Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Mohamed Al-Harthy

CAFÉ KAFKA

No. I’m not going to talk about that famous café
near the old Jewish quarter on 12 Široká Street
in the city of Prague, nor about the glossy one I saw in Muscat
on imagination’s screen
(with its wooden chairs
and its cotton parasols on the terrace),
a café frequented by German tourists,
affluent Indians with gold chains
and Omanis who were mostly broke
though they still saddled their agile cars
in front of the café terrace . . .
 
Forget about the unemployed Kafkans
when they smilingly convince the waitress
(after they’ve failed dismally
at writing short stories)
that they work in the government,
or at the Bank of Muscat,
or—true to Kafka—in one of the insurance offices,
while they, with sham Muscati opulence, hide their tears
behind the smiles of their fluttering souls,
their souls that never stop smoking.
 
No, I won’t talk about either of those cafés, but rather
about one I’ve dreamed of many times, though I won’t
be able to open it
in Shatti al-Qurum, in Muscat,
due to the lack of cash in my account—
as barren as our irrigation canals these days.
Forget about how incapable I’d be
of running it
with even the hint of a smile
imported from Nepal
or the Philippines . . .
 
And so, with the passing of time,
I tried to forget the seed of that thought,
which no longer gnawed at me
as it did in the olden days.
I began to ignore both myself
and the house coffee, which was spilling
its sharp grief onto my pocket notebook
(just like the one Hemingway used)—I had recently
started writing my poems on it
with a pencil
before typing them up
on a special word processor
that my friend Urwa bin al-Ward
invented in pre-Islamic times.
 
But imagination’s sea found no grief
in the bitter seed of thought,
and instead surprised me
by opening the café
on these very pages
without any need for parasols
or a God-sent sun
to be added to its sign:
 
Welcome, esteemed customers!
Enjoy your time with us, and drink a cup of your favorite coffee
(with a complimentary piece of Kafka cake).Welcome, esteemed customers!
Enjoy your time with us, and drink a cup of your favorite coffee
(with a complimentary piece of Kafka cake). 
 
 
Listen to a piece by Bach
hidden between the lines.
And if you don’t find Chaplin’s picture
hanging on the wall, on this book’s cover,
look inside your imagination, and compare it
to that one
and smile.
And if you’re still at a loss,
then know that it’s ok
to pretend you’re selling toothpaste
on TV,
as long as you manage to forget
that this story ends
with the bill being paid . . .  
Your friend Kafka
has already paid it.
 
 
(Muscat, Fall 2011)

CAFÉ KAFKA

Nee, ik houd me niet bezig met het verhaal over dit beroemde café
vlak bij de oude joodse wijk, in Širokastraat 12
in Praag, en ook niet met wat ik in Muscat duidelijk zag
            op het filmdoek van de fantasie
(met zijn houten stoelen en katoenen parasols op het terras)
Duitse toeristen bezochten hem en rijke Indiërs met gouden kettingen
en de meestal failliete Omanis hoewel ze nog steeds voor het caféterras
            hun ronkende snelle auto’s zadelen…
 
Blijf ver van de werkeloze Kafka-adepten
            als zij de lach van de serveerster oproepen
(na hun snelle mislukking om korte verhalen te schrijven)
dat zij in het cabinet van de Sultan werken of bij de bank van Muscat
            of – loyaal aan Kafka – bij een verzekeringsmaatschappij
terwijl ze, met gemaakte Muscaatse nonchalance, de zakdoeken voor hun tranen
            verbergen achter de glimlach van hun fladderende geesten
            die niet stoppen met roken
 
            Over dit café en dat andere café heb ik het niet
maar over een café waarvan ik dikwijls droomde ondanks dat ik nooit in staat zal zijn
om een café te openen op Shatti Al-Qurum in Muscat
omdat ik niet de nodige liquide middelen op mijn rekening heb
            die dezer dagen net zo leeg is als de waterlopen
om niet te spreken van mijn armzalig onvermogen het café te runnen met een geïmporteerde       
            lach uit Nepal of de Filipijnen…
 
Zo probeerde ik, met het voorbijgaan van de dagen, te vergeten dat het knoflook van de
            gedachte niet zo scherp meer was als in vroeger dagen
ondanks dat ik mezelf en de koffie van het huis verwaarloosde, werden
            de spijkers van verdriet over het schrift van Hemmingway uitgegoten
(waarin ik tenslotte mijn gedichten met potlood placht te schrijven)
om ze daarna uit te typen op de tekstverwerker die mijn vriend Oerwa Ibn al-Ward
            had uitgevonden voor de komst van de Islam
 
Terwijl het meer van de fantasie niet wanhoopte over de knoflookgeur van de gedachte – overviel die fantasie mij met het plan
            op deze bladzijden een café te openen
zonder dat er stoelen in de schaduw
            of een goddelijke zon moet zijn
boven en behalve het welkomstbord voor gasten
 
