A Brief Foray into "And" and Beyond

Listening to an installment of the podcast Lexicon Valley about constructed languages, I learned of one called Loglan.  It's an attempt to make a language as logical and free from ambiguity as possible.  This ambition makes for a very complex language because there has to be a one word, one meaning relationship and a syntactical way to make every phrase and sentence univocal.  For example, "and" seems to indicate a pretty simple notion.  But it comes in different flavors.  For example, it can tie two things that do or are something with each other together or two things that are or do the same thing separately.  "Mary and her mom swam across the pool" vs "Mary and her mom had Mrs. Smith for third grade."  Each of these English "and's" would require in different word in Loglan.

What particularly got me thinking is that our "and" can couple both simultaneous and sequential events.  "Mary walked from one end of the block to the other and counted all the sidewalk squares" vs "Mary walked into town and bought a new coat." This distinction reminded me of something about the Khmer language that has nagged at me from time to time.  "Neng" is the Cambodian word for "and," but it can also be a future marker like "will" or "be going to" in English.  Mary neng her mom go to the market" vs "Mary neng go to the market."  I could never figure out what shared meaning underlay these two uses.  But if you think of "and" as a sequencer as in "Mary walked into town and bought a new coat," then it is marking "bought" as in the future with respect to "walked."

Further, if you look at how Khmer expresses the past, it's often with a perfective particle, that is, a word that's added to the end of a phrase or sentence.  This word is "hawy" and I think it's basic meaning is to indicate that whatever came before in the phrase has been fully realized.  Sometimes it can best be translated by making the English verb the simple past or the present perfect.  Sometimes it can be translated as "already."  And sometimes as an emphatic like "very" or "really." I think "hawy" works in Khmer approximately the way "le" works in Mandarin, both in syntactical disposition and in range of meaning.

Anyhow, what I thought was interesting was the notion of time-indicating words having some underlying broader meaning that resulted in their having other meanings that are, at first glance,
unrelated.  

Two Ci Poems

IN LOVING MEMORY OF MY WIFE


Life, death--a blurry line, these ten years past.
I dare not remember,
but I cannot forget
her lonely grave, leagues away.
Nowhere here to confide my sadness.
Even though we met, she would not know me
with my face of dust,
my temples of frost.
Dreaming last night, I returned to our town:
A window, a small room.
She was combing her hair.
Each of us staring, wordless,
recalling then our place of lasting sorrow,
always in moonlight,
the hill of scrub pines.
     --Su Shi




FEELINGS AT NIGHT


Long willow threads in light spring rain.
Water clock sounds beyond the flowers.
Border geese startle, crows fly away.
Golden partridge, a painted screen.
A thin, fragrant mist
seeps through the curtain.
Gloom over house, pond, and pavilion.
Candles gutter out, brocades hang low.
All a dream beyond your ken.
     --Wen Tingyun

As If They Were Polished Wood

Changing again the vacuum
cleaner bag full of dirt
dragged in by successive
shoes and paws

lit through a window
with glass old enough
to have eventually run
like rain
down itself

balanced on one foot
hands hyperextended
the apsaras on the bookcase
dance so slowly
we do not see them
moving.

Phoenix

She no longer keeps up
with the younger dogs.
So I take her for walks
by herself now.
She ambles along slowly.
She stops and sniffs
for a long time
over a few inches of ground.
Stops and stares ahead
at I don't know what.

Poems from Wang Wei's Wang River Sequence: My Progress to Date

The Tang Dynasty poet Wang Wei and his friend Pei Di wrote a series of paired quatrains about twenty sites on Wang's estate near the Wang River. (This "wang" is a different word, written with a different character, than the poet's name.) I would like to make my version of all of these forty poems, commonly called "The Wang River Sequence." The majority of Wang's contributions are pretty readily available in some form I can work on. But those of Pei Di, the less-celebrated poet, are quite scarce.  The original Chinese following each of my translations has both Wang Wei's and Pei Di's contribution.  The Sequence begins with Wang's own preface.

The Wang River Sequence

My country retreat is in the Wang River mountain valley.  There are places for pleasant walks such as Meng Wall, Huazi Hill, White Bamboo Hill, a deer fence, Magnolia Enclosure, a cornel grove, Scholar Tree Path, the lake pavilion, South Hill, Lake Yi, Willow Waves, a rill by the house of the Luans, Gold Dust Spring, White Stone Rapids, North Hill, a bamboo grove, Xinyi Village, the lacquer tree grove, and the pepper garden.




PEPPER GARDEN


Cassia wine to greet the Son of Heaven.
Mallow flowers bestowed on the lovely one.
Pepper-spiced libations on the jeweled mat.
All to draw down the Lord Amid the Clouds.


