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Bantayan, Maria Anna N.

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TRANSLATOR¶S NOTES

Cirilo F. Bautista is one of the country¶s most prominent poets in English. As a poet, he

believes that a poem¶s power ³lies not in its meaning but in its manner of meaning´ (Bautista 39).

A poem then is written in the how the concept is articulated via the images, metaphors and

literary devices used. In his free verse poem, ³A Bit of A Job,´ it narrates a man who has a

simple breakfast scene with his wife and child, but at going out to go to ³work,´ he is actually

thinking of those he will kill the next day.

I chose this particular poem as I was struck with the poem¶s imagery, yet the images are

framed in such a casual, even mundane setting of eating a family meal. It is actually a

manifestation of CFB¶s stand that ³poems are written about the most ordinary things that happen

in the most ordinary way ± as seen in an extraordinary manner´ (Mercado 65). Nothing could bemore ordinary than having breakfast with the family and rushing off to work. Yet looking at the

poem, I think it is not actually the breakfast scene that is the ordinary, but rather the prospect of

having to kill someone for a living. Looking at the title even, the phrase ³a bit´ has the

connotation of downplaying such a heinous act like killing. The persona also downplays his job

± ³At home, the assassin does not talk/about death.´ It is never really mentioned whether or not

the family knows about his occupation, but it can be said that the assassin does not really ³hide´

his job, he just ³does not talk´ about it. The casualness of (perhaps) knowing that their provider

is a hired killer heightens the sense of ³ordinariness´ of his job.

In this case then, I focused my translation in the poem¶s juxtaposition of the image of the

ordinary with the distinctiveness of killing people for hire and took the risk of translating the

poem into a fictional story. Quite a number of writers and/or critics actually see this kind of

translating poetry as a useless or pointless endeavour, or even ³inferior´ to ³proper´ translation.

Valery puts it quite succinctly (and very painfully, for that matter) that to translate poetry or

verse into prose is like placing poetry ³into its coffin´ (116). This was something that made me

hesitate in doing this task at first. And although Bonnefoy said that one cannot translate a poem

(due to the form and style), it is actually untranslatable if the poem does not actually compel the

reader (Parfan and Medina). With this particular argument, I then decided that I would derive

part of my experience of translation of the poem from this standpoint.




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I first translated the title of the poem and had it changed for the story version. As

mentioned earlier, the phrase ³a bit´ carries the casual tone of the killing job. I used the title

³Some Work to be Done´ in my story to carry that casualness further. The poem for me with the

title ³A Bit of A Job´ looks to give a ³preview´ of what the assassin will do for the next day, or

it a sort of setting or ³world-ing´ for the assassin. The casualness continues in the actual ³work´

the assassin has as he kills his target; he acts as though it is the proverbial ³another day in the

office.´ He does it coolly and professionally, with some idle observations to the people around

him to while the time away. The title is also a play of downplaying the seriousness of such

heavy (and deadly) work, just as anyone would want to downplay the load of a certain task in

order to make it seem easier to do.

The poem then has an offhand tone of presenting the assassin persona, but there is a

certain weight about that nonchalance that makes the poem (for me) possible to have it turned

into a story. The poem definitely has a clear narrative and the ³scenes´ in it are simple and

actually have some look of domestic bliss, even as it is confined in poetic devices and brevity. It

is this that ³compels´ me, as Bonnefoy would say, that I would affirm that the poem can be

translated into a story. And as this is turned into a story, I definitely sacrificed the poem¶s form

and content, focusing more on the ³sense´ the poem is giving me. The next question I tried to

answer is to really how make my translation of the poem. Should I follow its original narrative?

Should I make a sort of ³pre-/sequel´ to the poem?

I attempted to adapt the simplicity of the breakfast scene and the seeming ordinariness of

the perception of killing into how the assassin now actually kills his target. I chose to do a

³sequel´ as my translation as to give some sort of ³continuity´ to what the poem is presenting.

