Another Li Bai Translation

長干行

妾髮初覆額, 折花門前劇; 郎騎竹馬來, 繞床弄青梅.
同居長干里, 兩人無縑猜:
十四為君婦, 羞顏未嘗開; 低頭向暗壁, 千喚不一回.　
十五始展眉, 願同塵與灰; 常存抱柱信, 豈上望夫臺.　
十六君遠行, 瞿塘灩澦堆; 五月不可觸, 猿聲天上哀.　
門前舊行跡, 一一生綠苔; 苔深不能掃, 落葉秋風早.　
八月蝴蝶來, 雙飛西園草; 感此傷妾心, 坐愁紅顏老.　
早晚下三巴, 預將書報家; 相迎不道遠, 直至長風沙.

*Literal Translation*

Letter from a Wife - Li Bai

When my hair first touched my forehead,
I snapped some flowers to play in front of the door;
You were riding on a bambo stick, playing horse
And whirled around the green plums to game with me.
We both lived in the same village,
Our childhood innocent, without suspicion;
When I was fourteen I became your wife,
I was shy and unopen.
I only lowered my head to the wall,
And though you called a thousand times, I did not once reply;
By fifteen I opened my brows,
And was willing to live with you as dust and ash.
I held on to you with a forceful grip,
So whywould I stand by the Waiting Rock?
When I was sixteen you had to travel far,
To a grand canyon with violent waters;
In May the waters were untouchable,
The roaring sound of the monkeys moaned to the heavens.
In front of the door are your late footprints,
All of them now grow moss;
The moss is deep and cannot be swept,
The falling leaves indicate early autumn.
In August the butterflies are yellow,
In pairs fly towards the western fields;
I am saddened by this scenery,
And this sadness has aged my former bloom.
If in the morning or in the evening you are nearing home,
Write me beforehand;
I would not welcome you far from our home,
But at least at Chang-Feng-Sa.

*My Translation*

When my bangs first kiss'd my virgin brows,
I played at the gate with snapp'd flowers;
You came, my knight, riding your stick,
And shower'd me with jaded plums.
We dwelled before the same old hills,
Both innocent, without suspicions:
At fourteen I became your wife,
But, being shy, I hid my colours;
My lowered gaze was fix'd on the wall,
I turned not from a thousand calls.
At fifteen you had touch'd my brows,
Our souls had fused like ash and dust;
My e'eryday joy was fix'd on you,
Need I be a second Dido?
At sixteen, duty summon'd you
To journey by the foaming river;
How the untouchable May waters
Echoed the wild moans of the monkeys!

Before the gates are your late footsteps,
All of them now covered with moss,
No simple sweep can clear them now.
O! Autumn brings the showering leaves
And a pair of golden butterflies,
Weaving their way to the Western fields;
I, saddened by this scenery,
Can feel my colours slowly fading.
If you shall return by night or day,
Please let me know...
I shall not wait far from our home,
But on the old hills near our dwelling.

On Tennyson

Last night I spent about an hour memorizing the opening part of Tennyson's In Memoriam. After memorizing that, I don't believe I will have anything profound to say for a long while. This is the portion I've memorized (I don't quite remember the correct punctuation):

Strong son of God, Immortal Love,
Whom we, that have not seen thy face,
By fath, and faith alone, embrace,
Believing where we cannot prove.

Thine are the orbs of light and shade,
Thou madest Life in man and brute;
Thou madest Death, and lo! Thy foot
Is on the skull which thou hast made.

Thou wilt not leave us in the dust,
Thou madest man, he knows not why;
He thinks he was not made to die,
And thou has made him, thou art just.

Thou seemest human and divine,
The highest, holiest manhood, thou;
Our wills are ours, we know not how,
Our wills are ours, to make them thine.

Our little systems have their day,
They have their day and cease to be:
They are but broken lights of thee,
And thou, O Lord, art not just they.

We have but faith, we cannot know,
For knowledge is of things we see;
And yet we trust it comes from thee,
A beam in darkness, let it grow!

Let knowledge grow from more to more,
But more of reverence, in us dwell;
That mind and soul, according well,
May make one music, as before,

But vaster! We are fools and slight.
We mock thee when we do not fear:
But help thy foolish ones to bear,
Help thy vain worlds to bear thy light.

Forgive what seem'd my sin in me,
What seem'd my worth as I began;
For merit lives from man to man,
And not from man, O Lord, to thee.

Forgive my grief in one removed,
Thy creature, whom I found so fair;
I trust he lives in thee, and there
I find him worthier to be loved.

Forgive the wild and wandering cries,
Confusions of a wasted youth;
Forgive them if they fail in truth,
And in thy wisdom make me wise.

A Brief Thought

For the longest time I have been trying to make the distinction between music and poetry - no, not the superficial distinction that music is sound and poetry is language, because music is language and poetry is sound. But I think I've finally understand the difference:

- Poetry is thoughts defamiliarized
- Music is the unity of consciousness.

