Williams, William Carlos
(Rutherford, N.J. 1883-1963 Rutherford, N.J. ) : Dichter, Schriftsteller
Subjects
Index of Names : Occident
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Literature : Occident : United States of America
Chronology Entries (16)
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| 1 | 1909-1966 |
William Carlos Williams : Allgemein Quellen : Brouner, Walter Brooks ; Mow, Fung Yuet. Chinese made easy. (New York, N.Y. : Macmillan, 1904). Confucius. The unwobbling pivot and The great digest [ID D29063]. Fenollosa, Ernest. Instigations [ID D22141]. Giles, Herbert A. A history of Chinese literature [ID D7726]. The new poetry : an anthology. Ed. by Harriet Monroe and Alice Corbin Henderson. (New York, N.Y. : Macmillan, 1918). Pound, Ezra. Lustra [ID D29059]. Rexroth, Kenneth. One hundred poems from the Chinese [ID D29176]. Waley, Arthur. A hundred and seventy Chinese poems [ID D8884]. Sekundärliteratur Henry W. Wells : William Carlos Williams's poetry is based on irony, paradox and contradiction. He became a violent partisan of the moral and aesthetic standards of the West and scarcely less in accord with those of the East. With the Chinese he cultivates violent transitions. Connectives are flagrantly omitted, stimulating imagination, prohibiting redundancy. Like the Chinese poets when seen through Western eyes, Williams tolerates no stale, flat, conventional word order. Like so many of his poems as well as poems by Du Fu and Li Bo, the subject is a landscape with a few buildings as supplementary features. The major theme is certainly the devastation of the landscape. Like the Chinese poets, he favors ambiguous, especially the earliest days of spring, when, in the chill, clear air one doubts whether spring has actually arrived or winter still lingers. His own verse does not even give evidence that he had at any time digested the full meaning of any Chinese poems. Some real influence, either direct or indirect, is highly probable and the close analogies are instructive for the reader of Williams of the typical Chinese poem, or of both. It is certain that Williams had no conception of the 'fu' or of any of the more complex forms of Chinese verse. In general way Williams might have known of these poems but the probability is that even in this respect he remained thoroughly ignorant. There are striking analogies between his accomplishments as poet not only between his brief lyrics and the Chinese short poems but between his most complex art firms and those of the ancient Chinese. In their views of both art and life, in the practice of their craft and their attitudes toward living, they often hold remarkably similar positions. Williams's verse might not have been materially different from the achievement that it is had China remained in the twentieth century as unknown to the West as it was in the Middle Ages. |
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| 2 | 1915 |
Letter from William Carlos Williams to Harriet Monroe. "… Pound's translation from the Chinese is something of great worth well handled. Auperb ! I suppose you've see his Cathay the Chinese things are perhaps a few of the greatest poems written..." |
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| 3 | 1916 | William Carlos Williams reads A history of Chinese literature by Herbert A. Giles. |
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| 4 | 1916 |
Williams, William Carlos. CHINESE NIGHTINGALE Long before dawn your light Shone in the window, Sam Wu ; You were at your trade. |
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| 5 | 1920-1923 |
William Carlos Williams engaged under the impact of Cathay in an extended dialogue with Chinese poets through translations, whose effects are manifest in The locust tree in flower, The red wheelbarrow, and Complete destruction. The locust tree in flower [Kora in hell] 1920 Among of green stiff old bright broken branch come white sweet May again Complete destruction [Sour grapes] 1921 It was an icy day. We buried the cat, then took her box and set fire to it in the back yard. Those fleas that escaped earth and fire died by the cold. The red wheelbarrow [Spring and all] 1923 so much depends upon a red wheel barrow glazed with rain water beside the white chickens. |
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| 6 | 1920 |
William, William Carlos. Prologue to Kora in hell. Qian Zhaoming : Williams alludes not only to Yang Guifei, but also to Li Bo. He refers to Li Bo as a genius who 'is reported to have written his best verse supported in the arms of the Emperor's attendants and with a dancing girl to hold his tablet'. This story is taken from Giles' History. Williams attacks Pound and Eliot for copying the poetry of the past and of Europe. |
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| 7 | 1920 |
Williams, William Carlos. To the shade of Po Chü-i. [MS sent to The little review ca. 1920]. The work is heavy. I see bare branches laden with snow. I try to comfort myself with thought of your old age. A girl passes, in a red tam, the coat above her quick ankles snow smeared from running and falling – Of what shall I think now save of death the bright dancer ? Qian Zhaoming : The poem represents not only William's tribute to the Chinese poet but also his effoert to pursue his spirit and art form. |
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| 8 | 1921 |