The poem¶s story of a casual day in the life of an assassin seems to push me in the direction of

also presenting how he would casually kill his target on the day itself. The poem is very visual,

in that the scenes in the poem are distinctly defined such as in the lines ³He butters his toast´

(line 2), ³two bites and a forkful of omelette/dipped in catsup. He gulps his hot coffee´ (lines 4

and 5) with similar visual actions in my story such as: ³He was whistling tunelessly as he walked

along the main highway,´ ³He grinned when he saw one umbrella looking like a yellow rat«,´

or ³Even as the crowd began to chant the inspirational speaker¶s name, he screwed the cylinder




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onto the gun¶s barrel.´ Thus I tried to translate the poem with similar visual scenes that present

the mundane-ness, yet have an impending ³sinister´ quality, of the actions.

Rabassa also mentions that for him, translation is a manner of adaptation or a way to

make what has been translated (in his case the metaphor) ³fit´ into the original (2-3). For this it

is important for him to have the ³spirit´ of the original metaphor contained also in the translation.

I also derive my experience in translating the poem within Rabassa¶s view on translation. The

metaphor of the casual tone in the poem is an irony to the severity of the assassin¶s apparent

eagerness to do his job well. I was also intrigued with the third line of the fourth stanza, ³at nine

in the morning. It will be for real.´ For an assassin, it may be a daring move to kill someone at

so early in the day (not that I'm any expert of being an assassin, nor am I saying that CFB

actually knows the little nuances on how to assassinate), perhaps with people still moving around

in the streets and the light of day makes it clear for people to see more. So for me, it was more

of a manipulation of that particular line on how that possibility can happen in my story ± the time

is my metaphor of sorts to give it a more ³physical´ sense of being. I tried to make it more

palpable, this physical-ness of the time, through giving it a reason why it had to be done at nine

in the morning ± the time when the target will appear and for the assassin to have the chance to

kill1. My ignorance of the actual meaning of the time mentioned in the poem makes it more

meaningful for me and that meaningful-ness moves me to create something more concrete in my

story, as CFB himself would take pleasure in owning a book using a language he barely

understood (Bautista 33-34).

In this regard, I am also deriving my translating process in Jakobson¶s look into

intersemiotic theory. And though in the strictest definition of intersemiotic translation deals with

transforming verbal signs into non-verbal signs (114), I am applying this particular theory in my

work, as I am translating the ³signs´ the poem is giving me and transferring it into a fictional

form. One part again is the transference of the phrase ³nine in the morning,´ where it was turned

as a ³sign point´ or a signal for the assassin to kill his target in the story from the poem¶s line.

1My inspiration for making the particular scene in my story was when I actually typed ³nine o¶clock in the morning´

on Google and the first hit was a book with that exact phrase as its title. The book is actually an autobiographical

account of an Episcopalian leader, Dennis Bennett, announcing his experience of receiving the Holy Spirit. He is

also considered as one of America¶s influences in the charismatic movement. And although I did not name theassassin¶s target in my story, I used that particular figure to serve as my assassin¶s target. Perhaps using a

charismatic religious leader will have its own semiotic implications as well.




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There is also transference of semiotics in how the assassin would actually be a good

father and provider. In the poem, it shows the domestic bliss of having breakfast with the family.

The family looks to be middle-class with the food identified such as omelette, catsup, toast and

coffee. The image presents a bourgeois-ish angle, and may add irony to the man¶s unique job.

Usually when one looks at killing-for-hire here in the Philippines, it is considered as a cutthroat

job and that people who do this are usually at their most desperate, particularly for those who do

not really earn much for the family. It is as though it is their last resort to stay alive, and the

people who turn themselves into assassins become amoral and see it only as a job. But in the

poem, it seems that the job pays well enough that the family could be seen to live well, and there

is a sense of warmth among the family members. But why would the assassin have this

particular job? The assassin is also seen to be excited about his job, with the lines: ³He sighs and

admires the red roses./How good the world is! Thank God for people/asking to go before their

time.´ The red roses clearly are a symbol of well-being and something wonderful, and the

assassin equates his job with something positive. There is also an irony there when the assassin

actually thanks God that there are opportunities for him to kill, when in fact God abhors killing

(specifically His 6th

commandment to the people of Israel)2. I attempted to recreate this sense at

the last scene of the story, where another scene of domestic bliss is shown with the assassin now

playing with his daughter and his wife listens on with bemusement. I also made the wife use a

make-up brush as my translation of the metaphor of the assassin¶s red roses, since being able to

wear make-up makes a woman feel wonderful and good about herself. The assassin then enjoys

doing his work, and is set in his belief that what he is doing is actually good and right, as seen in

the line ³Thank God for people asking to go before their time.´ It is as though it is his duty and

his privilege to do such work.

