In poetry, names so renowned as Walt Whitman and Emily Dickinson are comfortably recognized, by their familiar definitive styles, techniques, and characteristic form. Names like Percy Shelley and Friedrich Hölderlin bring to mind distinct, recognizable forms (or lack thereof) often capable of distinguishing the author’s identity merely through their physical presence on the page. What then is the result when form is revoked of a known poet, and familiarity nullified? Is it feasible that a poem may adopt entirely new definitions and character when dressed in the style of another? Techniques in defamiliarization and deformation have been used for centuries to redress poems in eccentric and reinventing ways. Dickinson herself an advocate for rewiring works to challenge new horizons, poets have long experimented with formal and tonal shape-shifting. Here, easily discernible poets are put to unfamiliar forms, their words rebuilt in the shapes of others. Whitman is cut to stanza, Dickinson stretched to free lengths. Not only may a poem lose its surface-level authorial identity, but the adapted shapes of these new "translations" offer insights both to the writers themselves and the measureless possibility for fresh interpretation.
In deconstructing the shapes of an accomplished poet’s work, one must dismantle all formal intention and implications. To craft intelligible work in its reconstruction, one must assemble it prudently, to maximize the potential for new meaning. It must be a believable whole, with respect to the quality of the writing regardless of its new "identity." For example, the concept of Whitman’s poetry divided into conforming segments goes against the very essence of his revolutionary, expansive style. One aspires to achieve a proportionate quality, so as not to surrender the worth of a writer’s words, simultaneously bending them to challenge new horizons of understanding.
The following passage offers an example of such a translation:
Two butterflies went out at noon, and waltzed
upon a farm, then stepped straight through the firmament
and rested on a beam,
Then together bore away upon a shining sea,
though never yet, in any port their coming
mentioned be,
If spoken by the distant bird, if met in ether sea by frigate,
or merchantman, no notice was to me
On first glance, the poem offers itself up with ample evidence to suggest that it belongs to Whitman. The lines are characteristically expansive, challenging the boundaries of stanzaic form and pushing through with persistent images, those of the natural world and its interaction with the author. The lines embody the spirit of the poem, freewheeling as butterflies, dancing on air. They provide representation of the material, the second line pushing limitations of line length as the butterflies challenge the boundaries of the firmament. Whitman’s style consistently worked to unify author and environment, to depict oneself as a component to nature, within an endless space to explore internal and external worlds alike.
In actuality, this poem belongs to Emily Dickinson. In its original form, it adheres to strict stanzaic form and Dickinson’s famous affinity for punctuation. (see end pages) It is divided into three stanzas, with relative line equality, and strong emphasis placed on the slant rhyme. Overall, it manifests Dickinson’s trademarks; calculated and meticulous in form, with lines carrying up to as many as three dashes each. Translated into forms more analogous to Whitman, the poem adopts entirely unfamiliar mannerisms. Minor alterations in punctuation are made, replaced by line breaks or capitalization where possible to retain the basic relationships from word to word in order to maintain continuity.
What may be noticed first is the removal of an emphasis on rhyme as closure to the line and stanza in general. In their new framework, they play upon each other rhythmically, but no longer bind the poem in corresponding shapes. The poem specifically addresses topics popular to both Whitman and Dickinson, in attempting to set free the subject to explore the realm of the known, and to soar beyond. In its original format, there is a visible conflict between form and content, as it delves into notions of infinity and an expanding firmament within the confines of a rhyming quatrain. The poem addresses subjects that set out beyond the body of a "shining sea," never to be heard from again. In its reshaped mold, the poem now explores the endless firmament of the page, generating a closer relationship between content and form. This presents an altogether separate atmosphere as the poem is dictated, and defamiliarizes most identifiable essences of an exemplary Emily Dickinson poem.
A translation is more than applicable in the opposite direction as well:
A mask - a perpetual
natural disguiser of herself-
concealing her face-
concealing her form-
Changes and transformations-
every hour - every moment-
falling upon her-
even when she sleeps-
An introductory student to poetry would most likely be capable of recognizing the characteristics of this style as suggestive of Dickinson. The trademark punctuation alone, dividing the poem in rhythmic and exacting stops, is enough to consider it a signature piece. Fittingly, the poem delves into themes of transformation and change, certainly a fixation of Dickinson’s, in measured quatrains and referencing multiple faces of a woman, presumably the famed author. The poem disguises identity, and deforms the familiarity of countenance. It actually belongs to Walt Whitman.
The poem is dislodged from Whitman’s free-flowing verse, and divided into rhythmic segments, relatively balanced in length. In its new formation, it is forcibly slower in pace, and requires new emphasis at its divisions. The reader is paused to contemplate meaning in individual segments, rather than carry forward in roaming lineation. The repetition of consecutive lines beginning with "concealing her" presents an interesting rhythm of its own, perhaps shedding more light upon its original author. Whitman’s listing technique adopts new character when stacked within a stanza. Physically, they generate a sameness on the page that appears to accumulate above the material in the following stanza, appropriately stating that these features "fall upon" the afflicted subject. Also interesting to note is the juxtaposition of subject and form again, as the poem addresses the uncontrolled nature of this "masking" and a woman’s inability to control it, in the context of a very formally controlled poem. It is reminiscent of Shelley, who worked consistently within the boundaries of measured verse while attempting to free the minds of his audience. Both examples are altered tremendously by their translations, swapping characteristics and blurring lines of interpretation between two very distinct American visionaries.
