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OCTOPUS
Translated by Sharif Elmusa and Charles Dona
(MODERN ARABIC POETRY An Anthology)
Edited by Salma Khadra Jayyusi
One arm circles my neck
another my limbs
another and then another
I feel these black arms
sucking at my veins
draining the life from my body
Where's my hand?
The knife I held?
Once I had thousands of hands
thousands of knives!
With my own hands
I can cut off my arms
here I am armless
wrapped in black arms
I feel those black arms choking me
the beast's hideous eye staring at me
in his greed seeing my death
when he draws me toward his 'jaws
and tends me
Suddenly a knife sprouted from my forehead
a knife from my ribs
the wound blossoming with fresh blood
every drop growing a hand.
Cursing me,
the hideous eyes died.
WHEN I AM WITH YOU
I set sail
(although there's nothing more beautiful
than your eyes' sea where stars meet
where they shine with love
and their lighthouse beacon smiles
beaming home the voyager
ports have denied entry
because he tried to land passportless)
I set sail
searching for beautiful women
wearing perfume, kohl, and smiles
women who've never known joy
But like a child's
your face, loveliest of faces
has never been defaced with makeup
it still shows sorrow, hunger, fear
smiling one moment, frowning another
1 spread my sails and wandered
grappling with life's mysteries
I crossed the sea of riddles and enigmas
however you in your mind
never wrestled with philosophy
or searched beyond nature's bounds
asking questions
never pretending to knowledge
yet knowing right from wrong
penetrating through the fog
of hypocrisy
I set sail
changed my clothes and the color of my eyes
honed my tongue so others could understand me
danced to their tunes
donned eloquence, fine manners
shedding my old face
But when I am with you
I'm-still the one you always knew
as I know myself
I show the sun my warts
the winds my faults
I accept myself as I am
as your generous love accepts me.
SILENCE
Our words are dead
like the tyrant's conscience
They've never bathed in the fountain of life,
never known birth pangs or wounds,
the miracle of walking on spear points.
We dream of a world free of chains
rising from our paralyzed pens
That a season of roses
will blossom in our dying hearts
We dream of a fresh miracle
born from our pens
When the brave poet is afraid to die
his best poem is silence!
OH DESERT
Translated by
Anne Fairbairn and Ghazi Al-Gosibi
(Feathers and the horizon )
1989
I've searched the world without finding
land more barren,
love more pure,
or rage more fierce than yours.
I came back to you, oh desert,
sea-spray on my face;
in my mind, a mirage of tears,
a shadow moving in the sea before dawn
and a golden flash of braided hair.
On my lips, two lines of poetry
a song without echo.
I came back to you, disenchanted.
I've found there's
no trust between human beings.
I came back to you deprived;
the world's like a rib cage
without a heart.
Love is a word
devoid of love.
I came back to you defeated;
I've been fighting life's battles
with a sword forged from feeling.
I came back to you .. and laid my anchor
on the sand.
As I washed my face with dew
it seemed you were calling me.
Then you whispered:
"Have you come back to me, my child?"
Yes .. mother .. I came back to you.
A child, forever grieving,
flew to God's countries;
unable to find his nest,
he came back to search for his life in you.
I came back to you, oh desert.
I've thrown away my quiver and ceased wandering,
I dally in your night-web
of mystery,
breathing on the soft winds of the Najd
the fragrance of Araar.
In you I live for poetry and moons.
ARABIC POETRY:
A GLIMPSE INTO THE SOUL
The Prophets Mohammed is reported to have asked his companion the poet Abdullah bin Rowaha: Abdullah! What is poetry?" The poet responded: It is something that pulstates in my heart and is then spoken by my tongue". This is as good a description as any of a phenomenon which remains stubbornly beyond all definations. We have the heart: a powerful symbol of all human experiences and emotions; and we have the toungue, a powerful symbol of the artistic shape in which experiences and emotions are incarnted as poerty. In other prosaic words, we have meaning and form, which all poetry, and all literature. is composed.
