1 Introduction
The present chapter attempts to bring into conversation with each other two of al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«âs major elegies (marÄthÄ«, sg. marthiyah/rithÄâ). The first, SZ 43, is al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«âs most celebrated qaṣīdah in Saqá¹ al-Zand, and one of the most renowned elegies in the Arabic poetic tradition: his DÄliyyah. The marthÄ« (elegized deceased) of this poem is hardly known and is identified in our commentaries only as âa ḤanafÄ« faqÄ«h,â whose kunyah is âAbÅ« Ḥamzahââinformation that seems to have been extracted from the text of the poem itself (ll. 23 and 24) (see further, below). The poem, based on its placement in Saqá¹ al-Zand, can safely be assigned to the period preceding al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«âs sojourn to Baghdad, although it is hard to be precise.1 The second elegy, SZ 60, though less celebrated, is by contrast more easily assignable and datable: it is an elegy said to have been composed shortly after al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«âs arrival in Baghdad for the ShiÊ¿i notable al-SharÄ«f al-ṬÄhir al-MÅ«sawÄ« (d. 400/1010), whose two sons, known by their honorific titles bestowed by the BÅ«yids, al-SharÄ«f al-Raá¸Ä« (d. 406/1016) and al-SharÄ«f al-Murtaá¸Ä (d. 436/1044), were likewise ShiÊ¿i religious notables, scholars, and, above all for al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«, the leading poets of the day in the BÅ«yid-controlled Ê¿AbbÄsid capital. This FÄʾiyyah, which opens ʾawdÄ fa-layta al-ḥÄdithÄti kafÄfÄ« / mÄlu al-musÄ«fi wa-Ê¿anbaru al-mustÄfÄ« (He has perishedâif only the fates had desisted! / He who was wealth to the destitute and a perfume for all to inhale!), is, of course, intended as consolation (and praise) for the two sons as well as an elegy for their deceased father.
As with our readings of al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«âs other major qaṣīdahs SZ 14, SZ 15, and SZ 16, above, we will attempt to use whatever information we have concerning the poemâs circumstancesâwhether derived from within or outside of the poetic textâto understand from a performative perspective how al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« has selected, refined, and reconstituted the traditional elements of the qaṣīdah and of the rithÄʾ subgenre in particular to create two strikingly original and strikingly different examples of the elegiac art. I have tried to capture the stark dissimilarity between the two poems in the title of this chapter, which alludes to SZ 43âs elegant lyrical expansion of the elegiac convention of the mourning doves, an image of memory and commemoration, in contrast to SZ 60âs altogether jarring use of another bird, the crow, normally associated with departure, separation, and death. In both cases, I hope to investigate not merely the manner in which the poet at this mature point of the Arabic classical poetic tradition exploits conventional elegiac diction and motifs to convey the sentiments of loss and remembrance, but to explore the nature of Arabic poetic language and the poetâs ability to generate metapoetic metaphors for the art of poetry.
In the Arabic tradition we tend to think of the qaṣīdat al-fakhr (tribal or personal boast), especially in JÄhilÄ« poetry, and increasingly the qaṣīdat al-madḥ (praise, panegyric), with its predominance in the court poetry of the Umayyad and Ê¿AbbÄsid dynasties, as the preeminent forms of the qaṣīdah. Nevertheless, when we keep in mind that the purpose of especially oral or originally oral poetry was to immortalize the name and fame of the hero (the Homeric kleos, immortal fame), the primacy of elegy emerges. I will not go so far as to claim that elegy is the original or essential genre of poetry; my point here is rather that it is in elegy that the poet confronts most directly the issue of poetry and memory.
2 The Cooing of the Dove: Saqá¹ al-Zand 43 DÄliyyah, RithÄʾ to a ḤanafÄ« faqÄ«h, AbÅ« Ḥamzah
Al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«âs DÄliyyah stands out in the Arabic elegiac tradition for its exquisite elegiac lyricism, on the one hand, and for its subtle and elusive meditation on death, on the other. Above all, it serves as a challenge to and reaffirmation of the Arabic elegiac tradition. After opening by rejecting the motifs of memorializationâthe image of the mourning doves, the lament of the bereft women, and thus the elegy itself, and by insisting on bodily decomposition rather than eternal life, al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« reaffirms that tradition with his own delicate mourning and commemoration of the deceased, its metapoetic interrogation of the poetic (motifs, diction, metaphors) of elegy and lament, and its contemplative, rather than dramatic, engagement of a variety of facets of death and what comes after it.
It seems, from the limited information we have about the poemâs circumstances, that the deceased was a fairly young ḤanafÄ« jurist, a friend or acquaintance of the poet. Exploration beyond the poetic text and commentaries offers further information. Al-Khaá¹Ä«b al-BaghdÄdÄ« (d. 463/1071) in his TÄrÄ«kh MadÄ«nat al-SalÄm, states that this elegy is to a relative of al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«âs (yarthÄ« baÊ¿á¸a ʾaqÄribih).2 Ibn al-Ê¿AdÄ«m (d. 660/1262) in Bughyat al-Ṭalab, his biographical dictionary of notable Aleppans, is far more precise: he identifies the marthÄ« of al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«âs DÄliyyah as al-Ḥasan ibn Ê¿Abd AllÄh ibn Muḥammad ibn Ê¿Amr, AbÅ« Ḥamzah al-FaqÄ«h al-ḤanafÄ« al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« al-TanÅ«khÄ« al-QÄá¸Ä«. He identifies him as the brother of one AbÅ« al-QÄsim al-Muḥassin ibn Ê¿Abd AllÄh and notes that AbÅ« Ḥamzah was the qÄá¸Ä« (judge) of Manbij (NE of Aleppo), an excellent jurist, of the ḤanafÄ« madhhab, and a transmitter of ḤadÄ«th. He concludes his notice stating that AbÅ« Ḥamzah died before the year 400.3
Whatever the precise circumstances, it is clear from the text of the poem that al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« has aimed to compose an elegy that honors the modesty, piety, and scholarship of a young faqÄ«h, taken by illness in the prime of his life and it appears likely from the historical sources that he was a relative of al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« and the qÄá¸Ä« of Manbij. We can deduce from the intimate and thoughtful tone of the elegy that the poem is intended for a closer circle of acquaintances rather than a larger public occasion. Indeed, it seems that external public obligationsâsocial, political, religiousâhave less of a hold on the poet, freeing him to challenge, explore, and invent in the elegiac form and about the meaning of death with little restraint. The result is an extraordinarily original elegy that combines lyric-elegiac refinement with a subtle and elusive meditation on death and one that has, no doubt, done more to immortalize the poetic fame of al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« than to commemorate the little known AbÅ« Ḥamzah.
Within the framework of the Arabic elegiac tradition, it is noteworthy the poem gives no specifics about the deceasedâs lineage (nasab), tribe, family (ʾusrah), or city or town of origin, etc., that would have rendered the poem a âpublic recordâ. The absence of these âpublicâ details as well as the tone and contents of the poem suggest that it is intended for a smaller, more intimate circle of acquaintances, and perhaps, therefore, represents an intimate farewell to a friend or relative. The deceasedâs brother, here named al-Muḥassin (which accords with Ibn al-Ê¿AdÄ«mâs information), and the deceasedâs unnamed sons, presumably young children, are wished consolation, but not addressed directly (ll. 57â58). All of this stands in stark contrast, as we shall see, to the very public elegy to al-SharÄ«f al-ṬÄhir SZ 60 (below, this chapter).
The Arabic elegiac tradition is rooted in pre-Islamic elegy, a largely ritual-liturgical lamentation for and commemoration (immortalization) of the fallen tribal warrior. It therefore engages two highly affectively charged themes, each with its fixed diction, motifs, and tone: the grief-stricken mourners, and, in sharp contrast, the martial heroic virtues and achievements of the deceased. A standard theme in the elegy of the JÄhilÄ« warrior aristocracy is also blood vengeanceâeither the declaration that the fallen hero has been avenged or that he must be.4 The classical Arabic critics are quite aware that the individual qaṣīdah, whether madīḥ or rithÄʾ, must, on the one hand, follow the conventions of the tradition, but, on the other hand, be suitable for its particular addressee.5 The high martial-heroic tone and motifs that are altogether proper and necessary for the pre-Islamic warrior elegy, or later military rulers and generals, etc., have no place in an elegy for a young ḤanafÄ« jurist.
Al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« chooses to honor the memory of this young jurist by composing an elegy that, while not neglecting lament and eulogy, offers a thoughtful (if ironic) meditation or reflection on death and an elegant interrogation and metapoetic exposition of the poeticsâtropes, diction, themesâof the Arabic elegiac lament. Although the poem works its way through a range of emotions, topics, and ideas, the tone is composed and elegant throughout.
The Cooing of the Dove: Elegy to a Ḥanafī Faqīh, Abū Ḥamzah
Saqá¹ al-Zand 43.6 Rhyme: -ÄdÄ«; meter: KhafÄ«f
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â ٥٩ â¬ÙØ¥Ùذا اÙبÙØÙÙر٠غÙاض٠عÙÙÙÙÙÙ ÙÙÙÙÙ٠٠أÙر٠â¬ââ® ÙÙاء٠ÙاÙسÙÙÙÙÙÙد٠اÙÙرÙÙÙÙÙÙع٠اÙÙعÙÙ Ùاد٠â¬ââ® â Ù¦Ù â¬ÙÙÙÙÙ٠بÙÙÙÙت٠ÙÙÙÙÙÙÙدÙÙ Ù Ù Ùا تÙبÙتÙÙÙÙ٠اÙÙÙÙÙر٠â¬ââ® ÙسÙÙدÙر٠ضÙÙرÙب٠اÙØ£ÙØ·ÙÙÙاب٠ÙاÙØ£ÙÙÙتÙاد٠â¬ââ® â ٦١ â¬ÙÙاÙÙÙÙتÙÙ٠ظÙاعÙÙÙÙ ÙÙÙÙÙÙÙÙÙÙ٠ظÙÙÙÙ٠اÙسÙÙ â¬ââ® Ùس٠ÙÙÙدÙاع٠إÙÙÙ٠ضÙÙاÙÙ ÙÙÙÙÙاد٠â¬ââ® â ٦٢ â¬Ø¨ÙÙاÙ٠أÙÙ ÙÙر٠اÙØ¥ÙÙÙÙ°ÙÙÙ ÙÙاخÙتÙÙÙÙÙ٠اÙÙÙÙÙا â¬ââ® ØÙÙÙÙÙÙاÙÙ Ù ÙسÙتÙØÙÙدÙØ«Ù Ù ÙÙÙ٠جÙÙ Ùاد٠â¬ââ® â ٦٣ â¬ÙÙاÙÙÙÙØ°Ù ØÙارÙت٠اÙÙبÙÙرÙÙÙÙÙØ©Ù ÙÙÙÙÙÙ â¬ââ® Ùر٠بÙÙÙÙÙÙÙÙ Ù ÙصÙÙÙرÙÙÙ ÙÙÙسÙاد٠â¬ââ® â ٦٤ â¬ÙÙاÙÙÙÙبÙÙÙب٠اÙÙÙÙبÙÙÙب٠٠ÙÙÙÙ ÙÙÙÙÙس٠ÙÙغÙتÙÙر٠â¬â
He said, elegizing a Ḥanafī faqīh:
Treading on the Dead (ll. 1â16)
1 Of no avail in my religion and my creedIs the mournerâs lamentation or the [ring]doveâs melody.2 Alike, when you compare, are the voice announcing deathAnd the voice that to every council bears glad tidings.3 Did that dove weep or singUpon her swaying bough?4 O Friend! These are our graves filling the wide earth,So where, then, are the graves from the age of Ê¿Äd?5 Tread softly! For I think the earthâs skinIs made of nothing but these bodies.6 And how shameful would it beâthough their time is now long pastâFor us to treat our sires and grandsires with contempt.7 Walk, if you can, in the air, gently,Not swaggering, over the necks of Believers.8 Grave upon grave, many times over, isLaughing at rivals now crowded together, jostling for room,9 Corpse upon corpse, one buried on the remains of anotherThrough the long course of the ages and epochs.10 So ask the Dioscuri how many tribes, [now perished],they have discerned,How many lands, [now vanished], they have perceived from afar.1011 How many [eons] did they continue, when the daylight disappeared,To illumine the dark for the night traveler?!12 Life, all of it, is [nothing but] troubleâI am amazed that anyone would still want more!13 For surely, the sorrow at the hour of death is far greaterThan the joy at the hour of birth.14 Mankind were created for eternal life;Any nation that thinks they are to perish is in error.15 They are merely transported from an abode of toilTo an abode of either misery or bliss.16 In the slumber of death the body finds repose,While life is like insomnia.Lamentation: The Cooing of the Dove (ll. 17â22)
17 O Daughters of the Cooing Dove HadÄ«l! Help weep[as hired mourners do],[Or] promise one who is disconsolate youâll help him weep!18 [Coo] more! May God increase His blessing on you! For it is youWho best preserve loveâs memory and affectionâs bond.19 You have not forgotten one who perished long ago,Who died before [the ancient tribe of] IyyÄd perished.20 But [yet] I am not pleased that youString pearls and jewels around your necks.21 So strip off [your finery] and borrow, one and all,From nightâs dark shirt black widowsâ weeds.22 Then among the wailing women cooAnd with them, lovely yet modest, in sorrow lament.Eulogy (ll. 23â30)
23 In the pious AbÅ« Ḥamzah, Fate soughtA master of intellect and a friend of prudence;1124 A jurist whose opinions extolled al-NuÊ¿mÄn more thanThe poetry of ZiyÄd ever extolled al-NuÊ¿mÄn,1225 So that after [his death], the Ê¿IrÄqÄ« [ḤanafÄ«] jurists disagreed littleWith the ḤijÄzÄ«s [ShÄfiÊ¿Ä«s] and acquiesced [in their opinions];1326 An orator so eloquent that, had he stood among wild beasts,He would have taught ferocious predators to be as gentle as lambs;27 A transmitter of ḥadÄ«th so trustworthy that what was knownOn his authority had no need for isnÄd.28 He led a pious life, seeking knowledgeBy uncovering its sources and critiquing them,29 Leading his hand to drink at a well of glass,With reed quills for buckets and, for water, ink;30 [A hand] whose fingers never touched red gold,For he had renounced acquiring riches.Farewell and Burial (ll. 31â34)
31 Bid farewell, you two [who bury him], to this guest you honor,For the travelerâs least provision is farewells.32 Wash him with your tears, if they are pure,And bury him deep in your heart,1433 Make leaves of the QurʾÄn his shroud,For he disdained the most precious of robes,34 And over his bier recite the QurʾÄn and Godâs praise,Not the lamentation and the eulogy.The Futility of Mourning and Inevitability of Death: The Example of SulaymÄn/Solomon (ll. 35â41)
35 [Mourning the dead is] useless sorrow and wasted effortThat leads to no reward.36 [Look] how often violent grief has drivenThe grief-stricken from the path of righteousness:37 As when SulaymÄn missed the [afternoon] prayer,So that he turned upon the necks of the steeds [with whip and sword].1538 [To SulaymÄn] both men and jinn were subjugated,âA truth to which SÅ«rat á¹¢Äd [of the QurʾÄn] attestsâ39 He feared the treachery of mankind, so he entrusted to the windA son for it to nurture on unceasing rains.40 He was determined to save [his son], for he was sureDeath lay in wait for him.41 But [Death]âthe Mother of Disaster, Sister of CalamityâShot him with [its arrows] as he sat on the throne.16The Poetâs Valediction and Elegy (ll. 42â53)
42 How are you in your resting place, after [youâve left] me?You, who so deserve my most eloquent lament.43 The physician admitted there was no more he could do,And the frequent visitors stopped coming.44 Despair came to an end as those who grievedTook as their byword: We will not meet again âtil Resurrection Day.(la maÊ¿Äda ḥattÄ al-maÊ¿ÄdÄ«)45 Those who kept vigil to tend you now slept,Alas for the eyes of those sleepers!46 You are from a family that has never been seducedBy the temptations of this world.47 May the grave never corrupt you[r flesh], but lie in itAs swords in scabbards lie,1748 For itâs painful for me [to think of] your decaying bones, of feet and necks,All jumbled together by the passing of the nights.49 You were youthâs friend, so when it wanted to depart,You agreed and went along with its desire.50 You considered loyalty to oneâs first friend[A sign] of virtuous and noble character,51 And [so] you cast off [the robe of] youth while it was still new.Oh, if only, like your comrades, you had worn it out!52 So go, you two [AbÅ« Ḥamzah and youth], the most deserving of all the departedTo be watered by rainclouds evening and morn,53 And by elegies, which, if they were tears,Would wash away their written lines as theyâre recited.Closure: Consolation and Meditation of the Inevitability and Meaning of Death (ll. 54â64)
54 Even Saturn, the most exalted of the planets in its abode,Has its appointed time to meet with death.55 And the fire of Mars, however high its flames,Will [one day] be extinguished by a stroke of fate.56 And the Pleiades are pledged someday to be so far scatteredThat they will be counted separate stars.57 So let [his brother] al-Muḥassinâs life be all the longer,Despite the envy [of his enemies].58 May he and his brotherâs [AbÅ« Ḥamzahâs] sons find solace for his brotherThough their hearts [livers] are wounded59 When the sea has receded so I cannot quench my thirst,I will not be satisfied with cisternsâ dregs.60 Every abode will one day be destroyed:The doveâs flimsy nest and the lordâs high-columned manse.61 When a man departs, he need not pitch [a tent with] ropes and pegs,The shade of a lote tree will suffice him.62 Godâs command is clear, and yet men differ:Some call people into error, while others guide them on the right path.63 What mankind is confused about is how a living beingCould be brought back to life from inert matter.1864 The truly wise man is he who is not deludedThat his destiny is the corruption of the flesh.
This elegy does not exhibit the ordering of the ʾaghrÄḠof the qaṣīdah, such as nasÄ«b, raḥīl, rithÄʾ, into a motivated structure, but is constructed rather from the subthemes of the gharaḠof rithÄʾ. The result is a multidimensional âmeditationâ through which the poet explores death and mourning in their poetic, emotional, mythic, ritual, philosophical, and theological-doctrinal dimensions. I have divided it into (somewhat arbitrary) thematic groupings to facilitate the discussion.
2.1 Introduction: Treading on the Dead (ll. 1â16)
The opening passages of the poem serve to set the tone for the remainder of the elegy, which consists of the more traditional themes of lamentation, eulogy, condolence, and concluding wisdom. Al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« opens his elegy not with the dramatic shock of the death announcement (naÊ¿y) as is often done, but rather (ll. 1â3) by a jolting rejection and deconstruction of the traditional opening tropes of the elegy. The poet-speaker, perhaps in a nod to the profession of the deceased, invokes his own professed beliefs to produce an anti-elegy, to stand on the religious principle of rejecting excessive lamentation and mourning. As worded in line 1, both expressions, âlamentation of a weeperâ (nawḥu bÄkin) and âsingerâs melodyâ (tarannumu shÄdÄ«) refer at once, in the Arabic poetic tradition, to human mourning and to the cooing/mourning of doves. Furthermore, both serve as metaphors for the composition of elegy.
