Epigraph

It is not given to a man that Allah should speak to him except by revelation or from behind a veil or by sending a messenger to reveal His command that which He pleases. Surely, He is High, Wise. (42:51)

Written and collected by Zia H Shah MD, Chief Editor of the Muslim Times

Throughout history, poets have often portrayed inspiration as a gift from beyond the self. In the classical imagination, a poet might receive a sudden divine or mystical spark – as if a muse or deity descends to whisper verses in the poet’s ear (as depicted above). In Urdu literary theory, this spontaneous flash of creativity is termed “Amad” (آمد), literally “arrival” or coming. Its counterpart is “Aawurd” (آورد), meaning “bringing forth” – poetry that is deliberately crafted with effort. This report examines Amad and Aawurd in Urdu poetry and then compares how various world literary traditions conceptualize poetic inspiration. We will explore whether poetry is seen as divine revelation, unconscious emergence, emotional compulsion, or disciplined craftsmanship across cultures, drawing connections and distinctions with the Urdu framework.

‘Amad’ and ‘Aawurd’ in Urdu Poetics

Definition and Distinction: In Urdu poetic terminology, Amad refers to a natural outpouring of poetry under a moment of inspiration, whereas Aawurd refers to labored, consciously crafted poetry. An Amad verse is said to “materialise spontaneously” as if words “descend upon the poet instinctively”, without conscious effort rekhta.org. The poet may not even be fully aware of the creative process in that inspired moment, yet the resulting poem strikes readers with its immediate authenticity and emotional power rekhta.org. By contrast, Aawurd poetry is born of deliberate effort – the poet consciously plans, polishes, and “embellishes” the verse. Such a poem might exhibit technical skill and clever ideas, but it can feel “affected” or contrived, lacking the effortless charm of Amad rekhta.org. A classical Urdu definition puts it succinctly: a true Amad couplet “comes to the poet’s mind unbidden and is written as-is,” while Aawurd is “a verse composed with great thought and effort” abadis.ir.

Classical Views: Traditional Urdu poets (inheriting Persian aesthetics) often held Amad in higher esteem. The spontaneous, inspired verse was likened to a sweet juice that drips naturally from grapes, as opposed to the juice forcibly squeezed out – the former being more delicious humsub.com.pk. This metaphor suggests that poetry flowing directly from inspiration (Amad) is purer and more affecting than poetry wrung out by intellect (Aawurd). Many classical ghazal poets described moments of Amad in almost mystical terms, akin to an “ilhām” (الہام, divine inspiration). Indeed, Amad in Urdu corresponds to the idea of an “inspirational moment”, a “moment of high creativity in which words descend upon the poet” without effort rekhta.org. Such poetry creates an “instant rapport” with the reader due to its genuine feeling. It represents what one critic called “poetry of natural utterance,” where “the poem determines its own structure and form” as if guided by an inner force rekhta.org.

In contrast, verses of Aawurd were sometimes viewed as second-rate in classical poetics. They might be technically sound but lacked the soulful spark. As the Urdu literary dictionary Rekhta notes, an Aawurd poet is overly conscious of technique – producing “poetry for the sake of poetry” – which rarely attains the fusion of thought and feeling that great poetry demands rekhta.org. Classicists often prized a verse that felt “ سہل ممتنع” (sahl-e-mumtani‘ – simple-seeming yet inimitable), suggesting the ideal poem should appear effortless. The Persian saying “cho sher āmad, mawzuni-ash khudādād ast” encapsulates this: “when a poem comes by amad, its harmony is God-given.” abadis.ir In other words, a perfect verse is born, not made.

Modern Perspectives and Debate: As Urdu literature modernized, critics reevaluated this dichotomy. Altaf Husain Hali (1837–1914), an early modern Urdu critic, championed Amad as a hallmark of authentic poetry. Hali’s influential essay Muqaddama-e-Sher-o-Shairi drew a “famous difference between ‘aamad’ and ‘aawurd’”: for Hali, aamad meant thoughts that come “naturally” to the poet, whereas aawurd was the extra “embellishment or adornment” a poet might add to dress up a verse dawn.com. In his view, good poetry should spring from sincere feeling (what he termed سادگی اور جوش, “simplicity and fervor”) rather than clever but hollow ornamentation dawn.com. Hali favored a natural style and cautioned against excessive rhetorical exaggeration (mubāligha) – effectively decrying over-crafted Aawurd in favor of heartfelt Amad dawn.com.

Later critics, however, argued that this rigid preference for Amad was simplistic. The renowned critic Shamsur Rahman Faruqi (1935–2020) offered a more nuanced take: he asserted that “āvurd and āmad are qualities of the poem, not of the process of creation.” One cannot simply ask whether a poem was written spontaneously or with effort to judge its value humsub.com.pk. In practice, even an inspired line may be revised (craft entering the process), and a laboriously written poem might still read as effortlessly beautiful. Faruqi and others also point out that many great Urdu poets combined inspiration with refinement. For example, Ghalib often received a flash of inspiration (Amad) for a verse but then refined it through multiple edits – blending ilhām with sanʿat (artifice). Modernist Urdu poetics thus recognizes that craftsmanship and inspiration are not mutually exclusive. In fact, some 20th-century Urdu poets and critics (influenced by Western modernism) came to appreciate signs of cerebral effort in poetry. They argue that poetry in the modern age “cannot necessarily be spontaneous” and that thoughtful artistry (Aawurd) has its own value rekhta.org. As Rekhta’s entry notes, modernist poetics does not reject Aawurd; it “favours poetry that shows the sign of cerebral exercise,” treating poetry as more than “sheer romanticising” or daydreaming rekhta.org. Contemporary poet Amjad Islam Amjad neatly summarized: “Aamad and aawurd… Actually, good poetry is a combination of both.” dawn.com

In summary, Amad and Aawurd in Urdu encapsulate an age-old creative tension: inspiration vs. craft. Classical tradition leaned toward valorizing the former – the idea that the best verses arrive in a state of bekhudi (self-forgetful inspiration). Modern perspectives acknowledge the role of revision and technique, suggesting the finest poetry often involves an inspired core refined by skill. This Urdu debate mirrors similar discussions in other literary cultures, as we shall see next.

