Sentinel Literature Festival

PRESS RELEASE: SENTINEL LITERATURE FESTIVAL

As part of the celebration of its 7th year in service to world literature from its base in Britain, Sentinel Poetry Movement is set to run a three-day Festival of Poetry, Fiction, Music and Fun. The time for the performances is 7pm to 10pm on the 1st, 2nd and 3rd of December 2009.

The festival will open with a short report on 7 years of Sentinel Poetry Movement by founder Nnorom Azuonye who also doubles as the Festival Director. This report will then be followed by poetry and fiction readings and performances, and live music by, among others, the headline acts: Harry Zevenbergen poet, performer and citypoet of Den Haag, author of “Punk in Rhenen”, Tony Fernandez - author of “The Sound of Running Water” and Editor of Africa Awakening magazine, Lookman Sanusi - a theatre practitioner, fiction writer and author of “Skeleton”, Nnorom Azuonye - editor of Sentinel Literary Quarterly and author of “The Bridge Selection: Poems for the Road”, Clare Saponia – a young voice with publications in The Recusant, Platform, Red Poets, Inclement and Pennine Ink. There is also Afam Akeh – founding editor of African Writing and author of “Stolen Moments” and “Letter Home and Other Poems”, Chika Unigwe - author of the bestselling novel “On Black Sisters’ Street”, and Malgorzata Kitowski – one of the foremost Poetry Film-makers in London and author of “Doppelgangers”. The three-day play will be concluded on the 3rd of December by the performance of “Sampo: Heading Further North” by the Middlesbrough duo Andy Willoughby and Bob Beagrie. SAMPO: HEADING FURTHER NORTH is a spoken word and music extravaganza of story telling, lyric poetry, beat sensibilities and postmodern experimentation by poets Bob Beagrie and Andy Willoughby with musical collaboration by world music duo Gobbleracket based on the Finnish myth cycle Kalevela connecting to their north eastern identity, it has toured the north to critical acclaim and is now heading further south! With its South London Premiere. Live music on the first two evenings of the Festival will be provided by South Africa-born Italian Folk Jazz singer songwriter Aletia Upstairs. The line-up includes new songs and others from her debut album, “Possibility”

The Festival will take place at two venues. On Tuesday the 1st and Wednesday the 2nd of December, the events will take place at Waterloo Gallery, Waterloo Action Centre, 14 Baylis Road, London SE1 7AA. Then on Thursday the 3rd of December the festival moves to Play Space, 1 Coral Street, London SE1 1BE. Both venues located across the road from the Old Vic are literally 2 minutes’ walk from Waterloo Station (Northern Line and British Rail), and about 4 minutes from Southwark Station (Jubilee Line).

For convenience, the £6.00 per day tickets can be purchased in advance from the Festival website, or at the door.
More information available at www.sentinelpoetry.org.uk
or www.sentinelpoetry.org.uk/literaturefestival
Tel: 0870 127 1967 or 07812 755751

Nnorom Azuonye
Festival Director

AMBIT'S POETRY & PROSE 200 WORDS COMPETITION

Hey, this is Nnorom. I thought this might interest some of you wordsmiths that follow my blog. 200 words could win you 500 quid. Not bad eh? Check it out.

Ambit Magazine is running a prose and poetry competition to celebrate its 200th issue and you are invited to enter poems or prose of 200 words for a chance to win.
1st prize: £500 - 2nd prize: £200 - 3rd prize: £75
The winners will be published in Ambit 200, in May 2010. The deadline is 15 February 2010.
See the below link for more details, and an entry form.
http://www.ambitmagazine.co.uk/200words.htm

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While you are at it, mate, don't forget the Sentinel Literary Quarterly Poetry & Short Story Competitions are on right now. Go to http://www.sentinelquarterly.com

Psychiatry Research Trust Competition Results Announced

The results of the Psychiatry Research Trust (Excel for Charity) Poetry Competition 2009 organised by Eastern Light EPM International have been announced. This competition has been held in aid of the Psychiatry Research Trust - a UK charity committed to finding solutions for the eradication of mental illness.

The First Prize winner of the competition is Molly Case with "NIGHT SHIFT ON THE DEMENTIA FLOOR." Second Prize went to Roger Elkin with THE TROUBLE WITH BEING A W, and Third prize was won by Neil Bates with LEARNING TO FLY.

There are four Highly Commended entries, namely: 65 YEARS AGO by Corrinna Toop, DOLPHINING by Angela Thomas, CARTING STONE by Roger Elkin and HER FIRST LESSON IN SIGN LANGUAGE by Don Dixon.

Congratulations to all the prize winners and the highly commended poets. Special respect to Roger Elkin who has given hundreds of poets unforgettable guidance as a teacher and as a former editor of Envoi. It is fantastic to see him continue to notch up wins across many competitions in the UK. Elkin you might recall also won the First Prize in the first Excel for Charity poetry competition in which was held in aid of Diversity House this year.

