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LASSITUDE OR LICENCE – NIALL McGRATH REPLIES TO MARTIN ANDERSON

When Martin Anderson quotes the Sanskrit "Beware pouring a cow's milk into the skin of a dog" he does so in sub-titling this to "Long live the careful reader". As Anderson rightly points out, this saying was originally an Indian injunction against transposing Sanskrit sounds into any other script. However, the careful reader will note that, originally, it was invoked in order to retain the philosophical purity of the Vedic scriptures; the Sanskrit sound patterns, also, are said to have transcendental (or spiritual) sanctity. Therefore, it is with extreme deference to the original that I undertook creating a verse version of the Bhagavad-gita.
The careful reader, also, will note that Anderson has chosen to interpret my phrase "ancient Icelandic or Sanskrit" as meaning "ancient… Sanskrit", rather than "Sanskrit or ancient Icelandic". Even careful reading requires clarification of interpretation, or presentation. When he deliberates on Classical Sanskrit etc., I am aware of this distinction. As for the debate around 'translation' and 'transliteration', I do not consider my use of 'transliteration' to be so completely idiosyncratic, for I was (completely with Njal's Saga and largely with the Bhagavad-gita), transliterating these texts from prose versions to a verse version. Yes, the original Sanskrit is, of course, poetic in form; but most English versions tend towards prosaic presentation in order to preserve the meaning of the text. As I stated in my last reply to his review of my collection Reversion (in Shearsman 58), I sought to preserve the philosophical integrity of the work, which I hope I have achieved.

"What is the sense," Anderson asks, "in simply tinkering with existing translations which are sense-accurate…?" As he admits himself in the rest of his sentence here, "virtually all the poetry has been expunged" from those versions. I wanted to reinject lyricism into the work, which is why I reused the original Sanskrit title, translating it as Godsong. Why would Heaney create his own version of a Greek classic in The Cure at Troy or a version of Beowulf or Derek Mahon create his own version of Greek or French works? Does one have to be an established writer to be permitted to do this? While Anderson is entitled to his apparent point of view, that it is pointless to translate extant texts, not everyone will agree with him on this point. Whatever an individual's motivations for tackling such a task, it is surely not pointless to do so. As Anderson notes, one writer (Arthur Keith) may consider Sanskrit texts as "essentially untranslatable", but we do not all have to agree with him. My only caveats to "tinkering" with these sacred texts are to preserve the transcendental purity and attempt to produce a suitable quality of poetic presentation; these I have striven to do in 'Godsong' – readers can decide for themselves to what extent I have succeeded. I have not attempted to copy the Sanskrit sound patterns or other techniques, such as alliteration; but it is unreasonable in many cases to expect this. I would agree with A C Clarke's view (see page 129 in Acumen 50), that when poems are translated the poem in its translated version must work as a poem in the language into which it is translated". Why do we write? Anderson asks. In the words of a Sanskrit scholar, "We write to those sleeping, but living souls, hoping to awaken them… and for our own purification" – or, to quote the Sanskrit: jiva jago: awake sleeping soul.

Anderson criticises me for not acknowledging the provenance of these works in their titles (Bhagavad-gita and Njal's Saga). While the Contents page does not do so, a careful reader of Reversion will note that on page 85 the full title is 'Thus Spake Arjuna – Bhagavad-gita, 1.28-45' and on page 87 the full title is 'Consolation – Bhagavad-gita, 2.11-28', while the Njal's Saga extract in this collection on page 25 is titled 'Burning Your Own – from Njal's Saga'. It is true any English versions that have been consulted are not acknowledged; but I have not seen this done in similar works by other authors. If I am mistaken in omitting these and have offended against some convention I am unaware of, I am happy to hold my hand up to that.
I find it mildly amusing that a (I presume British) writer, Anderson, might "suspect" an Irish writer, moi, of being a "post-Imperial appropriator" and engaging in an act of "surrogate political domination" (here, Anderson refers to Edward Said). Also, while this is clever academic argument, when it comes to world religions it hardly fits the bill. Would someone creating a new version of the Bible be similarly criticised? Perhaps. But to some the Vedic Scriptures are as much a part of their culture as the Judeo-Christian scriptures are to many in the West, though it is also an Eastern tradition. Is it cultural "appropriation" or "domination" to be influenced in this way? Surely not. In my view our cultural influences choose us, often, as much as we choose them. Even the Icelandic sagas, while having their own specific cultural source, have a much wider influence that protects them from the kind of infringement Anderson is wary of. That said, there is the need, as Anderson suggests, and Said pointed out, to guard against the possibility that we let ourselves corrupt or transform original texts into things they are not meant to be. I believe I have avoided this.

