Translating the Eye of the Poem

Jean Boase-Beier

1. How to translate a poem

All poetry translators have their own method of translating and many translators use

different methods for different poems, at different times or under different

circumstances. There are those such as Robert Bly, translator of Rilke and many

other poets, who have given a number of distinct stages the process involves (Bly

1984). Others, such as Clive Scott (2000), have rejected the idea that there could be a

stage of reading separate from the act of translation (see also Boase-Beier 2006: 31-

32). If I propose a three-stage process here, it is in the hope that this will be

understood as an idealisation, a linearly-ordered model which represents a process

that is rarely so linear, a set of stages which are rarely, in the real act of translation,

completely discrete.

Broadly speaking, then, and with all these caveats, I would say that there are three

stages involved in the translation of a poem, and that they are as follows:

(i) Stylistic analysis, including the analysis of stylistic relationships internal

to the poem (such as repetition of sound or syntax) and relationships

between what is internal and what is external (such as deviations from

conventions or intertextual references). Such stylistic features can be

assumed to result from choices and thus to reflect the mind (of author,

narrator, character, and so on) which informs the poem.

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 (ii) Consideration of one’s own readerly engagement with the poem and its

affective (emotional) aspects. This amounts to consideration of the

cognitive effects of the poem and its style.

(iii) Translation, or the writing of a new text, taking into account both the

mind behind the poem and its effects upon the mind of the translator in

her/his capacity as reader.

It will be seen from the above description of the translation process that I am

assuming poetry reflects a mind and interacts with minds: it is not just a matter of

linguistic features in a text. This assumption can be seen as a natural development of

cognitive stylistic approaches to poetry and to literary language in general, such as are

exemplified by Stockwell (2002), Gavins & Steen (2003), or Semino & Culpeper

(2002) and applied to literary translation by Tabakowska (1993), or in Boase-Beier

(2006). In the case of (i) above, the assumption is informed by Fowler’s notion of

mind style (1977; 1996: 214), the style of a text which, in its regularities and other

features, reflects the mind which gave rise to it (see also Semino 2002). As far as the

second stage, (ii) above, is concerned, it is an assumption influenced by reader-

response theories such as those of Iser (1974) or (1979) on the one hand and views of

the literary text as an affective entity (e.g. Pilkington 2000), on the other. And, in

keeping with the common view (see e.g. Diaz-Diocaretz 1985:1) that translation is

both reading and writing, I suggest there is a third “stage” ((iii) above) which seeks to

combine a reconstructed author - who is not the real author but a mind constructed by

the reader - with some sense of the effects of the poem on the reader, bringing them

together in the writing of the translation.

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2. The divergence of target poem from source poem

In his 1998 book Translating Style, Parks maintains that “divergences between

original and translation tend to be of a different kind for each author and to point to

the peculiar nature of his or her style and the overall vision it implies” (1998: vii).

Parks was talking here of the Italian translations of modernist novels; the authors he is

concerned with are Barbara Pym, D.H. Lawrence and others. But there seems no

reason to suppose that the same observation will not hold true of original and

translated poems. If this is so, there are several potential consequences for translating

poetry:

(i) a comparison of target and source poems might give us insight into the

“vision” of the original poet (or the vision which informs the poem)

(ii) such access to a poet’s “vision” could be used to inform other translations

of the poet’s work

(iii) an examination of where and how such divergences occur in translated

poems might tell us something about the nature of poems in general, and

about their translation; such knowledge might in turn be useful for poetic

translation.

The bracketed phrase in (i) indicates that we do not, as reader-translators, know that

the vision we are getting in the poem is that of the poet; we have no access to the poet

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beyond that of a figure or mentality reconstructed by our own reading. The word

“poet” from now on is thus to be taken as referring to such a construction by the

translator from the evidence in the poem.

