Poem from Arabic- Translated by A Z Foreman- Poems Found in Translation

Poems Found In Translation: “ˁAbÄ«d bin Al-Abraá¹£: "The Cycle of Death: A Muˁallaqa" (From Arabic)” ˁAbÄ«d bin Al-Abraá¹£: "The Cycle of Death: A Muˁallaqa" (From Arabic) Posted: 19 Jan 2016 05:47 AM PST An discussion of this poet, and the nature of the works attributed to him, may be found here in the introduction to the previous work of his that I translated. This poem represents my first attempt at translating a muˁallaqa. The muˁallaqāt are a collection of pre-Islamic poems especially esteemed by tradition. The origin of the term muˁallaqa has been much debated. Traditionally it is understood to mean "that which is suspended, hung up" and to refer to poems which were so illustrious as to earn the honor of being hung on the walls of the Kaˁba at Mecca. This explanation, which goes back to the tenth century and is part of common knowledge among educated Arabs even today, has largely been rejected by scholarship as entirely fictitious and based on little more than folk etymology. The most probable explanation for the term is that it was originally the title of the first section of the anthology compiled by AbÅ« Zayd Al-QuraÅ¡Ä« entitled Jamharatu Ašˁāri l-ˁArab, with the term al-muˁallaqāt meaning something like "the precious" (other sections have similar titles such as al-muntaqayāt "the chosen.") There was uncertainty for a long time as to precisely which poems were muˁallaqāt. The poem translated here is a muˁallaqa by some reckonings, but not most. This poem is an odd and, seemingly, rather disjointed thing, if one reads it against the background of later Arab tradition. But as it stands, and especially in light of the other poems attributed to ˁAbÄ«d, a striking and memorable thematic (though not linear, let alone narrative) coherence emerges. The tragedy that has befallen the speaker's people, at the hands of a stronger party, is chiastically echoed in the final eagle-simile used to characterize the speaker's mount, in which a bird of prey strikes and brutalizes a fox, pillaging his heart to take to her eyrie. Nature does not give a damn about making anybody or anything happy. The poem that began by describing tribal lands depopulated and buddilat ahluhā wuḥūšan "their people replaced with beastly ones", ends with a simile of the strong preying upon the weak, in a circle of death (or "circle of life" for those at the top of the food chain like the eagle, or the monarchic predators we're supposed to root for in The Lion King.) It has happened before, and it will again. Lā badÄ«'un wa-lā ˁajÄ«bu "it is not unprecedented, and it is no wonder." As I mention in my introduction to ˁAbÄ«d's lament, this poem here has a meter that (like the poem by the Unknown Woman) does not fit very easily into the khalÄ«lian prosodic scheme. This is all the more the case if - as the Arab commentators did - one ignores the possibility that the meter is a somewhat loose form of rajaz, or at least related to it. The commentators, apparently unable to accept that so illustrious a poem should have such a low-prestige meter, took it to be in a form of basÄ«á¹­ instead. The unusual nature of the meter, as well as its apparent derivation from a meter that later tradition held in extremely low esteem, argue for a very early date indeed for this poem's composition. The Cycle of Death: A Muˁallaqa  By ˁAbÄ«d bin Al-Abraá¹£ Translated by A.Z. Foreman Depopulated, desolate lies Malḥūb,　 　and Al-Quá¹­abiyyāt, and Al-DhanÅ«b. Depopulated, desolate lies Rākis　 　and all of Al-QalÄ«b and Dhāt Firqayn And ˁArda and Qafā Ḥibirr and Thuˁaylibāt.　 　