The following lines declare that there is no difference in a human voice announcing a death or bringing glad tidings; and no way to know if a dove is mourning or singing. In other words, in a metapoetic analysis of language, the poet-speaker claims that meaning is entirely arbitrarily assigned, or projected, onto the sound of the voice. This conceit of âdeconstructionâ or rejection of time-honored traditions of mourning and of elegy thus serves to disrupt the reader/listenerâs state of mind and expectations, thereby creating a de-sentimentalized objective distance. This emotional dislocation then allows the poet to proceed, in this opening part of the poem, in a more reflective than affective tone.
Lines 4â11 address the universality and above all the physicality of death. Rather than refined spiritual formulations, al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« evokes the crude bodily reality of deathâthat the very earth or soil beneath our feet is nothing but our ancestorsâ decaying bonesâcorpses over corpses for countless ages, from time immemorial (ll. 4, 5, 9). In what would become one of his most celebrated and influential lines, al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« calls upon us to walk softly with respect, especially over the decaying corpses of the dead believers (ll. 5â7). So many generations have passed on that the over-filled graves laugh at former enemies now jostling for space inside them (l. 8). At the end of this passage the perspective is lifted to the stars, al-FarqadÄn (the Two Wild Calves/Dioscuri), to ask them for how many ages they have led travelers by night. The idea here seems to be that the stars, the heavens, may be eternal, but man is not (see Chapter 6, 2. ʾAbÄ«dÅ« LuzÅ«miyyah).
The stark physicality of the images of bodily decay in lines 4â9 is countered by a different sort of meditation in lines 12â13, where the poet expresses amazement that men want more life when its sorrows so outweigh its joys. This, however, leads to an unequivocal statement of Islamic doctrine in lines 14â15: the eternal lifeâthe afterlife, whether of punishment or rewardâis the purpose of manâs creation. This is expressed emphatically in familiar doctrinal terms accepted by all Muslims. In commenting on lines 14 and 15, al-Baá¹alyawsÄ«, for example, quotes a statement attributed to the famously pious Umayyad caliph Ê¿Umar ibn Ê¿Abd al-Ê¿AzÄ«z, âO People, you were created for eternity. [You do not die] but are merely transported from one abode to another.â In a similar vein, al-KhwÄrazmÄ«, a ShiÊ¿i, quotes words attributed to Ê¿AlÄ« ibn AbÄ« ṬÄlib: âO People, you were created to live forever, not to perish, and all of you will be transported from [this] abode to another. So provision yourselves for the place you will live for eternity.â Al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« closes this passage with a gnomic ḥikmah-like simile: in death the body finds repose, while life is sleeplessness.
2.2 Lamentation: The Cooing of the Dove (ll. 17â22)
After the apparent rejection of lamentation, elegy, and even sorrow for the dead in the Introductory passage (ll. 1â16), the reader is taken by surprise when, at line 17, the poet calls upon the doves to join the weeping women in lament.19 Coming thus unexpectedly, the dove passage is all the more effective and affective. The passage serves, however, not only to engage the mournersâ emotions, but also to explore and explicate, through etymology, etiology, and onomatopoeia, the tradition-honored poetics of the Arabic elegy. In this regard, Gian Biagio Conteâs description of poetic language is eminently applicable to our interpretation of al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«âs elegiac passage:
In literary discourse [â¦] the poetic overrides the communicative function, so that the arbitrary nature of the linguistic sign disappears to become fully motivated by the internal system of the poetic word. The relation of signifier to signified, irreversible in prose, where signification is conventional and accessible only via the signifier, is, in poetry, a reciprocal two-way movement in which even the signified can recall its signifier. In other words, the elements that make up poetic discourse (both forms of expression and forms of content) are systematically related in so far as they are coherently guided by a single poetic intention. Each is distinguished by belonging to a composite organic system in which the relationship between signifier and signified is so intimate as to be reversible. The world of contents evoked by the poem corresponds to the verbal texture in which it is expressed, as if one were inherent in the other.20
In this light, the opening lines (1â3) now read as an anti-poem or anti-elegy, in which an obtuse prosaic speaker perceives verbal signification as purely arbitrary, and therefore ultimately meaningless, rather than systematically motivated by poetic intention: the lament is merely a sound; the cooing of the dove a meaningless bird call. In the present passage (ll. 17â22), by contrast, all is motivated and intentional meaning in which, through a complex network of identificationsâetymological, etiological, and onomatopoeicâthe distinction between signifier and signified is erased and total identity is achieved.
We must begin by noting that the cooing of the dove is an established motif in Arabic elegy. It dates back to pre-Islamic womenâs elegies in which the perpetual cooing of the dove is employed as a simile or metaphor for the womanâs unceasing lament for her dead kinsman, her undying memory, and her own ritually obligatory elegyâthe undying memorial to himâthat is, a simile and metaphor for the composing of elegy. Al-KhansÄʾ, the Mukhaá¸ramah poetess renowned for her elegies for her brother Sakhr, laments:
â® ÙÙÙ ÙÙا سÙÙرÙÙÙÙت٠٠ÙÙع٠اÙسÙÙÙارÙ٠عÙÙÙÙ٠سÙاÙÙ â21â¬â¬ââ® ÙØ£ÙبÙÙÙÙÙÙÙÙÙÙÙ Ù Ùا ÙÙÙاØÙÙت٠٠ÙØ·ÙÙÙÙÙÙÙÙØ©Ù â¬â
Surely I will weep for you as long as the ringdove coosAnd as long as I can make the night journey on foot.
In line 1 our poet-speaker rejects, ostensibly on religious grounds, the use of the traditional motif of the cooing of the dove as an expression of memory, and with it the ritual lament rooted in JÄhilÄ« poetry and practice. Equally we could say that he rejects the anthropomorphization of the dove and the arbitrary assigning of meaning to its cooingâwhether as an expression of mourning or of joy. In the following two lines he follows the lead of another Ê¿AbbÄsid master poet, AbÅ« TammÄm, in denying or disconnecting the association between sound and meaning that identifies the cooing of the dove with mourning or lament.
â® ÙÙرÙÙÙاء٠ØÙÙÙÙ٠تÙصÙعÙصÙÙع٠اÙØ¥ÙظÙÙا٠٠â¬â⮠أÙتÙصÙعÙصÙعÙÙت٠عÙبÙÙرات٠عÙÙÙÙÙÙÙ٠أÙÙ٠دÙعÙÙت٠â¬â⮠ضÙØÙÙÙÙ ÙØ¥ÙÙÙ٠بÙÙÙاءÙÙÙ٠اسÙتÙغÙÙرا٠٠â¬ââ® Ùا تÙÙÙØ´ÙجÙÙÙÙÙ ÙÙÙÙا ÙÙØ¥ÙÙÙ٠بÙÙÙاءÙÙÙا â¬ââ® Ù ÙÙÙÙ ØÙائÙÙÙÙÙÙÙ ÙÙØ¥ÙÙÙÙÙÙÙÙÙÙ ØÙÙ Ùا٠٠â22â¬â¬ââ® ÙÙÙÙÙ٠اÙÙØÙÙ Ùا٠٠ÙÙØ¥ÙÙÙ ÙÙسÙÙرÙت٠عÙÙÙÙاÙÙÙØ©Ù â¬â
Did your eye scatter tears when the dust-colored doveCooed in the scattering darkness?Do not weep for her, for her crying is laughter,And yours, a self-indulgence.They are doves (ḥamÄm), but when you scatter them for auguryYou break the vowel so they spell death (ḥimÄm).
In this last line AbÅ« TammÄm reasserts the role of poetic intention in assigning meaning, so that doves and death become, through jinÄs, virtually verbally and semantically identical: ḥamÄm/ḥimÄm.
To the Arab reader, al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«âs attempted denial or dissociation of the significance of doveâs cooing or mournerâs lament (ll. 1â3) is inevitablyâand intentionallyâfutile. For the association of meanings is inescapable: nawḥ (l. 1) denotes both the lamenting of mourning women and the cooing of the dove; likewise, the words tarannum (singing, warbling) and its near synonym shadw (active participle shÄdÄ«; l. 1) denote both birdsong and human song. The question of line 3, âDoes the dove weep or singâ is, or should be, rhetorical. If not, lines 17â22 provide a definitive answer.
The next key to our discussion is the word hadÄ«l (17). Lexically it simply means, as a maá¹£dar (verbal noun), âthe cooing of the doveââand we should note here that the faÊ¿Ä«l form as a verbal noun is morphologically associated with noises or animal sounds, thereby indicating the onomatopoeic character of hadÄ«l. As a participial, adjectival form hadÄ«l is faÊ¿Ä«l meaning fÄÊ¿il (active participle), meaning a young dove, a male dove, or âa cooerâ. However, in Arab lore, HadÄ«l is also a proper name that serves as the aetion of the cooing of the dove. For, as al-Baá¹alyawsÄ« tells us, the [Bedouin] Arabs claim that HadÄ«l was a young dove at the time of Noah who fell prey to a predatory bird, so that the doves will weep for him until Resurrection Day (Shurūḥ, ll. 17â18; LisÄn, h-d-l). The oft-attested line of the Umayyad poet Nuá¹£ayb ibn RabÄḥ, cited by al-KhwÄrazmÄ«, provides a source and model for al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«âs line 19:
â® ÙÙÙدÙÙÙا٠ÙÙÙد Ø£ÙÙÙدÙÙ ÙÙ Ùا ÙÙا٠تÙبÙÙÙع٠â¬ââ® ÙÙÙÙÙÙت٠أÙتÙبÙÙÙ٠ذات٠طÙÙÙÙÙ٠تÙØ°ÙÙÙرÙت٠â¬â
So I said, does a ringdove that remembered Hadīl still weep,Though he perished before the age of Tubbaʿ?
This etiological myth has the effect of assigning a particular meaning to the cooing of the doveâthat of mourning or lamentingâand of reinforcing the etymological-semantic link of the doveâs cooing to the lament through the shared verbal root n-w-ḥ, the meaning of whose forms include the verb nÄḥa/yanūḥu âto wail, lamentâ (women); âto cooâ (doves); nawÄʾiḥ (sg. nÄʾiḥah) âfemale mournersâ; and the proper name Nūḥ (Noah).
What is especially interesting here is that this mythic personification of the doveâs cooing confers upon it precisely the poetic purpose of the Arabic rithÄʾ (elegy)âthat is, the memorializing or immortalizing of the name of the deceased (hadÄ«l = HadÄ«l), the perpetual evocation of the memory of the deceased through repeatedly calling out his name. With the word hadÄ«l we can refer to the Egyptian critic Muá¹£á¹afÄ NÄá¹£ifâs formulation of âthe myth behind the wordâ (al-ʾusá¹Å«rah warÄʾ al-kalimah),23 but we can further conclude that in a language and culture that is so deeply rooted in the linguistic and mythic residue of the (Semitic) ancient Near East, etiology is etymology and vice versa.
Above all, in reading lines 17â19 we should keep in mind that the motif of the cooing doves forever mourning and preservingâuntil Resurrection Dayâthe memory of the deceased is a figure for the elegiac poet himself. In the second three lines of the dove passage (20â22) al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« turns to developing the conceit of the doves as female mourners by chiding them for wearing finery, their neckrings or ânecklacesâ, and bidding them to don widowsâ weeds or mourning garb instead and join the modest, unadorned women in lamentation. In this respect the poetâs conceit has the effect of ârealizingâ or enacting the etymologically based pun through which the epithet nÄʾiḥah can denote either a woman mourner or a cooing dove. It is interesting that in line 22 al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« achieves this without actually using the root n-w-ḥ. It is further worth noting that through this threefold lamentationâof the mourning women, the cooing doves, andâby way of the metaphor of the dovesâthe elegiac poet, al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« identifies, or binds together into a single entity, the natural, the mythic, the ritual, and the poetic act. After the lamentation, the next step in the ritual and in the elegy is the eulogy.
2.3 Eulogy (ll. 23â30)
In keeping with the prescription of the Arab literary critics, al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« carefully constructs the eulogy to memorialize the virtues and talents of an outstanding young ḤanafÄ« jurist. While not questioning the worth of the deceased, we must keep in mind that, as with all elegy, this is a ritual exercise that immortalizes an individual by transforming him into a timeless, eternal idealâa sort of verbal mummification. As with any eulogy, it is constructed to comfort those left behind, and further, as with qaṣīdah poetry in general, it is concerned with establishing the rank and honor of the deceased. Therefore, we do not find here any mention of intimate familial emotions, for example, but rather the poet extols the deceased AbÅ« Ḥamzahâs professional qualifications and accomplishments. As with the kutub al-rijÄl (biographical encyclopedias) of ḥadÄ«th transmitters and jurists (muḥaddithÅ«n and fuqahÄʾ), great emphasis is placed on the moral qualities, character, and intellect of the person in question. In this respect, al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«âs eulogy âchecks all the boxesâ of the qualifications required of an outstanding jurist. The piety, intelligence, and prudence of the deceased are specified immediately (l. 23) and, as if to bind these virtues to his memory, the deceased is identified here for the first and only time in the poem, by his kunyah AbÅ« Ḥamzah.
In line 24, through a play on the name al-NuÊ¿mÄn, al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« extols AbÅ« Ḥamzahâs juristic thinking as magnifying the fame of his madhhabâs founder, and thereby identifies his madhhab. Forâas would have been known to any educated reader of its dayâal-NuÊ¿mÄn is a name borne by both AbÅ« ḤanÄ«fah, the founder of the ḤanafÄ« madhhab, and the pre-Islamic Lakhmid king al-NuÊ¿mÄn ibn al-Mundhir, celebrated in the poems of the great pre-Islamic panegyrist, al-NÄbighah al-DhubyÄnÄ«. At the same time, the line raises the stature of AbÅ« Ḥamzah among ḤanafÄ« jurists to that of al-NÄbighah among pre-Islamic poets. Al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« then suggests that following AbÅ« Ḥamzahâs death, the Ê¿IrÄqÄ« (ḤanafÄ«) school lost much of its dominance and deferred to the ḤijÄzÄ«s (ShÄfiÊ¿Ä«s) (l. 25).
The following lines commend other talents and virtues that a model jurist would possess: AbÅ« Ḥamzahâs eloquence as an orator; his reputation as so trustworthy a transmitter of ḥadÄ«th that no isnÄd (authorizing chain of previous transmitters) was neededâno doubt a hyperbole in terms of fiqh; and his piety and scholarshipâboth of which are entailed in his meticulous uncovering and critiquing of sources (ll. 26â28). The closing two lines of this passage evoke with considerable charm a life devoted to scholarship rather than to the pursuit of worldly or material gain. The poet plays on terms for drawing water with a bucket from a well to describe the scholar as leading his hand to an inkwell with a reed (pen) (l. 28), to write with fingers that touch the black of ink (of scholarly pursuit) and never the red of gold (of material gain) (l. 30). The performative goal of this character portrait is to secure in perpetuity the status and reputation of AbÅ« Ḥamzah as a ḤanafÄ« jurist of high moral fiber and intellectual distinction. Two elements we might have expected in this passage are some reference to the deceasedâs nasab, his ancestry and family, which is standard in qaṣīdahs of all genres, as well as biographies of scholars, and, in regard to the latter, to some mention of the scholars with whom he studied. The absence of these formalities suggests that the relation of the poet to the deceased may have been more personal or familial and intimate than social or professional, as the themes (below) of sickness, burial, and friendship perhaps indicate.
Together with the dramatic pronouncement of the opening passage (ll. 1â16) and the semi-anonymity of the deceased in the elegy and eulogy of lines 17â30, the poetâs themes and stances in the remainder of the poem lead me, like most other readers, to read this elegy as, above all, a meditation on death. Al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« does not, as far as I can tell, proceed in a defined structural or logical direction, but rather explores death poetically, emotionally, and intellectually through a variety of themes.
2.4 Farewell and Burial (ll. 31â34)
Having established the moral qualities of the deceased in a tone of objective moral and professional evaluation, al-Maʿarrī changes both the tone and the subject, to a highly affective and appropriately religious burial passage. He first draws on nasībic emotions of loss, as he invokes a motif from the separation of lovers, where their ardent farewells serve as (psychological or emotional) provisions for the journey. This time, however, the journey is death, and the poet-speaker bids the two men who are preparing the corpse of the deceased for burial to provide him with travel provisions of farewells (l. 31).
The âburial sceneâ is one of touching sorrow and pious emotion as the poet enjoins the two to wash AbÅ« Ḥamzahâs corpse with their tears and bury him in their hearts (l. 32). As AbÅ« Ḥamzah disdained precious garb in life, so too his shroud should rather be leaves of the QurʾÄn (l. 33) and, rather than lamentation and eulogy, the QurʾÄn and Godâs praise should be recited over his bier (l. 34). This passage is especially effective in its joining of emotional and religious motifs in a way that captures the love and affection of the living for the piety and modesty of the deceased.
