THE EASTAFRICANPOET

I’m getting raised in the MYSPACE, FACEBOOK and BLOGGING generation. Its called SOCIAL NETWORKING like we’re meeting at a fine spot in town and truly hanging out, not spending hours in front of a P.C. See I spend hours updating my blog,uploading content onto my MYSPACE page and trying to find out what my best buddies are up to in FACEBOOK.And we’re so many that we get sorted out into groups, scores of social geeks like me. Up here I tell about myself, I throw my best loves in the mix; like my best music and words then walk of the P.C all alone and go chill in my room; all alone. It’s even harder to talk about anything today, at least in the real world it is. I cannot even hold a conversation that is decent enough with anyone except the usual HI...But I can hang out at FACEBOOK for hours till my eyes hurt. Its called UTANDAWAZI in Swahili speak or GLOBALISATION in this language. You meet people as far as Japan, Australia an India who exist so close that you can virtually touch them and...

THESE POEMS ARE COPYRIGHT PROTECTED AND ARE THE INTELLECTUAL PROPERTY OF B.GIDEON AND K.COSMAS FROM THEIR COLLECTION; BYSAIL, BY CUPID. ALL THESE HAVE BEEN PUBLISHED WITH PERMISSION FROM THE COPYRIGHT OWNERS. ENJOY... OPTIMISTIC: MAY SEEKER BE FINDERS MAY WISHERS BE ACHIEVERS AND FRIENDS BE LOVERS AND MAY WE END AS ONE IN A KISS TENDER NIGHT: YOU ARE THE PASTE THAT DAZZLES ME WHITE YOU ARE THE WATER THAT WASHES ME PURE AND THE BLANKET THAT KEEPS ME WARM YOU ARE THE SUN THAT SAYS GOOD MORNING YOU ARE THE MOON THAT KISSES THE GOOD NIGHT AND YOU ARE THE STARS THAT WISH ME SWEET DREAMS REASONS: YOUR PRESENCE IS WHY MY EYES SEE YOUR VOICE IS WHY MY EARS LISTEN YOUR BREATH IS WHY MY LUNGS RESPIRE YOUR BLOOD IS WHY MY HEART BEATS AND YOUR LOVE IS WHY I LOVE. AS FOR LOVE: LET ME BE OF GUILT IF INNOCENCE IS A FACTOR MAKE THEE RIPE SO THY GRAPES MAY DRIP OF VINE LET I BE PRISONER IF FREEDOM WILL NOT LET IT BE STARVE M...

Ghost purge And bludgeon my soul They whip and lash me As they dance around me Getting an erotic high As they move me closer to hell I whine Amidst my bloody tears And wish I was subliminal in her arms.

Why should I walk my own road And be dubbed a rebel? Why do they call me wrong When I only do it different? Why is it referred to madness When it’s only what I truly am? And what’s wrong with being wrong?

Did you ever mess up your life so bad that you thought it would never be possible to redeem your lost self? Did you ever get into scum so deep that you believed getting out of the stench hole is a dream that you would never see come true? Well I’m in one of those now. I screwed up in my exams and my course is nothing close to what I thought it would be, my college also tells me that I cannot get a change of course as late as this; so until the next academic year, I’ll do what I do best; write till my head crumbles.. Check this one out The fuck up My brother is truly my keeper He tells me lead and rocks And it weighs me down, So bad ‘Fuck up And fuck up some more Then know and believe it That you’ll stand alone always’ His vibes bite And tear me apart I want to escape But he holds steady. ‘Shut the fuck up!’ I wail ‘No I won’t! I’m your brother.’ I won’t run away Not from this one Not like I did before Not like I want to so badly... I pick my back-pack And a match box, There’s two blun...

