Franz Kafka - Blog Posts
I am afraid of approaching someone now,
it was easier for me back when I was in school because we all basically had same lives, same cities, houses close by, smaller, similar circle of friends. even in college it was easier to catch up with whatever happened back in someone’s school days, we all shared similar school time tales, traumas, break up stories.
Approaching someone in adulthood is just like collision of two worlds (though it is true for all relationships be it school, college, work or any other stream of life), it all seems so overwhelming. The sheer aspect that another person has a different life altogether since last some 20 something years, they will be having completely different friend groups, so many life events, so many trauma. I do agree that humans are so beautiful when they’ve stories to tell and it is the beauty of randomness of everyone’s life that makes them unique.
Along with that there is a constant anxiety that time is slowly slipping away from you, as the later 20s creep in on you, this anxiety slowly grows bigger and bigger taking shape of a big question mark on yourself.
was I never enough? Will I ever find love? Am I supposed to be like this forever? Do I even deserve someone’s love?
The cycle of self doubt never ends.
As kafka said,
There are times when I am convinced I am unfit for any human relationship.
(Image taken from pinterest)
~ Necromancer
i can thug thru the trail i can thug thru the trail franz kafaka if you can hear me.
Yet each man kills the thing he loves,
By each let this be heard: Some do it with a bitter look, Some with a flattering word, The coward does it with a kiss, The brave man with a sword! Some kill their love when they are young, And some when they are old; Some strangle with the hands of Gold: The kindest use a knife, because The dead so soon grow cold. Some love too little, some too long, Some sell and others buy; Some do the deed with many tears, And some without a sigh: For each man kills the thing he loves, Yet each man does not die.
Oscar Wilde
The Glance That Shattered Silence
In the kingdoms of sand, where the moon lies cracked like a blade, And palaces rise from bones of sages and ruins of caravans made, There ruled a Caliph named Yazan ibn Subh, Seated upon a throne of fire, guarded by jinn and the whispering hush.
And far in a rival land, across the cursed river's sweep, Lived Princess Zahra, whose eyes could make angels weep. Her grandfather had fallen to Yazan's kin in a war of old, So between their houses, hatred ran bitter and cold.
But hearts know no borders when first they ignite, They met in a souk where shadows flirt with light. Zahra was trading with spirits, in spells and silver dust, Yazan watched, enchanted—his duty undone by lust.
"Why stare so boldly, O stranger in royal thread?" She asked, voice laced with dread. "Because," he said, "I have never seen dawn in flesh, And now I must chase it, though the world turn to ash."
And the Spirits Moved in the Shadows
The enemies of love allied: Yazan’s kin from one side, And Zahra’s sorceress-mother from the other, steeped in pride. They summoned seers of stars, bound jinn in chains of fate, Wove spells to turn passion into a poisoned plate.
The markets burned with rumor, the alleys whispered of doom, Slaves were stirred to fury, rebels were led from gloom. The witches spat curses upon the Caliph's crown, Sowing chaos like wheat, hoping to strike him down.
A secret faction rose: The Sacred Shadow, sworn to dethrone, A band of fanatics who claimed justice but wanted the throne. They whispered of Yazan's sins and Zahra's foreign blood, Till the streets turned against them, like rivers turned to mud.
An End Written by Darkness, with Ink of Starlight
The rebels came at moonrise, like wolves with steel for teeth, Yazan stood on the palace roof, the wind a dying wreath. Below him, fire and fury, above, a sky too still, And in his hands, her final note—a prayer, a will.
"If you fall today, know you have my heart in your hand, If you flee, take me far in search of nameless land: No thrones. No homeland. Just you and I— The shadow and the prayer, beneath one sky."
They fought like myths, but myths too must die, Yazan fell with blade in hand, and Zahra fled with a cry. For forty years the sun refused to shine on that sand, Till travelers claimed to see two ghosts walk hand in hand.