2.5 The Futility of Mourning and Inevitability of Death: The Example of Solomon (ll. 35â41)
The disparagement of lamentation and eulogy of line 34 serves as a transition into a new theme, that of the uselessness of mourning and the moral peril that can result from indulging in excessive emotion. This, in turn, serves as a pretext to introduce the figure of Solomon (SulaymÄn) as he appears in the QurʾÄn and the related Islamic lore of the qiá¹£aá¹£ al-anbiyÄʾ (Stories of the Prophets). Al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«âs passage brings together several aspects or episodes of Solomonic lore, related to the QurʾÄnic passage SÅ«rat á¹¢Äd (38): 30â40.24
â®â٣٨ â¬Ø³ÙÙرÙة٠ص â¬ââ®ÙÙÙÙÙÙبÙÙÙا ÙÙدÙاÙÙÙد٠سÙÙÙÙÙÙ ÙاÙÙ ÙÙعÙ٠٠اÙÙعÙبÙد٠إÙÙÙÙÙ٠أÙÙÙÙاب٠{âÙ£Ù â¬}â¬ââ®Ø¥Ùذ٠عÙرÙض٠عÙÙÙÙÙÙ٠بÙاÙÙعÙØ´ÙÙÙ٠اÙصÙÙاÙÙÙÙات٠اÙÙجÙÙÙاد٠{â٣١ â¬}â¬ââ®ÙÙÙÙاÙ٠إÙÙÙÙ٠أÙØÙبÙبÙت٠ØÙبÙ٠اÙÙØ®ÙÙÙر٠عÙÙÙ Ø°ÙÙÙر٠رÙبÙÙÙ ØÙتÙÙÙÙ° تÙÙÙارÙت٠بÙاÙÙØÙجÙاب٠{â٣٢ â¬}â¬ââ®Ø±ÙدÙÙÙÙÙا عÙÙÙÙÙÙ ÙÙØ·ÙÙÙÙÙ Ù ÙسÙØÙا بÙاÙسÙÙÙÙÙ ÙÙاÙÙØ£ÙعÙÙÙاÙÙ {â٣٣ â¬}â¬ââ®ÙÙÙÙÙÙد٠ÙÙتÙÙÙÙا سÙÙÙÙÙÙ ÙاÙÙ ÙÙØ£ÙÙÙÙÙÙÙÙÙا عÙÙÙÙÙ° ÙÙرÙسÙÙÙÙÙ٠جÙسÙدÙا Ø«ÙÙ Ù٠أÙÙÙاب٠{â٣٤ â¬}â¬ââ®ÙÙاÙ٠رÙبÙ٠اغÙÙÙر٠ÙÙÙ ÙÙÙÙب٠ÙÙÙ Ù ÙÙÙÙÙا ÙÙا ÙÙÙÙبÙغÙÙ ÙÙØ£ÙØÙد٠٠ÙÙ٠بÙعÙدÙ٠إÙÙÙÙÙ٠أÙÙÙت٠اÙÙÙÙÙÙÙاب٠{â٣٥ â¬}â¬ââ®ÙÙسÙØ®ÙÙرÙÙÙا ÙÙÙ٠اÙرÙÙÙØ٠تÙجÙرÙ٠بÙØ£ÙÙ ÙرÙÙ٠رÙØ®Ùاء٠ØÙÙÙث٠أÙصÙاب٠{â٣٦ â¬}â¬ââ®ÙÙاÙØ´ÙÙÙÙاطÙÙÙÙ ÙÙÙÙ٠بÙÙÙÙاء٠ÙÙغÙÙÙÙاص٠{â٣٧ â¬}â¬ââ®ÙÙآخÙرÙÙÙÙ Ù ÙÙÙرÙÙÙÙÙÙÙ ÙÙ٠اÙÙØ£ÙصÙÙÙاد٠{â٣٨ â¬}â¬ââ®ÙÙٰذÙا عÙØ·ÙاؤÙÙÙا ÙÙا٠ÙÙÙÙ٠أÙÙ٠أÙÙ ÙسÙÙ٠بÙغÙÙÙر٠ØÙسÙاب٠{â٣٩ â¬}â¬ââ®ÙÙØ¥ÙÙÙÙ ÙÙÙ٠عÙÙÙدÙÙÙا ÙÙزÙÙÙÙÙÙÙ° ÙÙØÙسÙÙÙ Ù Ùآب٠{âÙ¤Ù â¬}â¬â
Trans. based on Marmaduke Pickthall2530 And on David We bestowed Solomon. How excellent a servant! He was ever returning [toward Us] in repentance.31 When he was shown at evening light-footed coursers32 And he said: [Alas!] I have preferred the good things [of the world] to the remembrance of my Lord; till they were taken out of sight behind the curtain.33 [Then he said]: Bring them back to me, and fell to slashing their legs and necks.34 And verily We tried Solomon, and set upon his throne a [mere] body. Then did he repent.35 He said: My Lord! Forgive me and bestow on me sovereignty such as shall not belong to any after me. For surely Thou art the Bestower.36 So We made the wind subservient unto him, setting fair by his command wherever he intended.37 And [We made subservient to him] the unruly [Satans], every builder and diver,38 And others linked together in chains,39 [Saying]: This is Our gift, so bestow it or withhold it, without reckoning.40 And surely he has a station near to Us, and a happy final return.
In warning against emotional excess, al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« first (l. 37) refers to the episode of Solomon and the sleek steeds (QK 38:31â33, above) in which Soloman is so enthralled by the magnificent horses that are paraded before him that he misses his afternoon prayers. As an act of penance, he slaughters or sacrifices them. Al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« next (l. 38) reminds us that the man who was seduced by this human frailty was none other than the QurʾÄn-attested Solomon to whom men and jinn were subjugated (QK 38:37â38, above).
The following lines (39â41) refer to the somewhat obscurer episode of Solomonic legend, said to be the subject of QK 38:34 (above), that of Solomon and his sole offspring, a son. As summarized by al-Baá¹alyawsÄ« (Shurūḥ, l. 41) these lines:
Are built on a rejected (munkar) narrative from one of the exegetes explaining the Almightyâs saying (QKÂ 38:34): âAnd verily We tried Solomon and set upon his throne a [mere] body. Then did he repent.â This commentator mentioned that Solomon (PBUH) wanted to have offspring, but he was blessed with only one child, and so he feared that calamity would strike it. He trusted no one to keep it safe but entrusted it to the wind to nourish it and rear it. But then he found it dead upon his throne and that all his precautions were to no avail.
That is, anxious to protect his sole offspring from fate, Solomon entrusted it to the wind to nurture. Nevertheless, death found its prey and thus, according to some versions of the legend, the âbody on the throneâ of QKÂ 38:34 is the corpse of Solomonâs obsessively protected child. The lesson here for the reader is that none escape deathâeven the mighty Solomon could not save his own child.
This passage serves both to invoke the Solomonic lore of the QurʾÄn and the qiá¹£aá¹£ al-anbiyÄʾ and to bring its lessons to bear on those who are mourning AbÅ« Ḥamzah. That none, however many precautions are taken, escapes death, and that an excess of emotion can lead to the neglect of oneâs moral and religious duties.
2.6 The Poetâs Valediction and Elegy (ll. 42â53)
After the objectivized warning against excessive grief of the previous passage, al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« turns to a long and intimate address to his departed friend, turning to him in the second person, asking after him in his grave, and declaring that the deceased is most deserving of the poetâs exquisite mourning (ḥusn al-iftiqÄd), that is, this elegy (l. 42). This leads into a three-line description of the death scene (ll. 43â45): the physician admits there is nothing more he can do; the visitors stop coming. In a play on the word maÊ¿Äd (time or place of return, but also the Resurrection), the grief-stricken realize that they will not see him again in this life and resign themselves to the byword lÄ maÊ¿Äda ḥattÄ al-maÊ¿Ädi (We will not meet again until the Resurrection; l. 44). Finally, those who stayed awake keeping vigil over him can rest now that he has died, but their slumber is one of sorrow (l. 45).
The intimate tone of address to the deceased continues as al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« affirms the moral character of AbÅ« Ḥamzahâs family (l. 46), which may refer more broadly to al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«âs extended family, to begin a passage (ll. 46â53) that combines eulogy and benediction. The poet cannot bear the thought of the deceasedâs body rotting in the grave but expresses the hope that he instead lies incorruptible in the grave like a sharp polished sword protected from rust in its scabbard (ll. 47â48). This morose but elegant twist on the trope of âa sharp swordâ for âa young man in his primeâ in itself alludes to the untimeliness of the deceasedâs death. The subject of lines 49â51 is that he died still young, as though youth itself was a friend to whom he was so devoted that when it departed (i.e., he grew older), he departed with it. This quintessentially badīʾ-style formulation of the personification of time recalls (no doubt intentionally) al-MutanabbÄ«, in his first panegyric to KÄfÅ«r, boasting of his loyal nature (as opposed to the treachery of his erstwhile patron, Sayf al-Dawlah):
â® ÙÙÙÙارÙÙÙÙت٠شÙÙÙبÙÙÙ Ù ÙÙÙجÙÙع٠اÙÙÙÙÙÙب٠بÙاÙÙÙÙÙا â26â¬â¬ââ® Ø®ÙÙÙÙÙÙت٠أÙÙÙÙÙÙÙا٠ÙÙÙÙ٠رÙØÙÙÙÙت٠إÙÙÙ٠اÙصÙÙبÙا â¬â
My nature is so loyal: if I traveled back to youth again,With heavy heart and weeping eye Iâd leave grey hair behind.
An elegant two-line benediction closes our poetâs elegy and farewell, as al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« reinforces the traditional elegiac association or identification of rain, tears, and elegyâall symbols of life renewed and everlasting remembrance.27 Thus, the poet calls for both AbÅ« Ḥamzah and youth, the worthiest of all things that have departed, to be watered, morning and evening, by rainclouds and by elegies like tears (ll. 52â53).
The first image, of ever-returning rainclouds, evokes the Arab poetâs traditional benediction of the abandoned campsite of the belovedâthe locus of irrevocable loss and of the memory of that loss in the Arabic poetic tradition. There it expresses both the poetâs hope for the eternal, seasonal revival of the campsite and with it, or through it, his undying memory of the beloved. Al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«âs direct coupling of this image with the rain or tears of elegy over the dead young man reveals the shared poetics of loss and the shared hope of revival or remembranceâthat is, the revival of the memory of the departed. Al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« adds to this image a complex conceit: if the elegies were tears, they would erase the written lines as they are recited. This creates a striking image of words performatively transformed from written signs to the living voice and weeping eye memorializingârevivingâthe dead. It bears mentioning that the Frazerian Attis and Adonis myth and imagery of the dead youth and seasonal revival was native to Syria.
2.7 Closure: Consolation and Meditation of the Inevitability and Meaning of Death (ll. 54â64)
The closing passage of the elegy turns first to the objectivizing distance of gnomic expressions (ḥikam, sg. ḥikmah) of the inevitability of death, not so much as a philosophical precept as a source of comfort to AbÅ« Ḥamzahâs brother and sons. Thus, lines 54â56 offer celestial images, traditionally associated with permanence and immortality, of the most distant planet, Saturn (Zuḥal), and the most blazing one, Mars (al-MirrÄ«kh), to declare that even they are fated to be reached and extinguished by death; so too the clustered Pleaides (al-ThurayyÄ) will someday be scattered (see Chapter 6, 2. ʾAbÄ«dÅ« LuzÅ«miyyah).
Lines 57â58 turn to the deceasedâs brother, with a benediction that his life last all the longer for his brotherâs life cut short (equivalent to the conventional expression of condolence: al-bÄqÄ« fÄ« ḥayÄtika) and that his brother, al-Muḥassin, and his (AbÅ« Ḥamzahâs) sons be comforted. That AbÅ« Ḥamzahâs sons are not named suggests that, assuming he had sons, they may not have been old enough to receive the formal address of the elegy28âquite the opposite of the case in SZ 60, below, this chapter.
Al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« then (l. 59) plays on a famous line of praise by al-MutanabbÄ«, now to compare the deceased in generosity to a sea and to lament that the cisternâs remaining dregs cannot replace him, i.e., with his death, generosity has died. As with line 49, we can appreciate al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«âs twist, as certainly any Arab reader would, when we note that in al-MutanabbÄ«âs original line, his erstwhile patron, Sayf al-Dawlah of Aleppo, is compared to a scanty stream, while his new patron, KÄfÅ«r al-IkhshÄ«dÄ« of Egypt, is like a mighty sea:
â® ÙÙÙ ÙÙÙÙ ÙÙصÙÙد٠اÙبÙØÙÙر٠اسÙتÙÙÙÙÙÙ٠اÙسÙÙÙÙÙاÙÙÙÙÙا â29â¬â¬ââ® ÙÙÙÙÙاصÙÙد٠ÙÙاÙÙÙÙر٠تÙÙÙÙارÙÙ٠غÙÙÙÙرÙÙÙ â¬â
Seeking KÄfÅ«r, forsaking all others,For he who seeks the sea despises streamlets.
The wisdom of ḥikam, which took a distant and dramatic celestial tone in lines 54â56, finds a softened lyrical expression in lines 60â61. That every abode will one day be destroyed is a truism of the nasÄ«b, whose mood of nostalgic loss is evoked here, as a metonymy of death for both the dove and the lord. At the same time, the mention of the dove, here termed by its epithet warqÄʾ (dust-colored; perhaps also an onomatopoeia for its cooing?) evokes the elegiac mood and the Arabic mathal, noted by al-Baá¹alyawsÄ«: ʾakhraqu min ḥamÄmah (clumsier than a pigeon/dove). Line 61 is one of elegance and subtlety. The initial motif and diction are that of the departure that occurs at the end of the nasÄ«b. The word used here, áºÄÊ¿in is the active participle of the verb áºaÊ¿ana, which, although it can simply denote departure, is intimately associated with the departure at the end of the nasÄ«b of lovers, never to meet againâwhether the women of the belovedâs tribe departing on their howdahs (áºaÊ¿Äʾin, sg. áºaÊ¿Ä«nah), the camels that bear them (áºuÊ¿un, sg. áºaÊ¿Å«n) or, as here, the departing lover. Thus, simply by his choice of diction, the poet has evoked the entire image of tribal departure and loss of the nasÄ«b, one that serves in the Arabic tradition as a synecdoche of the ultimate loss and departure that is death.30 The young man who departs then may just as well make do with the temporary shade of the lote tree as strike a more durable tent, because death is inevitable.
At this point, we can look back to the poemâs initial rejection (or if preferred, âdeconstructionâ) of the elegy and lament, the cooing of the doves, and mourning of the bereft (ll. 1â3), followed by a graphic evocation of bodily decay: the earth beneath our feet is nothing but the decayed bones of our ancestors (ll. 4â9). However, after asserting the inevitability of death and the certainty of the afterlife (ll. 10â16), al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« calls upon the doves in line 17 to join in the lamentation, thereby initiating or reinstating the ritual conventions of elegy in perpetuating the memory of the deceased and consoling the bereft. In looking back over the poem from the perspective of line 61, we see the all-too-human concern with death at its most physicalâthe decaying of the flesh, the deathbed scene with the baffled physician and those visiting and tending the dying. The poetâs words of comfort are not for the most part the religious solace of reward in the afterlife for a virtuous life on earthâalthough he does insist on this in lines 14â15. Rather, in keeping with the performative tradition of the Arabic elegy, from pre-Islamic through Islamic times, it is the elegy itselfâas figured in the cooing of the doves, the lamenting women, the ever-returning rains, the shedding of tearsâthat comforts the bereaved and confers immortal renown onâmemorializesâthe deceased. And, within the elegy, the ḥikam or aphorisms, such as in lines 60â61, that seek to comfort the living with the knowledge that all will inevitably die.
One could imagine the elegy ending with line 61, but al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« insists on offering a closing pronouncement on the meaning of death, one that readers and commentators have found obscure and ambiguous, often quite exasperatingly so (ll. 62â64). On the other hand, he brilliantly conveys the doubt or confusion that afflicts all people when confronting death, whether they profess belief or disbelief. Al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« begins with a conundrum of sorts: AllÄhâs decree is clear, and yet men disagree about it (l. 62). I find most straightforward the explanation of TanwÄ«r: AllÄhâs command is clear to all, and yet some people seduce men into worldly, material pursuits, while others guide men toward piety and asceticism. But closer to the context of the poem, I believe, is al-KhwÄrazmÄ«âs interpretation to mean that some profess the Resurrection while others deny it. The clarity (bÄna = be clear, evident) of AllÄhâs command is contrasted with mankindâs confusion or bafflement in line 63 (ḥÄrat = to be confused, baffled). Al-Baá¹alyawsÄ« and TanwÄ«r comment in terms of the creation of Adam, that is, how a nonmaterial soul is made to inhabit a material body or how an animate being could be created from inanimate matter. More to the point in the context of an elegy and contemplation of death is, as al-KhwÄrazmÄ« understands it, that the line is concerned with manâs doubts or confusion over bodily resurrection and how dead bodies can come back to life after they have decayed. This indeed seems to be the issue at hand, particularly in light of lines 4â9.
Al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« concludes with his own authoritative yet frustratingly ambiguous and elusive pronouncement. Al-KhwÄrazmÄ« comments that this line on its surface (áºÄhirih) has one meaning, but on the inside (bÄá¹inih) another. Either: The truly wise man is not deluded [into believing that] his destiny is the corruption of the flesh, [but rather it is bodily resurrection and eternal life]. That is, it is a mistake to think that oneâs fate is nothing but the body rotting in the grave, rather, there is an afterlife of reward or punishment. Or: The truly wise man is not deluded [into thinking that] his destiny is [anything other than] the corruption of the flesh. That is, it is a mistake to think that oneâs destiny is anything other than the body rotting in the grave. I personally incline toward the first reading, through which the closing line of the poem recapitulates the movement of lines 4â15 from the images of countless generations of decomposing corpses to the reaffirmation that mankind were created for eternal life. In other words, the line could mean that there is an afterlife of reward or punishment; or it could mean that oneâs fate is rotting in the grave. Given that, in my estimation, a poet of al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«âs masterful command of language would have been unambiguously clear if he had so chosen, it seems that, as al-KhwÄrazmÄ« suggests, al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« has left behind a brainteaser for the ages. The choice is left to the readerâthe line can be read in light of oneâs own beliefs, or in light of what one imagines were al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«âs beliefs, or finally, as the conundrum that it is and, most likely, was intended to be: al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« has captured manâs inescapable anxiety and uncertainty about what lies beyond the grave.
This elegy has often been considered to adumbrate the obsessive play with (quasi-)philosophical and (quasi-)religious ideas and concepts that characterize many of the poems of Al-LuzÅ«miyyÄt. As we will see below (Chapters 5 and 6), there too al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« reaches no definitive conclusion, but rather, through a constant play and re-play of ideas, various luzÅ«miyyahs arrive at varying results.
3 The Cawing of the Crow: Saqá¹ al-Zand 60 FÄʾiyyah, RithÄʾ to al-SharÄ«f al-ṬÄhir al-MÅ«sawÄ«
The second of al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«âs elegies that we will discuss, SZ 60, stands in stark contrast in nearly every way to the first, SZ 43, as our two headings âThe Cooing of the Doveâ and âThe Cawing of the Crowâ suggest. To begin with, whereas we cannot with any precision provide a date or location for SZ 43 or identify the elegized deceased, SZ 60 clearly belongs to al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«âs sojourn in Baghdad and can be dated rather precisely to (or shortly after) al-JumÄdÄ al-ŪlÄ 400/ca. January, 1010,31 that is, the death of its marthÄ«: the distinguished ShiÊ¿i notable al-SharÄ«f AbÅ« Aḥmad al-ṬÄhir, whose lineage traces back to al-Ḥusayn ibn Ê¿AlÄ« through the seventh ShiÊ¿i ImÄm, MÅ«sÄ al-KÄáºim (d. 183/799) (whence his nisbah al-MÅ«sawÄ«).
Moktar Djebli summarizes al-SharÄ«f al-ṬÄhirâs career:
AbÅ« Aḥmad [al-Ḥusayn ibn MÅ«sÄ] al-ṬÄhir, [â¦] Dhu âl-ManÄḳib (âthe pure man of noble qualitiesâ) as the BÅ«yid amÄ«rs dubbed him, was born in 304/916â17. He was a distinguished man who was extremely influential, both in the caliphal court and among the populace, on account of his noble ancestry and his cultural eminence. In 354/965 he was appointed naḳīb or marshal of the Ê¿AlÄ«ds and given responsibility for the maáºÄlim and for the Pilgrimage. His career was interrupted in 369/979â80, in which year he was imprisoned by the BÅ«yid Ê¿Aá¸ud al-Dawla, with his brother Ê¿Abd AllÄh and numerous other dignitaries, in a fortress in ShÄ«rÄz. He had been accusedâon the basis of falsified documentsâof revealing state secrets and of abuse of trust [â¦]. The real charge against him seems to have been the mounting prestige which he enjoyed, prestige which exceeded, if Ibn TaghrÄ«birdÄ« is to be believed [â¦], that of the caliph himself. If to this is added the enormous wealth possessed by AbÅ« Aḥmad and coveted by the BÅ«yids, the true reasons behind his detention are easily deduced. It was not until 376/986 that he was freed, following the death of Ê¿Aá¸ud al-Dawla and the accession of his son Sharaf al-Dawla. Rehabilitated, he was reinstated in his official functions and all his property was restored to him.
