death of a discipline

I was shocked to read the online discussion recently on Chinese modernist poems. The whole discussion started with the poem which I translate as literally as possible here:
Undoubtedly
The pie I make
Is the best
In the world.
I laughed so hard the first time I read this. No wonder every one wants to be a poet: if poems can be made this way, it seems to be a good career then! I could have written a few this morning:
Unquestionably
The sky outside
Is the greyest
That I’ve ever seen
Or
Indisputably
This poem I wrote
Is the worst
Of all.

I can not help going back to my favourite quote of Chesterman: appalling translations are nevertheless translations. While I am wrestling with the blurring line between very appalling translations and creative writings, literary critics seem to be equally bothered with what makes a poem a poem.
Last weekend in the conference Translation and Conflict II in Manchester, I was quite stirred by two lines of an African Poem, which is translated into English:
The bed,
Is shared;
The pillow
Is not.
What makes a bed/pillow, but not a pie poetic to me? Is that decision finally something very personal? I really do not know.
I can only hope it’s not. Otherwise I guess another round of “death of the discipline” will just prevail.

Xiu Wang : 22 Nov 2006 11:25 |  Tags: Poetry |  Comments (0) |  Trackbacks (1) |  Report a problem