WRITESTUFF

Call for Submissions for the 4th FEMRITE Regional Women Writers’ Residence November 2012

2012-01-26T03:33:00.000-08:00

Uganda Women Writers Association (FEMRITE) calls for submissions for her 4th Regional Women Writers Residence to be held in November 2012. This is an inspiring initiative that brings together upcoming African women writers. The main objectives of the residency are:

To bring established writers to mentor upcoming African women writers
To give upcoming Ugandan women writers the opportunity to interact with women writers from the continent
To give African women writers conducive space and time pursue their writing projects
To create opportunities for inter-cultural discourse among women writers
To strengthen collaboration among women writers’ initiatives in Africa
To generate short stories for publication in an anthology

At the end of the residence, we expect the writers to have:

had mentoring sessions with an established writer
improved at least one of their writing projects
enriched each other’s manuscripts through discussion
submitted their improved short story for the residency anthology

How to apply

Interested women are required to submit;

Part of a novel / short Story collection in WORD document (40 pages, typed in Times New Roman, font 12, 1.5 spacing).

A short story for publication in the residency anthology
A brief bio (not more than 10 lines)

This call is open to African women living on the continent. Writers already attached to writers groups in their countries are encouraged to apply.

Deadline for submissions is 30th April 2012

Please Note:

All applicants will receive notification by email once their manuscripts are received.
The Residency targets 15 writers
The Residency will last two weeks in November 2012
Successful applicants will be notified by 30th August 2012.
Successful published applicants will be kindly requested to donate copies of their works to the FEMRITE Resource Centre
Applicants should not have published more than one book.
FEMRITE will solicit support to meet costs of travel, accommodation, & meals.

For inquiries and submissions, please email info@femriteug.org

PROF NIYI OSUNDARE to read from new collection of poetry,

2011-12-09T11:13:00.001-08:00

FRIENDS OF THE ARTS LAGOS (FOAL) and THE LIFE HOUSE present the poet laureate, literary scholar, PROF NIYI OSUNDARE reading from his new collection of poetry, 'City Without People: The Katrina Poems' , which has just been released in the USA.

DATE: Wednesday December 14

VENUE: THE LIFE HOUSE, 33 Sinari Daranijo Street, (near Zenith Bank HQTRS), off Ajose Adeogun street,Victoria Island Lagos

TIME: 5pm

GATE: Free.

Pls see BELOW for further information about the book.

NB: FOAL is arm of the Committee for Relevant Art, CORA

Preface to CITY WITHOUT PEOPLE: THE KATRINA POEMS

Beyond the Invisibility of Pain

It is five years now since Hurricane Katrina swept through the Gulf Coast with a near-apocalyptic ferocity, inflicting sundry losses and countless bereavements. The catastrophe wrought by this storm changed many lives for ever: the child who lost an only parent; the painter who lost his favourite work; the pianist who lost a piano passed down from many generations; the professor who lost her library; the writer who lost his manuscripts; the businessman who lost his factory; the singer who lost her voice (literally and figuratively); a city which (nearly) lost its niche; a people who lost their dignity. . . .

The intervening years seem to have erased the immensity of this catastrophe as public interest appears to have receded with the flood. The common belief now is that New Orleans has been rebuilt or is being rebuilt at a fast and even pace - a partial myth that is a reflection of the partiality in the recovery pattern of the city itself. For while the business districts have sprung back to power and tourism is back on the bloom, while neighbourhoods belonging to the rich and well-connected have bounced back with their well laundered lawns and glittering fences, those parts owned and/or inhabited by most Black and poor people are still in a state of shocking blight and neglect...

Katrina's wounds run deep; its pains are still red and stubbornly raw. As one of those gruesomely afflicted by its devastation, I remember what it meant to stand in front of my class in January 2006, a professor without books, a writer whose manuscripts and professional documents had been washed away, a ‘Katrina returnee’ without a place to lay his head. I waited in vain for a genuine institutional interest in and concern about the specific depth and range of my loss/pain, for a demonstration of empathy and care beyond political platitudes, official bulletins, and media sound bites which only ended up as a mockery of my pain. None came. Alas, in the mass grave to which the city’s woes had been consigned, there was hardly any room for a consideration of the agonizing specificity of individual loss. Back in New Orleans, I became, to borrow the words of the Nigerian poet Chritopher Okigbo, ‘the sole witness of my homecoming’; the invisible carrier of my own cross. . . The relentless, excruciating pain of the disaster appears to have been privatised and driven into the domain of personal angst, accorded political mention only during media-hyped anniversaries and commemorations......

But who is there to listen to the deep, personal cry of the sorely afflicted, the chilling fears and anxieties of someone suddenly confronted with a future without a purpose, the silence of those whose dreams have transmogrified into nightmares? Who has the eye to see the colour of pain?

Here, again, face to face with the anonymity of loss, the invisibility of pain. The bereaved, the dispossessed, the terribly traumatized have been largely left to lick their wounds; urged to pull up themselves by their boot straps (even when those boots have been taken away by the ravaging flood); inveigled into accepting responsibility for a catastrophe that was not their own making. We have been asked to get all up and move on. Does anyone care about the relative state of our legs?. . . .

The poems in this volume have been long in coming. (Deep tragedy hardly lends itself to instant messaging). If they do not come across as pretty to some readers, it is because the events which provoked them are far from pretty. Indeed, Katrina’s devastations are the type that cut straight to the bones, necessitating a testimony that transcends trivial versification and verbal placebos. These poems insist on breaking the silence precipitated by the combined forces of anonymity and invisibility which often stand between the needy cry and the listening world. These are the words of someone right in the eye of the storm, written by himself, not ‘gathered’ by an unappointed spokesperson or ventriloquised from ‘reliable sources’ by a privileged and distant secondary source. For, although Katrina may have taken all I had away, it never succeeded in taking away my tongue – and sense of proportion and justice. It has never taken away the necessity for the telling of a truth that never rests until it has been told.. . .

In many ways, the poems in this book are a kind of ‘thank you song’ for the hundreds of people here in the United States and other parts of the world who reached out to me and my family with inspiring love, generosity, and compassion. They brought a new, urgent resonance and poignancy to that famous Yoruba saying, Enia lasoo mi (People are my clothes). It was they, indeed, who made sure that Katrina never had the last word.

These poems are also a tribute to New Orleans, our city: its fertile energy, its irrepressible vitality, its rainbow vernacular, its music and magic, the unsinkable humanity in the core of its being. Yes, New Orleans is still there, busy getting fat every Mardi Gras, and penitently lean the day after. The Mississippi flows on in its muddy majesty, even as the pelican jazzes up the sky with the riff and rhyme of its glide. I sing of a city which insists on its own right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, earnestly hoping that the levees will one day be as strong as they ought to be, the floodwalls as enduring; a city restored to glory through equitable recovery and lasting justice.

Niyi Osundare, Aug. 29 – Sept 7, 2010

In other tongues

2011-10-25T17:45:00.000-07:00

Two of my poems were recently translated and published in an anthology, sponsored by UNESCO.

Special thanks to poet, Hughes Labrusse for theopportunity to be part of an anthology that brings together fantastic poetsfrom across world. Also to the translators of my poems: Rasaq Thomas andCatherine Letellier, and of course, the organisers of the Struga Poetry Festival, Macedonia, for giving me an opportunity to become friends with some of the world's best poets.

Before now, I have been fortunate to have few poems translated into Turkish, Mongolian, Macedonian, Japanese, and Norwegian as well. Indeed if writing needs angels, in this short course as a writer, I can confess that I’ve met good ones. Home and Abroad.

Now, considering that my first book wasprinted locally, and by a young publishing company, I have been offered savouryopportunities to showcase my work to the world. I am indeed humble. I hope foreven bigger prospects, as I put in more effort towards my next collection ofpoems, which should would be out in September 2013.

A poem in Ann Arbor Review

2011-10-15T11:55:00.000-07:00

DISTANCED

Why didn't I get swallowed in the wind that blew our way,
standing aloof uninspired by people's sympathies?
In sun's heat, under the tree--exchanging smiles for pity sighs;
You in the shade, I in the sun, learning the language of departure

as it escapes the anus of selfless labourers. There's absence in watching
dust hit dust as shovels scrape ground, around peeking memorials,
watching silence sing choruses we daren't; re-theming the past;
as we, in the median time, visit our desires and let our eulogy tarry.

Read More

Meet the poet Carina Karlsson

2011-09-23T06:02:00.000-07:00

I’ll like to share Carina Karlsson’s poetry today. Carina was born in 1966 in Åland islands, in Finland. She still lives there together with her husband and 15-year old daughter. Her first book Lisbeta, Per Skarps hustru, was published in 1996, but she has written poems since I was a child. She is writing her first novel, "Vem kan segla." She likes to work together with other artists, painters and photographers in my projects and several of her poems have been set to music.

She has also seen me from within

She has also seen me from within,

I was her veined vault of heaven,

a laughing earthquake

and a nameless concern

when bubbles of silver rapidly shot by

I explained everything I saw,

she didn´t understand a single word

Now I believe in providence of God

and she believes in everything

the flowers tell her.

The chestnut tree is standing

The chestnut tree is standing

at the gate

Dropping its leaves

over a little girl

She is waiting for the school bus,

for the autumn holidays,

to be grown up

She carries her sorrows

carefully stowed

In her schoolbag,

all those desperate, vain wishes

for mercy

in a particular order

The chestnut tree is dropping its leaves,

now the school bus arrives.

You can cut a diamond

You can cut a diamond

out of all my bad sides,

mount me in a ring

This darkness

you can´t induce,

I assure myself

over and over again:

I am too unimportant,

too marginal to be changed.

These poems from book Svarta klasar.

Bibliography

Lisbeta, Per Skarp wife ( 1996 , poem, story)
Blue remotely close ( 2000 , poem suite with akvarellist Kjell Ekström)
Kase ( 2002, poetry)
Years lies in droves ( 2002 , poems, together with graphic artist Mari Stefan Daughter)
The stars have stuck a hole in the sky ( 2005 , reflections and stories in the sample)
Black clusters ( 2006 , poetry)

*These information has been shared with the author's permission

ERITREA: Tens years on, Dawit Isaac still detained incommunicado: PEN calls for a week of action (19-23 September 2011)

2011-09-13T18:42:00.000-07:00

The Writers in Prison Committee of International PEN protests the decade-long imprisonment of Eritrean-Swedish journalist and author Dawit Isaac, who has been detained incommunicado without charge since 23 September 2001. Isaac is said to be held in appalling conditions and to be in poor physical and mental health; there are serious concerns for his wellbeing.

PEN invites its members and anyone interested in joining us to take part in a week of action (19-23 September 2011) calling on the Eritrean authorities to provide details of Isaac's whereabouts and assurances that he is receiving all necessary medical treatment as a matter of urgency. PEN also calls for Isaac's immediate and unconditional release as well as that of 15 other Eritreans imprisoned for their writings since September 2001

Dawit Isaac (born 1964), owner of the nowdefunct weekly newspaper Setit, playwright and writer, was arrestedon 23 September 2001 during the crackdown on Eritrea's private press that sawall eight independent newspapers closed down. He is one of nine printjournalists who were arrested at the time and held incommunicado, apparentlyindefinitely, without ever being charged or tried. The only accusations madeagainst them have been uncorroborated allegations by the authorities that thejournalists were "traitors".

Information about the detained journalists is scant. However, at least four of them have reportedly died in custody since 2005 due to harsh conditions and lack of medical attention. There have also been unconfirmed reports of the deaths of nine out of 11 former government cabinet ministers also arrested in September 2001 for publishing a letter criticising the Eritrean government.

Isaac and the other surviving journalists are presumed to remain in detention in secret locations, despite a 2007 ruling by the African Union's Commission on Human and People's Rights that their detention was arbitrary and unlawful and that the Eritrean government should release and compensate them. There are ongoing concerns about severe ill treatment, possible torture, poor health and lack of access to medical care.

The most recent reports indicate that Isaac is being held at the Eiraeiro maximum-security prison camp, 10 miles north of the capital Asmara, along with a number of the other detained journalists. They are reportedly not allowed any contact with each other or the outside world, are routinely shackled and receive almost no medical care. Some are said to be held in metal containers or underground cells in temperatures of around 50 degrees Celsius.

Isaac suffers from a diabetic condition that requires medical supervision and he is said to be in poor psychological health. He has been hospitalised several times since his imprisonment, including in 2002 for treatment for injuries sustained through torture. In November 2005, Isaac - who holds dual Swedish-Eritrean citizenship - was briefly released for a medical check-up and to call his family and friends following pressure by groups in Sweden.

In July 2011, Isaac's younger brother, Esayas Isaac, who lives in Sweden, filed a writ of habeas corpus with Eritrea's Supreme Court calling for information on the journalist's location and a review of his imprisonment. The habeas corpus writ was reportedly not supported by the Swedish government; according to the Committee to Protect Journalists, Swedish Foreign Minister Carl Bildt has said the country's goal was to have Isaac released on humanitarian grounds rather than stand trial. In 2010, Esayas Isaac wrote an open letter to the Swedish government and European Union expressing concern that they were not doing enough to pressurize the Eritrean government to release Isaac.

Background

Dawit Isaac is an Honorary Member of Finnish PEN and Swedish PEN.
Isaac was awarded the 2009 Tucholsky Award by Swedish PEN and the 2011 Golden Pen of Freedom, the annual press freedom prize of the World Association of Newspapers and News Publishers (WAN-IFRA).
A collection of Isaac's writings, entitled Hope- the Tale of Moses and Manna's Love, was launched at Sweden's Gothenburg book fair in September 2010.

