THE PRE-ROMANTICS 108and hesitation between a worn-out past and an uncertain future' and in
which 'there was a wide gap between things as they were and things as they
believed they ought to be'.' Aqqad even draws a comparison between his age
and that immediately preceding the French Revolution, with its clashing and
new and unorthodox ideas and values in ethics, politics, religion and society.
Mazini's poetry was, then, an expression of the malaise of the Egyptian intel-
lectual, at a time of insecurely hovering between Arab and western values.
In that sense it is an authentic record, despite the poet's heavy and at times
unacknowledged indebtedness to Abbasid poets on the one hand and to
English poets on the other; and despite his wavering between the European
Romantic themes and the Abbasid idiom, and his not very successful experi-
mentation in form; in the use of rhyming couplets, his experimental rhyme
and even his use of blank verse in his translation of lines from Milton's
Paradise Lost (pp. 89, 126). Furthermore, in the few poems in which the poet
retains his irony and sense of balance he achieved very interesting results.
For instance, in his 'Elegy on Himself (p. 201) the poet's feeling of self-pity
is effectively counterbalanced by his lack of illusions about himself and others
(almost in the manner of the address of the author of Les Fleurs du Mai to the
reader) or about the value of his own achievement. Similarly, in a humorous
poem in the third volume of his Diwan, published posthumously in 1961,
entitled 'Look at my Face' (p. 280), he makes fun of himself and of his physical
appearance — a theme common in his prose writings. It is in this volume that
we find one or two of Mazini's best poems in which the tone of the poetry is
less strident and the effect is much more moving. For instance, 'Where's
your Mummy? — a Dialogue with my son Muhammad' (p. 248):I did not speak to him, but the look in my eye said
"Where is your mummy? Where's your mummy?'
While he was prattling away, as was his wont
Every day since she has gone.
He turned to me trying to smooth the furrows in my forehead,
But how could that be done, I thought? How indeed?
When his hand had passed over my face I said
Do you know of aught, aught that might help?
Help to do what, he asked. What do you mean, Dad?
'Nothing' I replied and I kissed him instead.
This is poetry pitched at a much lower key than is usual with Mazini, moving
and adequately expressive of the grief and the sense of loss of the bereaved
widower. A much more impressive poem is 'The Conflict' (pp. 262ff.) — a
work hitherto totally ignored by critics. It is a long philosophic poem of
over 300 lines written significantly enough in monometre and monorhyme.