1 Introduction
In this chapter we will employ the concept of the âpoetics of engagementâ as formulated above and with attention to the interplay of the performance-performative axis with the authority-authenticity axis to examine how al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« manipulates the themes and structures of two somewhat contrasting poems of Saqá¹ al-Zand. Given their placement in al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«âs own largely chronological ordering of Saqá¹ al-Zand and the addressee of the first poem, these two poems can be dated, although without precision, to the period prior to his sojourn to Baghdad (399â400/1009â1010); probably rather close to each other and also to SZ 14 of Chapter 1.1
2 Section I: The Art of Defense: SaqṠal-Zand 15 Mīmiyyah
The first, a hybrid qaṣīdat al-madḥ/ʾikhwÄniyyah dedicated to al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«âs senior fellow poet Ê¿AlÄ« ibn JalabÄt, responds to two obligations: a poetic obligation to compose a response to a poem of praise that Ê¿AlÄ« has addressed to him and, at the same time, a personal obligation to comfort, defend, and restore the dignity of a friend who has been called to Aleppo and unceremoniously dismissed from his position at the BÅ«yid court at Baghdad. The details are not entirely clear: Ê¿AlÄ« ibn JalabÄt was appointed by the BÅ«yid emir Ê¿Aá¸ud al-Dawlah (d. 372/983) as governor of Baghdad. Sometime after Ê¿Aá¸ud al-Dawlahâs death, a certain âSaÊ¿Ä«dâ summoned Ê¿AlÄ« to Aleppo and removed him from his post (see further, below). As SZ 15 is a response poem to a fellow poet, al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«âs first obligation is fraternal or collegial and eminently literary without any explicitly political component. Further, it appears that if Ê¿AlÄ« was appointed governor of Baghdad by Ê¿Aá¸ud al-Dawlah, he must have been a good deal older than al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«. So, as was the case too with the SharÄ«f AbÅ« IbrÄhÄ«m in SZ 14 (Chapter 1), we have a case of a younger âupstartâ poet trying to make a name for himself by competing poetically with a more established, both poetically and politically, senior poet. And likewise, as we saw in SZ 14, this requires rising to the ʾikhwÄniyyah challenge of proclaiming his fellow poetâs superiority while yet outperforming or outstripping him. His other obligation requires that he restore to his addressee both his morale and his sociopolitical standing, a performance that involves a psychological component but also the poetâs assuming the authority required to assign such literary and political rank and status. In al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«âs case, as he holds a lesser social rank and no political position (âsocialâ or âsymbolicâ capital) to confer status, that authority can only rest on âpoeticâ capital, and, as we established in Chapter 1, that means demonstrating mastery of the poetic tradition coupled with the authenticity of creating a poetic work that is original and, further, performatively effective.
For the purposes of our reading, the poem can be divided into three parts:2 The first (ll. 1â17) opens the poem with praise (madīḥ), establishes al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«âs obligation to repay praise with praiseâthereby identifying the poem as in some sense an ʾikhwÄniyyahâand offers encomia of Ê¿AlÄ« Ibn JalabÄtâs poetry (ll. 1â5), nobility (ll. 6â9), and magnanimity (ll. 10â17). The second (ll. 18â59) can be read as a âqaṣīdah within a qaṣīdahâ with elements of separation (nasÄ«b), liminal journey (raḥīl), and concluding invective or satire (hijÄʾ) theme, but with all these structural elements reconfigured to serve the poetâs present concern of defending and establishing the rank and status of his addressee. He takes Ê¿AlÄ«âs departure from Baghdad as an occasion to launch into a vigorous praise and defense (ll. 18â28); the arduous journey (to Aleppo) is not undertaken by the poet himself, as in a conventional qaṣīdah, but rather on the part of his addressee (ll. 29â48); and he concludes with a hijÄʾ (ll. 49â59) passage against the BanÅ« Ê¿Uqayl, the still mostly Bedouin Arab dynasty that jockeyed with the ḤamdÄnids and BÅ«yids for control of the area between Mosul and Aleppo at this period, whose lands Ê¿AlÄ« traversed in his journey.3 This passage contains the classical motifs of hijÄʾ centering on avarice combined with specific anti-Bedouinâal-AÊ¿rÄb (desert, Bedouin Arabs)âmotifs familiar from third/ninth century ShuÊ¿Å«bÄ« discourse. The structural position of this passage is ambiguousâit could also be folded into the journey element as part of the buildup and transition to the concluding madīḥ of the final part (ll. 60â74), which consists of a two-part praise passage: a defense of Ê¿AlÄ« directed to his detractors in Baghdad (ll. 60â68) and a concluding vatic pronouncement on the part of the poet, in which he assumes near-prophetic authority in and through his own poetry to proclaim and confirm the excellence and worth of Ê¿AlÄ« ibn JalabÄtâs verse (ll. 69â74).
The Art of Defense and Praise of Ê¿AlÄ« ibn JalabÄt
Saqá¹ al-Zand 15.4 Rhyme: -ÄmihÄ«; meter: ṬawÄ«l
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He said [â¦] in reply to a qaṣīdah of praise from AbÅ« al-QÄsim Ê¿AlÄ« ibn al-Ḥusayn ibn JalabÄt:
I (ll. 1â17): Encomia of Ê¿AlÄ« Ibn JalabÄtâs poetry (1â5), nobility (6â9), and magnanimity (10â17)
1 There aspires to your rank,though Orion is beyond his reach,An enemy who faults the full moonfor its perfection.2 Though all winged creaturesare called birds,Yet doves and eaglesare not counted equals.3 And if everything that grows in our riverbedis poetry,Still all can tell the tamariskfrom panic grass.4 No man, however generous, couldrender you due thanks,Not even if he gave the whole worldto repay you what he owed.5 So do not oblige me to repayyour praise with words,For my mind will surely failto pay its debt.6 You have alighted on a peak of nobilityso highThat rapacious lions wish they werethe goat kids [capering there].7 If pungent musk wants to boast,it claims thatIt is made from the fine dust[of this peak].8 When a white-footed mountain goat,cast out from his herd, comes to its foot,He settles there,assured of safe refuge.9 [Your noble character] is an abode [so unassailable]that, if might could repel death,Those who alight therewould have no fear of dying.10 When your two palms release upon a supplicanta rain of gold,They are not contentwith a mere sprinkle.11 [Your hands are] two white clouds;since God created them for usWe no longer heedHis black rainclouds.12 As if you were a water-laden cloudthat lowered itselfTo those who came to drink, untilthey quenched their thirst from its abundant springs.13 As if you were the pearls of the deepfloating on the surface of the seaSo mankind could choose amongthe matched twin pearls.14 As if you were the corner of the KaÊ¿bahgiven the powerTo walk up to the pilgrimsso they could kiss [the Black Stone].15 You bestowed abundant wealth on otherswhen you acquired it,And committed it to fate beforefate could claim it.16 If Alexander had acquired as muchwealth as you,He would have built his damof molten gold and gold minesâ veins.17 For does the lion store foodfor a dayLike an ant that stores foodfor a year?II (ll. 18â59): âQaṣīdah within a Qaṣīdahâ: Praise and vindication of Ê¿AlÄ« (18â28); Ê¿AlÄ«âs journey to Aleppo (29â48); hijÄʾ (invective, satire) of the BanÅ« Ê¿Uqayl (49â59)
Praise and Vindication of Ê¿AlÄ« (ll. 18â28)
18 How many a land did you depart,leaving its kingâs heartYearning after you on the morningof departure?!19 A breeze coming from his landall but told usAbout his sorrowand his passion.20 [Ê¿AlÄ« is like] a swift steed that overtakes the [other] horses[even] after he is spent,So how can they outstrip himwhen he is rested?21 Full-maned and fierce, around him standthe mighty lionsOf his illustrious tribe,before him and behind,22 The BanÅ« al-JalabÄtâthose who at night send forthcavalries of bounty,And [at dawn] attack with a vast army[of generous gifts].23 Does the pitch-black night claimthat the stars of its darknessIllumine the sun?24 When the blaze of war is kindled,a quiver full of arrowsIs no substitute forgirding the sword.25 No horse blanket or ornamentof saddle or bridleCan make a low-bred nag intoa purebred Arab steed.26 He who tests his bladesbefore the battleCan tell which one is cuttingand which is blunt.27 Were it not for SaÊ¿Ä«d,[Ê¿AlÄ«] would still be boon companion to a star,Pouring on the ground for himeach second cup of wine,28 And the remnants of Ê¿Aá¸udian gracewould have restoredTo the Oblique [Baghdad]some of his solicitude.Ê¿AlÄ«âs Journey to Aleppo (ll. 29â48)
29 [Ê¿AlÄ«] traveled to [SaÊ¿Ä«d] by night,when morning was dead,His swift pace [stirring up] the dust as ifTo search for [morningâs] decaying bones.30 He avoided all [rivers]except [Aleppoâs] Quwayq,As though he thought that any otherwould increase his thirst.31 With white-hued camels that penetratedtime [itself],As if they were exploring its interior[in search of] noble men,32 [Camels] so light footed that every lowlandto which they descendBoasts that they are swifter, despite fatigue,than its own dust-brown ostrich.33 When the she-camels moan there yearning for their young,no yearling camels answer;The echoes of the hooting owlsreply instead.34 [So light footed are the camels] on their journeyThat, were they to treadUpon a sleeperâs eyelid,it would not wake him.35 And [Ê¿AlÄ« traveled] with each WajÄ«h-bred steed,whose sweat, white as slaver,Flows down its two sidesand over its girth strap,36 And with each white [camel],so slender and compact,That if it came to the eye of a needle,it would pass right through,37 That tries to detect the light of morningon the eastern horizonâBut finds no light exceptthe glistening of its slaver.38 They thought of drinkingat al-Ê¿AwÄá¹£im [fortresses],But the blue of polished spear tips stood between themand the blue water of those abundant wells.39 So even if the sweet fresh waterhad bade them âPeaceâ,They would not have returnedthe greeting.40 At many a waterhole covered with thick scumthey alighted to rest at night,But did not uncover the waterhidden beneath it.41 And how many a watering placebetween al-Karkh [Baghdad] and the Syrian countrysideHad drinking places mixedwith poison!42 [A land so dangerous] it seemed as if the eastern breezewere on the lookout for an ambusherWho would leap out at itfrom among the hills.43 The high forenoon [sun] passes through itincognito,For fear it will be murderedby the dust.44 In daytime, [the sun] looks like a full moonthat has endured the midday heatAnd then turned palefrom the scorching wind.45 It is a land in which the starslose their way,And whose darkness turns back the phantomfrom its visit.46 Its nights are so blackthat they leave death blind;Not until day dawns can deathsnatch its prey.47 The night hoped that in these landsit would remain forever young,But when it saw [their terrors]it turned grey before its time.48 Thus, Ê¿AlÄ« exhausted his steedsand his camels,âTil he came mounted onlyon his resolve.HijÄʾ (invective, satire) of the BanÅ« Ê¿Uqayl (ll. 49â59)
49 He crossed the landsof the squint-eyed BanÅ« Ê¿Uqayl,With every warrior who makes his livingby the sword.50 Before reaching water he encounteredevery [Ê¿UqaylÄ«], lost to virtueBut leading lewd speechby a nose rein.51 He counts slaughtering a camel nag [to feed his guest]the worst disaster,And the farthest thing from his foodis his guest.52 So greedy, no party of ridersalights in his landExcept that they departladen with blame.53 When fireflies sparklein the dark,He tries to catch them to kindlehis fire.54 When his tent ropes are pitchedin the desert waste,The lizards flee in fearof his foul [lizard-eating] ways.55 If one of his young camelsbreaks a bone,He wishes that he could sacrifice his own bonein its place.56 No melody of [oud] stringsis sweeter to his earThan the sound ofhis camel herds lowing.57 O my Lord, let no raincloudpass over an abode in which he dwells,Except one already emptiedof its rain.58 If there is rain,divert it from his land!If there is death, rain it downin torrents!59 Were it not for his contemptfor the Ê¿UqaylÄ«âs low station,Ê¿AlÄ«âs blame would have unsheatheda sword of vengeance.III (ll. 60â74): Closing madīḥ (60â68) and poetâs pronouncement (69â74)
Closing Madīḥ (60â68)
60 He is the honey that calamities,after they have opened their mouthsTo swallow it,find bitter and spit out.61 His foes fear his mightwhen heâs at peace,Like men afraid to touch an emberbefore it bursts into flame.62 Many a cutting blade is fearedthough it is sheathed;Many a deep sea the soul fearswithout falling in.63 When every land laughs in amazementat his [generosity],His wealth weepsat his injustice and oppression.64 He is wary of retaining it,lest he depart [with it unspent]âFor how much of the wealth of kings is lost [to death][when stored] beneath their seal!765 The ânobodiesâ of Iraqfound fault with him,But his greatest fault was merelythat he left them,66 [Like] youth: when a censurercan find no fault with it,He blames itfor departing.67 Baghdad, if she could,would have tangled up his paths,In the hope of forcing himto stay,68 [But] whenever the layered storm cloudstry to hold the lightning back,It penetrates and emerges flashingfrom among the piled-up clouds.Poetâs Pronouncement (ll. 69â74)
69 I owe the lords of the landa piece of adviceUpon which all who seek reward on Judgment Dayshould act.870 I direct it tothe chief of every tribe,As I deem it too important forthe common herd:71 That any man, however wealthy,is yet poorIf he has not preserved a storeof Ê¿AlÄ«âs words.72 I have established a sunnah for the lords of poetryof praise for him,Just as IbrÄhÄ«m established the Sunnahof the Ḥajj.73 For the lion praises himwith his roar,The gazelle fawnwith its bleating,74 And this, for men possessed of speech,is my sharÄ«Ê¿ah and my madhhab:Whoever disobeys me defiesthe command of his imam.
2.1 Poetry and the Obligation of Repaying Praise (ll. 1â17)
The opening praise passage (ll. 1â5) initiates the poem, not with a nasÄ«b, but with a praise section addressed to the recipient poet. Through an image of the addresseeâs âenemy,â that is, poetic rival, al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« alludes with a certain subtle indirection to the literary and psychological complexities of the ʾikhwÄniyyah response poem. It is understood that what the âenemyâ aspires to is the unattainable excellence of the addresseeâs poetry, and further, that this enemy, who despises even Orion, and finds even the full moon imperfect, must be al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«, the poet-speaker, himself. The term âenemyâ (Ê¿aduww) is a bit jarring in this context, but points to the underlying competitiveness, rivalry, and even jealousy involved in the ʾikhwÄniyyah form of poetic exchange. Lines 2 and 3 allude rather transparently to poets and poetry and the unmistakable disparities in their talent and quality, like the differences between eagles and doves, though both are birds, or between the tamarisk tree and panic grass, though both are plants. The commentarists (Shurūḥ, TanwÄ«r) remark explicitly that lines 2 and 3 mean that Ê¿AlÄ«âs poetry is better than al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«âs.
