The Hunt in Arabic Poetry: From Heroic to Lyric to Metapoetic [1 ed.] 0268041512, 9780268041519

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T HE HUNT I N A R A BI C POETRY

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THE HUNT IN ARABIC POETRY From Heroic to Lyric to Metapoetic

: Jaroslav Stetkev ych University of Notre Dame Press Notre Dame, Indiana

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Copyright © 2016 by the University of Notre Dame Notre Dame, Indiana 46556 www.undpress.nd.edu All Rights Reserved

Manufactured in the United States of America

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Stetkevych, Jaroslav. The hunt in Arabic poetry : from heroic to lyric to metapoetic / Jaroslav Stetkevych. pages cm Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-0-268-04151-9 (pbk. : alk. paper)—ISBN 0-268-04151-2 (pbk. : alk. paper) — ISBN 978-0-268-09292-4 (web pdf) 1. Hunting in literature. PJ7542.H78S74 2015 892.7'10093579—dc23

2. Arabic poetry—History and criticism.

I. Title.

2015034486 ∞ The paper in this book meets the guidelines for permanence and durability of the Committee on Production Guidelines for Book Longevity of the Council on Library Resources.

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C O NT E NT S

Acknowledgments vii Note on Transliteration xi Introduction 1

  The Heroic and the Anti-Heroic in the Early Arabic Ode: The Qaṣīdah  

The Hunt in the Pre-Islamic Ode 13

  

The Hunt in the Ode at the Close of the Archaic Period 35

 

Sacrifice and Redemption: The Transformation of an Archaic Theme in al-ḤuṭayAbbāsid Ṭardiyyah 91

 

From Description to Imagism: >Alī Ibn al-Jahm’s “We Walked over Saffron Meadows” 130

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Contents

  

Breakthrough into Lyricism: The Ṭardiyyahs of Ibn al-Mu>tazz 139

  

From Lyric to Narrative: The Ṭardiyyah of Abū Firās al-Ḥamdānī 184

  Modernism and Metapoesis: The Pursuit of the Poem   

The Modernist Hunt Poem in >Abd al-Wahhāb al-Bayātī and Aḥmad >Abd al-Mu>ṭī Ḥijāzī 225

  

The Metapoetic Hunt of Muḥammad >Afīfī Maṭar 243

Notes 280 Bibliography 330 Index 343

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AC K NOW L E DG M E NT S

It is my pleasure to acknowledge the unflagging help and support that led to the composition and completion of the present book. I single out in particular my friends and colleagues Muhsin Jasim al-Musawi of Columbia University, for his numerous critical insights and highly knowledgeable bibliographical suggestions, and Hassan Elbanna Ezz al-Din of Zaqaziq University and >Ar>ar University, for recognizing and furthering the culturalhistorical and literary significance of my critical enterprise. For many decades of intellectual camaraderie, from our student days through our golden years, I would like to express my appreciation and affection for James T. Monroe of the University of California at Berkeley. With an ageing scholar’s humility, as I witness the rewarding generational changing of the guard, I owe to my admirable wife and colleague, Suzanne Pinckney Stetkevych of Georgetown University, much, if not all, that it took to bring this book to publication. I also owe a debt of friendship and gratitude to the wonderful scholars and critics whom I, unfairly, outlived but have been given the privilege of remembrance. I begin with my dear friend, the indomitable, brilliant, and highly cultivated Egyptian critic Louis Awad, who was formative in the education of an entire generation of Egyptian poets. In my work, I continue to return to him with love and reverence. I owe special love and remembrance to the great Egyptian historian of strong vii

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Acknowledgments

literary proclivity, Husayn Mutazz: Breakthrough into Lyricism,” Journal of Arabic Literature 41, no. 3 (2010): 201– 44, as chapter 6; and “Modernity and Metapoetry in Muḥammad >Afīfī Maṭar’s Hunt Poem: Ṭardiyyah,” Journal of Arabic Literature 43, no. 2/3 (2012): 137– 71, as chapter 9. Finally, I thank the editors at the Japan Association for Middle East Studies for permission to reprint, as chapter 8, an article that appeared in a special issue devoted to Arabic poetry, guest edited by Akiko Motoyoshi Sumi of Kyoto Notre Dame University: “Two Modernist Arabic Hunt Poems: The Ṭardiyyahs of >Abd al-Wahhāb al-Bayātī and Aḥmad >Abd al-Mu>ṭī Ḥijāzī,” Annals of the Japan Association for Middle East Studies 29 (2013): 145– 69.

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NOT E O N T R A NSL I T E R AT I O N

For bibliographical references and entries, I have used the International Journal of Middle East Studies transliteration system. For the transliteration of Arabic poetry and prose quotations, I have made adjustments, using elisions and sun-letters, to more closely approximate pronunciation.

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Introduction In his Meditations on Hunting, the Spanish philosopher and litterateur José Ortega y Gasset (1883–1955) intimates in his unerring but nevertheless paradoxical way the impulse and dynamic behind the physical act of the hunt: “One does not hunt in order to kill: on the contrary, one kills in order to have hunted.”1 With a true “hunter’s” uncanny accuracy, he also tacitly posits the rarely voiced tension between the exuberant heroic hunt and the lyrical, self-indulgent courtly hunt—precisely the distinction we will be making here between the hunt scene of the early Arabic Bedouin Ode and the formally freestanding Arabic poem of the hunt, the ṭardiyyah. Ortega y Gasset’s paradox of hunt and hunting allows us, indeed invites us, to meditate with him as we introduce our own “meditations on hunting” in Arabic poetry. We begin with the Arabic poet as a princely Bedouin knight, rushing on his blood-splashed, peerless hunting steed into herds of oryx in panicked flight. The closure of such a hunt, with its overabundance of slaughtered quarry, followed by the roasting, boiling, and storing, is a feast of blood and meat—but above all, it is a ritual banquet. Here, at least one particular hunter, Imru< al-Qays, “killed in order to have hunted.” To ascertain this, we might, of course, benefit from a knowledge of 1

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2 THE HU NT IN A RA BIC POE T RY

the broader context of the early Arabic, knightly-heroic qaṣīdah-ode. However, the Bedouin Arabic poetic meditation of the hunt extends as well to the representation of a hunt’s failure and even its illegality, where the hunter agonizes as would an unsuccessful poacher. This agony, but also the pathos in the psyche of the failed hunter, in its abstracted concreteness, is no less than the hunter’s counter-feeling or counterexperience, the very opposite of the heroic feeling and experience of the hunt of the great Bedouin Ode. On questions such as these it is necessary to (critically) meditate. The Arabic hunt poem—the ṭardiyyah —is distinct from the Ode in its shorter length, as well as in its perceptible leaning toward a new, one might say “anti-Ode,” intensity of lyricism. It lays its own claim to our meditative understanding of a poetic but also a technical depiction of hunt and hunting. It introduces itself through a heightened formconsciousness, with a renewed, almost modern sensibility of courtliness; and it never loses its self-justifying need to revalidate itself in terms of Arabic poetry’s long-engrained passion for the hunt. In light of the separate but confluent poetic themes, forms, and structures of the archaic Ode and the ṭardiyyah and their combined, almost contrapuntal grace, it is thus necessary that we read them together, to relive not merely vicarious vestiges of the passion of hunting but also the poetry which that passion and form engendered. In the present study, I have laid special weight on approaching Arabic hunt poetry in a personal way and on interpreting it not so much out of a passion for the hunt, as out of a passion for the qualitative distinctness of Arabic hunt poetry. My passion is mainly for what poetry did or is capable of doing for and with hunting. For it is through its poetry that the hunt and act of hunting become fixed in time, credible in it, and, taken out of their suspended, particular moment of realness, capable of preserving figments of a very specific passion. A technical and thereby also an aesthetic misstep in approaching hunt poetry takes out of the hunt, as it does out of its poetry, that paradoxically powerful yet fragile moment of imaginatively relived credibility. Therefore, our present concern with Arabic poetic texts of the hunt as poetized form and of hunting as poetized act will be always very selective, in full awareness of the proposition that from the moment

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Introduction 3

of its selection for critical consideration, the meaning of a quoted poem should be dictated not by the one who selected but by the selected poem itself. At the moment of selection, the poem will stand on its own and by itself. It will control and validate. It will be both betraying and unforgiving. If the selection was compromised by extra-poetic decisions, for example, those of mere social history—if the reason was to fill in an extra-literary vacuum of cold information, based not on the poem but on its circumstance—then that reason for selection ought not to remain hidden away from poetry’s “existential” reality (something that Ortega y Gasset would well understand). It should stand out starkly, not provided with a fig leaf of coy obdurateness. Whether ancient or modern, the examples of the poetic texts presented here must not submit to an acceptability based on force of habit. Often enough, even foundational, classicism-claiming poetry may have to be taken off its pedestal and examined as though for the first time ever. Even some wonderful poets have demanded this of themselves and for others—although without much echo or response. Friedrich Schiller, for example, felt that especially Goethe, the poetic giant of his age, would fare better if he were first dethroned, humbled like a broken statue—or worse.2 My choices of Arabic poetic hunts and hunters, therefore, are also attempts at uncovering them “from within.” Knowing as little as we do about poets of the oldest periods of Arabic literature, our access to the “within” of that poetry’s hunt and hunting will have to be preeminently through poems and their frequently difficult-to-penetrate poetics, rather than through the poets to whom those poems are attributed. This approach also harmonizes with the overall manner, or call it method, in which I have set out to explore the historically later, more richly chronicled and detailed Arabic time of the literary hunt, the formally true-toitself “time of the ṭardiyyah.” Precisely here, however, in this new genre-poem of the hunt, the need increases—not just for scholarship but for criticism—to be more alert and analytically more sharply incisive, in order to arrive at a sense of identification of form through structure—a topic that ṭardiyyah criticism so far has barely dared to touch. Within this need for formal and structural clarity loom questions of the ṭardiyyah genre as a “lyrical

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genre”: Where does lyricism in it start? How does it evolve? Where does it end? Why is its formal tenure so fragile? Even great poets like Abū Nuwās have no answer to these questions. And when answers do come, they are not critically noticed. No ṭardiyyah poet’s head wears an unassailable crown, and no pedestal should provide forgiveness, even when singular poetic strokes of genius by the same poets remain unstainable. In an academic and critical reading, however, there must be a readiness to bare deficits, or even admit to deeply engrained hesitancies when speaking of poets and poems that have long ago been consecrated, especially when that past itself bristled with consecration. In such cases, the supine voice behind a time-tested stasis of scholarship is best let free to clash with the other, equally proven, critical tool, that is, kinesis. We should not, however, expect the encounter between these two agents to be harmonious. It is a melancholy sight to observe a lyrical genre such as the ṭardiyyah agonize and die as joy in the courtly hunt itself died. The death of the hunt poem came in two strokes, with the uncanny precision of a tired, historically agonizing moment of confusion between chivalry and societal servility. This death agony played out metaphorically in the form-exorbitance and form-indifference, respectively, of the two otherwise formidable poetic contemporaries Abū Firās al-Ḥamdānī and alMutanabbī. In our critical engagement with lyricism in the Arabic poetry of hunt and hunting, we discover that the ṭardiyyah always ranks as a highly joyous manifestation. Its loss or exhaustion as genre, therefore, reaches deeper than the loss of a mere poetic form, for it had touched the pith of unencumbered joy, when joy was young in some of the best of Arabic lyrical poetry. But when the time seemed to have arrived for the ṭardiyyah to gasp for life again, its awakening was hardly a return to a world of the hunt’s joy or even pathos. The passion in it was no longer even a figment of memory. Now it was only a nostalgia for a memory that was too difficult to grasp, at best populated by someone else’s arcane choice of referential symbols and escapist dream-stories. The lyrically generated hunters of the past had now become alien to themselves, and their hunts had turned into the darkest, very personal escapes and losses.

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Introduction 5

In effect, the courtliness and joy of the hunt no longer inhabit the hunting grounds of contemporary Arabic poetry—as perhaps they should not. For the modern Arab poet, as a huntsman in his estranged, new time, his quarry exists not to be killed but to be preserved, to live on in this new time, only now with its own burden as the meta-quarry of a meta-hunt, all in a meta-poem that is out of control. Such is Arabic poetry’s trajectory of the post-courtly—but entirely modern—ṭardiyyah.

PRÉCIS OF THE PRESENT STUDY

Arabic poetry may be unique among the world’s major literary traditions in that the theme of the hunt runs in a continuous, if uneven, current from the earliest period of recorded Arabic poetry—that is, the preIslamic “Age of Ignorance,” or Jāhiliyyah, an oral tradition whose oldest preserved poems date as far back as the fifth century CE—through the coming of Islam in the seventh century and the great Arabic courtly tradition of the Umayyad and >Abbāsid caliphates, and ultimately as a classical substrate for the radical Modernism of the twentieth century and its metapoetic stance. This striking continuity of theme and motif, however, is subject to dramatic transformations of poetic genre, structure, and sensibility throughout the arc of Arab cultural history. This study aims not to rehearse the literary history of the hunt theme, but rather to identify and explore the transformational moments of the Arabic hunt, from heroic to lyric to Modernist-metapoetic. Part One is entitled “The Heroic and the Anti-Heroic in the Early Arabic Ode: The Qaṣīdah.” The majestic qaṣīdah, or ode, particularly in its full-fledged tripartite form, constitutes the matrix of the classical Arabic poetic tradition. The qaṣīdah’s time-honored themes are distributed over three structural sections: the nasīb (lyric-elegiac prelude), the raḥīl (desert journey), and the fakhr (self-exaltation) or madīḥ (encomium), which are very clearly circumscribed and defined as components of an architectural construct. These sections determine not only the kind of themes they accept but, even more importantly, the moods that will rule over the repertory of poetic themes. Furthermore, it is in this form

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of the qaṣīdah that Arabic poetry produces its true canon-setting classicism between the pre-Islamic and the mid-Umayyad periods, that is, up to ca. 700 CE. It speaks of the totality of experience each time a poet speaks through it. Chapter 1, “The Hunt in the Pre-Islamic Ode,” demonstrates that in the pre-Islamic qaṣīdah, the hunt poem occurs not as a freestanding genre but in the form of structurally determined thematic segments of the grand qaṣīdah-scheme. In the qaṣīdah’s full articulation, however, the subject of the hunt is divided with the utmost formal rigor between the second and third sections, the raḥīl and the fakhr or madīḥ. This structural differentiation has explicit thematic consequences, for the Bedouin poet speaks of two very different types of hunt: the wretched hunt on foot in the animal panels of the desert journey section, and the chivalrous hunt on horseback of the final celebratory section. It is the chivalrous hunt, termed ṭard, that generates the independent genre of the Arabic hunt poem, called ṭardiyyah, which appears in the late Umayyad to early >Abbāsid periods (mid-eighth century CE), keyed in by the image of the pre-Islamic chivalrous hunter’s unfaltering, and unforgettable, “setting out at daybreak” (wa qad aghtadī). Having established in chapter 1 the structure-determined typology of the hunt, in chapter 2, “The Hunt in the Ode at the Close of the Archaic Period,” I uncover the allegorical dimensions of both the wretched hunter theme of the raḥīl (desert journey) section and the chivalrous hunt of the fakhr (self-exaltation) and madīḥ (encomium) sections in the pre-Islamic and early Islamic ode. In the rahīl section the protagonist is not the hunter but the hunted animal, usually an oryx bull or cow, a wild ass, or, more rarely, an ostrich; and from its encounter with the hunter (or with the inclement environment, as is the case of the ostrich) it must emerge victorious, unless the poem in which this type of hunting scene figures is an elegy. The hunter, in contrast, personifies despondency, failure, and social destitution. His fate is to be unlucky; and there is almost an air of wrong to his very pursuit of his quarry. He is, as it were, a poacher, with no right to intrude in the animal world. As for the hunt that takes place in the third section of the classical qaṣīdah, that is, the fakhr (self-exaltation) or madīḥ (encomium), there must as a rule be no further reference to the she-camel or to the animal

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Introduction 7

panels; for the liminal journey is now over, and the poet is no longer traveling alone in a danger-filled desert. Instead he finds himself again in his tribal community or at a patron’s court. There he must engage in and practice certain given and firmly established customs and social, or communal, rituals. These communal acts are then either celebratory, such as banquets, homages, and the like, or expressly and iconically heroic, such as the gallant hunt. Toward the end of the Umayyad period, the ternary qaṣīdah ceases to be operative in its fullest, archaic-Bedouin, manner, that is, in the liminality of the raḥīl and in the heroic purpose of its chivalrous chase, and the dialectical tension between the two types of hunt begins to break down. The qaṣīdah then becomes either the formalistic-rhetorical vehicle of court panegyric, still ternary, as described by the classical critic Ibn Qutaybah, or else it ceases to be ternary altogether, losing the liminal raḥīl section with the wretched hunt and, with it, its allegorizing effect upon the subsequent chivalrous chase. In the process of these changes, the qaṣīdah furthermore releases, or expels, the subject of the hunt from its tradition-dictated frame. In so doing, it gives it the freedom to move outside the confines of traditional qaṣīdah-structure, thereby freeing it, in a future no longer Bedouin, to pursue an independent poetic existence as a specific, freestanding poetic form and, ultimately, as its own genre, the ṭardiyyah. Chapter 3, “Sacrifice and Redemption: The Transformation of an Archaic Theme in al-Ḥuṭayt), which characteristically opens with the formula an>atu (“I shall describe”). Through selected examples, this chapter analyzes the thematic and stylistic differences between these two types as well as their overlap in intermediate subjective-objective hunt poems. The hunt poem takes an imagist turn as shown in chapter 5, “From Description to Imagism: >Alī Ibn al-Jahm’s ‘We Walked over Saffron Meadows.’” The >Abbāsid poet >Alī Ibn al-Jahm (d. 863) opens his ṭardiyyah with saffron meadows underfoot but with the poetic vision directed high in the sky. After a hunting scene that has the mood of an interlude, the poem in its closure reverts to the opening image of a purely aerial vision of hawks and falcons circling above the hunters. The air through which the falcons circle silently remains as soft and balmy as the saffron meadows under the hunters’ feet when they entered the enchanted realm of their hunt. >Alī Ibn al-Jahm’s singular ṭardiyyah, with its equally singular occurrence in classical Arabic poetry of the motif of riyāḍu z-za>farān (the saffron meadows), is thus essentially different from the ṭardiyyahs of innovative wit laid upon traditional, archaizing motival dependencies of his great predecessor, Abū Nuwās. The essence of lyricism in >Alī Ibn al-Jahm lies in his poetic ability to sustain an image. After Abū Nuwās, the genre of the ṭardiyyah reaches its second apogee, or rather its maturity, in the hands of the >Abbāsid poet and critic Ibn al-Mu>tazz (d. 908), the subject of chapter 6, “Breakthrough into Lyricism: The Ṭardiyyahs of Ibn al-Mu>tazz.” By overcoming the limitations of the formulaism in the ṭardiyyah genre of his predecessors, Ibn al-Mu>tazz realizes the full lyrical potential of the Arabic hunt poem

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Introduction 9

and moves beyond mere objective description to lyrical affect. Thereby he reinvigorates the genre. The full expanse of lyricism in Ibn al-Mu>tazz’s “setting-out” ṭardiyyahs is nowhere better displayed than in his nineteenverse poem no. 92. It illustrates his distinct preference for the “subjective” ṭardiyyah-stance of wa qad aghtadī (“perhaps I will set out with the break of day”) over the self-distancing, objectivizing stance in his other, “descriptive” ṭardiyyahs. Another >Abbāsid experiment is the narrative hunt poem dealt with in chapter 7, “From Lyric to Narrative: The Ṭardiyyah of Abū Firās al-Ḥamdānī.” We witness a radical transformation of the Arabic hunt poem in the work of the later >Abbāsid poet Abū Firās al-Ḥamdānī (d. 968), who abandons the short lyric monorhyme for the sprawling, narrative rhymed couplets (urjūzah muzdawijah). His 136-line poem almost breaks with the ṭardiyyah genre-tradition to become a curious formal hybrid, which is never repeated. It was then, and still remains, an unexplained genre-historical phenomenon and, as such, a temptation and a challenge to scholarship and criticism. In this chapter, I deal with some of this poem’s most jarring narrative, acoustic, and aesthetic problems and conclude that Abū Firās’s formal experiment ultimately fails to integrate the lyric and narrative elements into a fully satisfying poem of the hunt. Part Three bears the title “Modernism and Metapoeisis: The Pursuit of the Poem.” After several centuries of neglect, the hunt poem as poetic concept was revived by Modernist poets. Chapter 8, “The Modernist Hunt in >Abd al-Wahhāb al-Bayātī and Aḥmad >Abd al-Mu>ṭī Ḥijāzī,” examines two poems, both entitled Ṭardiyyah, by two pioneering Arab free-verse poets, the Iraqi >Abd al-Wahhāb al-Bayātī (d. 1999) and the Egyptian Aḥmad >Abd al-Mu>ṭī Ḥijāzī (1935–). In naming their poems Ṭardiyyah, both poets invoke the classical Arabic poetic genre of that name, together with its literary constraints and formal and thematic expectations. In his Ṭardiyyah (1966), al-Bayātī transforms the genreand form-bound, rhymed and metered lyric of the classical tradition into a formally free exploration of the dramatic and tragic image of the hunted hare as a metaphor for the political and cultural predicament of modern man. The chapter then turns to Ḥijāzī’s Ṭardiyyah, composed in 1979 during his self-imposed exile in Paris. I demonstrate that through

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the dream-metaphor of the hunt, the poet transforms the poignant lyricism of the traditional hunt poem into an expression of the poet’s personal experience of political exile and poetic restlessness and frustration. In the closing chapter, we discover the ultimate Modernist hunt poem. Chapter 9, “The Metapoetic Hunt of Muḥammad >Afīfī Maṭar,” comprises the interpretation and full translation of a single poem by the contemporary Arabic Egyptian poet Muḥammad >Afīfī Maṭar (d. 2010), his Ṭardiyyah (1992). The poet’s Modernist poem, no longer courtly, is hermeneutically connected to the old genre, as is revealed in his modern mythopoetic use of the archaic motif of “the morning of the hunter.” In this chapter I also raise the problem of the notorious difficulty and obscurity (ṣu>ūbah and ghumūḍ) of >Afīfī Maṭar’s poetic language in the context of the general search of modern Arab poets, among them Adūnīs (>Alī Aḥmad Sa>īd), for a new poetic language. The chapter then turns to establishing >Afīfī Maṭar’s place among the European and American poets of radical Modernism, especially with regard to the mythopoetic stance of Wallace Stevens. Finally, I argue that >Afīfī Maṭar’s Ṭardiyyah with its very personal mythopoesis is a total achievement in the presentation of a Modernist Arabic poem—an achievement analogous to Wallace Stevens’s “central poem,” “A Primitive Like an Orb.”

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PA RT I

:

The Heroic and the Anti-Heroic in the Early Arabic Ode The Qas¯ı dah ˙

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C HA P T E R 1

The Hunt in the Pre-Islamic Ode

T WO FORMAL CONCEPTS: THE BED OUIN ODE/ QAṣī DAH AND THE HUNT POEM/ṬARDIY YAH

Arabic poetry, with its formal rigor, is very distinctly semiotically marked, directed, and circumscribed in its repertory of themes. These themes are distributed over the Arabic poem’s (qaṣīdah’s) three structural sections — the nasīb (lyric-elegiac prelude), the raḥīl (desert journey), and the fakhr (self-exaltation) or madḥ/ madīḥ (encomium)—themselves clearly circumscribed and defined as components of an architectural construct. These sections not only determine the kind of themes they accept but, even more importantly, impose and predetermine the moods that will rule over the repertory of poetic themes by “modulating” them. They also, ultimately, give those themes their abiding semanticity. Because of the rigorous structural system that is thus engendered, Arabic poetry necessarily expands or rather “impends” toward the interior—its own interior. It is thus thematically, formally, and structurally highly

13

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14 THE HE ROIC A ND T HE A NT I- HE ROIC IN T HE E A RLY A RA BIC OD E

inward-looking and capable of its own “private” exaltations and selfabsorbed refinements—and these exaltations and self-absorptions are also its limitations. This feature comes to the fore especially in that poetry’s formal and indeed formalist confines, which do not allow it much room for a loosening or dissipation of perspectives or of idiosyncrasies other than the idiosyncrasy of genre, or for a formal exploratory maneuverability outside those established confines — all these being the things which, in modern literary-critical parlance, we have come to call “creative poetic freedom.” To look for such notions of poetic freedom in the case of the Arabic sense of form, however, would be anachronistic. It would be as if one approached the entirety of Western poetic tradition exclusively through the formal and conceptual rigor of the sonnet. A further particularity of classical Arabic poetry is that not only are its themes, genre-variants, and moods in their extreme internal rigor and sustained pre-selectivity poetically “radical” and “central” (having become unavoidable, indisplaceable, and irreplaceable), but also, ruled by some even more central and radical imperative, they all cluster together, ordered with self-conscious formalist neatness into the single and formally singular system of poetic expression called the qaṣīdah. In this respect, Arabic poetry is not only specific and capable of selfdefinition but may also be unique among the major poetries known to us. In so full a sense and to such a degree of comprehensiveness, Arabic poetry in the form of the qaṣīdah thus experiences its true canon-setting classicism between the pre-Islamic and the mid-Umayyad periods. There, it is all and many, all in one. It speaks of the totality of experience each time a poet speaks through it. Thus, for the purposes of discussing the genre-genesis and the genre quality of the Arabic hunting poem, namely, the ṭardiyyah, we must first turn to the basic formal questions harbored in the fully structured, preIslamic Arabic qaṣīdah: inasmuch as even in its ultimate achievement as a genre, the Arabic hunting poem begins with and remains in all respects an outgrowth of the themes contained in—and in their semiotics defined by—the specific structural parts or sections of the qaṣīdah. The structural specificity of those parts or sections will not only be the point of departure for the subsequently born genre-poem, the ṭardiyyah, but will also determine much of the referential semantics of the ṭardiyyah,

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itself a total poem, and, within it, the nature, behavior, and variety of the animals that constitute its “object,” that is, the quarry. In the structurally fully articulated classical Arabic qaṣīdah of the Jāhilī, Mukhaḍram, and Umayyad periods, the subject of the hunt is divided with the utmost formal rigor between two of its three paradigmatic sections (which are also the qaṣīdah’s thematic and modal units). These are, first, the poet’s liminal “desert journey” (raḥīl) section, and second, the celebratory or self-celebratory section of the poet’s appearance in or reentry into his reconstituted sense of self and community (fakhr/ self-exultation, both individual and tribal; and madīḥ/encomium).1 This structural differentiation has clear thematic consequences, for in the properly classical qaṣīdah, the Bedouin poet must speak of two different hunts: the hunt on foot of the animal panels in the raḥīl section, which may be terminologically qualified as ṣayd or qanṣ, and the hunt of the third, reintegrative madīḥ/fakhr structural section, which may be viewed only as a “chase on horseback” and thus be termed a ṭard. This latter terminological specification also tells us that following the classical, Bedouin, qaṣīdah period, the subsequent, principally >Abbāsid, independent genre of the Arabic hunt poem—only now called ṭardiyyah—will still in some primary, unyieldingly paradigmatic sense be relatable to the original thematic and structural fakhr section of the qaṣīdah, in which there once had taken place a “chivalrous chase” (ṭard), and in which the ṭardiyyah poet-hunter’s unfaltering and unforgettable “setting out at daybreak” (wa qad aghtadī) had once taken place. By the same token, the designation of the Arabic postclassical genrepoem of the hunt as a ṭardiyyah will also tell us that between it and the hunting scenes of the liminal qaṣīdah section of the raḥīl, there must exist a “substrative” difference of meaning—translated into tension— that draws upon a deep, if already distant, semiotic polarity. This polarity, as we shall see, will not surrender its semiotic paradox. First of all, in the raḥīl section — call it the “journey” or “quest” section—the apparent protagonist is the hunted animal, not the hunter. This animal is for the most part an oryx bull or cow, a wild ass/onager, or, more rarely, an ostrich.2 From its encounter with the hunter, the quarry must emerge victorious, unless the poem/qaṣīdah in which this type of hunting scene figures is an elegy (marthiyah), for only then is

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the quarry—still a protagonist—a tragic or dramatic figura.3 Then, too, the hunter in the raḥīl-framed scene of the hunt is invariably a personification of despondency and failure as well as of a distinct social destitution. In brief, he is not only poor but fated to be unlucky; and there is almost an air of wrong to his pursuit of his quarry. He is, as it were, a poacher, an interloper, as though he had no real right to intrude into the realm of the animal world. This stripping of the raḥīl hunter even of his skill-acquired chances at success in the hunt or, what is more, of his entitlement to sustenance, has as its primary reason the fact that in the hunt panels of the classical raḥīl the hunted animals stand formally as similes of the poet’s precious mount, his she-camel (nāqah), on which he must undertake his journey —while the she-camel herself is none other than an archaic, totemic expression of the poet’s own indomitable anima, or his Frazerian “external soul.”4 Behind the twofold mask, the poet is thus the one who is tried and tested and ultimately redeemed by the singular prowess of the victorious quarry. Together, therefore, the she-camel and her own similes or personifications — the oryx, the wild ass/onager, the ostrich — constitute the broad allegory of the desert-crossing poet’s own liminality, in which he survives as long as they survive. For that reason, only in the archaic Bedouin elegy, where the allegory becomes one of death rather than life, the “substitute” animal not only dies but must die. Such is the symbolic logic of the hunt in the raḥīl. Too often, however, the representational realism of the hunt of the raḥīl, including the specific sociology of the wretched hunter, has led literary criticism astray. The critic fails to look beyond the well-crafted image, which is framed like a panel and thus thought to be detachable from the semiotics of the structure of the raḥīl and its functionality—in disregard of the fact that the raḥīl is merely a constituent part of the truly binding and sufficient frame and structure that constitute the qaṣīdah. As for the hunt that takes place in the “third” or reintegrative structural section of the classical qaṣīdah, the fakhr (self-exaltation) or madīḥ (encomium), as a rule there must be no further reference to the she-camel and the animal panels of the oryx or the onager; for at this point the poet’s—and the poem’s—liminal journey is over, and the poet is no

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longer traveling alone in a danger-filled desert. Instead he finds himself again in his tribal community or at a patron’s “court.” There he must engage in and practice certain firmly established customs and social or communal rituals. These communal acts are either celebratory, such as banquets, homages, and so on, or they revolve around the iconically heroic and apotheotic display of the poet’s gallant hunt and battle steed. This other hunt must therefore differ from the hunt in the raḥīl in nearly every respect. First of all, its protagonist is no longer a quarry but—manifestly—the hunter himself. As such he must be the victor, and as such he must also be endowed with all the attributes of gallantry, skill, and heroic demeanor. Indeed, he must paradigmatically represent or embody the champion of the community. Another decisive and, one should stress, iconic characteristic of this type of the hunt scene is that the hunter, gallant and heroic in his total appearance, is always and necessarily a horseman. Such a hunt is thus distinctly a “chivalrous hunt”; and, by terminological definition, it is a chase, thus a ṭard. A third difference between the two hunts is the rigorous rule regarding the type of hunting weapon assigned to the respective hunters. The despondent and wretched “poacher” of the raḥīl hunt may use only the bow, never a spear or javelin. With his bow he hides either behind a hill or dune, or in a hunter’s blind (qutrah, pl. qutar), from which he shoots his ever-failing arrow. If his quarry is not the onager but rather the oryx bull or cow, he also relies on his dogs, which are doomed to be equally unsuccessful when engaged in an agon with the oryx quarry. In contrast, the huntsman-as-horseman, who in the fullest sense figures as the “chivalrous hunter,” may never use bow and arrow. Such weapons would be beneath the dignity, or the heroic code and quality, of a horseman and a hunter. His weapon is the javelin or the spear alone.5 These are matters of almost unfailing semiotics that rule explicitly over the theme- and motif-structuring of the hunt in the classical Arabic qaṣīdah. Implicitly, through their efficacy, they determine much of the formal and thematic semantics of the qaṣīdah as a whole. Above all, in their ritualized quality, they transcend the literalist levels of meaning of the qaṣīdah, giving to the form often unexpectedly enriching dimensions.

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THE PRE-ISLAMIC AND MUKHAḍRAM QAṣīDAH AND THE ANTECEDENTS OF THE ṬARDIY YAH

As a hermeneutic backdrop and illustration of the two essential paradigms of the theme of the hunt in the classical Arabic qaṣīdah, this chapter offers representative examples from three categories of pre-Islamic and Mukhaḍram (of the generation bridging the late pre-Islamic and early Islamic periods) poets. For the raḥīl-framed panel of the wild ass/ onager, the example will come from the Mukhaḍram poet Rabī>ah Ibn Maqrūm, who figures prominently in the authoritative collection AlMufaḍḍaliyyāt. For the panel of the oryx, also structurally and thematically part of the raḥīl, the example will come from Labīd Ibn Rabī>ah, out of the Master Poems, the Mu>allaqāt. The example of the strictly non-raḥīl “chivalrous hunt” will, compellingly, be taken from the paradigmatic Master Poem, the Mu>allaqah of Imru< al-Qays. In addition, perplexingly paradoxical, seemingly counterparadigmatic variants of raḥīl/fakhr intersections—where the hunt is both heroic and pathetic—as well as other, lesser variations will be presented and analytically discussed, from the pre-Islamic poets >Abīd Ibn al-Abraṣ, al-Ḥārith Ibn Ḥillizah al-Yashkurī, and Zuhayr Ibn Abī Sulmā. Rabī>ah Ibn Maqrūm’s hunt scene of the “wild ass”/onager occurs in the Mufaḍḍaliyyah no. 38, ll. 6 –19.6 Its obligatory framework, still untouched by the subject of the hunt, is the “description” of the poet’s mount. The poet has now turned away from the melancholy site of an abandoned encampment (ll. 1– 5). As dictated by Bedouin custom and, above all, by the poetic canon of the qaṣīdah, he mounts his singularly endowed she-camel and gives her free rein to carry him off (l. 6). The characteristic and, again, strictly canon-imposed epithetic representation of the she-camel7 follows (ll. 6– 8): she is of the light color of a good breed, strong, one that never tires. Her flesh is compact with muscle. Quite like a male camel, she is resilient, never emitting a groan of complaint. At this point of descriptive exaltation, as the she-camel’s representational enhancement, the simile of the onager stallion with his three onager mares is introduced. In its ekphrastic8 and altogether panel-like depiction, this simile then leads to, or rather integrally frames, the scene of the hunt:9

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 The Hunt in the Pre-Islamic Ode 19

 ΎϤ˴ ϴ˶Θη˴  ˱ΎΑ΄Ο˴  ΐ ˶ Ϙ˸Τ˵ ϟ΍ ˴Ϧϣ˶  ͉ΐ˴ϗ˴΃  ˴Λ ΎϤ˴ ϴϫ˶  Ϧ͉ ϛ˵  Ϊ˸ ˴ϗ Ω˶ ˸έϮϟ΍ Ϧ˴ ϋ  ΎΛ ϼ ˶ ˶  Ύϣ˴ ϮϤ˵ δ͉ ϟ΍ ή͉ ˴ϫ ϭ˴  ϲϫ˶ ΎϨ͉Θϟ΍ ϝ˵ Ϯ˵Ϙ˵Α  ˸ Δ˳ Βϫ˸ έ˴  Ϧ˸ ϣ˶  β ΎϤ˴ ϴϐ˶ ˴Η ϥ΃ ˶ Ϥ˸ θ͉ ϟ΍ ϰϟ·  ΎϤ˴ ϴϬ˶ ˴Α Ύϔ ˸Σϭ ˴ ϧ΁ ϭ ˴ β˴ ˴ ϰ͉ϟϮ˴˴ Η  Ύϣ˴ ϭά˵ ϋ˴  ϼ˴˱˷ θϣ˶  ΍έ˱˷ ˴ΰϣ˶  Ϧ͉ Ϭ˶ ˶Α  ˸ Η ϊ˴ ˶΋΍ή˴ η˴ ΎϤ˴ ϴϤ˶ Π˴ ϟ΍ Ύ˴ϬϨ˸ ϋ˴  ή˵ Τ˴ τ˴  ͉ ˵Ϧϳ ΎϣϮ˵Π͊Ϩϟ΍ Ύ˴Ϭϴ˶ϓ ͊ϱέ΍ έ Ϊ ϟ΍  ΰ ˴ ˶ ˶ ˴ϳ  ˱Δϋ˴ Ύγ˴  Ύ˴Ϭ˵Ϡϣ͋ ˴Ά˵ϳ ˸ Ύϣ˴ Ϯ˵μ˴Η ϥ΃  ΎϤ˴ ϴ˶Ό˴ϧ Ύ˱ϓΰ˴˸ ϋ ˵ΐ˶Ϙό˸ ˵Η ΐ ˶ ˸π˵Ϙϟ΍ ˴Ϧϣ˶  ΎϤ˴ ϴμ˴ ˶ ϋ ΎϬϨϣ ˵ς˶ϟΎΨ˴ ˵ϳ ΎϤ͉ ϣ˶  ϑ ˶  ΎϤ˴ ϳΩ˶ Ϸ΍ ϱή˶ ϔ˸ ˴Η ή˶ ϋ˸ ά͊ ϟ΍ ˴Ϧϣ˶  Ω˵ ˴ΎϜ˴Η 

 Ύ˴Ϭ ϋ ˴ Ύδ ˴ ϧ˸˴΃           

˵ η ΢ ͋ ϭ˴ ˵΃

ϲ͋ϧ˴΄ϛ˴  ˱ϼ͉ΑΫ˵  Ύ˴ϨϘϟ΍ ϞΜϣ ˴  Ί ˵ ͋ϠΤ˵˴ ϳ  Ε ˸ ϭ˴ Ϋ˴  ϰ͉ΘΣ ˴  ͋ϒ˵ϘϟΎ˶Α Ϧ ͉ ˵ϫ Ύϋ ˴ έ˴  ϥϮϴ ˶ ό˵ ϟ΍ έ˴ ΰ˸ Χ ˵  ϱ ˴ Ω˶ ΍Ϯλ ˴  Ζ ˸ ͉Ϡ˴ψ  ˴ϓ  έΎ ˴ ˴Ϭ ͉Ϩϟ΍ ϥ΃ ͉  ˴Ϧ͉ϴ˴Β˴Η ΎϤ͉ Ϡ˴ϓ  ˵ϩ ί˴ ˸ϮΟ ˴ Ύο ˴ ή˶ ό˸ ˴Θδ ˸ ϣ˵  Ϟ ˴ ϴ˸Ϡϟ΍ ϰϣ˴ έ˴  ΡΎ ˶ ˴Βμ ͉ ϟ΍ ˯˶ ˸Ϯο ˴  ϊ˴ ϣ˴  Ύ˴ϫ Ω˴ έ˴ ˸ϭ˴΄˴ϓ  ˯˶ ΎϤ˴ δ ͉ ϟ΍ ϥ ˶ ˸ϮϠϛ˴  ΍˱ή˸πΧ ˵  ϲ ˴ ϣ˶ ΍Ϯ˴ ˴ρ  ήϣ˶ Ύϋ ˴  Ϯ˵Α˴΃ ˲βϴ˸˴ϗ ˯˶ ΎϤ˴ ϟΎ˶Αϭ  ˲Δ ͉ϴϣ˶ ˸ήΣ ˶  ˯˵ ΍έ˴ ˸ϭ˴ί ͋ϒϜ˴ ϟΎ˶Αϭ˴   Ύλ ˴ ͋ήϟΎ˶Α ϯή˴ ˴Η ή˲ θ ˸ Σ ˴  ˵ϒΠ ˴ ϋ ˸ ˴΃ϭ˴  Ύ˴Ϭ ͊Ϡϛ˵  ˸ π Ζ ˴ Ϥ˴ ˴ϓ Ύ˴ϫ ˴΄τΧ  ˴΄˴ϓ 

́ ̂ ˺˹ ˺˺ ˺˻ ˺˼ ˺˽ ˺˾ ˺˿ ˺̀ ˺́ ˺̂ 

8. To me she was like a cross-girded,  Slender-bellied onager, white of flanks, coarse, mean-demeanored. 9. Three mares, thinned out like spear shafts, He wards off from water, even as they burn with thirst. 10. He had let them graze on rocky hills till the herbage around water pockets All wilted and the simoon vexed him. 11. So parched they stood, contracted eyes toward the sun, Fearful of succumbing.

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12. And when he clearly saw that the day had expired, And he felt dense darkness coming on, 13. He thrust them into the midst of night, himself by their side, A fierce biter, driving them on by constant nipping. 14. And with the light of morning he took them Down the paths that led to waterholes, whose dense overgrowth they cleared, 15. Whose water swelled over, greenish black, the color of the nightly sky,10 Its pearly bubbles outshining the stars. 16. But at the water, there stands Qays Abū >Āmir, To give them hope and respite for a while.11 17. In his hand, end-bent, a Ḥirmī bow: Of those of single stem, that rustle and twang. 18. The arrow slender, the point sharp, The arrowhead’s mounting soaked with blood. 19. And yet he missed them, and off in flight all went, Bursting well-nigh out of their skins from fright.

In Labīd Ibn Rabī>ah’s Mu>allaqah,12 in the raḥīl (ll. 22– 54), an oryx hunt scene takes place within the description of the poet-persona’s shecamel. The journey section begins with direct description (ll. 22– 24) but soon leaves this behind to describe the she-camel through two extended similes, or animal-panels. In the first, the poet-hunter likens his she-camel to a wild onager stallion driving his mares (ll. 25 – 36). In the second simile, or ekphrastic panel, Labīd likens his she-camel to a hunted oryx cow (ll. 40– 52). The poet, therefore, begins this second simile with a question not so much of parity as of some deeper,

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archaizing quality—as though in an “aside,” knowing the answer but still rhetorically reminding himself or his audience old and new: 36. Is my camel mare like this [i.e., the onager]? Or like the oryx cow,13 her calf the wild beasts’ prey [?]

This oryx cow, furthermore, is introduced not so much through an epithetic “description” as through an intense dramatization: her halfweaned calf has fallen prey to wild beasts. Bereft, she roams from stony tract to stony tract, from dune to dune, calling to her stray calf and lowing. But ashen predators have long since caught up with the calf, “for fate’s arrows never miss their mark” (l. 39). As a thematic unit, however, the scene of the poem’s lines 36– 39, through which the oryx cow is introduced, constitutes no more than a preamble to the strictly paradigmatic core of the oryx panel. It resolves the problem of the radical symbolic identification of the animal that is to become the object of the hunt. That animal must, by a dictate borne somewhere deep within the Arabic qaṣīdah’s oryx ekphrasis, be represented as ontologically alone, inconsonantly singular, radiating an almost “psychological” sense of loneliness, thus existentially solitary— the total Einzelgänger. As the mother of a half-weaned calf, therefore, Labīd’s oryx “figura” must first lose her calf. Only then can she become the iconic persona, the embodiment of solitariness required by the archaic symbolic canon that rules the hunt of the oryx.14 This solitariness is of the essence to the oryx paradigm, just as, to the same degree, it is of the essence to the wild ass paradigm that the wild ass be always gregarious and earthy, or, more precisely, the stallion/leader of his own herd/family.15 Another key distinction is that in the onager paradigm the “wretched hunter” is foregrounded, whereas in the oryx paradigm the hunter’s unrelenting hounds take center stage. This innermost core of the oryx panel, in which the animal, all alone, faces the trials of the almost cosmic sense of the darkness of the desert night and of the immediacy and then reality of danger, is the true, formally and thematically distilled paradigm of the oryx and its hunt (ll. 40– 52). Thus we turn to Labīd’s oryx cow in her solitude:16

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22 THE HE ROIC A ND T HE A NT I- HE ROIC IN T HE E A RLY A RA BIC OD E

 ˸ ˴ϟά˴ Χ˴ ΎϬϣ˵ Ύϴ˶ϗ έ΍ ˶ Ϯ˴ ͋μϟ΍ ˵ΔϳΩ˶ Ύ˴ϫ ϭ˴  Ζ  Ύ˴Ϭϣ˵ ΎΠ˸δ˴Η ΎϤ˱ ΋΍Ω Ϟ˴ ˶΋ΎϤ˴ Ψ˴ ϟ΍ ϱϭ˸ή˵ϳ  ΎϬϣ˵ ΎϤ˴ Ϗ˴  ϡ˴ ϮΠϨϟ΍ ή˴ ˴ϔϛ˴  Δ˳ Ϡϴϟ ϲϓ  Ύ˴Ϭϣ˵ Ύ˴ϴ˴ϫ Ϟ˵ ϴϤ˴ϳ ˯˳ Ύ˴Ϙϧ˸΃ Ώ ˶ Ϯ˵Πό˵ ˶Α  ΎϬ˴ ϣ˵ Ύ˴ψ˶ϧ ˷Ϟ˵γ ϱήΤ˴Βϟ΍ Δ˶ ϧΎϤ˵Πϛ˴  ͉ ˸ ˸ ˴ Ύ˴Ϭϣ˵ ϻί΃ ϯή˴ Μϟ΍ Ϧϋ ͊ϝΰ˴˶ Η ΕήϜ˴Α  Ύ˴Ϭϣ˵ Ύϳ΃ ϼϣ˶ Ύϛ˴  Ύϣ˱ ΍Ά˵Η Ύ˱όΒ˸ γ˴  Ύ˴Ϭϣ˵ Ύ˴τ˶ϓ ϭ Ύ˴Ϭϋ˵ Ύο ˴ ˸έ˶· Ϫ˶ ˶ϠΒ˸ ˵ϳ Ϣ˸ ˴ϟ  ΎϬϣ˵ Ύ˴Ϙγ ˵βϴϧ˴Ϸ΍ ϭ ΐ ˳ ϴ˸ Ϗ˴  ή˸˶ Ϭ˴υ Ϧ˴˸ ϋ  ΎϬϣ˵ Ύϣ΃ ϭ Ύ˴Ϭ˵ϔϠ ˴Χ Δ˶ ϓΎΨ˴ Ϥ˴ ϟ΍ ϰϟ ˸Ϯϣ˴  ΎϬϣ˵ Ύμϋ˸ ˴΃ ϼ˶ϓΎ˴ϗ ˴ϦΟ΍ ˵ Ϗ˵ ˶ ϭ˴ Ω˴  Ύ˱ϔπ  ΎϬϣ˵ ΎϤ˴Η ϭ ΎϫΪ͊ Σ˴  Δ˶ ͉ϳή˶ ˴ϬϤ˸ δ͉ ϟΎϛ  ˸ ΎϬϣ˵ ΎϤ˴ Σ˶  ϑ ˶ ˸ϮΘ˵Τϟ΍ ˴Ϧϣ Ϣ͉ Σ˴ ˴΃ Ϊ˸ ˴ϗ ϥ΃  ΎϬϣ˵ ΎΤ˵γ ͋ήϜ˴ Ϥ˴ ϟ΍ ϲϓ έ˴ Ω˶ ϮϏ˵  ϭ ϡ  Ϊ ˴ ˴ ˳ ˶Α  ˴ ˴ ˸έ ˸Ο΍ϭ ΎϬϣ˵ Ύϛ˴ · Ώ ΍ή͉ δ ϟ΍ Δ ϳ Ω ΃ ΏΎ˴ Θ ˴˶ ˴ ˶  Ύ˴Ϭϣ˵ ΍Ϯϟ Δ˳ Ο˴ ΎΤ˴ ˶Α ϡ˴ ϮϠ˴ϳ ϥ˴΃ ϭ˴΃ 

 ˲ΔϋϮΒδϣ˴  ˲Δ ͉ϴθ ˶ Σϭ˴  ϡ˸ ΃ Ϛ ˴ Ϡ˸˶Θ˴ϓ˴΃   Δ˳ ϤϳΩ Ϧϣ ϒϛ΍ϭ ˲ Ϟ ˴ Βγ ˸ ˴΃ ϭ ΖΗΎ ˸ ˴Α   ˲ήΗ΍ϮΘϣ˵  Ύ˴Ϭ ˶ϨΘ˸ϣ˴  ˴Δ Ϙϳ˸ή˴ρ ϮϠό˸ ˴ϳ   ΍ά͋Β˴Ϩ˴Θϣ˵  Ύμ ˱ ˶ϟΎ˴ϗ ϼ  ˱ ˸λ˴΃ ˵ϑΎ˴Θ˸Π˴Η   ΓήϴϨϣ˵  ϡϼ ˶ ͉ψϟ΍   Ϫ˶ ˸Οϭ˴  ϲϓ ˯˵ ϲπ˵Ηϭ˴  ˴ ͉ ˸ ͉ ˴  Εήϔ ˴ γ ˸ ΃ϭ˴  ϡ˵ ϼψϟ΍   ή˴ δ ˴ Τ ˴ ϧ΍΍Ϋ ·ϰΘΣ ˴   Ϊ˳ ˶΋Ύό˴ λ ˵  ˯˶ Ύ˴Ϭ ˶ϧ ϲϓ Ω˵ Ω͉ ή˴ ˴Η Ζ˴Ϭ ˶Ϡϋ ˴   ϖ ˲ ˶ϟΎΣ ˴  ϖ ˴ Τ ˴ γ ˸ ˴΃ ϭ Ζ ˸ δ ˴ ˶Όϳ ΍Ϋ· ϰ͉ΘΣ ˴   Ύ˴Ϭ ϋ ˴ ΍ή˴ ˴ϓβϴ ˶ ˶ϧ˴Ϸ΍  ί͉ έ˶ Ζ ˸ δ ˴ Ο͉ Ϯ˴ ˴Θ˴ϓ   ˵Ϫ ͉ϧ΃ ˵ΐδ ˴ ˸Τ˴Η Ϧ ˶ ϴ˸Ο ˴ ή˴ϔϟ΍ ϼϛ˶  Ε ˸ Ϊ˴ ϐ˴ ˴ϓ   ΍Ϯ˵Ϡγ ˴ ˸έ˴΃ ϭ ˵Γ Ύϣ˴ ͊ήϟ΍ β ˴ ˶Ό˴ϳ ΍Ϋ˶· ϰ˷ΘΣ   ˲Δ ͉ϳέ˶ Ϊ˸ ϣ˴  ΎϬϟ Εή ˸ Ϝ˴ ˴Θϋ ˸ ΍ ϭ ˴ϦϘ˸Τ ˶ ˴Ϡ˴ϓ   Ω˸ άΗ Ϣ˸ ϟ ϥ· ˸  Ζ ˸ ˴Ϩ˴Ϙϳ˸˴΃ ϭ˴  Ϧ ͉ ˵ϫ Ω˴ ϭά˵ ˴Θ˶ϟ   Ζ ˸ Ο ˴ ή͋ π ˵ ˴ϓ Ώ ˶ Ύδ ˴ ϛ˴  Ύ˴Ϭ Ϩ˸ϣ˶  Ε ˸ Ϊ˴ μ ͉ ˴Ϙ˴Θ˴ϓ   ΎΤ ˴ ͊πϟΎ˶Α ϊ˵ ϣ˶ ΍Ϯ͉Ϡϟ΍ κ ˴ ˴ϗέ˴  Ϋ· ˸  Ϛ ˴ Ϡ˸˶Θ˶Β˴ϓ   ˱Δ ˴Βϳ˸έ˶  ˵ρ  ή͋ ˴ϓ˵΃ ϻ ˴Δ ΑΎΒ˷Ϡϟ΍  ϲπ ˶ ϗ˸΃ 

˼˿ ˽˹ ˽˺ ˽˻ ˽˼ ˽˽ ˽˾ ˽˿ ˽̀ ˽́ ˽̂ ˾˹ ˾˺ ˾˻ ˾˼ ˾˽ 

36. Is my camel-mare like this? Or like the oryx cow,  her calf the wild beasts’ prey, Who, though among the lead-bull’s wards, now lagged behind the herd? . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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40. She waited through the night beneath a cloud that shed an unremitting rain And let a ceaseless downpour fall upon the dense-grown dunes. 41. Uninterrupted raindrops fell on her spine’s track In a night whose stars were veiled by clouds. 42. She took shelter in the hollow of a contorted tree Set apart upon the edges of the dunes whose drift-sand slopes. 43. And in the first watch of the night her lustrous face Gleamed like the diver’s pearl, its string drawn forth. 44. Till, when the dark dispelled and dawn shone forth, Her hoofs slipped on the early morning’s rain-soaked earth. 45. Bewildered, she searched doggedly among Su>āallaqah (ll. 53– 70).18 It also provides the genre of the hunt poem (ṭardiyyah) with its characteristic, condensed, and paradigmatic opening motif of “setting out” (wa qad aghtadī wa ṭṭayru fi wukunātihā): 53. I would ride forth early, the birds still in their nests, On a steed sleek and swift, a shackle for wild game, huge.

Lines 54 to 62 follow with the “description” of that extraordinary horse as it carries the gallant poet-hunter toward his goal, the attaining of the quarry. Once engaged in the chase, the horse appears:19

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 Ϟ ˶ Ϝ˴ ϴ˸ ˴ϫΪ˶ ˶Α΍ϭ˴Ϸ΍Ϊ˶ ϴ˸ ˴ϗΩ˳ ή˶ Π˴ Ϩ˸ Ϥ˵ ˶Α  ˵ΓέΎ Ϟ ˶ Ο͉ ή˴ ϣ˵  ΐ ˳ ϴ˴θ˶Α ˯˳ Ύ͉ϨΣ ˴ μ˵ ˴ ϋ ˶  Ϟ ˶ ͉ϳά˴ ϣ˵  ˯˳ ϼ˴ ϣ˵  ϲ˶ϓ έ΍ ˳ ϭ˴˴ Ω ϯέ˴ ΍ά˴ ϋ˴  ϝ ˶ Ϯ˴ Ψ ˸ ϣ˵  Γ˶ ή˴ ϴθ˶ ό˴ ϟ΍ ϲ˶ϓ Ϣ͈ ό˴ ϣ˵  Ϊ˶ ϴΠ˶ ˶Α  Ϟ ˶ ϳ˴ΰ˴Η Ϣϟ Γ˳ ˷ήλ ˴ ϲϓ Ύ˴ϫή˵ Σ˶ ΍ϮΟ˴  ˸ ˱ ˸΢π Ϟ ˶ δϐ˸ ˵ϴ˴ϓ ˯ΎϤΑ Ϩ ˵ ϳ  Ϣϟ ϭ Ύ ϛ ΍ έ Ω ˳ ˴ ˴ ˶  ˴ Ϟ ˶ Πό˴ ϣ˵  ήϳ Ϊ ϗ  ϭ΃ ˯ ΍ Ϯ η ϔ λ ˴ϒϴ ˳ ˴ ˶ ˶ ˶ ˴ ˳  ͉ ή˴˴ Η Ύϣ˴  ϰ˴Θϣ˴ Ϟϔδ˴ ˶ Η Ϫ˶ ϴ˶ϓ ˵Ϧϴό˴ ϟ΍ ϕ  Ϟ ˶ γ˴ ήϣ˵  ήϴϏ ΎϤ˱ ˶΋Ύϗ ϲϨϴ ˴ ˸ ό˴ ˶Α ˴ΕΎ˴Αϭ 

   ΎϬ˶ΗΎϧϮϛ˵ ϭ˵ ϲϓ˵ήϴ˸ ͉τϟ΍ϭϱΪ˶ ˴ΘϏ˸ ˴΃Ϊ˸ ˴ϗϭ    ϩ˶ή˶ ˸Τ˴Ϩ˶Α Ε ˶ ΎϳΩ˶ Ύ˴Ϭ ϟ΍ ˯˴ ΎϣΩ˶  ϥ΄ϛ   ˵Ϫ Ο ˴ Ύό˴ ˶ϧ ϥ΄ϛ ˲Ώ˸ήγ ˶  Ύ˴Ϩϟ Ϧ ͉ ό˴ ˴ϓ   ˵Ϫ ϨϴΑ Ϟ ˶ μ ͉ ˴ϔϤ˵ ϟ΍ ω ˶ ΰ˸ Π ˴ ϟΎϛ˴  ˴ϥ˸ή˴ΑΩ˸ ˴΄˴ϓ   ˵Ϫ ˴ϧϭΩ˴  ϭ Ε ˶ Ύ˴ϳΩΎ˴Ϭ ϟΎ˶Α ΎϨ˴ϘΤ ˴ ϟ΄˸ ˴ϓ   Δ˳ Πό˸ ˴ϧ ϭ έϮΛ ˳  ˴Ϧϴ˴Α ˯˱ ΍Ϊϋ ˶  ϯΩ˴ Ύό˴ ˴ϓ   Ξ ˳ π ˶ Ϩ˸ϣ˵  ϦϴΑ Ϧϣ ϢΤϠϟ΍ ˶  ˵ΓΎϬ˵ρ Ϟ ͉ ˴ψ˴ϓ   ˵Ϫ ˴ϧϭΩ˵  ή˵ μ ˵ Ϙ˴ϳ ˵ϑ˸ή͉τϟ΍   Ω˵ ΎϜ˴ ˴ϳ Ύ˴Ϩ˸Σέ˵ ϭ   ˵Ϫ ϣ˵ ΎΠ ˴ ˶ϟ ϭ ˵Ϫ Ο ˵ ˸ήγ ˴  Ϫ˶ ϴϠϋ ˴ΕΎ˴Βϓ 

 ˾˼  ˿˼ ˿˽ ˿˾ ˿˿ ˿̀ ˿́ ˿̂ ̀˹  

63. As if the blood of the herd’s front-runners upon his throat Were henna juice upon an old man’s combed and hoary head.

 64. Then there appeared before us an oryx herd as if its cows were virgins Circling round a sacred stone in long-trained gowns. 65. They turned about like alternated onyx beads upon the neck Of a child of noble uncles in the clan from dame and sire. 66. Then he let us catch the herd’s lead runners And outstripped those that lagged in an unbroken cluster. 67. One after the other, he hit a bull and cow, And yet was not awash with sweat. 68. Then the meat cooks kept on cooking both meat laid upon the rocks To roast well-done, and meat quick-boiled in cauldrons.



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69. And our glance, in the evening, almost failed before him, To whatever spot the eye was raised, dazzled it dropped. 70. At night he remained, his saddle and bridle upon him, All night he stood beneath my eye, not loosed to graze. (trans. Suzanne Pinckney Stetkevych)

The hunt ends—in truly chivalrous fashion—with a banquet and, as the night falls, with the final apotheotic exaltation of the horse of the poet-as-chivalrous-hunter.20 Although the formal patterns and the structural framework of the hunt scenes in both respective sections of the qaṣīdah remain established as a canon, one must not suppose that such a conception of the hunt, with its restricted number of protagonist-participants engaged in a preordained agon, is a perpetually static one within its mechanical, formalist bounds. These bounds may be formal, but even in their all-tooapparent rigor they are not nontransgressive. Even making allowances for the concept of canon at play in the early Bedouin qaṣīdah, the motival and ritual, allegoric, and potentially symbolic border between the failed hunt of the raḥīl and the successful chase in the fakhr section of the qaṣīdah may rightfully appear inflexible—but only to the degree to which it ultimately, no matter how circuitously, reconfirms the paradigm. In a fascinating and revealing way, this is represented in a cluster of examples from early pre-Islamic followed by Mukhaḍram poetic praxis. One of the earliest pre-Islamic poets, >Abīd Ibn al-Abraṣ, weaves back and forth across the paradigmatic divides of the two types of the hunt with great poetic skill and a sure control of the formal poetic canon. In his much-celebrated qaṣīdah of forty-five lines, which opens: Abandoned by its people lies Malḥūb, Then al-Qutabiyyāt, then al-Dhanūb,21

and after a she-camel raḥīl through a desert that fills the heart with dread, the poet makes an abrupt exit out of the raḥīl and introduces us to the poem’s third and final section, which in its entirety (ll. 32– 45) is a chase on horseback. He begins this section after the clearest of formal

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and experiential closures: Fa dhāka >aṣrun (l. 32), “That was a time long gone,” or “That was the time that was!” Then he rides off on a tall, longbodied, equine mare: Wa qad arānī/taḥmilunī nahdatun surḥūbu. Thereafter, however, the poet does not speak of his hunt directly, although we should recall that in a hunt/chase the poet himself is expected to be the hunter-protagonist. Instead, in an extended simile strikingly modeled on the hunt panel proper of the raḥīl (rather than what might now imply a fakhr), the poet “digresses” into a substitution for his horse with an “ever-pursuing” eagle (liqwatun ṭalūbu), in whose nest lie the desiccated hearts of past prey (l. 35). This eagle or falcon is not the wretched and despondent hunter of a raḥīl panel after all. It sets out for the hunt in the early, cool morning (fa aṣbaḥat fī ghadāti qurrin [l. 37]) entirely in the “heroic” time and manner in which, as we know, the paradigm of the “setting out” of the heroic hunter on his steed or mare must occur (for instance, Imru< al-Qays’s wa qad aghtadī). And soon, on a wide barren plain, this eagle/falcon has sighted a swift fox—its prey. The description of the “chase” follows, ending in the victory of the bird of prey and the defeat of the hunted fox (ll. 41– 45). Through this transfer of the agents in the hunt, >Abīd Ibn al-Abraṣ introduces two significant changes into the paradigm of the “chivalrous chase”: first of all, the poet is not the direct protagonist of the gallant chase; and second, neither is the poet’s horse the agent. Instead, in a manner that clearly and knowingly strains the paradigm, the agent/ protagonist is the fierce bird of prey, the ever-pursuing eagle. Is this really the beginning or the foretoken of falconry waiting for its due time to enter dominantly into Arabic poetry’s envisioning of the hunt? Then, however, in >Abīd Ibn al-Abraṣ’s poem the paradigm, and with it the entire post-raḥīl, heroic and integrative section of the qaṣīdah, is saved in its purport and semiotics in a highly circuitous manner by still producing the “victory” of the now very complex “hunter.” In a similar canon-breaking example, the pre-Islamic poet al-Ḥārith Ibn Ḥillizah al-Yashkurī is also aware of the possibility of this thematic variant.22 In the fakhr section of his qaṣīdah, Mufaḍḍaliyyah no. 62, in his hunt on horseback, he likens his mount to a falcon (ṣaqr), whose apprehended quarry is a dove. Thus, from the hunter to the horse to the falcon, a figurative substitution of the protagonist of the chase has taken

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place. Perhaps this alone is not a serious dislocation of meaning as regards the figural sense, except that the quarry is a dove, and the dove in Arabic symbolic semantics is essentially lyric and elegiac. What, then, is permissible in the qaṣīdah, once the Bedouin poet makes these apparently marginal choices? How were they received in their own milieu and what should our critical stance toward them be today? Of much greater formal complexity and symbolic significance in   of the  hunt   is a famous hunt/chase the development of the Arabic poem 23 scene in a qaṣīdah by Zuhayr Ibn Abī  Sulmā. The poem opens with some of that poet’s most hauntingly lyrical lines:





˴ϙϭΩ˵ ϭ͉ ίϭ˴ ΍ϮϛήΗ Ϧ˸ Ϥ˴ ˶ϟ ΍ϭϭ΄ϳ Ϣϟϭ ˵ςϴϠΨϟ΍ ˴ϥΎΑ ˺   ˴  ˴ ˴ ˴ Ϛ ˵ ˶Βϟ Ϣ˵Ϭ˴Ϩϴ˴Α ή˲ ϣ΃ Γ˶ ήϴϬ ˴ ψϟ΍ ϰϟ· ΍ϮϠϤ˴ ˴ΘΣ˶Ύϓ ϲ͋ Τ˴ ϟ΍ ϝΎϤ ˴ Ο˶  ˵ϥΎϴ˶Ϙϟ΍ Ω͉ έ ˻    1. The motley throng departed, unmindful   of those they forsook,  left you As your own journey’s fare they  longing for the roads they took.  ΍ϮϜ˵ ˴Ϡγ˴ 

˱Δ͉ϳ΃

˱ ΎϗΎϴΘη΍

 2. The handmaids brought in the tribe’s camels  and they packed to leave: Right into the noontime their hubbub wouldn’t cease.

In the equestrian hunt/chase scene of this early, still strictly Bedouin poem, the hunting poet’s horse is introduced first of all in a tone and a “pose” strongly akin to the more familiar apotheotic depiction of the horse carrying the poet-as-tribal-champion. This horse, however, is soon replaced by the simile of the sand grouse (qaṭāh), which is then pursued, that is, “hunted”/“chased,” by a falcon. Significantly, the true protagonist of this poem’s gallant hunt on horseback thus becomes the qaṭāh, which is made to stand not only for the horse but for the poethunter; yet by being — paradoxically — also the hunted prey, it must and, in a reechoing of a raḥīl semiosis, does break the structural, initially opening fakhr rule and escape its pursuer. The necessity of its es-

 

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cape from its hunter/pursuer is dictated, even on the surface of things, by the metaphoric fact that it also represents the heroic poet’s majestic horse. However, what is operative in the fuller sense of the ensuing structural and semiotic conundrum of interdependencies in this scene is the tension effected between analogy, which is the reflection and therefore recognition of a structural and thematic code, and the impending contrast, which is the breaking of that code—or else, the formal paradox enhanced by and built into an analogy. Altogether, it is a clash between the two faces of two stubborn paradigms: the liminal hunt panel of a raḥīl opposite the implied celebratory hunt on horseback. In the latter, the function of the horse is an aggressive-active one: that of the hunter, not of the hunted. Zuhayr’s horse in this fakhr section has thus been replaced, implicitly by the classical-canonic she-camel/nāqah, and formally by the dictate of the canon, according to which it must bear the consequences of code disharmony. To make that variant even more evident or “prefigured,” and to bring out Zuhayr’s self-consciousness of its being such a variant, we note that Zuhayr does not begin the chase scene with the hunter’s otherwise obligatory wa qad aghtadī of “setting out at daybreak.” Instead he chooses the opposite time of day, the evening: wa qad arūḥu (l. 10). Such a parallelism in anti-positions of structural semiotics, themes, and styles does not appear to be merely accidental. Rather it looks like the product of the style-consciousness of a superior poet and an uncannily mature poetic culture. Every breaking of the canon issues from an understanding of the canon. When, instead of an unmediated theme, not merely a motif, of the horse, Zuhayr introduces the simile of the sand grouse/qaṭāh, we expect the “unusual” to take its course—especially since the qaṭāh begins to appear with considerable semiotic transparency in the manner in which Labid Ibn Rabī>ah in his Mu>allaqah, wholly paradigmatically, represents the oryx cow in a raḥīl hunt panel proper: she has lost her suckling calf to predators, and in that state of bereavement is faced with the fearsome hunter and his hounds. Zuhayr’s qaṭāh, too, has been driven away from the waterhole, while her sister has fallen into a bird trap (l. 13). This grouse is then described succinctly but with forceful plasticity: she is black and smooth, like those stones which the Bedouins place into

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their cups when in times of scarcity they are forced to measure out the precise level of water. Like those stingy cups of the Bedouins, such is the soil from which the grouse gleans her livelihood. No good plants grow there (l. 14). This sturdy bird is not spared for one moment. She is attacked by a hawk that itself had been able to escape from every trap set for it (l. 15). The encounter is thus between equals. Between heaven and earth they play out their game of skill—one does not escape, the other does not overcome (l. 17). But, extending its avid talons and beak, the falcon remains in pursuit (l. 20)—until the grouse seeks refuge at a waterhole in a dense growth of roots and plants (l. 22), like the calf of a full-uddered cow that hides beneath its mother (l. 23). The hawk now realizes the uselessness of its endeavor. In a show of frustration, which remains nonetheless a proud gesture, it soars up to the top of a hill and from its promontory overlooks the plain below. It is of added interest and a warning to our ways of reading, especially with respect to preIslamic Arabic poetry, that the final image of the promontory in Zuhayr’s poem is expressly that of a place of sacrificial offering, although on its imagist level it speaks merely of the redness of the rock of the promontory itself or of the bloodied feathers of the proud bird of prey (l. 24). Here the hunt panel ends abruptly, and what follows (ll. 25– 33) is the poet’s missive and threat to a hostile tribe. But in this passage, that is, in the qaṣīdah’s final “political” section, lies the hermeneutical key to the inversions of the paradigmatic hunt themes and the playing out of the possible rhetorical variations of their motifs. For Zuhayr Ibn Abī Sulmā’s final, explicit threats and admonitions to his tribe’s foes suggest that their fate is bound to be like the fate of the falcon, which is poetically so jarringly misplaced. Thus line 33, the poem’s closure: Surely there will reach you from me words most foul That will remain [on people’s tongues] as grease stains rich Coptic cloth.

The replacement of the hunting steed by falcons or eagles as a type of canon-sufferance by the pre-Islamic qaṣīdah poets grouped together here, and their further experiments with the overlapping of structural-

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canonic imbrications or permutations of actor-and-acted-upon, of hunter and quarry, of birds of contrasting provenance between raḥīl and fakhr— all these factors together create formal and structural riddles, if not “agonistic” games, that are patently relatable to Johan Huizinga’s concept of a “knowing-game.”24 It is from this soil, charged with such rich, almost confounding dimensions of significance and out of a duality of poetic control of structure—between the heroic (presaging the courtly) and the pathetic— that the Arabic hunt poem began to appear to the poets of the end of the Umayyad and early >Abbāsid periods, where it came to stand almost as a counter-canon to the strictures of the qaṣīdah. This role as countercanon is also what would make it so easy for the Umayyad/>Abbāsid poem of the hunt to reach the verge of its transition, now as ṭardiyyah, to its prevalent but ambiguous, or not further pursued, hunting-steed opening of wa qad aghtadī—an opening that will carry its significance of “theme” with an ease that approaches a thematic paradox and allows to the subject of the hunt a stabilization of its archaic, agonistic permutations (hunting steed/falcon), envisioning a different “agent,” in which the noble bird of prey, the falcon, will gain primacy over steed and hound. Thus, especially with the early >Abbāsid period (Abū Nuwās), falconry will displace the fakhr chivalry of hunter and his steed, just as falconry will also come to rival, even if never fully displace, the hound. However, what furthered the astoundingly rapid and almost commanding introduction of falconry into Arabic poetry was already present in the almost ludic experimental interest in the early pre-Islamic agonistic permutations between the steed of the Bedouin hunt and the bird of prey. It must have been also felt, perhaps even more pervasively, in the specifically kindred cultural confluence of the Arabic/Arabian zeal for the hunt as an increasingly court-motivated pursuit during the Umayyad period and its symbiosis with, or at the least unavoidable awareness of, the art of falconry as a preeminently courtly preoccupation, and also an art, of their closest abutting social and cultural environment—be it of Byzantine immediacy (Ghassānid) or of PersianSassanid (Lakhmid) filiation.25 A further observation should be made here. The strange fragility and vulnerability of the metaphoric protagonist in the hunt scene of

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Zuhayr’s poem, that is, of the qaṭāh, already point toward the nurturing in the Arabic poetic hunt of more lyrical strains. Such strains, with the subsequent epochs of sensibility—the Umayyad and the >Abbāsid— will reveal still another face of the many faces of the hunt, that of the melancholy hunt of love and of the presence in it of the sand grouse/ qaṭāh.26 So too, aside from that characteristic variant of the hunt of love, other motif elements and metaphors of the “chase of love,” mostly based on the inversion of roles between hunter and quarry, make their early appearance in Arabic poetry. Thus, from among the poets before Islam, we find such motifs in Imru< al-Qays,27 al-Muthaqqib al->Abdī,28 al-Muraqqish the Elder,29 and Mu>āwiyah Ibn Mālik;30 from the Umayyad period, in al-Akhṭal,31 Jarīr,32 Qays Ibn Dharīḥ,33 and Majnūn34; or, among the >Abbāsids, in Ibn al-Rūmī,35 al Mutanabbī,36 Mihyār alDaylamī,37 and many more. All this having been said, we must still state with theoretical firmness that these are not the readily furnished “origins” and formulations of the ṭardiyyah as the Arabic genre of the hunt poem, but rather its formative or, one might call them procedural, “beginnings.” For this distinction I refer to Kathryn J. Gutzwiller’s insightful discussion of “the formation of a genre.”38 In her view, influenced by the Russian Formalists and the Prague Linguistic Circle, the birth of a genre should be considered not so much the beginnings of a form as the inception of a process, thus not so much an actual “birth” as a transformation; and that process is part of a re-hierarchization and revision of existing elements. In order to produce a genre, however, this re-hierarchization must have its “independent function” that moves toward the outside of the formawareness of a preexisting rule of form and toward its ultimate disengagement from it. If we transpose this formalist reasoning to our Arabic case, therefore, the process that ultimately leads to the development of the genrepoem of the hunt, namely, the ṭardiyyah, ought to be identified as an “outward-movement” out of a “prior” strong awareness of a “form,” a “thematic range,” and a “diction”—an awareness, however, that also implies a countercurrent of the semiotics of the internal hierarchization of these elements. For only out of the semiotic lingering-on of the formal “language” of that underlying internal hierarchization (as matrix) will

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the process of the formation of the new genre, if successful in its rehierarchization, emerge as a new formal entity of aesthetically knowable confines. With respect to the Arabic hunt poem/ṭardiyyah, such a semiotic and formal/structural matrix is necessarily (and singularly) the thematically fully structured, classical qaṣīdah. The ṭardiyyah develops as much with it as against it. From the historical fortunes of the form of the qaṣīdah, we know that the outgrowth of the independent hunt poem/ṭardiyyah took place almost as a process of omission. By the end of the Umayyad period the survival of the archaic poetic hunt paradigms within the qaṣīdah could no longer be sustained. The subject of the hunt did not separate itself from the qaṣīdah, but rather it was left out. It became an outcast from a form and a structure which no longer had room or understanding for what had once been its great thematic paradigms of the hunt — especially of the hunt as the liminal experience of the raḥīl. As the Umayyad period was running out and the >Abbāsid one was setting in, the fully structured classical qaṣīdah was undergoing significant changes, especially significant to our topic. From a ternary structure, the now predominantly epideictic and courtly qaṣīdah was rapidly changing into a binary form. And even if a raḥīl section was occasionally retained, it was invariably a raḥīl of himmah, not of humūm, thus not of “care” but of “aspiration” and “purpose.” In much the way that Ibn Qutaybah (d. 276/889) has formulated it, in the qaṣīdah’s journey section (raḥīl) there was room only for the direct journey of the supplicant poet intent upon reaching the presence of the patron.39 The experiential liminality of the Bedouin poet, as it is structurally embedded in the raḥīl,40 and his existential stance were no more. Those, however, had been the matters of which the Bedouin poet had spoken through his animal panels and allegories of the hunt. If the Bedouin raḥīl had undergone such changes, so too had the third section of the qaṣīdah. In its new courtly and celebratory role as an undiluted encomium of the patron, there was no room for the poet’s self-assertion and self-glorification through his “chivalrous” hunt as the champion of his tribe or community. Thus the qaṣīdah itself had changed and could no longer accommodate the two “archaic” forms of the hunt under its structural roof.

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Such is, however, merely a formalist assessment. The semiotics of a new concept of community, state, and power, those factors that touched most directly upon the functionality of the third section of the qaṣīdah, were also changing — and the qaṣīdah itself was doing no more than changing according to those new dictates of state and power. Furthermore, it appeared that the subject of the hunt in Arabic poetry, in turn, no longer had to lean on the qaṣīdah for its old supportive and comprehensive meaning-giving form and circumstance. As it became its own “poem of the hunt,” the subject of the hunt now had a new master: the newly opened-up Umayyad and then >Abbāsid world of the court. What it all meant from the literary-critical point of view is another matter. Yet a new genre was needed, and a new genre was born. In Arabic poetic genre history, this birth of a new formal body may be regarded almost as a case of the proverbial cutting of the umbilical cord. And yet, viewing the development at a closer range, the ṭardiyyah poem, with all its thematic and formal linkages to the qaṣīdah, at first had cut surgically only one of its ties to the matrix, indeed the most external of ties—namely, that of the propriety of the classical qaṣīdah canon of rhyme and meter. Thus, when the first Umayyad ṭardiyyāt were actually achieved, they were composed in the almost plainly iambic meter of rajaz, considered then and thereafter as falling outside the classical pale. These poems were also made to rhyme as hemistich-length lines throughout, producing a drastically shorter line length. The resulting form—in this most technical sense—was an urjūzah (rajaz-poem). The ṭardiyyah poets had opted for the least canonical and the most “popular,” metrically relaxed, and, one might call it with foresight, “folkloric” type of prosodic system available at that time to the Arabic poet. There are paradoxes in such a choice of prosody for precisely a “courtly” genre, but this is another matter, one that ranges too far and too wide past the immediate purposes of this study.41

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C HA P T E R 2

The Hunt in the Ode at the Close of the Archaic Period

This chapter uncovers and traces a particular process in the literary-historical development of the hunting topos in the classical Arabic poetic corpus: its transition from the formal and structural component in the larger poetic genre of the pre-Islamic and Mukhaḍram (transitional) qaṣīdah to the shorter and above all freestanding hunt poem, the ṭardiyyah, in the Umayyad period. As I demonstrated in chapter 1, in the structurally fully articulated classical Arabic qaṣīdah, the matter of the hunt is divided with the utmost formal rigor between two of its three paradigmatic sections. These are the poet’s liminal “desert journey” (raḥīl) of the qaṣīdah’s second structural section and the celebratory or selfcelebratory reentry into, or return to, his reconstituted sense of self and community (fakhr, both individual and tribal, or madḥ/madīḥ, encomium) in the third section. This order changes, or has to change, however, as soon as the structure of the ternary qaṣīdah ceases to be fully operative in its archaic Bedouin way, that is, in the liminality of the raḥīl and in the directness of its 35

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chivalrous chase. It then becomes either the simplified, formalisticrhetorical vehicle of the panegyric, still ternary, as described by Ibn Qutaybah,1 or it ceases to be ternary altogether by losing its liminal raḥīl section, and in that loss divesting itself of the allegorical, or allegorizing, burden of the hunt. That burden, although it rested principally in the raḥīl, would still exert its allegorizing effect on the directness of the chivalrous chase of the fakhr section. Through both these changes, however, the qaṣīdah merely releases or expels the subject of the hunt from its tradition-dictated frame. It does not obviate it poetically. Rather, it gives it the freedom to move outside the confines of the traditional qaṣīdah structure, thereby opening for it, in a future no longer Bedouin, the option of an independent, or at least apparently independent, poetic existence as a specific, freestanding poetic form and, ultimately, as its own genre. Inasmuch as we readily identify the Umayyad period in Arabic literary history as the one in which the major stages of dismemberment of the classical qaṣīdah took place, producing the identifiable, separate love poem (ghazal), and in which, built on Ḥijāzī and Kūfan precursors, Arabic nasīb-lyricism took further steps toward a genre-oriented Bacchic poetry (khamriyyah), in this context we must also take care to produce a critical assessment of the genesis of the Arabic poem of the hunt (ṭardiyyah) that is particularly alert to form. For, as a poetic subject, prior to its new formal identity as poetic genre, the hunt still carries its intrinsic structural and semiotic polarization derived from the qaṣīdah’s raḥīl and fakhr/madīḥ sections. In chapter 1 we unraveled the structural complexities and modulations of the hunt scenes and motifs in the pre-Islamic qaṣīdah, where, without breaking the structural code, quite strange and subtle animal metamorphoses occur. We will now point out further structural and thematic changes in the qaṣīdah, now no longer a pre-Islamic classical qaṣīdah but rather a markedly Mukhaḍram transitional one. As we shall see, these changes, which affect the poetic subject of the hunt, seem at first to be at odds with the paradigm of qaṣīdah structure. Here we shall use as examples two qaṣīdahs of substantial length: Mufaḍḍaliyyah no. 17 by al-Muzarrid Ibn Ḍirār al-Dhubyānī (seventy-four lines)2 and

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Mufaḍḍaliyyah no. 26 by >Abdah Ibn al-Ṭabīb (eighty-one lines).3 We will also consider briefly a third, isolated short poem by al-ḤuṭayAbdah Ibn al-Ṭabīb’s sizable qaṣīdahs are of great formal complexity. That of al-Muzarrid begins with a lyrical nasīb of eleven lines, followed by a warlike, boastful section of fakhr (12–14) in which the poet presents himself as the defender of his tribe. Still within the boast/fakhr, the poet then enters into an elaborate, exultant description or presentation first of his battle stallion (15– 27) and then, in an equally celebratory tone, of his battle mare (28– 37). Subsequently, without breaking away from the fakhr theme and mode, the poet proceeds to describe his sword and lance and his entire battle armor (38– 52). At this point, however, having already shown so much pride in his pose and prowess in actual combat, or rather in his full readiness for it, the poet turns to a combat that is on a different plane: that of his prowess as poet skilled in the art of the powerful word. This change of “register,” which so explicitly stresses its adherence to the major mode of fakhr, is marked by the use of the qaṣīdah-specific signal of transition, fa da> dhā (but leave that) (l. 53). This signal, however, rather than announcing a transition to a separate structural section, as would be the case in a paradigmatic tripartite qaṣīdah, merely allows the poet to expatiate on a new variant of fakhr, now turned into a potential hijā< (invective) or the threat of it, until line 62. This prolonged, pent-up nurturing of hijā< should be hermeneutically revealing as regards the poem’s progress toward a point of closure. Then, in the final thematic subsection of this complex fakhr, the poet modulates or changes his angle once again, beginning with another qaṣīdah-specific signal of transition, fa >addi (then turn to) (l. 63), which now rings as though it were an apodosis, or a throwback, to that earlier fa da> dhā of line 53. From this point on, we may then let the qaṣīdah itself speak, till it closes with line 74:

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 ROIC IN  T HE   E A RLY A RA BIC OD E 38 THE HE ROIC A ND T HE A NT I-HE  Ϟ ˵ ˶΋Ύ˴ϗ ˯˴ Ύ˴η Ύϣ˴  ή˸ ˶ όθ͋ ϟ΍ ή˴ ϳΰ˴ ˶ Ϗ ϥ͉ ˶Έϓ  ˲ ϴϤ˶ ˴ϗέ˴  ˵Ϫϟ Ϟ ˵ ˶Α΍Ϋ˴  ˯˵ ΍ήϔ˸ λϭ ΕΎ͉ ˴  Ϟ ˵ γ˶ ϼ͉δϟ΍ Ϧ͉ Ϭ˶ ˶ϗΎ˴Ϩϋ˴΃ ϲϓ Ϟ˵ ˴ϘϠ˸ ˴Ϙ˴Η  ˸ ˵ϥΎΣ ˴ ˸ή͋ ϝ ˵ ϭΎ˴ Ϩ Θ Ϥ ϟ΍ ϭ δ ϟ΍ ϭ ˯ ϻ Ϊ Οϭ ˵ ˴ ˵ ˶  Ϟ ˵ ϣ˶ ΎΧ˴  ϮϬϓ ˵Ϫμ ˵ Ψ˴˸ η ϯ˴Ω ˸ϭ˴΄˴ϓ Ύ˴ΗΎϤ˴ ˴ϓ  Ϟ ˵ ˶΋Ύ˴ϋ Ϛ ˴ ͉ϧ· ˵ϥΎτϴθ͉ ϟ΍ ˵Ϫ˴ϟ ϝ˴ Ύ˴ϗϭ˴  ˸ Ϊϛ˸ ˴΃ Ϊ˸ ˴ϗϭ Ώ΂ϓ Ϟ ˵ ˶΋Ύδ˴ Ϥ˴ ϟ΍ Ϫ˶ ϴϠ˴ϋ Ε˴ ˴  Ϟϣ˶ ΍ή˴ ˴Ψϟ΍ ˯˶ Ύδ͋Ϩϟ΍ ͋ήη˴  Ϧϣ˶ ϭ Ω˳ ΍ϭ˴ έ˴  ˵ ˴ ˸ Ϟ ˵ ˶ΑΎ˴ϫ Ϛ ˶ ϣ͊ ˵΃ ˬαΎϨϟ΍ Ϛ ϴ ϟ ·  ϡ Ϋ ˴ ˶ ˶ ͊ ˴΃  ˲ ή˴˶ Θ ˸Τϣ˵ ϭ Ϟ ˵ ΣΎ ˶ ˴ϗ Ϊ˶ ϠΠ˶ ϟ΍ Ϟ˶ ˶΋ΎΣ˴  Ϧϣ ϕ  Ϟ ˵ ρ˶ Ύ˴Α Ϫ˶ ϴ˶ϧΎό˴ ˵ϳ Ύϣ˴  ΎΤ˱ ϴ˶Ϡ˴ρ ϰδ˴ ϣ˸ ˴΃ ϭ  Ϟ ˵ ˶Αϼ˴Βϟ΍ Ω˴ Ύ˴ϗ ͊ήϟ΍ Ϧϴ ˶ ό˴ ϟ΍ ϰϠ˴ϋ Ύϴϋ˸ ˴΄˴ϓ 

 ΍˱έΰ˶ ϐ˸ ϣ˵ ˴ΖϨϛ˵ ϥ· ˸ ή˶ ό˸ θ ͋ ϟ΍ξϳ ˴ ή˶ ˴ϗΪ͋ ό˴ ˴ϓ   ˵ϩ˵΅Ύ˴Ϙη ˴  Ϟ ˳ ϳϮ˴ρ ϲ ͈ Σ ˶ Ύ˴Βλ ˵  Ζ ˶ ό˸ ˴Ϩϟ   ˲ΐ˵Ϡϛ˸ ˴΃ ϭ ϱή͋ ˴Β˵ϳ ΎϤ͉ ϣ˶  ˵Ϫ ϟ ˴Ϧϴ˶Ϙ˴Α   ˲ΐ˴ϬϠ˸γ ˴  ϭ κϴ ˶ ˶Ϩ˴Ϙϟ΍ ˯˵ ϼϘϣ˶  ϭ ϡ˲ ΎΤ ˴ γ ˵   ˵Ϫ˴ΗΎϴΣ ˴  ΎϧΎϛ Ϧ ˶ ϴ˸͉ϴ˶ϗϮϠγ ˴  ΕΎϨΑ ˵   Δ˳ ˴Βϴ˸Χ ˴ ϭ˴  ωϮ ˳ Π ˵ ˶Α Ύ˴ΗΎϣ˴  Ϋ· ˸  ˴Ϧ˴Ϙϳ˴΃ϭ    Ϣ˸ ˵Ϭ˵Βϴ˶Μ˴Θδ ˸ ˴ϳ Ϫ˶ ˶ΑΎ Τ ˴ ˸λ˴΃ ϲ˶ϓ ˴ϑϮ͉ ˴τ  ˴ϓ   Ϟ ˳ ϣ˶ ˸ήΧ ˶  ϭ ϲ˶ϟΎϐ˴ Ϥ˴ ϟ΍ Ϟ ˶ Μϣ˶  Δ˳ ϴΒ˸λ ˶  ϰϟ·   ϲ˶Ϩ͉ϧΈϓ ϡΎ ˳ ό˴ ˴ρ Ϧϣ˶  ˸Ϟ˴ϫ  ΎϬ˴ϟ ϝ ˴ ΎϘ˴ϓ   ˵ϩ΅˵ Ύϣ˴  ϭ˴  ͊ϱϮ˶ ͉τϟ΍  ΍ά˴ϫ  Ϣό˴ ˴ϧ Ζ ˸ ˴ϟΎ˴Ϙ˴ϓ   Ϫ˶ ϣ˶ Ύό˴ ˴ρ Ϧϣ˶  ˵Ϫ δ ˵ ϔ˸˴ϧ Ζ ˸ ˴ϫ Ύ˴Ϩ˴Η ΎϤ͉ Ϡ˴ϓ   Ϫ˶ ˶΋΍Ωέ˶  Ϟ ˴ ˸π˴ϓ ϡ˴ Ϯ͉Ϩϟ΍ Ϊ˵ ϳή˵ϳ ϰθ ͉ ϐ˴ ˴Η 

˿˼ ˿˽ ˿˾ ˿˿ ˿̀ ˿́ ˿̂ ̀˹ ̀˺ ̀˻ ̀˼ ̀˽ 

63. So turn to the fashioning of verse, if you are  well-provided with it— For indeed he whose store of verse is full speaks as he wills. 64. Speak of a hunter of Ṣubāḥ, in misery overlong, Of him of the Raqamī arrows and yellow dry-cured bow, 65. Of those [arrows] he trims so well, that still are left to him, and of hounds On whose necks loose chain-collars clatter: 66. Blackey, Hunter’s Tipcat, the long-bodied Salhab, Jadlā< the sinewy, Roaming Wolf, and Fetcher,

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67. Of two Seleucian hounds’ brood—the pair that were his livelihood. But since both died, his shape has waned to naught 68. And with their death he knew—for certain— of hunger, thwarted hope. And there his Demon told him: “Indeed you are on a wrong course!” 69. So round and round he went among his comrades, asking to sustain him, But returned home, with his pleas fallen on deaf ears— 70. To his boys, still young, like arrows without heads, and to a birdbrained female Bent on her chit-chat rounds—and birdbrained are the worst of them— 71. To her he said: “Have you no food, for here I stand, Blaming before you everyone. Oh, had but your mother been bereft of child!” 72. “Yes,” she replied, “here is the well and there its water And a burnt, dried up piece of year-old hide.” 73. And when he finished with such fare, And reached the evening empty-bellied and his affliction bearing heavily upon him, 74. He wished to sleep, and wrapped himself in his mantle’s flaps, But troubled thoughts kept sleep from his eyes.

