By Alice Wang

Edited by Julia Hollingsworth

The train’s wheels clacked on the railway, breaking the peace of my journey from Dalian back to Harbin. The cabin was a small, chilly room, with rows and rows of seats lined neatly across. I stared out the window, looking at the blurry vision of emerald green trees flying past us, big blocks of cornfields emerging forward. July’s sunlight poured into our cabin, making the hard, sturdy seats warm and divine. I watched the bright sunshine perch on my skin, not too much, not to less, just a thin layer. I felt grateful for this warmth in the cool cabin, because it made my mind fill with inspiration. Listening to the lullaby of the train, my pencil scratched across a scrap of paper, leaving letters and words to dance about in this cozy, summer day.

Beside me, my mother sat quietly, reading a novel called The Great Gatsby . She is a quite open person when it comes to books, but still she has a preference for classic novels which she usually reads for entertainment. Her crisp dark hair scattered onto the side of her pale face, and her red glasses gleamed in the sun. I pulled on my mother’s sleeve and begged her to look at some rhyming lyrics I wrote. “Step in the wonders of a warm summer day, feel the fresh breeze that blows in May...” I read. She smiled amazingly, her amber eyes wide open with astonishment and then took out the beautiful cuboid notebook she always carried along, its cover filled with cute mockingbirds standing on top of big oak trees, and gorgeous forget-me-not flowers blooming by the side. “Wow, this is a poem! Wonderful!” She said, surprised. “It is?” I asked doubtfully, with a questioning look. With her Italic handwriting, she copied the poem down and encouraged me to express more of my feelings. She said: “Poetry is a good way to catch fleeting moments before they vanish.” Her explanation has been turning over in my mind ever since. I wonder if it is where my love for poetry truly begin.

In Harbin, loving poetry is like planting seeds in snow. Teachers advised me to focus on my study, and I even got scolded for writing poems in school. My classmates didn’t understand what I was doing either. As the old saying goes: “Of the thirty-six stratagems, retreating is the best strategy.” I learned this Chinese cultural proverb in school, and at that time, I decided I would use it to some how “defense” my teachers. I skipped creating in school, and transferred to composing at home.

Back at home my time is way more flexible, and since I usually write in my bedroom, you can always find me at my desk where I compose. It’s a small table which is painted crystal white, on top are some poems pasted on the pale pink walls. The desk isn’t really messy, but there are some scattered homework paper lying motionlessly by the side. Also, in the corner of my desk, stacked a section of books which is called Mirror Maze, seven books all about Shakespeare’s sonnets. My mother bought them for me to get my imagination juices flow when I’m “thoughtless”. When I’m busy writing, locking myself up in my room, my mother would sit in the study, a quaint place with three walls which were practically bookshelves. A big, lotus shaped light made the room deep yellow with a sense of atmosphere. I mostly get inspiration from the things that are happening all around me. When autumn arrived and leaves danced to the golden ground, I use my poems to paint the warmth of harvest days. When a naughty friend came to my house and wrecked everything, I use my poems to make laughter wrapped in ink. After I write them, I would always share them with my mother, and we would discuss about my thoughts or the fictional stories I made up. By the end of the year, I already had twenty-five poems in hand. For me, they are like tiny stars in a child’s sky.

In the fifth grade, my mother had to move to Shanghai for a year because of her work. Since she couldn’t leave me at home, I got dragged along with her. At first I wasn’t excited, I didn’t feel like moving to a new place, I didn’t feel like leaving all my wonderful friends behind. But in the back of my heart, where I kept my deepest secrets, I was actually always kind of looking forward to a brand new city and a brand new school. So finally, I ended the battle of my tangled thoughts and stepped into a blank world--Shanghai.

Shanghai, the most developed economy core of China, is out of my expectations. Before, I didn’t do any research about Shanghai, I just thought it was chunky houses lined up in a shape, like ours. Stepping out of Pudong airport, the humid kiss of Shanghai’s air clung to my cheeks --a startling contrast to Harbin’s cool, dry breath that still lingered in my memory. I have never imagined such magnificent skyscrapers piercing the sky and such fabulous large malls bustling with people. As dusk fell, the Huangpu River is gently shrouded in a veil of twilight. When we stepped out of the taxi to our new home, colourfulLED lights shone brightly into our eyes. Over a few weeks, I became accustomed to Shanghai, met new friends and new teachers, also experienced challenges and adventures, such as loads of homework. Schoolwork and joy buried my pen of poems underneath, until a little incident made me pick it up again.

