Tag: Bali

Beyond Borders: Writing and the Power of Stories

Post author By borderlesssg1
Post date August 21, 2026
1 Comment on Beyond Borders: Writing and the Power of Stories

Keith Lyon converses with Jayanthi Sankar, a fiction writer who shares an excerpt from her story, Beyond Borders at the end of the interview.

Jayanthi Sankar is an author who explores history, identity and the human psyche through fiction shaped by her life across cultures. Her work reflects on writing, cultural difference, mentorship and the importance of creating space for emerging literary voices.

Keith Lyons (KL): Every writer has a unique starting point. When did you first realise that writing was more than just an interest for you, and how has that initial spark developed?

Jayanthi Sankar (JS): Years of passionate, continuous reading for pleasure led to an emerging voice of a critic deep within me, and I didn’t realise it. When I was debating with her over what I’d read, I ended up experimenting to experience how difficult it really is to write. They published the short fiction. And I didn’t know that would eventually give me the motivation to attempt a few more. It took me a few more years to write a dozen more before I started believing I should pursue writing.

KL: How do different cultural landscapes influence the themes you repeatedly explore in your work?

JS: I grew up in 15-16 places all over India owing to my father’s central government civil engineering job, until my mid-twenties when I migrated to Singapore. The exposure to diverse cultures during my formative years had organically shaped me to admire and adapt to cultural differences like a fish to water. Harmony lies more naturally on the edges of those differences, and I realised that only after I read seriously and began writing. Cultural landscapes weave naturally into my fictional world.

KL: What is your process for creating characters so they resonate with readers across different nationalities and backgrounds?

JS: I have noticed since my teens, I interacted with people not as me but as the other in front of me, and that perhaps innately equipped me with the ability to create credible characters. As I matured, I came to know that it has got to do not only with human psychology but also with empathy. While my characters unfold, those very close to me have observed I often think and talk like them because I live their lives.

KL: Your day job as an interpreter, how does that affect your ear for dialogue and understanding of how others view the world?

JS: The past three to four years of my current job have brought me the most profound understanding of migrant workers. Knowing their lives, challenges, and views often repeatedly makes me realise what a privileged life I have. Since listening is an integral part of my job, the dialogues become contextually crucial.

KL: How do you determine the ‘size of the canvas’ for a new idea, and do you find that different languages or cultures demand different narrative structures?

JS: The canvas mostly widens as the chapters unfold, and while rewriting, we could always chisel as required, as I did in my short fiction ‘Punkah Wallah’ in my collection Dangling Gandhi. The story’s seed sprouted within me when I was merely 13 or 14 years old.

I remember hearing one of my dad’s friends share, “a young lad born a deaf and dumb from our village in remote Punjab was taken to far away Malaya to be a fan man.” I showed no signs of becoming a writer in the future. It had stayed deep in me to surface nearly 30-odd years later. I set my character driven story in the colonial Singapore of the early twentieth century that had ample scope for depicting cultural, political climate. The time period of the setting brought about language variations in character building as well as the narrative structures that could bring in novelty and engagement.

KL: What insights have you gained about narrative structures from different cultures and traditions, and how can you use them to tell a story better?

JS: Several of my reader friends have said that by reading my fiction, they knew Singapore as if they’d already visited the place. When blended with the cultural nuances and slang of the land, any local issue becomes more convincingly relatable, and the stories reach readers better. As for readers from other lands, not only is the cultural flavour introduced to them, but it invites them to experience the land just as we, as readers, know Moscow from Russian literature, as if we’ve lived there.

KL: What was the primary motivation behind establishing the Jay Yes Foundation, and what specific gaps in the literary world were you hoping to fill?

JS: I have mentored, formally and informally, several aspiring young writers, including Liu Fang from Hong Kong, whose story travelled to the northeastern parts of India, and another, Sascha Wynn from Boston, who had a character of Indian ethnicity. And I experienced an incomparable sense of fulfilment. Helping them with their developmental editing and cultural checks also widened my perspectives, decades ago, and that was the beginning. I felt joyous watching their manuscripts evolve. And now the foundation has entered the next stage of giving a name and identity to the initiatives.

KL: Supporting unpublished writers is a core pillar of your work. In your experience, what are the biggest challenges these writers face today, and how does the foundation help them navigate those obstacles?

JS: As an emerging writer myself, decades ago, I stopped reading details as soon as I saw the submission guidelines mentioned. I’ve observed many of my mentees retreat when the call has fees to read. Not because they can’t afford but they naturally feel their stories are worth the read, and it feels discouraging to pay to be read. Any emerging writer would feel respected if a jury read their writing. So, the foundation continues to create opportunities like this year’s international contest.

KL: The foundation’s mission mentions building ‘sustainable literary communities’. What does a truly sustainable community look like to you in modern publishing?

JS: A writing community can sustain longer only with continuity in reading and writing at an individual level. Continuity is the key. Just one submission and the aspirant write only after two years for another doesn’t bring the needed traction. That’s why the Foundation does not stop at contests and podcasts; it continues to bring other opportunities as well without submission fees to the pool of writers it has already created.

KL: Many literary initiatives rely on entry fees for sustainability, but your foundation has chosen a different path. Can you share the philosophy behind this commitment to free entry for emerging writers?

JS: This year’s jurors have believed me when I said that the foundation aspires to set an example of how dedicated investment of time and expertise can encourage emerging writers. But for the support of Zero-Degree Publishing, such philosophies are bound to remain as dreams. Monetary investment might bring in transactional elements like charging an entry fee, or another fee for publishing the anthology that might reduce focus on the creative side of the initiative. There are so many out there calling to submit first without even telling the writer what’s coming next. I had my experience many years ago; one of my submissions was long-listed, they discussed payment to move the story forward.

KL: The International Jay Yes Short Story Contest 2026 is a significant undertaking. What led you to choose “Seeking Refuge: Stories of Displacement” as the central theme for the contest?

JS: Displacements have been part of my growing up, although I didn’t even know the impact it would have later on in my thoughts process and also writing. Forced or chosen, displacements have all the scope for exploring human lives, whether to seek refuge or to survive. After a brief discussion, the jury unanimously agreed on the theme. The theme also suited the contest, planned to go global.

KL: You’ve expressed a desire for stories that are bold and moving. When you are reviewing submissions, what is that elusive quality that makes a piece of writing truly stand out for you?

JS: If the ending leaves me pondering longer, stays long with me, I’d call it that. A loose ending does that better than a conclusive one. A genuine human voice in the AI era would touch my heart and most certainly the storytelling. Stories often begin fairly well, I’ve noticed, but aspirants get lost in the ending. Dramatic, cinematic, preachy endings are so common, and that’s where resting and rewriting might help. The jury assessed entries fabulously this time.

KL: From anthologies to podcasts, you use various platforms to share stories. How do you see the relationship between traditional publishing and these newer digital formats developing for emerging writers?

JS: E-Books and audiobooks are trending, and like physical books, they can be self-published or traditionally published. Creativity through natural intelligence deserves celebration and preservation regardless of the format it gets published. Using tools to display originality is better than using tools for the creative process itself. Digital or physical, as humans, let’s tell stories of humanity with relatable humaneness.

KL: How does the foundation’s work help create a world where literary voices reach audiences regardless of nationality or financial standing?

JS: Since my childhood, I’ve observed people of different cultures, cuisines, and languages across regions and countries, yet the values, ethics, hunger, anger, pain, and pleasure remain the same for every human. The success of this year’s contest has shown beautifully how creativity has no such restrictions, such borders. Nurturing natural intelligence has always been the core of the initiatives by the Jay Yes Foundation.

Keith Lyons (keithlyons.net) is an award-winning writer and creative writing mentor originally from New Zealand who has spent a quarter of his existence living and working in Asia including southwest China, Myanmar and Bali. His Venn diagram of happiness features the aroma of freshly-roasted coffee, the negative ions of the natural world including moving water, and connecting with others in meaningful ways. A Contributing Editor on Borderless Journal’s Editorial Board, his work has appeared in Borderless since its early days, and his writing featured in the anthology Monalisa No Longer Smiles.

An Excerpt from ‘Beyond Borders’ by Jayanthi Sankar

With moist, dismayed eyes a foreign worker in clothes mildly smeared with grease and paint stood first in the growing queue. Pusillanimously lost in thought he looked like a Bangladeshi, Anu guessed.

Just behind the Bangladeshi, a middle-aged rotund Chinese man was leaning on the side rails with two sizeable red plastic red shopping bags placed near his feet. Oblivious to the surrounding, he was busy talking on his mobile, thanking and laughing with exaggerated courtesy, “Háiméiyǒu, xièxiè.”