Line 4 speaks in somewhat abstract terms of the impossibility of repaying the obligation of thanks (ḥaqq al-shukr) to the addressee. Although we as readers may be tempted to take this expression of moral obligation as figurative, we should keep in mind the extent to which the classical Arabic qaṣīdah was embedded in a network of social interactions and mutual obligations, and the degree to which the moral and social imperatives of ritual exchange were determinative in the production of poetry. That is, al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«âs dignity and status as a poet and moral entity are at stake in his repayment of this poetic debt. To underpay is to lose rank and authority; to pay back âwith interestâ is to establish superior rank, status, and authorityâboth poetical and moral. It is noteworthyâand certainly would have been noted by the Arab reader, as indeed al-KhwÄrazmÄ« hasâthat al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« alludes to his more serious poetic rival, that is, al-MutanabbÄ«, by taking the ending of one of his lines:
â® ÙÙ٠تÙÙرÙض٠باÙدÙÙÙÙÙا ÙÙضÙاء٠ذÙ٠ا٠٠â9â¬â¬ââ® Ùإذا سÙÙØ£ÙÙÙÙت٠بÙÙÙÙاÙÙÙÙ٠عÙÙ ÙÙÙÙÙÙÙÙÙ â¬â
When you ask his fingers for his giftThey are not content with the whole world to fulfill what is your due.
The not-so-subliminal effect of this is to say, âI couldnât do justice to repaying your poetry, even if I were al-MutanabbÄ« himself!â This effect is further enforced in line 5, for which al-KhwÄrazmÄ« again provides a Mutanabbian model:
â® Ùا تÙÙÙÙزÙÙ ÙÙÙÙÙÙ ÙÙ٠اÙØ«ÙÙÙÙاء٠اÙÙÙاجÙبÙا â10â¬â¬ââ® Ø®ÙÙØ°Ù Ù ÙÙÙ Ø«ÙÙÙÙاÙ٠عÙÙÙÙÙ Ù Ùا Ø£ÙسÙØ·ÙÙعÙÙÙÙ â¬â
Take what I can achieve in my praise for you,Do not require of me the praise thatâs due you.
These two Mutanabbian antecedents reveal not only his well-attested poetic influence on al-Maʿarrī, but also the role of these masterfully encoded values in constructing the Arabic qaṣīdah.
Al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« adds, however, a novel twist to both of al-MutanabbÄ«âs lines. In the first, al-MutanabbÄ« is describing the generosity of the mamdūḥ who feels bound to lavishly fulfill any request made of him; in al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«âs appropriation of the rhyme phrase, he is speaking of his ownâthe poetâsâinability to fulfill his debt of thanks to the patronâs generosity. Similarly, while in the second case his illustrious predecessor is merely stating that his poetic praise can never repay the patronâs (material) generosity, in al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«âs case both gift and countergift are poetry. Through these rhetorical sleights of hand with the lines of the acknowledged master poet, al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« invites the reader to measure his poetry against al-MutanabbÄ«âs, thereby claiming for himself mastery over and authority in the Arabic poetic tradition and the authenticity of his original poetic voice.
In line 5, then, it is made explicit that this obligation is one of repaying poetic praise (madīḥ) with speech (maná¹iq), as the poet proffers the conceit of begging to be relieved of an obligation that is beyond his poetic capacity to fulfill. Al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«âs conceit of modesty here, as in SZ 14 to AbÅ« IbrÄhÄ«m, lines 44â53 (Chapter 1), is essentially a rhetorical feint that serves as a springboard to launch us into the remainder of his seventy-four-line master poem.
Through exaggerations and inversions of conventional praise motifs, lines 6â9 describe the âheightsâ of the mamdūḥâs nobility as so lofty that lions of the plains would like to take the place of the capering kids of the mountain goats that are protected there; that musk claims it as the source of its redolence; that if any place could ward off death, this would be it. These elaborate variations on the requisite motifs of Arabic madīḥ serve not merely to magnify the mamdūḥ but to exhibit or perform the poetâs panegyric prowessâwhich in the course of our argument we could refer to as claiming poetic authority. The poet demonstrates his mastery of poetic traditions and conventions and at the same time his ability to create what is new and original, which we have termed his âauthenticityâ. This figurative âpeak of nobilityâ that offers refuge, protection, and sweetness (ll. 6â9) finds its negative counterpart in the description of the (literalâto a degree) inhospitable badlands that Ê¿AlÄ« must cross in the raḥīl passage (below, ll. 29â48).
The praise passage from lines 10â17 is devoted to the most celebrated moral and poetic virtue of Arab (and Arab-Islamic) culture and Arabic praise poetry, that is, generosity. Here, too the poetâs expressive powers in bringing to life through originality and innovation the conventional but requisite motifs of generosity with the rhetorical mastery of the High Ê¿AbbÄsid period are on display. The ultimate measure of the mamdūḥâs generosity is the striking eloquence of the poetâs words. The passage opens (l. 10) with the established metaphor of rain for generosity, with all that that entails of life-giving beneficence and fertility. The mamdūḥâs two hands release a downpour of rain over the supplicant, in an archetypal image that evokes a rain-god and his worshipper. Line 11 turns to AllÄh as the creator of Ê¿AlÄ«âs magnanimity through an inverted simile (Ê¿aks al-tashbÄ«h) in which Ê¿AlÄ«âs figurative rainclouds are even more to be desired than literal ones. His easy open-handedness is conveyed in lines 12â13 in which he is likened to a personified raincloud lowering itself to the thirsty drinkers, to pearls floating on the surface of the sea to be effortlessly plucked up, and finally, turning to an image derived from the rituals of the Ḥajj, to the KaÊ¿bah approaching the pilgrims for them to kiss or touch the Black Stone.
This final and rather unusual image reminds us of al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«âs poetic play on the Ḥajj at the end of SZ 14, line 59 (above, Chapter 1), but further implies an analogy between the political-poetic homage due a patron and the physical ritual acts of homage of kissing and touching the Black Stone of the KaÊ¿bah. The idea is then that in a tradition of ritual exchange that begins with the supplicantâs self-abasement before the patron,11 Ê¿AlÄ«âs unbidden generosity is as extraordinary as the KaÊ¿bah bringing the Black Stone to the pilgrims would be. As al-TibrÄ«zÄ« notes at line 14, the point al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« is making with this colorful array of images is that Ê¿AlÄ« gives generously and unbidden, that he does not force his supplicant to beg or grovel, but rather anticipates his supplicantâs needs and fulfills them beyond his hopes and expectations.
Lines 15â17 serve to reinforce and conclude the major panegyric theme. Ê¿AlÄ« no sooner acquires wealth than he gives it away; his largesse disperses his wealth before death can plunder it from him. Two concluding lines compare the mamdūḥâs wealth to that of DhÅ« al-Qarnayn (al-Iskandar, Alexander the Great), at the latterâs expense. The reference here is to the Islamic legend, according to which al-Iskandar DhÅ« al-Qarnayn âwas given power on earth, and made his way to the furthest west and furthest east; and in response to an appeal from oppressed people built a wall or rampart of iron and brass against the incursions of YÄdjÅ«dj and MÄdjÅ«dj [Gog and Magog].â12 Had he been as wealthy as Ê¿AlÄ«, the poet tells us, he would have made his wall of gold rather than iron and brass. The passage closes by withdrawing to an objective distance by means of aphorism (ḥikmah): Putting up stores is for ants, not for lions!
The motifs of praise in this madīḥ section will find their counterpart in blame in the hijÄʾ (invective) of the BanÅ« Ê¿Uqayl (below, ll. 49â59).
In these opening lines, then, the poet positions himself vis-à -vis the addressee as one indebted to him for a gift of praise that must be repaid. Al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«âs lines of praise for Ê¿AlÄ«âhere and belowâconstitute the repayment of that debt.
2.2 A Qaṣīdah within a Qaṣīdah (ll. 18â59)
A careful reading of this main central part of the poem reveals the extent to which al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« is able to retool and redirect classical qaṣīdah conventions, including diction, motifs, themes, and structure, to serve his performative goals, that is, the personal and political obligations that his poem is intended to fulfill. Here we can identify the subsections with the nasÄ«b (ll. 18â28), the transitional raḥīl (ll. 19â48), and a concluding invective (hijÄʾ) (ll. 49â59) theme. Our concern will be to explore how al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« manipulates these conventional elements to achieve his own particular endsâpoetic, personal, and political. In the framework of our larger argument, this creative manipulation of traditional elements establishes at once the poetâs authority and authenticity.
The first passage of this part, lines 18â28, consists, like Section I, above, largely of praise for and vindication of the addressee or patron. However, the encomia are framed by lines 18â19 and 27â28, which situate the intervening praise in the context of Ê¿AlÄ«âs departure from Baghdad. As the poet-patron bond is understood as one of deep mutual affection, moral obligation, and political allegiance, the breaking of that bond is an act of betrayal that is both morally and politically reprehensible. The use of the fickle and treacherous mistress as a metaphor for the failed relationship between the poet and his former tribe or patron is well established in the Arabic poetic tradition. Normally, as in the celebrated cases of KaÊ¿b ibn Zuhayrâs poem of apology to the Prophet Muḥammad and conversion to Islam or al-MutanabbÄ«âs fleeing the court of Sayf al-Dawlah in Aleppo to that of the wealthier and more powerful KÄfÅ«r al-IskhshÄ«dÄ« in al-Fusá¹Äá¹, the poet, in the coded language of the nasÄ«b, accuses his beloved of treachery, stinginess, and fickleness, and styles himself the innocent victim.13 It seems that in Ê¿AlÄ« ibn JalabÄtâs case, however, al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« has a much more delicate political-poetic task to perform. The framing lines 18â19 and 27â28 hint at no ill-will or broken bonds between Ê¿AlÄ« and his Baghdadi patrons, but rather that âwere it not for SaÊ¿Ä«dâ (l. 27) Ê¿AlÄ« would still enjoy the good graces of the BÅ«yid court.
What we can glean of the historical situation sheds some light, though not conclusive, on the situation. Al-KhwÄrazmÄ« informs us that the BÅ«yid emir Ê¿Aá¸ud al-Dawlah (d. 372/983), the most illustrious ruler of the BÅ«yid dynasty,14 had appointed the mamdūḥ (Ê¿AlÄ«) governor over Baghdad and âthrew him the keysâ (wa-ʾalqÄ Ê¾ilayhi maqÄlÄ«dahÄ), that is, entrusted the running of the city to him (KhwÄr., l. 28; see also Baá¹al., l. 29). In the commentaries, apparently derived from the commentaristsâ reading of the poem, it appears rather that Ê¿AlÄ« was compelled by SÄÊ¿Ä«d, an enemy of some sort who had stirred up trouble for him, to leave Baghdad and come to him in Aleppo (Shurūḥ, TanwÄ«r, ll. 27, 28). Al-KhwÄrazmÄ« (l. 29) puts it succinctly: âSaÊ¿Ä«d was not in Baghdad, so he summoned the mamdūḥ [Ê¿AlÄ«] to him. When he reached him, he dismissed him from his post.â15 The commentators all refer to SaÊ¿Ä«d16 as responsible for his dismissal from Baghdad and journey to Aleppo. Al-ThaÊ¿ÄlibÄ« (d. 429/1038), in YatÄ«mat al-Dahr, provides a brief notice on AbÅ« al-QÄsim Ê¿AlÄ« ibn JalabÄt with selections from qaṣīdahs he composed at the Ê¿AbbÄsid court in Baghdad for the caliph al-QÄdir bi-AllÄh (r. 381â422/991â1031) and the BÅ«yid vizier AbÅ« al-Naá¹£r SÄbÅ«r ibn ArdashÄ«r17âthat is, at least a decade after the death of Ê¿Aá¸ud al-Dawlah and about the same time that the Ê¿Uqaylid Bedouin dynasty (in Iraq and al-JazÄ«rah, 380â564/990â1169), at which al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« directs the hijÄʾ (invective) section of SZ 15 (ll. 49â59), controlled Mosul and were shifting alliances from the ḤamdÄnids to the BÅ«yids, flexing their muscle.18 This information points to the composition of both SZ 15 and another poem said to be addressed to Ê¿AlÄ« ibn JalabÄt, SZ 34,19 in the 380s or 390s/990sâ1000s.20
Returning to the poem, the diction in and of itself identifies lines 18â19 as unmistakably nasÄ«bic: departure (fÄraqta), yearning (mutalahhif), morning of separation (ghadÄt al-bayn) (l. 18); breeze, zephyr (nasÄ«m) that bears the fragrance and memory of the lost beloved, passion (wajd), love-torment (gharÄm) (l. 19). These are words, images, and emotions that the Arab reader and listener have seen and heard innumerable times expressing the sorrowful separation of lovers and their tribes. Only here these words redolent of erotic love and separation are assigned to the heart of (Baghdadâs) ruler, distraught at Ê¿AlÄ«âs departure. It is thus with exquisite lyrical delicacy (and diplomacy) that al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« introduces the politically fraught subject of Ê¿AlÄ«âs departure from Baghdad. The great subtlety here is, as we know through our familiarity with poetic tradition, that the analogy of the poetâs departure from his beloved and from his patron usually means that just as she withheld her (sexual) favors (bukhl, stinginess) or has bestowed them on a rival (khiyÄnah, betrayal, treachery), the patron has withheld his (material, political) rewards or bestowed them on a rival. In terms of the poet-patron relationship, this means the poet feels maltreated, i.e., underappreciated and underpaidâthat is, that his poetry has not been properly or adequately rewarded. Al-Baá¹alyawsÄ« (l. 19) explains this best, remarking: âhe means that because of his lofty aspirations he cannot remain in the country [Baghdad]â and then provides examples from al-MutanabbÄ«, who was notorious for feeling underappreciated by patrons of limited means or generosity and moving on to a more promising Maecenas. However, here, it is hard to detect any blame, only the impassioned sorrow of the âkingâ or ârulerâ (humÄm, l. 18) at Ê¿Aliâs departure, that is, regret. The blame for Ê¿AlÄ«âs departure is reserved for âSaÊ¿Ä«dâ of line 27.
