كأنك مفيش - لأحمد فؤاد نجم

كأنك مفيش ..
برغم إن صورك فـ كل الدواير
وكل المداخل وكل المحاور
ومليا الشوارع على كل حيط ..
مطنش علينا وعامل عبيط ..
كأنك مفيش ..
***
يا فرحة قلوبنا رئيسنا ظريف ..
فُكهي ..
إبن نكته ودمه خفيف
فـ عهدك سيادتك فَرَشنا الرصيف
وآخر مُنانا الغُموس والرغيف
وكل أمَّا تُخنُق ندوَّر ..
مفيش !!
***
مسيِّب علينا عصابة حبايبك
فضايح وسرقة ونهب بسبايبك
مابين حزب نجلك .. وهانم جلالتك
وجيش الغوازي إللَّي داير يجاملك
وناملك وقاملك .. وحارسك وأمنك
شبعنا مهانه .. شبعنا لطيش ..!
وأنت .. مفيش !!
***
باعونا فـ حضورك ..
ببركة عِبـيدك وغالي وسرورك
باعوا الأراضي .. وكل المصانع
وباعوا البنوك ..
وقدَّام عِنيك .. صوتنا إتـنبح ..
ننادي عليك ..
إلحق يا ريس : ده باعوا الحديد !!
وأنت منشِّف دماغك عنيد !!
.. كأنك مفيش !!
***
دوشتوا دماغنا ” بجمال ” طلعتك
ومن يومها وإحنا عَبـيد حضرتك
ما تزعلش إني مواطن أبيح
ورافض كلابك فـ شعبك تطيح
فسادهم يا ريِّس واضح .. صريح
قوم بينا صلّح وفتَّش .. وثور
ح نكتب تاريخك ياريِّس بنور
مش تبقى عايش كأنـَّك مفيش !!
***
ورحمة أبوك .. مادام أنت قاعد
عيب لمَّا عُصبة نَـوََر يسحبُوك
م تُقبض عليهم .. م تقطع إيديهم ..
م تعمل عليهم يا ريِّس شاويش
بدل م انت ساكت وقاعد مفيش
***
ياريس علىّ الطلاق تعبانين !!
ياريس علىّ الحرام كفرانين !!
صبرنا سنين ..
سيادتك مسلطن
وشعبك وناسك بتاكل مسرطن
وتشرب مجاري وميت سم هاري ..
ومش دريانين !!
ما تنهض يا ريس تلم الديابه ؟!!
ده شعبك غلابه ..
ومليان طيابه ..
وهوَّ الشفاعة ف يوم الحساب
وهما البطانة الحُثاله الكلاب
ما يملاش عنيهم غير التراب
وليهم ضوافر
وميت ألف ناب
وواقفين لشعبك ورا كل باب
لإمتى ح تسكت وليه الغياب ؟
ده ياما ممالك طواها التراب
حياتنا ياريس تعب فوق عذاب
يا ريس ” شريفك ” ماهوَّاش شريف !!
” نظيفك ” يا ريس ماهوَّاش نظيف !!
وحتى ” حبيبك ” ماهواش حبـيب !!
وأنا غصب عني .. خلاص إستويت ..
بـ غـُلبي إنحنيت ..
وطلعان عنيا .. وصعبان عليا
بحسبة بسيطة ومن غير خريطه ..
وكونك مفيش .. لقيت متساويش
ومش فارقه أعيش ..
نويت أشتكيك للِّي فوقي وفوقك
وأصلي الفرايض ..عسى يفـُك طُوقـك
قالولي إللي يسجد عدو النظام !!
حاولت أحكي حالي ..!!
قالولي الحكاوي نميمة وحرام !!
فكرت أكتب ..
لقيتكم سيادتك منعتوا الكلام !!
فقررت أحلم ..
هاحلم سيادتك وأفُك اللِّجام
ولو مش هيعجب سيادتك يا فندم
وصِّي العساكر .. تاخُدني أمَّا انام !!
***
حلمت إني شعب ..!
حلمت إني شعب ومصلوب بطولي
على أرض سمرا
ودمي بينـزف ومليان جروح
وفوق صدري جمرة
يميني مربّط على أرض طابا
شمالي ممسمر فـ “أولاد علي”
ورجلي على جزع نخلة فـ “حلايب”
ومرتاح براسي على حِجْر مصر
وشوفتك ياريس ..كأنك ولي ..
كأنك نبي ..
فـ إيدك عصاية وليك معجزات