Poetic Inspiration in Global Traditions

Every literary tradition grapples with explaining where poetry comes from – some invoke divine sources or muses, others emphasize the poet’s inner psyche or emotion, and many acknowledge the role of discipline and craft. Below we compare how various cultures conceptualize the poetic process, relating these views back to the Urdu framework of spontaneous Amad versus deliberate Aawurd.

Western (Greco-European) Traditions

In Western poetics, the notion of inspiration has ancient roots in Greek and Hebrew thought. The very word “inspiration” comes from Latin inspirare, “to breathe into,” implying that a higher force breathes creativity into the artist en.wikipedia.org. For the ancient Greeks, poetry was a gift from the gods: poets often invoked the Muses (divine patronesses of the arts) at the start of epics, literally asking for inspiration. It was believed that poetic inspiration – called entheos (having the god within) or theia mania (divine madness) – came from gods like Apollo (patron of music/poetry) or Dionysus (god of ecstatic frenzy) en.wikipedia.org. In Plato’s dialogue Ion, Socrates famously describes the poet as an empty vessel possessed by the Muse: “a poet is incapable of composing unless he is inspired and out of his senses”. This divine madness parallels the Urdu Amad – an involuntary, almost unconscious creative influx. The poet in such moments is not deliberately crafting; rather, something flows through him. Similarly, in the Hebraic tradition, prophetic speech was an inspiration from God – for example, the Biblical prophet Amos speaks of being overwhelmed by God’s voice and “compelled to speak” en.wikipedia.org. Early Christian writers extended this to say all true inspiration is a gift of the Holy Spirit en.wikipedia.org. Thus, classical Western ideas of poetry often aligned with divine revelation: the poet was seen as a mouthpiece for a higher truth, much as Amad suggests the verse “descends” upon the poet rekhta.org.

Alongside divine inspiration, Western antiquity also acknowledged craft and technique – Aristotle’s Poetics, for instance, analyzes poetry as a techne (art) with rules. But the lore of the poet inspired by a Muse remained very influential. Roman poets like Virgil and Ovid invoked the Muse; and in Norse mythology the notion persisted differently: the god Odin was said to have won the “Mead of Poetry”, a magical elixir that grants the drinker poetic skill en.wikipedia.org. (The Norse skald who drank this mead would create poetry in an inspired, intoxicated state, again reminiscent of a divine amad moment.)

From the Enlightenment to the Romantic era, Western views on inspiration shifted emphasis. 18th-century thinkers like John Locke turned attention to the human mind, describing creativity in terms of the association of ideas (a more rational, conscious process) en.wikipedia.org. But the pendulum swung back with the Romantic poets of the late 18th–early 19th century. The English Romantics (Wordsworth, Coleridge, Shelley, etc.) rebelled against the dry rationalism of their predecessors and reasserted the primacy of spontaneous inspiration. William Wordsworth’s famous definition of poetry as the “spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings… recollected in tranquility” could well describe Aamad. Indeed, Urdu critics equate Aamad with Romantic poetics, citing the “spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings” as an English parallel rekhta.org. Coleridge and Shelley believed the poet’s soul was attuned to spiritual “winds” – a mystical receptivity that brings in visions en.wikipedia.org. Shelley, in his essay A Defence of Poetry, compares poetic inspiration to a fading coal that suddenly “reignites” without warning, stating that a poet “knows not the weight of the burden he bears until it suddenly drops on him”. This is clearly a celebration of unconscious, involuntary creation, much like Amad.

However, the Romantics also acknowledged that initial inspiration might be followed by refinement (“recollection in tranquility” suggests a conscious shaping after the emotional rush). This dual stage is essentially Amad followed by Aawurd. Later, 20th-century psychology further secularized inspiration: Freud located the source of artistic inspiration in the inner psyche (the subconscious), and Jung described the artist as tapping into universal archetypes within the collective unconscious en.wikipedia.org. These theories align with unconscious emergence – poetry as arising from deep mind layers rather than rational planning. Meanwhile, other modernist writers emphasized craft: T.S. Eliot famously argued that poetry is an escape from emotion and personality – suggesting that writing good poetry is a conscious, disciplined effort of technique and tradition (a stance favoring Aawurd). In Western practice, many great modern poets (Eliot, Yeats, Auden, etc.) revised their drafts laboriously, revealing the Aawurd side of creation. But even they often described an initial spark or daemon that inspires the work.

