I’ve been reading this book of Arabic poems, a compilation of works of pre-Islamic and Islamic poets. Before this book I read The Dutch House by Ann Patchett, a style of writing that’s direct, clear and a little less than it is more. This was a drastic shift of pace.
Here, there are several layers of meaning to transcend, the first glaring layer is the fact that it is translated to English. As someone who knows Hindi and has a functional knowledge of basic Urdu, I know that there are at times no words in English for a word or words in these languages. Second, the way the words flow, especially in Urdu are soft, poetry through phonetics, English translations often appear clunky and unwieldy. So I understand the translators liberal use of hyphenated pairs of words because they’re trying to get the right nuance across and it’s not coming through with one English word alone. The flow of the poem is stilted, cumbersome and yet beautiful in the visions it paints. So let’s say about fifty percent of the soul of the poem essays forth in a translation, that fifty percent is also worth reading.
It’s fascinating to read the thoughts of a 6th century poet, a nomad, a warrior, his metaphors from nature and animals, and weather. His longing for love, often separated due to travels, his devotion to his tribe and his bravery in defending them. There are more men of course, for history records men’s voices often times, giving them gravity, where as women’s words are meant for (in this case) the tents. It’s especially infuriating as women from those times were known to compose poetry, elegies for their departed family members. This is not to say there is no representation at all, just noticeably fewer in number.
But the themes are common, beautiful descriptions of rain and ancient Bedouin life. The language is complex, like a maze, to hold a thread of thought, and watch it go back and forth is difficult. Needless to say it makes for a slow read. What I learnt is this tradition of poetry started with early pre-Islamic poets like Imru Al Qais, indeed, he is the oldest poet in the book and one of the seven authors of Mu’allaqa or the hanging odes/poems. It usually starts with a sorrowful remembrance, a yearning for a past love and then moves onto current life, travels, warfare, animals etc.
These poems have a multi-thematic qasidah form, and that’s why for me as a reader it was difficult to get used to the switch from one topic to another within one piece. It is not a poem about one thing, but many things and wends through the words with no warning of when the shift will occur.
The imagery – lush, juicy. With the exception of references to places and things that even the translators had to transliterate to English and that are so ancient that even Google can’t help, the metaphors or allegories are sharp even if written with byzantine words, you can see the woman’s smooth Ariel-white neck as the poet describes it, or the lightening like a flash of teeth of black-eyed maidens laughing in joy, or joyance as the translators called it. Now I am mid-way through this book and the poetry is becoming slightly more contemporary, I mean it still is medieval times, approaching 9th, 10th, 11th centuries but easier to comprehend.
So many poems of love now, we are well into the Islamic era, I wonder if embargoes on who you can love became sharper there than the ones due to the nomadic life and tribal customs of the pre-islamic, polytheistic era. Either way, the pain wafts in, sharp yet sweet. How can agony be thus and described in that exact way so you feel it too? Ask Urdu, and in this case Arabic translated to English.
I went on a little trip to understand ancient Arabia, and ended up taking a little crash course in history. Of course when we were taught all about the middle east, I had zero interest in learning but now that I want to know, it’s fascinating.
insearchofthebeautiful 