In all forms of poetry and in most types of prose, writers shared a common fund of imagery that was gradually refined and enlarged in the course of time. The main source of imagery was the Qurʾān, its figures and utterances often divested of their sacred significance. Thus, the beautiful Joseph (surah 12) is a fitting symbol for the handsome beloved; the nightingale may sing the psalms of David (surah 21:79 et al.); and the rose sits on Solomon’s wind-borne throne (surah 21:81 et al.), and its opening petals can be compared to Joseph’s shirt rent by Potiphar’s wife (surah 12:25 ff.) and its scent to that of Joseph’s shirt, which cured blind Jacob (surah 12:94). The tulip reminds the poet of the burning bush before which Moses stood (surah 20:9 ff.), and the coy beloved refuses the lover’s demands by answering, like God to Moses, “Thou shalt not see me” (surah 7:143), but her (or his) kiss gives the dying lover new life, like the breath of Jesus (surah 3:49).

Classical Persian poetry often mentions knights and kings from Iran’s history alongside those from Arabic heroic tales. The cup of wine offered by the “old man of the Magians” is comparable to the miraculous cup owned by the Iranian mythical king Jamshīd or to Alexander’s mirror, which showed the marvels of the world; the nightingale may sing “Zoroastrian tunes” when it contemplates the “fire temple of the rose.” Central scenes from the great Persian mas̄navīs contributed to the imagery of later writers in Persian-, Turkic-, and Urdu-speaking areas. Social and political conditions are reflected in a favourite literary equation between the “beautiful and cruel beloved” and “the Turk”: because in Iran and India the military caste was usually of Turkic origin, and because the Turk was always considered “white” and handsome, in literary imagery he stood as the “ruler of hearts.” Minute arabesque-like descriptions of nature, particularly of garden scenes, are frequent: the rose and the nightingale have almost become substitutes for mythological figures.

The versatile writer was expected to introduce elegant allusions to Classical Arabic and Persian literature and to folklore and to know enough about astrology, alchemy, and medicine to use the relevant technical terms accurately. Images inspired by the pastimes of the grandees—chess, polo, hunting, and the like—were as necessary for a good poem as were those referring to music, painting, and calligraphy. Similarly, allusions in poetic imagery to the Arabic alphabet—often thought to be endowed with mystical significance or magical properties—were very common in all Islamic literatures.

The poet had to follow strict rules laid down by the masters of rhetoric, rigidly observing the harmonious selection of similes thought proper to any one given sphere (four allusions to Qurʾānic figures, for example, or three garden images all given in a single verse). The poet was expected to invent new fantastic etiologies (ḥosn-e taʿlīl): he had to describe natural phenomena in some elegant and surprising metaphor. Thus, “The narcissus has strewn silver in the way of the bride rose” means simply “The narcissus has withered”—for when the rose (dressed in red, like an Eastern bride) appears in late spring, it is time for the narcissus to shed its white petals, just as people would shed silver coins in the way of a bridal procession.

Skills required of the writer

The writer was also expected to use puns and to play with words of two or more meanings. He might write verses that could provide an intelligible meaning even when read backward. He had to be able to handle chronograms, codes based on the numerical values of a phrase or verse, which, when understood, gave the date of some relevant event. Later writers sometimes supplied the date of a book’s compilation by hiding a chronogram in its title. A favourite device in poetry was the question-and-answer form, employed in the whole poem or only in chosen sections.

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Writers were expected to demonstrate talent at both improvisation and elaboration on any theme if they wished to attract the interest of a generous patron. Poetry was judged according to the perfection of its individual verses. Only in rare cases was the poem appreciated as a whole: the lack of coherent argument, which often puzzles the Western reader in ghazal poetry, is in fact deliberate.

It would be idle to look for the sincere expression of personal emotion in Arabic, Turkish, or Persian poetry. The conventions are so rigid that the reader is allowed only a rare glimpse into the poet’s feelings. Indeed, such feelings were put through the sieve of intellect, and personal experiences were thereby transformed into arabesque-like work of artistry, if not art. In the hands of mediocre versifiers and prose writers, however, literature became mannered and completely artificial. The reader soon tires of the constantly recurring moon faces, hyacinth curls, ruby lips, and cypress statures (that is, tall and slender). Yet the great masters of poetry and rhetoric (who all have their favourite imagery, rhymes, and rhythmical patterns) will sometimes allow the patient reader a glimpse into their hearts by a slight rhythmical change or by a new way of expressing a conventional thought.

These are, of course, quite crude generalizations. Folk poetry, for instance, has to be judged by different standards, though even here conventional forms and inherited imagery make it, on the whole, more standardized than might be wished. Only in the 20th century was a complete break with classical ideals made. Since then, sincerity instead of monotonous imitation, political and social commitment instead of empty panegyric, and realism instead of escapism have been the characteristic features of modern literatures of the Muslim countries.

Poetry

The poet (called a shāʿir, a wizard endowed with magic powers) was thought to be inspired by a spirit (jinn, shayṭān). The poet defended the honour of his tribe and perpetuated their deeds. Religious expression was rare in pre-Islamic poetry. In the main it reflects the sense of fatalism that was probably needed if the harsh circumstances of Bedouin life in the desert were to be endured.

The most striking feature of pre-Islamic poetry is the uniformity and refinement of its language. Although the various tribes, constantly feuding with one another, all spoke their own dialects, they shared a common language for poetry whether they were Bedouins or inhabitants of the small capitals of al-Ḥīrah and Ghassān (where the influence of Aramaic culture was also in evidence).

