Treasure Island

Dash Black


A Piece to Some Home Grown Poet


What you with crippled wit poetry call
I christen it poesy's pathetic fall
Many a budding and seasoned bard
Exhibit this fallen art with a heart so bold
Yet none heeds its hapless cry
If it had wings, this fallen art would fly
Away from these shameless writers
Who write like blindfolded fighters

Whoever said every Malawian bard should sound like Mapanje or Kazako, or Malunga lied
Though they that we imitate in their time tried
Shame must grip them, this golden breed of our land
As they behold cheap imitations of their work crafted by our lame hands
We disdain their names whenever we try
To sound like them or their methods apply

We have tainted our art to the core
Now all succumb to music, acting, dancing and more
But tell me of all art, which is the oldest and greatest of them all?
Is it not the one we, with our lame creations, have pushed to its lamentable fall

All lads and lasses now
On our humble art mock and meow
Nobody no longer adores this holy craft
They think its golden era is past
But who can blame them, maybe its true
This sweet and noble trade has been ruined by you
Poets who write without passion and barely knows what you do!

Submitted: Monday, April 07, 2014
Edited: Tuesday, April 08, 2014

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