Sunday, September 20, 2015

Meeting Bhutan Writers

On our 10 day Journey to Bhutan we we had the great privilege of meeting Bhutanese writers and teachers and hearing their work. Some of the writers we met: Pema Gyaltsen, Chador Wangmo, Karma Norbu, Namgay Wangmo, Karma Wangchuck, Ugyen Tshomo.
 


Here are some pics from those happy meetings.
















Friday, September 18, 2015

Taktsang moments


A pair of butterfly wings
pressed into the mud

yellow on black
a common speckling 

 a hundred and eight passing feet
 will flatten them further 

'sinners' on the way up
'enlightened' on the way down

  all bodes well for an auspicious rebirth
  perhaps next life, a Bhutan Glory


 (Bhutan Glory, Bhutanitis ludlowi is the national butterfly of Bhutan)



***



Step by step

hand in hand

the lovers climb

 140 years between them

their romance just three years new



Beside the path

a young fern uncoils

tender-green fronds 




***


At the dinner table

the bassoon player from Hong Kong town

plays a soulful tune

we recognize uncertain notes



In his poems, questions of dharma

and great devotion to the master


Before our Takstang hike, he says

"there’s nectar at the top

bring a plastic bottle"



***


Up here the air is thin
breathing  laboured
the going is slow

But don’t despair,
there is a Gentleman Walter
 to hold your hand over the rocks
and through the mud

It may take a while
but Guru Rinpoche can wait all day
and blessings for Gentleman Walters
are infinite.


***


Horses descend the muddy track

embroidered saddle cloths flapping
 
 free

 (from western bottoms)



***


At dinner in our hotel
the American travel journalist couldn’t believe his luck:
fourteen writers to tell his story to
(again and again and again)


***


Entering the Taktsang Gate
the chock, chock, chok
of an axe on wood

Excited voices from the teahouse
I think of Japan
a place I have never been



***

In the teahouse restroom queue
a Polish girl:
flouro-pink singlet
flouro-pink nails
The Japanese girl in front
fills a flouro-pink bucket
ready to flush



***



A worker carrying steel rods
flies up the steep muddy track
bottle green board shorts and a jaunty hat
music playing on his phone

I feel like dancing dangdut

(Dangdut, the popular music of Indonesia has Hindustani, Malay and Arabic influences)



***


Halfway up
my arms begin to tingle
the prick of a thousand tiny diamonds on my skin
Altitude sickness?
No, a tinkling light rain
or perhaps a splash from the water fall
near Yeshe Tsogyal’s meditation cave.




***





No gadgets allowed in Tigers Nest
no phones, cameras, I Pads, I Pods,
even our notebooks and pens, we must leave in the locker

The policeman checks us before we enter
Earlier, between frisks
I heard him sing under his breath
a low sonorous mantra 


***


In the small gonpa of Guru Rinpoche’s cave
thirteen monks and their lama
chant a long life puja for the Royal Grandmother
They will go all day, one of the monks tells me in between breaths

Where are you from? How long will you stay?  he wants to know
Are you Kagyu? I ask
No, Nyingma, he replies
Me too, I tell him with a grin

Out come the long horns and cymbals to join the low beating of the drums
A wild primordial punctuation before they speed their up chant double time.

Butter lamps flicker wildly
the water offerings shimmer

In front of the altar
a flock of flies air-circling
 in a merry dance




(C) Jan Cornall,  September, Bhutan 2015


Read more writing from westerners in Bhutan here



Jan Cornall leads international writer's workshops and retreats. Find out more at www.writersjourney.com.auhttp://www.writersjourney.com.au/

 Heading out next
 Morocan Caravan, Feb 20 - Mar 5.



Tuesday, September 15, 2015

Writing from Bhutan

In Aug/Sept 2015,  I led a group of writers on a ten day Creative in Bhutan adventure.


They were a talented bunch including a number of pubished writers artists and professionals, and during our workshops they penned some wonderful pieces, either about Bhutan or for their current creative project.



