I'm not sure how the two translations maintain the Persian form--they seem
to reduce it to repetition of the last word at the end of each couplet. If
that's all you're talking about, easy enough. The Campo, which tries to do
more, is simply ghastly, the repetitions often artificial in the extreme.
As if he thought no one would notice.
Mark
At 05:34 PM 2/6/2005, you wrote:
>I changed the subject heading. It is long past my introduction and my oops!
>Anyway, Doug wrote:
>
> >>...a number of American poets to turn his prose translations into
>contemporary poems that would carry the passion etc of the originals though
>not the exact form....<<
>
>I am not arguing that one should ever translate with a slavish fidelity to
>the formal qualities of the original, and, for literary translation, the
>goal, of course, needs to be to create a literary equivalent (or analogue)
>in the target language--heavy emphasis on both those words, literary and
>equivalent. What I am arguing is that there may be times when preserving
>features of the original form in English is useful and desirable--and this
>is obviously a decision a translator has to make on a case by case and
>sometimes, in the case of poetry, even a line by line basis--because it
>brings into English something of the original that would otherwise be
>inaccessible to readers in the target language. I do not mean to suggest
>that such a translation is, in some absolute sense, better or more valid
>than a translation that does not adhere to the original form--only that it
>adds something to a reader's experience and to English literary
>possibilities that the latter kind of translation does not.
>
>By way of example, here are two Persian ghazals--the first by Hafez,
>translated by Elizabeth T. Gray, and the second by Rumi, translated by Iraj
>Anvar--that bring into English a version of the ghazal's rhyme scheme. I
>would not suggest in any way that either of these translations are
>authoritative, nor would I necessarily argue that they are fully successful
>as poems in English, though I happen to like them and think that they work
>well enough. But note how different they are from the more popular
>translations of Hafez (by Daniel Landinsky) and Rumi (by Coleman Barks) that
>are currently in the bookstores. (Unfortunately, I have no way of matching
>up the two translations below with anything from either the Barks or
>Landinsky that I own.) My own sense is that this difference is in part the
>difference between the westernizing tendencies of Landinsky and
>Barks--though each would, I am sure, disavow that as part of their
>agendas--and the efforts on the part of Gray and Anvar to bring some sense
>of the Persian into English. Another way of putting it is this: Landinsky
>and Barks seek to "Englishize the Persian," while Gray and Anvar seek to
>"Persianize the English." Each is a valid approach, and the differences
>between them--which are inevitably political at all kinds of different
>levels--is worth thinking about.
>
>Here is Gray's Hafez:
>
>We didn't taste a drop from her ruby lips and she left.
>We didn't gaze long enough at her beauty and she left.
>
>Perhaps she had tired of our company.
>She packed her things, we couldn't overtake her, and she left.
>
>We recited holy suras and blew prayers after her
>and she left.
>
>Her sultry glance rooted us in the alley of devotion.
>In the end, you saw how deeply we bought that glance, and she left.
>
>She strolled in the field of grace and beauty but
>we didn't go to meet her in the garden of union and she left.
>
>We wailed and wept all night, just like Hafiz,
>for alas, we were too late to say goodbye and she left.
>
>===
>
>And here is Anvar's Rumi:
>
>Spring is here my soul, O budding branch, begin to dance.
>Joseph here; O sugar and Egypt, begin to dance.
>
>O polo ball, you saw the mallet coming and ran to it, O that lock of hair.
>You lost your head and feet, now begin to dance.
>
>Bloody sword in hand, he came to me saying, "How are you?"
>"Come, all is calm," I said; he said, "No, all is chaos. Begin to dance."
>
>You, drunk with existence, death is your destiny.
>The decree of annihilation is here. For the journey, begin to dance.
>
>The end of the battle arrives, the sound of the harp begin;
>Joseph is drawn from the well. O artless one, begin to dance.
>
>When will you keep your promise? How long must I remain prostrate?
>Separation has left me mute and worn. Come, begin to dance.
>
>The time will come when you will say, "Ignorant one!
>Cease to exist. You, who know, begin to dance."
>
>My peacock will appear, his colors will shine, he'll call
>to the bird of the soul, "Without wings, begin to dance."
>
>Jesus cured the deaf and blind; Jesus son of Mary
>said, "O blind and deaf, begin to dance."
>
>The Master is the sun of holiness. Tabriz is the envy of China.
>In his vernal beauty, O trees and branches, begin to dance.
>
>===
>
>And just by way of making this more interesting, here is an English-language
>ghazal that follows the form and also remakes it in a new way by Rafael
>Campo, from Landscape With Human Figure:
>
>Ghazal in a Time of War
>
>--for Agha Shahid Ali
>
>What spoke to me, that wasn't words at all
>but like a language, understood by all:
>
>Ducks arrowing their way across the small,
>dark pond I passed, graceful emblem of all
>
>I like to think is Spring, their pace a crawl.
>My own unhurried progress--after all,
>
>awaiting me was just the usual,
>the ill who are my daily "chores"--was all
>
>that I could muster, kids on bicycles
>zig-zagging by, a Russian couple all
>
>wrapped up in smoky conversation, tall
>oaks pointing out the white sun...Was it all
>
>just my imagination? I recall
>those sounds of the world, the joy of it all,
>
>the toddler whose face was a miracle
>as she chased her red ball. Please, save it all,
>
>I think I prayed, above the distant bombs' shrill
>Descent; please, please, remember that we're all
>
>one people, one body, one chance not to kill.
>A stray gull cried, but that was not all:
>
>I saw where I was going, past the arsenal
>and past the land mine, to the land of all,
>
>past the archangel and the syllable,
>toward our human heart, to the love of all.
>
>Rich Newman
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