【譯寫】 -Yixie and translation Notes, from reading a Chinese poem.
【詩歌欣賞】
People are scrambling with the notion whether or not poems are transferable from one language to another. Surely, as English is still the dominant language internationally, this topic is basically under discussion for people who still consider themselves language learners. It is same to a nation.
If poems are some times defined as the soul of literature, then should we be more careful in translating them in another language. Some people, like my self, are too eager to try the conveying jobs, which requires a great deal of trainings. It seemed sometimes they were too much influenced by the ideas inspired by the material they are working on, or mixing in too much of thoughts of own that makes the work being transferred hard to recognize. Yixie," 譯寫“ as discussed with one friend of mine online is not loyal translation! For a large part of it is done with whose own words. To be honesty, I am guilty for being among one of them. In Chinese, they call what they have done "Yi-Xie" -write their own words while doing the translating, -which means "translation takes small portion of the original works, however, the basic ideas, feelings, and imagery are generated or even copied from the original author.
It is still called translated, maybe only for the thinking follows the same direction of the original author...But is it good translation? Myself cast a lot of doubts on what they've done. Here, another example of this. 前言: 。。。詩人是語言提煉的大師,他們並不簡單堆砌詞匯,造美麗的牆,而是用想像的手,拉著你去看他們所看到的,觀察到的生活和景物: 第一句:”一個人愛過,痛過,掙紮過踏萬水千山苦苦尋來眼神熱烈 又寂寞,“ -這就是詩的刻畫,我仿佛立刻被推到了一幅人物的肖像麵前,努力開始自己審美,思維和情感,甚至生活中的記憶,開始全部參與進來,。。。我想每一個,認真閱讀的人,是否都會這樣的想著,讀著。
A place called water-down Some times easy, some times hard to inquire; "how's everything?" so normal, plain, but heavy to start, a question mark at a time, to a man of everyday, suffered, loved, hungered, or traveled some miles, "good, or no," a sincere voice, n' a honest smile,
Without a choice,or choose with all sorts, a reply, Yet, hard to tell some thousand miles, rocks he climbed, seas of rough tides! No tears you see but winkles near his eyes, of a man with strong body but a broken heart.
So, I laid down my pen and papers torn to the ground, Not a word or a line inked but an empty mind, at a lake-place, called water-down, whispers heard within, the questions all gone,
The answers are in the winds, blowing at a place called water-down, as I caught his eyes a first look with smile as a rock in the mountain behind, words freeze on my lips, never dare to ask.
So, I let go my heart, turn the sad music on, watching out for the summer clouds, and August rains keep falling down, a place called water-down whisperings as waves rushed ashore,
Rain-storm cleared, Rainbows appeared Horses run, and eagles fly, Home town afar,still five hundred miles.
A five hundred times, I whispered, Taste a bitter salty the Bud-light a place called water-down, soft memories, and room so quiet, "It's gonna be alright,... alright"
Neither to ask, nor inquire, Please, drop the question mark, at a place called water-down, but echoes in the air, so sweet, Raindrops cold in this August, summer birds fly high and wild.