CAIRO METRO

Ramses station, Cairo

We turn a corner, underground. 
A tumble of us pressed together,
a shoal swimming to the escalator,
swept on a wave.
My lungs are stoppered gills.
I am the flailing hand of a compass.
Cummin, sweat, tobacco. Choking.
Everything turns to shadows.
And on the platform, a muffled roar,
the smell of burning hair. 
Behooth
Dokki 

In the ladies carriage, I am  thankful.
Perfume, and  averted eyes.

My seized heart rocks. I wretch.
Your thunderous sky
Pressing down on me, bending ribs.
Your hands, a chain around my jaw.
Your eyes, shovels for the dead, oblivious.
Your mouth, a twisted abyss, bitter.
And worse, you  cannot stop.
Oh, how I loved you once.

Your tongue, a vicious reptile. 

I cannot spit it out. Fear has robbed me.
Anger is nurtured. Hate, a fool’s party.
I am a dish for both. We are drowning
together.  Like a child I close my eyes,
to vanish you. A gelid  voice spits.
Ugly, ugly, ugly. Old. Bitch and whore.

I lie as still as winter.  Your face, a wolf now, 

snarling from a bestial place.
We were blissful, once.
There’s  honesty in fluorescent light,
too bright to hide  intent: you will kill me
for what you cannot have.
Be soft, be delicate, you said,
so I can wipe you out. 
Gezira
Sadat 

I run, gulping, shaking. My eyes

hold on to everything.
I can’t remember where I live.
The taxi driver swears.
Something  of me is left behind
in that ugly, cluttered room.  
I’ll never want it back.

I wash you from me, every cell and hair of you,  

scrub your DNA like chalk from a board,
a furious washing, my cunt musked to rid
its smell of you. We  gurgle down the drain.

Later, you called. Said your  forefathers

were from the delta, settled, hoeing, tilling,
not bedouin, wandering, pitching tents.
A stranger now, you laughed, remorseless.
You wanted me as if I were your land to harvest. 
Naguib
Ataba. 

I want to hold the hand of the woman beside me,   

but we are water sweeping through a sluice gate
onto the platform. I gather my breath like flowers,  
mount the stairs, emerge where books are sold.
In their deft calligraphy I lose myself,
each page a healing hand,
their poetry salvaging what’s left of me.

THE SIGNIFICANCE OF THE UNMADE BED

Sheets posed, immaculate, stretched like skin,

A sealed envelope tucked and folded, broken into.

A journey  begun makes outcasts of the prepared;  
covers rucked- a disorder of  sleep and lust.

We are adrift on this altar of broken slats,

sagging foam, dipping like a pot holed road,

a gradient that  slides our sleep.

The headboard, an ugly tombstone,

rattles to our oblivion, drums against the wall.

Afterwards, in furrows, we find crumbs,

and search for love’s lost trinkets;

an earring, hair pins, a tiny Fatima’s hand pointing

to  stains of darkening continents, kohl,

a long, dark hair curling - a river discovering itself,

In the microbus, along the Corniche,
where a pharoah wept 

and  waves mount concrete,

I sense the bed in mourning,

imprints of our limbs fading,

a fallow field awaiting spring.

Beyond its borders we are lost, untangled.

The day shortens like a burning cigarette.

We turn back to what has started:

an opened letter, hardly read.

  

HEARING THINGS

I am a forest of bone cracking under the weight of days.

In the dark, I shift from lantern to blade.
Lonely as a moon.

We are hearts simmering at tables, worn  to ghosts,

Our mortality, a crumb - not even that.
We pack bags to go home.

In every loss, a phantom wanders, homeless,
Seeking what cannot be found.
Grief is no cure.

In my palm, a charnel of unborn dead, clamouring.
We wait for them in ransacked rooms.
Hold my hand.  

Death, the party guest, unmasks us all and offers wine. 
Memory’s footsteps slip through the hall.
A journey ended.

Time, the overseer, drops anchors into endings.
We carry our last breath with us.
Moored to mists.

My rib cage is a bell tower, shaken by its peal.
Feathered breath heralds a moan of ripping paper.
its final note.



