A Sisyphus of Baghdad

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. 

From The Rankings of the Poets by Ibn al-Mu‘tazz

Mālik and the wolf

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. 

From the Book of Songs

When you remarry

    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]."

A qasida by Ibn Ahmar al-Bahili (meter: wāfir)

*Two verses interpolated from Uncommon Words in Prophetic Hadith
  by Ibrahim al-Harbi

A muwashshaḥa of spring

                       Narcissus loves the rose so much
                   its eyes don't close in sleep
                       You see its raiment on a stem
                   haggard from passion

                       Have pity on the grief of one
                          whose love was so ordained!
                       But it's curtains for narcissus
                          because rose refuses
                       If you took pity on its state
                          you would pay a visit  

                     May God arrange reunion
                 where you sit down with me
                     to recreation of our souls, ¡ay!
                 Fine steerage that would be!

                     And trim the herbs with dainty seed
                          and dress them up in sweetness
                     like mulberries discovered 
                          at the peak of ripeness
                     Let waters flow once more through the canal,
                          burbling like nightingales

                     When Spring puts out the call:                 
               "Be clothed, ye stems and branches!"
                     you see green outfits of the silk
                promised in eternity

                     It's hard, in Spring, to find
                          in favor of the abstainer from the cup.
                     Festive get-togethers are Springtime's gift
                          and none but the boor oppose them.
                     Give us drink! The only tavern-goer
                          to be on guard against
                              is the one who's not wasted

                     But a well-aged daughter of the vine
               can be rough on the insolvent man
                     with a buzz already on him, when he 
               spies a cup of it, and guzzles it

By Ibn al-Maghribi
Selected by Ibn Shakir al-Kutubi
in Choice Notices of the Historical Record

Mystic riddle

      How many times have I said, while drinking wine at dawn:
          Who am I to blame others, who am drunkenness's plaything,
      all alone, seconded by no one to support me,
          even as the cosmos and its beings sing my praise?
      This is the onset of the Beauty-Marked, is it not? Watch out
          for me! Our get-together is a lofty connection.
      When I am visible, the Beauty-Marked One is in view,
          and when she is concealed, I'm still exposed.
      When you want to see her, look at me,
          and buddy, when you're with her, be on guard.
      Her every meaning is my meaning, and in form
          she's like me too, and my daughter and my father she is called.

By Shaykh ‘Adi ibn Musafir (meter: basīṭ)

A weaver's song

I am informed by al-Husayn ibn Yahya, on the authority of Hammad, that Hammad's father said:

Malik ibn Abi al-Samh was staying in Mecca, at the home of a man of the Banu Makhzum who had a weaver for his slave. Someone came along and asked: "Have you heard your weaver's song?"
       "No!" the man said. "Does he sing?"
       "Yes," he was told, "with lyrics by Abu Dahbal al-Jumahi."
        The man sent for the weaver and told him to sing it. "It's no good unless I'm at my loom," the weaver said. So his master brought Malik to the weaver's room, where the weaver sat at his loom and sang (meter: ṭawīl): 

   This night goes on too long. It is not lifting.
      [I am harried and dragged down by worry with no relief.
   All night long, angst rides me. It's like 
       being stubbed in the ribs with a glowing coal.]

Malik learned the song, and when he sang it, everyone took it for his composition. "By God," he would say, "it was not I. It was none but a weaver who came up with this song."

From the Book of Songs

The palm tree sings

By Tahar Hammami (1947-2009)

               I see the palm tree walking in the streets
                           A lofty one, with head held high
                                            The overthrower and defier

               Did you see, on that brave day,
                               the leaves of the palm
                                              as it made its way?

               Did you see the palm of the oasis
                              towering above the square
                      or the wounded, picking shot from their chest
                                      and binding up the tear?