In the political domain, al-SharÄ«f al-ṬÄhir played an important role. He was entrusted with numerous missions of mediation, all of which he accomplished successfully, through his wisdom and his diplomatic skills. Such was the case, for example, when serious conflict erupted between SunnÄ«s and ShÄ«Ê¿Ä«s at al-Karkh in 380/990. The consequences could have been very grave had it not been for the intervention of the naḳīb, who succeeded in soothing passions and putting an end to this confrontation [â¦]. Towards the end of his life, AbÅ« Aḥmad suffered poor health and lost his sight. In 400/1009â10 he died, at the age of 97 years [â¦].32
Of more immediate concern to al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« than al-SharÄ«f al-ṬÄhirâs ancestors were two of his offspring, the ImÄmÄ« ShiÊ¿i dignitaries, scholars, andâespecially for himâpoets, al-SharÄ«f al-Raá¸Ä« (359â406/970â1016) and his brother al-SharÄ«f al-Murtaá¸Ä (355â436/967â1044).33
With our knowledge that al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«âs departure from Baghdad for MaÊ¿arrat al-NuÊ¿mÄn can be dated to Ramaá¸Än 400/101034 and that AbÅ« ṬÄhir al-MÅ«sawÄ«âs death occurred in al-JumÄdÄ al-ŪlÄ 400, some four months before al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«âs departure, his elegy can be placed well into the second half of his Baghdad period. Nevertheless, the literary lore associated with the poem places it just at his arrival in Baghdad and depicts the provincial poet trying to impress himself on the literary world of the BÅ«yid-Ê¿AbbÄsid capital. The historian of Aleppo KamÄl al-DÄ«n Ibn al-Ê¿AdÄ«mâs (d. 660/1262) version of an oft-repeated (with variants) anecdote,35 which we should accept as the product of literary âmythopoesisâ rather than historical fact, serves to dramatize al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«âs entrance into the Baghdadi courtly literary scene by highlighting the stark disparity in rank and status or, in our terms, âsocialâ and âsymbolicâ capital between the blind provincial aspirant and the aristocratic masters of the Baghdad literary scene:
I heard my father, AbÅ« al-Ḥasan Aḥmad ibn Hibat AllÄh ibn AbÄ« JarÄdah, say, according to what had come down to him from his ancestors: AbÅ« al-Ê¿AlÄʾ al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« traveled from al-MaÊ¿arrah to Baghdad, and the day he arrived coincided with the death of al-SharÄ«f al-ṬÄhir [â¦], father of the two SharÄ«fs al-Raá¸Ä« and al-Murtaá¸Ä. So AbÅ« al-Ê¿AlÄʾ entered to express his condolences at the crowded session where the men of court were gathered. When he had advanced a few steps, one of the men, who did not know him, said, âWhere do you think youâre going, you dog?â âThe dog,â AbÅ« al-Ê¿AlÄʾ retorted, âis the one who doesnât know [70] words for âdogâ.â Then he recited the qaṣīdah rhymed in fÄʾ that begins: [â¦,] in which he elegizes the aforementioned SharÄ«f. When al-Raá¸Ä« and al-Murtaá¸Ä heard it, they stood up and elevated his position (rafaÊ¿Ä majlisahu), and said to him, âYou must be AbÅ« al-Ê¿AlÄʾ al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«?â âYes,â he replied. So they honored him and showed him great respect. After that he requested that he be given access to the books in the libraries (khazÄʾin) of Baghdad, so he was taken there and he memorized every single book that was read to him.36
This anecdote serves above all to depict AbÅ« al-Ê¿AlÄʾâs ârite of entryâ into the literary circles of Baghdad. As a negotiation of rank and status, it opens with an unknown provincial suffering verbal abuse and humiliation, before defending himself by competing with what is at his disposal, his âlinguistic capitalâ or âpoetic currencyâ. Further, in terms of our understanding of the exchange of qaṣīdah for a prize or reward (jÄʾizah) as ârite of exchangeâ and, in this case, ârite of incorporationâ, we find the poet presenting the elegy to the two SharÄ«fs as consolation for the loss of their father and, in return, the SharÄ«fs conferring honor and respect (âsymbolic capitalâ) upon the previously insulted newcomer poet, welcoming him to their session. Furthermore, they confer on him the one âgiftâ that the poet and scholar al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« most desiresâaccess to the libraries of Baghdad (âacademic capitalâ?). This last detail is particularly to be noted as al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« himself claimed to have eschewed composing praise poetry for monetary reward and, further, that his only goal in going to Baghdad was to use its libraries.37
In the context of our argument, the anecdote depicts above all al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«âs riposte, or challenge, in terms of âlinguistic capitalâ, and the elegy for al-SharÄ«f al-ṬÄhir as âpoetic capitalâ. A mastery of language (which in Arabic means above all of poetry and the QurʾÄn) is sufficient to compete and negotiate with inherited wealth, religious status, and political power. This anecdote by no means records a verifiable historical occurrence, but as a literary-cultural artifact, it nevertheless points to languageâincluding lexical and rhetorical masteryâas the proving ground for competition for rank and status.
These detailed, if historically unreliable, literary circumstances serve to key us in as readers to the performative goals and expectations of the poet and poem. First of all, the occasion of al-SharÄ«f al-ṬÄhirâs death provides the aspirant al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« (at whatever precise point in his Baghdad sojourn) with a public occasion to introduce or present himself and his poetry to his new Baghdadi literary audience. Chief among them were the deceasedâs two sons, both highly accomplished poets, scholars, and high-ranking ShiÊ¿i notables and functionaries in the BÅ«yid-Ê¿AbbÄsid political hierarchy. From 397/1007 on, al-SharÄ«f al-Raá¸Ä« held the offices his father once held: amÄ«r al-Ḥajj, naqÄ«b al-Ê¿AlawiyyÄ«n, and al-qÄʾim Ê¿alÄ al-maáºÄlim.38 Claude Cahen writes: âIn BaghdÄd, the brother sharÄ«fs al-Raá¸Ä« and al-Murtaá¸Ä were, throughout the whole of the first quarter of the 11th century, the real masters of the town, acting as intermediaries between the Buwayhids, the Caliphs and the population, at the same time as the ShÄ«Ê¿Ä« scholars and traditionists.â39
Although the precise date and circumstances of Ibn al-Ê¿AdÄ«mâs anecdote cannot be accepted as factual, we can nevertheless approach SZ 60 as a poem of transition, from the provinces to the capital, and therefore as the poetâs self-presentation or introduction of himself to the new literary milieu in which he hopes to be accepted. In this respect, regardless of the precise date and circumstance, the poem, as the anecdote highlights, is a test and a contest. As we have seen in our discussion of the previous qaṣīdahs, al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« strives to demonstrate his âauthorityâ and âauthenticityâ as a poet through the poem itselfâthe embodiment of, respectively, his mastery of and his originality in the motifs, themes, and structures of the qaṣīdah tradition. In this respect we can also consider the poem a bid for acceptance and inclusionâthe first ritual step in a rite of incorporation that, as we will see below in Chapter 4, was never completed.
We should keep in mind too, as we read al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«âs elegy, that al-Sharif al-ṬÄhir was quite elderly and had been blind and in poor health for some years before his death, so that his two sons had already in effect inherited many of his prestigious politico-religious offices. The poem is therefore not an elegy of intimate or personal loss on the poetâs part, but rather a public ceremony of paying oneâs respects and expressing oneâs condolences to a family and community that has suffered the loss of an eminent religious and political figure. We find, therefore, that the poem maintains a highly formal and heroic tone and employs themes appropriate to an eminent ShiÊ¿i SharÄ«f and dignitary. It plays on poetic conventions and expectations, not on personal biography, to create a strikingly original verbal memorial to the SharÄ«f. To achieve this, the poem exhibits a heightened use of badÄ«Ê¿, that is, it displays an intense, intricately wrought, and sometimes jarring rhetorical style. Although this may strike modern or Modernist tastes as overly contrived and self-conscious, the dense and innovative rhetorical expression of the badÄ«Ê¿ style, as I have demonstrated elsewhere,40 was considered by the High Ê¿AbbÄsid period to be the measure of great poetry. Furthermore, it was understood to convey simultaneously the extraordinary talent of the poet, the solemnity of the occasion, and the stature and dignity of the deceased, his sons, and the audience.
We must also keep in mind that the elegy does not play merely an immediate performative role in its particular political and social circumstances but is understood both by its immediate audience and the centuries-old tradition to memorialize the deceased for future generations. The process, a sort of âmummificationâ, involves replacing the biographical particulars of the deceasedâs life with immortal archetypes. This mythopoeic process transforms the historical individual into a lasting verbal monument.41
In terms of the structure of this elegy, we find that, as with SZ 15 and 16 (Chapter 2), the simple categorization according to the usual qaṣīdah subgenres is misleading, as the multiple performative obligations and goals of the poem are reflected in its structure. In the case of SZ 60, al-TibrÄ«zÄ« mentions it simply as elegy (rithÄʾ: wa-qÄla yarthÄ« al-SharÄ«f al-ṬÄhir al-MÅ«sawÄ«), while both al-Baá¹alyawsÄ« and al-KhwÄrazmÄ« add condolence (taÊ¿ziyah: wa-yuÊ¿azzÄ« â¦) for his two sons, al-Raá¸Ä« and al-Murtaá¸Ä. A reading of the poem, however, quickly reveals two major movements: The first (ll. 1â39) comprises elegy in the broader sense, including condolences, while the second (ll. 40â64) contains what is clearly a panegyric (madīḥ) to the two sons. As we will see below, however, these two are not arbitrarily joined. Rather, as the elegy achieves the transition of the deceased from this life to the afterlife, the panegyric to his surviving sons restores to the community a sense of stability after the crisis of loss in the poetâs guarantee of the continuing virtue and munificence of the descendants of the deceased SharÄ«f.
At the same time, this two-part thematic structure reveals the poetâs double purpose: (1) to pay his public respects to the deceased dignitary, al-SharÄ«f al-ṬÄhir; and (2) to gain entry into the exclusive Baghdadi literary coterie of the SharÄ«fs al-Raá¸Ä« and al-Murtaá¸Ä. Given al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«âs situation, even if not the precise setting provided by Ibn al-Ê¿AdÄ«mâs account, we should be very sensitive to Richard Baumanâs point that verbal art as performance supposes a critical audience who will evaluate the work against established standards.42 For the Arabic qaṣīdah, a successful performance comprises both a display of mastery of the conventions of the genreârhyme, meter, diction, motifs, rhetorical devices, structureâand innovationâto produce a work that is unique and original. In other words, what we have termed âauthorityâ and âauthenticityâ. It is worth noting here too that al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«âs adept introduction of ShiÊ¿i themes is not only poetically appropriate in an elegy for a SharÄ«f, but also demonstrates to the ShiÊ¿i-dominated literary and political circles of BÅ«yid Baghdad his mastery of and willingness to commit to, at least poetically, such ShiÊ¿i themes.
The Cawing of the Crow: Elegy to al-SharÄ«f al-ṬÄhir al-MÅ«sawÄ«
Saqá¹ al-Zand 60.43 Rhyme: -ÄfÄ«; meter: KÄmil
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ÙØ´ÙتÙÙÙ ÙÙÙ٠اÙÙ ÙصÙØ·ÙاÙÙ â¬ââ® â ٥٧ â¬Ù ÙÙÙتÙÙÙÙÙØ©Ù ÙÙ٠ظÙÙÙÙÙÙا ÙÙØÙÙرÙÙرÙÙÙا â¬ââ® ÙÙتÙÙÙÙرÙ٠إÙÙÙÙا ÙÙÙزÙÙة٠اÙØ£ÙعÙØ·ÙاÙÙ â¬ââ® â ٥٨ â¬Ø²ÙÙÙÙرÙاء٠ÙÙØÙÙÙÙÙ Ù ÙÙ٠اÙعÙÙÙÙاصÙÙÙ٠جÙÙ ÙÙرÙÙÙا â¬â⮠زÙØÙÙÙÙ ÙÙÙÙÙÙر٠اÙØÙÙÙÙÙ ÙÙÙÙÙس٠بÙØ·ÙاÙÙ â¬ââ® â ٥٩ â¬Ø³ÙØ·ÙعÙÙت٠ÙÙÙ Ùا ÙÙسÙØ·ÙÙع٠إÙØ·ÙÙÙاء٠ÙÙÙÙÙا â¬â⮠بÙÙاÙÙÙÙÙÙ Ù٠صÙÙÙÙب٠اÙÙÙÙابÙÙÙ٠اÙغÙÙرÙÙاÙÙ â¬ââ® â Ù¦Ù â¬ØªÙصÙÙÙ٠اÙÙÙÙÙÙÙÙد٠ÙÙا Ø®ÙÙ ÙÙÙد٠ÙÙÙÙÙÙ٠جÙÙرÙÙ â¬ââ® ÙÙغÙØ´ÙÙÙ Ù ÙÙÙÙازÙÙÙ ÙÙائÙÙÙÙ ÙØ¥ÙسÙاÙÙ â¬ââ® â ٦١ â¬Ø´ÙبÙÙÙت٠بÙعÙاÙÙÙÙÙة٠اÙعÙÙرÙاÙÙ ÙÙÙÙÙÙرÙÙÙا â¬ââ® ÙÙجÙÙÙاÙÙÙÙÙÙ Ù ÙÙÙرÙØÙÙبÙÙة٠اÙØ£ÙÙÙÙÙÙاÙÙ â¬ââ® â ٦٢ â¬ÙÙÙÙÙدÙÙرÙÙÙÙÙ Ù Ù ÙØ«ÙÙÙ٠اÙÙÙضÙÙاب٠رÙÙاÙÙÙدا٠â¬â⮠بÙاÙÙ ÙÙÙÙر٠خÙÙÙÙر٠٠ÙÙرÙاÙÙÙد٠ÙÙصÙØÙÙاÙÙ â¬ââ® â ٦٣ â¬Ù ÙÙÙÙ ÙÙÙÙÙ٠جÙائÙØ´Ùة٠اÙعÙØ´ÙÙÙÙÙ Ù ÙÙÙÙئÙÙØ©Ù â¬â⮠عÙظÙÙ Ùا٠ÙØ¥ÙÙÙ ØÙسÙبÙÙت٠ثÙÙاث٠أÙØ«ÙÙاÙÙ â¬ââ® â ٦٤ â¬Ø¯ÙÙÙÙ Ùاء٠راÙÙبÙØ©Ù Ø«ÙÙاثÙة٠أÙجÙبÙÙÙÙ â¬ââ® Ù ÙÙÙÙÙÙ ØÙÙ ÙÙÙÙÙÙØ©Ù Ù ÙسÙÙÙتÙÙÙÙ٠عÙجÙÙاÙÙ â¬ââ® â ٦٥ â¬ÙÙا Ù ÙاÙÙÙÙÙÙ٠سÙÙرÙØ٠اÙÙÙÙرÙÙÙض٠أÙتÙتÙÙÙÙ ÙÙا â¬â⮠تÙØ®ÙبÙÙر٠عÙÙÙ٠اÙÙÙÙÙÙا٠٠ÙاÙØ®ÙÙØ°ÙراÙÙ â¬ââ® â ٦٦ â¬Ùا تÙعÙÙرÙÙ٠اÙÙÙÙرÙÙ٠اÙÙÙÙجÙÙÙÙÙ ÙÙØ¥Ù٠تÙسÙÙÙÙ â¬ââ® ØÙسÙÙÙا٠ÙÙØ£ÙØÙسÙÙÙ٠رÙÙÙضÙØ©Ù Ù ÙئÙÙÙÙاÙÙ â¬ââ® â ٦٧ â¬ÙÙØ£ÙÙÙÙا اÙÙÙÙذ٠أÙÙÙÙدÙ٠أÙÙÙÙÙÙ٠بÙÙÙارÙØ©Ù â¬â⮠بÙÙÙÙ ÙÙا ÙÙÙÙÙ٠٠أÙسÙÙÙÙÙÙ Ø·ÙÙرÙÙÙÙ٠اÙعÙÙاÙÙÙÙ â¬ââ® â ٦٨ â¬Ø£ÙÙÙضÙعÙÙت٠ÙÙÙ Ø·ÙÙرÙÙ٠اÙتÙÙØ´ÙÙرÙÙÙ٠سÙا٠ÙÙÙا٠â¬â
He said, elegizing al-SharÄ«f al-ṬÄhir al-MÅ«sawÄ«:
Movement I: Elegy of al-SharÄ«f al-ṬÄhir (ll. 1â39)
1 He has perished!âif only the fates had desisted!âHe who was wealth for the destitute,a perfume for all to inhale!2 Pure in his fathers and offspring,In his limbs and his garments and friends.3 The thunder rumbledâno,it was a mountainOf the tribe of Ê¿Abd ManÄfcrashing to the ground.4 The clouds had held back, but then,the night of his death,They let flowa flood of tears.5 They say the sea recededâTil its raging deep became a shore.6 Surely with the death of [al-SharÄ«f al-ṬÄhir] Ḥusaynnight and day should change,Not to speak of the pearlssecreted in their shells.7 He departed, and after his deaththe shafts of the spearsBegan to tremble,the points of the spears turned dull.8 [The spears] twisted out of grieflike writhing snakesâTil their iron feet metwith their blood-stained tips.9 When the warriors saw [their twisted spears],they knewThat no bite of the adze could everstraighten them.10 The knights were distraught by sorrow,and their swordsBelow the hilt,shook violently.11 If they had tipped their scabbardsthey would have foundTheir gleaming swords now faded,their once keen blades now blunt.12 The day he died the cawing crowstook flight to announce his death,Then bewailed him to both those who follow his creed,and those who deny it.13 Sorrow held them downand weighted them with griefUntil they fluttered helplesslyupon the ground.14 Their cawing is like their wailingand their mourning clothesAre forever the black oftheir wing feathers.15 May your efforts never fail,you, agile and black (khufÄfin ʾasḥamin),Like Suḥaym al-AsadÄ«and like KhufÄf,16 [You,] a poet of separationwho recited an ode,An elegy to the SharÄ«f,that rhymed in qÄf.17 Black as a woman mourner,he shrieks incessantlyAs he strutsin full mourning garb.18 How amazing you are!45O [crow] that pecks at camelâs backs,What eloquence!What rhymes!19 [Rhymes] constructed on [the flaw of] repetition,but free of the defectsOf alternating end vowelsor changing consonants.4620 The [white] falcons and their mastersenvied him his garbWhen he announced [al-ṬÄhirâs] death to themin crow-black robe.21 All of the birds were crowsin [mourning] him,The supple[-wingèd eagles] of Mount al-SarÄhand [the red-headed sparrows] that dwell on Mount Laá¹£Äf.22 Why didnât he [flee death] by trading his bierfor his swift steedThat bounds over every lowlandand every mountain height?23 No, instead he clashed head onwith an army of deathThat does not swerve before the onslaughtof the charging [steeds].24 Have you not buried his swordbeside him in his grave?âFor to him it wasa loyal friend.25 If the dead in their decay[ing shrouds]should visit him,He will clothe them in [new] shrouds,[the gift] of a munificent man who honors his guests.26 [For surely] if God has bestowed upon himone robe of honor,He will send him many moreof the same kind.27 The keys of heaven have beenthrown down [for him to enter]And [the Angel] Riá¸wÄn stands before himto bestow upon him [whatever he desires.]28 O wearer of the coat of mailbeneath whichHe is a sea [of generosity] enclosed withina limpid pond!29 White, the blue [tips] of brown [spears]come to drink at itLike thirsty dun-hued doves coming to drinkat blue [pools] of pure water.30 The arrows land upon itand their tipsFloat on it like featherson the surface of a pond.31 When the nails (ḥirbÄʾ) [of the chainmail]are heated from battleThe chameleon (ḥirbÄʾ) glows with pridein the blasting midday heat.32 This is why you see [the chameleon]with regained prideLooking out from the tree topsin every far-flung waste.33 After you[r death], the ridershave lost all appetite for their provisions;The eager-suckling camel foalsturn from the teats.34 And now glory is not content to walk barefootout of grief,But has cast the very solesoff from its feet.35 To repeat twice âGod is greatâbefore your graveIs considered [both] an Ê¿Umrahand a Ḥajj.4736 If they could,the steeds you left behindWould raise their forelegsto [cut off] their own manes [in mourning].37 You left behind your fateangry at what it had done [to you],Though it is fateâs natureto be unjust.4838 [Then,] when you met your LordHe restored to you, because of your virtue,All that the passing of dayshad taken from you.4939 He gave you to drinkof the waters of life, [so you were] immortalized,And clothed you in the bright-striped cloakof youth.Movement II (ll. 40â68): Praise of al-SharÄ«f al-Raá¸Ä« and al-SharÄ«f al-Murtaá¸Ä
40 You have left among us two bright starswhose radiant light,Whether in the morning or the dark of night,is never hidden.41 In the meadow of noble deedsthey pasture with delightAnd radiate dominionand virtue.42 They are two [strokes of] fatewhen they attack a foe;Of generosity, two downpours;in radiance, two moons.43 They are endowed with speech so eloquentthat when they speakThe people of Najd sound likethe babbling foreigners of DiyÄf.44 Al-Raá¸Ä« is the equal of al-Murtaá¸Ä:between them they have divided,Fairly and honestly,the highlands of glory.45 First those two were bound by oathto generosity,Next came al-Aá¹har al-Mará¸Ä«, to forman oath-bound band of three!46 Your lineage is short,for your superiorityOver the [other] notables and SharÄ«fsis manifest.5047 Just as wine when it is calledâthe daughter of the vineâNeeds no lineage beyondher fatherâs name.48 Your high house did not listbut rather, out of grief,Is like a verse whose meter drops a vowel,but is still sound.5149 The sun is everlasting:if eclipsed,Its light is quick to burst forthonce again.50 For the majesty of his soul,your grandfather MÅ«sÄ [al-KÄáºim]Is thought to be [the Prophet MÅ«sÄ], the masterof SÅ«rat al-AÊ¿rÄf.51 [You are] those who light the fire of hospitalityat dawn and duskIn riverbeds and onhigh mountain tops.52 Red, its flames rise high intothe dark of nightCasting sparks [the size of]high-domed leather tents.5253 Theirs is a fire,blazing and generous;Striking itis their ancestral legacy.54 At it you drinksweet milk and honey,53And, if it were to contravene Godâs law,it would add as third the choicest wine.55 An outcast who seeks refugeis as safe asA lion of Mount SharÄ or a bird alightingat the mountain redoubt of SharÄf.56 And when ostriches come as gueststo [their fireâs] lightAmong the delicacies theyâre servedis soft-soaked colocynth.57 [Their fireâs] benefits are varied: it givesShade in summer and, in winter, heat.58 Bright, its embers withstandstormy gales;Its blaze is steady but forthe flicker of its flames.59 It has risen so high that even Saturncannot not extinguish it,For the light of truthcan never be extinguished.60 Continuously fueled,its flames are never dying,Not even if a thunder cloud poured down upon itthe entire sea.61 It was kindled in the highland of IraqBut its light reaches the abodesof NÄʾil and ʾIsÄf.5462 Their cauldrons stand as fixed and unmovableas the hills;And their deep bowls are as wideas the deserts.63 Each one aboil at evening, replenishing [for the guests]The best of serving vessels and platters,64 Blackened [from much use] and mountedon three mighty peaks,Which are, when you examine them,three trivet stones.65 O you two masters of the free grazing camel herd of poetry,here comes, from me to you,A pack camel froman emaciated drought-struck [tribe].66 She does not know the mash of leaves and date stones[that townsfolk feed their beasts];She only knows [the bitter desert plants],QullÄm and KhidrÄf.67 I am he who offers homely ox-eyeTo the loveliest of virgin meadows.68 I have hastened on the roads of honor,aspiring to reach you,I have not deigned to takethe supplicantâs path.
