Saturday, June 10, 2006

Poems by Henry Muguluma

I’m Henry Muguluma, 24 years, male, a Writer, Teacher and Project Director. I live in Kampala, Uganda working as a fulltime Director of Gaba Child Sponsorship Project. I’m currently compiling my first poetry manuscript; with some poems on the net. I also teach English Language and Literature in English.

In Transit

Some shout and some quiet as
We squeeze
in a taxi whose

Number we didn’t read and
Whose mechanical state

We can’t tell, trusting
The unknown driver who

Seems more
into his wasiwasi
Than his passengers and

A conductor who begged
Us to board and now barks

For the fare as if we were
To escape
through windows;

One-way, two-way, roundabout
Stage, stopover,

Overtaking and being overtaken
Bumps, potholes, corners,

Parking on driveways and
Driving on parkways

stopping us for those
Who won’t stop for us

Past familiar faces and
Unfamiliar places and faces

Signposts pointing us where
They have never been

Seeing so much to take with us,
So much we
can’t take with us

Trees running, even houses
Away in the opposite

Some traveling miles for smiles and
Some hating the
journey they make

But heaven or hell, we’re all
Dying to get there.


Again yesterday evening
I grabbed a cheap one
A bunch in Kisenyi.

So tempting in her yellow
Cotton coat with
A black brown cap.

Pulled her closer and
Her perfume stirred the monkeys.

Ripe, innocent.
Could feel the
eyes of
The hungry woman by
Her full basket

But for hunger, I
Devoured her, all
Of her, leaving no
Sugar for pancakes.

you also like

Konyi’s Harvest

he finally marched to Freedom Square
Eyes didn’t see him,
Ears didn’t
hear him,
Hands didn’t salute him,
Legs didn’t attend his swearing-in:

They all stayed back in
Gulu, Kitgum, Lira. Busy
Burying the

I worked with Henry on the Crossing Borders project, and he came on leaps and bounds as a poet.

Saturday, June 03, 2006


Quick notice: I have a reading coming up at Manky Poets, Chorlton Library, on the 16th June. It starts 7.30pm for 8pm, then there's an open-mike spot, then there's a break, then there's little old me, where I'll no doubt be reading more of me sonnets, and more.