Poetry for the stage and for the page

Performing has put me to task to keep writing and produce new and original work. I often borrow from these pieces to develop something deeper and more satisfying to the mind and soul. Performing has also helped me develop my voice as poet by sharpening me against other poets.

I find writing for the page more challenging but, by far, more fulfilling. I feel the page expresses my intentions with more sincerity. But I do not prefer one over the other. More people have been moved by my performances than by my written work.

Read the full article on the transcultural writing platform, kampalawritesbremen.


A new prayer

I had the opportunity and pleasure of working with Ugandan writer and filmmaker Dilman Dila (Felistas Fable/film, A Killing in the sun/short story anthology). We created this video from my poem a new prayer and it was published in Lawino Magazine. Here is the Q&A.


Lawino: It’s a pleasure to meet a gorgeous poet like you. I’d love to know a bit about you.

Gloria: I’m Gloria Kiconco though I once went by Glo-Flo when I was very involved with Bonfire in 2009. Now I’m back to just Gloria. I recite at Poetry-in-Session and sometimes at Kwivuga. I’ve worked in public relations and right now I’m a journalist and editor-in-training.

I got into spoken word in high school. I had two close friends, Joy and Zac, who were very passionate about poetry, so we started a club and put on poetry slams. It was the time I discovered Saul Williams who was a big inspiration for my work at the time.

Lawino: So you are keeping up a dream from childhood. That’s fabulous. But tell me, you have published poems in print, as well as performed them on stage. What is the difference to you? Which form do you treasure the most, spoken word or written?

Gloria: I’m in love with the two styles. Poetry for the page is very deep, spiritual, and sensual. I want to take my time with it. Performance poetry, to me, seeks a connection with others, a conversation. It’s also thrill-seeking, only mad people want to get on a microphone and share their thoughts. I take none over the other; they both force me to different kinds of vulnerability.

Lawino: You once described your work as abstract, how do readers and listeners relate to it? Do you ever feel they don’t understand what you are saying?

Gloria: I don’t know how people relate to my poetry, maybe not at all. I get a lot of compliments about my style of performance, which is cool. I think people understand it but maybe they do not relate to it and then it does not move them. I write from a very self-centered place so it’s by chance that someone really connects with my work. I’ve seen a big difference when I explore a more relatable topic in less abstract form.

What matters to me is for people go away with something after watching my performance. There is work we do for ourselves but more often we do it for the audience. I write selfishly but perform for you, so are you stimulated? That’s what matters to me. But again, it’s about balance, so I don’t always aim to entertain.

Lawino: I’m dying to know about the first time you performed.

I don’t know, the earliest I can remember was in high school. I did a poem about the cycles of aging, how the trends of today will be outdated in the future. I remember acting out the part of an old woman. The crowd had a good time, I think some people laughed where I wanted them to, though there is a huge chance I just imagined that.

The most embarrassing time is one I want to remember. I was 17 and performing a group poem to about 1000 people and completely forgot my lines. I was being cocky and thought I could deliver despite not having enough time to practice. It was humbling and funny. Everyone should bomb on stage at some point. It’s healthy. But every time is potentially embarrassing.
Lawino: Is there a story behind A New Prayer?

Gloria: Kind of. All I wanted was to express my extreme frustration out of a relationship that went bad, but I ended up remembering the beautiful times too. Joy and sorrow cannot exist without each other and God is present in both.

The poem is about the loss of love. No one I love has died, but I’ve lost a lot of people I love. I’ve moved often and left behind friends and family. Friends have had to leave me too. It hurts just as much every time. I’m getting accustomed to drastic change and trying to learn how to make the best of the little time I have with people instead of withdrawing.


Which African language do you speak?

My story with Africa started with rejection. I still ask myself why her? She is not really my mother, sister, or friend. We have very little in common and only blood has tethered me to this woman who, I often imagine, disregards my being.

My mother tells me I was an easy birth and a quiet baby. I think, even then I did not want to be a bother and from then my story was a search for belonging. But you already know my story because it is that of so many Africans who migrated and lost themselves along the way. The difference is details.

Read more…

(mis)Step 1: Ruminating

I was ruminating, recycling

your voice -No words just the brogue just the lilt just sounds of synonyms of us- in

my mind. Another


brokenly bouncing in my mind, my mind.


