Why did papyrus have to go away
Why not come in sheets to write on
or else forget it as it’s happening
and forever wonder why
It takes a lot of time to turn aside
from all I thought I saw along the way
Bright planet, form a sign for me
because don’t you know the
stars that wander are the noble ones
Hasty are we, in harness pressing on
The nearest place to where we are
is miles away
Some thing to travel on
as high as it is wide the next to go will be the ultimate
Read it to me softly, now
from papers on the floor
printed lightly with two feet to fly on
Thank you Patrick Durgin, editor and publisher of Kenning Editions
Thank you Faride Mereb, who designed the cover
Thanks to all subscribers to the press
Thanks to Sinan and Rachel
ISBN 979-8-9856628-2-5
iv + 75 pages, 21 cm. $16
Poetry is a furnace
Get out of my hut, you mice who hug the shadows!
You mice will find no fodder in Leonidas's crock.
The old man's fine with two barley loaves, if there's salt.
My forefathers lived this way, and I heed their example.
So why scrabble in my corners, treat-seeking
where prandial tidbits are never spilled?
Go on to houses that aren't so frugal
where sustenance is yours to scuttle away with
I say to my near one through flowing tears
when the will to go abroad is on me:
Let me make my journey, let me pass unmourned.
The stars that wander are the noble ones.
Travel leads to betterment of outcome.
Sitting still in comfort leads to ruin.
In darkness I see illumination,
as if day switched place with night,
when lightning from [auspicious] Sana‘a reminds me
my destination isn't far away.
Why should I rejoice at spending nights out in the desert
when high above Ursa Minor is my home?
And how will I be food for worms, with
four elements on every side?
How long will I live next to Draco
with constellated serpents for my friends?
My union with that light will be annihilation,
and my passing out of knowing left from right,
and the walls will echo with a pounding
by rejectors of my secrets with their heads.
On this subject, there is a story about ‘Abd al-Rahman the son of Hassan ibn Thabit. When he was a boy, he ran crying to his father, "I got stung by a flying creature!"
"My son," said Hassan, "tell us how it looked."
"Like it was dressed in mantles of Yemen," he said, for it was a hornet that had stung him.
"By the Lord of the Kaaba," Hassan said, "my son will be a poet!"
As you see, what demonstrated the boy's talent for poetry was his creation of a simile. This is what distinguishes the poet's mind from the non-poet's. Hassan rejoiced at this, just as he rejoiced at his son's poetic spirit when [a schoolteacher rounded up a group of boys for some mischief, and was going to punish ‘Abd Allah along with them, until*] ‘Abd Allah said (meter: basīṭ):
God knows I was [not there, but] in the house of
Hassan, hunting insects on the wing all by myself.
You might say that similes are special effects that substitute for painting and drawing, but that's not what provoked Hassan's response. What pleased him was that ‘Abd Allah said the bug was as if "dressed" (multaff). If he had called it "a flying creature with stripes like a Yemeni mantle," the expression would be less effective, for it gives away the point of likeness. The combination [of hornet and mantle is by itself sufficient to imply the stripes, and this] was the sign of young ‘Abd Allah’s genius.
Now even though "dressed" was what provoked Hassan's admiration, it is still a case of simile, and an exemplary one at that, insofar as the hornet's likeness is captured by its "wearing" of the mantle's stripes and colors.
It was reported to me by Abu ‘Ubayd Allah al-Marzubani that Ibn Durayd said: It was reported to me by ‘Abd al-Rahman, the fraternal nephew of al-Asma‘i, that
Al-Asma‘i said: I was staying with a man of the Banu Kilab who had celebrated his marriage at Basra, and was raising his family at Dariyya. We were at Dariyya's market when we were approached by an old woman of dignified dress and unfaded beauty, mounted on a camel. She bade the camel kneel, and tied it up and came toward us, supporting herself on a shepherd's crook. She sat by us, and said, "Is any poetry being recited?" I said to my Kilabi friend, "Have you got anything?" "No," he said. So I recited for her these verses by Bishr ibn ‘Abd al-Rahman al-Ansari (meter: kāmil):
The days have a shortener. Who spends them with her
craves more, even at the cost of other friendships.