We also met with Bhutanese writers in Thimphu, Punakha and Paro. This was a great privilege for us and deepened our experience of Bhutan immeasurably. Some of the writers we met: Pema Gyaltsen, Chador Wangmo, Karma Norbu, Namgay Wangmo, Karma Wangchuck, Ugyen Tshomo. See pics here.

Pema Gyaltsen and Chador Wangmo are children's authors. Chador has also written a moving novel: La Ama, A Mother's Call. Norbu Karma's powerful novel is called Opening in the Wall. Ugyen Thsomo's poems are published in an anthology called Life's Tapestry.



 
Below are some writings from our group.

From Caroline Josephs


Bhutan Smiles



Smiling faces –in the kinder-garten of a Thimpu School.

a memory cherished, of a boy - five years old
reminding me, of my own grandson.
Stocky, confident.
Bending down I ask him, “Can you say, ‘hello’ in English?”

Instantly, he slaps his forehead with his hand!
It makes me laugh - to see this gesture of perplexity.




In another classroom introduced by a teacher.

“Hello grandpa!” a young boy calls, to Donald.
We laugh, and marvel at his courage.   
This, a family familiar greeting.



The teenagers, shy students.
Jan asks, ‘Who likes to write?’
Just one boy raises his hand.
His face a map, unperturbed beauty, calm.
I search the untroubled countenance for a clue -
his story, yet to be written.
‘You will be a writer,’ says Jan.




At the teachings, Namkhai Norbu Rinpoche, renowned.

I turn,  catch the eye of a young beauty sitting behind.
She smiles. I wink.   
And something warms….between us
a curiosity, a wish to know each other’s lives, 
with her hand needleworked, 
on the sash- yellow, red
around her shoulders.




In the Paro market, 
I ask a young man, ‘Do you speak English?’

Shyly, he answers, 
and before long
I know his favourite subject -- ‘World History’.   
“Wonderful,” I say. 
“You know Bhutan is unique in all the world - Gross National Happiness.”
He is fifteen, at school.
His sister comes to join in.
Her English bubbles forth, together, they laugh as I  take their picture.
Somehow, it feels an unequal exchange,

I am regretful I can’t send it to them.
Their smiling faces, their laughter --

as we buy bananas from them.

(c) Caroline Josephs 2015.   

Caroline Josephs is an artist, writer, storyteller and more.  See Carolines Blog here.






From Peter Bishop

The Road Up

The road up is worse
Than I remember it
On the way down.
Plumblines of string
Stretch over hundred foot drops,
Marking where a concrete retaining wall
Will be one day.
But for now there is just
The precipice.
And rolling along that crumbling edge
Is our bus.
And I am on the outside seat,
Drawn through the open window by the suck
Of that vertiginous cliff.
We stop on a high bend,
Jungle dripping at the edge,
For a segregated comfort stop.
Beware of leeches, says Tensin,
They will measure you.
And I have visions of inchworms
Measuring forbidden marigolds.
The pass is buried in cloud again,
The stupas blind as before.
But we are already gathering speed
Down the treacherous slope
That will snap the rope
Which binds us to each other,
And Bhutan.
I think the jolt of that parting will tear
more than my flesh.





A single dove


A single dove

In the pines beyond my balcony

Is offering love

In the only way she knows.

I don’t know how to respond,

But then I never did.

And she can’t wait

Long enough for me

                  To work it out.

When I look up

She is gone.

You’d think I’d learn.

And I am left with rice fields

Choosing gold over green.

                  Even the rice

Has no time to wait.

While the scarecrows and I

                  Do nothing.





(c) Peter Bishop 2015

Peter Bishop (seventy-nine years old) is a wagyu farmer and an award winning shortstory writer. Recently he has turned his pen to poetry. See his website here.



From Ellen Maling




Ellen Maling lives and works in Cambodia. She writes regularly on her blog Ball 'n' Chain.
Read her post about Bhutan here.