3.1 Elegy of al-SharÄ«f al-ṬÄhir (ll. 1â39)
3.1.1 Loss as Natural Calamity (ll. 1â6)
The poem opens with the dramatic announcement âHe has perished!â (ʾawdÄ), and immediate praise for the deceasedâs generosity and fragrance. By describing the deceased SharÄ«f in line 1 as Ê¿anbaru al-mustÄfi (lit., ambergris, perfume, to one who smells it), al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« at once engages the Arab-Islamic metaphorical and symbolic associations of fragrance with physical and moral purity and, especially as concerns the dead, the incorruptibility of the flesh. This concept is most directly conveyed through the various meanings and associations of the root á¹-y-b, the senses of which include sweetness, purity, perfume, good health, and blessingâhence, also the epithets Ṭībah for the well of Zamzam in Mecca and Ṭaybah for Medina, the city of the Prophet Muḥammad. This opening image of purifying fragrance serves as the perfect lead-in, or subliminal pun, to the simultaneous naming and describing of the deceased (l. 2), as al-ṬÄhir/á¹Ähir, that is, pure. This purity, both bodily and spiritual, is then extended, as would be appropriate in a family of ShiÊ¿i SharÄ«fs, to both his ancestors and descendants. More than just playing on the BÅ«yid honorific of the deceased, this line invokes the ShiÊ¿i dogma of the purity and infallibility of the Prophetâs family and, through the play on his epithet ṬÄhir, mythopoetically incorporates him into the holy Ahl al-Bayt.
In keeping with the religious and social stature of al-SharÄ«f al-ṬÄhir, his death is accompanied by cosmic and natural upheavals: a figurative mountain of [the sons of] Ê¿Abd ManÄf (Ê¿Abd ManÄf ibn Quá¹£ayy, the great-great-grandfather of the Prophet Muḥammad) has crashed to the ground (l. 3), and, as if all nature mourned, the clouds poured forth their rain of tears (l. 4). The image of the sea receding (l. 5) can be taken as both a natural disaster or, as the sea in Arabic poetry is a byword for generosity, the loss of a magnanimous man. Moreover, in the Islamic context, such cosmic and natural disastersâthe crumbling of mountains, collapse of night and day, receding or sinking of the seasâare well-established images of divine or cosmic might, associated, as al-Baá¹alyawsÄ« notes, with the Day of Resurrection in the QurʾÄn (e.g., QK 81:1â3, 82:1â3, 52:9â10), and in the SÄ«rah of the Prophet with the sinking and drying up of the river of al-SamÄwah and the Lake of SÄwah, in some versions Lake Tiberias, that accompanied the birth of the Prophet Muḥammad.55 These lines thus begin the mythopoetic process of incorporating the deceased into a broader Arab-Islamic mythos. This process is furthered in line 6, in which, by invoking the SharÄ«fâs name (ism) al-Ḥusayn, al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« creates a âmythic concordanceâ56 whereby he identifies the death and mourning of the present deceased with the originary ShiÊ¿i commemorative mourning of the martyrdom of his ancestor al-Ḥusayn ibn Ê¿AlÄ«. In keeping with the religio-mythic stature of the Ahl al-Bayt, the cosmic and natural disturbances occasioned by the death of al-SharÄ«f al-ṬÄhir/al-Ḥusayn extend from the largest to the smallest phenomena: night and day are overturned and even the pearls turn in their seashells.
3.1.2 Martial-Heroic badÄ«Ê¿ (ll. 7â11)
This passage serves to identify the deceased SharÄ«f as a member of the Arab-Islamic elite that conceived of itself as the legitimate heirs of the JÄhilÄ« warrior aristocracy. Given the formality of the circumstance and the religious and political stature of the deceased, the heightened rhetorical language of badÄ«Ê¿ is, for al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« and his audience, the appropriate and expected form of expression, and martial-heroic motifs are the most fitting images even for conveying grief. In other words, this is a formal and ceremonial expression of loss or lamentation, not an intimate and personal one, which would have been entirely inappropriate under the circumstances. The mourning for the dead âheroâ is thus highly stylized and weaponized, as the grief of the men, styled as warriors, is displaced onto their swords and spears. Spear shafts trembled and their points were blunted (l. 7); they twisted like writhing snakes, never to be straightened (ll. 7â9). The warriors themselves were distraught by sorrow and their swords shook so violently in their scabbards that their keen blades were dulled (ll. 10â11). The effect of displacing this excessive outburst of emotion onto the weapons is on the one hand to intensify it and on the other to avoid attributing an unseemly lack of emotional control to the men.
3.1.3 The Cawing of the Crows (ll. 12â21)
The complex and challenging literary contest in which al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« is engaged in this elegy may help explain why he has chosen to replace the conventional elegiac cooing of the doves, which we saw in SZ 43 above, with the rather unexpected, in the context of elegiac lament, motif of the crow. If al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«âs concerns in the previous lines were mythopoetic, here he adds a metapoetic element: the place of the poet (himself in particular) and poetry in the commemoration of the deceased.
Let us first take note of the conventional appearance of the crow motif in the classical Arabic poetic tradition. There are two structurally determined places in the qaṣīdah where the crow appears. The first is in the nasÄ«b, where the cawing crow, termed ghurÄb al-bayn (the crow of separation) serves as the harbinger of the imminent and inevitable departure of the belovedâs tribe and the separation of lovers who are fated never to meet again. In this respect, whereas the cooing of the dove, as we saw in SZ 43, signifies preserving and immortalizing the memory of the deceased, and the promise (âI will never forget youâ) kept, the cawing of the crow, by contrast, signifies departure, separation, and forgettingâultimately, death: the death of love, the loversâ broken promise. A classic nasÄ«b example of the harbinger of the loversâ separation is from the pre-Islamic master poet al-NÄbighah al-DhubyÄnÄ«:
â® ÙÙ ÙÙا تÙÙزÙÙ٠بÙرÙØÙاÙÙÙÙا ÙÙÙÙØ£ÙÙÙ ÙÙÙد٠â¬â⮠أÙÙÙÙد٠اÙتÙÙÙرÙØÙÙÙÙ٠غÙÙر٠أÙ٠رÙÙÙابÙÙÙا â¬ââ® ÙبÙذا٠خÙبÙÙÙرÙÙÙا اÙغÙÙداÙ٠اÙØ£ÙسÙÙÙÙد٠â¬â⮠زÙعÙÙ٠٠اÙغÙÙراب٠بÙØ£Ù٠رÙØÙÙÙتÙÙÙا غÙÙدا٠â¬â⮠إÙÙ ÙÙا٠تÙÙÙÙرÙÙÙÙ٠اÙØ£ÙØÙبÙÙÙØ©Ù ÙÙ٠غÙÙد٠â57â¬â¬ââ® Ùا Ù ÙÙرÙØÙبÙا٠بÙغÙÙد٠ÙÙا Ø£ÙÙÙا٠بÙÙ â¬â
The departure was close at hand, except that our camels had not yetDeparted, though it seemed as if they had.The cawing of the crow proclaims that our departure is tomorrow,Thus the black full-feathered crow informed us.There will be no greeting tomorrow, no welcome,If the separation of loved ones comes tomorrow.
In the conceptualizing metapoesis of the badÄ«Ê¿ poetry of the Ê¿AbbÄsid MuḥdathÅ«n, al-MutanabbÄ« reveals that all along this motif associated with lovers in nasÄ«b ghazalÄ« (amorous or erotic nasÄ«b) conveyed a deeper sense of existential fatalism, akin to gnomic aphorism (ḥikmah) or moral admonition (waÊ¿áº):
⮠أÙبÙÙدا٠غÙÙراب٠اÙبÙÙÙÙÙÙ ÙÙÙÙÙا ÙÙÙÙعÙÙÙÙ â58â¬â¬â⮠أÙبÙÙÙÙ٠أÙبÙÙÙÙا ÙÙØÙÙÙ٠أÙÙÙÙÙÙ Ù ÙÙÙازÙÙÙ â¬â
O brothers, we are the people of abodesIn which the crow of separation is forever cawing.
As with the motif and diction of the cooing of the dove, etymology and morphology reinforce the poetic sense for the crow: ghurÄb (crow) is derived from the root gh-r-b, which denotes departure, alienation, estrangement, while in respect to morphology, the fuÊ¿Äl form tells us that it is meant to convey the harsh sound of the crowâs cawingâonomatopoeia.
The second traditional occurrence of the crow in the Arabic qaṣīdah is distinct from the first in terms of both image and structural position. This is the image of the crow as scavenger and carrion eater, like the vulture, which occurs at or near the end of poems, often elegies, involving blood vengeance. Thus, we read in the pre-Islamic poet al-Muhalhil ibn RabÄ«Ê¿ahâs elegy to his brother Kulayb the poetâs oath of vengeance:
â® ÙÙتÙÙÙÙ٠بÙÙÙÙÙÙÙ ÙÙÙرÙارÙØ©Ù ÙÙ ÙÙÙاÙÙ â¬ââ® ÙÙÙÙØ£ÙتÙÙرÙÙÙÙÙÙ٠بÙÙÙÙ ÙÙبÙÙائÙÙÙÙ ÙائÙÙÙÙ â¬ââ® ÙÙÙÙÙÙØ´ÙÙÙÙÙÙا ÙØÙÙÙÙاجÙÙÙ٠اÙغÙÙرÙبÙÙاÙÙ â59â¬â¬ââ® ÙÙتÙÙÙÙ٠تÙعÙاÙÙرÙÙÙا اÙÙÙÙسÙÙÙر٠أÙÙÙÙÙÙÙÙا â¬â
Surely for [Kulayb] I will leave the tribes of WÄʾilslain in every dwelling and abode,Slain, with vultures tearing at their hands by turns,and hopping crows.
In the poetry or elegies of blood vengeance, we find the âhopping crowsâ (ḥawÄjilu al-ghirbÄni), not the cawing âcrow of departureâ (ghurÄb al-bayn) of the nasÄ«b. The former are associated with the vultures that hop awkwardly, as if shackled, as they feast on the dead. The carrion-eating vultures and crows are part of the imagery of the unavenged dead, who lie unburied, forgotten, and not elegized. Discrete as the cawing crow of the nasÄ«b ghazalÄ« and the hopping scavengers at the end of blood-vengeance elegies are, the images share the same sinister character, one associated with alienation and abandonment rather than familiarity and the preserving of memory.
Nowhere is the contrast between association of the dove with felicitous domesticity and the crow with sinister foreboding of separation so clear as in the rendering of the Nūḥ story (Noahâs Ark) in the popular Stories of the Prophets (Qiá¹£aá¹£ al-AnbiyÄʾ). A version related in al-ThaÊ¿labÄ«âs ArÄʾis al-MajÄlis serves as an etiological myth both for the untamed balefulness of the carrion-eating crow and for the tame domesticity of the ringdove and origin of its ring:
When his apostles ask ʿĪsÄ Ibn Mariam (Jesus) to revive for them someone who has witnessed Noahâs Ark (safÄ«nat Nūḥ), he revives the dead bones of SÄm (Shem) the son of Nūḥ:
⦠ʿĪsÄ asked him: âHow did Nūḥ know that the land had dried up?â He replied: âNūḥ sent a crow to bring him information, but it found a corpse and fell upon it and then was too distracted [eating] to return. So Nūḥ cursed the crow with fear [of mankind], and that is why it avoids human habitations. Then he sent a dove, and it came back with an olive leaf in its beak and mud on its feet, so he knew that the land had dried up. Then he put the green ring around its neck and blessed it to be tame and feel safe in human dwellingsâ.60
In his crow passage al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« presents a tour de force of lexical exploration and mythical innovation. The passage opens (l. 12) with the cawing of the crow as the death announcement (naÊ¿y) and then proceeds in the following lines to create a powerful metapoetic identification of the crow with the poet-elegistâspecifically, al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« himself. As he did in the dove passage of SZ 43, al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« creates a poetic meta-language in which the signifier appears to be not arbitrarily assigned but inherent in and essential to the signified. The crow in al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«âs poem is essentially, not merely conventionally, a harbinger or announcer of death, as the words themselves reveal. This is conveyed in line 12 through the jinÄs nÄqiá¹£ (partial jinÄs, rootplay) between nawÄÊ¿ib (f.pl., cawing ones, crows, sg. nÄÊ¿ibah; from naÊ¿aba, to caw, which takes two onomatopoetic-form maá¹£dars, faÊ¿Ä«l and fuÊ¿Äl), and the equally onomatopoetic nawÄÊ¿Ä« (f.pl., death announcers, sg. nÄÊ¿iyah; from naÊ¿Ä/yanÊ¿Ä/naÊ¿y). That is, in poetic language, an overlapping or similar sound, here in the two shared root letters (n-Ê¿-) and the fawÄÊ¿il participial form, indicates an overlapping or shared meaning. Meaning is phonologically and morphologically motivated, not arbitrary.
With a delicate diplomatic touch, al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« adds that this ShiÊ¿i notableâs death was announced to all, both those who agreed with him and those who did not (l. 12). This is not a simple case of merism, but presumably refers to ShiÊ¿is and non-ShiÊ¿is (Sunnis), all of whom are presumable stricken by the SharÄ«fâs death, the latter group including the poet himself. The two religio-political factions are thus presented as a âcommunityâ and the loss of the ShiÊ¿i notable as a âcommunalâ loss. This points as well to the role of rituals of mourning in reestablishing and reaffirming communal bonds after a tragedy or loss.
