โ Translator’s Foreword
โ Five Poems
โ Short Tongue @ Sea Breeze Books
TRANSLATOR’S FOREWORD
by Daryl Lim Wei Jie
I first encountered the poetry of Wang Mun Kiat ้ปๆๆฐ when I translated some of his poems for a special issue of the Australian journal Cordite. The editors of the issue, Alvin Pang and Joshua Ip, took a novel and, in retrospect, necessary approach, deciding to feature only non-English poetry from Singaporeโin English translation. Readers, who might have been more familiar with the English poetry scene in Singapore, were presented with an unexpected and different view of Singaporean poetry, a rich landscape that went beyond the other three official languages (Malay, Chinese and Tamil).
This breathtaking vista contributed to my own growing realisation that, despite being a wildly polyglot society, Singaporean literature has tended to operate within language boundaries, with a few notable exceptions. As a Singapore poet writing in English, I knew next to nothing about what had been happening in the other scenes. The three short poems of Wangโs I translated, along with a wonderful poetic sequence by Chua Chim Kang, provided me with a little window into this other world. Wangโs wry playfulness and pithy sardonic humour surprised and delighted me; his poems reminded me of the kind of unexpectedly incisive quip one might receive from an observant brooding uncle at a family gathering.
Thus, when I found out that Wangโs collection, Short Tongue ็ญ่, was coming out from TrendLit Publishing, I suggested to the editors, possibly in a state of slight inebriation, that they might consider releasing a dual-language edition of the book. I had in mind two groups of readers: the first, the reader with no knowledge of Chinese; the second, the all-too-common Singapore reader with a limited, occasionally functional competence in Chinese (the โneed hanyu pinyin to read Chinese kind of Chineseโ, to quote singers Benjamin Kheng and Annette Lee from their hit song, โWe Areโฆโฆโ). The English would serve as an aid to comprehension, but also open the reader to the possibilities of contemporary Chinese poetry in Singapore. Perhaps a whole generation, scarred by encounters with their Chinese textbooks, might find out for themselves, belatedly, that Chinese could be a language of play and delight. (I include myself, of course.)
That foolhardy suggestion has somehow become reality. Itโs been quite the journey getting here. Not being a professional translator, I have approached the poems in the only way I know howโthat is to say, as a poet. That is also to say that I have no real method, nor can I really explain myself. But perhaps the closest approximation is this: that I tried as best I could to inhale and internalise the spirit of each poem, and then to breathe it out, an expression that is undoubtedly embedded in my own sense of the poetic. (To go further, I think any successful translation has to alter, even slightly, the translator and their relationship with the languages they work with. For this reason I have found translation deeply meaningful and provocative. It has loosened the sometimes too-tight grip the English language has had on me, opening up the space for new poetry.)
The difficulties I faced were two-fold. As I discussed the poems and their translations with the editors at TrendLit, the full range of specific allusions and references that Wang was making began to emerge more clearly. But I also realised that it would have been too onerous to fully annotate them, and thus have opted for a lighter annotative approach that provides critical context, but otherwise tries to retain a poetic reading experience relatively unencumbered by explanation. The other problem, which was far more difficult to resolve, was that of tone. Sardonic humour in Chinese when translated, sometimes comes across as just plain corny. This then involved an attempt to map that humour to a kind of wryness in English, a process that took a rewiring of my own sense of what was funny and what wasnโt. Finally, after discussion with the TrendLit team, we decided to publish a selection that would showcase the more successful examples of translations, taking out some of the translations which had not quite managed to make that leap between the languages. (Meaning, reader, that I failed. Translation is, I have learned, an exercise in repeated failure.)