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In this qaṣīdah by al-Muzarrid we recognize a highly complex but nonetheless transparent, essentially bipartite nasīb-fakhr structure— this despite the fact that, past the nasīb, the theme components and their sequence do not reflect the qaṣīdah canon of thematic semiotics, where the structural section of fakhr would follow rather than precede the raḥīl. For this formal breach, however, the poet compensates by his deft and original subordination of the closing segment of his qaṣīdah, that is, the panel/episode of the “wretched hunter,” displacing it into the position of antipodal coda to the jarringly imposed purposes of an apparently framing fakhr. In light of qaṣīdah structure, the apparent subordination of the “wretched hunter” episode to the fakhr section is jarring indeed. What interests us most at this point, however, is the unusual structural place and role that al-Muzarrid assigns to this concluding subsection of his excessively strung-out fakhr. For we know that his final, well-articulated thematic presentation of the “wretched hunter” is isolated from its usual thematic context of the onager hunt, where it serves as an extended simile of the poet’s she-camel. That is, it should be part of the structure of the raḥīl, not of the fakhr. In al-Muzarrid’s poem, however, this resists being the case. If the wretched hunter episode is read as no more than a Mukhaḍram poet’s display of adroitness and mastery of a formal poetic tradition, then it is clearly a drastic breach of the structural canon of the qaṣīdah. However, this is to ignore this segment’s closing lines 73 and 74, with their return to a lyrical, nasīb-like “complaint of sorrow.” This inevitably evokes the structure-conditioned employ of humūm (cares, sorrows) at the end of the nasīb as the qaṣīdah makes the transition into the raḥīl.5 In his article “Muzarrids Qaṣīde vom reichen Ritter und dem armen Jäger,” Thomas Bauer is aware of this breach and attempts to explain it.6 Furthermore, he is hardly more than a breath away from correctly rounding off his explanation of this structural anomaly—but for one crucial stumbling block. By necessarily identifying the “wretched hunter” subtheme in al-Muzarrid’s poem as implicitly part of a hypothetical “onager panel” (but also, because of the appearance in it of hunting dogs, as potentially part of a no less true-to-canon “oryx panel”), Bauer is drawn into a further structural and functional identification of the onager/

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oryx panel as it figures in the paradigmatic tripartite qaṣīdah. Here the main difficulty surfaces: his failure to realize—or for us, at this point of interpretive understanding, to admit—that the second structural section of the tripartite Bedouin qaṣīdah, namely, the raḥīl, which is the poet’s journey into the liminal realm, in which he places himself outside the order of things of tribe and community, does not constitute part of the communally determined fakhr or mufākharah (boasting contest),7 and that even his pride in being an unchallenged word-smith ultimately cannot dispel the burden of liminality of the archaic raḥīl section. From this misconception, it would be a further mistake to assume a priori that the onager or the oryx panel, whether in its entirety or in the form of an excerpted “wretched hunter” episode, would likewise function in an actual qaṣīdah-proper structural category of fakhr/mufākharah. Bauer does not quite suggest this. What he does suggest, however, is equally misleading, namely, that the animal and hunt panels in the raḥīl are no more than the qaṣīdah’s descriptive, “purpose-free parts” (zweckfreie Teile), and that it is this Zweckfreiheit, together with the high levels of descriptive poetic artistry, that makes these “parts” so attractive— as well as instrumental in retaining the reader’s/listener’s attentiveness to the “message-carrying themes” (Botschaftsthemen).8 At this point Bauer’s readiness to categorize the early Bedouin qaṣīdah’s “descriptive” animal/hunt panels as “purpose-free” is most disturbing. Critically, they would thus be tantamount to mere decoration. The question of their extremely rigorous patterning of meaning in qaṣīdah after qaṣīdah, always telling almost one and the same requisite story, always in the structural hull of the poet’s she-camel journey, is entirely overlooked, silenced. The need for an answer — a critical answer — to the question “why?” is swept aside. And yet answers to that “why?” do exist, or should exist, and Bauer himself has actually intimated as much in his major study on the onager panel as it figures in the Arabic qaṣīdah between the pre-Islamic and Umayyad periods.9 One of the most resourceful Arabic litterateur-critics, al-Jāḥiẓ (d. 255/898), has already instructed us that in the raḥīl panel the hunted animal must not die as long as the poem is not an elegy and that, vice versa, in a poem that is an elegy that animal must die.10 Al-Jāḥiẓ is telling us that the animal panels of the raḥīl are nothing less than allegories of

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life and death in which the enactment of an agon is taking place—not merely drama-devoid “parables,” as Bauer would be willing to call them11—and that these allegories have something to do with the shecamel on which the Bedouin poet undertakes his solitary journey of interiorized pathos, and that the journey itself may be an allegory of almost reclusive individuation. The problem thus unravels itself: Can an allegory of life and death be viewed as a “purpose-free” exercise in “description”? And can the raḥīl of the pre-Islamic or Mukhaḍram qaṣīdah, which is an inward-turned liminal journey of experience, and which leads up to and contains such an allegory, be lumped together with the communally oriented fakhr/mufākharah? The agonistic, allegorical quality of the animal panels of the qaṣīdah, moreover, is already cogently brought out in another Mukhaḍram/ early Islamic poem, that is, in the wholly allegorical elegy by the poetic standard bearer of the Banū Hudhayl tribe and school, Abū Dhuaddi (Then turn to . . .!), which in effect begins the actual “wretched

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hunter” theme with line 64: li na>ti Ṣubāḥiyyin (in order to describe a Ṣubāḥī [hunter]). This “turn to describe” or “describing,” despite the almost self-conscious way in which it stands in isolation in al-Muzarrid’s poem, nevertheless represents the stylistic link with the fully mature >Abbāsid ṭardiyyah, especially in the characteristic opening lines of numerous hunt poems by Abū Nuwās and Ibn al-Mu>tazz: an>atu (I describe, I shall describe). Operating as more than a formula, however, from the still half-Jāhilī al-Muzarrid to Abū Nuwās (d. 199/814 or 200/815), Ibn al-Mu>tazz (d. 296/908), and beyond to Abū Firās al-Ḥamdānī (d. 357/ 968), this opening of the Arabic hunt poem by an>atu will mark—and even largely determine—one of the two styles, objective and subjective, of the ṭardiyyah. The expression an>atu becomes the marker of the objective, descriptive style in the ṭardiyyah, while the other marker, wa qad aghtadī (I would set out at break of day), is proper to the subjective style, with the presence and affective participation in the hunt of the poet-ashunter. The provenance of the latter is also semiotically significant for being recognizably that of the chivalrous hunt—never the failed or wretched hunter of the hunt panels of the raḥīl. In parallel with al-Muzarrid’s still strictly Bedouin ability to isolate the pre-Islamic motif of the “wretched hunter,” and still prior to, or rather formally short of, the development of a qaṣīdah-generated motif (or theme) into an independent poem, we should take note of one further Mukhaḍram example of a formally achieved and, this time, more fully freestanding poem of a “wretched hunter.” This other “wretched hunter” poem belongs to the Mukhaḍram poet Jarwal Ibn Aws alḤuṭayAbdah Ibn al-Ṭabīb’s poem we thus obtain the thematic counterpart to al-Muzarrid’s exploration of the possibilities arising from a noncanonic opening-up, if not a complete unraveling, of the pre-Islamic qaṣīdah: an opening-up that fed decisively into the — perhaps only tentative—genre-formation of the Umayyad tarḍiyyah. This closing hunt/banquet section of >Abdah Ibn al-Ṭabīb’s qaṣīdah (ll. 57– 81) should now be sufficiently   illustrative:     ˷ ϱή˸ ϝ ˵ ˸Ϯ˵ΑϮϣ˴  ϮϬϓ Ϫ˶ ϴϠ˴ϋ ˵ΏΎ˴ϫάϟ΍ ˶ δ˴Η  Ϟ ˵ ϴ˶ϓΎ˴τϤ˴ ϟ΍ ˵Ϧ˸ϴό˶ ϟ΍ ϭ Ϊ˶ Α˸ ͊ήϟ΍ Ϊ˵ ˶Α΍ϭ˴ ˴΃  ϝ ˵ ˸Ϯ˵Τϟ΍ ϭ ˵ϥΎ͉ϔΤ˴ ϟ΍ ˵Ϫ˵ ˰τ˶ϟΎ ˴Ψϣ˵  Ϣ˲ Ϭ˸ ˴Α  ͉ ˴ ˴ ͊μϟ΍ ϝ ˵ Ϯ˵Ϡθ˸ ϣ˴  ΢Β  ϲϓ Ϣ ό ϧ  ΎϬ ϧ ΄ ϛ ˲˴ ˶  ͊ ϝ ˵ Ϯτϟ΍ ϭ ˵Ϧδ˵Τϟ΍ Ϫ˶ ϴ˸ ˶ϓ Ϟ˴ ϣ˴ ΎϜ˴ ˴Η ϑ ˳ ˸ήρ˶  Ϟ ˵ ϴ˶Αά˴˸ Η Ω˶ ή˴Βϟ΍ Ώ ˶ Ϯϛ˵ έ˵  Ϧϣ ˵Ϫ͉ϔη˴  Ϊ˸ ϗ  ϝ ˵ Ϯ˵δϐ˸ ϣ˴  ˯˶ Ύ͉ϨΤϟΎΑ Ρ˵ Ϯ͉ ˴Ϡ˵ϳ ˲ΐϴ˴η ˶  Ϟ ˵ ϴρ˶ ΍ή˴ ˴Α Ύ˴Ϭϴ˶ϓ ˲Δ˴Βϛ͉ ή˴ ϣ˵  Ν˲ Ϯ˵ϋ  Ϟ ˵ ϴΠ˶ ό˴Η ˴ϦΒ˸ Ϗ˴ ˸ή˴Θγ˸ ΍ ΍Ϋ· Ϧ͉ Ϭ˶ ˶Θϔ˸ ϛ˴  ϲ˶ϓ 

 ή˳ ˴ϔλ ˴ ϲϓ ϲ͊ Ϥ˶ γϮ˴ ϟ΍ ˵ϩ Ω˴ ΎΟ ˴  Ώ ˳ ίΎ ˶ ϋ ˴ ϭ   Ύ˴Ϭ ϋ ˴ ΰ˶ ϔ˸˵ϴ˴ϓ Ύ˱ΗϮλ ˴  Ϫ˶ Α ϊ˸ Ϥ͉ δ ˴ ˴Η Ϣ˸ ϟϭ   Ϫ˶ Α ϡ˶ Ύό˴ ͉Ϩϟ΍ ϥΎ ˶ ˴τ  ϴΧ ˶  ϝ ˴ Ύϔρ ˸ ˴΃ ϥ ͉ ˴΄ϛ˴   ˲Δ ˴Ϩϛ˶ Ύγ ˴  ϲϫϭ Ύη ˱ ϮΣ ˵ ϭ˵  ˵Ϫ Ϩϣ˶  Ζϋΰ ˵ ϓ˸˴΃   Ζ ˳ ˶Ϡμ ˴ Ϩ˸ϣ˵  ϥ ˶ ΎΣ ˴ ˸ήδ ͋ ϟΎϛ Ϫ˶ ˸ΟϮ˴ ϟ΍ Ϣ˶ ϫ˶ Ύδ ˴ ˶Α   ˵ϪϤ˵ ΋΍Ϯ˴ ˴ϗ ϥ ˳ Ύ˴ϳ˸ήϋ ˵  Δ˶ ˴Ϙϳή˶ ͉τϟ΍  ϲυ ˶ ΎΧ ˴   ϻΪ˴Θό˸ ϣ˵  ϡ˴ Ύ˴ϗ Ϋ· ˸  ˵Ϫ ˴ΘΣ ˴ ή˵ϗ ϥ΄ ͉ ϛ˴   ˵ϩ˴ίή͉ ˴Α ϒϟ˸˴Ϸ΍  ϲ˶ϓ Ϫ˶ ˶Α ͉β˶Α΃ ΍Ϋ·   έ˲ Ϊ˶ ˴ΘϘ˸ϣ˵  Ϯ˴ ϫ˸  ϭ˴  ϲ˶ϨΜ˸˴ϳϭ Ϧ ͉ Ϭ˶ ˶Α Ϯ˵Ϡϐ˸ ˴ϳ 

˾̀ ˾́ ˾̂ ˿˹ ˿˺ ˿˻ ˿˼ ˿˽ ˿˾



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 Ϟ ˵ ϴ˶Ϡ ˸Π˴Η Ϟ˶ ϴϠϟ΍ Ω˶ ΍Ϯ˴ γ˴  Ϧ˸ ϣ˶  ˵Ϫ˴ϧϭ˵Ωϭ˴  ˴ϟ ˴ ˵ ͉ Ϟ ˵ ϳίΎ ό ϣ  ϡ Ϯ ϗ  Ϣ ϫ  ϭ ΡΎ Β μ ϟ΍ ϯ˴ Ϊ ˴ ˸ ˴ ˲ ˴ ˶ ˶  ϝ ˵ ϮϤ˵ θϣ˴  ϒϴ͉ ˴ ϛ˴  έ΍ ˶ δϟ΍ έ˶ Ϊ˸ μ ˶ ί˴ Ϲ˶ ΍ Ϯ˵ Χ˸ έ˶  Ϟ ˵ ϴ͋Ϡο Ε ˶ ˶ ΍άϠϟ΍ϭ Ϯ˸˶ Ϭ͉Ϡϟ΍ ˵ς˶ϟΎ ˴Ψϣ˵  Ϟ ˵ ϳϭΎ Ϧϣ˶ ˴ ˶ ˴Ϭ˴Η˲Ν΍ϭί˸ ˴΃ Ϣϗ˸ ή͉ ϟ΍ Ϊ˶ ͋ϴΟ  Ϟ ˵ ϴ˶ΛΎϤ˴ ˴Η ΎϬϴ˶ϓ ϯή˵˴ ϳ ˯˳ ϲ˴η Ϟ͋ ϛ˵  Ϧϣ  ˵ ˲ ϝ ˵ ϮΘϔ˸ ϣ˴  ϞϴϠϟ΍ ˯ ϲ π˵ ϳ  ϝ Ύ Α Ϋ  ΎϬϴϓ ˵ ˴ ˴ ˶  ˸ ϭ˴ ͋ ͊ ΰϟ΍ ϝ ˵ Ϯ˵Ϡϐ˸ ϣ˴  ϕ Ϫ˶ ϳΪ˴ϟ ϙ΍ ˶ ή˴ ό˶ ϟ΍ ˯˵ ρ  ˴ ͉ ˷ Ϟ ˵ ϴϠϛ˸ ˶· ϥΎ Τ˸ ϳ ή ϟ΍ ωΎ ϴ δ ϟ΍ ϕ Ϯ ϓ ˴Ϧϣ ˴ ˴ ˴ ˶ ˶  ˴ ͇ΐ˵ ϝ ˵ ϭΰ˸Βϣ˴  ζ Ϥ Σ  ίϮ Π ϛ  Σ ˴ ˶ ˴ ˶ ˸ΣϮ˴ ϟ΍ έΎ ˶ ˶  ˵ ˴ΑΎ˴ρϭ˴ ϝ ˵ Ϯ˵ϠΨ˸ ϣ˴  Ω˶ Ϯ͊ϔδ͉ ϟ΍ ϲϓ ζ˸ ˶ ΒϜ˴ ϟ΍ ϖ  Ϟ ˵ ϴ˶Α΍Ϯ͉Θϟ΍ ωΎ͉ ˴ Ϯ˴ϓ ˶ ϕ ˶ Ϯ˴ Ψϟ΍ ˶ μϟ΍ ϲ˶ϓϭ ϥ΍  ˴ Ϟ ˵ ϴ˶Ϡό˸ ˴Η Ε ή ϟ΍ ΐ ϴ ρ  Ϧ ϣ ͋ ˶ ΍άϠϟ΍ ϭ Ρ΍͉ ˶ ˶ ˶  ϝ ˵ ϮϤ˵ Τϣ˴  ϥΎ ͉ ϟ΍ ˶Δ˴Βϫά˸ Ϥ˵ ϛ˴  ή˲ ό˸ η˶ ˶ Ϥ͉ δ  Ϟ ˵ ϴΗ ˸ή˴Η Ώ ͉ ϟ΍ ωΎϤ δ ϟ  Ύ Ϭ Η Ϯ λ  ϲϓ ˴ ˴ ˴ ˶ ˸ή˰θ ˶ ˶ ˶  Ϟ ˵ ϴ˶Α΍ή͉˴ δϟ΍ ϭ Ύ˴Ϭϴ˶Ϡϋ˴  Ω˵ ϭ˵ή˵Βϟ΍ ϰ˴ϘϠ˸ ˵Η 

         

         ͉ ˵ ˴ ˸ ˵ϥ ˴ ˸ή  ϖ ˲ ˶Θ˴ϔϨ˸ ϣ˵  βϤ θ ϟ΍ ϗ ϭ Εϭ˴ Ϊ Ϗ  Ϊ ϗϭ ˿˿ ˶   Ϫ˶ ˰˶Ηή˴ γ˸ ˵΃ ξ˸ ˵ ϳ͋ΪϟΎ˴ϓή˴ η˸ ˴΃Ϋ·˸ ˿̀ ˴ ό˴ΑϮ˵ϋΪ˸ ˴ϳϚ  Ϫ˶ ˶Ηά͉ ˴Ϡ˶Α

ϲ˶ϧ΍Ϊ˴ ϋ ˸ ˴ ΄˴ϓ

ϰ˴ϟ·   Ϫ˶ ˶Α Ϊ͉ Ο ˴  ή˵ ϣ˸ ˴Ϸ΍  Ύϣ˴  ΍Ϋ· Ϊ͊ Π ˶ ˴ϳ ϕ ˲ ˸ήΧ ˶   Ύ˴Ϭ ˵Ϩ͋ϳΰ˴ ˵ϳ ε ˳ ˸ή˵ϓ ϰϠϋ ˴  Ύϧ΄Ϝ˴ ͉Η΍ ϰ͉ΘΣ   ˱Γ έΪ˶ Ψ ˸ ϣ˵  Ϊ˵ γ ˸ ˵Ϸ΍  ΎϬϴϓ ϭ Ν ˵ ΎΟ ˴ Ϊ͉ ϟ΍ ΎϬϴ˶ϓ   ΎϬ˴Ϩ͉ϳί˴  ϭ ϥ ˳ Ύ˴Α Ύ˴ϫ Ω˴ Ύη ˴  Δ˳ Βό˸ ϛ˴  ϲϓ   ˵Ϫ ϣ˴ Ϊ͉ ˴ϫ  νϮ ˶ Τ˴ ϟ΍ ϡ˶ ά˸ Π ˶ ϛ˴  ˲κϴλ ˶ ˴΃ Ύ˴Ϩϟ   Ϫ˶ ˶Θ͉Ϡ˵ϘΑ˶ ˲ΏϮμ ˵ ό˸ ϣ˴  ή˵ ˴ϫ ί˸ ˴΃ ˵ΏϮϜ˵ ϟ΍ϭ   ΎϤ˴ ˵Ϭ ˴Ϩϴ˴Α ˯˶ ΎϤϟ΍ Ν΍ ˶ ΰ˴ Ϥ˶ ˶Α Ω˲ ή͉ ˴Βϣ˵   Ϊ˲ ˴Αί˴  ˵Ϫ ˴ϗϮ˴ϓ ϑΎ ˳ ˴ρ   ˵ϥ϶  ˸ ϣ˴  ˵ΏϮϜ˵ ϟ΍ ϭ   ϖ ˲ τ ˶ ˴ΘϨ˸ϣ˵  ˵ϥϼΠ ˴ ϋ ˴  ϒ ˲ μ ˴ Ϩ˸ϣ˶  Ϫ˶ Α ϰό˴ δ ˸ ˴ϳ   Ύ˱ϔ˵ϧ΃ Ύ˴ϔ˴ϗ˸ή˴ϗ Ύ˱ΘϴϤ˴ ϛ˵  Ζ ˵ ˸Τ˴Β˴τ˸λ΍ Ϣ˵Λ   Ύ˴Ϩ˵Ϡ͋Ϡό˴ ˵ϳ Ύ˱ϧΎ˴ϴ˸Σ˴΃ ϭ ΎΟ ˱ ΍ΰ˴ ϣ˶  Ύ˱ϓ˸ήλ ˶   ˲Δ δ˶ϧ΁ ˯˵ ΍Ϊ˴ ϴ˸Ο ˴  ˵Ϫ ˴ϴη ˶ ΍Ϯ˴ Σ ˴  ϱέ˶ ά˸ ˵Η   ΎϫΪ˵ ˶ϔ˸μ˵ϧ ϭ Ύ˴Ϩϴ͋Ϭ ˴Ϡ˵Η Ύ˴ϨϴϠϋ ˴  ϭΪϐ˸ ˴Η   57. Many a far-off pasture, generously watered  by the first rainfall in Ṣafar, month of dearth, Where overnight abundant downpours pass, έΎ ˴ ͋Θϟ΍ ˶ Π

58. There wild beasts, dust-colored ostriches, and wide-eyed antelope with their young Have never heard a voice that would alarm them,

˿́ ˿̂ ̀˹ ̀˺ ̀˻ ̀˼ ̀˽ ̀˾ ̀˿ ̀̀ ̀́ ̀̂ ́˹ ́˺

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59. As though there the yearlings of the ostrich flocks Were lambs mingled among ostrich chicks, those growing and those yet to nest. 60. Wild animals still in repose I startled there, As though by morning driven off: 61. On a thin-faced, swift-paced steed, like a wolf roaming, Of noble pedigree, perfect in beauty and in height, 62. Of firm flesh down the spine, the legs bare-muscled, The ride in the chill of morning and dusk has withered him away. 63. His forehead’s blaze, as he stands erect, Is like hoariness with henna washed. 64. When among a thousand he is called upon, he is singled out for Legs, compact and sinuous, and rock-like hooves. 65. All out, in full control, he stretches them, then folds them in, Quickening, when desired, their spring-like pace. 66. Often have I set out, as the sun’s rays rent the night, While ahead the night’s darkness still spreads its cloak. 67. And with the morning’s rise, the cock, perched high, musters those of his clan, His warriors unarmed and meek,

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68. To the wine merchants I then set out, enthralled by the delight Of one of loose loin-cloth, quick like a sword’s tip, of temper nimble, 69. One rich in bounty, earnest in deed when grave the matter, All play and pleasures, free to stray— 70. Till we reposed on carpets adorned With paired wild beasts on exquisite, variegated cloth. 71. Fowl were there, lions hiding in their lairs, Images of all things could there be seen. 72. In a square building, by its builder raised and furbished, Inside it lamps with twisted wicks light up the night. 73. Ours was a bowl like a cistern’s base that Camels trample at the water-place, and by it lay a water-skin tied spout to neck, 74. And the pitcher, gleaming white, bound around at the spout, Over its clay seal a crown of aromatic herbs. 75. With water cooled and tempered—between them, Broached, a wine-jar like the belly of an onager, 76. The pitcher full, topped by rising foam, And a quarter of ram pierced on the spit. 77. Girded for work, a servant rushed with it— Spices on food-tray and flat serving dish.

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78. Then, for the morning-draught, I drank of a wine, dark, never unsealed, shiver-sending, A fragrant wine, its pleasures calling for a second quaff. 79. Unmixed, but still smooth like mixed, and then, at times there would delight us Poetry like gilded brocade flaunted, when 80. A fine-necked, mirthful songstress gave to its frills free rein, Her voice, in measured psalmody, to please the drinking company. 81. To regale us, she would attend to us by morning, and we would favor her With tunics and striped cloaks.

The Arabic poetic interest in the subject of the hunt is now ready to cross its dividing line into the Umayyad period, for it is only in that period that we encounter form-specific, single-subject poems of the hunt that lead clearly to genre-specificity and, ultimately, form definition. Here, in the strictest sense, our attested examples are no more than three (if we leave out of consideration shorter, epigram-like texts): two by al-Shamardal Ibn Sharīk al-Yarbū>ī (a contemporary of Jarīr and alFarazdaq) and one by Abū al-Najm al->Ijlī (d. before 125/743). These may seem too small a legacy on which to base a definitive historical and critical judgment concerning genre—but perhaps not, for despite its numerical paucity, the Umayyad ṭardiyyah had come into being formally “almost perfect,” offering its “total form” to the >Abbāsid practitioners, continuators, and imitators. In this respect it was not a mere curiosum but a strong formal and, in equal measure, a cultural-historical and social fact, destined to gain unusual favor with later poets of such magnitude as Abū Nuwās and Ibn al-Mu>tazz. However curious, the almost

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total transmissibility of subject, style, and sense of form from the limited Umayyad ṭardiyyah to the >Abbāsid poetics of the hunt, a “bestowal,” as it were, of a full-fledged genre, remains a literary-historical fact. We limit ourselves here to introducing al-Shamardal’s “longer” ṭar  rhyme ābihī:19 diyyah, the rajaz metered poem of the extended  Ϫ˶ ˶Α΂ϣ˴  ϰϟ˶· ϭ΄  Ϫ˶ ˶ΑΎΠ˴ Σ˶  ϲϓ ΢˵ Β˸ ͊μϟ΍ ϭ ϱΪ˶ ΘϏ˸ ˴΃ Ϊ˸ ˴ϗ ˶ ˴ϳ Ϣ˸ ϟ Ϟ˵ ϴϠϟ΍ ϭ   ˵ Ϡ˸Α˴΃ ΍˴Ϊ˴Α Ϊ˸ ϗϭ Ϫ˶ ˶ΑΎ˴Βη˴  ϲϓ Ω˴ Ύλ ϲ͈ Ο˶ Ϯ͉ ˴Θ˶Α  Ϫ˶ ˶ΑΎΠ˴ Ϩ˸ ϣ˵  Ϧϣ˶  ϖ ˴   Ϫ˶ ˶Α΍ά˴ Ο Ϧϣ έ˵ Ύ˴ϐμ  Ϫ˶ ˶ΑΎό˴ ˸λ˶· ϲ˶ϓ ϝ͉ Ϋ˴  Ϊ˸ ˴ϗ Ω˳ ϭΎ ˶ ό˴ ϣ˵ ͋ ϟ΍ ϕ ˴ ή˶ ˴Χ Ϊ˸ ϗ ˶   Ϫ˶ ˶Α΍ϮΛ˸ ˴΃ ϲ˶ϓ ϊ˶ Ϥ˶ Ϡ˸ Ϥ˵ ϟ΍ ˴Δ ό˴ Ϥ˸ ˴ϟϭ  Ϫ˶ ˶Αϰ˴ϋΪ˸ ˵ϳϱάϟ΍ ˴ΕϮ͉μϟ΍ ˴ϑή˴ ϋ˴ ϭ   ˸ ˵ ˵ ˵ ˲ ˴ ˴ ˴ Ϫ˶ ˶Α΍ή˴ γ˴  ϭ΃ ϝϵ΍ ωϮ Ϡ ρ Ϟ˸ Β ϗ    Ϫ Α ϰ˴ Η ΃ Ϋ· κ ϧ Ύ Ϙ Ϡϟ ΖϠ Ϙ ϓ ˴ ˶ ˶ ˶ ˶ ˶ ˶   ˸ ˴Α Ϧϣ ˸ ή˴ μ˸ Ϫ˶ ˶ΑΎ˴Β˵ϟ ϰϟ· Ώ  Ϫ˶ ˶Α ϯ΁έ ˴ Τ˸˴ ϳϭ ˳ Ϯ˵ΤϠ˸ ϣ˴  Ϧ˶ τ ˴ Ϋ· ˴ Α˴΃ Ύϣ˴  Ϛ   ˸ Ϫ˶ ˶Α ϼϋ ˴  Ϋ· Ω˶ ϮϤ˵ Ϡ˵ΠϟΎϛ ͉ξ˴Ϙϧ˸ Ύϓ  Ϫ˶ ˶ΑΎ˴ϨΟ˴  Ϧϣ˶  ˴Ζ͉Β͊Θϟ΍ ϯή˴ϳ Ύ˱όθ ˸ ˴ϗ   ˸ ˸ ˸ ˴ ˴ ͉ ˸π˴ Ϫ˶ ˶ΑΎμ Θ Ϗ ΍ Ϧϣ Ϙ Ϡ˵ ϳ  Ϧ˵ Ϭ ϓ    Ϫ Α ϰ ϣ έ  Δ ϴ Ϩ ϗ  ϡ Ϯϳ Ϗ ˴Ϧϴ ˴ϥΎΒ ˴ ˶ ˶˶ ˴ ˴ ˳˴ ˶ ˴   ˴ ˵ ˵ ˴ ˴Ζ ˸ΤΗ Ϫ˶ ˶ΑΎϐ͉ ο ϰΤ˴ ͊πϟ΍ ΝΎ͉ Τ η  Ϟ ϛ  Ϧ ϣ    Ϫ Α΍ ή Η  ϭ΃ νέ Ϸ΍ Ϊ ϳ Ϊ Ο  ˴ ˴ ˴ ˶ ˶˶ ˶ ˶ ˶ ˶   Ϫ˶ ˶ΑΎΠ˴ Σ Ϧϣ˶  Ω˶ ΍ ˴Ά˵ϔϟ΍ ω ˴ ΰ˴˶ ΘϨ˸ ϣ˵  Ϫ˶ ˶Α ϰϘθ˸ ˵ϳ ˵Ϫ˵Α ˸ήΣ˴  ϝ˵ ΍ΰ˴ ˴ϳ ϻ˴ Ϋ·˸ ˶   Ϫ˶ ˶ΑΎ˴θϧ˸ ˶· ϲϓ  Ϫ˶ ˶ΑΎ˴ϫ˶· ϲϓ ΐ˴ ˴ϦΒ˸ θ˴ Ϩ˸ ˴ϳ Ύ˱Β˶ϟΎ ˴Ψϣ˴ ˴ θϧ˸ ˴΃ Ϊ˸ ˴ϗϭ˴  Ω˴ ΎΟ˴   Ϫ˶ ˶ΑΎπ Ϧϣ˶  ϖϠ  Ϫ˶ ˶Α΍ή˴ Σ˶  ϭ΃ έ΍ ˴ Χ ˶ ˶ Τ˴ ϟΎ˶Α ΎϤ˴ ͉ϧ΄ϛ˴ ˶ ΰ͉ Π˴ ϟ΍ ϯ˴Ϊϣ˵  Ϟ˴ Μϣ˶   ˸ ϳ ϱά˶ ϟ΍ Ϛ˸ ͉ ϟ΍ ˵Γή˴ ˵ϔ ˸μ˵ϋ Ϫ˶ ˶Α ϰ˴Ϡτ˵  Ϫ˶ ˶ΑΎ͉μ˴ϗ ϭ΃ ύΎ͉ ˶ δϤ˶ ϟ΍ ˵Γή˴ Θ˸ ϋ˶  ˸ϭ΃ ˶ Βμ   Ϫ˶ ˶Α ϰ˴Ϡό˸ ˵ϳ έ˳ ˴ΰΧ˵  ϭ Ώ  Ϫ˶ ˶ΑΎδ˴ Σ ˳ ή˴ ˴Χ Ϧϣ˶ ˶ ϰϠϋ ˴Ϧϴ˶ϧΎϤ˴Λ ϯϮ˴ Σ˴   Ϫ˶ ˶Α ΎϨΘ˶Α ϝ˳ ΰϨ˸ Ϥ˴ ϟ Ϣ˵ϫΪ˴ ϋ˴ ΍ϭ˴  Ϫ˶ ˶Α ϰ˴ϋΪ˸ ˵ϳ Ϣ˵ ˵ϫΪϴλ Δ˳ ˴ϴΘ˸ ˶ϔ˶ϟ ˴   ˸ ͉ ˸ ˴ ˴ ˵ϥΎ ˸ή Ϫ˶ ˶ΑΎ˴τ˶Θ ˸Σϻ ϭ ΦΒ τϠϟ ϡ Ύ Ϙ ϓ    Ϫ Α  ϯ Ϯ θ ˵ ϳ  Α Ψ ϟ΍ Ϫ Α  ϰ Ϭ τ˵ ˸ϭ΃ ˴ ˶ ˶˶ ˴ ϳ ˶˶ ˴ ˴ ˶   Ϫ˶ ˶ΑΎ˴Ϩ ˸Πϫ˶ ΍Ϋ·˵ΝΎ˴ΘϬ˸ ˵ϳ˵ωϭ˴ ˸έ˴΃˼˼

˺ ˼ ˾ ̀ ̂ ˺˺ ˺˼ ˺˾ ˺̀ ˺̂ ˻˺ ˻˼ ˻˾ ˻̀ ˻̂ ˼˺

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1. With the dawn would I set out, the morning still behind its veil, The night not yet withdrawn to its place of return, 3. The morning piebald in the cleft of night. With me a Tawwajī falcon, a hunter from early on, 5. Always returning, submissive though self-willed, Before its rush the fledglings of the prey, benumbed, cleave to the ground. 7. It knows the voice by which it’s called And the signaling caller by his clothes. 9. Thus to the falconer I spoke, when he brought it, Before the morning vapors rose, or the noon-time mirage: 11. How sharp-eyed this Qash>!— when through it [the falconer] sees From down at Malḥūb to its most deep. 13. This Qash> [this “Clearing Cloud”], how from nearby to him appears al-Tubbat, And how it swoops down boulder-like when let rise high. 15. An irascible one, the very day acquired, the falconer thrusts it up, And rapacious, it swoops down on the prey, 17. Down—on hard ground, or on the softest dust, On all that in mid-morning croaks or howls, 19. As unrelentingly, with pointed talons, It tears the heart out of the diaphragm. 21. It avails itself well of its task, driving into the hide Claws that sink deep and fast, 23. Like a butcher’s pointed blades, or spits. As though on its neck the tint 25. Were a dyer’s or slayer’s saffron hue, 25*. Or crumbs of anointing musk.20 It brings in eighty, by his count,

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27. Of kharab bustards and khuzar hares, offered up. To gallant lads, whose hunting skill is sought, 29. He promised to meet them at a place where we stayed for the night. There the bustards were cooked, there they were roasted, 31. And to cook and gather firewood there rose A youth easily frightened, showing trepidation 33. When we stirred him up.

In most respects, especially in the unabashedly sportive and yet serious dedication to the various steps, or outright rituals, that the hunt involves, this poem is quite different from the agonic, panel-framed animal and hunting scenes of the pre-Umayyad qaṣīdah. It is even quite different from the qaṣīdah-proper, chivalrous hunt, in spite of its formulaic recourse to the classical, Imru< al-Qaysian, wa qad aghtadī opening; this Umayyad hunt is no longer explicitly “chivalrous,” that is, there is no chase on horseback. Instead, at least in the present poem, we are now in the realm of falconry. As we will see in chapters 4 and 5, falconry becomes one of the most popular forms of hunting in the post-Bedouin, courtly chivalrous pursuits. Other hunting animals will appear as well, above all dogs, always without an explicit chase on horseback and, moreover, without a single mention of the horse. Here we are already talking about the early paradigm of Arabic courtly or sportive hunt. In al-Shamardal’s poem the hunting bird of preference is the falcon. In this Umayyad (and subsequently in the >Abbāsid) art of the hunt, however, falconry should be understood broadly or comprehensively. All sizes and varieties of birds of prey enter into it, including the eagle. Because we have no textual poetic evidence of a praxis of falconry before our earliest Umayyad ṭardiyyah, it is legitimate to ask: What is the provenance of the art of falconry in its strictly Arab praxis? And specifically, where does the Umayyad construction of the theme of the hunt with birds of prey originate?

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In his work on animalia, Kamāl al-Dīn al-Damīrī (d. 808/1405)21 anecdotally informs us that the hunt with the >uqāb (eagle) came from the Byzantine imperial court to the Persian court (Kisrā) and that therefore it is not Arab or Arabian. Its appearance in Arabic poetry precisely with the transformation to the courtly Umayyad (imperial) practice of the hunt is entirely understandable.22 This does not explain, however, the formal poetic side of the evidence as it reaches us from the strictly Umayyad period. Here, once again, we must turn to early Arabic poetic evidence or to its likely constructive influence. Even if there is no art of falconry to be derived from pre-Islamic poetry, there is still an indirect imaging of birds of prey. This imaging, as is typical of the animal and hunt panels of the qaṣīdah, is subordinated in the form of extended simile to the main agent of the respective structural qaṣīdah section, whether the she-camel (nāqah) of the raḥīl or the horse of the chivalrous hunt. Thus, to find what might be considered an imagist model or a semianalogue of al-Shamardal’s falcon ṭardiyyah, we have to turn to one of the earliest pre-Islamic bards, >Abīd Ibn al-Abraṣ, in whose perfectly constructed (ternary) qaṣīdah rhyming in bū a hunting steed is compared to a falcon swooping down on its prey.23 The pre-Islamic poet develops the resulting detailed image of this hunting falcon into an unusually extended simile (35– 45) that stands in the place of a chivalrous hunt theme. On what basis of observation or praxis of the hunt the preIslamic poet might have relied for that precise simile of potential falconry is in itself a critical question. Before proceeding in chapters 4 and 5 to the full-blown courtly ṭardiyyah of the >Abbāsid period, which took falconry as a major theme, however, I will return once more to the formative stage of the Mukhaḍram period to examine, in the next chapter, an anomalous freestanding poem by al-Ḥuṭayt) is not the hunter-master, who becomes merely a narrator/observer, but the hunt&KDSWHU$UDELF7H[W ing hound, as illustrated in a simple na>t-ṭardiyyah by Abū Nuwās:28  Ϊ˴ϗ  ˸ ˸ ͊Ϟϛϭ ϩ˶Ϊ˶ ϓ˸ έ Ϧ ϣ  ϢϫΪϨϋ Ϊ ϓ έ ˳ ˶ ˶ ˶  ϩ˶ΪϬϣ Ϧϣ ΐ ˳ ΣΎλ ϰϧΩ΃ ΖϴΒϳ  ϩ˶ΪϧΰΑ ˱ϼΠ ͉ Τ ˴ ϣ˵  ΓήϏ ΍Ϋ  ͋ ˴ ϩ˶ΪΧ ϝ˵ Ϯρϭ ϪϴϗΪη ή˵ ϴΧ΄Η  ϩ˶Ϊ͋ θ˴ ˶Α Ύϫ͋Ϊη α΄ϛ ˵Ώή˴ θ˸ ˴Η ˴  ˴ ˴ ϩ˶Ϊ˶ Σϭ ϧ  ΐ Ϡ ϛ  Ϧ ϣ  ϟ  Ύϳ ˴Ϛ ˳ ˶ ˴ Ξϴδ˴ ˶   ϩ˶Ϊ͋ Π˴ ˶Α



Ϣ˵ϫΩ˵ ϭΪ˵Ο

Ε˴Ϊό˶ γ˴ 

˵ ό˴ ϧ˴΃  ϩ˶ Ϊ͋ ϛ˴  Ϧϣ˶  ˵Ϫ˵Ϡϫ˴΃ ˱ΎΒϠϛ˴  Ζ   ϩ˶ Ϊ˶ Ϩϋ˶  Ϧϣ˶  Ϣ˵ϫΪ˴ Ϩϋ˶  ήϴ˴ ˳ Χ ͊ϞϜ˵ ˴ϓ   ϩ˶ ΪΒόϛ Ϫϟ ˵ϩϻϮϣ ͊Ϟψ˴ϳ   ϩ˶ ΩήΒΑ ϪϠ˷ϠΟ  ΍ΪϏ ϥ·ϭ  ͊ ˴ ˵Ϧ˸ ͋  ϩ˶Ϊϗ δΣ˵  Ϧϴόϟ΍ ϪϨϣ άϠΗ   ϩ˶ Ω ˸ή˴ρ Ϧϣ ˱ΎΘϨϋ ˯˵ ΎΒψϟ΍ ϰϘϠΗ   ϩ˶ Ϊ͋ ˴ϗ ˸ήϣ˵  ϲϓ Ϧϳήθϋ ΎϧΪϴμϳ 

1. I shall describe a hound, whose  folk live off his toil, Whose good fortune prospered with his zeal.



2. All their blessings come from him, And all their boon his share.

˺ ˻ ˼ ˽ ˾ ˿ ̀

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3. His master, as though he were his slave, Sleeps through the night always the closest to his bin. 4. And if at daybreak he sets out, he drapes him in his robe. His forehead with a blaze, the ankles white, 5. The eye delights at his comely shape: At his drawn-back jaw, his elongated cheeks. 6. The antelope-fawns are in distress from his pursuit, They drink their cup of woe, forced [from his hand]. 7. All twelve, he hunts them down in headlong run. Oh, what a dog, unique of kind! THE MIXED ṬARDIY YAH ( TEST CASE 3)

An example of a stance that is distinctly mixed, or formally blurred, although still close to the wa qad aghtadī model, is an “outing” poem of the hunt by Abū Nuwās. In its component parts it qualifies broadly as an >Abbāsid model built around pre-Islamic and Mukhaḍram, as well as very classicist Umayyad, motifs (Dhū al-Rummah), but now metamor&KDSWHU$UDELF7H[W phosed into a perfectly courtly ṭardiyyah:29 

Ϫ˶ ˶ΑΎΒϠΟ˶  Ϧϣ˶  ς˶ Ϥ˴ η˴Ϸ΍ Δ˶ ό˴ Ϡ˴τϛ˴  ˴ ˴ ˴ ͉ Ϫ˶ ΑΎϴϧ ΃ Ϧ˴ ϋ  ή Θ ϓ ΍  ϲ θ Β ΤϟΎ ϛ ˴ ˴ ˶ ˶ ͋ ˶  ˵ϒ ˴ Ϫ˶ Α˶ ϼ˷ ϛ˴  Ϧϣ˶  Ω˴ ϮϘ Ϥ ϟ΍ δ Θ Ϩ ˶ ˴ϳ ˴ ˶  Ϫ˶ ˶ΑΎΒ˴η Ϧϣ˶  ˵ΐ˶Ϡϐ˴Η Δ˳ ό˴ ϴϣϭ˴  Ϫ˶ ˶Αϼδϧ ͉ ˴ϟ ωΎΠ ˳ η˵  ΎϨΘϣ˴ ˶ ΍ ϲϓ Ξ  Ϫ˶ ˶Α΍ή˶ϗ ϲϓ Ω͉ έ˵  ωΎϨ  λ ϰγϮϣ ˴ ˳ 

 Ϫ˶ ˶ΑΎΠΣ˶  Ϧϣ˶  ΢˵ Β˸ μ ˵ ϟ΍ ϯΪ͉ ˴Β˴Η ΎϤ˷ ˴ϟ   Ϫ˶ ˶Α΂ϣ˴  ϰϟ˶· Ϟ ˵ ϴ˴Ϡϟ΍ ϝ˴ Ϊ˴ ό˴ ϧ˶΍ϭ˴   Ϫ˶ ˶Α ΎϨΠϫ˶  ΎϤ˴ϟΎρ ΐ ˳ ϠϜ˴ ˶Α ΎϨΠϫ˶  ˴  Ϫ˶ ˶Α ϰϟϮϠϏ΍ ΍Ϋ˶· ϮϠϐ˴ϳ Υ ˴ Ϧϣ˶ ˳ ή˴ λ   Ϫ˶ ˶Αϼδ˶ ϧ΍ ϯΪ˴ϟ Ϫ˶ ϴ˴ϨΘϣ˴  ϥ͉ ˴ ΄ϛ˴   Ϫ˶ ˶ΑΎϨ˶ϗ ϲϓ έ˵ Ϯϔυ˵Ϸ΍ ΎϤ͉ϧ˴΄ϛ˴ 

˺ ˻ ˼ ˽ ˾ ˿

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Ϫ˶ ˶Α΍ή˶ϗ ϲϓ Ω͉ έ˵  ωΎϨ ˴ ϰγϮϣ  Ϫ˶ ˶ΑΎϨ˶ϗ ϲϓ έ˵ Ϯϔυ˵Ϸ΍ ΎϤ͉ϧ˴΄ϛ˴ ˳ λ   Ϫ˶ Α˶ Ύϫ˶· Ϧϣ˶  Ν˵ Τ ϟ΍ ϲϓ ϩ ΍ή˴ Η ˴ ήΨ˴ϳ ϥ˴΃ Ω˵ ΎϜ˴ϳ  Ϫ˶ ˶Α ΎϫΎϫ ΍Ϋ˶· ήπ˵ ˵ ˶   ˴Ϸ΍ ˴ϪΟϭ ˵ ή˵ Θ˴ϳ  Ϫ˶ ˶Α ϰϬϟ˴΃ Ϧϣ˴  ωΎϘϟ΍ Ϫ˶ ˶ΑΎϬϟ˶· ϲϓ νέ Ϧ˶ τ˴Β˶Α ΍Ϊ˱˷ η˴ ˴ ϙ ˶ ˶   ˴ ͉ ͉ ˴ ˴ Ϫ˶ Α˶ Ύϴ˶Λ Ϧϣ˶  ή͉ Ο Ύϣ ϰϠ˴ ϋ  Ϯϔό ϳ    Ϫ Α  ΎϨϠ ϛ Ϯ˴ Η  ϧ  ϥ ΄ ϛ ˴ϥ΍Ϯθ ˴ ˴ ˶˶ ˴   Ϫ˶ ˶Α ϯϮ˴ΘΤ˵Η ζΣ ˶ Ϯ˴ ϟ΍ ϡ˴ ΍Ϯγ˴  ϯή˴Η  Ϫ˶ ˶Α΍Ϊ˷ ˵ϫ Ϧϣ˶  ή˴ ͉Λ˴΃ ϱά͉ϟ΍ ϻ˷ ˶·   ͉ Ϫ˶ ˶ΑΎϧϭϩ˶ ήϔυϯήγ΃ ϦϬϓ  ˺˺ ˶ 



1. When the morning appeared from behind its veil  Like a gray-haired man’s face out of his cloak, 2. And the night inclined to its retreat Like an Ethiopian flashing his teeth, 3. We dashed out with our hound—as we always dash— He, straining at his leash in the keeper’s hand, 4. Yelping when entangled, In the heat of youth’s prime, 5. His double-furrowed back, when in stretched-out run, Like that of a gliding snake, 6. His paw-tips’ clenching claws, Like a skilled barber’s razor-blade, drawn back into its case. 7. When prodded on, you see him break into a run, About to burst out of his skin. 8. His ardor makes the valley’s ground resound, The earth’s face under his steps as if not touched, 9. As though—we’d vouch—a reeling reveler Had erased his camp-traces with his trailing cloak—

˿ ̀ ́ ̂

˺˹

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10. Save for the traces left by tasseled frills. There you see freely grazing wild beasts holding sway, 11. The ready captives of his claws and fangs.

The opening of this “mixed” ṭardiyyah can easily be recognized as a calculated paraphrase of line 53 of Imru< al-Qays’s Mu>allaqah. In the first half of that line, “Wa qad aghtadī wa ṭ-ṭayru fī wukunātihā,” Imru< al-Qays gave permanence to a motival and stylistic model that was destined to come down in classical Arabic poetic time as an archetype for the chivalrous setting-out for the hunt at dawn. Imru< al-Qays’s qaṣīdahembedded thematic segment of the hunt, however, is itself a blurred subjective/objective stance that blends in a prevalently descriptive, more image-static perspective, beginning with that line’s second hemistich,30 as does Abū Nuwās’s ṭardiyyah. Essentially contrasting (as a new genre) with Imru< al-Qays’s Mu>allaqah, in this ṭardiyyah by Abū Nuwās no hunting-steed will appear.31 We know this from the start by the ṭardiyyah’s implied context or, more properly, by implicit genre-based intertextuality. The Bedouin steed of the pre-Islamic qaṣīdah is replaced by the >Abbāsid hunter’s hound in the courtly ṭardiyyah’s mise-en-scène. The “morning of the setting-out” will be lengthened into “the night inclined to its retreat,” still threatening, still reluctant, “like an Ethiopian flashing his teeth,” when the morning is already appearing “from behind its veil” (ll. 1– 3). All these images in lines 1, 2, and 3 are thus, in their concert, as old as Arabic qaṣīdah poetry itself and as new as Abū Nuwās’s own ṭardiyyah mornings. Line 3, however, sustains briefly the dynamics of a subjective narrative mode, in which the hunter, now “narrator,” is identified as the individual or collective “we.” The objectivizing “description,” the na>t of the hound in this line, determines the subsequent transition to the tone of the remainder of the hunt scene, where the poem no longer foregrounds the poet as the actor/narrator. It still tells the story of the “hunter,” but now the hunter/protagonist is none other than the hound itself. As such, this hound is also ready to displace Imru< al-Qays’s—and every archaic qaṣīdah-poet’s—hunting steed to a degree that is almost taunting. From

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line 4 through line 7, the hound of Abū Nuwās’s ṭardiyyah is also the sole object of “description” (na>t). Even his movement in this “description” becomes iconically frozen in a kind of snapshot—an instant of frozen movement, a pictured, intercepted stasis, a stylistic achievement that could come straight out of the plastic arts, basking in the effect of its paradox. Line 7 is such a snapshot: “. . . you see him [the hound] break into a run, / About to burst out of his skin.” No stylistic peculiarity or snapshot effect would seem to be more characteristic of Abū Nuwās— or more >Abbāsid—than that of a running hound almost bursting out of its skin. But once the true provenance of this imagination-teasing as much as colloquial-appearing image is brought into its fuller hermeneutic play, it reveals itself on two essential counts as being neither the stylistic property of Abū Nuwās nor as resonating primarily with the motif of the hunt in the >Abbāsid poet’s ṭardiyyah. First of all, the image of an animal bursting out of its skin would have been familiar to Abū Nuwās from its striking appearance in the qaṣīdah Mufaḍḍaliyyah no. 38 of the Mukhaḍram poet Rabī>ah Ibn Maqrūm: 32 19. And yet he missed them, and off in flight all went, Well-nigh, from fright, bursting out of their very skins.

In the context of this Mukhaḍram poet’s hunt depiction, however, this image or visual idea is of three onager-mares and their stallion as they evade, in utter panic (dhu>r), a hunter’s failed arrows. Rabī>ah Ibn Maqrūm uses this image as the thematic closure of the onager panel in his qaṣīdah, in which the hunter appears as a wretched “social creature,” perpetually unlucky in his purposes. Also, in his hunt this thematically paradigmatic “wretched hunter” never employs dogs (when the quarry is the onagers). Socially, therefore, the “pathetic” hunt of the pre->Abbāsid “wretched hunter” represents a type of the hunt that should in all respects be incompatible with the Abū Nuwāsian “courtly” model of the ṭardiyyah. This incompatibility, however, does not mean that the archaic motif ’s purely imagist field may not and will not be “harvested,” especially by Abū Nuwās in his search for originality or simply novelty.

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To proceed with Abū Nuwās’s ṭardiyyah, in lines 7–10, a composite image (description) appears to be meant to convey the unique speed of the chasing hound. But is this the full objective of the description? For there is a two-part effect and even purpose to the poet’s initiation of the “description” of the hound’s thunderous run along the valley’s ground as not even touching “the earth’s face.” This almost conflicting effect takes the image of the hound out of the hunting poem altogether; or rather, in it the hound undergoes an associative poetic metamorphosis. The poem itself enters into a compulsive associative sphere, where one image evokes another, with a congruity of an entirely different nature— thereby ceding ground to an emerging “stronger” poetic dictate. Association now takes place in the new field of the “discreet pleasures of the courtly hunt,” in which the poet-hunter becomes poeta ludens, the poet at play33—with new freedoms, yet with very specific “givens” and a very specific genre-legacy. In line 9 an onlooker would vouch that the faint traces were not those of a galloping hound but of a reveler who staggered and reeled in his inebriation, erasing his camp-traces with his trailing cloak and leaving no sign of his passing on “the earth’s face,” save the equivocal traces drawn by dangling frills of that trailing cloak. And, on the surface of things, it is unimportant in this associative game that the image or scene of “the trailing cloak” does not come from the hunt scene but from the most erotically charged love scene of the nasīb of Imru< al-Qays’s Mu>allaqah,34 and that it may have nothing to do with the hound’s chase, unless, by the widest poetic stretch, not the chasing hound but the “hunt of love” is on the poet’s mind—which it always is, if its source is none other than the ever-present line in Arabic poetic eros, namely, line 27/28 of Imru< al-Qays’s Mu>allaqah. But then, this being a poem by Abū Nuwās, not even the nasīb-eros of Imru< al-Qays could fully withstand the >Abbāsid poet’s idiosyncratic affect. With crafty playfulness, Abū Nuwās carries over Imru< al-Qays’s erotic concreteness into the “courtly” atmosphere of one of his own khamriyyāt (wine poems), in which the traces left behind in the sand are also those of wine-skins dragged by inebriated revelers.35 It is in this rarefied atmosphere of a multi-lineal lyricism that defies the concretization of unified vision that Abū Nuwās then introduces the

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serene image or scene of the “freely grazing beasts holding sway” (l. 10). Once again, we know or assume the provenance or genesis of such an image. It, too, reveals the extent of Abū Nuwās’s debt to the bedrock lyricism of pre-Islamic Bedouin poetic sensibility.36 Here, however, the >Abbasid poet does not lose himself irretrievably in a pastoral lyricism borrowed from Labīd Ibn Rabī >ah.37 Instead, the old quasi-pastoral idyll, as it appears in Abū Nuwās’s hunt poem, occupies a place that, in its effect of poetic second thought, is not idyllic at all. Rather, it is “counter-idyllic” or, at best, perhaps only a typically Abū-Nuwāsian ironic allusion of questionable idyllic nature. It conjures dark forebodings of inescapable fate: the idyllically pasturing wild animals are shown to be (l. 11) “the ready captives of [the hound’s] claws and fangs.”

THE FORMAL/STRUCTURAL CLOSURE

Aside from the two types of ṭardiyyah characterization, subjective and objective, signaled respectively by [wa] qad aghtadī and an>atu, a further, more inclusive hallmark of the Abū-Nuwāsian ṭardiyyah, which affects its structure to the point of defining it and setting it as a form apart from the classical/classicist qaṣīdah, is its almost rigorously evidenced formal “closure.” The >Abbasid poet’s ṭardiyyāt, however, do not end in a uniform, mechanical, or foreseeable manner, as will later be the case in the Persian ghazal of Ḥāfiẓ, that is, literally with a “signature,” where that signature alone (or almost) will signify that the poem has reached its closure. The closures of the ṭardiyyāt of Abū Nuwās are transparent in the manner in which they fulfill, in the sense of “conclude,” the poem’s evolving meaning. Of his ṭardiyyah-poems cited above, each one had its own different ending that arose from within its own text as poem. Only as such were those endings the formal closure of their respective poems.38 In this regard, it is of further and quite particular interest to introduce one of Abū Nuwās’s ṭardiyyāt whose distinct formal closure is also its own definition of the entire courtly ṭardiyyah-genre of “the discreet pleasures of the courtly hunt”:39

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 ˱ΎΒ˶ϟΎρ  ϲΒϠϛ˴  ϲόϣ˴  ϭΪϏ˴΃ ΎϤ͉Αέ˵ ˺   ˸ ˴΃ ΐ ˶ υ ϰϠ˴ϋ ΰϳΰ ΎϧϮϤ˴ δ˴ ˴ϓ ˻ ˵ϩΎϨό˴ϓΪ˴ ˴ϓ  Ϫ˶ ˶Α ˶ Τ˴ Ϡ˶ϟ   Ώ ˶ ˸ή˵ΘϟΎ˶Α Ϧ˶ ϴ˴Ϙϓήϟ΍ Ϣ˵ τ˶ Ϡ˴ϳ  ΎϬ˴ϟ έ͉ Ϊ˴ ˴ϓ ˵ϪΗ͉έΪ˴ ˴ΘγΎ˴ϓ ˼ ˶   Ώ ˶ ˸ή˴ϐϟ΍ϭ Ϋ˶ ΎΤϟ΍ ϢϴϤ ϲ˴ ϫϭ˴  Ύϫ΍έΩ͉ Ύ˴ϓ ˽ ˴ ˶ Ο˴  ϲϓ  ˲ Δ ˴ϴϫ˶ ϻ   ΐ ˶ ˸μ˵ϋ Ϧϣ˶  ϥϻϮϠΨ ϣ˴  Ϊ͉ ˵ϗ  ΎϤϛ˴  Ϧ˵͉ Ϭϋ˵ ΎϤ˷ Ο˵  ϯή˴ϔ˴ϓ ˾ ˶   ΐ ˶ ˸Ϡ˴Ϙϟ΍ Ϧ˴  Ϫ˶ ˶Α ΏΎϫ ˿ ˴ ˴ ˴΃ έϮϔό ˴ϳ ή˴ ϴ˴Ϗ ˶ ϋ Ϫ˶ ϴ͉ϓΩ˴  ΏΎΟ ˳   ΐ ˶ ό˸ θ͉ ϟΎ˶Α Ϧϳ Ϛ  Ϫ˶ Ϥ˶ ˴τΨϤ˶ ˶Α Ϫ˶ ϴ˴ϴΤ˴ϟ Ϣ͉ ο ̀ ˴ Ϥ͊ ο ˴ Ϝ˴ ϟ΍ ˴ ˴ ˶ ήδ   ΐ ˶ Ϭ˸ ˴ϟ Ϧϣ˶  ˯˵ ΎΨΘ˴ϓ Εή˴ δ˶ ϛ˵ ΎϤ  ϛ˴  Ε ϰϬ˴Θϧ΍ϭ˴ ́ ˶ Ύϴϫ˶ ΎΒϠ˶ϟ   ΐ ˶ ˸Πό˴ ϟ΍ ̂ ˴Ϧϣ˶  ˵ϩϮϓ Ύϧ˴Ωϭ˴  ΎΒϛ˴  ˴ϦϴΣ ˵βϴ˴Θϟ΍ ΎϳΎό˴Θ˴ϓ   ΐ ˶ ˸Ϡ˵μϟ΍ ϰϠ˴ϋ ˵ϪϨϣ˶  ˱ Ύϣ˴ί˴΃  ˵Ϫ μ ˵ ϐ˶ Ϩ˵ϳ ˯˶ ΎδϋϮ˴ ϟΎ˶Α Ϟ͉ ˴υ ˺˹   ˵ ϛ˵ ϭ˴  ϲΗ΍ά˷ ˴ϟ Ϛ ϲΒδ ˸ Σ˴  Γ˳ ά͉ ˶ϟ Ϧϣ˶  Ϟ˵ϗ˴΃ Ϣ˴ϟ  ϰΘ ˱ ˴ϓ ΖϨ ˴ Ϡ˶Η ˺˺     1. Many a time, I set out at the break of day—with me my hound ϲΒ ˸Τλ ˴



ϲϓ

Ϊ˶ ϴμϠ ˴ ˶ ϟ

Always ready for the hunt—amidst my company. 2. We took him up to rugged highlands, And set him loose on antelope. 3. They ran their best for him, as he ran his best for them,40 Kicking up dust on both sides of his belly. 4. He gained on them, though they were unaware, Amid rich herbage on both right and left. 5. He cut through the herd, the way Young camels are cut from their bind-weed.

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6. Only a dust-colored buck, to it he cried out. Its two flanks he tore apart, baring its heart, 7. Its jaws joined to its nostrils, The way you join two splints together. 8. He reached the wide, empty spaces, Alighting the way an eagle folds its supple wings. 9. And there, disabled, the roe-buck lay prostrate, Its snout close to its rump. 10. On the sandy hill the hound remained: tearing at it, Biting it, on that hard stony ground. 11. Those were my pleasures when still a young lad. To pleasure, I never said: Enough!

The poet’s abrupt personal valuation of the hunt in line 11 makes it clear that a closure of the poem has been intended— and achieved. At the same time, as closure, the ṭardiyyah has also acquired a genredefining formal gravity. It represents not just the “signature” of the poet, that is, of Abū Nuwās, but the social and above all cultural moment that produced the genre; and it verifies the authenticity of vision of that moment’s reality—be that reality courtly, ludic, or even hedonistic. And yet, not everything, even in the seemingly self-evident arrival at closure in this particular ṭardiyyah by Abū Nuwās, is what it appears to be—especially not everything in its >Abbāsid-contemporary sense. Even in the semiotically attuned symbolic language of the poet and of his >Abbāsid, post-Bedouin moment, in its recalcitrant ways, the poemṭardiyyah depends on more ancient qaṣīdah voices—not solely on the structure-liberated willfulness of Abū Nuwās. This comes through in line 10: On the sandy hill the hound remained: tearing at it, Biting it—on that hard stony ground.

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This line is the theme-and-structure-cohering closure of Abū Nuwās’s ṭardiyyah of the concrete act of the hunt—before warranting his expression of the “feeling of joy” about hunting. As such, however, it calls to mind and indeed builds on another closure, which still reverberates with echoes of the “animal panels” of distant pre->Abbāsid raḥīls, where oryx hunts end in stormy flights over sandy hills and stony ground, and where onagers escape the arrows of poacher-like “wretched hunters” toward inaccessible promontories (marāqib). Only here, in Abū Nuwās, we are given an overlay of the exact opposite, thus provoking a recognition of binary directionality of meaning. Both scenes, then, the archaicBedouin and the Abū Nuwāsian in its overlaid semiotic twist, are closures of hunts, old and new, although, in the constraints of Arabic poetics, they are chronologically inverted palindromes: ones where that which was poetically (and societally) valid and feasible at one time must not be seen as valid or poetically practicable (to the >Abbāsid poet) at the other time. Thus, viewed from within a Bedouin qaṣīdah-context, line 10 of Abū Nuwās’s ṭardiyyah as a qualifiedly inferred closure retains the obverse (as well as reverse) side of its semiotic interface. It also displays, therefore, a characteristically Abū Nuwāsian stylistic, structureteasing game of semiotic inversion, which we know especially from so many of his khamriyyāt.41

STRENGTH AND WEAKNESS OF LYRICISM IN THE ABū NUWā SIAN ṬARDIY YAH

Having already dealt with the Abū Nuwāsian poetic praxis of counterposition of the two stances of the poet-hunter—the almost mechanical subjective (enacting) waṣf and the objective (describing) na>t —it is important that in our further discussion of the >Abbāsid ṭardiyyah we acknowledge its determinant qualities of lyricism as form and genre. At least, we must acknowledge the unavoidable appetite for lyricism in the poet-hunter’s pursuit of and delight in “the discreet pleasures of the courtly hunt,” such as we find in the Abū Nuwāsian ṭardiyyah. The most apparent strain of lyricism in the ṭardiyyah is an expressedly “courtly,” pseudo-heroic intonation of the opening of the primarily

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heroic hunt section of the pre-Islamic qaṣīdah. However, in this compromised lyricism of the new, now certainly post-heroic, or call it postBedouin, poetic stance, the >Abbāsid ṭardiyyah also stands out as a strong countercurrent to Arabic lyricism at large. In its latent-heroic coloration, it resists being linked to that unbending Arabic core lyricism whose generative place is the nasīb. A linkage occurs only rarely, in exceptional cases of radical metaphorization, or rather of distant associative reverberation as in the case of the topos of remedium amoris — for example, when Abū Nuwās, in describing his “unstoppable” salūqī hound, utters that “in the chase it is capable of curing the burning grief of a lover’s passion” (yashfī min al-hawā jawā l-mashūqi).42 Here an almost errant nasīb echo may still be faintly audible. The reason for the resistance of ṭardiyyah lyricism in the face of the nasīb lyricism of the qaṣīdah rests in the latter’s being a lyricism of loss and self-distancing memory and ultimately of melancholy and nostalgia. The lyricism of Abū Nuwās’s ṭardiyyah is the opposite: it is still irrevocably marked by the Imru< al-Qaysian wa qad aghtadī, which, as lyricism, belongs to a state of ebullience and of joy in the moment. The lyricism of Abū Nuwās is therefore only an attempt (not always successful) at prolonging or at reconstituting the affect present in the moment of ebullience by way of a retelling and, ultimately, a quick, almost unforewarned, paratactic leap into “describing.” As such, it only circumstantially infuses the ṭardiyyah with a lyricism of mood or of a possible passion (the passion of the hunt), giving it the semblance of a scene that is pictured or drawn. Although the resulting story-as-description may sustain itself through much or most of the poem, the Abū Nuwāsian lyricism of affect in all too many of his ṭardiyyāt is fleeting and almost untenable. On its own lyrical pulse, it hardly ever sustains itself over more than two or three ṭardiyyah half-lines, in which form, as a type of the resulting two-fold lyricism, it remains representative of the Abū Nuwāsian ṭardiyyah’s “pseudo-subjective” stance. Only in rare instances are there exceptions, for instance in the ṭardiyyah already quoted above to illustrate the “pseudo-subjective” stance (test case 1), where after an opening scene (qad aghtadī) a perspective-changing, distinctly sustained “descriptive/objectivizing,” brilliantly imagist series of lines 2, 3, 4, and 5 follows— thus creating an affect-validating, lyrical continuum:

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2. With a lean-bodied hound, frisky in his leash, His spine bejeweled, with ringlets hung, 3. Like an extraordinary turban skillfully wound, The lines of the two sides of his jowls 4. From back to front of his cheek, Like a clearly-dotted, drawn line 5. Traced with a twig of writing reeds.

With descriptive brilliance, these lines achieve a lyrical affect that is no longer archaically Bedouin but rather a modulation into discreet >Abbāsid tones and lines—in which a hunting dog’s (not a horse’s) “spine [is] bejeweled, with ringlets hung,” and in which, on that hunting dog, “an extraordinary turban [is] skillfully wound.” Related to the main “subjective/objective” divide of the Abū Nuwā­sian ṭardiyyah lyricism are a number of motifs that have entered that poet’s specific poem-structuring repertory of images and their oblique associations. The significance of this repertory, aside from defining this >Abbāsid poet’s particular ṭardiyyah style, is the manner in which it brings to light his qaṣīdah indebtedness. Quite self-consciously as well as transparently genre-consciously, he has produced a great diversity of now entirely easy-flowing ṭardiyyah motifs and images. Motif after motif, image after image, these poems reverberate from within a consistently archaizing and lyrically enriching qaṣīdah matrix. In doing so, they blend raḥīl &KDSWHU$UDELF7H[W pathos (the oryx) with nasīb wistfulness (watching the stars). 43 For example, let us take a brief  ṭardiyyah of only six lines: ιϻ ˶ Ω˶  κ ˳ ϣ˶ ϻ˵Ω ϊ˳ ϣ˴ ί˴  ϱΫ  ιΎϤ ˶ Χ˶  ή˳ Ϥ͉ π ˵ ˶Α ˵Ϫ˵ΘΤ͉Βλ ˴  ιΎ˷μ˴ ˶ Ϩϟ΍ ή˶ π ˴ Τ˴ ϟ΍ Ϊ˴ ό˴Α Ϧ˵͉ Ϭ˴ϓ  ι΍˷ ˶ ή˴ϗ ˵Ϫ˴ϟ Ώ ˳ Ύϧ Ϧ˴ϋ ή˵ θ˶ Ϝ˴ϳ  ϲλΎό˵ϳ ΎϬ˶Αϭ ϲρΎό˵ϳ ΎϬ˶Α ˴  ιΎ ˶ ˷ϗέ Ϧ˳ ϫ˶ Ω˴  Ϧ˳ ϴϤγ˴  Ϟ͉ ϛ˵ ˴  

 ιΎϗ ˶ ϥ˳ ΎϜϤ˴ ˶Α έϮ ˳ ˴Λ ͉Ώ˵έ Ύϳ  ˴ΧϦϣ˶  Ϣ˴ Π˴Ϩϟ΍ϲϋ΍ή˵ϳ ˴ΕΎΑ  ιΎμ ˶   ι΍Ϯ˴ ˶ η ΎϬ˵΋ΎΒυ˴΃ Δ˳ ˴ϘΣϻ ˶  ˵ Σ  ϲλΎΨϟ΍ ˵ϥϮϜ˴ϳ Κϴ ˴ ΎϬ˴ϟ ˵ϪϨϣ˶   ϲλΎϨό˴ ϟΎϛ˴  ˯˴ ΍ΩϮγ˴  ˱Δ˴Β˴ϧέ˴΃   ϲλΎϗ˴ϷΎ˶Αϭ˴  Ώ ˶ ή˵ϘϟΎ˶Α Ϊ˵ ϴμ˴ϳ  





˺ ˻ ˼ ˽ ˾ ˿

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1. Many an [oryx] bull in a remote place, His fetlock glistening like polished stone, 2. That through the night watched [pastured] stars through a shelter’s reeds, Him I visited on an ill-boding morning, with me my emaciated, famished hounds. 3. Their teats to bellies clinging, their eyes fixed, Their heads raised after extended run, 4. They reach for the bull’s testicles, While he bares at them his cutting teeth,44 5. The black split snout, the scanty hair. Thus he yields and refuses. 6. Both near and far, so hunt our hounds All that is fleshy, fattened, prancing.

Here, in a way that is as eclectic as it is innovative, Abū Nuwās undertakes to harmonize diverse thematic and motival elements of Bedouinizing qaṣīdah provenance. Especially between lines 2 and 3 of his poem, however, those elements may have fallen into disagreement with the semiosis determined by the paradigmatic structure of the qaṣīdah. Thus, neither the implicitly Imru< al-Qaysian “subjective outing” of the chivalrous hunt of the old qaṣīdah, nor the still deeply Jāhilī, raḥīl-rooted evocation of the “night of the oryx” of Abū Nuwās’s ṭardiyyah can help but reecho with strange intrusiveness, as they do in line 2: “Him [the oryx bull] I visited on an ill-boding morning [ṣabbaḥtuhu].” After this motifresonance is introduced into Abū Nuwās’s ṭardiyyah, it becomes clear that neither the oryx bull nor the hunting dogs fit structurally into an Imru< al-Qaysian “chivalrous hunt.” They are rather culled from the preIslamic raḥīl, with its dramatic-allegorizing, lyric-but-pathos-filled “animal panel” of the oryx hunt: but now no longer “heroic,” nor entirely “dramatic,” and certainly only very teasingly “lyrical.”

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To introduce a stronger measure of lyrical affect and thereby disrupt the structurally predicated raḥīl-rootedness of the motif of the oryx-bull’s dread-filled and hunter-haunted night in this ṭardiyyah, the >Abbāsid poet lightens and de-dramatizes the tone, introducing the eminently lyrical-elegiac counter-motif of the “pastor [watcher] of the stars” (rā>ī al-nujūm) of a structurally distinctly nasīb-elegiac, fully lyrical provenance.45 However, considering further this ṭardiyyah’s overall fabric of eclecticism in its motifs and, within it, its web of lyricism, we must accept its structural capriciousness, which ultimately seems to nurse its fragile lyricism. In another, almost parallel instance, Abū Nuwās plays out the lyrical nasīb affect more clearly in the ṭardiyyah’s opening line.46 He changes the oryx bull (thawr) of an implicit “animal panel,” that is, within a potential raḥīl, into an emphatically non-raḥīl, nasīb-extracted ẓaby, that is, into a “young antelope” or “gazelle.” The ensuing hunt of the young antelope or gazelle imposes on this particular ṭardiyyah an inescapable aura of lyricism. And yet, even this “lyrical” gazelle may not entirely divest itself of the dark drama of the raḥīl’s oryx panel with its “night of dread” (al-laylu dhū ahwālin [l. 1]). In this ṭardiyyah, therefore, we face structural clashes of primary, secondary, and even tertiary drifts of meaning, all in merely one line: first, a vestige of the heroic morning-outing of the hunter; second, the hunter’s incursion into a premonition-laden empty place that is no longer the space of the chivalrous hunter but rather the space of the liminal raḥīl, in which ṣabbaḥtu, the same ṣabbaḥtu which we had seen in the previous (parallel) ṭardiyyah’s line 2, then implies the serving of a cup of death; and last, above all, in the new context, an introduction into this compounded mise-enscène of a purely lyrical nasīb figure of the ẓaby (young antelope or gazelle): Yā rubba ẓabyin bi makānin khālī Sabbahtuhū wa l-laylu dhū ahwālī ˙ ˙ ——— Many a young antelope/gazelle in an empty place, I brought a morning draught [of death] after a dread-filled night.

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This “mixed” mood, founded on structural-thematic determinants of the classical qaṣīdah, however, does not sustain itself past the first line. The remaining seven lines become structurally tension-free and seem only inconsequentially touched by the deep-structured, autochthonous poeticity, or the latency of either drama or lyricism. All too often, as in the present case, what thus remains is a toned-down, pleasant enough, archaizing and rarefied evocation: traces of something that is about to lose its old self, or of something that still is merely becoming. Still umbilically linked to the animal panels of the archaic qaṣīdah raḥīl, although within them less foregrounded in the oryx panel than in the onager panel,47 is the motif of the “wretched hunter.” It combines thematic sediments that may be viewed as anthropological, sociological, and narrative-dramatic, but also lyrical-elegiac. The pervasiveness with which this motif has lived and indeed grown through all the classical pre->Abbāsid qaṣīdah periods (pre-Islamic, Mukhaḍram, and Umayyad) shows that there was something to the “wretched hunter” motif in the paradigmatic qaṣīdah that fascinated, or both attracted and almost teasingly put off, the Bedouin Arab poet: whether the source of this fascination was the pathos and drama of confrontation with the elements of desert wilderness, the classical poet’s liminal temptation to delve into sociological aspects of the human condition,48 or the chance within a purely poetic conception to describe and categorize certain weapons (the bow) or the animals themselves. Furthermore, it was in the Mukhaḍ­ram period that the thematically developed motif of the wretched hunter was singled out from the qaṣīdah and ultimately transformed in the freestanding ṭardiyyah genre. Against this background of fascination with an archaic motif and its formal recalcitrance, Abū Nuwās was able to make the wretched hunter filter into his new hunt poem/ṭardiyyah, and, because of this, he could also use the motif parodically, as he was wont to do with other dominant motifs in his pseudo-nasībs, his poems of wine and sociability. Thus one of his ṭardiyyāt is meant to be a parody of a vile spider but is, in effect, also a parody of the wretched hunter motif itself. Abū Nuwās opens this parodic ṭardiyyah by directly naming the motif of the wretched hunter and sustaining its effect as an underlying, subtextual memory through much of the poem:49

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 &KDSWHU$UDELF7H[W The Discreet Pleasures of the Courtly Hunt

 ή˳ ˴ΒϏ˴΃

ϱ ˶ Ϋ˴  ή˳ ˴Ϙ˴ΘΤϣ˵  κ ͋ έ˶ Ϊ˸ ϛ˵  Ϣϴϣ ˳ ˶ϧΎϗϭ˴   ˴ ϡϮθϴ˴ ˶ ΨϟΎ˶Α Δ˶ ˴ψΤ˴Ϡϟ΍ Ν ήΨ ϣ ϭ    ϡϭΰϴ Τ ϟΎ Α  ίΎΠϋ Ϸ΍ Ϛ ˶ ˶Β˴Θθϣ˵ ˶ ˴ ˶ ˶ ˶ ˶ ˵ ˴   ϢϴΠϟ΍ ˶ ΡΎϨ ˶ ϡΎϘ ˴ ˴ϴ˸ο˴΃ ˴Ϧϴ˴Α Δ˳ ˴τϘ˵ϧ ϭ˴΃  ϢϴϤϟ΍ ˴ ˶ ϣ˴  Ϧϣ˶  ˱ Ύοέ˴΃ ϖ ˶ Ο   ϡϭΆ ˶ δ˴ ϟΎ˶Α Δ˶ ˴ϠϴΤϟ΍ Ϧ˶ ϋ˴  ϻϭ˴  ϡϮ˷ ˶ ϴ˴ϗ ϻϭ Ϊ˳ ϳΪό˶Ϙ˶Α βϴ ˴ ˴ϟ ˴   ϢϴόϨϟ΍ ˶ ϒ˴ ˶ ΘϟΎ˶Α ˴ΔϤ˴ ϴ˴Ϭϟ΍ ˵ς˶ϠΨ˴ϳ ϻ ˶ Ϩϛ˴  ϲϓ ˲ξ˶ϔΨ˴ Ϩϣ˵  ϢϳϮϨ˴   ϡϮΠ ˶ Ϡ˵˸όϟ΍ϭ Γ˶ έ͉ ά˴ ϟ΍ Ϟ˶ ˴Ϡ˵υ  ϲϓ  ϡϭέ ˶ ϭ˴  ζ Β Σ ϲ Ο ΎΘ ϧ  Α ˴Ϧϴ˴ ˴ ˴ ˴ ˶ ˴ ˳   ϡϮρ ˶ ˸ήΧ Ζ˴ϟΰ˵Α ή˳ Ϥ˸ ˴Χ ˵ΐϴΑΩ  ϢϴϨϟ΍ ˶ ϲϓ ˵ϪΒϴΑ˴Ω ΎϤ͉ϧ˴΄ϛ˴   ϡϭΆ˴ ˶ ϧ ϲϓ ˵ξ˴ϬϨ˴Η Δ˳ πϬ˴ϧ ϭ˴΃  ϲϣϮ˵ϳ ϑήρ Γ͉ήϛ Ϧϣ ωήγ΃ ˳   ϢϴϤ˴ ˶ Θϟ΍ ˴Δ˴ϴ˶ϟΎϋ ϯϮΘΣ΍ ϰ˷ΘΣ˴  Ϣϴπ˴ ˶ ϫ Ϊ˳ ˴Β˵ϟ ϱΫ Ϧϣ˶  ϊ˵ Π˴ η˴΃   ϡϭΪόϣ ˶ ϚϟΎϫϦϣ˵ ϪϟϰγΆΑ˺˹ ˳ ϢϴΘ ˶ ˴ϗ

ϥ˳ Ϯ˴ϟ

˺ ˻ ˼ ˽ ˾ ˿ ̀ ́ ̂

 1. Like many a despised and wretched hunter,  dust-colored, sooty, Swarthy, 2. His buttocks confused with his chest, And the orifice of his eye with that of his nose, 3. More tightly hugging the ground than the letter mīm hugs the written line, More than the dot under the “wing” of the letter jīm. 4. Neither a weakly homebody nor easily mustered for the fray, Nor loathing recourse to a ruse. 5. He does not mix resolve with sloth, Reposing in the bosom of content. 6. Offspring between Abyssinian and Byzantine, In shady holes of ant and frog,

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7. His creeping under the bed-blanket Tingles like the creeping of heady wine of a freshly broached cask. 8. He’s swifter than the wink and the blink of the eye, Or a deep sleeper’s waking stir, 9. Braver than a full-maned lion wronged in his right His high rank and power to regain. 10. Woe upon him, death and execration!