BROADCASTING FOR A LIMITED TIME ONLY,THE BEST POEM I EVER HEARD AND THATS FOR REAL!YOU'LL LIKE IT TOO JUST WITNESS. RIVES -DEF POETRY ENJOY,

There is an ugly word for what I'm doing now,it's the equivalent of stealing and where I come from they burn thieves,but this is the blogosphere and here anything goes,to whoever is offended by this;sorry...and I mean it too. Book: Butterflies of the Nile Author: Jane Musoke-Nteyafas Publisher: Cook Communications Reviewed by Joshua Masinde SHE writes poetry, short stories and plays. She is distinctly feminine, describing the African woman's beauty with a passion. Such is her description, "In the beginning, God populated the earth with black women and he made them a rich embellishing combination of all colours and shades. They were beautiful rainbow complexions of coffee, cocoa, ebony, chocolate…” she writes on and on, "and the Devil came along and created skin lighteners…" Butterflies of the Nile by Jane Musoke-Nteyafas, is drawn from a poem by the same title. The poem is an artistic praise of African beauty. To all African women, I dedicate the poem. Despi...

BEYOND JUBA PROJECT PRESENTS PEACE FILM FESTIVAL ‘A festival of peace screenings and discussions on the subject of conflict, peace and reconciliation’ IMAGES OF PEACE, IMAGININGS OF PEACE 30-31st OCTOBER 2008 AT THE NATIONAL THEATRE 3:00 to 7:30 p.m FREE ENTRANCE Thursday 30th 3:00 ‘trapped in anguish’ An informed account of the war in northern Uganda, its humanitarian implications and the process of return and re-integration of former combatants. 3:30 ‘ekisis’ A graphic docu-drama on the culture and the values of the Karamajong and their struggle to find everlasting peace in the region. 4:20 ‘panel discussion’ On the conflict in Northern Uganda and the situation in Karamoja, with DAVID PULKOL, African leadership institute, NAOME A.MAO, filmmaker among others. 5:50 ‘Uganda rising’ Multiple award winning film featuring interviews with BETTY BIGOMBE, SAMANTHA POWER,PRESIDENT MUSEVENI and MAHMOUD MAMDANI amongst others, gives a ground breaking account of the 20 year war in northern Uganda...

CLUB ROUGE 28th OCTOBER 2008 be there! 8:00 p.m (check out poster)

I can feel it in the air around me Like I’m locked in a windowless room And fumes are all over me Caressing my skin, Kissing my face And having their way into my chest I feel like she’s water A stream gushing easy torrents All over my naked self Bathing me, eroding my filth; Lashing me to a painless climax. She cleanses me… My feet got weary ages ago And I had myself closed off, Locked away to my own cages. Heavy iron bars defined my walls My walls that were my prison, One that I had let myself into My dungeons air chocked me easy And its filth layered on me gradually I was rotting away into decayed scum… But a tiny crack let in flower-like air And tiny drops streamed onto me Now I stand cleansed.

PRICED AT 16,400 UGX IN TOWN 4,920 UGX DOWNLOAD AVAILABLE AT lulu.com. Poetry in this pearl is no doubt looking up.The forums are getting stronger and less spaced out.The revolution is indeed getting televised. Poetic footprints is an anthology of critically acclaimed poems from DICKSON WASAKE who was born and raised in KAMPALA but now lives and works in LONDON.He has also lived in the BAHAMAS where he performed at the SIN QUA NON GALLERY in NASSAU,the BAHAMAS. What makes rthis book a spectarcular read is the cross-cultural phenomenon that the poet uses to bring out the true pictures of life. This is a journey in search of true identity and in this journey;love,anguish and joy mingle as easily as people in the streets.On one hand he talks about love had and lost,human injustice,cruelty and a community losing out on all these and on the other hand he talks about music,dance and celebration,his is a particularly careful balance between the negative and the positive. The collection is on...

