martes, 20 de octubre de 2015

RAÏS NEZA BONEZA: Current poetry of Congo

Raïs Neza Boneza (Democratic Republic of Congo (Ex-Zaire) in Africa, 1979). Currently lives in Norway where he works as a peace researcher and practitioner.  He is also a poet who besides writing his own poetry work to promote artistic expressions as a means to deal with conflicts and maintaining mental well-being and spiritual growth after surviving war. Although Boneza may sometimes at least have wished to forget his experiences of war in the conflict ridden Great Lake region, he has never forgotten about both the richness and misery of Africa.  He has lived in the east and in the west of the D. R. Congo, in Rwanda, in Burundi, and Uganda.  He has learned seven African languages as well as the European imperialistic languages and has got first-hand knowledge of the cultures of various ethnic groups in the region.  This background, combined with his sensitive artistic mind and his scholarly background including his collaboration with one of the founders of peace research Johan Galtung, has equipped his analytical faculties with unique instruments to extend the project that Galtung has developed since the mid 90', to the African continent. Beside , his work as consultant and lecturer for different NGOs and institution around world; He is the a co-convener for the Transcend Global; a network of specialist working for peace, development and The environment. His work is a premise pf peace, solidary and human dignity.
 Some works:
 Nomad, a refugee poet (2003): Poetry ISBN : 0-9726996-1-9
 Black Emerald (2004): Poetry ISBN:9788182530348
 Peace By African’s Peaceful Means (2005):Non-fiction ISBN-13: 978-1593440992
 Peace through African’s Peaceful Means (2003) : Non- fictionISBN:9788230000809
 Sounds of exile (2006): Poetry ISBN-13: 978-1411609907
 His debut novel ”“White Eldorado, Black Fever”(2013)” is the only work which has been originally translated from his French native language “ ”Eldorado blanc, Fievre Noire”(2013)”. In his debut novel,   he taps in his artistic background, a peace researcher and practitioner to create a work of fiction and fact to bring in the awareness about the conflict-minerals direct effects to communities and simple individuals in the Great-Lakes region of Africa.

The Worshipper

I climb the hill of my feelings
To satisfy my sight.
I seek to find …
My reason is lost.
In my estrangement my soul speaks.

Abandoned as a discarded plant
I look to thee;
All thy greatness is in my sight.

You leave your dwelling
As thy sun seeks its resting place.

I am rooted to your very being;
My branches cover your presence; You move under my shadow.

I understand with the vigor of thought, Thy body but with a glance.
I admire you without weariness
And explore you from discovery to wonder.

I praise thy sculptor,.
Him, the all-wise, the all-bestower
Who, beneath the pounding of my misled heart, Long ago fashioned your existence
For the accomplishment of compassion
And the gift of the essence of love.

I am the spirit who observes you; You do not know me,
Yet you are a reality well known by me.

Source of poetic water from above, Inspirational rain from the sky,
From thee my feelings are nurtured
Even in thy obscurity of me.

My words remain silent,
And for thee my existence still a fable, A dream that I shall never share,
A poem never to be written.

Near his table rests a glass of water;
Through his window he  glances at passerby;
 He observes and always waits, waits, waits.

Bitterness nourishes his  being;
Subjected to  misunderstandings
And false airs of 'people'
He is a prisoner.

He sits, hands cupped  around his chin
Solemnly thinking.
In his dreaming, his  spirits escape
The world of hardships
And travel in the  expanses of the
Wild blue sky.

He leans on his table, half worried, half-contented.
In this place of his there is no compassion;
Evil prowls around its prey;
Rancor sings its melody of  morning.

A stranger to his land,
He melancholically sips from his glass-- A sip of freedom.

Marginalized and needy,
Very far is the wind of  liberty blowing for him
He is a clandestine, always without address,
Not a nomad, but a recluse  in the midst of humanity.

In his unbroken crystal  enclosure
He follows the echoes of  his silent screams.
A rock of madness, only  solitude answers him.

He startles!
His heart rapidly beats! He rises from his bed!
Ah! It's only a nightmare!


Following the light of the sky,
The star remains so far in the spaces,
 Alone in the garden of flickering lamps,
We talk to thee, my spark.           

Thee, black, yet a golden rose;
 Esmeralda of delighted lands,
Desiring to kiss your somber skin,
But the thorns around thee prevent me.    

In your indifference,
You reach for setting sun.
You wait for Orpheus, the enchanter,
We did not see the approach
Of the current of circumstances
Flowing with you towards the falls of uncertainty.           

Oh! White dove, seen yet untouchable.
Our eyes still fixed on one sacred desire;
With thee we want to share our treasure of love,
 But our kingdoms are waging war.    

We are the deprived prince in exile
On our mount, Pegasus, Riding from galaxy to galaxy. For you, Esmeralda,
I am a breath that silently passes by.       

My rose, my fragrant flower,
I am but for you
A memory that has been born dead.      


Alone on the border of the great Tanganyika
Stands the kraal of drummers.
Alone on the river of the Ruzizi plains,
Stands the empire of the Inanga poets.
They sing and relate.
Arise the cadence of modern thunder
Stifling these glorious songs and the rich poems!

The children of thunder against the Ubushingatahe wisdom
The ancient replaced by immorality;
 Ancestral truths replaced by profanation.

In the paternal enclosure haunts lie;
The words of the wise Bagabo, forgotten: They violate and betray!
Now, raise the sun
On the great summit of the Bugamba.
 Hope is piercing the heavens:
The gentle rain of a Kwizera raconteur
Falling once again on a parched earth.

                            The children of thunder return to the bosom of their ancestors
To revive the song of peace in the Urugo homestead.