وانا فـ جنَّه خضره .. وتحتي جداول ..
ومن فوقي نور .. وريحة بخور ..
همست ف ودانك بآخر وصيّة :
إنسى إللي فاتك ..
هننسى الأسية .. !!
أمانه عليك ..
حُط الوطن جُوَّه نِنِّي عينيك
كرامة عيالنا أمانة ف إيديك
بحق إللي بينّا يا ريِّس وبـينك
وحَق اليَمِين و” الكتاب ” فى يمينك
بحق الشهيد .. إللي رافع جبينك
وجيش إنتصارك فى يوم العبور
وجيل حُر طالع .. وعدته بدور
لملم عيالك .. وجمَّع فـ مالك
وإسحب ” جمالك ” وسيبنا وغور

مكاتيب السنيين

There is something incredibly haunting about Fairuz's new song; ايه, في أمل

There is the fact that her voice has matured so..

 a ba77a keda, at the turn of every phrase at the start of a sigh, at the push of a sentiment.

There is also such a contrast to her usual song. mesh 3arfa ezzay..

She recounts a love is no longer معقول

bas not with the longing, the yearning, or the ridiculing anger that i'm used to..

في أمل؟ 

إيه في أمل، أوقات بيزهر من ملل....و أوقات لللحظة  ليخفف زعل

As in one of my favorate songs; 

في إدامي مكاتيب السنين

bas this time;

حبيييبي، حبيييبي، ما عاد يلمسني الحنين

There is no denial of a past;

في ماضي منيح بس مضى

صفى بالريح بالفضه

bas there is deep closure

وبيضل تذكار عن مشهد صار

في خبز، في ملح،في رضى

There's even her own disbelief that something, once so strong, is no longer there..

حبييييبي، احساسي هال أد معقوله بيزول

Perhaps it is how sobering the song is. Perhaps it is all that she is coming to. All that was beautiful that is gone. Mash-had we enqada. All the memories that remain, but the feelings that cannot be rekindeled. There is no drama, but there is also no حنين

There is her contemplation of all that is good, and all that is possible, her affirmation that 'ايه, في أمل

but that it does not emerge of a possibility; this hope, perhaps a yearning for a nostalgia that is no longer there...

It's always impossible to listen to fairuz sing and not relate on some level. it's impossible not to imagine her having felt every word , experienced it to the core.

bas there's something so much deeper and probing about this song. it's not their relationship. or maybe this is how i relate to it. something deeply binding between us and a world that changes so quickly. why hope springs up at times, and why you know better than it. An acknolwedgement of all that is beautiful, but a sobering realization of how with every day, her life too passes, and the necessity of moving on.

ta-nerja3 , la2 mesh ma32ul. There's no going back.

With every realization she starts with a probing, pleading; '؛حبيييييبي، حبيييييبي as if to break it softly, reaussringly..

and with every 'acknowledgement' of all that 'was' beautiful, there is a catch;  a catching, almost croaked 'بس

She ends it, knowing how much of her 'short-sightedness' he has been propogating to others. Perhaps his disbelief that she will not reconsider.

and this subtle, haunting, and punctuating end; 

حبيبي كرماللي، اتنيناتنا بنعرف شو صار

but we don't know. for a change. 

and we're left with a song that confirms that ايه, في أمل

But, with a newer more matured fairuz, in a world that is so different from her last beit el dine concert, she reminds us;

تنرجع: لأ مش معقول

Yearnings..

«..fiery yearnings their own phantom-futures make, and deem it present. So, after all these fearful, fainting trances, the verdict be, the golden haven was not gained - - yet, in bold quest thereof, better to sink in boundless deeps, than float on vulgar shoals; and give me, ye gods, an utter wreck, if wreck I do.» 

Herman Melville

things that make mornings worth getting up for

the nutella jar says 'saba7 el kheyr' on its lid.

I'll smile and say 'saba7 el ful ya eshta'...

The teal fan with beautiful matfeyya golden blades that sherine got from souq el gum3a, the name starts to ring with the romance of an old city in ruins, every shard telling a story.

It gathers its strength with a hesitant sputter, like you've woken it up from a deep slumber, and it is quickly obliging, quickly before you spot that moment of hesitation. Deep inside i know one day, it may try and fail to oblige, but that makes the split second of suspense a reward every morning. Sputter spark starts the day with a breeze of tarawa.

the morning breeze as of late. ever so subtle. a sigh of fresh air.

the cab ride on my mornings of late. There's no name for where i work realy. For 'us' it is 'near darb'. for the rest of cairo, well, you try it. I call it el '7erafeyeen'. it sounds cairo-esque, basically it is where it is, but there seems to be no consensus behind the name but me, my imagination and my poor vacant memory that concedes to anything we tell it,it must have remembered hearing.