Yet to have meaning and to have form is not to have poetry. As an Arab svholar cruelly remarked once: "meanings are thrown all over the street, " a sentiment echoed, centuries later, by Oscar Wilds: "All bad poetry comes from genuine feeling". And form in itself is just that: form! There must be something that blends mundane meaning and mundane forms into something that capativates and moves. Pre-Islamic Arab had no doubt whatsover about this "X" factor. They belived it was magic.
The poets themselves were the first to perpetuate this myth, if myth it was. The doyen of Arab poets Imrai Al-Qais declared in a most matter of fact way:
The Jin bring me
their poems -
I pick and choose
Every single Pre-Islamic poet made a similar declaration. We even have the names of the poetiv demons who inspired the moetal poets.
Imrai Al Qais' friend was called "Lafith Bin Lahidth", Al Ashai Mishal bin Othatha, and Al Nabighis' Hathir bin Mathir. Whether these poets were enjoying a mass demonic hysteria or whether some of them did actually hear voices and see visions a moot point, totally irrelevant. What is revelant is that magic and poetry became so firmily linked in the Arab psyche - that the bond was never entirely broken. I would gladly tell you the name of my invisible friends, but i am told the Foreign & Commonwealth Office frowns on suvh practices!
A very famous phrase describes poetry as the "Diwan" of the Arabs. Diwan could be traslated in a veriety of ways: "archives, epics, annals, or history". Yet, knowing what those who coined the term meant, I will claim poetic licence and translate diwan as "soul". So, poetry is the soul of the Arabs. That is no poetiv exaggeeration: whatever troubled that soul was reflected, magically, in the poetry. Reading Arabic poetry, therefore, is not an idle exercise. It is a trip inside the Arab soul. In the short span of this lecture, I hope I will be able to show you some of the corners and alleys of that soul, as mirrored in poetry.
The roles the poet played in Arab society changed with the flows and ebbs of the human epic as it unfolded in history. The greatest days of the poet were, undoubtedly those of pre-Islamic Arabia. Here the poet was King. He annointed rules, started wars, raised some tribes to glory, and smothered others in shame. Hen produced the ultimate in human words and the odes were literally attavhed to the Qaba.
In the early Islamic period and throughout the Omayyed dynasty, the King was transformed - I hesitate to say demoted - into a Kinight.
Like all Knights, ge fought all kinds of battels, first against the new faith then its service. Caliphs, as Emperors are always wont to do, were anxious to get the loyalty of the Knight. Such loyalty was sometimes bought and sometimes freely given. The Knight was chivalrous in everything he said or did; he still remembered his royal origins. When the Knight fell in love it was a tender, manly, and perhaps, paradoxically, platonic love. The most beautiful love poems of all Arab history belong to this period. The legend of Layla and her mad Knight-Poet-lover endures for ever and ever.
With the advent of the Abassayed period, the Knight was transformed - I hesitate to say demoted - into an Important Court Official. All the great poets of the era were employed by the court, some, like Abu Nowas, as boon companions, and others like Abu Tamam, as Post Master Generals. The poet as an Important Court Offivial prosoered both materially and metaphorically. In considerable comfort the Important Court Offivial ridiculed the camels and runis of old, and mocked the simplistic similes of his aancestors. The new poetry appeared dazzling in its sophistication. The famous Arab poet-vritiv Adonis saw in this new poetry the clear impact of modernism. To my mind, what happened was simply the result of the metamophosis of the poet from King of the Desert to Knight of the Realm, to a pampered VIP.
In Andalucia in the meantime the Arab poet was reincarnated as a Troubador. Like all Troubadors, the poet sang and danced, nonchalantly creating in the process a profound revolution which broke the rigid control of rythm and metre. Next to the pure love songs of the Poet-Knights of the Amoyyed era, no love songs in Arabic rival in sheer beauty the Mowashawat of the Andalucian Troubadors. I leave it to people more learned than me to determine the extent to which the Arab Troubadors influenced his Western successor and incidentally western literature, and trend toweards free verse.