Williams, William Carlos. Portrait of the author. In : Contact ; spring (1921). [betr. Yang Guifei, letzte Strophe ; englische Version von Bo Juyi's Chang hen ge] http://www.readbookonline.net/readOnLine/56467/. The birches are mad with green points the wood's edge is burning with their green, burning, seething--No, no, no. The birches are opening their leaves one by one. Their delicate leaves unfold cold and separate, one by one. Slender tassels hang swaying from the delicate branch tips-- Oh, I cannot say it. There is no word. Black is split at once into flowers. In every bog and ditch, flares of small fire, white flowers!--Agh, the birches are mad, mad with their green. The world is gone, torn into shreds with this blessing. What have I left undone that I should have undertaken O my brother, you redfaced, living man ignorant, stupid whose feet are upon this same dirt that I touch--and eat. We are alone in this terror, alone, face to face on this road, you and I, wrapped by this flame! Let the polished plows stay idle, their gloss already on the black soil. But that face of yours--! Answer me. I will clutch you. I will hug you, grip you. I will poke my face into your face and force you to see me. Take me in your arms, tell me the commonest thing that is in your mind to say, say anything. I will understand you--! It is the madness of the birch leaves opening cold, one by one. My rooms will receive me. But my rooms are no longer sweet spaces where comfort is ready to wait on me with its crumbs. A darkness has brushed them. The mass of yellow tulips in the bowl is shrunken. Every familiar object is changed and dwarfed. I am shaken, broken against a might that splits comfort, blows apart my careful partitions, crushes my house and leaves me--with shrinking heart and startled, empty eyes--peering out into a cold world. In the spring I would drink! In the spring I would be drunk and lie forgetting all things. Your face! Give me your face, Yang Kue Fei! your hands, your lips to drink! Give me your wrists to drink-- I drag you, I am drowned in you, you overwhelm me! Drink! Save me! The shad bush is in the edge of the clearing. The yards in a fury of lilac blossoms are driving me mad with terror. Drink and lie forgetting the world. And coldly the birch leaves are opening one by one. Coldly I observe them and wait for the end. And it ends. Qian Zhaoming : At the time when Williams wrote Prologue to 'Kora in hell' and Portrait of the author, English version of Bo Juyi : Quelle : Giles, Herbert A. A history Williams owned a copy of Giles' book (14th print.). A note in his hand on the front endpaper shows that he gave the book to his mother in 1916. Williams : "Bob McAlmon, my co-editor on Contact rescued it from the wastebasket. I threw it away because I thought it was sentimental and I was afraid I was imitating Pound. I hated to imitate. But Bob said it was good so I let it survive." Henry W. Wells : Williams casually refers to one of the chief figures in Chinese history : Xuanzong. |
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| 9 | 1921 |
Williams, Carlos Williams. Sour grapes : a book of poems. (Boston : Four Seas Co., 1921). Qian Zhaoming : Bo Juyi gave Williams the technique of achieving wholeness by means of uniting opposing elements. The immediate effect of using the strategy is a tangible harmony in Sour grapes poems : the dark is balanced with the light, the cold with the warm, the death with the living, and the sour with the sweet. Bo Juyi not only employs the same metaphor, but employs it to illustrate precisely the same truth about the world. It is certainly possible that Williams took both the image and the idea from the Chinese poet. Williams' effort to see life as whole, as Bo Juyi did. Williams make the following statement in 1956 :"Everyone knows the meaning of sour grapes, but it had a special meaning for me. I've always thought of a poet as not a successful man except in his own mind, which is devoted to something entirely different than what the world whinks of as success. The poet puts his soul in his work and if he writes a good poem he is successful. When I decided on the title I was playing a game, sticking my fingers up to my nose at the world. All the poems are poems of disappointment, sorrow. I felt rejected by the world. But secretly I had my own idea. Sour grapes are just as beautiful as any other grapes. The shape, round, perfect, beautiful. I knew it – my sour grape – to be just as typical of beauty as any grape, sweet or sour. But the world undoubtedly read a sour meaning into my title." |
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| 10 | 1922 |
Williams, William Carlos. The widow's lament in springtime. In : Poetry ; January (1922). Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire that closes round me this year. Thirtyfive years I lived with my husband. The plumbree is white today with masses of flowers. Masses of flowers load the cherry branches and color some bushes yellow and some red but the grief in my heart is stronger than they for though they were my joy formerly, today I notice them and turned away forgetting. Today my son told me that in the meadows, at the edge of the heavy woods in the distance, he saw trees of white flowers. I feel that I would like to go there and fall into those flowers and sink into the marsh near them. Vincent Yang : The women's lament in springtime was always a favorite theme of classical Chinese poets, and the home was the ideal setting for such poems. In choosing his subject, Williams not only employs a popular theme in Chinese poetry but also uses some traditional images in the literary heritage of Chinese poetry. Typical of most Chinese poets, Williams also employs the technique of interweaving natural scenery with human events and emotions throughout his poem. In keeping with Chinese poetic tradition, he also uses cherry blossoms to signify the widow's declining beauty in his poem. |
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| 11 | 1923 |
Williams, William Carlos. Spring and all. (Dijon : Contact Publ. Co., 1923). Qian Zhaoming : Technical fusions in Spring and all have origins in the Chinese poetic heritage : the fusion of poetry with prose and the fusion of poetry with painting is a characteristic shared by virtually all Chinese lyrics. |