Useful links

Information on Isaac:

Update from the Committee to Protest Journalists (3 August 2011):http://cpj.org/blog/2011/08/habeas-corpus-writ-seeks-dawit-isaac-jailed-for-36.php
Update from Canadian Journalists for Free Expression (24 May 2011): http://www.cjfe.org/resources/features/eritrea-ten-years-journalists-remain-imprisoned
Free Dawit campaign (co-founded by Esayas Isaac):http://www.freedawit.com/
PEN International profile:http://www.internationalpen.org.uk/index.cfm?objectid=22738991-3048-676E-265D5C266126D22F

Information on Eritrea:

BBC country profile: http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-africa-13349078
Amnesty International's 2011 report on human rights in Eritrea:http://www.amnesty.org/en/region/eritrea/report-2011

Suggested actions:

PEN members are asked to do at least one of the following during the week leading up to the 10th anniversary of Dawit Isaac's imprisonment (19-23 September 2011):

1. Send protest letters to President Issayas Afewerki via your nearest diplomatic representative of Eritrea (seehttp://eritrea.embassyhomepage.com/ orhttp://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_diplomatic_missions_of_Eritrea):

Protesting the 10-year imprisonment of Dawit Isaac, at least four journalists and 11 former cabinet members detained incommunicado since September 2001 for their writings;
Calling on the Eritrean authorities to release details of Isaac's health status, medical treatment and whereabouts, as well as that of the other detainees;
Calling for the immediate and conditional release of Isaac and the other surviving journalists, in line with the 2007 African Commission on Human and People's Rights ruling, as well as that of the former ministers detained for their writings.

2. Organise a petition to present to your nearest Eritrean embassy or consulate and/ or hold a protest outside the premises

3. Request the ambassador or other diplomatic representative of your own country based in Eritrea to raise the WiPC's concerns about Isaac and the other detainees.

***Please keep PEN International informed of your activities and any response received from the authorities, if possible; please also check with us if sending appeals after 18 November 2011.***

For further details please contact Tamsin Mitchell at the Writers in Prison Committee London Office: International PEN, Brownlow House, 50-51 High Holborn, London WC1V 6ER Tel: +44 (0) 207 405 0338 Fax +44 (0) 207 405 0339 email: tamsin.mitchell@pen-international.org

A poem: The sea has its thoughts...

2011-08-21T12:47:00.000-07:00

The sea has its thoughts of distance and burdens of propriety

It fishes for clouds in a blue sky

But can anyone know when a cloud is lost up there?

When is the sky a future hangover?

Do gin bottles saddle their destinies when emptied?

How does haste harangue unworded solitude?

In an oasis celebrating mud

What is murk? What mocks?

How does one remain an ordinary man as a fish?

Where are dreams in the wind when waters carry men

And life is the chronicle of invented fables;

The plaster of bios on stilts and shores…

When is the sky a cover—of colourless gray and gloom

Perhaps just skies of doubts breathing desire as dreams.

(c) Jumoke Verissimo 2011

Come; meet Rita Dahl

2011-07-29T15:00:00.000-07:00

I met Rita Dahl in 2006 when she came for the Lagos Book and Arts Festival (LABAF). We have exchanged emails since then, encouraging each other in this lonesome business of ours—writing. She is Finnish, and reading her poetry brought back a theory I have in my head, which is; Nordic literature has a closer affinity to my Yoruba worldview.

I have read little from this region to conclude, but from that which I’ve read, I see a close similarity in the world-view of the Scandinavia and Yoruba. This is a hypothesis after all and I have not done much study to conclude this. In one of her poems, not published below, she writes: “No matter how small a snake is, it can’t be used as belts/A monkey can be caught by one who pretends to be a monkey.”

However, I first made this conclusion after I read Sigrid Undset’s Kristin Lavransdatter, rather self-convincing evidence. Then there was Carina Karlsson’s poetry that seemed soaked in epigrams and shrouded Yoruba philosophy, And Jan Erik Vold’s lyrical poetry convinced me even further…

Anyway, to take myself lightly, I’ve considered my hypothesis a far-fetched desire to see similarity in the worlds, a certain fall-out of creating an inexistent metaphysical thread. Perhaps I’ll make it a project someday and explore these similarities if they indeed exist. Lest I bore you, do enjoy Rita’s poetry…

There is a desire in me

There is a desire in me for nights without night, dawn
breaking, many suns simultaneously
rising, there is a desire for rain, falling
like a veil. There is a desire in me, but
no will, I use simple tools, a voice of hammer and
chisel in the darkest night. As if by hammering
I might try achieving something, a night descending on a dark
wall, runes, a name perhaps.

There is a desire in me has been taken (From The Enchantment of Thousand Steps, Avain 2007)

Hell

A concrete funnel-like construction with nine

entries altogether. Hell means that everything is repeated,

there’s no moving forward. Hell is frozen.

Where do all the fat gourmands go after death?

Hell is loose, a very popular action film,

crystals flooded from miserable souls who grab each other’s hands.

Maybe hell is beautiful after all? Bloody hell!

With the years I have come to the conclusion

that there is no justice in this country.

The doorbell is ringing. There are two

neatly dressed Mormons behind the door.

Hell has frozen on Earth.

Comment section broke at the same time.

Hell in a family or in heaven, where

would you spend your eternity? I have tried to bear

myself and understand why I sigh for the unattainable.

A real hell of anti-capitalists

has let loose. What happens after this?

We sacrificed six bottles, nothing

happens and the broadcast time should be filled.

Remember that heaven is hell for a basic masochist.

Is hell a cold or a warm place?

If hell is full, you have to stand and

wait. What’s the matter with you?

Don’t you know? If hell has frozen,

Finland is the winner of the Eurovision Song Contest.

(Poems are taken from Aforismien aika, PoEsia 2007)

She asked where this road would take us. We were crossing a meadow. Usually we chose another route. She preferred to be lost among the tall buildings that repeated themselves, reflected in the monotonous rows of windows. I had long since become lost. Water lilies fell from her eyes. I absent-mindedly picked them up from the earth behind her. She didn't notice. The sun burned and made her lift the hem of her skirt to fan her face. Trees grew in a moment, rivers ran accidentally into the sea. We were in a palace where she was the queen on her divan, I but one loyal chamber maid. I wanted only to sniff a small slice of the paradise hiding in her hair.

Rita Dahl (born 1971) is a Finnish writer and freelance journalist. She was vice-president and chair of committee of women writers of Finnish PEN between 2006-2009. She holds Masters degree in political science and comparative literature at the University of Helsinki. Her debut poetry collection, Kun luulet olevasi yksin, was published in 2004 (Loki-Kirjat), and since that she has published three other poetry collections: Aforismien aika (PoEsia 2007), Elämää Lagoksessa (ntamo 2008) and Topics from van Goghs´Ear (Ankkuri 2009). She has written also a travel book about Portugal, Tuhansien Portaiden lumo - kulttuurikierroksia Portugalissa (Avain 2007). In 2009 she published Picturemakers - a collection of articles of young and dead, legendary Finnish visual artists, young contemporary poets and foreign writers (Kesuura) and a fact book/pamphlet about Finlandized freedom of speech (Multikustannus) around the world, e.g. in Russia, China, Nigeria, Egypt, Kenya and Finland.

She was editor-in-chief of the poetry magazine Tuli & Savu in 2001 and also edited a cultural magazine Neliö (www.page.to/nelio), which had a special issue on Portugal; Dahl was responsible for the print edition. Dahl has also edited a partly bi-lingual anthology of Central-Asian and international women writers called The Insatiable Furnace. Women Writers and Censorship – Kyltymätön uuni. Naiskirjailijat ja sensuuri (Like 2007). She coordinated a meeting for Central-Asian and international women writers, which was arranged simultaneously.

She is editing and translating an anthology of contemporary Portuguese poetry into Finnish. Her first translation of Portuguese of poems of Portuguese avant-garde poet Alberto Pimenta was published in September 2009. Her own poetry collection Life in Lagos (Elämää Lagoksessa) was published in Russian in Kazakhstan by Iskender in 2009. She also edited an anthology of Finnish and African writers, which would be published fall, 2011.

Dahl has participated in several international literary festivals, conferences and seminars, most notably in international women writers´ meeting in Bishkek (2005), in Days and Nights of Literature in Romania (2005), in a meeting arranged by Fenno-Ugrian Writers´ Union in Hanti-Mansinsk, Siberia and Petroskoi, Carelia (2005, 2006), in Lagos Book and Art Festival (LABAF) in Nigeria (2006), in Encontro Internacional de Poetas -festivaalilla (2007), in Arab-Scandinavian Female Poets´ Colloquim arranged by Swedish Institute in Alexandria, Egypt (2008) in annual meetings of International PEN in Dakar, Senegal and Bogotá, Colombia (2007, 2008).

Dahl´s poetry is in translation in English, Spanish, Portuguese, Russian, Turkish, Icelandic, Arabic, Romanian, and Estonian. Her poems have been published in numerous international literary anthologies and poetry reviews around the world, e.g. in The Calque (USA), Ice-Floe (Alaska), Períplo (Mexico), Confraria do Vento (Brazil), The Guardian (Nigeria), Knigoylub (Kazakhstan), Looming (Estonia), Nuestra Voz (International PEN), Shearsman (UK), Revista Prometheus (Argentina).

In 2009 Dahl was chosen as a stipendiate of literature by Finnish Cultural Foundation to the castle of Schloss-Wiepersdorf in Germany.

She blogs at: http://arjentola.blogspot.com/

JUNGLE JIM CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS:

2011-07-27T02:33:00.000-07:00

Jungle Jim is a bi-monthly illustrated print publication, aiming on spreading narrative, imagination and concept-driven African stories. Taking from the pulp tradition, we publish short and serialized fiction that entertains and engrosses in all dramatic genres (horror, sci-fi, crime, detective, western, romance, adventure etc.), accessible to all, but with a high quality of writing. We seek to publish stories that explore the collision between visceral daring of pulp and the reality of living in Africa.

Visit our site to read our submissions brief:

www.junglejim.org

Deadline: Open

Contact:

junglejimmag@gmail.com

The Chinua Achebe Centre for African Writers and Artists

2011-07-24T05:24:00.000-07:00

I’ve been selected as an Achebe Center Fellow of Bard College. Other fellows who have been recipient of this award include Teju Cole, Igoni Barrett, Iheoma Nwachukwu, Olujide Adebayo-Begun, Waigwa Ndiangui, and others. This fellowship carries with it support for the creation of new work, and the Achebe Center will be organizing a writing residency for me.

The Chinua Achebe Centre for African Writers and Artists was established in 2005 to further the legacy of Chinua Achebe, Charles P. Stevenson Jr. Professor of Languages and Literature—Dr. Jesse Shipley was its founding director. The centre seeks to create dynamic projects for the most talented of a new generation of writers and artists of African origin, wherever they may be.

The centre, based at Bard College, operates all over the continent of Africa, all over the world when necessary, always looking for new literary adventures, always creating exciting possibilities, always driven to create new platforms and interactions for exciting writers and artists to collaborate and produce.

Learn more about the centre here: http://achebecenter.bard.edu/

NEW POETRY COMPETITION FROM DELHI LONDON POETRY FOUNDATION ...

2011-07-19T15:58:00.000-07:00

...IN CONJUNCTION WITH THEATRE OF DEVAS.

The Delhi London Poetry Foundation is pleased to announce an international poetry competition in English on the following topics.

Topic 1. Just War?
Topic 2. Just Evangelisation?

The prizes will be € 1000 for the winner and € 500 for the runner up and several €100 consolation prizes in EACH category.

The rules of the competition are as follows:

Open to all
No more than 16 lines
Only in English

Poems to be sent by email only to theatreinternational2011@yahoo.com

Winning poems will take the connotation of the above subjects including the question marks. Winning poems will be based on sympathies of the poets to the views of the majority of the people in the non western world as expressed in the website www.siddhivinayaksavesmumbai.com. with subjects of recent plays and poems.

All winning poems and consolation prize winners will be published in an anthology of new poems on the above subjects to be released in December 2011 by Delhi London Poetry Foundation.

LAST DATE FOR ENTRIES: August 21st 2011

Entry fee: NONE

Ms Julia Barker
PA to Gopi Warrier
Chairman,Delhi London Poetry Foundation

AN E-CHAT WITH CHIKA UNIGWE

2011-07-01T23:34:00.000-07:00

Chika Unigwe (Enugu, 1974) is a Nigerian-born author and she writes in English and Dutch.

Chika Unigwe has a Ph.D in Literature from the University of Leiden in the Netherlands. Her debut novel, De Feniks was published in 2005 by Meulenhoff and Manteau (of Amsterdam and Antwerp) and was shortlisted for the Vrouw en Kultuur debuutprijs for the best first novel by a female writer. She is also the author of two children's books published by Macmillans, London.

She has published short fiction in several anthologies, journals and magazines including Wasafiri (University of London), Moving Worlds (University of Leeds), Per Contra, Voices of the University of Wisconsin and Okike of the University of Nigeria.

In 2003, she was shortlisted for the Caine Prize for African Fiction. In 2004, she won the BBC Short story Competition and a Commonwealth Short Story Competition award. In the same year, her short story made the top 10 of the Million Writers' Award for best online fiction. In 2005, she won the 3rd prize in the Equiano Fiction Contest. Her second novel, Fata Morgana, was published in Dutch in 2008 and will soon be released in English. Her first novel, De Feniks, was published in Dutch in September 2005 and it is the first book of fiction, written by a Flemish author of African origin. In 2009, Chika Unigwe's new novel On Black Sisters' Street about African prostitutes living and working in Belgium, was published by Jonathan Cape.

