Myth of Arrival

So the Supreme Court has rolled back reproductive rights for women once again and across the nation anti-abortionists chomp and jeer over the victory. What I am curious about isn't that a group of ultra-conservative male judges would pass laws making women second class citizens by limiting control over their own bodies; what I am curious about is: where is the outrage over this? Is the Feminist Movement in America so dead no one raises their voice? Where are the protests? Who is in the street helping to dismantle the system until these laws are reversed? Did the Sex Wars of the 1980s and 1990s created such a schism in the ranks of the Feminist Movement that people can no longer come together over such dire issues as the dismantlement of Roe vs. Wade? Are there any heroes left to even champion the cause of women's reproductive rights?

I ask this because once in this world there were women of integrity who did more than show up at book signings or fight amongst themselves whether heterosexual sex should somehow be outlawed. These are my heroes; even if I have to go back one hundreds to find them. Today I am thinking of the Chinese poet and revolutionary Ch'iu Chin, also known as Qiu Jin (1875 — 1907). Dooling and Torgeson have this to say about her:

Remembered for her pioneering role in Chinese feminism as well as her flamboyant participation in the nationalist revolutionary movement during the waning years of the Qing dynasty, Qiu Jin belongs to the extraordinary first generation of radicals who actively searched for a solution to China's political crisis at the turn of the century. In Qiu Jin's view, the problems of 'woman' and 'nation' were intimately connected, not least because she believed that the liberation of Chinese women from patriarchal domination would have little meaning if China as a nation were subjugated by foreign powers. Much of her political work and radical writing was devoted to this duel agenda.

Born into a scholarly family in the Fujian province in 1875, Qiu Jin was brought up in a traditional manner, though her parents were at times lenient in allowing her to pursue activities normally deemed unsuitable for young ladies of her social class. Her mother reputedly gave up trying to teach her the 'feminine arts' of sewing and embroidery when Qiu Jin insisted that she preferred practicing archery and reading martial arts novels. Qiu Jin also received out standing training in classical literature, which is reflected in the traditional poetry (shi and ci) she composed as well as the wide range of poetic allusions in her more explicitly revolutionary writing.

Qiu Jin was first exposed to radical nationalism in 1903, when she moved to Beijing shortly after her marriage. The imperial capital was still reeling from the repercussions of the disastrous Boxer Rebellion of 1900, and it was amid this politically charged atmosphere that Qiu Jin started reading periodicals such as Liand Qichao's New Fiction and meeting other progressive intellectuals who shared her growing alarm over China's current situation. To express her deep dissatisfaction with the status quo, Qiu Jin began composing patriotic verses and, much to her husband's dismay, appearing in public in Western male attire. Thoroughly disillusioned by her marriage and determined to contribute personally to the revolutionary movement, Qiu Jin left her husband and her two children in 1904 and embarked for Japan, a venture that she financed by selling her dowry jewelry (39 — 40).

I shall stop with the biographical information just now; I plan to research the next section of her life in a later blog entry. Instead I want to examine a poem of hers, "Reply to Mr. Ishii's Request for a Poem Using the Same Rhyme" (translation mine). It goes as follows:

秋瑾〈日人石井君索和即用原韻〉

漫雲女子不英雄，萬裡乘風獨向東。

詩思一帆海空闊，夢魂三島月玲瓏。

銅駝已陷悲回首，汗馬終慚未有功。

如許傷心家國恨，那堪客裡度春風。

Here is my translation of the poem:

Don't tell me women
are not the stuff of heroes,
I alone rode over the East Sea's
winds for ten thousand leagues.
My poetic thoughts ever expand,
like a sail between ocean and heaven.
I dreamed of your three islands,
all gems, all dazzling with moonlight.
I grieve to think of the brass camels,
guardians of China, lost in thorns.
Ashamed, I have done nothing;
not one victory to my name.
I simply make my war horse sweat.
Grieving over my native land
hurts my heart. So tell me;
how can I spend these days here?
A guest enjoying your spring winds?

