COPYRIGHTAll rights reserved. Contributions are welcome. All due care will be taken with material submitted, but the magazine and publishers cannot be held responsible for loss or damage. The editor reserves the right to edit, amend or alter material in any way deemed necessary. BitterSweet is not responsible for unsolicited material. The opinions expressed in the magazine are not necessarily those of the editor or publisher of BitterSweet.

THANKS TOJeda M. for the editing and compilation.The poets and writers. What ever you’redoing dont stop! Keep the flame burning!

All about BitterSweetBitterSweet was birthed by two creative artists Mwape Mumba and Kapembwa Wanjelani; they sing, dance, act and do stand-up comedy as well as poetry. Their love of the arts insipired them to put together the Bittersweet Poetry Show.

Their love of poetry can be traced back to their days at St Clements SecondarySchool in Luapula 2001, where the duo came into contact with a subject literature in English.Which inspired them to start writing poetry and songs of the experiences at boarding school and life in general. They regularly would be in a circle make a beat box and free style some lyrics.

The duo whislt at the University of Zambia main Campus teamed up with Marvin Simbule and Joseph I. Simukoko to form a rock group called Bittersweet (a bitter taste we have when we don’t share the gospel which only becomes sweet when we share the gospel and the goodness we possess).The Band got few gigs here and there. However, upon graduation Marvin and Joseph got jobs outside the city thus leaving a gap in the group. Mwape and Kapembwa then decided to work on their other branch of their ministry thats Poetry after noticing that there was little done topromote poetry in Zambia. As a result BitterSweet was created to provide a platform for-that rare prestigious talent to be heard and seen. BitterSweet Poetry is an arts body registeredwith National Arts Council.

BitterSweet has the following goals and objectives including: • Revamp the reading and writing culture that taps into an individual’s creative

genius, and through poetry preserve and showcase our rich culture.•

large. • Putting Zambia on the Globe producing the best poets in the world, • Providing a platform for Poets to come up and showcase their work and be heard

our motto being “the unspoken voice alive”. • Bringing the young and the old together, bridging the gap between the two generations

and facilitating interactions on a higher level.

A Group on Facebook called BitterSweet Poetry Zambia was created to promote interaction between poets and poetry lovers’ . The group has been a success, seeing the number grow to almost Two Thousand people shows the hunger how much loveand interest Zambians have in the Arts. This inspired the creation of the BitterSweet website www.bittersweetpoetry.com were poets can log in and create accounts so that it’s easier to track their poems and works and get to know them better. I can say that the website has had views from the globe over especially Canada, North America, Russia, and Zambia we hope to put Zambia on the map using poetry. We plan to visit other parts of Zambia and eventually the world over showcasing the wonderfulart of Poetry

BitterSweet is willing to work with companies and organisations that can fund this idea while their product/service will be publicised and marketed to a target audience while they are associated with supporting this prestigious art of Poetry in Zambia.

Poets and individuals interested in Poetry can contact or get in touch with us on Email: bittersweetzambia@gmail.com, bittersweet.editor@yahoo.com or call: 0977312817, 0967766557, and 0977438767

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He just sits there staring at a blank page,Amazed at the things he’s been through at his age,Broken, disrespected,Confused and dejected

He just sits there shaking his head in silenceGrowing numb to life, amazed at karma’s scienceAmazed at how his heart was still beating,

He’s losing faith in breathing coz all he has is violence...

And they said “Come here boy” *smack*“Why you dreaming?” *smack*

“Why you still breathing?” *smack*

Its never enemies but close ones that do you in,Family, best friends, the boyfriend u just let in,

Leave u broken and aloneWith a body but no-one’s home, that’s the hell you’re in...

And your oppressor, the slave driving tough love professor,

And broke your spiritsWith lies and gimmicksAnd skies with limits, u always had to impress or... else...

Father landBut then he noticed, that heart shattered to a million was still beating,

were still breathing,He wasn’t dying all along

Gave him experience and a song and his shadows retreating...

Now he just stands there, tall and proud“My mistakes are MY weapons!” he calls out loud,Half man half amazingAll guns blazingSaluting and praising his maker in sound...

See he just stands there with prance at his feet,

My revolution has begunYes, I see the sun, and its shining on me...

