إِذا الشعرُ لم ينفثْ به ربُّه السحرا

لعمرو القوافي الغر ما فَقِه الشعرا

If poetry is not infused by its Lord with magic

By my life, rhythms are useless, and poetry is not understood

فلم يبق بعد الوحي من نبإِ السما

إلى الأرضِ غيرُ الشعرِ معجزةً كبرى

After revelation, nothing remains from the news of heaven

To earth except poetry, the greatest miracle

عَلَى كلِّ نفسٍ تستقل بحمله

لقدْ نزل الروحُ الأَمين به بشرى

Binding every soul that undertakes its burden

The trusted Spirit has descended with it, good tidings

إِذا لم يكنْ صوبَ العقول رواجحا

فما هو إِلاّ الهذر أَو يشبه الهذرا

If it is not tilting the scales of minds

It is nothing but nonsense, or it resembles nonsense

وَإِن لم يكنْ وَحي النفوسِ طروبة

فمضغك إِياه كمن يمضغ الصخرا

If it is not the revelation of ecstasy in the soul

Then chewing on it is like chewing on rock

أَرى كلَّ ميزانٍ سوى الطبع في الفتى

لما يزيد الشعر في وَزنه خسرا

I see every measure except innate talent in the youth

Only increases poetry’s loss in its weight

فإِن لم يكن صوغُ القوافي سجيةً

فليس بمجدٍ أَن تخوضَ لها البحرا

If the rhymes are not of an easy nature

Then it is no glory to cross the sea for them

رأَيت المعاني كالحمائم لم تَرِدْ

سوى سائغِ الأَلفاظ أَو عذبها نهرا

I saw meanings like doves that would not alight

Except on eloquent or sweet words like a river

وكالرودِ لم تعطِفْ عَلَى غير مُعربٍ

وَلم تتخذْ غيرَ الفصيح لها خدرا

And like a garden that does not incline towards non-Arabic

And takes nothing but the eloquent for its nest

فيا ضيعة المعنى إِذا اللفظُ خانه

وَواهاً له حياً لقد سَكَنَ القبرا

So woe to the meaning if words betray it

And alas to it, alive, it has indeed inhabited the grave

أَرى وَحقيقٌ بالقبول الذي أَرى

بشيئين أَضحى الشعر قد فضل النثرا

I see, and it is truly worthy of acceptance what I see

That poetry has surpassed prose in two things

بنسجٍ كنسجِ (البحتريِّ) وحكمة

تضارعُ ما كان (المعري) به مغرى

A weaving like al-Buhturi’s weaving and wisdom

Rivalling what al-Mutanabbi therewith led astray

أَتينا عَلَى حينٍ من الدهرِ لم نجدْ

بفترته إِلا البكيْ أَو النزرا

We have come upon an era where we find naught

In its slackness except tears or little

وأَعمى لقد ضلَّ القوافي منيرةً

ولم ير إِلا كلَّ قافيةٍ عورا

Blinded, rhymes have indeed gone astray as guides

And seen nothing but defects in every rhyme

ومتهماً بالشعرِ والنثر نفسه

رعى منهما شوكاً بباديةٍ قفرا

And suspicious of poetry and prose itself

He herded thorns in a barren wasteland from them

دَعِيَا إِلى الآدابِ وهي وَأَهلها

إِلى الله من دعوى سخافته تَبرا

They were called to literature, it and its people

To God from the claim of its nonsense, innocent

هوى كهويّ الفرخ هيض جناحُه

وَقد رام أَن يحذو بتحليقه النَسْرا

He swooped like a young bird lowering its wings

And he sought to emulate by its flight the eagle

وَأَقعده عجز فأَصبح ساخطاً

كأَنَّ له عند الأُولى سبقوا ثأْرا

But disability made him sit, so he became angry

As if he against the predecessors had a blood-feud

فَخَطْأَ من قد صوب الفَنُّ صنعه

كأَرمد ذمَّ الشمسَ وانتقص البدرا

So the mistake of one whose craftsmanship's aim was true

Is like a bleary-eyed criticising the sun and censuring the moon

يصيحُ وَيدعوا (للجديد) وحزبه

وليس بدارٍ منه قلاَّ وَلا كثرا

He shouts and calls for modernism and his partisans

While neither few nor many rally to his land

أَأَنبذُ لحني كي أَدينَ بلحنه؟

إِذاً أَنا أَرضى بعد إِيماني الكفرا

Should I discard my tune to be condemned for his tune?

If so, I would be content after my faith with blasphemy

فداك أَب ما أَنجبت بك زوجه

وَقَد حملت في حملك الخزي والوِزرا

May your father be sacrificed for you, who gave birth to you, o wife

And carried in her pregnancy shame and sin

أَترفض شيئاً ما تذوَّقت طعمه

وَتدعو لشيءٍ لا تحيطُ به خبرا؟

Do you reject something whose taste you have savoured

And call to something you have no news of?

بهذا بدا فضل الموجوِّد ماثلاً

كذلكَ فضل الضدِّ من ضده يُدرى

By this the superiority of the existent appears

Likewise the merit of the opposite is inferred from its opposite

هو الشعرُ ما أَداه طبعُ (محمد)

أَدار عَلَى الأَلبابِ من سحرِه خمرا

It is poetry whatever Muhammad has accomplished from it

Circling minds with its sorcery like wine

مهلهل نسج اللفظ ما فيه مغمز

متين عَرى الإِحكام مشدوده أسرا

Rumbling, weaving words full of winks

Strong, firm ties binding it fast

إِذا ما همى دمعاً عَلَى ذابلِ المنى

يعود به غُصْنُ الأَمانيِّ مخضرّا

If he sheds a tear for the one whose wishes faded

The branch of hopes with him becomes verdant again

فتى الشعر أَعطته القياد فتاته

وَلم تنتحلْ في ردِّ طلبتهِ عذرا

Poetry’s youth, its leaders have given him primacy

And pretend no excuse in turning down his request

فَمِنْ كلِّ لفظٍ يصطفي آنساته

وَمن كل معنى رائعٍ يَضْرَعُ البكرا

So from every word he chooses its pleasures

And from every splendid meaning he milks the virgins

يشقّق أَلفاظَ البداةِ مطارفاً

إِلى حَضَرِيَّات المعاني بما أَثرى

He splits the words of the trite with subtleties

Into the settled meanings, enriching them with traces

دعا للتي من دونها السيفُ مصلتٌ

فأَيقظ قوماً داءُ نومهمُ استشرى

He called her by whom without him the sword is a devotee

So he awakened a people whose slumberous illness spread

سقى أَملاً فيهم وَأَورى حميةً

فللّه ما أَروى وَلله ما أَورى

He watered a hope in them and kindled a zeal

By God he has watered! By God he has kindled!

إِذا لم ينبّه شاعرُ القومِ قومَه

فذاكَ بأَن يشقى به قومه أَحرى

If the people’s poet does not alert his people

Then it is better he make his people suffer

أَرى الشعرَ أَنفاساً يصرّفها الفتى

فيطفي بها جمرا وَيذكي بها جمرا

I see poetry as breaths the youth dispenses

With which he lights and rekindles coals

وَينفخها روحاً بميّتِ أُمةٍ

فتنسل من أَجداث غفلتها تترى

And blows in them a spirit for the dead nation

So it slips out from the dormancy of its heedlessness