(The Open Yale Courses Series) Paul H. Fry-Theory of Literature-Yale University Press (2012)

© 2016, Otto Harrassowitz GmbH & Co.
KG, Wiesbaden
ISBN Print: 9783447106931 # ISBN E-Book: 9783447195638
STUDIES IN ARABIC LANGUAGE
AND LITERATURE
Edited by
Sasson Somekh and Alexander Borg
Volume 9
2016
Harrassowitz Verlag . Wiesbaden
© 2016, Otto Harrassowitz GmbH & Co. KG, Wiesbaden

Jeries Khoury
The Impact of the Arabian Nights

on Modern Arabic Poetry
2016
Harrassowitz Verlag . Wiesbaden

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For my wife Samah and my children: Basil, Majd and Ward
for their love, patience and support

Contents
Acknowledgments ................................................................................... 11
Preface .................................................................................................. 13
0. Prolegomena ....................................................................................... 17
1. Modern Movements and the Attitudes toward Popular Literature .................. 21
1.1 The study of popular literature among ancient Arab scholars.................. 21
1.2 The study of popular literature in modern times ................................... 22
1.2.1 Introduction: The Delayed interest in popular literature ...................... 22
1.2.2 The stages of interest in folklore and its motivations .......................... 26
1.2.2.1 Introduction ............................................................................ 26
1.2.2.2 Interest in popular literature before 1945 ....................................... 28
1.2.2.2.1 The main intellectual and literary currents .................................. 28
1.2.2.2.2 Popular literature before 1945: The seeds of awareness ................. 31
1.2.2.2.3 The effect of popular literature on poetry before 1945 ................... 31
1.2.2.2.4 Conclusion ........................................................................... 32
1.2.2.3 Interest in popular literature in the period (1946 -1961).................... 33
1.2.2.3.1 Introduction .......................................................................... 33
1.2.2.3.2 The influence of the English poet T.S. Eliot ................................ 34
1.2.2.3.2.1 Introduction ....................................................................... 34
1.2.2.3.2.2 Eliot and the relationship between poetry and tradition ............... 35
1.2.2.3.2.3 Eliot and the "objective correlative" ........................................ 38
1.2.2.3.2.4 Eliot and the language of poetry ............................................. 39
1.2.2.3.3 ShiÝr al-tafÝÐla and the use of popular literature ............................. 45
1.2.2.3.3.1 Introduction ....................................................................... 45
1.2.2.3.3.2 The nature of shiÝr al-tafÝÐla and its effect on textual interaction .... 47
1.2.2.3.4 Modernism, post-modernism and in the use of popular literature ..... 49
1.2.2.3.4.1 Introduction ....................................................................... 49
1.2.2.3.4.2 The journal Shiʿr and its main principles .................................. 52
1.2.2.3.4.3 Modernism and the growth of interest in popular literature .......... 53
1.2.2.3.5 The emergence of leftist political parties-socialist realism .............. 56
1.2.2.3.5.1 Introduction ....................................................................... 56
1.2.2.3.5.2 Socialist realism and a committed literature .............................. 57
1.2.2.3.5.3 Socialist realism and the pioneer poets..................................... 59
1.2.2.3.5.4 Delayed popular implementation of socialist realism .................. 61
1.2.2.3.6 The defeat of 1948 and its consequences .................................... 62
1.2.2.3.6.1 Introduction ....................................................................... 62
1.2.2.3.6.2 Popular literature as a source of inspiration after the defeat .......... 63

8 Contents
1.2.2.3.7 Summary of the period 1945-1961 ............................................ 64

1.2.2.4 Interest in popular literature in the period (1962 -1986) ................... 66
1.2.2.4.1 Introduction.......................................................................... 66
1.2.2.4.2 The effect of these events on the interest in popular literature ......... 67
1.2.2.5 Interest in popular literature in recent times (1987 to 2014) .............. 70
2. The Arabian Nights and Folk Narratives .................................................. 73
2.1 Introduction ................................................................................. 73
2.2 The folktale ................................................................................. 74
2.2.1 Definition ................................................................................. 74
2.2.2 The most important features of folktales ......................................... 75
2.2.3 The importance of the folktale’s use in literature............................... 77
2.3 The legend ................................................................................... 78
2.3.1 Definition ................................................................................. 78
2.3.2 The legend’s most important characteristics ..................................... 80
2.3.3 The importance of the legend’s use in literature ................................ 82
2.4 The Arabian Nights ....................................................................... 83
2.4.1 Introduction............................................................................... 83
2.4.2 Definition and origins.................................................................. 84
2.4.3 The framework story ................................................................... 84
2.4.4 The internal stories ..................................................................... 86
2.4.5 The Arabian Nights: Folk literature?............................................... 88
2.4.6 The importance of its literary use ................................................... 90
3. The Use of The Arabian Nights in Modern Arabic Poetry ............................ 93
3.1 A technical note ............................................................................ 93
3.2 Introduction ................................................................................. 94
3.3 The use of The Arabian Nights in the first period (1945-1961) ............... 95
3.3.1 Introduction............................................................................... 95
3.3.2 Uses of the figure of Sinbad.......................................................... 95
3.3.2.1 Introduction ............................................................................ 95
3.3.2.2 Sinbad as allusion .................................................................... 97
3.3.2.3 Sinbad: Imitation and architextuality............................................ 100
3.3.2.4 Sinbad: Counter-imitation and the double ..................................... 103
3.3.2.5 Sinbad and the copper knight: Partial allegory and Peritextuality ....... 106
3.3.2.6 Sinbad: Imitation and allegory .................................................... 111
3.3.2.7 Sinbad: Counter-imitation and Peritextuality ................................. 114
3.3.3 The use of the figure of Scheherazade............................................. 122
3.3.3.1 Introduction ............................................................................ 122
3.3.3.2 Scheherazade: allusion and Peritextuality ..................................... 124
3.3.3.3 Scheherazade as symbol of the fighting Arab woman: Imitation ........ 125
3.3.3.4 Scheherazade: Borrowing and Peritextuality.................................. 127
3.3.4 The use of other symbols from The Arabian Nights ........................... 129
3.3.5 Use of other figures from The Arabian Nights: ʿAjīb b. al-Khaṣīb ........ 130

Contents 9
3.3.5.1 Introduction ............................................................................ 130

3.3.5.2 ʿAjīb b. al-Khaṣīb: Peritextuality, allegory and the mask .................. 130
3.3.6 Use of the atmosphere of The Arabian Nights ................................... 137
3.3.6.1 Introduction ............................................................................ 137
3.3.6.2 Allegorical use of the atmosphere of The Arabian Nights ................. 137
3.4 The use of The Arabian Nights in the second period (1962-1986) ........... 145
3.4.1 Introduction ............................................................................... 145
3.4.2 Use of the figure of Sinbad ........................................................... 146
3.4.2.1 Introduction ............................................................................ 146
3.4.2.2 Sinbad: Symbolic allusion .......................................................... 147
3.4.2.3 Sinbad the spaceman: An alternative allusion ................................. 147
3.4.2.4 Sinbad and the roc: Imitation and symbolic allusion ........................ 148
3.4.2.5 Sinbad and the roc: Partial allegory .............................................. 152
3.4.2.6 Sinbad, the copper night and al-Ḥasan al-Baṣrī: Mixing symbols ....... 154
3.4.2.7 Sinbad lost never to return: Counter-imitation and the double ........... 158
3.4.2.8 Sinbad as a stage figure: Poetization of the narrative ....................... 162
3.4.3 The use of the figure of Scheherazade ............................................. 166
3.4.3.1 Introduction ............................................................................ 166
3.4.3.2 Scheherazade as symbolic allusion............................................... 166
3.4.3.3 Scheherazade: Analogous imitation.............................................. 170
3.4.4 The use of the figure of Shahryar ................................................... 174
3.4.4.1 Introduction ............................................................................ 174
3.4.4.2 Shahryar: Indirect allusion to masculinity and brutality .................... 176
3.4.4.3 Shahryar: Symbol of man........................................................... 177
3.4.4.4 Shahryar: Peritextuality and symbolic allusion ............................... 179
3.4.5 The use of the figure of Aladdin and some other symbols ................... 180
3.4.5.1 Introduction ............................................................................ 180
3.4.5.2 Allusion to the flying carpet ....................................................... 181
3.4.5.3 The symbols of Aladdin: Metaphorical allusion .............................. 184
3.4.5.4 Aladdin: Allusion and projection ................................................. 185
3.4.5.5 Aladdin: Condensed imitation with modification ............................ 186
3.4.5.6 Aladdin – Peritextuality ............................................................. 189
3.4.6 Use of other figures ..................................................................... 190
3.4.7 Use of the atmosphere of The Arabian Nights ................................... 190
3.4.7.1 Allusion ................................................................................. 190
3.4.7.2 The atmosphere of The Arabian Nights: Allegorical usage ............... 191
3.5 The use of The Arabian Nights in the third period (1987-2015) .............. 195
3.5.1 Introduction ............................................................................... 195
3.5.2 The use of the figure of Sinbad ...................................................... 196
3.5.3 The use of the figure of Scheherazade ............................................. 197
3.5.4 The use of the figure of Shahryar ................................................... 197
3.5.4.1 Introduction ............................................................................ 197
3.5.4.2 Shahryar: Symbolic allusion to the traditional Arab male ................. 198

10 Contents
3.5.4.3 Qabbānī's Shahryar: Symbolic allusion and Peritextuality ................ 200

3.5.5 The use of the figure of Aladdin or its symbols................................. 202
3.5.6 Use of other figures .................................................................... 204
3.5.7 The use of the atmosphere of The Arabian Nights ............................. 204
4. Afterword .......................................................................................... 207
Finally ............................................................................................. 214
5. Bibliography ...................................................................................... 217
6. Index ................................................................................................ 237

Acknowledgments
I'm very grateful to several persons and associations that contributed to the
publication of this book. First and foremost I am indebted to Michael Guggenheimer
who helped prepare the English version of the study and to Mrs. Helen Fourani for
her editing and her wise remarks. Great thanks go to Tel-Aviv University, especially
the Vice Rector Prof. Eyal Zisser and the Dean of Humanities Prof. Leo Kori, for
their generous financial support. My heartfelt gratitude goes also to the head of the
Arab College of Education in Israel, Haifa Mr. Zaki Kamal and the college
Manager, Prof. Salman Alayan for their support. I am also greatly indebted to Prof.
Sasson Somekh, Prof. Alexander Borg, Prof. Sulaiman Jubran and Prof. Mahmoud
Ghanayim for their wise advice and important remarks. My thanks go to Dr. Barbara
Krauss, the director of the Harrassowitz Verlag, for her professional and persevering
work. Thanks are also due to Professor Emeritus R. Georges Khoury from
Heidelberg University, the editor of the series Arabisch-Islamische Welt in Tradition
und Moderne. I would also like to express my appreciation to Mr. Reinhard
Friedrich and Mr. Michael Fröhlich for their devoted professional attention in the
production of this work.

Preface
Interest in folk literature took a novel turn beginning in the mid-twentieth century,
after a long period of devaluing this type of writing. Folk literature had been viewed
as neither canonical nor authorized, but as the product of a naive and spontaneous
culture; it failed to obey literary rules and standards established by the dominant
official circles.
This change in attitude toward folk literature concurred with the political, social,
and literary transformations taking place in the Arab world in the wake of World
War II, transformations greatly affecting Arab consciousness regarding both real-life
and artistic issues. The 1950s was a time of social and political liberation in the Arab
world, a time when the Arab nations freed themselves from the monarchic and
feudal regimes nurtured by imperialism, particularly those represented by Western
mandates. A number of Arab states, headed by Egypt, became republics.
These political developments occurred at a time when the literary school of
socialist-realism reached maturity. By the 1960s, this socio-political trend achieved
its greatest popularity whereby it influenced most Arab intellectuals. They strove to
free their literary works from the far-from-realistic school of romanticism,
committing themselves to the problems of the masses, thereby transforming
literature from "monarchic," as they called it, to "popular." This literary commitment
to address their nations’ problems was not limited to discussion of politics and social
issues, but also involved the adoption of new literary and poetic styles, liberated
from classical rules and deemed more appropriate to the new situation. Writers
forged alternatives to the old style that had evolved under the aristocracy and ancient
regimes.
The Arab revolution, which began as a political rebellion against colonialism and
the ruling regimes, developed into an all-encompassing revolution spanning all
domains of life. Thus we saw activities for women's liberation alongside calls for
liberating thought, literature, and other aspects of life in the Arab world. This
comprehensive revolution bequeathed new literary forms and writing styles,
especially in poetry, most significantly the emergence of shiʿr al-tafʿīla (free verse
poetry), the greatest change to occur in Arabic poetry in the modern age. The
traditional literary regime began to gradually shake and fundamental changes
occurred in the conception, essence, and components of literature, concurring with
the changes taking place in social and political concepts, perhaps most notably the
rise in prominence of the previously marginalize problems of the masses.
For example, the use of folk symbols and other folk materials, as well as the
transformation of colloquial expressions into fuÒÎÁ and the imitation of the
colloquial style, came to play important roles in literature beginning in the mid-
1950s, which constitutes a characteristic of modernism in general. This folk-oriented
trend emerged quite slowly at first, because at the time, modernist Arab poets were

14 Preface
more given to utilizing foreign myths, reflecting the influence of Western poetry.
But in time, this folk trend came to enjoy increasing acceptance, and the study of
folklore flourished as never before; its results became widely known and recognized
by dominant Arab cultural circles.
Folklore studies reached their greatest prominence at the beginning of the 1960s,
drawing the attention of Arab writers and intellectuals, who showed a growing
interest in every kind of folk literature. This development induced writers to
recognize the value of such literature and its ability to further the evolution of
poetry, on the one hand, and create a communicative bridge with the common
people, on the other hand, thus making folk literature one of the most important
sources of inspiration for Arab poets at that time.
Modern free verse poetry amplified and extended this tendency through the
greater freedom and openness it offered Arabic poetry, which had previously been
restricted to the classical verse patterns. The new poetry, with its varying line length
and varying numbers of feet, gave greater flexibility and made poetry more open to
outside literary influences, including prose. Gradually it became clear that the "new
poetry" was not merely a formal or prosodic revolution but rather a comprehensive
transformation encompassing meter, form, language, and modes of artistic
expression. It is thus no surprise that the same period saw a substantial increase in
the use of myths and narrative in poetry, as well as the interjection of colloquial
expressions and folk symbols. These innovations began in the mid-1950s and
became truly notable in the 1960s and 1970s.
These changes revealed bias in the traditional class-oriented view on what
comprises the literary canon, eschewing folk literature despite its valid literary and
artistic criteria. They also revealed that scholarly studies of literature had been
lacking objectivity and ignoring numerous facets of literary evolution, and thus
failing to present an integrated picture of literary evolution.
Unfortunately, this interaction between canonical and folk texts, despite its
significance and importance in the evolution of modern Arabic poetry, still has yet
to receive the scholarly attention it deserves; it has only been mentioned in passing
by critics and scholars, who have thus far failed to provide an analysis of its causes,
effects, and dimensions. The time has come to undertake such a study, especially
given the emergence of the theory of intertextuality as one of the most important
contemporary theories on textual reading and analysis. Such a study should interest
intellectuals, poets, and critics alike, arousing awareness of "trans-system" textual
relationships, including their value in creating an appropriate balance for pleasing
artistic tastes as well as attracting readers, in an age where consumers of poetry are
waning.
Folk literature can serve as a mirror offering an honest and spontaneous
reflection of popular tastes. Its symbols provide an objectivity that ensures both
poetry’s artistic value as well as communication with the reader. Folk literature is
also an art form, albeit one that has evolved idiosyncratically in response to popular
needs and the social and psychological development of the common people. Thus

Preface 15
the models and genres of folk literature have always been close to readers'
imaginations and emotions. References to folktales in canonical literature thereby
give texts popular overtones; the individual's thoughts melds with those of the
collective, helping to clarify meanings and enhance communication, since folk
symbols and allusions are stored in every reader's memory. Their use expands the
bounds of creativity and opens new horizons for poets, enabling them to express
their thoughts with greater artistic freedom.
Political, social, intellectual, and artistic factors had conspired to bring about a
comprehensive integrated revolution affecting Arab social and political institutions
as well as the literary canon, whereby folk literatures were drawn from the margins
towards the center. This literary movement can be divided into three periods: from
1945 to 1961 (a time of expanding nationalism); from 1962 to 1987 (when
nationalism became undermined and the Arabs withdrew into themselves); and from
1988 to the present (a time of social and political disintegration among the Arabs, a
spread of theories of the absurd, and a return to a closed self).
The use of folk literature in modern Arabic poetry, and the influence of folk
thought in general, reached a climax during the second period, after which it began
to wane. It appears that the political, nationalist factor was a highly influential force
in folk use, since as national feelings grew and the Arabs came to believe in national
unity in the first period, we notice an obvious neglect of folk literature. Then, as the
dream of unity faded (especially after 1961), the Arabs began to withdraw into
themselves and came to show a greater interest in individual folk literatures. I
thereby take 1961 (and not 1967, as do most other studies) as the watershed year
between the first and the second periods. I will also take into consideration the year
1987, when the first Palestinian intifada broke out, which Arabs perceived as the
final episode of Arab nationalism. The intifada has had considerable effect on
thought and literature among the Arabs in general, and on the Palestinians in
particular.
Between the years 1962 and 1987, use of folk literature was not a passing fad
with limited effect that could be dismissed with a mere note. Rather, it encompassed
artistic dimensions whose influences remain to this day. Noting the significance of
this trend casts doubt on the validity of many widely accepted truths, including the
standard dual division of literature into canonical and non-canonical. In fact, some
poets melded their canonical literary texts with folk allusions so tightly that the
boundaries between the two were effectively abolished, so that their texts could no
longer be judged by class criteria, as had been done habitually. Furthermore, some
texts came to possess an unprecedented hybrid linguistic register which combined
canonical and folk expressions. Most striking is the emergence of a sublime
qualitative hybridization, with poets composing verses using folktales as their
model, essentially formulating folk narratives in poetic form; other poets inserted
folktales or folksongs into their verses, creating texts from an amalgam of two or
more distinct genres.

16 Preface
Given this background, in the present study, I attempt to demonstrate the value
of engaging in serious analysis of the use of folk literature in canonical writings. I
also show that the general disregard of this trend has obscured much significant
information about the relationship between these two types of literature and the
emergence of new hybridized literary genres. Such genres may open new horizons
for literary variation, enabling poets to create new works that go beyond recognized
traditional forms.
Folk literature is multi-faceted with a broad and varied influence on canonical
poetry. It is naturally not possible to provide a profound, detailed analysis of all
aspects of this phenomenon in a single study. Most modernist poets have been
influenced by folk proverbs and benefitted from their rhetoric, brevity, formal
structure, and contents. These poets developed various techniques for using folk
elements and for manipulating their components. I have previously discussed
aspects of this development in four studies published between 2006 and 2012.1
These studies explore how poets have used traditional Arab anecdotes and folktales,
and how they have shaped their texts, enriching them with various narrative
techniques, which clearly enhanced their artistic and symbolic value. I have
published three additional studies,2 in which investigate the extent and types of this
folk influence as well as the variation in style, technique, and genre resulting from
the encounter between these two distinct literary forms.
Jeries Khoury
Tel-Aviv University
October, 2016
1 See: Khoury 2006b; Khoury 2007b; Khoury 2010; Khoury 2012.

2 See: Khoury 2006a; Khoury 2007a; Khoury 2008.

0. Prolegomena
The present study differs from previous studies in that it focuses the analysis on a
large number of modern poems composed by well-known poets, most of whom have
played an active role in the modernization of Arabic poetry, both as pioneers of new
poetic techniques and as users of folk elements and symbols. These works have
especially drawn motifs from The Arabian Nights, which has come to occupy an
important position in modern poetic texts. The most important of the poets engaging
with this classic folk compilation are included: Khalīl Ḥāwī (1919-1982); Nizār
Qabbānī (1923-1998); Badr Shākir al-Sayyāb (1926-1964); ʿAbd al-Wahhāb al-
Bayātī (1926-1999); Tawfīq Zayyād (1929-1994); Ṣalāḥ ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr (1931-1980);
Saʿdī Yūsuf (b. 1934); Samīḥ al-Qāsim (1929-2014); Amal Dundul (1940-1983);
Maḥmūd Darwīsh (1941-2008); and ʿIzz al-Dīn al-Manāṣra (b. 1946).
This study demonstrates the ways The Arabian Nights was a key source of
inspiration for modernist poets. Its symbols were used primarily during the crucial
period when free verse emerged. This usage played a vital role in shaping modern
Arabic poetics and providing poets with rich materials for enhancing their poetic
techniques.
This study is based on an in-depth reading of modern Arabic poetry, particularly
on those works by major poets containing allusions to The Arabian Nights. These
poems were analyzed to determine their effect on the text's content, style, and
structure. My reading falls, somewhere, between substantive-semantic and formal-
stylistic aspects of the poems. The first reading presented in this book reveals the
extent to which folk materials affect the poems’ meanings, give them artistic
expression, and make them rich and variegated in accordance with modernist
criteria. The second reading shows in greater depth how folk symbols borrowed
from The Arabian Nights are used to artistic effects, on the one hand, for obscuring
meanings and then revealing them in nuanced and complex ways and, on the other
hand, for maintaining a reasonable connection between reader and text, since readers
can recognize and interact with folk motifs. I also attempt to analyze the general
shape of such modern texts and the extent to which the borrowed elements influence
their shape and style in general. Considerable analytical effort is made in exploring
how the merging of the folk text of The Arabian Nights with the canonical poetic
text affects the modernist form, including the presentation of poetic and prose styles,
the various linguistic levels and types they contain, the creating of hybrids from
merging poetry with story or anecdote, and the balance between the two genres
required to generate the new hybrid genre.
The Arabian Nights is a world-famous work whose stories and characters have
inspired numerous writers and intellectuals over the ages. However, its influence on
Arabic literature had remained quite limited until the mid-twentieth century. Its

18 0. Prolegomena
stories were transmitted for generations and in time were transformed into folktales
well-known throughout the Arab world. Its many linguistic levels, ranging from
spoken dialect to sublime classical Arabic, its fantasy-rich tales, and its dialogue
between classical Arabic poetry and folk text produced an admirable and enduring
work.
It is only natural that in a study of this kind I must discuss the nature of inter-
textual connections for whose purpose we must take into account the various
theories on textual structure that facilitate the scholarly treatment of various textual
phenomena. More specifically, I shall draw in great detail upon the theory of
transtexuality as developed by G. Genette1, who intended his theory to provide a
basis for a science of literary texts that considers all relevant aspects, including
textual criticism, analysis, and related extra-textual information. Even so, Genette
was fully aware that his theory could not address every single aspect of the mutual
relations and influences in various texts, since they are practically limitless, and
encompass a multiplicity no less than the variety of texts that exist.
My treatment of texts will therefore be of an applied nature, using no single
theoretical apparatus, since I wish to avoid a purely philosophical analysis. Rather,
the usefulness of theoretical techniques stems from their derivation from the text
itself, their coming into being via the text, not from imposing them on the text from
the outside. Of course it goes without saying that every text is a world of its own,
with respect to its specific techniques, language, interrelation with other texts, and
connections to the overall context and textual historical context. Therefore when
studying the relationship between a given text and other texts, it is best to try to
analyze the text according to its own literary merit, and avoid beginning with a
given theory. For the purposes of the present study, I therefore created a number of
specific terms derived from the unique or new relationships found to exist among
the texts. However, I did not ignore Genette's theory, which provided some terms for
naming specific relations between the alluding and alluded texts.
This book is divided into two main parts. Part One is theoretical and consists of
two chapters. The first chapter describes the development of interest in folk
materials in parallel to the evolution of modern Arabic poetry and concomitant
political, social, and cultural changes. The sections of this chapter are divided into
the four periods previously mentioned (before 1945; 1945-1961; 1962-1987; and
1988 to the present); they consist of a survey of the changing positions taken by
Arab intellectuals and in modern criticism toward folk culture, based on political,
cultural, and social factors. The second chapter discusses the artistic and dramatic
value of The Arabian Nights as a preface to an analysis of that work's influence on
the evolution of modern poetry.
Part Two is of an applied nature, describing the use of The Arabian Nights in
modern poetry during each of the above-mentioned periods. It consists of a single
chapter in which the contents and form of a selection of important poems are
1 See: Genette 1982; Genette 1992; Genette 1997.

0. Prolegomena 19
analyzed. The analysis focuses mainly on artistic technique and the role played by
folk materials (associated with The Arabian Nights) in the construction of the text
and its artistic and linguistic structures. The poems are divided according to the
periods in which they were composed, and subdivided in accordance with the
relative value of the alluded text and the extent to which it enters into the poem's
overall structure, from the simplest allusion to the most complex, according to
Genette's theory and terms, in addition to terms specifically coined for this study for
describing various forms and techniques of folk allusion.

1. Modern Movements and the Attitudes toward Popular
Literature
1.1 The study of popular literature among ancient Arab scholars

The enduring remnants of ancient Arab folklore include a modest quantity of stories,
anecdotes, reports, proverbs, maxims, and verses, recorded in various books.1 None
of these books present folklore on its own merits, but rather utilize such materials to
document facts of history or to show the deterioration of the Arabic language, or are
provided with the intention to arouse laughter at gatherings of the upper classes,
wherein usual bounds of propriety were often broken.2 This exposure to folkloric
materials affected texts written for these classes and became incorporated into
"Arabic poetry of all periods, by Bashshār b. Burd, Ṣafiyy al-Dīn al-Ḥillī and others,
as well as in prose compositions, such as maqāmas and literary biographies."3
Perhaps the most assiduous collector of folkloric materials, anecdotes, stories,
customs, and traditions, in vogue both in his time and earlier, was al-Jāḥiẓ (775-868
CE).4 Numerous Arab writers followed him, most notably Ibn Khaldūn (1332-1406
CE), who quotes several zajal poems and recollections taken from Arabic folk
1 Following is a selected list of such books, none of which are devoted specifically to folklore as
such, but rather mention and quote folkloric materials occasionally: Al-Ābī 1980-1989; al-
Abshīhī 1996; Ibn al-Akfānī 1989; Ibn al-Jawzī 1990; Ibn al-Jawzī 1994; Ibn Ḥamdūn 1984;
Ibn al-Rashīq 1988; Ibn Salama 1960; Ibn ʿAbd Rabbih 1960; Ibn Qutayba 1982; Ibn al-
Muʿtazz 1989; al-Itlīdī 1990; al-Iṣbahānī 1971; al-Baghdādī 1986; al-Tanūkhī 1978; al-
Thaʿālibī 1980; al-Thaʿālibī 1992; al-Thaʿālibī 1994; al-Zamakhsharī 1962; al-Ḍabbī 1882; al-
ʿAskarī 1964; al-Masʿūdī 1997; al-Maghribī 1983; al-Maydānī 1933; al-Nuwayrī 1964. See:
also the lists of references in the following works: Ṣaliḥ 1956, vol. 1: 40-52; Sadan 1983 (esp.
pp. 137-146); Lebedev 1993 (throughout the article); Abdel-Malek 1990: 1-2. For additional
information on the various genres of folklore since pre-Islamic times, see: Ibrāhīm 1971: 22-
31; Ibrāhīm 1973(?): 100-153; Naṣṣār 1982: 19-142; and al-Malqī 1990:85-93. A number of
studies have analyzed the connection between the Qurʾān and Arabic folklore, since the former
is deemed to contain numerous stories derived from Arabic pre-Islamic folktales and legends
(see: Lebedev 1993: 132).
2 See: Sadan 1983: 39, 49.
3 Mursī 1983: 9; cf. Ṣāliḥ 1956, vol. 1: 145-147; Sadan 198: 42, 49; Khayr Bik 1986: 125-126;
Qāsim 1993:42-44; Abū Ḥannā 1994: 180 (note 2); al-Zuʿbī 2002: 11.
4 See: ʿAbūd 1967, vol. 2: 455; al-Ḥakīm 1975: 137-138, 141; ʿAbd al-Ḥakīm 1980: 54; Abu
Saʿd 1987: 75-76; and Abū Ḥannā 1994: 180-181. See: also the following works by al-Jāḥiẓ:
al-Jāḥiẓ 1963; al-Jāḥiẓ 1968; al-Jāḥiẓ 1982; al-Jāḥiẓ 1990.

22 1. Modern Movements and the Attitudes toward Popular Literature
biographies in his famous Muqaddima.5 Hiyām al-Malqī considers Ibn Khaldūn the
pioneer of folklore studies:
He founded the science of folklore. In his hands the huge amount of folkloric
materials collected by the generation of encyclopedists received its standard shape
and its scientific framework (for the first time) in Western and world thought.6
To these aficionados, we may add the poet Ṣafiyy al-Dīn al-Ḥillī (1278-1349
CE), who wrote verses in both classical and colloquial Arabic, and also composed
an important book on zajal and other genres of colloquial poetry entitled al-ʿĀṭil al-
Ḥālī wal-Murakhkhaṣ al-Ghālī.7 Muḥammad b. Ismāʿīl Shihāb al-Dīn (1803-1857
CE) also presents various types of muwashshaḥ, zajal, and other genres of non-
classical poetry in his volume, Safīnat al-Mulk wa-Nafīsat al-Fulk.8
Translated from Persian by Ibn al-Muqaffaʿ (725-759 CE), Kalīla wa-Dimna is
one of the greatest collections of fables and maxims in Arabic. It has greatly inspired
Arab writers, ancient as well as modern, in both style and content. The same is true
of The Arabian Nights, which is considered an Arabic masterpiece, albeit drawing
from a number of distinct primary sources. It received its ultimate form, at the hands
of several Arab writers, oral storytellers, and even their listeners, over more than
twelve centuries, coming to reflect the social life, aspirations of the common people,
and life at court across time and place. In addition to the popular epics that became
so widespread among Arabs in the Middle Ages.9
However, I do wish to note that the interest in folklore and popular literature in
classical and modern ages, till the mid of the 20th century has not attained maturity,
for reasons discussed in the next section.
1.2 The study of popular literature in modern times

1.2.1 Introduction: The Delayed interest in popular literature
Only relatively recently has interest in Arab popular literature arisen in modern
times. In fact to this day, the Arab world’s interest in this kind of literature is quite
modest, when compared to the attention it pays to canonical literature. We cannot
find any "Arab writer who has had the courage to study our folklore as a creative art,
5 See: Ibn Khaldūn 1930: 527. For more on Ibn Khaldūn's interest in folklore see: Ṣāliḥ 1956, 1:
42-52 (on Ibn Khaldūn and his successors, especially in Egypt); Yūnus 1973: 117-133; Booth
1992; Reynolds 1995: 10; and ʿAlawiyya 1995: 92-95.
6 Al-Malqī 1990: 81; cf. Dhahabī 1972: 29-30.
7 Al-Ḥillī 1955; for more on his most important writings see: Cachia 1990: 165.
8 Shihāb al-Dīn 1891; see: also ʿAbd al-Majīd 1970: 129.
9 I will not further discuss this issue here, since I discuss it thoroughly in a chapter in my recent
book; there I treat the various genres of popular Arabic folklore and popular literature in early
times, including folksongs and folk poetry from pre-Islamic times until the modern period. See:
Khoury 2013, especially 55-96.

1.2 The study of popular literature in modern times 23
leaving aside its language."10 There are a number of reasons for this paucity, mainly
having to do with reticence concerning folklore in general, and specifically its use of
simple or colloquial language, as detailed below:
A. At the artistic level: Many intellectuals consider popular literature as the
literature of the illiterate. They regard it as artistically inferior and thus not fit for
study, especially since it is expressed in the colloquial, rather than in standard
language, a language appropriate only "for buying and selling, for personal
communication […] not a language in which an artist can express hopes and hover
in the world of emotions and dreams."11
However, I wish to reject this view. Popular literature is not limited to any one
social class; it is the literature of the entire nation, of all strata of society.12 Nabīla
Ibrāhīm correctly associates folklore with culture and argues that both evolve in
parallel; those who consider the former inferior "do not only misunderstand the
nature of folklore, but also misunderstand the concept of culture generally."13
In my view, language is a neutral instrument. Whether it is rough or artistic
depends on its users, on whether they have the artistic talent to utilize language to
create something of artistic value. This is true of Standard Arabic as well, which in
the past had also been a language of spoken communication. I must furthermore
stress that the language of popular literature is distinct from the language of
everyday discourse; its elements are chosen carefully to produce a phonetically
pleasing text filled with imagery; the act of choosing and enhancing creates an
artistic language in the full sense of the term. In fact, in this context the spoken
language has an advantage over its standard counterpart, since the former is more
capable of expressing one’s true feelings, as it does in real life. In other words, the
spoken language transmits a more realistic picture and presents a more truthful
image of emotions. Here the well-known writer JubrÁn KhalÐl JubrÁn (1883-1931)
metaphorically expresses this view:
I believe that if we consider on the one hand the mawwāl, the zajal, the
ʿatāba and the mÝannÁ, with their novel epithets, witty imagery, and elegant
and original expressions, and on the other hand we take the poems that fill
our newspapers and magazines, composed in the standard language, we will
certainly come to the conclusion that the former can be compared to a bunch
of fragrant basil and the latter to pile of firewood, or perhaps the former to a
troupe of dancing girls in training and the latter to a group of mummified
corpses.14
10 Al-Ḥakīm 1975: 140; cf. ibid.: 137-139; Snir 1994: 56; Snir 1998: 107.
11 Al-Naqqāsh 1992: 66; cf. Cachia 1967: 13; al-Ḥakīm 1975: 40; al-KittÁnÐ 1982, vol. 2: 696;
Mursī 1983: 7; Malek 1990: 2-3; KhurshÐd 1991: 10; Caspi & Blessing 1993: 355; KhurshÐd
1994: 139; and Semah 1995: 8.
12 See: Dhihnī 1972: 65-66; cf. al-Jawharī 1974b: 75-94.
13 Ibrāhīm 1992: 68.
14 JubrÁn 1994, vol. 4: 630.

B. At the level of tradition and religion: Most popular literature is conveyed in the
spoken language, which does not possess strict or clear rules, leading some to
believe it cannot function as a language of tradition, especially since it changes over
time and differs from place to place. Such detractors argue that this usage can lead to
erasure of traditions and the Arabs losing their identity and sense of historical
continuity. We must also not forget that the Arab heritage, both ancient and modern,
has always been recorded in the standard language, and the use of the colloquial
would over time cause Arabs to lose their fidelity to Standard Arabic, breaking their
connection with their heritage. This fear underlies Mārūn ʿAbbūd’s (1886-1962)
exhortations:
I am the enemy of this trashy and puffed up colloquial language. I do not like to
hear it when anyone among us calls for using it in literature, because I fear it would
undermine the foundations of Lebanon's literary glory.15
Furthermore, Standard Arabic is the sacred language of the Qurʾān, so that any
attempt to adopt another language can be perceived as attacking the Qurʾān. This
logic implies that if we allow the colloquial dialects to expand in influence, they
may one day replace Standard Arabic: "If scholars pay them attention […] Standard
Arabic will be lost, as will the Qurʾān, religion, and the nation's heritage."16
C. At the national level: Arab intellectuals complain that the spoken language of
folktales consists of numerous dialects, which differ from one region to the next
within the Arab homeland, thus dissevering the nation instead of promoting the
unity it needs: "Our desire to see ourselves as a unified Arab nation leads us to
adhere to a unified Arabic language, which would come out of our mouths into the
books."17 This argument was raised by the Supreme Council for the Supervision
over the Arts and Literature in Egypt in 1964 when it declared its opposition to free
verse poetry (shiÝr al-tafÝÐla). The council argued this kind of poetry causes a
deterioration of Standard Arabic: " If the national language suffers neglect in the
correctness of formulation and the completeness of its expression in poetry, then this
is a national more than a literary problem."18
D. At the scholarly level: As noted, spoken Arabic comes in a variety of dialects,
sometimes quite different from one another, each with its own temporal and
15 ʿAbbūd 1967, vol. 2: 356; cf. Ḥusayn 1972: 78; Taymūr 1971: 173; al-KittÁnÐ 1982, vol. 2:759.
16 Al-Barghūthī 1988: 20; cf. Yūnus 1968: 10; Mandūr 1971b: 197-200; Shākir 1972: 47-48; al-
Rāfiʿī 1972: 69-71; al-Nuwayhī 1971:520-521; Abū Buthayna 1973: 30; Semah 1974: 183-184;
al-Barghūthī 1977: 3; Cachia 1977: 79-80; al-Ṭuʿma 1984: 17; Abū Ḥannā 1994: 182; Snir
1994: 65; Piamenta 1997: 94; Snir 1998: 90-91.
17 Al-Khāl 1978: 6 (in his discussion of the fanatic aspect of Standard Arabic which leads, in his
opinion, to linguistic paralysis); cf. Taymūr 1971: 169; Mandūr 1971b: 197-200; al-Ḥawfī
1972: 25; Ḥusayn 1972: 74; Wexler 1971: 334; al-Nuwayhī 1971: 521; Moreh 1976: 286;
Webster 1984: 37-38; al-Daqqāq 1985: 216-237 (about the national importance of the Arabic
language and its stability despite calls to use the colloquial); Booth 1992: 464; ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr
1992, vol. VIII: 76-77, 535; Abū al-Rabb 1994: 112 (about the language of Ṭaha Ḥusayn);
Deyoung 1998: 52-53; ʿAbbās 2001: 24.
18 Al-KittÁnÐ 1982, vol. II: 1033; cf. Moreh 1076: 285-286; Ḥallūm 2000: 85; ʿAbbās 2001: 24.

geographical sub-types. This state of affairs makes the study of popular literature
complicated, since it is difficult for a non-native speaker of a particular dialect in
question to conduct it. The numerous semantic, phonetic, and syntactic differences
among dialects make it difficult for scholars to avoid errors,19 whereas studying texts
in Standard Arabic does not embody such difficulties; the standard language is well-
documented, and although it also evolves, it does so quite slowly and with oversight,
making it easy to probe. Recording popular literature is also not a simple task, since
the colloquial language lacks an alphabet that fully reflects its sounds; the alphabet
used for Standard Arabic does not suffice for recording it, since certain sounds do
not occur in the latter. This condition "discourages many from attempting to study
this [literature]."20 It is a literature meant to be heard, not read.
E. At the level of morals: Much of the content of popular literature runs against the
prevailing morality. Because by its very nature its contents are not filtered by
official arbiters of taste, it necessarily contains an accumulation of "immoral"
residue that can, some have claimed, affect popular morals.21 Notice that with this
objection, non-literary criteria are used to deny popular literature status as literature.
Of course, this rejection is irrelevant, since literature must be judged independently,
on its own merits.
For all the above reasons, Arab scholarship has only relatively recently come to
show an interest in popular literature, still accompanied by complaints from
conservative voices claiming to defend the honor of standard language, the language
of the Qurʾān and the national language of the Arabs, against attempts by orientalists
and Arabs to revive Arabic popular literature. Critics regard these scholarly attempts
as smacking of anti-Arabism, as attacking the Arabs' heritage and religion.
Arabs have not treated their literature as a complete system with multiple
branches, but as a uniform entity, wherein no place is granted to anything but
official literature, adhering to the standard language and conforming to official
criteria. Of course, this view is far from reality. Furthermore, it has led the path of
Arab literatures to evolve in an unnatural and unbalanced manner, by erecting a
clear boundary between popular and canonical literature, preventing Arab
intellectuals from combining the two or even from attempting to bring them closer
together.
For example, Ghunaymī Hilāl counters Muḥammad Mandūr's call to use the
colloquial in drama, arguing that Standard Arabic and the colloquial must be kept
completely distinct, the former for use in canonical literature and the latter in
19 Rosenhouse 2001: 31.

20 Al-Naqqāsh 1992: 292 (al-Naqqāsh gave this explanation in the context of a statement about the
lack of scholarly interest in colloquial poetry, but it applies just as well to folktales, since both
are couched in language that violates the rules of Standard Arabic).
21 For example, al-Idlibī attacks the stories of The Arabian Nights, which she considers as having
played a significant role in "distorting the image of women," due to numerous tales of women
committing adultery, causing commotion, practicing witchcraft, and so forth (al-Idlibī 1992:
57-72).

popular literature: "The literature of Standard Arabic lives at peace with popular
literature so long as each one retains its own nature and domain." He rejects any
mixing of the two, claiming each type has its own distinct audience.22
Clearly this imposed separation has increased the gap, not only between the two
literatures, but also between the two language types, producing "the greatest obstacle
to the admission of elements of folklore in a spontaneous manner."23 However, the
truth of the matter is that throughout the history of Arabic civilization local dialects
have "lived in proximity to Standard Arabic with no conflict or contradiction, but
rather in harmony and dialogue."24
1.2.2 The stages of interest in folklore and its motivations

1.2.2.1 Introduction
This study takes a key position that all the varied forms and genres of literature form
a single, multiply intertwined system, whose parts are connected via a complex
network of relations, making it difficult to detach any one part from the others. For
example, it is impossible to find a work of prose totally lacking in poetic elements,
or a work composed in Standard Arabic entirely bereft of any elements of the
colloquial or other linguistic levels. In fact, this very interrelationship and web-like
structure contains the secret of the system's general evolution and branching out of
its parts, thus ensuring its survival through continual innovation.25 This study
thereby treats the two literatures, canonical and popular, as two inseparable facets of
literature; together affected by changes that take place in the overarching literary
system, and in the cultural system as a whole.
I wish to thus now begin with a survey of Arabic literary theory and Arab views
on literature in general, focusing specifically on the evolution of both branches of
the literary system, official and popular literature, which have been equally affected
22 See: Hilāl 1971, esp. pp. 205-206, 210-213.

23 Jayyusi 1977, vol. 2: 718; cf. Snir 1994: 72; Khoury 2006c. On the other hand, this rejectionist
attitude by most Arab intellectuals led some scholars to make an effort to elucidate the
importance of folklore and to defend it. For example, Yūnus devoted the beginning of issue no.
12 of the journal al-Funūn al-Shaʿbiyya (1970) to defending folklore, in a rebuttal to an attack
by Louis ʿAwaḍ (1915- 1990), who accused folklore of being reactionary (see: Yūnus 1970).
Later Yūnus collected all the articles he wrote on this issue and published them as a book
entitled Difāʿ ʿan al-Fulkl½r (Defending Folklore) (see: Yūnus 1973).
24 Khūrshīd 1994: 57; cf. al-Jammāl 1966: 70; al-Najmī 1973:13; al-Ḥakīm 1975: 139; Abū Saʿd
1987: 20. Mughniyya argues, "the contents of Arabic cultural achievements were produced by
the totality of members of this nation, whatever the form or formulation in which they were
presented, in Standard Arabic or in the colloquial, in writing or orally, in speech or in deed."
He concludes that heritage may best be said to be "everything which the masses have produced,
to which they adhere and which drive their progressive movement," and rejects any rash
judgment against any type of composition because of its language or its nature (Mughniyya
1997a: 10).
25 See: Khoury 2006c:109-114; Khoury 2006b: 95-97; Khoury 2008: 311-312; Even-Zohar 1990a;
Even-Zohar 1990b.

by political and social changes having taken place in the various Arab societies.
Since the beginning of the twentieth century, these societies have experienced
fundamental changes that have affected the literary system as a whole, as well as the
values and relative status of the various branches within it, and including their
relations with each other.
I will also survey the ways in which interest in popular literature has evolved in
parallel with the evolution of Arabic poetry, both of which are tightly bound with
the intellectual, social, and political transformations that have taken place in the
Arab world. Within this survey, I note the experiential maturity of Arab poets; I
discuss their awareness of other literary systems, their use of these systems, and the
ways they are affected by them.
Most studies of modern Arabic poetry divide their discussions into chapters or
sections associated with significant political events, most prominently the war of
1948, the war of 1967, and the intifada of 1987. While these events saw important
political and social transformations in the lives of the Arabs, and because they
demarcate periods of relatively equal length, this division is attractive for analysis,
however, in this study, I prefer to use the following division: A. The first half of the
twentieth century (dominance of reactionary regimes; romanticism flourished); B.
From the end of World War II until the break-up of the United Arab Republic in
1961 (Arab nationalism; the Arab dream of unification as the path to victory); C.
From 1962 until the beginning of the first Intifada in 1987 (a period that saw the Six
Day War of 1967, Nasser's death, and the Camp David accords; this is perceived as
a period of reversals for the Arabs); and D. From the beginning of the Palestinian
Intifada to the present time.
As the reader can see, I have not defined the Arab defeat in the 1967 war as a
boundary between periods, despite its importance and the great disappointment it
engendered in the Arab world. There are two reasons. First of all, I am of the
opinion that this defeat was a necessary and expected result of the political
deterioration having previously taken place. This deterioration, noted by numerous
Arab poets and intellectuals, became a bitter fact when the national union between
Egypt and Syria disintegrated. The defeat of 1967 was thus a direct result of this
deterioration, which had exposed the corruption of the Arab regimes and revealed
the inability of Arab nationalism to fulfill the promises that had raised the nation's
hopes. Al-Manāṣra writes: "the face of June was loitering on our streets already
before 1967, but we did not see it. Or rather, we saw it but fled […]. The face of
June grew and flared until the fire reached the oil depot."26 The scholar Rītā ʿAwaḍ
agrees with this assessment; in her introduction of Khalīl Ḥāwī's poetry collection,
she explains how the defeat of 1967 was expected after the fragmentation of Arab
unity. In fact, most Arab intellectuals saw it coming. Therefore even before the Six
26 al-Manāṣra 2000: 5; cf. ibid.: 46-47.

Day War, their writings subsume a prophecy of defeat and convey an atmosphere of
depression, as if defeat had already taken place.27
Nationalism’s impotence paved the way for an unprecedented rise in the
acceptance of socialist principles. Many Arab states adopted socialism and were
declared republics. This transformation became reflected in literature; no longer did
writers adhere to the kind of uniform language espoused by the nationalist leaders.
Instead, they preferred the language of the people, who had been drawn into losing
wars by rulers sitting in palaces. These changes benefitted Arab folklore, whose
study developed apace, and which became a major source of inspiration for writers
and poets, whose compositions came to possess a greater folkloric presence than had
the ancient official heritage.28
Secondly, following an examination into the influence on mainstream poets at
various times of popular literature in general, and of The Arabian Nights in
particular, I came to the conclusion that a clear quantitative and qualitative
difference exists with respect to the uses of popular literature in modern Arab poetry
after 1962. This finding urged me to make some changes in the original theoretical
framework for this study, which had followed the traditional division. This change
proved very fruitful, since it made it possible to follow in detail the changes that
occurred in the influence of the stories of The Arabian Nights. Nevertheless, no
scholars can claim that the chronological division that they adopt is exact. After all,
evolution in literature, as elsewhere, takes place gradually, in a way that makes it
practically impossible to establish strict temporal boundaries. We must recognize
that such divisions are merely devices that help us delimit certain developments
within chronological bounds for the purpose of organizing investigations in more
structured ways.
1.2.2.2 Interest in popular literature before 1945

1.2.2.2.1 The main intellectual and literary currents
The issue of diglossia and the role of Standard Arabic in the modern age has
occupied the attention of Arab intellectuals since the beginning of the nineteenth
century. Educated Arabs, especially champions of regional literature, realized the
extent the language of Arabic literature became far removed from people’s lives.
Some therefore called for closer ties between literature and life, and for literature to
serve the people. For these advocates, this change meant bringing the language of
literature closer to colloquial dialects, or even using the colloquial instead of
Standard Arabic in literary writing.
In Egypt, this intellectual trend was lead by Aḥmad Luṭfī al-Sayyid (1872-1963),
who published the newspaper al-Jarīda, the organ of the Umma Party. He published
27 See: ʿAwaḍ 2001: 22-23.

28 Thus, for example, al-Manāṣra testifies that his own interest in the Arab heritage, including
popular literature, first arose in 1963, when he felt a desire to find an Arab alternative to Greek
myths (al-Manāṣra 2000: 301, 404).

two articles, the first in 1899, in which he paved the way for calling to "Egyptianize"
the written language.29 Later another Egyptian scholar, Salāma Mūsā (1887-1958)
addressed this issue from a socialist perspective. In a 1934 book, he attacked
contemporary Arabic literature as insincere. He accused it of adopting outmoded
artistic standards and beliefs fundamentally appropriate only for the leisure class, in
complete disregard of the masses and their interests. If Arabic and European
literature are compared, he argued, we find that the latter is a literature of the people,
written for the people in the language of the people, while Arabic literature is only
for the elite few.30 In a later book, entitled al-Adab lil-Shaʿb (Literature for the
People) (1954), Mūsā was even more outspoken, attacking some of the greatest
names in Egyptian literature, namely, Aḥmad Shawqī (1868-1932), Zayd al-Bakrī
al-Māzinī (1889-1949), ʿAbbās Maḥmūd al-ʿAqqād (1889-1964), Ṭaha Ḥusayn
(1889-1973), and ʿAlī al-Jārim (1881-1949), among others, whom he accused of
being reactionaries and bourgeois hangers-on of King Farouq (1920-1965),
possessing no interest in the welfare of the masses.
In more than one place, Mūsā attacks the ancient literature that served as a model
of imitation for prominent Arab writers. He argues this literature consists primarily
of lies and exaggerations, motivated not by a desire to describe life, but to support
the ruling classes; it is a "monarchist" literature that takes no note of popular
movements. In contrast, he sees popular literature as derived from and committed to
the life of the common man; it aims to serve the masses and bring them
enlightenment. It thereby also uses a less complex language, imbued with colloquial
elements and gravitating towards the language of everyday speech. He goes so far as
to even praise poetry when written in the spoken language and expressing the
common man's life and aspirations. Mūsā thus prefers "Bayram al-TūnusÐ for his
zajal poems to the aristocratic poetry composed by Aḥmad Shawqī and ʿAli al-
Jārim".31 He at times refers to the scorn his views have received, especially by
"great" writers who, in his words, are servants of reactionism.32
29 Al-KittÁnÐ 1982, vol. 2: 691 (incl. fn. 50); cf. Ḥusayn 1972: 80. See: the rebuttal to al-Sayyid in
al-Rāfiʿī 1972. The seeds of the call to "Egyptianize" literature, language, and both can be
found in writings of prominent Egyptian thinkers, who believed their roots went back to the age
of the Pharaohs and that the Arabs were nothing but conquerors who raided the Pharaonic
legacy and introduced numerous innovations. A close perusal of some of al-Ḥakīm's writings
shows clear evidence of this position, for example his belief that "Egypt and the Arabs are
antithetical. Egypt is spirit, tranquility, stability; it is the building, whereas the Arabs are
matter, speed, travel; they are the embellishment." He wishes for Egyptian literature to
consummate "a marriage between spirit and matter" (al-Ḥakīm 1971: 22; cf. Ḥusayn 1971: 279;
Haykal 1971; al-ʿĀlim wa-Anīs 1971; for counter-arguments to this view see: al-Ḥaṣrī 1971;
Jumʿa 1972; Ghallāb 1972; and ʿAwaḍ 1967: 159-160).
30 Mūsā 1954: 5-6; cf. Badawi 1975: 205.
31 Mūsā 1954: 14, 42-43; cf. Qāsim 1980: 110.
32 See: Mūsā 1954, esp. pp. 8-10, 14, 16-17, 20-21, 27, 30-31, 36-37, 97; Mūsā 1963: 7-10, 251-
253; Mūsā 1971a; Mūsā 1971b (where he calls for writing Arabic using the Latin alphabet);
Mūsā 1972; Shukrī 1965: 37-40, 74-81, 244-273; Jayyusi 1977, vol. 2: 574; and al-Kittānī

For his part, ʿAbd al-ʿAzīz Fahmī (1870-1951) also held the opinion that the
Arab nation should not be burdened with a dead language differing markedly from
the spoken dialects and common usage. He additionally called for replacing the
Arabic alphabet with Latin characters.33
Ṭaha Ḥusayn was more moderate in his call for bringing greater accessibility to
the Arabic language. In some of his articles, he actually criticized those who called
for using the colloquial language in literature. In a review article about Yūsuf Idrīs
(1921-1991), he comments:
One of the worst errors our young writers make is that they think in order to
depict the realities of life, they must make the characters in their books speak
exactly as actual people speak on the streets and in clubs.34
ÓÁhÁ Ḥusayn goes on to praise Idrīs for his skillful writings and concludes by
hoping he will write many more stories in the future "in a language whose purity,
radiance, and beauty has never been attained by the colloquial, nor will it in my
opinion be able to attain it in the near or far future."35 A similar call was issued in
Lebanon in the 1920s, by Amīn al-Rayḥānī (1876-1940) and ʿUmar al-FākhÙrÐ
(1896-1946),36 followed in the 1950s by Raʾīf KhÙrÐ (1913-1967),37 the latter being
the most prominent; his views will be further discussed.
The role played by Arab poets in the diaspora (al-mahjar) cannot be ignored, for
as they settled in the West, they encountered the cultures of their adopted
homelands, and were strongly influenced by the sciences and theories they found in
vogue. Furthermore, most of these poets had been previously acquainted with the
latest developments in Western literature and were already affected by its style. In
fact, some of them also wrote in the colloquial language and thus became very
important intermediaries between the West and the Arab poets remaining in the
East.38
1982, vol. 2: 692, 732-739. In a book published in 1912 Mūsā already spoke about the
principles of socialism and expressed views that he further developed in his book of 1962. For
some harsh criticism of Mūsā's views see: al-Ḥawfī 1972; al-ʿAqqād 1972 (both with views
originally published in 1945); and Abū al-Rabb 1994: 95-111.
33 See: al-Kittānī 1982, vol. 2: 693; cf. Mūsā 1971b: 183. Mūsā’s ideas encountered violent
opposition; see: al-Khaṭīb 1972; Ṭalas 1972.
34 Íusayn 1980, vol. 16: 115.
35 Ḥusayn 1980, vol. 16: 115-116; cf. Ḥusayn 1980, vol. 16: 77, 82; Ḥusayn 2001: 221-230;
Qāsim 1980: 83-85; Abū al-Rabb 1994: 147-168.
36 Raʾīf Khūrī wrote a book in which he presents his views on this issue, including the need to
associate literature with life. It was first printed in Beirut in 1941, under the title al-Fuṣūl al-
Arbaʿa (The Four Seasons) (see: al-Fākhūrī 1981, esp. pp. 12-17; cf. Saʿd 1981: xii-xiv).
37 See: Jayyusi 1977, vol. 2: 574-576; cf. al-Kittānī 1982, vol. 2: 731; see: also his al-Adab al-
Masʾūl (Responsible Literature): Khūrī 1989.
38 On the role which the poets of al-mahjar played in the simplification of language and the call to
use the colloquial language, see: Moreh 1976: 102-113; Jayyusi 1977:vol. 2: 530-531; Qāsim
1980: 90-94; and Iṭīmish 1986: 172.

All these factors and trends together contributed to the call to bring literature
closer to the lives of the masses, especially in the 1930s. As we can see, many Arab
writers adopted this approach, under the influence of the ideas of Salāma Mūsā and
other pioneers of Arab socialist thought.39 However, it took many years before these
appeals were implemented and commonly accepted, for reasons discussed in the
following sections.
1.2.2.2.2 Popular literature before 1945: The seeds of awareness

The study of Arab popular literature in this period was preceded by the Orientalists,
who published studies of the region’s folklore at the beginning of the twentieth
century.40 At the time, the Arabs had not yet developed an awareness of this aspect
of their culture, and so produced no studies on the subject. On the other hand, the
ideas of Luṭfī al-Sayyid, Salāma Mūsā, and others doubtlessly served as a powerful
impetus for a return to folk sources, since they belonged to all social classes and
were transmitted in the spoken language promoted by socialists for expressing a
nation's emotional life. The rise of popular literature during this period thus "took
the form of a trend towards renewal in literature, as part of the nationalist trend at
first. Later this trend came under the influences of anthropology and ethnology."41
1.2.2.2.3 The effect of popular literature on poetry before 1945

The call to make literature serve the people helped lead poets towards simplifying
their language, bringing it closer to that of everyday conversation, while at the same
time, in most cases, retaining the core features of Standard Arabic.42 This fidelity did
not prevent some writers and thinkers from composing occasional works in the
spoken language, or at least from attempting to insert colloquial words and
expressions into their texts, whether consciously or not. Among the latter was the
Palestinian poet Iskandar al-KhÙrÐ al-Baytjālī (1890-1973), whose witty poems
relayed anecdotes about himself and others. He thus made his poems similar to
jokes, their novelty stemming from his use of language similar to oral conversation
and from translating folk proverbs into Standard Arabic.43
Both Lāzim and al-Sāmirrāʾī discuss the language of Iraqi poetry during the
period in question. They claim this language tends towards simplicity and flexibility
39 See: al-Kittānī 1982, vol. 2: 739 (incl. fn. 28).

40 On the work of Orientalists on Arab folklore, see: Ṣāliḥ 1956, vol. 1: 22-40; Ibrāhīm
1973(?):156-160; Rabīʿ 1974: 22-25; al-Malqī 1990: 305-307; and Ḥaddād 1991: 89:91.
41 Al-Kittānī 1982, vol. 2: 696 (by "nationalist trend" the author here refers to local nationalism,
not to pan-Arab nationalism).
42 See: Lāzim 1971: 98. The Egyptian poet Ṣalāḥ ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr speaks of his and his colleagues'
aversion to the colloquial language during that first period (ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr 1969: 91), although
the poetry he composed in later times incorporated colloquial expressions, and was thus
considered flawed by critics.
43 See: Abū Ḥannā 1994: 172-174, 250-251 and al-Kayyālī 1975: 175; cf. his poetry collection: al-
Khūrī 1923.

due to poets' realization that their verses must be connected to social life. They
provide a number of examples from the works of al-Zahāwī (1863-1963), al-Raṣāfī
(1877-1945), and al-Najafī (1897-1977), all of which contain words and expressions
very similar to colloquial forms, sometimes trivially so.44 Lāzim explains: "they
turned towards the language of the masses, from which they learned, and whose
expressions they utilized, clearly because they were socially committed to issues of
liberation and national struggle."45 Poets composed these works out of a desire to
become more relevant to the issues of their times and to serve their societies.
Occasionally they merely comprised a display of wit, without sufficient thought or
any clear philosophy, and were thus disdained by the dominant elements of society,
regarded as unofficial materials and attacked by all sides.46
Therefore during this period in the Arab world, the focus was on the various
canonical genres of literature, written in Standard Arabic, especially poetry, as well
as on incorporating into Arabic literature new genres growing in popularity, namely
the novel and short story. Colloquial elements in poetry and utilizing popular
literature expressed in the colloquial for inspiration had not yet arrived. Any
influence of such literature at that time was purely serendipitous, arising either
unconsciously or for some special purpose, mainly humor.
1.2.2.2.4 Conclusion
The fundamental innovative trend in this period called for abandoning romanticism
and "art for art's sake" in favor of an art benefitting society and promoting social
reform, a spontaneous and simple art not detached from real life. At that time, there
were no overt calls for attending to popular literature, for attaining from it
inspiration. Rather, focus was given to the function of literature, the social role it
should play, its connection with real life, and its commitment to social progress,
LÁzim: explains, "We find that the poems of that period were a kind of letter
addressed to the masses, with warnings, urgings, and demands for reform."47
These appeals for popular literature met with considerable opposition. Its
proponents were accused of aiming to undermine the homeland and Islam. These
vehement critics played a significant role in preventing elements of popular
literature from infiltrating canonical works. Similarly, the study of popular literature
continued to lag, "as did the study of its influence on official works of art, although
44 See: Lāzim 1971: 234-240; cf. al-Sāmirrāʾī 1989: 38-47 (about al-Zahāwī's language), 59-69
(about al-Ruṣāfī's language), 71-95 (about al-Najafī's language); Ḥaddād, ʿA. 1986: 230-235;
see: also the following poetry collections: al-Zahāwī 1972; al-Ruṣāfī 1975-1986; al-Najafī
1950(?); al-Najafī 1962a; al-Najafī 1962b; al-Najafī 1962c. In a number of articles, published
from 1910 in the journal al-Muʾayyid, al-Zahāwī called for writing in the colloquial (see: al-
Jundī 1972b: 59); for responses to his proposal see: Yūsuf 1972 and Riḍā 1972.
45 Lāzim 1971: 234; cf. al-ʿAllāq 1997: 9-10.
46 See: ʿAwaḍ 1967: 196-197; al-KayyÁlī 1975: 175; Bdÿr 1986: 71; Abū Ḥannā 1994: 251; and
Ḥaddād 1998: 116.
47 Lāzim 1971: 94.

clearly the time would come when it would receive the recognition it deserved and
would be studied on its own merits, before the study of its relationship with
canonical literature."48
1.2.2.3 Interest in popular literature in the period (1946 -1961)

1.2.2.3.1 Introduction
The end of World War II brought a realization that the balance of power in the world
had shifted. The conflict between the conservative right and the liberal left came to
an end or nearly so, with the latter achieving victory. The war had made Arabs lose
confidence in the dominant political, religious, social, and intellectual institutions
who failed to avert this tragedy. Then came the 1948 war engendering an Arab
defeat and the establishment of the State of Israel, precipitating even greater anger
and rebellion against existing institutions of the Arab world. Arabs began to search
for new standards and concepts to restore equilibrium in their lives, to replace failing
traditions. This development paved the way for Arabs to recognize and
communicate with other cultures.49 Consequently, the right lost its predominance to
leftist liberation movements. Socialism, which had been considered evil, became the
dominant political philosophy, adopted by most Arab countries as well as most
prominent Arab intellectuals and writers.
Within these conditions, the previously planted seeds of realism began to bear
fruit. The notions that literature connect to reality and serve the nation became
firmly-established principles and vital standards in Arab literary criticism. Arab
intellectuals thus came to show a greater interest in reviving folk traditions, out of a
sense of solidarity with the laboring classes and a desire to make literature
accessible to the masses. This development in turn led to a flourishing of folkloristic
studies. In this period, we also begin to see Arab poets making deliberate use of
traditional legends and elements, both canonical and non-canonical, in their verses,
thereby enriching their experience and conception of poetry.
It is not possible to here survey the totality of intellectual, social, political and
literary developments of this period, due to the large number of different trends
permeating Arab culture and the multiplicity of influences that coalesced in
spawning modern Arab positions. Nevertheless, I will attempt to denote the most
important of these developments, based on their influence on the evolution of
folkloristic studies and in prompting poets to utilize folkloric sources.
After conducting an intensive and comprehensive study of sources related to the
history of modern Arabic literature, I concluded the most important developments
precipitating folklore’s ascendance to the forefront of inspiration for modern Arabic
poetry include:
48 Khūrshīd 1991: 11.

49 See: ʿAwaḍ 1967: 50-53, 160-161 and Badawi 1975: 204.

A. The translation movement after World War II and the rise in foreign influences,
especially that of T.S. Eliot (1888-1965).
B. The emergence of what has been called shiÝr al-tafÝÐla (1947).
c. The propagation of the principles of socialist realism among many Arab
intellectuals and poets.
D. The establishment of the State of Israel and popular dejection.
E. The increasing acceptance of the principles of modernism and post-modernism.
F. The founding of the journal Shiʿr (Poetry) and its role in advancing colloquial and
prose poetry.
In the following sections, I discuss each of these factors in some detail and describe
its effects on the study and use of folklore.
1.2.2.3.2 The influence of the English poet T.S. Eliot

1.2.2.3.2.1 Introduction
Western influence on Arabic literature, including translations of works from
Western languages, has remained ongoing since Napoleon's campaign in Egypt
(1798).50 However, during the period under discussion, it attained unprecedented
dimensions. The First World War and resulting political and social changes exposed
the Arabs to other cultures, which were more advanced and open-minded in the
sciences, literature, and other domains. Long living among echoes of the past, on
ancient stories and traditions, the Arabs found themselves suddenly isolated from
their times. They began as best they could to close the gap with Western civilization.
Translation of Western literature contributed toward this goal. During this time,
increasing numbers of works were translated, and increasing numbers of Arabs
mastered the English and French languages.
These translations began to play an increasingly important role in generating new
directions for Arabic literature, and especially poetry. Arab poets came to adopt
every foreign fad, which they tried to adapt to the Arab environment.51 The one
Western poet arguably translated into Arabic more than any other, whose verses and
theoretical writings equally influenced Arab intellectuals and writers, was T.S. Eliot;
he affected the renewal movement in Arabic poetry since its very beginnings.52
50 For more on the effects this campaign had on Arab and especially Egyptian culture and thought,
see: Starkey 2006: ix, 23-29.
51 On the influence of translations on Arabic literature in this period see: ʿĪd & Shawkat 1975: 51;
Moreh 1976: 217-218; al-Khāl 1978: 79; Ḥāfiẓ 1985:254; al-Ḥaydarī 1987: 28; al-Bayātī 1993:
44; and Ḥallūm 2000:42.
52 On Eliot's influence on modern Arabic poetry see: al-Sayyāb's views in al-Gharfī 1986: 54-55;
al-Nuwayhī 1971: 7-15, 19; Badawi 1975: 223-224; Moreh 1976: 218; Jayyusi 1977, vol. 2:
564-565; ʿAwaḍ 1982: 7; Sulaiman 1984: 151; al-ʿAbd 1986: 99; Ḥalāwī 1997:7, 52; al-ÝAllÁq
2010: 11-13. Eliot's poem "The Wasteland" likely influenced modern Arabic poetry more than
any other single work; see: Eliot 1971.

Eliot’s impact and role in the evolution of the conception of Arabic poetry can be
delineated as having three basic components:
A. His association of poetry with heritage and his call to make use of that heritage.
B. His call to use the device of the "objective correlative".
C. His proposal to bring the language of poetry into closer harmony with everyday
speech.
1.2.2.3.2.2 Eliot and the relationship between poetry and tradition

In a 1919 article on "Tradition and the Individual Talent," Eliot speaks about what
he calls "the historical sense," something a poet needs in order to remain a poet after
age twenty-five. This sense involves a "perception, not only of the pastness of the
past, but of its presence."53 Eliot further notes that no poet "has his complete
meaning alone. His significance, his appreciation is the appreciation of his relation
to the dead poets and artists. You cannot value him alone; you must set him, for
contrast and comparison, among the dead."54 Eliot thus maintains that a completely
original text is an impossibility. He stresses tradition as an important element in a
nation's life and that a text loses its value when too far removed from its literary
context. Eliot does not deny the existence of individual poetic talent, but he does
insist that poetic compositions cannot attain maturity if poets do not study their
heritage, understand it, and make it come alive. He here issues a call to poets,
especially those with a revolutionary approach, who believe they can create original
texts completely detached from the traditions of their forbearers. He asks that they
draw upon their heritage for inspiration, revive it, and from it derive relevance to
their own experience.
Tradition here includes all previous literature, whether canonical or not. In my
opinion, Eliot's appeal opened a window through which elements of popular
literature could enter poetry. In fact, if we consider what the most well-known Arab
thinkers and poets have said on this issue, we can see that they too called for
maintaining contact with the ancient heritage, to take one's predecessors’
achievements as the starting point for innovative work; thus new and original
compositions would join the course of literary evolution, so as to ensure its
continuity. Such opinions have encouraged Arab poets to use the legends of their
people in their poems, a phenomenon becoming especially prominent beginning in
the 1950s.55 All modern Arab poets and thinkers were influenced by Eliot even if
they believed their opinions completely independent; some even formulated their
views in a style reminiscent of Eliot.
53 Eliot 1965: 22-23.

54 Ibid.:23; cf. Eliot 1932: 15; Eliot 1982: 54; al-Nuwayhī 1971: 335; Moreh 1976: 238-239;
ʿAwaḍ 1982: 9; Sharaf 1991: 26; Zāyid 1997: 27; Ḥalāwī 1997: 54.
55 See: Ismāʿīl 1978: 232; Ḥaddād, ʿA. 1986: 71-74; al-Waraqī 1997: 171-172; and Jayyusi 1992:
147-148, 154.

For example, in his book Zahrat al-ʿUmr (Flower of the Age), Tawfīq al-Ḥakīm
(1898-1987) argues that the new arts derived from the foundations of the old;
therefore, native primitive sources must of necessity appear in one form or another
in modern arts.56 In a 1958 letter to the poet Yūsuf al-Khāl (1917-1987), Badr ShÁkir
al-Sayyāb asks whether he had read Eliot’s words about "individual talent and
tradition." He makes his adoption of Eliot's views apparent, saying "there must
remain a thread connecting the ancient with the new; some features of the ancient
must remain in the thing that we call new."57
JabrÁ IbrÁhÐm JabrÁ (1920-1994) seemingly expresses Eliot's view in his own
words, writing, "tradition has tremendous power in our lives," insisting that the past
has an important presence in the here-and-now. He goes on to claim, "Innovators are
usually people who possess a historical awareness, and whoever does not possess
such awareness cannot be an innovator."58 This line appears to match Eliot's
statement on "historical sense," the word “awareness” replacing "sense."
According to Nizār Qabbānī, formulating language in new ways is one of
poetry's essential tasks.59 He addresses the issue of modern poets' standing relative
to their predecessors, in the same vein as Eliot:
It would be a great mistake to imagine that for the modern to be such it must
commit murder against what preceded it in time […] Modernism is a very long
column, in which poets stand in the places determined for them by histo […] A great
poet does not come from nowhere.60
In his Tajribatī al-Shiʿriyya (My Poetic Experience), ÝAbd al-WahhÁb al-Bayātī
(1926-1999) testifies to using traditional poetic materials prior to extending his work
beyond them. His understanding of the music of poetry led him "to study external
musical rhythms that fit the rhythm of the new experience;” he sees his view as
corresponding with Eliot's approach to tradition.61 Elsewhere al-Bayātī speaks about
tradition and individual talent in his own words, using the terms "connectedness"
(tawāṣul) and "disconnection" (inqiṭāʿ): "The poet always lives in a dialectic
situation between connectedness and disconnectedness, connectedness with human
and national heritage, then disconnection from it by adding something new."62
Eliot's influence is also very clear in Ṣalāḥ ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr’s words on the need
for rootedness in one's heritage and the need to transcend it with the aid of one's
talent.63 Even Adonis (b. 1930), one of the most prominent champions of innovation,
56 Al-Ḥakīm 1975: 24-25.

