Days with Mohammad Al Feitoury: The Sad Singer of Africa

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Days With Them Series A collection of dramatic stories, each of which tells about a certain poet with a modern style. The main character is a young woman who conjures up her heroes and has conversations with them. She sympathizes with her heroes and gets to know their life through events they narrate and poems they read.

2012 © Exclusive rights by Alnokhba for composition translation and publication No part of this publication may be translated, reproduced, distributed in any form or by any means, or stored in a data base or retrieval system, without the prior written premission of the publisher.

ISBN 978-9953-518-34-3 Translated by: Mariam Antar Editing by: Fatima Shamdeen

Foreword

By Dr. Mohammad Zakaria Anani

“Days With Them.” With whom? The Experience started with this angry, sharp-tongued poet Jarir, and then there was a transition to Nizar Kabbani with all of his “affairs with women,” his revolutions and fires that have touched people’s hearts.

This third meeting follows the same approach with one basic difference: that Mohammad Al Feitoury is still, luckily, alive among us, participating in symposiums and publishing divans. Literature and art lovers are still going after him, among whom there is this quarrelsome young lady whose name happens to be Maya, and who has made up this seminarrative framework through which she could penetrate into the depths of the character she deals with, making it easy for the reader to understand the features of the era, and the biography of the poet and the characteristics of his poetry in parallel with the age of the internet, the CD and whatever technology will come up in the future.

From here I would like to say that the “instructional” side overpowers the framework of the series of “Days With Them” in the sense that it may not go with the moods of the academic people (perhaps because of the dryness of their imagination or for other reasons?) or those who revolve in their orbit, but it definitely suites a generation that desires 5

to get to the information in the easiest way possible. What Gharid Al Sheikh has created, then, is very helpful in this direction, but we have to remember that Ali Mobarak’s novel Alam Eddien, which was first written following this kind of approach in the modern era, was in its essence an “instructional work” that employed the framework of the novel to present its material.

I have to say that the author has done a good job with this book of hers from many sides, for she has chosen a literary figure who has his place and role in reviving poetry.

It wouldn’t be right history to write about the Arabic poetry in the last half of the past century without stopping long at this colored young man whose poems in the early fifties were saturated with sadness, dreams, anger, willpower and challenge. His first book African Songs came as a storm which made us realize that black continent lying nearby, without any of us noticing it or wanting to see it. Other poets followed with their poetry books with rhythms sounding high, but Al Feitoury continued to be the most influential and widespread.

Because he is a true poet, he has continued to be creative in his topics, spirit, and artistic tools as was argued in a number of books and dissertations. The poetry of Al Feitoury is still fertile, warm, intoxicating and intriguing. No wonder, then, that the heroine of Days With Them has fallen in love with him, sought to dive into his depths and read a collection of his most beautiful poems, attempting to make him say more than his published works have stated.

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In my opinion, the author is making a tangible and positive progress, and it is perhaps the first time in her beautiful series that she pays attention to the importance of stopping at the artistic features in a very simple, clear and understandable way.

I have already concluded the foreword I wrote for her book Days With Nizar Kabbani saying that her work is “simple as the rose that looks at the world: spontaneous, fresh and pretense free, so its smell can penetrate into the soul and live into the core of the heart.” This is evident here in these days with Mohammad Al Feitoury, only with more ability, awareness, enthusiasm and love, emphasizing that the word does meet with the flower in its beauty, freshness influence and grace of expression.

Mohammad Zakaria Anani Beirut, Al hamra 7-8-2001

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The Characters

Al Feitoury: is an African poet, who was born in 1932 Maya: A young lady of about thirty. A brunette with long black hair, preparing for her PhD and studying collections of poems. She writes stories about poets with whom she deals romantically and lovingly.

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Meeting The phone rings persistently at midnight. His voice reaches Maya as she picks up lazily: “Good morning, my pretty princess.”

She laughs happily at the nickname and answers: “I miss you.”

Al Feitury: “You’re still asleep, of course.”

Maya: “I’ve just left the beginning of my dreams to the most beautiful dream.”

Al Feitury: “Don’t waste your life in sleep my dear. Haven’t you heard Mrs. Om Kolthoum (A renowned Egyptian singer) when she sings:

Sleep’s never extended anyone’s life Nor has staying up shortened one’s life

Maya:

“In sleep lies yet another lifetime, even lifetimes, especially when we dream of our loved ones and are made happy with 11

a meeting that might never be real.”

Al Feitury: “Why dream when we can actually meet any time?”

Maya: “I look forward to getting to know you.”

Al Feitury: “I’m coming to Beirut in a few days.”

Maya: “Really? To Beirut? Do you often come to Beirut? If you do come, I’ll do so many things.”

He says laughing: “Like what?”

Maya: “Like waiting for you.”

Al Feitury: “Where?”

Maya: “On the beach, opposite the Rouche Rock.”

Al Feitury: “How would I recognize you? What will you be wearing?”

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Maya: “Blue of course, the color of the sea.”

Al Feitury: “I’ll recognize you without you telling me how you’ll be dressed or what you look like.”

Maya: “I’m so happy you’re coming.”

Al Feitury: “I’m even happier, for I love it:

They ask you about Lebanon, the dawn Asks as well as the sea shells and gems An orchestra of kings of poetry paints In crystals of Beirut its vision and creates And the chaotic from the ends of time To the ends of time never sleep nor stay up late And lovers if visited by beauty Were cloned by it dazzled, enchanted Dreamers as if never been born Nor thunder nor rain have they experienced 13

Believed in pure beauty, their pieces exploded In the ashes of the universe and explode they did Lebanon and poetry’s God’s music And some poetry from a vineyard in the unknown pressed Maya: “Lebanon loves you, too, and loves your poetry.”

Al Feitury: “Alright, princess. Go back to your dreams and dream of me. Kisses on your forehead.”

Maya: “I’ll be waiting for you.”

****

Maya turns in her bed and opens her eyes. Has the phone really rung? Or hasn’t it?

She looks at El Feitury’s books on the table and on her bed. She closes her eyes and his voice comes back to her:

I slept … but never fell asleep: like a river Its fish swimming…. And it in its spell is drunk 14

And his image comes back … her beloved poet …

Mohammed El Feitoury, composer of the African songs that revealed the black truth, making the African cause his own.

Through the free word, he was able to describe the disturbing truth and bring it to the attention of the world.

Like many of her peers, she had learned a lot of his poems at school and identified with them. She knew Africa through this poetry. Her poet’s image was associated with that of another poet whom she had read about and whose poetry and horsemanship and bravery she admired. It was Antarah Ibn Shaddad(1).

She was thrilled when Al Feitoury told her it was his reading of Antarah’s biography and poetry that first introduced him to poetry. He also told her that he was inspired by Antarah, who was able to win back his freedom and rightly claim lineage and become the tribe’s most prominent poet and knight through his bravery.

This is how the young boy, Al Feitoury, dreamed of a big role in life and found his own cause in his skin color and his view of his negro grandmother, Zahra, in whose tragic slavery he saw the features of all the chapters of the African dramatic tragedy. It summarized in itself and its legends, as she told the poet, the scent of the African forest and what happened to Africa long ago.

Al Feitoury has often reiterated: “Ask that eighty-year-old negro woman who planted the tragic feeling in my conscience as a child through the incomprehensible, unexplainable legends, visions, human prototypes and unforeseen forces 15

she has entrusted to me. Do ask her, for, she alone, wrote the chapters of her personal tragedy through my poetry. She was the one who once spoke through my quavering voice, my wounded rhythms, and my weird visions, all full of dramatic reality and human disasters that I’ve never lived before or after that.”

The image of the rebellious poet in Maya’s mind is that of the dark knight with a sword, the sword of the word.

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By the seaside, opposite the Rouche Rock, Maya strolls watching the road. He’ll probably come this way…From far she spots a handsome Sudanese young man. She looks at him and then shakes her head, saying to herself: “No, Al Feitoury must be older. He is a real man, a mature, older man.”

She recalls a couple of verses written by Taghour: Because we will meet, you and I The sky fills up with light Because we will meet, you and I Green hills rejoice Because we will meet, you and I 16

The night stays up late embracing the world Till dawn appears to open the door to a sunrise Filled with tunes of bird songs

Suddenly she senses a hand on her shoulder. She turns around and is surprised by the way he looks. She doesn’t find the broad-shouldered, tall knight she has imagined him to be. She’s found someone else. Dark yes, but not Antarah, nothing like him.

Al Feitoury: “You must be Maya.”

Maya: “Welcome to your country Lebanon.”

She points to the nearby café and says: “Shall we sit there? It’s nice and quiet.”

Al Feitury: “It doesn’t matter where we sit as long as we are together.”

They sit in that café by the sea for hours. He tells her about himself and asks her about her life and work.

All this has passed without Maya being able to get over the awe she feels. She even has other feelings toward that man… how simple he is and how friendly. She thinks: “Well 17

if he isn’t the knight I imagined him to be, this man in front of me seems bigger than anything said about him. He’s even bigger than Antarah.”

Al Feitoury notices her fixed gaze at his face and a hint of a smile on her lips.

He comments with such wit: “It seems, my dear, you haven’t read what I wrote about myself in my early poetry.”

Maya: “I’ve read all your poems, but I’m not sure which one you mean.”

He takes out a poetry book and starts to read:

Poor yes …. and ugly, very ugly With the color of winter, the color of clouds He walks and faces ridicule him He carries his pains in stagnation And his sorrows he embraces in silence But he is forever a dreamer And in his heart vigilance of stars * * * Poor ….. a face as if Smoke thickened and soldered And his eyes a swing Heavy with winds of pain 18

And a nose sloped then dropped Looking like a cemetery unfinished With a lip underneath, thick Primitive, hardly ever smiles A built stuck to earth Even if the spirit scorns the heights She interjects: “But you don’t look the way you describe yourself! Is it your skin color that causes your sense of inferiority?”

Al Feitoury: “Perhaps, but the reaction that this feeling of humiliation has created in me is a sense of pride, which later provoked me to be distinct and self assertive.”

Maya: “I don’t think your skin color was the real obstacle; the real obstacles lied within you!”

He looks away as if watching a distant scene and says: “How miserable, depressed and lost that poor little boy was when his lineage, birth and upbringing were all mixed up between that African Sudanese city dormant in the lap of forgetfulness and which he only seen in the dreams of his childhood in the far Sudanese west, I mean Aljuneineh, and that civilized lavished city which overlooks the Mediterranean with such pride and elegance, Alexandria.”

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Maya: “But the journey of loss, estrangement and displacement soon came to an end when you found a new direction for your journey.”

Al Feitoury: “Yes … Africa was the goal and the road, the Africa which my grandmother unaware drew in my consciousness, that black continent in which she made me live the real suffering.

I heard the beat of its rituals and rhythms, and my lungs filled with its incense and wondrous secrets.”

Maya: “Africa has then become your biggest internal salvation and your means to connect little by little with the big objective reality. A comeback of self confidence, Man and life!!”

Al Feitoury: “In the beginning Africa was my battle and goal, and then it wasn’t just that. The battle was no longer that of color between white and black. It has become that of general human values, a battle of colonialism, between tyrants and free rebels.”

Maya: “I think your admission of your looks, which you describe as ugly, came only after you realized the hidden treasure of beauty deep in your soul.”

Al Feitoury, laughing: 20

“Am I to consider this flattery?”

Maya: “You are so nice and wonderful though you look nothing like him!!!”

Al Feitoury: “I don’t look like who?!”

Maya: “You don’t look like Antarah.”

He laughed long and then said: “Not every black poet necessarily looks like Antarah!”

He goes quiet for a while before he continues: “You know …. finding Antarah and his extremely difficult, tragic life which was full of variety was all about self discovery: same color, same complex.”

Maya: “Were you deeply influenced by him?”

Al Feitoury: “I found Antarah’s biography in my father’s library and devoured it with all the eager thirst of my soul for life. I learnt that, like me, was black, and that he fell in love with the most beautiful maiden of the tribe of Abs, Abla. Antarah, the illegitimate son of Chaddad, was able to assert himself and make people recognize him for what he was. He was able 21

to assert himself despite his lineage that was lost between freedom and slavery in the fanatic pre-Islamic society, where power was in the hands of the strongest, richest and noblest.”

Maya: “But your readings didn’t stop at Antarah.”

Al Feitoury: “No, I read the biography of Abu Zayd Al-Hilali(2), Al Zinati Khalifah(3) and Diab and the Sleepy Princess and in my imagination I shared in their battles. This way I satisfied my spiritual and emotional needs from different sources.

And after that I moved on to read Sherlock Holmes, Tarzan, Lupine and other translated works. ****

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The sad singer of africa Al Feitoury leaves after they agree to meet in Cairo since Maya has a scheduled trip there to get some references for her studies. In Cairo they meet almost daily. He calls her one day and asks her to get ready to accompany him for dinner.

Al Feitoury: “Wear something casual. We will eat in restaurant by the Nile then stroll down the corniche. You have to see Cairo at night.”

Maya: “I’ll be ready by seven. See you then.” * * * * Cairo’s night is refreshing for both body and mind.

She says happily while her eyes swim in the Nile: “It’s everyone’s dream to visit Egypt. It’s wonderful, everything about it is great: its Nile, its archeological sites and even its people.”

Al Feitoury: “This is how you see it now, but what if you saw it in the fifties?! It’s the country that embraced all kinds of art, literature, poetry and other arts. I was lucky that it was Egypt, 23

and not any other country, that took me in and adopted my bold ideas and added to my weak voice the grandeur of its heritage, the significance of its historical locality and great inheritance.”

Maya: “You started off from the College of Sciences.”

His eyes lit while he looked away as if remembering those old days: “In the mid fifties, the College of Sciences was a complete cultural community in which literary forums and poetry festivals all Egypt’s literary men and thinkers met. I found a lot of care in this community, and my poetry was appreciated by my professors and colleagues.”

Maya: “Which provoked you to publish your first book Songs of Africa in 1955, when you were still a junior?”

He smiles and says: “Yes. The college back then held a great ceremony in my honor.”

