English Class: Several Translations by Li Bai

I showed a class of senior high school students a series of translated Chinese poems.  There weren't a lot of students so I had each one read one poem.  It was fun to watch who recognized what they were reading while they were reading it.  For some it was a visceral shock, and the shock was often quickly followed by laughter.  Several girls, by the second poem we read, had scribbled the original onto their paper apparently by heart.

Because of the laughing and guffawing, the first several poems actually took awhile to get through. They were laughing at, not only queerness of seeing the old words in a totally different context, but also the "mistakes" of the poems. Now I am a lot more lenient in understanding some of the choices the poets made, and that's why it was slightly a hard lesson learned for myself. When a poet uses "the third-month mists" he is trying to communicate the reality that in Chinese that they simply number the months; it is a literal translation. The translator also might be trying to communicate to the reader the strangeness of the original language. If one pretends it is an English poem, like any other, is it not disingenuous to the original's cultural, spacial, linguistic identity? But to them it just sounded lame. One of them declared, "it's not a 'long, long river,' the river's name is actually Long River." Again I felt more lenient: why had Li Bai chosen Long River as opposed to, say, Yellow River? Didn't he want to emphasize the fact that his friend was going a long way away, and wasn't it alright if this poet tried to replicate that?

And then there were some quite obvious differences in the poems themselves: sometimes the traveler was going east, while other times it was ambiguous, while other poems had the traveler definitely going west.

One boy kept shaking his head; obviously the English versions were all no good. Most of the students agreed. I told them that I liked when one poet said that the shadow of the traveler was like "his lonely sail." And they agreed that it was actually what the poem said.

I also pointed out that several of the poems were in the present tense and while others were in the past tense. Of course, it is always ambiguous in Chinese, but we talked about the differences in English. Did they like "border of heaven," or "edge of the sky?" While I liked heaven, they liked sky. I said, "but in Chinese don't you use the same character?" But they disagreed. One said, "it sounds like he died if you use heaven."

It made me think a lot more about translating classic Chinese poems, but it reminded me, that if I ever did, I would probably wait a long time before ever bringing them into my ESL class.

Here's my good old friend
At the Yellow Crane Terrace
For a western departure.
We're saying good-bye.
He's in a cloud of third-month blossoms.
He's off downstream to Yang-Chou.
That shadow is his lonely sail.
Now it is gone.
All the blue is empty now.
All you can see is that long, long river.
It flows to the edge of the sky.
tr. Ken Hope

My old friend takes leave of the west at Yellow Crane Tower,
in misty third-month blossoms goes downstream to Yang-chou.
The far-off shape of his lone sail disappears in the blue-green void,
and all I see is the long river flowing to the edge of the sky.
tr. Burton Watson

My friend bade farewell at the Yellow Crane House,
And went down eastward to Willow Valley
Amid the flowers and mists of March.
The lonely sail in the distance
Vanished at last beyond the blue sky
And I could see only the river
Flowing along the border of heaven.
tr. Shigeyoshi Obata

My old friend
Bids farewell to me
In the west at Yellow Crane Tower.
Amid April's mist and flowers
He goes down to Yang-jou.
The distant image
Of his lonely sail
Disappears in blue emptiness,
And all I see
Is the Long River
Flowing to the edge of the sky
tr. Greg Whincup

From Yellow Crane Tower, my old friend leaves the west.
Downstream to Yang-chou, late spring a haze of blossoms,

distant glints of lone sail vanish into emerald-green air:
nothing left but a river flowing on the borders of heaven.
tr. David Hinton

my old friend leaves yellow crane pavilion
he is going to the west

sailing to yangzhou in march
while blossoms curl like smoke on the river

how far away the lone sail
fading into the clear blue sky

only the yangtze river remains
it is flowing at the edge of the world
tr. John Knoepfle and Wang Shouyi


The next poem is one that we didn't discuss but also was on the website. Having time to read all of them that I had to choose from, I think it would have been interesting to include this one to see what they thought. It's a lot more definite and clear, more like a native English speaking poem--which probably means the poet took some liberties.

