15 Sunday Oct 2017
Posted in quote unquote
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Two nuns are bicycling down a street in Rome, on their way to St. Peter’s Basilica. First nun says, ‘I’ve never come this way before’. Second nun says, ‘Yup. It’s the cobbles’.
11 Wednesday Oct 2017
Posted in Historic Research
≈ Comments Off on qiu jin: i die unfulfilled
Tags
1911, ch'iu chin, China, Chinese, i die unfulfilled, personal hero, Qiu Jin, radical feminst, translation, translation theory
autumn rain/ autumn wind/ i die unfulfilled
Poetry translation is never an exact science. Taking a
concept, rich with metaphors, from one language and somehow then discovering a similar meaning in another has challenges. How does one
find that original essence – the core of what the poet was trying
to say – in an alien tongue? I have always found translation to be
a synthesis of everything that has been done before my attempt and
then a smoothing out of all the rough bits into something that sings
to me. If there was a philosophy to this it’d go: be illiterate in
all languages, just resonate with the soul of what is being said. I
suppose that is the difference between professionals and amateurs. I
will always be an amateur. To misquote the Japanese haiku poet Issa:
“there will always be farmers/ laboring in the fields/ I don’t
feel guilty.”
Today I turn my attention to the Chinese radical
feminist, revolutionary and martyr, Ch’iu Chin (better known through
modern translation as Qiu Jin). If you’ve never heard her name before
just know this: she was a lesbian poet who tried to overthrow the
Qing dynasty in 1907 and then was executed, beheaded. One day someone will
translate all her poetry, essays and speeches into English and that
will be a blessing. Just now I am only looking at her last words, her death poem. They’re
simple, they look like this:
秋风秋雨愁煞人
Technology fails us. According to Google Translate we
get, “Autumn autumn rain sad people.” which are at least English
words strung together in some sort of order. And they fail to capture
any meaning of this poem. First let me reprint the best translation
that I’ve found:
Autumn rain, autumn wind/ I die of sorrow.
[from the documentary, Autumn Gem]
Now let me tell you why this is so good. Ch’iu Chin’s
name literally translates into, “Autumn Gem,” and the ‘autumn’ is
the metaphor that works in this poem. By the time of her arrest she
was burned out, depressed and had realized that her revolutionary
goals would never happen. She let herself be captured and executed so
that she could become one of the Chinese heroines of myth who rose up
to fight for women during times of oppression.
As one says, there are no bad translations, just
different interpretations. I point this out simply because these are faithful to the word but the translators did not seem to know why
they were written:
O Autumn Winds chilly, O Autumn Rains chilly, (Why you
are spilling)
Autumn wind autumn rain makes one gloomy
For whom does the autumn rain and wind lament?
All of which, out of context, still works. Getting
executed would make one gloomy and spill. Then there is the fact that Ch’iu
Chin became a symbol for the 1911 Revolution and her words were used
to express the woes of other people, and thus we get the royal ‘we’
Autumn wind and rain have brought overwhelming grief to
many
The sorrow of autumn wind and autumn rain kills
Again, this is all just a matter of interpretation of
what comes before. Like I said, I can’t read Chinese, I can just
guesstimate from the works of others. If I’m wrong then I’m wrong
and this was just a curious post that won’t mean anything. Still, I
love the poetry of Qiu Jin and if I can be part of helping her find
an English audience then let us say that my day was good. Two translations that I think are kind
of marvelous:
Autumn wind and autumn rain often bring forth unbearable
sorrow
The autumn wind and autumn rain agonize me so much.
11 Wednesday Oct 2017
Posted in Chinese, Feminism, Historic Research, Poetry, Translation
≈ Comments Off on ch’iu chin: i die unfulfilled
Tags
ch'iu chin, Chinese translation, 秋风秋雨愁煞人, essay, i die unfulfilled, Poetry, Qiu Jin, translation
autumn rain/ autumn wind/ i die unfulfilled
Poetry translation is never an exact science. Taking a concept, rich with metaphors, from one language and somehow then discovering a similar meaning in another has challenges. How does one find that original essence – the core of what the poet was trying to say – in an alien tongue? I have always found translation to be a synthesis of everything that has been done before my attempt and then a smoothing out of all the rough bits into something that sings to me. If there was a philosophy to this it’d go: be illiterate in all languages, just resonate with the soul of what is being said. I suppose that is the difference between professionals and amateurs. I will always be an amateur. To misquote the Japanese haiku poet Issa: “there will always be farmers/ laboring in the fields/ I don’t feel guilty.”