The moment Anu saw her son’s eyes sparkling brighter, she knew the reason, and she’d guessed it right. Crawling on one of the large plastic bags carried by a Chinese man was a huge fly that caught the keen attention of ten-year-old Kani. He couldn’t take his eyes off.

As always, Anu was fascinated by his interest displayed even before he’d turned one. From as early as seven months he used to look for tiny ants and insects in the corners of the marble floor and follow them crawling on fours. Though rare, they never failed to catch his attention. Flying insects thrilled him all the more. Long before he could say the word, “Amma,” to call her, he’d learned to say ‘Poochchi[1]’ in Tamil, which made history becoming the first word he learned to speak.

Eager to continue where they’d left their conversation just before leaving home, Anu asked her husband, “And Somu, what did that Pinoy colleague of yours exactly say to anger you that much? Somu, you didn’t tell me the details.”

Excited, wide-eyed Somu said, “He had the cheek to say right on my face without them our country will cease to function. Can you believe that, Anu?”

Although the haze due to the conflagration in the Sumatran forests seemed to have reduced to healthy levels, about six or seven out of the ten migrant faces wore the N9 masks.

“He means, without the Filipinos?”

“I am sure he must have meant all foreign workers in general. I couldn’t stand his temerity, you know. Seething through, I was intensely searing inside.” She just nodded looking at his face.

Somu’s cute chubby face was becoming more and more rounded with his receding hairline, she thought. His black curls highlighted his already fair complexion.

As if muttering to herself Anu looked around, “Humans seem to push the days of the week just for their weekend, when they live their lives.” The queues were suddenly getting longer, she observed.

The bus interchange was filling with an erratic mixture of children shrieking, loud laughter of young people in groups, buses maneuvering and halting, bus doors opening and closing.

Mandarin, Tamil, Malay, Tagalog, Hokkien, and Bangla heard here and there were certainly not mellifluous, but an intriguing babel. The aroma of the satay from the nearby hawker wafted along with the breeze.

The breeze bore the message of the approaching showers. The slowly gathering dark clouds not just dimmed the sunlight but suddenly increased the humidity.

Being the first few in the line waiting for route number 960, getting seats of their choice was not difficult.

The Bangladeshi worker walked straight to the back and took the left window seat of the long row of last seats.

Keeping his sight on the fly, Kani walked ahead but slowly.

“He went on saying things like they are a cheerful and contented bunch even with lower wages.”

“Lower?” Anu asked with an intrigued expression.

“Yeah lah! Their wages are somewhat lower than ours.”

“True,” she agreed.

The stout Chinese man placed the bags purposely on the adjacent seat so that the foreign workers boarding behind wouldn’t be able to occupy the seat near him.

Watching the fly, Kani stood there blocking the way for the other passengers. Anu hurriedly pulled him along. “Isn’t it just a common house fly, maybe just larger?” Somu hushed. They moved to the rear. Kani’s focus remained on the fly as he reluctantly walked turning his head backward. “No.”

As the bus exited at the Woodlands interchange, Somu continued, “You know Anu, I couldn’t help telling him, why don’t you go back since you get paid low here. But he left the place abruptly without saying much although he did tell I must learn to be happy.”

“You?”

“He meant us, Singaporeans,” Somu said lowering his voice. “I think.”

Near the exit, seated at the center of the bus the three domestic workers dressed in their weekend best, dolled up in all accessories, started watching videos happily, ready to enjoy their off day. One of them answered a call, “One angparaan, sanaymaging late,” assuring their punctuality to the friends on the other side.

Seated right behind his parents, next to the Bangladeshi worker, Kani kept getting up restlessly from his seat to look at the fly.

When a plump middle-aged Malay woman boarded at the Marsiling station, one of the foreign workers seated behind the driver spontaneously got up to give her the seat. The lady hesitated for a second and was about to lumber her way to the back when the other guy at the window seat followed suit. Happily, she sat on the aisle seat keeping all her bags and belonging on the window seat before she started looking out of the window.

Taking a look around within the bus, Anu said, “It’s fine, Somu. Not like you’d feared. I can even see a few empty seats.”

“You don’t know, darling. This bus really gets crowded on Sundays. We could have gone Diwali shopping next weekend after our car is back from servicing,” he sulked.

“Oh come on. Look at him! Kani seems to be enjoying the bus ride.”

“If not for the parking woes in Little India area, I wouldn’t choose to travel in this bus,” he sulked for the third time. “especially during the weekend.”

When the fly flew to the rear, it landed on the tab the domestic worker was holding. She jumped and shooed it off with a loud giggle. Her two friends joined in the amusement.

Kani got excited and shrieked, “Pa, look he is flying this way!” Suddenly feeling shy for having expressed loudly, he sat on his seat quietly observing.

The insect had comfortably settled on the glass window near the exit. Fixing his gaze on the fly, Kani sat calmly, glancing at other things once in a while. He shared his discovery, “Musca domestica,” tugging at his mother’s shoulder from the back of her seat. He pointed to the fly when Anu turned from the front seat to smile at him.

After the first few stops, at the Kranji station, foreign workers boarded in groups.

Somu gave her a, “I told you!” kind of a look.

“Kani needs to see some real world, at least, once in a while,” Anu smiled gathering the locks of hair and tugging them behind her ears with her right hand.

There was an empty seat after the exit. A tall and slender looking Chinese woman who’d boarded looked around, extended her hand with a pointed finger, “Go and sit there, lah.” The construction worker appeared to be a Tamil guy got up like an obedient student and moved to the back. With a haughty expression, “Thank you,” she said curtly, almost half-heartedly.

“What do you mean Anu?” Somu chided with a laugh. “Don’t tell me that only crowded bus rides are real life.”

“Not exactly,” Anu beamed. “But in a way yes.”

Many were startled when the Malay woman, in her attempt to alight at the Bukit Panjang CC advanced to the back saying, “Cannot taahan this anymore. Why are these people so smelly?” Right after getting off the bus, she threw an angry expression at the bus from where she stood.

“Ma, why is that old lady rankling for no apparent reason?”

“Hush, hush, no. Are you bored? Want my mobile?”

“No,” he said and went back to watch the big fly.

As the bus entered the BKE, most of them got busy texting. Most of them dozed off in their seats. The bus suddenly quietened.

The two high housing board blocks of flats followed by a few private condominiums beyond the green wilds, on the right disappeared within minutes.

The long terrain ride with the lush natural habitat on either side of the expressway, as always brought a serene feeling, Anu thought.

“Oh my God! I took the wrong set of shopping bags! I didn’t buy these live crabs,” the Chinese man suddenly jolted. He held up the tied bag with a large partially visible creepy crab within.

He stood up to go near the driver. “You have to get off at the Tanglin CC and cross the road via the overhead bridge and board a bus back to Bukit Panjang,” the driver said calmly, smartly kept his eyes on the road.

Kani was eager to have a look at the crab from near, but Somu said, “No need to go all the way there. We are speeding in the expressway, Kani. It’s enough to look from here. I thought you were scared of crabs,” he chuckled.

“Of course, I wouldn’t dare touch it, pa. Thought of talking a closer look. The crab looks unique,” Kani said but sat back in his seat.

The Bangladeshi worker was sincerely trying hard to look away from the young Anglo Chinese couple in secret and mild canoodle at the right end of the long back seat. He’d been talking seriously to someone for more than ten minutes. Sensing the network was bound to go erratic in the PIE, he winded up his conversation smartly, “Jaanish. Achchaa, thaarpor kotha bolbo, han?”

The road widening works near the exit to Eng Neo Avenue and Adams Road suddenly reminded the passengers of the city life.

“You look ravishing in this sari,” Somu whispered in Anu’s ear.

“And you’ve said that umpteen times, Somu. I still can’t forget the day you stood at the shop dead against me choosing this one.” Reminiscing, they laughed together and turned to look behind, at Kani.

Much familiar with the expressway, traffic, the downtown line works along the Bukit Timah Road, Kani was observed all that he could, mostly within the bus as if he might never a get another chance to travel by bus.

Once along Whitley Road, the louring urban face of the city showed. “This comes under the suborder Cyclorrhapha,” Kani bent down to whisper into Somu’s ears. The father forced a smile and looked at the fly.

The Chinese man holding the large shopping bags alighted, grumbling.

With not many passengers boarding or alighting, the bus streamlined through the Bukit Timah Road.

When the bus reached Little India bus stop, most of the commuters alighted. “Bus ride was damn interesting, Pa,” Kani mused as he got down. Though sunny, the roads glittered wet. The rains had just stopped.

Not losing sight of the Bangladeshi worker who’d also alighted, Kani told his parents to wait for a few minutes. When Anu pulled him, he said, “Ma, please wait just for a few minutes.”

“Can I have a few dollars, Pa?” he said hurriedly keeping an eye on the foreign worker.