THE STRUCTURAL/SEMIOTIC DETACHMENT OF A LAYERED SIMILE?

There is a divergent example, or rather an area of examples, of a clearly stylistic rather than structural-thematic determination in Abū Nuwās’s poeticity. In the main, this occurs when his poeticity is not, or claims not to be, inhabited by carryovers of the structural paradigm of the “old qaṣīdah,” with its underlying semiotic drifts or countercurrents of meaning, but is instead facilitated by structurally uninvolved similes. Such is, preeminently, the self-obliviating case of the simile “ka l-kawkabi d-durriyyi” (like a pearly-shining star). Thus, in describing his hunting dog, Abū Nuwās compares that hound’s swooping rush upon its prey to the visual and kinetic effect of a [pearly-]shining shooting star, a meteor that in its fall is vehement and, as it were, predestined:50 Ka l-kawkabi d-durriyyi fī nkhirāṭihī >Inda tahāwī sh-shaddi wa nbisāṭihī. ——— Like the shining shooting star swooping down, Its fall both vehement and controlled.

He describes a pursued fox’s twists and turns similarly:51 Fa nṣā>a ka l-kawkabi fī nkidārihī [nḥidārihī] Lafta l-mushīri mawhinan bi nārihī.

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——— And it swung about, like a meteor in its descent: A pointer’s fire signal in the dark of night.

So too, the poet compares a hound’s extraordinary run first to an arrow and then, again, to a shooting star:52 Ka anna-hū sahmun ilā ghāyatin Aw kawkabun fī l-ufqi maḥdūrū. ——— As though it [the hound] were an arrow at a target aimed, Or a shooting star sinking into the horizon.

In a complex context of enjambment in another ṭardiyyah (ll. 4– 6), meant to exalt the brilliance and speed of the poet’s hunting dog Siryāḥ (l. 6), the hound is not only likened to a shooting star (l. 5) but is shown to surpass it:53 Wa lā nqiḍāḍu l-kawkabi l-munṣāḥī Wa lā nbitātu l-jawifrītin,” thus, “a shooting star of a wicked jinnee.”54 We may also take further steps back into an Arabic “topical” past specifically pertinent to Abū Nuwās. For, like so much of his poetic language, the simile ka l-kawkabi d-durriyyi draws its proven poeticity from preIslamic qaṣīdah language. In its qaṣīdah antecedents, however, this eyeand imagination-catching simile does not follow specific assignments of function and meaning, as would be the case with motifs or images that in themselves are “structure-rooted” and almost “structure-locked” in their

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discrete sections of the qaṣīdah— be that in the nasīb, the raḥīl, or the fakhr/madīḥ. Therefore, by inference, when the simile ka l-kawkabi d-durriyyi in classical pre->Abbāsid antecedents is moved from one specific structural qaṣīdah section to another, it does not constitute a noticeable structural displacement or encroachment, nor does it entail an unavoidable semiotic “contagion” or shift. Thus in a poem of nine lines by >Abd al-Raḥmān Ibn >Alī Ibn >Alqamah, the framing context of al-kawkabu d-durriyyu is distinctly (structurally) that of the poet’s boastful fakhr; and it is within that fakhr, not in a raḥīl, that the Bedouin desert-ride (l. 7) takes place: its time clearly marked by al-kawkabu d-durriyyu as “the morning star [Venus]”:55 Awradtuhā wa ṣudūru l->īsi musnafatun Wa ṣ-ṣubḥu bi l-kawkabi d-durriyyi manḥūrū ——— I brought to water the amber-colored camels with girded chests, When the throat of daybreak bled, pierced by the pearly-shining [morning] star.

Or, as in a fuller, nasīb-raḥīl qaṣīdah of 44 to 46 lines by al-Nābighah alDhubyānī, a “structurally” raḥīl-enframed oryx in its characteristic animal panel, like a “brilliant morning star,” pounces upon the hunting dogs that accost it. Here the “brilliant morning star” not only marks time but also brings out inferentially a certain heroic air that in the oryx image is always commingled with the pathos and the dark (liminal) danger of the complex semiotics of the raḥīl:56 Inqaḍḍa ka l-kawkabi d-durriyyi munṣalitan Yahwī wa yakhliṭu taqrīban bi Abīd Ibn al-Abraṣ speaks, again, of the oryx whose back reflects light “like the brightly shining star” (ka l-kawkabi d-dirrībah’s rajaz poem, we have not only an insight into the semiotic impulse behind a meaning’s development, but a mirror-view of the poetic story of “the source of the source.” The fully Umayyad poet al-Akhṭal, in a qaṣīdah of fifty-four lines rhyming in -lā, even replaces the poem’s composite raḥīl by its central extract of the animal panel of the oryx hunt. There we find the oryx, pursued but ultimately victorious, characterized by the simile ka l-kawkabi d-durriyyi:63 Fa nṣā>a ka l-kawkabi d-durriyyi jarradahū ghaythun taqashsha>a >anhū ṭālamā haṭalā.

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——— Then he turned about sharply like a pearly-shining star, While a fertile rain smoothly polished him with constant downpour.

Once again in the scene of an oryx hunt, the equally Umayyad alNābighah al-Shaybānī likens the oryx to a “pearly-shining star” (l. 40):64 Wa nṣā>a ka l-kawkabi d-durriyyi may>atuhu kamā taḍarrama wasṭa ẓ-ẓulmati l-qabasū ——— And he wheeled about abruptly, like a pearly-shining star, Like the flare-up of live coal in the dark.

In al-Nābighah al-Shaybānī too, just as in al-Akhṭal, the verb inṣā>a (to wheel about), with its many semantic and semiotic ambiguities, as well as the fact that it is always reminiscent of hunt contexts of the classical raḥīl, becomes the opening word of the scene. What should be noted, however, is that in the contextualized wording of al-Nābighah al-Shaybānī’s simile, the allusive meaning of his “pearly star” might also carry the “intonation” of a “shooting star/meteor,” thus coming close to the meaning/image subsequently clearly intended by the artful >Abbāsid courtier Abū Nuwās,65even if by then removed from all Bedouinity.

FROM DESCRIPTION TO LYRICISM

The ṭardiyyah not only fulfilled and drew around itself its narrow formal circumference, but also nearly exhausted itself in the poetic expressivity-hungry sensibility of Abū Nuwās, and perhaps even more directly within that poet’s awareness of the radical transmutation of the forces and predilections of >Abbāsid society in its process of abandoning the Bedouin primal desert and instead, almost precipitously, being cast into an urbane and more precisely “courtly” atmosphere. With Abū Nuwās in the creative epicenter of the genre-emergence of the ṭardiyyah, however, and in spite of his broadly declared and practiced “rejectionism” of poetic traditionality, the ṭardiyyah specifically had become overloaded,

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by his own hand, with an archaizing Arabic poetic past that remained backward-looking, rhetorically fractioned, and, in its dependence on qaṣīdah elements, structurally dispersed. As a genre, too, if viewed from our historical-critical vantage point of hindsight and future-trajectory— including the sundry historical panoramas of dramatic births as much as exhaustions of genres—the later ṭardiyyah failed to sustain the nearly dominant role of “courtly” genre that it had enjoyed in the generation of Abū Nuwās. To put it even more drastically, Abū Nuwās so strongly monopolized the genre of the ṭardiyyah of his own fully >Abbāsid historical moment that he, as poet and emblematic name, also became the legitimizing magnet for, or repository of, the difficult-to-account-for, freely floating ṭardiyyah repertory of poets who had come to participate in the genre-fervor that bore his imprint. As both point of reference and echo to subsequent generations of poets, Abū Nuwās thus became the genre’s legitimizing beginning—in unperturbed oblivion of antecedent, formal ṭardiyyah templates already offered by the late Umayyad alShamardal Ibn Sharīk and Abū al-Najm al->Ijlī.66 To later generations, the ṭardiyyah-as-genre was now principally an Abū Nuwāsian legacy with its own sufficient classicism of genre. Thus, in spite of the >Abbāsid early flowering of the genre and that era’s fascination with the praxis and formal aesthetics of the courtly hunt, the genre did not sustain its formal ascendancy for long. After Abū Nuwās the ṭardiyyah seems to have suffered a period of formal self-combustion. It even threatened to fade away. And yet in the process of its ascendancy as well as protracted dormancy, the ṭardiyyah, as genre, had acquired a name and, along with it, the associative name of Abū Nuwās. Its further formal evolution would proceed in ways somewhat different from those set by Abū Nuwās. These varying ways included the refocusing of the poetic stance and vision of >Alī Ibn al-Jahm (d. 249/863);67 the Arabic version of piscatorial eclogues 68 of al-Sarī al-Raffā< (d. after 360/970)69 and al-Ṣanawbarī (d. 334/945);70 the narrative full-scale urjūzah of 136 lines depicting, or narrating, a whole, still courtly, hunting experience of Abū Firās al-Ḥamdānī (d. 357/ 968);71 and, above all, the ultimate lyricization of the ṭardiyyah at the hand of Ibn al-Mu>tazz (d. 296/908),72 which, in its heightened lyrical grace, may be seen as formally rivaling that of the master, Abū Nuwās. Altogether, therefore, the post– Abū Nuwāsian ṭardiyyah demands the recognition of its own critical time and space.

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C HA P T E R 5

From Description to Imagism >Alı¯ Ibn al-Jahm’s “We Walked

over Saffron Meadows”

The late Umayyad and the Abū Nuwāsian early >Abbāsid periods had witnessed the relatively rapid formation of the poem of the hunt as a freestanding genre. At this stage of form-development, the Arabic poem of the hunt was also self-consciously exploring what it owed, and also did not owe, to its matrix in the form and genre of the pre-Islamic and Mukhaḍram qaṣīdah. In fact, it grew conscious of having arrived at a derivative form with which it had yet to come fully to terms. Two types of hunting poems had emerged: one derived from the Imru< al-Qaysian model of the pre-Islamic qaṣīdah, where the matter of the hunt begins with wa qad aghtadī (“[Often] I set out with the break of day”);1 the other, a short descriptive form, evoking the later, Mukhaḍram model that begins with an> atu (“I shall describe”). The two types, as we have seen, are almost evenly represented in the ṭardiyyahs of Abū Nuwās,2 whose hunt poems

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exemplify in a close to stereotypical way this stage of ṭardiyyah development. At this stage, too, the poem of the hunt—now termed ṭardiyyah— is characterized prosodically by its adherence to the non-qaṣīdah meter rajaz. Aside from the pliability of rajaz’s (“trembling”) rhythm, this meter is rhythmically relatable to a basic iambus (^ —). Unlike the qaṣīdah-meters, in which there is endline rhyme only, in the rajaz meter both hemistichs follow the monorhyme of the poem, with the result that each hemistich (shaṭr) becomes potentially, or effectively, a freestanding line. In the developing >Abbāsid period, the ṭardiyyah undergoes a further transformation, in which the poet frees himself further from conventional strictures derived from the pre-Islamic qaṣīdah, such as the raḥīl-residual hunting panels and their stereotypical descriptive elements of style. Thus, such poets as >Alī Ibn al-Jahm (d. 249/863), Ibn alMu>tazz (d. 296/908), and Abū Firās al-Ḥamdānī (d. 357/968) exercise considerable stylistic freedom in developing their own markedly varied but distinctive ṭardiyyah-poems—from the broadly imagist to the highly lyrical to the fully narrative, respectively. One further freedom of development and, within that freedom, of a further distancing from the post– Abū Nuwāsian ṭardiyyah is >Alī Ibn alJahm’s choice of meter for his sole ṭardiyyah, that is, his opting for the most classical and firmly qaṣīdah-bound meter ṭawīl (^ — — ^— — —), which rhythmically is altogether unlike the iambus-like, ṭardiyyahnormative rajaz. We may thus be left with the impression that, by refusing to follow the “proper” ṭardiyyah meter, this mid->Abbāsid poet is still qaṣīdah-entrapped and not entirely ready to embrace the new, qaṣīdah-independent genre of the ṭardiyyah. This, however, could not be further from the truth of what makes this poem an equally essential ṭardiyyah. For, in this respect, >Alī Ibn al-Jahm’s hunting poem impresses itself upon its genre precisely by its liberating rhythmic sensitivity, which is sufficient not only to break out of a normative rajaz meter but also to modify and modulate the ṭawīl meter to create the unique rhythmic qualities of this ṭardiyyah. Thus in an almost unobtrusive manner, >Alī Ibn al-Jahm contributes to the poem of the hunt a metrical rhythmic variant to the normative rajaz form.

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>Alī Ibn al-Jahm’s ṭardiyyah-in-ṭawīl thus approximates itself externally to its non-rajaz, prime qaṣīd-rhythm as much as it distances itself from it. It retains the ṭawīl quality (“long meter”) in its extent of poetic line of fourteen syllables (between short and long quantitative measures). But it lacks the first-line hemistich rhyme (taṣrī>) that formally signals the opening of a qaṣīdah. Nevertheless, this poem is not merely a qiṭ>ah, that is, a so-called qaṣīdah-fragment that is incidentally on the topic of the hunt, but rather it exhibits a strong genreconsciousness of the newly emerged ṭardiyyah. Its unique rhythmic feature is its transgressing or bypassing the traditional distribution of the ṭawīl poetic line into two semantically independent (ma>nā mufīd) half-lines or hemistichs. Furthermore, the resulting obviation of this stricture regarding the dynamic flow of meaning within the poetic line is also highly consequential. By being in itself a semblance of an already “small enjambment,” it opens the door to a style- and thought-liberating flow of a further counter-license of “full enjambment” across diverse numbers of contiguous lines—a “freedom,” however, that is frowned upon by Arabic rigor-driven prosody theorists.3 It is only in the original Arabic text of >Alī Ibn al-Jahm’s ṭardiyyah that his stylistic idiosyncrasies, at odds with pedantic anti-enjambment formalism, will become fully apparent. All eight ṭawīl lines of his tardiyyah feature a syntactical “internal” or “lesser” enjambment that runs through their two half-lines. Furthermore, none of the lines 2, 3, and 4 forms a self-standing syntactical or semantic unit, but rather, together, the three lines form one continuous, logically and syntactically fully “enjambed” image. Effectively, the meter ṭawīl will not be further tested in the ṭardiyyah, except by the master-poet of the genre, Ibn al-Mu>tazz, one generation later.4 Within this context of genre-formation and development, the present chapter will focus on the imagist ṭardiyyah of >Alī Ibn al-Jahm, rhymed in jīm, that opens with a refreshingly unassuming directness, bypassing both wa qad aghtadī and an>atu: “We walked over saffron meadows.”5

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 Ν ˶ έ΍ ˶ έ˴ Ϊ͉ ϟ΍ ή˴ Ϥ˸ Σ˵  ˵ξϴ˶Βϟ΍ ˵Γ΍ΰ˴ ˵Βϟ΍ Ύ˴Ϩϴ˸ ˴Ϡϋ˴  ˸Τ Ξ˶Α΍Ϯ͉Ϩϟ΍ Ώ ϼ Ϝ ϟΎ Α  Ύ˴ ϫ Ύ Ϥ Σ  Ύ˴ Ϩ Α ˴ ˴΃ ˶ ˶ ˶ ˴ ˶  ˴ ˴ ͉ ˴ ˶Ξ˶ϟ΍ϭ˴ ΰϟ΍ ϡΎ˶ ˴Ϭδ͋ ϟ΍ ϝ ˴ ΎΜϣ˸ ΃ νέ Ϸ΍ ϰϠϋ˴ ˶  ˸ ˴ϔ˴Ϙϋ˴  Ύϣ˴  ϭ˴ ͉ ϟ΍ ˵αϭ΅˵έ Ύ˴ϬϨ˸ ϣ˶  Ζ ˶Ξ˶ϟ΍Ϯ˴ μ  Ξ ˶ γ˶ ΍Ϯ˴ ϛ˴  ˴Ϧϴό˶ οΎ ˶ Χ˴  ϝ˳ ΎΟ˴ έ ˶ Ϧ˸ ϣ˶  ϰΤ˱ ˶ϟ  Ξ ˶ ˶ϟ΍ϮΤϟ΍ Ε ˴ ˶ Ύ˴ϴ˶ϧΎ˴ϐϟ΍ ϯ˴Ϊ ˸Σ˶· Ϟ˵ ϣ˶ Ύ˴ϧ˴΃  ˴Ψ Ν ˶ έΎ ϣ  ϭ΃ ϒ λ ΍ ϭ  Ϧ ϣ  Ϟϫϭ Ϊ ϴ μ ˳ ˳ ˴ ˵ ˶ ˶ ˴ ˶Α ˶  Ξ ˶ ϣ˶ Ύϣ˴ ΰ͉ ϟ΍ Ϊ˶ ϴλ ˴ Ϊ˶ ό˴Α Ϧϣ˶  Ύ˴Ϩ˵Ϩϴϫ˶ ΍Ϯ˴˴ η 

 Ζ ˸ Ϝ˴ δ˴ ϣ˸ ˴΃ ϭ˴  ϥ΍ ˴ έΎ˴ ˶ ή˴ ϔϋΰ͉ ϟ΍ νΎϳ ˶ ϨΌ˸ ρ˶ ϭ˴   ΎϤ˴ ϧ· ϭ Ύ͉Ϩϣ˶  ϝ˵ Ύ˴ϏΩ˸ ˴Ϸ΍ Ύ˴ϬϤ˶ ˸Τ˴Η Ϣ˸ ˴ϟ ϭ˴  ˵ ˵  Ύ˴ϬϧϮτ˵Α Ε ˳ ΎΤ˴ ˶ΑΎγ˴  Ε ˳ ΎΣϭήΘ˸ ˶ δϤ˵ ˶Α   Ύ˴Ϭ͉ϧ˴΄ϛ˴  ϱΩ˶ ΍Ϯ˴ ˴ϬϟΎ˶Α Ε ˳ Ύ˴ϓήθ˴Θδ˸ ϣ˵  ϭ˴   Ύ˴Ϭ͉ϧ˴΄Ϝ˴ ˴ϓ Ύ˱Ϩδ˵ ϟ˴΃ Ε ˳ Ύό˴ ˶ϟ΍˴Ω Ϧ˸ ϣ˶ ϭ˴   Ύ˴Ϭ͉ϧ˴΄ϛ˴  Ύ˱ϴϠ˸˴ϓ ˴ϥΎ˴τϴϐ˶ ϟ΍ Ύ˴Ϭ˶Α Ύ˴Ϩϴ˴Ϡ˴ϓ   ή˳ ΧΎ ˶ ˴ϔϣ˵  Ϧ˸ ϣ˶  ˸Ϟ˴ϫ Ϊ˶ ϴ͉μϟ΍ Γ˶ Ύ˴ϐ˵Β˶ϟ ˸Ϟ˵Ϙ˴ϓ  ͉ ˱ ˴ ˴ ͊μϟΎ  Ζ ˸ ϣ˴ Ϯ͉ Σ˴ ϭ έϮϘ Α  Γ ΍ ΰ ˵ Α  Ύ ϧ ή ϗ ˴ ˶ ˶ 

˺ ˻ ˼ ˽ ˾ ˿ ̀ ́ 

1. We walked  over saffron meadows, and above us Our white hawks homed in on red heath-cocks. 2. Thickets did not protect them from us, for We uncoupled the yelping hounds for their sheltered nesting grounds. 3. Catching the scent, the hounds’ bellies streamed along the ground Arrow-like, sleek, sliding, 4. Their necks outstretched, curved uppermost, Like the heads of hooked staffs,6 5. Their lolling tongues Like thin beards of men bowed in submission. 6. With them we combed the fields, as though With fingertips of maidens carding cotton, unadorned.

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7. So say to those eager for the hunt: “Is there anyone here who prides himself as hunter, Or anyone who will describe or wager on it?” 8. We paired our hawks with the falcons, and After the ruddy zummaj falcons’ hunt, our gerfalcons still circled above us.

The contemporary Alexandrian writer Idwār al-Kharrāṭ gives the novel of his Alexandrian youth one of modern Arabic literature’s most alluring titles, one that evokes both the silken-softness and the ambrosiadrenched aromatic blend of saffron powder and the dust of the Alexandrian streets of his youth: Turābuhā Za>farān, “Their Dust Is Saffron.”7 Although himself a Copt, al-Kharrāṭ has taken his title from the popular ḥadīth-derived description of the bejeweled garden of Islamic paradise.8 To him, however, the true understanding of his novel’s title lies locked in a time that reaches back to when the dust of his city’s streets was the dust of metaphor and legend. It was only then that “their dust” was, even though it no longer is, “saffron.” The mid->Abbāsid poet >Alī Ibn al-Jahm walks upon the saffron meadows of his hunting grounds in the awareness of having entered his own, privileged domain of intimacy. The ages of sensibility intersect, but the aromatic pungency of saffron remains pervasive and dominant: both the title of the modern novel and the opening line of the mid->Abbāsid poem of the courtly hunt partake of a kindred olfactory and pigmentary enchantment. To the modern novelist, the enchantment lasts as long as his childhood lasts, after which it will remain, not as an image, but rather as a concretized, circumscribed perception turned into pure, ethereal memory, an imageless metaphor from another time — not even a hidden simile. To the >Abbāsid courtly poet-hunter, on the other hand, the enchantment is not—or not yet—memory-contained. It is born in immediacy as an image caught at the moment of becoming, being pictorially drawn, as it were. As vision, it is allowed to live on, framed formally by its own insidious precision of beauty and subsumed experience, as none other than the poem itself. As such, it holds an assured original moment of “presence” and, as poem, will be equally assured of its image-moment’s

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continuum: it will “speak” in the transformed language of time captured by an image. The modern novelist finds himself recoiling upon himself, reconstructing himself, and remembering, while the >Abbāsid poet creates a continuum of a very singular vision suspended in time. His whole poem, in its fleeting airiness, nevertheless endures, or withstands, in this suspended time as a kind of concretized cluster of that self-contained vision: of balmy, saffron-like grass underfoot and falcons, somehow forever circling, overhead. Thus poem-enframed, the image does not aspire to being more than an impression—which is also a fact suspended outof-time. In its thus paradoxically achieved concreteness, the poem is of the purest, painterly type of imagism, because only in itself, in its own frame, not in other circumferences of other possible times and other measurable and qualifiable meadows, may it be found or recovered. To go through that process into the poem, I shall return to the manner in which >Alī Ibn al-Jahm opens his ṭardiyyah—the saffron meadows underfoot, the sight high in the sky: We walked on saffron meadows, and above us Our white hawks homed in on red heath-cocks.

Then, after an almost interlude-like execution of a hunting scene, in its closure the poem rotates back to the essential image contained in its beginning of pure aerial vision: We paired our hawks with the falcons, and After the ruddy zummaj falcons’ hunt, our gerfalcons still circled above us.

It is not necessary for us, moved by traditional Arabic habits of preclusion of vision, to change the “and” at the end of the first line to “but.” In the stylistically stubborn “and,” the poet’s image remains poetically in continuity with the created imagism of inclusion, its total, unending frame of vision.9 The air through which the falcons circle silently has remained as soft and balmy as the saffron meadows under the hunters’ feet when they entered the enchanted realm of their hunt. >Alī Ibn

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al-Jahm’s singular ṭardiyyah, with the equally singular occurrence in classical Arabic poetry of the motif of riyāḍu z-za>farān, is thus essentially different from the ṭardiyyahs of innovative wit and traditional, archaizing motival dependencies of his great predecessor, Abū Nuwās, in whose master-ṭardiyyahs diverse qaṣīdah/raḥīl vestiges studiously intersect. An example of the latter is the six-line ṭardiyyah on an oryx bull hunt, with its “ill-boded morning” and “emaciated, famished hounds,” quoted in full in chapter 4.10 And yet in his hunt poem, >Alī Ibn al-Jahm is no less archaizing than Abū Nuwās, albeit in a wholly different way. In his imagist way, he does not rely on the archaic pathos of raḥīl descent but instead treads softly on the saffron meadows of the equally archaic QurAbbāsid period. He was most concerned with the increasing fascination of the poets of that period with the decorative preciosity of their poetic imagery and diction. To rhetorically qualify those poets’ images, he insistently resorted to the awkwardly prejudicial term “fantastic.” Would the riyāḍu z-za>farān on which the >Abbāsid poet-hunter >Alī Ibn al-Jahm walks elatedly and joyously as he enters the “privileged” realm of the hunt—measured by such a yardstick—be fantastic and thereby provide for a somehow objectionable “fantastic beauty, while taking away objective truth,” and in this manner degrade “the importance accorded to nature and its phenomena”?12 Furthermore, does the >Abbāsid poet (not just >Alī Ibn alJahm), if he really were to fall under the generalization of fantastic, thereby irredeemably “part company with occidental poetry” whenever he endeavors to transpose “the objects described into the sphere of another, utterly fantastic reality”?13 If we were to apply such a Westernfixated, awkwardly idiosyncratic reading (and terminology) to much of Arabic poetry of the high >Abbāsid period, we would do justice neither to von Grunebaum in his outlook on Arabic poetics in general and in so many of its admirable details, nor, especially, to the applicability of such comparatist anti-positions to the poetics of >Alī Ibn al-Jahm— specifically to his ṭardiyyah of “riyāḍu z-za>farān.” First of all, von Grunebaum’s poetics of his own very self-assured Western moment of criti-

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cal judgment is not unreservedly, extra-chronologically normative. Nor is it supra-chronologically Western. Certainly, such poetics cannot be temporally adjusted at will to become an obligatory form parallelized with >Abbāsid poetics. Furthermore, von Grunebaum’s poetics seems to presuppose a selective Romantic sense of harmony between “poet” and “nature,” marked by a belatedly Romantic, intrusive valuation of the pathetic fallacy; this fallacy itself would define only some or very little of Western poetics beyond the Romantic period, where it would blend into allegory. Instead, one might postulate that von Grunebaum’s closest means of comparison, historically adjusted, might just as well have been the highly decorative preciosity of colorfulness and the curvaceous, mannered extravagance in the plastic arts of his own Vienna, which in its aesthetics of Jugendstil was altogether more Eastern than Western. Literally antithetically in poetry, and historically overlapping with the same Western aesthetic sensibility that so uncompromisingly shunned every trace of sentimentality and pathetic fallacy, the starkly anti-Romantic (thus anti-Western?), minimalist “poetic realism” of European Imagism would have had equally legitimate claims to being “classically” Western. Where, then, does the aesthetics—and the poetics— of such an >Abbāsid poet as >Alī Ibn al-Jahm fall, especially in his lone imagist ṭardiyyah? In such a critical positioning we have decidedly stepped out of every sense of chronological-critical parity or parallelism of East-West. What remains, therefore, is the positioning of >Alī Ibn al-Jahm within the context of Arabic literary time. His ṭardiyyah, from opening to closure, actually strikes a different tone, one might say its own unique tone, within the mainstream of the Arabic stylistic sensibility that ruled in its contemporary high badī>. Even in its lyricism, >Alī Ibn al-Jahm’s ṭardiyyah emerges as stylistically austere, almost minimalistic. Especially in its stylistically significant opening and closing key-lines (ll. 1, 8), his ṭardiyyah does not even resort to the seemingly unavoidable simile-signaling ka, ka-Alī Ibn al-Jahm’s ṭardiyyah—we would then be forced to accept as well the discordant or corrective fact that it is precisely the poetic reality of the poet-hunter’s walk over “meadows of saffron” that refutes any accusatory premise that >Alī Ibn al-Jahm is on the brink of falling into a pit of cheapened, or cheapening, Arabic->Abbāsid fantastic imagination. Such a critical premise, however, would be misguided, inasmuch as it would undermine aesthetically the very concept of Arabic poeticity, prior to attempting to shoulder critically the possibility of its validity or even pertinence. In our case, in a drab, almost extra-poetic sense, the >Abbāsid hunter’s meadows would then somehow fall by the realityaspiring poetic wayside, simply because of their participatory association with fantastic saffron. Here we would have a denial of the poetic right to a creation, not just formation, of a purposefully heightened form of poetic reality. The meadows of the poet’s hunt could neither be saffron, nor be of saffron, nor even be like saffron—for being metonyms or metaphors or even similes with a critically ungainly prepositional “like” veiled in implicitness. They would all be disenfranchised for leading to the critical no-where of a poetically hostile (or at least burdensome) realm of the Arabic particle of comparison—that is, the distracting status of “same-but-different”—about which von Grunebaum had complained harshly but, alas, much too hastily. By entangling ourselves in such conundrums of misplaced, somewhat antiquarian critical perspicuity, we run the danger of losing the awareness of the potential for expressive richness that lies behind the confrontations and the accusatory discordances of one poetic culture, calling itself Western, and another, calling itself Arabic. The loss of such awareness would prevent us from recognizing poetic values on either side of our literary-critical and even broadly cultural-critical comparatist enterprise. >Alī Ibn al-Jahm’s saffron meadows, which lead the poet-hunter to his real—not fantastic—enchantment of the hunt, would then lose their meaning and their special promise of reality, just as the Alexandria of the Egyptian novelist Idwār al-Kharrāṭ would no longer sustain the uniquely poetic claim to enchantment in his title Turābuhā Za>farān.

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C HA P T E R 6

Breakthrough into Lyricism The Tardiyyahs of Ibn al-Mu> tazz ˙

Almost exactly one hundred years after Abū Nuwās (d. 199/814 or 200/815), the genre of the ṭardiyyah relived its Abū Nuwāsian heights in the poetry of the >Abbāsid prince and tragic caliph-for-a-day, Ibn al-Mu>tazz (d. 296/908). With Ibn al-Mu>tazz, I will argue, the ṭardiyyah reached its true apogee in the sense of poetic maturity. By overcoming the limitations of the formulaism of his predecessors in the ṭardiyyah genre, such as Abū Nuwās, Ibn al-Mu>tazz realizes the full lyrical potential of the Arabic hunt poem and moves beyond mere objective description to lyrical affect and thereby, as we will see in the variety of examples explored in this chapter, reinvigorates the genre. Ibn al-Mu>tazz was unquestionably a fervent hunter himself. He was even the author of a no longer extant work titled Kitāb al-Jawāriḥ wa al-Ṣayd (Book of the Predatory Hunting Animals and the Hunt).1 This fact alone should indicate that the hunt to Ibn al-Mu>tazz was no longer a domain of poetry alone, or of the poem 139

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alone in the narrowest, most technical sense of the ṭardiyyah genre. The hunt — even as a courtly pursuit — was now to be practiced and cultivated with the fullest awareness of its craft and on a socially selfconscious level, even though its social environment was still, for the most part, the narrow precinct of court and courtliness. One could even speculate that Ibn al-Mu>tazz’s lost book on the hunt — most likely a handbook — was not appreciably different in approach and concept from later, still extant, largely technical treatises on the craft of the hunt, encompassing all of the hunt’s pertinent practical aspects. These included the knowledge of the seasons of hunting, of the full availability and variety of game, both quadrupeds and wild fowl, and most of all, of the tools and means of the hunt: the hounds and varieties of trained felines, and, in a special category that was markedly no longer pre-Islamic Bedouin, the birds of prey that are grouped in the art of falconry. The bases for such speculations are the later, proliferating books on hunting, such as the Kitāb al-Maṣāyid wa al-Maṭārid by a scholar of diverse fields of learning but also a cook and poet at the court of Sayf al-Dawlah, namely, Abū al-Fatḥ Maḥmūd Ibn al-Ḥusayn Ibn al-Sindī Ibn Shāhak, known as Kushājim (d. 350/961 or 360/971);2 or, one generation later, the book known by the title Al-Bayzarah, by the Fāṭimid caliph al->Azīz bi Allāh’s chief falconer, Abū >Abd Allāh al-Ḥasan Ibn al-Ḥusayn(?).3

QUESTIONS OF GENRE, STRUCTURE, AND PROSODY

Despite the passage of a century from the time of Abū Nuwās, Ibn alMu>tazz did not drastically alter either the thematic range or the structure of the ṭardiyyah—except, perhaps, in his greater freedom in the choice of prosodic meters. Whereas Abū Nuwās had rigorously observed the use of the meter rajaz (mustaf >ilun, repeated with “foot”/taf >īl variants three times)4 with both hemistichs monorhymed, Ibn al-Mu>tazz, even if remaining in observance of the monorhymed hemistichs of the ṭardiyyah rajaz tradition, nevertheless alternates frequently, from one ṭardiyyah to another, between rajaz and a mixed variant of sarī> (mustaf >ilun mustaf>ilun fā>ilun),5 a particularly pliant metric-prosodic “tool” of his ṭardiyyahs. Equally, Ibn al-Mu>tazz stressed further the metric

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distinction between the rajaz/sarī>-ṭardiyyah and the standard sarī> of the qaṣīd/qarīḍ system by circumventing the full-line qaṣīd monorhyme, thereby accentuating the independent rhythmic perception of the ṭardiyyah’s own metered poetic line. Thus the resulting sarī>-ṭardiyyah, not unlike the rajaz-ṭardiyyah with which it overlaps, observes the rule of monorhyme in both of its hemistichs, that is, in each half-line. It therefore represents an instance of a sustained hybridizing of form and sound between the formal sarī> and the rajaz. As found in Ibn al-Mu>tazz, the rajaz/sarī>-ṭardiyyah had thus defined itself in the poet’s genre-acquired rhythm-consciousness—as much as it had done earlier in the praxis-honed efficacy of, primarily, Abū Nuwās. The ṭardiyyah-poet necessarily had to share this rhythm-consciousness, with its specific content of the hunt, with a receiver/audience that was societally grown and growing, equally form-conscious, and as much courtly as it was increasingly urbane. The ṭardiyyah in its line-structure, and as genre, was thus conceived and allowed to mature as a societally distinct, genre-specific construct of meaning-meter-rhyme. Within it, the half-line (hemistich) is no longer a technical part that depends on its other metered and rhyming “half” to give it the form and the wholeness of ma>nā mufīd (complete meaning; sufficient for understanding). In this respect it becomes itself the sufficient formal line, or building block. The line/bayt of the >Abbāsid rajaz in the ṭardiyyah (and not the ṭardiyyah alone) could thus be a fully self-contained speech-unit of poetic utterance, linked (at will) in enjambment to a line (or lines) either preceding or following it or both; or within its poem-structuring, it could indicate any logical position, such as of a mid-structure turn of mood and stance (almost adumbrating the sonnet); or it could function as the poem’s running-out, diminuendo-like closure (both in evidence in Ibn al-Mu>tazz’s poem no. 93).6 Above all, it would open the floodgates for the stylistic phenomenon of enjambment,7 that is, liberated from the formalist stricture of each line’s ma>nā mufīd. In viewing the line arrangement that rules the rajaz-ṭardiyyah in Ibn al-Mu>tazz specifically, but also his so-called sarī>-ṭardiyyah, we find that the rule of the two-hemistich concept of the poetic line may, nevertheless, linger, with its at best tenuous, vestigial memory of the qaṣīd-caesura, which it used to endow with paradoxical tension between fragmenting and segmenting, while still in pursuit of some form of line-contained

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ma>nā mufīd. If, however, we were to view a ṭardiyyah not according to the way it was scholastically recorded—and as it appears presently in printed form—but in observance of both its rajaz/sarī> prosody and the “unit-meaning” of lines in the poem, we would obtain a distinctly, potentially fourfold, non-qaṣīd idiosyncratic picture: (a) double hemistichs of qaṣīdah-type lines, in which enjambment—or quasi-enjambment— would blend into units of meaning (ma>nā mufīd) of the sort envisioned by qaṣīd prosody; (b) single-hemistich rajaz lines defined by their own ma>nā mufīd; (c) double hemistichs of internally incomplete meaning (enjambment); and (d) single-hemistich independent lines that either close a preceding series of seeming (for being rajaz) double hemistichs, or that within any given (respective) ṭardiyyah would actuate a new series of lines with their own story or image. As a product (or result) of this implicitly new and apparently loose prosody that favors a freer flow of associative thematic perception—above all in the discreet circumvention of caesura interference and broader tolerance of enjambment— the line/bayt sequence of the rajaz/sarī> in Ibn al-Mu>tazz is turned into an effective, free-associating unit, both prosodically and as a building block of poetic speech. The restrictive prescription of and bias for linecontained ma>nā mufīd thus appear to have been brushed aside. Ibn al-Mu>tazz is also likely to stray prosodically even further. Examples are his use of meters such as the “tripping” (fa>ūlun x 4) mutaqārib (poems nos. 85 and 110); the “exuberant” wāfir of mufā>alatun mufā>alatun fa>ūlun (poem no. 86); and, even more unlikely, the most thoroughly qaṣīdah-planted, gravely intoned meter ṭawīl (fa>ūlun mafā>īlun) (poem no. 107). In these meters Ibn al-Mu>tazz adheres to the rule of the qaṣīdah-type, full-line monorhyme. In this respect, they may be terminologically confused with the so-called “fragment-poems” (qiṭ>ah/ pl. qiṭa>). Furthermore, they produce a slowing down of the rhythmic effect that interferes with the accelerated internal flow of the rajazṭardiyyah system of sonority. That is, in their differing sonority, they break the quickening of the total rhyming effect of the rajaz-metered ṭardiyyah and teasingly interject, if not altogether enforce, the extended qaṣīd-sound of the two-hemistich line. On the other hand, however, they also abrogate the qaṣīd-rule of the maṭla> rhyming of the two opening half-lines of such qiṭ>ah-ṭardiyyah variants. What is thus obtained, purely prosodically, is the almost paradoxical effect of a poem that approxi-

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mates itself formally to a qiṭ>ah (fragment) and yet offers a new, let us call it post– Abū Nuwāsian, terminological validation of the ṭardiyyah. Inasmuch as Ibn al-Mu>tazz’s ṭardiyyah meters, other than rajaz/ sarī>, remain in observance of the qaṣīd-type rhyming scheme, his ṭawīl poem no. 107 (discussed below) should be viewed as the most extreme illustration of his deviation from the established prosodic rigor of the hemistich monorhymed rajaz-ṭardiyyah. Ibn al-Mu>tazz’s ṭawīlṭardiyyah is constructed strictly on the prosodic principle of the qaṣīdah. In the opening phrasing of its ghadawnā wa lammā tartaqi sh-shamsu allaqah (l. 53) and which, as attested by Ibn al-Mu>tazz’s ṭardiyyah predecessors ever since the late Umayyad al-Shamardal,8 remains the most frequently recurring motif or signal of the initiation of the poetic “hunt-as-chase.” In its ṭardiyyah transformation, however, its original characterization of a chivalrous chase (that is, of a chase on horseback)9 will mutate into a hunt with hounds or assorted falcons. FROM QIṭ>AH, TO QAṢīD-PROSODY, TO ṭARDIY YAH

The ṭawīl

Arabic literary-critical attention traditionally is strongly focused on questions of prosodic propriety and exactitude—especially as regards its concern with a poetics of the rhyme. Here the genesis of poem no. 107 as ṭardiyyah, even as it has found itself well-defined in the poetics of Ibn al-Mu>tazz, should not be marginalized or treated as an exception. In the critical stance of Arabic literary history, it retains the expression of formal wholeness of self-possessed, Arabic literary classicism. Ibn al-Mu>tazz’s poem no. 107 does not submit to the conjecture of being a mere qaṣīdah-fragment, that is, a qit>aḥ. Even in its appearance as a quasiqiṭ>ah in the ṭawīl meter, it is nevertheless a firmly constructed ṭardiyyah, in which this accomplished >Abbāsid poet feels free to develop—or to propose—a thematically perfectly formed ṭardiyyah, which potentially

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may be placeable in a classicist-structured qaṣīdah with its distinct, otherwise forbiddingly classicist (ṭawīl) measure and rhythm. It is here that Ibn al-Mu>tazz differs—no matter how discreetly—from the “breaker of traditions,” Abū Nuwās. He becomes a legitimate innovator, as much in the >Abbāsid, thematically fully matured ṭardiyyah, as in the thematically unhampered hunt episode that, as qiṭ>ah, is still looking back over its shoulder at the genre-time, when it was or could have been part of the qaṣīdah as mother-form.10 This is apparent in Ibn al-Mu>tazz’s ṭawīl-metered ṭardiyyah/qiṭ>ah no. 107, in which an opening line of questionable provenance precedes      the genre-established ṭardiyyah morning-of-the-hunt incipit.11





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Poem no. 107 12 1. [And among the most wondrous delights there is a day I stole From time, the likes of which no former time has ever known!]13 2. We set out in the morning, while the sun had not yet risen above the horizon Our steeds, their necks in gallant curve, carrying us on, streamlike. 3. Across meadows now stirred awake with flowers, With teardrops washed, bedewed by rain-clouds, 4. As though, from valley to valley, the hands of gentle winds Were opening pouches of musk. 5. [Then] lop-eared, kill-eager hounds were led in, Lank, like well-pared arrow-shafts. 6. When they break out, released from their collars, you imagine them Released by violent, stormy winds. 7. Hawks share with them the dispensing of death: Fierce biting on earth, quick snatching from the air. 8. Down they come like buckets poured from the sky, To be picked up by swift, scooping hands. 9. Their clatter, as when a fruit gatherer knocks together half-filled jars, Splits hares’ ears. 10. To the stockroom keepers, by daybreak, They come as demons, spoil-in-mouth. 11. And from mid-morning to late afternoon, Storm-like, swallowing up the ground, they stir up the awakened dust.

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12. [Then] the strong wine of Babel makes the rounds among us, Circling with it a tame white antelope, though of the human kind. 13. He, whose languidness accepts no visitor, deflects the glance And strides, his waist weighed down by heavy loins, 14. And past the guardian’s unwariness he casts at me a glance Like the touch of live coal, and my heart takes fright.

In line 2, ṭardiyyah-like, the hunt scene in this poem opens with a bow of acknowledgment to Imru< al-Qays’s chivalrous early morning setting out, now by the poetic dictate not of Jāhilī chivalry but of >Abbāsid courtliness. Already in the same line, the mien of chivalrous horsemanship is carried away by a lyrical affect: the steeds float, their necks in gallant curves, then over meadows awake with flowers, with tears bedewed under rain clouds (l. 3), and from valley to valley, upland to upland, hands of gentle breezes open pouches of musk (l. 4). The idyll of this atmosphere is soon broken (ll. 5– 6), although not by the violence of the hunt as much as by the obverse descriptive lyricism of the elegance of the appearance of the hounds, eager to kill, and compared not to gentle breezes but as if released by the force of violent, stormy winds. The next lines (ll. 7– 8) are then the direct acts and effects of the hunt as dispensation of death: no similes, no metaphors. Lines 9–11 are about the business of the hunt, again with a return to impressions and images: the clatter and the hubbub (between the flutter of the birds, the bloody business of the hounds, and the hunters) split even the hares’ ears; then the archaizing and humorous image of the clatter of halffilled harvest jars. And the hounds, spoil-in-mouth demons—no more simile, only direct metaphor—supply the stockroom keepers. Thus from morning to evening, storm-like, the hounds swallow up the ground, “keep awake” the stirred-up dust, and, as it were, bring back the memory of the “first awakening” of the idyll of the flowers of line 4. Then (ll. 12–14), with the fullest formal awareness of being a ṭardiyyah that no longer cedes genre-ground to the qiṭ>ah, comes, in conclusion, the extended motif and archetype of the crowning of a truly courtly hunt: the celebratory banquet, whose poetically structured (and practically habitual) role and poetic place is to seal the success of the

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hunting expedition. The total poeticity of such a banquet scene is that in its genre-quiddity it is neither part nor extract of a detachable erotic ghazal, nor the casual product of indebtedness to the Anacreontic khamriyyah. If we were to design a genre-ideal, quintessentially structured courtly ṭardiyyah of the high->Abbāsid period, we might be inclined to this qiṭ>ah/ṭardiyyah of Ibn al-Mu>tazz as its model. Ibn al-Mu>tazz’s prosodic discordance with, or departure from, the ṭardiyyah-rule of rajaz should thus have a liberating import, and should be to the credit of the poet’s form-assertion in the face of prosodic restlessness. Furthermore, in matters of ṭardiyyah-related form-theory, it appears to be critically more instructive and forward-looking as a test case of a structurally perfect ṭardiyyah by its own “will to form,”14 not because it has been somehow predetermined by the form-memory carried by its ṭawīl meter. Among Ibn Mu>tazz’s other thematically clearly ṭardiyyah-modeled “fragments” that nevertheless fall outside the metric sphere—or hold— of the rajaz, two samples that may count both as qaṣīdah-qiṭ>ahs and as fragmentary ṭardiyyahs deserve to be singled out. Both are notable for their descriptive/narrative economy and their deep undertow of power as much as of lyrical delicacy. The Mutaqārib The first poem to be discussed in the meter mutaqārib is a five-line “fragment,” poem no. 85. A company of hunters is seen setting out with the break of day for the hunt or chase, with the final aim of an appoint     ment at a monastery for a bacchanal. Their hound-master leads along supremely trained Saluki hounds, eager for the hunt: 



ΏέΎϘΘϤϟ΍ Ύ˴ϫΩ˴ Ύό˴ ϴ˸ ϣ˶  ή˸˶ ϳΪ͉ ϟ΍ ϰϟ· Ύ˴ϨϠ˸ ό˴ Ο˴  Ύ˴ϫΩ˴ Ύ˴ϗ ΎϤ˴ ϟΎρ ˱Δ͉ϴϗϮϠγ˴  ˸ ˴ϟ˴΄γ˴  ΍Ϋ· Ύ˴ϫΩ˴ ΍˴ί Ύ˴ϫϭ˴ Ϊ˸ ϋ˴  Ζ  Ύϫ˴ΩΎϤϏ˸ ΃ή˶ ΟΎϨ˴Ψϟ΍ ϖ ˶ ˶ Θ˸ ˴ϔϛ˴  Ύ˴ϫΩ˴ ϻϭ΃ ΐ ˴ ϛ˴ ˶ ϋ˶ ΍ϮϜ˴ ϟ΍ Ϣ͋ π 

˸ ΪϏ˴  ΎϤ͉ ϟϭ  Ω˶ ΍ή˴ ͋τϠϟ Ύ˴Ϩ˵Ϡϴ˸ ˴Χ Ε˴   ΍ ˱ήϤ͉ ο ˵  Ύ˴Ϩ˵Β͋ϠϜ˴ ϣ˵  Ω˴ Ύ˴ϗϭ˴   ΡΎ ˶ ˴ϳή͋ ϟ΍ Ε ˶ Ύ˴Ϩ˴Α Ϧϣ ˱Δ Ϥ͉Ϡό˴ ϣ˵  ˸  ΎϨ˵δϟ΃ΎϬ˵ ϫ΍Ϯϓ˸ ΃˵Νή˶ Ψ˸ ˵Ηϭ    Ϫ˶ ϣ˶ Ϊ˵Η Ϣ˸ ϟ ϭ ΍˱Ϊϴ˸ λ ˴ ˴ϦϜδ˸ϣ΃ϭ˴ 

˺ ˻ ˼ ˽  ˾ 





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Poem no. 85 15 1. When with the break of day our horsemen set out for the chase, We set their appointment for the monastery. 2. Our hound-master led along lean Saluki hounds—and only such— 3. The well-trained daughters of the wind. Whenever they want to run faster, he lets them, 4. Their mouths with tongues projecting Like daggers that through scabbards cut. 5. They grip their quarry and never bloody it, Like swollen-breasted women embosoming their babes.

Even if this poem is no more than an unfinished or even discarded hasty sketch, a sort of poetic >ujālah, it would still be a mistake not to acknowledge that some of the most exquisite examples of Ibn alMu>tazz’s descriptive and imagist artistry fall into the category of fragments, if not sketches, often consisting of only two or three lines.16 For all its brevity, however, Ibn al-Mu>tazz’s qiṭ>ah/ṭardiyyah no. 85 evokes in line 1 both the Imru< al-Qaysian setting out at daybreak for the hunt and the Abū Nuwāsian khamriyyah(wine poem)-derived17 idea of a convivial meeting (We set their appointment for the monastery). Moreover, the narrow confines of Ibn al-Mu>tazz’s five lines underline the fact that Imru< al-QaysAbbāsid ṭardiyyah; while the Abū Nuwāsian “appointment at the monastery” is now the clear promise and anticipation of the ṭardiyyah structural closure of the banquet. We thus have in the first line of poem no. 85 a potential ṭardiyyah’s (not a qiṭ>ah’s) structural beginning and end. The Wāfir Another example from outside the rajaz meter group is Ibn al-Mu>tazz’s minimal two-line ṭardiyyah in the meter wāfir:

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ήϓ΍Ϯϟ΍ Ω˶ ϭ˵έϮ˵ ϟ΍ Ϣ˵ ˴Ϭ͉Θϣ˵  ΢Β ˴ ˶ ͊μϟ΍ ˯˵ Ϯοϭ  Ϊ˶ ϳΪ˶ Τ˴ ϟ΍ ΃˴Ϊλ ˴  Ϣ˸ Ϭ˶ ˶ϓΎ˴Θϛ˴΃ ϰϠϋ 

 Ν΍˴ ˳ Ω Ϟ˵ ϴϠϟ΍ϭ ΍ϭ˴ΪϏ˴  ϥ˳ Ύ˴ϴΘ˸ ˶ϓϭ   ζ ˳ ϴ˸ Ο˴  ˯˵ ΍ήϣ΃ Ϣ˵Ϭ˴Η΍ΰ˴ ˵Α ϥ ͉ ˴΄ϛ˴ 

˺ ˻ 

Poem no. 86 

18

1. What gallant youths that with the break of dawn set out, when still in darkened night, The morning light only a whiff of reddish glow, 2. The falcons like lords of war With the rust of iron on their shoulders.

It consists of only two lines, and yet there is an air about it, in this supremely compacted form, of almost definitive sufficiency—even more so when compared to what we saw in the form-epitomized mutaqārib example no. 85 (above) with its own lyricism-bathed morning. A similar ṭardiyyah-announcing lyrical opening also characterizes no. 86 in line 1, with its implicitly joyous recollection. Of this we are given notice by the wāw rubba of wa-fityānin of the courtly company of “gallant lads” (fityān). It is, however, the closing line 2 that is striking and attention-compelling. On the plainest level of form-consideration, it is descriptive—much less encumbered by any potential story/narration that exhausted itself with the first line. But it also contains a strong reversal of the preceding line. By setting itself in contrast to line 1, line 2 tells us who and what the “gallant youths,” fityān, the fleetingly enunciated protagonists, are not. There are two different worlds here. The fityān are courtiers at play (l. 1), not “lords of war” (l. 2). It is the falcons of the second line that are not only like lords of war with “the rust of iron on their shoulders.” They are the lords of war, if only in the stylized heroic game of the courtly hunt. With semiotic presence, they suddenly come into view and, with equally sudden finality, evanesce by “closing” this poem of only two lines. At the same time they tell us with great precision all we have to know about the coloration of the falcons’ plumage, of the essence of the paradox of courtly-heroic role-apportioning

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between play and solemnity, or the solemnity of play,19 and of the high>Abbāsid balancing of the shadings of courtly self-view—even in a fragile balancing of the rudiments of a ṭardiyyah as an ultimately pliable poetic form. And these falcons, the image of lords of war with the rust of iron on their shoulders, will stay with us, affirming their presence in Ibn al-Mu>tazz’s ṭardiyyahs as the courtly hunt’s actual protagonists, rivaled in that role not by the gallant courtly hunters but by the equally distinguished hounds.20

THE R AJAZ AND THE R AJAZ/SARī< AS THE MAIN METRIC RULE OF THE ṭARDIY YAH

In its formal and prosodic prevalence, the main body of Ibn al-Mu>tazz’s ṭardiyyahs adheres to the formal rule of the meter rajaz and rajaz/sarī>. Even within this rule, however, certain modal and structural peculiarities are capable of diversely shaping individual genre-recognizable ṭardiyyahs. To illustrate one such distinct instance, we will turn in some detail to one of Ibn al-Mu>tazz’s poems.  rajaz/sarī>-metered   



 ϊϳήδϟ΍ έϮ ˶ ˵ΜϨ˸ Ϥ˴ ϟ΍ ϕ ˶ έ˴ Ϯ˴ ϟ΍ ϱΫ˶  Ϫ˶ ˶ϨμϏ˵ ϭ  ͊ ϟ΍ ϲϓ Ώ έϭΪ ˶ μ ϣ ϭ ˶ ϮϠ˵Ϙϟ΍ Ρή ˴ ˶ ˴  ή˸˶ ϳή˴ Ϗ  Ϟ ϓ Ύ˴ Ϗ  ζ ϴ˴ ϋ  Ϟ υ ϲ ϓ ͋ ˶ ˶ ˶ ˳ ˳ ˶  έϭ ˶ ά˵ ˸ΤϤ˴ ϟ΍ϭ˴  ϩ˶ ϭ˵ήϜ˸ Ϥ˴ ϟ΍ Ϧϣ˶  Ύ˱Όϴ˴η  έϮ˵ ˶ Τϟ΍ Ε ˶ ΎϴϧΎϐϟ΍ ϥϮ˵ ˶ ϴϋ˵  ˯˵ Ϟϣ˶  ˵ ή˶ ϔ˸ Ϥ˴ ϟ΍ Ϟ˴ ό˴ ˴Θη˸ ΍ϭ ήϴ ˶ ˶Θ˴ϘϟΎΑ ϕ  έϮ ˶ ͊Ϩϟ΍ ϭ ϰΟ˴ Ϊ͊ ϟ΍ ˴ϦϴΑ ϱΪ˶ ˴ΘϏ˸ ˴΃ Ϊ˸ ˴ϗ  ˴ ˴ έϮ˵ ˶ μΨ˵ ϟ΍ ϒ ϳΎ τ ϟ  ή Ϥ π ˵ ˶ ˶ ˳ ͉ ˶Α 

 ήϴ ˶ μ ˺ ˶ ˴Ϙϟ΍ϰΒμϟ΍ ή˶ ϫ˸ Ω˴ ϰϠϋϲ˶ϔϬ˸ ˴ϟ   έϮ ˶ ˵ϔϐ˸ Ϥ˴ ϟ΍ Ϫ˶ ˶Βϧ˸ Ϋ˴ ϭ˴  ϩ˶ ήϜ˵ ˼ ˶ γϭ˴   έ˶ ˸ϭ˵ή ˸ΠϤ˴ ϟ΍ Ϟ˶ ϣ˴ ˴Ϸ΍ Ϟ˶ ΒΣ˴  ϝ ˶ Ϯ˵ρ  ϭ˴ ˾  ˵ ή˴ θ˸ ˴ϳ ϻ ή˵ ϫΪ͉ ϟ΍ϭ  έϭ˵ ˶ ήδ͊ ϟΎ˶Α ϙ ̀   ϱήϴ ˾ ͋ ϟ΍ ϲ͊ ͋ϨΟ˶ ϭ ˴ ϭ˵ΪϏ˸ ˴΃ ˶ ϣ˶ ΃ Ύ˴Βμ  ˵ λ  ήϴ ˶ μ ̀ ˶ ϣ˴  ϰϟ· Εή ˶  Ϊ˸ ϗ ˴ϥϵΎϓ  ˵Ϧ˴Ϩυ˶   έϮϴ ˶ ϐ˴ ϟ΍ ϲ˶ϨΘ˸ ϛ˴ ή˴ ˴Ηϭ˴ ̂   ήϴθ ˶ ˴ΒϟΎ˶Α Ρ˴ Ϯ͉ ˴ϟ Ϊ˴ϗ ΢˵ Β ͊μϟ΍ ϭ ˺˺ 

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  ˸ ˴ϳ ˴Ϸ΍ ϲϓ Ρ˵ ήϤΗ έϮ˵ ˶ Πδ˸ ϣ˴  ϡ˳ ή˴ ο ϭ˴ ΄˴η ˴ϦΒ˸ Ϡτ  έϮϴ͊ ˶ δϟ΍ϭ ϕ΍Ϯρ ˴ ˶   ήϴΒϜ ˶ ͉Θϟ΍ Ϧϣ˶  ௌ ˴ΔϴϤ˶ δ˸ ˴Η  έϮ˵ ˶ ϋά˸ Ϥ˴ ϟ΍ κ˴ ˶ Ϩ˴Ϙϟ΍ ˯˴ ΍έϭ˴  ϲ˶ϧΪ˸ ˵Η   ˸ έϮ ˶ ͊Ϡ˴Βϟ΍ Ϟ˵ Σ˶ ΎϜ˴ ϣ˴  ΎϬ͉ϧ΄ϛ˴  έϮ˵ ˶ Τϟ΍ Ε Ύ ϳ ΩΎ Ϭ ϟ΍ ζϴΠϟ ϒ Θ Σ ˴ ˶ ˴ ˴ ˶   ͊ ˵ ˵ ͉ ˴ ήϴ ˶ τ˶ ϣ˴  Ϟ˳ π Χ  ϡϮϳ ˵ΏϮΑΆ η    έϮ ϛ ά ϟ΍ Ύ˴ Ϩ Ϡ ϴ˴ Χ  ϊ ϗ ϭ  ϥ΄ϛ ˴ ˶ ˶ ˳ ˴ ˶   ˸ έ˴ Ω˴ Ύ˴Ϗ Ϣ˸ ϛ έϮ ˶ Ψ˵ ͊μϟ΍ ΔΤϳΎλ  έϮΜ ˶ Ϩ˸ ϣ˴  Ϟ˳ ˴τδ˸ ˴ϗ Ϧ˸ ϣ˶  Ε ˴  Γ˳ ΪϠ˴Αϭ˴   ˴ έϭΪ ˶ ˸Πϣ˴ Ύ˴Ϭ˴ϔϠΧνέ ΃ Ϫ Οϭϭ  ˻˼ ˶ ˳

 ˺˼ ˺˾ ˺̀ ˺̂ ˻˺

 Poem no. 93 21 1. What loss! The time of youth so short, The leaves scattered from its bough, 2. Its inebriety, its forgivable impenitence, Hearts, glee-filled, in the breasts, 3. And hope’s rope stretching far, While carelessly shaded in life’s sheltered nook, 4. Where fate may never bind to joy Things hateful, vile. 5. There, with my folly’s demon in command, at daybreak I set out, With dark-eyed maidens’ unspoiled beauty all around. 6. But now I am back on my fated path, And hoariness has flared in my parted hair, 7a. My overstrung presumptions gone. 7b. [Perhaps though,] neither in darkness nor in light, With daybreak I’ll yet set out: 8. When the morning sounds its glad tidings, The hounds thin-bellied, slender,

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9. Straining at their collars and girths To claim from the bonfire their dole, 10. In pursuit of panicked quarry Giving rise to “Allāhu akbar!” calls: 11. Of death to rows of black-pupiled, prime [gazelles], Their crystalline eyes dark-rimmed, as if antimony-lined, 12. [And] our stallions’ rush A gushing downpour of a rain-drenched day. 13. O, what strewn dust-cloud left there in their wake, What empty tracts of crushed rock underhoof, 14. And after them, pock-marked, the beaten ground!

This poem does not relinquish its strong claim to ṭardiyyah legitimacy, despite the mood of the first half of the poem (ll. 1– 7). This half might well be seen as treating the conventional nasīb-theme of a lament for lost youth (al-shakwā min al-shayb), with its melancholy and even elegiac hue, thereby challenging the theme and mood-scheme of the classical ṭardiyyah genre. But thanks to Ibn al-Mu>tazz’s form-control, the genre-unambiguous poem—as ṭardiyyah—emerges comfortably in the second half (ll. 7–14). The ṭardiyyah’s genre-identity is thus belatedly signaled with the second hemistich (or loose-appearing half-line) of line 7. Furthermore, poem no. 93, as ṭardiyyah, is twice marked formally by loose (or false) hemistichs—that is, by its own (rajaz/sarī>) designation of independent half-lines: once by halving the central, structurally decisive line 7, in which there exists only a “circumstantial” (ḥāl) connection between the two halves (7a and 7b), and the second time by the half-line of the poem’s closure. It is, therefore, the second hemistich of line 7 (that is, l. 7b), with its sense of enjambment, that breaks or wants to break the prosodic insinuation of the qaṣīd-rigor of a full poetic line—and thus

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facilitate the remote, but still peremptory, reverberation of the categorical (Imru< al-Qaysian) motival signal of the onset of the hunt. Ibn alMu>tazz’s own “setting out” motif as the actual opening of his poem’s hunt scene, or of its ṭardiyyah’s gharaḍ (ll. 7–14), thus signals, or actually is, the main subject of the emerging hunt poem (as a ṭardiyyah) (ll. 7–14). However, despite the structurally qaṣīdah-like regression of the poem’s bisectional split, Ibn al-Mu>tazz’s archaizing qad aghtadī bayna d-dujā wa n-nūri is not ultimately Bedouin and chivalrous-heroic, but rather unmitigatingly >Abbāsid. The reading of the second half of the poem as an >Abbāsid courtly ṭardiyyah can succeed, however, only in the context of the mood-overflow of the lyrical and strongly elegiac, nasīb-like opening half of the poem (ll. 1– 7). And only the subtle ability of the ensuing hunt scene (ll. 7–14) to retain the nasīb-like sense of elegy that preceded it as memory and desire, and to pass it on to its own self-ironizing hesitancy of memory and desire, can turn this scene and thereby the whole poem into a courtly ṭardiyyah—quite distinct from the hunt scenes that form part of the larger structure of pre-Islamic and Mukhaḍram qaṣīdah.22 As noted before, poem no. 93 is not only clearly divisible into two well-balanced halves, thus resembling in its structure the basic classical bisectional qaṣīdah (nasīb and madīḥ; nasīb and raḥīl; nasīb and fakhr, and so on), the alternative to the classical tripartite qaṣīdah structure (nasīb, raḥīl, and fakhr/madīḥ). It is as much vestigially Jāhilī as it is assertively >Abbāsid. It is also, above all, courtly. This becomes clearer when we identify the provenance of the poem’s opening line, its motif, prosodic meter, and rhyme (lahfī >alā dahri ṣ-ṣibā l-qaṣīrī). It is intentionally indebted in diction, rhyme, and essential elegiac chord to the idyllic-elegiac, unabashedly courtly opening (maṭla>) to a nasīb of an >Abbāsid qaṣīdah, about one hundred years earlier, yet no longer harking back to an archaic Jāhilī (Bedouin) model. Ibn al-Mu>tazz’s new model in this structural and formal qaṣīdah-ṭardiyyah is a qaṣīdah by Abū al->Atāhiyah (d. 210/825), which almost in its entirety, but especially in its lines 1–17, is a display of thematically and modally >Abbāsid poetic courtliness.23 Any subsequent >Abbāsid poet who touches it, even by its opening line,

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Where is the fleeting while we spent Between Khawarnaq and Sadīr?

enters, by formal determinant, the world of >Abbāsid poetic courtliness— as does Ibn al-Mu>tazz in the opening line of his ṭardiyyah no. 93: What loss! The time of youth so short, The leaves scattered from its bough.

To Abū al->Atāhiyah, any older or possibly antiquarian, nasīb-conditioned, elegiac sense of loss is no longer pure elegy. It has undergone the courtly transformation into an >Abbāsid-specific nasīb-idyll, or in other words, into an elegiac idyll. It is from here that Ibn al-Mu>tazz begins in order to formulate his own idyll of an >Abbāsid elegiac hunt. His poem of so emotionally compromised a hunt begins with an apostrophe,24 a self-communing tone of pure elegiac lyricism (l. 1). In line 2, elegy wants to break out into idyll; and line 3 turns into an idyll distinctly. The idyllic mood of line 4, however, becomes troubled or endangered in an unexpected, one might even say subversive, way. Its beginning with wa d-dahru lā yashraku bi ssurūri (Where fate may never bind to joy . . .) shows how unsure of itself this idyll is, because once again, as in the elegiac lahfī >alā d-dahri (What loss! The time . . .) of line 1, the melancholy wa d-dahru lā yashraku bi ssurūri of line 4 commands attention to its own pervasive consequence of mood and genre. It tells us that Ibn al-Mu>tazz has opted to put his mood-ruminations into question: whether to be idyllic at all. Or rather, in his courtly idyll of lighthearted, “carelessly . . . sheltered,” “forgivable impenitence,” he may be treading the grounds of life’s tragic inevitability, like those on which the Mukhaḍram poet Abū Dhuū (And/But fate, against its blow of misfortune there does not

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hold fast, / One standing atop a tall mountain, strong and forbidding); then again, in line 20, the same admonition but with the figura of the “black-backed onager” ( jawnu s-sarāti) as allegorical example of futility; and again, in line 41, the same iteration of admonition with the lonely oryx as the allegorical figura; until, for the fourth time, with the identically phrased warning of fate (l. 55), the allegorical persona becomes a seemingly invincible, fully iron-clad knight, who meets in combat an equally iron-clad knightly counter-figura. The result is the death of both knights. But in Ibn al-Mu>tazz’s line 5, the idyll returns. “Folly’s demon” is still in command. The poet-hunter-courtier “sets out at daybreak,” just as Imru< al-Qays once did. But his setting out is not meant to be measured by that Bedouin bard’s wa qad aghtadī earnestness of a hunter. Instead, in his indirect echoing of nasīb-eroticism, the courtier Ibn al-Mu>tazz would rather feast his eyes on the unadorned beauty of darkeyed maidens. Once again, the poet has touched on Imru< al-Qays, perhaps as a hunter but one now engaged only in his own, diffused, courtlyidyllic hunt of love. In line 6 and the structurally decisive first half-line 7a, the poem regresses to the mood of elegiac resignation and self-knowledge (wa tarakatnī ẓinanu l-gharīri). This mood does not last long, however, because, either as an escapist reflex or instead as a courtly, no longer elegiac, but still idyllinherited gesture of poetic habit, the poet-hunter hears the call of the hunt. And once again, true to that call as it has resonated in Arabic poetry since Imru< al-Qays, Ibn al-Mu>tazz “sets out,” and his own hunt begins: “Neither in darkness nor in light, / With daybreak I’ll yet set out” (l. 7b)—perhaps in poeticized fact, perhaps only in a courtly stylization of memory, short of explicit elegiac nostalgia. Finding himself thus firmly in the genre of the ṭardiyyah, the poet remains faithful to it until the poem’s end (ll. 7–14), even though in line 10 the tone—not in image but in diction—breaks out of the now pent-up pathos of the business of the hunt and, with a distinctly vernacular intent, paradoxically lightens it with the almost witty implant of “Allāhu akbar!” Lines 11–12, too, fail to hold fast to a straight line of the pathos of the hunt. In them the pathos is lyrically subverted, inasmuch as the presentation of the quarry in line 11 as restive gazelles of crystalline-clear black eyes,

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“dark-rimmed, as if antimony-lined,” leads up to the rush of the poethunter’s stallion (l. 12), “like a gushing downpour of a rain-drenched day.” This subversive undercurrent of lyricism is, therefore, decodable as latent courtly eroticism. Unlike line 10, where diction has supplanted image, in lines 13 and 14 everything is image: a sustained, drawn-out image, with its own fading-out of time toward memory and of perspective toward distance, with their double sense of finality. The poem has run its full objective and subjective course, and the finality of that course is strengthened, or underlined, by the rhythmic rajaz flow of the formal “half-line” closure.

A DICHOTOMY OF OBJECTIVE AND SUBJECTIVE PARADIGMS

Aside from Ibn al-Mu>tazz’s concern for the prosodic aspect of the integration of non-rajaz meters into the rhythmic texture of the thematic ṭardiyyah, and aside from the theme- and mood-oriented structuring of some of his ṭardiyyahs, by which they draw upon or resemble the archaizing peculiarities of the qaṣīdah-form, the poet was also concerned to further refine in his ṭardiyyahs the dual perspective and the basic dichotomy of objective and subjective stylistic stance between description and enactment, along lines already engaged by Abū Nuwās in his pioneering bifurcation of the poet-hunter’s vision and style.27 In Abū Nuwās’s ṭardiyyahs we find a specific tension between that genre’s two main formal and stylistic paradigms of the subjective wa qad aghtadī (“I set out with the break of day”) and the objective an>atu (“I shall describe”): that is, between the dynamism of the hunt and the stasis (or mere captioning) of the described hunted object. The “an>atu” Stance I shall first turn to the relatively few and markedly short examples of Ibn al-Mu>tazz’s an>atu (“I shall describe”) paradigm. In the recension of a total number of five instances that follow this paradigm, two ap-

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pear to be no more than epitomizing two-line sketches: of positioning and description. It is for the sake of this paradigmatic “positioning” of the poet—not as narrating hunter-agent but as the perspectival point of departure of depiction frozen into pictorial stasis—that I point out these potentially complete textual instances, even while bypassing tests of their poetic felicity.  We begin with a two-line instance, in which, although their pur     ported subject is a hound, the poet is concerned more with affect than description:  ϊϳήδϟ΍ ˵Ϫ˵Θό˴ ϧ˸ ˴΃  ˵ϸϤ˸ ˴ϳ ˸ ˴ ˴  κϳ ˶ ή˶ Τ˴ ϟ΍ κ ϧ Ύ Ϙ ϟ΍ β ϔ ϧ  ˴ ˶ ˶ 

ιϮ˵ ˶ μ˵ϔϟ΍ ϖ ˴ ͉ΛϮϣ˵ 

Ύ˱ϔ˴Ϭϔ˸ ˴Ϭϣ˵  ˴ ˸ ˱ ˸ ˴ ιϭή ˶ ϔ˸ ϣ˴  κ Ϥ Χ ΄ Α ϼ ό Θ Ϩ ϣ ˶ ˵ ˳ ˴ ˶ 

˴Ϙϟ΍  κϴϤ ˶

ή˴ ˴ϔϋ˸ ˴ΰϣ˵ 

˺ ˻ 

Poem no.100 28 1. I shall describe him: of saffron coat, The body slender, firm the joints, 2. Shod with aptly hollowed paws,29 Every avid huntsman’s pride.

A further two-line, almost epigrammatic text, poem no. 119, leaves behind — physically — only a flash of a hunt-trained leopard’s appearance, hardly enough for description. However, the hunting animal’s awakened appetite for blood is the true reality of the hunt—or its      abstraction:



 ΰΟήϟ΍ ΍ϭ˴ ΰ˴˸ ϧ Ϊ˶ ϳή͉τϟ΍ ˴ϒϠ ˴Χ Ύϳί΍Ϯ˴ ˶ ϧ  ˸ ΪΟ˴ ϭ ΍Ϯ˴ Ϡ˵˸ Σ ˯˶ Ύϣ˴ Ϊ͋ ϟ΍ Ϣ˴ ό˸ ˴ρ Ε˴ ˴ Ϊ˴ϗ 

 ΍ϭ˴ Ϊ˸ ϋ˴  ˯˴ Ύπ ˴ ˴ϔϟ΍ ϱή˶ ϔ˸ ˴Η Ύ˴Ϭ˵Θό˴ ϧ˸ ˴΃   ΍Ϯ˴ ϔ˸ ϋ˴  ΎϬϨ˸ ϣ˶  ˵Γέ˴ Ϊ˵Ϙϟ΍ ˵Ϧδ˶ ˸Τ˵Η ϻ 

˺ ˻ 



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Poem no. 119 30 1. I shall describe it [the leopard] as in its run it slices through space, Bounding after quarry in one vault. 2. Of no avail is it to hope for mercy: It has already found the sweet taste of blood.

The next example is a three-line expansion of the poet’s “decision to describe” (an>atu). The object (and the objective) is once again the more familiar hunter’s hound as it bounds and prances and outstrips the pack. Noteworthy is the closure of the third line with a simile that     otherwise rare in the objecapproaches a discreet or tentative lyricism, tivizing, muted sensibility of the  an>atu paradigm:



ϊϳήδϟ΍ Ύ˴ΛΎ˴ϋ ϭ ϼ˴ϔϟ΍ ζ ˴ Ο˴ ˶ ˸Σϭ˴  ϰϠ˴ϋ έΎ  ˸ ΪϏ˴ ϭ Ύ˱Λ΍ή˴ Ϗ˶  ΖϧΎΑ ˸ Ύ˴Λ΍ή˴ Ϗ˶  Ε˴  ˲ ˸ ͉ ˴ Ύ˴ΛΎ˴ϋέ ς Ϙ Θ Ϡ ϣ  ˵ Ϫ ϧ ΄ϛ ˶ ˵ ˶ 

˵ ό˴ ϧ˸ ˴΃  Ύ˴ΛΎ͉Β˴ϧ Ύ˴τΨ˵ ϟ΍ ΏΎ ˴ ͉Λϭ ˴ Ζ   Ύ˴Λϼ˴Λ ΍ή˱ Ϥ͉ ο ˵  ϻ˱˷ ί˵  ϡ˵ Ϊ˵ Ϙ˸ ˴ϳ   Ύ˴ΛΎ˴ΜΣ ˶ Ύ˱όΑ ˸έ˴΃ Ύ˴ϬϨ˴ϋ Ϟ˵ Π˶ ό˸ ˵ϳ 

˺ ˻ ˼

Poem no. 80 31  1. I shall describe [a hound], bounding between strides, scent-tracking, That raids game in open plain, spreads carnage among them. 2. Thrice-over it outstrips the sleek, emaciated game, Hungry at nightfall, hungry come morning. 3. Fast in stretched-out run, it speeds past them, As though to gather earrings off the ground.

In yet another example, poem no. 90, a broadening of the an>atuobjectivized description of hunting animals—perhaps hounds, but pos-



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sibly also hunt-trained leopards—takes place across a string of similes in lines 1– 3. This is followed by a rajaz-proper half-line (l. 4) in a language that contrasts sharply from figurative speech and thereby, both stylistically and prosodically, brings about a form-voiced closure —   mere form-devoid    telling us that this poem is no fragment but rather a genre-concrete ṭardiyyah:





ϊϳήδϟ΍ ͉ ˵ ό˴ ϧ˸ ΃ ΍ά˴ Ψ˴˸ η ˵Ϧϴτ˴Βϟ΍ ˵ρ ˸Ϯθϟ΍ Ύϫά˵ ˴Ψθ˸ ˴ϳ  ΍άϗ ϥΫ˸ ά˶ ˴ϗ ϻΎΜϣ˸ ˴΃ Ζ   ΍ά˴ Β˸ Ο Ϧ͉ ˵ϫ ά˵ ˶Β ˸Π˴Η Ύ˴Ϭ͉ϧ΄ϛ  ΍ά͉ Ο ˴ ˴ ˯˶ ΎΒψϟ΍ ˴ϒϠΧ˴  Ύ˱ϳί΍Ϯ˴ ˴ϧ   ΍ά˴͉ ϫ ϲ͊ δ˶ ˶Ϙϟ΍ Ύ˴ϬΗ˸ ά˴͉ ϫ Ϟ˶ Β˸ ͉ϨϟΎϛ  ΍ά͉ Ο ˴ Γ˶ ϼ˴ϔϟ΍ ˴ϥΎτϴϏ˶  ά˵͊ Π˴Η   ΍Ϋ˴ ϡ˸ ΃΍Ϊ˱˷ η˴ ˵ωήγ΃΍ΫέΩ΃ ˶ Ϣ˸ ϟ̀

˺ ˼ ˾

 Poem no. 90 32 1. I shall describe [hounds], the likes of finely feathered arrows, Well trimmed for a far stretch of flight. 2. Leaping after gazelles, snatching, As though pulling them from behind. 3. Cutting through depressed wastelands Like arrows just released from bows. 4. And I knew not, was this one swifter, or was that?33

A final example of Ibn al-Mu>tazz’s an>atu-type ṭardiyyah is the fiveline poem no. 113. It evolves even more fully into an object-directed description of five hunting hounds; and, despite this objective focusing or even because of it, it emerges as a ṭardiyyah not only in content but also in its self-contained form:

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160 THE HUNT POEM AS LYRIC GENRE IN CLASSICAL ARABIC POETRY

 ΰΟήϟ΍ ͉ ϼλ ˶ Ύ˴Ϩϣ˴  Ύ˴Ϭϫ˶ ΍Ϯ˴ ϓ˸ ΃ ϲϓ ϥ΄ϛ  ϼγ˶ ΍Ϯ˴ ϋ˴  Ύ˴Ϭ˴Ηή˴ΑΪ˴Θγ˸ ΍ ΍Ϋ· ϻ˱˷ ί˵  ˸ ˸ ό˴ ˴ϓέ˴  ͈ϒ˴ϛ Ϟ˶ ΜϤϛ ϼϣ˶ Ύ˴ϧ˴΃ Ζ  ˸ ˴ ˸ ϻϭ΍˴ Ϊ Ο Ύ Ϭ Θ Β δ Σ Ε Ϯ˴ ϫ  ϥ · ϭ ˴ ˴ ˴ ˶ ˴ ˶ ˶  ͉ ϛ˴ ϻ  ˴ ϭΎ ˶ ό˴ ϣ˴  Ύ˴Ϭϫ˶ ΍Ϯϓ˸ ΃ ϲϓ ϥ΄ 

 ϼ  ˱ Σ˶ ΍Ϯ˴ϧ ΍ ˱ήϣ˶ ΍Ϯ˴ ο ˴  Ύ˴Ϭ˵Θό˴ ϧ˸ ˴΃   ϼ˶ϳΎγ˴  ϭ ΍ή˱ ρ˶ Ύ˴Ϙ˴ϓ Ύ˱ϔρ΍Ϯ˴ ˶ ϧ   ϼ  ˴ γ˶ ϼ͉δϟ΍ ˵ΏΫ˶ ΎΠ˵Η ˱ΔϠ˶ϳΎΟ˴  ˸ ˴Ϙ˴Η ˸έ΍ ΍Ϋ·  ϼ˶Λ΍Ϯ˴ ϣ˴  Ύ˴Ϭ˴Θϳ˸ ˴΃έ˴  Ζ   ϼ˶ϳΎδ˴ Ϥ˴ ϟ΍ ˵ΐϠ͉τ˴Η ˲ΓέϮ˵π ˸Τϣ˴ 

˺ ˻ ˼ ˽ ˾ 

Poem no. 113 34  1. I shall describe them, slender, lean, As though from their mouths blades were jutting out. 2. Oozing, dripping, flowing, Lean of flank, their rumps shivering, 3. Racing, straining at the chains Like [five] fingers spoked out from an open palm. 4. When high above, they appear motionless, But dashing down, you think them rushing brooks. 5. As if by jinn possessed, they seek out river beds, Adze-like their jaws.

