I took the oath.
To end will be the end.
My breath your breath.
My time your time.
To hold and think
Guilty if l rest you down.
Shame and all shame upon me.
Silence was before I spread the ink
Making the earth bright, is what I think of with you
A union to the end.
A sword to pierce my heart for every tide
I spit out a raw escape in a gasp of thought
To mark specks of profound recklessness
To feel the bleeding heartbeat of my fingertips
To hear the whispering force of a lover’s birth
To lose oneself in every re-crossing sunset
A dream of the world, a gush raging grace
From original light to final darkness
Stories bound to a hope of existence, my cry for life- (Maria Fokas)
I can’t believe this it’s happening again
B L E E D I N D !
The wound shows he just survived a purge
I won’t stop him,
He can’t stop himself either
Apologies ladies and gentlemen.
His blood is worrying me
I am now filled with rage
Yet he is still my hero,
He deserves all the fame
The black blood is everywhere on my page,
He oozes, all night long without having a wink
I hold him tight in my hand but he feels no pain.
It’s painful but he and I can’t stop.
It is because of his passion,
He knows he is the passion of a writer’s pen (Matthew Chikono)
Waited alone so long
I wanted a partner to produce what was inside.
I wanted to produce my own fruits,
I knew there was a white virgin
Blue or green like lines drawn across her body
I didn’t know how to approach her.
Luckily I met the marriage officer, Mr Poet.
He brought us together.
And he announced us husband wife.
Obviously, our first honeymoon was messed up
But as we went on we produced sweet fruits
Now I find myself addicted to weaving words
(Tinayeishe Akimu Edwell Musisinyani)
I have never thought myself to poses such agility
To endure the strains that comes.
Sadly enough no one could ever understand my passion my drive,
But if you want to understand meditate upon my pen
The passion through which a life travels
A journey unfolds mysteries unravel and solace sought
I would amuse myself if I fail to conjure up such power
To create form life and bring destruction
I guess in a way you will find my footprint on the paper.
I pluck out my soul, just in order to eloquently portray my passion
I think I would call it, the passion of a writer’s pen,
Eventually, the life of the writer’s soul.
There is a communication that transcends all
It is louder than verbal,
It is more vivid than usual
It lasts longer than memories.
It transverses the time limit,
Reaching even to generations unborn
It reaches to the utmost depths-
It is too creative to imagine
Yet it has power to create imaginations,
Every stroke utters volumes and
Every sentence imparts knowledge.
Every paragraph unveils mysteries and
Every piece unleashes wisdom
It is a communication that happens when a writer
Decides to pour out their heart through the sold of a pen (PLJ)
Their eyes are on me instead of you my passionate pen.
Without you I am reduced to a mere reader with nothing to earn.
With your passion I have to show gratitude over your attitude.
Held by many but has passion for a few.
Ironically small in stature but the greatest companion.
A simple gift that can heal a tormented heart.
Legacy left for many generations like ancient art.
The passionate pen the greatest ever designed.
A destructive dynamite which is strong and might.
Oh! How wonderful you are in my right hand
(Lynate K. Matanda)
His pumped fists show the powerful emotion
The internal state of being physiologically responsive to the flow of words
Literal actions are his purpose
He desires the compositions of language
For they express his feelings from the dirty baggage
His creativity is unsurpassed as he goes beyond the metaphoric manner
Speaking through the ink on the white paper
As he drowns in deep meditation
The passion of a writer’s pen is exceptional
Every day it seems extraordinary that we find hope
In the exuberant passion of a writers pen
Oh my pen how much I love thee!
Of all the hands you chose mine
You allowed me to connect with a world I could never imagine possible
I have not found mere consolation in you, but hope!
You gave me reasons to smile and draw breath
You baptised me off my stupidity and feebleness
You granted me powers to speak an intelligible language to all nations
You made me an infallible being and a perfect writer!
Oh because of this you became my passionate lover
Your passion for me has since stood proud, resilient and
Not breached like the walls of Constantinople
Pen, your love for me is the greatest passion of a writer’s pen! (Felicity En Hawk)
When I see a piece of paper I get haemorrhage!
With a story in my mind my pen copiously bleeds.
Engrossed with passion like when the lion feeds
I bleed and never stop to read
As a writer I learnt to bleed emotion through my pen.
I made barrel an extension of my raptured vein
And the paper is the jug in which my blood I contain
The marks of ink on paper are my blood stains
The inked pages portrays neither joy nor pain
But the passion behind the write’s pen (Tafadzwa Chiwanza)
© As envisioned by the project coordinators Tafadzwa Chiwanza and Matthew Chikono.