Maya: “And since then you’ve become a celebrated guest at Cairo’s poetry forums.”

Al Feitoury: “Yes. The book was a distinct loud cry in the world 24

of literature back then. It was critiqued, analyzed and appreciated by Egypt’s renowned critics.”

Maya: “Songs of Africa shot your name right up next to those of Nazik Al- Malaika(4), Al Sayyab(5), Abdel Sabour(6) and Al Bayyati(7).”

Al Feitoury: “The poems were about the black continent and its torments and suffering. They called for a rise, even for a rebellion against its deteriorating conditions in the face of white tyranny which enslaved its people, messed with its history, stifled its freedom and usurped its wealth.”

Maya: “Right. The cause was vague to the outside world, but you persisted and sounded the alarm. You evoked feelings and condemned wrong doings.”

He said happily: “Here’s Africa today aware of itself after she shook off the nightmare of colonialism and after its peoples’ pride and sense of dignity strengthened and banners of independence flew high.”

Maya: “You’re a poetic reader of the African tragedy, but you’ve got an Arabic voice with African rhythms.”

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He takes out African Songs and says: “I’ll read you “To a White Face,” which I think is my first poetic text to brush on the African tragedy:

Is it because my face is black And yours is white You called me a slave Trampled on my humanity Made despicable my spirituality Made me shackles Drank my wine unjustly Ate my grains grudgingly And left me hatred, Wore what my spindles weaved Dressed me in sighs and toil And resided in abodes heavenly Whose hard stone I cut with my hands And I.. How I laid in huts of darkness!

Blanketed with darkness and cold Like a sheep mulling over melancholy Knotting the smoke of my silliness around me And when the lanterns of the sky burnt out And the river of the morn flowed I woke up my skinny herd And led it to grazing pastures And when fattened you feasted on its flesh And left me its gut and skin * * * 26

No brother …!

My inflamed feelings won’t be composed any longer I wasn’t born an owl Feeding on worms or an ape I am a creature of God my mother and yours from mud And light is neither mine or your grandparent’s How much longer will you deprive me of my rights?

While you in happiness and pleasure live Sticking up your nose a master?

And I bow a slave. * * * I am awake ….

I am awake from my yesteryears Here’s my axe hammering its graves I’ll be a fire … life wants me a fire Above which I’ll dance thunder Take off the mask of your pride ….

I housed my humiliation’s carcass in a tomb Let’s join hands And build a fortress of love between us high… * * * We’re brothers so don’t dismiss our brotherhood …

Further enraging my volcano ….

Beware don’t sow the seeds of my animosity Lest you harvest its thorns Don’t you dare … plant your fields nettles I planted mine …. roses 27

Maya: “Wonderful … this deals with the conflict between the white and black faces in which you conjured up the convincing excuses, rendering the white man’s response a huge mistake unsupported by any objectivity that warrants practices against black people.”

Al Feitoury: “Yes, the text does assure utter steadfastness and awareness to the effect that there’s no going back to the past, all the while insinuating outrage.

I’ll be fire ….. Life wants me to be fire Maya: “And yet you offer brotherhood, indicating tolerance and equal terms between the two.”

Al Feitoury: “The poem emphasizes the honest desire for coexistence with an implied awareness of the intolerance of the other party, hence the alternative where I say:

Beware don’t sow the seeds of my animosity Lest you harvest its thorns Maya: “When your book came out, there were a lot of acknowledging and condemning voices, one of which was that of the great critic Mahmoud Al Ameen Al Aalem(8), who 28

accused you of tearing the cause apart, of tearing apart the masses and the united public by claiming the presence of a separate black cause. He said: “Both the white and the black working class are suffering at the hands of one historic and social injustice, that of the white and the black capitalist, that of the injustice of colonialism and exploitation. So it isn’t a matter of black and white, it’s that of the exploiting and the exploited, that of the hard working and the capitalists.”

Al Feitoury: “That was his own point of view stemming from his Marxist theory. I actually wanted to expose our inhumane black reality and I won’t allow the participation in camouflaging this ugly reality. But I didn’t stop at the African cause. Freedom was the noblest and most important of all my poetic writings. I later repeatedly stated in many of my poems that the Arabs and the blacks are brought together by their unequal struggle against the same oppression practiced by the same oppressor.”

Maya: “Your cries won’t reach the African public which is still looking for a local voice because you’re an Arab poet. So communication is still absent?”

Al Feitoury: “Yes, but this is no reason why I shouldn’t add to the efforts made by Senghor(9), Césaire(10) and Diop. There is one future, for there is one cause; only the means differ.

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Africa…it’s our turn In his office, Al Feitoury offers Maya his books and says: “Alright, I’m ready to answer all your questions.”

She says: “They are not questions, just a conversation to help me understand your poetry. Seems you’re still concerned with the African issue?”

Al Feitoury: “Yes. I’ll always be.”

Maya: “Since your first book you’ve strongly condemned the white man’s enslavement of his black brother.”

Al Feitoury: “I’ve condemned slavery in all its forms. All through my life I’ve attacked tyrants and oppressors who shackled their people with injustice, stifled every aspiration toward freedom and trampled every direction toward human dignity.”

Maya opens African Songs, turns to the poem “African Resurrection” and says: “You paint the African reality so sharply that the continent’s 30

yearnings seem pale, insane and starved, spending its days like a handicapped cemetery guard.”

Al Feitoury: “May be I resorted to sharp irony to quickly shake awake sleeping Africa.”

Maya asks him to read the poem.

Al Feitoury:

Africa …

Africa wake up Wake up from your black nightmare You’ve slept forever …. Aren’t you fed up?

Maya: “In this poem I call the Man who lives on this African land. The poem starts with sowing seeds of awareness into the sleeping semi dead soul, for sleep in this case can only bring about nightmares and black dreams.”

Al Feitoury:

Aren’t you fed up with the master’s foot?

You’ve always slept in the darkness Exhausted …in your exhausted hut Yearnings pale….

Insane ….

With her hands building tomorrow’s darkness Starving, chewing over her days Like a cemetery’s handicapped guard …

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Her past naked …

With no dignity inaugurating the future...

No sovereignty * * * Africa Africa wake up Wake up from your darkened self How earth has spun around you How burning suns of the orbit spun around you And the begrudging rebuilt what he destroyed The worshipper belittled what he held grand ...

And you are still you, as you are Like a discarded skull…

Like a skull …

Alas! Hasn’t their ridicule exploded your veins?

You, slave!

Al Feitoury: “Here I am trying to bring to draw attention to the outside world to bring about a comparison between the two situations.”

Maya: “And you do it with such resentment and outrage! You show that, despite the passage of time, Africa has remained asleep, remote and untouched by change like a discarded skull. Then, you call her a slave …and lost.”

Al Feitoury goes on: 32

Africa Africa wake up Wake up from your stooping self Is this all you have? To be a farm For the planting feet Is all you have to lick colonial shiny shoes?

Is all you have to lie Idle … feeble… relenting?

Is all you have to laugh?

Scorning wonderful values …

Is all you have to export convoys of slaves …?

You lost!! * * * Africa …

Remote Africa My homeland … Land of my ancestors I call upon you…

Haven’t you heard screams of my pain and abhorrence?

I call upon you …

I call upon my blood in you …

I call upon my naked nation …

I call upon worn out faces And still eyes … dim eyes …

Dare not embrace my cry Crawling out of the dark pit Storming the white who violates you…

Dear Africa…

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Al Feitoury: “The call is more like the fury of a child against his indifferent, neglectful mother.”

Let the corpse of our history rise Let the statue of our bitterness stand high It’s time this desolate black Hidden from the sunlight It’s time he challenges mankind It’s time he challenges death Let the sun bow to us Let the earth listen humble to our voice We’ll dress it with our rejoice Like we dressed our sorrows Yes! It’s our turn Africa, it’s our turn Maya: “The end of the poem carries a lot of hope in the future and in the people’s ability to play a major role in changing its fate if they have the will power and determination.”

Al Feitoury: “When I wrote the poem I was really addressing the enslaved African land, but today the poem expresses the tragedy of many a people and it’s an honest call to rebel against injustice, slavery and colonialism whatever form they take.”

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Maya: “That’s why you have glorified the heroism of those who rebelled against this prevailing darkness and saluted the initiatives of the free who refused to give in within the walls of large prisons in many of your poems.”

Al Feitoury: “Yes. Many of my poems made history of that heroism like ‘A letter to Jamila(11)’, ‘The Murder of Sultan Taj El Deen’, ‘To Abdel Khaliq Mahjoob’ and “To the martyr Babker Karrar.”

Maya: “Jamila Bouhired. Her name has become synonymous with that of her country Algeria, the country of the million martyrs. She is, as you call her, the burning Algerian fire in the face of the colonialist, the fire that soothes with her pain the Algerian burning sun in detention centers.”

Al Feitoury: “It’s a letter of reverence to this heroine and to her fight for her country. I ask her to give us the strength of the people’s rebellion, the strength of the Algerian rebellious people.”

How beautiful life would be Jamila If not for the madness of tyrants And the chuckle of jails Because an unjust (person) loves life And hates others Because a master loves a slave 35

And hates rebels Because your jailers, Jamila, You Algerian fire Are all the soldiers of the Empire… * * * Do not drop your head Do not lower your noble forehead Stand up to torture Head high with torture Don’t let their grudge kill you Don’t let their mercy wash you You are the Empire’s grave, You with your pain, water The Algerian sun, You with your feet trample The majesty of the Empire Thrones of murderers In whose eyes still is the hunger of kings In whose blood still is the call of murderers In whom still is the tremble of pirates Stretching over a million years The voice of slave traffickers The sound of the guillotine Awaken in them yearning and passion He goes silent and looks away with traces of tears in his eyes. He goes on after wiping them: 36

Shall I give examples, Jamila Shall I fill veins with revenge?

Faces with silence?

The sky with clouds?

Then grant me an hour in a life The life of a soul detained Yours! For one hour, Jamila In the long night of your cell When the clock of sorrow Suddenly turns Three full turns When ears cannot hear Other than the iron footsteps of soldiers Pacing the jail court In an almost crazy tremor So… Grant me the strength of existence The strength of people’s humanity The strength of a thousand rebels in shackles Exploding destiny’s power The power of your great people Angry, joyful, rebellious The power of your soul shining like stars Over the sky of Algeria Maya: “Perhaps beloved Algeria can go past the pain it faces toady, and perhaps its people can beat the conspiracies woven against it.”

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Al Feitoury … poetry and committment Maya browses through (Songs of Africa) and says: “The term commitment is used today when talking about educated people be it writers, thinkers or artists, and commitment refutes the theory of ‘art for the sake of art’, ‘free literature’ and ‘the uncommitted thought’. We can notice, since your early beginnings, that this applies to you.

We can in fact say you are a committed poet.”

Al Feitoury: “Commitment is first based on the stance the writer, thinker and artist takes, and this stance should be explicit, clear, sincere and true.”

Maya: “It also requires that the thinker be always prepared to keep up his commitment and accept its consequences.”

Al Feitoury: “As long as the thinker’s commitment rises from his heart, complete awareness, belief and out of free choice away from pretence and coercion, he’ll always stick to it and defend it.”

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Maya: “Having a specific goal lies at the heart of responsible work. What, then, is the goal of intellectual commitment?”

Al Feitoury: “Intellectual commitment aims at exposing current reality and seeks to change it, or rather to change what’s not right about this reality.”

Maya: “And the means by which the writer achieves his goals is the word. As Parran says: ‘Words are fully-loaded pistols.’”

He nods in agreement and says: “This is why thinkers, men of literature and critics called for a close association between life and literature and for having literature emanate from the living reality to explain, criticize and expose its truths.”

Maya: “As if you wanted at the beginning of the poem ‘A Lover from Africa’ to emphasize your belief in commitment and the need for poetry to carry a message and have a role in treating the greater human cause in its political, social and cultural aspect in general.”

After some thinking, he responds: “I’ve always sensed the sanctity of the word and its majesty. Since I held my pen I’ve felt like holding a sword 39

which would enable me one day to fight the biggest of battles for the sake of rightness and Freedom.”

Maya: “Poetry is a great wealth.”

Al Feitoury: “I’ve dedicated all my poetry for an old passion that was born with me and which stayed with me since my childhood, that of my love of Africa for which I gave all the passion, thought and rebellion. It’s become my joy, misery and hope in life.”

Maya reads:

My trade is words My sword’s my pen And all my wealth’s a feeling and a tune I am not one of today’s prophets I am not one of its knights carrying the banner of struggle Or writing the nations’ destinies But I have a passion that grows as I do Never once given it to a king on a throne Nor rubbed its face on the doorsteps of idols My trade is words At times I might do well, at others not But since storms of nostalgia flowed down my veins Since buds of speech blossomed in my mouth Since I went lost and destitute 40

Folding nights of my estrangement And riding horses of my boredom You were my torment, Africa The estrangement I lived And wanted to live Maya: “If Africa’s tragedy is your destiny, you don’t seem to complain or mind; you willingly bore the black continent’s cross on your shoulders and accepted it to be your big love, dedicating your poetry to that love.”

Al Feitoury:

And when I sang ….. I sang to your eyes My lips passionately brushed against her lashes It’s then that In them I saw the flaming pain I saw in them torment and pride He pauses for a while before going on:

My trade is words, Weakness and dread might have laden my voice at times It echoed back to me in tears, sad eyed Till the echo of my voice made me cry I lean stroking its hair…. Pressing on its hands Drinking the tears from his baby eyes My voice grows heavy in my mouth 41

At times I feel as if words in my mouth Are like old tree trunks Maya: “Perhaps it’s what beloved Africa suffers on the hands of the colonists’ injustice and tyrants’ tyranny that causes that feeling and dries out your words.”

Al Feitoury:

My trade is words No decorations… No sash … No gold No banner over my head …… No title Forgive my coming to you on your big day The sun a blue diamond on your chest shines Your chest, gorgeous wounds, the horizon’s dome Mountains, winds and clouds your throne I come to you panting, neck crucified My soul a cloud, my body a twilight Nothing in my hand Nothing in my mouth But remnants of a short part I play shyly on paper Maya: “You always insist that you’re just a simple poet whose trade is words with no other means.”