In an attempt to discover whether translated poems do show particular

divergences from the originals, I have looked at a number of collections of translated

poetry, including Joachim Utz’ translations of Wilfred Owen (1993), the translation of

Michael Hamburger’s poems in Dove’s edited volume (2004), the English translations

of Georg Trakl by Will Stone (2005), those of Rose Ausländer by Ewald Osers

(1977), and those of R.S. Thomas by Kevin Perryman (2003). It is important to be

aware that I was not concerned to discover anything about the quality of the

translations. Most of the translations considered are the work of German or English

poets, and there is no reason to call their quality into question. What I am concerned

with is the divergence of target from original, the point at which such a divergence

arises, and what it tells us about the poetry and about poetic translation. Just two

examples will be quoted in this article for illustration. The first is the poem ‘Winter

Solstice, 1999’ by Michael Hamburger, and its translation ‘Wintersonnenwende,

1999’ by Franz Wurm (Hamburger 2000: 64; Dove 2004: 104).

The poem describes an early morning view of the garden, and the thoughts

this view gives rise to. A comparison of the German target poem with its English

original reveals that the first stanza keeps very close to the original, but that there is a

significant divergence in the second stanza around lines 11-15 (10-14 in the original

poem). These few lines are quoted here, first in the original English, and then in the

German translation, with an English gloss.

(1) 10 No moonshine mixed into the grey of morning,

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 11 Silence before the foraging birds descend,

12 And no more mine in this light than in dream

13 The garden was that once I must have tended,

14 Than those will be whom in the street I pass

(2) 11 Kein Mondlicht ins Morgengrauen gemischt,

no moonlight into-the morning-grey mixed

12 Stille, bevor die Vögel, Futter suchend, sich zeigen,

silence before the birds food seeking themselves show

13 Und mein in diesem Licht so wenig

and mine in this light so little
14 Wie es im Traum der Garten war, den ich einst
as it in-the dream of-the garden was that I once

15 Besorgt haben muss, und wie es jene sein werden

tended have must and as it those be will
16 An denen ich draußen vorübergehe ….
on which I outside pass

A comparison of the lines in (1) and (2) suggests that three things stand out in

particular as being very different in the original and its translation:

(i) Mondlicht (2: line 11) is moonlight. But “moonshine” (1: line 10)

suggests also “visionary talk or ideas” (Concise Oxford Dictionary 1976:

707); “no moonshine” thus means not a dream or a vision or an illusion,

and so it echoes both the first word in the poem, which is “dream”, and

the word “dubious”, which occurs twice in the previous 9 lines of the

poem. There are indeed equivalents for the earlier words “dream” and

“dubious” in the German poem, but the word Mondlicht does not echo

them.

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 (ii) There is sound parallelism (both alliteration and rhyme) in “no

moonshine” (1: line 10) and “no more mine” (1: line 12) which links the

lack of illusion with the inability to possess the garden. But the German

has very different word order with wenig at the end of line 13 (‘mine so

little’); the parallelism, and thus the link, is lost.

(iii) There is ambiguity in the word “those” (1: line 14). The sequence “The

garden was” … “Than those will be” (lines 13 and 14) suggests that ‘those

gardens’ is what is meant. But the “whom” later in line 14 clearly suggests

‘those people’. This ambiguity reflects what is now seen to have been a

similar ambiguity earlier in the poem where the phrases “a … garden

estranged” and “all my dead”, occurred. Both phrases referred in the

earlier context to plants, but now appear to refer to plants and people

alike. What happens is that at this point in the poem, because of this

ambiguity, we reinterpret the earlier statements about gardens as

suggesting relationships, a comparison which is the basis of a common,

perhaps universal, metaphor, seen in such expressions as ‘family tree’,

‘seed’, a relationship ‘grows’, love ‘blossoms’, a ‘branch’ of the family,

and so on.

