are exploring the self-publishing route; do you think this will enrich the country's poetic talent? 1) It’s a tricky question. If by enrichment we mean improvement in quality of verse produced, that becomes difficult to tell. I suppose many are opting for that route mainly because many publishers now shun the genre. Self-publishing remains the only option left for the poets’ voices to be heard. It’s a means of coming out of the shell. I believe every writer who puts his pen to paper has something for a particular groups of audience scattered all over the world. To access the intended audience the work has to be published, but what do you do when publishers cry foul about sales and profits? Self-publishing becomes the answer. Some self-published writers have done well. Given a large pool of poetry material to choose from, it automatically goes a long way in enriching the poetic talent in any country. The published work becomes learning material for contemporary and future poets. Lots of very good poetry is experiencing still-birth as the pregnant poets vainly wait to deliver the normal way. My advice is, let the surgeons do their job. The world needs those literary babies kicking in the womb of your minds. Five Poems from Maxwell Mutami's When the Dust Has Settled |
He is there Roofless and bare In grave silent street Poor soul his teeth grit Him, the wicked cold grabs He hisses like insulted drabs. Where is he who fathered him? Is she dead who suffered nine for him? Street kid the unfortunate soul The seed on rocks that did fall The produce of unfeeling lust Sprouting in cities wide and fast. WHISPERS UNDER THE GREY CARPET Forget not your smiling mask To the grey field we are to meet Go give them the rest But never you lose the best Never ever show sign of fear To really keep them at the rear Lets empty our rubbish bins And feed their blind needs Fear not, they never know For these people surely never grow Always be by their side But never cross to their side. These were the winds of words That blew from under the grey carpet To me they recalled the year of swords None of them dared have a party “Hush hush Lea” they say “One of them baboons brings tea in a tray”. THE FLAG The mark of a new era Not sure whether or not an error All fingers still point at the flag Blind to the many whom in its shade beg. Independently it dances in free air Heralding messages of a land free and fair With understanding and united people Who equally share the national apple? Still all fingers point to the happy flag Not sure whether or not a strategic tag. It’s the mark of a new course But who said new eras were always nice? Still all starved fingers point at the flag Not too sure whether or not it’s the final peg Beyond which the masses cannot ring a bell Lest they risk roasting in the fires of hell. Fly, flying, fly flies the flag With none brave enough to call it a squatter Like us who on its foot cluster Float and fly foolish flag You, the mark of a new era Or possibly the mark of a new error! |
They shall march round Southerton streets Like a mob against Rhodesian injustices Waving certificates like Sharpsville placards Gowns sent flying like the Union Jack, Not as sign of victory But as banners of poverty. Lying on the starving grasses Facing the “NO JOB” sign Silently they shall sing their bitter song For they know they committed no wrong “We are highly educated, But we are hardly respected…” Certificates shall be for rolling cigars Beautiful gowns for patching up torn trousers And all knowledge for stopping the bleeding inside As they silently sing their bitter song For they know they committed no wrong “We are highly educated, But we are hardly respected CROWNED GRAVES When shall I regain my lost mind After having committed a sin of this kind? In dark pockets of my mind I grope in vain But these unknown worms bore my heart with pain. What should I do to wear a smile Or to happiness I still have to foot a mile? Should I close the door and cry Or like a praying mantis fall to my knees and pray? Though I thought I was brave, Surely this mistake looks grave, All my worthiness it has discredited Mine competence now has to be debated. Why should the absentees be missed, Yet this team wishes to be kissed? Have they all gone to the yard of death, Those who new plans give birth? Has the world none of the sort to offer, But that human races eternally suffer? This mis-step I never planned Surely my hilly mind should be planed. But why should death rob us of our praises, Yet daily we polish our faces? Now the deceased are being crowned With coronets we fought for but never found. Earth has long moulded kings and queens, And us as brooms and bins. Gearing hard for the top, Always we cry for the result is a flop. The dead resting in graves as they are Up the Heroism Mountain run ahead and far, Shame shall always be with us |