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Creative Writing Asian English Language Teachers' Creative Writing Project |
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Our writing
Poems written by members
A January Day in Vienna (Vishnu S. Rai)
| A January Day in Vienna (Vishnu S. Rai) The sky overcast The chilling wind The eyes downcast With empty mind. The vacant plots The leafless trees The thick overcoats On bending knees. The life inside The lighted bars The death outside The ugly scars. A solitary bird Probably lost A lonely soul, unheard A wandering ghost. (27th January 2014 in Vienna) |  |
Acrostics for 'mother'
Moment
Of
Truth—
Her
Eyes
Read my heart.
(Tzu-Ning Huang (Sabrina)) (updated on 7.10.13)
No gunfire (by Phuong Le) (updated on 5 May 2013)
Ways of Looking at a Swan & a Heron (by Alan Maley) (updated on 20 May 2013)
Poems by Jayashree (Updated on 1 July 2013)
A short story
Face Value
(by Fan Dai)
Yingping has had two lives. The dividing line came with the explosion in the firecracker factory when she was 17. She undid her first life and started the second one from 'rot bottom', re-emerging from seven operations. Wearing a face patched up by skin from her thighs, a face that resembled a map of random territories.
The face was rugged. Yingping tried smiling. The patches twisted each other and negotiated a smile that was hardly detectable. She got married: she an educated woman who lived in a prosperous city, he an illiterate retired soldier, desperate to escape a life back in his village with no electricity.
It was a good match. She was his dignity, decoding the mystery of words and people for him. He was her self-esteem, shielding her from inquisitive stares, armed with shopping lists that had drawings representing daily items. They were inseparable, except that they never went out together.
Yingping has now arrived at a ripe old age. Her face has smoothened out as the result of the negotiation between the patches of skin. Somehow, the skin has lost the ability to wrinkle, giving her a permanently youngish face. She has learned to smile better smiles. Her husband has started walking with her in the street for some time now. Lately, he has learned to walk with her in the street, holding her hand.
The couple has fallen in love.
More poems by Phuong Le (updated on 27 March 2013)
On the train that I took
Phuong Le (March 2013)
On the train I took,
I talked to a tired man,
returning from a village
looking for his brother,
mementoes contained in his case:
a handful of rough soil,
a rusty card so cherished.
Sorrows were born to last.
On the train I took,
I met a very young soldier,
going home after years
protecting a small islet,
his backpack full of gifts:
a pretty sweater for mom,
a pair of glasses for Dad,
and stories that never end.
On the train I took,
I watched a kind couple
hugging a baby they’d adopted,
smiling at the girl with hope.
the toys bulging in their sack:
colourful balls and dolls,
cute hats and pretty clothes,
their love clearly shows.
On the train I took,
I saw some eager youths,
heading to a mountain school,
helping to rebuild a bridge,
their shoulders laden with tools:
hammers tied up with planes,
large bags of bolts and nails -
their plans are still ahead.
The train that I took
made me ponder
about war and peace,
about sorrows and joys,
and despair and hope.
So I truly wondered
on the train that I took.
Looking back
Phuong Le (March 2013)
Looking forward, we cherish hopes.
Looking forward, we have ambitions.
Looking forward, we make progress.
Looking back, we value sacrifice.
Looking back, we feel grateful.
Looking back, we learn to love,
Looking around, we see inequality.
Looking around, we feel humble.
Looking around, we learn to share.
I have chosen
To look back and around
Before looking forward.
Solitude
Phuong Le (March 2013)
A young woman
Walking slowly,
In heavy rain:
Tears in her heart.
An elderly man
Holding his son's hand,
On a station platform:
Scars in his soul.
A spoiled teenager
Hugging an elderly banker,
Near a trendy Mercedes:
Smiles a false smile.
Solitude seems equally bitter.
Wherever it is found.
Poems by Phuong Le (updated on 25 Feb 2013)
Bowls of Noodles
(Dec. 2012)
inspired by Phan Ngọc Thanh, a school headmaster in Cai Be (Tien giang) who started a program which gives free instant noodles during lunch time to school children who live far from school.
