Mostafa Ibrahim is considered one of Egypt’s most prominent contemporary poets. Hailed by the late Ahmed Fouad Negm as his “heir to the throne of poetry,” Ibrahim is renowned for his groundbreaking collections of colloquial Arabic poetry: Western Union: Haram Branch, Manifesto, and Al-Zaman.
He played an active role in the January 2011 revolution, becoming a well-known figure on Egyptian television, where he recited his revolutionary poetry. Across Egypt, rebels graffitied verses of Ibrahim’s poetry on walls and in public squares.
His 2013 collection, Manifesto, is Ibrahim’s iconic work from which the following translations come. The winner of the Ahmed Fouad Negm Award for Colloquial Arabic Poetry, Manifesto earned Ibrahim the title of Poet of the Revolution. Published in the aftermath of the Tahrir revolution, the collection blends revolutionary zeal with reflections on freedom, oppression, and the human psyche.
It was also the text that sustained me in prison.
For over six years between 2013 and 2020, I was a political prisoner in Egypt. When dark thoughts swirled and clawed at my brain in prison cells, I turned to poetry. Along the years, Ibrahim’s Manifesto, in particular, became my sacred literary scripture. In the quiet of the night, I would let its lyricism hold me and mourn alongside its verses.
The collection throbs with a deep-seated longing, recalling the once fervent pulses of revolutionary vigor, now stilled by defeat. It oscillates on the spectrum between bleak realism and tender crests of romanticism. Each poem unfurls as a whisper, a mirror held up to the remnants of a crushed uprising. Through meticulous dissection, Ibrahim probes the skeletal remains of shattered dreams and fragmented loyalties among comrades who once shared a square, a sidewalk blanket, and a barricade.
What elevates Ibrahim’s poetry is its profound introspection on the human condition. Many of his poems deviate from direct political discourse to engage with universal themes of romance, memory, attachment, and depression. Ibrahim renders the mundane with chilling precision, but even when revolt is not explicitly referenced, one can sense the undercurrent of revolutionary defeat humming beneath the surface of the subtlest moments.
Translating Ibrahim—a poet whose work encapsulates Egypt’s 2011 Tahrir generation—into English is not only a critical, long-overdue endeavor, but also a deeply personal matter.
When I carry this grief and wonder into English, I do it with the surplus care of a lover, not the mere practicality of a professional. I don’t act as a messenger, but as kin: a fellow griever who’s aware of all the ways in which English fails to hold us—yet continues to strive for approximation.
I hope Ibrahim’s words hold you as they held me.
–Abdelrahman ElGendy, translator
“Tofranil 50”*
I always hold
out till the end: cards tossed
in games of chance,
answering roll call,
booking a seaside flat in Baltim.
Among my friends, I’m the last
to repent, the last
to rise from prayer, last
for shots in the school queue.
When it’s time for Qs, I’m the final
I’m an old scar, once
beneath long sleeves. The world
cursed me, and I cursed
back tenfold. I loved people
till I turned six. Then
they made me forget
who I was. I can’t recall
when it began. My cup of coffee
never empty, never-ending talks
with God. I’ve never trusted
any girl but Reem, and now
I’m not sure I can. Last time
I saw her, she was moving. A taxi
stuffed with suitcases replacing
her. Faces of strangers
I couldn’t name. Reem
was my age back then, but now
she’s younger. She knows
I age too fast, recall
too much. I remember
time down to the second,
like the day we buried
my sister. I remember the day
better than I remember her.
Some nights vanish in full, but
I can picture our Qasr El-Nil
flat, though the faces
of tenants slip away.
I’ve never forgotten
a place. Even Shady’s
house. I visited
once. A picture frame
by the door, his middle
school face, a faint mustache
smudging his lip. My back
stoops by all I carry. Sorry
to ramble, eat your time
and mine. My mind
is thickening. I need
to sleep, go home.
Thanks for the session—
When’s our next appointment?
We’ll meet soon.
I’m leaving now.
Goodbye.
* an anti-depressant
“Tofranil 75”
How many firsts remain
buried in my pocket?
How many matches
unstruck, yet to taste
their burn?
My first movie with a girl—
back in middle school—
meant everything.
Then, it didn’t.
I’m sorry,
truly sorry
for every fire, unlit
with you. I give you
my first kiss, then apologize
to the girl after you
for kissing you
first. I apologize again,
and again, for each word
misplaced. For the language
I torched, instead
of saving
for the next round.