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| 12 | 1947 |
Letter from William Carlos Williams to Louis Zukofsky ; Jan. 26 (1947). "I had been thinking and writing (private papers) of Ezra's encounter with Chinese poetry--thinking that at that very point his deterioration began due entirely (tho' the inclination was already in him) to his turning from sound to pronunciamentos. He from that moment imagined himself Kung or equated himself with all wisdom and, by that failing against which all poets must guard themselves went straight to hell." |
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| 13 | 1957 |
Letter from William Carlos Williams to Ezra Pound ; Febr. 1957. Williams praised David Rafael Wang's eight classic Chinese poems in the Poundian journal Edge : "I do enjoy EDGE – the last translations from the chink by / of David Rafael Wang are worth the trip half way round the world to have encountered." |
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| 14 | 1957 |
Williams, William Carlos. Two new books by Kenneth Rexroth [ID D29177]. One hundred poems from the Chinese Kenneth Rexroth has recently translated One Hundred Poems from the Chinese, one of the most brilliantly sensitive books of poems in the American idiom it has ever been my good fortune to read. It must be amazing to the occidental reader, acquainted we'll say with Palgrave's Golden Treasury, to realize that the Chinese have a practice and art of the poem, which in subtlety of lyrical candor, far exceeds his own. I am grateful to him. Nothing comparable and as relaxed is to be found I think in the whole of English or American verse, and in French or Spanish verse, so far as I know. So that it constitutes a unique experience to read what has been set down here. Womanhood has been engraved on our minds in unforgettable terms. Oh, I know that women can be bitches, you don't have to be a homo'sexual to learn that, but the exact and telling and penetrant realization of a woman's reality, of her lot, has never been better set down. It is tremendously moving, as none of our well known attempts, say, throughout the Renaissance have ever succeeded in being. This is a feat of overwhelming importance. It is not a question of a man or woman's excess in experience or suffering, for whatever this amounted to, they have had to do; but that in their mutual love they have been made to bear their fates. What does it matter what a woman and a man in love will do for themselves? Someone will succeed and someone will die. In the poem suddenly we realize that we know that and perceive in a single burst of vision, in a flash that dazzles the reader. The poet Tu Fu (713-770) was the first, with him it begins. Homer and Sappho with their influence on our poetry had been dead for over a thousand years. The use of the metaphor, pivotal in our own day, had not been discovered by the Chinese in these ancient masterpieces. The metaphor comes as a flash, nascent in the line, which flares when the image is suddenly shifted and we are jolted awake just as when the flint strikes the steel. The same that the Chinese poet seeks more simply when the beauty of his images bursts at one stroke directly upon us. Dawn over the Mountains The city is silent, Sounds drains away Buildings vanish in the light of dawn, Cold sunlight comes on the highest peak, The dust of night Clings to the hills, The earth opens, The river boats are vague, The still sky— The sound of falling leaves. A huge doe comes to the garden gate, Lost from the herd, Seeking its fellows. (Tu Fu) Where is the poem? without metaphor among these pages so effortlessly put down. Occidental art seems more than a little strained compared to this simplicity. You cannot say there is no art since we are overwhelmed by it. The person of the poet, the poetess, no, the woman herself (when it is a woman), speaks to us... in an unknown language, to our very ears, so that we actually weep with her and what she says (while we are not aware of her secret) is that she breathes. . . that she is alive as we are. Where is it hidden in the words? Our own clumsy poems, the best of them, following the rules of grammar . . . trip themselves up. What is a sonnet of Shakespeare beside this limpidity but a gauche, a devised pretext? and it takes fourteen lines rigidly to come to its conclusion. But with bewildering simplicity we see the night end, the dawn come in and a wild thing approach a garden. . . . But the compression without being crowded, the opposite of being squeezed into a narrow space, a few lines, a universe, from the milky way . . . vividly appears before us. But where has it been hidden? because it is somewhere among the words to our despair, if we are poets, or pretend to be, it is really a simple miracle, like that of the loaves and the fishes. . . . Where does the miracle lodge, to have survived so unaffectedly the years translation to a foreign language and not only a foreign language but a language of fundamentally different aspect from that in which the words were first written? The metaphor is total, it is overall, a total metaphor. But there are two parts to every metaphor that we have known heretofore: the object and its reference—one of them is missing in these Chinese poems that have survived to us and survived through the years, to themselves also. They have been jealously, lovingly guarded.. .Where does it exist in the fabric of the poem? so tough that it can outlast copper and steel ... a poem? —and really laughs and cries! it is alive. —It is as frightening as it is good. And the Chinese as a race have built upon it to survive, the words of Tu Fu, a drunken poet, what I mean is DRUNK! and a bum, who did not do perhaps one constructive thing with himself in his life—or a Bodenheim. I go to a reception and find a room crowded with people whom 1 cannot talk with except one, a man (or a woman perhaps) or one who wearies me with his insistencies. . . . When a few miraculous lines that keep coming into my head transport me through space a thousand years into the past.... "A magic carpet" the ancients called it. It costs nothing, it's not the least EXPENSIVE! Look at the object: an unhappy woman, no longer young, waking in her lonely bed and looking over a moonlit valley, that is all. Or a man drunk or playing with his grandchildren who detain him so that he can¬not keep an appointment to visit a friend. . . . And what? A few fragile lines which have proved indestructible! Have you ever thought that a cannon blast or that of an atomic bomb is absolutely powerless beside this?