Passion Before Me, My Fate Behind

Passion Before Me, My Fate Behind

Ibn al-Fāriḍ and the Poetry of Recollection

Th. Emil Homerin

Cover illustration of a manuscript page featuring verses from Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s
Wine Ode together with verses from his poem al-Dālīyah, courtesy of the
Memorial Art Gallery, University of Rochester, Rochester, NY. Used by
permission.

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Homerin, Th. Emil, 1955–

Passion before me, my fate behind : Ibn al-Farid and the poetry of
recollection / Th. Emil Homerin.
p. cm.
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN 978-1-4384-3901-3 (hardcover : alk. paper)
1. Ibn al-Farid, 'Umar ibn 'Ali, 1181 or 2-1235—Criticism and
interpretation. 2. Sufi poetry, Arabic—History and criticism. I. Title.

PJ7755.I18Z683 2011
892.7'134—dc22 2011003164

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
 Contents

Preface vii
Acknowledgments xi
Plan of the Work xiii
On Translation, Transliteration, Pronunciation, and Time xv

INTRODUCTION 1
Life 1
On the Sufi Path 3
Words of Love and Longing 8
Luminaries 14

1. MYSTICAL IMPROVISATIONS 31
Master Poet 31
Homage to al-Mutanabbī 32
Transformations 49
Riddles & Rubā˜īyāt 54

2. LOVE’S SECRETS 63
Tryst 63
Love Talk 65
Hymns of Devotion 69
Sun and Full Moon 77
“You Have Been Remembered” 84

3. JOINED AT THE CROSSROADS 103

The Changing Ode 103
Sacred Fire 108
Turn Aside at Ṭai 118
Holy Pilgrimage 128
“Greetings from Su˜ād” 136
vi CONTENTS

4. THE BELOVED’S WINE 143

Blood-Red Wine 143
A Liberated Spirit 147
Two Intoxications 152
Drunk by a Glance 157
Immortal Wine 165
Wine of the Covenant 172

5. POEM OF THE SUFI WAY IN “T”–MAJOR 177

The Great Ode 177
Together Alone 178
Shifting Guises 191
Love’s Sweet Season 203
Spirit and Matter 207
Yesterday’s Tomorrow 212
Manifest Sites 215
Shadow Play 221
Poet & Guide 228
Covering Reality 231
Two Masters 239

CONCLUSION: THE POETRY OF RECOLLECTION 243

I But not “Me” 243
Content and Form 245
Beginning to End 246
Meditation and Recollection 249

Notes 253
Bibliography 293
Index 307
 Preface

From the beginning, mystical perceptions of life have been part of the
Islamic world, and by the ninth century CE, they began to appear in
Arabic poetry. Many medieval and modern readers have viewed this
poetry as verse accounts of Sufi doctrine reflecting a mystic’s endeavors
to describe an experience of great profundity and overwhelming
emotion. Yet, too often, such explanations are based on romantic notions
of poetry that focus on an individual’s lonely self-struggle, and they
isolate this poetry from its larger social, religious, and literary contexts.
Certainly, some poets attempt to depict a religious experience or to
evoke similar moods by aesthetic means. However, the words of a
poem are meaningful only if they convey to others an experience of
life that imaginatively involves and moves them. Mystical verse, then,
is as much a collective as an individual vision of reality that interprets
human existence in order to imbue life with sense and significance.
Therefore, to understand and appreciate the depth and effect of Muslim
mystical poetry, we must examine this verse not only in context of the
life of a particular poet, but also in light of systems of religious belief
and their expression within established literary traditions.
At the heart of the Arabic poetic heritage is the lyric ode (qaṣīdah)
and the love poem (ghazal) that served as the primary vehicles for Arabic
poetic expression beginning with their pre-Islamic usage. The formal
and symbolic dimensions of this verse served as a foundation for Islamic
mystical poetry providing a method of speculation and communication
concerning things of collective importance. Nevertheless, many pre-
Islamic beliefs were no longer acceptable in the Islamic milieu, and
so they were recast in new forms, often humanized and assimilated
by the symbolic and evocative nature of metaphor. Thus, the primary
symbols of Arab culture were perceived and colored by Muslims and
their concerns, receiving a specific complexion over time. The multiple,
often subtle, meanings of these symbols lent themselves to religious and

vii
viii PREFACE

poetic usages whose function was to establish humanity’s meaningful

existence in a seemingly indifferent world. Many motifs and metaphors
of Islamic mystical poetry reflect this process of mythopoesis, and
poets used them to deepen the feeling and impact of their verse. The
mystical character of this poetry was further enhanced by the use
of rhetorical strategies (badī˜), including antithesis, alliteration, and
paronomasia, which offered new and exciting opportunities for both
abstraction and synthesis to the point of synesthesia.
Perhaps no one was more sensitive to this Arabic poetic legacy
than ˜Umar Ibn al-Fāriḍ. Born in Cairo in 576/1181, Ibn al-Fāriḍ became
a respected religious scholar and poet, known for his mystical themes.
One of Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s sons, Kamāl al-Dīn Muhammad, apparently
possessed a manuscript of poems written by Ibn al-Fāriḍ in his own
hand prior to his death in 632/1235, and these poems became the core
of a collection entitled the Dīwān Ibn al-Fāriḍ compiled and arranged
by ˜Alī, Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s grandson. ˜Alī prefaced the poems with stories
of Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s saintly life, and he ended his collection with an
appendix of a few additional poems thought to be by his grandfather.
˜Alī’s collection was read and copied often over the centuries, and it
has remained the standard edition of Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s verse until today.1
In his poems, Ibn al-Fāriḍ persistently evoked and at times
articulated a mystical view of existence suffused with divine love
and light. Essential to this verse is dhikr, “recollection,” in both its
poetic and mystical aspects. Poetically, the act of recollection often
initiates a poem on love, loss, and longing. Especially in religious
poetry, the poet may project his reverie on to various poetic personas
to enact an interior drama through which he voices his thoughts and
feelings as he seeks a divine presence within. On occasion, meditative
disciplines have informed the shape and content of such verse, leading
to what has been referred to as meditative or contemplative poetry.2
In Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s case, the Sufi practice of dhikr, the “recollection” or
meditation on God, is echoed in many of his poems, particularly the
famous al-Khamrīyah wine ode and his Sufi classic the Naẓm al-Sulūk,
“The Poem of the Sufi Way.” In these and other poems, Ibn al-Fāriḍ
drew from the Arabic poetic tradition and Islamic mysticism to evoke
a view of existence in which the seeker might be transformed by an
epiphany revealing his intimate relationship to the divine beloved.
In his verse, Ibn al-Fāriḍ expressed the spiritual concerns and
longings of many Muslims, and the enormous popularity of his
Arabic poetry led to his enduring reputation as the greatest Arab Sufi
poet and, over the centuries, to his veneration as a saint. Although
Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s saintly status has declined over the past two hundred
 PREFACE ix

years, Arabs and Muslims continue to show unfailing esteem for

his refined poetry. Significantly, Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s own contemporaries
viewed him primarily as a poet. This is not to deny the importance
of Islamic mysticism to him and his verse for which he became so
famous among later generations. However, the beauty of his poetry,
its moods, meanings, and spiritual import can be more fully grasped
and appreciated within the contexts of both Islamic mysticism and
Arabic poetry where Ibn al-Fāriḍ remains the sulṭān al-˜āshiqīn, “the
sultan of lovers.”
 Acknowledgments

This study has taken shape over a number of years, building on

the efforts of many others. Earlier works on Ibn al-Fāriḍ, especially
those by R.A. Nicholson, A.J. Arberry, C.A. Nallino, and H.H. Ḥilmī,
are foundational, to which may be added a number of more recent
studies, including those of Issa Boullata and Giuseppe Scattolin,
particularly the latter’s critical edition of the poet’s Dīwān, which I
have used throughout this study. Furthermore, many institutions and
foundations have supported this project, and my thanks are due to the
Mrs. Giles Whiting Foundation, the Fulbright Foundation, the National
Endowment for the Humanities, and the University of Rochester.
In Egypt, I was greatly assisted by Dār al-Kutub al-Miṣrīyah, Dār
al-Wathā’iq, the Arab League Manuscript Institute, the Netherlands-
Flemish Institute in Cairo, the American University in Cairo, and the
American Research Center in Egypt and, in Turkey, by the Süleimaniye
Kütüphanesi.
Friends and colleagues have graciously offered their advice,
comments and corrections, as did the two anonymous readers for
SUNY Press, and their insightful suggestions have made this a
better book. In particular, I wish to thank Daniel Beaumont, Daniel
Bisgaard, Mark Brandl, Douglas Brooks, the late and much missed
William Cleveland, Vincent Cornell, Kenneth Cuno, Bruce Craig,
Robert Dankoff, Ernest Dawn, Frederick De Jong, Frederick Denny,
Frederick Donner, Carl Ernst, William Scott Green, Aḥmad Ḥarīdī,
Evelyn Hartleben, the late and inspiring teacher Ronald Jennings,
Barbara Jordan, Mahmud Erol Kilic, Blair Kling, Franklin Lewis, Paul
Losensky, Sean Marmon, Heshmet Moayyad, Nancy Norwood, Séan
O’Feahy, Ruth Ost, Rudolaph Peters, Carl Petry, the late, great scholar,
Fazlur Rahman, Jerold Ramsey, Helga Rebhan, Iymān Fu’ād Sayyid,
Giuseppe Scattolin, Michael Sells, Suzanne Stetkevych, John Swanson,
Edward Wierenga, and, with love, Nora Walter.

xi
xii ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Finally, I offer a special word of thanks to Jaroslav Stekevych. For

a number of years under his guidance, I read Arabic verse, including
that of Ibn al-Fāriḍ, and he patiently taught me how to read poetry in
the first place. For that I am most grateful, and so I dedicate this book
to Professor Jaroslav Stekevych, a true scholar, teacher, and friend.
 Plan of the Work

This study begins with a concise biography of Ibn al-Fāriḍ based

largely on accounts from his students and supplemented from the
hagiography written on him by his grandson. This is followed by
an overview of Islamic mysticism and a survey of early Sufi verse
through the seventh/thirteenth century, which help to place Ibn
al-Fāriḍ within the religious and poetic trends of his time. Chapter 1
then explores specific literary dimensions of Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s poetry and
the influence on him by earlier Arab poets. Particularly important was
the verse by the famous fifth/tenth-century Arab poet al-Mutanabbī,
as Ibn al-Fāriḍ consciously patterned two of his poems on poems
by him. A careful comparison of these poems demonstrates how Ibn
al-Fāriḍ used various rhetorical strategies and Sufi ideas and terms
to transform al-Mutanabbī’s poems in praise of his patrons into
mystical poems on love and longing. Ibn al-Fāriḍ often employed
such rhetorical elements to create a mystical paradox at the heart of
his poems, including riddles and quatrains, which also reveal the poet
to be erudite and, sometimes, funny.
Chapter 2 focuses on Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s ghazals as the product of
changing notions of love and the Sufis’ use of the language of love
to convey mystical themes. Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s love poems are examined
in terms of both style and content, with an inquiry into the possible
identities of the beloved. In his ghazals, the beloved is sometimes male
and other times, female, yet Ibn al-Fāriḍ leaves clues throughout his
love poems that the beloved may be the prophet Muhammad, and
occasionally, God. A close reading of Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s ghazal rhyming in “J”
brings a number of these elements into sharper focus. Chapter 3 traces
a similar trajectory as chapter 2, save that its subject is Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s
qasīḍahs, or lyric odes. The pre-Islamic Arabic ode was adapted and
transformed during the Umayyad and Abbasid periods and, in time,
Sufis began to read the ode as a mystical allegory. Significantly, Ibn
al-Fāriḍ’s lyric odes revolve around the Hajj pilgrimage to Mecca as

xiii
xiv PLAN OF THE WORK

the paradigmatic quest for union with God. The chapter ends with
a close reading of Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s qasīḍah rhyming in “D,” to illustrate
and highlight important themes and elements in these odes.
Chapter 4 features Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s wine verse. Formally, he
composed at least three wine poems, one of them being his massive
Naẓm al-Sulūk, which is the focus of chapter 5. Chapter 4 traces pre-
Islamic Arabic wine poetry through its Christian and Muslim varieties
until the sixth/twelfth century. During the Muslim period, Sufis often
composed verses on wine and intoxication to speak of love and
union, and Ibn al-Fāriḍ combined these and other elements in his
al-Khamrīyah. A close reading of this poem suggests why it became
the most famous wine ode in all of Islamic mysticism. Staying with
mystical themes, chapter 5 is organized around a reading and analysis
of Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s longest and most famous poem on the Sufism. Entitled
the Naẓm al-Sulūk (“Poem of the Sufi Way”) or the al-Tā’īyah al-Kubrā
(“The Longer Ode in T”), this poem spans 760 verses, and, here, the
poem is divided into a number of discreet sections in order to examine
prominent stylistic elements and Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s views on mysticism,
which were substantially influenced by thought of earlier Sufi masters,
especially, al-Junayd, al-Tusturī, and Muhammad al-Ghazālī.
The conclusion returns to essential elements and themes in Ibn
al-Fāriḍ’s verse, including the lyrical persona and its range of tone and
mood as the poetic “I” may be a lover, a student, a teacher, a mystic
in union, the beloved, or the Light of Muhammad. Yet, whatever
the poetic persona, Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s verse stands as a clear example of
contemplative poetry for meditation is a central feature. Ibn al-Fāriḍ
frequently alludes to the Sufi practices of dhikr (“recollection’) and
samā˜ (“audition”), which were essential to his poetry and mystical
life. As such, Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s poems draw from his recollections—of the
beloved, of the pilgrimage, and of his larger Sufi and Muslim heritage—
in order to speak of love and life, and their spiritual transformation.
 On Translation,
Transliteration, Pronunciation,
and Time

Most of the Arabic poems cited in this study have been regarded as
classical works for centuries, and so they deserve a reasonable poetic
counterpart in English. When translating this verse, I have been con-
cerned not only with form and content, but also with a poem’s tones,
moods, and deeper meanings. Toward this end, my own method of
translation generally follows that laid out by Robert Bly in The Eight
Stages of Translation.3 The final stages of a translation are particularly
crucial, and here I have been greatly helped by my previous study
of English poetry and its composition with two fine poets, Barbara
Jordan and Jerry Ramsey. Michael Sells of the University of Chicago
and Ruth Ost of Temple University also have read drafts of many of
my translations over the years, and both have offered valuable sug-
gestions in light of their deep knowledge and appreciation of poetry
and mysticism.
Certain key Arabic terms and verses are cited in transliteration
along with their translations in order to alert the reader to multiple
meanings, word plays, and subtle relationships among important
word clusters. The transliteration of these words follows the system
used for Arabic by the Library of Congress. Well-known words and
names, however, are generally cited in their common English forms
(e.g., Sufi, not Ṣūfī; Cairo for al-Qāhirah; Moses, not Mūsā). When
pronouncing these transliterations, the reader should be aware that
Arabic vowels and consonants approximate those of English. There
are three short Arabic vowels: (1) a as in “bat,” (2) i as in “bit,” (3) u
as in “put,” whereas long vowels are usually lengthened short vow-
els. There are two Arabic diphthongs: (1) ay as in the “i” of “bite,”

xv
xvi TRANSLATION, TRANSLITERATION, PRONUNCIATON, TIME

and (2) aw as in “cow.” The majority of Arabic consonants sound like

their English equivalents with the following additions: the hamzah (‘)
is a glottal stop; the ˜ayn (˜) is produced by “swallowing” the vowel
immediately preceding or following it (e.g., ˜Umar); kh approximates
the “ch” of “loch” or “Bach; “ḥ” resembles a breathy, whispered “ha!”
Furthermore, there are four velarized or “emphatic” consonants: ṣ, ḍ,
ṭ, ẓ, which give a “darker” quality to the surrounding vowels (e.g.,
Arabic s is pronounced like the English “sad,” while ṣ approximates
“sod.” The emphatics are of special importance to this work since the
poet’s name is Ibn al-Fāriḍ; the emphatic ḍ gives the ā the sound of
a prolonged “a” as in “father.”
All dates are cited in their Islamic/Ḥijrī year followed by their
Common Era equivalent: for example, 632/1235.
 Introduction

˜Umar Ibn al-Fāriḍ is the most famous Arab poet within Islamic
mysticism. He was a master of the Arabic poetic tradition, composing
verse in a number of forms including the quatrain, the ghazal, the ode
(qaṣīdah), and wine ode (khamrīyah). Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s poetry is lyrical and
complex, as he explores mystical feelings and themes relating to the
quest of a devoted lover to regain union with his lost beloved. Ibn
al-Fārid’ṣ poems, with their intricate style and elegant beauty, have
moved generations of Muslims, and for centuries, he has been admired
and imitated as an Arab poet and venerated as a Muslim saint.

Life

When ˜Umar Ibn al-Fāriḍ died in 632/1235, he was an established poet

and a respected teacher. Several of his students left brief biographical
notices on him, and these earliest sources agree that ˜Umar was born
in Cairo on the 4th of Dhū al-Qa˜dah 576/1181. He was the son of
Abū al-Ḥasan ˜Alī ibn al-Murshid ibn ˜Alī, and a descendent of the
Sa˜d tribe of Arabia. His father ˜Alī ibn al-Murshid migrated to Cairo
from Hama prior to ˜Umar’s birth, probably to serve in the judiciary
of the Ayyubid dynasty, which had replaced the Shī˜ī Fatimids in
568/1171.1 The Ayyubid sultan, Ṣalāḥ al-Dīn (Saladin, r. 566–89/1171–
93) established several Sunni law schools in Cairo together with a
khānqāh, a residence and chantry for as many as three hundred Sufis.
In his attempts to promote Sunni Islam, Ṣalāḥ al-Dīn also appears
to have favored non-Egyptian scholars to fill many legal positions,
perhaps to ensure their loyalty to him, and this may have brought
˜Umar’s father to Cairo.2 There, ˜Alī ibn al-Murshid served as a
women’s advocate (fāriḍ) in legal proceedings, thus ˜Umar’s eventual
title Ibn al-Fāriḍ, “son of the women’s advocate.” ˜Alī ibn al-Murshid
was a member of the Shāfi˜ī law school and was respected for his
religious knowledge.3

1
2 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

˜Alī ibn al-Murshid oversaw ˜Umar’s education in the religious

sciences and in Arabic language, literature, and poetry (adab). ˜Umar
also studied the traditions of the prophet Muḥammad (ḥadīth) with
the noted traditionalist of Damascus Abū Muḥammad al-Qāsim ibn
˜Alī Ibn al-˜Asākir (d. 527/1203). Early sources also note that Ibn
al-Fāriḍ was, like his father, a member of the Shāfi˜ī law school, and
that he undertook the study and practice of Islamic mysticism, or
Sufism, composing poetry on the Sufi path (˜alā ṭarīqat al-taṣawwuf).
Unfortunately, his students do not record any information regarding
Sufi masters or books that he may have consulted. Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s
earliest biographers add that he went on pilgrimage to Mecca, where
he lived and studied for a time, after which he returned to Cairo.
There, he supported himself by teaching ḥadīth and poetry at the
Azhar congregational mosque. ˜Umar Ibn al-Fārid died on the 2nd
of Jumādā I 632/1235, and was buried at the foot of Mt. Muqatṭạm
in the Qarāfah, the large cemetery north east of Cairo.4
The early, brief sketches of Ibn al-Fāriḍ by his students may be
fleshed out by an influential later source, the Dībājah (“The Adorned
Proem”). Composed by the poet’s grandson ˜Alī (fl. 735/1334), this
work is an introduction to the Dīwān Ibn al-Fāriḍ, ˜Alī’s definitive
collection of his grandfather’s poetry. However, the Dībājah must be
used with caution, for the work is clearly a hagiography of a saintly
life, not a factual biography of a grandfather who had probably
died before ˜Alī was born. Still, ˜Alī provides important information
regarding Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s family by noting that Ibn al-Fāriḍ was married
and had at least two sons, Kamāl-Dīn Muḥammad (d. 689/1290) and
˜Abd al-Raḥmān, and an unnamed daughter, who was ˜Alī’s mother.
˜Alī also relates many stories about his grandfather, ordering them in
such a way as to portray Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s progress along the mystic path
from a religiously naive youth to a spiritually realized Sufi master
and divinely inspired poet. Along the way, many miraculous events
occur to his grandfather, including Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s instantaneous travel
over hundreds of miles, his conversation with a lion, and his frequent
trances followed by automatic recitation of scores of verses.5
Despite such tales, ˜Alī may have based his narrative loosely
on Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s life as told to him by his uncle, Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s son,
Kamāl-Dīn Muḥammad. According to the Dībājah, in his youth ˜Umar
would sit with his father during court cases and teaching sessions.
But ˜Umar would grow restless, and so leave and wander in the
Muqaṭṭam Hills for spiritual retreat. There, he met an old shaykh who
instructed him to seek enlightenment in Mecca. Following this advice,
˜Umar went on pilgrimage to Mecca, where he lived and studied for
 INTRODUCTION 3

about fifteen years. Ibn al-Fāriḍ then returned to Cairo as a mature

religious scholar and an accomplished poet. In Cairo, Ibn al-Fāriḍ was
a member of the religious and cultural elite of his day, teaching at the
Azhar mosque, and discussing poetry with colleagues.6 This last fact
is corroborated by the literary scholar al-Ṣafadī (d. 764/1363), who
recounted an instance of Ibn al-Fāriḍ adjudicating a dispute between
two poets who claimed to have composed the same poem.7
˜Alī mentions that Ibn al-Fāriḍ composed some of his poems
in Mecca, though ˜Alī suggests that his grandfather composed much
more of his verse in Cairo, including his famous poem the Naẓm
al-Sulūk (“Poem of the Sufi Way”). In several stories, ˜Alī highlights
his grandfather’s reputation as an acclaimed poet and venerated figure
in Cairo, where one of his poems was recited before the Ayyubid
sultan al-Malik al-Kāmil (r. 615–35/1218–38). The poem so impressed
the sultan that he sent a gift of money to the poet, which Ibn al-Fāriḍ
refused to accept. The sultan and one of his amirs made other offers
on several later occasions, but Ibn al-Fāriḍ declined them all. The clear
moral of such stories was that Ibn al-Fāriḍ would not be tainted by
money or power.8 Although we cannot verify the historical accuracy
of these accounts, it is significant that Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s collected poems
do not contain any panegyrics for rulers or their retainers, who often
were the patrons and subjects of professional poets of the time.

On the Sufi Path

˜Alī concludes his Dībājah with two different accounts of Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s
final hours of mystical rapture and eventual death, and the explicit
signs that his grandfather should be recorded among God’s saintly
friends. In one account, the spirit of the prophet Muhammad suddenly
appears to lead the prayers at Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s funeral.9 Although ˜Alī’s
reverential account of his grandfather differs substantially from the
earlier notices on the poet by Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s students, all agree that
Ibn al-Fāriḍ had studied and participated in the Islamic mystical
tradition. Known in Arabic as taṣawwuf, “following the Sufi path,”
Islamic mysticism is commonly known in the West as Sufism. Islamic
mysticism may be defined as the study of experiences within Islam
characterized by ineffability and transience, and frequently by a
positive sense of passivity, timelessness, and unity. Sufism also includes
the methods to attain and refine these experiences, the theories and
doctrines regarding their origin and significance, and the place of
these experiences within the lives of individuals and their societies.10
4 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

Sufism shares much in common with other mystical traditions, and

some similarities probably owe to the fact that Islam arose and
flourished in an environment of religious diversity, which included
Zoroastrianism, Gnosticism, Judaism, and Christianity. Islamic mystics
clearly were influenced by Christian ascetic and mystical practices in
the region, such as wearing a simple frock of wool (ṣūf), from which
Sufism derives its name.11
The forefathers of the Sufi movement were the Muslim ascetics,
who feared transgressing God’s commandments and the divine
punishment to follow. Some of these pious Muslims undertook
asceticism as penance and as a means to restrain temptation. Their
practices included fasting, late-night prayer vigils, and seclusion, as
well as periods of celibacy, although lifelong celibacy generally was
regarded as a violation of the Qur’ān and Muhammad’s prophetic
tradition. Although asceticism did not appeal to most Muslims, for
some, including many Sufis, ascetic practices were essential tools for
self-control, purification, and repentance.12 Fear of the Judgment Day
and divine chastisement were prime motives for an ascetic life, yet,
Muslim mystics also sought solace in God’s love and forgiveness as
mentioned in the Qur’ān:

Say [to them Muhammad]: “If you love God, then follow
me, that He may love you and forgive your sins, for God
is forgiving and merciful.” (3:31)

God loves those who depend on Him completely. (3:159)

To God belongs the east and west; wherever you turn, there
is the face of God. (2:115)

If my servants inquire of you concerning Me, lo, I am

near. (2:186)

We are nearer [to the human being] than his jugular vein.
(50:16)

In these and similar passages, the Qur’ān declares that God is

ever-present with His creation and, in his mercy, He has sent down
revelations to humanity. As such, the Qur’ān is the essential guide for
all Muslims who seek to live in accordance with God’s commandments.
Moreover, Muslim mystics have been inspired by the Qur’ān’s accounts
of human and divine encounters. Stories of the prophets, including
 INTRODUCTION 5

Moses on Sinai, and his standing before the Burning Bush, Abraham’s
conversations with God, and Jesus’ miracles, have served as patterns
for a close personal relationship with God. Even more paradigmatic has
been the life of the prophet Muhammad, and the Qur’ān’s allusions
to his moments of spiritual revelation:

Blessed be He who took His servant [Muhammad] by night

from the sacred mosque to the furthest mosque, whose
precincts We have blessed, that We might show him Our
signs . . . (17:1)

Truly this is a revelation inspired, taught to him [Muhammad]

by one powerful, possessing strength, who set himself on
the farthest horizon and then drew close and descended to
within two bows’ lengths or nearer, and he revealed to His
servant what he revealed. The heart did not lie about what
it saw, so will you wrangle about what he saw? He saw him
descend again, near the furthest lote tree where the Garden
of Sanctuary is, where there enveloped the lote tree what
enveloped it. His vision did not turn away or transgress,
and truly, he saw one the greatest signs of his Lord! (53:4–18)

For Muslims, these accounts form the basis of Muhammad’s

miraculous night journey from Mecca to Jerusalem, from where he
ascended to heaven (al-isra’ wa-al-mi˜rāj). According to tradition,
Muhammad, accompanied by the archangel Gabriel, met with various
prophets in heaven and, ultimately, with God. While the Qur’ān’s
enigmatic passages just cited do not mention ascension at all, later
Muslim tradition gives detailed descriptions of these events based
on prophetic ḥadīth (al-ḥadīth al-nabawī). The ḥadīth are accounts of
Muhammad’s sayings and actions and the second foundational source
for Islam. They have been essential for elaborating on Muhammad’s
heavenly ascension and other archetypal aspects of his pious life,
and when compiled together in a narrative form, they may resemble
a Christian gospel. Still other ḥadīth collections serve as guides for
religious ritual and legal matters, and offer aphorisms and advice for
following the straight path to God:

[Muhammad], the Apostle of God, God’s blessings and

peace be upon him, said: “Sincerity is that you worship
God as if you see Him, and if you do not see Him, know
that He sees you.”
6 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

The Prophet, God’s blessings and peace be upon him, said:

“Not one of you truly believes until you love for your
brother what you love for yourself.”

The Messenger of God, God’s blessings and peace be upon

him, said: “Be in this world as if you were a stranger or
wayfarer.”13

Together with the prophetic ḥadīth is a smaller body of traditions

known as “Divine Sayings” (al-ḥadīth al-qudsī), which are purported
to be the words of God revealed to Muhammad but not found in the
Qur’ān for various reasons. Among them is the famous “Tradition of
Willing Devotions” full of mystical import:

The Messenger of God, God’s blessings and peace be upon

him, said: “God said: ‘My servant draws near to Me by
nothing more dear to Me than by the religious obligations
that I have imposed upon him, and My servant continues
to draw near to Me by willing acts of devotion such that
I love him. Then, when I love him, I become the ear with
which he hears, the eye with which he sees, the hand with
which he grasps, and the foot with which he walks. Surely if
he were to request something of Me, I would give it, and if
he were to seek My protection, I would shelter him . . .’ ”14

By the early third/ninth century, mystically inclined religious

scholars cited the Qur’ān, prophetic traditions, and divine sayings in
their Qur’ānic commentaries, guidebooks, and other works, including
biographies, spiritual genealogies, mystical lexicons, and epistles
containing explanations and instructions regarding Sufi thought and
practice. These works explore some of the psychological states (ḥāl/
aḥwāl), and ethical and cognitive stages (maqām/maqāmāt) on the
mystic path leading toward the annihilation of selfishness (fanā’) and,
subsequently, abiding in accord with the will and living presence
of God (baqā’). Sincere love and humility are essential to achieving
this ultimate goal, and for Sufis, this requires a physical and mental
struggle against selfishness (nafs) in order to uncover the divine spirit
(rūḥ) within. Therefore, one must continually check base tendencies by
introspection and a strong conscience aligned with God’s guidance,
so that one may be at peace and pleasing to one’s Lord:

So be mindful of God as much as you can, and listen, obey,

and spend (on charity) for your own good, for whoever
 INTRODUCTION 7

is saved from his own selfishness will be among the

prosperous. (Q. 64:16)

Throughout the Qur’an, God exhorts humanity to dhikr, to

remember and be mindful of Him and His blessings, and Sufis
developed dhikr into a meditative practice. Dhikr recollection entails
the repetition of God’s divine names and/or religious formulas
including the witness to faith “There is no deity but God.” This and
other formula may be recited in silence or aloud, alone in seclusion
or in unison with fellow seekers. Additionally, dhikr rituals developed
by Sufi orders include procedures for posture, breath control, chant,
song, music, movement, and dance.15 But no matter the specific form,
the Sufi dhikr aims to purify its practitioner of selfishness so that
one may experience the divine presence in obedience to God,
holding true to the covenant to worship Him alone, as attested in
the Qur’ān:

And when your Lord drew from the loins of the children of
Adam their progeny and made them bear witness against
themselves: “Am I not your Lord?” They said: “Indeed,
yes! We so witness!” (7:172)

Recall (adhkurū) the blessings upon you from your Lord and
His covenant (mīthāq) that He confirmed with you when
you said: “We hear and obey!” (5:7)

For many Sufis, this pledge was taken in pre-eternity on the Day
of the Covenant (yawm al-mīthāq), which begins God’s test of humanity
and the human spirit’s painful longing to return to its heavenly home.
This tribulation, however, is the necessary spark for the Sufi’s spiritual
quest to rein in selfish tendencies so as to encounter exhilarating
moments of illumination stabilized within a selfless spiritual life. Yet
this enlightened life is only possible if God totally eradicates the Sufi’s
selfish will and graces him with the experience of mystical union. In
this light, Sufis have asserted that the true meaning of God’s oneness
(tawḥīd Allāh) is not merely monotheism, but above all God’s absolute
oneness. Therefore, mystical union is not the joining of two separate
and distinct essences or natures but, rather, the realization of the
divine unity underlying all existence. Thus, this radical monotheism
may lead to monism, where only God ultimately exists.16
Over the centuries, Sufi scholars have composed detailed
accounts of their thought and practice, carefully noting the Qur’ānic
and prophetic basis for Islamic mysticism. Additionally, their works
8 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

attempt to systematize Sufism and to situate it within the larger Islamic

tradition. Muslim scholars often have invoked Sufism’s attention to
personal experience in order to give spiritual relevance to the letter
of the law, and to enliven the God of theology. Furthermore, during
the fifth–sixth/eleventh–twelfth centuries, Muslim scholars worked to
harmonize the various branches of Islam into a balanced and holistic
faith where each aspect held its proper place and value. Law (sharī˜ah)
was the foundation for any legitimate system, and accomplished
Sufi masters have made adherence to it a requirement for spiritual
development. A Muslim must master the rules and obligations
regulating such important matters as the canonical prayers, fasting,
and proper behavior, before entering the Sufi path (ṭarīqah), which
necessitates additional regulations concerning mystical devotions,
personal conduct, and communal life. Even then, however, the adept
requires the divine grace of mystical union for a vision of creation
in its relation to God (ḥaqīqah). Thus, belief, ritual, law, and mystical
experience are all essential for those who seek the inner truth (bāṭin)
beneath the world of exterior form (ẓāhir). From this perspective, all
of creation when seen aright glows with God’s supernal light, and
here again, Sufis cite the Qur’ān as proof:

God is the light of the heavens and the earth. The semblance
of His light is like a niche in which is a lamp, the lamp in
a glass. The glass is like a shining star lit from a blessed
tree, an olive, of neither east nor west, whose oil would
seem to shine even if not touched by fire. Light upon light,
God guides to His light whom He wills, and God strikes
parables for humanity, for God knows everything! (24:35)

Words of Love and Longing

Appearing in Sufi writings as early as the third/ninth century was

verse ascribed to Muslim mystics. Some of the earliest Sufis poems
may be classified as zuhdīyāt, or ascetic poetry, which is moralizing
and didactic, and often tinged with a sense of impending doom:17

man lādha bi-llāhi najā bi-llāhi

wa-sarrahu marru qaḍā’i-llāhi
in lam takun nafsī bi-kaffi-llāhi
fa-kayfa anqādu li-ḥukmi-llāhi
li-llāhi anfāsun jarat li-llāhi
lā ḥawla lī fīhā bi-ghayri-llāhi
 INTRODUCTION 9

He who seeks refuge in God is rescued by God,

and pleasing to him is God’s bitter decree.
If my soul is not in the hand of God,
then how can I obey God’s judgment?
To God are the souls who rush to God;
I have no strength among them save God!

Arabic ascetic poetry echoes images and themes found in the

elegy with its melancholy mood, and this resonates with the life of
many ascetics and Sufis known for their life of material poverty and
sincere piety based on trust in God. Yet, among the Sufis, there was
an increasing emphasis on the reciprocal love between God and His
devout worshippers:18

aḥibbuka ḥubbayni ḥubbu-l-hawā

wa-ḥubban li-annaka ahlun li-dhākā
fa-ammā-l-ladhī huwa ḥubbu-l-hawā
fa-shughlī bi-dhikrika ˜amman siwākā
wa-ammā-l-ladhī anta ahlun lahu
fa-kashfuka lī-l-ḥajba ḥattā arākā
fa-lā-l-ḥamda fī dhā wa-lā dāka lī
wa-lakin laka-l-ḥamdu fī dhā wa dākā

I love you with two loves:

passion’s love and a love you deserve.
Passion’s love is my constant recollection
of you and no one else,
While the love you deserve
is your raising the veil for me to see you.
But there is no praise in this or that for me,
for in this and that the praise belongs to you!

From such a perspective, life’s hardships and sorrow can be

dispelled by God’s compassion and mercy, which help the sincere
believer to subdue selfishness in loving submission to God’s will. Then,
with God’s blessing, the mystic may be given a brief premonition of
the eternal life to come. The quest for such a mystical experience of
loving union is central to Arabic Sufi poetry, and so, traditional love
imagery and themes became favorite allegories for aspects of the
mystic way. Like the verses above ascribed to Rābi ˜ah al-˜Adawīyah
(d. 185/801), most early Sufi poems rarely exceed six or seven verses,
and the surviving corpus of early Arabic Sufi poetry is quite modest.
Undoubtedly, some Sufis recited poetry to highlight and reinforce
10 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

mystical doctrines and beliefs. But much of this verse probably was
composed by mystics who, like many other Muslims, participated in
the popular Arab pastime of versification.19
In marked contrast to this occasional mystical verse was the
contemporary Abbasid court poetry, which flourished as the ruling
elite heavily patronized their poets. This helps to explain the rising
popularity of poems of unified theme such as those on hunting, love,
and wine. Not surprisingly, Sufis soon allegorized this wine imagery,
too, as emblematic of mystical love and gnosis.20 Some Abbasid poets
also attempted to expand the expressive limits of Arabic poetry by the
use of badī˜. Badī˜ literally means “unprecedented” or “innovative,”
and the term has frequently been equated with rhetorical devices such
as paronomasia (tajnīs), antithesis (ṭibāq), and metaphor (isti˜ārah).
However, these are the means and not the ends of good badī˜ poetry.
To be more precise, badī˜ is a method of abstraction, which uses
rhetorical devices to personify and articulate complex and often abstruse
concepts. The early Abbasid period was marked by rational inquiry
and intense legal and theological disputation, which had an impact
on all of the arts and sciences. Concomitantly, creative litterateurs
viewed poetry in increasingly abstract and etymological terms, and
they began to manipulate the metaphors and themes of traditional
Arabic poetry in attempts to communicate their own ideas and concerns
and take Arabic poetry in new directions.21 Within this environment,
the innovative poet Abū Tammām (d. 232/846) used paronomasia,
alliteration, and punning for emphasis but also to establish logical
and semantic links between words and concepts whose relationships
might be only subliminally grasped:22

matā ya’tīka-l-miqdāru lā taku hālikan

wa-lākin zamānun ghāla mithlaka hāliku

When the fated time comes to you,

you will not perish,
but time—a destroyer like you—
will perish!

Here, Abū Tammām personifies his patron’s appointed time of

death as his foe on the battlefield in order to endow this abstraction
with another, namely the finiteness of time. Thus, time and death itself
must fall before some stronger entity, in this case, the immortality
promised to this Muslim general for his defense of Islam.23 The larger
intent and range of badī˜ poetry are well illustrated by Abū Tammām’s
celebrated “Ode to ˜Ammūrīyah,” where he employs antitheses—Arab
 INTRODUCTION 11

caliph–Greek emperor, light–darkness, male–female—to repeat and

accentuate his major theme of Islam’s triumph over infidelity. Badī˜
poetry at its finest, then, is not the mere presence of certain rhetorical
devices, but their use as a mode of thought and expression, which is
at once metaphorical, abstract, and dialectic.24
Badī˜ dramatically enhanced the creative possibilities of Arabic
verse as it freed the poet to abstract from the concrete poetic image,
and this, naturally, expanded the range of symbolic mystical poetry.
Among the first Sufi poets to compose badī˜ verse was al-Ḥusayn ibn
Manṣūr al-Ḥallāj (d. 309/922). One of the most controversial figures
in the history of Islamic mysticism, al-Ḥallāj appears to have been an
outspoken advocate for moral reform, which won him many followers.
But this may have angered the increasingly unpopular Abbasid regime,
which feared public unrest; al-Ḥallāj was arrested and, ultimately,
executed on charges of fomenting rebellion. Al-Ḥallāj also aroused
the suspicion of the religious establishment by his growing reputation
as a holy man, and his public preaching on love and the possibility
of union between the human and the divine. A number of religious
leaders took exception to several statements ascribed to al-Ḥallāj,
which strongly suggested unacceptable notions of divine incarnation
within a human being.25

anā man ahwā wa-man ahwā anā

naḥnu rūḥāni ḥalalnā badanā
fa-idhā abṣartanī abṣartahu
wa-ithā abṣartahu aḅsartanā

I am he whom I love,
and he whom I love is me;
we are two spirits
dwelling in one body.

So, when you see me,

you see him,
and when you see him,
you see us.26

Al-Ḥallāj often alludes to enigmatical mystical states and complex

metaphysical ideas, and the abstract and often paradoxical nature of
these subjects is reflected in his mature badī˜ style. As in the verses
just presented, al-Ḥallāj employs antithesis, paronomasia, the repetition
of verbs, and the use of multiple and contrasting prepositions within
a single verse to rupture the rational categories of space and time:27
12 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

al-˜ishqu fī azali-l-āzāli min qidamin

fīhi bihi minhu yabdū fīhi ibdā’un

1) Eros in the eternity of eternities

from the primordial,
in it, by it, from it
appearance appears in it.

2) Eros before time

is an attribute
among the attributes
of him whose victims live.

3) His attributes are from him,

within him, without time,
while the temporal
depends on creation.

4) When creation appeared

he invoked eros,
an attribute in him who appeared,
and so a gleam glimmered there.

5) Then the lām is united

to the connected alif,
together one meaning
in priority.

6) But in separation,
they are two;
when together in disunion
they are slave and master.

7) Just so the true ones:

the fire of desire
rages from reality
whether they be far or near.

8) They were submissive, powerless

when driven mad by love!
Indeed, the mighty, excited by desire,
are humbled.
 INTRODUCTION 13

The opening verses of this poem conjure a timeless pre-eternity in

which divine love has pride of place among God’s eternal attributes.
Alluding to the Qur’ān, al-Ḥallāj declares that those martyred by
this love will be revived by God and live with Him in Paradise
(cf. Q. 3:169–70). For divine love is the spark and energy of temporal
creation. But this creation necessitates a distinction between creator
and creature, and in verse 5, al-Ḥallāj symbolizes this duality by two
connected letters: the bending lām for creation (khalq), and the straight
alif, the first letter of the Arabic alphabet, for God, the Creator (Allāh
al-khāliq)). Together, they spell lā or “no,” which begins the first half
of the Muslim profession of faith: lā ilāha illā Allāh, “There is no deity
save God.” Al-Ḥallāj’s invocation of lā, which merges the two separate
letters, appears to deny the absolute nature of creation’s duality. Still,
a state of separation continues to exist, if only temporarily, between
the Lord and His worshippers. Thus, the true lovers of God burn for
union with Him, as the spark of eros becomes a raging fire consuming
their self-regard before the divine beloved.28
Although the content and meaning of this poem may be elusive,
the explicit and frequent rhetorical plays within the verses are clearly
aimed at inducing a shift in perspective in order to speak of nonrational
spiritual matters. But, as a result, such badī˜ mystical poetry often is
quite complex, both in theme and syntax, and may verge on nonsense
for the uninitiated.29 This, in turn, led several medieval litterateurs
to criticize the paradoxical “Sufi style” as inappropriate to good
poetry. This was clearly the case when the literary scholar al-Tha˜ālibī
(d. 427/1035) criticized al-Mutanabbī (d. 354/965) for “imitating the
expressions of the Sufis and using their tangled words and abstruse
meanings” in his verse.30 One of the most famous poets of the Abbasid
period, al-Mutanabbī spent much of his career as a panegyrist in the
Hamdanid court of Sayf al-Dawlah (r. 336–56/947–67) in Syria, and
al-Mutanabbī’s elegant poems became a classical standard for later
poets who imitated his verse for generations.31 Although inclined
more toward courtly than religious life, al-Mutanabbī nuanced his
sophisticated poetry with formal elements associated with the Sufis,
yet this hardly impressed critics, like al-Tha˜ālibī, who targeted many
verses for criticism:32

wa-lakinnaka-d-dunya ilayya ḥabībatun

fa-mā ˜anka lī illā ilayka dhahābu

Beloved, you are the world to me,

so leaving you is, to me, a return to you!
14 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

In this verse, al-Mutanabbī links the verbal noun dhahāb (“going”)

to three prepositions within a hemistich to give the word opposite
meanings: “My leaving from you is my returning to you.” This
paradox is pivotal to the extraordinary image of the royal beloved
as encompassing the entire globe so that wherever the poet begins,
he ultimately ends still within his patron’s domains. Al-Tha˜ālibī also
took exception to al-Mutanabbī’s use of some words that had become
Sufi technical terms. The following verse contains the word qurb,
which means “nearness” in general, but more specifically in Sufism,
“spiritual proximity to God.”33 Al-Tha˜ālibi claimed that had this verse
been ascribed to the famous third/ninth-century mystics al-Juanyd and
al-Shiblī, “the Sufis would have argued endlessly over it:”34

naḥnu man ḍāyaqa-z-zamānu lahu fī-

ka wa-khānathu qurbaka-l-ayyāmu

For your sake, time crushed us;

the days made off with your nearness.

In his criticism of al-Mutanabbī, al-Tha˜ālibī obviously believed

that he could distinguish clearly between proper poetic diction and
style, and those types of speech appropriate to other forms of discourse,
but not to poetry. For him, Islamic mystical language was distinguished
by the presence of a paradox and/or technical mystical terminology.35
However, many litterateurs were either unable or unwilling to make
such distinctions. Badī˜ was certainly not an exclusively mystical style,
nor did all Sufis composing poetry use badī˜. Moreover, many poets,
mystical or otherwise, drew from a common pool of philosophical,
mystical, and related sources to speak of their loves and raptures.36
For their part, Sufis continued to read and interpret the Arabic poetic
tradition in terms of their spiritual concerns, as they expanded and
enhanced their mystical allegories.

Luminaries

By the beginning of the sixth/twelfth century, mysticism was an

integral and valued part of the Muslim tradition. Sufism’s personal
and devotional qualities were attracting an ever increasing following
among all social strata, and Sufi orders (ṭarīqah/ṭurūq) with their own
particular mystical beliefs and practices coalesced around spiritual
masters. Among scholars, Sufism was regarded as one of the braches of
 INTRODUCTION 15

the Islamic religious sciences, and a number of institutions, particularly

the zāwiyah and the khānqāh, supported Muslim mystical life.37 As a
result, mystical ideas and practices were prominent in Muslim culture
as is apparent in Muslim literatures at the time. In Persian poetry,
Ṣanā˜ī (d.c. 525/1131) developed the didactic mathnavī form to spread
his ascetic and mystical teachings, and he composed Persian qaṣīdahs as
homilies.38 Later, Farīd al-Dīn ˜Aṭṭār (d.c. 617/1220) masterfully refined
the mystical mathnavī, composing several compelling allegories, most
notably, the Manṭiq al-Ṭayr, or “Conference of the Birds”; ˜Aṭṭār also
contributed to the Persian tradition of mystical ghazals or love poems.39
In Arabic poetry, too, we begin to see more Sufi verse around this
time. In earlier centuries, an anthologist might quote a verse or two
by a given Sufi, but there does not appear to have been Sufi poets,
per se, although a substantial amount of poetry has been ascribed to
al-Ḥallāj and, a smaller amount to the Egyptian Sufi Dhū al-Nūn (d.
246/861).40 Nevertheless, the amount of Arabic mystical verse was still
small in comparison to the poetry composed under state sponsorship.
Official ministries of documents (dīwān al-inshā’) were established by
the Abbasids, in the courts in Spain and, later, by the Fatimids and
Ayyubids in Egypt and Syria, which often set the topics appropriate
for poetic compositions, such as Muslim military victories or the fine
qualities of the ruler.41
A fair appraiser of this situation may be Ibn Khallikān (608–
81/1211–82), a younger contemporary of Ibn al-Fāriḍ and a respected
legal scholar in Damascus and Cairo. Ibn Khallikān is most famous
for his biographical work Wafayāt al-A˜yān, which contains more than
eight hundred biographies of notable men and women living in the
Arabic speaking world from the rise of Islam until the middle of the
seventh/thirteenth century. Ibn Khallikān did not include entries on
the prophet Muḥammad, his companions, or on caliphs about whom
much had already been written, and he choose instead to compile
biographies of officials, scholars, and litterateurs whose date of
death was know with some certainty.42 Ibn Khallikān was extremely
well read in Arabic poetry, citing from the works of a number of
important literary scholars including Ibn Qutaybah (d. 276/889),43 Ibn
˜Abd Rabbih (d. 328/940),44 Abū al-Faraj al-Iṣfahānī (d. c. 363/972),45
Ibn Rashīq (d. c. 463/1071),46 Ibn Bassām (d. 542/1147),47 and ˜Imād
al-Dīn al-Iṣfahānī (d. 597/1201).48 He also gives the biographies of a
number of classical poets including Dhū al-Rummah (d.c. 117/735),49
˜Umar Ibn Abī Rabī˜ah (d. ca. 103/720),50 Abū Nuwās (d.c. 198/813),51
Abū Tammām, al-Buḥturī (d. 284/897),52 and al-Mutanabbī, one of
his favorites. Additionally, Ibn Khallikān offers entries on scores of
16 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

other lesser known and later poets, citing examples of their verse,
which often are rhetorically complex and usually composed for
learned friends and patrons. For example, the Egyptian Ẓāfir al-Ḥaddād
(d. 529/1134) was a poet and a blacksmith, who was called one
day to the residence of Amīr al-Sa˜īd, the governor of Alexandria,
to cut off a ring that had become too tight for the governor’s fat
little finger. Ẓāfir carefully removed the ring and then recited these
verses:53

qaṣṣara ˜an awṣāfika-l-˜ālamu

wa-kathura-n-nāthiru wa-n-nāẓimu
man yakuna-l-baḥru lahu rāḥatan
yaḍīqu ˜an khinṣirihi-l-khātimu

Humanity fell short of describing your qualities

though their writers and poets be many.
He whose palm is ample as the ocean,
the signet ring must surely squeeze his pinky!

The governor then gave Ẓāfir the gold ring in appreciation for
his praise.54 Ibn Khallikān quotes hundreds of such verses in his
Wafayāt, including a number by contemporary poets whom he knew.
Ibn Khallikān regarded Ibn Sanā’ al-Mulk (d. 608/1211),55 Ibn ˜Unayn
(d. 630/1233),56 Ibn Maṭrūḥ (d. 649/1251),57 and Bahā’ al-Dīn Zuhayr
(d. 656/1258),58 to be excellent poets.59 All of them had served as
administrators or secretaries to the Ayyubid dynasty, whose princes
they praised. Generally, these poets composed their panegyrics in the
badī˜ style, as in the following verses by Ibn ˜Unayn on the noble
sons of the sultan al-Malik al-˜Ādil:60

wa-lahu-l-banūna bi-kulli arḍin minhumu

mulkun yaqūdu ilā-l-a˜ādī ˜askarā
min kulli waḍḍāḥi-l-jabīni tukhāluhu
badran wa-in shahada-l-waghā fa-ghaaḍnfarā
mutaqaddimun ḥattā idhā-n-naq˜u-njalā
bi-l-bayḍi ˜an sabiyi-l-ḥarīmi ta’akhkharā
qaumun zakū aṣlan wa-ṭābū muḥtadan
wa-tadaffaqū jūdan wa-rāqū munẓarā
wa-ta˜āfu khayluhumu-l-warūda bi-manhalin
mā lam yakun bi-dami-l-waqā’i˜i aḥmarā
ya˜shū ilā nāri-l-waghā shaghfan bi-hā
wa-yajillu an ya˜shū ilā nāri-l-qirā
 INTRODUCTION 17

He has sons,
each a prince in every land,
leading an army
against the foes.

Each with a bright brow

making him seem a full moon,
but when battle appears
a fierce lion!

He leads the charge until the dark dust

is dispelled by shining swords
revealing the captive women,
then he lags behind.

A family, pure of lineage,

pleasant, harmonious,
brimming with generosity,
and a delight to see.

Their steeds loathe

to drink from a pool
that was not turned red
from the blood of battles.

By night they travel with passion

toward the fire of war,
too exalted to seek out
the fire of hospitality!

In addition to panegyrics, these Ayyubid poets also composed

love poems, riddles and quatrains, some in simpler, more direct styles,
particularly when musing on old age and death, as did Ibn Khallikān’s
good friend Ibn Maṭrūḥ:61

aṣbaḥtu bi-qa˜ri jufratin murtahanā

lā amlaku min dunyāī illā-l-kafanā
yā man wasa˜at ˜ubbādahu raḥmatuhu
min ba˜ḍi ˜ibādika-l-musī’īna anā

I was deposited in the bottom of a pit,

owning nothing of my world save a shroud.
18 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

O, One whose mercy holds His servants,

among Your wayward worshipers am I!

In addition to biographical notices to government officials and

professional poets, Ibn Khallikān gives accounts of many Muslims
noted for their piety and scholarship, including a number of Sufis. Ibn
Khallikān was well informed on Islamic mysticism, too, having read
al-Qushayrī’s (d. 465/1072) popular Sufi compendium, the Risālah, and
his commentary on the Qur’ān,62 along with the saints’ lives recorded
in the Ḥilyat al-Awliyā’ by Abū al-Nu˜aym al-Is..fahānī (d. 430/1038).63
Ibn Khallikān also had studied a number of works by Muḥammad
al-Ghazālī (d. 505/1111), including his Iḥyā’ ˜Ulūm al-Dīn and the
Mishkāt al-Anwār,64 and the more recent and popular Sufi guide book the
˜Awārif al-Ma˜ārif by ˜Umar al-Suhrawardī (d. 632/1235).65 Ibn Khallikān
gives a notice to each of these important mystical authors, as well as
to a number of other earlier Sufis, including Dhū al-Nūn, Rābi˜ah
al-˜Adawīyah, al-Junayd (d. 297/910), and al-Hallāj. Ibn Khallikān also
made entries for the North African mystical theologian Ibn al-˜Arīf
(d. 536/1141),66 and for Abū Najīb al-Suhrawardī (d. 563/1168)67 and
Aḥmad al-Rifā˜ī (d. 578/1182),68 both of whom founded Sufi orders
that bear their respective names.
As was the case with earlier Sufi biographers, Ibn Khallikān
offers a verse or two in some of his entries, such as this verse by
˜Umar al-Suhrawardī:69

in ta’ammaltukumu fa-kullī ˜uyūnun

aw tadhakkartukumu fa-kullī qulūbun

When I contemplate you,

I’m all eyes,
and when I recollect you,
I’m all heart!

Significantly, however, Ibn Khallikān identifies several poets as

composing verse specifically on mystical topics. One of them, al-Murṭaḍā
Ibn al-Shahrazūrī (465–511/1073–1117), was from a respected scholarly
family in Iraq, and held positions as an ḥadīh scholar, judge, and preacher
in Mosul. Like other educated Muslims of the period, Ibn al-Shahrazūrī
was at once a religious official, a mystic, and a litterateur. Reflecting
these concerns, his poetry is often homiletic in tone, mystical in content,
and classical in form, as in the following quatrain:70
 INTRODUCTION 19

yā qalbu ilāma lā yufīdu-n-naṣḥu

da˜ mazḥaka kam janā ˜alayka-l-mazḥu
mā jāriḥatun fīka ˜adāhā jurḥu
mā tash˜uru bi-l-khummāri ḥattā taṣḥū

O heart, how long will you ignore advice?

Stop kidding around; how often it has led to vice.
You’re all banged up, but until you’re sober,
you won’t know the wine’s price!

Ibn al- Shahrazūrī’s mystical proclivities are discernable in several

poems cited by Ibn Khallikān, which address Sufi themes in traditional
poetic contexts. The following poem combines love themes with
well-known Sufi technical terms (v. 1: qalb/ “heart;” v. 5: waṣl/ “union;”
v. 7: baqā’/ “staying,” “abiding;” v. 8: fanā’/ “passing away”) to
portray the purging of the lover prior to mystical annihilation in the
beloved.71

bi-qalbī minhumu ˜ulaqu wa-dam˜ī fīhumu ˜alaqu

1) My heart is bound to them;

my tears are blood

2) I burn for them;

my insides blaze.

3) We huddle at their door,

fear melting our hearts.

4) But they left nothing, just a spark;

if only they cared.

5) There is no union, no parting,

no sleep, no sleeplessness,

6) No hopelessness, no hope,
no patience or disquiet.

7) They were cruel and did not spare me;

if only they had stayed,
20 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

8) That I might have passed away,

while the fragrance of my love lingered,

9) Like a candle, delighting its companions,

while consuming itself.

Ibn al-Shahrazūrī composed a number of short mystical love

poems, in addition to several on wine.72 However, Ibn al-Shahrazūrī’s
fame does not rest on these short, if elegant pieces, but rather on a
long allegorical ode of forty-four verses recounting a quest for mystical
illumination. Ibn Khallikān rarely cited long poems in full, but he
did so in this case because the ode was hard to find, although much
sought after. In fact, this ode, entitled the al-Mawṣlīyah because Ibn
al-Shahrazūrī composed it in Mosul, is one of the earliest surviving
formal Arabic qaṣīdahs on Sufism, and, as such, it represents an
important development in the history of Arabic poetry.73
Such mystical odes would become quite popular late in the
sixth/twelfth century, although much Sufi verse continued to be short
modest love poems, like those by the Egyptian Sufi, Muḥammad Ibn
al-Kīzānī (d. 560/1166).74 In his brief biography of him, Ibn Khallikān
noted that Ibn al-Kīzānī was a pious ascetic, scholar, and Qur’ān
reader famous in Egypt, with his own Sufi order. Further, he had
a collection of poetry, and although Ibn Khallikān had not seen the
collection himself, he had heard one of the poet’s verses:75

wa-idhā lāqa bi-l-muḥibbi gharāmun

fa-kadhā-l-waṣlu bi-l-ḥabībi yalīqu

If passion is proper for a lover,

then union befits the beloved.

Although Ibn al-Kīzānī’s collection of poems is now lost, nearly

seventy of his poems were preserved by later biographers and
anthologists.76 Several of these sources note that Ibn al-Kīzānī was
also a preacher and that his collection of poetry was widely read and
admired in Egypt. Most of these poems rarely exceed ten verses, and
in a number of them, Ibn al-Kīzānī assumes the role of the spiritual
guide to instruct his audience on leading a righteous life:77

qif ˜alā-l-bābi ṭāliban

wa-da˜i-d-dam˜a sākiban
 INTRODUCTION 21

Stand at the door as a seeker

and pour out your tears.
Implore Him with them
and turn away from sin.
Accept from His gracious blessings
such wondrous things.
But fear Him who sees you
riding hell-bent to sin.
Yet He rewards with ease
and bestows what is desired.
Piety is the worshipper’s garb,
so be the companion of truth.

Quite often, Ibn al-Kīzānī’s verse contains a pronounced

devotional element, and he frequently mentions dhikr, the Sufi practice
of recollection:78

wa-llāhu law lā anna dhikraka mu’nisī

mā kāna ˜ayshī bi-ḥayāti yaṭību

Oh God,
were recollection of you
not my constant companion,
my life would not be sweet.

When my eyes cry

longing for you,
then every limb
weeps for you.

Do you think distance

will loosen my love?
Though you are far away,
your phantom is near.

How can I find solace

when rapture is within
spying
on what is in the heart.
22 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

Passion has set out for you

with my last breaths;
the sickness is all-consuming,
yet you are the doctor!

In this poem, Ibn al-Kīzānī mentions two characters common to

classical Arabic poetry, the raqīb, or “spy,” who seeks to protect the
beloved, and the khayāl, or “phantom” of the beloved who may visit
the lover in a dream.79 Here, in light of the term dhikr, “recollection” in
verse 1, both figures have become metaphors for the mystic’s meditation
and rapture that are wholly focused on God. In many other poems,
as well, Ibn al-Kīzānī draws on the Arabic ghazal tradition to allude
to the love of God and the trials on the mystical quest for union:80

laysa ḥaẓẓī mina-l-ḥabā’ibi illā

lau˜atun aw ta’assufun aw gharāmu

My lot with lovers is but torment,

and regrets and desire.
They decreed separation, while passion was within me,
though they knew I was mad for them.
But I am satisfied; let them do as they will,
for impatience with them is forbidden me.
They are my hope and my farthest wish;
they are balm for my heart and peace!

Without knowing that a Sufi composed this poem, there is little

to suggest a mystical meaning. However, in other poems, Ibn al-
Kīzānī employs Sufi technical terms and themes, as in the following
verses that refer to the Day of the Covenant alluded to in the Qur’ān
7:172:81

anā bi-ṣ-ṣabri fīhi lā-ṣ-ṣabri ˜anhu

taḥta ḥukmi-l-hawā bi-mā jā’a minhu
qad ṣafat lī maḥabbatun lam ukaddir-
hā wa-˜ahdun muqaddamun lam akhunhu

I bear him patiently,

never impatient with him,
under passion’s decree
that came from him.
 INTRODUCTION 23

For a pure love was meant for me

that I did not taint
and an earlier covenant
that I did not break.

Ibn al-Kīzānī also takes up themes common to the traditional

qaṣīdah, especially the beloved’s departure and the abandoned campsite,82
and occasionally he refers to the wine of love.83 Again, these poems
generally consist of only a few verses, quite in contrast to the long
mystical wine ode that Ibn Khallikān quotes in his entry for the
famous Sufi and philosopher, Yaḥyā al-Suhrawardī (d. 587/1191).84
Ibn Khallikān notes that al-Suhrawardī ended his career prematurely
at the age of thirty-six in Aleppo, where he was executed on charges
of heresy by order of the sultan Ṣalāḥ al-Dīn. As was the case
with al-Ḥallāj, a number of religious authorities were suspicious of
al-Suhrawardī’s mystical doctrines, which he derived from a theology
of light. However, Ibn Khallikān quotes sources contemporary with
al-Suhrawardī suggesting that his downfall may have resulted more
from his abrasive personality and grandiose claims to spiritual authority;
as one source noted: “his knowledge was greater than his sense.”85
Whatever the case against al-Suhrawardī’s character and beliefs, his
mystical writings display erudition in both content and form, and Ibn
Khallikān lists a number of his writings, including the Ḥikmat al-Ishrāq
(“The Wisdom of Illumination”). Some of al-Suhrawardī’s finest works
are his allegorical tales composed in a lucid and elegant Persian prose,
but he also composed Arabic verse in the badī˜ style, and in addition
to the wine ode, Ibn Khallikān quotes the following enigma:86

fa-khafaytu ḥattā qultu lastu bi-ẓāhirin

wa-ẓahartu min sa˜atī ˜alā-l-akwāni

I was hidden, so I said: “I’ve disappeared!”

Then I appeared to all beings from my capacity.

The term sa˜atī, “my capacity,” is derived from the verb wasu˜a,
“to encompass, to hold.” Here, it may refer to the mystic’s heart,
sa˜atu-l-qalb, and so be an allusion to a divine saying often quoted
by the Sufis, in which God says:87

mā wasu˜anī arḍī wa-samā’ī wa-wasu˜anī qalbu

˜abdī-l-mu’mini
24 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

“My earth and My heaven do not hold Me, but the heart
of My believing servant holds Me.”

A similar transformation occurs to the mystic in the following

poem by al-Suhrawardī preserved by another anthologist:88

khalīliya inna-al-unsa fī furqati-l-insi

fa-kun abadan mā ˜ishta fī ḥaḍrati-l-qudsi

1) Friend, intimacy is in separation from humanity,

so as long as you live, be in the presence divine.

2) You will live without death, abide without passing,

you will reach the meaning and leave the senses.

3) The planets will envy you for what you’ve achieved,

as a light from you illuminates the orb of the sun.

4) For you are the meaning, it exists in you;

all creation is in you, the throne and the stool!

The central theme of this poem is the enlightened gnostic who

becomes a microcosm of all existence; even the heavenly throne and
footstool may be found in him, suggesting the encompassing nature
of the realized gnostic and his great spiritual authority. The religious
nature of the poem is suggested in the first verse by the word play
between uns (“intimacy”) and ins (“humanity”), and the opposition
between separation (furqah) from the world and presence (ḥaḍrah) with
God. The second verse builds on this dichotomy with references to
life and death, and mystical elements are apparent in the common
Sufi pairings of abiding (tabqā) and passing away (fanā), and spiritual
essence (ma˜nā) versus sensate matter (ḥiss). The gnostic’s transcendence
rises to cosmic proportions in verses 3 and 4, which probably reflect
al-Suhrawardī’s metaphysics of light, although one could also read
them as exuberant declarations of mystical exhilaration.89
As al-Suhrawardī’s short poem demonstrates, Sufis sometimes
composed poems on mystical subjects without recourse to traditional
love or wine themes, which is the case with a number of poems
ascribed to a contemporary of al-Suhrawardī, the North African Sufi
master Abū Madyan (d. 594/1198). His poems often take the form
of prayers for forgiveness or meditations on God and His power:90
 INTRODUCTION 25

Allāhu rabbī lā urīdu siwāhu

hal fī-l-wujūdi-l-ḥayyu illā-llāhu
dhātu-l-ilāhi bi-hā qiwāmu dhawātinā
hal kāna yūjadu ghayruhu law lāhu

God, my lord, I want nothing but Him.

Is anything in existence alive save Him?
Divinity’s essence sustains our being.
Could anything else be found without Him?

Abū Madyan also composed Sufi love poems and muwashshaḥ,

a strophic poetic form popular in Spain and North Africa. He is also
credited with several wine odes and a poem in praise of the Sufis and
their exalted spiritual path.91 Despite, Abū Madyan’s great reputation
as a religious scholar among his many followers in North Africa, Ibn
Khallikān makes no mention of him or his poetry in the Wafayāt.
Perhaps, Abū Madyān’s teachings, which were passed on orally in the
Maghrib, were not yet well known farther east in Egypt and Syria.92
Stranger still is the omission of any word on the writings of another
famous Sufi author, Muḥyī al-Dīn Ibn al-˜Arabī (d. 638/1240). Although
Ibn al-˜Arabī had been born in Spain and educated there and in North
Africa, he traveled to the eastern Muslim lands and eventually settled
and died in Damascus.93 Ibn Khallikān mentions that he had met him
there, and that Ibn al-˜Arabī was one of several North African jurists
who did not rely on past legal traditions, but came to their own
conclusions in their cases based on the Qur’ān, the prophetic traditions,
consensus (ijmā˜), and analogical reasoning (qiyās).94
Despite Ibn Khallikān’s omission of a biography on this Sufi
master, Ibn al˜Arabī was a pivotal figure in Islam, and his numerous
writings and personal charisma made a tremendous impact on the
Sufi tradition.95 Of particular importance was his mystical philosophy,
which dominated Islamic metaphysical thought for centuries.
Commonly referred to as waḥdat al-wujūd, or “the unity of being,”
this doctrine asserts that the existence of anything is identical to its
relation to necessary being. Contingent existence, then, is relational to
the Absolute, which it must reflect if only in a limited and transient
way. Therefore, the spiritual seeker must grasp the relativity of himself
and all other things. Then he will find and witness the permanent
ground of all being within its ever changing self-disclosure in the
guises of the divine names and attributes.96 Ibn al-˜Arabī developed
these and related ideas in a number of books and epistles, most
26 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

notably in his al-Futūḥāt al-Makkīyah (“The Meccan Revelations”) and

the Fuṣūṣ al-Ḥikam (“The Bezels of Wisdom”). Scattered throughout
these works are verses composed by him to accentuate complex and
often abstruse teachings. Not surprisingly, much of this poetry is in
the badī˜ style:97

fa-yaḥmadunī wa-aḥmaduhu
wa-ya˜budunī wa-a˜buduhu

1) So he praises me while I praise him,

and he worships me while I worship him.

2) In a state, I confirm him

while in essence, deny him.

3) So he knows me while I know him not,

while I know him and so witness him.

4) So where is self-sufficiency,
while I help and assist him?

5) For this truth, he created me,

so I know him and find him.

6) So did the ḥadīth come to us,

its meaning realized in me.

Brevity and paradox lend a creed like quality to this poem, which
concludes Ibn al-˜Arabī’s chapter on Abraham in the Fuṣūṣ al-Ḥikam.
The poem highlights the chapter’s main theme of the interdependence
of creator and creation, of the worshipped and the worshipper. In a
style reminiscent of verse by al-Ḥallāj, Ibn al-˜Arabī repeats verbs with
different subjects, at times negating them for antithesis. Furthermore,
the pronominal suffix hu, found in every verse, becomes a sliding
referent with three possible meanings—him/Him/it—grammatically
reinforcing Ibn al-˜Arabī’s ideas on interdependence.98 According to a
divine saying popular among the Sufis, God was a hidden treasure who
desired to be known and, so, initiated creation. God’s self-knowledge,
therefore, is dependent on His being known in and by creation. Thus,
although enlightened believers praise and worship God, it could be
said, relatively speaking, that He praises and worships them for helping
to manifest Him (vv. 1–2). This creation, then, confirms a creator, who
 INTRODUCTION 27

cannot be known otherwise, for the unmanifest Absolute is necessarily

without predicate (vv. 2–3). However, within the realm of creation,
God, as creator, is dependent on His creations who manifest His names
and attributes and so witness to His existence (vv. 4–5). The realized
mystic discovers this reality within and so lives not according to his
own selfish will, but according to the divine will, which he finds
throughout existence (vv. 3, 5–6). As God says in the “Tradition of
Willing Devotions” referred to in the final verse of the poem:

And My servant continues to draw near Me through willing

acts of devotion until I love him, and when I love him, I
become his ear with which he hears, I become his eye with
which he sees . . .

Ibn al-˜Arabī composed a great deal of poetry, which may be

found throughout his many doctrinal works and in his Dīwān, a
substantial collection of poetry filled with verse in various forms
on a variety of subjects. The poems include several qaṣīdahs and
elegies along with numerous shorter poems on such topics as astral
phenomena, dreams, the spiritual significance of the alphabet, the
ninety-nine names of God, and the chapters of the Qur’ān. The
majority of this verse has few rhetorical devices, and its religious and
pious intent is usually unambiguous. Additionally, a few of the poems
reflect newer poetic forms such as the five-hemistich takhmīs, and the
Andalusian muwashshaḥ, which was becoming popular in Ayyubid
Egypt and Syria.99 Ibn al-˜Arabī also compiled a second collection of
poems consisting of qaṣīdahs and ghazals, and entitled the Turjumān
al-Ashwāq (“The Interpreter of Desires”), to which he added a mystical
commentary to each poem.100 Ibn al-˜Arabī’s commentary may have
been the first such work on Sufi poetry, and it appears to have set a
trend within Islamic mysticism as several of his students and a number
of later Sufi scholars began to expound their mystical doctrines in
commentaries by reading verse by others as embodying specific Sufi
doctrines and experiences. Ironically, for the next five centuries, the
focus for the overwhelming majority of these commentaries would
not be Ibn al-˜Arabī’s verse, but that by his Egyptian contemporary,
˜Umar Ibn al-Fāriḍ.101 Ibn Khallikān might have appreciated this
fact, since one of his longest entries for any Sufi poet in the Wafayāt
al-A˜yān was that on Ibn al-Fāriḍ:102

Abū Ḥafṣ and Abū al-Qāsim, ˜Umar ibn Abū al-Ḥasan ˜Alī
ibn al-Murshid ibn ˜Alī, of Hama by origin, Egyptian by
28 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

birth, residence, and death, known as Ibn al-Fāriḍ, having

the title al-Sharaf [i.e., Sharaf al-Dīn].
He has a volume of fine (laṭīf) poetry in which his
style is pure and elegant, following the mystics’ way (ṭarīqat
al-fuqarā’). He has an ode of about six hundred verses in
accordance with their technical terminology and method.103
How fine is his statement in one of the long odes:104

How welcome the words

I was unworthy to receive
from the bearer of glad tidings,
proclaiming relief after despair:

“Good news for you,

so strip off what is on you,
for you have been remembered
despite your crooked ways!”

And his saying from another ode:105

Because of you,
I am never free of envy.
So do not waste my night vigil
with the shocking phantom’s disgrace.

Ask the night’s stars

if sleep ever visited my eyes,
for how can it visit
one it does not know?

And from it:106

And despite the skill

of those who describe his loveliness,
time will pass away with things in him
yet to be described!

He has rhymed couplets (dūbayt), colloquial verses

(mawāliyā), and riddles (alghāz). I have heard that he was a
pious, virtuous, and abstemious man. He lived for a time
in Mecca; may God add to its honor! He made a fine com-
 INTRODUCTION 29

panion and was praiseworthy. One of his companions told

me that one day in solitude (khalwah), (Ibn al-Fāriḍ) was
humming a line of al-Ḥarīrī, the author of the al-Maqāmāt:107

Who is the one who never sinned,

who is he who has only the best?

(The companion) said: “He heard a speaker—but saw no

one—recite:

Muhammad, the guide,

to whom was Gabriel’s descent!”

A group of his companions recited his colloquial verses to

me about a young man who was a butcher by profession.
They are clever, but I have not seen them in his Dīwān:

I said to a butcher: “I love you,

but oh how you cut and kill me!
He said: “That’s my business,
so you scold me?”
He bent and kissed my foot to win me,
but he wanted my slaughter,
So he breathed on me to skin me.108

I have written it according to their usage though they do

not observe the final vowels or voweling. Rather, they allow
grammatical error; indeed, most of it is ungrammatical. So,
let him who comes upon it not censure it.

(Ibn al-Fāriḍ) used to say: “I learned two verses in my

sleep, and they are:

By the life of my longing for you,

by the sanctity of dignified patience,
My eyes have never held other than you,
nor have I desired another friend.”109

His birthday was on the fourth of Dhū al-Qa˜dah, in the

year 576 [1181] in Cairo, and he died there on Tuesday, the
second of Jumādā I, in the year 632 [1235]. He was buried
30 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

the next day at the foot of Mt. Muqaṭṭam. May God most
high have mercy upon him! The fāriḍ is one who draws
up the legal shares (furūḍ) that men must pay to women.

Ibn Khallikān’s biography of Ibn al-Fāriḍ echoes accounts by

the poet’s students but it is much more substantial regarding Ibn
al-Fāriḍ’s verse. Ibn Khallikān did not state that he personally knew
Ibn al-Fāriḍ, who had died when Ibn Khallikān was still a young man
of about twenty-five. However, Ibn Khallikān had spoken to some
of the poet’s companions, and he described Ibn al-Fāriḍ as pious,
of good company, and good-natured; he also noted Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s
interest in Sufism and his long mystical poem the al-Tā˘īyah al-Kubrā.
Ibn Khallikān was clearly familiar with a collection of Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s
poetry, which included rhymed couplets, colloquial verse, and riddles,
and he cited verses from several long poems and some colloquial
verses, not included in early editions of the Dīwān, which he found
to be a delightful example of Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s literary wit.110 Moreover,
Ibn Khallikān mentioned that Ibn al-Fāriḍ once reflected on a verse
by al-Harīrī regarding a sinless person, and while the story has a
rather miraculous ending, Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s familiarity with al-Harīrī was
yet another sign of being an accomplished man of letters.111 Unlike
his biographies of Ibn al-Shahrazūrī and Yaḥyā al-Suhrawardī, Ibn
Khallikān did not include a full poem by Ibn al-Fāriḍ, save a short
couplet. Yet, this was not because he did not admire Ibn al-Fāriḍ
and his verse. Rather, Ibn Khallikān regarded such long quotation
as unnecessary since Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s verse was well known and easily
accessible. In fact, when Ibn Khallikān compiled his biographical
dictionary, Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s poetic reputation was already secure, to
such a degree that later scholars would refer to other Sufi poets as
composing verse “in the way of Ibn al-Fārid.”112
 1

Mystical Improvisations

In most of his moments of inspiration, the Shaykh was

always perplexed, eyes fixed, hearing no one who spoke,
nor even seeing them. Sometimes he would be standing,
sometimes sitting, sometimes he would lie down on his
side, and sometimes he would throw himself down on
his back wrapped in a shroud like a dead man. Ten days,
more or less, would pass while he was in this state, he
neither eating, drinking, speaking, or moving. . . . Then
he would regain consciousness and come to, and his first
words would be a dictation of what God had enlightened
him with of the ode Naẓm al-Sulūk.1

Master Poet

This account of Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s trance and verse reflects several medieval
Muslim notions regarding poetic and religious inspiration. First, the
trance confirms the inspired quality of the poet’s verse that, then, should
not be confused with the contrived poetry of academic artifice. Like
the pre-Islamic poets and soothsayers, and the legendary Muslim poets
driven mad by love, Ibn al-Fāriḍ has tapped deep spiritual sources.
Yet his inspiration is not from a jinni or Satan, but from God, and
this attests to the profound truth of the poet’s religious message. After
being lost in divine love, Ibn al-Fāriḍ recovers to spontaneously recite
verse, which would later compose his most famous mystical poem.
Such miraculous tales of Ibn al-Fāriḍ were popularized and passed on
by generations of his admirers, and they form an important chapter in
the story of the poet’s posthumous sanctification.2 But this image of
Ibn al-Fāriḍ as an ecstatic Sufi obscures important literary dimensions
of his work, especially questions regarding his literary benefactors
and their influence. For Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s polished and highly mannered

31
32 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

poetry challenges persistent views of him as a manic oracle reciting

from the depths of mystical trance. His poems are carefully crafted
works replete with intricate rhetorical displays, and Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s
learned poetic skill is also evident in his conscious references to verse
by earlier Arab poets.3
In an eleventh/seventeenth-century grammatical commentary on
Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s Dīwān, Ḥasan al-Būrīnī (d. 1024/1619), occasionally noted
the poet’s direct dependence on amorous verses by his predecessors,
including al-Buḥturī.4 More recently, A.J. Arberry believed that Ibn
al-Fāriḍ was indebted in several places to Imru’ al-Qays and ˜Umar
Ibn Abī Rabī˜ah. Furthermore, Ibn al-Fāriḍ was clearly influenced by
several of his older contemporaries including Yaḥyā al-Suhrawardī,
as Yūsuf Sāmī al-Yūsuf has argued persuasively.5 Ibn al-Fāriḍ also
improvised on a ghazal by an earlier Egyptian Sufi poet Ibn al-Kīzānī.6
However, the poet who may have exerted the strongest influence on
Ibn al-Fāriḍ was al-Mutanabbī.

Homage to al-Mutanabbī

Every competent Arab poet and litterateur of the sixth/twelfth century

was well acquainted with al-Mutanabbī’s esteemed poetry. Al-Būrīnī
often cited verses by al-Mutanabbī in commenting on Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s
Dīwān, and he recorded several examples of direct borrowing. Arberry
pursued al-Būrīnī’s leads and discovered that Ibn al-Fāriḍ had gone so
far as to pattern two of his poems, the al-Lāmīyah and the al-Dhālīyah,
after two poems by al-Mutanabbī. Arberry charted the rhyme words
and a few of the themes and images common to the poems, and
further analysis will reveal the extent to which Ibn al-Fāriḍ mystically
improvised on this master poet.7 Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s al-Lāmīyah is a beautiful
love poem of sixty verses, in the meter ṭawīl, rhyming in the letter lām,
or “L,” and modeled on a panegyric by al-Mutanabbī that begins:8

˜azīzun asan man dā’uhu-l-ḥadaqu-n-nujlu

˜ayā’un bihi māta-l-muḥibbūna min qablu

How a man hurts afflicted by beautiful eyes;

so many lovers died, victims of this incurable disease.
If you want, look at me; the sight of me
should warn you: passion is not easy.
It is nothing, just a glance after a glance,
but it snares the heart, and sets loose reason.
 MYSTICAL IMPROVISATIONS 33

Love for her flowed like blood in my veins,

and I was obsessed by her alone.

Al-Mutanabbī begins this ode with the familiar ghazal themes of

an overpowering love and the sorrow it brings on the lover. He then
goes on to recount how love has left him emaciated and the object
of ridicule. Still, he is deaf to his blamer, and sleeplessly passes his
night in hopes of meeting his beloved, who is as beautiful as the
moon (vv. 5–10):

I love one like the full moon,

but I complain to one who has no peer,
To one unique in all the world, Shujā˜ Ibn Muhammad,
the valiant, benefit to God and himself!

Here, al-Mutanabbī makes his transition from the opening section

on love (nasīb) by beseeching his patron to rectify this sorry state (v.
9), and this initiates a long description of his liege lord. Al-Mutanabbī
lauds Shujā˜’s noble Arab lineage to the prophet Muhammad and,
indeed, had God wished to send other messengers, it would have been
by means of this worthy descendent (vv. 11–12). Next, al-Mutanabbī
celebrates his master’s swift blade and daunting courage in battle;
though his worthy foes eye his fall, they only see his spear points,
which blind and kill them (vv. 13–21). With the obvious metaphor
of blinding as death, al-Mutanabbī again refers to eyes and vision
to draw attention to key themes. For in Arabic, the word ˜ayn may
mean “spring,” “eye,” or one’s “inner self,” and so, ˜ayn and related
terms for eyes often have the double meaning “eye/self-I.” Eyes and
glances, then, dominate the opening verses of this panegyric where
the emotional and psychological tumult of love is apparent; the poet’s
love began with a glance, and the beloved’s wide eyes have since
afflicted him with sleeplessness (vv. 1, 3, 8). Furthermore, in this
panegyric, al-Mutanabbī depicts others as looking at this powerful
knight, particularly during battle (v. 18), and he calls his listeners to
do the same (vv. 15–16). In this way, al-Mutanabbī progressively adds
to his iconic image of his noble master and builds toward a conclusion
proclaiming his lord’s boundless, life-giving generosity (22–29):9

Grieve for a soul blind to you for a moment,

and bless the eye beholding you every hour!
So the poor need not worry, watching for your flash,
for there is no barren land when you are its pouring rain!
34 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

Ibn al-Fāriḍ begins his al-Lāmīyah with an elaboration of

al-Mutanabbī’s warning to those who think love is an easy affair:10

huwa-l-ḥubbu fa-slam bi-l-ḥashā mā-l-hawā sahlu

fa-mā-khtārahu muḍnan bihi wa-lahu ˜aqlu

It is love, so guard your heart, passion is not easy;

wasted by it, would you choose it, if you had reason?
Live free of love, for love’s ease is hard;
it begins in sickness, and ends in death.
But to me, death in love by drowning desire,
is life revived by my beloved.
I have warned you, knowing passion and my enemy,
so choose for yourself what is sweet.
But if you want to live well, then die love’s martyr,
and if not, well, love has its worthy ones.
Not to die in love is not to live by love;
before you harvest honey you must surely face the bees.

