The Art of Translation

Three translations of a poem by T'ao Ch'ien (Tao Qian)
365 AD - 427 AD




Return to My Country Home # 3

The weeds flourish but not the bean sprouts.
Morning, I get up to weed the fields.
I return, shouldering the moon and my hoe.
On narrow paths through thick grass and brush
evening dew soaks my clothes,
but wet clothes don't bother me
so long as I follow my heart.


Translated by Tony Barnstone and Chou Ping


*

Returning to the Fields and Gardens (II)

I plant beans below the southern hill:
there grasses flourish and bean sprouts are sparse.
At dawn, I get up, clear out a growth of weeds,
then go back, leading the moon, a hoe over my left shoulder.

Now the path is narrow, grasses and bushes are high.
Evening dew moistens my clothes;
but so what if my clothes are wet -
I choose not to avoid anything that comes.


Translated by Arthur Sze



*


3

I planted beans below South Mountain.
A few sprouted, then brush took over.

I get up early to clear weeds, and
shouldering my hoe, return by moonlight.

The path is narrow, the brush and trees
thick, evening dew pierces my clothes.

But they're not too wet - just damp
enough it reminds me never to resist.


Translated by David Hinton


*


The translator's art never ceases to surprise me - how varied the outcome can be; the possible nuances or leanings or fixations on meanings; alternate translations carrying distinct stamps and melodies - sometimes altering the very nature of the original poem itself.

Notes

This poem of T'ao Ch'ien's is from
Home Again Among Gardens and Fields

Arthur Sze: Silk Dragon: Translations from the Chinese
Copper Canyon Press (2001)

David Hinton: The Selected Poems of T'ao Ch'ien
Copper Canyon Press (2000)

Writing Into Winter

I had promised at the inception of this blog to also share poetry, literature and art, and with the autumn darkening into winter and the garden nearly all tucked away until spring, I've found myself venturing inside, returning more exclusively to the company of books and my writing desk.

Here, the view from my window is of fells covered in russet-orange bracken and gray stones, scree, the scars of sheep-paths through the grasses and a few solitary trees - rowan bright with red berries, ancient ash, and a fringe of willows growing alongside a small beck that marks the edge of the nearest field. Some days are like twilight from morning until evening; the sky close and gray, not even a crack of sunlight penetrating through.

And so my poem choices reflect this time of change and the beauty found in starkness.
Thomas A. Clark and Nina Bogin christen the cold walk towards winter.


 

BEINN FUAR

where the path gives out
among glacial debris
droppings of mountain hares
above the cliffs above the sea
a great skua scolds from a rock
the hours drop away
winds blow up from nowhere
I forget my own shape

rowan scrub huddles
out of the biting wind
salix thrives in ravines
exposed ledges erode
I follow the wind furrows
it is cold the sky is clear
large contours spread before me
glitter of rock and water

high up the moor
is ringed with crags
dark presences that brood
or retire behind cloud
it is good to walk
for hours in the silence
good to sit for a while inside
the din of falling water

all day in shadow
in silence and cold
tumbled rocks piled up
a dance among disasters
at the head of the glen
ice crystals in grit
I climb onto the ledge
to leagues of light and air

today all the tints
of grey are nourished
by a gentle rain
each thing is extended
in tenderness beyond
its own outline
hill moistened into sky
birch into larch wood

on the edge of the forest
a moment of hesitation
the trees crowd together
the stillness is complete
am I bold enough to enter
the moment stretches out
deep moss beneath pines
a few shards of cold light


~

These first six stanzas are excerpted from the poem BEINN FUAR
from the collection "Tormentil and Bleached Bones" by Thomas A. Clark (1993)
The poem has twenty-four stanzas altogether.
For more information about the work of Tom and Laurie Clark, please visit: http://cairneditions.blogspot.co.uk/

~




COVENANT

Thick weave of winter. Skeins of brown
and dun. Wrapped in these

garments, the sky
heavy on our backs,

we stand in the rainfield
and make a covenant with the silence:

let us trample this trampled ground
as the long-eyed horses do,

go cross-field through rain
and ask for only

blue clouds, slow across
hilltops. Dark footholds of earth.


~

By Nina Bogin
From her collection "The Winter Orchards" (2001) published by Anvil Press.