Today I turn my attention to the Chinese radical feminist, revolutionary and martyr, Ch’iu Chin (better known through modern translation as Qiu Jin). If you’ve never heard her name before just know this: she was a lesbian poet who tried to overthrow the Qing dynasty in 1907 and then was executed, beheaded. One day someone will translate all her poetry, essays and speeches into English and that will be a blessing. Just now I am only looking at her last words, her death poem. They’re simple, they look like this:
秋风秋雨愁煞人
Technology fails us. According to Google Translate we get, “Autumn autumn rain sad people.” which are at least English words strung together in some sort of order. And yet they fail to capture any meaning of these words. First let me reprint the best translation that I’ve found:
Autumn rain, autumn wind/ I die of sorrow.
[from the documentary, Autumn Gem]
Now let me tell you why this is so good. Ch’iu Chin’s name literally translates into, “Autumn Gem,” and the ‘autumn’ is the metaphor that works in this poem. By the time of her capture she was burned out, depressed and had realized that her revolutionary goals would never happen. She let herself be captured and executed so that she could become one of the Chinese heroines of myth who rose up to fight for women during times of oppression.
As one says, there are no bad translations, just different interpretations. I point out these simply because they were faithful to the words on the page but the translators did not seem to know why the words were written:
O Autumn Winds chilly, O Autumn Rains chilly, (Why you are spilling)
Frank C Yue
Autumn wind autumn rain makes one gloomy
Lu Yin, from Imagining Sisterhood in Modern Chinese Texts, 1890–1937
For whom does the autumn rain and wind lament?
Sjcma
All of which, out of context, still works. Getting executed would make one gloomy. Then there is the fact that Ch’iu Chin became a symbol for the 1911 Revolution and her words were used to express the woes of other people, and thus we get the royal ‘we’
Autumn wind and rain have brought overwhelming grief to many
Albert Chan
The sorrow of autumn wind and autumn rain kills
China Heritage Quarterly
Again, this is all just a matter of interpretation of what comes before. Like I said, I can’t read Chinese, I can just guesstimate from the works of others. If I’m wrong … then I’m wrong and this was just a curious post won’t mean anything. Still, I love the poetry of Qiu Jin and if I can be part of helping her find an English audience then my day is good. Two translations that I think are kind of marvelous:
Autumn wind and autumn rain often bring forth unbearable sorrow
Alan Cykok
The autumn wind and autumn rain agonize me so much.
Badass Women of Asia
07 Saturday Oct 2017
Tags
Boreas' Curse, cum please, curled in a C, erotic poetry, finger fucking, gods sleep, knuckles deep, October is laughter, sonnet, winter
The gods are rabbits in burrows, sleeping
below the crunching feet on snow. The worst
time to conjure a spirit is during
the tree-dead months, when Boreas’ Curse
lays on the land. October is laughter
for fun; there’s still tree sap. But for the us,
because all the earth sleeps good, the wonder
comes that we roused something in this coldness.
Your jeans pulled down … call this a … revival.
Fingers curled in a C, stroking shocked fur.
Your mouth opens … spiritual agonies …
or ecstasies … they’re the same when knuckle
deep. Let the gods slumber through dead winter.
All I ask: “if you want to cum say please.”
02 Monday Oct 2017
Posted in quote unquote
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none of this ends well but/ it does end.
02 Monday Oct 2017
Posted in quote unquote
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Tags
how long has this been going on, margaret mead, personal, quote unquote, reblog, you could have called
One of the oldest human needs is having someone to wonder where you are when you don’t come home at night.
Margaret Mead (via quotemadness)
No, one of the oldest human needs is having someone that you don’t have to wonder where they are when they don’t come home at night.
25 Monday Sep 2017
Tags
erotic poetry, faith and deceit, piety is hell, procreation is the sinkhole, sonnet, why can't masturbation be a solution
Records of the soul: that is erotic —
between rapture we all keep fucking up
(all these bodily fluids) Be vulvic/
phallic/ the space between: cork-screw, scallop,
fingers in the deep dark. When the dead cheat
on you do you cheat back? The dead don’t care
and so you write about faith and deceit
which is piety, but nothing like prayer.
