The qaṣīdah poet is not simply a neutral observer—he is a character whose presence is felt. This character is not a reflection of his ‘authentic’ self in the modern romantic sense, but a role he performs. As the qaṣīdah evolves as a genre, it demands a different sort of performance. While the pre-Islamic poet casts himself as a masculine ideal (warlike, chivalrous and competitive) the court poet’s performance appears to instead be a modest supplication. This is mostly true of al-Mutanabbi’s poem in praise of Sayf al-Dawla on the occasion of the recapture of al-Hadath. I contend, however, that although the prevailing tone is retiring, there are moments when the poet asserts himself, and thus performing a role other than that of a suppliant. I attempt to use Pindar’s first Pythian ode, another lengthy panegyric, in order to draw out aspects of al-Mutanabbi’s performance that are implicit or less apparent.
The qaṣīdah of the Umayyad and Abbasid periods, although it replicates the structure of (and draws in many cases on the same tropes as) the pre-Islamic qaṣīdah, also naturally has very different aims which it owes to its courtly performance context. The pre-Islamic qaṣīdah poet was the spokesman of his tribe and his poetry developed out of his real experience of nomadic tribal life. As Badawi writes of this so-called ‘primary’ qaṣīdah: “it was a re-enactment of the common values of the tribe, with a similar ritual function, asserting life-impulses and enabling the tribe to face the forces of death in a hostile world with greater fortitude.”1 The courtly ‘secondary’ qaṣīdah, by contrast, is literary and artificial. The poet is a paid professional, and consequently his work seems to reflect his patron’s values and preoccupations more than his own.
One of the areas in which this contrast is most apparent is the poet’s deployment of praise. The pre-Islamic qaṣīdah includes a boasting (fakhr) section where the poet praises himself and his tribe. Here he may draw attention to his martial prowess, his chivalry, the strength and beauty of his mount, or the nobility of his tribe compared to others. This short fakhr section from a qaṣīdah of ‘Abīd ibn al-Abras (yā dāra hindin…) is a characteristic example:
—Enough of this! Many’s the war I joined,
fanning its fire to a fierce blaze,
with under me a mare with mighty limbs, short haired and muscular,
fast like an arrow by the hand of a far-aiming bowman sent.
Many’s the warrior who bared his teeth, the chief of a packed throng,
their armor gleaming, clad in coats of mail, men of mettle,
whose chest I pierced with a lance tip, so that he reeled
as bends a broken bough of a lithe jujube tree
(Lines 9-12, trans. Gelder p. 3)
The poet casts himself as a warrior who defends his tribe’s honour. He welcomes the opportunity to display his valour, himself fanning the flames of battle (line 9). He emphasises the fearsomeness of his opponents (11), so that his ability to reduce them to weakness in the following line appears all the more impressive. Whether or not he actually accomplished anything of the sort is immaterial. The pre-Islamic qaṣīdah requires such a performance of martial prowess because it is in itself agonistic. Poetry, as a venue for competition, is simply another theatre of war—a skilled poet was just as valuable to a tribe as a skilled warrior, if not more so. Such a performance is also, as mentioned above, a way of modelling tribal values. The poet’s boast should encourage emulation. Self-praise, while it issues a challenge to members of other tribes, has a positive effect on members of one’s own tribe. The poetic performance of the warrior ideal leads to its enactment in real life.
The court poet, on the other hand, praises his patron (mādih). In some cases this is not limited to a section of the poem but is its single aim—al-Mutanabbi’s poem in praise of Sayf al-Dawla, which I will discuss in detail, is essentially monothematic. Panegyric still picks up on familiar topoi, but deploys them in favour of the patron rather than the poet himself. Just as ‘Abīd ibn al-Abras claims to be able to defeat men in gleaming armour and chainmail with ease, so al-Mutanabbi describes the Byzantine army whom his patron, Sayf al-Dawla, defeated: “They came against you trailing their steel, as though they travelled by night on horses that had no feet./ When they flashed, their swords could not be distinguished—their garments and headgear were of the like.” The ‘I’ of the pre-Islamic poet is replaced with ‘you’; starting from line 13, al-Mutanabbi begins nine lines with a verb in the second person or a preposition with a second-person suffix attached. In doing so the poet foregrounds the patron’s power to act and while his performance is one of obeisance, it is also a power play. By continually and publicly emphasizing the patron’s glorious deeds, the poet saddles him with the burden of replicating them. The poet especially stands to benefit by praising acts of generosity. A patron’s social standing would be compromised if he were to accept praise for his beneficence only dismiss his poet without adequate compensation. Thus, while the poet may assume a position of self-effacing admiration in his poem, his power is proven by the results he obtains therefrom.2 “The authority of language under the control of a skillful speaker could counterbalance the authority of rulership…through supplication speakers could compete, struggle, and often win concessions that proved the patron’s need for approval.”3
We have seen that the pre-Islamic qaṣīdah poet assumes the role of a warrior, a masculine ideal which his audience is encouraged to emulate. The courtly poet, on the other hand, displays his patron rather than himself as a model, and makes a show of his reliance upon his patron’s charity. I would like to argue, however, that the role of suppliant, or passive admirer, is not the only one that the praise-poet could perform. The poet’s power is not only revealed in the real world, when his supplication achieves its desired aim, but is also implicit throughout his poem. To do this, I will compare al-Mutanabbi’s qaṣīdah with Pindar’s first Pythian ode. A comparative analysis of al-Mutanabbi’s poetic performance with that of Pindar, who asserts his own power over his patron more overtly, will help to elucidate the complexities in the former.
