Poem 7: Adornments

Posted on August 17, 2013 by gitanjaliredux — Leave a comment

The original

My song has put off her adornments. She has no pride of dress and decoration. Ornaments would mar our union; they would come between thee and me; their jingling would drown thy whispers.

My poet’s vanity dies in shame before thy sight. O master poet, I have sat down at thy feet. Only let me make my life simple and straight, like a flute of reed for thee to fill with music.

 

The revised

 

My song takes off her adornments.

Ornaments would mar our union;

they would come between you and me;

their jingling would drown your whispers.

 

My poet’s vanity dies in shame before you.

O master poet, I have sat down at your feet.

Only let me make my life simple and straight,

like a flute of reed for you to fill with music.

 

Notes

The first and second “movements” are so different from each other. The first uses the imagery of lovers and love-making (don’t even pretend that it’s not). The second is about artistry and divinity. I am called to mind of the religious idea that “creation” is for gods alone, and that humankind should not be so vain as to try to play god. So being an “artist” is fraught is the danger of hubris. This narrator is quite the good little child–or the reformed little child–willing to be an instrument in the hands of the divine. But the narrator of the first movement is an equal partner with her lover. I suppose it would have simply been too shocking for Tagore to write everything in the voice of a lover. (But isn’t that what the Mirabai/Krishna relationship is? So there is precedent.)

I really can’t do this properly without reading the Bangla original. Argh.

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Poem 6: Pluck this little flower

Posted on August 10, 2013 by gitanjaliredux — Leave a comment

One thing I struggle with in this project is how much to “modernize” the language and to what extent to keep it a little, well, old-fashioned. One answer might be that these are two separate projects: if I were editing Gitanjali, and working with Tagore, I would not overhaul his voice (good heavens)–that would compromise the integrity of the work.  On the other hand, if I were to say, “I wonder what Gitanjali would read like if it were written by, oh, Arundhati Roy, or Kay Ryan,” and rewrite it that way, that would be a different project altogether. But that (I remind myself) is not what I am doing. I should not “clean up” Tagore’s language any more than is necessary to unfetter his meaning.

Ugh. The difficulty–or a difficulty–is that the work does change in the process of editing. This is not a bad thing or a good thing; it’s just what happens.

So here are two versions of revision. The first makes more changes than the second. I think the second is better because it is closer to Tagore’s original. It’s useful for me to see what changes I cannot let go: these are more likely to be essential. For instance, I couldn’t abide the use of the word “smell,” which has a neutral-to-negative connotation in English. Here, obviously, the flower is worthy of being in the service of–a king, or a deity–humble though the offerer is about it–and that faint “smell” is a good quality. And so: “fragrance.” A nice smell. Something that recommends the flower for use by this king or deity.

 

The original

Pluck this little flower and take it, delay not! I fear lest it droop and drop into the dust.

It may not find a place in thy garland, but honour it with a touch of pain from thy hand and pluck it. I fear lest the day end before I am aware, and the time of offering go by.

Though its colour be not deep and its smell be faint, use this flower in thy service and pluck it while there is time.

 

The revised, Version A

Pluck this little flower and take it; don’t delay,

lest it droop and drop into the dust.

It may not find a place in your garland, but honour it

with a touch of pain from your hand, and pluck it.

I fear the day will end before I know it, and the time of offering pass.

Though its color is not deep, and its fragrance is faint,

use this flower in your service, and pluck it

while there is still time.

 

The revised, Version B

Pluck this little flower and take it; delay not! I fear lest it droop and drop into the dust.

It may not find a place in your garland, but honour it with a touch of pain from your hand and pluck it. I fear lest the day end before I am aware, and the time of offering go by.

Though its colour be not deep and its fragrance be faint, use this flower in your service and pluck it while there is time.

Posted in Poem, Process

Poem 5

Posted on August 4, 2013 by gitanjaliredux — Leave a comment

 

 

The original

I ask for a moment’s indulgence to sit by thy side. The works that I have in hand I will finish afterwards.

Away from the sight of thy face my heart knows no rest nor respite, and my work becomes an endless toil in a shoreless sea of toil.

Today the summer has come at my window with its sighs and murmurs; and the bees are plying their minstrelsy at the court of the flowering grove.

Now it is time to sit quiet, face to face with thee, and to sing dedication of life in this silent and overflowing leisure.

 

The revised

I ask for a moment’s indulgence to sit by your side.
The works that I have in hand I will finish afterwards.
Away from the sight of your face,
my heart knows neither rest not respite
and my work becomes a shoreless sea of toil.

Today the summer has come at my window
with its sighs and murmurs,
and the bees are playing their minstrelsy
at the court of the flowering grove.

Now it is time to sit, quiet,
face to face with you, and to sing of life
in this silent and overflowing leisure.

 

The reasoning

This poem required little editing; besides the usual thee’s and thou’s, I found fault only with the words “to sing dedication of life,” and that was neatly mended by removing the unnecessary word “dedication.” With the line breaks as I have arranged, I am reminded of the look of a sonnet, which is appropriate given the appearance of music in the poem.

