Reviews

Five T'ang Poets by Li Shangyin, Li Po, Tu Fu, Wang Wei, Li Ho

scipio_africanus's review

emotional funny hopeful inspiring lighthearted reflective relaxing sad fast-paced

4.75

A short but beautiful little collection of translations. David Young is a great translator, always capturing the spirit of the poems he translates. 

......

You ask when I'll be back — 
I wish I knew! 

night rain on Pa Mountain overflows the autumn ponds 

when will we trim the candle wick under our own west window? 

I'll be telling you this story 
night rain will be falling. 

Li Shang-Yin

spacestationtrustfund's review

2.0

Translated by David Young and first published in 1980, this book contains poems by Wang Wei (王維), Li Bai (李白), Du Fu (杜甫), Li He (李賀), and Li Shangyin (李商隱). As Young notes in his introduction, none of the work herein included is "new"—that is, poetry that had not previously been translated to and published in English—but the intention wasn't to break any new ground but rather to present an introductory overview of the five poets' respective lives and corpora. My review is not of the original poems but rather the quality and accuracy of Young's translations.

Young apparently spent around 15 years "experiment[ing] with the intriguing problem of bringing Chinese poems over into English," and explained his method as:

[...] to study the Chinese tradition as time and inclination have served; to translate when the impulse was strong and useful means and materials were available; and to check my results with friends and colleagues willing to bring their larger grasp of the subject and the language to bear on my efforts. My lines of approach have been as varied as I could make them: comparing existing translations, drawing upon scholarly discussions of texts I wanted to translate, working from literal (character-by-character) versions prepared by friends or available in published form; and learning as much as I could about Chinese grammar and poetic convention through collaborative translation (of a poet not included here) with a friend and former colleague.

These are all examples of good form, and many are quite similar to techniques I myself use when familiarising myself with a particular text. Chinese and English are incredibly different languages, and it is functionally impossible to write an accurate translation of a classical Chinese poem without extensive annotations. Young described himself as "happy to grant that the translators who have dealt previously with these poets have generally been better versed in the language and background of the original poems," whereas his strength was "on the side of English and poetry":

I feel that poets make good translators because they can hope to construct effective poems in the language into which the poem is being rendered. No amount of scholarship and erudition can substitute for that. [...] It is the impulse to rescue my four poets from the often wooden and dogged versions of the scholars—or at least to supplement those versions with livelier and more limber counterparts—that lies behind this book. It can thus be said that I hope to take my place with other poets—Ezra Pound, Kenneth Rexroth and Gary Snyder, in particular, along with Arthur Waley, the scholar who translated like a poet—who have worked in Chinese translation. The ways in which that allegiance may be controversial will not in fact matter to most readers, who will be looking for readable and credible poems; it is the readers I hope to please, though not at the expense of a responsible attitude toward accurate representation of the poems I am trying to acquaint them with.

It's pretty evident from this that I am not the intended audience. Young generally did a good job at explaining the idiosyncracies inherent to classical Chinese poetry and the difficulties they consequently cause for translators to English, and I don't fault him necessarily for either his perspective or his decision to be less accurate. This is not an academic translation: that's fine. I personally believe that a more thorough understanding of a particular poem, poetic form, or technique of poetry will only heighten one's appreciation of it. I don't subscribe to what I like to call the Dead Poets Society school of thought regarding poetry—the idea that analysing, dissecting, and studying something strips it of its innate beauty or power. In my opinion the best way to appreciate poetry is to understand how it works. Young said that part of his goal in translating was "aiming to make footnotes unnecessary":

This practice will seem odd to some, but the idea of poems that can stand on their own, without need of additional explanation, is one that other poets and most readers will, I think, find attractive.

Not to me. All of this is to say that Young and I disagree significantly about what makes a translation of poetry "good."

But I digress. I've picked one poem from each poet included in this book to talk about. First, the poem 《觀獵》 (observe-hunt) by Wang Wei, here titled "Watching the Hunt":

The wind blows
the horn-bow twangs
the general is hunting
beyond Wei city
withered grasses
give the falcons
sharper eyes
snowless ground
lets the horses
gallop free
the hunters canter past our village
headed for camp
they rein in, looking back
to where they shot down eagles
flat clouds
a thousand miles of evening.

