by Robert Irwin
the foe unflaggingly, unswervingly,
Who’s been with me through wealth and pauperdom,
his love for me untinctured, unforsworn.…
But ‘Ajrad the Flasher jumps on his mother –
a sow giving suck to a hog –
Though any appeal to his purse is met
with a leonine bearing of fangs.
What good to anyone is a man
Who won’t even pray, the scum?
You son of a rutting beast, you are
a pustulous, foul, filthy bum!…
Julia Ashtiany (trans.), in Ashtiany et al. (eds.), The Cambridge
History of Arabic Literature: ‘Abbasid Belles-Lettres, p. 279
As the satirical poem (hija’) above suggests, Bashshar was a combative character and a misanthropic satirist, who was fond of and skilled at coining epigrams – and skilled, too, at making enemies. There are various versions of Bashshar’s death – none of them good. He was probably beaten to death on the orders of the caliph before being sewn into a sack and thrown into the Tigris. After his death it was said that ‘only people remained who knew not what language was’. It was also said that ‘he travelled a road which no one else had travelled before’.
The Iraqi poet Abu al-Fadl al-‘ABBAS IBN AL-AHNAF (d. after 808?) worked under the patronage of the Caliph Harun al-Rashid, who particularly valued Abbas’s conversation and jokes. He was also good-looking – always a useful quality for a courtier. ‘Abbas was a leading poet of courtly love and he produced ghazals devoted to love in the melancholic, submissive and unsatisfied vein. (Imru’ al-Qays would have found ‘Abbas ibn al-Ahnaf hard to take. Also, favoured Jahili beauties had tended to be much fatter than the women who were sighed over by ‘Abbasid poets.) Love in ‘Abbas’s poetry was a mark of nobility of spirit: ‘only lovers count as people’. He was a specialist in the short poem, the qit’a.
Many of his poems were addressed to a certain Fauz, also referred to as Zalum (‘the Tyrant’), but nothing is known of her. A number were set to music and sung by singing-girls of the type who were the subject of poetry by him and other would-be submissive ‘Abbasid courtiers.
Fauz is beaming on the castle.
When she walks amongst her maids of honour
you would think that she is walking upon eggs and green bottles.
Somebody told me that she cried for help
on beholding a lion engraved upon a signet-ring.
J. C. Burgel (trans.), in Afaf Lutfi al-Sayyid Marsot (ed.),
Society and the Sexes in Medieval Islam
(Malibu, Calif., 1979), p. 94
My heart leapt up, when I espied
A sun sink slowly in the west,
Its beauty in that bower to hide
Where lovely ladies lie at rest:
A sun embodied in the guise
Of a sweet maiden of delight,
The ripple of her rounded thighs
A scroll of parchment, soft and white,
No creature she of human kind,
Though human fair and beautiful,
And neither sprite, although designed
In faery grace ineffable.
Her body was a jasmine rare,
Her perfume sweet as amber scent,
Her face a pearl beyond compare,
Her all, pure light’s embodiment.
All shrouded in her pettigown
I watched her delicately pass,
Stepping as light as thistledown
That dances on a crystal glass.
Arberry, The Ring of the Dove, pp. 210–11
A craze developed during the ‘Abbasid period for girls dressed as pageboys (ghulumiyyat) and amorous poetry was addressed both to these girls and to pretty boys. As the drinker moved from contemplation of what his cup contained to contemplation of the boy who had brought it, poems came to be composed in praise of beautiful cupbearers; so wine poetry shaded into love poetry. Notwithstanding conservative views of what the qasida should be, new genres evolved in the ‘Abbasid period from the qasida form and went on to acquire an independent existence outside it. Khamriyya, or verses devoted to the celebration of wine and drinking, constituted one of the most important of what were effectively newly independent genres. (It is, however, true that some wine poetry had been produced in the Jahili period, particularly at the court of the Lakhmid kings of Hira and, later, under the patronage of certain Umayyad princes, such as Walid II.) Khamriyya poems were by convention fairly short. Under the ‘Abbasids the stock forms of khamriyya poetry were elaborated: the description of the wine-cup, the colour of the wine, the evocation of the beloved’s saliva, the appearance of the beautiful cupbearer, and so on. There was even a sub-genre of ‘Abbasid wine poetry devoted to visits to monasteries, since Christian monasteries in the Middle East were noted producers of wine; the Arab aristocracy tended to resort to these places in search of wine and other diversions. Up to the tenth century Iraqi monasteries were favourite resorts of libertines. Anthologists such as Abu’l-Faraj al-Ishfahani and al-Shahbusti (d. 1008) produced guides to monasteries which were simultaneously evocations of the pleasures of life, since drinking bouts, picnics and assignations with lovers took place in monastery gardens.
