I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.
And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet's wings.
I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart's core.
Tell all the truth but tell it slant --
Success in Circuit lies
Too bright for our infirm Delight
The Truth's superb surprise
As Lightning to the Children eased
With explanation kind
The Truth must dazzle gradually
Or every man be blind --
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An elderly monk tells stories from his life to the kids living in a small [and fictitious] Thai village. This is one of those works of literary fiction that you have to give a chance. The pacing, the subject matter, and the approach of the first part of the book is such that anyone without an intense interest in Thai village life or the thoughts of a Thai monk on the state of Buddhism in India (almost non-existent) will find it a bit of a slog. However, as the story shifts to the young man’s (pre-monk) life, adolescence through life as a newly married man expecting his first child, it becomes an intensely gripping story.
In the early parts, there’s a lot of violation of that old chestnut, “show, don’t tell” and — like much literary fiction — it’s not clear that there will be a story (versus exposition, character development, and description of events of a non-story like nature.) However, this transitions into the evocative story of how the narrator came to be a monk after a tragic farming householder experience. I can’t even give an accurate description of how far in I think the book makes this swing because my reading pace in the second part was so much quicker and more compelled than early on.
The book has hints of supernatural elements in it but can be read as realism in an environment of intense superstition.
I’d highly recommend this book for those who enjoy literature in translation. Give it a chance to win you over. It will, soon enough.
Full fathom five thy father lies,
Of his bones are coral made;
Those are pearls that were his eyes:
Nothing of him that doth fade,
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange:
Sea nymphs hourly ring his knell.
Ding-dong!
Hark! Now I hear them,
Ding-dong, bell!
Hundreds of cold sparrows dive into the empty courtyard,
cluster on plum branches and speak of sun after rain at dusk.
They choose to gather en masse and kill me with noise.
Suddenly startled, they disperse. Then, soundlessness.
NOTE: This translation from: Barnstone, Tony & Chou Ping. 2005. The Anchor Book of Chinese Poetry. New York: Random House. p.422.
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Release Date: November 14, 2023
This is the fourth volume in a series of translated Japanese short creative writing (mostly poems and short stories.) The series (and this edition, in particular) features some of the best-known Japanese authors (e.g. Haruki Murakami and Meiko Kawakami.) Beyond a few major pieces at the beginning, this edition has a theme of music that runs through it.
Among my favorite pieces were: the novel excerpt Yoshiwara Dreaming about a young girl who is sold into the redlight district and becomes a helper in a brothel; Transformer: Pianos which is a work of surrealist fiction; The Zombie is Haruki Murakami’s fresh take on the zombie story; I also enjoyed many of the inclusions in the section entitled Eight Modern Haiku Poets on Music.
It’s a varied collection of writings. Not only does it include all forms of creative writing — prose and poetic — but the broad selection of writers and translators ensure that there is a diversity of styles and genres. That said, there isn’t a great diversity in quality level. It’s all strong writing, though some works will appeal to any give reader more than others. There’s something for everyone.
I’d highly recommend this volume for readers of literature in translation.
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.
So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and tower were girdled round:
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills
Where blossom'd many an incense-bearing tree;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.
But O, that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
A savage place! as holy and enchanted
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover!
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced;
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail:
And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reach'd the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from afar
Ancestral voices prophesying war!
The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves;
Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves.
It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!
A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw:
It was an Abyssinian maid,
And on her dulcimer she play'd,
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me,
Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight 'twould win me,
That with music loud and long,
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.
If the red slayer think he slays,
Or if the slain think he is slain,
They know not well the subtle ways
I keep, and pass, and turn again.
Far or forgot to me is near;
Shadow and sunlight are the same;
The vanished gods to me appear;
And one to me are shame and fame.
They reckon ill who leave me out;
When me they fly, I am the wings;
I am the doubter and the doubt,
I am the hymn the Brahmin sings.
The strong gods pine for my abode,
And pine in vain the sacred Seven;
But thou, meek lover of the good!
Find me, and turn thy back on heaven.
Be always drunken. Nothing else matters: that is the only question. If you would not feel the horrible burden of Time weighing on your shoulders and crushing you to the earth, be drunken continually.
Drunken with what? With wine, with poetry, or with virtue, as you will. But be drunken.
And if sometimes, on the stairs of a palace, or on the green side of a ditch, or in the dreary solitude of your own room, you should awaken and the drunkenness be half or wholly slipped away from you, ask of the wind, or of the wave, or of the star, or of the bird, or of the clock, or whatever flies, or sighs, or rocks, or sings, or speaks, ask what hour it is; and the wind, wave, star, bird, clock will answer you: “It is the hour to be drunken! Be drunken, if you would not be martyred slaves of Time, be drunken continually! With wine, with poetry, or with virtue, as you will.”
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This poetry translation anthology presents examples from some of the earliest known Chinese poetry to authors who are still alive and composing. It’s arranged by dynastic period (up until the modern era,) and, within dynasties, by poet. Most of the poets merit only a poem or two, but some of the major poets are allotted many pages of poems. Of course, how much poetry per poet is included isn’t just a function of how prolific or popular the poet was, but also how much extant poetry remains — i.e. how much survived. Each dynastic section begins with an overview of the time and poetic trends, and there is bio blurb for each poet.
There is quite a bit of variation in the book beyond that of the changing nature of Chinese poetry. The translations are also by varied translators, including not only the book’s editors but also individuals from the past, such as Arthur Waley. I wouldn’t say there is any bad translation in the book, but some translators capture the feel, e.g. the relative sparseness, of Chinese better, and others show their English poetic educations more obviously.
All in all, I enjoyed this selection of poems immensely, and learned a lot about Chinese history as well as of the country’s changing poetic tradition. I gained new insight to some of my favorites (e.g. Li Bai, Han Shan, etc.) and gained new favorites I’d never heard of before. I’d highly recommend this book for readers of poetry in translation.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 