He holds in his shaky fingers
A delicate flower
From another garden
And sniffs the petals
For traces of the gardener’s sweat…. (From Lipstick and other Prisons)
Ever since it was discovered that Edward Fitzgerald had committed an act of literary perfidy by taking excessive liberty with the poetry of Omar Khayyam, even to the point of mutilating his worldview, translators of poetry are regarded with extreme suspicion, especially if the work originated from a distinctively alien culture. “Poets should never translate poetry” seems the final pronouncement in multiple courts.
I disagree. Once a poem is put on paper, it ceases to be the sole property of the poet (I do not mean property in terms of intellectual copyright). Now, it is in the hands of its readers. A certain reader may respond to a certain piece of poetry in the light of his own comprehension that in turn is determined by one’s level of intellect, ideological leanings, predetermined notions, social conditioning and last but not the least, by one’s emotional quotient.
The translator of poetry is merely a reader, who puts his interpretation in the language of poetry. I am not asking anyone to agree with this definition of mine.
One has to make a distinction between a translator working in a court of law or a news paper office, and the translator of poetical works. The later has the capacity to catch inaudible sounds trapped inside invisible bubbles of silence hovering above the printed words. The question is essentially existential.
Whether a translation is good or not, is to be judged solely on the basis of its fidelity to the source and readability or idiomatic acceptability in the target culture, and it is generally held that—Never the twain shall meet. Even where it does, it is more an act of divine grace, a miracle. There is a hypothetical meeting ground, where two translators scarcely meet. It is the privilege of the translator to put his flag on the line of control that seems to shift continuously with time. One only has to go through myriad translations of Homer in English, since Pope’s magnificent work, to appreciate this observation.
I end my brief apologia with a popular saying that is uncharitable to our lot —
“A work of translation is like a mistress. If it is beautiful, it is not faithful. If it is faithful, it is bound to be ugly.” It need not always be true.
Syed Ahmed Shah
Bokultol, Guwahati
20/09/2015