Taking out his wallet from his pant pocket, Somu asked impatiently, “But what do you need money so urgently for?” Kani pulled out a ten dollar note.

He pointed at the Bangladeshi standing with a lost expression on his face. “He needs to top up his EZ link, Pa. I heard him cry over the phone. He is broke and in a dire state.”

“Don’t tell me you can understand his language.”

“Oh, I’ve been picking their language for more than a year,” he said. Always observing, he would smile and wave at the Bangladeshi workers who cleared the garbage chute and cleaned the common areas. But Anu never expected him to have learnt their language.

Kani swiftly went near the foreign worker and asked, “Where do you want to go?”

“Paya Lebar,” said the foreign worker, looking at Kani a little hesitantly.

With all kindness, Kani said softly and slowly, “You take the train to Bugis from here. And, from there you board the green line towards Pasir Ris, you understand?” The Bangladeshi just nodded shyly.

Gently, Kani thrust the ten dollar note into his hand and hopped back to join his parents. As if trying to prevent them from looking at the Bangladeshi, he pulled them both by his hands. Curiously, he turned to look and was titillated to see the housefly riding on the tattered backpack of the Bangladeshi worker. “Eureka! Single pair of wings! Comes under the higher classification of Diptera,” Kani squealed

[1]Poochchi – A generic term to refer to any kind of insect.

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access Wild Winds: The Borderless Anthology of Poems

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Tags Asia, Bali, Borderless Journal, Boston, China, Hong Kong, India, Jayanthi Sankar, Keith Lyons, Malaya, Myanmar, New Zealand, Punjab, Singapore

Interview

The Global Story of Plants, People and Plastic

Post author By borderlesssg1
Post date July 14, 2026
No Comments on The Global Story of Plants, People and Plastic

Keith Lyons in conversation with Helen Townsend, an environmental entrepreneur and a plant enthusiast

Helen Townsend speaking to women at Girls-in-STEM that aims to close gender gap in science in 2026. Photo sourced by Keith Lyons

Helen Townsend has spent her career uncovering the connections between people, plants and the planet. From working with herbarium collections in Nepal and Bangladesh to leading campaigns against single-use plastics and creating nature-based toys for children, the environmental entrepreneur has come to see climate change, biodiversity loss and waste as deeply interconnected global challenges. In this interview, she reflects on the power of plants, the importance of global responsibility, and why reconnecting children with nature may be one of our greatest reasons for hope.

Keith Lyons (KL): How did you find yourself in Nepal and Bangladesh, and what did you do there?

Helen Townsend (HT): In 2006 I was working in the herbarium of the Royal Botanic Garden Edinburgh on a project digitising African plant specimens. The aim of the project was to increase African botanists’ access to their countries’ important specimens which had been collected during colonial exploration and taken to the UK. In 2009, the project expanded to Asia, and I went to Nepal to train staff and set up the digitising project at the National Herbarium of Kathmandu. I also spent six months in Bangladesh volunteering at a girls’ school in Dhaka.

KL: How were your experiences in those places influence your awareness of environmental issues which are both linked with modern society and global?

HT: While growing up in New Zealand and living in the UK, I knew we used too much plastic packaging and tried to avoid it but it was when I was in Nepal and Bangladesh and saw plastic rubbish on the streets and in the rivers that I started to realise the scale of the plastic pollution problem. In New Zealand we produce so much more rubbish than people in Nepal and Bangladesh but because it’s collected weekly and taken away, we never have to confront the environmental impact of our purchasing choices.

KL: What fascinates you about plants?

HT: Plants are beautiful, especially trees! But the more I learn about them the more interesting they become. Plants are often seen as the backdrop to a scenic view or ‘nice to haves’ for people living in cities but they are absolutely essential not only for the survival of all life but also for our physical, mental and emotional well-being.

How has this interest run through your study, work and approach?

HT: Both of my businesses have tackled systemic issues by providing alternatives to single-use plastics and reconnecting kids with nature. These issues are directly related to protecting the environment and helping parents pass on their love of nature to their kids.

KL: What broader lessons have you learned from working with plant collections, botanical gardens and herbariums?

HT: Working on projects to return botanist’s access to plant specimens taught me how interconnected societal problems are and how our current problems are grounded in colonial and capitalist thinking. Europeans taking plant specimens from Africa and Asia in the 1800s directly impacts the work of today’s botanists from those areas. In the same way, climate change and the biodiversity crisis have been caused by rich countries’ exploitation, again taking more than their share of nature and resources.

KL: Waste is often seen as a local issue, whether it be plastic, uncollected rubbish, dumping, or pollution in waterways. Why do you see it as a global issue?

HT: Billion-dollar companies headquartered in the USA or Europe take oil from the Middle East and turn it into plastic to be made into products in China which are then shipped to New Zealand. After we’ve used the product, we put our plastic ‘recycling’ out to be collected, and it’s shipped to Indonesia where it contributes to enormous landfills contaminating the land, water ways, oceans and health of communities we will never visit.

This is not an accident. It is a planned devaluing of the global south so rich countries can continue to consume overpackaged and unnecessary junk to make a few people extremely wealthy. If we look at waste as a local issue, we can pat ourselves on the back for taking part in a beach clean-up, while ignoring the capitalist system that created the inequality and environmental destruction of countries we do our best not to think about.

KL: What initiatives have you been involved in which have looked for solutions to problems, and how did you go about turning ideas into action?

HT: After returning to New Zealand, I set up a company called ‘The Rubbish Whisperer’ to provide replacements to single-use plastics. I made reusable produce bags and introduced paper straws to cafes and restaurants in New Zealand, advocating for straws on request. Providing reusable alternatives was an important component in the grass roots movement to eliminate single-use plastics. Working alongside activists, scientists and community groups, we were successful in achieving New Zealand’s 2019 ban on single-use plastic bags and restrictions on plastic straws.

Now I have a company called ‘Sustained Fun’, the world’s first climate change focused toy company. Toys are vital to climate change because they teach social norms and shaped how kids see the world. The toy industry works on a fast fashion business model and is training kids to be over-consumers of cheap, disposable plastic junk. If we want adults who care about the environment, we need kids to learn how to love nature. Luckily all this entails is to get kids out into it! We make fun and sustainable toys and games that encourage kids and families to connect with nature.

Anthea Bell and Helen Townsend, co-founders of Sustained Fun with their reusable water-balloons. Photo sourced by Keith Lyons

KL: When it often seems that environmental problems can feel overwhelming, what gives you hope?

HT: This is something I struggle with a lot. It doesn’t always feel like things are getting better. I make an effort to seek out positive news and connect with others who are excited about nature and are making a positive impact. Running ‘Sustained Fun’ also gives me hope as I can help to create a more positive future for kids and families.

KL: What helped shaped your perspective and desire to make a difference?

HT: I’m not sure. I don’t understand why everyone wouldn’t want to make a difference? We all want swimmable rivers, clean beaches, forests, amazing animals and breathable air. And, especially for those of us from rich, privileged countries, it’s our responsibility to make sure a healthy environment is there for all people and the next generation.

KL: If someone could see the world through your eyes just for one day, what do you think they would notice differently?

HT: Plants! Instead of seeing plants as a green backdrop, they would see them as the view, noticing which ones are native and which are invasive. They’d look at deforested hillsides and imagine them covered in mature forests. They’d look at a polluted estuary and see it teeming with life. Wherever I go, I imagine what it used to look like before we cut down the trees and what it will look like again, once we’ve restored them.

KL: What kind of world would you hope today’s young people inherit?

HT: I would love it if every year wildlife numbers increased so that when young people look back at 2026, they are amazed at how far we’ve come. I can’t wait for my grandchildren to say to me ‘I can’t believe you were excited to see one whale in the harbour, I often see hundreds’.

KL: If you could leave one message for readers around the world, regardless of where they live, what would it be?

HT: Do more and speak up. We need to move swiftly and urgently to prevent the worst effects of climate change and stop biodiversity loss. Whatever your skills, experience and profession, turn them to protecting the environment. And if you have kids, teach them to love the environment by getting them out into nature as often as possible!

Links

https://sustainedfun.com

Keith Lyons (keithlyons.net) is an award-winning writer and creative writing mentor originally from New Zealand who has spent a quarter of his existence living and working in Asia including southwest China, Myanmar and Bali. His Venn diagram of happiness features the aroma of freshly-roasted coffee, the negative ions of the natural world including moving water, and connecting with others in meaningful ways. A Contributing Editor on Borderless Journal’sEditorial Board, his work has appeared in Borderless since its early days, and his writing featured in the anthology Monalisa No Longer Smiles.