57 Al-Sāmirrāʾī 1994: 130; cf. al-Gharfī 1986: 83-84, 173.
58 JabrÁ 1979:141-142.
59 Qabbānī 1993b, vol. VIII: 35.
60 Ibid.:115-116; cf. pp. 129-130, 169.
61 Sharaf 1991:26, 52; cf. al-ʿAllāq 1997: 26.
62 Al-Bayātī & Ṣubḥī 1990: 90; cf. al-Gharībī 1999: 210-211; al-Ṭuʿma 1984: 20; al-Ghazzī 1999:
261-263; ʿAwaḍ 1999: 278-279.
63 Abbās 2001: 114.

of breaking with ancient tradition and shattering language, speaks often about
tradition in his book Zaman al-Shiʿr (Time of Poetry):
Man, on the one hand, is incapable of breaking with the past because it is in his
blood, but on the other hand, he cannot be present and alive unless he does break
with it. Living man is connected to his past and detached from it at one and the same
time.64
In Arabic literary criticism, critics tend to have the same position. Iḥsān ʿAbbās,
for instance, sees a relationship between drawing on tradition for inspiration and the
use of language. In his view, a modern poet cannot ignore language; language is an
integral part of the heritage, which transmits the contents of tradition and arises from
past as well as present generations: "The past has a definite presence in the here-and-
now, one no revolution can ignore."65
MuÎammad Al-Nuwayhī expresses a similar view:
Leaders of true innovation never arise among those who ignore and scorn the
ancients, but rather among those who know and appreciate the past. In fact, it
is their love of the ancients that drives them to innovate and so as to retain the
vitality of the useful elements of the past.66
Al-Nuwayhī adds that the connection between the new and old arises from
selectively reading the past, reading it in a new way, whereby the new preserves the
life and vitality of the old. Al-Nuwayhī also attempts to apply the theory of
"historical sense" to the pre-Islamic poem, which he proposes one should read in a
sentimental, unaffected way, in line with the views of the time period of
composition: "We can only hear what [the ancient poem] says clearly if we possess
and develop the historical sense enabling us to listen with the ears of its creators and
accept it with their taste."67
Makkī also speaks of the importance of origins and traditions. He believes there
is no such thing as an "original text," since literature has traditions "and each
generation receives a heritage of creative elements of past ages. However, relative
originality is not only possible, but necessary for a work of literature to have
value."68 Luʾluʾa, too, formulates the same idea metaphorically, comparing poetry’s
evolution with renewal of a tree's leaves. Although they differ from old leaves, new
leaves "always retain the forms of the original creation."69
I wish to conclude this section by quoting critic and poet Bannīs, whose opinion
reiterates all the previous views, and clearly shows Eliot’s influence:
64 Adonis 1996a: 167; cf. also pp. 45-47, 59-60, 169-170, 212; ʿAbbās 2001: 114; for more on al-
Manāṣara's views on tradition, see: Zāyid 1998: 87 and Sayf 1999: 407.
65 ʿAbbās 2001: 110; cf. Ḥmūd 1986: 205-206.
66 Al-Nuwayhī 1971: 334.
67 Ibid.: 64.
68 Makkī 1986: 17-18.
69 Luʾluʾa 1990: 44.

There is no origin or basis, they are just illusion, and the vitality of the bond with
the past is realized through exchange between the past and the present, while the
future is generally reformed with each act of writing, for the transition is neither a
breach with the past nor a forced cohabitation with the present, but rather a re-
production of the infinite past, present, and future of writing, through the individual
who writes.70
The preceding included a modest sample of some Arab writers’ and critics’
views on the relationship between tradition and individual writing. They agree that
no text can exist completely disconnected from its heritage.71 I presented them at
some length to clarify the value modern Arabic poetry has placed on the use of
legends and other elements of folklore in this age. That many such elements have
indeed been utilized, to be discussed next, demonstrates how Arab intellectuals' call
to heed the past has affected, even if indirectly, Arab poets' interest in folkloric
sources.
1.2.2.3.2.3 Eliot and the "objective correlative"

Continuing from the preceding section, I here review explicit calls for replacing
direct sentimental expressions with traditional symbolism. In a 1919 discussion of
Shakespeare's Hamlet, Eliot introduces his notion of “objective correlative:”
The only way of expressing emotion in the form of art is by finding an "objective
correlative;" in other words, a set of objects, a situation, a chain of events which
shall be the formula of that particular emotion; such that when the external facts,
which must terminate in sensory experience, are given, the emotion is immediately
evoked.72
He discusses this idea even more clearly in another article, "Tradition and
Individual Talent," published in the same year, yet without using the term "objective
correlative." Here Eliot directs critics to a focus on the poem rather than the poet.
He considers poetry a living totality of every poem composed prior to it. Every good
poem joins that totality and contributes to its growth and evolution. He thus views it
as so important to study the relationships and interconnections among verses
composed by different poets. According to Eliot, the difference between a mature
and a novice poet lies not in the former's more prominent personality or greater
expressive power, but rather in the maturity of his devices, which allow him to
express his feelings freely and untrammeled, and are renewed and committed to
various different emotional combinations and situations.
Eliot compares this poetic activity to making chemical compounds, wherein
constituent elements fuse to create something new and become an integral part of a
70 Bannīs 1994: 78; cf. KÐlÐtÙ 1995: 68.

71 For more views on this issue, see: al-Qalamāwī 1971: 84-85; Saif 1976: 19-20; Qāsim 1981: 3;
ʿAwaḍ 1982: 11, 14; al-Ṭuʿma 1984: 14; Ḥāfiẓ 1985: 47; Ḥaddād, ʿA. 1986: 14, 29, 46; al-
Yūsuf 1988: 70; Munīr 1992: 95; Jayyusi 1996: 125; and al-Rabīʿī 2001: 259, 264, 308.
72 Eliot 1965: 102; cf. Luʾluʾa 1980: 27-29; Fatḥī 2000: 221.

new material. In so doing, they lose their individual identities and can no longer be
identified without very complex analysis. Artists give clear and direct expression to
their personal experiences. However, in Eliot’s words, "the more perfect the artist,
the more completely separate in him will be the man who suffers and the mind
which creates; the more perfectly will the mind digest and transmute the passions
which are its material." A poet's greatness thus depends on his ability to detach
himself from his private emotions and to turn them into public, general directions,
rather than restricting them to the private sphere.73 Furthermore:
The bad poet is usually unconscious where he ought to be conscious, and
conscious where he ought to be unconscious. Both errors tend to make him
“personal.” Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from
emotion; it is not the expression of personality, but an escape from
personality. But, of course, only those who have personality and emotions
know what it means to want to escape from these things.74
Eliot's perspectives here align with those of his ideas discussed in the previous
section. He once more stresses the need for poetry to keep a distance from personal
emotions, and to hide them behind masks and symbols, turning poems into
something objective rather than idiosyncratic, that they may express emotions
shared by humankind as a whole. The poet must employ his creative mind rather
than his feeling heart, and clothe his sensibilities with the poetic skill lying at the
heart of poetic art.
Eliot’s approach has subsequently had a great influence on the nature of modern
Arabic poetry, wherein allusion to myth and legend has become a distinguishing
characteristic. Indeed, modern Arab poets make unprecedented use of folk sayings,
folk stories, and legends, taking the form of borrowing, intertextuality, and historical
allusion to such a degree that many poems have been accused of affectation.75
1.2.2.3.2.4 Eliot and the language of poetry

In his 1942 article "The Music of Poetry," Eliot discusses several important aspects
of poetics: the music of poetry, free verse, revolutions in poetry, and the language of
poetry. He calls on poets to benefit from the sounds and music of the language of
speech and not to take pains to search for a music far removed from the spoken
language, even if some poets think unusual music can bring about greater
73 Eliot 1965: 25-26.

74 Ibid.: 27-29.
75 See: Moreh 1976: 237-238, 246; Bsīsū 1999: 215-217; and ʿUṣfūr 1999b: 336. Al-Sayyāb is
perhaps the leading modernist poet in finding and using myths, so much so that his work
occasionally leaves an impression of artificiality. He was clearly influenced specifically by
Eliot. The great accumulation of folkloric allusions within a single poem became a hallmark of
his work (see: ʿAwaḍ 1967: 80-81; al-Tūnjī 1968: 46; Qmÿḥa 1987: 51, 237; Ḥmūd 1986: 151;
al-ʿAẓma 1988: 243-253; Tawfīq 1997: 319-320; Ḥaddād 1998: 22, 43, 83; and al-Sāmirrāʾī
2002: 62, 73, 129).

complexity and a more sublime artistry. He calls on poets to observe the constant
changes language undergoes and to come close to the spoken language, since "every
revolution in poetry is apt to be, and sometimes to announce itself to be a return to
common speech."76
Eliot views poetic connection to the spoken language as ensuring the continuing
evolution, innovation, and dynamism of the language of poetry. He maintains the
language of literature must remain close to the language of speakers, that it be
understood by the common man and express his concerns in an attractive, artistic
manner. Poets should not search far for their linguistic expressions; materials for
their verses are close at hand, among their own acquaintances and within their
immediate vicinities. Poets must merely formulate their poetry from these "raw
materials." The particular ways these materials are used, however, depends on each
poet's skill, culture, and ability to select the most evocative phrases for the context;
poets are like sculptors and these materials form the constituent components of their
statues.77
It is therefore meaningless to judge the beauty or lack thereof of any single word
in a given poem, since its value depends on the way it connects to its context. An
appropriate word is thus one properly placed, playing its assigned role with
precision.78 Eliot concludes his article by reminding readers of two points to always
consider: 1. We must expect a time to come when poetry returns to the spoken
language; 2. The same linguistic issues reappear in different periods, making poetry
an unending adventure.79
Eliot's view of language is quite explicit. On the one hand, he maintains that a
word's dictionary meaning is less important than its placement within an expression
or broader context. Therefore, a colloquial word can fully belong in a poem, so long
as it is placed in an appropriate context. A word's quality thus should not to be
judged by its type, whether standard or colloquial, but rather by its position among
the poem's other words and overall context. It is quite permissible to use colloquial
words, albeit such usage may or may not be felicitous as with any standard word. It
would be malapropos to judge any word, or a language in general, as inadequate to
poetry merely because it does not belong to the standard or ancient canon. It is far
wiser to examine the word's position and function in the context.
76 Eliot 1965: 55, 60-63; cf. Eliot 1982: 54, 145 (where he speaks about making poetry accessible
through the simplification of its language); al-Nuwayhī 1971: 15-18, 29, 40-41; al-Khāl 1978:
55-56; Jayyusi 1977, vol. 2: 629; ʿAwaḍ 1982: 12; Makkī 1983: 90; Ḥmūd 1986: 54-55; Abū
Ḥannā 1994: 179; Ḥalāwī 1997: 69.
77 Eliot 1965: 56.
78 Ibid.: 57.
79 Ibid.: 64. Eliot applied most of the principles he enunciates in his own poetry. In his analysis of
Eliot's poem, The Wasteland, Luʾluʾa notes this fact and identifies frequent occurrence of
colloquial expressions. Eliot also used American folksongs, but later removed them following
vehement protests by his friend Ezra Pound (see: Luʾluʾa 1980: 92).

Despite his emphasis on context, Eliot still maintains the language of everyday
speech is better suited for describing a poet's environment. The language of poetry
must maintain a constant dialectical relationship with the language of life, changing
with it, following it, and remaining close to it. Any change in the language of poetry
must derive from a clear perception of developments in the spoken language, so that
a text's parts be integrated into a single contemporary whole, expressed in an
innovative language, with a music born of the rhythms of living language.
This call for everyday language was also enthusiastically adopted by some Arab
poets; the use of the spoken language, and the simplification of the standard
language, bringing it closer to the colloquial, became a distinctive feature of
modernism.80
Before we further delve into this matter, I would like to make two key points.
For one, I do not wish to claim that the use of the colloquial in Arabic poetry is
simply due to Eliot’s influence. As I have discussed above, the call to make use of
the colloquial also arose out of evolving Arab conceptions about the nature of poetry
and literature in general, views adopted by a number of intellectual currents as part
and parcel of the overall revolution in various aspects of Arab life. However, this
call only openly emerged and became a clear trend during this period. Eliot's
influence was clearly one important factor driving poets to utilize the colloquial.
Secondly, this study does not address the conflict between Standard Arabic
(fuÒÎÁ) and the colloquial language, nor does it attempt to track the influence of the
colloquial on Arabic poetry or on techniques for introducing colloquial elements.
Indeed, this study primarily aims to determine the poetic use of the symbolism and
atmosphere of The Arabian Nights, even though the use of popular literature in
general, and the stories of The Arabian Nights in particular, clearly involves
employing various linguistic levels within a single text. Therefore, including
colloquial expressions in modern poetry increases the probability of utilizing
elements of popular literature, including the orally-transmitted tales of The Arabian
Nights. In other words, folk elements’ appearance in modern poetry proportionally
correlates to the appearance of colloquial elements. By making the spoken language
the true touchstone of the language of poetry, Eliot succeeded in "returning poetry to
life, that is, using the language of everyday speech and folklore as a component of
modern poetry."81
In modern times, certainly since the 1950s, it is rare to find a poet whose
language has not been influenced by everyday speech, or who does not use at least
80 In his discussion of modernism in poetry, Al-Khāl enumerates seven basic features of modernist
poems, the fourth of which is "the use of words and expressions that are in living use by people
and not found only in books and dictionaries" (al-Khāl 1978: 95-96; cf. al-ʿAbd 1986: 99; al-
Ruwaylī & al-Bāziʿī 2000: 142; al-Zuʿbī 2002). For more on Eliot's influence on the use of the
colloquial in Arabic literature see: Jayyusi 1977, vol. 2: 663; al-Shanṭī 1986: 140; Abū Ḥannā
1994: 179; Khoury 2016: 215.
81 Shukrī 1968: 16; cf. Ḥalāwī 1997:70; Khayr Bik 1986: 129 (where he discusses Eliot's use of
colloquial maxims in his poetry).

some colloquial phrases from her immediate surroundings in her Standard Arabic
verses. At this point, I shall not enter into a discussion of the motives for introducing
colloquial phrases; suffice it to say that such usage can take various different forms.
Some poets directly insert colloquial phrases as is, whereas others change them
in one way or another to make them more compatible with the Standard Arabic. For
example, some poets add case endings, while others choose colloquial phrases that
once belonged to Standard Arabic but are no longer in common use. Still others
imitate colloquial structures in formulating Standard Arabic phrases, among other
linguistic manipulations.
A perusal of poetry collections of this period reveals that hardly any poet wrote
verses completely free of colloquial influence. It is certainly possible that some such
influences entered poetry inadvertently, but many poets deliberately used colloquial
phrases and the spoken language to achieve a variety of purposes.
Emanating from a conscious desire for innovation, perhaps the most explicit
challenge to Standard Arabic and to the ancient poetic traditions was the poetry
collection Plutoland (1947) by Egyptian writer Louis ʿAwaḍ (1915-1990). ʿAwaḍ
made several experimental changes to Arabic literary traditions; he attempted to
break down the traditional structure of Arabic poetry, introduce a greater variety of
poem types, and use the colloquial instead of Standard Arabic. In his “Introduction”
to the volume he explains how for him, ancient poetry had died and the way was
open for launching a modern type of poetry, appropriate for the present day.82 An
examination of ʿAwaḍ’s other works shows that he studied the folklore of different
nations, which he used to stress the necessity of associating literature with the
people.83
Perhaps more than any other, the Syrian poet Nizār Qabbānī used the style of
everyday speech to bring the language of poetry in line with the language of life. He
addressed this approach in most of the interviews he gave. At nearly every
opportunity, he stressed he was "a simple poet," who used language found "on the
people's lips" in order to "make poetry accessible to all" and to disseminate it as
widely as possible.84 In fact, Qabbānī goes to extremes claiming, "in fifty years
Standard Arabic will no longer exist."85
Poet Ṣalāḥ ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr appears to accept Eliot's views in saying: "No
utterance is better or more eloquent than any other."86 He applied this principle to
82 Moreh 1976: 196-197; cf. al-Kittānī 1982, vol. 2: 390-393.

83 See: ʿAwaḍ 1967: 439-526.
84 See: Qabbānī 1993, vol. 7: 303, 487; vol. 8: 76-77, 82-88, 94-96, 149, 386, 396, 436, 479, 489,
512-513, 521, 543-545, 557, 569, 612, 624; cf. Shukrī 1968: 158-159; Badawi 1975: 221;
Jayyusi 1977, vol. 2: 664; al-Nābilsī 1986b: 543-546; Jayyusi 1987: 26; al-Naqqāsh 1992: 160;
Jayyusi 1992:159-160; Juḥā 1999:328; al-Ḥalaḥ 2001: 91-94.
85 Qabbānī 1993, vol. 3: 423.
86 ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr 1969: 97; cf. ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr 1969: 95-96; idem 1992: 76-77, 180-183; idem
1997: 207-208; al-Sāmirrāʾī 1971: 36; al-MiṣrÐ 1983: 31, 74; ʿĀmir 1984: 10; al-Ghadhdhāmī
1987:119; al-Shanṭī 1986: 140; Moreh 1988: 149; ÍusnÐ 1998, vol. 1: 20; Faḍl 1998a: 123.

such an extent that critics expressed resentment, most notably with respect to his
poem "al-Íuzn" (Grief,) a work greeted with such scorn that for reviewers it became
a model of debasement and inferior language.87
When speaking of the language of modern poetry, Adonis, too, is clearly inspired
by Eliot. He regards the language of poetry as one for rebellion and crossing
boundaries, which "annuls the ancient standards of esthetics. No word can remain
ugly in and of itself, or beautiful in and of itself."88
ÝAbd al-WahhÁb Al-Bayātī also constantly searched for ways to simplify the
language in his poetry, following Eliot's appeal. However, he warns against direct
use of the colloquial, preferring to translate colloquial expressions into Standard
Arabic.89
As for Badr ShÁkir al-Sayyāb, he transformed many spoken phrases into
Standard Arabic but left a few in their original colloquial, especially during his
Socialist period. However, he composed poems in colloquial language (azjÁl) before
he turning to writing in Standard Arabic.90
In an interview I conducted with poet Samīḥ al-Qāsim, he discussed how he
treated language flexibly; he considered language a living creature and allowed
himself to make free use of colloquial or foreign expressions in cases where no
Standard Arabic alternative was apparent.91 He explained, "there is no reason to
divide words into poetic and non-poetic, so long as they are used with artistic
sincerity and poetic appropriateness."92
Al-Qāsim seemed to deny that his views had been influenced by Eliot; he replied
jokingly to my query: "Eliot did not listen to me, but he may have had the same
approach.” But in fact, Eliot influenced not only the poets mentioned above, but
many others as well, so much so that simplification of language and the use of
spoken forms became one of the most prominent characteristics of modern Arabic
poetry.93 Many Arab intellectuals and theorists were also influenced by Eliot,
87 See: al-Manāṣara 1999b: 119-120. The poem can be found in ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr 1972, vol. 1: 36-
39. For the poet's response to critics' views on this poem, see: ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr 1969: 93; cf.
Moreh 1976: 270; ʿĀmir 1984: 26; al-Naqqāsh 1992: 65-66; and Zāyid 1998: 52-53.
88 Adonis 1996: 95.
89 See: Shukrī 1968: 228-229; idem 1971: 73; Iṭīmish 1986: 182-183; Jubrān 1989: 51, 145-146;
Sharaf 1991: 20, 93-95; al-ʿAllāq 1997: 25; al-Ghazzī 1999: 262; al-Sāmirrāʾī 2002: 146-147,
149; and Jaʿfar 1999: 86-87.
90 See: al-Baṣrī 1966: 39; ʿAllūsh 1977: 22-23; Jayyusi 1977, vol. 2: 671; al-Sāmirrāʾī 1980: 217,
229, 242-245; Khayr Bik 1986:128-129; ʿAllūsh 1995a: ii, x; Tawfīq 1997: 49; Ḥaddād 1998:
7; Bannīs 1990, vol. 3: 261; Jaʿfar 1999: 84; and Deyoung 1998: 51.
91 The interview was held at his home in al-Rāmeh on Sept. 16, 2004.
92 Ṭaha, al-Qāsim & Shalḥat 1999: 85.
93 See: Bannīs 1985: 272. On the occasional use of the colloquial in the poetry of Unsī al-Ḥājj,
see: Khayr Bik 1986: 155; al-Ḥājj 1987, vol. 2: 699-700; idem, vol. 3:1162. On al-Manāṣara's
use of colloquial phrases and derivations, and the way he made them fit the rules of Standard
Arabic, see: al-Manāṣara 1996: vi-xv; Jubrān 1984: 173; Jayyusi 1977, vol. 2: 665-666; idem
1992: 90; and ʿAbbās 2001: 54.

including Maḥmūd Taymūr (1894-1973), who in a 1952 article argued that the
colloquial deserved to be treated with respect and should not be considered vulgar
simply because the common people spoke it.94
The furious debate concerning the language appropriate for writing poetry
spawned attempts to create a new language, one consistent with both the colloquial
and Standard Arabic; it would retain the Standard Arabic lexicon and at the same
time enjoy the colloquial’s flexibility, by way of avoiding case endings. Tawfīq al-
Ḥakīm (1902-1987) was a prominent pioneer of using this kind of language, which
he called "the middle language." In a declaration he appended to his play "al-Ñafqa/
The Deal" (1956), he defines this language:
I had no choice but to make a third experiment in my search for a real language
that would not offend the rules of Standard Arabic but at the same time could be
vocalized by the people without going against their nature or the tone of their lives
[…] At first glance it may appear to the reader as if it is written in the colloquial, but
a closer reading will reveal that it accords with the rules of Standard Arabic and is as
logical as can be.95
Al-Ḥakīm actually used this language in his play, but his attempt ended in
failure, mainly since making two languages compatible meant numerous words
could not be used, placing undue restrictions on the text's expressive power.
Eliot made the greatest impression on the critic al-Nuwayhī, who not only agreed
in principle that the spoken language must be used in poetry, but also attempted to
apply it in Arabic poetry. As he pointed out, the "true source [of the language of
poetry] is the living natural language that people speak in their everyday lives." He
consequently avoided what he called "prolix poetic diction," aiming to read ancient
poetry in a sentimental, affective way rather than merely reciting it, so as to reduce
its artificiality and bring it closer to a living, natural melody.96 Al-Nuwayhī applied
this theory to pre-Islamic Arabic poetry; he analyzed a poem whose meanings he
associated with the words' sounds and rhythm, and came to the conclusion that even
today, we can indeed unearth the emotions conveyed by the poem, so long as we
read it in an appropriate way.97
In an essay on modernism entitled "A New Language for a New Arabic Poetry,"
al-Khāl reiterates Eliot's position; he stresses its importance and argues for applying
94 See: Taymūr 1971: 176.

95 Al-Ḥakīm 1956: 157-158; cf. Dhihnī 1972: 52. On the failure of this attempt and its causes see:
ʿAwaḍ 1967: 196-197; Hilāl 1971: 214; and Somekh 1980b: 26. On this language in the
linguistic system in general see: Cachia 1967: 18; Wechsler 1971: 334 (where it is also called
"the third language"); Altoma 1969: 4, Somekh 1980; Ṭaha 1990: 48; Badawī 1996: 109; and
al-Rabīʿī 2001: 71. As a matter of fact, al-Ḥakīm was not the first writer who called for using
this kind of language; he was preceded by Aḥmad Amīn (1886-1954), who in 1953 called for
its use in educating the masses, since, so he claimed, Standard Arabic was too
incomprehensible to serve in this role (see: Amīn 1971: 80-81).
96 Al-Nuwayhī 1971: 43-44; cf. Moreh 1976: 265-266; Qāsim 1980: 109.
97 Al-Nuwayhī 1971: 45-64.

it to the language, music, and form of Arabic poetry. He praises al-Nuwayhī's

attempts as a first step, in which al-Nuwayhī points to the solution (that is, using the
spoken language instead of Standard Arabic), although al-NuwayhÐ does not dare to
say so.98 Al-Khāl goes a step further to state quite explicitly that the spoken
language is the true language of this age, the language of modernism, the only one in
which to write.99
The preceding survey makes no claims to completeness; however, I hope it
sufficient to demonstrate that contemporary poetry collections are often replete with
colloquial phrases and expressions, or at least with linguistic forms that represent the
colloquial in spirit. This development has been a natural response to transformations
in the Arabic-speaking world and in poets' desire to communicate with the people,
following the principle of literature for the masses. Poets aimed to give their works a
modernist form, under the influence of pioneering poets who benefited from Eliot's
theories and poetic experience.
1.2.2.3.3 ShiÝr al-tafÝÐla and the use of popular literature

Shiʿr al-tafʿīla is the name given to works that do not obey the rules of ancient
Arabic poetry, in which identical feet with some variation and the same number of
feet appear in every line. In this new kind of poetry, uniformity of the lines is
abrogated in favor of the unity of the poem as a whole, and two homogeneous
hemistiches are replaced by heterogeneous lines.100 Poetry of this type was initially
called "free verse" (al-shiʿr al-ḥurr in Arabic), a term invented by the poetess Nāzik
al-Malāʾika (1923-2007) and later rejected by most Arab scholars, who preferred to
use the term shiʿr al-tafʿīla instead.101
Experts agree that this kind of poetry first emerged in 1947 and flourished in the
1950s. As for its inventor, most scholars argue that it was one of two contemporary
Iraqi poets, either Badr Shākir al-Sayyāb or Nāzik al-Malāʾika.102 The debate over
98 Al-Khāl 1978: 55-59; cf. Bannīs 1990, vol. 3: 81-82.

99 Al-Khāl 1978: 95-96. Eliot influenced other critics as well, which for reasons of space cannot
be included in the present survey. One who deserving mention is Iṭīmish, who called for
giving the colloquial an artistic poetic form (Iṭīmish 1986: 174-175).
100 Cf. Maḥbūba 1965: 14-15; Somekh 1987: 69-70; Jubrān 1989: 60; Jayyusi 1992: 149.
101 See: Nāzik al-Malāʾika 1965: 23; cf. Luʾluʾa 1990: 48. For accounts of ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr's
opposition to this term see: Nashʾat 1998: 55; cf. al-Nuwayhī 1971: 517; Bannīs 1990, vol. 3:
9-14, 20-21; ʿAbbās 2001: 25-27.
102 See: the interview with Nāzik al-Malāʾika about the birth of this movement and her claim to
have pioneered it with her poem "Cholera:" al-Malāʾika 1965: 23-25. Cf. al-Sayyāb's
Introduction to his poetry collection Myths (1950), in which he claimed to have preceded al-
Malāʾika in writing shiÝr al-tafÝÐla: "My first experiment of this kind was in the poem 'hal KÁn
Íubban' (Was it a love?', which appeared in my first collection of poems, Wilted Flowers
(AzhÁr DhÁbila). This type of music was very well received by many of our young poets, of
whom I may mention the creative poetess Miss Nāzik al-Malāʾika" (al-Gharfī 1986:12; cf.
ibid.: 127-128). Cf. al-Tūnjī 1968: 162-163; al-Khayyāṭ 1970: 118-119; al-Nuwayhī 1971:

the identity of this style of poetry’s originator is irrelevant to the present study;
however, it is important to note that a number of successful attempts at writing such
verses were undertaken quite a few years before either of these poets arrived on the
scene.103 In other words, the desire for renewal and serious thought about the revival
of Arabic poetry did not suddenly appear out of nowhere; rather, its origins can be
traced to continuous efforts beginning in the early twentieth century. The appearance
of shiÝr al-tafÝÐla cannot be detached from other developments in Arab life and
literature with which it is tightly bound. I therefore agree with the view that this type
of modern poetry was in fact not the invention of any individual, but the result of
collective revolutionary efforts and continuous experimentation. This revolution
bore fruit and became influential after the violent eruption of World War II, the
emergence of Arab liberation movements, and the increasing popularity of the
principles of socialist realism.104
Jayyusi ascribes the birth of this type of poetry to many different social, cultural
and political factors, which she summarizes as follows: 1. The influence of
translations of Eliot; 2. Political changes, especially after the war of 1948; 3. Poets'
increasingly broad culture, which the ancient poetic structures were unable to
support; 4. Arab liberation movements; 5. Socialism and its principles of mass
culture; and 6. The evolution of prose and its influence on poets.105 Together these
factors created a need for renewal. Jayyusi views certain scholars as mistaken in
focusing only on literary developments, detached from prior and contemporaneous
events. Such scholars constructed theories on mistaken foundations, creating
confusion and preventing research and criticism from attaining a measure of
objectivity.106
99; Moreh 1976: 198-205; Khayr Bik 1986: 43-44; Somekh 1987: 64-65; Jayyusi 1992: 142-
143; al-Bayātī 1993: 101; Shrād 1998: 226-229; ʿAbbās 2001: 18. Nāzik al-Malāʾika's
introduction to her poetry collection Splinters and Ash (1949) was the first essay in which this
type of poetry was consciously discussed and characteristics explained (see: al-Malāʾika
1965: 25; cf. Jayyusi 1977, vol. II: 558; idem 1992: 149).
103 See: the interview with al-Sayyāb, a prominent pioneer of modern poetry, about these
attempts: al-Gharfī 1986: 127-128; cf. al-Khayyāṭ 1970: 119-121; Badawi 1975: 226; Moreh
1976: 205-206; al-ʿAẓma 1988: 142-145; al-Naqqāsh 1992: 189-192; Jayyusi 1992: 148-149;
Tawfīq 1997: 252-257; al-Waraqī 1997: 196-207; Shrād 1998:222-226.
104 Shukrī rejects the claim that Nāzik al-Malāʾika invented "free verse," which he views as a
collective creation whose emergence was due to general circumstances and previous
experimentation (Shukrī 1968: 204; cf. idem 1971: 65). Read about "The Social Roots of the
Free Verse Movement" in al-Malāʾika 1965: 37-50; cf. al-Tūnji 1968: 160-161; al-Khayyāṭ
1970: 111-113; al-Nuwayhī 1971: 9-10, 469-470; Badawī 1975: 226; Moreh 1976: 267-268;
al-Kbÿsī 1978: 17; Ḥāfiẓ 1985: 250-251; Ḥaddād , ʿA. 1986: 66-69, 189; al-Shuqayrāt 1987:
61-62; al-ʿĀlim 1988: 32; al-Karakī 1989: 15; Qabbānī 1993, vol. 5: 367; Allen 1993: 90; al-
Kbÿsī 1988: 139; Fatḥ al-Bāb 1997: 62-63; Wādī 2000: 10, 19; and ʿAbbās 2001: 50-53.
105 See: Jayyusi 1977, vol. 2: 567-568.
106 Let us take, for example, a book by ʿAbdallā al-Ghadhdhāmī, who is convinced that Nāzik al-
Malāʾika was the inventor of this type of poetry. He tries to derive this "fact" from a feminist
perspective and speaks about the masculine nature of Arabic literature in general. He takes

Jayyusi’s analysis verifies that the literary revolutions in question arose due to
political and social circumstances in the Arab world rather than by accident or under
foreign influence. Free verse thus appeared at the same time as Arab liberation
movements, in step with the general Arab intellectual and social rebellions; it
involved a revolution in the language of poetry, as well as a revival of popular
literature.
In its nature, any true social revolution is comprehensive and affects all aspects
of a society, since societies necessarily consist of integrated and interrelated
systems, so that any change in one of them invariably affects the others as well. In
other words, if literature reflects the prevailing thoughts, feelings, and tendencies of
a certain society, there should be no surprise if literature changes in the wake of
political or social changes. Such literary revolutions are the most durable, since they
closely align with the changes a society undergoes, and are most resonant to the
needs of individuals. Ý
1.2.2.3.3.2 The nature of shiÝr al-tafÝÐla and its effect on textual interaction
The emergence of shiÝr al-tafÝÐla was the greatest ever revolution in the history of
Arabic poetry; it demolished the structure of the classical Arabic poem and its
traditional framework in an unprecedented manner, thus challenging every system,
taboo, and tradition defended by critics throughout the ages, whereby the classical
qaṣīda with its venerable structure was the sole official, sanctified face of Arabic
poetry. This revolution was not limited to the poem's prosodic pattern, as some
claim; rather, it was truly comprehensive, encompassing structure, meter, expressive
style, and even subject-matter. In addition to replacing classical poetic meters with
metrical feet and mono-rhyme with variable rhyme, free verse also broke the system
of verses and stanzas and freed meanings from strict adherence to the rules of
the fact that Arabic poetry was bound to a strict “column” form as proof of masculinity,
viewing the “column” as a symbol standing for the male reproductive member. He goes on to
state that this “column” could only be broken by a woman, thus “proving” that al-Malāʾika
was the first, and subsequently followed by others (see: al-Ghadhdhāmī 1999, esp. pp. 11-70).
His argument ignores the decades prior to al-Malāʾika during which male poets were able to
dismiss and even occasionally break this poetic “column”, although such attempts did not
have any continuation, since the time was not yet ripe. Al-Ashtar, for his part, ascribes the
emergence of this type of poetry to the aftermath of the Arab defeat in 1948. He views its
birth as deserving condemnation since, he claims, following the defeat the Arabs came to
disdain the prevailing values and tried to do away with them (see: al-Ashtar 1960: 92). How
then does al-Ashtar explain the existence of this type of poetry a year before the defeat, and in
fact decades before? An objective view of the matter reveals that there is no reason to expect
significant changes in major branches of Arabic literature to result from certain specific
external events; one cannot ignore all the other cultural and intellectual factors that participate
in their emergence. Such explanatory attempts can only produce false claims and erroneous
results. Al-Jayyusi agrees, rejecting the perspective that the Arab defeat of 1948 gave rise to
the new poetry. Rather, she believes that this development was purely artistic, to which
political events, including the defeat of 1948, gave a great impetus and prepared the public for
its acceptance (Jayyusi 1977, vol. 2: 557, 640).

prosody. The meaning of a poem was now no longer limited to restrictions of space,
since the message no longer had to be completed by the end of the line, as is the case
in classical poetry. Instead, poems became continuous utterances, which extended
for as long as it took for poets to express the idea or paint the picture they wished to
convey.
In the classical style, poetry is stiff, lacking the flexibility needed to create forms
freely, encumbered by the models of the past. The bounds of its verses hamper
external materials from gaining entrance. But the new style shattered the framework
of the one-line stanza and provided poetry with the flexibility needed to express
novel contemporary issues and establish a dialectical relationship with other types of
literature. Poetry opened up to other art forms and to the heritage of humankind in
general. It distanced itself from the aristocratic nature that had been imposed on it,
which had been difficult to master, surrounded by numerous conditions and
barriers.107 The new form of poetry is by its very nature free and geared to popular
taste. It strives to break the restrictions put on poetry since pre-Islamic times, which
had placed it in an ivory tower, for a restricted class only, far from the reach of the
common man. Although a pioneer of this type of poetry, Nāzik al-Malāʾika is
mistaken in saying the new poetry is nothing but an innovative prosodic attempt; she
overlooks the sensitivity inherent in any literary innovation and the successive
transformations the new style brought to every element of the poem.108
Because it was liberated from the ancient restrictions, the new poetry made it
possible to extensively use traditional materials. It paved the way toward the use of
narrative style and naturally enabled it to tell stories, due to its flexible structure.
These changes paved the way for Arabic poetry to transform from focusing on
melody, predominant in the past, to focusing on dramatic elements. This
transformation permitted an objective transmission of forms and events, enabling
107 See: al-Malāʾika 1965: 29-30; al-Gharfī 1986:12 (quoting al-Sayyāb's Introduction to his
poetry collection Myths [1950]); idem 1986: 84-85 (quoting an interview given by al-Sayyāb
in 1956); al-Dīb 1962: 18, 20; al-Tūnjī 1968: 160-161; al-Nuwayhī 1971: 145, 467-468; al-
ʿĀlim 1988: 33-34; Jubrān 2003: 5; Abū Murād 2004 (quoting Darwīsh's views on the
importance of "the new poetry", which provides poets an opportunity to combine various arts
and to make widespread use of symbolism).
108 In her contemporary book Issues of Poetry (QaÃÁyÁ al-ShiÝr) al-Malāʾika retreats somewhat
from her enthusiastic and pioneering support for "the new poetry," and states her expectation
that poets will use it less and revert to more traditional forms. She enumerates many of the
"faults" of such poetry and accuses it of being incapable of fulfilling certain functions.
Elsewhere she says: "As long as free verse remains basically a call for a change in form, as
long as it focuses on meter, feet and rhyme, we can only criticize it from the perspective of
prosody" (al-Malāʾika 1965: 56); cf. Maḥbūba 1965: 13-14; al-Naqqāsh 1992: 192, 213-216;
Ḥumr al-ʿAyn 1996: 46-47. This position of hers was criticized in al-Nuwayhī 1971: 249-
309; Bannīs 1985: 66; idem 1990, vol. 3: 8-9; al-Waraqī 1997: 213-214; and ʿAbbās 2001:
27-30.

readers to form their own opinions about texts.109 This poetic revolution thus
liberated not only the poet but the reader as well, who was now encouraged to
directly engage with the text rather than to accept preconceived patterns and obvious
contents; the reader became able to freely think, interact, conclude, and take
positions.
The flexibility made possible by the new poetry enabled poets to introduce
elements of tradition and of different literary genres into the text and to create new
meanings with them. As a result, we observe a gradual increase in the use of textual
allusions in the new poetry and a broadening interest in employing symbolism
derived from cultural heritage. This turn generated a greater likelihood that folkloric
materials would enter and influence the text, since they are an indispensable part of
the heritage. The new poetry was able to infuse its verses with all these materials, a
difficult move in the past. The "free verse movement,” as Jayyusi calls it, "enabled
the implementation of this need for bringing the two languages close to each other
and brought about a fundamental revolution whose first signs appeared in the 1950s
and whose effects are still felt to this day [the 1970s], due to its rich powers of
evolution and innovation."110
1.2.2.3.4 Modernism, post-modernism and in the use of popular literature

Many studies in Arabic on modernism and post-modernism in general, or more
specifically on the influence of these two schools on Arabic literature, have been
published. Unfortunately, a perusal of these studies shows quite clearly that their
authors generally confuse modernism with post-modernism and fail to delineate
boundaries between the two. In fairness, in the West this distinction has too
remained blurred "due to the differences of opinion among the prominent writers
who have addressed this issue."111
Modernism arose just prior to the onset of World War II out of a general public
desire for a clear literary regime free from the past and derived from the present,
based on sincerity with oneself and an awareness of present day events and social
and cultural developments. This trend aimed at creating an integrated environment
109 See: Nāzik al-Malāʾika 1965: 31; al-Nuwayhī 1971: 129-130; Badawi 1975: 225; Moreh
1976: 213, 236-237, 264-265; Sulaiman 1984: 97; Ḥaddād, ʿA. 1986:75, 251; Jubrān 1989:
83 (where he speaks about the use the new poets made of the stylistic characteristics of the
short story); Jayyusi 1992: 149; Fatḥ al-Bāb 1997: 240; Deyoung 1998: 193; Shrād 1998:
293-300; and Wādī 2000: 11.
110 Jayyusi 1977, vol. 2: 636; cf. al-Nuwayhī 1971: 102; Snir 1994: 72-73, 75; Ḥaddād, ʿA. 1986
(where he notes that free verse poetry appeared simultaneously with folkloric influence on
modern Iraqi poetry); Abū Ḥannā 1994: 256; Ḥaddād 1998: 116-117; Shrād 1998: 292;
ʿAbbās 2001: 24. Moreh argues that colloquial poetry appeared in the wake of free verse,
implying that the appearance of the latter, in which colloquial elements were easily
integrated, made it possible for the former to emerge (Moreh 1976: 311).
111 ʿAnānī 1996, al-Muʿjam: 55; cf. Ḥumr al-ʿAyn 1996: 21.

in which "man would be rid of his fantasies, freed of his chains, and capable of
explaining the universe in a conscious and intellectual manner."112 Thus modernism
refused to remain in the past but called for continuity and for focusing on the present
moment, viewing literature as in constant movement. Authors were therefore
expected to view the future through the present, in an ongoing attempt to rid
themselves of the past and strive towards renewal. For these reasons, modernism has
been associated with innovation in literature and detachment from the element of
time. We can therefore search for modernist elements in the ancient heritage as well.
Modernism promotes the values of original writing and poetic evolution. A
criterion for judging a work of poetry is thus whether the poet added some
innovation to her verses, whether she was capable of creating a new language, or
find new and unusual uses for existing words. According to this view the "creative
poets" (al-shuʿarāʾ al-muwalladūn) of the Abbasid period, for example, can be
considered the modernists of ancient times, because they attempted to go beyond the
customary and common and liberate themselves from the dominant laws of the past,
in order to adopt a consciously independent perspective derived from the living
present.113
The proponents of modernism created a set of special and very idealistic laws,
which they hoped would elevate the human mind and literary tastes and enable more
profound understandings and perceptions. One law required writers to focus on the
signifier, that is, on the method of uttering or writing, and develop it in such a way
that it becomes detached from its ancient meanings. Writers thus endeavored to
make their phrases bear more readings and increase their endurance by detaching
texts from temporal chains.
Modernism also encouraged "absolute experiments and the belief in standards of
evaluation and unrestricted actions. It stressed the importance of formal laws which
would be independent of human whims and personal tendencies. All these features
owed their existence to an absolute rationalism."114 Modernism adopted a dual view
of writing and called for the propagation of superior models, holding that one must
avoid corrupt values. It preferred absolute rationalism to personal desire, the present
to the past, and the lower social classes to the well-to-do.
World War II plunged the world into pessimism, instability, and distrust of
established values and models. This view undermined the modernist program and its
aspirations, giving rise to a counteractive post-modernism, which refused to
recognize the absolute, claimed the non-existence of superior models, strove to
undermine the foundations laid by modernism, and called for reinterpreting and even
112 Al-Ruwaylī & al-Bāziʿī 2000: 139; cf. al-Khāl 1978: 15, 17; al-Kharrāṭ 1984: 57-58; al-
Nābilsī 1986b: 579-585; Khayrat 1988: 11; Bdÿr 1990: 12-13; Jayyusi 1992: 169; al-Baḥrāwī
1999: 298; ʿAbbās 2001: 50.
113 Cf. ʿĪd 1979: 8; al-Ghadhdhamī 1987: 7; Ismāʿīl 1988: 15; al-Karakī 1989: 16-17; BannÐs
1990, vol. 3: 16-19; Abū Jahjah 1995: 16-17; al-Manāṣra 2000: 396.
114 Al-Ruwaylī & al-Bāziʿī 2000: 140; cf. Altieri 1993: 792-793; Lukacs 1992; Abū Jahja 1995:
17; ʿAnānī 1996, al-Muʿjam: 56.

destroying the past’s heritage. Thus post-modernism rejected modernism's dualistic

views in its call for ideals and its division of literature into "high" and "popular"
designations.
Post-modernism came to be associated with deconstruction, which rejects the
notion of absolute truth, refuses to look for meanings beyond the text itself, and calls
for completely disassociating signifiers from their meanings, regarding them as fully
independent of previous meanings. The text was detached even from its author and
from any truth outside itself.115 Post-modernism does not recognize permanence or
ideals: "It therefore adopted […] a belief in the surface, in superficiality and in
everyday banality, and fought against elitism and excellence."116 If modernism called
for a break with the past by way of absorbing it and then going beyond it, then post-
modernism called for tearing down the past and all customs and traditions in order to
"reconstruct" them in a different way. If modernism in poetry called for using myths
and other elements of past culture, albeit with new readings, post-modernism called
for the creation of new myths.
As previously discussed, after World War II, Western literary terminology and
advanced theories of literature were increasingly translated into Arabic. By that
time, modernism had enervated in the West and the post-modernist school had
begun to receive acceptance. Both theories thus arrived in the Middle East after they
had been thoroughly analyzed, and after the former had been fairly discredited.
In the West, these schools had emerged naturally and with native vitality, while
in the Middle East they arrived as imports, similarly to most modern intellectual
theories and philosophies. Local intellectuals thus assimilated them at one go, not
gradually, without giving due consideration to the question of their suitability to
Arab culture. Modernism and post-modernism thus became no more than an
intellectual call, with no roots in reality. This detachment created a contradiction of
sorts between modernist thought and Arab life, the latter being still immersed in
fundamentalism and steadfast to tradition.
Modernism and post-modernism are also a way of life, not merely a way of
thought; Western thought arrived at them gradually but inexorably, driven by
general social, material, and intellectual developments in the West. Arab thought can
therefore hardly be expected to adopt these two schools without a genuine gradual
revolution in Arab society and life. Some confusion thereby ensued among the
Arabs in translating the works of these two contemporary schools and adopting the
new terminology. Recall that in the West these schools evolved over a period of
many years, whereas the Arabs imbibed them "as is" in a very short timeframe.
115 See: Altieri 1993: 793;ʿAnānī 1996, al-Muʿjam: 56. On deconstruction and its foundations
see: al-Ghadhdhāmī 1993: 50-63; ʿAnānī 1996: 131-152; and al-Ruwaylī & al-Bāziʿī 2000:
53-58.
116 Al-Ruwaylī & al-Bāziʿī 2000: 141; cf. idem 2000: 142; Brooker 1992: 2; ʿAnānī 1996, al-
Muʿjam: 55.

Some Arab theorists created a single concept to encompass principles from both
schools, ḥadātha (literally: modernism), a term used as a catch-all for the entire
gamut of Western thought within modernism and post-modernism alike.117 By way
of example, let us look at Fatḥī's definition of "modernism:" "Modernism or ḥadātha
refers to a sensitivity and a style which pronounces judgment on the literature that
has preceded it, and which it intends to replace;" it origins lie in "an unceasing anger
against all stable literary standards." It is no wonder that modernism has not
produced any permanent schools of its own, for it is in constant movement, always
searching for something new, based on never-ending experimentation: "In their view
when an author expresses doubt concerning even the most obvious ethical principles
it is a sign of correctness."118 This definition clearly confuses between modernism
and post-modernism and includes features of both within the single term
"modernism."
As this issue does not stand at the center of this study, I shall here conclude my
examination. I wish to merely note once again that the Arabic definition of
"modernism" contains elements from both theories in a single concept. This view
has predominated among Arab intellectuals and has continued to influence the views
of Arab poets.
1.2.2.3.4.2 The journal Shiʿr and its main principles

Modernism and later philosophies have had a profound influence on Arabic thought
and literature. Arabic writers and critics adopted their principles in critical works
and literary writings to such a degree that in the 1960s, the word "modernism"
continually occurred in speech and writing; theorizing about modernism became
Arabic poets' most ardent desire. This theoretical appropriation occurred as Arab
societies underwent great transformations in thought, life, and art, bringing the ideas
of modernism wide acceptance in the Arab world. While features of this modernism
arose spontaneously among at least some writers and thinkers, inevitably linked to
the flow of events, this fact certainly does not preclude that some writers adopted
modernism quite consciously, out of a keen desire to bring change to Arabic
literature.
Founded by Yūsuf al-Khāl in Lebanon in 1957, the journal Shiʿr was probably
the first Arabic periodical to quite explicitly announce it would adopt all things
novel and encourage experimentation and creativity in poetry.119 Adonis (b. 1930),
one of the most important contributors to the journal, was perhaps the most famous
poet to call for renewal and the adoption of modernism, whose meaning and
importance in literature he understood more than anyone. He wrote two books on the
subject, al-Thābit wal-Mutaḥawwil (The Permanent and the Changing) and Zaman
117 See: al-Baḥrāwī 1999: 297.

118 Fatḥī 2000: 103; cf. the same confusion in al-Khāl 1978: 95-96; al-Ṭuʿma 1984: 14.
119 See: Ḥumr al-ʿAyn 1996: 53.

al-Shiʿr (The Time of Poetry), in which his most important points concerning poetry
include promotion of:
A. Creation and innovation: acceptance of any novelty so long as it is reasonable,
rejection of any prior restrictions on poetry, and support for attempts at
"exploding language," that is, introducing new, special, and original linguistic
forms free from overused formulations.120
B. Prose poetry, and efforts to disseminate this style.121
C. Writing in the colloquial: this principle was advocated in the journal's first issue,
wherein al-Khāl called for employing expressions as close as possible to the
concepts of the common people, and for addressing issues of concern to the
people and the times.122
1.2.2.3.4.3 Modernism and the growth of interest in popular literature

The call to "explode language" urged writers to fully explore the expressive power
of the single word, and of words in free interaction with each other. This approach is
consistent with deconstruction, which strives to remove all connections between the
signifier and the signified, to detach signifiers from their former relationships and
reconstruct them anew in ways consistent with writers’ new understandings. Such
utterances lose their communicative value and become nothing more than signs in
the text, with no meaning except that given by context. In this way, words become
liberated from old meanings and can be given new ones.123 But in order for this
lingual transformation to occur, writers must free signifiers from their traditional
meanings; they must therefore be educated and informed, in order to transcend the
ancient texts and go beyond accepted meanings, thus giving utterances greater
expressive power. This approach places the text in a kind of dialogue with other
texts, past and contemporary, via poets’ attempts to blaze their own trails between
them.
120 See: what the journal's founder (al-Khāl) has to say about its objectives; he states very
unequivocally that the journal's purpose is to raise the banner of revolution and rejection (al-
Khāl 1978: 33; cf. Moreh 1976: 279; Jayyusi 1977, vol. 2: 569). As Adonis says,
"Modernism is an absolute insistence on the primacy of expression. By this I mean that the
manner of an utterance is more important than what is being said" (Adonis 1996: 71); cf.
Adonis 1988: 203, 206-207; Qāsim 1981: 44-54, 84; Bannīs 1990, vol. 3: 38-39; al-Naqqāsh
1992: 479-486 (here al-Naqqāsh attacks Adonis for his views on this issue, and calls him one
of "today's foolish poets"); Moreh 1976: 280-281.
121 See: Adonis 1988: 204-205; cf. Moreh 1976: 287; al-Ḥāj 1987, vol. 1: 23; Nashʾat 1998:
202-203; Fatḥī 2000: 147-148, 191; Faḍl 2002: 6. For more on the origins of the prose poem
in Arabic literature see: Jayyusi 1977: 631; Moreh 1988: 5, 9; Shrād 1998: 216; and Ḥallūm
2000: 19-20.
122 See: Khayr Bik 1986: 68-69; al-Ṭuʿma 1984: 15-16. Al-Khāl has very explicit views on the
use of the colloquial in poetry, which he expressed in his book al-Ḥadātha fī al-Shiʿr (see:
al-Khāl 1978: 7, 55-59; 95-96); cf. Moreh 1976: 281-284.
123 See: Qāsim 1981: 36-43; Ḥumr al-ʿAyn 1996: 88-93.

The way opens to transtexuality, a contemporary idiom referring to the various

relations among different texts.124 This means that any sign (utterance) can be
chosen so long as it is consistent with the context and derives its meaning or
meanings from it. In particular, it is perfectly acceptable to use words from the
colloquial language if they can play their assigned roles within the poem and do not
subvert the integrity of the context as a whole. Obstacles then no longer hinder the
use of popular literature.
The most important call made by modernism is to break with the past. However,
this break does not require completely severing ties to the past; rather, it calls for
understanding the past, giving it a new reading, and formulating materials anew,
after choosing those elements befitting the present moment. JabrÁ stresses the need
to rebel against the past is fundamental to modernism, but at the same time he insists
this rebellion should encompass awareness and knowledge of the past. The rebellion
thus possesses roots, to which a writer's own tradition is added, in a continuum
ranging between continuity and originality.125
This approach encourages the use of both older and contemporary texts in the
formulation of new texts, that is, renewal emerges by both incorporating and
reaching beyond the past. The text opens up and becomes more objective, and is
enriched by redirecting the energy of other texts. For writers to succeed in such an
undertaking, they must enrich their encyclopedic knowledge and expand their
cultural proficiency in different fields, in order to use that knowledge in distinct and
creative ways.126 This approach paved the way for folk texts to enter official texts
indirectly and participate in their meaning.
On the other hand, post-modernism called for doing away with models promoted
by modernism, claiming they imprisoned modernism in a romanticist ivory tower. It
also rejected the dualism that classified literature into popular and higher types. The
abolition of these boundaries gave popular literatures an opportunity to flourish;
writers were encouraged to use them, since according to post-modernism, there is no
such thing as deep versus superficial, and there is no greater meaning in a text’s
depths than on its surface. This perspective encourages the use of ordinary speech
and giving due value to the language and culture of the common people, and to the
countryside rather than to the progressive town, which tries to obfuscate the
distinctive features of the village.127
These values are very clearly visible among contemporary Arab poets, especially
given that most of them were born in rural areas and migrated to the cities, whose
124 See: Ismāʿīl 1988: 17; al-Yūsuf 1988: 70-71. Bannīs says on this issue: "a text can only be
written with or against another text; this is something which poetic modernism in general
tells us" (Bannīs 1990, vol. 3: 197); cf. Qmÿḥa 1987: 19; al-Bayātī & Ṣubḥī 1990: 86-87; al-
Jazzār 1998: 24-25; NashÞat 1999: 109; Saʿīdī 1999: 139; al-ʿAllāq 1997: 131; Fatḥ al-Bāb
1997: 9, 94; Plett 1991:17; Elam 1993: 621; Ben-Porat 1985: 170.
125 See: JabrÁ 1979: 141; cf. al-Ṭuʿma 1984: 18; al-Ghadhdhāmī 1987: 10-11; Ismāʿīl 1988: 16.
126 Bannīs 1990, vol. 3: 188.
127 Altieri 1993: 793-794; Jayyusi 1992: 156; Williams 1992: 82, 86.

stifling nature made them yearn for their native villages, and lost childhoods and
innocence. Furthermore, in striving towards modernism, Arab poets imitated those
of the West, and adopted many of their positions, including a very critical view of
the urban landscape, which symbolized materialism, violence, and the erosion of
human emotions.128 This attachment to the village aroused a longing for the village's
customs, traditions, rites, and folk stories and arts, leading Arab poets to evoke them
in their texts, as if out of a desire to reconstruct the village in their minds, and live
there, far away from the worries of the city.129
The prose poetry made it even more possible to introduce external materials,
since it abolished poetic structure, the meter and the rhyme, and also brought the
language of poetry ever closer to the language of speech and narrative style. The
likelihood of folk-literary elements appearing in poetry thus increased and the
manner of their use became more complex, since most poets composing prose
poems were interested in breaking old molds and creating new kinds of texts.
The interest in the spoken language coincided with a greater likelihood for using
folk materials in literary compositions. In fact, the promotion of the colloquial
constitutes recognition of its suitability for conveying artistic expression.
Accusations leveled against popular literature as inferior and inartistic became no
longer acceptable. To the contrary, poets demonstrated that many of folk texts were
highly refined artistically and fully capable of serving as models for writers
interested in innovation in the spirit of modernism.
The interest in and use of popular literature in contemporary Arabic poetry
constituted a feature of modernism, since such employment involved a hitherto
unprecedented use of language, which ruptured the dualism that so strictly
differentiated canonical from non-canonical literature, in line with the post-
128 See: al-Tanūkhī 1968: 121; Jayyusi 1977, vol. 2: 710; Ismāʿīl 1978: 326-328, 339-341;
Jayyusi 1988: 107; Ḥmūd 1986: 257-261; al-Waraqī 1997: 6-66; Zāyid 1998: 131; and
ʿAbbās 2001: 89-91. For al-Sayyāb's opinion of the city and his yearning for his village of
Jaykūr, and the legend he made of his village and its features, see: al-Baṣrī 1966: 65, 82;
ʿAwaḍ 1967: 58, 74; al-Ḥāwī 1970, vol. 2: 110-176; ʿAllūsh 1977: 25-26; Jayyusi 1977, vol.
2: 670, 727; ʿAbbās 1983: 27, 35, 39; IṭÐmish 1986: 61, 261-263; al-Shqīrāt 1987: 115-130;
Jayyusi 1988: 107; Moreh 1988: 154-157; Jayyusi 1992: 156; Jaʿfar 1999: 32-26; and
ʿAbbās 2001: 94-95. See: also his following poems: al-Sayyāb 1995, vol. 2: 118-125, 132-
137, 142-144; see: al-Sayyāb's letter in which he mentions his attachment to Jaykūr: al-
Sāmirrāʾī 1994: 153. Similar views were expressed by al-Bayātī: al-Bayātī 1972, vol. 2: 210;
Sharaf 1972: vii; Badawi 1975: 210; Jubrān 1989: 80; Maẓlūm 1998: 15, 18; Jaʿfar 1999: 36-
39; Ḥmūd 1986: 269-272; and Moreh 1988: 144-145. See: also the following poems by al-
Bayātī: al-Bayātī 1972, vol. 1: 168-172; idem, vol. II:281-283. For discussions of al-
Manāṣra's preference for the countryside and his development of the "shepherding poem" (a
poem that describes the countryside and expresses yearning for its innocence) see: Zāyid
1998: 102; al-Manāṣra 1999: 428; Raḍwān 1999b: 12; al-Saʿāfīn 1999: 192; Lāfī 1999: 383;
and al-Wazza 1999: 399. For Dunqul's negative view of the city, see: Ḥaddād 1999: 158.
See: the view of ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr, which is somewhat in disagreement with the preceding, see:
ʿĀmir 1984: 100-103; Ḥāfiẓ 1985: 105-106.
129 See: Moreh 1988: 147, 159-160.

modernist approach.130 This development also constituted an attack on the upper

middle class, whose dominance had been enhanced by the dualism promoted by
modernism. This dominance ended with the advent of socialism, in whose shadow
post-modernism evolved, so that scholars have tended to associate post-modernism
with socialism as complementary and interconnected movements.
1.2.2.3.5 The emergence of leftist political parties-socialist realism

Earlier, I discussed the role played by Salāma Mūsā and other writers in propagating
the principles of socialism. I presented a number of these principles and discussed in
some detail the concomitant theories of literary commitment and literature for the
masses. I also noted that these principles had not yet become widely accepted among
the masses, due to opposition from the conservative right, which branded these calls
as a populism posing danger to the foundations of Islam and Arab heritage. These
principles thus had to wait until a change of times, until after World War II, when
people came to take a dim view on humanity’s fate. Issues of humanism then came
to the fore and prefaced the emergence of the socialist left, which championed the
people's rights and the masses as axis for all thought and action.
In that period the modernist school enjoyed ever greater popularity, after the
masses lost their faith in existing institutions, which had failed to forestall the
dangers and sufferings of war.131 The outbreak of the war of 1948 then brought a
renewed upsurge in modernism’s renown, since it demonstrated the inefficacy of the
principles championed by right-wing parties that failed to prevent what would later
be called the Nakba.132
The golden age of the leftist parties came after the Egyptian revolution of 1952
led by Jamal Abdul Nasser (1918-1970), which toppled the monarchy and put an
end to the rule of the aristocracy. The Arab masses placed great hopes in this
revolution, viewing it as their salvation. The revolution quickly rallied the masses
and became a popular revolt placing the interests of the nation above all else, in an
effort to liberate the people from foreign occupation and Western domination. The
revolution's objectives were consistent with the principles of socialism, which it
adopted and disseminated to the detriment of more conservative traditional
130 In al-Khāl's discussion of modern poetry he identifies seven fundamental points that
distinguish this kind of poetry, the second of which is "the use of historical, legendary, or
folkloric inspiration" (al-Khāl 1978:95-96), thus recognizing folklore as one of the most
important sources of contemporary poetry; cf. Shukrī 1968: 206; Moreh 1976: 239; Shrād
1998: 292; Raḍwān 1999b: 12, 27.
131 See: Shukrī 1965: 24; ʿAwaḍ 1967: 50-54; al-Nuwayhī 1971: 172; al-Waraqī 1997: 25.
132 See: Ḥallūm 2000: 40-41 (according to Ḥallūm, the Arab masses adopted the principles of
socialism in response to the capitalism that created Israel).

approaches, most of which were pro-monarchical.133 The progress of socialist

principles did not stop there, but received another strong push after the revolution of
1956, a natural extension of its predecessor, after which the people became a
recognized presence whose interests became the highest explicit objective of the
state, leading to the nationalization of the Suez Canal.134
These events in Egypt were contemporaneous with social and political liberation
movements throughout the Arab world; countries began to gradually obtain
independence as socialism became ever more popular, affecting life among the
Arabs in general.135 These social changes influenced literary theory; before this time
"monarchical criticism" (naqd mulÙkÐ-a term coined by Mūsā) called for the
preservation of Arab traditions and sanctified Arab heritage and the Arabic
language. Now, a new approach could be felt, one calling for the liberating
principles of socialism to be applied in literature. Formerly ignored theories were
read once more and new books and journals were published to propagate the
principles of socialism.
1.2.2.3.5.2 Socialist realism and a committed literature

The 1950s saw the greatest growth of socialist parties in the Arab world. Socialist
principles penetrated into Arab thought and were adopted by most Arab
organizations, while a number of Arab states were declared socialist republics.136
The time was now ripe for the ideas of Mūsā, ʿAbd al-ʿAzīz Fahmī, Louis ʿAwaḍ,
and others, which had been expressed decades earlier and now began to take root in
fertile ground, supported by journals belonging to socialist parties that disseminated
liberating socialist ideas alongside the works of Arab socialist poets.137
The best-known and most influential journal published by a socialist party was
al-Ādāb in Lebanon, established by Suhayl Idrīs (b. 1925) in 1950, in which the
pioneers of Arabic poetry participated; first and foremost among them were al-
SayyÁb, al-Bayātī, and al-Malāʾika. In his first editorial, Idrīs announced the
principle of commitment in literature, a topic of major concern to its articles, made
133 See: Mūsā 1954: 31; Shukrī 1965: 185; ʿAwaḍ 1967: 159-162, 168-171; al-Nuwayhī 1971:
172, 470, 515-517; Jāsim 1971: 45; Badr 1975/1976: 185-186; Sulaiman 1984: 90; Srūr
1991: 11-13; Badawī 1996: 110; and Fatḥī 2003: 28-29.
134 See: ʿAwaḍ 1967: 161; Ḥāfiẓ 1985: 250-251; and Fatḥī 2003: 40-41.
135 Syria and Lebanon became independent in 1946; the Egyptian movement for liberation from
the monarchic regime took place in 1956, after Egypt was declared a republic in 1953; Libya
became independent in 1951; Sudan, Tunisia, and Morocco became independent in 1956. Cf.
al-Nuwayhī 1971: 172; al-Ruwīlī & al-Bāziʿī 2000: 252; ʿĪd 2000: 238.
136 Egypt in 1953, Tunisia in 1957, and Iraq in 1958, followed by other Arab countries at
various times.
137 See: Jayyusi 1977, vol. 2: 574; al-Kittānī 1982, vol. 2: 742-744. For more on socialist
periodicals published in Egypt (the most important of which was al-Adīb al-Miṣrī) see: al-
Kittānī 1982, vol. 2: 741-742; cf. al-Gharfī 1986: 44-45; al-Nassāj 1973: 47; Shafīq 1973:
102-104; Sulaiman 1984: 98. Most Palestinian intellectuals joined the socialist party, and a
journal, al-Jadīd, with socialist leanings, was published (see: Abū Ḥannā 1994: 252, 259).

clear via a perusal of published articles from 1950 to 1954.138 The literary disputes
and debates in that period primarily revolved around two fundamental issues: social
commitment and diglosia. Just as they had adopted the principles of socialism, most
Arab critics and poets came to adopt standards on literature’s message, whereby it
addresses the problems of the masses, is committed to their behalf, and depicts the
bitter reality of human existence.139
In 1955, Maḥmūd Amīn al-ʿĀlim and ʿAbd al-ʿAẓīm Anīs published a book on
literary criticism that attempted to apply socialist principles to the analysis and
criticism of literature; they, too, stressed the importance of the principle of
commitment.140 They were succeeded by numerous prominent Arab critics and
authors. In an article entitled "Commitment and the Author's Responsibility" (1962),
Muḥammad Mandūr (1907-1965) frankly admits his allegiance to socialist
principles and calls for the adoption of the theory of commitment. He aims to turn
this theory into a cornerstone of modern Arabic criticism, since it requires writers to
"bear responsibility, lead their people, and champion issues of justice. It is an idea
sometimes expressed by the phrase 'committed literature,’ but in every case it is as
far removed as possible from affecting the author's liberty."141
In Lebanon, RaÞīf KhÙrÐ (1913-1967) was a prominent supporter of this school.
He attempted to demonstrate its philosophical validity and concurrence with human
nature and consciousness. His ideas were clearly influenced by Arab proponents of
socialism, especially Salāma Mūsā, who constantly attacked the positions of Taha
Íusayn and others. KhÙrÐ argued with Íusayn on the question "For whom does an
author write?" at a debate organized by the Organization for Public Lectures of the
Islamic Maqāṣid College in Beirut, which was later published in the journal al-Ādāb
in 1955. In this debate, Íusayn argued that authors write for a select few, whereas
KhÙrÐ maintained they write for the general public.
According to KhÙrÐ’s comments in this debate, he maintains that literature: 1)
comes from and goes to the masses; an author should ingest the life of the masses
and return it in literary form; 2) has a vital mission of guidance; 3) is an individual
creation made with social elements; 4) must use language that approaches everyday
speech; the language of literature shrivels and dies if it distances itself from the
people. In the course of his discussion, KhÙrÐ comments on some Marxist
138 See: al-Kittānī 1982, vol. 2: 743; cf. al-Gharfī 1986: 44-45; al-Nassāj 1973: 47; Shafīq 1973:
102-104; Badawi 1975: 207; and Sulaiman 1984: 98.
139 Milson and Semah compiled a volume with the most important articles published up to the
early 1960s. There we can see: that these issues were at the forefront of concern for Arab
intellectuals and the subject of heated debate and thoughtful studies (see: Milson & Semah
1971).
140 See: Jayyusi 1977, vol. 2: 577-578 (where she also discusses other Arab socialist writers); cf.
Badawi 1975: 209; ʿĪd 2000: 241-290.
141 Mandūr 1971a: 150-151; cf. Mandūr 1971b: 200; Ḥmūd 1986: 224; ʿÏd 2000: 260-267; al-
ʿĀlim 1973 (esp. pp. 7-8); al-Ḥakīm 1971b: 160; ʿĀṣī & Yaʿqūb 1987, vol. 1: 206-208.

concepts.142 A close examination reveals that they constitute a call to use folk
materials in literature and to approach the folk spirit and folk language as much as
possible. In other words, KhÙrÐ calls for drawing on folkloric sources and
experiences from everyday life to create sublime works of art.
The school of socialist realism also called for abandoning ivory towers and
rejecting the aristocracy’s barriers separating the masses from sources of culture. It
called for disseminating literature by simplifying its language and bringing it closer
to everyday speech. Socialist realism also promoted the study of folklore and created
the opportunity for colloquial language and folk culture to enter poetry, as the true
expression of the needs, hopes, and pains of the masses. This school was thus seen
as capable of mediating between the poet and the people, helping the poet express a
message of reform.143
For example, al-Sayyāb employed an "explicit use of symbols and legends in his
poetry beginning in the stage of Marxist commitment."144 He pioneered this use
among the Arabs, to be later emulated by his contemporaries and by younger poets.
This concurrence of socialism and modernism bestowed on folk symbols a place of
honor among al-Sayyāb's symbolism as a whole. Later in this study, I will show how
al-Sayyāb used the symbol of Sinbad more than any other, remaining with him
throughout his work.
1.2.2.3.5.3 Socialist realism and the pioneer poets

We should not be surprised to learn that the greatest of the pioneers of the new
poetry, to whom it fell to disseminate metric verse, were also associated in one way
or another with socialist thought, both in politics and literature.145 Nor is it surprising
142 See: Khūrī 1989: 89-103. His other ideas, published in writings in various years, were
collected in the same work (Khūrī 1989, esp. pp. 44-53, 123-134, 142-148, 173-186); cf.
Jayyusi 1977, vol. 2: 574-576; ʿĪd 2000: 267-270.
143 For more information about the basic principles of socialist realism and its dissemination
among the Arabs see: Mūsā 1962; al-Ṭālib 1971: 84-100; al-ʿĀlim 1973; Bahnasī 1973;
Ovgarenko 1973; Alsberg 1973; Abū Qlām 1973 (his article focuses on features of socialist
realism in Iraqi poetry); Luʾluʾa 1983, vol. 3: 127-132; Jubrān 1984: 167-168; ʿĀṣī &
Yaʿqūb 1987, vol. 2: 1297-1301; ʿĪd 2000: 78, 129-151; and al-Ruwaylī & al-Bāziʿī 2000:
216-222, 252-259.
144 Tawfīq 1997: 313.
145 See: Badr 1975/1976: 187-188. Al-Sayyāb began as a socialist, but later opposed the party.
In a 1963 interview for the magazine Bārīs al-ʿArabiyya he stated: "I was a communist; this
is not something I will deny." He explained that he left the party because he disagreed with
the communist view that calls for, as he put it, "the metamorphosis of man and his values,"
the rejection of religion, and giving preference to the interests of the Soviet Union over those
of all other countries and nations (see: al-Gharfī 1986: 106-107); cf. al-Baṣrī 1966: 11;
ʿAwaḍ 1967: 54, 63; al-Tūnjī 1968: 101-102; JabrÁ, al-Baṣrī & al-Ṭāhir 1973: 101-103;
Badawī 1975: 205; Moreh 1976: 267-268; ʿAllūsh 1977: 60-62; Jayyusi 1992: 156; ʿAllūsh
1995a: IX, XXX-XXXI; idem 1995b: 36-37, 72; al-Warqī 1997: 69; Tawfīq 1997: 66, 72-73,
91-94; Deyoung 1998: 45, 123; Ḥaddād 1998: 19. See: also the text of al-Sayyāb's lecture
entitled "Commitment and Non-Commitment in Modern Arabic Literature," given in 1961

that these same poets also instigated the open and conscious entry of Arabic
colloquial dialects into poetry. Most of these poets’ poetic experiments took place
when socialist principles were in full flower and Arab thought on political and social
issues had reached a certain level of maturity, co-occurring with the revival of
revolutions and declarations of independence.
Socialism was the most powerful political ideology emerging in the aftermath of
World War II; Arab intellectuals regarded its ideas and political and social views as
consistent with their own. They associated it with the modernism to which they
aspired, whose principles partially overlapped with socialism. The ideas of freedom,
democracy, people's rights, and the principle of commitment, whose flag socialism
raised, were consistent with these poets’ overall views and played an important role
in attracting Arab intellectuals and poets to socialism. In addition, the spread of
general culture and a growing acquaintance with foreign poets, especially those
whose socialist leanings were known, such as Pablo Neruda (1904-1973), Nāẓim
Ḥikmat (1902-1963), and Lorca (1898-1936), had considerable influence on the
poetry of al-Sayyāb, ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr, al-Bayātī, JabrÁ, and others.146 Thus Arab poets
were quick to adopt the principles of socialism and socialist realism, and began to
call for change, especially as the political authorities and dominant institutions
began to take into consideration the needs and wants of the people. The adoption of
socialist realism, and the growing popularity of modernism in poetry, gave rise to
(al-Gharfī 1986: 36-65; cf. ibid.: 201-211). Al-Bayātī was a socialist (see, for example, his
poems: al-Bayātī 1972, vol. 1: 505 [in which he calls for commitment] and idem, vol. 2: 20,
22; cf. Shukrī 1968: 149; idem 1971: 66-68; Badawi 1975: 205, 210; Jubrān 1989: 65-55), as
were JabrÁ (see: JabrÁ 1979: 12), ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr (see: Ḥalāwī 1997: 88-89), Dunqul (see: his
poem on socialism: Dunqul 1995: 47-50), Darwīsh (see: Shāhīn 2000, vol. 2: 697; Ṣaddūq
2000: 581; Abū Murād 2004: 191) and Saʿdī Yūsuf (see: his poem: Yūsuf 1995, vol. I:527).
Zayyād was a communist, head of the Communist Party in Israel, mayor of Nazareth, and
Member of Knesset (see: Campbell 1996, vol. 1: 679; Ṣadūq 2000: 135); Qabbānī, although
known as an existentialist poet, was at any rate affected by socialist ideas such as
simplification of language and making literature accessible to the masses (Qabbānī 1993,
vol. 7: 48-49; cf. ibid, vol. 8: 406, 426).
146 See: Shukrī 1968: 149; cf. Badawi 1975: 210; Moreh 1976: 268; Jayyusi 1977, vol. 2: 565,
576-577. Al-Bayātī admitted having been influenced by them (al-Bayātī 1972, vol. 2: 17-18;
cf. Jubrān 1989: 66-67). A warm friendship existed between al-Bayātī and Nāẓim Ḥikmat
(see: al-Bayātī 1972, vol. 2: 117-138; idem 1989: 109-110; and Shamsī 1982: 58-59). On
Neruda's influence on al-Sayyāb see: Tawfīq 1997: 349-350. JabrÁ admitted to having been
influenced by Lorca (JabrÁ 1979: 123); the same is true of al-Manāṣra (al-Manāṣra 1999:
433). On the effect socialist poets had on Darwīsh see: Abū Murād 2004: 50 and Darwīsh
2008: 196. Some socialist poets became symbols in the poetry composed by Arab poets, for
example al-Sayyāb's "Garcia Lorca" (al-Sayyāb 1971, vol. 1: 333-334; cf. Ḥaddād 1998: 22);
ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr's "Lorca" (ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr 1972, vol. 1: 228-230); al-Bayātī's "To Ernest
Hemingway" and "Elegies to Lorca" (al-Bayātī 1972, vol. 1: 605-609; ibid., vol. 2: 344-354);
Maḥmūd Darwīsh's "Lorca" (Darwīsh 1997, vol. 1: 66-68); Tawfīq Zayyād's "Three Songs
by Nāẓim" (Zayyād 1996: 150-153); Zayyād's translation of a poem by Nāẓim (ibid.: 414-
420) and ʿIzz al-Dīn al-Manāṣra's "The Tribes," in which the influence of Neruda can be
seen (al-Manāṣra 2001: 270).

free verse and a revival of the colloquial dialects, at a time of growing national
consciousness and major social and political change, all components of a true
revolution in Arab society during that period.
1.2.2.3.5.4 Delayed popular implementation of socialist realism

The balance of power changed and dominant groups were replaced throughout the
Arab world, especially in the field of literature. This revolution gave rise to new
phrases and concepts such as "art for the people" instead of "art for art's sake,"
"commitment" and "realism" instead of "romanticism," "democracy" instead of "rule
by an individual," and "republic" instead of "monarchy." These new concepts began
to penetrate Arabic literary criticism and gradually transformed writers' subjects to
focus on society and its problems.
This transformation of critics’ position caused them to focus on new problems
and to ignore others, or to view old problems in new ways, including the issue of
using spoken language in literature. It is no exaggeration to say that the socialist
school had the greatest influence on the path taken by Arabic poetry in modern
times, especially in the mid-1950s, and on inspiring the use of folk elements, as part
of the general trends for appreciating the culture of the past and linking literature
with the people.147 Furthermore, "the increasing attention given to colloquial
expression in literature at the end of the 1940s and the beginning of the 1950s was
one of the results of paying greater attention to socialist realism."148
However, these principles’ enactment was somewhat delayed, due to the rise in
nationalist sentiment among the Arabs and their growing devotion to national unity,
especially after the political union between Egypt and Syria. This development
enhanced Standard Arabic’s status at the expense of a direct and conscious regard
for colloquial dialects and popular literature. Here occurred a preparatory stage,
wherein some attention, including within literature, was directed towards the
masses, their problems, their language, and their literature; yet it did not yet
constitute a measurable phenomenon. This change only took place after the Syrian-
Egyptian union fell apart.
147 See: Moreh 1976: 270; IṭÐmish 1986: 172-174; and Abū Ḥannā 1994: 114-116, 232.
Throughout her article, Shahrzād Ḥasan tries to show the crucial role socialist thought had on
the dissemination of the idea that art must relate to the people. She argues that writers
applied this idea in their work, which often resulted in weakening the artistic merits of their
writings (see: Ḥasan 1971). Most Arab scholars consider the revolution of 1956 as a
watershed in this respect, and maintain that it gave a great push to popular art. For example,
ʿAwaḍ states that the success of the 1956 revolution led to "the flourishing of folk art and
literature and the plastic arts, which are revolutionary in nature, because the revolution's
sources spring from the people, and the arts freed popular literary and artistic energies that
had been imprisoned under the feet of official literature and academic art” (ʿAwaḍ 1967:
161; cf. ibid.:165; Badawī 1996: 113).
148 ʿAwad op.cit.: 161; cf. Shukrī 1968: 152-153, 215; Jayyusi 1977, vol. 2: 666-667; Ḥmūd
1986: 163; IṭÐmish 1986: 187; Qabbānī 1993, vol. 7: 48-49; Jaʿfar 1999: 83.

