Gadaffi's death and Ozymandias, the poem

Ozymandias
by Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822)
I met a traveler from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal these words appear:
“My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!”
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

Lancaster-the week that was, Summer of 2011.

Where do I even begin to talk about the enriching week at Lancaster during the Summer School? And do I love that we were not in London? Of course. Because here the houses and gardens are more Ugandan style, with flowers, trees, space, water and everything London is not. And do we love that the Professors are so non imposing? Oh yeah. They have huge profiles, award-winning publications and their confidence and self-assurance as writers comes from something deeper than all that.
Lancaster, inanimate, grid-like, empty that Summer so all 16 of us in the class have to create an acceptance of warmth, hugs and listening ears for the week in order to survive in the otherwise quite vacant academic space. Oh yeah, there was a group that had hired a little of the space for a Karate camp and a few Asians there for a pre-English course but pretty much, we only had each other. It was easy for Maria and Shola, whose warmth diffused any tension and whose light heartedness and glows were always welcome. And then, Martin, whose novel could easily, easily win an award.
It had been long since I was in class and my last class was full of Ugandans and a few Kenyans and Tanzanians. This was at a whole new level of a global experience. Lancaster is all into diversity, so it helped that the 4 Africans in the class added to the aesthetics and also enriched the literature discourse. By enriching, I do not mean shouting others down because of a disagreement on Chimamanda’s novel but rather bringing our own experience and ideas to the core of discussions.
On the first day, it took me about 30 minutes to get to my room and not only because I suck at map reading but because the only person who could help was a cyclist we met 15 minutes into the walk who gasped at how far we were from Cartmel college. Everyone complained about the beds but they have never slept in Mary Stuart where you carry your own mattress, duvets, sheets, soap and many students sleep in garages because of the limited accommodation. It is incomparable.
In the evenings, we had readings, first from our tutors and then us. There were always polite nods of approval afterwards, I like the character’s diction, I like your style, oh and I like your humor, and it is very clever the way you delivered the surprise at the end. Most of these comments came from people who were half awake. It is not easy after a four course meal to sit in comfy sofas with a glass of wine in hand and expect to pay full attention to one hour of readings. Isn’t there a law against that kind of thing?
I loved Lancaster, truly I did. I love being with people who take literature seriously and are so engaged where you don’t have to exchange business cards and pretend to be interested but where everyone is really cut out to be a writer.

And even more pictures...

MORE PICTURES BNPA 2011

PICTORIAL

Third winner, Flavia Kabuye, BNPA 2011

BEADS OF HOPE

Pendants, chains, accessories
Atop her pedestal
Scissors, wraps, bracelets
Glitter in the night
A ghastly thought crosses her mind
She falters in her stride
Her finger is bare
A gold ring is missing!

“For better, for worse…”
She echoes the friendly words
As she works through the basket of beads
To find a match for her apparel
Silver, polished, African
Coffee brown, lilac, hot pink
Bead by bead she embroiders
Her dream wedding gown

Round, hexagonal, cone shaped beads
Solid, transparent, big and small
Sequins, patterned, assorted
Red and gold, like cherry blossoms
Beads of hope, beads of love
Colour her reverie
Songs of enchantment
Woo her destiny

Like a crown on a tattered mannequin
Similar mental pictures fade away
Quietude, a dazzling light in her dream path
Happiness, the amazing result
She conquers her space once again
Like daffodils, the harbinger of spring
Sees new sprouts in every deadheaded rose
And revivifies immaculate hope beyond seasons

Counting bead after bead
A perpetual smile lights up her face
Holding on to a hope she cannot count
Whispers of ‘congrats’, ‘congrats’
Come through the clouded confusion
She will prevail
Ornamented
With beads of hope!


This poem by Flavia Kabuye won third prize in the 3rd BN annual Poetry ceremony. Her poem had spunk, style and was a fresh version of the theme, Hope. Flavia won 100 US Dollars, an autographed poetry collection and handmade jewellery by ATOO designs. This award was sponsored by Stichting Doen and madandcrazy.blogspot.com.
Congratulations Flavia!
http://bnpoetryaward.blogspot.com

Second winner, Rachel Kunihira, BNPA 2011

Battling darkness
Standing there watching;
Watching the skies darken
With soot and smoke,
Staining Blacker than the crows cawing
In the night surround.
Watching dreams die
In the heat that could be felt
In the mindless screams of men.
Of women. Of despair all around.
Standing there numb,
Numb with disbelief.
As the stall she had:
Had set her heart on,
In the fire burning hot,
Became one with the ground.
Morning dawned:
With lightning streaking the skies,
Thundering with the wailing of sirens
Bringing puny hoses. Expecting
To quench the heat
-The fury- of dying dreams.
…
Morning dawned:
With the breaking skies Pouring
Forth in torrents of fresh floods. Drenching
The flames. Quenching them. With the clean scents of heaven
Forming splintering rivers kissing her feet,
Bringing her all that she had
In the tin box that remained. It’s charred exterior protecting
Her solid memory of why;
She dreamed, she hoped, she strove.
Sewn on the table cloth passed down two generations
Her mother’s mantra, her heart’s song;
‘From ashes, we shall rise’.
And the sun broke from behind the clouds.

-

This poem by Rachel Kunihira won second prize in the 3rd BN annual Poetry ceremony. Her poem had spunk, style and was a fresh version of the theme, Hope. Rachel won 150 US Dollars, an autographed poetry collection, and handmade jewellery by ATOO designs. This award was sponsored by Stichting Doen and madandcrazy.blogspot.com.
Congratulations Rachel!
http://bnpoetryaward.blogspot.com