42

Feitoury: “Yes, I insist that I have no other means for struggle but poetry, to which I’ve dedicated all the causes that I’ve believed in.”

Maya: “Your commitment is also apparent in The Quintets of Baydaba where you give Baydaba the role you’ve given yourself through your poetry and make of him a historical mask for this role.”

Al Feitoury: “I actually wanted to shed light on modern issues that deal with rulers, societies, morality, and the relationship between the ruler and the ruled and between Man and Man.” Maya: “So Baydaba symbolized the committed thinker and poet while Dabshalim symbolized the rulers, kings and those in charge.”

Al Feitoury: “This is one of the Quintets entitled ‘Inside the Royal chamber’:

Are you frightened?

Dabshalim leapt enraged And Baydaba said: You sleep burdened your highness and wake up tired. I wonder 43

You wear a golden crown Garments of silk and Damas Surrounded by thousands of guards and doormen And you’re frightened?

Is this the end of the road?!

Maya: “In this quintet you deal with the constant fear and worry of rulers of the anger of their people.”

Al Feitoury: “This is what happens when the ruling system is not built on justice and righteousness, and when the ruler isn’t looking out for the good of his people.”

Maya: “Here comes the role of the committed thinker Baydaba who is outspoken and bold. He didn’t fear Dabshalim’s wrath; on the contrary, his commitment and sense of responsibility made him tell the truth and warn the Sultan so he might come back to his senses.”

Al Feitoury:

“In the quintet ‘Dialogue’ you say: You tell me, Dabshalim, And the smile of rage Raising between you and me A bridge of flame Shut your mouth 44

‘Tis these days is to shut your eyes Long, and your mouth Dabshalim, Right is the voice of God And the righteous word is life So don’t get agitated If it were uttered by lips Maya: “In this dialogue, too, appears the commitment of the poet and the role of the word that bespeaks the truth and its seriousness in the way it’s perceived by kings and rulers.”

Al Feitoury: “This word of truth that Baydaba speaks of arouses Dabshalim’s fury, which he tries to conceal behind a sharp smile that pours a bridge of flame between the king and the philosopher. Dabshalim says to Baydaba: Shut your mouth.”

Maya: “Just like tyrannical authorities do in oppressive and tyrannical countries.”

Al Feitoury: “These tyrannical authorities apply all kinds of pressure against its poets, writers and free speakers, and they shut their mouths. They promote, as Dabshalim wanted here to do, the idea that it is wise these days to be indifferent, uncommitted, selfish and individualistic, rather overlooking what’s happening in the country.”

45

Maya: “Keeping quiet about a crime is more serious than the crime itself. That’s why Baydaba doesn’t yield to the king or fear his wrath or his ruthlessness. He answers the king with his committed voice:

Right is the voice of God And the righteous word is life Al Feitoury: “He warns him against stifling this voice because it will stifle him, for the word that says the truth is life that explodes no matter what comes its in way, with a will stronger than any other and a strength surpassing all:

So don’t get agitated If it were uttered by lips Maya: “In these quintets you always emphasize the role of the committed poet and express honestly and forcefully what’s in people’s hearts and minds:

Write about your Age how extinguished Its splendor was and how Its legs limp, and age Every moment under the snows of fakeness Write of your Age …

46

Said Baydaba, sword weeping in hugging the sword Void is your Age, its fire imprisoned Its sun drowned Poetry alone is the Man and Truth Maya: “Yes, ‘Man and Truth,’ for poetry stays forever.”

Al Feitoury: “Provided it’s true and free.”

47

Waiting Maya’s mission in Cairo comes to an end. Time goes by faster than she has imagined. They’ve been charged days, filled with everything, with communication, with eagerness...

He insists on driving her to the airport. He hugs her, promising that their next meeting would be in Beirut.

On the plane, she closes her eyes hoping to get some sleep, but a rerun of the last few days persists. She recalls every word he’s said and every tender feeling he’s evoked. She’s never expected meeting him would touch her so deeply.

Here she is, already looking forward to their next meeting and counting the days that separate them.

Maya arrives home full of joy, hope and sadness for the separation. In less than an hour the phone rings. She is surprised by his sweet honest voice.

She says joyfully: “What a wonderful surprise that you encircle my heart and neck with!”

Al Feitoury: “I wanted to be the first to congratulate you on your safe arrival to beloved Beirut.”

48

Maya: “I miss you. I can’t wait to meet you again.”

Al Feitoury: “See you soon dear. Regards to your dad. I’ll call you in the evening.” * * * *

He calls her frequently over the next few days, telling her of his plans and his latest poems. One day he calls to tell her that he’s coming to Beirut for the remembrance of Elias Abu Shabaka(12).

Waiting is long and difficult. She tries to keep busy doing several things, reading his poetry and all what has been written about him from what books and articles he has sent her.

After Elias Abi Shabaka’s evening, he gets busy with journalists, friends and numerous invitations. Rahgad patiently waits for her poet friend who’s often said that he was coming to Beirut to see her.

She feels sad, for three days have passed without her seeing him more than once during the poetry reading evening. He’s then taken over by friends and fans...until he calls one day and says: “I am all yours today. Pick your place.”

49

She flies to him, carrying his books and a bunch of flowers which he sends to his room before getting in her car.

She stops the car by her favourite restaurant by the seaside.

They get out of the car and head to her preferred corner. He asks her: “Is this your favourite place?”

Maya: “Yes, for a while now, whenever I feel like writing or being on my own, I carry my pens and papers and rush here.”

He looks at the sea and asks: “Do you like it?”

Maya: “I love it in when it’s calm and when it’s raging. I throw my sorrows at it and it listens. Look at it. Isn’t it wonderful?

Can you imagine a better and more capable friend?”

Al Feitoury: “Your eyes brighten up as if you’re talking about a lover!”

Maya: “Yes. Whenever I come here, I experience a deep spiritual state. Whenever I feel like meeting you I come here. It understands me and listens to my deepest thoughts.”

Al Feitoury: “Good choice! I love being with you wherever you want. It 50

doesn’t matter where; what matters is that we are together...

Do you know that the most important reason for wanting to come here is my longing for you and my wish to meet you?”

Playfully, she says: “But you arrived here days ago and didn’t try to see me!”

Al Feitoury: “I was busy finishing a poem and some articles.”

Maya: “I waited long to meet you.”

Al Feitoury: “I was afraid that if we met my poem would take a different direction, so I preferred to wait.”

Maya: “Let’s walk. Beirut’s night is wonderful. Look at this corniche. It’s an escape where people come to forget their hectic, charged days.

Al Feitoury: “You talk of Beirut and everything about it so enthusiastically!”

Maya: “It’s my city that’s come back into light after a very long period of darkness. You know how much it suffered, but it is back now as it was before, may be even better. It’s come 51

back with a true desire to survive.”

Al Feitoury: “I noticed this desire for life in the celebration I was invited to. I felt that, once again, Beirut is the lighthouse of the east in poetry, art and literature.”

Maya: “Beirut has to shake off the dust left by the long war.”

Al Feitoury: “Lebanon represents the real democracy in the Arab region, which is besieged by hate, loathing, differences, killing and destruction ... Lebanon represents the future civilization.”

Maya: “And you’ve been infatuated with Beirut.”

Al Feitoury: “I don’t love Lebanon for its hills or for the goodness of its people; I love it for its freedom. Lebanon is the home of free poets.”

Maya: “You wrote a number of poems condemning and warning of the black destiny, the nicest of which is ‘No, Not Lebanon.’”

He nods in agreement and says: “Listen to what I say.”

Maya: “Do you know all your poems by heart?”

Al Feitoury: “Most of them, old or new. Rarely do I forget any.”

52

No …. Don’t say they went into death or left Someone has ordered the heroes, so they moved There is Lebanon, and the land that got angry Because of the footsteps of those who betrayed you, mountain There is your legacy, where souls have wondered The souls of those who owned the world and made busy There is Jerusalem …. Jerusalem of prophecy What’s happened has happened, what was destined But those who abode in the rocky tower know The sea is coming … waves continuous I wondered why I have come all mixed up Almost creating within me, improvising My past, glory of old carvings within me I carry On my arms dead, wherever I go.

And my home, a piece of rock that fell Off a star still in the horizon burns Inside of me trouble, that of folks Crammed in the desert astray, so they fought The fight of two mountains: oppression and humans haunted By oppression, and the two toys: despair and hope They’re my misery... nothing’s left in their blood Of self esteem but oil and ailments My beloved are my misery, if they wilt Like days do or fade away, In whom do I take pride in their absence...and I, All those who ascended on earth or descended, 53

With what do I arouse the dead apologetically As long as my ancestors’ history the hero; I slept ... but didn’t fall asleep: like river its fish Swimming.... And it in its flow, drunk I walked away...didn’t get far: death enveloped me Alive ... attaches to my life and detaches I cried... didn’t cry: a cloud passed and watered A branch of rose leaning never reaching; I looked... didn’t see: somewhere in the horizon Hatred for the sake of hatred fights I yelled, blood in the hands of those who drank, Lebanon’s flesh in the jaws of those who ate For whom then did the dead raise their arms Above hell in which they grew young and middle aged, What for did a child launch his body a moon Of shells, and history astonished, And dived in a country like a dream protected

By God’s justice on earth and the like Lebanon... no, not the Lebanon they made Yesterday, or divided today and celebrated No... not Lebanon, the throne of the sectarian when Strong ... And rulers’ plaything when fair No... Not Lebanon, those posters on Walls, wounds ooze and heal Not Lebanon this night washes its eyes ... Slays its victims ... and lines its eyes...

Lebanon holy prophetic visions Appear in the universe, like the universe becomes 54

whole Let unity of religions race its maker To existence ...and prophets harvest its crops Maya: “How we wish the sectarian war game be over, for the war has stolen the best years of our lives.”

Al Feitoury: “How would you like it if we sat on that edge over there?”

She sat on the edge dangling her legs, her back to the road facing the Rouche. He sat next to her and said: “The view is beautiful here.”

Maya: “Wonderful actually. I could live all my life by the sea embracing the sky lovingly.”

Al Feitoury: “I never thought I could go along with your madness.”

Maya: “To be free to do what we feel like is not madness.”

One hour later she looks at her watch and says: “It’s nine thirty. I should get back home.”

Al Feitoury: 55

“The night is young!”

Maya: “You know I am a day creature; you men, though, are creatures of the night.”

Al Feitoury: “OK then. Drive me back to my hotel and off to your happy dreams.”

56

Struggle icons and issues of the homeland The next day she picks him from the hotel to go on a tour before having lunch. She drives south then east towards an area called Meeting of Two Rivers and then heads toward the mountain. All through the way the voice of Feiruz keeps them company.

He says: “I was influenced by the Al-Rahbani family(13), and loved Feiruz and her voice, which carries the fragrance of the Lebanese soil, the Lebanese thought and the Lebanese intellect. Her voice and art, which Al Rahbani family had a role in shaping and harmonizing, has been food for my soul and art.”

Maya: “Lebanon’s name has been associated in our consciousness with Feiruz and Al-Rahbani brothers. Their work combined the true word, expressive music and distinct voice.”

Al Feitoury: “How beautiful this homeland is, the country that they painted on the pages of their songs and transmitted to our hearts and souls over the years.”

As the car starts ascending, Al Feitoury starts to feel 57

anxious, so he hangs on tight to his seat and sharply says: “I wish you’d go back. Pick any place on the coast, for I’m terrified of heights.”

She teases him: “Don’t be scared as long as you are with me. Whenever I go up to the mountains I recite verses from the Quran, resign my fate to God, close my eyes and drive. I, too, am scared of mountains and valleys.”

Al Feitoury: “Well then, let’s go back, for there still are some good years to live.”

She drives back to the coast and chooses a quiet place by the sea. His phone rings. It turns out that it is some friends who have known that he’s in Lebanon. Finally she says: “I believe I have kidnapped you today so we could spend some time together, but this phone of yours is invading our privacy.”

Al Feitoury: “OK. I’ll silence it now.”

Maya: “You’ve built yourself quite a network of friends in Lebanon.”

He interrupts: 58

“Actually, dear, I’ve built in my heart a throne of love until Lebanon became a part of my pulse.”

Maya: “But you’ve been to several countries: Egypt, Sudan, Libya, Lebanon, Morocco, Rome ...”

Al Feitoury: “I must be quite lucky since I find myself another person belonging to these places with all my heart. These places are the spring of my memories, the playgrounds of my childhood and the stages of my dreams. I can’t say that I belong more to one place more than I do to another; I am human flesh that carries in itself a bit of this and a bit of that.”

Maya: “The love story you share with Lebanon is obvious in several poems.”

She takes out a book and starts reading the poem “To Al Akhtal Assagheer”(14)

Stand in awe... bow the head For the dead have lit the lanterns And risen And what your eyes can see In that greyish light is a crowd And what drops from their feet Is tattered ruins of a citadel and rubble

59

He goes on:

The great miracle is back...

For death, despite death, has a beginning and an ending So learn how to bring back to life a nation That has forgotten that heroics are but storming The land of the free, no matter how estranged Is forbidden to others, For a history in whose shadows walked Tyranny’s foot, is full of grievance Prince of Poetry ... enrage it ...

The soul might turn fertile and bones green And the shroud of patience shake off People whose call for vengeance does not sleep And one day draws its sword That wounded justice... Revenge...

A nation whose banner tears Whenever on the horizon appears a division And June on its doorstep A boiling curse, a shame, an indictment Dispersed... its unity shattered It’s Sudan, Egypt and Sham*(A term for the land that nowadays makes up Lebanon, Syria, Palestine and Jordan) They forgot that tomorrow the bells Will toll and scales (of justice) assemble They forgot that victims forever are Fire upon millions rages 60

You are in Lebanon ...

In which hills, poetry has a throne and a shrine Built by Al Akhtal a tall castle On which slip light and clouds On which heights the sun rests When sleep its eyes caresses * * * You are in Lebanon...

