Starting out

how light is the heaven the workshop is already dark

I worked on the year-end bookkeeping all day long. How many beautiful journeys are evoked by the madeleine scent of the hotel bills! I place them in air-tight bags, so in my old age they will provide me with the fragrance of Sicily and Georgia. It is two o’clock in the morning, the tabletop is bare. I drink strong Yunnan tea. In two hours I leaving for Rome, and from there, further on. It is only in the years of grace that the roads go in two directions, other years they just carry you away, like the rivers. I am leaving the year behind me.


Wu Zhen (1280-1354) was not particularly famous or successful in his life. Only after the years of Mongol rule, during the Ming era, will he be discovered by painters, and lifted up into the ranks of the Four Masters to be followed. He never obtained an office, he lived a hermit’s life, retreated to his small estate. He painted mountains and rivers, and the one small, cartoon-like figure appearing in his pictures over and over again is a lone fisherman (who, of course, is not as simple as he may seem: the old fisherman did have a social-critical connotation in the Taoist tradition). And in the emptiness, so characteristic of Chinese pictures, he wrote his own poems.

红叶村西夕照余， 黄芦滩畔月痕初。 轻拨棹，且归与， 挂起渔竿不钓鱼 Hóngyè cūnxī xìzhào yú huáng lú tān pàn yuè hén chū. Qīng bō zhào, qiě guī yǔ guàqǐ yúgān bù diàoyú. red leaves shining with the last light golden reed’s shadow cast by the early moon touching his paddle, it’s time to leave putting away his rod, catching no more fish

The large empty space, which is to be filled with the viewer’s imagination, was already a convention in the Yuan era. It is nice how Wu Zhen plays with this convention. He does not put his figure in the middle of the space, as it is usual, but down to the bottom of the picture, so that the entire invisible spaciousness is above him. Only a small visible space remains in front of the figure, but, due to the convention, we imagine under him a spaciousness of the same large size. We do not see it, but we know for sure that it is there, just as the figure knows it, and entrusts himself to it when starting out.

Wang Wei vuelve a casa

仄徑蔭宮槐， 幽陰多綠苔。 應門但迎掃， 畏有山僧來。 zè jìng yīn gōng huái yōu yīn duō lǜ tái yīng mén dàn yíng sǎo wèi yǒu shān sēng lái sendero de montaña a la sombra de las sóforas oculto y húmedo y cubierto de musgo verde hay que barrer delante de la valla quizá venga un huésped el anciano de las montañas tal vez venga hoy

Durante cuatro años las sóforas han crecido a lo largo del río Wang, y el camino se ha ido alargando a su sombra. El juego poético que iniciaron hace doce siglos Wang Wei y Pei Di lo hemos seguido nosotros, al principio en inglés, español y húngaro y luego, cuando los temas y nuestros compañeros de viaje así lo requerían, también en italiano, ruso, catalán, azerí y turco, sin contar los otros idiomas de las citas u ocasionalmente traducidos. Pero si el viejo de las montañas, el propio Wang Wei, llegara hasta nosotros, solo a partir de hoy podría entrar en la conversación. El sendero que conduce hasta la valla lo ha barrido a conciencia Minus273 inaugurando ahora la versión china de Río Wang. Así lo cuenta en la entrada de bienvenida del nuevo blog 辋川诗抄 Wăngchuān shīchāo, “Poems of Wang river”: *

«Fue en el blog de Language Hat donde oí hablar por primera vez de «Poemas de Río Wang» - 辋 川 诗 抄 - el blog escrito por Studiolum y sus amigos, y cuanto más lo he ido leyendo, más cariño le he tomado. Al final decidí empezar a traducirlo, por puro placer, para elaborar poco a poco una versión china de estas páginas al otro lado de la Gran Muralla Cortafuegos. También me puse a pensar en por qué me gusta tanto este blog, hasta el punto de dedicarle el tiempo de traducirlo y desear mostrárselo a todo el mundo. En esta modesta presentación de la traducción, por tanto, quiero exponerles mis razones.

Probablemente uno de los motivos es que este blog atestigua una y otra vez el amor a la vida y a la belleza. No se puede añadir mucho a esto, basta con observar la aguda mirada que hay detrás de la elección de cada imagen y leer las historias fascinantes y emocionantes, para sentir lo mismo que siento yo. Otra cosa que me ha tocado es su cosmopolitismo erudito.