And lest there be any blame assigned to Ê¿AlÄ«, al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« launches into another passage of praise (madīḥ) for him (ll. 20â26). The imagery is derived from physical and martial prowess, although the intent is ultimately metaphoricalâthat is, to praise his character more than actual martial activities. Ê¿AlÄ« is likened to the winning steed with which others cannot compete, a huge lion/warrior, surrounded by his tribe (ll. 20â21). The military might of his tribesmen, the BanÅ« JalabÄt, likewise is described in terms that are metaphors for generosity rather than battle (l. 22). His superiorityâwhether moral or martialâis described in a series of comparisons, all of them taking the form of aphorisms: the light of the sun as compared to the stars; the effectiveness of the sword versus arrows on the battlefield; a purebred Arab steed as opposed to an ill-bred nag; and, finally, a keen blade as opposed to a dull one (ll. 22â26). The purpose of this praise and the string of irrefutable comparisons of strength, courage, breeding, and virtue presented in these lines is to confirm Ê¿AlÄ«âs unequaled qualifications for the position he had held in Baghdad.
With one curt phrase, âWere it not for SaÊ¿Ä«dâ (wa-law-lÄ saÊ¿Ä«dun), lines 27â28 explain and assign blame for Ê¿AlÄ«âs fall from grace. As with the opening two lines of this passage (ll. 18â19), al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« adopts the eminently lyrical and nostalgic tone of the nasÄ«b, the archetypal poetic locus of irrevocable loss, to present what âmight have beenâ, indeed, âshould have beenâ, were it not for SaÊ¿Ä«dâs hostility and interference. To create the atmosphere of an idyllic lost past, al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« draws on the old Arab lore of JadhÄ«mah al-Abrash, an Arab king so august that he would take no boon companions but al-FarqadÄn (the Dioscuri), and every time he took a cup of wine for himself he would pour out a cup on the ground for each of them (Baá¹al., l. 27). By framing this image in the nostalgic mists of Arab lore, al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« elevates Ê¿AlÄ«âs status to the near-legendary, thereby adding to the pathos of his loss.
With line 28 al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« contracts time from the legendary to the near past to introduce in an equally lyrical nostalgic tone the most illustrious of the BÅ«yid emirs, Ê¿Aá¸ud al-Dawlah, who had originally appointed Ê¿AlÄ«. Had Ê¿AlÄ« remained at his post in Baghdad, the poet claims, he would have perpetuated through his good governance the already idealized rule of Ê¿Aá¸ud al-Dawlah. Al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«âs already nostalgic reference to the flourishing of Baghdad under Ê¿Aá¸ud al-Dawlahâand his appointeesâas compared with that of his successors is thus in full agreement with the assessment of historians.21
What is of particular poetic interest to us in this passage (ll. 18â28) is al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«âs framing of his vindication of Ê¿AlÄ« in lines 18â19 and 27â28 in the motifs, diction, and above all the lyric-nostalgic mood of nasÄ«bic loss. The plaintive âif onlyâ tone and mood of irrevocable loss of these framing lines serve to identify this passage as a nasÄ«b, which then performs its traditional function of preparing for the coming desert journey (raḥīl).
The following passage (ll. 29â48) presents Ê¿AlÄ«âs journey from Baghdad to Aleppo. The conventional raḥīl is the central transitional part of the qaṣīdah and consists of the difficult desert crossing of the aspiring poet, filled with hope and fear, to the court of a new and promising patron. By contrast, here in SZ 15, the journey is undertaken by the mamdūḥ of the poem, Ê¿AlÄ« ibn JalabÄt. Furthermore, the journey to provincial Aleppo is not one of aspiration, but one undertaken under duress, and one that resulted, as the recipient and contemporary audience already knew, not in the jubilation of arrival at the court of a new and promising patron but in just the opposite, the humiliation of his dismissal from his post in Baghdad. It is noteworthy that after naming SaÊ¿Ä«d as Ê¿AlÄ«âs nemesis in line 27, he is referred to only by a pronoun (âHe traveled to him by nightâ) in line 29 and otherwise never mentioned again.
We are dealing then in this qaṣīdah-within-a-qaṣīdah with several manipulations or distortions of the conventional qaṣīdah form and (to use Beatrice Gruendlerâs term) its dramatis personae.22 First, the love-afflicted persona in the ânasÄ«bâ is not the poet but the Baghdadi patron bereft by the departure of Ê¿AlÄ«, the mamdūḥ; then the traveler in the âraḥīlâ is Ê¿AlÄ«, the poemâs mamdūḥ, on a journey not of aspiration but of humiliation; and finally, the journey (after a rather standard and straightforward hijÄʾ disparaging the Bedouin Ê¿UqaylÄ« dynasty) ends not with the poet-travelerâs praise of a sought-for new patron but the poetâs praise and defense of the traveler-patron. The result is that while the structure of a tripartite nasÄ«bâraḥīlâmadḥ qaṣīdah is maintained, the roles of the poetic personae are surprisingly and effectively reassigned and the raḥīl section in particular radically redirected.
If the celestial, indeed cosmic, journey of the poet toward the Ê¿Alid SharÄ«f AbÅ« IbrÄhÄ«m that we witnessed in SZ 14 (Chapter 1) expressed both the aspiration of the poet and the exalted status of the mamdūḥ, then the starless night and perilous wastelands of this journey reveal the psychological state of the traveler/mamdūḥ Ê¿AlÄ«, his despair and desolation, on his compulsory journey from the capital, Baghdad, to the provincial Aleppo.
Nevertheless, the raḥīl in this poem performs two conventional functions: one is to perform or enact the resolve and strength of character of the traveler, and the other is to perform or display the poetic abilities of the poet. The journey is thus both a test of character and of poetic talent. The camels and horses that transport the traveler and his companions embody, in their physical sturdiness and instinctive drive, the mental and moral qualities, determination and resolve, of their riders. At the same time, however much the motifs of this desert journey are derived from classical conventionsâmost notably those of the Umayyad masters, such as al-Akhá¹al or the master of desert journey description DhÅ« al-Rummahâthere are elements that refer directly to the current state of political-military instability in the area that Ê¿AlÄ« is traversing.
Altogether in contrast to the star-studded exhilaration of SZ 14âs celestial night journey, al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« opens this raḥīl (l. 29) with an image of deathââthe morning was deadââas if Ê¿AlÄ« on his night journey to SaÊ¿Ä«d was hastening to seek the decaying bones of the morning. Whereas in SZ 14 we understood the break of day at the end of night to be a sign of hope and new life, this journeyâs opening line tells us rather bluntly that Ê¿AlÄ« is not holding out much hope for the journeyâs end. He nevertheless travels directly and resolutely toward Quwayq, the river of Aleppo. In a particularly striking expression that employs a characteristically badÄ«Ê¿-style metaphorical conflation of time and space, the Ê¿Ä«s, that is, the pale whitish-red purebred camels famed in Arabic poetry, penetrate âtimeâ (dahr) itself. What is intended, of course, is the length of the journey deep into the land as if, the poet adds with a barb, they were searching the vast wastes (of the political landscape) in the dimensions of both time and space for noble men (l. 31).
The ensuing lines 32â37 put on display al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«âs mastery of the art of describing the perseverance of the emaciated camels through the desert wastes. Line 35 introduces briefly Ê¿AlÄ«âs accompanying purebred steeds, scions of the celebrated stallion WajÄ«h. The practice since JÄhilÄ« times was for a warrior to ride his she-camel for the journey, while his battle steed was led by the side and mounted only for battle or the hunt. It is further understood that these purebred mounts are the property of a man of equally noble lineage and inbred fine character. The fauna of the desert is evoked (l. 32) to describe the worn and emaciated camels as yet swifter than ostriches. The far-fetched conceit of line 34, of the emaciated camelsâ tread so light it would not wake a sleeper if they tread on his eyelids, seems to play on a celebrated line by al-MutanabbÄ«:
â® ÙÙÙØ£ÙÙÙÙÙÙ ÙÙ٠جÙÙÙÙÙ٠اÙÙرÙÙدÙÙ ÙÙÙÙÙÙÙ ÙÙائÙÙ Ù â23â¬â¬ââ® ÙÙÙÙÙÙÙت٠ÙÙÙ Ùا ÙÙ٠اÙÙ ÙÙÙÙت٠شÙÙÙÙÙ ÙÙÙÙاÙÙÙÙÙ â¬â
You stood firm, when there was no doubt that he who stood would die,As if you were standing on the eyelid of death, while it was sleeping.
In the manner of the masterful Umayyad poets, gruesome details of hardship are included in the she-camelsâ yearning for their dead or aborted foals, only to be answered by owls (l. 33); the camels so emaciated they could fit through the eye of a needle (l. 36); and the night so dark the only light is the glistening of camel slaver (l. 37).
Much of the remaining journey description focuses on the dangers posed by the hostile Bedouin tribes that at this period still periodically defied the central control of the BÅ«yids at Baghdad or the ḤamdÄnids at Aleppo, as is indeed indicated in line 41 by the poisoned waterholes in the untamed territories between al-Karkh (in the western part of Baghdad) and al-ShÄm (Syria). Lines 38â42 present the dangers of ambushes or poisoned waterholes, to the extent that the travelers and their mounts go thirsty rather than risk stopping at them (Tibr., Baá¹al., TanwÄ«r, l. 42). The location is specified as al-Ê¿AwÄá¹£im, which al-TibrÄ«zÄ« identifies as a group of fortresses near Aleppo in the direction of ḤamÄh, so called because people sought refuge (iÊ¿taá¹£ama) there.24 Al-Baá¹alyawsÄ« notes that the blue spear tips (l. 38) refer to an uprising (fitnah) that took place in Syria at this time. In the personification of the East Wind (al-á¹¢abÄ), its lightness or fickleness is explained as its wariness of ambushers (l. 42).
Lines 43â47 focus on the difficult desert terrain, expressed most effectively through a series of badÄ«Ê¿-inspired metaphors in the form of personifications. At high noon it is so dusty that the âsun passes through it incognito,â i.e., the sun is so pale from the heat as to be unrecognizable until it seems to be disguised as the full moon (44â45). The desert night is so black that the stars cannot find their way, and even the phantom of the beloved (á¹ayf al-khayÄl) which in the Arabic poetic tradition visits the poet-lover at night, is turned back from its path. Most effectively, in line 46 the poet specifies the nights as ḥanÄdis (sg. ḥindis; intensely dark night; the three darkest nights of the lunar month. Tibr., Lane), so black that even death is blinded and does not venture out to snatch its preyâapparently the only reason one can survive this journeyâbut waits until dawn. Thus, in addition to the professional-political setbacks that have beset the mamdūḥ and set the emotional or psychological tone of the journey, the perils of this harrowing journey take many quite tangible forms, from the meteorological (dark starless nights, days of oppressive heat, wind, dust) and the geographical (vast, waterless wastes) to the lethal hostilities of warlike tribes.
Lines 47â48 conclude the journey section with the end of the night and the total exhaustion of the steeds and camels. In an AbÅ« TammÄmian turn of phrase, al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« personifies the night as hoping that it would forever be a black-haired youth, that is, never end, but then suddenly turning prematurely grey, i.e., dawn comes unexpectedly (l. 47). The closing line of this passage reveals the ultimately and essentially psychological nature of the journey: in the end, Ê¿AlÄ« has exhausted both his steeds and camels, and it is nothing but his unshakeable resolve that carries him through (l. 48).
With line 49 we enter a passage of invective or satire (hijÄʾ), a theme recognized in Arabic literary theory as one of the âgoalsâ (ʾaghrÄá¸, sg. gharaá¸; thematic sections, such as nasÄ«b, raḥīl, etc.) that, like madīḥ (praise), fakhr (boast), and rithÄʾ (elegy), can constitute the final culminating part of the qaṣīdah. In our reading of the present poem, it serves as the culmination of the âqaṣīdah within a qaṣīdahâ of lines 18â59. Within the political frame of the period and of this poem, the object of this invective is the BanÅ« Ê¿Uqayl, the Bedouin tribe that migrated from the Arabian Peninsula and established a local dynasty in al-JazÄ«rah, controlling Mosul, and hence the hinterlands that Ê¿AlÄ« had to traverse in his journey from BÅ«yid Baghdad to ḤamdÄnid Aleppo. In its mention of Ê¿AlÄ«âs warrior company, line 49 suggests the danger of this encounter. The description of the BanÅ« Ê¿Uqayl as khuzr (sg. ʾakhzar) has both a physical and a moral component, as it means both âsquinty-eyedâ and âshifty-eyedâ, which become identical in a traditional society in which both physical and moral traits are equally considered hereditary.
Like so many components of this poem, the invective passage performs multiple tasks. It completes the hardships of the raḥīl, not as the goal of the journey but as one last difficulty that the traveling mamdūḥ must confront. For al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«, it provides an opportunity to express his moral and political disapproval of this Bedouin arriviste dynasty, as opposed to his, and Ê¿AlÄ«âs, presumed loyalty and allegiance to the somewhat more established, and definitely more cosmopolitan and refined, ḤamdÄnids at Aleppo and BÅ«yids at Baghdad. Even more importantly, in my estimation, is that he provides himself an opportunity to showcase his mastery of the theme of hijÄʾ, even as he earlier showcased his poetic talents in the themes (ʾaghrÄá¸) of nasÄ«b, madīḥ, and raḥīl.
In accordance with the dictum cited by the poet and literary critic Ibn RashÄ«q (d. 456 or 463/1065 or 1071) in al-Ê¿Umdah, âPoetry consists of three types of expression, and not everyone is good at all of them: When you praise (madaḥta), you say âyou areâ; when you satirize (hajawta), you say âyou arenâtâ; and when you elegize (rathayta), you say âyou wereâ,â25 we find that the motifs of hijÄʾ are essentially the opposite or negation of those of praise or boast. Thus, just as al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« focused his praise largely on the preeminent Arab virtue of generosity (karam, jÅ«d), we find him in this passage of invective focusing on the most condemned of vices among the Arabs, avarice (bukhl). The invective is further imbued with all the traditional Ê¿AbbÄsid (some specifically ShuÊ¿Å«biyyah-derived)26 prejudices of the urban and urbane cosmopolitan elitesâwhether of the imperial capital of Baghdad or the provincial one of Aleppoâagainst the desert-dwelling Bedouin: the well-worn anti-Bedouin âslurâ that they do not properly follow Islam, that they eat lizards, and care only for their herds, primarily camels. Thus, al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« begins (l. 50) with a general condemnation of the BanÅ« Ê¿Uqayl for âdepravity,â âmisguidanceâ or âobscenityâ (al-khanÄ), which they guide as they would guide a camel by its nose rein, as opposed to rushd ([Islamic] right guidance). He then launches into a diatribe on their stinginess. Lines 51â53 offer inversions of traditional praise: whereas the generous man slaughters his best pregnant she-camel or milch camel for his guest, the BanÅ« Ê¿Uqayl will not even part with an aged camel nag (l. 51). Whereas the well-tended guest of the magnanimous departs laden with generous gifts as well as praise for his host, the unfortunate guest of the BanÅ« Ê¿Uqayl departs with empty saddlebags and nothing but blame for his ill-treatment at the hands of the niggardly Bedouin (l. 52).
