i
The more you read about, write about and think about poetry, the more you learn
about it and its relation to the self. The more you expand your ideas, the more
you ask of your work, the more you seek and discover new ways of connecting
to words. I love words and have spent many hours searching up unusual words
from history, from dialects and languages. I do a lot of translation in order to test
myself, in order to encourage myself to learn. I do not have the courage to make
many of these translations public however – I know they are often amateurish,
and I would find it too exposing to face the criticism that would inevitably come
from such open demonstrations of my many mistakes (I encounter enough of that
already, just trying to get through the days).
I worry about ‘permission’, and whether it is okay to give yourself the permission you need to translate. You may have noticed that I have looked into and incorporated Anglo Saxon/Old English, Old Norse, Scots/Gaelic, Irish/Celtic and Orkney Norn in my written work. I humbly and sincerely apologise if I have misnamed/misdescribed these languages. Over the years I have worked hard to reveal clues into my ancestry, and in doing so, discovered links to the languages above. Researching these languages has helped to connect me to the past, to what has made me me. These words have connected me to the Earth, have offered a way of feeling as if I belong, that I have a value, a history. It has made a positive difference to my life.
I worry I will cause offence. I worry desperately about the appropriation which
could occur and the ethics involved. I worry that I miss the original writer’s intent.
It is so important to understand how these threads of subtlety can be unravelled
between languages. Translation from one language to another is so multi-faceted,
so nuanced, so complex. It requires a huge bank of skills and specialist knowledge.
It is so very difficult! I have much respect for those who have translated and do translate literature.
In the privacy of my own room, I often become enthralled with a dialect – I recently
became deeply absorbed with dialect and words when researching a piece of Anglo Saxon/Northumbrian history. Those who know me know that I am devoted to Northumberland – it has most definitely stolen my heart. A poem began to reveal
itself on the trench of the page. I began by unearthing an Anglo Saxon/Northumbrian
word here and there, and put them into the poem. It felt as if I was somehow participating in archaeology (something I would have loved to have done, should I live my life again). I became excited. I learned more words, then the words that join those other words together. I had a good old bash at making whole sentences. I had the most wonderful, enriching experience. I went back in time as much as I could. I imagined these words in the mouths of the people long gone. I tried to imagine how they tasted, how they sounded when called against the backdrop of raw and stunning Northumberland.
I worked very hard. I wrote and wrote, and even felt a little bit proud of myself. I looked at the finished poem and felt as if I had peeped behind the curtain of the centuries. Then my heart sank. What does one do with a poem like this? Where would one submit such a thing? Who would want to read it? Would the poem need a long glossary at the end to help readers understand? Did it have any relevance today? Had I spent all this time making a poem that was ‘useless’? Was it full of flaws? Completely wrong? Did any of these thoughts matter, when I enjoyed the exercise so much? Does there have to be a reason for everything we write? Does it have to be marketable? Of mass appeal? Does everything we write have to have a life ‘out there’? Does everything we write have to be publishable? Does our work have to work hard for us, go calling, cap in hand, from door to door? I don’t believe that it does, if what it gave us was intellectual stimulation, creative pleasure and a moment of fulfilment.
This is what I am telling myself, anyway, as I add another creative piece to the giant pile stashed under the metaphorical bed (I had to give up putting things I make under my real bed, as I ran the risk of being squashed against the ceiling).
ii
I thought deeply upon the affinity I feel with translation. I have spent years decoding interactions with people—each must undergo a translation process as it filters through my mind. I concluded that life is a series of translations.
Metaphor is an important device that helps me translate my thoughts into words.
Much of my poetry focuses upon life, emotion and experience processed through modes of translation. In the broadest sense, I translate existence into poetry — I do this through myriad sub-translations. At the core of every being (even The Great Translation Ens itself), are bones. Onto this broad skeleton, I translate notions of
bone as subject matter / theme,
bone as form
bone as language / syntax
bone as image
bone as euphony
bone as rhetoric.
Subject Matter translates further into ‘bones’ of the body, mind, time; people, place,
light and dark, place, weather, life and death, nature, animals and even poetry itself.
Form helps Subject Matter translate into the bones of a physical being (poem as entity)—helps restrict or encourage its bodily growth.
Language / Syntax translate Form’s bones into its necessary arrangements of words.
Image is the translation of beauty into these arrangements.
Euphony translates Image into music for the senses.
Rhetoric will help translate the whole bundle into something that is, hopefully,
“…more and more striking and more and more memorable.” (Forsyth, 2016, p.3)
As you look back, you may be able to decipher which of these bones had the tightest grip upon your works. Or you may not. Often, the end product is a jumble of every tool in your translation box. The bones desire that you dialogue with them, gnaw upon them, make poetry soup out of them (it tastes of Eliot’s tears and bookbinder’s glue ((I joke. I’ve never tasted either of them))). Yes, I’m being a little silly. When it’s your essay, you’re allowed — otherwise, you run the risk of forgetting that poetry is also meant to be fun.
“...are these [translations] only detours…from you to you?...
paths on which language becomes voice [?] They are encounters…
natural paths, outlines for existence… ” (Aykroyd, 2013)
Imagining translation as a pathway to voicing has been significantly beneficial to me and my practice. To place such pathways at the feet of my complexities of feeling helps me focus, pinpoint what it is I need to say. They provide helpful diversions, encourage divagations, and break the stalemates between mind and hand.
A poem blooms around its ‘bones’. Many of my poems could easily have become uncontrollable, had it not been for these skeletons. My enthusiasm for these new (to me) translational devices need such strictures to bump against, otherwise I just don’t know when to stop.
Sources
Aykroyd, Clarissa. ‘A Sort of Homecoming’: Poetry in Translation. The Missing Slate, 2013.
Forsyth, Mark. The Elements of Eloquence: How To Turn the Perfect English Phrase. Icon Books, 2016.
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Fabulous essay Jane, I loved reading this. I agree life is a series of translations. Also translations are part of us understanding more about ourselves and how to express ourselves. I often think back to the first poems I was performing - simple language in limerick form for comedy value. What I was really saying was: I am desperate for human connection. Being raised by a single parent who was void of empathy I found a way to understand myself through writing, hearing and reading poetry. Thank you Jane for being a great friend and teacher. Love you ❤️🤗🤗