Finally, my initial attempts to translate his poem may be a kind of manifestation of

George Steiner and his hermeneutic approach to translation. He talked about having an initial

³investment of belief´ in that something from the source text that can be transferred andunderstood. This is what I felt when I first read CFB¶s poem even before having this translation

project. Re-reading the poem again confirmed my ³belief´ that the sense this poem gave me can

be transformed into a story form. The poem¶s sense of the casual tone of a heinous act was an

2 Which may be an irony in itself because there are stories shown in the Old Testament (and maybe throughout

history as well) where there are people willing to kill for their G/god for one reason or another.




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interesting point to consider, and in translating this into a poem the sense from the poem became

a little bit of more of a statement as the assassin¶s target now became the ³inspirational speaker´

instead of being to those ³people asking to go before their time.´ Although the chance of having

the inspirational speaker as the target can be seen as ³random,´ somehow the story may have

been infused with my disdain of charismatic religious leaders. Steiner¶s mention of the

translator¶s seizure and extraction of meaning may be based on what I have done with my choice

of target. Although the poem may not have exactly mentioned what particular person the

assassin would be killing, I ³enforced´ my sense of what the assassin would kill ± in this story it

would be the charismatic leader. A bit of a personal angle had seeped into the translation, and in

so doing may have given the story a bit of a somewhat ³political´ flavour ± at least political in

my mind.

Enjoy reading!

Works Cited:

n.a. Unit 411-15: Literary Translation. Anukriti.net. Web. 9 Aug. 2011.

<http://www.anukriti.net/pgdts/course411/ch15g.html>.

Bautista, Cirilo F. ³Beholding the Nothing; or, The Art of Vanishment.´ Reading Ciril o F.

Bautista.

--. ³The Poem as Sign of Signs.´ Reading Ciril o F. Bautista.

Bayot, David Jonathan. ³Breaking the Sign: An Interview with Cirilo F. Bautista.´ Reading

Ciril o F. Bautista.

Jakobson, Roman. ³On Linguistic Aspects of Translation.´ The Translation Studies Reader. Ed.

Lawrence Venuti. New York: Routledge, 2000. Web.

Kangarloo, Mohammad Reza Asadi. ³Sense Transferring Through Poetry Translation.´

TranslationDirectory.com. 2011. Web. 9 Aug. 2011. <http://www.translationdirectory.com/article493.htm>.

Mercado, Monina A. ³I Celebrate Ordinary Experience´: An Interview with Cirilo F. Bautista.´

Reading Ciril o F. Bautista.

Valéry, Paul. ³Variations on the Eclogues.´ T heories of Translation: An Ant hol o gy of Essays

f r om Dryden t o Derrida. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1992. Web.




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Some Work to be Done

It was quite hot outside.

He was whistling tunelessly as he walked along the main highway. Later, he¶ll need to

go to the hardware store to buy some wire and a new bolt cutter. His wife also asked if he could

buy some groceries today; they were running a bit low in some: ham, chicken, bananas. There

was also milk somewhere in that list she gave, he thought. He shrugged his shoulders and

continued to walk ± there was still time to do the shopping later.

He also planned to buy a new toy for his daughter. The other day, she showed him a

drawing that had a star in it. A star her teacher drew on the activity sheet for the lovely work she

made ± a simple drawing of him and her playing in the park while the mother looked on smiling

and sitting on a picnic blanket. He smiled at the memory; he was quite proud of her, his lovely

baby. The toy will surely be a treat.

The sun, even as it just rose up, was already bearing down its heat to the people bustling

about. He did not mind it too much; at least it was another thing he can idly think about from

time to time. Although, there were a lot of people walking just like him toting open umbrellas to

ward off the sun¶s rays. He grinned when he saw one umbrella looking like a yellow rat,

complete with a cartoony face, black wire whiskers, flaps of cloth on top for ears and the ribbon

to tie it closed like a tail. Perfect.