But tomorrow will always strip
today. The dead shake
hands with the living. Even
the trivial dead remain
unmatched. So, I’ll never forget
Mai. The first hand
I held, the first
chocolate, the first
walk home. Then,
I realized: only a few firsts
remain tucked
in my pocket. Should I
clutch or scatter?
Thank you,
truly, Doc.
No worries, take care.
She hands me
my prescription, four lines,
neatly crossed
Don’t you feel any better since last time?
I feel nothing. I’ve been talking
for hours, you see,
but can’t recall half my words.
We’ll meet next Saturday? No, Sunday—
I forgot. Look after
yourself, alright?
We’ll refill the script.
I’ll be fine. Nothing
bothers me.
I grab the door,
relief floods. One cigarette
remains in my pack,
but I’ll save it for when I
get home.
“Tofranil 100”
My hair is dark,
but my heart has
—for ages—
crackled white.
Sometimes, people
meet people who see
them, but no one
has glimpsed my
naked.
I meet, then
leave, meet
again, but never
learn. I scramble names,
terrified of forgetting. I trip
through life afraid
not to live.
It’s been long
since I spoke. I fear
redundancy.
I’ve never tarried
in any goodbye, nor
arrival. I offer life
just enough to stave off
its worst.
I ask little from a girl,
only that she erase
those before her.
I leap into ephemera,
my eyes set
on the next horizon.
I’ve over danced
on the stairs, afraid
to climb, afraid
to fall—
But fear’s not the problem.
Even if it were,
what if I’m afraid?
It’s natural to dread
the unknown,
the inevitable.
Still, I cherish
the dark more than
light. Sometimes, I dream
of a high-rise, overlooking
the Nile. Other times, I long
to live unnoticed.
I cast off the trimmings
of the journey, but not
the journey. As long
as breath dwells,
there must be a day
saved. So, I wait
for that day.
What do you know of that day?
Only that it has yet to arrive.
Do I sleep?
Of course,
for days on end.
In my dreams, I’m sprinting,
on the verge of
brimming, yet never
sated by longing
or pursuit. I dread
death, for when it arrives, I fear
I’ll have been
a fool, with nothing behind
but words.
I watch films
about lives
so unlike mine,
and lives
never lived.
I’m consumed by
all I might have
become. I’ve left
nothing untried, nor
unabandoned.
I love the oud,
the ney,
and would die
to understand how
some things drink
in touch and breath, blush pinker
than human flesh.
There’s no feeling
—for better or worse—
that lingers. No flavor
that endures. In the end,
all dissolves.
Praise to God,
who tempers us
until we forget, waters
the chalices of people,
dilutes their taste.
They say the wounded
—when pain becomes
familiar—heal. The wheel
of the cosmos turns
them, blending
the past into
the future.
Praise to the One
who declared:
“From water, we made everything alive.”
Once, in a religion class,
we were taught a prayer:
“O Creator of all things
incomplete, their fullness
lies with You.
O you who carves out
fragment out of whole, we
beseech You:
for the sake of the bigger
picture, Your sacred name,
leave us enough,
and let enough be
what we’re left with.
Don’t make us beg
for what is yet to come,
and content us
with what has.”
We prayed aloud,
trembling. I ended
my prayer, hushed:
“And have mercy on my heart
in its gray,” as the branches
pray to the roots,
each fall.
_______________________________________
Mostafa Ibrahim is one of Egypt’s most prominent contemporary poets. Hailed by the late Ahmed Fouad Negm as his “heir to the throne of poetry,” Ibrahim is renowned for his groundbreaking colloquial Arabic poetry collections: Western Union: Haram Branch, Manifesto, and Al-Zaman. His debut collection, Western Union: Haram Branch (2011), was released just before the Arab Spring, capturing the zeitgeist of the era. His follow-up collection, Manifesto (2013), sold out within six months, cementing his status as the “poet of the revolution.”
Ibrahim played an active role in the 2011a protests and became a prominent figure on television, where he recited his revolutionary poetry. Beyond his poetic achievements, he has also written lyrics for popular Egyptian artists, including Bassem Wadei` and Mohamed Mohsen.
Abdelrahman ElGendy is an Egyptian writer and translator. ElGendy’s work appears in The Washington Post, Foreign Policy, Guernica, AGNI, Mizna,