He is me... He is you... He is Africa the great!So Africa stand up, 2012 waits!

By Kasanda Skrypted Mwape

Who sold our kids?Who pawned their dignity?

Who put them on the streets?I question our humanity.

Every stranger has become there relative.

Who sold our kids?Who pawned their dignity?

Who robbed them of their pride before they could trade it in for humility?

are being held out, for alms, receiving.

Who sold our kids?Who pawned their dignity?

We need to take away their begging and give them back their innocence.I am not saying we give less, we need to give more.

More of our time, not only feeding them for an instance but to set them up for progress!

By Mwamba Mutale

Who sold our kids?

Global warming?

I sit on the couch of ignorance

Television is my guide and with it there is no tolerance

Consuming toxins of greed, hate and propaganda

Everything corruptible now becomes my agenda

Movies are factories of pollution

Depicting violence as the solution

And Lust as the only conclusion

The news is as toxic as tobacco smoke

My lunges eject toxins in form of talk

My tone of gossip and backbiting is highly contagious

Watch out, for this is Global warming.

Global warming?

Musicians are vehicles whose fuel is the innocence of the youth.

They cook up rhymes, beats and songs in studio booths.

Ingredients of rebellion, anarchy, sex, drugs, guns, not forgetting the treasured carbon dioxide.

The end result a nation of minds full of carbon monoxide.

Ambition and the lust of fame corrodes every steel and iron principle.

No longer do I feel loved, for I am just alone.

No longer do we call them artists, for now they have become idols.

Talent is the thing of the past.

With auto-tune everyone has class.

Think T-pain, but with no ‘T’ and all of the pain.

Evil manipulators can’t wait to get you aboard the train.

Watch out, for this is Global warming.

Global warming?

The climate in my subconscious is no longer stable.

The controls in my brain are no longer able.

The polar ice capsules that held back my dark-side have begun to melt.

Releasing the vile waters of everything bad.

Oh, my gosh, things have become bad.

The skies of my emotions are marred with dark nimbus clouds.

by Luka Mwango

A COFFIN MAKER’S PRAYERCrumpled in his tiny workshop in the market the old man grumbled about the day to himself.

story of the amount of labour he had invested into his work. The roughly bunched up sawdust, patches of the ground painted in gold dust, variety of nails carelessly everywhere and ignoring the long hours of tormenting noise from all the knocking and hammering.

and pulled his lips in full stretch to reveal the few tainted teeth that still remained. It was clear

already existing pile that remained on display. There was little hope of them vanishing anytime soon. They would be there only to be admired the next time he added to the collection. If it had not been for the passion that was forced upon him by his father, he would have closed shop years ago. It saddened him, however, that unlike the forced passion he grew to love, he was un-

The other thing he inherited from his long gone father was his faith. Those were the most vivid memories he had of his childhood. He would occasionally reminisce when his father could splash cold water on him and his other eight siblings in order to wake them up for prayers. What remained striking was the timing of the prayers that stuck to his mind. It was before the

dark. Shivering from the cold water that sipped through their T-shirts and shorts, they would go on their knees. Palms tightly pressed together and their heads facing above to the heavens, the

listen to their father say the heartfelt prayers while they pitched in by nodding their heads in agreement. It was a movement which they did mechanically and had mastered. He commenced by thanking God for their life, then for their health, followed by forgiveness for sin committed both knowingly and unknowingly. He would then pray for wealth which seemed to have eluded him and generations before him, he would then move on to pray for protection against the devil and his demons. He would then gladly pray for long life and gone ancestors. He only came to a closure when the sun began to rise. It would get worse when it was winter

and the sun delayed to get out of the thick clouds.

