The Alexandrian Maqāmah — The Husband’s Poetic Defence and the Craft of Eloquence

1. Concealment and proof

«قَدْ وَعَيْتُ قَصَصَ عِرْسِكَ فَبَرْهِنِ الْآنَ عَنْ نَفْسِكَ»
I have heard your wife’s account; now present evidence for yourself.

The wife’s phrase «لِتَعْجُمَ عُودَ دَعْوَاهُ» had pictured testing a claim like a piece of wood. The judge does not treat her accusation as a verdict: he asks for evidence and warns the husband against leaving matters concealed.

In «كَشَفْتُ عَنْ لِبْسِكَ», *libs* means confusion or concealment rather than clothing. Uncovering it becomes a vivid image for investigating the truth.

2. From silence to a verbal contest

«فَأَطْرَقَ إِطْرَاقَ الْأُفْعُوَانِ ثُمَّ شَمَّرَ لِلْحَرْبِ الْعَوَانِ»
He lowered his head like a serpent, then prepared for a fierce contest.

*Afʿuwān* is a serpent, while *al-ḥarb al-ʿawān* evokes a hard-fought battle. No literal battle follows: the arena is the court, and speech is his weapon.

The abrupt shift from silence to poetry dramatizes the defendant’s self-presentation as a skilled orator rather than a helpless accused man.

3. “Hear my account”: the opening couplets

«اسْمَعْ حَدِيثِي فَإِنَّهُ عَجَبٌ»
Hear my story, for it is astonishing.

«يُضْحَكُ مِنْ شَرْحِهِ وَيُنْتَحَبُ»
Its telling can provoke laughter and tears.

The contrast between laughter and weeping captures attention immediately. The speaker promises an account both entertaining and painful. Yet an emotionally powerful defence is not, by itself, proof that the allegations are false.

What follows is his self-description and explanation, not an independent verification of events.

4. Surūj, lineage, and self-presentation

«سُرُوجُ دَارِي الَّتِي وُلِدْتُ بِهَا»
Surūj is the town where I was born.

«وَالْأَصْلُ غَسَّانُ حِينَ أَنْتَسِبُ»
I trace my ancestry to Ghassān.

He invokes birthplace and lineage to establish a respectable identity. These are statements made by a character in his defence, not independently demonstrated facts about the dispute.

*Antasib* is a first-person present verb from the form VIII root involving affiliation: “I trace my lineage.” Its rhetorical role is self-introduction.

5. His claimed profession: study and letters

He defines his livelihood not as commerce or a manual craft but as study, scholarship, eloquent prose, and poetry. His answer is that learning and composition constitute a genuine skill.

«وَرَأْسُ مَالِي سِحْرُ الْكَلَامِ»
My capital is the enchanting power of speech.

“Capital” is borrowed from the language of business. “The magic of speech” describes the extraordinary appeal of eloquence, not literal sorcery.

The wife demands income from a trade; the husband responds by arguing that literary skill itself is a trade.

6. Diving for pearls of expression

«أَغُوصُ فِي لُجَّةِ الْبَيَانِ»
I dive into the deep sea of expression.

«فَأَخْتَارُ اللَّآلِيَ مِنْهَا وَأَنْتَخِبُ»
And select its finest pearls.

*Lujjah* denotes deep water; *laʾālī* are pearls. The sea stands for the breadth of language, and the pearls for carefully chosen expressions. Neither is literal in the poem.

The first-person present verbs—“I dive,” “I choose,” “I select”—present skilled composition as sustained work, not accidental cleverness.

7. Ripe fruit and the labor of words

«وَأَجْتَنِي الْيَانِعَ الْجَنِيَّ مِنَ الْقَوْلِ»
I harvest the ripe fruit of speech.

The contrasting half-verse, «وَغَيْرِي لِلْعُودِ يَحْتَطِبُ», pictures others gathering firewood. The comparison elevates his own refined verbal selection above ordinary efforts.

*Ajtanī* is to gather or reap; *yāniʿ* means ripe; *yaḥtaṭib* means to collect firewood. The contrast is a device of literary self-praise, not a neutral judgment on everyone else’s ability.

8. Silver becomes gold

«وَآخُذُ اللَّفْظَ فِضَّةً فَإِذَا مَا صُغْتُهُ قِيلَ إِنَّهُ ذَهَبُ»
I take a word like silver; when I shape it, people call it gold.

*Ṣāgha* literally concerns forming metal or jewellery. Here, verbal arrangement and refinement are imagined as the goldsmith’s craft.