If you are interested in reading the report by Gerald England, the judge of the just concluded competition go to: http://www.easternlightepm.com/excelforcharity/psychresearchtrust_poetry2009_report.html

Songs for Wonodi - Publisher's Devil in Overdrive

Just a few months before my good friend Molara Wood left her life in London to join Next - that paper that is stealing Nigerian writers including Tolu Ogunlesi and Toni Kan from other employers, she mentioned to me a new call for submissions for an Anthology to be edited by Dike Okoro. Incidentally, just a few days earlier, I had chanced on a review on the Internet of Songs for Wonodi edited by Dike Okoro. This review by Jessica Bastidas had a sectioned that mentioned my name in this context:

Despite all the emptiness that was felt, they never stopped believing and never stopped loving. Although many other poems described the love for one’s country, Nnorom Azuonye reveals that insatiable love in “My homeland”.

They lie like bitter, twisted ruins
Battered by wind, age, and rain
Because once in them, they exude
A generosity of spirit, second to none.
Poverty, sickness, and diseases
I do not deny
The tantalizing taste of uziza
The tingling sensation of suya
Are all witnesses to my secret deal
With Africa, my beautiful homeland. (68)

Words as “bleak,” “corruption,” “deceptive,” “awe,” and “allure” all describe what is seen that the eyes cannot behold. Azuonye uses these words to describe the overall physical and emotional devastation. Even though only remnants remain of what once were there, the memories that live in those remnants, no matter how small, are never forgotten. That force to never letting go, no matter what ails them, is vivid.

I said to Molara, 'I recall sending some poems to Dike. He never got back to me to say he would use the poems, only for me to see a review in which a poem attributed to me is quoted.' I use the word attributed because, first of all, I DO NOT recall writing a poem entitled 'My Homeland.' Secondly, as I read those lines, as beautiful as they are, they didn't sound like me. Everything I have ever written, good or bad writing, depending on the judge, I have deliberately written as it is and I would recognise my words any time any place and I certainly did not write the words being attributed to me. Unless of course I was drunk, and I have been drunk a few times in my life. Even as I write this, I have prepared myself for lunch with half a glass of Chianti - which on an empty stomach makes me feel a little like I have had a Gulder or two.

Molara was kind enough to provide Dike Okoro's email address to me, and I wrote to request a copy of the book. Several e-mails later and a few reminders on Facebook messaging service, the book arrived this morning. As I searched for my name and my poems, I chuckled when I saw Amatoritsero Ede's legendary difficult name severally and insistently printed as 'Amaritsero.' 'Fuck! Dike, Amatoritsero will kill you,' I said to myself as I thumbed through the book. Then I found my name. Two poems appeared under my name; 'Isuikwuato' my favourite poem about my village which I wrote in 1989 when my life was still full of hope and optimism, first published in Summer 1990 in Agenda (UK), and 'My Homeland' which I did not recognise, because I did not write it when my life was at any kind of point - in fact, I did not write it at all.

It was like a Mike Tyson punch below the belt. The first thing that caused me severe pain was that the last line of Isuikwuato in Songs for Wonodi reads: Jenna Nkechy Akuchie, just after the actual last line; 'without fear or pain.' So anybody who reads this poem will be completely disorientated as the last line does not make any sense at all with regards to the rest of the poem.

Then I spent a few minutes looking at the notes on contributors and found an entry for a Jenna Nkechy Akuchie author of the 1994 poetry collection Crossing the Frontiers. (I wonder if Jenna is in any way related to fellow Umuahian and old friend Reginald Akuchie). There are no notes on a person known as Nnorom Azuonye. Poor Jenna does not appear in the Contents pages at all.

I suspect that 'My Homeland' was written by Jenna Nkechy Akuchie. This means that Jessica Bastidas' review should have read:

Despite all the emptiness that was felt, they never stopped believing and never stopped loving. Although many other poems described the love for one’s country, Jenna Nkechy Akuchie reveals that insatiable love in “My homeland”.

They lie like bitter, twisted ruins
Battered by wind, age, and rain
Because once in them, they exude
A generosity of spirit, second to none.
Poverty, sickness, and diseases
I do not deny
The tantalizing taste of uziza
The tingling sensation of suya
Are all witnesses to my secret deal
With Africa, my beautiful homeland. (68)

Words as “bleak,” “corruption,” “deceptive,” “awe,” and “allure” all describe what is seen that the eyes cannot behold. Akuchie uses these words to describe the overall physical and emotional devastation. Even though only remnants remain of what once were there, the memories that live in those remnants, no matter how small, are never forgotten. That force to never letting go, no matter what ails them, is vivid.

