Some myths are true

SOCRATES: The speech I will deliver is by Stesichorus son of Euphemus of Himera, and it has to go something like this:

It's false to say that, rather than someone who loves you madly and is good to go, you should take a disinterested lover who is sane and rational. That would be well said if all madness were bad. But it is through madness that our greatest blessings come to us, by which of course I mean the madness that is the gift of the gods. [Firstly,] in public as in private matters, the ravings of the oracle at Delphi have done Greece a lot of good, and so have the holy women who prophesy at Dodona, but little to no good when these same women were in their right minds. And if we were to speak of the Sibyl, and all others whose divinely-inspired pronunciations have corrected so many people's courses toward the future, then our discourse would obviously run on long.

But it is worth giving evidence for the beliefs of the ancient name-givers, according to whom madness was no cause for rebuke or shame. Otherwise, they would not have called our noblest prognostic arts by a name that implicates them in mania. But in their conviction that divinely-awarded madness is a blessing, they designated these arts as manic; it's only now that the "mantic arts" are spoken of with an inserted letter t, which is an insipid vulgarism. [By contrast,] when they assigned a name to those forms of research into the future performed by the non-mad, through studious contemplation of birds and other omens, they called them oionoïstikē, since these techniques endow mortal oiēsis (opinion) with nous (intellect) and historia (fruits of inquiry). Nowadays, by way of affecting a more sententious tone, people lengthen the second o and pronounce it as oiōnoïstikē. The upshot of all that is this: To the same degree that mantic arts are more perfect and honorable than augury—in name as they are in deed—the superiority of divine madness to mortal reason is attested by the ancients.

It also happens, in the event of ailments and grievous harms stemming from accursed deeds of long ago [e.g.], that madness intervenes to communicate a divinely-inspired message to those in need, and through resort to prayer and ministration to the gods it ferrets out their means of deliverance, hitting thus upon purifications and sacred rituals and bringing wellness once and for all to the sufferer touched with madness. Madness finds release for people in the grip of present evils, provided that they rave in the right way.

Thirdly, there is possession by the Muses. This madness takes hold of pure and tender souls and stirs them to song and other verse forms in a Bacchic frenzy. Thus arranged by the Muses' madness, countless feats of the heroic past are made teachable to hearers of the latter day. Anyone who shows up at the gates of poetry without it, presuming to become a worthy poet through craft alone, is destined for oblivion when the poetry of the stark and raving blows away that of the merely sane.

Plato, Phaedrus 244a-245a

Mysteries of the simile

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.

From The Secrets of Eloquence by ‘Abd al-Qahir al-Jurjani

*Context supplied in al-Kāmil by al-Mubarrad

City of poetry

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."

From the Dictations of Abu ‘Ali al-Qali

Adventures in Guest-Blogging II

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. 

Shuttles

Another verse where Abu Tammam goes wrong is the following:

     The places where your tribe once stayed are vacant, I attest,
           [their traces] worn away like the washa’i‘ of a mantle.

He treats washa’i‘ as if they were the mantle's bordered edges, but this is not the case. In reality, washa’i‘ are a weaver's "shuttles," which carry the coiled thread of the weft between the fibers of the warp. Dhu 'l-Rumma says [correctly]:

     [The sands] are played by strenuous winds
           like the weaving of a Yemeni whose washa’i‘ weave a mantle.

As for the verse of Kuthayyir,

     In summer, the huts of ‘Azza's tribe were wiped away,
           whose washī‘ had been renewed in a scrawling pattern [sic].

He uses washī‘ here to mean the stuffing in a gap between two things. But shuttles are for thread... and what Kuthayyir means is that [the sides and ceilings of] the huts had been re-stuffed [with grass]. This mistake is due to his inexperience of the trappings of settled life. When a Bedouin uses the wrong word for something, having never seen it first-hand, it is excusable.
     For Abu Tammam, on the other hand, there is no excuse, because he belonged to sedentary civilization, and was hardly ignorant of it. But he grants himself license, [and is flagrant about it,] as you can see in another poem where he describes his own poetic work:

     Jest and earnest are combined in the shuttling of its weft,
            as are nobility and scurrility with grief and ecstasy.

