At Cafe Camus In Bonn
My friend, the
poet Rolf Doppenberg and I entered Cafe Camus.
The cafe located
in the heart of the old town of Bonn.
The cafe
reminded me of the legend of "The Myth of Sisyphus"
I am Sisyphus,
bearing the rock on my back, Albert!
I remembered
"The Plague"
The plague of
tyranny kills my people, Albert!
I remembered
"Caligula"
Four bloody
Caligulas' occupy my homeland, Albert!
I remembered
"The Stranger"
I am the
stranger everywhere, Albert!
Around the round
table I was flying away in dreams
While my friend
the poet was talking
about the
conditions of writing, its affairs and sorrows.
A canvas bag
hangs on the wall
with
"Shakespeare and Company" written on it.
That bag took me
by chance to Paris.
Years ago, a Colombian
poet and I were hanging out in the Latin Quarter
and then we
passed that old bookshop, the one looking and laughing
with the great
Notre Dame cathedral
from which I
bought Allen Ginsberg's "Howl"
and two black
and white portraits, one of them was of Jack Kerouac
and the other of
another mad poet named Arthur Rimbaud:
"The man
with the wind at his heels".
I looked at the
farthest corner of the ceiling
I saw Louis
Armstrong having a great music festival
and playing
himself on his divine trumpet,
which turns into
butterfly wings and an angel's light in his hands
Then he sang
three of his most beautiful songs:
"What a
Wonderful World".
Then he followed
it up with a song:
"It's been
a long, long time" in which he says:
"Kiss me
once
Then, kiss me
twice
Then, kiss me
once again
It's been a
long, long time".
He sealed it
with the song:
"A Kiss to
build a Dream On".
Near the last
table, the legendary jazz singer Billie Holiday
was singing:
"Lady Sings the Blues"
Then followed by
her song bursting with anger and disobedience:
"Strange
Fruit".
Suddenly I asked
myself: Did the legendary singer die or was she killed?
Some sadness, a
strange sadness
like a strange
fruit that invaded and settled my being.
Next to the
legendary singer
The brilliant
saxophonist Charlie Parker "Yardbird"
was busy tuning
the world on his instrument
to throw an
extraordinary party in honor of this world
that is
narrowing and fading every day!
Above, in a row
beside Camus,
we find Kafka
standing as a memorial
to the graves of
all the vanquished in this world.
With his
uncaring eyes remind you of a fate like the fate of "Gregor Samsa".
We all become
Gregor Samsa at this masquerade party called the world,
but we don't
dare look at ourselves in the mirror until we see it.
As for how Toni
Morrison arrived
from Ohio to
settle between Kafka and Beckett?
A quick answer
comes from her: I came to tell you about "The Bluest Eye"
and hug you with
the "Song of Solomon".
Then sadly, she
said to me: O Kurd, you are blacker African than all of us.
I get what she
meant.
I bowed to her
and kissed her head with two tears.
In the far
corner beside Tony,
Samuel Beckett
frowned as if he had just come out of one of his absurd plays.
He was waiting
in vain for the return of Godot who would never come!
What
disappointment... What disappointment, comrade Samuel?
Above a small
library the light was emanating with an astonishing abundance!
I saw the poet's
friend looking from the side of his eyes
during the
talking to the direction of the light.
Marilyn Monroe
was there lighting us up and lighting up our whole life!
Then she goes to
her solitude, lights her cigarette
and writes in
the darkness the fragments of her life.
From the window,
Frida Kahlo was peeking at us.
Quickly, without
pause, she was drawing everything.
She did not know
that throughout her life
she only had
painted the pains of her slender body,
the scars of her
soul that could never be healed
and her ordeal
in existence.
I asked her:
Frida, why are you drawing so quickly, as if you were in a hurry?
She said:
1-Morphine!
2-I feel like I'm leaving
early.
As for Salvador
Dali
he was looked
enviously at Frida from the opposite window.
He paints the
poets as wild horses,
the waitress as
"Leda Atomica",
the café guests
as suns shining from an egg,
the café owner
with mustaches as his mustaches
and the café as
a bus on the highway of imagination.
In the last, we
folded our words, our papers and our books.
We got up, but I
don't know whether we were wild horses or wild poets?
Then we went
out.
At the door a
ballerina bid farewell to us with a white dance as a swan.
We thanked her
and each of us went to the state of his dreams
and dreams of his crazy poems.
HUSSEIN HABASCH
HUSSEIN HABASCH is a poet from
Afrin, Kurdistan. He currently lives in Bonn, Germany. Born in 1970 in Şiyê
Village. His poems have been translated into English, German, Spanish, French,
Persian, Uzbek, Albanian, Russian, Romanian, Italian, Serbian, Macedonian,
Bulgarian, Polish, Slovenian, Lithuanian, Vietnamese, Nepali, Hindi, Malayalam,
Kannada, Tajik, Bengali, Turkish, Berber (Amazigh), Bosnian, Portuguese,
Hungarian, Chinese, Greek, Mandarin (the language of Taiwan) and Tzotzil (the
language of the Mayan peoples of Mexico), and has had his poetry published in a
large number of international poetry anthologies, more than 100 anthologies.
His books include: Drowning in Roses, Fugitives across Evros River, Higher than
Desire and more Delicious than the Gazelle's Flank, Delusions to Salim Barakat,
A Flying Angel, No pasarán (in Spanish), Copaci Cu Chef (in Romanian), Dos
Árboles and Tiempos de Guerra (in Spanish), Fever of Quince (in Kurdish), Peace
for Afrin, peace for Kurdistan (in English and Spanish), The Red Snow (in
Chinese), Dead arguing in the corridors (in Arabic) Drunken trees (in Kurdish),
Boredom of a tired statue (in Kurdish), Flor del Espinillo (in Spanish) A Rose
for the Heart of Life, selected Poems (in English) and Olvido (in Spanish). He
participated in many international festivals of poetry including: Colombia,
Nicaragua, France, Puerto Rico, Mexico, Germany, Romania, Lithuania, Morocco,
Ecuador, El Salvador, Kosovo, Macedonia, Costa Rica, Slovenia, China, Taiwan,
Cuba, Sweden, New York City, Sarajevo, Greece and Spain. Recipient of the Great
Kurdish Poet Hamid Bedirkhan Award, awarded by the General Union of Kurdish
Writers and Journalists. As well as the International “Bosnian Stećak” award
for Poetry, awarded by the Bosnia and Herzegovina Writers Union. Bronze poetry
award Aristotle from Naoussa international poetry festival in Greece.
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