 Welkom. U bent welkom
Geniet hier van uw mooiste uren en drink een kopje van
uw favoriete koffie
(met een welkomstKafkakoekje)

 
Luister naar een tussen de regels verborgen fragment van Johann Sebastian Bach…
en als je, en als je geen portret van Charley Chaplin ziet
            op de papieren wikkel
zie hem dan in je gedachten en vergelijk hem met zijn evenbeeld
            en lach
en als je dat niet kunt – als je dat niet kunt, dan mag je de glimlach
nadoen van de acteur die op de televisie voor tandpasta reclame maakt
mits je doet alsof je de gebeurtenissen van het verhaal dat nu eindigt, bent vergeten
          door de rekening te betalen
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
          uw vriend Franz Kafka betaalde al
 
(Muscat, herfst 2011)

مقهى كاف كَ

لا. لستُ بصدد الحديث عن ذلك المقهى الشهير
قرب الحَيِّ اليهوديِّ القديم في 12 شارع سيروكا
في مدينة پراغ، ولا عن تلك التي رأيتها في مسقط وضَّاحةً
     على شاشة المُخيِّلة
(بمقاعدها الخشب ومِظلاتها القُطن في الشُّرفة)
يرتادها سيَّاحٌ ألمان، هُنودٌ مُترفون بسلاسِل ذهب
وعُمانيُّون مُفلسون غالبًا برغم أنهم يُسرجُون فحيحَ
     سيَّاراتهم الفاره أمام شرفة المقهى...
 
دعك من الكافكاويِّين العاطلين عن العمل
              حين يُقنعون ابتسامة النادلة
(بعد فشلهم الذريع في كتابةِ القصص القصيرة)
أنهم يعملون في الدِّيوان السُّلطاني أو بنك مسقط
     أو -وفاءً لكافكا- في إحدى شركات التأمين
بينما يُخفون، بترفٍ مَسقطيٍّ مُزيَّف، مناديل دموعهم
     خلف ابتسامات أرواحِهم المُرفرِفة
     أرواحهم التي لا تكفُّ عن التدخين.
 
 
لا. لا عن هذا المقهى، ولا عن ذاك أتحدث
بل عن مقهى حلمتُ به مرارًا، رغم أنني لن أتمكَّن
من افتتاحه على شاطئ القُرْم
بسبب افتقاري للسُّيولة اللازمة في حسابي
     الماحِل كأفلاج هذه الأيام
دعك من افتقاري المُدقع لفنِّ إدارتها بياقةِ ابتسامةٍ مُستوردة
من النيپال أو جُزر الفلپِّين...
 
 
هكذا تناسيت، بمرور الأيام، ثومة الفكرة التي لم تعد لاذعة
كما كانت في أيامها الخوالي
رغم أنني صرت أغفلُ عن نفسي وعن قهوة البيت تنسكب
     مساميرُ                   كآبتِها على دفتر هيمنغواي
(الذي اعتدت مؤخرًا كتابة قصائدي عليه بقلم رصاص)
قبل رَقنها على مُعالج كلماتٍ اخترعَها في الجاهليَّة
              صديقي عُروة بن الورد.
 
 
بيد أنَّ بُحيرة المُخيِّلة لم تيأس من ثومة الفكرةِ
من رائحتها، بالأحرى- لتفاجئني بمشروع افتتاح
     المقهى على هذه الصفحات
دونما حاجة لمقاعد ظليلة
     أو شمس إلهيَّةٍ
مُضافةٍ إلى لوحة الترحيب بالزبائن:
 
 
مرحبًا، مرحبًا بكُم
استمتعوا بأوقاتكم السَّعيدة معنا، واشربوا فنجان قهوتكم المُفضَّل
(مع كعكة كافكا الترحيبيَّة)
 
 
أنصتوا لمقطوعة يُوهان سيباستيان باخ الخبيئة بين السُّطور…
وإن لم تجدوا، إن لم تجدوا صورة شارلي شابلن
     معلقةً على حائط لوحةِ الغِلاف
تأمَّلوها في مُخيِّلتكم، وقارنوها باللوحة البديلة
     وابتسموا بعد ذلك
وإن أعيتكُم الحيلة - إن أعيتكُم لا بأس أن تُقلِّدوا ابتسامة
     مُمثِّلي إعلانات معجون الأسنان في التلڤزيون
شرط أن تتناسوا وقائع القصَّة التي تنتهي أحداثها
     بدفع فاتورة الحساب
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
صديقكم فرانز كافكا دفعها سَلفًا.
 