She lives in Turnhout, Belgium.
(From Wikipedia)

1.      You mention in many interviews that you went into the streets to research among prostitutes while writing On Black Sisters Street; how did meeting the women shape the style and narration of the novel?

The research made it possible for me to create characters without being prejudiced towards them. It also made me much more knowledgeable about the world I was creating, so it made the telling a lot easier than it would have been otherwise. Although the book itself is fiction, and no single character in the book is an exact replica of any of the women I spoke to, I heard the real voices (of the women who opened up to me) as I wrote my characters

2.      I read somewhere that you write short stories in between novels; did any of these short stories evolve into scenes in the novels afterwards?

No. The short stories I write in between novels often have very little to do with the novels themselves. The idea is to do something different so that I do not get too bored of the bigger project at hand. I get bored and distracted rather often

3.      While writing On Black Sisters Street, did you encounter any emotional connection that made writing some of the 'secrets' shared difficult?

Some of the stories were difficult to write because they came very close to the truth. Alek's story for example. I wept several times

4.      Do you have a favourite among the girls in the story: Sisi, Ama, Efe and (or) Joyce?

Difficult one. I like all the women for different reasons. Ama is really fiesty though, and grew up in one of my favourite cities, (for obvious reasons) Enugu

5.      You appear at home with flashback in your narration, and you do have a good grasp of its working in storytelling. How did flashbacks become a significant tool in your narration?

I struggled with how best to tell the stories, and experimented and tore clumps of hair off my head until I found a style that was natural to the novel

6.      Do you start your novels as short stories or you set out to write a novel and it evolves into one?

OBSS was intended as a novel from the beginning. I think I start off my novels as novels. When I have tried to expand short stories into novels, I have failed woefully. Sometimes, some short stories, or bits of them make it into my novels

7.      I read on an interview you did with Per Contra last year, that you’re already thinking of another project, can Writestuff be lucky enough for an expose? have a novel coming out in June 2012, Sin Eater, set in Nigeria. Now I am busy completing a novel based on the life of Equiano.

8.      You wrote poetry at the early stage of your writing, and even if you don’t do so anymore, do you see any influences from the genre in your prose? The Muse of poetry has left me. I am still in search of her

9.      After writing the first draft of any piece of writing, what do you do next?

I re-work it, then send it out to a few trusted writer-friends and start working on something else while I wait for their comments

10. What book have you always wanted to read, but never got through reading? Why? Can't think of any at the moment

11. Is there one question, you’ve always wished an interviewer would ask that never gets a mention?

            No. I often get really good questions :-)

Now please give an answer to your question   : D

The Poet from Singapore

2011-06-15T06:26:00.000-07:00

Goh Poh Seng is a well-known Singaporean writer. He was, until his death last year January, known in Asia as a first-rate playwright, novelist and one of the continent's finest poets.

Finding his poems online while surfing was pure serendipity, and I wish I had much earlier. I hope you enjoy this poem I found on his website like I did.

Photocredit National Library Board Singapore

THE GIRL FROM ERMITA

If you ever come to Manila,

come down to red-light Ermita
Where nightly I ply my trade.

They call me Fely,
I was born in Samar,
I’m the girl with the bird in her head.

Yes, a bird in my head!
If you look deep into my eyes
you can see it flying about.

You ask what kind of bird it is?
Why, a white gull of course!
For I was born in Samar by the sea.

And how did it get there;
this white gull in my head?
Well, it flew in when I was fourteen.

But you don’t really want
to hear the same old hard-luck story!
There are no new legends anymore.

Better take me away somewhere,
take me in your sweaty arms,
and your eyes, cold as death,

Can feed on the peach of my skin,
your savage heart
release its black secrets.

You can do what
you like with me,
I know all the positions.

Come, lie with me
and I will be your love.
Don’t you believe me?

Yes, come lie down with me,
it will only cost a hundred pesos,
and it’s good therapy.

I’ll give good value for your money,
I have the techniques
learned through ten thousand nights.

I will embrace you
and the stars outside
will mind their own bloody business.

The wind will not complain,
the trees not grumble,
and all the cops have been bribed.

Or perhaps you think yourself too grand,
too good and holy
to pay to lie with me?

Perhaps you’re afraid
the universe will roar in disgust
if you pay for my body?

Don’t you know by now
life’s a market-place where
you can buy cow meat, goat meat and my meat?

I was born in Samar in Visayas
where the sea ran silver when I was a child
and clouds and trees were my friends.

Of my own father,
I only know
he was a carabao of a man.

And like the carabao,
he was patient and ignorant,
his feet stubborn in the loam.

But his eyes.
I remember his eyes:
they held such innocence!

When I was twelve, he died,
and my mother and I
lived on, any old how.

Come to think of it,
I don’t know how we did it!
Then my mother remarried.

We shifted to an old lean-to
with my step-father.
I had turned fourteen.

For a time I was content enough.
I was only a child then and you know
how children can grow smiles even out of a dungheap!

Then one night my step-father
lay his hands on my green breasts,
and I was too petrified to move.

I endured for many months
my step-father’s hands
till one night I could not suppress my cry.

My mother came to intervene:
it drove my step-father wild
as a mad, rampaging bull.

He punched me in the face,
kicked my mother in the ribs,
left us black and blue.

The next day I drew
a real deep breath
and ran away from home.

The ferry boat crossing the sea
delivered me from my past:
my childhood lay like broken glass.

An hour after
we reached Cebu city,
I got myself picked up

By a dirty old man
who fed me, gave me shelter and clothes,
and treated me like a household pet.

I was suprised how soon
I got used to his caresses,
no longer reacting with nausea and tears.

So five years passed.
Five Christmases and five Easters
I stayed with my dirty old man.

In our second year
I bore him a bastard girl:
a child, when I was myself a child

Of sixteen.
But already the months
began to wall me in.

When I was eighteen
I went with a handsome man
who took me away to Batangas.

For a brief few months
I blossomed like the sampaguita
with this first young man in my life.

A tangerine time it was,
with ice-cream on Sundays,
dances and kisses under the moon.

And then it was over.
His wife came screaming for our blood
and he returned to her like a pup.

Well, life’s like that.
I came to Manila
in search of fame and gold,

But found only dust
in the crowded streets
of the capital.

I became a salesgirl
and had to sleep with my boss.
I became a go-go dancer,

Ground my bum in the faces of fools
who drooled like rotten fruit,
while klieg lights tore at my skin.

Now I’m landed here
where life has got me in its jaws
and I no longer wait for miracles.

I no longer care
to look into the eyes of my johns,
for they hold no more secrets.

Now I simply lie flat on my back,
my face upturned to the sugary sky
which the stars eat like white ants.

Now I fuck for a refrigerator,
or for my daughter’s school fees:
my girl’s just turned eight this May.

Yes, I will turn a trick for a meal,
and men can take me
in any position they wish.

The white scream never flies
out of my black mouth,
the radios will remain silent,

The newspapers advertise soap,
the priests launder
the limp souls of their sinners.

Yes, at night I can be your sweet mango,
but comes the dawn,
I’ll be as sour as a calamansi.

There’s still some acid in me,
you know that?
You, who sit there listening so dumbly!

So I’ve unloaded my story
and my head’s just an empty hole
with nameless echoes in it.

Are you quite sure
you don’t want
to take me to bed?

Come, lie down with me,
I will be your true love,
for only a hundred pesos.

But you only laugh
green and gold and purple
and fly free into the night.

For you are the white gull
who left secret spaces again
inside my head!

But if you ever come back to Manila,
come down to red-light Ermita,
where nightly I ply my trade.

They call me Fely,
I was born in Samar by the sea,
I’m the girl with a hole in her head.

•

Batangas-Manila
November 1979

Born in Kuala Lumpur in 1936, Goh grew up in a middle-class family and received his early education in Victoria Institution, Kuala Lumpur. He left for college in Ireland and later entered the University College in Dublin to pursue his studies in medicine. Battling initial feelings of loneliness as a foreign student, Goh took to writing. Inspired by the writers whom he met and encouraged by the publication of his works in the university magazine, Goh left medical school to devote himself to writing but later returned to his studies. After his graduation, he moved to Singapore and worked as a medical practitioner. He also held many honorary positions in the Arts. As Chairman of the National Theatre Trust Board between 1967 and 1972, he was responsible for the development of Art and cultural policies of post-independent Singapore, as well as the development of cultural institutions such as the Singapore National Symphony, the Chinese Orchestra and the Singapore Dance Company... READ MORE

The National Library Board Singapore have also made his works available for public viewing and download.

You may also visit these websites to learn more about him:

Goh Poh Seng Website

AsiaOne News

The Poetry of Goh Poh Seng

•

An interview with Jude Dibia

2011-05-22T12:59:00.000-07:00

Jude Dibia has gradually settled into the Nigerian literary scene as a novelist. He has two well-received novels to his credit; Walking with Shadows (2005), and Unbridled (2007) which won the Ken Saro-Wiwa Prize for Prose (Sponsored by NDDC/ANA) and was also a finalist in the 2007 for the Nigerian Prize for Literature (Sponsored by NLNG)

Are your characters usually based on people you’ve known?

A younger writer once asked me recently how he could write believable characters and my answer was that he should use real life people as muses. This apply to my writings as well, however, there is no singular blueprint to a character, but a mixture of various people I have come across. I love studying people and how they react to issues and situations; the insights I get from this helps in crafting my characters.

How do you create your stories—from a sentence you overheard or thoughts accumulated from reading?

Now this is a tougher question! Some stories come to me through the characters, while some are based on an ideology or a series of ‘what if’ questions. I have to admit I have been inspired by stray comments I pick up from conversations as well to write portions of a story before. However, this need to tell stories is a way of exploring the human condition, making experiences a shared culture accessible to people who in the normal run of things may never experience what it is you are writing about.

In a society like ours, where being a writer could mean becoming a political activist, armchair or placard-waving, how politically-involved would you define yourself?

It is difficult for a writer to remain apolitical especially as politics plays a huge role in the lives of the people of whom he or she must write about. Human rights and injustice are things I care deeply about, but I’m hardly a placard-waving activist in any sense. My stories and novels are my placards; somehow, I always seem to tackle issues I care deeply about in my writings.

What are your writing habits? And with three books, has anything changed?

My writing habits vary. Sometimes I feel I’m a lazy writer. I do not write everyday, it’s simply not possible for me. I work full time and manage to squeeze time for my writing. For me, the story comes to me first and then I spend some time working out the plot and characters and things like point-of-view and narrative perspective. Once I have a clearer picture of the project, then I start the writing. I usually like to plan out the first few chapters keeping in mind that there must be something significant with each chapter as I progress, which adds to the overall story. This really helps me with issues like ‘writer’s block’; knowing that there is something to look forward to in each chapter sustains my interest in a book project, also knowing that my characters may rebel and have a mind of their own—things don’t always pan out the way I originally planned them. With three books, I still very much follow these steps.

Understandably, you’re not one of those who have the luxury of doing full-time writing; how do you juggle your administrative duties with the demands of writing?

It is hard, especially if you are in the middle of a book you know you must complete. I’m an early riser; up by 5 am and in the office around 6.30 am. The first precious two hours belongs to me before my work start, so I do a lot of writing then (the office is usually empty and quiet at that time), and if I am lucky, I get a few hours in the evening to write as well. It’s a slow process but I have adapted to it pretty well.

The last time I spoke to you on your recent effort, you mentioned something about writing from the perspective of other ethnic groups, that you have gone to the extent of learning Yoruba words to fill your writing. What point are you trying to make exactly—Acculturation or dependence?

I’m not so much trying to make a point, but feel that it is extremely limiting for writers from one ethnic group to write majorly about people from his or her ethnic extraction. What you end up having is Igbo writers writing stories with Igbo characters mainly and Yoruba writers writing stores with mainly Yoruba characters as main characters etc. This applies to the other ethnic groups. I just feel I can tell an equally engaging story using a character from the North or West or any other part of the country. I’m not afraid to do some research to make my characters believable.

You have never really made any pretensions as regard poetry, how do you perceive the genre?

I love poetry, the rhythm and intricate patterns of sound and imagery. It is something I go to for deep reflection; however my exposure to poetry has been very limited. I was exposed to prose much earlier and found my love there. Perhaps if I had read more of poetry when I was younger, I would have found my voice in that genre as well.

How much improvement and impact have you made as regards, a personal improvement of your art since your last book—something so noticeable that you can point out that makes you want to go back to your very first book and rewrite it?

With each book I see my growth. Having said that, I believe each story was written the way it was meant to be written. The writer I am now would not have written my first book the way I did years ago, but I do have readers who tell me they prefer my first book to my second and I am sure I will have some who would prefer the second to the third. But am I a better writer now? Yes, definitely.

What future do you see for this latest project?

Oh I certainly hope that I gain more readership with ‘Blackbird’. A writer’s greatest wish is to be read after all!

What does it mean to be a writer?

A writer is someone who, against all odds, writes.

Jude Dibia’s third novel Blackbird was recently published by Jalaa Writers Collective. He blogs here: http://judedibia-jd.blogspot.com/

Ankara Press Announces Romance Writers Workshop

2011-05-21T07:49:00.001-07:00

If you have a romance novel sitting in your drawer or if you’ve always dreamed of crafting thrilling love stories like your favourite Mills and Boon novels with African characters, then Ankara Press is bringing you an exciting opportunity. We will be hosting a one-day workshop on Saturday, May 27th 2011 at The French Cultural Centre, Abuja, to introduce aspiring romance writers to the techniques of writing engaging and original romance novels.