To speak of the author for a moment: in these poems, we can glimpse that quiet avuncular figure I spoke of, brooding and observing the absurdities of the contemporary world. This sense of absurdity is sharpened by a bitterness that derives from the position of Chinese culture and literature in contemporary Singapore, as a somewhat sidelined vernacular alongside English. But it is a bitterness relieved by humour, and at some points, a laughing at oneself. One of the poems I struggled the most with is โCount Me Outโ and it perhaps best captures the diffidence that is an intrinsic part of Wangโs poetic voice:
The kind of demeanour that thrives on whoops and cheersโcount me out
The kind of solemn and dignified distance that ever increasesโcount me out
The kind of resounding self-confidence that shakes the heavensโcount me out
The kind of chest-out arrogance that takes wide, confident stridesโcount me out
The kind of exultation that glitters, dazzles and bloomsโcount me out
It is this diffidence, this self-negation, as well as the personaโs desire to have fun indulging flights of imagination, that I have found most attractive as I have worked on these poems. I hope you will have fun too.
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ๆไผๆฐ | ่ฏ่ : ๆฑชๆฅๆย
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ๅไธ้ปๆๆฐ็่ฏ้้ ๏ผ้ฃๆถๆๆญฃๅจไธบๆพณๆดฒ็่ฑๆ็บฟไธๆ่บๆๅใ็ซ่ฏใ๏ผCordite๏ผ็็น่พ็ฟป่ฏๆๆฐ็ไฝๅใๅๆณ่ตทๅฝๆถไธบ่ฏฅๅ็ป็จฟ็๏ผๆฐๅ ๅก๏ผ็ผ่พ๏ผๅฏๅๆ๏ผAlvin Pang๏ผไธๅฐๅถๅญ๏ผJoshua Ip๏ผๅณๅฎๅไธชๅๆฐไฝๅฟ ่ฆ็ๅฐ่ฏ๏ผๅณ้่ฟ็ฟป่ฏ๏ผ้็จๆฐๅ ๅกโ้่ฑๆโ่ฏไฝใๅฏนไบ็็ฅๆฐๅ ๅก่ฑๆ่ฏไฝ็่ฏป่ ๆฅ่ฏด๏ผ่ฟๆ่ฎธๆฏไธชๅบไนๆๆๅๆช็ถไธๅ็่ง่ง๏ผๅนถๅธๆ่ฝๅจ่ฟไธชๅคๅ ้ฃ่ฒ็ๅฐๅไธ๏ผๅ็ฐๅบๆๅซไบ่ฑๆโโๅ ถไปไธไธชๅฎๆน่ฏญๆ๏ผ้ฉฌๆฅๆใๅๆใๆทก็ฑณๅฐๆ๏ผ็ไธฐๅฏๆฏ่ฑกใ
่ฟไธช็ช็ ดๆง็ๆฟๆฏ่ฎฉๆๆ่ฏๅฐ๏ผๅณไพฟๆฐๅ ๅกๆฏไธชๅคๅ ็็คพไผ๏ผไฝๆฐๅ ๅกๆๅญฆๆปๆฏๆฏๆงๅฐๅจ่ชๅทฑ็่ฏญๆๅๅญ้ๆ่ฝฌ๏ผ่ฝ่ทจ่ถ็ช็ฏฑ่ ไธบๅฐๆฐใๅจๆฐๅ ๅก๏ผไฝไธบ็จ่ฑๆๅไฝ็่ฏไบบ๏ผๆๅฏนไบ่ชๅทฑๅๅญๅคๅ็็ไบๆ ๅ ไนไธๆ ๆ็ฅใ่ไผด้็๏ผๆๅ๏ผไธ้ฆๆๆฐ็็ญ่ฏ๏ผๆไน็ฟป่ฏไบ่กๆทฑๆฑ็็ป่ฏ๏ผ่ฎฉๆ็ชฅๆขๅฐๅฆไธไธชไธ็็ๅฅๅฆใๆๆฐ็ไฝๅไฟ็ฎใ็ฒพ็ผใๅ ๆปกๅ่ฏก๏ผๅธธไฝฟไบบไผๅฟไธ็ฌโโไป็่ฏๆป่ฎฉๆๆณ่ตทๅจๅฎถๅบญ่ไผไธ๏ผๅฏ่ฝไปไธไฝ็ปๅฟใๆฒ็จณ็ๅไผฏ้ฟ่พ้ฃ้ๅฌๅฐไธไบๆๆณไธๅฐ็้ฌผ้ฉฌ็ง่พใ
ๅฝๆๅๆฅๅ็ฐๆๆฐ็่ฏ้ใ็ญ่ใ๏ผ็นไฝ็๏ผๅณๅฐ็ฑโๆฐๆๆฝฎๅบ็็คพโๅบ็ๆถ๏ผๆไพฟๅจโๅ้โ็ๆ ๅตไธๅ็ผ่พไปฌๆ่ฎฎ๏ผๅบ็ไธๆฌโๅ่ฏญ็โใๆ่ๆตท้ๆณ็ไธคๆน่ฏป่ ๏ผๅ ถไธ๏ผๅฏนๅๆๆฒกๆไปปไฝ่ฎค็ฅ็่ฏป่ ๏ผๅ ถไบ๏ผๅฐฑๆฏ๏ผ่ฑ่ฏญ๏ผๆญๆ้ๆๆ๏ผBenjamin Kheng๏ผๅๆๅฎ๏ผAnnette Lee๏ผ็ใๆไปฌๆฏโฆโฆใ๏ผWe Areโฆ๏ผ้ๆๅ็้ฃไบๅๆๅๅผบๅช่ฝๅจๅฟ ่ฆๅบๅไธๅฑๅฑๅๅ๏ผ็ถๅ้่ฆๆฑ่ฏญๆผ้ณ็่ฏป่ ใ่ฅๆ่ฑๆไฝไธบ่พ ๅฉ๏ผๅ่ฝไธบ่ฟไธคๆน่ฏป่ ๅผๅฏๆดๅค็่งฃๆฐๅ ๅกๅๆ็ฐไปฃ่ฏ็ๅฏ่ฝๆงใๆ่ฎธ๏ผไธๆดไธชๅ ไธๅๆ่ฏพๆฌ็โ้้ โ่ไบง็โ้ดๅฝฑโ็ๆดไปฃไบบ๏ผไผๅ็ฐๅๆ็โไฟ็ฎโไธโ็พๅฆโไนๅคใ๏ผๅฝ็ถ๏ผ่ฟไนๅ ๆฌๆ่ชๅทฑใ๏ผ
ๆ่ฟๆ ทโๆๅๆ ่ฐโ็ๆ่ฎฎ๏ผไธ็ฅไธบไฝ็ซๅพไปฅๅฎ็ฐใ่ฟๆดไธชๆ ็จ๏ผโๆฅโไนไธๆใๆๅนถไธๆฏไฝไธไธ็ฟป่ฏๅ๏ผๆๅช่ฝ้่ฟๆ่บซไธบโ่ฏไบบโ็ๅฏไธ่บซไปฝๅป่พฉ่ฏไธ่ฏ ้ๆฅ็ฟป่ฏใๆๅนถๆฒกๆ็ๆญฃ็็่ฎบไธๆนๆณ๏ผไนไธๆ่ฏฅๅฆไฝไธบ่ชๅทฑ่งฃ้๏ผไฝไน่ฎธๆๆฅ่ฟ็่พฉ็ฝๆฏ๏ผๆๅฐฝๅฏ่ฝโๅธโๅ ฅๅนถๅ ๅๆฏไธ้ฆ่ฏ็็ฅ้ตไธๅ ๆถต๏ผๅๅฐๅ ถโๅผโๅบ๏ผ่ฟๆฏไธ็งๆ นๆคไบๆไนๅ ็โ่ฏๆโใ๏ผๆด็่ ๏ผๆ่ฎคไธบไปปไฝโๆๅโ็็ฟป่ฏ๏ผ้ฝๅบโไฟฎๆนโ่ฏ่ ไธไปไปฌ่ช่บซๆไฝฟ็จ็่ฏญ่จ็ๅ ณ็ณป๏ผๅณไพฟ่ฟไธชไฟฎๆนๅฏ่ฝๆฏ็ปๅฐๆๅพฎไธ่ถณ้็ใๆ้ดไบๆญค๏ผๆ่ฎคไธบโ็ฟป่ฏโๅๅๆๆไนไธๅไบบๆทฑ็ใๅฎไฝฟๆ่ฎฉๆๅนณๆฅๆกๅพๅคช็ดง็่ฑๆๆๆๆพๅจ๏ผๅนถๅผๅฏๆฐ็โ่ฏโ็ฉบ้ดใ๏ผ
ๆ็ๅฐๅขๆฏไธคๆน้ข็ใๅฝๆๅๆฐๆๆฝฎ็็ผ่พไปฌ่ฎจ่ฎบ็็ฟป่ฏๆถ๏ผๆๆฐๅจ่ฏไธญ็โๅ ธๆ โไธโไบๆโ้ๆธๆตฎ็ฐใไฝๆไนๆ่ฏๅฐ๏ผ่ฅ่ฆ้ไธๆณจ้๏ผ้ ่ฏป่ตทๆฅไผ้ๅธธๅซๆญ๏ผไนๅฟ ็ถๅฝฑๅๆดไฝ็่ฏๆ๏ผๅ ๆญคๆ้ๆฉไบ่พ่ฝปๆพ็ๆณจ้ๆนๅผ๏ผๆไพ้็น่ฏญๅข๏ผๅฐฝๅฏ่ฝไฟ็่ฏๆใๆด่ฐๅทจๆๆ็ๅฆไธๆน้ขๅๆฏโ่ฏญๆฐโใๅๆ่ฏไธญ็ๆถๆไธๅ่ฏก๏ผ็ฟป่ฏๆ่ฑๆๆถ๏ผๅฎนๆๆฒฆไธบโ้่ ๆปฅ่ฐโใไบๆฏ๏ผๆๅฟ ้กป่ฏๅพๅฐ่ฟ็งโๅนฝ้ปๆโๆๅฐๅจโ่ฆๆถฉโ็่ฑๆไธญใ่ฟๆดไธช่ฟ็จ่ฎฉๆ้ๆฐๆ่ๅฐๅบไปไนๆฏโๅนฝ้ปโ๏ผ่ไปไนไธๆฏใๆ็ป๏ผไธๆฐๆๆฝฎๅข้ๅ่ฎฎๅ๏ผๆไปฌๅณๅฎ้ๅบ้ฃไบไปฅ่ฑๆๅ็ฐๅบๆฅๆถๆฏ่พๆๅ็ไพๅญ๏ผๅฐ้ฃไบๆๆถๆไธ้โ็ฟป่ฏ้ธฟๆฒโๆๆ ๆณ้กบๅฉโๅ็ฐโๅบๆฅ็ไฝๅ่ๅผใ๏ผๅณ่ฏด๏ผ่ฏป่ ๏ผๆๅคฑ่ดฅไบใๆไนไปไธญๆ่ฏๅฐ๏ผ็ฟป่ฏๅฐฑๆฏไธไธชๅๅค็ปไน ๅคฑ่ดฅ็่ฟ็จใ๏ผ
ๅๅฐ่ฏไบบๆฌ่บซ๏ผ่ฟไบ่ฏไธญ๏ผๆไปฌๅฏไปฅ็ฅ่งไธไฝๆ๏ผๆฉๅ๏ผๆ่ฏด็โๆฒ้โ้ฟ่พ็ๅฝข่ฑกใไปๆญฃๅจๆฒๆไธๆดๆ่ฟไธชไธ็็ๅ็ง่่ฐฌใ่่ฟ็ง่่ฐฌ่ขซไธ็ง็ๆดป็โ่ฆๆถฉๆโๅ ๅง๏ผ่่ฟ็งโ่ฆๆถฉโๆบ่ชๅๆๆๅไธๆๅญฆๅจ็ฐไปฃๅๆฐๅ ๅก็โๅฐไฝโโโไธ่ฑๆ็ธ่พไธ๏ผ้ญๅไบโ่พน็ผๅโใไฝ่ฟๆ ท็โ่ฆๆถฉโ๏ผๅ้่ฟโๆถๆโๆๆ็ง็จๅบฆไธ็โ่ชๅฒโ็ปๅธฆ่ฟไบใๅ ถไธญไธ้ฆ่ฏใ็ผบๅธญไบใ๏ผCount Me Out๏ผ๏ผๆ็ฟป่ฏๆถๆไธบๆฃๆ็๏ผๅ ไธบๅฎๆๆไบๆๆฐ่ฏไธญๆๅ ๅจ่ฏโไธๅพๅฟ็ๅฃฐ้ณโ๏ผ
ๅฃฐๅฃฐๅๅฝฉๆฌขๅผ่
ไธด็้ฃ้๏ผๆ็ผบๅธญไบ
ๅพๅพไธๅๅบไธฅ่็ฉ็้ซๅบฆ๏ผๆ็ผบๅธญไบ
้้ไบๅๅๅ่ฝฐๅคฉ็่ชไฟก๏ผๆ็ผบๅธญไบ
่ก่กๆบ่ธ้ๆญฅๆฌ็คผ็้ชๅฒ๏ผๆ็ผบๅธญไบ
้ต้ต็ฟ็็ซ็ฎ่ฑๅผ็็ๅ๏ผๆ็ผบๅธญไบ