                          
(مسقط، خريف 2011)
Close

CAFÉ KAFKA

No. I’m not going to talk about that famous café
near the old Jewish quarter on 12 Široká Street
in the city of Prague, nor about the glossy one I saw in Muscat
on imagination’s screen
(with its wooden chairs
and its cotton parasols on the terrace),
a café frequented by German tourists,
affluent Indians with gold chains
and Omanis who were mostly broke
though they still saddled their agile cars
in front of the café terrace . . .
 
Forget about the unemployed Kafkans
when they smilingly convince the waitress
(after they’ve failed dismally
at writing short stories)
that they work in the government,
or at the Bank of Muscat,
or—true to Kafka—in one of the insurance offices,
while they, with sham Muscati opulence, hide their tears
behind the smiles of their fluttering souls,
their souls that never stop smoking.
 
No, I won’t talk about either of those cafés, but rather
about one I’ve dreamed of many times, though I won’t
be able to open it
in Shatti al-Qurum, in Muscat,
due to the lack of cash in my account—
as barren as our irrigation canals these days.
Forget about how incapable I’d be
of running it
with even the hint of a smile
imported from Nepal
or the Philippines . . .
 
And so, with the passing of time,
I tried to forget the seed of that thought,
which no longer gnawed at me
as it did in the olden days.
I began to ignore both myself
and the house coffee, which was spilling
its sharp grief onto my pocket notebook
(just like the one Hemingway used)—I had recently
started writing my poems on it
with a pencil
before typing them up
on a special word processor
that my friend Urwa bin al-Ward
invented in pre-Islamic times.
 
But imagination’s sea found no grief
in the bitter seed of thought,
and instead surprised me
by opening the café
on these very pages
without any need for parasols
or a God-sent sun
to be added to its sign:
 
Welcome, esteemed customers!
Enjoy your time with us, and drink a cup of your favorite coffee
(with a complimentary piece of Kafka cake).Welcome, esteemed customers!
Enjoy your time with us, and drink a cup of your favorite coffee
(with a complimentary piece of Kafka cake). 
 
 
Listen to a piece by Bach
hidden between the lines.
And if you don’t find Chaplin’s picture
hanging on the wall, on this book’s cover,
look inside your imagination, and compare it
to that one
and smile.
And if you’re still at a loss,
then know that it’s ok
to pretend you’re selling toothpaste
on TV,
as long as you manage to forget
that this story ends
with the bill being paid . . .  
Your friend Kafka
has already paid it.
 
 
(Muscat, Fall 2011)

CAFÉ KAFKA

No. I’m not going to talk about that famous café
near the old Jewish quarter on 12 Široká Street
in the city of Prague, nor about the glossy one I saw in Muscat
on imagination’s screen
(with its wooden chairs
and its cotton parasols on the terrace),
a café frequented by German tourists,
affluent Indians with gold chains
and Omanis who were mostly broke
though they still saddled their agile cars
in front of the café terrace . . .
 
Forget about the unemployed Kafkans
when they smilingly convince the waitress
(after they’ve failed dismally
at writing short stories)
that they work in the government,
or at the Bank of Muscat,
or—true to Kafka—in one of the insurance offices,
while they, with sham Muscati opulence, hide their tears
behind the smiles of their fluttering souls,
their souls that never stop smoking.
 
No, I won’t talk about either of those cafés, but rather
about one I’ve dreamed of many times, though I won’t
be able to open it
in Shatti al-Qurum, in Muscat,
due to the lack of cash in my account—
as barren as our irrigation canals these days.
Forget about how incapable I’d be
of running it
with even the hint of a smile
imported from Nepal
or the Philippines . . .
 
And so, with the passing of time,
I tried to forget the seed of that thought,
which no longer gnawed at me
as it did in the olden days.
I began to ignore both myself
and the house coffee, which was spilling
its sharp grief onto my pocket notebook
(just like the one Hemingway used)—I had recently
started writing my poems on it
with a pencil
before typing them up
on a special word processor
that my friend Urwa bin al-Ward
invented in pre-Islamic times.
 
But imagination’s sea found no grief
in the bitter seed of thought,
and instead surprised me
by opening the café
on these very pages
without any need for parasols
or a God-sent sun
to be added to its sign:
 
Welcome, esteemed customers!
Enjoy your time with us, and drink a cup of your favorite coffee
(with a complimentary piece of Kafka cake).Welcome, esteemed customers!
Enjoy your time with us, and drink a cup of your favorite coffee
(with a complimentary piece of Kafka cake). 
 
 
Listen to a piece by Bach
hidden between the lines.
And if you don’t find Chaplin’s picture
hanging on the wall, on this book’s cover,
look inside your imagination, and compare it
to that one
and smile.
And if you’re still at a loss,
then know that it’s ok
to pretend you’re selling toothpaste
on TV,
as long as you manage to forget
that this story ends
with the bill being paid . . .  
Your friend Kafka
has already paid it.
 
 
(Muscat, Fall 2011)
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