Nowhere in the land do any of us remain. For the land has taken in the wild and beastly　 　instead of its own folk. All things have changed. It is a land inherited by death.　 　All who once lived there have been raided, razed, Slain by the blade, or left to die alone,　 　and grey hair is the mark of survivors' shame. The tears gush from your eyes, as if their ducts　 　were waterskins too full of holes to retain A single drop, or as cascades of water　 　down hillside gullies newly washed in rain, Or as a torrent through a wādÄ« bed　 　flooding the valley floor to a waterway, Or a soft stream slow under bending palms　 　running with watery murmur in their shade. How can you yearn for the flings of youth, when your hair　 　warns of a date with death in going gray? If the land be changed, its folk displaced and scattered,　 　it is no wonder, nor theirs the first such fate, Though all that mighty expanse is now deserted　 　though it now is home to drought and dearth and plague. There's no hope so firm life will not belie it,　 　no happiness life will not wrest away. No camel but is given to heirs in death,　 　no plunderer but is plundered for his take. All who are gone on journeys may return　 　but all who are gone in death have passed away. Is a barren womb the equal of the fertile?　 　Is the failed pillager equal to him who gains? Prosper however you will. Sometimes the weak　 　achieve, and sometimes the skillful are tricked astray. Men warn not him who will not heed the warnings　 　of Fate. To teach of wisdom is to fail Without the heart-born gift of disposition.　 　How often has a friend become a hater. Give aid in any land you find yourself in, 　and do not tell yourself "I am but a stranger." You can grow close with people from afar　 　and be cut off from closest of relations. Man founders in deceit, all the age of his life.　 　Torture for him is a life into old age. Many a stretch of slime-aged standing water　 　I've reached through deathly, terrifying wastes, The plumes of pigeon carcasses strewn about.　 　The frenzied heart heaves fearful of the place. I passed it on my weary way in worry,　 　I and my brawny mount in the morning haze,       My mount: a camel, onager-swift, strong-spined　 　her withers smooth as a dune on a windless day, A nine-year tush has replaced her seven-year tooth,　 　not too young or too old, in the prime of age    Like a wild ass gone rushing through the reeds,　 　dark-furred with fight-scars round the neck and face. Or like an oryx in his prime that feeds　 　on bindweed1, the northwind round him wrapped and raging.  But that was an age ago. I see myself　 　born by a swift, big-bodied mare again Her frame firm to perfection, and her forelocks　 　cleaving apart in the clearing of her face, Oil-fluid her every movement, her veins asleep,　 　with a lithely gliding supple healthy shape.  She seems an eagle ready for the hunt,　 　to fill her nest with hearts plucked from her prey, Who spends the night perched high upon a rock　 　like an old woman looking for her babies.  Then there she is in the piercing cold at dawn,　 　hoarfrost adrip from her feathers agleam with day. She glimpses a meaty fox out in the distance,　 　nothing between them but one barren waste.  She shakes frost off her feathers, then shakes herself　 　alert, preparing to launch out for the take, Then launches aloft, swift as a hungry spear,　 　aiming in one sharp swoop to fell her prey.  