The Hunter in Subjective Stance: “wa qad aghtadī” The other formal and stylistic paradigm that specifies the ṭardiyyahs of Ibn al-Mu>tazz, and is the opposite of the objective or merely descriptive an>atu paradigm, is the paradigm of wa qad aghtadī (“I set out at daybreak”), which allows the poet to develop a pronouncedly subjective, participatory perspective from which to sustain, as his own privileged domain, a level of lyricism that suffuses the hunter’s surroundings. He achieves this effect mainly by capturing the moment of his setting out

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(wa qad aghtadī) and his entering the enchantment of the landscape of the hunt. In this, however, the poet goes beyond Imru< al-Qays’s classical chivalrous model of a hunt or chase on horseback (ṭard). Most important, he breaks out of the stylistically mechanical evocation of Imru< al-Qays, found since the late Umayyad beginnings of the ṭardiyyah (alShamardal) but, above all, rigorously observed in the early >Abbāsid ṭardiyyah exuberance, where it underwent its transformation from heroicdescriptive Bedouinity to the courtly lyricism epitomized by Abū Nuwās. In that >Abbāsid courtier-poet’s ṭardiyyahs, however, the Imru< al-Qaysian chivalrous icon of horse and chase, while becoming a new, paradigmatically almost obligatory matutinal moment of instantaneous lyricism, nevertheless seems unable to sustain that lyrical enchantment. Thus the Abū Nuwāsian lyricism of the wa qad aghtadī moment seems to end as soon as it begins, thereby producing, in most of his ṭardiyyahs of this type, no more than a poetically truncated, lyrically hollow, false beginning.35 It is left up to Ibn al-Mu>tazz to allow that moment of initial promise of lyrical enchantment to expand and permeate the modal and stylistic evolution of the ṭardiyyah. This expansion of lyricism in Ibn alMu>tazz’s “setting-out” ṭardiyyahs is not so uniform as to fully define the poem, but it can pervade even apparently nonlyrical motifs or images, such as the affect of hunt as blood sport. Ibn al-Mu>tazz is, therefore, not so much a lyrical poet of the ṭardiyyah as he is a poet of diverse lyricisms in the ṭardiyyah. In his diverse lyricisms, however, the signaling motif of the “setting-out” ṭardiyyah is still the Imru< al-Qaysian wa qad aghtadī. A characteristic variant of Ibn al-Mu>tazz’s lyricism, which is interwoven with a descriptive or even harshly dramatic “anti-lyricism,” is poem no. 108, consisting of seventeen speaks of a falcon    lines,  which  engaged in a hunt both as image and as act:





ΰΟήϟ΍ ͉ ϟ΍ ϲ˴ ͋ϠΠ˴˴ Η ϖ ˸ ˴ϧή͉ ϟ΍ Ζ ˶ ΤΗ Ϧϣ Γ˶ Ϯ˴ ϔ˸ μ  ϕ ˸ ˴ΰΣ ˶  Ϊ˴ ό˸ ˴Α Ύ˱ϗΰ˴ Σ˶  Ύϳή˴ ͊Μϟ΍ ϮϠΘΗ  ˲ ˴ ϖ˶Ϡ˴Η΄˴Η ϝϵ Α  Δ τ γ ΍ ϭ ˴Ϧϴ˴ ˶ ˳ ˴  ˴΃ ˸ ˵ϥΎ ϕ ˸ έ˴ ϭ˴  Ϧ˸ ϣ˶  Ρ˲ Ύ˴ηϭ ϭ΃ έϮ˴ ϧ  μ Ϗ ˴ ˶ ˳ 

͉ ϟ΍ ˯˵ ˸Ϯο  ϖ ˸ ˴Θ˴ϓϭ ΡΎ ˴  ϰ˴ϠΠ˴ ϧ˸ ΍ ΎϤ͉ ˴ϟ ˶ ˴Βμ  ˴ ˵ π  ϕ ˸ ΪΤ˴ ϟ΍ ΕΎ ϳ ή ϣ  Ϟ ϴϠϟ΍ Ϣ Πϧ ΃ϭ ˴ ˶ ˴ ˶ ˵  ͉ ˴ ͊μϟ΍  ϖ˴ηϭ ΢ ˵ Β ϯ ή ϓ  Ύ Ϭ ϧ ΄ϛ ˴ϦϴΣ ˴ ˴ ˴   ϖ ˸ ˵ϓϷ΍ ϰ˴Ϡϋ΃ ϲϓ ˯˵ ΍ ˴ί ˸ϮΠ˴ ϟ΍ ΎϤ˴ ͉ϧ˴΄ϛ˴ 

˺ ˻ ˼ ˽

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        ˴ ˸ ˴ ͉ ˸ ˴ ˴ ˴ ˸ ˴ ˸έ ϖ ˸ ˴Β˴ρ ν Ϸ΍ ϰ Ϡ ϋ  ϰ Ϙ ϟ ΃ ˵ Ϫ ϧ΄ ϛ    ϖ δ Η ΍ ήϐ Μ ϟΎϛ ϕ ήθ Ϥ ϟ΍ϲϓ ή ˵ Π ϔ ϟ΍ϭ ˴ ˴ ˶ ˶ ˶ ˴ ˶   ˸ ͉Ϩϟ΍ ΥέΎτ ˴ ˴ ˵ ˸ ˴Χ ˴ ϖ˵ϓ΃ ͋Ϟϛ ϲ˶ϓ Γ˶ ήψ Α    ϖ Ϡ Ϟ ϴϠϟ΍ Ώ Ϯ Λ  ϲ ϓ  Εϭ˴ Ϊ Ϗ ˴Ϧϣ ˳ ˶ ˶ ˶ ˶   ˸ ͉ η˴  ΍Ϋ˴ · ϰ˴Ϩϗ˸ ˴΃ ήδ ϖϠό˴ ˶Α ϡϮ  ϕ ˸ ή˴ ˴Χ Ϛ Ϩ ϣ  ϱ Ϋ ˳ π˴ΘΨϣ˵ ˶ ˶ ˳ ˴ϳ Ϟ͋ ϛ˵  ϲ˶ϓ ΐ ˳   ˸ ϋ ϞϜ˵ ˴ϓ ϖ ˸ ϣ˴ έ˴  ΍Ϋ· ˵Ϫ˵ϗΪ˵ ˸μ˴Η ˲Δ ˴ϠϘ˸ ϣ˵ ϭ˴  ϖϠ˴ϋ ΍Ϋ· Ϟ˲ μ ˶ ϔ˸ ϣ˴  Ϣ˶ ψ˴   ˴Ϸ΍ ϲϓ ˵ΐθ˶ Ϩ˸ ˵ϳ ˴΄ϛ˴ ˲ ˸ ͉ ˸ή˴ ϖ ˸ ˶Θ˴ϔϨ˸ ˴ϳ ϰ͉ΘΣ Β Η   ϕ έ ϭ ϼ Α Δ δ Ο ϧ  ΎϬ ϧ ˴ ΝΎ ˴ ˴ ˴ ˴ ˶ ˶ ˶   ϕ ˸ ί˵ ˴ ˴Βϣ˵  ϖ˴ϠΤϟ΍ ϑΎ Ύ˱Β˶ϟΎΨ˴ ϣ˴ ˳ έΎ ˴ ΍Ϋ· ϙ ˴ ˴ ϧ˸ ˴΃ ϞΜϤϛ ˶ μ ˶ ˶ έ Ϊ˴Ϙ˴ϓ ϯ΃έ   ͊ Ϝ˴ ϟ΍ ˵ϪΘ˸ ϣ˴ έ ϕ ˸ ή˴˶ Θ ˸Τ˴ϳ Ω˴ Ύϛ˴  ϒ  ϖΤ˶ ˴ϟ ΪϘ˴ϓ ϩ˶ Ϊ˶ ϴλ ˴ ϥ·ϭ ˴ ϮΤ˴ ˴ ϧ έ˴ Ύ˴ρ ϭ΃   ˵ ϴΣ ϕ ˸ ή˴ ˴ϔϟ΍ Ϟ˶ Β˴ϗ Ϧ˸ ϣ˶  ˴Ε ˸ϮϤ˴ ϟ΍ ˴Ϧϳ˸ ή˴ ˴ϳ ϰΘΣ  ϕ ˸ ή˴˴ Θϣ˸ ΍Κ˸ ˴ Ϧ˸ ϣ˶ ήϴ ˶ ͉τϟ΍ή˴ ϋ˸ Ϋ˵ ˵ϖ˶Β˸δ˴ϳ   ˵ ϕ ˸ Ϊ˶ Ϗ˴  ϲ͈ ͋Π˵ϟ Ϧ˶ Θ˸ ϣ˴  ϲ˶ϓ Ύ ˱Τ˶Α΍Ϯ˴ γ˴  ϖ ˸ Ϥ˴ γ˴  Ϊ˴ϗ ν έ  έ΍  Ϯ ϧ  ϲϓ β˴ ϧ ˸ϭ ˷ ˴ ˶ ˴ ΁ ˳   ˴ ͉ ˴ ϖ ˸ ˴ϧή͉ ϟ΍ ˯˴ ΍ά˴ ϗ˸ ΃ ΢˵ ϳ͋ήϟ΍ ˵ϪϨ˸ ϋ˴  ˵ϒθϜ˴  ϖ ˸ δ˴ ϐ˴ ϟ΍ ϲϓ Ρϻ ϴ Α Ϸ΍ ϖ ϔ θ ϟΎϛ ˴ ξ ˴ ˶ Η ˶ ˶   ˸ ˵ ˸ ˸ ˴ ˴ ˸ ˸ ˴ ˸π ϕ ˸ ή˴˶ ΘϤ˸ Ϥ˵ ϟ΍ ζϳ ή Ϥ ϟ΍ Ρ  Ϊ Ϙ ϟΎ ϛ  έΎ τ ϓ    ϖ ϟ   Ϊ Ϩ ϣ  ΐ ϋ  Θ ϣ  ϥϮ˵ ϴ Ϙ ϟ΍   ϲ Ϙ γ ˴ ˴ ˴Ϧ ˳ ˴ ˴ ˵ ˶ ˶ ˵ ˴ ˴ ˶ ˶ ˶   ϖ ˸ ό˶ λ ˵  ϭ΃ ΎϬϨϣ˶  ΏΎ  ϕ ˸ ή˴ Χ˴ ϰ͉ΘΣ ˴ λ ˴ ˴΃ ϱάϟ΍ ˴ΕΎϣ˴ ˴ Ϫ˶ γ˶ Ύ˴ρ ˸ή˴ϗϦ˴ϋ ˴ϑΎλ ˴ Ύϣ˴   ˴ ͉ ϕ ˸ ΰ˴ ϣ˶ νέϷ΍ϰϠ˴ ϋ  ζϳ͋ήϟ΍ ή ϴ ρ ϭ  ˺̀ ˴ ˴ ˶

 ˾ ˿ ̀ ́ ̂ ˺˹ ˺˺ ˺˻ ˺˼ ˺˽ ˺˾ ˺˿

 Poem no. 108 

36

1. When the light of morning cleared, and broke through In pristine radiance from under the night’s murk, 2. And when the stars still blinked with languid pupils, The Pleiades followed in successive swarms 3. As though, when the morning burst and split, They were the center jewel among shining pearls. 4. As though Gemini, highest above the horizon, Were blossom-clad branches or sashes of leaves,

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5. And in a straight row of smiling teeth, the dawn rallied in the east, As though it had thrown over the earth a golden spread. 6. [Then] I set out, clad in the night’s threadbare cloak, With a falcon, its glance cast far about the horizon. 7. Its beak hooked: when it pierces it transpierces, Every day with blood-clots stained, 8. Every bone a loose joint, yet clenched, The eyeball awry yet fixed— 9. Like a narcissus flower without leaves. Its talons like half-coronets,37 10. It sinks into the back’s midst till it slits— No sooner seen than blessed for gain secured. 11. Or it flies to its quarry, and attains it in one swoop, And once the hand releases it, it’s almost on fire! 12. Faster than the quarry-birds’ own panic’s source, So they see death before they feel the fright. 13. Among meadows’ tall-grown flowers, from afar, it catches sight Of water-fowl,38 [as if] in the midst of a far-flung sea. 14. Pale as twilight before nightfall And cleared of all dust by the wind. 15. Tempered like a pliant sword-blade’s edge, It flies off like a feathered arrow shaft, 16. That does not miss the target-skin, but pierces through it. Everything it reaches succumbs as though by thunder struck, 17. And on the ground the feathers fly in tatters.

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The Imru< al-Qaysian signature of “setting-out” extends firmly over the first six lines in a lyrical continuum of imagist quality that is internally upheld by four similes. In line 6, with the signature-verb ghadawtu (“I set out at daybreak”), the lyrical entrance into the enchantment of the morning of the hunt ends, and the description of the magnificently fierce bird of prey (ll. 6–17) begins. In line 17 the poem achieves a threefold closure: of formal ending on a prosodically sufficient halfline; of a quasi-narrative effect of denouement, as winding down of the “story” of the hunt; and, poetically most conclusively, with a rare lyrical comprehensiveness and acquiescence into an imagist metaphrase of “the end of the fray.” With foresight, if not with something resembling pathetic concurrence rather than pathetic fallacy, Ibn al-Mu>tazz’s poem of a hunt with falcon-as-bird-of-prey directs the hunter’s eye and the poet’s imagination toward the visual magnificence of the fading night and the breaking day playing out on the sky-plain above him—far beyond what Imru< al-Qays was willing to reveal, and also far above what seemed to interest Abū Nuwās. Even from the inception or the first thought of his hunt, Ibn al-Mu>tazz raised himself with his eyes and imagination into the sky of the “setting-out,” together with the falcon. More condensed in size, but structurally, thematically, and stylistically no less complex and intertwined of lyricism, is Ibn al  with strains  Mu>tazz’s poem no. 87, a seven-line ṭardiyyah:





ΰΟήϟ΍ ͉ έ Ϊ˸ ˴Ϡ˴Βϟ΍ Ϫ˶ ˸Οϭ˴  ϰ˴Ϡϋ˴  ϕ ˴ Ϊ˴ϗ Ϟ˵ ϴϠϟ΍ϭ  Ϊ˸ ˶Ϙ͉Θ˴ϳ ϡ˶ ϼ˴ ͉ψϟ΍ Ϟϴϟ ϲϓ ή˵ ˸Π˴ϔϟ΍ϭ ˶  Ω˸ ΰ˴˶ Ηϭ˳ Ϊ˸ ϋ˴ Ϧ˸ ϣ˶ ˵ρ ˸Ϯθ͉ ϟ΍Ύ˴ϫΩ˸ ΰ˴˶ Θδ˸ ˴ϳΎϣ˴  ˸ ΪϏ˴  ϭ Ω˸ ή˴ ͉τϟ΍ Ϟ˵ ϴ˸ Χ˴  Ε˴ ˴ Ύ˴ϧ ˸ϭ˴ΪϏ˴  ΎϤ͉ ϟ  Ϊ˸ ό˴ ˴ϗϭκϳήΤϟ΍ ˵ϥΎτϴηϡ˴ Ύϗϭ˴  Ω˸ Ϊ˵ Ο˵ ϝΎ˷δϏ˯˵ ϼϣ˵ Ϫ͉ϧ΄ϛ˴  Ϊ˸ ό˵ ˴ΑΪϗΎϣΎϫΪϨϋΐϳήϘϟ΍˵ϞΜ˸ ϣ˶ 

˵ ΪϏ˴  Ω˸ Ϊ˴ ˶ϘϟΎϛ ϒπ ϐ˵ ˶Α Ϊ˶ ϴ͉μϠϟ Εϭ˴ ˳   Ω˸ ή˴ ˴Αϭ Ϣϴδ ˶ ͉Ϩϟ΍ ϝ˵ Ύ˴Αήγ˶  Ϟ͉ ˴ΘΑ˸ ΍ϭ  ˲ Ϭ˶ ˴ΘϨϣ˵  ϒ ˲ λ  Ϊ˸ ϣ˴ ˴ϸϟ ΕΎϴ ˶ ΍Ϯ˴ ϋ˴   Ϊ˸ ό˶ ˴Η ˸ϱΪ˶ ϳ˴Ϸ΍ϭϞ˵Οέ˴Ϸ΍ϲπ ˶ ˴ΘϘ˸ ˴Ηϭ   Ϊ˸ ϋ˴ έϭ ˴ ˯˵ Ύπ˴ϔϟ΍ξ ˶ ϛ˸ ή͉ ϟΎΑ˴ϕή˸˴ Α˴΃    Ϊ˸ ϛ˴ έϭ˯ΎϤδϟ΍ϲϓϊ Ϙ˸ ˴ϧέΎρϭ ˴   ˸ ˴ϳϭϞ˴ Ϭ˸ δϟ΍Ύϫ˵ήθ˵ Ϩ˸ ˴ϳ  Ω˸ Ϊ˴ Π˴ ϟ΍ΎϬϳϮτ

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Poem no. 87 39 1. With lop-eared hounds, as lean as thongs, I set out to hunt as the morning broke Over land’s face, the night still gauze-like, 2. Moist the soft breeze’s cloak, soothingly cool, Candescent in the dark the dawn. 3. Whirlwind-quick [the hounds], pointed for the hunt, Whatever pace the chase calls for, they better: 4a. The hind-legs call, the fore-legs promise, 4b. When with the morning we set out with our steeds of chase. 5. In our gallop, lightning and thunder fill the space, Once and again, like Satan’s bursting cloud. 6. The dust raised in the sky first stirs, then settles. Like new sheets of a woman’s laid-out wash, 7. Thin sand spreads them, rolls them over the plain And what is close seems already far.

As we find out in the course of the poem (l. 4), Ibn al-Mu>tazz’s company of hunters “sets out,” mounted on their horses of chase (wa ghadat khaylu ṭ-ṭarad).40 But first (l. 3), the speed and efficacy of the chase itself is consigned to the hunt-eager hounds and is captured more as image or presentation than as description. Keeping in mind the Imru< al-Qaysian and, affirmedly, Abū Nuwāsian paradigmatic marker of “setting-out” in ṭardiyyah no. 108—a thematic and stylistic characteristic discussed above—we realize further that in this particular ṭardiyyah (no. 87), this marker occurs not once but twice: as the key to line 1 (ghadawtu li ṣ-ṣaydi) and, subsequently, as the precise midpoint of the ṭardiyyah’s structure, where it is introduced by the potentially narrative lammā (when) that opens line 4b. In its rajaz metrical quality, l. 4b does not produce so much a hemistich as an independent rajaz-sanctioned

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line-unit that introduces a new theme/motif.41 In line 4b there occurs a transition, or change of orientation: not only of motif but of motifdirected meaning, which is signaled by the special second marker (lammā ghadawnā). The poem undergoes its sonnet-like turn or refocusing. This may sound literary-historically anachronistic, because our recognition of the structural and thematic pattern of an Arabic lyrical poem—such as this ṭardiyyah of the late ninth century CE—would then itself be relegated to remaining a theoretically unacknowledged void of “point of departure,” without formal and hermeneutic anchoring. To remedy this problem, we should train ourselves to recognize, or retrace, poetic structural patterns, especially those of shorter yet structurally resilient lyrical poetic forms, which in themselves may be ruled by a culturally broader sense of affective and visual/perspectival modulation—and thus, analogically, by sonnet-like “turns” and “departures.”42 The “turn” in line 4 of ṭardiyyah no. 87 is thus signaled by the repetition of the familiar Imru< al-Qays– derived “setting out” marker, which, first in lines 1– 2, announced the now court-tamed, >Abbāsid hunterpoet’s entry into the privileged space of the hunt. That privileged space was to be illuminated as a locus of sensibility, although in most ṭardiyyah poetry, including this poem, it often proved too difficult to sustain itself as a lyrical focus.43 With line 4, the epithetically evoked hunting hounds of line 3, which had dislodged the focus of the poem’s lyrical locus of sensibility in its opening, have to cede ground to the second Imru< al-Qaysian marker in the poem’s motival, but also structural, “turn” (l. 4). Again, the poet-hunter “sets out”—perhaps still hanging on to the feeling of the “hunter’s break of day” (ghadawnā wa ghadat khaylu ṭ-ṭarad); but rather than revisiting feelings of lyrical, genteel elation, in his now changed (“turned”) poem he reverts to a state of the still heroic, chivalrous hunter, closer in word and deed to his perennial model and symbol, Imru< al-Qays. The distinct second section (ll. 4– 7) of ṭardiyyah no. 87 thus becomes a bravura display of chase and horsemanship, a veritable “ṭard”—with cosmic metaphoric overtones, then a disarming almost domestic simile, and a view of the desert as if it were in overlaying motion, where near is far and far is near. In such a manner, too, the hunt ends, and so does—in a distinct closure—its poem. The spirit of this seven-line ṭardiyyah, in one tonality or another, is nevertheless its all-engulfing lyricism.

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In other ṭardiyyahs of Ibn al-Mu>tazz, such as poem no. 68, the hounds, whether explicitly denoted or epithetically evoked, displace the hunter-poet. Here (l. 2), it is the hounds that, like thinly silhouetted airy streamers, enter the privileged lyrical space of the hunt. Only the hunterpoet’s eye will be allowed to follow them (ll. 5– 6), where, in the distance, they will resemble no more than black, wavy calligraphic streaks. As in      poems nos. 108, 90, and 93 above, and nos. 68 and 96 below, the closure is marked by an independent standing rajaz/ṭardiyyah half-line: 



ΰΟήϟ΍ ˸ ˴ΑΎ˴Ϗϭ˴  ΎϨ˴ϟ ˯˶ ΍ί˴ ϮΠϟ΍ Ϣ˵ Π˵ ϧ΃ Ζ  ˯˶ ΎϴπϟΎΑ ϡ˵ ϼψϟ΍ ϰϠΠ˴ ϧ˸ ΍ ΎϤ˴ϟ ˴   ˵ ή˸˴ γ˴΃ ˯˶ Ύπ  ˯˶ ΍Ϯ˴ ˴Ϭϟ΍ Ϧϣ ΕΪ͉ ˵ϗ ΎϤ͉ϧ˴΄ϛ˴ ˴ Ϗ˸ ˶· ϰϟ· Ϧ˳ ϔΟ˴  Ϧ˸ ϣ˶  ω   ˷ ˴ ˸ ˴ ˸ή ˸ ˯˶ ΍ή˴ ˸πΧ˴  Γ˳ ή˴ ο Ύ˴ ϧ  Δ ο έ  ϲϓ    ˯ Ύ Β ψϟ΍ Ϧϣ Ύ˱ Α γ  Εή μ Α ΄ ϓ ˸ϭ ˳ ˴ ˴ ˴ ˶ ˶ ˴ ˶   ˵ ϳέ˴  ˴Ζ˴Βϧ˸ ˴΃ Ύϣ˴  Δ͉πϏ˴ ˯˶ Ύ˴ϴϋ˸ ˶· ϼ˴ ˶Α Ϧ˵͉ ϬΗ˸ έ˴ Ω˴ Ύ˴ϐ˴ϓ  ˯Ύ ˶ Ϥ˴ ϟ΍ ϖ   ˯˶ ΍˴ΩϮγ˴  Ϣ˳ ˴Ϡ˴ϗ Ϧϣ˶  Γ˳ Ϊ͉ Ϥ˴ ˶Α  ϲ˶΋Ύ˴Ϩ˴Η ϰ˴Ϡϋ˴  ϲψ˶ ˸Τ˴ϟ Ύ˴ϬϬ͉Βη˴   ˯˶ Ύϣ˴ Ϊ͋ ϟΎΑϡϮΤ  ˴ ή˴Η˺˺ ˶ ͊Ϡϟ΍Ϧϣϰο Poem no. 68 44 1. When the darkness before us dissolved into light And Gemini’s stars took flight, 2. [My hounds], like sliced out airy streamer stripes, Faster than the blink of an eye, 3. Caught sight of a herd of antelope In a green, florid meadow 4. Lush as any by fresh water nurtured. With ease, [my hounds] there left them, 5. And there, in the corner of my eye, they appeared to me Like black calligraphic strokes of a writing reed, 6. Left to feast on blood not meat.

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In our next example, poem no. 96, we are drawn, despite a highly confusing transmission and redaction,45 by a finer, more delicate web of lyricism. The still remaining—and thus resulting—ṭardiyyah preserves Ibn al-Mu>tazz’s deeply felt lyricism of the “setting-out,” as well as giv     ing validity to line 7 as the formally characteristic topical signing off, prosodically freestanding rajaz “half-line”:



ΰΟήϟ΍ ˸β˴ϔ˴ϧ Ϟ˶ ϴϠϟ΍ϰΟ˵˴ Ωϲ˶ϓ νΎ  ˸β˴Ϡϐ˴ ˶Α ϭ͋ Ϊ˵ ϐ˵ ϟ΍ Ϟ˴ Β˸ ˴ϗ ϱΪ˶ ˴ΘϏ˸ ˴΃ Ϊ˸ ˴ϗ ˶ ˴ϳή͋ Ϡ˶ϟϭ   β˴ϠΟ˴ ϭ˴  ϡϼ˴υ ϲ˶ϓ έ˵ Ύ˴Ϭ͉Ϩϟ΍ ϡ˴ Ύ˴ϗ  β˴Β˴ϘϟΎ˸ ϛ˴ ϰ͉ϧΪ˴ ˴ΗϢ˵ Π͉Ϩϟ΍΍Ϋ·ϰΘΣ˴   αή˴ Ϥ˴ ϟ΍ έ˴ ΍ή˴ ϣ˸ ˶· ή͉ ϣ˶ ˵΃ Ξ˴ϠϤ˸ Τ˴ ϣ˵  β˴ϔϨϟ΍ Ϊ͋ ˴ΘϤ˸ ϣ˵  Δ˶ ˴ΒΛ˸ Ϯ˴ ϟ΍ ϖ Σ ϼ ˶ ˶ ˶Α   αή˴˶ Θϔ˸ ˴ϳϰ͉ΘΣ˴ ή˴ ˵ϳϢ˸ ˴ϟ΍˴Ϊϋ˴ ΍Ϋ˴ ·˽

˺ ˻ ˼

Poem no. 96 46 1. In the dark before dawn, I set out, While the meadows still breathe out the murk of night, 2. Till the star, like a live coal, droops ever lower, And restless, out of the dark, wakes the day, 3. [With a hound], of wide-reaching leap, long breath: A rope twined, well twisted, string-like, . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7. Invisible when it dashes out, till it pounces on the prey.

The full expanse of lyricism in Ibn al-Mu>tazz’s “setting-out” ṭardiyyahs, however, is nowhere better displayed than in the final example we will discuss, his nineteen-line poem no. 92. It illustrates further his distinct preference for the “subjective” ṭardiyyah-stance of qad aghtadī over the self-distancing, and thereby objectivizing, stance of an>atu in his other, less frequent and less commanding, “descriptive” ṭardiyyahs. In this poem he confirms, with full self-consciousness of style, his deci-

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sive ṭardiyyah sensibility, which to him is a sensibility of lyricism. In this respect he is also more integrally lyrical than Abū Nuwās.47 ṭardiyyah no. 92 vaunts Ibn al-Mu-driven, indulgence of structure or else, con a structure’s   latent,  versely, the hidden paradox of indomitable rigor.



 ΰΟήϟ΍ ή˶ϔδ˸ ϣ˵  Ϟϴ ˳ ˴ϟ Γή˵ρ ϲ˶ϓ ΢˸Β ˷μϟ΍ϭ  ήϋά˸ ˵Η Ϣ˸ ˴ϟ ΎϬ˶ϧΎ˴ρ ˸ϭ˴΃ ϲ˶ϓ ˵ζΣϮϟ΍ϭ  ήψϨ˸ ϣ˴  Ϧ˴˸ ϋ ϯή˴Μϟ΍ Ϫ ˸Οϭ˴  ΎϨ˴ϟ ϼΟ˴  ήϫϮΠϟΎ˸ ϛ˴  ˸ϭ˴΃ ϲηϮ˴ ϟΎϛ˴  ϭ˴΃ ΐ ˸πό˴ ϟΎϛ  ή˴ϐϔ˸ ˴ϳ Ϣ˴ϟ ΎϤ˴ϓ Ϧϴόϟ΍ ϪϟΎ ˴Ψ˴Η  ήθ˶ Ϝ˵ ˴ϳ Ϣ˸ ˴ϟ Ϣδ˴˶ ΘΒ˸ ϣ˵  Ϫϧ˴΄ϛ  ή˴ ˶ θ˸Ϩϣ˴  ϲ˶ϓ Ϣ˲ ϫ˶ ΍έ˴˴ Ω ΎϬϧ˴΄ϛ˴  ήπ ˴ Χ˸ ˴΃ Ϯ͈ Ο ˴ ˯˶ ΎΤ ˸ο˴΃ ϲ˶ϓ ˵βϤ˸ θϟ΍ ϭ  ήϫί˸ ˴Ϸ΍ Ν΍ήδϟΎϛ ΍έ˱ Ύ˴Ϙϋ˵  ϰ˴Ϙδ˸ ˵ϧ ˴  έϮ˴ ˸Σ˴΃ ϝ΍ ˴ΰ˴Ϗ ϒ ͊ ϛ˴  Ύϫ˵ήϳΪ˶ ˵Η  ή˴ϫ ˸ϮΟ Ϧ˴ϋ Ϫ˵ϔθ˶ Ϝ˸ ˴ϳ Ϣ˴ΜϠ˸ ϣ˴  ϭ˴ ˴  ˸ ˵ ˸ ήϤ˴ ˸πϣ˵  ϖ θ ό Α  ϩ Ύ˴ Ϩ ϴ ϋ  ή ˵ Β Ψ ˴ ˵ ˳ ˶˶ ˶ Η  ˸ ˸ ήϤ˴ ϗ΃ ίΎ Β Α Ϊ ϴ μϟ΍ ή˴ ϋ ά˴ ϧ ϭ ˴ ˴ ˳  ήΠ˴ ˸ΤϤ˴ ϟ΍ ϕ ˴ Ϯ˴ϓ Ν˵ ή˸˴ δ˵Η Δ˳ ˴ϠϘϣ˵  ϱΫ˶  ή˵ϔ ˸μ˵όϟΎ˶Α ΎΨ˱ Ϥ͉ π ˵Ϫ˵ϟΎΨ˴ ˴Η ˴ ϣ˵  

 ήϤ͉ ͊πϟ΍ ΩΎϴΠϟ΍ ϰϠ˴ϋ ϱΪ˴ΘϏ˸ ˴΃ Ϊ˸ ˴ϗ   ή˴Ϙη˸ ˴΃ ήϬ ˳ ϣ˵  ˵ΓήϏ˵  Ϫ͉ϧ˴΄ϛ˴   ήτ˶ Ϥ˸ ϣ˵ ϞϴϠ˶Α˲ϝϮδϐ˸ ϣ˴  ˵νϭήϟ΍ϭ˴   ή˳ Ϥ˴ ˸Σ˴΃ϭ ή˳ π ˴ Χ˸ ˴΃ ϭ ξϴ˸ ˳ Α˴΃ Ϧϣ˶   ή˵ψϨ˸ ˴Η Ϣ˴ϟ Ϫ˵ϧΎ˴ϔ ˸Ο˴΃ ϑέΎρ ˳ ϭ˴   έ˶ Ϯ˷ ˴Ϩ˵ϳ Ϣϟϭ Ω Ύϛ ϖ ΗΎϓϭ ˴ ˴ ˳   έ˶ Ϊ͉ Ϝ˴ ˴Η Ϣϟ ϥ΍έΪ˸ ϐ˵ ϟ΍ ϊ˵ ϣ˵ Ω˴΃ϭ   ή˶ θ˱˷ ˴ϨϤ˵ ϟ΍ ϒΤ˴ ˸μϤ˵ ϟ΍ έϮθ˵ ό˵ ϛ˴  ˸ϭ˴΃   ήΠ ˶ ˸Τϣ˴  ϲϓ Γή΋Ύ ˶ Σ˴  Δ˳ ό˴ ϣ˸ Ϊ˴ ϛ˴   ή˴Ϙό˸ ˵Η Ϣϟ ϥ˶· ή˶Ϙό˸ ˴Η Δϣ˴ ΍˴Ϊϣ˵   ήΒϨ˸ ό˴ ϟΎϛ Γ˳ ήρ˶ Ύ˴ϗ Γή˵ρ ϱΫ˶   έΰ˴ Ό˸ Ϥ˶ ϟ΍ Ϟ˴ ˸π˴ϓ Ϟ˵ ϐ˴ θ˴ϳ Ϟϔϛ˴ ϭ˴   ήΠ˵ ϔ˸ ˴ϳ Ϣ˸ ϟ Ϧϣ έ˴ Ϯ˵Π˵ϔϟ΍ Ϣ˵ ͋Ϡό˴ ˵ϳ   έέ˷ ΰ˴ ϣ˵  Ϧ ˳ η˴ ˸ϮΟ ϲϓ ˵Ϫ͉ϧ˴΄ϛ˴ ˴   ήΠ˴ Ϩ˸ Ψ˶ ϟΎϛΎ˴Βθ͉ ϟ΍ ΐ ˶ ˸πϋ˴  ή˳ δ˴ Ϩ˸ ϣ˶ ϭ 

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 ˸ή͉ΒΤ˴ ϣ˵  Ϣ˴˳ ϨϤ˴˸ Ϩϣ˵  Ά˳ Ο˵ Ά˵˸ Οϭ˴  ήϛ͉ ά˴ Ϥ˵ ϟ΍ Ϟ˶ μ ˵ Ϩ˸ Ϥ˵ ϟΎϛ˴  ΐ ˳ ˴ϧΫ˴ ϭ˴  ˴ ήδ˶ Ϝ˸ ˴Η Ϣ˸ ˴ϟ ϥ˸ ˶· Ϟ˵ μϔ˸ ˴Η Δ˳ π˸ Β ϗ ϭ ˴ ˴  ήϤ͋ θ˴ Ϥ˵ ϟ΍ Δ˶ ˴ϧΩ˸ ή˵ ϛ˴  ˵ϪΣ˵ Ύ˴ϨΟ˴ 

     







 έ͉ϭΪ˴ Ϥ˵ ϟ΍ ή˶ Π˴ ΤϟΎϛ Δ˳ ϣΎϫ ϭ ˴  ͇ έ ή˵τγ˸ ˴Ϸ΍ ϲ͊ ˶ϔΧ˴  ϕ ˵Ϫϧ΄ϛ ˶  ήθ͉ ˴ϘϤ˵ ϟ΍ Δ˶ ό˴ Ϡ˸͉τϟ΍ ϰ˴ϨΠ˴ ϛ˴  ϭ˴΃  ήϤ˴ ˸Σ˴Ϸ΍ ϥ˶ Ύ˴Β˴Θγ˸ Ϊ͉ ϟ΍ ϕ ˴ Ϯ˴ϓ κ ˴ ͉Ϡ˴ϗ 

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 Poem no. 92 48 1. Oft, with the break of dawn, I set out on slender steeds, The morning, dawning on the crown of night 2. Like the forehead blaze of a sorrel colt— When still in their coverts, the wild beasts sense no fright, 3. When the meadow is bathed in nighttime rainfall And, in full sight, the earth’s face bares itself before us: 4. Of white, of green, and red, Like a sword’s glitter, a silken brocade, or a pearl, 5. A blink through lids not meant to look, To the eye, a mouth unopened, 6. Barely slit, not shining through, Like a mouth smiling, not baring the teeth, 7. [But] teardrops in unmuddied pools, Like silver coins on a platter spread, 8. Or the QurAbbāsid hunter-poet obliquely evokes Imru< al-Qays’s still echoing back, wa ṭ-ṭayru fī wukunātihā (“while the birds are still in their nests”). But

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from here to the ṭardiyyah’s end, the price for archaic homages and allusions seems to have been paid in full. The poet is now in possession of a new domain. There he is allowed to give free hand to an almost playful, uncontrollably exuberant, emotive release of sense perception — and of freedom even from apparent formal dictates, such as the structuring of motifs. Ibn al-Mu>tazz, now much more the sensitivity-honed poet than a quarry-tracing hunter, continues in his purely visual, no longer equestrian, incursion into the glory of his morning of “vision,” where, bathed in night’s rain, the poetically archaic Bedouin meadow, arrawḍu (l. 3), “bares itself ” to him, and the earth’s face is transformed into “a sight to behold” (manẓar)49—thus becoming pure “vision” and a bubbling revelry of colors (l. 4): “of white, of green, and red,” at first still close to the “earth’s face” and perhaps to the hunter’s meadow. But then, suspended in a simile, abandoned, or perhaps transcended, those colors become the new, distinctly “courtly” variants and refractions of vision released into metaphors. They join in the vision of the hunt as a “courtly” pageantry of splendor: of the sword’s glistening steel, of silken brocade, of pearls.50 And then the pageantry of the splendor of what was meant to have been a vision of rain-bathed meadows and balmy soil takes its own further course. Its metaphoric light filters through “lids not meant to look,” “a mouth unopened” (l. 5), only to linger on a mouth (l. 6) “barely slit . . . , smiling, not baring the teeth,” like “teardrops in unmuddied pools,” or “silver coins on a platter spread” (l. 7). Ibn al-Mu>tazz then produces his daring poetic and rhetorical leap of badī> surprise. Those pristine abstractions of colors of flowers on the hunter’s meadow, those “courtly” symbols of pageantry, the intimacy of a maiden’s lips, her pearly teeth like teardrops in clear water, like strewn silver coins—all this evokes or is comparable to the Qurtazz’s ṭardiyyah are now omnidirectional and all-embracing. His lyricism has come into

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full bloom, even if in its self-infatuation it also acquires a distinct intolerance for the rules of the courtly hunt itself. For in this ṭardiyyah’s basic structure and semiotics, the motif of a ritual banquet that concludes the hunt (ll. 9b–13a) is also the motif proper to the wine poem. In this affective state of vague quasi-abstraction, however, a new, formunfettered lyricism has now claimed its own “form.” This form appears to be that of an idyll. As pure lyricism, with a badī> freedom over antiquated strictures of structure, the ṭardiyyah’s lines 9b–13a thus both anticipate the as yet unfulfilled hunt and also displace its claim to the structural ṭardiyyah order. Here Ibn al-Mu>tazz’s poem is in the spell of the stronger currents of uncompromising, courtly lyricism of the new, untrammeled ceremony of the idyll. The scene left behind could still be that of a ṭardiyyah banquet, but in its new badī> reality it is not that, or not any longer. It is only, and above all, a celebration of beauty: an idyll, and as such, responsible for the justification of the unjustifiable. Thus, instead of searching lines 9b –13a for a formal or pseudoformal derailed closure, we should accept the present—even if “structurally” not wholly harmonious—reading of the poem as that reading emerges out of the poetic text in its present redaction.51 Such a “formal” leniency will also allow us to dwell further on the idyll or the idyllic and on its determining presence in the poem. Let us first take note of the idyllic qualities of the preceding meadow passage, where an interplay of the colorations of the idealized meadow has prevailed: flooded by the full glory of the hunter’s morning sun, then transforming itself into the light and splendor of artifice and symbols of pageantry, then allowed to toy with similes that build on allusions to female grace, and finally, even bringing into such contexts the materiality of a Qur-primed, idyllic meadow of the >Abbāsid courtly hunter that the fully elicited courtly idyll airily appears with its subtly controlling sensations and images— images whose traditional Arabic genre-domain is the ghazal (erotic

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lyric) and the khamriyyah (wine poem). We may also affirm our genreidentification of Ibn al-Mu>tazz’s bacchic idyll (ll. 9b–13a) by invoking the no less clear, visual idyll of the Venetian Renaissance painter Giorgione’s Fête Champêtre.52 The analogically evocative scene of lines 9b–13a thus emerges as a representative of the idyll as an Arabic poetic genre. In its compressed— but not stifled—formal succinctness, it is both pictorial and narrative, and in its content and mood undeviatingly idyllic. By applying to it the genre-term of the idyll (beyond the more broadly epithetic “idyllic”), we furthermore recognize how much this bacchic passage shares a short and episodic form of description and narrative in precisely the same sense as the term had gained genre-currency in Greco-Roman antiquity, where its epithetic name comes close to being a basic formdescription and definition. It is the Greek eidyllion or the Latin idyllium, a “short/little,” and merely “episodic” form (Grk. ëidos). It is also part of the Hellenistic conventions of the Pastoral as these conventions were developed by the Alexandrian school of lyrical, or lyrico-narrative, poetry of the third century BCE, chiefly by Theocritus, Bion, and Moschus.53 Indeed, the Pastoral is not generically alien or even novel compared to Arabic lyrical poetry, where, for example in the opening motifs of the Mu>allaqah of the pre-Islamic poet Labīd Ibn Rabī>ah, we are introduced to the peaceful and pristine, indeed pastoral-idyllic, rarefied sensibility of a genre that, in Arabic critical parlance, we were supposed not yet to have known.54 The evidence, both in form and theme, that outside the Pastoral there exists a further strain of the idyll in Ibn al-Mu>tazz’s ṭardiyyah no. 92 is not lacking in that poetry’s broad diapason of lyricism. This, however, should not be viewed as fully innovative. The matrix of the idyll as courtly theme or motif is, nevertheless, not the Umayyad ghazal or the >Abbāsid khamriyyah, but rather the distinctly courtly development in the early >Abbāsid qaṣīdah, within its fully courtly nasīb,55 which, with fully courtly entitlement, engendered a fully courtly idyll. This we already know from our discussion of ṭardiyyah no. 93 (above), which lies much closer to the qaṣīdah as mother-form, as well as to the still strongly classical elegiac-idyllic nasīb of the early >Abbāsid courtier-poet Abū al>Atāhiyah. But while ṭardiyyah no. 93, with its maṭla>-like opening half-

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line “lahfī >alā dahri ṣ-ṣibā l-qaṣīrī,” reminds us of Ibn al-Mu>tazz’s primarily elegiac dependence on Abū al->Atāhiyah’s nasīb opening of his “lahfī >alā z-zamani l-qaṣīrī,” this is no longer the case in ṭardiyyah no. 92. Even if Ibn al-Mu>tazz still vividly remembers the model-poem by Abū al->Atāhiyah (and how could he have forgotten it after the lahfī opening of his own poem no. 93, quoted above?), his poem no. 92 is no longer tinged by the nasīb-conditioned elegiac sense of loss of Abū al>Atāhiyah’s idyll. In no. 92, that idyll has remained, but its elegiac coloration has dissipated. Ibn al-Mu>tazz’s poem is a pristine, joyously courtly idyll even while recognizing the scope of Abū al->Atāhiyah’s much more elaborated and elaborate nasīb-idyllic scenes in his nasīb’s lines 2 to 17, within which that nasīb poet also sees his courtly gathering as “a youthful lot that is falconlike” (l. 3), as if they too were taking part in a ṭardiyyah, and as if their “valor did not falter in passion’s face” (l. 4). Such valor and such passion in Abū al->Atāhiyah’s poem are the introduction to scenes that are at first bacchic (ll. 5– 7), then insinuatingly erotic (ll. 8–14), and finally, “of triple pageant of grace and beauty, of intimacy’s lure and silken pomp” (ll. 15–17). They are also the scenes and motifs that, projected from Abū al->Atāhiyah’s nasīb onto Ibn alMu>tazz’s ṭardiyyah no. 92, explain not only its lines 9b to 13a but also provide the bridge (otherwise one of pure parataxis) between that line segment and its preceding, pageant-like segment of ll. 4– 9a. There is also a broad lyrical intertextuality between this ṭardiyyah and the blend of lyricism and eros of Abū al->Atāhiyah’s idyll (ll. 5–14, but also ll. 15–16). Before appealing to the need for, or availability of, a second paratactic leap that would connect the idyll-segment of this ṭardiyyah’s lines 9b –13a with the concluding theme-and-business of the hunt (ll. 13b–19), let us return to the two obligatory, Imru< al-Qaysian opening lines. The poet begins telling the story of the hunt: “Oft, with the break of dawn, I set out . . .” (l. 1), “. . . When still in their coverts, the wild beasts sense no fright” (l. 2)—only to pursue with full formal irony and unconcern the two intervening and even distracting lyrical segments of the poem: the meadow (ll. 3– 9a) and the wine scene (ll. 9b–13a). The purpose in the poet’s mind, then, is to create an unperturbed text and story of the hunt itself, as that text/story will offer itself in the ṭardiyyah’s concluding segment (ll. 13b–19), and to allow for a seamless

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merging with the Imru< al-Qaysian intoning of the ṭardiyyah-opening marker: “We startle the game with a bright-colored falcon” (l. 13b). In this continuum, arrived at by way of excision (only as a hermeneutical tool, or “crutch”) of the middle section of the poem (ll. 9b–13a), no parataxis is involved or necessary. The imaginary ṭardiyyah-as-text becomes clear. But it must not be seen—in an Ibn al-Mu>tazzian sense of form—as a sufficient ṭardiyyah. It is different, and, in its parataxis requiring wholeness, despite its lyrical variegations, it is as complex as it is transparent. Literary criticism involved with such poetry must learn to live and aesthetically prosper in its unaccustomed awareness of the many mirror-images of itself which that poetry is capable of and, above all, of the paratactic translucencies it offers and hermeneutically demands.56 In the closing segment of the hunt (ll. 13b–19), we are faced with a bare description-as-depiction: of very precise strokes of pen, or brush, but, above all, of a falconer’s unfailing registry of observation and familiarity with images—where the falcon’s feathered “coat” becomes a “coat of mail with buttons garnished” (l. 14); the hooked, sharp-pointed beak is “dagger-like, . . . with safflower daubed” (l. 15); the bird’s head a rounded pebble — but not avoiding association with an imposingly larger “rounded stone” that may even remind us of a pre-Islamic poet’s exaggerated description of a she-camel’s skull57 (l. 16); where the delicate tones of the bird’s subtly striped breast blend and become “like a parchment’s faded lines”—once again with archaic associations reaching into the fading of script-like remains of Bedouin encampment traces (ll. 16–17); and “a tail like a steeled blade” (l. 17); but also, barely escaping a paradox, like “a peeled palm-spadix, freshly plucked” (l. 18);58 and with the falcon’s wing, tucked up over a red anklet-dastabān, “like the cuff of a sleeve rolled up” (l. 19). Ibn al-Mu>tazz’s ṭardiyyah no. 92 comes to its perplexing formal fruition in a cumulative succession and paratactic blend of three thematic segments: between the blend of narrative and imagist-descriptive, even if not consecutive (ll. 1– 2, 13b–19), elements of the reassembled subject of the hunt, on the one hand, and, on the other hand, the idyll-colored vision of the idealized meadow of the hunt (ll. 3– 9a), which is followed and completed by the bacchic idyll in its explicit fullness of ll. 9b–13a. In that fruition, the seemingly discrete paratactic sections contribute to the ones adjacent to them by playing structurally—or inferentially—into each

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other, thereby linking them into imaginative sequences of meaning by suggesting bridges between them and thus producing a mercurially lyrical—not narrative or even descriptively-pictorial—but self-assured poem that is also a ṭardiyyah.

TOWARD THE IDENTITY OF LYRICISM AND THE LYRICAL IN THE ṭARDIY YAHS OF IBN AL-MU> TAZZ: THE SYNDROMIC PARAD OX OF “WA QAD AGHTADī”

In the surge of multiple possibilities of the ṭardiyyah as a new Arabic poem, Ibn al-Mu>tazz’s distant predecessor, Abū Nuwās, was still driven by the neophyte genre-fervor that—through him—had crystallized in this nascent form. Together with other, formally kindred genre manifestations, the early ṭardiyyah was also marked by the societal and formal ferment of the period. In a broader spectrum of the genesis of Arabic poetic genres, it was the offshoot of the “second khaḍramah”59 of Arabic literary history—in the many ways in which it straddled the end of the Umayyad and the beginning of the >Abbāsid periods. It was only during the one hundred years thereafter, at the end of which Ibn al-Mu>tazz falls, that the ṭardiyyah became the poetic stance not so much of narrow form-circumscription as of a self-sentience as genre, whereby the >Abbāsid poet—in our case Ibn al-Mu>tazz—came to understand his choices in a growing openness to the ambiguities of the ṭardiyyah as genre-poem and to what may or must be the poet’s place in it. We have observed something of this in Ibn al-Mu>tazz’s poem/ṭardiyyah no. 92, as well as in poem nos. 107 and 93. From there the poet could arrive at an implicit apologia for his perception of the poetic image—as the part—and of a liberated form of a poetic whole and thereby, regardless of formal tenuousness, be yet capable of maintaining his grip on the kind of “will-of-poem” that, against all the odds of tradition-linked formalist pressure, was ultimately meant to become a ṭardiyyah. On the surface of things, however, the genre in Ibn al-Mu>tazz thus became almost cavalierly understood by its easily detectable external characteristics of a specific line-form and of an obligatory closed motival meaning and set prosodic form of the morning of the hunt. Only in a new, strongly peridermic, “revisionist” sense of form is it possible to

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give flexibility to, and still retain the essence of, such a liberated genrepoem in its internal run through motival, thematic, and formal ranges that remain mindful of their genre-dictated associations, and then to arrive at a surprising or unexpected closure: either of image or merely of a downward inflection of tone—at which point we perceive a relieving sense of sufficiency. The poem thus reaches an unmistakable, if unmarked, completion. Such became the new “rounding of form”60—and closure—of the mature >Abbāsid poem/ṭardiyyah.61 But this is to speak of only half of the genre-awareness of Ibn alMu>tazz’s ṭardiyyah—its external half. In order to complete the coming together of Ibn al-Mu>tazz’s poem/ṭardiyyah beyond its external characteristics, any genre-interpretation must cede footing to an equally genrevalid “content-as-inner-resonance”; that is, it must understand Ibn alMu>tazz’s ṭardiyyah as a poem that is in possession of, or possessed by, a very unpredictable flow of affect —of the never quite lost but still endangered, and all-endangering, richness of lyricism. Ibn al-Mu>tazz’s ṭardiyyahs exhibit a disorderly and anti-formalist lyricism to the point that we may speak of the prevalence in such poetic structures not only of formal “counter-rule” but of “mis-rule.” Their defining characteristic is the poet’s liberating stance, through which his poem appears intentionally fragile, close to deconcretized and evanescing, and thereby even challenging the very genre-appellation of ṭardiyyah. This allows us to say that the ṭardiyyah, thus broadened and liberated, has become more mature as a genre and richer—even to the point of mannered overripening. In their display of primary lyrical affect, ṭardiyyah-poems such as Ibn al-Mu>tazz’s allow for only a marginal concern for objectivizing description, that Abū Nuwāsian, objectivizing description of the an>atu (I shall describe) model. For us to understand the powerful lyricism of the ṭardiyyah, especially the ṭardiyyah of Ibn al-Mu>tazz, we must retrace its path, as much in its idiosyncratic modal aspects as in its genre-set and genre-identifying templates; and from there, following specific markers not unlike the Bedouin literary wayfarer-pilgrim’s a>lām, we ultimately will be led back to the very matrix of Arabic poetic lyricism in the structural problematics of the archaic Arabic qaṣīdah. It is only there that all the extra-qaṣīdah genre-modalities of Arabic poetic lyricism can predicate their claim to

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identity. Within the concept of “the qaṣīdah-as-matrix” of all the born and nascent lyrical, lyricism-aspiring, and lyricism-disparaging genresprouts and even genre-aftermaths, there arise genre-limitations, differentiations, and paradoxes that are relevant to understanding the more specific lyricism of Ibn al-Mu>tazz’s ṭardiyyah. Each of the three main types of lyrical genre-poem, the “love poem” (ghazal), the “wine poem” (khamriyyah), and the “hunt poem” (ṭardiyyah), all of which thematically—and to a decisive degree formally— grew out of the qaṣīdah matrix, has nevertheless a distinct and even contrasting filiation with the primary base of Arabic lyricism, the nasīb. The ghazal and the khamriyyah are openly dependent on the nasīb in their adoption and transference of mood and motifs (ma>ānī) and therefore remain unconflicted with their archetypal and formal source of lyricism. That is, out of their nasīb-matrix they project a continuum or memory of the source of their lyrical affect, as that affect accorded, that is, harmonized with the form and structure of the qaṣīdah. For us, the fullest illustration and comparison are afforded by that prodigiously fertile genre-developer, Abū Nuwās. As regards the ghazal, the descriptive directness and formal transparency with which Abū Nuwās’s ghazal poems engage the subject of eros make that sector of Arabic lyricism appear as if it were an excision out of the archaic/paradigmatic nasīb, in diction and style, and in its facilitating mode as “description”—a process that had been gaining momentum since the transitional, Umayyad ghazal poet >Umar Ibn Abī Rabī>ah (d. ca. 93/712).62 As lyrical excision, the ghazal is no longer introduced by the elegiac evocations of things past and lost. Unlike the nasīb, then, the ghazal only describes and details the erotic present and intent. Indeed, in its thematic (or rather motival) and formal simplicity, it is cut off from other structural contexts of the full nasīb.63 It thus stands unconflicted with both its remote primary matrix, the qaṣīdahintegrated nasīb, and the even remoter, ultimate matrix, the paradigmphantom of the qaṣīdah. The khamriyyah, too, is best illustrated in the lyrical genre-repertory of Abū Nuwās. It should be viewed as the genre-poem that, although tangentially relatable to the descriptive mode of lyricism of the ghazal, resonates quite distinctly in its formal and structural elements in the

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echo-chamber of the archaic nasīb —even if, through this resonance, its lyrical mode is ultimately an ironic inversion of the lyricism of nasībproper, or its intended anti-lyrical travesty. The khamriyyah of Abū Nuwās in its newfound courtly bacchism thereby rejects, or teasingly pretends to reject, even the veneer of archaic elegiac melancholy.64 Almost as a further game of pretense in its complex game of developing badī> poetics,65 the Abū Nuwāsian khamriyyah remains, on all counts, only a surface rejection of its elegiac nasīb melancholy. Through this pretense it constitutes a very early Arabic poetic-stylistic instance of an intrusive exercise in irony, even self-irony,66 and above all a summing up of poetic formal memory and a display of lyrical nostalgia that has remained integrally indebted to the nasīb. As for the ṭardiyyah, it too has absorbed qaṣīdah vestiges that are veritable “spolia.” One could propose that the ṭardiyyah as poetic form, structure, and altogether as lyrically intended genre, would hardly have come into existence had it not been for one fateful spolium, which is a clear structural instance of fakhr, not nasīb, namely, wa qad aghtadī wa ṭ-ṭayru fī wukunātihā (Oftentimes, I set out with the break of day, the birds still in their nests), from the opening of the fakhr section of the Mu>allaqah (l. 53) of Imru< al-Qays. For its lyricism, the Arabic hunt poem had to look in different, non-nasīb areas of lyrical sensibility. It was Imru< al-Qays’s wa qad aghtadī that was destined to become the firmest and stylistically requisite marker not only of a specific poetic genre, the ṭardiyyah, but also of that genre’s poeticity. This alone should make the ṭardiyyah, as opposed to its other lyrical genre-sisters, arguably the most genre-specific development in Arabic lyrical poetry of the Late Umayyad and High >Abbāsid periods. In their use of qaṣīdah “spolia,” however, each of these three types of genre-poem had to find and protect its own genre-specific apportionment of lyricism. It was Ibn al-Mu>tazz who, in ṭardiyyahs such as our final example, poem no. 92, succeeded in making the lyricism of the fakhr-derived wa qad aghtadī a poetic reality, however fragile. For, in contrast to the uncompromised lyricism of the nasīb-derived lyricism of the ghazal and the khamriyyah, the ṭardiyyah, in its specific lyricism, stood decidedly “compromised.”

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From its beginning to its double apogee of Abū Nuwās and Ibn alMu>tazz, and beyond, the ṭardiyyah-genre gravitates to an almost stylefrozen opening with its reuse of line 53 of Imru< al-Qays’s Mu>allaqah, “wa qad aghtadī wa ṭ-ṭayru fī wukunātihā.” In the case of Imru< al-Qays, however, any strongly enunciated lyricism after this subjective (firstperson) half-line is subdued, if not repressed, and cedes lyrical ground to a series of lines of a strongly heroic vein (l. 53 [second hemistich] to l. 70), in which the poet-hunter’s chase on horseback (ṭard /ṭarad ) is described and intermittently narrated in an apotheotic style and manner—totally within the Mu>allaqah-qaṣīdah’s structural fakhr section. This is where the potentially lyrical phenomenon of the ṭardiyyah stands in its indebtedness to Imru< al-Qays both before and up to Ibn al-Mu>tazz. Even the phenomenal Abū Nuwās rarely escaped a sense of lyrical hollowness, if not lyrical insufficiency, in his calling up, but cutting short and leaving unfulfilled, the lyrical moment of the Imru< alQaysian epiphany. Something else, however, was left pulling at the lyrical strand of the ṭardiyyah, deeper into the original context of lyricism in Imru< alQays’s Mu>allaqah,67 which, like the “camel of the night” of that poem’s lines 44 and 45, never ceased heaving under the burden of “sorrows” (humūm), and where the metaphor of the night in its almost cosmic depth (ll. 46– 48) had to appear in its intense lyricism, so totally different from the merely “potential” lyricism of line 53. When the new ṭardiyyah poets, in their oblivion to Imru< al-Qays’s dark “sorrows” and “burdens of the night,” set out in the glory of their “mornings of the hunt,” it was precisely in the lyrical projection and expansion of their new kind of poem that they approached the lyrical specificity of Imru< al-Qays’s line 53. Through the prism of structural hindsight in its new formal setting in the ṭardiyyah, that borrowed half-line, with its deeply anchored, deep-structural memory of what had preceded it in the Mu>allaqah (ll. 44– 48), emerged both as a challenge and a jarring alternative to the paradigm of the qaṣīdah-matrix—and to the place and role of the factor of its lyricism. Thus Imru< al-Qays’s line 53, with its potentially lyrical, original wa qad aghtadī in its form-semiosis as a gate through which to enter the

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ṭardiyyah, will remain heaving under the burden of uncertainty of lyrical fulfillment, or the onus of its unfulfillment. It will remain in competition for primacy with the dominant nasīb avatar of another lyricism that had engulfed the Mu>allaqah and its poet in the existential brooding of the night scene of lines 44– 48, thereby carrying with it the much weightier burden of the matrix-poem’s profoundest and structurally antithetical wa qad aghtadī, opposite its de-constructing, nasīblike lyricism.68 How, then, did wa qad aghtadī evolve from being the representation of the “setting out” of the fierce Bedouin hunter of heroic demeanor into the mannerly hunter of courtly comportment of most >Abbāsid ṭardiyyahs? A simple answer here would be the parallel, or mimetic, fact of transfer of the textual—but not contextual—act and wording of “setting out” for the hunt “with the break of day,” both then-and-now (Jāhilī to >Abbāsid) and there-and-here (Arabian desert to caliphal hunting grounds in the vicinity of Baghdad). And an even simpler answer would be that this is how all hunters, of all times and places, by the logic of their craft and experience, have “set out.” The >Abbāsid mimic-hunter would thus no longer have to see himself as a mimic. He could divest himself of responsibility for the provenance of his having availed himself intuitively of another poet’s source for his lyricism. But this is not how, in the end, poetry works. It works by creating intuitive exceptions. In its reflexes and meta-reasonings, poetry—especially Arabic poetry— is always cumulative, and in its accumulations, knowingly or unknowingly, it counterweighs and balances out the no longer retrievable inadvertencies of its past. The backward-looking poetic result or effect, however, will not necessarily be void of new, compensatory poeticity. This is what happened when the >Abbāsid ṭardiyyah poet read himself into the Jāhilī hunter-poet’s knightly “setting out”—this all-too-brief (not more than half a poetic line) spell-weave of a barely tangible lyrical aura that evanesced in the same instant it cast its lyrical spell—because in what follows Imru< al-Qays’s line 53, there is no further extension or even trace of this matutinal lyrical time. Instead, over the next ten lines, everything concretizes into a series of splendid images and objective descriptions of a single object: the steed of the hunt.

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In the ṭardiyyah, on the other hand, it was left to the >Abbāsid, nonBedouin, nonheroic, and not mounted courtly poet (although still a hunter who “sets out” with the break of morning) to fill in the gaping lyrical hollow that he inherited after accepting Imru< al-Qays’s now parsimonious gift of wa qad aghtadī as his own courtly hunting-poem’s ineluctable opening phrase. In the >Abbāsid hunt poem such lyrical parsimony demanded to be remedied or filled in—and not with an adjusted description of a Bedouin iconic steed. That would have been a misplaced affect in a courtly genre. The courtly poet opted instead for the development of the purely lyrical mood-and-moment and of the visual panorama of enchantment that was about to unfold before the hunter as he entered into his poetically reconceived morning of the hunt. Thus came about the new lyricism of the >Abbāsid opening of what we have termed the “subjective variant of the ṭardiyyah.”69 The fulfillment of, or rather progression toward, this inwardly envisioned genre-lyricism in the >Abbāsid ṭardiyyah, however, appeared at first, in its own >Abbāsid literary time, to be no more than a teasingly probing Imru< al-Qaysian borrowing. The almost paradigm-setting, Abū Nuwāsian shape of the ṭardiyyah, with its reechoed opening phrasing that was hardly ever more than a formula, and with an even lesser gratification of the expectancy of a lyrical equilibrium,70 was, for the most part, destined to remain frozen in form. The lyrical jinnī had thus remained locked up for a century in the tradition-hardened carapace of the generic ṭardiyyah, especially as regarded the ever stricter formulaism of its opening “setting out”; and it was only with Ibn al-Mu>tazz that that jinnī broke out of this tolerancecircle of formulaic sufficiency or insufficiency, which stretched from Imru< al-Qays to Abū Nuwās, and was now anticipating the freedom of a more self-assured, lyrical voice. With Ibn al-Mu>tazz, the ṭardiyyah not only found that new lyrical voice but also allowed it, still as the decisively formative strain of a single-genre poem (the ṭardiyyah), to become a closely integrated and even more broadly formative part of that poet’s multi-genre “project” of a “new lyricism” of Arabic poetry.

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C HA P T E R 7

From Lyric to Narrative The Tardiyyah of Abu¯ Fira¯ s al-Hamda¯ nı¯ ˙ ˙

Over the course of Arab literary history, as we have seen in earlier chapters, the hunt in Arabic poetry was subject to two distinct and radical transformations. In the rigorously structured, polythematic, trisectional qaṣīdah of the pre-Islamic and Mukhaḍram periods, the hunt as theme first figures in either the medial raḥīl or final fakhr section. The first radical change in the development of the hunt as theme-identifiable subject into a separate poetic form occurs in the late Umayyad/early >Abbāsid period, when a poem of the hunt, subsequently known terminologically as ṭardiyyah (hunt/chase poem), evolves into an independent, usually monothematic, short lyric. Abandoning the carefully cultivated, classical meters, the new form, now genre, is almost always in the short, rhythmically light, subclassical rajaz meter, and is descriptive or even imagist in nature. It deals not so much with the theme of the hunt, structured into the preIslamic qaṣīdah-poems, as with the hunt’s specific, lyricdramatic moments, elements, or images, such as the meticulous description of hunting animals — a hound, a falcon, and so forth. 184

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The second radical transformation of the Arabic hunt poem occurs with the relatively late >Abbāsid poet Abū Firās al-Ḥamdānī (320/ 932– 357/968), who abandons the short lyric in monorhyme-form for the sprawling, declaredly narrative urjūzah muzdawijah, that is, rhymed couplets in rajaz meter.1 In effect, however, this transformation comes close to being a breach with the ṭardiyyah’s genre-tradition. In a literal sense, it also becomes a classical Arabic historical non sequitur—a never repeated formal curiosity. In its own new form, Abū Firās’s Urjūzah Muzdawijah is, above all, a double, even triple experiment: first, in the practical institution of a separate narrative subgenre of the ṭardiyyah; second, in the lengthening of the short rajaz-metered, descriptive poem of the hunt of between five and fifteen lines into the extended length of 136/137 lines; and third, in using for the first time in the ṭardiyyah genre the couplet rhyme system of rajaz muzdawij (in which each line has its own separate two-hemistich rhyme), thus giving this poem the epithet of alUrjūzah al-Muzdawijah. Abū Firās’s clearly experimental poem thus became, and still remains, an unsolved genre-historical phenomenon and, as such, a temptation and a challenge to scholarship and criticism. This “temptation and challenge” is confirmed by the largely textualphilological fascination that Abū Firās’s unusually conceived hunt poem exerted on European Orientalists, literary historians, and philologists of the mid-nineteenth century, such as von Hammer-Purgstall (1854), W. Ahlwardt (1856), and R. Dvořák (1895). A century later, this mainly informational mold of presenting this long hunt poem was perpetuated by James E. Montogmery (1999).2 Scholarship and germinating criticism seem to have been drawn to Abū Firās al-Ḥamdānī’s Urjūzah, not so much with the purpose of unraveling the form-aesthetic and technical aspects of this development in the classical genre of the ṭardiyyah— as it appears to culminate in Abū Firās’s Urjūzah—but rather by the residually European, nagging concept of a qualitative and value-charged stratification of existing poetic species and genres. In this preconceptualized pursuit, the early European Orientalist scholars especially could not help but see themselves standing in the textual presence of a much sought after, even if imaginary, Arabic poetic kind—not merely a standing genre—which would be qualified as “the Arabic Narrative Poem”:

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the much desired and—to them—qualitatively upgrading find of an Arabic “epic.” In this poem they thought they had located a much-missed, authentically Arabic poetic genre that was neither a didactic exercise nor, as in the madḥ/fakhr genres, a favor-currying, patron- or dynastyextolling, political tract. Such a narrative poetic work would stand one step closer to the apex of the Aristotelian scale of genres. In this, the Orientalists, being mainly belated philologists of poetry, could see themselves as poetic archaeologists, who, in their archaeology, would then start from inverted presumptions, ending in generalizing postulations that now strike us as no less than untoward, such as those of E. Renan and R. Dozy.3 Such was the temptation that Abū Firās al-Ḥamdānī’s Urjūzah Muzdawijah presented to early Orientalist genre explorations. When we reach Abū Firās in the genre-history of the ṭardiyyah, we indeed find striking the changes introduced in that princely poet’s conception of the hunt poem. It is still in rajaz-meter, but rather than being a monorhymed lyric of 5 to 15 lines, his Urjūzah consists of 136/137 hemistich-rhymed lines, each with its own rhyme, which is typical of the non-ṭardiyyah, long urjūzah-form of annalistically sequential or dynastic narration, and which thereby opens up the short lyrical ṭardiyyah form to a potentially unrestricted expansion in size. Although these prosodic size- and-form differences between the classical genre-ṭardiyyah and Abū Firās’s particular urjūzah muzdawijah are obvious, to date there has been no discussion—in the Arabic case—of the poetic consequences of this drastic formal expansion, on the one hand, and the loss of the strict, identity-conferring effect of monorhyme rajaz-sonority of the customary ṭardiyyah-style monorhyme, on the other. Without engaging in remedial genre-archaeology, it is, nevertheless, necessary to explore how the changed, formal factors of size and prosody in Abū Firās’s ṭardiyyah are, in effect, the product of a changed poetics. As the sole extant model of ṭardiyyah muzdawijah, the poem should be seen—at first no more than prospectively—as an outgrowth and subgenre of the ṭardiyyah-poem, or as no more than its cumulative “overgenre.” With poetic effectiveness, the short lyrical template-ṭardiyyah, however, was still standing there—even to Abū Firās—as capable of conveying the single dramatic as well as imagist and descriptive moments and particularities of the early and mid->Abbāsid courtly hunt thematic.

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Especially in Abū Firās’s time, the genre of ṭardiyyah had become even more narrowly focused upon descriptions of falcon and hound, with diminished attention to the dynamics of the hunt/chase. In this respect the ṭardiyyah becomes terminologically reductionist waṣf. It is no longer the burgeoning, lyrical-dramatic, explorative genre it once had been. Abū Firās’s contemporary, the epoch-determining poet al-Mutanabbī (d. 354/965), for example, was prepared to reduce his skillful, practical control of the motival and stylistic waṣf tradition to a display of merely technical insouciance: in a revealing moment, he almost reluctantly accedes (as courtier) to the whim of one of his patron-hosts that he compose a ṭardiyyah, in which he would describe a wholly unwitnessed hunt and yet center his “description” on the presumed excellence of the host’s hound.4 This, then, was the state of the genre of the ṭardiyyah when Abū Firās’s expansive Urjūzah Muzdawijah appeared, reflecting the experimental idea of a shift to a new “quantitative” form. Even if this shift did not result (yet) in the achievement of a separate narrative genre, it can, nevertheless, be rightfully viewed as a step in the exploration of the possibility of a large narrative form. THE ṬARDIY YAH OF ABū FIRāS AL- ḤAMD āNī

Approaching analytically Abū Firās al-Ḥamdānī’s new poem, produced in full at the end of this chapter, we are introduced into its aphoristic, ḥikmah-like, reflective preamble of lines 1– 3, which is also the poem’s recognizably first non-ṭardiyyah element, devoid of drama. In their preambular role, these lines are at the same time essentially and musingly lyrical, for in a distant, almost borrowed way, they echo the nasībmelancholy of the structured classical qaṣīdah. In this respect they are different from the classical ṭardiyyah topos of wa qad aghtadī (I would set out at dawn), which originally stemmed from the heroic-chivalrous celebration of the battle steed in the hunt segment of the Mu>allaqah ode of Imru< al-Qays.5 Beyond that mood preamble, in its lines 4– 5, Abū Firās al-Ḥamdānī’s poem sharply breaks out of aphoristically phrased melancholy. The poet

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is now cast as his poem’s speaking/acting, concrete persona. Buoyantly, he calls up his reminiscence of that single, declaredly unforgettable day of experience, which then, in line 6, will reveal itself further as being “a day of the hunt”—a day that in its mood and manner also frees itself of all lyricism that might have been carried over from the poem’s qaṣīdahderived, introductory nasīb melancholy. In this break with specific archaizing lyricism, the poem becomes its own, “new” ṭardiyyah, not only for being urjūzah muzdawijah in its rhyming system, but even more for its noticeable avoidance of the language of the evanescent mood-lyricism of the enchantment and beauty of the awakening of the new day of the hunt, which potentially would have brought in a diminuendo effect of imagist lyricism, commonly found, for instance, in standard ṭardiyyahs between Abū Nuwās and Ibn al-Mu>tazz. By way of a stylistic shortcut, if one seeks to identify Abū Firās’s Urjūzah’s narrative mode, it is above all evidenced through line 5. In it the poet announces not only that he is going to “describe” (an>atu) his notable day of the hunt but also that he will “narrate” it. By thus “descriptively telling it [about it],” he will give the description, or the story, or the narration the power to dissipate all preambular, form-heavy melancholy, for the poem to proceed through its expanded sequence of episodes to an ending—or rather, to its narratively distant (l. 136), ritualized closure. Thus, in a capitally important way, the critical explicitness of the “narrative” intent of Abū Firās’s new poem comes to the fore precisely in the extended semanticity of his understanding of na>ata, which in his use of an>atu, from “I shall describe,” acquires in the Urjūzah the “narrative” meaning of “I shall narrate/recount,” more than simply “I shall describe”6: “Let me here recount a day I had in Shām, / The most delightful that ever passed of days” (l. 5). Otherwise, in its many occurrences in the ṭardiyyahs of Abū Nuwās and Ibn al-Mu>tazz, the same an>atu could only have meant “I will describe,” as in describing the specificities of a hound, a falcon, and so on.7 While still using the same conventional verb an>atu, Abū Firās distinctly adheres to the meaning of “I will recount,” that is, I will “narrate,” throughout the entire course of the hunting expedition: from setting out at dawn, to pursuing and slaying the prey, to concluding the hunt outing, both as narration and ritual, with a celebratory banquet.

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Line 6 of Abū Firās’s Urjūzah, therefore, becomes stylistically and, as it were, formally genre-enlarging and genre-modifying. It actually determines that in the “new” ṭardiyyah the actual narrating of the event of the hunt will begin. This line also sets the rule of the syntax of the narration: prevalently, it is that of the Arabic verbal, that is, in itself “narrative,” sentence structure. Its “verb” is the narrating poet’s first person in perfect/past tense (such as: da>awtu—qultu—taqaddamtu, etc.). In this manner, the narration’s style almost in its entirety is marked by the unflagging directness and uniformity of the poet-narrator’s stance. This stance is furthermore distinctly stressed by the narrating poet’s interlacing, “distanced” narrative past tense, with his immediating, equally personal imperative turn of address (ikhta—i>jal— >ajjil—ijtanibū — ruddū— khudnū—ḍamminū—lā tatanā mufīd, at the end of which there is an obligatory, frequently quite jarring rhyme disconnect from couplet to couplet that hinders rhythmic fluency. The rajaz muzdawij, therefore, creates at best a tense, concluded—but secluded—sequencing of verbal “cartouches.” From cartouche to cartouche, there arises a diminished possibility, or likelihood, of the dominating presence in the rajaz muzdawij poem of the kind of sonority-momentum that, otherwise, the classical qaṣīdah-monorhyme is capable of achieving. Lacking the sound-continuity of the monorhyme, the narrative continuum of the rajaz muzdawij poem must, therefore, be supplied or merely presumed: that is, one accepts the “story” because one already knows the story, or because one has been instructed that a “story” will take place. Of course, much of this “presumption” is also the “postulation” of narrative. However, the prosodic requirements of the rajaz muzdawij by proscribing enjambment obstruct any real narrative flow.9 Such categorical intolerance toward enjambment in Arabic scholastic poetics—which is also a grave intrusion of critical pretense—is, however, nowhere in Arabic poetic praxis truly sustained.10 This holds true from pre-Islamic qaṣīdahs to present-day modernist Arabic poetry. Rajaz muzdawij, however, proves to be an exception: in it we find almost no enjambment, for enjambment may be said to break the very texture of the verbal “cartouche.” Some critics, or rhetorically minded scholars of Arabic poetics old and new, would call the phenomenon of enjambment a kind of harmless or inconsequential playfulness (for instance, G. J. H. van Gelder). But it is not. If only tangentially, this point is brought out critically, if not yet in terminologically and theoretically

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absolute terms, by >Abd al-Qāhir al-Jurjānī (d. 471/1078). In his discussion of Kuthayyir >Azzah’s three- to four-line passage “wa lammā qaḍaynā min Minan kulla ḥājatin . . . ,”11 he indirectly reinstates the earnestness of enjambment where it touches on an extended metaphor that involves multiple, “intra-metaphor, unfinished” lines. He saves the metaphor at the expense of tolerating the propriety of the ma>nā mufīd burden of a precise internal, syntactical divisibility of each line into its own, syntactically ma>nā mufīd subunits of perfectly crafted, unassailable sentences. In his round-about analysis of Kuthayyir >Azzah’s “semienjambed” lines as an extended metaphor, important things are saved, but important things are also lost. Al-Jurjānī’s discussion is welcome, even if it may ultimately be a distraction from the main problematic and from a need for a revision of this aspect of prosody itself. Indeed, “narrative” as well as descriptive-“depictive,” syntax-supported continuation of meaning—ultimately an enjambed meaning—does not constitute a problem in the genre-ṭardiyyah as such, even when the ṭardiyyah is “locked-in” to a qaṣīdah-meter outside the customary rajaz, as is the case with the ṭawīl-metered ṭardiyyah by >Alī Ibn al-Jahm, rhymed in “jīm” (no. 33)12 or in the ṭawīl by Ibn al-Mu>tazz in his fānā mufīd of standard Arabic poetics. In its scholastically self-inflicted submission, poetic praxis came to accept the rigor of the pairing (izdiwāj) of “cartouche-enclosed” rajaz half-lines that rhyme within each pair. In this “cartouche” a poetic idea was kept in check, that is, it was begun and concluded grammatically and logically without regard for its expressive requirements. The “cartouche” unit of ma>nā mufīd thus militated against the development of narrative. On the other hand, the one-line only rhyme-scheme of the rajaz muzdawij resulted in a multiplicity of rhyme possibilities that liberated it from the length constraints of the monorhymed qaṣīdah. It would therefore create only rarely a harmonious interplay of rhymes that furthered the narrative intent—not to mention the evolution of a distinct narrative genre. To repeat, it is precisely this rigor of the complex urjūzah muzdawijah, with its imposition of a paradoxically (counterintuitively) restrictive—and

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ultimately unwelcome—diversification of “cartouched” rhyming, that resulted in an even sharper constriction of the “rule” of enjambmenthostile ma>nā mufīd. In this respect it became patently adverse to the fluidity of narrative, because each one of the couplets of cartouchelike hemistich-rhymed lines became more rigorously penned-in by its rhyme-locked enclosures, whose every new rhyme would then appear to be standing in the way of the flow of narrative. There are felicitous exceptions to this negative effect of the cartouched rigor in Abū Firās’s Urjūzah. The abruptness of change of sonority, from muzdawij line to muzdawij line, may also reveal a poetically effective paratactic confluence of “narration” that avails itself of the apparently more permissive prosodic mode of the urjūzah muzdawijah. Such, for example, is the effect of the implicitly logical, paratactic congruence of lines 24– 25: 24. Then, when I felt the morning come, I called out: “Hasten to prayer’s grace!” 25. As we thus prayed, the hawks were brought, Unhooded, the horses saddled,

The hunter then continues with the narration of the preparation for the hunting campaign (ll. 26–29) and with his orders to the troupe: 26. And then, to the panther-keeper I turned: “Proceed, keep to yourself, And if gazelles appear, call out to us, be diligent, be spry!” 27. He then remained not far from us— And to him headed all that fled from us. 28. Within a row of men, I moved in measured step, As though we marched into the fray. 29. But barely had we evened out our line, when A young page halted near a bluff,

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In such efforts to produce a cursory effect of accelerated, dramatized narrative out of tradition-honed ṭardiyyah-genre layering of images, Abū Firās appears to sacrifice much of the rhyme-sonority between the cartouched couplets that result, standing unmindful of each other. For broader Arabic genre-historical reasons, which for Abū Firās had still not been worked out, or fought out, between the Arabic poem and the factor of narration, the poet appears in his ṭardiyyah muzdawijah to lack a sufficiently flexible line-accommodated, stylistic means to amalgamate the seemingly more permissive prosodic mode of the urjūzah muzdawijah or to overcome the line-strictures of traditional Arabic poetics. However, to cross such hurdles and to introduce the sense of time of narration into his unorthodox form option for a hunt poem, Abū Firās still chooses what appears available to him in the Arabic poetic quiver: the already proven urjūzah muzdawijah, which is only tangentially attached to the Arabic poetic canon. With it, however, there had to come the complex limitations of the impositions of the rajaz muzdawij couplets—or perhaps what we should now call the Arabic variant of the “heroic couplet,” with all its versifying ease and embarrassingly entrapping problems.14 To brace the required time-sequencing along the span of his Urjūzah Muzdawijah, Abū Firās employs the simplest possible narrative devices. He strings together self-contained cartouched couplets, which in themselves do not show a necessary or obliging sequential interdependence. Each step of the sequence, that is, each cartouched couplet, begins from and ends with a full stop. That means that such couplets could equally remain static as motival clusters standing in the poem’s abstracted time, lacking sequence and implicitly lacking narration, preserving their own disjointed adequacy of ma>nā mufid. To become narrated, they have to obtain stylistic connectors through which to bridge their syntactically closed cartouches, or else they have to depend on the logic of a continuum of meaning that must be sufficiently binding and compelling to break through the counter-narrative of their formal isolation, that is, through the counter-logic of the restrictive, narrativeneutral couplet-cartouche. In Abū Firās’s poem, this sequenced logic is in some cases present, especially when it is supported by cartouches that are not jarring in

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their rhyming effect, precisely in their sequencing—as is the case between the two opening couplets (ll. 1– 2). These two couplets flow smoothly into each other, borne on their lyrical affect—as well as on their gnomic/ḥikmah aftereffect — that is also assisted by the kindred sonance (rū-rū—rī-rī) of the rhymes of two cartouches that are thus both separate and harmonizing. This, however, ceases to be the case with regard to the next couplet/cartouche (l. 3), whose wording is strictly that of an independent-standing observation of despondency, and which poetically is no more than a dry, traditional ḥikmah. Furthermore, its rhyme of -fīhī/-nīhī produces an effect of assonance. With the subsequent, rhetorically nearly colloquial plainness of the opening of the next line (l. 4) with “law shiatu yawman” (I shall describe [recount/narrate] a day) in line 5. From there onward, the direct first-person tone of the hunter-narrator-poet becomes, for most of the narration, the sole speaking voice. That is, stylistically the poem obtains and retains only one voice and one angle of vision. The story of the poet’s hunt thus is faithful to its proposition of being a recollection. This “one voice,” however, exercises its true effective function only with line 6, and it is also then that the hunt begins. The first-person voice of the narrator is heard in lines 6, 7, 9, 10, 11, 12, and so forth, with very few exceptions of mixed or shared voice. Thus, to some extent the poem begs for a stylistic respite, because the poem of the hunt-as-act appears to be turning into a representation of the poet’s sole presence, not only his sole voice—or it seems to pass from being the story/reflection of the objectivized hunt to becoming subjective and, therefore, moving away from much of the classical ṭardiyyah tradition. The movement-in-time of Abū Firās’s poem, that is, the key to its narrative time-continuum, is sustained unidirectionally, but not necessarily to the desired effect of time-fluidity. The sequence in narrative time from muzdawij cartouche to muzdawij cartouche along most of the poem is secured mainly by means of the stylistically “technical” connectors/conjunctions “wa” (and) for immediate sequence, and “fa”

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(and, and then, so) for temporal sequence or result. Thus, after the actual narration has been initiated (line/cartouche 6) and restated in its storied first-person past tense (cartouche 7), the continued narration of almost the entire remaining body of the poem in Abū al-Firās’s approach to narrative time appears to depend precisely on these technical temporal conjunctions (“wa”/“fa”), thus leaving behind a growing sense of a tedious stylistic repetitiveness.15 This “wa”/“fa” basic marking of consecutive or “horizontal” storied time in the poem is further modulated, or simply more explicitly restated, by the poet’s repeated use of the temporal connector “thumma” (then, thereupon, thereafter)—the latter device occurring as a stylistic crutch to mark an unmistakable progression along the full extent of the poem. However, it may also denote a quasi-new beginning or a shifting of the narrator’s attention to a new point of interest or vision after the previous point has been told and exhausted. This approach to narrated time occurs in the poem at least fifteen times: for example, in line 11, where the angle of attention changes; in line 19, where a new hunting ground is explored; in line 30, to introduce an incident or variant of a developing concern of some urgency; and in line 32, in which the poethunter rethinks, or hesitates over, which weapon to employ. The result of this stylistic obviousness and its obtrusive, automaton-like control of the poem’s narrative (then/after that—then/after that—repeated over and over) is to produce a chronological concatenation of episodic elements of otherwise genre-familiar hunting scenes that have been, or may be, habitually turned to as descriptive instances of na>t. In Abū Firās’s Urjūzah, they have been converted into narrative elements. As such, however, they could also stand alone in cumulative monotony of an abdication of style, as independent, descriptive hunt-lyrics without a forward-driving, narrative momentum. In its flattened-out style, aside from the execution of the hunt scenes and the interplay of one actual interlude, involving hunter rivalry (ll. 36– 80), the poem knows no discernible dramatic curve or variant in its serial employ of thumma. Even where it seems to accelerate narratively, it also halts or slows down and thus fragments the narrative sequence. Only toward the end does the poem produce a more compacted and coherent series of “thumma” connectors/dividers (ll. 127,

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129, 131, 133), and thereby an accelerated movement of the thummamarked events set within this series of four, still drastically punctuated, time-sequential markers of “then” . . .—“then” . . .—“then” . . .—“then.” Only after this point, between lines 134 and 136, does the poem end contextually with its most well-rounded and narratively best-fashioned motif of closure. Although stressing the genre and ṭardiyyah structure of the poem, this ending also produces a crystallization of the classical and necessarily lyrical closure of the celebratory banquet: 134. And we ceased not to fry and roast and to pour wine, Till, looking for one awake and sober among us, we found none. 135. We drank as it came, straight from the wine-skins, Without rank and order, with no cupbearer at hand. 136. And there we remained seven nights all counted, The most fortunate to ever return at evening’s fall, the most favored to ever set out with the morn.

This is undoubtedly the salient lyrical moment in the poem. As a structural motif of this specific ṭardiyyah, it stands for a ritual, celebratory motif of closure. Furthermore, in this role it crowns the recollection of the courtier-prince’s time of all times, to which in the poem—and through the poem—he thus returns to his quintessential time of the joy of the courtly hunt. In line 20 we find a more compacted form of the poem’s lyricism, modulating or affecting only this single line/cartouche, while still depending on and blending with its provenance from its na>t, that is, from the poem’s descriptive stylistic determinant: 20. There we arrived, with the sun, still before setting, Strutting in her vespertine gilded gown.

Or, in line 69 we find an even more strongly na>t-echoing in an image of a falcon:

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69. A thing of beauty to behold, and yet more: Its gaze, two fires in two caves.

