GUD Magazine Issue 0 :: Spring 2007

by Kaolin Fire, Janrae Frank, David Bulley

  The hotel in Kaohsiung, Taiwan's second largest city, was luxurious, my single room larger than my living room at home. It overlooked the Love River from the fourteenth floor—very welcoming, despite the somewhat grayish day. After checking in at the lobby's Festival desk and being greeted by a group of young Taiwanese students eager to show off their English, I was drawn back to my room by the weariness in every one of my body's muscles. Shortly after, though, I answered the ringing at my door to find the young woman, Cynthia Tsai, who had been my e-mail contact for months. With her was another young woman who was introduced as Queena Wa, my personal interpreter for the duration of the festival. She was to be my escort/guide for shopping, sightseeing, and to keep me advised of any changes to the complicated schedule that I was asked to follow. Each of the visiting representatives was assigned such an aide.

  Queena's English, if slightly accented, was excellent. I learned later that she was seventeen years old and had been studying English since she was six. She spoke Spanish, too, which I decided not to test. I'd have felt terribly inept to learn that a seventeen-year-old student living in a Chinese-speaking society spoke better Spanish than I, who'd lived in Mexico for longer than she'd been alive!

  The first evening in Kaohsiung set the stage for the Poetry Festival: a banquet of sumptuous food, scintillating company, ceremony, and ambience. The Taiwanese poets were introduced to the assemblage from the podium of an enormous hall, each in turn greeting us visitors in three languages. We visitors were then invited to the front of the gathering and presented to all by name and country of residence. It turned out that there were many more than the originally-invited forty participants. The group consisted almost equally of men and women, most middle-aged, but ranging up into the eighties and down into the twenties.

  It may have been my imagination, but when I was announced as the visitor from Mexico, I seemed to receive a more-than-usual amount of applause. Possibly it was because it was rare that a representative to an English-language poetry gathering arrived from south of the U.S. border. It was evident that many people gravitated toward me out of interest in Mexico and in my contributions to worldwide poetry publications. The main focus of the welcoming banquet seemed to be the exchange of published work offered as gifts between the poets—a seemingly endless supply of paperback collections brought from their home countries.

  A delayed flight necessitated the replacement of the opening speaker by another visitor, the senior member of the gathering, a gentle-mannered, soft-spoken gentleman, Srinivasa Rangaswami. He is a highly regarded poet internationally, and is a Parliamentary Official in India. Many of the attendees had impressive scholastic and governmental titles, making me wonder once again about how I'd come to be a part of this august group.

  I write for my own enjoyment, self-expression, and as a creative outlet. Not for fame, although it was certainly nice to have my work published with that of others of such world-wide esteem. On arrival, we had each been given in our welcome package a two-hundredthirty-page Anthology of World Poetry Festival, Kaohsiung, Taiwan 2005. Each poet had a double-page spread devoted to him or her with photo, bio, and the poem we'd submitted for publication—in English, with a translation into Chinese.

  To an outsider, the celebratory atmosphere might well have been taken to be that of a cocktail party at an international publishing firm, except that nothing resembling cocktails was in evidence—only a few discreet bottles of wine. I realized many attendees were from areas of the world where drinking alcohol might not have been acceptable, like India, Pakistan, or Bangladesh. But no one seemed to notice the lack of “spirits” and, I noticed, few out of the large gathering smoked.

  Breakfasts were buffet affairs in the entrance-level dining room of the hotel; there were Western and Asian selections, of the very familiar and the very exotic varieties. I tried all the unfamiliar dishes, liking some and discarding them only when I was afraid to inquire as to the ingredients.

  Lunches and dinners were family-style. Round ten-person tables were arranged throughout the dining rooms of our hotel restaurants, with wide Lazy Susans in the center of each. The dishes were placed in the centers of the turntables and replaced when any were near becoming empty. The variety was astounding: fresh seafood from the waters off coastal Kaohsiung along with platters of meat, fowl, and a seemingly unlimited array of vegetables—something for everyone, fortunately. Since nearly every dish contained at least a soupçon of shrimp, lobster, or other variety of crustacean, I had to be careful. I'm allergic to shellfish!