With the devline of the Abbaysid dynasty and the fragmentation of the Empire, the Poet was transformed from Important Court Offivial - I hesitate to say demoted - to Hired Help. As is the case with Hired Helpt throughout history, the Help gravitated to the most generous employers and the empployers demanded value for money. No poet depicts the agony of the Arab poet at this nightmarish era better than Al Motaanabi. He tried to be King and failed; he tried to knight and failed; he tried to be an important Court Official and found the surroundings stifling; briefly he tried the life of the Troubador. It was his boiling anger at the status of the poet as Hired Help that drove his restless life to itsvio;ent and tragiv death. At least he died fighting as a King or Knight should.
Even this miserable era did not last. Power soon slipped into the hands of non-Arab military elites, who hardly understood poetry. The Poet as Hired Help found it increasingly diffivult to find employkment. The Hired Help was transformed - I don?t want to say demoted - into Minor Crafsman. LIke all Minor Crafsmen, The Poet would sit in a hole-in-well, produving cheap pieces of craftsmabship. Very occasionally, a maserpieces would be produced. By and large, however, the Arab poetry at this juncture became like a huge souvenir shop. The Minor Crafstman produced poems on demand, a piece for a wedding, a piece for a death, and a piece on on cirumcision might be thrown in for free. Puzzles and riddles were manufactured as if in a mass-assembly plant. At this era, if art it was, of poetic numortlized in poetry
As the twnetieth century approached, Arab poets were virtually svhizopherniv with so many disturbed psyches competing for the conscious mind and for audiences. Some poets theought of themselves as King. Others fancied themselves Knights. Those looking for Important Positions at the Court rarely acheived their ambitions. Those looking for gainful employment were mostly used on a part-time basis, and on wages that would outrage the International Labour Organisation. Vraftsmen found their quaint products no longer in demand; circumcision never stopped; but who would now want a poet fix the date in the memory of the universe?
It is perhaps not surprise that this schizophrenia, in line with all schizophernia produced the poiet as rebel. Again, Adoins would call this the impact of modernism, which is fine with me. The modern Arab poet is a very strange brew. The poets can fend for themselves, being the most long-tongued of God?s creatures, but my sympathy goes to their audiences, which at times appear totally mystified by the Babel of Tongues.
I am sure all of you have reealised by now that I have been giving you caricatures, rather than avademic, objective, serious, portraits of the poet across the ages. Consider it, if you will, a piece of Hija, that most malignant and maliganed field of Arabic poetry. This is, at any rate, not my main theme. My point is that regardless of the satus of the poet, whether he was in his golden days or upon hard times, poetry itself revived the soul of the Arabs. In every single reincarnation, the poetry continued to be touched by the magiv.
The poet as King had a marvellous time. Amro? Al-Qais, who was also a real King, well almost, describes in his ode a King at play. Taraf?s ode was a royal abdication: he found the throne unbearable without the support of the merry life style he loved. Zohair, in his ode, bestows peace prizes on two wrothy peace markers. Antara?s ode praises that most kingly of attributes: courage. Amr bin Kalthoum?s ode was an outright royal declaration of war. In his ode, Al-Nabigha conducted peace negotiations with another King, a wordly King, and the ode became most fasinating piece of apologia in Arab literary history.
The King was a role model teavhing a tribe how to behave. Thus, Antara prescribedchizoprenia the gentlemanly reaction to female neighbours:
I look the other way
When she appears
Until she goes
Hetam, the Robin Hood-like King of theieves, taught posterity the rules of hospitality:
I am never a salve
Except to my guest
Orwa, another honourable King of thieves, describes noblesse oblige thuse:
I divide my body up
In numerous bodies
Satisfied for nourishment
With simple water
The King was the wisest in the tribe, and germs of wisdom tumbled off every poem. Obaid?s ode is a slightly boring litany of wise sayings. An important element of royal wisdom was the propagation of tribal values. After all, the King was the defender of the status quo.
The way Doraid expressed the tribal ethiv was burned in the memory of every Arab:
I am but a member
of the trib of Ghozayya
following the tribe
in reason and madness
The prominent Arab journalist Mohamad Hassanain Heikal tells us that following an Arab summit he quoted this line to President Nasser who impatiently ticked him off: ? Spare me the poetry think, the philosphy things? It is interesting to speculate what course Arab history would have taken if that talented leader had not wanted to be pared ? the poetry thing, the philosphy thing?. It behoves even the most modern leader to remeber that, at times, the tribe knows best.