"Just Like Water" [Verse 1] Moving down the streams of my lifetime Pulls the fascination in my sleeve Cooling off the fire of my longing Boiling off my cold within his heat Melting down the walls of inhibition Evaporating all of my fears Baptizing me into complete submission Dissolving my condition with his tears [Chorus] He's just like the water I ain't felt this way in years He's just like the water I ain't felt this way in years [Verse 2] Coursing through my senses, he's prevailing Floating through the space of my design Drowning me to find my inside sailing Drinking in the mainstream of his mind Filling up the cup of my emotions Spilling over into all I do If I only I could get lost in his ocean Surviving on the thought of loving you [Chorus] He's just like the water I ain't felt this way in years He's just like the water, the water I ain't felt this way in years [Verse 3] Bathing in the fountain of his essence He causes my expression t...

It’s really nice to get inspirational at times. The idea behind this poem was to inspire and not merely to inspire anyone but to inspire I, by that I mean me and nobody else but me. If it touches a soft spot in you simply know that these things we go through in our day to day living are nothing but occurrences in our spelled out paths. Paths that we have to race or trop through in our easy pilgrimage towards destiny... Make me wholly yours is about a tormented soul reaching out to the only relief it knows and the only one that can give that much needed relief from a life full of steep happenings. Make me wholly yours: Give me the firm belief The unshaking demeanor And rock hard devotion To you And to your grace Make me accept That this is just but A pre-defined path One that I have to tread upon As I approach my destiny Make me wholly yours Make even the tiniest bit of me Relentless in its pursuit To accept and acknowledge That you’re the all knowing one Instill it into me Deep and int...

She attacked my tongue With such vigor That I felt fright kiss me Her hands ripped my jeans Like they were paper Unnecessary and unneeded paper I don’t remember much after that But it must have been a lot My back remains my sole witness

I know only cold sweats When I see her approaching Curvy and graceful With a real woman’s gentle swagger I only know cold sweats When she touches my scrawny chest When she stands so close and I sink into her eyes I only know cold sweats When she shares her flower with me When our waters touch and mingle And when I drown in her dew I only know cold sweats When the smells of real love hit me And I reel in untold ecstasy... I only know cold sweats when she’s is away

I asked how she was doing She said she was ill And I was her remedy Plus she wanted to get well soon So soon enough I was dispensing the dose As she drowned me In her woman-musk The rhythms and rhymes Of love rent the air As we stayed busy Sinking in devotion and emotion.

No problem fine lady, reject me The fine hairs on your head will fall, I swear! Baldness will be yours as it is to the vulture. These streets you walk so proudly Will no doubt refuse you as you do me. The men you smile so well for Will smile as soon as wrinkles hold you. And the women who vainly claim That no beauty surpasses yours Will laugh when age hugs you. Go on, refuse me; age will not.

Ghosts float in the air around me Leaving me in a mass of white footprints As they trample Upon my helpless self. They whirl and twirl around me Like Bushmen performing a dance for their rain god. I press shut my ears and eyes But I only hear and see them better And the torment they sink me into is now worse. I hold hard to anything around me But in my gropping, my hands are held hard. Finally they’ve had me... It’s dark and I try to kick and wail with all my might I know it’s a losing try but I still fight hard, Finally I give in and I’m lifted sky high I hear their triumphant laugh in an echo Then it sinks in, Hell is now my home.

There is this pain Deep in me, Underneath the scars Bleed so profusely. You shared me My life My mind My body… I was never the best Perfection isn’t human You understand that too Now I scream And wish someone Helped me cross Life’s roads... Please return My distress calls. Hold me As I trip

Silence creeps through my walls Percolating noisily into my four walls Howling like a hurricane as it drowns me But another beat fights the shouting silence It’s the song and voice of my heart Steady and relentless in its rhythm My eyelids stay down but I clearly see the figures floating around me Long eerie fingered shadows rise from the darkness And try to grab my ghostly soul. My heart beat lays the background for this song And as it surpasses its climax it slows down Then the shadows hold me down and I’m gone

We went to his home Mugaga's home, the great Mugaga We needed jobs; desperately And we figured out he had lots. We entered the great gates Through the beautiful orchards Then to the great and beautiful house. We had talked to his son He runs the whole farm, It’s amazing to have money It just works for you Mugaga was watering his flowers So he told us to wait at the gate For his son would soon join us. It was quite early so we waited At the gate outside the farm His son was late but we could wait. Soon the sun was over our heads It was noon but we still waited Later on the sun hit our backs, Our rumbling bellies made us leave. We passed by Kiwavu's farm His fraction of an acre needed tilling. And his wife was ill so we opted to help He welcomed us inside His toothless grin still impresses me He gave us tea and mandazis But he had no cow, poor Kiwavu We left only because it was dark We would check on rich Mugaga tomorrow But the thought of the sun hurt us Plus those healthy and w...

