Sunday, December 20, 2020

Judith Teixeira: "Adeus"

I'm up to my eyeballs in an editing gig, details of which I'll share at a later date, but I'm still reading Judith Teixeira. The more I read, the more I like her work. 

Here's a first-draft translation of her poem "Adeus." Her tone is deeply satisfying in its scornfulness, which in turn is undermined by her weakness for goodbyes. I think the poem could've been simply a brilliant dismissal, but by adding that extra dimension, Teixeira makes it all the more human. I love it.

If I don't write again before Yuletide or the New Year, happy holidays, folks. Enjoy the Winter Solstice.

DAS

 

"Adeus"
Judith Teixeira

Sim, vou partir.
E não levo saudade
de ninguém...
Nem em ti penso agora!...
Julgavas que a tristeza desta hora
fosse maior que a firme vontade
que eu pus em destruir
o luminoso fio de ternura
que me prendia ao teu olhar?...
Julgaste mal:
Eu sei amar,
mas meu amor,
o que eu não sei
é ser banal!

Mas porque vim eu escrever-te ainda?
nem eu sei!
Talvez somente
o hábito cortês da despedida
— e o habito faz lei!

Choro?!... Oh! sim, perdidamente!
Mas sabes tu, porque este pranto
assim amargo, e soluçado, vem?
É que na hora da partida
eu nunca pude sem chorar,
dizer adeus a ninguém!


Janeiro
1926

-----

"Goodbye"
Judith Teixeira

Yes, I'm leaving.
And I won't miss
anyone...
I'm not even thinking of you now!
Did you think that the sadness of this moment
would be greater than my firm intention
to destroy
the luminous thread of tenderness
that bound me to your gaze?...
You thought wrong:
I know how to love,
but darling,
what I don't know
is how to be ordinary!

But why am I still writing to you?
I don't even know!
Maybe it's only
the polite habit of saying farewell
— and habits make laws!

Do I cry?... Oh, yes, uncontrollably!
But do you know why these tears,
bitter as they are, and punctuated by sobs, well up?
It's because when it's time to leave
I could never say goodbye
to anyone without crying!

 
January
1926

Friday, October 30, 2020

Judith Teixeira: "Podes Ter os Amores que Quiseres…"

Here's another poem by Judith Teixeira. I find it somewhat sad, especially knowing that Teixeira probably wrote this about a woman she loved who could or would not return that love publicly, but the poem's sadness is outweighed by its determination—their love remains despite one of them renouncing it. Or perhaps that's wishful thinking on the poet's part; perhaps her beloved will, after all, move on to other people as suggested, but not retain that aching, coal-red love. Maybe this poem was written with that possibility in mind, as a sort of verbal talisman to ward off such an occurrence. I don't know enough Judith Teixeira to say.

DAS

 

"Podes Ter os Amores que Quiseres…"
Judith Teixeira

Podes dizer que me não amas,
sim, podes dizê-lo,
e o mundo acreditar,
porque só eu saberei
que mentes!

Eu estou na tua alma
como a flama
que devora sob a cinza
as brasas dormentes...
   
Não creias no remorso
- o remorso não existe!
O que tu sentes
e o que em ti subsiste,
são o rubor da minha ternura
e a chama do meu amor
que em ti
nunca foram ausentes!...

Não julgues, não, que me esqueceste,
porque mentes a ti mesmo
se o disseres…
Podes ter os amores que quiseres,
que o teu amor por mim,
como uma dor latente e compungida,
há-de acompanhar sempre
a tua e a minha vida!

-----


"You Can Have the Lovers You Want..."
Judith Teixeira

You can say you don't love me,
yes, you can say it,
and the world will believe it,
because only I will know
you're lying!

I'm in your soul
like the flame
that devours the dormant coals
under the ashes...

Don't believe in remorse
— remorse doesn't exist!
What you feel
and what remains in you,
is the flush of my affection
and the flame of my love
which never left
you!...

No, don't think you've forgotten me, no,
because you're lying to yourself
if you say as much...
You can have the lovers you want,
since your love for me,
like a latent, throbbing pain,
will forever be part of
your life and mine!



Thursday, October 22, 2020

"upon hearing that Kerouac died fifty years ago yesterday"

Christ, I'm bad at anniversaries. I wrote this poem last year, and I've edited it a few times since. Earlier this week I remembered the anniversary of Jack Kerouac's death was coming up and meant to share this on time, but no dice. At least I posted it on the anniversary of writing it, for whatever that's worth.

Now would be the time to share some thoughts on Kerouac, but it's late and the poem says enough for the time being. Take it easy, folks.

DAS

-----

"upon hearing that Kerouac died fifty years ago yesterday"

Ti Jean drank his way outta here
50 years ago yesterday.
I wonder: was it
coming face to face with
the no-comfort of the Dharma?
Back to the bottle and Mother Mary
when it became clear that
all there was to rest upon
was emptiness?

I understand, Jack
and I forgive you for it.
Death and Florida
are sometimes all you can hope for
and the three marks of existence
can make for one sad hollow
flesh trip.

Hope you're safe in heaven dead
and I wish this world
hadn't been so eager
to show its ugly true face.