The Art of the Sonnet

I

O Poet of the Sonnet! What will you
Pick as your subject for your simple song?
What seeds of rhymes or imageries are strong
Enough to blossom a sonnet true?
Shall we sing of Dull Dunce and his crude crew?
Or of the falling towers of Hong Kong?
Or hum a little country tune, among
The grazing sheep - a song of simple hue?

No! Let us sing, in a higher, nobler fashion,
Of universal things: unfold your plan,
O Poet! Plant the seeds, and let them thrive:
How worldly Men engage the fruits of passion,
How mighty God subdue the pride of Satan,
How feeble Man inquires the riddles of Life...

II

In soils of love, our Muses' favourite ground,
So many sonnets effortlessly grow.
With earthly symbols Earth does overflow,
But few in th'earth of heaven can be found.
'Tis the task of the poet to unbound
Love from its worldly chains, and let it glow
Above all human toils like the rainbow
That dissipates into silence profound.

But soils of loss are also fertile for bloom,
For oft the hands of Death collect the young;
Untimely partings all friendships consume,
Left one singing, and th'other to be sung.
So love and loss the sonnet form assume:
The grieving poet mimes the Muses' tongue.

III

Devoid of light, concentrated in hate,
Ebbed from innocence and drowned by pride,
From Satan's mind (which rage and pain divide)
A sonnet can easily germinate;
But he at best can only imitate
A deformed sonnet that speaks from th'inside
Of his soul, where the grace of God is denied
And is replaced by a violent debate.

Hail holy Light! Thy radiance shall bring
The nourishment for the budding rhymes;
Great poems shall flourish in Thy holy will.
So Michael, heavenly archangel, sing!
Sing, to the harmonies of the wind chimes,
A loving sonnet craft'd with artful skill.

IV

How easy for the soul, immune to Time,
To think itself as immortal; yet when
The cold rain batters through the bones of men,
The soul quivers in mortality's slime.
But blooming sonnets see Death as sublime
And wish for th'unbearable rain again
In order to fuel the Poet's pen
To find his immortality through rhyme.

And many do become poetic gods
Though never solved the enigmas of Life:
Does Fate depend on favourable odds?
Do righteous souls live without inner strife?
Our Poets exist to give these thoughts a voice;
The sonnet form reflects their god-like choice.

V

Bloom then, O Sonnet! Bloom to match all Springs!
You, sprouting in plenty of fertile soil,
Growing through the darkness of wintry toil,
Drinking the rain that early Zephyrus brings,
Become the voice with which the Poet sings!
Create then, O Poet! Do not recoil
From fear of unforeseeable turmoil,
For Fortune lies beyond the face of things:

'Tis not for Fame that poets sonnets write –
No mortal fame impels immortal verse.
Let Intellectual Love be the guiding Light –
The deathless soul embarks th'endless traverse;
And let Imagination take its flight –
The singly mind unites th'entire universe.

A Dialogue Between Ego and Id

To Dr. Sirluck - I have learn too much from her

Sup. The clock strikes ten; 'tis time for class to start,
So sit up straight and pretend to be smart.
Ego How lost I am at Byron's noble lines,
So I must, when Doctor Sirluck divines
The essence of the poem, take careful notes
And write my essay with abundant quotes.
Id Oh why must you spend many nights so long
To erect a reading that's completely wrong?
Why not go and live Don Juan's life
And sleep by Haidee's bosom without strife?
Ego Because I live in a capitalistic world
Where straight A's are better than hair uncurl'd.
Now quit bugging me with your useless comment;
And go back to your repressed imprisonment.
Sup. 'Tis ten-thirty, 'tis midway through the class.
Id O! Be not rude and speak not like an ass;
Just leave this class, and I shall gladly take
You to the places where there's ice-cream cake,
All creamy, melting, dripping down the chest
Of –
Ego Shut up! Shut up! I did not request
No story from you! Now quit distracting me!
O! Let me take my notes and let me be!
Id O Why does every time the Redcrosse knight
Draws his huge sword to fight for Una's plight?
Why do the Baron's scissors seem to cut
A lock of hair that's near the lady's butt?
Ego Why? Why? Why? Why must you misquote the tale
To achieve your own purpose without fail?
And why must you distract me every class,
With many untimely thoughts you must harass?
O! All I want is one undisturbed hour:
From a pow'rful teacher learn poetry's pow'r!
O! My Id! Why deny me of what I seek?
My Superego! Why dost thou not speak?
Sup. 'Tis ten-fifty. Your essay's due next week.