In an anthology edited by Sun Chang and Saussy I discovered these notes:

line 4: "Your islands" translates "sandao," literally "three islands," referring to Honshu, Shikoku and Kyushu, while omitting Hokkaido - an old fashion way of referring to Japan.

line 5: Derelict or resplendent, the conditions of the bronze camels, symbolic guardians placed before the imperial palace, is traditionally considered to reflect the state of health of the ruling dynasty. But in Qiu's poetry, it reflects instead the state of heath of China … (642)

My research into Qiu Jin's poetry turned up three other translations of this poem, all ranging in different degrees of success (at least in my opinion). The first is from Tony Barnstone and Chou Ping:

“A Poem Written at Mr. Ishii’s Request and Using the Same Rhymes as His Poem”

Don't tell me women can't make heroes,
I rode ocean winds alone eastward for ten thousand li.
My poetic thoughts chased sails between sea and heaven.
My dreaming soul lingered with a crystal moon in three islands of Japan.
I grieve to think of China's brass guardian camels sunk in thorns.
I'm ashamed – I have no real victories. I've just made my horses sweat.
So much national enmity hurts my heart.
How can I spend my days as a traveler here enjoying spring wind?

The second I found is by Sun Chang and Saussy:

“A Japanese, Mr. Ishii, Asks Me to Write a Poem to Match His; I Use the Same Rhyme”

Don't say women are dull and unheroic.
I've come east alone, riding the winds
for a thousand leagues.
My poetic imagination ranges far and wide,
as freely as a sailboat on an open sea.
Even before I came, I had dreamt of your islands –
jewels dazzling with moon beams.
But much to my sorrow and shame
although bronze camels are covered
in brambles in my country,
I've done nothing to stem the rot;
I can't even claim merit
of a sweating horse in combat.
Laden with anguish, grieving over my land,
How can I, a guest in yours, enjoy the spring breeze?

The last translation here I find most interesting of the three; not because it is good but rather it illustrates (for me) the dangers of literal translation in poetry. Ayscough published her book in 1937 and I can only assume this was the popular method of translation; literally transcribing the poem word for word, refusing to re-interpret anything the poem says in its original language. In a way this answers a question I was asked, "can a translator do a good job if they are not a master in the language the poem was originally written in?" The answer I have always replied with "yes, of course." Ayscough obviously knows Chinese since her version is so literal. But, for me, there is no beauty in this version, nothing sings. Still it is interesting to see what was once accepted as the proper way to translate, even if one can only use it now as a horrible warning.

“Capping Rhymes with Sir Shih Ching From Sun's Root Land”

Be slow to say this woman is not brave, heroic,
Mounting wind, she goes alone, ten thousand li East.
Poem describes single sail on empty, vast sea;
Bright moon a carved gem; soul dreams of Islands Three;
Sadly gazes homeward: bronze camels, symbols of Empire, crumble to ruin;
Sweating charges go forth in vain, their courage has no reward.
Grieving for home, grieving for Country, heart deeply pierced.
How protect lonely traveller ferried by Spring wind?

(Ayscough, 147)

Works Cited

Ayscough, Florence. Chinese Women: yesterday & to-day. Boston: Houghton Mifflin Company. (1937)

Barnstone, Tony and Chou Ping (eds) The Anchor book of Chinese poetry. New York: Anchor Books. (2005)

Dooling, Amy D. and Kristina M. Torgeson. (eds) Writing women in modern China: an anthology of women's literature from the early twentieth century. New York: Columbia University Press. (1998)

Sun Chang, Kang-i and Haun Saussy (eds) Women writers of traditional China: an anthology of poetry and criticism. / Charles Kwong, associate editor; Anthony C. Yu and Yu-kung Kao, consulting editors. Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press. (1999)

Tsan-chih, Chʻiu. Chʻiu Chin chuan. Taipei: Lian huo tu shu kung shih. (1969)

My friend Mistletoe wrote recently suggesting a new poet I should read, Li Ch'ing-chao (the modernized version of her name is Li Qingzhao 李清照).