Poemas de Río Wang no es sólo un blog cosmopolita, sino, exagerando un poco, el cosmopolitismo en persona. Vagar por todo el mundo, por cualquier medio, a pie o en mouseback, para descubrir, para comprender, para disolver las fronteras entre un «ellos» y un «nosotros», a la búsqueda de las raíces comunes a los lugares distantes y a nosotros mismos —este impulso es una característica fascinante del río Wang. Y estimo particularmente rara la sensibilidad y la complejidad con la que en los Poemas del Río Wang se habla de la historia, de una forma que delata a las personas realmente libres: perdonar, pero no olvidar. Basta con echar un vistazo a cualquier entrada e inmediatamente se comprueba que nunca Studiolum y sus amigos niegan la belleza de la historia a la vista del horror de la historia, ni usan tampoco la belleza de la historia para disimular su fealdad. Examinan las injusticias del pasado no con odio, pero tampoco cediendo los principios básicos de la humanidad en favor de una elusión hipócrita de los conflictos. Y si usted es como yo, una persona que busca su camino entre la oscuridad de ideas en contraste y las interpretaciones de la historia, entonces río Wang le permitirá atisbar y seguir una dirección en el flujo y en el remolino de los pensamientos.

El Internet chino, al igual que el de cualquier otro idioma del mundo, todavía está lleno de ignorancia deliberada y de prejuicios, no necesariamente malintencionados, hacia el mundo —sin importar si ese mundo es el «nuestro» o el de «los otros»—. Sin embargo, el deseo sincero de entender el mundo real a través del virtual ya ha provocado algunos beneficios en comparación con la nada de hace diez años. Con este consuelo en la mente me dedico a traducir los poemas de Río Wang, para contribuir así, con mi capacidad, a esta primera etapa de la evolución; y también porque estoy convencido de que la información, especialmente si se presenta con amor y belleza, es siempre más que solo información. En todos los rincones de la tierra desconocida, en cada período de la historia remota siempre había alguien con la cara iluminada por una cálida sonrisa. Si el lector al final de esta traducción experimentara esa sonrisa, la cálida sensación de estar en casa, sería el mayor premio para los esfuerzos del traductor.»

Más allá de nuestra profunda gratitud y emoción, es particularmente sorprendente en esta introducción que subraya exactamente aquello que nosotros consideramos como lo más importante en Poemas del río Wang, más importante que su fuerte visualidad, su apertura idiomática, su atención a lugares de difícil acceso o cualquier otra cosa que para el ojo europeo o americano destacaría en una primera ojeada al blog.

Nuestro segundo pensamiento es acerca de la gran responsabilidad que supone el lanzamiento de esta nueva versión. Ya hemos comprobado que cada nuevo idioma implica nuevo público, nuevos criterios y nuevas expectativas, de modo que al escribir sobre el pasado de Mallorca o de Hungría, también tenemos en cuenta cómo va a ser leído en Moscú o en Bakú. Pero ahora, escribir algo que sabemos que será interpretado por casi mil quinientos millones de lectores potenciales del otro lado del globo, dentro de una cultura completamente diferente, no podemos tomarlo a la ligera. Trataremos de estar a la altura de estas circunstancias.

Queremos que el camino sea largo. Lleno de aventura, lleno de conocimiento.

Wang Wei comes home

仄徑蔭宮槐， 幽陰多綠苔。 應門但迎掃， 畏有山僧來。 zè jìng yīn gōng huái yōu yīn duō lǜ tái yīng mén dàn yíng sǎo wèi yǒu shān sēng lái mountain path under the shadow of sophora trees hidden and humid and covered with green moss yet to be swept in front of the gate a guest may come the old man of the mountains will perhaps come today

