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Why nineteen ways to translate one poem?<\/p>\n
As Eliot Weinberger explains in his\u00a019 Ways of Looking at Wang Wei <\/em>(thanks, Joe Daich\u014d, for =this wonderful book!), \u201cGreat poetry lives in a state of perpetual transformation, perpetual translation: the poem dies when it has no place to go.\u201d (p. 3)<\/p>\n Just like a great k\u014dan!<\/p>\n The newest edition of Weinberger\u2019s book, by the way, has twenty-nine translations of\u00a0Wang Wei\u2019s (701-761 C.E.) four-line poem! As an aside, let me give you a tip: you will be hard pressed to find a better stocking-stuffer for your geekus maximus<\/a> Zen family member or self. Trust me on this. You and\/or your geeky loved-one will especially enjoy this book if you like repetition, careful attention to detail, and subtle variations on a theme, served with a bit of snark. If you are still reading this, you are probably at least this geeky. And maybe snarky. No offense intended.<\/p>\n Wang Wei, on the other hand, is widely recognized as one of the truly great poets of ancient China. Many have tried to express the heart of the simple poem under consideration, and many (including your\u2019s truly) have spent late nights puzzling about some of the thorny issues that arise. Here is what the little bugger looks like in ideographs:<\/p>\n \u9e7f \u67f4<\/p>\n \u7a7a \u5c71 \u4e0d \u898b \u4eba<\/p>\n \u4f46 \u805e \u4eba \u8a9e \u97ff<\/p>\n \u8fd4 \u666f \u5165 \u6df1 \u6797<\/p>\n \u5fa9 \u7167 \u9752 \u82d4 \u4e0a<\/p>\n Deer Park<\/p>\n Hills empty, no one to be seen And Weinberger\u2019s snarky thoughts about Robinson\u2019s labors:<\/p>\n \u201cRobinson\u2019s translation \u2026 is, unhappily<\/span>, the most widely available edition of Wang in English. In this poem Robinson not only creates a narrator<\/span>, he makes it a group, as though it were a family outing<\/span>. With that one word, we<\/span>, he effectively scuttles the mood<\/span> of the poem. Reading the last word of the poem as top, he offers an image that makes little sense<\/span> on the forest floor: one would have to be small indeed to think of moss vertically. For a jolt to the system, try reading this aloud<\/span>.\u201d (p. 31 \u2013 emphasis added)<\/p>\n I agree \u2013 the Robinson translation is clunky. But here\u2019s a translation that Weinberger (and me too) likes better by the wonderful Gary Snyder:<\/p>\n \u201cEmpty mountains: no one to be seen. Note that in Snyder\u2019s version there is no \u201cwe\u201d and the woods are dark. However, there is a problem with the moss being above, and also how Snyder has \u201cabove\u201d dangling out there on its own right at the end. Snyder explained, \u201cThe reason for \u2018. . . moss, above\u2019\u00a0.\u00a0.\u00a0. is that the sun is entering (in its sunset sloping, hence \u2018again\u2019\u00a0\u2014 a final shaft) the woods, and illuminating some moss up in the trees. (NOT ON ROCKS.)\u201d<\/p>\n It gets down to how you imagine the scene and how you see\u00a0\u4e0a here. Pronounced \u201csh\u00e0ng,\u201d\u00a0\u4e0a can be rendered \u201ctop,\u201d \u201csuperior,\u201d \u201chighest,\u201d \u201cgo up,\u201d \u201csend up,\u201d or \u201cupon.\u201d\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n This last line of the poem with the\u4e0a character at the end is what I found most difficult to grok.<\/p>\n Translation traumas like this are not unusual. Weinberger points out that \u201c\u2026A single character may be noun, verb, and adjective. It may even have contradictory readings: character 2 of line 3 is either jing<\/em> (brightness) or ying<\/em> (shadow). Again, context is all. Of particular difficulty to the Western translator is the absence of tense in Chinese verbs: in the poem, what is happening has happened and will happen. Similarly, nouns have no number: rose is a rose is all roses.\u201d (p. 9)<\/p>\n And further, \u201cContrary to the evidence of most translations, the first-person singular rarely appears in Chinese poetry [or k\u014dan]. By eliminating the controlling individual mind of the poet, the experience becomes both universal and immediate to the reader.\u201d (p. 10)<\/p>\n Are there similarities to k\u014dan and translating k\u014dan? You bet. Here is\u00a0Weinberger quoting Octavio Paz to summarize a lot of classical Chinese poetry (and k\u014dan) translation: \u201cThe characteristics of Chinese poetry: universality, impersonality, absence of time, absence of subject.