The original:

风劲角弓鸣⑴，将军猎渭城⑵。
草枯鹰眼疾⑶，雪尽马蹄轻⑷。
忽过新丰市⑸，还归细柳营⑹。
回看射雕处⑺，千里暮云平⑻。

wind / strong / angle / bow / sound, / army- / -general / hunt / Wei / city.
grass / withered / eagle / eye / sharp,* / snow / end or utmost / horse / hoof / light.
sudden / pass / Xin- / -feng / city, / also / return / Xi- / -liu* / camp.
back / look / shoot / eagle / place, / thousand- / -li* / dusk / cloud / level.

Young does away with the distinctive format of the original poem (eight lines of five characters). The removal of any distinctive details apart from "Wei city" (渭城) genericises the poem, and the lack of contextual notes precludes understanding of any deeper meaning of the imagery in the poem. The bird's "sharp eye" (眼疾) technically means eye (眼) + illness (疾) and nowadays would refer to an ophthalmological disease, but in a classical literary sense it refers to sharp or keen eyesight. The "thousand li" (千里) refers to any great distance, much like a "thousand-yard" stare (one li is equal to roughly 1/2 km). Different characters are used for the cities Wei (渭城) and Xinfeng (新丰市); Xiliu (细柳营), meaning slender (细) + willow (柳), is a military encampment. Young's decision to refer to Xinfeng as "our city" also changes the perspective of the poem.

What I think Young failed to include about this poem is the implied meaning: Wang Wei believed in the Buddhist sanctity of living things, and almost certainly would not have viewed the act of shooting an eagle to be worthy of praise. The fact that the endless clouds are flat and level across the horizon is also in contrast to the white vertical clouds associated with purity and spirituality; the evening setting also demonstrates a scene leaning more towards yin (阴) than towards the yang (阳) associated with brightness and sunlight. I don't know if I'd go so far as to say that Wang Wei was deliberately writing a poem cautioning against shooting eagles in a Harper Lee-esque condemnation of toxic masculinity, or what-have-you, but I do think that Young falls into the unfortunately all-too-common trap of believing that ancient Chinese poetry was primarily scenic in nature. Context is important for this very reason.

From Li Bai I picked a rather well-known poem, 《月下獨酌》 (moon-under-drink-alone), herein "Drinking in Moonlight":

I sit with my wine jar
among flowers
blossoming trees
no one to drink with
well, there's the moon
I raise my cup
and ask him to join me
bringing my shadow
making us three
but the moon doesn't seem to be drinking
and my shadow just creeps around behind me
still, we're companions tonight
me, the moon, and the shadow
we're observing
the rites of spring I sing
and the moon rocks back and forth
I dance
and my shadow
weaves and tumbles with me
we celebrate for awhile
then go our own ways, drunk
may we meet again someday
in the white river of stars
overhead!

I've dissected this poem before a handful of times, but this translation is incredibly unsatisfying. Everything from the weird enjambment to the bizarre yet unfortunately common translation of the Milky Way (雲漢) is annoying. Young changed the line literally read as "flowers-among-one-pot-wine" to "I sit with my wine jar / among flowers / blossoming trees," which is just baffling (why add the "blossoming trees"?). Young further added phrases such as "we're observing / the rites of spring," gendered the moon (if you absolutely must associate the moon with a human gender, it should be female, for yin energy), and swapped out adjectives for seemingly no reason (the moon is no longer "bright" but the Milky Way is "the white river of stars"?). The only thing that's "emotionless" (無情) here is Young's sucking the marrow from the poem.

For Du Fu I obviously picked one of my favourites, 《月夜》 (moon-night), herein "A Moonlit Night":

Tonight
in this same moonlight
my wife is alone at her window
I can hardly bear to think of my children
too young to understand
why I can't come to them
her hair must be damp from the mist
her arms cold jade in the moonlight
when will we stand together
by those slack curtains
while the moonlight
dries the tear-streaks
on our faces?