Ibn al-Fāriḍ borrowed the maxim of the honey and the bees
from another poem by al-Mutanabbī, and there is a reference to yet
a third poem by al-Mutanabbī in verse 8 where Ibn al-Fāriḍ says:11

wa-qul li-qatīli-l-ḥubbi waffayta ḥaqqahu

wa-lil-mudda˜ī hayhāta mā-l-kaḥalu-l-kuḥlu

Say to love’s victim: “You paid the price,”

but to the pretender: “Coal black eyes are not of kohl.”

Al-Mutanabbī had used a similar image to acclaim a patron’s

genuine forbearance:12

li-anna ḥilmaka ḥilmun lā takallafuhu

laysa-t-takaḥḥulu fī-l-˜aynayni ka-l-kaḥali

Your forbearance is never feigned;

kohl-made eyes are not coal-black.

In addition to these borrowed motifs, Ibn al-Fāriḍ reused all

but six of the twenty-nine rhyme words from the model poem.13 Yet,
despite formal similarities, there remains an obvious difference between
 MYSTICAL IMPROVISATIONS 35

the poets’ concerns and subjects. Al-Mutanabbī’s opening sketch of

the beloved and the pains of love forms a lyrical introduction meant
to convey his love and loyalty toward his patron who will rectify
the poet’s complaints. Unquestionably, al-Mutanabbī hoped to be
rewarded for his exaltation of his lord and his public allegiance to him,
the poem’s main subjects (vv. 9–29). By contrast, Ibn al-Fāriḍ begins
his ghazal with what might be termed a “creed of love,” which sets
the poem’s tone and mood as the poet traces the effects of love on
the lover. The antitheses of his opening verses—ease and hardship,
sickness and health, life and death—send spiritual vibrations resonating
throughout the poem where love is eternal (vv. 30–31):

Ancient is my tale of love for her;

it has, she knows, no beginning, no end,
And there is none like me in passion for her,
while her enchanting beauty has no equal!

This “ancient tale” (ḥadīthī qadīmun) alludes to the primordial

covenant made between God and humanity in pre-eternity. Some
Arab love poets in the second/eighth century, known as ˜Udhrī poets,
claimed that their loves were foreordained then, whereas Ibn al-Fāriḍ
and other Sufis looked to the covenant as a sign of the everlasting
love between God and His worshipers.14
Perhaps following al-Mutanabbī, Ibn al-Fāriḍ also refers to eyes
and vision; those who envy are blind (v. 12), whereas the true lover
is sleepless, crying bloody tears (vv. 22–23, 28). But Ibn al-Fāriḍ often
makes a subtle contrast between the eye and the heart, the locus of
spiritual manifestations (vv. 1, 13, 20, 44, 56, 59). There, the lover holds
and beholds his dear beloved as he seeks to eradicate any lingering
trace of selfishness (vv. 34–36):

Wasting away, I disappeared; my visitor could not find me.

How can those visiting the sick see one without a shadow?
No eye ever stumbled across my track,
for those wide eyes left no trace of me in love.
Yet, when I remember her, a resolve rises within me,
and when she is mentioned, my cheap spirit grows rich.

Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s mystical intent is further distinguished from

al-Mutanabbī’s more earthly and political concerns, by the direct
reference to the martyrdom required for the sweet life of love (vv.
36 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

36–60). This difference is seen clearly at the ends of their poems.

Anticipating his patron’s munificence, al-Mutanabbī addresses him
in the penultimate verse (v. 28):

wa-waylun li-nafsin ḥāwalat minka ghirratan

wa-ṭūbā li-˜aynin sā˜atan minka lā takhlū

Grieve for a soul blind to you for a moment,

and bless the eye beholding you every hour!

Ibn al-Fāriḍ alters this verse to declare a more spiritual fealty as

he concludes an oath to his love (v. 58):

la-anti ˜alā ghayẓi-n-nawā wa-riḍā-l-hawā

ladayyā wa-qalbī sā˜atan minki mā yakhlū

Whether in parting’s anger or passion’s acceptance,

you are with me, my heart holding you every hour.

Here, Ibn al-Fāriḍ substitutes the word qalb (“heart”) for ˜ayn
(“eye”), and so transforms al-Mutanabbī’s courtly image of the poet
humbly beholding his patron into one of the lover devoutly recollecting
his beloved within the heart. Thus, Ibn al-Fāriḍ returns to his opening
image of the heart emptied of selfishness and filled with the beloved.
This, in turn, evokes images of the popular Sufi exercise of dhikr,
“recollection” or meditation on the presence of God within oneself, a
practice supported by the divine saying: “My heavens and earth do not
embrace Me, but the heart of My faithful servant does embrace Me!”15
In his al-Dhālīyah, Ibn al-Fāriḍ performs a similar transformation
from panegyric to mystical ghazal. In this case, Ibn al-Fāriḍ followed
al-Mutanabbī’s poem more closely, and he openly acknowledges his
debt to the great poet. Composing a poem rhyming with the letter
dhāl is difficult owing to the small number of words ending with
this letter, and both poets appear to have composed only one poem
with this rhyme. Al-Mutanabbī dedicated his al-Dhālīyah to Musāwir
ibn Muhammad al-Rūmī, a vizier and early patron of the poet.
Al-Mutanabbī opens his panegyric with a rhetorical question meant
to underscore the striking royal depiction of the lion walking before
the equally majestic vizier.16

a-musāwirun am qarnu shamsin hādhā

am laythu ghābin yaqdumu-l-ustādhā
 MYSTICAL IMPROVISATIONS 37

1) Is this Musāwir
or the sun’s first rays,
or a lion of the jungle
leading the master?

2) Sheath the sword

you drew in haste,
its sharp edge
hacking men to bits.

3) Suppose you break

Ibn Yazdādh and his troop.
What’s next? Is all mankind
his terrible tribe?

4) You met them,

leaving their faces
torn from their necks,
their guts in shreds,

5) On a battlefield
where wretched death
stood over them
and stripped their lives away.

6) Their frozen souls

ran as you reached them,
then you slaked their thirst
with steel.

7) When they saw you,

they saw you father
Muhammad in mail,
and your uncle Mu˜ādh.

8) With a quick blow to the necks,

you silenced their tongues
from shouting:
“There is no knight save him!”

9) You crashed down

upon the fool
38 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

with a stormy brow

raining and pouring pain,

10) So you caught him

and soaked his cloak in blood,
while he pissed
down his thighs.

11) Your keen Yemeni sword

barred his way;
he had no retreat
to Aleppo or Baghdad.

12) He sought high rank at the front,

but he was from nowhere,
from Karkhayā
or Kalwādh.

13) Did he expect

spears to be sweet
like dates
from Barnī or Azādh?

14) He had never faced,

before you,
a lancer who savored
jousting thrusts,

15) A man
whose life is sour
until he executes
his decree,

16) A seasoned warrior:

coats of mail, his comfort,
his silk against the cold,
his cotton in blazing heat.

17) A wonder you seized him,

more wondrous still
had you not plundered
the likes of him!
 MYSTICAL IMPROVISATIONS 39

Al-Mutanabbī opens his panegyric with a raging Musāwir

returning from battling the Yazdādh tribe and ready for more. Musāwir,
like his father and uncle before him, is an experienced veteran whose
sharp blade hacks through his terrified enemies, leaving their bloody
corpses strewn on the battlefield (vv. 1–7). Verse 8 is exceptional as
al-Mutanabbī underscores his patron’s prowess with a powerful phrase:

a˜jalta alsunahum bi-ḍarbi riqābihim

˜an qawlihim lā fārisun illā dhā

With a quick blow to the necks

you silenced their tongues
from shouting:
“There is no knight save him!”

Lā fārisun illā dhā (“There is no knight save him!”) echoes the

first half of the traditional saying: “lā fatā illā ˜Alī wa-lā sayfa illā
Dhū al-Faqār” (“There is no hero save ˜Alī and no sword save Dhū
al-Faqār”). ˜Alī ibn Abī Ṭālib was the cousin and son-in-law of the
Prophet Muḥammad, and within Islam, he has been extolled as the
warrior par excellence, as he wielded the famous notched sword, Dhū
al-Faqār.17 To draw such a parallel between a patron and the noble ˜Alī
might be perceived as impious exaggeration, but then al-Mutanabbī
teases his audience, for the warrior’s blade is swifter than his foes’
insolent tongues. Thus, it is left to the poet to sing this praise of
his mighty hero, and he concludes this short panegyric by comparing
the battle-hardened Musāwir to his unworthy, inexperienced foe (vv.
9–17).
Composing his al-Dhālīyah in the same meter and rhyme, Ibn
al-Fāriḍ used seventeen of al-Mutanabbī’s eighteen rhyme words. Such
a conscious patterning of an earlier poem required by tradition that Ibn
al-Fāriḍ expand and improve on the original, and so his al-Dhālīyah is
more than three times longer than that by al-Mutanabbī. Ibn al-Fāriḍ
occasionally reused the same rhyme word but with different meanings,
adding yet another stylistic flourish to his poem, which likewise begins
with a rhetorical question:18

ṣaddun ḥamā ẓama’ī limāka li-mādhā

wa-hawāka qalbī ṣāra minhu judhādhā

1) A barrier guarded your dark lips

from my burning thirst;
40 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

why, since love of you

has hacked my heart to bits?

2) If you are content to stay

as I go to my ruin
drowning in passion,
I will savor it.

3) You plundered my healthy heart,

so give it back
as my last request,
though it be torn to shreds.

4) O archer
shooting eye arrows
from the bow of your brow,
piercing the heart,

5) How could you leave me?

One who slanders me
is full of malice,
and crazy ravings,

6) And one who attacked me

to keep me from you,
he was confused,
a hypocrite and liar!

7) O blamer,
you will not find me forgetting
one who seized and holds
mankind’s loveliness.

8) How handsome he is,

a fawn making fair
his trading my fair state
for a squalid life.

9) He appeared
with beneficence and beauty,
bestowing rare things,
plundering souls;
 MYSTICAL IMPROVISATIONS 41

10) A sword his eyelids

draw against the heart;
I see their languor
its whetstone;

11) A sudden death

he springs upon us,
bringing to mind victims of Musāwir
among the Banī Yazdādh.

12) No wonder he made

his downy cheek a sword belt
since he is quick to strike,
leaving his victims to die.

13) There is magic in his eyes!

Had Hārūt beheld their power,
he would have found there
his mentor and master.

14) Blamer, you rave on

the full moon in the sky above;
such crazy talk!
That is not my friend.

15) Sun and gazelle

fell captive to his face
as he looked back at them;
both sought refuge in him.

16) He was finer than

the fragrant east wind;
his delicate nature scorned
even a shirt of finest silk.

17) His tender cheek complained

against its blushing rose,
but his hard heart
told of steel.

18) The mole burning on his cheek

consumed a friend
42 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

tied to him by a passion

rejecting salvation.

19) The dark red of his lips

is cool and sweet to kiss
in the early morning before the toothpick;
he reigned over musk, scenting it.

20) From his mouth and glance

is my drunken state;
I see a vintner
in his every limb!

21) The belts on his narrow waist

said it all
when the silent signet rings
hurt his little pinkies.19

22) The belts were delicate;

his waist was fine,
like the words of my love song
and their meanings refined!

23) Like the bough, his stature

bright as the morning,
like a long dark night, his hair
falling down his back.

24) My love for him taught me

austerity since he was like
Mu˜ādh in chastity,
fearful of the world to come.

25) So I threw away all shame

to veil him
and protect him
from a kiss on the cheek.

26) In Minā’s Khayf are Arabs dear to us

but before them stands
the death of desire,
foe to a lover seeking refuge there.
 MYSTICAL IMPROVISATIONS 43

27) In the winding tract of that sacred vale

a stag stood
guarding with sharp eye-arrows
a pool

28) Formed
by lovers’ tears
as they fell on the mountain slopes
and flowed in the valley.

29) How many canals came there

to this sandy ground,
not to the stream,
begging a drink!

30) Before the troop divided,

we were a mighty tribe,
but the long journey
broke us into clans.

31) I was soon alone after union,

far away in Syria,
while they pitched their tents
near Baghdad.

32) The distance gathered

fear within me
that had before been scattered
when I was close to them.

33) Like a brief shower on stone

are their promises made at Ṣafā
But why? I am pure
and will not break the bond!

34) Bearing their absence is bitter myrrh,

yet bearing with them
seems to me a pain
sweet as dates of Azādh

35) Solace was hard to find,

grave my rapture with them
44 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

who were shelter in the deep of night,

but then they cut the tie.

36) O white gazelle of the desert plains,

leave me alone,
for they colored my eyes with dark black kohl;
do not make me look away in sadness.

37) I swear by him

whose torturing me
I find sweet as I savor
his degrading me,

38) My eye never found

anyone lovely but him,
and though he took another, not me,
I remained true.

39) Those who slipped in to spy,

watching without being seen,
saw only a man
shattered by grief.

40) He was a lion taming

the lions of the jungle
until he fell victim
to a young gazelle.

41) So it happened
that passion’s fire filled him;
he sees its burning
but no relief.

42) Bewildered he is now;

if you met him, you would say:
“I see him pulled
every which way!”

43) Thirsty; his ribs embrace a sorrow

beyond the doctors’ power,
so he clinched his teeth
as pain bit deep,
 MYSTICAL IMPROVISATIONS 45

44) At the point of death;

stung within and plundered of life,
his sleepless state proved him to be
a match for Mimshādh.

45) A plague seized him,

and he suffered
to see on his body
the oozing ganglion.

46) Patiently, he put on

black garments of grief
to mourn when youth died,
shattered in his silver temples.

47) So his enemies were pleased

to see his youthful prime
loose as a shirt,
his hair, turban white.

48) Cold beds: there is no end

to their spreading sorrow.
So fate commands
and executes its decree.

49) His eyes never hold back,

but always give,
raining and pouring tears
for the lovers’ cruel ways.

50) He showered the mountains

with tear drops
when the clouds refused,
and filled their hollow pools.

51) When the women visiting the sick

saw him, they said:
“If anyone be slain by passion,
surely it is this one!”

Similar to al-Mutanabbī, Ibn al-Fāriḍ begins his poem praising a

hero, but one of love, not of war. In the opening verses of his panegyric,
46 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

al-Mutanabbī recounts Musāwir’s battle with his foes, whereas Ibn

al-Fāriḍ describes the beauty and prowess of the conquering beloved
and the wounds he inflicts when plundering his lover’s heart (vv. 1–13).
Ibn al-Fāriḍ pays homage to al-Mutanabbī by comparing his fearsome
beloved to Musāwir, scourge of the Banī Yazdādh. Yet, the beloved is
not a hardened warrior, but a young man, slender like a gazelle, with
a soft cheek, and eyes so enchanting that they would captivate Hārūt,
a fallen angel who taught magic to human beings.20 Ibn al-Fāriḍ shifts
further away from the knightly motifs of the panegyric to present this
image of his more refined beloved. Al-Mutanabbī praises his patron’s
marshal skills and power as he rips the faces from his foes (v. 4), while
Ibn al-Fāriḍ refers to the beloved’s radiant face (v. 15):

˜anati-l-ghazālatu wa-l-ghazālu li-wajhihi

mutalaffitan wa-bihi ˜iyādhan lādhā

Sun and gazelle

fell captive to his face
as he looked back at them;
both sought refuge in him.

Some of the more mystical passages of the Qur’ān mention God’s

face or countenance (wajh), which is present throughout creation (2:115).
Save “God’s face,” all things will perish (28:88), but on the judgment
day, He will look with mercy upon those of His creatures whose
“faces submit” (˜anati-l-wujūhu) humbly to Him (20:111). Similarly,
the Qur’ān repeatedly urges believers to “seek refuge in God” (e.g.,
16:98), before whom even the sun and moon bow down (22:18).21 But
this holy image of the beloved becomes more earthly in the verses that
follow, which depict him as a delicate, pampered youth, with cool lips,
a sweet kiss, and a fragrant scent. Like a fine wine, he intoxicates the
lover (vv. 16–23), although a restrained spiritual relationship may be
implied by Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s use of several terms with established Sufi
meanings (v. 18: wajd: “passion,” “rapture;” v. 20: sukr: “intoxication;”
v. 24: tanassuk: “austerity,” “asceticism”). Whereas Musāwir, in the
heat of battle, resembles his manly uncle, Mu˜ādh, the beloved of Ibn
al-Fāriḍ’s poem resembles the handsome ascetic Mu˜ādh ibn Jabal, a
pious and dear companion of the Prophet Muhammad (v. 24).22 This
led Arberry to assert:23

The choice of the name is thus particularly apposite, apart

from its rhetorical elegance. The reference suggests that
 MYSTICAL IMPROVISATIONS 47

the poet now has in mind a mortal beloved, no doubt a

handsome disciple, in whom he is seeing after Sufi fashion
the embodiment of the Divine Beloved.

Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s description of the beloved in the al-Dhālīyah is one

of the more detailed and embodied examples to be found in any of
his poems. This beloved also is noteworthy in that he is male, not
female as often is the case in Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s verse, and this may have
prompted Arberry’s provocative remark. Nevertheless, the poet’s close
imitation of al-Mutanabbī’s panegyric poem required a male beloved,
as well as the use of the rhyme word Mu˜ādh. Moreover, the Qur’ānic
references in verse 15 might suggest the beloved is God, although not
as convincingly as in his al-Lāmīyah. There, Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s allusions to
the pre-eternal covenant, annihilation and union in love, the heart
and dhikr, all imply a divine beloved. In the al-Dhālīyah, the beloved’s
male gender together with mention of the toothpick (v. 19: siwāk)
might allude to the Prophet Muhammad, who according to tradition,
used the toothpick first thing in the morning.24 But such prophetic
or religious allusions were standard in many earlier ghazals, as poets
praised their ideal loves, and similarly, in the al-Dhālīyah, Ibn al-Fāriḍ
presents the Muslim ideal of a handsome, delicate youth. Significantly,
this young, healthy and handsome beloved stands in marked contrast
to the aged lover’s fallen state that later becomes the poem’s focus.25
In verses 21–22, Ibn al-Fāriḍ boasts that the beloved’s thin belts
and slender waist are comparable to the delicate and refined quality of
his nasīb (vv. 21–22). Frequently, in Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s verse, such conscious
self-praise signals a transition, and here the poet introduces the standard
ghazal theme of the lover’s perseverance before the cruelties of his
beloved. Although the beloved resembles Mu˜ādh ibn Jabal in piety
and beauty, the lover must learn from Mu˜ādh’s martyrdom and purge
his self-regard and willful desires if he is to protect the beloved from
others and from himself (vv. 24–25). The poet then recalls the beloved
far away in Arabia. There a stag once guarded a pool of lovers’ tears
in a sacred precinct (ḥimā), and this powerful mythic image suggests
both the sexuality of the stag, and the water’s curative powers (vv.
26–29). The reverie of the nasīb persists as the lover sadly recalls the
departure of the tribe, which has dispersed, but not in search of new
pastures as in the pre-Islamic nasīb. Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s references to al-Khayf,
Minā, “the gathering,” and al-Ṣafā in Mecca (vv. 26–27, 30–33) allude
to the Hajj, the Muslim pilgrimage, suggesting that the sacred pool
is the well of Zamzam. According to Arab poetic tradition, the Hajj
is a time of rendezvous for lovers, whereas for lovers of God, the
48 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

pilgrimage is a hallowed occasion for contemplation and prayer. Ibn

al-Fāriḍ often combines both elements in his poems of meditation
on life and love, which feature many of the rituals and places of the
Muslim pilgrimage.26
The tribe of the al-Dhālīyah, then, is the community of Muslim
pilgrims who, upon completion of the Hajj, depart by various routes.
The lover longs to know why the pacts he made with them in Mecca
were so quickly broken. Yet, if this is the beloved’s wish, then he will
deem it good, though separation is unbearable after the joys of union
(vv. 33–35). The lover swears to his continued fidelity to the covenant
and concludes with the description of his pitiful state; once a great
man, a lion like al-Mutanabbī’s Musāwir, the lover now resembles
Mimshādh al-Dīnawarī, a Muslim ascetic worn out by sleepless
devotion to God.27 The raging fire of love has left the lover confused,
thirsting, and near death (vv. 36–44). Infected with the plague of
love, his body has lost its youth; fate has left him old, decrepit, and
alone. Wasted by the pains of separation and haunted by memories
of lost love, the lover, like a madman, wanders distraught, a victim
of undying passion (vv. 45–51).
With this ending, Ibn al-Fāriḍ has, in effect, reversed the object
of praise found in al-Mutanabbī’s poem. Whereas Ibn al-Fāriḍ lauds
the conquering beloved in the poem’s opening section, beginning with
verse 24, his hero becomes the victim broken by love. This role change
underlies the contrasting allusions made by both poets with the name
Mu˜ādh. But the poets’ differing goals are more vividly revealed by
comparing two points of climax. In verse 8 of al-Mutanabbī’s poem,
Musāwir’s victims realize at the moment of death that “There is no
knight save him!” But Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s final verse praises the slain and
not the slayer:

qāla-l-˜awā’idu ˜inda-mā abṣarnahu

in kāna man qatala-l-gharāmu fa-hādhā

When the women visiting the sick

saw him, they said:
“If anyone was slain by passion,
surely it is this one!”

This verse strikes the same theme as verse 34 of the al-Lāmīyah,

but with a different tone. In his al-Lāmīyah, Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s poetic persona
is that of a wise and experienced teacher advising a young man on
 MYSTICAL IMPROVISATIONS 49

matters of love. Therefore, he recounts his own experience of self-

sacrifice that led to his annihilation in love, so that now his beloved
abides in his heart. But this joy is absent from the al-Dhālīyah, where
the poetic persona is that of the imperfect lover. For in answer to
the rhetorical question that began the poem regarding what prevents
union, the lover still exists. So he must continue to suffer his slow,
ignominious death in hopes of a union to come. Al-Mutanabbī’s courtly
panegyric is now a faint echo in Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s lamentation on love.
Yet, Ibn al-Fārid’s al-Dhālīyah represents a literary as well as
spiritual endeavor. In his al-Lāmīyah, Ibn al-Fāriḍ was less rigorous
in his adherence to a specific work by al-Mutanabbī while composing
a beautiful and independent poem. However, in the al-Dhālīyah, Ibn
al-Fāriḍ’s careful use and play on al-Mutanabbī’s motifs and rhyme
words resulted in several difficult, if necessary, verses (e.g., vv. 5, 14,
21, 29, 34, 43–44). Furthermore, in verse 22, Ibn al-Fāriḍ boasts of
his poetic skills and this, too, strongly suggests a literary motive in
composing the al-Dhālīyah. For the imitation of a poem by al-Mutanabbī,
a recognized master of Arabic poetry, should only be dared by another
self-confident poet, and Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s very original improvisations on
al-Mutanabbī must have delighted his learned companions whether
they were Sufi adepts, established poets or, like Ibn al-Fāriḍ, both.

Transformations

Many of Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s contemporaries would have been awed by

the many clever and creative rhetorical elements in the al-Dhālīyah.
Al-Mutanabbī used word plays in his verse, but far less than Ibn
al-Fāriḍ and other poets of the seventh/thirteenth century among whom
the badī˜ style was quite the rage. Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s al-Dhālīyah is replete
with various types of jinās (“paronomasia”), ṭibāq (“antithesis”), and
other types of word play, many of which may be found in a single
verse such as verse 8:

yā mā umayliḥahu rashan fīhi ḥalā

tabdīluhu ḥālī-l-ḥaliya badhādhā

How handsome he is, a fawn,

making fair
his trading my fair state
for shabbiness.
50 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

Here we find the standard Arabic metaphor of the beloved as a

deer, but this verse also features Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s trademark, the use of
the diminutive to express endearment. In this extraordinary instance,
Ibn al-Fāriḍ stresses his admiration for the beloved by invoking a rare
diminutive of a fourth-form verbal idiom of wonder mā amlaḥahu:
“What a handsome one is he!” The lover’s total submission before
this young beauty is further suggested by the extended word play
between ḥalā (“to be sweet, pleasant, or fair”), ḥālī (“my state”), and
al-ḥaliya (“adorned,” “fair,” “sweet”), and underscored by the antithesis
between al-ḥaliya (“adorned,” “fair,” “sweet”) and badhādhā (“shabby,”
“worn out”). Thus, whatever pleases the pleasing beloved pleases the
lover even if, in other ways, it must pain him.28 But there is more. Ibn
al-Fāriḍ’s diminutive, mā umayliḥahu, is derived from the root m*l*ḥ,
which may refer to saltiness, wittiness or, as in this verse, to beauty.
So, one might translate the expression in idiomatic American English
as “What a sweetie he is!” However, the appearance in the same
hemistich of ḥalā (“to be sweet”) may cause the reader to imagine
momentarily that the poet intends to establish an antithesis between
ḥalā (“to be sweet”) and umaylaḥ meaning “salty,” when in fact he
intends the diminutive as a description of the beloved’s beauty. Such
a word play in Arabic is known as tawrīyah (“double entendre”) or
īhām (“making someone to imagine something else”). Other examples
of īhām found in Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s al-Dhālīyah occur in verse 10, jufūn,
“eyelids,” may also mean “scabbards,” while in verse 15, ghazālah,
“rising sun,” also may mean “she-gazelle.” Ibn al-Fāriḍ makes another
elaborate play in verse 18:

˜amma-shti˜ālan khālu wajnatihi akhā

shugulin bihi wajdan abā-stnqādhā

The mole burning on his cheek

consumed a friend
tied to him by a passion
rejecting salvation.

Here, the words ˜amma (“to consume,” “encompass”), khāl

(“mole”), akhā (“man,” “companion”), and abā (“to reject, scorn”), pun
on their respective meanings of “paternal uncle,” “maternal uncle,”
“brother,” and “father” (wajd, “passion,” in context of this īhām brings
to mind wa-jadd, “and grandfather”).29 Ibn al-Fāriḍ offers yet another
extended play on words in verse 29:
 MYSTICAL IMPROVISATIONS 51

kam min faqīrin thamma lā min ja˜farin

wāfā-l-ajāri˜a sā’ilan shaḥḥādhā

How many canals came there

to this sandy ground,
not to the stream,
begging a drink!

Here the words faqīr (“mouth of a canal,” “canal,” “beggar”)

and sā’il (“flowing,” “asking,” “begging”) may also be synonyms of
shaḥḥādh meaning “beggar,” all forming a kind of antithesis with ja˜far
(“stream”) if this word is taken as the personal name of the generous
Abbasid vizier, Ja˜far al-Barmakī (d. 187/803).30 These five examples of
īhām from the al-Dhālīyah have well-known forerunners in the verse of
earlier poets, and it should be assumed that Ibn al-Fāriḍ placed them
in this poem as yet another demonstration of his extensive knowledge
of Arabic poetics.31
Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s habitual use of such elaborate word plays and
other rhetorical displays has frequently been noted but rarely studied,
especially by modern scholars whose own literary tastes have been
at odds with the mannerism of the Ayyubid period. Although these
critics praise the content of his Dīwān, they usually ignore or apologize
for its poetic style. As a result, many readers have failed to appreciate
the contributions of the badī˜ style to the meaning and mood of Ibn
al-Fāriḍ’s verse. An exception is Issa Boullata who, in a short but
insightful study, analyzed a section from Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s al-Tāīyah
al-Kubrā to illustrate the harmony of content and form to be found
in this work.32 Several of Boullata’s conclusions are echoed in a later
study of Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s poetic style by Ramaḍān Ṣādiq. Ṣādiq cites
and briefly analyzes instances in which Ibn al-Fāriḍ draws attention
to his message and poetic originality by means of jinās, parallelism,
antithesis, and phonemic patterning, as in the following verse:33

fa-l-wajdu bāqin wa-l-wiṣālu mumāṭilī

wa-ṣ-ṣabru fānin wa-l-liqā’u wusawwifī

My rapture stays while union is deferred me;

patience is gone, and the encounter put off.

In this verse, Ibn al-Fāriḍ embeds several well-known antithetical

Sufi technical terms within parallel grammatical and rhythmic structures
52 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

to present the lover’s desperate state in separation from his beloved,

as requisite patience (ṣabr) is annihilated (fānin) by a passionate
rapture (wajd), which abides (bāqin) within the lover who hopes for
union. Similarly, in the following verse, Ibn al-Fāriḍ uses four pairs of
contrasting verbs in a rhetorical tour du force regarding lover’s fidelity
to his beloved:34

wa-humu humu ṣaddū danaw waddū jafaw

ghadarū wafaw hajarū rathaw li-ḍanā’ī

They are the same

whether they turn away or draw near,
love or hate, are treacherous or true,
leave or take pity for my illness.

Again, in verse 30 of the al-Lāmīyah, Ibn al-Fārid invokes antithesis

this time within an īhām to infuse his love with a mystical spirit:

ḥadīthī qadīmun fī hawāhā wa-mā lahu

kamā ˜alimat ba˜dun wa-laysa lahu qablu

My tale of love for her is ancient, as well she knows,

without before, without an after.

The īhām is between ḥadīthī (“my tale,” “my speech”) and qadīm
(“ancient”). Hadīth may also mean “new” or “temporal” as opposed
to “eternal” or “pre-eternal” (qidam), and it is precisely this temporal
element that is denied by the verse with its contrasting prepositional
phrases that create a paradox of timelessness. Within a Sufi context, the
lover’s ancient tale may well be the word balā (“yes”) that, according
to the Qur’ān 7:172, was the answer given by the progeny of Adam
in pre-eternity, before creation, to God’s question, “alastu bi-rabbikum:”
“Am I not your Lord?” This primordial covenant (mīthāq) between
God and humanity has been a source of hope and inspiration for
many Muslims and for Sufis, in particular, and, as we shall see, it is
a major theme in Ibn al-Fārid’s poetry.35
As noted in several verses just presented, antithesis (ṭibāq) is
a major element in Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s verse. In the opening verses to
the al-Lāmīyah above, Ibn al-Fāriḍ employs antitheses to transform
al-Mutanabbī’s courtly love into a mystical one: mind, or intellect,
(˜alq) contrasts with heart (ḥashā); ease (rāḥah) with hardship (˜anā),
first (awwal) with last (akhir) and, naturally, life (ḥayāh/ya˜ish) with
death (mawt/yamūt). Ibn al-Fāriḍ combines antithesis with word play
 MYSTICAL IMPROVISATIONS 53

and internal rhyme in verse 5, to proclaim forcefully love’s law, and

to once again suggest that the world is not as it at first appears:36

fa-in shi’ta an taḥyā sa˜īdan fa-mut bihi

shahīdan wa-illā fa-l-gharāmu lahu ahlu

But if you want to live well, then die love’s martyr,

and if not, well, love has its worthy ones.

Ibn al-Fāriḍ also uses antithesis along with personification and

internal rhyme in verse 18 of the al-Lāmīyah to underscore the lover’s
readiness to joyfully accept love’s consequences:

wa-ta˜dhībukum ˜adhbun ladayya wa-jawrukum

˜alayya bi-mā yaqḍī-l-hawā lakumu ˜adlu

Your torturing me delights me, and your tyranny

over me, as passion decreed for you, is just.

As in this verse, Ibn al-Fāriḍ frequently combines antithesis with

simile or metaphor to allude to hidden dimensions of reality and to
probe deeper meanings, especially regarding the beloved with her
transcendent, intoxicating nature:37

saqatnī ḥumayyā-l-ḥubbi rāḥatu muqlatī

wa-ka’sī muḥayyā man ˜ani-l-ḥusni jallati

The palm of my eye handed me

love’s heady wine to drink,
and my glass was a face
of one revealing loveliness.

Although this deft badī˜ style often adds depth to the meaning
of his verse, Ibn al-Fāriḍ also heightened the emotional pitch of a
poem via stylistic and rhetorical elements. On one occasion, he used
a peculiar device known as radd al-˜ajz ˜alā al-ṣadr in which the last
word of a verse is identical to the first word. This device appears in
three successive verses at the conclusion of the al-Yā’īyah, where the
repetition of the word ayy (“what,” “alas,” “oh,” “which”) reverberates
with loss and lamentation (vv. 146–48):38

ayyu ˜ayshin marra lī fī ẓillihi

asafī idh ṣāra ḥazzī minhu ayy
54 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

ayy layālī-l-waṣli hal min ˜awdatin

wa-mina-t-ta˜līli qawlu-ṣ-ṣabbi ayy
wa-bi-ayyi-ṭ-ṭurqi arjū raj˜ahā
rubbamā aqḍī wa-mā adrī ayy

What life passed for me in the encampment’s shade?

O, now my portion of it is what?
Alas, will the nights of union ever return?
And for distraction, the impassioned lover moans “Alas!”
By which road may I hope for their return?
Perhaps I’m dying and do not know which way.

As we see in these and other verses, Ibn al-Fāriḍ might call

on rhyme, rhythm, and metrical form, simile, metaphor, and other
rhetorical devices to unleash a dazzling display of his poetic skills.
Yet even in such instances, he creatively employs various formal and
rhetorical elements to add layers of meaning and feeling to his words.
In this way, he urges others to listen carefully to his verse and to
the larger world around them in order to witness the unity that lies
hidden under the changing surfaces of things.39

Riddles and Rubā˜īyāt

Although Ibn al-Fāriḍ often employed the badī˜ style to create emotional
tension, he also chose badī˜ for witty and humorous verse, as is readily
apparent in his riddles and rubā˜īyāt. The posing of riddles (lughz/
alghāz) was a popular pastime among litterateurs and scholars of the
Ayyubid period. Riddles were exchanged and given in answer to other
riddles and, undoubtedly, this literary game provided entertaining
demonstrations of abstruse knowledge and rhetorical ingenuity. Usually,
riddles consisted of a few verses on virtually any topic, abstract or
concrete, sacred or profane.40 Among the solutions to Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s
twenty-one recorded riddles are the names of birds, plants, and foods,
the name of a city (Aleppo), a personal name (Sha˜bān), and several,
more abstract notions such as “excellence” (ḥusn) and “well-being”
(salāmah).41 Although the answers to these riddles are simple enough,
deducing them involves a complex process of metathesis (qalb) and
substitution of radicals, either by other radicals (taṣḥīf) or by their
numerical values, according to established rules, which were known
by every gifted litterateur.42 With such intricacies, many riddles convey
a playful quality difficult to capture in translation:43
 MYSTICAL IMPROVISATIONS 55

mā ismu shay’in mina-n-nabāti idhā mā

qalabūhu wajadtahu ḥayawānā
wa-idhā mā ṣaḥḥafta thulthayhi ḥāshā
bad’ahu kunta wāṣifan insānā

What plant becomes an animal

when you juggle its name?
Toss up two letters, but hold the first;
catch a human attribute!

The first verse tells the reader that Ibn al-Fāriḍ has in mind the
name of a plant that, through metathesis becomes the name of an
animal. The second verse limits the number of possibilities by hinting
that the word has three radicals and that it becomes an adjective
describing a human being when its final two radicals are changed
following the rules of taṣḥīf. Sorting through the numerous three
radical names for plants, one arrives at līf (“fibers of a palm tree”).
If we switch the consonants by metathesis, this word becomes fīl
(“elephant”), an animal. Keeping the first radical of līf, we then apply
the substitution rules in taṣḥīf, so bā’ is substituted for yā’ and qaf for
fā’ resulting in labaq (“clever,” “suave”), which describes anyone who
is able to solve this riddle.44
In the following riddle, Ibn al-Fāriḍ plays on fractions and the
numerical values of words and their radicals to hint at a solution:45

yā khabīran bi-l-lughzi bayyin la-nā mā

ḥayawānun taṣḥīfuhu ba˜ḍu ˜āmi
rub˜uhu in aḍaftahu la-ka minhu
niṣfuhu in ḥasabtahu ˜an tamāmi

Oh riddles’ expert explain to us

which animal’s taṣḥīf is part of the year?
One fourth, if you possess it,
is half the whole when you count it!

The first verse limits the answer to an animal whose name,

following radical substitution, is equal to a portion of the year.
Reviewing the names of the months, we find that the name of the
second month, Ṣafar becomes ṣaqr (“falcon”) after substituting for the
second radical. This answer is confirmed by the riddle’s second verse.
To possess the falcon means to add the first-person pronominal suffix
to the word producing ṣaqrī (“my falcon”). One-fourth of ṣaqrī equals
56 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

one of its four radicals, and this letter must be equal to one-half of
the word’s value of four hundred, as computed by adding the values
traditionally assigned to the four radicals. The rā’ alone is equal to
two hundred and, so, although being one-fourth of the word, the
letter rā’ is worth one-half of the whole word.46
These and other riddles by Ibn al-Fāriḍ demonstrate his knowledge
of Arabic grammar and etymology, but more importantly they reveal
a sense of humor and literary wit. This playfulness, however, has
disturbed some modern scholars who find such “frivolities” as riddles
incongruous with their image of Ibn al-Fāriḍ as a pious and solemn
Sufi. Due to such convictions, the riddles have usually been ignored,
and there has even been an attempt to dismiss them as forgeries by
the poet’s grandson, ˜Alī.47 Perhaps for similar reasons, Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s
occasional verse has been overlooked by more recent readers of his
Dīwān. Nevertheless, many of the poet’s educated contemporaries in
Egypt probably enjoyed his humorous short poem in praise of Cairo.
Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s grandson ˜Alī noted that his grandfather had once
traveled to Damascus where he found the populace complaining of
plague. When Ibn al-Fārid returned to Cairo, he composed this poem
in the meter ramal:48

Damascus is the garden

of the haughty and proud,
and her hills I would desire
if not for their disease.

I was asked to describe

her Baradā as Kawthar:
her Baradā is dear,
with death!

Cairo is my homeland,
she is my goal,
and my eyes’ desire
her Mushtahā.

If my soul
dwells elsewhere,
then ask her, my friends,
what consoles her?

Most of Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s shorter poems take the form of rubā˜īyāt

(“quatrains”). A poetic genre of Persian origin, rubā˜īyāt were very
 MYSTICAL IMPROVISATIONS 57

popular in Ayyubid Egypt, where they were known as dū bayt, a

Persian phrase meaning a couplet, that is, four hemstitches (= rubā˜ī).
In a good quatrain, the first, second, and fourth hemstitches were
required to rhyme, and the third might also. Some Ayyubid poets,
such as Bahā’ al-Dīn Zuhayr, composed rubā˜īyāt in the spirit of the
fifth/eleventh-century Persian master ˜Umar Khayyām to make pointed
observations on life and destiny:49

kam yadhhabu hadhā-l-˜umru fī khusrāni

mā aghfalanī ˜anhu wa-mā ansānī
in lam yakuni-l-yawma falāḥī fa-matā
hal ba˜daka yā ˜umriya ˜umrun thānī

How long this life has passed in loss;

how heedless I am, how forgetful.
If I don’t profit today, then when?
“Life, after you, is there another?”

In contrast to such lamentations, most of Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s rubā˜īyāt

address love themes similar to those found in his longer poems. The
broken covenant, the pain of separation, and longing for union are
frequent themes, while in the following quatrain, Ibn al-Fāriḍ combines
the ancient motif of the nocturnal visit by the beloved’s phantom with
the motif of the blamer who unintentionally gladdens the lover by
mentioning the beloved in his censure of the lover’s conduct:50

al-˜ādhilu ka-l-˜ādhiri ˜indī yā qawm

ahdā lī man ahwāhu fī ṭayfi-l-lawm
lā a˜tibuhu in lam yazur fī ḥulumī
fa-s-sam˜u yarā mā lā yarā ṭarfu-n-nawm

My people, the accuser is my excuser,

he guides my love to me, a phantom in his blame.
So I don’t blame my love when he visits not my dreams,
for the ear sees what sleep’s eye does not.

In another rubā˜ī, Ibn al-Fāriḍ extols the sustenance of love:51

lam akhsha wa-anta sākinun aḥshā’ī

in aṣbaḥa ˜annī kullu khillin nā’ī
fa-n-nāsu-thnāni wāḥidun a˜shaquhu
wa-l-ākharu lam aḥsibhu fī-l-aḥyā’i
58 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

While you dwell in my heart, I will not dread,

though my dearest friends move far away.
For people are of two kinds:
those I dearly love, and those I count as dead.

By contrast, Ibn al-Fāriḍ is contrite in the next quatrain, as he

laments having fallen short in love before his death:52

rūḥī li-liqāka yā munāhā-shtāqat

wa-l-arḍu ˜alayya ka-ḥtiyālī ḍāqat
wa-n-nafsu fa-qad dhābat gharāman wa-assā
fī janbi riḍāka fī-l-hawā mā lāqat

My spirit longed to meet you, my desire,

while the earth oppressed me like my deceit.
Though my selfish soul melted from passion and pain,
next to your acceptance, it was unfit for love.

This rubā˜ī and most others by Ibn al-Fāriḍ have been interpreted
mystically due to the Sufi technical terms and references that may
be found in some of them. In this particular quatrain, Ibn al-Fāriḍ
makes the standard Sufi contrast between the divine spirit (rūḥ) and
human concupiscence or selfishness (nafs). In true love, selfishness
must be restrained and tempered so that the spirit may return to its
creator once the body is buried in the grave. Yet despite his sincere
efforts, the lover must still pray for God’s acceptance (riḍā) of him
on the Day of Judgment (yawm al-liqā’).53 In addition to their possible
religious themes, however, a number of Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s quatrains appear
to be poetic exercises in which he has reworked themes and entire
hemstitches found in other quatrains:

ahwā rasha’an kulla-l-asā lī ba˜athā

mudh ˜āyanahu taṣabburī mā labithā
nādaytu wa qad fakkartu fī khilqatihi
subḥānaka mā khalaqta hadhā ˜abathā

I desire a fawn who sends every grief to me.

After my patience saw him, it would not stay.
I cried out when I admired his form:
“Glory be to You! You did not form this one in jest!”54
 MYSTICAL IMPROVISATIONS 59

ahwā rasha’an hawāhu li-r-rūḥi ghidhā

mā aḥsana fi˜lahu wa-law kāna adhā
lam ansa wa-qad qultu lahu al-waṣlu mattā
mawlāya idhā muttu hawan qāla idhā55

I desire a fawn whose love nourished the spirit.

How lovely his deed, had it even caused harm.
I will never forget when I asked him: “Oh, my master,
“When is union? Must I die of desire?” He said: “Then!”

ahwā rasha’an rushayiqa-l-qaddi ḥulay

qad ḥakkamahu-l-gharāmu wa-l-wajdu ˜alay
in qultu khudhi-r-rūḥa yaqul lī ˜ajaban
ar-rūḥu lanā fa-hāti min ˜indika shay56

I desire a dear fawn, slender of shape,

for passion and rapture made him judge over me.
When I said: “Take my spirit!” He replied: “Amazing!
“The spirit is ours? Then give us a little now!”

Whatever the mystical content of some quatrains, the following

rubā˜ī is rather risqué at first glance:57

mā aṭyaba mā bitnā ma˜an fī burdi

idh lāṣaqa khadduhu-˜tināqan khaddī
ḥattā rashaḥāt min ˜araqin wajnatuhu
lā zāla naṣībī minhu mā’a-l-wardi

How sweet to spend the night together in a cloak,

his cheek embracing mine,
until his cheek began to sweat.
My share of it? Rose water!

This rubā˜ī has been admired for its elegant comparison of the
cheek’s perspiration to rose water, an extension of the hackneyed
motif of the beloved’s cheek red like the rose. But these verses may
also allude to the prophet Muhammad who once gave his cloak
(burdah) to a poet as a reward. Furthermore, according to popular
legend, the prophet’s sweat was the original source for the rose.58
Once these allusions are understood, much of the quatrain’s scandal
is dissipated. Given the literary customs of the period, Ibn al-Fāriḍ
60 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

may have composed this quatrain to convey a message of thanks to

a friend for a pleasant evening of conversation and poetry.59
Several other quatrains ascribed to Ibn al-Fāriḍ may serve as
further illustrations of his intricate badī˜ style. The poet ends each
hemistich of the following rubā˜ī with the word khaṭā but with four
different meanings: “turning grey”; “walk away”; “Khaṭā,” the name
of a city; and “mistake.” With this extended word play, Ibn al-Fāriḍ
draws a parallel between the foolish old man who visits the brothels,
and the dishonor it brings him:60

lammā nazala-sh-shaybu bi-ra’sī wa-khaṭā

wa-l-˜umru ma˜a-sh-shabābī wallā wa-khaṭā
aṣbaḥtu bi-sumri Samarqandin wa-Khaṭā
lā afruqu mā bayna-ṣawābin wa-khaṭā

When hoariness fell upon my head turning it grey,

and life with youth turned and walked away,
Then I awoke with the tawny beauties of Samarqand and Cathay.
Now, I can not tell what is right from what leads astray.

The poet again uses homonyms and punning (jinās) to drive home
his point in the following quatrain which, according to tradition, Ibn
al-Fāriḍ recited near the end of his life:61

khalīlaya in zurtumā manzilī

wa-lam tajidāhu fasīḥan fa-sīḥā
wa-in rumtumā manṭiqan min famī
wa-lam tarayāhu faṣīḥan fa-ṣīḥā

My two dear friends, if you visit my house,

but find it cramped, then out!
And if you crave a phrase from my mouth,
but find it rough, then shout!

In addition to their literary value, these rubā˜īyāt and riddles, as

this last example illustrates, are noteworthy for their portrayal of Ibn
al-Fāriḍ as a witty, educated poet. Although the authenticity of the last
two quatrains is open to some question, their style and tone echo that
of Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s other occasional verses, which exhibit his knowledge
of Arabic and, too, a sense of humor. Moreover, as the examples
illustrate, badī˜ is an essential component of Ibn al-Fārid’s sophisticated
poetry. This badī˜ style, together with Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s riddles, rubā˜īyāt,
 MYSTICAL IMPROVISATIONS 61

and improvisations on verse by his literary predecessors challenge

persistent views of him as a divinely possessed poet spontaneously
reciting from the depths of mystical trance. However, it would be
equally wrong to regard the significance and function of his badī˜ as
merely the decorative product of the mannered poetry of his time.
For Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s selection and use of the badī˜ style was particularly
appropriate to his mystical themes whose expression required a highly
symbolic language with deeply subliminal associations, as is clear in
his ghazals, or love poems.
 2

Love’s Secrets

Tryst

From the start, love and poetry have been intimate companions
with Islamic mysticism. The love between God and humanity is an
essential element of the Sufi tradition, and this relationship, with its
many permutations, is central to Arabic religious verse. This poetry,
like love and mysticism, is more or less oblique, for it shares with
them a fundamental problem regarding language, namely, how does
one discuss the larger world of experience with language that has
evolved to satisfy specific everyday needs. With striking images and
metaphors, structural and phonemic patterning, and the beat of rhythm
and rhyme, a poem can evoke moods and convey meaning by drawing
attention to language via language itself. In this way, the poet urges
others to listen more closely and so invest renewed attention in their
immediate surroundings, which are psychological and spiritual, as
well as physical and temporal.
Verse, then, marks a return, a recollection, and a remembrance that
are of equal importance to love and mysticism, and so Muslim mystics
naturally turned to love poetry to voice their feelings and beliefs.
Early Sufi love poetry draws many of its themes and images directly
from the Arabic ghazal tradition, whether embodied in the pre-Islamic
nasīb, the chaste laments by Jamīl and other ˜Udhrī poets, or in the
playful love songs of such poets as ˜Umar Ibn Abī Rabī˜ah. But Islamic
mysticism, Arabic poetry, and love have reciprocal relationships, and
by the fourth/tenth century, many professional poets found inspiration
in Sufism. Al-Mutanabbī employed the mystical language of antithesis
and paradox to amaze and praise his royal patrons, whereas the
Andalusian poet Ibn Zaydūn (d. 463/1071) relied on mystical allusions
to intimate the spiritual nature of his abiding love for a fickle lover.
Such unions were encouraged and strengthened by medieval views
of love, particularly those influenced by neo-Platonism, which saw all
forms of love as emanating from one divine source.1

63
64 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

Nevertheless, permissible love relationships, as well as their

forms of public expression, were matters of concern to religious
scholars and litterateurs, alike. The theologian and mystic Muhammad
al-Ghazālī (d. 505/1111) warned that public recitation of love poetry
might arouse lust and unseemly behavior among the ignorant masses,
and the Ḥanbalī scholar Ibn al-Jawzī (d. 597/1200) was scandalized
when amorous verses by Ibn al-Rūmī were recited from the pulpit
during a Friday sermon. By contrast, as we have seen, the literary
critic al-Tha˜ālibī censured al-Mutanabbī for using the Sufis “tangled
words and abstruse meanings” in his poetry, whereas others criticized
Sufi poets for composing love poetry at all.2 This seems to have also
been the case when Ibn al-˜Arabī compiled a collection of his poems
entitled the Turjumān al-Ashwāq (“The Interpreter of Desires”). In the
original preface to this work, Ibn al-˜Arabī noted that when he arrived
in Mecca in 598/1202, he began to study with an Iranian scholar who
had a daughter named Niẓām. This woman’s physical and spiritual
beauty inspired Ibn al-˜Arabī to compose poems using the style and
expressions from ghazal poetry that, he said, fell far short of his true
feelings:3

Nevertheless, I have put into verse for her sake, some of

the longing thoughts suggested by those precious memories,
and I have uttered the sentiments of a yearning soul and
have indicated the sincere attachment, which I feel, fixing
my mind on the bygone days and those scenes, which her
society endeared to me. Whenever I mention a name in
this book, I always allude to her, and whenever I mourn
over an abode, I mean her abode. In these poems, I always
signify divine influences, spiritual revelations, and sublime
analogies according to our most exemplary way (ṭarīqah)—
for the next world is dearer to us than this one—and due
to her understanding of what I was alluding to. May God
preserve the reader from thinking of anything unbecoming
to souls that scorn evil, and to lofty spirits that are attached
to the things of heaven!

Despite Ibn al-˜Arabī’s assertion that he followed the Sufi path

in his poems, a number of these love lyrics have no clear mystical
referents, leaving them open to more worldly interpretations, and so
an overly literal reader complained that Ibn al-˜Arabī, as a scholar
of religion, had no business composing erotic verse. As a result, Ibn
al-˜Arabī compiled a new edition of the Turjumān al-Ashwāq, claiming
 LOVE’S SECRETS 65

that his use of “the erotic style and form of expression” (lisān al-ghazal
wa-t-tashbīb) was allegorical in intent; because people liked erotic
poetry, it was a useful medium for his mystical message. However,
to avoid further misunderstandings, Ibn al-˜Arabī added an extensive
commentary on the spiritual and mystical allusions to be found in
each poem.4
The verse of Ibn al-˜Arabī’s Egyptian contemporary, Ibn al-Fāriḍ
has faced similar criticism on occasion. A century after the poet’s death,
several critics took exception with Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s monistic mystical
doctrines, along with his depiction of God as a feminine beloved in
his Naẓm al-Sulūk (“Poem of the Sufi Way”). For this reason, one critic,
al-Ḥusayn Ibn al-Ahdal (d. 855/1451) forbade Muslims from reading
or listening to the Naẓm al-Sulūk. As for Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s love poems, Ibn
al-Ahdal dismissed them as comparable to verse by the pre-Islamic
Arabs; while a Muslim was permitted to listen to such infidel poetry,
it was better left alone.5 As was the case with the al-Lāmīyah and the
al-Dhālīyah, close readings of Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s other poems encourage their
mystical interpretation, but Ibn al-Ahdal’s comparison, nevertheless,
points out the poet’s continuity with earlier Arabic verse. This is
particularly the case with Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s love poetry.

Love Talk

Like other Arabic genres of unified theme, the ghazal, or love poem,
echoes the moods and themes of the pre-Islamic ode (qaṣīdah) and, in
this case, specifically those of its elegiac prelude, the nasīb. Following
the nasīb’s opening recollections of the departed beloved, the poet
might describe his mistress or his past encounters with her and her
companions who often chided him for being immoderate and reckless.6
The early ghazals of the Umayyad period developed these and other
elements of the nasīb, especially the dialogue between the poet and
his beloved, and so significantly enhanced the nasīb’s lyrical qualities.
Whereas the pre-Islamic nasīb generally dwells on a failed love affair
in the past, the ghazal usually addresses a current beloved, and ghazals
are sentimental, not heroic like the early qasīdahs. This shift probably
reflects, in part, increasingly individual and less tribal perceptions
of life refined by life in the cities of the Ḥijāz and, later, Syria. The
influence of singing girls and folk poetry also is apparent in the simple
charm of this urban poetry, which is well illustrated by the Ḥijāzī
ghazals of ˜Umar Ibn Abī Rabī˜ah with their playful seductions of
noble ladies:7
66 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

thumma qālat li-llatī ma˜ahā

lā tudīmī naḥwahu-n-naẓarā

Then she said to her friend,

“Don’t keep staring at him!
Slyly, sister, coyly,”
and I listened in.
“Sister, he’ll leave us
if he gets what he needs!”
I said, “You’ve got real class;
I see nothing to fear from me.
So take a lover, one ready to die.
Then let God shame whoever’s unfaithful!”

This early sensual poetry of illicit love and sexual gratification

may express individual and collective yearnings, particularly the desire
to be free from the ambivalent and confining strictures of conscience
and society, restraints tightened by Islam and the political centralization
of the Umayyad caliphate.8 Social and economic tensions may also
underlie the ˜Udhrī ghazal, which retains the deep sentiments of the
early nasīb. Poems by Jamīl ibn Ma˜mar (d. ca. 82/701) of the ˜Udhrah
tribe,9 and similar verse by other poets of the first/seventh century,
sadly relate tales of an undying love that is never consummated as
fate and society scheme to prevent a happy union between the lover
and his beloved. A sense of loss and despair pervades these poems
of passive resistance against social and religious norms, and the
martyrdom of love becomes a substitute for the heroic quest. Unable
to attain the object of his desire, the ˜Udhrī poet wastes away or is
driven insane, as was said to have been the case with the legendary
Qays ibn al-Mulawwah, known as Majnūn, the “Possessed.”10 This
chaste ˜Udhrī love became an Arab-Muslim ideal sanctified by the
prophetic tradition: “One who loves, remains chaste, never reveals
the secret, and dies, dies the death of a martyr.” The spiritual nature
of this ˜Udhrī love is also underscored by frequent references to God,
the Qur’ān, and Islamic beliefs and rituals. Still, it is the beloved’s
will, or the law of love, that must be obeyed at all cost, even if this
will lead to the violation of social and religious norms:11

yā ḥabbadhā ˜amalu-Sh-Shaytāni min ˜amalin

in kāna min ˜amali-Sh-Shaytāni ḥubbīhā

How lovely the work of Satan

if from his work is my love for her!
 LOVE’S SECRETS 67

Unlike ˜Umar ibn Abī Rabī˜ah’s compliant lady, the beloved of

˜Udhrī poetry is a sacred ideal aspired to but never won. Though
the beloved is praised for her beauty, she is rarely described, and her
lover must renounce his physical existence and self-will, and passively
accept the cruelties of unrequited love. Remaining chaste, mortifying
the flesh, the lover longs for a reunion between spirits destined for
each other since pre-eternity:12

ta˜allaqa rūḥī rūḥahā qabla khalqinā

wa-min ba˜dimā kunnā niṭāfan wa-fī-l-mahdi

My spirit clung to hers before our creation

and after we were sperm drops, and then in the cradle.

Yet, due to social and religious barriers, this union may never be
consummated before death and, so, the lover flames with the fire of
passion and is consumed in an exaltation of emotion. The unattainable
beloved remains his despair and, like the pre-Islamic Arab poet
mourning in the abandoned campsite, the ˜Udhrī poet laments his
lost garden of Paradise:13

khalīlayya Laylā jannatī wa-bi˜āduhā

jahīmī wa-nuskī in aradtu ṣalātiyā

Oh my friends, Laylā is my garden,

her staying away, my hell,
and my ascetic devotion
when I want to pray.

Beginning in the late second/eighth century, during the Abbasid

period, ˜Udhrī love blended with ideas of aesthetic refinement (adab)
producing a spirit of courtliness, which permeated many later ghazals.
The ˜Udhrī ideals were gradually altered, as courtly love and its
themes were increasingly applied to panegyrics, as we see in the
verse of such poets as Abū Tamām and, later, al-Mutanabbī. Human
love continued to be a powerful force, and the bliss of union and
the pains of separation remained central poetic concerns. But more
realistic, sometimes erotic and humorous love poetry tempered the
self-effacing and masochistic aspects of ˜Udhrī love, as is clear in the
ghazal poetry composed by Abū Nuwās (d.c. 198/813), whether his
love interest was male or female, ideal or human:14

aḍramta nāra-l-ḥubbi fī qalbī

thumma tabarra’ta mina-dh-dhanbi
68 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

You set love’s fire in my heart,

then washed your hands of the crime!
Even as I plunged into the sea of passion,
as the waves crashed upon my heart,
you divulged my secret and forgot about me.
Is that justice, my dear?
Suppose I can’t defend myself from passion;
won’t you at least fear the Lord?

Still, the ˜Udhrī passion for an ideal beloved and union with her
were preserved and transfigured in later Arabic verse, particularly,
Sufi poetry.15 Given the centrality of love within the Islamic mystical
tradition, it is not surprising that Sufis appropriated and allegorized
Arabic love poetry to speak of mystical concerns. In fact, their
reinterpretation of this poetry was so thorough that the ˜Udhrī poet
Majnūn became the archetypal mystic obsessed with God to the
point of apparent insanity.16 Even ˜Umar ibn Abī Rabī˜ah’s risqué
conversational style found a place in Sufi verse:17

wa-lammā-dda˜aytu-l-ḥubba qālat kadhabatnī

fa-mā lī arā-l-a˜ḍā’a minka kawāsiyā
fa-mā-l-ḥubbu ḥattā yalṣaqa-l-jildu bil-ḥashā
wa-tadhbula ḥattā lā tujība-l-munādiyā
wa-tanḥala ḥattā la yubaqqī laka-l-hawā
siwā muqlatin tabkī bihā aw tunājiyā

And when I claimed love, she countered: “You lied to me!

Why are your limbs still clothed in flesh?
There’s no love till skin clings to bone,
and you, so parched, can’t answer the caller,
and you dry up till passion leaves you nothing
save an eye to weep and confide!”

In these verses, the famous Baghdadi Sufi Sarī al-Saqaṭī (d.

253/867) transforms the traditional theme of the blaming woman who
chides her presumptuous suitor, into a harangue on the importance
of the via negativa for the mystical life. Read in terms of al-Saqaṭī’s
mystical ideas, this poem demands the eradication of the seeker’s
selfish desires and volition as a prerequisite for pure spiritual love.
Yet this mystical reading is plausible only because these verses were
cited in the clear mystical context of a Sufi manual.18 For al-Saqaṭī’s
poem, like the majority of Arabic Sufi love poetry, is part of a larger
poetic tradition that resonated with classical Greek and later Hellenistic
 LOVE’S SECRETS 69

love theories, which asserted love’s power to transform the individual

spiritually, and so overcome physical mortality. The influence of
these theories is readily apparent in medieval Arab treatises on love,
especially those by the Ikhwān al-Ṣafā’ (fl. fourth/tenth CE), Ibn
Dāwūd (d. 279/909), the celebrated philosopher Ibn Sīnā (Avicenna, d.
428/1039), and his contemporary in Spain, Ibn Ḥazm (d. 456/1064) of
Cordova. For instance, grounding Ibn Ḥazm’s famous treatise on love,
the Ṭawq al-Ḥamāmah (“The Ring of the Dove”), is the familiar Platonic
distinction between bestial sensuality and pure and ennobling spiritual
love, and Ibn Ḥazm goes so far as to suggest that the human beloved
may, in fact, embody and manifest celestial realities.19 Similarly, when
praising his mistress who had left him, Ibn Zaydūn likens Wallādah’s
incomparable beauty to God:20

lasnā nusammīki ijlālan wa-takrimatan

wa-qadruki-l-mu˜talī ˜an dhāki yughnīnā
idha-nfaradti wa-mā shūrikti fī ṣifatin
fa-ḥasbunā-l-waṣfu īḍāḥan wa-tabyīnā

We cannot name, exalt, or praise you.

Your high majesty frees us from that.
You are unique, without equal in quality.
So it’s enough that we tried to describe.

Clearly, by the sixth/eleventh century, mystical love was an integral

part of many ghazals, whether composed by court poets or Sufi masters.
Still, some in their audience inevitably failed to recognize the spiritual
dimensions of love, and so dismissed love as lust. Had Ibn al-Ahdal
listened more closely to Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s love poems, he might have heard
something quite different than erotic verse by the pre-Islamic Arabs.

Hymns of Devotion

iḥfaẓ fu’ādaka in mararta bi-Ḥājiri

fa-ẓibā’uhu minhā-ẓ-ẓubā bi-maḥājiri21

Protect you heart if you pass by Ḥājir,

for sharp arrows fly from the eyes of its gazelles.
So the heart is slain by passing there;
if it is saved, sanity’s at risk.
Upon a solitary dune is a tribe whose fawns
felled lions with their eyes.
70 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

I love a tawny one protected there by a shining sword

whose sheath is lashed deep within my heart.

Six of the fifteen core poems in Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s Dīwān are ghazals,
each beginning with a highly emotional and lyrical introduction
describing the lover’s present predicament. The poet invokes love and
the beloved, and attests to his inevitable destruction at their hands:22

qalbī yuḥaddithunī bi-annaka mutlifī

rūḥī fidāka ˜arafta am lam ta˜rifi
lam aqḍi ḥaqqa hawāka in kuntu-l-ladhī
lam aqḍi fīhi asan wa-mithlī man yafī
mā lī siwā rūḥī wa-bādhilu-nafsihi
fī ḥubbi man yahwāhu laysa bi-musrifi
fa-la’in raḍīta bi-hā fa-qad as˜aftanī
yā khaybata-l-mas˜ā idhā lam tus˜ifi

My heart tells me
you are my destruction;
my spirit be your ransom
whether you know it or not.

I have not paid passion’s due for you

if I do not die for it, afflicted,
but one like me
always pays in full!

I have only my spirit,

but one who spends himself
in love for one desired,
he is no waster.

If you are satisfied with this,

then you have helped me,
but oh the wasted effort,
if you do not help.

In these opening verses to Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s al-Fā’īyah, the lover

declares his willingness to pay the ultimate price for love. These verses,
like those beginning the al-Lāmīyah, have Sufi reverberations. The heart
(qalb), through which the mystic communes with God, informs the
lover that he must die to prove his love (v. 1); base desires and self-
 LOVE’S SECRETS 71

will (nafs, v. 3) must be eliminated, and the spirit (rūh) returned to the
beloved (v. 2). The lover longs to be totally obedient and so prove his
fidelity, but his efforts are useless without the beloved’s satisfaction
(raḍīta) and assistance (v. 4). The final verse of this passage offers a
ray of hope, for the Qur’ān declares that contented souls who are
satisfying to God will be accepted on the Judgment Day when they
will enter the garden of Paradise (Q. 89:27–30).23 The lover appears to
speak face to face with his love, but later in the poem we learn that
the lover has been separated from his beloved sometime in the past.
In fact, in all of Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s poems, the beloved is not physically
present, and the beloved’s absence and sacred memories of their
previous encounter elicit the lover’s complaint:24

He is inaccessible; we have no union with him

save the vain imagining of a visiting phantom.
I would return to his dark lips, thirsting like one dying for a drink,
denied to the Euphrates, and I always came back quenched!

Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s reveries and recollections of the beloved pose

the crucial question of the lover’s worthiness to be reunited with
his beloved. This issue of separation and reunion is so central to his
ghazals that the dialogues between lover and beloved must, of necessity,
be framed in the past or represent a message from the lover to the
beloved. Even in the following verses, the beloved is far away:25

tih dalālan fa-anta ahlun li-dhākā

wa-taḥakkam fa-l-ḥusnu qad a˜ṭākā
wa-laka-l-amru fa-qḍi mā anta qāḍin
fa-˜alayya-l-jamālu qad wallākā
wa-talāfī in kāna fīhi-‘tilāfī
bi-ka ˜ajjil bihi ju˜iltu fidāka

1) Be proud in coquetry, you are worthy of that,

and pass judgment, for loveliness endowed you.
2) You possess the command, so decree what you will,
for beauty made you ruler over me
3) And if in my destruction is intimacy with you,
then hurry with it, may I be your ransom!

*****
fa-˜asā fī-l-manāmi ta˜riḍu li-l-wah-
mi fa-yūḥī sirran illayya surākā
72 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

16) And perhaps in sleep, you will appear in a dream

revealing in secret, your night-journey to me.

The openings of Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s ghazals set the scene, tone, and
mood of the poem as they enunciate a desperate desire to be fit for
another encounter with the beloved. The subsequent sections of the
ghazal present aspects of love and the lover’s dilemma featuring a
number of themes and motifs common to ˜Udhrī verse; the pains
of separation are detailed as are the lover’s many maladies and
sufferings.26 Yet, Ibn al-Fāriḍ places these ˜Udhrī allegories in mystical
contexts with the addition of Sufi technical terms and rhetorical
devices, especially antithesis. Read in this light, the separation from
the beloved in the following passage from the al-Lāmīyah leads not
only to an imprisonment in base matter and love sickness, but also
to the dark night of the soul when the mystic’s passions and desires
are progressively purged and his self-will annihilated that he may
abide in a new spiritual life:27

A token of what I encountered and suffered for her—

and I have kept my words short, not long—is this:
Wasting away, I disappeared; my visitor could not find me.
How can those visiting the sick see one without a shadow?
No eye ever stumbled across my track,
for those wide eyes left no trace of me in love.
Yet, when I remember her, a resolve rises within me,
and when she is mentioned (dhikrāhā), my cheap spirit
grows rich.

The lover strives to purify himself through suffering and

remembrance of the beloved, and his physical wasting away is
emblematic of his renunciation of his selfish will and the attainment of
spiritual passivity.28 Still, he must humbly beseech her mercy if he is to
attain his aim, for she alone decides his fate. This is quite evident in
the following verses, which further demonstrate Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s use of
antithesis and contrasting Sufi terms to enhance his poetry. The final
verse, in particular, pairs wild rapture (wajd) with patience (ṣabr), and
abiding (bāqin) with annihilation (fānin) as the lover’s heart (qalb) is
broken in seeking union (wiṣāl, liqā’) with the beloved:29

yā māni˜ī ṭība-l-manāmi wa-māniḥī

thawba-s-saqāmi bihi wa-wajdī-l-mutlifi
 LOVE’S SECRETS 73

˜aṭfan ˜alā ramaqī wa-mā abqayta lī

min jismiya-l-muḍnā wa-qalbī-l-mudnafi
fa-l-wajdu bāqin wa-l-wiṣālu mumāṭilī
wa-ṣ-ṣabru fānin wa-l-liqā’u wusawwifī

Oh you forbidding me sweet sleep,

bestowing upon me
the robe of disease
and my destructive rapture,

Have a care for my last gasp

and for what you have allowed to remain
of my wasted body
and broken heart.

My rapture abides
while union is deferred me;
patience is destroyed,
and the meeting put off.

Comparable to the physical maladies of love are love’s psychological

and spiritual effects often personified by the lover’s antagonists: the blam-
er (lā’im/lāhin/˜ādhil), the spy (raqīb), and the slanderer (wāshin). These
were standard characters in the repertoire of classical Arab love poetry.
The blamer often upholds social norms and the opinions of others; the spy
may represent the lover’s intellect and conscience, whereas the slanderer
embodies the sensual desires that oppose chaste love. Within a Sufi context,
these characters may also represent the mystic’s volitional, rational, and
physical natures, which must be tamed for selfless obedience. As was the
case in ˜Udhrī verse, in Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s poems the lover’s physical condition
mirrors his psychological and spiritual states as well, and so the wast-
ing of the lover’s body is linked to his turning a deaf ear to his various
critics:30

Say to the blamer:

“Long have you blamed me, relishing
that blame will stop me
from passion.

“Don’t be rude to me!

Taste the food of passion,
74 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

and if you love passionately,

then after that, blame me.”

*****

My eye never found

anyone lovely but him,
and though he took another, not me,
I remained true.

Those who slipped in to spy,

watching without being seen,
saw only a man
shattered by grief.31

*****

I find comfort from the slanderers between her and me,

for then she knows what afflicts me, but she is not naïve.
And I long for the blamers, loving mention of her,
as if they were messengers of passion between us.32

By rejecting the advice and blame heaped on him, the lover

disregards his good reputation and welcomes shame and public
disgrace. However, in Sufi terms, the lover destroys his selfishness
as well as his self-righteousness, which takes pride in spiritual
achievements and so smothers selfless love:33

wa-fī ḥubbihā bi˜tu-s-sa˜ādata bi-s-shaqā

ḍalālan wa- ˜aqlī ˜an hudāya bihi ˜aqlu
wa-qultu li-rushdī wa-t-tanassuki wa-t-tuqā
takhallū wa-mā baynī wa-bayna-l-hawā khallū
wa-farraghtu qalbī min wujūdiya mukhliṣan
la˜alliya fī shughlī bihā ma˜ahā akhlū

For love of her I went astray, selling happiness for distress;

my reason was hobbled unable to follow right guidance,
And I said to my good faith, to asceticism and piety:
“Go, leave me alone with passion!”
And I emptied my heart, cleansed of my existence,
that, perhaps, busy with her, we could be alone together.
 LOVE’S SECRETS 75

Throughout these physical and psychological trials, the lover is

required to keep the secret of love. In early Arabic love poetry, the sirr or
“secret” probably referred to the intimate sexual union between lovers,
although over time, the secret was said to be the beloved’s name and
identity that must be concealed to protect her honor and reputation.
But the ˜Udhrī poets increasingly praised the principle of love more
than any material beloved, and the hidden secret was transformed into
a sacred life-giving mystery.34 The secret was spiritualized further by
the Sufis who often played on multiple meanings and homonyms of
the this term sirr to allude to the inexpressible joy (sirr) of union with
God experienced by the mystic within his innermost being, or “heart
secret,” also termed sirr.35 The secret of mystical love, then, is not so
much a concealed thing as it is an ineffable experience, and attempts
to describe or define this powerful moment can only fall short of its
reality. To conceptualize the experience of love, mystical or otherwise,
is to lose it, and so rational consciousness can never fully know the
secret, which is not a problem to be solved but a mystery to be lived:36

akhfaytu ḥubbakumu fa-akhfānī asan

ḥattā la-˜amrī kidtu ˜annī akhtafī
wa-katamtuhu ˜annī fa-law abdaytuhu
la-wajadtuhu akhfā mina-l-luṭfi-l-khafī

I hid my love for you,

so affliction hid me
until, by my life,
I was nearly hidden from myself.

And I concealed it from me

for had I revealed it,
I would have found it
more hidden than hidden grace.

Although the secret or essence of personal experience, by

definition, may never be fully described to another person in everyday
language, poets and mystics have often alluded to the nonrational
character and profound effects of emotional and spiritual experiences.
As we have seen, of special importance to Ibn al-Fāriḍ and many
other poets and mystics was the analogy to be drawn between human
love and mystical experience with their comparable pains, sorrows,
and indescribable joys in union.37 Moreover, similar to earlier Sufis,
76 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

Ibn al-Fāriḍ relied heavily on antithesis to construct a paradox to

underscore the complex and confusing nature of his abiding love:38

O you taking my heart away in breach of faith,

why did you not take the rest of me to follow behind?
Because of you, part of me is jealous of my other part,
for my outer half envies my inner half where you are.
And when you are recalled in a gathering, my eye longs
to become an ear heeding him who speaks to me at night,
Accustomed to him always fulfilling his threats,
while putting off his rare promise to me.
Because he is far away, bright noon has turned dark to me,
just as when he was near, my darkness was all bright.

Once again, Ibn al-Fārid recounts an experience of union

to remember its loss. Such reveries are colored by a melancholy
reminiscent of the pre-Islamic nasīb, accompanied by a sense of
resignation and, on occasion, hope. Poignant and emotionally charged,
these hallowed memories of an earlier covenant often return in Ibn
al-Fāriḍ’s climactic conclusions to his ghazals:39

By the sanctity of the pact (˜ahd) between us from which

I never withdrew,
and by the bond of hands between us never to be loosed,
Whether in parting’s anger or passion’s acceptance,
you are with me, my heart holding you every hour.
Do you think one day my eyes will see those I love,
and my destiny please me with the gathering reunited?
Yet in essence, they never left; I see them with me.
Though they be far in form, they stay in the mind.

These verses near the end of the al-Lāmīyah illustrate the pivotal
theme of Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s ghazals. The beloved has gone leaving the
longing lover alone to remember their covenant. In the final two verses,
Ibn al-Fārid employs contrasting verbs, participles, and prepositions
eloquently to rest his case. Despite his shortcomings, the lover must
remain true to his pact, enduring separation’s trials in hopes of a
reunion with his beloved:40

fa-hum nuṣba ˜aynī ẓāhiran ḥaythumā saraw

wa-hum fī fu’ādī bāṭinan aynamā ḥallū
la-hum abadan minnī ḥunūwun wa-in jafaw
wa-lī abadan maylun ilayhim wa-in mallū
 LOVE’S SECRETS 77

They are the eye’s idol, manifest, whenever they journey

by night;
they are in my heart, hidden, wherever they alight.
Always, I have affection for them, though they were
cruel to me,
always, I am inclined toward them, though they are
weary of me.

Sun and Full Moon

In the al-Lāmīyah, Ibn al-Fāriḍ presents his lady love, naming her
Nu˜m, although like the ˜Udhrī poets, he never describes her physical
features. This female beloved is in contrast to the male beloveds found
in the other five ghazals. In most of these poems, too, Ibn al-Fāriḍ does
not describe physically his beloved beyond an occasional reference
to his bright, moon-like face, his dark eyes, deep red lips, or the
shining teeth and sweet saliva of his mouth.41 As we have seen, the
exception is Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s extended description of the beloved as a
handsome youth in the al-Dhālīyah.42 In earlier Arabic love poetry, a
female beloved might be referred to as a young man in yet another
attempt to conceal the secret of the mistress’ true identity. By the
sixth/twelfth century, however, this masculine image of the beloved
was standard in panegyrics, which had appropriated elements of the
ghazal to praise rulers and patrons. Because Ibn al-Fāriḍ modeled
his al-Dhālīyah on a panegyric by al-Mutanabbī, he may have felt
that a longer, more traditional description of the beloved was called
for than was the case for his ˜Udhrī style ghazals. Moreover, in Sufi
circles, a beardless young man was, at times, regarded as a mirror of
divine beauty in accord with two traditions ascribed to the prophet
Muhammad: “I saw my Lord in the most beautiful shape,” and “I
saw my Lord with his cap awry.” Ibn al-Fārid alludes to these and
similar traditions in his Poem of the Sufi Way, to support his view of
the divine origin of all beauty.43 The male beloved in Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s
ghazals has also led to speculation that this figure was none other than
the prophet Muhammad and his prophetic spirit or light.44
Sufi doctrines of the prophetic Reality of Muhammad (al-Ḥaqīqah
al-Muḥammadīyah) or the Light of Muhammad (Nūr Muḥammad) were
developed early in Islam and became an important element in Islamic
mystical theology. Muhammad’s light has functioned as an instrument
of creation through which the unseen absolute God articulates Himself
in pre-eternity. There, this light gazes upon God, contemplating and
worshipping Him. Furthermore, the lights of the other prophets, of
78 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

the heavenly kingdom and the hereafter, and, finally, the light of
this world emanate from Muhammad’s light.45 Significantly, some
Sufis held that the progeny of Adam who made their covenant with
God in pre-eternity emanated from the Nūr Muḥammad, which also
transmits prophecy to all of the prophets beginning with Adam and
ending in the historical, physical Muhammad. So as the essential
instrument for the primordial events of creation and their unfolding,
and as the source of prophecy, the Light of Muhammad serves as a
vital link between humanity and God. If the mystic can never hope
to be reunited with God prior to the Day of Resurrection, he may
still aspire to enlighten his divine spirit with this prophetic light.
Thus, Sufi poets have longed for and venerated this shining Light of
Muhammad, this moon illuminating all others.46
Ibn al-Fāriḍ may have referred to the prophet Muhammad
in several ghazals, including the al-Dhālīyah with its mention of the
toothbrush (siwāk), the daily use of which is ascribed to Muhammad
by Muslim tradition.47 More explicitly, Ibn al-Fāriḍ makes several
allusions to the prophet and his light in the al-Kāfīyah:48

abqi lī muqlatan la˜alliya yawman

qabla mawtī arā bihā man ra’ākā

19) Leave me an eye that perhaps one day

before I die I may see one you saw.

*****

fīka ma˜nan ḥallāka fī ˜ayni ˜aqlī

wa-bihi nāẓirī mu˜annā ḥilākā
fuqta ahla-l-jamāli ḥusnan wa-ḥusnā
fa-bihim fāqatun ilā ma˜nākā
yuḥsharu-l-˜āshiqūna taḥta liwā’ī
wa-jamī˜u-l-milāḥi taḥta liwākā

37) In you is a meaning; it adorned you to my intellect’s eye,

and made my vision a captive to your adornments.
38) You surpassed beauty’s worthy ones in loveliness
and handsomeness, so they need your meaning.
39) The lovers will gather under my banner
and all of the beauties under yours.

*****
 LOVE’S SECRETS 79

ahlu badrin rakbun sarayta bi-laylin

fīhi bal sāra fī nahāri ḍiyākā

49) Badr’s men were riders, you rode with them by night,
while they rode in the day of your light.

The final verse is the most obvious allusion to Muhammad.

According to Muslim tradition, the prophet’s holy light, bright like
the full moon (badr), shone on his loyal supporters prior to the
legendary Battle of Badr and the defeat of the Meccan pagans. Verses
37–39 of the al-Kāfīyah likewise allude to the prophet when praising
the beloved; according to a popular tradition, Muhammad will stand
before the ranks of humanity on the Day of Resurrection holding the
Banner of Praise.49 Similarly, in verse 19, the “one you saw” could
be Muhammad, though the commentator al-Nābalusī held that this
verse alludes to the Light of Muhammad that contemplates God in
pre-eternity.50 The beloved in another of Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s ghazals, the
al-Fā’īyah, also appears to reflect the Light of Muhammad, particularly
in verses 38–49:51

38) Had they let Jacob hear mention

of his handsome face,
he would have forgotten
Joseph’s beauty,

39) Or in the past, had Job seen him

in the dreaminess of sleep,
visiting him in his sickness,
his affliction would have been cured.

40) All full moons long for him,

as does every slender body,
when he reveals himself
coming forth.

41) If I said: “I have every longing for you!”

He would reply: “I have handsomeness;
every loveliness
is in me!”

42) His good qualities were perfect!

Had he shown his brightness
80 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

to the full moon,

it would not have been eclipsed,

43) And despite the artistry

of those who describe his loveliness,
time will pass away
with much still to be described.

44) By the hand of his loveliness,

I have spent all of me for his love,
and so I praised
my lovely economy.

45) For the eye desires

the form of loveliness
in which the spirit longs
for a hidden meaning.

46) Gladden me, dear brother,

and sing to me his tale (bi-ḥadīthihi),
scatter on my ear its ornament
and adorn it,

47) That hearing’s eye

may see a witness (shāhid)
to his loveliness in meaning;
grant me that and honor me.

48) Oh sister of Sa˜d

coming from my beloved (ḥabībī)
with a message (bi-risālatin),
presenting it with kindness,

49) fa-sami˜tu mā lam tasma˜ī wa-naẓartu mā

lam tanẓurī wa-˜araftu mā lam ta˜rifī
I heard what you did not hear,
and saw what you did not see,
and knew
what you never knew.

