Saturday, June 30, 2012
Friday, June 29, 2012
The Winner is Susan Piwang with The Music Man
The Music Man An old man sits by the street corner Cradling an old guitar in his weathered hands. His calloused fingertips skim over the strings His leathery palms cup its wooden base. Between the two, man and instrument I cannot tell which one is older. His eyes are closed in reflection His guitar is silent in anticipation Meanwhile, the world waits in silence Birds soar in the sky The leaves whisper in the wind And the people keep rushing by. And then he plays. His fingers race over the frets The guitar vibrates rebelliously He hums It thrums Between the two I cannot tell Which one is in charge of the music. The music! It stops the pulsation of my heart It burns the deepest corners of my soul It breaks the barriers within And shatters the silence without Earth is trapped in a sphere of symphonies Life is paused in a glass of rhapsody All is well within that moment of eternity While he plays. His voice is deep and rich His tune is strong and thick His heart is bleeding through the notes His life is breaking amidst the tones And I am pulled along Breaking and bleeding with his song. And then he stops. The spell is undone. All is as it was. Nothing outside the ordinary And once again he is an old man Seated by the corner Cradling a guitar (Which one, I wonder, is older?) His eyes are closed in reflection His guitar is silent in satisfaction The birds still soar in the sky Silence hushes the rustling leaves And the people keep rushing by. THE MUSIC MAN! WINNER OF THE FOURTH BN POETRY AWARD, 2012. This poem, The Music Man, was written by Susan Piwang and emerged first in the fourth BN Poetry Award. The judges agreed that it was strong, beautiful, transporting readers to a new place. Susan Piwang wins 500 USD, a fully paid trip to the Literary Storymoja Hay Festival in Nairobi in September 2012, an autographed copy of Half of a Yellow Sun, by award-winning author, Chimamanda Adichie and an autographed copy of Eliyeena’s Sorbonne-a novel infused with poetry, by Hannah Saint C.A Nanyanzi. The award was proudly sponsored by Stichting Doen. June 29 2012 www.bnpoetryaward.co.ug
Tuesday, June 26, 2012
COUNTING DOWN TO 4TH BN POETRY AWARD WINNER
This is it! We are counting down One two three days to go and we will find out who the winner of the 4th BN Poetry Award is. The theme this year was Music and from close to 100 submissions, the judges played their part. One of the judges, Mildred Barya is a poet with three published collections. Men Love Chocolates but they don’t say, her first , the next is Life After the Tsunami and her third is Give me Room to Move my Feet.Mildred is also a recent graduate of Creative Writing from Syracuse university, NY. 
Mildred Barya. The second judge, Apuuuli Mugasa is the President of the Literary Association of Uganda and is judging for the third year now. He said that the theme, Music is more poet-friendly. Many thanks for all their hard work. 
Apuuli Mugasa in center. Photo courtesy of Eduavella Edwin.
Mildred Barya. The second judge, Apuuuli Mugasa is the President of the Literary Association of Uganda and is judging for the third year now. He said that the theme, Music is more poet-friendly. Many thanks for all their hard work. 
Apuuli Mugasa in center. Photo courtesy of Eduavella Edwin.
Monday, June 25, 2012
TELL ME LIES ABOUT NORTHUMBERLAND
(in honour of Adrian Mitchell)
Say this land is ours,
these pipe-tunes do not cry.
The birds all sing in dialect,
old miners breathe like dukes.
Tell me lies about Northumberland.
Tell me it isn’t feudal,
that castles were built for us.
We never touch the forelock,
bend to scrape up dust.
Tell me lies about Northumberland.
Your pretty girls don’t stink of slaughter,
your eyes don’t blur with myth.
You’re as equal as a duchess,
saints never smell of piss.
Tell me lies about Northumberland.
Your roots are in this valley,
you were never from doon south.
You never hide your birthplace,
you’re a real poet of the north.
Tell me lies about Northumberland.
