Aisha Abbasi, training and supervising analyst at the Michigan Psychoanalytic Institute, wrote her poems originally in Urdu, which is her native language. Abbasi trained as a physician at Fatima Jinnah Medical College in Lahore, Pakistan. She did her psychiatric residency at Henry Ford Hospital, Detroit, Michigan. Her Urdu poetry has been published in Takhleeq (Creation), a literary magazine in Lahore. She regularly presents her work at Mushairas (Urdu poetry readings) that are held in Michigan yearly and are attended by Urdu poets from India, Pakistan, and Canada.
Abbasi collaborated on the translation of her poetry with Carlo Coppola. Coppola's Ph.D. degree is from the University of Chicago, where he studied Urdu, Hindi, Sanskrit, Persian, and Pali. He co-founded the Journal of South Asian Literature and then for 39 years functioned as the co-editor. Active in organizing and participating in programs on applied psychoanalysis, he was named Distinguished Friend of Psychoanalysis by the Michigan Psychoanalytic Institute in 2002. He currently teaches at Oakland University, where he is professor of modern languages and literatures and of linguistics.
Coppola believes that every translator knows or should know:
Translation is utterly impossible, but… one does it anyway. One does not merely translate words, phrases, sentences, etc.; one translates cultures, world views, belief systems… Translation is a thankless task; not everyone will be pleased with the results, especially the author, if s/he is totally honest with the translator. Generally, the most effective and affective translations have been collaborative, the author working with a translator (preferably a person of letters him/herself) whom the author respects. The Italian expression, Tradutorre tradditore! (Translators [are] traitors!), is true. Every act of translation is essentially an act of betrayal of one language to another; the justification is, if one is lucky, a glimpse of the original in the target language.
In a mustard-flowered field a girlDraped in a rainbow-colored sari,Her hair webbed with flowers.Wind wraps around her feetAs her steps seem to take flight.Bending aside with her handYellow-jeweled flowers,She presses on,As if descending into the sun's golden heart.And behind her,Carrying myriad thoughts of love,Who is thisPicking up flowers as they fallFrom her tangled hairKissing them,Trying to find,In the wind-fluttered edge of her sari,His destiny?But then a desire swellsIn the girl's heart:Someday, the one long trailing herSilentlyWould stop,And bar her way, too.Then all the flowers in her hairWould be given to the wind,The sari rainbow colorsWould mantle the golden field,And within the mustard-flower yellowFire flames of rose-redWould bloomAnd the pursuit would end at last.
If you had to die,You could have waited a few days—So much leftFor us to do:You had to place your handon my daughter's headTo see how tall she's grown,CelebrateMy twentieth wedding anniversary,Kiss my forehead,Clasp me to your chestSo light could suffuseMy life.When you would have talkedTo my beloved,You'd have strengthenedThe spheres of my love—I'd have been enrichedBy your nearness.My first poem is published:You cannot read it.Whom can I point toAnd say to all:This is my father,Mountain tall,
Aisha Abbasi
Translated from the Urdu by the author and Carlo Coppola
Sheri A. Hunt, M.D., is a candidate at the Seattle Psychoanalytic Society and Institute in both the adult and child training programs. A published poet and member of TAP's editorial board, she welcomes readers' comments and suggestions at .