—unless you extinguish man (and woman), the whole human race. A smile would supersede it, totally. I raise the curtains and go out To watch the moon. Leaning on the Balcony, I breathe the evening Wind from the west, heavy with the Odors of decaying Autumn. The rose-jade of the river Blends with the green-jade of the void. Hidden in the grass a cricket chirps. Hidden in the sky storks cry out. I turn over and over in My heart the memories of Other days. Tonight as always There is no one to share my thoughts. (Shu Chu Senn) or this: The Visitors I have had asthma for a Long time. It seems to improve Here in this house by the river. It is quiet too. No crowds Bother me. I am brighter here And more rested. I am happy here. When someone calls at my thatched hut My son brings me my straw hat And I go out to gather A handful of fresh vegetables. It isn't much to offer. But it is given in friendship. (Tu Fu) These men (a woman among the best of them) were looking at direct objects when they were writing, the transition from their pens or brushes is direct to the page. It was a beautiful object (not always a beautiful object, sometimes a horrible one) that they produced. It is incredible that it survived. It must have been treasured as a rare phenomenon by the people to be cared for and reproduced at great pains. But the original inscriptions, so vividly recording the colors and moods of the scene . . . were invariably put down graphically in the characters (not words), the visual symbols that night and day appeared to the poet. The Chinese calligraphy must have contributed vastly to this. Our own 'Imagists' were right to brush aside purely grammatical conformations. What has grammar to do with poetry save to trip up its feet in that mud? It is important to a translator but that is all. But it is important to a translator, as Kenneth Rexroth well knows. But mostly he has to know the construction of his own idiom into which he is rendering his text, when to ignore its more formal configurations. This is where the translations that Kenneth Rexroth has made are brilliant. His knowledge of the American idiom has given him complete freedom to make a euphonious rendering of a text which has defied more cultured ears to this date. It may seem to be undisciplined but it is never out of the translator's measured control. Mr. Rexroth is a genius in his own right, inventing a modern language, or following a vocal tradition which he raises here to great distinction. Without a new language into which the poems could be rendered their meaning would have been lost. Finally, when he comes to the end of introduction, he says, "So here are two selections of poetry, one the work of a couple of years, the other the personal distillate of a lifetime. I hope they meet the somewhat different ends I have in view. I make no claim for the book as a piece of Oriental scholarship. Just some poems." At the very end there are data, notes, ten pages of them, annotated page for page, on the individual poems. And two and a half pages of Select Bibliography. The translations into English began in 1870 with The Chinese Classics, James Legge. Included is a mention of Ezra Pound's Cathay, 1915. In the French there is, dating from 1862, the Poesies Chinoises de I'Epoque Thang, and, among others, that of Judith Gautier's, 1908, Livre de Jade. The German versions are still those of Klabund. |
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| 15 | 1957-1961 |
William Carlos Williams and David Rafael Wang 1957 First meeting between William Carlos Williams and David Rafael Wang. Wang brought up the idea of working together on a group of Chinese poems. Letter from William Carlos Williams to David Rafael Wang ; March 16 (1957). "For heaven's sake ! I've been looking for you everywhere since I read those Chinese translations in the last EDGE. Pound wrote me one of his unnecessarily cryptic cards telling me you were in New York. I thought you were merely passing through the city. Now I find out that you are a friend of Gil Sorrentino. Of course come out and see us. It will have to be after the middle of next week – if you will be free. Come in the afternoon unless you are not free then when you can make it Saturday or Sunday. I'm not much good evenings. Let me hear from you. I'm awfully glad you wrote." Letter from William Carlos Williams to David Rafael Wang ; Sept. 28 (1957). "I am fascinated by the prospect of working with you on the Chinese translation – and we will of course do it together and soon but not now." 1958 William Carlos Williams felt that his health was beginning to fluctuate and he returned all of David Raphael Wang's translations of Chinese poems. Wang continued to send him version after version. Williams reviewed most of Wang's offerings, but only occasionally did he make comments or suggest revisions. After a long silence in 1960 Wang wrote to Williams ; Jan. 27 (1961) : "I would appreciate if I only get a card from you". Qian Zhaoming : In refashioning China for American literature, the two partners were pulled by conflicting desires – to be modernist, and to be Chinese. Despite its actual assimilation of Chinese images, themes, and styles. Wang had his own motivations for the project. First, the undertaking would provide a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to study creative writing with a leading modernist poet. Second, whatever result came of it was likely to send him on the way to an illustrious career. From Williams's revisionary suggestions, Wang learned a great deal about the handling of the poetic form in an effort to be modernist. Williams also learned from Wang. For Williams it was a chance to use 'China' for poetic restructuring and renewal, a chance to fulfill his dream of competing favorably against Pound and Fenollosa. Wang's versions of Wang Wei and Li Bo rekindled his passion for the minimal, painterly style of classic Chinese poetry and inspired him to take a new direction formally in his last book. Together the two poets created an English line of economy, understatement and power. |
