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The Journey to the West

Though we journey to the West We pray to the East More or less that's the way Each day begins and ends It’s a tale everyone ...

Thursday, October 12, 2017

A Poem from Layman Pang

In the annals of Chan Buddhism there is a notable figure named Layman Pang, who is often compared to Vimalakirti, as an exemplar for how to pursue a dharma path outside of the monastic orders.  Among other things Layman Pang wrote a few very fine poems, one of which I translated this morning.






Every day the same routine
Only with myself in harmony
Not right or wrong but abiding
Nothing revealed or misplaced
Paying no heed to purple or vermillion
Or the distant mountains beyond the dust
Just the miracle and wonder here and now
Of hauling water and firewood


日日事無別
惟吾自偶諧
頭頭非取捨
處處沒張乖
朱紫誰爲號
邱山絶塵埃
神通並妙用
運水及搬柴






   

Tuesday, October 10, 2017

Lucky 18

For Marissa on double ten day

I was nothing without you
With you there's only Nothing
That remains just out of reach
As the moon moves the sea
So you move within me
Twice daily at least
Rising and falling
With the rhythm that
Supports my every breath


I wrote this poem in the supermarket this morning as I was picking out an assortment of flowers to give Marissa (along with this poem) to celebrate our 18th wedding anniversary.  It is not exactly a high point for us financially but we certainly feel blessed in countless ways.  This poem was jotted down in the supermarket aisle and it is meant to be read and understood the same way - in the spirit of Neruda's Love Sonnets - emphatically blurted out, much the same as I did eighteen years ago to the day.

Sunday, October 8, 2017

Sitting in Stillness (a meditation by Chan master Fa Yan)

Today I came across this poem by the Chan master Fa Yan, who was the founder of one of the Five Houses of Chan.  It's a lovely poem that cross back and forth over the indistinct boundary line that separates meditation and poetry.



Hidden in a grove
A bird sings like a flute
The willows tremble
Golden catkins streaming
Clouds are gathering over
The peaceful valley
The wind brings a trace
Of apricot fragrance

Forever today
I'm sitting in stillness
My heart settles and
Ten thousand worries
Pass away
Yearning for words
But they just won’t do
Underneath these trees
It’s good to sit
Taking measure











幽鳥語如篁
柳搖金線長
雲歸山谷静
風送杏花香

永日蕭然坐
澄心萬虞忘
欲言言不及
林下好商量




If someone were to ask me to explain my own practice of translation and poetry, I think this poem comes as close as possible to describing it; 欲言言不及 as Fa Yan expresses it in the poem's second to last line, which I have translated as yearning for words but they just won't do.     


Wednesday, October 4, 2017

Fall Begins When No One's Listening (Meng Hao Ran)

Fall begins when no one’s listening
Night lengthens imperceptibly

The breeze first freshens but
Persists until it brings a chill

As daytime's warmth fades away
It leaves the grass wan and still

Beneath the steps the crickets trill
Wet with dew and glistening


初秋

孟浩然


不觉初秋夜渐长
清风习习重凄凉


    炎炎暑退茅斋静    
阶下丛莎有露光


Rhyme matters so much in classical Chinese poetry – it contributes mightily to a poem’s loveliness and meaning.  Many but not all Tang poems use formal rhyme schemes that are similar to the rhyming couplets we are familiar with in various forms of the western sonnet.  In a Tang poem these formal schemes sound completely natural or unstilted (even to a modern ear) because rhyming choices are so much more abundant in Chinese than they are in English; the relative paucity of rhyme choice in English no doubt explains our contemporary preference for more non-schematic free verse.

A Tang poem that uses a formal rhyme is much closer in its sound value to what we associate with popular music, where we readily accept rhyme as both natural and apt.  Often we anticipate and look for rhyme in a lyric to give a song coherence.  As Bob Dylan once said – all words that rhyme mean the same thing -- a comment that I completely understand without being able to explain fully.  A rhyme conveys a sense of equivalence (in sound if nothing else) even between words and ideas that otherwise strike us as incongruous.

In translating Tang poetry I often steer a middle course, using rhyme liberally but not adhering to any strict scheme.  This, I hope, allows the translation to carry some of the original poem’s song-like quality without ending up sounding overly contrived to our jaundiced modern ears.  At least that’s the idea.


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