The Arabic madīḥ motif of the noble man who lights a fire on a hilltop at night to alert night travelers and offers them hospitality (see below, Chapter 3, SZ 60, ll. 51â64) is the subject of hijÄʾ inversion in line 53. Here the stingy Bedouin takes the faint twinkle of the fireflyâs light as his model for a fire. The line involves some wordplay on ḥubÄḥib, a common noun that denotes the firefly and the sparks that fly from horsesâ hooves. In popular lore, it is the proper name of one al-ḤubÄḥib who, according to the literary scholar and commentarist Ibn al-AnbÄrÄ«, was âa man who used to refrain from lighting a fire lest it be seen and travelers seek hospitality from him and, if he did light a fire and it was seen, then he would extinguish itâ (Baá¹al., Shurūḥ, TanwÄ«r).
The conventional ShuÊ¿Å«bÄ« disparagement of the uncouthness of the Bedouin Arabs as opposed to the refinement of the urban elites finds expression in culinary and musical tastes: line 54 repeats the widespread ridicule of the Bedouin for eating lizards; while their obsessive devotion to their camel-herds is the subject of lines 55â56: he would rather have his own bone broken that that of one of his camels; his herdâs lowing is more beautiful to him than the plucking of oud-strings.
Just as the qaṣīdat al-madḥ, as we saw in SZ 14 (Chapter 1), traditionally ends with a benediction of the mamdūḥ, we find that, fittingly, its opposite, the hijÄʾ, is brought to a close with two lines of malediction (ll. 57â58). It is further fitting that this curse of the stingy camel-herding Bedouin takes the form of calling (on AllÄh) to withhold His bountiful rains: to send only empty clouds their way, to divert rain from their lands, and rain down upon them only violent death.
Al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« closes this passage with the claim that were it not for Ê¿AlÄ«âs contempt for the BanÅ« Ê¿Uqayl, he would have avenged himself on them with his own poem of hijÄʾ (l. 59). The âverbalâ vengeance, that Ê¿AlÄ«âs âblameâ (dhamm) would have drawn the sword of its vengeance upon the Ê¿UqaylÄ«, is in the Arab cultural context a powerful metaphor. It expresses the basic moral principle of the Arab warrior aristocracy that a noble man does not deign to attack, or seek vengeance from, someone who is beneath him in rank or dignity. The understanding here is that masterful invective is lethal to the dignity of its targeted victim, but that Ê¿AlÄ« would not condescend to attack an inferior. There may be a bit of irony in al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«âs willingness to undertake this invective obligation for the sake of his friend who himself disdained to do so. On the other hand, it could reflect upon the higher social rank of the older poet and (one-time) BÅ«yid official vis-à -vis the younger provincial poet. In any case, the line has the effect of adding to al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«âs praise of Ê¿AlÄ«âs (panegyric) poetry in the opening lines of the poem (1â5) a special tribute to his powers of invective. And, as in those earlier lines, it is ultimately al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«âs poetic talents that are on display.
Line 59 performs the function of ḥusn al-takhalluá¹£ (elegant transition), as it completes the closing structural component, the culminating hijÄʾ, of the âqaṣīdah within a qaṣīdahâ even as it modulates the subject back to praise of the mamdūḥ. At the same time, the hijÄʾ passage as a wholeâin its exposition of moral depravity and vicious characterâserves as a foil to the ensuing madīḥ passage, which celebrates exemplary Arab-Islamic virtues as embodied in the person of Ê¿AlÄ« ibn JalabÄt.
2.3 Praise, Vindication, and Vatic Pronouncement (ll. 60â74)
The concluding part of the poem falls under the general category of the gharaḠof madīḥ, one of the classical thematic structural units of the classical Arabic qaṣīdah. Here it consists of two parts. Lines 60â68 offer first praise of Ê¿AlÄ«, then vindication. The construction of line 60 is a bit convoluted, but the gist of it is clear. Like the traditional warrior-hero, Ê¿AlÄ« has two necessary and complementary components to his personality: his kindness and generosity to his own people, allies, and all those under his protection (asylees, refugees), and his severity and fierceness toward hisâand theirâenemies. âCalamitiesâ (áºurÅ«f), Ê¿AlÄ«âs enemies, try to swallow the sweet honey that is Ê¿AlÄ« when he is among his friends, only to find him bitter. Al-Baá¹alyawsÄ« (l. 60) notes by way of explication the celebrated lineâno doubt familiar to most readersâof the pre-Islamic á¹¢uÊ¿lÅ«k (Brigand) poet Taʾabbaá¹a Sharran describing the fierce leader of his band of outlaws:
â® ÙÙÙÙا اÙØ·ÙÙعÙÙ ÙÙÙÙÙÙ ÙÙÙد٠ذاÙÙ ÙÙÙÙÙÙ â¬ââ® ÙÙÙÙÙÙ Ø·ÙعÙÙ ÙاÙ٠أÙرÙÙÙ ÙÙØ´ÙÙرÙÙÙ â¬â
He has two tastes: honey and colocynthAnd each of these two all men have tasted.
The intended meaning, as al-Baá¹alyawsÄ« notes, is simply that his friends and kinsmen find him sweet whereas his enemies find him bitter.
The following two lines (61â62) build on line 60 now with a distinct Mutanabbian ring, as in his well-known:
â® ÙÙÙزÙÙÙÙÙÙÙ Ù ÙعÙÙرÙÙضÙا٠Ùراع٠٠ÙسÙÙدÙÙدÙا â27â¬â¬ââ® ÙÙÙ Ùا Ø£ÙÙÙا Ø¥ÙÙÙا سÙÙ ÙÙÙÙرÙÙÙÙ ØÙÙ ÙÙÙتÙÙÙÙ â¬â
I am nothing but a Samharī spear you bore:An adornment when displayed; terrible when aimed.
Here, however, al-MutanabbÄ«âs brash boast to Sayf al-Dawlah is now rendered in the third person in the form of ḥikam (sg. ḥikmah, aphorism). Al-MutanabbÄ«âs line refers to his two-fold poetic prowess: he both adorns his patronâs court with his madīḥ and defeats his enemies through his hijÄʾ. This suggests that in line 60 al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« too is referring as much to Ê¿AlÄ«âs poetic as to his martial or physical capabilitiesâÊ¿AlÄ« is so masterful a poet that his madīḥ to his friends tastes as sweet as honey, but his hijÄʾ of his foes is too bitter to swallow. Men are cautious or fearful of his invective abilities, even as they are of a red-hot ember, a sheathed blade, or a deep sea (ll. 61â62). However, more than trying to decide whether al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«âs intent is poetic or physical, verbal or martial, we should keep in mind that verbal power in this context is real power and that the authority and political might it confers are likewise real.
Lines 63â64 take up once more the preeminent virtue of generosity. While people delight in Ê¿AlÄ«âs generosity, his herds weep in fear of being slaughtered for his guest and, harking back to line 15, he prefers spending his wealth in his lifetime to losing it to death. As al-TibrÄ«zÄ« (l. 64) explains: âHis money, when he spends it and does not keep it sealed away, benefits him, because it wins him a virtuous reputation and praise; whereas the wealth of someone else, when he does not spend it on things that will gain him good repute, but keeps it sealed away, is lost to him, because he has benefited nothing from it.â In brief, âyou canât take it with youâ, so you should spend it on your immortal reputation.
The vexed topic of Baghdad reappears in lines 65â68, where al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« once more attempts to vindicate his fellow poet. He identifies those in Baghdad who found fault with Ê¿AlÄ« as âthe rabble of Iraqâ (ʾafnÄʾ al-Ê¿irÄq), who after finding fault with him while he was in Baghdad, altogether hypocritically blamed him for leaving once he departed (l. 65). The following simile offers the greatest praise and vindication through a delicate and lyrical nasÄ«bic image: Ê¿AlÄ« is like youthâthe only thing it can be faulted for is for departing (l. 66). Al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« declares that, if possible, Baghdad would have forced him to stay (l. 67), a sentiment that resonates with the nasÄ«bic sorrow of the king (humÄm) at Ê¿AlÄ«âs departure, so lyrically evoked in lines 18â19. This passage culminates, however, with a dramatic and powerful image that casts Ê¿AlÄ« as resolute, decisive, and fully in control: Baghdad cannot hold him back, for once he has decided to depart, he is as irrepressible as a lightning bolt bursting through the storm clouds. With this dramatic natural image of the irrepressible and unrestrained might and magnificence of the lightning bolt, eminently evocative of a storm-god, with all that implies of (phallic) potency and fertility, al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« achieves the vindication and restoration of his wronged mamdūḥ.
The third part, and with it the poem, closes with a very unusual and powerful passage of the poetâs advice, not to Ê¿AlÄ« but to the poetâs presumed audience of notables (ll. 69â74). The poet speaks forcefully and authoritatively by addressing his audience in the first person: âI owe advice,â âI direct it,â âI deem it,â âI have established a sunnah.â What is of special note is how the poet assumes increasing authority as the passage takes on an increasingly vatic tone. It opens with great self-assurance as he addresses and proffers advice to the âlords of the landâ (ʾamlÄk al-bilÄd). He does not merely presume to give advice to his social and political betters, but invests himself with moral and then religious authority. This he does first through the use of Ê¿alayya (I owe, I must, I am obligated) and then the collocation of ḥisbah (reckoning), which al-KhwÄrazmÄ« takes to mean iḥtasaba al-ʾajra (to reckon oneâs reward [from God] in the afterlife), with qiyÄmahu, here âhis resurrectionâ as the context dictates (yawm al-ḥisÄb = Day of Reckoning; yawm al-qiyÄmah = Resurrection Day). The connection between following the poetâs advice and obtaining a reward on Judgment Day is reinforced by the jinÄs on the verb qÄma/yaqÅ«mu (to rise, stand, be resurrected, etc.): yaqÅ«mu bi- means âundertake, carry outâ; qiyÄm(ah) means âarising, resurrectionâ. A prophetic authority is thus insinuated in the poetâs claim. He further asserts authority by insisting (l. 70) that this is addressed to the leaders and notables (min kulli ḥayyin Ê¿amÄ«dahu) not the ignorant masses. He then presents his advice: that the only true wealth is a store of Ê¿AlÄ«âs words, that is, his poetry (l. 71).
The three concluding lines (72â74) take on an enhanced vatic tone as the poet arrogates to himself the power and authority to establish poetic precedent and tradition just as prophets have established religious precedent and tradition. He employs the Arabic but also Islamic term sunnah (well-worn path to water, tradition, but also the Sunnah or Tradition of the Prophet Muḥammad). He declares that he has ordained a sunnah of madīḥ for Ê¿AlÄ« ibn JalabÄt for the âlords of poetryâ to follow, just as Abraham in his (re)building of the KaÊ¿bah ordained the sunnah of the Ḥajj to the believers (sanantu li-ʾarbÄbi al-qarÄ«á¸i imtidÄḥahu / kamÄ sanna ʾIbrÄhÄ«mu ḥajja maqÄmihÄ«).28
It is of note that however daring this expression is, al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« nevertheless stops short of comparing himself (directly) to the Prophet Muḥammad and his poetry to the QurʾÄn. However, to the Muslim reader, the concordance between Prophets (and their miracles) is well established: IbrÄhÄ«m and the Ḥajj; MÅ«sÄ and his rod-turned-serpent; Muḥammad and the QurʾÄn. Al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« thus elevates his own praise poetry, his madīḥ of Ê¿AlÄ« ibn JalabÄt, to the level of an original precedent that all subsequent (would-be) master poets should follow. He seems to hold it self-evident that his epigones will never match his poetic quality and originality.
With line 73 the praise(-poetry) of Ê¿AlÄ« is depicted as the natural expression and purpose of all creaturesâfrom the lionâs roar to the gazelle fawnâs bleatingâas it is likewise then the purpose and goal of human speech. This certainly strikes even the modern-day reader as precariously close to the religious precept that God has created His creation for the purpose of praising Him.
The Islamic religious terms and the authority they embody culminate in the closing line of the poem, where we find imÄm, in the sense of religious leader or authority; sharÊ¿, a term for the SharÄ«Ê¿ah (Islamic law), and madhhab, the term for an Islamic school of jurisprudence (fiqh). The poet pronounces himself an imÄm to whom men are required to render obedience. Further, in his final pronouncement âthis ⦠is my sharÄ«Ê¿ah and my madhhabâ (wa-hÄdhÄ â¦ sharÊ¿Ä« wa-madhhabÄ«), the demonstrative pronoun refers more immediately to his order to praise Ê¿AlÄ«, but, coming as it does at the very end of the poem, refers as well to the entire qaṣīdah. Thus, through the striking metaphorical identification of poet and prophet and the evocative employ of Islamic concepts of law and tradition, the poet compels recognition and obedience and establishes the authenticity and authority of his own poetic voice.
The essential question about this closing passage is: on what grounds does al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« assume such authority? The answer, since he was at this time a young provincial poet with no great wealth or political power, let alone religious position, is that he commands this authority purely on the basis of the powerâthat is, the beautyâof his poetry itself. At this point all the parts of the poem come together as a performance of al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«âs powers of poetic expression and command of the structure, themes, motifs, diction, and rhetoric of the classical Arabic poetic tradition. In particular, we can now understand that the role of the second part, the âqaṣīdah within a qaṣīdahâ, is not merely the restoration of Ê¿AlÄ«âs rank and status but the demonstration of al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«âs poetic rank and status, as he adds to his mastery of the madīḥ motifs from the first grouping the other qaṣīdah themes of nasÄ«b, raḥīl, and hijÄʾ.