All sources I read credit her with being one of the best poets of China. She lived from 1084 to 1151, during a time of great war and chaos in the part of China she called home. The Columbia Anthology of Traditional Chinese Literature (Mair, Victor, editor, New York: Columbia University Press, 1994, page 340) has this to say about her:

“Li Ch'ing-chao is universally recognized as China's greatest woman poet and one of the foremost lyricists in her own right. She was born in Li-ch'eng (modern Tsinan in Shantung province) of an outstanding literary family. Her father was a noted writer of prose … Her mother, also a poet, was descended from a distinguished family. Li Ch'ing-chao was already recognized as a talented voice in her adolescence. In 1101 she married Chao Ming-ch'eng, a student in the imperial academy. The couple shared compatible tastes in literature, painting and calligraphy, and she wrote warmly of their mutual joys. Later, however, she experienced the traumatic events surrounding the fall of the Northern Sung empire to the Jurchen army and the transfer of the dynasty to the Southern Sung …” These included the death of her husband in 1129 (ibid.) and the destruction of their entire library and most of their own poetry as she was forced into poverty and exile (ibid.).

Here is a poem she wrote; it is variously titled "Rouged Lips" and "Naivete":

點絳唇
　
蹴罷秋千，
起來慵整纖纖手。
露濃花瘦，
薄汗輕衣透。

見有人來，
襪鏟金釵溜，
和羞走。
倚門回首，
卻把青梅嗅

I tried my hand at translating it. I am sure there are many mistakes and errors on my part; a terrible grasp of Chinese being a very limiting factor. Here is what I came up with, however:

Bored on the swing dreamily I get up
and powder my hands. I am a slim flower
shivering with morning dew that leaves
this gauzy dress sticky with my own sweat.

Someone wanders by; mortified I find
my stockings all snagged, my
golden hairpins all cockeyed.

Hurriedly, shyly, I walk away only
to slowly stop and lean against the open gate,
teasingly look back, sniff at
a heavy green plum in one hand.

As I said earlier in a different Chinese translation blog entry; it is wrong of me to pretend I did not have help in my work at translating. Before I attempt my own I study the work of others. This helps in several ways; it narrows down the meaning of certain words I am unsure of or cannot find in my dictionary but it also lets me see how I don't want my translation to sound like. That is not to say others' are bad and only mine good; no. But not all translations sing the way I want them to. So by studying the original poem and others' work I can come up with a translation that is all my own.

Here is Jiaosheng Weng's translation in Columbia Anthology:

Rouged Lips

Stepping down from the swing,
Languidly she smooths her soft, slender hands,
Her flimsy dress wet with light perspiration –
A slim flower trembling with heavy dew.

Spying a stranger, she walks hastily away in shyness:
Her feet in bare socks,
Her golden hairpin fallen.
Then she stops to lean against a gate,
And looking back,
Makes as if sniffing a green plum. (334)

This is by Kenneth Rexroth and Ling Chung (from Li Ch’ing-chao. New Directions, 1979):

After kicking on the swing,
Lasciviously, I get up and rouge my palms.
Thick dew on a frail flower,
Perspiration soaks my thin dress.
A new guest enters.
My stockings come down
And my hairpins fall out.
Embarrassed, I run away,
And lean flirtatiously against the door,
Tasting a green plum.

And an anonymous translator from PoetHunter.com:

Tz'u No. 3

Tired of swinging
indolent
I rise with a slender hand
put right
my hair
the dew thick
on frail blossoms
sweat seeping through
my thin robe
and seeing
my friend come
stockings torn
gold hairpins askew
I walk over
blushing
lean against the door
turn my head
grasp the dark green plums
and smell them.

