The correct view is that he died in 218 AH, as Abū Saʿīd ibn Yūnus explicitly states in his “History of Egypt” ⦗1⦘.

Al-ʿAkawwāk the poet ⦗2⦘—his full name being Abū al-Ḥasan ʿAlī ibn Jabila ibn al-Muslim ibn ʿAbd al-Raḥmān al-Khurāsānī—was so nicknamed on account of his short stature and corpulence. He was a mawla, and was born blind; others say that smallpox struck him at the age of seven and left him sightless. Dark-skinned and leprous, he was nonetheless an accomplished, eloquent poet whose verses were praised by al-Jāḥiẓ and those who came after him. Al-Jāḥiẓ said, “I have never seen either a Bedouin or a townsman recite poetry better than he.” ⦗3⦘

Among his lines are ⦗4⦘:

My life be the ransom of the one who came to me in secret,
fearful, anxious at every passing sound.
A visitor upon whom beauty itself alights—
how can night conceal a full moon rising?
He lay in wait for a moment of heedlessness until it came,
and kept watch over the night’s assembly until they slept. ⦗5⦘
He braved every peril to pay that call,
and departed with no greeting save farewell.

He also said, praising Abū Dulaf al-Qāsim ibn ʿĪsā al-ʿUjlī ⦗6⦘:

Verily, the whole world is but Abū Dulaf,
between the field he raids and the place he rests.
If Abū Dulaf departs,
the world departs in his wake.
Everyone on earth of Arab stock—
from desert nomad to settled town-dweller—
borrows from you a noble virtue
to don on the day he boasts of lineage. ⦗7⦘

When these verses reached al-Maʾmūn—­they formed part of a long ode in which al-ʿAkawwāk had challenged Abū Nuwās ⦗8⦘, al-Ḥasan ibn Hāniʾ—­the caliph sent for him. Al-ʿAkawwāk fled wherever he could, but was eventually brought before him. The caliph said, “Woe to you! You have preferred al-Qāsim ibn ʿĪsā …”