I translate poetry because I cannot resist its charm, and because I wish others who do not know the language in which it is written can also appreciate its beauty. The translator’s ego is big here despite the good will, but the process turns out to be most humbling especially when it comes to “reverse translation,” that is, from Mandarin—my mother tongue—to English (Ekaterina Petrova). In order to render MA Hui’s contemporary rewriting of Tsangyang Gyatso’s seventeenth-century poems while sustaining “the integrity of the source culture,” as Bill Johnson would say, I need to “humbly and practically” learn the other language (Gayatri C. Spivak). I study the anatomy of English poetry—reading Mary Oliver’s A Poetry Handbook and consulting other poets, for instance—when translating MA Hui in order to choose the most appropriate figures of speech, mechanisms of spacing, punctuating, and rhyming for the English version. This process of translation is a journey toward otherness. (See the seven translated poems in Ellipses, No. 91-92. 2021.)
Poetry is only untranslatable when the translator forsakes her power of creating poetry. In other words, to a translator, it is a myth that poetry is untranslatable. The charm of poetry owns to its specific, provincial linguistic and cultural identity. To sustain the poetic charm in a new language, the translator needs to break free from the linguistic confinement of the original to reproduce the artistic magnetism in a new form. The translator is the Muse of universes here, clapping her hands to rearrange “the alphabet of particles” so that she can rebuild a new poetic space (Alice Major). She may let go in her creation some alliterations, sibilance, or metaphors loaded with cultural specificities, but she takes care to keep the soul of the original poem alive and makes sure that it is also appealing to the readers of the new language.
When translating my own poem, “Also a Stranger,” I see myself rewriting some lines. Instead of saying “postmodern space/is ravaged and fragmented,” I have “The desire to conquer ravages/our home, sweet home.” I need “postmodern” to articulate the criticism in the Mandarin version but find that—along with the passive voice—it harms the poetic nature of the English verses. “The desire to conquer” would suffice instead in the English context as it conjures up colonization in readers’ mind. Self-translation, in this case, highlights the translator’s role as a poet.
Also a Stranger
by Leilei Chen
— written in response to Xi Murong’s “A Stranger” poem
It’s a mystery if making peace
with myself is possible in my lifetime
But I know it becomes easier to let go
although the wings of my dream are still fluttering
and the love in my heart still warm
I become a stranger because I wish
to remain curious, because
I am displaced
But isn’t this foreign home part of the journey
of making peace with myself?
Like the Journey to the West
questing for the holy text
Devils and monsters stand in the way
and dark forces towering
But the mirror of turquoise lakes mesmerizes,
the songs of running creeks invigorate,
the fingers of rainbows caress,
the mountains of wild flowers are inviting
The desire to conquer ravages
our home, sweet home
The peach blossom paradise shatters
into pieces of iceberg melting
We flee like helpless little beasts,
enduring many hardships,
seeking another home, until finally
we all become strangers in a new home
Year after year nostalgia is the only bloom
like a cut flower a lonely tree
surviving in different territories as a transplant
I dream I dream that Metaverse promises
a peach blossom paradise where we’re making peace
with ourselves until next lifetime
也是异乡人
by Leilei Chen 莫译
——读席慕蓉诗《异乡人》
与自我的和好 在今生
还不知晓是否可能
只是已经没有那么多
非要不可
虽然 虽然
梦的翅膀依然轻盈
爱的情怀温暖依旧
是源于无知 也是
源于时空错置 谁知道
身在异乡不是
走在与自我和好的山径
一如去西天求经
妖魔鬼怪挡道
暗黑力量当头
却也见 也见
碧湖如镜 河溪蜿蜒
彩虹伸手可触
转眼间山花满坡
后现代的时空
被征服欲蹂躏 肢解
相忘于江湖的桃花源
变异成渐渐消融的冰川
你我像惊慌失措的小兽
颠沛流离
去找寻另一个家园
最后 我们就都成了异乡人
悲伤年年盛放
如花 如一棵孤独的树
因插枝而在不同的地界存活
亲爱的，告诉我
元宇宙是不是桃花源的模样
能让我们继续与自己和好
哪怕 在来世
(Note: The Mandarin version of the poem is published in WePoetry.)