We must tell the truth about evil conditions to those for whom the conditions are worst, and we must also learn the truth from them. We must address not only people who hold certain views, but people who, because of their situation, should hold these views. — Bertolt Brecht.

After I wrote about the Chinese poet Xue Tao my friend The Beach Poet wrote recently with this question: “I am curious as well, as to what motivates you to read Chinese women’s poetry?”

I have been thinking about this and how to answer it. Is it enough to say Chinese women poets write about important truths I cannot find in modern American poetry? Is it enough to say almost all marginalized poets I have stumbled upon have a better chance of speaking the truth than our mainstream, middle class contemporaries? That is part of the answer.

The other part is that almost all women’s poetry interests me; I studied international women poets for my English Literature degree as an undergraduate. I love the different worlds they show me, the necessity and urgency of so many women poets. These are people (for the most part) who do not have the leisure, wealth or freedom to indulge in poetry but do so anyway because they have to. Because they have to!

Even a poem two thousand years old can feel like it was written today if it has something important to say. To me that is the purpose of poetry, to speak in the clearest way possible about the mysteries of life. “Mystery” does mean just metaphysics like the Goddess or Buddha or Jesus; poverty is a mystery, war is a mystery, explain to me why we have this fever to kill others? In other words, the poetry I love speaks on what makes us human. It is the hardest challenge to an artist, I think.

This isn’t to say modern American poets are incapable of writing about our humanity. Everything Walt Whitman (who really isn't modern at all but that is not his fault) has written speaks to the urgency of being human. In fact this passage in his Introduction to Leaves of Grass speaks so much about what is important in being human I try to follow its advice everyday:

“This is what you shall do: Love the earth and sun and the animals, despise riches, give alms to every one that asks, stand up for the stupid and crazy, devote your income and labor to others, hate tyrants, argue not concerning god, have patience and indulgence toward the people, take off your hat to nothing known or unknown or to any man or number of men, go freely with powerful uneducated persons and with the young and with the mothers of families, read these leaves in the open air every season of the year of your life, re-examine all you have been told at school or church or in any book, dismiss whatever insults your own soul, and your very flesh shall be a great poem and have the richest fluency not only in its words but in the silent lines of its lips and face and between the lashes of your eyes and in every motion and joint of your body….”

But mainstream modern poetry, the stuff that is being published today, does insult the soul in some very real ways … well, much of it, I suppose. Just ask yourself: what will mark our century? What will we be remembered for? What is going on in the world that is so vastly important we need to speak about? War! Endless genocide! The on-going destruction of our environment! But if you read the poetry that appears in our national poetry magazines, those sources that claim to speak for American poetry as a whole, you wouldn’t know this. Our nation is at war but who could guess by reading modern poetry?

When we need poets the most to speak the truth, to be brave and write beautifully about what we humans are doing our leaders in postmodern poetry embrace interruption, detachment, abstraction as somehow being essential. This isn’t just poets, all of the arts seem to be heading that way. The current cover of the ARTnews (April 2007) features the proclamation “The New Abstraction” and on page 110 ironically has this to say about past criticism of the type of Abstract art they are promoting: “Abstraction was attacked [in the past] for being old media, played out, new-idea stunted, and out of sync with contemporary life and thought – as well as for being decorative and solipsistic.”

I would argue that our current poetry being embraced by mainstream America is decorative and solipsistic, gaudy and self-important; I would go so far as to say on a bad day we are a nation of gaudy and self-important artists actively giving our voices away in a time and age when we need voice so badly. It is one reason I started the group Poetry Without Borders: poets of witness. I do not want to give away my voice; even erotica can speak truths when done with compassion and humanity.