During four years the sophora trees grew large along the Wang river, and the road runs ever farther under their shadow. The poetic play started twelve centuries ago by Wang Wei and Pei Di was continued by us first in English, Spanish and Hungarian, and later, when the subjects and our fellow travelers wished so, also in Italian, Russian, Catalan, Azeri and Turkish, not to mention the languages quoted and translated. But if the old man of the mountains, Wang Wei himself came to us, he could really participate in the conversation only from today on. The path leading to the gate was swept clean before him by Minus273 by opening today the Chinese language version of Río Wang. He writes about it like this in the welcome post of the new blog 辋川诗抄 Wăngchuān shīchāo, “Poems of Wang river”: *

“It was on Language Hat’s blog that I read for the first time about the “Poems of Wang River” – 辋川诗抄 – blog, written by Studiolum and his friends, and the more I read it, the more I grew fond of it. Finally I decided to start to translate it just out of pleasure, and to gradually build from my translations a Chinese version of the blog behind the Great Fire Wall. And I also began to think about why I love this blog so much to take time to translate it and to want to show it to everyone. In this modest introduction to the translation I want therefore to tell you about my reasons to do so.

Probably one reason is that this blog is able to witness again and again about the love of life and beauty. There is not much to speak about this, it is enough to observe the sharp look behind the choice of each picture and to read the fascinating and moving stories, and you will feel the same way I do. Another thing that touched me is the erudite cosmopolitanism.

The Poems of Wang River is not just a cosmopolitan blog, but, to exaggerate a little bit, the Poems of Wang River is cosmopolitanism itself. Wandering all over the world, all the same whether afoot or on mouseback, to discover, to understand, to dissolve the boundaries between “them” and “us”, to seek for the common sources of the distant places and of ourselves – this impulse is a captivating feature of River Wang. And I find particularly rare the sensitivity and complexity with which the Poems of River Wang deals with history, in the manner of a really free person: by forgiving, but not forgetting. Just take a peek into any entry and you will immediately see how Studiolum and his friends never deny the beauty of history in view of the ugliness of history, neither use they the beauty of history to dissimulate the ugliness of history. They examine the injustices of the past not with hatred, but neither make they concession of the basic principles of humanity for the sake of any hypocritical avoidance of conflicts. And if you are, like me, a person who is seeking for a path in the obscurity of mutually conflicting ideas and interpretations of history, then Wang River allows you to find a direction in the flow and eddies of thoughts and to follow it.

Chinese internet, just like the internet in any other language of the world, is still filled with deliberate ignorance and not-necessarily-malevolent prejudices towards the world – no matter whether in the land of “theirs” or “ours”. But a sincere quest to understand the real world through the virtual one has already brought some gain in comparison with the nothing of ten years ago. With this consolation in mind I dedicate myself to translate the poems of Wang River, thereby contributing to my ability to this initial stage of the evolution, and also because I am convinced that information, especially when presented with love and beauty, is always more than just information. In every corner of the unknown land, in each period of the remote history there was always someone whose face was brightened by a warm smile. If the reader by the end of this translation will experience this smile, the warm of the hearth, it is the supreme crown of the translator’s efforts.”

Beyond our deep gratitude and emotion, it is particularly amazing in this introduction that it highlights exactly what we consider as most important in the Poemas del Río Wang, more important than its strong visuality, its many languages, its focus on inaccessible places or anything else that for a European or American eye would be conspicuous for the first sight on the blog.

Our second thought is how great a responsibility is the launching of such a new version. We have already experienced that every new language means a new audience, new criteria and new expectations, so that when writing about the recent past of Mallorca or Hungary, we also have to take into account how it will be understood in Moscow or in Baku. But to write so that we know, it will be interpreted by almost one and half billion potential readers on the other side of the globe, in a completely different culture, is no laughing matter. We will have to try to live up to the task.

We wish the road to be a long one. Full of adventure, full of discovery.

Wang Wei (699-761)

归辋川作 谷口疏鐘動， 漁樵稍欲稀。 悠然遠山暮， 獨向白云歸。   菱蔓弱難定， 楊花輕易飛。 東皋春草色， 惆悵掩柴扉。 guī wăng chuān zuò gŭ kŏu shū zhōng dòng yú qiáo shāo yù xī yōu rán yuăn shān mù dú xiàng bái yún guī líng mán ruò nán dìng yáng huā qīng yì fēi dōng gāo chūn căo sè chóu chàng yăn chái fēi De vuelta al Río Wang Una campana lejos, al entrar en el valle. Los pescadores y los leñadores se marchan. La tarde cae al fondo, en las montañas. Regreso solo hacia las nubes blancas. Las débiles castañas de agua no arraigan. Leves flores de sauce vuelan solas. Color de primavera brota en el lago del este. Cierro, triste, la valla de madera.