Now listen all of you, this is not a poem, I repeat this is not a poem. It’s just some random thinking from a love-sick brother, a very love sick one I love love It’s the only thing that makes you feel really free Plus it takes you so high… So high that you ask yourself, Why have I been on that weed? Why had I not spotted her soon enough? And why don’t I look like that Brad Pitt fellow, See he’s got that fine, pouty-lipped lady on his arm... And he does it so easily; like breathing. If only I could be that fellow; If only...

I beg to be alowed to get silly..for once just allow me to, THIS SECRET ITCHES SO HARD INSIDE ME THAT I HAVE TO LET IT OUT. I have a secret to let out, Something quite personal. It’s about my prick; Right now he is slumbering in between my thighs Quiet and uncaring, Immediately he gets to know it’s him we’re talking about He gets all angry and puffed up. It’s then that he realizes that the fabrics I have on me Are just but a jail to him; So he fights hard to break out. But I never let him out without a proper reason... One reason actually; to drain him. Which I must admit, I love to. I love draining him when he is a puffy That draining takes me so high… (To be continued)

Silence creeps through my walls Percolating noisily into my four walls Howling like a hurricane as it drowns me But another beat fights the shouting silence It’s the song and voice of my heart Steady and relentless in its rhythm My eyelids stay down but I clearly see the figures floating around me Long eerie fingered shadows rise from the darkness And try to grab my ghostly soul. My heart beat lays the background for this song And as it surpasses its climax it slows down Then the shadows hold me down and I’m gone.

I personally believe that few forums in the underground elicit as much excitement and artistic psyche like WAPI, if any. This initiative for the underground arts is no doubt attaining its aim of showcasing how gifted the underground is. Solely propped up by THE BRITISH COUNCIL, WAPI is taking over in artistic hotspots all over Africa, the beautiful motherland. Kampala’s edition of WAPI is only in its 4th happening and is growing in leaps. Being the arts fanatic that I am, I would miss it for nothing...WAPI MY RIGHTS didn’t hit the spot this time round but a few big names were in attendance; I got to spot XENSON, the graffiti king who had an official’s tag. His graffiti is really good and I asked myself why he didn’t get into work-mode and show the canister amateurs how to do it right as the graffiti in the place was below par. I checked into THE PEOPLE’S PLACE at 2:52 and headed straight to the POETS/WRITERS tent where nobody showcased their work. Then to the ARTS tent where the painti...

HUSH… Hush… And move closer We won’t talk Not today, Not tonight. Its Been Too Long... Too damn long. Snuggle up closer And let me show you How hard You’ve lived inside my mind

Just home: I know a place Where the green on the land As they say, has close to 50 shades. The blue on the waters And the golden yellow of the sun Mix as if by magic; The magic of the greatest painter there ever was… Places where the waters House vast amounts of pricey black gold. Where the savannah is home To the most beautiful beasts And In virgin forests Where men and animals Drink off one water hole. I know of cities in the black continent, Where animal reserves Stand side by side with the sky scrappers. Cities in the great motherland Where music rules And guitars and drums and dancers Know no such thing as sleep. A home where great food is as plenty as air And the best chefs don’t wear white head covers Or work in some fancy 6-star place, No, they mix their recipes over charcoal fires Beside the dusty roads And under the street lights. I know of ladies Who fit so well inside their dresses You’d think they were sewn on them. Ladies who own black flawless skin Devoid of anything exc...