Or, like a formula of na>t, even in its lyricism, we find in line 71: 71. A splendid beak, deep-sunk the eye, A thigh that fills the palm,

Let us rehearse the presence of lyricism in Abū Firās’s novel ṭardiyyah, which, as genre and form, promises a dramatic enactment of matters of the hunt, yet often takes refuge—sometimes quite spectacularly—in the well-attested repertory of ma>ānī that are largely of lyrical pedigree. The most substantive example of the latter in Abū Firās’s poem consists of eight cartouched lines (ll. 113– 20), whose lyricism, although not entirely alien to the ṭardiyyah-genre, presents in its elaboration a diversely resonating archaizing mode: 113. On the valley’s floor a herd appeared to us, A buck its leader, full-horned, thick-necked. 114. They came straight from the watering-place Overflowing with spring-time rains, second after first, 115. Neither much trodden nor worn, Nor a pasture-ground recently grazed. 116. There they pastured, by fear untroubled, In a lush valley with herbage richly overgrown. 117. Over it passed rain-rich clouds, Bearing showers, cloud upon rain-laden cloud. 118. When they saw us, they turned their necks But not the way a lover looks, or one burning with desire.

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119. They lived in ease and good circumstance, Till we brought upon them ill fortune’s stroke. 120. They were a herd by fate protected in fate’s own time. Then it saw us, and took back what it gave.

This motival segment should best be described as being evocative of thematic as well as structural elements that derive not so much from an already familiar motival ṭardiyyah repertory as from a single pre-Islamic, pastoral-elegiac qaṣīdah text and structure, namely, the pastoral nasībopening of the Mu>allaqah of Labīd, and in particular lines 4– 7:16 4. They were watered by the rain the spring stars bring, And on them fell rain of thunderclouds, downpour and drizzle 5. From each night-faring rain cloud and early morning horizon-darkener And cloud at afternoon with resounding rumble, 6. The ayhyqān thrust up its shoots, and on the two sides of the valley Gazelles and ostriches have borne their young. 7. Wide-eyed oryx cows, newly calved, stand above their newborns, motionless, While on the plain the yearlings in clusters caper. (trans. Suzanne Pinckney Stetkevych)

But we are also aware of the structural paradox of parallelism of kindred pastorality—between nasīb (lyrical) and raḥīl (dramatic,

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liminal)—where this lyricism reappears. A characteristic example is found in the Umayyad desert poet Dhū al-Rummah’s raḥīl scene of a grazing onager herd:17 54. Through pre-dawn dusk they journeyed, when over them the morning’s pillar Had already cut the sky asunder, while the sky’s rest was still veiled, 55. To a well with water swollen, moss-overgrown all round, In it large fish and noisy frogs. 56. Out of it, like a smoothly drawn sword, breaks out a streamlet Amongst young palm-tree shoots, their fronds rising around it. 57. But on the ill-boding left, a huntsman from Jillān, his clothing base, Worn-looking, hiding behind a screen.

These two thematic antecedents — pre-Islamic and Umayyad — offer to the ṭardiyyah’s lyrical blend contrasting structures of influence/ precedence and, with these structures, a specific development of Arabic pastoral/bucolic lyricism: one in its nasīb, the other in the raḥīl. Both the lyrical concreteness (Labīd) and the equally lyrical potentiality (Dhū al-Rummah), despite their divergent structural origins (nasīb/raḥīl), play into the fragile emotive game of the lyricism of the derivative muzdawij form of the ṭardiyyah of Abū Firās al-Ḥamdānī. A further aspect that is difficult to ignore in a critical view of the Urjūzah Muzdawijah of Abū Firās al-Ḥamdānī is his substitution of the gnomic for the expression of a personal pathos, which might otherwise require an almost pre-Romantic pathetic fallacy. Such personal expression is precisely what Abū Firās is, as it were, unconsciously sidestepping, or is not concerned about as a poetic latency. Instead he relies on the comfortable, ḥikmah-antiquarian, gnomic availability of “fate.” This move, however, especially in a ṭardiyyah, produces a poetically banal resonance. Thus, again and again, the poet concludes the hunting episodes that end with the kill with such gnomic stock

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phrases as “while our visit bore their death” (l. 22); “and [they] knew not / That the fates would strike with the dawn” (l. 23); “For to each death there is a reason and a means” (l. 33); “calamity its lot before it even rose” (l. 44); “But, closer to it, there stood death” (l. 50); “But death reached it first” (l. 51); “Thus the All-merciful furthered my joy” (l. 87); and in one instance, turning the ḥikmah upon himself: “So, all that I obtain is but a matter / That comes my way, only for fate to take it away” (l. 105); and in the same personal tone (of frustration): “Better than success to a man / Is to be right, though in privation” (l. 106); “Till we brought upon them ill fortune’s stroke” (l. 119); “Then [fate] saw us, and took back what it gave” (l. 120); “And soon we beat them to their appointed death” (l. 121); “The bearers of their final fate” (l. 124); “And both, together with [the doe’s] fated time, joined forces against her” (l. 127). In Arabic verse-practice, the rajaz muzdawij is not the most common conveyor for concise formulations of ḥikmah (wisdom) in its variants of amthāl (wisdom proverbs) and zuhd (temperance, asceticism, pietism). Specifically gnomic Arabic motifs remain reduced to the domain either of a number of “classically” inherited, non-rajaz verse models that go back to Arabic poetry’s pre-Islamic origins (such as Zuhayr Ibn Abī Sulmā or Labīd), or, in the early >Abbāsid period, to genredefinable (ḥikmah /amthāl /zuhd ), simple-rajaz poems that are put together out of freestanding gnomic motifs. In the latter respect, ultimately forming their own genre, they are markedly cultivated by the important court poet Abū al->Atāhiyah—but also, occasionally, by his contemporary Abū Nuwās. For the most part the rajaz muzdawij instances of this type are purportedly given currency but are not necessarily reliably preserved, as is the case for Abū al->Atāhiyah’s proverbially long Poem of Proverbs (Dhāt al-Amthāl), which is reported to have contained four thousand cartouched proverbs. The story goes that when that muzdawij poem was recited before the great al-Jāḥiẓ, he halted the reciter on the couplet, Yā li-sh-shabābi l-mariḥi t-taṣābī rawāAtāhiyah (sixty couplets of rajaz muzdawij majzūAbbāsid instances may be seen as especially relevant to Abū Firās al-Ḥamdānī, in his stitching of gnomic expressions onto the ends of his hunt scenes, regardless of the discordance in affect and interruption of narrative flow. Reflected in the ṭardiyyah, this gnomic presence, that is, this “matter,” threatens to become no more than vapid filler (ḥashw). Such traps of antiquarian gnomic pathos, however, are avoided or else elegantly attenuated by the great ṭardiyyah practitioner Abū Nuwās, for instance, when he chooses to describe an agonizing oryx bull: His horns bent down to his cloven hooves. Woe to him who, in the morning, sets out toward death!20

In another example, the same poet bemoans the death of his favorite hound in an entire ṭardiyyah.21 Abū Firās’s overly long “old/new” poem, on the other hand, depends to a large degree on mostly precast “episodes,” consisting of monotonously shored-up, genre-familiar material, to build a narrative. When thus reused and repeated, most of these agon episodes, precast into an antiquarian, gnomic/ḥikmah mode of cartouche enclosure, border on a flattened-out, counter-poetic accumulation. As such, the poem, held together by already discussed time-connectors (thumma), is no more than incidentally “narrative.” The result is a dramatic debilitation of style of the narrative and of the experience of the hunter in his involvement in

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the drama of the hunt. Although this stylistic near-banality also occurs with some frequency in lesser poetic hands in the non-muzdawij, short genre-ṭardiyyah, it is particularly obtrusive in the case of Abū Firās alḤamdānī’s long Urjūzah. It comes as no surprise that Abū Firās’s innovative exploration in the so-called narrative ṭardiyyah in rajaz muzdawij was not repeated.22

THE DECLINE OF A POETIC GENRE

The ṭardiyyah genre in its original flourishing had presupposed a distinct social and cultural space based on a vertical, hierarchical structuring of Arab society: from the caliphal court down to less significant, even if equally ambition-driven, ramifications of power, court, and courtliness. Without that backdrop of court and courtliness, thus without the ṭardiyyah’s old sense of place in the order of things, and ultimately without its sustainable, self-justifying sense of formal aesthetics, that is, without a substantiated call for form, the ṭardiyyah found itself ever more strongly enmeshed in trends that were urbanizing, mercantile, and socially bourgeois-like.23 The waning of the cultivation of this genre was perceptible around and after the time of Abū Firās. The ṭardiyyah had outlived its societal role as a semiotically efficacious genre and was thus being replaced by a more elaborately (badī>) descriptive (waṣf ) languageand-verse, which was proper to a new sensibility: one of melancholy, poetic self-absorption and opening to a sense, or discovery, of an intimate paradise of flowers and gardens. In becoming one of the graces of Arabic poetic history,24 this encroaching socio-aesthetic phenomenon with its enhanced potential for beauty also assumes in Arabic poetry’s genre-time and genre-place a commanding position of lyrical genrefavor and a heightened degree of diffusion beyond the nasīb-confines of lyricism, as these confines were established and honed in Arabic poetic tradition. Arguably the last major practitioner of the genre-ṭardiyyah was the Palestinian poet of high badī> in the domain of waṣf, Kushājim (d. ca. 350/ 961 or 360/971). He too was a member of the poetic-courtier circle of Aleppo that gathered around the Ḥamdānid prince Sayf al-Dawlah,

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and was thus also a contemporary of Abū Firās al-Ḥamdānī. Kushā­jim was a figure of multiple capacities and talents outside poetry and hunting. He also appears to have been a court cook of mentionable distinction.25 Paradoxically, in a manner that to Kushājim may have appeared to have been a step toward the revitalization of the ṭardiyyah genre but that only contributed to its form-dispersion, hunt poetry was absorbed into the ongoing literary development of fragmentary ṭardiyyah motifs, where those motifs figured anecdotally merely as metaphoric material26 or, even more importantly, were woven into poems with other thematic concerns (aghrāḍ), such as the vision of hunting grounds as pure pleasure gardens.27 Kushājim would also build his ṭardiyyah theme into a dedication-style panegyric;28 or display it as a form of fakhr, that is, a poem that ceases to be of the ṭardiyyah-genre.29 Much of this poetic material of the hunt enters into Kushājim’s Kitāb al-Maṣāyid wa al-Maṭārid,30 a book on the hunt and chase. Illustrated with examples of Kushājim’s own ṭardiyyah poetry, it may even merit being called “an adab work concerned with the etiquette of hunting rather than a scientific work on the chase.”31 Kushājim’s apparent disinterest in producing a mere manual of the chase, however, also reflects the poet’s pride in the craft of his own rhymed word and, through it, the implicit affirmation of hunt poetry’s ability to illustrate the praxis of the hunt by means of what is otherwise an adab “poetics” of the hunt.32 To this tradition of technical handbooks of the hunt with appended examples of hunt poems belongs the more textbook-like AlBayzarah (Falconry) of one generation later, by the putative Fāṭimid caliph’s courtier and chief falconer, Abū >Abd Allāh al-Ḥasan Ibn al-Ḥusayn.33 With Kushājim, however, the great tradition of the “classical” ṭardiyyah genre had run its course.34 Even the Syrian poet Usāmah Ibn Munqidh (d. 584/1188), of rich lyrical talent and an almost boundless passion for the hunt, never put a single semblance of a ṭardiyyah in his Dīwān.35 On the other hand, his musing memoirs (I>tibārāt), written late in his life, are replete with loving recollections about his father’s and his own hunting adventures and curiosities—to the extent that some of his waṣf-type prose anecdotes and descriptions almost appear to be ṭardiyyah-modeled.36 But the genre is no longer there.

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THE ṬARḍIY YAH OF ABū FIRāS AL:   ḤAMDāNī   FULL TEXT AND TRANSLATION 3 7

έ˵ ϭή˵δϟ΍

Ϫ˶ ˶Α

Ϣ͉ ˴Η

Ύϣ

ή˵ Ϥ˵όϟ΍  ϱήϤ˵ϋ Ϧϣ˶  ΎϬ˵Βδ˶ Σ˴΃ ϲΘ͉ϟ΍ ϲ˴ ϫ˶  Ϫ˶ ϴϔμ˵ϳ ϦϤ˴ ˶Α ή˴ ϫ˴Ϊϟ΍ έ˴˴ ΪϏ˴΃ϭ˴  ˵ Ϊϋ˴ ΍Ϊ˷ ϋ˴  έϭή˵ ˶ δϟ΍ ϡ˴ Ύ˷ϳ˴΃ ΕΩ˴  ϡΎ˷ ˶ ϳ˴Ϸ΍ ˴Ϧϣ˶  ή͉ ϣ˴  Ύϣ ά͉ ˴ϟ˴΃  ϲϣϮ˴ϧ Ϧϣ˶  ˱΍ήΤ˴ γ˴  ϲϫΎΒ˶Θϧ΍ Ϊ˴ Ϩϋ˶  ˲ΐϴΠ˴ϧ ΍έΎΒϐ˵ ϟ΍ Ω˵ ή˶ ˴ϳ Ϟ͇ ϛ˵  ˲Δδ˴ Ϥ˴Χϭ˴ ϥϻΰ ˶ ϐ˶ Ϡ˶ϟ Ω˵ ήϔ ˴ ˵Η  Ϧϴ˴ ˶ ϨΛ˶΍ Ϊ˴ ό˴Α Ϧϴ˴ ˶ ϨΛ˶΍ ΎϬϨϣ˶  Ϟ˵ γ˶ ή˵Η  ˲ Σ νΎϗ ˶ ˯˶ ΎΒψϠ Ϧ˵͉ Ϭ˴ϓ ˴ ˶ ˶ϟ ϒΘ  Ω˶ ΍Ϊ˰˰ό˶ ˰˰Θ˰˰γϻ˶ Ύ˰˰˰˶Α ˴Ϧ˰ϳέΎ˰˰ϳίΎΒ ˶ ˰˰˰ϟ΍ϭ˴  ϊ˵ Ϥ͉ ˴ϠϤ˵ ϟ΍ϭ Υ˵ ή˴ϔϟ΍ ϥΎϗ͉ ˴ ˶ έΰ˵ ϟ΍ϭ˴  ˴ ˴ ΎρΎγϭ˴Ϸ΍ϭ Ε Ύ˷ Β Ϡ ϟ΍ ΎϨ ϟ  Ϟ Π ϋ ͋ ˴ ˶ ˴  ˵ϥϮϜ˴ Ε ˶ ΍ή͉δ˴ϴϣ˵  Ρ΍ήϟΎ Α  Η ˶ ˶  ˴ΓήΜ ϻϮπ˵ϔϟ΍ϭ ΍ϮΒ˶Ϩ˴ΘΟ΍ϭ˴ ˴ Ϝ˴ ϟ΍ ˴  ΎϧΎϤο Ϣϛ˵ Ϊ˴ ϴλ ϲϧϮϨϤ͋ ο ˴ ˴  ˴ ϭ˴  ϼϴϠ˴ϗ ΎϬ˴ϘϳϮ˴ ˴ϓ ϭ˴΃ ˴Ϧϳήθϋ˶  ˲Δ ˴ϓϭήόϣ˴ Ϫ˴ΑΎΠ˴Ϩϟ΍ϭ Ϟπ ˴ ˶ ˴ϔϟΎ˶Α  ή˶ ˶ΑΎΧ Ϟ͋ Ϝ˵ ˶ϟ Ϊ˶ ϴμ ˴ ϟ΍ ˴Δ͉Ϩψ˶ ϣ˴  ˴ ˴ ΐ ˶ ˴ϫάϤ˵ ϟ΍ Ϟϴλ Ϸ΍ Ώ Ϯ Λ  ϲϓ ϝ ˵ ΎΘΨ˴ Η ˶ ˶  ϲΣ΍Ϯ˴Ϩϟ΍ ή˶ ˶΋Ύγ Ϧϣ˶  ˱ Ύϔ˶Ϩ˴ΘϜϣ˵

 έ˵ Ϯϫ˵Ϊϟ΍ Ϫ˶ ˶Α Ζ˴ϟΎρ Ύϣ ή˵ Ϥ˵όϟ΍ Ύϣ   ϱήϣ˴΃ Ϋ˶ Ύϔ˴ϧϭ˴  ϱΰ˷ ϋ˶  ϡ˵ Ύ˷ϳ˴΃   Ϫ˶ ϴϨ˴Α ϰϠ˴ϋ ή˴ ϫ˴Ϊϟ΍ έ˴ Ϯ˴ Ο˴΃ Ύϣ  ˵ η  ˱΍Ϊ˷ Ο˶  ˴ϦϠ˴Ϡ˴ϗ Ϊ˴ϗ ΎϤ˷ ϣ˶  ΖΌ ˶ Ϯ˴ϟ  ˵ ό˴ ϧ˴΃  ϡΎθϟΎ ˶ ˶Α ϲϟ ή͉ ϣ˴  ˱ΎϣϮϳ˴  Ζ  ˷ ˵  ϡϮ ˶ ˴ϳ ˴Ε΍Ϋ έΎ Ϙ μ ϟΎ Α ΕϮ˴ ϋ Ω ˴ ˶ ˴ ˶  ˵ ˵ϗ  ΍έΎΒϛ˶  ˱Δό˴ Βγ˴  ή˴ΘΧ΍ ˵Ϫ˴ϟ ΖϠ   ϥΎϨΛ ˶ ΍ ΎϬϨϣ˶  ΐ ˶ ˴ϧέ˴ϸ˶ϟ ˵ϥϮϜ˴ϳ   Ϧϴ˴ ˶ Θ˴ΑϮ˴ϧ Ϊ˶ ϴμ ˴ ϟ΍ Ώϼ ˴ ϛ˶  Ϟό˴ Ο΍ϭ˴   ν΍ή ˶ ό˶ ϟ΍ ΐ ˴ ˵Ϡϛ˴΃ ήΧ͋ Ά˴ ˵Η ϻϭ˴  ˵ Ϊ͉ ˴Ϙ˴Η Ϣ͉ Λ  Ω˶ Ύ˷Ϭ˴ϔϟ΍ ϰϟ˶· Ζϣ  ˵ ˵ϗϭ˴  ϊ˵ ˶ϨϘ˵Θ˴ϟ ˱Δδ˴ Ϥ˴Χ ϥ͉ ˶· ΖϠ  ˴  Ύϳ ˴Ζϧ˴΃ϭ˴  ΎρΎΒ˴Η ϻ Υ˵ Ύ˷Βρ   Ε ˶ Ύϴ͉ϔμ ϲ͉ ˶Α΍ή˴η Ύϳϭ˴ ˴ Ϥ˵ ϟ΍  ˴ ˶Α  ˱ϼ  ϴϘ˴Λ ΍ϮΒΤ˶ μ˴Θδ˴Η ϻ ˶ͿΎ   Ύϧϼ˵ϓ ΍ϭάΧ˵ ϭ˴  ˱Ύϧϼ˵ϓ ΍ϭΩ˷ έ˵  ˵ ΘΧΎ˴ϓ  ˱ϼ  ϳϮ˴ρ ΍Ϯϔ˴ϗϭ ΎϤ˷ ˴ϟ Εή˴ ˴   Ϫ˴ΑΎμϋ˶  ΎϬ˶Α ϡ˸ ή˶ ϛ˸ ˴΃ ˲Δ˴ΑΎμϋ˶   ή˶ λΎϗ Ϧϴ˴ ΎϧΪμ ˴ ˴ ˴ϗ Ϣ͉ Λ ˶ ˶ ϋ Ϊ˴ ϴλ  ˵  Ώ ˶ ήϐ Ϥ ϟ΍ Ϟ ϴ Β ϗ  ˵βϤ˴ θ ϟ΍ ϭ ϩ ΎϨΌ Ο ˴ ˴ ˴ ˵ ˶ ˶ ˴  ˵ ˷  ΡΎϴ ˶ μ ϟ΍ ϲϓ Ν ˵ ΍ έ Ϊ ϟ΍ ά˴ Χ˴ ˴΃ϭ˴ ˶

 ˺ ˻ ˼ ˽ ˾ ˿ ̀ ́ ̂ ˺˹ ˺˺ ˺˻ ˺˼ ˺˽ ˺˾ ˺˿ ˺̀ ˺́ ˺̂ ˻˹ ˻˺

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 ˵ϦΤ˴ϧϭ˴  ˴΃ ˵ ͉ ήΠ ˶ ˴ϔϟ΍ ωϮϠ ρ  ϲϓ ΎϳΎϨ Ϥ ϟ΍ ϥ ˴ ˶  Ρϼ ˶ ˴ϔϟ΍ ϰϠ˴ϋ ϲ͉ Σ Ϣ˵Ϭ˵Θϳ˴ΩΎϧ ˴  Ν ˵ ή˴ δ˵Η ϝ˵ ϮϴΨ˵ ϟ΍ϭ Ε ˳ ΍Ω͉ήΠ˴ ϣ˵ ˴  ΪϬ˶ ˴ΘΟ΍ϭ ˶ ϭ˴ ˴ ϲ˲ Β˴υ Ϧ˴͉ ϋ ϥ˶· ΎϨ˶Α ˸΢λ  Ύ˷Ϩϣ˶  ͊ή˶ϔ˴ϳ Ύϣ ϲπϤ˴ϳ Ϫ˶ ϴ˴ϟ·  ˵ϒΣΰ˴ ϝ ˶ ΎΘ˶ϘϠ˶ϟ ΎϤ͉ϧ˴΄ϛ˴ ˴ ϧ  ϑ ˸ ή˴ η˴  Ϧϣ˶  ˱ΎΒϳή˴ϗ ˴ϥΎϛ Ϣ˲ ͋ϴ˴ϠϏ˵  ˵ ˵ ˴ ˴ ˵ϥΎϴ ϕ ˸ Ϊ˴ λ Ϊ ϗ  ό ϟ΍ ϥ ·  ΖϠ Ϙ ϓ ˴ϥΎϛ ˴ ˶ ˶  ϪϤ˴ ˶΋Ύϧ Ζ˴ϧΎϛϭ˴  ϰψϘ˴ϳ ΎϬ˵ΘϨ˴Ϩ˴υ  ˵ ϊ˶ γ ͋ ϭ˴ ΃ Ϣ˴ϟϭ Ϧϳ  έϭ˴ Ω  Εέ˵ Ω ϭ ˴ ˴ ˴ ˶  ΐ˴Βδ˴ ϟ΍ ˴Ϧϣ˶  ˲ΐ˴Βγ˴  ϒΘ ˳ Σ˴  Ϟ͋ Ϝ˵ ˶ϟ  Ϊ˶ ϫ˶ ΎΟ Ϊ˳ Ϭ˵Π˶Α ϲ˴ ϫϭ˴  ΎϬ˵Β˵Ϡτ˴Η  ϑ΍ήτ ˶ Ϗ˶  ϻϭ ξ ˴ ˴ϟ ˴ ˳ ˴ϴΑ˴΄˶Α βϴ  ˵ς˴θϨ˴ϳ ί΍ή ˶ ˶ΒϠ˶ϟ ϢϜ˵ ͊ϳ˴΄˴ϓ  ΎϨ˴ϋΫ˴Ϸ˴ ϱΪ˴ϴΑ˶  Ύϣ ϯέ˴Ω Ϯ˴ϟϭ˴  ˴΃ ˴Ζϧ ήτ˴ ˶ θ˶ϟ Ύϧ˴΃ϭ˴  ήτ˴ θ ϟ  ˶ ˳  ϼϤ˴ Ο˴΃ϭ˴  ˵ϩί˵ ΎΑ ΎϬϴϓ ˴Ϧ˴δΣ˴΃  Ρ ˵ Ύϴμ ˴ ϟ΍ϭ˴ ˶ ϟ΍ Ϫ˶ ˶Θ˴ϟ΁ Ϧϣ˶  Ϊ˵ ϴμ  ϖ˴Ϡ˴τϟ΍ ΍ά˶Α Ρ˲ ή˴ ˴ϓ ΍ά˴ϫ ͊Ϟϛ˵ ˴΃  ΍ίΎΟϭ˴  ΰ˵ ˸ Π˴ϓ ˵ΐϠϜ˴ ϟ΍ ί˴ ή˴ Σ ˴ Ϊ˴ϗ  ˯˶ ΎϔϠΤ˴ ϟ΍ ϲϓ έΎϨϟ΍ ϞΜ ˶ Ϥ˶ ϛ˴  Ϯ˴ ϫϭ˴ ˶  ϯϮϠ˴Βϟ΍ ϮϠ˵ ͋ όϟ΍ Ϟ˴ Β˴ϗ ΎϬ˶Α Ζ͉ϠΣ˴ ϝ ˶ ΎΟϵΎ˶Α

˵ϩΎϧέί˵ 

Ϊ˴ϗ

 ˷ ˴  ϝ ˶ ϼο ϲϓ ϭ Ύ Ϩ ϋ  Δ Ϡ ϔ˴ Ϗ ˴ ˳  ϲϓ ˴ ˴   ϱέΪ˴ϳ βϴ ΢Β˵ μ Ϡ ϟ  ˵Ώ ή τ ϳ  ˴ ˴ϟϭ ˴ ˴ ˶ ˴ ˶  ˵ δ˴ Σ˴΃ ΍Ϋ˶· ϰ˷ΘΣ˴  ΡΎΒ ˶ μϟΎ ˴ ˶Α Ζδ   Ν ˵ ήΨ ˴ ˵Η ˵Γ΍ΰ˵Βϟ΍ϭ ˴ ˵ϧ ˵ϦΤ˴ϧ ˴ ϲ˷Ϡμ  ˵ ˵Ϙ˴ϓ  Ωή˶ ˴ϔϧ˸΍ϭ˴  ξ ˶ ϣ˸ Ύ˴ϓ Ω˶ Ύ˷Ϭ˴ϔϠ˶ϟ ΖϠ   Ύ˷Ϩϋ˴  Ϊ˳ ϴό˴Α ή˴ ϴ˴Ϗ ϝΰ˴ ˴ϳ Ϣ˴Ϡ˴ϓ  ˵ γ˶ ϭ˴  ϝ ˶ ΎΟήϟ΍ ˴Ϧϣ˶  ͈ϒλ ˴  ϲϓ Εή ˶   ϒ ˸ ˴ϗϭ˴  ϰ˷ΘΣ ˴ ΎϨ͊Ϡϛ˵  ΎϨϳϮ˴˴ Θγ΍ ΎϤ˴ϓ   ϖ ˸ ˴Βδ˴ ϟ΍ ϝ˴ Ύϗ ˱ϼΠ˶ ϋ˴  ϲϧΎΗ˴΃ Ϣ͉ Λ  ˵ γ˶  ϪϤ˴ ˶ΛΎΟ ϲϧ΍έ˴΄˴ϓ Ϫ˶ ϴ˴ϟ˶· Εή  ˵ Χ˴ ˴΃ Ϣ͉ Λ  ϲόϣ˴  Ζ˴ϧΎϛ ˱Δ˴ϠΒ˴ϧ Εά  ˵ Ϝ͉ Ϥ˴ ˴Η ϰ˷ΘΣ˴  ΐ˴Ϡ˴τϟ΍ ς˶ Χ΃ Ϣ˴Ϡ˴ϓ ΖϨ   ΐ˴Βδ˴ ϟ΍ ˴Ϧϣ˶  ˲ΐ˴Βγ˴  ϒΘ ˳ Σ ˴ ͋ϞϜ˵ ˶ϟ  ˵ λ  ϑΎ ˶ ˷τΨ˵ ϟΎϛ˴  Ω˶ Ϯγ˵ϷΎ˶Α ΖΤ ˶ ϭ˴  ˵ ϋΩ˴  Ϣ͉ Λ  ϱίΎΑ ΍ά˴ϫ ϡ˴ Ϯ˴Ϙϟ΍ ΕϮ˴   Ύϧ˴΃ Ύϧ˴΃ ΄˴ηέ˴  Ϣ˵ϬϨϣ˶  ϝ˴ ΎϘ˴ϓ  ˵ ˵Ϙ˴ϓ  ήϬ˴Ϩϟ΍ ˯˴ ΍έϭ ϲϨϠ Α Ύϗ ΖϠ ˴ ˶   ϼγ˴ έ˴΄˴ϓ ˲ΔΟ˴ ΍έ͉ Ω˵  ˵Ϫ˴ϟ ΕέΎρ ˴   ΍ϮΣΎλϭ˴  ΍Ϯτό˴ τό˴ ˴ϓ ΎϬ˴Ϙ͉Ϡϋ˴  ˵ ˵Ϙ˴ϓ  ϖ˴Ϡ˴Ϙϟ΍ϭ ˶ ϟ΍ ΍ά˴ϫΎϣ ΖϠ ˴ Ρ˵ Ύϴμ   ΍ίΎΒϟ΍ ϱϮθ˵ϳ ΐϠ ˴ Ϝ˴ ϟ΍ ϥ͉ ˶· ϝΎϘ ˴ ˴ϓ  ˵ ϋ˴ ΰ˴ϳ ϝ ˴ΰ˴ϳ Ϣ˴Ϡ˴ϓ  ϲ΋ϻϮϣ˴ Ύϳ ϖ  ˵ γ˴ έ˴΄˴ϓ Εέ˴ Ύρ  ϯϮϠγ˴  Ζ˴ϧΎϜ˴ϓ ΖϠ

˻˻ ˻˼ ˻˽ ˻˾ ˻˿ ˻̀ ˻́ ˻̂ ˼˹ ˼˺ ˼˻ ˼˼ ˼˽ ˼˾ ˼˿ ˼̀ ˼́ ˼̂ ˽˹ ˽˺ ˽˻ ˽˼ ˽˽

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 ή˵ ˴Χ΁  ί˵ ΰ͉ ˴Ϡϣ˵  Ϟ˲ Τ͉ Ϝ˴ ϣ˵  ί˲ ή͉ ˴τϣ˵  ˴ ϲΑΎ˷Ϩό˵ ϟ΍ϭ˴  ΝΎΒϳΪϟ΍ Ϟ Ϡ Σ ˵  Ϧ ϣ ˶ ˶ ˶  ˵ ˴ Ϟ ˵ ˵ϔϐ˴ϳ βϴ δ ϟ΍ Ϟπ ϓ  ί ήΤ˵ ˴ ˴ϟ ϖΒ ˴ ˴ ˶ ˶ ϳ  Ϫ˶ ˶Ϩϴ˸Τ ˴ ˶ϟ ˵Ϫ˵Β˵ϗή˴ϳ ΎϤ͉ϧ˶·ϭ˴  ˵ Ϥ˴ ϟ΍ϭ ˵Ώή˴ ϗ˴΃ ˵ϪϨϣ˶  ΕϮ ˵Ϫ˴Ϡ˶Ϙόϣ˴ ˴  ˵ Ϥ˴ ϟ΍ϭ˴ Ϫ˶ ϴ˴ϟ˶· ˵Ϫ˴Ϙ˴ΑΎγ Ϊ˴ϗ ΕϮ  έϭΪ˵ ˶ μϟ΍ ϲϓ ˵ήϤ˶ π˵ϳ Ύϧ˵ήϴ˴Ϗϭ˴  ϩ˴ΩέΎϣ έϮϴ ˶ ˶ ˵τϟ΍ ˴Ϧϣ˶  ˲Δ˴ϧΎτϴ˴η  ΎϬϴ˴Ϡϋ˴  Ϣ˵Ϭ˵Ϩ˵ϴϋ˴΃ ϝ ˴ΰ˴Η Ϣ˴ϟϭ˴  ΍Ϊ˷ η˴ ϭ ΎϬ Α έΎϗ  Ύϣ Ϊ ό Α  Ϧ ϣ ˴ ˴ ˴ ˶ ˶ ˴  ˴Ζϴ˴ϟ ϪΟ˴ ΍˷έΩ˵  ϰϠ˴ϋ Ϫ˶ ϴΣΎϨ ˴ Ο ˴  ˵ϥϮόϠϣ˴  ϊ˲ ο ˵ Ϯϣ˴  ΍ά˴ϫ ϝΎϗ ˴ ϭ˴  ΎΟέ˴ Ϊϣ˴  ϻ˷ ˶· ϖ ˴ Ϡ˴Η Ϣ˴ϟ Ζ˴τ˴Ϙγ˴  ϭ˴΃  ϑϮθϜ ˶ Ϥ˴ ϟ΍ Ω˶ ή˶ ˴ϔϨϤ˵ ϟ΍ ϊ˶ ο ˶ ϮϤ˴ ϟ΍ϭ˴  ˲Γή˴ ϫ˶ Ύυ ˲Γή͉ Ϗ˶ ϭ˴ Ϫ˴ϓϭήόϣ˴   Ω˶ έΎΒϟ΍ ˶ Ϝ˴ ϟΎ˶Α Ϟ͋Ϡό˴ ˵Η ϼ˴ϓ ˶  ϡϼ  ϱέΎϤ˴Ϙϟ΍ ϊ˴ ϣ˴ ϭ ϲγΎΑ˴ Ϊ ϟ΍ ϊ ϣ ˴ ˴ ˴  ˴ ϊϴτ ˶ ˴Ϙϟ΍ ˴Ϧϣ˶  ΰϨ˴ ϋ  ϲϓ ˵ Ϫ Ϡ ό Ο Ύ ϓ ˴ ˶ ˳  ˴ ˵ ˵ ˸ϞΠ˴ Τ˴ ϟ΍ ϰϠ˴ϋ ˱ΎϫέΎϓ ϩ ΍έ ΃ ΖϠ ϗ ˵ ˶  ˱ΎϳΩ˶ Ύϔ˴Η Ϫ˶ ˶ΒΘ˴ϋϭ˴  Ϫ˶ Ϥ͋ Ϗ˴  Ϧϣ˶   ΎϨϴ˴Ϡϋ˴  Ϣ˵ Ϝ˵ ͊Ϡϛ˵  ΍ϭΪ˴ϫΎθ˴Η  Ϫ˴ϨϳΩϭ ˵Ϫ˴ϫΎΟ ΎϬϴϓ Ϣ˵ ϴϘ˵ϳ ˴ ΍έ΍ή˶ϔϟ΍

˵ϦδΤ˵ ˶ ϳ

˱΍Ω˸Ϯϋ ˴ 

 ˵ ˴ϓέ˴  ΎϤ˴ϓ  ΍έΎρ ϰ˷ΘΣ ˴ ί˴ ΎΒϟ΍ Ζό   ί˵ ͉ήϛ˵  Ϣ˲ ϳήϛ˴  Ρ˲ Ύ˷ϴλ ˴  Ω˵ Ϯ˴ γ˴΃  ˲ ˴΃ Ϫ˶ ϴ˴Ϡϋ˴  Ώ ˶ Ύϴ˶Μϟ΍ ˴Ϧϣ˶  ϥ΍Ϯϟ  ˴  Ϟ ˵ ˵ϔδ˴ϳ ϱίΎΑϭ ϮϠό ϳ  ϝ ΰ ˴ ˴ϳ Ϣ˴Ϡ˴ϓ ˴   Ϫ˶ ˶Ϩϴό˴ ˶Α Ϫ˶ ˶ΘΤ˴Η Ϧϣ˶  ˵Ϫ˵Β˵ϗή˴ϳ   ˵ΐδ˴ Τ˴ϳ ΎϤϴϓ Ώ ΍Ϋ˶· ϰ˷ΘΣ˴ ˴ έΎϗ ˴   Ϫ˶ ϴ˴ϠΟέ Ϫ˶ ΠΒ˴ ˶ Ϩ˶Α ˵Ϫ˴ϟ ϰΧέ˴΃ ˶  ˵ λ  ήϴΒϜ˴ ˶ ΘϟΎ˶Α ϡ˵ Ϯ˴Ϙϟ΍ Ρ˴ Ύλϭ˴  ΖΤ ˶   ϩ˴ΪΣ΍ϭ ΕέΎτ ˴ ˴ϓ ΎϨΤ˴ϳΎμ˴Η Ϣ͉ Λ ˶  ˵  ΎϬϴ˴ϟ˶· ΍ϮϠγ˴ έ˴΄˴ϓ Ώ ή ˵ ϗ  Ϧϣ˶ ˳   ϯΩ˷ ˴΃ϭ˴  ˵ϩί˵ ΎΑ ϖ͋Ϡό˴ ˵ϳ Ϣ˴Ϡ˴ϓ  ˵ λ  ϪΟ˴ ΎΟ˴Ω ϡ˴΃ ί˵ ΎΒϟ΍ ΍ά˴ϫ˴΃ ΖΤ ˶   ˵ϥϮϴ˵όϟ΍ϭ˴  ˵ϪΟ˵ ϭ˴Ϸ΍ Ε ˶ ή͉ Ϥ˴ ΣΎ˴ϓ   ΎΠ˴Β˴ϧ Ζ˴ΑΎλ˴΃ ί˵ ΎΒϟ΍ Ύϫΰ͉ ˴ϟ ϥ˶·   ϒϴϔ˴Ψϟ΍ ˶ Ξ ˶ ˴Β͉ϨϠ˶ϟ ΎϨ˶Α ˸ϝΪ˶ ϋ˴΃  ˵ ˵Ϙ˴ϓ  Ϫ˴ϔϴόο ˴  ˲ΔΠ͉ Σ˵  ϱά˴ϫ ΖϠ   Ϊ˶ Σ΍ϭ ϥ˳ ΎϜϣ˴  ϲϓ ˱ΎόϴϤΟ˴  ˵ϦΤ˴ϧ ˶   έ΍Ϊϟ΍ ˶ ϲϓ ϦϜ˵ ˴ϳ Ϫ˶ ϴΣ˴ ΎϨΟ ˴ ͉κ˵ϗ   ϊϳΪ ˶ ˴Βϟ΍ Ϫ˶ ˶ϠΠ˵ Ϡ˵Ο ϰϟ˶· Ϊ˸ Ϥ˶ ϋ ˸ ΍ϭ˴   ˸ϞΠ˶ Χ˴  Ϊ˴ϗϭ ˴ ˴΃ ΍Ϋ˶· ϰ˷ΘΣ˴ ˴ ˵Ϫ˵ΗήμΑ   Ϫ˶ ˶Α Ωή˶ ͉ρΎ˴ϓ ί˵ ΎΒϟ΍ ΍ά˴ϫϭ˴  ˵Ϫϋ ˸ Ω˴  ˵ ˵ϗϭ˴  ΎϨϴ˴ϟϮΣ˴  ϲΘ͉ϟ΍ Ϟ˶ ϴ˴ΨϠ˶ϟ ΖϠ  ˲Δ˴ϳέΎϋ  Ϫ˴ϧϮϤπϣ˴  ˵Ϫ͉ϧ˴΄˶Α ˶

˽˾ ˽˿ ˽̀ ˽́ ˽̂ ˾˹ ˾˺ ˾˻ ˾˼ ˾˽ ˾˾ ˾˿ ˾̀ ˾́ ˾̂ ˿˹ ˿˺ ˿˻ ˿˼ ˿˽ ˿˾ ˿˿ ˿̀

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208 THE HUNT POEM AS LYRIC GENRE IN CLASSICAL ARABIC POETRY

 ˴ϥϭΩ  ˵ Ϧ ˶ ϳέΎϏ ϲϓ Ϧϳ έ Ύϧ Ϧ ϣ  ή ˵ ψ Ϩ ˴ ˴ ˴ϳ ˶ ˶  Ω˶ Ύϣή˴ ϟ΍ ϲϓ έ͋ ά˴ ϟ΍ ϲθ ˴ ˶ ϣ˴  έΎΛ΁  ϩή˴ ˶ϓ΍ϭ Ϧ˶ ϴϤ˴ϴϟ΍ ˯˴ Ϟϣ˶  ά˳ Ψ˶ ˴ϓϭ˴  ΍Ϊ˷ ϛ˴  ˵ϪϨϣ˶  Ϟ˵ Ϥ˶ Τ˴ϳ ϱά͉ϟ΍ ϰϘϠ˴ϳ  ˸Ϫ˴τδ˴Α Γ˶ ΍ΰ˵Βϟ΍ έΪ ˶ ˴ϗ ϰϠ˴ϋ Ω˴ ΍ί  ϼ  ˷ ϛ˴  ϝ˴ ΎϘ˴ϓ Ω͋ ή˴ ϟ΍ ϰϠ˴ϋ ϒ˶ϠΣ˶΍  Ϫ˴ϴ˶ϓ΍ϭ ϲϨϴϤϳ˴  Ϟ˵ Μϣ˶  ϲΘϤ˴ Ϡϛ˴ ϭ˴  ˷ ͉ Ϫ˴Ϡ˸Π˴Χ ˵ϪΘ˴Ϡϋ˴ ϭ ϲ Ϩ ϋ  Ϊ μ ϓ ˴ ˴ ˴  ˴ ˵ >ΔϣϼϤ˴ ϟ΍ή˴ ˴Μϛ˸ ΃ϲδϔϧΖ ˵ Ϥ˸ ϟϭ  >˵ήμ ˴ ˸Τ˵ϳϭϼΠΧΪ˵ ϳΰϳϮ˴ ϫ˸ ϭ  ˱ϼϴϠ˴ϗ Ϊ˶ ϴμϠ ς˴θ˴ϧϭ ˴ ˶ϟ ͉ζ˴ϫϭ˴ ˴  Ϊ˶ ˴ϗ ϝ˶ Ϯ˴ϗ Ϧϣ˶  ω˴ ήγ ˴ ˴΃ ˱΍έΩ˶ ΎΒϣ˵  ˵ ˴ ˵ ϞϤό˴ ϟ΍ ͋ήη˴  Ϧϣ˶  ˵ΓέΪ˴ ϐ ϟ΍ ˵ Ϫ ϟ  ΖϠ ϗ ˴  ˴ ˴ϟ έ˵ Ύτϣ˴  ΎϨό˴ ϣ˴  ήϴ τ ϟ  βϴ ˴ ˶ ˳  Ω˶ ΍ήΠ˴ ϟ΍ Ω˵ Ϊ˴ ϋ˴  Ϫ˶ ϴϓ ή˵ ϴ˴τϟ΍ϭ˴  ϥ ˶ ΎϜϣϹ˶ ΍ ϊ˴ ϣ˴  Ϊ˶ ϴμϟ΍ ˴  Γ˶ήΜ ˴ Ϝ˴ ˶ϟ  ΎϘ͉Ϡό˴ ˴Η ΍Ϋ˶· ϰ˷ΘΣ ΎϤ˵ϫϼϛ˶ ˴  ΍ΩΎϛ ϭ˴΃ Ύϴ˴Ϙ˴Θϟ΍ Ϧ˶ ϴγ˴ έΎϔϟΎ ˶ ϛ˴  Ύό˴ϘΑ˴΃ ΍˱ήϴ˴ρϭ ΍˱ή˸μΧ ˵  ˱Δ˴Λϼ˴Λ ˴  ˴ ˴ ΎϤ˵ϫΎϨϠγ˴ έ˴΄˴ϓ Ϊ˵ ϴμ ϟ΍ Ϝ ϣ ΃ ϭ ˴Ϧ ˴ ˴  ϱέϭή˵γ ϲϓ ˵ϦϤ˴ Σήϟ΍ ϲϧ˴Ω΍ΰ˴ϓ ˴  ˱΍ή˶΋Ύρϭ˴ ˵ϑή˴ ό˵ϳ ϲϧΎπϴ˴ΒϟΎ˶Α Ξ ˶ ϣ͉ ΰ˵ ϟ΍

ϖ ˴ ϳϮ˴ ˵ϓϭ˴ 

Ώ ˶ ΎϘ˵όϟ΍

 ˵ Ο˶ ΖΌ ˿́  Ϧ ˶ ϳΰ˴ ϟ΍ ϕ ˴ Ϯ˴ϓϭ˴  Ϫ˶ ϴ΋΍ή˶ϟ Ϧ˳ ϳ˴ί ˿̂  ˴ ϱΩΎϬϟ΍ϭ˴  ϩ˶ έΪ λ  ϕ Ϯ ϓ  ϥ͉ ˴΄ϛ˴ ̀˹ ˴ ˴ ˶  ϩή˴ ˶΋ΎϏ Ϧϴ˴ ˳ ˴ϓ ή˳ δ˴ Ϩϣ˶  ϱΫ ̀˺ ˴ ϢΨ ˳ ϋϭ  ΍Ϊ˷ Ο˶  ϥΎΒ˴ ̀˻ ˴ ˶ ϳή˴ϗ ϢΨ ˳ ο ˶ Θγ˴Ϊϟ΍ ΐ  ˴ Βγ˴  ϲ˷ϔϛ˴  ή˵ Ϥ˵ ϐ˴Η Δ˳ Σ˴ ΍έϭ˴ ˸Ϫτ ̀˼  ˵ ˵ ϗ Ε ϼϬϣ˴  ΖϠ ̀˽ ˴ ϭ˴  ή͉ γ˵ ˶ Ύϫ ϝΎϗ  Ϫ˴ϴ˶ϟΎϏ ϱΪϨϋ˶  ϲϬ ˴ ˴ϓ ϲϨϴϤ˴ϳ Ύϣ˷ ˴΃ ̀˾  ˱Δ˴Βϫ˶  ˵ ˵ϗ ̀˿ Ϫ˴ϠΒ˸˵Ϙ˶Α ϩ˵ άΨ˵ ˴ϓ ΖϠ  ˵ ϣ˸ Ϊ˶ ϧϢ˷ ˵Λ@ ΃̀˿ ˸Ϫϣ΍Ϊ˴Ϩϟ΍˴Δ ϳΎϏΖ   ͉ Σ˵ ϝ ή˵ π ˵ ΎΟήϟ΍ϭϲΣ΍ΰϣϰϠϋ@ Ώ̀˿   ςδ˴ ˴Βϧ˶΍ ϰ˷ΘΣ˴  ˵ϪΤ˵ δ˴ ϣ˴΃ ϝ ˴ί˴΃ Ϣ˴Ϡ˴ϓ ̀̀  ˵ λ ϱΪϳ Ϧ˴ϋ Ϟ͉ ˴Ϙ˴ΘγΎ˴ϓΐϛ˴ έ˶΍ Ϫ˶ ˶Α ΖΤ ̀́ ˶  Ϟμ ̀̂ ˴ Σ˴  Ϊ˴ϗ ϝΎϗ ˴ ϭ˴  Ϫ˶ ϴ˸˴ϗΎγ Ϣ͉ ο ˴ ϭ˴  ˵ γ˶ έ˵ Ύ˷ϴό˴ ϟ΍ έ˵ Ω˶ Ύϐϟ΍ έ˴ Ύγϭ˴  Εή ́˹  ϱΩ΍Ϯϟ΍ ήϬ˴ ˴ ϧ ΎϨϟ˴Ϊϋ˴  Ϣ͉ Λ ́˺ ˶ ϧ ϮΤ˴  ˵ Ω˴΃ ́˻ ϥ ˶ ΎϜϣ˴  ϲϓ Ϧ˶ ϴ˴ϨϴϫΎη Εέ˴  ˱Γέ˴ ϭ˴Ω ΎϨϴ˴Ϡϋ˴  ΍έ΍Ω ́˼ ΎϘ͉ϠΣ˴ ϭ ˴  ΍Ω΍ή͋ρ΍ ΍Ωή˴ ͉ρ΍ϭ˴  Ύϳ˴ί΍Ϯ˴Η ́˽  Ύό˴Αέ˴΃ ΎΑΎλ˴΄˴ϓ ΍Ϊ˷ η˴  ˴ΖϤ͉ Λ ́˾  ΎϤ˵ϫΎϨμ͉ϠΧ˴ ϭ˴  ΎϫΎϨΤ˴ΑΫ˴  Ϣ͉ Λ ́˿  έϮϴ ˶ ˵τϟ΍ ˴Ϧϣ˶  ˱ΎδϤ˴Χ ϻΪ͉ Π˴ ˴ϓ ́̀  ˲Δό˴ ˴Αέ˴΃ ́́ ϥ˶ Ύ˷ϴδϴϧ ΎϬϨϣ˶  ˶ ˴΃

 Ν ˶ ήϬ ˴ ˴Βϣ˵                         

Ϧ˳ δ˴ Σ˴ 

ίΎΒ ˳ ˶Α

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 ˲Δό˴ ͋ϴ˴ρ  ˵ ϮΠϟ΍ ΎϬ˴ϓή͉ λ ϩ˴Ω΍έϹ˶ ΍ ϰϠ˴ϋ ω ˴  ϕή˴ ˴ϔϟ΍ ˴Ϧϣ˶  ΎϨ˴Ϩϴ˴Α Ύϣ Ζ˴τ˴ϗΎδ˴Η  ΎϬϨ˴ϋ ˴ϦϴΒϏ˶ ΍έ ΎϨϓή˴ μϧ ˴ ΍ Ϣ͉ ˵Λ  ή˶ θ ˸ ό˴ ϟ΍ ϖ ˴ ϳϮ˴ ˵ϓ ϭ˴΃ Ύϫ΍ή˴ϧ ˱΍ήθ˴ϋ  ϕέ˴ Ϋ˴ ϭ ΎϬϴ˴ϟ˶· ˴ϑή˴τϟ΍ Ω˴ Ϊ͉ Σ˴ ϭ˴ ˴  ˵ ˵ϦΤ˴ Ϫ˴ΒϨΟ Ώ ή Ϙ Α Ω ΍ϭ ϲϓ ϧ ϭ ˴ ˶ ˶ ˳ ˴  ϞϤ˴ Πϟ΍ Ϟ˴ Μϣ˶  ˱ Ύϋή˴ ϓ˸˴΃ ΎϬϨϣ˶  ͉ςΤ˴ ˴ϓ ˴  ˱ ͋ ˴ Ϫ˶ ϴ˴ϠΟέ Ϧ ϣ  ϲ Ϡ Ο έ Ύ Ϩ Ϝ Ϥ ϣ ͉ ˶ ˵ ˴ ˶ ˶  Ϫ˴ϴ˶Α΍ήϟ΍ ϦϴϤ ˶ ˴ϳ Ϧ˴ϋ Ϧϣ˶  Ζ˴τ˴Ϙγ˴  Ϊ˴ϗ  ͊ή˴η Ω˶ ΍ή˷τϠ ϩ˴ΩΎϋ  ˶ ϟ ˴ϚϠ˶Ηϭ˴  ˵ μ˴ ˵ ˴ρ˴΃ ϲ΋΍Ω Ζϴ ˴ ϋϭ˴  ϲλήΣ ˶ Ζό  ˸ϞΟ˴ ˴΃ ϰϟ˶· ΎϬ˵Ϡ˶ΘΨ˴ϧ ΎϤ͉ϧ˶·ϭ˴  ˴ Ϊ˶ μ Τ Ϥ ϟ΍ ˯ Ύη ή ϟΎ ϛ  ϖ Ϩ˵ ό Α ϲθϤ ˴ ˵ ˴ϳ ˶ ˴ ˳ ˶  ˸ήμ ˴ ˴Α ϭ˴΃ ϊ˲ Ϥγ˴  ˴ϥΎΣ Ϊ˴ϗ ΎϤ˶ϟ Ϟ˴ϫϭ˴  ˵ ˴Ϙϳ˴΃ Ϟ ˶ μ ˶ ϔ˸Ϥ˴ ϟ΍ ή˵ ϴ˴Ϗ Ϣ˴ ψό˴ ϟ΍ ϥ͉ ˴΃ ΖϨ  ˵ ˴Μϋ˴ ή˵ ϫ˸ Ϊ˴ ϟ΍ ϝΎϗ Ϫ˶ ϴϓ Εή ˴ ˴΃ϭ ˴  ˵ ϥΎϣή ˶ Τ˶ ϟ΍ ϊ˴ ϣ˴  ϱ΃ ήϟ΍ Δ Α Ύλ ˴ ˴ ˶· ˶  ήπ ˴ Σ ˴ Ύϣ Ε ˶ Ύϫϭ ˴ ήϬ ˶ Ϥ˵ ϟ΍ Ϧ˴˶ ϋ ϝΰϧ ˶ ˶·  ˶Ν΍ ˷έ˵Ω Ϧϣ˶ ϭ˴  Ϊ˶ ϴμϟ΍ ˶ Π˴ Σ˴  Ϧϣ˶ ˴  Ϟ  ϝ ˶ ϭΰ˵Ϩϟ΍ Ϧ˶ ϋ˴  ˵ιήΤϟ΍ ΎϨ˵ό˴ϨϤ˴ϳ ˶  ˵ ˵Ϙ˴ϓ ϲΑΎΤλ˴΃ ϰϠ˴ϋ Ύϫ˸ή͋ϓϭ˴  ΖϠ  Ρ˴Ϊ˴ϗϭ˴  ˲ςδ˶ϗ Ϫ˶ ϴϓ ϲϧΎϔϛ˴  Ϊ˴Ϙ˴ϓ ΎϨϳΪϳ˴΃

ΎϬϤ˵ Π˴ϟϭ ˴

 Ϟ˲ ϴ˴Χ  ϩ˴ΩΎϘϠ˶ϟ Ζ˴Βό˴ μ˴Θγ΍ Ύϣ ΍Ϋ˶· ϲ˴ ϫϭ˴  ϖ˴Ϡ˴ρ ϲϓ ΎϬϴ˴Ϡϋ˴  Ϊ͉ η˵  ΎϤ͉Ϡϛ˵ ϭ˴  ΎϬϨϣ˶  ΎϧΩέ˴ ˴΃ Ύϣ Ύϧά ˴Χ˴΃ ϰ˷ΘΣ˴  ή˶ Ϭ˸ ˴Ϩϟ΍ Ώ ˶ ή˵Ϙ˶Α ϲ͉ ϛ˶ ΍ήϛ˴  ϰϟ˶·  ϖμ ˴ ˴ϟ Ϊ˳ ό˵Α Ϧϣ˶  ί˵ ΎΒϟ΍ Ύϫ΁έ ˴ ΎϤ˷ ˴ϟ  ˵ ˵Ϙ˴ϓ ˴ ϪΒ˴ όϜ˴ ϟ΍ ͋Ώέ˴ ϭ Ω Ύλ Ϊ ϗ  ΖϠ ˴ ˴  ϝ ˴ΰ˴ϧ Ϣ͉ ˵Λ Ζ˴ϨϜ˴ ϣ˴΃ ϰ˷ΘΣ˴  έ΍Ϊ ˴ ˴ϓ  Ϫ˶ ϴ˴ϟ˶· Ύϧ˴΃ϭ ϻ˷ ˶· ͉ςΤ˴ ϧ΍ Ύϣ ˴  ˵ ˴ϠΟ˴ Ϫ˴ϴϫ˶  ΍Ϋ˶· ˵Ϫό˴ ˶Βη΃ ϲϛ˴  Ζδ  ϩ˴ΩΎϳΰϟ΍ ϲϓ ˵ΐ˴Ϗέ˴΃ ˵Ϫ˵ΘϠ˸θ ˶ ˴ϓ ˶  ˯˶ ϼ˴Βϟ΍ Ϧ˶ δ˴ Σ˴΄˶Α ϩ˶ ΰ˶ ˸Ο˴΃ Ϣ˴ϟ  ˸Ϟ˴Θ˴ΘΨ˵Ηϭ˴  ΎϬ˵Ϡ˶ΘΧ˴΃ ϝί˴ ˴΃ Ϣ˴Ϡ˴ϓ  ˵ Ϥ˴ ϋ˴ ˴ Ω˶ ήϔ ϣ  ήϴΒ Ϝ ϟ  ΎϬϨ ϣ  ΕΪ ˴ ˵ ˶ ˳ ˶  ˸έΪ˴ ˴Ϙϟ΍ Ϫ˶ ϴΗ΄˴ϴ˶ϟ έ˴ Ύρ Ύϣϭ˴  έ˴ Ύρ  ϝ ˶ Ϊ˴ Ϩ˸ό˴ ϟΎϛ˴  ˵Ϫ˴ϟΪ͉ Ο˴  ΍Ϋ˶· ϰ˷ΘΣ˴  ˵ ˶ϧ Ύϣ ϰϠ˴ϋ ϙ ή˵ ϣ˸ ˴΃ ˵ϪϨϣ˶  ΖϠ ˴ ΍Ϋ  ϥΎδϧ ˶ Ϻ ˶ ˶ϟ ΡΎΠ˴ ˶ Ϩϟ΍ ˴Ϧϣ˶  ή˲ ϴ˴Χ  ˵ λ ήψ˴˶ ΘϨ˴Η ΍ΫΎϣ ΥΎ˷ ˶ ˶ Β˴τϟ΍ ϰϟ˶· ΖΤ  ˴ ΄˶Α ˯˴ ΎΟ ΝΎΗ ˶ Ω˶ ή˵Οϭ˴  ρΎγϭ ˳  ϝ ˶ ϮϴΨ˵ ϟ΍ Ϧ˶ ϋ˴  ΎϨϟί˴ ΎϨ˴Η ΎϤ˴ϓ  ˴ Ώ ˶ ΍ή˴θϟΎ˶Αϭ˴  α΄ Ϝ ϟΎ Α ˯˴ ϲΟϭ˴ ˶ ˶  Ρή˴ ˴ϔϟ΍ ϲϧ΍ ˷ϭ˴έϭ˴  ϡ˴ Ϯ˴ϴϟ΍ ϲϨό˴ ˴Βη˴΃

 ΎϨϴη ˶                       

˴ϒϴϛ˴ 

Ϧ͉ Ϭ˶ ϴΟΎϨ˵ϧ

́̂ ̂˹ ̂˺ ̂˻ ̂˼ ̂˽ ̂˾ ̂˿ ̂̀ ̂́ ̂̂ ˺˹˹ ˺˹˺ ˺˹˻ ˺˹˼ ˺˹˽ ˺˹˾ ˺˹˿ ˺˹̀ ˺˹́ ˺˹̂ ˺˺˹ ˺˺˺

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 ˵βϤ˶ ˴ΘϠ˴ϧ  ϱΩΎϬϟ΍ Ϟ˵ Β˴ϋ ˵ϥήϗ ˴ ˴΃ ˵Ϫϣ˵ Ϊ˵ Ϙ˴ϳ  ϲ ͋ ˶ϟϮ˴ ϟ΍ϭ ϲ͋ Ϥ˶ γϮ˴ ϟ΍ ή˶ ˴ΒϏ˵  Ϧϣ˶ ˴  ϲ ͋ ˶ϨΟ Ϟ˳ ˶Β˴ΘϘϣ˵  ϊ˴˳ Ηήϣ˴ ϭ˴ ˴  Ε ˶ ΎΒ˴Ϩϟ΍ ή˶ ˶ϓ΍ϭ Ω˳ ΍ϭ ω˴ Ύό˵ϟ  Ώ ˶ ΎΑή˴ ϟ΍ Ϟ˶ μ ϒ ˳ ϛ˶ ΍Ϯ˶Α ˶ ͉Θϣ˵   ϕΎΘθ ˶ ϣ˵  ϻϭ ͈ΐλ ˴  ϻ ˴Γή˴ ψ˴ϧ ˴  ϲϟΎϴ˴Ϡϟ΍ ΎϨ˶Α ˵ϪΘ˸˴ΑΎλ˴΃ ϰ˷ΘΣ˴  ˵ϩΎτϋ˴΃ Ύϣ Ϊ͉ ˴Ηέ΍ Ύϧ΁έ˴  ΎϤ˷ ˴ϟ  Ω˶ ΎόϴϤϟ΍ ϰϟ˶· ˵ϩΎϨϘ˴Βγ˴  ϰ˷ΘΣ˴  ΎϨ˴τΒ˴Θγ΍ϭ Ϫ˶ Τ˶ ˴Αάϣ˴  ϰϠ˴ϋ Ϊ͉ η˴ ˴  ϼϣ˶ Ύϛ ˱ϻϮΣ˴  Ϧϳ ˴ ϐϟ΍ ϰϤΣ˶  Ζ˴ϋέ˴ ˶ έϮ˴  έϭΪϘ ˶ Ϥ˴ ϟ΍ έ˴ ΎϬ˴ϨΌΠ˶ ˴ϓ ˶ Ϊ˴ϘϟΎ˶Α  ϩ˴Ϊϫ˶ ΎΟ ϲϫ ˴ ϭ˴  ήμ ˶ ˴ΨϟΎ˶Α Ζ˴Ϡ˵Ϙ˴Λ Ϊ˴ϗ  ΎϬ˶ϟΎΣ Ϧϣ˶  Ί͋˳ ϴδ˴ ˶Α ΎϬ˵ϧΫ˶ Ά˵ϳ  ˵ΐϟ˶· ˵ϥΎϣ˴ΰϟ΍ϭ˴  ΎϬϴ˴Ϡϋ˴  ΎϤ˵ϫ  ˷ ˷ ˴ ˴ ϊ˵ ˴Αέ˴΃ ϊϴτ Ϙ ϟ΍ ϲϓ ϰ Ϙ Β Η  ϰ Θ Σ ˴ ˴ ˶  ˴ ϞΠ˴ Τ˴ ϟ΍ϭ˴  εΎΒ Ϝ ϟ΍ ϭ  ϱϭ΍έ Ϸ΍ ϰϟ ˶ ˴ ˶· ˶  Ώ ˶ ΎΒϏ˴Ϸ΍ ϰϟ˶· ˱΍έΰΟ˴  Ύϫ˵έΰ˵ Π˴ϧ  ˴ ˴ ϩή˴ ˶ϔδϣ˵  ΡΎΒ μϟ΍ Ϟ Μ ϣ  Δ Ϡ ϴ ϟ  ϲϓ ˳ ˴ ˶ ˶ ˶  Ϟ ˶ ϴ˴Ψϟ΍ Ω˶ ΎϴΠ˶ ˶Α ΎϨϘ˸˶Βγ˵  Ϊ˴ϗϭ˴  ˱Δ˴Όϣ˶  ΍Ϊϳ˴ίϭ ΎϧΩ˴Ϊϋ˴  ϰ˷ΘΣ˴ ˴  ˱ ˴ ˷ ˵ ˴ ˴ ˴ ˸ΐμ ϧ  Ϣ Ϡ ϓ  Ύ ϴ ΣΎλ ΎϨΒ Ϡ ρ  ϰ Θ Σ ˴ ˶ ˶ ˯˴ ΎΒψϟ΍ ˶ ϭ˴ 

εϮΣ Ϯ˵ ϟ΍ ˴

 ˵ΐ˵Ϡτ˴ϧ ΎϨϟ˴Ϊϋ˴  Ϣ͉ Λ  ˴ ϱΩ΍Ϯϟ΍ Ϧ˶ τ˴Β˶Α ˲Ώήγ ΎϨ ϟ  Ϧ˴͉ ϋ ˶  ͋ϱϭ˶ έ˴  Ϟ˳ ˴ϬϨϣ˴  Ϧ˴ϋ Εέ˴˴ Ϊλ ˴  Ϊ˴ϗ  ϲ ͋ Ϝ˶ ˴Α ϻϭ˴  ϕ ˴ ˴ϟ ˳ ϭήτϤ˴ ˶Α βϴ  Ε ˶ ΍έϮϋάϣ˴  ήϴ˴ ˴ Ϗ Ϫ˶ ϴϓ ˴Ϧϴ˴ϋέ˴  ˵ Ϊ˶ Ϗ˴  Ϫ˶ ϴ˴Ϡϋ˴  ή͉ ϣ˴ Ώ ˶ ΎΤδ˴ ϟ΍ ϕ  ˴ϷΎ˶Α ϝ˴ Ύϣ Ύϧ΁έ˴  ΎϤ˷ ˴ϟ ϕΎϨϋ ˶  ϝ ˶ ΎΣ Ϧδ˵ ˶ Σϭ˴  ξϔ˴ ˳ Χ ϲϓ ϝ˴ ΍ίΎϣ  ˵ϩΎϤΣ˴  Ύϣ ή˵ ϫ˴Ϊϟ΍ ˵ϩΎϤΣ˴  ˲Ώήγ˶  ˷ ˵ ΩΎΑ Ω˶ Ύ˷Ϭ˴ϔϟ΍ϭ˴  έΎ Ϙ μ ϟΎ Α Εέ˴ ˴ ˶ ˶  Ύϧή˴ ϗ˴Ϸ΍ ή˴ ϴΒϜ˴ ϟ΍ Ϊ˵ Ϭ˴ϔϟ΍ ϝ˴ Ϊ͉ Π˴ ˴ϓ  ˱ϼ  ˶΋ΎΣ ˱΍ΰϨ˴ϋ ή˵ Χ˴ ϵ΍ ϝ˴ Ϊ͉ Ο˴ ϭ˴  έϮϘ˵ ˶ μϟΎ˶Α Ϧ˵͉ ϫΎϨϴϣ˴ έ Ϣ͉ Λ ˴  ϩ˴ΪΣ˶ ΍ϭ Ρ΍ή ˶ ˴Ϙϟ΍ ϲϓ ΎϬϨϣ˶  ˴ϥΩή˴ ϓ˴΃  ΎϬ˶ϟ΍ά˴ϗ ϲϓ ή˵ Ϙμ ˴ ϟ΍ϭ˴  ΎϨ˶Α Ε͉ήϣ˴  ˵ΐϠϜ˴ ϟ΍ ΎϫΎΗ˴΃ϭ˴  ΎϫΎϨ˴Λ Ϣ͉ Λ  ω ˵ ή˴ μ˴ϧϭ˴  Ύϫ˵Ϊϴμ˴ϧ ϝΰ˴ ˴ϧ Ϣ˴Ϡ˴ϓ  Ϟ˴ΒΠϟ΍ ϰϟ˶· ˱Δ˴ϟΪ˴ϋ ΎϨϟ˴Ϊϋ˴  Ϣ͉ Λ ˴  Ώ ˶ ϼϜ˶ ϟ΍ϭ˴  Ϟ˶ ϴ˴ΨϟΎ˶Α ϝ ˴ΰ˴ϧ Ϣ˴Ϡ˴ϓ  ϩή˴ ˴ϗϮϣ ϝ˵ Ύϐ˶Βϟ΍ϭ ˴ ΍ Ϣ͉ Λ ˴ ΎϨϓή˴ μϧ  Ϟ ˶ ϴ˴Ϡ˶Α ΎϨϠΣ˴ έ ΎϨϴ˴Η˴΃ ϰ˷ΘΣ˴ ˴  ΍Ϊϴμϟ΍ ΎϨΣή˴ ˴ρϭ˴  ΎϨϟΰ˴ ˴ϧ Ϣ͉ Λ ˴  ˸ ˴ ˴ ˴ ˴ ˸ΐ˵μ˴ϧϭ ϱϮθ˴ ϧ ϭ ϲ  ϠϘ˴ ϧ  ˸ϝ ΰ ϧ  Ϣ Ϡ ϓ ˴ ˴

 ˯˴ ΍ήΤμ ˴ ϟ΍

˺˺˻



˺˺˼

                    

˺˺˽ ˺˺˾ ˺˺˿ ˺˺̀ ˺˺́ ˺˺̂ ˺˻˹ ˺˻˺ ˺˻˻ ˺˻˼ ˺˻˽ ˺˻˾ ˺˻˿ ˺˻̀ ˺˻́ ˺˻̂ ˺˼˹ ˺˼˺ ˺˼˻ ˺˼˼ ˺˼˽

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  ˱ ˵ ͉ ˴ ήϴ˴ ϐ Α    ϕΎϗ ΰϟ΍ ϣ  Ϧ˴ ϋ  ΎϤ ϛ  Ύ Αή η ˺˼˾ ˴Ϧ ˶ ˶ ˶ ˶ ˶   ΍Ϊ˴Ϗ Ϧϣ˴  ϰψΣ˴΃ϭ Ϧϣ˴  Ϊ˴ ό˴ γ˴΃  ΍Ω˴Ϊϋ˴  ϝΎϴ ˴ ˳ ˴ϟ ϊ˴ Βγ˴  ϝ ˴ΰ˴ϧ Ϣ˴Ϡ˴ϓ ˺˼˿ ˴ Ρ΍έ   ϕΎγ ˶

ήϴ˴ ˴ ˶ Ϗϭ

ΐ ˳ ϴΗή˴Η

 

1. Not the length of the turn of days gives meaning to life, But rather life is there where joy comes to its full. 2. My glory’s days and my command’s effect, These are my life’s account. 3. Alas, how tyrannous the blows of fate, How treacherous toward him whom they befriend! 4. Very few were my days of joy, Yet were I to count them, I’d number them well: 5. Let me here recount a day I had in Shām, The most delightful of days that ever passed. 6. I called for the falconer that day, When from my sleep I woke at the break of dawn. 7. To him I said: “Choose seven hounds, grown ones, Each one of noble pedigree, ready to enter the fray. 8. Of these, two shall be for the hare, Five singled out for gazelles. 9. Then make the hounds line up in two rows, And release them two by two. 10. And of the main pack don’t hold back hounds that accost from both sides, For they are the gazelle-fawns’ surest end.” 11. Then I turned to the hunting panthers’ master, To be ready, so too to the keepers of the hawks,

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12. And I said: “Five, indeed, will suffice, And of the sparrow-hawks two, one a young chick, the other speckled. 13. And you, cook, do not tarry, Hasten on, prepare the breasts and middle-parts! 14. And you, wine-steward, come with the flasks, And let them be well-filled with the wine! 15. By God, accept not the company of a dull-wit, And avoid multitudes and meddlers. 16. Such-and-such refuse, but take such-and-such, And let me be the warrant of the hunt.” 17. As they waited a long while, I chose From among them twenty, or slightly more: 18. A gallant company they were, Renowned for grace and noble birth. 19. Then we aimed for quarry at ‘Ayn Qāṣir, Of every adept huntsman the favored hunting ground. 20. There we arrived, with the sun, still before setting, Strutting in her vespertine gilded gown. 21. The heath-cocks began to crow, Resounding all-round from every side, 22. Unmindful of us, deluded, While our visit bore their death. 23. They thrilled awaiting the coming of morning, and knew not That the fates would strike with the dawn.

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24. Then, when I felt the morning come, I called out: “Hasten to prayer’s grace!” 25. As we thus prayed, the hawks were brought, Unhooded, the horses saddled, 26. And then, to the panther-keeper I turned: “Proceed, keep to yourself, And if gazelles appear, call out to us, be diligent, be spry!” 27. He then remained not far from us— And to him headed all that fled from us. 28. Within a row of men, I moved in measured step, As though we marched into the fray. 29. But barely had we evened out our line, when A young page halted near a bluff, 30. Then hastened to me, calling out: “The chase is on!” If he means sighting, he must be right! 31. I went toward him, and he pointed to a gazelle resting on her chest. I deemed her awake, as she so slept. 32. Then, reaching for an arrow, I circled around twice, not able to take aim. 33. Until, when I could, I shot and did not miss— For to each death there is a reason and a means. 34. The dogs yelped on their leashes, Voicing their claim, while she writhed in agony. 35. I called out for a black [hawk], like an iron-hook, Not a white one, and no mere chick.

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36. Then I hailed the party: “Here is my hawk! So, who of you is eager to compete?” 37. And from amongst them a boyish voice called out: “I am, I!”— Though, had he known [the hawk] in my hand, he would have yielded in advance. 38. To him I said: “Meet me across the river— Take one direction, I’ll take the other.” 39. A heath-hen flew his way, and he released his falcon, All skill and gallantry. 40. The falcon clung by her, up looked the company, and shouted— As shouting goes with hunting hand-in-hand. 41. But I said: “What is all this din and clamor, All this rejoicing over the first stretch?” 42. And he responded: “The dog only confounds the falcon. It’s merely on guard. You say to it, ‘Pass on,’ and that is what it does.” 43. And he kept yelling: “My lord, my lord!” And like a firebrand amidst esparto-grass, 44. A bird flew up, and I loosened my falcon. It was a quail, calamity its lot before it even rose. 45. But barely had I released my falcon, when One more bird turned about in skillful flight: 46. Black, full-voiced, of noble pedigree, the feathers moulted, Finely colored, black-rimmed the eyes, firm the build, 47. In sundry colors draped, The cloak brocade and jujubee.

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48. It was still rising when my falcon headed down. Leading the race, never losing sight, 49. His eye upon the prey below him, watchful, Looking for the moment of the deadly strike. 50. Till the quail approached what it deemed its refuge— But, closer to it, there stood death. 51. At the covert’s entrance it lowered its feet to alight, But death reached it first. 52. I cried out “Allāhu akbar!” in elation, and the men cried too, For others, never we, conceal things in their breasts. 53. There we raised our clamor, and one bird took off— A devilish one, of the rebellious birds from hell. 54. The men released their falcons on it from close range, Their eyes constantly clinging to its flight. 55. His falcon, though, did not sustain pursuit, but ceded ground After it had come close to attack. 56. I shouted: “Is this a falcon or a chicken? Surely its wings belong on a heath-hen!” 57. Faces and eyes, at this, grew red, and he said: “This is a cursed place! 58. Whether the bird reaches a covert or falls, if the falcon besets it, It finds nothing but a harsh mountain-pass. 59. Let’s turn toward the slight rise And this spot, isolated, bare!” 60. There I replied: “This is a feeble argument And a deception known too well!

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61. We all are here in one place [and before one fact], So do not argue so weak a cause! 62. Cut your bird’s wing short, and he’ll stay at home Together with the honey-guides and turtle-doves. 63. Take his graceful neck-ring bells, And put them on goats in a herd.” 64. Till, when I saw he was abashed, I said [to myself]: “How comely of countenance he is, quite ready for the bride-bed! 65. Enough of this falcon—away with it! And guard against his sullenness and shame!” 66. And to the riders around us, I said: “All-as-one, bear witness where we stand, 67. That [he chose] an obvious and warranted bird Upon which to wager his rank and right.” 68. Then I brought a falcon, handsome, splendid to behold, Smaller than the eagle, just above the ruddy hawk, 69. A thing of beauty to behold, and yet more: Its gaze, two fires in two caves. 70. Above its chest and neck, as though on ash, Minute ants had left their tracks. 71. A splendid beak, deep-sunk the eye, A thigh that fills the palm, 72. Huge the talons, close-set to the dastabān, Able to bear and carry his toilsome lot,

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73. And with a claw that drowns my palm in bounty, In these he exceeds in qualities all other hawks. 74. There he rejoiced and said: “Bring it here!” But, “Slowly!” I replied, “And swear that you’ll return it.” “Certainly not!” he said in turn. 75. “My oath, I hold it dear, My word, just as my oath, is true!” 76. “Then take it,” said I, “as a gift, with a kiss,” But he turned away from me, and a bashful blush rose to his face. [76a. But then I repented and felt utter remorse, And much reproved myself 76b. For my jest, with the men present, While he grew still more bashful and constrained.] 77. And I continued to stroke him till he cheered up And became somewhat enlivened for the hunt. 78. “Mount,” I shouted to him, but he freed himself from my grasp, Losing no time, faster than one could say “Now!” 79. And pulled his shanks together and said: “Here, it’s done!” And I replied: “Treachery, how vile an act!” 80. And I pressed on, as did the treacherous rogue— For us there was no bird to fly. 81. Then we turned toward the valley’s river, There where, like locusts, water-fowl abound. 82. Two gerfalcons there I let take turns, Such was the quarry’s abundance, such the ease.

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83. They circled over us once and again, One and the other, till when they were locked in flight, 84. They streaked along in parallel, Like two knights that meet in combat—or almost. 85. Then and there, they attacked and struck at four [fowl]: Three thin-flanked and a spotted fourth. 86. Those we slew, then readied the two birds. More quarry availed itself, and [again] we released them. 87. Five more of the fowl they brought down: Thus the All-merciful furthered my joy. 88. Four of these were water-fowl, And one of those called “white-bird.” 89. Gently we prod our horses, to our pleasure yielding, No bridles but our hands. 90. And if, unruly, on their masters they should turn, Hunger bends them to our will. 91. Whenever they are spurred on to the gallop, In fear the quarry one by one falls to us. 92. Till we have taken however much we pleased, Then turned away, with no further need, 93. Toward some cranes near by the river, Of which we saw ten, or maybe more than ten. 94. When from afar the falcon saw their flock, It fixed its eyes on them and dunged.

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95. To this I said: “By the Lord of the Ka>bah, the hunt is as good as done!” There in the valley, nearby its slope. 96. The falcon circled till the prey was opportune and then swooped down, And from among them downed one thick-fuzzed. 97. Barely had it fallen, than I rushed for it, My feet faster than my falcon’s talons’ grip. 98. I sat down to sate it, But, already, it had swerved off the hill to the right. 99. Then, my hopes set on still more, I withdrew it— But in the hunt this is the worst of habits. 100. Nor did I reward it for its gallantry. Instead, I gave in to my zeal, and failed to mind my ills. 101. I kept deceiving the flock, and they let themselves be deceived. And so, our deceptions went on and on. 102. Of them, I aimed at one large and solitary, That strutted, its neck like a tightly twisted bucket-rope. 103. It took off, but failed to outstrip fate, For when one’s time has come, can it be heard or seen? 104. Till, when the hawk threw it down like a pack-bundle, I knew that the tree-trunk is indeed unlike the twig. 105. So, all that I obtain is but a matter That comes my way, only for fate to take it away.

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106. Better than success to a man Is to be right, though in privation. 107. I shouted to the cook: “What are you waiting for? Get off your colt, and get to work on all that’s here!” 108. He brought the quarry’s mid-parts and crown-bare Partridges and heath-cocks, 109. Though we made no attempt yet to dismount, Kept back by our zeal. 110. Then cup and wine were brought, And I said: “Afford it richly to my company!” 111. On that day joy satiated me and quenched me, And, surely, my share and my cup sufficed me. 112. Aiming for the desert, we then turned In pursuit of wild beasts and gazelles. 113. On the valley’s floor a herd appeared to us, A buck its leader, full-horned, thick-necked. 114. They came straight from the watering-place Overflowing with spring-time rains, second after first, 115. Neither much trodden nor worn, Nor a pasture-ground recently grazed. 116. There they pastured, by fear untroubled, In a lush valley with herbage richly overgrown. 117. Over it passed rain-rich clouds, Bearing showers, cloud upon rain-laden cloud.

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118. When they saw us, they turned their necks But not the way a lover looks, or one burning with desire. 119. They lived in ease and good circumstance, Till we brought upon them ill fortune’s stroke. 120. They were a herd by fate protected in fate’s own time. Then it saw us, and took back what it gave. 121. Without delay, I urged the falconer on, the panther-keeper, And soon we beat them to their appointed death. 122. One panther wrested the old horned bull to the ground, Bent on and pressing for the kill, 123. Another one brought down a goat, barren a full year, That grazed in the inaccessible reaches of twin valley-beds. 124. Then we threw at them our falcons, The bearers of their final fate. 125. On the grassy plain we singled out one of the does, Her belly pained and heavy as she strained. 126. She passed beside us, the falcon at her nape, The harbinger of her baneful lot. 127. Then he made her veer from course, where the dog reached her, And both, together with her fated time, joined forces against her. 128. We did not cease to hunt and to smite down Till of the herd no more than four remained. 129. Then we made our course straight for the mountain, Where we found antelope cows, rams, and partridge.

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130. There we went on in our chase with horse and dog, Slitting the quarry down to the dewlaps. 131. Then we turned back, the mules well loaded, The night resplendent, morning-bright. 132. Till, still at night, we reached our camping place, Preceded there by steed and rider. 133. Then we dismounted and laid out the quarry, Till we had counted one hundred and more. 134. And we ceased not to fry and roast and to pour wine, Till, looking for one awake and sober among us, we found none. 135. We drank as it came, straight from the wine-skins, Without rank and order, with no cupbearer at hand. 136. And there we remained seven nights all counted, The most fortunate to ever return at evening’s fall, The most favored to ever set out with the morn.

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PA RT I I I

:

Modernism and Metapoesis The Pursuit of the Poem

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C HA P T E R 8

The Modernist Hunt Poem in >Abd al-Wahha¯ b al-Baya¯ tı¯ and Ahmad >Abd al-Mu > t¯ı Hija¯ zı¯ ˙ ˙ ˙ Two Modernist Arab free-verse poets, the Iraqi >Abd al-Wahhāb al-Bayātī and the Egyptian Aḥmad >Abd al-Mu>ṭī Ḥijāzī, have chosen Ṭardiyyah (Hunt Poem) as the title for one of their poems. This arcane choice captures the critic’s attention both as a new development within the classical Arabic genre-spectrum of the qaṣīdah-matrix and, outside that spectrum, as a categorically innovative expression of freedom of form that owes even more to the unabashed contemporary poetics of Modernism than it does to Arabic traditional poetics of form (or genre). In effect, neither the narrowly understood subject matter of the hunt nor the two poems’ generic title falls, to a fully appreciable degree, into what we know thematically or form-specifically as the genre-domain of the ṭardiyyah. They are, rather, part of the idea-sphere of formal contemporary Arabic poetry. As regards the Arabic genre-theory that had spun around and out of the theme of the hunt, the ṭardiyyah thus arrives at its premodern 225

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point already almost wholly unburdened of even terminological parameters. As a genre it not only wilted but had finally vanished from poetic praxis across its several premodern centuries. In the newly awakened Arabic cultural energy and new sense of literary selfhood of the Nahḍah (the Arabic literary/cultural revival of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries), and despite Arabic poetry’s now broader form-curiosity and urgency of renewal, the Arabic themepoem of the hunt failed to meet with recognition. It did not even muster the old proven habits of imitation of classicist ṭardiyyah models or solicit a formal contrafaction (mu>āraḍah).1 The result pointed toward a genreforgetfulness. Such forgetfulness is merely confirmed by a pallid, disjointed, five-verse sample of hunting verse that remained buried inside a poem that is an awkward display of the courtly pomp and glory of Pharaonic Egypt, supposedly of the age ofTutankhamon.2 Ironically, the poet-perpetrator of this misstep, out of form and time, is none other than the courtier and poet-laureate of his age, Aḥmad Shawqī (1868–1932). The ṭardiyyah’s place and role within the encroaching Arabic sense of literary selfhood of the Nahḍah appeared to be nothing but disowned. The likelihood of its formal and thematic renewal and thus its reentry into a declared Modernity of Arabic poetry seemed minimal. The changing face of Arab society had turned away from a genre that seemed to have outlived its societal and thereby its literary role. Already centuries earlier, Abū Firās al-Ḥamdānī (320/932– 357/968) had shown signs of having reached a qualitative limit, beyond which a quantitative persistence in continuing the genre was bound to prove futile. It is in this light that we should view two rare poems that do not fit with ease into the concerns of modern, not to mention Modernist, Arabic poetry. Both surprise us with their common title, Ṭardiyyah, as though by this title they are intended to evoke or provoke precisely the faint echoes of distant analogues. One of these two unexpected poems is the Ṭardiyyah of >Abd al-Wahhāb al-Bayātī, contained in his 1966 collection, Alladhī Yaṭī Ḥijāzī, composed in 1979 during his self-imposed exile in Paris, but published only ten years later (1989) among his Parisian poems (Al-Bārīsiyyāt), in the collection Ashjār al-Ismant. The following discussion will treat the two Ṭardiyyahs in the chronological order of their composition.