From The Weigh-in Between the Poetry of Abu Tammam and al-Buhturi by Abu 'l-Qasim al-Amidi

Another ars

‘Umar b. Laja’ said (meter: ṭawīl):

   Some poetry is like sheep manure, strewn disjointedly
        by the tongue of a poseur whose verse is meager.

because sheep's dung falls in unconnected pellets. Al-Mubarrad said: "I am informed that ‘Umar b. Laja’ said to a cousin of his: 'Between the two of us, I am the better poet.' 
     "'How so?' his cousin asked.
     "'Whereas I follow one verse with its brother, you say a verse and then its cousin.'"

      Someone asked Jarir about the poetry of Dhu 'l-Rumma, and he said: "It is like gazelle's dung, and the dottings of [henna on the hands of] a bride," meaning that it is oddly formed and comes out unevenly.
     [By way of another interpretation of this remark,] al-Asma‘i said: "'The poetry of Dhu 'l-Rumma is sweet when you first hear it, but gets weaker the more it is recited, and loses its beauty.' This is because when you first smell gazelle's dung, [freshly laid,] it is redolent of the aromatic plants on which the animal feeds. But as time goes by, it loses that fragrance, the way the 'dottings of a bride' are washed off."

From A Selection of Figurative and Allegorical Expressions of the Scholars and Rhetoricians by Ahmad ibn Muhammad al-Jurjani

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)

Merchants and weavers

Sayf al-Dawla found fault with verses 22 and 23 of the poem al-Mutanabbi delivered in his honor (meter: ṭawīl):

      To stand your ground was certain death, and there you stood,
         as if your doom were asleep with your foot in its eye.
      Wounded and sullen, [defeated] warriors filed past you.
         Your face was bright and your grin was toothy.

His objection was that its hemistichs were mismatched "Here's how it should go," Sayf al-Dawla said:

      To stand your ground was certain death, and there you stood.
         Your face was bright and your grin was toothy.
      Wounded and sullen, [defeated] warriors filed past you,
         as if your doom were asleep with your foot in its eye.

"Otherwise," he said, "it's as bad as [verses 37 and 38 of the poem] where Imru’ al-Qays says" (meter: ṭawīl):

      As if I never mounted a courser for sport
         or went belly to belly with a total babe, her ankles jingling!
      As if I weren't the buyer of wine by the skinful,
         nor told my horse, "Attack!" after wheeling about!

"Connoisseurs of poetry will agree that these hemistichs are reversed. The part about the courser goes with the bit about the horse, and the wine belongs with the buxom lass."
        Al-Mutanabbi said, "May God perpetuate the dignity of our master Sayf al-Dawla! If the one who finds fault with Imru’ al-Qays knows more about poetry than he, then Imru’ al-Qays and I are both in error. But our master well knows that in matters of fabric, the expertise of the fabric merchant and the expertise of the weaver are not the same. The merchant knows it as a finished piece, and so does the weaver - but the weaver, who transforms spun filaments into fabric, knows how the finished piece was put together.
       "What Imru’ al-Qays does here is to match his delight in women to the joys of the mounted hunt, and to match his supply of wine for the guest to his bravery in attacking the foe. Now in the first of my own verses, when I mention death, it is fitting that I go on to mention doom. And by way of describing the defeated champions, whose faces cannot but frown and weep, I say: 'Your face was bright and your grin was toothy,' which, through antithesis, gets both meanings across."
        Sayf al-Dawla was pleased with this explanation, and added a bonus of fifty dinars to the reward of five hundred he had paid al-Mutanabbi for the poem.