Once again I've discussed this poem previously. The poem is brief, but important to be read in context: the poem dates from 756, when Du Fu had left his family in Fuzhou (north of Chang'an) while he himself was held captive in Chang'an, leading some scholars to suggest that it was written around the time of the Mid-Autumn festival when families traditionally watched the moon together. Interestingly, Young mentions Du Fu's stint in Chang'an in his brief biography of the poet, but then elects to remove all mention of Fuzhou and Chang'an from the actual translation of the text. I don't know why this was his move. The poem is about separation and yearning; removing the names of the cities in which Du Fu and his family were respectively trapped seems counter-intuitive to me. Again, the line breaks and pacing detract from the strength of the original poem.

An issue I have with Young's translation style is his highly anachronistic language. Phrases like "on a bender" or "live it up" don't jive with the feeling Young appeared to be trying to convey. In regards to this particular poem, I've unfortunately yet to be satisfied with any translation, whether it's one I've found or have myself translated.

In his little biography of Li He, Young described Li He's writing as "a poetry of extremes," which was very appealing:

The images startle. The tone changes abruptly. Juxtaposition, a central principle of Chinese poetry, is explored to its limits. Mysterious timescapes alternate with the more familiar landscapes of Chinese literary tradition, though Li [He]'s landscapes tend to be spookier than those of his predecessors. [...] Li [He] also manages to be both present and absent in his poems, everywhere and nowhere, so that the poetry strangely combines the subjective and the objective; it is violently eccentric and at the same time transparent and timeless.

I guess all I can say to that is colour me intrigued. (Li He has been described as a "bad boy poet," which I love.)

I actually think Li He's poetry is a much better fit for Young's translation style, since virtually none of Li He's surviving writing was in a regulated verse form. The poem I picked was 《五月》 (five-moon) from the 《河南府試十二月樂詞》 collection, herein "Fifth Moon (July)":

Carved screens of jade on windows
gauze curtains across doorways
well-water drawn at daybreak
mallards and their hens
on painted fans
snowy clothes of the dancers
in the cool palace halls
sweet dews washing the air
sleeves flying
drops of sweat like beads of grain.

The "fifth moon" (五月) can refer to either the month of May (fifth in the Justinian calendar) or the month of July (fifth in the lunar calendar). This is the original poem:

雕玉押簾額⑴，輕縠籠虛門⑵。
井汲鉛華水⑶，扇織鴛鴦紋⑷。
回雪舞涼殿⑸，甘露洗空綠⑹。
羅袖從徊翔⑺，香汗沾寶粟⑻。

carved / jade / secure / screen / top part, / light / fine silk gauze / cover / empty / gate.
well / draw water [from a well] / lead / flowering / water, / fan / weave / mandarin- / -duck / pattern.
circle / snow / dance / cold / hall, / sweet / dew / wash / empty / green.
net / sleeve / follow / return / fly, / fragrant / sweat / abundant / treasure / millet.

(I actually haven't dissected this particular poem before, so please forgive any glaring inaccuracies.)

Most notable I think is the fact that Young appears not to have understood the first line: how can the actual window-screens be carved from jade? What the line is actually saying is that the window frames (or edges of folding screens) are made from carved jade, i.e., the screens on the windows are fastened with jade, presumably as opposed to wooden frames. Young also did not appear to understand the line about the well water, which is understandable, as I also had to look it up. It turns out that wells lined with lead were believed to provide the best water. (Thankfully most ostentatious displays of wealth no longer involve lead poisoning.) The "flowering water" likely refers either to water drawn at dawn or to water used for applying cosmetics (also frequently made with lead). I wouldn't be comfortable providing my own alternative translation, but I'll include a translation by J.D. Frodsham:

Carved jade heavy on screen-lintels,
Light gauze veils the open gates.
From leaden wells we draw the flowering water,
Our fans ornate with mandarin ducks and drakes.
Whirling snow dances through the Hall of Coolness,
Sweet dew washes the emerald air,
Silken sleeves are wheeling and hovering,
The fragrant sweat that soaks them, jewels of grain.

Mandarin ducks, which mate monogamously for life, are common symbols of romantic longevity, hence the saying, "only envy mandarin ducks, don't envy immortals" (只羡鸳鸯不羡仙).