It was still not time yet, but he noticed that people were slowly increasing in number. He

would see several jeeps without signs on their windows parking along the sides of the main road,

there was even a bus or two loaded with people. People in simple shirts and jeans, some were

wearing shorts. Most were wearing slippers or shoes almost in tatters. Despite the heat, there

was a palpable excitement in the air. He could hear tense murmurs and there was a defiant shout

or two from the crowd, followed by chanting, then murmurs again. It was like an unscheduled El

Shaddai meeting, with all the people coming together. But this day definitely has a particular

schedule.




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It was easy to mingle within the crowd: he just wore the same type of clothes as they.

His skin was a little darker, thanks to jogging almost every day in the morning. There was also a

bronzer lotion tucked in his bag just in case he needed it.

The crowd was getting bigger. Everyone was going to the grandstand area, where posters

showed a tall man with a pearly-white smile. The man wore a sharp-looking suit, his hand on his

chest. A short slogan saying ³Change Your Life!´ was written below the image. It brought a

smile to his lips when he saw them.

The main road was packed with people wanting to see this particular person. News going

around was that he was a famous inspirational speaker, with several books and videos to his

name. The country seemed to need anything inspirational, anything that could lift the people¶s

spirits up, especially the masses. Unemployment rates were at their lowest, crime was at an all-

high ± there had even been quite a number of bank robberies lately. The government was at a

loss on how exactly to fix the issues that kept on piling up and the politicians were still playing

the not-in-my-backyard-but-in-yours game. The visit of this inspirational speaker would be a

godsend, they kept saying. The main road was also nearly empty, as it was to be used for a

welcome parade for the inspirational speaker. The crowd was steadily swelling up, but they only

stayed along the sides, strangely standing into the actual road, despite the excited looks and

murmurs.

He saw several trees lined up along the main road. They were tall, with thick trunks, lots

of foliage and sturdy branches. He looked at one of them, one of the taller ones ± then back at

the main road. He let the people¶s movements push him towards the tree, then as he reached it

he climbed up, as though wanting to get a better vantage point to see the parade. He kept

climbing up and made sure he was standing on a sturdy branch. No one seemed to notice him.

No one seemed to care to notice him.

There was a buzz in the air, starting from the far end of the main road from where he was.

The noise grew, the excitement increased, and then like a sudden gush of water, the crowd was

already screaming, jumping, laughing and crying all at once. The inspirational speaker was

coming.




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Amidst the noise, he got ready. He reached behind and under his shirt. He took out a

black gun and from his pocket a black cylinder. Even as the crowd began to chant the

inspirational speaker¶s name, he screwed the cylinder onto the gun¶s barrel. He could already

see several police motorcycle escorts pass by. He had to shake his head when he saw it; he knew

it was all just for show.

He was back in an empty field where he was first practicing, the first time he held the

specialized gun in his hand. It took him days of ranging his shots from point-blank range to

several yards distance and until he could take out even a moving target, thanks to a remote-

controlled toy car and a life-sized cardboard cut-out.

And it was the same now. He saw the float slowly going down the road, on top of it was

the inspirational speaker. The man looked like he jumped out from the posters scattered all over.

His perfect smile seemed dazzling.

It was nine o¶clock in the morning.

The inspirational speaker whipped his head back, and a gush of red suddenly appeared at

the back of his neck. The people around him on the float realized too late that he was dead the

moment the slumped to the float floor. The crowd had cries of joy and excitement earlier, but

now they cried in panic and shock. They never noticed a man who was with them, a man who

wore a faded shirt and faded jeans just like what they wore, a man who was shouting and crying

along with them. They never realized that in a corner of a nearby building along the main road,

the man disappeared.

Later, in the afternoon, while his daughter was playing tea time with the new toy she just

received and with him lounging on the sofa, his phone vibrated. He picked it up, his eyes only

glancing to the news being blared on TV: a famous inspirational speaker visiting the country that

morning had just been shot, and rumours of underhanded money laundering scandals hadsurfaced hours after the man¶s death. Reading his text message, only four words greeted him:

Good job. Cash in.




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He then stood up and with a playful growl, scooped up his daughter and tickled her. In

the master bedroom, the wife smiled as she heard laughter: one high-pitched, the other a rich

baritone. She then added pink blush to her cheeks with a soft brush.

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