\u201d (p. 33)<\/p>\n Absent a subject but not a translator, what we read in a translation is the union of the mind\/experience of the translator and the original text. Sometimes the features of the translator are more salient and sometimes the original seems to be more so. Some translations are direct offspring of their parent, while some seem to be third or forth cousins. You might even wonder if they were adopted.<\/p>\n All translations are in some such relationship. Weinberger says optimistically, \u201cThe relationship between original and translation is parent-child. And there are, inescapably, some translations that are overly attached to their originals, and others that are constantly rebelling.\u201d (p. 12)<\/p>\n In addition, Weinberger adds, \u201cIn its way a spiritual exercise, translation is dependent on the dissolution of the translator\u2019s ego: an absolute humility toward the text. A bad translation is the insistent voice of the translator\u00a0\u2014 that is, when one sees no poet and hears only the translator speaking.\u201d (pp. 19-20)<\/p>\n \u201c\u2026 Dissolution of the translator\u2019s ego\u201d? Although I\u2019d frame it differently, I\u2019ve found that a willingness to enter the k\u014dan, turning around and upside-down is vital. Another aspect of the translation process invites a frame of mind much like the game Go (\u570d\u68cb) \u2013 wide, specific, nonlinear, turning. Time and again, working with the characters for a k\u014dan, my primary translating experience, the k\u014dan opens up in a panoramic, expansive way \u2013 especially when I humbly shut up and let the k\u014dan speak.<\/p>\n And then there\u2019s simplicity. I\u2019ll leave you with one more Weinbergerism: \u201cIn the translation of Chinese poetry [and k\u014dan], as in everything, nothing is more difficult than simplicity.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n (1) \u201cDeer Park\u201d here translates \u9e7f\u67f4, although \u201cDeer Park\u201d is \u9e7f\u91ce\u82d1. The Deer Park is where the Buddha preached his first sermon\u00a0after awakening, \u201cThe Fire Sermon,\u201d so Wang Wei chose this title to make a point about the scene he described. However, the character following \u201cDeer\u201d in the title is \u67f4 or \u201cfirewood.\u201d It is also the name of a festival for the emperor involving a great fire. So although\u00a0\u9e7f\u67f4 would be \u201cDeer Firewood,\u201d I\u2019ve gone along with most other translators \u2013 Wang Wei was most likely referring to \u201cDeer Park.\u201d<\/p>\n D\u014dsh\u014d Port began practicing Zen in 1977 and now co-teaches at the\u00a0Nebraska Zen Center\u00a0<\/a>with his wife, Tetsugan Zummach \u014csh\u014d. D\u014dsh\u014d also teaches with the\u00a0Vine of Obstacles: Online Support for Zen Training<\/a>,\u00a0an internet-based Zen community. D\u014dsh\u014d received dharma<\/a> transmission from Dainin Katagiri R\u014dshi and inka sh\u014dmei from James My\u014dun Ford R\u014dshi in the Harada-Yasutani lineage. D\u014dsh\u014d\u2019s translation and commentary on\u00a0The Record of Empty Hall<\/em> is due out in early 2021 (Shambhala). He is also the author\u00a0of\u00a0Keep Me In Your Heart a While: The Haunting Zen of Dainin Katagiri<\/i>.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div><\/body><\/html>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 Why nineteen ways to translate one poem? As Eliot Weinberger explains in his\u00a019 Ways of Looking at Wang Wei (thanks, Joe Daich\u014d, for =this wonderful book!), \u201cGreat poetry lives in a state of perpetual transformation, perpetual translation: the poem dies when it has no place to go.\u201d (p. […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":182,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[225,6,95,213,18],"class_list":["post-5499","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-uncategorized","tag-chinese-poetry","tag-koan","tag-translation","tag-wang-wei","tag-zen"],"yoast_head":"\n\nHere is one popular translation<\/h4>\n
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\nWe hear only voices echoed\u00a0\u2014
\nWith light coming back into the deep wood
\nThe top of the green moss is lit again.
\n\u2014 G. W. ROBINSON, 1973 (Robinson, Poems of Wang Wei)<\/p>\n
\nYet \u2014 hear \u2014 human sounds and echoes.
\nReturning sunlight enters the dark woods;
\nAgain shining on the green moss, above.\u201d (p. 45)<\/p>\nThe trouble with\u00a0\u4e0a<\/h4>\n
\nThe relationship of translation and translator<\/h4>\n
Finally, here is my effort at translating Wang Wei\u2019s poem<\/h4>\n
\n\nDeer Park (1)<\/div>\n<\/div>\nEmpty mountain, not seeing people<\/div>\nYet hearing the echoes of people\u2019s voices<\/div>\nLight returns, entering deep in the forest<\/div>\nShining again on green moss<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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