The poetry attributed to the pre-Islamic poet ˁAbīd bin Al-Abraṣ, like that attributed to Al-Muhalhil, is traditionally reckoned by medieval commentators to be among the very earliest to survive. Judging by the fact that his most famous of poems (translated here) has an anomalous meter that falls outside the meters allowable in classical khalīlian prosody, as well as the fairly high frequency of anomalous syntactic constructions and unusual vocabulary of most of his work (anomalous and unusual, that is, from the point of view of the later and better-understood stages of Arabic) there is no reason to disagree with them on this point, at least with regard to the bulk of the material.
Fortunately for the modern reader of Early Arabic (or, at least, fortunately for me) ˁAbīd's language is often as moving as it is difficult, the more so thanks to his most frequent subject: the disaster that befell his tribe, the Banū Asad. The nature of the disaster remains unspecified in the poems and therefore unknown to us, but judging by the evidence from the poems it would have involved some sort of attack by superior forces (presumably one of the sedentary Arab kingdoms) which left many of the Banū Asad dead, and forced most of the rest to flee much of their former territory.
The historical reality underlying the poetry is murky and probably will never be cleared up, barring an extraordinary fortuitous discovery by Arabian archaeologists (we have inscriptional evidence attesting to Lakhmid action against the Banū Asad, but none that I know of dated to even remotely the right period.) The information on ˁAbīd's life accompanying the poetry in Islamic literary compendia does not help much, as it has every sign of being based more on the poems than anything else, though it may contain some refraction of general truth about conflict with Kindite royalty.
Moreover, as is the case with most pre-Islamic poets, some (though by no means most) of the content which bears the poet's name seems (on linguistic grounds) to come from a much later period.
In any case, even admitting the qualifications which must attend any corpus which has gone through centuries of oral transmission, I see no substantive reason not to read the body of material attributed to ˁAbīd as (more or less) genuine pre-Islamic poetry. That does not definitively prove, of course, that all (or any) such early work attributed to ˁAbīd is necessarily by him. In pre-Islamic poetry, proving a positive is often much harder than proving a negative. It may well be that only a few poems are genuinely his, and that ˁAbīd as we know him is a half-archetypal figure around whose name various early poems of disparate authorship, containing a particular species of tribal lamentation, coagulated. If true, this would account for some the toponymic discrepancies that perplexed the commentators.
But I now digress unjustifiably, as questions of authenticity, attribution and dating, though of interest to historians, are rather beside the point for the lover of poetry.
Lament for His People in Rawḥān
ˁAbīd ibn Al-Abraṣ
Translated by A.Z. Foreman
Click to hear me recite the original Arabic
Were those my people's dwellings
that in the stoneland lie?
They are now a dwindled vestige
changed by the hands of Time.
There did I halt my camel
to question what remained,
But turned away with tears
gushing from my eyes
In streams as though my lids
that moment had burst forth
The downpour of a cloud
from winter-laden skies.
Oh mine was once the kindest
of ordinary peoples
To all who had fallen captive
or ill, or on hard times,
Good when they drew lots
for camel-meat when winds
Blew winter-hard, and neighbors
united as a tribe.
And when the moment called for spear-thrusts
they always did
Color their spears from tip
to hilt in the grim dye.
And when the moment called for blades
they always did
Beat back the foe as lions
protective of their pride.
And when they heard the call "Dismount!"
they always rushed
In coats of mail on foot
headlong into the fight.
They are gone. I am still here
but I am not forever.
Change is the fate of things,
the many shades of life.
God knows what I know not
about the end they met.
What I have is remembrance
of things lost in their time.
The Original:
Romanization:
Li-mani l-diyāru bi-burqati l-rawḥāni
Fortunately for the modern reader of Early Arabic (or, at least, fortunately for me) ˁAbīd's language is often as moving as it is difficult, the more so thanks to his most frequent subject: the disaster that befell his tribe, the Banū Asad. The nature of the disaster remains unspecified in the poems and therefore unknown to us, but judging by the evidence from the poems it would have involved some sort of attack by superior forces (presumably one of the sedentary Arab kingdoms) which left many of the Banū Asad dead, and forced most of the rest to flee much of their former territory.
The historical reality underlying the poetry is murky and probably will never be cleared up, barring an extraordinary fortuitous discovery by Arabian archaeologists (we have inscriptional evidence attesting to Lakhmid action against the Banū Asad, but none that I know of dated to even remotely the right period.) The information on ˁAbīd's life accompanying the poetry in Islamic literary compendia does not help much, as it has every sign of being based more on the poems than anything else, though it may contain some refraction of general truth about conflict with Kindite royalty.
Moreover, as is the case with most pre-Islamic poets, some (though by no means most) of the content which bears the poet's name seems (on linguistic grounds) to come from a much later period.
In any case, even admitting the qualifications which must attend any corpus which has gone through centuries of oral transmission, I see no substantive reason not to read the body of material attributed to ˁAbīd as (more or less) genuine pre-Islamic poetry. That does not definitively prove, of course, that all (or any) such early work attributed to ˁAbīd is necessarily by him. In pre-Islamic poetry, proving a positive is often much harder than proving a negative. It may well be that only a few poems are genuinely his, and that ˁAbīd as we know him is a half-archetypal figure around whose name various early poems of disparate authorship, containing a particular species of tribal lamentation, coagulated. If true, this would account for some the toponymic discrepancies that perplexed the commentators.