Bowls of noodles, |
(Dec. 2012)
Inspired by Mr. Phạm văn Nhẫn (Hà Nam), a veteran who brings homeless insane veterans home to take care of.
| Numerous songs Forceful speeches Glorious shrines Extol fallen soldiers And invalids of war. He cannot sing Nor can he praise But he silently seeks Soldiers of yesterday Wandering on a hillside, In a deserted cemetery, In a dirty landfill. Soldiers of yesterday, Shouting angrily, Cheering fervently, Or talking nonsense - but not to anybody in this world. | Sad or happy, |
Snow in Mau Son mountains (Dec 2012) Snow, snow, snow | Groups of children, |
Unblocking Writer’s Block: Try Translation
Alan Maley
Almost all writers come up against writer's block from time to time. There is no fail-safe remedy for this condition - when you feel you have nothing to say, no ideas, no energy to write, when you feel you have lost direction, and wonder whether you will ever be able to write another creative word ever again.
Different people deal with it differently. Some go for a long walk, others watch silly programmes on the TV to take their minds off the problem, some others pour themselves a stiff drink, others retire to bed with a compelling detective story, still others force themselves to write, just write, anything that comes into their heads - good or bad.
There is another possibility however, which you may not yet have tried. This is to translate something into the language you want to write in. Translation is sometimes regarded as a rather inferior kind of writing. But I believe it is nothing of the kind. In fact, what a translator does is to re-create as faithfully as possible what is written in one language in another. This requires enormous skill and linguistic expertise. From our standpoint, what translation can do is to get the wheels of language turning again, without the necessity of inventing a story.
So, if you are ever stuck in your own writing, why not try translating a short story? You will probably find that it helps you to get moving again, and you come back to your own writing with renewed creative energy.
Here are a few stories recently translated by Phuong Le and by me. Why not have a go yourself?
Adopted Children by Bùi Phương Mai
The teacher of Grade 1 was showing his class a photo of a family. The pupils were surprised that the hair of one boy was of a very different colour from the rest of the family. One of them said, in a knowing way, "That boy in the photo is an adopted child". Then another little girl added, " I know all about adopted children".
With inquiring eyes, a little boy asked, "What does ‘adopted' mean?"
It was night time and the sky was misty. A mother and her child were looking at the full moon hanging in the top of the sleeping coconut trees among the roofs of a small hamlet. The mother was dreaming of a home and the child was wishing for the moon.
Ten years passed. The child of those days has now reached the top of his career and is thinking about his luxurious home in town.
The lonely mother is looking at the moon through a hole in the roof of her house in the same small hamlet.
Storms by Nga Miên
They lived in a coastal area and his job was closely linked to ships, oceans and offshore trips so he had often been away from home. No sooner did he arrive home than he was off again on another trip. . Each time he left, she felt worried. Whenever the radio and TV broadcasts announced bad storms, she could not get a wink of sleep, fearing that the storms might whirl him away from her.Life has become better now and he no longer goes to sea. He is involved in a real estate business. He leaves home early and comes back really late. Occasionally, he stays away overnight, saying it is for business. But rumour has it that...
It is not stormy but he is still being whirled away from his family. The winds, the waves and the storms are now in her heart.
Answer-phone. Bernard Friot (from French)
It's late. Freddie switches on his bedside lamp, puts on his glasses and looks at the alarm-clock. Nine fifty-three. He turns off the lamp. He isn't afraid of the dark. Well, not very...
He waits for ages, his eyes wide open. He knows he won't be able to sleep.. Then he switches the lamp back on. One minute past ten Only.
So he gets up, slips on an anorak, puts on his boots, and knots a scarf around his neck.. He opens the door of the flat, holds the key tightly in his hand, turns on the hall light, calls the lift, waits...
The lift doors open. Freddie pushes the button for G. The ground floor.- going down. There are twelve floors.
He crosses the entrance hall and goes out into the street. It's cold out there. Two hundred metres farther up the street there is a telephone box. He fumbles in the pocket of his anorak to find a telephone card. He goes into the telephone box and dials the number.
A voice replies:
‘Hello. This is Mrs Barrat's telephone. I am not at home right now. If you'd like to leave me a message, leave it after the beep. Thank you and goodbye for now.'
Freddie waits for the beep, then speaks:
‘Good evening Mum. I can't get to sleep. When you get back, please come in
and say goodnight.'
That's all. He hangs up, goes back home, switches off the bedside lamp and falls asleep - instantly.
Mummy, I really think it would be good if you could love me a bit less. I don't know if you realise but your love is like a big sickening cake. A little is fine. But too much makes you want to throw up.
In the morning, when I'm trying to eat my toast, you hold me tight in your arms and you call me ‘my little duck' or ‘my darling sweetie-pie' or ‘my little flea - you're all mine.' It's dangerous, Mummy. One day, I'll choke to death on my toast.
And at lunchtime when I come out of school, you throw yourself on me and kiss me - on the mouth - in front of all my mates. You don't seem to understand, Mummy. One day I'll die of shame. And it will be your fault. I have warned you.