You said good-bye at Yellow Crane Pavilion
and sailed west, down into the valley
through the flowers and mists of spring
until your lonely sail vanished
in the blue sky's horizon,
and I was left watching the river
flowing gently into heaven.
tr. Sam Hamill

And one more:

Guangling send Haoran
Li Bai
Yellow Crane Tower West by the enemy, fireworks in March in Yangzhou.
Gu Fan Yuan shadow Bishan do, only see the flow of the Yangtze River skyline.
tr. Google translate

Encouraged by a poem from a friend,
and by talking 'baby' with a previous co-worker
who impressed upon me the fact that not only
will the baby be able to smell the mother,
hear, and feel our touch when it is born,
but that it will respond to the voice of the mother
and of the father as well,

I recited five or seven poems that I knew
because I couldn't think of anything else to say
to the perfect audience
bound in silence
who gave a rowdy kick when all concluded
at least to say,
I heard you.

First Snow

The first snow is beautiful even if it is not too much to stick around. But you remember the look of the landscape, and the chill that ushers in the small, anonymous flakes. It's Longfellow who wrote, "Over the woodlands brown and bare, / Over the harvest-fields forsaken, / Silent, and soft, and slow / Descends the snow."

I notice in the last two lines the physicality of the language, the "s"s and crumpled rhythm that mimics the pace and indirectness of the snow. Sometimes we forget the sound of snow as much as its splendor falling. Reminds me of Frost: "The only other sound's the swept, / Of easy wind and downy flake."

The cold still feels nice. Bounced up to 38 degrees today. Ice still on the creak.

Buddha Cliff

What do you do with a box full of plaster Padmasambhavas and Green Taras that hadn't come cleanly from their molds? While not marketable to most people who need exact depictions of these deities, these still beautiful and calming images found perfect residence in our forest on a cliff that overlooked the river and flood plains. Here they can behold the changing scenes of the forest, and the forest can behold them.

Lateef and April spent an afternoon recently placing them with simple prayers, inviting them to reside in this land.

First Frost

This Fall I anticipated the first frost with the excitement of one waiting for Christmas. After living in Taiwan for two years--and distracted by its own distinctive meteorological and astronomical peculiarities--I didn't realize how much I missed this fascinating phenomenon. Nor had I ever really considered how strange and beautiful it really is.

And so in journalistic pleasure I post these photos to my blog. Also for those who might be viewing in Taiwan!

Fall

I took a walk today down the hill to the Train Station. Most of the leaves are gone, but the trees that still have leaves are brightly yellow.





Nneka followed me down. For an old lady, she's still pretty adventurous. Here she is at the pool where sometimes we see a beaver.



You can't tell because of these photos, but last night we had our first frost. Let's hope I can get a picture of that soon. As for now, it's great Fall weather.

Climbing Yu Shan

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Here. Some 44 photos with extensive commentary.

Waiting

Eating sweetened ice
listening to Deng Li Jun.
Pretty and sad,
her voice and my ears,
the darkness between.

I'm wondering if F-- is coming tonight,
or if she'll stay in town.

I've paid my electric and my rent
I've even tidied up the room.

There's no more money in my wallet,
just a bucket on my shelf
that brims with change.

Ice melts, and I think
of all the things I've bought.

Highest Noon

In the morning I forgot that it was the perfect day. I only remembered that it was, halting in my glum enthusiasm that went with me as I walked, when I saw an outside bulletin board, a portion of which was constructed upon a compass perfect east-west line, with a shadow tucked neatly under it. Later, excitedly looking out my second floor window, trying to ignore all of the babies in the baby class who had just bombarded through my door, I saw a small gate that had a cast a perfect east pointing shadow, made entirely of right angles. Today was June the 22nd, a perfect day, and it lasted for only a second.

