Read Ebook: The Luzumiyat of Abu'l-Ala Selected from his Luzum ma la Yalzam and Suct us-Zand by Abu Al Ala Al Maarri Rihani Ameen Fares Translator

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Ebook has 367 lines and 31481 words, and 8 pages

Hanifs are stumbling, Christians gone astray, Jews wildered, Magians far on error's way:-- We mortals are composed of two great schools, Enlightened knaves or else religious fools.

And here is the same idea, done in a large picture. The translation, literal too, is mine:

'Tis strange that Kusrah and his people wash Their faces in the staling of the kine; And that the Christians say, Almighty God Was tortured, mocked, and crucified in fine: And that the Jews should picture Him as one Who loves the odor of a roasting chine; And stranger still that Muslems travel far To kiss a black stone said to be divine:-- Almighty God! will all the human race Stray blindly from the Truth's most sacred shrine?

The East still remains the battle-ground of the creeds. And the Europeans, though they shook off their fetters of moral and spiritual slavery, would keep us in ours to facilitate the conquests of European commence. Thus the terrible Dragon, which is fed by the foreign missionary and the native priest, by the theologians and the ulama, and which still preys upon the heart and mind of Orient nations, is as active to-day as it was ten centuries ago. Let those consider this, who think Von Kremer exaggerated when he said, "Abu'l-Ala is a poet many centuries ahead of his time."

Before closing, I wish to call attention to a question which, though unimportant in itself, is nevertheless worthy of the consideration of all admirers of Arabic and Persian literature. I refer to the similarity of thought which exists between Omar Khayyam and Abu'l-Ala. The former, I have reason to believe, was an imitator or a disciple of the latter. The birth of the first poet and the death of the second are not very far apart: they both occurred about the middle of the eleventh century. The English reading public here and abroad has already formed its opinion of Khayyam. Let it not, therefore, be supposed that in making this claim I aim to shake or undermine its great faith. My desire is to confirm, not to weaken,--to expand, not contract,--the Oriental influence on the Occidental mind.

Whoever will take the trouble, however, to read Omar Khayyam in conjunction with what is here translated of Abu'l-Ala, can not fail to see the striking similarity in thought and image of certain phases of the creed or the lack of creed of both poets. To be sure, the skepticism and pessimism of Omar are to a great extent imported from Ma'arrah. But the Arab philosopher in his religious opinions is far more outspoken than the Persian tent-maker. I do not say that Omar was a plagiarist; but I say this: just as Voltaire, for instance, acquired most of his liberal and skeptical views from Hobbes, Locke and Bayle, so did Omar acquire his from Abu'l-Ala. In my notes to these quatrains I have quoted in comparison from both the Fitzgerald and the Herron-Allen versions of the Persian poet; and with so much or so little said, I leave the matter in the hands of the reader, who, upon a careful examination, will doubtless bear me out as to this point.

THE LUZUMIYAT OF ABU'L-ALA

The sable wings of Night pursuing day Across the opalescent hills, display The wondrous star-gems which the fiery suns Are scattering upon their fiery way.

O my Companion, Night is passing fair, Fairer than aught the dawn and sundown wear; And fairer, too, than all the gilded days Of blond Illusion and its golden snare.

Hark, in the minarets muazzens call The evening hour that in the interval Of darkness Ahmad might remembered be,-- Remembered of the Darkness be they all.

And hear the others who with cymbals try To stay the feet of every passer-by: The market-men along the darkling lane Are crying up their wares.--Oh! let them cry.

Mohammed or Messiah! Hear thou me, The truth entire nor here nor there can be; How should our God who made the sun and moon Give all his light to One, I cannot see.

Come, let us with the naked Night now rest And read in Allah's Book the sonnet best: The Pleiads--ah, the Moon from them departs,-- She draws her veil and hastens toward the west.

The Pleiads follow; and our Ethiop Queen, Emerging from behind her starry screen, Will steep her tresses in the saffron dye Of dawn, and vanish in the morning sheen.

The secret of the day and night is in The constellations, which forever spin Around each other in the comet-dust;-- The comet-dust and humankind are kin.

But whether of dust or fire or foam, the glaive Of Allah cleaves the planet and the wave Of this mysterious Heaven-Sea of life, And lo! we have the Cradle of the Grave.

The Grave and Cradle, the untiring twain, Who in the markets of this narrow lane Bordered of darkness, ever give and take In equal measure--what's the loss or gain?