In sum, Western traditions encompass the full spectrum: from the Muse-driven Amad (antiquity and Romanticism) to an insistence on craft and form (neo-classical and certain modernist approaches), with modern psychology highlighting the unconscious (akin to a secular Muse within). The Western idea of the muse or divine madness is analogous to Urdu’s ilhām/Aamad, while the emphasis on classical rules or modern revision mirrors Aawurd. Notably, the dichotomy was explicitly recognized by Plato who said: “[the poet] if he comes to the door of poetry without the madness of the Muses, thinking that skill (technē) alone will make him a good poet, then he and his compositions will never reach perfection”. This ancient statement already contrasts raw inspiration with mere technique – a thematic resonance across time and cultures reddit.com.

Persian Tradition (Sufi and Literary)

Urdu poetry draws heavily from Persian literary tradition, so it is no surprise that concepts akin to Amad and Aawurd exist in Persian poetics. Classical Persian poets and critics also distinguished between poetry that “comes” effortlessly and that which is “made” with labor. The terms āmada (آمده, arrived) and āvarda (آورده, brought) are used in Persian much like in Urdu. A Persian lexicon defines “she’r-e āmada” as “a poem that is impromptu, said without deliberation or thought – the opposite of a poem that is contrived (she’r-e āvarda)” abadis.ir. This is essentially Amad vs Aawurd. An illustrative Persian couplet by 17th-century poet Mohsin Taʿsir punningly praises the amada poem: “Freed from the bonds of contrivance (sakhtagi), its lively beauty; for the poem that comes (āmad), its harmony is God-given.” abadis.ir Here we see the Persian idea that a truly beautiful verse has a God-bestowed harmony, not an artificial one – very much the ethos of Amad.

Persian poetic culture, especially under Sufi influence, often viewed poetic inspiration as a form of divine illumination. Sufi poets like Jalaluddin Rumi and Hafez frequently describe themselves as vessels of a higher truth. Rumi, for instance, claimed “I am only the flute through which the Christ’s breath blows”, implying his poetry was inspired by the divine beloved. The concept of ‘ilhām’ (Arabic for inspiration) appears in Persian too, signifying that a verse was received as a spiritual insight. Many Persian poems begin with an invocation to God or the beloved for inspiration. Nizami, in the prologue to his epics, prays for divine grace to “make the dumb speak in poetry”. The Persian ethos often equated poetic creation to mystical unveiling (kashf) or being enraptured (wajad) by love. This parallels Amad as a state of ecstatic creativity where the self is bypassed.

At the same time, Persian literature is renowned for its ornate craft and ingenuity. The Persian ghazal and qasida developed intricate metaphors, tropes, and wordplay – clearly outcomes of skill and refinement (sanʿat). Poets like ‘Urfi and Bedil were celebrated for their complex conceits which likely involved Aawurd-like effort. Yet the highest praise was often reserved for poetry that achieved artful ease. The 14th-century poet Hafez of Shiraz is a prime example: his verses are exquisitely crafted with multilayered wordplay, but they never feel labored. A scholar wrote that Hafez “sang a rare blend of human and mystic love so balanced, proportioned, and contrived with artful ease that it is impossible to separate the one from the other.” theguardian.com In other words, Hafez’s art hides artifice – an ideal where Aawurd (artistry) is present but disguised as Amad (natural flow). This ideal, called سهل ممتنع (sahl-i-mumtani‘ – the “inimitably simple”), became a benchmark in Persian poetics. Sa’di of Shiraz, known for straightforward yet profound verse, was often praised for this quality – his lines seem natural and inevitable, though behind their simplicity lies consummate skill rezamohammadian.ir.

Thus, Persian tradition too balances the “sugar drop that drips on its own” versus “juice extracted by force” metaphor. On one hand, poets and Sufi theorists celebrate the mystical, involuntary origins of great poetry (comparable to Amad as divine afflatus). On the other hand, the formal literary culture of Persia highly valued craftsmanship, mastery of form, and rhetorical virtuosity (akin to Aawurd), provided it did not feel soulless. It’s noteworthy that when Urdu critics like Hali argued for simplicity and sincerity, they were reacting against what they saw as Persian-influenced takalluf (artificiality) in late Urdu poetry dawn.com. Yet modern scholars like Faruqi have reasserted that Persian-Urdu “adornments” were not mere decoration but part of the semantic depth, and a mechanically “simple” verse can be shallow. In essence, Persian and Urdu traditions recognize that the best poetry often fuses inspired content with polished expression, making it hard to tell miracle from skill – just as Hafez’s lines blur the line between natural and artful.

Arabic Tradition

Classical Arabic poetry provides a fascinating contrast, especially regarding divine vs. demonic inspiration. In pre-Islamic Arabia, poets (shu‘ara’) held an almost shamanic status. Arabian lore suggested that every great poet had a personal jinn (genie or spirit) that inspired him. According to common pre-Islamic belief, poets (as well as soothsayers) “were inspired by the jinn.” en.wikipedia.org The famous poet al-A‘sha, for instance, was said to receive verses from a spirit in the desert who whispered poetry to him reddit.com. The word sha‘ir itself means “one who perceives” – implying a poet has insight into the unseen. This is analogous to a supernaturally powered Amad: the poem comes to the poet from an external, otherworldly source. Some poets even named their alleged jinn companions. This belief imbued Arabic poetry with a sense of mystery and awe, but also a whiff of the diabolical – since jinn in Arab folklore could be capricious or malevolent.

With the advent of Islam, the paradigm shifted. The Qur’an positioned itself as the supreme revealed word and drew a line between prophetic revelation (wahy) and poetry. The Qur’an explicitly says, “the poets only erring people follow them” and describes poets as “wandering in every valley” of imagination (Qur’an 26:224-226), suggesting that poetic inspiration was a kind of fancy not comparable to the sober truth given to prophets. Poets were even accused by opponents of Muhammad of being possessed by jinn or practicing sorcery – an accusation the Qur’an rebuts in the Prophet’s case. Consequently, early Islamic culture looked somewhat askance at the wild “Mad Poet” archetype. Poetry didn’t stop (indeed early Muslim caliphal courts prized poets), but the rhetoric of inspiration changed. An Arabic poet would be cautious about claiming divine inspiration, since prophecy had ended; yet the old idea of the jinn-inspired poet lingered in folklore and idiom.

In practice, Arabic poets of the Islamic era leaned more toward conscious craft (san‘a) and eloquence (balagha) theory. Medieval Arab critics like al-Jurjani and al-Qartajanni analyzed poetry in terms of rhetorical devices, structure, and imagination – essentially treating it as an art to be mastered (similar to Aawurd). The emphasis was on ihkam (precision) and tahdhib (polish) in versification. For example, the great 10th-century poet al-Mutanabbi was celebrated for his brilliantly crafted lines and was very deliberate in his art. Yet even he wrote, “I am one of those who know the secrets of inspiration.” There remained an understanding that the initial spark (ibda‘ – innovation, literally creation from nothing) was mysterious.

In Sufi Arabic poetry, the ilham concept reappears strongly. Mystics like al-Hallaj and later Ibn al-Farid wrote poetry about their direct experiences of the divine. They often portrayed their poems as transcriptions of ecstatic states granted by God. For instance, Ibn al-Farid’s Nazm al-Sulūk (The Poem of the Way) was, according to tradition, recited in a trance while in Mecca. He is said to have come out of a mystical audition and the poem was on his lips, fully formed. This is a classic Amad scenario in the Islamic context – except attributed to God’s grace rather than jinn. Indeed, Arab Sufis replaced the jinn idea with divine love as the inspirer. Poets like al-Busiri (author of Qasidat al-Burda) begin by seeking the Prophet’s or God’s blessing for inspiration.

In summary, Arabic tradition swings from “murmuring muses and whispering jinn” in the Jahiliyyah (pre-Islamic period) sofievandeneynde.com to a more cautious, craft-oriented approach under Islam, and then to a mystically inspired mode in Sufi literature. The range spans divine, demonic, and technical inspiration. The Amad/Aawurd binary can be mapped here too: the ancient Arab sha‘ir in a frenzy, hearing verses in the desert wind, exemplifies spontaneous Amad (albeit via jinn). The court poet meticulously composing panegyrics under patronage exemplifies Aawurd. And the Sufi dervish channeling spiritual revelations through poetry claims an Amad of the highest order (divine ilham). Notably, Arabic and Urdu share the term “Ilham”; to this day, an Urdu poet might say a particular couplet came to him as ilham, just as an Arab might say ilhāmī. Both acknowledge a source beyond the conscious self.

Chinese Tradition

Classical Chinese poetics has its own way of describing inspiration, often tied to concepts of nature, harmony, and spontaneity. While the Chinese did not personify a “Muse” or speak of jinn, they placed great value on poetry arising naturally from genuine feeling and the stimulus of the world. An early dictum from the Great Preface to the Book of Songs (Shi Jing, 10th–7th c. BCE) states: “Poetry is the voice of the heart.” The idea is that poetry wells up from sincere emotions (qing) in response to one’s experience. In Confucian aesthetics, poetry was a means of communication of true intent (shī yán zhì – “poetry expresses the intent”) between souls. This aligns with Amad in that the best poetry was thought to flow naturally when one’s feelings are deeply moved.

By the 6th century CE, Chinese critics explicitly championed a concept analogous to Amad. The Southern Dynasties poet-critic Zhong Rong wrote The Critique of Poetry (Shi Ping), in which he coined the ideal of “yingzhi” (translated as the “charm of spontaneity”). Zhong Rong “maintained that spontaneously created poems of good taste were most valuable,” and he criticized those poets who paid excessive attention to ornate diction and meter chinesethought.cn. He argued that a poem should present “the unembellished beauty of nature and the genuine sentiments of human beings” chinesethought.cn. This is a clear statement against over-engineered poetry – very much in the spirit of privileging natural inspiration over labored artifice. Zhong Rong’s target was writers who larded their verses with allusions and clever rhetoric at the expense of authenticity chinesethought.cn. His call was to “express thoughts and feelings in one’s own words” and let the emotion dictate form. In essence, he was drawing the same line as Hali did millennia later: favoring aamad-like natural expression and warning that aawurd-like ornamentation can “severely damage” a work chinesethought.cn.

Another pillar of Chinese aesthetics is the Daoist concept of ziran (自然, naturalness) and wuwei (无为, effortless action). Applied to poetry, this means the poet should ideally write with spontaneity and without forced effort, allowing the poem to take its own form much as nature would. The Tang dynasty (7th–10th c.), often called the Golden Age of Chinese poetry, produced poets like Li Bai (Li Po) who became legendary for inspired, drunken verse that seemed to pour forth without revision. Li Bai was called the “Immortal of Poetry”, and lore says he could extemporize perfect poems at will (for example, penning a quatrain in the time it took to gulp a cup of wine). This is the archetype of Amad: poetry as a flowing current. In contrast, his friend Du Fu was more methodical and polished in composition (and he sometimes gently teased Li Bai for being too carefree), which illustrates that the Aawurd approach of conscious refinement also had its respected place.