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| 16 | 1966 |
The Cassia tree : a collection of translations & adaptations from the Chinese. David Rafael Wang ; in collaboration with William Carlos Williams [ID D29171]. Note : These poems are not translations in the sense that Arthur Waley's versions are translations. They are rather re-creations in the American idiom – a principle to which William Carlos Williams dedicated his poetic career. (D.R.W.) Popular T'ang and Sung poems I Meng Hao-chuan (689-740) [Meng Haoran 689/691-740] In spring you sleep and never know when the morn comes, Everywhere you hear the songs of the birds, But at night the sound of the wind mingles with the rain's, And you wonder how many flowers have fallen. II Li Po (701-762) [Li Bo] Spotting the moonlight at my bedside, I wonder if it is frost on the ground. After raising my head to look at the bright moon, I lower it to think of my old country. III Liu, Chung-yuan, 773-819 [Liu Zhongyuan] The birds have flown away from the mountains, The sign of men has gone from the paths, But under a lone sail stoops an old fisherman, Angling in the down-pouring snow. IV Ho Chi-chong = Ho Chih-chang), 659-744 [He Zhizhang = Jizhen] [(Xiaoshan, Zhejiang 659-)] Returning after I left my home in childhood, I have kept my native accent but not the color of my hair. Facing the smiling children who shyly approach me, I am asked from where I come. V Meng Hao-chuan = Meng Hao-jan (689-740) [Meng Haoran 689/691-740] Steering my little boat towards a misty islet, I watch the sun descend while my sorrows grow : In the vast night the sky hangs lower than the treetops, But in the blue lake the moon is coming close. VI Wang Wei (699-759) Alighting from my horse to drink with you, I asked, 'Where are you going ? ' You said, 'Retreating to lie in the southern mountains' Silent, I watch the white clouds endless in the distance. VII Li Yu (The last king of the Southern T'ang dynasty, 937-978) Silently I ascend the western pavilion. The moon hangs like a hairpin. In the deep autumn garden The wu-t'ung stands alone. Involute, Entagled, The feeling of departure Clings like a wet leaf to my heart. The maid (Ancient folk poem) Drives sheep through ravine, With the white goat in front. The ole gal unmarried, Her sigh reaches heaven. Aihe ! Aihe ! Endless dream of the shepherd. 'Hold man's left arm, Turn and toss with him'. 'Stroke man's whiskers, watch changin' expression'. The shepherd unmindful Can she force him ? Cho Wen-chun (Han poetess, 2nd century B.C.) [Zhuo Wenjun, ca. 179-ca. 117 B.C.] Lament of a graying woman White as the snow on mountaintop, Bright as the moon piercing the clouds, Knowing that you have a divided heart, I come to you before you are gone. We have lived long together in this town. What need is there for a feast of wine ? But a feast we must have today, For tomorrow we'll be by the stream And I'll lag behind you at the fork, Watching the waters flow east or west. Tears and still more tears. Why should we lament ? If only there is a constant man Till white-hair shall we never part ! SOCIETY OF POETS I To Li Po Tu Fu 712-770 [Du Fu] The floating cloud follows the sun. The traveler has not yet returned. For three nights I dreamt of you, my friend, So clearly that I almost touched you. You left me in a hurry. Your passage is fraught with trouble : The wind blows fiercely over lakes and rivers. Be watchful lest you fall from your boat ! You scratched your white head when leaving the door, And I knew the journey was against your wishes. Silk-hatted gentlemen have swamped the capital, While you, the poet, are lean and haggard. If the net of heaven is not narrow, Why should you be banished when you are old ? Ten thousand ages will remember your warmth ; When you are gone the world is silent and cold. II To Meng Hao-jan Li Po [Li Bo] I love Meng-fu-tsu. His name is known throughout China. While rosy-cheeked he gave up his office ; Now with white hair he lies in the pine clouds. Drunk with the moon he is a hermit-saint ; Lost in flowers he will not serve any kings. Can I reach him who is like a high mountain ? I am contented if I only breathe in his fragrance. III To Wang Wei Meng Hao-chuan [Meng Haoran 689/691-740] Quietly, quietly, why have I been waiting ? Emptily, emptily, I return every day alone. I have been in search of fragrant grass And miss the friend who can accompany me. Who will let me roam his private park ? Understanding ones in the world are rare. I shall walk back home all by myself And fasten the latch on the gate of my garden. Meng Hao-chuan [Meng Haoran 689/691-740] After the party The guest, still drunk, sprawls in my bed How am I going to get him awake ? The chicken congee is boiling on the stove And the new wine is heated to start our day. Meng Hao-chuan [Meng Haoran 689/691-740] Late spring In April the lake water is clear Everywhere the birds are singing The ground just swept, the petals fall again The grass, though stepped on, remains green My drinking companions gather