The German playwright and poet Bertolt Brecht wrote an essay entitled “The Courage to Write the Truth” where he named several difficulties most artists face when going after such goals. That is; “The Keenness to Recognize the Truth,” “The Skill to Manipulate the Truth as a Weapon,” “The Judgment to Select Those in Whose Hands the Truth Will Be Effective” and “The Cunning to Spread the Truth Among the Many.” He summarizes his arguments as follows:

… Of what use is it to write something courageous which shows that the condition into which we are falling is barbarous (which is true) if it is not clear why we are falling into this condition? … We must tell the truth about the barbarous conditions in our country in order that the thing should be done which will put an end to them …

Furthermore, we must tell this truth to those who suffer most from existing [conditions] and who have the greatest interest in their being changed—the workers and those whom we can induce to be their allies because they too have really no control of the means of production even if they do share in the profits.

And we must proceed cunningly … for we cannot discover the truth about barbarous conditions without thinking of those who suffer from them; cannot proceed unless we shake off every trace of cowardice; and when we seek to discern the true state of affairs in regard to those who are ready to use the knowledge we give them, we must also consider the necessity of offering them the truth in such a manner that it will be a weapon in their hands, and at the same time we must do it so cunningly that the enemy will not discover and hinder our offer of the truth.

That is what is required of a writer when he is asked to write the truth.

That is why it is important to find the voices that are essential to us in this day and age. Those voices might be anywhere; speaking today amongst us or reminding us of the importance of being human thousands of years ago.

My friend Ruelaine just sent this notice to me. Now I share it with you:

It's National Poetry Month, and the poetry scene in the Greater Lansing Area is hot! Join the Old Poets and the NuPoet Collective for a POETRY JAM on Tuesday, April 17th at Gregory's Ice and Smoke, 2510 N. Martin L. King Blvd. in Lansing.

Gregory's is on the south east corner of MLK and Grand River Avenue. If you are driving north on MLK, it is on the left, at the corner before you turn on Grand River to go to the airport ‹ up on the hill on the left (southeast corner of that intersection.

What's "A Poetry Jam," you might ask? ‹ It's a poetry contest in which you won't get slammed. This is an equal opportunity poetry event, will all styles of poetry welcome. During the Jam, poets can recite OR read their poems. Each poet will have a maximum of 4 minutes.

Prizes for the "Jam" include: $60‹1st place, $40‹2nd place, $30‹3rd place & $20‹4th place.

Before the "Jam," there will be an Open Mike session for poets not wishing to take part in the contest and for "Jammers" wishing to warm up.

Poet Ana Cardona, storyteller Charles Thornton, and poet Dennis Hinrichsen have consented to serve as judges for the "Jam."

The schedule for the evening will be as follows:

7-8 pm: Socializing

8 pm: ‹ Open Mike

8:50: Social break

9:30 approximately: the Poetry Jam

Donations for the evening will go to the Robert Busby Old Town Project.

See you there!

In a culture dominated by male poets it is refreshing to discover other voices, even if one must look a little harder to find them. In ancient China, during the Tang dynasty (618 — 907 AD), women poets could be found working in several occupations but a large number were entertainers or courtesans. Zhao Luanluan was a courtesan and so was Xue Tao.

The Chinese scholar and translator Jeanne Larsen writes this biographical sketch of Xue Tao in her anthology, Willow, Wine, Mirror, Moon: women's poems from Tang China (BOA: editions limited, 2005, page 141):

Xue Tao aka Xue Hongdu (c. 768-c. 832) lived in Chengdu; her family originated in Chang'an. Her father, a government functionary, died when she was young. She became a courtesan and protegee of a powerful military governor, hostessing at official gatherings. Word of her cleverness and talent spread; literary men exchanged verses with her — doing so was evidently something of a coup. Xue eventually adopted the garb of a Taoist adept, living outside the city, near where the great poet Du Fu had also taken on the role of semi-recluse. Her penchant for invigorating, sometimes racy colloquialisms does not fit the norms of elite verse; that is not what she needed to write and often her diction suggests impromptu composition at a party. Other poems show she had the capacity to pick up on the bits of canonical learning she could gleam from her place place in life. They can be found in [her book] Brocade River Poems.

