photo reproduced from Chiu Chin chuan (1969)
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)