I first discovered the real importance of today last weekend when I went with Fiona to Taipei to see her friends. I spent most of the time talking to her friend’s Swedish husband. We were talking about whether or not Taiwan was tropical, and he said that he had heard that the North was “not quite” and that the south was. “That makes sense,” I said, “because where I live, Chiayi, we sit directly on the Tropic of Cancer.” I must have then pondered this for some time because then I asked a stupid question, something I simply wanted confirmed really, basically the suspicion that the Tropic lines, in celestial terms, mark the extent of the earth’s tilt, back and forth. It is nice to know that even now, new cosmic discoveries are still possible. I said, “Is the true significance of the Tropic of Cancer and the Tropic of Capricorn that they represent where the sun will be at its widest swing (the earth at its furthest tilt)?” He confirmed it. You always think of the equator as having that honor, seeing the sun straight up in the sky, but in truth that only happens twice in a year even there, which is the same for every other place in between the two Tropics. If you live on the line of a Tropic, however, as I do, it only happens one time a year, on the first day of Spring, the “longest day” of the year. When all shadows lie down like truth, forsaking the ambitions of distortion, and present things, their shadows, in the true manner of their forms.

And so, when my last student left at 11:30 thirty, I borrowed Fiona’s camera and made a haphazard investigation of the entire school grounds (technically, still on the clock). I went into the kitchen and ate Auntie’s cold noodles and tried to explain to some people, but either my message didn’t get across or else no one was really impressed.

I wasn’t sure when it was going to happen, when the sun would stand directly over head, but it built in intensity like it does waiting for the sun to rise, every second becoming unnoticeably yet undeniably brighter. This had a whole different quality however, rather like the eye of a storm, a second of clarity in an otherwise unnoticeable day. What I didn’t expect (another revelation) was that it did occur at exactly 12:00 o’clock, and although I’ve lived my whole life knowing that it was Noon, it has never lived up to its reputation. Noon actually is, bless those people in Greenwich, England, the highest arc of the sun.

I must have ran outside a little too quickly because my boss followed out shortly after. “Joe,” he said, “what’s wrong?” I quickly yet lucidly explained to him what was going on and pointing to some pretty impressive shadows, basically lines and circles of things that any other time of the day or year would have been obscure oblongs and rectangles. And he said, “Oh, we don’t really notice that.” “Actually,” I said. “It happens only once a year—today.” “I thought you saw something fall,” he said, “or that you saw a snake.” “No,” I said. “It’s the shadows. I live in Pennsylvania, so seeing shadows like this is really strange.” He reiterated that in Taiwan nobody really cared. I guess that made sense, because I bet for a week or so it looks pretty much like this around lunchtime. But on the other hand, I didn’t really understand it. It was odd. I tried to be cool about it, but after taking some pictures and explaining it again to one more teacher, who at my insistency told me that she would look it up on the internet. Not bad. But I went outside.

It was strange to see all the things turned into lines and circles, and curious to see how many things were built upon the cardinal directions. The handrails going up to the post office made one black line, like a snake lying below it. The post office boxes, red and green, on the other hand, cast square shadows that fit perfectly their square bolted stands. Even the shadows of trees were interesting to see—to see really what the tree looked like from above, and you could see it, painted on the ground from any angle. In fact, everything, for about ten minutes had an ethereal, lifted sense to it. Maybe I was just high on it, or maybe the sunrays, more intense on this crystal clear day than I probably have ever experienced them, had boiled my mind over. When I saw a shadow that was off or crooked, I knew with religious certainty, it was the building that was wrong, not the shadow.

My last trip was to the rooftop of my own building, eight stories high, and here, fifteen to twenty minutes past twelve, things began to loose their intensity. I looked off one side to see my shadow streak to the very bottom where my head sat on the pavement far below. Things were bending. It was passed.

Click here for photos.

Glancing Down

Perhaps this poem should be called "And I still have two months (and less) to go."

Started impulsively
compiling lists
between classes

of things to be taken
and things to be left behind.

Most of my things fall into basic categories,
yet others are mentioned all alone. And yet
everything in this world can be put down on a piece of paper.

What’s funny is I won’t forget these things.
I just had to write them
in that familiar perspective.

Like from a plane
glancing down.