10.22.19

Saturday, October 17, 2020

Dungeon Crawling, Heavy Metal: Throne of Iron's "Adventure One"

Getting folks together to play Dungeons & Dragons or another tabletop RPG is always a chore these days, and by "these days" I mean "ever since college." The pandemic has made things somewhat easier for those who play over Zoom, something I haven't tried yet but probably will, sooner or later. Still, ever since I started playing in 1989 or 1990—I never remember which year it was, but it was fifth grade—one of the biggest appeals of the game, and role-playing in general, was reading the rulebooks and setting material and writing up all the characters, places, and events you might someday use in an adventure. As it turns out, the solitary side of what's meant to be a social pastime is as meaningful and fun as playing the game itself! Well, kinda; during all that time spent drawing dungeon maps and creating NPCs, you always hope you'll get to put it into action with some friends after school or on a Friday night, sharing a pizza, a two-liter of soda or a sixer of beer, a bunch of dice, and, inevitably, one measly pencil sharpener.

My experience with heavy metal parallels my D&D career, and is probably similar to a lot of other metalheads'. You get into metal at an age when music is just starting to mean something—entertainment, the source of a burgeoning identity, emotional catharsis, you name it—and it just makes sense. It fuckin' rules. If you're lucky, you have a metalhead friend or two with whom to share the experience, first of listening to shared albums and then going to shows, but it's basically a solo endeavor. If going to concerts is like playing D&D with a proper group, listening to metal records in your bedroom is like reading the Dungeon Master's Guide or the Cyclopedia of the Realms and figuring out what magic items to put in the stash the PCs will find if they don't fuck up too badly. (This is something you'd likely do, of course, while listening to heavy metal in your bedroom, so the comparison is even more apt, I'd say.)

It goes without saying that heavy metal and D&D have a long shared history. Orcus only knows how many metal records contain songs about the band's player characters, or how many D&D monsters and villains have been inspired by metal.  Throne of Iron, however, is one of the few bands that puts the D&D connection front and center, which is one of the things that drew me to them. The band's logo uses the distinctive font from the BECMI D&D boxed sets from the '80s, they've released four singles in the "Roll for Metal" series, which utilize randomly-generated riffs and lyrics, and Adventure One, the band's first full-length, plays out like a D&D adventure, complete with a Dungeon Master, the clatter of dice, and player commentary (The disappointed "fuck" when someone makes a shitty roll for initiative is something we've all uttered.) The combination feels natural, and the somewhat jokey gameplay elements don't detract from the musical at all. Hell, it's all just fun. Watch the "Lichspire" video and you'll see what I mean.

Throne of Iron, you'll be shocked to learn, plays heavy metal in the traditional early '80s vein (which you'll have figured out if you watched the video I linked to a sentence ago.) Think Manilla Road, maybe, with less distinctive vocals, but don't worry about comparisons too much. It's not ground-breaking, but it doesn't try, or need, to be. It's just good, solid, heavy metal full of reliable riffs, mid-tempo chugging, and that admirable quality of being equally worth listening to carefully while you're rolling up stats for that sentient magic sword, or putting on in the background while your party sets out to cleanse the lair of a long-dead wizard of the gelatinous cubes who've moved in. 

So grab a Lone Star—or whatever cheap local beer they drink in Bloomington, Indiana, where Throne of Iron is from—and your dice bag, put on Adventure One at a suitable volume, and enjoy the best of what D&D and heavy metal have to offer. Whether you're alone or with friends, you'll have fun, which is something everyone from the lowliest nerd to the most beer-fueled hesher needs in these dark days. 

May all your 20s be natural, dudes, and long live heavy metal!

Thursday, October 08, 2020

"Outonais" por Judith Teixeira

Howdy, y'all. Apologies for the silence, but as you can probably imagine, given the overall tenor of 2020, time moves strangely and most of my attention has been elsewhere. After all, America is still being ravaged by COVID-19 due to a toxic combination of zero leadership, willful ignorance, and the stupidest form of individualism imaginable, and there's a fascist threatening to remain in the White House if and when his manque Baron Harkonnen ass is voted out, so I've been trying to stay healthy and do what I can to keep this country from gleefully sliding into an abyss lorded over by an even worse assortment of Bible-thumpers, capitalist vampires, and emotionally wounded reactionary swine than we already have.

Those same wretched figures, albeit in older Portuguese forms, appear to have ruined the career of Judith Teixeira (AKA Judite dos Reis Ramos Teixeira). A poet, writer, and publisher of a short-lived magazine called Europa, Teixeira's works were denounced by the Action League of Lisbon Students (Liga de Acção dos Estudantes de Lisboa)—a name that reeks of the particularly awful conservatism of the young—and subsequently ordered to be burned by the Lisbon government. 

Why, you may ask, did these miserable children dislike Teixeira? Because she numbered among "the decadent artists, the poets of Sodom, the publishers, authors, and sellers of immoral books" due to lesbian subtext in her work. Judith Teixeira went on to live in obscurity until her death in 1959 at the age of 79. In a better world than ours, where people weren't slaves to rigid notions of family, country, and god, she may have gone on to write a lot more, and maybe even made a long-standing impact on LGBTQ literature in Portugal. Sadly, we'll never know.