As I will discuss below, the Syrian-Egyptian dissolution led to a decline in

nationalism, permitting the principles of socialism to dominate the Arab world and
be applied on a broad scale. However, under the influence of Western poetry, Arabic
poets were then primarily interested in using foreign myths and symbols not familiar
to Arab readers.149 The Arab folk heritage had not yet received the attention it
deserved, and did not provide the main sources of poetic inspiration.
1.2.2.3.6 The defeat of 1948 and its consequences

Most scholars consider 1948 as constituting a dividing line in Arabic literature in
general and in poetry in particular. In that year, a new state was created in the midst
of Arab territory; a foreign entity challenged the Arabs and their culture and
imposed hegemony, not as a temporary colonizer but as a permanent nation claiming
a historical connection to the land. This event was the greatest national challenge to
face the Arabs in the modern age, bringing about numerous changes in their views
and exposing weakness in their values, engendering concern, disappointment, and
distrust of the Arab leadership and traditions.
This defeat occurred under conservative regimes, which bestowed on the ancient
heritage a halo of sanctity, and so prepared the ground for the Arab world to accept
liberating leftist ideas and made the emergence and dissemination of the new poetry
possible. As JabrÁ relates, "In that year we felt that we were betrayed, that we had
been for a long time prisoners of our ancient thoughts, so that the intellectual and
stylistic revolution became unavoidable if we were to overcome our situation."150
The war created a large number of homeless, especially on the Palestinian side.
Refugees streamed into the neighboring Arab states, engendering a visible tragedy
afflicting ordinary people in the Arab world. Under these circumstances, literature
began to depict reality and to express the tragedy of the Arabs, and the Palestinians
in particular, replacing previous dream-like and romantic descriptions. Literature
was pushed towards a commitment to issues. Most scholars thereby view the defeat
149 See: Moreh 1976: 237-238; al-ʿAllāq 1997: 26; Bsīsū 1999: 215-217; and al-Manāṣra 2000:
258-259.
150 Al-Ḥaydarī 1987: 64; cf. ibid.:56; JabrÁ 1979: 87-88, 128; Adonis 1971a: 161-162; Jayyusi
1977, vol. 2: 641-656; al-Khāl 1978: 49; Ismāʿīl 1978: 21; al-Ashtar 1960: 40-41, 79
(elsewhere [ibid.: 96] he describes the defeat of 1948 as "a pure blessing for contemporary
Arabic literature, especially poetry"). Al-Jayyusi treats the defeat as a turning point in Arab
life and literature, after which many things changed in life and in literary criteria in the Arab
world (Jayyusi 1992: 146-147); Sulaiman 1984-88; Ḥalāwī 1997: 7, 22-23; al-Saʿdāwī 1999:
429-430 (where he speaks about Arabs' desire for liberation in general after the events of
1948); Wādī 1999: 513; al-Raḥbī 2001: 39-40. Numerous studies have addressed the effect
the Arab defeat of 1948 has had on Arab civilization as a whole and on Arab thought in
general; this is not the place to mention them all, but the interested reader is referred to the
following works, dealing with its effects on literature: al-Ashtar 1960; al-Kayyālī 1979;
Jayyusi 1977, vol. II:530-604 (there is an entire 75-page chapter in her monumental work,
entitled "Fundamental Changes after the Events of 1948"); Sulaiman 1984.

of 1948 as a genuine test of the kind of commitment called for by the socialists.
There was indeed a response to this call to such a degree that some have argued this
commitment was born of defeat.151
Regardless of their impetus, there is no doubt that at that time new phrases
associated with the new realities came into frequent use, including “the land,” “the
blood,” “martyrs,” “prisoners,” and “refugees.” Furthermore, literary heroes were no
longer legendary figures who performed prodigious feats, but normal people who
suffered, felt pain, made mistakes, and experienced defeat.152 A clear trend
developed toward treatment of everyday themes and empathy toward people's pain,
along with attempts to express them in a fitting language.
1.2.2.3.6.2 Popular literature as a source of inspiration after the defeat

All true revolutions stemming from the needs of the masses must perforce begin as
intellectual rebellions and conclude as full revolutions in all cultural domains. The
various components of a healthy cultural system have strong organic
interconnections, so that a change in any one of them affects the others, however
distant they may be. For example, any change in the status of any of a society's
classes will necessarily bring about a change in literature and its themes, which in
turn will affect and be affected by the dominant political and intellectual climate. By
the same token, whenever the literary system is shaken, the convulsion will reach all
its parts, canonical and not.
Literary specialists have noted that the fall of "monarchical principles" in most
Arab countries and socialism’s increasing popularity prompted literature to
increasingly avoid rare classical expressions and overly rich rhetoric, in favor of the
ordinary language of a suffering people.153After the war of 1948, the Arabs lost their
trust in their governing institutions, most of which were on the conservative right
and loyal to the royal court. They had embraced literature of an aristocratic
tendency, with no concern for the problems and desires of the common man.
Literature then turned towards the masses and came to focus increasingly on their
concerns and on strengthening its relation to reality, as an expression of writers’ and
poets’ desires for renewal and change in ways consistent with the on-going political
and social evolution.
151 Al-Ashtar 1960: 87-89; cf. Badawi 1975: 206-208; Ismāʿīl 1978: 373-376; Sulaiman 1984:
97; Luʾluʾa 1990: 201.
152 See: ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr 1969: 115=116; Badawi 1975: 204-205; Jubrān 1984: 167; al-Naqqāsh
1992: 67-68; and Jayyusi 1992: 167. Jayyusi argues the political changes that took place in
the Arab world, including the defeat of 1948, were of great significance in bringing poetry to
the masses and making "the masses as a group much more important to the poet than in the
previous elitist period," thus helping to smash the barriers that stood between poetry and the
people's folk heritage (see: Jayyusi 1977, vol. 2: 718; cf. al-Kittānī 1982, vol. 2: 740-742).
153 On the effect of the defeat of 1948 on the spoken language see: al-KayyÁlī 1975: 280, 348-
349, 523; Ḥaddād ʿA. 1986: 231-232; Khayr Bik 1986: 168-169 and note 53; Fāḍil 1999:
674; and Ṣaddūq 2000: 28-29.

These developments gave a new push to the study of popular literature, viewed
as close to the life of the masses, especially since this literature provided definitive
evidence of the people's Arab roots, and distinctive characteristics associated with
particular time and place. Popular literature is a literature of the soil, of reality,
mirroring the nation in its past and its present. It is a collection of texts that records
the people’s earliest roots, their emergence on the stage of history, their way of life,
and how they evolved over time. The people respond to it, generally unconsciously,
renew it, and generate a growing interest in it. This phenomenon is well-known,
undisputed, and documented in various folklore studies.154
After the establishment of the State of Israel, the Arabs in general, and the
Palestinians in particular, thus began to show a growing interest in their folk
heritage. They studied and collected it without hesitation. At that time, enmity
towards the folklore movement had weakened and folkloric elements in general, and
specifically popular literatures, began to attract intellectuals. Institutions for
fostering folk heritage were founded, and universities opened departments of
folklore studies, after the intellectuals came to realize the important role popular
literature can play in kindling national spirit.155 In that period, too, the existence and
importance of popular literature began to receive official acceptance, a first step
towards its study and later use in canonical literature.
1.2.2.3.7 Summary of the period 1945-1961

The preceding discussion, in which each development was described and analyzed
separately, may give the impression that each one is distinct. However they are not;
indeed, they all interconnected and integrated simultaneously, merging with each
other to form a single complete fabric to give a powerful impetus to popular
literature as a source of literary inspiration. These changes did not occur
154 See: Ṣāliḥ 1956, vol. 1: 16-17; Dhahabī 1972: 21-24, 69; al-Khalīlī 1979a: 11-12; al-
Barghūthī 1986: 9; Rabīʿ 1986: 77-79; Ḥaddād 1987: 13-14; al-Barghūthī 1991: 13; Ḥaddād
1991: 99-111; ʿAlqam 1991: 188-192; Kanāʿna 1992: 41; Kanaanah 1994b: 3-4. Compare
the national motivations noted by the Grimm Brothers in the mid-19th century, which led
them to undertake an extensive folklore study and to collect German and other folk tales:
Dhihnī 1972: 27; Ibrāhīm 1973(?): 53; Kamāl 1986: 246-247; Oring 1990b: 5.
155 Lebedev notes that the renewed interest in Arabic folklore came at the same time as the
emergence of movements of liberation and of revolutions in the Arab world, "in Egypt in
1952, in Iraq in 1958, in Algeria and Yemen in 1962. Even in countries in which no
revolution broke out (such as Saudi Arabia) the beginning of the contemporary period was
associated with the most significant political events in their history since the end of World
War II. As for Palestinian folklore, I would put the beginning of the contemporary stage in
the year 1948" (Lebedev 1993: 132; cf. Dhihnī 1972: 30-31; Rabīʿ 1986: 77-79; al-Barghūthī
1988: 23; Bushnāq 1991: 172-173; Ibrāhīm, Niʿamat Allāh 1994: 31-32). For the most
important studies and books on Arab folklore in general and popular literature in particular,
see: KhÙrÐ 2013: 60-62; read about the leading academic studies on Arab folklore at
Egyptian universities in Bdÿr 1986: 9-12 (most of these studies were carried out after the
defeat of 1948, and also after the revolution of 1952); cf. Mandūr 1971b: 198;199.

haphazardly; rather, they arose from great needs in the Arab world, and therefore
their course was natural, gradual, and comprehensive. The proponents of renewal
were mostly writers and intellectuals from the socialist left, who constituted an
alternative to the conservative current. The war of 1948, Nasser's revolution, Eliot's
influence, and the emergence of the new poetry all gave rise to the spread of this
comprehensive revolution in thought. It would therefore be a mistake to ascribe the
changes in Arabic poetry and literary criticism to any specific person, event, or
phenomenon. Rather, this historical change arose from the Arab’s situation and
increasing exposure to the West after World War II. This change was wrought by a
group of Arab thinkers whose influence and power derived from the first signs of
popular revolt. The political and social turmoil was so violent that it affected every
aspect of life among the Arabs, including their literature.
Indeed, the literary system as a whole underwent change; popular literature
emerged from the shadows and folkloristic studies began to flourish in an
unprecedented way. In this period, objections to the study and use of popular culture
ceased; its value for the revival and evolution of canonical literature was now
recognized and all were convinced of its importance in the national political and
social arenas. However, the use of popular literature in this period was but part of
the general trend to make use of Arab heritage as a whole, without granting popular
literature a special standing in poetry.
This belated recognition of popular literature can be attributed to two main
causes: 1. The transformation of the Nasserist ideology from a local republican
tendency to general pan-Arabism, causing the Arabs to dream of a complete national
union and 2. The influence on Arab poets of foreign myths, due to their desire to
conform to foreign poets; in fact, they did so in such an exaggerated manner as to
occasionally produce highly affected and obscure texts, arousing great reservations
among critics.156 Thus the influence of popular literature on the canonical literature
of this period was quite limited. True, a relative increase can be discerned, but folk
usage remained quite unobtrusive and did not yet became a self-sustaining
phenomenon with its own foundations and clear techniques. I thus claim that this
stage (between 1945 and 1961) was a preparatory period, in which time popular
literature gained recognition, came to be studied, and developed as a clear concept,
paving the way for extensive dialogue with canonical literature.157As discussed, the
use of folk texts in modern poetry became a visible trend only after the break-up of
the Syrian-Egyptian union in 1962. It underwent a new and clear transformation
following the defeat of 1967.
156 I earlier discussed this issue in concert with Eliot's influence on Arab poets with respect to
the objective correlative. There I noted that al-Sayyāb, more than any other poet, was
attached to Western myths, which he used exceedingly often. For more information on this
matter, see: Jayyusi 1977, vol. 2: 579; al-Nābilsī 1986a: 10-14, 72; Luʾluʾa 1990: 114;
Jayyusi 1992: 155; and Tawfīq 1997: 316.
157 The most important studies in which folk literary texts were compiled include Wahība 1952;
Ṣāliḥ 1956; al-Khāqānī 1962; al-Baqlī 1962; al-Ḥanafī 1962.

1.2.2.4 Interest in popular literature in the period (1962 -1986)

1.2.2.4.1 Introduction
In 1961, the Syrian-Egyptian union’s disintegration dealt Arab nationalism a violent
blow, delivering disappointment and despondency to all who had dreamed of a
complete union.158 Another blow then fell, increasing the negative effect on Arab
life and thought. If the defeat of 1948 did not cause enough desperation and
disappointment among the Arabs, the defeat of 1967 (called al-Naksa, literally “the
relapse”) surely did. This new disaster was followed by the unexpected death of
Jamal Abdul Nasser in 1970, the Arab national symbol who had inspired so much
hope.
These events greatly affected Arab intellectuals, who sank into pessimism and
misery.159 If the Arab revolutions and the liberation from despotism after World War
II gave the Arabs some hope of victory and of obtaining their rights, the 1967 defeat
decimated these hopes; Arab intellectuals turned inward, in the midst of great
confusion. The Arabs came to see the road to victory as long and national union as
an impossible dream. The Arabs began to lose trust in each other and tensions arose
among the Arab states; each accused the others of treason and of causing the defeat.
The Palestinians were more directly and adversely affected than any other Arabs
in both the 1948 and 1967 defeats, sustaining the most losses in both human and
material terms. The rest of their land was occupied and additional people were
forced into exile, causing them to completely lose faith in all Arab states.
Prior to the 1967 defeat, the PLO was founded (in 1964), providing the
Palestinians with a greater sense of independence and a means to fend for
themselves in their struggle.160 Then, in 1973, after several years of attrition, the
Egyptian army gained an important victory over Israel in another war. What
followed were calls for peace between Egypt and Israel, and in 1978 the Camp
David agreements were signed; they promised political autonomy to the
Palestinians, and the Sinai Peninsula was returned to Egypt. This agreement was
greeted with consternation in the Arab world. Tensions especially grew between
Egypt and Syria. This general feeling of disintegration and lack of unity dealt yet
another blow to Arab nationalism.161
The 1974 United Nations recognition of the PLO as the legitimate representative
of the Palestinian people strengthened the Palestinians' feeling that they must face
158 For an analysis as to why the Egyptian-Syrian union failed, see: Fatḥī 2003: 165-172. On
this event’s repercussions and effect on the Arabs in general, see: al-Nābilsī 1986a: 41 and
Fatḥī 2003: 172-173.
159 Moreh 1976: 277; Faḍl 1998b: 25; Srūr 1991: 71 (one of the brightest luminaries of the post-
1967 period, "Poetry and Abdul Nasser"); Nasser's death had a very great effect on Arab
poets, most of whom wrote elegies in his memory; he was described as a father and the poets
his orphans, as a deceased prophet, and as a lost dream; see, for example, Qabbānī 1993, vol.
3: 351-390 and Darwīsh 1997, vol. 1: 361-364.
160 See: Sulaiman 1984: 182-183; KanāÝna 1992: 41.
161 See: al-Nābilsī 1986a: 121.

their problem independently rather than put their trust in the rest of the Arab world.
Rifts began to widen, leaving Arab intellectuals and writers confused, questioning
their identity and fate, spawning new departures in Arab life, thought, and art. In an
article published two months after the 1967 war, poet and journalist Unsī al-Ḥājj
(1937-2014) writes, "The problem is no longer just Palestine. The Arabs as a whole
and their future have become the problem."162 Later that month, al-ÍÁjj asks:
What does it mean that I am an Arab? What human essence does the word 'Arab'
possess? What meaning does my existence have? What is the value of the values on
which the Arab world is based? What use is my being an Arab and what pleasure is
my being an Arab….What is my future?163
Al-Ḥājj urges the Arabs to examine their conscience and review everything, to
reform their inner selves before fighting on the outside. He calls for the masses to
rise up and not rely on bankrupt leadership. Al-Ḥājj's position reflects the general
attitude of Arab artists and thinkers towards the political developments of the late
1960s and early 1970s, when they came to doubt all leaders and all values to which
the Arabs had previously ascribed.
1.2.2.4.2 The effect of these events on the interest in popular literature

These political developments gave a great impetus to the revival of local popular
literatures, furnishing an opportunity to collect and study them for the purpose of
demonstrating the Arabs’ deep roots in the soil. The general retreat after the defeat
of 1967 and the waning of the pan-Arab idea helped to promote greater interest in
local literatures in every Arab country. One of the most important gains of this
period was the founding of a quarterly devoted to folkloric art entitled al-Funūn al-
Shaʿbiyya (Popular Arts). Its first issue appeared in November 1965, published by
The Facility for Culture and National Guidance in Egypt. It contained folkloristic
studies from all over the world, but focused mainly on the folklore of the Arab
world.164 In the same year the Association for the Revival of the Palestinian Family
162 Al-Ḥājj 1987, vol. II:397.

163 Ibid.:399; cf. his other articles: ibid.: 403-413, 445-448, 470-480, 634-636, 650. On
Qabbānī's rejection of the Arab heritage and Arab history, see: Qabbānī 1993, vol. 6: 555-
576. Al-Qāsim (b. 1939) says in his poem "It Happened on June Fifth," from his collection
SuqÙÔ al-AqniÝÁ/ Fall of the Masks (a title which expresses the Palestinian disappointment
with the other Arabs): "But I, so that all people understand what I said / repeat / we on the
fifth / of June / were reborn!" (al-Qāsim 1999a, vol 1: 388). On the effect of the defeat of
1967 on Arab life and thought, see: al-Ḥājj 1987, vol. 2: 761-764; ʿUṣfūr 1984: 35; al-
Kubaysī 1988: 150; Luʾluʾa 1990: 122-123; al-Bayātī & Ṣubḥī 1990: 9; Srūr 1991: 161-162;
Qabbānī 1993, vol. 7: 426-432; ʿĪd 2000: 318-319; al-Manāṣra 2000: 4-5; and al-Ḥalaḥ
2001: 83. On the retreat from pan-Arabism and the rise of regionalism after the defeat of
1967, see: al-Manāṣra 2000: 196-197.
164 In the editor's introduction to the first issue of this periodical, Ḥātim relates its publication to
national duty and national pride. He declares the journal will address three domains: A. The
scholarly study of folk traditions; B. Advanced popular arts; and C. Popular form and
content in Standard Arabic and canonical literature (Ḥātim 1965: 3-5). See: also the

was founded, promoting Palestinian folk heritage; its efforts led to the founding of
the quarterly Heritage and Society (al-Turāth wal-Mujtamaʿ) in 1974.165 Another
Egyptian institution, called the Arts Administration (maṣlaḥat al-funūn), which had
been active since the 1960s, appointed the Commission for the Literatures of the
Spoken Dialects to survey ancient Arab heritage in general, including folk heritage,
based on modern theories of folklore and popular heritage. The Egyptian Ministry of
Culture expressed its aims as: "a marked expansion of the revival of popular
literature and the establishment of an agency devoted to this matter."166
The defeat of 1967 also played an important role in making Arabs doubt the
utility of principles and models propagated by the nationalist parties, and in shaking
their faith in their own leaders and even in their heritage. Poets were left without
structure or allegiance; they began to invent their own private symbolism, with no
connection to nationalist sentiments. Standard Arabic no longer possessed the
inviolable sanctity required to distance it from "the errors of the colloquial
language."167 Everything became subject to doubt, inspiring writers to experiment
and express themselves with greater freedom.
We therefore see colloquial poetry experiencing a revival during this period,
especially in the 1970s. The most prominent names associated with this
development include Aḥmad Fuʾād Najm (1929-2013), Ṣalāḥ Jāhīn (1930-1986),
and Michel Ṭrād (1912-1998). Prose poetry also came into its own at this time and
metric poetry became more common and more accepted among the Arab public; the
use of symbols and legends waned, and poems tended towards simplicity of
expression.168
The greater freedom in writing, the evolution of the concept of art, the
dissemination of modernism in Arab culture, and the revival of folkloristic studies,
following select list of studies on this issue in Arabic, in order of publication: Salīnī 1963;
al-ʿAntīl 1965; ʿAṭāllāh 1965; Ibrāhīm 1989 (first printing 1966); Al-Qalamāwī 1966; al-
Jammāl 1966; al-Rizqī 1967; al-Marzūqī 1967; al-Jahīmān 1967-1970; Yūnus 1968; al-Baqlī
1970; Mursī 1970; Ismāʿīl 1971; Yūnus 1973; Ibrāhīm 1974; ʿAbd al-Ḥakīm 1974; Mursī
1977; al-Qurayshī 1977; ʿAbd al-Ḥakīm 1978; al-Duwayk 1984.
165 See: the editor's introduction to the first issue: Khalīl 1974; cf. Sirḥān 1989, vol. 1: 190-191.
On Palestinian institutions devoted to the collection and study of folklore in that period, see:
Kanāʿna 1992: 41 and Kanaanah 1994b: 4-12. The first Palestinian to obtain a Ph.D. degree
in folklore was ʿAbd al-Laṭīf al-Barghūthī (1928-2002) from the London School of Oriental
and African Studies (SOAS) in 1963. His thesis was published as a book in 1979 (al-
Barghūthī 1979a). See: also the following partial list of relevant Palestinian publications: al-
Khalīlī 1978; al-Asadī 1976; Sirḥān 1989 (this encyclopedia was first printed in the years
1977-1981); Ḥaddād 1978; al-Khalīlī 1979a; idem 1979b; al-Barghūthī 1979b; al-Khalīlī
1983; al-Barghūthī 1986.
166 See: ʿAbd al-Majīd 1970: 70. On the achievements of this agency see: ʿAbd al-Majīd 1970:
71, 243-246.
167 See: al-Kubaysī 1978: 19; Kharrāṭ 1984: 68; IṭÐmish 1986: 164; al-Bayātī & Ṣubḥī 1990; and
Abū Ḥannā 1994: 260.
168 See: Moreh 1976: 191; al-Kubaysī 1977: 39-40; al-Karakī 1989: 5; and al-ʿAllāq 1997: 38-
39, 41, 48.

especially after their extirpation from subjective assessment as something inferior,

led to a much greater use of popular literature in canonical poetry and especially in
the more modern forms. Foreign myths, which Arab poets has used so excessively
before, were no longer perceived as appropriate to the new political realities and the
difficult circumstances in which the Arab nation found itself. A search commenced
for new symbols, closer to the people's lives and more accurately reflecting their
cultural level, which could also maintain poems’ artistic qualities.169 Popular
literature thus emerged as an appropriate mediator and objective correlative capable
of uniting elevated art and poetics with a realism close to the political and social
innovations with which readers contend. I do not mean to imply that popular
literature was not used prior to this period, only that at this time it came to be studied
and used in conscious ways by Arab poets in general, and by Palestinian poets in
particular, so much so that a veritable phenomenon ensued.170
The following question may arise: How is it that poets at the end of the 1960s
made up their own symbols independent of readers, but simultaneously made
increasing use of popular literature, the very epitome of received tradition? The
answer can be found in how the poets lived following the great revolutions in
literature and life and in the ways they had already absorbed all the innovations
accompanying modern Arabic poetry, in form, style, and content, since the
beginning of the mid-twentieth century. We may therefore name this stage in the
history of contemporary Arabic poetry "the stage of stability," since at this time, the
attitude towards the new poetry, represented by metric poetry, moved from doubt to
certainty; its dimensions became clear, and intertextuality became an element not
only clearly present but even necessary in poetry. In short, the concept of the new
poetry became clear to the poets of the 1970s; its innovations were assumed and
poets could compose their verses in greater freedom, no longer afraid to do
something new.171
Poets could thus delve more deeply into the reality around them and commit
themselves to vital issues without adopting a special personal perspective. They
drew on their heritage for inspiration and to express their feelings in detachment
from their environment and the world in general, out of a desire to connect with
another world.172 So if poets in the 1960s and 1970s became open to the external
169 See: Srūr 1991: 156-159; IṭÐmish also noted that myths were rarely used in Iraqi poetry since
the beginning of the 1960s (IṭÐmish 1986: 155, 165).
170 See: al-Ahwānī 1968: 5; al-Manāṣra 2000: 216; ʿAbbās 2001: 118; and Abū Murād 2004:
24.
171 See: al-Manāṣra 2000: 275.
172 Ismāʿīl states the poets of the 1970s “realized they were the seeing eyes for broad sectors of
the masses, and that it was up to them to bear the burden of making these masses aware of
their reality in all its dimensions," but they nevertheless turned in upon themselves (Ismāʿīl
1978: 434); cf. Ismāʿīl 1978: 442-443; al-Kubaysī 1977: 39; Bdÿr 1990: 85; Srūr 1991: 71-
72. Adonis was one of the poets who most fervently called for obscurity, symbolism, and
complete detachment from the past in his two books, Time of Poetry (Zaman al-Shiʿr) and

world and attempted to communicate with readers, poets in the 1970s drew upon
popular literature, perceiving it as closest to themselves and their comprehension of
things. Poets assimilated it in individually unique ways to express personal feelings.
Popular literature thus became a personal symbol for poets that joined with other
symbols to instill a suggestive poetic tone in texts.
During this time, the Palestinian poetic experience somewhat differed from the
general Arab experience. In Palestine, poetry remained attached to the masses and
provided a means of resistance and refusal to recognize defeat, so much so that some
Arab scholars gave excessive value to Palestinian poetry, claiming it exhibited the
true form of revolutionary poetry.173 The second defeat of 1967 strengthened the
Palestinian national consciousness so that poetry began to treat many new themes in
an unprecedented manner, first and foremost the soil as lover and mother. Poets
inside Israel also began to develop a national consciousness, since they could now
be in contact with Palestinians living beyond the Green Line and gain exposure to
the general world of Arabic poetry. Their poetry was thus able to evolve and
progress in step with poetic developments elsewhere in the Arab world.174 However,
these developments nevertheless wrought a different nature between Palestinian and
other Arabic poetry. While the latter tended towards the self, the former continued to
express the pain, grief, tragedies, and dreams of the collective, gravitating toward
greater simplicity and spontaneity in expression, and toward the popular literature
fitting the collective sentiment.175
1.2.2.5 Interest in popular literature in recent times (1987 to 2014)

In 1987 a Palestinian rebellion lasting several years broke out. It came to be known
as the "Intifada," which became a general Arabic and even international term. This
time was characterized by increasing awareness by Arabs of their rights. The
Palestinian problem began to receive greater attention on the world stage, thanks in
part to modern electronic media and technology. Palestinian poets began to open up
to the wider world and express their issues in human terms, in order to address the
world conscience.176 They consequently began to increasingly use the Palestinian
dialect, giving its words Standard Arabic forms as they entered the poetic lexicon. In
addition, poets persistently turned the familiar into the legendary, the private into the
public, and a literal style connected to reason and reality into free symbolism.
The Permanent and the Changing (al-Thābit wal-Mutaḥawwil). He considers poetry a

revolutionary act, and revolution strives to overthrow the old and replace it with the new
(see: Adonis 1996; idem 1994; cf. al-ʿĀlim 1988: 35-40; al-Yūsuf 1988: 71-72).
173 See: Srūr 1991: 156; cf. al-Ḥājj 1987, vol. 2: 650-651 (an article which he published in 1951); al-
Kubaysī 1988: 151-152; Abū ʿAmsha 1991: 12; al-Manāṣra 2000: 191-192, 259, 284, 307, 411.
174 See: Furānī 1984: 155; Sulaiman 1984: 91.
175 See: al-Nābilsī 1986a: 137-139; Srūr 1991: 158-159 (here he surveys the features of this
poetry, one of which was the use of popular literature); ʿAbbād 1994: 320; al-Manāṣra 2000:
22, 36; ʿAbbās 2001: 118; and Abū Murād 2004: 34.
176 See: Abū ʿAmsha 1991: 20-29.

Palestinian poets also expressed the view that their problem was completely
independent of the problems facing other Arabs; they conveyed desperation and
disappointment with the Arabs and the Muslims, who had left them to fend for
themselves in their struggle.177 Palestinian poets thus withdrew into the issues of
concern to their own homeland, focusing on their own specific folklore, which they
drew upon for inspiration rather than general Arabic sources, whether canonical or
folkloric. Palestinian poetry thereby took on a collective nature, focused on
resistance, open to the fighting masses, expressing the desires of the people, and
constituting an important mechanism for popular struggle.
Elsewhere in the Arab world, poetry clearly began to retreat from the battlefield
and withdraw from the notion of commitment that had been so in vogue at the time
of socialist principles. Poetry withdrew within itself. Arab poets were engrossed in
searching for new private symbols, which they brought to a high degree of
metaphysical obscurity, and focused on the developing poetic techniques more than
anything else.178 For these reasons, they tended to no longer use folk elements,
which they considered an exhausted fashion incapable of participating in anything
new. We can thus begin to discern a palpable reduction, in quality and quantity, in
the use of folk elements in Arabic poetry generally, and to some extent in
Palestinian poetry as well, especially in the diaspora, although it continued to retain
a leading position within Arabic poetry due to its generally combative tone.
Furthermore, the few folk elements used in this period functioned quite
independently, such that in most cases folkloric symbols were detached from their
local roots and became general symbols within a corpus symbols used by poets. This
trend placed the poets at a great distance from readers, leading them to withdraw
into themselves without attempting to communicate with reality or to search for
solutions and truths beyond the bounds of the text. Poetry acquired an obscure
symbolic tone, whose meaning no one but the poet could comprehend.179
177 Ibid.: 24-25

178 See: al-Manāṣra 2000:224-225, 284.
179 Perhaps this trend may help us understand Adonis' declaration to the periodical al-Shurūq that
he has no public nor does he want one (see: al-ʿAllāq 1997: 63; cf. Karīm 2000: 259-264;
Ḥijāzī 2001). In an interview I conducted on September 16, 2003, the poet Samīḥ al-Qāsim
agreed that the recent reduction in the use of popular literature may stem from Arab poets'
tendency to withdraw into themselves. He also did not deny the possibility that this
transformation was occurring under the influence of trends in general thought and theory
worldwide, following the extended period of nationalist and socialist ascendancy in the 1950s
through the 1970s, which had clearly tied the poet to the masses and to popular literature.

2. The Arabian Nights and Folk Narratives
2.1 Introduction
In modern poetry, folk narratives are an important and rich source of material,
appropriated at different levels in different ways and to different effects. The various
types of folk narrative (folktales, legends, folk biographies, and more) that have
entered into modern poetry have created a network of relationships between the two
genres, raising their artistic levels and increasing readers’ enjoyment.
At the linguistic level, this interrelation provides a unique artistic experiment in
which Standard Arabic is infused with colloquial language, creating intermediate
linguistic levels that reconcile the two forms. At the level of genre, this encounter
creates a hybrid literary type that retains poetry's characteristic brevity and
descriptiveness while incorporating techniques of narrative prose, giving rise to new
forms poetry.
In addition, the interaction between folk and canonical literature reflects the
trend towards bridging gaps between these two branches of literature, in ways that
respect each branch and maintain their specific features, rather than according to the
aristocratic approach of strict dualism. This kind of interaction shows that an
amalgamation of prose and poetry is possible, even though these two types of
writing have throughout most periods in the history of Arabic literature remained on
parallel and distinct paths.
Referencing folk stories within poems constitutes an indirect reflection of the
desire to present texts in an authentic literary identity, distant from traditional
divisions, mediating among traditional forms, taking from each form some features
and disregarding others, on the road towards mutual valuation and adaptation,
indeed one of the most important aspects of post-modernism. The new text thus
manages to present itself to educated and uneducated readers alike, so all may relate
to it from their own perspectives.
In this chapter, I present The Arabian Nights as an important source of Arabic
folk narrative fiction within the genre of folk legends. I must first define the various
forms, characteristics, and boundaries of folk literature, before specifically
addressing The Arabian Nights. Many scholars have confused the various types of
folk stories, be they tale, legend, or myth.1 To avoid any misunderstanding, I wish to
1 Ibrāhīm 1989: 119. Elsewhere Ibrāhīm states that folktales, legends, and every kind of folk
story all have a single source, the myth (Ibrāhīm 1992: 70-71; cf. ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr 1969: 98-99;
Ḥamādī 1980: 11; Qmÿḥa 1987: 14; Ṣaqr 1998: 111); this common origin explains the similar
characteristics these various genres possess and clarifies why scholars have confused them.

74 2. The Arabian Nights and Folk Narratives
announce that in the present study I treat these various genres as distinct. In order to
delineate the boundaries among them, I shall first discuss folktales and their features,
followed by a survey of legends and their features, drawing upon important studies
that have examined differences between the two. Myths lie outside the scope of this
study, since they are not a genre widespread among the masses; rather, they are
ancient mythical folktales about the gods and their struggles, with distinctly pagan
religious overtones; they had been recorded and later used by contemporary Arab
writers, but are longer exist as living texts among the people.2
2.2 The folktale

2.2.1 Definition
A folktale is “a traditional tale or, more precisely, a narrative fictional traditional
tale, related for enjoyment.” The folktale thereby differs from myths and legends,
which aim to relate a version of history or teach a moral rather than primarily
entertain. I do not mean to say that a folktale cannot teach, but it does so "by way of
clarifying or interpreting specific cultural ideas through condemnation of unwanted
behavior."3 The authors of The Standard Dictionary of Folklore, Mythology and
Legend state that they make no attempt to define the term "folktale," but leave it as a
general term to indicate all the various kinds of traditional storytelling. They explain
that tradition, heritage, and oral transmission from one individual to another are the
most important characteristics of folktales, including those that have been collected
and become well-known.4
Ibrāhīm searched a number of foreign-language dictionaries in developing her
definition and found that they identify folktales as either true reports passed on
orally—thereby undergoing transformation over time—as freely invented stories
based on popular imagination, or as events associated with actual historical heroic
figures.5 We are thus faced with three distinct sources for folktales, but all include
the property of widespread dissemination and of oral transmission.6
See, for example, Thompson 1949: 409; The American Heritage Dictionary of the English
Language 1996: 705; see: also the genres mentioned by Ḥarb, who classifies them all under
"folk story," including the legend, which he calls "marvel story" (al-qiṣṣa al-ʿajÁÞibiyya) (Ḥarb
1999: 126-141; cf. Fatḥī 2000: 107).
2 Cf. al-Shawwāf & Adonis 1996: 15-18; al-ʿAllāq 2010: 58-60; Ruthven 1976; al-Khaṭīb 2013:
11-15.
3 Goldberg 1997: 356.
4 See: Thompson 1949: 408-409.
5 See: Ibrāhīm 1989: 119; cf. Ṣaqr 1998: 104.
6 There exist a large number of publications containing numerous Arab folktales, see: Ibrāhīm
1974: 81-113; Meiron, Shḥade & Masarwe 1997; Noy 1972; Meiron & Kabahā 1993; Ḥamādī
& Sallūm 1988; Schmidt 1990; Muẓhir 1996.

2.2 The folktale 75
2.2.2 The most important features of folktales

In an important study on legends, Friedrich von der Leyen (1873-1966) discusses
their distinction from folktales. I make use of his work, among others, to delineate
the most important features of the folktale, as follows:
A. Speech: Folktales are never solely based on a single participant, since they are
orally transmitted and require at least two people, a storyteller and a listener. Their
importance as a medium of communication can perhaps best be appreciated by
analyzing the act of storytelling in depth, by attending to the storyteller’s actions, the
listener's reactions, the tale’s effects on the listener, and the listener’s effects on
subsequent retellings. Many contemporary studies present folktales exactly as they
are heard and analyze the ways they are narrated. The technique of narration is an
inseparable part of a folktale's identity, and scholarship has evolved a system of
written symbols to indicate the mode of narration at each stage of the story. Thus
scholars must study folktale narration in interaction with the public to determine
how the narrator’s education, position, gender, and other characteristics affect the
narration and how the story is modified and developed.7
B. Flexibility: Folktales are not constrained within a fixed unchanging frame as
is the case, for example, with proverbs, which are usually short, rhymed, and
metaphorical. Folktales do not possess a specific rhyme or rhythm, so that narrators
enjoy considerable freedom in the ways they present and formulate stories. Even
events may be re-ordered, added, or deleted. This flexibility is why folktales change
more rapidly than any other genre of literature. Flexibility is also a reason why
folktales are so popular and widespread, and why they are more easily adopted by
cultures outside their regions of origin than other types of folk literature.8
C. Regarded as truth: Narrators relate folktales as if they believe that they are
true; listeners following the heroes’ exploits also find them quite convincing and
therefore tend to regard the stories as true, especially since they “contain evidence
that supports the claim that they are true,"9 such as known historical events or
figures, actual geographical locations, or recognized facts. This aspect brings the
folktale closer to objectivity, tempering hints of subjectivity. Most of the people
acquainted with a story thus come to believe as a matter of course that the events it
relates once took place, also because it expresses their own hopes in their real lives.
Ṣaqr considers this believability one of the distinctive characteristics of the
folktale, by which "it makes the reader or listener feel its realistic atmosphere when
the story begins to delimit its time and place, in contrast with a fictional story."10 In
this sense, we can consider the folktale a natural extension of the human way of
7 See: Ṣaqr 1998: 21-32; Kamāl 1965: 38, 40.

8 See: Kamāl 1965: 47; al-Qalamāwī 1966: 181; Ṣaqr 1998: 22, 105-106; Ḥarb 1999: 125; Qāsim
1993: 34.
9 Von der Leyen (no date): 141; cf. ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr 1969: 99; Ṣaqr 1998: 105.
10 Ṣaqr 1998: 107; cf. ibid.: 104; Von der Leyen (no date): 142, 144; Kamāl 1965: 48; Ibrāhīm
1974: 123; Khūrshīd 1994: 47; Ḥarb 1999: 121-122.

thinking since antiquity, as well as a frank expression of folk beliefs, which perhaps
explains the great similarity among folktales from around the world from the aspects
of structure, plot, protagonists’ features, and themes.
Because of the folktale’s close affinity to reality, the ways it expresses real
problems, and its objectivity, scholars have hesitated to view the folktale as
literature. Many have argued that the folktale is simply a part of folk belief, "since it
combines with true reality at its deepest level, and does not possess a purely literary
nature;" rather, it is more concerned with "interpreting worldly truth."11
However, I tend to agree with the position taken by Nabīla Ibrāhīm; she does not
doubt the literary nature of the folktale, but takes it to be a genre of folk literature.12
Interestingly, Ibrāhīm completely ignores the opposing view. Her reason cannot be
lack of knowledge, since she translated into Arabic Von der Leyen's book in which
he argues that folktales are not literature. Perhaps she ignores his view because she
lacks sufficient evidence to support the opposite contention. I do not intend to here
delve into this issue, which lies outside my field of specialization, but I do wish to
insist that the folktale is a tale, possessing a plot and characters, or at least one
protagonist, related by a narrator trying to arouse listeners by varying tone of voice,
using body language, gestures, and facial expressions; it is certainly an art form.
However close it may be to reality, it should still be considered literature.
D. Possesses two dimensions, realistic and imaginary: Folktales are derived
from the real world but may evoke the imaginary world of demons and magic. The
protagonist in the folktale frequently tries to make contact with a fantastic world and
with magical forces in order to obtain knowledge. Because this other world is so
fantastic, it is usually described in some detail in stories to distinguish between the
imaginary and the real.13
This kind of division can be seen in the folktale of St. Barbara. The persecution
of Christians is a historical fact, as is the acceptance of Christianity by some people
in the royal court, which later became divided into believers and non-believers.
However, the story of Barbara hiding in the wheat field and the divine intercession
that made the wheat grow before its time, are products of popular imagination,
intended to promote the faith. Indeed, religion and faith require a great deal of
imagination, in order to make people believe in things that cannot be seen by the
human eye or comprehended by the human mind.14
E. Giving instruction: The folktale, because it expresses human experiences, has
a similar educational task as the folk proverb, although while the proverb’s intent is
rather direct, the folktale’s task is covert and indirect. On the other hand, a folk
proverb is at times a concise expression of a folktale; in fact, many of folktales are
11 Von der Leyen (no date): 141; cf. Khūrshīd 1994: 24, 176-177; Ṣaqr 1998: 114-115.
12 See: Ibrāhīm 1989: 119.
13 See: Von der Leyen (no date): 65, 141; Kamāl 1965: 38; Ibrāhīm 1974: 121-123; idem 1989:
128-129.
14 See: the story in Meron, Shḥādeh & Masarwe 1997: 360-362.

2.2 The folktale 77
accompanied by a proverb summarizing their meaning. A folktale thus does not only
entertain, but also instructs, by presenting and describing meaningful events that
may have actually occurred and from which listeners can derive appropriate lessons.
The knowledge a tale's protagonist strives to obtain by making contact with the
"other world" is in fact the ultimate lesson narrators want to impart on their
audiences. The ending, usually a happy one, completes the lesson and brings a
narrator's didactic mission to a close.15 The most important values imparted by
folktales include the need to help victims of injustice, the importance of national
consciousness, and the value of unity within the family and clan.16
F. Protagonists are simple people from prominent families: The protagonists of
folktales belong to the people and the problems they face relate to their own
aspirations. In most cases a protagonist "belongs to a family or group, and through
his actions restores order to his society and regains rights of which he had been
robbed."17 The knowledge to which the protagonists aspire is not only sought for its
own sake, but also for the purpose of solving a problem facing their society or
family. The protagonists’ worth is due to their membership in a collective entity,
with a deep-rooted history, which they feel obligated to preserve. Only a fully aware
and mature protagonist can possess these attributes, and indeed we encounter only
this kind of protagonist in folktales. But the folktale does not try to glorify
protagonists or to extol their exploits; rather, its main thrust concerns the collective
entity, in which the protagonist is just one element, selected to express the great
desires, dreams, and aspirations of society as a whole.18
Within each folktale, the personality of the protagonist undergoes internal
development. He "senses the threat and tries to find out within himself the nature of
this threat and how it can affect his fate."19 He becomes a man of the people in his
aspirations and his approach to attaining knowledge. This knowledge is not imposed
on him from the outside, nor does he expect help from outside forces to accomplish
his aims; he employs own powers to bring about change and reach his objective.
2.2.3 The importance of the folktale’s use in literature

The stories of The Arabian Nights are mostly of an imaginary nature, yet at the same
time also possess some features of folktales associated with certain prominent Arab
figures, especially the caliph Hārūn al-Rashīd (763-809 CE). The folktale's
flexibility, its ability to absorb constant changes, its expression of popular hopes and
dreams and its realism have made it a model whose style and contents canonical
writers wish to emulate. They especially wish to evoke the folktale's figures as
symbols which can help poets express the problems of their times. The protagonist's
15 See: Ibrāhīm 1989: 128; Ṣaqr 1998: 107.

16 See: Meron, Shḥāde & Masarwe 1997: 360-362.
17 Ibrāhīm 1989: 127; cf. Ibid:120; Bdÿr 1986: 25, 53; Qāsim 1993: 37-38; Ibrāhīm 1994b: 17.
18 See: Bdÿr 1986: 23; Ibrāhīm 1989:129; Khūrshīd 1994: 24; Ḥarb 1999: 122.
19 Ibrāhīm 1974: 124.

personality is merely an enlarged image of a model folk figure, one the people hope
will bring them salvation just as he did in the story. The popular fame of the heroes
of a folktale, originally simply the invention of popular imagination even if history
has immortalized some, shows they truly represent the people's dreams and can
serve as an effective means of communicating them, making canonical literature
more accessible–more appropriate to their mentality and more accurately expressing
their suffering and hopes.
When canonical writers utilize this resource their writings come closer to the
common man, thus ensuring that more members of the public at large interact with
their work especially given that the folktale's flexibility enables writers to
manipulate events as they so wish, permitting them to choose freely to best fit their
message. The use of this material also enriches canonical writings with symbols and
gives them a distinctly different artistic flavor.20
Modern poets try to distance themselves as much as possible from the song-like
style that dominated traditional poetry, and at the same time they strive to enrich
their work by drawing on other literary genres, especially the short story, which
gives their texts greater objectivity and imbues them with dramatic elements that
excite the reader.
2.3 The legend

2.3.1 Definition
The scholarly literature on legends and folktales largely attempts to distinguish
between these two genres by identifying key differences. Nevertheless, it is difficult
to speak separately about each genre and to present unique features separately. There
must thus invariably be a degree of overlap between the characteristics of the
folktale as presented above and those of the legend introduced below.
In his book al-Ḥikāya al-Khurāfiyya (The Legend) Von der Leyen discusses the
reasons for similarities among legends around the world. He assumes that all
legends are alike in incorporating the remains of beliefs from the earliest times.
These beliefs are thus given made visible via these compositions, which depict
unperceivable meanings that have been lost in the mists of time.21 He adds that these
stories depict the beautiful and the wicked, transmitting a trace of the original values
of nations. He associates legend with belief, such that legends provide objective
testimony of a nation's values and aspirations.
Nabīla Ibrāhīm notes the existence of seven figures in every legend, which she
regards as distinguishing this kind of story. If in any given story, one of the seven
20 See: Ḥamādī 1980: 19-20. For more on the influence of the folktale on Egyptian literature see:
Bdÿr 1986: 169-205.
21 Von der Leyen (no date): 32; cf. ibid.: 69-70; Ibrāhīm 1989: 79. For more on the history of the
study of legends see: Von der Lain, op.cit.: 19-70.

2.3 The legend 79
figures is absent, then a figure must fulfill two roles; if there are more than seven
figures, then at least two figures fulfill a single role. These seven figures include: 1.
the evil doer (the hero's antagonist); 2. the helper, who assists the hero; 3. the
benefactor, who provides the hero with a magical tool; 4. the wife or princess (love
interest of the hero); 5. the banisher, who at the beginning of the story drives away
the hero; 6. the hero himself; and 7. the false hero. Ibrāhīm thus defines the legend
as a story "that uses the seven figures, each of which carries out a basic role in the
hero's life in order to obtain the girl he wants to marry or something else he
desires."22 According to this definition the framework for a legend is fixed and can
be generally applied to any legend; the number of figures is predefined, their actions
are predetermined, as is the hero's intention, and the plot follows a specific path
from which it cannot deviate.
Legends all over the world are similar in their basic attributes, leading some
scholars to hypothesize they all originated from a single source, from whence they
spread and branched out. Many believe that source is in India.23 The general
consensus holds that legends are directly connected to myths, due to their containing
supernatural events and to their inattention to time and place, and are among the
most ancient fictional literature known to mankind.24
It is my opinion that the legend, like all other folk elements, is closely connected
to people's lives and beliefs. Mankind has possessed a creative imagination since the
earliest times, using it to devise supernatural explanations, at a distance from
people’s limited real experiences, to understand both the waking world and the
world of dreams. Of course, this explanation does not align with attempts to search
for a single origin of all legends. Rather, I maintain their strong resemblance may
well be explained by several factors, among them that they are ancient and evolved
out of mankind's naive beliefs, which naturally bore a great similarity the world
over, since the human condition was quite similar everywhere in primitive times.
Furthermore, legends reflect hidden human desires that the subconscious wants to
realize but cannot realize in the real world. They identify that which is beyond the
actual reach of humankind, regardless of place.
In every civilization, people occasionally felt impotent and therefore dreamed,
imagined, and evoked magical worlds and miracles in their minds, as a means to
pretend that their wishes could be fulfilled. In subsequent generations, their stories
travelled around the world, where other nations adopted them, built on them, or
adapted them to suit a new environment. These explanations can account for the
similarities among legends in different parts of the world.25
22 Ibrāhīm 1974: 41-43.

23 See: Von der Leyen (no date):11, 33-36, 68. Elsewhere Von der Leyen discusses the sources of
the legend (ibid.: 73-86); cf. Ibrāhīm 1974: 43-44.
24 Ibid.: 9-11, 67; cf. Ibrāhīm (no date):6; idem 1989: 79; Khūrshīd 1994: 44.
25 For more on the similarities among legends in different regions of the world see: Von der Leyen
(no date): 31-32, 34, 39; Khūrshīd, 1994: 46, 48.

Arabic folk literature contains numerous legends. Kalīla wa-Dimna and The
Arabian Nights are perhaps best known Arabic folk works the world over. Each of
these two collections contains a great number of stories. This book is devoted to The
Arabian Nights, due to the great influence of its content and style on canonical
Arabic literature.
Arab society has resounded with stories of demons, devils, ghouls, and other
creatures since pre-Islamic times.26 In modern times, one of the earliest collections
of legends in the world is that penned by the German brothers Jacob (d. 1863) and
Wilhelm (d. 1859) Grimm, who managed to collect a large number of German
legends. Their work became well-known throughout the world and had an
unprecedented effect on the popular imagination.27
2.3.2 The legend’s most important characteristics

The discussion above permits me to now delineate the most important and
distinctive features of legends, as follows:
A. Speech: In this respect legends are no different from folktales; they require a
narrator and an audience, and are capable of undergoing change, although in their
case, alterations are generally less pronounced than in folktales. The reason for this
difference appears to lie in the legend's independence from the vacillations of human
existence and its freedom to roam freely through the world of the imagination and
the dreams of every nation in every place and time. This independence explains why
legends have remained on the lips and in the memories of their narrators; they pass
them on orally from one generation to the next as a special fictional heritage
containing distinct features that clearly distinguish them from nature and everyday
life such as miracles and magic. These matters are beyond human understanding and
therefore "the earliest legends that have reached us in writing indeed show, when
compared with each other, that surprisingly enough many of them were preserved
without any great change over millennia."28 On the other hand, their oral
transmission made them dependent, like other forms of oral folk art, on repetition, a
device that enabled narrators to memorize them and audiences to remember them.
Scholars have noted that “three” is an oft-repeated number in legends: Three
lemons, three hairs, three eggs, three doves, and so forth.29
B. One dimensional, imaginary: Legends depict their protagonists' adventures in
an imaginary world and their relations with sorcerers, devils, and demons. These
depictions do not directly resemble actual life, but as life ideally should be;
26 On the importance of legends among the Arabs see: Von der Leyen (no date): 11.
27 See: Ibid. (26-32; Ṣāliḥ 1956, vol. 1, p. 19; Thomas 1965: 4; Kamāl 1965: 41-42; Ibrāhīm 1973
(?): 53; Rabīʿ 1974: 14-15; Dundes 1980: I; Ibrāhīm 1989: 81; Oring 1990b: 5; ʿAwaḍ 1993:
19. See: the following books by the Grimm Brothers: Grimm 1890; 1917; 1966(?). For other
collections of Arabic legends see: Ibrāhīm 1974: 51-78; al-Barghūthī 1979b; Meron, Shḥāde &
Masarwe 1997 (which contains a mixture of legends and folktales); al-Ashhab 2001.
28 Von der Leyen (no date): 10.
29 See: Ibid.:72, 146; Ibrāhīm 1974: 39.

2.3 The legend 81
extraordinary events are treated as everyday occurrences and are not greeted by the
characters with surprise. Legends thus "do not forge a relationship with our
perceptible world."30
Therefore context is given little attention in a legend, which may lack
geographical and temporal definiteness and whose figures may be indistinct, not
growing old and living neither in the past nor in the future. Nor do its events
necessarily observe a logically structured evolution; in fact, many events happen
suddenly, following a word uttered by a sorcerer. Even the most complex crisis can
be solved by a simple act of the hero. Legends thus pay less attention to means than
to objective.31 These aspects have caused many people to scorn legends and
disparage them as worthless "old wives’ tales." But these same elements also furnish
the best evidence of the literary nature of this narrative genre, which may indeed be
deemed high literature, since it uses the supernatural, symbolism, and imagery in its
treatment of life's trials, and raises everyday matters to the level of metaphor.32
C. Instruction using humor: Similarly to folktales, legends constitute a didactic
model for their audience. Although the legend stands far from realism in the figures
it presents and the events it describes, it serves as a reflection of reality in that it
depicts that which reality lacks. The legend also serves as a powerful expression of
people’s dreams, beliefs, and desires, which is a fundamental reason for its
immortality and popularity.33
As noted above, relevance is a major trait of folk literature. If any element is
introduced that nullifies this feature, it is immediately eliminated. The legend’s
permanence thus implies that it continues to resonate in people’s lives. It fills a basic
need in their existence. As a simple expression of desires and dreams, it also serves
as a medium of popular ethical education, imparting the desire to emulate heroes'
characters and morals. These heroes are imaginary symbols that cast light on the real
world as people experience it. Thus the legend is not merely a humorous art form,
but rather it traverses seriousness and humor. It instructs and inculcates values in a
compelling, enjoyable, and occasionally humorous way.
D. The hero is the story's focus: The legend's main protagonist differs from that
of the folktale in that the former is independent, without bonds or loyalty to a family
as such, and thus lacks any interest in glorifying a family or tribe. Rather, he is a
self-contained hero, representing the dreams of the individual, offering a fantasy for
anyone who dreams of change and self-realization. The hero is the focus of the
30 Von der Leyen (no date):65; Ibrāhīm 1989: 101, 128. On the role played by magic and demons
in legends and their origins in folk culture see: Von der Leyen (no date): 114-121; Ibrāhīm
1974: 49; ʿAbd al-Ḥakīm 1980: 144-146; Ibrāhīm 1989: 88, 101.
31 See: Von der Leyen (no date): 147; Ibrāhīm 1989: 90; Ibrāhīm 1994b: 17.
32 SeeVon der Leyen (no date): 70, 141.
33 According to Von der Leyen, "the earliest peoples realized their desires through their legends,
desires that cannot be realized in real life" (Von der Leyen [no date]: 131); cf. ibid.: 70, 144;
Ibrāhīm 1974: 7, 49; ʿAbd al-Ḥakīm 1980: 146; Ibrāhīm 1989: 88, 91-92; Khūrshīd 1994: 46-
47. On the legend in light of psychology see: Ibrāhīm 1974: 131-169.

legend whose purpose is to relate the hero's adventures, the unusual situations in
which he finds himself, the wondrous paths he treads, and the original solutions he
finds, all to realize his dreams of a happy ending.34 In most cases, the legend follows
the history of the protagonist from his birth or an early age. He is born exposed to
danger, usually in the form of being cast out from his homeland. The hero's
personality is described in legendary terms with a special standing from birth,
continually accompanied by external forces that want to harm or help him.35. The
legend exalts its hero "above internal and external reality, emptying him of feelings
of anger, rebellion, hatred, and jealousy."36
F. Limited structure, happy ending: I have presented a number of distinctive
artistic and stylistic elements typical of the legend, such as repetition, symbolism,
and an imaginary world evocative of fantasy, not reality. I wish to add another
feature, that of structural restriction, in that legends generally possess a fixed and
oft-repeated structure: The protagonist is born under obscure circumstances, leaves
his homeland, wanders an imaginary world, has adventures on the way to achieving
his goal (usually a beloved princess), is helped and hindered by various creatures,
and eventually overcomes all obstacles and attains his goal. But the legend does not
end here. After the goal has been achieved the narrator adds one or more expressions
to describe the hero's new life after the goal has been achieved. For example, the two
lovers lived happily ever after, married, had children, and peace reigned in the
land.37
2.3.3 The importance of the legend’s use in literature

With respect to the quality of its events and figures, the legend is regarded as
belonging to literature of the absurd, that is, to literature that presents purely
imaginary images and events. Contemporary poetry also tends towards this
direction, with a preference for communicating in code and employing strange
images and metaphors that cannot exist in reality, placing it in league with legends.
Legends contain many figures who have now become folk symbols which
commonly evoke associated images, events, feelings, and ideas. The use of any of
these folk symbols can save the poet a great deal of effort. Folk symbols thus
constitute a bridge enabling poet and reader to communicate.
Recall that legends provide what reality lacks. The hero in the legend is the
savior through whom the common man sees a reflection of his own situation, so that
the hero's success implies the individual’s success. This relation provides people a
measure of satisfaction, especially if they are unable to satisfy their desires and
attain their aspirations in reality.
34 See: Von der Leyen (no date): 144, 147; Ibrāhīm 1974: 132; idem 1989: 128.
35 See: Ibrāhīm 1974: 137-148; idem 1989: 87, 90, 129, 161.
36 Ibid.:91.
37 See: Von der Leyen (no date): 146-148. See: Propp's analysis of the structure of the legend in
Ibrāhīm 1974: 30-37.

2.4 The Arabian Nights 83
Modern poets in the Arab world live in conflict with authority and with the
reality imposed upon them, giving rise to feelings of oppression and alienation.
Poets feel culturally estranged from their environments, creating a need for change.
However, as they realize that change is impossible under present conditions, they
often turn to anti-realism. Their experience of weakness in facing reality makes them
search for miracles to bring salvation to their nation and enable it to realize desires
and aspirations it has been unable to attain. The legend, a folk art with an abundant
presence in Arab culture and memory, is thus the swiftest way for poets to enter the
world of the subconscious and the unreal, to capture a dream outside this world, and
to express a defiant desire to change reality. Legends thereby bring a great deal of
vitality to contemporary poetry; the world of the unreal is vital by nature and poets
can also do whatever they wish in their imaginations.38
2.4 The Arabian Nights

2.4.1 Introduction
To this day, no literary work, Western or Oriental, has influenced and enriched as
many art forms, from literature to music to painting, as has The Arabian Nights, a
fact admitted by the greatest writers and thinkers everywhere. This work took shape
within Arab culture and was transmitted to the world in the Arabic language. Its
stories and the events related within are imbued with an Islamic atmosphere, despite
their foreign origins39.
Unfortunately, the Arabs ignored this work for a long time, leaving it to the West
to first realize its significance and benefit from it, beginning in the eighteenth
century. The Arabs scholars following suit only in the middle of the twentieth
century. The Arab literary establishment first became indirectly interested in The
Arabian Nights through the filter of Western culture before expressing a direct
interest40.
38 See: Von der Leyen (no date): 11; Ibrāhīm 1989: 92, 104, 114. Traces of this kind appear in the
writings of al-Ḥakīm (1898-1087), especially in his play Yā Óāliʿ al-Shajara (Oh, the Tree
Climber), in which the protagonist adopts the features of the hero in a legend, who does not
submit to limits of time and space, and experiences legend-like events (see: al-Ḥakīm 1962); cf.
Ibrāhīm 1989: 100-115).
39 Mumsen 1980: 3; Sharifi 1986 (this article examines the influence of the Arabian Nights on
Voltaire [1694-1778]); MurtÁÃ 1989: 9; Marzolph 2007: 3; Shteili 2009: 120. On the Islamic
context of the Arabian Nights, see: al-Musawi 2009.
40 Wattar 2002: 12-15; al-Saʿafīn 1978: 71-72; Atiyya 1987: 12; Al-Samadi 1995: 111-113; al-
MÙsawÐ 2000: 37-38.

2.4.2 Definition and origins

The earliest historical mention of this work is found in al-Masʿūdī's (d. 957 CE)
Murūj al-Dhahab wa-Maʿādin al-Jawhar (Gold Meadows and Mines of Gem):
Many people who are acquainted with [the Persian kings’] reports have
mentioned that these reports are invented legends, composed by those who wished
to gain access to kings by memorizing and transmit them. Their way is the same as
that of books that came to us through translations from Persian, Indian, and Greek,
and the way of their composition is the same as we mentioned with respect to Hazar
Afsana, whose title in Persian means A Thousand Legends, for "legend" in Persian is
afsana. The people call this book One Thousand and One Nights. It is the story of a
king, a vizier, his daughter, and her slave girl. The names of the latter two are
Shīrazād and Dīnāzād. It is like the book Firza wa-Sīmās and the stories of the kings
and viziers of India that it contains, the book Sinbad and other books of this kind.41
The work's original author is thus unknown. But it seems that the original Arabic
version of these stories was translated from Persian. Whatever the collection's
origin, today there are many versions of the stories, each containing a number of
differences, but the Arabic manuscript most widely read among Arabs and with the
greatest impact on Arabic literature is Bulaq's. It subsequently became very well-
known and has been translated into numerous European languages42. Known as
“Bulaq's version," this rendering forms the basis of my discussion here.
The stories' background reflects the upper classes and the royal court in Indian,
Persian, and Arab civilizations. It was apparently composed for the entertainment of
rulers and contained legends and folktales in which the nomadic life and commerce
played a significant role43. The stories are related by one of the framework figures, a
woman by the name of Scheherazade, wife of King Shahryar and daughter of his
vizier, and it consists of two parts, the inner stories and a framework story,
apparently also a legend, which prepares the way for telling of the inner stories.
2.4.3 The framework story

The primary framework story is as follows: A king named ShÁh ZamÁn caught his
wife cheating with a black slave. He killed both of them and then in his grief
traveled to the land of his brother Shahryar. Shortly after his arrival, he also
happened to witness his brother’s wife cheat on her husband with a black slave, in
full view of the slaves and slave girls, who were also simultaneously engaged in
sexual intercourse upon her command. This scene made ShÁh ZamÁn feel much
better, and when his brother Shahryar asked him to explain his transformation, ShÁh
41 Al-Masʿūdī 1997, vol. 2: 259. For other early Arab writers and scholars who mentioned this
work see: al-Idlibī 1992: 14-16.
42 See: Lerner 2012: 180-182; al-MÙsawÐ 2000: 28-29; MacDonald 2007: 13. For more details
about the origins of the stories and the orientalists' works on collecting and publishing them,
see: al-MÙsawÐ 2000: 28-37; Oestrup 2007: 6-9; MacDonald 2007: 14-15.
43 About the caste in th Arabian Nights, see: MurtaÃÁ 1989: 10, 73-76; al-MÙsawÐ 2000: 415-418.