The likes of her choke a man with longing
for her demure air, and her antelope's eye—
the eye of a doe of the lowlands, sallow of hide
as if jaundiced by the deer's shyness.
At this, the old woman rose to her knees, and began tracing lines on the ground with her crook as she recited [these verses by Ibn al-Dumayna]: (meter: ṭawīl):
Dear Umayma of my heart, do as you will.
But let me voice my passion and my greeting
[to this spot].
When you tell me, "Walk through fire," I know it's
your caprice. But could it bring us closer, all the same?
Capricious as you are, I take it as a gift,
and put my foot in fire and tread it.
On the sandhill where moringa grows, ask the tallest tree
if I hailed the ruins of your abode,
and if I choose to haunt the ruins
at nightfall like a heartsick person.
May you be happy at the way my cheek shines,
and how I clutch myself at losing you.
Al-Asma‘i said: By God, the world around me went dim from the eloquence and sweetness of her delivery and dialect. I went up to her and said, "My God! Your recitation surpasses mine." And I saw a gleam of laughter in her eye, as she went on to recite (meter: ṭawīl):
Many a guarded maid casts off reserve when I come calling,
dragging a train of infatuation behind.
They let love mount, and when it's theirs,
rip it away and swell our battles.
Their talk is civil, low and yielding,
winning them soft hearts for free.
They foil the plans of the softhearted fool.
Their jest and earnestness maze the astute.
My blamers, meanwhile, blame the love
that tells me to ignore dissuaders.
[The Tribulations of Impassioned Lovers by al-Sarraj adds this postscript: "Brava!" I said, "by Him Who created you!" "You really mean it?" she asked. "Yes," I said. "Then I share the praise with you as an equal," she said, and decamped. And by God, I have heard no poetry recital more exquisite than the one she gave.]
The meaning of "shortener of days" in the Ansari's verse is that his joy in the woman's presence is complete. So sweet are her beauty and her conversation that any day spent with her is short, for brevity is an attribute of joyful days.
From the Dictations of Abu 'l-Qasim ‘Ali al-Murtada
Abu 'l-Fath Kushajim elegized a penknife that was stolen from him, saying (meter: basīṭ):
God's war be on the bureau scribes
who think that others' knives are theirs for lifting!
I am the victim of an elegant deceit.
Its edge was like a sword's, honed finely.
Vacant is the resting-place where it had spent an age
beside the inkwell of a man distracted by writing,
now weeping for the blade that Time made away with,
the torturer of pen-nibs raided from me.
It hewed my pens and made them special.
The cuts that vexed them pleasured me,
as I brought laughter to my pages, cloaking them
with flowers, whole beds of them becoming to the eye.
And it was good for spot removal. It scaled away each fleck
and left my pages like the cheeks of calf-eyed maidens.
It had an onyx handle fastened to the blade
by metal pins of gorgeous make and fashion.
Pins of gold and silver, elegant and fine—
a deity, praise to Him, told them to "Be!"
But my cutter turned malicious, taking joy
in infamy, overmastery, and derision.
I kept it close—so close, it impersonated
my aloofness and my lofty rank.
There is no substitute. Long as I live,
I'll never be consoled and never forget.
I'd give up this whole world, and my faith in the world to come,
as ransom for the knife they stole from me.
I am informed by Abu Hatim that ‘Imran ibn ‘Aqil said: I was told by my father—meaning ‘Aqil ibn Bilal—that he was told by his father—meaning Bilal ibn Jarir—that [Bilal's father]
Jarir said: I paid a call on one of the Umayyad caliphs, who asked me, "Can we talk about the poets?" "Of course," I said.
"Who was the greatest poet?" he asked. "Ibn ‘Ishrin (The Child of Twenty)," I said, meaning Tarafa [who lost his life at that age].