In this light, the insinuations of prophetic power and veracity in these closing lines tell us much about al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«âs estimation of himself and of his mastery of the poetic word. For in the contemporary formulations of the Islamic doctrine of iÊ¿jÄz al-QurʾÄn (the miraculous inimitability of the QurʾÄn), the unmatchable rhetorical power or beauty (balÄghah, rhetoric) of the sacred text was taken to be proof of its divine composition and therefore of Muḥammadâs prophethood.29 Just as the miraculous beauty of the QurʾÄn proves the divine origin and therefore authority of the sacred text, the striking beauty of al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«âs poem, he trusts, will confer authority upon him and confirm the veracity of his words.
What is of further concern in the context of the present argument is that al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« uses this vatic performance to fulfill the moral and poetic obligations that this ʾikhwÄniyyah-madīḥ to Ê¿AlÄ« ibn JalabÄt entails. In line 71 he invokes his own authority to commend the poetry of Ê¿AlÄ« as the only true wealth a man can possess. And yet, in fulfilling his obligation of thanks to Ê¿AlÄ« with this gift of praise, al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« establishes his own poetry as the emulation-worthy literary precedent. That is, it is al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«âs poetry that will become the model and measure for all poets to come.
3 Section II: The Art of Self-Defense: Saqá¹ al-Zand 16 LÄmiyyah
Our readings of SZ 14 and SZ 15 aimed to show that what is commonly termed or classified as qaṣīdat al-madḥ is much more complex in its performance and performative, and hence literary, goals than standard appellations would suggest. Our classification of the poems as hybrid combinations of the classical qaṣīdat al-madḥ with its later fraternal derivative, the ʾikhwÄniyyah, served to further refine our analysis of the specific goals that informed the poetâs structural and thematic choices, as did what we know about the circumstances of each poem and the identity, status, and circumstances of its mamdūḥâwhether the august Aleppan litterateur and SharÄ«f, AbÅ« IbrÄhÄ«m al-Ê¿AlawÄ«, or the erstwhile administrator and poet to BÅ«yid and Ê¿AbbÄsid courts at Baghdad, Ê¿Ali ibn JalabÄt. So too SZ 16, which is conventionally placed under the rubric of fakhr (boast, self-praise), is more complex than that term would suggest.30 In a brief prefatory note al-Baá¹alyawsÄ« indicates that al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« addressed this poem to a certain tribe he had accompanied in the Syrian desert, who had mistreated and neglected him, the subject of an abusive line in SZ 1 (l. 46) (Baá¹al., SZ 16, l. 1 n. 1). The details are so sparse and the connection to events related to SZ 1 so tenuous (and not noted by any of the other commentarists) that we cannot reliably speak of a precise event or circumstance. Nevertheless, the poem itself is conceived and structured as the poetâs response to indignities or insults he claims to have suffered, so that the evident performative purpose of the poem is to restore and proclaim his own dignity and worth, both moral and poetic. If the purpose of SZ 15 was to defend his fellow poet Ê¿AlÄ« ibn JalabÄt, both as poet and administrator, and restore his dignity and status, then the purpose of SZ 16 is for the poet to defend himself and (re)establish his own dignity and status, moral and poetic.
What is noteworthy for our reading is that SZ 16 contains no elements that are remotely biographical in any historical sense. To the contrary, all its themes and motifs are derived from the classical Arabic poetic catalogue or canon. The poem is comprised of two movements: Movement I (ll. 1â24) consists of a self-defensive combination of boast and complaint on an âO tempora, O moresâ theme, which is framed as a response to the conventional Ê¿Ädhil/Ê¿Ädhilah (censurer/censuress) of the Arabic poetic tradition. The wronged but noble poet (ll. 1â14) is an innocent victim and all blame (ll. 15â24) is assigned to a very Mutanabbian general moral depravity of his times (fasÄd al-zamÄn). Movement II (ll. 25â41) provides a countermovement to the first and is comprised of heroic boast in the form of a night journey on horseback (ll. 25â34), followed by a concluding passage of martial boast and aphoristic sententiae (ll. 35â41). Although the proportions are the reverse of the standard qaṣīdah, and elements of fakhr pervade the full poem, the three-part nasÄ«b, raḥīl, and, in this case, concluding fakhr structure is nevertheless discernable.
The Art of Self Defense
SaqṠal-Zand 16.31 Rhyme: -ilū; meter: Ṭawīl
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Movement I: NasÄ«bic Boast and Complaint (ll. 1â24)
1 Is not all that I have done in the path of glory?My virtue, courage, resolve, and magnanimity?2 After all Iâve suffered of lifeâs adversities,Would I believe a slanderer or refuse a supplicant?3 The least aversion I could feel toward you is hatred;The simplest way to avoid you is to depart.4 When the oblique wind blows between us [âtil we are far apart],The censuressesâ gossip will be a trifling thing [to me].5 Among some, my faults are counted many,But I have no fault but august rank and generosity.6 Itâs as if when I outlast this time and its peopleI will return and wreak my vengeance on mankind:7 My renown will have spread throughout the landâFor who can hide the sun in the noontime [sky]?8 Even part of [the grief] I hide would cause the nights to grieve;Burdens lighter than the ones I bear would crush Mount Raá¸wÄ.9 And surely, I, though I am last in time,Will achieve what the ancients never could.10 Even if the morning is [as bright as] cutting swords, I go forth!Even if the night is [as deep as] a vast army, I set out!11 I am a purebred steed whose bridle is left unadorned!A Yemeni blade unpolished and left to rust!12 But if a manâs honor lay in his clothingA sword would be nothing but its sword belt and scabbard.13 My gift of speech was not content with my exalted stationEven though I dwelt between the Two Lancers of the stars14 In a place that all noble men yearn for,But all who reach for it fall short.15 When I saw ignorance spreading among the peopleI pretended to be so ignorant that people thought I was.16 Itâs amazing how often the vicious claim virtue!Itâs a shame how often the virtuous show vice!17 And how can birds sleep [safely] in their nestsWhen, even for the Two Wild Oryx Calves, [Fate] sets its snares?18 My today vies with my yesterday for the honor [of my presence];And over me my evenings are jealous of my dawns.19 I am so long acquainted with fate and its vicissitudes,That I donât care whom death snatches unawares.20 If I lost my upper arm, my shoulder would not grieve;If my forearm were to die, my fingers would not weep.21 When MÄdir [the Miser] calls [ḤÄtim] al-ṬÄʾī stingyAnd BÄqil [the Stammerer] claims Quss ibn SÄÊ¿idah is tongue-tied,22 And weak al-SuhÄ says to the Sun, âYou are dim,âAnd the dark night says, âO morning, you are pale,â23 And the earth, out of impudence, vies in height with the sky,And pebbles and boulders vaunt their glory over the stars,24 Then come, O Death, for life brings only blame;And get serious, O my soul, for your fate is joking.Movement II (ll. 25â41): Raḥīl-Fakhr (25â34); Homiletic/Aphoristic Fakhr (35â41)
25 I would set out at dawn, when the night was weeping from self-pityAnd the stars/Pleiades were declining in the west,26 On [a steed swift as] the wind, its hoofs of emerald;Its body of gold; its anklets silver.27 As if the East Wind had thrown me its reins,Now trotting beneath my saddle, now at a gallop.28 When [other] horses yearn for the waterholes,[My steed] turns away from water, âtil the waterholes yearn for it.29 [I have] two nights: one has a midpart adorned with stars,The other has no stars to adorn it.30 It was as if [the nightâs] blackness was departure,the morning the promised tryst,And dawnâs light the lover who puts off the tryst.31 On [this black steed] I crossed [a night like] a sea of crashing wavesWhose only shore was daybreak.32 Into the heart of every dread I have on my night-journeya sworn companion,One whose virtues never awake from him,33 He is an aging ZinjÄ«, whose hair has turned white at the partAnd who is so tightly bound he rises only heavily.34 It seemed as if the Pleiades, when morning startled them,Were a camel stumbling or limping beneath a heavy load.35 When you have been granted good fortune, you donât mindThe tribesâ malignant glances,36 [For] the spears on the shoulders of their warriors fear you,And their swords dread you from within their sheathes.37 And if your enemies should aim their arrows at you,The arrowheads would turn back to the notches.38 Disasters disdain a camelâs feet and pads,The hump and shoulders are where their death blows land.39 The butts of spears return unscathed [from battle],While the foreshafts are broken off in the mail-clad [foe].40 If you love life, keep to the middle,For itâs he who reaches highest who falls short.41 Moons canât be diminished when theyâre crescents,Itâs only when theyâre full moons that they wane.
3.1 Movement I: Protest, Despair, and Vindication ll. 1â24
The poem opens with the poet-speaker proclaimingâor rather protestingâhis glory and virtue, that is, his social and moral status. Although the subject may seem at first glance heroic, the tone is very defensive. And although we do not find the usual motifs of the nasÄ«bâthe lost and treacherous beloved, the abandoned encampment, etc.âwe soon realize that the presumed addressee of the poetâs protests is a conventional nasÄ«bic figure. That is, either the beloved (maḥbÅ«bah), who is at fault for the breaking of bonds of affectionâoften a metaphor for other social and political bondsâor else the censurer or censuress (Ê¿Ädhilah), who takes the poet to task, most often for what to the prudent seems like excessive generosity or reckless bravery. The figures of the beloved and the censuress sometimes merge into one figure, whose blame of the poet then serves as the pretext for both his complaints and his ensuing boast (fakhr).
In such poems the nasÄ«b is ultimately more concerned with the poetâs wounded dignity than his erotic suffering. What is interesting about such a thematic structure is that it âsets the stageâ, what Bauman would term âframingâ and âkeyingâ the ensuing complaints and boasts on the poetâs side.32 It has the effect of presenting or identifying the poem as a performative statement, a speech act, even absent external information about the poemâs occasion. It is precisely such rhetorical structures that allow the poem or poetic text to survive as a work of art long after the circumstances of its composition have become forgotten or irrelevant. This reminds us once more that whatever the immediate goals of the poem, the most essentialâand most challengingâperformative goal of the qaṣīdah is to immortalize the poet and the name and fame (or infamy) of his addressee. The poems preserved in the classical Arabic poetic canon are, ipso facto, the poems that succeeded in rising to that challenge.
The themes and mood of Movement I of SZ 16, as in the nasÄ«b of the conventional qaṣīdah, are primarily those of poet as victim: enemies that besmirch his good character; cruel blows of fate; the viciousness of his times and their people. At the same time, we see throughout Movement I, alternating with the wronged poet-speakerâs complaints, his repeated protests and boasts.
SZ 16 opens (ll. 1â4) not directly with the censorious Ê¿Ädhil/Ê¿Ädhilah or the treacherous mistress, but rather with a retort on the part of the poet-speaker that creates the presumption of that conventional figure. In lines 1â2 the poet-speaker employs rhetorical questions that immediately engage his audience even as he addresses his presumed blamer(s). He immediately claims the moralâindeed heroicâhigh ground in this poetic contest for rank and status by proclaiming his quest for immortal fame (majd, gloryâcf. the Homeric kleos) through his virtuous and heroic deeds. In four words he condenses the traditional Arab ideals of virtue as celebrated in countless poems of praise, boast, and elegy: Ê¿afÄf (chastity, self-restraint, abstaining from what is unlawful, etc., Lane); ʾiqdÄm (courage, boldness, daring; ʾaqdama: advance boldly); ḥazm (prudence, sound judgment, but also meaning or implying the word it is normally paired with, Ê¿azm, resolve, firmness of purpose, Wehr, Lane, Baá¹al.); and, of course, nÄʾil (gift, i.e., generosity)âin brief, precisely those virtues through which a man obtains glory, immortal fame. Line 2 expresses his outrage that anyone could question his virtue, acquired from long experience of lifeâs hardships, and he would never, after his own long experience of lifeâs trials, be so naïve as to believe a liar or slanderer who would try to come between him and his friends, or be so mean as to turn away a beggar or a supplicant of any kind.
With lines 3â4 the poet-speaker addresses his accuser(s) directly in the second person. But, as is standard in Arabic poetry, there is some ambiguity in the pronoun âyouâ. Line 3 is vocalized as 2m.sg., where we might rather have expected the feminine, and line 4 as 2m.pl. As I see it, the antecedent is intentionally ambiguous, an effect created by the use of iltifÄt (pronoun shift) as well as the grammatical gender conventions in Arabic poetry, as we saw in SZ 51 (Chapter 1). As the breaking of bonds and departure of the nasÄ«b, whose motifs and diction are engaged here, are, on the surface at least, the fault of the poetâs treacherous beloved (maḥbÅ«bah), that may come to mind first. But it is equally a former friend with whom he has had a falling out, or even a group of friends-turned-enemies. Al-Baá¹alyawsÄ«, at least, identifies the addressee here as explicitly the mahjÅ«, the object of invective or satire (hijÄʾ), in keeping with his identification of the addressees of this poem as the tribe in SZ 1, line 46 (Baá¹al., 1 n. 1; 3). In the Arabic poetic tradition, the two figures of the maḥbÅ«bah (beloved) and mahjÅ« (object of invective) can overlap both grammatically and metaphorically, as can the maḥbÅ«bah and the mamdūḥ (the patron, object of praise).
Al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« puts this breaking of bonds in the severest termsânot merely aversion, but hatred; not merely avoidance, but departure. At that point (l. 4), he claims that the caviling of the usual censuresses (Ê¿awÄdhil) behind his back or in his absence will mean little to him. However, the full-throated self-defense into which he launches next suggests that the poet-speaker is deeply stung or humiliated by the attacks on his character. Moreover, the alternation or combination of boast and complaint in the remaining lines of Movement I creates the sense of a persona who is more aggrieved than self-assured.
The passage from lines 5â10 exemplifies this psychological fragility or instability in the alternation between boast and grievance. In a conventional âresponse to the Ê¿Ädhil(ah) figureâ, he declares that although some people find fault with him, his only âfaultâ is high rank, that is, noble character, and (excessive) generosity (l. 5). He then boasts about outlasting (á¹ultu), in the sense of exceling or defeating, but also outliving, his time and its people. TanwÄ«r takes this to refer to his generosity, which will confer immortal renown on him; I incline to take it as the immortal quality of his verse. However, I do not think that al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« makes a distinction between his virtue and his verse: both stir the envy of rivals; both will gain him immortal renown. And yet this (over-)confident boast is coupled, in wordplay (jinÄs) from the use of á¹-w-l, above, with his yearning for vengeance (á¹awÄʾilu, sg. á¹Äʾilah, which can also mean enmity, rancor, or superiority) (l. 6). His widespread renown (l. 7) too is framed in hostility and resentment toward those who would eclipse or extinguish the perfect sunshine of his fame. What the wordplay of á¹ultu and á¹awÄʾilu is telling us is that the immortality of his immortal virtue/verse is his vengeance.
