I Have Forsaken Heaven & Earth, but Never Have I Forsaken You by Leilei Chen

The entire premise of this book is intriguing: a poet translating the work of another poet who in turn relies on translations to render into his own language the work of a poet removed in time. The resultant layering of language, and the choices that get made in the process, are fascinating. Whether MA Hui’s rendering of Tsangyang Gyatso’s poetry is strictly speaking a “translation” is up for debate. MA does not speak or read Tibetan, and so his access to the sixth Dalai Lama’s words were mediated through existing translations. For some, me included, MA’s efforts might lean closer to what the late Steven Heighton called “approximations”—renditions of poems in other languages that reflect the spirit of the original more than an accurate translation of the words. Leilei Chen herself points to this in her introduction when she describes how MA amalgamates images from different poems into a single poem. Approximation gives MA the freedom to play with the images and the themes in ways that stricter translation might not offer, and Chen continues this trend in the way she elides bits from some of the poems or offers the English reader a shortened title.

But a more strategic aspect emerges from these elisions and this layering of language: why would a modern Chinese poet reach into the literary history of a contested region like Tibet for material, and how does one put that temporal and spatial distance to work? When Alexander Pushkin returned from exile, it seemed as though he had abandoned the more strident political writing that characterized earlier works: he spent his time writing romantic poetry and verse fairy tales. But under this veneer, the old Pushkin survived: the fairy tales are thinly disguised critiques of Tsarist Russia, and his romanticism is imbued with political commentary. In 1908, Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov adapted one of the fairy tales, “The Golden Cockerel,” into a satirical opera that was critical of the abuse of power in the last years of the Romanov dynasty. It is both the notion of Pushkin ostensibly abandoning the political in favour of the romantic and the notion of Rimsky-Korsakov returning to the work of an older artist to reinterpret it in a different, but equally restrictive, political context that interests me when I read I Have Forsaken Heaven and Earth.

In his original, MA returns to the poems of the sixth Dalai Lama, Tsangyang Gyatso (1698–c.1706) and reworks them in the context of contemporary China. Gyatso is a fascinating figure: he was not celibate, he drank wine, wrote love songs, and renounced his vows and many of his prerogatives as Dalai Lama. It is this rebel figure whose poetry forms the basis of MA Hui’s work. Much like Rimsky-Korsakov highlights the themes in Pushkin’s work that critiqued power, so Chen and MA draw on similar elements in I Have Forsaken Heaven and Earth. Although Chen is careful not to overstate the political tone of MA’s poems, the title poem contains lines that for all their lyricism cannot hide the activist nature of these works:

Tell me
How many memorial days are saved especially for me

They were marked by your footprints hidden under fallen leaves
the only days in which I am free

In many of the poems in this book, “freedom” lies “hidden under fallen leaves.” It is well worth the effort to rustle through this pile of leaves to see just what resonates with today’s readers, and what parallels lie buried in the compost: in “I sit alone on Mount Meru,” the initial image of tranquillity and meditation grows into a confrontation with lies, and to glimpses of cherries “from the previous life” shining through the snow.

Throughout I Have Forsaken Heaven and Earth, MA and Chen invite the reader to look up from their navel-gazing meditations and look to the world—a world from which they can learn humility and compassion. The opening line of the second stanza in “Which means of survival leads to exile” pivots into the reflection, “Praise for the chrysanthemum withered in people’s throat.” Linger on that line: the chrysanthemum, the flower that blooms in autumn, when other plants wither in the face of winter; the gift to the old that brings joy and longevity. Ultimately, MA Hui’s poems, and Leilei Chen’s translations, become a gift of resilience.

Straddling between Canada and China, Leilei Chen‬ lives her life learning the philosophy of the in-between space and its potential contribution to social progress. She publishes poetry, short memoir writings, and Re-orienting China: Travel Writing and Cross-cultural Understanding. She teaches at the University of Alberta.

Page Count	96
Binding	Soft Cover with flaps
Year Published	2023, Frontenac House

Peter Midgley

Peter Midgley is a bilingual writer and editor from Edmonton. Over the course of thirty years, he has worked as a freelance editor, festival director, university lecturer, managing editor, acquisitions editor, clerk of court, bartender, actor, janitor, and door-to-door salesman. This experience has given him enough material for more than a dozen books. His latest book, let us not think of them as barbarians (NeWest Press), was shortlisted for the Stephan G. Stephansson Award in 2019.