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access Wild Winds: The Borderless Anthology of Poems

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Tags Anthea Bell, Bali, Bangladesh, Borderless Journal, China, Dhaka, Ediburch, Europe, Girl in STEM, Helen Townsend, Kathmandu, Keith Lyons, Middle East, Myanmar, Nepal, New Zealand, Sustained Fun, UK., USA

Interview

Erik Kennedy: Crossings, Preoccupations and Poetry

Post author By borderlesssg1
Post date June 15, 2026
No Comments on Erik Kennedy: Crossings, Preoccupations and Poetry

Keith Lyons converses with Erik Kennedy

What does it mean to write poetry in an age of climate crisis, internet overload, and late-stage capitalism? Few writers tackle those questions with as much intelligence, humour, and urgency as Erik Kennedy. The acclaimed contemporary poet talks about finding his voice, life in another hemisphere, the pleasures of performance, and why writing remains central to how he makes sense of the world.

For readers who may be discovering your work for the first time, could you tell us a little about yourself and the kinds of writing you write?

I’m Erik Kennedy, a poet, critic, editor, and performer in
Ōtautahi Christchurch in Aotearoa New Zealand. I’m originally from New Jersey, but everything good I’ve ever written was produced here. My three books are There’s No Place Like the Internet in Springtime (2018), Another Beautiful Day Indoors (2022), and Sick Power Trip (2025), all with Te Herenga Waka University Press. My first and third books were shortlisted for best book of poetry in New Zealand’s national book awards, the Ockhams. I also co-edited an anthology of climate change poetry from Aotearoa and the Pacific called No Other Place to Stand (Auckland University Press, 2022).

How do you describe your poetry?

In a recent fellowship application, I wrote that with my style I am ‘intense, wry, and willing to seem unhinged if it makes the writing real’. That seems fair. The adjectives ‘political’ and ‘funny’ are often thrown around in discussions of my poems. I think I have taken a more solemn turn with my recent work, especially in Sick Power Trip and in the manuscript I’m working on now. Subjects I return to over and over include climate collapse, the internet, labour, illness, warfare, addiction, and dysfunctional late capitalism. I try to use every tool in the poet’s toolbox: free verse, rhyme, collage, prose and hybrid forms, personas, etc. As a poet you get to shapeshift; I try not to forget that.

I also enjoy writing criticism, and I think I’m good at it, but it’s not something I’m driven to do unless I’m asked by an editor. (Hit me up, editors.)

When did writing first become important to you, and do you remember the moment you thought, ‘I’d like to do this for a living’?

I have never thought that I can write for a living! I do various kinds of work, including as an editor in book publishing, but I don’t expect the kind of writing I do to buy me truffles and Audis.

When did I first realise that I wanted writing to be a central part of my life? I was about thirteen when I started to write really seriously, autodidact-ing myself into a position where I started to have a style and ambitions. I was the classic teen poet filling notebooks with poems that, mercifully, remain in what Thomas Gray would call ‘dark, unfathomed caves’. I have never really looked back. Writing is a vital part of how I live. Of how I process the world and the things that happen in it. I have always produced new writing, except in periods of personal turmoil, and in those circumstances I think the not-writing made things even worse.

What kind of work have you done in this space, and how has it shaped your writing?

In an earlier period of my life I was doing a PhD in English at Princeton, and while I didn’t complete it (by writing what surely would have been a tragically uninspired dissertation), the many years I spent at the coalface of literature and history at universities were not wasted. There is a part of me that still thinks that The Poet Who Knows Lots of Stuff is the ideal artist.

Being a copyeditor is an underrated literature-adjacent job. I know loads of writers who teach creative writing (it’s not for me), and that obviously makes you think constantly about how texts work, but there is something about the technical, competence-driven, problem-solving nature of copyediting that I have always found appealing. I like coming up with answers! Every book you work on upskills you in one way or another. That’s so valuable. I’d like to point out that AI is not coming for copyeditors any time soon. The sheer amount of random facts, hunches, preferences, and human judgements involved in copyediting a book definitely makes it a craft for flesh-and-blood knowledge workers.

Also, I have edited poetry for litmags for years. There is simply no better way of seeing what writers are actually doing than by reading hundreds or thousands of real-life examples of contemporary writing. Editing offers you examples of writing to emulate and to react against. It’s also a crucial part of a writer’s moral education; people are entrusting you with important parts of themselves, and as an editor you have a responsibility to treat their work with care and respect.

What readers/listeners do you most like writing for?

I feel really fortunate to have a thriving literary scene on my doorstep, quite a lot of it grounded in performance. I have gained so much by trying to make my work resonate with live audiences, who of course only get to experience the text once, via my voice and expressions. (Also, I was a theatre kid, and I just really like performing.) Page versus stage is a false dichotomy, but page plus stage is a great way of thinking about making work that draws people in. Publication is always my goal with my poems, but I also want to entertain, to commune with real people I can see and chat with. So in some ways the reader I have in my head when I write is a punter at a reading series. These people have been wonderful barometers for me over the years.

You grew up in the US and now live in New Zealand. How has this influenced your outlook?

I can imagine my answer to a question like this being shown to me by agents in some dismal room at Newark Airport. Let’s just say that I am glad that I am where I am. Also, I have published work that probably makes the points I wish to make better than I can make them here.

Where does your writing usually begin: with a character, a situation, a question, or something else entirely?

A line. I am a compulsive notes app user. I raid my poem ideas document all the time.

What does your writing routine look like, and what conditions help you do your best work?

‘Routine’, lol. As is the case with many poets, I would say that there are certain aspects of executive function that I don’t excel at. So my process can look a little chaotic. I try to set myself up for success with my note-making habits. And I work on things when the moment feels right. I am opportunistic, a jackal who doesn’t miss a trick if a corpse is nearby. I only occasionally sit down with the intent to write. (It does work sometimes, though, which feels like finding $50 on the ground.) Walking is a great imaginative stimulant for me; we could call that an important part of my routine. I’m like a moustached twenty-first-century Wordsworth.

Every writer faces difficult days. What helps you keep writing when inspiration is absent or a manuscript feels stuck?

If I haven’t produced anything vaguely satisfactory for a fortnight or so I start to feel so inadequate and despondent that not writing doesn’t even feel like an option. I suppose if, despite my best efforts, I ever get full-on writer’s block, I will dissolve into a dejected slime. Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.

What aspect of the writing craft took you the longest to master, and what did that journey teach you?

The dark art of ordering a poetry manuscript—of making disparate elements into a coherent whole—is something I will always want to get better at. It is hard. My most recent book, Sick Power Trip, feels of-a-piece in a way that neither of my first two books did, because I set out to make it that way and because I allowed my preoccupations to come through. Maybe what I’ve learned is that artists need preoccupations. I am thinking about artistic unity earlier in the process now. Is this good? Maybe. Do I feel I’ve cracked the case? No.

What role does reading play in your life as a writer, and are there particular authors or books you return to for inspiration?

I don’t like the name-your-influences game because 1) my influences change all the time and 2) I am terrified of offending someone by not mentioning them.

Anyway, it all starts with reading. Sure, living is useful too, but I’ve always found that an encounter with the right text at the right time is transformative, alarming (in a good way). It’s like a nineteenth-century galvanist is jolting me with electricity.

I do a lot of reading for professional purposes (keeping up with what’s coming out), so I sometimes must remind myself to let my fancy wander and read . . . whatever the hell I want. Another thing I need to remind myself to do is to read things on my TBR pile! You bought these books, you idiot, maybe you should look at them. A constant problem.

What has surprised you most about the experience of being a published author?

I’m always amazed that people take the time to write to me out of the blue. I can only imagine what it’s like if you’re, you know, actually a big deal writer.

How do you navigate self-doubt, rejection, or the inevitable setbacks that come with a creative career?

I am a world-class user of defence mechanisms.

What is the most valuable piece of writing advice you have ever received?

I find that the example set by other writers I admire, especially peers, is more motivating to me than maxims. It’s more valuable to me to observe the ups and downs of other people’s careers than to hear, like, ‘the brain is a muscle—exercise it’.

What advice would you give to aspiring writers?

Make sure you like writing, not just having written. I think there are some truly terrible temptations available to writers who want to get to the end product too quickly. (Yes, I am talking about generative AI.) But if you really do like writing, then probably nothing will stop you. I believe in you. We are so lucky to work in an artform that requires very few material inputs. I don’t need a tuba or big canvases or a theatre to do what I do. Life presents obstacles—of course it does—but in theory literature can be such a democratic artform.

If you could go back and have a conversation with the writer you were before your first book was published, what would you tell them?

You were a ‘real writer’ then, even if you barely felt like one. Having books doesn’t make you a writer. Writing does.

You can read two poems from Sick Power Trip by clicking here.