They say on moonlit dunes, when the stars are brave, You may see a Caliph and his beloved beyond the grave. Still they dance, still they sing, love stronger than time, A tale told in sorrow, in rhythm, and rhyme.
Thus ends the scroll—but never the longing...
A Night Beneath the Palm’s Shadow
The wind hums secrets through the date-laden trees, whispering names of those who once walked this dust, where footprints fade but never truly leave, pressed deep in the memory of the earth’s quiet trust.
Oh, moon of longing, hung low and bright, do you still remember the songs we sang? Verses embroidered in the fabric of night, soft as jasmine, where old echoes hang.
A mother calls, her voice a prayer, threading through the hush of dawn, her hands—cracked, but full of care— building futures from threads long gone.
And here I stand, between past and now, a daughter of sand, of stars, of sea, asking the wind to teach me how to love, to lose, yet still be free.
We are accused of terrorism
We are accused of terrorism If we dare to write about the remains of a homeland That is scattered in pieces and in decay In decadence and disarray About a homeland that is searching for a place And about a nation that no longer has a face
About a homeland that has nothing left of its great ancient verse But that of wailing and eulogy
About a homeland that has nothing in its horizons Of freedoms of different types and ideology
About a homeland that forbids us from buying a newspaper Or listen to anything About a homeland where all birds are always not allowed to sing About a homeland that out of horror, its writers are using invisible ink
About a homeland that resembles poetry in our country Improvised, imported, loose and of no boundaries Of foreign tongue and soul Detached from Man and Land, ignoring their plight as a whole
About a homeland to the negotiating table moves Without a dignity or shoes
About a homeland That no more has steadfast men With only women therein
Bitterness is in our mouthsin our talkin our eyes Will draught also plague our souls as a legacy passed to us from ancient times?
Our nation has nobody left, even the less glorified No one to say "NO" in the face of those who gave up our homebread and butter Turning our colorful history into a circus
We have not a single honest poem That has not lost its virginity in a ruler's Harem
We grew accustomed to humiliation Then what is left of Man If he is comfortable with that?
I search the books of history For men of greatness to deliver us from darkness To save our women from fires' brutality
I search for men of yesterday But all I find is frightened cats Fearing for their souls From the authority of rats
Are we hit by national blindness Or are we suffering from color blindness
We are accused of terrorism If we refuse to perish Under Israeli tyranny That is hampering our unity Our history Our Bible and our Quran Our prophets' land If that is our sin and crime Then terrorism is fine
We are accused of terrorism If we refuse to be wiped out By barbarians, the Mongols or the Jews If we choose to stone the fragile security council Which was sacked by the king of caesuras
We are accused of terrorism If we refuse to negotiate the wolf And reach out for a whore
America is fighting the cultures of Man Because it lacks one And against the civilizations because it needs one It is a gigantic structure but without a wall
We are accused of terrorism If we refuse current times Where America the arrogant the mighty the rich Became a sworn interpreter of Hebrew.
-Nizar Qabbani
Qana
The face of Qana Pale, like that of Jesus and the sea breeze of April… Rains of blood.. and tears.. They entered Qana stepping on our charred bodies Raising a Nazi flag in the lands of the South and rehearsing its stormy chapters Hitler cremated them in the gas chambers and they came after him to burn us Hitler kicked them out of Eastern Europe and they kicked us out of our lands They entered Qana Like hungry wolves Putting to fire the house of the Messiah Stepping on the dress of Hussain and the dear land of the South We saw the tears in Ali's eyes We heard his voice as he prayed under the rain of bloody skies Qana unveiled what was hidden We saw America Wearing the old coat of a Jewish Rabbi Leading the slaughter Blasting our children for no reason Blasting our wives for no reason Blasting our trees for no reason Blasting our thoughts for no reason Has it been decreed in her constitution, She, America, mistress of the world, In Hebrew .. that she should humble us al-Arabs? Has it been decreed that each time a ruler in America wants to win the presidency that he should kill us... We al Arabs?