From Jan Cornall

Taktsang Moments

At the dinner table
the bassoon player from Hong Kong town
plays a soulful tune
we recognize uncertain notes
In his poems, questions of dharma
and great devotion to the master
Before our Takstang hike, he says
there’s nectar at the top,
bring a plastic bottle

***
 

Halfway up
my arms begin to tingle
the prick of a thousand tiny diamonds on my skin
Altitude sickness?
No, a tinkling light rain
or perhaps a splash from the water fall
near Yeshe Tsogyal’s meditation cave.

***
Entering the Taktsang Gate
the chock, chock, chok
of an axe on wood
Excited voices from the teahouse
I think of Japan
a place I have never been


*** 
In the teahouse restroom queue
a Polish girl:
flouro-pink singlet
flouro-pink nails
The Japanese girl in front
fills a flouro-pink bucket
ready to flush
 ***
No gadgets allowed in Tigers Nest
no phones, cameras, I Pads, I Pods,
even our notebooks and pens, we must leave in the locker
The policeman checks us before we enter
Earlier, between frisks
I heard him sing under his breath
a low sonorous mantra 


Read more Taktsang moments from Jan here 


Donald (right) and the gang trying out roadside cheese.


From Donald Yates


Thimpu – 29 August 2015

We glimpse the Himalayas
as we drop in to Bhutan
at an elevation of Kosciusko

Swaying dizzy on chains
over energy of mountain stream
all the way from the Himalayas
Whiteness frothy fearfulness
Dare I go across for the thrill of it?
Could I put a canoe in it and survive?
Remember the Sydney Harbour Bridge climb
Don’t focus on the water

Mica in schist
glittering microcosm
of the twenty one grand mountains
three times higher than Kosciusko
and almost as high as Everest
I’m gasping
The steepness sapping my energy
even in the saunter around the strangeness
of thick snouted animals with fur
seemingly set with tight curlers
Strangeness then familiarity
as a domestic goat nuzzles my leg.

The warmth of the rain; the feeling of Asia
Amazement that buildings would perch on such steep slopes
Anachronism amongst the squalor of the streets
where dogs exhausted from night time barking
sleep under the verandah out of the rain
opposite the GPO
Where the garuda gargoyle projects from the chorten roof
where traditional buildings house phone and computer shops

Pleasure of getting lost
asking our way back to Phuntsho Pelri Hotel
Boys willing to help
Woman with no English (Carolina and I with three Dongcha words)
guiding us back
Warmth of her hand clasp
joy in her eyes
as we arrive safely.




Punakha – 2 September 2015

Window glimpse
man in shorts
tee shirt – no gho
squishes by in flip-flops
carrying water filled
red plastic bucket
Mist hovering warm
over river hurrying brownly
and orderly
three metres below.
Such a flow
in the Hunter River
would break its banks
to fill the floodplain
and drown Singleton.

Retired engineer, Donald Yates has performed his poems in slams in Chicago and NewYork. He is currently working on his mother's biography.

 From Jennifer Mackenzie





     I CANNOT SING BUT 


                      1.

I cannot sing but 
that day at Rishikesh 
spent among the sadhus
lined up on the roadway 
standing on one leg 
or wound by snakes 
or matted, chalked, in
meditation 

later as evening fell 
on the banks of the river 
the Ganga flowing wide & high
a wedding party on a
gaudy boat 
sailed past in fairy-light 
splendour 

that day, sitting there 
notes came to my throat 
clear as a bell
singing into the rushing 
water, into the 
kettle of chai
resting on the table 

                 11.

in the same year 
walking through forest
in autumn 

the Kroller-Muller museum 
at its heart 

the deliriously red leaves 
were singing 

and I?



Jennifer Mackenzie is a renowned Australian poet. Her long poem, Borobodur, is first published by Lontar. Read about it here




More writing to come!


More pics here

 
We will visit Bhutan again in August 2016 to attend the Mountain Echoes Literary Festival and explore the valleys we didn't get to this time. All details here.

Jan Cornall leads international writer's workshops and retreats. Find out more at www.writersjourney.com.auhttp://www.writersjourney.com.au/

 Heading out next
 Morocan Caravan, Feb 20 - Mar 5.