  At one meal, my dinner partner—Dr. Wen-yu Chiang, a Taiwanese Professor of languages and literature at the National Taiwan University—noticed that I was eating only vegetables and rice. She asked if I was a vegetarian. When I told her that I wasn't, but simply had an allergy, she announced my problem to those at the table in Chinese—I happened to be the only visitor at that table—and to the waiter, who rushed off, weaving his way through the obstacle course of diners. The others at my table simply looked embarrassed. Moments later, the waiter returned with white rice and an entire steamed bass, which he placed directly in front of me. Lovely, but I didn't know what to do with it. I'd never been served an entrée that looked back at me. My tablemates insisted that I take the first choice pieces. Dr. Chiang seemed to sense my ineptness and graciously offered to serve. She also quietly told me that the others were afraid I'd consider the Taiwanese people inhospitable if they didn't see to it that I was well cared for while a guest in their country. Inhospitable? I'd never been treated by strangers with such caring!

  The following morning, the opening ceremony was held in a vast auditorium in the hotel, where we were afforded a particular honor. Shui-bian Chen, the President of Taiwan, made an appearance to welcome the visitors. A poet himself, he stated that he was eager to spread good will through poetry throughout the world—and this just a few days after Mainland China had virtually threatened war on his country. President Chen spoke in Taiwanese and Mandarin Chinese, according to one of the young interpreters (my ear couldn't discern the difference), who added in a whisper that his Mandarin wasn't really very good. The president was accompanied on the podium by a plethora of armed bodyguards, a precaution adopted since he had been shot in an assassination attempt in the nearby city of Tainan almost exactly a year before. Also joining him was Dr. Chi-mai Chen, the Mayor of Kaohsiung. If I'd thought that this Festival was going to be a pleasant little dish of small potatoes, I was firmly corrected.

  With the late morning free, I asked Queena if she'd accompany me on a walk through the city to any department store that would be convenient. My motives were three-fold: I wanted to see what I might find in the way of a few souvenirs, it would give me time to chat with Queena without the frequent interruptions of being in a crowd, and, simply, I enjoy seeing new places on foot. We strolled leisurely along the Love River park, past joggers and groups of people exercising in public, admiring the vivid displays of orchids that seemed to be everywhere a patch of soil or potted plant could be placed. Wide boulevards with trees and more orchids crossed and crisscrossed the city, trafficked by many thousands of motor scooters. Vertical hanging banners with Chinese characters denoting businesses hung from every building in the commercial area of the city, obscuring the buildings themselves. They overlapped each other to the degree that one became indistinguishable from the next, at least to my unpracticed eye.

  The department store was somewhat of a disappointment because it was indistinguishable from any multi-storied sales emporium in any city in the world, except for elaborate displays of even more exotic orchids in the shop windows and on the display counters. Another difference was that there were individual shops on the various levels, most with extremely upper-scale quality and prices—Cartier, Hermès, Gucci, and the like. Not exactly your typical touristy shops selling “Hi, I've been to Taiwan” T-shirts. ("Hi,” used for ‘hello’ or ‘getting high,’ and “Bye-bye” and “OK,” the meanings of which are obvious to us, have been adopted by th
e Taiwanese into their everyday speech. I queried Queena about their usage after having heard the words a number of times at the hotel, and was told that they'd come into use because they were shorter than the Chinese or Taiwanese words with the same meaning.)

  Queena, as I'd suspected, proved to be an ambitious, hardworking young woman. She told me that her aim was to become part of the Taiwanese diplomatic corps, which explained her interest in languages and in people in general. She had visited Europe and the U.S. and had plans to travel to Washington, D.C. and Denver if she was successful at an upcoming interview for part-time interpreters to be held in Taipei. She had volunteered to participate in our festival to practice her English. It wasn't until later that I realized Queena never questioned me about my personal life, only about my writing. Of course I am old enough to be her grandfather, but I wonder now if I was rude in asking questions about her life. She didn't seem at all hesitant or embarrassed, though, so I guess it was all right. I hope so.