The poetâs tone or mood continues to shift back and forth as first (l. 8) he laments a grief that would grieve the very nights and burdens that would weigh down and crush even the proverbially mighty Arabian Mount Raá¸wÄ, only to follow (l. 9) with an audacious boast, now clearly about his poetry, that although he is a Modern, he surpasses the Ancients. This is a reference to the longstanding Ê¿AbbÄsid literary critical dispute over who were the better poets, the pre-Islamic through early Umayyad âAncientsâ or the late Umayyad and especially Ê¿AbbÄsid âModernsâ (al-qudamÄʾ wa-al-muḥdathÅ«n).33 Al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«âs boast echoes the famous line of al-MutanabbÄ«:
â® Ø´ÙعÙÙرÙÙ ÙÙÙÙا سÙÙ ÙعÙÙت٠بÙسÙØÙÙرÙÙ٠بÙابÙÙÙÙ â34â¬â¬ââ® Ù ÙÙا ÙÙÙاÙ٠أÙÙÙÙÙ٠اÙجÙÙاÙÙÙÙÙÙÙÙØ©Ù ÙÙÙÙÙÙÙÙÙ Ù â¬â
The people of the JÄhiliyyah never achieved poetry like mineAnd Babel never heard such sorcery.
In line 10 al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« proffers a boast of his resolve and courage, elegantly expressed in martial-heroic terms describing the morning light as cutting swords and the night as a vast army. This, however, he counters in the next line (11) with an equally martial-heroic expression of his grievance, neglect, lack of appreciation and recognition: he is like a prize-winning racehorse whose bridle has no ornaments or a Yemeni blade left to rust. In the following line (12) he recovers himselfâitâs the blade that counts, not the sword belt, or scabbard. Then, as if in compensation for the worldly neglect he suffers, he exalts his poetic gifts and station to the starsâal-SimÄkÄn (the Two Lancers, Arcturus and Spica Virginis) in particularâand declares that no man can match him, either in his poetry or high status (ll. 13â14). These last two lines, as al-Baá¹alyawsÄ« notes, echo lines of al-MutanabbÄ«, not merely in their expression of limitless and unsatisfied aspirations, but in the same rhyme and meter:
â® ÙØ£ÙÙÙÙÙ٠عÙÙ٠ظÙÙÙÙر٠اÙسÙÙÙ ÙاÙÙÙÙÙÙ٠راجÙÙÙÙ â¬ââ® ÙÙÙÙجÙÙÙÙÙ٠أÙÙÙÙÙÙ Ù ÙاÙÙÙÙ٠اÙØ£ÙرÙض٠٠ÙعÙسÙÙر٠â¬ââ® ÙÙÙÙÙÙصÙÙر٠ÙÙ٠عÙÙÙÙÙ٠اÙÙ ÙÙدÙ٠اÙ٠تطÙاÙÙÙÙ â35â¬â¬â⮠تÙØÙÙÙÙÙر٠عÙÙÙÙد٠ÙÙÙ ÙÙتÙÙÙ ÙÙÙÙÙÙ Ù ÙØ·ÙÙÙÙب٠â¬â
He does not know that even when I own the whole world, I feel poor,And even when I ride on the back of al-SimÄkÄn, I feel that Iâm on foot.My aspiration disdains every [lofty] quest,And to my eye, every distant goal seems close.
Al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« follows al-MutanabbÄ« in a psychologically subtle âboastâ that reveals the insecurities that are latent inâor even the driving force behindâoutsized ambition.
All of this should serve to remind us once more of the performative role of poetry in competing for and negotiating rank and status. The lines of Movement I up to this point reveal what lies behind this: an extreme anxiety about rank and status, and the degree to which in classical Arab society, including pre-Islamic tribal society, a sense of self-worth is dependent on external validation, one that the art of poetryâoneâs fame celebrated on the tongues of menâcan provide. This is the other side of the coin of a shame (versus guilt) culture, for likewise, the fear or threat of hijÄʾ must be understood in these termsâa powerful poet can attach immortal opprobrium to oneâs name and reputation. In this respect, the lines do not merely convey the âmessageâ of virtue, rank, and status, but as a âspeech actâ they verbally âperformâ, âenactâ, and âconferâ virtue, rank, and status.
The remainder of Movement I, lines 15â24, shifts into the âO tempora, o mores!â theme of the poet assigning blame for his lack of recognition and acclaim to the general moral depravity of the times (fasÄd al-zamÄn)âa theme also favored by al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«âs much admired predecessor al-MutanabbÄ«. Perhaps the best-known example by al-MutanabbÄ« is his notorious hijÄʾ of the Black eunuch slave ruler of IkhshÄ«did Egypt, KafÅ«r, which concludes:
⮠عÙÙ٠اÙجÙÙ ÙÙÙÙ ÙÙÙÙÙÙÙÙ٠اÙØ®ÙصÙÙÙÙة٠اÙسÙÙÙÙد٠â36â¬â¬ââ® ÙÙذاÙ٠أÙÙÙ٠اÙÙÙØÙÙÙ٠اÙبÙÙÙض٠عÙاجÙÙزة٠â¬â
If white stallions are incapable of magnanimity,How then castrated blacks!
Al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« begins (ll. 15â17) by conveying the image of the moral world turned upside down and concludes with an expression of the danger and uncertainty of the times by way of an elegant play on birds, a metaphor for poets, and Two Wild Oryx Calves (al-FarqadÄn, the Dioscuri), for all of whom fateâs hunters lay their snares.
The closing passage of Movement I (ll. 18â24) opens with yet another boast, now involving an AbÅ« TammÄmian personification of time and the mental-verbal rhetorical play termed al-madhhab al-kalÄmÄ« (the dialectical style of the speculative theologians, al-mutakallimÅ«n). Timesâtoday, yesterday, evening, and dawnâare personified and depicted as competing for and jealous of the honor of the poetâs presence. This conceit very effectively captures the rivalrous atmosphere in which poets and courtiers competed for time and attention. However striking this line of fakhr, the poetâs resorting to badÄ«Ê¿-style personification of Time to show him honor strikes us as above all compensatory for the disdain or disregard he receives from real persons. To be honored by Time itself is an expression of immortal fame, which too serves as compensation for contemporary obscurity and neglect.
The tone then shifts to a more extended lament over the difficulties the poet has experienced and the depravities of his times. Lines 19â20 introduce a tone of despair over his personal hardships. He no longer cares whom death takes (even himself) or if he were to lose a limb. The despair then extends into blaming the times, as lines 21â23 bring back once more the images of a morally inverted world. It is noteworthy that all three lines refer to blatantly false claims to high status, literary-verbal talent, fame, and glory on the part of those eminently lacking in these qualities.
Line 21 employs murÄÊ¿Ät al-naáºÄ«r (joining like elements) and a double á¹ibÄq (antithesis) as al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« musters four names from the old Arab tradition of proverbial characters to express the impudence with which men of low character and little talent assault the virtuous and gifted in his troubled times. In the Arabic tradition many proverbs (ʾamthÄl, sg. mathal) are expressed in the fixed formula ʾafÊ¿alu min fulÄnin, hence: ʾabkhalu min MÄdirin (stingier than MÄdir); ʾajwadu min ḤÄtimin (more generous than ḤÄtim [al-ṬÄʾī]); ʾaÊ¿yÄ min BÄqilin (more stammering, inarticulate than BÄqil); ʾablaghu min Qussin (more eloquent than Quss). Al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«âs line 21 exemplifies the interactive network of forms or genres through which the literary and cultural patrimony was preserved and engaged over a period of centuries, now millennia. The ʾamthÄl themselves serve as capsulized oral-mnemonic expressions of cultural valuesâboth virtues and vicesâthat are immediately applicable to real-life situations, where they function to assign praise or blame. At the same time, they reference a rich traditionâlargely and no doubt originally oral, but also increasingly preserved in written form (in collections of ʾamthÄl, poetic and other commentaries, and encyclopedic works of Arab lore)âof folk narratives or etiological stories of how the individuals named became proverbial for a particular trait. In line 21 we find al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« both drawing on and preserving this tradition.
We can observe a lively example of this interactive and interlocking literary network in the interplay between al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«âs line 21 and all four commentaries (Shurūḥ, TanwÄ«r), which provide for the reader the ʾamthÄl themselves, the reason these individuals became proverbial, and citations of other poems in which the names or the proverbs occur.
The legendary generosity of the pre-Islamic poet and knight ḤÄtim al-ṬÄʾī apparently required little elaboration. Al-KhwÄrazmÄ« alone cites the proverb along with a brief partly sajÊ¿-rhymed passage that encapsulates his fame:
Among [the Arabsâ] proverbs is ʾajwadu min ḤÄtimin. He [ḤÄtim ibn Ê¿Abd AllÄh ibn SaÊ¿d ibn al-Ḥashraj] was extremely generous and courageous. Wherever he alighted, his dwelling became known. He was successful [in all his endeavors]: When he fought, he won and overcame [his opponent], or if he went on a raid for plunder, he took booty. Whenever he was asked, he gave, or if he threw the gambling arrows [playing maysir], he won. If he took captives, he released them and if he had wealth, he distributed it; and he used to swear by AllÄh that he would never slay a motherâs only son.37
For MÄdir, we read in al-MaydÄnÄ«âs KitÄb al-AmthÄl (Book of Proverbs):
ʾAbkhalu min MÄdirin: He was a man of the BanÅ« HilÄl ibn Ê¿Ämir ibn á¹¢aÊ¿á¹£aÊ¿ah who was so stingy that after his camels had drunk and there was a little water remaining in the bottom of the basin, he would shit in it and then plaster (madara) the basin with his shit. So because of that they called him MÄdir (the Plasterer).38
Quss ibn SÄÊ¿idah al-IyÄdÄ« is a semi-legendary orator of pre-Islamic Arabia, renowned for his piety and wisdom as well as his eloquence. Many conventions of Arab oratory are traced back to him: that he was the first to recite leaning on a staff, the first to use the expression ʾammÄ baÊ¿du (â⦠and nowâ); the first to write in a letter min fulÄnin ʾilÄ fulÄnin (âfrom so-and-so to so-and-soâ) (Shurūḥ). Until today he is famed for his khuá¹bah that opens: âO People! Gather, listen, and pay attention: Everyone who lives will die and whoever dies disappears â¦â (ʾayyuhÄ al-nÄsu ijtamiÊ¿Å« wa-istamiÊ¿Å« wa-Ê¿Å«: kullu man Ê¿Äsha mÄta, wa-man mÄta fÄta â¦). AbÅ« Bakr is said to have recited before the Prophet some lines by Quss ibn SÄÊ¿idah that he had put to memory:
â®- ÙÙÙ Ù Ù٠اÙÙÙÙرÙÙÙ ÙÙÙا بÙصÙائÙر٠â¬ââ® ÙÙ٠اÙÙØ°ÙÙاÙÙبÙÙÙ٠اÙØ£ÙÙÙÙÙÙÙÙ â¬ââ® ÙÙÙ ÙÙÙÙت٠ÙÙÙس ÙÙÙا Ù ÙصÙادÙر٠â¬ââ® ÙÙÙ ÙÙÙا رÙØ£ÙÙÙÙت٠٠ÙÙÙارÙدا٠â¬ââ® ÙÙسÙعÙÙ٠اÙØ£ÙصÙاغÙÙر٠ÙاÙØ£ÙÙÙابÙÙر٠â¬ââ® ÙرأÙÙت٠ÙÙÙÙÙÙ ÙÙ ÙÙØÙÙÙÙÙÙا â¬â
â® ÙÙا Ù Ù٠اÙبÙاÙÙÙ٠غÙابÙر٠â¬ââ® Ùا ÙÙÙرÙجÙÙع٠اÙÙ ÙاضÙ٠إÙÙÙÙÙ â¬ââ®- ÙÙØ©Ù ØÙÙث٠صÙار اÙÙÙÙÙ٠٠صÙائÙر٠â¬â⮠أÙÙÙÙÙÙÙÙت٠أÙÙÙÙÙ Ùا Ù ÙØÙا â¬â
In the ancients, long since departed,There are insights for us.When I saw that there were paths that lead, as to a waterhole, to death,But no paths to return,And my tribesmen heading toward them,Young and old,[And that] those that passed away did not returnAnd those that remained did not last long,I realized that I will surely goWhere my tribesmen have gone.39
For the stammerer BÄqil, in al-KhuwayyÄ«âs (TanwÄ«r) telling:
He was a man of [the BanÅ«] RabÄ«Ê¿ah, or some say [the BanÅ«] IyÄd, who was proverbial for stammering [inarticulate speech], hence the saying, ʾaÊ¿yÄ min BÄqilin. It is said that once he bought a gazelle for eleven dirhams. When some passersby asked him how much he paid for the gazelle, he was tongue-tied. So he stretched out his two hands and spread out his fingers and then stuck out his tongue, to indicate eleven, and the gazelle escaped.40
The poetic tradition was no less involved in this interlocking network, as we can see from a line by al-MutanabbÄ«, not coincidentally in the same rhyme as al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«âs SZ 16, in which his admired predecessor too boasts of the moral inversion and depravity of his times. BÄqil is used here as a paragon of innumeracyâas the story above also suggests:
⮠أÙÙÙ ÙÙØÙسÙÙب٠اÙÙÙÙÙÙدÙÙÙ ÙÙÙÙÙ٠٠بÙاÙÙÙÙÙ â41â¬â¬ââ® Ù ÙÙÙ ÙÙ٠بÙÙÙÙÙÙ٠٠أÙÙÙÙÙÙÙ٠عÙصÙÙر٠ÙÙÙدÙÙعÙÙÙ â¬â
How can I ever understand the vile people of an age that claimThat BÄqil can do Indian accounting?
Of course, for poets, this moral depravity of the times consists primarily of not recognizing the excellence and superiority of their verse.
The following two lines (22â23) turn from the human characters immortalized in proverbs to personified natural phenomena to express the moral perversity of the poetâs times as âunnaturalâ: as though the weak star al-SuhÄ called the Sun dim; the night called the morning pale; the earth thinks it is as elevated as the sky; and dull rocks boast that they are brighter than the stars.
