Writing is a lonely profession. Perhaps this is why the concept of writers’ cafés and writers’ bars exists—because every once in a while we need places to gather and share ideas.

This may also explain why literary journals exist (they also give readers a quick portal to varied voices). And now more than ever, two years into a pandemic, we need a place to (virtually) gather writers and share stories and ideas. This is why Ipikai exists.

For this issue, we asked writers to craft poems about the duality of life. This is a pertinent topic as the pandemic has shown us the extremes of life — the grief of death, the comfort of solidarity. While some of our poets have chosen to speak about the ongoing pandemic, many more have examined mortality from a philosphical standpoint.

And our contributors did not disappoint. Poets highlighted the bitter traditions we hold surrounding death and how visceral bereavement can feel: 

Bata maoko/Hold the hands/Feel the fingers of grief/The cold knuckles between/How calloused the palms/How bruised the tip/The weeping thumb –  Chioniso Tskisayi, “Hosho & Hymns.”

“The Hosho & Hymns.” The poems in this issue also speak of longing and grieving for other things such as home and family: clasping again/the hands of long lost siblings/we have just found – Tsitsi Jaji, “Guruuswa.”

More importantly, any gathering of poets always brings the opportunity to be introduced to previously unknown voices and this issue boasts three poems by the phenomenal Joyce Chigiya who calls herself a novice but writes with the skill of a seasoned wordsmith. Takudzwa Goniwa stretches mortality into a surreal element, while Mbonisi Zikhali critiques society’s docile attitude in the face of conflict, “we talk about war like it’s reality television” in a way that is reminiscent of Gill Scott-Heron’s “The Revolution Will Not Be Televised.”  

And here, I will invite you to read Ipikai’s maiden issue.