"What do you have to say about [Zuhayr] ibn Abi Sulma and al-Nabigha [al-Dhubyani]?" he asked. I said, "Their poetry was woven at a loom."
"And Imru’ al-Qays ibn Hujr?" he asked. I said, "That villain took poetry for a pair of sandals, to trample as he pleased."
"And Dhu 'l-Rumma?" he asked. I said, "He can do with poetry what no one else can do."
"And al-Akhtal?" he asked. I said, "Up to his death, the [full measure of the] poetry within him went unrevealed."
"And al-Farazdaq?" he asked. I said: "He grips poetry in his hand like a [bow of] grewia."
"You've left nothing for yourself!" the caliph said. "By God," I said, "of course I have, O Commander of the Faithful! I am the city of poetry, from which it sallies forth and in which takes refuge. Truly, I glorify poetry in a way that no one before me has."
"And what way is that?" the caliph asked. I said, "My love-lyrics are innovative, my invective verse is ruinous, and my panegyric is uplifting. In ramal I'm abundant, in rajaz I'm the sea, and I compose in modes of poetry unknown to anyone before me."
In the handwriting of Abu 'l-Hasan ‘Ali b. Muhammad b. ‘Ubayd b. al-Zubayr al-Kufi al-Asadi, I found it written that he was told by Fadl b. Muhammad al-Yazidi:
I was with Ishaq b. Ibrahim al-Mawsili when a man came up and said, "O Abu Muhammad! [That is, Ishaq.] Give us the Book of Songs." "Which one?" said Ishaq. "The book I wrote, or the one that was written in my name?"—meaning by the former, his book of reports on individual singers, and by the latter, the Big Book of Songs that's out there.
I was informed by Abu 'l-Faraj al-Isbahani that he was told by Abu Bakr Muhammad b. Khalaf Waki‘ that
Hammad b. Ishaq said: "My father never wrote that book," (meaning The Big Book of Songs) "nor claimed credit for it. Most of the lyrics in it are falsely inserted into reports of singers who never sang them. To this day, most them have never been performed. Comparison to the songbooks my father actually wrote shows how worthless that book is. It was cobbled together after his death by one of his copyists, except for the opening chapter on the permissibility [of music], which my father did write, although the reports in it are my narrations [from my father]."
Abu 'l-Faraj told me: This is the story as I remember Abu Bakr Waki‘ telling it, though not verbatim. And I heard from Jahza [b. Musa al-Barmaki] that he knew the copyist's name:
"The copyist was one Sindi b. ‘Ali, who had a shop along the Archway of Rubbish and used to copy books for Ishaq.* For the book that he foisted on him, he worked with a collaborator." This is the book that used to be known by the title al-Surāh (The Night-Travelers). Its first chapter is on permissibility [of music], and is the work of Ishaq without a doubt.
*
Footnote by Ayman Fu’ad Sayyid: "In the sources at my disposal, I do not find [in Baghdad] an 'Archway of Rubbish.' Perhaps it is the Archway of al-Harrani mentioned ahead [in the entry for Ja‘far b. Ahmad al-Marwazi] that is meant. In al-Ya‘qubi's day, there were over a hundred stationers' shops in the markets of that area."
The courtiers surrounding ‘Abd al-Malik ibn Marwan were not particularly erudite. One day, he asked them, "What is the best kind of handkerchief?"
"The handkerchiefs of Egypt," said one of them "They're like the membrane of an eggshell." "The handkerchiefs of Yemen," said another. "They're as [colorful as] the flowers of spring."
"That's all you've come up with?" said ‘Abd al-Malik. "That's nothing. The best of handkerchiefs was described by a man of the Banu Tamim," meaning ‘Abda ibn al-Tabib (meter: basīṭ):
When we halted and rigged up a screen from the sun,
pots of meat for the party were put on to boil.
The cook's time was short. Some of the cuts
were eaten pink, and some were just turning pale.
We remounted then our branded horses. Their close-cropped
manes were kerchiefs for [wiping] our hands.