Anderson revisits his unease with my use of the term 'fracas' and my couching the pieces in 'Norn Iron-esque' as reasons for his belief that I have failed to capture Arjuna's state of mind accurately and strayed into the "surrogate political domination" mentioned above. The latter point I have dealt with, in pointing to how others have also proffered resonances of Norn Irish-speak and the Troubles (Mahon, Heaney etc.). Rather than "surrogate political domination" I see this as reference to my own time and place; if I was a Londoner, creating an Estuary version with references to the current social scene in Blair's Britain would this alarm Martin Anderson? Or should it? Anderson is right to suggest we should be wary of such things, we always should be; but provided the balance is right it may also often be acceptable.

As for my use of the term 'fracas' – once again I will have to agree to disagree with Anderson on this point. He feels that it is uncharacteristic of Arjuna, in his situation, to make light of the impending battle. My Arjuna's irony is lost on Anderson; but, I feel it is one way in which a warrior copes with such a situation. This kind of humour is well known to exist among servicemen (and women) throughout the ages. Arjuna is distressed, even if at the same time he resorts to this means of facing a situation he finds so difficult to accept. Anderson thinks this would prevent the self-examination that drives the poem, rather than impelling it. Again, I disagree: I see Arjuna's sometime feigned bravado as typical of a warrior. And it may comfort him to some extent, but it takes the consoling words of the charioteer Krishna to overcome Arjuna's unease. Besides, many battle memoirs vouch for the veracity of the myriad, often contradictory, emotions that one runs the gauntlet of when in such a position as Arjuna finds himself.

Anderson considers a pub brawl to be a 'fracas'. In Northern Ireland, it is common for people, on the streets as well as in the media, to belittle the Troubles as 'a fracas', I am not alone in doing that. Nor am I "cavalier" in doing so. Again, Anderson misses this kind of irony, even though it should be familiar, such as when Harold Macmillan employed in calling a political crisis "a little local difficulty".

Anderson refers to "one translator" as suggesting a metaphorical as much as a literal function of the piece, in that it represents the cosmic battle of good and evil and the soul's (or individual conscience's) realisation of its place amidst this, in the material and spiritual planes of existence. While I applaud Anderson for bringing attention to this, I find his narrow choice of reference curious, as my understanding is that this is the standard interpretation of the text, certainly from a religious point of view (i.e. to those who regard it as scripture, rather than just a literary text).

Anderson quotes one translator (John Brough) as having said that there is very little translation from Sanskrit, as opposed to the "inspired translations" from European works. However, it is my understanding that there are scores of versions of the Bhagavad-gita and other Eastern texts such as the Upanishads in English on the market in the West, particularly from US publishing houses.

Anderson chastises me for assuming Heaney is his 'hero'. For that 'lassitude', my apologies. Also, I have misinterpreted (from his review in Shearsman 58) Anderson's "not untypical" as a double negative, whereas his clarification of his usage as meaning "not typical but, on the other hand, demonstrating certain qualities" is helpful. In referring only to form, in my first reply I have (perhaps carelessly) lumped together his list of criticisms rather than addressing them individually. Therefore, I will be a more careful reader and address the specific points he did list in Shearsman 58, when using an extract from 'Revelation' in order to unjustly (in my view) argue that my collection Reversion is largely "bland discursiveness".

Anderson refers to what he considers to be "a lexis which frequently eschews precision of sensory observation" (as opposed to, for example, Heaney's work). First, while some of the pieces contain discursiveness, this is not something I am alone in employing. "Precision of sensory observation" is laudable, but not the only means of writing poetry. One of the most popular English poems of all time, Kipling's 'If', is largely discursive and uses "(abstract) nouns". A rough headcount of the poems in the collection Reversion shows me that at least 75% do employ precision of sensory observation (for example, 'Remembrance Day', 'Catherine', 'Those Unfortunate Women', 'Quern', 'Ploughing', 'Dowsing', etc., etc.). Others, such as 'A Farmhouse Kitchen in County Antrim', blend sensory observation with 'discursiveness'. While this discursiveness is, as Anderson states, "not typical" of the collection as a whole, I disagree with his summation that it is bland and a "poetry of low pressure" (due to the reasons below).