ABU NUWAS, called the ‘Father of the Locks’ because he had curly hair, is perhaps the most accomplished, and certainly the most famous, of those poets. He was born sometime between 747 and 762 in Ahwaz, in Persia, and his early years are a trifle obscure. Abu Nuwas was proud of his Persian culture and his wine poetry can be seen, in part at least, as a literary continuation of the old hard-drinking culture of the Sasanian Persian court. Having first found patrons among the Barmakis, he fled to Egypt after their downfall. Later, however, he became the nadim of the Caliph al-Amin. Abu Nuwas’s end is as obscure as his beginnings. He died sometime around the year 814, possibly in prison.
Although Abu Nuwas followed convention in going out to the desert to spend time with the Bedouin so as to improve his Arabic, he later proved himself to be a literary innovator and rejected the stale bluster of the qasida. He expressed his contempt for the conventional nasib: ‘I do not weep because the dwelling-place has become an inhospitable desert.’ He followed Bashshar in rejecting Bedouin values and in one famous poem he parodied the abandoned campsite theme of the traditional qasida by composing a lament for the disappearance of old drinking taverns. More generally, he sought out new and sometimes rather disreputable subjects for poetry. According to Adonis, a leading twentieth-century Arab poet, ‘Abu Nuwas adopts the mask of a clown and turns drunkenness, which frees the body from the control of logic and traditions, into a symbol of total liberation.’ As well as wine poetry, Abu Nuwas wrote erotic poems addressed to both men and women. By contrast with the poetry of Abbas ibn al-Ahnaf, Abu Nuwas’s erotic poetry has a more sensual feel to it. While it is clear that Abu Nuwas was homosexual, it is doubtful whether his poems addressed to women were anything more than fictional exercises.
One of the disreputable things which Abu Nuwas did was to steal lines from other people’s poems. Lots of poets did this and a sophisticated technical vocabulary evolved to describe the different types of literary thieving that went on – of metaphor, of theme, precise wording, etc. However, Abu Nuwas went further than most in recycling other men’s words and he was blamed for it.
Abu Nuwas, the professional nadim, declared that the ideal majlis should consist of three guests and a musician. Also, the nadim should bear in mind that what was said in the evening should be forgotten by the morning (although to judge by the surviving literature, it rarely was forgotten). According to a thirteenth-century Persian joke-book, Abu Nuwas claimed never to have seen anyone drunk. This was because he was always the first to get drunk, and soon he was so drunk that he did not know what was happening to anyone else.
In the poem which follows, the themes of wine-drinking and homoerotic love are combined in typical fashion, as Abu Nuwas addresses the cupbearer:
On every path Love waits to ambush me,
a sword of passion and a spear in hand;
I cannot flee it and am sore afraid
of it, for every lover is a coward.
My hearth affords no amnesty, and I
have no safe-conduct if I stir outside.
His face, a goblet next his lip,
looks like a moon lit with a lamp;
Armed with love’s weaponry, he rides
on beauty’s steed, squares up eye’s steel –
Which in his smile, the bow his brow,
the shafts his eyes, his lashes lances.
Julia Ashtiany (trans.), in Ashtiany et al., The Cambridge History
of Arabic Literature: ‘Abbasid Belles-Lettres, p. 298
But I say what comes to me
From my inner thoughts
Denying my eyes.
I begin to compose something
In a single phrase
With many meanings,
Standing in illusion,
So that when I go towards it
I go blindly,
As if I am pursuing the beauty of something
Before me but unclear.
