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Buoy the population of the soul
Toward their destination before they drown
~ Robert Pinsky
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Tuesday, 1. August 2006

A Rebel's Letters



The twin loci of my attempts at translating poetry are Gulzar and Faiz Ahmed Faiz. I have very little Urdu, and a bit of Hindi that has grown rusty from disuse. Yet, I persist in producing half baked translations (if you have the patience, these translations are here; and this is an note in which I tried to explain how I went about translating a Fai'z ghazal) with the main hope that a little of the sensibility of these two poets will travel, as I have traveled, from those Eastern languages into this Western language, the only one in which I can fashion sentences I am not ashamed to claim parentage of, and also the one I call home. This is task is further complicated by the fact that there have been many precursors, some illustrious such as Agha Shahid Ali, who have done this before, especially in the case of Faiz's poetry. Yes,, Prof. Harold Bloom, your anxiety of influence strikes again.

...

Naomi Lazard, who is among one the earliest translators of Faiz, in this article* writes about her memories of interacting with Faiz, and also working with him on her translations. She correctly notes the enormous popularity enjoyed by Faiz in the Subcontinent, and to illustrate narrates the following anecdote:

"When we were leaving Honolulu, I asked for his address. He told me I didn't really need it. A letter would reach him if I simply sent it to Faiz, Pakistan. The reason? He helped found the postal workers' union. They were his people. They would know where to find him."

Ms. Lazard, after noting that it is difficult to describe the process of translation that is much like describe the process of writing poetry, goes on discuss, via examples, of her process of translating Faiz. I envy the luck and advantage she had of working directly with Faiz's literal renderings into English, as well the opportunity to interrogate Faiz on his choices of words, phrases, metaphors etc. Now what would I give for that!

...

Alexander Solzhenitsyn in his opus "The Gulag Archipelago" - a must read in my opinion for its ability to shift the readers consciousness - writes satirically about Moscow's hypocritical condemnation of the prosecution of left-leaning writers abroad while simultaneously hearing writers and other members of the intelligentsia into the most degrading of prison camps. He notes, correctly, that compared to the Gulag, prisons elsewhere in the world would surely be like paradise.

Faiz, like the Chilean Pablo Neruda, the Turk Nazim Hikmet, the Greek Yannis Ritsos among others, was one of these writers who was a dedicated Communist. Consequently, like many writers in this ground he was also imprisoned for various periods of time; the longest being four continuous years. The readers, who are familiar with Faiz's poetry, have no doubt encountered the brooding images of the prison and the gallows, the shadows of prison on memory and on love, etc. These connections might be further illuminated by reading some of the letters* Faiz wrote from prison to his wife, Alys, and her letters back to him.

In these letters, Faiz and Alys, apart from discussing the difficult financial and emotional situation the prison put them in, in a minor fashion, also talk about their daughters, learning French (Alys, jokingly, reprimands Faiz for wanting to quickly master French by writing, "I am glad your French progresses, but don't rush too far ahead. I must maintain superiority in at least one sphere - even if it be French (and the biological status of having babies)" ), the weather, memories of their ten years of marriage, gossip of friends and family etc. Of course Faiz also has some very interesting things to say on the psychological effects of prison on him. So go read them.

*H/T to N.V of Within/Without for the pointer to The Annual of Urdu Studies




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Morning Beat



So this morning to clear my blood of the previous night's howling, I am listening to Mickey Hart's Smithsonian Radio, in which he brings a mesh of rythms for all over the world - currently it is Grupo de Capoeira Angola Pelourinho from Bahia, Brazil. As I have bitched here previously, one major handicap of Western Classical Music, from the viewpoint of my ears, is that it lacks a strong ryhtm section with some exceptions such as Ravel's "Bolero". Have rythmic day, y'all.




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Of Manhattan the son



so described Walt Whitman himself, i.e, a kosmos, i.e., me in his "Leaves of Grass". Of course in the next few verses:

"Turbulent, fleshy, sensual, eating, drinking and breeding, No sentimentalist, no stander above men and women or apart from them, No more modest than immodest."

he also gave a pretty accurate summary of who I am today , sans "breeding". For that I will have to wait for the "touch" that will lead to:

Unbuttoning my clothes, holding me by the bare waist, Deluding my confusion with the calm of the sunlight and pasture-fields, Immodestly sliding the fellow-senses away,

Yes, the touch of a woman who waits for me:

A woman waits for me—she contains all, nothing is lacking, Yet all were lacking, if sex were lacking, or if the moisture of the right man were lacking.

Sex contains all, Bodies, Souls, meanings, proofs, purities, delicacies, results, promulgations, Songs, commands, health, pride, the maternal mystery, the seminal milk;
All hopes, benefactions, bestowals, All the passions, loves, beauties, delights of the earth, All the governments, judges, gods, follow’d persons of the earth, These are contain’d in sex, as parts of itself, and justifications of itself.

...

It is I, you women—I make my way, I am stern, acrid, large, undissuadable—but I love you, I do not hurt you any more than is necessary for you, I pour the stuff to start sons and daughters fit for These States—I press with slow rude muscle, I brace myself effectually—I listen to no entreaties,
I dare not withdraw till I deposit what has so long accumulated within me.

Through you I drain the pent-up rivers of myself, In you I wrap a thousand onward years, On you I graft the grafts of the best-beloved of me and America, The drops I distil upon you shall grow fierce and athletic girls, new artists, musicians, and singers, The babes I beget upon you are to beget babes in their turn, I shall demand perfect men and women out of my love-spendings, I shall expect them to interpenetrate with others, as I and you interpenetrate now, I shall count on the fruits of the gushing showers of them, as I count on the fruits of the gushing showers I give now, I shall look for loving crops from the birth, life, death, immortality, I plant so lovingly now.

...

Or maybe not. Maybe I will just be a stepson of Manhattan, and will bury myself in some smoky New Jersey town like Hoboken, across the Hudson River from the gilttering spires of Manhattan, and maybe the loveless I too will breed, if only words, like this writer has done, drunk on New York, when I get there in a few months time.




My Daily Notes

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