I only recently learned of Teixeira's work, so I don't know if anyone else has translated her into English, but here's one of her poems, chosen for its seasonal relevance. I intend to translate more, too.

If you live in the US, go vote ASAP, and be prepared to step up if things get ugly after November 3. No matter where you live, remember that anti-fascism should be your default political position. If it isn't, ask yourself why, and fix it.

Abraço,
DAS

-----

"Outonais"
Judith Teixeira

No meu peito alvo, de neve,
as claras pétalas dos teus dedos,
finas e alongadas,
tombaram como rosas desfolhadas
à luz espásmica e fria
deste entardecer...
E o meu corpo sofre,
ébrio de luxúria, um mórbido prazer!

A cor viva dos teus beijos,
meu amor,
prolonga ainda mais o meu tormento,
na trágica dor
deste desvestir loiro e desolado
do Outono...
Repara agora, como o sol morre
num agónico sorrir
doloroso e lento!...

........................

Noite... um abismo...
sombras de medo!
Tumultuam mais alto os teus desejos!
Sobe o clamor do meu delírio
e a brasa viva dos teus beijos,
num rúbido segredo,
vai-me abrindo a carne em sulcos de martírio!


Entardecer — Janeiro
1925

 

-----

 

"Autumnal"
Judith Teixeira


On my snow-white breast,
the pale petals of your fingers,
long and slender,
fall like plucked roses
in the cold and spasmodic light
of this late afternoon...
And my body suffers,
drunk on lust, a morbid pleasure!

The bright color of your kisses,
my love,
further prolongs my torment,
in the tragic pain
of this blonde and bereft undressing
of Autumn...
See now how the sun dies
with an agonized smile,
painful and slow!...

........................

Night... an abyss...
Frightful shadows!
Your desires in a greater uproar!
The clamor of my delirium rises
and the glowing coal of your kisses,
in a red secret,
opens my flesh in furrows of martyrdom!

 

Sunset — January

1925

Monday, September 07, 2020

"Violoncelo" por Camilo Pessanha

Today, 7 September, marks the 153rd birthday of Camilo Pessanha. To mark the occasion, here's a draft translation of his poem "Violoncelo." This particular version of the poem comes from the edition of Clepsidra edited by Paulo Franchetti; another version (also present in Franchetti's book) has a couple different words and different punctuation.

It's also Labor Day here in the United States. Last last year I celebrated by joining the National Writers Union, and I encourage you to unionize as well, since the bosses ain't gonna give us anything out of the goodness of their hearts—we gotta fight for it, and the only way to do that successfully is when we organize.

Enjoy the poem, folks. Até próxima.

D.A.S.

---

"Violoncelo"
Camilo Pessanha

Chorai, arcadas
Do violoncelo,
Convulsionadas.
Pontes aladas
De pesadelo...

De que esvoaçam,
Brancos, os arcos.
Por baixo passam,
Se despedaçam,
No rio, os barcos.

Fundas, soluçam
Caudais de choro.
Que ruínas, ouçam...
Se se debruçam,
Que sorvedouro!

Lívidos astros,
Soidões lacustres...
Lemes e mastros...
E os alabastros
Dos balaústres!

Urnas quebradas.
Blocos de gelo!
Chorai, arcadas

Do violoncelo,
Despedaçadas...


-----


"Cello"
Camilo Pessanha

Weep, arcades,
at the cello,
Convulsing,
winged bridges of
nightmare...

From which flutter,
white, the arches...
On the river below,
boats pass,
and break apart.

Deep within, they sob
rivers of tears.
What ruins, listen...
they lean over,
what an abyss!

Livid blue stars,
Lakeside solitudes...
Rudders and masts...
And the alabaster
of the balusters!

Broken urns.
Blocks of ice!
Weep, arcades,
shattered,
at the cello.

Monday, August 17, 2020

To Serve God in Holy Freedom

The book I've spent nearly the last three years working on with my friend and colleague Daniel Michon, of Claremont McKenna College in California, has finally been published. To Serve God in Holy Freedom: The Brief Rebellion of the Nuns of the Royal Convent of Santa Mónica, Goa, India, 1731–1734 is primarily a translation of a lengthy complaint to the authorities in Rome and the King of Portugal about Ignácio de Santa Teresa, the archbishop of Goa. There's also an introduction written mostly by Daniel, a preface by Timothy Coates, who translated the well-known Portuguese treatise Diálogo do Soldado Prático into English, and a transcription of the original text, which I frankly am shocked that we managed to translate as well as we did. It's a wildly idiosyncratic writing style even by contemporary standards.

Alas, since this is an academic book, it bears an academic price tag. You can order it here, but I don't blame you if you don't. Books should never be that expensive, even those aimed at institutions and libraries instead of individuals. At some point in the next few months we'll make it open access, but for now, dear reader, you're stuck paying through the nose.

I'll write more about Soror Magdalena, the archbishop, and 18th century Goa later. Take it easy, folks.

Yours,
DAS

Saturday, August 08, 2020

"Viola chinesa" por Camilo Pessanha

It's been a while since I translated a Camilo Pessanha poem, so here's "Viola chinesa". The viola in question, if you go by the images you get when you Google the phrase, is most likely a 琵琶 pipa, AKA the "Chinese lute."