From al-Wahidi's Commentary on the Diwan of al-Mutanabbi

The hair of another animal

Abu Dulaf al-Qasim ibn ‘Isa al-‘Ijli paid a call on the caliph al-Ma’mun, who said, "I must say, Qasim, how excellent is your poem that describes war and the delight it brings you, while you scant the delights of singing-girls!
     "Which poem do you have in mind, O Commander of the Faithful?" asked Abu Dulaf.
     "This one," said the caliph, reciting (meter: mutaqārib):

      Here's to drawing swords and crashing through ranks,
         and raising dust and smiting head-crowns...

"How does the rest go, Qasim?" asked the caliph. Abu Dulaf said:

   ...and going dressed in soot and waving banners!
         Fatalities you'll see on spearheads
      when through raised torches comes Fatality's Bride,
         baring the sharp extremity of her fang.
      On she comes on with a seductive gait,
         flanked by the bright vigor of her offspring.
      Ignorant she, who gives the ignorant away!
         When made to speak, her answer is nonverbal.
      When her hand is sought, she claims a dowry
         of heads that plop to earth amid mixed fighters.
      Her company brings more joys than singing-girls
         and a drink of fine old wine on a rainy day.
      The sword's edge is my father, and the flat side my best friend,
         I who am death's nearness and fortune's downturn.*

He then said, "This is the pleasure I take in the thick of your enemies, O Commander of the Faithful, and the power I exert amid your supporters, and the might I wield on your behalf. While other men delight in bouts of wine-drinking, bouts of war and conflict are what I choose."
    The caliph said: "If these verses describe your true nature, and the delight they describe is your true delight, then tell me, Qasim: What's left over for the sleeping beauty on whom you parted the curtain and swore by God?"
    "In which of my poems was that, O Commander of the Faithful?" asked Abu Dulaf.
    "This one," the caliph said (meter: khafīf):

      To the sleeper who makes my eye wakeful, I say: Sleep on,
         and be untroubled. In sleep be your delight.
      God knows my heart is ailing, because He knows
         the torment that I suffer at a look in your eyes.

    "An old conjurement of mine," said Abu Dulaf, "A mere trifle at the end of a sleepless night. The other verses express my mature opinion."
    "Qasim!" said the caliph. "This couplet was well authored, I must say" (meter: ṭawīl):

      It's your fault I cast aspersion on the days we were together.
         For the nights of our togetherness, there is none to accuse.
      If lovers encounter each other only in memory
         of a thing that has passed,  away that thought will fade.

     "Bravo, Commander of the Faithful!" said Abu Dulaf. "How excellent is this couplet by [you who are] the master of the house of Hashim and the Abbasid sovereign!"
     The caliph said: "How does your acumen guide you to my authorship, to the exclusion of delusion and all doubt?"
    "Poetry, O Commander of the Faithful, is a carpet of wool," said Abu Dulaf. "And when pure wool has hair mixed in, and a weaving is made from it, the hair shines through and gleams like fire."

From the Meadows of Gold of al-Mas‘udi

*In al-Mubarrad's Kāmil a version of this poem is attributed to
  Ishaq ibn Khalaf al-Bahrani.

Ibn Faris on poetry

Poets are the princes of discourse. They may elide glottal stops at the ends of words, but they do not add them where glottal stops are lacking. They accelerate and defer, they employ mimicry and allegory, they misappropriate [choice phrases] and lend them out, and so too are their metaphors coined and borrowed. They do not drop desinential inflections in the way of everyday speech, nor do they mangle words past correct usage. The claim that poets may go against [any and all] norms of morphology and syntax for the sake of meter is a senseless claim.
     Senseless too is the hemistich [no. 164, meter: wāfir]:

     A-lam ya’tīka wa-'l-anbā’u tamnī

    "Does it not reaches you, when the news comes..."