I was going to send this to Dike in private, but the reviews of this book are in the public domain, and dear Jenna must have been finding it extremely annoying. I would.

I am sorry Jenna

I didn't mean to steal your thunder

I didn't edit that anthology

And I didn't publish it.

I am sorry Jenna

If you want to hold somebody's neck

Try Dike Okoro's and bosses at Malthouse Press

What kind of excuses will they have?

I am convinced that Dike Okoro and Malthouse Press have been aware of the screw up on My Homeland but have made no attempt at a corrigendum whatsoever - even with a small note in response to the review by Jessica Bastidas, or a note inserted in copies of the book as they sell them.

- NNOROM AZUONYE

Introducing Sentinel Nigeria

Sentinel Literary Movement of Nigeria (SLMN) is now open for business. This is the fruition of a long-held dream and has been entrusted to a young man; Richard Ugbede Ali who has been a member of Sentinel Poetry Movement since 2003. Richard understands the Sentinel mission of contributing to the development of the literatures of the world by bringing together every writer - beginner or established - in a community where they can all learn from each other, and birth powerful creative works that will outlive our generation. Richard brings on board the energy of youth and optimism and shall work with a team of his own choosing to bring his visions of a Nigeria-specific literary community to life.

From the International Administrative domain of Sentinel Poetry Movement, I will chair Richard's Executive and Editorial Boards in a supporting rather than guiding manner in other not to interfere with the his autonomy and editorial policies.

I am excited about the wealth of poetry, fiction, drama, essays, interviews, reviews and biographies that will be published in the Sentinel Nigeria - the online magazine of contemporary Nigerian writing which SLMN will publish quarterly from 31st of January 2010.

To learn more about SLMN and get involved, go to
http://www.sentinelnigeria.org

- NNOROM

Obiwu's Biafran Hunting

BIAFRAN HUNTING

By Obiwu

On the other side of the road, behind the rowed outlays of mud fences, farther in the farmlands of Ezeowere, the town’s boys were abroad scouting earth-holes to catch slumbering rabbits in their surprised lair. My brother Emman and my cousins Anyïam, Cletus, Edison, Goddy, Isaac, Isaiah, Japheth, Jonah, Jonathan, Josiah, Nwachukwu, Chukwumaobi, Obi, Princewill, and Sunday were the trapsters of the Agbarama kindred. I discovered that humans learned architectural art from rabbit holes.

“Rabbit holes are not like a lion’s den,” Isaiah was saying, “with one entry and no exit. Where every animal that enters must kill all others to show its strength.”

“Nigeria was a lion’s den,” Isaiah joked to the half-hearted laughter of everyone.

“Every rabbit hole has an exit ten to twenty feet from the entry point,” Goddy continued, obviously addressing younger ones like me. “More ambitious rabbits have their exits much further. You must first comb out the exit route before you assault the entry point. Now, mass out!”

Quickly, we stuffed dry leaves and small sticks into a small round clay pot with a round opening rigged at the base. Then we put in flaming coals from a bonfire which we had made for the occasion. More dry leaves and sticks were pushed into the pot that smoldered amidst thick smokes that escaped from both the nozzle and the bottom opening. Goddy stooped on his knees to examine the entry point again.

“It is in there alright,” he said of the encircled rabbit. “The footprints are fresh.”

All the big boys fanned out in a circle. The diggers, who used a hoe, and the smoke-pot blowers crouched at the entry and took turns at their tasks. Others held machetes, cutlasses, and heavy sticks at the ready, including those who kept guard at the exit route. Smaller boys like me stayed out of the line of attack and kept watch at both the identified exit and the surrounding bushes. The rabbit was a trickster, and often misled its hunters with false exits while keeping another exit shrouded in a stupefying overgrowth. A determined rabbit inhaled a large volume of smoke and then blew it back into the smoke-pot and unto the surprised face of the blower who was left choking, coughing, and staggering in confusion. If others were not watchful the rabbit used that instant to stage its escape through the exit. Some daring rabbits had been known to push through the smoke-pot stuck fast in the entry point.

“Stop!” Goddy called on the diggers.

They had broken through some tiny pebbles and half-eaten bits of wood that dammed up the inner chamber of the hole as a protective wall against invaders like us.

“The digging has gone deep enough,” said Goddy. “See freshly cracked kernel shells. See the hard and smooth floor of the hole. Here is the living room.”

Goddy paused to study the rabbit stool in his palm.

“The round pellets are too uneven. It seems we have more than one rabbit here. Let’s smoke them out!”

The smoke blowers went to work, thrusting the hub of the smoke-pot into the hole and blowing air through the round opening at the bottom. The result was instantaneous.
“It is here!” screamed the watchers at the other end.