Here is a poem of hers in Chinese. The title has variously been translated as, Spring Gazing and Gazing at Spring:

春望词四首

花开不同赏，花落不同悲。
欲问相思处，花开花落时。

(扌监)草结同心，将以遗知音。
春愁正断绝，春鸟复哀吟。

风花日将老，佳期犹渺渺。
不结同心人，空结同心草。

The follow is my translation of the poem. I should note first that I know very, very, very little Chinese and I am sure my translation is wildly inaccurate. I apologize ahead of time for that, but the poem delighted me so much I felt I just had to give it a try. Having said that I take full responsibilities for any errors you might find here and hope my poor attempts will not spoil the wonderfulness of the original for anyone.

1.
Flowers will bloom; no one to delight in them with.
Flowers will fall; no one to grieve over them with.
When does love's hungriness stir in us the most?
When flowers bloom or when they fall?

2.
I gather scented herbs, tie a lover's heart-shape knot
and send it to the one who understands this song.
But when my springtime sorrow is about to shatter in me
all the young birds break into their saddest laments.

3.
These wind tossed flowers, this day, are aging.
Who can tell me the day we shall be together?
If I cannot tie my heart to yours, lover,
it's foolish to keep these heart-shaped knots.

It would be silly for me to act as if I pulled my translation of this poem out of thin air or that my skills were such that I was able to mumble my way through the original. I worked off three different translations in English for the poem you just read.

It is my belief that a good translator needs to read up on how others read the source material. A poetic translation is a tricky thing; not only do you have to stay true to the original in spirit (literal, word for word translations are the death of a foreign poem) but you have to make the poem sing loud in the language you are working in. True, it is important not to mimic what other translators have written but I think it helps tremendously to see how they brought life to their poems.

That said the first version I discovered was by Larsen herself, from The British Museum: Chinese Love Poetry (edited by Jane Portal, The British Museum Press, 2004, pages, 32 - 35):

1.

Flowers bloom:
no one
to enjoy them with.

Flowers fall:
no one
with whom to grieve.

I wonder when love's
longings
stir us most –

when the flowers bloom,
or when flowers fall?

2.

I gather herbs
and tie
a lover's knot

to send to one
who understands my songs.

So now I've cut
that springtime sorrow
off.

And now the spring-stuck birds
renew their cries.

3.

Windblown flowers
grow older day by day.

And our best season
dwindles in the past.

Without someone
to tie the knot
of love,

no use to tie up
all those love-knot herbs.

Next I stumbled upon an anonymous translator from the website On the Border:

Gazing at Spring

I
When flowers bloom, no one enjoys with me.
When flowers fall, no one grieves with me.
When does lovesickness stir me more?
When flowers bloom or flowers fall.

II
I gather herbs and tie a knot of love,
And wish to send to my dear beloved.
When the spring sadness is near to its ending,
Why are the spring birds back to their sobbing?

III
The flowers in the wind grow daily old,
But my wedding day hasn’t been told!
If I can’t tie with my beloved man,
My knot of love will be all in vain!

Last I read Tony Barnstone's and Chou Ping's version published in The Drunken Boat:

Spring Gazing

1

Flowers bloom but we can't share them.
Flowers fall and we can't share our sadness.
If you need to find when I miss you most:
when the flowers bloom and when they fall.

2

I pull a blade of grass and tie a heart-shape knot
to send to the one who understands my music.
Spring sorrow is at the breaking point.
Again spring birds murmur sad songs.

3

Wind, flowers, and the day is aging.
No one knows when we'll be together.
If I can't tie my heart to my man's,
it's useless to keep tying heart-shaped knots.

Perhaps, after reading all four translations, you will come away enjoying one more than the other. That is fair. My only wish isn't that my translation is better, rather, that it isn't full of so many errors as to ruin the enjoyment for anyone. Thank you.