to compare fortunes Open the keg to get over the bout of drinking With cups held high in our hands We hear the voices of sing-song girls ringing. Wang Wei (699-759) Ce-Lia the immortal beauty The beauty of a maiden is coveted by the world. So how could a girl like Ce-Lia be slighted for long ? In the mourning she was just another lass in the village, But in the evening she has become the king's concubine. Was she different from the rest in her days of poverty ? Now that she is favored, all begin to realize her beauty is rare. She can command her maids to powder and perfume her face, And is no longer obliged to don her own clothing. The adoration of her Emperor has brought pride to her being, And the king's 'Yes' and 'No' vary in accordance with her caprice. The companions who washed at the brookside along with her Are not entitled any more to ride back home in the same carriage. Why should we bother to sympathize with these rustic girls, Since they'll never have Beauty to accompany them, Even if they should master the art of coquetry ? Wang Wei The peerless lady Look, there goes the young lady across the street She looks about fifteen, doesn't she ? Her husband is riding the piebald horse Her maids are scraping chopped fish from a gold plate. Her picture gallery and red pavilion stand face to face The willow and the peach trees shadow her eaves Look, she's coming thru the gauze curtains to get into her chaise : Her attendants have started winnowing the fans. Her husband got rich early in his life A more arrogant man you never find around ! She keeps busy by teaching her maids to dance She never regrets giving jewels away. There goes the light by her window screen The green smoke's rising like petals on wave The day is done and what does she do ? Her hair tied up, she watches the incense fade. None but the bigwigs visit her house Only the Chaos and the Lees get by her guards But do you realize this pretty girl Used to beat her clothes at the river's head ? There goes the light by her window screen The green smoke's rising like petals on wave The day is done and what does she do ? Her fair tied up, she watches the incense fade. None but the bigwigs visit her house Only the Chaos and the Lees get by her guards But do you realize this pretty girl Used to beat her clothes at the river's head ? Li Po [Li Bo] A letter My love, When you were here there was a hall of flowers. When you are gone there is an empty bed. Under the embroidered coverlet I toss and turn. After three years I smell you fragrance. Your fragrance never leaves, But you never return. I think of you, the yellow leaves are ended And the white dew dampens the green moss. Li Po [Li Bo] Spring song A young lass Plucks mulberry leaves by the river Her white hand Reaches among the green Her flushed cheeks Shine under the sun The hungry silkworms Are waiting Oh, young horseman Why do you tarry. Get going. Li Po [Li Bo] Summer song The Mirror Lake (Three hundred miles), Where lotus buds Burst into flowers. The slippery shore Is jammed with admirers, While the village beauty Picks the blossoms. Before the sails Breast the rising moon, She's shipped away To the king's harem. Li Po [Li Bo] In the wineshop of Chinling The wind scatters the fragrance of the willows over the shop The sing-song girls pour the rice wine heated for the guests My friends have gathered to say goodbye Drinking cup after cup, I wonder why I should start 'Say, can you tell me about the east-flowing river – Does it stretch as long as this feeling of departure ?' Li Po [Li Bo] Solo The pavilion pierces the green sky Below is the white jade chamber The bright moon is ready to set Casting its glance behind the screen window Solitary she stands Her thin silk skirt ruffled by autumn frost She fingers softly the séchin Composing the Mulberry Song. The sound reverberates And the wind circles the crossbeams Outside the pedestrians are turning away And the birds are gone to their nests. The weight of feeling Cannot be carried away by song and She longs for someone To soar with her like a mandarin drake. Li Po [Li Bo] The youth on horseback The youth from the capital rides by the east of the city. His white horse and silver saddle sail through the spring breeze. Having trampled all the flowers where else could he go ? Smiling, he enters the barroom of the white prostitute. Li Po [Li Bo] The Knight In March the dust of Tartary has swept over the capital. Inside the city wall the people sigh and complain. Under the bridge the water trickles with warm blood And bales of white bones lean against one another. I departed east for the Kingdom of Wu. Clouds block the four fortresses and the roads are long. Only the crows announce the rise of the sun. Someone opens the city gate to sweep away the flowers. Wu-t'ungs and willows hover above the well. Drunk, I come to the knight-errant's home. The knights-errant of Fu Feng are rare in this world : With arms around their friends they'll heave mountains. The posture of the generals means little to them And, drinking, they ignore the orders of the cabinet. With fancy food on carved plates they entertain their guests. With songs and dance their sing-song girls unwind a fragrant wind. The fabulous dukes of the six kingdoms Were known for their entertainment : In the dining hall of each three thousand were fed. But who knew which one would remember to repay ? They stroke their long swords, arching their eyebrows ; By the clear water and white rock they decline to separate. Doffing my hat I turn to you smiling. Drinking your wine I recite only for you. I have not yet met my master of strategy – The bridgeside hermit may read my heart. Li Po [Li Bo] Drinking together We drink in the mountain while the flowers bloom, A pitcher, a pitcher, and one more pitcher. As my head spins you get up. So be back any time with your guitar. Li Po [Li Bo] The march The bay