I wish I knew the circumstances under which Pessanha heard the instrument, since the poem seems to juxtapose two elements: the sound of the pipa, and whatever dull conversation he's stuck having when he hears it. I doubt he was chatting with Cantonese-speaking locals, but rather Macau's stuffy, provincial Portuguese administrators and their families, or maybe the local Macanese, neither of which group would have serenaded their guests with the pipa. That's why this poem makes me think Pessanha was zoning out during some social event and heard, or imagined, a pipa somewhere in the distance that provided a distraction—albeit a painful one—from the situation at hand.

I've more or less given up on following Pessanha's punctuation, though I also try not to insert too much of my own. I've also rendered things a bit more colloquially than in the past.

Enjoy, dear reader/caro leitor/看倌, and I'll catch you soon.

DAS

-----

"Viola chinesa"
Camilo Pessanha

Ao longo da viola morosa
Vai adormecendo a parlenda,
Sem que, amadornado, eu atenda
A lengalenga fastidiosa.

Sem que o meu coração se prenda,
Enquanto, nasal, minuciosa,
Ao longo da viola morosa,
Vai adormecendo a parlenda.

Mas que cicatriz melindrosa
Há nele, que essa viola ofenda
E faz que as asitas distenda
Numa agitação dolorosa?

Ao longo da viola, morosa...


-----

"Chinese Viola"
Camilo Pessanha


As the viola slowly plays
the chatter drifts off,
my languorous attention is not on
the tedious prattle.

My heart isn't in it,
as, nasal, painstaking,
the viola slowly plays,
the chatter drifting off.

But what sensitive scar
does it bear, that the viola offends,
and makes its little wings spread
in a painful flutter?

As the viola plays, slowly...





Tuesday, August 04, 2020

司空圖二十四詩品《流動》 / Sikong Tu's Twenty-Four Classes of Poetry, 24 - "Fluidity"


And here we are, folks: we've arrived at the final poem in Sikong Tu's Twenty-Four Classes of Poetry. It should come as no surprise that it resembles its fellows in many ways; it also seems to be the most straightforwardly Daoist of the bunch, albeit with a pessimistic undertone that makes you wonder if Sikong Tu might have had his fill of philosophizing and was growing skeptical. (Or maybe I'm projecting; who knows.)

Whatever the case, I'm fairly happy with my translation. There are some lines I particularly like—the last one of the first stanza, the whole third stanza—and I think I did a decent job of capturing Sikong Tu's mood. It's been a while since I worked on it, so I don't have any notes on the language itself to add. I can say that along with my friend and colleague Ana Katryna Cabrini (who turned me onto Sikong Tu in the first place) I'll be writing a little somethin' somethin' about this poem in Portuguese, so when/if that makes its appearance, I'll be sure to let y'all know.

Thanks for reading, and enjoy the poem. You may dig listening to Hiiragi Fukuda's Seacide while you read, but probably not. It's cool; I appreciate you anyway, especially if you've followed along with the Sikong Tu project all these months.

微臣
史大偉

-----

流動
司空圖

若納水輨
如轉丸珠
夫豈可道
假體如愚
荒荒坤軸
悠悠天樞
載要其端
載同其符
超超神明
返返冥無
來往千載
是之謂乎

-----

"Fluidity"
Sikong Tu

Like water passing through a mill-wheel,
like a pearl rolling around—
can a man really attain the Dao?
Pretending it has a form is for fools.

The earth's axis stretches on and on,
heaven's pivot dim and distant—
strive to get to the heart of things,
fit together with it.

Go beyond the spiritual,
return to the empty dark;
a thousandfold comings and goings—
that is the meaning of this.

Friday, July 31, 2020

司空圖二十四詩品《曠達》 / Sikong Tu's Twenty-Four Classes of Poetry, 23 - "Acceptance"


One of the meanings of this poem's title, 曠達, is "broad-mindedness," which is how I originally translated it. Broad-mindedness is a trait worthy of pursuit, though like everything else, moderation is important. Giving equal credence to every stupid idea you have or come across isn't being broad-minded, it's a recipe for disappointment and disaster.

Here, though, as the poem itself makes quickly known, Sikong Tu isn't talking about that sort of thinking. He's encouraging acceptance of what is, which is broad-mindedness of a different kind; specifically, accepting that the good things in life are fleeting, and in that ephemerality lies their beauty. Hell, even getting old has its charms—you can get drunk and go for a walk and nobody will give a fuck (or, rather, they shouldn't). 

Knowing every other sentient being on earth is subject to the same processes of birth, old age, sickness, and death, which are as seemingly eternal as Nanshan and all the other mountains beloved by Chinese poets, makes this acceptance all the more crucial. There's no Sikong Tu, no me, no you, just this field of consciousness and experience; once we truly realize that, acceptance loses its connotations of defeat and resignation, and becomes a means of being truly open to the universe.

微臣
史大偉

-----

曠達
司空圖

生者百歲
相去幾何
歡樂苦短
憂愁實多
何如尊酒
日往煙蘿
花覆茅檐
疏雨相過
倒酒既盡
杖藜行歌
孰不有古
南山峨峨

-----

"Acceptance"
Sikong Tu

I may live a hundred years
yet leave so little behind—
joy is bitterly short-lived,
worry and sadness ever mounting

But what of a cup of wine,
walking among lush plants each day,
thatched eaves overrun with flowers,
sparse rain passing by?