That winter, the school was hit by an outbreak of flu and pneumonia, and most of the students were inflected by the disease. Unfortunately, I was no different and ended up in the hospital getting intravenous drips which was my first time since my mother was convinced that medicine had better effect. My illness was quite severe, and although I stayed in the hospital unexpectedly for only five days, I had to spend the rest of the whole month home. My hard unpleasant hospital bed with sharp, gray metal edges always had my mother beside it the whole time, sometimes encouraging me, but more likely, reading one of the books I had at least seen her read two times. Mostly I would watch movies or also read, half awake and half asleep, but sometimes I felt terribly sad and confused. Why am I here? Why can’t I go to school like some of the kids? Should I even stay at Shanghai the next semester? When I’m down in the dumps, fighting over mood swings and almost bored to death, I seeked time for my old hobby. Picking up my pen, I began to write.

Thinking about all the amazing events that happened just months ago, I started to recall what happened between me and my friends. Our friendship was so unique that I was inspired by the kindness they showed to me when I first came. I sat at a small brown table in the corner of the hospital, the thin layer of paint peeling off the edges, listening to the tip of my pen rustling across the paper, producing a soft, rapid scratching sound. My thoughts flowed like a stream, ideas pouring out of me.

“Wish you’ve a special second,

To help with honest when you beckoned?

Believing in faith can’t help in need,

A person’s care, generous and feed.”

All the new knowledge ran through my mind like a whirlwind, all the books, classes and lectures all mixed in my brain, more and more inspiration twirled inside me.

“Love can sometimes be a gift from God,

Couples think they’re like to peas in a pod.

Two eyes meet, soft and gentle at night,

Cupid’s arrow made them love at first sight.”

That month, I wrote fifty poems. After deep thinking and discussions, my poetry book’s name came right out of the oven - My Heart Is Singing.

My mother and I embarked on transforming my work into neatly bounded booklets. We began by scouring online platforms like Taobao and Jingdong for plain-fashioned templates that echoed the soulful simplicity of my verses. Late night debates with my stubborn mother over covers and pages finally ended in compromises fueled by laughter and mugs of hot boiled water. We spent three days engaging on a fresh austere one, spread with a variety of flowers, from top to the bottom. There were mauve pink roses, light lavender violets, crystal white lilies, and lots of different flowers which I couldn’t name. We picked out some classic printing paper that were a little thicker than usual. We ordered them quickly and within a week, the booklets came in a beautiful box, wrapped in dreamy deep blue, and a big silky gold bow on the top. I opened it gently with careful fingers, and piles of my poems fell out in a heap. I flipped some pages, and was glad to see such a beautiful scene. The flowers seemed elegant on the smooth oily paper, printed with out any ink stains. They were so perfect and pretty that I decided to give them out on my Graduation Ceremony. I printed a whole total of 25 copies just in English, so I was a little anxious that my classmates couldn’t understand. But luckily, all my friends appreciated my poems and we spent the last day together as happy as can be. These precious memories will stay in my heart forever.

“How shall I leave without a word to say?

We shall never be cut from memory, in the breeze of May.”

“Until the day I really go,

Until we say our next hello.

I won’t let go till I see you again,

I’ll be right here remembering when.

It’s not goodbye.

It’s not goodbye.

You’ll always be in my heart!”

A cold dusty wind swept across my face, leaving tingles of burning red upon my cheeks. I stared hard at the tall glossy green trees and the dips of pale pink blooming on cracks of the sidewalk. Our whole family were at Xiamen, a place which was practically spring all year long. It was early winter, but Harbin is already asleep under it’s thick white covers everywhere. “A nice departure,” I thought, “I can finally leave freezing senses and frozen feelings behind.” A year has past since my stay at Shanghai, and I’ve moved on to middle school back in my hometown. Excessive amount of schoolwork has once again stolen most of my time away, but I tried my best to continue creating and composing. Despite my tiredness everyday after school, my passion in poetry never faded. I would still sit at my cozy white desk, surrounded by pale pink walls, and my mother would still sit at her quaint room, with a lotus light on top of her, that sent off a sense of atmosphere. It was like nothing changed, which was the way I wanted it to be. Now it was winter vacation, shorter than it was supposed to be, and I was finally having a rest, having a real holiday. Laying back in an unfamiliar wooden chair in an unfamiliar small old house, I felt light and happy. My mother’s friends were also coming along and having dinner together, so I joined in happily. My mother’s friends were university teachers just like her, and I was eager to discover what interesting topics they’ll talk about.