However, in the German version in (2), lines 14 and 15 separate Garten (garden) and

jene (those), so that the garden-people link is far less obvious. In addition, because

there is in German no relative pronoun equivalent to English “whom”, which can only

refer to people, the jene of line 15 suggests people much less strongly than the

6
English. If the English is at this point ambiguous, suggesting one meaning (garden)

with “those” and another (people) with “whom”, the German is simply vague.

What this brief comparison of these four lines tells us is that there is an

especial concentration of divergences from the German source poem at this point. If

Parks is right, then these four lines mark out the essential vision of the poet Michael

Hamburger: that gardens are a metaphor for relationships, that because gardens are

real and cannot be owned or controlled, so, too, relationships cannot. A brief

consideration of the ‘Contents’ of the collection (Hamburger 2000) from which

‘Winter Solstice, 1999’ is taken reveals that 15 of the 47 poems, that is, nearly one-

third, have titles suggesting nature, gardens, weather or seasons. Looking at poems

with other titles reveals that many of these have a first phrase to do with nature:

“Uprooted words” (p. 78), “Though wilderness loosens every gate” (p. 75),

“Wormwood and rue” (p. 59) or “After gale and flood” (p. 56) are examples; there are

many more. This article is not the place to pursue a study of Hamburger’s poetry, but

it does not seem unlikely that the divergences noted in these few lines from the

original poem point, in Parks’ words, to the “overall vision” of the poet.

The second example is taken from Wilfred Owen’s poem ‘Futility’ and its German

translation, Joachim Utz’s ‘Vergeblichkeit’ (Utz 1993: 102; 103; Owen 1990: 135).

This is the poem which famously begins “Move him into the sun”; it describes a dead

man, a victim of war, and speculates on why he was born if only to end as a cold

corpse, unable to be resurrected by the sun’s warmth.

Again this is a poem of two stanzas, and again the first stanza is very close in

target and source texts. Interestingly, the most obvious divergence begins in almost

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the same place as in the Hamburger / Wurm poems, around line 9. Here are lines 8

and 9 in both versions:

(3) 8 Think how it wakes the seeds -

9 Woke once the clays of a cold star.

(4) 8 Denk, wie sie immer weckt die Samen,

think how it always wakes the seeds

9 Einst weckte die Stäube eines kalten Sterns.

once woke the dusts of-a cold star

In the English version, one tends to read “cold” as a transferred epithet: cold clay

suggests death and graves. Cold dust in (4) has less obvious connotations, though dust

can certainly suggest death (“ashes to ashes, dust to dust”).

But an even stronger divergence comes in line 12 in both versions. Here are

lines 10-12 in the English source poem (5) and the German target (6):

(5) 10 Are limbs, so dear achieved, are sides

11 Full-nerved, still warm, too hard to stir?

12 Was it for this the clay grew tall?

(6) 10 Sind Glieder so teuer erworbne, Seiten,

are limbs so dearly bought sides

11 so durchnervt, noch warm, nicht mehr zu stören?

So through-nerved still warm no more to disturb

12 Sollte so groß der Staub nur dafür werden?

should so big the dust only for-this become

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In the English (5: line 12) the phrase “the clay grew tall” is extremely odd. Clay in the

sense of earth cannot usually be seen as tall, so we tend to understand clay here in its

other meaning of ‘human substance’. Dust, in the German (6: line 12) does not have

this other meaning. But, more than this, groß can mean either tall or big. ‘Tall’ seems

a less likely collocation with dust, and so we tend to read the adjective as ‘big’.

We do not have this option with the English word “tall”. Arising from the

contradiction inherent in clay growing tall we have at least two possible

interpretations:

(a) human substance grew into a tall person

(b) the tall sides of trenches grew taller

The second of these interpretations, (b), will be activated if we associate clay with the

battles of the First World War. It is something which other First World War poets

such as Siegfried Sassoon mention, describing the “sucking mud” and “slime” of the

battlefield (in ‘Counter-Attack’ Reeves 1962: 95). And Wilfred Owen himself

described the clay in several letters; he said the ground was “not mud … but an

octopus of sucking clay” (Owen 1967: 480).

