Summary
A philosophically rich Arabic poem exploring riḍā (contentment) as moral strength, social critique, and spiritual resistance in an age of inversion and despair.
The Discipline of Contentment
(قَصِيدَةُ الرِّضَا)
محمد مصطفى حمام is an Egyptian poet whose work stands at the intersection of moral reflection, social critique, and spiritual realism.
The Discipline of Contentment (original Arabic title: قَصِيدَةُ الرِّضَا) was written in the late twentieth century, during a period marked by political disillusionment, social inversion, and cultural confusion across much of the Arab world.
This poem is not a retreat from reality. Rather, it is a confrontation with it.
Hamam writes from within a society where values are often reversed: virtue is mocked, power is worshipped, truth is inconvenient, and spectacle and 'show' replaces substance.
Against this backdrop, he reclaims riḍā, contentment with God’s decree, not as resignation, but as moral clarity and inner independence.
There is no confirmed autobiographical statement by the poet explaining a single triggering event for this poem. Instead, the text reads as the product of long observation: of people, institutions, ideologies, and the erosion of ethical coherence.
The poem unfolds as a lived philosophy, distilled over time, rather than a reaction sparked by a moment.
What is this Poem about?
This poem moves in deliberate stages, and understanding that structure helps the reader engage it properly:
1. Personal grounding
The poem opens with the speaker’s education by life itself, learning riḍā as a way to remain psychologically intact without becoming morally numb.
2. Philosophy of human fluctuation
Hamam maps the instability of the human condition: rise and fall, health and illness, honour and disgrace. He teaches us that nothing is fixed except change.
3. Social and moral inversion
The poem then sharpens into a critique and squares off against:
- The glorification of wealth and power
- The humiliation of integrity
- Hypocrisy disguised as piety
- Desire elevated above revelation
- “Human rights” reduced to propaganda
4. Global and cultural critique
Western imitation without discernment, imported falsehoods, and the uncritical consumption of moral decay are exposed without romanticism.
5. Refusal of despair
Despite the weight of critique, the poem refuses nihilism. Evil is real, but not ultimate. History turns. Generations pass. Outcomes reverse.
6. Final moral position
The poem closes by drawing a firm line, highlighting that:
- Contentment with God does not mean silence in the face of injustice.
- Personal peace does not excuse communal neglect.
- Living only for oneself is the truest form of humiliation.
This is a poem that demands maturity from the reader, especially given its directness, with no appetitie to flatter.
The Poem
عَلَّمَتْنِي الْحَيَاةُ أَنْ أَتَلَقَّى
كُلَّ أَلْوَانِهَا رِضًى وَقَبُولَا
Life schooled my heart to take what must be faced,
Each shade it shows; received, not disgraced.
وَرَأَيْتُ الرِّضَا يُخَفِّفُ أَثْقَالِي
وَيُلْقِي عَلَى الْمَآسِي سُدُولَا
I saw riḍā unburden what I bear,
And draw on grief a veil of gentler air.
وَالَّذِي أُلْهِمَ الرِّضَا لَا تَرَاهُ
أَبَدَ الدَّهْرِ حَاسِدًا أَوْ عَذُولَا
The one God grants contentment won’t descend
To envy’s bite, nor sourly reprimand.
أَنَا رَاضٍ بِكُلِّ مَا كَتَبَ اللَّهُ
وَمُزْجٍ إِلَيْهِ حَمْدًا جَزِيلَا
I’m pleased with all that God has penned for me,
And lace it still with praise abundantly.
أَنَا رَاضٍ بِكُلِّ صِنْفٍ مِنَ النَّاسِ
لَئِيمًا أَلْفَيْتُهُ أَوْ نَبِيلَا
I meet all kinds, the noble and the base
With the same calm, the same unbroken grace.
لَسْتُ أَخْشَى مِنَ اللَّئِيمِ أَذَاهُ
لَا، وَلَنْ أَسْأَلَ النَّبِيلَ فَتِيلَا
The mean man’s harm? I do not fear his play.
The noble’s aid? I won’t beg him, no way.
فَسَحَ اللَّهُ فِي فُؤَادِي فَلَا أَرْضَى
مِنَ الْحُبِّ وَالْوِدَادِ بَدِيلَا
God widened out my heart, so I refuse
Any substitute for love, for ties, for hues.
فِي فُؤَادِي لِكُلِّ ضَيْفٍ مَكَانٌ
فَكُنِ الضَّيْفَ مُؤْنِسًا أَوْ ثَقِيلَا
In my heart, every guest can find a seat
Be light and sweet, or heavy at my feet.