ๆญฃๆฏ่ฟๆ ท็โไธๅพๅฟโใโ่ชๆๅฆๅฎโไปฅๅๆธดๆๆพ็บตๆณ่ฑกๅๅฏปๆฑโ่ชๅพๅ ถไนโ็ไบบ่ฎพๆๅธๅผๆ๏ผไน่ฎฉๆ็ปง็ปญ็ฟป่ฏ่ฟไบไฝๅใๆๅธๆๆจไนๅๆไธๆ ท๏ผไนๅจๅ ถไธญใ
Daryl Lim Wei Jie (translator) is a poet, translator, and literary critic from Singapore. His latest collection of poetry is Anything but Human (2021), which was shortlisted for the 2022 Singapore Literature Prize. His poetry won him the Golden Point Award for English Poetry in 2015. His work has been featured in POETRY Magazine, Poetry Daily, The Southwest Review and elsewhere.
ๆไผๆฐ๏ผๆฏๆฐๅ ๅก๏ผ่ฑ่ฏญ๏ผ่ฏไบบใ่ฏ่ ไธๆๅญฆ่ฏ่ฎบ่ ใๆๆฐ่ฏ้ใAnything but Humanใ๏ผ้คไบไบบ๏ผ2021๏ผๅ ฅ้2022ๅนดๆฐๅ ๅกๆๅญฆๅฅ๏ผๆพ่ท2015ๅนดๆฐๅ ๅก้็ฌๅฅ๏ผ่ฑๆ่ฏๆญ็ป๏ผใไฝๅๅ็ปไบใPOETRYใ๏ผ่ฏๆญ๏ผๆๅฟใใPoetry Dailyใ๏ผ่ฏๆญๆฅๅฟ๏ผ๏ผๅใThe Southwest Reviewใ๏ผ่ฅฟๅ่ฏ่ฎบๅญฃๅ๏ผ็ญใ
Wang Mun Kiat (poet) is a Singaporean writer born in 1967. He is currently an engineer and lives in Bangkok, Thailand. He was exposed to contemporary poetry and started writing in the 1980s. His works have mostly been published in Singaporeโs literary journals and the Chinese daily, Lianhe Zaobao. He was awarded the Golden Point Award in 2013, and was shortlisted for the Singapore Literature Prize in 2014. His poetry collections include Not Yet Midnight and Short Tongue.
้ปๆๆฐ๏ผ1967ๅนด็๏ผๆฐๅ ๅกไบบ๏ผ็ฐไธบๅทฅ็จๅธ๏ผไบๆณฐๅฝๆผ่ฐทๅฎๅฑ ใ80ๅนดไปฃๅผๅงๆฅ่งฆ่ฏๆญๅไฝ๏ผไฝๅๅค่งไบๆฐๅ ๅกๆๅญฆๆๅฟๅใ่ๅๆฉๆฅใๅฏๅใ 2013ๅนด่ท้ขๆฐๅ ๅก้็ฌๅฅ๏ผ2014ๅนดๅ ฅๅดๆฐๅ ๅกๆๅญฆๅฅใ่ๆ่ฏ้ใๅคๆชๅคฎใไธใ็ญ่ใใ
Cha 