The churches are not crumbling,
the congregations glow with hope.
We are different from the foreigner,
our poetry rhymes with wine.
Tell me lies about Northumberland.
There is no landed gentry,
no homes locals can’t afford.
There’s no army on the moors,
the Romans freed us all.
Tell me lies about Northumberland.
That the hurt is in the past,
the future holds no war.
Home rule is at our fingertips,
the Coquet swims with love.
Tell me lies about Northumberland.
‘The Garden’ is our children’s,
Hotspur spurs us on.
The seagulls are not soaked in oil,
the cows are not diseased.
Tell me lies about Northumberland.
This Kingdom is United,
‘Culture’ is our God.
Everyone’s a Basil Bunting freak,
there’s music everywhere.
Tell me lies about Northumberland.
We will have our independence,
we’ll get the Gospels back.
We live off museums and tourists,
we don’t need boats or trades.
Tell me lies about Northumberland.
We’re in charge of our own futures,
we have north east citizens here.
In this autonomous republic,
we’re free as dicky birds.
So shut your eyes.
And tell me lies
about Northumberland.
KEITH ARMSTRONG
Friday, June 22, 2012
Ironic Points of Light ~ Individual poetic lines take on a life of their own
Poems over time become beveled by a person's inner need and nature, much as the mountains and hills are worn down by wind and sand - leaving behind the hardest most durable parts on the landscape. My memory of W. H. Auden's poem, September 1, 1939, has been carved down over time to a firm few lines that stand up my thoughts during troubled times ~ so often recently (see both my memory's version and the original below).
One of the unique wonders of good poems is the way they find places in our metaphysical landscapes and are available - sometimes literally leaping out to offer assistance - when we need just the right words to convey an impression. There is something of the sacred in it - anchoring our insights to the bedrock of human nature.
Throughout the recent financial crisis, I've noticed both this poem by Auden and Yeats' The Second Coming, being frequently remembered, mentioned, blogged. Many folks I notice in conversation can't recall more than the first few lines of The Second Coming - but these few lines capture something critical in our comprehension of the individual's relationship with the leader - be that government, God or nature - and the fear when things spin out of control.
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold
This in response to the economy, to global warming, to a distance grown too big for even the most cleaver falcons among us to hear the falconer. Both poems were written on the thresholds of war - Auden opens on the moment WWII becomes a reality, emerging from a decade that strained people and environments to a breaking point by dwindling resources, and Yeats stands at the backdoor of WWI, surveying the damaged communities and societies left in the wake of the 'War to end all Wars'.
When I first read them both in college, I was both closer in time and further away in ability to really 'hear' them. I couldn't begin to imagine how the world had spun so completely out of control twice in one century. It's a little easier to understand now, unfortunately.
I sit in one of the dives
On Fifty-second Street
Uncertain and afraid
As the clever hopes expire
Of a low dishonest decade:
Waves of anger and fear
Circulate over the bright
and darkened lands of the earth,
Obsessing our private lives;
The unmentionable odour of death
Offends the September night.
I know what all schoolchildren learn,
Those to whom evil is done
Do evil in return.
Faces along the bar
Cling to their average day:
The lights must never go out,
The music must always play,
Lest we should see where we are,
Children afraid of the night
Who have never been happy or good.
The dense commuters come,
Repeating their morning vow;
'I will be true to the wife,
I'll concentrate more on my work...
Defenseless under the night
Our world in stupor lies;
Yet, dotted everywhere,
Ironic points of light
Flash out wherever the Just
Exchange their messages:
May I, composed like them
Of Eros and of dust,
Beleaguered by the same
Negation and despair,
Show an affirming flame.
Read the full, original poem below
September 1st, 1939 (Original) by W.H. Auden
I sit in one of the dives
On Fifty-second Street
Uncertain and afraid
As the clever hopes expire
Of a low dishonest decade:
Waves of anger and fear
Circulate over the bright
And darkened lands of the earth,
Obsessing our private lives;
The unmentionable odour of death
Offends the September night.