Wang Wei (699-761)

归辋川作 谷口疏鐘動， 漁樵稍欲稀。 悠然遠山暮， 獨向白云歸。   菱蔓弱難定， 楊花輕易飛。 東皋春草色， 惆悵掩柴扉。 guī wăng chuān zuò gŭ kŏu shū zhōng dòng yú qiáo shāo yù xī yōu rán yuăn shān mù dú xiàng bái yún guī líng mán ruò nán dìng yáng huā qīng yì fēi dōng gāo chūn căo sè chóu chàng yăn chái fēi Returning to Río Wang a distant bell on entering the valley less and less fishermen and woodmen evening sets on the far away mountains I return alone to the white clouds fragile water chestnuts cannot take root willow catkins easily fly with the wind color of spring grass on the eastern bank with a heavy heart I close the wooden door

En el Día de la Poesía

Grazie a Francesca per l’ispirazione

*

言 yān, «Palabra». Caligrafía de Yan Gongda

En chino «poesía» y «poema» se escriben con el mismo carácter: 詩 shī. Este es también el título del primer libro chino de poemas, el 詩經 Shī Jīng, Libro de Canciones. Este carácter se compone de dos partes, el que hace referencia a «palabra» 言 yán y el que designa «templo» 寺 sì. El primer diccionario etimológico de los caracteres chinos, el Shuowen Jiezi del siglo I, explica así la formación del compuesto:  志也從言寺聲, una canción que suena en el templo — o fuera del templo.

El pictograma de «palabra» 言 yán es una boca abierta 口 con la lengua fuera y con una línea simple trazada encima, la palabra misma. Así lo explica el Shuowen: 日語從口, el habla clara de la boca.

El carácter para «templo» 寺 sì es también compuesto en sí mismo. Si buscamos interpretarlo en función de los caracteres modernos, la parte inferior es 寸 cùn «pulgada», pictograma del pulgar y el dedo medio, con una pequeña pincelada que indica la distancia medida; y en un sentido lato, medida, canon, ley. La parte superior recuerda al carácter 土 dù«tierra», que es pictograma de una rueda de alfarero.

月是故鄉明 Yuè shì gùxiāng míng, «Es más brillante la luna en la tierra natal». Caligrafía de un
verso de Du Fu (712-770). Los caracteres que abren y cierran el verso contienen la luna
en forma de un carácter moderno y de un antiguo pictograma, respectivamente.
Ver la ilustración que encabeza esta entrada.

En el influyente diccionario etimológico de Wieger, Chinese Characters (1915), que compendia la tradición etimológica china de dos mil años, 寺 «templo» es, así, «el lugar donde se aplica la ley o la regla de gobierno 寸 de manera constante 之».

Con todo, las formas más antiguas de «templo» 寺 no presentan el carácter de la tierra, sino más bien una pequeña planta de tres hojas que acaba de brotar del suelo. Se trata de 之 zhī, «germen», en sentido figurado «desarrollo, progreso, continuidad», solo utilizado en el chino actual como conjunción. Y el Analytic Dictionary of Chinese (1923) de Karlgren, que incluye también los huesos oraculares, los documentos escritos más primitivos, que han sido exhumados a miles desde principios del siglo XX, dice que este carácter representa una mano que exhibe un brote tierno como ofrenda al templo por la nueva cosecha.

Un hermoso rasgo de la tradición etimológica china —al igual que ocurre con la tradición etimológica latina de San Isidoro de Sevilla— es que las diferentes interpretaciones no se excluyen entre sí, sino que se acumulan en una simbiosis que enriquece con significados secundarios el sentido de los caracteres ante los ojos del lector.