Need I say sorry? Should I apologize? Tell me... I left without a word, I just had to go. Yes, I had fun, I loved everyday of it. But there was never a day I didn’t think about you… There never was.

We all love, right? Right. So it’s only fair that we celebrate this great feeling. And for that I’ve searched the deepest of poetic places to come up with this. A love poem from Ethiopia, yes, Ethiopia, the land of the finest ladies. This is a translation from the original Amharic copy. I hope you get to enjoy it. The E.A .poet presents... Love song: You lime of the forest, honey among the rocks Lemon of the cloister, grape in the savannah A hip to be enclosed by one hand; A thigh round like a piston... Your back - a manuscript to read hymns from. Your eye - trigger happy shoots heroes. Your gown - cobweb tender And your skirts like soothing balm. Soap? Oh no, you wash in the finest Arabian scent. Your calf painted in silver lines I dare not touch you! Hardly dare to look back, You mistress of my body More precious to me than my hand and foot. Like the fruit of the valley, the water of paradise. Flower of the night, wrought by divine craftsmen. With muscular thigh she stepped on my hea...

Another weekend is here and soon enough it will be gone, and for that I try to find the best way to race through mine; its only one life,remember?Today the driver’s clock reads 2:11 as we speed past NKUMBA UNIVERSITY. On our way to Entebbe. All my tired self truly needs is just a moment by the waters and some loud music to rid my mind of the weariness its suffering from. After a few windy moments I’m there and as fast as I came I head to one AERO BEACH, which would best be described as a scrap yard, what with all the plane scraps around...(Some with their engines intact)and a bunch of old seats which break off and are discarded conveniently by the lake. I feed on some bad fish then grab a beach-seatee by the waters; I’m even lucky to grab one with foam on it so my scrawny bones won’t ache so much… These are the pieces I tried to put together. My buddy: A friend of mine never lets me be.. But today his nagging feels wanted I think he knows how much I need him It’s clear by the way he’s ...

I love this poem, I just do..First because I got the inspiration to do it from one of the finest ladies gracing the east African music scene and secondly because I just love it. Pretty silly, eh? Inspired by Nakaaya’s MATATIZO.mellow, beautiful and freshly laid back.. Her rock, her fortress. The sides of the stream were too bushy Full of itchy leaves and thorns which hurt. But amazingly the stream had no green in it. Not even mold or moss on its rocks. It was divinely different and strongly beautiful. Yet the water in it was only ankle deep And so pure it looked like a mirror. She sat in the middle of the stream A rock in the middle looked like Solomon’s throne. So she sat on it. Part of her robe in the waters below. She was the queen mother, the divine one. Maybe today, mama would come Lately she had become weary And the wait was now too cumbersome. She sat and looked ahead, aside then down. Light skinned and beautiful, she still was, But ridges had long been formed, tear paths. Her r...

I’m having trouble sleeping A painless throb is drumming in my mind. Like all the world’s worst drummers Have been paid to make sure I suffer. They keep drumming... Drumming out her name In a rhythm only I can comprehend As it’s only I they drum for If only she could hear this And tell the drummers to stop To stop making me suffer so If only she could stop them.

This piece of conscious poetry is for Kenya and Zimbabwe, whose definition of democracy is not different as they claim; just African. -HOT AIR BALOON- I'd like you to walk this line with me Think about this flawless being we call democracy… Consider it first as a big balloon Filled with gas or better still, A tonne of hot air. Then it's sent up to the hazy yet beautiful eyes. So that we'll be kept busy looking at it While a bunch of other fellows relentlessly pick our pockets, Funny. Funny that you might crack a smile yet there's nothing funny. So our impregnated-with-hot-air balloon won't always be aloft; It comes down to earth every 5 years or so And you and I are invited to get into its passenger basket. But there's a catch to this invitation though... That’s if you can throw out one of the people who sit tightly in it, So tightly that one feels they're nailed to the basket. But because you and I can afford neither the time nor the finances And there'...