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Deleting poems

Posted on July 24, 2013 by gitanjaliredux — Leave a comment

We come now to the first instance of deletion.

Here is the original:

Life of my life, I shall ever try to keep my body pure, knowing that thy living touch is upon all my limbs.
I shall ever try to keep all untruths out from my thoughts, knowing that thou art that truth which has kindled the light of reason in my mind.
I shall ever try to drive all evils away from my heart and keep my love in flower, knowing that thou hast thy seat in the inmost shrine of my heart.
And it shall be my endeavour to reveal thee in my actions, knowing it is thy power gives me strength to act.

This poem doesn’t have the clunky turn of phrase that weights other poems down. What it does have is a seriously boring, goody-goody attitude on the part of the narrator towards his god. The beauty of Gitanjali, its astonishing power, comes in large part from the unusual depictions of the relationship between the narrator and his god. It comes also from the language of ecstasy. And then, in the middle of poems that are sensual, ecstatic, intimate, we have a poem like this one, which has an odd buttoned-up morality to it. Very boring. Out it goes.

(I did try to de-clunk it, by the way, hoping that some redeeming quality would shine through when I dusted the poem off. But no.)

Posted in Process

Poem 3: How you sing

Posted on July 13, 2013 by gitanjaliredux — Leave a comment

The original

I know not how thou singest, my master! I ever listen in silent amazement.

The light of thy music illumines the world. The life breath of thy music runs from sky to sky. The holy stream of thy music breaks through all stony obstacles and rushes on.

My heart longs to join in thy song, but vainly struggles for a voice. I would speak, but speech breaks not into song, and I cry out baffled. Ah, thou hast made my heart captive in the endless meshes of thy music, my master!

 

The revised

How you sing, my master!
I listen on, silent, amazed.
Your music lights the world;
its breath runs from sky to sky;
its holy stream breaks through stone and rushes on.
My heart longs to join in your song
but struggles in vain for voice. I would speak,
but speech breaks not into song, and I cry out, baffled.
Ah, you have made my heart captive
in the endless meshes of your music.

 

The reasoning

That first line is difficult; “I don’t know how you sing” doesn’t necessarily meaning what Tagore is trying to say. The words could easily mean something like, “I don’t know how you sing, when the world is as wearying as it is.” But the narrator (silent, amazed) is trying to say that he (assuming the male gender by conflating, for a moment, the narrator with the writer) is awe and cannot wrap his head around the beauty and power of the master’s song. “How you sing!” is a closer approximation of this than the ambiguous “I don’t know how you sing.” I tried italicizing the “how”: “I don’t know how you sing, my master!” That was a little better but not much, and I don’t like to rely on italics to make a point. The words, I think, ought to be clear enough without that additional formatting.

“Life breath”: enough to just say “breath.” This imagery is gorgeous: the music leaps across skies like sunlight, effortless like breathing.

“Stony obstacles”: again with the clunky, redundant phrasing. Just “stone” will do.

“Vainly struggles”: The word “vainly” is ambiguous; it can mean “out of vanity.” The phrase “in vain” is unambiguous. Perhaps I am nitpicking.

In the final line, I deleted the words “…my master” because they messed with the cadence of that last sentence. The repetition of the “my master” in the first line felt forced to me, and the primary color of the poem went from being in awe to fawning. That said, I can hear in Bangla how it must sound… when I have the chance to actually translate everything from scratch, I will revisit the matter of the second “my master.” For now, it goes.

 

Posted in Poem

Poem 2: The glad bird of my song

Posted on July 5, 2013 by gitanjaliredux — Leave a comment

The original

When thou commandest me to sing it seems that my heart would break with pride; and I look to thy face, and tears come to my eyes.

All that is harsh and dissonant in my life melts into one sweet harmony—and my adoration spreads wings like a glad bird on its flight across the sea.

I know thou takest pleasure in my singing. I know that only as a singer I come before thy presence.

I touch by the edge of the far-spreading wing of my song thy feet which I could never aspire to reach.

Drunk with the joy of singing I forget myself and call thee friend who art my lord.

 

The revised

When you command me to sing, I think
that my heart will break with pride.
The harsh and the dissonant melt into one sweet harmony and
the glad bird of my adoration spreads its wings to fly across the sea.
I know that you take pleasure in my singing.
I know that only as a singer do I come before your presence.
I touch, by the far-spreading wing of my song, your feet
which otherwise I could never aspire to reach.
Drunk with the joy of singing, I call you friend who are my lord.

 

The reasoning

This poem is easy to edit: a little bit of “de-clunking” is the primary need.

I deleted the bit about “tears come to my eyes” because it’s unnecessary; it is one of the many instances in which the writer underlines the point overly heavily. And we are now going to lighten these poems–keep their gravity, but reduce their weight.