El lugar de la trascendencia y la medida; la germinación y el cumplimiento; una ofrenda otorgada con la boca y con la mano; palabra y canción; una voz que canta y una voz que se escucha al ser cantada:

詩

For the Day of Poetry

Grazie a Francesca per l’ispirazione

*

言 yān, “Word”. Calligraphy by Yan Gongda

In Chinese “poetry” and “poem” are written with the same character: 詩 shī. This is also the title of the very first Chinese book of poetry, the 詩經 Shī Jīng, Book of Songs. This character is composed of two parts, the character for “word” 言 yán and the character for “temple” 寺 sì. The first etymological dictionary of Chinese characters, the 1st-century Shuowen Jiezi explains the composition like this: 志也從言寺聲, a song sounding in the temple – or out of the temple.

The pictogram of “word” 言 yán is an open mouth 口 with a tongue stick out and with one single stroke hovering above it, the word itself. This is how the Shuowen says it: 日語從口, clear speaking from the mouth.

The character for “temple” 寺 sì is composite in itself. If one wants to interpret it on the basis of the modern characters, then the lower part is 寸 cùn “inch”, a pictogram of the stretched  thumb and middle finger, with a small stroke indicating the distance measured; and in a general sense, measure, canon, law. The upper part resembles the character 土 dù “earth” which is a pictogram for the potter’s wheel.

月是故鄉明 Yuè shì gùxiāng míng, “Brighter is the moon on the native land”. Calligraphy of a verse
of Du Fu (712-770). The characters beginning and closing the verse both contain the moon
in the form of a modern character and of an ancient pictogram, respectively.
See the opening illustration of this post.

In Wieger’s influential etymological dictionary Chinese Characters (1915) that summarized the Chinese etymological tradition of two thousand years, 寺 “temple” is thus “the place where the law or the rule 寸 are applied in a constant 之 manner”.

However, the earliest forms of “temple” 寺 do not display the character for the earth, but rather a three-leaved small plant that has just sprouted from the earth. This is 之 zhī, “germ”, in a figurative sense “development, progress, continuity”, only used in modern Chinese as a conjunction word. And Karlgren’s Analytic Dictionary of Chinese (1923) which also included the oracle bones, the earliest written documents that were being excavated in thousands since the beginning of the century, says that this character represents a hand offering a tender plant and stands for the offerings given of the new crop to the temple.

A beautiful feature of the Chinese etymological tradition – just like that of the Latin etymological tradition of Saint Isidore of Seville – is that the various interpretations do not exclude each other, but rather enrich together the secondary meanings the character suggests to the reader.

The place of transcendence and measure; germination and fulfilment; an offering given with the mouth and with the hand; word and song; a voice sung and a voice heard being sung:

詩

Spring breeze water spreads

As in every year, the Chinese embassy of Budapest has organized the Lunar New Year celebrations for the Chinese elite in Hungary. The program was similar to the previous years. As always, the amateur dance group, choir and band of the Chinese living in Budapest came to stage, and the highlight of the evening, as usual, were the dozen of artists – actors, singers, illusionist, shadow player, acrobat – invited directly from Beijing.


However, in this year the celebrations had some unusual elements as well.

First of all, the festival was not organized in a second rate theater near to the Chinese Embassy or in a Chinese neighborhood like for example the Stefania Palace last year. But in an institution which is regarded as a top class concert hall also by the most refined Hungarian public: the Palace of Arts.

The leaflet of the album was printed for the first time in two languages, also in Hungarian besides the Chinese original, although we hardly saw one or two Hungarians among the public.

In addition, the Beijing guests too were of higher caliber than in the previous years, including singer Dong Wenhua 董文华, singer-actor Cai Guoqing 菜国庆 and singer-actress Yang Jiuhong 杨九红 (here to the left) among others. Their popularity was well measured by the applause greeting them.

As always, each singer’s repertoire included a patriotic song: My China, My Chinese heart, My homeland, My homeland and me. However, at the same time each of them emphasized in their salutatory speeches how beautiful city Budapest was, how happy they were to be here and how much they would like to return to Hungary on a future occasion. This was something new, as until the last year the greetings of the guests addressed only the local Chinese community.

The Chinese-Hungarian friendship was also a central theme of the official welcome speeches delivered by the Ambassador as well as by the representatives of the local Chinese economic elite.

Everything has pointed to China’s having officially announced a policy of opening and cultural rapprochement in the Year of the Tiger, transcending the earlier isolation of the local Chinese community. And this is something very promising to Hungary as well.