The linguistic divergences in the German poem at this point mean that it

suggests the end rather than the origin of human life, and that it provides no link with

the trenches of the battlefields. This is a major divergence. In keeping with Parks’

view, it could be expected to signal Owen’s vision, which we might, on this basis,

characterise as a concern with waste, as human substance becomes clinging earth, of

promise unfulfilled, ebbing off into dull sameness which denies individuality.

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 Thus we see again that, irrespective of the stylistic features of the original

poems, the divergence of target from source points to what is central in the poet’s

vision.

If we accept that target-source divergence signals poetic vision, what we now

need to do is consider how this point of divergence can be characterised stylistically

within the source poem itself.

3. Vision and style: the eye of the poem

The divergence of translation from source text that Parks (1998) notices is, I will

maintain, not only a point that expresses the poet’s vision but it is directly related to a

stylistically important point of convergence within the poem itself. Convergence is

Riffaterre’s term (1959: 172) for “a heaping up of stylistic features working together”.

This convergence of stylistic features is linked to the concept of the eye of the poem,

which, in Chinese poetics, deriving from the notion of adding the eye to a painted

dragon to bring it to life, is considered to be an especially important point in the

poem, which requires a great deal of thought and concentration on the part of the poet

(Desheng Song: oral communication). It is also the “central pivot on which the poem

turns”, according to Freeman (2005: 40). The term “eye of the poem” has at least the

following four connotations:

(i) that this is (spatially, semantically or stylistically) the central point,

similar to the eye of the storm, or the region “in the centre of a hurricane”

(Concise Oxford Dictionary 1976: 369);

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 (ii) that it is a vantage point, as in the other sense of the eye of the storm: the

“opening between the storm clouds” that the sun shines through (Evans

1993: 89); this aspect is linked to Fowler’s “point of view on the

ideological plane” (1996: 214) reflected in mind style or the use of

recurring stylistic patterns. In Archaic Chinese, this aspect of the “eye of

the poem” relates to “a poet’s ability to see through things” (Amy Liang:

oral communication);

(iii) that it is a point at which the reader can look into the poem. This aspect is

related to Iser’s notion of points at which a reader can “climb aboard”

(1974: 275) and to Blake’s concept of human eyes as “windows of the

soul” (1958: 81), that is, that which gives us access to the soul or mind, or

vision. In modern Chinese thinking, this aspect of the “eye of the poem”

relates to the notion of “the soul of the poem”, the meaning which a reader

ascribes to it (Amy Liang: oral communication);

(iv) that, in analogy to the eye in Chinese painting, it is the point which gives

life to a poem.

The eye of the poem, then, is a crucial point in the poem, which both expresses the

poem’s vision and allows the reader access to the cognitive state informing the poem.

In stylistic terms, I would suggest that the eye of the poem is recognisable by, firstly,

a maximum of foregrounding, that is, of linguistic structures which are “made

prominent” (Wales 2001: 157), and which, metaphorically speaking, attract the eye of

11
the reader, and, secondly, by ambiguity, which allows the poem to be read in at least

two different ways.

In the German examples given above, it is easy to see that there is a particular

concentration of foregrounded elements (Riffaterre’s “heaping up of stylistic

features”) at the points noted as diverging most from their originals. In example (1),

the Hamburger poem, the lines 10-14, the point at which the German version diverged

most, contain at least the following stylistic features:

(i) words which belong to semantic chains, or series of words from the same

semantic field, started up earlier in the poem. The words in question at this

point (followed by their counterparts at other points in the poem) are:

“dream” (line 12; “dubious”, “dubious”, “moonshine”)

“garden” (line 13; “garden”, “birch”, “dug”, “trunk”, “growth”, “roots”,

“holly”, “seedling”, “trees”, “birds”, “holly”, “yew”, “spider”)

“-shine”, “grey” (line 10), “light” (line 12), “silver” (line 2)

