The Little Mute Boy: autism in translation

In a previous  post I reflected on the way we keep some poems as talismans, pinned to walls and notice boards. This week I found a charm poem taped into one of my old notebooks.

The Little Mute Boy

The little boy was looking for his voice.             
(The king of the crickets had it.)                     
In a drop of water                                                   
the little boy was looking for his voice.

I do not want it for speaking with;                             
I will make a ring of it                                                    
so that he may wear my silence                            
on his little finger

In a drop of water                                                          
the little boy was looking for his voice.

(The captive voice, far away,                                          
put on a cricket’s clothes.)

The poem is by Federico García Lorca, a writer who has been important to me in recent years. I didn’t always care for poetry in translation; sound is as integral to a poem as meaning and I wanted poetry in its first language. But then, four years ago, a Lorca translation saved me.

 Córdoba             

I was in deep grief; not over Dylan, this time, but my daughter from whom I had been suddenly separated. One of the ways in which it affected me was that I found myself unable to write. I had written poetry all my life; hard times had not previously silenced me. ‘The blood jet’, as Sylvia Plath wrote: ‘ is poetry/there is no stopping it.’ And yet suddenly I couldn’t make a sound. Nothing made sense to me. I was inhabiting a world of confusion and doubt; finding the words from or about the place seemed impossible.

A poet friend, gently concerned, gave me a copy of Robert Lowell’s Imitations for Christmas that year. I might find reading poetry in translation helpful, he suggested, as it would engage my heart and mind differently. Soon after, he called round again, this time with a Lorca poem in the original and translation. My friend was taking a Master’s course in poetry and one of the exercises he had been set was to produce a version of the piece. Why didn’t I have a go too? If I could experience the poem without thinking too much about what it communicated then I might find I could catch its rhythm; perhaps the spirit of the language could restore me to sound.

 Canción del Jinete  /  Song of the Horseman

Córdoba  /  Córdoba
Lejana y sola.  /  Far off and solitary.

 Jaca negra, luna grande,  /  A black horse, a round moon
y aceitunas en mi alforja.  /  and olives in my pack.
Aunque sepa los caminos, /  Although I know the roads
yo nunca llegaré a Córdoba.  /  I will never get to Córdoba.

 Por el llano, por el viento,  /  Across the plain, into the wind,
jaca negra, luna roja.  / a black horse, a red moon.
La muerte me está mirando  /  Death is staring at me
desde las torres de Córdoba.  /  from the towers of Córdoba.

 ¡Ay que camino tan largo!  /  Oh what a long road!
¡Ay mi jaca valerosa!  /  Oh, my brave horse!
¡Ay que la muerte me espera,  /  Oh, death is waiting for me,
antes de llegar a Córdoba!  /  before getting to Córdoba!

Córdoba.  /  Córdoba.
Lejana y sola.  /  Far off and solitary.

That Christmas I read Lorca’s Horseman. Its melancholic rhythms and pace appealed but it was the moon which caught me. I remembered my Grandmother telling me to look up at the moon when I was away from home and remember she’d be looking too. I knew my daughter had, in turn, heard this from her Grandmother. Perhaps this moon, passed down the spindle side, was my song.

fall (my gone daughter)

dearest beloved 
grain moon     our same moon

my nut-eyed little bear (mater dolorosa)
a cotton square soaked in scent
the grainy aerial view
of woods where you’ll grow

if I’m sorrowful and red-eyed
my little bear has been sharp-clawed
torn us from the black earth
faces appear in the night     (and dissolve)

I stand aside
fruit moon     little blood-eyed bear
loss is hiding in your fur
fastening ribbons in our hair

falling leaf moon       our same moon
dearest beloved

*Grain (August), Fruit (September) and Falling Leaves (October) were Anglo Saxon names for the moon.

My version of the Lorca poem wandered so far from the original that I didn’t feel the need to provide an epigraph ‘After Lorca’. I can feel the DNA of the poem, though, in its structure (2, 4, 4, 4, 2), imagery and voice. And so Lorca saved me: the poem was my breakthrough back to sound. Later, fall (my gone daughter) would win a prize in the Ilkley Poetry Competition. By then my daughter had returned; one of my happiest memories is of her being in the audience for the prize-giving.

The cricket

diaries 001And because Lorca had saved me, my prejudice against translation faded. So when I encountered The Little Mute Boy one day I paid attention. The English version, translated by the American poet WS Merwin, delivered an instant strike to my heart. I was, as with De La Mare’s Sea Boy, transported into Dylan’s world.

What is it about the poem which works such magic on me? Mostly I think it is the way it makes me re-think the meaning of ‘voice’. Here, the voice becomes something which is concrete rather than an abstract concept. I like this transformation of sound into object; rather than feel frustrated by Dylan’s silence I can visualise it as a ring on his finger.

But such things can be lost, given away, stolen or bartered with. The idea of bartering with a voice reminds me of Ariel in The Little Mermaid who trades her voice for legs. In Lorca’s poem, however, a voice can be desired not in order to be used (‘for speaking with’) but simply to be worn as adornment or to be magically transformed into something else (a cricket for example). Not only does the ‘captive voice’ in the poem ‘put on cricket’s clothes’, it becomes king of the crickets. Crickets, of course, are famed for their night song; the stolen voice thus becomes more beautiful and magical than in the throat of a human. Because Dylan is so utterly absorbed by Pinocchio, the cricket in the poem also puts me in mind of Jiminy Cricket, the puppet boy’s conscience. The Lorca poem offers such comforts: from Dylan’s silence I can make crickets sing and golden rings.

El Niño Mudo

El niño busca su voz.
(La tenía el rey de los grillos.)
En una gota de agua
buscaba su voz el niño.