horse is fitted with a white jade saddle. The moon shivers over the battlefield. The sound of iron drums still shakes the city walls And in the case the gold sword oozes blood. Li Po [Li Bo] Long Banister Lane When my hair was first trimmed across my forehead, I played in front of my door, picking flowers. You came riding a bamboo stilt for a horse, Circling around my yard, playing with green plums. Living as neighbors at Long Banister Lane, We had an affection for each other that none were suspicious of. At fourteen I became your wife, With lingering shyness, I never laughed. Lowering my head towards a dark wall, I never turned, though called a thousand times. At fifteen I began to show my happiness, I desired to have my dust mingled with yours. With a devotion ever unchanging. Why should I look out when I had you ? At sixteen you left home For a faraway land of steep pathways and eddies, Which in May were impossible to traverse, And where the monkey whined sorrowfully towards the sky. The footprints you made when you left the door Have been covered by green moss, New moss too deep to be swept away. The autumn wind came early and the leaves started falling. The butterflies, yellow with age in August, Fluttered in pairs towards the western garden. Looking at the scene, I felt a pang in my heart, And I sat lamenting my fading youth. Every day and night I wait for your return, Expecting to receive your letter in advance, So that I will some traveling to greet you As far as Windy Sand. Adaptation of Li Po [Li Bo] The visitor See that horseman from the distant land, Greeneyed and wearing a tigerskin hat, Smiling, he lifts two arrows from his case, And ten thousand people shy away. He bends his bow like a circling moon And from the clouds white geese spin down in pairs. Shaking his whip high in the air, He starts out hunting with his pack. Once out of his dooryard what does he care ? What matters if he dies pro patria ? Prouder he is than five filtans And has the wolf's love for seeking out a herd. He drives the cattle further north And with a tiger's appetite tastes the freshly killed. But he camps at the Swallow Mountain, Far from the arctic snow. From his horse a woman smiles at him, Her face a vermilion vessel of jade. As his flying darts haunt birds and beasts, Flowers and the moon land drunk in his saddle. The light of the alien star flashes and spreads While war gathers head like the swarming of wasps. From the edge of his white sword blood drips and drips. It covers the floating sand. Are there any more reckless generals left ? – The soldiers are too tired to complain. Tu Fu [Du Fu] Profile of a lady A pretty, pretty girl Lives in the empty mountain Came from a celebrated family Now alone with her fagots. In the civil war All her brothers were killed. Why talk of pedigree, When she couldn'd collect their bones ? World feeling rises against the decline, Then follows the rotating candle. Husband has a new interest : A beauty subtle as jade. The acacia knows its hour The mandarin duck never lies alone. Husband listens to the laughter of new girl Deaf to the tears of the old. Spring in the mountains is clear, Mud underfoot. She sends the maid to sell jewels Pick wisteria to mend the roof Wears no fresh flower Bears cypress boughs in her hands. Leans cold against the bamboo Her green sleeves flutter. Tu Fu [Du Fu] Visit The life we could seldom meet Separate as the stars. What a special occasion tonight That we gather und the candle-lamp ! How long can youth last ? Our hair is peppered with white. Half of our friends are ghosts It's so good to see you alive. How strange after twenty years To revisit your house ! When I left you were single Your children are grown up now. They treat me with great respect, Ask where I came from. Before I can answer You send your son for the wine. In the rain you cut scallions And start the oven to cook rice. 'It's hard to get together Let's finish up these ten goblets.' After ten goblets we are still sober The feeling of reunion is long. Tomorrow I have to cross the mountain Back to the mist of the world. Wang Ch'ang-ling (circa 727) [Wang Changling (698–756)] Chant of the frontiersman I The cicadas are singing in the mulberry forest : It is August at the fortress. We pass the frontiers to enter more frontiers. Everywhere the rushes are yellow. The sodbusters from the provinces Have disappeared with the dust they kicked up. Why should we bother to be knights-errant ? Let us discuss the merits of bayards. II I lead the horse to drink in the autumn river. The river is icy and the wind cuts like knives. In the desert the sun has not yet gone down ; In the shade I see my distant home. When the war first spread to the Great Wall, We were filled with patriotic fervor. The yellow sand has covered the past glories ; The bleached bones are scattered over the nettles. Wang Chen (circa 775) [Wang Zhen] The newlywed's cuisine The thir night after wedding I get near the stove. Rolling up my sleeves I make a fancy broth. Not knowing the taste Of my mother-in-law, I try it first upon her Youngest girl. Li Yu Bella donna Iu Spring flowers, autumn moon – when will you end ? How much of the past do you recall ? At the pavilion last night the cast wind sobbed. I can hardly turn my head homeward In this moonlight. The carved pillars and the jade steps are still here. But the color of your checks is gone. When asked : 'How much sorrow do you still have ?' 