Keep your manuscript from the rejection pile by learning what today’s editors are looking for. A new generation of romance is emerging – driven by the growing economic power of its readers. Modern romance novels now feature independent female characters who are assertive and ambitious and male characters who are strong, honest and not afraid to emote. Writers must be able to identify and recreate such characters if they want to be published by Ankara Press.

Learn how to avoid the traps of “traditional romance,” as well as how to spot clichéd dialogue, overused plotlines and stereotypical characters. If you dream of being a romance writer, this workshop is for you.

Further Details
Workshop: Writing Modern Romance
Time: 12noon to 2pm
Venue: French Cultural Centre at 52 Libreville Street, off Aminu Kanu Crescent, Wuse II, Abuja. Selection will be by competition.
To apply, email: ankarasubmissions@gmail.com. Attach a one-page sample of your best romantic fiction (no more than 1,500 words, double-spaced, 12 point font) as a word document. Please include your name (no aliases or pen names), the title of the story, your phone number and email address. Please include “Workshop” in the subject of your email.

Contents of the course
-    Avoiding Clichés: How to develop original story ideas
-    Polishing the gem: Common writing mistakes
-    Holding out for a Hero: Bringing your characters to life
-    Say it again, Sam: How to create and develop memorable dialogue
- Tying it all together: An introduction to structure

About Us
Ankara Press is a fresh new voice publishing romantic fiction for the African market. The press is devoted to publishing easy-to-read, books with African settings, storylines and characters. We want give readers a trusted companion in our titles; above all, we want African men and women to see the best version of themselves in print.
For more information, contact: Chinelo Onwualu at Ankarasubmissions@gmail.com

Norsk Litteraturfestival (24 - 29 May 2011)

2011-05-07T15:41:00.000-07:00

This time last year I was finalising preparations to attend the 15th edition of Norsk Litteraturfestival (Sigrid Undset-Dagene). The festival is one of the biggest and most prestigious in the Nordic countries. I was invited me as a guest poet/writer to discuss last year's theme; breakaway, using my collection of poems, i am memory.

It was a big honour to hold discussions with Prof Helge Rønning, famous lyrical poet,Jan Erik Vold and a fantastic audience; whose interrogation opened a platform to express how my collection of poems becomes an opportunity to introspect and reconcile the rise of a culture of forgetfulness, which perhaps promotes the global perception of socio-political disintegration in my country.

Other writers at the event were, Mahmoud Dowlatabadi, Sasa Stanisic, Amal Aden etc

This year, the theme is: Cities, and one of the headliners would be ANDRÉ BRINK, the South African novelist, whose writing I enjoy very much.

Other headliners this year are:

DAG SOLSTAD

CARL FRODE TILLER

KARIN FOSSUM

BEATE GRIMSRUD

ANE DAHL TORP

ASLI ERDOGAN (TR)

ANDRÉ BRINK (ZA)

KATE MORTON (AU)

JORALF GJERSTAD

MARIA AMELIE

WENDY GUERRA(CU)

This is against the backdrop of the residence of Bjørnstjerne Martinius Bjørnson and Sigrid Undset (the festival is named after her), two Nobel Prize winners whose houses are maintained by the state.

So if you do find yourself in Norway, please stop over at Lillehammer, and enjoy a beautiful festival.

About the Festival

Dates for the next festival: 24 to 29 May 2011

The Norwegian Festival of Literature is the largest literature festival in the Nordic countries. Its main focus is Norwegian contemporary literature and the interaction between literature and society. In the past few years it has had an increasingly international profile and from the festival in 2007 a particular focus on literature from the Nordic countries.

The festival takes place every year in Lillehammer at the end of May.

The festival contains everything from large scale events to intimate small events: meetings with authors and authorships, readings, interviews, debates, lectures, concerts, art exhibitions, seminars, theatre, film and quiz. This is a festival for an extensive reading audience: kindergarten- and school children, families, book club members, teachers, students, musicians, actors, journalists and politicians.

The festival is also Norway's largest meeting point for authors, translators, literary critics, publishers and librarians.

You may read more about the festival HERE

N.B: 'About the festival' was copied from the festival website.

Call for Short Stories from Asia/ Africa: "Outcasts" Anthology

2011-04-27T00:58:00.000-07:00

Deadline: 30 May 2011 (commitment), 1 August 2011 (final)

Writers from Africa and Asia are asked to submit short stories for an anthology of the two continents. The writers can be on the respective continents or in the Diaspora but it is necessary that their stories deal with the topic as experienced by Africans/Asians.

Topic - Outcasts (contemporary or historical, adult audience)

Length - 3000-5000 words

Submissions Deadline - August 1st 2011

Remuneration- Shall be discussed upon selection of your short story as part of the anthology. You will know by September 30th.

Editors - Writers Rohini Chowdhury and Zukiswa Wanner

The editors will need some written commitment from writers on whether they will be submitting something by May 30th. We kindly request no poetry or non-fiction. Purely short stories. Please submit a short two-line introduction about yourself with your story. If this exciting project interests you as a writer, kindly get in touch with rohini.chowdhury@gmail.com / wanner.zukiswa@gmail.com.

Igoni Barrett 's next stop is the Two Seasons Talking Trees Literary Fiesta

2011-04-24T11:07:00.000-07:00

The award-winning writer Igoni Barrett, with Nigerian and Jamaican roots would be a guest writer at the Two Seasons Talking Trees Literary Fiesta.

A. Igoni Barrett was a writer-in-residence at the Chinua Achebe Center in Mombassa, and would be at the Rockefeller Foundation Bellagio Center in Italy in September. He is well-known in Nigeria as the organiser of BookJam reading series (a monthly writer's meeting which features published writer). He also founded Blackbiro before joining Kachifo (Publishers of Farafina), as Managing editor of Farafina magazine.

You may read more on the festival and other participants on Geoffrey Philp's Blog:

Canopic Jar #26 is out! I'm in.

2011-04-13T07:34:00.001-07:00

You can read my poem on this page: http://canopicjar.com/c26/verissimoj.html

And here's the door to the main bowl http://canopicjar.com/c26/index.html

Enjoy!

Ankara Press Calls for Submission: Purse-size romance novella

2011-03-18T02:48:00.000-07:00

Ankara Press is devoted to publishing easy-to-read, purse-size romantic fiction titles with African settingas, storylines and characters. We believe that one way to get young people reading is to introduce them to short, snazzy, fast-paced stories about the life they live or yearn to live. The stories will be engaging, and above all, they will allow women to see the best version of themselves in print. These purse-novellas will be issued at regular monthly intervals.

Women of all ages have always enjoyed romance. They ask for it in their movies, their music, from their lovers and in their books. But in Africa, they have had to find it in the pages of Western series like Mills and Boon, Silhouette and other Harlequin titles. It is time that the continent’s rising consumer class gets romances that reflect the complexity of their modern lives.

Our reader

She is young, single and confident with some money in her purse and time to read. She is (or wants to be) financially independent, ambitious and interested in challenging boundaries and going beyond expectations. She enjoys fashion, Nollywood films, contemporary African pop music and she wants to see herself reflected in what she consumes in her leisure time.

What we are looking for

We are looking for strong, original voices to write romance novels for the African market. But we don’t want stories that simply recreate traditional romances. Often, these rely on dangerous notions of male dominance, control and manipulation that have done great harm to women all over the world. Many women tolerate abusive situations because they wrongly believe that this is what romance should look like.

We are looking for a new kind of romance. One in which the thrill of fantasy is alive but realized in a healthier, more grounded reality. One that gives women the tools to shape their own destinies. We want romances in which strong, capable female characters meet handsome, charming men who are secure in their identities and respectful of a woman’s choices.

The novels should be 40,000 – 45,000 words long (they should not exceed this word limit) and should be divided into about 10-15 chapters.

Characters

The main character should be an African woman between 20-30 years old who comes from a middle or lower-middle class background, and who because of her intelligence, ambition and hard work has a bright future ahead of her. She must be realistic - with both good and bad qualities - but not so complex that the reader won‘t be able to relate to her. The heroine should be wholesome, likeable and assertive. She should not be shown to be helpless, or wholly dependent on anyone. Even when she finds herself in situations beyond her control, she should always have an optimistic and proactive attitude.

The heroine’s love interest should be an African man. He is attractive and successful in his own field. While standard careers such as doctors, lawyers and businessmen are welcome, alternative careers such as the arts and in skilled labour (mechanics, carpenters, taxi drivers etc.) should be explored and are encouraged. He should be sensitive and realistic without conforming to the romantic hero stereotype (i.e. domineering, arrogant, and dismissive).

He and the heroine should have a genuine connection beyond physical attraction. They should have something in common. While they may have differences which may be the source of the story’s conflict, they should remain respectful of each other. More importantly, they should be passionate about their desire for each other and everything else they do.

Plot and Setting

The novels should be set in an urban environment. They can feature international locales, but a real (not fictionalised) African city should be where the primary story takes place. The story should reflect contemporary speech patterns and expressions without being pretentious or too localized.

The plot should be fast-paced and entertaining. It should focus on the development of a central romantic relationship while the heroine struggles to realize her ambitions. Don’t dwell too much on her trials and tribulations; rather frame them in terms of how she relates to the people in her life. In other words, no sob stories!

No matter what else goes on, the novels should end on a positive note. Major plot threads should be resolved. The heroine should be or about to be in a promising love relationship by the end, but not by giving up her ambitions or her values.

Point of View

The novels should be written in the third person, preferably from the point of view of the heroine. Other points of view may be employed to add depth and insight to the narrative, but should be used sparingly.

Sub-Plots

Authors are advised to keep sub-plots to a minimum. Interesting minor characters are welcome, but they should not dominate the story.

Don’ts

Profanity, explicit sex scenes, religious or ethnic intolerance are not acceptable. There can be a strong physical attraction between the heroine and her Mr. Right, but it should not be the focus of their relationship. They can sleep together during the course of the novel, but if they do, it should be done tastefully and they must practice safe sex at all times or be able to discuss it.

What to do next?

Email a 500-word synopsis outlining the characters and the plot of the novel and attach the first 3 chapters of your story as a Word document. Be sure to pay attention to punctuation, spelling and grammar before submitting your sample.

Please include your name (aliases and pen names will only be considered once the manuscript has been accepted), the title of the book, your phone number and email address on a separate cover page. Your name or identity must not appear on the manuscript itself. Please include the title of the manuscript and page numbers at the top of each page. Submissions will not be accepted without this. There is no limit to how many or how often submissions can be made. Please note all rights sold will include print, electronic, film, audio and digital rights.

If your sample is selected, you will be contacted and asked to submit a chapter-by-chapter breakdown of the novel. If that is satisfactory, you will be asked to sign a legal contract and submit a completed manuscript within approximately three to four months. So please indicate your availability to start writing with your response.

If you have an existing work you want to adapt, please send a synopsis along with a chapter of the work as your submission. All finished manuscripts will be paid for on our acceptance of a completed manuscript.

To email your sample and synopsis or for further information, please contact Chinelo Onwualu at: AnkaraSubmissions@gmail.com

Masilo's White canes bend at two places, like fingers...and another poem

2011-02-27T14:24:00.000-08:00

Rethabile is a Mosotho writer living in Paris, France. He co-edits Canopic Jar (http://canopicjar.com) and says he carries a manuscript around in his back pocket. Rethabile is married and has two kids. An amateur cook, he also plays football (the one with the round ball) and ping-pong, and blogs at Poéfrika (http://poefrika.blogspot.com).

I'll trust you'll find pleasure 'eating' the two poems below.

White canes bend at two places, like fingers

Cities through fingertips inebriate me.
Everywhere I travel lies this pavement
defining the town with a kerb that may
or may not curve to where I go. Patient,
I like to try and see it with my cane,
slightly slanted in the hand. Not a stick,
a pen I use to trace my life again
as I walk and tap or touch stone or brick
or granite at my feet. No need to prove
God or splendour. If you don’t listen well
to night you may miss the bat that moves
with rubber wing, and flickers round walls
in a feeding frenzy. For the glory
of everything belongs truly to the night,
which holds day as dead retinas carry
light, to watch life with previous sight.

(first published in Orbis 143, Spring 2008)

The San's Promise

They came from the south
holding the sun in their right hand
like an object of worship,
crossed the Mohokare into the mountains,
leather bags full of ochre
and painting sticks, venom in small phials,
dried meat conserved in leaves. They stayed
long enough to paint the fat of the land:
hunt scenes, children hopping in playful circles
round a fire. An ostrich egg and roots
dug up from the desert's giving sand,
hand prints lit like sepals
exploding on grotto walls.

(first published in Boltsofsilk 143, January 2011)

A poem in Italian and English

2011-02-13T08:56:00.000-08:00

Luca Benassi is my generation - well, kind of. The generational issue in literature has always been a rather difficult one to explain, but let's say that we can still call ourselves, young writers (:d), and aspire to everything - counting forward rather than backward.

Luca writes in Italian, and that's why I'm sharing an excerpt from his poetry in Italian and English. We do understand how translation can make a sour note of writing. So I have placed here the two languages -- so you may read in the two languages, or read in one and aspire to learn the other. I do hope you enjoy his poetry.

Bisogna iniziare da qui:

a spasso quattro volte al giorno.

Ignora capodanno e feste comandate

e il materiale dello pneumatico

su cui alza la zampa

ad irrorare

del primo istinto quotidiano

il mio risveglio.