Sculpture by Aatje Gronveldt

More of my poetry can be read on http://www.odyssey.com, http://www.chanticleer-press.com/, http://www.vivimusmag.com/poetry.html

 

 

IT WAS NOT A REVOLUTION

It was not a revolution.

We took away the king,

But left behind the throne. 

It was not a revolution.

We held a stranger's hand
And then we let it go.

It was not a revolution.

Our voices sang as one,
But we forgot the words

It was not a revolution.

We  gathered for our children,
But now they sleep in streets.

It was not a revolution.
God is on our side, we said,

But now we are alone.

It was not a revolution.

We opened up our  cage,
But found we could not fly. 

It was not a revolution.

We were a rolling tide,
But could not breach the wall.

It was not a revolution.

For our mothers’ lives, we said.
They’re weeping now for ours.

It was not a revolution.

We wanted bread for all,
But now we fight for crumbs.

It was not a revolution.
We marched to beating drums.
There is  thunder overhead.

More of my poetry can be read on http://www.odyssey.com, http://www.chanticleer-press.com/, http://www.vivimusmag.com/poetry.html

WHY AM I HERE?

As I write, Egypt is on the brink of another change. The country has been on hold for several days now.  Sunday 30th June is the one year anniversary of the election of a deeply  unpopular President. Big demonstrations are planned, gas masks bought, medications stocked up on, ATMs are running dry as are the gas stations, and people are stocking up on food. In downtown Cairo, the military has already moved to secure Media City and Parliament. It's  also trying to secure Sinai from what are believed to be  Hamas and Jihadi agitators.  More check points may be seen in Sinai soon and perhaps on the ring roads  of major cities. Wednesday and Thursday are going to be just as crucial as Sunday. The words 'military coup' are on everyone's lips - and there are many who will welcome it. "Uniforms and tanks bring security," one friend said, eyeing the empty space where his car was once  parked before being driven away by  a gang of young boys. 

My friends and family from home are  ringing me to get the hell out, and as usual ask me, 'What are you doing in that  dreadful place (Egypt) anyway?" 

Good question, and I ask  myself it several times a day. Here's an attempt at an answer. 

It's not for the pyramids, the ancient ruins, the food, the Nile etc.....It's for the Egyptian people themselves. They have been facing great hardship for two years now and it's getting worse. Every day living is becoming impossible. There are power cuts, which in this heat (often hitting the 40s) is devastating. Babies die, the elderly dehydrate. There are horrendous queues for gas, especially at the moment, and while tempers flare, people are generally patient and can be heard cracking jokes, usually against the government. The price of food has shot up, people with jobs are fearful they will lose them and those without, know it's unlikely they will ever find one. Those with businesses don't know how long they will run in this economic climate, not to mention the power cuts lowering productivity. 

Egyptians are tired, depressed and yet they never lose hope. They continue to protest against injustices; they have confronted their Mickey Mouse President so many times that he has often been forced to rescind. Politics here are dynamic, chewed over in cafes, argued about in front of the telly, in the streets, on social networks. Egypt is number one in the world for protests. This takes a great deal of energy, will and courage. Everyone has an opinion, and is no longer afraid to voice it. There is a political vitality in Egypt that we have lost in the West. Young people have organised themselves into organisations that want to bring change from the grass roots up - the environment, womens' rights, breaking the hierarchical mould, mediation, education, sex education, the arts...you name it, they are working to change it. They have the vision their politicians don't and it is where hope lies. Seeing this energy at work is an inspiration but is rarely reported on in the West. 

Bassem Yousef is a funny guy - a very popular TV satirist - who began his media life in his laundry room during the 25/11 Revolution. But he merely reflects the Egyptian ability to make a joke of everything, even themselves. (Much like the British). If I had a laughter gauge, I would say I have laughed more often and louder in Egypt, than in any other country I have been to. I cry too. I work and live with Egyptians who face an uncertain future. Their destiny, of course, lies with the destiny of their country, and no one knows where this boat is sailing. A dream has been crushed, and they are now glimpsing it again. These days Egyptians are particularly anxious, fearful and edgy. It is hard to be a witness to this and not be able to do anything to help. But it is much worse for them. Many Egyptians know they might not come back from the streets on Sunday and worry for their friends. They are literally viced between the military and the Islamists. An ineffective  opposition has left them stranded.