-Nizar Qabbani
Jerusalem
I wept until my tears were dry I prayed until the candles flickered I knelt until the floor creaked I asked about Mohammed and Christ Oh Jerusalem, the fragrance of prophets The shortest path between earth and sky Oh Jerusalem, the citadel of laws A beautiful child with fingers charred and downcast eyes You are the shady oasis passed by the Prophet Your streets are melancholy Your minarets are mourning You, the young maiden dressed in black Oh Jerusalem, the city of sorrow A big tear wandering in the eye Who will halt the aggression On you, the pearl of religions? Who will wash your bloody walls? Who will safeguard the Bible? Who will rescue the Quran? Who will save Christ? Who will save man? Oh Jerusalem my town Oh Jerusalem my love Tomorrow the lemon trees will blossom And the olive trees will rejoice Your eyes will dance The migrant pigeons will return To your sacred roofs And your children will play again And fathers and sons will meet On your rosy hills My town The town of peace and olives.
-Nizar Qabbani
Granada
At the entrance of Alhambra was our meeting, How sweet is a rendezvous not thought of before. Two soft black eyes in perfect frames enticing, Generating after-effects from the past ages afore. Are you a Spaniard? I asked her enquiring, She said: Granada is the city where I was born. Granada! Seven centuries awoke from slumbering, In her eyes, after the clothing of sleep they wore. And Umayyad, with flags lifted high, flying, Their horses streaming by, unnumbered they pour. How strange is history, how is it to me returning? A beautiful granddaughter, from my pedigree of yore. With a Damascene face, through it I was seeing, The eyelids of Sheba and the neck of Suad once more. I saw a room in our old house with a clearing, Where mother used to spread my cushions on the floor. And the Jasmine inlaid in its stars were shining, With the golden singing pool, a picture of splendor. Damascus, where is it? I said: you will be seeing It in your flowing hair, a river of golden black ore. In your Arab face, in your mouth still storing The suns of my country from the days of Arab lore. In the perfume of Generalife with waters gleaming, Its Arabian Jasmine, its sweet basil and citron odour. She came with me and her hair behind her flowing, Like luscious ears of grain in an unharvested meadow. The long earrings on her neck were glittering, Like Christmas Eve candles that sparkle and glow. Behind her like a child I walked, she was guiding, And behind me, history, piles of ashes row after row. The decoration of Alhambra I almost hear pulsing, And the ornaments on the roof, I hear their call grow. She said: Alhambra! Pride of my ancestors glowing, Read on its walls my glories that shine and show. Her glory! I anointed an open wound festering, And in my heart anointed another that refused to go. If only my lovely granddaughter had a way of knowing, The ones she meant were my ancestors of long, long ago. When I bid her adieu, when I knew I was going, I embraced in her Ṭāriq ibn Ziyād, that Arab hero.
-Nizar Qabbani
We used to meet at dusk Sitting on the old bridge While fog surrounds the hills It covers the road past our sight
No one knows where we are Only the sky and the autumn leafs When you said "I love you" The miserable clouds disappeared
-Al Rahbani Brothers
I tell my neighbor: Come and spend the night with me, I have figs, and almonds, and sugar. We sing, because you are lonely, And singing will ease your longing. I have a home, and a small area of land, So I am safe now. The land of my country is land from heaven, And on it sleeps the painful time. I tell our house: If I am alone, And snow and cold blows, My house is as fire to me, And the winter passes, friendly as a field of roses.
-Al Rahbani Brothers
Self-taught
The failed echo will help me And the tyrannical secrets inspire me! Times of resounding anxiety And a storm hugs me tightly Here the cities of contradiction contain me The countryside of art precedes it I am drawn to the current by self-taught people My heart is steadfast in the war alone
And despite the hatred I prepare for the feverish blindness!