ضَلَّ مَنْ يَحْسَبُ الرِّضَا عَنْ هَوَانٍ
أَوْ يَرَاهُ عَلَى النِّفَاقِ دَلِيلَا
Lost is the one who calls contentment “weak,”
Or says it masks hypocrisy when we speak.
فَالرِّضَا نِعْمَةٌ مِنَ اللَّهِ لَمْ يَسْـ
ـعَدْ بِهَا فِي الْعِبَادِ إِلَّا الْقَلِيلَا
Riḍā’s a gift from God, a rarest grace;
Few servants wear it well, few keep its place.
وَالرِّضَا آيَةُ الْبَرَاءَةِ وَالْإِيـ
ـمَانِ بِاللَّهِ نَاصِرًا وَوَكِيلَا
It’s proof of faith: you trust the One above
Your Helper, Guardian, Patron in His love.
عَلَّمَتْنِي الْحَيَاةُ أَنَّ لَهَا طَعْـ
ـمَيْنِ: مُرًّا، وَسَائِغًا مَعْسُولَا
Life taught me it has two tastes on the tongue:
One bitter like a bruise, one honey-sung.
فَتَعَوَّدْتُ حَالَتَيْهَا قَرِيرًا
وَأَلِفْتُ التَّغَيُّرَ وَالتَّبْدِيلَا
So I grew used to both with steady breath,
Befriending change, the costume time puts on death.
أَيُّهَا النَّاسُ كُلُّنَا شَارِبُ الْكَأْسَيْنِ
إِنْ عَلْقَمًا وَإِنْ سَلْسَبِيلَا
O people! All of us will drink the pair:
One like bitter alqam, one Salsabīl so fair.
نَحْنُ كَالرَّوْضِ نُضْرَةً وَذُبُولًا
نَحْنُ كَالنَّجْمِ مَطْلِعًا وَأُفُولَا
We’re gardens: lush one day, the next we fade.
We’re stars: we rise in blaze, then fall in shade.
نَحْنُ كَالرِّيحِ ثَوْرَةً وَسُكُونًا
نَحْنُ كَالْمُزْنِ مُمْسِكًا وَهَطُولَا
We’re wind: a storm, then silence after shock.
We’re cloud: withheld, then rain that floods the rock.
نَحْنُ كَالظَّنِّ صَادِقًا وَكَذُوبًا
نَحْنُ كَالْحَظِّ مُنْصِفًا وَخَذُولَا
We’re like suspicion, sometimes true, sometimes lies;
Like luck it lifts one soul, and one denies.
قَدْ تُسَرِّي الْحَيَاةُ عَنِّي فَتُبْدِي
سُخْرِيَّاتِ الْوَرَى قَبِيلًا قَبِيلَا
Life might console me, yet it lets me see
Humanity’s sarcasm, tribe by tribe, degree by degree.
فَأَرَاهَا مَوَاعِظًا وَدُرُوسًا
وَيَرَاهَا سِوَايَ خَطْبًا جَلِيلَا
I read it all as counsel, as a class;
Another calls it doom, a storm to pass.
أَمْعَنَ النَّاسُ فِي مُخَادَعَةِ النَّفْسِ
وَضَلُّوا بَصَائِرًا وَعُقُولَا
They pushed self-deception to its furthest art,
And lost the mind’s clear lamp, the seeing heart.
عَبَدُوا الْجَاهَ وَالنُّضَارَ وَعَيْنًا
مِنْ عُيُونِ الْمَهَا وَخَدًّا أَسِيلَا
They worshipped status, gold, and beauty’s gaze
Antelope eyes, smooth cheeks as godlike praise.
الْأَدِيبُ الضَّعِيفُ جَاهًا وَمَالًا
لَيْسَ إِلَّا مُثَرْثِرًا مَخْبُولَا
The poor author, lacking cash and name,
Is branded “babbling”, “crazy” without shame.
وَالْعَتُلُّ الْقَوِيُّ جَاهًا وَمَالًا
هُوَ أَهْدَى هُدًى وَأَقْوَمُ قِيلَا
But the brute with power, money, rank, and clout
They call him “wisest,” “straightest,” no doubt.
وَإِذَا غَادَةٌ تَجَلَّتْ عَلَيْهِمْ
خَشَعُوا أَوْ تَبَتَّلُوا تَبْتِيلَا
And if a beauty appears, they bow, they pray,
As if her presence made them saints that day.
وَتَلَوْا سُورَةَ الْهِيَامِ وَغَنَّوْهَا
وَعَافُوا الْقُرْآنَ وَالْإِنْجِيلَا
They chant the “sūrah” of desire in song,
While Qur’ān and Gospel go unread, untouched, wrong.
لَا يُرِيدُونَ آجِلًا مِنْ ثَوَابِ اللَّهِ
إِنَّ الْإِنْسَانَ كَانَ عَجُولًا
They want no later reward from God Most High
Man is impatient; he wants now, not “by and by.”