Keith Lyons (keithlyons.net) is an award-winning writer and creative writing mentor originally from New Zealand who has spent a quarter of his existence living and working in Asia including southwest China, Myanmar and Bali. His Venn diagram of happiness features the aroma of freshly-roasted coffee, the negative ions of the natural world including moving water, and connecting with others in meaningful ways. A Contributing Editor on Borderless Journal’sEditorial Board, his work has appeared in Borderless since its early days, and his writing featured in the anthology Monalisa No Longer Smiles.

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access Wild Winds: The Borderless Anthology of Poems

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Tags Aotearoa, Auckland University Press, Bali, China, Christchurch, climate change, Erik Kennedy, Keith Lyons, Myanmar, New Zealand, Newark Airport, Ockhams, Sick Power Trip, Te Herenga Waka University Press, US, Wordsworth, Ōtautahi

Poetry

Autumn Treasures by Keith Lyons

Post author By borderlesssg1
Post date May 14, 2026
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AUTUMN TREASURES
(For A.C.) 

Behind the cabbage tree casting afternoon shadows,
flanked by tufts of tussock
and spindly coprosma saplings,

late autumn held a quiet secret
on the last Sunday of April.

I almost passed them,
but in the shade
small lanterns still burned.

In awe, I knelt
to examine this improbable find.

So fragile, so easily crushed or crumbled,
I picked each one gently,
cradling the glowing late harvest in my hand.

Each hollowed dome
resembled an ornate temple
of intricate chambers,

red light passing through
their clustered sacred geometry.

Yet on the tongue:
succulent, fragrant, dissolving away,
leaving tiny seeds,
the very essence, between the teeth.

Some alchemy of light and warmth,
deepened by waiting,
had ripened them

far sweeter than childhood memories.

It is said raspberries are best
freshly picked from prickly canes
sunlit, sheltered, and watered.

Though this neglected rogue vine
crept along hard ground
facing the cold south.


Finding you was like that.

Not signposted,
just suddenly there.

Your natural ease,
your grounded presence.

No performance or pretence,
only shared attention,
where the moment feels complete enough
that neither past nor future intrudes.

Meeting you carried that same feeling:

a quiet astonishment,
and an awareness
of how fleeting
such sweetness can be.

Lanterns,
small lanterns lit; 
Lanterns that glowed against the coming winter.

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access Wild Winds: The Borderless Anthology of Poems

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Tags Asia, Bali, China, Keith Lyons, Myanmar, New Zealand

Essay

Some Changes Are Bigger Than Others

Post author By borderlesssg1
Post date March 16, 2026
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By Keith Lyons

Last month the Doomsday Clock had moved closer to midnight than at any point since it was created in 1947. Maintained by the Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists, the clock is meant to signal how close humanity stands to destroying itself, whether through nuclear conflict, climate breakdown or new technologies. Its latest shift suggests that we are living through a particularly dangerous moment.

That is one way to look at the year ahead.

Another comes from a friend of mine who follows astrology. “2026 will be intense,” she told me after we had worked out the time difference to talk. “There are major planetary shifts happening. But that also means there is potential for growth.”

Between scientific warning and planetary symbolism sits a familiar question. Are we heading towards catastrophe, or simply moving through another period of change?

It is difficult to judge the scale of events while we are inside them. Perspective usually comes later. At the time, everything feels amplified. The media leans towards urgency. Our own thoughts do the same. The expectation of upheaval can sometimes be more overwhelming than the experience itself.

In recent weeks there have been many reminders of transition: the turning of the calendar year; the Lunar New Year observed across China, parts of Southeast Asia, Korea and the Himalayan region; the beginning of Ramadan for Muslims around the world. These moments draw people together in ritual and reflection. They offer continuity, even when the wider world feels unstable.

At the same time, global leaders speak in stark terms. The Secretary-General of the United Nations recently described a world marked by conflict, inequality and unpredictability. Climate scientists warn that we have entered uncharted territory. Heat records continue to fall. Rain arrives in sudden deluges. Winters in some places are no longer as cold as they once were.

For centuries, seasonal rhythms have provided reassurance. Spring follows winter. Festivals return at roughly the same time each year. Even the Gregorian calendar, introduced in 1582, was an attempt to bring order to time.

The Greek philosopher, Heraclitus, wrote that no person steps into the same river twice. The water flows on, and so do we. It is a simple image, but it captures something steady and true about human life.

What feels different now is the speed. Changes that once unfolded across generations now seem compressed into years. Climate patterns shift within decades. Technology reshapes industries almost overnight. Artificial intelligence systems are altering the nature of work, leaving some people optimistic and others uncertain. I know people who are struggling to find employment, both those nearing the end of long careers and those only just starting out.

My friend attributes the turbulence to a conjunction of Saturn and Neptune. She links economic instability and political upheaval to movements in the sky. When she mentioned the recent increase in visible auroras, I thought of astronomers pointing out that the Sun is nearing the peak of its eleven-year solar cycle. Different explanations, same phenomena.

Whether we turn to science, philosophy or astrology, the underlying experience is similar. Things feel unsettled. Time feels faster. The future feels closer than it used to.

It is tempting either to tune out the warnings or to become consumed by them. Neither response changes what is happening. Ignoring risk does not reduce it. Constant alarm does not resolve it either.

We cannot return to a previous version of stability. The seasons will continue to shift, though perhaps less predictably. Technologies will continue to develop. Political arrangements will evolve. Some changes are small and gradual. Others are abrupt and disorienting.

The real question is how we live through them.

After our conversation, my friend sent a message: “Changes aren’t endings, but thresholds.” It is a hopeful way to think about uncertainty. Crossing a threshold suggests movement rather than collapse.

Perhaps this year calls for small, steady practices. Paying attention to what we consume, digitally and otherwise. Slowing down our thinking when everything pushes us to react. Staying connected to the people around us. These are modest responses, but they are within reach.

We step into the river again. The water is different. So are we.

Keith Lyons (keithlyons.net) is an award-winning writer and creative writing mentor originally from New Zealand who has spent a quarter of his existence living and working in Asia including southwest China, Myanmar and Bali. His Venn diagram of happiness features the aroma of freshly-roasted coffee, the negative ions of the natural world including moving water, and connecting with others in meaningful ways. A Contributing Editor on Borderless journal’sEditorial Board, his work has appeared in Borderless since its early days, and his writing featured in the anthology Monalisa No Longer Smiles.

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL.

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Kindle Amazon International

Tags Bali, Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists, China, Climate, Domsday Clock, Greek, Gregorian calendar, Heraclitus, Himalaayan, Keith Lyons, Korea, Muslims, Myanmar, Neptune, New Zealand, Ramadan, Saturn, Southeast Asia, United Nations

Interview

How ‘The Red Silk Dress’ Invites Reflection and Reinvention

Post author By borderlesssg1
Post date February 16, 2026
No Comments on How ‘The Red Silk Dress’ Invites Reflection and Reinvention

Keith Lyons in conversation with Natalie Turner, author of The Red Silk Dress

Tell us about your background and life. If you had to give a relatable elevator pitch to readers, what would you say?

I was born in 1968, a year of social upheaval, into a life shaped early by movement, belief, and questioning. My parents were Christian missionaries, so I grew up immersed in faith, travel, and a strong inner world. From a young age, I wanted to be a writer. I was also restless, resistant to fixed paths, and fiercely independent, which meant that desire took many shapes before it found its way home.

As a young adult, I travelled and worked across Asia and Latin America, experiences that expanded my worldview and quietly dismantled many of the belief systems I had inherited. I later studied politics, economics, and social psychology, worked in Parliament, and then moved into business and innovation, where I continue to help organisations navigate change. Writing stayed alive throughout, mostly through journals and ideas, even when it wasn’t centre stage.

The red thread running through my life has always been transformation. A willingness to question what no longer fits, and the courage to follow what is asking to emerge. Writing fiction felt like the most honest way to bring that thread home.

What first inspired The Red Silk Dress?

The inspiration came from living inside a world that looked complete from the outside but felt fractured beneath the surface. In Southeast Asia, I was surrounded by what’s often called the expat life, glamorous settings, elegant events, and success on display. Yet in quieter moments, especially in conversations with women, a very different story would surface.

Many were intelligent, capable, outwardly fulfilled, yet privately wrestling with a sense of loss. They had raised families and built impressive lives, yet somewhere along the way they felt they had misplaced themselves. The contrast between the polished exterior and the unspoken interior stayed with me.

At the same time, I recognised a parallel in myself. From the outside, my life also looked full and successful. Inside, I sensed something unfinished, something buried. The novel grew from that convergence. From the tension between what we show the world and what quietly asks for attention. Cambodia, and a writing retreat in Siem Reap, became the place where that question could no longer be ignored.

Why did you choose Claudette, a French woman living overseas, as the heart of this story?