Sakina Al-Sharif
kaçak kız
Telaffuzunu elemeye ve geliştirmeye başladı.. Ve bir takımyıldız gibi kendi yörüngesinde süzülüyor! Ona suikast düzenlemeye çalışan bir dünya var. Kalıntıları arasında dolaşıp, savrulup dönüyorum Yıkıcı bir retorik savaşı yaklaşıyor Kanıyla ve toprağıyla çarmıha gerilecek! Çöken dünyada makalem özgür kaldı. Evren bilgisayarlı! Beni nasıl kendi inlerine sürüklemeye çalıştılar Özgünlüğün baltalandığı bir bağımlılık Kimliklerini inkar ediyorlar... Benzerlik kalıplarıyla şekillenmeyeceğim! Sanatım doğanın sesini dinlemek Ve uzuvlarım düşenlerden gizli Ruhum karanlıkta tek başına savaşır
-Sakina Al-Sharif
Runaway
She started sifting and refining her pronunciation.. And she floats around her orbit as a constellation, There's a world that tries to assassinate her! Wandering among its ruins, tossing and turning A devastating rhetorical war is brewing She will be crucified with her blood and soil! My article remained free in a collapsing world. The universe is computerized! How they tried to drag me into their den An addiction where originality is undermined They deny their identity... I will not be molded by similar patterns! My art is listening to the voice of nature And my limbs are hidden from those who fall My soul fights alone in the dark
-Sakina Al-Sharif
Does the world escape me like a void?
Have I given up on illusions? Heavy nights train me And the rain of melodies were epics I became aware of war after war The sound of the sword inspired and inspired me! I search my halls and call out To me, to me, O formulated dream
-Sakaina Al-sharif
Kabil
Kabil şimdi şistten yapılmış bir kuşla atıyor Yeryüzüne iner ve onu muazzam ateş yağmurlarıyla yağdırır. Onun ıssızlığından önce kuleler ve evler çöküyor Ölüler toprağın kucağından yukarılara kaçar Cain şimdi tankında dolaşıyor Koyunlar dehşete kapıldı Kabil ahırının duvarını yıkıyor Köyde gece sabaha döndüğü için ahırı uyumaya uygun değil Aşağıya inen ışığın yaydığı Bir ejderhanın dili gibi Kasırga dünyanın yüzünü harap etti
Cain
Cain now beats with a bird made of shale He descends to the earth and showers it- with tremendous rains of fire. Towers and houses collapse before its desolation The dead escape from the embrace of the earth upwards Cain is now floating around in his tank The sheep were terrified Cain is tearing down the wall of his barn Since night turns to morning in the village, the barn is not suitable for sleeping. Emitted by the light coming down Like a dragon's tongue Hurricane ravaged the face of the earth
by: Mohammad Al-Buraiki
The Rain
By sea...towards another space, shaking off my dust. Forgetting my name, the names of plants, and the history of trees.. Escaping from this sun that flogs me with its boredom... Fleeing from cities that slept for centuries under the feet of the moon.. Leaving behind me eyes made of glass and a sky made of stone. I will not go back to the sun... for I now belong to the rainstorms.
by: Nizar Qabbani
Nizar Qabbani (1923–1998)
Nizar Qabbani was one of the most renowned and influential Arab poets of the 20th century. He was born in Damascus, Syria, into a well-off, artistic family. His father, Tawfiq Qabbani, was a businessman and a political activist, and his mother, Faiza Akbik, hailed from a family with strong intellectual roots. His childhood in Damascus, surrounded by traditional Arab culture and the cosmopolitan currents of the time, had a lasting influence on his poetry.
Early Life and Education
Nizar Qabbani’s fascination with poetry began at a young age, and his education at the National Scientific College School in Damascus further nurtured his literary talents. He later pursued law at Damascus University, from which he graduated in 1945. While studying, Qabbani was already writing poetry, and he published his first collection, The Brunette Told Me, at the age of 21. This collection focused on themes of love and femininity, topics that would define much of his career.