After speaking to activist friends and saying goodbye to them I wonder if I will see them again after Sunday. But music is still played; every concert fuelled with heady emotions that only music can release. The arts flourish, in a way, I've been told, it didnt before. City walls are alive with protest. In the past two weeks, three grown men have sat down with me on different occassions and just cried for their country. Egyptians know their country is a benchmark for the Middle East, and I believe their genes still carry a memory of ancient glory from achievement. They desperately want to be proud of their country, but for a long time now have felt only shame. Many Egyptian (Muslims) rally to protect Christians during attacks on them by Islamists, many men support women in their work against sexual harassment and rape, the recent  lynching of four Shias has horrified everyone, except the government.
 

I'm not romanticising. It's not perfect here: human rights abuses, sexual repression, religious oppression, FGM, sex trafficking, lack of womens rights, a growing sectarianism etc etc. And...... Egyptians can drive you nuts sometimes!!!! As a foreigner I can only be a voyeur - peeping through a tiny keyhole at history being made. It's a privilege because of the courage, persistence and humour of the Egyptians. One day they will be captain of their own ship.

SONG OF ISIS

 

I seek my love in a  land  as dry as the bones of prophets.

Scriptures burn  on a demon’s breath.

It is written

he will come as a serpent,

shedding skin like rope.

Twine it in your hair,

 but do not look back.

So sayeth the Lord.

Words fall like widows  from a pyre.

Ashes vault across the sand.

My mouth filled with sorrow’s stone.

Love compacted on the tongue

is a weight that cannot call him.

His silence, a chamber  of broken flight,

feathers falling

without mercy.

Revolution from the east

Footsteps from the south

Rumours from the north

Gunshot from the west

You are a constellation of broken promises

glittering in the ancient dark,

resurrecting the deaths of every moment

When will you come my warrior, adorned in grief,

your one eyed snake wet with conquest?

My longing for you

is  the aim  of an arrow

a miracle of coincidence at war with fate

crossing  this land.

My crown of stones

Shadows birth in the dying light, bearing  shrouds,

but  I am no buried  bride banished to dust.

My sorrow is a lust

rising like a hawk .

I shall  drown  you in the delta of my thighs.

Love will tear

The lotus from its roots.

In this land of scarab and scorpion, the carrion crow is king

Come! Beak of  divine oracles,

pluck out my eyes,

blind me to what is gone.

The whore of darkness whispers her trade:

lifts her skirts over the river,

straddles the sun

Snivelling tides salt our harvest, singe the barley.

We march on a map of famine, 

lost in  loss,

finding fools

slicing air with  cunning blades of fear,

until his body is a

scattered tribe.

Grief has worn me to a sparrow.  Even the moon  is a widow, her breath a broken mirror. He will not come .

His heart is

a robbed drum 

His voice a locked door. Silence is a messenger

kinder than the

gossip of death.

My arms hold each piece of you: thirteen  suckling babes.

Resurrection without memory is a wasted song,

your body  an empty casket,

your shrines  turned to sand.

I hear your voice whispering, flooding my dreams,

your divinity unshed,

your soul unsheathed

 I am Isis, she whose tongue is the waters of the Nile,

Whose mouth is a vessel for your thirst.

LOSING ALEXANDRIA

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Alexandria  in the rain is melancholic  -  as good as a poem by the Egyptian poet,  Konstantin Cavafy .  His  poems of lost passion, Alexandria’s ancient past   and  its gods befit the moody, subdued Alexandria that I  can see from the eleventh floor of my apartment.   

Cavafy, was born in Alexandria and spent most of his life here until his death in 1933.  His parents were Greek and he was  a true son of what was then, a cosmopolitan  city. Cavafy was a man  obsessed with the transitory nature of beauty and  happiness and like his friend, Durrell,  saw  Alexandria as a City of Memory. 

A secretive man, probably because of his homosexuality – Cavafy worked for most of his life as a part-time clerk in the Egyptian government’s irrigation department. His tempered routine life, belied the rich inner life of a poet who looked at the human condition through  history with a sensual irony.