Movement I concludes with a double-edged line (24). The first hemistich beginning âThen come, O Death!â expresses the total despair of the death wish. This effectively completes the emotional trajectory of the nasÄ«bic passage, starting from the poet-speakerâs breaking of bonds with a particular individual, then with whole groups of people who find fault with him, and finally with the total moral depravity or moral inversion of his times. Death seems the only escape from dishonor. No sooner, however, does he call for death to bring him release from the dishonor of his times than, in the second half of the line, he draws forth the second thread of Movement I, the poetâs boast of virtue and endurance, to rally his spirit and determination. With this he sets the emotional and thematic stage for Movement II. If Fate/the Times are âjestingâ or âjokingâ (hÄzil), which I take here to mean fickle, morally inverted, then his soul must âbe/get seriousâ (jiddÄ«), that is, be steadfast, determined, and resolute. The antithesis between seriousness and jest and its alignment with action versus words and truth versus falsehood is embedded in the Arabic poetic tradition, most famously in the rousing opening line of AbÅ« TammÄmâs Victory Ode over Amorium:
â® ÙÙÙ ØÙÙدÙÙÙ٠اÙØÙÙدÙ٠بÙÙÙÙÙ٠اÙجÙÙدÙÙ ÙاÙÙÙÙعÙÙب٠â42â¬â¬â⮠اÙسÙÙÙÙÙÙ٠أÙصÙÙدÙÙ٠أÙÙÙبÙÙاء٠٠ÙÙÙ٠اÙÙÙتÙÙب٠â¬â
The sword is more truthful than the books,Its blade divides earnestness from jest.
But perhaps closer to al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« is a line by al-Kumayt ibn Zayd al-AsadÄ« (d. 126/743) cited by Ibn ManáºÅ«r, who defines hazl as simply naqīḠal-jidd (the opposite of seriousness, earnestness) (LisÄn, h-z-l):
⮠تÙجÙÙدÙ٠بÙÙÙا ÙÙÙ ÙÙÙÙÙÙ ÙÙÙÙÙÙ Ù ÙÙÙÙÙÙزÙÙÙ â¬â⮠أÙراÙÙا عÙÙÙÙÙ ØÙÙبÙ٠اÙØÙÙÙاة٠ÙÙØ·ÙÙÙÙÙÙÙا â¬â
I see that despite our love for life and long lifeThat [life] is serious every day for us, while we are jesting.
In al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«âs SZ 16, line 24 performs the function of ḥusn al-takhalluá¹£ (elegant transition), as it moves from the expression of ultimate nasÄ«bic despairâthe death wishâto fortitude and courageâthe poetâs command to himself to overcome the inconstancy of his times by gathering his resolve. This new mood of âtaking chargeâ and issuing a commandâthe imperative âget seriousâ (jiddÄ«)âsignals the poetâs psychological transition from anxious and insecure victim to resolute and self-confident actor. This psychological transformation signals, as well, the transition from the aggrieved nasÄ«bic Movement I to the celebratory boastfulness of the fakhr-toned Movement II.
3.2 Movement II: Celebratory Night-Journey and Boast (ll. 25â41)
The main part of Movement II (ll. 25â34) consists of an exquisitely lyrical and thematically hybrid nocturnal journey on horseback. It is quite unique in its combination of heroic elements of the chaseâthe hunt on horseback that is a major theme of the concluding boast (fakhr) or praise (madīḥ) section of the qaṣīdahâwith elements of the traditional medial journey (raḥīl).
The first three lines (25â27) are purely those of a heroic hunt scene, signaled by its evocation of the âI set out at dawnâ (wa-qad ʾaghtadÄ«) motif of the MuÊ¿allaqah of Imruʾ al-Qays:
⮠ب٠ÙÙÙجÙÙرÙد٠ÙÙÙÙÙد٠اÙØ£ÙÙÙابÙÙد٠ÙÙÙÙÙÙÙÙÙ â¬ââ® ÙÙÙد Ø£ÙغÙتÙÙدÙÙ ÙاÙØ·ÙÙÙÙÙر٠ÙÙÙ ÙÙÙÙÙÙاتÙÙÙا â¬ââ® ÙÙجÙÙÙÙ ÙÙÙد٠صÙØ®ÙÙر٠ØÙØ·ÙÙÙÙ٠اÙسÙÙÙÙÙÙÙ Ù ÙÙÙ٠عÙÙÙÙ â¬ââ® Ù ÙÙÙÙرÙÙ Ù ÙÙÙÙرÙÙ Ù ÙÙÙبÙÙÙÙ Ù ÙÙدÙبÙÙر٠٠ÙعÙا٠â¬ââ® ÙÙ Ùا زÙÙÙÙÙت٠اÙصÙÙÙÙÙÙاء٠بÙاÙÙ ÙتÙÙÙÙزÙÙÙÙ â¬ââ® ÙÙÙ ÙÙÙÙت٠ÙÙÙزÙÙÙ٠اÙÙÙÙبÙÙد٠عÙÙ ØÙاÙÙ Ù ÙتÙÙÙÙÙÙ â¬â⮠إÙذا جÙاش٠ÙÙÙÙ ØÙÙ ÙÙÙÙÙ٠غÙÙÙÙÙÙ Ù ÙÙرÙجÙÙÙÙ â43â¬â¬â⮠عÙÙ٠اÙÙØ°ÙÙبÙÙÙ٠جÙÙÙÙÙاش٠ÙÙØ£ÙÙ٠اÙÙتÙÙزا٠ÙÙÙÙ â¬â
Often I set out at dawn, the birds still in their nests,On a steed sleek and swift, a shackle for wild game, huge.Now wheeling, now charging, advancing, retreating all at once,Like a mighty boulder the torrent has washed down from the heights.A dark bay from whose back the saddle pad slips,Like raindrops from hard rock.Despite leanness, spirited, as if his bursting gallop,When he seethes with heat, were a cauldronâs boil.44
By al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«âs time, however, this phrase had long since become a conventional opening to the free-standing á¹ardiyyah, the short lyrical hunt poem, in which the courtly charm of the Ê¿AbbÄsid period replaces the JÄhilÄ« heroic hunt.45 Thus, lines 25â27 invoke more directly an Ê¿AbbÄsid á¹ardiyyah such as one attributed to AbÅ« NuwÄs (d. 199 or 200/814 or 815):
â® ÙÙÙ ÙÙØÙسÙÙر٠اÙصÙÙبÙÙØ٠دÙجÙÙ٠ظÙÙا٠ÙÙÙÙ â¬ââ® ÙÙÙد٠أÙغÙتÙÙدÙÙ ÙاÙÙÙÙÙÙÙÙÙ ÙÙ٠ادÙÙÙ Ùا٠ÙÙÙÙ â¬ââ® Ù ÙÙزÙبÙÙرÙج٠اÙÙ ÙتÙÙÙÙ ÙÙÙÙ Ø®ÙÙدا٠ÙÙÙÙ â¬â⮠بÙسÙاÙÙÙÙ Ù ÙÙÙ ÙÙرÙØÙ ÙÙ٠آدا٠ÙÙÙÙ â¬ââ® ÙÙØ£ÙÙÙÙ Ø®ÙØ·ÙÙÙÙ٠جÙاÙÙبÙÙÙÙ ÙÙØ«Ùا٠ÙÙÙÙ â46â¬â¬ââ® Ù ÙØ«ÙÙÙ٠بÙÙدÙÙÙ٠اÙعÙصÙÙب٠ÙÙ٠أÙØÙÙÙا٠ÙÙÙÙ â¬â
adapted from Jaroslav StetkevychOften I set out at dawn, the night still deepest black,When the morning has not yet cast off the cover of darkness.With a lean sleek hound, frisky in his collarAnd leash, his spine bejeweled,And the lines of his jowls like the linesOf a turban exquisitely wound.
Thus, line 25 begins âI would set out at dawnâ but personifies daybreak as the nightâs weeping over its end and the Pleiadesâ, or simply the starsâ (al-najm), setting in the west. The next two lines (26â27) follow the Imruʾ al-Qaysian model in the description of the poet-hunterâs magnificent steed, invoking the wind for its speed, but then evoke the courtly Ê¿AbbÄsid á¹ardiyyah imagery in the description of the hard emeralds for its hooves, gold for its body, and silver for its white pasterns. Finally, al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« cannot resist another nod to the JÄhilÄ« masters, now to LabÄ«dâs celebrated metaphor from the battle steed description of his MuÊ¿allaqah:
⮠إÙØ° Ø£ÙصÙبÙØÙÙت٠بÙÙÙÙد٠اÙØ´ÙÙÙ ÙاÙ٠زÙÙ Ùا٠ÙÙÙا â47â¬â¬ââ® ÙغÙÙداة٠رÙÙÙØÙ ÙÙد ÙÙØ´ÙÙÙÙت٠ÙÙÙÙÙرÙÙØ©Ù â¬â
And many a morn of wind and cold I curbed,When its reins were in the hand of the North Wind.48
However, al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« performs a subtle and elegant shift to the gentler, breezier, and essentially lyrical-nasÄ«bic East Wind (al-á¹¢abÄ), but not to describe the wind itself as in LabÄ«dâs line; rather, he uses the same general word for wind as LabÄ«d (rīḥ) as a metaphor for his steed (l. 26), and the East Wind for the lightness and smoothness of his steedâs gaits (l. 27). Such lines, with their eminently lyrical delicacy and charm, would normally anticipate the hunt theme of a á¹ardiyyah. Here, however, they serve merely to intimate al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«âs mastery of both the pre-Islamic masters of the hunt and horse and the imagist lyricism of the Ê¿AbbÄsid practice,49 after which he shifts somewhat abruptly to a night journey.
Given its heroic hunt introduction and the fact that the poet is mounted on this steed rather than a she-camel, it seems at first difficult to term the ensuing passage (ll. 28â34) a raḥīl. At the same time, the motifs of the mount refusing to turn aside at waterholes (l. 28) and traversing a night of dread like a crashing sea (ll. 31) are among the conventional motifs of the raḥīlic liminal journey section. Al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« opens with a rhetorical figure of exaggeration through inversionâthe poetâs steed shuns waterholes until they yearn for her, then proceeds to a description of âtwo nights,â one adorned with stars, the other unadorned. Although the commentarists of the Shurūḥ differ on their identity (two nights, a night and a horse, two horses, Shurūḥ, l. 29), perhaps the simplest reading, if indeed we feel compelled to settle on one, is a star-studded night and a black unmarked horse.
The following lines then alternate between descriptions of the night and of the horse. Line 30, in an extended simile or allegory, employs a badÄ«Ê¿-inspired mapping of human emotional trajectories onto time and space so that the night journey is personified as the separated lovers of the naṣīb: the darkness is the loversâ seemingly endless separation, the morning the unattainable love tryst, and the slow, evasive dawn is the lover who postpones the tryst. Lines 31â32 present the poetâs horse as his steadfast companion through a night like a crashing sea whose shore is dawn.
The closing two lines of this passage (ll. 33â34) employ a combination of images to express the slow progression of the night and the difficulty of reaching dawnâthat is, completing the night journey. The first image is that of the night like an aging Black slave (ZanjÄ«/ZinjÄ«), whose hair has begun to grey and who is so tightly bound or chained that he can hardly move. The second is that of the Pleiades (which set in the west at dawn), as being taken by surprise by the new day and stumbling like a camel limping beneath a heavy load. While the details of the ZinjÄ« slave reminds us of the images of the black-haired youth of SZ 21, line 2, and the ZinjÄ« slave girl of SZ 24, line 8, from the Nocturnes of Chapter 1, al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«âs depiction of the painfully slow passage of the night unmistakably derives from the celebrated night scene of Imruʾ al-Qaysâs MuÊ¿allaqah, with the endless night like a sea of cares and as a bound or weighty beast (l. 45) and the Pleiades as motionless as if bound to boulders (l. 48) (cited above, p. 20). Al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«âs images seem to convey the idea of finally completing the night journey at daybreak, both exhausted and surprised that dawn has finally come. The styling of the journey (distance) as commensurate with the passage of the night (time) and personifications of the night and stars as bound and limping under heavy burdens are no doubt intended to convey the psychological difficulties of the poetâs transition from the aggrieved passivity of the nasÄ«bic Movement I to the newfound sense of celebratory self-assurance of lines 25â27.
Above all we must understand that the poetâs night journey is a metapoetic trial and contest in which he is testing for himself and his reader his poetic worth and talent, his ability to compete with the master poetsâsuch as Imruʾ al-Qays and LabÄ«d and his closer Ê¿AbbÄsid Muḥdath (Modernist) competitors, AbÅ« NuwÄs, AbÅ« TammÄm, and al-MutanabbÄ«.50 It is in this respect that the night-journey passage (ll. 29â34) serves as a raḥīl, a liminal passage of transition and transformation from the self-doubting victim poet of Movement I to the authoritative and commanding poet of the concluding passage of Movement II.
The second part of Movement II (ll. 35â41) brings the poem and the poet-speaker to a self-assured sense of resolution. The emotionally fraught boasts and grievances of the nasÄ«bic victim of Movement I and even the celebratory boastful tone and pride of proving himself in the difficult night journey are left behind, as is the first-person speaker. A further emotional distancing and objectivizing is achieved through composing the lines in a form and tone that is increasingly aphoristic (ḥikam, sg. ḥikmah, aphorisms). Lines 35â37 are cast in a somewhat ambiguous second person, which the poet-speaker seems to address to himself, but which also read as an âimpersonalâ you. At first, they are almost a boastâbut a rather subdued oneâof self-assurance: having been granted good fortune, hostile or envious glances do not bother you; the spears and swords of your enemies recoil in fear of you; their arrowheads retreat. The sense of confidence and invulnerability portrayed here is quite contrary to the easily bruised and overly defensive ego of the poet-speaker of Movement I. The use of the second person allows it to be read as both the poetâs own newly acquired confidence and his advice to others, advice that his hard-won sense of self and long experienceâas portrayed in the first part of Movement IIâauthorize him to proffer.
Lines 38â41 are more purely aphoristic in their construction, as the second person gives way (except for l. 40, which is clearly an impersonal second person) to the third person. The gist of all of these is the heroic commonplace that nameless mediocrity and lowliness are safe, whereas achieving immortal fame requires that the hero risk life and limb in combat. This is essentially the virtue of ʾiqdÄm (charging recklessly or courageously into battle) that was presented in line 1. Hence the aphoristic lines: deathblows strike the camelâs hump and back, not its feet and pads (l. 38); spear butts are not harmed in battle, but rather the foreshafts and spearheads are what get broken off in enemy bodies (l. 39); and the adage of the safety of keeping to the middle (l. 40). The closing line (41), while equally aphoristic and almost parallel in its structure, creates a quite different effect: the image of the moon takes on a lyrical and more metaphorical quality, so that by the full moonâan expression of light and radiance, beauty, and wholenessâthe poet seems to be referring to himself. This is not the egotistical boasting of the insecure poet-speaker of Movement I, but rather an elegant figuratively phrased expression of his new and hard-gained self-worth and self-confidence. He understands that his failings are not the source of the attacks against him but, to the contrary, his success, and the (rhetorical) question of the opening line (1) is now authoritatively answered in the affirmative.