The Arab soul was capivated, some would say enslaved, by the Poet/Kings. No poet could describe a horse and totally escape Amir A Qays? powerful images. Fun lovers, to the present day, consider Taraf?s ode an eloquent espousal of their philosphy. No one ever came even close to Hatem and Orwa, either in actual hospitality or in its poetic praise. A lot of poems describing courage were attributed falsely to Antara, thus confirming his sardonic question ?Is there anything new for poets to say?? The poetry of Kings was enthroned King of Poetry. For better or wrose, the royal era became the model for succeeding generations of poets. Later when poets lived in palaces, they still throught they must start by standing crying over ruins. Even Ab Nowas? devestating line in effect telling poet ?why stand for heaven?s sake? - if you must cry at ruins, make yourself comfortable - sit and cry? , did not diminish the ardour of the standing cry-babies. Till this very day, no Arab poet - except those totally mad - would dream of writing a single line without at least a nodding acquaintance with the poetry of Kings.
The Kings were dethrouned by the advent od Islam. They were thoroughly confused and disoriented. People now turned to the Quran for guidance and wisdom. The Umma, noyt the tribe, emeraged as the centre of the universe. Many fierce competitors appereared on the horizon: the religious scholar, the military commander, the administratore, and, maddeningly, the linguist. The most ominous change, however, was the slow but steady decline of the oral culture. The spoken word, the exclusive domain of the Royal poets, had now to compete with the written word.
Yet poets were, and are, very adaptable. After a short hibernation, they re-emerged as Knights. They fought big and small battles. In a very famous quatation, the Prophets Mohammed tells the poet companion Hassan Bin Thabet that the poet?s verbal attacks hurt the enemy ?more than arrows?.
The poets found the role of the four Rashid Caliphs a most austere time. Al-Hotaia was thrown in jail for unleashing his tongue in the bad old way. Another poet was relieved of his post for bragging about his drinking and singing life style. With the appearance of the Ommayed dynasty, the Poet-as-Knight was restored to some of his past glories. As tribal revalries resurfaced, and were cleverly mainpulted by the rules, the Knights took up tribal banners once more. The Ommayed Caliphs realised the value of poetry in their political designs, and the court employed a battalion of Knights. The most effective, interestingly, was a Christian , Al-Alakhtal.
When Knight lacked real battles they turned against eacg other. This is the era of the infamouse Naqaid, those epics or ridicule. The rwo main wrestlers were jareer and Al-Farazdaq, who privetely harboured a great deal of mutual affection. There was a charming Don Quixotiv quality about their celebrated duels.
It was, still, an age of chivalry. Following their convictions, many Knights rebelled against all established authority. Other Knights fearlessly embraced the anti-Ommayad Alawi cause. To my mind, however, the most magnificent Knights of the period were the Romantiv Knights.
The Arab soul, although mainly preovvupied with the new faith and the ensuring conquests and internal conficts, still turned to poetry. The claim that poetry after Islam lost all glamour and impact is preposterous. A line of Higa crossed vast deserts almost as speedily as today?s fax. The audience loved every minute of the obscene clash of the Titans. But nothing touched the Arab soul in this era, and left its imprint, like the lovely love songs of the Romantic Knights.
Jameel introduced a concept of love which Tarafa would have found totally crazy:
My soul and hers
Were in love before our creation
Were in love in the womb
and were in love in the cradle
Jameel carries this unique love to its logical conclusion.
I want to near her
in life
and in death
I want my grave near hers
Kothayyir gives us this fascinating pivture of his shy beloved.
She gives very little
from a distance,
Like a person, feafully,
touching the back of a snake
I don?t think Kothayyir was aware of the Freudian symbolism of the snake, but this image of a reluctant girl in love would probably have moved Freud himself.
Of all the Romantic Knights, Qais Ibn Al Mollawh, the mad lover, became the most famous, and the most enduring. His tragiv love for Layla inspired tens of workers in a number of languages. Layla became etched in the Arab communal memory as the personification of all romance, all femininity, Qais and Layla, but I will give you two glimpses of their great romance before I move on.