  I saw no evidence of homelessness or poverty and, judging from the shops and technology available throughout the city, the standard of living appeared to be very high indeed. New buildings were under construction everywhere. Many of the banners and posters I could read promoted a variety of cultural events: concerts, art and architecture exhibits, film series, etc. Evidently, art and education are quite high among the government's priorities.

  We returned to the hotel to find that the representatives were to be split into groups and transported to venues throughout the city, each group to attend presentations of poetry in relation to other forms of expression: dance, music, theatre, and the like. I was taken with a few others to the national Kaohsiung Normal (teaching) University, where we were interviewed by students who asked for our views on “Classical Chinese Poetry Encounters Modern Western Poetry.” We agreed to permit the students to record the interview. Taiwan is one of the most technically advanced nations on Earth, which was evidenced by the miniscule digital recorders placed on the table before us, of a size and clarity of tone that I'd never seen or heard before. Every student seemed to have a complement of a sound recorder, a video cell phone, and a digital camera, all so small they could be carried in pockets without any discomfort or bulk.

  After the interview, each of us visitors read from our works. The poem of mine that I'd chosen to read was “Night Watch” describing the view and emotions evoked while watching from an office high rise as midnight approaches Manhattan and, from a distance, it is metamorphosed into a silent, glittering panorama. It suited the “Modern Western Poetry” aspect of the theme—a reminiscence of the years I'd worked in New York City, where I'd been born and raised. While I read the poem in English, the Chinese translation was flashed on a large screen behind me. The applause was most gratifying.

  The highlight of the following day was a visit to Chih Shan Hall of the Kaohsiung Cultural Center, where Nobel Prize winner Derek Walcott had a discussion through interpreters with the most famous contemporary Taiwanese poet, Shi-tao Yeh, on Reality and Imagination in Literature. Every seat in the hall was filled. Mr. Walcott is also a writer of fiction and a frequently-produced playwright. The discussion, though interrupted a few times by student outbursts attempting to disrupt the gathering with anti-China political slogans, was actually most enjoyable, with moments of uproarious laughter—particularly when Mr. Walcott's humor was translated into Chinese. Early on, he asked why there were so many young people in attendance at a poetry seminar, adding, “Why aren't you home watching television?"

  That evening, we congregated in a theatre, Wu-Teh Hall, where poetry was read to the accompaniment of two dance groups, a balletic martial arts demonstration, and a choral group, with a poetry reading/ dance presentation by one of the visitor-poets, a young Nigerian man, Wale Ajakaye. He attended every event in full Nigerian dress, which attracted a great deal of attention—not entirely unplanned, I suspect. Drinks and Taiwanese hors d'oeuvres were served on the patio afterwards. This was the official farewell party, though our visit had not yet ended.

  It was at the party that I learned how I'd come to be chosen as an invitee. A multi-talented gentleman from Bangalore, India, . Mohammed Fakhruddin, who is owner and editor of Poets International Monthly, had published some of my haiku in one of his issues. It seems that he is an associate of a number of the organizers of the Festival and was consulted when a list of invitees from around the world was being compiled. Upon checking his list of poets he'd published from the Americas, he'd come across my name and decided he liked my work well enough to suggest that I be included among those to be invited. When I tried to thank him, he shook his head, saying, “Your work is very fine. You deserve to be here.” I was humbled, and so happy that I'd submitted my work to his publication.

