Gifts of the Feast

Dispatches from New York carried the news of his death, after sixty-six years spent faithful to the cause of Arabic poetry and Arabic journalism, a mighty struggler in both their fields.

He passed the greater part of his life, like his brother emigrants, as merchant and poet at once. He has several collections of verse, the most important being "The Brooks" (1927) and "The Thickets" (1946). In 1929 he founded in New York the monthly magazine "Al-Samir," and he went on nourishing it from the produce of his fertile pen, raising in it the banner of Arabic poetry in the Mahjar, until death folded him away last month. God's mercies be upon him.

Our poet Mr. Georges Saydah, in his book "Our Literature and Our Men of Letters in the American Mahjar," called him the foremost poet of the Mahjar, saying of him: "Abu Madi wrought a renewal in the poetic word, making it wide enough to hold the substance of social and intellectual life and the problems of the soul, without ever leaving the bounds of simplicity and clarity. It is astonishing that he should be at once the deepest of the poets in thought and the smoothest of them in expression."

To honor his memory, Messrs. Mikhail Naimy, Georges Saydah, and Youssef al-Khal are now organizing in Beirut a poetry festival in which the elect of our contemporary Arab poets will take part.

On this occasion "The Woman's Voice" presents to its readers one of his masterpieces, in which his matchless artistry shines forth.

The Editors

The people went out buying gifts of the feast — for their friends and their dear ones,
And I wished the world would come to my aid — that I might fulfill at the feast some of my desires.
I would then have given whole ratls of patience — to the essayists and the writers,
And to every brilliant genius — a nation whose people possess minds,
And to every Arab poet — a basket of the fruits of titles,
And to every merchant denied success — two skins of the liar's juice,
And to every lover an eye that sees — how much loveliness lies in the dust,
And to the beautiful maiden a mirror — to stir hope in the inmost hearts of bachelors,
And to the callow youngster, seasoning — and to the old man, the vigor of youth,
And to the tribe of idlers, palaces — of silver and gold in the clouds,
That I might have rest from them, for they have become — like my shadow in my comings and my goings,
And to the man of wealth who dreads poverty — an increase of the torment already in him:
Whenever he counts his money, reassured — he sees poverty standing at the door,
And to the shifty companion a face — black as pitch, like the face of the crow,
So that when he appears the people flee in terror — from the path of the lying hypocrite,
And to the believers a measure of doubt — and to the doubter some measure of faith,
And to him who curses me behind my back — honor, that he might guard it from my cursing,
And to my enviers a long life — that their grief over what is mine may endure,
And to the field its blossoms and its adornments — of glistening dew and of grasses,
For it is unseemly that we should wear new robes — while the hills remain without clothing.
What I wished for was not mine to give; enough for me — that with wishes I have filled my skins,
And if Time were possessed of a mind — I would have given Time my reproach.