Finally we have Li Shangyin. Young noted that the "first difficulty for Western translators and readers in approaching Li [Shangyin]'s poems lies in their unusually extensive use of allusion," because "the networks of imagery in his poems usually depend for their fullest meaning on the reader's recognition of references to familiar stories from history and the popular imagination." (This would be a great example of where to use footnotes, just saying.) Young actually included an excellent example of how "dissection translation" works—a colleague's literal translation ("once chose[n] for presentation to a translation class as an example of an untranslatable poem") of the poem 《牡丹》 (peony), which Young himself titled "A Riddle and a Gift":

Brocade curtain just unrolled, Lady of Wei.
Embroidered coverlet still heaped, Lord Ngo of Yueh.
"Hanging Hands" wildly dangle carved jade-girdle.
"Bending Waist" energetically flutter saffron-colored skirt.
Shih household wax candles when ever trimmed?
Hsun secretary's incense burner when needed perfume?
I am in dreams handed talent brush.
Want to write flowers leaves send morning clouds.

Not how I'd have "dissected" it, personally (and I'm not going to, if for no other reason than I'm running out of room), but I digress.

Young explained the poem as "both a love poem and a complex set of tropes that attempt to portray a peony" (why change the title, then?). The original poem:

錦幃初卷衞夫人⑴，繡被猶堆越鄂君⑵。
垂手亂翻雕玉佩⑶，折腰爭舞鬱金裙⑷。
石家蠟燭何曾剪⑸，荀令香爐可待燻⑹。
我是夢中傳彩筆⑺，欲書花葉寄朝雲⑻。

The references are tricky: alluding to the story of a "beautiful but wicked" concubine who met with Kong-fuzi while concealed behind a curtain (line 1); alluding to the story of a lord so moved by a boatman's singing that he embraced him and wrapped him in his embroidered coverlet (line 2); referencing popular dances, implying the lady could be detected by the sound of jade pendants, connecting the saffron skirt to the coverlet (lines 3-4); apparently referencing a household so wealthy they didn't need to trim their candles (line 5); referencing Xun Yu (荀彧), a statesman allegedly so virtuous that, when he went somewhere, the place smelled of incense for three days (line 6); referencing Jiang Yan (江淹), a 5th century poet to whom Guo Pu (郭璞) appeared in a dream to retrieve his magical writing brush, after which Jiang Yan never again wrote well (line 7); probably referencing King Huai of Chu (楚怀王), who dreamed he had sex with a goddess who told him she was the morning clouds (line 8). Young said that the poem is also a portrait of a peony, which is itself "an elaborate compliment (and complement) to the lady, a gift to her and a mirror of her beauty": a very elegant riddle.

Young's translation:

A brocade curtain parts: there's
the legendary beauty, Madame Wei!

embroidered quilts, meantime,
still cloak the boatman's shoulders

or think of the slow dance, Hanging Hands,
and carved jade dangling from a sash and the fast dance, Bending Waist,
with a fluttering saffron skirt!

colors flaring from candles
a rich man never thinks to trim

and fragrance like that of the holy man
who needed no incense or perfume...

I dreamed I was that poor poet
who got hold of a genius' brush:

wanting to create such leaves, such blooms,
that I could send to you my lady of dawn clouds,
my peony.

Great.

In conclusion: how do I feel about Young's translations of these poems? Well, I'll close with a line from the man himself:

I have turned a bird that has been often translated as a cuckoo or nightingale into an American counterpart, the whippoorwill.

I think that speaks for itself.

kaitlynloftus's review

adventurous inspiring reflective medium-paced

5.0

Oh what I would give (besides years of diligent study) to be able to read these poets in their original glory... 

_cristina's review

5.0

Blue water
burning moon

on South Lake
he gathers lilies

the lotus flowers
whisper

the lone boatman
sighs

iceangel9's review

4.0

This is an excellent representation of five famous Chinese poets: Wang Wei, Li Po, Tu Fu, Li Ho, Li Shang-Yin. None of these poets specialize in haiku, this is real Chinese poetry beautifully translated. A wonderful introduction to these five great artists.