★   ★   ★                                 

               The necks of castor plants bow low
               The squill bulb's leaves are folded

★   ★   ★                                 

               I see the palm tree walking
                      in the thick of traffic walking
                      in the thick of night it's walking

               In the thick of an attack it walks
                      into the sun with eyes lashed shut
                      onto a promising harvest

               The palm is right. You who forget!
               Cast off delusion and wear its dress
                       The palm tree does not cry

               The palm tree sings
                           with sparrows and children
                           with the waters of the sea
                           with mountain wheatfields 
                           with the lightning
                           with the ferment of autumn
                           and winter rains

               I see the palm tree walking in the streets
                              with the iron of the factories
                              and the produce of the fields

                                    Long nights and painful incidents
                                    notwithstanding
                              I see the palm tree standing tall
                                    I see it's not receding

               (1981)

Mohamed Bhar, "Ara al-nakhla yamshi"
(I see the palm tree walking).
Lyrics by Tahar Hammami

Ars poetica

A wide array of poetry is esteemed by those who speak it.
    Some is garbage. Some is soundly proverbial,
and some is lunatic discourse coating its reciter in a pall.
    Some is easy-going, and some is bombast. There are quiescent endings
        and there are lines that ramble on and on.
In poetry, there are refuse-flingers, plagiarists
    and imitators, and there are some who make it new.
Leave that! and tend the verses of your own weaving.
    Some are bound to be noble, after you have journeyed through.

Lines 55-58 of a 97-line poem by Nabighat Bani Shayban (meter: basīṭ)

The Mu‘allaqa of ‘Abīd ibn al-Abras

appears in translation with an introduction by me

in

A public-access publication 

of the King Abdulaziz Center for World Culture (Ithra), 

in cooperation with Al Qafilah magazine, 

produced by Saudi Aramco (Dhahran, 2020)

I would not have missed the chance to work with this team of editors and translators for the world. Many thanks to Hatem Alzahrani and Bander Alharbi. This is my first commissioned translation. My fee went to Climeworks.

Our poems are the best and travel far

I am told by Muhammad ibn Yahya [Abu Bakr al-Suli] that Muhammad ibn Sallam said: I was told by ‘Umar ibn Shabba that Muhammad, the son of Bashshar ibn Burd said:

Marwan ibn Abi Hafsa was reciting his poems before my father. He said, "If I could add some of your verses to mine I would be rich." At this, my father invited his rhapsode to recite them. So he recited a poem of Bashshar's rhymed in lām, and, when he got to the verses (meter: ṭawīl)—

    A depiction of you has been sent abroad by me.
      Off [my poem] went, and did not fail to arrive at inhabited areas.
    To the East and West I cast it, and the land swarmed
      with its reciters and travelers [who recited it elsewhere]

—Marwan said, "O Abu Mu‘adh! [That is, Bashshar.] Other poets are storks, but you are a falcon."

And Muhammad ibn Yahya said:

Bashshar's verse was imitated by Muhammad ibn Hazim al-Bahili (meter: wāfir):

    The meaning I intend forbids I make my poem long.
        My expert sense of [formal] correctness does the same.
    By making a short selection, and employing brevity,
        I shall curtail the length of my answer,
    and when I perform it for parties of travelers
        rhapsodes and riders will say it back to one another.

From The Ornament of the Learned Gathering
by Abu ʿAli Muhammad al-Hatimi

The Poem of the Bow

by Ma‘qil ibn Dirar, called al-Shammakh
(floruit 1st half of the 1st century A.H.),
appears in issue 29 (2020) of A Public Space
وبالعربية ت صلاح الدين الهادي
Thanks to the editors

Detail from a folio of the Shahnameh of Ferdowsi,
illuminated by Mir Sayyid Ali and workshop (ca. 1530-1535).
Previously owned by Shah Tahmasp I, now at the Met

Let's have a Qalandar poem

The Muwashshaha Qalandariyya of
Taqi al-Din ibn al-Maghribi (d. 1285)
appears in this month's Brooklyn Rail.
Thanks, Anselm

Detail of a folio from the Divan of Hafez
illuminated by Sultan Muhammad Nur and workshop (ca. 1531-1533),

a joint holding of the Met and Sackler.
Dimensions: Astoundingly small

From The Book of Verses with Unclear Meanings

We are informed by Ahmad ibn Muhammad al-ʿArudi that Ahmad ibn Yahya attested these verses on the authority of al-Bahili (meter: kāmil):

خِدْنَانِ لَمْ يُرَيَا مَعًا في مَنْزِلٍ         وَكِـلاهُما يَسْــرِي بِهِ المِقْدَارُ          

‘Abīd 1:21-26

    Live by what you will. Weakness does not preclude success.
        A man of expertise can still be duped.
    A man who cannot learn from fate cannot be taught by people,
        not even if they take him by the scruff.
    What are hearts but inborn tempers?
        How many hate their former friends?
    Lend a hand in any land while you sojourn there.
        Never say: "But I am alien to this place."
    In favor of alliance with a stranger from afar,
        nearby relations are sometimes severed.
    And as long as a man may live, he is in denial.
        Long life is his punishment.

