Arab Despiration in a Poem

This is my best attempt at translating a beautiful Arabic poem I came across on Alarabiya. The poem is By a modern and much celebrated in the Arab world, Nizar Qabani. Antar, the character in this poem, is a much revered pre-islamic poet and knight and icon of all things admirable in Arab character. making Nizar's mockery of him that much more powerful.


These countries are a furnished appartment
Owned by a person named Antar

He gets drunk every night by its door
And collects rent from its residents
And shoots bullets at trees
And Children
And Eyes
And Perfumed hair braids

These Countries
They are all a personal farm for Antar
Its skies
Its Air
Its Women
Its faint green fields

All the windows have a taped picture of Antar
All the city squares carry the name of Antar

Antar lives in our Clothes
And in the tie of our bread bags
And in the the Cola bottles
And in our dying dreams

On the lettuce and mellon carts
On the Buses and in the Train station
At Airport customs
On the postage stamps
On soccer fields
At the pizza parlor
And in the art on the fake currency

An abandoned, unwelcoming city
Not even a mouse is left in it
Nor an ant
Nor a stream
Nor a tree

Nothing about it amazes the tourists
Except the official, approved picture
Of General Antar
Hanging in his living room
On his happy birthday
In his towering, decadent, walled palace

Nothing new in the life of this colonized city
For our misery is repeated
And our death is repeated
And the flavor of coffee on our lips is repeated
For since our birth, we have been imprisoned in the bottle
of circular culture
And circular language

And since we entered school
We study nothing but a single bibliography
That tells us about the muscles of Antar
And the kindnesses of Antar
And the miracles of Antar

And we don't see anything at the cinema
Except one boring Arabic film
Starring Antar

And nothing on the morning radio to care about
For the first news report is about Antar
And the third and fifth and nine and tenth news reports
Are about Antar
Nothing in the second program
Except instumental music
From the Compositions of Antar
And the oil paintings
From the doodelings of Antar
And a recital of the most nausiating poetry
In the voice of Antar

These are countries in which writers give their votes
To the Lord of intellectuals, Antar
They beautify his ugliness
And write the history of his era
And spread his ideas
And beat the drums of his glorious wars

No star on TV except Antar
with his beautiful figure
And expressive smile

One day in the clothes of a duke and a prince
One day in the clothes of the struggling peasant
One day on a Russian tank
One day on an armored vehicle
One day on our broken bones

Every year,
The submissive, content, week, humble, drum-beating, cheering, life-and-blood giving people of this city

Sacrifice themselves to him who doesn't deserve it

Many, Many cheers to Antar.