The wine is all gone;
goosefoot cane in hand, I stroll and sing—
“who is exempt from getting old
while lofty Nanshan still looms?”



Thursday, July 30, 2020

司空圖二十四詩品《飄逸》 / Sikong Tu's Twenty-Four Classes of Poetry, 22 - "Graceful Ease"


We're getting close to the end of the Twenty-Four Classes of Poetry, but I'm no more fond of referring to each of these poems as representative of a class of poetry than I was at the beginning. My friend and colleague suggests using "mood," but even that seems inadequate, given how similar a lot of the poems are in terms of tone.

Not a lot else to say about this one, so I'll leave you to it, reader.

-----

飄逸
司空圖

落落欲往
矯矯不群
緱山之鶴
華頂之雲
高人畫中
令色氤氳
禦風蓬葉
泛彼無垠
如不可執
如將有聞
識者已領
期之愈分

-----

"Graceful Ease"
Sikong Tu

Long estranged, wanting to be gone—
high above the masses
like the crane atop Mount Gou,
the clouds at Mount Hua's peak

In the great man's portrait
a commanding appearance, full of life
a violent wind scatters leaves
that drift far away

Seemingly ungraspable,
on the verge of making itself known—
those who know already understand
those who hope, ever more separated

Wednesday, July 29, 2020

司空圖二十四詩品《超詣》 / Sikong Tu's Twenty-Four Classes of Poetry, 21 - "Above and Beyond"


We're getting close to the end of Sikong Tu's Twenty-Four Classes of Poetry. Here the poet gives us another very Daoist piece. I particularly like how the first stanza's negative couplet is undercut by the following one; there's a subtlety of difference that's mostly beyond me, but at the same time it's abundantly clear what he's talking about.

The second stanza's bit about how following the Dao invariably leads to breaking with custom is ironic, seeing as how Sikong Tu, and most Chinese poets, came from the scholar-gentry class and routinely incorporated withdrawal from society into the broader fabric of their lives. Obviously this doesn't nullify what he's getting at in the poem, but rare was the Chinese poet whose life as a hermit was actually lived alone, disconnected completely from society. 

See y'all soon with poem #22. In the meantime, I recommend Upusen's latest album, Highland Ave. It's chill without getting too melancholy—and I don't know about you, dudes, but I have had my fill of melancholy lately.

微臣
史大偉

-----

超詣
司空圖

匪神之靈
匪幾之微
如將白雲
清風與歸
遠引若至
臨之已非
少有道契
終與俗違
亂山喬木
碧苔芳暉
誦之思之
其聲愈希

-----

"Above and Beyond"
Sikong Tu

It is not the vitality of the spirit
it is not the intangibility of phenomena
but like being borne along on white clouds,
returning on a cool breeze

From afar it seems to draw near
reaching it, it is already gone
if one complements the Dao from early on
one will ultimately break with custom

Jumbled mountains, tall trees
blue-green moss, brilliant sunlight
recite it, think on it
the sound of it growing ever more faint

Sunday, July 26, 2020

RIP John Saxon

I'll leave biographical notes, and praise for John Saxon's seminal role in Enter the Dragon, to others: I'm just here to lament the passing of Nancy Thompson's dad and reminisce about A Nightmare on Elm Street.

Like any kid born on a cultural cusp, I didn't get to see the cultural touchstones that were the A Nightmare on Elm Street films in sequential order. I saw Dream Warriors first, in 1989 or 1990, at a friend's house in Miami during a sleepover, but I knew about them before then. In '87, or more likely '88, during another sleepover in northern Virginia at my mom's friend's family's place, one of the older girls sang, against the backdrop of Kid Icarus and Deadly Towers and forgotten toothbrushes, the haunting snippet of what it would take over a decade for me to fully identify and, courtesy of Diamond Head Records in Spring, Texas, acquire on vinyl: Dokken's "Dream Warriors." Having this sort of fragmentary info in hand when I finally saw the eponymous film seems, in retrospect, representative of my overall approach to knowledge and appreciation of art, but that's a tangent I'll go off on some other time.

As invested as I was in the fate of those kids in Dream Warriors—and I'll be damned if I still ain't every time I watch it—the tension between Nancy and her old man, played out under neon bar signs amidst the reek of Michelob and Marlboro Reds, always stood out to me as well. Eventually I learned he was the hard-headed asshole cop who didn't listen to his daughter when it mattered most, which made his bummer days as a drunk destined to get multi-knifed by a Harryhausen skeleton even more poignant, and Nancy's demise even more appalling.

I got lucky in the birth karma department and had good parents, unlike Nancy Thompson and the rest of the Elm Street kids, so I never had to find out the hard way that my folks were hiding lynchings from me. Still, John Saxon did a great job of playing the father burdened not just by his duties as a cop, but the weight of being part of a murderous mob, and I will always appreciate him for that. A Nightmare on Elm Street wouldn't have been the same without him, and I wouldn't have learned to appreciate the family I have otherwise.

Thanks, John. Rest in power, on this damp, dark summer night.