首·椒園

王維：桂尊迎帝子，杜若贈佳人。椒漿奠瑤席，欲下雲中君。 
裴迪：丹刺罥人衣，芳香留過客。幸堪調鼎用，願君垂采摘。 




WHITE STONE RAPIDS


Clear and shallow, White Stone Rapids.
Green rushes, just out of reach.
Folks from east and west of the river
washing silk brilliant in moonlight.


白石灘

王維：清淺白石灘，綠蒲向堪把。家住水東西，浣紗明月下。
裴迪：跂石複臨水，弄波情未極。日下川上寒，浮雲澹無色。 
 




NORTH HILL


At North Hill, north of the lake,
a red railing bright between trees.
South River winds through green woods,
flashing in and out of sight.


北垞

王維：北垞湖水北，雜樹映朱闌。逶迤南川水，明滅青林端。 
裴迪：南山北垞下，結宇臨欹湖。每欲采樵去，扁舟出菰蒲。 


There is perhaps a parallel between the railing and the river as continuous things that appear discontinuous.




WHITE BAMBOO HILL


Tall bamboo, empty river bend,
green image on rippling water.
Enter the hidden Shang Hill path 
even woodcutters do not know.


斤竹嶺

王維：檀欒映空曲，青翠漾漣漪。暗入商山路，樵人不可知。
裴迪：明流紆且直，綠筱密複深。一徑通山路，行歌望舊岑。




GOLD DUST SPRING


Drink each day from Gold Dust Spring,
live for more than a thousand years.
Then in the Green Phoenix Car drawn by striped dragons,
go with plumes and tassels to the Jade Emperor.


A daily drink of powdered gold or jade was supposed to give one health and longevity.  According to G.W. Robinson, the Green Phoenix Car belonged to the mother of the King of the West, one of the Daoist immortals, and the Jade Emperor was the supreme deity in popular Daoism.  The color word here rendered as "green" appears as "azure," "green," or "sky-blue" in other translations.  I think what's going on is that there is a word in Chinese, or at least in the Chinese of this era, that refers to a larger portion of the spectrum than any English color word.  I am myself familiar with an example from one other language:  In Khmer the spectrum is divided into two parts, khiew and krahaam.  Khiew is generally translated as blue, and krahaam as red.  And there are many color words with narrower reference.




WILLOW WAVES


Beautiful, these trees standing in rows,
their reflections cast in clear ripples,
and, unlike willows by palace moats,
not grieving their parting in spring wind.


柳浪

王維：分行接綺樹，倒影入清漪。不學禦溝上，春風傷别離。 
裴迪：映池同一色，逐吹散如絲。結陰既得地，何謝陶家時。 


The custom of giving a willow thread to someone going away was a staple of Chinese poetry.  And, according to G.W. Robinson in his collection of Wang Wei's poems, partings were often depicted as taking place at a palace moat.  My rendering here is another that is especially provisional because I had only several literary translations to compare and so far have been unable to find a word-for-word translation.





LACQUER TREE GROVE


The old sage, not overreaching,
no thought to bestride the world.
Holding just a minor post,
lord of a few swaying trees.


The "old sage" here is Zhuangzi, the semi-legendary Daoist philosopher, he of the butterfly dream.  In his companion piece, Pei Di refers to Zhuangzi explicitly.  Although he was mostly a hermit, Zhuangzi at one time was Superintendent of the Lacquer Tree Grove and turned down an offer from the King of Chu to be a minister of state. All of my translations are provisional, in the sense that I am open to reworking them if I become aware of inaccuracies or misinterpretations.  But this one is doubly so, because I have been unable to find a literal translation and worked from several divergent literary translations.


漆園

王維：古人非傲吏，自闕經世務。偶寄一微官，婆娑數株樹。 
裴迪：好閑早成性，果此諧宿諾。今日漆園游，還同莊叟樂。 




SOUTH HILL


On a light boat, going out from South Hill.
To North Hill, hard to cross the wide water.
On the distant shore, people and houses.
So far off, I can't know if I know them.


南垞

王維：輕舟南垞去，北垞淼難即。隔浦望人家，遙遙不相識。
裴迪：孤舟信一泊，南垞湖水岸。落日下崦嵫，清波殊淼漫。 




HUAZI RIDGE


Once more, endless flights of departing birds
and autumn coloring hill after hill.
All up and down Huazi Ridge
sadness spreads without limit.