But I now digress unjustifiably, as questions of authenticity, attribution and dating, though of interest to historians, are rather beside the point for the lover of poetry.
Lament for His People in Rawḥān
ˁAbīd ibn Al-Abraṣ
Translated by A.Z. Foreman
Click to hear me recite the original Arabic
Were those my people's dwellings
that in the stoneland lie?
They are now a dwindled vestige
changed by the hands of Time.
There did I halt my camel
to question what remained,
But turned away with tears
gushing from my eyes
In streams as though my lids
that moment had burst forth
The downpour of a cloud
from winter-laden skies.
Oh mine was once the kindest
of ordinary peoples
To all who had fallen captive
or ill, or on hard times,
Good when they drew lots
for camel-meat when winds
Blew winter-hard, and neighbors
united as a tribe.
And when the moment called for spear-thrusts
they always did
Color their spears from tip
to hilt in the grim dye.
And when the moment called for blades
they always did
Beat back the foe as lions
protective of their pride.
And when they heard the call "Dismount!"
they always rushed
In coats of mail on foot
headlong into the fight.
They are gone. I am still here
but I am not forever.
Change is the fate of things,
the many shades of life.
God knows what I know not
about the end they met.
What I have is remembrance
of things lost in their time.
The Original:
قال عبيد ابن الابرص في رثاء قومه
لِمَنِ الدِيارُ بِبُرقَةِ الرَوحانِ دَرَسَت وَغَيَّرَها صُروفُ زَمانِ
لِمَنِ الدِيارُ بِبُرقَةِ الرَوحانِ دَرَسَت وَغَيَّرَها صُروفُ زَمانِ
فَوَقَفتُ فيها ناقَتي لِسُؤالِها فَصَرَفتُ وَالعَينانِ تَبتَدِرانِ
سَجماً كَأَنَّ شُنانَةً رَجَبِيَّةً سَبَقَت إِلَيَّ بِمائِها العَينانِ
أَيّامَ قَومي خَيرُ قَومٍ سوقَةٍ لِمُعَصِّبٍ وَلِبائِسٍ وَلِعاني
وَلَنِعمَ أَيسارُ الجَزورِ إِذا زَهَت ريحُ الشِتاءِ وَمَألَفُ الجِيرانِ
أَمّا إِذا كانَ الطِعانُ فَإِنَّهُم قَد يَخضِبونَ عَوالِيَ المُرّانِ
أَمّا إِذا كانَ الضِرابُ فَإِنَّهُم أُسدٌ لَدى أَشبالِهِنَّ حَواني
أَمّا إِذا دُعِيَت نَزالِ فَإِنَّهُم يَحبونَ لِلرُكَباتِ في الأَبدانِ
فَخَلَدتُ بَعدَهُمُ وَلَستُ بِخالِدٍ فَالدَهرُ ذو غِيَرٍ وَذو أَلوانِ
اللَهُ يَعلَمُ ما جَهِلتُ بِعَقبِهِم وَتَذَكُّري ما فاتَ أَيَّ أَوانِ
Romanization:
Li-mani l-diyāru bi-burqati l-rawḥāni
Darasat wa-ġayyarahā ṣurūfu zamāni
Fa-waqaftu fīhā nāqatī li-su'ālihā
Fa-ṣaraftu wa-l-ˁaynāni tabtadirāni
Sajman ka'anna šunānatan rajabiyyatan
Sabaqat ilayya bi-mā'ihā l-ˁaynāni
Ayyāma qawmī ḫayru qawmin sūqatin
Li-muˁaṣṣibin wa-li-bā'isin wa-li-ˁānī
Wa-li-niˁma aysāru l-jazūri iḏā zahat
Rīḥu l-šitā'i wa-ma'lafu l-jīrāni
Ammā iḏā kāna l-ṭiˁānu fa-'innahum
Qad yaḫḍiˁūna ˁawāliya l-murrāni
Ammā iḏā kāna l-ḍirābu fa-'innahum
Usdun ladā ašbālihinna ḥawānī
Ammā iḏā duˁiyat nizāli fa-'innahum
Yamšūna li-l-rakabāti fī l-'abdāni
Fa-ḫaladtu baˁdahum wa-lastu bi-ḫālidin
Fa-l-dahru ḏū ġiyarin wa-ḏū alwāni
Allāhu yaˁlamu mā jahiltu bi-ˁaqbihim
Wa-taḏakkurī mā fāta ayya awāni
Ammā iḏā kāna l-ṭiˁānu fa-'innahum
Qad yaḫḍiˁūna ˁawāliya l-murrāni
Ammā iḏā kāna l-ḍirābu fa-'innahum
Usdun ladā ašbālihinna ḥawānī
Ammā iḏā duˁiyat nizāli fa-'innahum
Yamšūna li-l-rakabāti fī l-'abdāni
Fa-ḫaladtu baˁdahum wa-lastu bi-ḫālidin
Fa-l-dahru ḏū ġiyarin wa-ḏū alwāni
Allāhu yaˁlamu mā jahiltu bi-ˁaqbihim
Wa-taḏakkurī mā fāta ayya awāni
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