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JAAFER THE BARMECIDE |
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 | The poems of Madison Cawein |  |
131
JAAFER THE BARMECIDE
Scene, Baghdad: time of the Khalif Haroun er Reshid. Salih ben Tarif speaks.
With Imam Hassan I had reached the khan
Outside of Ambar. Jaafer at the door
Of his pavilion watched a caravan
Inbound from Yemen.—Ah, the bales it bore
Of richest stuffs and spices!—'Mid the rout
Of porters, camel-drivers, old and poor,
A singer stood,—a blindman, singing out
With luted preludes. Imam Hassan then:
“'Tis Zekkar; he, t' whom, with the blind about
The Mosque of Moons, I with our holy men
Scattered my silver at the hour of prayer,
When hearts are open unto Allah's ken.—
Danic or dirhem, though, were wasted there:
Yea, by the Prophet! had one sown dinars
He had not budged one finger or that stare.
And so the beggars and the scavengers
Got all.”
Then I: “The very same whom I—
Guard at the Western Portal—'neath the stars
Some midnights past heard singing. Dim the dry
Hot night; and Baghdad only knew of us
Until, gray shadows shuffling slowly by,
Pilgrims for Mecca passed, all vaporous
In dust and darkness; them we challenged not.
—Slaves, with the tribute of Nicephorus
The Roman, from long shallops, as they shot
Along the moonlit Tigris far away,
Timing their oars, raised languid chanting.—What
This blindman sang was sweeter than—let's say—
The songs of Ibrahim, the dulcet frets
Of Zulzul's lute. I listened till the day
Made gold of all the city's minarets,
And the muezzin summoned us to pray.”
Outside of Ambar. Jaafer at the door
Of his pavilion watched a caravan
Inbound from Yemen.—Ah, the bales it bore
Of richest stuffs and spices!—'Mid the rout
Of porters, camel-drivers, old and poor,
A singer stood,—a blindman, singing out
With luted preludes. Imam Hassan then:
“'Tis Zekkar; he, t' whom, with the blind about
The Mosque of Moons, I with our holy men
Scattered my silver at the hour of prayer,
When hearts are open unto Allah's ken.—
Danic or dirhem, though, were wasted there:
Yea, by the Prophet! had one sown dinars
He had not budged one finger or that stare.
And so the beggars and the scavengers
Got all.”
Then I: “The very same whom I—
Guard at the Western Portal—'neath the stars
132
Hot night; and Baghdad only knew of us
Until, gray shadows shuffling slowly by,
Pilgrims for Mecca passed, all vaporous
In dust and darkness; them we challenged not.
—Slaves, with the tribute of Nicephorus
The Roman, from long shallops, as they shot
Along the moonlit Tigris far away,
Timing their oars, raised languid chanting.—What
This blindman sang was sweeter than—let's say—
The songs of Ibrahim, the dulcet frets
Of Zulzul's lute. I listened till the day
Made gold of all the city's minarets,
And the muezzin summoned us to pray.”
Now while we gossiped, lounging slow along
The packed bazaar, a fisher with his nets
Passed, singing Abou Newas' newest song:
A honey-merchant, then, his tinkling mule
All hanap-hung with sweetness: then a throng
Of scholars and their Sheikh from mosque or school:
A milk-white woman on a cream-white ass,
Black slaves attending. . . . And—I am no fool!—
I knew her of the Court, the noblest class,
By her gem-bangled bracelets. . . . Let Haroun
On the Euphrates with Zubeideh pass
A single day, at royal Rekkeh,—noon
And night his harem here, so it is said,
Is all intrigue.—Then drawling out his tune,
“Ten thousand pieces to be paid, be paid,
For Yehya's head, Er Reshid's late vizier,”
A crier passed us. Then the market's shade
Glittered with weapons; and we seemed to hear,
Sword of the Khalif, Mesrour, and commands
Naming the Khalif. One swart officer
Flamed forth the Sultan's signet. And harsh hands
Were laid on—whom?—I saw not! For my sight
Was dazzled by the scimitars,—from bands
Of jeweled belts that burned,—and, keen and bright,
Swift hedged us out. Then broad the red blood dyed
The ground around a body—and, hoar white,
Was raised a severed head.—And, stupefied,
Elbowing the rabble, “By my beard!” I cried,
Marking the face, “Jaafer the Barmecide!”
The packed bazaar, a fisher with his nets
Passed, singing Abou Newas' newest song:
A honey-merchant, then, his tinkling mule
All hanap-hung with sweetness: then a throng
Of scholars and their Sheikh from mosque or school:
A milk-white woman on a cream-white ass,
Black slaves attending. . . . And—I am no fool!—
133
By her gem-bangled bracelets. . . . Let Haroun
On the Euphrates with Zubeideh pass
A single day, at royal Rekkeh,—noon
And night his harem here, so it is said,
Is all intrigue.—Then drawling out his tune,
“Ten thousand pieces to be paid, be paid,
For Yehya's head, Er Reshid's late vizier,”
A crier passed us. Then the market's shade
Glittered with weapons; and we seemed to hear,
Sword of the Khalif, Mesrour, and commands
Naming the Khalif. One swart officer
Flamed forth the Sultan's signet. And harsh hands
Were laid on—whom?—I saw not! For my sight
Was dazzled by the scimitars,—from bands
Of jeweled belts that burned,—and, keen and bright,
Swift hedged us out. Then broad the red blood dyed
The ground around a body—and, hoar white,
Was raised a severed head.—And, stupefied,
Elbowing the rabble, “By my beard!” I cried,
Marking the face, “Jaafer the Barmecide!”
| The poems of Madison Cawein | |