My book, Unjumping is out.

My book, Unjumping is out, the link to it is here.
http://www.erbacce-press.com/#/beverley-nambozo-nsengiyunva/4542604103

FRAGRANCE, SECOND WINNER BNPA 2010

FRAGRANCE It’s the fragrance, mother; The intoxicating crispy fragrance Of coloured mint coinage. Sometimes the shimmering glitter Of gold or silver. It matters not mother What figures are imprinted on, Just the fragrance! The fragrance that drives me To plunder my core, To pillage my country to nothing, Squandering it to desolation. The fragrance that devours me And sparks hunger pangs, Coercing me to crave and covet theirs Staining my hands with blood It’s the fragrance mother; The musky musty odor Of old and used notes, Sometimes the dull hue of coinage That quenches my thirst and ardor! It matters not mother What figures are imprinted on Just the fragrance mother Just the fragrance. This poem was written by Regina Asinde who emerged second in the BN Poetry Award 2010. She won 150 USD, an autographed book of How to Save Money for Investment by Ken Monyoncho and an autographed poetry collection.

Making Modern Love, first winner BNPA 2010

Making Modern Love We are not like provincial lovers Who wait to stalk funerals That bring opportunities of replacing the departed, Under the watch of the night, in verdant shambas Armed with cash We’ll open our hearts On a plate of chips, with a soft drink Things to nibble and sip, but not too large to distract Maybe chaps? Muchomo and beer later? Chips chicken will soften us for now, And for future food that you commonly acknowledge is delicious. If you should stare in pockets so deep That the residential wallet is unseen by short fingers Soon enough other networks become sexy, Offering side dishes and desserts For we’ll soon meet other friends with longer arms It is constantly recommended by wily winners That going dancing eases misgivings In tender bones, Unlikely to be tempered by the softness of night lights. But if all is careening towards a cold spell Drinks should be laid out till we are released from thinking. We saw a secondary virgin sobbing at a table for two Weighed down by the meanings of disease. We saw a man who had become a man For he knew now, how close he was to the deceased And vaguely inundated with curses of,” Shit happens.” Stumbled away with thoughts that grew from booze And the dregs of making modern love. So while good things begin to afflict us now And beautiful things course through dull heads, Causing wings of desire to grow like mushrooms in a mist Of opportunity, At last. We shall soon make modern love. This poem was written by Sophie Brenda Alal, who emerged first in the BN Poetry Award 2010. She won 250 USD, an autographed book of How to Save Money for Investment by Ken Monyoncho and an autographed poetry collection.

THE HUSTLER-THIRD WINNER BNPA 2010

He roughly pushes through the populous kikubo lane. The titanic load on the head sinking his neck into his torso forcing his body to dwarf. "Fasi Fasi..." his mouth cries hoarsely, his tongue licking rivulets of sweat off his hard muscled face. His rapid pace slows, at the bounds of the thick crowd, his eyes blindly staring at the shoes of those in front of him, waiting hopefully for them to give space. A sharp pain cut into his left ear like water puffed through the nose. The rhythmical throbbing of his heart climbing to the head he felt hot, so hot that it hurt... His blood boiling at an increased degree. His head pounding hard asit swayed up, front and back. "A voice was calling..." His hands weakened letting loose of the load, suddenly his head felt heavy as his whole body slipped away from his will to reach his destination, " I am not going to be paid..." His mind concluded. he felt his head thinning, separating from the load at the jet of his breath as he fell on top of his face. This poem was written by Nakisanze Segawa who emerged third in the BN Poetry Award 2010. She won 100 USD, an autographed book of How to Save Money for Investment by Ken Monyoncho and an autographed poetry collection.

I'm getting published this year

Recently, I emerged second in an international poetry competition. My prize is a publishing contract and publication of my poetry in a chapbook. I'm thinking of a name, maybe Unjumping. Heere is part of the email.
DELIGHTED! Your runners-up prize will be a publishing contract with erbacce-press, publication of a 36 page chap-book of your work and six free copies of your new chap-book... we can start on this as soon as you like Beverley; I'll need the following:

A FULL snail mail address.
A title for your work.
A selection of your work (as much as you like).
A head-shoulders photo of yourself for the rear cover.
A dedication if you'd like one.
Any acknowledgements you'd like to include.

The Judges all liked your work...

My Candle

My Candle

Poem in respect and condolence to the bereaved after the July 11th terrorist attack in Kampala, 2010. Written by Beverley Nambozo Nsengiyunva


My Candle

My Candle Will Light Your Candle
My Comfort will shoulder your grief
My smile will alter your frown
My closeness will decrease the distance

I have no answers
But I have my heart, my words and my strength
The shadows of tragedy
Try to conceal the happiness we deserve
We do not choose to forget
We choose to seal our differences
With a bridge that only a heart can build
Because only a heart understands

May My candle light your candle

World Cup has everything to do with poetry.

From the opening ceremony to the most popular and least popular teams, I believe that World Cup has everything to do with poetry and nothing to do with football. The glamour of the artistes, musicians, dancers, rappers and fans, football becomes insignificant. There is no politician in the world that can accomplish the feat of gathering 64 nations from across histories of imperialism, borders of tyranny, politics of injustice and make them sit in the same stadium for more than one hour. There is no reason why a black and white leather ball redefines unity in a more rational way than hundreds of Protocols, UN meetings, Government efforts, ratifications and so on and so on and so on and so on. It just defies logic. And that is why The World Cup has everything to do with poetry. Most poetry defies logic; or does it?
I wrote this poem below after the infamous head butt of Zidane, who got the golden boot after that world cup. His career was dented but he left a memory in all of us. I’m not sure what I’ll write about this year.

World Cup 2006!

Head butt me on my chest.
Amidst all the cheers and applause!

Head butt me on my thighs.
I’ll open them for your pleasure.

Head butt me on my back.
We’ll fall and roll down together.

Head butt me on my head.
So I can score a goal with my tongue.

Head butt me on my feet.
I’ll dribble your face into my net.

Head butt me on my ears.
I’ll listen to your every fear.

Head butt me. Let the whistle blow!
Let them scream. Let’s give them a show.

Head butt me. Lose the game.
My love for you will be the same.