Immortality is here...

Here resided genius men On their shoulders they carried the universe And nurtured its estrangement as a boy They planted love... And when love came to fruition They granted it to people and wandered...

Strangers... singers...

Their nicest songs on earth was peace * * * You are in Lebanon...

And the wound...

As it’s always been, Lebanon...

And the fire blazing Palestine that was ours A verse (from the Qur’an) recited and a mass held Old men God’s name repeat...

Alters full of prayers and fasting And prophets pure hearted Their nights kneeling and rising (in prayer) 61

God’s house was holy with them Before darkness befell Al Quds (Jerusalem) They’ve come... dignity ... arise Seek vengeance ye wound, and sword rage Tell them Saladin is back Al Mahdi and Al Ansar have risen And dead freedom fighters have awakened The eastern horizon... fire and thick darkness Tell them go back to your immigration Palestine is a forbidden land Tell them the distance is wide between us That war is a debt and a commitment So stay however much you desire It’s either us or you mean on it * * *

Prince of Poetry ...

And poetry is but veiled prophetic visions, I stand before you in a presence Like a tumultuous, turbulent sea Whenever I come, it envelops me with dread I am shy silence ...and modesty Drawing close to you ... And the road’s jammed Drawing back... And yearning’s gripping * * * Like us are strange boats If the winds were great on the walls of the horizon We shouted...

62

But the visions extinguished And in the silence words collapsed Maya: “The poem is wonderful in what it carries in its folds of meanings of anger and rebellion and in what hope it carries for this nation.”

Al Feitoury: “Al Akhtal Assagheer is a great poet. I read his poetry, and I loved him. I was influenced by him, but when I write about a poet, a politician, or an important figure, the suffering of the whole Arab world appears in the poem over shadowing the occasion it was written on. I, my dear, do not write poems to praise someone or flatter the way he looks.”

Maya: “Several of your poems speak of icons of struggle or big names of poets like Elias Abi Shabakah, Al-Shabbi and others. There are also names of others who led the African struggle, aiming at ending the existence of white colonialism in the black continent.”

Al Feitoury: “Yes, Lumumba(15), Nkrumah(16) and Mandela(17).»

Maya: “In these poems you used legendary portrayal in painting the pictures of these historic characters so the poem doesn’t 63

stoop to the level of narrating, direct political truths and rhetoric.”

Al Feitoury: “That’s because I’m a poet and not a journalist or an editor who reports facts as they are.”

He opens the book and reads the poem “Lumumba, the Sun and the Murderers”:

In my heart a blade dripping blood Sweating loathing and abhorrence Shivering with anger, Lumumba Ye the buried golden sword of my country Drawn above executioners’ necks Maya: “As if the historic figure here is transformed into a legendary phenomenon in the image of the drawn, buried golden sword of your country, despite its death, above the necks of the executioners ...Wonderful.”

Al Feitoury: “He, too, is still planted deep inside me where I ask him to stay, for in the soil of the soul it won’t be touched by rust.”

I won’t draw you out of my depths Stay where you are Stay where you are You won’t rust in the soil of my soul 64

So glare in the fire of my wounds Dye the flags of revolution, sword of my country Spread high the flags of freedom, above my country Be a sun, that Sun has died It no longer shines in the eyes of the oppressed *** We lit it once in our eyes And lifted it above history with our hands And washed its forehead with blood of our tragedies Then it was extinguished, Lumumba When it became another sun Burning the hands of the oppressed; Lumumba In my heart, you are The black barefooted hero Running by the Congo River And after him run forest trees Trembling for him breaths of darkness The waves of the Congo Galloping The awesome knight With the silver voice His eyes hung on a star Lips holding on a word The voices of the oppressed Echoed in the soul of the land, Lumumba, Traitors do not achieve victory He who betrayed his people’s cause won’t be a hero 65

He who dropped his banner on his day of fight, He who blocked its road to freedom He who kissed the feet of the murderers Never... never... Lumumba Moboto will never be a hero Even if he shackled your hands Even if he crucified the revolution in your lips Even if his prisoner you were Even if his slain you became You’ll stay in loathing buried Looking into the eyes of your people In your eyes In ridicule in the murderers’ eyes Maya: “In the midst the legendary repercussions you ask of Lumumba to do what he had done in life: to struggle in Africa, dismissing his death and reinforcing the concept that doesn’t admit the death of heroes.”

Al Feitoury: “Heroes don’t die my friend. They are immortalized in the minds of people, always threatening the oppressors. I have forgotten to tell you that poets, like prophets, do not die.”

Maya: “Yes, Imru’ al- Qais(18), Al-Nabighah(19) and AlMutanabbi(20) live among us, not in body, but in their poems handed down to us through time. Your poem ‘To Nelson 66

Mandela,’ with its legendary images, reiterates the ability of Mandela, who is forever living in his rituals like an old god, to turn the accepted concepts upside down, the prisoner becoming a jailer and vice versa.”

Al Feitoury reads:

Forever residing in your rituals Like an old god Studded in the golden sun Ebony of the southern autumn How would the dignity of martyrdom be If you weren’t!

Born in death Grown in death You rise a field of stars upon the wall of death You become decorations of lightning A storm of songs A great forest of dance You’ve astonished me in your struggle Branding the necks of those who branded you Jailing in your time those who jailed you And you, a prisoner there You’ve drowned me in your perfection Mandela …

Mandela …

Maya: “The meaning here is powerful: ‘Jailing in your time those 67

who jailed you.’ Then it gets more legendary by going back to the historic truth when you say: ‘And you, a prisoner there.’”

He shakes his head repeatedly, and then says: “Then I go back to the self and confess that I’ve been overwhelmed by his perfection.”

Maya: “Then comes his answer to your calls:

He reaps oppression He who sows oppression in my time He wears fear He who weaves fear in my body Death is but the death of my ailment But I will stay Dancing with my freedom And defending, amidst the roars of millions My country He says: “As if I live a sentimental meeting with him.”

Mandela Mandela My freedom is the legacy of my land My miracle The glow of my path 68

Mandela My freedom’s is my freedom In the immortality of my struggle And in the genius of my people Mandela My freedom is my beginning and my ending It’s my great religion and my God * * * How could you be a prisoner?

When you’re there, drawing your face In young women’s gasps In the chimneys of darkened rooms Above the dust of mines How could you be a prisoner?

When they pant after you Under the bridges of Pretoria And its shaking buildings And you reward them with defeat * * *

Mandela ...

You elderly hero Washed by the waters of the eighties Hiding in your glorious presence Travelling in you exhausted me I know you are a light on my age That’s how you are Stay as you are 69

Be as such immortal in your meanings Leaning over the glory of the eighties And stay where you are Stay where you are Stay where you are Maya: “Your journey with the struggle for a cause has been long since you first cried out for Africa. Then there were your consecutive poems which expressed all the stages the Arab world went through along with other tragedies and catastrophes. And today your voice is still as ever: loud, expressive and screaming in the face of injustice, colonialism and tyranny.”

Al Feitoury looks into the distance, sadness obvious on his face: “One day, when my peers and I carried bouquets of dreams in our eyelids, I imagined that he who went farther in the journey would be lucky and see another bright face of this world. I imagined that there would come a time, and we would be of his makers, when I would be one of those who would enjoy some of its victories and good days. Here we are, where we started, as if we never took not one step forward, feet in shackles, chains on lips. I mean the freedom we dreamed of! Where is it today?!”

Maya: “I think we’ve even moved back a few steps. May be you 70

were lucky to have dreamt of, called for and participated in liberation in words and in action. Real freedom, however, did not and will not be realized as long as we are in countries riddled with divisions, animosities and borders that keep them apart. The only one who is done injustice here is the people who have lost even the dream of freedom and the one homeland.”

Al Feitoury: “Matters of the homeland ... We’ve always took it upon ourselves and it’s always burdened us; we’ve always called for civilization and refinement. After the setback of 1967, I, like millions others, suffered worry, doubt and loss, so I wrote the well known poem “A melody for a wandering Darwish(21)”, which embodies the experience of a Sufi or the follower who’s fond of his elder. He wants to know, to have a taste of the experience, a light and enlightenment for his road, complaining of the dryness of his life and his closeness to death.”

In this poem I say:

My soul has gone pale, it’s become a twilight It beamed clouds and light Like a Darwish Attached to his reverend’s feet Rolling in my woe Glowing in my body Others are blind, listen they might, but they won’t see me 71

For I am but a body ... a stone Something across the street Sunk islands in the bottom of the sea A fire in a lost age A fading oil lantern In a remote house, in Beirut I glow, I fade and I die * * * Alas! I stutter before you Reverend Embodying my sorrows Becoming abstract in you Are you me?

Is this your stretched hand or mine?

Is it your voice or mine?

You make me cry, or I you? * * * In the presence of whom I love Nostalgia threw me in disarray I stared with no face Danced with no leg With banners and drum beats I crowded the horizons My love makes extinct my love And my extinction takes forever I am yours yet The sovereign of lovers I am.

72

He says: “In the last few lines you see the influence of the Sufi poetry, as I hear and reiterate the words of my grandfather, the good reverend Abdel Salam Al Asmar, founder of Al Aroussieh El Shazilieheh(22).

Maya: “Perhaps the feeling of being lost and close to the end has motivated you to have a goal and to move a step forward on the right path. And maybe this was the movement of a simple man, you, from the reverend and the breakdown of the barriers between the two.”

Maya flips through the book and stops at “A journal of a pilgrim to Beit Ellah El Haram” and says: “I won’t ask for much more than this poem, which I love so much and often read. I’d love to hear it from you.”

He smiles and says: “You know how much I love my poetry, old and new, and it’s a great pleasure to recite it time and again.”

Maya: “Of course the poem was written right after the setback of 1967, and it’s about the challenges the era and Israel posed or the Arab cause.”

Al Feitoury: “I wanted from those masses that take the pilgrimage 73

every year to consider its worldly issues as well as religious ones, and to understand the reality of Islam, for it isn’t just a metaphysical belief and rituals practiced separate from daily lives. It is a doctrine, a conduct and a regulation of spiritual and worldly lives:

In caravans, Sir, our hearts to you Converge in pilgrimage every year Skeletons heavy with sentiment and love Kneel on the threshold of the Beit and the sepulcher Bid you peace Sir Upon you be the best of peace * * * On the prophetic remains, every atom a beam of light Reaching from the dome of the tomb To the dome of heaven Upon esteem, Status beneath which Foreheads bow Beyond the horizon a high horizon drawn, Of hands and lips, Swaying to the name of God: Praise be upon you Thanks to you Glory is yours 74

Dominion is yours Ye who bestows blessings Ye the king of all subjects Here I am My Lord Here I am My Lord (Labbayka Allahumma labbayk)(23) * * * Sir, peace be upon you From a nation lost Whose goods is dust Thrown by the civilization of ruins and darkness To you every year, May it find arbitration For its blind sun in the crowd Maya: “Lost indeed. It strayed in dark alleys thrown by modern times far away from its religious, national and cultural inheritance. It has lost its identity and turned its back on its values and drowned in the western civilization, of which it only knows its shell.”

He goes on reading the poem: Sir Since we filled in with rubble the sea And between you and us barriers raised 75

We perished Trampled upon by the herds of Jews * * * Sir You know we had glory but lost it You built, and we demolished, Here we are today Yes, Sir Dragging in our great fall Like old headstones Which live To write in history of its defeat!!

No burning coal in our bones nor cinders No snow, nor blackness No disbelief, nor worship Weakness and humiliation is but a habit Sir, You taught us love Teach us rebellion of will power * * * Cry for us Pray for us For Time inside us a wall If not pulled down Daylight would never wash us 76

Maya: “This clearly shows the stance of the Sufi rebel who calls for rebellion and strength, the strength of will power because without it the Arabs will never get back the glory and splendor they had lost nor will they make their desired future.

* * *

77

A reading in the book of the heart Al Feitoury leaves Beirut, but their relationship gets stronger and more beautiful. He calls her all the time wherever he is to tell her of his latest news and ask her about her latest work and the country’s news. He often says sincerely and passionately: “Beautiful Lebanon. How I wished to be a part the free Lebanese life… to reject ... to scream.... to speak ... to stand up... I’ve known freedom from the first Lebanese writers, Gibran, Nassib Areeda, Neimeh, Abi Madi and Al Akhtal, who are today’s prophets.”

She still remembers his great compassion when her father is hospitalized for heart surgery. He calls every day to check on him and to ask whether she needs any help. She loves him even more and is further impressed by his sensitivity and sentimentality, which draws him closer to all who know him.

* * * Her phone rings, and his voice embraces her with affection: “Where are you now?”

Maya: “In my favorite place, by the sea.”

Al Feitoury: 78

“Alone?”

Maya: “With you.”

Al Feitoury: “Haven’t I told you distance won’t come between us?”

Maya: “Yes, but I miss you and miss embracing the sea together.”

Al Feitoury: “I am always there, wherever you are. You’re in my heart and… Tell me, are you working these days?”

Maya: “Yes, I am reading books of love in the Arabic literature.”

Al Feitoury: “Read, my friend, the book of your heart first.”

Maya: “My heart? Or yours?”

Al Feitoury: “My heart, my princess, is an open book in front of you.

Try to understand it.”

Maya: “Your heart is open to all your girlfriends, past and present.”

79

Al Feitoury: “Now you’re writing the current page. Now is better than yesterday!!!”

Maya: “I fear falling in love and...”

Al Feitoury: “You’ll be a poem in my life...”

Maya says jokingly: “As long as it isn’t a defamatory poem.”

Al Feitoury: “Destiny will smile at you if I love you, and you’ll live forever in my poetry and in my words.”

Maya: “My arrogant poet! You still use an if before the verb love, and I think love to me has become something I live since I’ve known you...”

Al Feitoury: “I fear for you. I am trying to find the right climate for love.”

Maya: “Love, my dear, doesn’t need a special manual. It’s born unexpectedly and grows within us without asking for permission.”

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Al Feitoury, laughing: “My dear, you’re already lecturing in love... this means you’ve taken my advice and started reading the book of your heart.”