ZamÁn told his brother to falsely announce that he was leaving for a hunting trip, so
that he may see with his own eyes what was secretly taking place. Shahryar did so,
and after his wife felt certain that he had indeed left, she once more slept with the
black slave, while her husband and his brother looked secretly on.
Shahryar was enraged and asked his brother to travel with him to a man who had
also suffered the same fate, in the hope that they may both feel better. On their
journey, they encountered a beautiful girl alongside a sleeping demon, who she
claimed had abducted her. She asked them to have sex with her and threatened to
wake up the demon if they did not do as she asked. So they had sex with her. She
then took a signet ring from each of them, which she added to a large pile of such
rings from her previous sexual conquests.
After this incident, Shahryar lost all faith in womankind. He returned to his
country, killed his wife and all his male and female slaves. Then, every night he
deflowered a virgin and then killed her that same night. He continued in this manner
for three years, until there were very few virgins left in his kingdom, many having
fled the country. When Shahryar asked his vizier to get another girl for him, his
vizier found none. He went home to his family in fear of the king's wrath. His
daughter, Scheherazade, saw his miserable state and decided to help him by offering
herself to the king, also intending to save her fellow virgins from his wrath.
Scheherazade hatched a plot with her sister Dunyazād. Dunyazād would be
present when the king deflowered her, and then she would ask her to tell a story.
Their plan succeeded. With the king’s permission and in his presence, Scheherazade
told her sister a story, but left it unfinished. Shahryar let her live that night so he
could hear the rest of the story. For one-thousand-and-one nights, she continued in
the same fashion, always leaving a story unfinished. On the last night, she finally
told a story to its end. By then she had three children by the king. She placed them
before him and begged for her life for their sake. The king was clement and let her
live. He showed her his love and appreciation by announcing a thirty-day
celebration in the city.44
This framework story contains many elements of the legend, including imaginary
beings (demons), a recurrence of the number three (or thirty), and a happy ending.
As for the legends contained inside this framework, the stories that Scheherazade
told, considering the Bulaq version, they all begin in the same way ("I was told, O
happy King, occasionally with the addition of "with the discerning view") and end
with the same comment, apparently by the narrator: "But morning overtook
Scheherazade and she lapsed into silence."45 Dunyazād praises each story and
44 This framework story can be found in Alf Layla wa-Layla (The One Thousand and One Nights)
vol. 1: 5-13. For the end of the story see: ibid., vol. 4: 510-511; Cf.: Marzolph 2007: 30;
Oestrup 2007: 5.
45 See: MurtaÃÁ 1989: 109-112. In the 1990 Husain Haddawy translation, there is a variation.
Either “I heard” or “It is related” or “It is said.” Sometimes “Dear King” “O happy King.” “Oh
wise and happy King” . There is no mention of another line akin to “with the discerning view.”
(See: Haddawy 1990).

Scheherazade boasts about the even better story she will tell the next night should
the king let her live. These lines always come before a story reaches its end, leaving
the king in suspense so that Scheherazade may survive until the next night.46
The framework story contains a number of figures, the most important of whom
are Shahryar and Scheherazade. The figure of Shahryar has become a fundamental
symbol in literature and art in general, as has the even more famous figure of
Scheherazade, both of whom will be discussed separately below. For the moment I
should note that whoever reads this framework story will surely become aware of two
basic aspects, the atmosphere of the royal court, and the tenor of relations between
husband and wife or, to be more precise the perceptions of women and sex. The
women are largely depicted as instinctual creatures, filled with desire, and driven to
betray their partners, a prominent portrayal throughout the internal stories as well.
2.4.4 The internal stories

Most of the stories within The Arabian Nights are legends, its figures including a
mix of demons, jinnis and human beings. The overall atmosphere is Islamic,
although Indian and Persian customs and practices are not completely absent. The
protagonists are largely adventurous human beings who travel on land and sea, enter
imaginary worlds, and meet many obstacles on their paths. They express no shock or
wonder when they enter strange worlds, but regard them as a matter of course. Here
are a few of the general characteristics of these stories:
A. A maritime atmosphere: Many of the stories in The Arabian Nights occur at
sea, and many of the protagonists are sailors or travelers by sea, among them
Sinbad, the most important figure in these stories, in fact, perhaps the best-known
legend character in the world.47
B. A commercial ambience: Many of the protagonists are merchants, including
Sinbad. We thus may with some justice claim that these are stories about traveling
merchants. The entire collection is imbued with a commercial atmosphere, beginning
with the first story Scheherazade tells, "The Story of the Merchant and the Demon."48
C. Women and sexual explicitness: This is perhaps the main element that led
intellectuals and official bodies to place this work outside the canon, and for narrow-
minded people to ban it altogether. Many of the stories contain very explicit sexual
scenes, depictions of erotic desire, talk of beauty, and detailed descriptions of the
body. Official authorities have thus deemed it an immoral book, one that can have a
detrimental effect on education.49
46 See, for example, Alf Layla wa-Layla, vol. 1: 23; cf. al-Mūsawī 1986: 7-8; Darwīsh, Aḥmad
2002: 86, 189-190.
47 It seems that the stories of Sinbad weren’t part of the book and was added recently. At least we
find his stories in the version of Bulaq.
48 Alf Layla wa-Layla 1997, vol. 1: 14; cf. ʿAbd al-Laṭīf 1975b: 43.
49 See, for example, "The Story of the Porter and the Girls" for examples of licentious scenes and
erotic descriptions (Alf Layla wa-Layla 1997, vol. 1: 52-54); cf. al-Qalamāwī 1966: 310-311;
MurtÁÃ 1989: 11-12.

Women have a prominent presence in the stories. Usually they are unflatteringly
depicted, in line with the image of women in the framework story. They are either
gray-haired old witches or treacherous wives who betray their loyal and courageous
husbands with immoral, lowly, and despicable lovers. Women are a symbol of
dissension and desire. Their incitement, witchcraft, and consorting with demons
provide the main causes for the heroes’ troubles.
One such example is found in the story of the king who loves his cousin, who
loves him in turn. He marries her and describes her devotion: "she neither ate nor
drank until she saw me." However, she betrays him by putting a soporific in his
drink and while he sleeps, going out to fornicate in a house in where adulteresses
meet their lovers. Her husband follows her and describes what he witnesses:
I watched her and saw that she came to a black slave, whose lip was a cover and
the other lip a depression. His lips gleaned sand from pebbles. He was decrepit and
lying on a bit of straw. She kissed the ground before him, whereupon this slave
lifted his head towards her and said to her: "Woe unto you, why did you tarry to this
hour? The blacks were with us, they drank and each one left with his lover".
She answered that she was late because her husband delayed her. The slave
replied: "You lie, you slut […] I will not associate with you, nor will I put my body
on yours, you traitor. You absent yourself from me because of your lust, you rotten
one, you sister of the whites."50
This example reveals the distorted the image of woman in these stories, the
curses to which she is subject, even from the lowliest of slaves. This story contains
even more humiliating expressions than that quoted above, not to speak of the
degree of denigration found in other stories.51
Because it presents such a degrading depiction of women, many literary experts
as well as experts on society and gender consider this work immoral, culturally and
artistically, as well as threatening to a healthy society intent on progressing towards
gender equality and respect for women. Al-Idlibī argues that The Arabian Nights
constitutes one of the greatest risks to Arab thought, accusing it of having played a
role in repressing women and harming their image in the Arab world: "This book
was one of the most important factors that occasioned the backwardness of women
in the Muslim East in general, and in the Arab East in particular, and caused the
society as a whole to lag behind civilization."52 However, al-Qalamāwī argues in
favor of the book, noting that it expresses good and evil in equal measure, reflecting
life as it actually is, sweet and bitter, pure and indecent, and then the good wins. She
sees immorality not presented for its own sake, but rather in order to fight it and
show that virtue is ultimately victorious.53
50 Alf Layla wa-Layla 1997, vo. 1: 46.

51 See: also the following lines of poetry about women: ibid.:10; cf. al-Qalamāwī 1966: 302-305.
52 Al-Idlibī 1992: 65; cf. also pp. 57-72.
53 See: al-Qalamāwī 1966: 186-187; ʿAbd al-Laṭīf 1975b: 43; MurtaÃÁ 1989: 295-302; al-Idlibī
1992: 43; Kīlīṭū 1995: 97.

D. Geographical variety: These stories of adventure and travel naturally take

place in a variety of locations that change from one story to the next and even from
one incident to the next within the same story. Some of the events take place on the
sea and others on land, in Baghdad, Egypt, Persia, or India. Most of the protagonists
are thus travelers with no fixed home, who live a life of risk and adventure54.
E. Special stylistic elements: Overall, the stylistic elements used in these stories
are consistent with those of legends. There is thus no need to present them again.
However, it is worth noting that in this book the element of association is very
prominent. In other words, the stories are interconnected; inside one story we find
another story that by way of digression explains some aspect of the first story.55
Another element frequently appearing throughout the book is sajʿ or rhymed
prose, as in the following line: "fa-wajadaha ṣabiyya rashīqat al-qadd / qāʿidat al-
nahd, dhāt ḥusn wa-jamāl / wa-qadd wa-ʿtidāl" ("he found her a girl of graceful
stature and upright breasts / goodness and beauty of stature and proportion").56
2.4.5 The Arabian Nights: Folk literature?

The Arabian Nights today is a written collection, not one transmitted orally. So how
can it be considered folk literature? Above I have mentioned a number of reasons
why it should be so considered, and here summarize these arguments:
A. Oral vs. written transmission: When folk literature is written down, it is not
deprived of its popular character, because the oral versions continue to be current
among the people and undergo continual change as time goes on. The stories of The
Arabian Nights went through a substantial stage of oral transmission before they
were put to writing. They underwent modifications, additions, and deletions,
evolving to become more consistent with an Islamic worldview, without altogether
losing their Indian, Persian, and other characteristics.57 These stories remain popular
among most Arab communities and many are still transmitted orally by the people.
B. The author: The original author is unknown to this day, and the search for the
book's original source continues.58 The collection's stories were transmitted orally
for centuries, so that it is unlikely that their ultimate source can be traced. In fact,
even if such a source were discovered, clearly the version in common use today
would considerably differ from that source, so much so that the book in its present
form can in fact be considered a new composition in whose preparation a large
number of Oriental storytellers took part. That this multiplicity is indeed the case is
54 See: MurataÃÁ 1989: 135-144.

55 See, for example, the story related by the merchant (the hero of the first story): Alf Layla wa-
Layla 1997, vol. 1: 27. For more about this feature, see: MurtaÃÁ 1989: 119-131.
56 Ibid.: 53; cf. Von der Leyen (no date): 219; al-Barghūthī 1988: 16.
57 See: al-Qalamāwī 1966: 24, 81-85, 88-89; ʿAbd al-Laṭīf 1975b: 42-43; Khūrshīd 1988: 9-10;
Kīlīṭū 1995: 11, 18; Ḥarb 1999: 44; Darwīsh, AÎmad 2002: 182.
58 See: al-Qalamāwī 1966: 26; ʿAbd al-Amīr 1978: 120; Kīlīṭū 1995: 16. For more on the origins
and evolution of this work see: Littmann 1960: 360-363; al-Qalamāwī 1966: 25-63; al-Mūsawī
1986: 8-10; al-Idlibī 1992: 16-19.

shown by the presence of diverse Oriental elements, including Persian, Indian, Arab,
and even Jewish, which were passed through an Islamic filter and presented to the
world in Arabic garb.59 We should not wonder that in the West it is known under the
name The Arabian Nights, or that those folkloric encyclopedias most highly
regarded by scholars refer to it by that name.60
C. The language: The Arabian Nights is written in a language that is not pure
Standard Arabic (fuṣḥā), but intermediate, with many standardized colloquial
expressions and collocations and some expressions written in Egyptian spoken
Arabic. Since the book was not canonical and remained unrecognized by the literary
establishment, it was read only by the common people. Thus its language has
remained simple, consistent with the cultural level of its readers.61
D. Apparent naivety: Until quite recently, legends were considered "old wives’
tales" because of their strange and fantastic elements, including witchcraft and
fortunetelling, and because the events they related were completely unrealistic, fit
only for dreams, nightmares, or the subconscious. This reason is primary as to why
The Arabian Nights was never allowed into the literary canon and why it has been
considered a silly collection, fit only for amusement or for children, that is, if purged
of its coarse elements.62 Its official rejection spurred its entry into the sphere of folk
literature, since the people accepted it, as it aligned with beliefs and tendencies, and
enabled them to imagine overcoming obstacles in their lives they were otherwise
incapable of overcoming.
E. Lascivious elements: As noted, the book contains some rather explicit sexual
descriptions.63 This reason also accounts for why the book never joined the
59 See: Von der Leyen (no date): 215-224; al-Fākhūrī 1960: 728; Littmann 1960: 358-359; al-
Qalamāwī 1966: 27, 78, 84, 94-101, 161-180; al-Mūsawī 1979: 83-89; ʿAbd al-Ḥakīm 1980:
54-55; al-Mūsawī 1986: 10-11; Khūrshīd 1988: 14; al-Barghūthī 1988: 14-16; al-Idlibī 1992:
13, 31; Khūrshīd 1994: 50-51; ʿAbd al-Ḥakīm 1995: 21-22, 26-27; Ḥarb 1999: 11, 44;
Darwīsh, Aḥmad 2002: 186-187. ʿAbd al-Laṭīf in more than one study tried to identify the
Egyptian stories in the collection, that is, the stories that were added to The Arabian Nights
when it was transmitted in Egypt by local storytellers and scribes. He claims that "Ali Baba"
and other stories are of Egyptian origin (see: ʿAbd al-Laṭīf 1975a; idem 1975b).
60 See, for example, the Standard Dictionary of Folklore, Mythology and Legend, New York
1949-1950, which has an entry under that title (Kurath 1949: 69); cf. al-Mūsawī 1986: 7.
61 The book contains many cases of Standard Arabic imitations of colloquial phrases that can be
read either as Standard Arabic or as colloquial, for example: ( ‫ﻁﻮﻝ‬ ّ ‫ ﻭﻟﻮ ﻛﺎﻥ ﻏﻴﺮﻩ ﻣﺎ‬،‫ﺼﺮ ﺍﻟﻴﻮﻡ ﻣﻌﻨﺎ‬
ّ ‫"ﻣﺎ ﻗ‬
‫ ﺑﺤﻴﺎﺗﻲ ﻋﻨﺪﻛﻦ ﺗﺪﻋﻨﻪ ﻳﻨﺎﻡ ﻋﻨﺪﻧﺎ ﻧﻀﺤﻚ ﻋﻠﻴﻪ‬.‫"( "ﺭﻭﺣﻪ ﻋﻠﻴﻨﺎ‬He did everything possible for us today; anyone
else would not have been so patient with us. I beg of you, let him sleep at our place so we can
make fun of him") (Alf Layla wa-Layla 1997, vol. 1: 55, 57 [in the same order]); cf. al-Fākhūrī
1960: 729; al-Bayātī & aṢubḥī 1990: 95; al-MÙsawÐ 2000: 195-196.
62 This view is not new. Thus, for example, Ibn al-Nadīm says about the book that it is "meager
and inane of speech" (Ḥarb 1999: 28-29); cf. al-Qalamāwī 1966: 68-69. On the nature of
supernatural events in The Arabian Nights see: al-Qalamāwī 1966: 130-160; MurtÁÃ 1989: 9-
10; Khūrshīd 1994: 64-65; Sadan 1997: 190-191; al-MÙsawÐ 2000: 153-155.
63 See: al-MÙsawÐ 2000: 180-184; MurtÁÃ 1989: 88-94.

canonical sphere. It has been considered disreputable, only suited to the common
people and not in keeping with the values of the educated classes.
F. Popularity: The stories of The Arabian Nights are very popular. They are
frequently told, and in the course of narration continue to undergo modification. The
figures that appear in the book also enjoy great popularity; many of them are
identified by the common people because they are admired as having realized their
dreams and aspirations in an imaginary world, something they cannot attain in the
real world.64 The best-known among these figures is certainly Sinbad, followed by,
Scheherazade and Shahryar.
2.4.6 The importance of its literary use

It is naturally vitally important for cultures everywhere to exchange influences and
to benefit from the literatures and artistic achievements of others. This exchange
enriches the arts in each culture and brings them closer together, giving rise to
greater global human openness. Arab culture has given the world a great many
literary and scientific gifts that have considerably enriched Western culture. One
example of this influence is Kalīla wa-Dimna. The Arabian Nights played even a
larger role in enriching Western culture and the human imagination. The stories of
The Arabian Nights, including the framework story, have been performed, turned
into children's stories, provided inspiration for other children's stories, and
influenced the arts, including literature, painting, music, and cinema.65
Arab intellectuals, on the other hand, became aware of the value of these stories
relatively late. The first Western translation of the collection was made by Antoine
Galland (1646-1715), whose French version was published in 1704. Since that time,
The Arabian Nights served to enrich Western art, while the Arabs came to use it
consciously only in the middle of the twentieth century, and at first via Western
influence, that is, indirectly.66
Since the mid-twentieth century, Arab poets began to show a direct interest in
this work, which they recognized as possessing artistic merit and a suggestive power
that served as a source of inspiration. It derives its suggestive power from the vast
64 See: al-Qalamāwī 1966: 90, 92; Khūrshīd 1994: 51.

65 For more on translations of The Arabian Nights and its influence on Western literature see: Von
der Leyen (no date): 214; Ṣāliḥ 1956, vol. 1: 25-26; Littmann 1960: 359-360; al-Qalamāwī
1966: 14-23, 64-75; Jabrā 1979: 11-12; al-Mūsawī 1979; Ḥamādī 1980: 42-43; Bdÿr 1986: 89,
105-106; al-Mūsawī 1986 (a study deliniating the influence of The Arabian Nights on English
literature between 1704 and 1910); al-Idlibī 1992: 9-11, 21-23; Khūrshīd 1994: 29-30, 45;
Zāyid 1997: 153-156; al-MÙsawÐ 2000: 20-28; Darwīsh 2002: 181-187; Marzolph 2007: 3-5;
SaÝd 1962: 189-288; Lemer 2012: 181-188. For views of French criticism on the stories of The
Arabian Nights see: Abū al-Ḥusayn 1986; and for a discussion of the importance of the stories
for the study of history, especially that of the Crusades, see: Qāsim 1993: 155-196.
66 See: Von der Leyen (no date):214; al-Qalamāwī 1966: 25; Abū al-Ḥusayn 1986: 210; al-Malqī
1990: 274-275; ʿAbd al-Ḥakīm 1995: 21; Zāyid 1997: 152, 156; al-MÙsawÐ 2000: 19; Marzoph
2007: 30. For more on the translations of this work into European languages see: Lemer 2012:
182; MacDonald 2007: 10-12.

imaginary space presented and the richness of the figures, which have become
symbols imbued with allegory, evoking an attractive realism of the same kind as the
figures of legends. Since the 1950s, Arab poets have enthusiastically adopted and
made symbolic use of foreign myths. However, these symbols remained distant from
the world of the poets and their readers, giving rise to a kind of alienation between
text and reader and making some texts seem forced.
The figures of The Arabian Nights were regarded as an appropriate substitute for
legendary figures outside of popular memory, especially since The Arabian Nights
enjoyed higher standing in popular memory than myths because they better reflected
people’s dreams. Thus the book's figures were found suitable for connecting poet
and reader. They enable poets to preserve the artistic value of their work by
providing suggestive and transparent symbols that resonate with the public. Thus
The Arabian Nights has become the most important source of inspiration in
contemporary Arabic poetry.67
To offer an additional perspective, the fictional figures of The Arabian Nights can
generally be characterized as very human. They strive for happiness, struggle against
obstacles from their environment and their enemies, but in the end realize their dreams.
Such an ending is also in keeping with the dreams of contemporary Arab poets, most of
whom have experienced some kind isolation inside or outside their homelands.
Arab poets have been imprisoned, sent into exile, or chosen exile for political and
other reasons, and have never stopped yearning for home. They feel unable to
achieve self-realization in a society sunken in illiteracy and despotism. They thus
find themselves in impossible situations that would take miracles to ameliorate.
Change, as they see it, can only come through a miraculous event such as those
described in The Arabian Nights, whose figures, especially the adventurous traveling
merchants, have become symbols capable of representing poets' situations and
mental states, of expressing their desires and reflecting their sufferings.68 The
journeys of contemporary poets in foreign lands, their lack of roots in alien soils,
their powerful feelings of alienation, and their desire to return home resonate with
the journeys described in The Arabian Nights.
67 According to Zāyid The Arabian Nights is the one most important folkloric sources in
contemporary Arabic poetry and the work that has the richest characters (see: Zāyid 1997:
153); cf. Ḥaddād 1998: 108-110. Mūsawī argues that contemporary writers of prose can also
benefit from the storytelling art in this work (al-Mūsawī 1979: 89).
68 In this study the focus is on poetry, but of course the influence of The Arabian Nights has not been
restricted to this genre, but has affected every type of literature, including drama. Prominent
writers it has influenced include Tawfīq al-Ḥakīm, who declared that the three main sources of his
writings were the Quran, The Arabian Nights, and society or the people (see: al-Ḥakīm 1975: 142;
cf. al-Idlibī 1992: 10). For a discussion of the influence of The Arabian Nights on Iraqi novels see:
Ḥamādī 1980: 43-61. Bdÿr mentions in passing the influence the collection has had on Egyptian
drama and names plays by Tawfīq al-Ḥakīm, among others (see: Bdÿr 1986: 89-92, 106-134); he
also notes its influence on Egyptian prose fiction (ibid.: 98-100).

3. The Use of The Arabian Nights in Modern Arabic Poetry
3.1 A technical note

A. In this chapter, I present examples of modern Arabic poetry in which The
Arabian Nights appears in one way or another, organized according to the various
periods of poetic production. The figures evoked are then presented in order of
decreasing popularity among poets. In other words, I begin with the most popular
and move to the least, as follows: Sinbad, Scheherazade, Shihryar, Aladdin, and
other figures. I conclude by discussing poetic evocations of the overall atmosphere
of The Arabian Nights. In each of these sections I present poetic passages, beginning
with the simple and advancing gradually to the more complex according to the
technical level employed in making allusions.
B. Occasionally the poets to whom I refer have noted the precise date on which
they wrote a given poem, making it easier to classify them chronologically, but most
poems do not have such a date attached to them, leaving me no choice but to base
my classification on the year of first publication. Thus, for example, if a poetry
collection was published in 1961, I assume that most of the poems in it were written
prior to that year, and hence belong to the first chronological period. However, if the
year of a collection’s publication was in say 1962, in a year dividing two periods,
the matter becomes more complicated as I cannot easily classify its poems as
belonging to one period or another. In order to eliminate ambiguity, I consider any
poem published in a collection of at least one year after the ending year of a given
period as belonging to the period that follows. Thus a poem published in 1962 is
classified as belonging to the period, 1962-1987. At any rate, only a few poems are
affected by these considerations.
C. At the beginning of my discussion about every alluding element in a poem, I
shall define that element and provide a brief theoretical analysis of its dimensions
and of various possible symbolic readings, so that we may be in a better position to
assess the benefit Arab poets obtain from that element and the extent to which its
energies are being exploited.
D. In discussing the relationship between the alluding and the alluded text I
make use of several terms from the field of transtextuality in order to place the
employment within its proper domain. I draw heavily on Gerard Genette’s The
Architext – An Introduction and Palimpsestes (published in 1979 and 1982,
respectively). Genette’s theory states that texts are not independent but rather are
mutually connected in ways he calls transtextualities. This term encompasses every
possible type of connection taking place among texts. Genette goes on to classify

94 3. The Use of The Arabian Nights in Modern Arabic Poetry
various kinds of textual interconnections and interrelations. His second volume

identifies five types: intertextuality, paratextuality, metatextuality, hypertextuality
and architextuality. Each of the five types is further divided into secondary types,
which I define within footnotes as their relevance arises.1 I also rely on the
assistance of Saʿīd Yaqṭīn's 1989 Infitāḥ al-Naṣṣ al-Riwāʾī (Unfolding the Text of
the Novel),2 which summarizes Genette's theory, as well as other relevant works in
Arabic and other languages, notably The New Princeton Encyclopedia of Poetry and
Poetics3 and Muḥammad ʿAnānī's 1996 lexicon, al-Muṣṭalaḥāt al-Adabiyya al-
Íadītha. I borrow terms from these works as needed and add some of my own, all of
which I attempt to carefully define in the notes.
E. In every section of the study I select examples that I believe best exemplify
the kind of allusion being discussed and note some other relevant examples in the
footnotes.
F. It is not an easy matter to uncover intertextual phenomena, since their
identification depends on the reader's education and erudition. For this reason I
make no claim to have succeeded in collecting every single example of The Arabian
Nights’ influence on modern Arabic poetry. Readers may find other examples, and
yet be previously unaware of examples noted here, especially those more advanced
in borrowing inspiration from external cultural sources. While allusions to external
sources in poetry may invariably be obscure, I find it is especially so of allusions to
The Arabian Nights, as poets have tried to hide them by integrating its symbols so
completely into their texts. Such comprehensive usage has made it difficult to both
identify some of the presented cases of intertextuality and to determine their
meanings.
3.2 Introduction
The Arabian Nights has had a great influence on fictional literature worldwide.
Contemporary Arab writers and poets once lagged behind writers in the West in
their use of this work, but beginning in the mid-twentieth century it became the most
important source of inspiration in modern Arabic literature. The book's atmosphere
is unusual and the events related in its fabulous tales are at once surprising and
entertaining. Some of its characters are certainly fit to serve as contemporary
symbols. Arab poets became aware of all these features and thus began to make use
of the book's diverse inspirational energies.
It may be justly said that Arab poets have made use of the personalities of the
protagonists of The Arabian Nights more than anything else in the book. These are
figures that love adventure, take risks, and generally travel incessantly in order to
1 See: Genette 1982: 356; Genette 1992: 81-83; Yaqṭīn 1989: 96-98; Allen 2000: 100-107.
2 Yaqṭīn 1989.
3 Preminger & Brogan (eds.) 1993.

3.3 The use of The Arabian Nights in the first period (1945-1961) 95
attain a goal or discover some truth. Arab poets have found these figures consistent
with their own mental state and social and political status, a proper vehicle for
expressing dreams they have been unable to realize in their actual lives, as well as
the sense of alienation and solitude they have felt within their own societies. As a
whole, they have used these figures in keeping with the nature of the original text,
illuminating aspects of its meaning and using them to expose hidden aspects of their
own mental states.
3.3 The use of The Arabian Nights in the first period (1945-1961)
3.3.1 Introduction
Under the influence of Western poetry, in this period Arab poets began to pay close
attention to myths (like of Apollo, Venus, Isis and etc.), which they used to such an
extent that they became a distinctive feature of their poetry; use of myths even came
to signify poems belonging to the modernist school. By that time, Western literature
had already benefited from the tales of The Arabian Nights, allusions to which
appeared in the works of many Western poets. This trend made Arab poets aware of
the richness of their literary folk heritage and so they too began to show a practical
interest in it. Many poets had read The Arabian Nights and some initiated attempts at
using its elements in their writings. However in most cases, their allusions were
rooted in a desire to emulate Western poets and to adopt modernist ways. The little
use we do find in this period thus tends to be quite superficial; folk figures do not
occupy important places within the texts.
For example, a perusal of this period’s canonical poets’ works reveals that
Shahryar did not appear in any of them, nor can any trace be found in this poetry of
the overall atmosphere of The Arabian Nights. The figure of Scheherazade is alluded
to in only five poems, although in only three of them is she mentioned by name, one
merely containing a very superficial allusion to a piece of Western music entitled
“Scheherazade.” The other two allusions are made through use of typical
expressions Scheherazade used. Sinbad is the only figure that inspired poets with a
multiplicity of meanings and was used at different levels in fifteen poems, including
four poems by Badr Shākir al-Sayyāb and six poems by ÝAbd al-Wahhāb al-Bayātī.
3.3.2 Uses of the figure of Sinbad

Sinbad ("Sindibād") is a name of Persian origin. He is called "the sailor" in order to
distinguish him from another Sinbad, a man of the land, whose story provides the
framework for that of "the sailor." Sinbad is one of the best-known legendary heroes
in the world and one of the most popular characters of The Arabian Nights. It is no

small wonder then that he attracted the attention of poets more than any other figure,
who used him in their works in one way or another.4
The stories about Sinbad are fabulous tales of adventure related by Scheherazade
to her husband. She presents Sinbad as a talented storyteller who narrates wondrous
anecdotes and unusual stories to his friends, based on his own experiences during his
seven sea journeys around the world. After amassing a great fortune, Sinbad the
sailor changed his nefarious ways and became a settled, wealthy storyteller.
Scheherazade relates the events of Sinbad’s seven journeys as if in his own voice
over a period of thirty nights, at the end of which he announces his retirement from
travel.5 All seven journeys derived from Sinbad’s search for adventure and for treasure.
In each one supernatural events occurred and Sinbad faced great danger from which he
was saved by his own wit or by a miracle. The following features of Sinbad are those
that most attracted Arab poets and inspired them to allude to him in their verses.
A. Love for the sea: While seafaring literally involves a boat travelling a sea, it
can also symbolize a journey through the subconscious, through dreams and visions,
or that of a creative mind through the imagination.6 Arab poets may well have
traveled throughout the world more than any other language’s modern poets, and
thus became more exposed to a lack of stability and its accompanying worries.
Facing persecution in their homelands, including ruling regimes’ constant
supervision and control, and even arrest and torture, caused some poets to constantly
desire movement and change. They sought greater freedom and a climate where they
could enjoy their human rights and give their creative talents free rein. Other poets
viewed such travels as adventurous journeys giving them an opportunity to gain
experience and knowledge, to search for truth across various civilizations.
Sinbad the sailor is a prime symbol of this experience, and was therefore used by
many Arab poets to signify their own real journeys to different lands and cultures, as
well as for their internal mental travels through their own thoughts. In both cases,
the journeys served the same purposes: to arrive at truth or at eternal happiness.
The ending in Sinbad's stories is always happy, like that of any legends. In
strange lands he is able to attain what he cannot attain in his homeland. This
achievement is the ultimate aspiration of Arab poets, who hope through emigration
or creative mental travels to eventually arrive at the freedom and creative perfection
of which they dream.
Arab poets can live Sinbad's seven journeys even within the confines of their
homelands, since there they experience alienation from their own culture and
surroundings. Due to this detachment, Arab poets have no choice but to make
contact with another world, one they see in dreams or imagine in visions. This other
world is one of sorcery and the supernatural, in which situations can change and
4 See: Ismāʿīl 1978:35, 202; Ḥmūd 1986: 212; Zāyid 1997: 156. on the influence of Sinbad's
travels on Western literature see: al-Qalamāwī 1966: 74.
5 The Arabian Nights 1997: 136-203.
6 See: Zāyid 1997: 158.

dreams can come true by uttering a single word. For poets, this alternate world is not
merely a refuge, but also a place to realize their existence and achieve self-
recognition, as it is with Sinbad.7
B. Self-made, starting afresh: Sinbad lost everything, his house, his money and
his family, but was able to regain them all and more thanks to his personal efforts.
Most contemporary Arab poets have gone through experiences similar to Sinbad’s
deprivations and wanderings. They too continually hope for eternal rest and well-
being, just like Sinbad, who after the tribulations of travel was able to realize some
of his dreams and live the good life.
C. Wise management of one's affairs despite setbacks: Sinbad in his travels
suffers many catastrophes and setbacks, nearly dying in several instances. But due to
his intelligence, wisdom, faith, and self-confidence he is able to extricate himself
from every tight corner. Arab poets too live in a state of mental and sometimes
physical stress, as a result of political oppression, fatigue, constant travel, or illness,
and wish they, too, could be like Sinbad, capable of overcoming their troubles and
solving their problems with sheer willpower, wisdom, and managerial skills.
D. Nationality and national identity: The figure of Sinbad came from Baghdad in
the days of Hārūn al-Rashīd (766-806 CE). He is therefore well-suited for serving as a
symbol of Arab civilization at its zenith. Iraqi poets used this figure more than any
other Arab poets. Clearly the bonds of nationality that tie them to Sinbad constitute an
obvious reason for the considerable use they make of him. In all his travels, Sinbad
yearned for Baghdad. The sea was always stormy when he left it, and calm upon his
return. Baghdad was always his ultimate destination, no matter how long the journey.
3.3.2.2 Sinbad as allusion

According to Genette, allusion8 belongs to intertextuality, the first branch of
transtextuality. Genette defines intertextuality as the actual presence of an absent
text within a present text, while allusion is a local referential presence of that text,
evoked by some element typical of it, usually by one of its figures or another
specific component. Despite the small space it takes up in an evoking text, allusion
plays an important role in opening up that text to new meanings. It also helps to
activate readers, leading them to take an active part in the reading process, thereby
turning them, in Barthe's words, into fellow writers of the text.
Allusions are very economic, as they evoke a whole other text with very few
words. We can today imagine it similar to a link to a website. Clicking on it brings
7 See: Kīlīṭū 1995: 63, 71. Ismāʿīl views Sinbad as symbolizing man searching for the unknown,
consonant with poets’ ambitions. But Sinbad is also a very unusual figure, possessing a number
of characteristics that are not to be found within a single person. Thus poets are attracted to
Sinbad, as he represents unattainable dreams (Ismāʿīl 1978: 203; cf. Zāyid 1997: 158).
8 Most Arab scholars call this type of allusion ishāra (literally: indication). However, this word
has so many different meanings that its use lacks in clarity. I agree with Jābir Qmÿḥa and
Sulaymān Jubrān that the term ilmāʿ (literally: pointing out) is a more suitable translation (see:
Qmÿḥa 1987: 50; Jubrān 1989: 223).

us to a whole other site, containing extensive information somehow related to the

original text. The way allusions operate and the ease with which they can be placed
in a text have made them the most common of all transtextual techniques.9
As already noted, al-Bayātī evoked the figure of Sinbad more than any other poet
during this period. Scholars have attempted to analyze his symbolism and to
determine how it relates to his psyche. However, they did not fully investigate the
way he associates his contemporary text to the original, or how his choice of content
pertains to his style.10 It appears that what attracted al-Bayātī to Sinbad was mainly
that they shared many features. They are both from Iraq, both searching for
happiness, each in his own way; they both travel extensively without settling in any
one place and both yearn to return to Bagdad-Iraq.11
In a section called "Sonia and the Myth" ("Sūnyā wal-Usṭūra") within the poem
"Memoirs of a Consumptive Man" ("Mudhakkirāt Rajul Maslūl") from his
collection Glory to Children and Olives (al-Majd lil-Aṭfāl wal-Zaytūn) (1956), al-
Bayātī refers to Sinbad as follows:
In the night of the sanatorium the others remain
Wilting without tears
On a bed of ashes
And Sonia remains in the songs of Sinbad
A myth told and a song repeated.12
Here Sinbad sings. Poets often associate poetry with song, viewing themselves as
singers and their poetry as songs. The word aghānī ("song") thus plays an important
role in revealing the meaning of this figure here. We are told in this poem that
Sinbad is a poet who composes verses for his beloved Sonia, making of her a myth.
The word "Sinbad" as an allusion evokes his many journeys and vicissitudes in
readers’ minds, and in turn leads us to the conclusion that the poet himself is a
wandering traveler regaling his journeys and adventures. The most important
journey seems to be the one about which he sings on every occasion: his sentimental
journey with Sonia.13 Sinbad symbolizes the poet as an optimistic figure; despite
9 See: Cuddon 1998: 27; cf. Ḥaddād, ʿA. 1986: 86, 102; Miner 1993: 39; al-ʿAllāq 1997: 132;
Ḥaddād 1998:122; Fatḥī 2000: 51. Ben-Porat defines allusion as "a synchronous activity of two
texts," in which both "intertextual frames" and "directional signals" are formed. It is "an element
or a pattern that belongs to a different, independent text […] even if the pattern is complete, such
as the title of a work or the main character" (Hebel 1991:136; cf. Ben-Porat 1985: 172).
10 See: Ḥaddād, ʿA. 1986: 138, 210-211; Qmÿḥa 1987: 37; Jubrān 1989: 157.
11 On al-Bayātī's constant wanderings see: al-Bayātī 1993: 11, 65; al-Khayyāṭ 1970: 156.
12 Al-Bayātī 1972, vol. 1: 320.
13 For additional such examples see: al-Bayātī 1972, vol. 1: 635. In one case during this period,
the figure of Sinbad was used very superficially as a pure allusion with no specific meaning;
see: Yūsuf 1995, vol. 1: 570. In another case it was used to symbolize Palestinian refugees; see:
al-Bayātī 1972, vol. 1: 616.

facing illness, hospitals, and the sad state of his environment, he retains poetry,
songs, and romanticism.
At the structural level we note that the word Sinbad is used in the poem's rhyme
scheme. Al-Bayātī clearly chose this scheme precisely in order to incorporate the
word Sinbad. The allusion thus dictated the rhyme of the poem as a whole.
Furthermore, al-Bayātī divided the text into two parts, each with a different
emotional atmosphere, giving the poem’s words a dual nature. Each part begins with
the verb yaẓallu/taẓallu ("he/she/it remains").
In the first part the bitter present is depicted, with the selection of words
possessing a negative connotation: night, sanatorium, others (not clearly identified),
tears, wilt, bed, ashes. In the second part the poet himself is present, as are his
dreams and romanticism, and so the words have a relatively positive connotation:
song, myth, singing. This division highlights the clear split in the poet’s society
between the common people and the intellectuals, represented by the poet himself.
This split can lead to an inner mental conflict for poets and engender a sense of
physical or mental alienation.
While in this poem al-Bayātī makes no overt reference to the travel and wandering
the figure of Sinbad evokes, he does so in another poem. In "Three Songs for the
Children of Warsaw" ("Thalāth Ughniyāt ilā Aṭfāl Wārsū") in the same collection he
says:
Sinbad's sail
On the Asian seas
The wind will ever blow a hymn of love in it:
For you, Warsaw, in my heart
A bow of victory, built with the blood of my country's workers.14
During the time of writing this poem, al-Bayātī had joined the Socialist Party and
adopted its principles. He became one of the party's most important poets in Iraq and
naturally began to write about social issues, committing himself to the problems of
the common man. This development also enhanced his sympathy towards mankind
in general and especially towards his party comrades, in the homeland and abroad.15
As indicated by its title, the poem is dedicated to the children of Warsaw, the capital
of socialist Poland which had seen so much destruction in World War II, when its
people suffered great hardship. The poet imagines himself as Sinbad who travels
from Iraq in his ship and sings to Warsaw’s children of his love and solidarity.
Al-Bayātī thus makes use of the allusion to Sinbad to symbolize himself. He also
evokes the attendant maritime atmosphere with references to the sail, the Asian seas,
14 Al-Bayātī 1972, vol. 1: 340.

15 On al-Bayātī's socialist leanings see: Shukrī 1968: 149; idem 1971: 66, 68; Badawi 1975: 205,
210; Jayyusi 1977, vol. 2: 699; Jubrān 1989: 65-66; al-Rabīʿī 1999: 373. In the following
poems he mentions his political preferences in one way or another: al-Bayātī 1972, vol. 1: 455-
456, 505 (where he calls for commitment to the movement), vol. 2: 20, 22.

and the wind blowing into the sail. They express the distance between his own
homeland (Baghdad-Iraq) and Warsaw, but also his feelings of proximity to the
children despite their physical distance. The figure of Sinbad is familiar throughout
the world, and by evoking it in a work dedicated to another nation, al-Bayātī
constructs an intellectual and cultural bridge of sorts between himself and another
people, who take shelter under the same socialist flag. He arouses the ideas and
fantasies about Baghdad, Iraq, and the Middle East in general among the people of
Warsaw through the "international" figure of Sinbad.16
3.3.2.3 Sinbad: Imitation and architextuality

We can observe that as al-Bayātī's poetry matured, the symbol of Sinbad continually
evolved. In his poem, "To My Friend Tefalt" ("Ilā Ñadīqī Tīfalt") from the collection
Twenty Poems from Berlin (ʿIshrūna Qaṣīda min Barlīn) (1959), he says:
I will see you in Baghdad (1)
His eyelashes twitched and he said: "In Baghdad"
I was said,
When he took leave of me – […]
I speak to an inanimate body: (5)
Perhaps I will fly above the little world
On Christmas eve
I will be Sinbad
I will sail in a boat laden with ivory and roses
I will bring to the children (10)
On the holidays
A gift from the Indies
And from Baghdad.17
In this image we see an admixture of features of Sinbad and those of the popular figure
of Santa Claus. On Christmas Eve the poet imagines himself a Sinbad-like Santa Claus
who travels to the islands to get presents for the children. Al-Bayātī creates a complete
separation between the real and imagined worlds by giving explicit notice when
describing a dream or a wish by bluntly stating: "I speak to an inanimate body"
followed by "perhaps" (lines 5-6 above), a word that both expresses hope and
helplessness. Al-Bayātī thereby creates two distinct worlds, the real world in which he
is sad and powerless, and an imaginary world in which he views himself as a
supernatural Sinbad, who travels through time and space towards the children on
Christmas Eve bringing them gifts and joy. In this case the mention is not merely to
the figure itself, but also to various features that characterize him, surround him, and
16 For additional examples of such allusions see: al-Sayyāb 1995, vol. 1: 147 (where Sinbad
becomes a space traveler).
17 Al-Bayātī 1972, vol. 1: 487-488.

are closely associated with his adventures as related in the stories. Sinbad is thus used
more in line with his original features than in the other examples thus far discussed.18
This type of evocation is called imitation, albeit of a quite limited sort, since it
goes beyond mere allusion by transmitting the figure’s movements and other well-
known components of his stories. Imitation includes similarity, since the poet does
not change any features of the figure or of his original story and the borrowed text is
completely integrated into the borrowing text, so that at first sight they appear to
constitute a single uninterrupted fabric.
Whenever an imitation manipulates one of the basic elements of the original text,
such as the protagonist or events, taking the text into a world different from that of the
borrowed text, it constitutes what I call an alternative, as it in effect offers a
replacement for the original text. In cases where imitation turns the original text upside
down, upends its meaning, and has elements stand for their opposites, I call this form
of borrowing counter-imitation, something others have called irony. I am not satisfied
with the latter term, since not every counter-imitation necessarily leads to irony.19
Genette considers the two types of imitation as branches of hypertextuality, one
of the types of transtextuality. He thus defines such literary texts as "second degree"
texts, as hypertexts overwriting a "hypotext" on which it completely depends, and
imitates similarly, ironically, or in opposition, offering an alternative to the original.
He claims that every contemporary text has its hypotext, even if not yet discovered,
that all texts live in a state of constant "transmigration".20
In addition, we see an overall stylistic evolution in this poem, as al-Bayātī makes
use of a number of prose techniques, such as dialogue (lines 1-2), narration (lines 2-
5) and monologue (lines 6-13), thus breaking the lyrical routine and charging the
poem with a dramatic energy. As I say in chapter one, this incorporation of prose is
one of the main innovations of free verse, whereby strict boundaries between the
basic units of the poem were abolished and the text became a single interconnected
whole, bringing poetry closer to prose and providing poets more freedom to arrange
their thoughts and weave events as they wish. As a result, we began to see a growing
tendency towards combining different literary genres, or using devices drawn from
different genres within a single text. This in turn has made the text more democratic
and released it from its traditional genre prison.
18 ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr reminisces about a fearful dream about Sinbad, the storm, and the ogre, which he
dreamed as a youngster, but in the poem he relates this allusion in a less well-developed way
than does al-Bayātī's in the case discussed here, his use of dream as a device for evoking
Sinbad (see: ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr 1972, vol. 1: 59-60).
19 Miftāḥ (1992: 122) calls the first type "emulative imitation," which I find insufficient since
"emulation" and "imitation" have the same meaning making the term redundant. and
unspecific; Somekh (1986:115) calls it "static evocation"; al-Nuwayhī (1971:370) calls it
"serious imitation"); and Qaḥīma 1999: 497 calls it "horizontal documentary interaction with
the heritage.”
20 See: Macksey 1997: xix; cf. Yaqṭīn 1989: 97; Allen 2000: 107-109.

Al-Bayātī's poem helps us recognize the great gap between ancient and
contemporary poetic rhetoric, so to speak. While the former generally aims at enabling
readers/listeners to attain a full and clear comprehension through using perceptible
linguistic/lexical manipulation, the latter tries to attract readers by communicating with
them existentially by evoking both a particular shared experience and general culture.
Ancient rhetoric strove to impress readers/listeners with inimitable language and clearly
audible verbal brilliance, whereas modern rhetoric strives to activate readers by having
them participate in the experience by reviving dormant materials within their mental
depths, but without imposing any specific meanings, rather immersing them in the world
of marvel and infinite interpretations.
Genette speaks about "architextuality," by which he means the components that
make a text belong to a specific genre and associate with texts of the same genre or
different genres. Thus a poet may call a poem "a story," a title that is certain to arouse in
readers an association with all components usually identified with the story genre even
before beginning to read. This naming is by itself also a case of transtextuality.21
In the title of the text excerpted above there is no intimation that it is a story, and
yet the poem's style shows many features of the story genre from the very beginning.
In addition to those already mentioned, we see an intensive use of verbs indicating
movement and action: “I see you;" "I speak;" "I will fly;" "I will bring;" and so
forth. This usage occurs in addition to a close interconnecting of the text's different
parts as they relate a continuous chain of events. Furthermore, metaphors are rare, in
contrast to the relatively frequent use of allusion and symbolism. And yet the overall
poetic framework is retained, including brevity, a lack of detail, and suggestion, in
addition to meter and a regular rhyme scheme.
This mixture of two different literary genres enriches the text artistically and heightens
readers’ role in deriving meaning. The encounter between two different genres in a single
text forms it into a kind of abbreviation and compensation, in the sense that some
elements of each genre are missing, but are compensated by features of the other genre;
together they produce a hybrid text that possesses features from both of its "parents."
I wish to note that in this poem as well al-Bayātī selected a rhyme ending with
the syllable "ād" so that he could put Sinbad's name at the end of a line, as well as
another important word that rhymes with it, that is Baghdad, to which both Sinbad
and the poet belong. As for the meter, al-Bayātī used rajaz, which is apparent in the
following scansion.
˘ˉ ˘ˉ‖ ˉ ˉ◌ْ "ْ‫"ﺃﺭﺍﻙَ ﻓﻲ ﺑﻐﺪﺍﺩ‬

ˉ ˘˘ˉ‖ ˉ ˉ ˘ ˉ ‫ﻭﺍﺧﺘﻠﺠﺖ ﺃﻫﺪﺍﺑﻪ‬
˘ˉ ˘ˉ‖ ˉ ˉ◌ْ "ْ‫ "ﻓﻲ ﺑﻐﺪﺍﺩ‬:‫ﻭﻗﺎﻝ‬
ˉ ˘˘ˉ‖ ˉ ،‫ﻛﻨﺖ ﺣﺰﻳﻨﺎ‬
21 See: Genette 1992: 82-83; cf. ʿAnānī 1996, al-Muʿjam: 5; al-Ruwaylī & al-Bāziʿī 2000: 178;
Allen 2000: 100-101.

ˉ ˘ˉ‖ ˉ˘˘ˉ [...] -‫ﻋﻨﺪﻣﺎ ﻭﺩّﻋﻨﻲ‬-

˘ˉ ˘ˉ‖ ˘ˉ◌ْ :ْ‫ﺃﻛﻠّﻢ ﺍﻟﺠﻤﺎﺩ‬
˘ˉ ˘ˉ‖ ˘ˉ ˘ˉ‖ ˉ ˉ ˘ˉ‖ ˘ˉ ˘ ‫ﻟﻌﻠّﻨﻲ ﺃﻁﻴﺮ ﻓﻮﻕ ﺍﻟﻌﺎﻟﻢ ﺍﻟﺼﻐﻴﺮ‬
ˉ‖ ˘ˉ ˘ˉ‖ ˉ ˉ◌ْ ‫ﻓﻲ ﻋﺸﻴّﺔ ﺍﻟﻤﻴﻼ ْﺩ‬
˘ˉ ˘ˉ‖ ˘ˉ◌ْ ‫ﺃﻛﻮﻥ ﺳﻨﺪﺑﺎ ْﺩ‬
ˉ ˘˘ˉ‖ ˘ˉ ˘ˉ‖ ˉ ˘˘ˉ‖ ˉ ˉ ˘ ِ‫ﺃﺑﺤﺮ ﻓﻲ ﺳﻔﻴﻨﺔ ﻣﺜﻘﻠﺔ ﺑﺎﻟﻌﺎﺝ‬
ˉ‖ ˉ ˉ◌ْ ‫ﻭﺍﻷﻭﺭﺍ ْﺩ‬
ˉ ˘˘ˉ‖ ˉ ˉ ˘ ،‫ﺃﺣﻤﻞ ﻟﻸﻁﻔﺎ ِﻝ‬
ˉ‖ ˉ ˉ◌ْ ‫ﻓﻲ ﺍﻷﻋﻴﺎ ْﺩ‬
˘ˉ ˘ˉ‖ ˉ ˘˘ˉ‖ ˉ ˘ ‫ﻫﺪﻳّﺔ ﻣﻦ ﺟﺰﺭ ﺍﻟﻬﻨ ِﺪ‬
˘ˉ‖ ˉ ˉ◌ْ ‫ﻭﻣﻦ ﺑﻐﺪﺍ ْﺩ‬
Rajaz is considered the most flexible of Arabic meters and the most suited for
embellishment and change; it provides poets with different possibilities, including
the option of incorporating narrative and spoken oration. It is the most ancient of
Arabic meters and still very widely used in Arabic folksongs. For all these reasons
most poets in the modern age have made use of it, desiring to bring their verses
close to the rhythm of everyday life. In fact, most modern poems that contain
narratives and use storytelling techniques are based on this meter.22
By conducting a prosodic analysis of the first two excerpts I have provided from
al-Bayātī's work we may conclude that his views on metric verse underwent
evolution over time. We see that in "Memoirs of a Consumptive Man," he adhered
to a system of lines and not verses, so that each foot does not go beyond the bounds
of the line, whereas in "Three Songs for the Children of Warsaw," a foot more than
once extends over more than one line (such as with lines 4 and 5). The poem thereby
becomes a single unit, a phenomenon that scholars call "flow" (jarayān). We can see
the way al-Bayātī uses most of the possibilities afforded by the rajaz foot (ˉˉ˘ˉ/ ˘ˉ˘ˉ/
ˉ˘˘ˉ) in addition to metrical irregularity (deletion inside the foot): (˘ˉ/ ˉ ˉ), providing
a broad framework for ways to use words and for joining expressions through
narration and speech, wherein the background music becomes almost inaudible.
3.3.2.4 Sinbad: Counter-imitation and the double

The symbols al-Bayātī uses do not remain frozen. They evolve from one poem to the
next in a conscious and mature manner, thoughtfully placed in diverging poetic
contexts and contents, and are thus imbued with new meanings that exploit all the
symbols’ energies. In a poem entitled "The Returning Letter" ("Al-Ḥarf al-ʿÀʾid") in
the collection Fire and Words (Al-Nār wal-Kalimāt) (1964), the name Sinbad and
various derivations appear no less than six times, founding one of the poem’s basic
themes and providing an important artistic and semantic component. Here is the poem:
22 For more on the rajaz meter see: Jubrān 1989: 161-162; ʿAlyān 2007: 85-92; al-Sammān 1984: 51-
59.

… I stammered thousands of rhymes and words (1)

I contended with thousands of swords
Here comes the returning poet, still floats
My boat lost its way
However much it loses its way, the world is happenstances (5)
Everything I write
Oh my Sinbad
Everything I write is just letters […]
And I, oh my Sinbad
My heart is tired, averse (10)
O do not awaken my wounds […]
O letter that taught me to traverse the seas
My Sinbad died, killed on a boat of fire
My homeland is in my place of exile
And my place of exile is a house to those dear to me […] (15)
The family's date palms on the horizon of sleeplessness
Shed light and caught fire
They are ash
Where is he who will avenge Sinbad?23
Note that this poem’s Sinbad is treated as if a contemporary figure allowing al-
Bayātī to express his personal cares, thoughts, and mental struggles. However,
Sinbad is sufficiently detached from the poet's self so as to maintain a dramatic
dialogue with an artistic alter ego. Al-Bayātī grants this dialogue objectivity and
depth, bringing it to the fore under the cover of Sinbad, in a technique called the
double—whereby the poet is portrayed as two selves in dialogue, discussing and
debating and eventually reaching a solution or conclusion. This technique reduces a
text's lyrical and declarative character and enriches its meanings. Through its use al-
Bayātī provides his poem more voices, generating movement that would not have
been as clearly visible had he used the more common monologue technique.24
The first five lines of the poem given above constitute a kind of introduction to
Sinbad's appearance in the text. Al-Bayātī lays the ground for presenting him by
speaking about his own private poetic experience, the weariness, oppression, and exile
he suffers, and the life of wandering imposed on him by commitment to his homeland.
Readers are thereby prepared to accept Sinbad, since he is associated with constant
turmoil, challenges, sword fights, and wearying travel. When Sinbad is mentioned by
name, readers can adopt a sense of contentment and empathy with the text.
Sinbad is here associated with the poet ("my Sinbad"), appearing with great
frequency beginning in the sixth line to become a major character. The poem then enters
23 Al-Bayātī 1972, vol. 1: 599-602.

24 On "the double" and how it differs from "the mask" see: Basīsū 1999: 140-143; ʿAbbās 2001:
60.

an internal dialogue mode; al-Bayātī makes a perceptible attempt at expressiveness

detaching his human from his poetic self and engaging the two in dialogue.
The pronoun "I" expresses al-Bayātī’s self as a real person, who finds writing
useless, frankly admitting the constant pain and weariness he experiences from
continual travel through the worlds of poetry and suffering. Hope is found in the
possessive phrase "my Sinbad," synonymous with "my poetic soul," a youthful spirit
eager to travel, who refuses to surrender, to give up on dreams. A struggle thus takes
place between al-Bayātī’s human and poetic souls, each of which tries to convince
the other that its way is the right one. This dialogue permits readers to very clearly
perceive the poet’s profound struggle and suffering. As the poem concludes the
human soul, who had been debating with the poetic soul, becomes a mourner of that
soul, demanding vengeance against those who killed it. Sinbad was killed, and along
with him his family’s date palms were set afire.
We know that in The Arabian Nights, Sinbad always lived to tell his stories of
having faced mortal danger in his travels, giving readers the impression he is a
supernatural figure whom death cannot overcome. But in al-Bayātī’s poem, Sinbad
has been killed and can no longer pursue adventure. I expect these lines convey a
political meaning, connected with the bloody convulsions Iraq underwent in the late
1950s, especially in 1959 when then Prime Minister ʿAbd al-Karīm Qāsim (1914-
1963) employed great cruelty in crushing a rebellion in Mosul.25 Bloody massacres
defeated al-Bayātī’s poetic spirit. They undermined his sense of the universe's
beauty, turning him into a grieving and helpless creature, no longer capable of
animating the inanimate by writing.
In "The Returning Letter," the phrase "boat of fire" occurs more than once, indicating
the poet's sea journey was not the usual kind, like those undertaken by Sinbad, but one
involving fire and pain. This pain is caused by tyrants who exile the poet from his
homeland, whether voluntarily or by force. The poetic Sinbad's death is spiritual, brought
about by his homeland’s burning and destruction, by the loss of his sources of
inspiration. His movements became paralyzed, his poetic sensibilities injured, Sinbad's
artistic journey ceased. So the poet asks for Sinbad's death to be avenged. This request is
repeated a number of times. The final call to rebellion, "Let the storm rage!" reflects al-
Bayātī’s own rage and desire for vengeance over his own spiritual death.
Al-Bayātī successfully applies the symbol of Sinbad to himself, imposing an
aura of inspiring allusion, giving the poem a measure of objectivity despite its focus
on his torments and private problems. This use of Sinbad also introduces variety into
the poem's modes of expression, its use of narration and dialogue, enriching the
poem, giving it greater expressive power and profundity.26
25 See: Tawfīq 1997: 101.

26 For additional examples of counter-allusion see: al-Sayyāb 1995, vol. 1: 154-155, 564.

3.3.2.5 Sinbad and the copper knight: Partial allegory and Peritextuality
Scholars agree that al-Sayyāb's collection Unshūdat al-Maṭar (Hymn of Rain)
represents a new important phase in his poetry and in Arab poetry in general; with it
he achieved his artistic apogee.27 The collection was published in 1960, at a time
when Iraq was experiencing bitter convulsions leading many innocent victims to
lose their lives. These events left their mark on this collection, in which al-Sayāb
expresses his commitment to his people and opposition to oppression. Presenting his
homeland’s situation, the poem "Madīnat al-Sindibād" ("Sinbad's City"), shares
many similarities with T.S. Eliot's long poem The Waste Land.28 Al-Sayyāb
expresses people’s misery in Iraq using images of desiccation and thirst, as well as
other symbols very closely resembling those in Eliot’s text.29
Interestingly enough, the poem itself contains none of the atmosphere of The
Arabian Nights and makes no mention of Sinbad beyond the title, as if the name is an
element in the construction of an allusion. "Sinbad's City" clearly alludes to Baghdad,
named not overtly but through Sinbad, a symbol associated with it to which al-Sayyāb
adds the general geographical appellation of “city” in order to form an allusion.
Except for this exception, readers encounter neither the figure of Sinbad nor anything
else connected to The Arabian Nights in the poem. Curiously, in a letter he wrote to
Adonis, al-Sayyāb says with respect to this poem: "At that time I was under the influence
of having read The Arabian Nights, which gave rise to my poem 'Sinbad's City.'"30 This
declaration appears strange if referring to the title only. ʿAlī Ḥaddād, who has published
numerous studies on Iraqi poetry, was also perplexed by this announcement and includes
the following comment in his extensive analysis of the poem:
The poem contains no images and nothing of the atmosphere of The Arabian
Nights, its figures or its symbols. We may thus conclude with confidence that
the latter work has had little effect on the poem. It is therefore fair to ask why
al-Sayyāb declared that he had been influenced by The Arabian Nights when
he wrote it.31
Ḥaddād addresses this question by interpreting al-Sayyāb's statement as referring to
a general influence The Arabian Nights had on his culture, which was concealed by
his own private world such that "we are no longer able to notice the effect of The
Arabian Nights which al-Sayyāb clearly intended in this poem."32 But I am not
convinced by Ḥaddād's explanation. I do not believe a responsible poet like al-
Sayyāb would make such a claim about The Arabian Nights’ influence on a
27 See: Khayr Bik 1986: 46; ʿAbbās 1983: 408.

28 See: Eliot 1971; the poem can be found translated into Arabic and analyzed in Luʾluʾa 1980: 92.
29 See: Jayyusi 1992: 154-155.
30 Al-Gharfī 1986: 178; cf. al-Sāmirrāʾī 1994: 138; Ḥaddād 1998: 113, 128. For more on al-
Sayyāb's perusal of The Arabian Nights and its effect on him see: Ḥaddād 1998: 21.
31 Ḥaddād 1998: 134; cf. Zāyid 1997: 223 (who considers the occurrence of Sinbad in this poem
as merely an allusion limited to its title).
32 Ḥaddād 1998: 134.

particular poem without clear evidence to that effect appearing in the poem itself. In
fact, we see that in many other poems al-Sayyāb quite openly uses symbols taken
from that work without highlighting the fact. If this time he overtly admits its
influence, it seems highly unlikely that his evocation of its symbolism remains at a
general and superficial level. If on the other hand, this poem contains further
allusions to The Arabian Nights, the question arises as to why in this of all poems,
the only one whose title contains Sinbad's name, al-Sayyāb would choose to
otherwise use its symbols so furtively?
I agree with Ḥaddād's statement that al-Sayyāb did make an effort to obscure
symbols from The Arabian Nights and fuse them with his culture and private
attitudes on life, but this endeavor does not preclude its symbols from appearing
prominently in the poem. Not a single critic who has discussed this poem has
identified these symbols, implying they have not been detected. Apparently, these
critics focused their efforts on searching for the figure of Sinbad and other
prominent symbols associated with his stories such as the roc, ship, or treasure. In
other words, their preconceptions formed by the poem’s title prevented them from
considering al-Sayyāb’s use of symbols from other tales in The Arabian Nights.
Before considering such symbols I wish to note that in his letter to Adonis, al-
Sayyāb did not claim to have been influenced only by the story of Sinbad but by The
Arabian Nights as a whole. In "Sinbad's City," al-Sayyāb writes:
Famished in the grave with no nourishment
Naked in the snow with no garment
I screamed in the winter:
Oh rain, disturb
The resting place of bones, snows and dust […]
Death in the streets
Barrenness in the fields
Everything we love dies […]
The city of bullets and rocks!
Yesterday the copper knight was removed from it
Yesterday the stone knight was removed
Its skies were overcome with sleep
The rock halted
And a human knight roamed the roads
Killing the women
And painting the cradles in blood
Cursing fate! […]
Is this my city, with its wounded domes
In it Judah, dressed in red,
Made the dog attack

The cradles of my small brothers…and the houses.33

Genette notes another basic type of connection among texts, one he calls
"paratextuality," which he defines as involving elements found on the margins of a
text or on the fringes of a book, associated with a writer's personal life. These
elements lie outside the text itself and direct readers towards specific meanings. The
most important subtypes of "paratextuality" are as follows: A. "Peritextuality"
denotes the title of a work, a chapter, or a collection, its introduction, notes, indices,
dedications, signatures, or the like; B. "Epitextuality" includes interviews, public
announcements, critical reviews and their titles, and other elements connected to the
author and publisher, such as a book’s binding, including cover art and text, the
book's size, and so forth. These are all elements that lie outside the text but affect it,
providing it with the material ground on which it is presented to readers.34
Al-Sayyāb's epitextual letter to Adonis thus led me to take a slow and careful
look at The Arabian Nights, where I felt I would certainly find deeper traces from
that work than had been identified by previous scholars. As I read the story "The
Porter with the Daughters," I encountered the following passage, which I found to
possess a strong link to Sinbad's City:”
On the dome was a knight on a copper steed. In the knight's hand was a copper
lance […] The knight remained in the saddle of this horse while the boats passed by
underneath, and all their passengers perished.35
Thus al-Sayyāb’s copper knight, with some transformation, appears borrowed
from The Arabian Nights. In the original story the knight is responsible for sinking
the hero's boat and for killing all of his companions. He is a curse on any passing
boat, so the story's hero struggles to topple him and eventually succeeds.
This image must have taken hold in al-Sayyāb's imagination, which he used to
symbolize the political situation in Iraq. Other scholars have clearly noted this intent
of the poem. For example, Ḥasan Tawfīq sees it as expressing al-Sayyāb's
disappointment with the bloody revolution of 1958, in which Prime Minister Nūrī
al-Saʿīd (1888-1958) was killed. In the course of this revolution, a mob toppled a
stone statue of King Faiṣal and a bronze statue of British General Frederick Stanley
Maude, actions symbolizing the end of the monarchy. That revolution did not
produce the hoped-for change. A year later Iraq's new ruler ʿAbd al-Karīm Qāsim
(1914-1963) engineered a terrible massacre that considerably affected al-Sayyāb; the
33 Al-Sayyāb 1995, vol. 1: 463-473.

34 See: Genette 1992: 82; Allen 2000: 103-107; Plett 1991: 22; Yaqṭīn 1989: 97, 99, 111. For more
on the importance of titles for the determination of poems’ meanings see: Yaḥyāwī 1998: 110-
117.
35 The Arabian Nights 1997, vol. 1: 84.

human statue symbolizes Qāsim in his poem, while the other statues represent the
preceding governors (Faisal and Fredrick).36
Already as a university student, al-Sayyāb participated in political
demonstrations. He was arrested, dismissed from his job, and exiled again and again.
In the introduction to his collection Asāṭīr (Myths) (1950) he writes: "I am one of
those who believe that artists have a debt which they owe the wretched society in
which they live."37 Although he resigned from the Communist Party in the mid-
1950s, giving a speech in 1961 expressing disapproval of communism, he called for
"the new realism" in poetry—sufferings of society should be expressed and political
and social issues presented in a consciously analytic approach rather than in a
descriptive and documentary style. Al-Sayyāb’s commitment to Arab and especially
Iraqi issues accompanied him to his final day;38 even as he approached his end, his
writings became ever more imbued with a romantic spirit.39
Al-Sayyāb personally witnessed the toppling of the general’s bronze statue,
inspiring him with great emotive and imaginative energy. It led him to associate the
event with the story from The Arabian Nights, realizing the knight on the copper
horse could serve as a fitting symbol for the event. Indeed, it is a symbol of a rare
type, one so fitting to its referent as to fuse the symbol's meaning with the symbol
itself.
Whoever reads al-Sayyāb's poem without knowing its historical background may
conclude the copper knight bears no direct relationship to actual events. As for
Sinbad himself, he is used only implicitly in the poem, so that readers cannot discern
36 Al-Sayyāb declared that he composed this poem in order to express derision at Qāsim and his
regime; see: al-Gharfī 1986: 197; Zāyid 1997: 34; cf. al-Baṣrī 1966: 12; Tawfīq 1997: 98:99,
218; Deyoung 1998: 103.
37 Al-Gharfī 1986: 14
38 On more than one occasion, al-Sayyāb expressed commitment to Arab issues in general and to
Iraq's concerns in particular. See: al-Gharfī 1986: 21-22, 108; cf. al-Baṣrī 1966: 13, 60; al-Tūnjī
1968: 9, 58-59, 65-66, 86-94, 132-135, 152; Jabrā, al-Baṣrī & al-Ṭāhir 1973: 101; ʿAllūsh
1977:56; al-Khāl 1978: 101; Ḥāfiẓ 1985: 177-178; Ḥmūd 1986: 241-242; Tawfīq 1997: 79-
112; Ḥaddād 1998: 71-72; Deyoung 1998: 45; for more on his lecture in 1961 see: ʿAllūsh
1977: 67-68; ʿAlī 1977: 8.
39 Al-Sayyāb spoke about the various stages through which his poetic career passed. He called his
first period one of romanticism and eroticism, the second one a period of exile, and the last one
a period of self-romanticism, during which he expressed his private pain (see: al-Gharfī 1986:
119, 188). Most critics agree that his poetry went through three distinct stages, dreamy
romanticism (in his collections Azhār Dhābila [Wilted Flowers] and Asāṭīr [Myths]), socialism
and commitment (in his collections Unshūdat al-Maṭar [Rain Hymn], Ḥaffār al-Qubūr
[Gravedigger] and al-Mūmis al-ʿAmyāʾ [The Blind Prostitute]), and painful personal
romanticism (in his other collections). See: al-Baṣrī 1966:7, 14; al-Tūnjī 1968: 55-56; al-
Khayyāṭ 1970: 176-177; ʿUṣfūr 1975/1976: 204; Badawi 1975: 250-253; Ḥāfiẓ 1985: 174-179;
ʿAllūsh 1995a: sv. Sh; Tawfīq 1997: 84, 111, 120, 123-124, 131, 179; Ḥaddād 1998: 11, 62-64;
Suwaydān 2002: 48-49; Zāyid calls the last period of al-Sayyāb's life, since the publication of
Manzil al-Aqnān (1963), "the Jobian period," since it is dominated by a Job-like tone of prayer
and self-abasement (see: Zāyid 1997: 242).

his voice apart from that of the narrator-poet. However, since the poem is
formulated in the first person, the poem’s title is "Sinbad's City," and the narrator
refers to "my city," readers may suppose the narrator is Sinbad, speaking in the
poet's name and representing the nation as a whole. Having current events related by
a historical figure, using the first person pronoun, completely uniting the figure with
the poet, and speaking in a single voice all comprise an important technique in
modern poetry called mask or persona. This technique moves the text away from the
sense of a monotonous lyric, granting it a kind of imaginary subjectivity. A poet
directs events from behind the scene, using a mask to express thoughts more frankly
and with a greater freedom of expression than would otherwise be possible. The
mask can also be used to play with the bounds of time, enabling a poet to live in
another age and adopt its events and views of its figures, using them to mirror events
in contemporary life. In other words, the mask makes it possible for a poet to live
simultaneously in different times and have them interact. The resulting push and pull
enables a poet to view the current age in the mirror of another.40
The use of both symbols of Sinbad the narrator and the copper knight verifies al-
Sayyāb's contention that The Arabian Nights influenced this poem. Its title
illuminates a number of spots in the text, providing an answer to questions that have
perplexed scholars. The search for folk sources clearly requires very precise and
careful work. As a rule, modern poets have read these sources with a depth of
understanding, connecting them to their realities and using its symbols so skillfully
that even scholars can fail to identify them. Scholars must therefore take great care
in their analyses and refrain from adopting any preconceived notions that certain
materials do not merit attention.41
I wish to additionally note that “Sinbad’s City” contains numerous additional
symbols, including Eve, Cain, Adonis, and Christ, all of which complement each
other and together play a semantic role even when appearing at great distance from
each other. Al-Sayyāb is among the earliest poets to have skillfully manipulated
such a variety of different symbols.42 To those mentioned thus far, another symbol
must be added, which formed an important theme in al-Sayyāb's poetry at that time,
40 About the definition and importance of the mask in poetry see: al-Bayātī 1972, vol. 2: 37; cf.
Badawi 1975: 214; Jaʿfar 1999: 122-123; Fatḥī 2000: 192; Zāyid 1997: 21; Ḥāfiẓ 1985: 47-48;
ʿAlī 1995: 13, 18; al-Wahāybī 1999: 169-170; al-Qāḍī 1999: 235; ʿUṣfūr 1999a: 276; Qmÿḥa
1987: 20, 40-41, 217-218, 220-221; al-ʿAllāq 1997: 26, 105-107; Uṭaymīsh 1986: 103-104.
ʿAbd al-Raḥmān Basīsū discusses this term as used in the East and the West, by both Arab and
foreign critics, with examples from modern Arabic poetry (see: Basīsū 1999).
41 In his poem "The Faces of Sinbad" in the collection The Violin and the Wind (al-Nāy wal-Rīḥ)
(1961) al-Sayyāb turns Sinbad into a symbol for himself. However, throughout the entire poem
there is no direct reference at all to Sinbad, only to the theme of travel, something which he
experienced and perceived as tying him to Sinbad (see: Ḥāwī 2001: 219-252).
42 See: al-Karakī 1989: 28-29; ʿAlī 1995: 157.

namely "rain." Critics agree al-Sayyāb's rain represents well-being and resurrection,
sorely lacking in his city.43
3.3.2.6 Sinbad: Imitation and allegory

Khalīl Ḥāwī belongs to a group known as "the Tamuz poets" (Tamuz is the
Canaanite version of the Greek god Adonis). These poets believed in resurrection,
viewing death as merely a transitional stage needed for salvation. For them, ashes
from a fire signaled a new beginning, occasioning birth to new life.44 Ḥāwī was a
socialist poet, who took national issues very much to heart. His collection Al-Nāy
wal-Rīḥ (The Violin and the Wind) (1961) shows how interested he was in Arab
heritage and its universal values.45
In his poem "Sinbad on his Eighth Journey," Ḥāwī creates a different type of
Sinbad, one who sails on a final, eighth journey, this time not on the sea but within
himself—on a mental cultural journey during which he challenges some of the old
inherited habits and concepts that have hindered his progress. He casts them into the
sea and pronounces them dead, enabling a new Sinbad to be born.46 This is truly a
novel and unprecedented usage of Sinbad, whom readers tend to perceive as a mask
or as a poet's objective correlative. His journeys are always perceived as real, or if
metaphorical, then as representing a poet's travels through creative space. But here
there is an inner journey, throughout the self, conducted for the purpose of
purification, to repudiate sins of the past. Indeed, some of the techniques used in this
poem are quite novel and add complexity to the symbol of Sinbad.
The text opens with an introduction (recall Peritextuality) in which Ḥāwī
explains the symbolic meaning of Sinbad and the nature of his journeys, helping to
illuminate his text's symbols and enabling readers to more easily interact with the
text; Ḥāwī highlights meanings he wishes his readers to derive and thus restricts
other possibilities. Ḥāwī elevates the text's artistic level through his use of symbols
borrowed from various different sources and combining them in complex ways.
After the poem opens with Sinbad announcing his intention to undertake a voyage
far away from the "dust" in the room, he says:
My seven journeys and the treasures
The Merciful One and commerce granted me
On the day I wrestled with the ogre and the devil
On the day the shrouds were torn from my body
43 See: al-Tūnjī 1968: 69; Badawi 1975: 255; ʿAlī 1977: 7; al-ʿUẓma 1988: 223, 245; Tawfīq
1997: 326; Ḥaddād 1998: 129; Karīm 2000: 170; for the meanings of some of the other
symbols in this poem see: Moreh 1976: 250, 254.
44 See: ʿAwaḍ 2001: 7, 16.
45 See: ʿAwaḍ 2001: 14-15; Ḥāwī 2001: 177-253; Campbell 1996, vol. 1: 458. Ḥāwī began his
poetic career by composing verses in the colloquial before he changed over to Standard Arabic
(Campbell 1996, vol. 1: 456).
46 See: his introduction to this poem, Ḥāwī 2001: 253; cf. ʿAwaḍ 2001: 14-15.