Catherine Cobham (trans.), in Adonis,
An Introduction to Arab Poetics, p. 53
Satanic Panic
I quarreled with my boy –
my letters
came back marked ‘Unknown
At This Address – So Bugger Off
In solitude & tears
I damply prayed – to Satan:
‘Weeping & insomnia have got me
down to 90 pounds –
don’t you care
that I’m suffering?
That I’m so depressed
I’ve almost run out of lust?
This obsession’s getting in the way
of my duty to thee:
my sinning’s half-hearted – I feel a fit
of repentance coming on!
Yes! Thou hadst better stoke up some love for me
in that lad’s heart (you know how!)
or I’ll retire from Sin: from Poetry, from Song,
from pickling my veins in wine!’
I’ll read the Koran! I’ll start
a Koranic Night School for Adults!
I’ll make the Pilgrimage to Mecca every year
& accumulate so much virtue that I’ll…I’ll…’
Well, three days hadn’t passed when suddenly
my sweetheart came crawling back
begging for reunion. Was it good?
It was twice as good as before!
Ah, joy after sorrow!
almost the heart splits with it!
Ah, overdose of joy!…And of course, since then
I’ve been on the best of terms
with the Father of Lies.
Peter Lamborn Wilson (trans.), Sacred Drift: Essays on the
Margins of Islam (San Francisco, 1993), pp. 95–6
Abu Nuwas also wrote hunting poetry (tardiyyat) and his Diwan, or ‘Collected Poems’, was the first to have a special section devoted to poems on the subject. In general the poems produced by Abu Nuwas and others in praise of wine, women, song, boys, hunting and flowers can be seen as a reaction against the fierce and gloomy subject matter of the traditional qasida. Abu Nuwas addressed his verses to attainable objects of desire rather than to some irredeemably lost love. Although he was a libertine poet, like the rakehell Umayyad prince Walid II, in Abu Nuwas’s poems there is often a strong element of self-deprecation. Moreover, while much of his verse celebrated the pleasures of life, this celebration was often mingled with regret for the brevity of such pleasures and even with expressions of repentance. A sensual regret for the passing of beautiful things may shade very easily into an essentially religious sense of contrition – and here perhaps there may be a semantic link between the nadim and nadama, the verb meaning ‘to repent’. Abu Nuwas seems to have died in disgrace, yet he lived on in Arab folklore, and even today in Swahili myth as a disreputable figure to whom all sorts of entertaining escapades were attributed.
Even such a disreputable figure as Abu Nuwas wrote poems on the themes of asceticism and repentance. It was really only in the’ Abbasid period that religion and mysticism came to be recognized as proper subjects for poetry. Abu al-Ishaq Isma‘il ibn al-Qasim, better known by his nickname ABU AL-‘ATAHIYYA, ‘the Father of Craziness’ (748–826), was humbly born and throughout his life remained acutely conscious of his lowly origins. He was also known as Jarrar, ‘the Jar-Seller’, for he ran a pottery shop where poets used to meet and write down scraps of poetry on pot shards. Like other poor but clever contemporaries, he used poetry as a means of self-advancement and secured the patronage of the Caliph al-Mahdi by devoting a panegyric to him. Early on in his career he wrote ghazals on the subject of his love for ‘Utba, a slave girl of a caliphal princess, Khaizuran. However, she allegedly despised him for writing poetry for money, and spurned his approaches. In the years of Abu al-‘Atahiyya’s success at court, the famous musician Ibrahim ibn al-Mawsili set his poems to music. Abu al-‘Atahiyya fell in and out of favour and was in and out of prison during the caliphates of al-Mahdi and Harun al-Rashid; finally, during Harun’s caliphate, he totally renounced love poetry in favour of poetry devoted to asceticism (zuhdiyyat). He wrote qit’as in very simple language on such themes as fear of death, the transience of all things, and contempt for wealth and ostentation (but unkind critics thought Abu’l-‘Atahiyya made a very good living for himself, precisely by producing this sort of stuff).
Will you be warned by the example of him who has left
His palaces empty on the morning of his death?