Another Translation of Li Bai's poetry

怨情 - 李白

美人卷珠簾，
深坐蹙蛾眉。
但見淚痕濕，
不知心恨誰？

*Literal Translation*

Resentful Sentiment - Li Bai

Pretty woman rolled up a pearl veil,
Deeply sitting with knotted eyebrows.
But I see markings of tears,
Who does she resent in her heart?

*My Translation*

A Pearl behind the lifted veil
Who knits a pair of knotted brows;
Her cheeks with veins of tears prevail:
What sparked her resentment - who knows?

Translation of two Chinese Poems

静夜思 - 李白

床前明月光，
疑是地上霜，
舉頭望明月，
低頭思故鄉。

*Literal Translation*

Thoughts of a Quiet Night - Li Bai

Before the bed is the bright moon,
Wondering if what is on the ground is frost,
Lift up the head to see the moon,
Lower the head to ponder on the village.

*My Translation*

Bedside, below the silver moon,
I silently gaze at the morning frost,
Above my head the midnight noon,
Beneath my thoughts my village lost.

獨坐敬亭山 - 李白

眾鳥高飛盡，
孤雲獨去閑。
相看兩不厭，
只有敬亭山。

*Literal Translation*

Sitting alone on Jingting Hill

Flocks of birds all fly away high,
The lone cloud journeys on its own.
Both not tired of looking on
That can be only Jingting hill and I.

*My Translation*

The crowding birds soar high away,
The wand'ring cloud to promenade.
All that's left to reflect my gaze
Is Jingting Hill, noble, unafraid.

Reflections on Strauss' Der Rosenkavalier

On Saturday I spent my entire late afternoon (3.5 hours) watching from beginning to the end of Richard Strauss' opera Der Rosenkavalier (The Knight of the Rose).

I will begin by noting that I watched the entire opera without subtitles, so really I don't have a clue of what the singers are saying. In one way this is bad, because I don't know what's going on. On the other hand, in hindsight I am very happy that I did not have the subtitle because it forces me to really pay attention to the music. After the opera, I went online to check the synopsis and found that I was mostly right in the plot, so not having the dialogues wasn't so bad. But I found Strauss' music is really expressive. The overture of the opera in Act I is charming, delightful, light-heartedly Mozartian. The love-duet at the beginning of Act II is especially moving. The finale, of course, is another wonderful love-duet.

After watching Strauss' opera, I begin to realize Wagner's artistic vision. I used to think that it's stupid to write an opera that is a "continuous" melody that lasts for four hours. But now I understand: Wagner's "music drama" is to be a complete synthesis of all the major arts: music, poetry, drama and visual art. All three arts are created so that they are interconnected and form an entirely whole. Too sadly I could not understand the lyrics, but the love duets, the acting, elabourate costume and the music makes it all perfect: as I reflect upon it, I cannot imagine it being done otherwise, nor can it be done any better. Art, in Wagner's vision, transcends the everyday politics - I suppose this is why Wagner set his Ring Cycle back in old German mythology.

It is a vision that modern art now lacks - people are too feeble and afraid to come up with their own visions: they fear that they will offend people here and there. And it is true - I now too become conscious (perhaps overconscious) of political issues and am beginning to be afraid to hold up my views - it can be so easily seen as a kind of cultural rape if we are not careful.

But I must transcend this paralysis...I must become a Wagner, a Strauss, to combine all forms of art (not physically, but metaphorically) into my own vision.

Clarification and beyond

It seems that the anonymous reader who commented on the last entry completely misunderstood my point. (Perhaps I did not express it clearly enough.) The issue has nothing to do with entertainment value. Of course it is good entertainment value, and most people, including myself, do watch a movie for its entertainment value. The problem is that when somebody who does not understand the film begins to make value judgement anyway, then I must ask that person: how can he justify his judgement? It is a mistake we frequently do, when we center ourselves in the universe. If you are going to watch for entertainment - fine, but don't comment on how the imitation of Bruce Lee is old and boring: you don't even know why the director did that. At the same time, do not condemned (yes, I think it is a condemnation) the film to be an action film and sell it as the ultimate kung-fu movie, and Chow a master of kung-fu movies: the film is not about kung-fu. Do not pretend your own categories to be universal and apply them to everything, because you don't have a clue of what is going on outside of your little world. I do not criticize the audience who wants entertainment, but those who promotes the movie (the critics) and markets it (the commerical cooperations).

[implications to be filled in by the readers]*

[Perhaps one might appeal to the whole "I have the right to voice my opinion" thing: fine, be that way. That is despicable - one has just lost all my respect for him, for he has disrespected the artist and another culture.]

O! Untimely Meditation! The implication of what I have just said causes unspeakable agony and anger in me: either somebody silence me, or I shall silence myself.

*Note: I have previously contemplated on the full implications of my clarification. However, since the words are too angry, I will only keep them to myself. Think a little, and perhaps you too can come to the implications yourself.