The opening piece of the program conveyed this message in a spectacular and emblematic form. An odd band lined up on the stage: a contrabass, a dulcimer, a violin and a saxophone encircled the two most aristocratic instruments of classical Chinese music, guzheng and pipa, Chinese zither and lute. The musicians started some peculiar but nevertheless somehow familiar Eastern pentatonic tune, and after the introduction the Chinese female vocalist sang the Hungarian folk song A csitári hegyek alatt (Under the mountains of Csitár) – in an exceptionally great voice and with an almost perfect Hungarian accent. Then the band played some fantastic world music – a genre rarely heard of Chinese musicians –, including French chansons with pipa solos, and at the end they sang another, very popular Hungarian folk song, Tavaszi szél vizet áraszt (Spring breeze water spreads) in a traditional Chinese arrangement.

I will by all means try to have a copy of the video from the Embassy and to publish it here. Until then let me insert three versions of the “spring breeze spreading water”. The first is the one sung in Hungarian as a surprise song by Freddie Mercury on the Budapest concert of Queen in 1986 (when this song also had some revolutionary overtones in Hungary). The second is the same song performed a capella by the Vietnamese girl pop group Năm Dòng Kẻ on a recent concert in Budapest. And the third is the poem Spring water spreading written by the Tang period poet Du Fu (712-759), a contemporary of Wang Wei, which also has the impression of a folk song. We translated it now for the first time for the Hungarian readers.

Tavaszi szél vizet áraszt virágom, virágom minden madár társat választ virágom, virágom. Hát én immár kit válasszak virágom, virágom te engemet, én tégedet virágom, virágom.

Spring breeze water spreads my flower, my flower every bird is choosing a mate my flower, my flower. Oh who I am going to choose my flower, my flower I will choose you, you will choose me my flower, my flower.

春水生 一夜水高二尺強， 數日不可更禁當。 南市津頭有船賣， 無錢即買系籬旁。 chūn shuĭ shēng yī yè shuĭ gāo èr chĭ qiáng shù rì bù kĕ gèng jìn dāng nán shì jīn tóu yŏu chuán mài wú qián jí măi jì lí páng spring water spreading in one night the water has risen two feet some more days and the river will flood boats are for sale at the southern harbor with no money how shall I link one to my gate?

Update:

Some hours after the publication of the Hungarian version of this post our readers sent us two very apposite Lunar New Year’s gift. Két Sheng has called our attention to the spring advertisement of the internet provider T-Home with Freddie Mercury sending his message from the already eternal spring, where his fans can sing together with him the Tavaszi szél vizet áraszt on their own home videos uploaded to the company’s site.


On the other, much more touching amateur video some former Vietnamese students – who at the time of Communism studied in a great number in Hungary – sing in Vietnamese the Hungarian folk song A csitári hegyek alatt, the opening song of the recent Chinese Lunar Year’s celebrations. Although the video was probably made not long ago, the faces, clothes, gestures and homes recall Hungary of the 70’s when those students most probably learned and translated the song. A veritable time travel.



I remember, Péter told me that in Vietnam of the 80’s the most popular book had been the Hungarian historical novel Egri csillagok (Stars of Eger, also translated as Eclipse of the Crescent Moon), describing how in 1552 two thousand Hungarian heroes defended the fortress of Eger against the Turkish army of 200 thousand. The Vietnamese children played war in the person of the novel’s brave Hungarian soldiers István Dobó and Gergely Bornemissza. The Vietnamese read the history of the heroes of Eger overcoming the superior number as an epic poem about their own heroic persistence in the war against America.

This video has been also uploaded to the Vietnamese forum “Vietnamese soldiers in Hungary” (bearing a Hungarian title!) where people also translate poems of sublime Hungarian poet Attila József, nostalgically listen to videos of Pál Szécsi, popular singer of the 70’s, and in their signatures use slogans like “When I came home, my heart was left forever in Budapest.” A more beautiful Lunar New Year’s gift than this we could have not even imagined to ourselves.

