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It is a cliche that a poem
in translation is always another poem. Another is that something is lost in
translation: the music of the original; the poem's removal from a cultural
background; shared fields of reference. Further, it is held that direct
translation is not possible because of the mechanics of syntax or stress, as
well as the possible cultural forms used. Good translations keep these
deficits to a minimal. However, this notion of a 'good' translation is
loaded. It is possible to agree to these criticisms, but refuse the
definition of what counts as 'good'. More rewarding is to look for other
gauges of excellence than linguistic competence.
A translated poem is a new work, the question is, is it good? Joe Winter's
translation exudes quality. For all that may be lost, something new addresses
the deficit. A vivid, beautiful poetry refreshes English letters.
Beautiful? No apology for valorising this virtue. If you want the latest
slick, street rant or 'wannabe' rapper, this book is not for you. For those
interested in form, in carefully constructed poems that marry technique to expression, look no further.
The collection comprises sixty-two sonnets, Petrachian rather than
Shakespearian in their form; the octave being 'abbaabba' with elaborate
variation to be found in the sestet. What is novel is that each sonnet is
contained within a sentence. Liberal use of semi-colons, dashes and leader
dots carries the semantic enjambment. A consequence is that the volta rarely
marks a different direction or strong contrast between parts, begging the
question, why is the volta so clearly set on the page; a line-space breaking
lines that are syntactically and thematically tied?
Yet, the spacing works. It pauses and slows the internal movement of the
poem, giving emphasis by disruption to the poet's vision. And these are very
much visions of an invoked place: rural and specific to the poet that is
doubly the beloved. The hiatus allows the scene to linger, to form, before a
final movement of mood and emotion.
The one sentence, one vision, one summation of love, of place, of time could
unravel to impressionistic rambling in less skilful hands. What safeguards
integrity is not only well-chosen end rhyme schemes, but the robust use of
other poetic techniques, in particular lines heavy with alliteration. The
first poem is worth repeating in full; it prepares the reader for the variety
of poetical devices in play throughout the collection: -
1
You all go
where you like - I shall stay here beside
this Bengal
bank - I'll see jackfruit-leaves losing hold
at dawn, and
at dusk a shalik's brown wings
turning cold -
yellow-legged
beneath some fair fluff its performs its bird-stride
in dark in
the grass - once - twice - all at once a hijal has cried
from the
forest for it to fly to its heart's stronghold;
the tender
arms of a woman I'll see ... like a conch-note that's rolled
on grey air
her white bangles cry out - she stands there, at the pond's side
at dusk - as
it to take a duck, khoi-coloured,
to some fabled place -
about her
soft body the aura of old tales seems to fall -
in the nest
of this pond she was born, from its kalmi-weed shawl -
in quiet she
washes her feet - to leave in mist's pall
for a land
unknown - yet I know I will not lose trace
of her in
Earth's crowd ... she is on the bank of this my Bengal.
The use of alliteration, initial or parallel as in, 'at dawn', 'at dusk',
embodies the sonnet with great intricacy and strength. Elsewhere, consonance
provides subtle and hidden tightness lines, as here in line 2, sonnet 5, 'and
see a vivid kamranga-red
cloud, like a dead maniya-bird sailing.' Each poem brims with stylistic accomplishment
and facility. Rarely do end-rhymes seem forced or the language over-stepping
the divide between heightened expression and 'ham'. Admittedly, the rapture is
decidedly over done in the end couplet of sonnet 22, 'still she's not here -
today will she come to roast up some rice-grain? ...\\ O kite, golden kite,
will the lovely princess not come back to life again?' Who let the doggerel
out?
Such slippage into saccharine artifice is rare. That the whole is an
alembicated response to place, to person under the inspiration of love has to
be accepted as a precursor to enjoying this work. Artifice is hardly an
unwanted feature of poetry, when the reader stumbles upon an occasional over
ornate phrase or unduly baroque line or blunt rhyme, it is possible to
forgive the error, given the overall high technical merit of the series.
Other minor annoyances come to mind, but this is more to do with the layout
and design of the book rather than the work itself. Slightly narrower margins
would lead to fewer lines that are broken across two; particularly annoying when savouring the end-line
structure of a piece. Also, rather than tediously searching endnotes again
and again for the meaning of words in italics, footnotes, for which there are
ample room, would have served the translation better. Again, but minor faults
when considering this finely wrought collection that brims with quality.
Winter has produced a quality translation, but what of the substance? Das
chose a traditional form for a traditional theme: unrequited love. This
clearly sets Das in a sonnet tradition leading back to Italy; his preference
for the Petrachian model no accident. Das does not merely copy, he brings
something new by his Bengal. His idyll is more than a backdrop, being very
much the beloved. His sonnets are detailed expositions and invocations of
place: sound, smells, flora and fauna under the influence of season or
coloured by association with his love.
Das also explores another traditional theme common to poetry that of what is
fleeting and what endures. He attempts to give permanence through poetry to
the transient. His visions acquire solidity through the form of the poem as
much as the poem's heartfelt declaration. Sonnet 4's tension lies in the acknowledgement that all
fades and passes, even as the poet attempts to continually bear witness to
this slow disintegration, 'I shall lie on and on, ...' Love and transience,
love and permanence, all excised, examined and proclaimed in an hypnotic
series of sonnets set in a strongly realised landscape. Das has not imitated
the past, he has enriched the present by his unashamed declaration.
4
In this field
of Bengal, by the Jalshiri river, one day
I shall lie
on and on, below a ragged banyan - red fruits like fur
will drop on
the lonely grass - the curved moon stay awake - the river-stream murmur
past
Vishalakshi's temple, to knock alarmedly on the grey
door-panels,
like a Bengali girl - on and on the jute will decay
on this
broken-up ghat - the lovely
girls are no longer astir -
with a tangle
of kalmi-weed imprisoning her
the ghostess
river will weep nightlong ... once some came this way
to build a mango-wood
pyre: a Bengal sky-of-Srabon
will level
its dark gaze
in surprise; in the kadam-grove
a damp owl, serene and round-eyed,
will tell
Lakshmi's tale - the deserted river tell Manasa's - on every side
dhani saris of Bengal - white bracelets - as Bengal's
grass, akanda, basak-creeper dishevel
a blue
monastery that all self-preoccupied
is slowly
crumbling away ... all wells up, marvel on marvel.
Anvil press has done a great service to Das by publishing Winter's
translations of his unpublished sonnets. For all that is lost, an appreciator
of well-wrought, traditional poetry would gain greatly from a reading of
'Bengal the Beautiful'. The collection is a balm from brutal, inarticulate
street-rants, which is ironical given that these poems inspired Bengalis to
fight for their country's independence: beloved country indeed.
© Daithidh
MacEochaidh 2006
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