Accurate scholarship can
Unearth the whole offense
From Luther until now
That has driven a culture mad,
Find what occurred at Linz,
What huge imago made
A psychopathic god:
I and the public know
What all schoolchildren learn,
Those to whom evil is done
Do evil in return.
Exiled Thucydides knew
All that a speech can say
About Democracy,
And what dictators do,
The elderly rubbish they talk
To an apathetic grave;
Analysed all in his book,
The enlightenment driven away,
The habit-forming pain,
Mismanagement and grief:
We must suffer them all again.
Into this neutral air
Where blind skyscrapers use
Their full height to proclaim
The strength of Collective Man,
Each language pours its vain
Competitive excuse:
But who can live for long
In an euphoric dream;
Out of the mirror they stare,
Imperialism's face
And the international wrong.
Faces along the bar
Cling to their average day:
The lights must never go out,
The music must always play,
All the conventions conspire
To make this fort assume
The furniture of home;
Lest we should see where we are,
Lost in a haunted wood,
Children afraid of the night
Who have never been happy or good.
The windiest militant trash
Important Persons shout
Is not so crude as our wish:
What mad Nijinsky wrote
About Diaghilev
Is true of the normal heart;
For the error bred in the bone
Of each woman and each man
Craves what it cannot have,
Not universal love
But to be loved alone.
From the conservative dark
Into the ethical life
The dense commuters come,
Repeating their morning vow;
'I will be true to the wife,
I'll concentrate more on my work,'
And helpless governors wake
To resume their compulsory game:
Who can release them now,
Who can reach the dead,
Who can speak for the dumb?
All I have is a voice
To undo the folded lie,
The romantic lie in the brain
Of the sensual man-in-the-street
And the lie of Authority
Whose buildings grope the sky:
There is no such thing as the State
And no one exists alone;
Hunger allows no choice
To the citizen or the police;
We must love one another or die.
Defenseless under the night
Our world in stupor lies;
Yet, dotted everywhere,
Ironic points of light
Flash out wherever the Just
Exchange their messages:
May I, composed like them
Of Eros and of dust,
Beleaguered by the same
Negation and despair,
Show an affirming flame.
Notes on the Images: The beautiful Taube (or 'Dove'), designed by Igo Etrich, was Imperial Germany's first mass-produced aircraft and was used as a war plane in the beginning years of WWI.
Edvard Munch's The Scream (or Skrik in Norwegian) is one of the iconic paintings of the 20th Century. Recently selling for $120 million, was stolen and recovered in 2004, and has been reproduced countless times.
The journal entry at the top is from a lovely blog by Rufina called 300DayJourney that includes images from her Grandmother's wartime diary (also the image at left).
The bar scene is a evocative charcoal and crayon art work by Norman Cornish, an English artist who was a coal miner for thirty years before beginning to sell his work. Visit his website here and learn more about his remarkable life and significant talent.
One of the unique wonders of good poems is the way they find places in our metaphysical landscapes and are available - sometimes literally leaping out to offer assistance - when we need just the right words to convey an impression. There is something of the sacred in it - anchoring our insights to the bedrock of human nature.
 |
| Taube or Dove, WWI war plane |
 |
| Edvard Munch's The Scream |
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold
This in response to the economy, to global warming, to a distance grown too big for even the most cleaver falcons among us to hear the falconer. Both poems were written on the thresholds of war - Auden opens on the moment WWII becomes a reality, emerging from a decade that strained people and environments to a breaking point by dwindling resources, and Yeats stands at the backdoor of WWI, surveying the damaged communities and societies left in the wake of the 'War to end all Wars'.
When I first read them both in college, I was both closer in time and further away in ability to really 'hear' them. I couldn't begin to imagine how the world had spun so completely out of control twice in one century. It's a little easier to understand now, unfortunately.