And the crack appeared in the cave

I told what was usually told about me
I hid what could not be expressed.47
In declaring his eighth voyage, Sinbad admits that accounts of his previous journeys
contained nothing more than what the people wanted to hear. He had held back the
really important and true facts until this new voyage. As the eighth voyage is not
part of the traditional story of Sinbad, Ḥāwī is at greater liberty to describe it and
structure its symbols as he likes. He combines Sinbad with the figure of Christ. The
shrouds, the cave, and the crack all symbolize Christ’s resurrection, which in the
Christian faith symbolizes victory over death and return to life. Sinbad/Christ
represents a rebirth in the form of an Arab man who strives for knowledge, leaving
his place, his heritage, and his isolation to goes out in search of knowledge and truth.
In the second stanza, which is not shown here, Sinbad has a flashback and relates
in great detail elements of the place he had lived all his life. This description
provides a background against which Ḥāwī sets out to depict Oriental man in
general and Arab man in particular. He goes on to portray Oriental man's religious,
literary, and political heritage for this heritage shapes the Oriental personality,
governs his life, and leads to his backwardness.
In this same stanza, we also encounter a large number of cultural symbols Sinbad
had found drawn on his house’s walls so that he saw them whenever he moved
about. The walls and symbols provide Ḥāwī with a rich medium for selecting his
own private culture and envisioning the heritage constituting Sinbad's background
and determining his horizons. Among these symbols are Moses, Sodom, Baal, al-
Maʿarrī, Eve, and the serpent; drawn from various sources and cultures, most
originate in Greek or Phoenician mythology. The poet then goes on to explain the
effect these myths have produced the East throughout history, engendering spasms,
blindness, and paralysis from generation to generation.48
The third stanza contains another flashback describing the "drawings’" effects on
Sinbad’s mind and how he freed himself from their influence after his voyages
exposed him to real life, in his words:
I moved away the corridor
And left it as an ancient shelter of ancient companions
I purified my house from the echo of their ghosts
Night and day […]
A white trance shut my eyes
I left my worn body
Full of wounds
47 Ḥāwī 2001: 256-257.

48 See: Ḥāwī 2001: 258-266.

To the waves and the winds.49

This detachment constitutes Sinbad's eighth, now internal journey. He entered a
trance enabling him to see things he could not see in reality. The waves and winds
are associations in Sinbad’s mind, whose thoughts wander and take him where they
will:
My home that was demolished
Rises from its ruins
The boards twitch
Unite and live like a green dome in spring […]
My heart is covered in grass
The iris pulses in it […]
Is this voice a call to love?50
New life thus begins to emerge from the ruins of his house, and the first impulse he
feels in this rebirth is one of love. It is as if Ḥāwī were saying that this "treasure"
holds the greatest value; it possesses a magical prescription for healing the East.
Next an entire stanza is devoted to love and to the girl who is its object; she
likely symbolizes the civilization Sinbad sees in his mind's eye. In his trance he
enters a dream or prophecy allowing him to imagine his civilization as brave and
strong, striding forth confidently:
My home is enduring the end of its waiting
For the fall of brave footsteps
Crushing the corals and pastures
In the land of house and fence
Mirror of my house, wash yourself
Of your frowning concern and the dust
Rejoice in the innocent sweetness.51
"Sinbad on his Eighth Journey" is an exceptionally long poem, fully taking up forty-
five pages in small font, but throughout there is surprisingly little mention of Sinbad
or of the events and symbols associated with his original story. Ḥāwī essentially
hides Sinbad behind the text, allowing his own private thoughts to flow
uninterruptedly. For this reason the text assumes great obscurity; it teems with
manifold symbols, numerous descriptions, repetitions, and mental associations that
clearly detach this poetic Sinbad from the original figure. The poem thus makes very
little use of Sinbad's tales, since here the figure takes on a new meaning. The text's
immersion in these mental associations increases its dramatic effect and brings it
49 Ibid.: 267-271.
50 Ibid.: 272-275.
51 Ibid.: 279-280.

close to the kind of mental literature for which the playwright Tawfīq al-Ḥakīm was
so well known.52 But at the end of the text Sinbad appears once again:
My seven journeys are stories about
The ogre, the devil and the cave […]
I squandered my capital and my commerce
And returned to you as a poet with good tidings
Who says what he says
With an instinct that feels what is inside the chapter's womb
That sees it before it is born in the chapters (also: seasons).53
This ending closes the circle and readers once again encounter Sinbad as in the
beginning, but he is no longer the Sinbad we know. He now rejects the seven
voyages on which he squandered his life. Not only is he lost, his countrymen are
also lost with him. The new Sinbad is civilized and aspires to attain truth and
knowledge, for himself and his readers. This Sinbad is a poet, as he so declares
himself, who does not embellish the past nor tells lies nor misleads the people with
artistic idealizations and exaggerations. Rather, he is a modern poet, bringing hope,
prophecy, and glad tidings.
The mask, Peritextuality, imitation, mixing of symbolism and accumulated
tradition, mental digression, and association are all techniques used prominently in
this text. In addition, I must add narration with its overwhelming intellectuality and
accompanying reduction in movement, resulting in a text demanding intellectual
interaction rather than emotional involvement. These features all turn the text into a
cultural discourse with which readers cannot possibly interact without having the
requisite cultural and intellectual knowledge. The folk symbols are thereby stripped
of their ability to mediate between a common reader and the text. Ḥāwī has
detached Sinbad from all his familiar folk associations and created a completely
different figure, so that even his most familiar symbols, such as the sea, ships, and
treasure, have lost their original meanings and become attached to the poet's
idiosyncratic ideas. This dense use of symbolism and other cultural materials makes
it difficult to interpret.
3.3.2.7 Sinbad: Counter-imitation and Peritextuality

Here I present two similar poetic experiments whose mutual proximity deserves
attention. These are Ṣalāḥ ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr's poem "Riḥla fī al-Layl" ("Night Journey")
in his collection al-Nās fī Bilādī (The People in My Country) (1957) and al-Sayyāb's
"Raḥala al-Nahār" ("The Day Has Gone Away") in his collection Manzil al-Aqnān
(House of Slaves) (1963). I here compare them even though al-Sayyāb's poem
52 See: Khoury 2007c. Al-Ḥakīm’s playwrights' intellectual and philosophical aspect and their
overall obscurity may be due to his education; he studied general and Arab philosophy at the
university (See: Campbell 1996, vol. 1: 456-457; Qabbish 1971: 696-697).
53 Ḥāwī 2001: 298-299.

belongs to the second chronological period, since it was published a few months into
it. However, I believe this deviation warrants justification due to the literary facts.
A perusal of these two poems shows they share a number of similarities, most
notably:
A. The titles: In both titles there is a journey, and an indication of time as well,
although their meanings are quite different. ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr's title intimates that a
journey was undertaken at night and he will proceed to speak about it,54 while al-
Sayyāb's title states that the day has come to an end, evoking negative
associations and meanings.
B. Both poems are sad.
C. In both, the figure of Sinbad symbolizes the poet.
This level of similarity can often be seen in poets from the same period. It is well-
known that ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr was artistically and personally at odds with al-Sayyāb, as
well as al-Bayātī; each read the others' poems trying to uncover errors of language or
prosody. It therefore comes as no surprise to find similarities in their poems.55
Regarding these particular poems, it would seem that al-Sayyāb was influenced
by ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr. I have two reasons for making this supposition: 1. ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr's
collection containing the poem in question was published in 1957, whereas al-
Sayyāb’s poem was published in 1962; 2. Al-Sayyāb published criticism of ʿAbd al-
Ṣabūr's poem, claiming it to contain metrical irregularities.56
Nevertheless, the symbol of Sinbad is used differently in each of the two poems.
For al-Sayyāb, Sinbad serves as a target on which he projects his life and
circumstances and to which he quite explicitly ascribes many of his own life events,
to such a degree that hardly a trace is left of the original figure, diminishing its
symbolic value. On the other hand, ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr makes Sinbad the title of a stanza
in the poem, and mentions his name therein no less than four more times, as well as
several elements associated with him, within the space of one-and-a-half small
pages. He thus makes greater use of the original tale of Sinbad than does al-Sayyāb,
and uses the figure as a symbol in more profound and complex ways. Here is the
relevant passage of al-SayyÁb's poem:
54 According to Shukrī night in this poem symbolizes loss (see: Shukrī 1968: 231-232).
55 See: ʿAbbās 1983: 233-234; idem 2001:21. See: also al-Sayyāb's criticism of ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr: al-
Gharfī 1986: 147-152.
56 See: al-Gharfī 1986: 148-149. Critics have noted that ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr's use of Sinbad represents
the first time this figure was used in modern Arabic poetry (See: Zāyid 1997: 159; Tawfīq
1997: 314). They do not provide specific evidence in support of this claim. In fact, although
ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr's collection was published in 1957, he nowhere stated when he actually wrote
the poem in question. In my research I learned that ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr's poem was in fact first
published in al-Ādāb in 1955 (See: al-Gharfī 1986: 149), making al-Sayyāb's poem "al-Asliḥa
wal-Aṭfāl" ("Arms and the Children") published in 1954 the first mainstream poem to use the
figure of SinbadSee: al-Sayyāb 1995, vol. 1: 564.

The day has gone

Its wick extinguished on a horizon that glows without fire
You sat and waited for Sinbad's return from his voyage
The sea shouts behind you with tempests and thunders
He will not return
Don't you know that the goddess of the seas imprisoned him
In a black fortress on an island of blood and oysters […]
Your locks did not protect Sinbad from destruction
They drank the salty water until their blond color became white and fell away
You sat and waited and your thoughts wandered dizzily:
"He will return. No. The ship sank from the ocean to the bottom
He will return. No. The shrieking tempests have seized him in their clutches
O Sinbad, will you not return?
Youth is nearly gone, the irises wilt on the cheeks […]"
The day has gone
The sea is wide and desolate. No song but its roar
Nothing is seen except a sail reeling from the storm, and nothing flies
Except your heart above the water, beating in expectance
The day has gone
You should go, the day has gone.57
One significant aspect of Sinbad's adventures is his constant return to Baghdad,
where he settled permanently after his seventh journey. Even after having visited so
many places around the world, he found no better city to spend the rest of his life.
But al-Sayyāb's Sinbad still does not return home after all this time, as if telling us
that he, that is al-Sayyāb, realizes he will not settle in his homeland; his extended
stay abroad and illness will eventually lead him to die far from home. He thus
compares himself to a lost Sinbad far from home; he has no compass and no way to
return. In fact, al-Sayyāb spent the last years of his life moving among Beirut,
London, and Kuwait, and died in exile. Al-Sayyāb's Sinbad has thus lost his way. He
does not journey for adventure or in search of treasure, but was forced to wander far
from home and greatly until his last breath.
In his final poems, al-SayyÁb's reworks Sinbad's biography, to draw a picture of
his journey through illness. They contain references to physical pain and mental
suffering, with emotions running the gamut from desperation to hope, from fear to
serenity, turning the story of Sinbad into a mirror of the feelings accompanying al-
Sayyāb in his last years of life. The figure of Sinbad signified him until his last
breath; it had become al-Sayyāb’s most important figure for expressing his
inclinations and emotions in the most profound and sincere ways.58 It would thus not
57 Al-Sayyāb 1995, vol. 1: 229-232.

58 See: al-Gharfī 1986: 198; cf. Tawfīq 1997: 314. For more on al-Sayyāb's infatuation with Sinbad
and the role this figure plays in his poetry see: ʿAwaḍ 1967: 81-82; ʿAbbās 1983:372; Ḥaddād, ʿA.
1986: 87, 207-208; idem, 1998:120-121, 140-141; Sharād 1998:290-291; Deyoung 1998: 98.

be an exaggeration to say that the figure of Sinbad and its development within al-
Sayyāb’s poetry provides a key mechanism for understanding its evolution through
various stages, for revealing the deep meanings of its symbols, and for entering into
al-Sayyāb’s troubled inner world.
The mature al-Sayyāb read the stories of The Arabian Nights, having already
heard them as a child in his grandfather's divan, and they remained connected to his
childhood.59 In alluding to Sinbad, al-Sayyāb recalls the childhood for which he
yearns while suffering from illness and facing approaching death. His memories
offer a distraction from the pain and the mortal dread enfolding him.
In the current poem we meet with an atypical Sinbad; it presents a Sinbad who
does not return home; this Sinbad is a powerless captive. His lover awaits him, but
he can never free himself and return to Baghdad. Here, al-Sayyāb undertakes a
counter-imitation of the original text. This kind of imitation arouses confusion and
conflict in readers torn between the poem and their knowledge of the legend.
Confusion leads readers to actively search for this reversal’s reason. Discovering it
to be based purely on paradox, rather than amuse, it creates a sense of absurdity,
even shock, awakening and grabbing hold of readers.
Al-Sayyāb composed the above mentioned poem while convalescing in Beirut,
far from home, so we may assume his themes of travel and longing for the homeland
are sincere and accurate reflections of his feelings. Its main motif appears in the title
itself, "The Day Has Gone," a phrase repeated several times within the text,
expressing al-Sayyāb’s lost hope of returning and the approaching night of eternal
slumber.
The poem speaks in two voices, the protagonist’s, a girl or wife awaiting
Sinbad’s return,60 and the narrator’s, who tells the story of her waiting. But the
narrator is an observer who also intervenes, attempting to control the protagonist's
behavior. He advises her not to wait, since he already knows Sinbad's fate,
conveying the impression that his voice is mingled with Sinbad’s, as well as with the
poet’s. Indeed, the speaker is at once Sinbad and the narrator, but semantically he is
the poet, powerless and unable to go back to what he once was.
In The Arabian Nights Sinbad returns, but al-Sayyāb's Sinbad does not. For in
his illness and even before, al-Sayyāb felt he would die in exile, that disease would
not leave him much time, a sentiment expressed in many of his later poems.61 Al-
Sayyāb tells us his story of sickness and desperation using a narrative storytelling
style containing all the elements of drama. At times, he narrates events, at others he
presents a monologue, and at still others he employs direct speech, namely when
59 See: Ḥaddād 1998: 110.

60 Al-Sayyāb in a letter states that his inspiration for this poem came from the nurse who cared for
him. The nurse had left a lock of her hair in a piece of paper, but his wife found it and threw it
out the window (al-Sāmirrāʾī 1994: 191; cf. Tawfīq 1997: 200).
61 See: al-Baṣrī 1966: 20; al-Warqī 1007: 68.

beseeching his beloved to cease waiting. This stylistic variation ameliorates

monotony, making the poem more exciting.
Al-Sayyāb raises the symbol of Sinbad from the level of lyricism and
documentation, turning it into a clever allusion whose meaning is not lost on
readers. The symbol here is very clear and transparent, so in line with al-Sayyāb’s
fragile state as to not require the deep contemplation demanded by complex uses of
symbolism. Al-Sayyāb did not place a burden that Sinbad's figure could not bear,
and thus it is able to express most faithfully al-Sayyāb's inner feelings. From the
original figure of Sinbad al-Sayyāb takes his maritime voyages, whereas everything
else comes from his own mind. Sinbad's journey is transformed from legend to
reality, from the seas to a real journey through pain and illness, generating a
singular, private Sinbad.
"The Day Has Gone" takes the form of a poetic story through the allegorical use
of symbols and allusions. The images and their meanings are ordered consecutively,
forming the symbols into a unified whole. Evolving throughout the text, the symbols
always retain contact with reality, reflecting it in an allegorical, didactic, and
semantic manner.62 Al-Sayyāb’s focus on events’ dramatic effects vividly conveys
his sufferings. However, this drama not detract from the text's poetic nature,
maintained by means of a constant rhyme scheme, poetic metaphors, and a
suggestive symbolism precluding the text from becoming a dry account.63
On the other hand, ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr adopts Sinbad's framework story of renouncing
further travel to regale drinking companions with tales of adventure. In ʿAbd al-
Ṣabūr’s poem readers sense The Arabian Nights’ atmosphere in a number places, but
he especially invokes it in the fourth stanza, entitled "Sinbad," where he says:
At the end of evening the pillow is filled with paper
Like the face of a dead mouse with mysterious writing
The forehead is moist with sweat
The smoke twists like an octopus
At the end of evening Sinbad returns (5)
The boat is at anchor
And in the morning the companions hold their gathering for regret
To hear the story of being lost in the sea of nothingness
Sinbad:
(Do not speak to the companion about the dangers of the road) (10)
(If you say to one who is awake "I am drunk" he will say "How?")
(Sinbad is like a storm, if he is calm he dies)
companions:
It is not possible, Oh Sinbad, for us to roam the countries!
62 See: Badawī 1986: 47-48; al-Qāḍī 1999: 239-240; Faḍl 1998a:144; Wādī 2000: 288.
63 For more on the use of this symbol in the poem, see: Ismāʿīl 1978: 207-212; Zāyid 1997: 156-158.

Here we lie with the women (15)

We plant vineyards
We press wine for winter
We read (the book) morning and evening
And when you return we rush to a gathering of regret
Where you tell us the story of being lost in the sea of nothingness64 (20)
ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr chose the stanza’s title consciously, to inform readers he is about to
speak about the well-known Sinbad, to relate a new story about him. As a
peritextual element, from the very beginning this title helps to evoke familiar images
and ideas about Sinbad and thus prepares readers for the new role of poet the poem
imparts on him. The clash between the original Sinbad and Sinbad the poet gives
rise to questions and comparisons inducing readers to form a new image to replace
original associations and help create and accept new meanings, even if only for a
moment.
ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr was one of the most important Arabic composers of poetic drama.
He frequently used a narrative style, making concessions to storytelling at the
expense of poetics, which explains his proclivity for poetic plays.65 In many of ʿAbd
al-Ṣabūr’s poems, dramatic elements are more prominent than emotions and poetics;
they contain little metaphor or evocative imagery and no unified rhyme scheme, but
make much use of the kind of clear and direct language characteristic of prose, as
well as narrative, dialogue, external depictions of the figures, and frequent use of
periods.66
ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr showed an interest in folklore generally and folktales in particular,
in addition to his prime interest, the Ṣūfī heritage. In drawing upon these sources, he
mitigated his poetry taking on a journalistic character, which could have resulted
from his use of simple language close to the colloquial, and yet retained simplicity
and clarity of expression.67 In his introduction to the poetry collection al-Nās fī
Bilādī (The People in My Country), ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr states: "This collection will
remain the only book of mine that makes me feel warmth when I touch it, because
my youth and innocence were burned into it", and right after that He admits he was
64 ÝAbd al-SabÙ 1972, vol. 1: 10-11.

65 ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr speaks of his experience composing such plays in ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr 1969: 114-120;
idem 1983: 53-54. He showed an early interest in prose fiction, claiming to have written two
short stories already in the early 1950s (see: ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr 1983: 36).
66 Faḍl calls this kind of writing "poetized narrative" and sees ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr as its most prominent
representative (see: Faḍl 1998a: 122-130, 124-132, 142); cf. al-Miṣrī 1983: 93; Zāyid 1998: 61;
Wādī 2000: 151.
67 See: Qmÿḥa 1987: 34; Juḥā 1999: 200. On ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr's Ṣūfī tendencies and sympathies see:
ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr (1969: 8-18) where he speaks about writing poetry from a Ṣūfī perspective;
Ḥāfiẓ 1985: 116-118; Bdÿr 1986: 72, 76 [footnotes], in the second of which Bdÿr speaks about
ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr's special interest in folklore and his writings on the subject in the magazine
Ṣabāḥ al-Khayr; al-Nuwayhī 1971: 106-107. See: also ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr's discussion of folktales
in ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr 1969: 98-99.

greatly influenced by the children's stories he had heard, especially during his initial
writing stages68. This early formation is confirmed by many scholars, who note how
his attachment to the style of folk storytelling was born of the stories his
grandmother had told him as a child.69
In this collection ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr particularly strives to find ways to communicate
with his readers, selecting simple language, everyday themes, use of folk materials,
and drama over poetics. ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr himself addresses this issue: "In [this]
collection…I was more concerned with what is called content. I wanted to reach my
reader as directly as possible."70
"Night Journey" is a very good example of this aspect of ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr’s poetry.
We see him exploiting his storytelling powers to the fullest, opening the “tale” with
the narrator laying groundwork for events to come (lines 1-5). We can then conclude
that ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr goes on to relate his poetic experiences—the suffering, effort,
sweat, smoking, and struggle accompanying his writing, as evinced by the sheaves
of paper amassed all around and lines that appear like "mysterious words."
ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr next adopts the figure of Sinbad to represent him in the text. This
is a Sinbad who returns home, who lives an orderly life, anchors his boat in the
evening, and waits his drinking companions to come hear his stories about being lost
"in the sea of nothingness." Such gatherings and the sea are well-known themes in
the stories of Sinbad. However, in this poem the friends do not gather in order to
drink together, but to listen to what Sinbad has discovered. Nor does Sinbad actually
sail in the "sea of nothingness." Although the original Sinbad went on long voyages,
he always returned healthy in body and spirit. This Sinbad’s states of loss,
nothingness, and regret thus belong to the poet himself which, together with his
monologue and Sinbad's companions’ speech, reveal the poem's deeper meaning.
Whenever ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr decides to employ a certain allusion, he chooses those
of its details that most closely align with his own thoughts while omitting others.
Here we see ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr merely mentioning the framework of the Sinbad stories,
focusing on those times he was lost, without ever hinting that he was always
rescued. We thus see ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr’s skill in choosing appropriate aspects of the
original story, which he then creatively re-forms to fit his own specific
circumstances, thereby giving the poem a symbolic hue with words that do not
simply stand on their own. By comparing himself to Sinbad, ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr creates a
beautiful poetic depiction of his experience. He crosses seas of poetry, feelings, and
thoughts that he then recognizes as seas of emptiness, loss, and estrangement, while
his drinking companions, that is his readers, listen to his poetry and feel regret or a
pang of conscience ("hold a gathering of regret").
In the original story, Sinbad’s drinking companions had no other function than to
serve as his avid listeners, whereas in ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr’s poem they play an active role.
68 See: ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr 1962: 5.

69 See: al-Dīb 1962: 29-30; al-Miṣrī 1983: 11, 22-23.
70 Al-Miṣrī 1983: 39; cf. ibid: 78; al-Dīb 1962: 20.

They speak and argue with Sinbad, but he does not reply. The companions define
Sinbad’s role as narrating how he became lost and making them feel regret, while
their role is to listen. Their relationship is one of sender and receiver, a relationship
that binds ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr to his readers:
Receiver Sender
At the artistic level Sinbad Drinking companions
At the semantic level The poet Readers (the public)
The question remains as to the techniques ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr uses to arouse in readers
pangs of conscience and regret. The answer lies in the lines that come next. ʿAbd al-
Ṣabūr presents a number of bracketed utterances by Sinbad (lines 10-13) indicating
direct speech between Sinbad/the poet and himself (a dialogue), or perhaps that give
expression to his mental struggle which Sinbad reads to his companions.
Following comes a dialogue in which the companions try to make the poet stand
with Sinbad, but we do not hear Sinbad's external voice, that is, his voice speaking
to others. From the internal monologue and the companions' comments we can
deduce there exists a contradiction between the views of Sinbad/the poet and those
of the companions/the public. Sinbad must be committed to continue the poetic
journeys that lie so heavily on his soul, because to cease traveling would mean his
death (lines 10-12), and yet the companions refuse to accompany him in this
impossible journey (line 14).
ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr expresses a state of mental detachment between sender and
receiver that makes Sinbad's travels useless and absurd. If he writes to connect with
readers and urge them to join him in his intellectual journey and his audience does
not reply, then his journey becomes senseless (travel "in the sea of nothingness").
The rupture in communication between sender and receiver is caused by the
audience according Sinbad; his readers refuse to roam the country, to uncover truth
and suffer the pains of rebellion that he suffers. His companions are lazy and want
his stories to come ready-made, without doing anything. ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr introduces a
note of disappointment in the people, something many poets have expressed since
the mid-1960s, disappointment that precipitated their abandon of social
commitment, making them sink into themselves and move away from their society
under a thick cover of symbols and mysterious words.
ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr's society only wants to have sex with women, to drink wine and
read "the book" all day long, and then sit and hear stories of grief, tragedy, regret,
and loss in a kind of masochistic orgy. Rather than civilized, aware behavior, these
acts of irrational hedonism, indicating a state of lethargy, submission, frustration,
and loss of self-confidence, control over the people of ÝAdb al-ÑabÙr. It remains to
be noted that "the book" he deliberately places in quotes may refer to the Qurʾān,

thus the act of reading within a climate of routine, lethargy, and conservativism
provides additional evidence of society’s stagnation and paralysis.71
In all these ways, ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr gives new dimensions to the symbol of Sinbad,
albeit not as easily discerned al-Sayyāb’s, so readers must work harder. ʿAbd al-
Ṣabūr adopts a philosophical and rational perspective on social issues, whereas al-
Sayyāb undertakes an urgent personal issue in an impressionistic manner so that his
poem retains simplicity and clarity. Comparing ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr's poem with al-
Sayyāb's displays the broad range of possibilities the figure of Sinbad offers poets,
its ability to express various states and situations. The two works also testify to the
flexibility of folk symbolism, which when variously used expresses various
meanings, whether emotional, personal, mental, or political.
3.3.3 The use of the figure of Scheherazade

We make Scheherazade’s acquaintance in the framework story of The Arabian
Nights. She plays the role of narrator of the fabulous tales, a role she undertakes
with great sensitivity, cleverly managing to attract her husband and arouse his desire
by interrupting her account each time the story reaches a climax, leaving her
husband longing to hear more. Clearly, Scheherazade possesses a more complex
personality and occupies a more important position in the framework story than does
her husband, Shahryar, evidenced by her managing to produce a fundamental
change in his personality. In fact, she creates him anew, transforming him from a
despotic ruler into a crying baby. Her combination of wisdom, loyalty, sacrifice, and
originality, in addition to careful planning and virtuous motherhood, give
Scheherazade this transformative power. She constitutes the perfect model woman
in The Arabian Nights, one that differs markedly from most of the female characters
encountered within the stories, who are as a whole treacherous, immoral, and
dissolute.72 Her figure can provide an important source of inspiration for
contemporary writers, who live in an age of women's liberation, when women's
issues have become among the most important topics discussed on a global level and
in the Arab world.73 The basic facets of the figure of Scheherazade presented in The
Arabian Nights that can be used by writers are as follows:
A. Scheherazade the skillful manager: Scheherazade succeeds in building a
bridge to reach her husband, clearly a mentally disturbed man who nearly ended
Scheherazade’s life, just as he had ended the lives of her predecessors. Her wits
71 Zāyid presents a similar analysis. He argues that Sinbad symbolizes al-Ṣabūr's voyage in search
of the poetic spark, enduring hardship at the psychological, physical, spiritual, and other levels
in order to attain that spark (see: Zāyid 1998: 36-39).
72 See: al-Musawi 2009: 2-3. About the different roles that the female played in the Arabian
Nights, see: al-MÙsawÐ 2000: 347-370.
73 Bdÿr briefly discusses the titles of some Egyptian plays addressing the figure of Scheherazade
from specific perspectives (see: Bdÿr 1986: 90).

enable her to triumph over her husband's illness and overcome his brutality. She
brings him back to his senses from a state where he could have remained for the rest
of his life. This depiction makes her an exemplary model of the loyal wife, who
succeeds in placating her husband and managing her household skillfully, patiently,
lovingly, and wisely.
B. Scheherazade the sacrificing woman: Scheherazade voluntarily chooses to
endanger her life and remains determined to carry out her humane mission in order
to save her father's life and the lives of her fellow women. She places herself in the
hands of the embittered king, knowing full well that by doing so she risks her own
life. Scheherazade's personality combines courage, determination, studying the
situation, creative planning, and wise execution. Her strengths contribute to her fate
as the sole savior, not only of the kingdom’s women and of her father, but also of
the king and his kingdom, which she delivered from the total destruction and
oblivion the king's insane rage and hatred would have caused.
Here is the nationalist facet of Scheherazade's personality, an important aspect
that suits the horizons of modern poetry, offering an important symbol for personal
sacrifice and work on behalf of collective salvation. In modern times poets have
adopted the principle of commitment to their nation's problems and taken it as their
responsibility to express their people's pain and unsilence their voices. Wrapped in
poetic ecstasy, many of these poets imagined themselves the redeeming Messiah or
al-Ḥallāj, who sacrificed his life in adherence to his faith. Scheherazade can be
united with poets' mystical tendencies to become yet another example of sacrifice,
albeit one that differs from other sacrificing figures in that she is a woman.
C. Scheherazade-an odalisque sold into slavery: In the original story,
Scheherazade is a victim both of her father's helplessness and the king's insanity.
She would certainly not have had to endanger herself had it not been for the men’s
foolishness. For three years, she essentially lives as her husband’s slave, imprisoned
by his distrust of women and his lack of faith in himself. She is in constant fear for
her life, until she ultimately kneeled before him and begs for absolution.
Scheherazade can thus serve as a suitable example for a whole class of Arab women
at the mercy of their husbands, who suffer the burden of social laws and popular
tradition that treat them solely as men’s servants. Poets can use Scheherazade to
express sympathy with women’s plight, opposition to unjust laws, and support for
treating women justly—for liberating women and reviving the paralyzed half of
Arab civilization, whose paralysis has nearly brought about the other half’s paralysis
as well.
D. Scheherazade who seduces with her eloquence: In effect, Scheherazade steals
Shahryar's mind, takes it into the world of the subconscious, of spells and magic,
and conveys him on a journey through nightmares and dreams, imposing sleep and
ensuring that he remain a slave to her stories. She enchants him to ask her every
night to continue her stories, as if he were living through them, or as if he had begun
to feel they were healing his spirit. From this perspective writers may see in
Scheherazade an inventive person, who charms with her eloquence and heals with

her tales, giving proof that invention can intervene in even the harshest realities and
bring about change. Scheherazade thus symbolizes committed creativity used in
ways that benefit its surroundings and returns life to those who have lost it. She can
represent the source of all wisdom and knowledge, a figure who collects
information, travels the world, retains stories, sayings, and maxims, and uses them
all in the service of the people.74
These are the most salient features of the figure of Scheherazade. I will now
discuss the ways Arab poets in modern times have used them, their techniques for
evoking this figure, and any differences in the ways it has been used in different
periods.
3.3.3.2 Scheherazade: allusion and Peritextuality

The first canonical poem to drawn upon a symbol from The Arabian Nights was al-
Sayyāb's "Fī Layālī al-Kharīf" ("In the Nights of Autumn"), composed on
September 17, 1948. This is a romanticist poem of grief over a lost love, recalling
with sadness and longing days and nights of lovemaking. The autumn weather puts
al-Sayyāb in a mood of reflective gloom and feel as if he were listening to a musical
composition entitled "Scheherazade," which in turn increases his longing and sense
of loss.75
Despite naming the well-known folk figure, this allusion is not taken from The
Arabian Nights, but originates with a musical work by Russian composer Rimsky
Korsakov (d. 1908), as al-Sayyāb notes on the poem's margins,76 thereby depriving
this figure of all meaning or symbolism, effectively making it only a passing name.
If not for this note, readers would be hard-pressed to discover the true source of al-
Sayyāb’s inspiration, and may well conclude that it is indeed The Arabian Nights.
The margin note, as peritext, informs readers of al-Sayyāb’s source and serves to
delimit the allusion’s meaning so not to ascribe it a more far-reaching intention.
While I could have refrained from considering this allusion, since it does not
originate directly in folk literature, I believe that the very mention of Scheherazade's
name cannot help but evoke The Arabian Nights, even if only for a tiny moment
before reading the margin note. On the other hand, clearly Korsakov was influenced
by the Arabic folktale, and perhaps this piece of music drew upon his imagination
and feelings towards it. Thus through this piece of music, al-Sayyāb was indirectly
affected by the folktale, even if unintentionally. Whatever the truth of the matter,
this kind of influence was superficial and simple. Removing or replacing it with
74 Tawfīq al-Ḥakīm made dramatic use of this aspect of the figure of Scheherazade in his play
Shahrzād (Scheherazade) (see: al-Ḥakīm [no date]; Khoury 2007c: 198-199, 211-212).
75 See: the poem al-Sayyāb 1995, vol. 1: 65-69.
76 Ibid.: 68.

some other musical composition’s title would not affect the poem's general
meaning.77
3.3.3.3 Scheherazade as symbol of the fighting Arab woman: Imitation

Al-Bayātī is one of the most prominent Arabic poets to have used the poetic
technique of the mask. According to the scholar Sulaiman Jubrān, al-Bayātī began to
use this technique profusely during his stay in Cairo (1964-1968) as a theoretical
counterbalance "to overcome both his personal and external crises." Regarding
"external crisis" Jubrān names the Arab defeat, whereas al-Bayātī’s "personal crisis"
was his exile—his wandering among the capitals of the world, feelings suffering,
solitude, deprivation, grief, and frustration.78 During the first period, al-Bayātī was
the only poet to make extensive and profound use of the figure of Scheherazade,
which he developed into an important poetic symbol. In his poem "Al-Ḥarīm" ("The
Harem"), from the collection Abārīq Muhashshama (Smashed Jars; 1954) he says:
"Your lips are a wound that still bleeds (1)
Onto our pillow through the night, my bird,
A wound that bleeds"
Her knight continues to sing under her balcony: "Throughout
The night, thousands of wives (5)
Are born and then die at dawn, except for you, my beautiful dream […]"
Green turbans and hunters of flies […]
Clouds of opium and the ancient orient […]
Hulagu and Hārūn al-Rashīd are still here
And Mecca's poor are still on the road […] (10)
Her knight returns singing: "You are no longer Scheherazade!
-the time is overdo –
A body auctioned off in the city's markets
A body to be sold
O you, my bird, Scheherazade!" […] (15)
Her knight returns, singing under her balcony:
"My life, Scheherazade!
Was like the life of other people, like a blister in the air
Until I bore my weapon with me
The weapon of our rebellion against the ancient orient (20)
And tore down the harem's walls."79
77 Ḥāwī (2001: 149) also mentions Scheherazade as part of his ancient heritage, in what seems to
be another passing allusion.
78 See: Jubrān 1989: 176-178; cf. ʿAlī 1995: 21-40; al-ʿAllāq 1997: 26; al-Rabīʿī 1999: 374; al-
Wahāybī 1999: 164, 168-172; ʿAbbās 2001: 121.
79 Al-Bayātī 1972, vol. 1: 266-269.

Scherazade’s name and other expressions are all connected in one way or another to
her story as it appears in The Arabian Nights. However, al-Bayātī views this figure
from a different perspective. For him she symbolizes Arab women in the East,
where they are still treated like slaves sold at auction. Al-Bayātī thus transforms the
symbol to suit his social message, to express his anger and criticism of the
oppressive society that denies women their legitimate rights.
Al-Bayātī divides the poem’s figures into two parts: A) Evil figures, represented
by backward, oppressive men such as Hulagu and Hārūn al-Rashīd; and B) Good
figures, represented by the knight who serenades Scheherazade under her balcony,
signifying the poet's alter ego in the technique of the mask. Next to the poet stands
Scheherazade, especially at the end of the poem, who joins him in struggling to
liberate the East from its backwardness and its outdated views of women.
Scheherazade symbolizes Arab women aware of their rights and striving to obtain
them.
In "Al-Ḥarīm" the figure of Scheherazade occupies an important position. She is
mentioned repeatedly throughout to such an extent that the poem cannot be
understood without considering her figure. Furthermore, these allusions naturally
evoke Shahryar and his crimes, a story of severe oppression and humiliation of
women. It is indeed strange that given the context Shahryar is not even once
mentioned by name, however he is still alluded to indirectly, especially in lines 5-6,
where his crimes are declared. It would appear that al-Bayātī decided to name
Hulagu and Hārūn al-Rashīd rather than Shahryar, since both of these figures were
just as ferocious and oppressive. As symbols in the poem evoke the story of
Scheherazade and Shahryar they convey an expanded picture of injustice, expressing
al-Bayātī’s thoughts so very clearly that readers can perceive them in all their multi-
faceted dimensions, precisely because their minds recall the story of Scheherazade
and its momentous events.
From another perspective, by taking on the form of a troubadour, al-Bayātī tries
to take a distance from himself in order to express his thoughts more objectively.
However, this move does not detract from the lyrical nature characterizing the poet's
spirit, which becomes clear through direct declarative depictions of the knight. It is
also worth noting that al-Bayātī ends the poem with an explicit statement of its
message and content by having Scheherazade, the Arab woman, call for taking up
arms, fight against the backward East, and tear down the harem walls. The word
"harem" in the poem and as its title presents a highly suggestive theme. The word in
Arabic (ḥarīm) has associations with "prohibition" (taḥrīm), "deprivation" (ḥirmān),
and "sin" (ḥarām), from all of which Arab women suffer. Their negative
connotations reflect Arab society’s backward view on women.80
80 For more on the use of Scheherazade as a symbol with this meaning in contemporary Arabic
poetry in general see: Zāyid 1997: 160-162.

3.3.3.4 Scheherazade: Borrowing and Peritextuality

The narrator ends the original stories told by Scheherazade with the words: "But
morning overtook Scheherazade and she lapsed into silence." One of the most
prominent elements of The Arabian Nights, this phrase has become a characteristic
folk saying indicating someone has stopped speaking or fallen silent for some reason
or other, in addition to generating other meanings by alluding to its origin. I
therefore maintain that its use in this poem is particularly important, more so than
the figure of Scheherazade, because it encompasses three distinct dimensions: 1. The
atmosphere of The Arabian Nights, immediately evoked upon reading this
expression; 2. The indirect allusion to the figure of Scheherazade, which readers
recognize even if she is not explicitly named or if another name is used instead,
because she is so closely connected to this saying; 3. A recognized style of the
narration. The expression consists of two linked and chronologically consecutive
verbal clauses, so that the second action follows and results from the first. This kind
of verbal succession is regularly used in narrative fiction to relate events in their
order of occurrence. This particular expression also takes us directly to the
conclusion of the stories of The Arabian Nights.
This expression’s use differs from one poet to another. Some poets introduce its
narrative features into their poetry while others employ the allusion to highlight a
state of tyranny under which they suffer as did Scheherazade. The expression entices
poets because it is couched in rhymed prose, requiring them to simply place it within
the proper metric scheme. By putting this expression into a poem, poets announce
they are imitating the storytelling style or combining poetry with storytelling. It thus
plays a role in signaling the text's genre, exemplifying Genette’s architextuality.
As with the figure of Scheherazade, al-Bayātī was the first canonical Arab poet
to make substantive use of this expression, letting it participate in constructing both
a poem’s meaning and form, at a time when his fellow poets did not use it at all. In
his poem "Al-Amīr al-Saʿīd" ("The Happy Prince") from the collection Al-Majd lil-
Aṭfāl wal-Zaytūn (Glory to Children and Olive Trees; 1956) al-Bayātī says:
… And the morning has overtaken, Scheherazade
And she became silent: The same grief
Came back to me, the sense of loss
While you strolled in my garden
My lord the prince!
By yourself, happy
Dreaming of the beautiful little princess
In her pink castle, on a swing of light […]
And so, o prince
The heart is consumed by fire and nothing but ash remains
The morning has overtaken, Scheherazade
And she became silent: The same grief
Came back to me, the sense of loss […]

My stories, o little ones,

Have ended, and in the coming moonlit night
I will tell you another story about the hunter and the griffon.81
The narrative elements and features occurring in the above excerpt appear with great
frequency in folktales. Here al-Bayātī poeticizes them and incorporates the well-
known expression from Scheherazade's stories to give his poem a story-like
character. Al-Bayātī repeats the expression in a number of places, summoning a
storytelling atmosphere, and the story/poem ends in the same stimulating style of
Scheherazade, stopping mid-story so that Shahryar must await its continuation the
following night.
Note that al-Bayātī somewhat altered the expression to conform to its new poetic
context, its form and meter, putting Scheherazade after the verb to end the line with
the proper rhyme and adhere to the rajaz meter:
˘ˉ ˘ˉ‖ ˉ ˉ ˘ˉ‖ ˘ˉ ‫ﺍﻷﻣﻴﺮ‬

ْ ‫ﻭﻫﻜﺬﺍ ﻳﺎ ﺃﻳّﻬﺎ‬
ˉ ˘˘ˉ‖ ˉ ˘˘ˉ‖ ˉ ˉ ˘ˉ‖ ˘ˉ ‫ ﻭﻻ ﻳﺒﻘﻰ ﺳﻮﻯ ﺍﻟﺮﻣﺎ ْﺩ‬،‫ﻳﺤﺘﺮﻕ ﺍﻟﻘﻠﺐ‬
˘ˉ ˘ˉ‖ ˘ˉ ˘ˉ‖ ˘ˉ ‫ ﺷﻬﺮﺯﺍ ْﺩ‬،‫ﻭﺃﺩﺭﻙ ﺍﻟﺼﺒﺎﺡ‬
˘˘˘ˉ‖ ˘ˉ ‫ﻓﺴﻜﺘﺖ ﻭﻋﺎ ْﺩ‬
The poem opens with an ellipsis, implying this text is a story preceded by another.
Furthermore, the opening passage announces the end of one tale and the beginning
of another, as does the passage with which the poem ends, conveying there is an
endless series of stories about the poet, his life, and especially his love. At the
poem’s conclusion he addresses children, but only in order to say his love stories are
like exciting children's tales too fantastic to be believed. The prince strolling through
the poet's garden, desiring the beautiful princess, and speaking to the poet
throughout the poem is actually a mental reflection of al-Bayātī and his struggle.
The poet realizes his dream and personal fantasy through the figure of the prince and
then speaks with him, describing his actions and interpreting his emotions. Al-
Bayātī thus indirectly transmits his queries and mental struggles to readers by using
the double technique, leading the poem away from its lyrical nature and giving it a
more objective hue.
On a substantive level, Scheherazade's silence returns the poet to a sense of loss,
grief, and solitude, as if her story had for the moment made him forget. The poet
thereby puts himself in Shahryar's place and adopts his mentality; he is a ruler living
in a state of bitter struggle with a constant sense of grief, loss, and solitude when
outside the bounds of Scheherazade's stories. However, he ignores this figure's
injustice and backwardness. The poet thus struggles against cruel solitude, sense of
loss, and grief, moving between his conscious self and his subconscious. He lives a
81 Al-Bayātī 1972, vol. 1: 294-296.

conscious life of necessity, pain, and despair, yet when the opportunity presents
itself, he loses himself in his subconscious to fly on the wings of unrealistic dreamy
romanticism to princes’ palaces and princesses’ embraces, and thereby finds peace.
Al-Bayātī clearly demonstrates a romanticist tendency, by which he expresses
rejection of his miserable state in real life and a fervent desire to live inside his
imagination among unrealizable aspirations. By evoking Scheherazade, al-Bayātī
brings to life this struggle between reality and imagination. By bringing the two
worlds together and moving between them, he exploits the fact that the mere
mention of Scheherazade's name and the phrase associated with her stories arouses a
world of legends in readers’ minds.
Here folk material thus plays an important substantive and formal role, dividing
the text into the two worlds of reality and imagination that struggle mightily within
al-Bayātī's soul. It also provides the text a number of storytelling elements, enriching
it and conferring it greater objectivity and connectedness to readers. Scheherazade's
expression contributes to a folksy Arabian Nights-like atmosphere, effectively
stamping the poem with features from another genre in the technique of architext.82
Once again we see the value of rhymed narrative verse and the multiple possibilities
it offers poets to readily craft a poem incorporating a popular dramatic style.
3.3.4 The use of other symbols from The Arabian Nights

The Arabian Nights are full of inspiring symbols, many of which have not yet been
utilized, and others not yet fully developed by poets, who have tended to focus on
the better-known figures, such as Sinbad, Scheherazade, and Aladdin, and ignore
others. In this period only one poet, ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr, used one such "marginal"
symbol, in his poem "Anāshīd al-Gharām" ("Love Hymns") in the collection Al-Nās
fī Bilādī (The People in My Country), in which he says:
Your lips said yes
While I was thrown onto the flying carpet as a delighted god
Your lips spoke "no"…
And I was confused.83
It is a love poem with many erotic passages in which the poet expresses love and
powerful passion for a girl. Her "yes" bewitches him, making him feel he is floating
above the world, while her "no" makes him struggle within himself. The poet
reaches a high degree of excitation and enters a sense of enchantment as if in a myth
or legend, thus symbols from legends are expected to appear and conform to the
spirit of the text. ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr evokes the flying carpet, associating it with the word
82 The phrase "she was silent and the morning overtook her" is used as an allusion in another
poem by al-Bayātī, "al-Āfāq" ("Horizons"), in the collection Abārīq Muhashshama (Smashed
Jars), but there the allusion does not attain the same artistic level as in the text under discussion
here (see: al-Bayātī 1972, vol. 1: 238).
83 ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr 1972, vol. 1: 73.

"god" to convey the power of his metaphysical imaginings; he views himself sitting
above the wind, towering over humankind.
Stylistically the poem has lyrical personal qualities and contains a variety of
different images, but it singularly focuses on one issue, and thus does not produce an
atmosphere of dramatic development. The symbol’s use here is superficial, taking
the form of an allusion that indirectly expresses happiness and delight.
3.3.5 Use of other figures from The Arabian Nights: ʿAjīb b. al-Khaṣīb
In addition to Shahryar and Aladdin, the figures thus far discussed are those
appearing most frequently in contemporary Arabic poetry. Numerous other figures
appearing in The Arabian Nights have been completely ignored. Desiring to connect
to the common people, Arab poets have focused on those figures appearing most
prominently in the popular memory.
Indeed, the popularity and obscurity of these characters is not random. Popular
memory tends to select those figures representing certain living human models or
reflecting people's emotional life, concepts, desires, and dreams. Those figures
mentioned in poems best correspond with the spirit of the common man in general
and especially with those of contemporary poets. They identify with the people's
concerns and issues, which have entered their own lives, occupying their thoughts
and leading them, consciously or not, to choose materials that conform to those of
the people. And yet al-Bayātī makes a passing allusion to the story of Ali Baba and
the Forty Thieves84 and ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr makes an unusual and dramatic use of the
figure of ʿAjīb b. al-Khaṣīb.
3.3.5.2 ʿAjīb b. al-Khaṣīb: Peritextuality, allegory and the mask

ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr published his poem "Mudhakkarāt al-Malik ʿAjīb b. al-Khaṣīb"
("Memoirs of King ʿAjīb b. al-Khaṣīb") in the collection Aḥlām al-Fāris al-Qadīm
(Dreams of the Ancient Knight) in 1964. However, after some research I learned that
it had first been published in 1961, making it part of the first stage.85 ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr
took the lesser-known figure of ʿAjīb b. al-Khaṣīb from the story "The Porter with
the Daughters." In the original story, he is called "Ibn al-Khaṣīb" with "ʿAjīb"
(literally: "marvelous") added as an epithet, indicating the miracles he performs in
the course of his adventures.
Ibn al-Khaṣīb is a wealthy king who one day decides to leave his country and go
on a sea voyage. His ship is borne by the wind to a magnetic mountain. It crashes
there, killing most of the travelers, but Ibn al-Khaṣīb survives. On the island he
84 See: the poem "Ughniyat al-Maḥkūm ʿAlayh bil-Iʿdām" ("Song of the Condemned Man") in the
collection Kalimāt lā Tamūt (Immortal Words): al-Bayātī 1972, vol. 1: 588 ("Iftaḥ yā Simsim"
["Open Sesame"])
85 See: ʿAlī 1995: 31.

hears a voice asking him to dismantle a copper statue of a knight. It is this knight
who draws in ships and sinks them. The voice promises that if Ibn al-Khaṣīb does as
asked, the sea will rise and a ship will appear to take him back to his country. The
voice asks him not to mention Allāh's name for as long as he sails on the returning
ship. Ibn al-Khaṣīb does as asked and everything happens as the voice promises.
After sailing for ten days he approaches an island and calls out Allāh's name,
whereupon the ship's captain casts him into the sea and he swims to shore. There he
mounts a horse that he finds. The horse flies into the air, places him on a roof, and
then strikes him with its tail, causing him to lose his eye. He eventually returns to
Baghdad, where he shaves his beard and becomes a beggar.86
ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr used this figure even though it is not well known. As he openly
stated, ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr used this as a mask to express his concerns,87 thus producing
his first "mask" poem.88 Notably, ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr's first artistic mask is taken from the
Arabian Nights folk heritage. It exemplifies folk symbols’ significance in ʿAbd al-
Ṣabūr’s emotional life as well as their ability to transmit his messages in a live and
authentic manner.
With the figure of Ibn al-Khaṣīb, ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr combines two stories and two
times within a single personality. He draws it from the historical heritage but
projects onto it his own contemporary preoccupations, thus leading to "a broadening
of the work's scope which came to encompass a wider and more extensive world by
making the work present a human dimension in which what comes from the self is
united with what transpired historically."89
This dialectic relationship between what is and what was can even be perceived in
the poem’s title, "Memoirs of King ʿAjīb b. al-Khaṣīb." The term "memoirs" is
modern, while the figure that is said to compose them is historical. As a peritext, the
title informs us from the start that the events to be related combine the past and present
wherein ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr selects those events appropriate to the present and imposes on
them his own personal and contemporary interpretation. The temporal dialectic
expressed in the title contains an allusion telling readers the events and figures they
will meet are real and contemporary despite wearing a mask from the past.
In The Arabian Nights itself, Ibn al-Khaṣīb tells his story using the flashback
technique, narrating reminiscences in the first person. ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr chose the same
figure for his narration and put the word "memoirs" in his poem's title, making it
clear that this time, too, Ibn al-Khaṣīb narrates his own story. With his title, ʿAbd al-
Ṣabūr tells readers that before him lies an architext that is part memoir, part story,
and part poem. He divides his poem into six stanzas, the first of which provides
background to his story, telling of how Ibn al-Khaṣīb inherits his kingdom from his
forefathers by right and not by force. However, at the court of his father, things are
86 See: The Arabian Nights 1997, vol. 1: 83-87; cf. ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr 1969: 101.
87 ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr 1969: 101; cf. Qmÿḥa 1987: 34; Zāyid 1997: 166.
88 See: ʿAlī 1995: 28; Qmÿḥa 1987: 34.
89 ʿAlī 1995: 32; cf. Badawī 1986: 249.

not as they should be: "His painter… was the queen's lover."90 Ibn al-Khaṣīb thus
doubts his parentage. In the second stanza, Ibn al-Khaṣīb goes on to relate events
that occur prior to him taking his father’s place on the throne:
My father's castle in the forest of the sea monster
Clamors with hypocrites, fighters and educators
Among them my own faithful teacher Georgias
A Christian pederast.91
This stanza points to a state of uncertainty in the palace. Instead of a haven of safety
protected by soldiers, it stands in the forest of the sea monster, signifying fear,
ferocity, and treachery. Inside the palace is no better, being filled with the clamor of
hypocrites. And most alarming of all, the man responsible for educating the throne’s
heir, who will lead the country after the king’s death, is not only a Christian but also
a pederast, in a Muslim country (as The Arabian Nights makes clear).
ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr’s corrupt palace reflects a corrupt society that has lost its balance.
For if the head is so corrupt, how can the body be any different? The head leads the
body and determines its fate. ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr adopts a pessimistic and despairing
view of his society's situation. For him it is corrupt, with no decent values. Readers
may thus expect Ibn al-Khaṣīb to follow the ways of his educator the pederast,
whose values contradict those original to his society.
Formally the second stanza uses narrative like the first, giving the impression of
following an ancient legend, enhanced by the words "sea monster." Here ʿAbd al-
Ṣabūr defines spatial bounds (the king's palace in the forest of the sea monster) in
the usual storytelling manner, in addition to employing rhymed prose, demonstrating
its appropriateness for narration and flexibility for reporting events. In the first line
ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr states the location very concisely and with no verbal manipulations
that could have required the choice of a different meter. Also notice how the stanza’s
contents run into each other, so that the lines can be read consecutively until its end
without stops or gaps. This stylistic device is very common in contemporary poetry
and rather rare in traditional verse, due to strict adherence to a rhyme scheme and
the view that poems consist of semantically and stylistically disconnected parts. Had
this stanza been written in the form of regular prose lines, it would have
unequivocally seemed as part of a prose tale.
The third stanza is closely connected to its predecessor. There ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr
presents the pederast educator’s philosophical principles which were passed on to
Ibn al-Khaṣīb. This logical sequence of events demonstrates ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr’s
narrative skill; previous events cause those that follow without unanticipated jumps.
The educator passes two kinds of philosophies onto his student: 1) an existentialist
approach containing existential truths such as the unavoidability and meaning of
90 See: ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr 1972, vol. 1: 253.

91 Ibid.: 253-254.

death; 2) a social philosophy consisting mainly of a stern warning not to trust

women as they tend to be treacherous.
For this stanza ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr used the mutadārak meter, which has richer
possibilities than the rajaz of the first two stanzas. It has enjoyed great popularity
among poets in recent times due to its rhythm, well-suited to spoken expression, and
its narrative-like nature, far removed from a strict poetic meter. The basic foot of
this meter is fāʿilun while its short vowel version is faʿilun or faʿlun, the latter
consisting of closed syllables that sound similar the dropped case endings
characteristic of spoken language. This meter thus opens the way to incorporating
the colloquial, or at least makes the language of poetry more similar to that of
speech, thus giving a text a more popular character.92 ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr was a pioneer in
this approach and showed great flexibility in the ways he coped with poetic
restrictions. In fact, he was frequently attacked for his prolific use of colloquial
expressions and simplifying poetry’s language to such an extent that it took on the
character of direct prose speech. In the wake of the 1961 publication of his
collection Aqūlu Lakum (I Say to You), in which this tendency is very clearly
present, many critics and other interested persons, dejectedly and with biting
criticism, announced the modern death of poetry.93
In the fourth stanza ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr once more demonstrates his ability to weave
together events in a rational and sequential manner. Ibn al-Khaṣīb rejects his
teacher's philosophy stating he will not listen to his views on women. Thus the
teacher's efforts come to naught. Ibn al-Khaṣīb sleeps with his father's slave girls,
who had slept with his father before him and know his father’s secrets. They in turn
reveal these secrets to Ibn al-Khaṣīb. The father then dies from a disease his
physicians are unable to cure.
In this stanza ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr uses the al-mutaqārab meter, which contemporary
poets often use together with al-mutadārak.94 In line with the same sequential course
of events, the fifth stanza opens by announcing the death of "the just king:"
"The victorious king is dead"…
"The just king is dead"…
The trumpets of our cities cried out apprehension
The poets stood in rows before the gate
And thousands of verses flowed.95
Abd al-Ṣabūr returns here once again to the al-mutadārak meter, but this time the
rhyme is affected on purpose, in order to express anger at the thousands of verses
92 For more on this meter, its flexibility and great popularity among poets in recent years, see:
Wādī 2000: 246-247; cf. Zāyid 1998: 64; al-Sammān 1984: 75-78; ʿAlayyān 207: 147-150.
93 See: the various views on this collection expressed by critics: al-Miṣrī 1983: 79-80; al-Naqqāsh
1992: 83; Jayyusi 1977, vol. 2: 705; al-Ghadhdhāmī 1987: 119-120. On al-Ṣabūr’s deviations
from the rules of classical poetics, see: al-MiṣrÐ 1983: 83.
94 See: Wādī 2000: 246-247; cf. Zāyid 1998: 64; ʿAliyān 2007: 141-147.

scattered over the king’s grave; the people had believed he was virtuous and pure
while in fact he was not vituous at all. And yet ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr expresses discontent
only after providing five lines wherein the court poets praise the dead king in the
traditional manner.
Rhyming with the syllable "em," these lines are notably formulated in the ṭawīl
meter, one of the most important and highly-regarded meters among the Arabs.96
However, at the same time this meter can induce boredom because of the long wait
and monotonous rhythm and rhyme. The language of these verses is also of a very
high, deliberately non-colloquial register, including words such as azhar (radiant),
qashʿam (calamity), al-ghamām (clouds), sibṭ (tribe), salīl (descendant), ashāwis
(proud), and sajāyāhum (their nature), loftier than anywhere else in the poem.
After an extended preoccupation with the past, Ibn al-Khaṣīb returns to the
present in the sixth stanza. He is now the king, but still does not feel relieved or
secure; he still searches for certainty, realizing that ultimately he is a weak human
being, fearful, and confused. Ibn al-Khaṣīb is searching for true happiness that will
last forever, but he fails time and again. But then he comes to understand the futility
of this world ruled by chaos. He laughs, perhaps in scorn, or in shock from his
realization.
This final stanza is the strangest one in the poem. It contains fabulous, absurd
images, such as a bird with a donkey’s bray and a monkey’s head, and a dream of a
wagon pulled by fosls suddenly transformed into evil, backward-walking cats,
whose eyes turn into stars that dangle Ibn KhaÒib. These images stress ʿAbd al-
Ṣabūr’s sense of the confusion reigning in the world and the inappropriate division
of roles among mankind:
I imagine that I am suspended in the jaw of the white bear
That I dangle from the teeth of the white bear
O servants of the castle … o guards … o soldiers
O officers … o commanders
Lay out the fabric of the net around the earth
So that your dangling king can fall into it
***
The dangling king fell next to his bed.97
Before discussing the meaning of these lines, I wish to say something about their
style. ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr seemed so greatly preoccupied with ending the poem rationally
and brilliantly as to abandon the rhyme entirely. We thus witness the phenomenon of
enjambment in its purest form: the lines are firmly connected to each other,
preserving the poem's integrity and organic unity. Al-mutadārak meter returns to
dominate the final, longest, and clearly most fantastic and unrealistic of the poem’s
stanzas. The legend-like atmosphere denotes the events are symbolic, possessing
96 See: al-Sammān 1984: 101-106; ʿAlayyān 2007: 30-35.


meanings that reflect ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr’s concerns and philosophy of life and existence,
further discussed below.
The poem has a temporal duality, being divided between past and present,
connected by ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr through the use of flashback. This duality runs through
the entire poem, its symbols and meanings, which belong to past, present, or both as
follows:
flashback
Past Present
The father rules (previous generation) Son rules (present generation)
"The king is virtuous" (popular opinion) "The king is crazy" (popular opinion)
The king is content (praises God) The king doubts, seeks the truth
Old poems with clear meanings Unreal visions
There are flaws in the palace There are flaws in the palace
Other than the throne itself, the court’s flaws are the only thing passed on to the
new king; in all other respects the past and the present differ. While the past contains
certainty, contentment, and stability despite its problems, namely the problem of
existence raised by the ancient poets, the present holds confusion, worry,
uncertainty, instability, and an absence of fixed values.
ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr uses this duality to provide an existential portrayal of
contemporary man, who lives in the age of the Theory of Relativity, wherein
everything has become possible and licit; absolute truths and certainty no longer
exist. Existentialism has taken root and severed the relationship between creator and
creature, making man sole ruler of the earth following the death of God—the king,
al-Khaṣīb. The rejection of absolute values98 has affected mankind’s thinking and
logic, which has become irrational, approaching insanity, and where imagination
reaches the bounds of the legend. It has also affected poetry, which has disassociated
from the ancient heritage and begun to lose clarity, taking on the character of
unbridled hallucination and legend. During the king’s reign, poetry had a definite
structure, a well-defined rhyme scheme, and a clear content, denoting truth and
stability, but during the reign of his son, poetry broke traditional restrictions and
came to consist of a mixture of fables and legends, no longer possessing a clear
identity. In other words, the age of the poet/son, is one of unordered futility; the
parts are no longer connect to each other. A bird can bray and have a monkey's head.
Life looks like a modern work of abstract art.
ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr provides an eloquent description of the tragedy of mankind in the
modern age, wherein humans have lost their connection to their spiritual father, the
deity providing trust, faith, and certainty. This tragedy expands with growing human
awareness and mental maturity, leading mankind to turn away from the Creator and
announce His death. In pursuing this path, mankind has corrupted the beauty of
98 For Sartre's theory of existentialism see: Sartre 1965 (especially pp. 13-14).

things of this world, possessions given by God, and in so doing has condemned itself
to ruin, Mankind has not risen to the heavens as modern thoughts and opinions had
led it to believe it would, but cruelly discovered that in following dreams and flying
on the wings of imagination it had been pursuing mere illusions. Mankind had never
flown, but rather slept and dreamt, until awakening and realizing once again it had
fallen into the real world without ever moving from place.
And what role does the painter who slept with the king's wife play? And what
about the pederast teacher? I see the story of the painter and the queen as told only
to emphasize the stressful circumstances in which Ibn al-Khaṣīb lives as a child, not
knowing the veracity of his paternity, whether he truly deserves to inherit the throne.
These questions exacerbate the state of uncertainty from which he suffers. As for the
Christian pederast teacher, I believe he symbolizes the foreign influences affecting
Arab intellectuals, especially poets in the age of modernism who constructed a
pathway through which these ideas began to penetrate Arab culture and threaten the
people’s relationship with their Creator, just as Ibn al-Khaṣīb adopts many of his
teachers’ ideas, which affect his personality and views on life.
On an artistic level, we see that ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr has successfully "poeticized
prose" and given the poem a dramatic hue.99 In fact, ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr only took his
name and the fact that he was heir to a kingdom, while ignoring all other details of
the original story, including Ibn al-Khaṣīb's adventures, for which he sacrificed his
throne. ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr thus modernized the historical figure and projected his own
concerns and features onto it. Ibn al-Khaṣīb was thereby transformed into a
completely contemporary figure despite his ancient historical traits.
By isolating a figure and taking away its most important characteristics, it
becomes doubtful whether it can usefully evoke an allusion. After all, if there is no
strong bond between a figure and its original source, it could just as well stand for
any other historical or legendary figure with a shared feature, such as kinship. It
appears that ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr’s concerns are too broad to abide by a narrow character,
so he detached the original figure from many of its distinctive features and then re-
attached it to a number of contemporary features taken from his own experience.
ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr depicts this modernized figure very skillfully, expresses its human
existential concerns, and turns its memoirs into a living drama containing numerous
strange and exciting scenes that display inner fears and mental conflicts. He presents
this figure within a narrative text following the logic of causality and without strict
poetic structure. ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr’s changing rhyme scheme, even completely absent at
times, enjambment, and particularly his use of the rajaz and al-mutadārak meters all
bring the poem's language close to that of speech, giving a natural flow of the
narrative. Furthermore, the use of fabulous elements charges the poem with an
attractive and evocative energy and helps promote its dramatic elements, while
moving it away from direct lyrical declarations. We thus see how fabulous folk
99 For additional semantic and stylistic analyses of this poem see: ʿAwaḍ 1967: 114-117; Bdÿr
1986: 80-81; Badawī 1986: 250-256; ʿAlī 1995: 32; Zāyid 1997: 165-166.

elements can play a role in constructing a refined dramatic poetic work with a
multiplicity of meanings, while giving even ordinary language a profound power of
suggestion and preserving a text’s poetic nature even when discarding traditional
rules of poetry and lofty language.
3.3.6 Use of the atmosphere of The Arabian Nights

By "use of the atmosphere of The Arabian Nights" I mean a poet: 1) making a passing
allusion to The Arabian Nights itself, either directly by naming a story, or indirectly by
mentioning one of its distinctive features, such as strangeness, magic, beauty, wealth,
or heritage; 2) stocking a poem, partially or fully, with a number of strange events and
people in ways that evoke The Arabian Nights; 3) populating a poem with a group of
its figures that together evoke its atmosphere. This kind of usage reaches its greatest
artistic importance and value when it takes the form of allegory, giving rise to an in-
depth reading that advances in step with a superficial reading.
3.3.6.2 Allegorical use of the atmosphere of The Arabian Nights

During the period in question, one poet used the atmosphere of The Arabian Nights
in a highly artistic manner, by borrowing the story’s general climate and making
symbolic dramatic use of a number of its figures and events. This poet is Amal
Dunqul, who reported he read The Arabian Nights at the age of fifteen and then re-
read it as an adult.100 He clearly internalized the symbols of that work and put them
to dramatic use, transforming fabulous events into masks for realistic ones, thus
giving poems a popular nature.
Dunqul's poem "Ḥikāyat al-Madīna al-Fiḍḍiyya" ("Story of the Silver City") was
published in 1971 in his collection Taʿlīq ʿalā mā Íadath (Commentary on What
Happened), yet originally published in October 1961, when Dunqul was living in
Alexandria.101 A close look at the poem's title shows that it may be taken as a
stylistic guide, namely the word "story" indicates the text that follows possesses
storytelling characteristics and may fall within the story genre . This kind of genre
intervention Genette calls architextuality. The type of story and kind of events it
relates are indicated by the rest of the title, "the Silver City," reminiscent of a fairy
tale told to children. The equivalence between the poem’s horizontal and vertical,
superficial and underlying meanings thus already begins in the title and continues
throughout the poem, so that its words comprise a mirror in which the underlying
meaning is expressed and built up gradually.
The poem is divided into three stanzas, the first of which serves as an
introduction to events given in a single voice, that of Dunqul himself. Its style is
therefore quite lyrical. Here Dunqul presents the story's framework, introduces
100 See: Qmÿḥa 1987: 139-140; Manṣūr 1999: 668.