Have to begin hence:

walks four times a day

ignorant of feasts and New Year’s party

and the purpose of the tire

he lifts his leg to

sprinkle

the first daily instinct

on my awakening.

Ho cercato la strada

nel cielo franto sull’asfalto

ma la quiete è inutile anche

in questa alba pulita d’ottobre

del dopo pioggia.

Lui invece

che non crede nel guinzaglio

segue tracce

spensieratamente

ficca

il muso nella guazza.

I’ve searched the road

in the sky fragmented asphalt

but the silence is also useless

in this clear dawn of October

after the rain.

He's instead

not faithful to the leash

follows tracks

carefree

pushes

his muzzle in the dew.

Leggendo riviste di poesia

Non chiedermi cosa leggo

con i tuoi occhi

sul tappeto

ed io seduto sul divano:

è roba per addetti ai lavori

-ti dico

e non è tempo di giocare.

Reading poetry journals

You don’t ask what I read

with your eyes on the carpet

and me sitting on the sofa:

it is for experts alone

- I tell you

it is not time for play.

L’incontro

“Ma in fondo” si chiese il vecchio randagio

guardando il guinzaglio

“ne sarà valsa la pena?”

The meeting

“Honestly” the alley dog thought

looking at the leash

“has it been worth it?”

Ma alla fine –diciamocelo con franchezza

timbrando il cartellino la mattina-

il problema è sempre quello:

la ciotola rossa

con la pappa della sera

e lui mi guarda

senza guinzaglio

che non ha bisogno di vestiti

e dà risposte

mentre stanco mi tolgo

la cravatta

la sera.

But in the end- let us say that

Swiping the card at work every morning -

the problem is always this:

the red bowl

with the mush of the evening

and he looks at me

without leash

no need to get dressed

and he gives answers

while tired I unknot

the tie

in the evening.

Luca Benassi was born in 1976 in Rome. He is the author of: Nei Margini della Storia (In the Sidelines of History, 2000), I Fasti del Grigio (The Glories of the Grey, 2005), and L’Onore della Polvere (The Honor of Dust, 2009). He translated into Italian the work of the Dutch poet Germain Droogenbroodt De Weg (Il Cammino - The Path, published by I Quaderni della Valle in 2002). He has also authored a book of essays on Italian contemporary poetry Rivi Strozzati - Poeti Italiani negli anni Duemila (Throttled Streams - Italian poets in the Third Millennium, 2010. Together with Enrico Maria and Emmanuele Spano, Mr. Benassi runs the poetry series, Passi of Puntoacapo Publishing.

Writers and Academics Against Homophobia

2011-02-04T13:38:00.000-08:00

On the Murder of David Kato, the Ugandan Gay Rights Campaigner

We the undersigned condemn in the strongest possible terms the murder of Mr David Kato the Ugandan gay rights campaigner. We wish to state emphatically that homosexuality is neither a sin nor a social or cultural construct. It is a biological given. Homosexuals are human beings like everybody else. Scientific research has been helpful in clearing the fog of ignorance entrenched by some religious texts in regards to homosexuality. Our opinions of homosexuality must change for the better just as our opinion of slavery has changed even though it was endorsed by those same religious texts. All violence against gays and people deemed to be gay in Africa must cease forthwith.

We call on the government of Uganda to find and prosecute all those involved in the murder of Mr Kato, including the newspaper that called for the hanging of gays. We also call on African governments to learn from the South African example by expunging from their laws all provisions that criminalize homosexuality or treat homosexuals as unworthy of the same rights and entitlements as other citizens. African states must protect the rights of their citizens to freedom and dignity. Homosexuals must not be denied these rights.

Undersigned

1. Wale Adebanwi, PhD, University of California, US

2. Kayode Adeduntan, PhD, University of Ibadan, Nigeria

3. Biola Adegboyega, University of Calgary, Canada

4. Akin Adesokan, PhD, Indiana University, US

5. Anthony Akinola, PhD, Oxford, UK

6. Bode Asiyanbi, Writer, Lancaster University, UK

7. Sefi Atta, Writer, US

8. Damola Awoyokun, Writer, UK

9. Doreen Baingana, Writer, Uganda

10. Igoni Barrett, Writer, Nigeria

11. Chris Dunton, PhD, National University of Lesotho, Lesotho

12. Ropo Ewenla, PhD, Obafemi Awolowo University, Nigeria

13. Chris Ihidero, Writer/Lagos State University, Nigeria

14. Ikhide R. Ikheloa, Writer, US

15. Biodun Jeyifo, PhD, Harvard University, US

16. Ebenezer Obadare, PhD, University of Kansas, US

17. Tejumola Olaniyan, PhD, University of Wisconsin, US

18. Akin Omotosho, Actor and filmmaker, South Africa

19. Kole Omotosho, PhD, Africa Diaspora Research Group, South Africa

20. Samuel Sabo, Writer, UK

21. Ramzi Salti, PhD, Stanford University, US

22. Lola Shoneyin, Writer, Nigeria

23. Wole Soyinka, Nobel Laureate for Literature

24. Olufemi Taiwo, PhD, Seattle University, US

25. Uzor Maxim Uzoatu, Writer, Nigeria

26. Kristy Warren, PhD, University of Warwick, UK

Petitioners Please Reply to: Iya Osoronga osoronga@yahoo.com

Makoko - Dreams on water

2011-01-29T00:57:00.000-08:00

After today we shall berth in a row

With dreams floating in semblance

Of boats hauling desires to shores

Where there’s everywhere on minds

And power settles for repose and luck.

'Makoko - dreams on water' is a poetry and photography collaboration between photographer, Toye Gbade and myself.

Please view the rest of this project here: Maroko....Dreams on water

(Please leave a comment on the website).

Subsequently, we will be regular in The Guardian Newspaper and would appreciate if you can also follow and show us your support.

Many thanks.

Call for Submissions: New anthology titled and themed “Remembering Marechera”

2011-01-16T08:00:00.000-08:00

To celebrate Dambudzo Marechera’s posthumous 59th birthday this year I will be putting together an ebook anthology entitled “Remembering Marechera”, consisting of essays, reviews, short stories, poems, etc. that follow this theme, to be published by StoryTime Publishing. To this end I invite your submissions until the 6th of April 2011.

Theme: “Remembering Marechera”

Word count: 1000-5000 words (less for poetry if needs be)

Format: An attached Word doc/docx, times new roman, 12 point, single spaced.

Submissions: By email only to: dambudzo.marechera@gmail.com

Deadline: 6th of April 2011

The project will depend on the quantity and quality of submissions I receive, and if all goes well it will be distributed through Amazon’s Kindle platform in a variety of formats (and possibly print too depending). I look forward to reading your submissions. If you have any queries please email me at the submissions email.

Update:

In the project so far: Emmanuel Sigauke, John Mwazemba, Beaven Tapureta, Joseph Chikowero, Sylva Nze Ifedigbo, Tinashe Mushakavanhu, Sarudzai Mubvakure, Thando Mgqolozana, David Mungoshi, Masimba Musodza, Fungai Machirori, Afam Akeh, Uko Bendi Udo, Ernst Schade, Alex Magaisa, Jabulani Mzinyathi, Isaac Neequaye, Abigail George, Austin Kaluba, Karen Stally, Zukiswa Wanner, Tendai Tagarira, and Franziska Kramer.

Editors:
Emmanuel Sigauke – Poetry
Tinashe Mushakavanhu – Essays
Ivor Hartmann – Short Stories

For more information please contact: AW BLOG

An excerpt from my manuscript.

2011-01-07T23:35:00.000-08:00

I will rewrite this novel until a 'miracle' takes it away from me. So help me God.

0

His house was always dark but he wanted no lights – artificial or natural. For him, anyone who lived with lights lived with a permanent anxiety that gloom was near, and this was a looming disquiet that receded lives more than death.

As a younger man he learnt that darkness was a cover for evil; in prison he discovered that light had taken its place. So when he returned home from jail, he walked into the council flat he lived before his imprisonment wearing a piece of cloth over his left eye. He entered the sitting room, lit by a 30-watt amber bulb and shaded by coffee coloured curtains hanging down his windows. A dull amber brightness scattered itself around the area and it irritated him. He drew his hands over the curtains and felt the coarse settling of dust on the thin lines of the weave of fabric. The dust spread into his nostrils. He sneezed and coughed. His mother moved close to him and tried to tuck her handkerchief into his right palm. ‘I’ll wash the curtains or change them for one with brighter colour.’ He shook his head, left the piece of cloth to drop to the floor and moved away from her with his hands behind his back, overlapping his buttocks. He stared at the curtains long and then shifted his gaze to the room to assess the furniture: a bookshelf with chewed out newspapers, a transistor radio on a small table with a broken leg, two armchairs and a sofa. A flower vase with plastic hibiscus lay on its side in a corner of the room. Everything was clean except for the curtains.

‘Pele. Don’t be angry. I forgot to wash them. We were so excited about your release that we couldn’t do any major cleaning.’ His mother exhaled noisily and switched from her Ijebu dialect of Yoruba into the colloquial one, ‘Kayo and I just came to meet you at Kirikiri when those warder people called me then those press people will come and start asking us many-many questions. Thank God. I have been praying.’

He didn’t say a word. He wanted to give the impression that he was listening in defiance. He turned his gaze to the window blinds and nodded during each of her pause. Nothing was said between the three people in the room for a while, and it soon appeared like the quiet inside the house listened to the noise of liveliness on the streets until he stepped out of the sitting room.

As he moved into the bedroom he heard his mother say something to Kayo.

He paced the room, counting his steps back and forth. He did the same in the kitchen and then the bathroom, measuring the spaces between the furniture and the walls. When he satisfied himself that he was familiar with the area, he returned to the sitting room where his mother and Kayo were still talking. They stopped as he entered the room. He stood, watched for a while and trusted his senses to know that their bodies shook with fear at his entry. He looked round the room again before walking towards the light switch to turn it off with great conviction that he would never need lights again.

‘Was that a power outage?’ Kayo asked in a bird pitch, and cursed in English interspersed with Yoruba. When he knew that his friend was now quiet, he spoke in a quietness his voice found comfort in. ‘I put off the lights because I don’t want lights around me. Actually, there’ll be no light in this house from now on.’

‘Hope all is well.’

‘All is well, Maami.’

‘Joker! You don’t want lights again? I am glad you still have your humour,’ Kayo’s voice shook as he spoke, also walking towards the switch.

‘Don’t. Don’t do it. I meant what I said. I don’t want lights.’ He blocked the way as Kayo reached for the switch. He pulled back the cloth over his face and leaned against the door. The silence that followed seemed like pus inflaming an overripe boil until he cleared his throat, to squash it. He assumed that their eyes shifted about the room studying his outline and that the stiff air in the room hung on their chests and puffed it without a wish to be expelled as he entered. He cleared his throat to ease their tension.

After this number of years, his mother and best friend still feared him.

‘I think it’s time you left.’ He remained by the door waiting for his mother and Kayo, his friend of many years to respond to his words.

‘Thanks for your kindness. Thanks for your concern. You may leave.’ The words rolled out of his tongue in a whisper. He waved his hands at them, right then left then right again. Unpractised, yet it fell like a rap sequence. Perhaps, that was why Mama and Kayo didn’t take him seriously because his mother sat on the chair and Kayo leaned against the wall.

He moved towards his mother, nudged her shoulder and pulled her up to lead her to the door. ‘Maami, stand up and leave.’

Kayo stood straight and walked towards the door. He knew this because he listened to the soft steps of his friend.

‘Eni!’ She thundered. Then his full names came in the company of sobs that rose with each syllable, ‘Eniolorunda Durotimi Akanni. You are sending me out of your house, just like that.’ She spoke with as much energy as her now choked voice could give. Until the constriction parted way for a loud wail, like a cackle. He was unsure if she laughed or cried.

‘Maami, please I want to be alone. I want to live in this dark room. Forever.’ He folded his hands over his chest.

‘My son, you want me to go?’ In her tone he heard the many years of heavy baskets of cocoa ferried from the farm to the market so that school fees could be paid. Then there was the crying in front of prisons in different part of the country for the release of her only son.

He winced at his reminiscence yet stepped aside so his mother and Kayo could walk ahead of him so he could lead them to the door. When they hesitated by the door, he said, ‘You can help me with provisions. I will appreciate that. And when you bring it, leave it by the door. Thanks.’ He shut the door in their faces before they could react, while also ignoring the open mouth of his mother whose hands were placed in a crisscross over her head.

His friend’s attempt to push the door ajar met his hard voice; which even to him gave his heart a jolt. With just that word, his friend surrendered the door. It slammed shut and the lock’s tumbler fastened after it. But Kayo and his mother remained at the door and banged for some long minutes. He rested his body against the oak wood as they banged on the door, letting each of their strike vibrate against his body and sink through his skin.

After that day, his mother, as he expected continued to leave foodstuffs and provisions at his doorstep every fortnight. When she came, she knocked like a hen pecking grains of rice on a cemented floor. He sensed her presence all the times she came but remained in his chair waiting for her to leave, so he could pick up the supplies she brought.

There were days when he wanted to go outside at night, and the thought of lit electric bulbs on the streets kept him indoors. On the days he found courage to stroll down the streets, he left the house with a rusty iron rod which once served as a curtain bar for walking stick, covered himself from head-to-toe and tied a piece of cloth over his eyes so he could see nothing but darkness. As he walked the street, he heard rustle of air, clamour of voices, blast of car honks and sometimes goats bleating alongside the music blaring from audio and video CD shops to the street. He felt like an ant using his senses only. He perceived the way people moved away from him. He heard the rustling of hurrying feet that once approaching, diverted into another path just to avoid him. Sometimes, one or two bold ones offered to help him cross the road.