By him whom death has cut down and who lies
Abandoned by kinsfolk and friends?
By him whose thrones stand vacant,
By him whose daises are empty?
Where now are kings and where
are the men who passed this way before you?
O you who have chosen the world and its delights,
You who have always listened to sycophants,
Take what you can of the pleasures of the world
For death comes as the end.
Lunde and Stone, The Meadows of Gold, p. 99
When Abu al-‘Atahiyya became an ascetic, he ‘donned the robe of austerity’. Sufis commonly wore robes of coarse wool (suf) and it is possibly because of this that the Sufis, or Muslim mystics, are so called. The word Sufi embraces a wide range of belief and practice in different parts of the Islamic world over the centuries. Some Sufis were simple pietists and ascetics. Other Sufis sought ecstasy and a lover’s union with God; some of these made use of a wide range of techniques to do so, including perpetual prayer, fasting, self-mutilation, dancing and listening to music. Some even advocated the use of wine, drugs or the contemplation of beautiful boys in order to bring them closer to God. One category of Sufis, the Malamatis, went so far as to lead sinful lives so that they could worship God without any expectation of reward in the afterlife. Again, the writings of Sufis show variously the influence of Christian mysticism, gnosticism, Neoplatonism, Buddhism and Hinduism. However, while it is clear that some Sufis were scoundrels or heretics, large numbers led virtuous lives. The profession of Sufism can be perfectly compatible with Islamic orthodoxy.
The historical origins of Sufism are unclear. Sufi teachers traced their chain of transmission right back to the Prophet Muhammad and his cousin ‘Ali. In the eighth century one comes across individuals, such as Hasan of Basra (d. 728), who were revered for their simple, ascetic piety. From at least the ninth century onwards Sufism began to acquire more of a distinctive doctrinal identity (or identities). Sufi masters who made provocative statements and who taught contentious, possibly heretical doctrines, such as Abu Yazid al-Bistami (d. 874?) and al-Hallaj, started to appear. In the early centuries the pursuit of the Sufi way was an individual matter. Only from the thirteenth century onwards did the great Sufi orders begin to form (including, among many others, the Shadhilis, the Qadiris, the Rif
a’i, the Mevlana, and the Naqshabandi). There were (and are) Sufi orders in both Sunnism and Shi’ism. In the organized Sufism of the later Middle Ages, Sufis followed a specific way or tariqa, they received initiation from the hand of a master, and they often lived together in a special lodge or zawiya. Sufis made an enormous contribution to Islamic culture. Many leading artists and musicians were Sufis and, as we shall see in subsequent chapters, some of the greatest writers in later centuries, among them al-Ghazzali, Ibn al-‘Arabi and Ibn al-Farid, were Sufis.
The career of the Sufi Hallaj, his preaching mission, his arrest and trial for heresy in Baghdad and his crucifixion, was one of the causes célèbres of the period, Husayn ibn Mansur al-HALLAJ (c. 858–922) studied with Sufi teachers before travelling extensively in Persia, Turkestan, Arabia and India. He was famous for his miracles (or what his enemies preferred to describe as cheats and conjuring tricks). According to one witness, ‘I was summoned… by the slave in charge of Hallaj, and when I went out to him he told me that he had been taking to Hallaj the tray which it was his daily custom to bring to him, when he found that Hallaj was filling the room with his person, stretching from roof to floor and from side to side, so that there was no space left; this spectacle frightened him so much that he dropped the tray and fled.’ He added that ‘the slave was in a fever, shaking and trembling…’
Hallaj put poetry to the service of mystical doctrine, as can be seen from the following seven poems from his Diwan:
1
I continued to float on the sea of love,
One surging wave lifting me up, another pulling me down;
And so I went on, now rising, now falling,
Till I found myself in the middle of the deep sea,
Brought by love to a point where there was no shore.
In alarm I called out to Him whose name I would not reveal,
One to whose love I have never been untrue:
‘Your rule is indeed just,’ I said, ‘Your fair dealings I am ready to
defend with my very life;
But this is not the terms of our covenant.’
2
Painful enough it is that I am ever calling out to You,
As if I were far away from You or You were absent from me,