Maya, assertively: “I am reading it, and I am not scared!!!”

Al Feitoury: “OK, go back to your sea and your work... I’ll call you tomorrow.”

Maya: “Till tomorrow.”

Maya places the phone on the pile of papers on the table and looks away at the sea... Since she met him, she has felt like a crowned queen on the throne of femininity, beauty and poetry.

* * *

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A river thirsty for love Maya enters Al Feitoury’s office, where he receives her, as always, cheerfully and affectionately: “You are as always... radiant and beautiful ... and loaded with books and papers!”

She laughs: “And with a recorder I especially brought with me to record some of your poems.”

Al Feitoury: “Alright. What would you like to drink?”

Maya: “Anything. Coffee.”

He orders coffee and takes out a paper which he doesn’t show her and says: “I’m going to read you a poem.”

If I could, I’d make your face my temple I would make beauty stop at you And mould my poetry a golden candle Forever gazing at your eyes You’re the most gorgeous I’ve loved ... and maybe My love would kneel at your feet 82

You the lure of all lovers.... my beloved I, who has seen you and got lost in your lips, I, who is tormented by beauty ... and has often been Thrown by beauty .... and gotten back to you Take me as I am, a poet Learning forgetfulness at your hands Maya: “Have you written this yourself?” ­He laughs and says: “It was written by an old poet.”

She snatches the paper from his hand and says: “It’s your handwriting, but it isn’t yours, it isn’t your style...”

Al Feitoury: “Alright. After I read the book you gave me on love in old literature, I tried to write as they did, just adulation. What do you think?”

Maya: “It’s beautiful.”

Al Feitoury: “Let’s just say it was inspired by you and your beautiful gift.”

Maya: “In every stage of your life, there’s been a love story, and 83

you’ve written a lot on these relationships. What does a woman mean to you? And what’s the relationship between the heart and the body for a poet like you?”

Al Feitoury: “The body isn’t my goal because it is soon extinguished, and even if the relationship is that of lust, it soon dies once it’s consummated. The body, to me, is a passage to the soul; as much as the soul shines within me and as much it lights the future for me, it makes up the future of writing, the future of life, the future of human relationships. The body doesn’t mean much to me.”

Maya: “And you’re still looking for a woman to love!!”

Al Feitoury: “I’ve never stopped loving... When I love, and I’ve loved a lot, I don’t find that every love is real love, not every love is love ... every woman is different and I differ in my relationship with her.”

Maya: “What is it that you look for in a woman?”

Al Feitoury: “I look for the light within, her beautiful face interests me, her voice, her human performance, but beyond all of this, to me she is energy. I see how her soul shines; the reflection of her spiritual light upon my soul is what makes me burst 84

with poetry, and my relationship with her gets stronger as she shines within me. This relationship might last for a long or short time, it might light up the universe or only a little space within me.”

Maya: “But you demand that the woman you deal with be educated.”

Al Feitoury: “Dealing with an educated woman is different. I don’t care for degrees; what is important is her distinguished presence, her spiritual elegance, her refined taste in art and her love for classical music.”

Maya reads the poem “The Thirsty River”:

I want to fall in love ... to reach the depths To touch my depths...

To worship God as I’ve never done For the rest of my life Within me a thirst ... a fatal thirst So where’s your spring my provider!

I hardly see anything where my eyes fall But the blood of my longings....

Quench with your hurricane this black insatiable thirst In my heart and eyes Drench it, for I am a river thirsty for love In the heaven of lovers!

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If the brush in the hand of the artist is to shake In the drunkenness of his creativity Is the distorted painting to be blamed?

And how do you make me miserable With what I had no power Over drawing its position, I am sick of my infertility in the spring of love My darkness in the light of its pleasures My rebellion in the shadow of its dreams My scream in the rock of his hearing I am sick of my weakness...

Pity the well if the sun doesn’t reach its depths I’ll be damned if my blood doesn’t entwine with its vine...

The vine of its dreams....

I’ll be damned if my mouth doesn’t melt This huge dryness in hers If I’m all draped in death, and not in the greenery of her days And did not bless her with my Sufism...

If she doesn’t purify me with her sins...

I’ll live life rebellious On its meanings..... and its standards Despising all its conventions Even the holiness of its statues…!

Maya: “Troubled, concerned, rebellious, wanting love... you want to touch depths; you rebel against the creative artist if 86

he distorts the painting as he paints it.”

Al Feitoury: “I am always like this ... I want to see the world with sharp eyes, capable of noting its phenomena, examining its cells, recording all its contradictions, pointing out all its opposites and exposing its corruption and imbalances.”

Maya: “I feel that you are alert all the time even when you’re asleep. I think you don’t sleep.”

He laughs: “Yes, I worry a lot. Even when I sleep, I wake up several times. My mind, however, is always alert.”

Maya: “But not in the mornings. Every time I call you at ten I find you fast asleep.”

Al Feitoury: “That’s because I go to sleep in the early hours of the morning and not at six in the evening like you do.”

Maya: “True, but I also wake up at six in the morning and start working straight away. Let’s get back to the poem and to the vanity of the artist and his self- admiration.”

He reads on: 87

They said: Art is yours ... and never before two glories in a being met

Art is divine longings born... in the depth of man Art is heavenly sparks And people playthings of artists Leave mortals their worldly life It’s but an exhibition of colors...

Walk with your pains in their holy day For they’re merciful pains And carry within you their wounds And immortalize cruelty in the earthly!

I said, with desire inside of me A storm... gigantic...raging I wish I were a shepherd in a tattered garment With a cracked worn out stick His drink from the tear of a brook His food from the heart of a vine Leading his herd to the woods And his soul... like the wood’s, clear A shepherd with a mate who awaits his return on a rainy night And when he comes back, in his lap fall her pleasant tears...

Maya: “You refuse misery and pain for the sake of art and prefer to be a shepherd who goes back in the evening to find his beloved who receives him with her pleasant tears.”

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Al Feitoury:

I wish I were a wasp...

Its wings on its sanctuary torches It lives round the turns of fragrance Beyond boundaries of illusion, beyond time A sip or two satisfy him...

A morsel or two fills him...

And when he comes back to his wax nest in oak valleys His female rushes to him gladly With two laughs growing on her two eyes I wish my heart were his and my hands his wings And my home Nowhere Maya: “It’s the search for a warm nest and a tender companion, but then you concluded that the creative creature isn’t miserable for his ugliness but for his sensitivity.”

Al Feitoury: “Yes, but the artist can accept sensitivity as a source of worry if it were his own destiny and share in life:

Creator of man from dirt Creator of artist from dirt You’ve tormented me with art...

You’ve tormented me with this divine fire I shall meet you screaming with all the agony within me 89

My ugliness hasn’t caused me grief Non’s caused me grief but my sensitivity I implore you no other be tormented so This fire is my lot...

Content to burn in its glare...

So art lives on in my heart Maya: “The poetic talent is a divine gift that you discovered early on in your life.”

Al Feitoury, interrupting: “If talent were the starting point of an artist toward productivity, education alone would be the guarantee for its continuity and the source of its strength and renewed thought.”

Maya: “Your talent hasn’t faded with time. On the contrary, it has continued to be just as bright and just as sharp.”

Al Feitoury: “This is because of the wealth of experience and travelling to several Arab capital cities and European countries.”

Maya: “It’s well known that you’ve mastered the music of poetry despite the fact that you haven’t learned its basis. Also, well known is your ability to create fine poetic images using language skillfully despite the fact that you haven’t looked 90

at the different branched out rhetoric schools.”

Al Feitoury: “I told you it’s education and my continuous attempts to try out several forms of poems following different literary schools.”

Maya: “And what about the education of a poet in general and his relationship with his surroundings?”

Al Feitoury: “I see that the awareness of the reality of social situations and realizing contradictions, dynamic factors within the human society, as well as issues and events that shape history are indispensible education for a contemporary poet without which he would be isolating himself from the motion of life.”

Maya: “This you have said in your poetry at the beginning of your literary life and reiterated when you insisted that your trade is words and that your sword is the pen with which you defend the cause.”

Al Feitoury: “Yes, in my poem ‘A Lover from Africa’:

My trade is words My sword my pen And all my wealth a feeling and a tune I am not one of today’s prophets 91

I am not one of its knights who carry the banner of struggle Or write nations’ destinies But I have a passion that grows as I do Never once given it to a king on a throne Nor rubbed my face on doorsteps of idols My trade is words At times I might do well, at others not But since storms of nostalgia flowed down my veins Since buds of speech blossomed in my mouth Since I strayed lost and destitute Folding nights of estrangement And riding the steed of my boredom You were my torment, Africa The estrangement I lived And wanted to live Maya: “You wanted to live this poem, and you were sorry when your voice didn’t reach those it ought to reach. Words in your mouth transform, then, to old tree trunks hard to uproot.”

Al Feitoury: “Yes, I have chosen my path, which is to defend freedom and dignity. My pen is my sword that I fight with and never fail, not for a minute, to use it against any kind of exploitation and oppression. * * * 92

Longing for the word Al Feitoury reads a new poem to Maya.

Maya: “It’s gorgeous.”

She stops for a bit before going on: “You deeply believe that poetry is a life necessity rather a force that propels it forward. In the poem ‘The Child and the Storm’ you say:

And victims tormented like me Longing... for the word Time... midnight And with darkness poets wake up Water dead souls Open blind eyes And sing to a coming dawn A dawn of human lights Articulating poems And listen long to them Al Feitoury: “I also believe poetry is my fate: 93

I hereby say If I run naked, that’s my fate If I walked over the bridge of my sins Then it’s my fate My voice is the voice of my time My face, that of my destiny No wonder then that I was born on thresholds of silence and fury I’m the rebellion of weariness I’m the embodiment of bewilderment I hereby say…

Maya: “I once asked you what scares you most?”

Al Feitoury: “And I answered, and here I am repeating that I fear a day when I can’t write... that’ll be my certain death...”

Maya goes through the pages of the book which she opens to “Confessions” and says: “In the poem there’s a feeling of the magnitude of the calamity, the calamity of the poet who thinks of himself as the mouthpiece of his nation and its eyes. How could he not express its pain!”

He shakes his head, takes the poem and embraces it with his eyes like a loving father. He reads:

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The road a slithering serpent through woods Like black clouds running after the darkness No flapping of a wing ... no shimmering of a star Nothing to write For the word is in God’s lip And He on earth a prisoner Nothing ...

And my sadness is grave Sweat of the dead drenches me I sense something crucified Rip my crucified limbs Deep it sinks a knife in my chest * * * (Let fate run unimpeded Sleep only with peace of mind) What a lie Damn me, and I the lips of my people... its eyes How do I forget its victims?

And I without it a weed Without it I am earth and smoke * * * I bleed shyness I drop this high-held head in shame If I don’t write If I don’t shake off this nothing * * * 95

Children of the twentieth century The victorious coming half Free of the shadow of fear Coming from the windows of tomorrow Even if I’ve never seen you Never looked at your faces, I hear your footsteps from a distance My brethrens I carry all the sins of my age For I am a poet Blinded by the glow of the age Maya: “You confess that the poet is a false witness of his time, its lies and hypocrisy.”

Al Feitoury:

Brethrens...

I saw them a million marching to death Dying before every Messiah In flocks they chase the wind And I shut tight my eyes I break my sword I break my sword I knock...

I embrace my shame in silence Religion is torture Art is torture 96

Silence is torture And I am a poet What can I do but chew over people’s sufferings Mourn the dead, grieve for them (X is dead, God bless his soul He overflowed shyness His eyes full of goodness painlessly His feet bare with the color of blood Never walked toward a vice May God have mercy on his soul!)

And I am a poet I know that X died as he lived pricelessly He dreamed of heaven as a home His feet bled over thorns (May God have mercy on his soul!) * * * If forgetfulness were to purify me If I carried a stone in my heart If what beats in my chest were steel I would forget I would rip the black pages * * * If forgiveness were to purify me I would cry But I am a poet Blinded by the glitter of my age 97

Maya: “You, quite rightly, hurt to see that the poet is a false witness of his age, but you know and you insist that he resurrects his people from their cells of extinction, and his cries are not in vain. This is your poem ‘The Comeback of a Prophet,’ which you wrote in the remembrance of Al-Shabbi(24), carrying adulation for the great role this poet played.”

Al Feitoury: “What Al-Shabbi built was great ... he built a throne for freedom, he remained a prophet like all prophets who bare heavenly messages.”

Your poetry earned you immortality You who sang the charm of existence And a nation in restraints You poured the tune of dawn in its rusted heart Sending its high sky shuddering Its depths with longing drenched Its dreams green again Waking up the distant past Even the bones of ancestors arose Hear its voices despite death Mixed with heat and iron Slice open the grave Write it with your eternal poetry the noblest anthem For the cry of faith is stronger than death And longer lasting than the earth of graves You who are astonished in his dream 98

Eyes drawn by distant space I swear my cries were not in vain But shook your glorious earth As if I hear a flute Its over whelming yearning folds boundaries As if I see an alien Wishing from his alienation to return! * * * You who baffles the Earth with the art of Heaven You who baffles Death with the secret of immortality Many a rock your palms have moved Blocking the dawn from rising Many a hole your soul walked Whose morning behind corners chased How you clasped thorns Sunk in a thought full of roses And lived like a castaway Strength knocked down by the mummy of stagnation And you died But what didn’t die This huge edifice...this poem Poetry like your longing invading the sky Like a formidable oak Poetry on which you were torn Like thunder on clouds torn And Tunisia woke up aghast With the strutting new born morning It woke up searching for itself...for him 99

For the sad straying singer And the depths of Africa awoke Washing with light the sins of the forefathers And the giant broke loose from his jail Feet crushing remnants of dams And you, Shabi, came back as freedom Rebellious, filling ribs of slaves You came back determination in faces of misery Awakening, filling eyes of slumber You came back in the sight of the blind In the heart of the handicapped deaf You came back a prophet like the prophets If only the minds of existence realize what you mean...