Abu ‘Ali (al-Qali, d. 356 A.H./967 CE) said: My recitation of this poem by Jamil (ibn Ma‘mar, d. 82/701) was vetted by Ibn Durayd (d. 321/933) (meter: wāfir):
"What you accuse me of is not a wrong,"
I told her, "unlike the miser's way, which is collective harm.
Let's go before two judges, one from my group and one
from yours, impartial men and not unjust ones."
"I want one judge," she said, "from my group only,
lest slanderers hear our case, and embroider on it."
We went before the judge in his curtained chamber,
a worldly man whose eyelids sagged,
and said, "Whatever your decision, we will accept it.
We trust you with adjudication of our case,
which will be binding, so judge between us
as your temper and opinion dictate."
"I am slain,” I told the judge, “with no recrimination.
And wrongs unpunished will proliferate!
Ask her when she’ll make good all that she owes me.
Is grievance ever righted when it's unredressed?"
"The plaintiff is a liar," she said, "and a useless person
whose accusations go on long.
Am I his slayer? Then where’s my weapon?
If I attack him, what fighting strength have I?
Nor have I despoiled his capital. The court will find
the alleged debt is owed to me."
Our ruling was up to the sentencer,
whose legal views were soundly based.
"Bring forth your witnesses," he said.
I said, "God is our witness, the Exalted King."
"The defendant's oath, and I will reach my verdict,"
ordered the judge, whose every verdict was just and fair.
She gave her oath, and said the charge against her
carried lest weight than a date pit's husk.
[When it was over,] I could not help asking,
"Our case was settled in my favor, was it not?"
Buthaynah knit her brows and said, "[You think]
you’ve prevailed? You, who prevail in nothing you do?
And don’t let them find you with me, lest I be
bereft of you. A bereaved woman is no one to mess with!"
In this book (e.g.), I have repeated what others have presented, and cited their sources. I will now tell of madmen observed by me on my travels, for due to my passion for the subject, I have often repaired to madhouses and studied people in various states of madness.
At Merv I entered a madhouse that was located in a graveyard. I heard the clamor of raised voices, then beheld an old man who was tied up next to a young man in chains. They were arguing over ice and frost, and which was better than the other. On spotting me, they said, "Here comes one to moderate between us!"
The old man said, "I speak on behalf of frost, which is superior to ice, because frost is God's doing and not His worshipers'. But [human] beings created by God are capable of creating ice."
The young man said, "Frost has a harmful dryness to it that is lacking in ice. Ice is what occurs [in water] when it turns into ice."
"You're both right," I said, for as I pondered each one, the madness of the opposing statement would catch my ear.
I am informed by my father, who was informed by his father, that Muhammad b. al-Hasan b. ‘Ali said: I am informed by Muhammad b. ‘Abd Allah b. Sulayman, [known as] Mutayyan, that Abu 'l-Muhanna al-Ta’i, [known as] Bunayn [or Buthayn] said:
Dawud al-Ta’i passed along the lane of ‘Amr b. Hurayth, where there were baskets full of ripe dates in even rows. On seeing them, his soul began to crave them. "Let's go," he said to his soul, and went to the vendor and said, "Give us one dirham's worth." "And where's the dirham?" the vendor said. "I'll give it to you tomorrow," Dawud said. "Go on about your business," the vendor said.
A man [in the crowd] spotted Dawud and said to the vendor, "What did that man say to you?" The vendor said, "He said: 'Give me one dirham's worth of dates.'" At this, the man held out a sack holding one hundred dirhams, and told him, "Here. If he accepts one dirham's worth of dates from you, you can keep the rest."
When the vendor caught up to Dawud, he was berating his soul, saying: "You, who are not worth one dirham in this world, you wish for Paradise?" The vendor said to him, "Come back, and take as much you need."
"Get away from me," Dawud said, "I was just testing myself.”