Wednesday, June 24, 2015

Room


You arrive in a room in a foreign country, the one that is next on your list.
You saw an ad, made an application, got some funding and hey presto,
here you are, a writer on a writer's residency in Istanbul.


You sit in your room in a foreign country, you get out all your notebooks, your electronic writing pad and make a start. You have an idea already, you made some notes on the plane. You sit in your room in a foreign country and all is going well.


You sit in a room in the foreign country of Turkey (it's obviously not foreign to them), the sunlight shines in through the quaint wedding tulle curtains and you listen to the sounds of the neighbourhood: cars revving, men yelling, children shouting, music blaring...

but you don't mind, you are a writer on a residency in a room in a foreign country and you soak it all in.


 
You've done this before, you make a habit of landing in rooms in foreign countries like Morocco, Indonesia, Vietnam, Burma, India, in foreign towns like Sefrou, Essouira, Ubud, Jakarta, Jogja, Hoi An, Rangoon, Pondicherry (you are sure to have forgotten a few). 

You relish the fantasy of time to write; just you and the desk, no distractions, except for afternoon sortees into the local culture to bring home some crackers and laughing cow cheese.


 
You sit in a room in a foreign country and you realise you are addicted to this room landing, this culture hopping, and that it's probably because of all the years you didn't travel when the kids were little and the complications of life that followed, but now you are making up for it, and you want to arrive in all the rooms in all the foreign countries of the world, before the seas start to rise, before the  jet fuel runs out, before the calamities of the world make it safer to stay at home, or until you feel too old to do it anymore.



You sit in a room in a foreign country and you are in a rush, because not only do you want to see the sights of this new town, you also want to write.  So you make a plan: 

6am yoga, 6.30 am meditate, 7 - 9 am write, 9am light breakfast, 9.15 am write until 1pm.  (No internet or SMS except in emergency) 1 - 1.30 pm lunch, 1.30 - 4.30 pm sightseeing, 5 pm back to the desk, edits, rewrites, 7 pm light snack, 7.30 to 10 pm related reading, 10.30 sleep.

You announce your intentions on Facebook, get a few likes, a few admiring comments; it's good for the ego, good for the spirit, good to have a cheering squad, every writer needs one.


 You sit in a room in a foreign country called Turkey, in a city called Istanbul and your chair is wobbly and too low for your desk, your back is beginning to ache but it doesn't bother you because you are on a roll. You go at it like a madwoman, typing everything you wrote on the plane and adding more, wortking late into the night. It's a new novel or maybe a collection of linked stories, your Turkish story will be Chapter One.


You sit in a room on a writer’s residency in a town called Istanbul and you are very pleased with your progress, all is going well,
 
 until... 


You wake up in your room in a foreign country and decide everything you have written is crap. 


Overnight all your doubts and demons have come out to play.Your fancy plan with your fancy writers goals and fancy writers routine all goes to shit.


The room you loved with its views onto the nineteenth century cobbled street, with its charming nineteenth century apartment buildings with their fleur-de-lis motifs on the lintels, suddenly feels like a prison. The noise on the street is not charming either. A man outside a cafe is yelling into his phone, a group of men are in the middle of the street having an argument, a truck is stuck in a small lane trying to back out, men are shouting directions and banging on its metal sides, a loud doof-doof beat starts up in a cafe down the way.  



You leave your room in the district of Beyoğlu in the city of Istanbul in the country of Turkey and you walk the streets trying to keep your cool, trying not be upset, trying to pretend you are not an outsider,  not a blow in, not one of those writers' in residence who arrive in foreign countries all over the world to sit in a room and write their great works.



But you can't pretend as you walk the streets of this too-cool-to-be-true district of Beyoğlu with its vintage stores and antique shops and groovy hole-in-the wall cafés and restos where boho chic creatives are having important meetings about important projects.  You want to let them know you are a creative too, that you would be very interested to hear all their ideas and do you mind if I sit nearby? But you don't have the hutzpah and you walk on by and with the of scent of loneliness on your tail. You grab a few groceries, a few litres of bottled water (a weeks supply at least) and crawl back to your room. 