These verses proclaim the beloved’s shining countenance to be

brighter than all others, more beautiful than Joseph, able to console
 LOVE’S SECRETS 81

Jacob and heal the tortured Job (vv. 38–40). The poet then presents
the lover burning for the beloved’s all-consuming radiance, which, if
fully revealed, could prevent the moon’s eclipse (vv. 41–42), a possible
reference to Muhammad’s alleged miracle of splitting the moon.52 Ibn
al-Fāriḍ then ends his account by praising the beloved’s transcendent
perfection (v. 43). Following a declaration of fidelity (vv. 44–45), the
lover returns to memories of the beloved by calling on a friend and a
messenger, stock characters who comfort the grieving lover with news
of his absent love. The lover asks his companion to recite a ḥadīth,
a “tale” of the beloved but, of course, this term usually designates
a tradition of the prophet Muhammad (vv. 46–47).53 This tale will
let the lover “witness” (shāhid) the beloved, perhaps alluding to the
“witnessing” (shahādah) to God’s oneness and Muhammad as God’s
rasūl, His messenger. This reading is encouraged by verse 48 and the
“message” (risālah) that is brought to the poet. The “sister of Sa˜d,”
then, could refer to Ḥalīmah of the Sa˜d tribe, Muhammad’s wet nurse,
and, in this context, the word ḥabīb, “beloved,” echoes the popular
Muslim epithet for Muhammad, ḥabīb Allāh, “the beloved of God.”54
Ḥalīmah nourished the infant Muhammad and, saw his shining face,
and so, in a sense, Ḥalīmah delivered him to the world. Yet what she
experienced falls short of what the lover knows (˜araftu) from gnosis
and recognition (ma˜rifah) of the beloved’s pre-eternal light (v. 49).
Based on these verses, it is tempting to interpret the beloved
in all of Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s ghazals as a symbol for Muhammad and/
or his prophetic Light. Yet, in most instances, the beloved’s identity
remains ambiguous. Significantly, Ibn al-Fāriḍ never uses the name
Muhammad in his ghazals and only rarely does he explicitly mention
the prophet’s lineage, his virtues and epithets, or the city of Medina
where Muhammad died. These elements became requisite features in
poems praising the prophet Muhammad composed in Egypt within
a generation of Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s death, and so it is not surprising that a
later Sufi poet of the Mamluk Period, Ibn Abī Ḥajalah (d. 776/1375)
stated that Ibn al-Fāriḍ had not composed panegyrics on Muhammad.55
Moreover, two noted commentators on Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s verse, al-Būrīnī
and al-Nābulusī, often interpreted the beloved of Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s ghazals
as God and the lover as the longing human spirit.56 Verses from most
ghazals also could support such a divine beloved. For instance, in the
opening verses of the al-Kāfīyah, quoted above, Ibn al-Fāriḍ presents
the beloved as a judge possessing the “command” (amr), and so
decreeing the lover’s fate. According to Qur’ānic precedent and Islamic
tradition, the supreme judge and possessor of the divine command
(amr) is God.57 A similar situation arises near the end of the poem:58
82 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

qāla lī ḥusnu kulli shay’in tajallā

bī tamallā fa-qultu qaṣdī warākā
lī ḥabībun arāka fīhi mu˜annan
ghurra ghayrī wa-fīhi ma˜nan arākā
in tawallā ˜alā-n-nufūsi tawallā
aw tajallā yasta˜bidu-n-nussākā
fīhi ˜ūwiḍtu ˜an hudāya ḍalālan
wa-rashādī ghayyan wa-sitrī-nhitākā
waḥḥada-l-qalb ḥubbahu fa-ltifātī
laka shirkun wa-lā arā-l-ishrākā

53) The loveliness of every revealed thing said to me:

“Take pleasure in me.” But I said: “My goal is beyond you.
54) “I have a beloved, in whom I see you captive.
Others, not I, were deceived; I see you as a meaning in him.
55) “If he turns away from souls, he subdues them;
if he reveals himself, he enslaves the ascetics.
56) “For his sake, I traded my guidance for error,
my straight path for a wrong way, and my wrap was rent.
57) “The heart declared his love as one, so my glancing back at you
is polytheism, and I do not believe in partnership!”

Although this passage follows verses containing plausible allusions

to Muhammad, the beloved here takes on divine proportions. Ibn
al-Fāriḍ may have believed the Light of Muhammad was the instrument
of creation, yet God is its ultimate ground of beauty and love (vv. 53–54).
Even if we allow the Light of Muhammad, God’s beloved (ḥabīb, v. 54),
to assume this spiritual function, the Light would never be permitted to
“take worshippers” for itself, a related meaning of yasta˜bidu (“to take
captive” in v. 55).59 But a furtherer argument for reading the beloved
of this passage as possibly alluding to God is verses 56–57. There, the
lover renounces all regard for the things of this world, including his
good reputation and self-will, so that his heart (qalb) may proclaim that
he loves only the beloved. This profession of absolute love in verse 57,
waḥḥada-l-qalbu ḥubbahu, “The heart declared his love as one,” is based
on the creed waḥḥada-Allāh, “God is one,” and this phrase, like amr in
verse 2 of the same poem, implies a divine beloved.
The beloved of Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s ghazals, then, may at times allude
to a physical beloved, to love, Muhammad, his light, or God, and,
occasionally, all together. Yet the result is usually the same for a
key to understanding Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s ghazals is his recollection of the
covenant with the beloved. In pre-Islamic poetry, the covenant (˜ahd)
 LOVE’S SECRETS 83

was between the poet and a woman, usually from a neighboring

tribe. Often, the tribes were at odds, and the beloved broke the pact
when she departed with her people, an event that presaged imminent
tribal warfare.60 Following the revelation of the Qur’ān, the pre-Islamic
pact was altered, if not totally replaced, by God’s covenant with all
of humanity. An elegant blending of the two traditions is found in a
poem by the ˜Udhrī poet Jamīl. After lamenting his lost youth and
desiring union with his beloved, he declares to her that despite the
vicissitudes of time, their love must survive for their covenant (mīthāq)
was given by God in pre-eternity:61

wa-qultu lahā baynī wa-baynaki fa-˜lamī

mina-llāhi mīthāqun lahu wa-˜uhūdu

I said to her:
“Know that between you and me,
given by God,
is a covenant with Him and pacts.”

However, for the Sufis, the mīthāq, or covenant, is not primarily

between two humans or even their divine spirits. Rather, based on
the Qur’ān 7:172, this pact was taken from humanity by God prior to
creation, binding all humans to their divine creator. Once in creation
and separated from God, the devout Muslim must faithfully recollect
his first union and the prospect of a final encounter on the Judgment
Day. As the Sufi Abū al-Ḥasan al-Daylamī (d.c. 392/1001) noted in
his book on mystical love:62

When God spoke to men while they were still seed and
received the Covenant from them with theses words: “And
when your Lord took from the children of Adam, from their
loins, their seed, and made them testify touching themselves,
“Am I not your Lord?” they said “Yes . . .” (7:172), and so
on to the end of the verse, men heard this speech and saw
Him, and He caused them to experience the pleasure of that
vision and the sweetness of that speech. The pleasure and
sweetness they experienced in what they heard and saw,
moreover, remained in them, and when God created them
in the second existence and spoke to them of servanthood,
that pleasure was stirred up from within their spirits and
produced love in them. And they were bewildered with
love as a result of it.
84 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

To savor this sweet love, the Sufi recollects God through the
practice of dhikr in order to lift the veils between himself and his
Lord so as to abide in unifying love. As an early Sufi master, Abū
Muḥammad Ruwaym (d. 303/915) noted:63

Indeed, the folk heard the first dhikr when He addressed

them saying: “Am I not your Lord?” So it was hidden in
their heart secrets (asrār), just as the fact of its happening
was hidden in their intellects. Thus, when they hear the
secret contents of their hearts, they are carried away, just as
when the secret contents of their intellects appeared when
He spoke, and they believed.

Still, such moments of spiritual joy generally pass quickly and

fade. The mystic, then, strives to remain true to his covenant and
the demands of selfless spiritual love in hopes that God will be
satisfied and grace him with union once more on the Day of
Resurrection. Separation, loss, and hope of a reunion are parts of
the human condition, and they underlay Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s ghazals and,
especially, his al-Jīmīyah.

“You Have Been Remembered”

mā bayna mu˜taraki-l-aḥdāqi wa-l-muhaji

anā-l-qatīlu bilā ithmin wa-lā ḥaraji64

1) On the battle ground

between hearts and glances,
I am slain
without sin or guilt.

2) Prior to passion,
I bade my spirit adieu
due to the loveliness my eyes beheld
in that lovely site.

3) By God, for your sake,

eyelids are sleepless, longing for you,
and a heart was choked
by burning desire.
 LOVE’S SECRETS 85

4) And ribs were wasted

by heartbreak,
their curves nearly set straight
by my fevered heart,

5) And tears rained down without end;

I was barely saved
from oceans deep
by the breath of passion’s fire.

6) How lovely the sickness

that for your sake
hid me from myself;
there stand my proofs before passion.

7) Morning and evening

I grieved for you,
but I never burst out:
“Let the crisis end!”

8) I fly to every heart
obsessed with desire,
and to every tongue
addicted to love,

9) To every ear
deaf to the blamer,
and to every eye
untouched by sleep.

10) There never was a rapture

with tear ducts dry,
nor a burning passion
with unkindled desires.

11) Torment me as you will—

but not by separation from you—
and you will find a faithful lover
rejoicing in what pleases you.
86 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

12) So take what you left

of life’s last breath;
there is no good in love
if it lets the heart stay.

13) Who will help me spend my spirit

for love of a fawn,
his qualities sweet
and mingled with spirits?

14) Whoever dies desiring him

lives exalted
to the highest degree
among passion’s worthy ones.

15) He is a veiled one;

but were he to pass in a darkness
black as his forelock,
his blazing face would suffice him light.

16) So if I stray for a night

in his black locks,
his brow’s bright morn
gives guidance to my eyes,

17) When he breaths, musk confesses

to those who know its sweetness:
“My fragrance spreads
from his breath!”

18) Years of his acceptance

are as brief as a day,
but a day of his rejection
is long like the years.

19) So if he is traveling far away,

then my heart depart,
and if he is visiting near at hand,
then my eyes rejoice!

20) Say to him who blames

and abuses me for his sake:
 LOVE’S SECRETS 87

“Lay off me and my affair;

take back your poor advice.

21) “Blame is base;

no one was ever praised for it;
did you ever see a lover
mocked for burning desire?”

22) You of tranquil heart,

do not look to one who comforts me;
profit from your own heart;
beware the dark eyes’ spell!

23) I am upright and kind, my friend,

and I have offered all my counsel:
do not turn aside
at that quarter!

24) There, I stripped off my shame,

and threw away my piety
and what was pleasing and approved
of my pilgrimages.

25) Then my passion’s face

grew bright from loving him,
while the face of blaming me for his sake
turned black with proofs.

26) Blessed be God!

How sweet are his qualities;
how many hearts have they slain for him
then brought them back to life!

27) To hear mention of his name

my ear desires to hear
one pressing me with blame,
but blame never sinks in.

28) I pity the lightning flashing at night,

when it is compared to his smile,
for it is shamed
by the space between his teeth.
88 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

29) Though he is absent from me,

every grasping sense sees him
in every subtle sense
lovely and pure.

30) In the melody of the lyre

and gentle flute
when they embrace
in trilling notes of song.

31) In the meadows

of the forest gazelle,
in twilight’s cool,
and daybreak’s glow,

32) Where the mist

falls from clouds
on a blossoming carpet
woven from flowers,

33) Where the zephyr

sweeps its skirts,
guiding to me at dawn
the sweetest scent,

34) And in my kissing

the cup’s lip
sipping wine drops
in secluded pleasure.

35) I never knew exile from homelands

while he was with me,
and wherever we were,
my mind was at rest.

36) So my tent is the one

where my love has settled;
whenever he appears, I turn aside
at the shifting dunes.

37) Farwell to the riders,

traveling by night with a light
 LOVE’S SECRETS 89

dawning from you as you go

with them on their trek.

38) Let the riders

do as they will;
they are Badr’s men
and shall not fear sin.

39) By the right to break from one

blaming me because of you,
and by the fire blazing in my ribs
bound to rapture,

40) Look to a heart

melted by burning love of you,
and to an eye drowned deep
in bloody tears.

41) Pity my stumbling hopes

and my falling back
on delusion in hopes
of the promised release.

42) Turn toward

my broken desire
with a “Maybe” or “Perhaps,”
and ease my breast of anguish.

43) How welcome the words

I was unworthy to receive
from the bearer of glad tidings,
proclaiming relief after despair:

44) “Good news for you,

so strip off what is on you,
for you have been remembered
despite your crooked ways!”

In the opening verse of the al-Jīmīyah, the lover is mortally

wounded by the beloved’s glances, which pierce his heart like sharp
arrows:
90 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

mā bayna mu˜taraki-l-aḥdāqi wa-l-muhaji

anā-l-qatīlu bilā ithmin wa-lā ḥaraji

1) On the battle ground

between hearts and glances,
I am slain
without sin or guilt.

As Angelika Neuwirth has pointed out, this verse brings to

mind the first verse of Ta’abbata Sharran’s famous pre-Islamic elegy
for his slain uncle:65

inna bi-sh-shi˜bi-l-ladhī dūna Sal˜in

la-qatīlan damuhu mā yuṭallū

On the mountain pass below Sal˜ is one slain;

his blood shall not flow unavenged!

Although in his poem Ta’abbata Sharran will pursue and

eventually slay his uncle’s killers, no such vengeance will be taken for
Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s dying lover. According to the commentator al-Nābulusī,
the beloved of this ghazal is God, who then “is free to do what He
wants with His property, fair in His judgment, and so not to be
questioned about what He does.”66 Yet even if the beloved is not
divine, the lover is still not entitled to compensation for, although he
may be an innocent victim, he has not been killed by a person, but
by love, a natural or, perhaps, supernatural cause of death. As noted
by al-Daylamī in his manual on love: “The bonds of the prisoner
of eros are tightly tied. Seldom is the one felled by it revived and
no blood money is paid for the one it kills.”67 Such a death may be
extraordinary, but it does not violate the norms of religion or society,
being the natural consequence of selfless love.
Indeed, the lover knew beforehand that death would be his fate
in love. Proceeding from the beloved’s penetrating eyes to his own
sleepless ones, the lover swears by God to his true love; his heart has
been choked with desire, his body wasted, and his eyes filled with
tears (vv. 2–5). As in his al-Dhālīyah, Ibn al-Fāriḍ once again praises
the martyr of love, and he rhetorically draws attention to the lover’s
dire state, beginning verses 4 to 5 with nouns in the same plural form
(aḍlu˜, “ribs”; admu˜, “tears”) and by contrasting the lover’s flaming
heart, which nearly straightens his crooked ribs, to the flood of tears
overwhelming him.68 The lover’s fidelity to the beloved is strong,
 LOVE’S SECRETS 91

and for his sake, he gladly endures love’s sickness, which emaciates
his body, thus proving his unfailing, selfless devotion (v. 6). Verses 6
and 7 repeat the expression fīka (“for your sake,” “for you”), and so
reiterate the lover’s claim to have borne patiently the pain and grief of
separation. His condition compels him to seek out others like himself
who are absorbed in their love (vv. 8–9). Ibn al-Fāriḍ underscores the
totality of this state by repeating the word kull (“every”) followed by
nouns representing the spirit, reason, and the senses (e.g., “every heart,”
“every tongue,” “every ear,” “every eyelid”).69 Then, in verse 10, he
uses parallelism to stress the inevitable suffering of those in rapture:

lā kāna wajdun bihi-l-āmāqu jāmidatun

wa-lā gharāmun bihi-l-āshwāqu lam tahiji

10) There was never a rapture

with tear ducts dry,
or a burning passion
with unkindled desires.

The impassioned lover asks the beloved to test him in anyway he

pleases, save with separation, in order to prove his sincere devotion.
Nevertheless, the lover’s selflessness will be complete only when
the beloved finally extinguishes the lover’s last breath (vv. 11–12).
Ibn al-Fāriḍ obliquely refers to the mystical nature of this desired
annihilation (fanā’) with a word play (jinās) involving baqīyah, abqayta,
and abqā, all related to baqā’ (“abiding”), the Sufi antonym to fanā’ and
a technical term for union:

wa-khudh baqīyata mā abqayta min ramaqin

lā khayra fī-l-ḥubbi in abqā ˜alā-l-muhaji

12) So take what you left

of life’s last breath;
there is no good in love
if it lets the heart stay.

Because the beloved is far away in this ghazal, as in all others by

Ibn al-Fāriḍ, the lover futilely seeks his own destruction from others.
Could they annihilate him, he would taste the love of his fawn-like
beloved whose “sweet qualities” (shamā’il) are “mingled with spirits”
(bi-l-arwāḥi mumtaziji) and so resemble an invigorating wine (v. 13).
Then, as a transition to his portrayal of the beloved, Ibn al-Fāriḍ again
92 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

employs antithesis to declare the law of love: the lover must die to
all selfishness if he is to live among the worthy lovers of lore (v. 14):70

man māta fīhi gharāman ˜āsha murtaqīyan

mā bayna ahli-l-hawā fī arfa˜i-d-daraji

14) Whoever dies desiring him

lives exalted
to the highest degree
among passion’s worthy ones.

Verses 15 to 19 portray a beloved who may not be described

fully, for he is veiled (muḥajjab). Al-Nābalusī and Arberry have
interpreted this to mean that God is veiled in or by His creation that,
nevertheless, glows with His eternal light.71 Yet, in this ghazal, muḥajjab
strongly suggests the inability of reason to comprehend emotional and
spiritual matters, particularly, love. This interpretation is supported
by the image of the beloved’s dark tresses that border the blinding
brilliance of his face:72

muḥajjabin law sarā fī mithli ṭurratihi

aghnathu ghurratuhu-l-gharā ˜ani-s-suruji
wa-in ḍalaltu bi-laylin min dhawā’ibihi
ahdā li-aynī-l-hudā ṣubḥ un mina-l-balaji

15) He is a veiled one;

but were he to pass in a darkness
black as his forelock,
his blazing face would suffice him light.

16) So if I stray for a night

in his black locks,
his brow’s bright morn
will give guidance to my eyes.

By using a series of antitheses (dark/bright; night/day; astray/

right guidance; acceptance/ rejection; brief day/long year), Ibn al-Fāriḍ
asserts the extraordinary nature of encountering this ethereal beloved
(vv. 15–18). Then in verse 19, Ibn al-Fāriḍ combines internal rhymes
with antithesis to chart the lover’s course:

fa-in na’ā sā’iran yā muhjatī-rtaḥilī

wa-in dānā zā’iran yā muqlatī-btahijī
 LOVE’S SECRETS 93

19) So if he is traveling far away,

then my heart depart,
and if he is visiting near at hand,
then my eyes rejoice!

Following this charge, the lover dismisses his blamer with a

play on the poetic genres of panegyric (madīh) and invective (hijā’)
verse (vv. 20–21):

fa-l-lawmu lu’mun wa-lam yumdaḥ bihi aḥadun

wa-hal ra’ayta muḥibban bi-l-gharāmi hujī

21) “Blame is base;

no one was ever praised for it;
did you ever see a lover
mocked for burning desire?”

The lover then advises his companion to stay clear of the beloved’s
quarter if what he seeks is self-contentment, not selfless love (vv.
22–25). For, he warns him, true love demands absolute submission
from the lover who must forget everything, including all thought
of religious merit or saintly reputation (v. 24). Though a lover must
bear worldly disgrace, his true honor is purified by love, while the
blamer’s reputation is blackened by the proofs of the lover’s sincerity
(v. 25). Ibn al-Fāriḍ highlights this contrast again with antithesis and
internal rhyme:

fa-byaḍḍa wajhu gharāmī fī maḥabbatihi

wa-swadda wajhu malāmī fīhi bi-l-ḥujaji

25) Then my passion’s face

grew bright from loving him,
while the face of blaming me for his sake
turned black with proofs.

Moreover, this verse resonates with Qur’ān 3:106–107 regarding

the Judgment Day, when those destined for heaven will beam with
delight, whereas those bound for hell will despair: “On a day when
some faces will be bright and others black.” Ibn al-Fāriḍ again implies
that only selfless love can transform the lover.73
To this point, Ibn al-Fāriḍ has only hinted at the holy status of
the beloved, who “guides” (ahdā) those astray (v. 16); his breath is
the source of fragrant musk (v. 17); and his quarter (ḥayy) appears to
94 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

be the site of the lover’s pilgrimages (v. 24). But the true nature of
the beloved emerges more clearly beginning with verses 26 and 27:

tabāraka-llāhu mā aḥlā shamā’ilahu

fa-kam amātat wa-aḥyat fīhi min muhaji
yahwā li-dhikri-smihi man lajja fī ˜adhalī
sam˜ī ˜alā anna ˜adlī fīhi lam yaliji

26) Blessed be God!

How sweet are his/His qualities;
how many hearts have they slain for him/Him
then brought them back to life!

27) To hear mention of his/His name

my ear desires to hear
one pressing me with blame,
though blaming me for him/Him never sinks in.

The phrase tabāraka-llāhu (“Blessed be God!”) is a frequent

exclamation of wonder in Arabic and, in verse 26, it obviously lauds
the fawn-like beloved’s marvelous qualities. However, because Allāh
is the only masculine noun in this verse, it is grammatically correct to
read the Arabic pronominal suffix hu/hi (“his” and “him”) as referring
directly to Allāh. In this case, God is the subject of both the verse and
the praise; hence, He is the beloved. Such a reading is supported by
the beloved’s ability to restore to life those who have died for love of
him. In numerous passages, the Qur’ān declares that God will cause
the dead to live again (e.g., 2:73; 22:6; 30:40; 42:9; 45:26) and that He
will reward His martyrs with eternal life in Paradise (e.g., 2:154; 3:169-
171; 22:58–59).74 Furthermore, in verse 27, to hear word of the beloved
arouses the lover’s affection even for his blamer because the latter,
while censuring the lover, mentions the beloved’s name (dhikri-smihi).
This last phrase also may allude to the practice of dhikr in which Sufis
remember God by recollecting passages from the Qur’ān, specific
religious formula, or one of His many divine names. Not surprisingly, a
favorite name is Allāh, which is sometimes reduced during the dhikr to
its last letter, hā’. Significantly, hā’ also is the consonant of the masculine
pronominal suffix hu/hi (“him”; “his”) occurring throughout this poem
and four times in verses 26 and 27. Furthermore, the Qur’ān often
mentions recalling God’s name in worship, and the word ism is most
often found in the Basmallāh—“In the name of God, the compassionate,
the merciful”—which begins each chapter of the Qur’ān and, in fact,
nearly every book or letter written by a pious Muslim.75
 LOVE’S SECRETS 95

Through remembrance, the lover spiritually perceives the

beloved within his body and in all things around him, although the
beloved is far away. Thus, lightning recalls to the lover the beloved’s
flashing teeth. Although lightning pales next to the beloved’s smile,
this comparison suggests that nature is a reflection of the beloved’s
heavenly splendor (v. 28). Verses 29 to 36 elegantly elaborate such a
vision in an extraordinary example of descriptive poetry adapted to
allude to deeper meanings:

tarāhu in ghāba ˜annī kullu jāriḥatin

fī kulli ma˜nan laṭīfin rā’iqin bahiji
fī naghmati-l-˜ūdi wa-n-nāyi-r-rakhīmi idhā
ta’allafā bayna alḥānin mina-l-hazaji
wa-fī masāriḥi ghizlāni-l-khamā’ili fī
bardi-l-aṣā’ili wa-l-iṣbāḥi fī-l-buluji
wa-fī masāqiṭi andā’i-l-ghamāmi ˜alā
bisāṭi nawrin mina-l-azhāri muntasiji
wa-fī masāḥibi adhyāli-n-nasīmi idhā
ahdā ilayya suḥayran aṭyaba-l-araji
wa-fī-ltithāmiya thaghra-l-ka’si murtashifan
rīqa-l-mudāmati fī mustanzahin fariji
lam adri mā ghurbata-l-awṭāni wa-hwa ma˜ī
wa-khāṭirī ayna kunnā ghayru munza˜iji
fa-d-dāru dārī wa-ḥibbī ḥāḍirun wa-matā
badā fa-muna˜raju-l-jar˜ā’i muna˜rajī

29) Though he is absent from me,

every grasping sense sees him
in every subtle sense
lovely and pure.

30) In the melody of the lyre

and gentle flute
when they embrace
in trilling notes of song.

31) In the meadows

of the forest gazelle,
in twilight’s cool,
and daybreak’s glow,

32) Where the mist

falls from clouds
96 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

on a blossoming carpet
woven from flowers,

33) Where the zephyr

sweeps its skirts,
guiding to me at dawn
the sweetest scent,

34) And in my kissing

the cup’s lip
sipping wine drops
in secluded pleasure.

35) I never knew exile from homelands

while he was with me,
and wherever we were,
my mind was at rest.

36) So my tent is the one

where my love has settled;
whenever he appears, I turn aside
at the shifting dunes.

This highly lyrical passage conjures Arcadian images of peace

and serenity and evokes a metaphysical spirit as a reflection of the
lover’s inner state. Each of the five verses involves one of the five
senses (v. 30: hearing; v. 31: sight; v. 32: touch; v. 33: smell; v. 34: taste),
all united in perceiving the beloved in various guises.76 These verses
are further united by their common first word fī (“in”) and, in verses
31 to 33, by the noun form mafā˜il, which immediately follows this
preposition. Verse 34 is of particular importance for its image of the
cup whose wine is as sweet as the beloved’s saliva. Both liquids were
considered intoxicating and so frequently functioned as Sufi symbols
of love and gnosis.77 Thus, when in union with the beloved, the lover
was oblivious to exile (gurbah), while dwelling in the beloved’s presence
(ḥāḍir). The appearance in verses 35 and 36 of this contrasting pair
of Sufi technical terms comparable to fanā’ and baqā’, again strongly
suggests the mystical nature of this meeting.78 Furthermore, in context
of verses 37 and 38 that follow, the “shifting dunes” in verse 36 might
allude to the desert camp near Badr where Muhammad stayed with
his followers in preparation of their celebrated battle:79
 LOVE’S SECRETS 97

li-yuhna rakbun saraw laylan wa-anta bihim

bi-sayarihim fī ṣabāḥin minka munbaliji
wa-l-yaṣna˜i-l-qawmu mā shā’ū li-anfusihim
hum ahlu Badrin fa-lā yakhshaw mina-l-ḥaraji

37) Farwell to the riders,

traveling by night with a light
dawning from you as you go
with them on their trek.

38) Let the riders

do as they will;
they are Badr’s men
and shall not fear sin.

“The riders” refer to the Muslims who fought at the Battle

of Badr as verse 38 clearly indicates with its direct reference to a
ḥadīth regarding their favor with God. These warriors had long been
incorporated into the Islamic mystical tradition as among the earliest
spiritual adepts and, in context of Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s poems, they probably
represent the elite selfless lovers graced by God.80 As a result, Arberry
interpreted the beloved in these verses, as symbolizing the Spirit of
Muhammad.81 The commentator al-Būrīnī also noted that verse 37 is
a variation on a theme found in a verse of another ghazal by the Ibn
al-Fāriḍ, which appears to praise the prophet:82

ahlu Badrin rakbun sarayta bi-laylin

fīhi bal sāra fī nahāri ḍiyākā

Badr’s men were riders;

you rode with them by night,
while they rode
in the day of your light.

Moreover, al-Būrīnī pointed out that both verses appear to refer

to Qur’ān 17:1:

subḥāna-l-ladhī asrā bi-˜abdihi laylan . . . . . . “Praise be

to Him who traveled by night with His servant (i.e.,
Muhammad) . . .”
98 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

This Qur’ānic verse relates to one of the prophet Muhammad’s

powerful visionary experiences traditionally referred to as Muhammad’s
Night Journey and Heavenly Ascension to God. Yet, because the subject
of the Qur’ānic verse was God, al-Būrīnī surmised that He was also
the beloved in verse 37 of the al-Jīmīyah. Al-Nābulusī concurred,
and while he, too, mentioned Qur’ān 17:1 and Muhammad’s Night
Journey in his gloss of the verb sarā (“to travel at night”), he did not
elaborate. Instead, he applied the light images in these verses to God’s
illumination and grace for His elect mystics.83
Yet, “Badr’s men” is the most obvious clue to the beloved’s
identity in this passage, as they rode into battle with the prophet
Muḥammad. Further, “traveling by night” is a probable reference to
Muhammad’s Night Journey and Heavenly Ascension, so central to
Islamic mysticism and mythology. Earlier, in verse 15, Ibn al-Fāriḍ said:

muḥajjabin law sarā fī mithli ṭurratihi

aghnathu ghurratuhu-l-gharā ˜ani-s-suruji

(15) He is a veiled one,

but were he to pass in a darkness
black as his forelock,
his blazing face would suffice him light.

As we have seen, Arberry followed al-Nābulusī in his

interpretation of the “veiled one,” by stating, “the Divine Presence is
shrouded in the darkness of the phenomenal world, yet the radiance
of His Beauty shines forth and manifests Him to all who have eyes
to see.”84 However, by reading verse 15 together with verses 37 and
38, we find that Ibn al-Fāriḍ has rendered in verse the iconic image
found in the many paintings of the prophet Muhammad depicting his
Night Journey and Heavenly Ascension: The prophet is mounted on
his mythical steed, his face veiled, head wreathed in a blazing fire as
he ascends to heaven to meet his Lord.85
Verse 39 begins the lover’s final petition to be numbered among
the martyrs of love:

bi-ḥaqqi ˜iṣyāniya-l-lāḥī ˜alayka wa-mā

bi-aḍlu˜ī ṭā˜atan lil-wajdi min wahaji
uṇzur ilā kabidin dhābat ˜alayka jawan
wa-muqlatin min najī˜i-d-dam˜i fī lujaji
wa-rḥam ta˜aththura āmālī wa-murtaja˜ī
ilā khidā˜i tamannī-l-wa˜di bi-l-faraji
 LOVE’S SECRETS 99

wa-˜ṭif ˜alā dhulli aṭmā˜ī bi-hal wa-˜asā

wa-mnun ˜alayya bi-sharḥi-s-ṣadri min ḥaraji
ahlan bi-mā lam akun ahlan li-mawqi˜ihi
qawli-l-mubashshiri ba˜da-l-ya’si bi-l-faraji
laka-l-bishāratu fa-khla˜ mā ˜alayka fa-qad
dhukirta thamma ˜alā mā fīka min ˜iwaji

39) By the right to break from one

blaming me because of you,
and by the fire blazing in my ribs
bound to rapture,

40) Look to a heart

melted by burning love of you,
and to an eye drowned deep
in bloody tears.

41) Pity my stumbling hopes

and my falling back
on delusion in hope
of the promised release.

42) Turn toward

my broken desire
with a “Maybe” or “Perhaps,”
and ease my breast of anguish.

43) How welcome the words

I was unworthy to receive
from the bearer of glad tidings,
proclaiming relief after despair:

44) “Good news for you,

so strip off what is on you,
for you have been remembered
despite your crooked ways!”

The lover swears by his undying loyalty, recalling again rapture’s

burning fire within his ribs, his flowing tears, and his humbled
condition that began the poem (vv. 39–42). Verses 40 to 42, in particular,
constitute the lover’s prayer to the beloved as each verse begins with a
100 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

verb in the imperative form: uṇzur . . .wa-rḥam . . . wa-˜ṭif . . . wa-mnun

(“Look . . . and have mercy . . . and show sympathy . . . and
grant . . .”). Emaciated and humiliated, the lover no longer dares to
seek union, but only desires to relieve his distress with the words
hal (“Maybe,” “Is there”) and ˜asā (“Perhaps”). However, the precise
meaning of both terms in this context has long puzzled commentators.
Al-Būrīnī and al-Nābulusī understood the words as a dialogue between
the lover and his beloved:86

Lover: “Ask after me, if only with a single: ‘How are you?’ ”
Beloved: “Perhaps, I will turn to look at you. Perhaps, I
will grant you union with me.”

But the meaning that Ibn al-Fārid intended for hal is suggested
by verse 77 of his ode al-Tā’īyah al-Ṣughrā:87

fa-lil-˜ayni wa-l-aḥshā’i awwala hal atā

talā ˜ā’idī-l-āsī wa-thālitha tabbati

To the eye and heart

my sorrowing visitor recited
the first part of “Has it come?” (hal atā)
and the third part of “Accursed be!” (tabbati).

Hal atā is the beginning of chapter 76 of the Qur’ān (Sūrat al-Insān):

hal atā ˜alā-l-insāni ḥīna mina-d-dahri lam yakun shay’an madhkūran;
“Has there come upon the human a time when he was not a thing
remembered (by God)?” Similarly, “the third part of ‘Accursed be!’ ”
refers to the Qur’ān, chapter 111, and the blazing hell to be experienced
by Abū Lahab and his wife for vigorously opposing Muhammad.88
Based on verse 77 of the al-Tā’īyah al-Ṣughrā, hal in verse 42 of the
al-Jīmīyah also may designate the first verse of Sūrat al-Insān, which
assures humanity of God’s concern for them. In this light, asā, too,
may refer to a Qur’ānic passage in Sūrat al-Isrā’ (17), whose first verse
was referred to earlier by Ibn al-Fāriḍ in verse 37 of the al-Jīmīyah.
Sūrat al-Isrā’ verses 8 and 9 read:

Perhaps (asā) your Lord will have mercy (yarḥama) on

you, but if you return again (to error), We will repeat
(the punishment) and make Hell a prison for the infidels.
Indeed, this Qur’ān guides to that which is the straightest,
and gives glad tidings (yubashshiru) to the believers who do
good works; to them is certainly a great reward!
 LOVE’S SECRETS 101

In addition to the words hal and asā, other elements of both

Qur’ānic passages are found in the final verses of the al-Jīmīyah:
arḥam (“Have mercy”) in verse 41; al-mubashshir (“the bearer of glad
tidings”) and al-bishārah (“glad tidings,” “good news”) in verse 43,
and dhukirta (“You have been remembered”) in verse 44. Furthermore,
verses 41 and 42 contain additional Qur’ānic references, in this case
to 94:1–6, which states a-lam nashraḥ laka ṣadraka: “Did We not ease
your breast . . .” and promising inna ma˜a-l-˜usri yusran: “Surely with
hardship comes ease!”
In this powerful climax to the al-Jīmīyah, the lover prays that the
beloved will console him by remembering his humble servant and
so have mercy and forgive and accept him. Here Ibn al-Fāriḍ reuses
a number of phrases and rhyme words with their earlier meanings
in the poem, a rare exception in his verse. However, this repetition
highlights key words, particularly ˜iwaj (“crookedness”), ḥaraj (“guilt”),
and faraj (“joyous relief”), and so reinforces this ghazal’s underlying
themes of human selfishness and ingratitude, and the transformative
power of love.89 For the final two verses of the ghazal reveal that the
beloved has indeed answered the lover’s prayer, though by grace and
despite the lover’s waywardness. In this light, the al-Jīmīyah, like Ibn
al-Fāriḍ’s other ghazals, may be read as a devotional hymn to God
and His prophet Muhammad for whose sake the lover struggles to
lead a worthy life in love. Although separate from God since pre-
eternity, the lover perseveres in recalling his beloved and their original
covenant. Though confronted by the world’s trials and his own selfish
desires and defects, the longing lover, like all believing Muslims,
seeks to stay on the path of right guidance, hoping for God’s
grace and mercy and, on the Day of Resurrection, His lasting satisfaction.90
Although five of Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s six ghazals end with the lover’s
oath of fealty and hopes of reunion, the lover’s prayer is answered in
the al-Jīmīyah. Thus, in the final verse, the lover ceases to speak as his
voice gives way to the messenger’s words. In verse 12, the lover said:

wa-khudh baqīyata mā abqayta min ramaqin

lā khayra fī-l-ḥubbi in abqā ˜alā-l-muhaji

So take what you left

of life’s last breath;
there is no good in love
if it lets the heart stay.

When we recall the ancient pairings of self, voice, breath, and

life, alluded to in this verse, the lover’s silence at the end of the poem
may presage his final annihilation in love as declared in the opening
102 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

verse. As a result, the structure of the al-Jīmīyah resembles what critic

Stanley Fish has termed “a self-consuming artifact.” When analyzing
religious poems by the George Herbert, Fish notes:91

These poems, as they ask their readers to acknowledge

their complete dependence, act out that acknowledgment
by calling attention to what they are not doing, and indeed
could not do. In their final radical modesty, they perform
what they require of us, for as they undermine our reliance
on discursive forms of thought, and urge us to rest in the
immediate apprehension of God’s all-effective omnipresence,
they become the vehicles of their own abandonment. “God
only is” . . .

Significantly, at the end of the al-Jīmīyah, the ˜Udhrī poem gives

way to the sacred language of the Qur’ān from which Ibn al-Fāriḍ
drew the beloved’s message. If hal and asā represent Qur’ānic verses,
then they are the words of God, who becomes the beloved at the end
of this ghazal. By extension, “the bearer of glad tidings” is the prophet
Muḥammad (cf. Qur’ān 17:105; 25:56; 33:45; 48: 8;), praised earlier in
the ghazal, while the “good news” represents the revelations sent by
God as guidance and a sure sign of His continuing remembrance and
love for humanity (cf. Qur’ān 16:89, 102; 2:97; 3:126; 7:10).92 Invoking
God’s word and His messenger, the poem replaces the poet with the
prophet and so ends, consumed in the beloved’s presence and the
sacred message, dhukirta: “You have been remembered.”
 3

Joined at the Crossroads

The Arabic ghazal shares many characteristics with the nasīb, the
opening section of the qaṣīdah, or ode. The nostalgic mood, descriptions
of the lover’s sickness and emaciation, the poet’s friends and foes,
his steadfast keeping of his secret, all play their parts in both. The
qaṣīdah also recollects events of the past, and in its classical form,
the ode contains additional sections and themes, most notably the
hero’s journey (raḥīl), scenes of wine drinking and/or battle, and a
final section of invective or hopeful praise. With the coming of Islam,
the qaṣīdah became the primary genre for panegyrics composed for
caliphs, sultans, and other officials, but Sufi poets occasionally used the
genre, as well. Ibn al-Fārid applied the ode to his mystical concerns,
and although his qaṣīdah retained vital links to the past, his mystical
innovations caught the attention of his contemporaries and set new
standards for later Sufi verse.

The Changing Ode

The earliest qaṣīdahs date from the pre-Islamic period. Often in these
odes, the poet shakes himself free of his memories of the beloved and
sets out on his she-camel to cross the hostile wastelands. The aim of
this heroic quest, however, is not a reunion with the beloved, but
often a return to his own tribe or patron:1

li-mani-d-diyāru ˜afwana bi-l-Ḥubsi

āyātuhā ka-mahāriqu-l-fursi

Whose encampments are these at Ḥubs,

faded traces like the Persians’ scrolls?
There is nothing there save doe herds,
white oryx, black-cheeked, shining like the sun,

103
104 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

And the hoof prints left by noble steeds

etched in the hard ridge, sign of the beaten track.
I halted the riders there, second guessing past affairs,
as always, a dreamer.
Until the gazelles wrapped themselves
in lengths of shade and napped in their shelters,
And I lost hope due to the pain she left behind for me,
and nothing consoles like despair.
Then I rose up on a she-camel strong as a stallion,
hammering stones with her hardened pads,
Her hide worn, scarred and ragged
like pieces of fur flying on a rocky plain.
Will you not turn her toward a king,
wise in guidance, with a glorious soul,
To Ibn Mārīyah, the generous?
Is there another like Abū Ḥassān among men?2
He bestows on you coats of mail reaching below the waist,
and black stallions, tall and sturdy as palm trees,
And ingots of yellow gold, he gives in pairs,
and slave girls, white and red-lipped.
He expects nothing for his wealth as he goes through it;
all the same to him is the lucky star and one of ill-omen.
For fortune is with him there, never against him,
when the folk go hungry in misery.

This short ode by al-Ḥārith ibn Ḥillizah al-Yashkurī (fl. sixth

CE) is among the earliest extant Arabic poems. Although most of this
poetry was probably composed no earlier than the sixth century CE,
its highly standardized form and content are indicative of substantial
previous development. This pre-Islamic Arabic poetry addressed erotic,
elegiac, descriptive, and heroic themes, either separately in pieces of
a few verses (qit˜ah or al-qaṣīdah al-qaṣīrah) or, as in al-Ḥārith’s poem,
in combinations, which could exceed one hundred verses. This latter
form, the qaṣīdah, with its thematic and genre differentiation, became
a foundation for the Arabic poetic tradition. Early Western studies of
the qaṣīdah emphasized its detailed descriptions of flora and fauna and
so classified it as a type of primitive realism, although later works
have sought its cathartic function for the ancient Arabs who faced life
and death issues in a harsh environment.3
Significantly, scholars have turned their attention to the moods
and meanings underlying the formal and thematic structures of the
poem with its deeply symbolic and archetypal nature.4 As we see in
 JOINED AT THE CROSSROADS 105

al-Ḥārith’s short ode, the pre-Islamic qaṣīdah begins with the nasīb,
a slow, elegiac opening in which the poet halts at an abandoned
campsite to grieve for his lost beloved. Amid the ruins, the poet may
wistfully recall the blissful days of union with his beautiful lover and
sadly recount the departure of her caravan. The reverie ends when
the poet suppresses the past and sets out on his she-camel to cross
forbidding and dangerous terrain in quest of fame and fortune (raḥīl).
Correspondingly, the poem’s tempo increases during accounts of the
journey or of conflict and battle, rising to a crescendo when the poet
ends his poem with an invective toward his enemies (hijā’), or in self-
praise (fakhr) or praise of his tribe or patron (madīḥ).
The evocative power of the pre-Islamic qaṣīdah stems from
its rigorous formal continuity and its stylized conventions, which
crystallize complex metaphorical relationships among myth, ritual,
archetype, and image.5 In this light, the pre-Islamic qaṣīdah may
be construed as a rite of passage and its sections read in terms
of separation, liminality, and aggregation as defined by cultural
anthropologists. The nasīb with its encampments and memories of the
beloved may represent, on one level, the naïve and idyllic state of
childhood, which is suddenly disrupted at puberty when the sexually
maturing male must leave the society of women and enter a new world
of men. At this juncture, the anxious adolescent must overcome and
tame his natural instincts. The raḥīl section thus presents a liminal
period of trial and testing through which the hero attempts to assert
his individuality and become a responsible member of society. If the
youth successfully passes this period of trial and proves his manhood,
he is welcomed back to the victorious tribe as a mature adult member
with commensurate rights and responsibilities (fakhr).6 Concomitantly,
a number of the pre-Islamic and early Umayyad qaṣīdahs, also may
be read in terms of pollution and purification, sacrifice and ritual
exchange, meant to strengthen the tribe and/or redeem the poet,
as we see in an ode by Bishr ibn Abī Khāzim (fl. sixth CE) with its
scenes of violent warfare:7

Ask Tamīm and ˜Āmir of their wars with us;

is a man who knows nothing equal
to one seasoned by experience?
Tamīm were angry the ˜Āmir were slaughtered
at the Battle of Nisār,
so they followed them into disaster and death.
When they clamored loud for war,
we brought them to their senses
106 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

with a charge that shocked them hard;

We battered helmets with swords,
shouting the names of our fathers,
while the horses’ necks were streaked in blood.

In Bishr’s ode and many similar ones by other Arab poets,

the tripartite qaṣidah embodies a rite of renewal: The feelings of loss
expressed in the nasīb may express mortification, the raḥil a process
of purgation, and the final section with its boast, praise, or invective,
the subsequent invigoration and jubilation at a successful outcome,
whether that be in war, the hunt, or in seeking a superior’s pardon in
exchange for praising him.8 Such readings of the early Arabic qaṣīdah
underscore the ritual significance of this poetry, which had become
the synthesis and precipitate of Arab culture’s view of itself and its
human and historical experience. Whether in new compositions or
continued recitations, the qaṣīdah served as a ritual paradigm invoked
repeatedly in attempts to give stability and meaning to life and society.9
Yet, as was the case with the Arabic ghazal, the qaṣīdah underwent
change during the Umayyad period, particularly in the raḥīl. Although
this section retained some mythical and psychological meaning, it
slowly lost its efficacy within an increasingly urban milieu. Not only
was the harsh desert environment of the Bedouin foreign to most later
poets, but the heroic tribal ethos of the qaṣīdah had been challenged by
the Qur’ānic ideal of the individual believer living a life of moderation
in obedience to God.10 As a result, much of the ritual significance of
the early qaṣīdah waned as Arab culture realigned itself under Islamic
influence. The poet was no longer the tribe’s shaman or seer but,
rather, he served to praise the defenders of the faith. Thus, the qaṣīdah
became a vehicle for courtly ceremony and legitimation, with public
declarations of allegiance in exchange for royal patronage.11 By the
Abbasid period, the raḥīl section of many odes served largely to assert
rhetorically the panegyrist’s worthiness to receive reward.12 This was
clearly the view of the noted Arab critic Ibn Qutaybah (d. 276/889):13

Now, when the poet had assured himself of an attentive

hearing, he followed up his advantage and set forth his
claim: thus he went on to complain of fatigue and want
of sleep and travelling by night and of the noonday heat,
and how his camel had been reduced to leanness. And
when, after representing all the discomfort and danger of
his journey, he knew that he had fully justified his hope
and expectation of receiving his due meed from the person
 JOINED AT THE CROSSROADS 107

to whom the poem was addressed, he entered upon the

panegyric.

Devoid of the deeper meanings of the quest, such raḥīls became

largely irrelevant to most qaṣīdahs, although some Abbasid poets
employed the raḥīl as a kind of travelogue, recounting actual trips
that they had made. Abū Nuwās composed such a raḥīl, as did
al-Mutanabbī14 but another example from the latter’s verse vividly
illustrates the raḥ īl’s generally abbreviated form. In one poem
al-Mutanabbī concludes his nasīb and begins his section of self-praise
(fakhr) with only a passing allusion to the raḥīl:15

My bed is the back of a stead,

while my shirt is a mail of iron!

The forbidding, chaotic and womb-like desert of the pre-Islamic

raḥīl has almost disappeared and, significantly, the poet’s mount is not
the sturdy she-camel but the knightly horse. If any quest remains to
the poet it is not for catharsis and social integration, but for personal
glory in defending the faith or, perhaps more realistically, in self-
aggrandizement. The symbolic importance of the qaṣīdah and its
raḥīl, however, was occasionally maintained in Arabic philosophical
and mystical verse, including the “Ode to the Soul” ascribed to the
celebrated Muslim philosopher, Ibn Sīnā, which begins:16

habaṭat ilayka min-l-maḥalli-l-arfa˜i

warqā’u dhātu ta˜azzuzin wa-tamannu˜i

1) She flew down to you from her high perch,

a dove, proud and free,
2) Invisible to the gnostic’s eyes
though she was bright, unveiled.
3) She joined you reluctantly;
now she suffers, reluctant to leave you.16

This allegorical poem is more philosophical than mystical, yet it

demonstrates that the qaṣīdah remained a viable pattern for speaking
about spiritual enlightenment. Using the ancient symbol of the bird
to represent the immortal spirit, Ibn Sīnā recounts the spirit’s descent
from heaven, her imprisonment in matter, and her growing attachment
to the body (vv. 1–6). Forgetful of her noble past, the spirit becomes
ensnared by her attachments and grieved by her imprisonment:
108 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

7) Burdened and bound, she awoke

amid the traces and ruins (ṭulūl) of the campsite.
8) She cries, bathing in tears, when she recalls
the abodes at the sacred precinct (ḥimā).

Elements of the nasīb appear when Ibn Sīnā describes the pain
and sorrow of the dove/spirit caused by her separation from her
heavenly home (ḥimā). Like the poet standing in the abandoned and
ruined encampment (ṭulūl), the spirit cries within the body with a
mournful lament for a lost paradise (vv. 7–10). Then, setting out from
the confines of this encampment, the spirit soars on a quest (raḥīl)
for knowledge:

11) Until the time for departure to the precinct drew near
and the trek (raḥīl) to the plain was at hand.
12) The veil removed, she began to coo
and saw what sleepy eyes can never grasp.

Once this self-knowledge is attained, the enlightened spirit returns

to its primordial land freed from time and space as determined by
God’s inscrutable plan (vv. 16–20):17

15) For what purpose was she sent down

from an apogee to a perigee far below?
16) Indeed, God sent her for a wise reason (ḥikmah)
hidden from the wisest sage.
17) So she had to fall, her affliction required,
that she might hear the unheard,
18) So she returns, her feathers unruffled,
knowing every secret in the two worlds.
19) For time had blocked her path (ṭarīqah),
til she was lost with no way to rise.
20) She was like lightning flashing in the precinct
then gone as if never was.

Sacred Fire

As was the case in Ibn Sīnā’s ode, elements from the qaṣīdah are
also found in some shorter Sufi poems prior to those of Ibn al-Fāriḍ,
including verse by Ibn al-Shahrazūrī:18
 JOINED AT THE CROSSROADS 109

wa-mā raḥalū illā wa-qalbī amāmahum

wa-mā nazalū illā wa-kāna lahum arḍan
yamīlu ilayhim ḥaythu mālū fa-innahu
yarā ṭā˜ata-l-maḥbūbi fī-ḥubbihi farḍan

They never set out, but my heart goes before them,

and they never alight, save my heart is their land.
It turns to them wherever they turn, for it sees submission
in love to the beloved as a sacred duty.

In these verses, Ibn al-Shahrazūrī employs the traditional motif of

the beloved’s departing caravan to stress the theme of the selflessness
nature of true love. When the beloved’s tribe departed, the lover’s
heart went obediently with them as love required. Similar to the
˜Udhrī poets, Ibn al- Shahrazūrī implies that love is his religion, for
he regards obedience as a farḍ, a religious obligation comparable to
the required daily prayers, or the Hajj pilgrimage. However, these
verses have a mystical flavor; from the many Arabic words for heart,
Ibn al-Shahrazūrī chooses qalb, a favorite Sufi term for the site of
spiritual illumination and vision. Hence, the heart “sees” obedience
to the beloved as its duty. Other surviving verse by Ibn al-Shahrazūrī
suggests that he may have preferred the ghazal to the ode, yet he
composed one of the earliest known Sufi qaṣīdahs, the al-Mawṣilīyah,
named after the city of Mosul, where he preached:19

lama˜at nāruhum wa-qad ˜as˜asa-al-lay-

lu wa-malla-l-ḥādī wa-ḥāra-d-dalīlu

1) Their fire shivered as the night grew dark.

The camel-driver was weary; the guide confused.
2) I hoped to see it, but it was so far from me.
My concentration was broken, my sight weak.
3) And my heart is that captive heart,
my affliction that inner passion.
4) Then I looked to the fire and to my companions said:
“This is Laylā’s fire; turn there!”

In the opening to this qaṣīdah, Ibn al-Shahrazūrī blends traditional

raḥīl elements into the nasīb. As night enfolds the caravan, the camel
driver grows tired, and the guide loses the trail. In the dark distance,
110 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

the lover catches the faintest flicker of a campfire. This fire was a
featured element of many classical desert crossings, and its promise
of light, warmth, and companionship contrasts starkly to the dark,
cold, and lonely night through which the riders must pass on their
quest. Within the nasīb, the campfire is usually that of the departed
beloved pursued by her former lover (v. 1). Ibn al-Shahrazūrī then
suggests that his ode is to be understood as a mystical allegory: The
lover strains to see (ta’ammaltu; v. 2) the fire, and this verb in a Sufi
context may mean both “to contemplate,” and “to meditate.”20 The
poet then explicitly tells his audience that he is the lover whose heart
is afflicted by inner desire for none other than Laylā, the name of one
of the great ˜Udhrī beloveds (vv. 3–4).
The lover’s companions cannot see the fire despite their strong
eyesight. Rather than believe the lover who has a firmer resolve, they
turn to berate him, claiming that he saw lightning or a phantom form
of his beloved. As is the case in the ghazal, this blaming is a part of
the nasīb, and it recounts the companions’ attempts to dissuade the
lover from seeking his lost love. Ibn al-Shahrazūrī has the lover leave
his blamers, riding off with his personified desire mounted on his
passion and stalked by love. Once again, Ibn al-Shahrazūrī makes
clear his allegorical intent:

fa-tajannabtuhum wa-miltu ilayhā

wa-l-hawā markabī wa-shawqī-l-zamīlu
wa-ma˜ī ṣāḥibun atā yaqtafī-l-ā-
thāri wa-l-ḥubbu sharṭuhu-l-taṭfīlu

7) So I shunned them and turned toward the light;

passion my mount, and desire my fellow rider.
8) And a companion trailed behind me;
it was love who intrudes uninvited!

Clearly, this love has been fated, and so the lover presses on
until he stumbles upon the encampment. There, he is blocked from
reaching the fire by “barren ruins” (ṭulūl muḥūl), which lie littered
across the landscape of the classical nasīb. These are generally the
remains of the former dwellings of the beloved’s tribe, and they evoke
a sense of sadness and nostalgia in those who return to them. Ibn
Shahrazūrī underscores the sense of loss as sighs and moans arise
from the ruins (vv. 9–10). As is custom in the classical qaṣīdah, the
lover questions the ruins:
 JOINED AT THE CROSSROADS 111

11) I said: “Who is in the encampments?”

They answered: “A shackled captive, a wounded man,
another slain.
12) “What did you come for?” I said: “A guest has come
seeking hospitality. Where do I alight?”
13) The ruins motioned: “Alight where you are,
and hamstring your camel for the guest never leaves.
14) “He who comes to us throws down his travel staff.”
I asked: “Who will take me to the fire? Where is the path?”

In most odes, the ruins are dumb, but here they speak to tell
the lover that the sighs and moans arise from love’s victims. They
pointedly ask the lover what he has come for, and when he claims
his right to hospitality, they tell him to hamstring his camel. In other
words, though the host is obliged to feed his guest, the ruins ominously
inform the lover that his she-camel is to be the feast, and that their
guests never leave (vv. 11–14). The lover then alights where once a
tribe was “felled by wine before it was tasted” (v. 15). As we shall see,
this is a Sufi reference to the wine of love or gnosis, and this mystical
allusion is underscored in verse 16 and elsewhere in the poem where
wajd, or, “rapture,” overwhelms the seekers:

16) Rapture (wajd) effaced every trace of them,

so it was a trace in which the tribe settled.
17) Among them was one so effaced
no place remained for tears or complaint.

Using several other Sufi technical terms, the lover mentions the
conditions of other lovers to whom little remains (lam yabqa; v. 19).
Whereas Sufis often use the verb fanā (“to annihilate”) to speak of the
effect of mystical rapture, Ibn al-Shahrazūrī chose ˜afā (“to efface”;
v. 17), a verb better suited to the nasīb, where the winds efface the
remains of the campsite, in which only passion and rapture remain.
Ibn al-Shahrazūrī appears to distinguish between mystics who have
attained near total union and so have been obliterated by love, and
those whose ecstasy has permitted a little something to remain. Only
this last group is able to allude to their experiences and point out
the way to others. The poet assigns each lover a permanent mystical
station (maqām), but he excuses himself from further elaboration (v. 20).
Keeping within the nasīb tradition, the lover greets the folk dwelling
at the camp, and he pleads his case hoping for acceptance. The lover
112 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

claims fidelity for his burning desire, which has never faltered no
matter what adversity befell him. Moreover, he will not offer an
excuse for his love and obsessive behavior, for to do so would prove
that he is still concerned with his own welfare and reputation and,
so, not a truly selfless lover. The lover hopes to be admitted into the
company of the beloved’s tribe, and so he begs to approach the fire:

25) “I came to warm myself this early morning.

Do I have a path to your fire?”

But the ancient stones warn the traveler not to be overly excited
by the Eden like meadows beyond, which are difficult to attain. Many
others have tried to reach them and the beloveds there only to falter
when union was nearly within reach, their false pretenses to love
being exposed by “the people of realities” (ahlu-l-ḥaqā’iq; vv. 21–30):

30) “And the banner of fulfillment unfurled in the hand of rapture,

and the people of realities shouted: ‘Race on!
31) “ ‘Where are those who make false claim to us?
This day, the dye of claims runs red!’ ”

Ibn al-Shahrazūrī has now moved from the nasīb, and raḥīl, to a
scene of battle as the selfless spiritual warriors charge the pretenders.
Those falsely claiming love offered too little for union, and so they are
overwhelmed and dashed upon the ruins (vv. 31–35). Ibn al-Shahrazūrī
then brings his ode to a close by returning to the fire and its true
identity:

36) “This, our fire, shines for him who travels by night
but you will never reach it.
37) “The most it offers is a glance,
but those who grasp that are few.”

Ibn al-Shahrazūrī now reveals the fire’s deeper meaning beginning

with several important allusions to the Qur’ān. The fire “shines for
him who travels by night” (tuḍī’u li-man yasrī bi-laylin). This resonates
with the beginning of Qur’ān 17:1: subḥāna-l-ladhī asrā bi-˜abdihi laylan:
“Blessed be He who traveled with His servant by night,” which is the
basis for the Night Journey and Heavenly Ascension of the prophet
Muhammad, noted earlier. In this case, the fire and its light may belong
to Muhammad and/or God as they both “traveled at night.” Given the
fire’s holy character, the mortal lover can never reach it. Even the glimpses
 JOINED AT THE CROSSROADS 113

of it that occasionally occur, are rarely understood (vv. 36–37). Then in

verses 38 and 39, Ibn al-Shahrazūrī provides the key to the entire ode:

jā’ahā man ˜arafta yabghī-qtibāsan

wa-lahu-l-basṭu wa-l-munā wa-s-sūlu
fa-ta˜ālat ˜ani-l-munāli wa-˜azzat
˜an dunūwin ilayhi wa-hwa rasūlu

38) “One you know came to the fire seeking a torch,

begging with desire, arms outstretched.
39) “But it was out of reach, too exalted
to be near him, and he was a messenger!”

In the ode and ghazal, the messenger brings the lover news of
the beloved, and here, the messenger is none other than the prophet
Moses who brought humanity a revelation from God. Specifically,
these verses refer to an earlier encounter with the fire, namely that of
Moses and the Burning Bush as found in the Qur’ān 27:7–10:

7. Then Moses said to his people: “I perceive a fire. I will

bring news from it or I will bring you a torch (shihāb qabas)
that perhaps you can warm yourselves (taṣṭalūna).”

8. So when he came (jā’ahā) to it, there called out: “Blessed

be He who is in the fire and He who is around it, and
praise be to God, Lord of the Worlds!

9. “Oh Moses, He is Me, God, the exalted, the all-knowing!

10. “Throw down your staff (alqi ˜aṣāka) . . .

Ibn al-Shahrazūrī’s messenger seeks a torch (iqtibās, v. 38), and

the diction of the Qur’ānic account influenced Ibn al-Shahrazūrī’s
verb choice in verse 39, jā’ahā (“He came to it”), his use in verse 25
of the verb iṣṭalā (“to warm oneself’), as well as the expression in
verse 14 ‘alqī ˜aṣā-s-sayr (“throw down the staff of travel”). These
parallels to the Qur’ānic account point to the identity of the fire; it is
a holy manifestation of God. This being the case, no creature can take
from this fire and so share in the divine nature, not even a prophet.
Nevertheless, Muhammad, Moses, and the spiritually elect (“the people
of realities,” ahl al-ḥaqā’iq, v. 30) may approach close enough to see its
light and feel its warmth. Near the fire, the mystics are consumed by
114 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

rapture (vv. 16–20) while the prophets return with God’s revelations
to humanity (vv. 38–39). As for the rest of humanity, they can only
stand afar, staring in bewilderment, searching for the fire in the dark
of night:

41) “We ward off time with hope; so settle for a heart (qalb)
whose sustenance is two drinks:
42) “Whenever it tastes the cup of bitter sorrow,
another cup comes sweetened with hope,
43) “And when selfishness (nafs) entices it to some affair,
the heart is turned and told: ‘Dignified patience!’
44) “This is our state and what knowledge has attained,
but all states change.”

As in many classical qaṣīdahs, this one, too, ends with a flicker

of hope that perhaps one day the lover may draw closer to the fire’s
light and warmth. For bitter disappointment may be followed by the
sweet sense of hope. Ibn al-Shahrazūrī contrasts the heart (qalb; v. 41),
the site of love and divine inspiration, to selfish concupiscence (nafs;
v. 43), which leads astray:

fa-idhā sawwalat lahu-n-nafsu amran

ḥīda ˜anhu wa-qīla ṣabrun jamīlu

43) “And when selfishness entices it to some affair,

the heart is turned and told: ‘Dignified patience!’ ”

Here, again, Ibn al-Shahrazūrī invokes the Qur’ān. In this instance,

these are words of prophet Jacob in response to his sons who brought
news that his son Joseph had been devoured by a wolf, when in fact,
they had thrown him into a well (12:18):

bal sawwalat lakum anfusukum amran fa-ṣ abrun jamīlun

wa-llahu-l-musta˜ānu ˜alā mā taṣifūna: “No! Your selfish souls
have enticed you to an affair! But dignified patience! May
God help concerning what you have described!”

In the end, Jacob was reunited with his beloved Joseph, and
perhaps Ibn al-Shahrazūrī implies that sincere and patient seekers will
return to the lost garden of Paradise after death (vv. 43–44).
Ibn al-Shahrazūrī’s qaṣ īdah hangs together well, gradually
unfolding the theme of the holy fire, which he introduces in the
 JOINED AT THE CROSSROADS 115

opening verse. Similar to other poets of the Abbasid period, he did

not strictly follow the classical qaṣīdah form of nasīb, raḥīl, and madīḥ/
fakhr/hijā’. Rather, he selected those elements from each section that
would lend themselves to his mystical allegory with its dramatic
tone. Ibn al-Shahrazūrī was famous for his preaching, and one
could image him reciting this poem during a sermon on Moses or
on God’s manifestations to humanity.21 This also could account for
the absence of provocative love imagery in the poem. Moreover, Ibn
al-Shahrazūrī presents clearly defined metaphors regarding the heart
and its desire, the mystics in rapture, and the fire, in particular. In
this way, he leads his audience to imagine the abandoned campsite
and its ruins as creation, and he has the ruins speak to reveal their
true meaning. The homiletic character of this ode also is suggested by
the development and resolution of the central quest theme. Clearly,
the lover of the poem does not number himself among the spiritually
elect; rather, he is a seeker who has glimpsed the fire. He is not a
prophet or an enraptured mystic, although he aspires to gnosis, so
he must tame his selfish nature and be patient under God’s decrees,
hoping for divine mercy.
Ibn al-Shahrazūrī’s al-Mawṣilīyah is important within Arabic poetry
as an example of a mystical ode with a sustained poetic discourse on
the quest for spiritual illumination. The historian Ibn Khallikān cited
the ode in full, he said, because it was hard to find although much
appreciated as a qaṣdah “on the Sufi path.”22 Other Sufis poets also
would draw from the qaṣīdah, and from nasīb section in particular, to
speak on matters of love and longing. However, their poems were
generally short and rarely touched on the raḥīl as a quest theme. In
the following poem, the Egyptian ascetic and Sufi Ibn al-Kīzānī echoes
the nasīb and the departure of the beloved and ends with a depiction
of the beloved as the lover’s judge:23

ayya ṣabrun taraktumu

liya lammā raḥaltum

What patience did you leave me

when you set out?
I have a heart enslaved by love
traveling along where ever you go.
In any event, I am your servant
if that would please you.
I remain under your judgment
whether you oppress or give justice.
116 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

But if you are merciful, you will rule

in favor of violent passion!

Ibn al-Kīzānī generally employed traditional themes and forms

in his few odes, and this also is true of the odes by Ibn al-˜Arabī, Ibn
al-Fāriḍ’s contemporary:24

qif bi-l-manāzili wa-ndubi-l-aṭlālā

wa-sali-r-rubū˜a-d-dārisāti su’ālā

1) Stop at the alighting place and weep over the ruins,

then question the bare spring camping grounds:
2) “Where are the beloveds? Where have the roan ones gone?”
There they are cutting through the hazy wastelands!
3) You see them like gardens in a mirage;
their shapes magnified in haze.
4) They set out seeking to drink at ˜Udhayb
water cool like life.
5) So I tracked them asking the east wind:
“Have they pitched camp or sought the ḍāl tree’s shade?”
6) It replied: “I left their tents at sandy Zarūd,
their camels complaining, tired from their journey.
7) “They had lowered curtains over the tents,
shielding beauty from mid-day’s heat.
8) “So mount up and track them
race your roan camel on toward them!
9) “Then, when you stop at the markers of Ḥājir
and cross through its highlands and lowlands,
10) “Their places will be near, and their fire will appear,
a fire causing passion to blaze up!
11) “Kneel your camel there, and fear not their lions,
for desire will make them seem to you as cubs.”

Although Ibn al-˜Arabī uses few Sufi terms in this poem, the
recurring image of the haze and mirage and reference to the water of
life suggest a mystical element to this ode as the lover tracks after his
beloved (vv. 1–4). In his commentary to this ode, Ibn al-˜Arabī states
explicitly that this poem alludes to those seeking spiritual mysteries.
The east wind is the lover’s companion who helps him to visualize the
hidden beauties, and it urges the lover on to action, envisioning the
quest to find them (vv. 5–8). The final three verses of this ode recall
 JOINED AT THE CROSSROADS 117

themes in Ibn al-Shahrazūrī’s al-Mawṣulīyah, as the Eden-like gardens

(v. 3) may be reached only after the obstacles surrounding them are
surmounted (v. 9). The fire of enlightenment beckons invitingly, causing
the seeker’s passion to rage to such a degree that the ferocious guardians
of divine secrets will appear to him as playful cubs (vv. 10–11).25 Ibn
al-˜Arabī mentions several places by name in this poem, ˜Udhayb (v.
4), Zarūd (v. 6), and Ḥājir (v. 9), the latter identified as Madāin Ṣāliḥ,
whose people, the Qur’ān states, where destroyed by God for their
disobedience.26 In his commentary, Ibn al-˜Arabī notes that Zarūd is a
sandy track whose shifting sands represent the unstable spiritual state of
the novice seekers. As for Ḥājir, Ibn al-˜Arabī plays on its etymological
root referring to restriction, noting that it represents the barrier between
aspiring mystics and the union that they desire.27 Significantly, both
˜Udhayb and Zarūd are on the pilgrimage route from Kufa to Mecca,
although in his commentary, Ibn al-˜Arabī does not mention this.28
Other place names associated with the pilgrimage and holy cites of
Arabia occasionally appear in other odes by Ibn al-˜Arabī.29 However,
an explicit and more sustained series of references to the pilgrimage
in Sufi poetry may be found in an earlier short poem by the noted
North African Sufi theologian Ibn al-˜Arīf (d. 536/1141):30

shaddū-l-maṭīya wa-qad nālū-l-munā bi-Minan

wa-kulluhum bi-alīmi-sh-shawqi qad bāḥā

1) They saddled their mounts

having attained their desires at Minā,
and each of them had revealed
the anguish of desire.

2) Their camels set out,

their fragrance spreading sweetly,
their fine shapes
pleasing to the band of travelers.

3) They were refreshed by a breeze

from the tomb of the chosen Prophet,
when, from memory of him,
they drink a wine.

4) Oh you who have arrived

at the chosen of Muḍar’s line,
118 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

you visit in the body

while we visit in spirit!

5) We remained behind,
excused by necessity,
and those who stay, excused,
are like those who travel.

Ibn al-˜Arīf’s verses revolve around the pilgrimage to Mecca,

which concludes with the ˜Īd al-Adhā, or “Festival of the Sacrifice,” and
other celebrations at Minā near Mecca. Subsequently, many pilgrims
travel several hundred miles north to Medina to visit Muhammad’s
tomb there. Ibn al-˜Arīf envisions this blessed group of pilgrims, and
praises the spiritual benefits to those who recollect the Prophet and
visit his grave:

nasīmu qabri-n-nabī-l-muṣṭafā la-humu

rawḥun idhā sharibū min dhikrihi rāḥā

3) They were refreshed by a breeze

from the tomb of the chosen Prophet,
when, from memory of him,
they drink a wine.

The final two verses contrast those who have the opportunity to
complete the Hajj and visit the Prophet’s shrine in person, to those
who cannot go due to illness or some other valid reason. Yet those left
behind may still recall the blessed prophet and vicariously participate
in the sacred rights and blessings through the imagination (vv. 4–5).
In this short poem, Ibn al-˜Arīf reinterpreted the ancient raḥīl in light
of the Muslim pilgrimage, and this would become an increasing trend
in Sufi verse in the sixth–seventh/eleventh–twelfth centuries. Perhaps
more than any earlier poet, Ibn al-Fāriḍ would consciously develop
this aspect of the ode to speak of the spiritual quest.

Turn Aside at Ṭai

Six of the core poems in Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s Dīwān may be classified as

qaṣīdahs, ranging in length from 18 to 151 verses. Each poem opens
with images drawn from the classical nasīb tradition as the poet recalls
his beloved and their separation in the past:31
 JOINED AT THE CROSSROADS 119

a-wamīḍu barqin bi-l-Ubayriqi lāḥā

am fī rubā Najdin arā miṣbāḥā

Did lightning flash

at dear Abraq,
or do I see a lantern
in the hills of Najd?

Or did Laylā al-˜Āmirīyah

unveil her face that night
and so turned evening
to dawn?

*****

hal nāru Laylā badat laylan bi-Dhī Salami

am bāriqun lāḥā bi-Z-Zawrā’ fa-l-˜Alami

Did Laylā’s fire shine at Dhū Salam,

or did lightning flash at al-Zawrā’ and al-˜Alam?32

In two odes, the lover’s memories are stirred not by a distant

light, but by the early morning breeze that blows to him from his
beloved’s camp far away:33

na˜am bi-ṣ-ṣabā qalbī ṣabā li-aḥibbatī

fa-yā ḥabbadhā dhāka-sh-shadhā ḥīna habbati

1) Yes, because of the east wind

my heart yearned for my beloveds;
how lovely that scent
when it arose!

2) It traveled through the night

and near dawn divulged to the heart
tales (aḥādīth) of the neighbors at ˜Udhayb,
bringing joy.

3) Quietly rustling in the meadows,

soft its cloak, a languid breeze,
in whose very nature
is the recovery for my disease,
120 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

4) Setting in motion
the sweet grasses of al-Ghuwayr.
I was drunk from that,
not from my companions’ wine.

5) tudhakkirunī-l-˜ahda-l-qadīma li-annahā
ḥadīthatu ˜ahdin min uhayli mawaddatī

The breeze reminded me

of the ancient pact,
for it had recently met
the dear ones of my love.

Here in the opening of the al-Tā’īyah al-Ṣughrā (“Ode Rhyming

in T—Minor”), Ibn al-Fāriḍ likens the gentle east wind to the
beloved’s night messenger who brings the lover glad tidings of a
possible union (vv. 1–3). The memories evoked by the breeze induce
a state of intoxication that leads the poet to recollect (tudhakkirunī) the
“ancient pact” (al-˜ahd al-qadīm; vv. 4–5). This probable allusion to the
mīthāq, or primordial covenant, is conveyed and reinforced by word
play and antithesis (al-˜ahd al-qadīm, “ancient pact;” ḥadīthatu ˜ahd,
“recent meeting”) suggesting the paradox of a timeless permanence
amid temporal transience. Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s use in verse 2 of aḥādīth
(“traditions,” “tales”) appears to allude to the Prophet Muhammad,
which is certainly the case in the following ode:34

araju-n-nasīmi sarā mina-Z-Zawrā’i

saḥaran fa-aḥyā mayyita-l-aḥyā’i

1) The breeze’s sweet scent traveled by night

arriving at dawn from al-Zawrā’,
bringing back to life
one dead among the living.

2) Its fragrance guided

the winds of Najd to us,
so the air everywhere
smelled of ambergris,

3) And it told tales

of the beloveds,
traced back to a fragrant rush
and thorn bush at Athākhir.
 JOINED AT THE CROSSROADS 121

4) I was drunk with that fragrant scent

from the hems of its cloak,
and the flush of recovery
spread through my disease.

In this opening from the al-Hamzīyah, the winds (v. 2: arwāḥ, also
meaning “spirits”) from Arabia once again arrive at dawn to revive
the lover who is dead to all save his beloved. The heady fragrance
carried by the breezes from Najd, the ˜Udhrī Arcadia, is termed
˜arf (v. 2), suggesting a related Sufi word, ˜irfān, gnosis. Moreover,
the fragrance guides (ahdā) the winds bearing news of the beloved
just as the Qur’ān brings God’s guidance to humanity. Ibn al-Fāriḍ
hints further at the religious character of the feelings aroused by this
fragrance with a sustained word play (īhām) involving the science of
ḥadīth (v. 3):

wa-rawā aḥādītha-l-aḥibbati musnidan

˜an idhkhirin bi-Adhākirin wa-saḥā’i

And it told tales

of the beloveds
traced back to a fragrant rush
and thorn bush at Adhākhir.

Aḥādīth clearly refers to the prophetic traditions of Muhammad,

which are related (rawā) based on a chain of authority (musnad).
Similar to the opening scene from the al-Tā’īyah al-Ṣughrā, the fragrant
wind is likened to a medicinal wine, which relieves the poet’s love
sickness (v. 4).35 As in several ghazals, mention of ḥadīth suggests that
the beloved of both odes may refer to the prophet Muhammad and/
or his Light, and this impression is strengthened by Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s
mention of al-Zawrā’, a place in Medina near the Prophet’s mosque,
and Adhākhir, the place of Muhammad’s encampment prior to his
conquest of Mecca.36 Finally, the word for cloak in verse 4 of the
al-Hamzīyah, burd, has a common variant, burdah, a term traditionally
used to refer to Muhammad’s cloak or mantle, which is a Muslim
symbol for forgiveness.37
In all six of his qaṣīdahs, Ibn al-Fāriḍ recounts the departure of
a caravan, which in the classical qaṣīdah, referred to the beloved’s
departure, and two odes begin with this scene of separation:38

sā’iqa-l-aẓ˜āni yaṭwī-l-bīda ṭai

mun˜iman ˜arrij ˜alā kuthbāni Ṭai
122 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

1) Driver of the howdahs rolling up the perilous deserts,

kindly turn aside at the dunes of Ṭai,
2) And at Dhāt al-Shīh, if you pass a tribe of dear Arabs
of the winding valley, greet them for me,
3) And show kindness to them and quickly mention me;
perhaps they will look to me with affection.

*****

khaffifi-s-sayra wa-tta’id yā ḥādī

innamā anta sā’iqun bi-fu’ādī39

1) Ease the pace and slow, O leader of the caravan,

for you are driving on with my heart.

Similar passages immediately follow the opening verses of the

other four qaṣīdahs, and Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s use of key words, phrases, and
images sets the desert scene:40

yā rākiba-l-wajnā’i bullighta-l-munā
˜uj bi-l-ḥimā in juzta bi-l-jar˜ā’i

O rider of the strong she-camel,

may you be granted your desire,
turn aside at the sacred precinct
if you pass by the sandy ground.

In this last instance, the greeting and blessing of the caravan

leader signals the beginning of a journey as the poet imagines the route
taken by the camels and their stops along the way until the caravan
alights at the beloved’s campground. Once at the site, the driver is
asked to present to the beloved an account of the lover’s emaciated
and distraught condition. As in Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s ghazals, the lover then
dismisses his blamers and, occasionally, he recalls the beloved’s
beauty and cruelty. Following the ˜Udhrī tradition, the female beloved
of Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s odes usually is the ideal perfect woman. She may
be compared with Majnūn’s Laylā or Qays’ Lubnā, but even these
legendary beauties fall short of the beloved’s magnificence:41

bi-farṭi gharāmī dhikra Qaysin bi-wajdihi

wa-bahjatihā Lubnā amattu wa-ammati
 JOINED AT THE CROSSROADS 123

With my excessive passion,

I slew the memory of Qays in his rapture,
just as she preceded Lubnā
in splendor.

As with the beloved in his ghazals, Ibn al-Fāriḍ rarely details her
physical features in his qaṣīdahs as she is veiled.42 The one exception
in the odes appears in the al-Yā’īyah:43

51) My desire is for her bright face

while my heart thirsts for those full, red lips.
52) Both those lips and her glances made me drunk;
how sweet my two intoxications!
53) I believe wine was drunk from the breath of her lips,
while honey, confused, is humbled before them.
54) Always her glances are Dhū al-Faqār,
while my insides are Huyai and ˜Amr!
55) Her waist wasted my body to her slender shape,
so wasting away is my finest robe.
56) If she sways, she is a bough on a dune bearing the full moon
at night, dark tresses of a tawny beauty.
57) If she turns away, my heart turns too,
but if she unveils (tajallat) all reason is her booty

Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s portrayal of the beloved leaves little doubt as to

her ideal status; she has a face bright like the moon, long hair black
as night, a slender waist, red, honeyed lips, an intoxicating breath,
and deadly eyes whose glances pierce the lover like the famed sword
Dhū al-Faqār, which ˜Alī ibn Abī Ṭālib used to run through his infidel
enemies including ˜Amr ibn ˜Abd Wudd and Ḥuyai ibn Akhṭab.44
The commentator al-Nābulusī noted that Ibn al-Fāriḍ used the word
wajh (v. 51) for the beloved’s face as an allusion to Qur’ān 2:115: “To
God belongs the east and west, so wherever you turn, there is the
face (wajh) of God, the omnipresent, the omniscient!”45 Later, in the
al-Yā’īyah, Ibn al-Fāriḍ suggests the divine nature of the beloved when
she proclaims her omnipotence in matters of love:46

lastu ansā bi-th-thanāyā qawlahā

kullu man fī-l-ḥayyi asrā fī yadai
salhumu mustakhbiran anfasahum
hal najat anfusuhum min qabḍatai
124 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

fa-l-qaḍā mā bayna sukhṭī wa-r-raḍā

man lahu uqṣi qaḍā aw udni ḥai
khātiba-l-khatbi da˜i-d-da˜wā fa-mā
bi-r-ruqā tarqā ilā waṣli Ruqai.
ruḥ mu˜āfan wa-ghtanim nuṣḥī wa-in
shi’ta an tahwā fa-lil-balwā tahai
wa-bi-suqmin himtu bi-l-ajfāni an
zānahā waṣfan tazayyan wa-tazai
kam qatīlin min qabīlin mā lahu
qawadun fī ḥubbinā min kulli ḥai
bābu waṣlī-s-sāmu min subli-d-ḍanā
minhu lī mā dumta ḥayyan lam tabai
fa-ini-staghnayta ˜an ˜izzi-l-baqā
fa-ilā waṣlī bi-badhli-n-nafsi ḥai
qultu rūḥī in tarā basṭaki fī
qabḍihā ˜ishtu fa-ra’yī an tarai

81) I have not forgotten her words at the narrow passes:

“Everyone of the tribe is a prisoner in my two hands.
82) “Ask them, if you seek to know what is most precious to them,
if their souls escaped from my two fists.
83) “For judgment is between my displeasure and satisfaction:
one I put afar, dies; one I bring near, lives.
84) “O you engaging in an important affair, give up false claims;
not with amulets will you ascend to union with Ruqai.
85) “Leave in good health and profit from my advice,
but if you wish to love, be ready for affliction.
86) “For I desperately love eyes embellished by disease,
so adorn and dress them up!
87) “In loving us, how many have been slain
from every type and tribe without retaliation.
88) “The door to union with me is death by wasting away;
you will not come back to me as long as you live.
89) “So if you can be free of glorious mortality and give up
your soul,
then welcome to my union!”
90) I said: “If you see your unbound joy in my spirit’s oppression,
then I will live, seeing as you do.”

This is one of only a few passages in Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s verse in

which the beloved speaks, and her words are replete with word plays,
antithesis, and Sufi technical terms as the beloved asks her lover to
 JOINED AT THE CROSSROADS 125

suffer affliction (balwā; v. 85) and death, to give up his selfish soul (nafs;
v. 89) and thoughts of permanence (baqā’; v. 89) if he is to attain her
satisfaction (riḍā; v. 83) and union with her (waṣl; v. 88). Ibn al-Fāriḍ
also underscores the spiritual nature of this death by using several
Sufi terms and their antithesis in the lover’s eager reply to meet
the beloved’s demands; he is ready to permit her to oppress (qabḍ)
his spirit (rūḥ) if that will bring her exhilaration (basṭ), as her wish
becomes his command (v. 90). Furthermore, the beloved, like God in
the Qur’ān, speaks with the “royal We” (v. 87), and has the power
to grant life or death to whom she wills (v. 83). Jalāl al-Dīn al-Suyūṭī
(d. 911/1405), perhaps the earliest scholar to compose a commentary
on this poem, finds an allusion in verse 83 to a prophetic tradition,
which declares that at the time of Adam’s creation, God drew two
handfuls from Adam’s loins. The fistful from the right side contained
those of Adam’s progeny destined for Paradise, while the fistful from
the left side had those destined for Hell.47 Similarly, the beloved of this
poem judges her lovers as she sees fit, and only those who willingly
submit themselves to her will become the unavenged martyrs of love
blessed with union.48
Following the classical qaṣīdah tradition in his odes, Ibn al-Fāriḍ
portrays life as a test, and the lover plagued by fear of failure. Returning
to the somber and sorrowful mood of the nasīb, Ibn al-Fāriḍ generally
concludes his qaṣīdahs with the lover’s cherished memories of union
with the beloved during the pilgrimage at Mecca:49

wāhan ˜alā dhāka-z-zamāni wa-ṭībihi

ayyāma kuntu mina-l-lughūbi murāḥā
qasaman bi-Zamzama wa-l-Maqāmi wa-man atā-l-
Bayta-l-Ḥarāma mulabbiyan sayyāḥā
mā rannahat rīḥu-ṣ-ṣabā shīḥa-r-rubā
illā wa-ahdat minkumu arwāhā

24) Ah, for that time

and its sweetness,
days when I had rest
from toil.

25) I swear by the well of Zamzam

and Abraham’s Station,
and by the pilgrim passing the Sacred House
crying; “I’m here to serve, O Lord!”
126 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

26) Never did the breeze of the east wind

rustle the wormwoods of the hills
save it brought
reviving spirits from you!

*****

āhan li-ayyāminā bi-l-Khayfi law baqiyat

˜ashran wa-wāhan ˜alayhā kayfa lam tadumi50

14) Ah, for our days at al-Khayf,

had they been ten, but how could they last?
15) If only my grief could cure me,
and my remorse recover what has passed.
16) Fawns of the winding valleys, leave me alone, please,
I have bound my eye to face only them.
17) Obeying a judge who decreed a wondrous thing:
the shedding of my blood in unhallowed and sacred grounds.
18) Deaf, he did not hear the plea; dumb, he did not answer,
blind to the case of one burning with desire.