Chinese critics also noted the effect of a poem that feels effortless. They admired poetry that was pingdan (plain and sincere) and tiancheng (naturally formed). A famous concept is “floating clouds and flowing water” – a phrase used to praise writing that is organically structured and unforced. The great Song dynasty poet Su Shi (Su Tung-p’o) once lauded a friend’s essays by saying “They are like floating clouds and flowing water; they have no set form, but move as they will… written in a natural way” chinesethought.cn. That description perfectly encapsulates the ideal of spontaneity as a virtue. It suggests the writing process was not a rigid, conscious construction but an adaptive, free movement – again an Amad-like quality.

Yet, as with other traditions, the Chinese also developed highly structured forms (regulated verses with strict tonal patterns, rhyme schemes, etc.) especially in the High Tang and subsequent eras. Composing a perfect lüshi (regulated eight-line poem) or ci (lyric) could be an arduous exercise. Scholars for the Imperial exams in late imperial China practiced form and allusion diligently – a very Aawurd process. Nevertheless, the best poets managed to obey the formal constraints while giving an illusion of spontaneity. Wang Wei, a Tang poet, was a master of concise nature poems that seem to be pure reflections of a scene – as if the poet’s mind became a clear mirror, passively receiving the image and words (a sort of Zen detachment). This correlates with the Buddhist influence (Chan/Zen) on Chinese poetry, which encouraged sudden enlightenment (悟, wu) experiences. A haiku-like Chinese anecdote tells of the poet Wang Zhihuan who, upon climbing a tower and seeing the sun set over the desert, instantly uttered an immortal line about the vastness of the view – a classic amad moment triggered by a powerful perception.

In summary, Chinese tradition highly prizes spontaneity and natural emotion in poetry – their equivalent of Amad. Concepts like “the charm of spontaneity” chinesethought.cn and praises for work that “writes itself” abound. At the same time, Chinese poetry has an elaborate Aawurd side – mastery of regulated forms, use of classical allusions, etc. The dynamic is similar to Urdu’s: many Chinese poets echo the sentiment “that which is composed with too much artifice lacks genuine power,” while also knowing that artifice unnoticeably blended can elevate a poem. The balance is encapsulated by the term “自然” (ziran, naturalness) – which in Chinese aesthetics doesn’t exclude craftsmanship, but rather submerges it under the feeling of effortlessness.

Japanese Tradition

In Japanese poetics, inspiration is often associated with profound emotional sensitivity and sincerity, as well as with a disciplined attention to detail. An early Japanese aesthetic concept, makoto (真, truth or sincerity), was considered the soul of poetry in the Heian period (794–1185). Poets of the Kokinshu anthology (10th c.) claimed that poetry arises when one’s heart is so moved by an experience (usually of love or nature) that one cannot keep the feelings contained – they must be expressed in verse. This is akin to Amad as emotional compulsion: a true poem is not manufactured; it happens because the poet’s heart overflows. The 18th-century Japanese scholar Motoori Norinaga analyzed the classic Tale of Genji and defined mono no aware – the “pathos of things” – as the deep sentiment that arises from perceiving the impermanence of the world. Norinaga argued that this poignant feeling (aware) is central to Japanese literature: when one is struck by the transient beauty of falling leaves or a love lost, one experiences a sigh of sadness and beauty that naturally yields poetry. In other words, transience evokes such emotion that the poetry flows out as a sigh, an almost involuntary response badsubjects.domains.trincoll.edu. This is clearly an Amad-like view: the poem is born from an irresistible feeling that “one cannot withhold… any longer.”

This emotional spontaneity is tempered by Japan’s strong sense of aesthetic discipline. Japanese poetry forms (waka, and later haiku) are very short, demanding extreme precision and control. A classic 31-syllable tanka or 17-syllable haiku must encapsulate a moment or feeling in just a few lines. Poets undergo rigorous training in these forms – a process of Aawurd (effort) if ever there was one. Yet the goal of all that discipline is to achieve a result that feels effortless and instantaneous to the reader. For example, the haiku master Matsuo Bashō (1644–1694) spent years honing his style to capture the Zen ideal of the “here and now”. Bashō advocated kokoro (heart/spirit) in poetry and advised his students to write as if “the object itself is speaking”. He said “Learn of the pine from the pine, learn of the bamboo from the bamboo”, urging poets to efface their ego and let nature express through them. This sounds like becoming a conduit – a very Amad stance. Many of Bashō’s most famous haiku (e.g. “An old pond – a frog jumps in – sound of water.”) feel like pure spontaneous observations, yet we know Bashō revised some verses repeatedly. One diary note reveals he might spend days revising a single haiku’s phrasing. Thus, the final product is a blend: it captures a moment of inspiration (satori) but has been polished to perfection. Bashō himself noted that clinging to conventional phrases (“oldness”) is a “disease” in poetry, and praised those who “defy standards and forget reason” to write something fresh writersinkyoto.com. This is a call to break away from overthinking (an anti-Aawurd sentiment). At the same time, he extolled the “realization of ordinary words” – using simple, natural language in a way that resonates deeply writersinkyoto.com, which only a master of craft can do well.

