Plain talk

By Mursi Saad El-Din

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One phenomenon I find noteworthy is the increasing number of young people - men and women - who write poetry in English. What is the reason for this? Is it because, somehow, thinking in English gives one more freedom to express one's feelings? Is it because the English language - with its musicality - lends itself more to poetic expression? Or is it because the English system of education encourages the teaching of poetry, right from kindergarten? I remember when I was working in London that my son, a mere child of six, had a book poetry called The Way Opens, which contained what one might call "graded" poems. It was intended to introduce children to poetry, by going from the simplest to the simple and onto the more difficult poems.

This stress on poetry, characteristic of the English system of education was transported to Egypt through the English language schools. I remember sitting on the judges' panel for a competition in English poetry among the schools in question...

But let me come to the real topic of this column, which is a newly published collection of poems in English by Nafissa El Sebai, daughter of the late leading writer, minister and politician Youssef El Sebai. Nafissa or Bissa as we know her is a typical product of the English system of education. She finished her schooling at the English (now Al Nasr) School, then joined the Department of English Language and Literature at the Faculty of Arts.

This collection falls in two sections: "The Sixties of the Twentieth Century" and "The Late Nineties of the Twentieth Century." I do not know the reason for this division since some of the poems in the second section are in keeping with those of the first. The main characteristic of the poems of the sixties is their spontaneity and ease, and what one might call uncontrollable feelings. They reflect boredom, monotony, despair and hope, denial but also love of life.

In "Monotonous" she writes, "TV was on / The day was nearly done / How could living be any fun? / He got up and left the chair / He felt like a beast in snare..." Then the poem goes on to a the climax: "He looked out of the window / It was monotonous / He smoked he puffed / he snuffled and snuffed / Being alone was tough / He wanted to cough / Out his life."

But in the same breath, she writes, "The cock crows, another day is breaking / Another day with a sunrise and sunset." Then we get a mixture of feelings. In "Leftovers" she writes about shared dreams, the leftovers of somebody else: "There is nothing fresh left for us / You looked me in the eyes / As if I were the one to blame / For what our lives became." The poems ends with "Somehow our dreams, our very lives / Were made to feel / The leftovers of somebody else / Before us."

Having known Bissa since her childhood, I can discern an autobiographical note that runs through many of her poems. Listen to what I believe is one of the best poems in the collection: "This is the house were I used to live / When I was still alive and not surviving / And what a difference between living and surviving / Like the difference between departure and arrival."

The poem sounds like a dirge and is a reflection of a young woman in a closely knit family, moving from where she had grown up to where she is now living. "The house which was astir with life is now neglected. Where there used to be flowers and grass / Where there used to be glory in the flower / And splendor in the grass / Now there are wild bushes and cobwebs / And the door is caught in the webs / And there is a flicker of light / left in my father's bathroom / Adding some more gloom / I looked and with a start / I realised I was treading on my heart / This is the last house which I called home / Any place is just a house for me."