In several poems, and in these verses from the ode beginning “Did
Laylā’s fire shine at Dhū Salam,” Ibn al-Fāriḍ alludes to the ˜Udhrī
love cycle of Majnūn-Laylā. According to the oldest accounts of their
sad tale, Qays ibn al-Mulawwah was unable to wed his kinswomen
Laylā, and so he went insane, hence his nickname Majnūn, the “mad
man.” He often would face toward the Najd longing to feel the east
wind and some trace of his beloved, but to no avail. Hoping to cure
him, his father took him on pilgrimage to Mecca, but there at Minā,
Majnūn heard the name Laylā and fell unconscious thinking only of
her, not of God. Later, Majnūn roamed distraught with wild animals,
including gazelles, and when a man tried to intercede with Laylā’s
family on Majnūn’s behalf, he was told that the caliph had given them
permission to shed the blood of Majnūn with impunity were they to
encounter him.51 Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s ode invoking Laylā’s name ends with
the gazelles, which could be a metaphor for human beloveds. Yet,
this reference to gazelles, together with the Muslim holy land, and
the judge’s decree to allow shedding the lover’s blood, all resonate
with Majnūn’s tragic tale of unrequited love and eventual death.52
Furthermore, at the end of several other odes, Ibn al-Fāriḍ has the lover
voice a desperate hope that he be accepted once more and granted a
 JOINED AT THE CROSSROADS 127

reprieve from his desolate exile. He calls on the spring rains to water
the encampments of the beloved so that, perhaps, her love in days
long past will likewise be renewed:53

145) Give life, O spring rains, to the tribe’s spring campground;

may my father be ransom for our neighbors there.
146) What life passed for me in the encampment’s shade?
O, now, my portion of it is what?
147) Alas, will the nights of union ever return?
And for distraction, the impassioned lover moans “Alas!”
148) By which road may I hope for their return?
Perhaps I am dying and do not know which way.
149) O my neighbors, my bewilderment is between
fate standing behind me and passion before.
150) Life has gone to waste, come to an end in vain,
if I win nothing from you,
151) Were it not for the trust to me of my bond of fidelity
to him truly sent from Quṣai.

The first verse of this conclusion to the al-Yā’īyah begins with

an elaborate series of word plays:

ḥayyī rab˜īya-l-ḥayā rab˜a-l-ḥayā

bi-abī jīratunā fīhi wa-bai

Give life, O spring rains, to the tribe’s spring campground;

may my father be ransom for our neighbors there.

The listener hears the recurrent sounds ḥaiya and raba˜a, which
conjure images of life (ḥaiya, “to live”) and fertility (rabi˜, “spring”). It is
the loss of both that the lover mourns, and he repeats ai (‘what,” “alas,”
“O,” “which”) at the beginning and end of three successive verses to
underscore his confusion and despair (vv. 146–148). Then in his climax,
Ibn al-Fāriḍ calls on word play (ḥayratī/jīratī) and antithesis (“behind
me”/”before me”) to etch indelibly the human condition (v. 149):54

ḥayratī bayna qaḍā’in jīratī

min warā’ī wa-hawan bayna yadai

O my neighbors, my bewilderment is between

fate standing behind me and passion before.
128 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

Fated to be tested in a life without apparent meaning, the lover

longs for a reunion that may never be. Ibn al-Fāriḍ leaves aside
rhetorical display in the final two verses, lending them a quality of
frankness, as the lover grieves over the past, for his lost youth, and
a life perhaps squandered for nothing. In the final verse, Ibn al-Fāriḍ
alludes to Muhammad by way of the prophet’s ancestor Quṣai,55 as
the lover still hopes that his devotion to the prophet Muhammad may
ultimately lead him to union once more.

Holy Pilgrimage

As in the last passage, Ibn al-Fāriḍ often cites Arabian proper nouns in
his odes, particularly when he recounts the route taken by the caravan.
Such direct naming had long been a part of the qaṣīdah tradition,
though some commentators have felt that Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s references to
Arabia were the natural result of his own stay in the Ḥijāz.56 Moreover,
several scholars have considered these references to be an integral part
of the poet’s expressions of devotion and veneration for the Prophet
and his homeland.57 In several odes, the caravan does indeed arrive at
or pass by Medina, the holy site of Muhammad’s mosque and tomb,
as we find in the al-Tā’īyah al-Ṣughrā:58

Bless you, driver,

if you see Tūḍiḥ at forenoon
and cross the desert lowlands
of the white antelopes of Wajrah,

And put aside ˜Urayḍ’s dunes,

avoiding Ḥuzwā’s
rugged hard ground,
driving on to Suwayqah,

Leaving behind the willows

on the way from Ṭuwayli˜ to Sal˜,
ask after an encampment
set up there,

And halt among the party,

may you be safe,
and greet the dear Arabs
on my behalf.
 JOINED AT THE CROSSROADS 129

For among those dear tents

I have one who
is stingy to me with union
but generous with parting.

Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s caravan in this passage does not appear to follow

a clear route. Ṭūdiḥ is located in central Arabia while Wajrah is on the
pilgrimage road between Basra and Mecca; al-˜Urayḍ is a valley at
Medina, and Ḥuzwā and Suwayqah may be there too. Ṭuwayli˜ is the
name of a number of places, the best known being a hill near Mecca,
but the caravan’s stopping at Sal˜ is a certain reference to Medina. Of
course, Ibn al-Fāriḍ may not have selected these place names for their
exact geographic location, but for their poetic possibilities with their
subliminal or rhetorical associations since most of the names figure
prominently in the alliterations, assonances, and word plays in the
verses.59 Nevertheless, the caravan driver is asked to halt at Sal˜, a
site in Medina, to greet the beloved and appeal to her on the lover’s
behalf. Yet, although Medina often may be an alighting place for the
caravan, it is not the final destination, and later in the ode, the lover
recalls his meeting the beloved near the Ka˜bah in Mecca, where the
caravan makes its way in the other odes, as well:60

yā rākiba-l-wajnā’i wuqqīta-r-raḍā
in juzta ḥaznan aw ṭawayta biṭāḥā

Oh rider of the strong she-camel,

may you be guarded from destruction,
if you cross the rugged hard ground,
or roll up the wide-spread torrent beds,

And travel by Na˜mān al-Arāk,

turn aside
to a wide valley there,
one which I have known,

And to the right of ˜Alamān,

to the east,
stop and seek out
its sweet fragrant arīn plants.

And when you reach the folds of the sandy tract,

call out for a heart
130 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

that wandered away to destruction

in that dear torrent bed,

And recite a greeting on my behalf

to its dear folk and say:
“I left him starved
for your courtyard!”

The rider’s destination in this ode is the sacred precincts of Mecca

as the caravan travels from Na˜mān al-Arāk (“Na˜mān of the Arāk
trees”), a valley two leagues from Mt. ˜Arafāt, to al-˜Alamān (“the
Two Markers”), which lies on the pilgrims’ path between ˜Arafāt and
Minā where the pilgrims camp. As for the courtyard (janāb), this is a
standard reference to the area immediately adjacent to the Ka˜bah.61
In fact, the poet’s imagined final destination in all of his odes is not
Medina but Mecca. Although Ibn al-Fāriḍ certainly pays his respects
to Muhammad and Medina in several of his odes, his qaṣīdahs are not
panegyrics to the Prophet as his ghazals appear to be, but rather devoted
recollections of the Hajj, the Muslim pilgrimage. For the pilgrimage
at Mecca was the time and place of the lover’s close encounter with
the beloved:62

wa-humu bi-qalbī in tanā’at dāruhum

˜annī wa-sukhtī fī-l-hawā wa-riḍā’ī
wa-˜alā mahallī bayna zahrānayhimi
bi-l-Akhshabayni atūfu hawla ḥimā’ī
wa-˜alā-˜tināqī li-r-rifāqi musalliman
˜inda-stilāmi-r-Rukni bi-l-īmā’ī
wa-˜alā muqāmī bi-l-Maqāmi aqāma fī
jismī-s-saqāmu wa-lāta hina shifā’i
wa-tadhakkurī ajyāda wirdī fī-ḍ-ḍuḥā
wa-tahajjudī fī-laylati-l-laylā’i

27) And they are in my heart though their abode be far from me;
in passion, they are my grief and satisfaction.
28) I remember my place among them at Akhshabān
my circumambulating my sacred place,
29) Embracing my companions, greeting them with a nod,
when kissing the Stone of the Corner,
30) Standing at Abraham’s Station as disease stood in my body
too late for a cure.
31) My recollecting Ajyād is my litany at noon
and my vigil in the dark of night.
 JOINED AT THE CROSSROADS 131

Ibn al-Fāriḍ recalls the lover’s days among his beloveds at

al-Akhshabān, two hills located in the vicinity of Mecca (v. 27). Using
antithesis, word play, internal rhyme, and beginning three consecutive
verses with the phrase wa-˜alā, the poet quickly sketches the lover’s
moments within the holy mosque of Mecca; he circumambulated the
Ka˜bah, kissed its black stone, and embraced his companions. Then
near the Ka˜bah, he stood at Abraham’s Station, consumed by love (vv.
28–30). The lover proclaims that his constant recollection (tadhakkurī)
of his stay at Ajyād, another mountain near Mecca, has become his
mystical prayer (wird, v. 31). Clearly, there is a strong mystical current
running through Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s accounts of meeting his beloved in the
Muslim holy land:63

wa-lammā tawāfaynā ˜ishā’an wa-ḍammanā

sawā’u sabīlay Dhī Ṭuwā wa-th-Thanīyati

42) In the twilight when we gathered

joined at the crossroads
from Dhū Ṭuwā
and Thanīyah,

43) She did not grudge giving me

a moment’s pause
equal to my standing
at ˜Arafāt.

44) Then I reproved her, but she did not care,

as if no meeting, nothing,
had happened save that
I pointed, and she nodded.

45) O Ka˜bah of loveliness,

the hearts of the wise
make pilgrimage to your beauty
and cry: “At you service!”

46) The lightning’s precious gleam

in the narrow pass
flashed us your shining teeth,
the best of gifts,

47) And revealed to my eye that my heart

was a neighbor to your precinct,
132 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

so my eye desired and yearned

for your beauty.

The meeting is in the evening, but the very special one at Mt.
˜Arafāt where the pilgrims stand and pray at sunset on the second
day of the pilgrimage. The lover and his beloved have come from
their respective campsites, Dhū Ṭawā and al-Thanīyah, both located
in Mecca. She pauses with him for a brief moment at ˜Arafāt where
he reproves her (vv. 42–43). Poetically this reproof is for the beloved’s
neglect of the lover. But the beloved does not grant him more than
a glance, which passes so quickly that the he wonders if it even
happened. Yet this is enough to arouse the lover’s yearning desire to
see her again (vv. 44–47).64 These verses from the al-Tā’īyah al-Ṣughrā
have a strong mystical flavor. The encounter at ˜Arafāt may well allude
to an experience of gnosis (ma˜rifah), and Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s references
to the beloved in terms of the pilgrimage rites leave little doubt as
to her exalted nature; she is the Ka˜bah toward which the hearts of
those with insight (v. 45: qulūb al-uwilā) turn in prayer. In this light,
the beloved’s fleeting glance may be an immediate experience of
the holy presence, which is the essence of the pilgrimage. Standing
at ˜Arafāt or before the Ka˜bah, the lovers of God see within their
hearts the flash of gnosis, God’s grace to His worshippers who
are blessed with the knowledge that their Lord is always near
(v. 47).65 For a timeless moment they are again in the divine realm
of pre-eternity:66

saqā bi-S-Safā-r-rib˜īyu rab˜an bihi-ṣafā

wa-jāda bi-Ajyādin tharan minhu tharwatī
mukhayyamu ladhdhātī wa-sūqu ma’āribī
wa-qiblatu āmālī wa-mawtinu ṣabwatī
manāzilu unsin kāna lam ansa dhikrahā
bi-man bu˜duhā wa-l-qurbu nārī wa-jannatī

81) May the spring rains at Ṣafā

quench a pure spring encampment
and fall abundantly at Ajyād
whose moist soil is my treasure.

82) There is the camp of my delights,

my market of aims,
my qiblah of desires,
my abode of youthful passion.
 JOINED AT THE CROSSROADS 133

83) They were stations of intimacy

whose recollection I have not forgotten:
because of her, her distance is my Hell,
her proximity my Paradise.

This reunion experienced during the pilgrimage is the crucial

event in Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s odes, as we see in this passage from the
al-Tā’īyah al-Ṣughrā. Ibn al-Fāriḍ again recalls the places and events of
the pilgrimage in Sufi terms, especially in verse 83, in which he uses
uns, (“intimacy”), dhikr (“recollection”), and qurb (“proximity”).67 Ibn
al-Fāriḍ was certainly not the first Muslim to explore the mystical
dimensions of the Hajj. Earlier, the Sufi writer al-Sarrāj (d. 378/988) had
stressed the importance of the pilgrim’s intentions and attitude during
these rites whose outward forms clothed inner truths, and al-Hujwirī
(d. 469/1077) related a story of third/tenth-century Sufi master
al-Junayd, which is a fine example of a Sufi interpretation of the Hajj:68

A certain man came to Junayd. Junayd asked him whence

he came. He replied: “I have been on the pilgrimage.”
Junayd said: “From the time when you first journeyed
from your home have you also journeyed away from your
sins?” He said: “No.” “Then,” said Junayd, “you have made
no journey. At every stage where you halted for the night
did you traverse a station on the way to God?” He said:
“No.” “Then,” said Junayd, “you have not trodden the road
stage by stage. When you put on the pilgrim’s garb at the
proper place did you discard the attributes of humanity
as you cast off your ordinary clothes?” “No.” “Then you
have not put on the pilgrim’s garb. When you stood at
˜Arafāt did you stand one instant in contemplation of
God?” “No.” “Then you have not stood on ˜Arafāt. When
you went to Muzdalifa and achieved your desire did you
renounce all sensual desires?” “No.” “Then you have not
gone to Muzdalifa. When you circumambulated the Temple
[the Ka˜bah] did you behold the immaterial beauty of God
in the abode of purification?” “No.” “Then you have not
circumambulated the Temple. When you ran between Safā
and Marwā did you attain to the rank of purity (ṣafā) and
virtue (muruwat)?” “No.” “Then you have not run. When
you came to Minā did all your wishes (munyathā) cease?”
“No.” “Then you have not yet visited Minā. When you
reached the slaughter-place and offered the sacrifice did
134 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

you sacrifice the objects of sensual desire?” “No.” “Then

you have not sacrificed. When you threw stones did you
throw away whatever sensual thoughts were accompanying
you?” “No.” “Then you have not thrown stones, and you
have not performed the pilgrimage. Return and perform the
pilgrimage in the manner which I have described in order
that you may arrive at the Station of Abraham.”

Many of Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s poetic allusions to the Hajj strikingly

parallel al-Junayd’s interpretations of the pilgrimage rites. As we have
seen, Ibn al-Fāriḍ places particular stress on the pilgrim’s journey and
stopping places, the lover’s discarding of selfish thoughts, and the
momentary encounter at ˜Arafāt; his beloved, too, is the “Ka˜bah of
beauty,” and the lover’s mystical ascent is from “Abraham’s Station.”
Furthermore, Ibn al-Fāriḍ makes nearly identical etymological word
plays involving such sites as al-Ṣafā, al-Marwā, and Minā.69 As
important, for both al-Junayd and Ibn al-Fāriḍ, the Hajj is not merely
a symbol for the mystical quest and experience, but the actual site
and occasion for it. For the pilgrimage and the standing at ˜Arafāt,
in particular, are the most pronounced example of Muslim solidarity
and communion in humility before God. An older contemporary of
Ibn al-Fāriḍ, Ibn Jubayr (d. 613/1217) left an account of his pilgrimage
and some of the profound feelings he experienced at ˜Arafāt:70

Upon that Friday morning there was on ˜Arafāt a multitude

that could have no like save that which will be on the Day
of Resurrection; but, within the will of God Most High,
it was a gathering that will win reward, giving promise
as it does of God’s mercy and forgiveness when men
assemble for the Day of Reckoning. . . . When on Friday,
the midday and afternoon prayers were said together, the
people stood contrite and in tears, humbly beseeching
the mercy of Great and Glorious God. The cries of “God
is Great!” rose high, and loud were the voices of men in
prayer. Never has there been seen a day of such weeping,
such penitence of heart, and such bending of the neck in
reverential submission and humility before God. In this
fashion the pilgrims continued, with the sun burning their
faces, until its orb had sunk and the time of the sunset
prayers was at hand. . . . What a standing it had been, how
awesome to regard and what hopes of happy reward it
 JOINED AT THE CROSSROADS 135

had brought to the soul. God grant that we may be among

those on whom He there conferred His approbation and
covered with His bounty. For He is bounteous, generous,
compassionate, and beneficent.

Ibn Jubayr compared the Standing at ˜Arafāt to the gathering on

the Day of Resurrection, and Ibn al-Fāriḍ, too, in his odes likens the
encounter there to a foretaste of the permanent joy to be savored in
Paradise. Like many other Muslims, Ibn al-Fāriḍ apparently viewed
the Standing at ˜Arafāt to be a second point of direct contact between
humanity and God following their first meeting on the Day of the
Primordial Covenant (yawm al-mīthāq). At ˜Arafāt the eternal and
temporal meet for a moment, and believing Muslims may briefly raise
the veil of selfishness to glimpse their reward to come if God forgives
and accepts them on the Day of Resurrection (yawm al-qīyāmah), their
third and final meeting.
Ibn al-Fāriḍ followed well-established Sufi tradition in regarding
˜Arafāt as the nexus of gnosis (ma˜rifah),71 but he may have been the
first poet to consciously reinterpret the qaṣīdah in terms of the Hajj
and the deeply religious feelings aroused at Mecca. In this context,
his nasībs are recollections of the illumination to be experienced
there, or memories brought by the breeze from those holy sites. The
caravan whose driver he beseeches is the annual pilgrimage caravan
that leaves Cairo and journeys to Mecca perhaps stopping en route
at Medina in order to pay homage to the prophet Muhammad and
seek his blessings. The departure of the caravan causes the lover to
remember his own inner journey and final destination, which was not
some earthly lord or ruler, as had been in the pre-Islamic and later
panegyric odes but, rather, God, Lord of the Worlds. Thus, the caravan
sections of Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s odes combine the motif of the departing
beloved, traditionally recounted in the past tense, with elements of
the heroic raḥīl, often related in the present.72 But in stark contrast to
the classical raḥīl and its cathartic psychological rite of passage, the
journey in Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s odes is both the physical trek to Mecca and
an interior quest to recover the primordial union lost in creation.
The lover of Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s odes longs for this encounter experienced
during the rites of renewal performed in the sacred precincts of Mecca.
As one of Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s commentators, Sibṭ al-Marṣafī (fl. 960/1562)
astutely observed, the ruins and spring encampments of other poets
have become in Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s odes, Medina, Mecca, and their places
of pilgrimage.73 Thus, Ibn al-Fāriḍ channels the ancient and evocative
136 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

power of the classical qaṣīdah into the sites and rites of the Muslim
pilgrimage to communicate a mystical vision of life and love. This
very original contribution to Islamic mysticism and Arabic poetry is
beautifully illustrated by Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s al-Dālīyah.74

“Greetings from Su˜ād”

khaffifi-s-sayra wa-tta’id yā ḥādī

innamā anta sā’iqun bi-fu’ādī

1) Ease the pace and slow, O leader of the caravan,

for you are driving on with my heart.
2) Do you not see the reddish white camels being driven and
longing,
starved and thirsty for the spring encampments’ springtime?
3) The wastelands have not left them any body
other than skin stretched over protruding bones.
4) Their pads have dried up, burning like coals,
but they walk on from their grief.
5) Fatigue has whittled them away and loosened their nose rings;
let them quench themselves on the depressions’ panic grass.
6) Running will wear them away if you do not water them,
so give them a drink on the run amid the lowland’s large pools,
7) And race with them, but spare them,
for they are your means to win the best of valleys.
8) May God lengthen your life! If you pass by Yanbu˜ oasis,
then Dahnā, then Badr, setting out early,
9) And journey to Naqā, then to the wetlands of Waddān,
and to Rābigh with well-watered pools,
10) And you cross the stony tacks aiming for the tents of Qudayd,
the dwellings of the glorious ones,
11) And draw near to Khulayṣ, then ˜Usfān,
and Marr al-Ẓahrān, the bedouins’ meeting place,
12) And arrive to drink at Jumūm, then Qaṣr and Daknā’,
one and all watering holes for those coming for drink,
13) And you come to Tan˜īm, then to Zāhir,
radiant with blossoms to its mountain tops,
14) And cross over to Ḥajūn and pass through,
choosing to visit the shrines of the saints,
15) And reach the tents, then give my greetings carefully
to the dear Arabs of that assembly.
 JOINED AT THE CROSSROADS 137

16) Be kind, and recall to them

a part of my passion, never to be exhausted.
17) O my friends, will the time of drawing near you
in the sacred precinct return with my sleep?
18) O neighbors of the quarter, how bitter is separation,
how sweet the meeting together after loneliness.
19) How can a captive savor life
while in his heart are striking sparks?
20) His life and endurance wane,
while burning passion and rapture grow:
21) In Egypt’s villages, his body; near Syria,
his dear companions; in Ajyād, his heart.
22) If we could stand again on those dear rocks at dusk,
I would be happy after being afar.
23) May God preserve our day at Muṣallā
where we were called to wisdom’s path,
24) While the riders’ domed howdahs swiftly set out early
between ˜Alamān toward Ma’zimān.
25) May He shower our union at Jam˜ with gentle rains
and our dear nights at Khayf with a cloud of spring showers.
26) Some crave wealth and a fine place to dwell,
but my desire is Minā, my highest hope.
27) O dear ones of the Ḥijāz, if time decrees separation,
executing a willed command,
28) Then my ancient affection for you will be my affliction,
for my love, as you know well, remains my desire.
29) Long ago you took up residence in the core of my heart
and in the dark black center of my eye.
30) O my night companion, refresh my spirit,
singing of Mecca if you wish to cheer me,
31) For her courtyard has my herds, her soil is my grassland,
and her torrent channel is my place of water and provision.
32) In her was my intimacy and the ascent of my sanctity;
my station was Abraham’s and the enlightenment clear.
33) But the fortunes carried me away from her;
cut off from water, my drinking could not last.
34) O, if only time would permit a return;
perhaps then my festive days would return to me.
35) I swear by Ḥaṭīm and the Corner, by the Coverings,
and the two Marwahs where the worshippers run,
36) By the Courtyard’s shadows, by Ḥijr and the Spout,
and the Place of Answering for those who seek it,
138 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

37) I have never smelled balsam save

it brought to my heart greetings from Su˜ād!

Ibn al-Fāriḍ begins this ode in medias res, as the lover begs
the leader of the caravan to go easy on his camels, which the poet
identifies with the lover’s aching heart. As is common in the pre-Islamic
qaṣīdah, the she-camel is the poet’s alter ego, and her physical trials
and afflictions suffered while crossing the forbidding desert reflect
the lover’s psychological condition.75 In this instance both are driven
hard by their passion, becoming famished and parched, longing to
reach the fertile and verdant encampments (vv. 1–2). The joy to be
encountered there is in contrast to the stark wastelands, which may
symbolize the lover’s ascetic devotions and/or his desolate emotional
and spiritual state. He is emaciated, skin and bones without volition,
living on in excruciating pain (vv. 3–4). He cries out to the harsh and
unrelenting driver, perhaps a symbol for his passion, to grant him a
taste of the water of life before he is consumed by the fire of love
and desire (vv. 5–6).
Ibn al-Fāriḍ then moves to an account of the caravan’s route,
foretelling its destination by advising the driver to spare his mounts
so that they may fly to the “best of valleys” which, in an Islamic
context, often refers to Mecca (v. 7).76 Following his usual formulaic
blessing of the driver, the lover recollects a journey he once made.
Ibn al-Fāriḍ begins verses 8 to 14 with verbs of motion and travel,
and mentions numerous places along the way. Commentators have
identified many of the sites as lying between Medina and Mecca, and
al-Nābulusī in his customary zeal to find hidden spiritual meanings
in every word linked each name to a stage on the mystic’s path to
God.77 Another more recent scholar also has claimed that Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s
lengthy itinerary is intended to convey the monotony of the pilgrimage
caravan, the pilgrim’s hardships, and their joy upon reaching Mecca.78
Yet, Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s descriptions of several places (Rābigh, v. 9; Qudayd,
v. 10; al-Zāhir, v. 13) suggest a fondness for these alighting places.
Moreover, what has apparently gone unnoticed is that the identified
place names are cited by Ibn al-Fāriḍ in their correct geographical order
along the pilgrimage route from Cairo to Mecca.79 This poetic map of
the way, then, may recount Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s own historical pilgrimage to
Mecca and so exhibits the travelogue quality of some Abbasid raḥīls.80
Nevertheless, this journey retains an archetypal character because he
recounts it in a reverie, envisioning the pilgrimage route followed or
aspired to by many Muslims in Egypt and North Africa.
 JOINED AT THE CROSSROADS 139

The caravan passes al-Ḥajūn where an important Meccan cemetery

was located, hence Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s reference to visiting the “shrines
of the saints” (mashāhid awtād; v. 14). Loosely translated as “saints,”
awtād literally means “tent-pegs,” and this term was traditionally used
by Sufis to designate the saints who occupied a very high spiritual
rank.81 Ibn al-Fāriḍ then plays on the literal meaning of this term as
he mentions the tents of the beloved (v. 15). He concludes this journey
by obliging the caravan driver to greet the beloved and relate to her
the desperate state of her devoted servant (vv. 15–16).
By recollecting the pilgrimage, the lover has re-enacted this liminal
phase in hopes of reliving his moment of union with the beloved, but
he wakes from his reverie. Maintaining the lyrical tone of the nasīb,
the lover wonders if the phantom of his beloved will come to him
in a dream and so relieve his distress caused by their separation. He
longs for death and the Day of Resurrection (v. 18: yawm al-tilāqī) for
his present life is misery due to the pains of separation. Physically
he remains bound to Egypt, while his pilgrimage companions have
returned to their homes in Syria, yet, spiritually, his heart remains
attached to Mecca (v. 21: Ajyād). The thought of Mecca stirs the
lover’s hallowed memories of the Standing (waqfah) at ˜Arafāt, and
were he to experience this precious moment again all would be well
(v. 22). His reverie returns with his recollection of other pilgrimage
rites: praying at al-Muṣallā after the ˜Īd al-Adhā, or the Festival of
Sacrifice following the day of Standing; the running from ˜Arafāt
through al-˜Alamān and al-Ma’zimān to the gathering (jam˜—a word
full of allusion to mystical union) at Muzdalifah where more prayers
are said; then spending the night at al-Khayf before proceeding on to
Minā for the final days of the Hajj (vv. 23–26).82 Ibn al-Fārid ends this
daydream with an elaborate series of word plays, which distinguishes
those who love God from those who love mammon (v. 26):

man tamannā mālan wa-ḥusna ma’ālin

fa-munā’ī Minan wa-aqṣā murādī

Some crave wealth and a fine place to dwell,

but my desire is Minā, my highest hope.

The lover claims to have given up all concern for this world and
his own security, choosing instead to bear the burden of love in total
obedience to the beloved. He swears to his ancient (qadīm) passion for
his beloved and his fidelity to their covenant (˜ahidtum, “you know
140 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

well,” and ˜ahd, “pact, covenant”), although the beloved has decreed
the lover’s exile, perhaps to test him (vv. 27–28). The lover has little
choice but to suffer patiently, for the beloved is in his heart, at the
center of his very being (v. 29). Here, Ibn al-Fāriḍ refers to a famous
Sufi tradition in which God says: “My earth and My heaven do not
contain me but the heart of My believing servant does.”83 The lover
is obsessed with Mecca, and its recollection alone provides him with
solace; the courtyard of the Ka˜bah has become his protective enclosure,
its soil his sweet pasturage (ṭībah), and the well of Zamzam (Ṭībah)
his source for life-giving water (vv. 30–31). There, the lover tasted a
moment of intimate union (uns) and spiritual enlightenment (fatḥ). Like
Muhammad whose body, according to tradition, was purified with the
water of Zamzam thus enabling him to travel to Jerusalem (al-Quds)
and rise from the Farthest Mosque (al-Masjid al-Aqṣā) to heaven in
his spiritual ascent (mi˜rāj), so does the lover express the occasion
for enlightenment as a mi˜rāju qudsī, “ascent to my sanctification,”
or “my Jerusalem ascension,” which is pre-figured by Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s
use of the word aqṣā (“farthest,” “highest”) in verse 26.84 As so often
is the case, Ibn al-Fārid focuses the listener’s attention on this key,
climactic verse with word play and internal rhyme:

kāna fīhā unsī wa-mi˜rāju qudsī

wa-muqāmī-l-maqāmu wa-l-fatḥu bādi

32) In her was my intimacy and the ascent of my sanctity,

my station was Abraham’s and the enlightenment clear.

The doors to mystical insight suddenly open (fatḥ), and with

God’s help (fatḥ), the lover achieved a clear spiritual victory (fatḥ).
For a moment the lover becomes God’s intimate, and so he stands in
the Station of Abraham, which symbolizes true friendship (khullah) (v.
32).85 But this union is a transient one, and time deprives the lover of
his draughts (awrād) of gnosis (wird, v. 33).86 Ibn al-Fāriḍ poignantly
expresses the desire to perform again the rites of pilgrimage and
experience spiritual renewal by returning full circle to the elegiac
mood of the nasīb:

mā shamamtu-l-bashāma illā wa-ahdā

li-fu’ādī taḥīyatan min Su˜ādi

37) I have never smelled balsam save

it brought to my heart greetings from Su˜ād!
 JOINED AT THE CROSSROADS 141

The lover swears by all that is holy in Mecca’s sacred precincts,

that the breeze blowing from Mecca always brings to his heart greetings
(tahīyah), which keep alive (tahīyah) his hope of one day attaining an
auspicious (sa˜d) reunion with his beloved Su˜ād (vv. 35–37).87 Su˜ād is
also the beloved’s name in Ka˜b ibn Zuhayr’s (d. after 10/632) famous
panegyric on the Prophet in which Muhammad granted forgiveness to
his former opponent by casting his mantle upon Ka˜b. This led Arberry
to assert that the beloved of Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s ode must be Muhammad.88
Ibn al-Fāriḍ is undoubtedly alluding to this celebrated poem in this
final verse, yet his many references to the Mecca and the Hajj point
toward God as the major focus of his devotion in the poem.
In Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s qaṣīdahs, as in his ghazals, the joys of youth,
of acceptance and union in pre-eternity, must invariably lead to
separation and old age, to the lamentation for fleeting life and the
longing for meaning or, at least, peace of mind. Life with its apparent
capriciousness is God’s test of humanity, and His worshippers must
struggle to be true to their covenant. This pre-eternal pact and the
certain final judgment delimit both Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s love poems and
his odes.89 Yet, the qaṣīdahs with their pilgrimage go beyond accounts
of mystical love and longing to underscore the mystic’s obsessive
endeavor to grasp in this life a moment of eternal heavenly joy. But
once found, the experience is quickly lost for separation, not union,
is humanity’s lot. Thus, Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s qaṣīdahs remain above all else
elegies on the irremediable human condition, which for some may be
rectified in the world to come.
 4

The Beloved’s Wine

Mystical themes resonate throughout Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s verse, but especially

in his wine odes. From its inception Arabic verse on wine carried
spiritual and sacramental associations, which were developed and
refined over the centuries. Ibn al-Fāriḍ knew this tradition well, and
his celebrated wine ode the al-Khamrīyah is the mature product of
a distinguished line of rarified spirits leading to union and ecstasy.

Blood-Red Wine

References to wine and intoxication are found in many of the oldest

pre-Islamic qaṣīdahs and serve to reinforce the mood and meaning of
the ode’s various sections:1

fa-ẓaliltu fī dimani-d-dayāri ka-annī

nashwānu bākarahu ṣabūḥu mudāmi

Amid the ruined abodes

I stayed like a reeling drunk,
visited early
by a morning drink

Of an untouched vintage, aged,

the color of gazelle’s blood,
from ˜Ānah’s wine
or Shabām’s vines.

It was as if the drinker’s tongue

had been hit by a pox,
mixing disease
in his body.

143
144 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

In these verses from a nasīb ascribed to Imru’ al-Qays (fl. sixth

century CE), the strong intoxicating wine suggests the powerful
feelings of grief and bewilderment that overwhelm the poet as he
stands among the traces of the campsite abandoned by his lover.2
Emotionally confused, he wanders aimlessly unable to express his
feelings, like a staggering drunk who slurs his words. Similarly, wine
figures prominently in the opening of ˜Amr ibn Kulthūm’s (fl. sixth
century CE), Mu˜allaqah. The poet calls for his morning drink, but his
mistress does not respond, preparing instead to depart the camp with
her tribe. On this fateful morning the poet will not feel the enlivening
effects of wine or taste his beloved’s lips:3

a-lā hubbī bi-ṣaḥniki fa-aṣbaḥīnā

wa-lā tubqī khumūra-l-Andarīnā

Arise, quench us with your cup;

don’t hold back the wine of Andarūn
Beaming bright like golden saffron;
when it is mixed with water, we are munificent!
It leads one with affairs astray from his passion;
he tastes it, then softens.
When it is passed round to the stingy miser,
you will see him despise all his wealth for wine.
You withheld the cup from us, Umm ˜Amr,
when it should have been circling to the right.

Wine and love are also joined in verse by al-A˜shā (sixth to

seventh centuries CE) who frequently celebrates wine and its pleasures.
In one of his finest odes, the poet bemoans his sorry, infirm state. He
has grown old, and his beloved has left him for a younger man.
Seeking consolation in memories of his past, the poet recalls his
younger days:4

wa-qad aqūdu-ṣ-ṣibā yawman fa-yatba˜unī

wa-qad yuṣāḥibunī dhū-sh-shirrati-l-ghazilu

36) Sometimes I hold the reins of youth for a day, so it follows me,
and sometimes my companion is a hot-blooded stud.

37) And I have left early for the taverns,

following me a blade sharp, quick, erect, ready,
 THE BELOVED’S WINE 145

38) In the company of braves, like Indian swords,

who knew that no cunning could cut off death.

39) Reclining, I tossed them sweet-basil branches

and a fine, deep red wine its jar dripping.

40) They never came up for air while wine remained

except to shout for more, a second round, a third!

41) A cup-bearer ran with it decked in pearls,

busy bearing glasses, shirt-tails tucked,

42) And songs you would have thought heard from a Persian harp
were sung by the girl in the slip gown.

43) A day like that I relished, tempted

by amorous words and long pleasure,

44) And by the women sweeping their silk gowns,

trailing their trains, wine skins on hip.

The tone of this passage is heroic as reckless braves roam the

taverns to satisfy their lusts. Aware of life’s brevity and the inevitability
of death, they seize the moment and drain their cups until the wine
is exhausted. Coupled with the wine imagery are allusions to sexual
potency and fertility: The youths are like phallic swords; the cup-
bearer’s pearls (nuṭaf, v. 41) resemble drops of semen (nuṭaf); the
young women pouring the wine-skins (˜ijal, v. 44) entice the braves
like heifers (˜ijal) receptive to rutting bulls. By imagining past days of
vigorous youth, the poet may hope to relieve the pain and humiliation
of rejection, to assert his manliness, and reinvigorate failing self-esteem.
Elsewhere in pre-Islamic poetry, the drinkers may be rebuked
for squandering their wealth on wine and getting drunk, yet such
behavior as recalled by al-A˜shā was normally considered proof of a
man’s generosity and fearlessness. Quite often, therefore, the qaṣīdah’s
drinking scenes are immediately followed by the perilous desert
crossing or by bloody battles with the enemy as in ˜Antarah’s (fl.
sixth century CE), Mu˜allaqah:5

fa-idhā sharibtu fa-innanī musthalikun

mālī wa-˜irḍī wāfirun lam yuklami
146 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

When I drink, I spend away my wealth,

while my honor abounds untouched.
But when I sober up, I do not cut off spending;
you know well my character and generosity.
And many is the beautiful woman whose spouse
I left bent, his side whistling like the harelip’s mouth.

Although wine in pre-Islamic poetry may offer solace and

pleasure, in ˜Antarah’s ode wine’s associations with women and love
give way jarringly to violence and death. Wine has become the symbol
for blood, for life itself, and this, in turn, accounts for the libations of
wine poured by Arabs on the graves of their dead:6

khalīlayya hubbā ṭāla mā qad raqadtumā

ajiddakumā lā taqdiyāni karākumā

My two friends, arise! How long you have slept;

your slumber never ends.
Do you not know that in all of Rāwand and Khuzāq
I have no friends but you?
I will stay by your graves not leaving the long nights
until your owls answer.
I will pour wine on your graves;
if you cannot taste it, I will moisten your earth,
And I will mourn you until death!
But who will mourn for me?

The probable purpose of the wine libation in this elegy is to ease

the burning thirst of two unavenged warriors. A tradition among pre-
Islamic Arabs held that if a man were killed and not avenged, he would
return to his grave as a fearsome owl crying out to be quenched with
the blood of his killer.7 Similarly, many other pre-Islamic references to
wine are tied to the theme of blood vengeance. Avenging the death of
one’s relatives and protected clients was requisite if a young warrior
was to prove his manhood and attain rank in his tribe, which he
was sworn to protect. As in the raḥīl, the trials faced by the youth in
his quest for vengeance nourish and strengthen him, as they do the
entire tribe when the deed is done and their enemy slain. Therefore,
the final climactic sections of many qaṣīdahs gruesomely depict the
carnage wrought by the poet and his clan among the enemy whose
corpses are dismembered and devoured by predators with the frenzy
of the bacchantes. Gathering together after the battle, the victorious
 THE BELOVED’S WINE 147

braves of the clan also share a meal and, in the company of beautiful
maidens, they drink wine at the banquet symbolic of their revitalization
at the expense of their victims:8

matā ta’tanī aṣbaḥka ka’san rawīyatan

wa-in kunta ˜anhā dhā ghinan fa-ghna wa-zdadi

When you come to me, I will give you

a quenching morning cup,
but if you have no need of it,
then do with out and prosper.

For when the tribe gathers

you will find me
at the peak
of the high sacred house.

My drinking mates are like blazing stars,

while a singing girl
rises to us in the evening
in a stripped saffron gown.

Her neckline is inviting;

to the companions’ touch,
she is submissive,
smooth, disrobing.

When we call her to sing

she raises her voice to us
in her way, never harsh,
gently strumming.

A Liberated Spirit

In early Arabic poetry, then, wine often symbolizes blood and by

extension, the poet’s life and virility, and the tribe’s continued
vitality and well-being. These associations remained, although often
transformed in later Arabic wine poetry, which expanded the images
and themes of its pre-Islamic predecessors. In particular, wine became
emblematic of a refined courtly life. The Byzantine and Sassanid empires
heavily influenced their Arab client kingdoms, and a description of
148 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

Arab Ghassānid court, reportedly from the sixth century CE, suggests
the creative blending of Greek, Persian, and Arab cultures:9

I saw ten singing girls there; five were Greeks who sang
Greek songs accompanied by lutes, and five sang the songs
of the people of al-Ḥīrah. Arabs would come from Mecca
and elsewhere and sing to (the king). When he held a
drinking session, he would recline on a couch surrounded
by myrtle, jasmine, and other aromatic herbs; ambergris and
pure musk were presented to him in gold and silver vessels.

Among the Ghassānids and Lakhmids many Arabs embraced

Christianity, which colored the verse composed at both courts. Not
surprisingly, Christian influences enhanced the sacramental character
of wine, and this trend continued after the advent of Islam among
such noted poets as al-Akhṭal (d. pre 92/710), a Christian courtier of
the Umayyads:10

sharibnā fa-mitnā mītatan jāhilīyatan

maḍā ahluhā lam ya˜rifū mā Muḥammadu

1) We drank and died the death of the Jāhilīyah—

whose people passed not knowing Muḥammad—
2) For three days; then when life’s last breaths
stirred and arose and returned to us,
3) We lived again a life, but not by resurrection
or the next life promised yet to come,
4) But the hypocrites’ life who sober up to suffer
the blamers’ scorn and cold rebuke.
5) So we said to our cup-bearer: “Come, take us back
to yesterday’s state, most-praised its return!”
6) So he brought it, as if the planet Mars
were in its vessel, pristine and pure,
7) Its sweet scent rose fragrant in water
as the cup passed from hand to hand.
8) It kills then revives: delicious its death,
but sweeter still is its praiseworthy life!

In this short poem, al-Akhṭal draws attention to the passing of

the pagan era with the coming of Muhammad. For the pre-Islamic
Arabs getting senselessly drunk might have been a metaphoric death,
but now it could literally bring damnation since the Qur’ān forbade
 THE BELOVED’S WINE 149

Muslims from drinking wine. However, al-Akhṭal was a Christian

and so could indulge. Other references to Christianity and Islam are
also obvious as the poet revives after three days though not to the
eternal life of the resurrection, but to the censure of others. Yet instead
of changing his ways, the poet calls for more wine, which the cup-
bearer brings. The wine is red like Mars, perhaps an allusion wine’s
pre-Islamic associations with war, blood, and death. But it is no longer
an enemy who is conquered but the poet’s senses as he seeks to free
himself from the strictures of society and religion.11
Al-Akhṭ al’s poem points to the fact that wine verse was
developing into a separate genre, later termed khamrīyah (khamr = wine).
As had been the case with love poetry, the themes and subjects of
wine verse were largely defined and refined within the urban centers
of the Umayyad Empire. Along with al-Akhṭal, other poets of period,
most of them Muslim, frequently described the wine that they drank
and the effects of intoxication in spiritual terms. The Muslim poet
al-Uqayshir (fl. late first\seventh century) wrote:12

wa-muq˜adi qawmin qad mashā min sharābinā

wa-a˜mā saqīnāhu thulāthan fa-abṣarā

From our drink

the tribe’s cripple walked;
three times we quenched a blind man—
he saw!

Poems on wine and drinking sessions often were favorites of the

royal court, and al-Walīd ibn Yazīd (d. 126/744), an Umayyad prince
and later caliph, composed some of the most elegant verse on these
subjects. Of course, that a caliph, the supposed defender of Islam,
enjoyed wine scandalized devout Muslims who believed in the strict
enforcement of the Qu’rānic prohibition of wine, but other Muslims
tolerated wine’s presence in the community. In fact, there appears to
have been a small yet significant number of Muslims throughout the
ages who have continued to drink wine in open opposition to Islamic
law. Many Arabs, Persians, and Turks who accepted Islam refused to
alter aspects of their lives with which they strongly identified, and so
wine-drinking persisted becoming, at times, a symbol of social and
religious protest.13 This important dimension of Arabic wine poetry is
present early on, but it is best illustrated by the verse of Abū Nuwās,
the most renowned wine poet of the Abbasid period and of all Islamic
literature. Many of his poems retain the pre-Islamic associations of
150 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

wine and war, but his battlefield is the tavern and his conquest, the
beloved, whether male or female. Like the iconoclastic court jester,
Abū Nuwās continually rebuked and satirized established religious
and literary traditions:14

lā tabki Laylā wa-lā taṭrab ilā Hindi

wa-shrab ˜alā-l-wardi min ḥamrā’a ka-l-wardi

Don’t cry for Laylā; don’t grieve for Hind,

but drink on horse-back from one red like the rose.

*****

yā Sulaymānu ghanninī
wa-mina-r-rāḥī fa-sqinī15

O Sulaymān, sing to me
and quench me with wine.
So if the glass comes round,
seize it and give it to me.
Don’t you see morning has appeared
in a straw colored shawl?
Give me a cup of distraction
from the muezzin’s call,
Give me wine to drink in public,
then cover and fuck me!

Time is a crucial element in many wine odes by Abū Nuwās

and his Abbasid contemporaries. In al-A˜shā’s verses cited above,
recollections of wine and the tavern strengthen the poet’s resolve to
undertake the quest and attain glory before he falls prey to the ravages
of time. By the Abbasid period, however, wine no longer gives the
poet courage to stand against time, rather wine serves as a means to
suspend or escape it:16

wa-fityatin ka-maṣābīḥi-d-dujā ghurarin

shummi-l-unūfi mina-ṣ-ṣīdi-l-maṣālīti

And many the braves burning bright

like lamps in blackest night,
proud ones
among princely, penetrating men,
 THE BELOVED’S WINE 151

They overpowered time

with the pleasure they embraced,
so their rope
is never sundered.

Time came round

with lucky stars for them,
and it turned aside and bowed
a lovely neck before them.

Clearly, a persistent theme in much of this verse is the brevity

of life, which is lived but never understood. Thus the poet’s calling
for wine, drunkenness, and other forbidden pleasures is not only a
form of protest against religious precepts; it is also an expression of
an Epicurean attitude toward life, which is to be savored and enjoyed.
Such philosophical elements of Arabic wine poetry often have been
noted particularly in passages from Abū Nuwūs that echo mystical
or gnostic doctrines:17

isqinī yā Ibna Adhamā

wa-ttakhidhnī laka ibnamā

Quench me Ibn Adham

and take me to you like some boy.
Quench me with a choice wine (sulāfatan)
that preceded Adam’s creation.
For it was and there was not
save heaven and earth.
It watched time (dahr) grow and mature,
and grow decrepit,
For it was a liberated spirit (rūḥun mukhallaṣun)
freed from flesh and blood.
Quench me with it
and sing in your sweet Persian voice,
But not of the campsite
with its crow of ill-omen and shit.

The poet’s desire to transcend time and mortality is clear as

the sought after wine is one fermented prior to Adam’s creation.
The priority of this primordial wine is stressed in the third verse by
antithetical verbs:
152 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

fa-hya kānat idh-lam yakun

mā khalā-l-arḍa wa-s-samā

For it was when there was not

save heaven and earth.

This, in turn, produces a momentary paradox so characteristic

of Sufi writings, and one stressing humanity’s absence. Furthermore,
this amazing wine also precedes time (dahr). Sulāfah (“choice wine”) is
related to sālif (“preceding”), which is found in the idiomatic expression
fī sālif al-dahr (“in former times,” “in priority of time”), and in the
fourth verse, this wine is observing time itself passing through the
stages of human life that ultimately end in death. In verse five, the
wine is described as rūḥ mukhallaṣ (“a liberated spirit”) freed from flesh
and blood, suggesting two possible meanings. First, as earthly wine,
it has been extracted and liberated from the grape and so is able to
liberate (mukhalliṣ) its drinkers from the cares of this world. But given
the preceding verses and the term rūḥ , this spirit may also represent
the human spirit manifest in pre-eternity and ultimately liberated at
death from the prison of its body.18
Allusions to wine’s spiritual properties abound in the wine
verse of the later Abbasid, Andalusian, and Ayyubid poets, many
of whom imitated the wine odes of Abū Nuwās. Newer, popular
poetic forms including the strophic zajal and muwashshaḥ were used
for wine songs, yet the forcefulness of some of this verse was often
replaced by a self-satisfied, even complacent view of existence. Wine
odes composed by many of the court poets of this era were seldom
revolutionary statements or existential musings. Rather, they were
celebrations of the good life among like-minded, cultured friends and
the ruling elite.19 Nevertheless, wine remained an evocative spiritual
metaphor as is clear from Abū A˜lā al-Ma˜arrī’s (d. 449/1058) Risālat
al-Ghufrān in which the pleasures of Paradise are often portrayed by
pre-Islamic verses including those on wine. In such a context, the
wine of pre-Islamic Arabia serves as a symbol for the immortality to
be tasted in Heaven’s eternal gardens.20

Two Intoxications

Of course, Sufis did their part to allegorize wine because they used
sobriety (ṣaḥw) and intoxication (sukr) as metaphors for states of
 THE BELOVED’S WINE 153

mystical experience. The individual heedless of God’s living presence

is described as sober, whereas the mystic overpowered by a spiritual
state is said to be intoxicated due to his loss of self-consciousness and
reason. Once the mystic has recovered from this bewildering yet blissful
state, he again becomes sober. But many Sufis have regarded this second
sobriety to be far superior to the first and to intoxication as well. Now
the mystic is said to be aware of both God and the world and so less
prone to error through unconscious exuberance.21 It was only natural,
then, that wine became a symbol of the powerful and intoxicating
mystical love passing between God and His worshipper, and Sufi
manuals often cite wine verse to illustrate this loving relationship:22

fa-ḥālāka lī ḥālāni ṣaḥwun wa-sakratun

fa-lā ziltu fī ḥālayya aṣḥū wa-askaru

Your two states are mine:

sobriety and drunkenness;
so I stay in both,
getting drunk while sober

*****

lī sakratānī wa-li-n-nudmāni wāḥdatun

shay’un khuṣiṣtu bi-hi min baynahumu waḥdī

To me two intoxications,
to my companions one;
by this I am marked
among them alone!23

Many such verses are cited anonymously in Sufi works, and

the last example appears to have been taken from a poem by Abū
Nuwās, clearly demonstrating the mystical reinterpretation of earlier
wine poetry.24 Sufis, however, also composed their own wine verses.
Al-Ḥallāj, for instance, is credited with a number of short wine poems
that refer to union with God in markedly Christian terms:25

muzijat rūḥuka fī rūḥī kamā

tumzaju-l-khamratu bi-l-mā’i-l-zalāli
fa-idhā massaka shai’un massanī
fa-idhā anta anā fī kulli ḥāli
154 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

Your spirit is mixed in mine

just as wine is mixed in purest water.
So if something touches you, it touches me,
since you are me in every state.

As we have seen, Muslim mystics, including al-Ḥallāj, often

favored the ghazal tradition to speak of their love of God and union
with Him, but mystical wine has always held a prominent place in
their poetic canon. Like most early Sufi verse, that on wine rarely
exceeds a verse or two, but longer wine poems were composed by
Sufis including Ibn al-Shāhrazūrī, who is exuberant in the following
poem on the transformative effects of spiritual intoxication among
the Sufis (qawm, “folk”):26

yā nadīmī qarribi-l-qadaḥā
inna sukra-l-qawmi qad ṭafaḥā

O my drinking mate, bring the cup near

for the folk’s intoxication has overflowed!
Quench me from its treasure troves—
ignore blamers and advisors—
With a deep red wine sparkling,
dancing joyously in its cup.
It was not defiled by mixing;
if filtered at night, bright noon would arise,
And one tempted to greed by selfishness
would become magnanimous.
He was veiled, but when its cup
came to his hand, he was revealed!

A similar tone is present in a poem by the North African Sufi

master Abū Madyan who speaks of the wine of love whose intoxicating
rapture (wajd) leads to a reeling dance and gnosis:27

qul li-lladhī yanhā ˜ana-l-wajdi ‘ahlahu

idhā lam tadhuq ma˜anā sharāba-l-hawā da˜nā

8) Say to one who forbids the folk from rapture (wajd):

“If you’ve not tasted the wine of passion with us, leave off!

9) “When spirits tremble longing for reunion,

then, yes, the bodies will dance, though you don’t get it!
 THE BELOVED’S WINE 155

10) “Consider the caged bird, young man,

when it recalls its homelands, it is moved to sing,

11) “And what is in its heart breaks forth in song,

and without and within, it flaps its wings,

12) “And it dances in its cage longing for reunion,

as the bodies of sensitive souls are moved by its song.

13) “Such are the lovers’ spirits, young man;

desires drive them on to the world sublime!”

Abū Madyan’s analogy of the caged bird echoes Ibn Sīnā’s “Ode
to the Soul” (vv. 10–13). However, Abū Madyan’s use of many Sufi
technical terms throughout his poem leaves no doubt that it is the
mystical rite of audition and recollection that intoxicated the lovers and
left them with gnosis. The poet berates his blamer who is young and
inexperienced and so requires instruction as to why the ecstatic lovers
appear to loose control and shout and dance (vv. 1–18). Yet, they are
not guilty of any sin, because it is love, not wine, that has intoxicated
and so moved them (vv. 19–22).28 Other Sufis, too, following well-
established literary conventions, combined traditional love and wine
imagery in longer poems to intimate mystical beliefs and experiences,
as in the following verses by Yaḥyā al-Suhrawardī, who opens his
wine ode with the image of lovers in the throes of separation pining
for their beloved and an intoxicating union (vv. 1–2):29

abadan taḥinnu ilaykumu-l-arwāḥu

wa-wiṣālukum rayḥānuhā wa-r-rāḥu

1) Always the spirits long for you;

union with you is their sweet basil and wine.
2) The hearts (qulūb) of your worthy lovers yearn for you;
the delicious taste of your encounter will please them.

But the lovers face a dilemma: If they publicly profess their love,
they will disgrace the beloved and reveal their own selfish weakness.
Yet if the lovers try to conceal their feelings from others in order to
protect the beloved from gossip and slander, their tears of anguish
will give them away while the symptoms of love-sickness will leave
no doubt as to the real source of their malady (vv. 3–6). It is for the
beloved, then, to resolve the problem by excusing the lovers’ unseemly
156 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

behavior resulting from effusive passion. Were the beloved to show

mercy to those who truly love him, it would not be a crime since,
after all, the lovers’ sole concern is for meeting (liqā’) and satisfying
(riḍā) their lord. The poet beseeches the beloved to pierce the dark
night of separation with union’s illuminating rays (vv. 7–9), and the
beloved grants his wish:

10) He loved them truly, and to him they were devoted,

for in the light of their hearts were the niche and the lamp
(al-mishkātu wa-l-miṣbāḥu)
11) They savored the moment (waqt) delicious with their nearness
(qurb);
the cups were delicate, the wine a delight.

Here, al-Suhrawardī alludes to the Qur’ān in his account of those

who have attained union. The lovers have become totally absorbed
in the beloved such that their hearts (qulūb) have been illuminated
with the divine light. Al-Suhrawardī refers directly to one of the most
mystical passages of the Qur’ān, the celebrated “Light Verse” (24:35):30

God is the light of the heavens and the earth. A parable

for His light is like a niche in which is a lamp, the lamp
within a glass (ka-mishkātin wa-fīhā miṣbāḥun). The glass is
like a shining star lit from a blessed olive tree of neither
east nor west; its oil almost shines though fire has not
touched it. Light upon light, God guides to His light whom
He wills, and God strikes parables for humanity, and God
is omniscient.

Al-Suhrawardī’s wine ode resonates with that of Abū Madyan,

as both use a number of Sufi technical terms, adding further mystical
associations to this wine, as in verse 11 of al-Suhrawardī’s poem
where the moment (waqt) in proximity (qurb) to the beloved grants
the enlightened lovers a taste of rarified wine. These accomplished
lovers can reveal their secret (sirr) without guilt because they are
totally absorbed in the beloved. By giving themselves totally to him,
they receive a new life. Obediently, they wait upon their lord, desiring
nothing else, and they savor the mention (dhikr) of the beloved,
which transforms every moment of their existence (vv. 12–17). By
means of their dhikr, their recollection, they come into the beloved’s
presence where they lose all sense of self and fall into ecstasy before
 THE BELOVED’S WINE 157

the beatific vision (vv. 18–20).31 Then, in the final verses of the poem,
al-Suhrawardī exhorts his audience to imitate these great heroes, and
once again he calls for a spiritual wine that will be found in religion,
but not in the grape:

21) Try to copy them if you can’t be like them,

for imitation of nobility brings prosperity.
22) Rise, drinking mates, to the wine,
for the cups have gone round in its tavern: Bring me
23) A vintage from generosity’s vine in the flask of religion,
not a wine crushed by a peasant!

Al-Suhrawardī composed this poem within the framework of the

khamrīyah genre, and it is the lord and his drinking companions who
are the poet’s major concern. This poem clearly echoes earlier Arabic
accounts of drinking sessions at the royal court, but al-Suhrawardī’s
Qur’ānic and Sufi references leave little doubt that the lord of his ode
is God, while the court is His divine presence in Paradise. Within this
extended analogy, wine symbolizes mystical union, which intoxicates
and drowns the mystics; it deadens their physical senses and washes
away all traces of their selfish wills in order to revive them in spiritual
immortality. Though wine is occasionally mentioned in the poem,
al-Suhrawardī did not substantially develop this topic and its related
themes. About a century later, however, Ibn al-Fāriḍ would detail the
amazing spiritual qualities of wine and its effects in several poems,
one of which has come to be regarded as the finest mystical wine
ode in Islam.

Drunk by a Glance

Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s most famous poem on wine is called simply the

al-Khamrīyah, the “Wine Ode.” Yet, two of his other poems bear traces
of the genre. First, perhaps his greatest poem, the Naẓm al-Sulūk
(“Poem of the Sufi Way”), also called the al-Tā’īyah al-Kubrā (“Ode
in T—Major”), begins and ends with explicit references to wine.
However, due to the poem’s great length and its diverse themes and
references, the Naẓm al-Sulūk is far more than a poem on wine, and I
will examine this poem in detail in the next chapter. A second poem
also resonates with Arabic poetry on wine, though it may be read as
a love poem as well:32
158 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

adir dhikra man ahwā wa-law bi-malāmī

fa-inna aḥādītha-l-ḥabībi mudāmī

1) Pass round remembrance of the one I desire,

though that be to blame me,
for tales of the beloved
are my wine.

2) Let my heart witness the one I love,

though she be far away,
in blame’s fantasy,
not the phantom dream of sleep.

3) For her memory is sweet to me

in what ever form,
even if those rebuking me
mix it with bitter grief,

4) As if my blamer
brought good news of union,
though I had not hoped
for even “Peace!” in reply.

5) My spirit be her ransom,

in loving her I have lost it;
my fate was at hand
before my day of death.

6) Yet, because of her, my disgrace is sweet,

and savory still is being thrown
and broken down
from my high station.

7) For her sake, my open shame is right,

so too my wanton ways
and ride for sin,
not my righteous ways of old.

Similar to al-Suhrawardī and Abū Madyan, Ibn al-Fāriḍ likens

remembrance (dhikr) of his lost love to wine, which, whether pure or
mixed, is passed around to console the lover in the beloved’s absence
(vv. 1–3). Again, the lover claims to have traded his selfish life for
 THE BELOVED’S WINE 159

one of true love, and so he is unscathed by those who blame him for
immoderate passion. Because he does not sleep, vigilantly awaiting the
beloved’s return, the lover cannot find consolation in dreams of his
love. Therefore, he hopes to refresh his memories with the blamers’
reproach, which contains mention of the beloved. But here too, the
success of his efforts is in doubt, for it is “as if” the blamer brought
glad tidings of a future union (v. 4). Nevertheless, the lover savors
the pains of separation and his public disgrace that still taste sweet
because he suffers for love (vv. 5–7).
As is frequently the case in Arabic wine poetry, wine becomes
mixed with the love and beloved of the ghazal.33 Indeed, the mention
of aḥādīth, the plural of ḥadīth, together with ḥabīb, in verse1 would
seem to indicate that the beloved is Muhammad or his light, as was
the case in several of Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s ghazals.34 But then we read verses
8 and 9:35

uṣallī fa-ashdū ḥīna atlū bi-dhikrihā

wa-aṭrabu fī-l-miḥrābi wa-hya imāmī
wa-bi-l-ḥajji in aḥramtu labbaytu bi-smihā
wa-˜anhā arā-l-imsāka fiṭra ṣiyāmī

8) I pray and so chant when I recite

in memory of her,
and I delight in the prayer-niche,
while she is my imām,

9) And on pilgrimage, in a pure state,

I cry “labbayka” in her name,
and I see restraint
to be the breaking of my fast.

The Muslim rites named in these verses: Prayer, recitation of the

Qur’ān, pilgrimage, and fasting, are properly performed in submission
to and worship of God and to no one else, not even the prophet
Muhammad. Furthermore, the religious intent of these verses becomes
more pronounced when they are compared to two verses ascribed to
the ˜Udhrī poet Majnūn:36

arānī idhā ṣallaytu yammamtu naḥwahā

bi-wajhī wa-in kāna-l-muṣallā warā’iyā
wa-mābiyya ishrākun wa-lakinna ḥubbahā
wa-˜uẓmu-l-jawā a˜ayā-ṭ-ṭība-l-madāwiyā
160 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

I see myself when I pray

turning my face toward her
though the place of prayer
is behind me.

I am no polytheist,
but love for her
and awesome passion
baffle the doctor’s cure!

Although the ˜Udhrī poet turns his back to the prayer niche and,
by extension, to God in order to follow his passion, the lover of Ibn
al-Fāriḍ’s poem claims to behold his beloved leading him in prayer
(imāmī) or, as the commentator al-Būrīnī has suggested, before him
(amāmī) in the prayer niche.37 This alternative reading agrees nicely
with the lover’s recitation of the Qur’ān in recollection (dhikr) of the
beloved, his calling out in her name labbayka, “Here I am Lord, at
Your service!” which is an essential rite of the pilgrimage, and with
the lover’s “fasting” from all things save the beloved.38 However,
the beloved’s presence is fleeting, and the lover again describes his
deteriorating physical and psychological state. This long section of the
poem would be at home in any of Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s ghazals:39

10) Yet my tears are clear proof of my affair

running fast over what has passed,
while my sobbing speaks true
of my love thirst.

11) On the edge of night,

my heart (qalb) is parched for love;
in the morning,
my anguished eyes shed tears.

12) My heart and eye:

one caught by her beauty’s subtle sense (ma˜nā jamālihā);
the other lured
by her soft, subtle stature.

13) So my sleep is lost,

while to morning I bid: “Stay!” (baqā)
for I have found sleeplessness
as my desire grows.
 THE BELOVED’S WINE 161

14) My bond (˜aqdī) and pact (˜ahdī)

are neither loosed or withdrawn,
rapture (wajd) my joy,
burning passion my affliction.

15) As sickness wears my body out,

secrets show through,
my wasting bones becoming
an essence (ma˜nā) among them,

16) Thrown down by love’s passion,

ribs pierced,
eyelids lashed
by endless bloody tears,

17) Passion so pure, light as air

I flew with dawn’s breeze,
the zephyr’s breaths
my companions,

18) Sound yet sick, so seek me

from the east wind
where wasting willed
my station (maqāmī).

19) I was hidden, consumed,

concealed even from consumption
and from my disease’s cure
and the cooling of my burning thirst.

20) I knew no one save passion

who knew my place,
my keeping the secrets,
and guarding my honor.

21) All that love left me

was sorrow,
grief and affliction,
endless disorders.

22) As for my burning desire,

my patience and consolation,
162 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

nothing remains (lam yubqa) with me

but their names.

23) Let one free of my passion

safely save his own soul.
As for you my soul:
“Leave in peace!”

24) “Forget her!” said my accuser,

burning to blame me
on her account.
“Forget blaming me!” I countered.

25) Could I seek solace instead?

Who would guide me,
since every guide in love
follows me?

26) In my every limb is every love

flowing toward her,
desire tugging
on my reins.

Once again, Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s account of the lover’s sufferings is

replete with Sufi technical terms suggesting a spiritual purgation of
selfishness in hopes of a union with the beloved.40 In the final three
verses of this passage the blamer returns to scold the poet, who
promptly rebuffs him in the name of his abiding love. In many of Ibn
al-Fāriḍ’s ghazals and some of his qaṣīdahs, too, this is followed by the
lover’s oath of fidelity to the beloved, and his prayer for acceptance.
Yet in this poem, the lover is reunited with his beloved:41

27) She swayed as she walked, so we thought

her quivering sides
to be branches on a dune;
beneath a full moon,

28) So in my every limb

was every heart
hit by every arrow
whenever she gazed with pleasure.
 THE BELOVED’S WINE 163

29) Had she unrolled my body,

she would have seen in every essence
every heart holding
every burning passion.

30) In union (waṣl) with her,

a year is but a moment to me,
while exile’s hour
is like a year to bear.

31) When we met in the evening

joined by two straight paths,
one from her tent
the other from mine,

32) We swerved a little

from the tribe
to a place without a spy
or slanderer with lies.

33) And I rubbed my cheek in the dust

for her to step on,
so she said: “Good news for you!
Kiss my veil!”

34) But my soul (nafsī)

would not have it,
guarding me jealously
to keep my longing pure.

35) So we passed the night together

as my command willed over desires;
I saw kingship my kingdom
and time my slave!

For this scene of union, Ibn al-Fāriḍ drew on a number of motifs

and themes common to early Arabic poetry. Perhaps these culturally
laden images required little embellishment to be fully evocative,
for Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s rhetorical display is confined largely to antithesis
and a few word plays. The lover and his companions marvel at the
swaying beloved whose supple body accentuates her full buttocks
164 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

and moonlike face (v. 27).42 So enamored is the poet that he becomes
the archetypal lover, encompassing within himself all passion and
every heart wounded by love. This totality is rhetorically reinforced
by the six-fold repetition within two verses of the word kull (“each,”
“every,” “all”):

wa-lī kullu ˜uḍwin fīhi kullu ḥashan bihā

idhā mā ranat waq˜un li-kulli sihāmi
wa-law basaṭat jismī ra’at kulla jawharin
bihi kullu qalbin fīhi kullu gharāmi

28) So in my every limb

was every heart
hit by every arrow
whenever she gazed with pleasure.

29) Had she unrolled my body,

she would have seen in every essence
every heart holding
every burning passion.

The period of union (waṣl, v. 30) with the beloved is fleeting,

while a moment of separation is an eternity. The rendezvous takes
place in the evening, a time of transition neither day nor night in which
physical surroundings gradually dissolve into darkness. The lover
becomes oblivious not only to the material world but also to society
(“tribe”), to his intellect (“spy”), and base desires (“slanderer”). True
to the ˜Udhrī ideal, no physical union takes place, yet the lover abides
with his beloved. The lover restrains himself and his concupiscent
desires (nafsī, v. 35) thus proving his pure, unselfish love:

wa-bitnā kamā shā’a-qtirāḥī ˜alā-l-munā

arā-l-mulka milkī wa-l-zamāna ghulāmī

36) So we passed the night together

as my command willed over desires;
I saw kingship my kingdom
and time my slave!

In this final verse, Ibn al-Fāriḍ underscores the profundity of

the meeting with references to time and the young slave (ghulām),
which frequent Arabic wine poems. But in this special union, the lover
 THE BELOVED’S WINE 165

does not lose his love to the tyrant time, rather time is at the lovers’
bidding and so, in union, the lover conquers time and space.43 Such
a conclusion differs markedly from Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s ghazals and qaṣīdahs,
yet this is the rule for his wine odes where love eradicates selfish
desire in a moment of intoxicating union, and this is most evident in
Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s al-Khamrīyah.

Immortal Wine

sharibnā ˜alā dhikri-l-ḥabībi mudāmata

sakirnā bihā min qabli an yukhlaqa-l-karmu44

1) In memory of the beloved

we drank a wine;
we were drunk with it
before creation of the vine.

2) The full moon its glass, the wine

a sun circled by a crescent;
when it is mixed,
how many stars appear!

3) If not for its bouquet,

I would not have found its tavern;
if not for its flashing gleam,
how could imagination picture it?

4) Time preserved nothing of it

save one last breath,
concealed like a secret
in the breasts of the wise.

5) But if it is recalled among the tribe

the worthy ones
are drunk by morn,
without shame or sin.

6) From the depths of the jars

it arose, though truly,
nothing remained
save a name.
166 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

7) Yet if one day

it crosses a man’s mind,
then joy will dwell in him,
and anxiety depart.

8) Could the tavern mates see

the seal of its jar,
without the wine that seal alone
would make them drunk,

9) And could they sprinkle it

on a dead man’s earth,
the spirit would return to him,
his body revived.

10) Could they fling

into the shadow of its trellised vine
a sick man on the point of death,
disease would flee him,

11) Could they bring a cripple

near its tavern, he would walk,
and from mention of its flavor,
the dumb would talk.

12) Could the breaths of its bouquet

spread out in the east,
one stuffed-up in the west
would smell again,

13) And were a touching palm

tinged by its cup,
one would not stray at night,
a star in hand.

14) Could it be unveiled in secret

to the blind, he would see,
and from the strainer’s sound,
the deaf would hear,

15) Were the riders

to seek its soil
 THE BELOVED’S WINE 167

with one scorpion-stung among them,

the poison would not harm him.

16) Could the wizard write

the letters of its name
on the brow of one struck by the jinn,
the tracings would cure and cleanse him,

17) And were its name inscribed

upon the army’s standard,
all beneath that banner
would fall drunk from the sign.

18) It refines the morals

of the tavern mates
and guides the irresolute
to resolution’s path,

19) He whose hand never knew munificence

is generous,
while one lacking in forbearance
bears the rage of anger.

20) And could the stupid one among the folk

win a kiss from its strainer,
he would sense the hidden sense
of its fine qualities.

21) They say to me: “Do describe it,

for you know its character well!”
Indeed, I have word
of its attributes:

22) Purity not water,

subtlety not air,
light but not fire,
spirit without body.

23) Lovely features guiding

those describing it to praise;
how fine their prose and poetry
on wine.45
168 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

24) One who never knew it

is moved by its mention,
just as one longing for Nu˜m
is stirred when she is recalled.

25) But they said: “You have drunk sin!”

No, indeed, I drank only
that whose abstention
is sin to me.

26) So cheers to the monastery’s folk!

How often they were drunk with it
though they never drank it,
but only longed to,

27) While it made me drunk

before my birth,
abiding always with me
though my bones be worn away.

28) So take it straight,

though if you must, then mix it,
but your turning away
from the beloved’s mouth is wrong.

29) Watch for it in the tavern,

try to uncover it there
amid melodious tunes
where it becomes the prize.

30) It never dwells with anxiety

at any time or place,
just as sorrow
never lives with song.

31) Be drunk from it,

if only for the life of an hour,
and you will see time a willing slave
under your command.

32) For there is no life in this world

for one who lives here sober;
 THE BELOVED’S WINE 169

who does not die drunk on it,

prudence has passed him by.

33) So let him weep for himself,

one who wasted his time
never having won a share
or measure of this wine.

Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s wine is something much more rarified than a

vintage of the grape. Taking up a theme noted earlier in verse by
Abū Nuwās, the poet says that his wine existed prior to creation,46
intoxicating him and his companions as they drank to the memory
of their beloved. Ibn al-Fāriḍ underscores the heavenly nature of this
drink by combining several traditional astral images of the cup and
its contents. He compares the round cup brimming with a shining
white wine to a full moon reflecting the sun. This sun is circled by a
crescent moon, perhaps a reference to the lip of the cup reflected in
the wine, or to the cup-bearer, who circles among the drinkers bending
to serve them. Star-like bubbles arise in the cup as the wine is mixed
with water (vv. 1–2). This exceptional wine, however, is not easy to
find, and to drink it may be impossible. If not for the wine’s musky
fragrance and brilliant flash, the poet would have never known of its
existence or found the tavern where it was served. Although this wine
flowed in pre-eternity, now within time it has all but disappeared.
Here, as in earlier wine odes and the larger qaṣīdah tradition, time
(dahr, v. 4) has sundered the poet from his beloved, and his paradise
was lost (vv. 3–4).
Still, traces of this potent wine remain though hidden in time
like half-forgotten secrets guarded by the wise. A mere mention of this
wine could serve the tribe as an intoxicating morning draught, while
a passing thought of it would fill a man with joy. Yet in either case,
the poet tells us, no sin would be committed for although drinking
wine is forbidden to all Muslims, there is no wine to drink (vv. 5–7).
Indeed nothing is left of it save a name (ism, v. 6), but what miracles
this wine could perform if only the wine were here. The sight of its
sealed jar alone would make the drinking mates drunk; a libation
sprinkled on a grave would bring the dead to life. In the shadow of
its vine, the sick would be cured, and near its tavern, the crippled
would walk. Mention of its taste would cause the dumb to speak; its
scent would return smell to one with a stuffy nose, and its luminous
hue would guide those lost in darkness. The blind would see if it was
unveiled, and from the sound of its strainer, the deaf would hear. One
170 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

stung by a scorpion would be cured by its soil, while the possessed

man would be freed by a tracing of its letters, and could its name be
written on an army’s standard, the soldiers would become intoxicated,
courageous warriors. This wine could make course companions refined,
the faint of heart determined, the miser generous, one quick to anger
forbearing, and the ignorant insightful (vv. 8–20).
But this will not happen as Ibn al-Fārid repeatedly stresses the
phrase wa-law (“and if only . . .”). Law is the Arabic particle denoting
the impossibility of the conditional sentence (“Were it that . . . but it
is not to be”). The particle begins verses 8 to16, occurs in the middle
of verse17, and then returns to begin verse 20. These verses, however,
not only speak of the past and deny the earthly presence of this wine,
they also assert the wine’s other-worldly character, and Ibn al-Fārid
consistently employs antithesis and word play to draw attention to the
transformative power of this amazing vintage. Moreover Ibn al-Fārid
has traced the wine from the soil, vine, and trellis, to its production
and storage in the wine jar, which is wrapped, and sealed. Then the
wine is decanted with a strainer, and Ibn al-Fāriḍ mentions the sound
of the wine, its bouquet, hue, and flavor. The wine affects all the
senses of the drinking companions and their human behavior, while
this wine also has medicinal uses to cure poison, madness, and other
maladies; in fact a libation of the wine could revive the dead. Ibn
al-Fāriḍ’s extensive list of miracles and cures covers an astonishing
range of traditional wine themes and images, and this poetic tour de
force demonstrates his considerable literary knowledge and skill, while
leaving no doubt as to the spiritual essence of his wine.47
Ibn al-Fāriḍ then shifts to the present as he concludes his description
of his beloved wine and builds to the poem’s climax. The poet is asked
to describe this wine, for he is clearly a connoisseur and familiar with
its ethereal qualities (vv. 21–22):

ṣafā’un wa-lā mā’un wa-luṭfun wa-lā hawan

wa-nūrun wa-lā nārun wa-rūḥun wa-lā jismu

22) Purity not water;

subtlety not air;
light but not fire;
spirit without body.

Others, too, have praised this glorious wine, and accounts of

it continue to stir up a desire to taste the wine and rekindle some
lost love, even in those who never knew of it (vv. 23–24). The poet
 THE BELOVED’S WINE 171

then rebukes his blamers who previously charged him with sin, for
clearly his wine is not the forbidden one of the grape. The poem’s
mood now shifts from one of a nostalgic reverie characteristic of the
nasīb to assume a more boisterous and assertive tone, a traditional
favorite ending of many wine odes and qaṣīdahs. The poet wishes good
health to the monks of the monastery, the purveyors of wine in many
Arabic poems. Although the monks have never tasted this long-sought
vintage, they are intoxicated with it, as is the poet. Indeed, the poet
claims that prior to his birth, he was drunk and will remain so long
after his bones have turned to dust (vv. 26–27):

wa-˜indiya minhā nashwatun qabla nasha’tī

ma˜ī abadan tabqā wa-in baliya-l-˜aẓmu

27) While it made me drunk

before my birth,
abiding always with me
though my bones be worn away.

The poet was predestined for this intoxication just as the ˜Udhrī
lover will forever long for his fated beloved, and Ibn al-Fārid’s verse
once again resonates with one ascribed to Majnūn:48

khalīlayya adwā’ī bi-Laylā qadīmatun

muḥaddadatun tabqā wa-tablā ˜iẓāmiyā

My two friends, my maladies from Laylā

are ancient and predestined;
they abide
while my bones are worn away.

Rising to the climax of the poem, Ibn al-Fāriḍ commands one

coveting this wine to take it straight, though if that be too strong, he
may mix the wine. But the seeker must never turn away from the
beloved’s mouth for this is the source of Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s wine (v. 28).
Often in classical Arabic poetry, the beloved has a cool mouth with a
bright flashing smile and a fragrant, musky breath, and the poet longs
to be intoxicated by her kiss, drunk on the wine-like moisture of her
lips.49 Ibn al-Fāriḍ elegantly blends these khamrīyah and ghazal motifs
throughout this poem to intimate love’s conquering power, and he
explicitly links the wine, beloved, and intoxication beginning with his
opening verse. At the beginning and end of his ode, Ibn al-Fārid refers
172 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

to the object of his affection with the feminine pronoun hā, which can
refer to wine or a female beloved, such as Nu˜m. Mention of the wine
and its taste (v. 11: dhikrā madhāqatihā, v. 24: dhikrihā) form obvious
parallels with the recollection and mention of the beloved (v.1: dhikr
al-ḥabīb; v.24: dhukirat Nu˜m). Furthermore, the wine’s bouquet has
the scent of musk (sadhā), like the beloved’s breath, while the wine’s
flashing splendor (sanā) resembles her bright teeth (asnān) (v. 3). The
wine is “unveiled” in secret (v. 14), its strainer (v. 20: lathm) kissed
like a veil (lathm), and wine’s fine, cooling qualities (v. 20: shamā’il) are
comparable to the beloved’s bright smile (v. 28: ẓalm) and her moist
teeth, cool and white like the snow (ẓalm). The dew of her lips is the
poet’s wine (v. 28). The secret revealed, Ibn al-Fāriḍ ends his ode,
perhaps echoing Ṭarafah and al-A˜shā, as he commands the seeker
to go to the tavern, where music plays and joy prevails, in order to
“uncover” (istajil) the wine, to unveil it like a new bride (istajlā). Once
in this wine’s embrace, the intoxicated will seem to master time, if
only for an hour. But time drives on this world below, and so one
who lives sober will only die having passed up his chance to pass
away dead to the world but alive in love (vv. 29–33).