Some of us ran over to see the sharp tugging at the exit which had been plugged with wood. Before we knew it the plugs were pushing out of the exit-hole and two giant rabbits were scrambling between our feet into the disturbed bushes. There was a pandemonium as we jumped and screamed in a tumultuous din. But before the big boys could regroup to wield their arsenal the unthinkable happened. The fleeing rabbits ran right back into their hole again. It was mystifying because none of us had ever seen anything like that. An animal in flight stayed in forward motion, not running backward to the same hole from which it had just escaped annihilation. All of us stood aghast watching the gaping hole. The bedlam had just as quickly died down and one could almost hear the sound of falling cotton buds in the afternoon breeze.

“Wait a minute.”

It was the conspiratorial voice of Goddy breaking into our astonishment. He was the oldest of the hunters and always seemed to fathom the behavioral mysteries of wild animals.

“They have bunnies in there,” he said almost with a soundless whisper.

His perception made immediate sense to everyone. Why else would the two rabbits risk their hard-earned freedom to run back to the imminence of a brutal death in a smoking confinement?

“Let’s plug back the hole,” Goddy shouted. “And this time we should make it impossible to push out. Let’s overwhelm them with raging fire. Blow the smoke with all your strength!”

The smokes were pumping out of the exit route and every pore underfoot. We heard numerous sharp squeals which grew faint with each passing second. Then there was dead silence.

“Blow harder!” Goddy commanded.

The blowers changed guards and intensified their smoke pumping into the hole.

“Stop!”

All of us gathered very close to the entry point and the exit. There was no sign of either movement or squealing from the rabbits. Goddy waved at us to move back. He resumed the digging himself. Then he pulled out a buck. It was dead. A few inches further he pulled a dead doe. Suddenly we were confronted with litters everywhere. All over the hole dead baby bunnies lined the full length of the floor. We dug and pulled until we dug all the way to the exit. We counted eight smoke-charred bunnies.

The spectacle was grisly, and the scene wasn’t exactly what some of us had in mind when the war turned us into premature rabbiters burrowing through ancient farmlands to smoke fledgling innocents to untimely death. Goddy was already cutting up and sharing the quarry among the hunters.

“Divide the dead bunnies among the kids,” he commanded.

I had had enough for the day. I started walking home, Paul at my heels. He wanted to know why I couldn’t wait to take my share of the bunnies, and my response came from somewhere beyond my comprehension.

“I don’t know,” I stammered with sudden exhaustion. “Father said that was how the Igbo were burned alive inside churches and trains before the war.”

I never went rabbit hunting again.

But in a shooting war of bombs and bullets our town’s children did nothing else but hunt. When the days were bright and wildlife was in a playful mood we turned to slinging missiles of stones and okpomkpo woods at perched birds and tree-jumping squirrels. A few of us owned catapults. My playmates Alex, Anayö, Chïma, Christian, Herbert, Japheth, Livingstone, Matthew, Patrick, Paul, Samuel, Stephen, and Thankgod became specialist-hunters of crickets, praying-mantis, and other edible insects. We discovered the rare war delicacy of rats, lizards, and larvae. Paul and I sometimes wandered away from everyone else to pick tasty year-old kernels from round the bases of inner farm palm trees. Our pockets bulged with the haul of kernels, as well as the balls of igneous stones which were inevitable for cracking the hard shells.

“A palm tree would soon grow out of your stomach!” mother warned against what she described as my excessive eating of palm kernels.

My stool did, indeed, become stone-hardened most times from daylong consumption of palm kernels. I feared that mother’s prophecy might come true. At such times I found myself digging down on residual energies to push out my shï acï. Mother was often sent into fits of excitation for my sake.

“How could a child survive Nigerian war bombs only to die from stupid kernels?” she would fret with dramatic gestures.

With the sun slouching behind Bernard’s apü tree, all the boys formed informal gangs to stake out spawned pear and mango trees around the neighborhood. Little ones like me hung out at bush corners in reconnaissance while the older ones climbed up to pluck the fruits with the agility of hunted games.

Girls like my sisters Rosa and Cathy and my cousins Berna, Bertha, Chïka, Chinedu, Christiana, Comfort, Dorothy, Edith, Ekwutösï, Florence, Happiness, Ifeyinwa, Ihuezi, Lois, Lovette, Ngözï, Patience, Peace, and our aunt in-law, Bernadette scouted out wild fruits, like üdara and uruöca. On occasions they brought home mushrooms and some strange vegetables which war emergency had made eatable, sometimes with disastrous consequences. A particular haul of theirs which I relished beyond description, so much so that it left a lasting warm taste on my tongue, was variously called nkwa, cïcïba, and öbanceleke. It was scrumptious alright, but I always hoped to one day understand why such a bitsy dessert could have so many big names.

But that would be when the haunting wings of the war have swum with the rainbow beyond the great sea.

The end.

Source: http://obiwu.blogspot.com
Copyright 2009: Obiwu. All rights reserved.