Al Sahir patting the shoulder of Lamia Abbas Amara

In the poem “Do You Smoke?” there is enough suppressed anger and pride to recognise Lamia Abbas Amara when she radiates pure dignity!
Yet, for this defiance to be composed with such melting tenderness, infused with the passion of inquiry and a -dir-ect challenge to Oriental condescension, and to be performed by Kadim Al Sahir alongside the young, supple voice of Cindy Latty, means that Lamia will inevitably awaken from her eternal rest, surrounded by flowers and butterflies in her American exile, to bestow upon us her final smile after life let her down in her old age.
This poem is forever linked in our poetic memory with the impact of its first recitative reading. Lamia stood at the podium of the Higher Teachers’ Training College in Baghdad, surrounded by a crowd of Iraq’s prominent poets, led at the time by the Minister of Culture Shafeeq al-Kamali, and her cousin, the poet Abdul Razzaq Abdul Wahed.
With the very first “No” uttered regretfully by the poetess after asking “Do you smoke?”, the audience, mostly university students back then, failed to grasp the nobility of her denial and instead indulged in a sarcastic game.
At the second question, “Do you drink?”, the hall echoed with a resounding collective “No,” escalating further with “Do you dance?”, turning the poetry reading into a mocking spectacle where the chorus of “No” intensified, driving the poetess into deep rage.
At that moment, Lamia turned to the crowd with the full armour of her pride and uttered her famous sentence, forever etched in memory: “I used to ascend podiums and recite my poetry before your mothers even gave birth to you!”
She then stepped down from the platform without finishing her poem.
Astonishment and anger swept over Kamali, as though the shock had struck both the minister and the poet simultaneously. He cursed the students’ behaviour and their ignorance of the sanctity of poetry, murmuring with regret: “When Lamia gets upset, who on earth can appease her?”
Although the poetess recited the poem in subsequent Arab cultural evenings, the scar of that first reading remained a lingering ache in the Iraqi poetic memory.
Today, after all these decades, Kadim Al Sahir steps in to -restore- the poem’s stolen brilliance, betting on a duet that blends his voice with that of the young Cindy Latty. It is a choice that reflects a profound mastery of vocal arrangements and tonal layering. That youthful voice, despite its softness, sounds as though it has been refined through rigorous discipline, soaring over the performance with a dexterity that transcends age and experience, from the resonant articulation of letters to capturing the soul of each word without falling into mechanical delivery.
Al Sahir’s choice of Lamia’s poem (who passed away in her American exile in 2021) was neither a coincidence nor a passing whim-;- as I learned from him, it is the fruit of deep emotional encounters they shared. It seems his melodic vault holds far more than this single song, not only for Lamia, but for the towering figures of Iraqi poetic heritage, from Badr Shakir Al-Sayyab to Saadi Youssef, Abdul Razzaq Abdul Wahed and Youssef Al-Sayegh.
The song opens with the recorded voice of Lamia Abbas Amara herself, a brilliant invocation of the text’s legitimacy and history, before the music glides seamlessly into Argentine Tango rhythms: that dance of tactical manoeuvres requiring a balance of pride and restraint at a late-night soirée.
Al Sahir stands within the song as a suitor attempting to court a woman who walks with dignity and Oriental pride, a lady gazing back at his advances with cautious mockery.
Here, musical intelligence shines as the composition subtly transitions toward the mood-shifting Bayati mode (Maqam Bayati) at the passage: “So what ties your feet to my place?”
The song takes a sudden turn into authentic Oriental textures, reflecting the heartbreak of rejection and the uniqueness of identity.
This musical architecture reaches complete harmony through the genius of a melodic line built on complex simplicity. The melody flows effortlessly to serve the poetic text: string instruments and balanced rhythms alternate to create a cinematic backfor the narrative. It navigates flexibly between bewilderment and pride without overburdening the words, wrapping around the lyrics to accentuate the contrast between the dense negation (“A cluster of No’s!”) and the fluid emotional moments.
At the heart of this blend lies a unique expressiveness in Kadim Al Sahir’s voice-;- he imbues his performance with his signature resonant timber, combining sternness with a balanced emotional whisper.
Despite its brevity, the song progresses as a theatrical dialogue, transforming simple phrasing into moments of dramatic weight and musical gravity.
Al Sahir relies on precise breath control and mid-to-low vocal ranges before rising alongside the choir, providing the listener with a sense of depth and mystery without resorting to vocal acrobatics. This leaves the feminine vocal space to Cindy to interweave smoothly, creating a captivating contrast that enriches the dialogic and aesthetic concept of the song.
The song culminates as Al Sahir steps back behind the choir, accompanying them as if embodying a crowd of admirers surrounding this lady, practicing the same art of seduction.
The scene concludes with a powerful, collective “No” uttered by Al Sahir and the choir. Yet, this is certainly not the “No” that once vexed Lamia at the Higher Teachers’ Training College-;- it is a “No” of reconciliation and vindication, a musical colour tenderly patting the shoulder of the poetess in her absence.
It is worth noting that this is not the first attempt to give musical voice to Lamia’s poetry.
The late composer Mohammed Abdul-Muhsin previously set her poem “Kholosat Sadag” to music for Yas Khubair, followed by Abdul-Hussein Al-Samawi with “Ashtaqo Laki Ya Nahr” for Fadel Awwad.
Saadoun Jaber also chose “Law Anba’ani Al-Arraf” in his early compositional attempts, which was performed by Arif Mohsen and featured in the Sung Poems Festival in Baghdad. However, composer Kadim Fandi’s work on “Kholosat Sadag” and “Ared As’alak” uncovered tender, expressive depths in Saadoun Jaber’s voice, leaving songs that remain alive in the heart.
Today, “Do You Smoke?” closes the circle before opening it anew. Lamia remains immortal, returning to us this time under the signature of a maestro who knew how to extract rejection and pride from the poem, healing the weight of memory through the voices of Kadim Al Sahir and Cindy Latty.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HgayBT9r3sA

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