Biography of Edward Dzonze
Born on the 4th of June 1989 Edward attended Mufakose 1 High School.Poetry has ever been a passion for Edward, in 2007 he joined a contingent of budding writers perfoming at the Book Cafe for The House of Hunger Poetry Slam.Not yet published, the poet will explore all Literature avenues to reach out to the poetry hungry fanatics.
Edward Dzonze Poems
A Cry For Peace
This hatred i so much condemn, is man's worst form of relating. If hate is the only food on the menu,
The Story Of Africa
The story unfolds darkness today but tomorrow it will be day We might not see but we sure know
Victims Of The Ploy
They wore God on their faces To hide the devil in their thoughts.
The Black Teacher
Even if it rains in white snow, I will shelter my head under a black umbrella. For the white storm
The African drum beat is music no more for my spirit, I'm listening but i can't hear the rhythm only the echo from my imagination of sound keeps me nodding,
Letter To The African Chair
This our beloved Africa is slowly turning into a death trap From the senseless xenophobic attacks down south to the 'irrational' religious wars north of the equator.
Question Of Note: Why?
We heard them singing from a distance and our hearts shuddered of fear. We saw them taking charge towards us, a mob of youths dressed in sponsored t-shirts
The Day After
How many songs did i sing which brought about this aphony? How many songs did i dance to
The Blackest Black
Flow with me along the rivers of common sense, Eroding the riverbeds of tribalism and racism Revitalising the very essence of man's existence,
One after another she took them off and throw them down nonchalantly in my full gaze.
Crying A Cry
Never mind the gruesome scars on my face, I've got activated bombs in my flesh. Sympathy is all i get
She gave me a gun and showed me where to shoot i guess where she felt it most but my finger couldn't bend to pull the trigger
I've been holding on to a toy gun as my shield of defence, tired of its unnecessary weight, threw it away
On The Day Of The African Child
They knows no shelter but alleys in the dusty streets of Harare Peripapetic, they wander from bin to bin in search of whatever managed to escape the hand in good shape
Cassanova On The Bedside
A brief tour around my imperfections
A rough calculation of my sexual adventures
All this triggered by a culmination of a deteriorating health,
Clouded by this cigarette smoke
I just call it a barbaric miscalculation
One puff and another
as the cigarette dies away
I call it a cigarette thought
But why in my sobber senses