101 See: Abū Rafīʿa 1999: 245-246.

himself as its protagonist, explicitly voices his hopes and dreams, and describes
where the story takes place. He also explains the nature of the conflict occuring in
the story. Readers are told that he tries to enter the silver city but is prevented by
guards. He is therefore forced to remain outside its walls, overcome by waves of
longing and dreamful hope.
To be precise, despite the expectation of narrative, there is only one place in the
first stanza where the protagonist holds a dialogue with a guard, asking him open the
door. The reply is presented in the passive, with no overt subject as: "it was said," thus
putting a sudden end to the conversation. The only voice offering the poet's last hope
for communication is anonymous, giving an unambiguously negative answer: "By no
means." Due to the passive voice, the speaking agent remains unnamed, although we
may guess at his identity. At any rate, the source remains insignificant, leaving the
poet's singular voice to lyrically and directly explain his situation, through images of
the rough, isolated, and dry state of the city, reminiscent of Eliot's The Waste Land.
In this documentary presentation the poet recalls his relationship to the gated city
before he was banished, one filled with love, longing, and weeping, but now "the
only remnant of this love is a miserly gate."102 The first stanza thus not only defines
the poem's framework, but also provides a concise lyrical digest of the story's
events. This format reminds readers of a scholarly article, in which detailed
arguments and supporting evidence are preceded by an abstract describing the text in
brief. Curiously, none of the critics who thus far discussed this poem noticed this
technique. Indeed, "Story of the Silver City" must be read in its entirety and its
opening reread with great care in order to connect the beginning with the end.
The first stanza’s events take place in the present day. The poet lives in exile,
outside the city walls, alone, isolated, and in despair, reminiscing about the "love
story" he had had inside the city, which ended in disappointment and, so it seems,
led to his banishment.
The second stanza is a natural continuation of the first. Here the poet recalls the
past and wallows in the memories that still cast shadows over him. In this stanza the
story's major events begin to quickly unfold:
The wagon's wheels creaked in the silence around me
"Stop the horses"
She looked down
"Who may you be?"
I beckoned in reply
She said: "Ascend"
Ah, you with the kind eyes
Everything sighs
Everything in my blood…is undefined
I do not possess even words of thanks
102 Dunqul 1995:294.

Even the words of thanks…have turned away!

"Are you a stranger?"
I said: I am no longer a stranger
Our house was on a star's hill
How often we read about the enchantment of your nights […]
She said: "Be calm…
You will speak to me there…"
And pointed towards the palace with the smooth dome
Then said:
"It belongs to my father" […]
O guard…it is I!!!
Raise your hands and salute
Free the bolt and let the retinue walk
"The hand of my mistress"…
And she stretched her hand Badr al-Budūr […]
And play, o birth orchestra, the opening melody!103
The poet had originally managed to pass through the city’s gates with the help of a
beautiful young woman he calls Badr al-Budūr "the fullest of moons," an epithet for
an Arabian Nights figure praised for outstanding beauty and her powerful father’s
wealth of influence.104 The poet was a stranger in the city and "the fullest of moons’"
presence restored his sense of wellbeing. He reveals his feelings of intimacy,
aroused by his recollection of the stories about “her” he used to read at home. Here
Dunqul combines the characteristics of two figures from The Arabian Nights, Badr
al-Budour and Scheherazade, whose power of magic is ascribed to the former. This
mixture turns the new figure into an intensifying persona with the full evocative
power of both the original figures, possessing features from both, such as supreme
beauty, wisdom, and authority.
Readers then learn that the poet had previously had a romantic relationship with
Badr al-Budour in "his old home.” His entire family had loved her and often told her
story. His visit to her thus constituted a dream’s realization. Badr al-Budour agreed
to help him; she took him in her private carriage to her imposing palace, where:
Our cups became drunk with the wine of Babylon
A thousand strings in our blood tyrannize
"O mistress, you are an angel…
I carry only a pen between my ribs…
Take it, it is my most valuable possession, take it"
Her palm passed over my forehead
She called out to me: "Shahryar"
"My Scheherazade, pour the honey of the flowing nectar
103 Dunqul 1995: 295-297.

104 See: The Arabian Nights 1997, vol. 2: 109-214.

Then tell some of your new tales

It has been a long time since I heard new things
Relate…"
At your command, my master. They say….105
Here the poet is lord and master, sitting in the castle next to his beloved and
giving her all that he possesses, namely the pen residing firmly between his ribs, by
which he means his poetry or talent, the sole possession of a poor poet. In return she
grants him her love and makes him feel like a powerful king, calling him
"Shahryar."
The poem here evokes the relationship between Shahryar and Scheherazade in
all the dimensions appearing in The Arabian Nights, where Shahryar ostensibly
holds authority, but gives himself over to Scheherazade and her stories night after
night. Indeed, although she calls him "my master," in truth she controls his mind and
influences his thoughts through the magic of her stories.
In this stanza we can see how important is narrative for depicting the figures'
movements and reactions and connecting various parts of dialogue. Together the
narrative and dialogue construct the plot’s fabric, connect events, and move them
forward. The relationship between the poet (Shahryar) and his beloved (Badr al-
Budour/ Scheherazade) is thus defined here as one of mutual love, in which the poet
gives her his poetry and receives her stories, her history, and her news. This
exchange is existentially significant for the poet, who traveled to this city to realize
his old dream to be at the palace near his beloved. At the end of the second stanza
this relationship becomes so strong that the poet is completely infatuated with his
beloved and has sex with her, intimating ultimate love and connection:
Then we did not possess our strength
On the walls there are curious pictures
Of loaves of bread, bottles of wine, a shepherd
And a herd!
(O, how hard is the wall
When it rises in the face of the rising sun
Perhaps we shall strive all our lives to dig an opening
So that light may pass through to the generations, once!
.. .. .. .. ..
Perhaps if this wall did not exist
We would not know the value of liberated light!!)106
Thus ends the second stanza, with words holding the key to the poem's meaning,
providing a moment of illumination that enables a more profound reading. The poet
completely unifies himself with his beloved princess, entering a state of ecstasy
105 Dunqul 1995: 297-298.

106 Dunqul 1995: 298-299.

similar to that felt by mystics when uniting with the One. After arriving at complete
perfection and unification, the revelation or exposure begins; the poet can see things
from an overarching, comprehensive perspective allowing him to comprehend the
core of his experience, his life's philosophy in all its clarity—that one's entire life is
spent creating a hole in the wall through which hope may shine for future
generations. This image is a metaphor expressing the nature of Dunqul’s poetic
mission—sacrifice and commitment to braking through the wall of ignorance and
tyranny, so that future generations may have hope, knowledge, and awareness. Here
the following question presents itself: What is the connection between this artistic
philosophy, if we may so call it, and Dunqul’s usage of Badr al-Budour at the
superficial semantic level? Who really is Badr al-Budour?
Before the poet was exiled beyond city walls he had loved Badr al-Budour wrote
her poems, and made love to her. His "family" (other poets and artists) joined him in
this love and told her stories. He then comes to realize he may be spending his entire
life struggling to break through the wall that separates the people from the kind of
love, revelation, and awareness he feels.
After having reviewed a sufficient number of symbols in "Story of the Silver
City" and explicated their particular meanings, I wish to adduce general meanings in
light of events taking place at the time of the poem’s writing. "Story of the Silver
City" was composed in October 1961, just one month following the dissolution of
the 1958 union between Syria and Egypt, an event arousing great disappointment,
recriminations, and divisions among Arabs throughout the region.107 Due to the
important role Dunqul played as a constant supporter of resistance and opponent of
Arab regimes generally, and of the Egyptian authorities in particular, he was known
as "the prince of the poets of rejection." Dunqul gave expression to his views in one
of the most important Arabic modernist poems ever to have been written, "al-Bukāʾ
bayna Yadayy Zarqāʾ al-Yamāma" ("Crying Before Zarqāʾ al-Yamāma"), which he
is reported to have written just a few days after the Arab defeat in the Six Day War.
This poem contains numerous allusions to the Egyptian leadership of Jamal Abdul
Nasser, accusing him of shortsightedness and lack of proper preparation for the war
against Israel, leading to the loss of countless Egyptian lives and a significant
portion of territory.108 In fact, Dunqul was not enamored of Nasser even before the
war. He more than once expressed disappointment in this leader, who had originally
aroused great expectations in him and in his fellow writers. For the Arabs Nasser
was a powerful symbol of unity, a leader and liberator who overthrew the Egyptian
monarchy, nationalized the Suez Canal, and held promise for redeeming the honor
lost by the Arabs’ defeat from Israel.109 Egyptian and other Arab poets and
107 See: Fatḥī 2003:165-173; al-Nābilsī 1986a:41.

108 See: my paper on this poem’s meanings and techniques: Khoury 2008.
109 See: Mūsā 1954: 31; Shukrī 1965: 185; ʿAwaḍ 1967: 159-162, 168-171, 195, Badr
1975/1976: 185-186; Sulaiman 1984: 90; Srūr 1991: 11-13, 23-24; Abū al-Rabb 1994: 147;
Badawī 1996: 110; Fatḥī 2003: 28-29, 40-41.

intellectuals sang Nasser's praises and placed their hopes in him, so that he quickly
became the ideal national symbol calling for Arab unity, resistance, and
independence. In turning Egypt into a republic, Nasser moved the masses from the
margins to the center, for which Dunqul expressed admiration.
Nasser is then Badr al-Budūr standing in the street, in neighborhoods and
alleyways, in extreme humility, beckoning the poet (representing the people), and
together they break through the palace wall. The poet's/people's entry into the palace
after having been exiled from it is a very deft image depicting the significant
transformation of Egyptian political life under Nasser's rule, whereby popular
government replaced the corrupt monarchy. The people/poet completely identify
with this dream and together with Badr al-Budour/Nasser welcome the victorious
realization of the people's dream to break down the wall that had long stood between
the government and the masses. Does this affection last or are there some
unexpected surprises?
The answer is given at the end of the poem but let us first pause to consider an
important stylistic feature of this stanza, where in addition to narrative, dialogue,
depiction of figures and events, and the creation of a framework, Dunqul uses the
additional storytelling technique of the monologue or internal dialogue, identified by
means of quotation marks. This monologue contains a kind of philosophical insight
attained after the act of unification. Since poets are frequent victims to such
unification, we can expect the poet/protagonist to run into danger from having
attained certainty and full intellectual maturity after ultimately unifying with his
beloved. Indeed, this risk becomes clear in the poem’s final stanza:
"Morning has come, so arise!"
The executioner pulled me out of a very sweet dream
Bearing the princess's command
"I am, o Masrūr, the princess's lover
One night judged by blood?!
I wonder which one of us was Shahryar?!
I, o Masrūr…"
(Masrūr at the Door: Marble)110
The expected happens, namely Masrūr arrives, the cruel executioner The Arabian
Nights has made familiar in the popular imagination. He comes to kill the poet on
the princess’s command. Here Dunqul reverses the roles of Shahryar and
Scheherazade, using the technique of counter imitation, intimating his disturbed
society's moral deterioration and upended values. The popular imagination knows
Shahryar as a despotic ruler who kills virgins after spending with them a single
night, but in Dunqul's tale it is Shahryar, or the poet, who is condemned to death by
Scheherazade after having spent one night with her, presenting readers with a
surprising paradox that may arouse shock and even scorn.
110 Dunqul 1995: 199-200.

As most of his critics have noted, more than any other poet, Dunqul uses
paradox in his works, his most prominent rhetorical device to express rage and
bitterness, to loudly refuse the traitorous reversal of the political situation.111 Dunqul
was a dreaming nationalist and therefore used Shahryar as a symbol for himself, the
poet/protagonist. Shahryar is a mere myth or dream and the poet believes in dreams,
which he tries to make come true, but he quickly wakes up to bitter reality.
Despotism, repression, betrayal, dispossession of dreams, and usurped liberty come
upon him in the form of Masrūr the executioner. The Badr al-Budour of whom the
poet had dreamt turns out not to be the person he had thought she was. She commits
a terrible breach of faith by leading him into a trap after assuring him he would be
granted freedom and respect. But then it transpires that her stories are not true, but
merely legends, more akin to the tales of The Arabian Nights than to reality.
Here Dunqul uses the nature of the stories in The Arabian Nights to give
symbolic expression to Nasser's betrayal of the people. Indeed, Scheherazade's
stories, however fascinating and beautiful, are fictional and untrue, just as Nasser's
stories of victory, freedom, and people’s unity are completely unreal and without
material value. Although catching the poet and the people by surprise, this shock
also brought them back to consciousness, awakened them from indifference so they
would no longer bask in Nasser's fantasies of heroism. And yet we see the poet/the
people crying before Masrūr, out of remorse and a desire for reconciliation. He
weeps from his return to awareness:
"O Masrūr, I did not have the good fortune to feel joy in this world (1)
I only reached the age of twenty
Take my clothes…take my illuminating mirrors"
"Very well, flee from the door at the end of the passage
And do not come back here" (5)
O road of the hill where the smooth dome stands, behind me
Where thousands of sweepings are still on your forehead
For the city's inhabitants […]112
111 Sālim notes that paradox "plays a crucial role in reversing the elements that give [Dunqul's]
poetry its unique characteristics," referring to his black humor and cruel allusions (see: Sālim
1999: 133-134; cf. al-ʿĀlim 1999: 150-153; Ḥaddād 1999: 159-160; al-Jabbār 1999: 196;
Shukrī 1999: 406-407; Ṭaha 1999: 426-427; ʿUthmān 1999: 455; ʿAbd al-Raḥmān 1999: 485;
Khoury 2016, pp. 217-219). Al-Baḥrāwī reports that Dunqul's wife, the journalist ʿAbla al-
Ruwaynī, described her husband as having possessed a complex and contradictory personality,
"an anarchist ruled by reason, simple with great complexity, frank and mysterious at one and
the same time, excitable but also extremely brave and clear, but so secretive that one can never
know what goes on inside him" (see: al-Baḥrāwī 1999:308). These personality traits are
reflected in Dunqul's poetic style, direct and clear but with deep meanings bursting out of
unambiguous expressions. Paradox is associated with the elements of surprise and
contradiction, the same elements that Dunqul's personality apparently contained.
112 Dunqul 1995: 299-300.

Notice that the poet's pleas for mercy had the desired effect and Masrūr let him go,
telling him to flee and never come back. This reprieve from death is still a
punishment—exile, accompanied by abrogation of national aspirations and
commitment to the homeland. The "illuminating mirrors" twice mentioned in the poem
symbolize poetry that reflects the truth. The poet offers them in exchange for his life.
The story here reaches its end. The gaps Dunqul opened at the beginning are filled
in as he returns to the present at the sixth line of the stanza. Now the poet stands
outside the wall, graphically describing the waste he sees. Great is his grief as he bids
the city farewell, gazing at it receding from view. In walking away he passes through
the waste outside, as if he, banished, has become part of that waste. It is certainly no
coincidence that in Arabic the words for "banished" (manfÐ) and "waste" (nifāyāt)
derive from the same root, for both indicate something cast outside, marginalized,
ceasing to effect what takes place inside. Dunqul ends the poem as he begins it, with
the proficiency of a skilled storyteller, reiterating the same descriptions and retracing
the same path, thus presenting readers with a complete story—it begins in the present,
narrates the past, and returns to the present once again.
Using his unique talent, Dunqul succeeded in gracefully linking together a group of
figures from The Arabian Nights, despite their multiplicity and the record of events
associated with them. Dunqul’s achievement rests upon the fact that these figures are
stored in readers’ memories, where they reside classified according to their prominent
features in The Arabian Nights. Dunqul exploited this classification to entice and
arouse readers, both by presenting figures in expected ways (as in his depiction of
Badr al-Budūr, his use of Scheherazade's style of narration, and his use of the figure of
Masrūr) and inverting features of the originals (by reversing the roles of Scheherazade
and Shahryar, making Shahryar the victim, and depicting Masrūr as merciful). Dunqul
does not burden the figures with characteristics beyond what they can bear and readers
do not perceive their symbolism as forced. Rather, Dunqul uses them to make his
direct and less formal language more persuasive and to distance his style from the kind
of journalistic lyricism that can undermine a poem’s poetic nature.
Furthermore, Dunqul strives to maintain contact with the people and this reason
also leads him to select symbols from folk literature. Nevertheless, he does simply
not adopt them in their full original garb, but plays with their features, deeds, and
values, often inverting them to convey his ideas. He thus provides readers with a
changeable text that can be read in at least two different ways. It possesses two
facets, one fabulous, artistic, a masquerade so to speak, and the other truthful,
revealing Dunqul’s views on reality.
This text demonstrates Dunqul’s skill in storytelling, in pulling on a plot’s strings
to formulate them in a rational, well-paced, and convincing manner, bringing scenes
to life with movement and vivid description. Dunqul also plays with time, keeping
the poem lively and readers on their toes. “Story of the Silver City” contains all the
important elements comprising a story: framework, figures, gaps, a chain of

3.4 The use of The Arabian Nights in the second period (1962-1986) 145
logically connected events, flashback, narrative, dialogue, and monologue, all placed
within a dramatic poetic framework with the occasional lyricism.113
3.4 The use of The Arabian Nights in the second period (1962-1986)
3.4.1 Introduction
In this second period, the stories and personalities of The Arabian Nights became a
major source of inspiration for Arab poets. By this time, Arabic poetry had become
sufficiently mature enough and its new forms sufficiently stable so that poets could
devote attention to deepening their poetic experience and to delving more profoundly
into using traditional figures and symbols. Such symbols became more strongly
embedded into texts and more closely identified with poets’ situations and mental
states. The Arabian Nights’ symbols and figures were used in fifty-six poems composed
during this period, more than half of which (twenty-nine to be exact) by Iraqi poets.
Regarding the Palestinian poets, although in this period they showed the greatest
interest in using folkloric sources, they used Arabian Nights symbols the least
among Arab poets.They only alluded to Sinbad, the most significant folk figure in a
mere three out of a total of twenty-six Arabic poems alluding to him in this period,
one of them his name is not even explicitly mentioned his name. I understand this
lack of interest as resulting from the fact that The Arabian Nights belongs to the
general Arabic folkloric tradition. Having lost their faith in the Arab leadership,
Palestinians wished to stress the specific features of their homeland, by alluding to
particular Palestinian rather than to general Arabic folk materials.114 Since allusions
among Palestinian poets took on such a vital national dimension, they naturally gave
less attention to general Arabic sources.
It was again the Iraqi poets who pioneered the use of allusions to The Arabian
Nights, especially to the figure of Sinbad. I earlier discussed the reasons, namely that
most of the Sinbad stories take place in Iraq and that Sinbad himself is from Bagdad,
so it is only natural for Iraqi poets to more closely identify with this figure than for
other Arab poets. However, Iraqi and other poets of this period also showed an
interest in other figures, including Shahryar and Aladdin, who appears or is alluded
to in thirteen poems, despite being unaccountably completely absent from the
preceding period’s poetry.
In fact, the story of Aladdin and the magic lantern is the second most frequent to
appear in poetry after the stories of Sinbad. Perhaps this story's popularity comes
from its extraordinary symbols (the magic lantern, jinn, ring, and flying carpet),
which together create an imaginary world of wishful thinking. All these symbols
share an ability to represent great and magical forces that permit ordinary people to
113 For further analyses of this poem see: Qmÿḥa 1987:140; Abū Rafīʿa 1999: 246-248.
114 Abbās 2001: 118; cf. al-Ahwānī 1968: 5; Abū Murād 2004: 24.

triumph over evil and fulfill grand wishes.115 As already noted, Arab poets feel
confused, helpless, and often alienated within their own societies, convinced it is
impossible to change the situation. They take refuge within legends and use symbols
like Aladdin to compensate for their sense of impotence and to enter a fantasy world
where they can find salvation and fulfil their wishes.
This desire to escape took particular hold during the period in question, after a
series of defeats for the Arabs, shattering their hopes for victory and their dreams for
change. Socialism also began a gradual retreat, especially after the mid-1960s. Poets
became shut within themselves, using symbolism in enigmatic ways. These
developments reflect a loss of self-confidence whereby poetry became no longer
capable of dealing with the problems of the masses. It refused to confront reality and
fled into dreams and the subconscious.
Thus we can see poets making frequent use of allusions to the magic ring and
Aladdin's lantern in expressing dreams or aspirations, as only a miracle could make
them real, their only place is in a legend. These developments explain why interest
in the story and symbolism of Aladdin grew during this period. In fact, al-Bayātī
uses this story in one of his poems as such a central element as to dominate its entire
atmosphere, while also alluding to other, more minor figures, such as Badr al-
Budour and Qamar al-Zamān. The spirit of The Arabian Nights can be perceived in
a number of poems composed in this period, some of which evoke its atmosphere
while others allude to the work's figures as symbols to express a legend-like
depiction of observed events, conveying the sense of canonical poems written in a
folk spirit.
3.4.2 Use of the figure of Sinbad

Sinbad is often used in the poetry of this period. Sometimes this use consists of no
more than a passing allusions while at other times Sinbad constitutes the basic core
around which poems are constructed that, together with other elements, create
dramatic texts with profound symbolism. In most cases Sinbad retains the same
symbolic meanings as in the previous period, symbolizing the poet in his sufferings
or in his intellectual, political, and social struggles. However, the way in which this
figure is used becomes more mature and more highly developed, in keeping with the
increasingly cruel tragedy experienced by Arab poets during this time.
The 1960s’ rapid political developments led poets to feel lost; they jumped from
one issue to another, waged one war after another, and traveled from one sea to
another, finding no firm anchor for their drifting vessels. Whenever they believed
they had reached firm ground, adopted a principle, or chosen a path, they would find
themselves embroiled in difficulties, discovering that social commitment only
brought them disappointment. Thus we observe Sinbad symbolizing the wandering,
115 See: Zāyid 1997: 164.

suffering poet, an outcast who can never hope to return home. More than any other
figure, Sinbad came to be associated with poets' artistic, political and social
concerns, through which they could express their own sense of hopelessness and
helplessness in when facing the problems of their homelands. This use contrasts to
the preceding period, wherein most poems (especially al-Bayātī's) reflect a belief in
miracles, bringing hope to the unfortunate.
3.4.2.2 Sinbad: Symbolic allusion

In his "Qaṣīdatān ilā Ṣalāḥ Jāhīn" ("Two Poems for Ṣalāḥ Jāhīn") in the collection
Al-Nār wal-Kalimāt (Fire and Words) al-Bayātī says:
It is the ancient wound
You will always bear it through the black European night
It is the wound that smashed Sinbad's heart
It is the same ash.116
Al-Bayātī speaks about the pain poets suffer in writing and struggling against forces
of despotism and oppression. He regards suffering as a necessary and permanent
attribute of any honest poet that all poets committed to their people must suffer as a
result of the positions they take. The wound from which the poet Ṣalāḥ Jāhīn (1930-
1986) suffered is the same as that suffered by al-Bayātī—exile and alienation. Here
al-Bayātī found Sinbad as an appropriate symbol, for he, too, was an "Iraqi away
from home" who constantly expressed longing for his homeland. Sinbad thus
symbolizes the poet himself, helping him express his constant travel and the
difficulties in which he finds himself, conveying to readers an expressive picture of
his experience and suffering. However, this usage of Sinbad does not extend beyond
the figure’s mention so the poem retains its lyrical character.117
3.4.2.3 Sinbad the spaceman: An alternative allusion

In his poem "Turīdīna" ("You Want") which appeared in his collection Al-Rasm bil-
Kalimāt (Painting with Words; 1967), Qabbānī announces to his spoiled beloved
that he does not have the means to give her everything she demands. This message
fills the entire poem, spread over four pages, elegantly elaborating it again and
again. In fact, this poem’s text gives the impression of a verbal competition, in
which Qabbānī tries to amass as many different images and expressions as he can to
highlight a single idea, as if offering readers the opportunity to decide which image
116 Al-Bayātī 1972, vol. 1: 673.

117 For additional examples of poets’ use of Sinbad as a symbol for the self see: al-Sayyāb 1995,
vol. 1: 626; Yūsuf 1995, vol. 1: 434; al-Manāsra 2001: 87 (pearls and treassures as allusions
to Sinbad); al-Bayātī 1972, vol. 2: 403, 406; ibid., 392-393. In other poems, Sinbad was
mentioned as a mere allusion not symbolizing anything specific beyond mere evocation of
the tales of The Arabian Nights; see: al-Bayātī 1971, vol. 2: 178, 386; Yūsuf 1995, vol. 1:
140. Qabbānī, too, made superficial use of the figure of Sinbad as a simile for himself (see:
Qabbānī 1993, vol. 3: 396).

provides the best expression. Many of the images Qabbānī evokes clearly reveal an
influence of The Arabian Nights, with repetitions of the names Scheherazade,
Aladdin, and HarÙn al-Rashīd, as well as evocations of slaves, palaces, and other
elements characteristic of The Arabian Nights. In the midst of this profusion, the
figure of Sinbad appears as just one among a group of symbols and images all
expressing the same thing, thus reducing its importance in the construction of the
text's symbolism and meaning. Qabbānī says:
I am not
Sinbad the spaceman
That I can bring you Babylon
Egypt's pyramids and Chosroe's mansion.118
Qabbānī's Sinbad travels not the seas, but space, flying among stars and moons,
reminiscent of the pearls Sinbad had sought. The expression "Sinbad the spaceman"
(Sindibād al-Faḍāʾ) carries the same meaning as all the other figures in the poem,
that of an unusual man.
After introducing the figure, Qabbānī is quite free in the ways he uses it. Sinbad
can bring Qabbānī’s beloved Babylon, Egypt's pyramids, and Chosroe's masion. We
know that the original Sinbad left Baghdad, but not with the intention of traveling to
Egypt or Persia, or bringing back the glory of these civilizations. Qabbānī chose the
figure of Sinbad from The Arabian Nights because he realized that in the popular
mind, he is known as able to perform miracles. Now Sinbad has gone into space,
ostensibly more powerful than ever, capable of returning to life ancient civilizations.
But the poet is not Sinbad’s equal and cannot give his beloved what she demands,
implying her desires are impossible and defy logic.
The use of Sinbad is here quite simple and does not detract from the poem's
dominant lyricism. However, the allusion does give "You Want" a measure of
suggestiveness and prevents it from falling into an overtly declarative mode.
Qabbānī’s overall style tends towards simplicity of expression, avoiding obscurity,
and using language akin to everyday speech. These tendencies can threaten the
poetic nature of a poem’s language, bring it close to prose, and make it appear
ordinary and trite. However folk symbols help maintain clarity and ensure this text's
poetic and alluring character.
3.4.2.4 Sinbad and the roc: Imitation and symbolic allusion

The roc is a giant legendary bird mentioned in the stories of Sinbad. Once he bears
Sinbad away from death, but on most other occasions the roc appears as a violent
creature making trouble for Sinbad, by trying to sink his ship and kill him.119 Clearly
an allusion to a symbol from the stories of Sinbad necessarily evokes these stories
118 Qabbānī 1993, vol. 1: 516.

119 See: Sinbad's description of the roc in The Arabian Nights 1997, vol. 3:149; cf. The Arabian
Nights 1997, vol. 3: 179.

and their events. Thus, here is an appropriate place to examine use of the roc.120 In
his poem "Iram Dhāt al-ʿImād" in his collection Shanāshīl Ibnat al-Jabalī (al-Jalbi's
Daughter's Mashrebeeyah) al-Sayyāb alludes to the story of the city of Iram Dhāt al-
ʿImād mentioned in the Quran, built by Shaddād b. ʿĀd to compete with Paradise,
but Allāh made it disappear, allowing it to reappear only every forty years.121 This
city is mentioned in this poem as part of al-Sayyāb's depiction of his yearning to
return to childhood while lying on his deathbed. He reminisces about his
grandfather, who related to him the story of that wondrous city as if he had himself
visited it and wandered through it:
I walked around its long wall
Measuring its extent by my steps (like Sinbad
Who walked around the roc's egg and arduously
Returned to where he began
Just when the sun set its light was hidden by blackness
And when he raised his glance he saw…what did he see?)
Until I came to the cornerstone.122
In the lines within parentheses above, al-Sayyāb provides a brief adaptation of the
story of Sinbad and the roc. Nights no. 534 and 535 of The Arabian Nights relate
that Sinbad's ship is anchored at an uninhabited island on which there is a prominent
and extensive dome. Sinbad exhausts himself attempting to reach the other side, and
ultimately discovers it is a roc's egg.123 Al-Sayyāb's grandfather uses this tale of
Sinbad to provide a simile to help "the children" understand the extent of the
fortress’s walls of which he speaks.
In incorporating Sinbad’s story, al-Sayyāb uses three basic techniques; he: 1.
provides a very concise narrative in words that fit the poem's meter and rhyme
without altering events; this brief account does not completely match the original
story and is therefore an imitation; 2. places the story in parentheses; 3. uses the
simile-introducing word "like." The second and third elements together detach this
story from the main text, or at least keep it distinct and precisely defined. The
parentheses tell readers the story is a side comment rather than part of the poem's
core. Its place as a parenthetical tale is also shown by the poem going on to continue
the previous thought. Even so, this aside maintains the poem's rhythm and suits the
120 To avoid confusion I should note that the Arabic word for roc (rukhkh) also means "rook" in
chess, the meaning given to this word as it appears in ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr's poem "Riḥla fī al-Layl"
("Night Journey") in the collection al-Nās fī Bilādī (The People in My Country) (ʿAbd al-
Ṣabūr 1972, vol. 1: 7, 13); we must therefore be careful when interpreting this word, taking
its context into consideration.
121 See: Q 89: 6-8; cf. al-Sayyāb 1995, vol. 1: 602; ʿAbbās 1983: 381; al-Karakī 1989: 27, 31-
32.
122 Al-Sayyāb 1995, vol. 1: 604-605.
123 The Arabian Nights 1997: 148-149.

poem's context, as from the beginning the poem is declared a dramatic story told by
the poet’s grandfather.
Since grandfather is the narrator, and since his audience consists of children, it is
expected that he would use stories familiar to children so they could more readily
visualize its scenes, in a style in line with the rest of the poem. Al-SayyÁb uses the
technique of parentheses throughout the poem/story when quoting from well-known
tales. We must remember that al-Sayyāb knew all these stories from his own
grandfather, who related them to him when he was a child. When al-Sayyāb
mentions his grandfather he thus evokes all these stories at once. They assemble
within this one poem, enabling al-Sayyāb to create an emotional and affective
atmosphere similar to what his grandfather had created when he was a child.
Another aspect of this poem deserving mention is the poet's role as neutral
listener, which gives the poem a semblance of objectivity that enhances its power of
persuasion. From the poem’s beginning, that is from the moment al-Sayyāb says
"My greatgrandfather told us" he announces that he is a listener, who proceeds to let
his grandfather’s tales take their natural course, with no commentary or intervention
on his part. But in reality al-Sayyāb plays the role of director running things behind
the scenes, while trying to maintain "impartiality" as much as possible. In fact, al-
Sayyāb’s very choice of scenes, events, and plot design do of course constitute
intervention and direction, but through the use of symbols and figures, including his
grandfather, he is able to obfuscate his role.
At the end of the poem readers experience a sort of illumination, as a new special
meaning is revealed, one derived from the enchanted city, or coming in its wake,
which grandfather held back until the end. He here expresses great grief over the
loss of Iram and for never seeing it again. He bemoans his lost youth, Iram
symbolizing his youth and his life, destined to disappear forever just like the city.
Al-Sayyāb's voice coalesces with grandfather’s at the end of the poem, for he too
anticipates youth’s departure and the end of life, but he maintains the poem's
objectivity by letting grandfather continue as the sole speaker, to indirectly represent
al-Sayyāb's and his grief.
Here the story of Sinbad is part of a larger picture. Together with other stories it
creates a childlike atmosphere in the poem, in keeping with its mood of nostalgic
imaginings. Sinbad and the roc play only a superficial role, used as a simile and
without any symbolism. The poem’s overall style is dramatic, with numerous verbs
giving it movement and vitality, enhanced by its rajaz meter.
The oversized roc can also be used symbolically by poets for expressing the
overwhelming nature of real-life experiences, especially in light of its surreal
aspects. Thus in his poem "December" in the collection Awrāq al-Ghurfa 8 (The
Pages of Room 8; 1983), Dunqul installs this symbol as one of its main figures. He
challenges it as follows:
They took my friends to prison
But in the nights of longing they

Approach, so we can each drink two cups […]

Here is the roc with the two claws, hovering…
Carrying December's warm corpse
Look! The roc is now landing…
And the clouds cast their dark veil on the earth.124
The poetry collection in which these verses appear was published forty days after
Dunqul's death. He passed away after a long and bitter struggle, his life ebbing
away. The roc appeared a suitable symbol to express the magnitude of his
impending death. This bird is the creature that so plagued Sinbad. It had previously
failed to eliminate him, but in "December" it apparently does succeed in carrying
away Sinbad/the poet. Dunqul strives to show the roc's power and overwhelming
presence by means of the apt image of its obscuring the sun. This symbol transforms
the roc from imaginary bird to real while the real sun becomes metaphorical.
Dunqul then adds another metaphor to this image so readers will understand that
this roc is not identical to Sinbad's, but rather more evil, namely "December's
corpse."125 This roc bears death, which rules over everything. It is inescapable,
coming down heavily and violently on everyone. No one can avoid submitting to its
terror. Dunqul very adroitly uses the verb yahbiṭu ("land"), which evokes heaviness,
and then uses the exclamation hā ("look!"), creating the impression that the roc’s
arrival is being reported live to readers.
Dunqul continues to use the symbol of the roc until nearly the end of the poem.
After referring to it in the third person and describing it from afar, he then addresses
it directly in the second person. This change of person is clearly meant by the poet to
signal a shift in events, a new stage in his own private suffering. The bird lands and
begins to impose dominion on him and on his "island." Since the roc has come so
"close," it is fitting to address him directly:
O roc, how many corpses have your eternal claws carried beyond the
mountain?
What have we given to you, o roc, since eternity?
What have we given to you?126
Note the roc’s repeated explicit mention. It appears four times in the two excerpts,
emphasizing death's qualitative and quantitative predominance, its presence in all
the poet’s and mankind’s affairs. Death’s rule is complete. It has been so "since
eternity" and will remain so for all future eternity as well. These references to
infinite time buttress the roc’s symbolizing of the rule of death, unbounded by space
and time, mankind’s ultimate truth throughout the generations.
124 Dunqul 1995: 451-452.

125 Abū Sana is of the opinion that the roc here symbolizes death, which Dunqul felt was
approaching. See: Abū Sana 1999: 412-413; cf. ʿAbd al-Raḥmān 1999: 489.
126 Dunqul 1995: 452.

In sum, through his use of imitation, integrated symbolism (the roc, the sun, and
blocking the light), metaphor, manipulation of grammatical person, and repetition,
Dunqul makes full use of the evocative power of Sinbad's roc in expressing the
totality of what was happening in real life. It should also be noted that “December”
possesses a clear dramatic character, revealed by its use of narrative and dialogue,
which liberated Dunqul from adherence to a single rhyme scheme and permitted
intensive use of metaphorical imagery. Furthermore, he enhances such imagery with
symbols that convey an overall metaphorical and hazy atmosphere. He employs the
mutadārak meter, which like the rajaz meter is one of the freest meters in Arabic
poetry, to create an affective and dramatic atmosphere and bring the language of
poetry close to that of speech.127
3.4.2.5 Sinbad and the roc: Partial allegory

In "Afyāʾ Jaykūr" ("Afternoon Shadows of Jaykūr") from the collection Al-Maʿbad
al-Gharīq (Drowned Temple; 1962) al-Sayyāb's addresses his home town of Jaykūr
as if a loving mother. He asks her to come back to him and return his lost childhood.
Reminiscing, he recalls some of the stories he heard as a child, stories that shed light
on his mental state:
Bring back to me what I have lost from my life
The days of my amusement…when I ran after horses
Galloping from the rustic stories and evening chat
Bring back Abū Zayd
every friend who joined him
on his journey
Did not return
Bring back Sinbad, cast by the strong wind
on islands which the roc frequents.128
For a close comparison I quote here the following passage taken from The Arabian
Nights:
We remained in this state until fate cast us on a beautiful island […] The wind
felt pleasant to me […] and I fell asleep […] I then awakened and could find
neither man nor jinn in that place […] They had abandoned me on the island
[…] and I felt great grief […] I was now along, exhausted and in despair of my
life […] I raised my head and gazed. I saw a huge bird with a great body and
broad wings flying in the air. This was what had covered the disc of the sun.129
Whenever a poet decides to borrow from another source, he selects the symbols and
events that best suit his own experience, and naturally excludes others. However,
127 For additional examples of such use of the roc, see: Dunqul 1995: 482; al-Bayātī 1972, vol. 1: 700.
128 Al-Sayyāb 1995, vol. 1: 189.
129 The Arabian Nights, vol. 3: 148-149.

those materials not mentioned can also reveal a poet's secrets and feelings. A poet
can never borrow a source text in its entire, thus scholars must seek out the reasons a
poet selects certain elements and others not. Any invoked text carries its own inner
original meanings, along with the thoughts and feelings they arouse in readers. Thus
not only the meanings imposed by the borrowing text must be taken into account. We
must also go back to original texts and compare them with borrowing texts, comparing
original connotations with the new content to derive a fuller understanding of the
sentiments the poet wishes to convey. This comparison can particularly enlighten in
cases when a poet selects a particular text because it appeals to something deep within
his psyche. This mental connection may be expressed explicitly in a poet’s text, but
may become even clearer when comparing it to its original source.
In "Afternoon Shadows of Jaykūr," al-Sayyāb describes himself feeling alone
and lost in a world of pain and exile; he is powerless, threatened by a huge violent
bird harbingering death. In the original text Sinbad suffers the same pain and grief.
This harmony between poet and symbol constitutes al-Sayyāb’s connection leading
him to choose this specific image. But when he borrowed this part of the story he
failed to reveal this connection, I believe for two fundamental reasons:
1. He had already mentioned his loneliness, pain, and dejection in the poem, making
its repetition unnecessary.
2. He wanted this allusion to remain vague so as to keep it from sounding like a
report or declaration.
Here, the allusion is part of the text and includes two figures and one event from The
Arabian Nights. On the other hand, the entire original passage can be taken as
constituting an alternative symbol or objective correlative for the feelings and events
in al-Sayyāb's life. Thus this allusion serves as an example of a partial allegory.
Sinbad is al-Sayyāb, the island onto which he has been cast is his illness along with
the sense of powerlessness and isolation it has brought him, and the roc is death,
which threatens to hide the sun.
This allusion explicitly expresses al-Sayyāb's situation and quite faithfully,
fulfilling two basic interconnected functions: 1. it explicates the poet’s actions at the
moment, namely reminiscing his childhood; 2. it informs about his feelings of
loneliness and isolation, after everyone has left and forgotten him, including his
realization that his end is near.130 The comparison between the borrowing and the
borrowed (original) text shows the value in going back to the original text to
130 Al-Sayyāb's letters to friends, family members, and people in the field of publication and
journalism are dominated by feelings of deprivation and poverty, in addition to suffering
from his disease, his loneliness, and so on (see, for example, al-Sāmirrāʾī 1994: 167, 175,
180, 182, 186, 188-190, 197, 206-210). On his sense of impending death see: al-Gharfī 1986:
14, 165-166. On his journey of illness and suffering see: ʿAbbās 1983: 345-367; Tawfīq
1997: 105-116; Zāyid 1997: 90; Karīm 2000: 173-174. On his life of misery and repression
see: al-Tūnjī 1968: 9, 77; Jabrā, al-Baṣrī & al-Ṭāhir 1973: 101; ʿAllūsh 1977: 38, 51; BannÐs
1990, vol. 3: 262-264; Tawfīq 1997: 79-112; Ḥaddād 1998: 19, 23-24; Deyoung 1998: 187.

penetrate into the emotional state that drove the poet to use it. This is especially so
in the case of al-Sayyāb's poetic experience, since no other contemporary poet's
works are as closely linked to his own life and personality.131
3.4.2.6 Sinbad, the copper night and al-Ḥasan al-Baṣrī: Mixing symbols
We can frequently find a blend of symbols in al-Sayyāb's poetry, as in the case
above. Such a blend appears quite explicitly in "Al-Layla al-Akhīra" ("The Last
Night") published in the collection Manzil al-Aqnān (The Slaves Quarters; 1963),
which al-Sayyāb wrote in London in his final year of life. As was his custom in the
poems he wrote during this stage, al-Sayyāb yearns for his village, wife, and
children, trying to fend off his awful loneliness and the pain of disease and exile by
delving into fantasies and dreams, imagining himself returning to his land and
regaling his friends with stories of longing:
On one morning, in a month, after the doctor (1)
Sees him, who knows what fate will conceal?
He will carry the suitcase filled
With a thousand thousand wonderful things
With jewelry and stone (5)
With hidden toys
In which Ghaylān appears suddenly, o how long he waited!
How long he cried and slept, the tears filled
With the ringing of bells or the cry of wolves
His worlds of dreams, and the sails spread (10)
With them Sinbad roams the world of danger:
There the copper night watches the waves
And prepares the arrow to shoot whomever passes!
If God will decree my return to Iraq
I will strike the ground, embrace the trees (15)
I will cry out to humankind:
"O fragrance of Paradise, o brothers, o friends,
Al-Ḥasan al-Baṣrī traversed the Land of Wāq Wāq
And London of steel and rock
And saw no life better than in Iraq"132 (20)
His longing for his son Ghaylān and for Iraq, his exile, and his illness all figure
prominently in al-Sayyāb's poetry. Especially towards the end of his life, he would
often reminisce about the past and his childhood and with it the stories he was
131 See: ʿAbbās 1983: 400; al-Sāmirrāʾī 1978: 7; al-ʿAllāq 1997: 25; Faḍl 1998: 85; Karīm
2000: 146-147.
132 Al-Sayyāb 1995, vol. 1: 300-301.

told.133 These elements appear explicitly and intensively in "The Last Night.” Here
al-Sayyāb expresses a measure of optimism, hoping to return to Iraq a pardoned
man. He tells his son of his longing for his homeland, declaring that nothing in the
world is dearer to him. To express these feelings al-Sayyāb chose symbols that
somewhat obscure his meaning. Interestingly, all these symbols are taken from The
Arabian Nights.
In reading the poem, we can sense that al-Sayyāb composed it in a spirit of
absolute identification with this text’s world, especially the stories of Sinbad, whose
spirit accompanies readers throughout the poem. We see a powerful fusion between
direct expressions immersed in subjectivism and abstruse expressions that indirectly
give vent to al-Sayyāb's feelings, typical of his poetic style. He often tends towards
symbolism, but not in complex ways that can constrict a text and interrupt its flow.
Rather, al-Sayyāb's is a transparent symbolism, revealed through direct expressions
and a consistent poetic atmosphere.
The first two lines of "The Last Night” contain clear, direct expressions with
very prose-like and non-suggestive language. Had al-Sayyāb continued this style
throughout the poem, it would have only provided a simple view of his feelings, as
readily expressed in prose with hardly any change in wording. However, al-Sayyāb
was fully aware of how the language of poetry differs from that of prose. No matter
how pressing his feelings nor how just his cause, his use of imagery must attend to
the boundaries between art and everyday speech. Thus after his initial direct
expression, al-Sayyāb employs a measure of intimation. He imagines himself
returning home, carrying a suitcase with "jewelry and stone.” Sinbad becomes
present from this line on, as this figure travels in search of treasure, to return with
jewelry and gems. Al-Sayyāb travels for medical treatment and brings gifts for his
son Ghaylān.
Sinbad's inner personality gives al-Sayyāb's expressions suggestive power and a
profound imaginativeness, enabling him to honestly disclose his feelings in an
evocative poetic manner. This style continues throughout the poem, reinforcing my
contention that his use here of Arabian Nights’ symbols prevents him from lapsing
into a declarative mode. Whenever al-Sayyāb senses the intensity of his feelings
may demote his imagery, he returns to using the symbol in a straightforward
manner. His state was such that he could no longer pursue a consistent course in
formulating symbols and provide his poem an integrated symbolic cover. Al-Sayyāb
knew that this exhausting task would take too much of his increasingly scarce time;
he wanted to give voice to all his feelings before they were forever silenced. Al-
133 See: Jayyusi 1977, vol. 2: 694-695. In the introduction to his poetry collection Asāṭīr (Myths)
al-Sayyāb admits his mother's untimely death greatly affected him: "I lost my mother when I
was still a young child, so I grew up deprived of a woman's love and sympathy. All my life
was and still is a search of someone to fill this void. My life has been spent waiting for the
desired woman" (al-Gharfī 1986: 14); for more on how his mother's death affected al-Sayyāb
and his poetry see: ʿAwaḍ 1967: 75, 77; al-Tūnjī 1968: 11; ʿAllūsh 1977: 19-20; ʿAbbās
1983: 19; ʿAllūsh 1995b: 19-20; Jaʿfar 1999: 7-8, 49.

Sayyāb thus chose a more facile way to use the symbol. It became his means to
complete himself, accompanying but not embodying his feelings. The symbol thus
serves to reveal him, and he in turn gives it poetic legitimacy.
This technique is visible throughout the poem. For example, in lines 6-10 al-
Sayyāb employs direct expression by naming his son Ghaylān, imagining his
reaction to receiving his gifts. Then al-Sayyāb suddenly imagines him crying in his
sleep, dreaming of Sinbad and the copper knight. Here al-Sayyāb changes direction
once again to return to a symbolic style. The dream is his means for making this
transition; he can present a fabulous image from his son's dreams. The question
arises: do the symbols of Sinbad and the copper night convey a meaning beyond
reflecting al-Sayyāb's dream state? I believe that al-Sayyāb himself had dreamed of
the copper night and Sinbad as a child. In observing his son’s childhood, he sees him
inheriting his own youthful dreams and stories. The copper knight and Sinbad thus
connect to al-Sayyāb's mental state and do not merely exemplify his son's dreams.
Al-Sayyāb had used both these symbols in "Madīnat al-Sindibād" ("Sinbad's
City"), whose analysis above provides a clear response to some scholars’ confusion
regarding The Arabian Nights’s influence. The use of the same two symbols in “The
Last Night” constitutes further evidence that al-Sayyāb had deeply read The Arabian
Nights, its effect going beyond the title of “Sinbad’s City.”
In “The Last Night,” we can see the borrowed figure’s characteristics more
clearly, and as bearing greater resemblance to those in the original story. This time
the copper knight plays the same role as in The Arabian Nights, namely he sinks
ships, harming people. In “The Last Night” the protagonist harmed by the copper
night is Sinbad, symbolizing the poet himself, whereas in The Arabian Nights the
copper night harms other people, but not Sinbad, demonstrating al-Sayyāb's ability
to combine different symbols and place them in a single context where they function
in concert and extend a broader meaning. In “Sinbad’s City,” the copper knight
symbolizes the oppressive ruler; does he carry the same meaning here? I believe we
would be mistaken to infer a political message from this poem’s emotional
atmosphere. Rather the copper knight here seems to represent the unknown or death;
he senses its approach and announces his fear at encountering it.
Al-Sayyāb was indeed greatly tormented by fear of death, which he expressed
and analyzed in such depth that some scholars consider him the poet who has best
depicted man's struggle with death. In al-Sayyāb's final months of life, when he had
given up all hope of recovery, he surrendered to death, declaring he was no longer
afraid; he accepted death: "My attitude towards death has changed. I am no longer
afraid of it. It can come whenever it wishes."134
Death aims its arrow at everyone who passes and all whom it hits die. As Sinbad
wanders through this world of danger he is always at risk from death’s arrow. This
sensory image demonstrates al-Sayyāb skill in dramatically using a popular image to
134 Al-Gharfī 1986: 188; cf. al-Sāmirrāʾī 1994: 221; al-Tūnjī 1968: 118-119; Luʾluʾa 1980: 92;
Adonis 1996: 219; Tawfīq 1997: 116; Zāyid 1997: 233; Karīm 2000: 149-152.

bring color to his style and make his words dynamic, far from the frozen nature of
direct declarative style. Al-Sayyāb's poetry must thus be read with great patience
and its meaning sought from behind its images. Al-Sayyāb's poetry is linked to his
profound and honest feelings; it possesses deep psychological roots that must be
excavated and contemplated to attain insight into how al-Sayyāb thought and felt
during his struggle with death. It is thus insufficient to understand "the son's dream"
literally and superficially, as if only a fiction with no association to the poet's
feelings. Rather, it is incumbent upon us to so extend to al-Sayyāb's symbols the
emotional, mental, and social reality he experienced.
Al-Sayyāb's coloring his poem with stories from The Arabian Nights continues
throughout. After lines 14-17 once more explicitly but lyrically describe reality, al-
Sayyāb again adopts a dramatic style, evoking the figure of al-Ḥasan al-Baṣrī. The
surname al-Baṣrī indicates he comes from the city of Baṣra in present-day Iraq,
noted in the original story. An Iraqi himself, al-Sayyāb lived in the Abū al-Khaṣīb
region to the south of Baṣra, and thus naturally identifies with this figure finding
points of contact between al-Ḥasan al-Baṣrī’s story and his own life’s events.
In the original story, Ḥasan al-Baṣrī falls in love with a beautiful jinni. He uses
his wiles to trap and marry her, but after a few years, she flees to her father's far-
away land, the islands of Wāq Wāq, together with their children. The story goes on
to describe that great and wonderful land, which has everything one could wish for,
but cannot be reached. However, al-Baṣrī decides to undertake an adventure. He
mounts a flying horse that takes him to all parts of the earth. After many difficulties,
extended adventures, and great dangers, he reaches his wife and returns her to
Baghdad.135
Although al-Baṣrī witnesses the strangest things the world has to offer and visits
the most wonderful countries, he prefers to return to his homeland, because his
profound yearning and love for it surpass any other desire or emotion. By evoking
al-Baṣrī who symbolizes himself, the poet in exile in London, al-Sayyāb wanted to
express this longing for home. Although one of the world's great capital cities, al-
Sayyāb regards London a sterile city of stone, where he lives a life of solitude, pain,
and alienation, where there is no one to amuse him or to empathize with his exile.
Al-Baṣrī's story enhances the poem's expressiveness, presenting al-Sayyāb's
powerful emotions in a full and accurate manner, in ways direct declaration cannot
achieve, thanks to the surprise aroused by the wonderful and strange things al-Baṣrī
encounters. For in the popular imagination the land of Wāq Wāq is located at the
ends of the earth, a place where no one can go. But al-Sayyāb claims to having gone
there, his visit convincing him that nothing can replace his homeland.
Note also that al-Sayyāb managed to maintain an unaffected rhyme scheme in
this part of the poem, by rhyming Wāq Wāq with Iraq (al-ʿIrāq) in two adjoining
hemistiches. He thus placed these two lands in direct opposition without interrupting
the rhyme structure. Finally, I wish to note that this poem’s meter is also rajaz,
135 See: The Arabian Nights, vol. 3: 487-520, vol. 4: 5-92.

providing additional evidence that, whether consciously or not, poets hold it in high
favor for use in dramatic contexts. It permits poets greater freedom in language than
most other meters, making it easier to select and construct rhyme schemes that allow
stories to proceed smoothly, naturally, coherently, and effectively.
3.4.2.7 Sinbad lost never to return: Counter-imitation and the double

Al-Sayyāb used the figure of Sinbad in his poetry more than most other poets,
despite his short life. He also more fully developed its symbolism in the course of his
brief poetic career.136
Not only are Sinbad's journeys important and exciting elements in his
adventures, so is his constant return to his hometown of Baghdad, where he
eventually settles down. Although he visits many parts of the earth, he finds no other
place he prefers for spending the remainder of his life. But al-Sayyāb's Sinbad is still
lost and cannot return.
In his final days, al-Sayyāb realized he would not have the pleasure of settling in
his homeland; deep in his heart he know his long journey with illness would end in
death far from home. Thus towards the end of his life he often evoked a Sinbad lost
in exile, who has lost his compass and knows not how to return home. Al-Sayyāb
did in fact spend the final period of his life moving among Beirut, London, and
Kuwait, until his fated death in exile. Al-Sayyāb's Sinbad is thus a lost wanderer,
who journeys not to seek adventure or treasure, but because journeying is his fate—
to wander and suffer great hardship until his last breath.
Through his depiction of Sinbad's biography in his final poems, al-Sayyāb maps
out his personal journey through disease. His poems describe various types of
physical pain and mental suffering, copious emotions running from despair to hope,
from fear to confidence. Sinbad/al-Sayyāb’s story thus provides a mirror reflecting
the poet’s experience in his final days. The figure of Sinbad remains with him up to
the verge of death, constituting the most important personality he associated with his
psyche, one capable of profoundly and honestly expressing his inclinations and
feelings. I would not be exaggerating in claiming that the evolution of the figure of
Sinbad in al-Sayyāb's poetry provides an effective device for understanding his
oeuvre, for becoming acquainted with his troubled inner world and discover the
deeper meanings of his symbols.
Al-Sayyāb had read the stories of The Arabian Nights and had heard them even
earlier in his grandfather's divan. The stories remained associated with his
childhood, so that in alluding to them he evokes his childhood and its atmosphere,
for which he yearned especially in nearing his end. In his poem "Al-Waṣiyya"
136 It is worth noting that the figures of Sinbad and Odysseus are the only two that al-Sayyāb
retained until the end (see: al-Gharfī 1986: 198; cf. Tawfīq 1997: 314). For more al-Sayyāb's
infatuation with Sinbad and on the role he played in his poetry see: ʿAwaḍ 1967: 81-82;
ʿAbbās 1983: 372; Ḥaddād, ʿA. 1986: 87, 207-208; Ḥaddād 1998: 120-121, 140-141;
Deyoung 1998: 98, 104-105.

("Testament") in the collection Al-Maʿbad al-Gharīq (The Drowned Temple) al-

Sayyāb also presents himself as a Sinbad unable to return:
I fear the yellow fog!
I fear that I am slipping from the unconsciousness of sedation
To seas with no port
Sinbad, when he entered them in the evening
Could not return to the lute, to drink, to the flowers137
Al-Sayyāb presents a Sinbad unable to return to port, just as death would deprive
himself pleasure. The original Sinbad settles in Baghdad after seven voyages, but al-
Sayyāb has lost all hope of returning. In alluding to Sinbad, he creates a clash
between the figure residing in readers’ memory and how it is presented in the poem.
For when encountering Sinbad in the poem readers recall, among other things, that
he returns home unharmed, but then they are immediately surprised by the semantic
obstacle that Sinbad is the opposite of their expectations. The shock thus created by
this paradoxical or ironic contrastive allusion awakens readers, paving the way for
accepting new information, expecting the unexpected, and thereby taking a more
active part in reading. Here al-Sayyāb speaks of Sinbad in the third person while
earlier he speaks in the first person about his personal fears. This transition between
persons gives the narration greater vitality, but also conveys the feeling that the poet
is delirious, alluding to the story of Sinbad although it has no direct connection to
him. The use of the third person gives the text a more indirect and objective tone. It
serves to dilute meaning and readers' identification with the poem, whereas first
person speech connects more closely to readers.
Let us now turn to al-Bayātī’s work in this period for he more than any other
poet developed Sinbad as antithesis. Al-Bayātī’s Sinbad is also lost and does not
return; in fact, he dies and his ships are sold. We can observe this usage as reflecting
an important transformation in al-Bayātī's poetic career, apparent in a number of
examples from his verse. In a poem entitled "Al-Ḥajar" ("The Stone") in the
collection Alladhī Yaʾtī wa-lā Yaʾtī (What Comes and Does Not Come; 1966) al-
Bayātī expresses a fundamental change in his life and thinking by declaring the
death of Sinbad. Already his title hints at scarcity, paralysis, and death, the
disappearance of youth, activity, hope, and dreams, again reminding readers of
Eliot's The Waste Land:
A sea jinni weeps on the rock: Sinbad died
And here I see him
On the yellow pages of the newspaper, buried, and do not see him:
His ship is sold at an auction
And the blacksmith breaks his sword
Who will buy a merry slave? Said the fetters.138
137 Al-Sayyāb 1995, vol. 1: 219.

Al-Bayātī’s places Sinbad before readers and then proceeds to deprive him of
every symbol of power and life. He is buried (after having been alive and active), his
ship is on sale (in life he never forsook it), his sword is broken (the sword that
consistently led him to victory), and he has lost his freedom (he had previously
always been free and did as he liked).
A spirit of pessimism and despair appears to have begun penetrating into al-
Bayātī's poems in this period, apparently reflecting a great transformation in his life,
as he entered a time of vanishing thoughts, actions, and youth.139 Al-Bayātī made
skillful use of the figure of Sinbad in order to express this transformation. Sinbad
and his travels are associated with vitality, activity, and one adventure after another,
having overcame the jinn and performed impossible feats, challenging the popular
mind to imagine him dying or surrendering. The contradictions portrayed by al-
Bayātī in the figure of Sinbad give rise to a stark picture of the conflict inside his
soul and the fundamental change in his attitude towards life.
Sinbad here fulfils the role of "the double," a mirror reflecting the poet's soul. He
calls forth the figure and then detaches it from himself presenting it explicitly,
insightfully, and objectively. Sinbad, the sailor and the dead man, is the poetic soul
al-Bayātī has detached from his human soul to explicitly describe, analyze, and
display all its dimensions.
Adopting this perspective on the poem's meaning, we may consider its figure of
Sinbad quite rich, not a mere formal allusion but rather containing additional
symbols that together with the original symbolism create a complex picture of al-
Bayātī. Not exactly an allegory, although something quite close, the image of
Sinbad works together with numerous other symbols and expressions to broaden its
meaning and make it more profound. In turn, this usage brings greater transparency
and clarity to the symbol of Sinbad.
Other symbols al-Bayātī here associates with the figure of Sinbad include: 1. the
ship, the means by which Sinbad sails the seas signifies his way in life. Here it
symbolizes the poet’s way of life, that is, poetry, the poet's "ship," one not easily
handled and subject to many storms and crises. In poetry’s final adventure, storms
defeat it and deprive it of life. No longer the poet’s property, it is sold at auction to
the highest bidder; 2. the sword. Sinbad’s tool for engaging in battle, it symbolizes
the struggle facing the poet every time he writes. He struggles against authority,
life's travails, and the human condition in general. His struggle and commitment to
his homeland and people come to a definite end when the sword is broken; 3. the
merry slave stands for Sinbad himself as well as the poet at the semantic level, since
he is a slave to circumstances that lead him wherever they please, a slave to the
138 Al-Bayātī 1972, vol. 2: 243-244.

139 Jubrān notes that it was after he had to leave Egypt and Syria, especially in the mid-1960s,
that his poems began to reflect a great bitterness and an overwhelming hopelessness with
respect to the Arab world and its political problems. He was also disappointed with the
Socialist Party, and as a result fell into an "absolute sadness" (see: Jubrān 1989: 176-177).

sterility dominating his inner and outer worlds, fettering him, and preventing him
from taking a single step, since movement has no purpose. Sinbad dies, or rather the
ancient poetic soul dies, the soul that was once filled with activity, optimism, and
movement. On the other hand, perhaps the death of this soul announces the birth of
another with a new approach towards life.
Al-Bayātī’s technique of "the double" appears more explicitly and in a more
highly developed form in a later poem entitled "Thalāthat Rusūm Maʾiyya" ("Three
Watercolors") in the collection Al-Kitāba ʿalā al-Óīn (Writing on Clay; 1970). Here
al-Bayātī’s poetic soul is also presented as a Sinbad separate from himself, whom he
addresses:
O Sinbad did you not, O Sinbad
Raid ports and hearts, leaving behind in every port
Your ship on fire
Why did you extinguish the wicks?
You or it went off like the magi to the mountains
Why did the heart cease its dialogue in the silence of the sea?
Why did the distant cities, the ports and the day die?
And the houris' faces in the sea depths?140
Al-Bayātī here addresses himself embodied as Sinbad. His dialogue includes
questions and answers revealing truths about himself. The questions here are
rhetorical. They serve to furnish answers, rather than to ignite new questions. They
make it clear that al-Bayātī was passing through a great transformation in his life
and attitudes at that time. He intimates that previously he had been lively, travelled
greatly, and raided ports, yet now he is like an extinct volcano, stable and isolated
(like the magi in the mountains).
Al-Bayātī’s words and references, both here and in the poem as a whole, point
readers towards a sentimental meaning. He speaks about raids, about his ship on fire,
about a heart in tumult and houris' faces, all symbols that together represent his
youth, filled with romantic adventure, emotions, and poetic activity. But his youth
passed, giving way for middle age to dominate him, fetter his feelings, and
extinguish his fire. "Three Watercolors" also contains a number of sexual symbols,
to which al-Bayātī “politely” alludes, masking them with indirect expressions. For
example, "raid ports […] leaving behind in every port your ship on fire" contains a
clearly sensual image.
The numerous questions show al-Bayātī’s great distress and the depth and
intensity of his inner struggle, as well as his inability to return to his former state.
Sinbad the poet is now impotent, although he had been full of energy in the past. We
can see the extreme change Sinbad suffers through al-Bayātī’s choices of words and
phrases in depicting his past ("attack," "fire," "dialogue," "day," and "the houris'
140 Al-Bayātī 1972, vol. 2: 481-482.

faces") as compared to those describing the present ("extinguish," "went off,"

"cease," "silence of the sea," "died").
Al-Bayātī took a certain period in his own life, his youth, detached it from
himself, and clothed it in the figure of Sinbad. This transference enabled him to
engage with that period objectively, accurately, and profoundly, to delve into its
multiple dimensions and aspects of struggle. He addresses Sinbad/his youth in the
second person, giving the confrontation force and intensity, which in turn arouses
attention, tension, and excitement in readers.
Sinbad is a pivotal figure, borrowed or extracted from its original text with many
of its symbols attached, and "sown" in a new "field," where each symbol holds a new
expressive position and participates in elucidating aspects of the poet's psyche. Sinbad
is no extraneous figure, but a central element in keeping with the text's language and
atmosphere. Thus the act of "sowing" him into the poem appears necessary and
perfectly natural. He participates actively in making the poem’s meaning more
profound and extensive, without loosing his crimary characteristics.141
3.4.2.8 Sinbad as a stage figure: Poetization of the narrative

I earlier discussed the importance of folk materials as dramatic elements in modern
Arabic poetry. Such materials participate in creating hybrid poetic texts, possessing
features from more than a single genre. They enrich texts, impeding monotony and
direct lyricism. This tendency has displaced some of the typical features of poetry,
yet compensated by infusing external features leading poems’ language to approach
that of prose. This change of language has in turn led poets to prefer those poetical
metric patterns that best suit it. The most common of these meters are rajaz and
mutadārak. Here I present a very mature such hybrid text to demonstrate the ways
this kind of writing has evolved out of the 1950s modernist experience to create
works most appropriately called architexts.
In a poetic text entitled "Abrāj fī Qalʿat Sukkar 'Barnāmaj Tilfizyūnī'" ("Towers
in Sukkar Fortress 'A Television Program'" in the collection Qaṣāʾid Marʾiyya
(Visible Poems; 1965), Saʿdī Yūsuf presents a complete play containing numerous
dramatic techniques. He begins the poem by providing its framework, including the
time, "the first decade of the twentieth century" and the place, "the district of Qalʿat
Sukkar in Ottoman Iraq," and introducing its characters, among them Sinbad.142 He
divides his poem/play into three scenes, each of which begins with an introduction
presented by the figure of Sinbad, who appears in the role of a television announcer.
Sinbad tells the audience he is fed up with travel and talking about his journeys,
and now wants to tell them a story of a fortress. Sinbad thus appears as a
contemporary figure, in contrast to the original, although he does retain some
features, such as his ceasing to travel and telling stories about his adventures instead.
141 For additional examples of Sinbad as a counter-allusion see: al-Bayātī 1972, vo. 2: 157-158;
al-Sayyāb 1995, vol. 1: 654; Darwīsh 1997, vol. 1: 121, 490.
142 Yūsuf 1995, vol. 1: 416-417.

However, he declares that he will postpone relating his seventh journey, which may
be understood as a contrast of sorts with the original figure.
Yūsuf makes use of most of storytelling and dramatic techniques, including
narration and dialogue, introducing or describing characters between quotes as
playwrights generally do before initiating dialogue, and using symbols, thereby
enriching the text and making its path towards meaning more “rugged”. Sinbad is
not one of the figures in the story being told. Rather, he is the main figure in the
frame narrative, determining what is presented and how, choosing materials as he
sees fit. The inner story contains numerous characters whose dialogues convey
Sinbad’s message to "viewers," until the end of the play when it becomes apparent
that readers have been playing the role of viewers and Sinbad the narrator is a
“mask” for the poet. The inner story was the real poem which Yūsuf intended for
readers; he wanted us to assimilate its events and derive their meaning.
Yūsuf thus operates behind a mask and uses a poetization of narrative, dialogue, and
a play-like frame to bring together the greatest possible amount of literary elements in a
single text that does not belong to any specific genre but contains features of several
different ones, generating greater artistic force than he would have if using the features
of only a single genre. In the introduction to this small poetic play he says:
Sinbad "through the television screen:"
I am very sorry to inform my viewers that our program about "my seventh
journey,"
The lame one, has been postponed. I am not really sorry for this, since I am tired.
[…] Excuse me. I would like to say
That I will fix the timber in my old ship, ha-ha. It was
Smashed on the coast of al-Gharrāf in Iraq, near a small fortress […]
"Disappears"
-Intermission with pictures and folk music –
The announcer:
Ladies and gentlemen, you are about to…
Sinbad
"appears suddenly and silences the announcer with a practiced gesture:"
Gentlemen! Please wake up the ladies now! Kindly leave the crooked cards,
the whiskey, the bite of people and the news, please listen to me, please
watch Sinbad who comes to you this night and tells you some little things
about this "fortress"
Very well…143
Yūsuf manipulates the poetic text with great flexibility and freedom, interrupting the
poem's continuity with comment, quotes and maxims, so that it resembles a painting
combining a variety of scenes and styles. He turns a poetic text into a television
program, with its interspersed breaks and news broadcasts. Sinbad appears as a
143 Yūsuf 1995, vol. 1: 418-419.

rebellious character, who silences and then replaces the announcer in order to relate a
story ostensibly containing an important message. Readers/viewers know that Sinbad
is an unusual character who has traveled far and wide and attained a great deal of
knowledge. They will thus listen to him eagerly and take his words seriously.
I believe that these reasons led Yūsuf to specifically select this figure as a mask
for himself to tell his story to the public and indirectly arouse their awareness He
effectively addresses readers, inviting them to “listen” carefully. He uses the
framework of the play to cover this invitation, to maintain distance between himself
and readers, and to keep the text from becoming too direct and explicit. After the
opening, the dramatic events related by Sinbad begin to take place.
We see a conflict between the sheikh, a dominant and influential person who
lives in QalÝat Sukkar (a city in Iraq), and the peasants, fighting to become free and
obtain their rights. One peasant, Jābir Masʿūd, acts as intercessor and uses all his wit
to try to convince the other peasants to cease their struggle, but they refuse. After the
first scene ends, Sinbad appears once more. We perceive him as a narrator watching
over and commenting on the events. He is familiar with every detail and has a single
aim: To present the events in the clearest possible way so that viewers will
internalize them and develop an appropriate consciousness.
After Sinbad explains the essence of the struggle and introduces its parties, he
continues the story, as follows:
The sheikh's nephew
"Enters"
Greetings
Jābir al-Masʿūd
"Gets up"
"Points with his hand to a seat on his right. The sheikh's nephew sits down,
and so does Jābir al-Masʿūd. The two drink coffee"
The sheikh's nephew
I have come on the command of my cousin…
Jābir al-Masʿūd
"Smiling"
To hear an opinion?
The sheikh's nephew
To state an opinion.
"The peasants enter"
Salmān
Greetings to Jābir.
The chorus
Greetings, greetings, greetings.144
144 Yūsuf 1995, vol. 1: 425-426.

