There will be anger Followed by the deluge. We know we will be among the drowned. But we will take the devil with us down To the deepest of deeps: Our end will be his... But slowly... What will be said Of us when they look back on it all? What will be said Of us after the deluge, After the coming drowning, after the coming anger, What will be said of us poets and writers? Were we men in truth, Half-men Or mere shadows? Fear, Fear of the sword, Made of us something unspeakable -- Except in the vulgar tongue. [...] What will be said? Will it be said we chose silence For fear of death? The letter has an edge like a sword, Can turn against its speaker. [...] What will be said? Will it be said that we chose to speak in symbols, Whispers, silent gestures, In all the arts of coded speech? We said it all -- in vino veritas, But people Had other concerns: Their daily bread, A kilo of meat. [...] Maqrizi, You who always come after the deluge: A plague is a plague -- It always comes on the tail of a famine. It snatched your daughter, and many other daughters As the wolf was standing guard. [...] I hereby solemnly swear, Maqrizi, Not to leave this world Without scandal. I ask no one for justice: True justice is not to be begged. Our judges are high priests, Our high priests are distant And all are traitors. Let someone else write poetry, I am writing the Chronicles of Maqrizi. [...] I drink, day And night I drink. Sinking... I sink into my depths. There I see him, In my heart a holy pearl, Unbreakable, Even if a giant mountain falls upon it. When I sober up, I float to the surface, lose my pearl. Was it lost? No. It was me who was lost-- When I sobered up I floated to the surface. For sure the pearl is down there in the depths... No. It is between two thighs, trampled under feet Shod in military or civilian boots, Under the wheels of petro-dollar cars. [...]. Usually I drink from two glasses... My comrade in the madhouse died. He used to share my drink And share my grief. We had no time for joy: He used to share my past anger, And present anger -- and that to come. Usually I drink from two glasses, The second to toast him. But tonight I drink from one glass: It seems my friend, upon his death, Had given up drinking; Or maybe it was me who gave up. Then let me drink to giving up drinking Until the last of all the Noahs' arks has left With all those who will be saved from the coming deluge. ................. I sink and sink And see in my glass Monkey fornicating with rat Or rat fornicating with wolf Or wolf with owl. ................ Maqrizi's daughter is lost In the plague And the plague always comes on the tail of a famine, When prices are measured against a kilo of meat, Even the price of writers, novelists, poets, Artists and scientists, When the stuff of the dreams of the poor is meat; And fuul beans, Fruit for the masters. [...] I recall a poet's saying: I shall sleep not to see My country being bought and sold. [...] Then drink from two glasses, Or, if you wish, drink from one. If my death cannot be driven away, Then let me engage with it With what I have at hand.
- Naguib Surur ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- Translated by Mona Anis and Nur Elmessiri Extracted from the Faris Akhir Zaman (Knight of Our Time) collection of poetry; published in Naguib Surur's Complete Works, vol. 4, General Egyptian Book Organization: Cairo, 1997 * Naguib Surur's son, Shohdy Naguib (Al-Ahram Weekly's webmaster), was arrested in the early hours of Thursday November 22 from his home in Sayeda Zeinab, Egypt.. Security forces raided his house at dawn, confiscated his computer and took him to Al-Sayeda Zeinab police station. According to Naguib, he's accused of posting the above poem, online, by his late father Naguib Surur, the renowned poet, playwright, actor and controversial figure
I'm a woman, a Witch, a mother, a grandmother, an eco-feminist, a gardener, a reader, a writer, and a priestess of the Great Mother Earth. Hecate appears in the
Homeric Ode to Demeter, which tells of Hades who caught Persophone
"up reluctant on his golden car and bare her away lamenting. . . . But no one, either of the deathless gods or of mortal men, heard her voice, nor yet the olive-trees bearing rich fruit: only tenderhearted Hecate, bright-coiffed, the daughter of Persaeus, heard the girl from her cave . . . ."