Translation and reinvention in poetry swears no allegiance to nation, time period, or law. Possibilities are infinite, and authors conventionally viewed as stylistic opposites share the same great potential. When transferred away from all familiarity, words take on unobserved meanings and venture free of previous convention or label. Perhaps the greatest challenge in this would require the juxtaposition of authors of separate styles, nations, or even languages. In crossing these boundaries through translations, a poem most certainly adapts to a foreign environment, presenting itself as entirely refitted.
Thy lips are on me.
I hear!
I feel!
and their touch
runs
Down
even to the adamantine
central gloom
Along these marble nerves.
‘Tis life!
‘Tis joy!
And through my
withered
old
and icy frame
the warmth of an immortal
Youth
shoots
down
Circling.
This poem, in its bounty of unoccupied space, recalls a technique of late eighteenth century German poet Friedrich Holderlin. In his now-appreciated writings, Holderin drafted what are known as his "fragments," a collection of scattering and spacial poems, recognizable for their eccentric dispersal on the page. An easy candidate for a title among the predecessors to the avant garde movement, Holderlin was widely considered to be mad in his method. The selection above presents a poem feasibly lifted from his fragments, a vast piece that spirals from concepts of the known to the larger-than life on a physically distinct journey down the page. Its sporadic but undeniably rhythmic arrangement brings meaning out of intentional placements, and extensive use of open space.
It is hard to imagine a "form" further from the conventional, further from a calculated formula or continuous pattern. It is harder still to imagine that this poem actually belongs to early 19th century poet Percy Shelley. The selection is sampled from the third act of his epic "Prometheus Unbound," where it serves as the voice of the earth in response to an address by Prometheus. How is it possible that this spatial, fragmented poem belongs to a poet so known for his lyricism and fettered form? Like Holderlin, Shelley was no stranger to presenting work that challenged horizons of the known world, and human capability. However, he pursued his lofty themes in the context of concrete formulas. Shelley’s everlasting conflict between form and content defines his groundbreaking work, transcendent yet lyrical, somehow boundless within the cage of a stanza.
In this passage, nearly every recognizable physical dimension of Shelley’s style is revoked. Beyond that, it is spliced and peppered onto the page in patches and spots, blanketed in white space. As a writer fascinated with greater-than-earthly concepts, it is intriguing to witness his words in the guise of such abstract form. What certainly does remain intact throughout the translation is Shelley’s characteristic barrage of solid imagery. Standouts such as "icy frame" and "marble nerves" retain their quality, regardless of the poems contortion. In its new form, there is a perceived marriage of content and form, that goes against all basic knowledge of Shelley’s style.
To see words enacting and manifesting their meanings on the page truly reinvents the poem. The poem becomes capable of touch, capable of freezing, shooting, and withering. It is granted rhythm that demands to be read separately. It dons the same tone of the fantastic, but in the tangible context of a lovers invigoration. Tangents of life and joy spring forth from the poem, as the author declares them. Concepts of rebirth and energy animate the syntax. Spaces in the language offer fresh opportunities for interpretation. The poem is entirely unfamiliar, but beautiful in its new dress. This deformation bridges gaps of entirely disconnected styles, time, and language. The result is an unexpected but altogether promising reinvention of the great writer’s work.
In their various forms, translations and deformations of poetry are capable of breaching unseen realms of interpretation and understanding of previously exhausted work. They challenge familiarity, and open doors to comprehending the essence of an authors style, through the dissection and reassembly of form. We confirm that looks can be deceiving, and fail to recognize world-famous poetry in its new setting. With these methods, emphasis is effectively removed from conventional knowledge of a poets particular style, and minds are unlocked to the endless possibility for reinvention.
THE POEMS: EMILY DICKINSON
Original
(pg. 133, #216)
Two butterflies went out at Noon -
And waltzed upon a Farm -
Then stepped straight through the Firmament
And rested, on a Beam -
And then - together bore away
Upon a shining Sea -
Though never yet, in any Port -
Their coming, mentioned - be
If spoken by the distant Bird -
If met in Ether Sea
By Frigate, or by Merchantman -
No notice - was - to me -
In the Style of Whitman
Two butterflies went out at noon, and waltzed
upon a farm, then stepped straight through the firmament
and rested on a beam,
Then together bore away upon a shining sea,
though never yet, in any port their coming
mentioned be,
If spoken by the distant bird, if met in ether sea by frigate,
or merchantman, no notice was to me
THE POEMS: WALT WHITMAN
Original (Visor’d, Poems from Leaves of Grass, pg. 231)
Visor’d
A mask, a perpetual natural disguiser of herself,
Concealing her face, concealing her form,
Changes and transformations every hour, every moment,
Falling upon her even when she sleeps.
In the Style of Dickinson
A mask - a perpetual
natural disguiser of herself-
concealing her face-
concealing her form-
Changes and transformations-
every hour - every moment-
falling upon her-
even when she sleeps-
THE POEMS: PERCY SHELLEY
Original (from Prometheus Unbound, Act III, pg. 261)
I hear- I feel-
Thy lips are on me, and their touch runs down
Even to the adamantine central gloom
Along these marble nerves- ‘tis life, ‘tis joy,
And through my withered, old and icy frame
The warmth of an immortal youth shoots down
Circling.-
In the Style of Holderlin
Thy lips are on me.
I hear!
I feel!
and their touch
runs
Down
even to the adamantine
central gloom
Along these marble nerves
‘Tis life!
‘Tis joy!
And through my
withered
old
and icy frame
the warmth of an immortal
Youth
shoots
down
Circling.