Ay, like the circles which the sun doth spin Of gossamer, we end as we begin; Our feet are on the heads of those that pass, But ever their Graves around our Cradles grin.

And what avails it then that Man be born To joy or sorrow?--why rejoice or mourn? The doling doves are calling to the rose; The dying rose is bleeding o'er the thorn.

And he the Messenger, who takes away The faded garments, purple, white, and gray Of all our dreams unto the Dyer, will Bring back new robes to-morrow--so they say.

But now the funeral is passing by, And in its trail, beneath this moaning sky, The howdaj comes,--both vanish into night; To me are one, the sob, the joyous cry.

With tombs and ruined temples groans the land In which our forbears in the drifting sand Arise as dunes upon the track of Time To mark the cycles of the moving hand

Of Fate. Alas! and we shall follow soon Into the night eternal or the noon; The wayward daughters of the spheres return Unto the bosom of their sun or moon.

And from the last days of Thamud and 'Ad Up to the first of Hashem's fearless lad, Who smashed the idols ofs is mighty tribe, What idols and what heroes Death has had!

Tread lightly, for the mighty that have been Might now be breathing in the dust unseen; Lightly, the violets beneath thy feet Spring from the mole of some Arabian queen.

Many a grave embraces friend and foe Behind the curtain of this sorry show Of love and hate inscrutable; alas! The Fates will always reap the while they sow.

The silken fibre of the fell Zakkum, As warp and woof, is woven on the loom Of life into a tapestry of dreams To decorate the chariot-seat of Doom.

And still we weave, and still we are content In slaving for the sovereigns who have spent The savings of the toiling of the mind Upon the glory of Dismemberment.

Nor king nor slave the hungry Days will spare; Between their fang?d Hours alike we fare: Anon they bound upon us while we play Unheeding at the threshold of their Lair.

Then Jannat or Juhannam? From the height Of reason I can see nor fire nor light That feeds not on the darknesses; we pass From world to world, like shadows through the night.

Or sleep--and shall it be eternal sleep Somewhither in the bosom of the deep Infinities of cosmic dust, or here Where gracile cypresses the vigil keep!

Upon the threshing-floor of life I burn Beside the Winnower a word to learn; And only this: Man's of the soil and sun, And to the soil and sun he shall return.

And like a spider's house or sparrow's nest, The Sultan's palace, though upon the crest Of glory's mountain, soon or late must go: Ay, all abodes to ruin are addrest.

So, too, the creeds of Man: the one prevails Until the other comes; and this one fails When that one triumphs; ay, the lonesome world Will always want the latest fairy-tales.

Seek not the Tavern of Belief, my friend, Until the Sakis there their morals mend; A lie imbibed a thousand lies will breed, And thou'lt become a Saki in the end.

XXX

Or wilt thou commerce have with those who make Rugs of the rainbow, rainbows of the snake, Snakes of a staff, and other wondrous things?-- The burning thirst a mirage can not slake.

Religion is a maiden veiled in prayer, Whose bridal gifts and dowry those who care Can buy in Mutakallem's shop of words But I for such, a dirham can not spare.

Why linger here, why turn another page? Oh! seal with doubt the whole book of the age; Doubt every one, even him, the seeming slave Of righteousness, and doubt the canting sage.

Some day the weeping daughters of Hadil Will say unto the bulbuls: "Let's appeal To Allah in behalf of Brother Man Who's at the mercy now of Ababil."

Of Ababil! I would the tale were true,-- Would all the birds were such winged furies too; The scourging and the purging were a boon For me, O my dear Brothers, and for you.

Methinks Allah divides me to complete His problem, which with Xs is replete; For I am free and I am too in chains Groping along the labyrinthine street.

And round the Well how oft my Soul doth grope Athirst; but lo! my Bucket hath no Rope: I cry for water, and the deep, dark Well Echoes my wailing cry, but not my hope.

Ah, many have I seen of those who fell While drawing, with a swagger, from the Well; They came with Rope and Bucket, and they went Empty of hand another tale to tell.

The I in me standing upon the brink Would leap into the Well to get a drink; But how to rise once in the depth, I cry, And cowardly behind my logic slink.

And she: "How long must I the burden bear? How long this tattered garment must I wear?" And I: "Why wear it? Leave it here, and go Away without it--little do I care."

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