Wang Wei looks out of his studio

Iglesia de San Francisco

Roofs

Town hall bells

Wang Wei (699-761): 書事 輕陰閣小雨 深院晝庸開 坐看蒼苔色 欲上人衣來 shū shì qīng yīn gé xiăo yŭ shēn yuàn zhòu yōng kāi zuò kàn cāng tái sè yù shàng rén yī lái

Studiolum Light cloud. Rain drizzling around the studio. Grew tired. Opening the window to the deep courtyard. Sitting. Watching the green of the moss. It’s getting cold. I should put on some clothes.

Sunrise

Wang Wei mira afuera de su estudio

Iglesia de San Francisco

Tejados

Campanas del Ayuntamiento

Wang Wei (699-761): 書事 輕陰閣小雨 深院晝庸開 坐看蒼苔色 欲上人衣來 shū shì qīng yīn gé xiăo yŭ shēn yuàn zhòu yōng kāi zuò kàn cāng tái sè yù shàng rén yī lái

Studiolum Leve niebla. Llovizna alrededor del estudio. Cansancio. Abrir la ventana al patio profundo. Sentarse. Mirar el verde del musgo. Viene frío. Debería ponerme ropa.

Sale el sol

A poem by Li Yu

(烏夜啼) 林花謝了春紅， 太匆匆。 無奈朝來寒雨晚來風。 胭脂淚， 相留醉， 幾時重。 自是人生長恨水長東。 Lín huā xiè liăo chūn hóng, tài cōng cōng. Wúnài zhāo lái hán yŭ wăn lái fēng. Yānzhī lèi, xiàng liú zuì, jĭ shí chóng. Zìshì rénshēng cháng hèn shuĭ cháng dōng. (To the tune of “Crows crying at night.”) The flower of the forest is fading, the red spring is over too soon. That’s how it has to be: cold is the morning rain, the evening wind. Rouged tears drunken solitude – when will come again? Forever painful is life, forever to the east runs the river.

This poem could be given the title Separation, but it mustn’t.

One reason is that Chinese poets never give title to their poems. Let the reader give one. The lack of the title is an important component of a Chinese poem. At best they indicate the title of a tune if the poem is composed to a tune as in this case. The title of the tune sometimes keynotes the poem, and sometimes stands in a telling contrast to it, as the poem composed to the tune of The joy of meeting by the same Li Yu, the last emperor of the Tang dynasty, in the prison, on the night before his execution.

And another reason is that in that case we would indiscreetly divulge what Li Yu carefully hide in the middle of the poem: rouged tears and drunken solitude. The scrupulous Chinese commentaries warn the unexperienced reader that “these two verses are two personifications.” Another version of the poem has 留人醉 “a man remained drunken” instead of “drunken solitude,” but our version is more beautiful.

The trusting question, “when will come again?” – what? everything that was mentioned and was not mentioned in the poem – is answered by Li Yu himself in the last verse. In China, which is one gigantic slope from the Himalaya to the Yellow Sea, it is a natural law that all the rivers run to the east, none of them flows backwards.

This question, borrowed from the emperor, was answered in a more cruel way by the great archaizing poet of the turn of the century, Wang Guowei who in 1927, when the river of the imperial power definitely flew away, and the revolutionary troops entered the Forbidden City, drowned himself into the lake of the Summer Palace so that he should not see the new world. Before that, perhaps to draw strength, he extracted in one single poem the various verses written by Li Yu on separation. It also begins like Spring in the Jade Pavilon, just as one of the most renowned ci’s of Li Yu. At the end of this poem he replies, not that much to the emperor who died a thousand years before, but rather to himself:

君看今日树头花，不是去年枝上朵。
My ruler, look, the flower on this year’s branch is not the flower of the tree of the last year

because the spring of the year of 1928 will also come, and magnolia trees will blossom on the shore of the Kunming Lake as they also blossom today; but that spring he already does not want to see.

We will also write about the poem of Wang Guowei. But before that we want to translate the other poems by Li Yu quoted by him.