We are informed by ‘Abd al-Rahman that Abu Sa‘id al-Ashajj said: A man whose name I don't recall told me that
Sufyan al-Thawri passed along the lane of ‘Amr b. Hurayth, together with a man who gawked left and right at all the fruit on display. When they arrived at the gate of Musa ibn Talha [in the neighborhood of the Kunasa, which was Kufa's refuse depot], the man stepped in human excrement. Sufyan said to him: "Everything you were gawking at turns into this."
I am informed by Tahir ibn Muhammad al-Ahwazi, who said:
I saw Abu Hayyan al-Muwaswas after he went from Basra to Baghdad. His only care was for the purchase of a wide-mouthed ceramic jug, which he filled with water from the Tigris and took to the canal of al-Sarat to pour it out. Then he would carry water back from al-Sarat and pour it into the Tigris. And from the time he came to Baghdad until his death, he did no other work but this. When night fell, he would set down his jug and weep over it, saying, "Dear God, lighten for me the task I am performing, and relieve me of it!"
I am also informed by Muslim ibn ‘Abd Allah, who said:
I saw Abu Hayyan al-Muwaswas when he came to Baghdad and conceived his passion for pouring water. He would carry it from one place to another to pour it out, and when asked about it, he would say, "If I don't do this every day, I'll die."
And here is one of Abu Hayyan's poems (meter: munsariḥ):
Weep no more for Hind, nor the level sands,
nor springtime pastures known by you,
but stop at Qatrabull and its amusements,
tether there your camels from the trek,
and stop in on the old man of the monastery
whom People of the Book call the Qissis.
He's not amassed a fortune. All that he owns
is his crucifix and a bell.
But he has a wineskin over his shoulder that he brings
to be my portion, carrying it spout downward.
On my first visit, I frightened him, and he quaked at me,
so I mentioned Moses. "[How about] Jesus, though!" said he,
and poured into my cup a bright, clear, unmixed stream
from a vineyard where no grubs have breached the vine.
Abu Hayyan's speech became disordered at the end of his life when he went mad. But he was not disordered in his verse. This is the way of poets who suffer dementia late in their careers: their speech becomes profoundly incoherent, but when it comes to poetry, they transcend [the confusion in] their heads, and follow the traces that were familiar to them before their madness.
I was told by my father, on the authority of Ibrāhīm ibn Muḥammad ibn Yazīd, on the authority of Isḥāq ibn Manṣūr that
‘Abd al-A‘lā ibn Ziyād al-Aslamī said: One day I saw Dāwūd al-Ṭā’ī standing on the bank of the Euphrates in a state of amazement. "What has made you stop here?" I asked him. He said: "Look at the eddies in the river, and how they whirl in obedience to God’s command, be He exalted."
Ibn Khālawayh said: In the speech of the Arabs, khaḍir / khaḍira is used for just five things. (1) Al-Khaḍir is the name of a prophet, God's blessings and peace be upon him. He was called that because when he sat on a patch of ground, it sprang into greenness beneath him.
(2) Khaḍira is an epithet of the world here below. The Prophet of God, God's blessings and peace be upon him and his family, said: Al-dunyā ḥulwatun khaḍiratun("This world is sweet and green").
(3) Whatever is said to be yourskhaḍiran naḍiran ("green and flourishing") is free for you to take it. [The dual noun] al-khaḍiratān is heard in the expression for "Two things that are ever green: sakhbar and raiding"—[as if they were] two bushes, their freshness surpassing all other green things. In other words, one is impelled toward them both.
(4) Khaḍir is any green herbage that the earth puts forth, whether trees or panic grass or lush greenery [The IXth form verb] ikhḍarra is used for this, and for a tree whose greenery is plentiful. The Prophet, God's prayers be upon him, said: "Refrain from those plants in your diet (khaḍirātikum) that have a strong smell," meaning garlic, onion, and leeks. Palm trees too are called khaḍir. And khaḍir can refer to a dish of tender greens. Ukhtuḍira, [a passive VIIIth form verb meaning "to be cut off in a state of greenness"] is said of someone who dies in their youth, leaving nothing finished.