Wine of the Covenant

This more literary reading of Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s al-Khamrīyah does not

exclude possible deeper meanings, which have been sought out
for centuries by Muslim mystics. More than a dozen commentaries
have been written on this poem, and of them, one of the oldest and
certainly most influential is the Sharḥ al-Qaṣīdah al-Khamrīyah composed
by Dāwūd al-Qayṣarī (d. ca. 747/1346). Al-Qayṣarī was an adherent
of Ibn al-˜Arabī’s mystical theosophy, and he lucidly summarized
his own related beliefs and theories in his introduction to this work.
Although his doctrinal positions undoubtedly appealed to many later
commentators who borrowed extensively from his work, one need
not share those beliefs to appreciate and, at times, be persuaded by
al-Qayṣarī’s interpretations of Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s wine ode.50
In light of Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s ghazals, al-Qayṣarī finds an allusion to
the primordial covenant between God and humanity in verse 1 of
the Wine Ode. Al-Qayṣarī equates the beloved (ḥabīb) with God, the
true reality (al-Ḥaqq) and real beloved (al-maḥbūb al-ḥaqīqī); the poet
and his companions stand for the pre-eternal spirits of human beings,
whereas the vine represents the world of manifestation. Thus, the
wine drunk before the vine’s creation is the wine of Paradise, which
 THE BELOVED’S WINE 173

cleanses its drinker of all traces of human volition, selfhood, and

duality, and so restores him to his original state as an entity (˜ayn)
rapt within the unique and eternal divine essence (al-dhāt al-ilāhīyah).
For al-Qayṣarī, the underlying themes of the poem are this original
and originating love relationship between God and His worshipper,
and the overpowering effects of its recollection (dhikr).51
Most commentators have also followed al-Qayṣarī’s subsequent
interpretation of verses 2 and 3 as portraying the emanation of God’s
love (= wine) throughout limited creation (= cup). After the covenant,
God’s absolute oneness (= the sun) is reflected into the dark world by
the Light of Muhammad (= the full moon, badr) who in turn passes on
a portion of his spiritual wisdom to his cousin and son-in-law, ˜Alī (=
the crescent moon) and then on to the Muslim saints and Sufi masters
(= stars), who guide others to gnosis (ma˜rifah). Al-Qayṣarī supports
his readings with ḥadīth and Qur’ānic quotations including (Q. 16:16)
wa-bi-n-najmi hum yahtadūna: “And by the stars they are guided.”52 In
verses 1 to 3, Ibn al-Fāriḍ most certainly alludes to Muhammad, the
“beloved of God” (ḥabīb Allāh) or his light; Badr (v. 2: “full moon”), as
we have seen earlier, was also the name of the site of Muhammad’s
first great victory. Significantly, Ibn al-Fāriḍ uses the verb ihtadā (v.
3: “to be guided”) when speaking of the wine’s bright flash that led
the poet to the tavern, and shadhā (v. 3: “fragrance”) may also refer
to the legendary toothpick (shadhā) of the prophet Muhammad, the
guide (hādin) for his people (e.g., Qur’ān 13:7).53
Al-Qayṣarī understands the wine’s bouquet and luster to be the
traces of absolute beauty remaining in creation, especially as embodied
in beloveds of flesh and blood. These vestiges of the divine inspire
the spiritually sensitive to search for God (= the tavern) in hopes of
a taste of this mystical wine of love, which will ease life’s hardships.
Furthermore, it is the mystics graced with abiding union (baqā’) who,
unbeknownst to others, preserve (v. 4: yubqī) this holy love, which
has been all but lost (v. 6: lam yabqa . . . illā) in time since the Day of
the Covenant. Continuing this line of interpretation in verses 5 and
6, the great mystics are the worthy ones (ahl) of humanity (qawm,
“tribe”) who become mystically intoxicated when God’s love for them
is mentioned or recalled (dhukirat) during the practice of dhikr. But
the drunken Sufis are not to be blamed for their ecstatic behavior
since they are the ones who keep alive love’s presence (= last breath)
deep within their hearts (= depths of the jars). These enlightened
few comprehend the gnosis of divine love, which is known only by
name among the rest of humanity mired in selfish existence.54 Such
a reading is encouraged by Ibn al-Fārid’s word play ḥushāshah (v.
174 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

4: “last breath”) and ahshā (v. 6: “depths”). This “last breath” of the
pre-eternal wine also may symbolize the primordial spirit yet to be
awakened within most human beings, who may still find joy if they
recall their ancient covenant with God.
Al-Qayṣarī and other commentators go to great lengths to interpret
symbolically the various characters and objects mentioned in Ibn
al-Fāriḍ’s extensive list of the wine’s miraculous powers (vv. 8–20). The
drinking companions are God’s elect gnostics among the Sufis who
would have been spiritually intoxicated had they seen the wine’s seal.
But this could never be since the wine was in pre-eternity while the
seal (khatm), the historical Muhammad, the seal of the prophets (khātm
al-nabīīn Q. 33:40), long ago left this earth below.55 Al-Qayṣarī reads
the remaining miracles in a similar vein. Generally speaking, the wine
is divine love or gnosis (al-maḥabbah; al-ma˜rifah al-ilāhīyah), whereas
the drinking companions, the wizard, the standard (of Muhammad =
liwā’), and the strainer are symbols of the Sufi masters who dispense
mystical wisdom. By contrast, those who are dead, dying, or in some
way crippled in mind or body, including the five senses (bukm/dumb;
mazkūm/stuffed-up; akmah/blind; ṣumm/deaf; maslū˜/scorpion-stung),
represent the spiritually ignorant, incapacitated by their lusts and
desires.56 Although many of the detailed commentaries on particular
characters appear highly speculative and overly analytical, Ibn al-Fāriḍ
is certainly contrasting those who are spiritually alive in love to those
dead to everything save their own selfish lives.
As for aspiring mystics, the commentators have usually identified
them with those who ask the poet to describe the wine (v. 21). The
poet, however, contrasts the wine’s attributes (awṣāf) to what they are
not, perhaps indicating the ineffability of love and gnosis, which may
be alluded to with words and symbols, but truly experienced and
known only within the heart. Whatever the case, Ibn al-Fāriḍ affirms
the quintessential nature of this wine, which is a pure, luminous, and
subtle spirit (rūḥ) untouched by any element of materiality. Although
such accounts are only approximate, they arouse primal memories of
humanity’s former state and a desire to return there, just as the dhikr
during a samā˜ session stirs up a longing for God (vv. 22–24).57
Still, the inexperienced and impertinent aspirants mistake the
poet’s mystical wine for that of the grape. But this is not the case for
the monks, who al-Qayṣarī equates with the realized mystics living in
love (= the monastery) untainted by the material world.58 Though they
never drank the wine, they are often intoxicated perhaps because, like
the poet, they recollect (dhikr) the beloved and their original meeting
on the Day of the Covenant, prior to creation. This enables them to
 THE BELOVED’S WINE 175

abide (baqā’) mystically with God despite the pain (balā’) and tribulation
(ibtilā’) of mortal existence with the inevitability of physical death (vv.
24–27).59 Thus the seeker should personally experience divine love, if
only in diluted form since union’s annihilation might well destroy
the uninitiated.60 But even a limited religious experience is better than
nothing and a life without love. One should search for the beloved
wine in the tavern, which in this instance al-Qayṣarī interprets as
whatever leads to ecstasy whether that be a reading of the Qur’ān,
the performance of dhikr, or the audition (samā˜) of melodious voices
in mystical assemblies (vv. 28–30).61
The final verses then forcefully convey to al-Qayṣarī and others
the liberating and life-giving qualities of this mystical love. Although
direct experience of it may be transient, lasting only an hour, for that
moment, the mystic is annihilated and so abides, one with the unique
divine essence (al-dhāt al-aḥadīyah), beyond the constraints of time and
space (v. 31). Summing up this central message, al-Qayṣarī reveals the
meaning of the poem’s final, classic paradox. One who does not die,
who does not destroy his selfish will, can never find true, everlasting
happiness; he wastes his life seduced and blinded by useless vanities,
never tasting a moment of the eternal life to come (vv. 32–33).62
Although the al-Khamrīyah’s more allusive and evocative language
hardly supports the detailed mystical theologies of al-Qayṣarī and other
commentators, they are right in detecting a distinctly mystical flavor
in the poem. This is especially the case when the al-Khamrīyah is read
in context of Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s longest “wine-ode,” the al-Tā’īyah al-Kubrā.
 5

Poem of the Sufi Way

in “T”–Major

The Great Ode

Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s Naẓm al-Sulūk is a landmark in Arabic mystical poetry.

For centuries, Sufis had drawn inspiration from the larger Arabic
poetic tradition, yet no one before Ibn al-Fāriḍ had ever made such
a grand poetic presentation of mystical thought in Arabic verse. This
poem is composed of 760 verses in the meter ṭawīl, forming one of the
longer poems composed in Arabic and the most famous one rhyming
in “T,” hence the poems other name the al-Tā’īyah al-Kubrā (“Ode in
T–Major”). However, in contrast to other lengthy Arabic poems, such as
those on Islamic law or Arabic grammar, the al-Tā’īyah al-Kubrā is not
a didactic presentation of its subject as Ibn al-Fāriḍ frequently speaks
of mystical love and life in the lyrical language of the ode and ghazal.1
Because of its explicit Sufi themes, the al-Tā’īyah al-Kubrā soon became
the focus of scholarly attention, and four major commentaries were
composed on it in the century following the poet’s death by Sa˜īd
al-Dīn al-Farghānī (d. 699/1300), ˜Afīf al-Dīn al-Tilimsānī (d. 690/1291),
˜Izz al-Dīn al-Kāshānī (d. 735/1334), and Dāwūd al-Qayṣarī. These
commentaries are quite useful, particularly regarding Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s
references and possible allusions to the Qur’ān, ḥadīth, and religious
beliefs and rituals, and, occasionally, a commentator may link specific
themes and images in Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s other poems to the poet’s more
explicit statements and interpretations in the al-Tā’īyah al-Kubrā.2
As the al-Tā’īyah al-Kubrā became popular, several stories arose
highlighting its spiritual character. One tale recounts that in a dream,
Ibn al-Fāriḍ saw the prophet Muhammad who ordered him to entitle
his long poem the Naẓm al-Sulūk. Through double entendre this
two-word title can mean, “Stringing the String of Poetry’s Pearls,”

177
178 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

“Poem of the Sufi Way,” or “Order of the Spiritual Life,” and all three
meanings point to the poem’s theme of the pilgrim’s progress, while
attesting to the Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s posthumous reputation as a celebrated
poet, Sufi, and spiritual master. Similarly, a second story relates how
the poet would fall into deathlike trances for days, then recover and
spontaneously recite verses directly inspired by God; these verses were
then collected to form the Naẓm al-Sulūk.3 Both legends were relayed
in the commentary tradition that asserted the inspired, perhaps, even
sacred character of the al-Tā’īyah al-Kubrā, and, not surprisingly, this
poem and its commentaries became the lenses through which later
generations have read Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s Dīwān. Moreover, due to its length
and explicit religious character, the al-Tā’īyah al-Kubrā often has been
detached from Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s poetic corpus to be read and analyzed
as a mystical treatise in support of later theosophical systems.4
Certainly, close study of this poem discloses some of Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s
ideals and beliefs, and suggests possible avenues of interpretation for
his other poems. But a reading of the al-Tā’īyah al-Kubrā in context of
the poet’s Dīwān will also reveal critical religious and poetic dimensions
of this poem that have remained largely obscure. For instance, Ibn
al-Fāriḍ undoubtedly composed the lengthy al-Tā’īyah al-Kubrā in
segments. One tradition regarding the poem notes that when an
ecstatic Ibn al-Fāriḍ emerged from his spiritual trance, he would recite
between thirty and fifty verses rhyming in “T,” then stop and wait
for further inspiration. Although it would be quixotic to divide the
poem on the basis of this tale, in the following analysis, I attempt to
identify integral coherent sections of the poem, some of which could
represent recitations made by the poet on a single occasion.5

Together Alone

saqatnī ḥumayyā-l-ḥubbi rāḥatu muqlatī

wa-ka’sī muḥayyā man ˜ani-l-ḥusni jallati6

1) The palm of my eye handed me

love’s heady wine to drink,
and my glass was a face
of one revealing loveliness.

2) Drunk by my glance I caused

my companions to suppose
that drinking their wine
had brought my heart joy.
 POEM OF THE SUFI WAY IN “T”-MAJOR 179

3) But by the dark pupils of the eyes

I did without my drinking bowl;
from the fine qualities of eyes, not cold wine,
came my intoxication.

4) So in the tavern of my drunkenness

was the time of my thanks to brave young men;
for despite my infamy,
I completely hid my love with them.

5) Then, when sobriety ceased,

I sought union with her;
shame’s grip did not seize me
as I stretched out for her.

6) There was no one present with me there—

no persistent spy of fortune—
in the seclusion of the bridal chamber
where I revealed my all to her.

7) With my state as witness to rushing love—

my finding her effacing me,
losing her transfixing me—
I said:

8) “Before love annihilates

what remains of me to see you,
allow me
one backward glance,

9) “Or, if you forbid my seeing you,

bless my ear with:
‘You will never see me!’
words sweet to one before me.”

As in his Wine Ode, Ibn al-Fāriḍ blends images of wine, women,

and love in the opening verses of the al-Tā’īyah al-Kubrā. The lover once
saw his beloved, and so he likens his eye to a sāqī, or cup-bearer, who
gave him the strong wine of love (ḥumayyā-l-ḥubbi) from a glass, which
was the beloved’s beautiful and life-giving countenance (muḥayyā;
v. 1). Though the lover led his companions to believe that he drank
what they did, he had in fact been intoxicated by a single glance at
his beloved’s face, which filled his heart with joy. Another possible
180 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

reading of this second verse is that the poet fooled his companions
“by means of a glance.”7 Yet, in Arabic love theory and ghazal poetry,
it is the morally questionable “glance” (naẓar/naẓrah) at the beloved
that sparks and fuels the lover’s infatuation, which may ultimately
consume him in madness or death.8
Ibn al-Fāriḍ continues to stress the special character of this wine
by using word play to underscore and extend his wine/countenance
metaphor to contrast the fine qualities (shamā’il) of the beloved’s
intoxicating eyes with wine cooled by the north wind (shamūl, v. 3).
As was the case in the al-Khamrīyah, the lover’s wine is not that of
the grape, but neither is it the dew of the beloved’s lips as in the
Wine Ode; here, intoxication arises from seeing the beloved’s eyes.
This true source and secret of his intoxication, however, remained
totally concealed by the drunken revelry of the tavern mates, and Ibn
al-Fāriḍ employs paronomasia to allude to intoxication’s mixing of
time and space as the tavern of the lover’s drunkenness (ḥāni sukrī)
became the time for his thanksgiving (ḥāna shukrī; v. 4). The drunken
lover was without shame or inhibition, and in high spirits he sought
union with his mistress. This apparently reprehensible intoxication
and shameless gaze on the beloved, however, were rendered lawful
in the bridal chamber (jalwah; v. 6). There in total privacy without
the continual presence of spies or restrictions, the lover confessed his
deepest feelings to the beloved (vv. 5–6).
Returning to verse 1, the beloved “revealing loveliness” also is
beyond or surpassing beauty (˜ani-l-ḥusni jallati; v. 1), and so a single
glance (naẓrah) may reveal the ineffable secret (sirr) of the divine
presence within the mystic’s inner most being (sirr; v. 2). It is quite
possible that Ibn al-Fāriḍ is referring here to the very controversial
Sufi practice of gazing at fair faces in search of living proof of divine
beauty.9 But whether exterior, interior, or both, this glance or gaze
suggests spiritual contemplation, which may result in moments of
illumination.10 This, in turn, blesses the lover with an intoxication
denied to his companions, who lack his profound insight (vv. 3–4):

wa-lammā-nqaḍā ṣaḥwī taqāḍaytu waṣlahā

wa-lam yaghshanī fī basṭihā qabḍu khashyati
wa-abthathtuhā mā bī wa-lam yaku hāḍirī
raqību baqā ḥaẓẓin bi-khalwati jalwati

5) Then, when sobriety ceased,

I sought union with her;
shame’s grip did not seize me
as I stretched out for her.
 POEM OF THE SUFI WAY IN “T”-MAJOR 181

6) There was no one present with me there—

no persistent spy of fortune—
in the seclusion of the bridal chamber
where I revealed my all to her.

This drunkenness (sukr) brought an end to the lover’s restraint

(= ṣahw, “sobriety”), and a feeling of exhilaration (basṭ) replaced his
spiritual desolation (qabḍ) as he craved union (waṣl) with his love (v.
5). Alone in his private meditation (khalwah), the lover eluded those
who had sought to prevent his meeting with the beloved, and so he
could finally divulge what is within him (v. 6).
In these and subsequent verses, Ibn al-Fāriḍ continues to use
Sufi terminology to describe the lover’s state (ḥāl) as bearing witness
(shāhid) to his fluctuation between self-effacing (māḥī) rapture (wajd)
when he finds (wajd) his beloved, and the painful loneliness when
she is lost (v. 7). Love had all but annihilated the lover (yufnī), and
so he beseeched his beloved to permit him one last look before love
ruined him completely. If this were not possible, a simple “never”
(lan) would suffice to ease his pain as it had for another before him
(vv. 7–9). This ancestor in love is none other than the prophet Moses.
According to the Qur’ān (7:143) when Moses went to Sinai he said:
“My Lord, appear to me that I may gaze upon you” (rabbī arinī anẓur
ilayka). To which God replied: “You will never see Me!” (lan tarānī).
God then revealed His splendor to the mountain, which crumbled
sending Moses into a swoon. Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s Qur’ānic allusion implies
that the lover can never see his beloved, who if she be God, may
be seen only in Paradise. Still, the lover hoped for some word of
consolation from his beloved, to ease his pain, just as God answered
the prayers of His suffering prophets (vv. 9–16).11
The lover goes on to claim that his own intoxicating passion could
have destroyed the mountain prior to God’s appearance. Continuing
to complain of his plight in Qur’ānic and prophetic terms, the lover
says that passion blazes in him like firebrands taken from the Burning
Bush; his tears are like Noah’s flood, while the fire of his love burns
like the flames surrounding Abraham. Jacob’s sorrow for his lost Joseph
can hardly compare with the lover’s grief for his departed beloved,
whereas Job’s affliction is but a portion of his own tribulation (vv.
10–16). These many references to divine encounters and to tests and
miracles sent by God to His chosen prophets, strongly suggest that
the beloved of this poem is something more than flesh and blood.
As we saw earlier, Qur’ānic allusion and quotation are among the
devices employed by Ibn al-Fāriḍ to reinterpret mystically key images
and motifs of Arabic poetry: the reverie and the beloved, wine and
182 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

intoxication, love’s secret and its concealment. Furthermore, Ibn

al-Fāriḍ’s consistent use in this poem of multiple terms and antitheses
prominent in Sufi lexicons leaves little doubt that the al-Tā’īyah al-Kubrā
is presenting, at one level, a mystical allegory.
Ibn al-Fāriḍ next compares the lover to the emaciated camel
driven relentlessly by the riders. He is so wasted away that his
true being as a lover has been exposed (vv. 17–29). Ibn al-Fāriḍ
invokes this and other qaṣīdah and ghazal motifs to detail the lover’s
wretched condition and his necessary total destruction at the
hands of love. The lover then excuses himself for revealing his
love because total passivity is required with respect to the beloved
(vv. 30–43). He ceases to complain and begins, instead, to praise
the trials and afflictions that he has faced, because his physical and
psychological distress has rendered him a worthy adherent of love’s
creed (vv. 44–61):

58) He who tangles with beauty,

I think will see
his soul thrown down
from precious life to ruin.

59) But a soul that thinks

it will not see trouble in love
is turned away
when it turns to passion.

60) For no stable spirit

ever won its wish;
no soul loving the quiet life
ever wished for love.

61) Where is tranquility?

Far from the lover’s life;
enclosing Eden’s garden
are hateful, horrible things (al-makārih)!12

The lover claims to have remained loyal to love and the memory
of his beloved despite her absence and scorn for him (vv. 62–63). He
declares love to be his law and rite (madhhab; millah; v. 64) such that
for him to think of anything beside the beloved would be apostasy.
Ending his testimony before his beloved who will judge his case (vv.
65–66), the poet swears to his steadfast love:
 POEM OF THE SUFI WAY IN “T”-MAJOR 183

67) By love’s strong bond between us

never weakened
by thought of being broken—
the best of oaths;

68) By your taking the covenant of love

where I did not appear
in the soul’s manifest disguise
in the passing shadow of my clay;

69) By the priority of a pact

unbroken since I pledged it,
and a subsequent bond beyond
being loosed by intervening time;

70) By the rays rising

in your glowing face—
from their splendor all full moons
will soon disappear—

71) And by the attribute of your perfection,

from which creation’s fairest form
and most straight in stature
sought support;

72) By the quality of your majesty—

near it, my suffering is savory;
my slaughter sweet,
before it—

73) And by the secret of your beauty

with which every luminous face
arose in all the worlds
and waxed full;

74) By a loveliness captivating reason,

leading me to a passion
making my weakness lovely
before your strength,

75) And by a subtle sense in you

beneath that loveliness—
184 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

by it I saw it, as it was too fine

for the grasp of even an insightful eye—

76) Truly you are my heart’s desire,

my farthest wish,
my final aim,
my choice and chosen.

These verses compose the longest pledge of fidelity to be found

in the Dīwān as Ibn al-Fāriḍ raises the emotional pitch of the al-Tā’īyah
al-Kubrā with a highly rhetorical succession of oaths. Like his ˜Udhrī
ancestors, the lover swears by his unbroken bond of eternal love
with his beloved, whose refulgent beauty eclipses all others. Indeed,
all loveliness in creation is derived from her perfection and beauty,
which are beyond comprehension. Only by being slain in passion
can the lover bear witness to his true love of her who is his sole
desire. Once again, as in his other oaths and the opening verses of
the al-Khamrīyah, Ibn al-Fāriḍ invokes the primordial covenant (mīthāq,
v. 68), which God has never abrogated; the lover likewise claims to
have kept his vow of obedience and servitude to his beloved. Ibn
al-Fāriḍ underscores the timelessness of this pact with antithesis and
paronomasia as the prior covenant (ṣābiqi ˜ahdin) is followed by the
subsequent bond (lāḥiqi ˜aqdin; v. 69). Although the covenant is that
of pre-eternity, the bond may represent the lover’s mystical bond on
earth, and, by extension, the ties between various communities and
their prophets.13 In light of Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s ghazals, this subsequent bond
may refer to the Day of Resurrection when humanity will again come
face to face with their creator following their intervening time of trial
(fatrah; v. 69) on earth.14
Proceeding from the covenant to the beloved herself, Ibn al-Fāriḍ
again draws upon astral images perhaps alluding to the widely held
Sufi doctrine of the divine light as emanating throughout creation
(vv. 70, 73). He likens the radiant sunlike beloved of this passage
to God because the attributes (waṣf) of perfection (kamāl), majesty
(jalāl), and beauty (jamāl) are often ascribed together to Him. God is
necessarily perfect, and His majesty and beauty have been seen by
Muslims as contrasting states within this perfection; jalāl, majesty, is
associated with God’s wrath (mysterium tremendum) while jamāl, beauty,
expresses His satisfaction (riḍā) and kindness (mysterium fascinans).15
From among these attributes, Ibn al-Fāriḍ designates perfection as
the ultimate support for the finest and soundest created form (aḥsanu
ṣūratin wa-aqwāmuhā), namely, the human being, the crown of creation
 POEM OF THE SUFI WAY IN “T”-MAJOR 185

(v. 71).16 As for majesty, the lover is slain in its presence, while the
secret (sirr) of beauty is that it is the true source underlying every
moon-faced beauty appearing in the transient material world. Ibn
al-Fāriḍ draws attention to these three attributes and their effects in
creation by means of parallelism, beginning each verse with similar
noun forms and constructs, followed by contrasting prepositions (vv.
71–73):

wa-waṣfi kamālin fīki . . .

wa-na˜ti jalālin minki . . .
wa-sirri jamālin ˜anki . . .

Although such beauty bewilders the intellect, it may be sensed

by love. For behind loveliness is a subtle spiritual sense (ma˜nā; v.
75), an inner meaning never held by reason (nuhā; v. 74) but that may
be touched by the heart (qalb; v. 76). Thus, the lover swears by his
covenants with God and His prophets, by His essential attributes, and
by the experience of beauty and love that his true and deepest desire
has always been for the beloved alone.17 Thus, the oath ends with
verse 76, concluding the first tenth of the al-Tā’īyah al-Kubrā, which
could stand alone as a separate wine ode in Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s Dīwān. This
section begins with the lover’s reverie regarding the tavern and his
recollection of spiritual intoxication at the sight of the beloved. The
lover then recounts his meeting with the beloved and his complaint
to her, which contains a description of his dire state, the creed of
love, the declaration of continued fidelity, and, finally, his invocation
of the primordial covenant with the hope that he may yet be granted
union with her. In contrast to this unified section, the next two verses
abruptly begin a new topic:18

78) “Stripping off restraint

is my duty to you,
and depravity is my custom
though my folk despise to come near me.”

Verse 78 picks up the use of legal technical terminology found

earlier in verses 64 to 66, as the lover’s obligation and custom (farḍ;
sunnah) necessitate his total abasement before his beloved, a standard
theme in Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s ghazals. Like Majnūn, the lover shocks his tribe
by casting off his self-regard to the point of violating both custom and
religion (vv. 77–83). Having once again proclaimed his faithfulness,
the lover recalls the beloved’s candid response to his claims:19
186 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

84) But she said:

“You aimed for another’s love
and fell short, blind
to the straight pilgrim’s path to me.

85) “You were seduced

by a fickle soul’s disguise
until you said what you said
and dressed in an ugly lie.

86) “For you coveted

the most precious thing
with an aggressive soul,
transgressing beyond its bounds.

87) “How can you win my love.

that most beautiful friendship,
with lying pretense,
that ugliest fraud?”

In this passage, Ibn al-Fāriḍ continues to allude to the beloved’s

divine-like status through references to the pilgrimage, and to the
“straight path” (sawā’ al-sabīl; v. 84), which brings to mind the surāt
al-mustaqīm, the straight path of obedience to God mentioned in the
often repeated opening chapter of the Qur’ān (1:5). It is precisely this
total obedience that the lover has failed to achieve according to the
beloved who accuses him of loving another; misled by concupiscence
and selfishness (nafs), the lover has overstepped his proper place and
made false claims of love (vv. 85–86).20 His oath of fidelity, then, is a
shameless lie as are his earlier complaints of trials and sufferings (vv.
87–88). In fact, the lover’s assertions that his love-afflicted condition was
more severe than those of various prophets (vv. 11–16) would certainly
support the beloved’s charge against him of pretense and duplicity.
Although occasional reference to prophets and their plights was an
established tradition within Arabic poetry, Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s elaborate
comparison may have been an intentional parody of the distraught
Arab lover, meant to convey the conceit and impudence that stand
in the way of selfless love. Indeed, the beloved declares the lover’s
selfishness to be his transgression (vv. 88–96):

97) “Now I will expose your passion

and who it is whose worn you out;
 POEM OF THE SUFI WAY IN “T”-MAJOR 187

I will sweep away

your pretense to my love.

98) “You are love’s ally, all right,

but for its sake, not mine;
as my proof: you have saved
an attribute of yours.”

The true source of the lover’s affliction, then, is not the beloved
at all but his own selfish desires (nafs; v. 98), and this infidelity has led
him to ostentatious behavior regarding his tribulation. As a result, the
lover’s physical and psychological trials have not served as a means of
purification but, due to his loud lamentations, as a way of procuring
a reputation and sympathy among human society; he has languished
in pain for narcissistic pleasures thereby strengthening his selfish will
(vv. 97–98). But true love demands the annihilation (fāniyan, tafna) of
the lover’s will and attributes (waṣf), and the realization within him
of the beloved’s image (ṣūrah; v. 99):21

fa-lam tahwanī mā lam takun fīya fāniyan

wa-lam tafna mā lam tujtalā fīka ṣūratī

99) “For you never loved me

so long as you were not lost in me,
and you will never be lost
without my form revealed in you.”

100) “So give up claim to love,

call you heart to something else,
and drive away your erring ways
with that.

101) “Shun the courtyard of union,

that was not to be—
here you are living;
die if you are true!

102) “Such is love: if you do not die

you will derive nothing from the lover;
so decide on death
or leave my love alone.”
188 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

Chastened, the lover replies that he now stands ready to sacrifice

everything for his love, even if that means that he can never attain
his beloved; to have sincerely tried is enough (vv. 103–114). Although
the beloved will slay him, the lover remains confident that his death
will be followed by immortal life in love, just as God’s chosen friends
(walī/awliyā’; v. 115) will receive the promised Paradise after death:22

115) “Your threat is my promise,

its execution a gift to a friend
steady with whatever befalls him
in love.

116) “I have come to hope

for what is feared;
so make a dead man happy
whose spirit is ready to live.”

After recalling this conversation with the beloved, the lover next
recounts the effects of his surrender to her. He was disgraced and
scorned among worldly folk who thought him insane or possessed
(vv. 117–127). But it was precisely his consuming passion and loss of
reason that enabled him to uncover the ineffable secret of love, a secret
that must be protected from rationalist reduction and selfish desires
(vv. 126–138). In marked contrast to the lover’s giddy almost manic
state that began the al-Tā’īyah al-Kubrā is his new condition of humility:

139) My eyes are shut

if I desire a glance;
my hand is stopped
if I stretch out to touch.

Love now envelops the lover and fills his senses, as his whole
being is fixed on the beloved (vv. 140–147). Then, as in his qaṣīdahs,
Ibn al-Fāriḍ recalls the lover’s past union with the beloved during
the pilgrimage rites:

148) In truth, I led my prayer leader in prayer

with humanity behind me;
wherever I turned
was my way,

149) And my eye saw her before me

in my prayer,
 POEM OF THE SUFI WAY IN “T”-MAJOR 189

my heart witnessing me (yashhadunī)

leading all my leaders.

150) It is no wonder
that the prayer leader prayed toward me
since she had settled in my heart,
as niche of my prayer niche.

151) All six directions faced me

with all there was
of piety and pilgrimage
both great and small.

152) To her I prayed my prayers

at Abraham’s station,
while I witnessed (ashhadu) in them
that she did pray to me:

153) Both of us one worshipper

bowing to his reality
in union
in every prostration,

154) For no one prayed to me but I

nor were my prayers performed
to other than me
in each genuflection.

155) How long must I be brother to the veil?

I have rent it,
and its clasps were loosened
in the bond of my pledge.

156) I was given her protection

on a day not a day
in my priority before she appeared
to take the pact.

157) So I gained love of her,

but not by sound or sight,
not by fated acquisition,
or tugging disposition,
190 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

158) And I burned with thirst for her

in the World of the Command
where nothing was manifest,
drunk before my creation.

159) So passion annihilated

the attributes here between us
that never abided there
so they passed away,

160) And I found

what I had cast away
emerging to me, returning from me
in abundance.

161) In my contemplation (shuhūdī),

I saw (shāhadtu) my soul with the attributes
that had veiled me from myself
in my concealment,

162) I was she whom I loved

no doubt,
so for her, my soul (nafsī)
passed me on to me.

163) For my soul had burned for her unaware,

but in my witnessing (shuhūdī)
it was not ignorant
of the soul of the affair.

This meeting between the lover and his beloved takes place during
prayer at the sacred precinct of the Ka˜bah, and Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s many
references to Islamic mystical beliefs and doctrine suggest, once again,
that the beloved is God who may be found in the human heart (qalb;
v. 149). Because the lover has witnessed the beloved’s presence within
himself, it seems that others pray toward him, while his own prayer
niche is God as manifest in all things. Thus, during this powerful
experience of union, wherever the lover faces becomes his direction
(wijhah; v. 148) for prayer just as the Qur’ān declares in one of its most
mystical passages (2:115): “Wherever you turn, there is the face (wajh)
of God” (vv. 148–150).23 Since the poet is near the Ka˜bah, which is
the qiblah, or direction for the five daily Muslim prayers, all prayers,
 POEM OF THE SUFI WAY IN “T”-MAJOR 191

pious acts, and pilgrimages face toward him (vv. 148–151). There,
praying to God at Abraham’s Station (maqām), the poet stands in the
mystical station (maqām; v. 152) of union (jam˜), finding oneness to be
His/his true reality (ḥaqīqatihi; v. 153). This, then, finally tears away
the veil of duplicity and selfish existence as required by the bond of
allegiance to God and His prophets (˜aqdi bay˜atī; v. 155). Mention of
the bond leads to the pact (˜ahd), namely, the primordial covenant
and ultimate origin for humanity’s love of God. In fact, the lover
states that he was bound to the beloved preceding even the covenant,
perhaps alluding to an earlier existence as an idea in the mind of God
(v. 156). The lover’s passion, then, is innate and, contrary to folk or
academic notions, this love is not obtained through the senses, the
natural dispositions, or any sort of acquisition. Indeed, love is not
something the lover can possess; love possesses its lover (v. 157).24
In the World of the Command (˜ālam al-amr), prior to God’s
creative command “Be!” the lover was first intoxicated by love (v.
158). Again, Ibn al-Fāriḍ turns to the swearing of the pre-eternal
covenant, that event outside of time and manifest existence, to speak
of an experience that momentarily dissolves (afnā) the lover’s created
attributes (ṣifāt; v. 159) to restore him to a pre-existent state. Leaving
the narrow perspective of the material world for a union without time
or space, the rapt lover now experiences the world anew through the
beloved’s attributes as she becomes the eye through which the lover
sees (vv. 160–163).25 Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s recurrent use of words based on the
root sh*h*d involving “witnessing” (vv. 149, 152, 161, 163) suggests the
experiential character of this union, which triggers a radical shift in
perspective. The lover no longer regards himself as an independent
volitional entity. Rather, the lover realizes through his experience of
union that, previously, he had blindly loved only himself (nafs). But
in union’s embrace, he is lost in the beloved as he beholds his one
true love within himself (vv. 159–163).26

Shifting Guises

wa-qad āna lī tafṣīlu mā qultu mujmalan

wa-ijmālu mā faṣṣaltu basṭan li-basṭatī

164) Now it is time for me to expand

on what I have said in sum,
and summarize what I have said
expansively in my expansive state.
192 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

Suddenly, the wine ode is gone. This abrupt transition and literary
flourish indicates that Ibn al-Fāriḍ has concluded another section (vv.
77–163), which together with verses 1 to 76, forms a poem comparable
to several of his longer odes.27 Furthermore, this section concludes with
the recollection of union, which also ends his two shorter wine odes. In
terms of the al-Tā’īyah al-Kubrā as a whole, verse 164 further suggests
that the lover’s previous account of union may have been the product
of spiritual excitement (basṭ), not rational detachment, and that what
follows will be a more detailed explanation of matters touched on in
the opening sections. In fact, the lover claims to have received new
insight into the nature of love and life as a direct result of his previous
experience. This has taught him that characters such as the slanderer and
blamer are a necessary part of the spiritual path, helping the traveler
to give up self-regard. For if union is to be attained, all thoughts of
reward and profit must be sacrificed as well as spiritual poverty, which
is only a means to an end, the beloved herself (vv. 165–171):

172) Giving up
my poverty and fortune
secured the merit of my quest,
so I tossed all merit aside.

173) But as I cast away,

prosperity appeared,
but my reward was her alone,
she who rewards me.

174) So I began to guide

one astray from the path of guidance,
to her, by her—not by me—
for she was guiding.

The intent and tone of the al-Tā’īyah al-Kubrā become increasingly

pedagogic as the lover turns to advise the aspirant to union, and the
themes and terminology in the following sections underscore the
spiritual nature of this quest. Ibn al-Fāriḍ portrays poetically this
master–disciple relationship by an elaborate use of imperative verbs,
which begin many of the next twenty-two verses (vv. 175–196), as
the master commands his student to suppress selfish thoughts and
desires in humble obedience to the beloved.28 Sloth and procrastination,
in particular, must be shed if the quest is even to begin. The guide
repeats that spiritual poverty, not material riches or worldly reputation,
 POEM OF THE SUFI WAY IN “T”-MAJOR 193

will bring the lover to his goal. But, likewise, he exhorts his disciple
to avoid putting stock in religious rewards and to guard diligently
against spiritual pride and conceit. For true humility and sincere
obedience are the only sure way (ṭarīqah) by which the mystic may
be transformed from a selfish seeker into God’s selfless servant in
union (jam˜) with Him:29

fa-kun baṣaran wa-nẓur wa-sam˜an wa-˜ī wa-kun

lisānan wa-qul fa-l-jam˜u ahdā ṭarīqati

194) So be sight and see,

and an ear and hear,
be a tongue and speak,
for union is the truest way!

The guide next cites his own spiritual life as an example of the
quest. Drawing on well-known Sufi psychological theories, the guide
recounts how he labored to discipline his disobedient, reproachful
concupiscence (nafs lawwāmah; v. 197) until it was calmed (iṭma’annat;
v. 201). Then every mystical station (maqām; v. 203) became one of
servitude and obedience (˜ubūdīyah/˜ubūdah; v. 203). Following this
renunciation of self-will, the guide experienced union:

fa-ṣirtu ḥabīban bal muḥibban li-nafsihi

wa-laysa ka-qawlin marra nafsī ḥabībatī

205) So I became a beloved,

indeed, one loving himself,
but not like was said before:
“My beloved is myself.”

The guide thus contrasts his former deluded state of self-love,

for which he was rebuked by the beloved (v. 98), with this experience
of mystical union in which he was no longer conscious of himself but
only of beloved who had assumed his will and senses (vv. 205–208).30
Rhetorically, Ibn al-Fāriḍ mirrors the mystic’s reversal from selfish
to selfless love by reversing the tense and word positions that he
had used earlier at the beginning of the poem. Instead of the lover
vociferously complaining to the beloved in the privacy of the bridal
chamber (bi-khalwati jalwati; v. 6), he is now passive and made to
witnesses (ushhidtu) her in the bridal chamber of his private meditation
(bi-jalwati khalwatī; v. 209). Continuing to play on his opening passage,
194 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

Ibn al-Fāriḍ leaves little doubt regarding the mystical character of

love in the poem:

wa-ushhidtu ghaybī idh badat fa-wajadtunī

hunālika īyāhā bi-jalwati khalwatī
wa-ṭāḥa wujūdī fī shuhūdī wa-bintu ˜an
wujūdi shuhūdī māḥīyan ghayra muthbiti
wa-˜ānaqtu mā shāhadtu fī maḥwi shāhidin
bi-mushhidihi li-ṣ-ṣaḥwi min ba˜di sakratī
fa-fī-ṣ-ṣaḥwi ba˜da-l-maḥwi lam aku ghayrahā
wa-dhātī bi-dhātī idh tajallat taḥallati

209) And I was made to witness

my absence when she appeared,
so I found me, her there
in the bridal chamber of my seclusion,

210) In my witnessing, my existence

was cast off, and I was far
from the existence of my witnessing,
effacing, not transfixing,

211) And I embraced what I witnessed

by bearing witness to it
in the effacement of my witness,
now sober after my drunkenness.

212) So in sobriety after effacement,

I was none other than her;
my essence adorned my essence
when she removed her veil.

The lover’s meeting and embrace of his beloved leads to union

and the birth of gnosis in his heart, and this passage clearly expresses
the popular Sufi doctrine of mystical ecstasy and union discussed earlier
in context of Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s wine imagery. The mystic’s rationality (=
sobriety) is suddenly obliterated when, face to face with his beloved,
he is shown the divine presence within his heart. The mystic finds
(wajadtu; v. 209) union there, and this witnessing (shuhūdī) effaces his
individual existence (wujūdī; v. 210) such that he cannot be said to
be actively or consciously witnessing anything. Ibn al-Fāriḍ uses the
 POEM OF THE SUFI WAY IN “T”-MAJOR 195

passive tense “my existence was cast off,” to underscore the mystic’s
surrender of his will that results in a state of spiritual intoxication
(sukr). Yet this is followed by a second sobriety (ṣahw), which allows
the mystic to view his existence within a new perspective (v. 211).
Having undergone a spiritual death, he finds that, although he is
physically and psychologically limited and transient, his underlying
essence (dhāt) is nothing less than a reflection of the beloved’s self-
revelation (tajallat; v. 212).31 Ibn al-Fāriḍ conveys the paradoxical nature
of this state by using well-known Sufi terms in various combinations,
but he clearly understands that any statement on mystical experience
and union is, at best, instructive allusion:

213) Now I will make clear

my beginning in uniting,
and bring to an end my end
in abasing my exaltation:

214) Unveiling herself revealed

existence to my eye,
so in everything seen
I perceived her with my sight.

215) So my attribute is hers

since we are not called two,
and her shape is mine
since we are one.

216) If she is called,

it is me who answers,
and when I am summoned, she replies:
“Labbayka!” to one who calls me.

217) And if she speaks,

it is me who whispers,
just as when I tell a tale
she is the one who tells it.

218) For the second person’s sign

become the first between us,
and this rose my rank
above the sect of separation.
196 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

The beloved had demanded that her lover pass away to his
own attributes and consciously choose to become her reflection
(v. 99), and this has now come to pass. In union (ittiḥād; v. 213),
the guide saw only his beloved revealed (jallat/tajallī) in all created
existence (wujūd); his attribute (waṣf) is hers, her form (hay’ah) is his
(vv. 214–215). Mystically, God has assumed the lover’s place to the
degree that they appear as one, and this unity is underscored in
religious terms: the guide answers those who call or pray to God
(du˜iyat) who, in turn, responds to those who cry out to the guide
“Here I am Lord at thy service!” during the pilgrimage; if the beloved
speaks, it is the lover who whispers an intimate prayer, just as when
the lover relates a ḥadīth, it is really the beloved who tells it (vv.
216–217).32 In this passage, Ibn al-Fārid creatively maintains a unity
between content and form through antithesis and word play and, in
verses 216 to 217, with parallelism:

fa-in du˜iyat kuntu-l-mujība wa-in-akun

munādan ajābat man da˜ānī wa-labbati
wa-in naṭaqat kuntu-l-munājī kadhālika in
qaṣaṣtu ḥadīthan innamā hiya qaṣṣati

Ibn al-Fāriḍ then grammatically reinforces his message while

drawing attention to his rhetorical display (v. 218):

fa-qad rufi˜at tā’u-l-mukhāṭabi baynanā

wa-fī raf˜ihā ˜an firqati-l-farqi rif˜atī

For the second person’s sign

became the first between us,
and this rose my rank
above the sect of separation.

In Arabic, the second-person past tense often is made by

attaching to a verb either the masculine suffix ta or the feminine ti,
but changed to the first person, the suffix becomes tu, which may
be either masculine or feminine. Thus between lovers in union, this
pronunciation of t with u (called raf˜) has elevated (rufi˜at) the lover’s
rank (rif˜atī) above duality and differentiation.33
The guide next offers his skeptical listener insightful indications
(ishārāt; v. 220) of how what appears as two may be or act as one. He
cites the example of a cataleptic woman whose strange and prophetic
words are really those of the jinni who possess her. Although these
 POEM OF THE SUFI WAY IN “T”-MAJOR 197

mysterious oracles are formed and spoken by the woman’s tongue

and lips, the jinni truly speaks them (vv. 219-226). Just so God may
speak or act through His devoted servants, and this is clear to one who
has directly experienced the truth of union. But those who continue
to embrace dualism, whether consciously or not, will never grasp
this oneness. Their constant preoccupation with themselves (nafs) has
led them astray from God’s guidance into hidden polytheism; they
worship themselves not their beloved Lord. Of course, these wayward
seekers are precisely those whom the guide hopes to help, and he is
sympathetic to their plight since he, too, had once been beguiled by
selfishness. For a time he had experienced states of unconsciousness
(faqd) and rapture (wajd) in contemplation (shuhūd; v. 231), and this
led him to suppose that spiritual intoxication (sukr) and effacement
(maḥw; v. 233) were his crowning achievements. But then he recovered
to discover that his frenzied intoxication was impoverished compared
to a second sobriety, which enriched him with a union of unity (jam˜ī
ka-waḥdatī; v. 235) not one of duality:34

236) So fight on!

Witness in you, from you,
a silence beyond my description,
when peace is found.

237) For after I fought, I witnessed

that he who made me see,
my guide to me, was me—
me, my own example.

Rhetorically, Ibn al-Fāriḍ highlights the guide’s identity in oneness

by repeating eight times in verse 238, the Arabic first-person pronominal
suffix ī accompanied by four contrasting prepositions, as the guide
arrives back at the pilgrimage, with the Standing at Mt. ˜Arafāt and
prayers near the Ka˜bah, which were the occasion and site for his
union described earlier in the poem (vv. 148–163):35

fa-bī mawqifī lā bal ilayya tawajjuhī

kadhāka ṣalātī lī wa-minniya Ka˜batī

238) So with me was my Standing;

indeed, I turned to me,
just as I prayed to me,
and from me was my Ka˜bah.
198 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

Having stressed the fundamental character of union, the guide

returns to the issue of apparent duality, and he cautions the seeker
not to be led astray from God, the creator, by the transient tinseled
forms of His creation (vv. 239–241). To make this point, Ibn al-Fāriḍ
elegantly combines early Islamic descriptions of the fickle mistress
as a ghoul who shifts her form, with later ˜Udhrī notions of the
beloved’s incomparable and ideal beauty. Thus, it was the beloved’s
lovely but ever-changing forms that beguiled and misled great lovers
in the past, such as Jamīl and Majnūn. They never knew that absolute
beauty (iṭlāqi-l-jamāl; v. 241) often is hidden by a disguise (labs; v. 244),
appearing in only limited manifestations (maẓāhir; v. 245), as when
it first appeared in the Garden of Eden to Adam in the form of Eve
(vv. 239–248):36

249) Thus began the outward forms

and the love for one another
without one against them
to oppose with hate,

250) And for a reason, she continued

to appear and disappear
in every age
according to the times,

251) Coming forth to lovers

in every form of disguise,
in shapes
rare and lovely.

252) So one time as Lubnā,

and another as Buthaynah,
then as ˜Azzah,
that fawn-like dear.

253) They are not other than her,

no, they never were,
for in loveliness,
she has no peer (sharīkati).

Ibn al-Fāriḍ again underscores the divine nature of this archetypal

beloved with a Qur’ānic allusion to God “who has no peer.”37 God
and love of Him, then, are at the root of all love in whatever guise,
 POEM OF THE SUFI WAY IN “T”-MAJOR 199

and opposite the beloved’s many manifestations, the enraptured mystic

assumes the role of the ideal lover seeking union with her:38

254) By the force of uniting

with her loveliness
as she appeared
garbed as another,

255) I appeared to her

in every lover enslaved
to every male and female
of rare beauty.

256) They were not other than me

nor prior to me in passion,
because of my priority
in the pre-eternal nights,

257) And there are no folk

but me in passion,
though I came forth to them
disguised in every form:

258) So one time as Qays

and another as Kuthayyir,
then appearing
as Buthaynah’s Jamīl.

259) Without, I revealed myself to them;

within them, I lay hidden and veiled—
how wondrous an unveiling
by means of a veil.

260) The beloveds and the lovers,

and this is not a feeble guess,
appear from us, to us, as we reveal
ourselves in love and splendor.

261) So every hero in love

am I, and she
the beloved of every hero,
all names of a disguise,
200 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

262) Names that named me truly

as I appeared
to myself by a self
that was hidden.

263) I was still her

and she still me,
no separation:
my being loved hers.

264) There was nothing with me

there in the world but me,
so “withness”
never crossed my mind.

Again the guide appeals to the pre-eternal covenant as the

basis for his ancient love. Though the legendary lovers of early Islam
preceded the guide in time, he had stood with them previously prior
to time on the Day of the Covenant when all pledged their obedience
to God. But the guide then claims priority over all other lovers based
on “the pre-eternal nights,” which apparently preceded the Day of the
Covenant (v. 256). This priority of the guide’s love resonates strongly
with Sufi traditions regarding Muhammad’s spiritual precedence to all
other prophets as his prophetic light was the first of God’s creations
prior to the Day of the Covenant by one thousand years, and this
luminous presence grows as the poem continues.39 As for the spirits
in pre-eternity, they are pristine but, once in creation, they are clothed
(labisa) in the garment (labs) of the physical body, which confuses or
disguises (labasa) their divine origin (vv. 257–258). Multiplicity, with
its time and space, becomes an ephemeral veil yet, as it covers, it
not only hides but also gives shape to the divine essence within all
of existence. Although many people remain heedless of this higher
nature, the mystic looks beneath appearances (ẓāhir) to glimpse the
inner (bāṭin) reality of God’s self-manifestation (v. 259). Once in union,
separation (farq) ends, and consciousness of a separate existence gives
way to God’s consciousness of Himself through His worshippers
whom He loves (vv. 260–264).40
A sense of immediacy and personal participation characterizes this
section of the poem as Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s lyrical persona shifts its guises
from the ˜Udhrī lover to the enlightened guide, and finally to the
Light of Muhammad enamored of God before and after creation. Ibn
al-Fāriḍ suggests the mysterious perpetual exchange of love between
 POEM OF THE SUFI WAY IN “T”-MAJOR 201

lovers within the unity of God’s self-revelations, by constructing

parallels in poetic form and content (vv. 255–256, 258 and 261–263).
True union has led the lover from his initial self-centered exaltation
in exhilaration’s release (khalā˜iti basṭī) to a state of passive servitude
in chastity’s restraint (li-nqibāḍin bi-˜iffati; v. 269). The realization of
unity, then, does not negate the need for righteous conduct, and Ibn
al-Fāriḍ catalogs some of the many pious deeds undertaken by the
prophetic guide following his recovery in the second sobriety (vv.
268–276). Still, this renewed adherence to the letter of the law is not in
hopes of spiritual reward or from fear of others’ opinions. Rather, the
guide aims to protect the high status of his saintly friends (awliyā’; v.
267) from charges of heresy, particularly, the charge of ḥulūl or belief
in a divine incarnation (vv. 277–279).
To distinguish his notion of union from that of incarnation, Ibn
al-Fāriḍ cites the story of Gabriel, the Spirit of Revelation, who was said
to have appeared to Muhammad once in the form of a handsome youth
named Diḥyah al-Kalbī. On this occasion, Muhammad saw Gabriel, while
the prophet’s companions saw only Diḥyah. Gabriel, however, was not
dwelling within a living person, rather he was clothed or disguised (labs;
v. 285) by an attractive form, which could be penetrated only by the
spiritual vision of the prophet (vv. 280–285). Ibn al-Fāriḍ, thus clearly
differentiates his conception of union from doctrines of incarnation,
which posit the existence of two separate entities, one dwelling within
the other. Such a dualist form of union is unacceptable to Ibn al-Fāriḍ,
who prefers to speak instead of labisa, the “clothing” or “disguising”
of one existent beneath a variety of forms. Naturally this one existent
is the beloved God who, if He so wished, could disguise an angel as
a man to confuse the unbelievers (Qur’ān 6:9). Ibn al-Fāriḍ explicitly
cites the Qur’ān and ḥadīth in support of his view of union, which he
claims to be within the bounds of true religion (vv. 284–285). For Ibn
al-Fāriḍ does not conceive of union as the merging of two entities, still
less the dwelling of one within another. Rather, union is based on the
realization that God is the essence and source of all being including the
human being.41 Although this fact may be know intellectually (˜ilm), its
reality may be grasped only by the selfless mystic who, having rent the
veil of duality, perceives with mystical insight (kashf) the truth beneath
the disguise of appearances (v. 286):

286) I have bestowed on you knowledge;

if you want it unveiled,
then enter my path (sabīlī)
and follow my way (sharī˜atī)
202 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

Once more, Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s prophetic persona expands to praise his

own high station in gnosis, which is far beyond the reach of scholars,
ascetics, and other mystics (vv. 287–333). Ibn al-Fāriḍ appears to be
alluding again to Muhammad or his prophetic light, as was earlier the
case (vv. 254–264). He uses the term sharī˜ah (“way,” “law”), which
almost always refers to the divine law established by Muhammad
to be followed (ittbā˜; v. 286) by believers. Furthermore, Ibn al-Fāriḍ
quotes the Qur’ānic injunction (6:152) “and do not come near the
wealth of the orphan” as an indication of the enraptured guide’s
unique and unapproachable mystical station (v. 289). This seems an
obvious allusion to Muhammad who was an orphan and, according
to Islamic tradition, the final and greatest prophet.42 Thus, the excited
guide goes on to boast:

wa-mā nāla shay’an minhu ghayrī siwā fatan

˜alā qadamī fī-l-qabḍi wa-l-basṭi mā fatī

290) No one but me drew from this deep,

save a young warrior determined
to follow my steps
in good times and bad.

If the persona of this section represents Muhammad or the

mystic in union with his prophetic light, then the brave would likely
designate the prophet’s cousin and son-in-law ˜Alī ibn Abī Ṭālib, who
supported the prophet no matter the risks, and who many Muslims
believe received a unique esoteric teaching from Muhammad.43
Muhammad’s own spiritual ascent (mi˜rāj) is then mentioned as the
guide tells of ascending beyond even love in his oneness (ittiḥādī; v.
295). He then commands his disciple to adhere to “the heritage of the
highest gnostic” (mīrātha arfa˜i ˜ārifīn), probably meaning the life and
teachings of Muhammad (v. 299).44
Within this larger passage, the poetic persona appears to speak
on behalf of the “highest gnostic,” as he advises his disciple to become
a lover rapt in union’s oneness (vv. 300–306). But just as Moses was
less than Muhammad (vv. 289, 307–309), so too is the intoxicated
aspirant’s state inferior to that of his guide who claims to possess alone
the “sobriety of union” (ṣaḥwa-l-jam˜i; v. 311). Describing this gnostic
further, Ibn al-Fāriḍ alludes to the “Tradition of Willing Devotions”
and God’s assumption of the mystic’s senses and to those traditions
asserting Muhammad’s light as the source of prophecy. The gnostic’s
ear is that of Moses who heard God speak through the Burning
 POEM OF THE SUFI WAY IN “T”-MAJOR 203

Bush; his heart (qalb) is inspired by the most praiseworthy (aḥmad)

vision from an eye of Muhammad who, according to tradition, saw
God during his spiritual ascent (v. 312). The guide’s spirit (rūḥ) is
the spirit of all spirits, while every lovely thing in existence is from
the emanation of his clay (v. 313).45 Moving beyond description and
predication, the guide declares himself free of any separate existence
that could acknowledge his separation from the beloved. In fact, terms
like master, disciple, lover, and close companion often hide what they
are meant to reveal (vv. 314–325):

325) I have no attribute;

that is a stamp, as a name is a brand,
but if you must, speak of me
allusively or with metaphor.

326) I ascended from “I am she”

to where there is no “to,”
sweetening my existence
by my return

327) From “I am me,”

for an inner wisdom
and outer laws
to begin my call.

Ibn al-Fārid again invokes the Qur’ān to drive home his message,
as the guide continues his ascent back to his pre-eternal state. Returning
to oneness in God, whom all things praise (v. 331; Qur’ān 17:44), the
guide has let go of the idolatry of self-worship, and, in total obedience,
he holds tight with the firmest bond of revelation (v. 332: bi-awthaqi
˜urwā; Qur’ān 2:256, 31:22).46

Love’s Sweet Season

333) Metaphorically I greet her:

“Peace!” I say,
but in reality my greeting
is from myself to me.

With this verse, Ibn al-Fāriḍ makes an elegant transition from

his discourse on union to another account of the suffering lover
204 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

and his ideal beloved. In this section of al-Tā’īyah al-Kubrā, as in the

qaṣīdahs, the lover’s greeting to his beloved is followed by a detailed
description of his love sickness and willingness to die for her sake.
In this instance, rhetorical elements lead to melodrama as Ibn al-Fāriḍ
richly embellishes his account with paronomasia and antithesis (vv.
334–339). He uses the vocative particle yā (“O”) in nine consecutive
verses to beseech the various parts of his body, his health, and his
welfare to surrender in spiritual death to the beloved who is the true
source of all love (vv. 340–54). Her beauty fills the world, especially
the Muslim holy lands. As noted earlier, throughout his Dīwān, Ibn
al-Fāriḍ often employs the abodes and way stations of the classical
qaṣīdah as symbols for Medina, Mecca, and stages of the pilgrimage,
and in an extended metaphor, Ibn al-Fāriḍ joins these places ever
closer to the beloved and love of her:

355) Every day is my holy day

when I see,
with an eye refreshed,
the beauty of her face;

356) Every night is the Night of Power

when she draws near,
and every day we meet
is one of union, holy Friday.

357) My running to her

is a pilgrimage,
with every standing at her door,
the Standing,

358) And so wherever she alights

among God’s many lands,
though it delight my eye,
I see it not, but Mecca,

359) Any place that holds her

is a precinct holy;
every house where she resides
is Medina’s land.

360) Wherever she dwells

is Jerusalem, most sacred,
 POEM OF THE SUFI WAY IN “T”-MAJOR 205

whose soothing sight

cools my burning heart,

361) And my Farthest Mosque

is where she trails her robe,
my musk, the moist earth
where she walked.

362) The dwellings of my joy,

the tower of my desire,
the limits of my longings,
and refuge from my fear

363) Were abodes where fate

never entered between us,
nor did shifty time
ensnare us with separation.

Continuing his rhetorical display, Ibn al-Fāriḍ begins five

successive verses with negative verbs to assert the untainted nature
of this union with the beloved, a union not sundered by fate, time’s
vicissitudes, or by the slanderer, blamer, or spy (vv. 364–368). Using
progressively longer intervals of time, together with the conditional
tense and its play between, past, present, and future, Ibn al-Fāriḍ
suggests the transformative power of a timeless moment of the eternal
now:

368) No time was favored

over another in pleasure;
with her, all my moments
are seasons sweet:

369) My whole day is vesper time

if its first hours
spread her fragrant reply
to my greetings,

370) And my whole night there

is an enchanting dawn
if a sweet scented breeze
arises from her to me.
206 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

371) For if she comes at night,

my whole month by her becomes
the Night of Power, radiant,
as she visits me,

372) And if she draws near my home,

my whole year becomes
a temperate spring
luxuriant amid meadows.

373) For if she is pleased with me,

my whole life will be
the pleasant time of childhood
and the age of youth.

The guide then exalts his own high mystical station in a union that
he had never before imagined (vv. 374–380). To accentuate the totality
of this union and build toward his climax, Ibn al-Fāriḍ continues to
repeat the word kull (“each,” “every,” “all,” “whole”) in seventeen more
verses, this time accompanied by multiple prepositions. The mystic’s
intellect, senses, and entire being are filled by the divine beloved,
by God, who will double for the believer whatever he spends in the
cause of Islam (Qur’ān 57:11):47

381) I spent all of me

for the hand of her beauty
so her beneficence
doubled my every union,

382) Every atom of me

witnessing her loveliness
with every glance
of every shining eye,

383) All my subtle words

adoring her
with every tongue
profuse in praise,

384) Smelling her sweet scent

with my every fiber,
with every nose inhaling
every rising air,
 POEM OF THE SUFI WAY IN “T”-MAJOR 207

385) Every bit of me

hearing her word
with every ear
of all hoping to hear,

386) Every part of me

kissing her veil
with every mouth
in each touching kiss.

387) Had she unrolled my body

she would have seen
every essence with every heart
holding every love.

Taken as a whole, verses 334 to 387 form one of the most

elaborate and dramatic accounts in Arabic of love’s mystical union.48
Ibn al-Fāriḍ repeats various particles, words, and verb forms to quicken
his poem’s pace and heighten its emotional pitch while composing
a coherent rhetorical elaboration of the al-Tā’īyah al-Kubrā’s opening
scene. Within this lyrical interlude, form and content merge to tell of
the mystic’s progress from his surrender of self-regard (vv. 340–348)
to an unobstructed union (vv. 364–368), which is both timeless (vv.
370–375) and total (vv. 381–387), as God assumes the senses of His
beloved worshipper.

Spirit and Matter

Ibn al-Fāriḍ slows the pace to elaborate on mystical love and union,
while continuing to use symbols and allusions, which, he says, tell
more than discursive speech. He begins with further observations on
the roles of the slanderer and blamer who, in relation to the aspiring
lover, are obnoxious traveling companions, pestering him along the
way. But they, too, are one with the beloved in union (vv. 390–399),
and the slander only slanders the lover because he jealously guards
the beloved out of his love for her. In terms of Sufi psychology, Ibn
al-Fāriḍ relates this protagonist to the spirit (rūḥ), which longs to return
to God and so steers the mystic toward self-annihilation via spiritual
contemplation (shuhūd). By contrast, the blamer urges the lover to
forget his beloved, and, so, Ibn al-Fāriḍ employs this character as a
symbol of the unruly carnal soul or concupiscence (nafs), which races
headlong toward immediate sensual gratification:
208 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

wa-innī wa-īyāh la-dhātun wa-man washā

bi-hā wa-thanā ˜anhā ṣifātun tabaddati
fa-dhā maẓharun li-r-rūḥi hādin li-ufqihā
shuhūdan ghadā fī ṣīghatin ma˜nawīyati
wa-dhā muẓhirun li-n-nafsi ḥādin li-rufqihā
wujūdan ˜adā fī ṣibghatin ṣuwarīyati

399) She and I are in essence one;

he who slandered me against her
and one who turned away from her
appeared as attributes:

400) The slanderer is the spirit’s guise

guiding on to its horizon
with a witnessing
beginning in an ideal form,

401) While the blamer is the soul’s display

driving on to its cronies
with an existence
ending in a formal mold.

These verses are another fine example of Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s use of

parallelism, paronomasia, and antithesis to articulate and accentuate
essential aspects of his mystical perspective. Here, he succinctly
contrasts the two sides of every human psyche as embodied in
medieval Islamic thought: the rūḥ, or primordial spirit, and the
nafs, concupiscence or the carnal soul. The first points with mystical
vision toward its pre-eternal spiritual home, whereas the later pulls
the individual down to those mired in the created material world.
The contrast between spirit and matter, and the resulting conflict
between the two, underlie much of the al-Tā’īyah al-Kubrā, and verses
400 to 443, in particular. Ibn al-Fāriḍ views temporal existence as an
emanation (fayḍ; v. 404) from a single divine essence (dhāt; v. 403),
but it is an emanation characterized by this dual aspect with which
every mystic must come to terms (vv. 402–406).49 Like the ˜Udhrī lover,
Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s guide appears obsessed with transcending the body’s
limitations, seeking to break the cage of materiality so that his spirit
might escape and soar to its heavenly home.
To illustrate the spirit’s need and ability to transcend the body’s
confines, at least for a moment, Ibn al-Fāriḍ cites the example of the
mystic’s unitive trance induced by the Sufi practice of samā˜. Fair
 POEM OF THE SUFI WAY IN “T”-MAJOR 209

forms and the mournful tones of the Qur’ān chanter cause the mystic
to witness (yushāhidu) the beloved in his thought (fikr), memory (dhikr),
imagination (wahm), and understanding (fahm). The sights and sounds
cause him to fall into a state of spiritual intoxication (sukr) and aesthetic
rapture (ṭarb); his heart (qalb) joyously dances to the accompaniment
of his trembling limbs, as his spirit plays the part of the singing girl.
The lover’s burning desire for the beloved purifies his carnal soul, and
so all things in existence (kā’ināt) help him to merge his senses and
limbs with hers (vv. 407–419). The five senses, which had previously
veiled the lover from creation’s inner unity, now lead him to discover
the beloved’s handiwork manifest throughout time and space:50

420) The north wind guides

her memory to my spirit
whenever it comes from her by night
rising up at dawn,

421) And my ear is pleased

when her memory is roused at noon
by dusky doves on branches
warbling and gently cooing.

422) My eye is blessed

when a lightning flash
relays to it from her
thought of her in the evening,

423) And I taste and touch

her memory in vessels of wine
when, at night,
they come round to me,

424) Thus my heart reveals to me

her memory within
by what the sense messengers
delivered from without.

Ibn al-Fāriḍ summons classical pastoral images to suggest the

tranquility pervading the lover’s entire being. The lover’s reverie
deepens as his senses pause amid the traces left behind by the beloved
in creation, traces which arouse the nostalgic recollection (dhikr) of
an earlier union.51 Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s references to such classical Arabic
210 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

poetic motifs as the night breeze, lightning, doves, and wine within
this overtly religious context support their mystical interpretation
elsewhere in his Dīwān. But as important, these verses suggest Ibn
al-Fāriḍ’s understanding of the “Tradition of Willing Devotions” and
God’s assumption of the mystic’s senses. A fresh experience of reality
is born of this union, but it does not lead the mystic to encounter a
new world so much as to see the old world anew. He ceases to view
creation superficially as a collection of independent objects, and so
finds the Creator within His creation. Seen from this perspective, God
assumes the mystic’s senses in order to inspire him and to reveal, by
means of the mystic’s heart (qalb), the inner spiritual reality (bāṭin)
hidden beneath external appearance (ẓāhir; v. 424).52 This transformation
of experience occurs to the mystic during a samā˜ session where the
chanting of the beloved’s name causes him to witness her within. His
spirit soars while his body, like that of an entranced dervish, falls to
the ground. Just so, the human spirit yearns to fly to heaven while
the body struggles to hold it down (vv. 425–429). Ibn al-Fāriḍ sees
this conflict between the spirit and the body as an inevitable part of
the human condition. Given concupiscence’s power, the mystic must
work vigilantly on the spirit’s behalf, and so Ibn al-Fāriḍ forcefully
defends the practice of samā˜ against its critics with an elegant allegory
unprecedented in classical Arabic poetry:

431) When the infant moans

from the tight swaddling wrap
and restlessly yearns
for relief from distress,

432) He is soothed by lullabies and lays aside

the burden that covered him;
he listens silently
to one who soothes him.

433) The sweet speech makes him

forget his bitter state
and remember a secret whisper
of ancient ages.

434) His state makes clear

the conditions of audition
and confirms the dance
to be free of error.
 POEM OF THE SUFI WAY IN “T”-MAJOR 211

435) For when he burns with desire

from lullabies,
anxious to fly
to his first abodes,

436) He is calmed
by his rocking cradle
as the hands of his nurse
gently sway it.

437) I have found in gripping rapture

when she is recalled
in the chanter’s tones
and the singer’s tunes

438) What a suffering man feels

when he gives up his soul,
when the messengers of death
come to take him.

439) One finding pain

in being driven asunder
is like one pained in rapture
yearning for friends.

440) The soul pitied the body

where it first appeared,
and my spirit rose
to its high beginnings.

441) My spirit soared past the gate

opening to beyond my union
where there is no veil
of communion.

The tightly swaddled baby of this passage obviously represents

the spirit bound to the body. In time, the baby will loose its innocence,
just as all humans soon forget their spirit’s pre-eternal origin (v. 430).
As the baby struggles against his wrap, he is comforted by lullabies,
while the spirit, distressed by its fleshy bonds, is momentarily calmed
by the melodious voice of the Qur’ān chanter who leads the spiritually
attuned to recollect their pre-eternal covenant with God. Ibn al-Fāriḍ
212 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

undoubtedly refers here to the mīthāq, the pre-eternal covenant, with

the phrase najwā ˜uhūdin qadīmati, “a secret whisper of ancient ages,”
which also may be translated as “a secret whisper of ancient covenants”
(v. 433). But the lullabies that ease the baby’s misery create a longing
to return to the womb and, similarly, the chanting at the samā˜ session
strengthens the mystic’s desire to be reunited with his Lord. The baby
is then calmed by the gentle rocking of his cradle, while the entranced
dervish finds relief in the swaying movements of the Sufi dance. At
last, the chanter’s recollection (dhikr) of the beloved’s name wrenches
the spirit from the body, freeing it to ascend beyond any notion of
duality, even that of a union between lover and beloved (vv. 437–443).53

Yesterday’s Tomorrow

Again calling attention to his profound verse and the deep wisdom
to be found there, Ibn al-Fāriḍ begins a new section:

444) In the mirror of my words, I will show you

the gate if you are determined,
so attend to what I bestow
upon the ear of insight.

The lyric persona resumes the role of the spiritual guide as he

tells his disciple how he purged himself of his self-regard (vv. 445–447).
As expected, this led him to an experience of union in which he, like
the beloved before (vv. 355–363), was transformed into the sites of the
pilgrimage; his heart (qalb) is the Ka˜bah circumambulated by adoring
pilgrims who pray there and kiss its black stone:

448) My heart is a holy house

in which I dwell;
before it, rising out of it
my attributes appear from my veiling.

449) My right hand is a corner there

kissed within me, and by wise decree
my kiss comes to my mouth
from my niche for prayer.

450) Spiritually, my turning

is really round me,
 POEM OF THE SUFI WAY IN “T”-MAJOR 213

and I ran toward myself

from my Ṣafā to my Marwā.

451) In a sanctuary within me

my appearance is safe,
but around it my neighbors
risk being snatched away.

452) By my fasting my soul alone

was purified from all others,
and gave as alms
the grace flowing from me,

453) And my existence,

bent double in my witnessing,
became straight and single in my oneness
as I awoke from sleep.

454) So the night journey of my heart secret

from special truth to me
is like my course
among the common cares of law.

455) Divinity (lāhūt) did not distract me

from the rules of my appearance,
nor did human nature (nāsūt) lead me to forget
where my wisdom was manifest.

Reference to the Isrā’, Muhammad’s night-journey mentioned

in the Qur’ān (17:1), suggests that the poetic persona again speaks
as the prophetic Light. Having awakened from union’s trance, he
regards special mystical truth (khuṣūṣi ḥaqīqatin) and universal religious
law (˜umūmi-sh-sharī˜ati) as necessary companions on the spiritual
quest. Furthermore, this enables him to distinguish between his
divine essence (lāhūt) and his human nature (nāsūt), while recognizing
their respective complementary roles. Concupiscence must be
restrained and the senses held in check by covenants and laws that
are, in fact, derived from him (vv. 456–458). Indeed, he is their pre-
eternal source:54

459) From the age of my covenant

before the era of my elements,
214 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

before my mission
warning of resurrection time,

460) I was a messenger

sent to me, from me,
and by my signs,
my being was led to me.

Muhammad’s prophetic Light proclaims its lordship over the

universe, which is an emanation (fayḍ) from him. When compared
to his shining countenance (wajh), the sun is but a flash; the sea
becomes a drop next to his overflowing creative being and custom
(sunnah; vv. 461–470). Ibn al-Fāriḍ uses Qur’ānic allusions, together
with the repetition of wa-lā (“And no”) followed by various nouns
of time and place, to stress the limitless and absolute character of
this union (jam˜) underlying the apparent multiplicity of things. For
in reality, there is no doubt or direction, no number or time, no rival
or opposite to create real duality; they are but the Light’s means to
disguise himself (labastuhu, v. 475) that he may see himself worship
himself.55 This is particularly apparent in the case of Adam, Moses,
the historical Muhammad, and the other prophets sent with God’s
message to worship Him alone (vv. 471–479). Yet, the worshipper must
not be misled by God’s attributes (ṣifātu iltibāsin, v. 486), which mask
His unity. People entranced by the senses, by reason (ṣaḥw/suḥāwah),
or trance’s intoxication (nashāwā, v. 485) retain traces of their selfish
nature and so persist in polytheism, lost among their own shifting
identities (talwīn, v. 484). But after annihilation in union (fanā’), the
mystic may come to abide (baqā’) in God, and so witness (shuhūd)
oneness (aḥadīyah; vv. 490–494):

495) And yesterday’s “Am I not?” is not

other than what one will be tomorrow,
as my pitch dark night became bright morn,
and my day, my night,

496) For the secret of “Indeed, yes!” to God

is the mirror of His unveiling,
and the meaning of union is confirmed
with the denial of “withness.”

Timeless yet in time, this paradoxical experience of the unity

beneath multiplicity enables the mystic to join the pre-eternal Day of
the Covenant to the last Day of Judgment and so bear witness to God’s
 POEM OF THE SUFI WAY IN “T”-MAJOR 215

everlasting oneness. God is the First and the Last, unbound by notions
of time, as future events coalesce with those of pre-eternity. For God
drew forth the spirits of humanity from Himself, as a revelation to
Himself, asking them “Am I not Your Lord?” only to answer Himself
on their behalf, “Yes, indeed, We/we so witness!” (7:172).56

Manifest Sites

Once again speaking as the Light, the poetic persona proclaims

himself to be beyond time and space; he is the pre-eternal quṭb, the
pole or pivot around which the planets turn though he encompasses
them all. Further, as the quṭb, he is the greatest of the saints and
head of their ranks (al-awtād; badalīyah; vv. 497–502).57 Of course,
this high status is due to union’s state, and so the prophetic guide
gives yet another account of union with the divine beloved as he
passed from the well-known Sufi stages of religious knowledge (˜ilm
al-yaqīn) to hidden knowledge (˜ayn al-yaqīn) and, finally, to certain
gnosis (ḥaqq al-yaqīn; vv. 503–514).58 At this point, Ibn al-Fāriḍ begins
to push Arabic’s rhetorical possibilities toward their limits repeating
and recasting many words and phrases to sketch the mystic’s path
(vv. 513–520) and his subsequent successful completion of his quest
in union (vv. 522–533). Ibn al-Fāriḍ constructs a series of contrasting
and antithetical pairs—name/attribute, soul/spirit, manifest/hidden;
body/essence—highlighted by parallelisms in morphology and syntax
to reiterate his now familiar view that all creation serves as God’s
theatre of manifestation (maẓāhir; vv. 534–545):

545) Names and attributes

were my manifest sights where I appeared,
though I was not hidden from myself
before the site of my epiphany,

546) And so speech—

I am all tongue speaking of me—
and sight—
I am all eyes gazing upon me—

547) And hearing—

I am all ears hearing the call,
and all of me is a hand
firm in fending off destruction—
216 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

548) Are the qualities of attributes

that fixed what lay behind the guise,
all the names of an essence
spreading what the senses relayed.

These verses make further reference to the “Tradition of Willing

Devotions” and God’s assumption of the senses through which the
mystic experiences life. In this instance, however, the mystic not only
senses the divine hidden beneath the manifest, as was earlier the case
(vv. 381–387), but he has been so annihilated that he has become the
very senses that God has assumed. Furthermore, Ibn al-Fāriḍ maintains
that just as a person’s attributes, senses, and sense-organs confirm
the presence of one experiencing and manifesting himself through
them, so too is there a divine essence (dhāt; v. 548) acting in creation
beneath the guises of its apparent names and attributes.59 Staying
with this last idea, Ibn al-Fāriḍ passes from the mystic’s experiential
union to the ontological union underlying the divine names and
attributes, and their emanation throughout creation. Ibn al-Fārid’s
rhetorical display now reaches staggering proportions in a series of
verses long recognized as forming the most rhetorically ornate and
intellectually abstruse passage of the al-Tā’īyah al-Kubrā and of the
entire Dīwān. Divisible into three distinct sections, the odd verses
(549–555; 557–563; 565–573)—horizontally as well as vertically—follow
harmonious patterns in terms of morphology, case, and syntax, which
are reflected in the similarly unified, though different, patterns of the
even verses (vv. 550–556; 558–564; 566–574). A transliteration of several
verses may give some idea of Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s rhetorical tour de force:60

549) fa-taṣrīfuhā min ḥāfiẓi-l-˜ahdi awwalan

bi-nafsin ˜alayhā bi-l-walā’i ḥafīzati

550) shawādī mubāhātin hawādī tanabbuhin

bawādī fukāhātin ghawādī rajīyati

551) wa-tawqīfuhā min mawthiqi-l-˜ahdi ākhirin

bi-nafsin ˜alā ˜izzi-l-ibā’i abīyati

552) jawāhiru anbā’in zawāhiru wuṣlatin

ẓawāhiru inbā’in qawāhiru ṣawlati

[Qualities of attributes] that flow out from one

who first preserves the covenant,
 POEM OF THE SUFI WAY IN “T”-MAJOR 217

with a soul watching over them

in loyal love,

As chanters of high praise,

guides to vigilance,
purveyors of sweet joys,
clouds pouring what is desired.

They are set down from one

who last confirms the covenant,
with a soul scorning
haughty pride,

As gems of prophecy,
luminaries of union,
manifest tidings,
chargers of a sudden assault.

Once again, Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s elaborate rhetorical forms have a

function intimately linked to content, as each of the three formal
sections is divided into four parts reflecting metaphysical and mystical
concepts revolving around the divine names and attributes. Through
the persistent use of parallelism and patterning, Ibn al-Fāriḍ conveys
the then popular conception of the universe as a multilayered existence
progressively manifest through God’s names and attributes.61 God is
the first mover, possessing the divine names and attributes by which
He brings about creation and revelation, which ended with the human
Muhammad, the last prophet (vv. 549–552). The outward (ẓāhir)
manifestations of these names and attributes in existence (wujūd) are
defined and explained by the dedicated religious scholar, whereas
their inner (bāṭin) qualities are discovered and witnessed in mystical
contemplation (shuhūd) by the sincere mystic who has returned, if
only momentarily, to his pre-eternal origins (vv. 553–556).
Naturally, God’s divine names and attributes appear in different
forms within the different contexts. In terms of the human being, the
names and attributes are the source from which the physical body (labs)
governed by Islam’s wise ordinances attains discipline and happiness.
The senses informed by a deeper faith (imān) will receive profound
and illuminating experiences from the names and attributes, whereas
the carnal soul (nafs) is granted spiritual subtleties provided that it
has been restrained by prophetic example, striving to realize God’s
living presence within itself (iḥsān). Finally, the entire human (jam˜)
218 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

witnessing the divine is blessed with moments of union (jam˜; ḥudūthu-

t-tiṣālātin) by the names and attributes (vv. 557–564).62 Moving from
the human microcosm to the universal macrocosm, the divine names
and attributes emanate from God and cascade down progressively into
levels of existence. In the sensate, visible world (˜ālami-sh-shahādati),
they appear—like Ibn al-Fārid’s verse—as expressions and indications
of the truth, which correspond in the unseen world (˜ālami-l-ghaybi)
to the inner secrets of the outward forms. In the next higher world of
dominion (˜ālami-l-malakūti), the names and attributes are the source
of scripture and its spiritual interpretation (ta’wīl). Then Ibn al-Fāriḍ
comes full circle back to God and the world of omnipotence (˜ālami-l-
jabarūti). Here, God’s unity (tawḥīd) reigns supreme among His names
and attributes, which appear as His angels and throne (vv. 565–572).63
Thus, on whatever level, in whatever world, the steadfast,
enlightened mystic will always encounter an emanation (fayḍ) of the
divine names and attributes to nourish and support him (vv. 572–574).
With this transition, Ibn al-Fāriḍ returns from mystical cosmology to
the mystical experience of union. For although the names and attributes
are the means of manifestation, the apparent distinctions that they
engender are obliterated in the most complete form of union. In this
“sobriety of union” (ṣaḥw al-jam˜), the gnostic merges with his senses
(vv. 575–578):

579) So the whole of me was

a tongue, an eye, an ear, a hand
to speak and see
and hear and grasp.

But this time, Ibn al-Fārid does not stop here, and in a paradoxical
and dizzying account, he details the fusing of the mystic’s senses into
a sentient whole: his tongue saw, and his eye heard; his ear spoke,
while his hand listened (vv. 580–588). Now privy to an unseen world,
the gnostic can read all knowledge in a single word, hear all voices in
a moment, smell all the scents on the wind, survey the earth in a flash,
and cross the heavens in a step (vv. 589–594). Indeed, all miracles and
prophecy are from him who has achieved union with Muhammad’s
Light (vv. 595–617). Turning to the Light, Ibn al-Fāriḍ states that while
prophecy culminated in the mission of the historical Muhammad, his
prophetic Light continued to shine among his community via the
first four caliphs. Ibn al-Fāriḍ praises all four, attesting to his Sunni
convictions, but he singles out the last of them, ˜Alī, Muhammad’s
cousin and son-in-law, as the one who clarified obscure passages of
 POEM OF THE SUFI WAY IN “T”-MAJOR 219

the Qur’ān by means of mystical interpretation (ta’wīl; vv. 617–626).

As for later generations, the Light is to be found among the religious
scholars, the mystics, and especially the saints (awliyā’) who are like
“guiding stars” for persons lost in the darkness. Although these saints
have never actually seen Muhammad in the flesh, he is, nevertheless,
with them in spirit (vv. 618, 627–628).64
The prophetic Light now returns with dramatic effect to declare
his priority to Adam and all of humanity, for he was the means through
which God took the primordial covenant and initiated creation (vv.
629–637). The speaker’s identity is clear as Ibn al-Fāriḍ alludes to a
popular divine saying in which God says to Muhammad: “If not for
you, I would not have created the heavens:”65

638) If not for me

existence and witness would not exist,
and covenants of protection
would not have been pledged.

639) No one lives

unless his life is from mine;
obedient to my will
is every aspiring soul.

640) No one speaks

unless his speech is from mine;
no one sees
but by the gaze of my eye.

641) No one listens

unless listening by my ear;
no one grasps
save by my might and strength.

642) For no one

is speaking, seeing, hearing,
in all of creation
but me!

The sense’s cycle is now complete as the poetic persona has

moved from the aspiring lover using his senses, to the mystic’s having
them assumed by God, to the guide being the senses themselves,
and finally to the Light being the senses of all others in creation.
220 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

The prophetic Light, then, is not only the creative first principle,
but the sustaining force of creation as well. Furthermore, in this
passage Ibn al-Fāriḍ appears to interpret the “Tradition of Willing
Devotions” more theologically than he had previously; sensate beings
are themselves senses or instruments through which the Light, and
so God, experiences creation. In fact, the Light may be the totality of
God’s self-reflection. Once more, Ibn al-Fāriḍ uses parallels in syntax,
case, and morphology to bring an exhilarating passage to its climax.
He begins eight consecutive verses (vv. 643–650) with the phrase wa-fī
(“And in”) followed by nouns designating the realms of matter and
spirit, and contrasting mystical states, including those of contraction
and expansion (basṭ/qabḍ).66 In this way Ibn al-Fāriḍ suggests the ever-
present and all encompassing nature of the Light, which contemplates
and manifests his Lord in His majesty, beauty, and perfection (jalāl,
jamāl, kamāl):67

643) In the composite world,

I appeared deep within
every shape and form
adorning them with beauty.

644) While in every subtle sense

not revealed by visible guise,
I was conceived and formed
but without a body’s shape.

645) Yet in what the spirit sees

clairvoyantly,
I was rarified, concealed,
from this subtle sense confined.

646) In the mercy of expansion

all of me is a wish
expanding wide
the hopes of humanity,

647) While in the dread of contraction

all of me is awe;
wherever I cast my eye
I am honored.

648) In joining both attributes

all of me is proximity;
 POEM OF THE SUFI WAY IN “T”-MAJOR 221

come, draw near

my inner beauty,

649) For in the end-place of “in,”

I still found with me
my majesty of witness
arising from my perfect nature,

650) And where there is no “in,”

I still witnessed within me
the beauty of my existence
without an eye to see!

Shadow Play

Once again the pace slows as the lyric persona resumes the role of
the enlightened master. He exhorts his disciple to strive for true union
while avoiding false beliefs, particularly those that posit the spirit’s
re-incarnation or transmigration. Both notions are misleading since they
conceive of the human as being a permanent entity (vv. 651–654), and
to clarify his point, the guide turns to consider individual existence
and action. As usual, Ibn al-Fāriḍ makes a poetic transition signaling
a new section:

655) Now the parables I strike

time after time about my state
are a blessing
from me to you.

Indeed, parables dominate this portion of the poem concerning

human nature whose spiritual qualities have been obscured and
forgotten. This time, however, the culprit is not so much the body or
the material world but, rather, the nafs, the carnal soul or concupiscence,
which suppresses the spirit (rūḥ) for its own selfish ends. By means
of the senses and sensation, the nafs seduces the unwary person into
believing that he, alone, is the crown of creation, that his existence
is totally unique, independent, and, especially, ever-lasting. Like the
rogue of the maqāmāt, or picaresque stories popular in Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s
day, the nafs constantly changes its disguise (talwīn; iltibās) in order to
deceive and swindle its naive companion (vv. 656–658).68 The guide
therefore urges the aspirant to look beneath appearances to see for
himself the crafty play of the nafs. The seeker must stop thinking solely
222 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

in terms of the body and its physical senses, and consider the origins
of his actions and his presumed role as actor. He must look deeper,
listen more intently to discover the divine spirit within. But although
the spirit is the goal, the guide sternly warns against dismissing the
phenomenal world as merely transient and illusory. For it is only
through phenomena that individuals become manifest and act at all,
and when seen aright, phenomena reveal reality’s hidden truth. A
creator only exists with his creation, just as a puppeteer must rely
on his puppets to perform his play (vv. 659–678):

679) In illusion’s drowsy dream

the phantom shadow
leads you to what shimmers
through the screens.