華子岡

王維：飛鳥去不窮，連山複秋色。上下華子岡，惆悵情何極。
裴迪：落日松風起，還家草露晞。雲光侵履蹟，山翠拂人衣。 




THE LAKE PAVILION


A small boat to greet honored guests.
Slowly coming across the lake.
At the railing with cups of wine.
Lotus flowers blooming all around.


臨湖亭

王維：輕舸迎上客，悠悠湖上來。當軒對尊酒，四面芙蓉開。 
裴迪：當軒彌滉漾，孤月正裴回。穀口猿聲發，風傳入戶來。 




LAKE YI


Your flute precedes you to the farther shore
as I see you off at sunset.
From the lake you turn your head back
to green mountains and rolling white clouds.


欹湖

王維：吹簫凌極浦，日暮送夫君。湖上一回首，青山卷白雲。 
裴迪：空闊湖水廣，青熒天色同。艤舟一長嘯，四面來清風。 




MENG WALL


My new house near the Meng Wall gate.
Ancient willows absorbed in grief.
And who'll be the next new owner,
sorrowing over past inhabitants?


孟城坳

王維：新家孟城口，古木馀衰柳。來者複爲誰，空悲昔人有。
裴迪：結廬古城下，時登古城上。古城非疇昔，今人自來往。 




SCHOLAR TREE PATH


Through scholar trees, a dim, narrow path,
the dark, mossy way to the temple.
Sweep the entrance and wait by the gate
in case a monk comes down from the hill.


宮槐陌

王維：仄徑蔭宮槐，幽陰多綠苔。應門但迎掃，畏有山僧來。
裴迪：門前宮槐陌，是向欹湖道。秋來山雨多，落葉無人掃。 


The word here translated as "temple" seems actually to mean "palace."  Whether there is a recognized secondary meaning "temple" I don't know.  Some translators see it that way and it certainly makes more sense as far as I can see.  It is not explicit in the original whether the palace/temple is at the bottom or top of the hill.  I believe the most likely interpretation is that there is some kind of residence at the base of a hill and a path that leads up the hill to a temple--and that is the reading that informs my translation.  I don't think it likely that any structure on Wang's estate would be called a palace.  His own dwelling is presumably the grandest and is generally referred to in translation as "house" or "villa."  If there is a temple at the top of a hill, it's more plausible that one might be on the lookout for a monk to come down.  




MAGNOLIA ENCLOSURE


Autumn hills gather waning light.
Back and forth, birds chase through the air.
All things green are suddenly bright.
At sunset, mists are here, then there. 


木蘭柴

王維：秋山斂馀照，飛鳥逐前侶。彩翠時分明，夕嵐無處所。
裴迪：蒼蒼落日時，鳥聲亂溪水。緣溪路轉深，幽興何時已。 





XINYI VILLAGE


Limbs, branches, hibiscus flowers.
Throughout the hills, their red calyces.
House by the stream, stillness, and no one.
All around, all blooming and falling.


辛夷塢

王維：木末芙蓉花，山中發紅萼。澗戶寂無人，紛紛開且落。 
裴迪：綠堤春草合，王孫自留玩。況有辛夷花，色與芙蓉亂。 

In the first line, translations that I found had either "lotus," "water lily," or "hibiscus."  The first two being water plants, I chose "hibiscus," a flowering tree.  A bit of research found that the hibiscus flower does indeed have deep red calyces.  Calyces are the strips just under the petals that are the split remnants of the casing that encloses a flower before it blooms. However, Pauline Yu says that this poem alludes to a passage in one of the poems in the ancient anthology, The Songs of the South, the hopelessness of meeting a goddess is compared to finding figs in the water or lotuses on trees.  From this perspective, though, I'm not sure how the red calyces--or stems, as sometimes translated--are the right color for either magnolias or lotuses.  Anyway, here's a version of the poem according to lotus hypothesis:


MAGNOLIA BANK


Trees, branches tipped with lotus flowers.
Throughout the hills, their red calyces.
House by the stream, stillness, and no one.
All around, all blooming and falling.   
 



RILL BY THE HOUSE OF THE LUANS


Hard wind blows through autumn rain.
Shallow rills flow over rocks.
Water beads splash against each other.
White egret starts, then settles back.


