Lately, especially after me regaining my freedom, I have been going to the underground poetry readings that I used to go, these poetry readings used to be good, they used to thriving with talent, one of the regular readers was an English professor at my university, he actually used to read some of his erotic poetry, and the audience were either his own students or other students whom he will eventually dash into one way or another at our uni’s campus, and I was one of them. He has no shame, and I like that, well, he served his role as an Art’s guru that of free expression.
But now, oh wow, the recurrent use of the “F” word and other vulgarity, makes me doubt this cult’s ability in articulating their feelings in more refined stanzas and creatively, I am not against the “F” word per se, it is just too much use of the word, hinders one’s ability that of limited usage of words, or imaginative metaphors, a poet can use, instead of the “F+ing”.
Now, there are no English profs, much less number of people, few talented people, many people have left, and the poetry standard has gone really bad, the other day, only three people read their poems, and it is just so full of “Fs”
Probably my freedom ticked in the wrong direction, and I opened the wrong door, and entered in the wrong time, I want to live the memories, when I had to go back home before twelve, I used to sweat, even though it was icy cold in midst of the Canadian winter, my dad used to give me, one hell of a time, scaling me and calling me a “bitch”, even though I was pure and never thought of anything else, other than caring about my feelings, I wanted people to know the feelings in my poetry that I read for them, I wanted to be in touch with every human soul, not in my cage, isolated between four walls. I remember, during one poetry reading of mine, it was starting at eleven thirty, and I really, really wanted to read one poem of mine, but time was not generous, I told the girl in charge of who is after who, I told her, I need to go first or second, I don’t have time, I read it, and I went back home.
Sad life, my life was. Everything was a struggle. I had to earn my time and my freedom.
Me friends with my dad is something I have to be given as a credit to, being the person I am, was and still a struggle of my own.
Getting in touch with what makes me, took another round in poetry, I remember having my walk with my sister and one of my sister’s good friends, a guy from Algeria, he told me once, that in no way English poetry can be measured with Arabic poetry, he told me that Arabic poetry has way more depth into it. At first time, I did not quite believe him, but somehow, longing for my roots, made me flip pages, and pages of Arabic poetry, with all the protest, politically-edged, non-conformists, slam poetries, and Shakespeare I have read, or heard, nothing, nothing can come to this:
وطني لو شغلت بالخلد عنه
نازعتني إليه في الخلد نفسي!
أبي القاسم الشابي:
إذا الشعب يوما إراد الحياه فلا بد أن يستجيب القدر
و لا بد لليل أن ينجلي ولا بد للقيد أن ينكسر
I feel the depth, and it is giving me goose bumps. Or probably, I should read more English poetry. I dunno. I just dunno.
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