Line 13 is to my mind the most interesting of this passage, for it plays in an almost macabre way with a conventional image and celebrated line of blood-vengeance poetryâthe vultures so bloated and weighed down by the flesh that they have consumed that they stumble about, unable to take flight. This occurs toward or at the end of a celebrated poem from AbÅ« TammÄmâs ḤamÄsah, known as the RithÄʾ of Taʾabbaá¹a Sharran, the pre-Islamic á¹¢uÊ¿lÅ«k (brigand) poet:
⮠تÙتÙØ®ÙØ·ÙÙÙاÙÙÙÙ Ù ÙÙÙ ÙÙا تÙسÙتÙÙÙÙÙÙÙ â61â¬â¬ââ® ÙÙعÙتÙاÙ٠اÙØ·ÙÙÙÙÙر٠تÙÙÙÙÙÙ٠بÙØ·ÙÙاÙÙا٠â¬â
At morn the ancient vultures flap about, their bellies bloated,Unable to take flight, they tread upon the dead.
In al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«âs elegy, however, it is grief, not glutting on the corpses of fallen enemies, that so weighs down the crows that they cannot rise in flight (l. 13).
Once again in line 14, as in line 12, al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« employs jinÄs nÄqiá¹£ to identify sound and sense both etymologically and morphologically (faÊ¿Ä«l-form noun for sounds) as he likens the crowsâ naÊ¿Ä«b (cawing) with their naḥīb (wailing) before proceeding from the auditory to the visual, to compare the crowsâ black plumage with black mourning garb.
In the ensuing lines al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« develops an extended metapoetic passage as he identifies the cawing of the crow with rithÄʾ (elegy), which, of course, leads to the identification of the crow with the poet himself. He begins apostrophizing a single crow in line 15 and calls it nimble or slight (khufÄf) and black (ʾasḥam) before comparing it with two Black poets of the JÄhiliyyah, Suḥaym (âBlackieâ), a slave of the BanÅ« ḤasḥÄs and client of the BanÅ« al-Asad, and KhufÄf (âSlimâ) ibn Ê¿Amr ibn al-SharÄ«d al-SulamÄ«, known after his slave mother as Ibn Nudbah/Nadbah, one of the pre-Islamic poet-knights.62 These are among the group of Black pre-Islamic poets, including also Ê¿Antarah ibn ShaddÄd and Sulaym ibn al-Sulakah, known in the Arabic tradition by the epithet ʾAghribat al-Ê¿Arab (The Crows of the Arabs).63 This brings al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«âs linguistic game full circle. The sad ironyâhere as also in his RisÄlat al-GhufrÄn (Epistle of Forgiveness)âis that in identifying his own elegy with that of the black crows and ʾAghribat al-Ê¿Arab, al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« is identifying the blackness of their plumage or skin not with his complexion but with his blindness.64 In the clearly self-referential line 16, then, the conventional âcrow of separationâ now becomes âa poet of separationâ (shÄÊ¿irin li-l-bayni), that is, the elegist, who recites a qaṣīdah rhymed in qÄf elegizing the SharÄ«f. By ârhymed in qÄf,â he means the unvarying caw of the crow, ghÄq ghÄq. In this we have a charming metapoesis on al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«âs part. For just as in Arab tradition the cooing of the dove memorializes the dead, as we saw in SZ 43 with the slain HadÄ«l, in al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«âs poem the cawing of the crow elegizes al-SharÄ«f al-ṬÄhir. In this process of insinuating himself (metapoetically or metaphorically), not only into the poetic tradition but also into the ancient mythos of the Arabs, al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« is engaged in a very personal form of mythopoesis.
Al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« does not stop there, however, but proceeds to develop his metapoetic conceit further. In line 17 he creates a double simile through which he compares the crowsâ incessant cawing and their black plumage to the wailing of mourning women dressed in black. If mourning as memorializing is expressed through the figure of the cooing of the dove, mourning as lamentation is figured in the cawing of the black crow. We may understand this contrast in terms of the Sunni prohibition or disapproval of excessive mourning of the dead (niyÄḥah) with the ShiÊ¿i tradition of the public lamentation rituals (taÊ¿ziyah) of the martyrdom of al-Ḥusayn at KarbalÄʾ (65/684), which is reexperienced or reperformed with each new loss.65
The last four lines (18â21) continue to celebrate the crowâs poetic talents, praising his eloquence and rhymes (l. 18). The conceit continues (l. 19) as al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« notes that the crowâs poem is built on the poetic flaw ʾīá¹Äʾ (repeating the same rhyme word too oftenâsince he says nothing but ghÄq ghÄq), but is free from other rhyme flaws, such as ʾiqwÄʾ (alternating the final vowel in the nominative and genitive, -u and -i), ʾikfÄʾ (alternating lÄm and nÅ«n or other phonetically close letters in the rhyme consonant), ʾiá¹£rÄf (like ʾiqwÄʾ, but alternating with the accusative/-a) (following al-TibrÄ«zÄ«âs definitions).
Adding to the charm of this conceit is its recognizable derivation from a metapoetic image by AbÅ« TammÄm, who describes his own newly composed lines of poetry for Ibn AbÄ« DuʾÄd, the chief qÄá¸Ä« of Baghdad in the reign of al-MuÊ¿taá¹£im, as âvirgin meanings,â which he likens to camels in a caravan driven toward the mamdūḥ:66
â® ÙÙÙÙÙÙÙÙا سÙائÙÙ٠عÙجÙÙÙÙ ÙØÙاد٠â¬â⮠إÙÙÙÙÙÙ٠بÙعÙØ«ÙÙت٠أÙبÙÙÙار٠اÙÙ ÙعÙاÙÙÙ â¬ââ® ÙÙÙÙادÙÙÙ ÙÙجÙÙ ÙاجÙÙÙ Ù ÙاÙÙÙÙÙادÙÙ â¬â⮠جÙÙÙائÙر٠عÙÙ Ø°ÙÙÙابÙÙ٠اÙÙÙÙÙÙÙ Ù ØÙÙÙÙرÙÙ â¬ââ® Ù ÙÙÙ٠اÙØ¥ÙÙÙÙاء٠ÙÙÙÙا ÙاÙسÙÙÙÙاد٠â¬ââ® Ø´ÙÙداد٠اÙØ£ÙسÙÙر٠سÙاÙÙÙ ÙÙة٠اÙÙÙÙÙÙاØÙÙ â¬â
Trans. Raymond FarrinI sent to you, with singing caravan leader and camel driverHurrying behind, Virgin meanings.Turning away on a dark night from the tail of the caravan,Guiding the party at the neck and the head.They are firmly girded and free at the endsFrom the vices of iqwÄʾ and sinÄd.
Al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«âs surprising and charming conceit of the cawing of the black-plumed crows as mourners lamenting the deceased SharÄ«f thus reveals a multilayered innovation achieved precisely through the minute manipulation of the elements of a firmly established tradition. This innovation begins with his transposing the cawing of the crow to the position and function of the cooing of the dove as a metaphor for the poet and his elegy; next he alludes to AbÅ« TammÄmâs metapoetic conceit of lines of poetry as flawless lines of camels in a caravan; and finally he makes the further metapoetic identification of his own blindness/blackness and poetry with, first, his avian antecedents, the cawing crows, and then his poetic predecessors, the Crows of the Arabs (ʾAghribat al-Ê¿Arab).
The closing two lines of the passage (20â21) seem to address the jealous and competitive nature of the poetic enterprise, even in elegizing the deceased SharÄ«f. To say that the falcons envied the black-robed crow in announcing the death of the SharÄ«f, i.e., elegizing him, can only mean that the other poets envied al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«, that is, his elegy (l. 21). Likewise, that the eagles of Mount al-SarÄh and sparrows of Mt. Laá¹£Äf became crows in mourning him can only mean that the other poets were imitating the blind poet of MaÊ¿arrat al-NuÊ¿mÄn.
3.1.4 Martial-Heroic Death, Afterlife, and Elegy (ll. 22â32)
Al-SharÄ«f al-ṬÄhir died after a long and illustrious career as a ShiÊ¿i dignitary and diplomat, and the high regard in which he was held is indicated by the honorific the BÅ«yids bestowed on him, DhÅ« al-ManÄqib (Possessor of Virtues). As one of the obligations of rithÄʾ (elegy) is to recognize and memorialize the rank and status of the deceased, he must embody the martial-heroic ideology of the ruling elite; and in the JÄhilÄ« tradition to which this elite was heir, the elegy was closely bound to the obligation to commemorate and avenge the fallen warrior. In the regrettable case that a warrior died in bed instead of in battle, the âconceitâ of a heroic death in battle was often, nevertheless, maintained.67 Therefore, although the blind and elderly al-SharÄ«f al-ṬÄhir did not die on the battlefield, the sort of intimate familial death scene of AbÅ« Ḥamzah that we witnessed in SZ 43 would be unseemly, given the rank of the deceased and the public ceremonial solemnity of the occasion. Al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« handles this masterfully by presenting the SharÄ«fâs death as âheroic combatâ. First, he invokes the SharÄ«fâs bounding battle steed, asking rhetorically why he does not exchange it for his bier, and thus flee death (l. 22). The SharÄ«f, however, spurns such an unmanly flight, and instead in line 23 his death is presented in purely martial-heroic terms as a (metaphorical) âclash head on with an army of deathâ in which, in high heroic fashion, he did not flinch before the ineluctable âarmy of death that does not swerve before the onslaught of the charging [steeds]â (following esp. TanwÄ«r). The martial imagery concludes (l. 24) in styling the SharÄ«fâs sword his loyal friend, at which point the poet turns to the other most celebrated heroic virtue, generosity.
Through the image of the magnanimous patron who bestows precious robes upon his guests as they depart, al-SharÄ«f al-ṬÄhir is presented, even in death, as honoring his dead guests by replacing their decayed and worn-out shrouds with new ones (l. 25). The motif of the conferring of garments continues in line 26, where it is now God bestowing countless robes of honor on the SharÄ«f. Given the centrality of the rulerâs ritual bestowal of the khilÊ¿ah (robe of honor) in Arab-Islamic court ceremonial of the Ê¿AbbÄsid period,68 and the innumerable honors that the BÅ«yids bestowed upon the SharÄ«f in his lifetime, we can recognize this image as the elevation of the SharÄ«fâs worldly political status to its otherworldly spiritual counterpart. The concept of the recognition and perpetuation of the SharÄ«fâs rank and status in the world to come is further figured in line 27 as Riá¸wÄn, the gatekeeper of heaven, throws him the keys and stands ready at his service.
The martial-heroic tone returns once more in lines 28â32 as al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« invokes the deceased as âwearer of the coat of mail,â and proceeds to reprise the poetic motifs and rhetorical figures associated with chainmail. Playing on bodies of water, he refers to the SharÄ«f as a âsea,â that is, of generosity, âenclosed within a limpid pondââthat is, the conventional likening of chainmail to the wind-rippled surface of a pond. The martial imagery in line 29 employs the figure of murÄÊ¿Ät al-naáºÄ«r (joining like elements) and plays with the poetic conventions of color epithets, which are almost a poetic code: white (bayá¸Äʾ) = the iron of chainmail or the sword; blue (zurq) = steel spear points; brown (sumr) = spear shafts; (wurq) dun, ash-colored = doves; and once again, blue (zurq), now = pools of water. These he joins to create a compound simile in which the flights of spears that come to drink (blood) from the SharÄ«fâs chainmail are likened to flights of doves coming to drink at a clear pond. Thus, the verbal likeness is made to replicate the visual likeness. The compound simile continues (l. 30) by likening the arrows landing on the impenetrable chainmail to the dovesâ feathers floating on a pond.
The two final lines (31â32) turn once more to a conceit based on verbal play on ḥirbÄʾ, a homonym for both the ânailsâ of chainmail and the âchameleonâ (al-KhwÄrazmÄ« suggests that ḥirbÄʾ is used metaphorically for the chameleon because it sits motionless in the heat of the day as if ânailedâ to the spot). Thus, the chameleon, heated by the midday sun, glows with pride over its identification with the battle-heated nails of the coat of mail. As with many of the long and elaborate descriptive passages, these lines (28â32) of the extended metonymy of the coat of mail for the warrior, serve at once to extol and perpetuate the status of the SharÄ«f as a member of the warrior aristocracy of the Arab-Islamic elite and to exhibit the elegistâs mastery of and innovation in the poetic tradition.
3.1.5 Grieving and Restoration (ll. 33â39)
The closing passage of the elegy section of the poem combines images of the bereavement and grief that the SharÄ«f has left in the wake of his death in this world (ll. 33â37) and, by contrast, of his reward of ever-lasting life in the next (ll. 38â39). The poet addresses the deceased directly in the 2m.sg., which has the effect of making the passage at once more intimate on the poetâs part and at the same time more authoritative. The images (ll. 33â34) begin with grief-stricken riders who have lost their appetite for their provisions, but then move to conceits from the natural and conceptual world: of camels, out of grief, losing their appetite for their fodder and their young refusing their mothersâ teats (l. 33). Glory is personified as going barefoot until the soles of its feet wear out (l. 34). Invoking the religious stature of the SharÄ«f and ShiÊ¿i rituals of pilgrimage (ziyÄrah) to the graves of the SharÄ«fs (sg. mazÄr), pious recitations at his grave are equated with the Ê¿Umrah (Lesser Pilgrimage) and the ritual circumambulation (of the Ḥajj) (l. 35).69 Even his steeds, if they could, would raise their hooves to cut their manes, a conceit derived, the commentators tell us, from the Arab custom of cutting off the hair of the mane and tail of the deceased warriorâs steed (l. 36). Line 37 suggests that the SharÄ«f, far from being a victim of capricious fate, intentionally abandoned this world out of anger at the injustice of the times or fate. This insistent employ of the poetic motifs specific to the âwarrior aristocracyâ reflects the religious, political, and social standing of the SharÄ«f and his family and is silent on his state of frailty and advanced age at the time of his death.
The two closing lines of this passage (ll. 38â39), and of the elegy section as a whole, provide a clear and elegant expression of the belief that the virtuous will be rewarded in the next world with everlasting life. Moreover, the poetâs voice has assumed the authority to announce, or pronounce in a subtly performative sense, the SharÄ«fâs salvation: the restoration of youthful vigor and beautyâperhaps especially effective given the advanced age and poor health of the SharÄ«f at the time of his deathâand immortality. The perfect tense (al-mÄá¸Ä«) (ll. 37â39) has the force of declaration of absolute fact: âyou left behindâ (fÄraqta); âyou met your Lordâ (wa-laqÄ«ta rabbaka); âHe restored to you [⦠what] the passing of days had takenâ (fa-istaradda) (i.e., youth and life) (l. 38) ⦠âHe gave you to drink of the waters of lifeâ (wa-saqÄka ʾamwÄha al-ḥayÄti) (l. 39). With a striking directness, simplicity, and transparency of expression, al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« has in these lines transferred the deceased al-SharÄ«f al-ṬÄhir from this world to the next and conferred upon him the reward for his virtues: restored youth and life everlasting. In other words, the poem and the poet have brought us from the communal and cosmic crisis of the SharÄ«fâs death, âHe has perished!â (ʾawdÄ) to the restoration and reward of life everlasting in the world to come. It is of note that the language and rhetoric in these lines (37â39) are very simple, direct, and unadornedââprosaicâ (transparent as opposed to rhetorically opaque), which, as I have pointed out elsewhere, is typical of what I term the âritual coreâ of the poem.70 This very simplicity, in contrast to the ornate badÄ«Ê¿ figures of the dense rhetorical texture of the poem, thus points to the ritual essence of the poemâthe immortalization of the deceased, not merely in the poetic memory, but in the Islamic afterlife. The poet has, in effect, assumed and performed a sacerdotal function. It is worth noting how strikingly at odds the poetâs total self-assurance and authority in making this pronouncement of the SharÄ«fâs salvation in the world to come is with his musings and ambiguity on the subject of death and the afterlife in SZ 43, the elegy to the young ḤanafÄ« faqÄ«h AbÅ« Ḥamzah. This should serve as yet another indication of how elegiac demands and expectations differ according to the rank, degree, and circumstances of the deceased via-à -vis the poet and society at large.
If the elegy has restored the deceased to eternal youth in the heavenly garden, the panegyric to al-SharÄ«f al-ṬÄhirâs surviving sons (ll. 40â68) serves not merely to praise them, but to restore the community, that is, to assure it that this illustrious lineage of virtue and munificence is still intact.
3.2 Madīḥ for al-SharÄ«f al-Raá¸Ä« and al-SharÄ«f al-Murtaá¸Ä (ll. 40â68)
3.2.1 Transition and General Praise (ll. 40â45)
Line 40 serves as a line of transition (ḥusn al-takhalluá¹£) from the purely elegiac first section, which achieves the transition from shock, then eulogy and mourning, and finally the eternal salvation of the deceased, to the second section, which consists of a panegyric to the two older sons, the successors of the deceased, and heirs to his illustrious lineage, al-SharÄ«f al-Raá¸Ä« and al-SharÄ«f al-Murtaá¸Ä. The poet at first continues to employ the 2m.sg., addressing the deceased SharÄ«f, but turns now to his earthly legacy, with the comforting image of âtwo bright starsâ that are ânever fading.â With this the poet restores the loss of the bereft community with the promise of the perpetual blessing of the deceased SharÄ«fâs sons and descendants. In this respect, we should keep in mind that the elegy as a whole, including this praise section, is a verbal component of a public ceremony aimed at reassuring, restoring, and restabilizing the community after a cataclysmic loss or disruption. Of course, we should understand that cataclysm or disruption as religious and political rather than natural and cosmic.
The ensuing presentations of the virtues of the two sons (and to a lesser degree their younger brother, l. 45) is intended not just as an encomium for them; the poet is putting on notice both the two mamdūḥs and the broader community that the legacy of virtue and magnanimity will be perpetuated. This âdeclaration of allegianceâ to the SharÄ«fâs heirs was no doubt intended to have a political impact as well, as the poet promotes the continuity of a powerful religio-political family dynasty. In what was no doubt an astute political calculation, al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« is careful to keep the two older brothers on an equal footing as he rehearses the virtues of nobility and discernment (taʾÄnnaqa with meadow means to delight, rejoice in a beautiful meadow; otherwise, to be refined, of exquisite taste; Lane, ʾ-n-q) (l. 41); the paired values of military might and generosity (l. 42), and eloquence (l. 43). As the poet reaffirms their equal virtue and status, he also offers some inclusion to their younger brother, al-Aá¹har al-Mará¸Ä«, as all three are sworn to a pact of generosity (ll. 44â45).