Maya: “Your desire to continue and complete what Al-Shabbi started is obvious in the poem. The image ‘And you came back Shabi as freedom/ Rebellious filling ribs of slaves’ is a decision on your part to enter the African world.”

Al Feitoury: “Poetry is a world by itself, prophetic visions in need of someone to unveil:

Prince of poetry...

And poetry is but veiled prophetic visions, I stand before you in a presence Like a tumultuous, turbulent sea 100

Whenever I come, it envelops me with dread I am shy silence ...and modesty Drawing close to you ... And the road’s jammed?

Drawing back... And yearning gripping? * * * Like us are the strange boats So the winds are huge walls on the horizon…

We called out...

But the visions extinguished And in silence the words collapsed Maya: “This is a part of the poem ‘To Al Akhtal Assagheer’. It is wonderful.”

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Birth of a poem In the café by the sea, Maya turns some papers while the poet looks far in the distance.

Maya: “Under what conditions are your poems born?”

Al Feitoury: “How can I possibly describe or analyze a highly complex interlinked process of synthesis always anew and changeable? It hardly ever repeats itself and is hardly ever repeated even for the poet himself.”

Maya: “Is there a poem that exhausts you before it materializes?”

Al Feitoury: “The process of creating a work of art is invisible. It’s a state of splitting a man into two, a state of an internal struggle that, most of the time, the presence of the external artificial poet falls victim to, to later ascend above his shattered remains, that real other existence forever present within him. I could say, I live the experience till it runs its course and recreate it intensely to put it into words on paper.

The artistic creative process is not easy at all! The divine ecstasy the poet experiences then is impossible to express in 102

any other way than explicitly in this psychological, musical, intellectual mixture that is called the poem.”

Maya: “I’ve seen some of your poems transform enormously from when they were first drafted.”

Al Feitoury: “I record the idea straight away because if I ignore it, it disappears. Then I do some modifications. My feelings might change, so the poem takes a different direction.”

Maya: “Like the poem (Appearance)” Al Feitoury: “Yes. You’ve seen the poem since birth and how it has changed.”

Maya: “Right. I’ll read you the first draft:

Lest ugliness reign longer yet So ravens of the times do not soar In eyes and grow bigger I light the candle of virtue Between your eyes, And march among people And light glows in people And love in earth’s womb blooms!

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Al Feitoury: “Yes. It has changed a lot.”

Lest birds betray their nests And ugliness reign on earth longer yet Lest ravens of time fly above rooftops And be born in crevices and grow I light your grey eyes with vision of beauty And put your heart’s jasmine on your lips And walk love stricken among people Light glows in people And love makes miracles and blooms!

Maya: “In the poem there’s a strange beam and an optimistic call for love that creates miracles.”

Al Feitoury: “You know, my approach to poetry has changed now from what it was when I first started. In the past I was bursting with suffering, hoping to represent it regardless of how this suffering comes out.”

Maya: “You were trying to cleanse yourself from the torments you have inherited.”

Al Feitoury: 104

“Right, but today, I’m writing after planning and preparing a psychological list of what I want to say. I write when I want to write rather than wait for the muses to inspire me. I have an inherited a repertoire on the rhythmic and intellectual level which enables me to say what I want to say to others.

What’s left for me to do is only to determine how to say it.”

Maya: “So you plant the seed of the idea quite consciously!”

Al Feitoury: “True. I sow the seed of the idea quite consciously, be it political or social, and then wait a while until it flourishes inside of me as if it is deep in earth till it starts to sprout inside of me and cuts through me at the same time. It then shoots little by little until it takes its final shape and meets its audience.”

Maya: “You mean until it bears its rhythmic self that forces itself on it?”

Al Feitoury: “Yes, I can choose my ideas but not my music or melody; the rhythms choose me.”

Maya: “What’s behind a poets creativity and excellence over other poets in your opinion? Is it the idea, the form or the style?”

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Al Feitoury: “Originality is that of the idea, emotion, and creativity.

In this context I can say that a good artistic style or musical dexterity won’t create wings for a shallow or a stolen thought to soar in life’s horizons.”

Maya: “And this is why many so called poets fall!”

Al Feitoury: “Actually, one major cause of the collapse of modern poetry, and consequently modern types of poetry, is the shallow thought and psychological scarcity behind this poetry.”

Maya: “This scarcity hasn’t affected poetry only but also other arts. Listen …” She turns on the radio and flicks through stations before she turns it off.

“The songs and the voices are similar and the same words are repeated.”

Maya: “There are no more geniuses in arts of all kinds. What’s really shameful is the assault on all of the old traditions and the attempts to imitate the west in the quest of novelty.”

Al Feitoury: “It’s important to handle heritage with new awareness 106

and feelings, in which light we can feel the originality of the creative poet’s effort in eulogies, lampoons, elegies, love poetry, homiletic renderings, reflections and contemplations.

It is also important to feel that the poet has effectively contributed to the life of his nation and to its maturation and realization of the meaning of its existence, to its relation to God and the universe around it as well as its extended march into the guts of the future.”

Maya: “Novelty isn’t about self-rejection. Rather, novelty that is not tanned with traditionalism is faded novelty.”

Al Feitoury: “In my opinion, there is no new and old poetry. What’s new is the human vision of the ever changing social reality.

Without complete harmony between form and rhythm, image and symbol, soul and body poetry loses its effectiveness and ability to live on as heritage.”

Maya: “Don’t you agree with me that Arabic poetry has lost its luster with the public?”

Al Feitoury: “It is, my dear, a nation’s crisis before being a crisis of creativity, a culture’s dilemma before being that of a poetic trend.

Indeed, Arabic poetry started to lose its place with its 107

traditional public since the beginning of the century since the poet gave in, whatever the reason, to the logic of the demands of the time, which created a barrier between him and the real worries and troubles of people and society.”

Maya: “It’s a controversial relationship between a poet and his community.”

Al Feitoury: “Poetry is a serious work of art, critical thought and a beautiful dialogue between poet and audience. There is no real poetry without a social stance. A poet is the product of his society which is a mixture of social, political and economical interactions.”

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Style is personality In City Café on Al Hamra Street, where Al Feitoury has been used to meet his friends perhaps almost daily, Maya says: “Have you ever gone a length of time without writing?”

Al Feitoury: “I worked in journalism. I was an editor of more than one daily paper and weekly magazine. I was involved in many political and social endeavors. Then, I suddenly woke up and found myself plowing the seas, as they say, with no trees, no life, nothing except the solace I glimpsed in my first poetry book. I was swept by feelings of torment, worry and indifference … Questions kept echoing in my head, torturing me… Is it true that the poet in me has died?!! I started regaining my voice, searching for my lost existence, the existence I can find no meaning for without poetry.”

Maya: “Did you stop writing because of your hesitation between the old and new forms, which made you lose the artistic passion and rendered you inactive?”

Al Feitoury: “May be this is true, but, based on my personal experience in writing poetry and my awareness of the reality of modern 109

poetry, I can say I have reached a belief that a poet must have a revolutionary social role. Thus, I refuse all fads that rob poetry of its effectiveness and stop it from achieving its social revolutionary role I mentioned. This is coupled with my strict rejection of the classic fossilized form and structure that controlled Arabic poetry for ages.”

Maya: “Anyway, we’re not after novelty in language use, form or structure; the novelty we’re after surpasses that to reach harmony with the experience and an awareness of it. The needed novelty is that which brings down concepts of surrender and humiliation on all levels to build a brighter, more beautiful, young springy world in words.”

Al Feitoury: “This is true. Modern Arabic poetry has scored many positive points in this area. In my opinion, as a result of it breaking away from its old form, it was able to free its social thought of the reign of old rigid thoughts and was able to express the causes of freedom and social change.”

Maya: “This new direction in poetry was also able to express its ideas though musical rhythm and vocal distances.”

Al Feitoury: “Because it has more freedom in forming, providing variety and enriching the work of poetry, thus nourishing the consciousness. Moreover, this direction has allowed the 110

energy of the poet to burst out with a bigger ability to be intense and concentrating.”

Maya: “And what about the poetic imagery?!”

Al Feitoury: “Modern Arabic poetry elevated imagery in poetry from merely being decorative to being the living, vibrant and constructive hive of the poetic work.”

Maya: “Your ability to embody, represent and highlight features as a whole to a far extent is quite obvious.”

Al Feitoury: “Without the complete unity between form and rhythm, symbol and image, spirit and body the word loses its effectiveness and its ability to turn into heritage.”

Maya: “In his book The Art of literature, Tawfeeq Al-Hakim(25) says: ‘Poetry says: I don’t want to show you the reality of things in their physical reality, for this is the business of science. Actually, with my light I want to knock on the door of your thoughts and feelings, nurture in you the faculty of imagination and contemplating and get you to live two lives: the life of reality on the ground and the life of intellect.”

Al Feitoury: 111

“True. No matter how beautiful and close to reality images are, and no matter how accurately the poet depicts these images, they are not the only thing that distinguishes a true poet. They rather become a criterion of genius when the poet adds to these images a human and an intellectual life from his soul.”

Maya: “In your poetry one can see the great ability to generate an innovative image and paint a complete picture in one section, in addition to the of use parallel and consecutive images which, in total, express what you want to say as in the poem ‘In the Rain,’ for example.”

She hands him the book. He takes it and says: “Yes … It is an image made up of several scenes, and this took place right in front of me that day when I felt them crying. Indeed, the horses were crying.”

Rider, Have mercy on the tired horses!

Stop …

The iron of the saddle has cut through the flesh Stop …

The road in the eyes of the horses vague Thus death resonated around the carriage As it rolled under the heavy rains of the sky troubled! * * * However, the thin-faced black rider 112

Pulled together his coat in despair Round the ailing body …

He swept the road with what resembles fading lights Then the weeping whip resonated On the back of the horses They groaned …

Collapsed …

Then rambled stunned!

Maya: “You employ several methods when creating your poetic images; sometimes you give life to inanimate objects, give the living characteristics of death or give them color when usually color doesn’t apply (the dead moon, ebony darkness, gray rain).

You’d also use word combinations that mostly surprise the reader:( the fingers of darkness, the wing of martyrs, the books of the unknown, the faces of smoke). Where do you get your images from?”

Al Feitoury: “Perhaps they are images which stayed in my sub conscience of the African life, its animals, birds and drum beats and maybe from the universal terms that surpass the walls of cities and the rooftops of cement buildings to scoop directly from the sea, the mountain, the moon, the sky and the stars.”

Maya: 113

“And from the mystic world you lived in as a child.”

Al Feitoury: “It’s a combination of influences that help the poet create his images.”

Maya: “As Toufic El Hakim says: ‘Poetry is a representation of life; it’s a reflection of life on the poet’s self. The poet here is like the moon: it doesn’t give life in its burning shine and blinding glare but receives some of its light and filters it through itself and offers it to us a beautiful, organized, toned down light which is soothing to the eye, tranquil to the mind and to which the heart warms up.’”

Al Feitoury: “That’s right. Artistic representation doesn’t aim at depicting void-spirited skeletons. It’s rather characterized by being employed to pass on an emotional charge springing from the poet’s soul which is also the soul of the people.”

Maya: “It remains that the poet’s style is his personality and it is, as his features, unchangeable.”

Al Feitoury: “This is exactly what is called creativity in art and literature.

It’s a poet’s distinguished personality and unique style that set him apart from hundred others.”

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A journey from classical to free verse Al Feitoury offers Maya a small book and says: “Read this poetry and tell me what you think.”

Maya: “You already know what I think of modern poetry. Anyway, I’ll read it while you finish your work.”

Half an hour later Maya finishes reading the book and says: “Some modern poets think that they’ve reached the goal by disregarding the traditional type of poetry and exploding the form.”

Al Feitoury: “Modernity, my dear, is not a new garment or a borrowed mask; it’s the whole body. Novelty isn’t the rejection of the self; it’s self-discovery at a deeper level.”

Maya: “You have written poetry in its classical form and have mastered all aspects of this difficult type like difficult meters and unaddressed rhymes.”

Al Feitoury: 115

“Yes I’ve written the poem in its classical form, but it carried all kinds of modern content, taking it out of the intellectual void and stagnation.”

Maya: “But now you write in free verse.”

Al Feitoury: “Free verse, to me, rises automatically from the classical model, for it carries the music of the meter which responds to the poem’s content.”

Maya: “And rhyme isn’t altogether absent from your poetry. It appears from time to time to form a harmonic rhythm making the poem a distinct piece of music like the poem ‘A short Death Song,’ in which you use both the classic meter and the Tafeelah poetry(26) without doing away with the rhyme.”

Al Feitoury reads the poem:

Estrangement swaggered Lame , making me cry, making me laugh Spilling my colors… spinning me Colorless autumn night An elderly night Running with his tent, carrying me along * * * And I saw owls and ravens 116

Lining up at entrances of cities Blind … looking at me At times, pecking me They peck me still And I look at you…

Feet and eyes sunk in my body Like a tree trunk, like freedom In my damp forgotten forest And I cried when estrangement sauntered In me … In its pagan braids Ye, the beginning of the world and its end Weren’t it for your love, I’d die in my homeland!... * * * Is that you? As if a stone lily On my path grew And one day I carried it to plant it Between a stream and grass It creased and I got tender again And planted it in my moist chamber But it fell apart Had it been patient…

I would’ve planted it like the sun in my heart * * * Are you that wolf woman?

Welcomed then is death in the strange country…

Al Feitoury:

“But you haven’t told me what you think of the book.”

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Maya: “As long as there is intellectual void, there’s no need to express any opinion on some words that line in no specific order and claim to be poetry.”

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The Sultan of lovers In his office, Al Feitoury finishes signing some papers.

Then he looks at Maya and says: “I’m traveling tomorrow.”

Maya, sadly: “Always a traveler like Sufists, Darwishes and people on the go.”

Al Feitoury: “Don’t forget, my dear, that I grew up in a family closely associated with Sufism(27), for my grandfather Al Wali Al Saleh Abdel Salam Al Asmar Al Feitoury founded Al Asmariyah Al Arousieyah Al Shathiliyah way.”

