I have been reading translations of Chinese poetry: some by native speakers and some by western scholars. Some translators made great attempts to fit their words into a western format, meters and rhymes in tow. Others focused on remaining true to the original wording. Occasionally, some translations, while delivering vivid expressions, departed from the sources—words and forms, almost entirely.
Poetry, as a form of expression, reflects not only the personal sentiments of the poets, but also the social/historical background of their times. Their structures are the results of linguistic developments and literary trends. To me, only comprehensive knowledge of the works can lead to good interpretations and translations of poetic works.
The standard pronunciations of Mandarin Chinese bear little resemblance to those of Old Chinese and Middle Chinese. Despite the prescribed rules, it is a challenging task for most modern readers to fully grasp the rhyme schemes. Instead of fixating on pairing sounds, I prefer more flexible phrasings and cadences.
Words are route maps into the poets’ private domains: the images, the sounds and the scents in the air. What in their surroundings inspired them? Who were their audiences? Were their messages unspoken secrets? Were they shouting out to thousands? Each poem is a game of its own. Finding the right cues is the key to good readings and interpretations.
Reconstruct a poem in a different language is more than putting a puzzle together—as there are always missing pieces. The monosyllabic characters and tonal cadences of Chinese language beg for layers of considerations and reconsiderations. I don’t believe there are perfect solutions to these conundrums.
Translators of Li Qingzhao’s “shēng-shēng-màn” would be confronted by a delicate matter immediately: whether to pay homage to the word repetitions in the opening verses. In Chinese language, word repetition is a common practice which enhances the meaning of the words. Li’s handling of this device not only deepened the emotional impact but also solidified the prosodic effects. Her knowledge and sensibility to the tonality of words and its relationship to music led me to believe that the element of sound should not be overlooked by readers, interpreters, and translators alike.
While it is futile to match the sound of the original words, it is possible to catch Li’s intention. Four characters in her opening verses “清,” “淒,” “慘,” and “戚” share the same initial consonance /t͡sʰ/ in Middle Chinese.[1] One can hear in these words the sounds of rustling leaves—sounds of autumn. Even though I was not able to recreate such effects, I attempted in my translation to use words of similar sounds.
The first two words尋 and 覓 both can be translated as “search” in English. Ideogrammic elements of 尋 link the character with “hand” and “mouth”—hence, searching with hands and by calling. 覓 indicates searching by hand and by looking. I settled with “search” and “seek.”
The term冷清 means “desolation.” Separately, 冷 means “cold” and 清, “pure” or “quiet.” I chose the words “chill” and “still.” The following three words “淒,” “慘,” and “戚” all have the meaning of “misery” and “agony.” A friend reminded me to stay with monosyllabic words. Thus, “grim,” “bleak,” and “grief.” In comparison, matching “點點滴滴” in the second stanza with “drip, drip, drop, drop” was a much straightforward task.
Reading the words “乍暖,” my mind switched to “appena caldo” in Italian. 乍and appena both signal a sharp change immediately following the occurrences of a phenomenon or an event. Such perfect transition into English, unfortunately, was not to be found.[2] How interesting—yet, at the same time, frustrating—are the games of words! As I continue playing with words, I can only hope that my efforts contribute, though minutely, to further the exchange of ideas across cultures and times.
[1] Voiceless_alveolar_sibilant_affricate_Wiki Although the pronunciations of these words have changed over the centuries, the similarity is still audible in Mandarin Chinese.
[2] I had a similar experience translating the lyrics of a folk song. The phrase “留戀地張望” can be explained as “lingering around to look [at her].” The Italian word “mirare”—gazing admiringly—would have provided a much satisfactory interpretation than “look.”