Qais in love with Layla
When she was an innocent nymph
No breasts yet visible
We were two young kids
tending young sheep
Were we to remain young for ever!
And the sheep young for ever!
And here is my favourite among all of Qais? line, the one describing his heart as ?a sparrow in the hand of a child, the sparrow is dying, but the vhild plays on?
Almost all historians agree that the Omayyed created an Arab, tribal state with a thin Islamic veneer. With the rise of the Abbassied Dynasty, things changed drastically. The Calips because of their Hashemite ancestry, demanded religious as well as political legitimacy. The State became incestry, demanded religious as well as political legitimary. The State bevame increasingly complex, bureaucratized and urbanized. The tribal conficts were replaced by national rivalries involving Arabs, Persians and Turks. Yet because the earlys Caliphs were iterary types who appreciated poetry, the poets found places in the new era as Important Court Officials. There were many implications.
First, it became impossible for a poet to achieve any measure of fame away from the Court. Second praise, which until then maintained a trace of innocence, lost all singcerity, never to regain it again. Third, Higa, centred almost exclusively, on the have-have nots dilectic. Those who did not make it at the Court ridiculed those who did. The greatest master of Hija in Arabic literature, Ibn Al-Romii trained his heavy artillery against those Ministers and Courtiers who refused to share their bounty with him. Finally, one of them poisoned him.
Life in the Urban centres became increasingly decadent, and the Important Court Officials enjoyed the Dolce Vita. Aba Nowas raised decadence to a moral imperative. He was the leader of a group of dissolute poets, who although rebelling against the prevailing mores of the society, depended exclusively for their livelihood on the Court.
The Important Court Officails found it impossible to empathize with his predecessors. At first, the members of the audience were mustified. They were confornted with Arabic poetry which did not sound quite Arabic. This bewilderment is reflected in that immortal question which a man put to Abu Tammam, ?why do you say what can?t be understood?? provoking the poet?s angry answer: ?what can?t you understand what is said?
In the eras of the King anf the Knights sophistication was not the hallmark of great poetry; the opposite was case. Now, complicated, unusual images became the most sought after poetic prizes. Ibn Al-Romi describes an experience which Omra Al-Qais would have found totallt perplexing:
I am embracing her
Yet I am still yearning
For intimacy
Abu Tammam defies the traditional concepts of distance and nearness:
Dreams bring her close
Distances take her away
She is the close distant one
The moon, in the very famous line of Ibn Al Mottaz is turned into ?asilver boat burdened by a cargo of incense.
The Arab soul was immersed throughout this period in indulgence, that famous Khaldonain stages of taraf. Ever tuned to theArab soul, the poets indulged in a huge way. Wine, described by fuqaha as the ?mother of fifthy evils?, was transformed by Abu Nowas into a godess to be literally worshipped. Homosexual love, which the Kings and the Knights would have never deigned to notice, let alone mention, became a dominant theme with Important Court Officials. Ibn Al-Romi, devotes a very long, very beautiful poem to a minute description of a lady singer. Badi, which I allow myself to translate as ? the science of literary cosmetics and plastic surgary, was invented in this period by Ibn Al motaz, a prince, and very briefly even a caliph.
To my mind, nothing epitomises the poetry of this era like the famous opening line of Abu Tamam, still quoted in the Arab world with deadly monotony:
The sword
Carries true news
better than message
Its edge is the edge
between things seriousand play
Consider the complexity of this apprantly simple line. The mighty sword is favourably contrasted with the harmless pen. Speciafically, the true news of the sword is conntrasted with the false message of the pen. There is the pun involving the edge of the sword and the other edge. There is the contrast between the sublime and the ridiculous. To thicken the plot further kutub means either written messeage or books. All of this is crowded in one line. As Winston Churchill would have put it, ? some line!? Its very intersting to note that none of the poets of this period attributed their poems to invisible friends. Who would want the credits for this dazzling display of intellectual and linguistic prowess to go to faire? It is as interesting to observe that many of the giants of this era, were not particularly good at deliverting their poems, some downrights irritating, a fault that would have been fatalk in earlier times.