You sit in your room in a foreign country and feel so relieved that you are not out on the street feeling like a self conscious teenager, a stranger in a strange land, a foreigner abroad...

and your room becomes your haven, your little retreat, and when you go to the bathroom, you remember how you have always wanted to live in a house with such exquisite tessellations of tiles, like those you have seen in Laos and Morocco. You love the wedding tulle curtains on the windows and the noise out on the street, somehow now it feels like home.

You sit down at your desk in your room in a foreign country and pick up your pen and think, maybe you can throw out everything you wrote so far and make a fresh start, maybe you can just open up a fresh page and really settle down to write. 


You sit in your writer’s room in a faraway country and so far so good. The new direction is much better than the old one, more immediate, more compelling and more importantly, more you. The sun floods in through the wedding tulle curtains and you feel at peace.


You sit in your room on a writer’s residency in a foreign country called Turkey, in a city called Istanbul in the super cool district of Beyoğlu and REPEAT THIS ROUTINE several times until one morning it occurs to you: how can you write about a city that carries on its dance of life without you? 


So you decide to down pens and head out on the streets of Istanbul to breath in its moody grey skies, its cobbled lanes, with its scrawny stray cats and large stray dogs, its tiny cafés, Burek and kebab, roast chestnuts and corn... 


You climb the steep windy streets leading to the Istiklal crowds, with its ding donging trams, window dripping baklava, bell-ringing-spoon-clattering ice cream sellers, broken accordion gypsy kids, red haired folk singers, fake South American buskers, pepper spray police...


You wind your way downhill to Galata tower, past music shops filled with ouds and tambourines, hand drums and flutes and musos jamming on Anatolian riffs, past orange juice vendors and trinket stalls and you arrive at the Bosphorous blue water, with its dolphins leaping, its fishermen casting, its ferries ferrying...



You cross to the other shore, to glimpse the mighty mosque domes, the skinny minarets, the come-on-my-boat-trip touts, the umbrella hat men, the whining beggars, the grumpy ticket collectors, the smelly-shoe-bag-carrying Blue Mosque hordes, the loud pushy Topkapi Palace lines, the Hagia Sophia chandeliers and giant calligraphy, its zebra marble walls and floors, the damp underground arches of the Basilica Cistern, its giant carp circling an upside down Medusa's head. 


It's a total visual feast and you are so glad you have come, but soon you begin to feel tired, overwhelmed by the centuries of history; the Romans, the Byzantines, the Ottomans; you wonder how to take it all in, what to do with this ancient knowledge. 


You see a sign, Sixteenth Century Hammam,  one a friend had recommended, you can't believe you have just stumbled across it, and you go straight in. 


You lie half naked on a slab of heated stone, and gaze at the tall dome above. Should be a cathedral, could be a church, but no, it's a bathhouse. Light streams in from tiny moon and star windows high in the dome, the room so large you wonder how can it possibly get hot in here, until you learn that the warmth comes from fires burning beneath the circular marble; no wonder you feel so relaxed. A woman comes to lather you up, to scrub you down, to order you about, she throws buckets of water over your tired body, your overthinking mind. When she is finished she says you can stay lying on that warm stone for as long as you like.

You might just take her at her word, maybe you won't go back to your room, maybe you will set up here near the spring that rushes out of the wall. This will be your spot. You won't need paper or pen, or a computer screen, you won't write anything down, you'll just listen— to the gurgling of the past, the echoes of ancient walls, the stories of naked women and their strong handed scrubbers, their voices low and watery. 
















Jan Cornall was writer in residence for three weeks in June 2015 at Maumauworks in Istanbul.
Her residency was funded by CAL, The Copyright Agency.
Many thanks to Naz and Sine from Maumau, and to CAL for a great residency!

Jan leads international writer's workshops and retreats. Find out more at www.writersjourney.com.auhttp://www.writersjourney.com.au/