The thrilling moment came. I made sure my clothes were neat, and my sneakers were double-knotted, also so was my stomach. We all sat at a round marbled table in a fancy room with dim lights on top of our heads. Outside the restaurant, the moon was round and clear, like a Ferris Wheel, spinning her romantic reverie. The few remaining gray clouds hung low above the darkened branches near the huge clean window, which was almost the same height as a six-year-old child. Staring at the scenery after all the politeness, I found myself face to face with one of my mother’s friends, Ms.Yang. As much as I know from the stories my mother told many times with excitement, she was one of my mother’s rare besties throughout her entire life till now. She had curly brown hair that hung up to her shoulders, and big beautiful eyes that matched her hair. She wore a flowered sweater, shiny black down-coat, and faded dark blue jeans which was very fashionable. Her voice was gentle yet kind with pleasure, and she was probably the most interesting grown-up I ever met. At most dinner parties, the adults talked about their career, their children and their future, and lots more boring stuff I don’t actually care to name. But Ms. Yang (including her friend Ms.Wu) were different. They stood out among the crowd. They talked about things us kids care about. But most importantly, they dared to talk about abnormal topics(considered during a dinner party), poetry. They discussed our opinions and inspirations in this world. They talked about books and their authors and what they thought. They played games with us and was all carefree. “This is what grown-ups are supposed to be.”Ithought back at home, happiness still sizzling in my mind. That night, I slept with letters and words floating around in my mind.

I continued to have meet-ups with those wonderful friends(also mine now), and every time I share some poems with them, they would always congratulate me and lend out some excellent advice. Ms. Yang encouraged me to create more and store memories in ink. Once, we went to a wide fresh park which was near some trees and the salty sea to fly a colorful kite. I was never so joyful and delighted to see our kite floating in the azure colored sky after so many challenges and arduous problems. Looking at this experience as inspiration, I wrote a very long and interesting poem for this adventure out of Ms.Yang’s motivation.

“Over the trees it flew above,

Over the buildings it toppled on.

As the strings became less we grew excited,

In ecstasy all watched the kite rule the sky upon.”

I am an introverted person, and poetry has become my way of expression. It enables me to make more friends and becomes a bridge connecting me with other people. With the help of my mother and other wise friends, poetry is now not only a hobby I love, it has become an unbreakable part of my life.

“Poems are one of my favorite things,

They connect people’s hearts like woolen strings.

Just how they dance with letters and words,

About flowers or people or beautiful birds.

A page of Shakespeare’s amazing poem,

Make you feel like you’re cozy at home.

Try a bit of Wordsworth’s part,

You’ll understand your inside heart.

Poems are not like a spoon or a knife,

They let you know more about people and life.”

“Passion is the key of success.” I will continue to love poetry and love the beautiful world around me!

Thank you for taking time out to read my journey through poetry.

Alice Wang

職業：六年級學生

坐標：哈爾濱

Julia Hollingsworth

Julia holds a Masters in Creative Writing:

Nonfiction from the University of East Anglia and a Bachelor of Arts in English from Abilene Christina University.

Tutor’s comment：

Alice,

It was an honor to read your work and see your poetry and writing skills develop throughout the workshop. You have a knack for writing descriptions and using the perfect verb to ignite the scene in the reader’s mind.

I love the way you describe the trees flying past, the sunlight pouring into the cabin, words dancing on a page, and thoughts turning over in your mind. Each new section was full of active descriptions that told me more about your perception of the world and kept me wanting to read on.

The parts you added worked so well to fill in the gaps of the story. The scene where you and your mother bind the books together was so lovely. I felt like I was there, watching the poetry come to life in physical form. I also loved the introduction of your mother’s friends, especially the encouraging Ms. Yang, and the inclusion of that little detail about your mother being a teacher – the amount of reading she does makes even more sense!

Overall, this was a lovely story that I will be thinking about for some time. Your love of poetry and the way you play with words on the page inspires me.

Sincerely,

Julia

今天的作品來自三明治12-16歲英文創意寫作工作坊

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