فِتْنَةٌ عَمَّتِ الْمَدِينَةَ وَالْقَرْيَةَ
لَمْ تَعْفِ فِتْيَةً أَوْ كُهُولًا
A trial swept city and village; none were spared:
Not youth with fire, nor elders battle-worn, nor scared.
وَإِذَا مَا انْبَرَيْتَ لِلْوَعْظِ قَالُوا
لَسْتَ رَبًّا وَلَا بُعِثْتَ رَسُولًا
If you rise to warn, they snap: “Who made you wise?
You’re not a Lord, not a Messenger from the skies.”
أَرَأَيْتَ الَّذِي يُكَذِّبُ بِالدِّينِ
وَلَا يَرْهَبُ الْحِسَابَ الثَّقِيلَا
Have you seen the one who mocks the Final Day,
And feels no dread of Judgment’s crushing weigh?
أَكْثَرُ النَّاسِ يَحْكُمُونَ عَلَى النَّاسِ
وَهَيْهَاتَ أَنْ يَكُونُوا عُدُولًا
Most people judge people quick to condemn;
But justice? Far from them. It’s not in them.
فَلَكَمْ لَقَّبُوا الْبَخِيلَ كَرِيمًا
وَلَكَمْ لَقَّبُوا الْكَرِيمَ بَخِيلًا
How often they crown the miser “generous” in speech,
And call the generous “stingy,” out of reach.
وَلَكَمْ أَعْطَوُا الْمُلِحَّ فَأَغْنَوْا
وَلَكَمْ أَهْمَلُوا الْعَفِيفَ الْخَجُولَا
They feed the shameless asker till he’s fat;
They starve the modest soul and laugh at that.
رُبَّ عَذْرَاءَ حُرَّةٍ وَصَمُوهَا
وَبَغِيٍّ قَدْ صَوَّرُوهَا بَتُولًا
A free pure virgin, they smear her with disgrace;
A prostitute, they paint as chaste in place.
وَقَطِيعِ الْيَدَيْنِ ظُلْمًا وَلِصٍّ
أَشْبَعَ النَّاسُ كَفَّهُ تَقْبِيلَا
A thief, they kiss his hand till lips are sore;
A wronged amputee they step around, ignore.
وَسَجِينٍ صَبُّوا عَلَيْهِ نَكَالًا
وَسَجِينٍ مُدَلَّلٍ تَدْلِيلًا
One prisoner they torture, mock, and flay;
Another’s pampered “special” every day.
جُلُّ مَنْ قَلَّدَ الْفِرَنْجَةَ مِنَّا
قَدْ أَسَاءَ التَّقْلِيدَ وَالتَّمْثِيلَا
Most who mimic foreigners do it wrong
Bad imitation, shallow theatre, cheap song.
فَأَخَذْنَا الْخَبِيثَ مِنْهُمْ وَلَمْ نَقْـ
ـبِسْ مِنَ الطَّيِّبَاتِ إِلَّا قَلِيلًا
We took their rot and left their best behind;
A little good, but filth in bulk we find.
يَوْمَ سَنَّ الْفِرَنْجُ كِذْبَةَ إِبْرِيـ
ـلَ غَدَا كُلُّ عُمْرِنَا إِبْرِيلَا
The day they coined “April’s lie” as play,
Our whole life turned to April day by day.
نَشَرُوا الرِّجْسَ مُجْمَلًا فَنَشَرْنَاهُ
كِتَابًا مُفَصَّلًا تَفْصِيلَا
They spread the filth as headlines, brief and thin;
We wrote it into volumes, chaptered sin.
عَلَّمَتْنِي الْحَيَاةُ أَنَّ الْهَوَى سَيْـ
ـلٌ فَمَنْ ذَا الَّذِي يَرُدُّ السُّيُولَا
Life taught me lust is floodwater in force
Who can hold back a torrent from its course?
ثُمَّ قَالَتْ: وَالْخَيْرُ فِي الْكَوْنِ بَاقٍ
بَلْ أَرَى الْخَيْرَ فِيهِ أَصْلًا أَصِيلًا
Then it said: “Good still remains, it doesn’t die;
It’s rooted in the world, not passing by.”
إِنْ تَرَ الشَّرَّ مُسْتَفِيضًا فَهَوِّنْ
لَا يُحِبُّ اللَّهُ الْيَئُوسَ الْمَلُولَا
If evil seems to overflow, calm down, endure;
God doesn’t love the hopeless, bored, unsure.
وَيَطُولُ الصِّرَاعُ بَيْنَ النَّقِيضَيْنِ
وَيَطْوِي الزَّمَانُ جِيلًا فَجِيلًا
The war of opposites drags on and on.