Monday, July 20, 2020

司空圖二十四詩品《形容》 / Sikong Tu's Twenty-Four Classes of Poetry, 20 - "Form and Appearance"


The title and content of this poem is a bit vexing. 形 means form or appearance, as does 容, so there's not really a contrast between the two—it's not as if one stands for the inner form of something and the other its outward appearance. On top of that, taken together the characters mean "describe" or "description." There's inevitably some subtlety I'm missing, but I'll be damned if I can figure it out at the moment.

I like Sikong Tu's admonition to stop seeking the numinous and pure in favor of recognizing that what you're looking for in those things is right here in front of you. I especially dig the last couplet, which is a little clunky in my version; here he uses 似 rather than 容, but the meaning is effectively the same, and thus we're back at my original question of why he went with this phrasing.

I read this and saw a transition between the second and third stanzas, which is something I don't often do, but maybe should. Other poets might make more use of such a technique, so keeping an eye out for it would be worthwhile.

Stay safe, folks. It's been a brutal summer, and it's far from over.

微臣
史大偉

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形容
司空圖

絕佇靈素
少回清真
如覓水影
如寫陽春
風雲變態
花草精神
海之波瀾
山之嶙峋
俱似大道
妙契同塵
離形得似
庶幾斯人

-----

"Form and Appearance"
Sikong Tu

Cease expecting the numinous and pure
and soon clear reality will return—
as in seeking water's shadow
as in tracing the springtime

Clouds on the wind, appearances ever changing
flowers and grasses, essence and spirit
the sea's towering waves
the mountains' craggy ranks—

Completely like the great Dao
subtly inscribed in the dust of this world
leaving behind form to grasp appearance—
surely this resembles what it is to be human?

Saturday, July 18, 2020

司空圖二十四詩品 《悲慨》 / Sikong Tu's Twenty-Four Classes of Poetry, 19 - "Forlorn"


This poem couldn't be more timely. Some reflections, tied to each stanza:

1: Last night I had a dream about trees falling in the woods; the night before the cats woke me up at 4:40 and I never got back to sleep. 

2: Fortune and status? Neither was ever on the table, and as time flows by, they're even less likely to be. The Dao never falters; if we're looking for inspiration or models and don't find them, it's our own fault, because they're everywhere.

3. The state gives fools swords, has them do its dirty work, and nothing but misery follows; then it calls them heroes. Nothing has changed.

See? 1200-year-old Chinese poetry still resonates. Catch y'all next time for #20.


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悲慨
司空圖

大風卷水
林木為摧
適苦欲死
招憩不來
百歲如流
富貴冷灰
大道日喪
若為雄才
壯士拂劍
浩然彌哀
蕭蕭落葉
漏雨蒼苔

-----

"Forlorn"
Sikong Tu

Strong wind roils the water
trees topple in the forest
so miserable I want to die—
rest beckons, but does not come

A hundred years like a flowing stream
fortune and status are cold ashes
every day the great Dao falters—
who will serve as inspiration?

A hero unsheathes his sword—
a flood of utter grief
mournful wind, falling leaves
dripping rain on grey-green moss

Thursday, July 16, 2020

司空圖二十四詩品《實境》 / Sikong Tu's Twenty-Four Classes of Poetry, 18 - "Domain of the Real"

I'm not terribly pleased with my title for this translation, since 境 often means border or boundary. I'll give it some thought and come up with a better title, since the atmosphere Sikong Tu evokes here does feel like some kind of liminal space, albeit one infused with the everyday reality of the Dao.

Now if you'll excuse me, there's a juvenile Cooper's hawk in the birdbath that I need to admire. Later, dudes.

微臣
史大偉

-----

實境
司空圖

取語甚直
計思匪深
忽逢幽人
如見道心
清澗之曲
碧松之陰
一客荷樵
一客聽琴
情性所至
妙不自尋
遇之自天
泠然希音

-----

"Domain of the Real"
Sikong Tu

Adopt plain speech
to sum up simple ideas.
Suddenly coming across a hermit
is like seeing into the heart of the Dao.

The bend of a clear stream,
the shade of dark-green pines—
a stranger carrying firewood,
another listening to the music of the qin

A feeling brought me to this place,
marvelous, unsought—
out of nowhere,
the clear but faint sound of music.


Saturday, July 11, 2020

司空圖二十四詩品《委曲》 / Sikong Tu's Twenty-Four Classes of Poetry, 17 - "The Winding Way"


Poem #17 has one of my favorite images thus far: the "blue-green path coiled like sheep intestines." This path winds through the 太行山 Taihang mountains, which are situated in northern China. The 羌 Qiang people, however, hail from southwest China, these days primarily living in Sichuan. (You can hear the Qiang flute here.) This sort of spatial juxtaposition isn't that uncommon in Chinese poetry, but I wonder why Sikong Tu chose these particular mountains and this particular instrument and people. Maybe he heard such a flute at a moment that illustrated "effort at the right time," and it ended up being just the right image he needed for this poem.

The 鵬 peng bird appears, perhaps most famously, in 莊子 Zhuangzi, the next most famous/important Daoist text after the 道德經 Daodejing. Due to its great size, it's often compared to the roc, another giant mythical bird.

May you all know roundness and squareness alike, and take care, folks.