'Just like the flood of spring water Rushing eastward.' Li Ts'un-hsu (Emporor Chuang of the later T'ang Dynasty, 10th century. [Zhuang Zong] In dream's wake We dine in a glade concealed in peach petals. We dance like linnets and sing like phoenixes. Then we part. Like a dream, Like a dream, A mist envelops the pale moon and fallen blossoms. Kuo Mo-jo (1893-) [Guo Moruo] From Phoenix undying Ah ! Our floating and inconstant life Is like a delirious dream in a dark night. Before us is sleep, Behind us is sleep ; It comes like the fluttering wind, It comes like the trailing smoke ; Enters like wind, Departs like smoke. Behind us : sleep, Before us : sleep. In the midst of our sleep we appear Like the momentary wind and smoke. Mao Tse-tung (1893-) [Mao Zedong] Spring in the now-drenched garden The northern countryside of China Is bound by miles and miles of ice. Snow flies over the border, And outside of the Great Wall Waste land stretches as though endless. The great Hwang Ho rushes in torrents Up and down the skyline. The mountains thrash like silvery snakes, Their contours soar like waxen elephants Vying with the gods in height. On a fine day, The landscape unveils like a maiden Dressing up in her boudoir. Such enchanting mountains and rivers Have led countless heroes to rival in homage. Pity that the founders of Ch'in and Han Were unversed in the classics ; Pity that the great kings of T'ang and Sung Were deficient in poetry ; Pity that the magnificent, the pride of heaven, Genghis Khan Could only shoot with bows and arrows. All these were of the past ! For the greatest man yet – only My dynasty, my era will show. Ping Hsin (1902-) [Bing Xin] The old man and the child The old man to the child : 'Weep, Sigh, How dreary the world is !' The child, laughing : 'Excuse me, mister ! I can't imagine what I Haven't experiences.' The child to the old man : 'Smile, Jump, How interesting the world is !' The old man, sighing : 'Forgive me, Child ! I can't bear recalling what I have experienced.' Tsong Kuh-chia = Tsang Ko-chia (1910-) [Zang Kejia] Three generations The child Is bathing in the mud. The father Is seating in the mud. The grandfather Is buried in the mud. D.R.W. [David Rafael Wang] Cool cat For Gary Snyder The rain has soaked the cabin The wind has shaken the mast My mistress's red petticoat is wet And knitted are the eyebrows of my lovely wife I tie the boat to the nearest tree And observe the flowering billows The bamboo blinds are left sagging The broken teacups litter the deck On my way back I feel a sudden calmness : Autumn has invaded the summer I dry my sleeves in a Yoga posture And leave the girls to fret and chatter. |
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Bibliography (7)
| # | Year | Bibliographical Data | Type / Abbreviation | Linked Data |
|---|---|---|---|---|
| 1 | 1957 | Williams, William Carlos. Two new books by Kenneth Rexroth : In defense of the earth by Kenneth Rexroth ; One hundred poems from the Chinese by Kenneth Rexroth : review. In : Poetry ; vol. 90, no 3 (June 1957). | Publication / WillW5 | |
| 2 | 1966 | The Cassia tree : a collection of translations & adaptations from the Chinese. David Rafael Wang ; in collaboration with William Carlos Williams. In : New Directions in prose and poetry ; 19 ; (1966). | Publication / WillW3 | |
| 3 | 1978 |
Williams, William Carlos. Bodexun. Weiliansi zhu ; Ao Ao yi. (Taibei : A er tai chu ban she, 1978). (A er tai wen ku ; 2). Übersetzung von Williams, William Carlos. Paterson. Vol. 1-5. (New York, N.Y. : New Directions, 1946-1958). 柏徳遜 |
Publication / WillW2 | |
| 4 | 1980-1985 |
Williams, William Carlos. Shi xuan. Weiliansi ; Yuan Kejia yi. [Übersetzung von Gedichten von Williams]. In : Wai guo xian dai pai zuo pin xuan. Vol. 4 [ID D16726]. 诗选 |
Publication / YuanK2.79 |
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| 5 | 1998 |
Wen xue xin lu : Ying Mei ming jia fang tan lu. Shan Dexing bian yi. (Taibei : Shu lin chu ban gong si, 1998). (Wen xue cong shu; 7). [Interviews aus Paris review mit Robert Frost, William Carlos Williams, Ezra Pound, Marianne Moore, T.S. Eliot, Robert Lowell, E.M. Forster, Aldous Huxley, William Faulkner, Ernest Hemingway, Ralph Ellison, Norman Mailer]. 文學心路 : 英美名家訪談錄 |
Publication / ShanD1 |
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| 6 | 2003 | The New Directions anthology of classical Chinese poetry : translations by William Carlos Williams, Ezra Pound, Kenneth Rexroth, Gary Snyder, David Hinton. Ed. by Eliot Weinberger. (New York, N.Y. : New Directions, 2003). | Publication / Pou24 | |
| 7 | 2003 |
William, William Carlos ; Zukofsky, Louis. The correspondence of William Carlos Williams & Louis Zukofsky. Ed. by Barry Ahearn. (Middletown, Conn. : Wesleyan University Press, 2003). http://books.google.ch/books?id=4WYZQhX36m8C&pg=PA387&lpg=PA387&dq=william+carlos+ williams+I+had+been+thinking+and+writing+%28private+papers%29+of+Ezra%27s+encounter+ with+Chinese+poetry&source=bl&ots=nJ3MC_BFKh&sig=MJcU0EuXZIYqHKslhW8TQsw7h FI&hl=de&sa=X&ei=UDLxUKK7Oomk4gSW3IDQAQ&ved=0CEAQ6AEwAg#v=onepage&q= william%20carlos%20williams%20I%20had%20been%20thinking%20and%20writing%20%28 private%20papers%29%20of%20Ezra%27s%20encounter%20with%20Chinese%20poetry&f=false. |
Publication / WillW1 |
Secondary Literature (4)
| # | Year | Bibliographical Data | Type / Abbreviation | Linked Data |
|---|---|---|---|---|
| 1 | 1975 | Wells, Henry W. William Carlos Williams and traditions in Chinese poetry. In : The literary half-yearly ; vol. 16, no 1 (1975). | Publication / WillW6 |
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| 2 | 1983 | Yang, Vincent. Chinese nature imagery in Williams' "The widow's lament in springtime". In : Comparative literature studies ; vol. 20, no 2 (1983). | Publication / WillW7 |
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| 3 | 1995 | Qian, Zhaoming. Orientalism and modernism : the legacy of China in Pound and Williams. (Durham and London : Duke University Press, 1995). | Publication / Pou52 | |
| 4 | 2010 |
Qian, Zhaoming. William Carlos Williams, David Raphael Wang, and the dynamic of East/West collaboration. In : ScholarWorks@UNO / University of New Orleans (2010). http://scholarworks.uno.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=1001&context=engl_facpubs. |
Publication / WillW4 |