The era of the Poet as Hired Help produced countless poets and very little poetry . The days of glory were over, for rulers, ruled and poets. Framentation was the dominant feature of the period, and the Arab soul itself was torn, between frustrated hopes and inspiring memories. Yet it was this era that produced thw towering giant of Arab poetry, Al Mutanabbi, the man who ?filled the whole Universe and obsessed all the poeple?. He still does. In the last three months alone two major works and a minor one appear with Al Mutanabbi as the main characterr. The two major works are by Adonis and Kamal Abu Deeb, the Minor one is a novel of mine.
Al Motanabbi?s enduring mystique remains inexplicable despite scores of PhD Theses. Yet, I well venture an opinion. Like all great poets, Al Motanabbi was fully attuned situation, which transends race, time, and space. He describes the human spirit when he says:
Restless
As though riding winds
directing them right and left
He bemoans the inherent tragedy of love
Can you Hang on
To beloved ones?
Can a sleeper
Hang on to dreams?
Yet Al Motanabbi was equally attuuned to the Arab soul and its secret cravings, Its hunger for glory
With such noise
You need your ten fingers
to plug your ears
Instead of reaching that glory, there was only frustration. Al Motanabbi dismisses the rules of his time ? as idols, lacking the innocence of idols?, and ?rabbits asleep with open eyes?. He dismisses the whole Arab race as the ? laughing stock if all nations?. Only a very brave would dispute that these remarks are as true today as they were a thousand years ago. The burning agony of Al Motanabbi is experssed in that immortal line, accurately depicting the secret hope of every poet through history:
My heart is that of a King
But my tongue is that of a poet
The era of the poet as a Craftsman is almost a literary black hole. Critics tends to dimiss it witout a pause. To an extent, they are justified; the bulk of the poetry is worthless. Yet, amazingly, That stanant period produced a bewildering variety of new forms. One in particular deserves more attention than it has received so far, that of Al Band. In this unique experiment, the rhythm disapperas almost compeletly whereas the meter is stretghed to the limit. I honestly belives that here is the true beginnings of the free verse movement. Not being a critic, I am at a loss to understand why ciritcs neglected this revolutionary form. No anthology, for example, contains an example and to the best of my rather limited knowledge not a single doctoral thesis discussed the subject. May I take this opportunity to urge young scholars to dig in that particular archaeological site.
Mowashhwat, the legacy of the Troubadors received much more attention. Thanks to the singer fayrooz some pieces anjoyed mass circulation. But, once more, I think the critics, by and large,failed to grasp the truly amazing dimensions of innovation involved.
This brings us to the modern era, which was ushered in by Al Baroodi, who wanted to revive the era of the Poet-Kinghts. Himself an officer, he loved to be called ?Prince of the sword and the pen?. His poetry does reflect that of the old Knights but the age of chivalry was over. The next major figure, Shawqi, was luckier. By birth, training, and inclination, Shawqi was an Important court Official. He produced very good copies of the Abbassid orignals. Yet Shawqi?s real genius does not appear in his lengthy poems, which at times were produced on demands and for every conceivable occasion. his talent breaks through in glimpses here and there throughout his plays, and especially, you guessed it, the one about Qais and Layla. Where Shawqi able to free hinself from the stifling environment of the Important Court Official, we would all have been the richer.
The poet as a rebel appeared in the thirties and soliered on through he forties and fifties. The rebellion was romantic, centering on a literary group with the remontic name of Apollo.
In retrospect it appears that despite the fanfare, the innovations introduced by the Romantic rebels were rather modest . In from, they did not approch the extensive changes of the Troubadors . In content, their love odes fall short of the love odes of the romantic knights of old . For example Jibran?s contribution to Arabic poetry is negligible, despit his fame Yet the Romantic Rebels as a whole deserve our admiration because they restored man to his throne as the subject and object of poetry . It is my personal opinion that all the Romantic poets, Naji was the most talented - and will prove , the most enduring .