Oh, come on Mummy, stop crying. Listen, I have an idea. All this surplus love, we could share it out a bit. Francis, the kid next to me, I'm sure he could use some of it. His Dad beats him when he's drunk, and his mother is never there. And Sophie is the same. Her Dad ran off to Australia and her mother got married to an Englishman instead. So I reckon an hour of love for them every now and again would be welcome.
And then, Mummy, if you have so much love stored up inside you, why not keep some of it for Daddy? I wouldn't miss it. And I bet he wouldn't say no either. Maybe he might even come back to live with us again, if you loved him a bit - a little bit. Don't you agree?
Anthony runs into the classroom. He is late as usual.
‘Sir, sir!' he calls out, in an out-of-breath voice, ‘Last night I saw a were-wolf.'
‘On television?' asks Celia.
‘No. For real.'
‘Oh, don't talk shit,' says Frank.
‘He's just trying to get attention,' says Valerie.
‘Weee! Weee! Weeerewolf! ‘ shouts Don, just for a joke.
As for the teacher, he pulls his cap down over his ears.
‘But, yes, I swear I saw him. He was dressed like a man but I saw his hairy paws with claws this long...'
‘And was he wearing nail polish?' asks Alice, bursting with laughter.
The class explodes noisily.
As for the teacher, he pulls up the collar of his coat - he is wearing black gloves.
Anthony starts to get angry.
‘But I tell you I really did see him! He even had pointed ears and two long teeth, here - just like a wolf. I was scared stiff when he started to run after me. I wonder how I managed to get away from him.'
But no one is listening to him any more. He waits for a moment, then sits down at his desk, looking disappointed.
‘Quiet!' shouts the teacher, in a hoarse, growling voice. He looks hard at Anthony from behind his thick dark glasses, and mutters between his teeth:
‘As for you. I won't let you get away next time!'
Samples of writing by group members
The following are samples of creative writing and poems produced by group members during the creative writing workshop and the writing trip in Ho Chi Ming City (Saigon), Vietnam, 28-30 May 2012
Literary Device (Mallika) |
| My Bucket List (Hoai An) Before I say "Farewell" to life I want to swim in a competition Before I can no longer taste I want to eat all types of chocolate Before darkness comes I want to see the Mermaid statue in Denmark Before my eyes close I want to read a good book under a big tree Before my mouth shuts I want to hug all I love And tell them how wonderful they are Then I will leave, without regret. |
Task: Think of people you know and write a poem about the animal you think they will come back as if they ever were reborn as animals. My brother, |
The Beach at Can Gio. (Alan)
Tired beach umbrellas,
Bleached by the sun, leached by rain -
A grey wilderness.
Up and down they go:
Black motorbikes on grey sand _
Where are they going?
Nothing happens here.
The tide comes in, then goes out.
The horizon yawns.
I am not good! (Vishnu) | Better to be (Tan Bee Tin) Better to be inspired Than expired. Better to be tired Than retired. Better to be absent Than present, When your mind is somewhere else. |
Pictures of Vietnamese Mothers (Phuong Le)
I have drawn
thousands of pictures
of heroic mothers.
But I cannot paint
The pain in their smiles,
The stories in their eyes,
The strength in their hearts.
My brush can never describe
The simplicity
Of their lives.
The genuine greatness
Of their souls.
On a quiet roadside.
You may find one
Earning a living
By selling cups of tea.
In a garden corner
One late afternoon,
You may find one
Digging sweet potatoes
For the morning market.
In the boiling heat
Of a summer day,
You can meet one
Selling paper fans
To passers-by.
Years of war
And decades of peace.
Still,
Silent like rocks,
Locked deep inside,
Stories of their lives,
These mothers
Are patiently
Still waiting for their boys.
Phuong Le (May 2012) inspired by Vietnamese painter Dang Ai Viet (771)
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Poems written by group members |
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Form poem -Villanelle.
To a Commuter. © Alan Maley (2010).I really hate your mobile phone The way it gets inside my head. It makes me want to be alone. Its ringing turns my heart to stone. It makes me wish that you were dead. I really hate your mobile phone. Each time I hear its foolish drone It drives me mad, makes me see red - And makes me want to be alone. I feel I'm in the killing zone, And wish I was elsewhere instead. I really hate your mobile phone. I shudder when I hear its tone. You talk but nothing sensible is said. It makes me want to be alone. You're acting like a mindless clone. You're not a leader, you're the led. I really hate your mobile phone, It makes me want to be alone. |
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