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The Modernist Hunt Poem in >Abd al-Wahhāb al-Bayātī and Aḥmad >Abd al-Mu>ṭī Ḥijāzī 227

 



 

THE ṬARDIY YAH OF >ABD AL-WAHHāB AL-BAY āT ī 3



ΔϳΩήρ  ΏΎΒπϟ΍ϲϓϕέΎϐϟ΍ϖδϐϟ΍ήΒϋέϮϋάϤϟ΍ΐϧέϷ΍ ΏϼϜϟ΍ϪθϬϨΗ ΩΎϴμϟ΍ΎϬ˷ϳ΃ˬϊϴΒΗϢϜΑ ˮΩϼϴϤϟ΍ΓΩΎϬη ΓΎϴΤϟ΍ΪϠΗϲϫϭˬϦϳήΗΎϛ έϮϋάϤϟ΍ΐϧέϷ΍΍άϫϭˬΖΗΎϣ ΏΎθϋϷ΍ϭΏϼϜϟ΍ΐϟΎΨϣϪ΋ΎϣΩϲϓώΒμϳ ΏΎΌΘϛ΍ϲϓΓϮϜϟ΍΢Θϔϳήϳήπϟ΍Γ˷ήόϤϟ΍Φϴη ˯ΎϤδϟ΍ΝΪΤϳϭ ˯΍έΩί΍ΓήψϨΑ ϕ΍έϭϷΎΑΔΑΎϐϟ΍ήϤϐϳϒϳήΨϟ΍ϭˬ˷ήϣϒϴμϟ΍ ˮϕΎθόϟ΍ΐΤΘϨϳ΍άϜϫ΃ ˮΓήϴΒϜϟ΍ΓήϴΤΒϟ΍ϲϓέΎϬϨϟ΍ϕήϐϳϭ έϮϴτϟ΍ϞΣήΗϭ έϮϋάϤϟ΍ΐϧέϷ΍ϭ ΩΎϴμϟ΍ϡΪϗΖΤΗΕϮϤϳ Ω΍έϭϷ΍ϪϣΪΑ˱ΎΒ͋πΨ˴ ϣ˵ ΩϼϴϤϟ΍ϲϓΕϮϤϠϟΎϔϗ΍ϭ ͊ήΠ˴ ˵ϳΎϛέϮϟB

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ϱήΠΗΪϴμϟ΍ΏϼϛΖϧΎϛˬϪϣΎϣ΃ ΩϼΠϟ΍΢ΒϨΗ ˮϡϻϵ΍ϩάϫ΃B ΩΎϔλϷ΍ϭϥϮΠδϟ΍ϩάϫϭB ϡΎ˷ϴΧΎϳˬΩϼϴϤϟ΍ΓΩΎϬη ˮϡΎϳϷ΍ϩάϫϲϓ Ώ΍ήδϟ΍ϲϓΕϮϤϟ΍Ζϳ΃έϭˬϝΎϣήϟ΍ϲϓϲγ΃έΖϨϓΩB Ώ΍Ϯ˷ Πϟ΍ϢϟΎόϟ΍΍άϫήϴϘϓ Ώ΍ϮΑϷ΍ϲϓϡΎϨϳ ϡϼψϟ΍ϲϓϪϳΪϳϲϟΪϤϳ ΏϮϠϘϤϟΎΑϢϳϮϘΘϟ΍΃ήϘϳϭ ΏϮϠϐϤϟ΍ϪΗΎϴΤΑ ΩΎϣήϟ΍ϲϟϝΎϗϭˬϲϟϢΠϨϟ΍ϝΎϗˬϱ ˴ ϻϮϣB έ΍ήϔϟ΍ϭϙΎϳ· ΩΎλήϤϟΎΑϭΪόϟ΍ϙ˯΍έϭϦϣϭήΤΒϟ΍ϚϣΎϣ΃ έΎμΤϟ΍ΏήοϥΎϜϣϞϛϲϓΕϮϤϟ΍ϭ έΎϤΨϟ΍ςϘδϳϰΘΣΔϠϴϠϟ΍ΏήθϨϠϓ έΎϬϨϟ΍ΔϛήΑϲϓ  ϲΗΎϴΒϟ΍ΏΎϫϮϟ΍ΪΒϋ 



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Hunt Poem The frightened hare in the dusk, in fog drowned. The hounds rip it to shreds. Hunter, for how much do you sell A birth certificate? Catherine, she who gives birth to life, She is dead, and this frightened hare Daubs with its blood dogs’ claws and grass. The blind, old man of al-Ma>arrah opens the skylight in dismay And stares into the sky, Filled with scorn. The summer has passed and autumn blankets the forest in leaves— Is this how lovers sob, And how in the large lake the day drowns, And the birds fly away, And how the frightened hare Dies under the hunter’s foot Staining with its blood the sorrel steeds? To his day of birth, Lorca is dragged upright. Before him the hounds run, Yelp at the executioner. Is this the pain of agony? “And these prisons and the chains, O Khayyām, are they the birth certificate Of these our days?” I buried my head in the sand, and in the mirage I saw death. How poor, this wandering sage! He sleeps in doorways, Out of the dark, he stretches his hands out to me, And reads the almanac in reverse, in feeble stratagem: “My lord, the stars have told me, and ashes tell me so, Beware of flight! The sea lies before you, and behind you, in ambush, lies the foe, And everywhere death has set siege.” But tonight, let us drink, till the tavern keeper tumbles Into the pond of day.

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In this poem of the Iraqi free-verse poet >Abd al-Wahhāb al-Bayātī (1926–1999),4 it is striking that the poet does not face us directly, be it with his voice, through any degree of directness of his personal experience, or even with a plain focus of communicating attention. There is only a genre-derived theme, restrained but spine-chilling—the description of a panicked hare pursued by hounds and a hunter: “The frightened hare . . . / The hounds rip it to shreds,” “Daubs with its blood dogs’ claws and grass,” “Dies under the hunter’s foot” / “Staining with its blood the sorrel steeds.” Such is the end, both of the story and the image, as it is also the end of the action of the hunt itself, that is, of the ṭardiyyah of >Abd al-Wahhāb al-Bayātī—neither more nor less. Or else, such is the deceptively narrow frame of the ṭardiyyah-memory of this poet. As for its web and texture, the poem is a snare of strange contexts, latencies, and intimations within precisely that narrow frame. Were these latencies and intimations not containable within that frame, or were the frame itself not given its own meaning by the poem’s title and indeed by the metonymic genre-frame of ṭardiyyah, the poem would lack any semblance of a hermeneutical compass. The maximally shortened, compacted scene of the frightened hare is nevertheless the key to everything that takes place in the poem. The poem begins with the questioning of the hunter, which is almost a selfquestioning: “Hunter, for how much do you sell / A birth certificate?” The birth certificate here is none other than “destiny”—the same destiny the poet had already called up in another poem, “In the Tavern of Destinies” (Fī Ḥānati l-Aqdār), which directly precedes his Ṭardiyyah. In that poem a slave faces a similar question: “For how much do you sell these chains?”5 With an abruptness similar to that of “the birth certificate,” the poet surprises us in the Ṭardiyyah with the name Catherine, who “gives birth to life.” It is up to us to pursue the implication that Catherine is an echo of the tragic heroine-figure out of Ernest Hemingway’s novel Farewell to Arms, at the heartrending end of which she dies in childbirth. Hemingway’s Catherine, however, lives on beyond the direct context of the poem in a manner that to al-Bayātī possesses a broader and inferentially deeper presence in the name of >āāāAbd al-Wahhāb al-Bayātī and Aḥmad >Abd al-Mu>ṭī Ḥijāzī 231

bolically dies-and-lives, as in the collection’s poem no. 7, the second poem after the Ṭardiyyah:6 >āāmān, Abū al->Alāarrah’s turning toward the heavens “filled with scorn” must have come to >Abd al-Wahhāb al-Bayātī’s mind—not out of an intellectually alerted moment from the depths of the Arabic Middle Ages, but out of al-Bayātī’s own defiant generation. The Iraqi poet does not enter into the abstract, ideological disquisitions so popular in his day. Rather, he closely rephrases the words of the Egyptian Modernist poet Ṣalāḥ >Abd al-Ṣabūr (1931–1981) from the title-poem of his early collection Al-Nās fī Bilādī (The People of My Country), where, significantly, the projection is that of an angry, threatening youth, not a crestfallen, aged sage:7

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And when he stretched at the sky his muscle-tight forearm, In his eyes there swelled contempt.

The next image of the terror-stricken hare is a comparison to the Spanish poet Federico García Lorca (1898–1936), fated to die proudly and senselessly in the Spanish Civil War, not unlike many poets of his generation. Here Lorca is dragged to his death as though by his fate of birth: “Before him the hounds run, / Yelp at the executioner.” A halfway clarifying change of tone that borders on a further definition of the poem’s form is about to take place at this point. Images as motif-segments, in which the poet’s voice is not yet transparently personal and where the terror-stricken hare is still only a self-distancing conceit without the poet’s “I,” have thus far determined the poem’s thematic alignment. As in a Petrarchan sonnet’s “turn”—regardless of the imprecision of the shi>r al-ḥurr prosody—al-Bayātī’s poem now introduces the subjective voice through a self-questioning that turns into an outcry, while also engaging still another “poet-analogue”: Is this the pain of agony? “And these prisons and the chains, Oh Khayyām, are they the birth certificate Of these our days?”

And he continues, not expecting an answer from the saturnine Omar Khayyām but giving himself, as well as the all-knowing, time-distant Persian poet, an answer that is equally a confession of loss of heart: I buried my head in the sand, and in the mirage I saw death. How poor, this wandering sage! He sleeps in doorways, Out of the dark, he stretches out his hands to me, And reads the almanac in reverse, in feeble stratagem: “My lord, the stars have told me, and ashes tell me so, Beware of flight! The sea lies before you, and behind you, in ambush, lies the foe, And everywhere death has set siege.”

Here the poem pants for closure, calling up a not entirely unexpected echo of the “tarot” out of T. S. Eliot’s The Waste Land, then warn-

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ing with yet one more intentionally ominous, proverbially intoned quotation, attributed apocryphally and thereby all the more proverbially to Ṭāriq Ibn Ziyād, the first Arab-Islamic warrior to set foot on the soil of al-Andalus. The rhetoric of this personification out of a heroic past, however, does not translate into action in the present, just as it had failed to translate into action in the past; and even “flight” does not promise “escape.” The modern poet al-Bayātī finds himself, at the end of the poem of his all-pervading memory of the terror-stricken hare, suspended between the sage of al-Ma>arrah, with his blind, defiant gaze toward heaven, and Omar Khayyām, the poet of wine and escape, who has nowhere to escape. In a final deflection away from his haunting metaphor of the terror-stricken hare, the genre-claiming Ṭardiyyah’s poet, too, has now receded into a state of melancholy, barely escaping a Khayyām-like, or perhaps, at the back of his mind, an Abū Nuwāsian, need to forget: But tonight, let us drink, till the tavern keeper tumbles Into the pond of day.

But we know that nothing is forgotten—not the lingering thought of the terror-stricken hare. THE ṬARDIY YAH OF A ḤMAD >ABD AL-MU > Ṭī ḤIJāZī 8

ΔϳΩήρ

ϒϴϨϣϦϤΣήϟ΍ΪΒϋϰϟ· ˬϥΎϛϊ˵ ϴΑήϟ΍Ϯϫ ˸Ϊ Σ˴ ˴΃ϡ˵ Ϯϴϟ΍ϭ ˸ Ϡ˴ Χ˴ ϲΘϟ΍Δ˶ ϨϳΪϤϟ΍ϲϓβϴϟϭ Ζ ˬϱ΍ϮγˬΎϫ ήτϋΡΎϓϭ ˵ ˴ Ύτ˴Ϙϟ΍˵ΩΎτλ΃ ˵ΖϠϗ ˸Ϊ ˴ϠΑϰϟ·˳ΪϠΑϦϣϲϨόΒΘϳΎτ˴Ϙϟ΍ϥΎϛ ͊ ϭΪθϳϭˬϲϤϠΣϲϓςΤϳ ˸Ω ή˴˴ η ˵ΖϤϗ΍ΫΈϓ  





  

 







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ˬϲγϮ˸ ˴ϗΖϠϤΣ Ϊ˸ ό˶ ˴ΘΒϤϟ΍έΎϬϨϟ΍ϲϓ˱΍ΪϴόΑ ˵ΖϠϏ͉ ϮΗϭ ˴ ˴Ϙϟ΍ήϴρϦϋΚΤΑ΃ Ύτ ˶ ˬΐ ˶ θόϟ΍ϲϓ˶ΖϗϮϟ΍ϕ΍ήΘΣ΍ ˵ΖϤϤθΗϰΘΣ ˲ Ϊ˸ ό˶ ˴ ΗήϳϖϳήΑϲϟΡϻϭ Ύτ˴Ϙϟ΍ϥΎϛ ˬ˯ΎϤδϟ΍ϲϓ Ά˶ ϟΆϠϟΎϛϞΤϨϳ ˶ ˸ΪϘ˶ ό˴ Ϩ˸ ϳϢΛ ˬ˱ΎΑήΘϘϣ Ω˴ΪΒϟ΍ϦϣϪ˴ΗέϮλΎόΟήΘδ ϣ˵ ˴ ˬ˱Ύτ˶ϗΎ͉δϣ˵ ϱΪϳϰϠϋΎϤϧ΄ϛ ͉ ˬϩΎϴϤϟ΍Ώ ˸Ϊ ˴ΑΰϟΎϛ ˶ έΎδϣϰϠϋ˱Ύϓήϓήϣ ˸Ϊ δ ˴ Ο˴ ϼΑ˱΍ΪϋΎλϭ ˬ˵Ϫ͉Ϡϛ˵ ϱέΎϬϧˬ˵ϩϮ˴ ˸Τϧ ˵ΖΑϮλ ˷ ˸Ϊ λ ˶ ˴ ΃Ϣϟϭ ˬΔ˶ Ϥϴϐϟ΍ϭ˯ΎϤϟ΍ϦϴΑ ˵ΕϭΪϋ ˬΔ˶ ψϘϴϟ΍ϭϢϠΤϟ΍ϦϴΑ ˸Ϊη ˴ ήϟ΍ΏϮϠδϣ ˴ ˸Ϊϋ ˵ ΃ϢϟϱΩϼΑϦϣ ˵ΖΟήΧάϣ˵ ϭ ˺̂̀̂/˾/˺˼ –βϳέΎΑ ϱίΎΠΣϲτόϤϟ΍ΪΒϋΪϤΣ΃



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The Modernist Hunt Poem in >Abd al-Wahhāb al-Bayātī and Aḥmad >Abd al-Mu>ṭī Ḥijāzī 235

Hunt Poem To Aḥmad >Abd al-Raḥmān Munīf 9 It was Spring, And the day a Sunday, And in the empty city, Its perfume redolent, I stood alone. I said . . . I’ll hunt qaṭā-grouse. The qaṭā followed me from country to country, Alighting in my dream, singing. But when I awoke, it took flight. I grasped my bow And pressed deeply into the receding day, Searching for the grouse. Till time itself bore the smell of fire, spread in the grass. An iridescent tremor flashed. It was the qaṭā, Dissolving in the sky like pearls unstrung, Then strung again, Approaching, Retaking form Again and again, as if coming down, Almost to perch on my hand, Fluttering over water, foam-like, Then, rising bodiless. All day long, I aimed at them, And failed. Between the water and the cloud, I crossed, Between dream and waking, Senseless. And since I left my country, I have not returned.

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Our second modern titular claim to ṭardiyyah-genre-dependence is this Ṭardiyyah by the Egyptian free-verse poet Aḥmad >Abd al-Mu>ṭī Ḥijāzī (1935–).10 The first thing to note is that the poet foreswears impersonal objectivizing or a vision derived from a concrete, factual angle. His vision is a dream-vision, or one of daydream. Had he introduced into his poem references to anything outside of the urgent, or intimate, drive of his dream-imagination, this poem would have slid into a purely tried and familiar exercise in form, at best a mixed form, within a frozen ṭardiyyah genre. Aḥmad >Abd al-Mu>ṭī Ḥijāzī’s poem, however, was meant to differ from the antiquarian pattern. By its style alone, it hastens to announce itself, presaging what it intends to be. The style is rapid, nervous: huwa r-rabī>u kāna (It was springtime—it was! [emphasis mine]). And yet the poem’s atmosphere is derived from a pretense of the ordinary and the objective, when what is intended is the exact opposite: wa l-yawmu aḥad / wa laysa fī l-madīnati llatī khalat / wa fāḥa >iṭruhā siwāya (And the day a Sunday, / And in the empty city, / Its perfume redolent, I stood alone).11 The city, meant to be Paris and, one is led to presume, Paris on an almost ideal, that is, sunny Sunday morning of mellow springtime—lies empty or indeed deserted (khalat), comfortably so, perhaps, but somehow also in between hollow and expectantly, almost threateningly tense. Torn between these possibly discrepant vectors, the poet, or the incipient hunter, knows—once again with a perceptible, expressive abruptness of style—that this is the moment for him to set out for the hunt of the qaṭā, the mysterious grouse: qultu . . . aṣṭādu l-qaṭā (I said . . . I’ll hunt qaṭā-grouse). At this point our consciousness of the importance of what is happening, or is about to happen, has sharpened—as we should have felt it sharpening from the very first, because it was inscripted into the style of these first five tense staccato lines. We are also aware of the reality, or surreality, of the situation: The poem is a dream, and it will remain a dream-scene as it spins and winds down to the line before the poet’s last awakening and his sobering, devastatingly negative recognition— maybe of the hunt’s failure, maybe of faltering of decision, or maybe because the qaṭā is inapprehensible, not only to this Egyptian poet deluded by his voluntary exile. The poet falls in line with this recognition: “And since I left my country, I have not returned.”

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Into this hollowed-out space of dream, daydream, or simply symboldriven, spectral unreality, >Abd al-Mu>ṭī Ḥijāzī’s poem of the hunt falls and evolves. The poet’s qaṭā are wherever he himself is. They follow him—no, they precede him. The decision to go hunting is no longer his. The qaṭā are with him in every place, maybe not even any longer in the magic time of the hunter’s morning of a springtime Sunday. The hunter confesses that his hunter’s-time in this special reality is no more than his dream (ḥulmī), and that the strange qaṭā, which are none other than the sandgrouse of very distant deserts, are actually, incongruously, capable of incantatory song (yashdū), and that in the poet’s dream they come down toward him, approach him, but when he awakens, that is, “comes to” ( fa idhā qumtu), they take flight. The dream or irreality, however, continues. In the thus declared and accepted realm of his hunt, the poet-hunter decides to take up his bow. Dream-like, everything becomes more than a loosely associative search of a metaphoric compass of form. In a strengthening contact with the ancient ṭardiyyah undertone—that is, in genre-unison with the “morning of the hunter”—this nebulous sense of ṭardiyyah-form, however idiosyncratic its motival discordances, has reemerged. Now doubly-appointed, with the rule of time (the hunter’s morning) and a weapon (the bow, his hunter’s symbol), the poet-hunter nevertheless breaks the last rule of the poem of the hunt: He continues deep into the discordant, receding day, a hostile, unproductive time (tawaghghaltu ba>īdan fī n-nahār),12 thereby breaking the original magic circle of all traditional ṭardiyyah hunters’ sense of the time of incursion into the genre’s matutinal magic of experience. His “incursion” (tawaghghul) will therefore bode danger or the lack of successful accomplishment. In this breach of the rule, that is, in the hunter’s being carried away by his compulsion, strange things begin to occur, or rather, begin to be manifested: his transgression of the time of the “morning of the hunt,” and in it the qaṭā bird turning into a “smell of fire, spread in the grass.” The qaṭā bird momentarily evanesces into something that bears the brunt of that transgressed time, so much so that the hunter only senses its presence as a nimbus. But the fire in the grass is also what condenses and, paradoxically, gives focus to the ephemeralness of what happens and does not happen in this hunt that is no longer a hunt. >Abd al-Mu>ṭī Ḥijāzī’s disquieting and fascinating “fire in the grass” is, however, an “image on loan,” already familiar to us from Abū Firās

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al-Ḥamdānī’s Urjūzah Muzdawijah. There, lines 43b– 44a read: “And like a firebrand amidst esparto-grass, // A bird flew up. . . .13 Precisely because it rings so light and appropriate, Ḥijāzī’s “engrafting” of this image from Abū Firās’s ṭardiyyah poem remains balanced but perceivable. This may be due to the modern/Modernist poet’s taking a license—in a manner resembling a Harold-Bloomian “misprision”— which entails a displacement or detachment of Abū Firās’s image, to obtain this magnificent emergent epiphany of “fire in the grass.” But, if both poetic instances are viewed dispassionately, once Abū Firās’s “firebrand in the grass” is transplanted into Ḥijāzī’s poem, its only poetic resuscitation, apart from the primary clarity of banal allusion, is through the pretense of self-assured misprision: of a counterassociative thought that is capable of moving out of one dimension of poetic tradition (courtly intent on the spectacular)—reflecting, in this case, Abū Firās’s late >Abbāsid, nearly exhausted associative repertory— into Ḥijāzī’s entirely new, openly counter-allusive, Modernist time. In premodern Arabic critical terms, it thus becomes disjointed from both its text and context—possibly to the extreme. So, does the modern poet intuit the manifestation of a “burning bush”? And, if so, from which source? Is there any other understanding of this qaṭā hunter’s perception of the scent14 of burning grass? And we might also raise the almost painful question of omission, or, in critical reality, not entirely an omission: Was Moses, too, ever more than a forlorn hunter-poet? It is in this air of compounded dimensions that the “iridescent tremor” (as of a lightning flash) (barīqun yarta>id) comes into view before the poet-hunter. Did the qaṭā appear, or was it a lightning flash? The levels of dream or truth, or reality, remain intertwined—or was there room for reality at all, for anything other than apparition, or vision? In this airiness of sheer vision or apparition, the qaṭā flock dissolves into a scattering of pearls strewn over the sky, only to return to form a unit or a shape. Here we also find a harmonizing degree of intra-textual accommodation in Ḥijāzī’s image of the scattered and then in-gathering qaṭā flock, evoking in its lyrical effect one of his best achieved images in the opening stanza of one of his most lyrically elegiac poems, Nawbatu r-Rujū> (“Bugle-Call of Return”):15

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͉ ϱΩΎϨϳΎϣ͉ ˱ΎΗϮλϥ΄ϛ Ϣ΋ΎϤΤϟ΍Ώ΍ήγ΃ϖϓϷ΍˯΍έϭϦϣΩϮόΘϓ ϕήΘϔΗϭˬ˱ΓέϭΩΐϴϐϤϟ΍βϤηϲϓέϭΪΗ ͉ ϱΩΎϨϳΎϣ͉ ˱ΎΗϮλϥ΄ϛ As if a voice calls out . . . And from beyond the horizon Coveys of doves return, Circle in the setting sun Once, and scatter. As if a voice calls out . . .

But there is also a distinct difference between the two images. In the poem “Bugle-Call of Return,” in the lyrical serenity of “as if a voice calls out,” the image of the crepuscular, rotating and scattering flight of the doves is only one of a series of images that create a similar mood in each one of that poem’s diverse, subsequent stanzas. The pearl-like dispersion of the qaṭā in Ḥijāzī’s hunt poem, however, even in their diaphanous multiplicity, is not replaced by any consecutive metaphor or metaphors. It remains, as one and as many, equally near and distant, coming down in body and rising up out of body. Such is the qaṭā. Between dream and waking, the poet-hunter aimed and missed. His efforts fruitless, his dream empty, he emerges despoiled of reason. >Abd al-Mu>ṭī Ḥijāzī concludes his Ṭardiyyah in a manner that is very personal in its detachment from the poem as point of vision and that is even at odds with its formal perception. He puts his own voice outside the story-flow of the poem and, in doing so, furnishes the poem’s surprisingly effective, but strikingly superfluous, explanation: “And since I left my country, I have not returned.” The poet is now an observer of his own poem. His final statement of fact—“I have not returned”—is thus also an out-of-poem confession, which is a response not only to his present poem, Ṭardiyyah, but equally to his other Parisian (bārīsiyyah) poem, Biṭālah (“Unemployed”), which preceded the Ṭardiyyah by five years. In that earlier poem, Ḥijāzī almost anticipates this Ṭardiyyahresponse, presenting us with the atmosphere of the poem as it reflected his state of mind, or rather his existential state. He speaks out in a

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nervous, abrupt style, a style that at the same time attempts to be crisply factual and informative:16

ΔϟΎτΑ ˵Δ ˷ϴΑήόϟ΍˵ΓέϮΜϟ΍ϭˬΎϧ΃ βϳέΎΑωέ΍Ϯηϲϓ Ϟ˳ ϤϋϦϋΚΤΒϧ ˴ ˵ Τ˴ Β˸ ˴ϧ ˵ Ϧ˸ ϋ˴ Κ Δ˳ ϓ˴ ή˸ Ϗ Ϟ˴ ϳήΑ΍βϤηϲϓϊϜδΘϧ ϰπϣ˱ΎϧΎϣίϥ· ˯ϲΠϳ˱ΎϧΎϣίϭ Δ˶ ϴΑήόϟ΍˶ΓέϮΜϠϟΖϠϗ Ζ ˶ ϧ΃ϲόΟήΗϥ΃ΪΑϻ Ύϧ΃Ύϣ΃ ˲ϚϟΎϫΎϧ΄ϓ ˯˸ ϲϓΪϟ΍˶Ϋ΍Ϋήϟ΍΍άϫΖΤΗ ˺̂̀˽ϞϳήΑ΍

Unemployed I and the Arab revolution Search for work in the streets of Paris, Search for a loft, Move blindly under April’s sun. Time passed by, And more time comes! I said to the Arab revolution: You must return, But I, I am lost Under this warm drizzle! April, 1974

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The connection between these two poems arises from their selfrevealing, interdependent structures, their common style-consciousness, and their theme of exile, despite the surface-discordance of manner in which, first, in Biṭālah, the poet-exile accepts defeat (fa anā hālikun) and then, subsequently in the Ṭardiyyah (tropically), confesses his dejection. Or it arises because, despite the sharp contrast between dreamlike visionary lyricism in Ṭardiyyah and the abruptness of reality in Biṭālah, the two poems share the unavoidable evocation of a common place (Paris) and time (April)—both not merely circumstantial but coessential. The harmonizing but then almost dialogically contrasting factors of the poet’s state of mind in both poems, precisely in their equilibrium of disrupted time and psychological continuity, conform to the telling in one single poem of a single, self-imposed or circumstanceimposed condition. Whether one calls this condition political, moral, or intellectual, it is in any case almost a replay of a condition of another historical time and place of a kindred, equally Parisian, generation, which likewise found itself in a state of existential exile. Furthermore, this allows us to say that >Abd al-Mu>ṭī Ḥijāzī’s two poems, Biṭālah and Ṭardiyyah, may ultimately be viewed as two palimpsest-like “super-scripted” poetic texts of the poet’s own “Parisian” experience. In the poem Biṭālah, the atmosphere of “existentialized” exile of the poet’s decision not to return gives a sense of finality to his exilic estrangement, in which he has taken the choice to perish (fa anā hālikun). To him “the April of Paris” is the season of his capitulation; and it is also a time of a bitter, ironic view of himself and of the expressed cause: the Arab Revolution. Without this cause, his choice “remains”—more than “is” (qultu li th-Thawrati l->Arabiyyati)—to perish in an alien country under an alien drizzle, or “to go to waste,” which is another meaning of fa anā hālikun. Ḥijāzī’s poem Ṭardiyyah, however, while being the putative sequel to his poem Biṭālah, begins with a scene of light, transparency, and, perhaps, anticipation of joy. In this it is not at all different from the opening of the classical genre-ṭardiyyah with its air of the joyful foretaste of a morning hunt—were it not for the modern poet’s Ṭardiyyah’s latent, surreal, Dali-esque “presence” of loneliness in exceeding light, of emptiness and of its redolence of attar (>iṭr): altogether conspiring, even vaguely or nondescriptly, to evoke the classical ṭardiyyah’s morning joy.

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As the city (Paris) and the two-faced month of April circumscribe the time and place in both poems, Ṭardiyyah and Biṭālah, they set the contrasting moods and doubly forlorn states of mind of their circumference. The two poems coalesce in the almost interchangeable sterility of the atmosphere of surrender and, implicitly repeated, of the self-accusation of no return. Left with Ḥijāzī’s poem Ṭardiyyah, we return to its vague, lyrically charged atmosphere of unbroken prevalence from the moment the poet becomes the hunter of the qaṭā. With this image, too, that poetically ancient bird reenters modern Arabic poetic repertory, drawing thereby ever more deeply upon the inbred symbolic dimensions of Arabic poetic language. Furthermore, this bird has now migrated out of the BedouinArabian desert and into an unexplored-because-forgotten world of new dreams and symbols of identity, where the qaṭā has changed roles and places while remaining always ungraspable, not unlike the ungraspable unicorn.17 In his final epiphany of no exit/no return, the poet, too, has stepped out of one sense of reality and has entered a parallel reality of the margin or of dream and legend-vision. Epiphanies are glorious avatars, especially when they are moments of self-knowledge and, as such, also capable of being moments of failure and defeat. Both the Iraqi and the Egyptian modern or, more exactly, early Modernist Arabic poetic involvements with the genre-problem of the “classical” ṭardiyyah show that a poetically creative approach to even a strongly recalcitrant, formalist tradition can overcome the pitfalls of mere traditionalism, of antiquarian form-perpetuation. >Abd al-Wahhāb al-Bayātī’s and Aḥmad >Abd al-Mu>ṭī Ḥijāzī’s explorations into the metaphoric, or altogether symbolic, indeed metapoetic, concept of the ṭardiyyah — respectively, as persecution and as flight—have helped not only to preserve and activate the classical metaphor of hunt/ṭardiyyah in modernity, but in equal measure to validate and enrich the achievements of modern Arabic poetry.

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C HA P T E R 9

The Metapoetic Hunt of Muhammad >Afı¯ fı¯ Mat ar ˙ ˙ In naming his 1992 poem Ṭardiyyah,1 or Hunt Poem, the contemporary Egyptian poet Muḥammad >Afīfī Maṭar (1935 – 2010) declared formally that his new poem should be read in light of the classical tradition of a possibly strong identification of its what-where-and-when dependence upon and interdependence with the traditionally obliging title that indicates that his poem is not only mirrored-into, but is also mirroring, a specific Arabic poetic genre. As a classical genre, the ṭardiyyah would thus echo back to a short, descriptive lyric, usually consisting of five to fifteen lines in rajaz meter with monorhymed hemistichs throughout the poem. Within these parameters, as we have seen in earlier chapters, the classical ṭardiyyah also developed its own distinctive motifs and poetic diction for describing hunting hounds, falcons, leopards, and also the hunted quarry—gazelles, hares, and so forth. But its most characteristic motival signature, likely to expand over the entire thematic span of the poem, is the hunter’s “setting out at daybreak.”2 The genre-conscious Muḥammad >Afīfī Maṭar, while honoring these details of “genre” nevertheless employs them in a poetic manner that is strongly idiosyncratic and, as such, studiedly allusive, masked, and metamorphic. 243

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Other major contemporary poets, such as the Iraqi >Abd al-Wahhāb al-Bayātī (1926–1999) and the Egyptian Aḥmad >Abd al-Mu>ṭī Ḥijāzī (1935–), have also attempted to reprise the classical ṭardiyyah.3 Especially in the case of the latter, the poet adopts transparently broad archetypal terms of “pursuit/hunt,” while in the case of the former, his poem’s structure is that of a sequence of associative, symbol-invested Arabic literary motifs of “fear” and “need to escape.” Even if both poets thus present the two existential faces of the hunt—“chase” for one and “flight” for the other—their complementary polarity of the pathos of the hunt, ultimately, is not necessarily identifiable as formally genrelinked and determined. Most remarkable about >Afīfī Maṭar’s poem is that, after the explicit evocation of the classical genre through the title, and after its sustained radical departures from virtually all of the formal, motival, and lexical characteristics of that genre, the title ṭardiyyah in the end refers not only to the poem’s thematic and motival content, but also, and above all, to the quintessential quarry of the poet’s hunt: the poem itself—the ultimate, all-validating poem, ayyu hādhā l-qaṣīd.4 Formally, Muḥammad >Afīfī Maṭar’s Ṭardiyyah, produced in full at the end of this chapter, is, in the Arabic original, a 135-line free-verse poem (translated into English as 211 lines), consisting of an unnumbered prelude followed by four numbered sections.5 Aside from the title, the element that links this poem in a recognizable way to its classical genre-antecedent is the opening motif of the “setting out at daybreak,” which is, and will remain, the all-validating time throughout the poem: In a dense thicket of unguarded impulses, he rose from his clay, raw, beset by instincts. The darkness of the night was his placenta, on his teeth the taste of the beast’s blood. Dawn was approaching, variegating dew-covered branches. The wonder of the night walked barefoot over crested waves, then scattered (ll. 1– 9)

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The morning of the hunt is also a temporal-emotive locus. It is the hunter’s birth-from and entry-into. In this respect, the poem does not break with the essentially traditional motif. It centers and radicalizes it, forcing the hunter to regress into his psychomorphic acceptance of the hunt itself. From there, the poem introduces a series of legitimized poetic constructions of reality that appear all the more starkly radical for being set off by the “setting out at daybreak” of the classical genre. Although the poet then dispenses with the transparent lyricisms of the classical hunt poem, he nevertheless does not hesitate to broach a formerly untested lyricism of his own condition and volition. To be true to the poem, our essay must remain bound to >Afīfī Maṭar’s equally radical departures in form, motifs, and diction. In particular, it will delve into the metaphorical use of the hunt theme in terms of metapoesis, of searching for a poem while already possessing it in its own enactment. >Afīfī Maṭar, an uncompromisingly Modernist poet, transforms the classical, predominantly descriptive hunt lyric into an allegory of the poet’s search for the poem-qaṣīdah itself: that is to say, his poem of all poems, the proof of himself. Muḥammad >Afīfī Maṭar was a poet who took his calling, that is, “his poem,” in the absolute sense of treating a poet’s every conceived and spoken word as the proclamation of all that poetry must be: he did so more seriously, more aggressively, and ultimately more devoutly than any modern Arab poet, or, to be more precise, every Egyptian poet known to me. In >Afīfī Maṭar’s own years and days, in Egypt and elsewhere in the Arabic literary landscape, other poets were proclaiming their readiness to undertake the total rethinking, indeed “detonation” (tafjīr), of the Arabic poetic language and thus of the Arabic poem. But, whether it was because some of them were lesser, if not minor, poets or because their understanding of a tafjīr of the Arabic poetic language was merely a sheer rhetorical gloss or quixotic self-indulgence, or maybe because they were no more than “too reserved,” half-quixotic precursors, in pursuit of a half-baked idea—for all these many reasons, this courageous proposition rarely, or never quite, achieved fulfillment or concretization into a self-sustained reality of “language” and “poem.” In the hands and minds of poets such as the Syrian/Lebanese poet Adūnīs/>Alī Aḥmad Sa>īd (1930–), the language and poem, or “the language” as “the poem,”

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merely circle around a theoretical core-idea—as a promise, as it were. This promise, or even “manifesto” (Adūnīs’s “Bayān al-Ḥadāthah”),6 however insistent, never succeeds in projecting the poet’s self-aiming, self-construed reality. Adūnīs’s promissory, dramatized use of the concept of “explosion” with reference to the new Arabic poetic language (allughah) and to the poem as poetry and poeticity (al-qaṣīdah) flows in a sustained and unilinear manner through his copious critical-theoretical writing, and is especially insisted upon in his Muqaddimah lil-Shi>r al>Arabī (An Introduction to Arabic Poetry).7 There, related to al-qaṣīdah as well to al-lughah, we find the term and concept of tafajjur (explosion, detonation) used to characterize the necessary new attitude toward the new poetic language. Within his own ardor for modernity, Adūnīs finds tafajjur in Jubrān Khalīl Jubrān’s (1883–1939) wish for language and poem. To Jubrān, tafajjur appears, if not as its own “fact,” then at least as a yeast or leavening (khamīrah). To Adūnīs himself, as stated in his Muqaddimah and “Bayān al-Ḥadāthah,” tafjīr “frees [poetic] energy and makes it explode,” and is a power that comes from “afar” and out of “the depths.” Along similar lines, for the Iraqi poet Sa>dī Yūsuf (1934–), such self-involvement in Modernism aims at a rhetorical defoliation, an “inthinking” of the poetic word, imagining that in-thinking to equal the poetic word of the concrete poem.8 Muḥammad >Afīfī Maṭar’s modernism differs from both. He liked to appear quixotic, however, and, as poet, a figure who stood alone, indeed solitary, in full awareness of the strangeness of his worth: the strangeness of an unapproachable, forbidding knowledge of his unidirectional poetic destiny. Perhaps in contemporary Arabic poetry there was, or is, one other figure possessed by and devoted to a similar solitary pursuit. In this respect the Baḥraini poet Qāsim Ḥaddād (1948–) comes to mind. Because of this quality of his, Yair Huri writes about Qāsim Ḥaddād’s poems as “meta-poems.”9 Although Qāsim Ḥaddād does not use the Adūnīsian term tafjīr al-lughah, he still wants to redeem the poetics of language—not through another poet, nor in an idealized, salvific aesthetic community, but in his very own language: for it to “erupt” (istathīrī), if it is to become poetic.10 A more distant voice, that of the Spanish poet Juan Ramón Jiménez (1881–1958), expresses a similar view when, at the stage of his own theorizing apotheosis of pure poetry,11 he asked it to be “ultimate” in its

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purity, even ultimately “de-musicalized,” decontaminated of all that he considered extrinsic to the poetic word, to the “ultimate poem”— a claim he made when French Symbolism was still dreaming of “musical flowers.” According to Jiménez’s editor Augustín Caballero, “the poet had projected that at some point he would bring his work to a conclusion of absolute perfection in a completely white book.”12 Such are, or were, the conclusions and projections of Jiménez’s ingress into the finde-siècle Modernism that saw only “itself ” as the poetic and ultimately aesthetic object. Swept along on the wave of this aesthetically existential flow, Jiménez was also highly observant of the poetic word’s heightened finality. Muḥammad >Afīfī Maṭar, too, was out to find the singular poem and the singular word. In Arabic, in contemporary critical-theoretical phrasing, that could be subsumed only in the word qaṣīdah, which to modern Arab poets could only mean — almost terminologically — the all-inclusive, “ultimate poetry” envisioned through the “ultimate poem.” Here, >Afīfī Maṭar might have listened to a third contender, the American Wallace Stevens (1879–1955), who, in trying to find the perfect poem, found only the perfect title of such a poem: “A Primitive Like an Orb,”13 namely, the invoked geometry of an ultimate, “primitive,” that is, an original, self-reduced form of perfection. In Stevens’s poem the beginning of the poem-as-form would be as finite as its end, both “perfect” and “primitive”—a poem that knows itself in a sense of inner, metapoetic knowledge. As he put it: “The central poem is the poem of the whole” (vii, 1), and “We do not prove the existence of the poem” (ii, 1), and then also, in a way that is almost startling, introducing something like a median sociology of poetic quality that must be surmounted: It is something seen and known in lesser poems. It is the huge, high harmony that sounds A little and a little, suddenly, By means of a separate sense. It is and it Is not and, therefore, is. In the instant of speech, The breath of an accelerando moves, Captives the being, widens—and was there. (ii, 2– 8; emphasis mine)

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At this point, “a little and a little, suddenly,” it feels as if Wallace Stevens is speaking with the words of >Afīfī Maṭar, with the latter’s driven sense for his poem-of-poems, al-qaṣīdah. Or, it is as if >Afīfī Maṭar spoke with Wallace Stevens’s words, where the central poem becomes indeed the poem of the whole, and “One poem proves another and the whole / For the clairvoyant men that need no proof ” (iv, 1– 2), and the selfknowledge of the “central poem” continues enacting itself “Like an Orb”: “As if the central poem became the world / And the world the central poem, each one the mate / Of the other. . . .” (v, 8– vi, 1– 2). Paradoxically, “The essential poem begets the others” (vi, 7; emphasis mine) but is known only through the others.

REFLECTIVE PARAPHRASE: MUḤAMMAD >AFīFī MAṭAR’S CENTRAL ṬARDIY YAH

For us to arrive at >Afīfī Maṭar’s understanding of his own essential poem — or a poem-long continuum of metapoesis—we must turn to his Ṭardiyyah, the poem of his “morning of the hunt” in its totality, where, with an unconcealed memory of the Arabic reservoir of poeticity and formal primacies, the poet retains the unwavering transparency of the ṭardiyyah genre. He chooses a ṭardiyyah to become his essential poem. In this poem, the poet reveals himself from the outset as a manifestation of animal birth and instinct: In a dense thicket of unguarded impulses, he rose from his clay, raw, beset by instincts. (ll. 1– 3)

But formally, as an admitted genre-poet, he is also, and necessarily, born into the Imru< al-Qaysian legacy of the morning of the hunter, and thus into what, after Imru< al-Qays, became a formally programmed poem and a genre14 and, as such, was destined to live a fruitful life of image, metaphor, and, ultimately, of potential metapoesis.15 In the introductory segment of >Afīfī Maṭar’s Ṭardiyyah, which structurally is the first part of a four-part poem, the poet holds us

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captive in the formal realm of metaphor—but only flexibly, not necessarily teasingly. Or rather, his realm of the metaphor is so multifariously charged with conflicting and supplementary meanings that, as the hunter of the “hunter’s morning,” His outcry, his run, caught the light of the sun, The mirrors of creation were broken, the names revealed, the complexities of rhythms undone. (ll. 41– 44)

Here we have already overstepped the frontier of a merely imageassisting metaphor, or metaphors, and are entering into metapoesis: Which “names [are] revealed,” what “complexities / of rhythms [were] undone”? And once again, but in a different vein: Which “being” of quarry does the poet-hunter intend, “all that moves between sky and earth, / or merely its names?” (ll. 47– 48). Among so many figurative layers, The fog of dispute rises, the spirit opens up to its disaccord, the world slants from present perception to the remotest regions of memory and dream. (ll. 66– 70)

Still holding us captive to so much that is part of old poetic legacies, the poem’s first segment closes, in itself almost as a frameable ṭardiyyah poem, with its (old) recognizable field of imagination. Where and who is the poem’s hunter that so awakened amidst the “dense thicket of unguarded impulses”? To where does the metaphor of such a mantic morning of the hunt point? What follows is the poem’s actual Part 1—past this logically strong but formally perplexing introduction, which in itself already appeared to be a ṭardiyyah-framed segment of the poem’s total construct.16 It was meant to give an answer—or rather many probing, tentative answers that nested in those “remotest regions of memory and dream.” And so the hunter is now metamorphosing, as it were, before our eyes but

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airily, into the poet hunting for that memory and that dream. Before him, carried by winds of an almost epically perceivable passage of time, suspended in its sweep: The winds blew by, and so did states and colonnades. They appeared, rose, and crumbled: fettered cities, harnessed in their forms, ruins in full pride . . . (ll. 71– 76)

There, with full, almost sudden awareness of his own “who” and “what,” the poet emerges from amidst those “ruins in full pride”: Drunk with ruins and memories, you, o poet, stand alone, as the winds split the sea—a skull gaping on the sand— and the inarticulate mutterings of the ages, spread in murmurings of seashells, tighten nooses on the metaphors of your classical language-pomp. Your poems you set up as traps, perhaps the quarry will come to you willingly. . . . (ll. 77– 85)

The hunter is now the poet. Appearing in a frozen stance, he addresses himself directly: your poems a fiery fury, your prosody a syllabic taboo of blood’s madness, the clay of its forms, the dust of defeats. (ll. 89– 91)

But all this was in vain. His incandescent fury failed before “the syllabic taboo.”

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Your firewood lies scattered, the spirit’s wood-chips turned into pious oblations. The quarry has escaped into the vast desert-plain of poems. (ll. 98–100)

Have we thus arrived at the divide between promise and failure already envisioned by Wallace Stevens, to whom the existence of the “essential poem,” or at least “the existence of the whole”— in such a cumulative way — is sufficiently proven or salvaged? >Afīfī Maṭar is less inclined to accept Stevens’s forgiving pessimism. To him, “the vast desert-plain of poems” brings no salvation, and never a hunter’s consolation. With the escape of the quarry, Part 1 of this turbulent Ṭardiyyah, which had been the time and the space of the “morning of the hunter,” comes to an almost melancholy, closing realization. At this point in >Afīfī Maṭar’s stubborn, now clearly self-revelatory poem, the poet is still the hunter. He exists at the mercy of the etymologically determined “frame-metaphor” of the poem’s title, in which he must enact the reality of his metapoetic self-vision. In Part 2— which is the poem’s self-hunt — in an outburst of pathos, the poet admits to pursuing the unpursuable. He calls out to consider the wreckage of the splendor of the new ruin of rhyme, and repair, in me, your puns. At the gates of your cryptic shores and unyoked waves, gild over the prosody of your quarry and wait . . . (ll. 102– 7)

But he also admits that there is nothing for him to hunt: —on this morning of creation’s hunt—except indistinct, reechoing clamor and the prattle of the sea . . . (ll. 119– 21)

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Perhaps he hunts only stories that the spirit tells, or the wisdom of a ruin’s voice. But even here, everything has turned into hollowed-out ruins and masks of entrapment: because you, o poem, because we both, double-deal our phantoms. (ll. 143– 44)

This closure of the Ṭardiyyah’s Part 2, where the morning of the hunter is already exhausted and past, is, with great consecutive immediacy, also the transition into Part 3, where the poet-hunter’s questioning becomes more a self-questioning: Which one of us will be the quarry in this midday heat? a sun that whets its spear-head on my forehead, the sand that pulls me in with siren-calls[?] (ll. 145– 47)

The morning of the hunt and its hope of finding the quarry have been only an illusion. Cadence after cadence of grotesque disappointments follows. The poet-hunter has listened to time. He has held seashells at his ear. Voices have come from afar: interlocking junctions of a remote wisdom of the ancients, with their dialectic disputations, distant lamentations, and noisy babble in every tongue, with the drone of recitations that pounces down, opening sura after opening sura, with the rumble of beginnings between the geography of soul and spirit, (ll. 158– 62)

followed by “herbalists, veterinaries, swindlers, / with charlatans, writers of amulets and riddles, / readers of fortune in the stars, / alchemists, watchers / of the new moon’s risings, surveyors / of the bounds of heaven and earth, guardians / of canals and flood seasons” (ll. 163– 69), and

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with verses of pieties and schisms, with ornate introductions, margins of chains of transmissions and commentaries. (ll. 170– 73)

The poet had engaged in them all, as legacy, as excruciating presences around him all the time. They were not the promised quarry of his morning hunt. After this litany is exhausted, the poet-hunter asks himself again: But what are you, who are you, this mangled creature, all whisperings, all words all broken up in syllables, false cheer and breach of promise? Who are you, o beast? You, of which there is no other hunt in this mad midday heat? (ll. 174– 81)

The fierce morning of the hunter has long since played itself out. In the poem’s closing Part 4, the hunter stands “thirsty and bloodied” (l. 182). The gazelle-hide water-skin that hangs from his shoulder is empty, the well-water sunk in the ground, and a crepuscular sun, mincing its shards of golden pride, winnows its dust. (ll. 186– 88)

The hunter runs, he sees a well rise. Into its moss-covered water he stretches the gazelle hide. And here, our paraphrastic and narrating “he” has to remain faithful to the pathos of the poet’s own “I”: I hear its bones rattle, the spirit breathes, inflates its limbs,

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it straightens out, becomes a body, slips out of my hands and leaves behind a pulse-beat and a warmth. (ll. 192– 96)

In its fading epiphany, the quarry disappears into an uncharted horizon, against a new and distant twilight, where . . . a storm-bird draws the fiery outlines of its silhouette. (ll. 198– 99)

and where the gazelle, in a flash of lightning over grassy paths, evanesces into a forest of darkness, and only now, both the poem and the quarry attain their equal measure of immediacy: But you, o poem, Whom does this hunted-down beast have, other than your rhythm, drunk with flashes of beginnings and inspiration? So set your snares and whet the arrow-points of your silence. Perhaps the quarry will, willingly, come to you, O poem, you! (ll. 202–11)

A CRITICAL SUMMATION

As it closes on “O poem, you!” Muḥammad >Afīfī Maṭar’s poem-ṭardiyyah becomes its own all-engulfing metapoetic metaphor, or call it simile, or call it allegory. In his contemporary Egyptian literary context, >Afīfī Maṭar is not “like” a modernist. In his core he is a Modernist, and it is

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in his ṭardiyyah poem and through his readiness to bear the classical formal burden of his poem’s title — with its most tightly classicismdependent Arabic poetic genre historically registered under that same ṭardiyyah name—that he presents perhaps his most forceful and convincing claim to holding a central position in Arabic, and particularly Egyptian, poetic Modernism. This claim therefore lies in his challenge to the deeply anchored genre-classicism, which the poem presumes, as it opens with its dramatic pathos of none other than the dark invocation of the deeply buried, paradoxically agonistic, while yet lucidly classical, Imru< al-Qaysian awareness of wa qad aghtadī,17 with its dynamic dictate of the hunter’s setting out at daybreak. The binding measure and the thematic trajectory of the poem, as ṭardiyyah but also as the modern poet’s very personal metapoetic stance, are thus established. How far from, and how close to, the Imru< al-Qaysian wa qad aghtadī is the “setting out” of >Afīfī Maṭar’s hunter in his hunt-agon? The Modernist poet’s residually lyrical aghtadī of the dawning of the morning of the hunt begins not in a lyrical tone but rather by presaging a drama in a tone that is almost threatening (ll. 1– 5). The actual lyricism of the poem’s beginning that follows line 5 no longer belongs to or draws upon Imru< al-Qays, but rather owes its delicate hesitation of mood and its gauzy sense of an engulfing image of “the wonder of night” walking “barefoot / over crested waves” that scatter “over pebbles of conches, mother-of-pearl, / and sand without end” (ll. 6–11) to >Abbāsid courtly practitioners of the genre, somewhere between >Alī Ibn al-Jahm and Ibn al-Mu>tazz.18 The new, non-Bedouin hunter’s eyes open in blind ignorance and dread “out of their animal spell,” where the sea, more inward than outside, and no longer the desert dunes, is “asnarl with inarticulate passion” (ll. 10–18). It is then, with the morning’s widening scope of light, that the sound of the gales, the hunter’s “cosmic shriek, / awakens the first fear, the virginal outcry” (ll. 33– 34). In this awakening of hunter and prey, of overtones both of birth and prime eros (l. 34), >Afīfī Maṭar’s hunter, no matter how tempered, is still at a hesitant, variable distance from Imru< al-Qays’s line 53, “while the birds were still in their nests” (wa ṭ-ṭayru fī wukunātihā). Only then (l. 35), as if freed from archaic motival and formal dependencies, does the actual hunt or race, “naked

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and solitary,” (l. 38), begin. The quarry has now become all-present in its flight of panic (ll. 35– 40).

MUḤAMMAD >AFīFī MAṭAR AND THE QUESTION OF THE DIFFICULTY OF POETIC LANGUAGE

Readers of the poetry of Muḥammad >Afīfī Maṭar, whether novice or seasoned, have one, seemingly unyielding, primary observation to make, which ought to be viewed as no more than precritical or evasive: namely, about his poetry’s “difficulty” (ṣu>ūbah) and “obscurity” (ghumūḍ). This lightly tendered type of observation, however, leads to an equally light disposal of a grave critical problem that touches on more than the specific “difficulty” of >Afīfī Maṭar’s poetry, a difficulty that hardly ever receives or seems to require substantiation. Furthermore, this type of observation also extends more broadly; it presumes a categorical difficulty, thus opacity, in most Modernist Arabic poetry. It then becomes, still precritically, a hasty and dangerous statement of quality. What is the source of the presumed or the real difficulty of contemporary, specifically Modernist, Arabic poetry? It might well lie in contemporary Modernist poetry’s unaccustomed, still exploratory realm of the reality of its thematic object and subject, that is, of thing and man—the “it” and the “I.” In this new realm of reality, the contemporary Modernist Arabic poet himself—in his tools productive of poetry—becomes the true faber, the maker of his much-spoken-about, or rather dreamt-of, new-for-unfettered, poetic language—even if it is not so much “new” as daring. We know what it meant in >Abbāsid literary (poetic) time for poets, still classical, even if, more precisely, muḥdathūn (moderns), to opt for a poetics and poetic language in which they would face the dilemma, or agony, of choosing what would become their “new” poetics (badī>). For a poet such as Abū Tammām,19 the question of “what” and “where” (as choice/s) was an often daring and personally innovative one, but was still very much contained within an all-inclusive parameter of a clearly circumscribed poetic matter that was already there, beforehand, “extant”

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and unshakably tradition-attested, and, therefore, self-possessed and self-defensive. To >Abbāsid poets other than Abū Tammām, the choices were not as problematic, but merely partial or seemingly outside the limiting aspects of pre->Abbāsid poetic norm and sensibility, like those of Abū Nuwās in his parodic “rebellion” against the nasīb tradition,20 or like those in the tempered lyricist al-Buḥturī. There, however, stood Abū Tammām, independent in his self-view as poet/faber, irrespective of the critics-theorists who saw in him a not always felicitous transgressor. Abū Tammām, almost whimsically, they thought, had stepped outside the accepted norm of Arabic poetic form and diction, even though he was no less than the purifier and crystallizer of that same norm, without which he (and the entire postclassical movement and age) would have weathered much more poorly the corrosive forces of a neverending mere neo-classicism. A figure such as Abū Tammām stood in the midst of Arabic (>Abbāsid in its apogee) poetic praxis, where he enjoyed to a large degree a culturally singularized, yet paradoxically integrated, personal standing, and in which he depended on the tolerance precisely of a social and cultural environment that he would have had to confront. To confront it, such a poetic (literary/cultural) figure would have had to be semi-prophetic, or, in a philosophical as much as revolutionary way, would have had to be an Ibn Khaldūnian total mind, immeasurably above a detached theorizing, without abdicating being a poet. He would have had to be a cultural visionary, driven by a firm, theoretically preinculturated awareness of things that were not yet of his own time and place, or that would be a prefiguration of things that still had to wait for a figmental, visionary “chronotope,” in which he, this poet, would be able to subvert and invert his own magnificent verse. He would have had to deny his most celebrated words, “The sword is more veracious than the books,” and declare with an even more unforgettable sonority that “the book, the word, is more veracious, more cutting, than the sword.”21 But this did not happen. The logic of historically fore-ordered time was merely a light that led to a centripetal, or rather more plainly concentric, insight of valuation and validity, where the poetic value of the “word” remained set and anchored, it seemed, in permanence. This may even appear close to what ṭāhā Ḥusayn used to say of the readability of

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plain “written” Arabic as a language: that it has to be known in advance, from its end, and only then will it be readable from its beginning in progression. Arabic can thus be viewed, in this ṭāhā Ḥusaynian sense, as a language that “reads itself,” and also as a language that “writes itself.”22 When we translate this linguistic conundrum (with its stylistic implications) into the sphere of classical Arabic (including muḥdath) poetry, we are operating not only within the themes and motives of the restrictive poetics of >amūd al-shi>r,23 but also within the limited lexical and conceptual repository of the classical Arabic poetic ma>ānī (motifs, concepts). These, too, are to be counted, at least tangentially, as a poetically categorized, transmitted and transmittable, self-perpetuating blueprint, if not template, of “ready-made,” active poetic matter.24 Given these traditional confines of classical Arabic poetic praxis, the classical Arab critics could not help but condemn the “innovations” of the muḥdath poets, especially a badī >-driven one like Abū Tammām, for their difficulty of language and concept (lughah and ma>ānī)—not just lexical ṣu>ūbah (difficulty) but also, prevalently, ghumūḍ (obscurity, inexplicability). From our standpoint, however, we can neither condemn the muḥdath poet for such “difficulty” nor can we blame him for his inability to break free from the >amūd al-shi>r to a concept of unconstrained originality. In this categorical (classical/>Abbāsid) sense, there is left little to profitably discuss concerning the dilemma of the transparency and adequacy of meaning of the ṣu>ūbah/ghumūḍ conundrum of the language (lughah) of Arabic poetry, until we reach the point at which modern Arabic poetry, in its own axial time, has broken out of precisely that conundrum. This, however, does not present us with a clearly recognizable point, aside from very early generalities such as those derived from Jubrān Khalīl Jubrān, to whom Adūnīs devoted exorbitantly long and convoluted lucubrations25 in which there is little genuine evidence of actual Arabic poetry (as opposed to “universalist” literary platonizing). Instead, with strange self-assurance, Adūnīs presents Jubrān as a figura painfully outside of the Arabic literary core, that is, a centrifugal culture-prophet, impatiently champing at the bit but not quite a convincingly posed cultural revolutionary. There is as yet nothing but spotty, declarative evidence of the coming of someone like a Juan Ramón Jiménez, “armed”

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with a self-assured poetic word, or a Wallace Stevens with his “orbal” uniqueness of the “all-poem,” or a Paul Celan of “die Nichts-, die / Niemandsrose” (the nothing-, the / no one’s rose).26 In Arabic poetic culture such things were not yet truly happening, except to “out-of-history,” reform-haunted, theory-conflicted dreamers, themselves locked in historicizing jewel boxes of al-thābit wa al-mutaḥawwil constructs.27 Of what, then, does the specific “difficulty/obscurity” (ṣu>ūbah/ ghumūḍ) of contemporary Arabic poetic language, whether we call it chosen or inevitable, consist? For this is a language that has had to create not merely itself (new and different) but also, with it and in it, the all-desired, salvifically requisite poem/poetry (qaṣīdah), to provoke in a specific poem’s decisive moment the agonized outcry “O poem, you!”— as in Muḥammad >Afīfī Maṭar’s Ṭardiyyah. We realize that that poet’s language does not “read itself” the way classical Arabic poetic tradition was and is accustomed to read itself, to counter ṭāhā Ḥusayn’s putative maxim. Nor does it “write itself,” as non-Modernist Arab poets or critics would be prone to retort. In this realization we feel close to a select group of contemporary Arabic qaṣīdah-chasing poets—not those, however, who are mere dreamers or theorists. We must turn halfway to Adūnīs and more fully to Sa>dī Yūsuf and Qāsim Ḥaddād, and only then arrive at >Afīfī Maṭar. In thus critically facing the crystallization of Arabic poetic Modernism, we must step beyond old indecisions of form, formality, or the lack of all sense of structure—all those things that still emanate from >amūd al-shi>r, as well as from blind dependence on inherited compendia of ma>ānī. And yet, the Modernist poets still selectively both hate and love their ma>ānī legacy—as much as its confinement, even if they have already made their Modernist choice, or rather commitment. But is these poets’ commitment to Modernism merely a compromise, inasmuch as they preserve a reverence for the classical lexical-poetic legacy, without which they would be mere rootless theorizers, incapable of achieving a theoretical meta-vision? The ma>ānī, therefore, not the theoretically crude >amūd al-shi>r, will still remain and be reversibly tolerated and even assimilated (uncomfortably) into a new poetics. They will be almost turned into mystical poetic essences, into reborn, fleeting moments of sensibility or epiphanies that never want to die, such as qifā nabki min dhikrā ḥabībin

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wa manzili (“Halt, you two, and we will weep, as we remember beloved and campsite”—Imru< al-Qays); laki yā manāzilu fī l-qulūbi manāzilu (“O abodes, in our hearts you abide”—al-Mutanabbī); >uyūnu l-mahā bayna r-Ruṣāfati wa l-Jisri (“Does’ eyes between Ruṣāfah and the Pont”— >Alī Ibn al-Jahm); as-sayfu aṣdaqu anbāAzzah); or moments that imprint themselves, outside the qaṣīdah, on an entire new genre, the ṭardiyyah of the hunter’s setting out at dawn, while the birds are still in their nests: wa qad aghtadī wa ṭ-ṭayru fī wukunātihā (Imru< al-Qays). Why are there things in the poetic language, even if we call them tradition-compromised ma>ānī, that refuse to die? Is it because they had become, in their own time, too much a part of what the poets themselves are, or will become, or feel? Or maybe because the poets, if only in those privileged poetic instances, do not write in the language of the ma>ānī, but write the language of absolute, unassailable self-awareness that is privileged in all respects — always capable of giving back the new/old resonance of universal poetic self-awareness, in metaphors that magically resonate in readers and poets today, just as they resonated, perhaps in diverse words, in so much of the European Romantic poetry? In the European case, they might have been heard first in a Spanish ballad of the sixteenth century—only to give back the continuum of the intangible, and therefore indestructible, poetic word: Yo no digo mi canción sino a quien conmigo va.28 ——— I do not speak my song except to the one who comes with me.

If these intangibles in the poetic word have a role to play in their continuum of resonance, as happened, for instance, to >Alī Ibn al-Jahm’s (d. 249/863) “>uyūnu l-mahā” (Does’ eyes between Ruṣāfah and the Pont) in their effect on the opening lines of Badr Shākir al-Sayyāb’s (d. 1964)

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“>aynāki ghābatā nakhīlin sā>ata s-saḥar” (Your eyes are two palm groves at time of dawn) in his poem Unshūdat al-Maṭar (Rain Song),29 that will be—indeed, has been—one way for a singular instance of ma>ānī to live anew its poetic life of indelible significance. This type of affiliation is not a matter of canonical, that is, >amūdī imitation or contrafaction, which would make out of it a mu>āraḍah. In the best of such instances— such as al-Sayyāb’s Rain Song—what decides poetically is the vague but irresistibly infectious overlapping of a harmony of inceptive and receptive lyricism. The life of even poetically privileged ma>ānī, however, will not necessarily fan out beyond a momentary motival ascription. In its old form it will exhaust itself and drown in a poet’s living lines, and will not have a further control over the poetic fate of the poem—certainly not to the degree that the poetic lives of the most privileged of ma>ānī have creatively affected their own respective poems. This means that they have at the most a small, waning structural effect on the poem in its modern (Modernist) self-renewal—or none at all. In the poem as a whole, they do not rise above being thematic and structural disappointments, almost distractions. Modernist poetry could not build itself on such a principle of ma>ānī much longer. Its language would be too “easy,” and—now we have to say it openly—it would be devoid of its Modernist “difficulty” or inexplicable “obscurity”—its ṣu>ūbah and ghumūḍ. All of a sudden, in our critical stance and discourse, we thus find ourselves at the realization that the so-called difficulty and obscurity of modern Arabic (and not only Arabic) poetic language may be precisely that poetry’s timeand-mind (and certainly its sensibility’s) conquering virtue. There are two sides from which to approach Arabic Modernist poetic language and, in approaching it, to validate it. One is to ask how, before being the matter of poetry, does language, in the awareness of its presage or destiny for poetry, “make” or “achieve” poetry? Perhaps it does so in the way the marble of Carrara stood revealed before the sculptor Michelangelo. The other, conversely, is to ask, when (and how) does poetry give language the privilege of identity as “poetic language”? That is, which makes which? Which one is the pulse and which one the issue? Is the process separate, or is it a confluence? To this we could reply: First, no matter to what degree language is accepted or

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recognized as being “poetic” because it already comes “precertified” by the “poetic ma ānī ledger,” in Modernist poetic praxis it no longer recognizes the right to inherited poeticity. Second, only poetry in its normliberated, qualitative sense is privileged to create, and to leave in its wake as an afterthought, a new “poetic language.” Will this “new” poetic language, however, remain “poetic,” and by its force necessarily enter a “replacement” dīwān of Modernist poetic language as its operative ma>ānī? Not unless it is cast again into the crucible of privileged, and therefore unforgiving, poetic praxis, where it must be regenerated, prepared once again to be put to its qualitative poetic test. There must not come into being any Modernist kitāb/dīwān al-ma>ānī as a limited-and-limiting ledger in the form in which it had once existed — now, for its own, “new” postclassical—and by that also post-Nahḍah—periods. Modern poetry creates itself, as it were, “in the wild” of language, not otherwise. Creating itself and being created in the wild of its language, Modern poetry must yet be mindful of its associative, or aggregate, structuring into images and into concepts, where the latter are themselves (linguistically) the abstract parallel structures of images. Modern Arabic poetry for a number of decades, actually for much of its first generation of innovators or modernizers, has exerted maximal effort to dematerialize its neopoetic language into concepts, that is, into abstractions, in the hope that it would thereby also achieve a poetry of “new” understanding, and that only this association of poetry with an abstract language of “understanding” would somehow equal its approaching, or entering, Modernity. In Muḥammad >Afīfī Maṭar’s poem Ṭardiyyah, the parting of ways between the two stylistic siblings of modern Arabic poetry, and especially of its poetic idiom—the image (physicality of language) and the concept (abstraction)—is most clearly evident. As poet, >Afīfī Maṭar does not share the de-concretizing tendencies, and indeed aspirations, of self-conscious Modernity. Moreover, he all but shuns abstraction and conceptualization and clings instead to the efficacy of the concrete image, which, however, he allows to fan out into the full panoply of figures of speech—from metonymy, to metaphor, to allegory—for these too are to him, in their concreteness, essential and foundational. His

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presentation of the image in its somatic reality does not, however, tolerate that opaqueness which, on the opposite rim of Arabic poetic Modernity, shares in the creation of a poetic language of conceptualized abstraction.30 In this light, the verdict on Muḥammad >Afīfī Maṭar’s challenge to the proverbially accepted animadversion to the “difficulty or incomprehensibility” of his poetic language must itself be challenged. To do this, however, we must also go beyond the limiting organization or grouping of modern Arabic poetic language, that is, al-ma>ānī, with its propensity to screen itself behind the assumption of “autochthony of poeticity”— which is eagerly seen as the turāth, or cultural legacy, of poeticity. We must instead turn back to the other traditional category, the remnant notion of >amūd al-shi>r (even if it, too, was confrontationally discarded by Modernism), if no more than in one of its theoretically plausible respects, where it holds onto the possibility of inferentially providing a theory of Arabic poetic genres and titles of poems such as Ṭardiyyah. Let us return to the topic of the Umayyad->Abbāsid genre of the Arabic poem of the hunt, the ṭardiyyah. Only with this in mind can we address Muḥammad >Afīfī Maṭar’s Ṭardiyyah in its form, structure, and, ultimately its poetic idiom or language—however much that poetic idiom or language has been critically disparaged for being difficult beyond understanding or, plainly, as poetically (aesthetically, in the traditional sense) awkward. Here, however, there also enters the other important factor: of >Afīfī Maṭar’s placing his poetic language, in its full “awkwardness,” into a most traditional Arabic poetic genre and form, and even ensuring this by giving it that genre’s title: Ṭardiyyah. In his poem, therefore, we know what we are reading—or we think we know. But that half-knowledge is precisely what is needed to come to terms with the unexpected in the poem’s image-creation, by uncertainty as much as by clarity, especially in the motival semiotics of the opening lines. We know that the poet as the hunter of the classical ṭardiyyah sees himself awakening with the first half-light of dawn, and is about to set out for the morning’s hunt. But in >Afīfī Maṭar’s poem this genreknowledge is disturbed and subverted by a motival inversion that draws it away from the classically foreseeable, highly lyrical depiction of the

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hunter’s dawn (and mood) of an implicit, even Imru< al-Qays-evoking, gallantry. Nothing of this is directly perceivable in the setting-out of >Afīfī Maṭar’s hunter. Virtually, however, it must be there, if the modern poet’s new language and new images are to be properly understood— and poetically ingested. To begin with, there has to be unambiguous clarity about the identity of the poem’s hunter as the poet himself—as this has already been made clear in Imru< al-Qays’s foundational beginning of the Arabic poetic hunt: “Often I set out at daybreak” (wa qad aghtadī). Otherwise, the first three lines of >Afīfī Maṭar’s poem would easily lead the formally unversed reader totally astray. Indeed, they could generate chains of misreadings that would make it almost mandatory, for a reader still tied to lingering notions of a ma>ānī-based poetic language, either to search for absurd hermeneutic roads of escape or to unperturbedly certify >Afīfī Maṭar’s language as unpoetic, due to its ṣu>ūbah and ghumūḍ. The poem’s beginning with the strikingly (as yet) counter-poetic, harshly voiced word bi-mushtabakin ([in] a dense thicket) is unaccustomed, by virtue of being untraditional. It is followed by a paradoxically contrasting turn of phrase: badāhāti dahshatihi (spontaneities/impulses of his astonishment, his bafflement); that is, it mixes linguistically concrete dryness with phrases of almost colloquial lightness. Then, still not knowing whom the poet has in mind when he has the poetic figura “him” (?) rising raw, out of his clay (min ṭīnihi nayyiatmatu l-layli kānat mashīmatahu). All this, by itself, is entirely unlikely to bring to an >amūdī- or dīwān al-ma>ānī– trained reader’s mind the awareness that the poet is speaking of himself as the hunter who, by the magic and grace of an archaic poetic genre, has become associated with the gallant figura of the hunter setting out at dawn. Thus, from the start of the poem we realize how decisive it is that, in its straightforward manner, the poem be titled Ṭardiyyah. The lyricism of the poem’s subsequent lines, too, would otherwise be misunderstood as no more than a detached affect, no matter how protracted. It would be perceived as the pseudo-idyllic self-indulgence of a poet who lacks a form-directed compass. However, it is precisely this lyricism that reinforces the well-

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tempered poem’s connection with the ṭardiyyah genre. Here, a further perception will have to be accounted for. If this opening alignment of motifs and moods in >Afīfī Maṭar’s poem is to be given critical consideration, their sequential and contrasting justification must depend not merely on the hunter’s setting-out in Imru< al-Qays’s Mu>allaqah, but also on the inferred resonance with the fully developed, filigree-like lyricism of the >Abbāsid hunter-poet Ibn al-Mu>tazz31—that is, with an enriched lyricism and its counter-lyricism. It is precisely in these almost contrapuntal, now harmonizing, now sequencing, spasms of lyricism in its formally proclaimed genre-dependence that >Afīfī Maṭar sets his poem on its very personal and very decisive course of the “morning of the hunter.” It is also as though, in a very Wallace-Stevensian sense, all other hunts of all other mornings depended on this one morning of the hunt. For the poet-hunter, this “morning of the hunter” will remain, for the full extent of the poem, the most fragile time, the most fleeting moment. By understanding this fragility and fleetingness, we will also come to understand, empathize with, and in a Modernist manner condone >Afīfī Maṭar’s closing outburst—one that is no longer a token-affect of shallow, neo-romantic pathos—“O poem, you!” (Ayyu-hādhā l-qaṣīd!). To counter, or merely to explain, the prevailing critical unease over the purported difficulty, strangeness, or awkwardness of Muḥammad >Afīfī Maṭar’s poetry and in it of the poeticity or antipoeticity of his language, one should begin, as we have done in the case of the present poem, by calling attention to the distinctly uncircumspect quality of some aspects of its language. These may consist of its harsh, frequently unsonorous quality (bi-mushtabakin [l. 1]);32 or its jarring overstepping of traditionally practiced norms of what is called Arabic poetic diction (allughah al-shi>riyyah or al-mu>jam al-shi>rī) to archaic usage: (mashī­mah [l. 3] / hablatun min dimāAFīFī MAṭAR’S HUNT POEM: FULL TEXT AND TRANSLATION

Δ͉ϳΩήρ ϊϠτϳϥΎϛϪΘθϫΩ˶ΕΎϫ΍ΪΑ˴ Ϧϣ ˳ϚΒ˴ ˴Θθ˸ Ϥ˵ Α˶ ˱ ΎΌϴ˷˶ ˴ϧϪϨϴρϦϣ˶ ˬ ϩΰ΋΍ήϏΩΎθΘΣΎΑ ˶ ˬ Ϫ˴ΘϤϴθϣΖϧΎϛϞϴϠϟ΍˵ΔϤ˸Θϋ˴ ΔϤϴϬΒϟ΍˯ΎϣΩϦϣ˲ΔϠ˸Βϫ˴ ϪϧΎϨγ΃ϦϴΑ 5

˸ ϥϮμϐϟ΍ϭϯΪϨϟ΍ζϗήΑϮϧΪϳ ήΠϔϟ΍ϭ ˵ ΕήθΘϧ΍ϭ ˸ ˬΝϮϤϟ΍ϯέΫϲϓ˱ΔϴϓΎΣϞϴϠϟ΍˵Δϳ΁ Ζθϣ ˸ ˬήΧ˶ ΁ϼΑϞ˳ ϣέϭέΎΤϣϭ ˳ϑ˴Ϊλ ˸ ΣϕϮϓ ˳ ˴ Ϧϣ˯˴ ΎΒμ ˵ ϟΎΑ͉Ϟπ ˸ Ϭ˵ Οϭ ˬ Δ˶ ϔϴϔθϟ΍ΕΎϤ˵Ϡψ ˴ Χ΍Ϫ ˴ Ψ˵ ϟ΍ϖθϳ˲ ͊ ΪϴόΑϕήΑ ˲ ˬ Δ˶ ϘϴϠΨϟ΍ϥϮΘϣϲϓϰτ

10

ˬ Δ˶ Βϫήϟ΍ϭ˶ΕΎϳΎϤ˴όϟ΍ϲϓ˲ΔΤ ˴ ͉ Θ˴ϔϣ˵ ϥ΍ϮϴΤϟ΍Δ˶ ϴθ˸ Ϗ˴ Ϧϣ˵ϩΎϨϴϋ ˬ ˲ΔϤ  Ϭ˴ Β˸ ϣ˵ ˶ΕΎϳ΍Ϯ˴ϐϠϟ˲Δϣ˴Ϊϣ˸ ˴Ω ήΤΒϟ΍ ˵ Ϫ˶ ϴ˴Θ˴ϔη ˴ ϦϋΔ˶ δϳήϔϟ΍ ˴Ϧϫ˸ ˵Ω΢˵ δ ˴ Ϥ˸ ϳ˴ Ϯϫϭ ˬ Ϊ˶ ϴ˸μϟ΍ϭ˶ΕϮμϟ΍˶ΓέΎηϦϣ΢˵ ϳήϟ΍Ϟγ˶ ή˸ ˵ ΗΎϣ˵ Ϊλ ˵ ή˸ ˴ϳϭ ˸ η ˵ ͊ΪΘϤΗ ˬ Ω˳ ΪϋϼΑέΎΤ Ϟ˳ ϣέ ˵ϥ΂τ ˶ ˲ ϣ˴ ϭϑ ˲ ˴ Ϊλ ˴ ࿽ ή˳ Χ΁ϼΑ

15

ˬ ϢΟΎϤΠϟ΍ϦϴΑ ˶ Ϧ˶ ˷ϔ˶ ˴όΘϤϟ΍ϕ ˶ έ˴ ͉Ϊ ϟ΍ϭϞ˶ ϛΎϴϬϟ΍ϡ˵ Ύψϋ˶ ϭ ˱ΔΟ  Ϯ˸ ϣ˴ ˱ΔΟ  Ϯ˸ ϣ˴ ˶ϩΪ˶ Α΍ϭ΃ϢϴϣέϲϘ Ϡ˵˸ ϳήΤΒϟ΍ϭ ˵ ˴ ˸ Ο˵ έ˸ ˵ Ϸ΍ϭϢϴϐϟ΍Δ˶ ΒϬ˸ η ˵ ϲϓϑήϓήϳήΠϓϥΎϛ ϥ΍Ϯ ˲ ˬϖ ˶ ϓ˸˵ Ϸ΍ϲϓ˶ΪΑ΍ϭϷ΍έϮϴτϟΎΑϪ˶ Τϣϼϣ ˶ ω ˴ Ύδ˷Η˶ ΍ϭϪ˴ ΗϮτΧζ ˵ ˵ϘϨ˸ ϳ˴ ϭ ˵ ϳϥϮϛ ϰϟ·ΕΎϤϠψϟ΍Ϧϣϖϴϔ˵ ˸ ϋ˴ ˵ μ ˳ ˵ΔΤϴλϭ ˳˯ΎϨϏϒ

20

˵ Γ ϮϬηΖόϟΪϧΎϓ ˸ ήϜ ϝ˶ ϭ˷ ˴΃ ˶ ˶ ˶Βϟ΍Δ˶ Χήμϟ΍ϭϑϮΨϟ΍ ˵Δ ˴ϔϟ˸ ˵ ΃ϪΘθϫ˸ ΩΕΎϫ΍ΪΑϦϣΖ ˸ ˴Ϙ˴ϓ˴Ϊϧ˸ ΍ϭ˶Ϊϴμϟ΍

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˱ ΍ΪΣ˶ ϮΘ˸ ˸ δϣ ˴ϥΎϳή˵˸ ϋξ ˴ ϛ˸ ήϟ΍΃ΪΘΑΎϓήϴτϟ΍ϭζ˶ ˸ΣϮϟ΍ ˸ ˵ϗ Ε ˶ ΎϋΎϓΪϧ΍ϭΎϬΑ΍ή˸γ΃ϒϠΧ ΎϬό˶ Α˶ Ύδ ˴ ϣ˴ ϭΎϬϧΎότ ˴ ˸ ˬ ˵ϩ ΎτΧϭ˵Ϫ˵ΘΤϴλβϤθϟ΍ϊϣΕ˯ΎπΘγΎϓ ˸ ͉Ϙη ˵ ϭ Δ˶ ϘϴϠΨϟ΍ϲ΋΍ήϣ˴ Ζ

25

˸ ΖϔθϜϧ΍Ύϫ΅ΎϤγ΃

˳

˸ ˵ΕΎϛΎΒΘη΍ϭ ΖΤπϔϧ΍ΎϬϋΎϘϳ· ˶  ϓ˶ ϭ΃˳ΔϟϮΒΣ˵΃ϱ ΥΎΨ ͉ ΃ϲϬΘθϳΎϣΪϴμϟ΍ϦϣϱέΪϳβϴϟ Ϊ΋΍ήτϟ΍ϱ ͉ ΃ϭ

30

ϦϴΑ ˵ΐ͉ϠϘΘΗϲΘϟ΍ϱάϫ ΎϬ΋ΎϤγ΃ξ ˴ ˸Τϣ˴ ϡ˸ ΃νέϷ΍ϭΕ΍ϮϤδϟ΍ ΎϬΗΎϗΎηέ˶Εϼϔ˶ ϧ˸ ΍ϭ ͉ϔϛ˴ ΐ˷Ϡ˶ ϘϳΡΎΒμϟ΍ϭ˲ΓϮτΧ ˸ ϥϮμϐϟ΍ϭϯΪϨϟ΍ϦϴΑϪϴ Δ˶ όϴγϮϟ΍˵ϩΎτΧϱ ˴ ή˵˸ ϋ΢ϠϤϟ΍ϭϞϣήϟ΍ϭΝϮϤϟ΍˶ΞΒ˴ ˴Λϲϓή˵ΜϨ˸ ϳ˴ ϭ

35

˲ΔϓϮθϜϣΕΎϳΎϔϨϟ΍Ϟϛ Ίρ΍Ϯθϟ΍ϞϣέϕϮϓ ˶ ˬ ͊Ϊ ˴ Ηή˸ ϳ˴ϭϮϠόϳήϫΪϟ΍ϝί΃ϦϣήΤΒϟ΍ϭ ˵ ˵ ˷ΪΤϳϥ΍Ϯ ˵Ϧ΋ΎϜϟ΍ϭ ϕ˶ ˴ ˶ ˵ϔϨ˸ ˵όϟ΍Δ˶ Ο˴ ή˴ ˸ΟέϭΞϴΠπϟΎΑϲθΘϨϤϟ΍ Ϫ˵ϠΗΎΨ˵ΗΥΎΨϔ˶ ϟ΍ϱ ˶ ͊ ΃ΝϮϤϟ΍Ϧϣ ˵ϥΎμΤϟ΍΍άϫ ˱ϼϴϬλϭ˱ΎΒΒ˴ λ ˴ ϯέάϟ΍ϕϮϓϒμόϳϮϫϭ

40

˵Ϫ˴όϟ˶ Ύο΃ ͊Ϛθϳ˳΢ϣέϱ ͊ ΃ϯΪϤϟ΍΍άϫϭ ˷ ΃ϭκ ˷ ˳ η˶ ˶ϱ ˷ ΃ϲϓβϤθϟ΍ϭ ˵Ε΍ϮϤδϟ΍ϭ ˶ϱ ˴ ϙΎΒη˶ ϲ ˵ Ο˵ ή˸ ͉ Θγ ͉ ͉ϔϛϦϴΑ˱ΔϓίΎϧϒ ΢˵ ͉ Θ˴ϔ˴Ηέ΍Ϯ ˵ ϭήϟ΍ϪΗ˶ ϻ΍ΪΟϦϴΑ ˬΡ ˶ ˵ΏΎΒοϮϠόϳ ˳ Σ ˶

45

˵ϥϮϜϟ΍ϑήΠ Ϩ˸ ϳ ϰΘΣβ ˶ Ϧϫ΍έϦϣ ˵ ˷ ˶ Τϟ΍ ˶ ϢϠ˶ Τ˵ ϟ΍ϭή˶ ϛ˷ άΘϟ΍ϲλΎϗ΃





  





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 Hunt of Muḥammad >Afīfī Maṭar   The Metapoetic

269

-˺˸ Ϯ˴˴ ϫϭΖ ˸ ˴ϴϨ˶ ˵Α˲Δϗϭέ΃ϭ˲ ˸ Βϫ˴ ϭ˲ΡΎϳέΕήϣ ˸ Ε ˸ ΩϼΑΖ͉ ΎϬϟΎϜη΃˶Ωϭ˶ Ύ˴Ϙϣ˴ ϲϓ˲ΓΩϮϔμ ˸ ϣ ˵Ϧ΋΍ΪϤϟ΍ϭ ˲Δϴϫ΍ί ˵ΐ΋΍ήΨϟ΍ϭ –ΕΎϳήϛάϟ΍ϭΐ -˴Ζϧ΃ ˵ ˶ ΋΍ήΨϟΎΑϲθΘϨϤϟ΍ήϋΎθϟ΍ΎϬϳ΄ϳ 50

˵ΔϤ˴ Π˵ Ϥ˸ Ο˵ ϭ˲ ΪϴΣϭ ϰϠϋΡ˵ Ύϳήϟ΍ΎϬ˸Ηή˴˴ ϐ˴ϓ˸ΪϗήΤΒϟ΍ ˶ ˱Δ ˴ Θ͉Θ˴ϔϣ˵ έϮϫΪϟ΍ ˵ΕΎϤτϤ˸ ρ ˴ ΕήΜΘϧ΍ϭϞϣήϟ΍ ˸ Ε΍έΎΤϤ˴ ϟ΍˯΍ήΘϫ΍ϲϓ ˴ϙΎΤμ ˸ ˵ϓΕ΍ίΎΠϣϦϣ˱Δ˴ϟϮ˵Β ˸Σ˵΃˵ΪϘ˶ ό˸ ˴Η ˴  ˴ϚϴΗ΄Η˴Ϊ΋΍ήτϟ΍͉Ϟϋ˴  ˴ϙή˸όη˶ Υ Ϧϣ˱Δό˷ϴρ ˴ ΎΨϓ΃ ˵ΐμϨ˸ ˴Η