Diplomatic Career
After graduating, Qabbani embarked on a long diplomatic career. He served as a cultural attaché and diplomat for Syria in various countries, including Egypt, Turkey, Lebanon, and the United Kingdom. His diplomatic work exposed him to diverse cultures and political environments, shaping his global outlook and influencing his poetry. While he continued to work as a diplomat, Qabbani never stopped writing and publishing poetry.
Poetry and Themes
Nizar Qabbani’s poetry is marked by its simplicity, emotional depth, and bold exploration of taboo subjects. His works often dealt with themes of love, sensuality, and the role of women in society. He was one of the few Arab poets who openly wrote about romantic and erotic love, which caused controversy in conservative circles. His poetry also questioned traditional gender roles and advocated for women’s rights, earning him admiration among progressive audiences. However, his themes were not limited to love. As he matured, Qabbani’s poetry became more political, particularly after the devastating loss of his second wife, Balqis al-Rawi, in a bombing during the Lebanese Civil War in 1981. He began to write about Arab nationalism, the oppression of the Arab people, and the failures of Arab governments. His poetry took on a tone of rebellion and anger, reflecting his frustration with the state of the Arab world.
Personal Life and Tragedy
Nizar Qabbani’s personal life was marked by both great love and profound tragedy. He was married twice. His first wife, Zahra, with whom he had two children, died young, leaving him devastated. His second marriage was to Balqis al-Rawi, an Iraqi woman who became a significant figure in his life and works. Balqis’s death in the 1981 bombing deeply affected Qabbani, and he wrote several moving poems dedicated to her memory. One of his most famous pieces, “Balqis,” reflects his grief and sense of loss. Qabbani’s poetry also carried the scars of personal tragedy from his early years. His older sister’s suicide, after being forced to marry someone she did not love, deeply influenced his views on women’s rights and societal restrictions, fueling his lifelong advocacy for love and personal freedom.
Memoirs
Qabbani also wrote prose, including memoirs that provide insights into his personal life, creative process, and the political landscape of the Arab world during his lifetime. His memoir, My Story with Poetry (Qissati Ma’a Al-She’r), offers a detailed account of his journey as a poet, his inspiration, and the events that shaped his works. In it, Qabbani reflects on how love, politics, and personal experiences intertwined in his poetry. In his memoirs and other prose writings, Qabbani often spoke candidly about his frustrations with Arab politics, the impact of his personal losses, and his complex relationship with his homeland, Syria. His writings reveal a poet deeply affected by both the joys and sorrows of life, committed to using poetry as a means of emotional and political expression.
Legacy
Nizar Qabbani’s poetry remains widely read and celebrated across the Arab world. He is often referred to as the “poet of love” because of his numerous poems on romance and women, but his later political works have also earned him the title of a revolutionary poet. His simple yet powerful style, combined with his boldness in addressing both personal and political issues, has made his poetry timeless. Qabbani’s works have been translated into several languages, and his influence extends beyond the literary world. Many of his poems have been set to music by prominent Arab singers, further cementing his place in Arab cultural history. Qabbani passed away in London in 1998, but his poetry continues to inspire and resonate with readers across generations, reflecting the personal, emotional, and political complexities of the Arab experience.
Why is Kafka so important when it comes to European loneliness?
How are his writings still so relevant today? And does his literature really reflect the loneliness we see in European societies?
Who is Franz Kafka?
First, let’s start by getting to know Franz Kafka. Kafka was a Czech Jewish writer who lived in the early 20th century. His writings were marked by strangeness and ambiguity, often tackling themes like isolation, alienation, and the dehumanizing effects of bureaucracy. His most famous works, such as *The Metamorphosis* and *The Trial*, convey a deep sense of psychological oppression and the feeling of being trapped in a cold and incomprehensible world.