3.2.2 Illustrious Lineage (ll. 46â50)
In traditional Arab-Islamic culture, as in most traditional societies, character, whether virtuous or base, was understood to be an inherited trait. Therefore, in qaṣīdahs of praise, boast, and elegy the theme of ancestral virtue and its perpetuation is standard, if not indeed requisite. As if to reinforce this, its opposite is also true: in satire or invective (hijÄʾ) the theme of base ancestry or lineage makes powerful ammunition. With respect to the Family of the Prophet, who were accorded great esteem and devotion by all Muslims, and in particular in the ancestral line of the ShiÊ¿i ImÄms and their descendants, the theme of lineage takes on as well a powerful religious significance.
Al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« opens this passage, in which he addresses all three brothers, quite ingeniously with what sounds at first blush like hijÄʾ: âYour lineage is shortâ (ʾantum dhawÅ« al-nasabi al-qaṣīri)! This expression is entirely ambiguous (dhÅ« al-wajhayn), as it can equally mean âYou are nobodies!â or âYou are so famous, there is no need to invoke your lineageâ. The ambiguity is immediately resolved, however, in the following: âyour superiorityâ over others is âmanifestâ (fa-á¹awlukum bÄdin â¦), playing on a á¹ibÄq (antithesis) of short/length (qaṣīr/á¹awl). The idea is that they themselves and their deceased father are of such superiority and enjoy such high repute that their longer nasab seems redundant: like fine wine (âthe daughter of the vineâ) they need no lineage further than their father (l. 47). Al-Baá¹alyawsÄ« cites the anecdote about the renowned father and son duo of rajaz poets of the Umayyad period, al-Ê¿AjjÄj and Ruʾbah ibn al-Ê¿AjjÄj: âWhen Ruʾbah went to the famed genealogist Daghfal, Daghfal asked him, âWho are you?â âRuʾbah ibn al-Ê¿AjjÄj,â he answered. âYou have been brief and identified yourself (qaṣṣarta wa-Ê¿arrafta),â replied Daghfalâ (Baá¹al., l. 47).
The next two lines elegantly introduce the elegiac element within the panegyric theme. Line 48 invokes the prosodic rules of ziḥÄf (the permissible dropping of a short vowel; for example, in the present al-KÄmil meter, mutafÄÊ¿ilun becomes mustafÊ¿ilun). In a sort of prosodic performance of this conceit, the first foot of each hemistich of line 48 exhibits ziḥÄf, yet the line is beautiful and sound. So too, with the loss of al-SharÄ«f al-ṬÄhir, their âhigh houseâ (that is, high-rank) does not list, but rather, like this âexquisite line,â with an âimperceptibleâ ziḥÄf, it remains sound and strong.71 In addition to this pun on bayt (house; line of poetry) in which baytukumu al-rafÄ«Ê¿u means both âyour high (or high-ranking) houseâ and âyour exquisite line of poetry,â this expression evokes the pre-Islamic precedent of the âhigh-roofed houseâ (baytan rafÄ«Ê¿an samkuhu) of LabÄ«dâs MuÊ¿allaqah:
â® ÙÙسÙÙ ÙÙا Ø¥ÙÙÙÙÙÙÙÙ ÙÙÙÙÙÙÙÙÙا ÙÙغÙÙÙا٠ÙÙÙÙا â72â¬â¬ââ® ÙÙبÙÙÙÙÙ ÙÙÙÙÙا بÙÙÙتÙا٠رÙÙÙÙعÙا٠سÙÙ ÙÙÙÙÙÙ â¬â
[The Sovereign] built for us a high-roofed houseTo which the tribesmen mount, both youth and full-grown men.
In both cases, the pre-Islamic and the BÅ«yid-Ê¿AbbÄsid ShiÊ¿i, the âhouseâ is a metaphor for tribal or hereditary political and moral might and status deriving from divine favor or appointment.
Then in a powerful line reminiscent of al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«âs dramatic restoration of Ê¿AlÄ« ibn JalabÄt (Chapter 2, SZ 15, l. 68), al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« proffers another image for the unfailing restoration of the SharÄ«fsâ familial glory: he likens them to the eternal sun and the loss of al-SharÄ«f al-ṬÄhir to an eclipse, after which the light bursts forth once more (l. 49).
The closing line of this passage (50) nevertheless reinforces the specifically ShiÊ¿i and more broadly Islamic religious lineageâboth genealogical and spiritualâthrough a âhidden playâ (jinÄs al-ʾishÄrah/implied jinÄs) on the name MÅ«sÄ. The identification of their ancestor or âgrandfatherâ, through whom they trace their lineage, the seventh Twelver ShiÊ¿i ImÄm, MÅ«sÄ al-KÄáºim, with the âMaster of SÅ«rat al-AÊ¿rÄfâ (á¹£Äḥiba sÅ«rati al-ʾaÊ¿rÄfi) (see QK 7:103â155), that is, the Prophet MÅ«sÄ (Moses), goes beyond a shared name, to indicate their shared moral and spiritual qualities. Certainly al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«âs identification of the seventh ImÄm with the Prophet Moses is intended to convey the divine appointment of both.
The effect of this passage, which on the surface we could categorize as praise (madḥ), is not merely to offer praise to the deceasedâs three sons through extoling their lineage, but also, in doing so, to ensure both those immediate addressees and the broader audience or community of the continuity, indeed perpetuity, of this powerful and illustrious religio-political line of SharÄ«fs. Al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« ties them morally to the Prophet MÅ«sÄ of the QurʾÄn and genealogically to the line of ShiÊ¿i ImÄms going back via al-Ḥusayn to Ê¿AlÄ« ibn AbÄ« ṬÄlib and FÄá¹imah, to the Prophet. The effect is to present the three sons as heirs to high status and exemplary virtueâa heritage that they will perpetuate.
3.2.3 The Fire of Generosity (ll. 51â64)
The centerpiece of the praise section and of al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«âs poetic performance is an extended passage on the most extolled of Arab virtues, generosity to the guest, the stranger, the refugee. He chooses as the dominant motif for his panegyric tour-de-force a traditional one: that of the generous man who lights a fire at night on a hilltop for travelers to see and come to accept his hospitality. In the poem of fakhr (boast) renowned for its codification of the ethos of the Arab tribal warrior aristocracy, most often attributed to the pre-Islamic al-Samawʾal ibn Ê¿ÄdiyÄʾ al-YahÅ«dÄ«, we read:
â® ÙÙا Ø°ÙÙ ÙÙÙÙÙا ÙÙ٠اÙÙÙÙÙازÙÙÙÙÙÙ ÙÙÙزÙÙÙÙÙ â73â¬â¬ââ® ÙÙ Ùا Ø£ÙØ®ÙÙ ÙÙدÙت٠ÙÙار٠ÙÙÙÙا دÙÙÙÙ Ø·ÙارÙÙÙ â¬â
No fire of ours is extinguished to keep the night traveler awayAnd no stranger who alights among us finds fault with us.
The power of this motif is evident from its opposite, the worst of all vices, stinginess or avarice, which is a staple motif of hijÄʾ, as we saw in al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«âs invective against the BanÅ« Ê¿Uqayl (Chapter 2, SZ 15, ll. 49â59). Ibn RashÄ«q cites as the best example of hijÄʾ in Arabic poetry the line by the Umayyad poet al-Akhá¹al al-TaghlibÄ« aimed at the BanÅ« YarbÅ«Ê¿, the clan of his rival poet JarÄ«r:
â® ÙÙاÙÙÙا ÙØ£ÙÙ ÙÙÙÙÙ٠٠بÙÙÙÙÙÙ٠عÙÙ٠اÙÙÙÙÙار٠â¬ââ® ÙÙÙÙÙ٠٠إÙذا اسÙتÙÙÙبÙÙØ٠اÙØ£ÙضÙÙÙاÙÙ ÙÙÙÙبÙÙÙÙÙ Ù â¬â
They are a tribe who, when approaching guests make their dog bark,Say to their mother, âPee on the fire!â
So stingy are they, Ibn Rashīq remarks, that they will not spare water to put out the fire (so as not to attract night travelers), and moreover, their fire is so small that one pee by an old woman (not to waste precious water!) is enough to extinguish it.74
In stark contrast to al-Akhá¹alâs line, al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«âs line 51 opens with the accusative of praise for âthose who light the fire of hospitality [for guests]â (al-mÅ«qidÄ« nÄra al-qirÄ), not merely on hilltops at night, but at evening and dawn, in riverbeds and on mountain tops. This extension of the motif to times and places where a fire would not even be visible is meant to indicate to the audience that this fire of hospitality is a metaphor or metonymy for unbounded generosity and renown. As we will see, al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« develops this conventional motif of generosity into the dominant theme that encompasses the other major themes of madīḥ.
Line 52 incorporates into the fire image an expression of might, perhaps military might, that, as al-KhwarazmÄ« notes, echoes in its âCasting sparks [the size of] leather tentsâ (tarmÄ« bi-kulli sharÄratin ka-á¹irÄfÄ«) the QurʾÄnic description of hellfire (SÅ«rat al-MursilÄt 77:32): âit casts sparks [as huge] as castlesâ (ʾinnahÄ tarmÄ« bi-shararin ka-al-qaá¹£ri). The generosity and might embodied in the fire image are then linked to inherited ancestral greatness (l. 53). By contrast, following this threatening image of the SharÄ«fsâ fire as mighty as hellfire, is the depiction (l. 54) of their generosity and bounty in terms that evoke the plenitude of the heavenly garden: âmilk and honeyâ andâforbidden on earth but enjoyed in heavenââchoicest wine.â The outcast and stranger find protection (l. 55). There too, the ostrich, which was popularly thought to be attracted to and transfixed by fire. With a charming twist, al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« depicts them as guests, as ostriches, normally reduced to eating bitter colocynth in hard times, delight in colocynth that has been soaked and prepared until it is no longer bitter (habÄ«d) (Tibr.; Lane, h-b-d; and below, Chapter 6).
By line 57 it is eminently clear that this fire is a metaphor and metonymy for the undying might and virtue of al-SharÄ«f al-ṬÄhirâs lineage. A fire that gives âshade in the summerâ is clearly a figurative one. Even as lines 58 and 60 give a natural description of a mighty fire that withstands stormy gales and huge downpours, line 59 reveals the true reason it is inextinguishable: it is not literal but figurative, for it is the âlight of truth.â Similarly, the fire kindled in Iraq whose light reaches the abodes (i.e., Mecca) of the pagan idols NÄʾil and IsÄf once worshipped by the Quraysh (Tibr., Baá¹al.) suggests a specifically Ê¿Alid (Twelver ShiÊ¿i) religio-political claim to the true religion, no doubt at the expense of Umayyad (and also Ê¿AbbÄsid) claims.
The fire is steady and inextinguishable (ll. 58â60), qualities that we are to understand refer to the might and munificence of this ancestral inheritance projected into the future. Its light extends from Iraq to Mecca, even as the political and religious authority of the lineage does (l. 61). Lines 62â64 turn to the related image of huge cauldrons and their supporting stones, the three ʾathÄfÄ«, as further metaphors of might, wealth, and generosity.75 The huge cauldrons are as immovable as the hills, the deep serving bowls as wide as the deserts, as if the power and munificence of this lineage were as permanent as the natural landscape. The boast (l. 62) of huge cauldrons and deep bowls is one that combines might and wealth with generosity, but also with stability and permanence. The motif is well known in poetry, for example, the line of the pre-Islamic poet al-Afwah al-AwdÄ« (d. ca. 570â¯ce),76 which al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« follows quite closely (adding a twist by replacing al-Afwahâs water ponds with deserts) and which all four of our commentators cite:
â® ÙÙجÙÙÙاÙÙ ÙÙاÙجÙÙÙÙابÙÙÙ Ù ÙتÙÙرÙعÙÙÙÙ â¬ââ® ÙÙÙÙÙدÙÙر٠ÙÙاÙÙرÙÙبÙا راÙÙÙدÙØ©Ù â¬â
And cauldrons fixed in the ground like hillsAnd bowls deep and full like pools of water.
But also, as al-KhwÄrazmÄ« and TanwÄ«r note, al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«âs âcauldrons ⦠fixed and unmovableâ (qudÅ«ruhum ⦠rawÄkidan) (and likewise al-Afwahâs original qudÅ«run ⦠rÄkidatun) evokes QK 34:13, which describes what the Jinn made for Solomon as âcauldrons firmly fixed in the groundâ (wa-qudÅ«rin rÄsiyÄtin). We are clearly dealing with an early Arabic verbal formula as much as a conventional poetic motif.
The closing image of the blackened cauldrons on their huge trivet stones (ʾathÄfÄ«) further evokes might and permanence and, through the adjective âblackenedâ (dahmÄʾ), alludes to their constant use in providing food for guests. Any student of Arabic rhetoric will recognize this as a variant of the standard example for metonymy (kinÄyah): âhaving lots of ashesâ (kathÄ«r al-ramÄd), to mean âgenerousâ, that is, that abundant ashes indicate generosity in providing abundant cooked food for quests. Thus, we see al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« developing a traditional motif into a wide-ranging and many-sourced (from poetry and the QurʾÄn) depiction of not merely the generosity implied in the simple motif of the fire of hospitality, but related motifs and images that convey the heritage, permanence, might, religious authority, and boundless munificence of this line of SharÄ«fs.
3.2.4 Poetâs (Self-)Presentation (ll. 65â68)
In the closing lines the poet draws back and distances himself from the poem to present it as an offering to the two master poets al-SharÄ«f al-Raá¸Ä« and al-SharÄ«f al-Murtaá¸Ä, whom he addresses in the 2m.d. He metaphorizes poetry and poems as camel herds and camelsâthe traditional (measure of) wealth of the Arab Bedouin. Appearing to honor the convention of modesty, he describes the two brother SharÄ«f-poets as masters of huge herds, whereas he, the provincial poet newly arrived in Baghdad, describes his poem as a scrawny camel from a drought-stricken tribe (l. 65). He alludes to his uncouth unsophisticated provincial background, as opposed to the urbanity of Baghdad, by describing his poem as a camel that knows only QullÄm and KhidhrÄf, the rough acidic plants of the desert, and not the mash of leaves and crushed date stones that is fed to camels in towns and settled areas (l. 66). However, in Arabic poetic terms, the poetâs modesty becomes ironicâor at least ambiguous. The Arabic tradition valorizes the pure, unspoiled Arabic of the desert Bedouin (AÊ¿rÄb) over the corrupted and adulterated, or decadent language, of the mixed-blood (muwalladÅ«n) city dwellers, as al-Baá¹alyawsÄ« notes. In this light, what began as an expression of modesty is ultimately a boast. Al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« continues, nevertheless, in line 67 to style his elegy a simple, homely flower, the âox-eyeâ as compared to the âloveliest of virgin meadows,â that is, the richly original poetic circles of Baghdad, and the poetry of the two SharÄ«fs in particular.
After this convention-determined, if subtly ironic, expression of modesty, however, al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« ends with an affirmation of his own dignity as well as the worthiness of those to whom he is presenting this rithÄʾ-cum-madīḥ. His expression here also reveals intentional ambiguity, something of a double entendre, which leads the commentators to puzzle a bit over who is being honored in the phrase âroads of honorâ (á¹uruqi al-tasharrufi). Certainly al-Baá¹alyawsÄ« is correct in seeing the relationship as mutual: al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« is presenting the poem to give the SharÄ«fs al-Raá¸Ä« and al-Murtaá¸Ä their due honor and in the hope or expectation in turn of being honored by them. Further, in this context, the phrase âaspiring to reach youâ (sÄmiyan bi-kumÄ) must be taken to mean âaspiring to equal you in poetryâ. In this metapoetic closure we are to understand that is what is being honored is poetry. It is then this mutual recognition of the poetic accomplishments of each side that is at issue here, a point that al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« confirms by closing the poem with the assertion that he has brought his poem to the two brother SharÄ«fs to both confer and receive honor, not as a supplicant, that is, not in the expectation of material reward.
At this point, although the vast difference in rank and status, or, if you prefer, in âsymbolicâ and âsocialâ capital, prevents al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« from composing anything that could approach an ʾikhwÄniyyah, the unavoidable undercurrent of poetic competition that we saw in al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«âs poems to fellow poets al-SharÄ«f IbrÄhÄ«m (Chapter 1, SZ 14) and Ê¿AlÄ« ibn JalabÄt (Chapter 2, SZ 15) is equally at play, if downplayed, here.
However elegant this disclaimer of expectation of reward, we must not forget that it is a convention, and furthermore that the ritual of exchange of qaṣīdah for jÄʾizah (prize, reward) is firmly established in the Arabic poetic tradition. Although al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« later claims that he never composed poetry in the expectation of payment, we must certainly interpret this hybrid elegy-panegyric (rithÄʾ-madīḥ) as al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«âs attempt to impress himself and his poetic talent on the Baghdadi literary establishment in the hope or expectation of acquiring status and, eventually, of securing a livelihood. Likewise, however elegant and modest the closing passage (ll. 65â68) is, within the Arabic poetic tradition the lavish praise for the munificence of the SharÄ«fs in the âFire of Hospitalityâ passage (ll. 51â64) creates the expectation that the heirs of this illustrious tradition of generosity will perform in accordance with the expectation, or challenge, that the poem has created.
I agree with Ê¿IbÄdahâs argument for the generally, though not precisely, chronological order of Saqá¹ al-Zand. SZ 43 is one of a string of marÄthÄ« (SZ 41, 42, 43, 44). Of those for which we can determine the death date of the marthÄ«, SZ 41 is dedicated to the poetâs father, whose death, problematically, is given both as 377/987â8 (YÄqÅ«t) and 395/1004â5 (Ê¿ImÄd al-DÄ«n and Ibn al-Ê¿AdÄ«m). Most modern scholars now accept the latter date. Ê¿IbÄdah, however, argues for the earlier one, because of the style of SZ 41 compared to the others in the series and its order in Saqá¹ al-Zand. As the marthÄ« of SZ 44, JaÊ¿far ibn Ê¿AlÄ« ibn al-Muhadhdhab, is known to have died in 387, Ê¿IbÄdah then argues for a chronological order of these elegies between 377 and 387. See Smoor, âAl-MaÊ¿arrÄ«,â and Ê¿IbÄdah, á¸awʾ, 37â38. Thus, other than the determination that these poems were composed prior to al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«âs Baghdad sojourn in 399â400â¯ah, more precise speculation proves neither convincing nor productive.
Al-Khaá¹Ä«b al-BaghdÄdÄ«, TÄrÄ«kh MadÄ«nat al-SalÄm, in TaÊ¿rÄ«f al-QudamÄʾ, 6 and note 4.
KamÄl al-DÄ«n Ê¿Umar ibn Aḥmad Ibn al-Ê¿AdÄ«m, Bughyat al-Ṭalab fÄ« TÄrÄ«kh Ḥalab, 12 vols., ed. Suhayl ZakkÄr (Beirut: DÄr al-Fikr, 1988), 5:2440â2443.
On the pre-Islamic elegy, see S. Stetkevych, Mute Immortals Speak, chs. 5 and 6 (pp. 159â238).
