February 29, 2024

The way to Cockaigne

                The sea is the sea. A palm's a palm.
                    An elephant's an elephant. A giraffe is tall.
                Earth is earth. It faces the sky.
                    In between is where birds fly.
                And when the park is tossed by wind,
                    earth stays put while branches bend.
                Water runs on a bed of sand.
                    It shows up everywhere it flows.
                If you think it dispels hunger
                    you must be a numbskulled dope.
                Swim with your robe on. What do you get?
                    The swimmer and the robe get wet.
                I call on bananas to be peeled
                    and honeyed with sweet syrup.
                And kunafeh in sugared layers!
                    Without you, my heart burns up.
                Hashish slayers, ready me
                    the vagabond gift that slays its slayer.
                It'll revive you, if you let it.
                    And don't hold back. A small dose is wasted.
                Life is sweet when you get high.
                    So many stoners are happy in life!
                Hear me out, brothers. Its virtues are serious.
                    Take it from one with loads of experience.

By ‘Ali ibn Sudun (Meter: kāmil)

February 26, 2024

Foul weather friend

Al-Asma‘i transmitted this long poem rhymed in rā’, in sarī‘ meter [scanned more helpfully as rajaz by Badr al-Din al-‘Ayni], where each line is rhymed in the diminutive ending, signifying in most cases what is paltry and small in quantity:

                At Dhu Sudayr, the misery
                    of all who stay at al-Ghumayr
                oppresses Layla in her robe,
                    curled like a hedgehog in its hole.
                Shivers break out on my spine
                    and my chest is quivering
                like a cat who warns her kitten.
                    Parched out in the wind and rain
                and frigid cold that's no mere chill,
                    from midday to the wee small hours,
                lit barely by a slip of moon
                    (the month is only four days in),
                I fret and toss until the dawn,
                    drizzle-damp to my short hairs.
                From road to road I'm kicked along
                    until, when my poor prick juts out,
                in all its girth down to its trunk,
                    she sees the sad state of my putz.
                Her grub is stashed in a dust-brown rag,
                    the nun who goes by Umm al-Khayr.
                Disorderly her headwrap's wound.
                    The waist-sash round her smock is bound.
                She sends her warp through heddle-eyes.
                    and in the convent clangs her bell
                before cock-crow, when hens arise.
                    "I pity you!" she wails at me.
               "A fugitive from the regime
                    you seem," to which I said, "That's me!
                Without a pause, I range and rove
                    so kids can get a meal to eat,
                little ones, as bald as chicks,
                    and widows waiting on some food."
               "I rejoice in every good!"
                    she said, and oiled and combed my locks
                and served me bread with salted fish
                    pulled from the sea, or Egypt's docks,
                with oil that was sour and rancid
                    drizzled over hulled lentils,
                and some dates well desiccated.
                    She fixed me then with a lusty eye,
                and pelted me with pebbles flung,
                    aimed at my bits and wayward one.
                And when my little feast was through,
                    she joined my side and stroked my dong.
                My ostrich flew! The bird had run.
                   "You'll need to find another one,"
                I said. "Back when my strap was cut,
                    and I was like an ass in rut
                I used to rebound like an eagle.
                    But now I perch beside my grave,
                do I wait on my fate's direction?
                    Nay! by Him Who aideth me
                from birth up to my resurrection!"

From Special Properties of [the Arabic] Language by Ibn Jinni

February 19, 2024

Hornets

The hornet is called zunbūr, plural zanābīr, a feminine noun, sometimes applied to the bumblebee. In some dialects it is pronounced zinbār.
      In The Book of "Not in the Speech of the Arabs," Ibn Khalawayh says: The only authority I have known to call the hornet by a filionym was Abu ‘Umar al-Zahid, who said the hornet is called Abū ‘Alī.

There are two kinds of hornet: the mountain hornet, and the hornet of the lowlands. The mountain hornet is dark in color, and begins life as a worm. It nests in trees, in a house like the bee's, which it builds out of mud with four openings, one for each of the cardinal winds. It defends itself with a stinger, and feeds on fruit and flowers. The male is distinguished from the female by his larger size.
      The lowland hornet is brown in color, and makes its nest underground, ferrying out the soil as ants do. In winter it keeps to the nest, or else perishes in the cold, and sleeps like the dead, without bringing in food like the ant. By the time spring comes, their bodies are stiff as dry wood from the cold and lack of food, until God, be He Exalted, blows life back into their bodies, and they live again as they did the previous year. And this is their ordinary cycle. There is another type of lowland hornet with different coloring and a longer body that is malicious and greedy in character. It seeks out kitchens, where it eats the meat, flying in singly and taking up residence beneath the floor and inside the walls.
      The hornet's body is segmented at the middle. The abdomen has no share in respiration. A hornet immersed in oil is rendered immobile, due to the constriction of its airways, but when it cast into vinegar it is reanimated and flies away.

Al-Zamakhshari says in his commentary on Surat al-A‘raf (7:71): "In this context, qad waqa‘a ('it has descended') means that 'God's outrage and ire will surely descend on you.' Similar to this is the story of what Hassan ibn Thabit said when ‘Abd al-Rahman ibn Hassan came crying to him as a boy. 'What's the matter?' he asked his son. 'I got stung by a flying creature that was as if dressed in striped mantles of Yemen!" said ‘Abd al-Rahman. "By the Lord of the Ka‘ba!" said Hassan. "You'll be a poet (qad qulta 'sh-shi‘ra), my son!" using the past tense to mean the boy would grow up to compose poetry.