Anderson uses the other points, which I refer to below, in order to argue that the extract quoted exemplifies his view. Anderson believes there is "rhythmic lassitude" in my collection Reversion, to which I would counter there may be rhythmic latitude but not lassitude. The poem 'Revelation', from which the extract comes, employs T S Eliot's four stress line as the main rhythmic frame, with some variation to 3 or 5 stress lines, which Eliot allows himself and others who have adopted this type of poetic form have also used.
Anderson considers the piece to possess "the lack of any cadence": I have already countered this in my previous reply, stating that my voice cadences exhibit Northern Irish (often guttural) patterns which may not be familiar to some and may need to be heard to be appreciated. Also, often I adopt the colloquial speech of this place, which may be unfamiliar to others and so may not register with them until heard.
Anderson believes there is poor "verbal patterning" in the extract he has quoted from 'Revelation'. The verbs in it are: know, fascinated, view, peaking, calling, gaze upon, obsessed, detach, possess, craved, feast, convince. These show that the 'pattern' of the verbs is one of meaning (with these words being loaded with, or at least associated with, spiritual significance). The "sonic energies" – and I may be misinterpreting what Anderson means by this, but to me these - include the rhyme and partial-rhyme associations of energy/liberty/merely, am/time, cone/mountain/then/ heavens/serene, natural/hill/material/all/calling/soul, beautiful, obsessed/possess, beautiful/art. Anderson claims the piece lacks intensity, but the careful use of these words shows that I have crafted the poem with precision and artful consideration of the words used, both from the aspect of meaning and the aspect of sound. Anderson considers it an example of "low pressure" poetry, yet to my mind the 'pressure' builds up like a mountain peaking to a climactic finale. Moreover, that 'summit' escapes the 'discursiveness' Anderson focuses on, with the very "precision of sensory observation" that he argues it eschews, in the lines:

And, as if to bless my realisation,
The cloudbank's heart is caught
On the sharp point of the summit,
Mist parts like torn silk,
The sun's radiance permeates my being.

Anderson believes I have a "fondness for rather clichéd adjectives and phrases" and (abstract) nouns)". The latter point, I have already dealt with. As for clichés, I use them sparingly, but perhaps more than most writers dare, for fear of facing this very kind of criticism. And, often, this criticism is justified because those who use clichés usually tend not to know how appalling they appear when used. However, when I do use them, generally it is with a twist, or to highlight something specific. For example, in 'Catherine', the death of a poor farmer's wife is captured in the language of this unlettered man, from a milieu in which emotional rectitude governs all, trying to articulate his own sense of loss and guilt, with a cliché in the last lines: 'When I lift your coffin, its light as a feather'. Not only does this use of words capture the character himself, its familiarity, yet use in such moving circumstances, and its understatement of the grief being conveyed, reinforces the power of the poem. When read at festivals, this poem is the one most commented upon by audiences, including other professional writers, as being highly 'memorable speech'. In drafting this poem, I attempted other versions that had different endings, precisely because I wanted to avoid using this 'cliché', but the ending which works best is this one. To my mind, it is right to generally follow the rule that we should avoid clichés, but there are exceptions to every rule and this is one case in which it is justified.
I use cliché, also, in 'Sill Life'; again, there is a 'twist' to the way it is used. In 'A Garda Car in County Antrim' humour distils any sense of cliché which may or may not appear. In 'Clytemnestra' the phrase "I have murdered our love royally" is used, but this ties in with the royal theme of Greek kingship in the poem, and while in general terms might be considered 'clichéd', the use of this familiar phrase in a surprising way lifts it out of that bracket, to my mind.

In conclusion, although I have taken exception to much of Martin Anderson's analyses of my work, I do welcome the interest he has shown not only in my work but also his sharing of his knowledge of the wider bases of it, e.g. the Sanskrit of the Bhagavad-gita. My main concern is that he 'forgives' established writers such as Heaney their forays into literary translation (or transliteration, whatever), but seems unwilling to allow others similar poetic licence.

Martin Anderson's original review can be found here, and Niall McGrath's reply here. Cliuck on the left arrow at the top of this page to see Martin Anderson' response, which in turn occasioned the above. This correspondence is now closed.

Copyright © Niall McGrath 2005.