He bathed, cleaned, ate, washed and slept in the dark. He learnt to do his chores in the dark. He cooked his meals with an old electric burner which gleamed red like it was all bored with its service, and though it took longer to boil he preferred it to the flame of kerosene or gas stoves, which would bring light into the house. When there was no cleaning to do, he sat in the darkest area of his sitting room; which was dark but not as soot. For at night, a wan light strolling in from the neighbours fell straight on the arm of the chair opposite his. In the daytime, even though he drew his heavy curtains together to lessen the sun’s intrusion, a slight shade filled everywhere.

The first day, after his relatives left, he crept in and out of his rooms so he would not bump into anything. As the days passed he became confident the flat was familiar with him as he was with it, so he moved about; at first like a blind man born to his handicap – sensing when something was not in its rightful place. Later he moved about like paper lifted by the breeze and drifted towards directions but rarely bumped into any object. In a case where he grazed something, he took note of the positioning, counted his steps backward and forward to prevent him from hitting the same object twice. Then he resumed his activity like nothing changed.

Day after day, everything fell into place in the dark, until she visited. On her first visit to see him, he stumbled and fell over a stool in the kitchen, thrice in one day.

Be a part of Cassava Republic's Destiny...

2011-01-07T06:24:00.000-08:00

And the stamp came loose.

Well, well, well...the earlier blog entry on the submission guidelines had to be deleted, as I got an email from the publishers expressing, that the earlier posting, was an 'internal document' and 'not quite ready for publication'.

I do apologise for any inconvenience, and hope that interested writers will continue to check the CASSAVA REPUBLIC WEBSITE for future details on the Destiny romance imprint.

Welcome back from the break. (Er….who went on break?)

2011-01-06T02:46:00.001-08:00

I must say it’s good to be back anyway. I have a good feeling about this year.

My novel, which I have been redrafting for a while is still on and it’s looking pretty and then ugly and pretty again. I am also tidying up bits on my next collection of poems, which hopefully should be out January next year or late December. I must confess that it is a collection I have enjoyed working on. I started it by writing a line a day and at times two. Perhaps as time goes on, I’ll post some of the poems in the collection on this blog and would appreciate your comments. And there is also the collection of twelve short stories for the road I’m working on. That is the interlude that comes between my editing and poetry, a sort of pep when the brain is sour.

Toye gbade and I would be starting a column in a Nigerian newspaper. It's going to be a collaboration of photography and poetry. The little work we've done behind seems rather interesting and I look forward to discovering the undiscovered in it.

I do know that this is a year we will all find pleasure in...especially if the Nigerian elections come out right.

A goodbye, See-you-in-two-weeks and two poems

2010-12-23T07:45:00.000-08:00

Well, well. This is the last day of the year on this blog. Until next year - 2011. As we'll go for a Merry Christmas and look forward to a promising New Year, I leave you a piece of Abiodun Idowu's poetry.

It does not fall into the place of confessional poems as she is much more interrogative than squealing every of her, is and was.

I find her poems largely introspective, somewhat like the poetry of Sylvia Plath. Biodun's experiences – observed and personal, shows inquisitions into existence and essence. Her poems are a reminder that beneath the pretence we do have hot blood. She is experimental also.

I hope you'll enjoy her poems.

The Call

Liberty is calling me

In Sham’s voice

‘Come, cleave with me

Let us be one’

Freedom is calling me

Sham's voice breaks my walls

My shackles of selfishness fall

I am walking

Ominira calls me ‘beloved’

I raise my head, once again

For the third time.

Sham will not betray me

The wind, the earth and

water say it

I believe and break into a sprint.

* Ominira - Freedom, immunity…

Besetting

A) Skin.

Smooth builds into

rough, melds into dips

depths, curves.

Lovely. Musk, sweat

primal coma, secret

places invoke, invite.

B) Hair.

Flutter, flick

lightly sting, caress

heavy glides over.

Sheen. Digging in,

drag lightly, let

pain collide by pleasure.

C) Caves.

Moist promise warmth.

Strength plunge deep

Dark, pan-ic, still

stroke, stride, slide

call plump, plunde

Sink. Lift. Off.

Aphrodisiac

All of his aggro

Is via

gra gra.

Bio

Abiodun Idowu is a Nigerian writer, based in Bolton, England. Known as ‘Abi’ or ‘Pepperz’ onstage. She presently writes short stories, articles and poetry. Slowly working on a novel, with two plays staged in Nigeria. Her latest publication is in the Bolton based University magazine 'Textyle'. She is also working on a multi media project called 'Losing Jack and Jill'.

Merry Christmas!

I Olajumoke Verissimo, do declare also that I Am Bound To This Land By Blood

2010-12-20T16:05:00.000-08:00

Below is a poem that continues to resonate on my mind and perhaps many others. It's election year in a few days, and the emptiness in the eyes of many people flogs me into submitting those words that irritate my mind: indeed these are trying times.

I wonder if the words of the poem beat through because it reminds me that Nigeria as a nation continue to stand on the border of advancement -- It's almost as if our passion for the land is wringed in regrets and duplicitous relationship that undermines fresh aspirations. But then I wander....

I Am Bound To This Land By Blood

By Olu Oguibe

I am bound to this land by blood
That's why my vision is blurred
I am rooted in its soil
And its streams flood my veins
I smell the sweat of its men
And the million feet that plod
The dust of its streets
Leave their prints on my soul
I have walked the footpaths of this land
Climbed the snake-routes of its hills
I have known the heat of its noon
And that in the fields where men toil till dusk
I have known the faces their creases
I have seen pain engraved on the foreheads of many
I have heard their agony

I have cried so often with broken men
And peered into a million faces blank
Faces without bodies bodies without faces
The owners of nothing breakers of stone
The owners who are owned I have known them all

I have heard the wailing of a million
I have stood in the crowd where men
Mixed their sweat and wiped blood
From their brows cursing silently
I have stood in the middle of silent whirlwinds
And their heat has left its mark
I bear the mark of the masses on my brow
And if I curse
If I raise this single voice
In the midst of dust and curse
If I lend a tiny voice to
The rustle of this crowd
It's because I am bound to this land

I am bound to the dying mother the widow
The man with a weight on his loins
I am tethered to their moan they are my own
I belong with they who have no voice
They who trudge outside the gate
Those who sigh in their hearts
Who only shake their heads

And if I sing not of roses and rivers
It's because I see rivers of blood
I look through the holler of the crowd
And I see blood on the ground
I see blood on the rockslabs
I look over the mangrove swamp
And I walk through fields of groundnut
And I see nothing but blood
I see blood in the face of the farmer
On the palm of the school child
I see blood on the statue
Of the Immaculate Mother

I walk through the streets and I see puddles of blood
I see blood on your shoes on your underwear
I see blood on the hands of men
And if I raise my voice to holler
It is because the grasses wither in this deluge of blood
Fishes float on their bellies with their eyes covered
By the sanguine flood

My verse spreads ungathered
In this spill of purple
Mine is the cry of a ram tethered
To the slaughterslab

There are no petals soft
No yellow centres
No polished pebble melodies
Piled into song
My words are rough-hewn from
These rocks where men toil
The plaintive voices of children
The plod of prisoners feet
The curses of the peasant woman
Are the wattle of my song

My pictures are the colour of dust
And I sing only of rust
I have swum in the flood
And I know better
For I am bound to this land
By blood.

Olu Oguibe, PhD., is the author of A Gathering Fear, A Song from Exile and Songs for Catalina, all collections of poetry. He has won many grants, scholarships, academic and literary awards, including the All-Africa Okigbo Prize for Literature. Oguibe is also a visual artist who has had solo exhibitions the world over since 1988. He was at the University of South Florida (Stuart Golding Endowed Chair in African Art) before his current position (Senior Fellow, Vera List Center for Art and Politics, New School, NY).

Juan Garrido-Salgado and his poetry

2010-12-18T11:55:00.000-08:00

Juan Garrido-Salgado was born in Chile and was a political prisoner under the Pinochet regime, but now lives in Adelaide. He has published three books of poetry and his poems had been published in Chile, Colombia, Spain, El Salvador, Brazil, Europe, New Zealand and Australia. He also translated into Spanish John Kinsella, Mike Ladd, Judith Beveridge, Dorothy Porter and including Talking to Neruda's Questions. He translated five Aboriginal poets for Espejo de Tierra/ Earth Mirror Poetry Anthology. Juan Garrido-Salgado, Steve Brock and Sergio Holas translated into English Trilingual Mapuche Poetry Anthology. He is currently working on the Spanish translation of a selection of Jumoke Verissimo's poems, to be read at the Granada International Poetry Festival.

Sonnet (Writers’ Week in Adelaide, 2006)

I am sitting in different shadows.

Chairs are the roots of trees,

the white tents a nest of words and creation.

I am listening to the sound and face of vowels.

Names and authors are beings of the image world.

Stories of lands, struggles, deaths,

beauty and ugliness an equal part of the journey.

Foreign sounds are rare birds under native trees.

A kookaburra sings to the wind and the heat of the evening.

Yahia Al-Samawy reads his poem in Arabic:

Leave my country.

The helmet of occupiers can never be a pigeon’s nest

I am listening to the rhythm of hearts next to a tree.

I am listening to Robert Fisk’s flesh,

wounded lines,

Baghdad and Gaza his home,

ancient cities without rivers,

only dried dreams of the oppressors.

Revolution-Tango (An excerpt from a longer poem: Tango)

Please let me dance with you now

Before my dawn arrives here…

The night begins to cover your black dress,

I no longer see you:

Can’t feel your body.

Can’t find your hands

My eyes, two Mypie’sbirds in the corner of the room

With no wings, naked, lost,

they belong to a dream

Eyes dark with pain, dark with death and love.

I am lost alone, without you…

I am a citizen struggling for a Revolution.

Tade Ipadeola's Quatrains

2010-12-17T15:29:00.000-08:00

Well, there's a certain literary accomplishment that posterity may use as the reference point for a poet or which the poet will assert to her(him)self as an intellectual pivot. Well, in the course of achievements, it is my pleasure to showcase Tade Ipadeola's latest poetic pilgrimage. Four Quatrains from Sahara Testaments.

Tade is currently working on 1, 000 quatrains and our share to that fame which posterity would grant him is that it appears here first. (Okay, aside the facebook appearances of the poems).

Of course, there are many poets who have attempted grand works like this, either as an attempt to searching self, or Self. Nostradamus wrote 942 stanzas to predict the future. The sections were grouped into centuries and each century had 42 quatrains. Rumi, the famous mystical poet of the 13th century was credited with writing 2, 000 quatrains and then there is the well-known translation of Omar Khayyam's poems by Edward J. Fitzgerald, popular as The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám.

For now enjoy Tade's poem....

CHAPTER XXXIII

Clinical light scrubs reinforced glass at the atrium
Where Goldschmidt and his brood meet death
In elegant equations, the amplified abecedarium
Pregnant as protocol, tasks mortal breath.

Spirit and men sail through rafts of bevelled books
Expounding the calculus of atoms, elemental speed
Degrees at which rarefied neutron cooks,
The right mantra to make electrons bleed.

One day, midsummer, their guarded onomasticon
Registered a name so French, the atrium brightened
With romance. The fellow brought a lexicon
Radiant as radium, to the table, he enlightened

Rapturously, on a world as yet untouched
By the miracle of the atom bomb, a perfect
World in which to test death. He clutched
Proprietorially, a map of my Sahara like a prefect.

The Morning After - My short story on DADA bloGazine

2010-12-16T19:02:00.000-08:00

I am currently working on twelve short stories. I have suceeded in writing two (note: not finished)...but two down seems close to the end, right? Anyway, I have been too shy to put them in the public space as I have the idea that my intent with them isn't well-formed yet. However, one of the stories - The Morning After is on DADA bloGazine now and it would be just fine to get feedback on it. It's still in the early stage, so there's hope.

Here's a snippet:

My God: these hushed words escaped Yellow Abraka’s lips as he opened his eyes and realised he was not on his own bed. He continued to lie on his side, facing the sliding window with drawn curtains folded up at the two extremes. The window was opened to a moon which appeared to have watched them throughout the night. Now, the sun peered in, so the room was lit with an uncommon brightness, so that glistened window panes left transparent splinters on his skin.

He waited, watched for a sign to make him stand up from thebed and sneak out of the room. There was no clue to what that sign would be, as the humming beside him, came in measured cadences and disrupted any plans hemight have considered acting upon.

The body beside his, which Yellow did not wish to face,turned to a side, sighed deeply and threw a hand over him, landing on his groin. A throbbing rose in his head and swept down to his feet. He tightened his buttocks; rigid then soft, then he bit his lower lips, practicing silence.Under him, the sheet was rumpled and a part of him lay on the bare mattress, causing him some discomfort, but that was nothing, for he presumed himself numb.

Please read the rest HERE

Two poems by Niran Okewole (Nigeria)

2010-12-16T01:46:00.000-08:00

CONFESSIONS OF A CAMERA REEL

These spools trafficking before limp eyes

Like the passion of Roman Polanski,

What new line spectra, how tell

What torrid eyes have seen?

The lens bloodied by shrapnel

On the plains of Sudan, children smoked

Out by Janjaweed.

They have known good times too,

Village festivals where newly foreskined

Boys dance to the delight of young virgins.

Does it matter that in the same clearing

I have shot a baby learning to walk?

Kodaked parchments of skin sagging over bone,

Old hags marching for peace

With bare wrinkled breasts

While rival warlords claim the rights?

I live to shoot another day.