(My Memory of) September 1, 1939 by W.H.Auden
 |
| Norman Cornish Bar Scene |
On Fifty-second Street
Uncertain and afraid
As the clever hopes expire
Of a low dishonest decade:
Waves of anger and fear
Circulate over the bright
and darkened lands of the earth,
Obsessing our private lives;
The unmentionable odour of death
Offends the September night.
I know what all schoolchildren learn,
Those to whom evil is done
 |
| War Declared 1939 |
Faces along the bar
Cling to their average day:
The lights must never go out,
The music must always play,
Lest we should see where we are,
Children afraid of the night
Who have never been happy or good.
The dense commuters come,
Repeating their morning vow;
'I will be true to the wife,
I'll concentrate more on my work...
Defenseless under the night
Our world in stupor lies;
Yet, dotted everywhere,
Ironic points of light
Flash out wherever the Just
Exchange their messages:
 |
Of Eros and of dust,
Beleaguered by the same
Negation and despair,
Show an affirming flame.
Read the full, original poem below
September 1st, 1939 (Original) by W.H. Auden
 |
| New York Times September 1, 1939 |
I sit in one of the dives
On Fifty-second Street
Uncertain and afraid
As the clever hopes expire
Of a low dishonest decade:
Waves of anger and fear
Circulate over the bright
And darkened lands of the earth,
Obsessing our private lives;
The unmentionable odour of death
Offends the September night.
Accurate scholarship can
Unearth the whole offense
From Luther until now
That has driven a culture mad,
Find what occurred at Linz,
What huge imago made
A psychopathic god:
I and the public know
What all schoolchildren learn,
Those to whom evil is done
Do evil in return.
Exiled Thucydides knew
All that a speech can say
About Democracy,
And what dictators do,
The elderly rubbish they talk
To an apathetic grave;
Analysed all in his book,
The enlightenment driven away,
The habit-forming pain,
Mismanagement and grief:
We must suffer them all again.
Into this neutral air
Where blind skyscrapers use
Their full height to proclaim
The strength of Collective Man,
Each language pours its vain
Competitive excuse:
But who can live for long
In an euphoric dream;
Out of the mirror they stare,
Imperialism's face
And the international wrong.
Faces along the bar
Cling to their average day:
The lights must never go out,
The music must always play,
All the conventions conspire
To make this fort assume
The furniture of home;
Lest we should see where we are,
Lost in a haunted wood,
Children afraid of the night
Who have never been happy or good.
The windiest militant trash
Important Persons shout
Is not so crude as our wish:
What mad Nijinsky wrote
About Diaghilev
Is true of the normal heart;
For the error bred in the bone
Of each woman and each man
Craves what it cannot have,
Not universal love
But to be loved alone.
From the conservative dark
Into the ethical life
The dense commuters come,
Repeating their morning vow;
'I will be true to the wife,
I'll concentrate more on my work,'
And helpless governors wake
To resume their compulsory game:
Who can release them now,
Who can reach the dead,
Who can speak for the dumb?
All I have is a voice
To undo the folded lie,
The romantic lie in the brain
Of the sensual man-in-the-street
And the lie of Authority
Whose buildings grope the sky:
There is no such thing as the State
And no one exists alone;
Hunger allows no choice
To the citizen or the police;
We must love one another or die.
Defenseless under the night
Our world in stupor lies;
Yet, dotted everywhere,
Ironic points of light
Flash out wherever the Just
Exchange their messages:
May I, composed like them
Of Eros and of dust,
Beleaguered by the same
Negation and despair,
Show an affirming flame.
Edvard Munch's The Scream (or Skrik in Norwegian) is one of the iconic paintings of the 20th Century. Recently selling for $120 million, was stolen and recovered in 2004, and has been reproduced countless times.
The bar scene is a evocative charcoal and crayon art work by Norman Cornish, an English artist who was a coal miner for thirty years before beginning to sell his work. Visit his website here and learn more about his remarkable life and significant talent.
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