Pindar composed his first Pythian ode for the tyrant Hieron of Syracuse to mark the ruler’s victory in the chariot races at Delphi in 470 B.C. In very brief summary, his ode begins by praising the Olympian music of the gods, which charms all whom Zeus loves, but inspires fear in his enemies (1-30). He then describes Hieron’s chariot victory, his founding of a new city, and his successes is battle, despite his infirmity (30-75). In the last section of the poem he dwells on his own art of panegyric, and advises his patron to continue performing great deeds (75-100). Despite their temporal, geographical, and cultural distance from each other, Pindar’s praise of Hieron and al-Mutanabbi’s of Sayf al-Dawla have much in common. In particular, both emphasize their patron’s role as a representative, a protector of true religion, and their patron’s military victories over their enemies.
I entreat you, son of Cronus, grant that the battle-shouts of the Carthaginians and Etruscans stay quietly at home, now that they have seen their arrogance bring lamentation to their ships off Cumae. Such were their sufferings, when they were conquered by the leader of the Syracusans—a fate which flung their young men from their swift ships into the sea, delivering Hellas from grievous bondage. (Lines 71-5 trans. Svarlien)
Here Pindar’s language is similar to that of al-Mutanabbi in verses 14-15 of his qaṣīdah, in which he references two enemy peoples (al-rūm wa-l-rūs) who have been defeated by Sayf al-Dawla. Just as Hieron has delivered the Carthaginians and Etruscans to a fate, according to justice, in order to liberate the Greeks from slavery, so Sayf al-Dawla has justly freed al-Hadath from the Byzantines and Russians as the fates (al-manāyā) have decreed. Both poets stress that their patrons are champions of the divine cause. Pindar begins by addressing Zeus (son of Cronus), by asking him to preserve what Hieron has already accomplished, implying that this was all according to the god’s will. Al-Mutanabbi suggests that Sayf al-Dawla’s extraordinary courage reveals an alignment with, and even knowledge of, God’s will: “You surpassed the bounds of courage and reason, so that people said you had knowledge of the unseen.” (v. 24, Arberry trans.)
Both poets, then, aim to present their patron in a similar light. Despite the similarity of their aims, however, Pindar’s performance is not one of servility—at least, not exclusively so. Might this also be the case for al-Mutanabbi? In describing his task of praise, Pindar likens himself to an athlete: “As for me, in my eagerness to praise that man, I hope that I may not be like one who hurls the bronze-cheeked javelin, which I brandish in my hand, outside the course, but that I may make a long cast, and surpass my rivals.” (44-5) In this way he compares his own achievement with that of his patron, who has won an athletic victory, putting them on the same level. Likewise, al-Mutanabbi casts his poetic labours in parallel to his patron’s military ones: “And it is your gifts that race with me into battle…” (42) While on the one hand the reference to gifts is clearly an appeal for remuneration,4 on the other hand, the battle metaphor elevates the poet’s victory to be on par with the ruler’s. Like in the qaṣīdah of ‘Abīd ibn al-Abras, we see a presentation of poetry as an agonistic discipline—while the pre-Islamic poet boasts of those he has killed in battle, the court poet boasts of his skill and of his patron’s backing. The panegyrist, too, is able to issue a challenge to other poets, though much less overtly.
Pindar also performs the role of advisor, to such an extent that in the last section of his poem he is thought by some to be addressing the tyrant’s son rather than Hieron himself. The nature of his advice, however, belies this interpretation, since he addresses one who has already achieved greatness and must simply continue to do so. He tells his patron not to abandon fine deeds, and not to be “deceived” by “glib profit-seeking”, since “the loud acclaim of renown that survives a man is all that reveals the way of life of departed men to storytellers and singers alike.” (94) Here Pindar makes his power as a poet explicit: Hieron must continue to provide him with material (in the form of noble actions) because it is he who will determine the tyrant’s reputation in posterity. Viewed in light of these lines, al-Mutanabbi’s assertion that “Yours is the praise in regard to the pearl which I spit out; you were the giver of it, and I the arranger…” (41) takes on new implications. On the surface the poet again seems to be performing a servile role by giving Sayf al-Dawla the credit for his poem. However, this line can also be interpreted as advising or warning the patron: you must continue to provide me with pearls, i.e. actions worthy of praise, or risk leaving your reputation in the hands of lesser poets. Al-Mutanabbi’s praise is not given to just anyone—he is too fine a poet for that—but must be earned.
We can now reconsider the gnomic opening of al-Mutanabbi’s poem. It may be interpreted as a summation of what is to follow, an affirmation that Sayf al-Dawla’s noble deeds speak to the nobility of his character. Equally, however, we may view it as an admonition, a reminder that nobility entails action, and that it takes much to earn the esteem of great men (and, perhaps, great poets). By opening with a maxim, however generic, al-Mutanabbi prevents the patron from thinking that he can simply rest on his laurels. Instead, he casts his praise as incitement to future action, and himself as a sort of adviser. Therefore, eventhough al-Mutanabbi certainly does not engage in self-praise to the extent of a pre-Islamic poet, his poetic performance is not entirely self-abasing either. Analysis of his poem alongside Pindar’s first Pythian ode has revealed some of the ways in which he is able to cast himself in the roles of warrior and adviser, in addition to that of a suppliant. Although these observations are limited to this particular poem, they alert us to the fact that panegyric allows for a more complex poetic performance than it might initially appear to.
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