RANDOM NIGHTS

I am explaining a few things about nights,

Anodyne nights, nights gelid like cold oats,

Nights of acid drop,

Nights of camouflage and boots and border patrol,

Nights when Time, history’s mongrel, slinks away

on Kafka wings,

Nights when pyramids of hate scribble

Their signature against the sky.

Nights ticking away like larvae under the skin.

BIO

Niran Okewole was born in September 1977. He is a senior registrar at the Psychiatric Hospital, Lagos, Nigeria. He won the MUSON Festival Poetry Prize in 2002 and 2003. He also won the ANA (Oyo State) Drama Prize in 2000. He is the author of Logarhythms, published in 2005 by Khalam Editions.

You can read an interview with him HERE

Poetry by Tal Nitzan (Israel)

2010-12-15T14:27:00.000-08:00

Something quiet

Nothing is quieter
than blows inflicted upon others,
nothing threatens less
the satisfied soul’s calm.
The defeat in their eyes is mute,
their arms
drop quietly.

What a pleasant silence.

Except for a tiny piercing sound
that bothers mainly in the mornings
but can be dimmed easily
by the relaxing rustle
of newspaper pages.

Before they’re buried under ruins
they disappear under the Entertainment Section
the half full cup of coffee
the slamming door

in our house
that stands firm.

In the time of cholera

Facing one another
we turn our backs to the world’s calamities.
Behind our closed eyes and curtains
both heat and war
erupted at once.
The heat will calm down first,
the faint breeze
won’t bring back
the boys who have been shot,
won’t cool down
the wrath of the living.
Even if it tarry,
the fire will come,
many waters won’t quench etc. *
Our arms as well
can only reach our own bodies:
We are a small crowd
incited to bite,
to cling to each other
to barricade ourselves in bed
while in the ozone above us
a mocking smile
cracks wide open.

*(Song of Solomon, 8:7) “Many waters cannot quench love, neither can the floods drown it”

(c) Translation from Hebrew:
Tal Nitzan with Vivian Eden

Bio

Tal Nitzan has published four collections of poetry: Domestica, An Ordinary Evening, Café Soleil Bleu, The First to Forget and won many awards. Nitzan is the editor of the anthology With an Iron Pen: Hebrew Protest Poetry 1984 – 2004.

DADA bloGazine

2010-12-13T02:15:00.000-08:00

The DADA bloGazine is a perfect platform for delivering in part on our promise to break fresh talent on the scene and to serve up delighful reading! We would also post news snipets, updates and photos from our activities at various events and activities involving our authors from time to time.

Are you a writer? Do you love DADA books? Do you just absolutely love to share your writing? Proceed with the following steps if you want to post on the DADA bloGazine:

1. Write a truly amazing story or poem that would knock us out of our socks (not more than 5,000 words, make sure your work is well edited, works fraught with typos and grammatical errors would not be considered)
2. Sign up on our website (www.dadabooks.com) as a member
3. Post your story / poem on the DADA bloGazine.
4. Wait to see if we actually get knocked out of our socks. If we post your work on the DADA bloGazine (at one time or the other), just know we'd be searching for those socks right after!
5. If your work gets published, tell all your friends, then tell all your foes. At DADA books, we don't discriminate between friends and foes when it comes to good writing, we believe it is the fundamental right of every human being to know where it's happening.

Caveat: The DADA bloGazine is a free service and is rendered without prejudice as an online community for writers and those who enjoy good, quirky and exciting writing. No royalty is paid any author who posts on the blog neither is any reader charged for enjoying the content. All copyrights reside with each individual author. We at DADA books are not obliged to publish all works offered by members of the website for posting and would jolly well go ahead to publish exactly what we like!

READ MORE HERE

Five Uneasy Pieces by Rukmini Bhaya Nair

2010-12-11T08:40:00.000-08:00

I. Advice

Let the wind blow through

Let the light in, you say

But this I cannot do.

My poems are heavy, dark shawls

Huddled in them, every season,

I’m obscure as a sibyl.

The hailstone syllables

Clatter

And melt.

II. Reprisal

I, who have never known

Violence, see at nights

This – the moon-thugs

Finishing off a woman.

Mostly she is eyes

Minus the other marks

That make up a face. And

Her sari, winding red, tears

Audibly.

All my childhood, I slept

With a knife tucked under

Two pillows, for safety.

And that crescent still glistens

Maleficent.

Attention Playwrights....A Call for Submission

2010-12-06T03:29:00.000-08:00

To be able to make an informed decision in the coming 2011 general elections, the generality of Nigerians needed voter education and theatre has proven to be one critical tool in ensuring this education is passed across to the people in the language that they understand.

In view of these, Arojah Royal Theatre, an Abuja based professional theatre outfit seeks short voter education plays from interested writers from across the nation to use for our Voter Education Project.

All interested playwrights are expected to submit a short play that conforms with the guidelines listed below to arojahconcepts@yahoo.com:

1.      Must be written in English

2.      Can be set in any part of Nigeria

3.      Play must address at least three fundamental issues i.e affirmative action, gender participation, free & fair election, violence free election etc.

4.      Must be between 20 – 30 minutes

5.      Must not have more than 7 – 10 characters

6.      Deadline for submission of 22nd December 2010

Benefits to playwright.

-          Please note that the best three scripts selected will be produced by our outfit

-          Selected plays will receive N50,000 each (copyright remains property of the playwright)

-          Best 11 entries will be considered for publication project tagged ’11 Voter Education Plays for 2011 General Election’

For further enquiries please email: arojahconcepts@yahoo.com or call: 0803 453 0786.

Jerry Adesewo
www.jerryadesewo.blogspot.com
0803 453 0786

Thumbs up, Saraba births 7th Issue

2010-12-04T15:21:00.000-08:00

And here's a press release from the ezine:

Saraba, an electronic literary magazine is in its 7th Issue. In these issues, we have exlpored themes as diverse as Family, City Life, Economy, Niger Delta, Religion/God, and Technology.

Our goal, from the onset, has been to encourage young emerging writers -- although our contributors have ranged from unknown writers to well-known ones. We are proud to assert that our contributors are
mainly young writers, whose writig are previously unknown, and whose talent and promise are overt in their works.

We have published writers mostly from Nigeria. But in addition, our contributors are writers resident in London, Paris, South Africa, Malawi, Zimbabwe, Kenya, India, USA, Zimbabwe, Russia, Cameroun,
Australia, and so forth.

Our 7th Issue, which is our most recent, was released on 30th November. It is our proudest effort till date. In the Issue, we question what technology means to us, and whether it can even be
defined.

Writers in the issue include Sokari Ekine, Myne Whitman, Unoma Azuah, Kola Tubosun, Temitayo Olofinlua, Damilola Ajayi, Omar Abdul-Jabbar, Uche Uwadinachi, Ironkyo, Emmanuel Iduma, Yemi Soneye, Olusola
Akinwale, Deji Toye, Mark Lalude, and Adebiyi Olusolape.

It includes an interview with Russian digital artist, Vladimir Gerasimov, as well as a feature of his illustrations.

The issue can be downloaded from http://sarabamag.com/featured/saraba-7
Our Issue and Chapbooks are published on www.sarabamag.com and can be downloaded free. We call on literary enthusiasts and the general reading public to explore the wide talent on offer.

We encourage reviews, links and critical acclaims of our work. Our site is compatible for discussion and sharing.

Join us in creating unending voices.

--
publishers@sarabamag.com
www.sarabamag.com
+234 (0) 806 703 3738
+234 (0) 806 005 0835

Call for Submissions: CELEBRATING NIGERIA AT 50

2010-12-01T02:51:00.000-08:00

Entries are invited for an Anthology of Poems on the Fifty years of Nigeria’s independence and nationhood to be published by Aboki Publishers.

Deadline of submissions: 5th December, 2010.

Postal Address:

Tartule Tijah
Department of Languages & Linguistics
Benue State University
Makurdi.

Email: tartijah@yahoo.com

GSM: 08065313288, 08080419699

Sentinel Nigeria Issue #4 is out!

2010-11-30T01:32:00.000-08:00

You'll enjoy this edition of Sentinel Nigeria, and that's not because I'm in it, but of course because I'm in it! This edition features an interview with Ismail Bala, poems from Funmi Aluko, Okoduwa Tanko Mature and many others. Here's a poem from the ezine.

The Mislaid Bracelet and the Bandaged Wrist

(A Variation on a Theme by C P Cavafy)

Now I turn and trudge back with you,

Our eyes rummaging the dirt for that bracelet,

Mid-day sun so cruel it seems the very light

Is being sabotaged and will soon be gone

As its vast furnace dissolves.

And you,

Squatting on your knees among pebbles and grass,

Your shadow, lost beneath the horizon encircling us,

Turns this submerged path into a wandering boat

Where now we’ll continuously be together,

As time, dazzled by the day’s splendour, ignores us,

And the blood throbs in your bare wrist.

She said she had injured herself on a staircase, or had tumbled,

but certainly there was some other reason

for the injury, for the bandaged wrist.

She was reaching up the top for a shot

she wanted to take more closely

when the bandage came unloose. A tiny blood ran.

I tied it up for her again, wasting far too much time

over the edging; she wasn’t in pain,

and—to be candid—I liked starring at the blood.

That blood. It was all part of love.

When she left, I found a piece torn from the bandage

under her seat, a strip I should have dumped

straight in the bin—but I picked up and raised it to my nose,

and kept there a long time:

her blood on my nose, o dear, my beloved’s blood.

READ MORE

Derek Walcott's, A Far Cry From Africa

2010-11-26T18:04:00.000-08:00

It is 1.47am. I should be in bed. I’m not. I’m not an insomniac, there is just no sleep in my eyes, perhaps because I have not tried. My head is empty and my mind wanders into nothing exactly, many times. So, I browse the internet, looking for that nothing exactly and look what I found: Derek Walcott’s A Far Cry from Africa on the Norton Anthology of Poetry website.

I know we all love this poem. You don't? Oh, common!

A wind is ruffling the tawny pelt
     Of Africa. Kikuyu, quick as flies,
     Batten upon the bloodstreams of the veldt.
     Corpses are scattered through a paradise.
5     Only the worm, colonel of carrion, cries:
     "Waste no compassion on these separate dead!"
     Statistics justify and scholars seize
     The salients of colonial policy.
     What is that to the white child hacked in bed?
10     To savages, expendable as Jews?

You can read the complete poem HERE

A flash fiction contest from African Writing

2010-11-25T10:43:00.000-08:00

First Place Award: £100 and Publication for 8 shortlisted stories

Competition Guidelines:

Deadlines: Entries close - 31st January, 2011. Winners announced - 4th April, 2011.

Stories must be previously unpublished (and must not be available on any blogs or publicly accessible online repositories).

Stories must be the sole work of the entrant.

Stories must be 750 words or less.

Entry is free.

Only one submission can be made per entrant.

Only online submissions are acceptable. Entries should be emailed to flashprize(at)african-writing.com as an attachment in the .doc or .rtf format with 'Flash Contest' in the subject line.

The email must contain the entrant's name, the title of story, and the entrant's physical address and contact phone number.

Please do NOT include your name on your story. Neither the story nor the name of the attachment should include a reference to the writer's name.

Simultaneous submissions are NOT acceptable.

More information HERE

Young Writers issue of Sable LitMag.

2010-11-23T03:10:00.000-08:00

We invite young writers of colour from all over the world to submit work from all genres and styles, for our Young Writers issue of Sable, including Fiction, poetry, memoir and essays written by writers between the ages of 16-25.

The editor for this issue is Warsan Shire, a 22 year old writer and poet based in London. Her poetry has been translated into Italian and Somali. She has performed internationally in North America, South Africa and all over Europe. Her first collection Teaching mother how to give birth is soon to be published with Flipped Eye. Her work will appear in the forthcoming Black British edition of Wasafiri magazine.

Final extended Deadline for submissions - 3 December 2010.

SABLE SUBMISSION GUIDELINES

· All work submitted must include a short bio (maximum of 150 words) and a High resolution photograph.
· Work submitted must be attached in the email and not found in the body of the email.
· ALL work must be labelled clearly with your full name and the title of work.
· Work must not exceed the word limit.
· All work must be in this format or will not be accepted
· Times new roman font
· size 12 font
· double spaced
· Your full name must be on each page of your work (Header or footer)

Fiction
Short stories, extracts from a novel or flash fiction.
Other styles within fiction also welcome.
Length- 2500 words

In Translation
All veteran and budding translators or writers who produce work in their native language and in English, (fiction or poetry) should send translations and other information including a brief write up on author and translator. For translators, what qualities attracted you to the work? We will give ten pages to each writer featured to publish
some of their best pieces along with a photo, biography and any other images that illustrate their work. A sample of your work will also appear on the SABLE website in the future. In Translation submissions should follow the same guidelines for poetry and prose in both their chosen languages of submission and in English.

Memoirs

Memoirs of home, family, or country. Childhood memories, coming of age, change of life. Complete pieces or excerpts. Stimulating, exciting, informative, experimental. Any or all of these are welcome
within your piece.

Length: 2500 words.

Travel Narratives

(Travel Narrative submission closed)

Essays

We are looking for contributions on historical, contemporary aspects and future projections
of literature or culture. The work should reflect original thoughts.

Length: 2500 words

Expressions

(Expressions submissions closed)

Length: 1000 words (flexible)

Classic Review

What's in a classic? We're seeking submissions of literary reviews for this review essay section of classic reviews. If you've read a body of work by a writer of colour that has moved you, we are interested in receiving a piece on it - even if they are not 'famous'.