Another aspect is the spiritual or unconscious component. In Japanese culture, especially through Zen Buddhism and Shinto beliefs, there is an idea that inspiration can come from a heightened state of awareness or from the spiritual essence of things. The concept of “kami” in Shinto – spirits residing in nature – meant a poet could be “inspired” by a place or object not as metaphor but as an indwelling spirit stirring the heart. Many haiku and tanka describe a sudden insight or image that strikes the poet, reminiscent of a Zen kenshō (seeing one’s true nature). Haiku in particular strives to record the moment of inspiration itself: traditionally, a haiku should be written in one breath at the moment when the poet has an aha-moment with nature. Of course, in reality poets might tweak the result later, but the ideal is that the initial creation was instantaneous – an embodiment of Amad. Japanese renga (linked-verse) parties even practiced a communal version of this, where poets had to compose a couplet on the spot in response to the previous one, fostering improvisation.

Overall, Japanese poetry highly values sincerity and immediacy (makoto and aware) – very much Amad qualities – while also demanding meticulous refinement and adherence to form (Aawurd). The tension is resolved by an aesthetic that both disciplines and liberates: discipline in form, liberation in spirit. The best Japanese poems give an impression of effortless poignancy – as if the poet simply breathed and the verse appeared (like the concept of ikkyoku jité, “a verse produced in one burst”). And yet, behind that often lies a lifetime of refining one’s poetic sensibilities. This mirrors the Urdu notion that a poet’s sāhakaari (craft) must ultimately serve and not stifle the jazba (passion) of Amad.

African Traditions

The vast array of African poetic traditions (spanning oral epics, praise songs, sacred chants, etc.) provides rich perspectives on inspiration, often interweaving the spiritual, communal, and improvisational aspects of creation. In many African societies, poetry is primarily oral and often performed with music and dance, which means the act of creation is in the moment and interactive – a context that naturally favors an Amad-like spontaneity tempered by learned technique.

A common theme is the idea of the poet as a medium. For instance, among the Yoruba of West Africa, there are priest-poets (babalawo) who recite verses of the divination corpus Ifá. These verses are considered to have been revealed by the deity Orunmila and memorized through generations. During a divination session, the priest “casts” palm nuts and, based on the result, is inspired to recite the corresponding segment of the vast oral corpus. While the content is memorized (craft/knowledge), the choice and emotive delivery at that moment is often attributed to guidance from the deity. In effect, the babalawo enters a light trance of concentration and the appropriate poem comes to him – an inspiration. In performance, he may embellish or improvise, but Yoruba tradition holds that his tongue is ridden by Orunmila’s insight. This shows a blend of disciplined tradition and inspired utterance. Similarly, Yoruba praise-singers and griots often begin by invoking God or a muse equivalent (like chanting praise to previous masters or spiritual forces) to “open” their mouth. This parallels an invocation of Amad. Indeed, across West Africa, griots (jeli in Mandé culture) attribute their skill to inheriting a special energy (nyama) from their lineage and often say their ancestors speak through them when they perform genealogies and epics. It’s believed a griot must open himself to these ancestral voices – a process of “call and possession” not unlike a controlled inspiration.

In some African contexts, the line between poet and shaman blurs. For example, among the Sotho people (Southern Africa), poetry is integral to divination: special praise poems are recited by healers during ceremonies, and at times these are improvised under spirit possession. In East Africa, zar spirit possession ceremonies involve women singing improvised couplets when the possessing spirit “mounts” them. Such possession songs are a direct form of Amad – the person in trance sings words they often later claim not to remember, attributing them entirely to the spirit. As scholar Ruth Finnegan notes, Africa has many instances of “oracular poetry” where the performer is in a state of ecstasy or trance books.openedition.org. These verses can be considered the voice of a god or spirit; the human performer is merely a channel. We see here a strong analogy to the divine madness of the Greek oracle or the Sufi in hal – inspiration as literal in-spirit-ation.

On the other end, African oral poets are also skilled craftsmen and entertainers. A Somali bard, for example, may engage in poetic duels, spontaneously composing satirical verses in strict meter to outperform a rival. This requires not only a quick tongue (improvisational Amad) but also deep knowledge of language and form (memorized Aawurd resources). Many African oral poems are formulaic – the poet has a reservoir of epithets, stock phrases, and rhythmic formulas that he assembles in performance. Think of Homeric technique but in a living oral tradition: the composition is improvised at performance time (so it feels fresh and situation-specific), yet it draws on an internalized toolkit of phrases (so there is a backbone of craft). This is sometimes called extempore composition, analogous to jazz improvisation in music. It yields poetry that is both inventive and conventional. The audience often contributes with responses, further pushing the poet into a creative flow state. For instance, a Xhosa praise-poet (South Africa) performing at a wedding might feed off the crowd’s cheers, entering a quasi-trance of rhythmic chanting where lines pour out rapidly, some pre-composed, others newly minted to suit the occasion.

In many African languages, the word for poet or praise-singer is linked to the act of weaving words or memory. This highlights that a poet is seen as someone who masters the craft of words. To become a griot or court poet typically involved apprenticeship – learning long texts, techniques of improvisation, musical accompaniment, etc. But the performance moment often invites an extra element: the poet might invoke a deity like Legba (West African trickster and patron of speech) to loosen his tongue. Among the Hausa, bards often recite a bismi-llah (in the name of God) and claim “Allah na baka hikima” – God gives me the wisdom (for these words). This humility before a higher source of inspiration is very much like the Urdu/Persian practice of starting a qasida or ghazal with a hamd (hymn to God) seeking inspiration.