The Romantic Rebel of the thirties turned into the Radical Revolutionary of the forties. The free verse movement was born in a cradle of controversy. We are still living in this area and any judgement is bound to be premature. I will limit myself to tentative diffident observations. The movement delivered less than what it promised . A survey of the last half century will not produced an awful lot of great poetry . The movement did not replace the traditional form as it hoped it would. By and large, the man in the street is more atuned to the classical form. The innovaters find themselves at a great disadvantages in poetry readings. Yet, the movement had the last laugh . It said it was here to stay and stay it did . To the great shock of the traditionlists, the free verse movement is now an integral part of Arabic poetry, as integral as Al Mualaqat or Al Muawshawat.
The Arab soul in this century was truly tormented : it faced the challenges of colonialism, independent, loss of Palestine, development, and democracy. By and large, it failed . I think frustration is now the over-riding emotion in that soul. The agony was reflected in Arabic poetry . At times this poetry lacked a clear identity reflecting the dilemma of the Arab soul, pulled in different directions, At times, the poetry belonged to by-gone eras, in both form and and content, in tune with a nation imprisoned in its past. At times, poetry rebelled against all things old, reflecting the rebellious strand in the Arab soul . There are cliches all over the place about the death of poetry and the arrival of the novel as the new Diwan Al-Arab. This is utter nonsense . Poetry is still the closest friedn of the Arab soul. Like Siamese twins, any attempt at separation may endanger both . Although this century has not been a golden era of poets, the more talented ones received their fair share of recognition and, in afew cases edulation. Some became household names, in literary households that is . Only one, Nizar Qabani, became a fully-fledged celebrity . Let me conclude by telling you about a tragic poet who died of cancer in Cairo in 1983 aged 43 years. His name is Amal Donqul. I consider him one of the greatest Arab poets of all time. Yet he remains unsung, unappreciated almost unknown. The explanation is simple: the tormented Arab soul was reluctant to listen to apoet which reflected the torment with detailed exquisite pain . The following lines of his describe the story of a generation, and summarizes the history of the Arab nation in this century .
We are the generation of war
Swimmers in blood
Thrown by our aper ships
Over icy mountains of death
The generation of pain
We saw Jerusalem in paintings
We spoke the language of Arab conquerors
And carried the flag of Arab refugees.
I wanted to start telling a political joke . Then I remembered the hazard: political jokes are given asylum in this countary .Then I decided on an academic jokes . I came up with the old one: to steal from one author is theft ; to steal from two authors is research . In my time as a professor, it was OK to have one quotation from me to make any rubish research. Then I looked for a diplomatic joke. I came upwith that old stupid cliche about diplomats being honest men who lie for their countary . This is such a slander . Most diplomats lie for the kick of it.
Then I decided that the funniest thing I saw in along time was arecent report by the British Psychiatric Association . claiming that poets are actually sane . This prompted me to write the following which I have no doubt will earn me the Nobel Prize for sanity.
The tribe of poets are sane
So claim all the British shrinks
With all respect to the learned
They are quite wrong - thanks
Why would a normal man
Spend the best part of a life time
Trying to capture a silly meaning
In a much sillier rhyme
With jokes out of the way, we can now attend to the funny part of the evening : my lecture
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Ghazi al-Gosaibi
Saudi Arabian poet. Born in al-lhsa'(1940) in Eastern Saudi Arabia into a well to do and influential family, he had his early education in Bahrain, then obtained a B.A. in law from the University of Cairo in 1961. In 1964, he obtained an M.A. in international relations from the University of Southern California, and in 1970 obtained a Ph.D. in political science from the University of London. He had held important positions in his country's government, becoming the Minister of Industry and Electricity (1976-1983), then Minister of Health (1983-1985). At present, he is Saudi Arabian ambassador to Bahrain. Dr. Gosaibi is widely read in literature, religious studies, and history and has been very active as poet, anthologist, and writer. He has at least twelve books in print, including Verses of Love (1975), You Are My Riyadb (1976), Fever (198o), and his lovely collection, Chosen Poems (198o). Despite his formal status, Gosaibi's poetry, written with clear language and an eloquent style, reveals a deep involvement in Arab life and political experience, and reflects great love for simple beauty, innocence, and uncomplicated human relations in contrast to the pomp and flourish of the high life around him. |
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