Although [the metri gratia lengthening of a "weak" verb's jussive-case end vowel may be poetically] admissible, it is nevertheless an error and a flaw. It is as bad as saying [meter: sarī‘]:

     Lammā jafā ikhwānuhu muṣ‘aban

   "When his brothers scorn a chief..."
     viz., "When a chief is scorned by his brothers..."

And [meter: ṭawīl]:

     Qifā ‘inda mimmā ta‘rifāni rubū‘u

    "Halt, [my two companions,] where among the things recognizable
        to you are inhabited sites."

God did not make the poets infallible, nor exempt them from flaws and errors. What is acceptable is what is correct, and everything forbidden by the Arabic language and its principles is to be rejected. When poets wish to say something that does not occur to them in accordance with their poem's meter, they must come up with a substitute fit to take its place without compression or prolixity, and without indulging in vulgar speech or outright error. A poet might say [like Ru’ba ibn al-‘Ajjāj (line 56), meter: rajaz]:

    ...[happy] as a bee awash in the sweet spittle

to mean "honey." Or a poet might say [like Labīd ibn Rabī‘a (bottom line), meter: kāmil]:

    ...like the camel-stallion you tarred with a clinging clod

What the poet means is that he tarred the camel with tar, but it was necessary for him to stretch [the meaning to fit the line]. Al-A‘shā does something similar when he says [line 69, meter: basīṭ]:

    When your party rides, then horseback riding is what we do.
        And if your party comes to a halt, then we are a halting party.

His meaning is: "We ride when you ride, and we halt when you halt," but in order for it to come out right he had to dilate upon it. There is also what [Yazīd ibn al-Ṭathriyya] says [meter: ṭawīl]:

    And as long as you dwell in the Najd, [I'll say:] "O Beloved Najd!"

What he means is: "I'll dwell in the Najd as long as you dwell there." But he stretches the idea to bring the verse in line [with demands of rhyme and meter].

      My father, Fāris ibn Zakariyā, said: Abū ‘Abd Allāh Muḥammad ibn Sa‘dān, the grammarian of Hamadhan, said: Abū Naṣr al-Bāhilī, the companion of al-Aṣma‘ī, recited [lines 2,3 and 5 of Yazīd's poem] to me thus [meter: ṭawīl]:

    I have gratified, for the ladies, with one exception, my erotic longing.
        For Dhalfā’ I did not bring it to completion, yet.
    To the hill of [our] two encampments, [I say] across the distance:
        "Long many you live, O hill!" when thunder lets loose above it.
   [And to Dhalfā’:] If you leave the Najd behind, then I'll leave it too,
    and everyone who is in it.
        And as long as you dwell in the Najd, [I'll say:] "O Beloved Najd!"

The poetic record presents other such cases where poets go wrong. I talk about this in my book of poetry criticism, The Book of the Mighty Blue [Sea] (= Condemnation of Mistakes in Poetry ?).

Last chapter of The Statutes of Language for al-Ṣāḥib ibn 'Abbād
by Abu 'l-Ḥusayn Aḥmad ibn Fāris

Adventures in Guest-Blogging

Three versions of a poem by Abū Ṣakhr al-Hudhalī (d. ca. 700 CE),
translated with introductions by me.

♦   ♦   ♦     

As in the Collected Poems of the Tribe of Hudhayl by Abū Sa‘īd al-Sukkarī
(d. 888), hosted on Pierre Joris's blog at Jacket2

As in the Dictations of Abū ‘Alī al-Qālī (d. 966), hosted on Pierre's
blog Nomadics

As in the Book of Songs of Abu 'l-Faraj al-Iṣbahānī (d. 967),
hosted on the tumblr Lyric Poets

Plus a fourth variant attributed to Majnun Layla, hosted right here

ETA: My article gathering all these versions with a new introduction came out in Cambridge Literary Review 10 (2017) and is viewable here.

♦   ♦   ♦     

As recited by Adel Bin Hazman Al-Azimi (al-Sukkarī's version):