微臣
史大偉

-----

委曲
司空圖

登彼太行
翠繞羊腸
杳靄流玉
悠悠花香
力之於時
聲之於羌
似往已回
如幽匪藏
水理漩洑
鵬風翺翔
道不自器
與之圓方

-----

"The Winding Way"
Sikong Tu

Climbing Mount Taihang:
blue-green path coiled like sheep intestines,
dark clouds a sort of jade,
faint hint of fragrant blossoms

Effort at the right time:
sound of a Qiang flute,
seemingly going but already returning,
remote, but not hidden

Water churns with eddies and currents,
mythical peng bird soars on the wind:
Dao is not a thing unto itself,
but knows roundness and squareness alike



Thursday, July 09, 2020

司空圖二十四詩品《清奇》 / Sikong Tu's Twenty-Four Classes of Poetry, 16 - "Clear and Wondrous"


This poem marks 2/3 of the way through Sikong Tu's Twenty-Four Classes of Poetry. This one stands out a bit because it directly refers to another person: 可人, which I've rendered as "beloved" but could also be someone with a good personality or gifted in some way (qualities one might hope to see in one's beloved, naturally). However you choose to read it, the description of this person as "like jade" buttresses their value to the speaker, and/or gives readers a hint as to the person's appearance—the sort of jade usually referenced in Chinese poems isn't the greenish stuff we're used to in the west, but more often the pale whitish-yellow variety, so perhaps this person has a lovely complexion.

The character 屟 "wooden clogs" didn't readily appear in most of my dictionaries, but it's a variant of the more common 屧. I have no idea how common wooden shoes were in Tang China, or what form they took. I'm imagining something like Japanese geta, but I could be way off.

Hope all is well with you, dear reader. See you soon.

微臣
史大偉



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清奇
司空圖

娟娟群松
下有漪流
晴雪滿竹
隔溪漁舟
可人如玉
步屟尋幽
載瞻載止
空碧悠悠
神出古異
淡不可收
如月之曙
如氣之秋

-----

"Clear and Wondrous"
Sikong Tu

A lovely stand of pines
beneath it, rippling water
clear skies, snow-laden bamboos
on the stream, fishing boats go their own ways

My beloved like jade
measured steps in wooden clogs, as I follow in the darkness
looking up one moment, stopping the next
deep blue sky impossibly far

My spirit leaves, the old ways grown strange,
faded, beyond reach
like the moon at dawn,
like the essence of autumn

Tuesday, July 07, 2020

司空圖 二十四詩品《疏野》 / Sikong Tu's Twenty-Four Classes of Poetry, 15 - "Unconstrained"


One of the greatest strengths of classical Chinese poetry is its temporal ambiguity: unless it's specifically mentioned, there's no way of knowing when something is occurring/has occurred/will occur. Things and events are caught in time like insects in ever-flowing amber, and thus temporal positioning is unimportant. After all, everything meaningful: whether it's a past event that continues to resonate in the present, an emotional/psychic state that has us in its clutches here and now, or the imagined form of some future happening that affects our current behavior, it can't be separated into a discrete thing or things outside of our perceptions or beyond causality. We act otherwise, of course, but just because that tendency to separate self from other, subject from object, is a feature of human consciousness, it doesn't mean we're utter slaves to some mechanistic understanding thereof.

I bring this up because I've rendered parts of Sikong Tu's poems as orders or suggestions, which they very well may be, but they could just as easily be translated in the past tense, and thus as descriptions of the poet's (or whomever he's describing) experiences. In "Unconstrained" I have everything happening in the present, which gives the reader the idea that the narrator is reflecting on an unfolding experience of possible enlightenment, and/or doubt about such a state. Did Sikong Tu experience what Rinzai Zen (which has its roots in the teachings of 臨濟義玄 Linji Yixuan, a contemporary of Sikong Tu) calls 見性 kensho, and see his true self? Or is he repeating what, even in Tang times, was established, maybe even to the point of being trite and snoozy, understanding of the nature of things and how to truly perceive it?
 
Neither possibility excludes the other, and neither is the only answer. Read the poem and mull it over on your own, dear reader. The great matter of life and death inhabits this poem like it does all other things, and I'd be curious to see what you think.

Dig it.

微臣
史大偉

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疏野
司空圖

惟性所宅
真取不羈
控物自富
與率為期
築室松下
脫帽看詩
但知旦暮
不辨何時
倘然適意
豈必有為
若其天放
如是得之

-----

"Unconstrained"
Sikong Tu

Pondering the dwelling-place of one's true nature,
one can seize the Real, uninhibited;
a grasp of all things leads to inner abundance,
with candor comes hope.

An abode built beneath the pines,
bare-headed, reading poetry,
knowing only dawn and dusk,
the seasons running together.

Supposing an agreeable state of mind,
why is action necessary?
If one is as free and easy as the sky,
is this not attainment?

Sunday, July 05, 2020

司空圖二十四詩品《縝密》 / Sikong Tu's Twenty-Four Classes of Poetry, 14 - "Tight-knit"


I meant to post this last week, but never got around to it. Not a whole lot to talk about here, so I'll let the poem speak for itself. I'm pretty pleased with how my translation turned out.

