Abdel-Hakam Al-Allami (b. 1962) is an Egyptian poet, critic, and scholar, renowned for his evocative verse and incisive literary studies. Holding a doctorate in Arabic literature, he has authored multiple poetry collections and critical works, blending profound philosophical inquiry with lyrical intensity.
A recipient of the Writers’ Union Award in Literary Criticism, Al-Allami has played a pivotal role in shaping contemporary Arabic literary discourse. He is also a founding member of several influential literary circles, fostering intellectual exchange and poetic innovation. His writings explore themes of time, existence, and human struggle, often weaving mythic and existential undertones into his reflections on modern life.
Through his poetry and scholarship, Al-Allami bridges tradition and modernity, making him a distinctive voice in Arab letters.
Translated into Arabic by Dr.Salwa Gouda
Dr. Salwa Gouda
Dr Salwa Gouda is an accomplished Egyptian literary translator, critic, and academic affiliated with the English Language and Literature Department at Ain Shams University. Holding a PhD in English literature and criticism, Dr. Gouda pursued her education at both Ain Shams University and California State University, San Bernardino. She has authored several academic works, including Lectures in English Poetry and Introduction to Modern Literary Criticism, among others. Dr. Gouda also played a significant role in translating The Arab Encyclopedia for Pioneers, a comprehensive project featuring poets, philosophers, historians, and literary figures, conducted under the auspices of UNESCO. Recently, her poetry translations have been featured in a poetry anthology published by Alien Buddha Press in Arizona, USA. Her work has also appeared in numerous international literary magazines, further solidifying her contributions to the field of literary translation and criticism.
A Morning Like This
This morning is not like its usual self, This morning! It seems sluggish and frail To the point of exhaustion.
And its sparrows, the ones that used to come To tap at the windows Every day… Bearing good news They did not tap today, As if they had never come, Had never tapped.
The grapevines and mango trees, The ones that shade the house, Are sorrowful and bowed, the rest too, Because our meeting, which was to be complete Under their shade, Has also been postponed Postponed to an unknown time.
Everything here has become Uncertain: The sparrows, the mango trees, And our meeting, delayed Once again…!!
Only one thing emerges On the horizon, And I nearly seize it With both hands It is that overwhelming absence, And the loss that slithers like a serpent Through the corners of this place!!
Never Mind
Perhaps I am alone When I remember you So will you allow me to remember you When I am alone?
I wish you would let me Remember you when I am Alone!
For there is no loss after loss, No loss after loss, And no sorrow equals sorrow!!!
Had you wept, you might have reconsidered. Had you—for instance Chosen forgiveness Before leaving me like this, alone, At the finish line.
And I should have been Merciful to myself, As I stood on the edge of imminent ruin.
Now, here I am, alone No blame on you, nor claim on me. All I want is for you to let me Remember you whenever I am Alone!!
The Visitor
Sit. Sit
For he does not see you.
And the door he knocked on just moments ago it was not my door. Likewise…
The hallway he walked, thinking it led to me it was not the hallway of my home.
And the meeting you imagine now taking place between us
in truth, I am no part of it. It was never arranged with me.
For he may be in one state or perhaps another.
I suspect the door he knocked on was an illusion and the path he took, a mirage’s deceit.
In any case reaching my dwelling was never his intent that much is clear.
Nor could he, in such a state, seek a gathering shared with another.
And I—as I am now— am hardly fit for such company.
Sit… Sit.
For in this condition, he hears—but not with his usual ears. He sees—but with eyes unlike those we once knew. He smells—but with a nose not the one beneath his brow.
And know this: the remnants of his other senses no longer function as they once did. It seems they’ve shut down now… making way for new, extraordinary senses.
As for you—stay wary. Watch for my hand’s signal if I gesture. Read the murmurs of my lips if I speak.
And if I tell you: Now. Then it is now.
Only then, perhaps, will he have stirred— so rise.
The Shepherd
There are two times:
The time that was for you, And the time that was upon you.
So it must be—while you are In this state—that you reckon The time that was yours… Just as you must reckon The time that was upon you!
And do not become mere fodder Between these two times!
For the shepherd who grasps His staff in this manner, At such a time as this… He alone is capable Of that liminal passage— That which is clear, Yet scarcely clear—
Maintaining his balance Longer upon these shores… He alone can reach What little grass and water Remains in those wastes…
And he alone holds the power To gather the scattered flock With a single gesture, A lone glance, Encompassed by the watchful eyes.
For time is of two kinds: A time when his staff reminds him Of the weight of his duty, And another, similar time, When he bargains with the nights For his desire to pacify A straying flock:
That they neither go astray Nor trade submission For waywardness.
And they—in both cases
Are surely the losers, For remaining within the flock Denies them their longing To break free from its imposed chains.
And their straying means Abandoning themselves
Easy prey For the wolves’ fangs And the talons of birds In such a desert!
So, these are the two times: You must reckon Their consequences—
The time that was for you, And the time that should have been Upon you!!