I didn’t choose Claudette in a deliberate way. I wasn’t designing a character or thinking about nationality or backstory. She arrived. On the outskirts of Angkor Wat, during a writing retreat, surrounded by experienced writers and acutely aware of my own inexperience, this woman appeared fully formed in my imagination.

She was elegant and guarded, wearing a wide-brimmed white hat and dark glasses. She introduced herself as Claudette, from Paris, and asked me to write her story. When she removed her glasses, what struck me was the sadness in her eyes. That moment carried a quiet insistence. It wasn’t dramatic, but it was unmistakable.

I wrote the opening paragraph that day, and it remains the opening paragraph of the novel. Claudette wasn’t invented to make a point. She was the right vessel for the story that wanted to be told.

The novel explores longing, desire, and reinvention. What drew you to these themes?

Reinvention has always fascinated me because I’ve lived it. I’ve moved countries, changed careers, and rebuilt my life more than once. That capacity for agency, for choosing to become something new, has been a quiet through-line in my work and my thinking.

Longing and desire entered the novel more subtly. At the time, I was living in Penang, Malaysia, immersed in colour, texture, heat, and beauty. I began to experience desire not as something reckless or romanticised, but as a form of intelligence. A way back into memory, creativity, and the parts of us that go dormant when life becomes crowded with too much to do.

Longing, for me, is a signal. If we ignore it, we stay as we are. If we listen, it draws us inward, into an interior journey that can quietly change the course of our lives.

Is The Red Silk Dress a love story, or is it really about something deeper?

It’s about something deeper than a conventional love story. The love affair in The Red Silk Dress isn’t a romance in the usual sense, and it isn’t about escape or transgression for its own sake. It functions as a catalyst. Love, in Claudette’s case, is what wakes her up to herself.

What interested me was eros in its older meaning. A sensual awakening of the body and the senses, of attention and aliveness. A pause that draws us back into ourselves and allows us to inhabit moments more fully.

In that sense, eros doesn’t just awaken desire. It awakens attention. And sustained attention inevitably sharpens conscience. When we feel more alive, more present, more attuned, we become more aware of misalignment. Of what we are complicit in. Of what no longer feels bearable. That awareness naturally turns outward into questions of responsibility.

Places feel very alive in the book. Why were Cambodia, Malaysia, and Paris important settings?

The places are alive in the novel, as much a character as the people who inhabit it. Geography isn’t a backdrop for Claudette’s journey; it actively shapes it.

Cambodia is where the story begins because it is where her inner life is first disturbed and opened. I was deeply affected by Cambodia’s layers of history, from the ancient Angkor civilisation to the energy of contemporary artists, designers, and entrepreneurs rebuilding culture with pride and imagination. There is a sensuality and generosity in the country that opens Claudette.

Malaysia is her lived world. It is where I spent many years, moving between lush, gated communities, international enclaves, and the daily crossings into Singapore. That environment, with its contrasts between order and improvisation, privilege, and dislocation, shaped how Claudette learned to belong and not belong at the same time.

Paris represents origin and memory. It carries sensuality, identity, and an earlier version of herself. It is where Claudette must reckon with who she has been and who she is becoming, not nostalgically, but honestly.

And then there is Portugal, which sits quietly behind the book rather than inside the story. It is where the novel was edited, refined, and completed. After the intensity of Asia, it offered a different rhythm. More space. More listening. It was here that what had been awakened elsewhere could be integrated and shaped with patience.

For me, the locale is never decorative. Each country asks something different of Claudette. Cambodia opens her. Malaysia tests her sense of belonging. Paris calls her to reckon with her past.

What’s your connection with Malaysia, Cambodia, and Singapore, and what was your experience living and working there?

I moved to Singapore in 2010, initially for work. It was still a time when the traditional expat package existed, and the city was dazzling, ordered, and highly curated. I was fascinated by it, not because it was my life, but because of what it revealed about status, success, and performance.

We moved to Malaysia largely for practical reasons. In Johor Bahru, we became part of a more entrepreneurial, improvised community, shaped by people building lives across borders. I crossed into Singapore several times a week, so the contrast between those two societies became part of my daily rhythm.

Penang was where something settled. It was slower, textured, steeped in history. It was also where I returned fully to writing and committed to the novel. After years of living between worlds, Penang became the place where the book could finally be written.

You’ve lived and worked across many countries. How has that shaped the way you write about identity and belonging?

Living across countries has made identity feel less fixed and more relational. Belonging isn’t something you arrive at once and for all. It shifts depending on place, people, and season of life.

Being immersed in different cultures sharpened my sensitivity to belief systems, values, and the ways we construct meaning. Living now in Portugal has added another layer. After years of movement, it has offered a sense of feeling grounded without confinement. A rhythm where I can listen differently.

I now find myself writing more reflective cultural pieces that explore place, memory, and creativity. Belonging, I’ve learned, is not about fitting in neatly. It’s about learning how to be changed by place while remaining true to yourself.

You often write about moments when life quietly asks us to change. Where does that fascination come from?

From my own life. I’ve reinvented not just what I do, but how I think. What interests me most are the subtle moments when something no longer fits and begins to ask different questions.

Real change rarely arrives loudly. It comes as a discomfort, a quiet misalignment. Innovation, like personal change, requires the courage to step beyond conformity and tolerate uncertainty. I’ve always been drawn to that edge because it is where life becomes most alive.

Your professional work focuses on creativity and transformation. Did those ideas find their way into this story?

Yes, though not in a literal way. My work has always been about how change unfolds as lived experience. Claudette’s journey follows that inner arc. Awareness, awakening, investigation, and consequence.

Creativity also enters the novel through the senses. Fabric, silk, touch, style. I wanted creativity to live in the body, not just the mind. In that sense, the story becomes a meeting place between beauty and transformation.

Did writing The Red Silk Dress change how you see yourself or your work?

The act of writing, and the way the book moved me emotionally and sensorially, awakened a level of creative energy I hadn’t experienced before. When I finished the novel, I realised I had opened a door into a new phase of my life.

It also reoriented my work. I no longer separate creativity, leadership, and transformation into neat categories. They belong together. Writing the novel didn’t replace my previous work. It gave it a deeper centre.

In parallel, I continue my work with women in leadership, creating spaces where they can step back from performance and certainty and listen more deeply to themselves. In many ways, those spaces and the novel are in a subtle, mutually reinforcing conversation. Both are about reconnecting with agency, voice, and purpose, not as theory but as lived experience.

Who do you think this book is for?

It will likely resonate most strongly with women who are curious, reflective, and drawn to immersive stories. Readers who want to be transported into another world and enjoy discovering history, culture, and meaning through story.

That said, men have responded deeply too. Several have shared how meaningful it was to inhabit a woman’s inner world so intimately. While it is a woman’s journey, the relationships and portrayals of masculinity are layered and intentional.

At heart, it’s for readers standing at a threshold. Those who sense a quiet unease and are open to being moved by a story that stays with them.

If a reader recognises themselves in Claudette’s struggle, what would you want them to take from her story?

I would want them to pause first. To take a breath and turn inward. Claudette’s story isn’t a prescription or a manifesto. It’s an invitation to reflect.

If there is one thing I hope readers take from her journey, it’s the understanding that feeling trapped does not mean being powerless. Agency often begins quietly, with hope, courage, and a willingness to trust what is asking to emerge.

And that emergence isn’t just personal. It shapes how we show up in our families, our work, our communities. Change, in this story, is not about abandoning life, but about stepping back into it with greater responsibility for the world we are helping to shape.

What do you hope readers feel or reflect on after turning the final page?

Above all, I hope the book creates a pause. A moment of deeper listening. Not a rush to act or decide, but an invitation to sit with what is emerging.

What’s your advice to aspiring writers?

I think writing begins with attention. Being open to life, to what keeps circling at the edges of consciousness, to the story that wants to be told. Craft matters enormously, of course. Writing a novel asks for depth, endurance, and commitment well beyond beautiful prose. Technique only comes alive when it is in the service of something true, something rooted in vulnerability. Finding your story is about learning how to listen, and then having the courage and patience to give it form.

Keith Lyons (keithlyons.net) is an award-winning writer and creative writing mentor originally from New Zealand who has spent a quarter of his existence living and working in Asia including southwest China, Myanmar and Bali. His Venn diagram of happiness features the aroma of freshly-roasted coffee, the negative ions of the natural world including moving water, and connecting with others in meaningful ways. A Contributing Editor on Borderless journal’s Editorial Board, his work has appeared in Borderless since its early days, and his writing featured in the anthology Monalisa No Longer Smiles.

Click here to read an excerpt from the book.

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL.