The metaphor claims that an ordinary word becomes precious through artistic placement. It establishes an ideal of craftsmanship, but does not itself establish the poet’s actual earnings.

9. Literary skill and former prosperity

The poet recalls a period when literary distinction secured him high standing and gifts. The close sounds of *marātib* and *rutab* reinforce the theme of elevated ranks.

*Al-adab al-muq­tanā* suggests acquired, cultivated literary knowledge, not merely inborn talent. His claimed occupation requires learning and practice.

This introduces the economic problem at the centre of his defence: a valuable skill does not necessarily produce steady patronage.

10. The collapse of patronage

«فَالْيَوْمَ مَنْ يَعْلَقُ الرَّجَاءَ بِهِ»
Today whoever places his hopes in that skill,

«أَكْسَدُ شَيْءٍ فِي سُوقِهِ الْأَدَبُ»
Finds literature the least saleable thing in its market.

*Kasād* is stagnation or a slump. The “market of literature” means the social world of patrons and rewards rather than a literal bookshop.

Capital, precious metal, and now the marketplace form a sustained economic image. His account is an argument about the insecurity of a literary livelihood.

11. Literary dignity under pressure

He complains that writers and their families have lost social regard. Words such as *ʿirḍ*, *ill*, and *sabab* evoke honor, recognized ties, and obligations toward others.

His loss, on this account, is not solely economic. It includes the humiliation of a formerly admired profession.

The poem’s harsh comparisons portray resentment through exaggeration. They express the speaker’s experience and rhetoric rather than a universally verified social law.

12. The turn from complaint to distress

«وَضَاقَ ذَرْعِي لِضِيقِ ذَاتِ يَدِي»
My patience narrowed because my means were so limited.

«وَسَاوَرَتْنِي الْهُمُومُ وَالْكُرَبُ»
Griefs and severe anxieties overwhelmed me.

*Ḍāqa dharʿī* means that patience is exhausted; *ḍīq dhāt al-yad* denotes poverty; *sāwaratnī* pictures troubles attacking or surrounding a person.

An external economic slump becomes an internal crisis affecting endurance and decisions.

13. Selling possessions and falling into debt

He says that hardship forced choices beneath what he regarded as his family dignity: he sold possessions and accumulated debts.

«فَبِعْتُ حَتَّى لَمْ يَبْقَ لِي سَبَدٌ وَلَا بَتَاتٌ»
I sold things until hardly any possession was left to me.

The paired phrase *sabad wa-batāt* intensifies the idea of having nothing. His account moves from failing income to disposal of assets and borrowing, though these remain claims within a courtroom defence.

14. Debt as a physical burden

«وَادَّنْتُ حَتَّى أَثْقَلْتُ سَالِفِي»
I went into debt until my neck was weighed down.

«بِحَمْلِ دَيْنٍ مِنْ دُونِهِ الْعَطَبُ»
With a burden of debt threatening ruin.

*Sālif* refers to the front of the neck, while *athqaltu* means “I made heavy.” Debt becomes a physical load carried on the body.

*ʿAṭab* signifies destruction or severe loss. The verse describes the intensity of his plight, not a general legal ruling on all debt.

15. Five nights of hunger

«ثُمَّ طَوَيْتُ الْحَشَى عَلَى سَغَبٍ»
I endured hunger with an empty stomach.

«خَمْسًا فَلَمَّا أَمَضَّنِي السَّغَبُ»
For five nights, until hunger overwhelmed me.

*Ḥashā* refers to the inner body, *saghab* to hunger, and *amaḍḍanī* to causing acute distress.

The explicit duration, “five,” gives weight to the complaint. The economic crisis is now pictured as bodily suffering.

16. Selling the wife’s belongings

«لَمْ أَرَ إِلَّا جِهَازَهَا عَرَضًا»
I saw nothing left to offer for sale except her belongings.

«أَجُولُ فِي بَيْعِهِ وَأَضْطَرِبُ»
I went about trying to sell them.

*Jihāzuhā* refers to the wife’s goods or trousseau, while *ʿaraḍ* can signify merchandise offered for sale. This is central to her complaint.

Explaining why an action occurred is not the same as proving it was permissible. His circumstances may explain the sale, while questions of ownership, consent, and fairness remain.

17. A reluctant seller

«فَجُلْتُ فِيهِ وَالنَّفْسُ كَارِهَةٌ»
I pursued the sale unwillingly.

«وَالْعَيْنُ عَبْرَى وَالْقَلْبُ مُكْتَئِبُ»
My eyes were tearful and my heart distressed.

*Kārihah*, *ʿabrā*, and *muktaʾib* paint three aspects of emotion: aversion, tears, and grief. The accumulation invites sympathy for the speaker.