To summarize African perspectives: inspiration is frequently communal and spiritual. The poet is not an isolated genius but a conduit of collective memory and divine/ancestral voices. This is inspiration as possession or calling – an Amad that comes from outside the individual self (similar to the Muse or jinn concept). At the same time, African oral poets exemplify extraordinary craftsmanship and training, often composing within strict formal rules or meters (like the complex prosody of Somali or Fulani verse) and deploying known motifs. Their creativity is a dance of freedom and formula. In comparison to Urdu’s terms, we might say African oral poetry shows Amad in the fiery immediacy of performance and Aawurd in the mastery of an inherited art form that underlies that performance.

Comparative Analysis: Inspiration vs. Craft Across Cultures

From the above explorations, we can discern several common themes and distinct nuances in how poetic inspiration is perceived worldwide, especially in relation to Urdu’s framework of Amad (inspired arrival) and Aawurd (wrought creation):

• Divine or External Source of Inspiration: Nearly every culture has envisioned poetry as originating from beyond the poet’s ordinary self. In Urdu/Persian, this is the idea of ilham or tauqī‘ – a gift from God or a mystical state. The West personified it as the Muse or the breath of the Holy Spirit, or even the intoxicating Mead of Odin for Norse skalds en.wikipedia.org. The Arabic Jahili poet credited jinn and the African griot invokes ancestral spirits or gods. In all cases, the poet is a vessel, aligning with Amad’s core notion: the poem comes to the poet. A key distinction is cultural attitude – e.g. for Greeks it was exalted (muse as benign), for early Islamic thought, suspect (poet vs. prophet), and for African shamans, sacred (spirit possession). But fundamentally, the metaphor of “receiving” poetry (Urdu آمد, “arrival”) is globally ubiquitous.
• Unconscious Emergence vs. Deliberate Creation: Many traditions recognize a role of the unconscious mind or trance in creativity. This ranges from Plato’s mania to Romantic subliminal inspiration to modern psychoanalytic views (Freud’s subconscious creativity) en.wikipedia.org. It also appears outside the West: a Zen poet empties his mind for insight; a Yoruba diviner lets a deity guide his tongue; an Urdu poet like Ghalib waits for a misra (line) to “khud-ba-khud” (by itself) occur to him. This unconscious or spontaneous emergence is the essence of Amad. Conversely, disciplined craftsmanship is universally acknowledged as well. Classical Arabic and Sanskrit poetics developed intricate systems of prosody and rhetoric; Chinese and Japanese forms have strict patterns; Western Neoclassicals and modernists edited painstakingly. This corresponds to Aawurd, the poetry of conscious labor. Cultures differ in how they value these poles. Urdu’s classical ethos (like many romantic or mystic traditions) tends to privilege the inspired (seeing it as a marker of true genius or divine favor), whereas some movements (e.g. French Parnassians or Chinese exam poets) lionized technical perfection. Nonetheless, most mature literary cultures arrive at a synthesis: inspiration initiates, craft completes. The Urdu saying often attributed to poets is, “شعر خدا دیتا ہے مگر وزن شاعر” – God gives the verse (idea), but the poet gives it meter (form).
• Emotional Compulsion and Authenticity: A recurrent idea is that genuine poetry is driven by genuine feeling. This is strongly seen in Japanese mono no aware, where deep emotion (aware) forces expression badsubjects.domains.trincoll.edu, and in Wordsworth’s concept of poetry as emotional overflow. Urdu’s emphasis on dil ki kualitas (quality of heart) in poetry is analogous – if a ghazal couplet lacks heartfelt emotion, it’s dismissed as sakhtā (manufactured). Chinese critics too spoke of gănqíng (feeling) as the soul of poetry; their term “悲歌可以当泣” (“in sorrow, song becomes weeping”) suggests song/poetry is a natural outlet for grief, an idea mirrored in African elegiac dirges where the community sings spontaneously in mourning. Thus, across cultures, the compulsive power of emotion is seen as a kind of natural inspiration – you sing because you must. This underscores Amad as rooted not only in divine mystery but in human psychology: when feeling runs high, creation can be involuntary. However, cultures also warn that raw emotion needs shaping to become art. For example, Hali wanted josh (passion) but guided by hosh (sense) – fervor checked by truth dawn.com. The Chinese talked of the need to balance sentiment with restraint (often via form). So while a poem may begin in a sob or sigh, it often is refined into something intelligible and beautiful.
• Craft and Mastery as Enablers of Inspiration: Far from being always opposed, craft can facilitate inspiration. Many traditions have training practices that aim to induce a flow state. For instance, the strict meter of a sonnet or a ghazal can, paradoxically, spur creativity by giving the mind a structure to play in. A skilled Urdu poet might do tarkīb bandi (complex construct) almost automatically after years of practice, thereby freeing his mind to focus on the theme – a union of Aawurd technique with Amad freedom. Similarly, an African griot’s memorized formulas allow him to improvise rapidly. In Japanese renga, the constraints of linking verses actually spark quick inspiration in participants. We see an understanding that technical preparation leads to moments of unpremeditated brilliance. As the saying goes, “genius is ninety nine percent perspiration, 1% inspiration,” but that 1% is what truly matters and justifies the 99%. In Urdu, the poet Mir is said to have sometimes labored over a single word for days (craft) and at other times jotted a complete ghazal in minutes (inspiration).
• Quality and the Illusion of Effortlessness: Across cultures, when a poem is truly excellent, people often describe it with metaphors of naturalness: “flows like water,” “smooth as silk,” “sprang forth like Athena.” Effortless beauty is a sign of greatness – this is a common aesthetic principle. It suggests that the highest achievement of Aawurd (artifice) is to disappear and appear as Amad. For example, Chinese critics praised poems that “seem to have been written in one breath.” Arabic called such verse mursal (unaffected, “released”). Persian termed it na-takalluf (unforced). In Japanese, karumi (lightness) was a late ideal of Bashō – a sort of unadorned profundity. This widespread ideal reinforces that, ultimately, inspiration is the expected hallmark of poetry – even if craft is employed, it should serve the inspired vision, not smother it. A poem that feels labored is generally less admired. Thus, poets and critics worldwide have often retrospectively mythologized the creation of beloved works as having been Amad-like, even if we suspect a lot of Aawurd behind the scenes. For instance, Coleridge’s Kubla Khan is famously said to have come to him in an opium dream (inspiration), interrupted only by a “person from Porlock” – a tale that highlights the fragility and wonder of the Amad state (and conveniently obscures any tedious craft involved).