680) You see the shapes of things

in every display
disclosed before you
from behind the veil’s disguise,

681) And opposites were joined in them

for the sake of wisdom,
so their figures appear
in every form:

682) Silent, they seem to speak;

still, they seem to move,
shedding light,
though dark,

683) While amazed you laugh

giddy and full of cheer,
then cry bereaved like a mother
who lost her child,

684) You wail when they mourn

their plundered fortune,
and rejoice
when they sing a sweet song.

685) In the branches

you see birds cooing
 POEM OF THE SUFI WAY IN “T”-MAJOR 223

and warbling sad songs

that stir you,

686) And you are awed by the sounds

of their many voices,
for they clearly spoke
in foreign tongues.

687) On land,
camels cleave the desert night,
on sea.
ships race amid the heaving deep,

688) And you see two armies

on land, at times,
other times, at sea,
in great formations.

689) Courageous,
dressed in iron mail,
they stand their guard
with swords and spears.

690) The soldiers of land—

knights on horse
or mainly
manly infantry—

691) And the heroes at sea—

riding the decks
or climbing
the lance-like masts—

692) Are violently striking

with shining sword,
thrusting the brown shaft
of a strong quivering spear,

693) Drowning in the fire

of striking arrows,
burning in the deluge
of piercing hot blades.
224 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

694) You see one charging headlong

giving up himself,
while another turns
broken and defeated,

695) And you witness

the hoisting of the catapult;
then it fires to destroy
fortresses strong and forbidding.

696) You glimpse specters,

like disembodied souls,
lying in stealth within
their genie land;

697) Wild attire, savage nature

set them apart from
the humanity of humans,
for the jinn are not humane.

698) Into the river,

the hunter’s hand
casts the net
and quickly draws out fish,

699) And cunningly,

he sets his traps,
and hungry birds
are snared for seed.

700) Ravenous serpents

shatter ships at sea;
while lions in the jungle
claw their prey,

701) And in the air

some birds snatch others,
while savage beasts
hunt in the badlands.

702) You will see other shapes

that I have not mentioned,
 POEM OF THE SUFI WAY IN “T”-MAJOR 225

but I will trust

in these choice few.

703) Consider and learn

what appeared to you
in that single span
without a long delay:

704) All that you witnessed

was the act of one
alone within
the cloistering veils.

705) But when he removes the screen

you see none but him;
no doubt lingers
about the shapes and forms,

706) And you realize

when the truth is shown,
that by his light you were guided
to his actions in the shadows.

Ibn al-Fāriḍ was not the first Muslim to draw parallels between a
puppet and the human being to portray matters of individual existence
and volition, but his account of medieval puppet theatre is an elegant
addition to classical Arabic poetry.69 Interpreting his own analogy, Ibn
al-Fāriḍ first equates the puppeteer with the nafs. The illuminated screen
obscuring the puppeteer’s presence is the body, while the puppets
and their actions stand for the senses and sensations by which the
nafs acts and becomes manifest. The nafs uses the body and its senses
together to create the illusion of an existence with independent volition
where, in fact, none exists. Just as the puppeteer removes the screen
to end his play, so too should the mystic unveil his selfish nafs that
he might slay it and annihilate duality (vv. 707–715). With duality
destroyed, the shadow play gains new meaning as the prophetic
Light re-emerges. For the ultimate puppet-master is not the nafs, but
God, who has veiled His absolute oneness with his His attributes so
that His unity will not consume the theaters of its manifestation.70
Thus, by means of these veils and manifestations in humanity and all
creation, God presents His handiwork.71 The individual, then, is like
a puppet, which appears to speak and move on the screen, although
226 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

it is God who truly acts. This is union’s (ittiḥād) truth, confirmed by

the “Tradition of Willing Devotions” in which God assumes the senses
of those absorbed with Him; this is the central lesson of the parable
and of the al-Tā’īyah al-Kubrā (vv. 716–721).72
In the exuberance of union and gnosis, the poetic persona again
speaks as the Light of Muhammad from whom all religions have
drawn their inspiration and message. Indeed, all faiths are true in so
far as their true aim is God and His glorification; Muslim, Christian,
Jew, all have their place. Even those who worship idols, the sun, or
fire glorify God in fact, although they have gone astray by mistaking
diverse and limited manifestations to be the absolute one.73 Still,
monotheists may be wayward too, and they should temper their
scorn of others, for many of them love worldly things more than their
Creator (vv. 721–736). Yet human beings, as all things, must follow
the courses set for them by God’s names and attributes according
to divine decree, just as the puppeteer moves the puppets. Like an
illusory shadow play, creation hides the divine actor, but it also reveals
His presence and actions and the fact that existence is not some idle
sport. In a moment out of time, with patience, persistence, and, no
doubt, a touch of grace, the aspirant may come to realize the truth
of the poet’s message (vv. 722–749).74
Ibn al-Fāriḍ now draws his poem to a close. Creative to the end,
he invokes the lyrical Light one last time to praise God, Muhammad
and, of course, his own poetry (vv. 750–761):

750) I am not to blame

if I spread my bounty
and bestow my gracious gift
on those who follow me,

751) For I have received the sign of kinship

from one bringing news of union
when he greeted me with:
“Or nearer!”

752) From his light,

the niche of my essence enlightened me;
by means of me,
my nights blazed morning bright.

753) I made me witness my being here

for I was him;
 POEM OF THE SUFI WAY IN “T”-MAJOR 227

I witnessed him as me
the light, my shining splendor.

754) By me the valley was made holy

and I flung my robe of honor—
my “taking off of sandals”—
on those summoned there.

755) I embraced my lights

and so was their guide;
how wondrous a soul
illuminating lights!

756) I firmly based my Sinais

and there prayed to myself;
I attained my every goal
as my essence spoke with me.

757) My full moon never waned;

my sun, it never set,
and all the blazing stars
followed my lead,

758) By my leave, in my realm

my planets moved,
and my angels bowed
down to my dominion.

759) In the world of remembrance

the soul has her ancient lore;
my young disciples
seek it from me.

760) So hurry to my union old

where I have found
the elders of the tribe
as newborn babes,

761) For my friends drink

what I left behind,
while those before me,
their fine qualities fall short of mine!
228 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

Conjuring images of light and invoking numerous Qur’ānic

passages, the enlightened guide claims his right to lead others based
on his own pre-eminence. He has been singled out by the mufīḍ al-jam˜,
the one who bestows tidings of union (v. 751). Earlier in verse 615 of
the poem, Ibn al-Fāriḍ used this word mufīḍ together with the term
khaṭm or “seal,” making a clear reference to Muhammad, “the seal of
the prophets:”

wa-jā’a bi-asrāri-l-jamī˜i mufīḍuhā

˜alaynā lahum khatman ˜alā ḥīni fatrati

615) And the secrets of all [the prophets]

were brought and bestowed on us
by him who was their seal
in prophecy’s due time.

The mufīḍ al-jam˜, then, could be read as again referring to

Muhammad or his Light.75 However, if we understand the poetic
persona as speaking not to but as the prophetic Light, then the
mufīḍ in this second instance could be God or Gabriel, the Spirit of
revelation who, the Qur’ān suggests, descended to Muhammad at a
distance “of two bows’ lengths or nearer” (53:9). In either case, union’s
messenger brought the prophetic guide news of his spiritual kinship
(nisbah), thereby kindling love’s fire in niche of his heart (mishkāt; vv.
752–753). By the light of this lamp, the mystic finds his oneness with
the prophetic Light and its progressive manifestations among God’s
prophets. It first appeared as Adam, before whom the angels bowed
(v. 758), later to Moses at Sinai and to other prophets (vv. 754, 756),
and finally, to the saints and Sufis who guide others to recollect their
pre-eternal state and ancient pact (vv. 755, 757). But whatever the
place or time, the prophets of the past and the master mystics of the
present are but reflections of Muhammad’s refulgent Light, for it is
he, in truth, who shines over all (vv. 760–761).76

Poet and Guide

Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s great ode challenges readers on several levels as form and
content weave together 760 verses. Thematically, the al-Tā’īyah al-Kubrā
may be divided into a number of relatively discreet sections marked, at
times, by their own pronounced stylistic features. Further, Ibn al-Fāriḍ
usually makes his transition between sections with references to his
 POEM OF THE SUFI WAY IN “T”-MAJOR 229

poetry and the power of its expression. But most prominent among
the poem’s formal characteristics is its division into two distinct parts:
an opening wine ode (vv. 1–163), and the subsequent discourse on
the Sufi way (vv. 164–761).77 The ode section as a whole poses few
problems and closely parallels Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s love poetry in terms of
motifs, meaning, and mood. Ibn al-Fāriḍ, however, implies that he
will mystically interpret his ode (v. 164), which he never does, at least
not in the same manner as most of his major commentators. These
commentators have generally read the poem in terms of their own
particular beliefs often derived from Ibn al-˜Arabī’s mystical theology.
Perhaps following Ibn al-˜Arabī’s methods of interpretation for his
own poems, commentators of the al-Tā’īyah al-Kubrā normally treat
each verse as a largely independent unit; key words and themes are
paired with their symbolic and mystical equivalents, and then briefly
related to the particular theosophy driving the commentary. Such
commentaries are certainly valuable as they cite Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s many
references to the Qur’ān, ḥadīth, and key Sufi doctrines, many of which
were undoubtedly shared in common by the poet and his readers.
More helpful, however, are Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s poetic musings, which
make up the larger portion of his ode. In section after section, Ibn
al-Fārid circles back to allude to the spiritual sense and significance
pervading his verse, particularly in such motifs as the lover ’s
protagonists, love-sickness, the transformation of the senses, and, of
course, love, the beloved, and union with her. Nevertheless, even in
these cases, the relationship between poetry and mysticism remains for
the most part implicit, as do the connections between the ode’s two
major sections. In fact, it is possible that Ibn al-Fāriḍ did not intend
his extended Sufi discourse to be a commentary at all. Rather, setting
out to compose a poem, he began with what he knew best, an ˜Udhrī
style poem on love and wine, to which he appended a number of more
didactic recitals on Sufi topics interspersed with lyrical interludes, and
concluding with self-praise.78 The barest traces of the Arabic qaṣīdah
begin to show through. But the al-Tā’īyah al-Kubrā is hardly a formal
qaṣīdah in its classical sense, for the number and variety of subjects
featured in the poem’s second section go far beyond the restricted range
and themes of the classical ode. Beginning in the sixth/twelfth century,
some scholars composed long Arabic works in rhymed couplets in the
rajaz meter on numerous subjects including grammar, jurisprudence,
agriculture, hunting, and sex.79 Yet, Ibn al-Fāriḍ had no precedent
within Arabic poetry for his Sufi discourse, which followed classical
poetic standards with a single rhyme and the meter ṭawīl. Instead, he
may have turned to Arabic Sufi prose for a model: the ever-popular
230 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

guide for the perplexed. The poetic persona thus becomes the Sufi
master (murād) who imparts the secrets of gnosis to his audience, his
eager disciple (murīd).80
This choice had important literary consequences. The guide form
gave Ibn al-Fāriḍ the freedom to outline and discuss in verse the
requirements of the Sufi path, ecstatic experiences, union, oneness,
and a host of other mystical and theological beliefs. In addition, by
not exclusively relying on traditional poetic genres, Ibn al-Fāriḍ was
able to compose two very lyrical and original passages of high literary
caliber, namely, the account of the distressed infant (vv. 430–436) and
the shadow play of life (vv. 679–706). Neither section was a part of the
classical Arabic poetic canon, yet, they are two of the most moving
allegories in the poem. This is due in part to their juxtaposing charged
poetic language with appealing everyday subjects, and in this respect,
both allegories resemble portions of the popular Persian narrative
poems, including those by ˜Aṭṭār, and especially the Mathnavī of Jalāl
al-Dīn Rūmī (d. 672/1273), which would be composed fifty years later.
Still, although the subjects of the al-Tā’īyah al-Kubrā occasionally
take on a popular hue, its language does not; Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s rhetorical
badī˜ style is ever present. Some instances of paronomasia and antithesis
no doubt resulted from unconscious associations between the sense
of words and their Arabic root forms. However, in the ode’s many
highly rhetorical sections, Ibn al-Fāriḍ consistently and consciously
employed literary devices to elicit mystical allusions and meanings.
Nevertheless, Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s extensive use of badī˜ was as much literary
as mystical, for he often used rhetorical devices in order to be succinct
or terse, and for purposes of summary and stress:

huwa-l-ḥubbu in lam taqḍi lam taqḍi ma’raban

mina-l-ḥibbi fa-khtar dhāka aw khalli khulatī

102) “Such is love: if you do not die

you will derive nothing from the lover;
so decide on death
or leave my love alone!”

Yet these same devices could as readily obscure easily understood

ideas, as in the case of Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s account of God’s names and
attributes (vv. 537–574). The abstruseness of this passage is not due to
intellectual density or subtle esotericism, but to Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s incessant
use of parallelism, antithesis, and paronomasia over thirty-seven verses.
 POEM OF THE SUFI WAY IN “T”-MAJOR 231

In terms of Sufi doctrine, this poetic account is a vague summary of

well-known cosmology, but in terms of Arabic poetry, these verses
form an incredible rhetorical display.

Covering Reality

Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s al-Tā’īyah al-Kubrā broke new ground in Arabic mystical

poetry, though most of the mystical beliefs and ideas in the poem may
be found in noted Sufi writings from earlier centuries. Generally, Ibn
al-Fāriḍ appears to have followed the mystical tradition associated with
Sahl al-Tusturī (d. 283/896) and, especially, al-Junayd of Baghdad (d.
298/910). As noted earlier, Ibn al-Fāriḍ and al-Junayd employed the
Hajj, its sites and rituals in their discussions of the mystical quest,81
and Ibn al-Fāriḍ also appears to have followed al-Junayd on several
other matters. Al-Junayd is frequently credited with formulating a
doctrine of the enlightened life commonly referred to as the second
sobriety. Ibn al-Fāriḍ explicitly refers to this doctrine several times in
his poem (e.g., vv. 212, 223, 311, 480–486), and his references to the
pre-eternal covenant (mīthāq) were probably influenced by al-Junayd
as well.82 Al-Junayd asserted that the spirits (arwāḥ) of humanity were
called up by God through His will (mashī’ah) prior to the primordial
covenant whose purpose was to testify to God’s unique oneness:83

. . . He brought them into existence for Himself with Him

in pre-eternity, as His mounts for oneness (aḥadīyah). When
He called them, they answered quickly due to a grace and
a favor from Him to them; by means of it, He answered
on their behalf when He brought them into existence, so
they were the call from Him. And He made Himself known
to them when they were not save a will (mashī’ah), which
He established before Himself. By His decree (irādah), He
transported them, then He made them like atoms (dharr),
drawing them out by His will (mashī’ah) as a creation (khalq)
and depositing them in the loins of Adam. . . . So He the
most glorious and exalted said: “And when your Lord took
from the loins of the children of Adam their progeny and
made them witness against themselves, ‘Am I not your
Lord?’ ” (7:172). Thus, He . . . informs with this that He
addressed them while they were non-existent save by His
existing on their behalf. Thus, they existed due to the Real
232 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

(al-ḥaqq) since they were non-existent as themselves. So in

that, the Real existed in the Real in a sense (ma˜nā) that
no one may know or find save Him!

From this passage it would appear that al-Junayd held that

the pre-eternal covenant was taken by God from Himself when He
answered Himself on behalf of the spirits whose contingent being
was derived from His necessary one. The spirits and the covenant
thus serve as a means for God’s self-manifestation of His oneness.84
Ibn al-Fāriḍ succinctly expressed a similar view in verses 495 to 496:85

wa-laysa alastu-l-amsi ghayran li-man ghadā

wa-junḥī ghadā ṣubḥī wa-yawmiya laylatī
wa-sirru balā li-llāhi mirātu-kashfihi
wa-ithbātu ma˜nā-l-jam˜i nafyu-l-ma˜īyati

495) Yesterday’s “Am I not?” is not

other than what one will be tomorrow,
as my pitch dark became bright morn,
and my day, my night.

496) For the secret of “Indeed, yes!” to God

is the mirror of His unveiling,
and the meaning of union is confirmed
with the denial of “withness.”

Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s description of the human condition also appears

indebted to al-Junayd. In one of his letters, al-Junayd states that
following the primordial covenant, God made the spirits forget the
bliss of pre-eternity. Once in creation, they began to take pleasure in
their own individuality, growing self-centered and selfish amid material
existence, which veiled them from their original state of perfection.
Seen in this light, al-Junayd regards individual existence and human
attributes as the spirits’ self-deception (talabbus), or as disguises
(talbīsāt) masking their true nature.86 Naturally, it is concupiscence or
the carnal soul (nafs) that tempts the human being and binds him to
the material world, while the troubled spirit (rūḥ) yearns to return to
its Creator. This tribulation (balā’) initiates the spiritual quest of those
who strive diligently to discipline and weaken their selfishness. During
their trials and tribulations, these seekers may find solace in nature’s
beauty, which serves as a temporal vision of Paradise. God, however,
continues to try them until He annihilates their selfish wills.87 Then,
 POEM OF THE SUFI WAY IN “T”-MAJOR 233

He graces them with the highest mystical experience, which al-Junayd

likens to their first moment in pre-eternity:

(The gnostic) is a phantom (shabaḥ)88 standing before Him

without a third between them, while His decree flows over
him in the channel of the judgments of His omnipotence,
in the fathomless depths of the seas of His unity (tawḥīd),
due to the annihilation (fanā’) from himself (nafsihi), from
His call to him, and from His answering on his behalf (at
the taking of the covenant), by means of the realities of the
existence of His unicity, in the reality of H/his proximity
(qurb), with the vanishing of his senses and movements,
because the Real (al-ḥaqq) has undertaken for him what
He has willed for him. And the point of this is that the
worshipper’s end returns to his beginning, and he is as he
was before he was!89

Major parallels between several of al-Junayd’s mystical beliefs

and those of Ibn al-Fāriḍ should now be clear: the conflict between
the nafs and the rūḥ, the tribulation of the via purgativa and nature’s
ability to sooth the lover’s anguish, and the experience of union as
a return to the spirit’s pre-eternal state. Significantly, both men use
derivatives from the Arabic root l*b*s to refer to the spirit’s being
veiled in and by creation, and this is rare in Sufi discussions of this
subject.90 Further, words from the root sh*h*d involving witnessing also
appear frequently in al-Junayd’s epistles and in Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s al-Tā’īyah
al-Kubrā where they generally refer to mystical vision. Moreover, it is
clear from al-Junayd, that underlying this root’s surface meaning of
vision is an implied “witnessing” to God’s oneness and lordship on the
Day of the Covenant. Al-Junayd goes on to contrast this enlightened
witnessing (mushāhadah) in union, to the ignorance of human existence
(wujūd), and this may clarify further, Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s frequent pairing
of similar concepts and terms, as in verses 400 to 401:91

fa-dhā maẓharun li-r-rūḥi hādin li-ufqihā

shuhūdan ghadā fī ṣīghatin ma˜nawīyati
wa-dhā muẓhirun li-n-nafsi ḥādin li-rufqihā
wujūdan ˜adā fī ṣibghatin ṣuwarīyati

400) (The slanderer) is the spirit’s guise

guiding to its high horizon
234 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

with a witnessing
beginning in an ideal form,

401) While (the blamer) is the soul’s display

driving down to its cronies
with an existence
ending in a formal mould.92

Finally, al-Juanyd explicitly states that a human being can never

receive this mystical enlightenment without God’s help, for the
primordial is beyond the keen of those in the transient world. The
seeker, therefore, must be annihilated in God who alone knows the
secret of pre-eternity.93 At the moment of union, God overwhelms
His worshipper and assumes his will and actions, becoming the sole
actor, in much the same way as Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s puppeteer controls the
show.94 In support of this understanding of union, al-Junayd cites the
“Tradition of Willing Devotions” concerning God’s assumption of His
believer’s senses,95 and, as we have seen, this tradition is central to Ibn
al-Fāriḍ poetry, especially to the al-Tā’īyah al-Kubrā where he alludes
to this tradition in numerous verses, especially in verses 719 to 721
at the end of his poetic account of the shadow play.
Yet in contrast to these noted similarities between ideas and
expressions in the al-Tā’īyah al-Kubrā and al-Junayd’s epistles, there
remains an important difference in their terms for union. Al-Junayd
consistently speaks of tawḥīd (“unity”), whereas Ibn al-Fāriḍ usually
refers to union as ittiḥād (“unification”). Both terms stem from the
Arabic root w*ḥ*d with its basic meaning of singularity. Al-Junayd’s
particular term has strong theological and ontological connotations
because tawḥīd Allāh means monotheism, the declaration of God’s
unique and unrivaled oneness, and al-Junayd certainly had this in
mind when discussing mystical union.96 By contrast, ittiḥād gives
the impression of a joining or coalescence between two things in an
intimate connection. Furthermore, Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s use of synonyms like
jam˜, waṣl, and wiṣāl with their ghazal overtones, also suggests that
he viewed mystical experience more in terms of a lovers’ union than
as an ontological event. Nevertheless, Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s ittiḥād is not the
joining of two separate and distinct essences or natures, a doctrine that
he forcefully denied (vv. 277–285). In fact, like al-Junayd, he invokes
the term tawḥīd in one passage to underscore the oneness of ittiḥād:

wa-alsinatu-l-akwāni in kunta wā˜iyan

shuhūdun bi-tawḥīdī bi-ḥālin faṣīḥatī
 POEM OF THE SUFI WAY IN “T”-MAJOR 235

wa-jā’a ḥadīthun fī-ttiḥādiya thābitun

riwāyatuhu fī-n-naqli ghayru ḍa˜īfati
yushīru bi-ḥubbi-l-ḥaqqi ba˜da taqarrubin
ilayhi bi-naflin aw adā’i farīḍati
wa-mawḍi˜u tanbīhi-l-ishārati ẓāhirun
bi-kuntu lahu sam˜an ka-nūri-ẓ-ẓahīrati

718) The tongues of all beings,

if you listen close,
witness with eloquence
to my unity (tawḥīdī)

719) While about my union (ittiḥādī)

a ḥadīth has come,
its transmission firm,
not weak,

720) Declaring the Real’s love

for those who draw near Him
by willing acts devotions
or those decreed.

721) The point of its teaching

is clear
as noon-day light:
“I am his ear . . .”

The difference between the two related words, then, is one

of aspect or perspective, as the mystic and theologian Muhammad
al-Ghazālī (d. 505/1111) perceptively noted in his analysis of mystical
union in his Mishkāt al-Anwār (“The Niche for Lights”), a commentary
on the Qur’ānic “Light Verse” (24:35):97

This state (of union), in attribution to the one immersed in

it, is called, metaphorically speaking, a unification (ittiḥād)
or, ontologically speaking, a realization of unity (tawḥīd).

Similar to al-Ghazālī, Ibn al-Fāriḍ appears to employ the term

ittiḥād when referring to experiential or existential union, whereas
tawḥīd serves to denote union’s ontological dimension. Underlying
this distinction are notions of existence and being, and al-Ghazālī’s
clear and concise discussion of both topics in the Mishkāt clarifies an
236 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

implicit premise of Ibn al-Fāriḍ mystical beliefs as presented in the

al-Tā’īyah al-Kubrā:98

Existence (wujūd) is divided into that which a thing has

from its essence (dhāt), and that which it has from something
else. That which has existence from something else, its
existence is borrowed and not self-sufficient. Indeed, when
its essence is considered with respect to itself, it is pure
nonexistence. Rather, the thing exists only with respect to
its relationship to something else, and that is not a true
existence. . . . Thus, the true existent is God most high,
just as the true light is God . . .

Clearly indebted to the fifth/eleventh-century Muslim philosopher

Ibn Sīnā, al-Ghazālī defines true existence as that which is necessarily
so. This, in turn, he declares to be God who is, then, the source for all
contingent being. The necessarily existent God is like the sun whose light
represents contingent existence; just as a moving reflection is relative to
and dependent on the sun, so too does the ever-changing contingent
existence require a necessary being. Without the sun, the moon would
be totally dark; without God, nothing would exist. All things can be
viewed from this dual perspective: in relation to themselves, and in
relation to God, and this al-Ghazālī calls the two faces of a thing:99

Everything has two faces: a face (wajhah) toward itself,

and a face toward its Lord. In respect to its own face, it
is nonexistent, while in respect to God’s face, it exists.
Consequently, there is no existence save God (lā wujūd illā
Allāh) most high, and His face. Thus: “Everything perishes
save His face” [Q. 28:88] always and forever!

Al-Junayd, al-Tusturī, and other early Sufis probably held similar

views of existence when they declared that the nonexistent spirits
appeared in pre-eternity due to God’s existing on their behalf. This
was a truth revealed to the mystic in union, and al-Ghazālī, too, stated
that the great mystics witness (mushāhadah) this reality during their
spiritual ascension (mi˜rāj). Illumined by the holy prophetic spirit (al-rūḥ
al-nabawī al-qudsī), the spiritually realized saints, like the prophets
before them, become enlightened guides following Muhammad who
the Qur’ān calls “a shining lamp” (sirāj munīr; 33:46).100 This light
symbolism found in the Mishkāt is also reflected in Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s
ecstatic proclamations of spiritual illumination (vv. 750–761), and in his
 POEM OF THE SUFI WAY IN “T”-MAJOR 237

account of the prophetic light and its transmission from the prophets
to the saints (vv. 615–631).
Moreover, for al-Ghazālī, creation and human existence are a
series of reflections of God’s light. Most people, however, fail to see
this and so are veiled from the pure light by materiality, the senses,
the imagination, or a weak intellect. As a result, the idolater worships
stones while others prostrate before a beautiful person or the sun;
Magians venerate fire, and still others praise all forms of physical
light. Indeed, the divine light ultimately underlies all these faiths, but
the worshippers are blinded to this by their own heedlessness.101 This
doctrine is very similar to that found near the end of the al-Tā’īyah
al-Kubrā (vv. 738–746):

738) The eyes of every faith

have never strayed,
nor did the thoughts of any creed
ever swerve aside.

739) One dazed in the sun

is not deranged
for it shines from the light
of my blazing splendor, unveiled.

740) And when the Magi worship the fire

that, tradition tells,
has been burning bright
for a thousand years,

741) They aim only for me,

though they do not show
a firm resolve
as they seek another.

742) They saw the flash of my light, once,

and supposed it to be a fire,
so they went astray, misled,
by shinning rays.

743) If not for the veil of being

I would speak out,
yet respect for the laws of sense
keeps me silent.
238 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

744) This is no jest:

creatures were not created in vain,
though their actions
fall short of the mark.

745) Their affairs run the course

marked by the names,
while the attribute of essence
drives them on to the divine decree:

746) “No and no!”—dispatching with dispassion

two handfuls of humans,
one for a pleasant life,
one for misfortune.

Both al-Ghazālī and Ibn al-Fāriḍ posit the divine light as the
original source of all religious faiths, which have, nevertheless, veiled
the light to varying degrees. Neither man, however, is proclaiming
the unity of diverse religious traditions, so much as the unity of God
who is concealed within all of them. Al-Ghazālī categorically declares
many worshippers to be in error, and Ibn al-Fāriḍ, while counseling
religious tolerance, describes the Magians as being “led astray” (ḍallū)
by fire from right guidance (v. 742).102 Furthermore, Ibn al-Fāriḍ,
similar to al-Ghazālī, takes an ˜Asharite theological position regarding
creation and predestination. In the final verse above, Ibn al-Fāriḍ
refers to a divine saying on creation, which states that God gathered
up the progeny of Adam in two handfuls and said: “These are for
the garden, and I don’t care, and these are for the fire, and I don’t
care.”103 Finally, there is a tantalizing similarity between al-Ghazālī’s
Mishkāt al-Anwār and Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s ode when immediately following
his verses on the divine light of religions, Ibn al-Fāriḍ concludes his
al-Tā’īyah al-Kubrā in praise of mystical enlightenment (vv. 750–761).
These final verses are replete with light symbolism and Qur’ānic
references, including one to the Light Verse (24:35), as the prophetic
guide declares in verses 751 to 752:

wa-lī ˜an mufīḍi-l-jam˜i ˜inda salāmihi

˜alayya bi-aw adnā ishāratu nisbati
wa-min nūrihi mishkātu dhātī ashraqat
˜alayya fa-nārat bī ˜ishā’ī ka-ḍaḥwati

751) I have received the sign of kinship

from one bringing news of union
 POEM OF THE SUFI WAY IN “T”-MAJOR 239

when he greeted me with

“Or nearer!”

752) From his light

the niche of my essence enlightened me;
by means of me,
my night blazed morning bright!

The contents of these verses and others in the al-Tā’īyah al-Kubrā

seem to mirror al-Ghazālī’s doctrines of illumination, though this does
not establish a firm historical link between them. Al-Ghazālī was by no
means the first to comment on the Light Verse, and, as noted earlier, Ibn
al-Fāriḍ had read at least some of the Arabic writings of the illuminist
Sufi Yaḥyā al-Suhrawardī. In fact, many of Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s light images
and symbols were, by this time, quite traditional.104 Ibn al-Fāriḍ, then,
may not have been directly influenced by the writings of al-Ghazālī,
al-Tusturī, or al-Junayd, although it appears certain that many of the
mystical views and beliefs expressed in the al-Tā’īyah al-Kubrā and
other poems by Ibn al-Fāriḍ reflect a chain of Sufi tradition in which
al-Tusturī, al-Junayd and al-Ghazālī were prominent links.105

Two Masters

Surprisingly, Ibn al-Fāriḍ has rarely been included among the spiritual
heirs of these celebrated Sufis. Generally, he has been placed in the
school of Ibn al-˜Arabī, often as his respected colleague.106 Perhaps
best illustrating this latter view is a popular story, here related by the
Andalusian historian al-Maqqarī (d. 1041/1632):

. . . [T]he shaykh Muḥyī al-Dīn Ibn al-˜Arabī sent to the

master ˜Umar [Ibn al-Fāriḍ], asking his permission to
comment on the al-Tā’īyah. But (Ibn al-Fāriḍ) said, “Your
book entitled al-Futūḥāt al-Makkīyah is a commentary on it.”107

Although this particular story is probably apocryphal, it highlights

the view in the later Sufi tradition of Ibn al-Fāriḍ and Ibn al-˜Arabī
as spiritual brothers. Essential to this relationship were a number
of Ibn al-˜Arabī’s followers who read Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s verse in light
of their master’s teachings. The first to do so may have been Ṣadr
al-Dīn al-Qūnawī (d. 673/1274), Ibn al-˜Arabī’s stepson and, perhaps,
his most influential student and disciple.108 Al-Qūnawī visited Cairo
during Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s lifetime, though he did not meet the poet. Later,
240 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

in 643/1246, about ten years after the poet’s death, al-Qūnawī held
teaching sessions in Cairo where he commented on Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s
al-Tā’īyah al-Kubrā. Among those attending was Shams al-Dīn al-Aykī
(or al-Īkī; 627–697/1230–1298), who later became an accomplished
Sufi master in his own right. Al-Aykī is known to have taught Ibn
al-Fāriḍ’s al-Tā’īyah al-Kubrā, which he had studied with al-Qūnawī.
Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s grandson, ˜Alī (fl. eighth/fourteenth century), related
the following story from al-Aykī, who said:109

“I follow the school of our master the shaykh Ṣadr al-Dīn

al-Qūnawī in loving the Shaykh Ibn al-Fāriḍ, believing in
his creed, and devoting oneself to his ode Poem of the Sufi
Way.” Then the shaykh al-Aykī recited some of its verses
including this one:

If not for the veil of being

I would speak out,
yet my respect for the laws of sense
keeps me silent.110

Then the shaykh al-Aykī began to comment on the

meanings of these verses, saying:

“A group of scholars and students of religion would

attend the teaching sessions of our shaykh Ṣadr al-Dīn
al-Qūnawī, and he would discuss specific disciplines within
the religious sciences. Then he would bring his discourse
to a close by mentioning a verse from the ode Poem of the
Sufi Way. He would discuss it in Persian, using rare and
mystical terms, which were not understood save by those
possessing mystical experience (dhawq) and desire. Then
on the following day he would say, ‘Another meaning has
come to me regarding the commentary of the verse about
which we spoke yesterday,’ and he would say something
even more amazing than the day before! Also, he used
to say, ‘The Sufi should memorize this ode, and one who
understands the ode should comment on it.’ ”
The shaykh al-Aykī, may God have mercy on him,
added: “The shaykh Sa˜īd al-Dīn al-Farghānī devoted
himself with determination to understanding what Ṣadr
al-Dīn al-Qūnawī mentioned as commentary on this ode,
and he wrote it down in his presence, first in Persian and
then in Arabic. He made his famous commentary in two
 POEM OF THE SUFI WAY IN “T”-MAJOR 241

volumes, and it is from the inspired sayings of our shaykh

Ṣadr al-Dīn al-Qūnawī, may God have mercy upon him.”111

Sa˜īd al-Dīn al-Farghānī, then, appears to mark the beginning of

a long and extensive written commentary tradition on Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s
verse in light of Ibn al-˜Arabī’s teachings.112 Nevertheless, there is no
solid evidence that Ibn al-Fārid and Ibn al-˜Arabī ever knew each
other, although Ibn al-˜Arabī had passed through Cairo on at least
two occasions, and both men had gone on pilgrimage and spent a
considerable time in Mecca.113 Moreover, given that Ibn al-˜Arabī’s
stepson and student al-Qūnawī is known to have possessed a copy of
Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s Dīwān, it seems likely that Ibn al-˜Arabī was familiar with
Ibn al-Fārid’s verse.114 Although several studies have drawn attention
to differences in the technical terminology used by the two mystics,115
both Ibn al-Fārid and Ibn al-˜Arabī conceived of the universe as a
unified divine reality in a constant state of self-disclosure. Intriguingly,
both used the medieval shadow play as a simile to illustrate this point.
In chapter 317 of his al-Futūḥāt al-Makkīyah, Ibn al-˜Arabī takes up
the issue of the relationship between the body and the spirit and, by
extension, of the cosmos with God. Ibn al-˜Arabī states:116

God is the rūḥ al-˜ālam, the spirit of the cosmos, and its ear,
its eye, and its hand. By Him the cosmos hears, by Him
it sees, by Him it speaks, by Him it grasps and by Him it
runs, for there is no power or strength save in God, the most
high, the tremendous! No one knows this save him who
has drawn close to God through willing acts of devotion,
as has been related in the sound prophetic traditions and
the divine sayings.

Here, Ibn al-˜Arabī refers directly to the “Tradition of Willing

Devotions” mentioned earlier, in which God assumes the senses of
His beloved worshipper. In fact, says Ibn al-˜Arabī, God has already
assumed our senses, but it is only by an act of His grace that one
comes to realize and know this.117 Then Ibn al-˜Arabī concludes, saying:

For one who wants to understand what I have alluded to

here, let him observe the shadow play (khayāl al-sitārah) with
its shapes, and one who speaks for them. Young children are
kept a distance from the curtained screen, which separates
them from the one who plays with those figures and speaks
for them. Such is the actual situation (amr) for the shapes
of the cosmos. Most people are those children, whom I
242 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

have postulated, so think about where the performance is

coming from. The children in that setting are having fun
and enjoying [the play], but they are heedless, taking it in
as sport and amusement. But those who know (al-˜ulamā’)
consider the matter and know that God has made this
only to serve as a simile. Thus, a figure, called the narrator
(waṣṣāf), comes out at first and gives a short sermon praising
and glorifying God. Then he talks about each type of figure
from among the shapes that will come out after him from
behind this screen. Thus, the learned know that God has
made this a likeness for His worshippers, so that they will
take heed and know that the actual situation (amr) of the
cosmos with God is like these figures with the one who
moves them, and that this screen veils the mystery of the
perfect measuring out of destiny (sirr al-qadar al-muḥkam)
into all creatures. Still, with all of this, the heedless take it
all in as sport and amusement, as He most high has said:
“Those who take their religion as sport and amusement”
[Q. 7:51]. Then the narrator vanishes, and he corresponds
to the first to exist among us, namely Adam, upon whom
be peace. When he vanished, his concealment (ghaybah) was
from us as he is with his Lord behind the screen of the
unseen, and God speaks only the truth and leads the way.118

As we have seen, Ibn al-Fārid offered a poetic account of the

shadow play in his al-Tā’īyah al-Kubrā as an allegory for the nafs and
its control of the body and the senses to produce an illusion of selfish
independence. Then Ibn al-Fāriḍ extended this metaphor to the divine
Light suffused in the universe but veiled, so as not destroy creation in
a blazing conflagration. This interpretation of the shadow play resonates
with that by Ibn al-˜Arabī, and both men invoke the “Tradition of
Willing Devotions” to underscore God’s control and presence within
His creation. Furthermore, Ibn al-Fāriḍ and Ibn al-˜Arabī frequently
speak in their writings of God’s self-manifestation (tajallī) as essential
to creation.119 Because there is no reliable evidence that either author
borrowed from the other, these similarities suggest that the similes,
metaphors, themes and ideas common to their works resulted from a
shared Sufi heritage, which included the work of al-Tustarī, al-Junayd,
al-Qushayrī, al-Ghazālī, Yaḥyā al-Suhrawardī, and many other well-
known Sufi masters.120 Nevertheless, for the later Islamic mystical
tradition, Ibn al-Fāriḍ, “the sultan of the lovers,” remained forever
joined to Ibn al-˜Arabī, “the greatest master.”
 Conclusion

The Poetry of Recollection

I But not “Me”

Within the commentary tradition on Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s poetry, al-Farghānī,

al-Tilimsānī (690/1291), al-Nābulusī (1143/1731), and others declare
the poet’s verse to be the product of divine inspiration. Many
commentators cite the account by ˜Alī, Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s grandson, on
how his grandfather would fall into a trance for days, then come to
and recite verses for his Poem of the Sufi Way. In light of this story,
al-Nābulusī, wrote:

As for the poems of the gnostics of God, they are, in

appearance, poetry in the manner of the words of poets,
but at the same time they are a divine inspiration (ilhām
rabbānī), a merciful utterance, a spiritual opening (fatḥ
rūḥānī), and an emanation of grace!1

Furthermore, most commentators have ascribed Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s

accounts of union in the Poem of the Sufi Way and other verse to the
poet’s manic, mystical states, which led him to speak “with the tongue
of union” (bi-lisāni-l-jam˜) or “with the tongue of the unique reality”
(bi-lisāni-l-ḥaqīqati-l-aḥadīyah).2 For them, these passages confirmed Ibn
al-Fāriḍ’s high spiritual status and the truth of his message. Following
in this tradition, Giuseppe Scattolin has read the al-Tā’īyah al-Kubrā
as a spiritual autobiography, as Ibn al-Fāriḍ passed through the three
stages of “division (al-farq),” “absolute unity or self-identity (al-ittiḥād),”
and “universal union (al-jam˜).” Scattolin states:

The three stages follow each other and are interwoven in

each other throughout the poem in ten great units. These
units are the basic structure of the poem, and they progress
in a dynamic movement that represents the journey of the
poet in the discovery of the dimensions and true identity
of his own self (anā).3

243
244 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

As we have seen, the protagonist of the al-Tā’īyah al-Kubrā

certainly undergoes a process of spiritual transformation from a self-
centered youth to a penitent lover, to a mystic guide, and, ultimately,
to the Light of Muhammad. However, Scattolin’s assertion that this
metamorphosis accurately reflects Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s own personal mystical
experience is an unwarranted assumption. Moreover, to commentators
such as al-Tilimsānī and al-Nābulusī, who were also poets, terms
like bi-lisāni-l-jam˜ or bi-l-lisāni-l-Muḥammadī might mean something
other than that the poet was in the throes of union or possessed by
Muhammad’s spirit. For these phrases also can mean “in the language
of union,” and “in the voice of Muhammad,” as his commentators
were well aware.4 Indeed, such a poetic or lyrical persona is essential
to all of Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s poems, whether they be ghazals, qaṣīdahs, or wine
odes, as the poet assumes a number of guises to deliver his musings
on love and life. To gloss over these multiple voices as speaking only
about Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s personal spiritual life is to lose literary depth and
subtle nuance within these poems.5 For instance, in several odes, Ibn
al-Fāriḍ’s hero is a well-known character of Arab legend:6

a-wamīḍu barqin bi-l-Ubayriqi lāḥā

am fī rubā Najdin arā miṣbāḥā
am tilka Laylā-l-˜Āmarīyatu asfarat
laylan fa-ṣayyarati-l-masā’a ṣabāḥā

Did lightning flash at dear Abraq,

or do I see a lantern in the hills of Najd?
Or did Laylā al-˜Āmirīyah unveil her face that night
and so turn evening to dawn?

Here Ibn al-Fāriḍ explicitly names the beloved Laylā al-˜Āmirīyah,

the obsession of Majnūn who was driven to insanity and eventually
death by the anguish of his love for her. Ostensibly, then, Majnūn, is
the persona of this poem, implying that the lover is on the brink of
madness and scorned by society, as Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s audience might well
have appreciated.7 But this Udhrī lover is only one of Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s
personas, which also include the novice in love, the blamer, the longing
pilgrim, the intoxicated lover, the enlightened guide, the Light of
Muhammad, and, on several occasions, the beloved herself, and Ibn
al-Fāriḍ calls on all of them to play their essential parts in his poems:8

And there are no lovers

but me in passion,
 THE POETRY OF RECOLLECTION 245

though I came forth to them

disguised in every form:

So one time as Qays

and another as Kuthayyir,
then appearing
as Buthaynah’s Jamīl.

Boldly, I revealed myself among them;

within them, I lay hidden, veiled.
How wondrous an unveiling
by means of a veil!

The beloveds and the lovers,

and this is not some feeble guess,
appear from us, to us, as we reveal
ourselves in love and splendor.

Content and Form

Literary matters, such as the poetic persona, appear of little interest to

most of Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s classical commentators or more recent scholars of
the poet, whose primary concern has been the poet’s mystical message.
Frequently influenced by ˜Alī’s hagiography of his grandfather, they
have focused on Ibn al-Fāriḍ, the Sufi and saint, paying particular
attention to the al-Tā’īyah al-Kubrā and the al-Khamrīyah. However, there
have been a few exceptions; A.J. Arberry, Jean-Yves L’Hôpital, and
Ramaḍān Ṣādiq have noted stylistic and rhetorical features prominent
in Ibn al-Fāriḍ poems; Arberry and Yūsuf Sāmī al-Yūsuf looked for
literary influence, while Issa Boullata and Stefan Sperl have examined
briefly the interaction of content and form in the al-Tā’īyah al-Kubrā.9
Among earlier classical commentators, the Egyptian scholar Jamāl
al-Dīn al-Suyūṭī (d. 911/1505) composed a commentary on Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s
long ode, the al-Yā’īah, in which he cataloged the various rhetorical
elements that the poet employed in his verse.10 About a century
later, Ḥasan al-Būrīnī (d. 1024/1615), went substantially further than
al-Suyūṭī’s commentary to comment on most of Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s Dīwān,
with the noticeable omission of the al-Tā’īyah al-Kubrā, with its obvious
Sufi content; al-Būrīnī felt that he lacked the requisite mystical state
(ḥāl) required to bring out the inner spiritual meanings within that
poem.11 Not surprisingly, in his commentaries on Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s other
246 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

poems, al-Būrīnī said little about possible mystical allusions, although

he carefully vocalized Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s words and phrases, identified the
various meters, and analyzed the antitheses, word plays, and other
literary devices that he found in the poems.12
Like al-Būrīnī, Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s contemporaries had earlier drawn
attention, not to his teachings on Sufism, but to his creativity and deft
poetic skill, as we saw with Ibn Khallikān. Several of Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s
students mentioned that they had studied poetry with him, and
Arab Sufi poets of later generations, including al-Tilimsānī, ˜Ā’ishah
al-Bā˜ūnīyah (d. 922/1517), and al-Nābulusī, imitated Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s
lyrical poems, and composed mystical tā’īyahs of their own.13 Ibn
al-Fāriḍ became the master Arab Sufi poet, and even his detractors
admired his beautiful and moving verse. His poetic influence is
also found in later panegyrics on the prophet Muhammad (al-madīḥ
al-nabawī), a genre of poetry that became especially popular soon after
Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s death. While Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s beloved, at times, is implicitly
the prophet, later poets were quite explicit in their hymns of praise,
greatly popularized by Muhammad al-Būṣīrī (d.c. 695/1295), who
modeled his famous al-Burdah poem (“The Prophet’s Mantle”) on a
short ode by Ibn al-Fāriḍ.14 Another Egyptian poet, Ibn Abī Ḥajalah
(d. 776/1375) was an admiring critic of Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s verse, and so he
composed his own collection of poems praising Muhammad, basing
each panegyric on a poem by Ibn al-Fāriḍ.15
Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s own Dīwān has no such thematic unity, although
nearly every one of his poems mentions love. Here again, form and
content blend as Ibn al-Fāriḍ generally composed riddles for lighter
verse, whereas his quatrains frequently appear as munājāt, intimate
conversations with a lover and/or God. The poet’s ghazals often contain
hymns of devotion and praise for the prophet, just as Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s
lyrical odes re-enact the pilgrimage in hopes of returning to God’s
presence. So, too, the wine odes are songs of the union and ecstasy
to be felt by one who follows the lessons in the Poem of the Sufi Way,
which may serve as a guide for the spiritually perplexed.

Beginning to End

Ibn al-Fāriḍ employed various poetic forms and themes to elicit a

range of tones and moods, while he carefully patterned his poems to
modulate their aesthetic and emotional pitch. The importance of form
also has been noted by Stefan Sperl, who draws attention to three
 THE POETRY OF RECOLLECTION 247

parts of an ode: the opening verses that introduce the major themes
and motifs; the middle section, often characterized by a catharsis or
transformation; and the end with its return to themes and images
found at the beginning of the poem, but often seen in the new light
of transformation. He applies this general pattern to Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s
poem beginning:16

adir dhikra man ahwā wa-law bi-malāmī

fa-inna aḥādītha-l-ḥabībi mudāmī

1) Pass round remembrance of the one I desire,

though that be to blame me,
for tales of the beloved
are my wine.

Sperl notes that issues of love and blame open the poem, as
the lover resists those who chastise him and submits to suffering, in
hopes that his torment in separation will yield to the bliss of union
(vv. 1–13). Sperl then highlights the poem’s transition:

14) My bond and pact

are neither loosed or withdrawn,
rapture my joy,
burning passion my affliction.

This declaration of fealty leads to the lover’s spiritual transforma-

tion as his physical emaciation suggests the dissipation of his selfish
nature, to be replaced by love and the beloved (vv. 15–27):

28) So in my every limb

was every heart
hit by every arrow
whenever she gazed with pleasure.

29) Had she unrolled my body,

she would have seen in every essence
every heart holding
every burning passion.

In the final scene, the transformed lover meets the beloved at

last (vv. 30–32) and experiences rapture in her presence:
248 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

33) And I rubbed my cheek in the dust

for her to step on,
so she said: “Good news for you!
Kiss my veil!”

34) But my soul

would not have it,
guarding me jealously
to keep my longing pure.

35) So we passed the night together

as my command willed over desires;
I saw kingship my kingdom
and time my slave!

Sperl concludes:17

The final section of the poem, the metaphorical meeting

with the beloved, follows thereafter and the triumphant
note on which it ends is clearly the fruit of the mystical self-
annihilation at the core of the poem, an experience which
makes the poet strong enough to refrain from kissing the
beloved’s veil and yearn for a still higher goal.

Sperl also finds this “transformation of consciousness” during his

brief analysis of the al-Tā’īyah al-Kubrā, and I would add that a similar
note of triumph is found at the end of Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s al-Khamrīyah,
because all three poems are versions of the wine ode.18 Yet in other
poems by Ibn al-Fāriḍ, no such transformation or union occurs. Ibn
al-Fāriḍ begins his al-Dhālīyah with the lover’s lament:19

ṣaddun ḥamā ẓama’ī limāka li-mādhā

wa-hawāka qalbī ṣāra minhu judhādhā

1) A barrier blocked your dark lips

from my burning thirst;
why, since love of you
has hacked my heart to bits?

In this ghazal composed in imitation of a panegyric by

al-Mutanabbī, Ibn al-Fāriḍ praises the beloved (vv. 8–23) whose health
and handsomeness are in stark contrast to the dire condition of the
 THE POETRY OF RECOLLECTION 249

suffering, yet still faithful lover (vv. 24–50). However, despite the
lover’s good intentions, there is no union at the poem’s end:

51) When the women visiting the sick

saw him, they said:
“If anyone be slain by passion,
surely it is this one!”

For despite the lover ’s claims to have died love’s martyr,

something of him still remains for the women to see; this is the
“barrier” mentioned in the opening verse that must be broken down
before union can occur.
In effect, then, the opening verses of Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s poems set
the stage and signal the audience as to the poems’ major themes and
eventual conclusions: Mention of wine turns to intoxication; a barrier
or confusion is a presage to continued separation; the lover’s death
brings mystical annihilation; invocations to love and the beloved
yield inner peace, whereas the appearance of the caravan and driver
will eventually lead to the pilgrimage. Then, following the opening
scene, Ibn al-Fāriḍ presents a series of well-known motifs and images
appropriate to his theme within a changing tempo. This, in turn, may
elicit a sympathetic emotive response from accustomed listeners, who
become subsumed in the poem’s lyrical persona and formal patterns,
as they participate in an aesthetic ritual whose structures and meanings
are sensed and internalized.20

Meditation and Recollection

Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s verse, then, falls into the category of meditative poetry as
defined by Louis Martz. Describing meditative poetry in seventeenth-
century England, Martz wrote:21

The nature of meditative poetry . . . may be defined by

studying its close relation to the practice of religious
meditation in that era. The relationship is shown by the
poem’s own internal action, as the mind engages in acts
of interior dramatization. The speaker accuses himself; he
talks to God within the self; he approaches the love of
God through memory, understanding, and will; he sees,
hears, smells, tastes, touches by the imagination the scenes
of Christ’s life as they are represented on a mental stage.
250 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

Essentially, the meditative action consists of an interior

drama, in which a man projects a self upon an inner stage,
and there comes to know that self in the light of the divine
presence.

Martz found that English poets of the time, including John

Donne, George Herbert, Henry Vaughan, and Thomas Traherne had
been influenced to varying degrees by Christian forms of meditation
including those of Augustine and, especially, the Spiritual Exercises
of Ignatius of Loyola, which they applied to the form and content
of certain poems through a process of “preparation, composition,
discourse, . . . and colloquy.”22 Moreover, because many of these poets
had a Platonic or neo-Platonic perspective, their universe was “a vast
net of correspondence which unites the whole multiplicity of being.”23
Although Ibn al-Fāriḍ did not share the Christian faith of these
English poets, the parallels between their meditative stance and his
poems should be clear. The poet uses his mind, thought, inspiration,
understanding, and, above all, his memory to recover the beloved’s
presence:24

412) My thought sees her

with my inspiration’s eye,
while my memory hears her
with the ear of my mind,

413) And my imagination presents her (yuḥḍiruhā)

as an image to the soul,
so my understanding reckons her
my close confidant in sense.

As just noted, Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s poems open with a scene and theme,
which he developed in the ensuing verses. Again, we see the importance
of the lyrical persona and the various actors in the poem as the lover
is accused by his blamer, leading the lover to plead his case and swear
to his covenant with his beloved, while recalling a union that once
occurred during the pilgrimage, whose stopping places and rituals are
lovingly described by the poet. Depending on the type of poem and
its dominant theme, the lover may face the frustration of a continued
separation, sense the beloved’s living presence within his heart, or
be spiritually intoxicated and transformed by love. But whatever the
case, the poet and his audience will have learned something in their
spiritual quest to return to the divine presence.
 THE POETRY OF RECOLLECTION 251

Although Martz was able to establish a strong connection between

a number of seventeenth-century English poets and specific Christian
meditative traditions, the case of Ibn al-Fāriḍ, living five centuries
earlier, is not so clear. In the Poem of the Sufi Way, Ibn al-Fāriḍ explicitly
refers to and describes the Sufi meditative practice of recollection (dhikr)
and mystical audition (samā˜), which he probably practiced in some
form.25 Additionally, dhikr elements are found throughout his poems,
particularly the invocation of the beloved’s name and attributes, which
Sufis often used for meditation.26 Still, we do not know to what extent
Ibn al-Fāriḍ followed a particular form or practice of dhikr or whether
he consciously composed his poems to be recited in samā˜ sessions.
We do, know, however, that later Sufis in the Arabic-speaking world,
including many today, have recited Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s verse during their
mystical recitals, which often have led participants into an ecstatic
trance.27
Ibn al-Fāriḍ mentions dhikr in the opening verse to several poems,
including the Wine Ode, where recollection is a major theme:

sharibnā ˜alā dhikri-l-ḥabībi mudāmah,

sakirnā bihā min qabli an yukhlaqa-l-karmu28

1) In memory of the beloved

we drank a wine;
we were drunk with it
before creation of the vine.

Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s recollection of the beloved follows a long-established

tradition in Arabic poetry, but as his beloved takes on divine proportions
and recollection leads to intoxication, Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s dhikr resonates
with the Qur’ān and Sufi practice. Moreover, Ibn al-Fāriḍ praises the
mystical experience that results from recollection, which he clearly
links to the Day of the Covenant, the “Tradition of Willing Devotions,”
and the Light of Muhammad, all central tenets of Sufi doctrine and
the practice to remember God often.
Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s poetry of recollection is most evident in his
al-Khamrīyah and al-Tā’īyah al-Kubrā, yet his other poems reveal it is
as well. His ghazals are meditations on love, loss, and longing for
God and His prophet, while Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s odes invoke recollections
of the pilgrim’s quest to the holy lands to stand before God once
more. For in all of his poems, Ibn al-Fāriḍ reinterprets mystically the
Arabic poetic tradition with its lyrical persona and ritual antecedents,
to offer a moving portrayal of human existence, which may be shared
252 PASSION BEFORE ME, MY FATE BEHIND

by others. Together, the poet and his audience articulate and recapture
their profound feelings of love by conjuring an image of their beloved or
by imagining the pilgrimage with its ancient and revered rites. Through
these poems, Ibn al-Fāriḍ and others might transcend their separate
selfish existence, bound by history and the inevitability of death, and
merge momentarily into a spiritually recreated community in the divine
presence. By joining the symbolically rich Arabic poetic tradition to
Islamic mysticism and the Muslim Hajj, Ibn al-Fāriḍ created a pattern
to be traced again and again in order to find spiritual consolation and,
at times, mystical transformation.
 Notes

Preface
1. Dīwān Ibn al-Fāriḍ, ed. Guiseppe Scattolin (Cairo: Institut français
d’archéologie orientale, 2004). Regarding various editions of Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s
Dīwān, see G. Scattolin, “The Oldest Text of Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s Dīwān: A Manu-
script of Konya,” MIDEO 24 (2000):83–114; his “Towards a Critical Edition of
Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s Dīwān,” Annales Islamologique 35 (2001):503–47, and Th. Emil
Homerin, “Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s Personal Dīwān,” in The Development of Sufism in
Mamluk Egypt, ed. Richard McGregor and Adam Sabra (Cairo: Institut français
d’archéologie orientale, 2006), 233–43.
2. See the works of Louis L. Martz, especially his The Poetry of Meditation
(New Haven: Yale University Press, 1954); The Paradise Within (New Haven:
Yale University Press, 1964), and The Poem of the Mind (New York: Oxford
University Press, 1966). Also see the conclusion below.
3. Robert Bly, The Eight Stages of Translation (Boston: Rowan Tree Press,
1983), 13–49.

Introduction
1. Th. Emil Homerin, From Arab Poet to Muslim Saint: Ibn al-Fāriḍ, His
Verse and His Shrine, rev. ed. (Cairo: American University in Cairo Press, 2001),
15–17, and Homerin, ˜Umar Ibn al-Fāriḍ: Sufi Verse, Saintly Life (New York:
Paulist Press, 2001), 10–14.
2. Th. Emil Homerin, “Saving Muslim Souls: The Khānqāh and the Sufi
Duty in Mamluk Lands,” Mamlūk Studies Review 3 (1999):59–83, esp. 65–66.
3. Homerin, From Arab Poet, 16.
4. Ibid., 15–17.
5. ˜Alī Sibṭ Ibn al-Fāriḍ, Dībājat Dīwān Ibn al-Fāriḍ, in Dīwān Ibn al-Fāriḍ,
ed. Scattolin, 1–34 (tr. Homerin in ˜Umar Ibn al-Fāriḍ, 301–35).
6. Ibid.
7. Ṣalāḥ al-Dīn Khalīl al-Ṣafadī, al-Wāfī bi-al-Wafīyāt, ed. Sven Dedering
et al. (Wiesbaden: In Kommission bei Franz Steiner Verlag, 1959), 4:50–56, and
Homerin, From Arab Poet, 22–24.

253
254 NOTES TO INTRODUCTION

8. ˜Alī Sibṭ Ibn al-Fāriḍ, Dībājah, and Homerin, From Arab Poet, 20–22.
Interestingly, al-Malik al-Kāmil is similarly depicted in the Christian tradition
as venerating holy men, particularly St. Francis of Assisi (d. 1226), who was
said to have gone to Egypt to put a stop to a bloody crusade. See Ewert
Cousins, Bonaventure: The Soul’s Journey to God; The Tree of Life; The Life of St.
Francis (New York: Paulist Press, 1978), 262–71.
9. ˜Alī Sibṭ Ibn al-Fāriḍ, Dībājah, and Homerin, From Arab Poet, 50–54.
10. Homerin, ˜Umar Ibn al-Fāriḍ, 19–37.
11. There are a number of good studies on the history of Sufism includ-
ing Annemarie Schimmel, Mystical Dimensions of Islam (Chapel Hill: University
of North Carolina Press, 1975), and Carl Ernst, The Shambala Guide to Sufism
(Boston: Shambala Publications, 1997).
12. Concerning the origins and early centuries of Sufism see Ahmet
Karamustafa, Sufism: The Formative Period (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University
Press, 2007).
13. These ḥadīth are found in many collections including the popular
one by Yaḥya al-Nawawī (d. 677/1277), al-Arba˜īn al-Nawawīyah, ed. Ibrāhīm
ibn Muhammad (Tanta, Egypt: Maktabat al-Ṣaḥābah, 1986), 18, 47, 78, 95 (=
#2, 13, 40); my translation. For a complete translation of al-Nawawī’s collec-
tion see: An-Nawawi’s Forty Hadith, tr. Ezzedin Ibrahim and Denys Johnson-
Davies (n.p., n.d.).
14. Al-Nawawī, Al-Arba˜īn al-Nawawīyah, 93–94, #38. Also see William
A. Graham, Divine Word and Prophetic Word in Islam (The Hague: Mouton,
1977), esp. 173–74, and Divine Sayings: The Mishkāt al-Anwār of Ibn ˜Arabī,
ed. Stephen Hirtenstein and Martin Notcutt (Oxford: Anqa Publishing, 2004).
15. For more on dhikr see Encyclopaedia of Islam, 2nd ed. (EI2), 2:223–26
(L. Gardet); Fritz Meir, “The Dervish Dance,” in Essays on Islamic Piety and
Mysticism, tr. John O’Kane (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1999), 23–48; Jean During, Musique
et extase (Paris: Albin Michel, 1988), esp. 155–68, and Earle H. Waugh, Memory,
Music and Religion: Morocco’s Mystical Chanters (Columbia, SC: University of
South Carolina Press, 2005), esp. 17–43.
16. For a more detailed discussion of this topic, see chapter 5.
17. Dhū al-Nūn quoted in Abū Naṣr al-Sarrāj, Al-Luma˜, ed. ˜Abd
al-Ḥalīm Maḥmūd and Tāhā ˜Abd al-Bāqī Surūr (Cairo: Dār al-Kutub
al-Ḥadīthah, 1960), 318. Also see ˜Alī Ṣāfī al-Ḥusayn, al-Adab al-Ṣūfīyah fī Miṣr
fī al-Qarn al-Sābi˜ al-Ḥijrī (Cairo: Dār al-Ma˜ārif, 1964), esp. 193–99; Annemarie
Schimmel, As Through A Veil: Mystical Poetry in Islam (New York: Columbia
University Press, 1982), 24–25; “zuhdiyya” (P.F. Kennedy) in Encyclopedia of
Arabic Literature, (EAL), ed. Julie Scott Meisami and Paul Starky (London:
Routledge, 1998), 1:828–29, and Andras Hamori, “Ascetic Poetry (zuhdiyyāt)”
in Cambridge History of Arabic Literature ˜Abbasid Belles Lettres (CHALABL), ed.
Julia Ashtiany et al. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990), 265–74.
18. Rābi˜ah al-˜Ādawīyah cited by Muḥammad al-Ghazālī, Iḥyā’ ˜Ulūm
al-Dīn (Cairo: ˜Īsā al-Bābī al-Ḥalabī, n.d.), 4:302. Also see Schimmel, Veil,
17–18, and Geert Jan van Gelder, “Rābi˜a’s Poem on the Two Kinds of Love:
A Mystification?” in Verse and the Fair Sex, ed. Frederick De Jong (Utrecht:
M.Th. Houtsma Stichting, 1993), 66–76.
 NOTES TO INTRODUCTION 255

19. Regarding early Sufi verse see A.S. al-Ḥusayn, al-Adab al-Ṣūfīyah,
191–96; Schimmel, Veil, 11–48; Martin Lings, “Mystical Poetry,” CHALABL,
235–64; S.H. Nadeem, A Critical Appreciation of Arabic Mystical Poetry (Lahore:
Islamic Book Service, 1979), and “Ṣūfī Literature, poetry” (R. Radtke), EAL,
2:738–39.
20. See chapters 2–4.
21. See Suzanne P. Stetkevych, Abū Tammām & the Poetics of the ˜Abbāsid
Age (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1991), 3–37; Stefan Sperl, Mannerism in Arabic Poetry
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), 9–27, and EAL 2:122–23 (W.P.
Heinrichs).
22. Cited in Stetkevych, Abū Tammām, 24, from Ibn al-Mu˜tazz, Kitāb
al-Badī˜, ed. I. Kratchkovsky (London: Luzac & Co., 1935), 23, my translation.
Also see EAL 1:47–49 (J. Meisami).
23. Stetkevych, Abū Tammām, 24–25, and see Sperl, Mannerism, 9–27.
24. Stetkevych, Abū Tammām, 31–32, and S. Stetkevych, “The ˜Abbasid
Poet Interprets History: Three Qaṣīdahs by Abū Tammām,” Journal of Arabic
Literature 10 (1979):49–65.
25. Concerning al-Ḥallāj see EAL, 1: 266-67 (J. Cooper); EI2 2:99–106
(L. Massignon - L. Gardet), and Louis Massignon, The Passion of Hallāj, tr.
Herbert Mason (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1982).
26. Al-Ḥallāj, Sharḥ Dīwān al-Ḥallāj, ed. Kāmil Muṣṭafā al-Shaybī (Beirut:
Maktabat al-Nahdah, 1974), 279–85.
27. Al-Ḥallāj quoted in Abū al-Ḥasan al-Daylamī, ˜Aṭf al-Alif al-Ma’lūf,
ed. J.-C. Vadet (Cairo: Maktabat al-Ma˜had al-˜Ilmī al-Faransī lil-Āthār
al-Sharqīyah, 1962), 44. Also see al-Ḥallāj, Sharḥ Dīwān, 142–45; Schimmel,
Veil, 22–23, 30–34; Lings, “Mystical Poerty,” 245–48, and Th. Emil Homerin,
“Tangled Words: Toward a Stylistics of Arabic Mystical Verse,” in Reorienta-
tions/Arabic and Persian Poetry, ed. S.P. Stetkevych (Bloomington: University
of Indiana Press, 1994), 190–98, esp. 193–97.
28. See al-Daylamī, ˜Aṭf al-Alif al-Ma’lūf, 44–45, and also see, Abū
‘l-Ḥasan Alī b. Muḥammad al-Daylamī, A Treatise on Mystical Love, tr. Joseph
N. Bell and Hassan Mahmood Adbul Latif Al Shafie (Edinburgh: Edingburgh
University Press, 2005), lvi–lvii, lxiv, 70–72.
29. Homerin, “Tangled Words,” and A.S. Ḥusayn al-Adab al-Ṣūfīyah,
196–99.
30. Al-Tha˜ālibī, Yatīmat al-Dahr fī Shu˜arā’ al-˜Aṣr (Cairo: Maktabat
al-Ḥusayn al-Tījārīyah, 1947), 1:171, and Homerin, “Tangled Words,” 194–96.
31. See EAL, 2:558–60 (J.S. Meissami), and chapter 1 for an example
of his poetry.
32. Al-Tha˜ālibī, Yatīmat, 1:171, and al-Mutanabbī, Dīwān, ed. Muṣṭfā
al-Shayqā et al. (Cairo: Dār al-Ma˜rifah, 1936), 1:201, verse 43.
33. E.g., see ˜Alī al-Jurjānī, Kitāb al-Ta˜rīfāt (Beirut: Dār al-Kutub
al-˜Ilmīyah, 1983), 174.
34. Al-Tha˜ālibī, Yatīmat, 1:171, and al-Mutanabbī, Dīwān, 3:343, verse 2.
35. Homerin, “Tangled Words,” 194–97.
36. See James T. Monroe, “Hispano-Arabic Poetry During the Caliphate
of Cordova: Theory and Practice” in Arabic Poetry: Theory and Development, ed.
256 NOTES TO INTRODUCTION

G.E. Von Grunebaum (Wiesbaden: O. Harrassowitz, 1973), 125–54; van Gelder,

“Rābi˜a’s Poem,” 73–75, and Th. Emil Homerin, “In the Gardens of al-Zahrā’:
Love Echoes in a Poem by Ibn Zaydūn,” in The Shaping of an American Islamic
Discourse, ed. E.H. Waugh and F. Denny (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1998), 215–32.
37. See Alexander Knysh, Islamic Mysticsm: A Short History (Leiden: E.J.
Brill, 2000), 169–218; Erik S. Ohlander, Sufism in the Age of Transition (Leiden:
E.J. Brill, 2008), and Homerin, “Sufis and Their Detractors in Mamluk Egypt,”
in Islamic Mysticism Contested, ed. Frederick de Jong and Bernd Radtke (Leiden:
E.J. Brill, 1999), 225–47.
38. J.T.P. De Bruijn, Of Piety and Poetry (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1983), and
Schimmel, Veil, 49–81.
39. Farīd al-Dīn ˜Aṭṭār, The Conference of the Birds, tr. Afkham Darbandi
and Dick Davies (Penguin Books, 1984); Schimmel, Veil, 65–81; EI2 1:752–55 (H.
Ritter), and H. Ritter, Das Meer der Seele (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1955).
40. Al-Ḥallāj, Sharḥ Dīwān and Abū Nu˜aym al-Isfahānī, Ḥilyāt al-Awliyā’
wa-Ṭabaqāt al-Aṣfiyā’ (Reprint of the Cairo 1932 ed., Beirut: Dār al-Kutub
al-˜Arabī, 1980), 10:331–84.
41. See EI2, 3:1241–44 (H.R. Roemer); Tahera Qutbuddin, al-Mu’ayyad
al-Shīrāzī and Fatimid Da˜wa Poetry (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 2005); Jawdat Rikabi,
La Poesie profane sous les Ayyubides et ses principaux representants (Paris: G.-P.
Masionneuve & Co., 1949); A.S. Ḥusayn, al-Adab al-Ṣūfī, esp., 183–207, and
G. E. Von Grunebaum, “The Nature of the Arab Literary Effort,” Journal of
Near Eastern Studies 7 (1948):116–122.
42. EAL, 1:344–45 (W. al-Qāḍī), and EI2 3:832–33 (J.W. Fück).
43. EAL, 1:361 (G.J.H. Van Gelder).
44. EAL, 1:302–303 (L. Alvarez).
45. EAL, 1:30–32 (H. Kilpatrick).
46. EAL, 1:363 (G.J.H. Van Gelder).
47. EAL, 1:318 (L. Alvarez).
48. EAL, 1:392–93 (C. Hillenbrand).
49. EAL,1:188–89 (J.E. Montgomery).
50. EAL, 2:791–92 (R. Jacobi), and see chapter 2.
51. EAL, 1:41–43 (G. Schoeler) and see chapters 2 and 4.
52. EAL,1:161–62 (J.S. Meisami).
53. Ibn Khallikān, Wafayāt al-A˜yān, ed. Iḥsān ˜Abbās (Beirut: Dār
al-Thaqāfah, 1968), 2:542–43 and paraphrased by Mac Guckin de Slane, Ibn
Khallikan’s Biographical Dictionary (Paris: Oriental Translation Fund of Great
Britain and Ireland, 1842–1871), 1:668–70.
54. Ibid.
55. EAL, 1:369 (L. Alvarez).
56. EAL, 1:381 (G.J.H. Van Gelder).
57. EI2, 3:875–76 (J. Rikabi).
58. EAL, 1:127 (P. Smoor).
59. Ibn Khallikān Wafayāt, 3:332–338; 5:14–19, 6:61–66; 6:258–66 (de Slane,
Ibn Khallikan, 1:542–45; 3:176–181; 3:589–93; 4:144–150). Also see Rikabi, La
 NOTES TO INTRODUCTION 257

Poesie, and Maḥmūd Zaghlūl Salām, al-Adab fī al-˜Asr al-Ayyūbī (Cairo: Dār
al-Ma˜ārif, 1983).
60. Ibid., 5:76–77(de Slane paraphrase, Ibn Khallikan, 3:237); my translation.
61. Ibid., 6:266 (de Slane paraphrase, Ibn Khallikan, 4:150), my translation.
62. Ibid., 3:205–8; 6:165 (de Slane translation, Ibn Khallikan, 2:152–56; 4:51).
63. Ibid., 1:91–92 (de Slane translation, Ibn Khallikan, 1:74).
64. Ibid., 4:216–19 (de Slane translation, Ibn Khallikan, 2:621–24).
65. Ibid., 3:446–48 (de Slane translation, Ibn Khallikan, 2:382–84).
66. Ibid., 1:168–70 (deSlane translation, Ibn Khallikān, 1:150–51); also
see chapter 3.
67. Ibid., 3:204–205 (de Slane translation, Ibn Khallikan, 2:150–51).
68. Ibid., 1:171–72 (deSlane translation, Ibn Khallikān, 1:152–53).
69. Ibid., 3:447 (de Slane paraphrase, Ibn Khallikan, 2:383), my translation.
70. Ibid., 3:51 (de Slane translation and paraphrase, Ibn Khallikan, 2:29–32),
and my translation in Th. Emil Homerin, “Preaching Poetry: The Forgotten
Verse of Ibn al-Shahrazūrī,” Arabica 38 (1991): 87–101.
71. Ibn Khallikān Wafayāt, 3:52 (de Slane, paraphrase, Ibn Khallikan,
2:31), my translation.
72. See Homerin, “Preaching Poetry,” and several other examples below
in chapters 2–4.
73. See chapter 3.
74. See ˜Alī Ṣāfā Ḥusayn, Ibn al-Kīzānī: al-Shā˜ir al-Ṣūfī al-Miṣrī (Cairo:
Dār al-Ma˜ārif, 1966), esp. 65–77, and Muḥammad Kāmil Ḥusayn, Dirāsāt fī
al-Shi˜r fī ˜Aṣr al-Ayyūbīyīn (Cairo: Dār al-Fikr al-˜Arabī, 1957), 50–80.
75. Ibn Khallikān Wafayāt, 4:461–62 (de Slane, paraphrase, Ibn Khallikan,
3:158), my translation.
76. A.S. Ḥusayn, Ibn al-Kīzānī, 103–37, and M. K. Ḥusayn, Dirāsāt, 50–80.
All translations of Ibn al-Kīzānī’s verse are my own.
77. A.S. Ḥusayn, Ibn al-Kīzānī, 87–89, 104.
78. A.S. Ḥusayn, Ibn al-Kīzānī, 104, and 111, 114, 127.
79. For more on these and other characters, see the chapters below.
80. A.S. Ḥusayn, Ibn al-Kīzānī, 134.
81. A.S. Ḥusayn, Ibn al-Kīzānī, 136, and cf. 125.
82. See chapter 3.
83. See chapter 4.
84. EAL 2:742–43 (I. Netton and J.S. Meisami), and chapter 4.
85. Ibn Khallikān Wafayāt, 6:268–74 (de Slane, translation, Ibn Khallikan,
4:153–159).
86. Ibid, 6:270 (de Slane paraphrase, Ibn Khallikan, 4:155), my translation.
Also see Yaḥyā al-Suhrawardī, The Mystical & Visionary Treaties of Suhrawardi, tr.
W.M. Thackson, Jr. (London: Octagon Press, 1982).
87. ˜Abd al-Razzāq al-Kāshānī, Iṣṭalāḥāt al-Ṣūfīyah, ed. A. ˜Abd a-Khāliq
(Minya, Egypt: Dār Ḥarā’, 1980), 115–16.
88. Muḥammad ibn Maḥmūd al-Shahrazūrī, Kitāb Nuzhat al-Arwāḥ
wa-Rawḍat al-Afrāḥ, microfilm of manuscript 908, Istanbul: Yeni Cami, p. 236.
258 NOTES TO INTRODUCTION

Also see Otto Spies and S.K. Khattak, Three Treatises on Mysticism (Stutgart:
W. Kohlhamer, 1935), 108 for their edited Arabic text of the poem.
89. The throne (˜arsh) and the footstool (kursī) were interpreted by
many Sufis as meaning the heart (qalb) and breast (ṣadr), the locus of divine
manifestation within the individual; see Gerhard Böwering, The Mystical Vision
of Existence in Classical Islam (Berlin: Walter De Gruyter, 1980), 163–164. For
more on al-Suhrawardī, see the work of Henry Corbin including Sohrawardī
d’Alep (Paris: Libraire orientale et americane, 1939), and S.H. Nasr, Three Muslim
Sages (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1963), 52–82.
90. Abū Madyan, Dīwān, ed. al-˜Arabī ibn Muṣ ṭ afā al-Shawwār
al-Tilimsānī, (Damascus: Maṭba˜at al-Taraqqī, 1938), 57, my translation. Also
see EAL, 1:39 (R.P. Scheindlin), and esp. Vincent Cornell, The Way of Abū
Madyan (Cambridge: Islamic Texts Society, 1996), 174–175, along with his
thorough introduction to Abū Madyan’s life, teachings, and writings (1–38).
91. Cornell, The Way of Abū Madyan, 162–65; Abū Madyan, Dīwān, esp.
58–59, 66–67, 70–79, and see chapter 4.
92. Vincent Cornell notes that there is no known “example of Abū
Madyān’s writings that was written down in manuscript form less than two
hundred years after the death of the shaykh himself.” Cornell, Way of Abū
Madyan, 36.
93. EAL 1:311–12 (R.L. Nettler).
94. Ibn Khallikān Wafayāt, 6:11 (de Slane, translation, Ibn Khallikan, 4:343).
95. See Alexander D. Knysh, Ibn al-˜Arabī in the Later Islamic Tradition
(Albany: State University of New York Press, 1999).
96. See William Chittick, The Sufi Path of Knowledge (Albany: State Uni-
versity of New York Press, 1989), and below chapter 5.
97. Ibn al-˜Arabī, Fuṣūṣ al-Ḥikam, ed. A.A. ˜Affifī (Cairo: ˜Īsā al-Bābī
al-Ḥalabī, 1946), 83, my translation. Also see the translation by R.W.J Austin,
Ibn Al-‘Arabi: The Bezels of Wisdom (New York: Paulist Press, 1980), 95. For
a commentary on these and other verses in the Fuṣūṣ, see ˜Abd al-Razzāq
al-Kāshānī, Sharḥ ˜alā Fuṣūṣ al-Ḥikam (Cairo, 1891).
98. See Michael Sells, “Bewildered Tongue: The Semantics of Mystical
Union in Islam,” in Mystical Union in Judaism, Christianity, and Islam, ed. Moshe
Idel and Bernard McGinn (New York: Continuum, 1996), 87–124, esp. 122–24.
99. Ibn al-˜Arabī, Dīwān (Būlāq, 1855, reprint edition, n.p., 1963), 135–136,
164–179, 206–210, 218–232, 313. Also see EAL 1:311–12 (R.L. Nettler), Schimmel,
Veil, 37–41, Lings, “Mystical Poetry,” 250–53, and ˜Abd al-Fattāḥ al-Sayyid
Muḥammad al-Damāsī, al-Ḥubb al-Ilāh fī Shi˜r Muḥyī al-Dīn Ibn al-˜Arabī
(Cairo: Dār al-Thaqāfah, 1983), esp. 44–54.
100. Ibn al-˜Arabī, Turjumān al-Ashwāq (Beirut: Dār Ṣādir, 1966), 7–9.
Also See R.A. Nicholson’s translation, The Tarjuman Al-Ashwaq (London:
Royal Asiatic Society, 1911), iv–vii, 1–4, 11–13, the partial translation by
Michael Sells, Stations of Desire (Jerusalem: Ibis Editions, 2000), and chaps. 2
and 3 below.
101. Schimmel, Veil, 40–41; Homerin, Arab Poet, 27–28, and chapter 5
below.
 NOTES TO CHAPTER 1 259

102. Ibn Khallikān Wafayāt, 3: 454–56 (tr. Homerin, Arab Poet, 17–19).
103. This is his al-Tā’īyah al-Kubrā, also known as Naẓm al-Sulūk (“Poem
of the Sufi Way”); see below chapter 5.
104. Verses 43–44 of his al-Jīmīyah; for a translation of the poem see
chapter 2.
105. Verses 8–9 of his al-Fā’īyah.
106. Verses 43 of his al-Fā’īyah.
107. EAL 1:272–73 (R. Droy).
108. Issa J. Boullata has noted: “In many Arab countries, butchers still
actually [inflate] a slaughtered animal by mouth from a hole made in the skin
of the lower part of the leg in order to make the flaying easier by separat-
ing the skin from the flesh by the air blown in.” Issa J. Boullata, “Toward a
Biography of Ibn al-Fāriḍ,” Arabica 38(1981):38–56, esp. 40, n. 5.
109. Ibn al-Fāriḍ, Dīwān, 216, with a slight variation in the second
hemistich.
110. Ibn al-Fāriḍ, Dīwān, 217. ˜Alī, Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s grandson, cites the
verses on the butcher boy based on Ibn Khallikān.
111. Ibn al-Fāriḍ explicitly mentions al-Ḥarīrī and his al-Maqāmāt in the
al-Tā’īyah al-Kubrā; see below chapter 5.
112. Homerin, Arab Poet, 22–24, and A.S. Ḥusayn, al-Adab al-Ṣūfīyah,
109–12, 227–30.