  A visit to the National Museum of Taiwanese Literature, a rather austere building, began the following morning, followed by an excursion to Tainan, the oldest city in Taiwan. Gorgeous temples and gardens still dot the small industrial city, but little else gives evidence of its age. As a side note about the excursion, while many consider poets to be rather dry, serious-minded, real or pseudo-intellectuals, this group was anything but. A male visitor from Serbia asked if the bus had a microphone, which it did. Expecting that he wanted to make some sort of announcement, we were all surprised when he began singing songs from his homeland in a voice greatly lacking in training but full of enthusiasm. An Indian woman followed, singing an old folk ballad in a lovely voice. It seems that she'd been a professional singer in Delhi. Her offering was followed by melodies sung by another former professional singer, a Taiwanese woman who had been in the chorale the previous night. We were serenaded by these and other spontaneous entertainers of varying degrees of talent on the way to and from Tainan, adding much enjoyment to the somewhat dull highway drive.

  While strolling through the grounds of an elaborate old temple in Tainan, I came upon a small gift shop and browsed among the display cases of “tourist junk,” as I called it—which Queena thought a delightful expression. My former dinner partner, Dr. Chiang, approached me to ask if I saw anything I liked, and if she could help me with the purchase. I declined, but mentioned that there were miniature masks that were similar to some I'd bought in Mainland China years before, which had been stolen. A few minutes later she presented me with a selection of the masks as a memento of Taiwan, which taught me a lesson: don't admire something aloud within the hearing of a Taiwanese, unless you want the person to make a gift of the item to you.

  After my embarrassment abated, we talked of her poetry and I learned something else. Taiwanese poets are not of the dry, boring type either. Dr. Chiang asked if I had been at her presentation. Unfortunately, I had not been scheduled to attend. “You might have enjoyed it,” she said with a slight grin. “My topic was the comparison of Chinese and Western erotic poetry.” And I had missed it! She seemed amused at my surprise and the fact that I wasn't in the least bit shocked. Erotic literature from the past is quite acceptable in Taiwan, but modern erotic works are frowned upon—especially if written by a woman! Dr. Chiang is obviously a modern woman who refuses to permit her writing to be restricted by a society of prudes. One of her most recently published works is “Men's Nipples and Grandmother's Cuisine.” I've asked her in an e-mail if it's available in English online or in print.

  Every event during the festival was a photo-op, filmed and photographed by the Taiwanese news media, including our sojourn in Tainan. One by one, we were interviewed by a local TV crew, who asked such questions as, “What are your thoughts in relation to the effect of poetry on world peace?"

  Not an easy question to answer on the spur of the moment. I know that my response was spontaneous, and I hope it made some sense—unaccustomed as I am to ad libbing in front of a live television camera. I said something to the effect that, from a distance, we think of people's differences: color, religion, dress, customs, and appearance. But through poetry and certain other forms of communication, we touch people on a much more importan
t level than just the surface. We reach inside to share what we have in common: love, sorrow, family, concern, the senses in general. If we concentrate on our similarities rather than our differences, maybe we can develop friendships that, some day, will evolve into peace.

  Dinner back at the hotel was a special one, held in the Szechuan Restaurant. It was a bit quieter than our other dinners, with many of us thinking about our departures the following morning—some having to leave on flights before dawn. Handclasps and hugs were shared throughout the groups, along with promises to keep in touch by e-mail and to exchange our poetic creations through cyber-space.

  The most tender and sensitive partings were between the visitors and their interpreters. Each visitor had bought small gifts for the young people, hoping they'd accept them. Gifts, according to Taiwanese, are given to and are not received from . I'd sneaked a boxed pendant on a chain into Queena's tote bag, the one she'd carried throughout the festival period. The bag was filled with notes about Taiwan for my information and—to my delight—copies of some of my stories and poetry that she'd downloaded from the internet. She asked me questions to clarify for herself certain word meanings and unfamiliar phrasings. She'd actually been studying my work, which pleased me greatly. Many tears were shed in the grand lobby of the hotel, including mine when Queena presented me with a Chinese robe I'd admired early on—just before she turned and sped away out of the hotel. I began to miss her immediately.