In comparing with the Urdu framework: Urdu’s Amad/Aawurd debate turns out not to be parochial at all, but rather a localized expression of a universal dialectic in art. Cultures differ in metaphors: one says Muse, another says Jinn, another says Heart or Nature – but they all acknowledge something irrational or supra-rational in poetic creation. And all likewise recognize the counterbalancing force of skill, tradition, and conscious effort in honing that creation. What we see uniquely in Urdu (and Persian) is perhaps a more explicit terminology and debate on the issue, influenced by mystical philosophy on one side and classical rhetoric on the other. In Western literature, the oscillation happened over centuries (from Plato to Eliot), whereas in Urdu circles it became a clear dichotomy in critical discourse by the 19th century. Yet, the resolution in practice is similar: great poets are vessels and artisans.

Conclusion

From the Urdu poet experiencing a sudden Amad of verse, to the Greek bard invoking the Muse, to the Japanese haijin capturing a fleeting moment, the phenomenon of poetic inspiration fascinates all literary cultures. Urdu’s terms “Amad” (the inspired arrival of poetry) and “Aawurd” (the wrought construction of poetry) give us a useful lens to compare these traditions. We find that while terminology and emphasis vary, the core tension between inspired genius and acquired skill is near-universal. Some traditions lean mystical, viewing the poet as a mouthpiece of gods, spirits, or the collective unconscious – here poetry is an almost involuntary revelation. Others lean artisanal, viewing the poet as a craftsman polishing language – here poetry is a deliberate creation. Most acknowledge it is in the marriage of the two that enduring art is born: when the fire of inspiration is forged by the hammer of craft.

Urdu poetry’s classical masters encapsulated this well: they treasured the couplet that “broke through” in a flash (often attributing it to divine favor), yet they revised, edited, and perfected their ghazals for publication. The world’s poets, from Homer to Hafez, Li Bai to Langston Hughes, have likely all known those magical moments when a line comes fully formed, as well as the long hours of wrestling a poem into shape. In comparing global perspectives, we also see different models of inspiration – some external (muse, jinn, deity), some internal (emotion, imagination, subconscious), and often a blend (a muse that really is an aspect of the poet’s mind, etc.). The idea of poetry as divine revelation finds resonance in religious and mystical poetry (Urdu/Persian Sufi lyrics, Biblical psalms, Vedic hymns), whereas poetry as unconscious emergence appears in modern psychology and also in shamanic oral traditions. Emotional compulsion is highlighted in aesthetic philosophies like Japanese mono no aware and Romanticism, very much paralleling the Urdu notion that the best poetry pours out bebakhtiyar (uncontrollably) when the heart is full. And disciplined craftsmanship is exemplified by the rigorous prosodies of Arabic, Sanskrit, or French poetry, and by modern formalism – just as Aawurd advocates in Urdu maintain that poetry can be an exercise of conscious art and still be excellent rekhta.org.

Ultimately, examining Amad and Aawurd alongside global traditions enriches our understanding of the poetic process. It reveals a shared human intuition: that creativity is a dance between surrender and control. The poet must, at times, surrender to inspiration – let the words flow without inhibition (Amad). At other times, the poet must take control, applying intellect and technique to refine the work (Aawurd). If either principle dominates to the exclusion of the other, the poetry may suffer – either as raw but unruly or as polished but lifeless. The very finest poetry, whether a Ghalib ghazal, a Shakespeare sonnet, or a song of the griots, leaves us with the impression of effortlessness, the feeling that it had to be, as if pre-ordained – all the while rewarding us with the layers, coherence, and artistry that bespeak conscious mastery. In this sense, poets across cultures achieve the same alchemy: turning the elusive spark of inspiration into verses that endure, and making the product of much toil feel as natural as a song from a nightingale’s throat.

Additional reading

How Even a Single Profound and True Revelation Defeats Materialism or Physicalism

Sources: The definitions of Amad and Aawurd are drawn from Urdu literary glossaries rekhta.org and the analysis of critics like Hali dawn.com. Classical views on divine inspiration in West and Arabic come from historical and literary accounts en.wikipedia.org en.wikipedia.org, while Chinese and Japanese aesthetic principles are based on traditional critical writings chinesethought.cn badsubjects.domains.trincoll.edu. Comparisons and examples from various poets and cultures are documented in literary histories and scholarly studies en.wikipedia.orgabadis.ir, illustrating the universal dialogue between inspiration and craft. Each tradition’s perspective illuminates the others, affirming that the “amad vs. aawurd” debate in Urdu is but one expression of a timeless artistic truth.