Jābir proceeds to judge a dispute between the peasants and the feudal sheikh. As
a judge he appears very weak and decides in favor of the sheikh, disappointing the
peasants who had put their trust in him. The peasants then announce they will not
accept the ruling and will continue to struggle to the very end. The poem thus ends
on a note of resistance, power, and optimism.
Yūsuf enriched the text with numerous devices, including a chorus, which plays
the role of commentator. It speaks using expressions, maxims, and symbols directly
connected to the meanings it reveals. Another device is the mutadārak meter in
some of the more lyrical stanzas wherein the chorus comments on events, reveals
their meanings, and explains their implications. All these devices fuse together to
enrich the text and expand its meanings, demonstrating Yūsuf’s creativity, skills,
and ability to confidently and effectively use every available stylistic device.
The poem as a whole does not have a consistent meter. It opens in the rajaz
meter with full lines and poetic language approaching that of prose, appropriately
providing a prose-like introduction to the story. Yūsuf was clearly fully aware of the
unique possibilities offered by this meter, making possible his use of words and
expressions that appear declarative and unfit for poetry, such as "the viewers," "the
program," and "ladies and gentlemen."
The play itself at first uses the ramal meter (fāʿilātun, faʿilātun), but when
Sinbad comes back and begins to comment on the first scene in a style very similar
to prose analysis, Yūsuf once more returns to the rajaz meter. Finally, in the play's
last two scenes he uses the mutadārak meter which, like the rajaz meter, contains
numerous possibilities for changing syllable size, thus providing the opportunity to
use words that bring the text closer to poetry, enabling the poet to poeticize prose
and the language of speech.
Another noteworthy aspect of this poem is its play with black and white on the
page. Yūsuf wrote the names of the characters and notes on their behavior in the
middle of the page, while the dialogue is aligned to the right side as is standard in
Arabic, thus detaching the narrative part from the poetic dialogue, the non-metric
speech from that said in meter. Thus Yūsuf tries to show that his primary text is the
metric poetry; the prose interjections appearing with great frequency between verses
are mere directions and commentaries independent of the poetic context.
In this text, Sinbad is given to bear more than he can, such that the only clear
associations left are allusions to his seventh journey and repairing his ship.
Furthermore, the story Sinbad tells contains no trace of his personality. The story he
witnesses and reports is also far removed from him. Sinbad thus serves as a mask for
the poet, serving the role of reliable narrator who objectively relays the truth. The
audience should therefore ignore fictional accounts and rely only upon his telling of
the true tale. I see no compelling rational justification for Yūsuf choosing the figure
of Sinbad for telling this particular story other than his Iraqi origin, extensive travel
experience, and possession of a great deal of knowledge which may all be helpful in
convincing viewers/readers of his narrative’s credibility.


In this period, poets’ use of the figure of Scheherazade made progress. Poets
generally developed their ability to analyze this figure and probe its depths, and
consequently viewed it in various different ways that at times were mutually
incompatible. There were those poets who saw her as a symbol of weak and
repressed women, while others viewed her as despotic and authoritarian. Thus she is
a complex figure with contradictory features, able to arouse numerous different
associations and carry many meanings. Scheherazade was her husband's slave, and
at constant risk of being killed. But at the same time she was mentally his superior
and controlled him with her intelligence. Poets benefited from this figure at the level
of content, using her as an allusion or symbol for exemplary characteristics familiar
to readers, to be evoked in the reading process and give their verses deeper meaning.
Scheherazade was a skillful storyteller whose unique pleasurable style attracted
her listener (Shahryar). A number of poets imitated that style in their verses and
directly borrowed the famous expression characterizing The Arabian Nights, "But
morning overtook Scheherazade and she lapsed into silence." Stylistic benefits to a
text of Scheherazade’s mention are perhaps greater than benefits of substance, since
her very name can bestow and help build a poetic text’s dramatic tone.
3.4.3.2 Scheherazade as symbolic allusion

In his poem "Al-Jarāda al-Dhahabiyya" ("The Golden Locust") from the collection
Al-Mawt fī al-Hayāt (Death in Life; 1968), al-Bayātī says:
Death in life
Sleep with no resurrection and no rest
Blow on the ashes, O enchantress
Perhaps Scheherazade
Will extend a hand from her tomb towards the prophet and poet in birth
Perhaps the fire of Iram al-ʿImād
Will shine in the desert of these cities whose walls are coated with black.145
Al-Bayātī gives expression to the barrenness and stagnation dominating life around
him, making him view the world as a gloomy place, overshadowed by death. This
sentiment echoes the grief Arab poets generally experience, due to their sense of
alienation stemming from cultural distance from the masses and their profound
understanding of the morally, socially, and politically miserable situation in their
homelands. Al-Bayātī’s feelings of despair and inability to communicate with the
masses or influence social reforms led him to seek refuge in the world of the
unconscious, the world of the fabulous and impossible, hoping that other world
would extricate his troubles. This aim is one of the explanations poets have given for
145 Al-Bayātī 1972, vol. 2: 392.

their intensive use of myths and legends and elucidates the very large number of
symbols and legends to which al-Bayātī alludes in this poem.
Al-Bayātī had lost any hope for reform, change, or resurrection in the real,
rational world. He therefore searched for another world, a world of legend and
magic, where change requires but a single word. The poem opens with Scheherazade
in the role of a submissive, lifeless wife. The poet protagonist wants to resurrect her
and asks a sorceress to blow on the ash, that is, to blow life into her dead body, bring
her up out of her figurative grave. Scheherazade here alludes to Arab civilization,
which had once been so noble, a source of pride, and surely equal to any other
civilization on earth, while today it has sunk into backwardness and illiteracy.
Scheherazade is helpless and lifeless, awaiting resurrection. The only act within the
poet's power is to thrice utter the word "perhaps," indicating his impotence.
Scheherazade disappears in the next three stanzas to return in the fifth, but this
time the symbolism is more involved. Al-Bayātī leaves a number of clues to lead
readers to his intended meaning:
I saw in the refuse dumps of the east, in its markets, the kings
The one-eyed, the trumpets, the roosters
Emasculated, shouting […]
I saw Scheherazade
An odalisque in the cities of ash
Sold in an auction
I saw the wretchedness of the east.146
Al-Bayātī here evokes negative aspects of Scheherazade's personality, the Scheherazade
readers know as submitting to her primitive Oriental husband, sitting humbly at his feet,
telling him stories, and obliging his demands in fear of beheading. In the poem she is
presented as a slave girl at auction. This depiction contributes to al-Bayātī’s description
of the cities he encounters, cities going in a state of decay, backwardness, and
immorality; they have lost their connection to the old Scheherazade and her noble
ancient heritage. Having hoped to effect change through a miracle, al-Bayātī returns to
reality, conceding that no solution is possible under existing circumstances of
backwardness and cultural chaos. In the seventh and final stanza he states the only
solution is deluge and a new Creation—total annihilation of the present civilization,
which has become overwhelmed with corruption and cannot be reformed.147
Thus Scheherazade here symbolizes Arab civilization. It is not difficult to
decipher this symbol’s meaning because of the many common features between
146 Al-Bayātī 1972, vol. 2: 396-397.

147 For similar examples see: al-Bayātī 1972, vol. 2: 424. In contrast, Qabbānī makes only a
superficial allusion to Scheherazade, with no symbolism, in a poem in which he lauds Jamal
Abdul Nasser, whose death made myths die "and Scheherazade took her own life." Here the
figure is compared to the legends mentioned previously and possesses no particular
importance in itself. It was chosen merely because it fit the rhyme scheme (see: Qabbānī
1993, vol. 3: 362).

symbol and referent. Scheherazade is a woman and the word "civilization" (ḥaḍāra)
is feminine in Arabic; she is the victim of her primitive husband and primitive Arab
civilization is equally victim of its despotic leaders and immoral people.
Poets frequently put a considerable distance between a symbol and its object,
making it difficult to discern its meaning due to a dearth of common features. In
such cases a symbol may become more liberated from its origin, thereby capable of
conveying new meanings. This employment requires greater imaginative powers and
more creative skill on the part of poets, in order to convince readers of the necessity
of introducing such an innovation.
In his poem "Khuṭuwāt fī al-Layl" ("Steps at Night") in the collection Uḥibbuk
aw lā Uḥibbuk (Love You Love You Not; 1972), DarwÐsh addresses Scheherazade as
a beloved girl. He tries to convince her to see him by expressing his pained yearning
for her. In patiently reading the text and delving deeply into its meaning, paying
careful attention to the choice of descriptions and lexicon, readers soon realize the
girl in question is not literally a girl, but stands for the soil; Darwīsh is actually
expressing feelings of yearning and love for his homeland.
The figure of mother or beloved symbolizing the soil is a distinctive feature of
Palestinian literature. In fact, there are entire poems giving the impression of love poems
that they are actually patriotic poems par excellence, describing the promised homeland
as a beloved and loving beautiful girl or tender mother.148 In this poem Darwīsh says:
Who removes your blue shadow
From my bed every night?
The steps come and your eyes are countries
Your arm a siege around my body
The steps come
Why does the shadow that draws me flee
O Scheherazade?
The steps come and do not enter
Be trees
So I will see your shadow
Be a moon
So I see your shadow […]
Always,
I hear approaching steps at night
You become my refuges
You become my prisons …
Try to kill me
At one go
148 See: al-Manāṣira 2000: 313; Abū Murād 2004: 52, 103-104. About the soil and its central
position in Palestinian poetry, especially in Darwīsh's works, see: Abū Murād 2004: 114-
124. On the connection between symbols of love and patriotism in Darwīsh's poetry see:
Abū Murād 2004: 125-140.

Do not kill me
With approaching steps!149
The poet is experiencing painful disintegration. His lover has taken control of him,
besieges him, and makes him a prisoner, but on the other hand she is far away and
he does not see her. His life has become a permanent prison, for he is incapable of
ceasing to love her. She is not willing to release him from his bonds, and whenever
he senses her approaching him, she moves away in his imagination. His torment is
repetitive and constant, as if he is killed with every step she takes towards him. Her
steps increase his tension, his love and expectation, and cause him to hope she will
soon appear, like a tree, a moon, or anything physically real and capable of
perception, so he can feel at peace.
Darwīsh did not choose moon and tree by chance; both lead readers to the text's
deep meaning. A moon and a tree can be seen with the eye unaided; they cast
shadows and their existence can be verified. Their shadows indicate the realization
of dreams, since a dream that possesses a shadow is a dream come true, one having
left the inner rhetorical and moved to the overt sensory sphere. The poet thus wishes
for a place to rest from the torment of his dream. He wishes for a homeland filled
with trees, where the moon appears in the middle of the night. Their substance is
concrete evidence that his dream has come true and his torment has ended.
In the midst of this atmosphere of love, yearning, and waiting, of a state of siege
imposed by the poet’s beloved on him, the figure of Scheherazade appears as the
object of his love. The beloved who restrains, dominates, and overwhelms him is
Scheherazade herself. It would appear that Darwīsh recalled Scheherazade's
enchantment, sweet femininity, and domination over her husband and imagined
himself in his place. He saw in her his homeland and him in love with her/his
homeland like Shahryar was in love with her and her stories; his homeland
dominates his thoughts like Scheherazade dominated her husband's thoughts.
Darwīsh’s use of the symbol of Scheherazade is logical and fits the poem's overall
atmosphere, filled with femininity, emotion, and repeated use of the second person.
The atmosphere is also nocturnal, reminding us of the nights in The Arabian Nights.
Furthermore, Scheherazade is a figure of legend and to Darwīsh the homeland is a
dream. Legend and dreams reside in the unconscious, beyond reality, indicating
Scheherazade symbolizes the dream of a homeland. Trees and moon are symbols of
the homeland materialized, selected from the world of reality and awareness.
Finally, we can find yet another strong association between the symbol and its
meaning. The figure of Scheherazade evokes in readers’ minds the telling of
countless stories while stories of the homeland and of its people’s struggle are just as
countless. It is as if with the figure of Scheherazade Darwīsh tried, in a single
moment and by means of a single word, to encompass all the love, struggle, stories,
and dreams attaching him to his homeland. It takes him from one torment to another,
149 Darwīsh 1997, vol. 1: 445-446.

even with all his patient waiting, until the day arrives when Scheherazade becomes a
tree or a moon, that is, his dream of homeland becomes a reality.150
3.4.3.3 Scheherazade: Analogous imitation

In his poem "Qaṣāʾid Íubb ʿan Waḍḍāḥ al-Yaman wal-Íubb wal-Mawt" ("Love
Poems about Waḍḍāḥ al-Yaman, Love and Death") in the collection Qaṣāʾid Íubb
ʿalā Bawwābāt al-ʿÀlam al-Sabʿ (Love Poems on the Seven Portals of the World;
1971), al-Bayātī uses numerous symbols as a means or objective correlative for
expressing feelings of love. He attempts to avoid being overly direct and self-
focused by alluding to emotions, masking them with various symbols. In the final
stanza he says:
I died on the rug of love but did not die by the sword
I died in a box and was cast into the well of night
The secret died with me, strangled, while my mistress was on her bed
Playing with the cat in her innocence, embellishing the moons
On the garment of the dark
She tells tales to the caliph
A story of magical cities and their hidden treasures
And the morning overtook Desdemona.151
In this poem, al-Bayātī "wears" the mask of Waḍḍāḥ al-Yaman (d. 708 CE), the
famous love poet from the Umayyad period who rhapsodized the wife of Caliph al-
Walīd b. ʿAbd al-Malik (668-715 CE), who then ordered him buried alive.152 This
mask stands in opposition to another figure to whom al-Bayātī alludes,
Shakespeare’s Othello, the commander so filled with doubt and jealousy that he
killed his wife Desdemona.153 Othello thus stands in for the murderous caliph,
symbolizing the authority threatening Waḍḍāḥ al-Yaman’s love for the caliph’s
wife, symbolized by the parallel figure of Desdemona.
But what happens to Desdemona in the poem differs from what happens to her in
Shakespeare’s play, for here she is not killed; rather, the poet kills himself as she
relaxes on her bed, plays with her cat, and regales the caliph Othello with amusing
tales. At this moment the figures of Desdemona and Scheherazade coalesce, as the
latter is also not killed; the king lets her live each new day to tell him a new story. In
replacing Scheherazade with Desdemona, al-Bayātī makes her a teller of legends
living a life of ease under the caliph's wings. Through this image al-Bayātī expresses
disappointment in his love, for whom he sacrificed his life yet received nothing in
return; his beloved betrayed her promise to him and remains in the caliph's embrace.
150 For further examples see: Qabbānī 1993, vol. 1: 507, 514-516.
151 Al-Bayātī 1972, vol. 3: 39-40.
152 See: al-Bayātī 1972, vol. 3: 159-160.
153 See: Shakespeare 1980.

Al-Bayātī made extensive use of symbols and connected them together, giving
powerful expression to his emotional state of suffering, while serving to remind us
that history is pebbled by stories of betrayal, violence, and oppression. Readers
recognize similarity in the stories of Scheherazade, Waḍḍāḥ al-Yaman, and
Desdemona, and now al-Bayātī’s story. The symbols intensify and expand his
meaning, giving the emotions an objective tone and making them more persuasive;
their familiarity lend reliability to the poet’s feelings. As for their stylistic effect,
borrowed originally from narrative texts, these symbols introduce dramatic elements
into the text. Visual imagery is provided with the description of the beloved as she
plays with her cat and tells stories, and with the obvious narrative tales in the poem’s
other stanzas (for example: “Othello in the caliph's turban /faces the crowd / with his
broken sword”154).
Al-Bayātī’ symbolic interconnections and consistency give semantic depth to the
expressions borrowed from The Arabian Nights. His usage is especially important at
the content level, for he gives us to understand that even after the poet's death, his
lover remained in the caliph's embrace. Such expression can play an even greater
role when made into a fundamental element in a text’s structure and development of
plot, as in the following poem by DarwÐsh.
"Qaṣāʾid ʿan Íubb Qadīm" ("Poems about an Ancient Love") in the collection
ʿĀshiq min Filisṭīn (A Lover from Palestine) reminisces about the time before
Darwīsh’s beloved left him. In the last stanza Darwīsh focuses on the moment of
separation and its attendant pain and lost hopes:
And the evening overtook us (1)
The sun
Combed its hair in the sea
The last kiss landed
On my eyes like coals(5)
-Take the winds from me
And kiss me
For the last time in my life
… and the morning overtook her
And the sun (10)
Combs its hair in the east
She has the henna and the wedding […]
-Take the songs away from me
And mention me … (15)
Like a bolt of lightning
And the evening overtook me
The bells
Struck for the convoy of the beautiful prisoner
154 Al-Bayātī 1972, vol. 3: 38.

My heart is cold like diamonds

My dreams are crates in the harbor (20)
-Take spring from me
And leave me…155
As we see, the name Scheherazade does not appear here, but is evoked by the
powerful allusion of the typical phrase associated with her. Her presence is thus
implicit, as if readers are asked to fill in the blanks and so discover the symbol
hiding behind them.
This poem reflects Darwīsh’s bitter struggle with time, expressed prominently in
this stanza. Time is used here to divide events into three consecutive parts: 1. events
of the evening (lines 1-8). As the sun gradually sets the poet is still in contact with
his beloved and still able to kiss her, although his fear of separation is already in the
air. 2. events of the morning (lines 9-15). Darwīsh again follows the sun's
movement, here as it rises. The plot proceeds apace and the poet's hopes rise and fall
as circumstances change. He is unable to ask for a kiss because his beloved is going
away; he can only ask her to mention him. 3. events of the next evening (lines 16-
23). The poet now appears alone; "evening overtook me" contrasts with the previous
"evening overtook us."
In "Poems about an Ancient Love,"every change has a purpose and a meaning.
Thus the repetition and changing descriptions of the image of the sun through its
various phases play an important role in creating temporal meaning to powerfully
depict a struggle with time. Darwīsh’s play with first and third persons is also
important in conveying the meaning of events.
The well-developed temporal structure involves changes in detail and hue from
one part to another. Thus the image of the beloved appears nearby, then at some
distance away. It disappears and reappears as the sun sets, rises, and sets again. The
poet's relation with his beloved also changes. He kisses her, then asks her to
remember him, and finally asks her to leave him. Movement thus takes place at
more than one level, giving the stanza vitality and dramatic flavor. Its elements
move in a common direction at an accelerating pace relative to the constant temporal
transformations:
The time The sun His present to his beloved The distance between
them
Evening Sets Winds (heard/felt) Close (kiss)
Morning Rises Songs (heard/not felt) Increasing (“mention
me”)
Evening Sets Spring (not heard nor felt) Far (“take leave of me”)
155 Darwīsh 1997, vol. 1: 136-137.

In the same way we can analyze the meaning of the poet’s gifts to his beloved at
each stage. They differ each time and according to the passage of time. Thus in the
first stage, at the time of the final kiss, the poet is near his beloved and still has a bit
of hope and enough ability to feel so as to give her "the winds," that is, his stormy
feelings. The wind is a natural phenomenon, something that can be heard and felt, so
powerful that in Arabic tradition it came to symbolize power..
In the second part the beloved begins to go away; the poet's enthusiasm starts to
wane, as do his hope and strength. His dream fades and he recognizes he is
incapable of giving any more songs. Songs stands for poetry, thus since his beloved
has left him he can only compose poems about her. Poetry is speech heard but not
felt, is in keeping with the poet's growing feelings of weakness and impotence.
In the last stage, when the sun sets, the beloved has moved far away from the
poet and can no longer hear his poems. He therefore dedicates to her the spring,
which can neither be heard nor felt; it symbolizes the poet’s youth, which his
beloved takes away along with herself, for the duration of her absence. The image
takes form by way of temporal transformations in which colors and events change
but the place remains fixed. The poet remains in place and observes these changes
without being able to do anything about them or to stop the relentless passage of
time. In the midst of this accelerating pace of events, the famous phrase from The
Arabian Nights highlights the temporal element and concretizes the conflict between
the poet and time, which takes away his beloved. Note that each of the three time
period includes "overtook," a word intrinsic to the familiar repeated expression from
The Arabian Nights, which joins the subject (changing time), the first party of the
conflict, and the object (the poet, the beloved, or both), the conflict's second party.
In each time period we recognize that this conflict casts its shadow on events . In
every case the conflict’s subject is the affecting element, and therefore the results are
the opposite of the poet’s hopes. Throughout this stanza the changing usage of the
verb "overtook," with its suffixed object pronouns, gives readers a broad
understanding of the dimensions of the conflict and its outcome, and consequently
the meaning the events possess. Darwīsh begins with "overtook us," intimating the
poet and his beloved are facing time together. Then "overtook her" indicates the
beloved facing time alone. Finally "overtook me" signifies the poet is now alone in
his struggle with time, separated from his beloved. Borrowed from The Arabian
Nights, this verb thus plays a crucial role in this stanza’s construction and plot, in
structuring its narrative evolution. The conflict with time is concretized both through
bringing together subject and object pronouns and via the prosaic meaning of
"overtook" indicating a race whereby one competitor tries to outpace another.
By taking the plot in a single direction and highlighting gradual changes in time,
Darwīsh enhances the conflict and depicts it as fateful, as if driving the poet's entire
life, which in turn adds a national dimension to the poem’s meaning. Thus the
beloved can be understood as the soil or homeland. The lover can only remain in
contact with the land with his verses, for it is no longer his. After a long separation,

he realizes the road back is long and difficult. It takes away the spring of his life,
mocking his art in its service.
The final symbols in the poem are Darwīsh’s allusion to this meaning. His
beloved is a beautiful captive and his dreams lie neglected in the port, imprisoned in
containers, just like his captive homeland. Here Darwīsh once again gives the figure
of Scheherazade a national meaning, but with greater artistry and complexity. Thus
we can see Darwīsh developing his symbols throughout his poems, giving them
more profound meanings and making ever greater use of their energies.
3.4.4 The use of the figure of Shahryar

In The Arabian Nights, Shahryar is one of the figures of the frame story, about
which we may derive four dimensions: 1. a wretched man whose first wife betrays
him with his lowliest slaves; 2. a seeker of knowledge. He travels with his brother to
learn whether others are even less lucky in marriage as well as listens avidly to
Scheherazade’s stories every night; 3. a tyrannical and cruel ruler, who takes
revenge for his betrayed honor on countless innocent women; 4. a loving man, who
in the end shows great affection and understanding to his wife and demonstrates
fatherly love to his children, weeping when announcing the return of his normal self.
Below is a detailed analysis of these four dimensions.
A. Shahryar the wretched man: His wretchedness stems from the insupportable
betrayal he experienced. His first wife did not betray him in the usual clandestine
manner, but chose to injure his manhood and pride by sleeping with a slave in the
sight of other slaves. The theme of betrayal appears quite frequently in Arab poetry,
especially in political and realistic poetry. The figure of the betrayed king thus lends
itself to political interpretation, enabling Shahryar to stand as a symbol for the
homeland, or as a ruler betrayed by his closest associates, or even for poets
themselves, to express that colleagues or companions have betrayed them or their
shared principles. In such cases, Scheherazade becomes a model for uprightness,
honor, and fidelity, capable of making things right and reinstating a poet or ruler’s
trust, as in some examples already discussed.
B. Shahryar the seeker of knowledge: Shahryar did not make a hasty decision
concerning his unfaithful wife. First he undertook a journey to discover the facts and
study the situation with respect to wives and honor outside his own palace. When he
found a girl who betrayed a demon he realized the prevalence of his own misfortune.
He then killed his wife and all his slaves. Shahryar's journey in search of knowledge
is revealing of his character and resembles the journey his imagination takes through
Scheherazade's tales. Shahryar thus serves as a model for a man desirous of
knowledge, who seeks enlightenment and will risk his life to discover the truth.
Poets must undertake such a journey, since their very nature calls on them to
travel, expand horizons, enhance knowledge, and find truth, even if the journey is
only in the imagination. This model aligns with a Scheherazade “who charms with

her clearness," using her abilities as enchantress to snatch Shahryar out of his real
life and consciousness, bearing him away into the world of unreality and the
unconscious. Shahryar is an intellectual searching for satisfaction through journeys
of thought, imagination, and analysis. He is worried and unsettled, landing on an
island only to immediately return to the sea to set sail once again, enticed by
Scheherazade's stories to enter one adventure after another.
C. Shahryar the despotic ruler: Shahryar transformed his private issues and pain into
a public affair by taking revenge on a new virgin every day for three years, to
remedy his rancor in the wake of the personal betrayal he had experienced. He thus
exemplifies a ruler who makes his people pay for foolishness occurring within his
own court, rather than searching for causes and rational solutions, who pours his
wrath on his people by killing innocents, no one finding the courage to stop him.
This aspect of Shahryar's personality is perhaps the most evocative for poets, who
feel oppressed and unjustly treated in their own homelands. Thus Shahryar is a
model for the tyrannical ruler, resistance to whom is the poet's mission, thus giving
another chance for "Scheherazade who charms with her clearness" to appear,
expressing the poet's aim in struggle. "Scheherazade the victim" awaits a redeemer,
whereas "Scheherazade the slave girl" symbolizes the cruelty of oppression.
D. Shahryar the loving husband and kind father: This model fits in with the model
of Scheherazade as efficient wife, who manages to win her husband's trust. As he
appears at the end of The Arabian Nights, Shahryar is full of understanding and
wisdom, appreciating his wife's efforts and giving her opportunities. He can thus be
portrayed as promoting women's rights obtained, not through weakness, want, and
need, but by way of love and mutual understanding. Poets invoking this aspect of
Shahryar convey that women cannot achieve their dream of freedom and equality
without men’s help, sympathy, and understanding, without their readiness to
swallow their pride and repress their tendency to dominate, and walk hand in hand
with women to promote their cause.
While Arab poets used allusions to Scheherazade in various ways since the first
stage, the figure of Shahryar only came to their attention during the second stage,
even though both figures are closely interwoven in the original frame story of The
Arabian Nights. Even in the second stage Arab poets did not pay the figure of
Shahryar its deserved attention. Only four poets used it in just five poems, and even
in those cases it was put to quite superficial use as a symbolic allusion, without a
well-developed meaning or deeper dimension.
Perhaps this paucity can be explained by the dominance of the figure of
Scheherazade, which overshadows that of her husband, making it unnecessary to
name him since if necessary, readers can sense his presence through Scheherazade’s.
Scheherazade is the more active figure, who imagines and tells beautiful tales,
eventually changing her husband's way of thinking. Thus for Arab poets, she has
become a symbol of creative art and broad knowledge, her figure taking on rich
meanings in accord with poets’ modern concerns.

We may also adduce another reason for Shahryar's relative absence in Arabic
poetry stemming from his distasteful depiction in The Arabian Nights. He is
presented as a bloodthirsty killer, spending each night with a beautiful virgin and
murdering her the next morning. He is thus a reviled figure in artistic circles, where
ideas of women's liberation and equality prevail.
3.4.4.2 Shahryar: Indirect allusion to masculinity and brutality

During this period, more than any other poet, Qabbānī used the figure of Shahryar and
developed its meanings, employing it in two poems. The name Shahryar or its
derivatives appear in them four times, that is, more than half of the total number of
times it appears in other poems of that period. In my view, the nature of Qabbānī's
poetry, his tendency towards unrestrained eroticism and descriptions of sexual desire,
in addition to the ego’s prominent place in most of his poems, all make Shahryar a
strong candidate for taking an important position in his work. This hypothesis is
supported by numerous examples in Qabbānī's poetry, especially in the third period.
In most of his erotic poems, Qabbānī presents himself as a ruler, master or man
possessing magical masculine features that lead women to fall easily into his hands, so
much so that he occasionally rejects their advances, out of revenge, defiance, fright, or
even boredom. This cocksure tendency in Qabbānī’s poetry led some critics to accuse
him of "Shahryarism" and attack his overly explicit depictions of "relations" with women
and lack of respect for women's honor, due to his depictions of emotionally and
physically tormenting women.156 Qabbānī defended himself against this accusation in a
number of media interviews and in his prose writings. In fact, the issue seems to have
disturbed him to such a degree that he addressed it in a long stanza in his book-length
poem Miʾat Risālat Hubb (One-Hundred Love Letters; 1970). In stanza no. 87 he says:
I am being accused of "Shahryarism"
By my friends…
By my enemies…
Accused of "Shahryarism"
Of collecting women …
Like I collect postage stamps
And empty matchboxes […]157
Recall how Qabbānī's style is usually simple, lyrical, and declarative, drawing
upon familiar folk materials, words, and expressions. He appears to translate what
people think, which is one key to the secret of his popularity. Stamps, matchboxes,
and other words in this stanza and in his poetry generally are familiar everyday
words, and at first glance do not appear suited to poetry. Their use in this poem
demonstrates the simplicity Qabbānī adopts in his poetry, which occasionally
resembles prose more than poetry. If we linked together the verses in the above
156 See: Qabbānī 1993, vol. 8: 440-444; Shukrī 1968, 159-160.

157 Qabbānī 1993, vol. 2: 547.

stanza as consecutive lines of prose, not a single word would need to change, giving
the sense that Qabbānī was writing a letter in defense of himself, as he tirelessly did
in prose. The suggestive space the poem's words create is quite narrow and sticks to
close comparisons easily understood by both the educated and illiterate. The term
"Shahryarism" is a clear, simple, and direct allusion, which Qabbānī has loaded with
the meaning of brutal masculinity which disregards women, their honor and
feelings, interested solely in satisfying desire.
Qabbānī turns himself into an attorney for the defense, descrying intellectuals
and critics for accusing and judging him at once, for reaching a verdict even before
the trial begins. He is accused because no one understands him. No one can
understand his childlike innocence; hearts have turned into stone and feelings have
been frozen. He concludes with the following words:
I want to say …
Even if only once
I am not a student of Shahryar
I did not ever practice the hobby of mass killing
Or dissolve women in sulfuric acid.158
Although here addressing his beloved, Qabbānī in fact aims his words at his critics,
as if answering a question at a news conference. His answer is couched in explicit
and undeniable prose, far removed from the suggestiveness of poetry. The dual use
of "Shahryar" within the same stanza is quite straightforward. Qabbānī highlights
the brutal side of Shahryar's personality in defending himself. Note he adds to his
allusion associated words and meanings from the original text, such as killing
women, to which he added some modern words to expand or exaggerate this idea:
mass killing, dissolving women in sulfuric acid, yet these additions do not extend
beyond the bounds of the figure's original framework.
3.4.4.3 Shahryar: Symbol of man

Al-Sayyāb's poem "Min Layālī al-Suhād" ("Sleepless Night") in his final collection
Shanāshīl Ibnat al-Jalbī (al-Jalbi's Daughter's Mashrebeeyah) is the first work by a
canonical poet containing an allusion to Shahryar. Al-Sayyāb thus pioneered the use
of this figure in modern Arabic poetry. Throughout the poem, al-Sayyāb talks of
sleeplessness and pain due to exile from the homeland for which he so longs. As in
other works, he accompanies this attestation with evocations of his lost childhood.
The second stanza, entitled "Layla fī Bārīs" ("A Night in Paris"), coincides with these
feelings and the general atmosphere pervading most of this poet's works, especially those
in this collection. The ailing poet sees roses in his room, brought by a woman who had
visited him. She is not named, but the poet conveys strong attachment to her,
demonstrating a childlike tendency to become attached to any affectionate woman while
feeling alone and unloved in a strange land. The flowers remaining in his room after his
158 Qabbānī 1993, vol. 2: 552.

visitor’s departure evoke feelings of love and longing and remind him of his childhood
("made the age of childhood come back to me"). Al-Sayyāb thus moves from focusing
on the flowers and longing for the woman who brought them, to his childhood and the
past, presenting features of his childhood in a daydream:
Peaches, grapes and pomegranates…the jars are filled
As the sun sets; it is autumn and we chat around the fire.
Like someone awakening under the open sky
From his dream: He is Shahryar and the bare hand touches
The gold of the soil […]159
This stanza may be temporally divided into two parts: 1) the past, represented by the
first two lines, formulated as a flashback inspired by the flowers in front of him. The
poet recalls his past fertility, when peaches, grapes, and pomegranates were
plentiful. He also recalls the nights of chatting and amusement uniting him with
family and friends. 2) The present, represented by the last three lines, when Shahryar
awakens from memories to a critical present, dry and very different from the distant
past. In rising he finds himself alone. He tries to reassure himself by touching the
soil, which he mistakes for gold, but then he realizes that the gold and his fertility
were only dreams, while reality is arid and infertile soil.
The candor characterizing al-Sayyāb's poetry throughout his career makes his
words interconnect in the proper order naturally and suggestively, if not deliberately.
Readers can perceive the blatant contrast between the past with its bounty, fertility,
and warm social life, and the cold, dry present with imposed isolation. This
parallelism helps communicate the poet's great suffering, even if never giving it
explicit expression. This style involves readers emotionally, arousing a sense of
solidarity with the poet, drawing into his experiences so that readers arrive in the
same place, feeling painful exile, solitude, and approaching oblivion.
In this poem, the use of Shahryar becomes very appropriate and expressive. He
comes from the poet's childhood, when he listened to stories in his grandfather's
sitting room. He also has features similar to the poet’s. Al-Sayyāb thus draws upon
on Shahryar's human aspect, regarding him as a wretched man who feels alone after
his wife's betrayal.
In discovering the truth about his wife, Shahryar's life turned upside down; he felt
as if awakened from a beautiful dream to a terrible reality. He had previously been a
compassionate, forgiving, and wealthy ruler, but after his wife's betrayal he became
intent on taking vengeance and behaving despotically. Shahryar's personality
underwent a fundamental change as his world transformed from one of certainty, faith,
trust, goodness, and fertility, to one of doubt, hatred, and barrenness. Herein lies al-
Sayyāb’s attraction to Shahryar and the reasons as to why he used this figure here.
Al-Sayyāb, too, suffered from traumatic upset in his life. The blatant contrast
between his past (childhood, dream, hope) and present (impotence, desperation,
159 Al-Sayyāb 1995, vol. 1: 622.

illness) was experienced in a sharp, quick change, catching him by surprise as he tried
to touch the gold of his dreams to discover that it was only soil. The figure of Shahryar
thus conveys feelings and emotions that connect him with al-Sayyāb, or more
precisely, they fuse together so that their feelings can no longer be distinguished.160
3.4.4.4 Shahryar: Peritextuality and symbolic allusion

Qabbānī uses the figure of Shahryar in his poem "Dumūʿ Shahryar" ("Shahryar's
Tears") from the collection Al-Rasm bil-Kalimāt (Drawing with Words; 1967),
bestowing on it the same meaning as in One-Hundred Love Letters, written three years
later. Even so, its artistic sophistication is greater; its use of this symbol more complex.
And yet, both poems have a common content, Qabbānī’s "Shahryarism." However,
here, rather than defending himself, Qabbānī affirms the charge against him.
The poem's title catches attention because it presents a paradox of sorts,
stemming from the habitual associations aroused by Shahryar's name contradicting
the behavior Qabbānī is attributing to him. Shahryar, a symbol of brutality,
domination, and lack of feeling, is said to shed tears, as if he were a victim and not
an oppressor. This paradox arouses uncertainty leading readers to search for an
explanation. Qabbānī writes as follows:
What is the value of dialogue? (1)
As long as you are convinced, my friend
That I am the heir of Shahryar…
I slaughter, like chickens, every night,
A thousand slave girls (5)
I roll breasts like fruit
Dissolve in acid every woman
Who sleeps at my side…
No one understands me…
No one understands the tragedy of Shahryar (10)
When sex in our lives becomes
A kind of flight […]
My friend, I have become bored with trading in slave girls […]
If you only once knew the ugliness of the dizziness one feels…
When a man returns from his harem (15)
Shrunken like an oyster worm […]
When all the lips…
In their profusion become
Like thorns in the desert […]
You will never understand me… (20)
You will never understand Shahryar's grief
For when a thousand women
160 Al-Bayātī, too, used Shahryar as a symbol for any person: al-Bayātī 1972, vol. 2: 249.

Sleep at my side
I feel that no one
Sleeps at my side…161 (25)
At the content level we see something strange in this poem, something that implies the
poet/protagonist has entered a contradiction, or at least has reversed direction. Lines 1
to 10 convey the feeling that Qabbānī is doing what he has done elsewhere, namely
deny the accusation of "Shahryarism." He explains himself to his girlfriend, who
thinks he is Shahryar's heir and does not understand him. His words lead us to
conclude that he rejects the comparison to Shahryar; indeed, he then insists that
whoever makes such a claim does not understand him. But beginning in line 10 he
seems to change direction and identify himself as Shahryar, who suffers from a tragic
fate, akin to the tragedy he faces in the boring routine of his life, fleeing into numerous
sexual relationships without any spiritual connection or feelings of love.
He thus does not deny Shahryar’s crimes, nor does he deny the accusation of
Shahryarism against himself. Admitting it, he feels grief in his ultimate loneliness,
shedding tears over the great number of women he has defiled to no real end. He
seems to be attempting to excuse Shahryar's deeds, or at least to explain his
motivations, claiming he engaged in sex in order to flee from this world, that is until
these acts became so routine they ceased to give pleasure, and instead made a victim of
their perpetrator. In comparing the shift in direction a question comes to mind: What
does Qabbānī want his girlfriend to understand, that he is Shahryar the disgraced, the
miserable, the victim of routine, or that he is not Shahryar's heir after all? The poem
does not provide a clear answer, for each part intimates a different meaning.162
Regardless of Qabbānī’s intent, Shahryar is clearly a prominent figure in the
poem, exerting a strong presence over its atmosphere. This is the first example of
contemporary Arabic poetry, at least within the canon, where Shahryar occupies
such a prominent position. It appears that the presence of this figure in Qabbānī’s
mind, and hence in the poem, is what led him to select the end rhyme of "ār." This
rhyme scheme is retained throughout, giving the figure of Shahryar a structural
importance in addition to a substantive one. The poem combines the form of free
verse (tafÝÐla) with a unified rhyme scheme drawn from traditional poetry. This
choice may well constitute an additional expression of Qabbānī’s state of boredom,
repetitiveness, and routine.
3.4.5 The use of the figure of Aladdin and some other symbols
In this period, poets also focused very clearly on symbols associated with Aladdin,
used as unique magical means for extricating themselves from their societies’
161 Qabbānī 1993, vol. 1: 544-546.

162 For more on the contradictions and inclinations in Qabbānī's thought as reflected in his
poetry, see: al-Nābilsī 1986b: 123-128.

deplorable social and political situations. This is also the case with respect to
additional symbols taken from The Arabian Nights, such as the flying horse and
flying carpet, suggestive imaginary means enabling poets to escape painful realities.
Serving the same ends, these various symbols taken from various stories were
generally used in similar ways. I have therefore decided to discuss them as a group
under the single heading of Aladdin.
It is worth noting that in this period poets were not satisfied with merely alluding
to the figure of Aladdin or to one of his symbols. A number of poets used this figure
as a peritext projecting its shadow onto the atmosphere of the poem as a whole,
while others borrowed part of Aladdin's story, employing it to reflect their own
personal contemporary experience. Despite its popularity, this figure’s usage never
attained the same sublimity and complexity as the more famous figures of Sinbad,
Scheherazade, and Shahryar.
3.4.5.2 Allusion to the flying carpet

As I have previously noted, al-Sayyāb spent his later years in a bitter struggle
against death. Vacillating between desperation and hope, he particularly developed a
great longing for his childhood, trying to cling variously to his memories and to his
hopes, both of which temporarily assuaged his pain. Traces of this struggle clearly
appear in his poetry in the form of evocations of stories from his childhood,
enduring attachment to his dead mother, and reminiscences of youthful romantic
attachment. It is thus unsurprising to find him speaking about sexual desire and a
yearning to return to his bygone youth when he pursued girls and sought their love.
Ardent desire was thus another means to regain life and hope.
Al-Sayyāb lost his mother's affection at a very early age which greatly affected
his life and his mind. He developed an intense need for women's embraces to
compensate for what he had lost. His love for a number of women, some a few years
his senior, originated in his emotional need for a mother. The evocation of
motherhood in all its aspects thus became a central element in al-Sayyāb’s work
during this critical period. Sexual desire was also something quite natural for a man
seeing his life collapsing with no one by his side to comfort or mourn him. His was
essentially a search for warmth.
This curious fusion of childhood reminiscence and adult sexual desire clearly
appears in many of al-Sayyāb’s poems of this period. He expresses desire through
images from his childhood, derived from stories that had adhered to his memory.
One example of this fusion can be seen in his poem "Kayfa Lam Uḥbibki?" ("Why
Did I not Love You?!") in the collection Shanāshīl Ibnat al-Jalbī, in which he says:
How did I lose you in the bustle of my long days?
Did I not unravel your garment from your breasts on a moonlit summer
night?
-O fragrance of the mulberry tree from their hoops…I rubbed my face in a
thicket

Of the virgin's fragrance virgin in your breasts […]

O if I had the flying carpet!!
If I had the flying horse!! […]
I would cross the earth in search of you.163
This poem is characterized by frequent use of the Arabic conditional particle law
(“if”), the vocative "O" denoting pain and grief, and numerous occurrences of
exclamation marks, appearing eleven times in nineteen lines. This shows the power of
the poet's emotions, how desperately he desires his wishes and how much he grieves
for a wasted life in which he failed to exploit all chances for relationships with women.
He is unable to bring back the past, and as a sick invalid, cannot regain life and
movement. He sees his dreams receding far into the distance, so far that only a
supernatural miracle could help him realize them, such as a miraculous means of
transportation enabling him to search for lost chances. The flying carpet’s meaning is
thus spontaneous and obvious, reflecting the poet's sincere feelings. It stays at the level
of a passing allusion reminding of the poet's complete powerlessness.164
Some poems contain a greater presence of such symbols, beyond a single
mention, thereby broadening the picture, enriching the meaning, and helping readers
recall a story's original details more accurately and completely. In the poem
"Barqiyyāt Damawiyya" ("Bloody Telegrams") in the collection Al-Khurūj min al-
Baḥr al-Mayyit (Exodus from the Dead Sea; 1969) ʿIzz al-Dīn al-Manāṣra uses
many folk elements (mawwāl-a popular traditional song genre, folk proverbs, folk
expressions, and so forth) so that readers get a feeling of close fusion between folk
and canonical elements.165 In this poem al-Manāṣra presents his experiences of
tragedy, exile, and grief. He generalizes his own experience so that it can serve as a
model for the general Palestinian tragedy. He expresses the Palestinians’ inner
conflict, torn among a miserable existence in exile, a martyr's death in the homeland,
163 Al-Sayyāb 1995, vol. 1: 666-667.

164 The flying horse al-Sayyāb hopes will help fulfill his wishes also appears in several stories of
The Arabian Nights; see, for example, the story of the third beggar in the tale "The Porter
with the Daughters," The Arabian Nights 1997, vol. 1: 87. For additional allusions to
Aladdin and other symbols see: al-Bayātī 1972, vol. 2: 224 (the flying carpet); ibid., vol. 3:
282 (the magic ring); al-Qāsim 1991a, vol. 3: 189; Qabbānī 1993, vol. 1: 766 (Aladdin).
165 On al-ManāÒra's relationship with the folk heritage, and its extensive appearancehis poetry
see: Khūrī 2005; Khoury 2008:313-319; al-ManāÒra 2000: 20-50; Campbell 1996, vol. 2:
1253; ʿAbdallā 1999: 401-402. During his stay in Lebanon al-ManāÒra collected Palestinian
folklore from residents in refugee camps (see: Banīs 1999: 349). In an interview with al-
ManāÒra on May 29, 2004 he discussed how he had been filled with folk literature since a
child through his grandmother's folktales, which he viewed as fundamentally shaping his
personality. He also noted how his grandfather ʿAbd al-Qādir al-ManāÒra, paternal uncle
Muḥammad, and aunt Fāṭima were all well-known reciters of azjāl (strophic Arabic poems).
Al-ManāÒra carried out a number of studies on Palestinian folk literature and also worked for
the graduate department of folk cultures at the University of Tilimsān where he describes
becoming familiar with the Algerian heritage. His great interest in folklore and folk literature
affected his poetry, which carries a distinct Palestinian folk scent.

and fighting in the resistance movement outside the homeland. From the following
lines we may conclude that al-Manāṣra had selected the final option:
This is our third road: (1)
It leads to our far-off island inhabited
By winter demons
When a jinni steals my ring at night
I will shout, o Aladdin (5)
Where is the secret, The secret is lost
How shall I untie this imprisoned talisman?
No "I'm at your service," hear the scream of the defeated!
I was nearly exhausted, father!166
In this poem, the poet is occasionally carried away by a strong wave of emotions,
leading him to "make" some admissions, perhaps intentionally or perhaps not. These
admissions play a fundamental role in revealing the poem's meaning. This
phenomenon is very common in the work of al-ManāÒra, who remained committed
to Palestinian national issues and actively participated in everyday struggle and at
the level of art.
Because of his political activism and realistic poetic nationalism, we may be
drawn to neglect his artistry, regarding his poetry as hackneyed text or direct spoken
declaration. We may perceive Eliot’s objective correlative enabling poets to remain
artful at times when strong emotion drives them towards direct and explicit
declaration.
The objective correlative is missing from most of Palestinian poet Tawfīq
Zayyād's poems, thereby making them similar to journalistic reports; they express
strong emotion that may arouse readers/ listeners for a time, but in a way that wanes
in appeal with the passage of time. But al-ManāÒra, who struggled for the same
goals, continually tried to clothe his feelings with symbols and legends that retain a
poem's dramatic nature and secure it from lyricism.
However, occasionally al-ManāÒra falls through his weave of symbols and
meanings and lets fall a sentence or expression revealing a blatant view into a
poem's depths and meaning. I believe that the final line of the excerpt quoted above
("I was nearly exhausted, father") is just such a line. The poet's exhaustion stems
from unrelenting and useless struggle as he is incapable of removing an evil spell
cast over his homeland. He is immersed in the struggle and keenly feels Palestinians'
disappointment with their fellow Arabs, especially after the defeat of 1967, when
their objective moved even further from reach. It is only natural he would feel
exhausted from the distance he had come and the very long way ahead, with no end
in sight.
His exhaustion instills a kind of desperation. The issue's complexity and lack of a
clear vision makes the poet's struggle a form of suicide as victory appears nearly
166 Al-ManāÒra 2001: 166-167.

impossible; all that remains is to hope for a miracle. His desperation and
disappointment reach an apex when announcing miracles have also betrayed him
and disappeared: His magic ring was stolen, Aladdin has disappeared, and no one
hears the cry of the vanquished. The road towards the objective is thus obstructed.
Al-ManāÒra’s explicit expression of exhaustion thus becomes natural and
expected. However, unexpected is his statement at the end of the poem: "If they
were exhausted, I shall never be."167 Indeed a surprising ending, it presents readers a
veritable contradiction; the entire text has led them towards desperation and
surrender, then it unexpectedly changes tone to denote perseverance. This
contradiction provides a supernatural depiction of the poet's perseverance, as if he
were saying: Although nature says that the talisman is eternal, complex, and
impossible and I have no choice but to surrender, I will never do so.
Here we see al-ManāÒra participating in legendizing Palestinian perseverance. In
other words, this perseverance is regarded as a kind of unbelievable miracle, here
presented as a force challenging not only nature but even magic as well. The legend
of Aladdin and its symbols play an important role in this process, inducing a
fabulous and unbelievable atmosphere on the poem as a whole and especially on the
quoted passage, thus deepening its meaning and strengthening al-ManāÒra’s
expressive eloquence.168
3.4.5.3 The symbols of Aladdin: Metaphorical allusion

Poets can profit from imitation in crafting a poetic image, in the sense of only using
an allusion’s depictive value, without involving its content or literal meaning. This
kind of allusion may confuse readers, it transports them to original sources without
connecting to original meanings. In such cases, poets empty expressions of their
original content and message. Poets then borrow the empty expressions as "new"
poetic forms to enrich their poems. We often encounter this lofty technique in al-
ManāÒra's poetry, revealing his interest in raising the original level of poetic
imagery. He insightfully detaches these images from their contexts and sows them
into their new contexts, to which they supply new expressive energy. We see here
that al-ManāÒra uses every available source to provide original images free from
hackneyed expressions, ensuring uniqueness in his work. In his poem "Al-Ṭāliʿ min
Wādī al-Tuffāḥ al-Ashqar" ("Climbing out of the Valley of Ruddy Apples") in his
collection Jafrā (1981) he says:
167 Al-ManāÒra 2001: 167.

168 In an interview I held with al-ManāÒra on May 29, 2004 he insisted he was a creator of
myths and legends, that is, he composed them, in contrast to many other poets who he
viewed as merely copying existing myths (cf. al-ManāÒra 1999: 425; al-Sawāḥirī 1999: 261).
On al-ManāÒra's tendency to "legendize" the everyday and familiar, see: al-Manāsra 2000:
22, 40, 191, 463-464. For additional examples of the use of the symbols of Aladdin see: al-
Bayātī 1972, vol. 2: 306-307; Qabbānī 1993, vol. 3: 252.

Who is this vain person on the slope of the sacrificed hill

Who is this rising out of the forest trees like a dagger
Who is this running off like a gazelle sketched on a flying carpet.169
The expression "flying carpet" immediately arouses association with its counterpart
in The Arabian Nights, although al-ManāÒra may not have had it in mind when
penning his expression. However, as the popular imagination is strongly attached to
this book’s events, certain expressions and symbols become automatic allusions
regardless of poets’ intentions. This automaticity is a facet of intertextuality’s
connecting readers to absent texts.
In this poem, "flying carpet" fits spontaneously and naturally in its context. The
wind (in Arabic the flying carpet is called "wind carpet") suits the image of speed
expressed here. Al-ManāÒra thus exploited the folk expression to create a
metaphorical image, as if the wind itself is a flying carpet, materializing it, so that a
running gazelle can be sketched upon it. With this complex image, al-ManāÒra says:
This running figure is fast like the wind. If observed from a distance it looks as if
made of wind, as if a picture upon the wind.
3.4.5.4 Aladdin: Allusion and projection

Aladdin is a miracle-working youth, a ruler that demons obey, a man whose wishes
are fulfilled and can do the impossible with a mere utterance. His name, ʿAlāʾ al-Dīn
(meaning "the nobility of religion") taken literally may also be used for a political or
religious purpose, since it implies its bearer fights for "the nobility of religion,"
defending it against enemies and heresy. Possibly al-ManāÒra takes the figure's folk
associations, including exceptional deeds of bravery, and uses it in his own context
as a nickname or symbol for a hero or redeemer who performs miracles.
In the poem "Aṭfāl Rafaḥ" ("Children of Rafah") in the collection Al-Mawt al-
Kabīr (The Great Death; 1972) Samīḥ al-Qāsim produces profound images of the
Palestinian struggle. Taking readers to the bounds of imagination, he depicts
children fighters, expressing suffering at its harshest and heroism at its most
sublime. In one stanza he tells the story of a child from the town of Rafah in the
Gaza Strip as he pelts an army vehicle with stones, disseminates pamphlets, and
carries out other acts unimaginable for children in a healthy society:
An occupier of fabulous features shouted
"You refuse to reveal?
Alright, curfew,
From o'clo..."
From Aladdin's voice birthed
Preying finches
-I cast the stone at the army vehicle
I handed out the pamphlets
169 Al-Manāsra 2001: 404.

And gave the sign […]

(Aladdin was no older
Than ten.)170
Might al-Qāsim know a real person named Aladdin? Is this depiction absolutely true
or rather an imaginary tale woven out of daily reality? And if it is fictional to some
degree,why did al-Qāsim choose the name Aladdin for his protagonist? This name
produces an ambiguity as to whether the figure so named refers to a folktale or to the
real world. I believe its selection was intentional with the folktale in mind.
Two pieces of evidence support this contention. For one, there exist thousands of
names of Palestinian children more common than Aladdin, who struggle or become
victims of this struggle, and yet al-Qāsim chose this name. Secondly, al-Qāsim’s
poem contributes to legendizing the Palestinian struggle by depicting "supernatural"
acts of children’s heroism, thereby making a legendary protagonist an apt choice.
The source of ambiguity lies in al-Qāsim using the name Aladdin without
referring to any of this figure's symbols or adventures. He merely projects
contemporary reality onto him, clothing him in modern garb and making him a
Palestinian resister with no commonalities with the folk figure except for a name
detached from its origins. And yet, al-Qāsim’s choice shows once again how legends
can assist poets in legendizing contemporary events, especially when figures are
famous for performing miracles and brave deeds.
The poem as a whole is imbued with a dramatic character, in line with the
Palestinian reality. We hear the voice of a soldier announcing curfew and then of the
child, whom we envision performing acts of heroism. This stanza contains
continuous dramatic movement, as does in the poem as a whole. The poem's meter is
ramal, a pulsating meter appropriate for conveying dramatic situations in a lively
and effective manner.
3.4.5.5 Aladdin: Condensed imitation with modification

Poets occasionally use a familiar folktale in the form of a broad-scoped allusion,
whereby they borrow a story in whole or in part without making any significant
changes to either the content or artistry of literary technique. This type of allusion
with its familiar folk hues is easy for readers to follow and understand, since it
avoids any artistic complexity or other ways of processing borrowed material.
However, it also makes the allusion a kind of vulgar utterance without adding value
to the poem's artistry. This form of usage tends to occur when poets direct their
attention to the content and the meaning of a poem at the expense of style and
formulation, making artistry subservient to message, fidelity to reality, or clarity.
TawfÐq Zayyād is one such poet who took it upon himself to use his poems to
portray his society and convey his message to readers everywhere with great clarity.
Poetry is thus transformed into a means for conveying an idea. The means holds
170 Al-Qāsim 1991a, vol. 2: 102-103.

little intrinsic value and may be neglected, so long as the idea is clearly expressed
and easily understood by the average reader.171
In Zayyād's poem "Ramaḍān Karīm" ("Ramadan Blessings") in the collection
Idfinū AmwÁtakum wa-Rḥalū (Bury Your Deads and Leave; 1969) he conveys
images of his society during the fasting month of Ramadan as ʿÏd al-Fiṭr (Holiday of
the Breakfast) draws near. Zayyād remains objective and fair throughout his
depiction of a typical household; he relates his observations from an external
perspective, his own presence unfelt. He reports every movement in the house, as
the men gather in conversation and the women busily prepare holiday cookies.
Zayyād’s poem reads almost like a dry news report, as if the author is carrying a
camera and taking detailed, realistic, and unedited snapshots of every movement,
utterance, and gesture. The images accumulate with its figures becoming mere
particles through which a picture of society takes shape. Every movement and
utterance become dabs of color added to the image of society, sharpening its focus.
This manner of depiction was common among Arab poets whose style at times
tended towards explicit realism, such as ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr and al-Bayātī.172 Zayyād
aimed at immortalizing features of his society through his poetry. Among them are
simplicity, a pure heart, joy, humanity, innocence, and modest dreams, all of which
he portrays in "Ramaḍān Karīm." He says:
By themselves, some companions sit
Wishing and building
Castles … in the wind
A youth says:
O, if only I had Aladdin's lamp
I would rub it until the giant appeared
Before me, shivering, this poor
My demand would be modest: A thousand yellow pounds
Bridal money for Suʿād, my dark enchantress […]
Another imaginary being says:
"O, if I only possessed the "at your service" ring
The jinn would appear upon my demand
(To your good fortune, sir, I am at your service!)
I would turn the world upside down…I would light the fires of hell
And throw every wicked person into them […]173
By means of familiar everyday folk words and expressions (if I had, I would rub,
shivering before me, to your good fortune, I would turn the world upside down)
171 See: al-Manāsra 1996: w-ẓ; Jubrān 1984: 173; Jayyusi 1977, vol. 2: 665-666; al-Jayyūsī
1992: 90; ʿAbbās 2001: 54.
172 See, for example, al-Bayātī's poem "Sūq al-Qarya" ("Village Market") in the collection
Abārīq Muhashshama (Smashed Jars).
173 Zayyād 1996: 339-341.

Zayyād's use of folk material feels very natural, since everyday speech draws
numerous expressions, figures, and beliefs from folk literature. The legend of Aladdin
and its symbols (the lamp, jinn, and ring) are very familiar in the Arab popular
imagination. Their use thus connects to that imagination and provides a means for
calling the common man to share in a poet's emotion. Zayyād has accomplished this
intension in evoking the story of Aladdin. A youth imagines himself rubbing the magic
lamp and the jinn appearing, prepared to fulfill his master's wishes.
By briefly imitating the original text Zayyād expresses the people’s dreams in a
simple way. The dreams themselves are also simple, indicating pure minds. Zayyād’s
words offer an untampered look into this society’s mindset, peoples’ concerns and life
aspirations. Note also that this passage’s folk expressions fit with the language around
them, lifted nearly word-for-word from the colloquial and wrapped in a specific
popular fragrance. Zayyād tries to remain as faithful as possible to his source and so
chooses words the colloquial shares with Standard Arabic. He also places
unrenderable colloquial expressions within quotation marks ("shubbayk lubbayk" – at
your service) and colloquial expressions rendered into standard Arabic between
brackets ([saʿduka bayna yadayka] – to your good fortune).
The poem as a whole is full of movement; Zayyād describes people moving,
wishing, conversing; he fills the text with verbs. Even the borrowed passage is full
of movement, albeit taking place only in the speaker’s mind. A jinn shivers upon
appearance and another jinn addresses his master. Thus, the legend supports and
reinforces movement in the poem, preserving its vitality and giving it a brilliant
dramatic air.
As the poem concludes, Zayyād remembers his people’s suffering. He
nevertheless retains objectivity and puts his wishful messages in the mouths of the
actors themselves. One young man expresses desire that all occupied people should
be freed, alluding to the Palestinian people. Another young man answers as follows:
"Shut up you son of so-and-so
Enough of thumb sucking
Enough of dreams
This nation marching with flags
Is the ring of ‘At your service’
It is Aladdin's lamp …!!"174
As discussed earlier, al-ManāÒra attempted to legendize Palestinian perseverance
and struggle by depicting them as involving miracles and supernatural forces. Here
again is a poet making a similar attempt, but in a clearer manner without
complicated artistry and allusions. He announces this nation does not expect
miracles or supernatural help, but it does believe in the struggle, which is itself
supernatural, a miracle of resistance from within suffering. This struggle makes the
magical forces residing in the popular imagination less important. Here the story of
174 Zayyād 1996: 342.

Aladdin exaggerates the image, which was the poet's intention. The symbol drawn
from The Arabian Nights helped to legendize the Palestinian struggle without any
need to elaborate the story or embellish it with additional images and events.
Zayyād's act of legendizing stays close to the people. In using folk materials familiar
to folk memory, he ensures the people can interact with his text, which in turn can
raise their morale.
3.4.5.6 Aladdin – Peritextuality

Al-Bayātī in exile composed two poems he dedicated to his daughter Nadia. In them
he expresses his love and longing, remembers her features, and explains the reasons
for his absence. The first of these two poems is entitled "Miṣbāḥ ʿAlāʾ al-Dīn"
("Aladdin's Lamp") and appears in the collection Al-Nār wal-Kalimāt (Fire and
Words). In it he says:
My little one: Nadia (1)
I saw your eyes in the sky
I saw God and man
I found Aladdin's lamp
And the coral reefs
I said to my poetry: Be
It answered his slave and came to be
I saw my childhood sail in your eyes
In the sail of this drunken eternity (10)
I sailed, the wind does not wait for the captain
I sailed, farewell, o the sky in her eyes
O childhood of man
Tomorrow with Aladdin's lamp from the coral reefs
I shall return my little one, to you with flowers (15)
From the end of the garden.175
The father in this poem lives in his own private childhood, whose elements and
stories he recalls in order to create a "childlike" text compatible with his daughter's
conceptions. This objective leads the text's language to be simple and clear with
most of the vocabulary taken from legends (coral reefs, sailing, winds, the captain,
the garden, in addition to Aladdin's lamp), thus imposing their atmosphere on the
poem. Appropriate to the concepts and the mentality of a child, this atmosphere
appears in a purely lyrical framework, wherein al-Bayātī adheres to a single rhyme
scheme and disseminates his feelings frankly and directly.
The story of Aladdin makes two appearances. In the fourth line, it takes the form
of an allusion whereby al-Bayātī uses Aladdin's lamp as a metaphor for the magic in
his daughter's eyes, which makes him capable of performing miracles. In line 14,
Aladdin's lamp is also used as an allusion, this time to the gift he will bring Nadia
175 Al-Bayātī 1972, vol. 1: 665-666.

when he comes to see her. These various elements thus come together to create a
“children’s poem,” appropriate to children’s imagination, linguistic abilities, and
level of understanding: simple language, the legend of Aladdin, expressions directly
lifted from the story, and a lyrical framework.176
3.4.6 Use of other figures

Some poets allude to various other figures of The Arabian Nights, including Qamar
al-Zamān,177 Badr al-Zamān,178 and al-Ḥasan al-Baṣrī,179 however without
developing them in any way, so their inclusion would not add to what has already
been presented. I will therefore restrict myself to referring to their alluding texts in
the notes and here focus on texts that develop my overall analysis.
3.4.7 Use of the atmosphere of The Arabian Nights

3.4.7.1 Allusion
In his poem "Al-Waṣiyya" ("The Testament") in his collection Al-Aʿmāl al-Siyāsiyya
(Political Works; 1981), Qabbānī uses the title The Arabian Nights as an allusion to
Arab civilization, heritage, and other major elements of Arab culture, all of which he
attacks and rejects:
I reject my father's heritage
I reject the garment with which he clothed me
I reject the knowledge that he taught me
And all the sexual complexes he bequeathed me
I reject The Arabian Nights
The wonderful bottle, the giant and the magic carpet
I reject the conceited Sayf al-Dawla…and the silly despicable poems.180
Qabbānī even wants to burn the Arabic alphabet, which he associates with disgrace
and defeat. He wants to create a new alphabet from the "resistance of Palestine", as
he says. Throughout this poem we encounter a very plain-spoken poet, painfully
honest, who declares that the holy war Arab leaders have supposedly waged is akin
to debauchery, merely demonstrating the ignominious social, moral, and political
faults of their societies. He thus announces political and social rebellion and
rejection of his heritage, including The Arabian Nights and its stories.
This poem is not Qabbānī’s first text railing against Arab heritage, expressing his
desire to burn and reconstruct it in accordance with his views. He continually
176 For additional allusions of this kind see: al-Bayātī 1972, vol. 2: 292 (the flying carpet);
Qabbānī 1993, vol. 1: 516 (Aladdin); Qabbānī 1993, vol. 2: 309 (the magic ring); Qabbānī
1993, vol. 2: 340 (the magic ring); Qabbānī 1993, vol. 3: 252 (the flying carpet).
177 See: al-Bayātī 1972, vol. 2: 166-167.
178 See: al-Manāsra 2001: 90.
179 See: al-Sayyāb 1995, vol. 1: 301.
180 Qabbānī 1993, vol. 3: 252.

accuses it of being silly, painfully defective, and impotent in the face of other
cultures. He holds it responsible for the Arabs' contemptible situation, since it
bequeathed them unrealistic fantasies impelling them to surrender, wallow in
indolence, perform worthless ceremonies, and adhere to primitive beliefs.181
As the most important source of legends among Arabs and perhaps around the
world, it is expected that The Arabian Nights would appear among Qabbānī’s
criticism of Arab heritage. He attaches its full title to the story of the bottle (lamp),
the giant (jinn), and the carpet, to illustrate its basis in pure fantasy, and so provide a
reason for its inclusion among his overall rejection of Arab heritage. In Qabbānī’s
view, The Arabian Nights relates imaginary acts of heroism that cannot possibly
liberate any land or move anything stagnant. To the contrary, they occupy the mind,
convincing it to neither think nor act, but rather await a miracle or supernatural hero.
The poem at this spot is somewhat pompous pompous and filled with imagery
variations that do not add anything to the main subject or to the idea presented here,
so The Arabian Nights remains a mere representative item in a group of elements
that form a complete social and cultural picture and does not constitute an important
constituent.182
3.4.7.2 The atmosphere of The Arabian Nights: Allegorical usage

Al-Bayātī's poem "Shayʾ min Alf Layla" ("Something from The Arabian Nights") in
the collection Al-Mawt fī al-Íayāt (Death in Life; 1968) is actually the only poem in
this period in which the atmosphere of The Arabian Nights plays a vital and
fundamental role at the level of both content and style. Al-Bayātī names it in the
title, enabling it as a peritext to serve as a major axis of meaning, imposing itself on
the text’s frame and content alike. Upon reading the title, readers begin to evoke the
wondrous and magical atmosphere of The Arabian Nights in expectation that the
poem contains aspects of that atmosphere, perhaps strange events or fabulous
stories.
Upon reading the text itself, these expectations are confirmed. The atmosphere of
The Arabian Nights dominates the poem from beginning to end, in a kind of dualism
between the old and contemporary, legend and reality, poetry and narrative. Al-
Bayātī evokes an image, general atmosphere, and style, then fills the text with
realistic content and his own concerns, thereby transforming fabulous elements into
symbols imbued with profound meanings.
We have seen poets using symbols from The Arabian Nights and giving them
contemporary interpretations, quoting familiar folk expressions from that work, and
formulating poems in an allegorical frame containing its figures in symbolic roles.
However, here we observe a poet using all these types of allusion in order to
produce a qualitative transformation of a text. This poem thus provides a good
181 See: Khoury 2006a; Qabbānī 1993, vol. 8 (Ṣafaḥāt Mutafarriqa [Scattered Pages],
especially: 442-443.
182 For more examples of this kind see: Qabbānī 1993, vol. 1: 514-517.

example of blending the atmosphere of The Arabian Nights with canonical poetic
text in both form and content, making it an inseparable part of the poem, governing
it both semantically and stylistically. I thereby wish to claim that al-Bayātī joined
together two literary arts to create a hybrid text appropriately called "an Arabian
Nights poem."
This task was clearly not simple, for it required a profound reading of The
Arabian Nights, in which al-Bayātī internalized its stories and general nature. In
particular, it demanded the ability to perceive its atmosphere and events from a
contemporary perspective, according to present-day requirements to which al-Bayātī
truly wished to adhere in his poetry. And al-Bayātī succeeded in this endeavor; he
kept the atmosphere of The Arabian Nights and its events in mind throughout the
poem without overlooking for a moment the contemporary meanings he intended to
convey. The poem’s events thereby vacillate from the fabulous to the realistic. Al-
Bayātī gives legends contemporary features and covers reality with suggestive
masks. This merger enables both to undergo revival and immortalization, emerging
as a profoundly new picture representing dry, commonplace reality with sublime
artistic expression.
Al-Bayātī's poem contains three stanzas representing three stories. Each stanza
ends with the traditional line from The Arabian Nights adapted to suit the chosen
meter,"and morning overtook Scheherazade." The materials inside the stanzas are
more legend-like than realistic, but derive their evocative power from reality. Al-
Bayātī produces this effect by joining contemporary words and realistic meanings to
legend-like images capable of mirroring those meanings. He expands and presents
them to readers with precision and fluency. In the first stanza al-Bayātī says:
I fly every night on my magical winged black steed (1)
To a place you have not visited and have not waited alone at its
forsaken gate
I carry my fireand my ash to the slope of the mountain of legend […]
I carry Aladdin's lamp (5)
I drown in the sad, pale, singing dawn […]
And see nothing but pillars of light and the
abandoned sidewalk
A beggar wonders in worn clothes, feels cold
Knocks on the gate of the abandoned town (10)
I fall from the steed of death
And from my bed, dead in the house
A newspaper in my hand
Old new
My neighbor laughs in scorn and the radio becomes silent (15)
And morning overtakes Scheherazade.183
183 Al-Bayātī 1972, vol. 2: 381-383.

The events in this stanza can be qualitatively divided into two parts. The first part
(lines 1-6) portrays a dream state in which the poet acts, travels, searches, and rides his
fabulous steed, the flying horse mentioned on more than one occasion in The Arabian
Nights.184 Here he possesses magical powers that enable him to attain immortality.
This part of the poem is filled with fabulous images born of al-Bayātī’s subconscious,
containing dynamic sentences testifying to enthusiasm, endless travels, and search for
truth: "I fly," "I carry," "I wrap," "I drown," "I stretch," "I search." The second part
(lines 7-16) portrays a waking state in which the poet appears "dead." He is sluggish,
reading an old-new newspaper, that is, a newly-printed newspaper inscribed with old,
unchanging news. He is filled with desperation, his neighbor scornfully watching.
I believe that with this dual construction al-Bayātī's intention was to depict the
artist's harsh internal struggle taking place between his own desires, dreams, and
aspirations, and the real world, so painfully different from those dreams. The poet flies
in his mind until he reaches the border of myth and legend, where he searches for
solutions that would return mankind to its origin. However, his subconscious suddenly
encounters the obstacle of reality. He falls off his imaginary horse and finds himself on
the ground next to his real bed, to view his mocking neighbor and banal newspaper.
Al-Bayātī thus expresses the creative urge’s clash with harsh reality, causing him
to crash violently to the ground after flying through the world of imagination. The
transition between these states occurs in lines 6-10, when the poet’s imagination is
invaded by lamps in the abandoned street and a solitary beggar in worn clothes. Al-
Bayātī wisely distinguishes between the two experiences of dream-legend and
reality and begins with images full of enthusiasm and action. But as the climax
approaches al-Bayātī surprises readers with a shocking fall off the dream horse's
back. The steed as an important symbol of the world of fantasy contrasts with the
bed and floor symbolizing harsh reality.
Note that the stanza ends with the famous ending of each night in The Arabian
Nights, in what may be called stylistic imitation, with some modifications that align
with the poem's metric scheme. We thus once again observe the value of the rajaz
meter, whose permissible variations made it possible for al-Bayātī to quote
Scheherazade's utterance almost literally, without changing a single word. The
original formulation in The Arabian Nights is “wa-adraka Shahrazād al-ṣabāḥ, fa-
sakatat ʿan al-kalām al-mubāḥ.” The first part of this utterance is sufficient for
evoking the second part as well, and therefore al-Bayātī quoted only the former. He
also changed the verb from simple past to imperfect and the subject (ṣabāḥ—
morning) was placed instead in its more natural position before the direct object
(Shahrazād—Scheherazade), thus making the line more contemporary and alive, as
well as in conformance to the meter.
In the second stanza al-Bayātī mixes the real with the fabulous, turning the frame
of the legend into a mask for reality. He describes his society’s twisted relations,
184 See, for example, the story of the third vagabond in "The Porter with the Daughters," The
Arabian Nights 1997, vol. 1: 87.

built on a foundation of hypocrisy and fraud, filled with lies and fabrications. Al-
Bayātī describes a person with features verifying him as a hypocritical poet who
betrays the cause, specializes in games and tricks, and produces poetry without any
honest feeling, exuding praises to gratify people in power and gain prizes. As long
as society remains in this upside-down state of turmoil and life is dominated by
desiccation and death, such hypocrites find fertile soil and a willing ear:
I saw him in the cities of cement, brass and iron
Propagandist, detective, writer
Rope dancer, player
I banished him and he returned
I blew ashes into his eyes
And morning overtook Scheherazade.185
The poet thus finds himself in a poetic conflict with this "devil." The conflict comes
to a head with his banishment, but he returns, and the poet continues to oppose him,
blowing burning ashes into his eyes. We can sense the poet's rage at his antagonist,
which goes so far that he tries to blind him.
An element worth noting in this stanza is its dense rhyme. We find two or three
successive lines with the same rhyme, but without space between them. This can be
seen at the end of the above excerpt, where al-Bayātī quite obviously chose a word
ending in "d" in order to make it rhyme with "Scheherazade."
In the third stanza we are once again confronted with scenes taken from al-
Bayātī’s subconscious:
The new continent
I discovered in the face of death
At the end of the world
In front of my home
Sinbad's ship was on its shores
The air blazing on its flag
Laden with lightning and thunder
With prophecies and promises […]
I, my beloved, waited for the tide so I could sail anew
Stretching a ladder of sounds
To Iram al-ʿImād
When I discovered it I was surprised by sleep
I slept under the wall […]
And when I awakened under the wall
I fell from my bed dead, cold
And morning overtook Scheherazade.186
185 Al-Bayātī 1972, vol. 2: 385.