Faith means that you’ll put up with anything
just to be heard. Prayer touches, that’s what matters.
You are beloved and you are everything.
You’re god-talk. Erotica. The answers.
For them: procreation is the sinkhole.
For the rest of us: rapture is our soul.
22 Friday Sep 2017
Tags
anal sex, Dámelo duro, erotic poetry, Sé cuánto quieres follarme el culo, sonnet, Spanish translation, tía
Defiled, bent over, your pucker glistened
as I pushed in deeper; little maelstroms
ran all through your thighs. That night your husband
was out of town, your son was at your mom’s;
I slept over only once. “Sé cuánto
quieres follarme el culo,” you joked
on the phone. All week you’d used a dildo
to stretch yourself out, and now, panting, soaked,
you groaned, “¡Dámelo duro!” so I did.
None of this lasted. The pillows loathed us.
The birds woke us. I went home. That was it.
Your taste, laugh, the inked Aztec pyramid
above your ass: all gone. I was anxious,
so young, you were my «Tía» so brilliant.
][][
Notes:
I use several phrases in Spanish in this poem. “Tía,” is the simple word for aunt. The best that I can do with, “Sé cuánto quieres follarme el culo,” is, “I know how much you want to fuck my ass.” Finally, “¡Dámelo duro!” translates into, “Harder!” or, “Give it to me hard!” All matters of the heart are bittersweet.
17 Sunday Sep 2017
Tags
afterglow, erotic poetry, Galata Bridge, grief and menthol, Hrant Dink, Istanbul, Peace Corps, sonnet
Say what is true: the sky darkened. Your name
was Yu Na, hand on your neck, pressed against
your back, hard deep fast enough, hips became
bruised; your parents slept in the next room. Tensed,
you bit my arm as you quaked. Tomorrow
you’ll be gone with your parents on the next
leg of your holiday. In the afterglow
I could not read your face: content? perplexed?
mesmerized by the rain against the pane?
Once you’re gone I shall walk through Istanbul
in the Old Quarter. Do you still recall
all that we did: kisses, pleasure, cocaine?
Now what is true: sky storm, I was sick-ghoul
thin and you tasted of grief and menthol.
][][
Notes:
So let’s say that you take a big red autobus from Yerevan to Istanbul (back in 1997) then you’ll pass through the mountains of Georgia and all along the Turkish coast of the Black Sea (which looks surprisingly like the coast of Baja Mexico, except all the towns have minarets in them). The bus, filled with Armenian merchants with their wares to sell in the markets, ends up at a curved street near the Spice Bizarre and the Blue Mosque in the Old Quarter of the city. The hotel that everyone uses, The Golden Horn, has people from all around the world. Next to my room was a family from Seoul. Across the street was a restaurant that specialized in pilaf and curry. I spent two weeks in Istanbul during my winter holiday while in Peace Corps. I crossed over the Galata Bridge that spans from Europe to Asia every day. Hrant Dink was still alive. I wasn’t healthy and when I finally returned to the city of Gyumri, Peace Corps administration had me “psycho’vac’d” to Washington DC. I would arrive in back in America, damaged, on March 10, my 27th birthday.
15 Friday Sep 2017
Tags
Auntie Peg, bareback, erotic sonnet, Juliet Anderson, pegging, Poetry, post-punk, santorum, sonnet
I like the wet, the sweaty, the ones dank
and moist after a workout. You come home
from the gym; it’s 9 and I’m drunk. I yank
your shorts down; spread you wide. With tongue I roam
around your core. “No, it’s dirty,” you bleat —
pressed against the wall, fingers scratching paint.
I’m not a scholar; you’re not an athlete;
but we make do. “Auntie Peg” — holy saint
of the fifth base, fecking and gaped starfish —
“Let me clean the kitchen.” Neither of us
are strong but I fill you with a fat slish
until all else becomes superfluous.
You are ill and I’m a freakin’ drunk —
you and I are bareback: post-rage, post-punk.
][][
note:
If you’re trying to write gender-neutral erotica anal sex makes a logical path, especially in a world that does not reward gender-neutral, but we make do. Auntie Peg is both a reference to Juliet Anderson, who passed away in 2010 and also to the act of using a strap-on on a male partner.
memories of my ghost sista 