My mind, sometimes, goes to dark places,


if hope is a thing with feathers,

let us strip it of its down

and barbecue it…

Eat that Emily Dickinson, you solid, me evaporating

ever ruminating, heart emaciated, self-worth depreciating


My mind, sometimes, goes to dark places,

and does not come back.


If I do not publish this verse i will discard of it as happens to maybe-beautiful things

Freestyling: As performed at Kwivuga Finale/Poetry-in-Session

When video killed the radio star

Hip hop took to setting the bar

Pole vaulting it, raising it, resetting it

Rock must be regretting it

Now every genre is on it

If you can’t beat it, get with it

If it’s winning, let it

Rhyme on the radio

Rhyme on the video

Didn’t care which, so long as there was audio

I would always be in the audience

Kweli, Mos Def, common sense

It’s been the same since

Rhyme hooked me in every sense


We belonged together like the pips

and Gladys

at nightclubs like hands on hips

like dip and chips

like slaves and whips

oh I’m sorry, i got carried away

but I say what I mean to say, mayer, John

the  mic is always on

I want to rock it all day

no matter what I say

I thought that love was here to stay

So, I let my words go like the runs

Rhyme always had a thing for puns

And verbal foreplay

We started with wordplay, then

Rhyme said sonnet me

I didn’t know what that meant

But when Rhyme said a

Naturally I said b

Rhyme said a

I said b

Cdcd, efef

Both of us gg-ing, couplet

As we were o-ing,

To a standing

ovation, we did it


Rhyme was always scheming

To get me in bed

It finally happened

Rhyme was in my head

But also on my bed, spread

While I was journaling, purging

It was clear I was a verse virgin

So rhyme popped my cherry

Then asked if I liked it… very

but it went sour like limes

and too much tequila, no salt

we were on the fault, line

I was out of time

And rhyme was out of me


Rhyme went commercial, on every station.

In every bedroom of every nation

I walked out, saying rhyme you sold out

I was captain Ahab, rhyme was moby dick

And rhyme if you can hear it

I’m sorry I acted like such a moby prick

But I was feeling sick

You were no longer ill

You started living by the bill

Dying by it

That’s why rappers kill

And die, guess it was all a lie.


Then, I met free verse and true to its name,

It set me free

Verse was so cool, so beatnik with a beret to match

I was both frightened and excited, full of questions, like

How will they know you’re a poem if you don’t rhyme?

Do I have to play bongo drums to all my poems?

Will the audience only snap

Because its uncool to clap

I’m sorry I didn’t mean it

I’ve been with rhyme so long, it’s a habit

See what I mean

I swear I’m gonna get clean

Weaned, off time

On beat but off rhyme.


Free verse took my hand,

Pulled me close and kissed

My latte lips in a dark café

To the sound of catcalls

as we listened to Jill Scott

It was hot; they could hear us through the walls


I spent a long night with free verse

Preparing for a poetry slam

Verse said the slam was preparing for me

That word play was ecstasy

But it was intercepted by the other team

Even the seams of my bed separated

Rent apart by the accusing schemes of rhyme

So this is who you left me for?

A beat up, beatnik, free verse-whore?

To rhyme I said

Baby you’re still a part of me

Damn right! rhyme replied

I gave you a hickey you’ll never hide


What are you worth? Asked verse in self defense

Nursery rhymes? You couldn’t battle mother goose

You’re like verbal diarrhea

words on the run, they must be footloose

See I can do what you do, but I put it to better use

There’s nothing in a rhyme

You’re worth a dozen for every dime

And I ain’t got a bill below a Benjamin, but

I’m generous so let’s reach a settlement

I may have sunk to your level of scheming

But I’m called free for a reason

Sky is the limit,

I’m still above your dreaming


Verse and rhyme were fighting

Dropping flow, hitting so low, below the belt, biting

Alternating, I couldn’t decide who I was dating

They would have both been ten if I was rating.


It started on the page or maybe in my head

But it ended in the bed, a hot pot of freestyle

Lets all take a turn and stir it up

Do it simply because we’re able

It was a threesome, so awesome

they even spanked me with the ladle

also awesome and then some.

I’ll admit it if you ask me

I was promiscuous with poetry

But look, we had a baby poem

and we named it after me

And P.S, I hate to have to hide

But don’t tell poetry I’m seeing prose on the side