Wear your mask, stay home as much as you can, and be safe, y'all.

微臣
史大偉

-----

縝密
司空圖 

是有真跡
如不可知
意象欲出
造化已奇
水流花開
清露未晞
要路愈遠
幽行為遲
語不欲犯
思不欲癡
猶春於綠
明月雪時

-----

"Tight-knit"
Sikong Tu

That bears the mark of the real
which resembles the unknowable—
concepts seeking to emerge
already made mundane by the force of change.

Flowing water, blooming flowers
bright dew not yet evaporated
the only road stretches ever on—
a lonely path, slow going.

Strive to speak without offense
strive to think without foolishness—
be as spring is green,
as moonlight on falling snow.

Wednesday, June 24, 2020

司空圖二十四詩品《精神》 / Sikong Tu's Twenty-Four Classes of Poetry, 13 - "Spiritual Essence"


Poem #13's title, 精神 jingshen, means spirit, consciousness, or thought in modern Chinese. Sikong Tu appears to be using it more along those lines as well, hence my translation. But in reading about Daoist practices like 內丹 neidan, or internal alchemy, you come across a lot of references to 精 jing and 神 shen, along with the associated concept of 氣 qi, which I talked a little bit about in my last post. Roughly speaking, jing is one's physical essence, qi the energy or life force, and shen the spirit or higher self. (The Wikipedia page on the Three Treasures gives you an idea of how these ideas are used in a Daoist context.) My favorite meaning of 精 jing, however, has to be "mythical goblin spirit."

Enjoy, folks.

微臣
史大偉

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精神
司空圖

欲返不盡
相期與來
明漪絕底
奇花初胎
青春鸚鵡
楊柳樓臺
碧山人來
清酒深杯
生氣遠出
不著死灰
妙造自然
伊誰與裁

-----

"Spiritual Essence"
Sikong Tu

Were the Endless to
join with us at some point—
bright ripples, on and on
rare flowers at first bloom

Spring-green parrots
willows, pavilions, terraces—
people come from the blue-green hills
clear wine in overflowing cups

The breath of life reaches out further,
no sign of death's ashen grey
the magnificent fabric of the in-and-of-itself—
ah, who could make it conform to a pattern?

Monday, June 22, 2020

司空圖二十四詩品《豪放》 / Sikong Tu'sTwenty-Four Classes of Poetry, 12 - "Bold and Unrestrained"


豪放 "Bold and Unrestrained" marks the halfway point of Sikong Tu's Twenty-Four Classes of Poetry. I think the standout feature of this poem is that it has more Chinese words that I left in the original than any poem thus far, though I'd be reluctant to make much out of that, save maybe in the instance of 氣 qi.

The first such word is 氣 qi, which pretty much everyone's heard of in one context or another. It can mean breath, life force, vital energy, the mystical shit that infuses everything, the thing you're supposed to load your punches with in martial arts class; it's pretty flexible. I've translated it in various ways before and since, but left it as is here because the construction of the line intrigued me. When texts refer to returning to the Dao, it's usually an end, not the means (and, of course, it's not a linear, static progression, but an ever-evolving process, like the interaction of 陰 yin and 陽 yang), and various qi-related practices are among the tools used to achieve that end, or rather help one along the path. Sikong Tu's reversal is interesting, because he's saying to seek the Dao in order to reach qi; what he means is cryptic, but my initial interpretation is that the reader—perhaps like the poet himself—might gain intellectual knowledge of the Dao first, say by talking to someone or reading the 道德經 Daodejing, and then seek out expressions and practices of Daoism in order to gain a deeper, experiential understanding. As a Westerner who read about Daoism long before practicing it in any way, this resonates pretty strongly.

I rendered 狂 as "wildly," but I think the poet is using it as shorthand for spontaneity or 無爲 wu-wei, "acting without acting."

The 鳳凰 fenghuang is a mythical bird that makes frequent appearances in Chinese art; the link in this sentence shows one on the corner of a temple roof. It's often translated as "phoenix," but it's not the same. 扶桑 Fusang is a mythical island east of China, said to be where the sun rises; therefore it's no surprise that it is sometimes associated with 日本 Japan. The turtles Sikong Tu uses to draw his chariot are "mythological sea turtles," not, apparently, the giant turtles that support countless Chinese stelae upon their backs.

As a parting remark, I like that admiring flowers is presented as a universal right, and that in exercising it, you're partaking of the totality of existence. Sikong Tu is completely right about this.

Stay safe, wear your mask, and enjoy the poem, y'all.


微臣
史大偉

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豪放
司空圖

觀花匪禁
吞吐大荒
由道反氣
處得以狂
天風浪浪
海山蒼蒼
真力彌滿
萬象在旁
前招三辰
後引鳳凰
曉策六鰲
濯足扶桑

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"Bold and Unreserved"
Sikong Tu

Admiring flowers is open to everyone—
breathe in vastness, breathe it out
the Dao leads back to the qi
give up seeking, act wildly

Heaven's wind rushing like a river
seas and mountains grey-green
true strength is abundant
in the myriad things all around

Before me, the beckoning sun, moon, stars
behind, the fenghuang bird leads the sun
at dawn, I whip forward six legendary turtles—
off to bathe my feet in Fusang