55

˳ΖϤλϭέΎψΘϧ΍ϦϴΑνέϷ΍ϭΕ΍ϮϤδϟ΍ΝΎΠ ˶ϓ ˳ Ϧ˵ϔδ ˵ ϟ΍ϭΕ΍έΎϨϤϟ΍ϡΎτΣ˵ ϲϓϡ˲ Ϊ˶ ˴ Θ ˸Τϣ˵  ˴ϙ˵Ϊϴμϗ ˲ΔϠϴόϔΗ ˵ϥίϮϟ΍ ࿽ Δ˶ ϜϜϔΘϤϟ΍ ΡΎΒΘδϤϟ΍ϡΪϟ΍ϥϮϨΟϦϣ ˶ Ϣ΋΍ΰϬϟ΍ϡΎϏέϦϣϪϟΎϜη΃˵ ϝΎμϠ˸ λ ˵ ˴ ϭ ˵Ϊ ΋΍ήτϟ΍ήϤΗϰΘΣ  ˴Ϛ˶ΘϤλ˴Δ͉Ϩγ˶ ˴ ΃˸άΤ˴ η˸ Ύϓ ͉ ˵ΐΘϜϳ˳ΔγΪϘϣϥϮΘϣϦϣ˳ Ϊλ ˴ ή˸ ϣ˴ ϰϠϋ˸Ϊ˵όϗ˸ ΍ϭ ˳

60

˵ ΎϬϤ˵ γήϳ έΎϨϟ΍ϭϖϋ΍ϮμϟΎΑΎϬ ˶ ˶ΗΎϳ΁ϕήΒϟ΍ ϝ˳ Ϯϋϭϭ˳ΔϨμΣ˴΃˴ϞϛΎϴϫϭ˱ΎϜϤγ ˲Δϣ˶ ˸  ΪϘ˸ ˴ ΗΡϭήϟ΍ΐθΧϦϣ ˵Ε΍Ϋ΍άΠ˵ ϟ΍ϭΕήΜΘϧ΍ ˴Ϛ˵ΑΎτΣ΃ϭ ˸ΪϴμϘϟ΍Ρ΍ήΑϲϓ ˲ΖϠϔϨϣ˵Ϊϴμϟ΍ϭϦϴΑ΍ήϘϠϟ   



 

 

 

 







   



  

 

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-˻˸ΪϴθϨϟ΍΍άϬ͊ϳ΃ϲϣ˴Ω Ϟ˸ ϣ͉ ˴ ΄˴Η

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˸Ϊ ϳΪΠϟ΍ϲ ͉ ϬΒϟ΍ϰ͉ϔϘϤϟ΍Ώ΍ήΨϟ΍ϡΎτΣ˵ Ϟϣ΄Η ˸ η ˵ ϞΧ΍Ϊϣϲϓή˸ ψΘϧ΍ϭϲΑ Ε ˶ ΎϤϬΒϤϟ΍Ϛϧ΂τ ˴Ϛϴϓ΍ϮϗϢϣ˷ ˶ έϭ ˶ Ε Ο΍Ϯϣ΃ϭ ˶ ϼγ ˸ ˴ ήϤϟ΍Ϛ ˶ ϙ˶Ϊϴ˸ λ ˴Ϧϳί΍Ϯϣ ˸ΐ˶ϫ˷ ˴Ϋϭ 70

˲ Ώ α͉ ˵ ρΎηϭήΤΑ ˳ Ϯόη˵ ΩΎμΣ˴ ϭΚΜΟΎϤϬϨϴΑ ˲ ˵ ΪϜ˴ ΗϞ˳ ϣέΊ ΐ ˳ ϫΫϦϣϊ˴ ϗ΍Ϯϗ˵ΪΠϣϭ ˬ ΐ ˲ ˶ θόϟ΍ϭϥΩΎόϤϟΎΑ˲Δ˴θϤ͉ ˴Ϩϣ˵ έϮΨλϭ ˸ ή˶ ˶Λ΍ϭ͉Ϊϟ΍ ˵ΐϴΟϭϪϴϓ ˵ϥ ˴ΰϠ˸ Τ˴ ˴ Θ˴ϳή˲ ο ήϴ ˵ Ο˶ ˴ ΨϣΕ΍έΎΤϤϟ΍ ˶ Ϯ˸ π ˸ ϦϳήΑΎϐϟ΍ Δ˶ η ˴ Ϯ˴ η˸ ϭϭϰοϮϓ˶ ΕΎϳΎϜΣϭή˴˳ ϛΫ˶ Ϧϣ ˴

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ϯϮγ –΍άϫΔϘϴϠΨϟ΍ΡΎΒλϲϓ –ϲϟ˴Ϊϴλϻϭ ήΤΒϟ΍ ˶ΓήΛήΛϭ˶ϱ ˶ ˷ ϭΪϟ΍˶ΕΎϤϐϤϏ ˬ˶Ρϭήϟ΍ϲϓΚϳΩΎΣϷ΍ϝΎϤΘϛ˸ ϻ˲ΓέϭΪϘ˸ ϣ˶Ε΍έΎΤϤϟ΍ϱ ͊ ΃ ϦϣΚϳέ΍ϮϤϟ΍ϙΎϜ ˶ ˶Θϓ˸ ϻ˲ΓέϭάϨϣ˶Ε΍έΎΤϤϟ΍ϱ ͊ ΃ Ϣϣέϲϓή˶ Π˷ ˶ Τ˴ ΘϤϟ΍Ϣ˶ Ϥ˴ μ ͉ ϟ΍ϭΖϤμϟ΍˶Ϊλ ˴ έ˴ ˸ ϦϴΛέ΍Ϯϟ΍

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ˬ˶ϊϣΪϟ΍ϭ˶ϊΠ˷ ϔΘϟ΍ϝϮϫάϟΓΩϮλήϣΕ΍έΎΤϤϟ΍ϱ ͊ ΃ϭ Ϧϣ˲ΔΧήλΎϬΗήθϗΖΤΗ˲ΔϧϮϨϜϣΕ΍έΎΤϤϟ΍ϱ ͊ ΃ ϖ͉ϘθΘϳϡΩϦϣ˲ΔΧήλϭ΃˵ϞΠϠΠϳϢϴϜΣ Ώ ˳ ΍ήΧ ˳ Ϊ˶ ˸ΟϮϟ΍ϲϓΡϭήϟ΍˵ΔΧήλϭ΃ϖθόϟ΍ϲϓ ˵ΔΧήλϭ΃ ˸ ϦϳΪθϨϤϟ΍

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˸Ϊ ϳΪΠϟ΍Ϣ˵ ϳΪϘϟ΍˵ ΪϴμϘϟ΍΍άϬϳ΄ϳϭ ˵Ϟ˸Θ˴ϔϟ΍ϭ˵ϝ˸ΪΠ˴ ϟ΍˵Ϫ˴ϟϭ΍˴ ˴Ϊ˴Η΍άϫΔϘϴϠΨϟ΍ΡΎΒλ ˱ΔρϮθϧ΃˶  Ε΍έΎΤϤϠϟϪ˵Θϴ˸ Χέ΃ ˸ ˱Δ ϟϮΒΣ΃Ί ˴ ρ΍Ϯθϟ΍ ˵Ε˸Ω˴Ϊϣ˴ ϭ  







   





 





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˳ϙΎΒη˶ Ξ˴ δ˸ ˴ϧ˶ϱ ˴ ˷ Ϋ˶ ΍ϭϷ΍ΏΎΨτλ΍ϭ

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˶ΥΎΨϔϠϟ˱Δό˶Ϩϗ˸΃ΐ΋΍ήΨϟ΍ϦϴΑ ˵Ζ˸ϫϮ͉ ϣ˴ ϭ ˸Ϊ ϴμϘϟ΍΍άϬ͊ϳ΄ϴϓ



˱ΔϠϴΧ΃˵ϞΗΎΨϳΎϧϼϛ -˼ˮ˶ΓήϴϬψϟ΍ϱάϫ˵ΪϴλΎϨ͊ϳ˴΃ ˸ ϦϴΒΠϟ΍ϲϓΎϬ˴ ΘΑή˸ Σ˴  ˵Ϧ˶˷Ϩδ˴ ˵ ΗβϤη ˲

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Ϫ˶ ˶Η΍˯΍Ϊϧϲϓϲϧέ˵ ή˷ ˶ Π˴ ˵ϳ˲Ϟϣέϭ ˬ˶ϊϤδϟ΍ϭ˶ϊΑΎλϷ΍˴Ϊϴ˸ ˴ϗ ˵Ε΍έΎΤϤϟ΍ϭ ϲ ͉ ό˴ Ϥ˴ δ˸ ϣ˴ ϰϠϋϦ͉ Ϭ˵ ˵ ΘΒ˸ ͉Ϡ˴ϗ ΔϤϜΣϰϠϋΕΎϘϠΤϟ΍˵ΓΩϮϘόϣϊ˵ ϣΎΠϤϟ΍ ˸ ϦϴϣΪϗϷ΍

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ˬ˳Δϔγϼϓϭ˳ΔϟΎΣ˷ έ ˵Εϻ΍ΪΟ ˬ˶ΕΎϐϠϟ΍ϞϜΑϮϠόΗ ˴ϚϟΎϤϣ˵Νΰ˴˸ ϫϭϲϨϔΗ ˴ϚϟΎϤϣϞ˵ ϳϮϋϭ ˵ϦϴϨρ Ρ˵ ϮΘϔϟ΍ϭ˳ΔΤΗΎϓΪόΑ˱ΔΤΗΎϓξϘϨϳΕ΍˯΍ήϘϟ΍ ͊ ˬ˶Ρϭήϟ΍ϭβϔϨϟ΍Ύϴϓ΍ήϐΟϦϴΑΎϣ˵ϞμϠμΗ 105

˴ ϴ˸ ˴Α˲ΔΑΎθ ͉ ϋ˴ ˵ΏΎ˷Θϛ ˶ ˷ΐτϟ΍ ˶ ˵ΔϠΑΎγ ˴ϕέΎΨϣ˵Ϟϫ΃ ˴ϥϮ˷ϳή˶ τ ˵ ˷άΣ˵ ϭ˳ΖΨΑϭ ˳˯Ϯ˴˸ ϧ˯˵ ΍ήϗϭ ϕ΍ ˷ ˳ΝΎΣ΃ϭ˳ΔΒΠ˶ ˸Σ΃ Ω˶ ϭΪΤϟ˲ΔΣ˴ Ύ͉δϣ˴ ϊϟ΍ϮτϠϟ˲Γ˴ΩΎλ ͉ έ ˴ ˯˴ ΎϴϤϴϛ ϝϮμϓϭ˳Δϴ˴ Ϩ˶ ϗ˸ ˴ ΃α΍ ˵ ή˷ Σ˵ νέϷ΍ϭΕ΍ϮϤδϟ΍ ˵ ΍έ΃ ϊ˵ ϴλήΗϭ˳ϱ΃έ˶ΕΎϗΎϘθϧ΍ϭ˳Δϴϋ˸Ω΃ΰϴΟ

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ˬ ˳Ρϭήηϭ˳  Δ˴Ϩό˴ Ϩ˸ ϋ˴ ζϣ΍Ϯϫϭ˳ ΔΟΎΒϳΩ ˵ ˵Ζ͉ΘϔϤϟ΍ ˵ϥ΍ϮϴΤϟ΍ΎϬϳ΄ϳ ˴Ζϧ΃Ϧ˸ ϣ˴  ˴Ζϧ΃ΎϤϓ ͉ ϘΘΗϪΟ˵ έΎΨϣ˱Ύϣϼϛϭ˱Δη ϦϴΑϊ˵ τ ˴ Ϯ˴ η˸ ϭ˴ ϒ ˶ Ϡ˸ Ψ˵ ϟ΍ϭ˶ΕΎηΎθϬϟ΍  

 



   

 



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 ˮζΣϮϟ΍ΎϬϳ΄ϳΖϧ΃ Ϧ˸ ϣ˴ ˵



˸ ϥϮϨΠϟ΍ ΍άϫ˶ΓήϴϬυϲϓϲϟ˴Ϊϴλϻ

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ϙ΍Ϯγ -˽ϡΩϭ˳ ˳ ΄ϤυϰϠϋ

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ΓήϫΎϘϟ΍ –ΐΠϧϷ΍ΔϠϣέ   ˺̂̂˻\˽\˺˾    

      ˳ΓήτϗϼΑ –ϲ΋ΎϘγ˶ ϕ͊ ί˶ –Δ˶ ϟ΍ΰϐϟ΍ ˵ΏΎϫ·ϭ    ˬϲ ͉ ϔΘϛϰϠϋϰ͉ϟΪΘϳ     ˬήΌΒϟ΍ϲϫ ˵ έ˲ Ϯ˸ Ϗ ˴ ϭ   ˴ ˷˴˵    ˬ˵ϩϭέάΗϭϲ ˵ ˴ ϓ ˵ΖΘ˶ ϔΗϞ˳ ϴλ΃βϤη ͉ Βϫάϟ΍ΎϫέΎΨ      ˬ ˳˯ΎϣϊΒϧϯέ΃ϰΘΣξϛέ΃       . ˯ΎϤϟ΍ΓήπΧ˵ ϲϓΔϟ΍ΰϐϟ΍ΏΎϫ·͊ Ϊϣ΃ ˴   ˴ΔϘ˴ τ ˴  Ϙ˸ ρ ˴ ϊϤγ΃ ˶ Ϣψόϟ΍      ˱ ΍ΪδΟϱϮΘδΗ ࿽Ύϫ˯˴ Ύπϋ΃˵ΦϔϨϳΡϭήϟ΍ϭ        ˬΎϬ˴ΘϧϮΨγϭΎϬπ ˴ Βϧ˱ΔϛέΎΗϲ ͉ ϔϛϦϴΑϦϣ ˵Ζ͉Ϡ˴ϔ˴Θ˴ϳ       ˷  Ψϳϕ ˵Ϫ θ ˴ ϣ΍Ϯϫ ς ΪϴόΑϦϣϖ˲ δ ˶ ˵ ˴ Ϗ˴ ˳ ήΑή΋Ύρϭ˳         ˳ θϋϚϟΎδϣϦϴΑ ΐ ϒ ˶ ͉ ˴Ϙ˴Θ˴Η˲ΔϗέΎΑ˵Δϟ΍ΰϐϟ΍ϭϡ˲ Ωϭ˲΄Ϥυ ˵ μ     ϡ˲ ϼυϭ˲ΔΑΎϏϰτΨϟ΍˴Ϊϴ˸ ϗ˴ ϭ   ˸ΪϴμϘϟ΍΍άϬϳ΄ϴϓ      ϲθ˴ΘϨ˸ Ϥϟ΍ ˴Ϛ˶ϋΎϘϳ·ήϴϏ ˵ Ϧ˸ ϣ˴ ΓΪϳήτϟ΍ϱάϬϟ    ˮϲΣϮϟ΍ϭΕΎϳ΍ΪΒϟ΍ϕϭήΒΑ      Ϛ˶ΘϤλ˴ΔϨ͉ γ΃ά˸ Τη˸ ΍ϭϚ˴ΧΎΨ˶ϓ ˸ΐμϧΎϓ     ˱Δ ˴όϴ˶˷ ρ ˴  ˴ϚϴΗ΄Η˴ Ϊ΋΍ήτϟ΍͉Ϟϋ˴   ˸ΪϴμϘϟ΍΍άϬ͊ϳ΃



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The Metapoetic Hunt of Muḥammad >Afīfī Maṭar 273

Hunt Poem In a dense thicket of unguarded impulses, he rose from his clay, raw, beset by instincts. The darkness of the night was his placenta, on his teeth the taste of the beast’s blood. Dawn was approaching, variegating dew-covered branches. The wonder of night walked barefoot over crested waves, then scattered over pebbles of conches, mother-of-pearl, and sand without end. His face was moist in the transparencies of darkness. A distant flash of lightning broke through the midst of creation. In blind ignorance and dread, out of their animal spell, his eyes opened. The sea was asnarl with inarticulate passion. He wiped the quarry’s grease off his lips And lay in wait of what the wind would carry his way— the signs, the sounds of quarry. Endless, the sands of the shores stretched out before him— of conches and mother-of-pearl beyond count, of bones of skeletons, of the hunters’ rotting leather shields among the skulls. And wave after wave, the sea tossed up decayed wild beasts. In the mist, from gray to purple, the dawn flickered, flapped its wings, engraved in sea-birds’ flight on the horizon, its steps, its widening scope of light.

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Out of the dark, the gale’s voice, the cosmic shriek, awakens the first fear, the virginal outcry, and the passion of the hunt flares up, and in a surprised reflex his intimacy with beast and bird breaks forth: Naked and solitary, the race has begun— after flocks in flight, herds in blind rush, lion prides. His outcry, his run, caught the light of the sun, The mirrors of creation were broken, the names revealed, the complexities of rhythms undone. He does not know what he craves his hunt to be— what snare, what trap, what quarry: all that moves between sky and earth, or merely its names, the nimbleness of its evasions? One step . . . and the morning locks its hands in sorrow over dew and branch, And spreads its nakedness in vast strides amidst wave, sand, and salt. All refuse is laid bare on the sands of beaches, while the sea, since all eternity, rises and retreats. And he, intoxicated with the tumult and agitation of prime vigor, glares transfixed: This stallion, this wave, what snares will hold him as he storms over the crests, downwards, neighing? And this expanse, what spear will pierce through to its heart? And the heavens and the sun, on what barb and net will they convulse, bleeding in my hands?

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The fog of dispute rises, the spirit opens up to its disaccord, the world slants from present perception to the remotest regions of memory and dream.

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—1— The winds blew by, and so did states and colonnades. They appeared, rose, and crumbled: fettered cities, harnessed in their forms, ruins in full pride . . . Drunk with ruins and memories, you, o poet, stand alone, as the winds split the sea—a skull gaping on the sand— and the inarticulate mutterings of the ages, spread in murmurings of seashells, tighten nooses on the metaphors of your classical language-pomp. Your poems you set as traps, perhaps the quarry will come to you willingly: out of the ravines of heaven and earth, between wait and silence, Amidst the rubbled remains of lighthouses and the wreckages of ships— your poems a fiery fury, your prosody a syllabic taboo of blood’s madness, the clay of its forms, the dust of defeats. So sharpen your nibs till the quarry comes, and keep watch at the telescope of your sacred tomes,

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till lightning bolts write their holy verses with thunderclaps and fire, drawing them as fishes, skeletons of horses, and mountain goats. Your firewood lies scattered, the spirit’s wood-chips turned into pious oblations. The quarry has escaped into the vast desert-plain of poems.

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—2— Look well at my blood, o song, consider the wreckage of the splendor of the new ruin of rhyme, and repair, in me, your puns. At the gates of your cryptic shores and unyoked waves, gild over the prosody of your quarry and wait . . . Sea, a sandy shore with stacks of corpses between them— the harvest of nations, the gold, the glory of seashells, rocks specked with metal hue and grasses, the greening lime of conches, still palpitating with things left behind, with memories, inordinate stories, whisperings of all those long gone. And there is nothing for me to hunt —on this morning of the hunt—except indistinct, reechoing clamor and the prattle of the sea . . . What seashells are to contain the fulfillment of stories that the spirit tells?

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The Metapoetic Hunt of Muḥammad >Afīfī Maṭar 277

Which ones are legated to redeem the legacy of silent wait, the stone-turned deafness of the inheritors’ cadavers? And which are conjured to numb the agony and the tears? What seashells, under their armature, hold back a scream from ringing with the wisdom of a ruin’s voice, or a scream of blood bursting from love’s passion, or of ecstasy the spirit’s scream, or the scream of poets’ recitations? And you, old-new poem, You, the creation’s morning of the hunter, you, always current in your wear and tear, you, the slip-knot I cast after seashells, you, the shores I spread out as snares, the sea’s roar of pain as weave of nets.

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Among ruins, I tinseled over my masks of entrapment, because you, o poem, because we both, double-deal our phantoms. —3— Which one of us will be the quarry in this midday heat? a sun that whets its spear-head on my forehead, the sand that pulls me in with siren-calls, the seashells within my fingers’ reach, at my ear? I turned them about, I listened— Their seams were interlocking in accordance with the wisdom of the ancients, with the dialectic disputations of world travelers and philosophers,

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with the lamentations of vanishing kingdoms, and the noisy babble in every tongue of kingdoms on the rise, with the drone of recitations that pounces down, opening sura after opening sura, with the rumble of beginnings between the geography of soul and spirit, with herbalists, veterinaries, swindlers, with charlatans, writers of amulets and riddles, readers of fortune in the stars, alchemists, watchers of the new moon’s risings, surveyors of the bounds of heaven and earth, guardians of canals and flood seasons, with verses of pieties and schisms, with ornate introductions, margins of chains of transmission and commentaries. But what are you, who are you, this mangled creature, all whisperings, all words, all broken up in syllables of false cheer and breach of promise? Who are you, o beast? You, for which there is no other hunt in this mad midday heat?

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—4— Thirsty and bloodied, the gazelle’s hide my water-skin, without a drop from shoulder hung, the well sunk into the valley’s ground,

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and a crepuscular sun, mincing its shards of golden pride, winnows its dust. I run to where I see a well. Over its water’s mossy green I spread the gazelle’s hide. I hear its bones rattle, the spirit breathes, inflates its limbs, it straightens out, becomes a body, slips out of my hands, and leaves behind a pulse-beat and a warmth. In distant twilight a storm-bird draws the fiery outlines of its silhouette. Thirst, blood, and the gazelle, a flash of lightning shatters over the grassy paths, and then— a forest and the dark. But you, o poem, Whom does this hunted-down beast have, other than your rhythm, drunk with flashes of beginnings and inspiration? So set your snares and whet the arrow-points of your silence, perhaps the quarry will, willingly, come to you, O poem, you!

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(Ramlat al-Anjab— Cairo, 15 April, 1992)

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NOT E S

INT ROD U CT ION

1. José Ortega y Gasset, Meditations on Hunting, trans. Howard B. Westcott, intro. Paul Shepard (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1972), 110–11. 2. On this, see Ortega y Gasset’s memorable essay: José Ortega y Gasset, Pidiendo un Goethe desde dentro (carta a un aleman) [A Letter to a German: In Search of Goethe from Within] (Santiago de Chile: Ediciones Neuva epoca, 1932).

CHA PT E R 1. T HE HU NT IN T HE PRE-ISLAMIC ODE

This chapter grows out of my earliest study of the hunt: “The Hunt in the Arabic Qaṣīdah: The Antecedents of the Ṭardiyyah,” in Tradition and Modernity in Arabic Language and Literature, ed. J. R. Smart (Sussex: Curzon Press, 1996), 102–18. 1. I am presuming here a familiarity with and acceptance of the application of the van-Gennepian experiential/developmental formula of the “rites of passage” (Arnold van Gennep, The Rites of Passage, trans. Gabrielle L. Coffee, intro. Solon T. Kimbal [Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1960]) to the classical Arabic qaṣīdah, as expounded in Suzanne Pinckney Stetkevych, “Structuralist Interpretations of Pre-Islamic Poetry: Critique and New Directions,” Journal of Near Eastern Studies 42, no. 2 (1983): 85–107; Suzanne Stetkevych, “Al-Qaṣīdah al->Arabiyyah wa Ṭuqūs al->Ubūr: Dirāsah fī al-Bunyah al-Namūdhajiyyah,” Majallat Majma> al-Lughah al->Arabiyyah bi Dimashq 60, no. 1 (1985): 55– 85; Suzanne Pinckney Stetkevych, The Mute Immortals Speak: Pre-Islamic Poetry and the Poetics of Ritual (Ithaca and London: Cornell University Press, 1993), 3– 54; and Jaroslav Stetkevych, The Zephyrs of Najd: The Poetics of Nostalgia in the Classical Arabic Nasīb (Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press, 1993), 40– 49. 280

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2. In the case of the ostrich the hunter is replaced by the inclemency of the desert environment, thus superseding the thematic factor of the hunt. 3. Abū >Uthmān >Amr Ibn Baḥr al-Jāḥiẓ, Al-Ḥayawān, ed. >Abd al-Salām Muḥammad Hārūn, 8 vols. (Cairo: Muṣṭafā al-Bābī al-Ḥalabī, 1965 – 69), 2:20. AlJāḥiẓ (d. 255/898) states that in the raḥīl panel the hunted animal must not die as long as the poem is not an elegy and that, vice versa, in a poem that is an elegy that animal must die. Al-Jāḥiẓ thus presents us with a capitally important, clear, and unambiguous rule of allegorical choice of representation. 4. On Frazer’s “external soul,” see James George Frazer, The Golden Bough: A Study in Magic and Religion, One Volume Abridged Edition (New York: Macmillan Publishing Company– Collier Books, 1963), chapters 66– 67 (773– 802). Or see the concluding volume of J. G. Frazer, The Golden Bough, Balder the Beautiful: The Fire Festivals of Europe and the Doctrine of the External Soul, 2 vols. (London: Macmillan & Co., 1913). 5. Here it is appropriate to make a comparison with the equally iconic image of the imperial Assyrian/Babylonian armor of the hunt (not necessarily equestrian), as well as with the strictly equestrian Persian heroic representation of the archer hunter. 6. For Rabī>ah Ibn Maqrūm’s complete qaṣīdah (Mufaḍḍaliyyah no. 38), see Abū al->Abbās al-Mufaḍḍal Ibn Muḥammad al-Ḍabbī, Dīwān al-Mufaḍḍalīyāt, commentary by Abū Muḥammad al-Qāsim Ibn Muḥammad Ibn Bashshār alAnbārī, vol. 1, Arabic Text, ed. Charles James Lyall (Beirut: Maṭba>at al-Ābā< alYasū>iyyīn, 1920), 355– 58. Hereafter, Al-Mufaḍḍalīyāt. Unless otherwise specified, all translations are mine. 7. See the discussion of the rigorous canonic aspects of the representation of the Bedouin poet’s riding animal—as necessarily a she-camel (nāqah), which is, however, to be only epithetically named—in Jaroslav Stetkevych, “Name and Epithet: The Philology and Semiotics of Animal Nomenclature in Early Arabic Poetry,” Journal of Near Eastern Studies 45, no. 2 (1986): 89–124. 8. In a strict and literalist sense, the term “ekphrasis,” introduced as a possible designation of the pre-Islamic qaṣīdah’s extended similes of the raḥīl section, may at first glance appear misplaced. It should be obvious, however, that my tying ekphrasis interpretively to the term “panel” implicitly pre-qualifies the formal identity of the “frameable,” extended animal similes of the raḥīl’s she-camel “figura.” This in itself ought to be understood as a hermeneutical procedure to facilitate the transition of a specific poetic material—the ekphrastic animal panels— from its inherent “temporality” of narration-as-representation to “spatiality” and “plasticity.” The formal concept of “panel” refers at first to something that suggests the concrete, visual, and tactile. Only then does it permit, or suggest, the possibility

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of abstraction and figuration. In the history or evolution of plastic representation, however, the plastic arts, as much in painting as in sculpture, have been the arts to first attempt to cross the limits of the spatial/plastic and the temporal/verbal— precisely through the spatial/temporal ambiguity proper of “panels.” Ut pictura poesis thus reflects the restlessness and fluidity of the border regions of the two arts with full bidirectionality. For a discussion of ekphrasis precisely in its multidimensionality, see Murray Krieger, Ekphrasis: The Illusion of the Natural Sign (Baltimore and London: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1992). 9. Rabī>ah Ibn Maqrūm, Mufaḍḍaliyyah no. 38, in Al-Mufaḍḍalīyāt, 355– 58. 10. In its pre-Islamic semantics the color akhḍar was “green,” but it was not restricted to green. It could also be a hue such as “black,” “blackish,” “metallic blackish gray,” and “metallic dark green,” like the dark oxidation of copper or bronze; and even “tawny” and “brownish.” It was, however, never a hue of blue, although poetically it served to render the color of the nightly sky. This latter meaning becomes important to our understanding of the image in line 15 of Ibn Maqrūm’s poem, for here we necessarily perceive an allusion to and projection of the Bedouin pastoral visualization of the “pasture of the sky” as the “green” nightly firmament. See J. Stetkevych, Zephyrs of Najd, 156. 11. This motif of a “respite” of hope and even enjoyment (tamattu>), before the onset of tragedy, is characteristic not only of Arabic poetic hunting scenes but also of mythopoeia in the QurAbd Allāh al-Ḥusayn ibn Aḥmad al-Zawzanī, Sharḥ al-Mu>allaqāt al-Sab>, ed. Muḥammad >Alī Ḥamd Allāh (Damascus: Al-Maktabah al-Umawiyyah, 1963), 505– 98; Abū Bakr Muḥammad Ibn al-Qāsim al-Anbārī, Sharḥ al-Qaṣā al-Ṭiwāl al-Jāhiliyyāt, ed. >Abd al-Ṣalām Muḥammad Hārūn (Cairo: Dār al-Ma>ārif, 1963), 517– 96. 13. Here the oryx cow is, once again in accordance with the classical Arabic qaṣīdah’s semiotic canon of “description,” represented epithetically, not directly by its primary denotant. See J. Stetkevych, “Name and Epithet,” 112– 24, esp. 106– 8. 14. Jaroslav Stetkevych, “In Search of the Unicorn: The Onager and the Oryx in the Arabic Ode,” Journal of Arabic Literature 33, no. 2 (2002): 79–130. In this essay, I attempt to arrive at an analytically deconstructed figure of the unicorn, as it is then “put together” in the archaic Arabic qaṣīdah through the conflation of its two allegories of the onager and the oryx—with special analytical attention to the figure-characterization of the oryx.

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15. The earliest work regarding the differentiation between the two panel animals of the hunt in the raḥīl section, i.e., the oryx and the onager, and furthermore the first interpretive attempt at an analysis of the symbolic and mythical dimension within the Arabic archaic qaṣīdah of the oryx as it figures in the raḥīl panel is that of the Iraqi scholar >Abd al-Jabbār al-Muṭṭalibī, “Muḥāwalat Tafsīr Maẓhar al-Qaṣīdah al-Jāhiliyyah: Qiṣṣat Thawr al-Waḥsh wa Tafsīr Wujūdih fī al-Qaṣīdah al-Jāhiliyyah,” Majallat Kulliyyat al-Ādāb 12 (June 1969), Baghdad, 203–44. Republished in >Abd al-Jabbār al-Muṭṭalibī, Mawāqif fī al-Adab wa al-Naqd (Baghdad: Wizārat al-Thaqāfah wa al-I>lām, 1980). 16. From the Mu>allaqah of Labīd in al-Anbārī, Sharḥ al-Qaṣā, 557– 70. 17. For a translation and discussion of the full poem, see S. Stetkevych, Mute Immortals Speak, 13–14/3– 54. 18. Mu>allaqah of Imru< al-Qays. For the full text, see al-Anbārī, Sharḥ alQaṣā, 15–112. 19. Mu>allaqah of Imru< al-Qays, in al-Anbārī, Sharḥ al-Qaṣā, 92 – 99. 20. For a full translation and discussion of the poem, see S. Stetkevych, Mute Immortals Speak, 254– 56/241– 85. For more on the subject of the apotheosis of the chivalrous hunter’s horse, see J. Stetkevych, Zephyrs of Najd, 34, 251 n. 82. 21. >Abīd Ibn al-Abraṣ, Dīwān (Beirut: Dār Ṣādir/Dār Bayrūt, 1384/1964), 23– 30 (rhyme -ūbu). 22. Al-Mufaḍḍalīyāt, 515–18 (no. 62), (rhyme -ji). 23. Zuhayr Ibn Abī Sulmā, Dīwān, redaction and commentary by Abū al>Abbās Aḥmad Ibn Yaḥyā Ibn Zayd al-Shaybānī Tha>lab (Cairo: Al-Dār alQawmiyyah lil-Ṭibā>ah wa al-Nashr, 1384/1964), 164– 83 (rhyme -ku), ll. 1– 2. For other aspects of my discussion of these lines, see J. Stetkevych, “Name and Epithet,” 115–16. 24. As always, J. Huizinga’s Homo Ludens is inexhaustible. See his Homo Ludens: A Study of the Play Element in Culture (Boston: Beacon Press, 1955 [first published 1938]), 154– 55. 25. The antiquity of the art of falconry in Hittite Anatolia is well attested, going back to approximately two thousand BCE and probably predating even that of the other adjacent cultural zones of Mesopotamia and Syria. See Jeanny Vorys Canby, “Falconry (Hawking) in Hittite Lands,” Journal of Near Eastern Studies 61, no. 3 (July 2002): 161– 201. Most useful is Canby’s scrupulous provision of other pertinent contributions to the study of ancient falconry. For late antiquity and the entry into the Arab Middle Ages, see the chapter “The Hunt” in Irfan Shahîd, Byzantium and the Arabs in the Sixth Century, vol. 2,

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pt. 2, Economic, Social, and Cultural History (Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks, 2009), 239– 41 (bearing on the subject of Byzantine/Ghassānid falconry, esp. 240 for al-Ghiṭrīf al-Ghassānī). On the origins of bayzarah, see F. Viré, “Bayzara,” EI2; and Thomas T. Allsen, The Royal Hunt in Eurasian History (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2006), 58 (falconry in ancient Mesopotamia) and 60 (in the Babylonian Talmud). Above all, reechoing both the falconry tradition of ancient Mesopotamia and more closely that of courtly Byzantium, there is limited but sufficiently clear textual evidence of the practice of falconry in the poetry of the Arab Ghassānids and, if no more than through vestiges, in the poetry of the perambulatory Lakhmid, originally Ḥīran court poet >Adī Ibn Zayd al->Ibādī, who is remembered especially through his hunt poetry and, in it, for his much praised poem rhyming in letter “ṣād.” In that poem he speaks of “horses [men on horseback] and birds [of prey]” that “hunt for you [his Lakhmid patron/friend >Abd Hind].” For the latter, see >Adī Ibn Zayd al->Ibādī, Dīwān (Baghdad: Sharikat Dār al-Jumhūriyyah lilNashr wa al-Ṭab>, 1965), 68– 72; Abū al->Alā< al-Ma>arrī, The Epistle of Forgiveness or A Pardon to Enter the Garden, 2 vols., ed. and trans. Geert Jan van Gelder and Gregor Schoeler (New York and London: New York University Press, 2013), 1:112–13, 340; and Suzanne Pinckney Stetkevych, “The Snake in the Tree: The Mythic, the Lexic and the Ludic in al-Ma>arrī’s Garden,” essay plus annotated translation of selections from al-Ma>arrī’s Risālat al-Ghufrān, Journal of Arabic Literature 45 (2014): 64– 66, 67– 68. 26. Here the model should be the beautiful Ru>āt al-layl (“Oh herders of the night”) poem, attributed to the “love-maddened” >Udhrī poet Majnūn (Qays Ibn al-Mulawwaḥ). See Majnūn Laylā, Qays Ibn al-Mulawwaḥ al-Majnūn wa Dī­wānuh, ed. Shawqiyyah Ināljiq (Ankara: Maṭba>at al-Jam>iyyah al-Tārīkhiyyah alTurkiyyah, 1967), 74. See this poem’s English translation and discussion as otherwise reflecting an Arabic pastoral genre in J. Stetkevych, Zephyrs of Najd, 161– 63. 27. Imru< al-Qays, Dīwān, 3rd ed., ed. Muḥammad Abū al-Faḍl Ibrāhim (Cairo: Dār al-Ma>ārif bi Miṣr, 1969), 155 (ll. 8– 9). 28. Al-Mufaḍḍalīyāt, 303 (no. 28, l. 2) (rhyme -duhā). 29. Al-Mufaḍḍalīyāt, 461 (no. 46, l. 8) (rhyme -īdu). 30. Al-Mufaḍḍalīyāt, 698 (no. 105, ll. 3– 5) (rhyme -ābā). 31. Al-Akhṭal al-Taghlibī, Dīwān, ed. Iliyyā Salīm al-Ḥāwī (Beirut: Dār alThaqāfah, 1968), 659 (ll. 1– 2 [rhyme -li]). 32. Jarīr [Ibn >Aṭiyyah Ibn al-Khaṭafā], Dīwān, 2 vols., 3rd ed., commentary by Muḥammad Ibn Ḥabīb, ed. Nu>mān Muḥammad Amīn Ṭāhā (Cairo: Dār alMa>ārif, 1986), 2:777 (ll. 16–19 [rhyme -mā]).

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33. Qays Ibn Dharīḥ, Dīwān [Qays Ibn Dhariḥ: Shi>r wa Dirāsah], ed. Ḥusayn Naṣṣār (Cairo: Dār Miṣr lil-Ṭibā>ah, 1960), 69. 34. Majnūn Laylā, Qays Ibn al-Mulawwaḥ al-Majnūn wa Dīwānuh, 36. 35. Ibn al-Rūmī [Abū al-Ḥasan >Alī al->Abbās Ibn Jurayj], Dīwān, 6 vols., ed. Ḥusayn Naṣṣār (Cairo: Maṭba>at Dār al-Kutub, 1393/1973), 5:2091 (rhyme -mu [ll. 5– 7]). 36. Abū al-Ṭayyib al-Mutanabbī, Dīwān, 4 vols., commentary by Abū alBaqā< al->Ukbārī, ed. Muṣṭafā al-Saqqā, Ibrāhīm al-Abyārī, and >Abd al-Ḥāfiẓ Shalabī (Cairo: Maṭba>at Muṣṭafā al-Bābī al-Ḥalabī wa Awlādih, 1391/1971), 3:251 (rhyme -lu [esp. ll. 6– 7]). 37. Mihyār al-Daylamī, Dīwān, 4 vols. (Cairo: Maṭba>at Dār al-Kutub alMiṣriyyah, 1344/1925), 1:221 (rhyme -ḥu [ll. 7– 9]). 38. Kathryn J. Gutzwiller, Theocritus’ Pastoral Analogies: The Formation of a Genre (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1991), 10–11, 199– 200. 39. >Abd Allāh Ibn Muslim Ibn Qutaybah, Al-Shi>r wa al-Shu>arāārif bi Miṣr, 1966), 1:74– 75. For a discussion of the rhetorical and epideictic theory of the qaṣīdah according to Ibn Qutaybah, see J. Stetkevych, Zephyrs of Najd, 6–16; for humūm/himmah, see 21, 23, 27, 30, 40. 40. See S. Stetkevych, Mute Immortals Speak, 7– 8, 26 – 33, 270 – 73; and J. Stetkevych, Zephyrs of Najd, 42– 45. 41. Manfred Ullmann has answered as many of these questions of “matter” as he has thrown open and created. Manfred Ullmann, Untersuchungen zur Raǧazpoesie: Ein Beitrag zur arabischen Sprach- und Literaturwissenschaft (Wiesbaden: Otto Harrassowitz, 1966) is here of great value.

CHA PT E R 2. T HE HU NT IN T HE ODE AT THE CLOSE OF T HE A RCHA IC PERIOD

This chapter represents a revision of my earlier study, “The Hunt in Classical Arabic Poetry: From Mukhaḍram Qaṣīdah to Umayyad Ṭardiyyah,” Journal of Arabic Literature 30, no. 2 (1999): 107– 27. 1. J. Stetkevych, Zephyrs of Najd, 6–16. 2. On al-Muzarrid, see Al-Mufaḍḍalīyāt, 160– 81. For an extensive discussion of al-Muzarrid’s qaṣīdah, see also Thomas Bauer, “Muzarrids Qaṣīde vom reichen Ritter und dem armen Jäger,” in Festschrift Ewald Wagner zum 65. Geburtstag,

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ed. Wolfhart Heinrichs and Gregor Schoeler, vol. 2, Studien zur arabischen Dichtung, Beiruter Texte und Studien 54 (Beirut: for Franz Steiner Verlag Stuttgart, 1994), 42– 71. Bauer’s counterposed pairing of the two important qaṣīdah-agents, the “rich knight” and the “poor huntsman,” may be a tempting, traditional waṣf approach to the wa qad aghtadī “knightly evocation,” which, in the age of the ṭardiyyah, will apply to much of the Arabic poetry of the hunt. But even there it will be a questionable evocation. The knight/reicher Ritter will have become a “courtier poet” and still will be only a part of our reading of Arabic poetry through the prism of waṣf. The sociological adequacy of Bauer’s pairing, however, will be “visually” persuasive for the sake of “telling a story”—if what we are after is merely a social situation that does not object to being extrapolated from the Arabic “poeticstructural” situation. There is more to the “poor huntsman” half of the counterposed pairing, however. The “poor huntsman,” who is no less than Arabic Bedouin poetry’s distinct access to the life/death allegory, cannot be easily, if at all, reduced to an image of societal binarism. This “narrative,” entirely nonstructural (storied) approach to the al-ghanī wa al-faqīr fī -ṣ-ṣayd has already been exhausted—not very felicitously—in >Abd al-Qādir Ḥasan Amīn, Shi>r al-Ṭard >ind al->Arab: Dirāsah Mushabah li Mukhtalif al->Uṣūr al-Qadīmah (Najaf: Maṭba>at al-Nu>mān, 1972), 130– 46. Thomas Bauer owed it a reference. 3. Al-Mufaḍḍalīyāt, 268– 94. 4. [Jarwal Ibn Aws] al-Ḥuṭayrābī >Amr al-Shaybānī, commentary of Abū Sa>īd al-Sukkarī (Beirut: Dār Ṣādir, 1967), 271– 72 (poem no. 120); Ignaz Goldziher, “Der Dîwân des Ğarwal b. Aus AlḤuṭejiẓah), the dogs be the ones that kill the oryx; but when the poem is a eulogy (‘And he said: As though my she-camel were an oryx-cow, with her properties being such and such . . .’), that then the dogs be the ones killed.” 11. Bauer, Altarabische Dichtkunst, 2:285 (Parabel[n] der Vergänglichkeit). 12. Al-Hudhaliyyūn, Dīwān al-Hudhaliyyīn 3 vols. (Cairo: al-Dār alQawmiyyah lil-Ṭibā>ah wa al-Nashr, 1385/1965) (photo offset of Dār al-Kutub alMiṣriyyah ed.), 1:1– 21. For an English translation of Abū DhuIzzat Ḥasan (Damascus: Manshūrāt Wizārat al-Thaqāfah, 1392/1972), 84 (ll. 15–16). See also Bauer’s “Muzarrids Qaṣīde,” 67– 69, where he correctly notices the differences in the actual placement of the “wretched hunter” in the respective hunting scenes. 15. Al-Mufaḍḍalīyāt, 268– 94 (no. 26, ll. 27– 28). 16. See J. Stetkevych, Zephyrs of Najd, 59– 63. 17. See note 4 above; and chapter 3 for the full discussion, text, translation, and references on the “wretched hunter” poem of al-ḤuṭayArabī, n.d.), 2:127 [with an edition on the margin of Zakariyā Ibn Muḥammad Ibn Maḥmūd al-Qazwīnī, >AjāIbādī’s poem rhymed in ṣād. 23. >Abīd Ibn al-Abraṣ, Dīwān, 23– 30.

CHA PT E R 3. SACRIFICE A ND RE D E MPTION

This chapter is a revised version of my article “Sacrifice and Redemption in Early Islamic Poetry: Al-Ḥuṭayah, Maṭba>at al-Jumhūriyyah, 1392/1972), 66– 67 (poem no. 13); see also Bauer, Altarabische Dichtkunst, 2:1–12. 8. This mannered use of a humorous, almost farcical coloration of the “wretched hunter” motif should already indicate that >Amr Ibn QamīAmr Ibn Qamīārif bi Miṣr, 1968), 70 (poem no. 1, l. 17). 12. Bauer, Altarabische Dichtkunst, 2:179– 85, l. 2. 13. Al-Mufaḍḍalīyāt, 276 (l. 26). 14. See J. Stetkevych, “Name and Epithet.” 15. For a discussion of the structure of the tripartite qaṣīdah according to the anthropology-based scheme of separation, transition/liminality, and incorporation, which, together, represent a full cycle of any implicit or explicit, concerted or spontaneous, communal or individual enactment of significant change of status, see references above, chapter 1 n. 1. 16. Al-Mufaḍḍalīyāt, 160– 81 (poem no. 17). Also see my discussion of alMuzarrid’s qaṣīdah and its “wretched hunter” segment in chapter 2. 17. Al-Jāḥiẓ, Al-Ḥayawān, 2:20. 18. See the highly informative survey of the pre-Islamic poetic treatment of Arab generosity and hospitality in Mabrūk al-Mannā>ī, Al-Shi>r wa al-Māl: Baḥth fi Āliyyāt al-Ibdā> al-Shi>rī >ind al->Arab min al-Jāhiliyyah ilā Nihāyat al-Qarn III H/IX M (Beirut: Dār al-Gharb al-Islāmī; Tunis: Kulliyyat al-Ādāb–Mannūbah, 1998), 294– 315. 19. For a discussion of the dating of his birth and death, see >Ādil Sulaymān Jamāl, in Ḥātim Ibn >Abd Allāh al-Ṭār Ḥātim Ibn >Abd Allāh al-ṬāArab, 3 vols. (Beirut: Dār al-Kutub al->Ilmiyyah, n.d.), 2:72. 21. Abū al-Ḥasan >Alī Ibn al-Ḥusayn Ibn >Alī al-Mas>ūdī, Murūj al-Dhahab wa Ma>ādin al-Jawhar, 4 vols., ed. Yūsuf As>ad Dāghir (Beirut: Dār al-Andalus, 1401/1981), 1:141– 43; al-Iṣbahānī, Kitāb al-Aghānī, 19:6706– 7; Arendonk, “Ḥātim al-Ṭār al-Jāhilī, 1:241. This psychologizing becomes particularly evident in al-Nuwayhī’s presentation of Ḥātim al-Ṭāādhilah motif. Al-Nuwayhī’s lack of recognition of the >ādhilah motif or device also surfaces in his view of it as no more than a literally understood “exciting dialogue” between the poet and his blaming wife (1:243). 32. Huizinga, Homo Ludens, 58. 33. Marcel Mauss, The Gift: Forms and Functions of Exchange in Archaic Societies, trans. Ian Cunnison (New York and London: W.W. Norton & Company, 1967), 33– 34. 34. Mauss, The Gift, esp. ch. 2 (17– 45). 35. Huizinga, Homo Ludens, 60. 36. Huizinga, Homo Ludens, 58. On the destructive potlatch, see Mauss, The Gift, 102 n. 122. 37. Christopher Bracken, The Potlatch Papers: A Colonial Case History (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1997), 66; and again, commenting on Mauss’s The Gift, “the potlatch continues to be construed as a war fought with property, resulting in acts of great destruction” (153). 38. Mauss, The Gift, 101 n. 119. As regards the myth of resuscitation, I would suggest that it may harbor a symbolic/archetypal connection with the resuscitative powers of the Celtic and Germanic boiling cauldron of the slain hero. For further on gambling, see 101 n. 120. 39. Huizinga, Homo Ludens, 59.

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40. S. Stetkevych, Mute Immortals Speak, 38, discusses the “game” of maysir as “in fact divining arrows (qidḥ, pl. qidāḥ) through which some divine or supernatural will is revealed.” The most interesting case in point, which is also of immediate relevance to our present discussion of al-ḤuṭayAbd alMuṭṭalib’s sacrifice of his son >Abd Allāh (the father of the Prophet Muḥammad) in which divining arrows are used both for selecting the sacrificial victim and for determining the price of his redemption.” Also see the entry al-maysir: T. Fahd, “Maysir,” EI2. 41. Goldziher, “Der Dîwân,” ZDMG 46:10–13. 42. Even though, according to al-Iṣbahānī, Kitāb al-Aghānī, 2:577– 78, alḤuṭayArabī, 1402/1982), 647, 648, 650, 651, 652, 654, 661, 663, 664, 665, 669, 670. Hereafter cited as Abū Nuwās, Dīwān (Beirut). Furthermore, in a secondary manner, the hound may then also appear in a simile in which it is compared to the falcon. There it becomes, as it were, the “primary” agent of the hunt: ka ṣ-ṣaqri yanqaḍḍu >alā qaṭātihi (like the falcon, it pounces [swoops] on its sand-grouse), Abū Nuwās, Dīwān (Beirut), 626 (l. 9). 3. The point of origin of this tradition goes back to the Mu>allaqah of Imru< al-Qays, as line 49 (Imru< al-Qays, Dīwān, 19); and, as line 53, to al-Anbārī’s Sharḥ al-Qaṣā, 82. The clearest instance of the wa qad aghtadī motif also signals the—thus evidenced—beginning of the genre of the ṭardiyyah. Furthermore, it is also the enunciated opening of the ṭardiyyah-genre’s earliest such poem by the Umayyad poet al-Shamardal Ibn Sharīk al-Yarbū>ī (d. after 109/728), who shares the parentage of the genre with Abū al-Najm al->Ijlī. See al-Shamardal’s poem no. 20 in Seidensticker, Die Gedichte des Šamardal Ibn Šarīk, 184– 85. Al-Shamardal’s two ṭardiyyahs are also thematically the pioneering examples of courtly falconry.

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The critical importance of this fact and aspect, however, is not noted by the monograph’s author. “Courtly falconry” is subsequently revisited in no less than twelve or thirteen examples of the ṭardiyyahs of Abū Nuwās. See the preceding note and chapter 2 generally. Furthermore, see the important discussion of the formulaic significance of wa qad aghtadī in Imru< al-Qays, as well as in >Alqamah Ibn >Abadah, contextualized in a pioneering study by James T. Monroe, “Oral Composition in Pre-Islamic Poetry,” Journal of Arabic Literature 3 (1972): 1– 53, esp. 16, 22. The right of primacy in being the point of origin—if no more than technically—belongs equally to the “faḥl ” (“Stallion,” master-poet) >Alqamah Ibn >Abadah, who was strictly contemporary to Imru< al-Qays (>Alqamah Ibn >Abadah, Dīwān, commentary by al-Shantamarī, ed. Luṭfī al-Ṣaqqāl, Durriyyah al-Khaṭīb, and Fakhr al-Dīn al-Qabāwah [Aleppo: Dār al-Kitāb al->Arabī, 1389/1969], 88 [rhyme -bi, l. 19]). 4. Ṭarafah Ibn al->Abd, Dīwān, commentary by al-Shantamarī, with appended poetry attributed to Ṭarafah, ed. Durriyyah al-Khaṭīb and Luṭfī al-Ṣaqqāl (Damascus: Majma> al-Lughah al->Arabiyyah, 1975), 177 (poem no. 61, l. 2); Abū alFaḍl Jamāl al-Dīn Ibn Mukarram Ibn Manẓūr, Lisān al->Arab, 15 vols. (Beirut: Dār Ṣādir, 1375/1956), s.v. w-ṣ-f. The general w-ṣ-f entry in Ibn Manẓūr’s Lisān al->Arab is also central to our discussion of the semantics and semiotics of waṣf versus na>t. 5. Suḥaym >Abd Banī al-Ḥasḥās, Dīwān, ed. >Abd al->Azīz al-Maymanī (Cairo: Dār al-Kutub al-Miṣriyyah, 1369/1940), 43 (poem no. tāArab, s.v. w-ṣ-f. 6. Yusuf Abdullah Ali, The Holy QurArab, 130– 51. In one case, however, when referring to alḤuṭayAmīn is sadly disappointing (p. 150), inasmuch as he badly bowdlerized the “wretched hunter” text in al-ḤuṭayAbd Banī al-Ḥasḥās, Dīwān, 68. 11. >Umar Ibn Abī Rabī>ah, Dīwān (Beirut: Dār Ṣādir/Dār Bayrūt, 1385/ 1966), 156; likewise in his major “ghazal-qaṣīdah to Nu>m” (Dīwān, 121): A hādhā -llādhī aṭrayti na>tan fa lam akun wa >ayshiki ansāhū ilā yawma atunī tubṣirnanī? (Do you see me the way he describes me?) 12. On the new “exegetical,” that is, metapoetic, functions of rhetoric in badī> poetry, see S. Stetkevych, Abū Tammām, chapter 1, esp. 33– 37 and 105– 6. 13. We have to wait long, past not only Abū Nuwās but even Ibn al-Mu>tazz, that is, past the “classicism” of the >Abbāsid ṭardiyyah, to find a fully narrative genre development in the Arabic hunt poem. See the discussion of Abū Firās alḤamdānī’s urjūzah/ṭardiyyah of 136 double lines in chapter 7. 14. Abū Nuwās, Dīwān (Beirut), 624– 25, 645; or [Abū Nuwās], Dīwān Abī Nuwās al-Ḥasan Ibn Hānī al-Ḥakamī, 4 vols., ed. Ewald Wagner (Damascus: AlMadā Publishing Company, Special Edition, 2003), 2:195– 96. Hereafter cited as Abū Nuwās, Dīwān (Damascus). 15. Abū Nuwās, Dīwān (Beirut), 645, 659; Abū Nuwās, Dīwān (Damascus), 2:347– 48. 16. See chapter 2. 17. Mu>allaqah of Imru< al-Qays, in al-Anbārī, Sharḥ al-Qaṣā, 82– 99. 18. To count the most literal instances, see Abū Nuwās, Dīwān (Beirut), 628, 632, 635– 38, 647– 48, 651– 52, 654, 657, 660, 662– 64, 669. 19. Gustave E. von Grunebaum calls attention to the “cultivation of the epigrammatic sketch for its own sake” in Arabic poetry, as being “more definitely of ninth century origin.” He does not connect the epigrammatic formal or rather stylistic phenomenon in Arabic poetry with any specific genre formation. See G. E. von Grunebaum, “The Response to Nature in Arabic Poetry,” Journal of Near Eastern Studies 4, no. 3 (July 1945): 148. See also J. C. Bürgel, Die ekphrastischen

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Epigramme des Abū Ṭālib al-Maaynu jūdī of line 3 in the Beirut edition, to which I presently adhere. For classical Arabic poetic examples of the formulaic topos yā >aynī jūdī and for that formula’s pertinent discussion, as well for the discussion of an illustration of Bedouin poetics of incentive to blood vengeance (taḥrīḍ), see S. Stetkevych, Mute Immortals Speak, 176– 80; 161, 193– 94 (taḥrīḍ). 24. Abū Nuwās, Dīwān (Beirut), 636. The Wagner edition, Dīwān (Damascus), 2:287– 88, introduces this ṭardiyyah as being merely attributed to Abū Nuwās (min al-manḥūl ilayh). 25. For the discussion of the figural presence of the “wretched hunter” in the animal panels of the pre-Islamic and Mukhaḍram qaṣīdah, see the preceding chapters 1– 3 and J. Stetkevych, “In Search of the Unicorn,” 99. 26. Regarding this point, see Wagner, Abū Nuwās, 269: “Tierliebe in unserem heutigen Sinne dürfen wir nicht als Motiv für die Tierbeschreibungen des Abū Nuwās ansehen. Wohl mag er eine gewisse Freude an den schnellen und geschickten Bewegungen der jagenden Tiere empfunden haben; doch die ins einzelne gehende, ausführliche Beschreibung des Zerfetzens des Beutetieres durch den jagenden Hund oder Falken läßt jede Spur von Mitgefühl für die Opfer vermissen. Bezeichnent ist auch der materialistische Schluß vieler Jagdgedichte: Es wird auf den Nutzen der Jagdhunde oder Falken für die Versorgung ihrer Besitzer hingewiesen oder die bratende Beute geschildert.” There are several difficulties with Wagner’s awkwardly naïve view. First of all, “eine gewisse Freude” in the performance of the hunting animals is less than satisfying as regards the understanding of any hunt culture, especially the medieval one, as this chapter should make clear. Second, it is critically important to remem-

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ber that the >Abbāsid ṭardiyyah never quite freed itself from the reigning mood of the classical qaṣīdah’s animal panels. As for the “materialistic ending of many of Abū Nuwās’s hunt poems,” here Wagner betrays an altogether puzzling lack of awareness of the structural vestiges of one of the important rituals of the hunt— of all hunt—in all cultures and in all historically or archaeologically known periods: the closing banquet. 27. Al-Mufaḍḍalīyāt, 180. See also chapter 2. 28. As is the case with many of Abū Nuwās’s ṭardiyyāt, the present one has several problems concerning line arrangement. These problems, however, are by and large of a secondary nature and importance. Even the addition of a second hemistich in line 2 of the poem, a hemistich that figures only in the Wagner recension of the Dīwān (Damascus, 2:194– 95), does no more than “restate,” but does not “add,” vis-à-vis the text of the Beirut (1982) edition of the Dīwan (624). Nevertheless, I have chosen to translate line 2 as it stands in Wagner (Damascus, 2:194). Otherwise, a general observation—and warning—should be made concerning the redactions of the ṭardiyyāt of Abū Nuwās, be they in manuscript form or in print: in the rajaz-metered and even in the related sarī>-metered ṭardiyyah, there is no real “double hemistich” verse- or line-formation of the kind considered canonic in the qaṣīdah. Instead, each so-called “hemistich” should be viewed formally as its own potentially independent unit: of meter as well as of meaning. As such it can be pausal, or closing, as well as linking up into enjambments. The latter comes into evidence especially in cases of narrative or quasi-narrative poems. 29. Abū Nuwās, Dīwān (Beirut), 631; Abū Nuwās, Dīwān (Damascus), 2:203– 206. The respective arrangement of lines differs in these two editions, creating problems of adherence to a logical sequencing of images and events of the hunt. Across both editions it is possible, however, to reconstruct a plausible story line, image sequence, and poetic cohesiveness. Thus, as closing “half-line” of this ṭardiyyah, I use the closure of Wagner’s edition (Damascus, 2:206). 30. Thus, in Imru< al-Qays’s Mu>allaqah the horse of the hunt is first introduced in all its equine battle-ready splendor (strictly in the mode of “description”/ na>t [ll. 53– 63]), and only then is it followed (ll. 64– 68) by a narration or dynamic depiction of the actual hunt scene, as though the poet were returning to the wa qad aghtadī theme-setting opening. The actual “hunt scene” of Imru< al-Qays, which had come introduced by a “description,” is now also concluded or framed (ll. 69– 70) by another, once again descriptive-“static,” apotheotic image of the hunter’s horse. 31. For a rare ṭardiyyah in which a hunt on horseback is described, but which is marked as being merely “attributed” to Abū Nuwās (min al-manḥūl ilayhi), see Abū Nuwās, Dīwān (Damascus) 2:350– 51; Abū Nuwās, Dīwān (Beirut), 657– 58.

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32. For Rabī>ah Ibn Maqrūm’s Mufaḍḍaliyyah no. 38, l. 19, see Al-Mufaḍ­ḍalīyāt, 358. See also chapter 1. 33. I am here narrowing Huizinga’s homo ludens to our “hunter-poet’s” poeta ludens. For his conceptualization of the anthropology and philosophy of “play/ game,” see especially chapters 3 (“Play and Contest as Civilizing Functions”) and 7 (“Play and Poetry”) in Huizinga, Homo Ludens, 46– 75, 119– 35. See also José Ortega y Gasset, Obras Completas, vol. 6 (1941–1946), “Brindis y Prólogos,” 3rd ed. (Madrid: Revista de Occidente, 1955), 419– 91. 34. Al-Anbārī, Sharḥ al-Qaṣā, 53 (Mu>allaqah, l. 28). In Imru< alQays’s Dīwān, 14, the line in question is no. 27, with the variant kharajtu instead of fa qumtu. 35. Abū Nuwās, Dīwān (Damascus), 3:185 (poem no. 157, ll. 1– 2); Abū Nuwās, Dīwān (Beirut), 37, ll. 1– 2. 36. This time the influential poem is the Mu>allaqah of Labīd Ibn Rabī>ah (esp. ll. 6– 7), in Al-Anbārī, Sharḥ al-Qaṣā, 524– 25. 37. For a more comprehensive discussion of the Arabic “pastoral idyll,” especially beginning with the lyricism of the Umayyad period, see J. Stetkevych, Zephyrs of Najd, chapters 3– 5. 38. To list only the most easily recognizable assortment of closures of Abū Nuwās’s ṭardiyyāt, I have followed Dīwān (Beirut), 624– 25 (with double enjambment), 626 (with enjambment), 628 (with pious invocation), 635, 639, 643, 644, 648, 651 (with enjambment), 654 (with awkwardly attached pious invocation), and 656. 39. Abū Nuwās, Dīwān (Damascus), 2:272– 75; Abū Nuwās, Dīwān (Beirut), 632. The emphasis in line 11 is mine. 40. In spite of its overall “courtly” tone, line 3 of this ṭardiyyah brings up echoes of some of the most archaic pre-Islamic primary motifs and images, which will tie it “modally,” as a poem of the hunt, to the situations of such “existential hunters” as the ṣu>lūk/brigand poet al-Shanfarā in line 37 of his Lāmiyyat al->Arab. Thus his Hamamtu wa hammat wa btadarnā wa asdalat / wa shammara minnī fāriṭun mutamahhilū (I strove and they strove as we raced; then they slackened, / And I went ahead, at leisure, rolling up my sleeves). See Al-Shanfarā, Qaṣīdat Lāmiyyat al->Arab, wa yalīhā A>jab al->Ajab fī Sharḥ Lāmiyyat al->Arab, commentary by Muḥammad Ibn >Umar al-Zamakhsharī (Istanbul: Al-JawāAbbāsid poet’s only true aesthetic horizon and his final frame of reference,” see J. Stetkevych, Zephyrs of Najd, 57– 59. 42. For an oblique reference to the otherwise ghazal motif of remedium amoris, see Abū Nuwās, Dīwān (Beirut), 624– 25, l. 4; Abū Nuwās, Dīwān (Damascus), 2:195– 96, l. 5. 43. Abū Nuwās, Dīwān (Damascus), 2:309–10; Dīwān (Beirut), 641. 44. The oryx bull’s testicles being the target of the hunting-dogs’ attack brings to mind, necessarily, the iconography of the slaying of the Mithraic Bull— even if in that iconographic representation the Bull is attacked by the dogs (or dog) frontally, and they are only shown lapping up the blood that gushes out of the wound which Mithras’s dagger opened in the Bull’s neck. In some representations the Mithraic Bull’s blood is metamorphosed into ears of wheat springing from the wound. Stretching associative comparisons further, the Mithraic Bull, in its frozen iconic representation, is shown with its head spasmodically raised and its snout pulled up by Mithras, so that its lower front teeth appear. The Bull’s testicles, however, are attacked by a scorpion and, in some iconographic versions, by a lion—it appears that in the most archaic versions the agon is between the lion and the bull. (This also brings to my more unharnessed mind the survival in English heraldry of the struggle between “the Lion and the Unicorn.”) For an interesting view of Mithraism, see David Ulansey, The Origins of the Mithraic Mysteries: Cosmology and Salvation in the Ancient World (New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1989), chapter 6, “The Meaning of the Bull-Slaying,” esp. 90– 94. 45. For a genre-comprehensive discussion of the motif of rā>ī al-nujūm (“the pastor of the stars”), see J. Stetkevych, Zephyrs of Najd, chapter 4, “Meadows in the Sky,” 142– 63. 46. Abū Nuwās, Dīwān (Damascus), 2:310; Abū Nuwās, Dīwān (Beirut), 646. 47. The incidence—between the oryx and the onager—of the clearly articulated motif of the “wretched hunter” in the classical qaṣīdah (from the pre-Islamic period through the Umayyad) is reversed. 48. For an approach to fleshing out the wretched state of the hunter in a Mukhaḍram qaṣīdah, see Bauer, “Muzarrids Qaṣīde,” and chapter 2. 49. Abū Nuwās’s Dīwān (Damascus), 2:286. This poem figures in a section of ṭardiyyāt “between authentic and attributed” (bayn aṣ-ṣaḥīḥ wa l-manḥūl) (2:279) and also bears the redactor’s remark: “and I do not take it to be his” (wa lā aḥuqquhā

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lahu) (2:286). Wagner has a German translation of this ṭardiyyah in his Abū Nuwās, 288– 89. His brief comment on the poem is at best partial and neglects any possible thematic-formal implication—thus of the “wretched hunter” syndrome and the undertone of archaizing animal panel dependencies. 50. Abū Nuwās, Dīwān (Damascus), 2:196; Abū Nuwās, Dīwān (Beirut), 625. 51. Abū Nuwās, Dīwān (Damascus), 2:209, l. 14; Abū Nuwās, Dīwān (Beirut), 630, l. 14. 52. Abū Nuwās, Dīwān (Damascus), 2:271, l. 6; Abū Nuwās, Dīwān (Beirut), 635, l. 6. 53. Abū Nuwās, Dīwān (Damascus), 2:289, l. 5; Abū Nuwās, Dīwān (Beirut), 637, l. 5. 54. Abū Nuwās, Dīwān (Damascus), 2:316, l. 9; Abū Nuwās, Dīwān (Beirut), 649– 50, l. 8. 55. Alqamah Ibn >Abadah, Dīwān, 113 (poem no. 9, l. 7). 56. [Al-Nābighah al-Dhubyānī], Dīwān al-Nābighah al-Dhubyānī, 3rd ed., ed. Muḥammad Abū al-Faḍl Ibrāhīm (Cairo: Dār al-Ma>ārif bi Miṣr, 1990), 204 (poem no. 65, l. 42); Dīwān al-Nābighah al-Dhubyānī, ed. Karam al-Bustānī (Beirut: Dār Ṣādir, n.d.), 54 (l. 45). In pre-Islamic as well as later Arabic core-lyrical, nasīb-related poetry, the word kawkab (pl. kawākib)— without the adjectival modifier durrī (brilliant, pearly)—has otherwise an equally strong resonance. There, however, it is associated with and, specifically, lyrically reinforced by the loosely synonymic “star,” najm (pl. nujūm). Thus the same al-Nābighah al-Dhubyānī who has so effectively used the “modified” simile ka l-kawkabi d-durriyyi when he was depicting the pathos-driven oryx of a qaṣīdah’s raḥīl-section, begins the strongly elegiac nasīb of an entirely raḥīl-less madīḥ qaṣīdah (Dīwān, ed. Abū al-Faḍl Ibrāhīm, 40 [poem no. 3, ll. 1– 2]) by evoking a night of “slowly moving stars [kawākib]” and his (the poet’s) “pasturing the stars [nujūm]”: Kilīnī li hammin yā ah, Al-Ḥayawān fī al-Shi>r al-Jāhilī (Damascus and Beirut: Dāniyah lil-Ṭibā>ah wa al-Nashr, 1989), 56– 58. 57. Bishr Ibn Abī Khāzim, Dīwān, 37. 58. >Abīd Ibn al-Abraṣ, Dīwān, 60. This fluid reading of the epithet—between durrī and dirrīārif, n.d.], 1:466 [poem no. 191]), al-Buḥturī says of his mamdūḥ: 8. Ṣaḥḥat madhāhibuhū fa āḍa muhadhdhaban Ka l-kawkabi d-durriyyi ashraqa wa >talā. ——— Sound were his ways, upright, Bright like the pearly star, risen on high.

Al-Buḥturī, Dīwān, 3:1872– 73 (poem no. 721), rhyming in -lā, l. 8 (ka l-kawkabi d-durriyyī). In another qaṣīdah, also rhyming in -lā, in a context of a nightly reverie in the pleasure gardens on the banks of the Euphrates, al-Buḥturī comes the closest to the imagist source of the Qurtazz bi Llāh (Dīwān, 3:1648 [poem no. 642, l. 17]): Ka l-kawkabi d-durriyyi akhlaṣa ḍawAlī Ibn al-Jahm, Dīwān, 3rd ed., ed. Khalīl Mardam (Beirut: Dār Ṣādir, 1996), 84. 68. On the Renaissance lyrical subgenre of piscatorial eclogues, which overlaps with the Arabic thematic subgenre of the “fishing-ṭardiyyāt,” see Jacopo Sannazaro, Arcadia & Piscatorial Eclogues, trans. and intro. Ralph Nash (Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1966), 158– 93. 69. Al-Sarī al-Raffātazz, Dīwān (Beirut: Dār Ṣādir, n.d.), 185, 206, 243, 245– 46, 282– 83, 385– 86; and >Abd Allāh Ibn al-Mu>tazz bi Allāh, Dīwān Ash>ār al-Amīr Abī al->Abbās >Abd Allāh Ibn Muḥammad al-Mu>tazz bi Allāh al-Khalīfah al->Abbāsī, 2 vols., ed. Muḥammad Badī> Sharīf (Cairo: Dār al-Ma>ārif bi Miṣr, 1977), 2:62–149.

CHA PT E R 5. FROM D E SCRIPT ION TO IMAGISM

1. As in the Mu>allaqah of Imru< al-Qays; see al-Anbārī, Sharḥ al-Qaṣā, 82 (l. 53). 2. See chapter 4 on the distinction between the “wa qad aghtadī” and “an>atu” types of ṭardiyyah. 3. On the issue of enjambment, see chapter 7, nn. 10–11. 4. See chapter 6, poem no. 107. 5. Ibn al-Jahm, Dīwān, 84. 6. The >Abbāsid poet’s comparison of the body of a hound stretched out in full run to a staff that is dog-like with its curved neck must necessarily call to mind

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the ancient Egyptian, mostly ceremonial staff known as user/uas, whose top is in the shape of an excessively elongated head of a dog (hound). It would be unwise at this point, however, to go beyond more than an associative attention to this subject. See J. Stetkevych, Muḥammad and the Golden Bough, 87– 88, 141 n. 18. 7. Idwār al-Kharrāṭ, Turābuhā Za>farān (Cairo: Dār al-Aḥmadī lil-Nashr, 1999). Another novel with the similar title Darb al-Za>farān, by the Iraqi writer Muḥsin al-Mūsawī (Cairo: Dār al-Shurūq, 1990), does not achieve the same lyrical resonance. 8. In the ḥadīth/sunnah of a description of the Garden of Bliss, there are “bricks of silver with bricks of gold, held together with mortar of musk, whose gravel is pearls and sapphire and whose dust is saffron. He who enters it lives in delight and does not experience despair, lives forever and does not die, his clothes do not become worn out, nor does his youth come to an end.” See Muḥammad Ibn >Īsā al-Tirmidhī, Ṣaḥīḥ Sunan al-Tirmidhī, 3 vols. (al-Riyāḍ: Maktab al-Tarbiyah al->Arabī li Duwal al-Khalīj, 1988), 2:311. I owe this reference to Anan Habeeb, “Nostalgia and the East in the Arabic and Hebrew Poetry of Islamic Spain,” PhD diss., Indiana University, Bloomington, 2015, 31. 9. For a concise but well-understood critical treatment of Imagism, see Princeton Encyclopedia of Poetry and Poetics (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1965), 377– 78. For an adequate anthology of imagist/pure poetry, see George Moore, An Anthology of Pure Poetry (New York: Liveright, 1973). 10. Abū Nuwās, Dīwān (Damascus), 2:309–10. See chapter 4, pp. 119–20, for the poem. 11. >Alī Ibn al-Jahm’s riyāḍu z-za>farān, in effect, comes to the >Abbāsid poet from the ḥadīth/sunnah of a description of the Garden of Bliss. See note 8 above. 12. Grunebaum, “Response to Nature,” 149. 13. Grunebaum, “Response to Nature,” 149. 14. Grunebaum, “Response to Nature,” 151.

CHA PT E R 6. BRE A KT HROU GH INTO LYRICISM

This chapter is a revised version of my article “The Ṭardiyyahs of Ibn al-Mu>tazz: Breakthrough into Lyricism,” Journal of Arabic Literature 41, no. 3 (2010): 201– 44. 1. See the reference to Ewald Wagner and Brockelmann in Wagner, Abū Nuwās, 265. 2. Kushājim, Al-Maṣāad Ṭalas (Baghdad: n.p., 1954). See also Alma Giese, Waṣf bei Kušāğim: Eine Studie zur beschreibenden Dichtkunst der Abbasidenzeit (Berlin: Klaus Schwarz Verlag, 1981).

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3. Abū >Abd Allāh al-Ḥasan Ibn al-Ḥusayn, Al-Bayzarah, ed. and intro. Muḥammad Kurd >Alī (Beirut: Dār Ṣādir, 1995 [1st ed. Damascus, 1375/1956]). This widely current edition contains the author’s introductory section (17– 48) and an appendix of a useful and knowledgeable anthology of illustrative ṭardiyyāt, specified as “dhikr ṣayd al-kalb” (148– 81). 4. For a basic presentation of classical Arabic prosody that includes the meter rajaz, see W. Wright, A Grammar of the Arabic Language, 2 vols. (Beirut: Librairie du Liban, 1981), 2:350– 90. Samples of specific classical Arabic measures and rhythmic patterns are easily accessible for English as well as Arabic readers. The basic measure/foot of the rajaz meter is — — ^ — or — ^ ^ — ; it also shares this (with variants) with the meter sarī>. 5. W. Stoetzer, “Sarī>,” EI2. Note particularly types (d) and (c). On rajaz generally, see M. Ullmann, “Radjaz,” EI2. 6. Ibn al-Mu>tazz, Dīwān (Cairo), 2:126. Hereafter, “Ibn al-Mu>tazz, Dīwān” refers to this two-volume 1977 Cairo edition, unless the Beirut edition is explicitly specified. Poem numbers and bracketed references in the text are to this Cairo edition. 7. On enjambment, see G. J. H. van Gelder, “Breaking Rules for Fun / Making Lines that Run On: On Enjambment in Classical Arabic Poetry,” in The Challenge of the Middle East, Middle Eastern Studies at the University of Amsterdam, ed. Ibrahim A. El-Sheikh et al. (Amsterdam: University of Amsterdam, 1982), 25– 31, 184– 86; J. G. H. van Gelder, Beyond the Line: Classical Arab Literary Critics on the Coherence and Unity of the Poem (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1982), 123– 24; J. G. H. van Gelder, “Taḍmīn,” EI2; also Ullmann, “Radjaz.” Furthermore, the most interesting cases of Arabic poetic enjambment — and the ones which, above all, deserve to be viewed critically as true instances of early Arabic stylistic mannerism—are the syntactical disjunctions that span several poetic lines in a quasi-epithetic pursuit of a complex image or digressive motif. The classical Arabic poetic model of such a “mannered” enjambment is found in the Dāliyyah of the pre-Islamic alNābighah al-Dhubyānī (Dīwān [Cairo], 26– 27) that spans lines 44– 47 (l. 44: Fa mā l-Furātu . . . l. 47: Yawman bi ajwada minhū); then the Mukhaḍram Hudhalī, Sā>idah Ibn Juajūlun . . . l. 14: Yawman bi ajwada minnī . . . ; then the Umayyad Kuthayyir >Azzah (Dīwān), poem no. 88, 429– 30: ll. 4 to 7; and the Umayyad Jamīl Buthaynah (Dīwān [Beirut: Dār Ṣādir, 1966], 18), spanning two lines; the Umayyad >Abd Allāh Ibn al-Dumaynah, who indulges in special and most diverse ways in this type of enjambment mannerism of style, thus see [>Abd Allāh] Ibn al-Dumaynah, Dīwān Ibn al-Dumaynah, recension Abū al->Abbās Tha>lab and

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Muḥammad Ibn Ḥabīb, ed. Aḥmad Ratib al-Naffākh (Cairo: Maktabat Dār al>Urūbah, 1379/[1959]), 59, 62– 63, 101– 2, 151. Furthermore, in an influential way, enjambment occurs in Majnūn Laylā (Qays Ibn al-Mulawwaḥ al-Majnūn wa Dīwānuh, 64), l. 11: Wa mā wajdu a>rābiyyatin . . . l. 13: Bi a>ẓama min wajdī; and in the template of Majnūn, the Andalusian Ibn Khafājah (Dīwān Ibn al-Khafājah, ed. Muṣṭafā Ghāzī [Alexandria: Munshaārif, 1960], 333– 34), l. 9: Wa mā wajdu a>rābiyyatin bāna dāruhā . . . l. 13: Bi a>ẓama min wajdī; followed almost literally by another Andalusi, Ibn Sahl ([Ibrāhīm] Ibn Sahl [al-Andalusī al-Isrā>īlī]), Dīwān Ibn Sahl, ed. Buṭrus al-Bustānī [Beirut: Maktabat Ṣādir, 1953], 92– 94. As stylistic “model,” especially this Umayyad and Andalusi “fa mā wajdu . . . ka wajdī” appears to have its thematic and stylistic origin in the Mu>allaqah of >Amr Ibn Kulthūm, l. 15: Fa mā wajadat ka-wajdī ummu saqbin Aḍallathū fa rajja>ati l-ḥanīnā

Al-Anbārī, Sharḥ al-Qaṣā, 384. The rest is, so to speak, “history” in the history of Arabic stylistic mannerism. 8. See al-Shamardal’s poem no. 20 in Seidensticker, Die Gedichte des Šamardal Ibn Šarīk, 159– 60. 9. See this and other terminological implications of “hunt/chase” (ṭard/qanṣ) in chapter 1. 10. A claim to which Abū Nuwās may have a lesser entitlement. 11. See note 13 below. 12. Ibn al-Mu>tazz, Dīwān, 2:138. 13. This line, as noted by the editor in Ibn al-Mu>tazz’s Dīwān (2:138, n. 3), is formally—and editorially—not considered to be part of poem no. 107. It is worth noting, however, that the same motif underlies the opening line of the much later hunting Urjūzah of Abū Firās al-Ḥamdānī (d. 357/968) (Dīwān, 3:45); see chapter 7. 14. Here I hope to be forgiven for my pasteboard Schopenhauerism. 15. Ibn al-Mu>tazz, Dīwān, 2:122– 23. 16. For another mutaqārib example (of only three lines), even more likely a sketch (>ujālah) of stylistic qaṣīdah provenance, compare Ibn al-Mu>tazz, Dīwān, 2:141, poem no. 110. For another tone that is as old in Arabic poetic repertory as it is disturbingly novel, I choose to quote the text as it appears in Ibn al-Mu>tazz, Dīwān (Beirut: Dār Ṣādir, n.d.), 170: 1. Ka alā fayḥāanhū Ba>īdi l-māu r-rawāḥā

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Notes to Pages 148–150 309

——— I am as though, when camels journey off into the distance, Over the plains’ spread-out wings, On a sea by eyes unfathomed, Its water far, swallowing up the evening of return.

It is difficult to resist thinking of Goethe, as if he were echoing Ibn al-Mu>tazz, and thereby, as it were, also validating the entire West-Östlicher Divan, not through the usual pre-Romantic theory or the explicit reference to Persian ghazal but from within a single Arabic two-line poem: Das Stöhnen der Kamele Durchdrang das Ohr die Seele, . . . . . . . . . . Und immer ging es weiter Und immer ward es breiter Und unser ganzes Ziehen Es schien ein ewig Fliehen, Blau, hinter Wüst und Heere, Der Streif erlogner Meere. ——— The groaning of the camels Transpierced the ear, the soul, . . . . . . . . . . And on and on we journeyed And always brighter, brighter, And all of our faring Seemed a never-ending fleeing, Blue, beyond deserts, hosts, The conjured streak of seas.

Johann Wolfgang Goethe, West-Östlicher Divan (Frankfurt am Main: Insel Verlag, 1981), 46 (translation mine). 17. Such as, for instance, Abū Nuwās, Dīwān (Damascus), 2:56– 58, esp. l. 6. 18. Ibn al-Mu>tazz, Dīwān, 2:123. 19. In matters of the hunt, see in general Huizinga, Homo Ludens. It is almost a paradox that Huizinga failed to devote any detailed attention to the hunt as play/game. His entire book, nevertheless, I still consider an indispensable preliminary “reading”: a prolegomenon. See, furthermore, Ortega y Gasset, Obras Completas, 6:419– 91. 20. See chapter 4.

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310 Notes to Pages 151–163

21. Ibn al-Mu>tazz, Dīwān, 2:128. 22. For a discussion of how distinct, and also how interlocked, the structural and semiotic scenes and “stories” of the Arabic poetic hunt are, see chapter 1. 23. Al-Iṣbahānī, Kitāb al-Aghānī, 4:60– 62. For the full text and translation of Abū al->Atāhiyah’s poem and a discussion of it as an >Abbāsid courtly idyll, see J. Stetkevych, Zephyrs of Najd, 66– 70. 24. Like Abū al->Atāhiyah’s, Ibn al-Mu>tazz’s apostrophe is self-addressed and self-felt, and in that sense essentially different from the archaic, Bedouin apostrophe in which the poet addresses his two companions, as in the Imru< al-Qaysian qifā nabki. 25. For Abū Dhuayn”. In a decisive measure, the responsibility for this preference falls on the poet Abū Dhuayniyyah.” 27. On the subject of na>t and wa qad aghtadī, see chapter 4. 28. Ibn al-Mu>tazz, Dīwān, 2:134. 29. Ibn al-Mu>tazz, Dīwān, 2:134, poem no. 100. The second half of line 2 is less than clear in my mind (and lexically). Furthermore, in my translation I have inverted the order of the half-lines of this line to avoid misunderstanding—even when accepting that the original order of half-lines in the Arabic text offers its own satisfactory clarity. 30. Ibn al-Mu>tazz, Dīwān, 2:148. 31. Ibn al-Mu>tazz, Dīwān, 2:119. 32. Ibn al-Mu>tazz, Dīwān, 2:124– 25. 33. Because of the exceeding uncertainty and unevenness of this text, compare texts with, and even select from, Ibn al-Mu>tazz, Dīwān (Beirut), 191. 34. Ibn al-Mu>tazz, Dīwān, 2:143. 35. See chapter 4. 36. Ibn al-Mu>tazz, Dīwān, 2:139– 40. In quoted ṭardiyyahs of this series, which is characterized directly or obliquely by the Imru< al-Qaysian opening motif of his chivalrous hunt, wa qad aghtadī wa ṭ-ṭayru fī wukūnātihā, I will indicate Ibn al-Mu>tazz’s variants of this motif by italics. 37. The second half-line of line 9 of the Arabic redaction, it seems, must be made to follow the first half-line of line 10, as I have done in my translation.