-

was one thing he grrasped and held for most of his life. A quote from the Bible made famous by his father was Matthew 1 2 verse 22 “And all things, whatsoever ye shall ask in prayer, believing, ye shall receive.” His father never forgot to quote

between in the lines of the prayers. The old man had suddenly been hit by hard times. Business was not good and there was no light at the end of the tunnel unless divine intervention had something to say about it. It was this divine intervention that he so desperately needed and the only way he knew how to get it was to pray like his father had done every time he was pressed with a problem. Like he had done in his childhood, he got down on his knees, clasped his palms together and faced towards the heavens. He decided to begin with the quote he had learned by heart, “And all things, whatsoever ye shall ask in prayer, believing, ye shall receive. Oh heavenly Father, thank you for my life and health. Thank you also for everything you have given me. Lord as the Bible says that if I believe, I shall have. I therefore now pray for…,” he began and suddenly stopped in the tracks. It was at that moment that he realised that the next words to come out of his mouth were not right. They did not sound right either. He was about to ask for an improvement in his business. Before the guilty burden weighed heavily on his conscious and it refused to go away. In order for him to have his prayer answered, it required that people should die. At that moment he realised that he could not pray like he had

maker’s prayers. He stood up got his hammer and nails and returned to work. He would perhaps

Peter W. Nawa

and the sun delayed to get out of the thick clouds.

-

was one thing he grasped and held for most of his life. A quote from the Bible made famous by his father was Matthew 12 verse 22 “And all things, whatsoever ye shall ask in prayer, believing, ye shall receive.” His father never forgot to quote

between in the lines of the prayers. The old man had suddenly been hit by hard times. Business was not good and there was no light at the end of the tunnel unless divine intervention had something to say about it. It was this divine intervention that he so desperately needed and the only way he knew how to get it was to pray like his father had done every time he was pressed with a problem. Like he had done in his childhood, he got down on his knees, clasped his palms together and faced towards the heavens. He decided to begin with the quote he had learned by heart, “And all things, whatsoever ye shall ask in prayer, believing, ye shall receive. Oh heavenly Father, thank you for my life and health. Thank you also for everything you have given me. Lord as the Bible says that if I believe, I shall have. I therefore now pray for…,” he began and suddenly stopped in the tracks. It was at that moment that he realised that the next words to come out of his mouth were not right. They did not sound right either. He was about to ask for an improvement in his business. Before the guilty burden weighed heavily on his conscious and it refused to go away. In order for him to have his prayer answered, it required that people should die. At that moment he realised that he could not pray like he had

maker’s prayers. He stood up got his hammer and nails and returned to work. He would perhaps

Peter W. NawaPeter W. Nawa

I found a poem bleeding on the sidewalk.Its torn state was quite a sight.

I took the poem home. I cleaned its wounds.Others were too deep to reach.

I tucked the poem in and it told me a bedtime story.It told me of its life, of how it would not die regardless of the depth of its wounds.

Because words, unlike men, had a long lifespan.

I fell asleep by its side.I dreamt of Shakespeare, Robert Frost, Maya Angelou and Jon Foreman.

They told me about ancient, ageless poems.They also told me about golden, female and lyrical poetry.

My mind was bursting at the seams.

The next morning, the poem was gone.It left me a note saying its heart was stray and could not be remedied.

In bold words it cautioned me to never stop writing.Because then, I would stop speaking.

And to always keep an eye out for a bleeding poem.

Tell me, if a man loved a stray poem, what would that make him?A stray lover?

If a poet fell out of love with words, is he unfaithful?If a poet wrote of emotion with his mind, is he true?

If a poem screamed for more than just a glance, would you listen?

My Words are a disguise.My poem is a face.

I wear my real face sometimes, hoping you’ll think it’s fake.

By Chipo Autumn Chitambi

STRAY

My old lovely motor tyre sandalsWhite men wore sandalsPurely for no purpose but walking

My old lovely motor tyre sandalsMy sandals knew nearly all I didMy secrets were theirsMy feet laden them always

My old lovely motor tyre sandalsMy old sandals liked swimmingHunting was their hobbyMy sandals knew my dogsPoles on my shoulders they carried meMy dear tyre sandals, where you are!

My old lovely motor tyre sandalsFather Maiko the catholic, had sandalsBut his, had no heart, no soulMy old sandals smelt my home

My dear tyre sandals, where you are!

My old lovely motor tyre sandalsGiven me by father Were a property and chattel of lineageTo cut the trend, I am doomed, my old sandalsMy dear tyre sandals burnt in my little hut.

Nicholas Kawinga.

MY SANDALS

Just look at her,

I want that.From her hair to her toes

I want that.She’s well put together its amazing,Her Fashion sense and style has me gazing.When she makes her way,every head in her direction is turning.At night when I lay,to be her is my one true yearning.