(ii) sound repetition of “no moonshine” (line 10) and “no more mine” (line 12);

this is the most striking instance of foregrounding

(iii) assonance of “shine”, “silence”, “mine”, “light” (all in lines 10-12)

In addition to this concentration of phonetic and lexical stylistic features there is the

ambiguity of “moonshine” (line 10), mentioned in the previous section because its

absence in the German version marks one of the greatest divergences between the

source and target texts, and there is also the ambiguity of “those” in line 14, which

12
appears to refer to both gardens and people. These ambiguous words both suggest

ideas central to the poet’s vision: the link between sight, illusion and half-light and the

link between gardens and relationships.

A similar convergence of stylistic features in the Owen poem around line 12

would include

(i) the semantically anomalous collocation of “the clay grew tall”

(ii) the presence of the word “clay” in line 12, which is part of the semantic

chain (or series of meaning-related words) to do with nature, including

“sun”, “half-sown”, “snow”, “sun”, “seeds”, “clay”, “grew”, “star”,

“sunbeam”, “earth”, “growth” at other points in the poem

(iii) the para-rhyme (“tall” – “toil” – “at all”) which links lines 12, 13 and 14 (and

echoes a similar pattern of para-rhyme in the last three lines of the first

stanza)

The ambiguity of “clay” (a word already used in line 4) in line 12 becomes apparent

here because of the semantic anomaly noted in (i): it can suggest death, as in line 9, or

life as “grew tall” in line 12 implies.

If we consider these convergences of stylistic features in their own right, rather

than in contrast to the German version, we note that their effect is likely to be that

described in many studies of foregrounding: they hold the reader up, because they are

striking and demand attention (cf. Miall & Kuiken 1994: 392); they also give rise to

what Shklovsky, contrasting it with knowledge, referred to as “vision” (1965: 18), and

13
“emotional effect” (p. 9; see also Miall & Kuiken 1994: 392). Because they are

combined with instances of ambiguity, they are doubly difficult to process, and

demand especially intense engagement by the reader. These ambiguities express

questions which concern the poet (in the reader’s reconstruction). In Hamburger’s

case the ambiguity centres around the question as to whether relationships, like

gardens, resist control and possession. In Owen’s case the question is whether humans

are destined to become solely part of the earth and whether indeed there is anything in

them that differentiates them from the earth (not a surprising preoccupation, given the

conditions in the trenches in which, as many First World War poets and other

participants observed, bodies became part of the clay in a very real sense). In both

cases, the stylistic convergence and the ambiguity point to metaphors central for each

poet’s vision: the relationship as garden in Hamburger’s case and the body as clay in

Owen’s.

If the ambiguities in the two poems involve the reader in testing out alternative

interpretations, and searching for alternative contexts to interpret the poet’s vision,

then it is no coincidence that they occur at the points at which stylistic foregrounding

has slowed reading. If searching is more pleasurable to us than finding or being given

(cf. Grandin & Johnson 2005: 95f.), then the points I have designated as the eye of the

poem will also give the reader most satisfaction. The reader of Hamburger’s poem

will be called upon to search for contexts in her own knowledge of gardens while

exploring the philosophical inquiry about the way they reflect relationships. The

reader of Owen’s poem will need to search through her knowledge of wars, including

pictures seen and accounts read of the First World War and other wars as well as other

types of desecration of the earth, while at the same time pondering upon human

beings’ relationship with it. We need enough of the poem’s internal context to trigger

14
our search for our own cognitive contexts, so it is not surprising that the points I have

designated in each case as the eye of the poem occur towards the end of the poems in

question. They also need to pick up stylistic patterns set up earlier in the poem. And

they need to trigger a re-reading of what has already been read. In Hamburger’s case,

the humanising ‘whom’ demands a reinterpretation of the garden as a metaphor for

the relationship and in Owen’s the deviant ‘clay grew tall’ demands a re-reading of

clay as human substance.