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Notes to Pages 163–172 311

38. Here the Arabic text has the word sawābiḥan, which in the classical poetic idiom is an important epithet for “horses, coursers, steeds.” This is not a likely choice of meaning in the present ṭardiyyah context. 39. Ibn al-Mu>tazz, Dīwān, 2:123– 24. 40. In the ṭardiyyahs of Ibn al-Mu>tazz, the early morning “setting-out” for the hunt when mounted on horseback is not always merely implicit, as it is in the ṭardiyyahs of Abū Nuwās. Rather, Ibn al-Mu>tazz is likely to specifically mention the horses, as here (wa-ghadat khaylu ṭ-ṭarad [l. 4]). 41. See the discussion above of this aspect of the hemistich as an independent line-unit in the ṭardiyyah. 42. See also the earlier discussion of ṭardiyyah no. 93. The mid-ṭardiyyah change of motif occurs in it as well, to the point that it becomes a change of perspective and thus merits the terminological designation of a “turn.” Not unlike the turn or change of perspective with which we are formally and structurally familiar in the Renaissance (and thereafter) sonnet, this change is strongly pervasive—in particular, in the sense that it is characteristic of the structure of the ṭardiyyah with its frequent midcourse marker. Of course, in our structure-awareness of the Arabic poem—the ṭardiyyah, as well as other qaṣīdah derivatives—we must first of all retain our theoretical recourse to the basic qaṣīdah structure implications. 43. For my remarks about even Abū Nuwās’s shortcomings, or uncomfortable abruptness, in dealing with the lyrical demands of ṭardiyyah openings, see chapter 4. 44. Ibn al-Mu>tazz, Dīwān, 2:111. 45. Here it appears to me advisable to propose a composite reading of the poem’s available texts (as it also appears in Ibn al-Mu>tazz, Dīwān [Beirut], 277), or rather to relegate the opaque lines 4, 5, and 6 to a less than fruitful footnote proposition. This is particularly advisable because line 4 in the Cairo edition of the Dīwān, 2:131, poem no. 96, seems to introduce a sudden leap away from the putative hounds to an even more putative falcon/hawk—either of them in stark disagreement with what may be meant in lines 5– 6. The less than promising editorial apparatus in the Dīwān (Cairo) together with the Bayzarah of Kushājim may eventually be of help. 46. Ibn al-Mu>tazz, Dīwān, 2:130– 31. 47. For a consideration of the “subjective” qad aghtadī opposite the “objective” an>atu, see chapter 4. 48. Ibn al-Mu>tazz, Dīwān, 2:126– 27. 49. Ibn al-Mu>tazz, the consummate critic and scholar of theoretical badī> and specifically, in a manner less than coddling, a critic of its supreme practitioner, Abū Tammām (d. 231/845), was particularly alert to that poet’s poetics.

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312 Notes to Pages 172–174

Paradoxically, therefore, even against Ibn al-Mu>tazz’s critical grain, I will include here Abū Tammām’s splendidly innovative invocation and celebration of a “coming of spring,” which is as courtly as it is almost presaging the garden and flower style of Ibn al-Mu>tazz himself—but which is structurally still a nasīb-like introductory section to a caliphal (al-Mu>taṣim) panegyric qaṣīdah. Of particular relevance to us is this “spring-time nasīb’s” line 13: dunyā ma>āshun li l-warā ḥattā idhā juliya r-rabī>u fa innamā hiya manẓarū ——— A place of sustenance is the world to man Then spring bursts forth, and all is vision.

Abū Tammām, Dīwān, 3rd ed., 4 vols., recension of al-Khaṭīb al-Tibrīzī, ed. Muḥammad >Abduh >Azzām (Cairo: Dār al-Ma>ārif bi Miṣr, 1970), 2:194. For an “imagist” contextualized discussion of this verse by Abū Tammām, see J. Stetkevych, Zephyrs of Najd, 183. 50. As it stands, my use of the terms “pageant” and “pageantry” in dealing with the imagist and stylistic effects of Ibn al-Mu>tazz’s courtly lyricism is only tangentially related to the formal-literary currency of those terms. Etymologically, pageant has its beginning in the meaning “page,” Latin pagina, which became “platform” and “stage” on which to “display” or “perform,” and to “ceremonially parade”—thus in the European Middle Ages and then, more elaborately, in the Renaissance representations that included those of “courtly” hunt. Prior to this etymology-tied terminology, the most splendid pageantry-parades reach us out of Greek antiquity (the friezes of the Parthenon, commonly referred to as the Elgin Marbles of the British Museum; as are also the Roman imperial Triumphs, of which we possess the profusely engraved and decorated “arches of triumph”). The Medieval/Renaissance hunt and unicorn tapestries, both as courtly pageantry and in their use of the millefleurs background and environs, offer a closer analogue to the Arabic representation of the “florid” rawḍah of the ṭardiyyah of the scenes of courtly, ceremonial hunt. See Margaret B. Freeman, The Unicorn Tapestries (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art/Dutton & Co., 1959), esp. 9–153. 51. I have chosen to stand with, and by, the Ibn al-Mu>tazz Dīwān (Cairo) redaction of ṭardiyyah no. 92, especially in respect to lines 9a–13. In my view, the textual variants (2:127) do not lead to being substantive emendations. A separate, whole-text redaction of this ṭardiyyah in the Beirut edition (243– 44), with its own numerous editorial changes and omissions, would require a separate and very different approach to text criticism. 52. We should keep alive in our genre-associative imagination kindred idyllic scenes and visions of other art forms, other places, and other times, such as the

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Notes to Pages 174–177 313

Venetian Giorgione’s (d. 1510) Fête Champêtre and his French Impressionist followers’ belated but form-enlightening variants of a romantic-bourgeois blend. 53. For a definition of the terms “idyll” and “pastoral,” see William Flint Thrall and Addison Hibbard, A Handbook to Literature, rev. and enlarged by C. Hugh Holman (New York: Odyssey Press, 1960), 232, 342– 44. 54. See especially lines 3– 7, as in the edition of al-Anbārī, Sharḥ al-Qaṣā, 505– 98. For an English translation of the lines, see S. Stetkevych, Mute Immortals Speak, 9–10. 55. See J. Stetkevych, Zephyrs of Najd, 66. 56. The specific models of the kind of structure that involves major paratactic leaps of sequence—not only of motif-sequence within “ongoing” themes but of any sequential ordering of those themes—are already prototypically present, even to the extent of being jarring, in the challenges of parataxis in the foundational/ classical (that is, Jāhilī) >Arabic qaṣīdah. These challenges have yet to be critically fully digested. A significant or, one hopes, decisive step toward filling in the hermeneutical gap left by an awareness, all too slowly developing and more willed than ascertained, of the existence of effective paratactic bridges between the main thematic and modal sections of the tripartite (and even the bisectional) qaṣīdah was taken by S. Stetkevych in her theoretical and applied researches into the qaṣīdah validity of the van Gennep-Turner-Douglas theoretical patterns of rite-of-passage and its correlative of liminality. See S. Stetkevych, Mute Immortals Speak, passim. 57. For instance, there are such extreme-appearing descriptions within the “descriptive canon” of pre-Islamic Arabic poetry as Ṭarafah’s “she-camel” description in that poet’s Mu>allaqah, where in line 29 the hugeness of the skull ( jumjumah) is likened to an anvil (al-Anbārī, Sharḥ al-Qaṣā, 173). 58. In pre-Islamic poetic diction, there was a favored expression about “branches/twigs being bent, even twisted, but not broken.” The particular term khaḍad, for “a twig that is bent but not broken,” occurs in the “dāliyyah” of alNābighah al-Dhubyānī, Dīwān (Cairo), 27, l. 45. In the course of subsequent poetic currency, the meaning of the pertinent term was itself epithetically “explained” as it stands in Ibn al-Mu>tazz’s ṭardiyyah no. 92, l. 18: “tafṣilu in lam taksir.” 59. For a discussion of the “first khaḍramah,” see Jaroslav Stetkevych, “A Qaṣī­dah by Ibn Muqbil: The Deeper Reaches of Lyricism and Experience in a Mukhaḍram Poem: An Essay in Three Steps,” Journal of Arabic Literature 37, no. 3 (2006), esp. 303–17. Inasmuch as the “first” khaḍramah of the poetic generation astride the margin between Jāhiliyyah and Islam was formally and emotively still “umbilically” attached to the canon of primary Arabic poetic norms, and was in its poetics nostalgic rather than forward-looking, the so-called “second” khaḍramah was decidedly formally and primarily forward-looking—even where it appeared to submit to stubborn traits of an archaizing canon.

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314 Notes to Pages 178–181

60. For other observations/evocations of mine on “roundness,” see J. Stetkevych, Zephyrs of Najd, 181, 292 n. 42; and for the aesthetics of the round, the roundness, and the rounding, see Gaston Bachelard, The Poetics of Space, trans. Maria Jolas (Boston: Beacon Press, 1972), esp. 55, 232, 234, 240. 61. A singular ṭardiyyah by >Alī Ibn al-Jahm figures approximately midway between Abū Nuwās and Ibn al-Mu>tazz; see chapter 5 on this poem. 62. Wagner, Abū Nuwās, 309. 63. For a clear (structural) distinction between nasīb and ghazal, see Renate Jacobi, “Time and Reality in Nasīb and Ghazal,” Journal of Arabic Literature 16 (1985): 1–17. 64. For a critique of Abū Nuwās’s pseudo-rejection of the elegiac opening of the formal Arabic nasīb, see J. Stetkevych, Zephyrs of Najd, 57– 59, 64. More generally, see Philip F. Kennedy, The Wine Song in Classical Arabic Poetry: Abū Nuwās and the Literary Tradition (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997), 10–12. 65. It is deeply regrettable that for decades, indeed for generations, a fossilized, or simply falsely “revisionist” and even more falsely “revolutionary” and banal reading of the khamriyyāt of Abū Nuwās was (and still largely is) stripping those poems not only of their true charm but also of the depth of their lyricism—the ironic understanding of lyricism of nostalgia and nostalgia of lyricism, which was altogether a preciously rare cultural-historical moment in post-Bedouin Arabic poetry. 66. For a discussion of a strong instance of the ironic mode in the Risālat al-Ghufrān of Abū al->Alā< al-Ma>arrī, see J. Stetkevych, Zephyrs of Najd, 177– 80. 67. I have called “Imru< al-Qays’s brooding evocation of nights of despondency — if not despair —(Mu>allaqah, ll. 44– 48)” the “dark gem of pre-Islamic poetry” (J. Stetkevych, Zephyrs of Najd, 21– 22, 206 (for Arabic text of lines), and 249 n. 69 (esp. with concern for the meaning and nasīb function of “care”/“cura” (hamm): Many a night, like a surging sea, lowered its veils upon me To try me with varied cares, To it I said when it stretched its trunk, Then reared the rump and heaved a heavy chest: Break, O long night, break into morn! But in your morrow there’s no greater boon . . . Oh, what a night, as if its stars Were tied to Mount Yadhbul with every well-wound cord,

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As if the Pleiades in their stations hung From impassive boulders on fine flaxen ropes.

68. Both al-Aṣma>ī and Abū >Ubaydah, who, as philologists-antiquaries, possessed great structural insight into the poetry they collected, view the intervening ll. 49– 52 of Imru< al-Qays’s Mu>allaqah as alien to the poem and thus as structurally irrelevant—even if the tradition of the Mu>allaqah’s reception overrides them. For the specific lines of the Mu>allaqah, see al-Anbārī, Sharḥ al-Qaṣā , 74– 82. 69. See chapter 4 on this topic. 70. Ṭardiyyah lyricism of the post– Abū Nuwās period, but prior to Ibn alMu>tazz, had found different satisfactory formal solutions that did not fully derive from or depend on the Imru< al-Qays replica. See chapter 5 on the ṭardiyyah by >Alī Ibn al-Jahm.

CHA PT E R 7. FROM LY RIC TO NA RRATIVE

1. For Abū Firās al-Ḥamdānī’s Urjūzah, see Dīwān Abī Firās al-Ḥamdānī, 3 vols., ed. Sāmī al-Dahhān (Beirut: Al-Ma>had al-Firansī lil-Dirāsāt al->Arabiyyah bi Dimashq, 1363/1944), 3:435– 48, in which the Urjūzah consists of 137 lines; for the recension of Abū Firās al-Ḥamdānī’s Dīwān by Abū >Abd Allāh al-Ḥusayn Ibn Khālawayh, in which the Urjūzah has 136 lines, see Dīwān Abī Firās (Beirut: Dār Ṣādir, n.d.), 319– 28. Also, especially for lines 76a and 76b, see Rudolph Dvořák, Abū Firās: Ein arabischer Dichter und Held (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1895), 235. For a concise but comprehensive study of Arabic muzdawij poetry, see G. E. von Grunebaum, “On the Origin and Early Development of Arabic Muzdawij Poetry,” Journal of Near Eastern Studies 3, no. 1 (1944): 9–13. 2. James E. Montgomery, “Abū Firās’s Veneric Urjūzah Muzdawijah,” Arabic and Middle Eastern Literatures 2, no. 1 (1999): 61– 74. 3. For the Arabic text of this historical urjūzah muzdawijah, see Ibn >Abd Rabbih, Al->Iqd al-Farīd, 7 vols., ed. Aḥmad Amīn, Aḥmad al-Zayn, and Ibrāhīm al-Abyārī (Cairo: Maṭba>at al-TaAbd Rabbihi, A Tenth-Century Hispano-Arabic Epic Poem,” Journal of the American Oriental Society 91, no. 1 (1971): 67– 95.

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316 Notes to Pages 187–191

4. Abū al-Ṭayyib al-Mutanabbī, Sharḥ Dīwān Abī al-Ṭayyib al-Mutanabbī (Mu>jiz Aḥmad), by Abū al->Alā< al-Ma>arrī (363– 449), 4 vols., ed. >Abd al-Majīd Diyāb (Cairo: Dār al-Ma>ārif, 1986 [?]), 2:102–14 (esp. 102). This “commissioned” ṭardiyyah by al-Mutanabbī follows the genre-tradition of rajaz in meter and rhyming. In other examples of al-Mutanabbī’s hunting scenes that center on the descriptions (waṣf ) of falcons, this poet, seemingly not under an obligation to a patron, chooses to produce short waṣf samples with hunting animals in standard qaṣīdah meters (other than rajaz), such as wāfir or mutaqārib. For this, see 2:514–15 (five lines with falcon in pursuit of a partridge [ḥajalah]); and 2:147 (three lines of description of a hawk’s remarkable eye). 5. The primary example of the apotheotic appearance of the horse of the chivalrous Bedouin hunt is in the Mu>allaqah of Imru< al-Qays, line 53. See alAnbārī, Sharḥ al-Qaṣā, 82. Regarding the Imru< al-Qaysian topos of “wa qad aghtadī,” see chapters 4 and 6. 6. Here Abū Firās al-Ḥamdānī’s narrative intent of an>atu comes to the fore, but precisely because of this fact, we have to carefully distance ourselves from G. Rex Smith’s enthusiastic translation of the normally ṭardiyyah contextualized an>atu as “I will sing the praises of”—if no more than to avoid falling into the prematurely set trap of the Vergilian epic arma virumque cano. G. Rex Smith’s rendering of an>atu, instead, occurs in classical ṭardiyyah contexts (Abū Nuwās and Ibn al-Mu>tazz), where it serves to distinguish the potentially-narrative style of the ṭardiyyah (wa qad aghtadī) from its other, descriptive/static style (na>t). See the valuable informative chapter by G. Rex Smith, “Hunting Poetry (Ṭardiyyāt),” in >Abbāsid Belles-Lettres, ed. Julia Ashtiani et al. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990), 167– 84. 7. For the specificity of the meaning—and use—of “na>t (an>atu)” in the ṭardiyyāt of Abū Nuwās, and na>t versus waṣf, see chapter 4. On the “an>atu” stance, see chapter 6. 8. Courtly eros in earlier >Abbāsid ṭardiyyah, specifically in ṭardiyyah no. 92 of Ibn al-Mu>tazz (see chapter 6), clearly points the way to eros interludes. Primarily, however, this development toward distinctly courtly eros motifs is in evidence in the nasīb of one of the earliest >Abbāsid court poets, Abū al->Atāhiyah (d. 210/ 825). See Abū al->Atāhiyah’s qaṣīdah in al-Iṣbahānī, Kitāb al-Aghānī, 4:60– 62, especially ll. 4–17; and translation and discussion in J. Stetkevych, Zephyrs of Najd, 66–73. 9. This becomes clearer in numerous cases in Abū Firās’s Urjūzah where we find a stress developing even in the syntactical structuring of individual “cartouches” between “in-cartouche” enjambment of syntactical spillover and the tendency of syntactical hemistich/shaṭr separation and transfer to remoter cartouches. See ll. 21, 23, 25, 26, 29, and so on.

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10. The indecision of medieval Arab theorists regarding enjambment (whether batr or taḍmīn) is properly reflected in van Gelder, Beyond the Line, 52– 56, 103– 5, 123– 25, 135– 36; and van Gelder, “Breaking Rules for Fun,” 25– 31, 184– 86. However, van Gelder’s reduction of this stylistic (and structural) phenomenon to “breaking rules for fun” I find unacceptable. See my comments on this subject of “mannered enjambment” of the type “wa mā wajdu . . .” in chapter 6, n. 7 above. 11. >Abd al-Qāhir al-Jurjānī, Asrār al-Balāghah, ed. Hellmut Ritter (Istanbul, 1954), 22– 24. 12. Ibn al-Jahm, Dīwān, 84 (poem no. 33). See chapter 5. 13. Ibn al-Mu>tazz, Dīwān (Cairo), 2:138– 39 (poem no. 107). See chapter 6. 14. The heroic couplet is a stanza consisting of two rhyming lines in iambic pentameter. It tends, or intends, to constitute its own thematic/motival unit. Its line-doublets are intended to be meaning-sufficient in their sense and syntax. As such, however, they become “closed,” that is, free of context. Thus, in Arabic critical/theoretical terminology, they would represent units of al-ma>nā al-mufīd. Their opposite, in representing syntactical extension, constitutes a state of enjambment: “enjambed couplets.” Major English poetic works that observe the rigor of the “closed” couplet are found in the poems of John Dryden and, above all, Alexander Pope, but also Samuel Johnson (The Vanity of Human Wishes) and even the Romantic poet Keats (Lamia). The heroic couplet was particular to English medieval narrative poetry (as in Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales) and flourished through the eighteenth century. It rather exasperatingly determined English prosody and poetics in the period of the English Baroque. In its vestigial rhythmic evocation of oral poetic tradition, it oscillated between the “elevated style” of drama and the playfulness and mordancy of satire. Especially in the period of Pope, it exercised the forced magisterial power of hegemonic form. J. Paul Hunter has posed the question: “Why did couplets work so indisputably well for so many for so long? And why, subsequently, have they worked so unbelievably badly?” In its effect, the Damoclean inevitability of the “second rhyme” in the second line of the heroic couplet is now, as it was sometimes even in its heyday, soberingly perceived as “no more than a filler, or a further explanation of the first” (Hunter). By being excessively lightening in its provision of rhymes, it became, paradoxically, burdensome. With considerable irony, this fillereffect has been compared, poetically ruinously, to the “thump of the second shoe.” J. Paul Hunter, “The Heroic Couplet: Its Rhyme and Reason,” National Humanities Center, Ideas 4, no. 1 (1966), http://nationalhumanitiescenter.org /ideasv41/hunter4.htm.

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There is an easily observable parallelism and, indeed, analogy between the rhyme effect of the English heroic couplet and the production of the Arabic rajaz muzdawij. One, as much as the other, rhymes in couplets. Furthermore, the basic iambic meter of the heroic couplet resonates perceptibly closely with the Arabic rajaz, which, in its syllabic measure may also be viewed as “iambic.” And even the rigor of the heroic couplet’s line-measure of “syllabic pentameter” shows an affinity with the line/half-line of the Arabic rajaz-line, provided that the rajaz-line is measured syllabically (eleven/ten), instead of by taf>īlahs. After the medieval Canterbury Tales, the enjambed (“loose”) couplets in the best of the poetry of the English Baroque counteracted successfully the setting-in of the perfunctory, even banal, monotony of the “closed” couplet, which fell back, reserved for special rhythmic-dynamic effects, such as the facilitating of the poem’s closure. For this latter effect, even rhyming triplets/quadruplets would be exploited with varying results, not only in English Baroque poems but even quite successfully in a lyrically engaging modern American poem, Robert Frost’s “Woods.” The “loose” enjambment plays also an important, albeit rare, distinctly positive role in the three closing couplets of Abū Firās’s Urjūzah Muzdawijah. 15. Thus in cartouche-lines nos. 9, 10, 12, 13, 14, 17, 21, 26, 27, 28, 29, 34, 35, 37, 38, 41, 42, 43, 45, 55, 57, 60, 63, 66, 77, 79, 87, 91, 95, 96, 99, 101, 109, 110, 122, 128, 130, 134, 136. 16. For the consideration of the pastoral quality of the nasīb in Labīd’s Mu>allaqah, see J. Stetkevych, Zephyrs of Najd, 135 – 36. For the Arabic text of Labīd’s Mu>allaqah, see al-Anbārī, Sharḥ al-Qaṣā>id al-Sab>, 521– 41. For the English translation of Labīd’s lines, see S. Stetkevych, Mute Immortals Speak, 9–10. 17. See Dhū al-Rummah, Dīwān Dhī al-Rummah, 2nd ed. (Damascus: AlMaktab al-Islāmī lil-Ṭibā>ah wa al-Nashr, 1384/1964), 20– 21 (ll. 54– 57). With clear relevancy to our presentation of Abū Firās al-Ḥamdānī’s Ṭardiyyah Muzdawijah, in the context of Dhū al-Rummah’s onager panel of a raḥīl hunt, the last line quoted (l. 57) is also parallel to the manner in which Abū Firās introduces (repeatedly) the gnomic conclusion of his hunting episodes. 18. The purveyor of this anecdote is al-Iṣbahānī, Kitāb al-Aghānī, 4:1250. This Jāḥiẓian moment of selectivity of Abū al->Atāhiyah’s lyricism is aptly discussed by >Abd al-Rāziq Ḥuwayzī in his article “Muzdawijah wa Marthiyatān,” Al>Arab 43, nos. 11–12 (April– May 2012/ Jum. 1– 2, 1433): 687– 88. And, resavoring that pristine moment of Arabic lyricism today, it is difficult not to equally “halt,” for example, over a Spanish kindred moment of lyricism, only an arm’s length away from >Abbāsid Arabic lyrical sensibility. It comes from the proverbially remembered lines of the Nicaraguan Parnassian, but also Symbolist, poet of Modernism, Rubén Darío (1867–1916):

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Juventud, divino tesoro, Ya te vas para no volver. Cuando quiero llorar no lloro Y a veces lloro sin querer.

Rubén Darío, Poesía (Caracas, Venezuela: Fundación Biblioteca Ayacucho, 1985), 270. 19. For a full text of the two muzdawij poems by Abū Nuwās and Abū al>Atāhiyah, together with the mutual critical appreciation between those two early >Abbāsid poets, see Ḥuwayzī, “Muzdawijah wa Marthiyatān,” 687– 98, 707– 8 (endnotes). 20. See chapter 4, section “The Pseudo-Subjective Wa Qad Aghtadī (Test Case 1).” 21. See my comments on Abū Firās’s poem on the death of his hound in chapter 4. 22. For a rare and partial exception, from the Mamlūk period, see Thomas Bauer, “The Dawādār’s Hunting Party: A Mamlūk Muzdawija Ṭardiyya, Probably by Shihāb al-Dīn Ibn Faḍl Allāh,” in O Ye Gentlemen: Arabic Studies on Science and Literary Culture in Honour of Remke Kruk, ed. Arnoud Vrolijk and Jan P. Hogendijk (Leiden and Boston: E. J. Brill, 2007), 291–312. 23. Consider, for example, opposite the formally dissipated ṭardiyyah, the favor-gaining ikhwāniyyāt (friendship messages) as perceived markedly in the poetic corpus of Kushājim (d. 350/961 or 360/971) and categorized in his Dīwān in twentyone of his poems by Giese in Waṣf bei Kušāǧim, 60– 74; or in a poet of a subsequent generation, such as Ma>ṣūm al-Madanī (b. AH 1052): see Dīwān Ibn Ma>ṣūm, ed. Shākir Hādī Shākir (Beirut: >Ālam al-Kutub/Maktabat al-Nahḍah al->Arabiyyah, 1408/1988). Aside from this poet’s scattered short ikhwāniyyāt in various classical meters throughout the Dīwān, see his massive urjūzah muzdawijah of 693 lines of ikhwāniyyāṭ, entitled Naghmat al-Aghān fī >Ashrat al-Ikhwān, 537– 83, nos. 250– 67. 24. Here, references may best be made to Syrian Damascene and Aleppan poets, as well as to poets from al-Andalus: thus from Aleppo, al-Ṣanawbarī (d. 334/ 945), Dīwān, 454 (aside from one ṭardiyyah of fishing with nets, 475– 76); from Damascus, Wa al->Ilmī al->Arabī bi Dimashq, 1369/1950), 136– 37; and al-Sarī al-Raffā< (d. after 360/970), Dīwān, 1:324– 29. Of further special interest concerning al-Sarī al-Raffā< is the thematic development of his ṭardiyyah into “piscatorial poems.” Especially notable is his piscatorial ṭardiyyah of seventeen lines in rajaz meter, in which he converts the archaic qaṣīdah figure of the “wretched hunter” into an unfortunate (“wretched”) fisherman (see Dīwān, 1:273– 74; also 2:472). Al-Sarī al-Raffāīd alMaghribī,] El Libro de las Banderas de los Campeones, de Ibn Sa>īd al-Maghribī [Rāyāt al-Mubarrazīn wa Ghāyāt al-Mumayyazīn], ed., trans., intro., and notes by Emilio García Gómez (Madrid: Instituto de Valencia de Don Juan, 1942). For a further, even more direct focus on the Andalusī manifestation of this lyrical “literary nationalism,” see Abū al-Walīd al-Ḥimyarī, Al-Badī> fī Waṣf ar-Rabī> (Anthologie sur le Printemps et les Fleurs), Arabic text, intro., and index by Henri Pérès (Rabat: Imprimerie Economique–Rue de Poitiers, 1940). 25. Giese, Waṣf bei Kušāǧim, 16– 28, 70 (end of page), 86– 94, 141– 42, 246– 50. 26. [Abū al-Fatḥ Maḥmūd Ibn Muḥammad Ibn al-Ḥusayn Ibn al-Sindī Ibn Shāhak] Kushājim, Dīwān, ed., comm., and intro. Khayriyyah Muḥammad Maḥfūẓ (Baghdad: Dār al-Jumhūriyyah, 1390/1970), 140 (no. 130, being no more than a two-line rajaz fragment). 27. Kushājim, Dīwān, 55– 57 (no. 42, 19 lines/basīṭ); or even more detached, 74– 76 (no. 64, 12 lines/ṭawīl). 28. Kushājim, Dīwān, 186– 90 (no. 165, 42 lines/sarī>). 29. Kushājim, Dīwān, 317– 23 (no. 302, 60 lines/majzū< al-rajaz). 30. See Kushājim, Kitāb al-Maṣāyid wa al-Maṭārid. 31. G. Smith, “Hunting Poetry,” 184. 32. At this point we may want to stop and look back, regretfully, to the much greater, earlier ṭardiyyah poet, Ibn al-Mu>tazz (d. 296/908), critically imagining his (no longer extant) Kitāb al-Jawāriḥ wa al-Ṣayd (Book of the Predatory Hunting Animals and the Hunt), mentioned at the start of chapter 6. Was his hunt book merely technical? Did he exclude from it ṭardiyyah “illustrations”? Would it, then, be a work—properly or improperly—of the adab tradition? An earlier work that offers prose descriptions of incidents of the hunt, showing a Persian influence and quite distinct from the Arabic presentations of the subject, is >Abd al-Ḥamīd alKātib (d. 132/750), “Risālah fī Waṣf al-Ṣayd,” in Jamharat Ash>ār al->Arab fī al>Uṣūr al->Arabiyyah al-Zāhirah, 4 vols., ed. Aḥmad Zakī Ṣafwat (Cairo: Muṣṭafā al-Bābī al-Ḥalabī, 1937), 2:433– 38, 473– 556. 33. Abū >Abd Allāh al-Ḥasan Ibn al-Ḥusayn, Al-Bayzarah. It is followed by an illustrative anthology of ṭardiyyah poems, specified as dhikr ṣayd al-kalb (the mention of the hunt with hounds) (148– 81). 34. Such is also G. Rex Smith’s tentative final thought on the decline of the ṭardiyyah-genre; see G. Smith, “Hunting Poetry,” 184.

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35. Usāmah Ibn Munqidh, Dīwān, ed. and intro. Aḥmad Aḥmad Badawī and Ḥāmid >Abd al-Majīd (Cairo [?], n.d.). 36. Usāmah Ibn Munqidh, Kitāb al-I>tibār, ed. Philip K. Hitti (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1930), 191– 226. Note especially the anecdote about the burial of the beloved falcon (206). For a modern English translation, see Usama [Usāmah] Ibn Munqidh, The Book of Contemplation: Islam and the Crusades, trans. Paul M. Cobb (New York and London: Penguin Books, 2008). 37. For the Arabic text and translation I have followed Dīwān Abī Firās (recension of Abū >Abd Allāh al-Ḥusayn Ibn Khālawayh, Beirut), 319– 28, with the addition of lines 76a and 76b from Dvořák, Abū Firās, 235. See note 1 above.

CHAPTER 8. THE MODERNIST HUNT POEM IN >ABD AL-WAHHĀB AL-BAYĀTĪ AND AḤMAD >ABD AL-MU>ṬĪ ḤIJĀZĪ

This chapter represents a substantial development of my preliminary study presented at the First International Conference of Literary Criticism, Cairo, 1999: “Qaṣīdatān Ṭardiyyatān li >Abd al-Wahhāb al-Bayātī wa Aḥmad >Abd al-Mu>ṭī Ḥijāzī: >Indamā Yakūnu al->Unwānu >IbAbd al-Wahhāb al-Bayātī and Aḥmad >Abd al-Mu>ṭī Ḥijāzī,” Annals of the Japan Association for Middle East Studies [special issue on Arabic Literature, edited by Akiko Motoyoshi Sumi] 29 (2013): 145– 69. Readers interested in a broad-based discussion of Arab poetic Modernism and its relation to the Arabic classical poetic tradition should consult the text and extensive bibliography of Muhsin J. al-Musawi, Arabic Poetry: Trajectories of Modernity and Tradition (London and New York: Routledge, 2006). 1. Terminologically, a mu>āraḍah is a poem written in imitation of another poem, following the same rhyme and meter. It is either a rivaling, adversary imitation or a reaffirmation of the model poem. In the case of the modern poems under discussion in this chapter, the use of the title Ṭarḍiyyah reflects influence or dependence on the classical genre of that name, but is not technically mu>āraḍah. In the present (modern) case, a mu>āraḍah may be merely a sign of loose reflection of influence or dependence. Positively, mu>āraḍah falls as much into a dialogic

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tradition of mnemonic evoking or underscoring of interdependences between individual poems and even, intra-dialogically, of whole formal concepts and genres — as it is, or can degenerate into becoming, a negative, pervasive factor of inhibition of creative imagination, and thus of the other aspect of the dialogic stance in the face of tradition: a lack of the exploration of the possibility of creative alternatives beyond an intra-dialogic veneer. This becomes evident in contemporary Arabic critical studies. See >Abd al-Raḥmān Ismā>īl al-Samā>īl, Al-Mu>āraḍah al-Shi>riyyah: Dirāsah Tārīkhiyyah Naqdiyyah (Jedda: Al-Nādī al-Thaqāfī, 1994); and >Abd Allāh al-Taṭāwī, Al-Mu>āraḍah al-Shi>riyyah: Anmāṭ wa Tajārib (Cairo: Dār Qibā< lil-Ṭibā>ah wa al-Nashr wa al-Tawzī>, 1998). 2. Aḥmad Shawqī, Al-Shawqiyyāt, 4 vols. (Cairo: al-Maktabah al-Tijāriyyah al-Kubrā, 1970), 2:95 –100, esp. 2:98. The poem’s title is Tūt >Ankh Āmūn wa Ḥaḍāratu >Aṣrih (Tutankhamon and the Civilization of His Age). The five verses pertaining to Shawqī’s presentation of ancient Egyptian hunting were, perhaps, intended to be a reflection of Shawqī’s newly experienced exposure to ancient Egyptian monumental relief-statuary. 3. >Abd al-Wahhāb Al-Bayātī, Alladhī Yamāl al-Kāmilah (Cairo: Dār Su>ād al-Ṣubāḥ, 1993), 603– 5. 9. >Abd al-Raḥmān Munīf (1933– 2004) was the author of fifteen novels, the best known of which are his quintet, Mudun al-Milḥ (Cities of Salt). Born in Jordan of Saudi parents, he was stripped of Saudi citizenship. He, too, did not re-

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turn. For biographical and bibliographical information on Munīf, see Donahue and Tramontini, Crosshatching in Global Culture, 2:795– 800; and Meisami and Starkey, Routledge Encyclopedia of Arabic Literature, 2:550– 51. 10. For biographical and bibliographical information on Ḥijāzī, see Donahue and Tramontini, Crosshatching in Global Culture, 1:451– 55. 11. >Abd al-Mu>ṭī Ḥijāzī almost appropriates to himself this particular style characteristic, as, for instance, in his poem Āyāt min Sūrati l-Lawn: Ilā r-Rassām >Adlī Rizq Allāh in the collection Kā’ināt Mamlakat al-Layl, in Aḥmad >Abd alMu>ṭī Ḥijāzī, KāAbd al-Mu>ṭī Ḥijāzī’s poem between the symbolism of the mysterious qaṭā and the specificity of >iṭr (perfume/scent) might be extended to allow the identification of the qaṭā itself with “perfume/fragrance,” and thus also with a Ṣūfī sense of “scent” or the smell of the burning grass in the poet-hunter’s pursuit of the qaṭā. For Muṣṭafā Nāṣif ’s concern with >iṭr (fragrance) in Ḥijāzī’s poem, see Muṣṭafā Nāṣif, Al-Shā>ir al-Mu>āṣir Aḥmad Ḥijāzī (Cairo: Al-HayĀmmah lil-Kitāb, 1996), 17– 21 and passim. 15. In the collection Marthiyah lil->Umri l-Jamīl, in Ḥījāzī, Al-A>māl alKāmilah, 387. 16. Ḥijāzī, Kā’ināt Mamlakat al-Layl, 17–18; and Al-A>māl al-Kāmilah, 469– 70. 17. For the background of the complex phenomenon of an implicit configuration of the unicorn in the archaic (pre-Islamic) poetry of Bedouin Arabia, see J. Stetkevych, “In Search of the Unicorn.”

CHA PT E R NINE . T HE M E TA POE TIC HUNT OF MUḤ AMMAD >A FĪ FĪ M AṬ A R

This chapter is a revised version of my article “Modernity and Metapoetry in Muḥammad >Afīfī Maṭar’s Hunt Poem: Ṭardiyyah,” Journal of Arabic Literature 43, no. 2/3 (2012): 137– 71.

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1. Muḥammad >Afīfī Maṭar, Al-A>māl al-Shi>riyyah: Iḥtifālāt al-Mūmyā< alMutawaḥḥishah (Cairo: Dār al-Shurūq, 1419/1998), 406–18. The almost decisive formal, structural, and, above all, hermeneutical significance of the total absorption of the genre-meaning of the title Ṭardiyyah as a way to the proper understanding of Muḥammad >Afīfī Maṭar’s hunt poems cannot be overestimated. The same is true for a critical approach to the two hunt poems by >Abd al-Wahhāb alBayātī and Aḥmad >Abd al-Mu>ṭī Ḥijāzī (discussed in the previous chapter). Lately, attention has been paid to the issue of titling poems, or >anwanah, by Muḥammad Ṣābir >Ubayd, Ṣawt al-Shā>ir al-Ḥadīth (Damascus: Manshūrāt Ittiḥād al-Kuttāb al->Arab, 2007), 141, 146, 187– 210. 2. For the discussion of a departure in the genre-ṭardiyyah from the opening marking-motif of “the setting out of the hunter with the break of day,” see chapters 4 and 6. 3. On these two poets, see the previous chapter. 4. In a fascinatingly sustained book of essays, addresses, and introductions, the contemporary Moroccan poet and critic Muḥammad Bannīs engages in a veritable terminological “exaltation”—in a purely metapoetic sense—of the term qaṣīdah as not merely a type of poem, but as “the poem” in its essence, in its metapoetic singularity and totality as poetic manifestation of the word/language, and only as such, the qaṣīdah. In this sense, the essay is also Bannīs’s own poetic “becoming,” or autobiography. See his Al-Ḥaqq fī al-Shi>r (Casablanca: Dār Tūbqāl lil-Nashr, 2007), esp. 15– 49, 53– 61, 183– 88. 5. Thematically and, above all, structurally, I shall call this first, unnumbered section of the poem the “quint-essence,” or the “fifth-essential” element of the poem’s total formal appearance. Also see below, note 16, where I take issue with Muḥammad Ṣābir >Ubayd. 6. Adūnīs [>Alī Aḥmad Sa>īd], “Bayān al-Ḥādāthah” [Manifesto of Modernism], Mawāqif 1 (1979): 146. 7. Adūnīs [>Alī Aḥmad Sa>īd], Muqaddimah lil-Shi>r al->Arabī, 5th ed. (Beirut: Dār al-Fikr lil-Ṭibā>ah wa al-Nashr wa al-Tawzī>, 1406/1986), 32, 79, 83, 94, 109, 118, 123, 128. For an English translation, see Adonis, An Introduction to Arab Poetics, trans. Catherine Cobham (London: Saqi Books; Austin: University of Texas Press, 1990). 8. See especially Sa>dī Yūsuf’s remarkable poem Kayfa Kataba al-Akhḍar bin Yūsuf Qaṣīdatah al-Jadīdah, in Yair Huri, The Poetry of Sa>dī Yūsuf: Between Homeland and Exile (Brighton and Portland, OR: Sussex Academic Press, 2006), 210–16. 9. Yair Huri, “ The Queen who Serves the Slaves’: From Politics to Metapoetics in the Poetry of Qāsim Ḥaddād,” Journal of Arabic Literature 34, no. 3 (2003): 258.

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10. Huri, “The Queen who Serves the Slaves,” 269, 279. Furthermore, in Qāsim Ḥaddād’s poetry one sees how close that decidedly Modernist poet has come to enriching the modern Arabic poetic language and to its istithārah (or tafajjur), for instance, in the permutations of the meanings of / by way of mukhayyilah and makhīlah, and through them to creating an unexpected realization of images— something quite rare in the poetic-stylistic achievements of modern Arabic poetry. See Muḥammad >Abd al-Muṭṭalib, Shu>arā< al-Sab>īniyyāt wa Fawḍāhum al-Khallāqah (Cairo: Al-Majlis al-A>lā lil-Thaqāfah, 2009), 49– 52, 58– 59. 11. Thus, Juan Ramón Jiménez exclaims (my translation): Intelligence, give me the exact name of things! That my word be the thing itself, created anew by my soul.

Juan Ramón Jiménez, Libros de Poesía, ed. Agustín Caballero (Madrid: Aguilar, 1957), lvi– lvii. 12. Jiménez, Libros de Poesía, lxv. This is the wording of the editor, Augustín Caballero. But see these lines from what Yair Huri calls “Ḥaddād’s . . . poem in its pre-written form”: Before the paper I stand amazed and surprised Who dares to violate this beautiful whiteness?

Huri, “The Queen who Serves the Slaves,” 260. 13. Wallace Stevens, The Palm at the End of the Mind, Selected Poems and a Play, ed. Holly Stevens (New York: Alfred Knopf, 1971), 317– 20. Also see, for example, in Jiménez, the poem entitled “Esa Órbita Abierta” (Libros de Poesía, 1358– 59), poem no. 17 of his collection Animal de Fondo of 1949. 14. For the place of the Imru< al-Qaysian wa qad aghtadī (“setting out for the hunt at the break of day”) in initiating—and widely defining—the genre of the ṭardiyyah, see chapters 4 and 6. 15. For a working view of modern Arabic metapoesis as a stream of poetics that is not to be separated from the broad flow of poetic self-view in the formation of modern Western poetry as well, I recommend Aida O. Azouqa, “Metapoetry between East and West: >Abd al-Wahhāb al-Bayātī and the Western Composers of Metapoetry,” Journal of Arabic Literature 39 (2008): 38 – 71; and in a more

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encompassing sense, with special attention to Adūnīs/>Alī Aḥmad Sa>īd, the opening chapter of Huda Fakhreddine, Metapoesis in the Arabic Tradition: From Modernists to Muḥdathūn (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 2015), 14– 56. 16. >Afīfī Maṭar may appear puzzling or even plainly confusing in “numerically” laying out—and, one is bound to assume, structuring—his Ṭardiyyah in his own thought-through, chosen way. It is therefore legitimate to keep critical speculation open on this matter (and this example). This is also true in a not entirely analogical but similar way for >Afīfī Maṭar’s “quadriform” structure of his poem, or rather his collection of poems, Rubā>iyyat al-Faraḥ, published in English under the title Quartet of Joy, Poem by Muhammad Afifi Matar, trans. Ferial Ghazoul and John Verlenden (Fayetteville: University of Arkansas Press, 1997). The meaning of “quartet” here, even though it is properly identified in an appended explanatory note (p. 69) as referring to the four elements of ancient Greek philosophy, is, by the mere fact of being the title, too eagerly ascribed to the influences of T. S. Eliot, just as Arab critics overzealously reduce the “rubā>iyyah” to strictly Arabo-Islamic hermeneutics. This still leaves us, however, with the pre-Socratic, perhaps Py thagorean question of the fifth element that, out of the four elements of Earth, Water, Air, and Fire, leads to the fifth “over-element” of consciousness, the pending, definitive “quint-essence.” This is (at least) suspected of evidencing its formal presence in one particular poem of Muḥammad >Afīfī Maṭar, titled Kitāb al-Manfā wa al-Madīnah, where >Ubayd insists on calling the fifth “part” not merely a kind of “numerology” but a part of “al-dhākirah al-shi>riyyah al->arabiyyah.” Here, however, he should have remembered (in the first place) the pre-Socratic “quintessence.” This may also tangentially help us to explain the first, unnumbered, pendant section of >Afīfī Maṭar’s poem Ṭardiyyah. See >Ubayd, Ṣawt al-Shā>ir alḤadīth, 123– 27 (esp. 127). Such seemingly tangential lucubrations ought to take us back to the “first,” unnumbered” segment of >Afīfī Maṭar’s Ṭardiyyah, in which that segment would correspond to the “fifth,” quintessential structural element of the total poem. 17. Al-Anbārī, Sharḥ al-Qaṣā, 82 (l. 53). The >Abbāsid ṭardiyyah poet, as he imitated line 53 of Imru< al-Qays’s Mu>allaqah and extracted from it every shading of its potential lyricism, also must have been aware of the “other” lyricism of Imru< al-Qays’s poem, in lines 44– 48, since those “dark” lyrical lines closely preceded his “fateful” one (l. 53). In >Afīfī Maṭar’s entirely inverted lyrical time, it should serve us well critically to keep in mind the modern poet’s awareness of the fuller dark context of Imru’s al-Qays’s lines 44– 48, beyond the ṭardiyyahlyricism’s narrow indebtedness to line 53. See also the section referred to in the next note.

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18. See the final section of chapter 6, “Toward the Identity of Lyricism and the Lyrical in the Ṭardiyyahs of Ibn al-Mu>tazz: The Syndromic Paradox of ‘WaQad Aghtadī’.” 19. S. Stetkevych, Abū Tammām, 21, 25– 26, 39– 41, 51. 20. For a discussion of Abū Nuwās’s parodic pseudo-rejection of the elegiac opening of the formal Arabic nasīb, see chapter 4, n. 41 above. More generally on this subject, see Kennedy, Wine Song, 10–12. 21. For the proper “textual,” un-subverted proposition of Abū Tammām’s line and text “The sword is more veracious than the books,” see S. Stetkevych, Abū Tammām, 187, 375. 22. In an otherwise different tone, Adūnīs realizes, and stresses, that “the preIslamic poet was saying (expressing) collectively what the hearer/receiver already knew in advance” (musabbaqan; emphasis mine). This should mean that his “poetic language” could not be “difficult” or “inexplicable” in his own cultural context. It was self-understood as though it had been “pre-spoken.” Adūnīs [>Alī Aḥmad Sā>īd], Al-Shi>riyyah al->Arabiyyah (Beirut: Dār al-Ādāb, 1985), 6. 23. As S. Stetkevych fittingly describes it, “>amūd al-shi>r is a product of the conservative period of the second half of the third century hijrah which aims more at defining and delimiting than at embracing the vast variations and vaster potentialities of Arabic poetry” (Abū Tammām, 262). For the most pertinent concision and definition in the Arabic summation of >amūd al-shi>r, see Abū >Alī Aḥmad Ibn Muḥammad Ibn al-Ḥasan al-Marzūqī, Sharḥ Dīwān al-Ḥamāsah, 4 vols., 2nd ed., ed. Aḥmad Amīn and >Abd al-Salām Hārūn (Cairo: Maṭba>at Lajnat al-TaAskarī (4th– 5th c. AH), Dīwān al-Ma>ānī (Baghdad and Cairo: Maṭba>at al-Andalus, 1352 [AH]). 25. See, for example, the highly “rhetorizing” presentation of Jubrān Khalīl Jubrān in Adūnīs, Muqaddimah lil-Shi>r al->Arabī, 79– 92. 26. Paul Celan, Poems: A Bilingual Edition, trans. and intro. Michael Hamburger (New York: Persea Books, 1980), 142– 43. 27. Adūnīs [>Alī Aḥmad Sa>īd], Al-Thābit wa al-Mutaḥawwil: Baḥth fī alIttibā> wa al-Ibdā> >ind al->Arab, 3 vols. (Beirut: Dār al->Awdah, 1974–1978), vol. 1. 28. Ramón Menéndez Pidal, Flor Nueva de Romances Viejos, 8th ed. (Buenos Aires: Espasa Calpe [Colección Austral], 1950), 208. 29. Badr Shākir al-Sayyāb, Unshūdat al-Maṭar (Beirut: Dār al->Awdah, 1971), 162. Al-Sayyāb’s important collection Unshūdat al-Maṭar, named after the poem

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bearing that title, was originally published in Beirut in 1960. In this later collection, however, al-Sayyāb also includes the poem entitled Al-Mabghā (The Brothel), which is chronologically earlier than the title poem and reflects the political atmosphere of Iraq before the revolution of 1958. It is in this latter poem that >Ālī Ibn al-Jahm’s poem-opening Uyūnu l-mahā actually appears cited—not in a variant but in full. In considering together al-Sayyāb’s own two sequenced poems, it is also worth noting that the chronologically “second” one of the two, i.e., Unshūdatu l-Maṭar, links up in its opening >Aynāki ghābatā nakhīlin sā>ata s-saḥar, with the chronologically preceding one — and, equally, almost calls up a repeating/ rephrasing of both poems’ (closely reechoing) closures. A point of critical significance is that Luwīs >Awaḍ published in the Cairo newspaper al-Ahrām (12 March 1965) an important critical essay on Badr Shākir al-Sayyāb’s (then recently appeared) collection Unshūdat al-Maṭar. As a subtitle, or rather as an almost epigrammatic motto to his essay, the Egyptian critic cites— out of Al-Mabghā: Uyūnu l-mahā bayna r-Ruṣāfati wa l-Jisri Thuqūbu raṣāṣin raqqashat ṣafḥata l-badri ——— Does’ eyes between Ruṣāfah and the Pont Are bullet-holes that riddled the full moon’s surface.

Luwīs >Awaḍ, Al-Thawrah wa al-Adab (Cairo: Al-Kitāb al-Dhahabī, 1971), 46– 59. 30. A study of Muḥammad >Afīfī Maṭar’s poetry that appeared in print in 2003, by Muḥammad Sa>d Shaḥātah, is of interest. It proposes to be an applied study, or reading (qirāAfīfī Maṭar’s own poetry, both practically and, in its poetics, methodologically. The study’s return to an almost prevalent concern with traditional technicalities of Arabic grammar/ syntax is an uncalled-for, Sībawayhian regression into methodological antiquarianism, very much against the studied poet’s view of modern Arabic poetic language. Syntax, to >Afīfī Maṭar, is not the “question” or the ultimate test of poetic validity. Modern and—much more so—Modernist language of poetry and the poetics of language should no longer be tested, determined, and understood by a perfect Sībawayhian yardstick in matters of its permanent validity. The “unfinished” sentence is no longer unfinished—as it never was. Therefore it is of no value as an object of “syntactical” analysis. On the whole, the methodical syntactical analysis must be relegated to “a somewhere else”: pre-poetics, post-poetics, or never-poetics, to a world where poets no longer live. Poetic language is now a differ-

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ent “garden opened only to the few,” as Federico García Lorca might have put it. The outlived infatuation with the geometry of a less-than-helpful diagramming is not of >Afīfī Maṭar’s time, either. It is no more than a vacuous throwback to something seen and forgotten. See, however, Muḥammad Sa>d Shaḥātah, Al->Alāqāt al-Naḥwiyyah wa Tashkīl al-Ṣūrah al-Shi>riyyah >ind Muḥammad >Afīfī Maṭar (Cairo: Al-HayĀmmah li-Quṣūr al-Thaqāfah, 2003), generally and esp. chapter 4, 39 ff. 31. See chapter 6 on Ibn al-Mu>tazz. 32. Maṭar, Al-A>māl al-Shi>riyyah [Ṭardiyyah], 406, 407. The quoted examples in this paragraph are identified by lines (“ll.”) according to the numbering of the lines in the Arabic text, which differs from that of the English translation.

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I NDE X

>Abbāsid period, 15, 32, 53, 96 courtliness during, 5, 34, 55, 56, 91, 153– 54 early, 6, 31, 33, 91, 161, 196, 201 high period of, 147, 150 imagism and, 136, 138, 154 middle period of, 131, 134 >Abd al-Muṭṭalib, 292n40 >Abd al-Ṣabūr, Ṣalāḥ, 231 >Abīd Ibn al-Abraṣ, 18, 26– 27, 56, 127, 288n12, 303n58 Abraham and Isaac (Ibrāhīm-Ismā>īl) story, 57, 78– 81, 82– 83, 86, 293n57, 294n60 Abū >Abd Allāh al-Ḥasan Ibn alḤusayn, 140, 204, 307n3 Abū al->Alāarrī], 231 Abū al->Atāhiyah, 202, 316n8 Ibn al-Mu>tazz and, 153– 54, 174– 75 Poem of Proverbs by, 201– 2, 318n18 Abū DhuIjlī, 52, 129 Abū Nuwās Abū Firās and, 188, 202 closure in, 114–17, 300n40 courtly environment in, 104, 105– 7, 109–11, 112, 113, 114, 161 description and narrative by, 45, 98, 99–101, 107– 8, 111–12, 114, 156 on falcons and hounds, 92, 102, 104, 105– 7, 111–13, 295n2, 296n3 fox hunt poem by, 101– 4 on horsemanship, 92 Ibn al-Jahm and, 136 Ibn al-Mu>tazz compared to, 141, 144, 161, 164, 165, 169

343

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Abū Nuwās (cont.) Imru< al-Qays and, 105, 107, 111, 118, 120 lyricism of, 113–14, 117– 24, 128– 29, 161, 181, 314n65 meter in, 130– 32, 140 nasīb tradition and, 257, 300n41 na>t versus waṣf in, 95–104 on QurUbaydah, 315n68 >ādhilah motif, 69– 70, 291n31 >Adī Ibn Zayd al->Ibādī, 284n25 Adūnīs [>Alī Aḥmad Sa>īd], 245– 46, 258, 259, 327n22 Ahlwardt, Wilhelm, 185 al->Ajjāj Ibn Rur, 258, 327n23 an>atu (“I shall describe”) paradigm, 8, 130, 132 Abū Firās and, 188, 195 Abū Nuwās and, 45, 98, 99–100, 108, 114, 156 Ibn al-Mu>tazz and, 45, 156– 60, 168, 178 animals as protagonists, 15–16, 27, 111–13, 289n5, 295n2 apostrophe, 154, 310n24 Arabic hunt poetry, 2– 4 decline of ṭardiyyah in, 4, 203– 4, 226 heroic/pathetic duality in, 18, 31 praxis of, 46, 55– 56, 91, 96, 129, 204, 226, 257 qaṣīdah-ṭardiyyah comparisons in, 2, 14–15, 34, 91– 93, 111, 117–18, 129, 130, 153, 156 transition from qaṣīdah to ṭardiyyah in, 31, 32– 33, 35, 143, 184– 85 See also qaṣīdah; ṭardiyyah genre Arabic language, 85, 257– 58, 294n63 Arabic poetry badī>, 99, 137, 169, 172– 73, 180, 203, 256, 258, 294n61, 311n49 language in, 245– 46, 256– 66, 325n10, 327n22 lexicography of, 97, 258, 294n63 love poems, 36, 99, 114, 147, 173– 74, 179– 80 ma>ānī legacy and motifs in, 179, 198, 258, 259– 60, 261– 62, 263, 264 ma>nā mufīd practice in, 132, 141– 42, 191, 192– 93, 194 metapoesis and, 5, 62, 99, 245, 246, 248, 249, 324n4, 325n15 role of ṭardiyyah in history of, 34, 203

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structure and themes of, 13–14 titles and prefaces in, 61, 324n1 uniqueness of, 2, 14, 131– 32, 259 wine poems, 36, 48, 97– 98, 113, 117, 122, 148, 173– 74, 179– 80, 300n41, 314n65 See also modernist poetry Arab Revolution, 240– 41 Arberry, A. J., 97 armor, 37, 281n5 Ashjār al-Ismant (Ḥijāzī), 226 al-Aṣma>ī, 88, 315n68 authenticity, 82, 116 >Awaḍ, Luwīs, 328n29 badī>, 99, 137, 256, 258, 294n61 Ibn al-Mu>tazz and, 169, 172, 173, 180, 311n49 ṭardiyyah genre replaced by, 203, 256 Bahrām V [-Gūr], 323n12 Bannīs, Muḥammad, 324n4 banquets closure of, 148 Ibn al-Ṭabīb on, 47, 48 ritual, 1, 7, 17, 173, 188, 197 sacrificial feasts, 81– 82, 294n62 Banū >Abd Shams, 70 Banū LaUbayd], 257, 304n65 Al-Burdah (al-Būṣīrī), 305n65 Burkert, Walter, 81– 82 burning bush, 238 al-Būṣīrī, 305n65 Buthaynah, Jamīl, 307n7 Caballero, Augustín, 247, 325n12 camels. See she-camels cannibalism, 79, 81– 82, 87 Canterbury Tales (Chaucer), 317n14 cartouches, 191, 192– 93, 194– 95, 316n9 Celan, Paul, 259 Chaucer, Geoffrey, 317n14 chivalrous hunt, 6, 17, 31, 56, 92, 107, 146 abandonment of as paradigm, 33, 92, 93, 121 >Abīd Ibn al-Abraṣ and, 26– 27 chivalrous chase motif in, 7, 15, 17, 27, 35– 36, 47– 48, 117, 143, 161 Ibn al-Ṭabīb and, 47– 48 Imru< al-Qays and, 18, 24– 26, 48, 100, 120, 146, 161 later thematic evocations of, 166, 287n12 as qaṣīdah theme, 55, 93, 286n2 subjective style and, 45, 120 classicism, 143, 257 ṭardiyyah and, 94, 100, 243, 297n13 closure, 159, 197, 266, 300n41 ṭardiyyah structural, 114–17, 148

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courtly hunt, 4, 92, 182 Abū Firās and, 129, 186, 197 Abū Nuwās and, 104, 105– 7, 109–11, 112, 113, 114, 161 Ibn al-Mu>tazz and, 150, 153– 54, 173– 74 lyricism of, 117–18 al-Dahhān, Sāmī, 319n24 al-Damīrī, Kamāl al-Dīn, 56 Daniel, Book of, 85 Darío, Rubén, 318n18 description, 94, 108– 9, 128– 29 Abū Nuwās and, 45, 98, 99–100, 108, 111–12, 114, 156 Ibn al-Mu>tazz and, 45, 156– 60, 168, 178, 188 See also an>atu (“I shall describe”) paradigm; narrative Dhū al-Rummah, 47, 109, 200, 318n17 dogs. See hunting dogs doves, 27– 28, 216, 239 Dozy, R., 186 dreams, 68, 249– 50 Ḥijāzī and, 236, 237, 239, 242 Dryden, John, 317n14 Dvořák, Rudolph, 185 eagles, 27, 30– 31, 55, 56, 93, 116, 216 Egypt, ancient, 226, 305n6, 322n2 ekphrasis, 18, 20, 21, 281n8 elegy (marthiyah), 16, 287n12, 310n26 of Abū Dhutazz and, 141, 142, 152– 53 epigrams, 101, 157, 297n19 eroticism, 113, 173– 74, 175 courtly, 156, 189– 90, 316n8 Eucharist, 57, 80– 81, 85, 86– 87 exile, 236, 241 fakhr, 7, 16–17, 31, 92, 180, 184, 204 allegorical dimensions of, 6, 26 al-Muzarrid and, 37, 40, 43, 44, 286n7 qaṣīdah structure and, 5, 13, 15, 35– 36 raḥīl and, 6, 18, 27, 28– 29 falconry, 31, 54, 55– 56, 140, 283n25, 295n3 falcons, 27, 30– 31, 295n2, 316n4 Abū Firās on, 187, 188, 197– 98, 211, 214– 21 Abū Nuwās on, 31, 92, 102, 103, 104 Ibn al-Jahm on, 8, 134, 135 Ibn al-Mu>tazz on, 143, 149– 50, 161, 163, 164, 171, 176 al-Shamardal on, 54, 55, 56 Zuhayr on, 28, 30 fantastic, 136, 137– 38 Farewell to Arms (Hemingway), 230 Fête Champêtre (Giorgione), 174, 312n52 Firestone, Reuven, 82, 294n90 Frost, Robert, 318n14 gambling, 73, 74 García Lorca, Federico, 232, 328n30 Genesis, Book of, 80, 81, 84 Gesenius, Wilhelm, 85, 294n62 ghazal. See love poem Giorgione, 174, 312n52 Goethe, Johann Wolfgang, 3

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Goldziher, Ignaz, 60– 61, 292n43 Greece, ancient, 174, 326n16 Gutzwiller, Kathryn J., 32 Ḥaddād, Qāsim, 246, 259, 325n10 ḥadīth/sunnah, 134, 306n8 Haiyas of the Charlotte Islands myth, 73 al-Ḥakam Ibn Abī al->Aṣ, 70 Hammer-Purgstall, Joseph von, 185 al-Ḥārith Ibn Ḥillizah al-Yashkurī, 18 Mufaḍḍaliyyah no. 62, 27– 28 Ḥātim al-ṬāAbd Allāh, 71– 74, 291n31 life of, 67– 68 motifs found in, 69– 70 hawks, 8, 30, 133– 34, 135, 145, 193, 211–19 Al-Ḥayawān (al-Jāḥiẓ), 281n3, 287n10 Hemingway, Ernest, 230 heroic couplets, 194, 317n14 Ḥijāzī, Aḥmad >Abd al-Mu>ṭī lyricism of, 9–10, 238, 241 style of, 236, 323n11 works —Biṭālah (“Unemployed”), 240– 41, 242 —Nawbatu r-Rujū> (“Bugle-Call of Return”), 239 —Ṭardiyyah, 9–10, 225, 226, 233– 42, 244 ḥikmah mode, 187, 195, 200– 201, 202 hope motif, 20, 23, 39, 151, 219, 282n11 horsemanship, 17, 92, 146, 166, 295n1 horses, 37, 284n25 Abū Firās on, 193, 213, 218, 222 Abū Nuwās on, 105, 111, 112 chivalrous chase and hunt by, 6, 27, 31, 55, 56, 92, 105, 143, 146, 161, 181, 187, 295n1 falcons and, 27– 28, 30– 31, 56, 295n2

Ibn al-Mu>tazz on, 145, 146, 165, 170, 171, 311n40 as iconic, 92– 93, 161, 183 Imru< al-Qays on, 24, 26– 27, 100, 111, 181, 182, 295n1, 299n30 as metaphor, 28– 29, 183 as protagonists, 27, 28, 31 hospitality, 86 Bedouin, 67, 68, 70, 78, 86 Hudhalī school, 42, 287n12 Huizinga, Johan, 72, 309n19 hunt-as-chase motif, 27– 29, 143, 181, 187, 244 chivalrous chase paradigm in, 7, 15, 17, 27, 35– 36, 47– 48, 117, 143, 161 Hunter, J. Paul, 317n14 hunting dogs, 17, 21, 46, 243, 287n10, 301n44, 305n6 Abū Firās on, 187, 202, 211, 213, 214, 222 Abū Nuwās on, 92, 102, 103, 104, 105– 9, 111–13, 115, 116, 118– 20, 124– 25, 126, 295n2 al-Bayātī on, 229, 230 courtly, 31, 55, 102, 104, 105– 7, 111 Ibn al-Jahm on, 133, 136 Ibn al-Mu>tazz on, 140, 143, 145, 146, 147– 48, 150, 151– 52, 157, 158– 59, 165– 66, 167 Labīd on, 23, 29 al-Muzarrid on, 38– 39, 40, 43, 66 wretched hunter and, 43, 46, 112, 127 Huri, Yair, 325n12 Ḥusayn, Ṭāhā, 257– 58, 259 al-Ḥuṭayah, >Umar, 99, 179, 297n11 Ibn >Amr, Wahm, 71 Ibn Ḍabbah, Ḍirār, 65 Ibn al-Dumaynah, >Abd Allāh, 307n7 Ibn Ḥārithah, Sa>d, 70, 73 Ibn al-Jahm, >Alī, 129, 192, 255, 328n29 lyricism of, 8, 137 ṭardiyyah of, 131– 38 Ibn Juidah, 307n7 Ibn Khafājah, 308n8, 320n24 Ibn Khaldūn, 257 Ibn Kulthūm, >Amr, 308n7 Ibn Maqrūm, Rabī>ah, 282n10 Mufaḍḍaliyyah no. 38, 18– 20, 112 Mufaḍḍaliyyah no. 39, 64 Ibn Munqidh, Usama [Usāmah], 204 Ibn al-Mu>tazz Abū al->Atāhiyah and, 153– 54, 174– 75 Abū Nuwās and, 141, 144, 161, 164, 165, 169 Abū Tammām and, 311n49 courtly hunt in, 150, 153– 54, 173– 74 description and narrative in, 45, 156– 60, 168, 178, 188

enjambment by, 141, 142, 152– 53 genre identification and, 174, 177– 78 lyricism of, 8– 9, 129, 146, 149, 154– 56, 158, 161– 64, 172– 83, 265, 312n50 mutaqārib meter used by, 142, 147– 48, 308n16 prosody and, 142, 143, 147 on Qur-meter used by, 141– 42, 150– 56 setting-out motif in, 153, 155, 160– 72, 177– 83, 311n40 stylistic freedom in, 131, 172 and ṭardiyyah genre evolution, 8– 9, 52, 129, 143 ṭawīl meter used by, 142, 143– 47, 192 wāfir meter used by, 142, 148– 60 works —Kitāb al-Jawāriḥ wa al-Ṣayd, 139– 40, 320n32 —poem no. 68, 167 —poem no. 80, 158– 59 —poem no. 85, 147– 48 —poem no. 86, 148– 50 —poem no. 87, 164– 66 —poem no. 90, 158– 59 —poem no. 92, 168– 72, 173, 174– 75, 176– 77, 180, 312n51, 316n8 —poem no. 93, 150– 56, 174– 75, 177, 310n24, 311n42 —poem no. 96, 168, 311n45 —poem no. 100, 156– 57, 310n29 —poem no. 107, 144– 47, 177, 308n13

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—poem no. 108, 161– 64, 310n36, 311n38 —poem no. 110, 308n16 —poem no. 113, 159– 60 —poem no. 119, 157– 58 Ibn QamīAmr, 63– 64, 66, 289n8 Ibn Qutaybah, >Abd Allāh Ibn Muslim, 33, 36 Ibn al-Rūmī, 32 Ibn Sahl [al-Andalusī al-Isrā>īlī], 308n7 Ibn al-Ṭabīb, >Abdah, 43, 65 Mufaḍḍaliyyah no. 26, 37, 46– 52 Ibn Ziyād, Ṭāriq, 233 identity of Abraham’s son, 82, 83 of hunter, 61, 264, 266 poetic language and, 186, 261 ṭardiyyah genre and, 152, 173, 178– 79, 242 idyllic, 47, 114, 174, 264, 312n52 Ibn al-Mu>tazz and, 153, 154– 55, 173– 76 ikhwāniyyāt (friendship messages), 319n23 imagism, 30, 56, 95, 131, 304n65 Abū Firās and, 184, 186, 188, 190 Abū Nuwās and, 112, 118 Ibn al-Jahm and, 132– 38 Ibn al-Mu>tazz and, 148, 164, 176, 177, 312n50 Maṭar and, 262– 63 Imru< al-Qays, 1, 48, 94, 248 Abū Nuwās and, 105, 107, 111, 118, 120 chivalrous hunt paradigm of, 18, 24– 26, 48, 100, 120, 146, 161 eroticism in, 32, 113 on horse of the hunt, 111, 295n1, 299n30

Ibn al-Mu>tazz and, 146, 148, 161, 164, 165, 166, 171, 176, 181 lyricism in, 181– 82, 314n67 Maṭar and, 255, 326n17 setting-out motif in, 24, 27, 100–101, 118, 130, 148, 155, 180, 181– 83, 260, 264, 265, 295n3, 310n36 al-Iṣbahānī, Abū al-Faraj, 292n42, 318n18 Ismā>īl, 57, 78– 79, 82– 83, 293n57 al-Jāḥiẓ, Abū >Uthmān >Amr Ibn Baḥr, 41– 42, 66, 201 Al-Ḥayawān, 281n3, 287n10 Jarīr [Ibn >Aṭiyyah Ibn al-Khaṭafā], 32 Jesus, 86– 87 Jiménez, Juan Ramón, 246– 47, 258– 59, 325nn11–12 jinnī, 183 Johnson, Samuel, 317n14 Jubrān, Jubrān Khalīl, 246, 258 al-Jundī, Darwīsh, 78 al-Jurjānī, >Abd al-Qāhir, 192 khaḍramah, 177, 313n59 khamriyyah. See wine poem al-Kharrāṭ, Idwār, 134, 138 Khayyām, Omar, 232, 233 Kitāb al-Aghānī, 60– 61, 70, 72, 73, 292n42, 318n18 Kitāb al-Manfā (Maṭar), 326n16, 340n30 Kitāb al-Maṣāyid wa al-Maṭārid (Kushājim), 140, 204 Kitāb al-Nisā< al-Fawārik (MadāAzzah, 192, 260, 307n7

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Labīd Ibn Rabī>ah, 114, 200, 201 Mu>allaqah, 18, 20– 24, 29, 174, 199 Last Supper, 86– 87 Latin, 86 love poem (ghazal), 36, 99, 114, 147, 173– 74, 179– 80 lyricism Abū al->Atāhiyah and, 201– 2, 318n18 Abū Firās and, 197– 200 Abū Nuwās and, 113–14, 117– 24, 128– 29, 161, 181, 314n65 Ḥijāzī and, 9–10, 238, 241 Ibn al-Jahm and, 8, 137 Ibn al-Mu>tazz and, 8– 9, 129, 146, 149, 154– 56, 158, 161– 64, 172– 83, 265, 312n50 Imru< al-Qays and, 181– 82, 314n67 Maṭar and, 255, 264– 65, 326n17 nasīb, 5, 36, 118, 179, 300n41 qaṣīdah genre and, 118, 178– 79 ṭardiyyah genre and, 3– 4, 8–10, 117– 24, 128– 29, 264– 65 Madānā mufīd, 132, 141– 42, 191, 192– 93, 194 al-Mannā>ī, Mabrūk, 79 marthiyah. See elegy Ma>ṣūm al-Madanī, 319n23 Maṭar, Muḥammad >Afīfī Imru< al-Qays impact on, 255, 326n17 Kitāb al-Manfā by, 326n16, 340n30 place among modernist writers, 10, 245– 48, 254– 56

Sa>d Shaḥātah study of, 328n30 Ṭardiyyah, 10, 243, 259, 262– 63 —form and structure of, 263– 64, 324n1, 326n16 —language and style, 265– 66 —lyricism of, 264– 65 —motifs and themes, 248– 54 —text and translation, 267– 79 Mauss, Marcel, 72 Meditations on Hunting (Ortega y Gasset), 1 melancholy, 4, 18, 32, 233, 251 Abū Firās and, 187– 88, 195 Abū Nuwās and, 118, 180 Ibn al-Mu>tazz and, 152, 154 metaphor, 9, 80, 192, 233, 260 Abū Nuwās use of, 92, 118, 304n65 Ḥijāzī use of, 239, 242 Ibn al-Jahm use of, 134, 138 Ibn al-Mu>tazz use of, 146, 166, 172, 173, 181 Maṭar use of, 245, 248– 49, 250, 254, 262, 266 Zuhayr use of, 28– 29, 31– 32 metapoesis, 5, 62, 99, 246, 325n15 Maṭar and, 245, 248, 249 qaṣīdah and, 324n4 meter. See mutaqārib meter; rajaz meter; sarī>-meter; ṭawīl meter; wāfir meter Michelangelo, 261 Mihyār al-Daylamī, 32 Mithraic Bull, 301n44 modernist poetry, 225– 26, 247, 255– 56, 259, 262 al-Bayātī and, 9, 225– 26, 230– 33, 242, 244 Ḥijāzī and, 9–10, 225– 26, 236– 42, 244 Maṭar and, 10, 245– 48, 254– 56 Monroe, James T., 315n3 Montgomery, James E., 185

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morning-of-the-hunt motif, 10, 27, 29, 245 Abū Firās use of, 202, 212–13 Abū Nuwās use of, 106– 7, 110–11, 121– 22 Ḥijāzī use of, 237, 241 Ibn al-Mu>tazz use of, 143, 144– 45, 148, 149, 164– 65, 170– 71 Imru< al-Qays use of, 27, 146, 155, 264, 265 Maṭar use of, 245, 248– 49, 251– 53, 255, 262– 63, 265, 266, 276, 277 See also setting-out (wa qad aghtadī) motif Moschus, 174 Mu>allaqah (Imru< al-Qays), 18, 94, 111, 113, 315n68 chivalrous hunt paradigm in, 24– 26 on horse of the hunt, 111, 299n30 lyricism of, 181– 82, 314n67 setting-out motif in, 27, 100–101, 180, 181– 82, 295n3 Mu>allaqah (Labīd), 18, 20– 24, 29, 174, 199 mu>āraḍah, 202, 226, 321n1 Mu>āwiyah Ibn Mālik, 32 Mufaḍḍaliyyah no. 17 (al-Muzarrid), 36– 40, 43– 45 no. 26 (Ibn al-Ṭabīb), 37, 46– 52 no. 38 (Ibn Maqrūm), 18– 20, 112 no. 39 (Ibn Maqrūm), 64 no. 62 (al-Ḥārith Ibn Ḥillizah al-Yashkurī), 27– 28 mufākharah (boasting contest), 41, 43 Muḥammad, the Prophet, 68– 69 Mukhaḍram period, 18, 35, 36, 42, 66, 82, 96, 98 hunt scenes of, 15, 64, 153, 196 poetic generation during, 42, 74 qaṣīdah motifs during, 44– 46, 63, 109, 122, 142 mukhāṭarah (wager), 72, 73

mumājadah, 70, 71– 72, 73– 74 Munīf, >Abd al-Raḥmān, 235, 322n9 Muqaddimah lil-Shi>r al->Arabī (Adūnīs), 246 al-Muraqqish the Elder, 32 al-Mutanabbī, Abū al-Ṭayyib, 4, 32, 187, 260, 316n4 mutaqārib meter, 142, 147– 48, 149, 308n16, 316n4 al-Muthaqqib al->Abdī, 32 al-Muṭṭalibī, >Abd al-Jabbār, 283n15 al-Muzarrid Ibn Ḍirār al-Dhubyānī Mufaḍḍaliyyah no. 17, 36 – 40, 43– 45 na>t use by, 98, 108, 296n9 wretched hunter theme by, 40– 41, 43, 44– 45, 65– 66, 296n9 al-Nābighah al-Dhubyānī, 126, 302n56, 307n7, 313n58 al-Nābighah al-Shaybānī, 304n64 Nahḍah, 226 narrative in >Abbāsid ṭardiyyah genre, 44, 93, 94, 95, 100, 297n13 Abū Firās and, 9, 188– 91, 192– 94, 195, 196, 202– 3, 316n6 Abū Nuwās and, 100–101, 107, 111 Ibn al-Mu>tazz and, 157, 158– 59 See also an>atu (“I shall describe”) paradigm; description Al-Nās fī Bilādī (>Abd al-Ṣabūr), 231 nasīb, 302n56 Abū Nuwās and, 257, 300n41 core motifs of, 44 eroticism of, 113, 155 Ibn al-Mu>tazz and, 152, 153, 155, 175 lyricism of, 36, 179 melancholy in, 180, 187, 188 qaṣīdah structure and, 5, 13, 15, 37, 40, 118, 174, 187, 199– 200

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Nāṣif, Muṣṭafā, 323n14 na>t, 8 waṣf versus, 95–104, 117 na>t-ṭardiyyah, 108– 9 nostalgia, 16, 118, 155, 180, 314n65 al-Nu>mān Ibn al-Mundhir, 70– 71 al-Nuwayhī, Muḥammad, 71, 291n31, 294n60 objective stance, 178, 182 subjective versus, 98, 114, 156 ṭardiyyah genre and, 108– 9, 266 onager, 15, 51, 126– 27, 155, 200, 282n14, 286n7, 287n12 Abū Nuwās on, 112, 117, 122 as allegorical figure, 16–17, 20– 21 al-Ḥuṭaytazz and, 142, 143, 147 See also rhythmic features and patterns al-Qalqashandī, 305n65 qaṣīdah about, 5– 7, 14 by >Abīd Ibn al-Abraṣ, 26– 27 allegory in, 6, 26, 66, 91, 282n14 chivalrous hunter in, 55, 93, 286n2 descriptive nature of, 8, 94– 95, 131 evolution and superseding of, 31, 32– 34, 35, 36, 37, 48 as expedition, 47 by al-Ḥārith, 27– 28 horsemanship and, 92, 295n1 by al-Ḥuṭayah (qaṣīdah fragment), 143– 44, 146, 147, 148 Qurtazz and, 170, 172, 173 Ibrāhīm-Ismā>īl story in, 80– 81, 82– 84 poeticity of, 127, 303n61 waṣf and, 96– 97 raḥīl, 21, 66, 79, 121, 122, 184, 281nn2– 3, 318n17 about, 15–16 allegorical nature of, 6, 7, 16, 24, 26, 33, 36, 41– 42, 91, 94– 95 ekphrasis in, 18, 281n8 evolution of, 33 fakhr and, 6, 18, 27, 28– 29 horsemanship as theme in, 92, 295n1 of al-Jāḥiẓ, 41– 42, 66

liminality of, 7, 35– 36, 65, 121, 126, 287n12 of al-Muzarrid, 43, 44, 286n7 nasīb and, 199– 200 pathos in, 91– 92, 107, 119– 20, 126, 136, 302n56 qaṣīdah structural system and, 5, 6, 13, 15, 35– 36, 45– 46 similes in, 27, 281n8 vestiges of in ṭardiyyah, 107 wretched hunter motif in, 41, 91– 92 of Zuhayr, 28, 29– 30 rajaz meter, 131, 307n4, 316n4, 319n24 Abū Firās and, 185, 186 Abū Nuwās and, 131, 140 Ibn al-Jahm and, 131– 32 Ibn al-Mu>tazz and, 140– 41, 142, 147, 150– 56, 159, 165– 66 al-Shamardal and, 53– 55 ṭardiyyah genre and, 131, 150, 184, 243, 299n28 urjūzah muzdawijah and, 9, 185, 186, 188, 192– 93, 194 rajaz muzdawij, 185, 192– 93, 194, 201, 202, 203, 318n14 Abū Firās and, 191, 202– 3 narration in, 192– 93 as separate genre, 201– 2 al-Rāwiyah, Ḥammād, 76 redemption, 57, 67, 82, 292n40 Renan, E., 186 respite, 20, 282n11 “The Response to Nature in Arabic Poetry” (von Grunebaum), 136– 38 resuscitation, 73, 291n38 rhyming Abū Firās use of, 9, 184, 185, 186, 188, 191, 192– 93, 194– 95 cartouched, 192– 93, 194 classical ṭardiyyah tradition of, 34, 53, 142– 43, 204, 243

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rhyming (cont.) couplet schemes of, 9, 185, 186, 188, 192– 93, 194, 201, 202, 203, 317n14, 318n14 Ibn al-Jahm and, 131, 132 Ibn al-Mu>tazz use of, 140– 41, 142– 43, 153, 154, 192 monorhyme form in, 131, 140– 41, 142, 143, 185, 186, 191, 192 mu>āraḍah and, 321n1 qaṣīdah schemes of, 34, 56, 127, 131, 142, 191, 192 rhythmic features and patterns, 307n4 of Abū Firās, 184, 191 of Ibn al-Jahm, 131– 32 of Ibn al-Mu>tazz, 141, 142, 144, 156 See also specific meters “rich knight” motif, 286n2 rituals, 55, 299n26 banquets, 1, 17, 173, 188, 197 communal, 7, 17, 81 potlach, 72– 73, 291n37 sacrificial feasts, 81– 82, 294n62 Russian Formalists, 32 sacrifice Abraham-Isaac story and, 57, 78– 81, 82– 83, 86, 293n57, 294n60 Eucharist and, 86– 87 redemption and, 57 sacrificial feasts, 81– 82, 294n62 Sa>dī Yūsuf, 246, 259 saffron meadows, 8, 132– 35, 138 Ṣakhr al-Ghayy, 287n12 Samuel, Book of, 84 al-Ṣanawbarī, Aḥmad Ibn Muḥammad Ibn al-Ḥasan al-Ḍabbī, 129, 304n65 sand grouse, 28, 29– 30, 32, 102, 295n2 sarī>-meter, 141– 42, 150– 56, 299n28 al-Sarī al-Raffātazz and, 153, 155, 160– 72, 177– 83, 311n40 Imru< al-Qays and, 24, 27, 100–101, 118, 130, 148, 155, 180, 181– 83, 260, 264, 265, 295n3, 310n36 Maṭar and, 245, 255, 260, 263– 65 as ṭardiyyah classical theme, 31, 92, 93, 187, 295n3 See also morning-of-the-hunt motif al-Shamardal Ibn Sharīk al-Yarbū>ī, 52, 129, 143, 295n3 qaṣīdah by, 53– 55 al-Shammākh Ibn Ḍirār al-Dhubyānī, 64– 65 al-Shanfarā, 300n40 Shawqī, Aḥmad, 226, 322n2 she-camels, 7, 16, 20– 21, 29, 46, 47, 56, 176, 286n7, 313n57 similes, 126, 158, 302n56 Abū Nuwās and, 124– 28 qaṣīdah and, 20– 21, 29, 125– 27, 302n56 raḥīl and, 27, 281n8 Smith, G. Rex, 316n6 Smith, W. Robertson, 294n62 spatiality, 281n8 Stetkevych, Suzanne Pinckney, 24, 292n40, 313n56, 327n23 Stevens, Wallace, 251, 259, 265 “A Primitive Like an Orb,” 10, 247– 48 subjective stance Abū Nuwās and, 8, 105– 7 Ibn al-Mu>tazz and, 160– 72 objective versus, 98, 114, 156

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Suḥaym >Abd Banī al-Ḥasḥās, 96, 98– 99 Sulaymān Jamāl, >Ādil, 71, 294n60 survival motif, 74– 77 syntax, 132, 317n14 Abū Firās and, 189, 192, 194 enjambment and, 132, 307n7, 316n9 Maṭar and, 328n30 tafajjur concept, 246 Ṭarafah Ibn al->Abd, 96 Ṭardiyyah (al-Bayātī), 9, 225, 226, 230– 33 text and translation, 227– 29 Ṭardiyyah (Ḥijāzī), 9–10, 225, 226, 236– 42, 244 text and translation, 233– 35 Ṭardiyyah (Maṭar), 10, 243, 259, 262– 63 form and structure of, 263– 64, 324n1, 326n16 language and style, 265– 66 lyricism of, 264– 65 motifs and themes, 248– 54 text and translation, 267– 79 ṭardiyyah genre about, 1, 7– 8 animals as protagonists in, 111–13, 295n2 badī> replacement of, 203, 256 classicism of, 94, 100, 243, 297n13 closure in, 114–17, 148, 300n40 courtly model of, 92, 112, 129, 203 decline of, 4, 203– 4, 226 form and structure of, 94– 95, 166, 263 formation of, 6, 31, 32– 33, 35, 36, 48, 52– 53, 129 genre identity of, 152, 173, 174, 178– 79, 180 hierarchical structure of, 203 Ibn al-Mu>tazz role in development of, 8, 139, 155, 183

identity and, 152, 173, 178– 79, 242 lyricism and, 3– 4, 8–10, 117– 24, 128– 29, 264– 65 motif changes in, 94, 115, 166, 243, 300n40, 311n42 mutaqārib meter and, 142, 147– 48, 308n16, 316n4 narrative-descriptive style of, 44– 45, 93– 95, 100, 107, 108– 9, 129, 131, 266, 297n13 paradigm of an>atu in, 156– 60 qaṣīdah comparisons to, 2, 14–15, 34, 91– 93, 111, 117–18, 129, 130, 153, 156 qaṣīdah transition to, 31, 32– 33, 35, 143 rajaz meter and, 131– 32, 150, 184, 243, 299n28 rhyming in, 34, 53, 142– 43, 204, 243 setting-out motif in, 31, 92, 93, 187, 295n3 simile in, 124– 28 subjective-objective binary division in, 98, 100–101, 114, 117, 156– 77 ṭawīl meter in, 131– 32, 142, 143– 47, 192 titling of poems in, 61, 266, 324n1 wāfir meter and, 142, 148– 60, 316n4 waṣf versus na>t in, 95–104 ṭawīl meter, 131– 32, 142, 143– 47, 192 ṭayf al-khayāl motif, 69– 70, 291n26 temporality, 101, 249– 50, 281n8 Abū Firās and, 190, 195– 96, 202 paratactic leaps of sequence and, 175– 77, 313n56 thumma connector and, 196– 97, 202 Theocritus, 174 thumma, 196– 97, 202 transubstantiation, 80, 85, 86– 87 Turābuhā Za>farān (al-Kharrāṭ), 134, 138

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>Ubayd, Muḥammad Ṣābir, 324n1, 326n16 Ullman, Manfred, 285n41 Umayyad period, 5, 32, 41, 47, 91 classicism during, 6, 14 decline of qaṣīdah during, 7, 31, 33, 36 hunt subject in, 15, 42, 56, 109 ṭardiyyah development during, 34, 35, 36, 52– 53, 55– 56, 130, 161, 177, 180, 200 unicorn, 242, 282n14 Unshūdat al-Maṭar (al-Sayyāb), 260– 61, 327n29 urjūzah, 34, 129, 186, 315n3 urjūzah muzdawijah, 9, 185, 186, 188, 192– 93, 194 Urjūzah Muzdawijah (Abū Firās) description of, 187– 203 role of, 185– 87 text and translation, 205– 22 van Gelder, G. J. H., 191, 317n10 vestigial scripturalism, 77 von Grunebaum, Gustave E., 136– 38, 297n19

wa qad aghtadī. See setting-out (wa qad aghtadī) motif waṣf, 8, 187, 203 na>t versus, 95–104, 117 The Waste Land (Eliot), 233 Wa