Just so I can do my hair and buy more shoes.For everything that I bought had a hidden costcause the money that I gotfrom the men that I sought

3 abortions, the third one saw my womb being removed.Now I detaste myself, my past, and the songs to which I grooved.

Her Hidden Words

I will never know the beauty of motherhoodbecause I wanted beauty to look good.I have chosen not to learn of my status,for I may worry and soon became a carcass.I have resolved to get rid of my many menBut even then its just a resolve, I still need my many men.Just look at her,

I want that.From her hair to her toes

I want that.

By Kapembwa Wanjelani

An apparition of chance/Cause no one saw her in a second’s glanceHer paths had no footprints

A speck in a big ball of dustA grain in a glamorous harvestYet to me she was all I could seeHer image engraved in my mind, oh, what gleeHer steps led my heart to peace Her touch was such a teaseA diamond in a world without jewelsA waterfall in a world without wellsShe is my Ghost Lady.

Am I the only one with sight?To see beauty that burns with such mightTo see the mastery of God that looks so rightAm I the only man in the world?To burn with desire for such a stimulating ladyTo yearn to call her my babyShe is my Ghost Lady.

So, to you my Ghost Lady I say hallo You may be invisible to the world but forgive them, they are just shallowFor their eyes mistake the living for the deadTheir ears mistake noise for sweet melodyAnd their hearts mistake girls for women

My Ghost lady

Because to plant my romantic seedI had to open my heart and let it bleedBleed love, bleed love, bleed loveBut if I am to die and never to see the sunI long only to be your Ghost Man.

by Luka Mwango

Love Speaks Sweetly Love speaks sweetly,“I love all of you,Heart and Soul,

Beautiful and Bright.”

Everywhere love is,Love says forever.Forever says love,

Is love everywhere?

“Bright and Beautiful,Soul and Heart,You of all love I”

Sweetly speaks love.

( Now read from the last wordto the first)

By Isunge Mwangase

Memories of Bitter-Sweet!

convinced that was the best show ever!

Previously I had read some poetry and written some, but I was new to the world of

couldn’t help going overboard when some romantic line hit a chord! I remember the poem about someone’s sweet love ‘curved like the number 8’ (which turned out to be his guitar!), the song ‘Fire extinguisher’ (which still needs to be produced on CD!), ‘Help I kissed a boy!’ ‘Never-ever-ever’ and our host, Kapembwa’s Chuck Nor-ris jokes!

I was also intrigued by the pseudonyms used, and how people can create a ‘poetic identity’ (kind of like a super-hero putting on a mask to reveal their true self. Yes, it’s “deep like that!”)

So I watched the presenters and said “I can do that!” But all my writing for publica-

tear me limb from limb (thanks guys!) and its something I look forward to doing again and again!

What’s amazing about most of the poems is how you can see a piece of the author in the lines presented! Every other broken heart song seems to ring true at some level, every ‘my dream girl’ aspiration, and every line of appreciation for a romantic interest.

Also, there shines in many the deep conviction in God who “cares for us” and “loves you”, with passion deeper than an army of poets could ever express – the author of art and language who knows how to love more than we could ever imagine! (Sometimes we forget God is passionate!) I hope many will see the connection – the

‘dominion’ of the earth, making order, learning from and sharing experience, moti-vating, correcting and celebrating life together.

Kambole Chituwo

...Join us again in our next issue as we delve more into the world of the poet

what language does your soul speak?what language does your soul speak?

It’s never too late but at any moment it might just be too late. Someone out there is waiting to be touched, encouraged, motivated, blessed; to be shown a new light simply by what you are

bomb but you have your voice, your words, your pen and paper and the greatest weapon ever

BitterSweet is an experience of ‘the unspoken voice alive’ …to the present and make decisions that will usher in a brighter future.

‘YOU’ and with God you’re unstoppable. So don’t hold back, with regrets don’t look back, look

Poets and individuals interested in Poetry can contact or get in touch with us on

Email: bittersweetzambia@gmail.com, bittersweet.editor@yahoo.com or

call: 0977312817, 0967766557, and 0977438767