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Welcome to Zimbabwean poetry - April 2006
January 18, 2006
History in its many diverse forms, like the tree’s growth and ageing, is unavoidable.
Antithesis and contrast are also powerful tools with which Magadza crafts his verse as in ‘Clean up’, ‘Not far from Here’, ‘Perhaps’, or ‘The Seasons’ when he questions again:
Similarly, in ‘Vespers’, the romance of darkness is shot through with pitiless descriptions of life in a high density area.
Irony, often coruscating, sometimes bitter, is employed to vilify those responsible for political betrayal or social abuse, be it in ‘Prospecto’, written in 1966 shortly after Rhodesia made an illegal unilateral declaration of independence:
or when he addresses the ineptitude of the African Union who appear too timorous to judge Zimbabwe’s own wrong-doings and:
And, yet, fundamentally, logically, Magadza is a poet who celebrates humanity, and the blessing of friendship and love. Beneath the tightly wrought, often taut poems, one hears an elegiac refrain, one written in the knowledge that the world could be otherwise. As he writes in ‘Sun on my Face’:
In this thirteenth issue of the Zimbabwean page of Poetry International, we are very pleased to be able to introduce the poet, Christopher Magadza, whose discreet corpus of work (30+ poems) has never been published in Zimbabwe, although occasional poems have appeared in anthologies. This first publication and world premier of a collection of his poems entitled Father and Other Poems on Poetry International Web represents a triumph for us and demonstrates how such an invaluable resource can bring previously unrecognised talents to an international public.
As a poet, Chris Magadza testifies to the hope, ideals and disillusion that have fuelled the history of Zimbabwe, his country. His work is infused with a sometimes quiet, always evocative passion that speaks directly to us. Nature, and the beauty of the country, form the figurative counterpoint to many of his poems in image, metaphor or symbol. For example, as he addresses his poem to a tree of great age and beauty, he allows us to recognise that it is also a silent repository of memory:Whose confiding silence
Heard plotters
Whisper conspiracy
On your night probing branches
[ . . . or who saw the ]
slaughter of
Father by son,
The rape of sister by brother,
The innocence of infancy
Starve to laughing demon;
Heard plotters
Whisper conspiracy
On your night probing branches
[ . . . or who saw the ]
slaughter of
Father by son,
The rape of sister by brother,
The innocence of infancy
Starve to laughing demon;
History in its many diverse forms, like the tree’s growth and ageing, is unavoidable.
Antithesis and contrast are also powerful tools with which Magadza crafts his verse as in ‘Clean up’, ‘Not far from Here’, ‘Perhaps’, or ‘The Seasons’ when he questions again:
What is the time?
It is not time to regret
But the failure is complete
Not time to die
But the breath is spent
Nor time to live
But the child is born
It is not time to regret
But the failure is complete
Not time to die
But the breath is spent
Nor time to live
But the child is born
Similarly, in ‘Vespers’, the romance of darkness is shot through with pitiless descriptions of life in a high density area.
Irony, often coruscating, sometimes bitter, is employed to vilify those responsible for political betrayal or social abuse, be it in ‘Prospecto’, written in 1966 shortly after Rhodesia made an illegal unilateral declaration of independence:
When the incense of gunfire
And canisters of tear gas
Are the daily offerings
We bring to the altar of
Black birth
And canisters of tear gas
Are the daily offerings
We bring to the altar of
Black birth
or when he addresses the ineptitude of the African Union who appear too timorous to judge Zimbabwe’s own wrong-doings and:
To the deafening applause
Of the African Union,
We silently bare the pain
In the amphitheatre
Of quiet diplomacy
Of the African Union,
We silently bare the pain
In the amphitheatre
Of quiet diplomacy
And, yet, fundamentally, logically, Magadza is a poet who celebrates humanity, and the blessing of friendship and love. Beneath the tightly wrought, often taut poems, one hears an elegiac refrain, one written in the knowledge that the world could be otherwise. As he writes in ‘Sun on my Face’:
Softly
Wipe away the bitterness
From my brow.
Heal my soul, and
Calm the rage of betrayals.
Wipe away the bitterness
From my brow.
Heal my soul, and
Calm the rage of betrayals.
© Irene Staunton
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