Arabic was even then a virile and expressive language, with dozens of synonyms for the horse, the camel, the lion, and so forth; and it possessed a rich stock of descriptive adjectives. Because of those features, it is difficult for foreigners and modern Arabs alike to appreciate fully the artistic qualities of early Arabic poetry. Imagery is precise, and descriptions of natural phenomena are detailed. The sense of universal applicability is lacking, however, and the comparatively simple literary techniques of simile and metaphor predominate. The imaginative power that was later to be the hallmark of Arabic poetry under Persian influence had not yet become evident.

The strikingly rich vocabulary of Classical Arabic, as well as its sophisticated structure, is matched by highly elaborate metrical schemes, based on quantity. The rhythmical structures were analyzed by the grammarian Khalīl of Basra (died c. 791), who distinguished 16 metres. Each was capable of variation by shortening the foot or part of it, but the basic structure was rigidly preserved. One and the same rhyme letter had to be maintained throughout the poem. (The rules of rhyming are detailed and very complicated but were followed quite strictly from the 6th to the early 20th century.)

As well as rules governing the outward form of poetry, a system of poetic imagery already existed by this early period. The sequence of a poem, moreover, followed a fixed pattern (such as that for the qaṣīdah). Pre-Islamic poetry was not written down but recited, and sound and rhythm therefore played an important part in its formation, and the rāwīs (reciters) were equally vital to its preservation. A rāwī was associated with some famous bard and, having learned his master’s techniques, might afterward become a poet himself. This kind of apprenticeship to a master whose poetic style was thus continued became a common practice in the Muslim world (especially in Muslim India) right up to the 19th century.

From pre-Islamic times the seven authors of The Seven Odes, already described, are usually singled out for special praise. Their poems and miscellaneous verses were collected during the 8th century and ever since have been the subject of numerous commentaries in the East. They have been studied in Europe since the early 19th century.

The poet Imruʾ al-Qays (died c. 550 ce), of the tribe of Kindah, was foremost both in time and in poetic merit. He was a master of love poetry; his frank descriptions of dalliance with his mistresses are considered so seductive that (as orthodox Puritanism claims) the Prophet Muhammad called him “the leader of poets on the way to Hell.” His style is supple and picturesque. It grips the attention whether his poems sing of his love adventures or describe a seemingly endless rainy night. Of all Classical Arabic poets he is probably the one who appeals most to modern taste. At the other extreme stands Zuhayr, praising the chiefs of the rival tribes of ʿAbs and Dhubyān for ending a long feud. He is chiefly remembered for his serious qaṣīdah in which, old, wise, and experienced, he meditates upon the terrible escalation of war. Various aspects of Bedouin life, as well as the attitude of the Arabs to the rulers of the small kingdom of Al-Ḥīrah on the Euphrates River, are reflected in the poems of al-Nābighah al-Dhubyānī, ʿAmr ibn Kulthūm, and Ṭarafah ibn al-ʿAbd. The boastful pride of the self-centred Arab warrior can be observed best in the poems of al-Ḥārith, who became proverbial for his arrogance. ʿAntarah ibn Shaddād, son of an Arab king and an enslaved Black woman, won such fame on the battlefield and for his poetry that he later became the hero of the Romance of ʿAntar, an Arabic folk romance.

Two other masters can stand beside these seven. Exciting for their savagery and beauty are some poems by Taʾabbaṭa Sharran and al-Shanfarā, both outlaw warriors. Their verses reveal the wildness of Bedouin life, with its ideals of bravery, revenge, and hospitality. Taʾabbaṭa Sharran is the author of a widely translated “Song of Revenge” (for his uncle), composed in a short, sharp metre. Shanfarā’s lāmiyyah (literally “poem rhyming in [the letter] l”) vividly, succinctly, and with a wealth of detail tells of the experiences to be had from life in the desert. This latter poem has sometimes been considered a forgery, created by a learned grammarian. The suggestion highlights the question, often posed, of how much pre-Islamic poetry is genuine and how much is the product of later scholars. Some modern critics—without proper justification—would dismiss the entire corpus as counterfeit.

Prose

While poetry forms the most important part of early Arabic literature and is an effective historical preservation of the Arab past glory, there is also a quantity of prose. Of special interest is the rhymed prose (sajʿ) peculiar to soothsayers, which developed into an important form of ornate prose writing in every Islamic country. Tales about the adventures and battle days of the various tribes (ayyām al-ʿArab, or “The Days of the Arabs”) were told and handed down from generation to generation, usually interspersed with pieces of poetry. Proverbs and proverbial sayings were as common as in most cultures at a comparable level of development. The “literary” genre most typical of Bedouin life is the musāmarah, or “nighttime conversation,” in which the central subject is elaborated not by plot but by verbal associations that direct the listener’s mind from topic to topic. Thus, the language as language played a most important role. The musāmarah form inspired the later maqāmah literature.

It has been said—and this certainly holds true for the musāmarah—that Arabic literature demands attention from its listeners only in short bursts, for listeners are carried from verse to verse, from anecdote to anecdote, from pun to pun, along a theme whose broad outline is entirely familiar. Western scholars of the East have for this reason spoken of the “molecular,” or “atomic,” structure both of Classical Arabic literature and of traditional Islamic thought. An audience listening to one of the ancient bards—or to a modern poet or orator in the Muslim world—would be able to listen without tiring. The sheer emotive power of the Arabic language to enrapture and bewitch its listeners by sound alone should be kept in mind when any piece of Arabic literature is considered. Only a people endowed with peculiar sensibility to the word could properly appreciate the refinement of pre-Islamic poetry and be ready to accept the concept of divine revelation appearing through the word in the Qurʾān.