It is still a claim about his feelings. Sympathy does not independently settle whether the wife’s rights were respected.

18. Mutual satisfaction: a contested claim

«وَمَا تَجَاوَزْتُ إِذْ عَنِيتُ بِهِ»
I did not go beyond what was proper in handling it,

«حَدَّ التَّرَاضِي فَيَحْدُثَ الْغَضَبُ»
Beyond the bounds of mutual agreement so as to cause anger.

*Tarāḍī* is mutual consent; *tajāwuz* is overstepping a boundary. The husband’s defence turns on his assertion that he stayed within acceptable limits.

Because this conflicts with the wife’s distress, the court still needs to establish what agreement actually existed. A poem’s claim of consent is not proof of consent.

19. The allegation of deliberate deception

«فَإِنْ يَكُنْ غَاظَهَا تَوَهُّمُهَا»
If what angered her was her assumption,

«أَنَّ بَنَانِي بِالظُّلْمِ تَكْتَسِبُ»
That my fingers earn through injustice …

*Banān* denotes fingertips. By making fingers “earn,” the verse uses part of the hand to evoke human action.

He reclassifies her charge as a belief or suspicion rather than proven wrongdoing. Whether that characterization is accurate is precisely what the judge must determine.

20. Were his marriage claims embellished?

«أَوْ أَنَّنِي إِذْ عَزَمْتُ خِطْبَتَهَا»
Or that when I intended to seek her hand,

«زَخْرَفْتُ قَوْلِي لِيَنْجَحَ الْأَرَبُ»
I decorated my words to achieve my purpose.

*Zakhrafa* is to ornament; applied to speech it may suggest embellishment intended to mislead. *Arab* means a wish, need, or objective.

The wife accused him of winning the marriage through impressive but misleading words. He now states that accusation in preparation for denying it.

21. His oath and denial of deceit

The speaker strengthens his defence with an oath and then explicitly denies deliberate deception.

«مَا الْمَكْرُ بِالْمُحْصَنَاتِ مِنْ خُلُقِي»
Deceiving respectable women is not my character.

«وَلَا شِعَارِي التَّمْوِيهُ وَالْكَذِبُ»
Nor are concealment and lying my practice.

*Makr*, *tamwīh*, and *kadhib* distinguish scheming, masking the truth, and lying. Their combined negation makes an emphatic plea, but an oath and eloquent denial are not substitutes for independent proof.

22. His hands hold a pen, not a tool

He says that his hands have been occupied with writing since youth.
«إِلَّا مَوَاضِي الْيَرَاعِ وَالْكُتُبُ»
The keen points of pens and books.

*Yarāʿ* means the pen, and *mawāḍī* evokes sharp points or edges. The image lends the writer’s instrument the energy of a blade.

He insists that literary labor is a real occupation, even though it does not resemble an ordinary manual trade.

23. Thought fashions necklaces of language

«بَلْ فِكْرِي تَنْظِمُ الْقَلَائِدَ لَا كَفِّي»
My mind strings necklaces, not my hand.

«وَشِعْرِيَ الْمَنْظُومُ لَا السُّحُبُ»
I mean composed verse, not literal ornaments.

*Naẓm* can mean threading pearls and arranging words into verse. Moving from the literal craft to literary composition creates a deliberate verbal double meaning.

His profession produces ornaments of meaning rather than jewellery. This completes the imagery of verbal treasure introduced earlier through silver, gold, and pearls.

24. Two different ideas of a craft

IssueThe wife’s concernThe husband’s replyProfessionA trade that supports the householdLiterature and composition are trades tooCapitalA reliable source of incomeSkill in shaping meaningful wordsBelongingsHer household goods were soldHunger and debt forced him; he claims no oversteppingTruthfulnessThe original promises must be examinedHe denies deceit or lying

Neither account becomes automatically true by virtue of its eloquence. The nature of a profession, actual income, and the rights of others remain distinct questions.

25. His final request to the judge

«فَهَذِهِ الْحِرْفَةُ الْمُشَارُ إِلَى»
This, then, is the profession I referred to,

«مَا كُنْتُ أَحْوِي بِهَا وَأَجْتَلِبُ»
By which I once gathered my livelihood.

He closes by asking the judge to hear his explanation just as he heard the wife, and to make the appropriate judgment.

«فَأْذَنْ لِشَرْحِي كَمَا أَذِنْتَ لَهَا»
Grant a hearing to my explanation as you granted one to hers.

The defence poem ends here. The judge’s further examination belongs to the next part of the narrative.