Ars poetica

Xu Futong: 月 (Luna), caligrafía

我爱亨利摩爾的雕塑，尤其沉迷於雕塑中的孔。
Amo las estatuas de Henry Moore, especialmente el vacío que hay en medio de ellas.
(Gu Gan: 現代書法三步 (Los tres grados de la caligrafía moderna), Beijing 1990)

Repasando otra vez la traducción húngara del libro de Lin Yutang dimos con un poema de Xin Qiji que nos gusta mucho y del que no puede decirse que haya sido nunca traducido al húngaro. En todo caso, esta versión suena así (añadimos una traducción española literal):

Ifjú napjaimban Csak vidámságban volt részem, De szerettem fölmenni a padlásra, De szerettem fölmenni a padlásra, Hogy bánatot színlelő dalt írjak. Azóta volt részem A bánat keserű ízében, És szót nem találok, És szót nem találok, Csak ezt: „Mily aranyos őszi óra.”

En los días de mi juventud Yo solo era partidario de la felicidad. Cuánto me gustaba subir al ático Cuánto me gustaba subir al ático Así escribiría una canción afectando pena. Desde entonces he participado Del amargo sabor de la pena Y no encuentro palabras Y no encuentro palabras Solo esto: «Qué hora dorada del otoño»

Esta traducción, con su falta de precisión y errores de lectura, y especialmente con sus injustificadas adherencias sentimentales demuestra claramente por qué toda la tradición de traducciones poéticas del chino al húngaro (y podría añadir algunas a otras lenguas), deudoras del fin-de-siècle, son un completo error.

Gu Gan: 绕 (rizo)

El poema chino es como un cuchillo. Preciso y agudo. Sus palabras son simples y encajadas casi a la fuerza. Son como los marcos del vacío en que consiste la esencia del poema y de la imagen chinos.

En consecuencia, en la Casa de la Poesía China optamos por traducir, primero, en una pequeña ventana emergente, una por una, cada palabra del verso para que cualquier lector comprenda claramente estos marcos; a continuación incluimos una transcripción romanizada que permite percibir el ritmo; y luego una traducción explícitamente cruda y literal. Al final, el lector podrá ensamblar el poema por sí mismo.

Invitamos a comprobar nuestro método aquí, con este poema de Xing Qiji traducido carácter a carácter y con su transcripción. Abajo damos solo la precisa versión al español.

De joven no sabía el gusto de la pena, subía a la torre. Subía a la torre, a cantar una pena fingida.

Mas hoy sé bien el gusto de la pena, y ya no quiero contarlo. Ya no quiero contarlo, solo decir qué hermoso, el frío otoño.

Gu Gan: 露 (rocío)

Xing Qiji en este poema utiliza un juego de palabras –más bien un «juego de caracteres»– tan fino que no lo podemos traducir, apenas explicarlo. Sin embargo, este juego es la clave no solo del poema sino de la poesía china en general.

Las dos partes acaban con dos palabras similares, chóu y qiū (chjou y chyou). La final qiū 秋 de la segunda parte, formada con las imágenes de la oreja 禾 y el fuego 火 significa ‘otoño’, la estación en que se quema el rastrojo. En el último 愁 chóu de la primera parte encontramos el mismo 秋 ‘otoño’, pero sobre el signo del corazón y de los sentimientos 心 con lo que significa ‘pena’, «otoño en el corazón».

La poesía clásica de la dinastía Tang se esforzó en evitar esta palabra demasiado «lírica». El gran diccionario de la poesía Tang solo incluye dos apariciones. Sin embargo, el ci, el género poético popular del período Song que imitaba las canciones tradicionales, explotaba con frecuencia el sonido y la similaridad «etimológica» de las dos palabras, como vemos en Li Yu entre los poemas que hemos traducido.

Esta obra, muy conocida en su momento, está incorporada en las palabras de Xin Qiji cuando dice que en su juventud quería escribir sobre el «otoño de su corazón» –pero ¡cuán lejos estaba entonces de tener realmente el otoño en su corazón, y ahora sí que lo tenía!– ; ya hemos apuntado la razón en una nota previa – había alcanzado el punto en que ya no quería describir «el otoño del corazón» sino exclusivamente «el otoño» contemplado con toda la claridad de su frío y belleza pero omitiendo cualquier intervención sentimental 心.

Y si el poeta –junto con lo mejor de la poesía china– ha alcanzado y defiende esta restricción, por qué el traductor vuelve atrás y tiene que colarnos de contrabando e impunemente sus propias efusiones.

Wang Xuezhong: 白花齊放 (que se abran cien flores)

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