 

Posted in Poem

Poem 1: This frail vessel

Posted on June 3, 2013 by gitanjaliredux — Leave a comment

The original

Thou hast made me endless, such is thy pleasure. This frail vessel thou emptiest again and again, and fillest it ever with fresh life.
This little flute of a reed thou hast carried over hills and dales, and hast breathed through it melodies eternally new.
At the immortal touch of thy hands my little heart loses its limits in joy and gives birth to utterance ineffable.
Thy infinite gifts come to me only on these very small hands of mine. Ages pass, and still thou pourest, and still there is room to fill.

The edited version

You have made me endless; such is your pleasure.
This frail vessel you empty again and again, and fill it again and again with fresh life.
This little reed of a flute you have carried over hill and valley, and have breathed through it melodies eternally new.
At the immortal touch of your hands, my little heart loses its limits in joy.
Your infinite gifts you place in these very small hands of mine.
Ages pass and still you pour and still there is room to fill.

The reasoning

Step 1 is to remove the clunky “thees” and “thous,” and verbs ending with “est” (“thou fillest” for “you fill”).

In the second sentence, we encounter the repeated action of emptying and filling a vessel. The use of “ever” stilted; I remove it and replace it with the same “again and again” that appears earlier. Now we have a bit of parallel construction, and we emphasize the cyclical nature of the emptying and filling of the vessel.

I replace “hills and dales” with “hill and valley” because the cadence is smoother.

“Utterance ineffable”: This phrase grates on me. “Ineffable” means “unspeakable,” or “unutterable,” as in the ineffable beauty of a sunrise, or the ineffable vastness of the cosmos. So what is an “utterance ineffable”? An “utterance unutterable”? I don’t know how to replace it; I don’t know whether it’s worth replacing. What if we delete it? I think I shall.

“Thy infinite gifts…”: The middle of the sentence (“…come to me only on…”) is clunky and, in being drawn out with too many words, sound scraping and obsequious.

“…room to fill”: I considered “room for more,” but perhaps that rhyme is too facile.

As for the line breaks, I am not yet certain that they matter at all.

Posted in Poem

Changing the words themselves

Posted on May 31, 2013 by gitanjaliredux — Leave a comment

There are three broad categories of change that I am making: the arrangement of the lines of words, the words themselves within an individual poem, and the deletion of certain poems. The first I explained here. Now we come to a knottier bit: the words themselves.

This project grew out of my—let us say feeling—feeling that the use of “thee,” “thy,” “thou didst” and similar were just plain wrong: they were discordant with everything else about the poems. So I started by simply changing all of these to the more intimate “you,” “your” and so forth. For instance, take the opening line from Poem #1:

Original
Thou hast made me endless, such is thy pleasure.

Revised
You have made me endless: such is your pleasure.

Sometimes that necessitated minor changes in other words. For instance, “thou didst give” would become “you gave.” But as I worked through the poems, I found other words and phrases that felt tortured, awkward, bloated, redundant or otherwise out of place. Here is an example from Poem #3:

Original
The light of thy music illumines the world. The life breath of thy music runs from sky to sky. The holy stream of thy music breaks through all stony obstacles and rushes on.

Revised
Your music lights the world;
its breath runs from sky to sky;
its holy stream breaks through stone and rushes on.

There is difficulty in balancing the sound of the original (complete with clunkiness) against what I think the poems want to be, and I have to be careful not to let my personal aesthetic preferences bias my editorial work. But this difficulty exists in all editorial work, and there must exist trust between an author and an editor–a complicated thing when one party is long deceased.

Different editors would produce different final works out of the same draft. Some authors’ works I would not try to revise: I’m reading Adrienne Rich right now, and I don’t feel confident that I would be able to be her editor in this way, because I don’t yet have an intuitive feel for her voice, her style. But I think that I understand Tagore’s voice and style, and so I feel confident in making changes to specific words.

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The matter of line breaks

Posted on May 25, 2013 by gitanjaliredux — 2 Comments

The arrangement of the lines—that is, where the breaks occur—is not, I think a big deal. In other poems, perhaps; but not in these. These poems are written like speech, like the speech of ordinary, everyday people, marveling, wondering, waiting, hoping. So we could write the words out with line breaks, or we could write them in paragraph form, and still their amazed, ecstatic tone would burst forth.

And so I am using this loose guiding principle to determine what style of line break would best suit an individual poem: I listen to how the poem sounds, spoken out loud; I listen for its natural pauses and breaks. And I put them where I hear them. Would different people put these breaks in different places? Perhaps, and sometimes. Is this worth nitpicking? I’m not sure it is. What these poems—in the printed English collection—look like is nowhere near as important as how they sound when we read them or speak them aloud.

We can discuss in detail the significance of the arrangement of words on a page, but that discussion—if we are to conduct it meaningfully—must happen elsewhere, and already has. Literary critics and theorists have devoted much thought to this matter, and, while important, it is outside the scope of my current work.

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