European Loneliness – How Did It Become a Reality?
Now, let’s move to the key question: Why is Kafka considered important in the context of European loneliness? To understand this, we need to first look at life in modern European societies. Despite the economic and technological advancements in Europe, loneliness has become a significant part of many people's lives. These societies tend to emphasize individualism and self-reliance, which can often lead to feelings of isolation and existential emptiness. A large portion of people in Europe live alone, and due to highly structured social and political systems, individuals often feel like they are just small cogs in a vast machine. This is where Kafka comes in. His writings reflect this very feeling – the sense that one has no control over their life and is trapped in a cold, impersonal system.
How Does Kafka’s Literature Reflect Loneliness?
Kafka’s works deeply capture feelings of loneliness and alienation. In *The Metamorphosis*, the protagonist transforms into an insect and feels rejected by both his family and society. Here, we see a clear picture of loneliness, the feeling of being unaccepted and misunderstood. Kafka was expressing a profound fear of being disconnected from others and not being able to communicate. In *The Trial*, the protagonist is subjected to a senseless trial by a mysterious and oppressive system. This mirrors the experience of individuals in modern Europe who feel like mere numbers in a vast, soulless bureaucratic machine. Loneliness is not just about the absence of personal connections; it’s also about feeling powerless and disconnected from one’s own life. That’s what makes Kafka’s work so relevant to understanding modern European loneliness.
The Existential Dimension in Kafka’s Works
Kafka isn’t just a writer who critiques systems and bureaucracy. He is also a deeply existential writer. Many people in Europe today feel lost in a world that seems to lack meaning, and Kafka’s writings reflect this reality. The existential themes in his works raise questions about the purpose of life and the meaning behind everything that happens, questions that continue to resonate with individuals navigating a chaotic and alienating world.
- Feda'a Yahya
“And if the devil were to ever see you, he’d kiss your eyes and repent." - Farouq Jwaydeh
My tormentor came in the dead of dusk
As if it were the bright star on the horizon So I said, “Enlighten me, O best visitor.” Were you not afraid of the guards on the roads? She answered me with tears in her eyes. He who sales the sea is not afraid of drowning. I said, “These are fabricated tales.” She said, “The truth of my heart is greater than any oath. As long as there is some spark in my eyes, I love you with an endless love.
I removed the veil and saw the full moon embracing So I stood up and kissed her.
By : Lisan al-Din ibn al-Khatib
في أحضان السكون
هنا أنحرُ الليلَ، أغني الزمان هنا أتلقَّى حديث القمرْ هنا أقتلُ الشِّعرَ عند الغروبِ وأبعثهُ حينَ يأتي السحرْ هنا أصهرُ النورَ حتَّى يذوب وألقي في عيون الزهرْ هنا يرقد الهمُّ في خاطري ويسلبني أملي المنتظَرْ
هنا يومض اللحن في أضلع وينزع أسرارَهُ من دمِي وينحتُ من مقلتيّ الرؤى وتطربُ أوتاره أنجمي ويغرقني في الشقاء اللذيذِ وتملأ أوهامه عالمي
محمد الثبيتي -
Departure to the shores of dreams
I threw all my equipment into your hands, and I relieved my horse from the worries of the road, and I fled from the ravages of the storms when the departure was long. The voice of my solitude died, and the echoes of my silence responded in the hills, on the plains, and at the valley’s stream, I saw the autumn leaves being dragged behind them by the tail of the calm breeze, so I left all my poems in the desert and buried my songs among its sands.
-Muhammad Al-Thubaiti
I’m not a fire cracker, I'm a bomb. I don’t disappear when I explode, I blow up and kill everyone.
🖼️:Aron Wiesenfeld
تتلاشى الاكتاف من حولك تدريجيا كلما ازدادت حاجتك للاستناد
The shoulders around you gradually disappear as your need for support increases