Maya: “You have lived in an environment of rhythms, symbols and distinct music, which penetrated to your poetry in the form of tunes.”

Al Feitoury: “The Sufi experience is a part of my existence. I suffered it before I was born, I suffered it as a child and a lad before I knew poetry. Perhaps I learned poetry through my knowledge of it. The Sufi phenomenon in its reality is a deeper look at the self and a closer bond with the essence.”

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Maya offers the author a book and asks him to read “A Melody of a Wandering Darwish” and says: “I’ll tape it in your voice.”

He reads:

In the presence of whom I love Yearning threw me in disarray I stared with no face Danced with no leg With banners and drum beats I crowded the horizons; My love makes extinct my love And my extinction takes forever I am yours, yet The sovereign of lovers I am!

Maya: “In this part the Darwish has arrived to the end of the road and he is a step or two away from the beloved’s presence. He is in a state of utter passion and complete extinction and has left himself. He no longer recognizes his own existence and has reached rapture, for he feels he is the sovereign of lovers.

Al Feitoury nods his head in agreement and says: “As if I am reiterating my Sufi grandfather’s words.

These are not my words. You know, I used to record the Sufi poems as requested by my father the Sheikh of The Way in Alexandria.”

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Maya: “But you have also read what’s left from the Moslem Sufis and used a lot of their symbolism like the symbol of the mountain in the poem ‘The Mountain,’ the sacred place where God appeared to Moses, peace be upon him, in Sinai.

The mountain symbolizes the meeting place between the creator and his creation, the place of the Holy torch, the place of the secret and communication with the source of creativity and creation.”

Al Feitoury: “Yes, I have read them and was influenced by them. I have read Ibn El Faredh, Al Hallaj, Ibrahim Bin Adham, Al Bostami and Abu Bakr El Shibli among others.”

Maya: “But Sufism in your poetry isn’t ignorant or stunned.”

Al Feitoury: “Of course not. It’s a revolutionary and educated Sufism. It’s a new controversial relationship between a bold questioning supporter and a wise man ready with answers. Both abhor corrupt and deceiving appearances in this worldly life, but they also believe in the possibility of achieving the better.”

Maya: “You might have some inherited thoughts of the Moslem Sufi intellect, but the romantic aspect is clear in your 121

work due to your nature as a lone sad expatriate and to the environment you grew in.”

Al Feitoury: “I’ve always believed in art, immortalizing the artist and glorifying nature. I’ve believed in serenity and spiritual ecstasy emitting from reflecting on existence and looking ahead to eternity on the wings of art and nature.”

Maya: “It’s a clear romantic vision with a Sufi overture to it, but it is also an intellectual Sufism far from and different from the recognized religious Sufism!”

Al Feitoury: “Yes, but it agrees in some of its facets with the oneness of existence.”

Maya reads from the poem “I swear by Your Name”:

Ye forest bathing in the divine scent Cloaked in summer and eves Which have forgotten their nakedness under the fan Of the sun...

The green of seasons I am...

For ever I lay down in grass and water...

Sinking in a dream’s gasp Deep in the pain of the river...

Running in the prayers of bells…

Still departing since we parted towards you And departing in love and poetry…

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Al Feitoury: “The poet’s Sufism or the poeticism of the Sufism through which I speak is a conscious, aware and positive human stance; it’s not the stance of a Darwish attracted to a sum of confused thoughts or fraud and abstract blind sentiments.”

Maya: “This stance is clear in your poem ‘A Journal of a Pilgrim to Beit Allah El Haram’ where it is clear that the Sufi aspect isn’t that of an individual who seeks salvation of his soul rather the salvation of the whole nation’s soul.”

Al Feitoury reads:

Sir Since we filled in with rubble the sea And between you and us barriers erected We perished And were trampled upon by the herds of Jews * * * Sir You know we had glory but lost it You built, and we demolished, Here we are today Yes sir Dragging in our great fall Like old headstones 123

Which live their lives To write in history of their defeat * * * No burning coal in our bones nor cinders No snow, nor blackness No blasphemy, nor worship Weakness and humiliation a habit Sir You taught us love Teach us rebellion of will power * * * Cry for us Pray for us For Time inside us a wall If we don’t demolish Daylight us will never wash Maya: “There is a clear call in the poem to purify the soul of this nation from the weakness it lives.”

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The Chechen Freedom Fighters And The Resistance Maya enters Al Feitoury’s office carrying some books and papers. He welcomes her as usual saying: “As always radiant and beautiful.”

Maya, pretending to be displeased: “Don’t talk to me as you do to your beauties who are around you all the time. Save this flattery for them.”

Al Feitoury: “Alright, you great thinker.”

He takes out a newspaper snippet from a pile of papers: “Here. This piece of news will interest you no doubt.”

Maya takes the paper and reads loudly: “The Chechen rebels confirm their responsibility for the Moscow Tower fire and the sinking of the Russian submarine.

Wonderful. This news is wonderful. I heard it yesterday. It confirms that free revolutionaries refuse humiliation and giving in to any colonialist no matter what.”

Al Feitoury: “The People’s will is bound to win anywhere. Stabbed people have to trample shackles and prisons with pride, and 125

the sun will wash with light their paths and their forehead.”

Maya: “This region has a history full of tragedies. The Russian empire has expanded on the expense of its Charkas neighbors and Crimea, occupying the eastern coast of the Azov Sea in the seventeenth century. It further expanded in the eighteenth century by occupying a part of the Caspian Sea, the Azov Sea, the plains of Stavropol and the plains extending to the right of river Kuban. But the Charkas refused to submit to the occupation and gathered all their strength to use in its defense. So the war went on for more than a century and a quarter (1720 _ 1864), fuelled by more than six generations of its people and around two million soldiers on the Russian side.”

Al Feitoury asks with interest: “Why is Russia hanging on to the Caucasus?”

Maya: “There are many political factors involved, the most important of which is the feeling of the great state and recapturing its prestige, status and influence. There are also economical reasons like the natural wealth of resources as the agricultural, animal and precious metal assets, in addition to the oil in Baki, Grozny and Maykop, not to mention the gas in North West Caucasus.”

Al Feitoury, with admiration: “These people are fighting the colonialist fiercely and 126

defending their land with admirable valor.”

Maya: “The Cherkassy maxim best expresses the psyche of this mountain people who refuse submission and humiliation, thus refusing attacking others. Listen to what they say: ‘If you don’t hit he who hits you, he won’t know you have a hand.’

And ‘He who touches your eye, take his soul.’”

Al Feitoury: “My god, these people are great. I bow to them in honor and appreciation of their heroism. The Chechen war presented a wonderful phenomenon in the twentieth century and a lesson to follow to all small peoples who have the right to practice their freedom on their own land. They have proven that if a nation is united, no force in the world could beat it. Victory is from God and made by the will of Man.” Maya: “True, and despite all the horrendous events in which Russia has used weapons and fighter planes, which were made for world wars to bombard civilians , and despite committing extremely brutal mass massacres against them, the world stood still watching what’s happening in Chechnya, Bosnia, Herzegovina and other places.”

Al Feitoury: “And despite the ugliness of the war and what violations 127

it made to human rights, not one western country took any action concerning this war.”

Maya: “Yes, because these western countries don’t want to upset Russia merely for a small people. They claimed that this is an internal affair and that Chechnya is a part of Russia.”

Al Feitoury: “As always is the case with other causes. What excuses the silence of nations to the massacres committed in Palestine or the appalling Israeli attacks against Lebanon?”

Maya: “Unfortunately, all small countries are but pawns that the powerful move on the board at will. The United States and Russia reached an agreement at the end of the cold war and it goes two ways: First, Russia has a free hand in its immediate circle without the United States waving the human rights card and without remembering the existence of the Security Council. Second, Russia and Europe agree willingly to exit the previous Russian circle: no role in the Middle East settlement beyond making speeches. Between these two ways, the European countries are but a traffic officer who is pre-assigned to overlook whatever happens.”

Al Feitoury: Listen to what I say in the poem “It is the Time of Fall…”

And Baydaba said: 128

- You asked me about falling once If you are still listening to me Your Majesty Here I say - Some fall because They see and do not see And some fall...

Because they walk backwards The worst kind of falling Is falling in satisfaction Maya: “I believe that the Chechen there and the Palestinians here are proving to the world that they are too strong and too conscious to fall into satisfaction and apathy because they have a just cause which is their right to their land and freedom.”

Al Feitoury: “You are a good advocate for your ancestors, the Charkas.”

Maya: “Not because they are my ancestors, but because they have a just and righteous cause and because it’s only logical that the Chechens get their independence and the Russian withdraw from their country. This is the only right way for them to agree to establish peace with Russia.”

Al Feitoury: 129

“Every nation fighting for a cause must triumph one day. Listen to what I said when Africa beat colonialism and injustice in the poem “A People’s Harvest”:

We marched in hordes ... Tell scrolls of glory to get ready This is what the hands of people have sown, on the darkest of days This, the harvest of those capable of will and challenge And we could, despite the brutality of the foreign tyrant And we have broken all of yesterday’s jails and cuffs And we have defeated all the earth’s weakness and loathing We have, along the road, woven garlands of roses Our people... your march a tempest, And your voice a thunder roar Banners of martyrs on your soil from grandfather to grandfather The sun watches over you tenderly in swagger and ardor Yearning for you ... and you a rebellion of rebels, for the best of intent For the life of a People...and the uprising of a nation... and the making of glory So the bigger freedom Becomes your road beyond limits 130

You muse, the greatest of poetry on the day of challenge What would I offer you?

And you to me are all poetry Maya: “Yes, yes… every nation will reach glory if it defies injustice and tyranny. There will come a day when it yields the fruits of its long struggle. And poetry stays to document its great victory.”

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Not A Child And Stones The phone rings. Maya picks it up heavily and hears his voice on the other end: “My fair lady, so you’re back from Damascus.”

Maya: “Yes. I came back three days ago.”

Al Feitoury: “Why haven’t you called me then?”

Maya: “I’m mesmerized in front of the TV watching the news of the Intifada (uprising). It’s tragic. Tens of people fall dead and injured every day in plain sight of the whole world with no one making a move or uttering a word.”

Al Feitoury: “The Intifada was bound to flare up again after it was stifled the first time. Don’t worry dear. It’s these kids who got the world concerned and whose stones bewildered all styles of the Zionist suppression and treachery. It is they who put the nation’s enemies face to face with the reality of their existence and victories.”

Maya: 132

“We are at the threshold of the third millennium. How are these poor kids supposed to face the oppression of this war machine with their bare chests and stones?!”

Al Feitoury: “These are the same children who left this war machine incapable earlier on. These kids fought the tanks of the foreign invader with their bodies.”

He who comes out of the Age of the dead isn’t a child It’s but the sign Not a child, and his stones Not a sun of copper and ashes Not a ring round peacocks’ necks...

Adorned with blackness It’s a civilization ritual It’s a people’s and a country’s rhythm It’s the Age covering its nudity In the shadow of requiems, Not a child, he who comes out of the Rabbi’s hat From the arc of defeat Not a child and amulets It’s justice that grows in the silence of crimes It’s history ceiling lined with skulls’ flowers It’s the resisting soul of Palestine It’s the land that didn’t betray the land But betrayed by Fezzes And betrayed by Turbans…

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It’s Right that hasn’t betrayed Right But betrayed by governments And betrayed by courts Maya: “The threat to the Intifada doesn’t come from the kids who have decided and are determined to fight the battle to the end. It rather comes from the traitors who are breeding and are multiplying in every time and place.”

Al Feitoury goes on:

So snatch yourself from yourself Palestinian oil pour your moons Embrace your bigger self and resist Light the sea’s window, by the sea And tell waves: Waves are coming * * * You’re not a child you who comes In a snow blizzard...

And waves of fog Not at all a child, in this torment The star of this occupied country has rusted In your way from door to door Like a beggar long bowed In the realm of darkness As a Negro from the past 134

Nailed behind the night, veil pierced You’re not a child who seems playful In the game of the wrecked universe You are in the eye of the fire In the veiled lightning To your branches was destined, the glory of columns And to your rains the ceiling of the United Nations To your stoned lobby of cowered faces Maya: “You’re very optimistic despite the depth of the tragedy and the ambiguity of the reality we live.”

Al Feitoury: “My dear, the Intifada has lit a new spirit, and the resistance will one day lead to revolution.”

Not a child...

Born in and of the Jewish Age And dream long in front of it Naked but of Jerusalem And Al Aqsa(28) alive And the horn of the day of resurrection A lucid twilight cloud Ceremonial like a martyr’s shroud A guerrilla of a distant wound Black Nazism might crucify you In the new Age’s cellar And he, in whose eyes they planted bars, 135

Shouldn’t feel pain And he who witnessed the tragedy Shouldn’t complain!

Maya: “Anyway, all the Arab countries decided to support the Palestinians, but only with rhetoric.”

Al Feitoury: “I said this in the poem ‘Lovers come to you Baghdad’:

This evening As if someone is patching up a perforated cloud This evening As if wings of Palestinian colors Glide across the air As if a child with a stone Eluding a sneaking murderer And dives in his eyes In the rocks of ignorance he carves a stream for the light Then disappears behind the darkness of those who killed his smile And killed him The chid in the red Kuffieh(29) Was running naked Except for the tinged stone in his hands I almost ...I can’t believe ...

Naked but of a red Kuffieh!...

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And the tinged stone in his hands And a thousand bejewelled golden medals On a chest which has never fought a war And a thousand radio stations bombed enemy’s barricades And a thousand heavily armed songs And a thousand tyrants, hanging up his sword a moon On a humiliated throne * * * For whom then?

Those fleets they are building On land, in sea and in air For black Nazism, For the child?

Or for the funeral precession of the murdered homeland?

Maya: “The fleets, my friend, contribute to the battle of assassinating the childhood and youth of this homeland.”

Al Feitoury: “Light might come out from behind the bleak darkness we live.”

* * * 137

New York…the jungle of death As they follow the news, the poet nervously flicks through the channels and stops at the news of the American Veto against a matter associated with the Palestinians, holding them responsible for any injustice that befalls the Palestinian people.