And so i try different things. Most often it's 'masr el adima' because i've learnt it pays to be as vague as possible. i think they see me waving them down in degla and they think 'dee akher-ha samia allouba aw greco...'

so sometimes i try 'kum ghuraab' el fakhareen.. 'el fustat', 'am-ib'el'3aas'! And sometimes, only a few very special special times i said 'batn el baqar'. I love it. I love the way the words roll of my lips. I love the image of the cow's fat rippling belly i get every time. I feel like my voice changes as i say it, it comes from my throat keda. I also feel like after i say it i should wipe my nose and mouth with the back of my right or left hand.

that my left eye should twitch. when the driver goes 'eyh?!' i should go 'aywaaa batn el baqar.. eeyhh fe 7aga?!' (and i stop for a few menacing seconds 3and 'eyh', my features contorted in warning, my hands slowly hovering closer adn closer to that none existant matwa in my pocket), his own contorted features relax, every new wrinkle folding back into the clearness of his face.. 'erkaby erkaby...'

in truth, i say it meekly and when they say 'eyh' i say, ' err, masr el adima' ? smile.

One driver told me to stop saying 'Kum Ghuraaab' that it was misleading. 

It was with much difficulty that i did. My first 'job' working with kids, involved interacting with a mahmoud moukhtar who did art with working children. and he got them to paint the houses that make my neighbourhood, and that frame the kubry i take to come to work everyday. The project was called Kum GHurab. and it was about getting the kids engaged in making kum ghuraab something they were proud of.

I tried to explain this to the can driver but he could barely lift his eyes off the road for a second to take the colors in as we passed the kubry, and in the context of a long discussion where he was trying to understand where EXACTLY my office was and help me with the key words that would land me a cab driver and not tafesh one, he kept insisting..

'huwwa esmuh kubry el 3aasher.. khaleeky bas fe kubry el 3aasher..'

as we make the last left turn that opens masr el adima into the quarter of creativity our very colorful office is tucked into, i get almost the same sentence.. 'tesada2ey ba2a enny 3umry ma geyt henna abl keda...' or sometimes it's a bit like 'tesada2ey ba2a enny sawa2 taaaaksi.. we 3umrey mageyt henna abl keda'. The latter is my favorite because the first part of the sentence takes a bit of a stretch and the second happens quickly..

'tesADA2EY ba2a enny sawa2 TAAKSEY..we3umreymagetyhennablkeda..'

it makes the twenty pounds (and not the 6 pounds it would cost if i took the nearest metro station) worth it to feel enny wasa3t khayalhum el qaaherey walaw leshebr.

i'm sure somehow, somehow, finding a little creativity quarter in the city, makes it that much easier to breathe.

and maybe one day and several summer trips later (in the winter i HAVE to start taking the metro), i will be able to wave a cab down and say 'el shughl!'

or maybe there will be more consensus 3ala el 7erafeyeen :)

صباح النور عليكم وصباحٌ آخر على كل الناس

deeds cannot dream what dreams can do..

[as freedom is a breakfastfood]

BY E. E. CUMMINGS

as freedom is a breakfastfood

or truth can live with right and wrong

or molehills are from mountains made

—long enough and just so long

will being pay the rent of seem

and genius please the talentgang

and water most encourage flame

as hatracks into peachtrees grow

or hopes dance best on bald men’s hair

and every finger is a toe

and any courage is a fear

—long enough and just so long

will the impure think all things pure

and hornets wail by children stung

or as the seeing are the blind

and robins never welcome spring

nor flatfolk prove their world is round

nor dingsters die at break of dong

and common’s rare and millstones float

—long enough and just so long

tomorrow will not be too late

worms are the words but joy’s the voice

down shall go which and up come who

breasts will be breasts thighs will be thighs

deeds cannot dream what dreams can do

—time is a tree(this life one leaf)

but love is the sky and i am for you

just so long and long enough

because i cannot remember..

because i cannot remember what it feels like to write it straight out without first channeling it through my mind. and because there is nothing i yearn to do as deeply and profoundly...

for years it felt like i outgrew this space, whereas i think i just grew so suddenly i could no longer keep track of how far my proportions stretched.

i think i still fit.