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Kindle Amazon International

Tags Angkor Wat, Asia, Bali, Cambodia, China, Johor Baru, Keith Lyons, Latin America, Lisbon, Malaysia, Myanmar, New Zealand, Penang, Portugal, Singapore, The Red Silk Dress

Editorial

Sense and Nonsense: Atonal, Imperfect, Incomplete

Post author By borderlesssg1
Post date January 14, 2026
No Comments on Sense and Nonsense: Atonal, Imperfect, Incomplete

Incomplete statues of Michelangelo in Accademia Gallery, Florence

In the Accademia Gallery, Florence, are housed incomplete statues by Michelangelo that were supposed to accompany his sculpture of Moses on the grand tomb of Pope Julius II. The sculptures despite being unfinished, incomplete and therefore imperfect, evoke a sense of power. They seem to be wresting forcefully with the uncarved marble to free their own forms — much like humanity struggling to lead their own lives. Life now is comparable to atonal notes of modern compositions that refuse to fall in line with more formal, conventional melodies. The new year continues with residues of unending wars, violence, hate and chaos. Yet amidst all this darkness, we still live, laugh and enjoy small successes. The smaller things in our imperfect existence bring us hope, the necessary ingredient that helps us survive under all circumstances.

Imperfections, like Michelangelo’s Non-finito statues in Florence, or modern atonal notes, go on to create vibrant, relatable art. There is also a belief that when suffering is greatest, arts flourish. Beauty and hope are born of pain. Will great art or literature rise out of the chaos we are living in now? One wonders if ancient art too was born of humanity’s struggle to survive in a comparatively younger world where they did not understand natural forces and whose history we try to piece together with objects from posterity. Starting on a journey of bringing ancient art from her part of the world, Ratnottama Sengupta shares a new column with us from this January.

Drenched in struggles of the past is also Showkat Ali’s The Struggle: A Novel, translated from Bengali by V. Ramaswamy and Mohiuddin Jahangir. It has been reviewed by Somdatta Mandal who sees it a socio-economic presentation of the times. We also carry an excerpt from the book as we do for Anuradha Marwah’s The Higher Education of Geetika Mehendiratta. Marwha’s novel has been reviewed by Meenakshi Malhotra who sees it as a bildungsroman and a daring book. Bhaskar Parichha has brought to us a discussion on colonial history about Rakesh Dwivedi’s Colonization Crusade and Freedom of India: A Saga of Monstrous British Barbarianism around the Globe. Udita Banerjee has also delved into history with her exploration of Angshuman Kar’s The Lost Pendant, a collection of poems written by poets who lived through the horrors of Partition and translated from Bengali by multiple poets. One of the translators, Rajorshi Patranabis, has also discussed his own book of supernatural encounters, Whereabouts of the Anonymous: Exploration of the Invisible. A Wiccan by choice, Patranbis claims to have met with residual energies or what we in common parlance call ghosts and spoken to many of them. He not only clicked these ethereal beings — and has kindly shared his photos in this feature — but also has written a whole book about his encounters, including with the malevolent spirits of India’s most haunted monument, the Bhangarh Fort.

Bringing us an essay on a book that had spooky encounters is Farouk Gulsara, showing how Dickens’ A Christmas Carol revived a festival that might have got written off. We have a narrative revoking the past from Larry Su, who writes of his childhood in the China of the 1970s and beyond. He dwells on resilience — one of the themes we love in Borderless Journal. Karen Beatty also invokes ghosts from her past while sharing her memoir. Rick Bailey brings in a feeling of mortality in his musing while Keith Lyons, writes in quest of his friend who mysteriously went missing in Bali. Let’s hope he finds out more about him.

Charudutta Panigrahi writes a lighthearted piece on barbers of yore, some of whom can still be found plying their trade under trees in India. Randriamamonjisoa Sylvie Valencia dwells on her favourite place which continues to rejuvenate and excite while Prithvijeet Sinha writes about haunts he is passionate about, the ancient monuments of Lucknow. Gulsara has woven contemporary lores into his satirical piece, involving Messi, the footballer. Bringing compassionate humour with his animal interactions is Devraj Singh Kalsi, who is visited daily by not just a bovine visitor, but cats, monkeys, birds and more — and he feeds them all. Suzanne Kamata takes us to Kishi, brought to us by both her narrative and pictures, including one of a feline stationmaster!

Rhys Hughes has discussed prose poems and shared a few of his own along with three separate tongue-in-cheek verses on meteorological romances. In poetry, we have a vibrant selection from across the globe with poems by Ryan Quinn Flanagan, Ron Pickett, Snehaprava Das, Stephen Druce, Phil Wood, Akintoye Akinsola, Michael Lauchlan, Pritika Rao, SR Inciardi, Jim Murdoch, Pramod Rastogi, Joy Anne O’Donnell, Andrew Leggett, Ananya Sarkar and Annette Gagliardi. Rich Murphy has poignant poems about refugees while Dmitry Bliznik of Ukraine, has written a first-hand account of how he fared in his war-torn world in his poignant poem, ‘A Poet in Exile’, translated from Ukranian by Sergey Gerasimov —

We've run away from the simmering house
like milk that is boiling over. Now I'm single again.
The sun hangs behind a ruffled up shed,
like a bloody yolk on a cold frying pan
until the nightfall dumps it in the garbage…

('A Poet in Exile', by Dmitry Blizniuk, translated from Ukranian by Sergey Gerasimov)

In translations, we have Professor Fakrul Alam’s rendition of Nazrul’s mellifluous lyrics from Bengali. Isa Kamari has shared four more of his Malay poems in English bringing us flavours of his culture. Snehaparava Das has similarly given us flavours of Odisha with her translation of Pravasini Mahakuda’s Odia poetry. A taste of Balochistan comes to us from Fazal Baloch’s rendition of Sayad Hashumi’s Balochi quatrains in English. Tagore’s poem ‘Kalponik’ (Imagined) has been rendered in English. This was a poem that was set to music by his niece, Sarala Devi.

After a long hiatus, we are delighted to finally revive Pandies Corner with a story by Sumona translated from Hindustani by Grace M Sukanya. Her story highlights the ongoing struggle against debilitating rigid boundaries drawn by societal norms. Sumana has assumed a pen name as her story is true and could be a security risk for her. She is eager to narrate her story — do pause by and take a look.

In fiction, we have a poignant narrative about befriending a tramp by Ross Salvage, and macabre and dark one by Mary Ellen Campagna, written with a light touch. It almost makes one think of Eugene Ionesco. Jonathan B. Ferrini shares a heartfelt story about used Steinway pianos and growing up in Latino Los Angeles. Rajendra Kumar Roul weaves a narrative around compassion and expectations. Naramsetti Umamaheswararao gives a beautiful fable around roses and bees.

With that, we come to the end of a bumper issue with more than fifty peices. Huge thanks to all our fabulous contributors, some of whom have not just written but shared photographs to illustrate the content. Do pause by our contents page and take a look. My heartfelt thanks to our fabulous team for their output and support, especially Sohana Manzoor who does our cover art. And most of all huge thanks to readers whose numbers keep growing, making it worth our while to offer our fare. Thank you all.

Here’s wishing all of you better prospects for the newborn year and may we move towards peace and sanity in a world that seems to have gone amuck!

Happy Reading!

Mitali Chakravarty

borderlessjournal.com

CLICK HERE TO ACCESS THE CONTENTS FOR THE JANUARY 2026 ISSUE.

READ THE LATEST UPDATES ON THE FIRST BORDERLESS ANTHOLOGY, MONALISA NO LONGER SMILES, BY CLICKING ON THIS LINK.

Tags A Christmas Carol, Accademia Gallery, Akintoye Akinsola, Ananya Sarkar, Andrew Leggett, Angshuman Kar, Annette Gagliardi, Anuradha Marwah, Bali, Balochi, Balochistan, Bengali, Bhangarh Fort, Bhaskar Parichha, Borderless Journal, Charudutta Panigrahi, China, Devraj Singh Kalsi, Dickens, Dmitry Bliznik, Eugene Ionesco, Fakrul Alam, Farouk Gulsara, Fazal Baloch, Florence, Grace M Sukanya, Hindutani, Isa Kamari, Jim Murdoch, Jonathan B. Ferrini, Joy Anne O’Donnell, Kalponik, Karen Beatty, Keith Lyons, Kishi, Larry Su, Latino, Los Angeles, Lucknow, Malay, Mary Ellen Campagna, Meenakshi Malhotra, Messi, Michael Lauchlan, Michelangelo, Mitali Chakravarty, Mohiuddin Jahangir, Naramsetti Umamaheswararao, Nazrul, Non finito statues, Odia, Odisha, Pandies Corner, Partition, Phil Wood, Pope Julius II, Pramod Rastogi, Pravasini Mahakuda, Prithvijeet Sinha, Pritika Rao, Rajendra Kumar Roul, Rajorshi Patranabis, Rakesh Dwivedi, Randriamamonjisoa Sylvie Valencia, Ratnottama Sengupta, Rhys Hughes, Rich Murphy, Rick Bailey, Ron Pickett, Ross Salvage, Ryan Quinn Flanagan, Sarala Devi, Sergey Gerasimov, Showkat Ali, Snehaprava Das, Sohana Manzoor, Somdatta Mandal, SR Inciardi, Steinway, Stephen Druce, Sumona, Suzanne Kamata, The Higher Education of Geetika Mehendiratta, The Lost Pendant, The Struggle: A Novel, Title: Colonization Crusade and Freedom of India: A Saga of Monstrous British Barbarianism around the Globe, Udita Banerjee, Ukraine, Ukrainian, V.Ramaswamy, Whereabouts of the Anonymous: Exploration of the Invisible, Wiccan

Slices from Life

Duties For Those Left Behind

Post author By borderlesssg1
Post date January 14, 2026
No Comments on Duties For Those Left Behind

By Keith Lyons

So many questions remain about Dean. Many remain unanswered. Top of that list would have to be “Is Dean still alive?”, followed by “How and when did Dean die?”