Sable Classic Reviews are opinionated, critical, and to the point. Poetry, fiction and Non-fiction are all acceptable. For completed pieces, we need you to supply titles of books featured, their ISBN's and publisher details.

Length : 1000-1500 words

(Poetry / travel/ Expressions submissions closed)

Note: Please email if you would like to present something new and exciting in creative writing. If you are a photographer or artist who also writes, we welcome your work in the form of comic strips, anime, photo journalism etc.

All Submissions and queries should be sent by email to sableten@gmail.com by Friday 3 December.

http://bookaholicblog.blogspot.com/2010/11/young-writers-issue-of-sable-litmag.html

Akeem Lasisi is a genius

2010-11-23T00:43:00.000-08:00

The first time I wacthed Akeem Lasisi perform his poems I left with just one word on my lips--Great!

His new work WONDERLAND (Eleleture)is a six-track album that is the fruit of reflections, experimentation and actual creative engagement that spanned over five years, WONDERLAND is a recreation of the total African poetic heritage that simultaneously offers the listener songs, inspiring poetry, drama, fun and more.

The poet is out with a CD and it is hot. For now, you can order for a copy by calling the number +234 7088589866, +234 8032311574, + 234 8023687884

http://pmnewsnigeria.com/2010/09/17/akeem-lasisi-in-wonderland/,

http://thenationonlineng.net/web3/columnist/tuesday/olakunle-abimbola/19682.html

The fate of faeces is a sewage debate

2010-11-20T10:11:00.000-08:00

It is November that time of the year we are stingy

With desires, we make little time to get ourselves

New dreams, drenched in the rain of old ambitions.

We keep breaking oaths and chewing gums

Over unfulfilled moments that are reminiscences,

Also ghosts, that go to sleep to keep hearts aflame,

Not to turn problems into shame and bring us to a stop

For a small romance with loafers, singing dolefully;

Iwe kiko lai si oko ati ada

We too start to sing to ourselves and even make

Rice-grain foolery of our retention, for knowledge,

Soon dissolves in the embrace of a bigger hope.

It is November already; like the year of the end is now,

And we do not wish to be caught in the bankruptcy of the hour,

As posters pose as the only hope that leads our nose astray

But we don’t smell rats; we are now vermin,

And there is little need to start smelling ourselves.

(c) Jumoke Verissimo 2010

Writing, feeding and filling in

2010-11-19T05:21:00.000-08:00

I once asked a friend, and an 'uncle' in this business of writing, how he copes with being a journalist, owner of a Public Relations company, editor, and reviewer (and some other things I might have missed) while chunking out numerous poems and even short stories. He smiled slyly like he has the key to a stolen chest. It took a while, but now I have interpreted that smile into; boredom of routine gives credence to your emotion and you come home writing furiously like it is the only hope to staying alive.

There’s also the place of reading—while others watch the sorry sight of the city and its journey into renewal, the inhibited writer is engrossed in a book on a city bus, even where she’s fastened between two ample-sized commuters who can’t understand why anyone is bent on reading, in that state; hot weather, stuffy bus and smelly roadside. Nah!

But, faced with the music of either dance or drown and strangled daily with ideas on the road to subsistence. I keep my sanity with reading on a bus anyhow.

Time is short these days and it is not about dying or growing old. It is about not knowing where the next Other project will take me and how long, bearing in mind that only a living soul can write, so here I am fighting between proposals and poetry and the new ideas that boggle my mind for narration.

At times, I fear that I must come across as a bit weird to my clients, but one thing I have always reminded myself is; dedication to what you do is very important. I seem to have fared well, as I get a pat on my back and a pay cheque (that keeps me hoping for the big one). I am of faith that there’s some sunshine there.

I am certainly not the only writer who has each time pondered over why such a big burden of seeing what others don’t see, yet be denied as much pay check to even cater for humble needs, except you follow the rule of being ‘unnecessarily lazy and find a decent job.’ After all, it's just a romantic notion of reality written in stanzas or into a story.

Writing is a decent job! There are no smudges. (Except when the job is done and the reviews are unfriendly of course). And seriously, don't the many sleepless nights count. In those times of needful solitude; how does one explain that the absentmindedness and daydreams are as important to my work as endless dinners to meeting new clients are essential.

I am going to make a New Year resolution to remain a full-time writer next year in Nigeria. I am also going to learn the sax and build myself a gramophone and rewrite the Theory of Relativity and write poetry on the walls of Lagos and anyway, from then on, I don’t think it is going to be hard introducing what I do to people henceforth—I am a poet and I just finished writing a novel, which is in itself, still a work-in-progress until published. I do a bit of this and that and, I write.

Poets should not write novels.

2010-11-18T15:30:00.000-08:00

It is not like anyone has made it a law yet; it is simply the surprise that meet the utterance, should a poet volunteer information that she has just completed a novel. In a way, there’s almost something licentious in her revelation and in some quarters, Janus-faced. It’s almost like having more than one lover. But then having more than one lover and keeping them would mean a level of mental and demonstrative dexterity.

By now, you know the said poet is my humble self (It is the only title I’ve ever really given myself, pardon the show-off). There’s a bit of introspection that bring into bits the sole intent of why one ever set out to write in the first place.

In interviews, there’s much easier formulation based on the journalist’s question some abruptly intelligent sounding statement may come to fore, or even one that may label one as a fluke. There are no rules to this question types; maybe a little pondering over and over and over, and a constant reminder that it’s the most meaningless reason to hang my life on. But in truth, I have never tried to explore the question, other than times when I need to check that the word ‘principle’ still exists in my vocabulary. (It is not a tidy world today. I am sure you’ll agree).

But to keep a fair share of the question answered, I will say I do not know when I began to write, for it is a long time now, but I know something I have always wished to do is write as well as I imagine. And in any case, poetry remains for me the closest textual/graphic image to achieving that and even now as I complete my novel, I am looking desperately for a way to connect it to poetry. But you don’t force these things; it is not exactly difficult to see from Lola Shoneyin's debut as a novelist that she is a poet. (So?)

Now, with a novel off my hand, and still struggling to raise money for research of a poetry narrative I am working on, I look at November and I can say, bring it on 2011. It is a month to go and it still seems too soon to say that anyway.

An anthology you may like

2010-11-08T05:00:00.000-08:00

You can read a review of the anthology; 'Daughters of Eve and other new short stories from Nigeria in NEXT NEWSPAPER

Here's an excerpt:

'Jumoke Verissimo's ‘Lightless Room' is a stellar, and I dare say refreshing example, of how the writer can play the role of architect and engineer, but above all, as eye, ear, and voice to the unseen, unheard and unspoken. Verissimo's creative impulses manifest themselves through a room, its colours, stench, occupant, visitor, and its being.

"She decided she wouldn't care about the darkness in the room anymore, or the changes he had had over the years. She leaned against the chair, and heard the droning of his metallic voice, but not his talk."

It is pastels like this from ‘Lightless Room' that tell the story of a voice silenced and an aspiration extinguished. A silence that is both deep and mystical. It tells the story of a Nigeria that is complex-ugly and beautiful, insane yet wise. It is a story that personifies the meaningfulness and salient truths that Cortazar envisions.'

“From His Coy Mistress” by Ashley Anna McHugh

2010-10-31T04:59:00.000-07:00

“If only we had time enough,” he said,
“Your coyness would be fine. Of course I’d wait.
But, honest to God, we don’t.” I took the bait,
and took his hand, and led him to my bed.

Once I let him have his sweet-tongued way,
time didn’t run. It yawned. Dry, dull and vast,
eternal deserts stalled the sun. Eyes glassed,
I waited while he dove on me like prey,

adoring–just a bit too much–each breast,
but never looking in my eyes at all.
Rolling our strength and sweetness to a ball
took fifteen minutes, maybe, at the best.

So gentlemen, fill me in: If there’s not time
for decent sex, how’s coyness such a crime?

Poem was originally published in
E-verse radio

Ashley Anna McHugh is the winner of the tenth annual New Criterion Poetry Prize.

I leave, River Lone

2010-10-29T15:31:00.001-07:00

I have visited many rivers

None has brought me to my knees

Even Styx gave me no quake

The waters of the world say I’m soul

Across and wide, above and below

Where rivers met, I went there

My desires sat in a liquid strength

My course flowed into your snare

You knew my name before I arrived,

Isn’t that why you disowned me thrice

Said without me, you would be deprived

For my boundaries flooded your waters

You wished to keep me in you, I see

Yet you knew we lived in a world apart

Your grip has paralysed my legs

But on these bent knees, I depart.

The Voyage

2010-09-10T12:54:00.001-07:00

A journey dies a pace to the end
One step from start is the voyage

This conceit in designing a people
A vapour
Speak airs into coagulating boils
Until sweat turn pus in skin’s crinkles
Pressure becomes a whorl

A foot ahead, desires part
For no end and no beginning

The one who walks a dream
Knows not he walks a dream

A voyage
Is not the place to go
It is the place to be

As distraction wedges freedom
The journey begins along the way

No cowry to trade with the ferryman
This trip accepts and offers only bribes

A mind relies on a mouth that’s on stilt
An Ambition to unite befriends asunder

‘tho Peace comes in knowing freedom
A little shift, the big sojourn is to change

The journey is not around for a choice
Empty promises, stay idle in flipping visions

Call for Submissions: CONTEMPORARY AFRICAN WOMEN’S POETRY

2010-09-01T11:03:00.000-07:00

Across the continent as well as in the African Diaspora, African women are well known for their word craft. Over the centuries, African women have accomplished difficult feats using a capacity for words that is only surpassed by their ability for physical labour. This project on Contemporary African Women’s Poetry is looking for submission of poems written by African women from all works of life. We are looking for: (A) poetry about contemporary African life and experience on the continent; (B) poetry about life in the African Diaspora.

Poems may focus on any of the following: the work life, motherhood, wifehood, children, the state and nation, war, Africa’s wealth or lack thereof, poverty, HIV-AIDS, prison, freedom, celebration, grief, happiness, border crossings, marriage, birth, the environment, loss, love, trans-nationalism, migration, gender, race, class, and any other topics or issues that interest African women globally.

Unpublished poems are preferred. The original poems can also be in any African language if the poet will provide a translation into English. If the original is accepted, it will be published alongside the translation. If a translator is used, the author should indicate how credit should be acknowledged. Maximum number of submissions per person is three (3) poems.

For consideration, submissions should reach us before or on December 31, 2010. Please send submissions by email to: Anthonia Kalu (kalu.5@osu.edu); Folabo Ajayi-Soyinka (omofola@ku.edu); Juliana Nfah-Abbenyi (jmphd@ncsu.edu)

For submissions via snail mail, please mail your submissions to:

Anthonia Kalu, PhD

Professor

Department of African American and African Studies

486 University Hall 230 North Oval Mall

The Ohio State University

Columbus, OH 43210-1319

Folabo Ajayi-Soyinka, PhD

213 Bailey Hall,

1440 Jayhawk Blvd.,

University of Kansas,

Lawrence, KS 66045.

Juliana Makuchi Nfah-Abbenyi, PhD

Professor

Department of English

212 Tompkins Hall

North Carolina State University

Raleigh, NC 27695-8105

Sentinel Magazine (issue 3) is out!

2010-08-29T09:53:00.000-07:00

The lastest edition of Sentinel Nigeria edited by Richard Ugbede Ali. It looks good!

Maybe Things {inscribed for LS}

2010-08-02T02:34:00.000-07:00

Fairy girl like weathervane spins by the breaths of a sea
Arms stretched in a bow at red fingertips easily
As a Tamil naiad woven of elements . . . we spy her whirling
Of longing like to caress demanding waves, to wind her oneness
With fatal shells lying doomed on shorelines, with lines
Of panicky crabs hastening unto a dumb sea of signs.
We laugh at this dream of safety, fossiled in lines, knowing
Sweet specters never kept from what calls without fail.

We turn to the call of cities that swallow their young
In yawns of grey concrete and high-rise dreamcages
Where organs toll requiems for friends whilst we weary with
Crafting poems into chronic stones as trick offerings to god. . .
But our dreams of flight fritter, clogged by alleys of alternatives
Fairies by seas spread open arms; Turn Here! We stay our curse
In memory of friends past, we know we too shall meet our ends
As all do fated too late and far from butterflown, sun yellow fields

We sigh away to our carnages and let all these creep to the edges
Of poems, to fade there with the Chimera. . .amidst our maybe things.

Richard Ali (c) 2010

hold me by İlyas Tunç

2010-07-28T09:52:00.001-07:00

nightmares! they wake up women

for new loves

hold me!

the wind is raging; it forces open the balcony door… footsteps! what’s happening outside? maybe meat eating rats or vampires to suck your blood… look! a bat is tapping on the window with its wings… watch out! a tarantula on the wall is grinning at you…

hold me!

I know why snails withdraw into their shells and why lyre birds hide deeply in the bush… but you have no shell or hedgehog spines… my worried ladybird! loneliness is an iguana!

hold me!

out there is the wildness of tropical jungles, the depths of seas and cliffs… think of leopards, hyenas, weasels… and of well-fed carrion flies beneath your flesh…

hold me!

unknown dangers become real, evil souls become visible, strange things happen… look! ghosts have gathered clothes from the washing line, you can see them wandering on the balcony… watch out, there is a pillow and an invisible hand over your throat! you have no friends, lighthouse keepers don’t either… my poor little angelfish! loneliness is a killer whale!

hold me!

Translated by Robert Berold and the poet

İlyas Tunç is presently working on a translation project, where he translates poems by Nigerian poets into Turkish, weekly, in a national newspaper.