Time folds up generations, then they’re gone.
وَتَظَلُّ الْأَيَّامُ تَعْرِضُ لَوْنَيْهَا
عَلَى النَّاسِ بُكْرَةً وَأَصِيلًا
Days keep displaying both their shades to all
At dawn, at dusk, the rise, the dip, the fall.
فَذَلِيلٌ بِالْأَمْسِ صَارَ عَزِيزًا
وَعَزِيزٌ بِالْأَمْسِ صَارَ ذَلِيلًا
The humiliated yesterday stands proud today;
The mighty yesterday is humbled, stripped away.
وَلَقَدْ يَنْهَضُ الْعَلِيلُ سَلِيمًا
وَلَقَدْ يَسْقُطُ السَّلِيمُ عَلِيلًا
The sick may rise restored — as if reborn;
The healthy may collapse — exhausted, torn.
رُبَّ جَوْعَانَ يَشْتَهِي فُسْحَةَ الْعُمْرِ
وَشَبْعَانَ يَسْتَحِثُّ الرَّحِيلَا
A hungry one begs life for room to grow;
A full one begs to leave, to end the show.
وَتَظَلُّ الْأَرْحَامُ تَدْفَعُ قَابِيلًا
فَيُرْدِي بِبَغْيِهِ هَابِيلَا
Wombs keep delivering Cains again, again
And Abel falls beneath his brother’s stain.
وَنَشِيدُ السَّلَامِ يَتْلُوهُ سَفَّاحُونَ
سَنُّوا الْخَرَابَ وَالتَّقْتِيلَا
They sing “peace” then butchers take the mic,
Who legislate destruction, murder-strike.
وَحُقُوقُ الْإِنْسَانِ لَوْحَةُ رَسَّامٍ
أَجَادَ التَّزْوِيرَ وَالتَّضْلِيلَا
“Human rights” a painted sign on rotten wood,
A masterwork of forgery dressed as good.
صُوَرٌ مَا سَرَحْتُ بِالْعَيْنِ فِيهَا
وَبِفِكْرِي إِلَّا خَشِيتُ الذُّهُولَا
Scenes I stare at, and my mind goes cold with dread;
I fear my sense will vanish, stunned, misled.
قَالَ صَحْبِي: نَرَاكَ تَشْكُو جُرُوحًا
أَيْنَ لَحْنُ الرِّضَا رَخِيمًا جَمِيلًا؟
My friends said: “You sound wounded, where’s the song,
That soft riḍā you carried all along?”
قُلْتُ: أَمَّا جُرُوحُ نَفْسِي فَقَدْ عَوَّدْتُهَا
بَلْسَمَ الرِّضَا لِتَزُولَا
I said: “My private wounds? I’ve trained them well
With riḍā as balm, they fade, they settle, quell.”
غَيْرَ أَنَّ السُّكُوتَ عَنْ جُرْحِ قَوْمِي
لَيْسَ إِلَّا التَّقَاعُسَ الْمَرْذُولَا
But silence over my people’s bleeding pain
Is nothing but disgrace, cowardice made plain.
لَسْتُ أَرْضَى لِأُمَّةٍ أَنْبَتَتْنِي
خُلُقًا شَائِهًا وَقَدْرًا ضَئِيلًا
I won’t accept my nation, who raised my name
To breed deformed character, a rank of shame.
لَسْتُ أَرْضَى تَحَاسُدًا أَوْ شِقَاقًا
لَسْتُ أَرْضَى تَخَاذُلًا أَوْ خُمُولًا
No! I won’t accept envy, feuds that kill;
No! I won’t accept surrender, sleep, and still.
أَنَا أَبْغِي لَهَا الْكَرَامَةَ وَالْمَجْدَ
وَسَيْفًا عَلَى الْعِدَا مُسْلُولًا
I want for her dignity, glory that’s real
And a sword drawn bright against the foe’s cold steel.
عَلَّمَتْنِي الْحَيَاةُ أَنِّي إِنْ عِشْتُ
لِنَفْسِي أَعِشْ حَقِيرًا هَزِيلًا
Life taught me: live for self, and you’ll become
Small, thin, contemptible, a hollow drum.
عَلَّمَتْنِي الْحَيَاةُ أَنِّي مَهْمَا
أَتَعَلَّمْ فَلَا أَزَالُ جَهُولًا
And life taught me: however much I know,
I’m still a learner, ignorant below.
Your brother,
Sajid Umar
Location: 'somewhere en route to the hereafter'
12/07/1447 (AH) - 01/01/2026
Comments
A beautiful and timely reflection. Contentment is indeed a discipline we must practice daily. Thank you for sharing this spiritual insight, Sheikh!