A poetic translation, juxtaposing emotions in an oxymoron discipline and a book
For over two years, I have been actively participating in activities of the Austin Poetry Society. I am a fearful one, so far so the true penetration of social interaction takes you in, as it has a lot to say, in a decisive one-sided perspective. I was trying to ponder about a poem, and only, ponder about a poem, If, nothing else, too magical is happening along the way.
I received my requested book recently. Teach yourself Bengali, by William Radice, A poet and translator , knowledgeable in Bangla language. The book started with an interesting approach:
“The languages of South Asia are richly endowed with sounds, particularly consonants, and the Hindus were the first people in the world to realise that the sounds of a language can be grouped scientifically according to where and how they are made in the mouth. Unlike the Greek and Roman alphabets, which follow a haphazard order,Indian scripts are based on a logical table of letters; vowels first, then the ‘velar’ consonants , the ‘palatal’ consonants , the retroflex consonants and so on.
The Bengali Script, like other South Asian scripts (except Urdu) was originally devised for the writing of Sanskrit. As the modern Indo-Aryan languages developed (growing not exactly from Sanskrit but from the Prakrits, the spoken languages of ancient India), regional varieties of what was essentially the same writing system were used to write them down. Nowadays, Sanskrit is usually written and printed in Devanagari, the script that is also used for Hindi. But it can just as well be written in the Bengali Script, and when Bengali children learn their letters, they learn them according to the Sanskrit sequence.”
I tried to recollect my childhood memories. Me , in my early days, too much eager to learn the Bengali alphabets. There is always a debating sequence, are you remembering Bangla learner years at the school playground or too much in need to take support from personal memories where you first wrote the first letter on your slate? For me, it is always a question of the need to push back too much, and every recollection has a reason of its own, strong and robust on the surface, but arrogant in its own value, as it is stemming from the core debating context. Values.
How will you introspect about values of the working class? Teachers in classrooms, Workers in workplaces and taking control in your own rational belief that the end goal is happening for good?
Every used and usable words in an engaged conversation is happening for a good reason. The moral need of ethical etiquettes. Not that much of a difference where we troubleshoot a dilemma. An accident is not a norm of the road, a political coup or assassination is not the intended goal of any bipartisan political dialogues. Workplaces are bringing goodness to the world. Otherwise, we need to seek relief, holidays, and sick leave will help to heal.To follow along with a long term subject matter to approach with further control in the scope.
That brings another contemplative reason to focus from a distance. How does personal trauma trigger you in? Are there any meditative interventions needed along the approach?
There can be hundreds of threads in the diversified subject matter. As in Arts and specially in liberal arts, we are fundamentally wrong in a fixed domain, we fine tune as we are our own maturity in our understanding. We cannot put values in the chirping of the birds, murmuring sounds of the rivers, and colors of the wandering clouds, in an undivided sky. The sky is truly undivided there, and that is why you are within a compositional effort, where you have given your best, already. And that is an essential set back, You gave, as you are no longer there.
I was opening a booklet of a publication of the Austin Poetry Society. Barbara Blanks wrote a poem there, she is a member of Austin Poetry society.
Shifting Gears
How can she be old enough
To have a Learner’s Permit?
Yet here we are , parked in our driveway
Her behind the wheel, anxious to begin
I tell her
Learn the feel of the gear pattern
How each one clinks into its slot
As my hand guides hers
Scenery flashes by;
Her just born hand clutching my finger
The world she holds onto
Her pint sized hand seizing mine
When thunder rumbles overhead
Her grubby hand tugging me
toward
Some treasures she’s found;
her slender hand resting in mine
Fingers spread as I brush on
her first nail polish (Cotton candy pink
And now
this efficient,confident hand
of a girl starting her journey
away from me
Shifting into her future
Barbara blanks
I tried to internalize the rhythmic surrealism of this particular poem, as the rules of the road are the largest debating issues, as hot as it can be. Looking inwardly, and looking inwardly for a true glaring reason, as it is your subject matter. Happenings of a contemporary world, out there. You are putting a disclaimer in your exposition, a world happening, out there.
I tried to vivid an image without touching the dire need to digress. Too much of a focus, takes you away from any allegory, possible there. I was trying to imagine a front yard. A closed and gated structure and still it is the front yard. And a mother-daughter duo, and the mother is putting hair oil to treat the girl’s hair, under the morning sun. Almost the same age of the girl in the poem, still trying to get a learner’s permit.
The translated bengali poem is here :
https://www.bangla-kobita.com/tferdous/shifting-gears/
(Mar 12, 2023)