by strannikov
i
In fields that've never grown this tall, I still search,
until I reach an unnamed stream, the waters slid off
unnamed hills hours and horizons ago.
I cannot take another step! —besides, I'm lost:
the sun slides, the locusts pipe up, hardly a band of trustworthy guides,
songs in ev'ry direction.
ii
On this shaded, soggy bank, an overgrown path.
The sweet grass may be tall and thick, but clearly,
someone has walked here,
someone in those hills by now left this flat track here,
somewhere in those hills, someone sniffs the sky, snorting in stark sunlight.
iii
And from a branch, of all things, a nightingale sings.
The sun's warm, the wind soft and cool, the water's waving willows green.
In this clearing no one can hide,
an artist could not paint an ox in the space he'd need to show it,
his canvas could not be hidden.
iv
And just how would I paint an ox? It would take at least five senses.
And just what ox? The ox with the only strong head and neck and heart,
who'd strut or charge just where he'd please,
he could stand anywhere and be in just one place.
v
To get him to pose would take a whip and a rope,
otherwise, who knows where he would wander off to?
Put a light yoke over that neck, and he'd guide you down rows and fields,
and pretty soon, he'd follow you, once you'd both forgotten the rope.
vi
Remember when you were worn out? The ox would let you ride him home,
he'd strut to your quiet pipe as the evening fell.
As well as you could play, his tail would twitch the tune—
the melody, the cadence of notes: the locusts stop to listen.
vii
Once in the yard, the ox would head to his barn and you, to your room.
Nothing near or far off stirs, you can hear the whole world resting:
you wake at noon, the sun sits still,
a whip and a rope lie curled in a bare corner.
viii
No whip, no rope, no me, no ox,
the sky's too big for eyes to see,
a snowflake won't settle on a smoking furnace;
the fathers were never restless, it was always the earth that moved.
ix
So where do I start, when begin? —too late to ask for directions!
If I see and I hear no evil and no good, I wind up with nothing to say.
Just sitting somewhere in my room, it's the world outside that's turning,
the water rolls not far away, across the stream red flowers bloom.
x
Later, in muddy overalls, I manage to show up in town.
“No shirt, no shoes, no service.” —ha! I can't help but smile at the sign.
Miracles? —take 'em or leave 'em:
but I can spin my walking stick, and I turn into a windmill.
11
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Congenitally innocent of all poetic sensibility, I am also no translator. This rendering is merely a paraphrase, based on the translations I consulted from Paul Reps and D. T. Suzuki. (I'm also poor enough as an artist as to be unable to offer the pictorial accompaniment.)
The formatting errors were probably unavoidable.
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Looks very good.
(will have to read later...)
An ambitious project, a great read. *
Speechless. This is awesome!
A special piece. Great retooling of the stages of practice.
Nicely done.
"And from a branch, of all things, a nightingale sings."
*
Poor translation and formatting issues aside...this is picture perfect. Just gorgeous.
Thanks for leading me to the original work. I'd never heard of it.
I love your note at the beginning of the piece, as well as this section-Remember when you were worn out? The ox would let you ride him home,
he'd strut to your quiet pipe as the evening fell.
As well as you could play, his tail would twitch the tune—
the melody, the cadence of notes: the locusts stop to listen.
This allowed me a moment of stillness, which is something I always appreciate.
*
I can only say I absolutely love this!
I'm no expert on the accuracy of Chinese poetry translations, but there's a Poundian or Stevension quality I couldn't help noticing in this and that's good enough for me.I think it's excellent. I'd maybe just chop s few words back here and there to improve flow, if you didn't mind compromising some textual accuracy. The last three lines of stanza three could function as poem on their own, and stanza 8 is killer.
Iain James: many thanks.
Unable to vouch for semantic accuracy (I can't even attest a Chinese antecedent for the Japanese text, don't know either about all sources of the graphic depictions often accompanying the verses), I have to attribute any and all strengths that may be found here to the original (with added nods to both Reps and Suzuki).
I recall finding stanza iii tricky, so I'm glad you found it intelligible. Many thanks again.
this piece draws me back and back... and back... :-)