No la quiero para hablar;
me haré con ella un anillo
que llevará mi silencio
en su dedo pequeñito.

En una gota de agua
buscaba su voz el niño.

(La voz cautiva, a lo lejos,
se ponía un traje de grillo.)

 The sky is,

Once I’d appreciated translation it opened up new vistas especially as my daughter (with whom contact was re-established) had developed a passion for languages. The paradox of my children was not lost on me; one who didn’t speak and the other fluent in three languages. That summer I sent my daughter poems by Jacques Prévert, Pablo Neruda and Paul Verlaine. One weekend I received a rare phone call from my ex-husband, the tension in his voice palpable. Our daughter would not be able to catch the train that day to visit as planned; she had to stay and put something right. She had, it transpired, taken paint from her father’s shed and decorated a road. The road in question may be narrow and surrounded by lochs and mountains but it leads to somewhere not nowhere; in fact it is the only way into the community where my daughter was living. Everyone in the village had to travel that road, sometimes twice or more a day. The Verlaine poem (in pink) was not something you could ignore.

IMG_1477Le Ciel Est, Par-dessus le Toit

Le ciel est, par-dessus le toit,                                   
Si bleu, si calme!                                                     
Un arbre, par-dessus le toit,                                     
Berce sa palme.

 La cloche, dans le ciel qu’on voit,
Doucement tinte.
Un oiseau sur l’arbre qu’on voit
Chante sa plainte.

 Mon Dieu, mon Dieu, la vie est là,
Simple et tranquille.
Cette paisible rumeur-là
Vient de la ville.

-Qu’as-tu fait, ô toi que voilà
Pleurant sans cesse,
Dis, qu’as-tu fait, toi que voilà,
De ta jeunesse?

IMG_1484Later, I would discuss the difference between public art and graffiti with my daughter; her lettering was impeccable and the poem beautiful, but what gave her the authority to decide what should be written on a public highway? What if someone painted an offensive poem on the road – about autistic people for example? Painting the poem, my daughter countered, was the most powerful act of community she had engaged in. As a result, she had got to know neighbours and people she had not previously spoken to. Out of her act came friendships and respect. No one in the village had expressed anything but support for her. Even so, her father was concerned that he would be liable for street cleaning if anyone complained; it was, technically, defacement of public property. So my daughter wasn’t able to take the train that day because she had to paint it out with bitumen.

 On the road

IMG_1560When my daughter painted the poem in the road I’d asked her whether she planned to leaflet the community with a translation: mais non, she’d replied. Soon after, my daughter returned to live with us. Sometimes I’d catch her muttering at me in words I didn’t understand: speak English please, I’d say. Perhaps my children weren’t such a paradox after all; I needed as much skill to translate my daughter’s speech as Dylan’s silence.

If poems are powerful because they help us see the world with fresh eyes, poetry in translation makes us look twice; it can take a second language, sometimes, to understand a mother tongue. Le Ciel Est, Par-dessus le Toit is a talisman for my daughter as The Little Mute Boy and The Sea Boy are for me. The influence of these poems endures: on a Scottish road, I’m told, pink paint is showing through bitumen. I like to think that, nearby, the king of the crickets is singing.

IMG_1513The Sky is, Above the Roof

The sky is, above the roof,
So beautiful, so calm!
A tree, above the roof,
Lulls its palm.

The bell, in the sky, that one sees,
Gently rings.
A bird on the tree that one sees,
Sings his complaint.

My God, my God, life is there,
Simple and quiet.
This calm rumour
Comes from the town.

What have you done, O you there
Crying continually,
Say, what have you done, you there,
With your youth?

References

Road art, and photographs of the road art, are by my daughter.

IMG_1505

11 thoughts on “The Little Mute Boy: autism in translation

  1. Poetry is a foreign land to me. It seems so complex. There are many levels to appreciate: the rhythm and meter, the sound, not to mention the words and their meaning. So I probably missed a lot of what you meant in your beautiful post. The idea of a voice is also intriguing. If one ‘does not have a voice’ it doesn’t necessarily mean that one doesn’t verbalize or in some other way express one’s self. Not having a voice means that one isn’t paid attention to (to wit the American elections… but I digress). Someone can be heard without vocalizing. The key is, a voice needs to be heard. Sometimes it takes an astute listener; at the very least a voice needs to be attended to. I look forward to re-reading your post to get a more nuanced understanding. Thanks, Liz.
    Jack

    Like

    • Hi Jack – first, commiserations on the mid-terms (just waking up in UK and seeing the news). You’re so right about ‘voice’ in its broader sense of communication. Dylan’s behaviour is how he communicates – and in recent months I’ve had all on to translate that 🙂 Usually this is how I use the word ‘voice’ but for once I focused much more narrowly on the physical human voice – the sound it makes. Because of the Lorca poem. I made the post late last evening then went to bed; I dreamed that Dylan was singing! I could hear him in my dream so clearly. It was just lovely – so I temporarily turned him into a cricket with my post… Thanks for reading and your comment, Jack. Liz

      Liked by 1 person

  2. This post took wonderful turns, Liz, very beautiful. I picture you singing of the moon to her as she is ringing softly in the sky. Ursa (minor)
    The last two sentences > sublime! Love it.

    Like

    • Hi Nettie 🙂 Lovely to hear from you on here. Glad you liked it. I haven’t had a recent update but when my daughter (odd not to use her name to you but ethics) was living here I had a telephone conversation with a friend she’d made in the village; ‘oh we’re back to pink up here now I’m pleased to say’ she said to me 🙂 Yes, ursa minor! Lx

      Like

  3. Pingback: Day 19: Walking, Interrupted – | Living with/out Autism

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