Stephen Chow and Postmodernism

Stephen Chow's movie "Kung-Fu Hustle" is now in the theaters of America, and the comments given by American critics are very interesting. Many hailed Chow as a master of kung-fu movies. His combination of the kung-fu and the comedy surpasses the movies of Jackie Chan. There was one comment which said that Chow's imitation of Bruce Lee is old and boring. On the whole, however, reviews are positive. The commercial for the movie (on channel 32 the other day) was even more interesting. It shows all the kung-fu fighting scenes, especially all those that parodies American movies like "The Matrix". With all the fight scenes, the first impression of the film one would get is that it is a very violent movie.

I think the Americans, from reading the reviews and watching the commercial, completely missed the point of the movie. "Kung-Fu Hustle" is not about kung-fu; I think it is about cultural nostalgia. In fact, I think the entire film is about cultural nostalgia and cultural identity. Like Chow's previous movie "Shaolin Soccer", the element of kung-fu is simply a way of expressing the real hybrid of the West and the East of HongKong culture. Kung-fu plays an important part of HongKong culture because China has been exoticized by citizens of HongKong when the Communists sealed off from the world at large. The element of fighting is arguably not primary in the film (although it is definitely necessary). So for the Americans to talk about how wonder the fighting and the graphics are is to completely miss the point of the film and turning it into a mere commerical produce, attracting audience with its violent excitations, typical of American culture.

This really gets me to think about the aim of postmodernism: as Gayita Spivak said, how dare we think we can actually understand other cultures! It is from this case I really see just how arrogant we can be when we entirely center our culture as THE value-system. Of course, once we open up this door way, there is nothing to prevent other groups from making the same judgement. When we apply this to literature, we can see why we need to dissolve or open up the Canon. Within the Western culture there is much tension from other minority groups: women writers, writers from the lower class, coloured writers, etc etc. Our ground now shakes, for how do we know just how many Stephen Chow's are out there writing brilliant works which get missinterpreted and miscommericalized?

"Kung-Fu Hustle" is a remarkable movie. A much more mature work than Shaolin Soccer, it is a beautiful reflection of HongKong culture, at least back in the 1960's. On the other hand, for the American viewer, just how exactly can he/she approach such a culturally personal work? I am very much baffled by this postmodern question.

Distinction of Emotional Expressions

Here is an interesting question we can all ask each other and (especially) ourselves:

Do you say what you mean, or do you say what you feel, or do you simply say nothing? I think this is a distinction between three kinds of emotions. Certainly this is very different from Eliot's distinction of "attachment, detachment and indifference", for Eliot's distinction is far to abstract; or I suppose Eliot's distinction has to do with an internal state, while I'm interested in the ways of expressing emotions through language.

If you say what you mean, then you are probably one of those who are haunted by the deepest emotions in the most unconscious or subconscious ways. With every word you say it is as carefully chosen as possible, which at times can take away its passion and energy. Language becomes part of you: you are what you say, and you will perhaps often strike your friend with remarks you make in a subtle way. When a raw passion is bothering you, you would reason your way out by continuously stepping outside of yourself - voice countering voice countering voice. Little do you know the conclusions you draw are no less logical and rational than what the unconscious or subconscious you desires irrationally. You are most emotional when you are most impeccably logical.

If you say what you feel, then you are probably one of those who is swayed by the slightest wind and making (sometimes imaginery) implications explicit. You do not think about what you are saying, and you blur them out in a heat of passion. Language is a tool for you to break this or fix that. You know, however, exactly what you are feeling and most times it is just a matter of calming down and "thinking rationally". You are proud of yourself and, in reflective moments, you might become conscious of it.

If you simply say nothing...Language is a childish game and truth is not for children. There are too many things you cannot say: some good, some bad; some so empty of meaning, some so pregnant with meaning. Or perhaps...

Professor Johnson's Comments on "Eroica"

My English professor, Dr. Lee Johnson, student of the great Robert Fagles, writes these comments:

"Eroica" is a tremendous effort - an interesting theme in the Golden Child and a virtuosity of composition in your English and Italian sonnet-forms, an ottava rima stanza, and finally a terza rima sonnet worthy of Shelley's Ode to the West Wind! You can see in part IV how I suggest an alternation to bring the rhythms back into a good flow, although most of your lines work well. Poetic ability means, first of all and mainly, the love of words and forms - and you show these qualities preeminently.

Thank you,

Lee Johnson

I am of course most happy to win the approval of my professor. My carefully designed virtuosic lines and forms are my tribute to his teaching. I am, however, disappointed that he did not comment on part III - but he is a busy man, so I should be happy with what I get.

PS - He made the following suggestion which I thought is interesting (line 40):
Original: "Prometheus, though committed a crime," (x \ x x x x \ x x \)
Suggestion: "Prometheus, though accused by Jove of crime," (x \ x x x \ x \ x\) - Prometheus is pronounced "Pro-meth-us"