Chapter 1: Mystical Improvisations

1. ˜Alī Ṣibt ibn al-Fāriḍ, Dībājah, 13–14, (tr. Homerin, ˜Umar Ibn
al-Fāriḍ, 313).
2. See Homerin, From Arab Poet, 24–32.
3. Homerin, From Arab Poet, 22–24. Also see: A.E. Khairallah, Love,
Madness, and Poetry (Beirut: Franz Steiner, 1980), A. J. Arberry, The Mystical
Poems of Ibn al-Fāriḍ (London: Emery Walker, 1952, 1956), 2:11, and Lings,
“Mystical Poetry,” 253–55.
4. Al-Būrīnī, Sharḥ Dīwān Sulṭān al-˜Āshiqīn Sayyidī ˜Umar Ibn al-Fāriḍ,
ed. Rushayyid ibn Ghālib al-Daḥdāḥ (Cairo: al-Maṭba˜ah al-˜Āmmah, 1888),
1:135, 146. Other poets whose verse is often quoted by al-Būrīnī include ˜Umar
ibn Abī Rabī˜ah, Abū Tammām, Ibn Khayyāt (d. 517/1123), al-Arrajānī (d.
544/1149), Ibn Sanā’ al-Mulk, and Ibn ˜Unayn.
5. Arberry, Mystical Poems, 2:26, 37, and Yūsuf Sāmī al-Yūsuf, “Ba˜ḍ
yanābī˜ Ibn al-Fāriḍ,” al-Ma˜rifah 350 (1992): 86–112.
6. For Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s use of Ibn al-Kīzānī’s verse compare Ibn al-Fāriḍ,
Dīwān, 168, verse 1 with Ḥusayn, Ibn al-Kīzānī, 129, verse 1, and Ibn al-Fāriḍ,
Dīwān, 154, verse 1 with Ḥusayn, Ibn al-Kīzānī, 106, verse 1.
7. See al-Būrīnī, Sulṭān, 1:89; 2:89, and Arberry, Mystical Poems, 2:
49–50, 77–78.
8. Al-Mutanabbī, Dīwān, 3:180–191. In verse 1, I follow Arberry (Mys-
tical Poems, 2:77) in reading al-ḥadaqu for al-ḥadaqa cited in the Cairo edition
260 NOTES TO CHAPTER 1

of al-Mutanabbī’s Dīwān. Also see, Andras Hamori, “Al-Mutanabbī,” in

CHALAB, 300–14.
9. Regarding the poetic ˜ayn see Suzanne Pinckney Stetkevych, The
Mute Immortals Speak (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1993), 177–79, and
Homerin, “az-Zahrā’,” 225–26. For an insightful discussion of panegyric poetry,
in general, and of al-Mutanabbī, in particular, see S. P. Stetkevych, “Abbasid
Panegyric and the Poetics of Political Allegiance: Two Poems of al-Mutanabbī
on Kāfūr,” in Qasida Poetry in Islamic Asia and Africa, eds. S. Sperl and C.
Shackle (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1996), 1:35–63; 2:92–105, 421–22.
10. Ibn al-Fāriḍ, Dīwān, 181–186. For Arberry’s translation, see Mysti-
cal Poems, 2:73–77; for a French translation see Jean-Yves L’Hôpital, ˜Umar b.
al-Fārid: Poèmes mystiques (Damascus: Institut Français d’Études Arabes de
Damas, 2001), 198–215.
11. Ibn al-Fāriḍ, Dīwān, 181. See al-Būrīnī, Sulṭān, 2:89, Arberry, Mystical
Poems, 2:78, n. 6, and al-Mutanabbī, Dīwān, 3:288–289, verse 9 for the motif
of the bees and the honey. For kohl motifs, see al-Būrīnī, Sulṭān, 2:89, and
Arberry, Mystical Poems, 2:79.
12. Al-Mutanabbī, Dīwān, 3:87, verse 43.
13. See Arberry’s chart, Mystical Poems, 2:78. The Cairo edition of
al-Mutanabbī’s Dīwān gives twenty-nine verses to this poem, not thirty-one,
as does the Beirut edition used by Arberry. The missing verses are verse 5
of the Beirut edition, ending in kaḥlu, and verse 6 ending with dakhlu. If the
Beirut edition is correct, then al-Mutanabbī used kạhlu twice, once in verse 5
and again in verse 20; he did not repeat any other rhyme words, however.
As for dakhlu, this word does not appear in Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s al-Lāmīyah. Further,
verse 56 of the Cairo edition of Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s Dīwān is verse 58 in Arberry’s
published edition of the Chester Beatty manuscript; Mystical Poems, 1:38.
Verse 28 of the Chester Beatty manuscript is not found in the Cairo edition,
nor is verse 38, which is identical to verse 4 of al-Mutanabbī’s poem. Arberry
found this last verse in the margin of the Chester Beatty manuscript and so
included it in the text; Mystical Poems, 1:37; 2:78.
14. See Homerin, ˜Umar Ibn al-Fāriḍ, 24–27; “az-Zahrā’,” 217, 225–26,
and chapter 2.
15. For more on the Sufi understanding of the heart and this tradition,
see Chittick, Sufi Path of Knowledge, 106–109; Böwering, Mystical Vision, 201–207,
241–53, and the introduction. For Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s view of dhikr, see Homerin,
˜Umar Ibn al-Fārid, 30–34, and chapter 5.
16. Al-Mutanabbī, Dīwān 2:82–85. This poem was composed around
330/941 in the meter kāmil. Concerning the occasion of its composition and
Musāwir see R. Blachere, Abou T-Tayyib al-Motanabbī (Paris: Adrien-Maison-
neuve, 1935), 109. It should be added that a poem ascribed to Ibn al-Fāriḍ
beginning: mā bayna ḍāli al-munḥanā wa-ẓilālih, Dīwān, 223–24, also is a lāmīyah
with similarities to a poem by al-Mutanabbī, Dīwān, 3:53–65. Both are in the
meter kāmil, and eight of the thirteen rhyme words in mā bayna ḍāli (and esp.
v. 10; al-Būrīnī, Sulṭān, 2:5, and al-Mutanabbī, Dīwān, 2:53, v. 2) correspond
to words or phrases in al-Mutanabbī’s poem. These similarities would seem
 NOTES TO CHAPTER 1 261

to strengthen the case of mā bayna ḍāli as an authentic poem by Ibn al-Fāriḍ;

see Homerin, “Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s Personal Dīwān,” 242–43.
17. See EI2, 2:233 (E. Mittwoch), and EI2, 2:961 (Cl. Cahen).
18. Ibn al-Fāriḍ, Dīwān, 50–54. Also see Arberry’s translation, Mystical
Poems, 2:45–56; and the French translations by Emile Derminghem and Bachir
Messilkh in Ibn al-Faridh: 2 poemes mystique (Montpelliar: La Licorne, 1952),
11–14, and L’Hôpital, Poemes, 74–95. Arberry’s chart comparing the rhyme
words of the two poems (Mystical Poems, 2:50) omits the rhyme word afkhādhā,
which is found in the Cairo edition of al-Mutannabī’s Dīwān, verse 10, with
the meaning “thighs”; Ibn al-Fāriḍ also used the word, but with an alternative
meaning of “clans” (v. 30). The Egyptian poet Ẓāfir al-Ḥaddād (d. 529/1134)
also composed a dhālīyah using many of al-Mutanabbī’s rhyme words; see
Ibn Khallikān, Wafāyāt, 2:540–41 (De Slane paraphrase, Ibn Khallikān, 2:668).
19. Cf. the verse by Ẓāfir al-Ḥaddād cited by Ibn Khallikān, Wafayāt,
2:543, and quoted in the introduction.
20. See EI2, 3:236–37 (G. Vajda).
21. See ˜Abd al-Ghānī al-Nābulusī, Kashf al-Sirr al-Ghāmiḍ fî Sharḥ Dīwān
Ibn al-Fāriḍ, microfilm of manuscript 4104 (3223), Princeton: Yahuda Section,
Garrett Collection, Princeton University, fol. 70b, and Arberry, Mystical Poems,
2:51, n. 15.
22. Al-Būrīnī, Sulṭān, 2:98, and Arberry, Mystical Poems, 2:53, n. 24;
Mu˜ādh was martyred in 17 or 18/638–39; see Ibn Ḥajar al-˜Asqalānī, Kitāb
Tahdhīb al-Tahdhīb (Beirut: Dār Ṣādir, 1968), 10:186–88, and Ibn al-˜Imād,
Shadharāt al-Dhahab fī Akhbār Man Dhahab (Cairo: Maktabat al-Qudsī, 1931),
1:29–30.
23. Arberry, Mystical Poems, 2:53, n. 24.
24. See Annemarie Schimmel, And Muhammad is His Messenger (Chapel
Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1985), 43.
25. Concerning religious allusions in early Arabic ghazals, see chapter 2.
26. See Homerin, From Arab Poet, 8–9, ˜Umar Ibn al-Fāriḍ, 8–10, 304–308;
Arberry, Mystical Poems, 2:53, n. 27, and chapter 3.
27. Mimshādh al-Dīnawarī (d. 299/912) was an ascetic famous for his
sleepless nights spent in prayer. See al-Būrīnī, Sulṭān, 2:104–105; al-Is..fahānī,
Ḥilyāt al-Awliyā’, 10:353–354; al-Sulamī, Ṭabaqāt al-Ṣūfīyah, ed. Aḥmad al-Sharbasī
(Cairo: al-Sha˜b, 1962), 76–77, and Arberry, Mystical Poems, 2:55, n. 44.
28. Al-Būrīnī, Sulṭān, 1:87–88.
29. Ibid., 1:91–94.
30. Ibid., 1:99, and Arberry, Mystical Poems, 2: 53, n. 29. For a study of
tawrīyah and īhām, see S. A. Bonebakker, Some Early Definitions of the Tawryia
and Safadī’s Fadd al-Xitām ˜an at-Tawrīya wa’l-Istixdām (The Hague: Mouton
& Co., 1966).
31. For the play on malḥ see al-Buḥturī (Bonebakker, 12, 29); for jufūn,
see Yaḥyā ibn Manṣūr al-Ḥanafī (ibid., 11–12) for ghazālah, see Qādī ˜Iyāḍ
and Mas˜ūd ibn Sa˜d ibn Salmān (ibid., 11, 13) for the terms for relatives,
see Abū ˜Alā al-Ma˜arrī (ibid., 33). The play on ja˜far may be found in a
citation by Ibn Khallikān (ibid., 18). Bonebakker demonstrates that most of
262 NOTES TO CHAPTER 1

these examples were repeatedly cited as examples of tawrīyah in discussions

of this subject and so were well known.
32. Issa J. Boullata, “Verbal Arabesque and Mystical Union: A Study
of Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s al-Ta’iyya al-kubra,” Arab Studies Quarterly, 3: no. 2 (Spring,
1981):152–169. For an analysis of this passage from the al-Tā’īyah al-Kubrā see
chapter 5. For an excellent study of badī˜ in later Mamluk poetry, see Thomas
Bauer, “Ibn Ḥajar and the Arabic Ghazal of the Mamluk Age,” in Ghazal
as World Literature I: Transformation of a Literary Genre, eds. T. Bauer and A.
Neuwirth (Beirut: Orient-Institut Beirut, 2005), 35–55.
33. Ramaḍān Ṣādiq, Shi˜r Ibn al-Fāriḍ: Dirāsah Uslūbīyah (Cairo: al-Hay’at
al-Miṣrīyah al- ˜Āmmah lil-Kitāb, 1998), 38–39. This is verse 7 of the al-Fā’īyah;
Ibn al-Fāriḍ, Dīwān, 177. Also see chapter 2.
34. Ibn al-Fāriḍ, verse 25 of the al-Hamzīyah, Dīwān, 146, and Ṣādiq,
Shi˜r Ibn al-Fāriḍ: Dirāsah Uslūbīyah, 40.
35. See Arberry, Mystical Poems, 2: 80, n. 30. Concerning the mīthāq, see
Schimmel, Dimensions, 24; Böwering, Mystical Vision, 148–57; the introduction
above, and chapters 2 and 5.
36. Mīshāl Ghurayyib has noted Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s creative use of ṭibāq,
but in general Ghurayyib views Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s badī˜ as excessive hyperbole;
Mīshāl Ghurayyib, ˜Umar Ibn al-Fāriḍ min khilal Shi˜rihi (Beirut: Dār Maktabat
al-Ḥayāh, 1965), 116—-30. Also see Ṣādiq, Shi˜r Ibn al-Fāriḍ: Dirāsah Uslūbīyah,
67–81, 203–04.
37. Ibn al-Fāriḍ, Dīwān, 66, verse 1. For an analysis of this verse, see
chapter 5 below. Also see Ṣādiq, Shi˜r Ibn al-Fāriḍ: Dirāsah Uslūbīyah, 153–204,
for his overview of similes and metaphors in Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s Dīwān.
38. Ibn al-Fāriḍ, Dīwān, 49, and al-Būrīnī, Sulṭān, 1:81–82. For further
examples of the types of badī˜ to be found in Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s verse, see Ṣādiq,
Shi˜r Ibn al-Fāriḍ: Dirāsah Uslūbīyah, and, especially, al-Būrīnī’s Sulṭān.
39. See Ṣādiq, Shi˜r Ibn al-Fāriḍ: Dirāsah Uslūbīyah, 35–48, 54–66, 203–04,
who nevertheless appears to be unaware of earlier insightful studies of the badī˜
style by Sperl (Mannerism) and S. P. Stetkevych (Abū Tammām).
40. Concerning riddles see EAL, 2:479 (G.J.H. Van Gelder); Diyā’ al-Dīn
Ibn al-Athīr, al-Mathāl al-Sā’ir, ed. Muhammad Muḥyī al-Dīn ˜Abd al-Ḥamīd
(Cairo: Muṣṭfā al-Bābī al-Ḥalabī, 1939), 2:223–35; al-Suyūṭī, al-Muzhir fī ˜Ulūm
al-Lughah wa-Anwā˜ihā, 3rd ed. (Cairo: ˜Īsā al-Bābī al-Ḥalabī, 1945), 1:578–621,
with numerous examples; Aḥmad Aḥmad Badawī, al-Ḥayāh al-Adabīyah fi ˜Aṣr
al-Ḥurūb al-Ṣalibīyah fī Miṣr wa-al-Shām (Cairo: Maktabat Nahdat Miṣr, 1952),
106-108; ˜Abd al-Karīm Yāfī, Dirāsāt Fannīyah fī al-Abab al-˜Arabī (Damascus:
Maṭba˜at Jāmi˜at Dimashq, 1972), 256–66. Among Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s contempo-
raries, Ibn ˜Unayn appears to have been the most prolific composer of riddles;
see Ibn ˜Unayn, Dīwān, ed. Khalil Mardam (Beirut: Dār Ṣādir, 1974), 149–78.
41. Ibn al-Fāriḍ, Dīwān, 207–15.
42. Taṣḥīf usually consists of the addition or subtraction of dots to the
letters to obtain new ones, but this is not always the case; see al-Ṣuyūṭī,
al-Muzhir, 1: 537–55.
43. Ibn al-Fārid, Dīwān, 208.
 NOTES TO CHAPTER 1 263

44. Something I could not do without al-Būrīnī’s very helpful com-

mentary; Sulṭān, 2:l59–60.
45. Ibn al-Fāriḍ, Dīwān, 211.
46. See al-Būrīnī, Sulṭān, 2:164–65.
47. E.g., ˜Abd al-Khāliq Maḥmūd, Shi˜r Ibn al-Fāriḍ (Cairo: Dār al-Ma˜ārif,
1984), 61–62. The riddles are also found in the Chester Beatty and Konya
manuscripts, which were apparently transmitted independently of ˜Alī, thus
Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s grandson could not have forged them. A.J. Naṣr dismisses Ibn
al-Fāriḍ’s riddles as affected, lifeless, and trivial poetry with no redeeming
value, which is to misunderstand them completely; Shi˜r ˜Umar Ibn al-Fāriḍ
(Beirut: Dār al-Andalus, 1982), 111. Nasr’s student Ramaḍān Ṣādiq, also
omits the riddles and quatrains from his structural analysis of the poet’s
verse; Ṣādiq, Shi˜r Fāriḍ: Dirāsah Uslūbīyah, 21. On the other hand, Ghurayyib
ascribes the poet’s sense of humor in his riddles to his “Egyptian constitu-
tion”; Ghurayyib, ˜Umar Ibn al-Fāriḍ, 119. One of the great twentieth-century
scholars of Ibn al-Fāriḍ, Muhammad Muṣṭafā Ḥilmī, conjectured that Ibn
al-Fāriḍ could have posed riddles as a way of relaxing his students after a
strenuous Sufi session; Maḥmūd, Shi˜r, 62, n. 32. For his part, al-Yāfī takes
the riddles as evidence of the well educated and refined company that the
poet must have kept; Dirāsāt Fannīyah, 261–262.
48. Ibn al-Fāriḍ, Dīwān, 195. The Baradā is the major river of Damascus
(EI2, 1:1029–1030; N. Elisséeff), while Kawthar is a river in Paradise (EI2,
4:805–806; J. Horovitz-L. Gardet). Al-Mushtahā was a mosque on the island
of Roda where Ibn al-Fāriḍ liked to view the Nile at sunset; Homerin, ˜Umar
Ibn al-Fāriḍ, 327.
49. Bahā’ al-Dīn Zuhayr, The Poetical Works of Behā-Ed-Dīn Zoheir, ed
and tr. E.H. Palmer (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1876–78), 1:279;
also see Palmer’s translation, 2:316, and further examples of quatrains in the
introduction. Also see EI, 3:1167–68 (Henri Masse). For further details on
Arabic rubā˜īyāt, see Mohammad Ben Cheneb, Tuhfat al-Adab fī Mīzān Ash˜ar
al-˜Arab (Paris: Libraire d’amerique et orient, 1954), 114–17; Muṣṭafā al-Shaybī,
Dīwān al-Dūbayt fī al-Shi˜r al-˜Arabī (Tripoli: Manshūrāt al-Jāmi˜ah al-Lībīyah,
1967), and “dūbayt,” in EAL, 2:197–98 (W. Stozer).
50. Ibn al-Fāriḍ, Dīwān, 196–206; this rubā˜ī is on page 201. The exact
number of quatrains varies within the manuscript tradition; ˜Alī’s edition
has thirty-three.
51. Ibid., 197. Cf. al-˜Abbās Ibn al-Aḥnaf, “Only lovers count as people”;
Dīwān, ed. ˜Ātikah al-Khazrajī (Cairo: Dār al-Kutub al-Miṣrīyah, 1954), 197,
and quoted in A. Hamori, “Love Poetry (ghazl),” in CHALAB, 210.
52. Ibn al-Fāriḍ, Dīwān, 197.
53. See al-Būrīnī, Sulṭān, 2:174. For mystical interpretations of the
rubā˜īyāt, and of the riddles, too, see al-Nābulusī, Kashf al-Sirr, fols. 431b–57b.
54. Ibn al-Fāriḍ, Dīwān, 197. In the last verse, Ibn al-Fāriḍ paraphrases
a portion of Qur’ān 3:191: “Those who consider the form of the heaven and
the earth (say): “Our Lord, You did not form this in vain, glory be to You!”
See al-Būrīnī, Sulṭān, 2:174.
264 NOTES TO CHAPTER 2

55. Ibn al-Fāriḍ, Dīwān, 198; al-Būrīnī, Sulṭān, 2:177.

56. Ibn al-Fāriḍ, Dīwān, 206; al-Būrīnī, Sulṭān, 2:184.
57. Ibn al-Fāriḍ, Dīwān, 198; al-Būrīnī, Sulṭān, 2:176.
58. See Schimmel, Muhammad, 35, 180.
59. Al-Būrīnī, Sulṭān, 2:176.
60. Ibn al-Fāriḍ, Dīwān, 217.
61. Ibid.

Chapter 2: Loves Secrets

1. Homerin, “az-Zahrā’,” 215–32, and see also Khairallah, Madness, 4,
23–25, 98–103.
2. Homerin, “Preaching Poetry,” 87–90, and Homerin, “Tangled Words,”
194–97.
3. Ibn al-˜Arabī, Turjumān al-Ashwāq, 9–10, tr. Nicholson, Tarjumān, 3–4
4. Ibid; Nicholson’s Arabic text (12), reads nasīb for tashbīb. For a more
recent translation of many of these poems, see Sells, Stations of Desire.
5. Al-Ḥusayn Ibn al-Ahdal, Kashf al-Ghitā’ (Tunis: Aḥmad Bakīr, 1964),
199–201, and Homerin, From Arab Poet, 62. Ibn al-Ahdal compared Ibn al-Fāriḍ
to the pre-Islamic Jewish poet Umayyah ibn Abī al-Ṣalt (d.c. 9/631); for this
poet see EAL, 2:793 (T. Bauer).
6. Regarding the pre-Islamic and classical nasīb, see Jaroslav Stetkev-
ych, The Zephrys of Najd (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1993) 1–49;
Thomas Bauer, Liebe und Liebesdichtung in der Welt des 9. und 10. Jahrhunderts
(Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1998), 20–39, and chapter 3. For studies of the
Arabic ghazal see, Renate Jacobi, “Die Anfänge der arabischen Ġazalpoesie,”
Der Islam 61 (1984):218–50, and her “Time and Reality in Nasīb and Ghazal,”
Journal of Arabic Literature 16 (1988):1–17. Concise discussions of Arabic ghazal
literature may be found in EAL, 1:249–50 (J.S. Meisami), and EI2, 2:1028–33
(R. Blachere). Also see J-C. Vadet, L’Esprit courtois en orient (Paris: G.-P. Mai-
sonneuve et Larose, 1968), 25–60.
7. ˜Umar ibn Abī Rabī˜ah, Dīwān, 2nd ed. (Beirut: Dār al-Andalus,
1983), 162–63. Also see Vadet, L’Esprit, 61–158; Jacobi, “Time,” 6–8; her
“Theme and Variation in Umayyad Ghazal Poetry,” Journal of Arabic Literature
23 (1993):109–19, and her entry “˜Umar ibn Abī Rabī˜ah,” in EAL, 2:791–92;
J.C. Bürgel, “Love, Lust, and Longing: Eroticism in Early Islam as Reflected
in Literary Sources,” in Society and the Sexes in Medieval Islam, ed. Afaf Lutfi
Marsot (Malibu, CA: University of California Press, 1979), 96–101, and Salma
K. Jayyusi, “Umayyad Poetry,” in The Cambridge History of Arabic Literature:
Arabic Literature to the End of the Umayyad Period (= CHALUP), ed. by A.F.L.
Beeston, et al. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983), 1:387–432.
8. Jayyusi, “Umayyad Poetry,” 387–90.
9. See EAL, 1:410–11 (R. Jacobi).
10. See EAL, 2:636–37 (Stefan Leder); Vadet, L’Esprit, 362–78; Muhammad
Ghunaymī Hilāl, Laylā wa-al-Majnūn (Beirut: Dār al-˜Awdah, 1980); Khairallah,
Madness, and chapter 3.
 NOTES TO CHAPTER 2 265

11. This verse ascribed to Majnūn is cited by Ibn Qutaybah, al-Shi˜r

wa-al-Shu˜arā’, ed. M.J. De Goeje (Leiden: E.J.Brill, 1904), 364. Insightful inter-
pretations of the larger ˜Udhrī tradition, includung Majnūn, may be found
in Tahar Labib Djedidi, La Poesie amoureuse des Arabes: le cas des ˜Udhrites
(Algiers, 1974), esp. 90–157; Andras Hamori, The Art of Medieval Arabic Lit-
erature (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1974), 38–47, who also quotes
this verse, as does Khairallah, Madness, 75–96. Also see R. Jacobi, “Anfänge”;
her excellent entry, “˜Udhrī Poetry,” in EAL, 2:789–90; J. Stetkevych, Zephrys,
114–17, 143–45, and Bauer, Liebe, 40–55.
12. Jamīl, Dīwān (Beirut: Dār Ṣādir, 1966), 42, verse 10; also quoted
by Hamouri, Art, 43–44, and see Khairallah, Madness, 77–96, and Djedidi,
˜Udhrites, 90–92. Also see EI2, 2:1030–33 (Blachere); Jacobi, “˜Udhrī Poetry,”
and her “Al-Walīd ibn Yazīd, the Last Ghazal Poet of the Umayyad Period,”
in T. Bauer and A. Neuwirth, eds., Ghazal, 131–47.
13. Kays B. al-Mulavvaḥ ve-Dīwāni, ed. by Sevkiye Inalcik (Ankara: Turk
Tarih Kumuru Basimevi, 1967), 96; also quoted in Khairallah, Madness, 76-77.
Also see EI2, 2:1031–33 (Blachere), and Vadet, L’Esprit, 249–263.
14. Abū Nuwās, Dīwān, ed. ˜Ali Fa˜ūr (Beirut: Dār al-Kutub al-˜Ilmīyah,
1987), 58–59. Also see G. Scholer, “Bashshār B. Burd, Abū ‘L-Atahiyah and
Abū Nuwās,” in CHALABL, 290–95; R. Jacobi, “Abbasidische Dichtung,” in
Grundris der arabischen Philologie, ed. H. Gatje, (Wiesbaden: Ludwig Reichert,
1987), 2:41–64; her “˜Udhrī Poetry”; Bauer, Liebe, 53–162; Andras Hamori,
“Love Poetry,” in CHALABL, 202–18, and Jaako Hämeen-Anttila, “Abū Nuwās
and Ghazal as a Genre,” in Ghazal, ed. by T. Bauer and A. Neuwirth, 87–105.
15. See Annemarie Schimmel, “ ‘I Take off the dress of the body’:
Eros in Sufi Literature and Life,” in Religion and the Body, ed. Sarah Coakly
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), 262–88, and Simon Kuntze,
“Love and God: The Influence of Ghazal on Mystic Poetry,” in Ghazal, ed. by
T. Bauer and A. Neuwirth, 157–79.
16. Khairallah, Madness.
17. Al-Sarrāj, al-Luma˜, 321–22, and see Homerin, “Tangled Words,”
191–92
18. Homerin, “Tangled Words,” and “az-Zahrā’,” 221–22. Also see van
Gelder, “Rābi˜a’s Poem,” 73–75. For further examples of Sufi love poetry, see
the introduction.
19. James T. Monroe, “Hispaon-Arabic Poetry,” 125–54. Also see A.S.
Ḥusayn al-Adab al-Ṣūfīyah, 221–27.
20. Monroe, “Hispano-Arabic Poetry,” 151–52, and Ibn Zaydūn, Dīwān
Ibn Zaydūn wa-Risā’iluhu, ed. by ˜Alī ˜Abd al-˜Aẓīm (Cairo: Dār Nahḍat Miṣr,
1957), 145–46; see another translation by Michael Sells in The Cambridge His-
tory of Arabic Literature: the Literature of al-Andalus, ed. by M.R. Menocal et al.
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), 494.
21. Ibn al-Fāriḍ, Dīwān, 166, verses 1–4.
22. Ibn al-Fāriḍ, Dīwān, 177, verses 1–4.
23. Cf. the ninth-century Sahl al-Tusturī’s reading of this Qur’ānic passage
“as a divine address to the spiritual self”; see Böwering, Mystical Vision, 242.
24. Ibn al-Fāriḍ, Dīwān, 166, verses 5–6.
266 NOTES TO CHAPTER 2

25. Ibid., 168, verses 1–3, 16, and cf. Ibn al-Kīzānī, Dīwān, 129:
tih kayfa shi’ta dalālan lā ṣabrun lī ˜anka lā lā
Be proud as you please in coquetry;
I have no patience away from you, no, no!
26. See Arberry, Mystical Poems, 2:13–16, for a list of these themes as found
in Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s Dīwān; also see Yūsuf Sāmī al-Yūsuf, “Ba˜ḍ Yanābī˜,” 92–99.
For Love sickness and its signs in classical Arabic medicine and love theory see
Hans Hinrich Biesterfeidt and Dimitri Gutas, “The Malady of Love,” Journal
of the American Oriental Society 104:1 (1984):21–55, and in a mystical context,
al-Daylamī, Kitāb ˜Atf al-Alif, tr. by Bell and Al Shafie, Treatise, esp. 116–26.
27. Ibn al-Fāriḍ, Dīwān, 183–84, verses 34–37, and see al-Nābulusī, Kashf
al-Sirr, 322a–23a.
28. Cf. Schimmel, “Body,” 267.
29. Ibn al-Fāriḍ, Dīwān, 177, verses 5–7. Regarding the use and meaning
of these terms in al-Tusturī’s discussions of human–divine encounters, see
Bowering, Mystical Vision, esp. 166–72.
30. Ibn al-Fāriḍ, Dīwān, 179, verses 25–26. Concerning the poet’s pro-
tagonists see R.A. Nicholson, Studies in Islamic Mysticism, (Cambridge: Cam-
bridge University Press, 1921. Reprint ed. 1967), 157–59, and al-Nābulusī who
interprets the raqīb (spy) as the Qur’ānic al-nafs al-ammārah bi-al-sū’ (“the lower
soul commanding evil”) and the wāshin (slanderer) as the helper of Satan who
obstructs the seeker’s path to God; Kashf al-Sirr, 317a. Also see chapter 5, for
further comments on these protagonists by Ibn al-Fāriḍ.
31. Ibn al-Fāriḍ, Dīwān, 53, verses 38–39.
32. Ibid., 185, verses 48–49.
33. Ibid., 184, verses 44–45, and see and see al-Nābulusī, Kashf al-Sirr,
324b–26a.
34. See Vadet, L’espirit, 76–81, and Ruqayya Yasmine Khan, “On the
Significance of Secrecy in the Medieval Arabic Romances,” Journal of Arabic
Literature 31 (2000):238–53.
35. Ibid, and see al-Kalabādhī, al-Ta˜arruf li-Madhhab ahl al-Taṣawwuf
(Beirut: Dār al-Kutub al-˜Ilmīyah, 1980), 87, tr. A.J. Arberry, Doctrine of the
Ṣūfīs (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1935. Reprint ed. 1977), 76;
al-Hujwirī, The Kashf al-Maḥjūb, tr. R.A. Nicholson (London: Luzac & Co., 1911.
Reprint ed. 1959), 333, 385, and esp. Böwering, Mystical Vision, 185–201. Also
see Annemarie Schimmel, “Secrecy in Sufism,” in Secrecy in Religion, ed. K.W.
Bolle (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1987), 81–102.
36. Ibn al-Fāriḍ, Dīwān, 178, verses 21–22, and see al-Būrīnī, Sulṭān,
1:155–156, and Ibn al-Fāriḍ, Dīwān, 185, verses 46,
37. For an inventory of some of Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s love terminology see
Jean-Yves L’Hopital, “Le vocabulaire amoureux dans les poèmes de ˜Umar b.
al-Fāriḍ,” Annales Islamologiques 36 (2002):77–116. Also see and Kees W. Bolle,
“Secrecy in Religon” in Secrecy in Religion, ed. Bolle, 1–24.
38. Ibn al-Fāriḍ, Dīwān, 167, verses 17–21, and see al-Nābulusī, Kashf
al-Sirr, 371a.
 NOTES TO CHAPTER 2 267

39. Ibn al-Fāriḍ, Dīwān, 185-86, verses 57–60; also see 167, verses 17–21;
172, verses 58–60; 180, verses 46–51.
40. Ibn al-Fāriḍ, Dīwān, 186, verses 61–62.
41. E.g., Ibn al-Fāriḍ, Dīwān, 166, verse 6; 170, verse 35; 179, verse 27,
verse 37.
42. Ibn al-Fāriḍ, Dīwān, 50–52; for a translation, see chapter 1.
43. Ibn al-Fāriḍ, Dīwān, 104–105, verses 277–85, and see Homerin, ˜Umar
Ibn al-Fāriḍ, 152–54, and chapter 5.
44. See Arberry’s comments prefacing the notes to his translations in
Mystical Poems, vol. 2.
45. U. Rubin, “Pre-existence and Light: Aspects of the Concept of Nūr
Muhammad,” Israel Oriental Studies 5 (1975):62–119; Böwering, Mystical Vision,
147–57; Schimmel, Dimensions, 214–16, and Paul Nwyia, Exégèse coranique et
language mystique (Beirut: Dar al-Machriq, 1970), 93–94.
46. Ibid., and especially see Rubin, “Pre-existence,” and Schimmel,
Muhammad, 123–143.
47. Schimmel, Muhammad, 43, and see chapter 1.
48. Ibn al-Fāriḍ, Dīwān, 168–72.
49. Arberry, Mystical Poems, 2:72, n. 39, and al-Nābulusī, Kashf al-Sirr,
397b–98a. Also see Schimmel, Muhammad, 86, 124, and her Veil, 173–76.
50. Arberry, Mystical Poems, 2:71, n. 19, and al-Nābulusī, Kashf al-Sirr,
391a.
51. Ibn al-Fāriḍ, Dīwān, 177–80, and also see Arberry’s translation,
Mystical Poems, 2:62–63.
52. Concerning this miracle see Schimmel, Muhammad, 69–71.
53. Al-Nābulusī, Kashf al-Sirr, 384a–b, and Arberry, Mystical Poems, 2:65.
54. For ḥabīb Allāh see Schimmel, Muhammad, 57. For Ḥalīmah of the Banī
Sa˜d, the tribe of Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s ancestors, see “Ḥalīmah Bint Abī Dhu’ayb,”
EI2, 3:94 (W. Montgomery Watt); Schimmel, Muhammad, 9, 68; Arberry, Mysti-
cal Poems, 2:66; Rubin, “Pre-existence,” 63, 103–104, and Homerin, ˜Umar Ibn
al-Fāriḍ, 309.
55. Aḥmad ibn Yaḥyā Ibn Abī Ḥajalah, al-Ghawth al-˜Āriḍ fī Mu˜āraḍat
Ibn al-Fāriḍ, Cairo: Arab League Manuscript Institute microfilm 319 (Taṣawwuf)
of manuscript 31 (Adab) Maktabat Sūhāj, Sūhāj, Egypt, 1, and see Homerin,
Arab Poet, 58. For discussion of the genre of panegyrics of the prophet Muham-
mad see Schimmel, Veil, 171–211, and Zakī Mubārak, al-Madā’iḥ al-Nabawīyah
(Cairo: Muṣṭafā al-Bābī al-Ḥalabī, 1943).
56. E.g., al-Būrīnī, Sulṭān, 1:148. Al-Nābulusī often referred to the beloved
as al-maḥbūb al-ḥaqīqī or al-maḥbūbah al-ḥaqīqīyqh (“the true/real beloved”),
that is to say, God; e.g., Kashf al-Sirr, 371a–b. Also see A.S. Ḥusayn, al-Adab
al-Ṣūfīyah, 96–102.
57. See Al-Nābulusī, Kashf al-Sirr, 386a–b. Concerning the amr, or “com-
mand,” of God see J. M. S. Baljon, “The ‘Amr of God in the Koran,” Acta
Orientalia 23 (1958):7–18; Fazlur Rahman, Major Themes of the Qur’ān (Chicago:
Bibilotheca Islamica, 1980), 97–99; Böwering, Mystical Vision, 145–46, 154–55,
268 NOTES TO CHAPTER 2

176–80, and Schimmel, Dimmensions, 223, who notes the 7th/14th c. theosophist
al-Jilī equated the amr with the al-Ḥaqīqah al-Muḥammadīyah.
58. Ibn al-Fāriḍ, Dīwān, 172, verses 53–57.
59. Of course, Sufis also applied the term ḥabīb to God as well as to
Muhammad; see Ignaz Goldziher, “Die Gottsliebe in der Islamischen Theolo-
gie,” Der Islam 9(1919):144–45.
60. Hassan El-Banna Ezz El-Din, “ ‘No Solace for the Heart:’ The Motif
of the Departing Women in the Pre-Islamic Battle Ode,” in Reorientations, ed.
S.P. Stetkevych, 165–79.
61. Jamīl, Dīwān, 39, verse 11; also see 43, verse 22, and 55, verse 9,
also quoted by Hamori, Art, 43–44.
62. See al-Daylamī, Kitāb ˜Atf al-Alif, tr. Bell and Al Shafie, Treatise,
133–34, and Böwering, Mystical Vision, 145–49.
63. Al-Kalābādhī, al-Ta˜arruf, 161. Also see Arberry, Doctrine, 166–67;
During, Musique, 164–65, and Böwering, Mystical Vision, 201–09.
64. Ibn al-Fāriḍ, Dīwān, 162–65. For other English translations see Arberry,
Mystical Poems, 2:27–34, and Wheeler M. Thackston, Jr., “The Jīmīyah,” in Intro-
duction to Classical Arabic Literature, ed. Ilse Lichtenstadler (New York: Shocken
Books, 1976), 312–14; for a French translation see L’Hôpital, Poemes, 245–63.
65. Angelika Neuwirth, “Victims Victorious: Violent Death in Classical
and Modern Arabic Ghazal,” in Ghazal, ed. T. Bauer and A. Neuwirth, 259–80.
Also see Abū Tammām, Sharh Dīwān al-Hamāsah by Aḥmad ibn Muhammad
al-Marzūqī, ed. Aḥmad Amīn and ˜Abd al-Salām Hārūn (Cairo:Maṭba˜at
Lajnat al-Ta’līf wa-al-Tarjamah wa-al-Nashr, 1952), 2:827.
66. Al-Nābulusī, Kashf al-Sirr, 349a.
67. Al-Daylamī, Kitāb ˜Atf al-alif, tr. Bell and Al Shafie, Treatise, 120.
68. See Arberrry, Mystical Poems, 2:30–34, for a brief sketch of the poem
and his notes, which are largely based on al-Būrīnī, Sulṭān, 2: 47–64, and
al-Nābulusī, Kashf al-Sirr, 348b–56a.
69. Arberry, Mystical Poems, 2:31.
70. Cf. verse 5 of the al-Lāmīyah quoted in chapter 1.
71. Al-Nābulusī, Kashf al-sirr, 354a; Arberry, Mystical Poems, 2:32, n. 15.
72. Al-Nābulusī felt that the human’s nafs (“selfishness,” “concupis-
cence”) veiled the individual from seeing true reality; Kashf al-Sirr, 353b–54a.
Also see verse 43 of al-Fā’īyah cited earlier in this chapter. For a Christian
parallel see the 14th c. English mystical classic, The Cloud of the Unknowing,
ed. Clifton Wolters (Penguin Books, 1974), 59–70.
73. Cf. al-Tusturī, who read this Qur’ānic verse as referring to the grace
of the “light of faith,” which extinguishes the “darkness of unbelief”; see
Böwering, Mystical Vision, 216–20.
74. Al-Nābulusī, Kashf al-Sirr, 358a; Arberry, Mystical Poems, 2:33, n. 26.
75. See William Chittick, “Dhikr,” in Encyclopaedia of Religion, ed. Mircea
Eliade (New York: Macmillan, 1987), 4:341–44, and During, Musique, 162–63.
76. See al-Būrīnī, Sulṭān, 2:58-60; al-Nābulusī, Kashf al-Sirr, 359a–60a;
Arberry, Mystical Poems, 2:31, 33, n. 31–34, and A.J. Naṣr, Shi˜r ˜Umar Ibn
al–Fāriḍ, 247–48.
 NOTES TO CHAPTER 3 269

77. Al-Nābulusī, Kashf al-Sirr, 360b; Arberry, Mystical Poems, 2:33, n.

33-34, and chapter 4.
78. Al-Nābulusī, Kashf al-Sirr, 360b–61b. For ghaybah and ḥudūr see
al-Qushayrī, Al-Risālah al-Qushayrīyah, ed. ˜Abd al-Ḥalīm Maḥmūd and
Maḥmūd Ibn al-Sharīf (Cairo: Dār al-Kutub al-Ḥadīthah, 1972–74), 1:232–35,
and tr. Sells in Early Islamic Mysticism, 122–24.
79. Arberry, Mystical Poems, 2:33, n. 36.
80. Al-Būrīnī, Sulṭān, 2:61, and al-Nābulusī, Kashf al-Sirr, 362a–63a;
al-Hujwirī, The Kashf, 45; al-Kalābādhī, al-Ta˜arruf, 77 (tr. Arberry, Doctrine,
64), and Arberry, Mystical Poems, 2:33, n. 38.
81. Arberry, Mystical Poems, 2: 31–34, esp. 33 nos. 36–38.
82. Ibn al-Fāriḍ, Dīwān, 172, verse 49, and al-Būrīnī, Sulṭān, 2:61.
83. Ibid., and al-Nābulusī, Kashf al-Sirr, 361b–63a.
84. Arberry, Mystical Poems, 32, n. 15.
85. Regarding the myths and stories associated with the Night Journey
and Heavenly Ascension, see Schimmel, Muhammad, 159–75. Also see Thomas
W. Arnold, Painting in Islam (New York: Dover Press, 1965), 117–22. ill. LVIII,
and Christine Jacqueline Gruber, “The Prophet Muhammad’s Ascension (Mi’raj)
in Islamic Painting and Literature: Evidence from Cairo Collections,” Bulletin
of the American Research Center in Egypt, no. 185 (Summer, 2004):24–31.
86. Al-Nābulusī, Kashf al-Sirr, 364a–b, and see al-Būrīnī, Sulṭān, 2:63.
Arberry thought both terms should be ascribed to the lover “illustrating his
abject eagerness to clutch at any straw”; Mystical Poems, 2:34, n. 42.
87. Ibn al-Fāriḍ, Dīwān, 62, and also see Arberry’s translation, Mystical
Poems, 2:121.
88. For verse 77 of the al-Tā’īyah al-Ṣughrā see al-Būrīnī, Sulṭān, 1:138,
and Arberry, Mystical Poems, 2:128, n. 77.
89. See Arberry, Mystical Poems, 2:30–31, who speaks of “key-words.”
90. Cf. Böwering’s comment’s on al-Tusturī’s view of the day of the
Covenant and the Judgment Day: “Seen against the background of primordial
covenant (mīthāq) and post-existential theophany (tajallī), the spiritual knowl-
edge achieved by mystic man reactualizes his primal past and anticipates his
eschatological future”; Mystical Vision, 229.
91. Stanley E. Fish, Self-Consuming Artifacts (Berkeley: University of
California Press, 1972), 158.
92. Concerning God’s merciful guidance to humanity see Rahman,
Themes, 9, and al-Tusturī’s notion of “recollection of God by virtue of the
Object of recollection (al-dhikr bi-l-madhkūr)”; Böwering, Mystical Vision, 205–206.

Chapter 3: Joined at the Crossroads

1. Al-Mufaḍḍalīyāt, ed. Aḥmad Muhammad Shākir and ˜Abd al-Salām
Muhammad Hārūn, 7th printing (Cairo: Dār al-Ma˜ārif, 1983), 132–34. Also
see Charles Lyall’s translation and notes in The Mufaddalīyāt: an Anthology of
Ancient Arabian Odes (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1918), 2:90–92. For a finely
270 NOTES TO CHAPTER 3

nuanced discussion of the classical Arabic ode see the works of Jaroslav
Stetkevych, especially Zephyrs, and his “Toward an Arabic Elegiac Lexicon:
the Seven Words of the Nasīb,” in Reorientations, ed. S.P. Stetkevych, 58–129.
Also see the articles in S. Sperl and C. Shackle, eds., Qasida Poetry, especially
Renate Jacobi’s “The Origins of the Qasida Form,” 1:21–34, and her “qasīda,”
in EAL, 2:630–33. For translations of some early odes also see Michael A.
Sells, Desert Tracings: Six Classical Odes by ˜Alqama, Shanfara, Labid, ˜Antara,
Al-A˜sha, and Dhu ar-Rumma (Middletown: Wesleyan University Press,
1993).
2. The poet’s patron may have been the Ghassānid ruler al-Ḥārith ibn
Mārīyah al-˜Araj (d. 569); see Lyall, Mufaddalīyāt, 2:90.
3. E.g., Ch. Lyall, “The Pictorial Aspects of Ancient Arabian Poetry,”
Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society (1912):133–52; R.A. Nicholson, A Literary His-
tory of the Arabs (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1907), 77–79; Alfred
Bloch, “Qasida,” Asiatisch Studien 2 (1948):106–32; H. A. R. Gibb, Arabic Lit-
erature (Oxford: The Clarendon Press, 1963), 21–22; Renate Jacobi, Studien zur
Poetik der altararabischen Qaside (Wiesbaden: F. Steiner, 1971); Andras Hamori,
Art, 3–30; Kemal Abu Deeb, “Towards a Structural Analysis of Pre-Islamic
Poetry, Pt. I,” International Journal of Middle Eastern Studies 6 (1975):148–84,
and Pt. II, Edebiyat 1 (1976):3–69, and A. Haydar, “The Mu’allaqa of Imru’
al-Qays: Its Structure and Meaning,” Pt. I, Edebiyat 2 (1977):227–61, and Pt.
II, Edebiyat 3 (1978):51–82.
4. E.g., J. Stetkevych, Zephyrs; his “Some Observations on Arabic
Poetry,” Journal of Near Eastern Studies, 26 (1967):2–3.; his “The Arabic Lyri-
cal Phenomenon in Context,” Journal of Arabic Literature 6 (1975):55–77, and
especially his “The Arabic Qaṣīdah: From Form and Content to Mood and
Meaning,” Harvard Ukrainian Studies 3–4 (1979– 80):774–81.
5. J. Stetkevych, “Arabic Qaṣīdah,” 778–81.
6. Suzanne P. Stetkevych, “Structuralist Interpretations of Pre-Islamic
Poetry: Critique in New Directions,” Journal of Near Eastern Studies, 42
(1983):85–107, and especially her The Mute Immortals Speak. Also see Khairal-
lah, Madness, 21–23.
7. Al-Mufaḍ ḍ alīyāt, 345–46, and also see Lyall’s translation, The
Mufaḍḍalīyāt, 2:268–69, 283–85.
8. See especially, Suzanne Stekevych, “Pre-Islamic Panegyric and the
Poetics of Redemption,” in Reorientations, ed. S.P. Stetkevych, 1–49, and Hamori,
Art, 11–19, 26–27. Also see Victor Turner, The Ritual Process: Structure and Anti-
Structure (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1977), 94–95; Marcel Mauss,
The Gift: Forms and Functions of Exchange in Archaic Societies, tr. Ian Cunnison
(New York: Norton and Co., 1967), and Theodor H. Gaster, Thespis: Ritual,
Myth, and Drama in the Ancient Near East (New York: Norton and Co., 1977).
9. J. Stetkevych, “Arabic Qaṣīdah,” 781–82; his “A Qaṣīdah by Ibn
Muqbil,” Journal of Arabic Literature 37 (2006):303–54, and S. P. Stetkevych,
“Structuralist Interpretations,” 98–107.
10. See Renate Jacobi, “The Camel Section of the Panegyrical Ode,” Journal
of Arabic Literature 13 (1982):1–22; Hamori, Art, 31–38, and Th. Emil Homerin,
 NOTES TO CHAPTER 3 271

“A Bird Ascends the Night: Elegy and Immortality in Islam,” Journal of the
American Academy of Religion 58 (1991):541–73.
11. S.P. Stetkevych, “Abbasid Panegyric,” 1:35–63, and her The Poetics
of Islamic Legitimacy: Myth, Gender, and Ceremony in the Classical Arabic Ode
(Bloomington, IN: University of Indiana Press, 2002). Also see Sperl, Man-
nerism, 9–27, and the introduction.
12. Jacobi, “Camel Section,” and also see M. M. Badawi, “From Primary
to Secondary Qaṣīdas,” Journal of Arabic Literature 11 (1980):1–31; G. E. Von
Grunebaum, “Aspects of Urban Literature Mostly in the Ninth and Tenth Cen-
turies,” in Themes In Medieval Arabic Literature, ed. Dunning S. Wilson (London:
Variorum Reprints, 1981) IV:281–300 (esp. 288–95), and his “The Response to
Nature in Arabic Poetry,” in Themes, VII:137–51.
13. Ibn Qutaybah, al-Shi˜r, 15; tr. Nicholson, History, 77–78. Also see
Jacobi, “Camel Section,” 1–3, 16–21, and Sperl, Mannerism, 26.
14. See Abū Nuwās’ journey from Baghdad to Egypt; Dīwān Abī Nuwās,
ed. Ahmad ˜Abd al-Majīd al-Ghazzālī (Cairo: Maṭba˜at Miṣr, 1953), 480–83, and
al-Mutanabbī, Dīwān, 3:372, verses 31–33.
15. Al-Mutanabbī, Dīwān, 1:319, verse 19.
16. There are several versions of this ode. I have followed Ibn
Abī Uṣaybicah, ˜Uyūn al-Anbā’ fī Ṭabaqāt al-Aṭibbā’ (Cairo: al-Maṭba˜ah
al-Waḥḥabīyah, 1882), 2:10. Also see Ibn Khallikān, Wafayāt, 2:160–61 (para-
phrased by de Slane, Ibn Khallikan, 1:443); A.J. Arberry’s translation in Avicenna:
Scientist and Philosopher, ed. G.M. Wickens (London: Luzac & Co., 1952), 28,
and Mohd. Badruddin Alavi, “Some Aspects of the Literary and Poetical
Activities of Avicenna,” in Avicenna Commemoration Volume, ed. V. Courtois
(Calcutta: Iran Society, 1956), 65–72.
17. For more on Ibn Sīnā’s doctrine of the soul see Henry Corbin, Avicenna
and the Visionary Recital, tr. Willard R. Trask (New York: Pantheon Books, 1960).
18. Al-Kātib al-Iṣfahānī, Kharīdat al-Qaṣr wa-Jarīdat al-˜Aṣr (Damascus:
al-Maṭba˜ah al-Hāshmīyah, 1955), 2:316, and see Homerin, “Preaching Poetry.”
19. Ibn Khallikān, Wafayāt, 3:49–51; and also see de Slane’s paraphrase
and symbolist interpretation, Ibn Khallikān, 2:31–32.
20. See chapter 2. For ta’ammaltu, see the verse by ˜Umar al-Suhrawardī
in the introduction.
21. Homerin, “Preaching Poetry,” 90–91, 97, 100–101.
22. Ibn Khallikān, Wafayāt, 3:49–51.
23. Alī Ṣafā Ḥusayn, Ibn al-Kīzānī, 135, and also see his similar short
odes, 116, 130–31, 134. Several qasīdahs are also ascribed to Abū Madyan; see
his Dīwān, 81–82.
24. Ibn al-˜Arabī, Turjumān al-Ashwāq, 71–74, and also see Nicholson’s
translation, The Tarjumán, 82–83, and that of Sells, Stations of Desire, 119–121.
25. Ibn al-˜Arabī, Turjumān al-Ashwāq, 71–74, and see Nicholson’s trans-
lation, The Tarjumán, 82–83.
26. Sells, Stations, 141.
27. Ibn al-˜Arabī, Turjumān al-Ashwāq, 71–74, and see Nicholson’s trans-
lation, The Tarjumán, 82–83.
272 NOTES TO CHAPTER 3

28. See Yāqūt, Mu˜jam al-Buldān (Beirut: Dār Aḥyā’ al-Turāth al-˜Arabī,
1979), 3:139; 4:92.
29. See Sells, Stations, 26–30, 139–49. Also see a poem ascribed to Abū
Madyan in which the poet mentions the prophet Muhammad and various
pilgrimage stops, including the well of Zamzam and the black stone, as he
seeks God’s forgiveness; Abū Madyan, Dīwān, 86–87.
30. Ibn Khallikān, Wafayāt, 1:168–70 (also see deSlane’s paraphrase, Ibn
Khallikān, 1:150–51). For Ibn al-˜Arīf see EI2, 3:712–13 (A. Faure).
31. Ibn al-Fāriḍ, Dīwān, 149, verses 1–2.
32. Ibid., 152, verse 1. For other examples of Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s use of
rhetorical questions see, Ṣādiq, Shi˜r Ibn al-Fāriḍ: Dirāsah Uslūbīyah, 102–105.
33. Ibn al-Fāriḍ, Dīwān, 55, verses 1–5.
34. Ibid., 144, verses 1–4.
35. See al-Būrīnī, Sulṭān, 2:13–15, and Arberry, Mystical Poems, 2:24, n. 1–4.
36. Ibid.
37. Concerning the burdah, see Schimmel, Muhammad, 180, and her Dimen-
sions, 225, for the burdah’s curative powers; also see “Burda,” EI2, 1:1314–15
(R. Basset).
38. Ibn al-Fāriḍ, Dīwān, 36, verses 1–3.
39. Ibid., 154, verse 1. Cf. a verse by Ibn al-Kīzānī (Husayn, Ibn al-Kīzānī,
106, v. 1):
yā ḥādī-l-˜īsi iṣṭabir sā˜atan fa-muhjatī sārat ma˜a-r-rakbi
Oh driver of the roan camels, stay awhile
for my heart travels with the riders!
40. Ibid., 144, verse 5 ff., and also see Ibn al-Fāriḍ, Dīwān, 55, verse 7ff.,
149, verse 3ff., and 157, verse 3ff.
41. Ibn al-Fāriḍ, Dīwān, 57, verse 20.
42. E.g., ibid., 56, verse 12, and 60, verse 56.
43. Ibid., 40–41, verses 51–57.
44. Al-Būrīnī, Sulṭān, 1:42, and Arberry, Mystical Poems, 2:111, n. 53–56.
45. Al-Nābulusī, Kashf al-Sirr, 56b–58a.
46. Ibn al-Fāriḍ, Dīwān, 43–44, verses 81–90.
47. Jalāl al-Dīn al-Suyūṭī, al-Barq al-Wāmiḍ fī Sharḥ Yā’īyat Ibn al-Fāriḍ,
manuscript 881 (Shi˜r Taymūr), Cairo: Dār al-Kutub al-Miṣrīyah, 23. For this
ḥadīth also see Graham, Divine Word, 161–62, and chapter 5 where Ibn al-Fāriḍ
refers to this tradition more explicitly in his al-Tā’īyah al-Kubrā.
48. Regarding this passage, al-Suyūṭī suggests that though the poet may
follow the mystic path toward total selflessness, experiencing moments of great
profundity, he can never know the everlasting bliss of the beatific vision in
this life, as the prophet Muhammad related in a tradition: “You will not see
your Lord until you die”; see al-Suyūṭī, al-Barq al-Wāmiḍ, 23–24. Also al-Būrīnī,
Sulṭān, 1:54–58; al-Nābulusī, Kashf al-Sirr, 56b–58a, and Arberry’s translation and
comments, Mystical Poems, 2:102–103, 112–13, n. 82–90.
49. Ibid., 151, verses 24–26, and cf. Ibn al–Fāriḍ, Dīwān, 157, verses 34–37.
50. Ibn al-Fāriḍ, Dīwān, 153, verses 14–18.
 NOTES TO CHAPTER 3 273

51. For the Majnūn saga, see Ibn Qutaybah, al-Shi˜r, 355–64. A trans-
lation of this account and analysis of the love cycle is found in Khairallah,
Madness, esp. 135–43. For a complete translation of this ode by Ibn al-Fāriḍ,
see Homerin, Arab Poet, 5–9.
52. Cf. Ibn al-Fāriḍ, Dīwān, 149–51.
53. Ibn al-Fāriḍ, Dīwān, 49, verses 145–51, and cf. Ibn al-Fāriḍ, Dīwān,
148, verses 45–50; 65, verses 101–103.
54. For more details regarding Ibn Fāriḍ’s elaborate rhetorical devices
(badī˜) in these verses see al-Suyūṭī, al-Barq al-Wāmiḍ, 35–37; al-Būrīnī, Sulṭān,
1:81–84, and chapter 1.
55. This is Quaṣi ibn Kilāb; see al-Suyūṭī, al-Barq al-Wāmiḍ, 37; al-Būrīnī,
Sulṭān, 1:81–84, and Arberry, Mystical Poems, 2:107, 116, n. 151.
56. See, for example, Muṣṭafā Maḥmūd Ḥilmī, Ibn al-Fāriḍ wa-al-Ḥubb
al-Ilāhī, 2nd. ed. (Cairo: Maṭb˜at Miṣr, 1971), 48–51. On the importance and power
of names in classical Arabic poetry see J. Stetkevych, Zephyrs of Najd, 103, 114.
57. See Arberry’s notes to these names throughout his translations, and
Schimmel, Muhammad, 189.
58. Ibn al-Fāriḍ, Dīwān, 55–56, verses 7–11.
59. Concerning these specific place-names, see al-Būrīnī, Sulṭān, 1:111–13,
and Arberry, Mystical Poems, 2:125, n. 7–10, based on Yāqūt, Mu˜jam al-Buldān.
Also see J. Stetkevych, Zephyrs, 87–88.
60. Ibn al-Fāriḍ, Dīwān, 149, verses 3–7, and 59, verses 42–45.
61. Concerning these place names see Yāqūt, Mu˜jam al-Buldān, and
Arberry, Mystical Poems, 2:37, n. 4–6.
62. Ibn al-Fāriḍ, Dīwān, 146, verses 27–31, and J. Stetkevych, Zephyrs, 87–88.
63. Ibn al-Fāriḍ, Dīwān, 59, verses 42–47.
64. For more on the glance, see chapter 5.
65. See al-Būrīnī, Sulṭān, 1:125, and Arberry, Mystical Poems, 2:126–27,
n. 42–43.
66. Ibn al-Fāriḍ, Dīwān, 62–63, verses 81–83, preferring ṣabwatī for ghurbati
in verse 82; also cf. ibid., 147–48, verses 41–44.
67. Cf. the verse by Majnūn cited in chapter 2, n. 13.
68. See al-Sarrāj, al-Luma˜, 222–30, esp. 228–29; al-Hujwirī, Kashf al-Maḥjūb,
ed. by Valentin Zhukovskii, (Leningrad: Maṭbacat Dār al-˜Ulūm, 1926), 425–26,
and tr. Nicholson, The Kashf, 328. Note the use of ishtiqāq, or etymological deri-
vation, as a means of commentary.
69. For further parallels between al-Junayd and Ibn al-Fāriḍ, see chap-
ter 5. Also cf. Ibn al-Fāriḍ, Dīwān, 40, verses 45–48; 52, verse 26; 75; 147–48,
verses 40–50.
70. Ibn Jubayr, Riḥlat Ibn Jubayr (Beirut: Dār al-Sādir, 1964), 152–53, tr.
R. J. C. Broadhurst in Classical Arabic Literature, ed. L. Lichtenstadler, 389–90.
71. For example see Hujwirī, Kashf, 422, tr. Nicholson, The Kashf, 326–27.
For more interpretations of the pilgrimage, see al-Ghazālī, Iḥyā’, 1:267–73, and
G. E. Von Grunebaum, Muhammadan Festivals (New York: Olive Branch Press,
1988), 44–49.
274 NOTES TO CHAPTER 3

72. J. Stekevych, Zephyrs, 88.

73. Sibṭ al-Marṣafī, Fatḥ al-Makkī al-Fā’iḍ Sharḥ Yā’īyat Ibn al-Fāriḍ,
manuscript 1566 (Adab), Cairo: Dār al-Kutub al-Misrīyah, 44b–45a. Also see
J. Stetkevych, Zephyrs, 100–101.
74. Ibn al-Fāriḍ, Dīwān, 154–57.
75. See Jaroslav Stetkevych, “Name and Epithet: The Philology and Semi-
otics of Animal Nomenclature in Early Arabic Poetry,” Journal of Near Eastern
Studies 45 (1986):89–124.
76. See al-Būrīnī, Sulṭān, 2:64–78, and al-Nābulusī, Kashf al-Sirr, 301b–11a.
Al-Nābulusī felt that the camel driver symbolized both God and the Light of
Muhammad, which was created from God’s light; ibid., 301a–302b.
77. Al-Nābulusī, Kashf al-Sirr, 303a–306a, and also see al-Būrīnī, Sulṭān,
2:69–71; Arberry, Mystical Poems, 2:43, n. 7–14, and A. J. Naṣr, Shi˜r ˜Umar Ibn
al-Fāriḍ, 195–203.
78. Ghurayyib, ˜Umar Ibn al-Fāriḍ, 143–46.
79. Beginning at Yanbu˜ (lat. 24° 05’ – long. 38° 03’), the caravan passes
on to al-Dahnā’, then to Badr (23° 44’ – 38° 46’), al-Naqā, Waddān, and Rābigh
(22° 48’ – 39° 02’), Qudayd (22° 27’ – 39° 06’), Khulayṣ (22° 09’ – 39° 19’), ˜Usfān
(21° 55’ – 39° 22’), to Marr al-Ẓahrān, a valley near Mecca, then to al-Jumūm
(21° 37’ – 39° 42’), al-Qaṣr (probably Qaṣr Ibn ˜Amr near Mecca), al-Daknā’
and then entering the environs of Mecca, al-Tan˜īm (21° 29’ – 39° 48’) where
many pilgrims enter the state of ritual purity; see the United States Board on
Geographic Names, Official Standard Names Gazetteer: Saudi Arabia (Washington
D. C., 1978); Yāqūt, Mu˜jam al-Buldān, 2:225, 493; 3:11, 342; 4:63, 121, 355; 5:365,
and Arberry, Mystical Poems, 2:43, n. 12. Probably the unidentified names, too,
such as al-Naqā’ (“the sand dune,” “purity”) and al-Daknā’ (“the black place”)
refer to lesser known alighting places. For more on the Cairo-Mecca Hajj route
see ˜Abdullah ˜Ankawi, “The Pilgrimage to Mecca in Mamluk Times,” Arabian
Studies 1 (1974):146–70.
80. Ibn al-Fāriḍ made the pilgrimage at least twice, once when a young
man and, again in 628/1231 four years before his death; see Homerin, ˜Umar
Ibn al-Fāriḍ, 305, 324.
81. For al-Ḥajūn and its cemetery see Yāqūt, Mu˜jam al-Buldān, 2:225.
Concerning the awtād, see al-Nābulusī, Kashf al-Sirr, 305b–306a; Schimmel,
Mystical Dimensions, 200–203, and Böwering, Mystical Vision, 236–37.
82. Regarding these places, see Von Grunebaum, Muhammadan Festicals,
15–49, and Arberry, Mystical Poems, 2:44, n. 22–26. Concerning the Sufi implica-
tions of jam˜ (“union”) see al-Qushayrī, Risālah, 1:222–25 (tr. Sells, Early Islamic
Mysticism, 116–19).
83. For this divine saying see Schimmel, Mystical Dimensions, 190, and
the introduction.
84. Al-Būrīnī, Sulṭān, 2:76; al-Nābulusī, Kashf al-Sirr, 309a–310a, and
Arberry, Mystical Poems, 2:44–45, n. 33. For more on Muhammad’s mi˜rāj,
see EI2, 7:97–103 (J.E. Bencheikh); Encyclopaedia of the Qur’ān, (EQ) 1:176–8
(M. Sells); Schimmel, Muhammad, 159–75, and chapter 2.
 NOTES TO CHAPTER 4 275

85. Abraham was known as the khalīl (friend) of God. See al-Hujwirī
for a mystical interpretation of this Station in Kashf, 423–26 (tr. Nicholson, The
Kashf, 326–28).
86. For wārid see Hujwirī, The Kashf, tr. Nicholson, 385, 404, 407, and
Arberry, Mystical Poems, 2:45, n. 34.
87. Concerning the sites mentioned in verses 35–36 and other places in
and around the Ka˜bah see Ibn Jubayr’s description in Riḥlah Ibn Jubayr, 59–81,
partially translated by Broadhurst in Lichtenstadler, ed., Introduction, 378–92,
and see Arberry’s references; Mystical Poems, 2: 45, n. 35–36. Regarding Ibn
al-Fāriḍ’s language of hope that ends many, though not all of his odes, see
J. Stetkevych, Zephyrs, 88–89.
88. Arberry, Mystical Poems, 2:45, n. 37. Concerning Ka˜b ibn Zuhayr and
his panegyric to Muhammad, see Michael Sells, “Bānat Su˜ād: translation and
introduction,” JAL 21 (1990):140–54.
89. Cf. al-Tusturī’s doctrine of the two Days in Böwering, Mystical
Vision, 229–30.

Chapter 4: The Beloved’s Wine

1. Imrū’ al-Qays, Sharḥ Dīwān Imrū’ al-Qays (Beirut: Dār al-Ṣādir,
n.d.), 163, verses 7–9, and see Muhammad Muhammad Ḥusayn, Asālīb
al-Ṣinā˜ā fī Shi˜r al-Khamr wa-al-Naqā bayn al-A˜shā wa-al-Jāhilīyīn (Alexandria:
Munsha’at al-Ma˜ārif, 1960), 7–8; Īliyā Hāwī, Fann al-Shi˜r al-Khamrī (Beirut:
Dār al-Thaqāfah, 1960), 9-75; EI2, 4: 998–1002 (J.E. Bencheikh); Abdulla El
Tayib, “Pre-Islamic Poetry,” in CHALUP, 100–102, and F. Harb, “Wine Poetry
(Khamriyyāt),” in CHALABL, 219–22.
2. Concerning Imru’ al-Qays, see EI2, 3:1176 (S. Boustany), and EAL,
1:394–95 (R. Jacobi).
3. Al-Ḥusayn ibn Aḥmad al-Zawzanī, Sharḥ al-Mu˜allaqāt al-Sab˜
(Damascus: n.p., 1963), 118–19, verses 1–5. Concerning ˜Amr ibn Kulthūm,
see EI2, 1:452 (R. Blachère), and EAL, 1:87–88 (J.E. Montgomery).
4. Al-A˜shā, Dīwān, ed. Muḥammad Muḥammad Ḥusayn (Beirut:
Mu’assasat al-Risālah, 1963), 109, verses 36–44; see Michael Sells, Desert Trac-
ings, 57–66, for another translation of these verses and the entire poem. For
more on al-A˜shā see EI2, 1:689–90 (W. Caskel); EAL, 1: 107 (T. Bauer); Hāwī,
al-Shi˜r al-Khamrī, 27–59; Philip F. Kennedy, The Wine Song in Classical Arabic
Poetry (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1997), esp. 245–61, and John Dennis Hyde,
“A Study of the Poetry of Maymun Ibn Qays al-A˜sha,” Ph.D. diss., Princeton
University, 1977.
5. Al-Zawzanī, al-Sab˜, 146, verses 39–41. For ˜Antarah see EI2, 1:521–22
(R. Blachère); EAL, 1:94 (T. Bauer), and Sells, Desert Tracings, 45–56, for a transla-
tion of the entire poem; for more on ˜Antarah and wine see Kennedy, Wine Song,
152–54. Also see Labīd’s Mu˜allaqah for another example; al-Zawzanī, al-Sab˜,
109–10, verses 55–61, and Sell’s translation of the ode, Desert Tracings, 32–44.
276 NOTES TO CHAPTER 4

6. Quoted by Abū Tammām, Sharḥ Dīwān, 2:875–78.

7. See Th. Emil Homerin, “Echoes of a Thirsty Owl: Death and Afterlife
in Pre-Islamic Arabic Poetry,” Journal of Near Eastern Studies 44 (1985):165–84.
8. Ṭarafah ibn al-˜Abd, Dīwān (Beirut: Dār al-Ṣādir, 1961), 30–31,
verses 47–51; for a translation of the complete poem see Michael Sells, “The
Mu˜allaqa of Ṭarafa,” Journal of Arabic Literature 17 (1986): 21–33. Concerning
this poet see EI2, 10:219–20 (J.E. Montgomery), and EAL, 2:759 (T. Bauer).
For more on wine and blood vengeance see S. P. Stetkevych, Mute Immortals
Speak, 42–43, 55–118, 228, 282–83.
9. Abū Faraj al-Isfahānī, Kitāb al-Āghānī (Beirut: Dār al-Tawjīh
al-Lubnānī, n.d.), 16:15. For more on the Arab courts see Nicholson, Literary
History, 30–54, esp. 53 for his translation of this passage. Also see EI2, 4:998,
1002 (J.E. Bencheikh).
10. Quoted in Louis Cheikho, Shu˜arā’ al-Naṣrānīyah ba˜d al-Islām (Bei-
rut: Imprimerie Catholique, 1924–27), 183. Concerning al-Akhtal see Cheikho,
ibid, 170–91; al-Isfahānī, al-Āghānī, 7: 169–88; Hāwī, al-Shi˜r al-Khamrī, who
also cites this poem, 106–107, 97–128, 387–420; EI2, 1:331 (R. Blachère); EI2,
4:1002 (J.E. Bencheikh); EAL 1:67–68 (G.J.H. Van Gelder), and Kennedy,
Wine Song, 94–100. For more on Christian poets and Christian influences on
Arabic poetry see Cheikho, ibid.; his Shu˜arā’ al-Naṣrnīyah, 2nd ed. (Beirut:
Dār al-Mashriq, 1967), and Shawqī Dayf, Ta’rīkh al-Adab al-˜Ārabī (Cairo: Dār
al-Ma˜ārif, 1982), 1:97–103.
11. Also see Hāwī’s commentary, al-Shi˜r al-Khamrī, 107–108.
12. Ibid., 140–46, 163–70; also see the extensive entry “khamriyya,” EI2,
4:998–1009 (J. E. Bencheikh); “khamriyya” in EAL, 1:433–35 (G. Scholler/A.
Giese), and Fuat Sezgin, Geshichte des Arabischen Schrifttmus (Leiden: E. J. Brill,
1975) 2: 326–27. For al-Uqayshir, see EI2, 4:1002–1003 (J.E. Bencheikh), and
EAL, 2:795 (P.F. Kennedy).
13. EI2, 4:1003–1004, 1008 (J.E. Bencheikh), and Harb, “Wine Poetry,”
224–26. For al-Walīd ibn Yazīd see EI2, 11:128–29 (H. Kennedy and Renate
Jacobi); EAL, 2:803 (R. Jacobi); his Dīwān, ed. F. Gabrielli (Damascus: Maṭba˜at
Ibn Zaydūn, 1937); Dieter Derenk, Leben und Dichtung des Omayyaden Kalifen
Al-Walīd Ibn Yazīd (Freiburg: K. Schwarz, 1974), and Hāwī, al-Shi˜r al-Khamrī,
120–28. For the Qur’ānic prohibitions and Islamic laws against wine see EI2, 4:
994–97 (A.J. Wensink and J. Sadan), and also see Ignaz Goldziher, Muhammed-
anische Studien (Halle, 1880–90), 1:19–33; translated by C. R. Barber and S.
M. Stern in Muslim Studies (London: George Allen & Unwin, 1967), 1:27–38.
14. Abū Nuwās, Dīwān, ed. Ewald Wagner (Wiesbaden: Franz Steiner,
1988), 3:106. Also see Yaseen Noorani, “Heterotopia and the Wine Poem
in Early Islamic Culture,” International Journal of Middle Eastern Studies 36
(2004):345–66; Hamori, Art, 47–60, and the detailed studies of the poet by
Philip F. Kennedy, Wine Song, esp., 194–244, and his Abu Nuwas: A Genius
of Poetry (Oxford: Oneworld, 2005), esp. 57–78. Also see EI2, 4:1004–1005
(J.E. Bencheikh); EAL, 1:41–43 (G. Schoeler/A. Giese); Scholer, “Bashshār B.
Burd,” CHALABL, 290–95, Harb, “Wine Poetry,” CHALABL, 227–31, and J. E.
 NOTES TO CHAPTER 4 277

Bencheikh, “Thèmes bachiques et personnages dans le dīwān d’Abū Nuwās,”

Bulletin d’études orientales 18 (1963–64):1–84.
15. Abū Nuwās, Dīwān, ed. Ewald Wagner, 3:106. Ahlwardt’s reads
alịtnī (“to bugger”) in place of aḷtinī (“to cover, protect”) in the final verse;
Dīwān des Abu Nowas, ed. Wilhelm Ahlwardt (Greifwalt: C. A. Koch, 1861), 39.
16. Abū Nuwās, Dīwān, ed. Wagner, 3:61, verses 1–3, and see Hamori’s
translation, Art, 71–73. Also see Kennedy, Wine Song, 43, 86–148, and Noorani,
“Heterotopia,” 350–54.
17. Abū Nuwās, Dīwān, ed. Wagner, 3:280–81, and see Hāwī, al-Shi˜r
al-Khamrī, 257–62; Hamori’s translation, Art, 65–67, and Noorani, “Heteroto-
pia,” 354–61.
18. See Hāwī, who reads mukhallịs instead of mukhallaṣ (al-Shi˜r al-Khamrī,
257–62), and Hamori who also notes possible Manichean influences on this
poem; Art, 66–67. Other verses ascribed to Abū Nuwās also refer to the
primordial wine:
Leave the Bedouin to weep over wormwoods,
flatlands, and wastelands,
And turn aside to us whose morning drink is an aged wine
whose ancient era (min qidmi-˜ahdihā) reminds you (tudhkiru) of Noah.
See Ibrāhīm ibn al-Qāsim Raqīq al-Qayrawānī, Quṭb al-Surūr fī Awṣāf al-
Khamr, ed. Aḥmad Jundī (Damascus: al-Muqaddamah, 1969), 563; Abū Nuwās,
Dīwān, ed. Wagner, 3: 86, 96, 98, and Kennedy, Wine Song, 132–48, 177–80.
19. Regarding wine verse in the late Abbasid and Ayyubid periods see
EI2, 4:1005–1006 (J.E. Bencheikh); M. K. Ḥusayn, Dirāsāt, 147–53; Rikābī, La
Poésie, 250–52, Harb, “Wine Poetry,” 231–32, and for an example see Bahā’
al-Dīn Zuhayr, Works, 1:92–94 (tr. Palmer, 2: 109–10); for wine poetry from
Andalusia, see Michael Sells, “Love,” in Menocal, ed., CHALLOA, 134–140.
20. Regarding Ma˜arrī, see Suzanne Stetkevych, “Intoxication and
Immortality: Wine and Honey in al-Ma˜arrī’s Garden,” in Critical Pilgrim-
ages: Studies in the Arabic Literary Tradition, ed. Fedwa Multi-Douglas (Austin:
University of Texas Press, 1990), 29–48.
21. Concerning the doctrines of intoxication and sobriety see al-Sarrāj,
al-Luma˜, 415–17; al-Qushayrī, Risālah, 1:236–38 (tr. Sells, Early Islamic Mysti-
cism, 124–26); al-Kalābādhī, al-Ta˜arruf, 116–17 (tr. Arberry, Doctrine, 110–12);
al-Hujwirī, Kashf, 230–35 (tr. Nicholson, The Kashf, 184–88), and Schimmel,
Dimensions, 58–59. Also see chapter 5. For a general introduction to Sufi wine
imagery see ˜Aṭif Jawdah Naṣr, al-Ramz al-Shi˜rī ˜inda al-Ṣūfīyah (Beirut: Dār
al-Andalus, 1978), 328–84, and EI2, 4: 1006 (J.E. Bencheikh).
22. Al-Kalābādhī, al-Ta˜arruf, 117.
23. Al-Qushayrī, Risālah, 1:237.
24. Abū Nuwās, Dīwān, ed. Wagner, 3:107, verse 5, and see Homerin,
“Tangled Words,” 190–93. For a similar example in love poetry, see van Gelder,
“Rābi˜a’s Poem,” 73–75.
25. Al-Ḥallāj, Sharḥ Dīwān, 1:251–52, also quoted by Schimmel, Veil, 33,
and see Harb, “Wine Poetry,” 232–34.
278 NOTES TO CHAPTER 4

26. Al-Kātib al-Iṣfahānī, Kharīdat, 2:320.

27. Cornell, Abū Madyan, Arabic text 157, 159, my translation; Abū
Madyan, Dīwān, 59–60. Also see Cornell’s complete translation, 156, 158, and
Naṣr, al-Ramz (359–66), who quotes and analyzes another wine ode said to
have been composed by Abū Madyan, but not found in his Dīwān.
28. For further references to wine, recollection, and gnosis in verse
ascribed to Abū Madyan, see his Dīwān, esp. 70–79; in one poem (66–67),
wine is also a symbol for God’s gift of prophecy to Adam, Noah, Abraham,
Moses, Jesus, and Muhammad.
29. There are several versions of this poem. My translation is based on
the text of Yāqūt, Mu˜jam al-Udabā’ (Cairo: Dār al-Ma’mūn, 1936), 19:316–19,
but with several variants found in Ibn Khallikān’s, Wafayāt, 1:271–72 and
Muḥammad ibn Maḥmūd al-Shāhrazūrī’s, Nuzhat al-Arwāḥ wa-Rawḍat al-Afrāḥ,
233–35. Also see the Arabic edition of Otto Spies and S.K. Khattak in their
Three Treatises, 103–105, and the English translation by S.H. Nadeem, Critical
Appreciation, 124–32. For more on Yaḥyā al-Suhrawardī, see the introduction.
30. The divine light is a central feature of al-Suhrawardī’s theosophi-
cal doctrines of illumination; see John Walbridge, The Leaven of the Ancients:
Suhrawardī and the Heritage of the Greeks (Albany: State University of New
York Press, 2000), and Schimmel, Mystical Dimensions, 259–63. The “Light
Verse” had been interpreted mystically prior to al-Suhrawardī; see for example
al-Ghazālī’s Mishkāt al-Anwār.
31. Cf. al-Tusturī’s earlier views on these matters in Böwering, Mystical
Vision, 184–230.
32. Ibn al-Fāriḍ, Dīwān, 173, verses 1–7.
33. See Kennedy, Wine Song, esp. 19–85. Also see Stefan Sperl’s transla-
tion and brief analysis of this poem in his “Qasida Form and Mystic Path in
13th Century Egypt: A Poem by Ibn al-Fāriḍ,” in Qasida Poetry, ed. S. Sperl
and C. Shackle, 1:70–74; 2:106–11, and see the conclusion.
34. See chapter 2. Arberry interprets the beloved of this ode as being
the Spirit of Muhammad who prays as the “Great Imam”; Mystical Poems,
2:92–93, n. 8–9.
35. Ibn al-Fāriḍ, Dīwān, 173, verses 8–9.
36. Dīwān Majnūn Laylā, ed. ˜Abd al-Sattār Ahmad Farrāj (Cairo: Mak-
tabat Miṣr, 1963), 294, verses 37–38, also quoted by Khairallah, Madness, 100.
Concerning the beloved as an object of ˜Udhrī worship also see Djedidi, Uḍrites,
79–86, and Vadet, L’Esprit, 249–63. Also see Sperl, “Qasida Form,” 68–71.
37. Al-Būrīnī Sulṭān, 2:122, and Arberry, Mystical Poems, 2:93, n. 8.
38. Al-Nābulusī, Kashf al-Sirr, 406a–407b, and see Arberry, Mystical Poems,
2:92, n. 8–9. Also see verses ascribed to Abū Bakr ibn ˜Abd al-Raḥmān ibn
al-Miswar ibn Mukhramah similarly invoking labbayka cited by Ibn Qutaybah,
al-Shi˜r wa-l-Shu˜arā’, 355–56, and quoted by Khairallah, Madness, 136, and
Sperl, “Qasida Form,” 68.
39. Ibn al-Fāriḍ, Dīwān, 175, verses 10–26, and see al-Nābalusī’s inter-
pretation, Kashf al-Sirr, 407b–10a.
 NOTES TO CHAPTER 4 279

40. E.g., verses 11, 12: qalb/“heart”; verses 12, 15: ma˜nā/ “subtle sense,”
“essence”; verse 13: baqā, verse 21: yubqi, verse 22 yubqa/“stay,” “abide”;
“remain”; v.14: wajd/“rapture”; verse 18: maqām/ “station.”
41. Ibn al-Fāriḍ, Dīwān, 175, verses 27–35.
42. Concerning this clichéd Arab portrayal of the beloved see Arberry,
Mystical Poems, 2:94, n. 27, and al-Jāhiẓ, Fī al-˜Ishq wa-al-Nisā’, in Majmū˜at
Rasā’il al-Jāhiẓ, ed. ˜Abd al-Salīm Muḥammad Hārūn (Cairo: Maktabat al-Khānjī,
1964) 3:139–59; tr. Charles Pellat in the Life and Works of Jāḥiẓ (Berkeley: Uni-
versity of California Press, 1969), 258–59.
43. I follow Arberry’s interpretation of mulk and zamān as “space and
time”; Mystical Poems, 2:95, n. 35. Also see al-Nābūlusī, Kashf al-Sirr, 411a–13b.
44. Ibn al-Fāriḍ, Dīwān, 158–61. For other translations see Martin Lings,
Sufi Poems (Cambridge: Islamic Texts Society, 2004), 66–74; Arberry, Mystical
Poems, 2:84–90; Nicholson, Studies, 184–88; A. Safi in Bulletin of the School of
Oriental and Asian Studies 2:235–48; Emile Dermenghem, L’Éloge du vin (Paris:
Les Éditions Véga, 1931), and L’Hôpital, Poèmes mystiques, 217–43.
45. Concerning the eight verses that are numbered 23–30 in many
printed editions of the Dīwān and their dubious ascription to Ibn al–Fāriḍ,
see Homerin, “Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s Personal Dīwān,” 240–42.
46. Hāwī, al-Shi˜r al-Khamrī, 257–62; Hamori, Art, 66–67, and Kennedy,
Wine Song, 43, 179.
47. For other examples of Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s frequent use of the conditional,
see Ṣādiq, Shi˜r Ibn al-Fāriḍ: Dirāsah Uslūbīyah, 107–10. Also see Arberry, Mystical
Poems, 2:84–90, and al-Yūsuf, “Ba˜ḍ Yanābī˜,” 99–104, who notes poetic ante-
cedents for several of Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s images. For more on many of these major
wine themes and images, and their poetic relationships, see EI2, 4:998–1009
(J.E. Bencheikh), esp. 999–1001; al-Sarī ibn Aḥmad al-Rifā’, al-Muḥibb wa-al-
Maḥbūb wa-al-Mashmūm wa-al-Mashrūb (Damascus: Mājid Ḥasan al-Dhahabī,
1986), esp. vol. 4, and Kennedy, Wine Song.
48. Cited in Khairallah, Madness, 73 from Ḳays b. al-Mulavvaḥ, 96.
49. See Ḥāwī, al-Shi˜r al-Khamrī, 150; EI2, 4:998–1009 (J.E. Bencheikh),
esp. 1006, and Kennedy, Wine Song, 9, 15.
50. See Th. Emil Homerin, ed. and tr., The Wine of Love and Life: Ibn
al-Fāriḍ’s al-Khamrīyah and al-Qayṣarī’s Quest for Meaning (Chicago: Center for
Middle Eastern Studies, University of Chicago, 2005). Also see William Chit-
tick, “The Five Presences: From al-Qunawī to al-Qaysarī,” Muslim World 72
(1982):107–28, esp. 123–24.
51. Homerin, Wine of Love, 13–16. Al-Qayṣarī cites the Qur’ānic passages
76:5, 17–18, and 83:25–27, which describe the incomparable drink of Paradise.
In some Sufi circles, the proper practice of dhikr was thought to return the rapt
mystic momentarily to the Day of the Covenant; see for example, al-Kalābādhī,
al-Ta˜arruf, 160–61, (tr. Arberry, Doctrines, 166–67), and see chapter 5.
52. Homerin, Wine of Love, 16–20. Al-Qayṣarī’s equations crescent “moon”
= ˜Alī; “stars” = saints/gnostics are also supported by verses 625–27 of
Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s al-Tā’īyah al-Kubrā; see the following chapter. Qur’ān 16:16
280 NOTES TO CHAPTER 5

points to the guiding stars as one of the many signs of God’s bounty to
humanity.
53. For more on these probable references to Muḥammad, see chapter 2.
54. Homerin, Wine of Love, 20–24.
55. Homerin, Wine of Love, 24–38. Also cf. verses 615, 627 of the al-Tā’īyah
al-Kubrā, and see the following chapter.
56. In support of his interpretations, al-Qayṣarī cites the last half of
Qur’ān 2:171: summun bukmun ˜ummun fa-hum lā ya˜qilun, “Deaf, dumb, blind,
so they are not intelligent.” This verse refers to the unbelievers who refuse
to follow God’s guidance; Homerin, Wine of Love, 27. Most of the later com-
mentators follow al-Qayṣarī’s interpretation with slight variants.
57. Homerin, Wine of Love, 38–39; also see Yaḥyā al-Jīlānī, Ḥall al-Mu˜ḍilāt
min Rumūz al-Mushkilāt, microfilm of manuscript 4116 (3812), Yahuda Section,
Garrett Collection, Princeton University, 21b, and During, Musique, 164–65.
58. Al-Qayṣarī (Wine of Love, 41) and al-Jīlānī (23b–24a) view the monks
as Muslim gnostics. Nicholson, following al-Nābulusī (Studies, 186–87), inter-
prets this passage more literally as portraying Christians whose religious
experience, from a Muslim perspective, is incomplete; also see Harb, “Wine
Poetry,” 233–34. However, in context of Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s al-Khamrīyah (esp. verses
1, 8–20) and other poems, this heavenly drink of immortality (= the beatific
vision?) can not be tasted by erring mortals on earth, but only by the pure
of heart who dwell in Paradise after the Judgment Day.
59. For al-Junayd’s views on fanā’, balā’, and baqā’, see chapter 5.
60. See Lings who interprets the beloved’s saliva to be the al-Ruḥ
al-Muḥammadī, and linked to the wine’s mixing in verse 4; “Mystical Poetry,”
256–57.
61. Homerin, Wine of Love, 40–43, and al-Jīlānī, Ḥall al-Mu˜ḍilāt, fol.
25b. Also see chapter 2 and the following chapter concerning Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s
finding traces of the beloved in nature and in the Sufi samā˜.
62. Homerin, Wine of Love, 43–45.