In 2017, I made a selection of poems by the caliph Yazid ibn Mu‘awiya ibn Abi Sufyan, and prepared "trots" of them for Peter Lamborn Wilson to versify in his book on the Yezidi religion. That book is now available from Inner Traditions (Rochester, VT), and [UPDATED MAY 23] I'm consoled that Peter lived to see it. Thanks to all who made it possible, especially Charles Stein, Renée Heitman, and Raymond Foye.
At the end of four days' travel, they arrived at the place where a large monastic community had for its chief Alexander's own brother, their archimandrite. Did his way of life accord with the Gospel of the Lord? It was Alexander's intention to find out.
He brought a single member of his brotherhood up to the gates with him and knocked. "Patience," responded the gatekeeper in the ordinary fashion. "Let me notify the abbot, and then you may enter." But Alexander refused to wait, and followed him inside, to find out if the archimandrite would be roused against his gatekeeper.
When his saintly brother, whose name was Peter, beheld him after thirty years, he recognized his sibling at once, for even in darkness it is natural to recognize one's own. And he fell at his feet, and hugged them, and begged Alexander to forgive what had taken place. But the blessed one spoke harshly and accusingly. "Our father Abraham received his guests personally and attended to them, and our lord Jesus Christ made it the law." And he shook the dust from his clothes and went back on the road. The most reverend Peter and all the brothers of his community were in tears as they begged him to stay, even if just one day, but Alexander declined. And with this lesson in true monastic poverty and divine love he left them, and set off for Antioch.
In the company of his brethren, whose hymn-singing continued without interruption, the blessed Alexander went all the way across the desert to arrive at Solomon's city—the city he built "in the wilderness," as it says in the Book of Kings, now called Palmyra. But when, from far away, the people of the city caught sight of the brethren drawing nearer in their numbers [....], they closed the gates. "Who could possibly feed all those men?" they said to one another. "If they come into our city, then all of us will starve."
At this, the holy man gave praise to God. "Trust in the Lord is better than trust in men," he said. "Take courage, brothers, for the Lord watches over us in unsuspected ways." And [sure enough,] the barbarians of those parts showed a humanitarian concern that was unparalleled. The brethren had abided in the desert for three days when, from a distance of four days' travel, there arrived a group of camel-riders sent to them by the Lord with supplies, in accordance with what the holy one had said. To God the brethren gave praise and thanks, and let others share in the bounty. It was so much more than they needed that they found themselves distributing the goods sent to them among the poor of that city.
Some eager members of the brethren formed a plan. As consolation for their recent sufferings, they wished to bring refreshment to the brethren in their great numbers, and so they disobeyed the holy one by preparing a mixed grill for the brethren's gustatory delight. But Alexander decided to give them a lesson in sublimating their woes. As soon as the feast was all prepared, he took up the parchments of the Holy Gospel as was his custom, saying "Glory to God in the highest, peace on earth, good will toward men," which was his habitual way of taking leave. With that, he gave word that the feast be left untouched, and went back on the road. And the brethren held back from all that was laid out for them, and got back on the road.
They say that one night, while Mālik ibn al-Rayb was out on a raid, a wolf attacked him in his sleep. He drove it off, but without success, for the wolf returned and would not give ground. So Mālik fell upon it with his sword, and slew it, and this is his poem about the incident (meter: ṭawīl):
Hey wolf of the scrub, now the stock of human laughter:
From east to west, report of you will spread from rider to rider.
Bold-hearted though you were, you met the lion
whose neck is strong, whose bite is stronger,
who never sleeps at night without the sword
that's quick to violence in defense of people.
Hey wolf, my stealthy nighttime caller:
Did you take me for a dull-witted person?
Several times I drove you off, and when you wore me down
and would not be shooed away, I curbed your nuisance.
And now, at the feet of the son of a noble dame, you are made carrion
by a bright cutter that delivers from oppression.
Many's the dubious battle where, had you been present,
the memory of me amid the fray would scare you still,
and the sight of my fallen foe in armor
with his hands fixed in the earth [that he died clawing],
worsted by the brave-hearted fighter whose
opponents wish their hearts could flutter back to them,
would be haunting you.
