Well, sadly, I agree with you, Mark, about The Campo, perhaps since I had hoped
to like it and it becomes particularly artificial as it goes, is it the 'all' or the
syntax at closure?

best,

Rebecca

---- Original message ----
>Date: Sun, 6 Feb 2005 18:06:58 -0500
>From: Mark Weiss <[log in to unmask]>
>Subject: Re: Translation and the ghazal
>To: [log in to unmask]
>
>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