Chinese Poem Translation:《雨霖铃·秋别》

Yesterday, I found myself immersed in the task of translating the classic Chinese poem "雨霖铃·秋别", but despite my best efforts, I struggled to craft a rendition that adequately captured its essence. In examining the translation by esteemed scholar Mr. Xu Yuanchong, I similarly found it lacking the desired fluidity. This led me to ponder the unique qualities of the Chinese language—specifically, how its aesthetic features are intrinsically bound to its rhythmic and written structure.

These foundational aspects of Chinese create an inherent challenge when translating classical poetry. Unlike modern poetry, which often hinges on emotional expression and content, classical verse relies on strict rhythm, making translation a more complex endeavour.

Take, for instance, the phrase "对长亭晚" (dui changting wan), which loosely translates to "facing a pavilion as evening approaches." The simple syntactic pattern of "one, two, one" embodies a sense of rhythm deeply rooted in Chinese pronunciation. The accompanying dissonance and melodic quality convey the sadness inherent in an autumnal farewell. In translating this delicate phrase, Mr. Xu took liberties with the original structure: "Cicadas chill and drearily shrill, We stand face to face at an evening hour, Before the pavilion, after a sudden shower." Although this arrangement might resonate more with the expectations of native English speakers, it disrupts the nuanced symbiosis between setting and emotion found in the original text. Furthermore, it reduces a fluid concept like "late" down to a fixed point in time—"pavilion in the evening"—thus diluting its evocative power.

In my own attempt at translating this poignant passage, I chose to emphasize action: "Cicadas chill, plaintive wail, We face the pavilion, as night invades, A sudden shower starts to fade." While I endeavoured to preserve the emotional resonance, I reluctantly acknowledged that capturing the rhythmic beauty of the Chinese original was an unattainable goal. This challenge is regrettably commonplace in efforts to translate ancient Chinese poetry.

Consider another example: "念去去，千里烟波" (nian ququ, qianli yanbo), whose pattern of alternating tones conveys feelings of vast emptiness and distance. My own translation, "Thinking of leaving, far I wander, over a thousand miles of haze and water," seeks to express a sense of abandonment and remoteness as one interpretation.

Ultimately, I have come to recognize that the subtleties which make ancient Chinese poetry so captivating are often lost in translation. The intimate marriage between rhythm and emotion in these verses is both indispensable and elusive when attempting to render them into another language. It serves as a humbling reminder of the power and beauty inherent within the rich tapestry of human linguistic diversity.