The eye of the poem, then, is the locus for the poet’s vision and it serves at the same

time to make the reader consider that vision carefully by searching for and

reinterpreting her own contexts, thus mirroring, while reading the poem, the poet’s (or

narrator’s) concerns.

4. Conclusion: The consequences for translation

I have suggested that comparing a translated poem with its original will allow us to

identify a point of maximum divergence between translation and original, similar to

that observed by Parks (1998) in Italian translations of modernist English novels. But

it has also been my intention to show that the divergence which such comparison

illuminates coincides with a point of stylistic convergence within the poem itself. This

point, which I have compared to the Chinese notion of the eye of the poem, is further

marked by both ambiguity and the presence of metaphors characterising the vision

which inform the poem.

If stylistic analysis alone will allow us to identify the eye of the poem then

why, one might ask, need one bother to compare a translation and original to arrive at

15
the same point? There are, I think, two reasons. One is simply that the divergence

between target and source texts coinciding with internal convergence provides far

stronger evidence for the presence of the eye of the poem as a general phenomenon

than would internal evidence alone. And the second is that the divergence might in

itself tell us something about the potential difficulties of translation. Having

identified, in both these ways, a point which we can consider the eye of the poem, we

should be able to draw some specific consequences for translating. As I suggested at

the beginning of section 2, in points (i) and (ii), help in reconstructing a poet’s vision

could help us translate other work by that poet. We would expect to find other

significant instances of Hamburger’s metaphor of relationships as gardens expressed

in his style, and of Owen’s concern, also expressed in his stylistic choices, for the

blending (in a cognitive sense – see, for example, Turner 1996: 52ff. -) of humans

with the earth. More importantly, perhaps, as point (iii) suggests, the discovery that

poems do indeed seem to have an eye, and that this is not always identified by the

translator, might suggest that we revisit the three stages given in Section 1 for the

translation of a poem. The first of these stages, stylistic analysis, would now be seen

to include identification of the eye of the poem. This is important because it will allow

us access to the poem’s vision but in practical terms its importance lies in its

concentration of stylistic figures, especially because these are likely, if they represent

a mind style in Fowler’s terms (1996: 214), to be part of consistent patterns. The eye

of the poem should thus help the translator to identify important semantic, lexical or

phonological patterns in the poem. Though I have used a comparison between

translated and original poems to help argue that a poem has an eye, its confirmation

by stylistic analysis should allow it to be identified using the latter method alone. The

second stage, consideration of the reader’s engagement with the text, will now be seen

16
to include such things as the interpretation of the metaphors likely to be expressed at

this point in the poem and the search for contexts to allow several meanings to be

explored, if, as I have maintained, this point in the poem is also characterised by an

ambiguity which lies at the heart of the vision the poem expresses. The third stage, the

translation, will involve making sure that the ambiguity driving the poem’s vision is

neither closed off by disambiguation nor disabled by a lack of lexical and syntactic

counterparts earlier (and later) in the poem which bear out both the meanings. Though

it is not my intention here to criticise the translations I have considered – their sole

function in this paper was to help identify the point of greatest divergence from the

original – it is certainly reasonable to argue that a process of translation which took

into account some of the features I have mentioned and resulted in a translated poem

with a clearly identifiable eye might have rendered divergence from the original

vision less great. But would that be compatible with the translator’s intention? Any

poet-translator might quite reasonably argue that what she or he has set out to do is to

create a poem that works in the target language and that divergence from the original

is neither here nor there. I would counter this potential argument with the following: if

a poem (like a painted dragon) needs an eye, then translation which preserves the eye

would at least be something to consider.

I should like to thank the British Academy for funding my attendance at the Poetics

and Linguistics Association conference ‘The State of Stylistics’ in Joensuu in July

2006, at which I gave a very early version of this paper. Thanks to all participants for

feedback there.

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The present article has been published in Polish translation in Przekładaniec, 17

(2/2006) in Krakow.

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