From the Mu‘allaqa of ‘Abīd ibn al-Abraṣ

A floating bridge of Baghdad

A Bedouin passed by a pontoon bridge, then gave a versified description of it unlike anything by anyone I know (meter: basīṭ):

    Along the corniche, friends linger and disperse
        by the Tigris post where the flood is spanned by a bridge of boats.
    Viewed from one side, it's like a string of Bactrian camels
        flanking each other crosswise in their tethers,
    some followed by their young, some adolescents
        treading dung, and some that are fair old milchers.
    No coming home from travels for these camels.
        Any time they move, their steps are short,
    bound by ropes of palm dyed different colors
        and fixed with pegs of iron in their sides.

One of the Unparalleled Poems from the Book of Prose and Poetry by
Ibn Abi Tahir Tayfur (d. 893 CE)

Origins of the fold-in

On the poet Abu 'l-‘Ibar al-Hashimi (d. 866 CE), by Sinan Antoon,
The Poetics of the Obscene in Premodern Arabic Poetry: Ibn al-Hajjaj
and Sukhf (Palgrave Macmillan, 2014), 40:

¹⁸⁹  From the Book of Songs

From the Epistle of the Two Luminaries

In his Epistle of the Two Luminaries, which is [subtitled] "From a dejected lover, to one whose love is reciprocated by another," and begins with the words: "The earth lies before the merciful king, the sultan of beauty, the lion of combat...." ‘Ala’ al-Din [Taqi al-Din] ibn al-Maghribi said (meter: majzū’ al-ramal):

   The Nile comes and goes.
       My love goes on and on.
   Nothing I say tomorrow will be enough.
       Sometimes love is too much.
   Every heart but mine
       gets the love it wants.
   I am the lone unfortunate
       going steady with rejection.

Then ‘Ala’ al-Din [Taqi al-Din] said: I am the lone unfortunate who pissed on a plate of fried doughnuts, dribbling out a vinegar stream. I crucified Iblis with his own hammer, and left him sagging and singing "Tra-la-la-la!" as he flapped his wings like a chicken (meter: majzū’ al-ramal):

   Tra-la-la-la, tra-la-la!
       You, with the eyes of a little gazelle!
   God have mercy on my slayer.
       Me it is no boast to kill.

From The Register of Ardent Love by Ibn Abi Hajala

Thieves who were poets

‘Arqal was a famous thief of the Banu Sa‘d. Along with Abu Hardaba and Mālik ibn al-Rayb, he was a thief who was a poet. His name comes from the verb ta‘arqala, which means "to be thrown into chaos," and in vulgar speech it is much in use; ‘irqāla is "one who sows chaos."

In the early Islamic period, there was an Arab highwayman of the desert called ‘Ujayl ("Speedy"), for his callousness. By my estimation, he was active when Ziyad was governor.

From The Book of Name Derivations by Ibn Durayd

Quiet is the howl

We are informed by Muhammad ibn al-Hasan ibn ‘Asim that al-Zubayr ibn ‘Abd al-Wahid reported that al-Rabi‘ ibn Sulayman said: I heard al-Shafi‘i recite these verses (meter: basīṭ):

     I wish I had dogs for neighbors
         instead of everyone I see.
     Dogs in their packs accept guidance.
         Human badness will never be tamed.
     Tend your soul and keep it secluded.
         Life in seclusion can only be praised.

An eminent jurist of our age says something similar, God have mercy on him (meter: basīṭ):

     From predations of wild beasts there is refuge.
         From human predation, nowhere to flee.
     Wild beasts don't bother most people.
         From human harm, no mortal is free.

       Al-Fudayl ibn ‘Iyad said: "If you see a lion, don't let it alarm you. If you see a son of Adam, hike up your robes and flee."