What we understand in the end from the psychological transition performed or accomplished through this poem is that the poetâs âself-defenseâ is a vindication of his moral and poetic rank and status, not merely to those who have attacked him but equally to himself.
On al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«âs ordering of the poems in Saqá¹ al-Zand, and what we can know or speculate about actual and relative dates, see again Ê¿IbÄdah, Dawʾ, 35â43.
Smoor offers a summary and notes especially the distinctive feature of the raḥīl undertaken by the mamdūḥ rather than the poet. Smoor, âTheme of Travel,â 136â137.
See C.H. Bosworth, âÊ¿Uḳaylids,â EI2. Further on the circumstances of SZ 15, see below.
Shurūḥ, 2:473â518, no. 15; TanwÄ«r, 1:146â161.
Reading ʾaá¹laqat (TanwÄ«r and Shurūḥ 2:478 n. 3) for Shurūḥ: ʾaá¹laÊ¿at.
Reading fa-yarḥala with fÄʾ al-sababiyyah (rather than fa-yarḥalu with fÄʾ al-Ê¿aá¹f). Shurūḥ gives and KhwÄr. explains both readings.
Following Tibr. I find the pronouns in the first hemistich ambiguous; the commentarists differ in their readings.
Following KhwÄr., at line 71.
Al-MutanabbÄ«, DÄ«wÄn (al-Ê¿UkbarÄ«), 4:11 (l. 22) (reading tará¸a for yará¸a).
Al-MutanabbÄ«, DÄ«wÄn (al-Ê¿UkbarÄ«), 1:132 (l. 39).
On rituals of supplication as they apply to the Arabic qaṣīdat al-madḥ, see S. Stetkevych, Poetics of Islamic Legitimacy, 32â34, 67â68, 117â119.
W. Montgomery Watt, âal-Iskandar,â EI2. The QurʾÄnic DhÅ« al-Qarnayn (the two-horned one) is usually identified with Alexander the Great in the Islamic tradition. On DhÅ« al-Qarnayn and his building the barrier of molten iron and copper to protect the people of the East from the subhuman hordes of Gog and Magog, see QK 18:83â98. For a version of the popular Arab-Islamic lore on the figure of al-Iskandar DhÅ« al-Qarnayn, see AbÅ« IsḥÄq Aḥmad ibn Muḥammad IbrÄhÄ«m al-ThaÊ¿labÄ«, Qiá¹£aá¹£ al-AnbiyÄʾ al-musammÄ bi-al-Ê¿ArÄʾis (Cairo: Maktabat al-JumhÅ«riyyah al-Ê¿Arabiyyah, n.d.), 403â416; on the iron and copper barrier against Gog and Magog, 407â411; Eng. trans.: AbÅ« IsḥÄq Aḥmad ibn Muḥammad ibn IbrÄhÄ«m al-ThaÊ¿labÄ«, Ê¿ArÄʾis al-MajÄlis fÄ« Qiá¹£aá¹£ al-AnbiyÄʾ or âLives of the Prophets,â trans. and ann. William M. Brinner (Leiden: Brill, 2002), 605â22; on the iron and copper barrier against Gog and Magog, 614â616.
For these two cases, see S. Stetkevych, Poetics of Islamic Legitimacy, 48â79 (the IÊ¿tidhÄriyyah of KaÊ¿b ibn Zuhayr), 209â223 (the Hamziyyah of al-MutanabbÄ« to KÄfÅ«r al-IkhshÄ«dÄ«).
Cl. Cahen, âBuwayhids (BÅ«yids),â EI2; and John J. Donohue, âÊ¿Aá¸ud al-Dawlaâ, EI3.
This accords with Smoorâs summation, âTheme of Travel,â 136â137.
One might imagine that this SaÊ¿Ä«d might be SaÊ¿Ä«d al-Dawlah (r. 381â392/991â1002), the scion of the BÅ«yidsâ rivals, the ḤamdÄnids of Aleppo, but none of the commentarists make this connection, so I would not presume to.
AbÅ« Manṣūr Ê¿Abd al-Malik al-ThaÊ¿ÄlibÄ« al-NÄ«sÄbÅ«rÄ«, YatÄ«mat al-Dahr fÄ« MaḥÄsin Ahl al-Ê¿Aá¹£r, ed. and cmt. MufÄ«d Muḥammad Qamīḥah, 6 vols. (Beirut: DÄr al-Kutub al-Ê¿Ilmiyyah, 1402/1982), 3:116â119.
For further dates and details, see Bosworth, âÊ¿Uḳaylids.â
Shurūḥ, 2:810 n. 1.
Al-KhwÄrazmÄ« identifies SZ 34 as âreply to a certain poet, that is, Ê¿AlÄ« ibn JalabÄt,â and Baá¹alyawsÄ« introduces SZ 34: â[al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«] said, addressing a poet who had left a certain king after having praised him but receiving nothing [for his poem], whereas his fathers before him had honored and favored himâ (also Tibr., SZ 34, l. 4). Putting the pieces of the puzzle together, it appears that Ê¿AlÄ« was appointed by Ê¿Aá¸ud al-Dawlah as governor of Baghdad, but following his death experienced something of a fall from grace or loss of rank. We can add to the dates of al-QÄdir bi-AllÄhâs rule what we know of Ê¿AlÄ« ibn JalabÄtâs dismissal from his post in Baghdad, the occasion of SZ 15. I am wary, however, of trying to assign the poem a precise date, and I am not convinced that we can know whether SZ 15 and SZ 34, despite the similar circumstances, are a response to the same occasion, even if they are addressed to the same person. The pieces do not quite hold together: Is Ê¿AlÄ« going to Aleppo because he was summoned there from Baghdad and dismissed from his post by SaÊ¿Ä«d, a political enemy (SZ 15)? Or in the hope of a more advantageous situation after being underappreciated by Ê¿Aá¸ud al-Dawlahâs successors in Baghdad (SZ 34)? In his brief remarks but substantial note on this poem, Smoor summarizes the same information, also without a convincing conclusion; Smoor, âTheme of Travel,â 136â137, 210â211 n. 31. Ê¿IbÄdah considers that the numerical separation of nos. 15 and 34 in al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«âs ordering of Saqá¹ al-Zand reflects a chronological separation in their composition; á¸awʾ, 35â43, esp. 37.
Cahen, âBuwayhids (BÅ«yids),â Donohue, âÊ¿Aá¸ud al-Dawla.â
Gruendler, âÊ¿AbbÄsid Praise Poetry,â 162â163.
Al-MutanabbÄ«, DÄ«wÄn (al-Ê¿UkbarÄ«), 3:386 (l. 22).
Shurūḥ, 1:85, SZ 1, line 48 (Tibr.).
AbÅ« al-Ḥasan Ibn RashÄ«q al-QayrawÄnÄ« al-AzdÄ«, Al-Ê¿Umdah fÄ« MaḥÄsin al-ShiÊ¿r wa-ÄdÄbih wa-Naqdih, ed. Muḥammad MuḥyÄ« al-DÄ«n Ê¿Abd al-ḤamÄ«d, 2 vols., 4th repr. (Beirut: DÄr al-JÄ«l, 1972), 1:123.
As is clear from this passage of al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«âs poem, some of the slurs and prejudices of the crude anti-Arabism that was one aspect of the largely Persian ShuÊ¿Å«bÄ« movement, which claimed the superiority of the Persians and Persian civilization over the Arabs and their Bedouin way of life, were adopted by the urbane and sophisticated classes of Arabs as well. The social and political aspects of the ShuÊ¿Å«biyyah movement are, of course, more complex than this. See S. Enderwitz, âShuÊ¿Å«biyya,â EI2.
Al-MutanabbÄ«, DÄ«wÄn (al-Ê¿UkbarÄ«), 1:290 (l. 35).
The maqÄm IbrÄhÄ«m is generally believed to be the stone that bears IbrÄhÄ«mâs footprints and which he used when he built the KaÊ¿bah and instituted the Ḥajj pilgrimage. There are a variety of traditions and beliefs associated with the term. See M.J. Kister, âMaḳÄm IbrÄhÄ«m,â EI2.
On the formulation of iÊ¿jÄz al-QurʾÄn as rhetorical inimitability and its repercussions in poetic production, see Suzanne P. Stetkevych, âFrom JÄhiliyyah to BadÄ«Ê¿iyyah: Orality, Literacy, and the Transformations of Rhetoric in Arabic Poetry,â in Oral Tradition 25 (2010): 211â230,
The DÄr á¹¢Ädir edition, for example, which arranges Saqá¹ al-Zand by gharaḠincludes the Shurūḥ SZ 14 and SZ 15 under the section on madḥ wa-tahniʾah (praise and congratulation; pp. 94â99, 100â107); Shurūḥ SZ 16 is in the section on fakhr (pp. 193â196). See above, p. 18 n.20.
Shurūḥ, 2:519â552, no. 16; TanwÄ«r, 1:161â170.
Richard Bauman, âVerbal Art as Performance,â American Anthropologist, n.s. 77 (1975): 291â297.
On the classical Arab literary critical dispute over al-qudamÄʾ wa-al-muḥdathÅ«n, see S. Stetkevych, AbÅ« TammÄm, 20â37 passim, 38â44, 81â82, and index.
Al-MutanabbÄ«, DÄ«wÄn (al-Ê¿UkbarÄ«), 3:259 (l. 38).
Al-MutanabbÄ«, DÄ«wÄn (al-Ê¿UkbarÄ«), 3:175 (ll. 4â5).
Al-MutanabbÄ«, DÄ«wÄn (al-Ê¿UkbarÄ«), 3:39â46, at 3:46 (l. 30). For a translation and discussion of the poem and the theme of the moral depravity of the times, see S. Stetkevych, Poetics of Islamic Legitimacy, 223â240, esp. lines 14â30 and pp. 233â237. Although van Gelder does not deal with the poetic motif, he gives a thorough and richly sourced coverage of the theme of fasÄd al-zamÄn in traditional Arabic literary and cultural discourse; Geert Jan van Gelder, âGood Times, Bad Times: Opinions on fasÄd al-zamÄn, âThe Corruption of Timeâ,â¯â in Inḥiá¹Äá¹âThe Decline Paradigm: Its Influence and Persistence in the Writing of Arab Cultural History, ed. Syrinx von Hees (Würzburg: Ergon, 2017), 111â130. Ciceroâs âO tempora, o mores!â occurs most famously in his First Catalinian Oration (Oratio in Catilinam Prima), 63â¯bce.
KhwÄr., Shurūḥ. For this and more, see AbÅ« al-Faá¸l Aḥmad ibn Muḥammad al-MaydÄnÄ«, MajmaÊ¿ al-AmthÄl, ed. Muḥammad AbÅ« al-Faá¸l IbrÄhÄ«m, 2 vols. (Cairo: ʿĪsÄ al-BÄbÄ« al-ḤalabÄ« wa-ShurakÄh, [1977]), 1:326â327, no. 977.
Al-MaydÄnÄ«, MajmaÊ¿ al-AmthÄl, 1:196â197, no. 568 (at p. 198). Note that madar (mud, clay) is also used as a euphemism for âexcrementâ. See Lane, m-d-r. Both al-MaydÄnÄ« (1:196â197) and al-TibrÄ«zÄ« (Shurūḥ) connect the story of MÄdir to a tribal dispute between the BanÅ« HilÄl and the BanÅ« FazÄrah concerning which is more disgraceful, MÄdirâs behavior or the case of a FazÄrÄ« who ate an assâs penis.
On Quss ibn SÄÊ¿idah, including the sermon and poem, see al-MaydÄnÄ«, MajmaÊ¿ al-AmthÄl, 1:195â196, no. 567; the same materials are found in TanwÄ«r, with a slight variant in line 4 of the poem.
See also al-MaydÄnÄ«, MajmaÊ¿ al-AmthÄl, 2:388â389, no. 2595.
Al-MutanabbÄ«, DÄ«wÄn (al-Ê¿UkbarÄ«), 3:260 (l. 40).
AbÅ« TammÄm, DÄ«wÄn, 1:40 (l. 1). For translation and discussion of full poem, see S. Stetkevych, AbÅ« TammÄm, 187â211.
MuÊ¿allaqat Imriʾ al-Qays (ll. 53â56), in al-AnbÄrÄ«, Sharḥ al-Qaá¹£Äʾid al-SabÊ¿, 82â85.
S. Stetkevych, Mute Immortals Speak, 254â255. Full translation and discussion of the MuÊ¿allaqah of Imruʾ al-Qays, 241â285.
On the text, topic, and poem discussed here, plus references, see J. Stetkevych, The Hunt in Arabic Poetry, chap. 4, 9â129; esp. 104â107 (ll. 1â3). This á¹ardiyyah is largely considered merely âattributedâ (manḥūlah) to AbÅ« NuwÄs. See Bahjat Ê¿Abd al-GhafÅ«r al-ḤadÄ«thÄ«, ed., DÄ«wÄn AbÄ« NuwÄs bi-RiwÄyat al-ṢūlÄ« (Abu Dhabi: DÄr al-Kutub al-Waá¹aniyyah, 1431/2010), 239. A quick skim through the Ṭard section of the diwan will reveal numerous á¹ardiyyÄt that are more reliably the work of AbÅ« NuwÄs, opening with qad ʾaghtadÄ«; ibid., 161â244.
I follow the text of J. Stetkevych, see note 43, above. See also: AbÅ« NuwÄs, DÄ«wÄn AbÄ« NuwÄs al-Ḥasan Ibn HÄnīʾ al-ḤakamÄ«, 4 vols., ed. Ewald Wagner (Damascus: Al-MadÄ Publishing Company. Special Edition, 2003 [reprint of Wiesbaden, 1972]), 2:287â288.
MuÊ¿allaqat LabÄ«d (l. 61), in al-AnbÄrÄ«, Sharḥ al-Qaá¹£Äʾid al-SabÊ¿, 578.
For full translation and discussion of the MuÊ¿allaqah of LabÄ«d, see S. Stetkevych, Mute Immortals Speak, 1â54.
On the development of these hunt-related themes and forms in Arabic poetry, see J. Stetkevych, The Hunt in Arabic Poetry, passim.
On the often metapoetic dimensions of the raḥīl, see Fakhreddine, Metapoesis in the Arabic Tradition, chap. 4, 133â161.