欒家瀨

王維：颯颯秋雨中，淺淺石溜瀉。跳波自相濺，白鷺驚複下。 
裴迪：瀨聲喧極浦，沿涉向南津。泛泛鷗鳧渡，時時欲近人。 



Perhaps it would be interesting to see the what the literal translations that I work from look like.
The first is by Wai-Lim Yip and the other by Hugh Grigg from his blog, East Asia Student.  I have followed Yip in using "rill" rather than "rapids."  I assume that Yip chooses "rill" to fit better with what he gives as "lightly-lightly" or "shallow-shallow" and Grigg as "trickle trickle," a rill being a small, shallow stream.  For consistency, I think, Yip also changes "waves" to "beads" in his more literary translation.  Hard to imagine waves crashing into each

 other on a rill. And to say a wave jumps seems odd--a more natural description of the water splashing up as raindrops hit a small stream.  Probably out of context "rapids" and "waves" are the best translations of the original Chinese, but within the poem, plausible secondary meanings work better.  All that said, now I've come across a translation of the accompanying poem about the same location by Pei Di that refers to a river.  So maybe Mr. Yip and I are all wet.

Rill of the House of the Luans

Blast-blast  __  autumn  rain  middle

Lightly-lightly/shallow-shallow __ rock  flow  pour

Jump  wave/s  self  mutual/each other splash

White  egret  startle  again  down

LUAN FAMILY RAPIDS

swish swish autumn rain in

trickle trickle stone slip slide

jump wave self each-other splash

white egret startle return descend

     



HOUSE OF GRAINY APRICOT WOOD


Beams cut from apricot wood.
Roof woven with fragrant reeds.
Do clouds beneath the ridgepole
float off to rain upon men?


杏館

王維：文杏裁爲梁，香茅結爲宇。不知棟里雲，去作人間雨。
裴迪：迢迢文杏館，躋攀日已屢。南嶺與北湖，前看複回顧。 





CORNEL GROVE


Their berries are both red and green
as if the trees were blooming still.
Should a guest linger on the hill,
set out a cup of cornel wine.


茱萸沜

王維：結實紅且綠，複如花更開。山中儻留客，置此芙蓉杯。 
裴迪：飄香亂椒桂，布葉間檀欒。雲日雖回照，森沉猶自寒。 



I found this poem confusing in both the literal and literary translations that I found, so I did a little research on what a cornel might be.  Some translations have "dogwood" in both the title and last line, some "cornel" in both, and some "dogwood" in one place and "cornel" in the other.  Sometimes "dogwood" and "cornel" seem to be referring to the same thing and sometimes a cornel seems to be some structure that is part of a dogwood tree.  I found that the genus name for all species of dogwood is "cornus," and so a dogwood tree can also be called a cornel.  The fruits of the dogwood are sometimes called cornelian cherries.  One problem was that initially I found references to only American, European, and West Asian dogwoods.  But eventually I found a discussion of an East Asian dogwood, "cornus kousa."  It flowers throughout the summer and produces a sweet red berry that can be made into wine.

With this information, then, I thought I could make sense of the poem.  Because the tree blooms over a long period, it would naturally have red and green--ripe and unripe--fruit and pretty flowers all at the same time. Following on this notion, at first I wanted to translate the second line "and still the trees are flowering," but every source I've found agrees that there's something in the second line that should be translated "as if."  So perhaps it more likely means that the berries make the tree so colorful that it looks from a distance like it were still flowering.  Which is why I settled on "as if the trees were blooming still."  Looking at other versions, I have a feeling that the translators weren't really sure what "dogwood cup" or "cornel cup" in the original Chinese should mean.  My best guess is that it refers to a cup of cornelian cherry wine.  So for clarity in my own cultural context I added the word "wine" which is not there explicitly in the Chinese.

DEER FENCE

Empty Mountain.
Seeing no one.
Hearing someone's
echoing voice.
The late day sun
enters again
the deep forest,
shining once more
on the green moss.



鹿柴

王維：空山不見人，但聞人語響。返景入深林，複照青苔上。 
裴迪：日夕見寒山，便爲獨往客。不知深林事，但有麏麚蹟。

Of course, this is a quatrain in the original just like the others.  I just found a structure that worked very well in English.  Violations of the Chinese prosody are inevitable in the transference to English. This one is just more obvious.  I'm pretty sure that it's accurate semantically. This poem is probably the most translated in the Chinese canon.  Here are several other translations for comparison.  http://www.chinapage.com/poem/wangwei/wangwei-trs.html

 BAMBOO GROVE

Picking out tunes on my lute,
whistling a bit of something,
I sit here in so much light,
alone and facing the moon.


竹里館

王維：獨坐幽篁里，彈琴複長嘯。深林人不知，明月來相照。 
裴迪：來過竹里館，日與道相親。出入唯山鳥，幽深無世人。 




The "wang" in "Wang River" is sometimes translated as "wheel" or "wheel rim."
"Wheel River" seems to be a rather odd name.  I did run across a mention of "wang" meaning "wheel" by virtue of its root meaning of "turn."  So perhaps a better translation would be "Winding River" or "Swirling River."