Maya says: “You speak with rage of New York and hold it responsible for any tragedy, pain or ruthless acts.”

Al Feitoury:

New York... my veins full of dreariness My eyes over your earth ... a cloud And you aren’t my country Nor your stone heart mine Nor in the glare of poetry, my path For Africa is my Home, and poor Negros are my people The people who built their skeleton bridges Across which civilization to you passed Lost on your roads with terror and oppression Whose mouths smile with bitterness They who with every pick’s stroke And every sickle’s jerk 138

In your darkened mines And glutted streets In your soil...your domes Your rising churches ...

They’ll forget that you’re a whip, and a murderer And that you’re a beauty chained But, New York, no matter how they forget you No matter how far they get, and away they turn Their souls will run towards you To bury their faces in your hands And care for you And gasp whipped in tears Because you are a mother, be it a slayer of prophets New York... jungle of death, cursed you are however you are And what your hands have soiled, is but your own forehead Maya: «You only see in New York an ungrateful breed. She’s a mother killing her prophets, and her hands are stained because she’s harmful, only staining her forehead.»

She goes silent for a while and then goes on: “We were brought up to hate America because it has always supported Israel against the Arabs. But truth be said, each and every one of us wishes he could go there to work and secure a future. Don’t you think that things are much worse in our own countries and that we are looking in the 139

unknown for a country to fulfill our dreams and secure us a future?’

Al Feitoury: “No doubt it is an advanced and developed country that provides a decent life for its citizens. In fact our rejection of it is a result of us growing up aware of its bias against Arab and African causes.”

Maya: “This bias is a result of our own weakness because the Arab countries are the richest among countries and America has a lot of interests in the Arab world; enough for us to pressure it into siding with us and acting in our interest, particularly when it comes to the Palestinian cause.”

Al Feitoury: “Don’t forget, my dear, that this poem is old. If I were to write about this issue, I’d handle it in a different manner and write about it in a more logical objective way and not in a rebellious emotional reaction.”

* * *

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Children are god’s beloved In the café by the sea, Maya reads out a children’s story she has written and is about to send to a children’s magazine.

He listens quietly and comments in agreement at times, suggesting some changes at others.

At the end of the story Maya reads some verse as a song and says before he gets the chance to comment: “Of course I love poetry, but I can’t write even one line.”

He smiles as he takes the paper from her hand and says: “Alright dear, not everyone has to be a good poet. Do you want it all: beauty, femininity, writing stories and writing poetry? What would be left for the rest of us?”

Maya wishfully: “I wish I had the talent to write poetry. I would want nothing else. Nothing is more beautiful than being a poet. He can immortalize time…He can lift kings up and immortalize them or drop them down to the deepest of pits.”

Some, you know, if your poetry hasn’t Shed light on their days, would’ve passed Al Feitoury reads what’s written, and then he writes tapping on the table as if composing a tune for the song. He 141

then reads:

Be content my friend To call you a friend And to be my friend Be beautiful my friend Contentment is the best of fortunes A fortune which never ends Light like the sun in us Man is but a meaning Maya, happily: “It’s wonderful. I think any child can learn it by heart and sing it.”

Al Feitoury: “Writing for children is very hard. One has to go to the child’s level and find out what he needs.”

Maya: “Speaking of children, how’s your little girl Ashrakat?”

Al Feitoury, with affection: “She’s getting bigger. She’s smart and pretty. She’s got a temper and she acts like me. She takes after me to a great extent.”

Maya: “Do you love children?”

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Al Feitoury: “I used to be scared of them, but now, after my little girl was born, I am much closer to them. It’s beautiful to see our children grow right in front of our eyes.”

Maya: “And the rest of your children?”

Al Feitoury: “Because of my circumstances and constant moving about, I didn’t know them when they were young. They grew up quickly. Now I feel they are my friends rather than my children. I travel to them to see them. We’re on good terms, and I always feel that we are friends.”

Maya: “Anyway, I believe that having the young girl is quite an experience and I think she loves you a lot.”

Al Feitoury: “Yes, she does. She knows my phone number and calls me often especially if anyone bothers her.”

Maya: “You know what? My younger brother has loved you since he was five when he saw you for the first time. He speaks about you now as if about a friend. Whenever someone comes to visit he takes your books out and says: This is my friend.”

Al Feitoury: 143

“May be this is because when I met him I was at a stage of simplicity and openness and could attract him. And don’t forget that he lives in a home which loves poets and poetry.

He must feel I am one the family of poets whose books he sees on the shelves.”

Maya: “Children are God’s beloved. I think getting close to them and trying to understand them gives us a lot of happiness and hope.”

Al Feitoury: “Alright then, my dear. I’m ready to write a song for every story you write for children. This’ll make me happy.”

Maya: “Wonderful! I’ll start writing a new story today.”

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Footnotes 1. Antarah Ibn Shaddad was a pre-Islamic Arabian hero and poet famous both for his poetry and his adventurous life. After being neglected by his tribe and living in servitude, Antarah claimed attention and respect for himself by his remarkable personal qualities and courage in battle, excelling as an accomplished poet and a mighty warrior.

2. Abu Zayd Al-Hilali was an 11th century Arab leader and hero of the Amirid tribe of Banu Hilal.

3. Al Zinati Khalifah A legendary figure in the Arab popular stories.

4. Nazik Al-Malaika was an Iraqi female poet and is considered by many to be one of most influential contemporary Iraqi female poets. Al-Malaika is famous as the first Arabic poet to use free verse.

5. Badr Shakir al-Sayyab was one of the greatest poets in Arabic literature, whose experiments helped to change the course of modern Arabic poetry.

6. Salah Abdel Sabour, one of the most prominent figures of free verse in Arabic poetry, is also considered an Arab symbol of modernity affected by the western thought.

7. Abdul-Wahab al-Bayati was an Iraqi poet who was a pioneer in his field. He defied the conventional form of poetry that had been common for centuries.

8. Mahmoud Al Ameen Al Aalem was a leftist thinker and a prominent figure of the leftist movement in Egypt.

9. Senghor was a Senegalese poet, politician, and cultural theorist who served as the first president of Senegal. He is regarded by many as one of the most important African intellectuals of the 20th century.

10. Césaire was an African-Martiniquan francophone poet, author and politician.

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11. Jamila Bouhired is an Algerian revolutionary. Bouhired is a nationalist who opposed French colonial rule of Algeria. She was regarded as a hero in Algeria.

12. Elias Abu Shabaka was a Lebanese writer, poet, editor, translator and literary critic.

13. The Rahbani Brothers were Lebanese composers, musicians, songwriters, authors, playwrights/dramatists, philosophers, and poets. They are best known for their work with Lebanese singer Feiruz.

14. Al Akhtal Assagheer A renowned Lebanese Poet of the late 20th century.

15. Lumumba was a Congolese independence leader and the first legally elected Prime Minister of the Republic of the Congo.

16. Nkrumah was an influential 20th century advocate of Pan-Africanism and the first president of Ghana.

17. Mandela was the first South African President to be elected in fully representative democratic elections. Before that he was an anti-apartheid activist.

18. Imru› al- Qais was an Arabian poet of the 6th century AD. 19. Al-Nabigha, an Arabian Christian poet, was one of the last poets of preIslamic times. «Al-Nabigha» means genius.

20. Al-Mutanabbi was an Arab (Iraqi-born) poet. He is regarded as one of the greatest poets in the Arabic language.

21. Darwish is someone treading a Sufi Muslim ascetic path or «Tariqah», known for their extreme poverty and austerity.

22. Al Aroussieh El Shazilieheh A Sufi school 23. Said in an answer to a call chanted by pilgrims on their way to Mecca 24. Abu Al-kasem Al-Shabbi was a renowned Tunisian poet.

25.Tawfeeq Al-Hakim was a prominent Egyptian writer.

26. Tafeelah poetry is a type of poetry introduced into the Arabic literature

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since the middle of the twentieth century.

27. Sufism is defined by its adherents as the inner, mystical dimension of Islam.

28. Al Aqsa is an Islamic holy place in the Old City of Jerusalem.

29. Kuffieh: A symbol of the Palestinian resistance movement.

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CV Gharid El Cheikh Mohamad Name: Gharid El-Cheikh Mohamad.

Masters degree in Arabic Language and Literature Specialized in Manuscript Editing and Verification, Member of the Lebanese Writers’ Association.

Owner of Al Nokhba House for Composition, Translation and Publication, Beirut, Lebanon.

She is the first Arab woman to produce a dictionary: The Dictionary of Language, Grammar, Scientific, Philosophic, Legal and Modern Termsk.

Literary Works 1- Editing and verifying Al Kharai’ty’s Manuscript: Sickness of the Hearts (327 Hijri), Dar Al Kotob Al-Ilmiyah: Beirut, 2000.

2- The Dictionary of Love Poems from Arabian Heritage books, Kanadeel Publishing House: Beirut, 2007.

3- The Dictionary of Mass Media, Al Nokhba Publishing House: Beirut, 2007.

4- The Dictionary of Synonyms, Dar Al Rateb Al Jamiyah: Beirut, 2005.

5- The Grammar Dictionary For students, , Dar Al Rateb Al Jamiyah: Beirut, 2005.

6- The Dictionary of Letters and Circumstances, Dar Al Rateb Al Jamiyah: Beirut, 2005.

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7- The Dictionary of nouns and pronouns, Dar Al Rateb Al Jamiyah: Beirut, 2005.

8- The Dictionary of Nouns and Verb Conjugation, Dar Al Rateb Al Jamiyah: Beirut, 2005.

9- The Dictionary of Plural Nouns (Al Jomou3 wa Al Mothanna), Dar Al Rateb Al Jamiyah: Beirut, 2005.

10- The Science of Al Eloquence, Dar Al Rateb Al Jamiyah: Beirut, 2006.

11- Meanings and literary methods, Dar Al Rateb Al Jamiyah: Beirut, 2006.

12- The “Master” (A collection of Arabic Language Lessons and its Grammar), Dar Al Rateb Al Jamiyah: Beirut, 2005.

13- The “ Master” in rhetoric and Arud. Dar Al Rateb Al Jamiyah: Beirut, 2005.

14- The “Master” in Simplifying Arabic Language for Elementary Students, Dar Al Rateb Al Jamiyah: Beirut, 2006.

15- The Practical Master in Simplifying Arabic Dictation for Elementary Students, Dar Al Rateb Al Jamiyah: Beirut, 2006.

16- The Practical Master in Simpifying Grammar for the Elementary Students, Dar Al Rateb Al Jamiyah: Beirut, 2006.

17- The Practical Master in Reciting Poetry, Dar Al Rateb Al Jamiyah: Beirut, 2006.

18-“Days With Them” Series: * Jarir, Al Nokhba House for Composition, Translation and 150

Publication, Beirut, 2009. * Nizar Kabbani, Al Nokhba House for Composition, Translation and Publication Beirut, 2009 * Mohammad Al Feitoury,Al Nokhba House for Composition, Translation and Publication, Beirut, 2009. * Abdul Aziz Khoja, Al Nokhba House for Composition, Translation and Publication, Beirut, 2009. * Huda Mikati, Al Nokhba House for Composition, Translation and Publication, Beirut, 2009 19- Fadwa Toukan: A Literary Study, Scientific Books Publishing House: Beirut, 1994.

20- May Ziyada: The Author of Longing and Yearning, Scientific Books Publishing House: Beirut, 1994.

21- Kassem Amin: Between the Cause and Literature, Scientific Books Publishing House: Beirut, 1994.

22-The Encyclopedia of Love, Beauty and ghazal. Dar Al Fikr Al Loubnany, Beirut, 1999.

23- Techniques of Expression in Abdul Aziz Khoja poetry, Kanadeel Publishing House: Beirut, 2003.

24- The Poetry of Abdulla Bashrahil: Artistic and Humanitarian indications. Kanadeel Publishing House: Beirut, 2003.

25- A Collection of five senses Stories for children, Oun Publishing House: Beirut.

26- How to Tell A Children’s Story, Kanadeel Publishing House: 151

Beirut, 2002.

27- Education and learning Through Play, Al Hadi Publishing House: Beirut, 2005.

28- Hammour’s Diary, A Children’s Story, Al Nokhba House for Composition, Translation and Publication.

29- The Best Beauty Quotes, Arabic Book Publishing House: Beirut, 2005.

30- The Best Wisdom Quotes: Arabic Book Publishing House: Beirut, 2005.

31- Editing “Pleasing and Keeping Company” book, Arabic Book Publishing House: Beirut, 2005.

32- Explaining Jarir’s Poetry Book, Annour Foundation for Published Material, Beirut, 1999.

33- Explaining Abi Al Kassem Ashabi Poetry Book, Annour Foundation for Published Material, Beirut, 1999.

34- Explaining Hafeth Ibrahim’s Poetry Book, Annour Foundation for Published Material, Beirut, 2001.

35- Explaining Omrou’Al Qay s Poetry Book, Annour Foundation for Published Material, Beirut, 2000.

36- My Picture Dictionary: English-Arabic-French, Al Nokhba House for Composition, Translation and Publication, Beirut, 2010.

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Index Foreword .............................................................................. 5 The Characters ....................................................................... 9 Meeting .............................................................................. 11 The sad singer of africa ......................................................... 23 Africa…it’s our turn ............................................................ 30 Al Feitoury … poetry and committment ......................... 38 Waiting .............................................................................. 48 Struggle icons and issues of the homeland ........................... 57 A reading in the book of the heart .......................................... 78 A river thirsty for love ....................................................... 82 Longing for the word ........................................................ 93 Birth of a poem ................................................................... 102 Style is personality ......................................................... 109 A journey from classical to free verse .................................. 115 The Sultan of lovers ......................................................... 119 The Chechen Freedom Fighters And the Resistance ............ 125 Not A Child And Stones ..................................................... 132 153

New York…the jungle of death ......................................... 138 Children are god’s beloved ............................................... 141 Footnotes .............................................................................. 145 CV Gharid El Cheikh Mohamad .......................................... 149

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