Chapter 5: Poem of the Sufi Way in “T”—Major

1. Perhaps Ibn al-Fāriḍ was aware of narrative religious poems in
Persian, such as those by Ṣanā˜ī and ˜Aṭṭār, although the moods, motifs, and
meter of the al-Tā’īyah al-Kubrā are clearly those of Arabic poetry; see Carlo
A. Nallino, “Il poema mistico arabo di Ibn al-Fāriḍ in una recente traduzione
italiana,” Rivista degli studi orientali 8 (1919–20):20–21.
2. Sa˜īd al-Dīn al-Farghānī, Muntahā al-Madārik fī Sharḥ Tā’īyat Ibn
al-Fāriḍ, ed. ˜Āṣim Ibrāhīm al-Kayyālī (Beirut: Dār al-Kutub al-˜Ilmīyah, 2007);
˜Afīf al-Dīn al-Tilimsānī, Sharḥ Tā’īyat Ibn al-Fāriḍ al-Kubrā, manuscript 1328
(Taṣawwuf Ṭal˜at), Cairo: Dār al-Kutub al-Miṣrīyah; ˜Izz al-Dīn al-Kāshānī,
Kashf al-Wujūh al-Ghurr li-Ma˜ānī Naẓm al-Durr, microfilm of manuscript 4106
(3979), Yahuda Section, Garrett Collection, Princeton University, and Dāwūd
al-Qayṣarī, Sharḥ Tā’īyat al-Sulūk, microfilm of manuscript 4107 (4352), Yahuda
Section, Garrett Collection, Princeton University. For more on these and later
 NOTES TO CHAPTER 5 281

commentators and their positions on Ibn al-Fāriḍ and his verse, see Homerin,
From Arab Poet, esp. chapters 1 and 3, and Homerin, Wine of Love.
3. See ˜Alī Sibṭ Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s introduction to the Dīwān, 13–14 (tr.
Homerin, ˜Umar Ibn al-Fāriḍ, 313–14, and quoted above in chapter 1). Also
see Homerin, From Arab Poet, chaps. 1–2, and Nicholson, Studies, 167–68.
4. See Homerin, From Arab Poet, chapters1–3, and chapter 4 for twenti-
eth-century works on the poet and his al-Tā’īyah al-Kubrā, which include Nich-
olson’s study and partial English translation in Studies, 162–95; A.J. Arberry’s
complete translation, The Poem of the Way (London: Emery Walker, 1952); C.A.
Nallino, “Il poema mistico,” 1–106; Nallino, “Ancora su Ibn al-Fāriḍ e sulla
mistica musulmana,” Rivista degli studi orientali 8 (1919–20):501–62, and works
by M. Ḥilmī, especially his Ibn al-Fāriḍ wa-al-Ḥubb al-Ilāhī. These and more
recent studies will be referred to throughout this chapter.
5. Cited by ˜Alī Sibṭ Ibn al-Fāriḍ in Dīwān, 14–15(tr. Homerin, ˜Umar
Ibn al-Fāriḍ, 314).
6. Ibn al-Fāriḍ, Dīwān, 66–143 for the Arabic text to the complete
poem, and Homerin, ˜Umar Ibn al-Fāriḍ, 67–291 for an annotated English
translation of the poem.
7. This is the reading by al-Kāshānī, Kashf al-Wujūh, 25a–b; al-Qayṣarī,
Sharḥ Tā’īyat al-Sulūk, 17b–18a; Nicholson, Studies, 199 and Arberry, Poem of
the Way, 9.
8. Concerning the “glance”/“gaze” in Arabic love lore, see Joseph N.
Bell, Love Theory in Later Hanbalite Islam (Albany: State University of New
York Press, 1979), 19–28. Al-Farghānī, Muntahā, 1:150, and al-Tilimsānī, Sharḥ
Tā’īyat Ibn al-Fāriḍ al-Kubrā, 5a, interpret the glance as the cause of the poet’s
intoxication.
9. For Sufi opinions on this practice see Bell, Love Theory, 139–44, and
Schimmel, Mystical Dimensions, 289–91.
10. Al-Farghānī, Muntahā, 1:150–55, and al-Tilimsānī, Sharḥ Tā’īyat Ibn
al-Fāriḍ al-Kubrā, 5a.
11. Al-Farghānī, Muntahā, 1:161–63; al-Tilimsānī, Sharḥ Tā’īyat Ibn al-Fāriḍ
al-Kubrā, 5b–7b; al-Kāshānī, Kashf al-Wujūh, 27a–28b, and al-Qayṣarī, Sharḥ
Tā’īyat al-Sulūk, 19b–20b. Cf. al-Tusturī, in Böwering, Mystical Vision, 172.
12. Cf. Ibn al-Shahrazūrī, al-Mawṣilīyah, verse 27. Both poets probably
allude to a divine saying in which God surrounds Paradise with al-makārih,
“horrible things”; see Muḥyī al-Dīn Ibn al-˜Arabī, Divine Sayings: Mishkāt
al-Anwār, ed. tr. Hirtenstein and Notcutt, Arabic text, 7–8.
13. Al-Farghānī, Muntahā, 1:229–31; al-Tilimsānī, Sharḥ Tā’īyat Ibn al-Fāriḍ
al-Kubrā, 9a-b; al-Kāshānī, Kashf al-Wujūh, 43a–b, and al-Qayṣarī, Sharḥ Tā’īyat
al-Sulūk, 31a–b, who cites Qur’ān 5:1: “Oh you who believe, fulfill the bonds
(˜uqūd).” Also see Nicholson, Studies, 206, n. 69.
14. Compare verse 55 of Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s al-Lāmīyah in chapter 2, and also
verse 14 of his wine poem beginning adir dhikra man ahwa cited in chapter
4. Also cf. al-Tusturī’s similar views in Böwering, Mystical Vision, 185–230.
15. Al-Farghānī, Muntahā, 1:231–38; al-Tilimsānī, Sharḥ Tā’īyat Ibn al-Fāriḍ
al-Kubrā, 9b–10a; al-Kāshānī, Kashf al-Wujūh, 43b–45a, and al-Qayṣarī, Sharḥ
Tā’īyat al-Sulūk, 31b–32a. These three divine attributes are found together as
282 NOTES TO CHAPTER 5

early as the third/ninth century; see Schimmel, Mystical Dimensions, 44, and
Nicholson, Studies, 207, n. 71–73.
16. Al-Qayṣarī, Sharḥ Tā’īyat al-Sulūk, 31b, cites Qu’rān 95:4: “Indeed,
We have created the human being in the best of stature (aḥsana taqwīm).”
The Qu’rān also states in several places that God fashioned the human forms
(ṣuwar) and made them good/lovely (aḥsana); see Qu’rān 40:64, and 64:3.
Al-Kāshānī, Kashf al-Wujūh, 43b–44a, goes beyond the Qu’rān, citing the much
debated ḥadīth, “God created Adam in His/his form” (˜alā ṣūratihu); for this
tradition, see Graham, Divine Word, 151–52.
17. See al-Farghānī, Muntahā, 1:241; al-Tilimsānī, Sharḥ Tā’īyat Ibn al-Fāriḍ
al-Kubrā,, 9b-10a; al-Kāshānī, Kashf al-Wujūh, 44a–45b, and al-Qayṣarī, Sharḥ
Tā’īyat al-Sulūk, 32a–b. Cf. al-Tusturī on the “secret of the soul” in Böwering,
Mystical Vision, 194–207.
18. Verse 77 as found in most published editions of the Dīwān and begin-
ning: khala˜tu ˜idhārī . . . has long been considered spurious; see Dīwān, 73,
n. 77, where ˜Alī Sibt Ibn al-Fāriḍ noted that a certain Shihāb al-Dīn al-Shiblī
claimed to have received this verse from Ibn al-Fāriḍ in a dream; also see
Nallino, “Il poema,” 56–57. This verse is also missing from the commentaries
by al-Farghānī, al-Tilimsānī, and al-Kāshānī, though the verse is to be found
in al-Qayṣarī’s commentary and in the Chester Beatty manuscript.
19. This dialogue with the beloved occurs at approximately the same
place (v. 84 ff) as it does in the poet’s al-Yā’īyah (v. 81 ff). However, the
beloved’s rebuke of the poet in the al-Tā’īyah al-Kubrā is longer and more
developed than that in the al-Yā’īyah; this is normally the case for many
images and motifs shared in common by the al-Tā’īyah al-Kubrā and the other
poems of the Dīwān.
20. Al-Farghānī, Muntahā, 1:246–48.
21. See ibid., 1:260–64; al-Tilimsānī, Sharḥ Tā’īyat Ibn al-Fāriḍ al-Kubrā,
9b–10a; al-Kāshānī, Kashf al-Wujūh, 50a–b; al-Qayṣarī, Sharḥ Tā’īyat al-Sulūk,
37b–38a, and Nicholson, Studies, 210, n. 98–99. Cf. al-Tusturī’s reflection on
the God’s statement (Q 2:41): “So fear you Me!” in Böwering, Mystical Vision,
183–84.
22. Qur’ān 10:62–64 asserts: “Indeed, the friends (awliyā’) of God, they
have no fear, nor do they grieve. Those who believe and are mindful will have
glad tidings in this life and the next . . .” Also see al-Tusturī’s interpretation
of these Qur’ānic verses in Böwering, Mystical Vision, 236–37.
23. See al-Farghānī, Muntahā, 1:302–305; al-Tilimsānī, Sharḥ Tā’īyat Ibn
al-Fāriḍ al-Kubrā, 12a–13b; al-Kāshānī, Kashf al-Wujūh, 61b–62ab, and al-Qayṣarī,
Sharḥ Tā’īyat al-Sulūk, 46b–47a.
24. See al-Farghānī, Muntahā, 1:305–11; al-Tilimsānī, Sharḥ Tā’īyat Ibn
al-Fāriḍ al-Kubrā, 13a–b; al-Kāshānī, Kashf al-Wujūh, 62a–64a, and al-Qayṣarī,
Sharḥ Tā’īyat al-Sulūk, 47b–49a, and Arberry, Poem of the Way, 79. For more
on the human as a divine idea, see later in this chapter.
25. A-Kāshānī, Kashf al-Wujūh, 63b–64a, points out that the poet’s use
in verse 160 of contrasting prepositions is a sure sign of union.
26. A-Farghānī, Muntahā, 1:311–15; al-Tilimsānī, Sharḥ Tā’īyat Ibn al-Fāriḍ
al-Kubrā, 13a-b; al-Kāshānī, Kashf al-Wujūh, 63a–64b; al-Qayṣarī, Sharḥ Tā’īyat
 NOTES TO CHAPTER 5 283

al-Sulūk, 48b–50b, and Nicholson, Studies, 214–15. In the course of their com-
mentaries on this passage, both al-Farghānī and al-Qayṣarī cite the important
Sufi ḥadīth: “He who knows himself (nafs), knows his Lord.” For more on this
tradition see Schimmel, Mystical Dimensions, 189–90. For Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s use of
the root sh*h*d, see later in this chapter.
27. For example see Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s al-Tā’īyah al-Ṣughrā (103 vv.) and his
al-Yā’īyah (151 vv.), and chapter 4.
28. Concerning the role of a mystical guide in Sufi verse also see A.S.
Ḥusayn, al-Adab al-Ṣūfīyah, 242–43.
29. Ibn al-Fāriḍ refers yet again to God and the senses; see al-Farghānī,
Muntahā, 1:323–41; al-Tilimsānī, Sharḥ Tā’īyat Ibn al-Fāriḍ al-Kubrā, 13a–14b;
al-Kāshānī, Kashf al-Wujūh, 72b–73a, and al-Qayṣarī, Sharḥ Tā’īyat al-Sulūk, 57a–b.
30. Al-Farghānī, Muntahā, 1:341–48; al-Tilimsānī, Sharḥ Tā’īyat Ibn al-Fāriḍ
al-Kubrā, 14a–b; al-Kāshānī, Kashf al-Wujūh, 73a–77b, and al-Qayṣarī, Sharḥ
Tā’īyat al-Sulūk, 57b–61b, and Nicholson, Studies, 216–18.
31. Al-Farghānī, Muntahā, 1:354–59; al-Tilimsānī, Sharḥ Tā’īyat Ibn al-Fāriḍ
al-Kubrā, 14b; al-Kāshānī, Kashf al-Wujūh, 73a–77b, and al-Qayṣarī, Sharḥ Tā’īyat
al-Sulūk, 57b–61b. For more on the doctrinal underpinning of this and other
sections of the poem, see later in this chapter.
32. Al-Farghānī, Muntahā, 1:359, quotes God as saying in the Qur’ān
2:186: “If my servants ask you about Me, lo, I am near!”
33. Ibid., 1:361–62.
34. Al-Farghānī, Muntahā, 1:362–72; al-Tilimsānī, Sharḥ Tā’īyat Ibn al-Fāriḍ
al-Kubrā, 15a–b; al-Kāshānī, Kashf al-Wujūh, 77b–82b, and al-Qayṣarī, Sharḥ
Tā’īyat al-Sulūk, 61b–65b.
35. Al-Farghānī, Muntahā, 1:372–73; al-Kāshānī, Kashf al-Wujūh, 82a–b,
and al-Qayṣarī, Sharḥ Tā’īyat al-Sulūk, 65a–b; Nicholson, Studies, 219–22, and
Nallino, “Il poema,” 74.
36. For more on the form-shifting beloved/ghoul in classical Arabic
poetry see Sells, Desert Tracings, 67–68, and his “Bānat Su˜ād,” 142–43. For a
comparable example of a Sufi reading of the ˜Udhrī motif of one’s beloved
as the source of all other lovers see Ibn al-˜Arabī’s Turjumān, esp. 44, verse
16 (tr. Nicholson, The Tarjumān, 70–71). However, in contrast to Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s
reading of the ˜Udhrī beloveds in general as limited manifestations of abso-
lute beauty, Ibn al-˜Arabī uses them as symbols for his earthly beloved and
spiritual inspiration, Niẓām, and then subsequently interprets the name of
each ˜Udhrī beloved as referring to a specific station on the Sufi path; also
see Henry Corbin, Creative Imagination in the Ṣūfism of Ibn ˜Arabī (Princeton:
Princeton University Press, 1969), 136–38, 322, n. 4.
37. Qur’ān 6:163 states: lā sharīka lahu (“He has no peer/equal.”)
38. Cf. Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s al-Tā’īyah al-Ṣughrā, verse 21, and his al-Yā’īyah,
verse 93.
39. In particular, see al-Farghānī, Muntahā, 1:384–85, and Böwering,
Mystical Vision, 149–53.
40. See al-Farghānī, Muntahā, 1:373–89; al-Tilimsānī, Sharḥ Tā’īyat Ibn
al-Fāriḍ al-Kubrā,, 15b–16b; al-Kāshānī, Kashf al-Wujūh, 82b–86a, and al-Qayṣarī,
Sharḥ Tā’īyat al-Sulūk, 65b–69a. Also see Nicholson, Studies, 223–24. All of
284 NOTES TO CHAPTER 5

the major commentators interpret the poet’s claim to be the archetypal lover
manifest throughout human history to be a result of Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s ecstatic
union with Muhammad’s spiritual presence or light, and they cite various
ḥadīth attesting to Muhammad’s prophetic priority, including: “I was a prophet
while Adam was still between water and clay!,” that is to say, before Adam’s
creation.
41. For more on Diḥyah and similar traditions regarding the physical
manifestation of divine realities, especially to the prophet Muḥammad, see
al-Farghānī, Muntahā, 1:389–99; al-Tilimsānī, Sharḥ Tā’īyat Ibn al-Fāriḍ al-Kubrā,
16b–17a; al-Kāshānī, Kashf al-Wujūh, 86a–89b; al-Qayṣarī, Sharḥ Tā’īyat al-Sulūk,
69a–72b, and Aḥmad ibn Hanbal, Musnad (Beirut: Dār al-Ṣādir, 1969), 6:146.
Also see Nicholson, Studies, 224–25; “Hulūl” in EI2, 3:570–71 (L. Massignin-
G.C. Anawati); Massignon, Passion, tr. Herbert Mason, 3:303–304, and Ḥilmī,
al-Ḥubb al-Ilāhī, 314–51.
42. Following al-Farghānī, Muntahā, 1:401–404, and see Nicholson,
Studies, 226, n. 288–89.
43. Later in the poem (v. 625), Ibn al-Fāriḍ ascribes to ˜Alī a special
understanding of the Qur’ān. Al-Farghānī, Muntahā, 1:403–404, cites the well-
known saying: “lā fatā illā ˜Alī,” “There is no hero save ˜Alī,” noted earlier
in reference to al-Mutanabbī’s al-Dhālīah; see “Dhū al-Fakār” (E. Mittwoch)
in EI2, 2:233. Also see al-Tilimsānī, Sharḥ Tā’īyat Ibn al-Fāriḍ al-Kubrā, 17a,
and al-Kāshānī, Kashf al-Wujūh, 86a–89b. Al-Qayṣarī, Sharḥ Tā’īyat al-Sulūk,
73a–b, equates the brave (fatā) in verse 290 with the realized mystic, though
as we have seen in his commentary on the wine ode, al-Qayṣarī gives ˜Alī
a status second only to the prophet; see chapter 4, n. 54, and Homerin, Wine
of Love, 17–18.
44. Following al-Kāshānī, Kashf al-Wujūh, 91b–93a, and al-Qayṣarī, Sharḥ
Tā’īyat al-Sulūk, 73b–75b. However, al-Farghānī, Muntahā, 1:410–11, designates
˜Alī as the “highest Gnostic,” citing a ḥadīth in which Muhammad says: “I
am the city of knowledge, and ˜Alī is its door.” Also see Nicholson, Studies,
227, n. 299.
45. Al-Farghānī, Muntahā, 1:411–22; al-Tilimsānī, Sharḥ Tā’īyat Ibn al-Fāriḍ
al-Kubrā, 17a–18a; al-Kāshānī, Kashf al-Wujūh, 93a–99b; al-Qayṣarī, Sharḥ Tā’īyat
al-Sulūk, 75b–80b, and Nicholson, Studies, 228–31.
46. Literally the gnostic holds fast to “Ṭā Hā.” This is both the name
for chapter 20 of the Qur’ān and, by extension, an epithet for Muhammad;
it is with this latter sense that the commentators read verse 332 in context
of earlier references to Muhammad’s prophetic light and spirit; al-Farghānī,
Muntahā, 1:422–44; al-Tilimsānī, Sharḥ Tā’īyat Ibn al-Fāriḍ al-Kubrā, 18b–19a;
al-Kāshānī, Kashf al-Wujūh, 99b, and al-Qayṣarī, Sharḥ Tā’īyat al-Sulūk, 80b.
Also see Schimmel, And Muhammad is His Messenger, 108–109, and Ḥilmī,
al-Ḥubb al-Ilāhī, 359–64.
47. Cf. Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s al-Lamīyah, verse 29 and his al-Jīmīyah, verses 8–9.
Also see al-Farghānī, Muntahā, 1:445–70; al-Tilimsānī, Sharḥ Tā’īyat Ibn al-Fāriḍ
al-Kubrā, 19a–20b; al-Kāshānī, Kashf al-Wujūh, 99b–109a, and al-Qayṣarī, Sharḥ
Tā’īyat al-Sulūk, 80b–86b.
 NOTES TO CHAPTER 5 285

48. The commentator al-Farghānī, Muntahā, 1:446–72, treats these verses

as a section “on the realization of the truth, unity, and gnosis attached to the
presence of oneness in union.” Also see Sperl’s insightful comments on verses
381–87 in his “Qasida Form,” 1:76–78.
49. See al-Farghānī, Muntahā, 1:474–79; 2:3–10; al-Tilimsānī, Sharḥ Tā’īyat
Ibn al-Fāriḍ al-Kubrā, 20b–21b; al-Kāshānī, Kashf al-Wujūh, 109a–12a; al-Qayṣarī,
Sharḥ Tā’īyat al-Sulūk, 86b–88b; Nicholson, Studies, 232–33, and Ḥilmī, al-Ḥubb
al-Ilāhī, 253–64.
50. See al-Farghānī, Muntahā, 2:10–19; al-Tilimsānī, Sharḥ Tā’īyat Ibn
al-Fāriḍ al-Kubrā, 21b–22a; al-Kāshānī, Kashf al-Wujūh, 112a–19a, and al-Qayṣarī,
Sharḥ Tā’īyat al-Sulūk, 88b–94b. For more on samā˜, see Hujwirī, The Kashf, tr.
Nicholson,, 393–420; During, Musique, 155–68; Schimmel, Mystical Dimension,
178–86, and below.
51. Cf. Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s al-Jīmīyah, verses 30–34, quoted in chapter 2.
52. Al-Farghānī, Muntahā, 2:19–21; al-Tilimsānī, Sharḥ Tā’īyat Ibn al-Fāriḍ
al-Kubrā, 22b; al-Kāshānī, Kashf al-Wujūh, 119a–20b; al-Qayṣarī, Sharḥ Tā’īyat
al-Sulūk, 94b–96b, and Nicholson, Studies, 235–36.
53. Al-Farghānī, Muntahā, 2:21–30; al-Tilimsānī, Sharḥ Tā’īyat Ibn al-Fāriḍ
al-Kubrā, 22b; al-Kāshānī, Kashf al-Wujūh, 120b–23a; al-Qayṣarī, Sharḥ Tā’īyat
al-Sulūk, 96b–98a; Nicholson, Studies, 237–38, and especially, Ḥilmī, al-Ḥubb
al-Ilāhī, 211–15. Also see chapter 2 for comments by earlier Sufis regarding
dhikr and the pre-eternal covenant.
54. Al-Farghānī, Muntahā, 2:30–40; al-Tilimsānī, Sharḥ Tā’īyat Ibn al-Fāriḍ
al-Kubrā, 22b–23b; al-Kāshānī, Kashf al-Wujūh, 123a–30b, and al-Qayṣarī, Sharḥ
Tā’īyat al-Sulūk, 98a–103b, all quote the ḥadīth: “I was a prophet when Adam
was between water and clay.” Also see Nicholson, Studies, 238–40, and Louis
Massignon, Essay on the Origins of the Technical Language of Islamic Mysticism
(Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 1997), 31, for various inter-
pretations and uses of lāhūt and nāsūt.
55. Both al-Farghānī, Muntahā, 2:55, and al-Tilimsānī, Sharḥ Tā’īyat Ibn
al-Fāriḍ al-Kubrā, 25a, cite from Qu’ran 6:9: “Had We sent an angel, We would
have made him as a man to disguise (labasnā) him from them . . .”
56. For more on this pivotal verse, see later in this chapter. Also see
al-Farghānī, Muntahā, 2:40–73; al-Tilimsānī, Sharḥ Tā’īyat Ibn al-Fāriḍ al-Kubrā,
23b–25b; al-Kāshānī, Kashf al-Wujūh, 130b–41b; al-Qayṣarī, Sharḥ Tā’īyat al-Sulūk,
103b–12a, and Nicholson, Studies, 242–45. Cf. al-Tusturī’s linking of the two
Days, in Böwering, Mystical Vision, 229.
57. Al-Tilimsānī, Sharḥ Tā’īyat Ibn al-Fāriḍ al-Kubrā, 26a, explicitly iden-
tifies this “pole of poles” as Muhammad forever. Also see Ḥilmī, al-Ḥubb
al-Ilāhī, 352–55; Böwering, Mystical Vision, 236–37, and Schimmel, Mystical
Dimensions, 199–204.
58. The three stages of certainty (yaqīn) were common in Sufi writings,
though their precise meaning varied; see Nicholson, Studies, 247, n. 514, and
Böwering, Mystical Vision, 207–16. Also see al-Farghānī, Muntahā, 2:73–91;
al-Tilimsānī, Sharḥ Tā’īyat Ibn al-Fāriḍ al-Kubrā, 25b–26b; al-Kāshānī, Kashf
al-Wujūh, 141b–48a, and al-Qayṣarī, Sharḥ Tā’īyat al-Sulūk, 112a–17a.
286 NOTES TO CHAPTER 5

59. Al-Farghānī, Muntahā, 2:91–130; al-Tilimsānī, Sharh Tā’īyat Ibn al-Fāriḍ

al-Kubrā, 26b–27b; al-Kāshānī, Kashf al-Wujūh, 148a–60b; al-Qayṣarī, Sharḥ
Tā’īyat al-Sulūk, 117a–25b, and Nicholson, Studies, 250–51.
60. See Issa J. Boullata, “Verbal Arabesque,” 152–69, esp. 160–66.
61. Ibid., 160–69. Building on observations by Nicholson, Ḥilmī, and
Arberry, Boullata has attempted to relate the syntactical and morphological
complexity of this passage to its metaphysical content: “Elements of order and
harmony predominate in the style of this passage which speaks about order
and harmony” (163). His astute grammatical analysis provides an informed
and informative illustration of Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s command of Arabic and its poet-
ics. For translations of the entire passage see Arberry, Poem of the Way, 57–60,
and Homerin, ˜Umar Ibn al-Fāriḍ, 231–39.
62. In verses 557–64, Ibn al-Fāriḍ plays on the traditional threefold
definition of a proper religious life and attitude: islām, imān, and iḥsān; see
Nallino, “Il poema,” 84–86 and Schimmel, Mystical Dimensions, 29.
63. Al-Farghānī, Muntahā, 2:130–66; al-Tilimsānī, Sharḥ Tā’īyat Ibn al-Fāriḍ
al-Kubrā, 27b–28b; al-Kāshānī, Kashf al-Wujūh, 160b–71b; al-Qayṣarī, Sharḥ
Tā’īyat al-Sulūk, 125b–32b, and Nicholson, Studies, 251. For more on these
worlds and the divine names and attributes see S.H. Nasr, An Introduction to
Islamic Cosmological Doctrines, rev. ed. (Albany: State University of New York
Press, 1993); also compare Ja˜far al-Ṣādiq’s four levels of Qur’ānic import in
Nwyia, Exégèse, 167.
64. Al-Farghānī, Muntahā, 2:166–97; al-Tilimsānī, Sharḥ Tā’īyat Ibn al-Fāriḍ
al-Kubrā, 28b–29b; al-Kāshānī, Kashf al-Wujūh, 171b–84a; al-Qayṣarī, Sharḥ
Tā’īyat al-Sulūk, 132b–40a, and Nicolson, Studies, 252–54. Also compare Ibn
al-Fāriḍ’s reference to the “stars” in the second verse of his al-Khamrīyah; see
chapter 4.
65. Law laka mā khalaqtu al-aflāka. The major commentators frequently
cite this divine saying when commenting on this and similar passages in the
poem. See al-Farghānī, Muntahā, 2:264, al-Tilimsānī, Sharḥ Tā’īyat Ibn al-Fāriḍ
al-Kubrā, 30a, and Schimmel, Mystical Dimensions, 215; Nicholson, Studies, 255,
Ḥilmī, al-Ḥubb al-Ilāhī, 364–81, and Böwering, Mystical Vision, 149–53.
66. In his commentary, Studies, 256, Nicholson cites Qur’ān 2:245: “God
withholds and expands, and to Him you shall return.”
67. Al-Farghānī, Muntahā, 2:197–214; al-Tilimsānī, Sharḥ Tā’īyat Ibn al-Fāriḍ
al-Kubrā, 29b–30a; al-Kāshānī, Kashf al-Wujūh, 184a–89a, and al-Qayṣarī, Sharḥ
Tā’īyat al-Sulūk, 140a–43a. Also see Nallino, “Il poema,” 90–91, and Nicolson,
Studies, 255–56.
68. On the Maqāmāt of al-Qāsim al-Ḥarīrī (446–516/1054–1122), to which
Ibn al-Fāriḍ refers, see EI2, 3:221–22 (D.S. Margoliouth and Ch. Pellat) and
EAL, 1:272–73 (R. Drory). Also see al-Farghānī, Muntahā, 2:223–24, and Böwer-
ing, Mystical Vision, 253–61.
69. Among Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s notable predecessors to use the puppeteer-
puppet analogy was the Arab philosopher Ibn Ḥazm, the Persian poet ˜Umar
Khayyām in his Rubā˜īyāt and the Persian Sufi ˜Aṭṭār in his Ushturnāmah; see
Nallino, “Ancora,” 557–58, and Schimmenl, Mystical Dimensions, 278. Ghurayyib
 NOTES TO CHAPTER 5 287

conjectures that the military scenes in verses 691–95 may refer to the Battle
of Damietta, which occurred during the poet’s lifetime; ˜Umar Ibn al-Fāriḍ,
17–19. Also see Nicholson, Studies, 189–91, and Nallino, “Il poema,” 74, 104.
70. Al-Farghānī, Muntahā, 2:259 cites the ḥadīth in which Muhammad
says: “God has seventy veils of light and darkness. Were He to raise them,
the splendor of His face would consume whatever creature saw it.”
71. Al-Farghānī, Muntahā, 2:248, refers the divine saying in which God
declares: “I was a hidden treasure and loved to be known”; see Schimmel,
Mystical Dimensions, 189, and William Chittick, The Self-Disclosure of God
(Albany: State University of New York Press, 1998), 20–22.
72. Al-Farghānī, Muntahā, 2:224, notes that through this analogy between
the nafs’ disguise in the body and God’s veiled presence in creation, the seeker
can grasp what the prophet Muhammad meant when he said: “He who
knows himself (nafs), knows his Lord.” Also al-Farghānī, Muntahā, 2:224–67;
al-Tilimsānī, Sharḥ Tā’īyat Ibn al-Fāriḍ al-Kubrā, 29b–32a; al-Kāshānī, Kashf
al-Wujūh, 189a–201a; al-Qayṣarī, Sharḥ Tā’īyat al-Sulūk, 143b–50a, and Nicolson,
Studies, 260–62. Al-Hujwirī quotes al-Bisṭāmī as saying “that human actions
are metaphorical and that God is the real agent”; The Kashf, tr. Nicholson, 276.
73. Al-Farghānī, Muntahā, 2:278, quotes Qur’ān 19:93: “There is no
one in the heavens and on earth save that he comes before the Merciful as
a worshiper.”
74. See al-Farghānī, Muntahā, 2:224–97; al-Tilimsānī, Sharḥ Tā’īyat Ibn
al-Fāriḍ al-Kubrā, 29b–32a; al-Kāshānī, Kashf al-Wujūh, 201a–205b; al-Qayṣarī,
Sharḥ Tā’īyat al-Sulūk, 150a–53; Nicholson, Studies, 262–65, and Ḥilmī, al-Ḥubb
al-Ilāhī, 382–88.
75. This is certainly how the commentators interpret the figure; see
al-Farghānī, Muntahā, 2:299; al-Tilimsānī, Sharḥ Tā’īyat Ibn al-Fāriḍ al-Kubrā,
34a; al-Kāshānī, Kashf al-Wujūh, 205a–206b; al-Qayṣarī, Sharḥ Tā’īyat al-Sulūk,
154a,and Nallino, “Il poema,” 105. Also see Giuseppe Scattolin, “Realization
of ‘Self’ (ANĀ) in Islamic Mysticism: the Mystical Experience of Umar Ibn
al-Fāriḍ,” Mélanges de L’Université Saint-Joseph LIV (1995–96):119–48, esp. 143.
76. Al-Farghānī, Muntahā, 2:299–310; al-Tilimsānī, Sharḥ Tā’īyat Ibn al-Fāriḍ
al-Kubrā, 34a–b; al-Kāshānī, Kashf al-Wujūh, 206b–208a; al-Qayṣarī, Sharḥ Tā’īyat
al-Sulūk, 154a–55b, and Nicholson, Studies, 265–66.
77. For a different division of the poem based on the mystical stages of
separation (farq), identification (ittiḥād), and union (jam˜), see Scattolin, “Real-
ization of Self,” and the introduction to his edition of the Dīwān, 5–6, 11–12.
78. Concerning Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s personal pride in his poetry, see chapter
2, and Ghurayyib, ˜Umar Ibn al-Fāriḍ, 129–30, who compares Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s
mixing of lyrical verse with more rhetorical discourses to the works of Hugo
and Lamartine.
79. See “muzdawija” in EAL, 2: 567–68 (W. Stoetzer), and “Didactic
Poetry,” EAL, 1:193–94 (G.J.H. Van Gelder). Even earlier, several Shī˜ī authors
composed da˜wā poems championing the Fatimid cause and praising their
Imām, yet these differ substantially from the far more lyrical al-Tā’īyah al-Kubrā;
see Qutbuddin, al-Mu’ayyad al-Shīrāz, esp. 235–56.
288 NOTES TO CHAPTER 5

80. Nallino previously noted Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s use of the guide form, “Il
poema,” 21. By contrast, Sperl views the al-Tā’īyah al-Kubrā as a unified qaṣīdah
whose climax occurs mid-way through the poem with verses 381–87. Though
his division of the poem into a beginning, middle, and end is simplistic, Sperl
offers several insightful comments in his brief analysis of the poem; see his
“Qasida Form,” 74–81, and the conclusion.
81. See chapter 3.
82. Concerning al-Junayd’s doctrine of intoxication (sukr) and sobri-
ety (ṣaḥw) see Ali Hassan Abdel-Kader, The Life, Personality and Writings of
al-Junayd (London: Luzac & Co., 1962), 88–95, and al-Hujwirī, The Kashf (tr.
Nicholson), 184–89. In addition to Abdel-Kader’s introduction to al-Junayd’s
thought (65–116), also see R.C. Zaehner, Hindu and Muslim Mysticism (New
York: Schocken Books, 1969), 133–61; Roger Deladriere, Junayd: Enseignement
spirituel (Paris: Sindbad, 1983), 31–38; M. Abdul Haq Ansari, “The Doctrine of
One Actor: Junayd”s View of Tawḥīd,” Muslim World 73 (1983):33–56; Andras
Hamori, “A Sentence of Junayd’s,” in Intellectual Studies on Islam, ed. Michael
Mazzaoui and Vera Moreen (Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press, 1990),
147–52, and Micheal A. Sells, “Junayd: On the Affirmation of Unity (Tawḥīd)”
in his Early Islamic Mysticism, 251–65.
83. Al-Junayd, “Kitāb al-Mīthāq,” in his Rasā’il, ed. Abdel-Kader in
Writings of al-Juanyd, 40–43 (Arabic text). My translation differs from Abdel-
Kader’s (160–64) and Ansari’s (“One Actor,” 155–60); also see Deladriere’s
French translation in Junayd, 155–60.
84. Especially see the comments on this passage by Zaehner, Hindu and
Muslim Mysticism, 139–48, and by Andras Hamori, “A Sentence of Junayd’s,”
147–52. Al-Junaid’s contemporary al-Tusturī held similar views of this impor-
tant event; see Böwering, Mystical Vision, 146–57.
85. Also cf. Ibn al-Fāriḍ, al-Tā’īyah al-Kubrā, verses 216, 382.
86. Al-Junayd, Rasā’il, 33, 42 (Arabic text).
87. Ibid., 32–38, 42–43 (Arabic text). For a similar spiritual psychology
by al-Tustarī, see Böwering, Mystical Vision, 241–46.
88. Cf. Ja˜far al-Ṣādiq’s (d. 148/765) earlier use of shabaḥ (“phantom”)
in a similar mystical context, cited by Nwyia, Exégèse, 179–82, and by Carl
W. Ernst, Words of Ecstasy in Sufism (Albany: State University of New York
Press, 1985), 10–11.
89. Al-Junayd, Rasā’il, 56–57 (Arabic text). Also see Ansari’s translation,
“One Actor,” 50, and that of Sells, “Junayd,” 256. Commenting on al-Junayd’s
doctrine of mystical union, al-Hujwirī explained the matter as follows (Kashf,
363–65; trans. Nicholson, The Kashf, 283): “All this means that the Unitarian in
the will of God has no more a will of his own, and in the unity of God no
regard for himself, so that he becomes like an atom as he was in the eternal
past when the covenant of unification was made and God answered the ques-
tion which He Himself asked, and that the atom was only the object of His
speech.” Also see Böwering, Mystical Vision, 205–207, 220–25 for al-Tustarī’s
related interpretation of dhikr as “remembrance of God by means of God,”
and that “[The Real] bears witness to Himself by Himself.”
 NOTES TO CHAPTER 5 289

90. Al-Junayd and Ibn al-Fāriḍ consistently use l*b*s when dealing
with the spirit’s dwelling in creation. Far more frequent in Sufi literature is
the use of derivatives of this root to refer to Satan’s “deceptions.” Also see
al-Ḥallāj’s infrequent use of this root in reference to the human being “clothed
with divine attributes”; Massignon, Essay, 24, 31, and Ernst, Ecstasy, 20, 27, 39,
149.
91. E.g., al-Junayd, Rasā’il, 32–33, 41–42, 55–56 (Arabic text). Also see
Ansari, “One Actor,” 48–54; Böwering, Mystical Vision, 215–16, and Scattolin,
“Realization of Self,” 144–45.
92. Also see the al-Tā’īyah al-Kubrā, verses 210, 491, 517, 638, 649–50, 714;
Scattolin, “Realization of Self,” 144–45, and cf. al-Tusturī’s struggle between
the nafs and the qalb, in Böwering, Mystical Vision, 258–61.
93. Cf. al-Tusturī’s views in Böwering, Mystical Vision, 175–85.
94. Thus, Ansari, “One Actor,” 51–52, terms al-Junayd’s doctrine of
union waḥdat al-fā’il (“unity of one actor”) to contrast it with the later doc-
trine of waḥdat al-wujūd (“unity of being”). Ansari’s analysis of al-Junayd’s
beliefs and doctrines is quite sound. However, he was apparently unaware of
Böwering’s study of al-Junayd’s contemporary al-Tustarī, and so Ansari may
have overemphasized al-Junayd’s originality on matters of mystical union
(e.g., Böwering, Mystical Vision, 185–207).
95. Al-Junayd, Rasā’il, 33 (Arabic text), and see Sells, “Junayd,” 259–65,
for a translation of the entire epistle.
96. Al-Junayd, Rasā’il, 55–57 (Arabic text). Also see Ansari, “One
Actor,” 48–56; Abdel-Kader, Life, 68–75; Deladiere, Junayd, 131–33, and Sells,
“Junayd,” 251–65. Taking a similar position as al-Junayd was al-Tustarī; see
Böwering, Mystical Vision, 220–25.
97. Muhammad al-Ghazālī, Mishkāt al-Anwār, ed. Abū ˜Alā al-˜Afīfī
(Cairo: Dār al-Qawmīyah lil-Ṭiba˜ah wa-al-Nashr, 1964), 58; my translation. For
a complete English translation of this work see W.H.T. Gairdner, Al-Ghazzali’s
Mishkat al-Anwar (London: Royal Asiatic Society, 1924).
98. Al-Ghazālī, Mishkāt, 55; my translation.
99. Ibid., 55–56; my translation.
100. Ibid., 51–52, 56–57, 76–77, and see Böwering, Mystical Vision, esp.
149–65, 218.
101. Al-Ghazālī, Mishkāt, 84–93. Nallino, “Il poema,” 11–12, earlier drew
attention to the similarity between al-Ghazālī and Ibn al-Fāriḍ.
102. This point has been glossed over by twentieth-century scholars who
were, perhaps, interested in discovering a type of ecumenicist in the poet;
e.g., Ḥilmī, al-Ḥubb al-Ilāhī, 382–405; A. Mahmūd, Shi˜r Ibn al-Fāriḍ, 39–40;
A.J. Nasr, Shi˜r ˜Umar Ibn al-Fāriḍ, 217–20, and Sperl, “Qasida Form,” 1:78–80.
103. Regarding this tradition see chapter 3, n. 49. Also see Ḥilmī, al-Ḥubb
al-Ilāhī, 388–93.
104. See Nwyia, Exégèse, 93–94; Böwering, Mystical Vision, 145–265,
and Nallino, “Ancora,” 558, who draws attention to the similarity between
verse 714 and al-Qushayrī’s account of mushāhadah; Risālah, 1:245–47 (tr. Sells,
Early Islamic Mysticism, 130–32). Again, this may not be a case of direct bor-
290 NOTES TO CHAPTER 5

rowing but of common knowledge and a shared mystical tradition to which

al-Qushayrī substantially contributed.
105. Scattolin attempts to explain Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s mysticism in terms of
Sufi notions of the “perfect man” (al-insān al-kāmil); see his “Realization of
Self,” and the introduction to his edition of the Dīwān, 8–11. Ibn al-Fāriḍ,
however, does not use this term, whereas he clearly alludes to the Light of
Muhammad as his mystical apotheosis, as Scattolin has acknowledged else-
where; see his “L’Expérience Mystique de Ibn al-Fāriḍ a travers son poèma
Al-Ta’iyyat Al-Kubrā,” MIDEO 19 (1989):203–23, esp. 217, and his “The Mystical
Experience of Umar Ibn al-Fāriḍ,” Muslim World 82:3–4 (1992), 274–86, esp.
283–84.
106. Most recently see Waugh, Memory, 70–71; Ṣādiq, Shi˜r ˜Umar, 18,
and A. Naṣr, Shi˜r ˜Umar Ibn al-Fāriḍ, 39. A rare exception was Nallino, who
felt that Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s mystical beliefs were closer to those of al-Ghazālī than
to those of Ibn al-˜Arabī; see his “Il poema” and “Ancora,” which refute
the notion that Ibn al-Fāriḍ was an adherent of the Ibn al-˜Arabī school of
Sufism. Also see, Ḥilmī, al-Ḥubb al-Ilāhī, 278–405, whose study is unfortunately
marred by his misunderstanding of Ibn al-˜Arabī’s complex and multilayered
teachings as pantheism. Also see Homerin, From Arab Poet, especially, chapter
4, and the works of Scattolin.
107. Al-Maqqarī, Nafḥ al-Ṭīb, ed. Iḥsān ˜Abbās (Beirut: Dār Ṣādir, 1968),
2:166, who ascribes this account to the Egyptian historian al-Maqrīzī (d.
845/1441). The later Ottoman writer, Evliyā Çelebī also gave a version of this
story in his Seyāhetnāmesī (Istanbul: Devlet Matbassi, 1938), 10:573. Also see
Ḥilmī, al-Ḥubb al-Ilāhī, 337–40, who refutes the historicity of this correspondence.
108. For a concise overview of the work and influence of Ṣadr al-Dīn
al-Qūnawī, see William Chittick, “Rūmī and waḥdat al-wujūd,” in Poetry and
Mysticism in Islam: the Heritage of Rumi, ed. A. Banani et al. (New York:
Cambridge University Press, 1994), 70–111, esp. 77–79; also see EI2, 8:753–55
(W.C. Chittick).
109. Homerin, From Arab Poet, 29–30, 40–42, and Arberry, Mystical
Poems, 8.
110. Ibn al-Fāriḍ, al-Tā’īyah al-Kubrā, verse 743.
111. ˜Alī Sibṭ Ibn al-Fāriḍ in Dīwān, 12–13 (tr. Homerin, ˜Umar Ibn
al-Fāriḍ, 311–12).
112. See al-Farghānī’s Mashāriq al-Ḍarārī, ed. Sa˜īd Jalāl al-Dīn Āshtiyānī
(Mashhad: Dānishghāh-i Firdawsī, 1980), 5–6, and Muntahā. Also see W.C.
Chittick, “Spectrums of Islamic Thought: Sa˜īd al-Dīn al-Farghānī on the
Implication of Oneness and Manyness,” in The Heritage of Sufism, ed. Leonard
Lewisohn, (Oxford, 1999), 2:203–17, and Chittick, “Rūmī,” 79–81.
113. Austin, Ibn Al-‘Arabi, 7–11, and Homerin, Arab Poet, 3, 35–37, 47–49.
114. For al-Qūnawī’s personal copy of the Dīwān of Ibn al-Fāriḍ, see
G. Scattolin, “Oldest Text,” 83–114; his “Towards a Critical Edition,” 503–47,
and Gerald Elmore, “Sadr al-Dīn al-Qūnawī’s Personal Study-List of Books by
Ibn al-˜Arabī,” Jouranl of Near Eastern Studies 56:3 (July, 1997):161–81, esp. 181.
115. In particular see Nallino, “Il poema” and “Ancora,” and more
recently the work of Giuseppe Scattolin, including L’esperienza mistica di
 NOTES TO CONCLUSION 291

Ibn al-Fāriḍ attraverso il suo poema Al-Tā’iyyat Al-Kubrā (Rome: PISAI, 1988);
“L’expérience mystique”; “Al-Farghānī’s Commentary on Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s Mystical
Poem Al-Tā’iyyat Al-Kubrā,” MIDEO 21 (1993):331–83; “Mystical Experience,”
and “Realization of Self.” Also see Ḥilmī, al-Ḥubb al-Ilāhī, 337–40.
116. Ibn al-˜Arabī, al-Futūḥāt al-Makkīyah (Cairo, nd), 3:67.
117. See William C. Chittick, Sufi Path, 89, 133, 217, 284, 326.
118. Ibn al-˜Arabī, al-Futūḥāt al-Makkīyah, 3:68. For another translation
and a brief analysis of this passage see James Morris, “Rediscovering the ‘Divine
Comedy’: Eschatology and Spiritual Realization in Ibn ˜Arabi,” Newsletter of
the Muhyiddin Ibn ˜Arabi Society 19 (Autumn, 2003):8–9. Also see Thomas W.
Arnold, Painting in Islam, 14-15, who earlier drew attention to the use of the
shadow play in the work of both men.
119. Regarding the shadow play in earlier Persian Sufi poetry, see Schim-
mel, Dimensions, 278–79. On tajallī, also see Ḥilmī, al-Ḥubb al-Ilāhī, 340–41;
Böwering, Mystical Vision, 172–75, and al-Kalābādhī, al-Ta˜arruf, 121–23 (tr.
Arberry, Doctrine, 117–19).
120. Ḥilmī, al-Ḥubb al-Ilāhī, 340–51.

Conclusion: The Poetry of Recollection

1. Al-Nābulusī, Kashf al-Sirr al-Ghāmiḍ, Ibrāhīm ed., 1:63–64, and see
Th. Emil Homerin, “ ‘On the Battleground:’ al-Nābulusī’s Encounters with a
Poem by Ibn al-Fārid,” Journal of Arabic Literature 38 (2007):353–411; From Arab
Poet, 24–28, 38–39, 76, and EAL, 1:12–13 (R.L. Nettler).
2. E.g., al-Farghānī, Muntahā, 1:315–16; 2:277, 299, 309; al-Tilimsānī,
Sharḥ Tā’īyat Ibn al-Fāriḍ al-Kubrā, 19b–20a, 23a, 30a; al-Kāshānī, Kashf al-Wujūh,
62a–b, 64b–65a; Nicholson, Studies, 167–68; Nallino, “Il poema,” 49–50 and
his “Ancora,” 503.
3. Scattolin, “Realization of Self,” 140–41, and also see his introduction
to his edition of Ibn al-Fāriḍ’s Dīwān, 4–11.
4. E.g. al-Farghānī, Muntahā, 2:291, 301, and al-Tilimsānī, Sharḥ Tā’īyat
Ibn al-Fāriḍ al-Kubrā, 23a, 30a.
5. See J. Stetkevych, “Arabic Literary Persona,” 55–77; The New Princeton
Encyclopedia of Poetry and Poetics, ed. Alexander Preminger et al. (Princeton:
Princeton University Press, 1993), 900–902, and Homerin, ˜Umar Ibn al-Fāriḍ,
35–36.
6. Ibn al-Fāriḍ, Dīwān, 149, verses 1–2, and cf. 152–53; for an Eng-
lish translation of the complete poem see Th. Emil Homerin, “Ibn al-Farid:
Ruba˜iyat, Ghazal, Qasida,” in Windows on the House of Islam, ed. John Renard
(Berkely: University of California Press, 1998), 194–201.
7. See chapter 3.
8. Ibn al-Fāriḍ, Dīwān, 92, verses 257–60.
9. Arberry, Mystical Poems, esp. 2:13–18; L’Hôpital “Le vocabulaire
amoureux”; Ṣādiq, Shi˜r Ibn al-Fāriḍ: Dirāsah Uslūbīyah; al-Yūsuf, “Ba˜ḍ yanābī˜
Ibn al-Fārid”; Boullata, “Verbal Arabesque,” and S. Speral, “Qaida Form,”
discussed in more detail later.
292 NOTES TO CONCLUSION

10. Jalāl al-Dīn al-Suyūṭī, al-Barq al-Wāmiḍ fī Sharḥ Yā’īyat Ibn al-Fāriḍ,
manuscript 881 (Shi˜r Taymūr), Cairo: Dār al-Kutub al-Miṣrīyah.
11. Al-Būrīnī, Sulṭān, 1:16, and see EAL, 1:163 (R.L. Nettler).
12. Al-Būrīnī, Sulṭān.
13. Ḥusayn, al-Adab, 370–75; Th. Emil Homerin, “Living Love: The Mysti-
cal Writings of ˜Ā’ishah al-Bā˜ūnīyah,” Mamlūk Studies Review 7 (2003):211–34,
and ˜Abd al-Ghanī al-Nābulusī, Dīwān al-Ḥaqā’iq wa-Majmū˜ al-Raqā’iq (Beirut:
Dār al-Jīl, 1986), 78–83.
14. Muhammad al-Būṣīrī, Dīwān, ed. Muhammad Sayyid Kīlānī, 2nd
ed. (Cairo: Muṣṭafā al-Bāb al-Ḥalabī, 1973), 238–49, and Ibn al-Fāriḍ, Dīwān,
152–53. Also see EAL, 1:163 (C.E. Bosworth); Homerin, From Arab Poet, 22–24,
55–58; Mubārak, al-Madā’iḥ al-Nabawīyah, and Schimmel, Muhammad, 176–215.
15. Aḥmad Ibn Abī Ḥajalah, Al-Ghayth al-˜Āriḍ fī Mu˜āraḍat Ibn al-Fāriḍ,
Microfilm 319 (Taṣawwuf) of manuscript 31 (Adab). Sūhāj, Egypt: Makta-
bat Sūhāj, Cairo: Arab League Manuscript Institute. Also see EAL, 1:303
(T. Seidensticker).
16. Sperl, “Qasida Form,” 66–74; Ibn al-Fāriḍ, Dīwān, 173–76, and see
chapter 4, for a complete translation of the poem.
17. Ibid., 73–74.
18. Ibid., 74–81. Sperl does not identify the poem beginning adir dhikra
as a wine poem.
19. Ibn al-Fāriḍ, Dīwān, 50–54, and see chapter 1. Cf. Ibn al-Fāriḍ, Dīwān,
144–48, 152–53, 166–67.
20. J. Stetkevych, “Arabic Qaṣīdah,” 778–781, and Sperl, “Qasida Form,”
66–67.
21. Louis Martz, “Meditative Action and ‘The Metaphysick Style,’ ” in
his The Poem of the Mind (New York: Oxford University Press, 1966), 33–53,
quote from 33.
22. Ibid., 43. Also see Louis Martz, The Poetry of Meditation, 2nd ed.
(New Haven: Yale University Press, 1962), his The Paradise Within (New Haven:
Yale University Press, 1964), and Arthur L. Clements, Poetry of Contemplation
(Albany: State University of New York Press, 1990).
23. Martz, “Meditative Action,” 44.
24. Ibn al-Fāriḍ, Dīwān, 107–108.
25. Ibn al-Fāriḍ, Dīwān, 108–10, verses 420–41 (tr. Homerin, ˜Umar Ibn
al-Fāriḍ, 194–201).
26. E.g. Ibn al-Fārid, Dīwān, 43, verse 80; 65, verses 102–103; 146, verse
31; 150. verse 19; 164, verse 27; 167, verse 19; 172, verse 51; 173, verse 8; 180,
verse 47, and 184, verse 37.
27. Homerin, “On the Battlefield,” and From Arab Poet, 76–92. Also
see Waugh, Memory, 65, 71–74, 80, 134–38, 164, 181, and his The Munshidīn
of Egypt (Columbia: University of South Carolina Press, 1989), esp. 86–95,
104–116, 152–56, 188–207.
28. Ibn al-Fārid, Dīwān, 158–61, and see chapter 4.
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 Index

Abbasid period, 10–13, 15, 51, 67, Arabia, 1, 47, 117, 121, 128–29, 152
106–107, 115, 138, 149–50 ˜Arafāt, 130–35, 139, 197, 204
˜Abd al-Raḥmān ibn ˜Umar Ibn Arberry, A.J., 32, 46–47
al-Fārid, 2 al-A˜shā, 144–45, 150
Abraham, 5, 26, 125, 130–31, 134, ˜Aṭṭār, Farīd al-Dīn, 15, 230
137, 140, 181, 189, 191 audition. See: samā˜
Abū A˜lā al-Ma˜arrī author of Augustine, 250
Risālat al-Ghufrān, 152 Avicenna. See: Ibn Sīnā
Abū Madyan, 24–25, 154–56, 158 al-Aykī, Shams al-Dīn, 240
Abū Nuwās, 15, 67, 107, 149–53, 169 ˜ayn (source, eye/self-I), 33, 36, 173,
Abū Tammām, 10–11, 15 215
Adam, 7, 52, 78, 83, 125, 151, 198, Ayyubid period, 1, 3, 15–17, 27, 51,
214, 219, 228, 231, 238, 242 54, 57, 152
affliction, 75, 79, 108–109, 124–25, ˜Azzah, 198
137–38, 161, 181–82, 187, 247
˜ahd. See: pact badī˜ poetry 9–16, 23, 26, 49–54,
Aḥmad al-Rifā˜ī, 18 60–61, 230
˜Ā’ishah al-Bā˜ūnīyah, 246 Badr, 79, 89, 96–98, 136
al-Akhṭal, 148–49 badr (full moon), 16–17, 79, 173. Also
Aleppo, 23, 38, 54 see: moon
Alexandria, 16 Baghdad, 38, 43, 68, 231
˜Alī ibn Abī Ṭālib, 39, 123, 202 Bahā’ al-Dīn Zuhayr, 16, 57
˜Alī ibn al-Murshid ibn ˜Alī, 1–2 Banī Yazdādh, 37, 39, 41, 46
˜Alī, Sibt Ibn al-Fārid, 2, 56, 240, baqā’ (abiding), 6, 19, 24, 52, 91, 96,
243, 245 125, 173, 175, 214
Dībājah (“The Adorned Proem”), 2 Baradā, 56
Amīr al-Sa˜īd, 16 Basmallāh, 94
amr. See: command basṭ (exhilaration, expansion), 125,
˜Amr ibn ˜Abd Wudd, 123 180–81, 191–92, 201, 220
˜Amr ibn Kulthūm, 144 bāṭin (inner, esoteric), 8, 200, 210,
˜Antarah, 145–46 214
antithesis (ṭibāq), 10, 26, 49–53, 63, 72, beloved, 46–47, 77–83, 123–25,
76, 92–93, 120, 124–27, 131, 163, 162–64, 186–87. Also see: ḥabīb
170, 184, 196, 204, 208, 230 Bishr ibn Abī Khāzim, 105–106

307
308 INDEX

blamer (lā’im/lāhin/˜ādhil), 33, al-Daylamī, Abū al-Ḥasan, 83, 90

40–41, 57, 73–74, 85, 93–94, 110, dhikr (recollection, meditation) 7, 9,
122, 148, 154–55, 158–59, 162, 21–22, 36, 47, 72, 84, 94, 118,
171, 191–92, 205, 207–208, 234, 122, 132–33, 156, 158–60, 165,
244, 250 172–75, 209, 212, 247, 251. Also
body, 11, 45, 48, 58, 73, 79, 90–91, see: recollection
95, 107–108, 118, 123, 130, Dhū al-Faqār, 39, 123
136–37, 140, 143, 152, 161, Dhū al-Nūn al-Miṣrī, 8–9, 15, 18
163–64, 166–67, 170, 174, 200, Dhū al-Rummah, 15
204, 207–208, 210–12, 215, 217, Diḥyah al-Kalbī, 201
220–22, 225, 241–42, 247 disguise (labs, labasa, talabbus,
Boullata, Issa, 51, 254 talbīsāt), 198, 200–201, 217, 232
bridal chamber (jalwah), 179–81, divine presence, 7, 24, 96, 98, 157,
193–94 180, 194, 250
al-Buḥturī, 15, 32 dīwān al-inshā’ (ministry of docu-
al-Būrīnī, Ḥasan, 32, 81, 98, 160, ments), 15
245–46 Donne, John, 250
al-Būṣīrī, Muhammad, 246 double entendre (tawrīyah or īhām),
Buthaynah, 198–99, 245 50–53, 121, 177
dū bayt (rhymed couplet), 28, 30, 57.
Cairo, 1–3, 15, 29, 56, 135, 138, Also see: rubā˜īyāt
239–41
camel, 103–107, 109, 111, 116–17, Eden, 112, 117, 182, 198
122, 129, 136, 138, 182, 223 emanation (fayḍ), 173, 203, 208, 214,
caravan, 105, 109, 121–22, 128–30, 216, 218, 243
135–36, 138–39, 249 encounter (liqā’), 51, 58, 72–73, 83,
Christianity, 4–5, 148–49, 153, 226, 113, 130, 132–35, 155–56, 181
250–51 exhilaration, expansion. See: basṭ
command (amr), 45, 71, 81–82, 125,
137, 163–64, 168, 190–91, 248 fanā’ (annihilation), 6, 19, 24, 52, 91,
contemplation, 48, 133, 180. Also 96, 181, 214, 233
see: shuhūd al-Farghānī, Sa˜īd al-Dīn, 177,
covenant (mīthāq) 7, 22–23, 35, 47–48, 240–41
52, 57, 76, 78, 82–84, 101, 120, Farthest Mosque (al-Masjid al-Aqṣā),
135, 139–41, 172–74, 183–85, 191, 140, 205
200, 211–17, 219, 231–33, 250–51. fire, 8, 12–13, 17, 44, 48, 67–68, 85,
Also see: Day of the Covenant; 89, 98–99, 109–19, 126, 138, 156,
pact 167, 170, 181, 223–24, 226, 228,
237–38
dahr (time, fate), 100, 151–52, 169 Fish, Stanley, 102
Damascus, 1, 15, 25, 56
Day of the Covenant (yawm Gabriel, 5, 29, 201, 228
al-mīthāq), 7, 22, 173–74, 200, Ghassānids, 147–48
214, 233, 251 ghazal, 1, 15, 22, 27, 32–33, 35–36,
Day of Judgment, 4, 9, 46, 58, 71, 83, 47, 61–84, 90–92, 97, 101–102,
93, 141, 214 103, 106, 109–10, 113, 121–23,
 INDEX 309

130, 141, 154, 159–60, 162, 165, Tradition of Willing Devotions, 6,

171–72, 177, 180, 182, 184–85, 27, 202, 210, 216, 220, 226, 234,
234, 244–46, 248, 251 241–42, 251
al-Ghazālī, Muḥammad, 18, 64, ḥaḍrah, 7, 24, 98, 157, 180, 194, 250.
235–39, 242 Also see: divine presence
Iḥyā’ ˜Ulūm al-Dīn, 18 Hajj pilgrimage, 47–48, 87, 109,
Mishkāt al-Anwār, 18, 235, 238 117–18, 125–41, 159–60, 186–88,
ghulām (young slave), 164 191, 196–97, 204, 212, 249–50,
glance (naẓrah), 32–33, 42, 59, 84, 252
89–90, 112, 123, 132, 178–80, ḥāl/aḥwāl. See: mystical states
188, 206 Ḥalīmah, 81
God, 3–9, 13–14, 21–36, 46–48, 52, al-Ḥallāj, al-Ḥusayn ibn Manṣūr,
58, 63–71, 75, 77–79, 81–84, 11–13, 15, 18, 23, 26, 153–54
87, 90–92, 94, 97–98, 100–102, ḥaqīqah (reality), 8, 77, 191
106, 108, 112–15, 117, 121, 123, al-Ḥarīrī, author of the al-Maqāmāt,
125–26, 132–41, 153–54, 156–60, 29–30, 221
172–75, 178, 181, 184–86, 188, al-Ḥārith ibn Ḥillizah al-Yashkurī,
190–93, 196–98, 200–207, 210–11, 104
214–20, 225–26, 228, 230–38, Hārūt, 41, 46
241–42, 246, 249, 251 heart. See: qalb
as creator, 13, 26–27, 58, 83, 184, Hell, 21, 67, 93, 100, 125, 133
198, 210, 222, 226, 232 Herbert, George, 102
as hidden treasure, 26 hijā’. See: invective verse
as the Real (al-ḥaqq), 172, 232–33 Ḥijāz, 65, 128, 137
divine names and attributes of, ḥimā (sacred precinct), 47, 108, 122
25–27, 94, 184–85, 215–18, 220, al-Hujwirī, 133
226, 230 Ḥuyai ibn Akhṭab, 123
essence (al-dhāt; lāhūt) of, 25,
173, 175, 194–95, 208, 213, 216, Ibn ˜Abd Rabbih, 15
236 Ibn Abī Ḥajalah, 81, 246
face or countenance (wajh) of, 46, Ibn Abī Rabī˜ah, ˜Umar, 15, 32, 63,
123, 190, 236 65, 67–68
self-revelation (jallat/tajallī) of, Ibn al-Ahdal, al-Ḥusayn, 65, 69
122, 178, 194, 196, 200–201, Ibn al-˜Arabī, Muḥyī al-Dīn, 25–27,
220–21, 232, 242 64–64, 116–17, 172, 229, 239–42
gnosis (ma˜rifah; ˜irfān), 10, 81, 96, Fuṣūṣ al-Ḥikam, 26
111, 113, 121, 132, 135, 154–55, al-Futūḥāt al-Makkīyah, 26, 239, 241
173–74, 194, 202, 215, 226, 230 Turjumān al-Ashwāq, 27, 64
Gnosticism, 4 Ibn al-˜Arīf, 18, 117–18
Ibn al-˜Asākir, al-Qāsim ibn ˜Alī, 2
ḥabīb (beloved), 13, 20, 80–82, Ibn Bassām, 15
158–59, 165, 172–73, 193, 247, Ibn Dāwūd, 69
251. Also see: beloved Ibn al-Fārid, ˜Umar,
ḥadīth, 2, 5–6, 23–24, 26, 35, 52, al-Dālīyah, 136–41
80–81, 97, 119–21, 158–59, 173, al-Dhālīyah, 32, 36, 39–51, 65,
177, 196, 201, 229, 235, 247 77–78, 90, 248
310 INDEX

Ibn al-Fārid, ˜Umar (continued) Ignatius of Loyola, author of Spiri-

Dīwān, 2, 29–30, 32, 51, 56, 70, tual Exercises, 250
118, 178, 184–85, 204, 210, 216, Ikhwān al-Ṣafā’, 69
241, 245–46 Imru’ al-Qays, 32, 144
al-Fā’īyah, 70, 79 intoxication, 46, 120, 123, 143, 149,
al-Hamzīyah, 121 152–54, 179–82, 185, 195, 197,
in the Wafayāt al-A˜yān, 27–30 209, 214, 249, 251
al-Jīmīyah, 84–102 invective verse (hijā’), 93, 103,
al-Kāfīyah, 78–79, 91 105–106, 115
Khamrīyah, 1, 143, 157, 165–75, al-Iṣfahānī, Abū al-Faraj, 15
184, 245, 248, 251 al-Iṣfahānī, Abū al-Nu˜aym, 18
al-Lāmīyah, 32, 34–36, 47–49, Ḥilyat al-Awliyā’, 18
52–53, 65, 70, 72, 76–77 al-Iṣfahānī, ˜Imād al-Dīn, 15
life, 1–3 ittiḥād (unification, union), 196, 202,
lyrical persona, 48–49, 200, 202, 226, 234–35, 243. Also see: union
212–13, 215, 219, 221, 226, 228,
230, 244–45, 249–51 Jacob, 79, 81, 114, 181
Naẓm al-Sulūk (“Poem of the Sufi Ja˜far al-Barmakī, 51
Way” = al-Tā’īyah al-Kubrā), jam˜ (union), 137, 139, 191, 193, 197,
3, 30–31, 51, 65, 157, 175, 177, 202, 214, 217–18, 228, 232, 234,
178–245, 248, 251 238, 243–44. Also see: union
poem beginning: adir dhikra man Jamīl ibn Ma˜mar, 63, 66, 83, 199,
ahwā, 158–65, 246–48 245
al-Tā’īyah al-Ṣughrā, 100, 119–21, Jerusalem (al-Quds), 5, 140, 204
128, 132–33 Jesus, 5. 249
trance, 2, 31–32, 61, 178, 243 Jinās. See: paronomasia
al-Yā’īyah, 53, 123, 127 Job, 79, 81, 181
Ibn Ḥazm, 69 Joseph, 79, 81, 114, 181
Ibn al-Jawzī, 64 Judaism, 4
Ibn Jubayr, 134–35 al-Junayd, 18, 133–34, 231–34, 236,
Ibn Khallikān, author of the Wafayāt 239, 242
al-A˜yān), 15–30, 115, 246
Ibn al-Kīzānī, Muḥammad, 20–23, 32, Ka˜bah, 125, 129–34, 140, 190, 197, 212
115–16 Kamāl-Dīn Muḥammad ibn ˜Umar
Ibn Maṭrūḥ, 16–18 Ibn al-Fārid, 2
Ibn Qutaybah, 15, 106 al-Kāshānī, ˜Izz al-Dīn, 177
Ibn Rashīq, 15 Kawthar, 56
Ibn al-Rūmī, 64 khalwah (solitude), 29, 180–81,
Ibn Sanā’ al-Mulk, 16 193–94
Ibn al-Shahrazūrī, al-Murṭaḍā, 18–20, khamrīyah (wine ode), 1, 143–57
30, 108–17, 154 khānqāh (Sufi chantry), 1, 15
al-Mawṣlīyah, 20, 109–15, 117 khayāl (the beloved’s phantom), 22,
Ibn Sīnā (Avicenna), 69, 107–108, 236 57, 71, 110, 139, 158, 222
“Ode to the Soul,” 107–108, 155 al-Khayf, 42, 47, 126, 137, 139
Ibn ˜Unayn, 16–18 kull (each, every, all, whole), 91, 164,
Ibn Zaydūn, 63, 69 206
 INDEX 311

Kuthayyir, 199, 245 moon, 33, 41, 46, 77–81, 123, 162,
164–65, 169, 183, 185, 227, 236.
labasa. See: disguise Also see: badr
Lakhmids, 148 Moses, 5, 214, 228
Laylā, 67, 109–10, 119, 122, 126, 150, Burning Bush, 5, 113, 202
171, 244 Siani, 5, 181
L’Hôpital, Jean-Yves, 245 Mu˜ādh ibn Jabal, 46–48
lightning, 87, 95, 108, 110, 119, 131, mufīḍ al-jam˜ (one bestowing union),
209–10, 244 228
love sickness, 72, 121, 155, 204, 229 Muḥammad, 2–6, 15, 29, 33, 39,
Lubnā, 122–23, 198 46–47, 59, 77–79, 81–82, 96–98,
100–102, 112–13, 118, 120–21,
Majnūn. See: Qays ibn al-Mulawwah 128, 130, 135, 140, 148, 159,
al-Malik al-˜Ādil, 16 173–74, 177, 200–203, 213–14,
al-Malik al-Kāmil, 3 217–19, 226, 228, 236, 244, 246,
Mamluk Period, 81 251
ma˜nā (meaning, subtle sense, as “beloved of God” (ḥabīb Allāh),
essence), 12, 24, 42, 78, 80, 82, 81, 173
88, 95, 160–61, 183, 185, 214, 220, as God’s messenger (rasūl), 6,
232 33, 102, 113, 120, 214. Also see:
manifestations (maẓāhir), 35, 113, messenger
115, 172, 198–200, 215, 217–18, as guide, 29, 93, 121, 173, 202,
225–28 215, 228
maqām/maqāmāt, see: mystical as seal of the prophets (khātm
stations al-nabīīn), 174, 228
al-Maqqarī, 239 at Badr, 79, 89, 96–98, 136
ma˜rifah. See: gnosis Light/Reality of, 77–79, 81–82, 97,
martyrs of love, 13, 34–35, 47, 53, 159, 173, 202, 213–14, 218, 220,
66, 90, 94, 98, 125, 249 22528, 244, 251
Martz, Louis, 249–51 mantle (burdah) of, 59, 141
Mecca, 2–3, 5, 26, 28, 47–48, 64, 79, Night Journey and Heavenly Ascen-
117–18, 121, 125–26, 129–32, sion (al-isrā’ wa-al-mi˜rāj) of, 5, 72,
135, 137–41, 148, 204, 241 98, 112, 140, 202, 213, 236
Medina, 81, 118, 121, 128–30, 135, standard (liwā’) of, 78, 174
138, 204 Muqaṭṭam Hills, 2, 29
meditative poetry, 249–51 Musāwir ibn Muḥammad al-Rūmī,
messenger, 74, 81, 101, 113, 209, 211, 36–37, 39, 41, 46, 48
228. Also see: Muhammad as al-Mutanabbī, 13–15, 32–49, 52, 67,
God’s messenger (rasūl) 77, 107, 248
metaphor (isti˜ārah), 10, 22, 33, 50, muwashshaḥ, 25, 27. 152
53–54, 63, 105, 115, 126, 148, 152, mystical states (ḥāl/aḥwāl), 6, 26, 31,
180, 203–204, 235, 242, 248 42, 44, 49–50, 73, 91, 96, 114,
metathesis (qalb), 54–55 117, 120, 138, 148, 152–54, 160,
Mimshādh al-Dīnawarī, 48 179, 181, 184, 191, 195, 197,
Minā, 42, 47, 117–18, 126, 130, 201–202, 209–10, 215, 220–21,
133–34, 137, 139 235, 243
312 INDEX

mystical stations (maqām/maqāmāt), qalb (heart), 19, 36, 39, 67, 70, 72–74,
6, 111, 125, 130, 133–34, 137, 82, 109, 114, 119, 130, 160, 185,
140, 158, 161, 189, 191, 193, 202, 190, 203, 209–10, 212, 248
204, 206 qaṣīdah (ode), 1, 15, 20, 23, 27, 65,
103–108, 114–15, 118, 121, 125,
al-Nābulusī, ˜Abd al-Ghānī, 81, 90, 128, 130, 135–36, 138, 141, 143,
98, 100, 123, 138, 243–44, 246 145–46, 162, 165, 169, 171, 182,
nafs (selfishness, concupiscence), 188, 204, 229, 244
6, 36, 58, 70–71, 114, 124–25, qawm (folk, tribe, Sufis), 57, 154, 173
163–64, 186–87, 190–91, 193, Qays ibn al-Mulawwah (known
197, 207–208, 216–17, 221, 225, as Majnūn), 66, 68, 122, 126,
232–33, 242 159–60, 171, 185, 198, 244
Najd, 119–21, 126, 244 al-Qayṣarī, Dāwūd, 172–75, 177
nasīb (elegiac prelude), 33, 47, 47, Sharḥ al-Qaṣīdah al-Khamrīyah,
63, 65–66, 76, 103, 105–12, 115, 172–75
118, 125, 135, 139–40, 144, 171 al-Qūnawī, Ṣadr al-Dīn, 239–41
nāsūt (human nature), 213 Qur’ān, 4–8, 13, 20, 22, 25, 27,
Neuwirth, Angelika, 90 46–47, 52, 66, 71, 81, 83, 93–94,
Night of Power, 204, 206 97–98, 100–102, 106, 112–14,
Noah, 181 117, 121, 123, 125, 148, 156–57,
159–60, 173, 175, 177, 181, 186,
oppression, spiritual desolation. See: 190, 198, 201–203, 206, 209, 211,
qabḍ 213–14, 219, 228–29, 235–36,
238, 251
pact (˜ahd), 48, 76, 83, 120, 140–41, Light Verse (24:25), 156, 235–39
161, 183–84, 189, 191, 228, 247. Surat al-A˜rāf (7:172), 52, 83, 215,
Also see: covenant 231
panegyric (madīḥ), 3, 16–17, 32–33, Sūrat al-Insān (76), 100
36, 39, 45–49, 67, 77, 81, 93, 103, Sūrat al-Isrā’ (17), 100–101
105, 107, 115, 130, 135, 141, 246, qurb (proximity, nearness), 14, 132,
248 156, 233
Paradise, 13, 67, 71, 94, 108, 114, al-Qushayrī, author of the al-Risālah,
125, 133, 135, 152, 157, 169, 172, 18, 242
181, 188, 232
parallelism, 51, 91, 185, 196, 208, Rābi ˜ah al-˜Adawīyah, 9, 18
215, 217, 230 raḥīl (journey, quest), 103, 105–109,
paronomasia (jinās, tajnīs), 10–11, 49, 112, 115, 118, 135, 138, 146
51, 60, 91, 180, 184, 204, 208, raqīb (spy), 21–22, 44, 73–74, 163–64,
230 179–81, 205
pilgrimage. See: Hajj pilgrimage recollection, 7, 9, 21–22, 36, 63, 65,
pre-eternity, 7, 13, 35, 52, 67, 77–79, 71, 82, 130–35, 139–40, 150,
83, 132, 141, 152, 169, 174, 184, 155–56, 160, 172–73, 185, 192,
200, 215, 231–36 209, 212, 249–52. Also see: dhikr
puppet theater, 221–26, 241–42 riḍā (acceptance), 36, 58, 71, 125, 130,
156, 184
qabḍ (oppression, spiritual desola- riddles (alghāz), 28, 54–56, 60–61,
tion), 124–25, 180–81, 202, 220 246
 INDEX 313

rubā˜īyāt (quatrains), 54, 56–61, 246. siwāk (toothpick), 47, 78

Also see: dū bayt sobriety (ṣaḥw), 152–53, 179–81,
rūḥ (spirit) 6, 11, 58–59, 67, 70–71, 194–95, 197, 201–202, 214, 218,
124–25, 151–54, 170, 174, 203, 231
207–208, 221, 232–33, 236, 241, Sperl, Stefan, 245–48
243 Standing (waqfah). See: ˜Arafāt
ruins (ṭulūl), 105, 108, 110–12, 115–16, Su˜ād, 138, 141
135 Sufi verse, 8–10, 15, 18–20, 103, 108,
Rūmī, Jalāl al-Dīn, author of the 154
Mathnavī, 230 Sufism, 2–8, 14, 30, 63
Ruwaym, Abū Muḥammad, 84 al-Suhrawardī, Abū Najīb, 18
al-Suhrawardī, ˜Umar, author of the
ṣabr (patience), 23, 51–52, 72–73, ˜Āwarif al-Ma˜ārif, 18.
114–15 al-Suhrawardī, Yaḥyā, 23–24, 30, 32,
Ṣādiq, Ramaḍān, 51, 245 155–58, 239, 242
al-Ṣafā, 43, 47, 132–34, 213 sukr. See: intoxication
al-Ṣafadī, 3 sunnah (custom, custom of Muham-
Sahl al-Tusturī, 231, 236, 239 mad), 185, 214
ṣaḥw. See: sobriety al-Suyūṭī, Jamāl al-Dīn, 125, 245
saints. See: walī Syria, 13, 15, 25, 27, 43, 65, 137, 139
Ṣalāḥ al-Dīn (Saladin), 2, 23
samā˜ (audition), 155, 174–75, 208, Ta’abbata Sharran, 90
210, 212, 251 takhmīs, 27
Ṣanā˜ī, 15 tanassuk (austerity, asceticism), 46, 74
Sarī al-Saqaṭī, 68 ṭarīqah (path, a Sufi order), 8, 14, 64,
al-Sarrāj, Abū Naṣr, 133 108, 193
Satan, 31, 66 Taṣawwuf. See: Sufism
Sayf al-Dawlah, 13 taṣḥīf (substitutions of radicals),
Scattolin, Giuseppe, 243–44 54–55
secret. See: sirr tavern (ḥān), 144–45, 150, 157,
self-praise (fakhr), 47, 105, 107, 115 165–69, 172–73, 175, 179–80, 185
separation, 12–13, 22, 24, 48, 52, 57, tawḥīd (oneness, monotheism), 7,
67, 71–72, 76, 84–85, 91, 105, 108, 218, 233–35
118, 121, 137, 139, 141, 155–56, al-Tha˜ālibī, 13–14, 64
159, 164, 195–96, 200, 203, 205, al-Tilimsānī, ˜Afīf al-Dīn, 177,
247, 250 243–44, 246
shadow play. See: puppet theater Traherne, Thomas, 250
sharī˜ah (law), 8, 201–202, 213
shuhūd (contemplation, witnessing), ˜Udhrī tradition, 35, 63, 66–68,
190–91, 193–94, 197, 207–209, 72–73, 75, 77, 83, 102, 109–10,
214, 217, 233–35. Also see: 121–22, 126, 128, 159–60, 164,
contemplation 171, 184, 198, 200, 208, 229, 244
slanderer (wāshin), 73–74, 163–64, ˜Umar Khayyām, 57
192, 205, 207–208, 233 Umayyad period, 65–66, 105–106,
Sibṭ al-Marṣafī, 135 148–49
sirr (secret, joy), 71–72, 75, 84, 156, union, 1, 7–9, 11, 13, 22, 43, 47–48,
180, 185, 232, 242 51–52, 57, 63, 66–68, 71–73,
314 INDEX

union (continued) wind, 41, 111. 116, 119–21, 126, 161,

75–76, 83–84, 91, 96, 100–103, 180, 209, 218
105, 111–12, 117, 120, 125, wine, 1, 10, 19–20, 23–25, 46, 53, 88,
127–29, 133–35, 237, 139–41, 143, 91, 96, 103, 111, 117–18, 120–23,
153–59, 162–65, 173, 175, 179–81, 143–76, 178–81, 185, 192, 194,
185, 187–218, 221, 226–38, 209–10, 229, 244, 246–51
243–50. Also see: baqā,’ ittiḥād, as the beloved, 171–72
jam˜, and waṣl as blood, 146–47
uns (intimacy), 24, 132–33, 140 wine ode. See: khamrīyah
unseen world (˜ālam al-ghayb), 218 World of the Command (˜ālam al-
al-Uqayshir, 149 amr), 190–91
World of Dominion (˜ālam
Vaughan, Henry, 250 al-malakūt), 218
visible world (˜ālami-sh-shahādati), 218 World of Omnipotence (˜ālam
al-jabarūt), 218
waḥdat al-wujūd (the unity of being), 25 wujūd (existence, being), 25, 74,
wajd (passion, rapture), 46, 50–52, 194–96, 208, 217, 233, 236
59, 72–73, 91, 98–99, 111,
122–23, 154, 161, 181, 197 al-Yūsuf, Yūsuf Sāmī, 32, 245
wajh (face). See: God
walī/awliyā’ (God’s chosen friends; Ẓāfir al-Ḥaddād, 16
saints), 18, 136, 139, 173, 188, ẓāhir (outer, exoteric), 8, 23, 76–77,
201, 215, 219, 228, 236–37 200, 210, 217
al-Walīd ibn Yazīd, 149 zajal, 152
Wallāda, 69 Zamzam, 47, 125, 140
waṣl (union), 19–20, 54, 59, 124–25, zāwiyah (Sufi lodge), 15
163–64, 180–81, 234. Also see: Zoroastrianism, 4
union zuhdīyāt (ascetic poetry), 8–9