With a sword of two sharp edges I leap, and toward death
I walk proudly, where my peers dawdle like mangy camels.
When I see death. I don't shrink from it in a deferential way.
When I ride into narrow straits, it is by choice.
But when my soul will tolerate no more, steer clear
and back off, lest your entire community be scattered in terror.
I wish no trace were left of their encampment.
I would not then be saddened at the sight.
When their camels stepped away, aboard their litters went
gentlewomen like does of Urāq with wide eyes.
Stopped at Dhū 'l-Jadāh, apart from menfolk,
they cast off overclothes to play at leapfrog.
[They travel in summer.] The sun rises on them
almost as soon as it sets, but it's no affront to them.
I wish the winds my message to their people would convey
at Murj Ṣurā‘ or al-Andarīn.
White cumuli that echo one another’s peal,
with lightning bolting at us from cloudy banks,
their mounded forms lit up by rearing ones,
now in darkest night and now again—
what are they, compared to beautiful Ghaniyya with her neighbor
on the day of their departure, and beautiful Umm al-Banīn?
And what are the eggs of the [ostrich,] bushy and confrontational,
nursed on albumen until they hatch?
Laid in one shape, all of them,
white in color, with prenatal chicks contained inside,
sheltered by a wing and brooded over,
shielded underneath its plumage,
in a safe spot on a high place fed by sweet breezes,
where the north wind’s moan is sometimes heard,
and the wadi of Na‘mān empties out
into the graveled clay of al-Adyathīn.
That is where yon citadel of wandering cloud unleashes,
and the buzz [of flies around the ponds it fills] erupts like crazy.
And what is the shine of the jeweler’s pearl,
pried from its covering by the strong-willed [diver]?
He keeps it wrapped in silks,
and when he takes it out, eyes sparkle.
Between the diver and the pearl come frightful sights:
great fish and whales and other marine giants.*
Avidly, he risks his life (nafs) for it.
The desire in his soul (nafs) is strong and grasping.
And noble mares are continually saddled
for riding off to look at pearls in the [cool of] morn and evening.
[I say to my beloved spouse:] After the saddle quits the withers
of my mount, and events befall me as I deserve,
stay clear of the wandering lowlife
who calls on people after dark.
He slurps a skin of cultured milk, then stoppers it
and says, "It’s your turn to pour. I already shared mine."
Beneath reproach, he reproaches others. Whether
your flesh is lean or fatty, he chews it [behind your back].
Constantly he lollygags around your door,
as if tethered with a strap there.
When times are hard, he’s useless.
He has no camels fit for milking, nor any unfit ones.
When I die? Get yourself the miser’s opposite,
a young fighter with a lean midriff,
one whose eyes dart like a falcon’s
when he finds that all is not as it should be.
Night for him is without darkness. He trusts
in a fearless camel and races her [as if by day].
His people are in debt to his brave actions.
The women wish to have no other man.
This is [my advice,] not some occult destiny I foretell
to you who think that everything’s an omen.
Let the outcry cease! My accuser makes a case
out of whatever I just did, forgetting my prior exploits.
[In youth], I wore a mantle of prestige, and then it was
required of me to toil and soon be judged.
Now my death is nearer than a phantom.
Between my life and me it totters nigh.
Many a day ends in disaster. And then
sometimes those days are far between,
[as on the night] I crept up and whispered to her: "Pay
your uncle's son no mind [and come with me]."
I don't mean to brag, but a number of my friends have been featured bloggers on Harriet for the Poetry Foundation. Cedar, Rodney, Kasey, Alli, Brandon, Brandon, Matvei, Garrett, Thom, Marie, Asiya, Silvina, Sara, Patrick, Stephanie, Dana, Eddie, Hoa, Rodrigo, Joshua, and if I keep clicking back I'll be reminded of more.
This is all to say I'm glad to be blogging for Harriet finally, on the theme of Poetry and Translation. Thanks, Shoshana! My first post is up today.