How excellent are these verses [by Abu ‘Ali al-Ansari al-Hamawi] (meter: wāfir):

           Hawk and hornet have in common
               wings that they know how to beat.
           Different, though, is hornets' prey
               from what the hawk hunts down to eat.

These verses, which are [in The Passings of Eminent Men, appearing anonymously in the entry previous to] Zahir al-Din ibn ‘Asakir's, aren't bad either (meter: basīṭ):

           While fancy speech can dress up fraud,
               the truth is soiled when badly told.
           To laud a thing, call it "bee slobber,"
               and if you'd damn it, "hornet puke."
           But praise and blame don't alter facts.
               You need the magic of eloquence for that.

This riddle by Sharaf al-Dawla Nasr ibn Munqidh describes the hornet and the bee (meter: kāmil):

           Two assemblies drone and thrum,
               two whose injury people shun.
           Generous givers of contrary things,
               one condemned and one well loved.

Ibn Abi l-Dunya tells that Abu l-Mukhtar al-Taymi narrated: A man once told me:
     "I was traveling in in a party that included a man with nothing good to say about Abu Bakr and ‘Umar, may God be pleased with them. We tried to shut him up, but the man kept on. One day, he stepped away from the group to relieve himself, and was set upon by a swarm of hornets. He cried for help as they enveloped him, but we had to leave him when they started attacking us, and they did not let up from the man until he was cut to pieces."
      This story appears in Ibn Sabu‘'s Shifā’, where the narrator goes on to say: "We tried to dig a grave for him, but the earth hardened against us and we had to leave his remains above ground, covered with rocks and leaves. Then, when another member of our group squatted to urinate, a hornet of the swarm landed on his member, but did not sting him. That is how we knew the hornets' attack was by command."

Yahya ibn Ma‘in said: Mu‘alla ibn Mansur al-Razi was a great scholar of Baghdad who narrated traditions from Malik ibn Anas, al-Layth ibn Sa‘d, and others. One day he was leading prayers when a swarm of hornets descended on him, and he did not flinch or turn around until his prayers were finished, and the people saw that his head had swelled up until it was like this [gesturing towards his own head, presumably, while telling this].

Legal rulings. The hornet is an unclean animal that it is forbidden to eat, and commendable to kill. Ibn ‘Adiyy reports [in his Complete Book of Weak Narrators] that Maslama ibn ‘Ulayy narrated on the authority of Anas, may God be pleased with him, that the Prophet, God's blessings and peace be upon him, said: "Whoever kills one hornet is credited with three good deeds." But to burn a hornet's nest with fire is disapproved: so says al-Khattabi in Waymarks to the Hadith Collection of Abu Dawud. When Ahmad ibn Hanbal was asked about smoking hornets out of their nest, he said: "If it's feared that they'll cause harm, then it's fine. Better that than burning them." The sale of hornets, like all creeping things, is forbidden.

Special properties. As mentioned above, a hornet immersed in oil will die, and then revive when immersed in vinegar. When extracted from their cells and boiled in oil, and eaten with rue and caraway, the pupae of the hornet increase sexual excitation. According to ‘Abd al-Malik ibn Zuhr, the hornet's sting is relieved by topical application of jute plant's juice.

Dream interpretation. A hornet seen in a dream signifies a warlike foe. It might also be a builder or an architect, a highwayman or any possessor of ill-gotten wealth, the surgeon who drains an infected wound, or a musician who can't keep the beat. It might also signify eating poison or drinking it.
      Another interpretation alleged of the hornet seen in a dream: "A man whom it is dreadful to contend with, who gives no ground in combat, whose manners are atrocious and it is appalling to share a meal with." Also: "Hornets entering a place signify the sudden incursion of a fearsome army whose aggression is undisguised." Another: "A man who contends fraudulently in debate"—the hornet being one of those animals [like the ape, the lizard, the parrot and the piebald crow] subject to shape-shifting.
      According to Jewish dream-interpreters, hornets and crows signify gamblers and cutthroats. "Hornets in dreams stand for bands of marauders," says another. And God knows best.

From The Greater Life of Animals by Kamal al-Din al-Damiri

February 12, 2024

A riddle and a mention

Last year, I tried to write a few paragraphs on ghazal poetry and its relation to the craft of spinning, called in Arabic ghazl. Before long, I had 9,500 words on my hands, and now I'm stoked for them to appear in Studia Metrica et Poetica, the open-access poetics journal from University of Tartu Press. For a magnificent editorial experience, I am grateful to Maria-Kristiina Lotman, and to Kalle Paalits for the patient typesetting, and to my friends and colleagues thanked by name in footnote sixty to "The Riddle of the Thread: On Arabic ghazal."

        The cover of Studia Metrica et Poetica, featuring the journal's title in red type on a white background, below the black-and-white image of an abstract oil painting exectuted with a palette knife

Also last year, I entered my translation of "The Palm Tree Sings" (1981) by Tahar Hammami into competition for the Stephen Spender Trust's Poetry in Translation Prize, and received a Commendation for First-Time Entrants. Whatever I can do to draw attention to Hammami's work won't resolve my debt to his 2003 monograph al-Shi‘r ‘alā al-shi‘r (Poetry on Poetry: A Study of [Arabic] Poetics up to the 5th c. A.H./11th c. CE in View of Poets' Verses About It), without which the book I'm writing would be a vain dream. Profound thanks to the poet's brother Hamma Hammami (Secretary General of the Tunisian Workers' Party) for his permission to reprint the Arabic text, and to Youssef Ben Ismail and Amani Alzoubi for their critical assistance.