THE POET’S HAVEN: ‘Solace’ by Byron Rushwaya

HIS name is Byron Rushwaya. He carries the wisdom of an old man and the spirit of a young one. His expressions are his own, a testament to his individuality. He believes that the purest way to access one's individuality is through these expressions. Confidence in his identity comes from comfortably using the ways that have become part of his essence to express himself.

The Poets Haven Zimbabwean poetry

Words, to him, are like a powerful wind, announcing his presence and his beliefs about his place in his own heart, the hearts of others, and the heart of the world. He uses this wind, formed from his mind and heart, to speak about what he is sure of, what he is conflicted about, what he wants to be, and what he used to be.

He travels through time, exploring his thoughts and feelings, on his beautiful individual journey around the sun. This journey helps him better understand his relationship with humanity and, most importantly, his relationship with God.

The Poets Haven Zimbabwean poetry

So, listen to his words. They are the words of a man, both young and old, who is constantly trying to reach deeper into the wilderness. After all, what is life if not the exploration of its breadths and lengths?


Byron Rushwaya 

The wind does not speak it shouts tonight

And still sinks in the heavy dances of the rain

The lightning and thunder remind me that their presence is present as well

And I lay on my bed, these chains on me, these boulders on my back, life on me

Is this what Samson felt?

I'm not a i do not offer services to mankind but like a god I feel out of time and unlike a god....I am bound by limitations 

The wind shouts at the doors and windows

Mother nature is ever dominant and fair,constant and always a remainder of...

My left eye mischievously looks around the room with my right joining in ... a couple

Everything is itself tonight

My body is being pulled by the weight and the weightless


My left eye wakes up again


My eyes hunt for the prey behind the voice

"You have arrived at your destination" speaks the voice, no semblance of form

I see myself at the throes of the past

My past self in the present 

Good evening Byron, and the strange voice fully transforms into an old friend

Death has always chased me

From my first sound as an infant

To my slow and tired steps as a child of life

Moving through the hills of despair 

Through the temporary rivers of joy I wanted to get rid of myself; I was tired of myself

But at the same time I wanted to try

So the world could peel away my supposed weakness 

A cry to be escorted and maybe I wanted life after all

And when I thought about future me

I saw death on a throne in the corner, stretching her hand

Out of space, out of time,

Out of my full understanding

And more alive and powerful than all forms

And here I stand before you Byron, behind you but not out of you

Here to guide you to the door we have been constructing after the first storm,that weak storm

To take you to the promised land

Good evening Byron

I hear a strange but familiar voice

The rain increases in dance

Will my mind survive the storm raging outside and inside in these walls?

And the wind embraces silence

Good evening my present, this is you ... me.

The wind, the rain, the lightning and thunder ... the traces of life speak loudest tonight don't they?

And yet somehow they will be less loud and even quiet when it's time

That is time throwing the loudness and permanence of its voice to us

And just like the storm outside, the storm inside ... the storm that has ravaged you and left you for dead

That storm shall be quiet too

Hear me speak Byron, hear my hope

We stand on fragments of poorly exercised hope ... let us flex its muscles 

We have fallen into the arms of death ... let us walk 

Let us walk with canes towards living

The wind returns, louder and more arrogant 

But ... before the world can burn an offering of love to us

Entertain the construction of a table for us by us

Entertain,in small quantities the idea of life and how it takes precedence before the death march

Entertain why that is.

And our journey shall begin, in small but mighty steps, mighty steps, necessary steps, indispensable steps

Peace before we display violence on the land set by your past version, the land you inhabit

Peace to every leak in your brain

Let us say our grace before we eat the supposed permanent residence of your darkness

Let us invite others to the table...they will show us better glasses we can see through 

Let us invite life 

How long has the storm been shouting during the conversations?

It has aged and seems to be on the bed of its death

We are both about to take our final breaths

But on different sides of life

My ears and eyes move with stronger attention only to meet nature and the man-made

The departure of the guests has escaped my presence 

The storm and me are left 

Hope, hope, hope

My eyes see hope, my ears hear hope.

Do they know? I have the power to let them know, and I shall exercise it

I move to the window, these chains heavier than imagined 

Hope, hope, hope

Shall I start a choir with these words?

I gently smile at the thought of that

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