186 Al-Bayātī 1972, vol. 2: 386-388.

3.5 The use of The Arabian Nights in the third period (1987-2015) 195
Here the dream world is one the poet himself builds to flee from painful reality. It is
a world that enlivens his spirit, arouses his hopes, and makes him wait impatiently
for the realization of prophecies and promises. The poet dreams by means of this
world, which enables him to regard reality optimistically and renew his energy ("I
sail anew"). His faith in his artistic journey emboldens and he produces more, that is,
until he crashes into reality once again and falls, his dreams falling as well, his
enthusiasm withering.
In this stanza, the figure of Sinbad appears, likely symbolizing the poet himself.
The ship laden with promises and lightning stands for the poetry the poet brings to
the world with messages of redemption and hope. But as soon as the poet awakens
from his dream, he leaves his “ladder of sounds” to fall among walls into waking
reality, where he discovers his poetry’s messages are far from being realized.
Thus concludes this poem with its Arabian Nights atmosphere. We are given to
understand that al-Bayātī is speaking about his poetic endeavor, about the perspective
of an artist in a society far removed from art’s ideals. He presents two conflicting
worlds—the dream world of art, filled with beauty and promises of fertility and
change, but a transcendental world experienced only in the imagination—and the
world of bitter reality, a distorted world that destroys imagination, puts poets’ efforts
to naught, and drives them to desperation and apathy.
Al-Bayātī indirectly expresses the alienation experienced by Arab poets, and
Arab artists generally, stemming from the great gaps between artists’ education,
aspirations, and dreams and the apathy, cultural stagnation, and harsh circumstances
of their society. This situation forces poets to create "imaginary tales" like those in
The Arabian Nights, with which to build a utopia, where they can isolate themselves
from society and live in the well of promising, aspiring words, far from the real
world’s failures, distortions, and frustrations. The atmosphere The Arabian Nights
provides greatly assists poets in conveying this message, furnishing them the means
and symbols for constructing dreams and coloring them in fabulous hues, while
retaining suggestive frames whose roots extend into reality’s depths.
3.5 The use of The Arabian Nights in the third period (1987-2015)
3.5.1 Introduction
Despite the fact that The Arabian Nights is the most important source of allusions in
contemporary Arabic poetry, the use of its symbols decreased considerably in this
period. In chapter 1, I discussed the general inducements of this retreat. Here I wish
to add that the decline was not limited to marginal figures and symbols but included
even the most important ones. For example Sinbad’s use diminished considerably, to
a mere three poems, in which he appears only as mere allusion. The same is true for
other figures, with the exception of Shahryar, who appeared in twelve poems, eleven

of which were composed by Qabbānī, the poet who most used figures from The
Arabian Nights in this period.
3.5.2 The use of the figure of Sinbad

In Zayyād's poem "Mawt Sadīqinā ʿUmar" ("The Death of Our Friend ʿUmar") in
the collection Anā min Hādhī al-Madīna (I am from this City) Sinbad appears as one
of a number of passing allusions, lacking any special emphasis.187 Another place
Sinbad appears is in Qabbānī's poem "Fāṭima Tashtarī ʿUṣfūr al-Íuzn" ("Fāṭima
Buys the Bird of Sadness") in the collection Hal Tasmaʿīna Ñahīl Aḥzānī (Do You
Hear the Neighing of My Grief'; 1991). This is a long poem divided into twenty-six
stanzas. In stanza twenty-one Qabbānī says:
A northern sea
On a southern sea
On a sea without a sea…
And the security services behind Sinbad…
I still invent a country…and no country
I still search for my birds…
And my things…
And my coffee pot…
I still search for my father's cloak
Under the ash…188
After a long journey with words, the poet has yet to settle down and reach a safe
port. He yet searches and does not give up; he continues to write, seeking freedom,
heritage, nobility, progress, and his civilization’s rebirth from among the ashes.
Until now, he has succeeded in building a model country only in his imagination
("and no country"). In his poetic journey he is like Sinbad, the untiring adventurer.
But he is a contemporary Sinbad, pursued by security services trying to silence him,
to drive him from place to place and arrest his words.
Sinbad here appears as an allusion symbolizing the poet, a common usage seen in
previous examples. Qabbānī' prepares the ground for this allusion in the opening lines,
repeating the word "sea" four times. Readers thereby enter a maritime atmosphere, so
that Sinbad's appearance in the next scene appears natural. Qabbānī' then carries out an
operation of hybridization in fusing ancient material (Sinbad) with a contemporary
element (security services). Sinbad thus appears in contemporary garb, in ways that
serve the poem's message.
187 See: Zayyād 1994a: 68. See: also the allusion to Sinbad in Jidāriyyat Maḥmūd Darwīsh:
Darwīsh 2000: 48.
188 Qabbānī 1993, vol. 5: 532.


In this period, the figure of Scheherazade appears in five poems, three by Qabbānī,
all of which present her as a negative character. In "Ḥiwār maʿ Imraʾa Ghayr
Multazima" ("Dialogue with an Uncommitted Woman") in the collection
Tazawwajtuki Ayyatuhā al-Íurriyya (I Married You, Freedom; 1988) Scheherazade
is depicted as the uncommitted woman, who calls on the poet to focus on love and
not on the homeland’s problems, but he refuses. His refusal constitutes a declaration
that he is committed to his homeland, despite the allure of love affairs. Love is
personified in the figure of Scheherazade, whose offer the poet rejects.189
In another poem, "Ilā Imraʾa Muḥāyida" ("To a Neutral Woman") in his
collection Hal Tasmaʿīna Sahīl Aḥzānī (Do You Hear the Neighing of My Grief';
1991), Qabbānī addresses a woman who "does not belong," who refuses to arrive at
an opinion of him. He insists that she make up her mind; he detests people who do
not take a stand and he rejects Scheherazade's stories. In this case Scheherazade
symbolizes all coquettish women who flirt and do not commit themselves to a
particular man, which the poet finds unacceptable. He refuses to become a helpless
Shahryar whose mind is dominated by his wife's stories.190
This same meaning recurs in Qabbānī’s third poem to include Scheherazade,
wherein he rejects Arab heritage and the stories of The Arabian Nights. He hates
"sleeping like a lunatic /on Scheherazde's arm,"191 Scheherazade here symbolizing the
fictional heritage dominating the Arab mind, preventing Arabs from perceiving the
truth, and impeding their progress and glory. The poet rejects deprivation of truth and
glory. Shahryar is thus also evoked in this and the previous poems, albeit not explicitly.
Scheherazade clearly holds a negative meaning, in contrast to most of her
characterizations in poems of the preceding period. Furthermore, her figure’s usage does
not reach the same level of complexity as achieved in the previous period, but remains
within the bounds of mere symbolic allusion. In Zayyād's "Mawt Sadīqinā ʿUmar,"
Scheherazade also appears as only a passing allusion with a specific referent.192
3.5.4 The use of the figure of Shahryar

We may find it surprising that Qabbānī, who so bitterly defended himself against the
charge of "Shahryarism," made reference to the figure of Shahryar more than any other
poet. He is also generally the only poet alluding to him in this period, with the
exception of Zayyād, who made a passing reference as part of evoking the atmosphere
189 Qabbānī 1993, vol. 6: 234.

190 Ibid., vol. 5: 446.
191 Ibid., vol. 6: 564.
192 See: Zayyād 1994a: 66. In "Sarbiyya" (long poem) in the collection, Malik Atlāntis (King of
Atlantis) al-Qāsim also makes a passing reference to Scheherazade when speaking about the
end of a story, as if the name Scheherazade is an epithet for the narrator: "It is the story's fate
that its end is the beginning of the end /no Scheherazade and no morning" (al-Qāsim 2003: 23).

of The Arabian Nights in "Mawt Sadīqinā ʿUmar." Qabbānī's striking usage reflects
the way this figure inhabited his subconscious, so that traces appear in his poetry, even
though he tried to distance himself from the image this figure projects.
In the eleven poems where the figure of Shahryar appears, Qabbānī alludes to
him as a symbol of the traditional Arab male, one who enslaves women in the
service of his sexual impulses. In three of the poems, Qabbānī expresses bafflement
at the use of the name Shahryar to refer to himself, while also appearing to accept
this ascription,193 even welcome it, as if proud to be known as a ladies' man. When
rejecting the epithet he pleads to being an honorable man, not at all like Shahryar;
perhaps he was once like Shahryar and Rasputin, too, but has changed and now
needs virtuous love.194
In the eight other poems, Qabbānī uses Shahryar as a general symbol for the
traditional Arab male, ruled by his desires and dominated by sex, inconsiderate of
women's feelings. The poet opposes him and calls on women to join in confronting
him.195 In two poems this usage takes the form of a simple reference, in two others it
appears as a peritext, and in the remaining poems it serves as a symbolic allusion.
Here I wish to discuss three of Qabbānī’s poems. In the first, Shahryar is used
implicitly as a symbol for traditional Arab men without being named, in the second
he appears explicitly and for the same purpose, while in the third he is an epithet for
the poet himself.
3.5.4.2 Shahryar: Symbolic allusion to the traditional Arab male

In his poem "Hawāmish ʿalā Daftar al-Hazīma" ("Marginal Comments in the
Notebook of the Defeat;" 1991), Qabbānī levels harsh criticism against Arab
regimes and the Arab heritage, apparently in response to events of the Gulf War of
1990. In a number of places he speaks about the ruler as an oppressive, insane force,
shortsighted, incapable of assessing consequences, who brings disaster to
civilization and history. In stanza thirteen Qabbānī says:
Then kings ate their women
In bygone days
But the kings in our country
Have become accustomed to eating pens.196
Qabbānī makes the allusion very skillfully, alluding to Shahryar by mentioning a
known fact about him, then comparing his deed with the actions of today’s Arab
kings. On the one hand he levels stinging criticism at the Arab kings of antiquity,
barbarians who treated their women as did Shahryar, while on the other hand he
193 See: Qabbānī 1993, vol. 5: 31.

194 See: Qabbānī 1993, vol. 5: 32; Qabbānī 1998, vol. 9: 235-242.
195 See: the following examples of this exhortation: Qabbānī 1993, vol. 5: 117; Qabbānī 1998, vol.
9: 234; Qabbānī 1993, vol. 5: 480; Qabbānī 1998, vol. 8: 121; Qabbānī 1998, vol. 9: 466.
196 Qabbānī 1993, vol. 6: 512.

levels equally harsh criticism at modern Arab rulers, who "eat pens," that is, oppress
and destroy writers. Using just a few words in a telegraphic poem Qabbānī succeeds
in conveying a multifaceted political and cultural message, namely that Arab
intellectuals have lost their freedom; persecuted by the authorities, their thoughts
and words have been confiscated.
Duality between the old (lines 1-2) and the new (the rest of the poem) is
particularly significant, since it is the means whereby Qabbānī presents parallelism
between past and present, viewing the present through the mirror of the past,
informing readers that nothing has changed, that barbarity and tyranny still exist even
if in different guises. Qabbānī thus arouses and revolutionizes readers, reminding them
of the story of Shahryar. He of course knows this story is only a fictional part of Arab
heritage, not something that ever happened in reality. But then Qabbānī suddenly
compares this legend with the fate of today’s Arab intellectuals, as if this ancient
legend is playing out in present day reality, a comparison readers receive with surprise
and disbelief. Shahryar here symbolizes the oppressive Arab male leaders, who care
nothing for law or morality, who do not conform with the modern ideas of freedom
and humanity that have evolved in more advanced civilizations.197
In another of Qabbānī's poems, entitled "Sa-yaʾtī Nahār" ("A Day Will Come") in
the collection Hal Tasmaʿīn Ñahīl Aḥzānī, he replaces allusion via characteristics with
explicit reference to Shahryar by name, but with no change in symbolic meaning.
Interesting in this poem, Qabbānī speaks in the voice of the traditional Arab male (as
not as Shahryar), using the first person throughout, promising a woman that "a day
will come," a day of comprehension and awareness, when she will receive the respect
and love she deserves and the chains of tradition will be broken. This poem’s
atmosphere is one of reconciliation, albeit with a measure of criticism aimed at Arab
men, identifying the perspectives they should hold but do not as of yet.
Qabbānī here engages with ideas calmly and reflectively, avoiding extremes of
criticism and rebellion. He optimistically looks towards an auspicious future. He tries
to assuage women and convince them that things will turn to their favor if only they
would have a little patience. The poet's voice represents Middle Eastern Arab Man,
who still behaves as a tyrant but promises to change. In the poem's last stanza he says:
A day will come…
I will correct my feelings
I will slaughter my conceit
And wash away the tribe's heritage inside me
Then I will announce my rebellion against Shahryar.198
Throughout this long poem, Qabbānī notably adheres to a single rhyme (ending in
"r"), with occasional variation of internal rhymes. The name Shahryar thus fits the
197 Another place Qabbānī makes the same kind of allusion to Shahryar is in Qabbānī 1993, vol.
5: 40; cf. Darwīsh 2001: 92.
198 Qabbānī 1993, vol. 5: 406.

rhyme with facility. Also note the repetition of the phrase "a day will come," which
becomes a leading theme, highlighting conflict between the present and future. The
present has nothing the poet wants, while the future has everything. This oft-
repeated phrase becomes a kind of call to action to Arab men, urged to change and
to make the brilliant far-away future come closer. Here the traditional male must
rebel against Shahryar. He embodies the primitive, traditional male attitude, customs
which dominate traditional male mentality. Rebellion against him implies tradition-
bound Arab men shedding their old selves. Clearly Qabbānī here presents a new use
for this figure and a new reading, twenty-four years after his first usage,
transforming him from a symbol for a backward, traditional male into a distorted
self with repressed instincts, a self capable of transformation.
3.5.4.3 Qabbānī's Shahryar: Symbolic allusion and Peritextuality

In his poem "Al-Bayān al-Akhīr min al-Malik Shahryar" ("King Shahryar's Last
Proclamation") in his collection Tanwīʿāt Nizāriyya ʿalā Maqām al-ʿIshq (Nizārian
Variations in the Key of Love; 1996), Qabbānī tries to soothe a woman asking for his
love. He assures her he is no longer the same man he was. He is now a simple man
desirous of a single love, for the heroic age has ended and the ladies' Don Juan has
gone soft. The title permits us to understand that Shahryar refers to Qabbānī himself
and this poem his last proclamation under that name. We therefore expect the poem
to be formulated in the words of Shahryar, serving as a mask for the poet. The
poem's opening lines confirm this expectation:
Expand your mind, madam (1)
What you speak about the existence of a second woman
In my drawers and in my memory
Are fictional compositions and escapades of the imagination […]
I do not dance on fifty ropes in love […]
So put your legs in the snow and sleep.199 (5)
In these lines, we do not sense Shahryar’s presence at all. Rather we hear Qabbānī's
modern ideas, with no historical references. Shahryar is thus the protagonist of the
poem’s title, but there can be no doubt that the text’s protagonist is Qabbānī himself.
Worth noting in the above excerpt is the way Qabbānī fills his text with folk
expressions in poetic form, in an attempt, as earlier noted, to "nationalize" his poetry
and bring it to the masses. Imitating the language of the masses is fraught with
artistic dangers, since it may make a poem banal and uninspiring. Poets must
therefore use dramatic or legendary symbols to liberate ordinary speech from
traditional meanings and imbue it with imaginative energy and new poetical
meanings. However, we do not observe such an approach here. In fact, the poet
speaks to a woman in verses that sound like ordinary speech, spoken very explicitly,
199 Qabbānī 1998, vol. 9: 429.

using familiar sensory expressions. It is speech easily understood, very far from
suggestive poetic images.
However, a kind of suggestive imagery does arise in stanza four, in which the
poet announces the end of "the Nizārian period," the loss of all his swords, horses,
and aspirations of conquest. Instead, he joins the political "party of peace."200 These
references are not surprising after the previous stanza downpours declarations about
the transformations the poet has undergone.
Strangely, we hardly perceive the presence of Shahryar in the full course of
reading this long poem, despite the similarities between the poet's past and
Shahryar's biography. However, he appears again in stanza seven:
Expand your mind, madam
I have never been Shahryar
No, and I never dissolved women's bodies in acid
I was always a man for one woman
A good lover
And monogamous.201
We once again perceive the poet as having fallen into a contradiction. Does he
maintain that his reputation of adventures with women was a mere fabrication, or
does he deceive to deflect the epithet of Shahryar the oppressor? The poet appears to
announce the end of the "age of Shahryarism" and the beginning of a time of
surrender and stability. In this case, his statement "I have never been Shahryar"
undermines his entire brief narration of his "Shahryari" biography. It also contradicts
the title that states he is Shahryar.
Perhaps Qabbānī chose this title to accommodate the woman he here addresses;
she sees him as Shahryar and the poem is an attempt to refute her view. It is as if he
wishes to win her trust with an initial “admission of guilt." After she agrees to listen,
he attempts to convince her that he never was what she believes him to be.
While this explanation may explain the contradiction that appears to exist
between the poem’s title and ultimate message, it does not explain the contradiction
contained within the poem itself apparent in the above excerpt. At the same time the
poet declares that he was never Shahryar for even a single day, he repeats "the
Nizārian age is over." The "Nizārian age" is described in stanza four as a time when
he was a rich king with many horses and swords, making many conquests, and in
stanza nine, as filled with the many women he loved, Fāṭima, Rāwiya, and Rānya.
We thus arrive at the conclusion that Qabbānī both rejects the epithet Shahryar and
simultaneously demonstrates its appropriateness.
In this poem, one of the last in which the figure of Shahryar is used, there is no
development of this figure, rather he continues along the same path established in
the second period. In fact, Qabbānī adheres to the same image as he had earlier, of
200 See: Ibid.: 431.

201 Qabbānī 1998, vol. 9: 434.

Shahryar desolving women in sulfuric acid, a horrific modern image appearing

nowhere in The Arabian Nights. In fact, it is unclear from where Qabbānī took this
image, which remained in his mind twenty years after he first used it in Miʾat
Risālat Íubb (One-Hundred Love Letters; 1970).
Perhaps the image was born of a modern oral retelling of the legend the poet had
heard, which exaggerated Shahryar's cruelty towards women and described this
scene, retained in the poet's memory. More likely, however, the poet invented it as
an expression of Shahryar's barbarity, with all the figure's attendant symbolism, and
the image remained imprinted on the poet's memory. This notion is possible
especially in light of events whereby dissolving murdered corpses in sulfuric acid
did indeed take place in the Arab world. A leader of the Lebanese Communist Party,
Faraj Allāh al-ḤilÙ (1906-1959) was assassinated by ʿAbd al-Ḥamīd al-Sarrāj in
Syria in 1959 and his body was dissolved in acid.202 Perhaps Qabbānī poetically
attached this image to Shahryar due to his barbaric behavior. At any rate, as the
image undergoes no change, Qabbānī did not strive to develop this artistic device
but appeared satisfied in producing poetry that is well understood and wins new
readers every day.
Qabbānī attached greater importance to his readership than to his art. Since an
evolving poetics and more sublime verses would lead to greater complexity and
fewer readers he seems to have decided to refrain from such an undertaking.
Qabbānī used the figure of Shahryar more than any other poet and we would expect
him to have develop this figure in which he "specialized." However, with the
exception of the slight development noted above, I have identified no real change in
the regard, usage, or meaning he attributes to him. Even in this poem where
Shahryar dominates the title, and we might expect him to serve as a mask for the
poet, the figure and his age get lost in the course of the poem. Rather, the poet’s time
prevails. Qabbānī distances himself from Shahryar artistically as well. The last
quoted excerpt makes it absolutely clear that Shahryar was not a mask for the poet.
3.5.5 The use of the figure of Aladdin or its symbols

The use of the figure of Aladdin in this period did not undergo any development.
The focus remained on use of the story's symbols rather than on the figure itself.
Aladdin's appearances range from passing references, as in Zayyād's poem "Mawt
Sadīqinā ʿUmar,"203 to allusion denoting strangeness and magic of the kind firing
poets’ imaginations since childhood, as in al-Bayātī's poem "Al-Ṭilasm" in his
collection Bustān ʿĀʾisha (1989).204
202 See: ÍaddÁd 2004, where al-Sarrāj imprisonment and assassination are reported in great
detail. Cf.: Wikipedia, The free Encyclopedia.
203 See: Zayyād 1994a: 66-68.
204 See: al-Bayātī 1989: 81.

In this period, Qabbānī used the two symbols of the flying carpet and the magic
ring. His carpet was made of feathers, and he used it to fly to his beloved.205 He
made novel use of the symbol of the ring in his poem "Al-Ḥubb bi-lā Taʾshīrat
Dukhūl" ("Love without a Visa"), as follows:
The fax machine
Has erased the geographical borders between me and you
And turned you into a golden ring on my finger
I rub it
And the gates of Paradise open before me.206
Qabbānī uses routine prose words such as fax and geography, which appear with
great frequency in contemporary poetry, especially in works by Qabbānī, Dunqul,
and ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr. These words embody a measure of suggestive poetic energy,
attaining a new symbolic hue, by being sown among words with profound
connotations, within an indirect abstruse or suggestive atmosphere, or amidst
descriptions of fabulous or legendary events. Prosaic words become infused with
symbolic meanings when accompanied by folk expressions of the kind Qabbānī
used frequently, such as the above excerpt’s "turned you into a golden ring on my
finger," taken from the popular saying "zayy el-khātim bi-iṣbaʿī" ("like a ring on my
finger"), denoting the domination and control of one person over another.
The original saying is about control and domination, but Qabbānī developed it
further, turning the ring into a magical object, which when rubbed opens the gates of
Paradise. We can understand this imagery in two ways: 1. palpably, as a symbol of
the girl whom, like the ring, he caresses whenever he wishes, indicating his mastery
over her and her surrender to him, as she opens her arms and lavishes her charms; 2.
spiritually, as a declaration that control over his beloved transforms him into a
magician capable of overcoming nature and opening the gates of life.
The poem's general atmosphere makes the first interpretation more likely, since
Qabbānī describes the girl throughout as helpless and dependent on him, so that with
just a few words he can make her submit to his will. With the fax he can reach here
wherever she is and charm her with his words, while he never once establishes her
love’s importance to him or his need for her. Qabbānī here uses the folk expression
and develops it in order to evoke a symbol from The Arabian Nights, thus leading to
this symbol’s evolution. No longer, an inanimate object to be obtained, the ring
becomes a metaphor for a beloved chained by her lover's magical charm.
The symbol of the flying carpet also underwent some development. Thus in
Samīḥ al-Qāsim's poem "Ughniyat Íubb Filasṭīniyya" ("A Palestinian Love Song")
in his collection Sa-Akhruju min Sūratī Dhāta Yawm (I Will Come Out of My Picture
One Day; 2000), it expresses the poet's desire for freedom, to break through police
205 See: Qabbānī 1998, vol. 9: 468.

206 Ibid.: 464.

blockades and subvert licenses imposed by the occupation.207 Al-Qāsim thrice

repeats the expression, "I spread the flying carpet/kafiyyeh woven from my
wounded homeland," thus turning it into an important lyrical refrain and a motif
indicative of his strong emotions and intense desire to transcend boundaries and
achieve liberation. He does not want just any flying carpet, but one made from a
kafiyyeh to symbolize national resistance and the beloved he desires, his beloved
homeland. We can discern reciprocity between al-Qāsim and the homeland. The
homeland gives him the energy of love driving him to fight for a "meeting" while he
gives his homeland hope by weaving it into a carpet of liberation.
3.5.6 Use of other figures

In this period the use of other figures from The Arabian Nights greatly waned. In
fact, only one such figure can be found, Qamar al-Zamān, a handsome prince whose
father abandoned affairs of state to find him a wife. Qamar al-Zamān had several
adventures, which concluded in marriage to the beautiful Budūr.208 This figure is
used superficially, as a metaphorical allusion in Qabbānī's poem "Al-Qaṣīda Taṭraḥu
Asʾilatahā" ("The Poem Asks its Questions") in his collection Al-Kibrīt fī Yadī wa-
Duwaylātukum min Waraq (I Hold a Match in My Hand and Your So-Called States
are Made of Paper; 1989). The poem attacks Arab leaders, declaring that as a poet,
he is more popular than any ruler. The people hang his picture on the wall and he
appears in their dreams: "They think that I am (Qamar al-Zamān)."209 Qabbānī
places the figure between parentheses in order to prevent confusion, since the words
(literally: "moon of all time") comprise a familiar phrase meaning "extraordinarily
good." Qabbānī thus represents himself both as extraordinarily good and a true king.
Unlike the political rulers unloved by their people, Qamar al-Zamān is handsome,
popular, and beloved. People dream of him and hang his picture in every home.
3.5.7 The use of the atmosphere of The Arabian Nights

The name The Arabian Nights appears in three poems, two of them by Qabbānī,
using it in a negative light, as a symbol of embarrassing backwardness leading the
Arabs into apathy and delusion, thwarting their progress,210 and depriving women
of their rights, distorting their image and causing them suffering by depicting them
as traitors and sirens whose minds are ruled by desire.211 A third poem, by al-
Qāsim, mentions The Arabian Nights as a simile, by which he does not mean the
popular literary work but rather a time period.212 This simile nevertheless arouses
207 See: al-Qāsim 2000b: 16-19.

208 See: The Arabian Nights 1997, vol. 2: 109-214.
209 Qabbānī 1993, vol. 6: 356.
210 Qabbānī 1993, vol. 6: 564.
211 Ibid., vol. 5: 41.
212 See: Qabbānī 2000b: 194.

certain associations with the book, and al-Qāsim takes advantage of these
associations to delay his meaning and tempt his readers. However this reference
gives no substantive meaning to the evoked material, and is thus a simple one.
Zayyād’s "Mawt Sadīqinā ʿUmar" similarly evokes many Arab and other legends in
elegy to a deceased child and intends no wider meanings. Among the elements of
legend he uses are some symbols from The Arabian Nights (Scheherazade,
Shahryar, Sinbad, the lamp, Aladdin, the flying carpet and others), which function as
mere additional examples to a large slew of symbols, which if dispensed with would
do no harm or leave no gap in the poem’s structure or meaning.213
213 See: Zayyād 1994a: 66-68.

4. Afterword
4. Afterword
Folk literature has been one of the most important sources of inspiration for Arab
poets. Its influence on Arabic poetry in general and especially on modern poetry can
be traced throughout history. However, such usage became deliberate and clearly
delineated only in the 1960s and 1970s. A number of political, social, and
intellectual factors contributed to the emergence of this link between standard poetry
and folk literature. This connection became so strong in a number of texts so as to
fuse them together, giving rise to unique works that cross the boundaries of literary
genre. My study of the role played by The Arabian Nights in modern Arabic poetry
contributes to a general investigation into the effect folk literature as a whole has
played on modern poetry. Such investigations must recognize the central position of
folk literature in Arabic folk culture, its enduring presence in folk memory, and its
transmission from one generation to the next over the centuries, retaining a hold on
people’s language, imagination, and ways of thinking.
The present study is divided into three chapters. In the first chapter, I survey the
evolution of Arabic poetry following World War II, in parallel with the evolution of
folk studies and a growing interest in the folk cultural system, a phenomenon
associated with novel political, social, and intellectual developments in the Arab
world. In this chapter I discuss the ways the transformation in attitudes towards folk
literatures occurred concurrently with the rise of movements of political and social
change in Arab societies. Most notably, the violent convulsions in post-war Arab
society, especially during the 1950s, affected the very heart of many of the region’s
political, cultural, and intellectual systems. These transformations gradually
contributed to a growing interest in folk literature, evinced by the increase of
scholarly studies of that literature and a growing awareness among writers and
critics that literature must address the issues preoccupying the people and speak in a
language close to their own. This realization led to a search for balance between
poetic sublimity and communication with the masses. Folk literature and its symbols
thus became appropriate objective correlatives rather than previously used Western
legends. These symbols enabled poetry to resolve the tension between high art and
connecting with the masses, moving poetry away from its isolated self-centered
romanticism.
Events of the day contributed to poets’ growing interest in the masses. The
dominant aristocratic circles gradually lost their hold on the people, especially as
revolutionary spirit spread in the wake of the Arab defeat and collapse of 1948. The
Free Officers’ movement in Egypt toppled the monarchy in 1952 and later declared
a republic. This revolution encouraged the rise of leftist parties in other Arab
countries, which also began to achieve independence from Western powers and local

208 4. Afterword
ruling aristocracies. The masses started to migrate from the margins to the center
both politically and socially, playing a more active role.
This social and political development was accompanied by a revival of folk
literature, which moved towards the center of the literary world. Its effects soon
became visible in the official literary system, as it became no longer embarrassing to
use colloquial expressions in texts, in turn making them more flexible and realistic.
However, this tendency only attained prominence following the decline of
nationalist parties in the early 1960s, especially after the dissolution of the union
between Syria and Egypt. This failure to maintain unity revealed the numerous
contradictions and disputes existing within different parts of the Arab world, which
were too great to overcome. The defeat of 1967 soon followed, leading the Arabs to
lose faith in existing regimes. The various Arab states turned in on themselves and
abandoned any lingering aspirations of unity. This reversal exposed divisions and
contradictions among Arab lands, exacerbated by additional disputes breaking out in
the wake of the latest defeat. The Palestinians lost confidence in the Arab regimes
and the Arabs lost confidence in each other. Arab intellectuals began to focus more
on their local folk cultures and less on their official Arab heritage or that of the
West, influenced by the socialist school calling for attention to the people’s
literature and for making a commitment to issues faced by the masses.
The dream of Arab unity had stood in the way of a broad implementation of
socialist principles, and so long as Arab nationalism predominated, folk literature
remained relatively neglected. We can thus retrospectively perceive the period from
the end World War II to the breakup of the Egypt-Syria union as a time of
incubation involving socialist ideas gradually taking hold of people’s minds. After
the union failed and nationalist aspirations declined, socialist principles began to
attain greater currency. Concurrently, local folk heritages began to attract more
attention, as writers distanced themselves from the “romantic dream” of complete
union. Socialism called for discarding submissive monarchic literature and
composing literature in the service of the people. This trend necessarily implied
paying greater attention to folk materials, as well as simplifying literature’s language
to enhance accessibility. During this time Eliot’s theories of literature also became
more popular and influenced many Arab thinkers and writers.
Eliot stressed the value of using one’s heritage and everyday spoken language in
poetry. He advocated that poetry be expressed in language close to popular speech
and that raw folk materials be used in formulating poetic texts. Eliot’s “objective
correlative” became one of most well-known and influential insights employed in
the Arabic literature then being produced. This concept states that poetry is not an
expression of emotion but rather an attempt to flee from emotion’s hold and to mask
it through the use of symbols and other technical devices. This idea seems to imply
that poetry should refrain from directly saying what it wants to say. It should employ
language divested of declaratory character and hide meanings behind curtains of
symbols and legends, which thereby constitute objective corelatives. Together with
the dominant socialist approach (Eliot himself was a conservative, with no socialist

4. Afterword 209
inclinations), Eliot’s literary advocacy gave rise to a growing tendency in Arabic

poetry to employ folk symbols and legends, especially those found in The Arabian
Nights, considered the most important folkloric source connecting modern Arabs
with their heritage.
I wish to here note that Arab poets’ interest in folk literature also arose quite
naturally from their own highly-developed self-awareness, steeped in the political,
social, and psychological transformations taking place around them. The other
factors here mentioned complemented these transformations and helped strengthen
this folk tendency, especially during the 1960s and 1970s. To these factors we may
add yet another one, namely the growing stability of modern Arabic poetry and its
unprecedented dissemination.
This modern and novel type of poetry emerged at the same time as the Arab anti-
colonial revolutions and the beginning of mental, social, and political liberation in
the Arab world. It thus evolved in tandem with other changes occurring in the
surrounding environment. Modern poetry’s initial period may be seen as a time of
“labor pains,” when it had not yet become stable and had not yet earned the trust of
intellectuals, who initially regarded it as a fad that would quickly pass. The new
poetry only achieved stability in the 1960s, when it reached unprecedented
dominance among poets, who adopted it wholeheartedly as an appropriate
alternative to the traditional qaṣīda. The new poetry did away with regular meter,
permitting poets to express themselves more freely and to use folk stories, legends,
myths and texts with little difficulty, so that symbols and allusions from these texts
could come to constitute an integral part of poems. Thus, poetry’s modernization
was yet another factor contributing to the increasing use of folk literature in poetry,
as well as in other standard forms of literature, such as fictions and drama, inspired
by the new poetry’s flexibility.
Palestinian poetry underwent a unique development for a number of reasons. The
Palestinian people had lost their land and independence and were separated from
their Arab brethren. Their folk heritage became a means for preserving national
identity, for protecting their uniqueness and retaining their existence as a people
with a right to independence. The use of folk literatures flourished among the
Palestinians, whose intellectuals and poets gravitated towards these works, which
they documented and re-used in their own texts, giving them a unique flavor and
imbuing them with power for revolutionizing the people. Such usage of folk
literature became a prominent hallmark of modernism in the 1960s and 1970s. Folk
works were preserved and revived; they infused modern texts with a new tone and
raised their artistic level, helping the people to maintain contact with this literary
heritage.
However, in more recent times, especially since the mid-1980s, this “fashion”
began to wane, as if exhausting its potential. This decline co-occurred with the
growing tendency of Arabic poetry towards closure and subjectivism. Arab poets at
this time had become despairing of social change. They felt their verses were
incapable of “redeeming” the people, especially in societies ruled by oppression and

210 4. Afterword
despotism. They retreated within themselves and turned their poetry into talismans.
Poems amounted to journeys within the subconscious, filled with interwoven
symbols often understood only by their authors. This development aligned with the
theory of deconstructionism that attained currency in the West after World War II.
This theory maintains that a text has no connection with any external truth. It
calls for liberating texts from their former connections by disassociating words from
familiar meanings and employing them in complete freedom. Words lost their
lexical significance as meaning came to depend on the specific contexts in which
they were used. This innovation expanded poets’ “expressive space” by opening up
words to countless different meanings, making it possible for Arab poets to restrict
themselves to Standard Arabic while renewing its meanings. They could create their
own private lexicons to fill their poems with allusions, every word comprising a vast
history of different meanings, which may also completely differ from one poem to
the next. The concomitant tendency to reduce the use of folk literature affected
Palestinian poetry, even though Palestinian poets remained more interested in folk
sources than poets elsewhere in the Arab world, due to continuing Palestinian
resistance and poets’ felt need to accompany and communicate with the popular
revolution.
In the second chapter, I engaged with the subject of Arab folktales in general and
described their various types and features, in preparation for the discussion that
follows on the stories in The Arabian Nights. Many scholars do not distinguish
among different types of folktales, requiring me to delineate a terminology, which I
derived by reviewing the major studies on folktales and defining the various genres
into which they may be divided. Recall that most Arabic folk narratives can be
divided into two types: folktale and legend. Both types are “tales” in the sense that
they were originally narrated orally and read only rarely. However, folktales concern
real historical persons and events.
Folktales’ essence is often true, albeit altered and embellished by the popular
imagination, transforming ordinary events and rendering their protagonists into
popular symbols. The protagonist of a folktale is a person who feels and thinks like
any ordinary human being, but has a dream usually dreamt by the people as a whole
and performs heroic deeds with a nationalist flavor. The hero usually relies on his
own powers, physical or mental, to achieve his aim. Since that aim is the tale’s
purpose, usually little detail is conveyed about the hero’s biography and personality.
Most folktale protagonists are presented as already mature and fully equipped to
fulfil their missions.
In a legend, on the other hand, heroes are not derived from reality but arise to
reflect various human emotions. They generally are not presented as belonging to
any real family. Heroes stand at the center of fables. The plot is woven around them;
it follows their movements. Thus in legends, we tend to encounter the heroes when
they are small and observe their maturation. The events described are often
imaginary, and the plot based on surprises and miracles.

4. Afterword 211
The Arabian Nights can be said to belong to both the genres of folktale and
legend, although the legends in this collection are more famous. The book as a
whole was apparently translated to Arabic from Persian during the first Abbasid
period (750-847 CE) and has since come to exercise a great deal of influence on the
imagination of Arabs and that of other nations. The stories have long been in
popular use and continue to be related orally to this day. When they came to Europe
in the Middle Ages, they inspired a literary revival, greatly influencing major writers
and storytellers in the West. But in the Arab world the tales of The Arabian Nights
were generally ignored by poets for a long time, for a number of reasons.
For one, the tales were considered part of the system of folk culture, which was
regarded as inferior to poetry. In addition, they contained numerous scenes of sexual
licentiousness. The book’s best-known symbols are some of its characters and
events, most notably Sinbad the sailor, Scheherazade, Shahryar, and Aladdin. They
have long fired the popular imagination and eventually entered canonical Arabic
literature, especially modern poetry.
Drawing on the framework developed in chapter two, chapter three shows the
ways the use of symbols from The Arabian Nights flourished in modern Arabic
poetry the 1960s and 1970s, as an unconscious outcome to political and social
changes in Arab society. This usage was not restricted to mere allusion, as had
earlier been the case with respect to poets’ use of Western legends. Rather, these
symbols became important expressive devices in many texts. They inspired the
creation of hybrid texts and new literary genres that combine features of both folk
and canonical literature.
I explore the ways Iraqi poets pioneered the use of symbols taken from Arab folk
culture, developed their meanings, and crafted original ways of evoking them. More
than any other poets, ÝAbd al-WahhÁb al-Bayātī and Badr Shakir al-Sayyāb
contributed to this movement. Al-Bayātī’s use of such symbols expressed his social
frustration—his lack of hope in the ability of his society to reform itself—and his
disillusionment from the experience of poetic commitment. In most cases, al-Sayyāb
employed the same symbols repeatedly to give expression to his long journey of
pain and illness, conveying a romantic, subjective tone. Both poets so extensively
used symbols taken from The Arabian Nights, especially Sinbad, that critics and
students can follow their poetic evolution simply by observing the way Sinbad
appears at various periods in their poetry, the meanings they attribute to him and and
techniques they employ to evoke him. Futhermore, merely by tracking the use of the
symbol of Sinbad in al-Sayyāb’s work we can follow his changing mental state,
notably the evolution of his views on life and death due to his strong associations
with this figure in his life from childhood onwards. This study also addresses a
question some scholars have raised concerning the fact that the poem “Sinbad’s
City” contains no apparent symbols taken from The Arabian Nights, despite al-
Sayyāb’s declaration that he was influenced by that book while composing this
poem. I explore the ways al-Sayyāb did indeed use the important symbol of the
“copper knight” as well as Sinbad as a mask for himself. Scholars had not previously

212 4. Afterword
identified the former symbol; preoccupied with the tales of Sinbad, they overlooked
the story in which the “copper knight” appears.
Al-Bayātī specialized in turning the symbol of Sinbad into its antithesis,
especially during the second poetic period (1962-1986) when he transformed Sinbad
from an unflagging and fearless adventurer into a languid retiree, bored with travel,
fearful of movement, repentant. This Sinbad sets his ships afire, rends his sword,
and forsakes adventure.
By way of contrast, I note that Palestinian poets used symbols from The Arabian
Nights quite sparingly, likely due to Palestinian poets’ preference for their own local
folk culture. With their poetry, they aimed to bring to light specific Palestinian
features, in order to stress Palestinian identity and protect it from the oblivion that
could result from occupation and exile.
Looking at modern Arabic poetry as a whole, Sinbad was the figure most often
alluded to, especially by Iraqi poets. Poets tended to use Sinbad’s adventures and
journeys to symbolize the dangers they themselves were facing in conflicts with the
threatening forces of death, political authorities, and society’s backwardness, to
name a few. This symbol appealed to Arab poets who frequently live two exiles, one
physical—some are expelled by their regimes, moving from one place to another
willingly or unwillingly, but still longing for home—the other spiritual—they feel
like strangers even among their own people, having different ideas and cultures, and
within the wider world where values are distorted. For these reasons poets have
continually searched for a “superior city,” even if only existing in their imaginations.
In both kinds of exile, poets feel compelled to travel, whether out of the country and
or outside of reality. Their travels multiply and absences grow ever longer. These
experiences contribute to poets’ identification with the figure of Sinbad, who leaves
everything behind over and over again—his homeland, family, and property—to set
out in search of adventure and treasure. And yet, Sinbad always longs for his
homeland and returns after every voyage.
Again, it was the poet al-Sayyāb who pioneered use of most of the commonly
occurring symbols in The Arabian Nights. He was the first Arab poet to allude to it
in his 1948 poem “In the Nights of Autumn,” where he alludes to Scheherazade. Al-
Sayyāb was also the first poet to use the figure of Sinbad, who appears in his 1954
poem “Arms and the Children,” and not ÑalÁÎ ÝAbd ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr as some have
claimed. He was also the first poet to use the figure of Shahryar, in his 1963 poem
“Sleepless Night.”
Al-Bayātī appears to have been the poet who showed the greatest interest in the
figure of Scheherazade, which he developed both stylistically and content-wise. Al-
Bayātī’s stylistic use of the story of Scheherazade consists of reference to the
famous expression, “But morning overtook Scheherazade and she lapsed into
silence,” which he employs in some texts to the effect of imparting a dramatic
overtone. As for substantive use of this symbol, Scheherazade provides al-Bayātī a
vibrant means for strengthening and expanding his social and political messages.

4. Afterword 213
Folk literature was also an important source of inspiration for the poet Ṣalāḥ
ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr, who infused folk sayings into his works and employed language very
close to everyday speech. ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr’s appreciation for folk literature and faith in
its artistic potential and value is evident in his very first choice of a mask in the
figure of ʿAjīb b. al-Khaṣīb, a folkloric character taken from The Arabian Nights,
whom he found ideal for expressing his personal concerns and problems. In his
“Memoirs of King ʿAjīb b. al-Khaṣīb,” ʿAbd al-Ṣabūr demonstrated his skill in
giving voice to narration in poetic form. He created a narrative poem through use of
every available device taken from both poetry and prose, including
contextualization, the rajaz meter, dialogue, monologue, everyday language,
allusion, and symbolism.
Taking an overall view of modern poetry, I note the ways some of the symbols
taken from The Arabian Nights underwent a partial transformation over the course
of their use, particularly Sinbad during the second period. While in the first period
this figure served as a symbol for poets making a journey towards a goal or
presenting a message to the masses, in the second period he becomes impotent and
yielding. He burns his ships, gets lost at sea, and loses hope of finding his way
home. I understand this change in Sinbad’s meaning as stemming from the social
and political changes that took place in the Arab world. The many defeats,
sacrifices, and reversals suffered by the Arabs shattered poets’ dreams of victory and
stability, and Sinbad came to express this defeated sensibility.
For these same reasons, in the second period, Arab poets showed considerable
interest in the figure of Aladdin, who was not at all symbolically used in the
previous period, but then appeared in thirteen poems. At a time when intellectuals
began to doubt everything, writers who had committed themselves to the homeland
and who had been writing poetry in its service found all their hopes dashed. This
calamity generated in poets a state of shock and lethargy. They came to lack
confidence in themselves, in history, and in the values they had inherited. They
retreated into a subconscious world to seek refuge from painful reality, to pursue
healing for their wounded souls, and to escape feelings of impotence.
In a fantasy world, poets could realize their dreams effortlessly with a single
magic word. Their sense of helplessness and realization that poetry had failed in its
moral mission to rebuild what had been destroyed led them to escape into a new
kind of romanticism, a romanticism of the self, of isolation, and inner dialogue,
which also gave rise to dialogue with imaginary beings. After exhausting every
realistic device, Arab poets were forced to search for solutions in other universes,
places where miracles were possible and superheroes would materialize to heal
every ill in a flash. For this reason the use of Aladdin as a symbol emerged in this
period; the most famous magical figure known to the Arabs, he could make fantastic
wishes come true with ease.
Nizār Qabbānī used the figure of Shahryar more than any other Arab poet. It
appears that this figure had become firmly rooted in his subconscious and that he
perceived some of his features as consistent with his own mental state and views on

214 4. Afterword
life. Qabbānī saw himself as a Don Juan, attracting women with cunning, deluding
them with promises of eternal love, trifling with their feelings, and abandoning them
to tears and longing. Qabbānī seems to have viewed the figure of Shahryar in
contradictory ways, since in some poems he rejects him as a symbol for himself
while in others he adopts him with pride.
Finally, I discuss the ways al-Bayātī’s poem “Something from The Arabian
Nights” provides the best example of a text infusing canonical poetry with the
atmosphere of The Arabian Nights to give rise to a special poetic type. This poem’s
overall framework is taken from poetry (rhyme, meter, symbolism, and allusion)
with The Arabian Nights contributing a magical atmosphere, narrative style, closure,
and fabulous events. Al-Bayātī’s varied adoption determines the text’s unique blend
of features. It is written in the rajaz meter, the most appropriate one for versifying a
narrative text containing regular prose expressions, and its lines are arranged in a
masterful gradual order. As for their form, some lines are written in integrated prose
connected to the lines that follow, a prosodic device known as enjambment
(jarayÁn), which permits rhythmic consistency that preserves a poem’s unity while
allowing it to resemble a connected prose text.
Finally
Folk knowledge and folk culture have come to play an integral role in literary
education in Arab society, regarded as crucial for reaching an accurate
understanding of the nature of Arabic literature. Inquiries into the evolution of folk
culture over time constitute important steps towards shedding light on the literary
system as a whole, as well as on more opaque aspects of canonical literature’s
development. For this reason the number of folkloristic studies has expanded in an
unprecedented manner since the mid-twentieth century. Arab intellectuals have
simultaneously become increasingly aware of the value of folk literature. They have
come to realize that ignoring this literature will lead to gaps in literary education,
which in turn could have adverse effects on poetry, and on poets’ creativity of
expression and flexibility in formulating texts.
Folk literature encompasses a broad range of arts, which possess various features
and forms that can enrich canonical literature and provide it with new means of
expression. It can also inspire a kind of “revitalization” of Standard Arabic, infusing
it with folk words and phrases that enhance expressive flexibility and candor.
Furthermore, the use of folk literature in any form promotes dialogue between
canonical and non-canonical literature at every level. On an intellectual level,
popular thought as represented in the evoked text interacts with the refined thinking
of the intellectual reader, giving rise to the formation of a combined view, which in
turn may help ameliorate the split between folk and intellectual thought. On a
linguistic level, the interaction between colloquial or folk language and Standard
Arabic highlights the expressive possibilities which the former may impart on the

Finally 215
latter, in addition to offering the possibility of amalgamation for making an idea

fully manifest. At the level of genre, the evocation of folk literature in canonical
poems opens up a channel of communication, so to speak, between two distinct
literary genres, helping to form hybrid types that can complete the circle of creative
writing. If it persists, this development can contribute to flexibility and
transformation in literary types, thereby bringing a change in the literary system.
We must not overlook another aspect to this development, namely the benefit
that folktales derive from their usage in canonical poetry. Such usage revives folk
materials, giving them new powers of suggestion and distancing them from the
prosaic from which it had suffered due to extended circulation. It also helps to
preserve them from deterioration and disappearance.
Let me here remind that that this study addresses just one aspect of folk culture’s
influence on canonical poetry. This field merits further study to explore additional
folk influences on canonical poetry and on literature generally. All folk genres are
conspicuously present in modern poetry, in ways going well beyond mere borrowing
and semantic allusion to affect the very fabric, structure, and artistry of texts. I have
previously published papers on the important role played by folk proverbs in
canonical texts, especially in poetry. In fact, there exists great amount of poems built
upon folk proverbs and maxims. I am currently working on a study of the influence
of folk songs, where I expect to encounter some very interesting findings, due to the
affinity between song and poetry. Additional studies could inquire into how short
stories, novels, plays, and other forms of literature relate to folk literature and how
they use elements of folk culture in their techniques. Such projects could shed light
on the evolution of the literary system as a whole and on interrelations among its
parts.

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6. Index
ÝAbd al-ÑabÙr, ÑalÁÎ: 17, 31 n. 42, 36, 42, Badr al-Budour: 139, 140, 141, 142, 143,
45 n. 101, 55 n. 128, 60, 60 n. 145, 146.
60 n. 146, 101 n. 18, 114, 115, 118, Al-BaÒrÐ, al-Íasan: 154, 157, 190
119, 119 n. 65-67, 120, 121, 122, 130, Al-BayÁti, ÝAbd al-WahhÁb: 17, 34, 36, 43,
131, 132, 133, 134, 135, 136, 187, 57, 60, 60 n. 145, 60 n. 146, 95, 98, 98
203, 212, 213. n. 11, 99, 100, 101, 101 n. 18, 102,
Abdul Nasser, Jamal: 56, 66, 66 n. 159, 103, 104, 105, 110 n. 40, 115, 125,
141, 167 n. 147. 126, 127, 128, 129, 129 n. 82, 130,
Absurd: 15, 82, 117, 121, 134. 146, 147, 159, 160, 161, 162, 166, 167,
Al-ÞÀdÁb, journal: 57, 58, 115 n. 56. 170, 171, 187, 189, 191, 192, 193, 194,
Adonis: 111 195, 202, 211, 212, 214.
Adonis, ÝAlÐ AÎmad: 36, 43, 52, 53 n. Al-BaytjÁlÐ, Iskandar: 31.
120, 69 n. 172, 71 n. 179, 106, 107,
108, 110. Cain: 110.
Aladdin: 93, 129, 130, 145, 146, 148, Camp David: 27, 66.
180, 181, 182 n. 164, 183, 184, 184 n. Canonical: 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 22, 25, 26,
168, 185, 186, 187, 188, 189, 190, 32, 33, 63, 64, 65, 67 n. 164, 69, 71,
192, 202, 205, 211, 213. 73, 77, 78, 80, 89, 90, 95, 124, 127,
Alienation: 83, 91, 95, 96, 99, 147, 157, 146, 177, 182, 192, 211, 214, 215.
166, 195. Christ: 110, 112.
Allegory, Allegorical: 91, 106, 111, 118, Colloquial: 13, 14, 22, 23, 24, 24 n. 17,
130, 137, 152, 153, 160, 191. 25, 26, 26 n. 24, 28, 29, 30, 30 n. 38,
Allusion: 15, 17, 19, 39, 39 n. 75, 49, 93, 31, 31 n. 42, 32, 32 n. 44, 34, 40, 40
94, 95, 97, 97 n. 8, 98, 99, 101, 102, n. 79, 41, 41 n. 81, 42, 43, 43 n. 93,
105, 106, 107, 118, 120, 124, 126, 127, 44, 45 n. 99, 53, 53 n. 122, 54, 55, 59,
130, 131, 136, 137, 141, 145, 146, 147, 60, 61, 68, 73, 89, 89 n. 61, 111 n.
148, 153, 159, 160, 165, 166, 172, 174, 45, 119, 199, 133, 188, 208, 214.
175, 176, 177, 179, 181, 182, 184, 185, Colloquial poetry: 25 n. 20, 49 n. 110, 68.
186, 188, 189, 190, 191, 195, 196, 197, Colonialism: 13.
198, 199, 200, 202, 204, 209, 210, 211, Commitment (socialism): 13, 32, 56, 57, 58,
213, 214, 215. 59, 59 n. 145, 60, 61, 62, 63, 71, 99 n.
Anecdotes: 16, 21, 31, 96. 15, 104, 106, 109, 109 n. 38, 109 n. 39,
Antithesis: 159, 212. 121, 123, 141, 144, 146, 160, 208, 211,
Apollo: 95. Communism: 109.
Arab defeat (1948): 33, 46 n. 106, 62, 63, Communist Party: 59 n. 145, 109, 202.
63 n. 152, 63 n. 153, 64 n. 155, 66, 207. Counter-imitation: 101, 103, 114, 117, 158.
Arab defeat (1967): 27, 28, 65, 66, 67, 67
n. 163, 68, 70, 125, 141, 183, 208. DarwÐsh, MaÎmÙd: 17, 48 n. 107, 59 n.
Architext/ Architextuality: 93, 94, 100, 145, 60 n. 146, 168, 168 n. 148, 169,
102, 127, 129, 131, 137, 162. 171, 172, 173, 174.
ÝAwaÃ, Louis: 26 n. 23, 42, 57. Deconstruction: 51, 51 n. 115, 53, 210.

238 Index
Desdemona: 170, 171. Free verse see also: al-shiÝr al-Îurr): 13,
Diglossia: 28. 14, 17, 39, 45, 45 n. 104, 47, 48 n.
DÐnÁzÁd: 84. 108, 49, 49 n. 110, 61, 101, 180.
(The) Double: 103, 104, 104 n. 24, 128,
158, 160, 161. Al-ÍakÐm, TawfÐq: 36, 44, 44 n. 95. 83 n.
Dualism: 54, 55, 56, 73, 191. 38, 91 n. 68, 114, 114 n. 52, 124 n. 74.
Dunqul, Amal: 55 n. 128, 59 n. 145, 137, Ḥāwī, Khalīl: 17, 27, 111, 112, 113, 114.
139, 141, 142, 143, 143 n. 111, 144, Al-ÍillÐ, Ñafiyy al-DÐn: 21, 22.
150, 151, 151 n. 125, 152, 203. Historical sense: 35, 36,37.
Dunyazād: 85. Hulagu: 125, 126.
Ḥusayn, Ṭaha: 29, 30, 58.
Egyptianize: 29, 29 n. 29. Hybrid (hybridization…): 15, 16, 17, 73,
Eliot, T.S: 34, 34 n. 52, 35, 36. 37. 38. 39, 102, 162, 192, 196, 211, 215.
39 n. 75, 40, 40 n. 79, 41, 41 n. 80, 41 Hypertextuality (hypertext): 94, 101.
n. 81, 42, 43, 44, 45, 45 n. 99, 46, 65, Hypotext: 101.
65 n. 156, 106, 138, 159, 183, 208, 209.
Enjambment: 134, 136, 214. Ibn ÝAbd al-Malik, al-WalÐd: 170.
Epic: 22. Ibn al-KhaÒÐb, ÝAjÐb: 130, 131, 132, 133,
Epitextuality: 108. 134, 135, 136, 157, 213.
Estrangement: 120. Ibn KhaldÙn, ÝAbd al-RaÎmÁn: 21, 22, 22
Eve: 110, 112. n. 5.
Exile: 66, 91, 104, 105, 109, 109 n. 39, Ibn al-MuqaffaÝ, ÝAbdullÁh: 22.
116, 117, 125, 138, 141, 142, 144, IdrÐs YÙsuf: 22.
147, 153, 154, 157, 158, 177, 178, Imitation: 13, 29, 89 n. 61, 100, 101, 101
182, 189, 212. n. 19, 103, 111, 114, 117, 125, 142,
Existentialism: 135. 148, 149, 152, 158, 170, 184, 186, 193.
Intertextuality: 14, 39, 69, 94, 97, 185.
Fable: 22, 135, 210. Intifada: 15, 27, 70.
FaiÒal, the king: 108, 109. Irony (ironic, ironical…): 101, 159.
Al-FÁkhÙrÐ, ÝUmar: 30 IshÁra: 97 n. 7.
Farouq, the king: 29.
Flashback: 112, 131, 135, 145, 178. JabrÁ, JabrÁ IbrÁhÐm: 36, 54, 59 n. 145,
Flying carpet: 129, 145, 181, 182, 182 n. 60, 60 n. 146,
164, 185, 203, 204, 205. Al-JadÐd, journal: 57 n. 137.
Folklore (folkloric, folkloristic…): 14, 21, JafrÁ: 184.
21 n. 1, 22, 23, 26, 26 n. 23, 28, 31, JÁhÐn, ÑalÁÎ: 68, 147.
33, 34, 38, 39 n. 75, 41, 42, 49, 49 n. Al-JÁÎÐÛ, ÝAmr ibn BaÎr: 21, 21 n. 4.
110, 56 n. 130, 59, 64, 64 n. 154, 64 Al-JarÐda, journal: 28.
n. 155, 65, 67, 68, 68 n. 165, 71, 74, Al-JÁrim, ÝAlÐ: 29.
89, 91 n. 67, 119, 119 n. 67, 145, 182 JaykÙr: 55 n. 128, 152, 153.
n. 165, 209, 213, 214. Jinn: 86, 145, 152, 157, 159, 160, 183,
Folksong: 15, 22 n. 9, 40 n. 79, 103. 187, 188, 191.
Folktale: 15, 16, 18, 21 n. 1, 24, 25 n. 20, JubrÁn, JubrÁn: 23.
73, 73 n. 1, 74, 74 n. 6, 75, 76, 77, 78,
78 n. 20, 80, 80 n. 27, 81, 84, 119, KalÐla wa-Dinma: 22, 80, 90.
119 n. 67, 124, 128, 182 n. 165, 186, Al-KhÁl, Yusuf: 36, 41 n. 80, 44, 45, 52,
210, 211, 215. 53, 53 n. 120, 53 n. 122, 56 n. 130.

Index 239
KhÙrÐ, RaÞÐf: 30 n. 36, 59 n. 149. MuwashshaÎ: 22.

Myth (mythology…): 14, 28 n. 28, 39, 39
Legend (legendary, legendizing…): 33, 35, n. 75, 51, 62, 65, 65 n. 156, 69, 69 n.
38, 39, 55 n. 128, 56, 59, 63, 68, 70, 169, 73, 74, 79, 91, 95, 98, 99, 109,
73, 74, 75, 78, 78 n. 21, 79, 79 n. 23, 112, 129, 143, 167, 167 n. 147, 184 n.
79 n. 25, 80, 80 n. 26, 80 n. 27, 81, 81 168, 193, 209.
n. 30, 81 n. 33, 82, 82 n. 37, 83, 83 n.
38, 84, 85, 86, 88, 89, 91, 95, 96, 117, Al-NajafÐ, ÞAÎmad al-ÑÁfÐ: 32.
118, 129, 132, 134, 135, 136, 143, 146, Nakba (see also: Arab defeat [1948]): 56.
148, 167, 167 n. 147, 169, 170, 183, Naksa (see also: Arab defeat [1967]): 66.
184, 184 n. 168, 186, 188, 189, 190, Napoleon: 34.
191, 192, 193, 199, 200, 202, 203, 205, Nationalism (nationalization): 15, 27, 28,
207, 208, 209, 210, 211. 31 n. 40, 31 n. 41, 57, 62, 66, 183, 208.
Lyric (lyrical, lyricism…): 101, 104, 110, Non-canonical: 15, 33, 55, 214.
118, 126, 128, 130, 136, 137, 138,
144, 145, 147, 148, 157, 162, 165, Objective correlative: 35, 38, 65 n. 156,
176, 183, 189, 190, 204. 69, 111, 153, 170, 183, 207, 208.
Othello: 170, 171.
Al-Mahjar: 30, 30 n. 38.
Al-MalÁÞika, NÁzik: 45, 45 n. 102, 46 n. Paratextuality (paratext…): 94, 108.
104, 46 n. 106, 48. Peritextuality (peritext…): 106, 108, 111,
Al-ManÁÒra, ÝIzz al-DÐn: 17, 27, 28 n. 28, 114, 119, 124, 127, 130, 131, 179,
55 n. 128, 60 n. 146, 182, 183. 181, 189, 191, 198, 200.
MaqÁma: 21. Persona (see also: mask): 110.
Marxist: 58, 59. Poeticize: 128, 136, 165.
Mask (literary term): 39, 67 n. 163, 104 n. Popular literature: 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26,
24, 110, 110 n. 40, 111, 114, 125, 27, 28, 28 n. 28, 29, 31, 32, 33, 35,
126, 130, 131, 137, 161, 163, 164, 41, 45, 47, 49, 53, 54, 55, 61, 63, 64,
165, 170, 192, 193, 200, 202, 208, 64 n. 155, 65, 66, 67, 68, 69, 70, 70 n.
211, 213. 175, 71 n. 179.
MasrÙr (executioner): 142, 143, 144. Populism: 56.
Al-MasÝÙdÐ, ÝAlÐ ibn al-Íusayn: 84. Post-modernism: 34, 49, 50, 51, 52, 54,
Materialism: 55. 56, 73.
MawwÁl: 23, 182. Prose poetry: 34, 53, 55, 68.
Maxim: 21, 22, 41 n. 81, 124, 163, 165, Proverb: 16, 21, 31, 75, 76, 77, 182, 215.
215. Qabbānī, Nizār: 17, 36, 42, 59 n. 145, 67
Metatextuality (Metatext): 94. n. 163, 147, 147 n. 117, 148, 167 n.
Modernism: 13, 34, 36, 41, 41 n. 80, 44, 147, 176, 177, 179, 180, 180 n. 162,
45, 49, 50, 51, 52, 53, 53 n. 120, 54, 190, 191, 196, 197, 198, 198 n. 195,
54 n. 124, 55, 56, 59, 60, 68, 73, 136, 199, 200, 201, 202, 203, 204, 213,
209. 214.
Monarchic: 13, 57, 57 n. 135, 63, 208. Qamar al-Zamān: 146, 190, 204.
MÙsÁ, SalÁma: 29, 29 n. 32, 30 n. 33, 31, Qāsim, ʿAbd al-Karīm: 105, 108.
56, 57, 58, 59 n. 143. Al-QÁsim, SamÐÎ: 17, 43, 67 n. 163, 71 n.
Al-MutadÁrak: 133, 134, 136, 152, 162, 179, 185, 186, 197 n. 192, 203, 204,
165. 205.
Al-MutaqÁrab: 133.35, 55. Quran: 91 n. 68, 149.

240 Index
Rajaz: 102, 103, 128, 133, 136, 150, 152, ShiÝr, journal: 34, 52.
157, 162, 165, 193, 213, 214. Al-ShuÝarÁÞ al-MuwalladÙn: 50.
Ramal: 165, 186. Al-ShurÙq, journal: 71 n. 179.
Al-RaÒÁfÐ, MaÝrÙf: 32. Sinbad: 59, 84, 86, 86 n. 47, 90, 93, 95,
Al-RashÐd, HÁrÙn: 77, 97, 125, 126, 148. 96, 97, 97 n. 7, 98, 98 n. 13, 99, 100,
Al-RayÎÁnÐ, AmÐn: 30. 101, 102, 103, 104, 105, 106, 107,
Realism (& new-realism): 13, 33, 34, 46, 108, 109, 110, 110 n. 41, 111, 112,
56, 57, 59, 59 n. 143, 60, 61, 69, 77, 113, 114, 115, 115 n. 56, 116, 116 n.
81, 83, 91, 109, 187. 58, 117, 118, 119, 120, 121, 122, 129,
Roc (the giant bird): 107, 148, 148 n. 119, 145, 146, 147, 147 n. 117, 148, 148 n.
149, 149 n. 120, 150, 151, 151 n. 125, 119, 149, 150, 151, 152, 153, 154,
152, 152 n. 127, 153, 154. 156, 158, 158 n. 136, 159, 160, 161,
Romanticism: 13, 27, 32, 61, 99, 109 n. 162, 163, 164, 165, 181, 194, 195,
39, 129, 207, 213. 196, 205, 211, 212, 213.
Socialism: 28, 29 n. 32, 33, 46, 56, 56 n.
Al-SaÝÐd, NÙrÐ: 108. 132, 57, 58, 59, 59 n. 145, 60, 62, 63,
Al-SayyÁb, Badr: 17, 34 n. 52, 36, 39 n. 109 n. 39, 146, 208.
75, 43, 45, 45 n. 102, 46 n. 103, 55 n. Static evocation: 101 n. 19.
128, 57, 59, 59 n. 145, 60, 60 n. 146, Storytelling (storyteller): 22, 74, 75, 88,
65 n. 156, 95, 106, 106 n. 30, 107, 89 n. 59, 91 n. 67, 96, 103, 117, 119,
108, 109, 109 n. 36, 109 n. 38, 109 n. 120, 127, 128, 129, 132, 137, 142,
39, 110, 111, 115, 115 n. 55, 115 n. 144, 163, 166, 211.
56, 116, 116 n. 58, 117, 117 n. 60, ÑÙfi: 119, 119 n. 67.
118, 122, 124, 149, 150, 152, 153, Symbolism: 38, 41, 48 n. 107, 49, 59, 68,
154, 155, 155 n. 133, 156, 157, 158, 69 n. 172, 70, 81, 82, 98, 102, 107,
158 n. 136, 159, 177, 178, 179, 181, 114, 118, 122, 124, 144, 146, 148,
182 n. 164, 211, 212. 150, 152, 155, 158, 160, 167, 167 n.
Al-Sayyid, AÎmad LuÔfÐ: 28, 29 n. 29, 31. 147, 202, 213, 214.
Scheherazade: 84, 85, 86, 90, 93, 95, 96,
122, 123, 124, 124 n. 74, 125, 125 n. Tamuz: 111.
77, 126, 126 n. 80, 127, 128, 129, Transtextuality (transtextual): 93, 97, 98,
139, 140, 142, 143, 144, 148, 166, 101, 102.
167, 167 n. 147, 168, 169, 170, 171,
172, 174, 175, 181, 192, 193, 194, Venus: 95.
197, 197 n. 192, 205, 211, 212.
ShÁhzamÁn: 84. Waḍḍāḥ al-Yaman: 170, 171.
Shahryar (Shahryarism): 84, 85, 86, 90, The Waste Land, Eliot: 106, 138, 159.
95, 122, 123, 126, 128, 130, 139, 140,
142, 143, 144, 145, 166, 169, 174, YÙsuf, SaÝdÐ: 17, 59 n. 145, 162, 163,
175, 176, 177, 178, 179, 180, 181, 164, 165.
195, 197, 198, 200, 102, 202, 205,
211, 212, 213, 214. Al-ZahÁwÐ, JamÐl ÑudqÐ: 32.
Shakespeare: 38, 170. Zajal: 21, 22, 23, 29.
ShawqÐ, AÎmad: 29. ZayyÁd, TawfÐq: 17, 59 n. 145, 60 n. 146,
ShiÝr al-TafÝÐla (see also: free verse): 13, 183, 186, 187, 188, 189, 196, 197,
24, 34, 45, 45 n. 102, 46, 47. 202, 205.


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The Impact of the Arabian Nights

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1.2.2.3.7 Summary of the period 1945-1961 ............................................ 64

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3.3.5.1 Introduction ............................................................................ 130

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3.5.4.3 Qabbānī's Shahryar: Symbolic allusion and Peritextuality ................ 200

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1 See: Khoury 2006b; Khoury 2007b; Khoury 2010; Khoury 2012.

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1 See: Genette 1982; Genette 1992; Genette 1997.

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1.1 The study of popular literature among ancient Arab scholars

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1.2 The study of popular literature in modern times

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19 Rosenhouse 2001: 31.

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1.2.2 The stages of interest in folklore and its motivations

22 See: Hilāl 1971, esp. pp. 205-206, 210-213.

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26 al-Manāṣra 2000: 5; cf. ibid.: 46-47.

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1.2.2.2 Interest in popular literature before 1945

27 See: ʿAwaḍ 2001: 22-23.

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1.2.2.2.2 Popular literature before 1945: The seeds of awareness

1.2.2.2.3 The effect of popular literature on poetry before 1945

39 See: al-Kittānī 1982, vol. 2: 739 (incl. fn. 28).

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1.2.2.3 Interest in popular literature in the period (1946 -1961)

48 Khūrshīd 1991: 11.

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1.2.2.3.2 The influence of the English poet T.S. Eliot

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1.2.2.3.2.2 Eliot and the relationship between poetry and tradition

53 Eliot 1965: 22-23.

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56 Al-Ḥakīm 1975: 24-25.

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1.2.2.3.2.3 Eliot and the "objective correlative"

70 Bannīs 1994: 78; cf. KÐlÐtÙ 1995: 68.

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1.2.2.3.2.4 Eliot and the language of poetry