Versions and translations

As I said, the free book from the Poetry Book Society was Christopher Logue's War Music, a version of Homer. Or, depending which bit of the cover you read, 'Logue's Homer - War Music' or 'Christopher Logue - War Music - Homer'. Or even, once inside, 'War Music: An Account of Books 1-4 and 16-19 of Homer's Iliad'. It is, we're told on the inside of the front cover, 'less a translation than an adaptation', and in the author's introduction 'a dramatic poem dependent on the Iliad'.

This anxiety about what it is exactly is emphasised by the editor's introduction, which discusses early on the misinterpretations of the book as a 'translation'. It seems unfortunate to wrap it in this confusion as it is presented to the reader: perhaps it would be more effective just to clearly reiterate what it is, rather than remind people of what it isn't, or try on different explanations for size. But the editors are clearly tackling a tricky area: people's persistence and inventiveness at misunderstanding translations is remarkable.

To my mind this is both frustrating and unnecessary. I'm rather bored at the introduction to countless books of poetry in translation rehearsing the same fairly basic ideas about the extent to which it's possible to translate poetry, but why it's beneficial, mentioning a few august precursors (often Pound) and the usual humble statements about the difficulty of the process and debts to previous translations. It's a bit like if all collections of rhyming verse had an introduction explaining what rhyme was, its pros and cons and so forth. I think much of the kerfuffle about translation springs from conflating two simple ideas.

There are a range of ways of rendering a poem in translation, from a literal transcription to a 'version', which takes more liberties, to a 'response', which renounces any specific obligations to the original. Each of these have their merits and different purposes: the key is in distinguishing them, for which purpose, presentation is key. War Music, despite drawing attention to confusions, is actualy relatively clear on this point. Anyone using it to crib their Greek translation homework would well deserve the ridicule they'd get for references to Bikini atoll, and so forth.

There is, of course, a distinct (if related) debate about which approach to translation get closest to the original. This is different from claiming that closeness to the original is inherently desirable. But one way of thinking about this question is in terms of two axes. One is the degree of fidelity to the form of the original (shown most obviously in the choice of verse or prose translation). The other is fidelity to the content, the extent to which you say the same thing, with the same inflection and associations. Ideally, for the closest translation possible, it will score highly on both axes (I'm aware that Robin Williams in Dead Poets Society would have thrown me out of class at this point...).

However, reducing the formal fidelity can increase the fidelity to meaning. Viewed like this, the debate centres on what trade-off is worthwhile to achieve these ends. There are some potentially interesting discussions about how significant particular details within these trade-offs. But hopefully, it's clear that this is a very different debate to the one about whether the closest version is preferable.

War Music is very much a version, rather than a translation, and it's none the worse for that.

Making the sale...

I've recently joined the Poetry Book Society. I'd intended to for a while, but hesitated because of their special offer. They were offering a free book on joining: the selected poems of Carol Ann Duffy, Simon Armitage or Roger McGough. Of these, I've got the first, have most of the second in the original collections and have no great eagerness to read more of the third (there's a story there too, for another time). As a result, although I'd have happily joined earlier, even without an incentive, I delayed because I didn't like the sound of the freebie. I didn't want a freebie I didn't want, if you see what I mean.

Fortunately, I found out they had another offer: a copy of Christopher Logue's War Music. That sounded suitably intriguing and something I'd felt I ought to read for a while. Coupled with the fact that it was something I wouldn't ordinarily have bought for myself, I was convinced.

As an aside on a rather neat bit of marketing: War Music contains the first three of five parts of Logue's version of Homer's Iliad. I read it, loved it and have duly shelled out for the other two. Somehow I feel less of a patsy for noticing what was happening, even as I fell in with the marketing trap. War Music was, in a sense, a Trojan horse...

[For more about the Poetry Book Society, see here].

Sean O'Brien reading tonight

I've just been to a reading by Sean O'Brien at Sheffield Hallam University. I was rather curious to see him read, having read his selected poems Cousin Coat last year and been only partly impressed. He struck me as being at his best the closer he got to Peter Reading's style and subject matter and more recently has been hampered by the fact that it's tricky to be an anti-Thatcherite poet in the post-Blair era (though obviously, the judges of a several major prizes seem convinced that he's onto something). He read an epitaph for Thatcher tonight, introducing it by saying that he wasn't a fan of hers and didn't expect anyone else there was either. There's nothing particularly bold or brave about criticising a Prime Minister from 18 years ago in a city that never had much affection for her in the first place. In fact, it's probably fair to say that a Sheffield poetry audience is relatively unlikely to be shocked or affronted by criticism of the Iron Lady, however pointed the epithets or incisive the similes.

However, the whole reading had the comfortable tone of a return to a city he's spent lots of time in, within the same institution where he used to teach, so perhaps that's fair enough. I'd certainly say that some of the poems he read exceeded my expectations quite dramatically, particularly a longish poem about Hull and how its past and water are both near the surface. This poem made me feel more immediately engaged that I've felt with many of his: both in terms of the immediacy of its sensory evocations and its resonance with part of Hull's distinctive atmosphere.

I knew I'd not seen the best of Sean O'Brien on my last reading of his work and this was a useful prompt to reconsider. Given the quality of some of the books shortlisted for the Forward Prize, The Drowned Book must surely have something going for it to have carried off the spoils. I remain ready to be converted.

[For some useful summary information about Sean O'Brien, see here].

By way of explanation

First, by way of explanation: the previous post was the first few lines of Wallace Stevens' Sunday Morning. It's a favourite of mine, despite (or even because of) its complete self-indulgence. Despite my convulted agnosticism, I've got a lot of time for 'the holy hush of ancient sacrifice'. Nonetheless, it's also important to relish in indulgent pleasure at times. After all, as Kingsley Amis put it: 'nice things are nicer than nasty ones'. And so, I'd like to celebrate 'the complacencies of the peignoir', sitting feet up with a book of poetry, for the sheer pleasure of it.

Welcome

Complacencies of the peignoir, and late
coffee and oranges in a sunny chair,
and the green freedom of a cockatoo
upon a rug, mingle to dissipate
the holy hush of ancient sacrifice.