arcadia

Most writers and students of literature are aware of the tremendous burden that goes with translating a piece of literature into another language or dialect. From what I have learned of Ed, there are two factors that the translator must consider: form or meaning.

In form, the translator must stay true to the form and literal meaning of the original piece of work. Hence, it is more or less a faithful rendition of the same literary work, only it is expressed in another language.

Meanwhile, there is also an existing cultural difference when you refer to two different language (or dialect). This cultural difference will prompt the translator to partially alter the overall meaning of the written work.

With this two factors to consider, which one will the translator give much weight to? Is meaning more important, or can the translator practice the freedom of altering the meaning a bit to remain faithful to the form? Such burden that goes along the process of translating a written piece of literature.

Meanwhile, here is one of my favorite poems of all time from e.e. cummings called “Somewhere I have never travelled gladly beyond“. I know, it’s a romantic poem but I simply find Cummings’ verses quite irresistible. Such powerful imagery on this poem, and Ed was given the unenviable task of translating it for his class.

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond

any experience, your eyes have their silence:

in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,

or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me

though i have closed myself as fingers,

you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens

(touching skillfully, mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and

my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,

as when the heart of this flower imagines

the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals

the power of your intense fragility: whose texture

compels me with the colour of its countries,

rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes

and opens; only something in me understands

the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)

nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands

Here’s the translated version of the same poem, in Bisaya, courtesy of Ed:

Sa wala nako maadtong dapit, malipayun gayud

sa bisan unsang kasinatian, ang kahilom sa imong mga mata:

sa pinakahuyang nimong lihok maoy ga sira kanako,

kun diin dili nako mahikap sa kaduol

Ang imong mahinayong lingi sayun rang mosira kanako

bisan pang ako nang nasira ang akong kaugalingon ingon sa mga tudlo,

pirmi mong maabri matag gihay sa panahong Ting-ani’ng pag-abli

(maayong pagkahikapa, mahibulunganun) iyang unang rosas

Kun manganduy kang isira ko, ako ug

akung kinabuhi maanyagung mahuman, kalit,

kun ang kasing-kasing aning bulaka magpalandung

ang uwan mabinantayung mopanaug bisan-asa

Wala sa atong pagsabot niining kalibutan ang motumbas

sa gahum sa imong gadilaab nga pagka mabuakon; nga ang grano

mopugos kanako uban sa pintal sa iyang mga nasud,

muhalad sa kamatayun ug sa kahangturan sa matag ginhawa

(wala ko masayud sa unsang naa kanimo nga mosira

ug mo abli, apan dunay butang kanako nga gasabot

sa tingog sa imong mga mata na wala’y rosas na mas molalum)

wala, biskan ang uwan, dunay gagmayung kamot.