                                                    Burundi, Bujumbura

jueves, 1 de octubre de 2015

TÂNIA TOMÉ: Poesia atual do Moçambique

Tânia Tomé (1980). Poeta, cantora, compositora, economista e socio-activista do Moçambique. Presidente da Associação cultural Showesia, ganhou diversos prémios em todas suas areas como economista, como poeta e como cantora. Têm dois livros de poesia publicados em Angola, Moçambique e Brasil são eles o Agarra-me o sol por trás e Conversas com a sombra. Têm vários cds de música publicados. Participa em diversas antologias internacionais  chinesa, espanhola, sul africana, alemã e é uma das artistas mais internacionais do seu país participando em diversos festivais de música e poesia.

Do livro Agarra-me o sol por trás

Abril esconde-nos
nas sinuosas curvas
das palavras.
uma falésia
na embriaguez
do meu canto.
Aí se turva a linha
no instante
em que estamos
um do outro

Estrelas no chão
deitadas de ventre
Rio incestuoso
onde a noite
tem caroço
Não me salves,

Me ancoraste
exactamente aqui
onde te rio.
Ri comigo
meu amor,
como se amplia
o cais.

o sol
por trás.
Escuta no vento
a tua mão


miércoles, 30 de septiembre de 2015

CÉLESTIN NIYONIZIGIYE: La poésie actuelle Burundi

Célestin Niyonizigiye est né au Burundi en 1970 dans une famille élargie chrétienne. Après des études secondaires en pédagogie, il a suivi un premier cycle à l’université en sciences de l’éducation. À cause de l’insécurité qui régnait dans son pays, il a été contraint de s’exiler au Kenya où il a dispensé des cours de français pendant quatorze ans. Depuis 2009, il réside au Canada. En 2012, il a participé à l’écriture d’un ouvrage collectif intitulé Reflets de nos âmes unies paru chez Edilivre.

Sélection de Au coeur de l’Afrique, quand la colombe chasse les vautours. Edilivre, France 2012

Calme et charme sans arme
C’était un matin d’été chargé de brouillards;
Temps passé à délirer tel un vrai soûlard.
Un matin sans précédent où le rêve d’être
Héros bouillonnait, bouleversant tout mon être;
Jour où le lauréat de l’école de vengeance
Devait aller sur le terrain sans réticence;
Jour décisif où quelqu’un devait être cuit;
Jour où un faux chemin allait être détruit.
Rugissant, m’écriant, je faisais des va-et-vient;
Tantôt des pompages, tantôt des coups de poings;
Tantôt défiant les lions comme tout imprudent;
Tantôt tirant dans l’air tout en grinçant des dents.
Les préparatifs achevés, je pris mon sabre*
Et ma fronde pour me ruer ensuite au macabre.
Soudain, une idée de faire adieux aux parents
Survint à l’esprit agité mais transparent:
« Oh ! Qu’est-ce qui te prend notre cher dérivé ? »
Me demandèrent-ils d’un ton si énervé.
« Je dois venger vos frères et soeurs ! Ce jeudi,
Et je me sens si hardi pour l’acte. » ai-je dit.
D’une voix de tendresse mêlée à la peur;
Ma mère cria, puis souligna de tout son coeur:
« Quelque vaillant, puissant ou brave que tu sois
Tu ne pourras point les ressusciter. Reçois
Et grave ces mots dans ton esprit, fais-en loi
Qui guide ta morale, qu’ils soient de ta foi.
Je sentis la main de mon père posée sur
Mon épaule et ouïs*sa voix vibrante et pure:
« Mon cher fils, la vengeance appartient à Dieu,
Ne salis pas ta main par ces combats odieux. »
Choqué, j’ai laissé tomber le sabre et la fronde*
Par terre, me plongeant dans une nuit profonde
Où la conscience me montrait ma cruauté
Et la non-violence prouvait sa primauté.
A travers mes larmes, je regardais mon père
Faire le feu. Loin, je vis revenir ma mère
Qui était partie appeler tous les voisins
Afin de mettre fin à ce jeu enfantin.
Dans un silence de mort, autour du foyer*,
On suivait mot à mot le discours émaillé*
Des mots d’amour et de pardon que notre sage
Prononçait et transmettait en divin message.
A terme, le public gai embrasa mes armes

Et depuis, j’ai retrouvé mon calme et mon charme.

lunes, 28 de septiembre de 2015

LESEGO RAMPOLOKENG: Poesía Actual de África

Lesego Rampolokeng (1965, Soweto, South Africa). Poet, playwright, novelist, essayist and documentary film-maker.

20 years in
Centuries down the line
The poets are hurting

The dreams’ corruption
Screams in the night and
The seams come apart in
Bill of Rights & Constitution
They hymen an apparition

Blac publishing    radic nourishing
To Cry Rage    in the Lie-Age    
                 of pain’s lineage
Shame is the Blacker hues
Makhafula up to James Matthews

If I could sing
Daar’s kak in die land
(tune from the claws of satan
strummed behind the doors of parliament)
blood-tide rises with slaughter-current

march of the blackstorm
from no sanctuary in freedom
minds’ Molotov explosion
all the insurrection way back home

blood-splutter paint
on the cracked walls of the cranium
megawatts in the AMANDLA name
for the power-game
but) who’ll pay the bill of reparation
when what was stolen
is that which is Human
ridden   from here to a mine-dump

the Richter registration
of) worker ants & termites
marching on feet that are broken-
scales of justice
& peace hanging in the balance
of a snapped brainstem
celebration of a sham
& THAT is my WORD down the LINE