politics for my father

I have no time for fisted rah-rahs and ramblings
about the under-the-tableyya funded
Black Block baltageyya virus
spreading through every sandy or palm tree’d governorate
from Iskindiriyya to el-Sharqeyya
I do not care about the so-called-Muslim Brotherhood
flailing classical Arabic arms in every barren congressional aggregation
lodging Allah in their rhetoric like self-proclaimed prophets,
I am not interested in the opportunistic balding diplomats
masquerading about as the guardians of our thawra,
all while dividing and conquering
collecting blood money for their future campaigns—
these men can smash their heads against the presidential palace
awakening our vapid elected savior
sleeping in molasses and an itinerary of four years of laziness,
their existence does not matter to me


I am too busy searching for a new fiance
to replace the one who left my side
while my father was dragged naked
bludgeoned with brazen truncheons
for walking by an embroiled protest of confused parties
no unity was seen among the tents and banners
only post-revolutionary tugs-of-war—
then five hands on each ankle forcibly freed my father
of his decade-old trousers and imported undergarments,
-Egyptians aren’t good enough to wear Egyptian cotton-
unpolished authoritarian boots dusty with the ashes of Khalid and Sally
found a home in the curve of my father’s side:
one kick
two kicks
twenty


I do not care for your on-air intellectual debates of frivolity
where flawlessy made-up morning talk show hosts
show off their knowledge of all that is politically trivial
along with their new flowing hairstyles, Cloroxed complexions and botoxed foreheads
gleaming adjacent to men of questionable education
highlighting the differences between Bank of Alexandria and Bank el-Ahli—
we do not have money in our pockets to begin with, my friend
what about my father and my mother after every tearful sagda
onto an Earth that has rejected the likes of my parents
and my ex-fiance whose cowardice is characteristic of our Mubarak-era men
who have been condtioned to stay silent,
running from every struggle for the past 30 years,
what about them?
what have your talk shows and debates and discourses
done for my father
before
during
and after
being stripped in front of a gomhoreyya
of 80 million
beaten ‘til his sobs reached the sky above
parting the clouds so that the stars
could look down on us and watch
the civilization they have loved for centuries
burn

I looked away from the crowds consumed
in unformulated messy protests muddied by paid governmental thugs
& I looked away from the police car that seemed to never run dry
of baton-wielding clowns in uniforms of debasment
& I looked away from the starless, oppressed sky
to find the fiance I was to wed in a week
running away from my family’s side
but an unemployed man with a softly steaming minty fengan
managed to slip a raunchy cat-call
in between my father’s long wails,
how can politics
help me?


“Turn off the lights, Bahia”
a clairvoyant anthem composed in ‘83
wrote itself upon my pursed lips,
I cannot watch my father’s malnourished bones
snap against Tahrir concrete
where the breeze from his falls
dries the freshly laid carpet of blood
beneath the feet of a carrion-scented cabinet,
“Turn off the lights, Bahia”
I’m tired of all the baltageyya,
let me sleep.


naira badawi

94 notes
tagged as: poetryegyptcairoalexandriaalexandria egyptwritingspilled inkcreative writingpoemrevolutionfeaturedpoetry

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  8. howitzerliterarysociety said: ………..it will remain with me
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  11. ohnodominoes said: Wow, you continually amaze me!
  12. regurgitate-that-verb-i-ate reblogged this from tansheer and added:
    I have no time for fisted rah-rahs and ramblings about the under-the-tableyya funded Black Block baltageyya virus...
  13. goozerkitty reblogged this from tansheer and added:
    Wow. Powerful.