By Abdel-Rahman El-Abnoudi Abdel-Rahman El-Abnoudi has for long been considered Egypt's leading colloquial poet. Yet despite his fame he has always remained firmly attached to the idioms and language of his birthplace, Abnoudi, in Al-Said El-Gwani (the southernmost portion of upper Egypt). The extract below is taken from a single-volume poem sequence, Al-Maut' ala-l-Asfalt, an extended eulogy for the Palestinian cartoonist Nagi El-Ali. First published in 1988, the volume was dedicated to a martyred artist, and to past and future Palestinian martyrs, in commemoration of the first anniversary of the Intifada. Mother, While sitting alone at the crossroads Turning your grinding stones Around and around and around As you lament, singing your dirge For an absent beauty Do not forget to sing for me A couplet Composed of the oldest, darkest threads of mourning Not shrieked nor wailed -- Just insert into your strong A name, The name of a dead friend, Nagi El-Ali Where will we find the grave Of Nagi El-Ali, A thorny grave, Coated with wormwood? As death approaches Death himself is scared, And even if he overcame his fear, Then destiny will still Keep him at bay. The tomb of Nagi El-Ali The tomb of a simple man, The tomb beneath which lies a young man, a man whose heart is green, a patriot whose heart bore the land of shanty camps. The land is an alienation And the dream is private property. A map of a quasi-homeland. Its perimeters wired and bared Behind which stand the exile, Hands behind his back. This homeland yearns For the land. Foolish in his love -- Of course he was foolish Those of you who the homeland Must love as Arabs do, Piously, purely ... with cunning. Were each allotted his just desserts. Rewarded in life by deeds Then I should be the one Who murdered him in England. The moment he drew a picture, A broken banner comforting Unspeakable pain, The moment he exposed me And drew An identical copy of me, I killed him. He was, unlike others, Incapable of lying And unlike others He painted not with a brush but a blade. He exposed the actors In the middle of the play While they were my own hand, and with The hands of others I killed him So you may rest assured, my countries, You will not again be disturbed By a picture. Your people are not my people. Sometimes, even, your people Are not your people. Please do not bother me With details of your killer. I do not intend To seek vengeance for your death. All that I can do Is envy you that death Dying in a strange land Is infinitely preferable To the shame of dying at home For your trip carelessly in light While we trudge, shamefaced , towards death. I am the Mossad- fassad -corruption I have killed many people before. Just ask Kamal, Ghassan, Maghed Abou Sharar. And when I die It will be no more than as if I never saw you. No flowers on your grave, Nor the planting of cactus. You wanted to kill ignorance But the ignorant are smart, very smart. You were killed And the obvious you become a secret. Mother, While sitting alone at the crossroads Turning your grinding stones Around and around and around As you lament, singing your dirge For an absent beauty Do not forget to sing for me A couplet Composed of the oldest, darkest threads of mourning Not shrieked nor wailed -- Just insert into your strong A name, The name of a dead friend, Nagi El-Ali Issue 50 - 6 February 1992