We report these words on Qubaysa's authority, and also that al-Shafi‘i said: "What do our times resemble, if not the verse by Ta’abbata Sharran (sic)" (meter: ṭawīl):

     When the wolf howls, my feelings are friendly.
         What startle me are human voices.

‘Ubayd ibn Ayyub al-‘Anbari said something similar after he was pursued by the law for a capital crime he had committed, and fled until he reached a territory unknown to him (meter: ṭawīl):

      I was so awake to danger that when a dove flew by,
         I said, "Is that a single enemy, or a scouting party?"
      If I hear: "It gets better," I say: "It's a trick!"
         If I hear: "It gets worse," I say "True! Better get ready!"

I have it on al-Aburi's authority that the jurist Mansur ibn Isma‘il said (meter: mujtathth):

      People are the deep sea
         Distance from them is a boat
      I advise you to look
         After your miserable soul

From The Book of Isolation by Abu Sulayman al-Khattabi

At Wadi ‘Abqar

‘Abqar means "hail," which is the fall of frozen water from a cloud. They say that ‘Abqar is a land inhabited by demonic spirits (jinn), as in the proverbial expression "like the jinns of ‘Abqar."
    Al-Marrār al-‘Adawī said (meter: ramal):

    Do you recognize the abode, or do you know it not
        between Tibrāk and the stonefields of ‘Abaqurr?

It is explained [by al-Azharī that the place-name in this verse is altered]: The vowel after the b in ‘Abqar is inserted for metrical reasons, and the final r is redoubled for these same reasons. The vocalic shift of a > u in the last syllable is to avoid the form *‘Abaqarr, which corresponds to no existing morphological template in Arabic. So the poet devised an analogy to words like qarabūs (the pommel of a saddle), which poets are licensed to shorten to qarabus; and the redoubled r is a fine compensation for this imaginary shortening of the vowel.
    Al-A‘shā (sic) said (meter: ṭawīl):

    ...young and old fighting men, like jinns of ‘Abqar

And Imru’ al-Qays said (meter: ṭawīl):

    The sound of the gravel kicked up [by my camel]
        is like the clink of coins subject to scrutiny at ‘Abqar

And Kuthayyir said (meter: ṭawīl):

    May your stars repay your kindness to your friend with a happy life.
        May my Lord rank you with His highest and His nearest.
    On whatever day you come upon [a certain foe]
        you'll find their ingrained quality superior to other people's.
    They are like the wild jinn haunting the sands
        at ‘Abqar, who, when confronted, do not disappear.

Commentators on these verses say that ‘Abqar is a place in Yemen, which would make it an inhabited area, known apparently for its money-changers. And where there are money-changers, there must be people involved in other trades. Perhaps it was an ancient town, since destroyed, and colorful textiles of unknown make have subsequently been attributed to the jinn of the place? God knows best.
    Genealogists say that Hind bt. Mālik b. Ghāfiq b. al-Shāhid b. ‘Akk was married to Anmār b. Arāsh b. ‘Amr b. al-Ghawth b. Nabat b. Mālik b. Zayd b. Kahlān b. Sabā’ b. Yashjub b. Ya‘rub b. Qahṭān, and bore him a son named Aftal, who came to be called Khath‘am. Khath‘am went on to marry Bajīla bt. Ṣa‘b b. Sa‘d, and the son she bore him was named Sa‘d - but was nicknamed ‘Abqar, because he was born near a mountain called ‘Abqar, somewhere in Arabia where patterned cloth was woven.
    ‘Abqar is also said to be a location in central Arabia. Those who say it is a land of jinns point to the verse by Zuhayr (meter: ṭawīl):

    On horses ridden by ‘Abqarī demons, they are
        prepared to seize the day of battle, and overcome.

    One opinion has it that ‘Abqarī is, at bottom, a descriptor for anything the describer is fascinated by. It derives from ‘Abqar, where carpets and other things were once woven, and consequently any well-made thing was said to be from there. Al-Farrā’ said: ‘Abqarī is a kind of velveteen with a thick pile. Mujāhid said: ‘Abqarī is brocade. Qatāda said: ‘Abqarī is carpet for lying down on, and Sa‘īd b. Jubayr concurs, adding that it is carpet of ancient make. Not one of these definitions is in reference to a particular place. But God knows best.

From The Dictionary of Countries by Yāqūt