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Best Poems Written by Simbarashe Fungurani

Below are the all-time best Simbarashe Fungurani poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Simbarashe Fungurani Poem

Nation Called Childless

Somewhere,
Under a savage sun,
A sterile plane sleeps
In sad spoil, the storms
Recoil in stiff silence
As sand serpents sweat
To non-existence.
The explorer’s lens
Can not collect its far shores,
Where, he’s left to suspect, 
A brimming river flows.    
Not a tool can tell
His escape. No utensil to
Turn his sick spirits well.
The skies are broken,    
Pray heaven cries rain.    
Inflamed is the breast that nursed us all
The land of ancestor is in turmoil.
Stoop to your bruised knees pilgrim 
For your prayer is your only telegram!

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Sunshine

SUNSHINE
Imagine 
The blaze
Of that ball,
The (bronze) sun,
Is white in full 
Bloom & those 
Circles, your 
Eyes, are grey
Fading blue
In its fire,
Washing 
In sapphire sea
The stains
Of black Midnight’s
Visions… fear.
Like little beasts 
With bitter eyes,
The stars speculate a 
Fresh Milky Way
& the blistered moon
Soon on a less polluted  
Satellite planet
But the blasting sun
Is eternal.
Imagine  
I was your 
Sun 
Inspiring
Seasons, 
Songs, Spring
Rains & daybreaks 
Also scarlet billed birds 
On your little window sill,
Would you still 
Adore the star-scattered  
Dark & handsome night
With all of your charm
& no thought?
Should I be
Your  
Celestial super star,
Your blazing car 
Across unspoiled 
Tar, untamed & far,
Far… ions of nights away from
This million-lights-year-old
World? 
Make love 
To you 
With winter-cold hands,
Sunshine 
In my brown eyes
& with hot lips
Kiss your moist skin?
Only imagine
Love.

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Harare Hostels

Here the clammy flesh
Of the hopeful worker 
In a flicker found rest.
After a harsh crackle of muscle
On an acre of steel rails,
Here, he spent his thirst.
Never schooled worker, 
Donkey pilgrim to a Mecca 
Beast is despised.
At the kick of the factory clock
In cruel steel tents
In full blaze of the sun
You spilled sweat to the last litre,
Toiled, & tip toed
On Christmas in sunny shoes,
Starched ties & ashen shirts 
Over a tattered tin of some stale brew,
One you took as a crew.
These hostels were built, 
Says a school of thought,
To hat colonial guilt 
Stuck in Buss System’s golden gut
Like iron filling clog a file till its teeth are sunken.
Old pastel flats, they plunk 
Daily to frown at the pink sun
They do not shift till time’s finish. 
Their sad-cherry has twisted auburn. 
As lofty as they rise
They must sink into the soils
They so despise!

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Child-God

Golden Calf slew the secret lizard.
The injured man-fish boiled, blew & died:
A skinless Jew coiled like a snake,
Cold, nailed to a stake. Sad,
Its sinless flesh badly stewed & bled
Its stainless bones not one broken.
Child-god born to a nasty world
To tell slight morals to a pointless people,
Let your Sight
To the blind & sinful light
The mind of the simple to such senseless
Love as yours; such terrible genius you never chose!

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Sad Child

It makes a heart sink
To learn one was never loved
But a sinister child 
Begging for bread.
I’ve spent a wet night 
Under a sickening sky
And not a sigh, not a tear shed
But such sorrow as I’ve tasted
Tells of no tomorrow.
On famine the flesh of my face
Shall be fed
And of my blood, no man’s hand
Shall be stained, but to a thousand
Hearts plenty of joys are attained:
Could this cursed world be spared?
Today I turn in cold clay, 
And this ode is read 
Till it takes my breath 
On the lip of youth!

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Child

Body, bones 
Clad in thin black skin,
Pearls for eyes:
Blind balls &
A broken string,
Mind, maddened by hunger 
Burst eyes into tears. 
Mother is the myth, 
Of a harmless, toothless smile. 
Starved tummy imagining breakfast. 
To all ill-fated & female:   
Life is lunacy & pain,
A sign one is sane; 
Affection is ecstasy & pain,
Its individual expression;
Freedom is another abortion,
And Peace, another revolution.

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Mother of Many

Yes, our tears stem 
From your success
& your smiles 
Are inspired
By our sickness,
But your nest 
Must not be nourished
By the warm blood 
Of my womb
& your breasts 
Should not be fattened
By the flesh of sinless infants. 
Even though you reproduce
Like the clouds 
Of a storm 
& your children 
Are as countless as the seeds 
Of sorrow
Whilst our little lank as the reeds 
Of the brook,
You should not seek
A home
In the shells of our souls
And let your pest-offspring
Find sanity & rest 
In the mad bustle of our blood



Poem 6The Girl Next Door 
She hates roses 
For their craft of thorns
The spirits
Found fixed abode 
In her mind 
And inspired her mad
When shes gone her words will 
Take