He hears her wings, and lifts his tail in terror　 　as only the most frightened things behave. He spots her swoop, and crouches to a crawl ã€€ 　looks up at her and bears his eyes agape. She takes him, flings him onto the brute rock.　 　Now the prey beneath her lies in crippling pain. She lifts him up, then dashes him back down.　 　His face is scraped with stones. His body breaks.   The talons tear into his flank. He squeals.　 　His breast is pierced. His heart her food. No escape.  Notes: 1 - The term bindweed is my translation of Arabic ruḵāmā. The word is obscure to the commentators who merely describe it as some sort of white bulbous plant. However, ruḵāmā (or ruḵēmā) in the usage of modern Arabian Bedouins refers to the convolvulus cephalopodus (c.f. James T. Mandaville, Bedouin Ethnobotany: Plant Concepts and Uses in a Desert Pastoral World), a type of bindweed, also known as the desert morning glory. And if this footnote isn't a prime specimen of my tendency toward philological excess, I don't know what is. 　 The Original: أَقفَرَ مِن أَهلِهِ مَلحوبُ ÙÙŽØ§Ù„قُطَبِيّاتُ فَالذُّنوبُ فَراكِسٌ فَثُعَيلِباتٌ ÙÙŽØ°Ø§ØªÙ فِرقَينِ فَالقَليبُ فَعَردَةٌ فَقَفا حِبِرٍّ Ù„َيسَ بِها مِنهُمُ عَريبُ إِن بُدِّلَت أَهلُها وُحوشاً ÙˆÙŽØºÙŽÙŠÙ‘َرَت حالَها الخُطوبُ أَرضٌ تَوارَثَها الجُدودُ ÙÙŽÙƒÙÙ„ُّ Ù…ÙŽÙ† حَلَّها مَحروبُ إِمّا قَتيلاً وَإِمّا هالِكاً ÙˆÙŽØ§Ù„شَيبُ شَينٌ لِمَن يَشيبُ عَيناكَ دَمعُهُما سَروبُ ÙƒÙŽØ£ÙŽÙ†Ù‘ÙŽ شَأنَيهِما شَعيبُ واهِيَةٌ Ø£ÙŽÙˆ مَعينٌ مُمعِنٌ Ø£ÙŽÙˆ هَضبَةٌ دونَها لُهوبُ Ø£ÙŽÙˆ فَلَجٌ ما بِبَطنِ وادٍ Ù„ِلماءِ مِن بَينِهِ سُكوبُ Ø£ÙŽÙˆ جَدوَلٌ في ظِلالِ نَخلٍ Ù„ِلماءِ مِن تَحتِهِ قَسيبُ تَصبو وَأَنَّى Ù„ÙŽÙƒÙŽ التَّصابِي Ø£ÙŽÙ†Ù‘Ù‰ وَقَد راعَكَ المَشيبُ إِن تَكُ حالَت وَحُوِّلَ أَهلُها ÙÙŽÙ„ا بَديءٌ وَلا عَجيبُ Ø£ÙŽÙˆ يَكُ أَقفَرَ مِنها جَوُّها ÙˆÙŽØ¹Ø§Ø¯ÙŽÙ‡Ø§ المَحلُ وَالجُدوبُ فَكُلُّ ذي نِعمَةٍ مَخلوسٌ ÙˆÙŽÙƒÙÙ„ُّ ذي أَمَلٍ مَكذوبُ وَكُلُّ ذي إِبِلٍ مَوروثٌ ÙˆÙŽÙƒÙÙ„ُّ ذي سَلَبٍ مَسلوبُ وَكُلُّ ذي غَيبَةٍ يَؤوبُ ÙˆÙŽØºØ§Ø¦ÙØ¨Ù المَوتِ لا يَؤوبُ أَعاقِرٌ مِثلُ ذاتِ رِحمٍ Ø£ÙŽÙ… غَانِمٌ مِثلُ Ù…ÙŽÙ† يَخيبُ أَفلِحْ بِمَا شِئتَ قَد يُبلَغُ Ø¨Ø§Ù„ضَّعفِ وَقَد يُخدَعُ الأَرِيبُ لاَ يَعِظُ النَّاسُ Ù…ÙŽÙ† لاَ يَعِظِ Ø§Ù„دَّهرُ وَلا يَنفَعُ التَلبيبُ إِلّا سَجِيّاتِ ما القُلوبِ ÙˆÙŽÙƒÙŽÙ… يَصيرَنَّ شانِئاً حَبيبُ سَاعِد بِأَرضٍ تَكُونُ فِيهَا ÙˆÙŽÙ„ا تَقُل إِنَّنِي غَريبُ قَد يوصَلُ النازِحُ النائي وَقَد ÙŠÙÙ‚طَعُ ذو السُهمَةِ القَريبُ وَالمَرءُ مَا عَاشَ فِي تَكذِيبٍ Ø·ÙˆÙ„ُ الحَياةِ لَهُ تَعذيبُ بَل رُبَّ ماءٍ وَرَدتُ آجِنٍ Ø³ÙŽØ¨ÙŠÙ„ُهُ خائِفٌ جَديبُ ريشُ الحَمامِ عَلى أَرجائِهِ Ù„ِلقَلبِ مِن خَوفِهِ وَجيبُ قَطَعتُهُ غُدوَةً مُشيحاً وَصاحِبي بادِنٌ خَبوبُ عَيرانَةٌ مُؤجَدٌ فَقارُها ÙƒÙŽØ£ÙŽÙ†Ù‘ÙŽ حارِكَها كَثيبُ أَخلَفَ ما بازِلاً سَديسُها Ù„ا حِقَّةٌ هِي وَلا نَيوبُ كَأَنَّها مِن حَميرِ غابٍ Ø¬ÙŽÙˆÙ†ÙŒ بِصَفحَتِهِ نُدوبُ Ø£ÙŽÙˆ شَبَبٌ يَحفِرُ الرُخامى ØªÙŽÙ„ُفُّهُ شَمأَلٌ هُبوبُ فَذاكَ عَصرٌ وَقَد أَراني ØªÙŽØ­Ù…ِلُني نَهدَةٌ سُرحوبُ مُضَبَّرٌ خَلقُها تَضبيراً ÙŠÙŽÙ†Ø´ÙŽÙ‚ُّ عَن وَجهِها السَبيبُ زَيتِيَّةٌ ناعِمٌ عُروقُها ÙˆÙŽÙ„َيِّنٌ أَسرُها رَطيبُ كَأَنَّها لِقوَةٌ طَلوبُ ØªÙØ®Ø²ÙŽÙ†Ù في وَكرِها القُلوبُ باتَت عَلى إِرَمٍ عَذوباً ÙƒÙŽØ£ÙŽÙ†Ù‘َها شَيخَةٌ رَقوبُ فَأَصبَحَت في غَداةِ قِرَّةٍ ÙŠÙŽØ³Ù‚ُطُ عَن ريشِها الضَريبُ فَأَبصَرَت ثَعلَباً مِن ساعَةٍ ÙˆÙŽØ¯ÙˆÙ†ÙŽÙ‡Ù سَبسَبٌ جَديبُ فَنَفَضَت ريشَها وَاِنتَفَضَت ÙˆÙŽÙ‡ÙŠÙŽ مِن نَهضَةٍ قَريبُ يَدِبُّ مِن حِسِّها دَبيباً وَالعَينُ حِملاقُها مَقلوبُ فَنَهَضَت نَحوَهُ حَثيثَةً ÙˆÙŽØ­ÙŽØ±ÙŽØ¯ÙŽØª حَردَةً تَسيبُ فَاِشتالَ وَاِرتاعَ مِن حَسيسِها ÙˆÙŽÙÙØ¹Ù„َهُ يَفعَلُ المَذؤوبُ فَأَدرَكَتهُ فَطَرَّحَتهُ ÙˆÙŽØ§Ù„صَيدُ مِن تَحتِها مَكروبُ فَجَدَّلَتهُ فَطَرَّحَتهُ ÙÙŽÙƒÙŽØ¯Ù‘َحَت وَجهَهُ الجَبوبُ يَضغو وَمِخلَبُها في دَفِّهِ Ù„ا بُدَّ حَيزومُهُ مَنقوبُ