The apartment where he spent his last 35 years, in Lepsius Street - now renamed "Charm El Sheik" has been turned into a museum honoring his life and works. The building once housed a brothel, and overlooked a hospital and a church.  Cavafy once remarked, “Under me is a house of ill repute, which caters to the needs of the flesh. Over there is a church, where sins are forgiven. And beyond is the hospital where we die.”

The apartment  was turned into a cheap hostel after his death before becoming a museum dedicated the poet. The museum is supported by money from Greece, where Cavafy  is considered a national poet. Egypt's celebration of his work is  uneasy  and ambiguous - his homo-erotic poems do not sit well in a society which is becoming increasingly conservative.


 As I climb the two flights of marble stairs  to his apartments thick wooden  main door,   I can hear a voice reciting  Ithaca - the poem that Jackie Onassis requested to be read at her funeral. The voice - American and recorded hangs eerily in the stairwell. When I step into the museum I am greeted by the  lines ..... To arrive there is your final destination /but do not rush the voyage in the least/Better it lasted for many years/and once you are old cast anchor on the side…  Shivers ran down my back.

  

The hall is long and gloomy. Furniture meant to replicate the original is dowdy.  A brass bed catches the light from an open window, a replica of his desk stands in a dark corner. I sit at it and stare across the black stained floors towards the hall and imagine Cavafy returning home from a liaison with a beautiful young man, closing the door  behind him with a sigh, and standing by the window.

 

‘He is entirely devoted to books – but he’s only twenty-three years old, and very handsome; this afternoon Love passed through/ his ideal flesh that is so full of beauty / passed the erotic fever; /with no silly modesty about the nature of pleasure…..

The paintings on the walls, many of them by Cavafy himself,  are unremarkable. Books from his library are scattered throughout the rooms, while Cavafy looks down owlishly  on visitors from portraits revealing his angular nose and round glasses.  

Just as much else has disappeared from Alexandria, the hospital and brothel are now replaced by a garage and a store. Only the nearby  Elite bar remains from a number of taverns  where Cavafy sought his  illicit liasons with young men.The rest are gone, along with  the cosmopolitan community and its tolerance. In Cavafy’s era, the city was a mix of Greek, Italian, Armenian, Syrian, Maltese, Jews and the British and other nationalities adding to the majority Arab-Egyptian population, all lured  by trade in cotton and wheat. 

Alexandria was once a place where women strolled in sun dresses, not headscarves and jelabayas, and where religion was a matter of personal choice, not political campaigning.The foreigners  left  after the ousting of the monarchy in 1952, and  the rise of Arab nationalism.  Cavafy’s cosmopolitan Alexandria disappeared.

Cavafy did not live to see the exodus, but he would not have been surprised.  His historical poems draw on Alexandria’s Hellenic past, and are infused with a tragic pessimism – all human beings are doomed to defeat, with, or without their gods.  

.

In the past two decades, the emergence of Islam as a prime source of identity among many Egyptians made Cavafy’s sensuous subject matter unfashionable. Alexandria is a stronghold of the Muslim Brotherhood - Egypt’s biggest opposition party and majority winner of the Lower House of the  new Egyptian Parliament. The Brotherhood wants Egypt ruled under Islamic law.   Sobhi Saleh, a Muslim Brotherhood member of parliament says Islamic law precludes publishing Cavafy’s poetry.

“Cavafy was a one-time event in Alexandria,” he says. “His poems are sinful. It’s an extreme misunderstanding of Islam. In any case, Cavafy was brave to write as he did. Now, he probably could not be a poet in Alexandria. He’d be driven out.”

Maybe it wouldn’t have made any difference to  Cavafy. In his poem “In the Same Place,” he wrote of the coffee houses, home and neighbourhood where he spent his years,  not as they were, but as he made them..... I crafted you amid joy and amid sorrows: Out of so much that happened,/ out of so many things/And you’ve been wholly remade into feeling; for me.

 

In The God Forsakes Antony,   Cavafy writes of the doomed Marc Antony watching in despair as  the Roman troops enter the city.  Perhaps, by then, the poet  already sensed the end of the Alexandria he knew and loved. He urges Antony to  …… bid farewell  to the Alexandria you are losing.

The Italian cemetry, Alexandria


http://www.cavafy.com/


 http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Constantine_P._Cavafy