See Ibn RashÄ«q, Al-Ê¿Umdah, 2:128â136 (madḥ must be appropriate to status of mamdūḥ); 2:147â148 passim (rithÄʾ).
Shurūḥ, 3:971â1005, no. 43; TanwÄ«r, 1:303â316.
Following KhwÄr.: riqÄb (necks) for Shurūḥ: rufÄt (bones).
Reading al-bayna for Shurūḥ: al-baynu.
Following TanwÄ«r: iftirÄq for Shurūḥ: ijtimÄÊ¿.
Following Tanwīr cmt.
Al-ʾawwÄb (here translated as âpiousâ) is given by Tibr. as âone who praises God all day until nighttimeâ (cf. QK 38:19); and Baá¹al. as âone who returns to his Lord in repentance from worldly mattersâ (cf. QK 38:30); see both meanings in Lane ʾ-w-b. The energetic form points to these meanings, i.e., âmuch praising his Lord,â and âvery or repeatedly penitent.â The QurʾÄnic sense of ḥusn al-maʾÄb of the pious Muslim returning to oneâs Lord or to the heavenly gardens (cf. QK 38:40 and QK 3:14) after death should also be in play here, that is, âwho has now returned to his Lord.â
The first al-NuÊ¿mÄn refers to the jurist, AbÅ« ḤanÄ«fah; ZiyÄd, to the pre-Islamic poet al-NÄbighah al-DhubyÄnÄ«; the second al-NuÊ¿mÄn to the latterâs patron, the Lakhmid king, al-NuÊ¿mÄn ibn al-Mundhir.
The commentators offer two interpretations of this line. First, Tibr. and TanwÄ«r: that in his legal thinking he smoothed out the disagreements between the madhhabs. I follow Baá¹al. and KhwÄr. (who gives both but prefers the second): that during his lifetime he argued effectively for ḤanafÄ« interpretations, but after his death the ḤanafÄ«s were weakened and no longer disagreed with the ShÄfiÊ¿Ä«s but acquiesced to their opinions. Note that al-MaÊ¿ÄrrÄ«âs family were ShÄfiÊ¿Ä« Ê¿ulamÄʾ and quá¸Äh (judges). See Smoor, âal-MaÊ¿arrÄ«.â
Lit., between your heart and bowels.
Cf. QKÂ 38:30â40.
See al-Baá¹al. about the exegesis of QÂ 38:24, and discussion, below.
Lines 47 and 48 are 2m.pl. âyouâ, referring to the deceasedâs family of line 46. Lines 49â¯ff. revert to 2m.sg., referring to AbÅ« Ḥamzah.
I have followed KhwÄr. in taking this line to refer to the resurrection of the flesh.
The role of animals, including philological, thematic, and mythic dimensions in classical Arabic poetry and prose, is the subject of numerous and varied studies. Some examples in al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«âs prose epistles are Suzanne Pinckney Stetkevych, âThe Snake in the Tree in AbÅ« al-Ê¿AlÄʾ al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«âs Epistle of Forgiveness: Critical Essay and Translation,â Journal of Arabic Literature 45 (2014): 1â37; and Kevin Blankinship, âAl-MaÊ¿arrÄ«âs Anxious Menagerie: The Epistle of the Horse and the Mule,â Journal of Abbasid Studies 8 (2021): 142â171 (see refs. for recent work on animals in Arabic literature). For poetry, see Jaroslav Stetkevych, âName and Epithet: The Philology and Semiotics of Animal Nomenclature in Early Arabic Poetry,â Journal of Near Eastern Studies 45 (1986): 89â124; and Jaroslav Stetkevych, âIn Search of the Unicorn: The Onager and the Oryx in the Arabic Ode,â Journal of Arabic Literature 33 (2002): 79â130.
Gian Biagio Conte, The Rhetoric of Imitation: Genre and Poetic Memory in Virgil and Other Latin Poets, trans. Charles Segal (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1986), 75â76.
Al-KhansÄʾ TumÄá¸ir bint Ê¿Amr â¦, DÄ«wÄn al-KhansÄʾ, cmt. al-ShaybÄnÄ«, ed. Anwar AbÅ« Suwaylim (Amman: DÄr Ê¿AmmÄr, 1988), 305 (l. 6).
Arabic: AbÅ« TammÄm, DÄ«wÄn, 3:152 (l. 11â13); translation: S. Stetkevych, AbÅ« TammÄm, 114.
This generative concept is explored in Muá¹£á¹afÄ NÄá¹£if, QirÄʾah ThÄniyyah li-ShiÊ¿rinÄ al-QadÄ«m, 2nd ed. (Beirut: DÄr al-Andalus, 1995).
This QurʾÄnic passage and related Solomonic lore from the qiá¹£aá¹£ al-anbiyÄʾ are discussed at length in Suzanne Pinckney Stetkevych, âSolomon and Mythic Kingship in the Arab-Islamic Tradition: Qaṣīdah, QurʾÄn and Qiá¹£aá¹£ al-AnbiyÄʾ,â Journal of Arabic Literature 48 (2017): 17â26.
Marmeduke Pickthall, The Meaning of The Glorious Koran: An Explanatory Translation (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1930).
Al-MutanabbÄ«, DÄ«wÄn (al-Ê¿UkbarÄ«), 4:284 (l. 12). See S. Stetkevych, Poetics of Islamic Legitimacy, 211â223.
For the pre-Islamic antecedents of this collocation of images, see S. Stetkevych, Mute Immortals Speak, 176â180.
In Arabic the use of the kunyah (teknonym, âfather/mother of Xâ) can be merely aspirational or notional, as well as actual. It normally uses the name that the eldest son bears or would bear and is often given to a child, who may or may not bear children later in life. It can also be merely a sobriquet indicating a virtue or characteristic, etc. See A.J. Wensinck, âKunya,â EI3. AbÅ« al-Ê¿AlÄʾ himself refused to marry or produce offspring. For the âAbÅ« Ḥamzahâ (Father of Ḥamzah) of this elegy we have no way of knowing, other than what is suggested in line 58.
Al-MutanabbÄ«, DÄ«wÄn (al-Ê¿UkbarÄ«), 4:287 (l. 20). See S. Stetkevych, Poetics of Islamic Legitimacy, 211â223.
On the structural and semiological poetics of the root áº-Ê¿-n in the classical Arabic qaṣīdah, see Ezz El-Din, ââ¯âNo Solace for the Heartâ,â and Ê¿Izz al-DÄ«n, ShiÊ¿riyyat al-Ḥarb. On the synecdochic or metaphoric relationship between departure and loss in nasÄ«b and rithÄʾ, as exhibited in the ḤamÄsah of AbÅ« TammÄm, see S. Stetkevych, AbÅ« TammÄm, chap. 14, 314â332; J. Stetkevych, Zephyrs of Najd, 59â64.
For this date, see Dawʾ, 39 and refs. [DÄ«wÄn al-SharÄ«f al-Raá¸Ä«, 2:736; WafÄyÄá¹ al-AÊ¿yÄn, 4:420; Al-NujÅ«m al-áºÄhirah, 4:223].
Moktar Djebli, âal-SharÄ«f al-Raá¸Ä«,â EI2.
See Sezgin, Poesie, 595â597 and 597â598, respectively.
Smoor, âal-MaÊ¿arrÄ«.â
See Smoor, âal-MaÊ¿arrÄ«,â refs. See the charming essay based on this anecdote: Ê¿Abd al-FattÄḥ KÄ«lÄ«á¹Å«, AbÅ« al-Ê¿AlÄʾ al-MaÊ¿arrÄ« aw MatÄhÄt al-Qawl (Casablanca: DÄr TÅ«bqÄl li-l-Nashr, 2000).
Ibn al-Ê¿AdÄ«m, KitÄb al-InsÄf wa-al-TaḥarrÄ« fÄ« DafÊ¿ al-áºulm wa-al-TajarrÄ« Ê¿an AbÄ« al-Ê¿AlÄʾ al-MaÊ¿arrÄ«, in TaÊ¿rÄ«f al-QudamÄʾ, 543â544. It is interesting that Ê¿Abd al-RaḥmÄn (MaÊ¿a AbÄ« al-Ê¿AlÄʾ, 125) says that the poem was extemporaneous (irtajala), which the anecdote certainly suggests. An earlier and more stripped-down version is that of al-Khaá¹Ä«b al-BaghdÄdÄ«, in which it is al-SharÄ«f al-Murtaá¸Ä himself who asks, âWho is this dog?â and there is no mention of the death of al-SharÄ«f al-ṬÄhir or of the FÄʾiyyah, etc. See al-Khaá¹Ä«b al-BaghdÄdÄ«, TÄrÄ«kh BaghdÄd, in TaÊ¿rÄ«f al-QudamÄʾ, 5.
Smoor, âal-MaÊ¿arrÄ«â; Margoliouth, Letters, 40, 44.
Djebli, âal-SharÄ«f al-Raá¸Ä«.â
Cahen, âBuwayhids (BÅ«yids).â
S. Stetkevych, AbÅ« TammÄm, chap. 1 and passim; S. Stetkevych, âFrom JÄhiliyyah to BadÄ«Ê¿iyyah,â passim.
See my discussion of the transformation of transient historical events into timeless teleological myths of âIslamic manifest destinyâ, in S. Stetkevych, AbÅ« TammÄm, 152, 177â178, and chs. 8 and 9, passim; and S. Stetkevych, Poetics of Islamic Legitimacy, 152.
Bauman, âVerbal Art as Performance,â esp. pp. 292â297.
Shurūḥ, 3:1264â1320, no. 60; TanwÄ«r, 2:75â91.
Following the fem. tasquá¹u of TanwÄ«r for the Shurūḥ yasquá¹u (nabl is normally fem.).
Lit., May your mounts be slaughtered. See Shurūḥ and esp. Tanwīr for the explanation that this curse is intended as an expression of shock or amazement that a crow could be so eloquent.
On terms, see Tibr. cmt. and discussion, below.
I take á¹awÄf (circumambulation of the KaÊ¿bah) here as a synecdoche for the Ḥajj.
Loosely following Tanwīr.
The grammar is not entirely clear to me, but it seems to me that the subject of istaradda should be understood to be rabbuka (your Lord), which is then also subject of saqÄka (gave you drink) and kasÄka (clothed you) in the following line.
From this line on, the âyouâ is m.pl.
Lit., a hidden ziḥÄf has overtaken it. ZiḥÄf in Arabic metrics refers to permitted alterations in the metrical foot. See discussion, below.
Cf. QK: 77:32.
Impersonal âyouâ, 2m.sg.
Two pre-Islamic idols at the Kaʿbah in Mecca.
For the sinking and drying up of Lake Tiberias when the Prophet Muḥammad was born, see al-QÄá¸Ä« AbÅ« al-Faá¸l Ê¿IyÄḠibn MÅ«sÄ al-YaḥsubÄ«, Al-ShifÄ fÄ« TaÊ¿rÄ«f ḤuqÅ«q al-Muá¹£á¹afÄ, ed. Ê¿Abduh Ê¿AlÄ« KÅ«shk (Dubai: JÄʾizat Dubayy al-Duwaliyyah li-l-QurʾÄn al-KarÄ«m, 1434/2013), 460.
I am extending, as I have elsewhere, the use of Paul Connertonâs term, which he applies to the identification between originary events and their reenactment in commemorative ceremonies, to include the identification of two figures; Paul Connerton, How Societies Remember (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), 43 and 41â71 passim. For my use of this term in Arabic poetry and myth, see S. Stetkevych, Poetics of Islamic Legitimacy, 35â37 and index; and in a related ShiÊ¿i context, S. Stetkevych, âAl-SharÄ«f al-Raá¸Ä« and the Poetics of Ê¿Alid Legitimacy,â 297â298.
Al-NÄbighah al-DhubyÄnÄ«, DÄ«wÄn, 89â90 (ll. 2â4); (full poem 89â97). From al-NÄbighahâs notorious description of the Lakhmid king al-NuÊ¿mÄn ibn al-Mundhirâs wife, al-Mutajarridah. Trans. S. Stetkevych, Poetics of Islamic Legitimacy, 5 (full translation and discussion, 4â17).
Al-MutanabbÄ«, DÄ«wÄn (al-Ê¿UkbarÄ«), 2:334 (l. 7) and cmt.
Ḥasan al-SandÅ«bÄ«, comp. and ed., and UsÄmah á¹¢alÄḥ al-DÄ«n al-Munayminah, rev. and cmt., Sharḥ DÄ«wÄn Imriʾ al-Qays, wa-yalÄ«h AkhbÄr al-MarÄqisah wa-AshÊ¿Äruhum wa-AkhbÄr al-NawÄbighah wa-AshÊ¿Äruhum fÄ« al-JÄhiliyyah wa-á¹¢adr al-IslÄm (Beirut: DÄr IḥyÄʾ al-Ê¿UlÅ«m, 1410/1990), 327 (ll. 17â18). Reading tuÊ¿ÄwiruhÄ for taÊ¿ÄwarahÄ, line 18.
Al-ThaÊ¿labÄ«, Qiá¹£aá¹£ al-AnbiyÄʾ, 35. See also Brinner, Ê¿ArÄʾis al-MajÄlis or âLives of the Prophets,â 100â101. As Brinner notes, the image of the crow/raven delayed by eating carrion is not found in the biblical version (Genesis 7:8â12). R.W.L. Moberly remarks that the Hebrew version states that the raven/crow âcontinuously went out and returned until the waters had dried up from the earth.â And the Greek adds, âand the raven went out and did not return until the water had dried up.â Nevertheless, it occurs in other Christian and Jewish versions. As Moberly summarizes:
[â¦] the interpretative tradition regularly attested in postbiblical literature, that the raven, an unclean bird in Mosaic law (Lev. xi 15, Deut. xiv 14), fed on floating carcasses. [â¦] Commentators have regularly suggested symbolic and/or moralizing interpretations, drawing on certain intrinsic characteristics of ravens and doves (most obviously colour and sound), always to the detriment of the raven. [â¦] Philo sees the raven and dove as representing vice and virtue [â¦]: thus the raven is at home and takes pleasure in the passions which inundate and destroy lives (and so [â¦] did not return to the ark), as opposed to the dove which represents virtue and could find no resting place amidst destructive passions (and so returns to Noah). In a Christian context, Prudentius both utilizes the tradition of feeding on carcasses and adds a moralizing slant, âFor the raven, held captive by gluttony, clung to foul bodies. While the dove brought back the glad tidings of peace that was givenâ. Or Augustine says of Christians who constantly say that they are going to reform but postpone doing anything about it: âYou have really become a crow. Behold, I say to you that when you make the noise of a crow, ruin is threatening you. For that crow whose cawing you imitate went forth from the Ark and did not returnâ. (Moberly, 345â346)
On these and further examples and references, in addition to the broader motif/practice of sailors releasing birds to direct them toward land, a motif/practice attested already in Gilgamesh (XI 145â55), in which a dove, a swallow, and a raven are sent out from the boat, see R.W.L. Moberly, âWhy Did Noah Send out a Raven?â Vetus Testamentum 50 (2000): 345â356, esp. 345â348.
Al-MarzÅ«qÄ«, Sharḥ DÄ«wÄn al-ḤamÄsah, 2:837â838, (l. 22). For a full translation, discussion, and references, see S. Stetkevych, Mute Immortals Speak, 55â73.
On Suḥaym Ê¿Abd BanÄ« al-ḤasḥÄs, see Sezgin, Poesie, 288â289; on KhufÄf ibn Nadbah, see Sezgin, Poesie, 243â244.
See Shurūḥ. See also Sezgin, Poesie, 243.
See S. Stetkevych, âSnake in the Tree,â 9â11, 17, and trans., 40.
On the subject of ritual lamentation (niyÄḥah) generally, including its association with the JÄhiliyyah and classical Islamic and current scholarship and debates on the issue, see Peter Webb, âCry Me a JÄhiliyya: Muslim Reconstruction of Pre-Islamic Arabian CultureâA Case Study,â in Islam at 250: Studies in Memory of G.H.A. Juynboll, ed. Petra M. Sijpesteijn and Camilla Adang (Leiden: Brill, 2020), 235â280. On the possible role of proto-Sunni anti-ShiÊ¿ah agendas in the formulation of prohibitions of niyÄḥah in the secondâthird/eighthâninth centuries, see p. 275.
AbÅ« TammÄm, DÄ«wÄn 1:380 (ll. 44â46). For a translation and discussion of the full poem, see Raymond K. Farrin, âThe Poetics of Persuasion: AbÅ« TammÄmâs Panegyric to Ibn AbÄ« DuʾÄd,â Journal of Arabic Literature 34 (2003): 221â251. The metapoetic aspects of this poem and this particular passage are further discussed in Fakhreddine, Metapoesis in the Arabic Tradition, 139â149.
See S. Stetkevych, The Mute Immortals Speak, 161â164; chaps. 5 and 6, 160â238, passim.
See N.A. Stillman, âKhilÊ¿a,â EI2.
On ShiÊ¿i rituals of pilgrimage to the tombs of al-Ḥusayn and various imams, the equation of such visits with (multiple, 100, etc.) performances of the Ḥajj and Ê¿Umrah, and examples of poetry for this occasion, plus extensive refs., see Sindawi, âVisit to the Tomb of al-Ḥusayn b. Ê¿AlÄ«,â passim; and above, p. 66.
On the âprosaic styleâ characteristic of the âritualâ, âsemanticâ, or âperformativeâ core of the qaṣīdah, see S. Stetkevych, âPre-Islamic Panegyric and the Poetics of Redemption,â 12â13, 35â37; and S. Stetkevych, Poetics of Islamic Legitimacy, 39â41, 65â68.
On the distinction between ziḥÄf that is âperceptibleâ (áºÄhir), obvious to any reader, and âimperceptibleâ or âhiddenâ (khafÄ«), which can be detected only by expert prosodists, see Baá¹al., 48.
MuÊ¿allaqat LabÄ«d (l. 83), in al-AnbÄrÄ«, Sharḥ al-Qaá¹£Äʾid al-SabÊ¿, 594.
Al-MarzÅ«qÄ«, Sharḥ DÄ«wÄn al-ḤamÄsah, 1:121 (l. 17). For full translation and further refs., see S. Stetkevych, AbÅ« TammÄm, 291â298.
Ibn Rashīq, Al-ʿUmdah, 2:175.
In poetry, ʾathÄfÄ«, the three support stones of a cooking pot or cauldron, are invariably associated with the cauldron itself. By far the most frequent appearance of ʾathÄfÄ« in poetry is in the abandoned campsite image of the elegiac nasÄ«b, where the three fire-blackened stones serve as a metonymy pointing to the absence of the cauldrons that once boiled where the beloved had dwelt; see the extended discussion and examples in Jaroslav Stetkevych, âToward an Arabic Elegiac Lexicon: The Seven Words of the NasÄ«b,â in Reorientations: Arabic and Persian Poetry, ed. Suzanne P. Stetkevych (Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 1994), 58â129, at 89â105.
Sezgin, Poesie, 302â303.