But underlying all those questions about a gentleman I met in Indonesia in the late 2010s is the fact that I, along with many others who encountered him on the island of Bali, regard him as a ‘good man’ and miss his presence.

“Have you ever wondered if he is still alive but just can’t communicate?” suggested an associate; a possible scenario, given Dean was in his seventh decade on this Earth. “What would happen if he just turns up again? Wouldn’t that be funny?” another pondered.

I first met Dean a couple of years after I moved to the cultural heart of Bali, Ubud, a small town a couple of hundred metres above sea level, a place sometimes with its head in the clouds. When I moved into a room overlooking the rice paddies, just 10 minutes’ walk from the centre of town, I heard about Dean before I first met him in person. Staff mentioned the other ‘permanent’ residing in the neighbouring bungalow. Later that day, in the turquoise waters of the infinity pool that overlooked the gully cloaked in jungle, I saw a figure glide underwater from one end to the other, dive flippers giving the impression the creature was both extraordinarily tall and also well-suited to amphibious life.

Dean, as I was later to learn, was both frugal and generous. I never quite worked out if he was living off savings or a veteran’s benefit. Or if he served in the military or actively tried to avoid it. When I first met him on the pathway that connects our respective residences to the main path that straddles the accommodation and the rice fields, he told me how he would eat lunch at a local food stall, known as a warung, with it being as little as 10,000 rupiah — less than US$1 — for a simple rice-based meal.

He cared less for the plethora of cute Instagram cafes and foodie-recommended ‘must-try’ restaurants that catered to the tourists who thronged the central market and motorcycle-packed streets of Jalan Raya Ubud. Though, there was one exception. Every so often, sometimes to mark his arrival back from a visa-run to Malaysia (most foreigners living in Bali usually have to exit every three or six months depending on their visas), or at the end of his long stay, when he was about to travel elsewhere in south east Asia, as the end of year rainy season ramped up — then Dean displayed his munificence. He would treat the staff — and a few hangers on — to a calzone from a long-established pizza joint that prided itself on its secret sauce. Being a folded-over pizza, the fillings remain hot during its journey in the box on the back of a Honda Vario scooter.

I got invited to join in one of those calzone feasts. We sat under a long pagoda looking out across beyond the pool and jungle to the terraces and the ridge where silhouettes were just visible in the twilight. Dean was very much a global citizen, well-travelled, and scuba diving in almost as many countries as he had visited. He had worked as a dive instructor at schools and resorts. He still had with him equipment for aqua-living, along with other items stored in other places where he had lived and worked.

Just as scuba diving requires adherence to safe practices and procedures, Dean’s life on terra firma also followed routines and habits, which he hoped would ensure his longevity. One day he asked me to check an unusual skin condition with white patchiness on his upper arm, which he had convinced himself by Googling might be pre-cancerous. He was going to have it checked out, but on closer inspection, I thought it might just be a local fungal infection. Fortunately, it cleared up a week or so later, so he didn’t have to visit a clinic.

Because Dean seemed to live such an active life and appeared fitter and healthier than most of the visitors to Bali, it seemed like he was in a sweet spot: retired but active, living a simple life of contentment, sharing good vibes with all and sundry.

So, it was a surprise, after the COVID pandemic with its travel restrictions, that I didn’t hear from Dean, and later, concluded he must have left us. It was only a few months ago when I returned to Bali that the reality of his absence became more evident. When I visited, instead of my usual room at the end of the block overlooking the jungle, I was given the next upstairs bungalow, the one Dean usually stayed in.

Staff, as well as the former ‘manager’ and one of his closest friends, told me they hadn’t heard from him for more than a year. He’d moved to a coastal settlement, closer to the sea, and there were rumours he’d met someone. “Perhaps she was a gold-digger,” suggested his local friend, who I’ll call No. 4. “But I don’t think Dean had much gold for her to mine.”

As we sat under the gazebo, gazing out at the perfect postcard scene of harmony between humans and nature, No. 4 confided that if Dean had already died, he had a rather onerous duty. Dean had asked him to dispose of his body. I thought perhaps that the American might have requested a cremation ritual, common on the island, which has evolved a blend of Hinduism, animism, and Buddhism into a rich mix of ceremony and devotion. But no, instead, he had requested that No.4 deal with his bodily form in another way. “See those coconut trees,” No.4 pointed towards the tall palm trees in the gully, which rose high up to their crown canopy of green fronds sheltering its fruit orbs. “Dean wanted to be strung up in one of those.”

We talked about the practicality of somehow hauling his body up 25 metres or more, and then about what processes and creatures might consume his corpse. It was quite a natural way to go, we concluded, though we did wonder about the sight, smell and impact on other guests staying in the bungalows.

“Dean also had another option, he mentioned to me a few times,” said No. 4, who seemed troubled by the responsibility. Plan B involved Dean’s body being fed to the lions at Bali Zoo. Dean had obviously given this some thought, and it weighed heavily on No.4, not just his role as Dean’s body caretaker, but what the duty might entail.

The following evening, my last before heading back home, I invited No.4 and some of others who knew Dean to get together. Amid the chat and speculation, the cool drinks and spicy snacks, as the breeze picked up and swayed the coconut trees gently this way and that, we had an informal farewell to Dean. Another of his friends — let’s call him Guitar Man — nominated one coconut tree and reckoned with some rope it would be possible to string up a body. No one wanted to try calling Dean’s phone, so I did again, just to confirm it was true. The number was out of service.

Another who knew Dean, let’s call him TaxiMan, talked through what Plan B might involve: chopping up with a machete Dean’s corpse, putting it into bags, visiting the zoo during its 9am to 5pm opening hours, and either throwing the parts over into the lion’s enclosure, or joining the special ‘Lion Feeding’ session (US$5). “I can find out what times they feed the lions and tigers,” he said, having worked out the practicality of this option. No. 4 looked nervous. There was more risk attached with this option, not just from a lion’s fangs, but from the law. How would you explain bags of body parts?

Then, just in time, I heard the strain of the motor-scooter coming up the rise of the terrace towards our place. It was the pizza delivery guy bearing two boxes with calzones I’d ordered.

As for Dean, we still don’t know for sure if he has died. We don’t know the circumstances of his death, or what remains of his body. What we do know is that he is still cherished and remembered. And that there can be few better legacies than to have friends fondly recall a person with a blend of missing, gratitude, and humour.

Keith Lyons (keithlyons.net) is an award-winning writer and creative writing mentor originally from New Zealand who has spent a quarter of his existence living and working in Asia including southwest China, Myanmar and Bali. His Venn diagram of happiness features the aroma of freshly-roasted coffee, the negative ions of the natural world including moving water, and connecting with others in meaningful ways. A Contributing Editor on Borderless journal’s Editorial Board, his work has appeared in Borderless since its early days, and his writing featured in the anthology Monalisa No Longer Smiles.

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL.

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Kindle Amazon International

Tags American, animism, Asia, Bali, Buddhism, China, COVID, Hinduism, Keith Lyons, Myanmar, New Zealand, Ubud

Interview

Harry Ricketts: Mentor, Poet, Essayist…

Post author By borderlesssg1
Post date December 15, 2025
No Comments on Harry Ricketts: Mentor, Poet, Essayist…

Keith Lyons in conversation with Harry Ricketts, a writer and mentor who found himself across continents and oceans

Harry Ricketts has authored thirty books and mentored many writers, including Keith Lyons. Photo Courtesy: Robert Cross

Harry Ricketts is a New Zealand poet, essayist, and literary biographer whose work has gained recognition for its wit, lyricism, and insight into memory, identity, and everyday life. He has published widely across poetry, biography, and literary criticism, and his writing blends formal elegance with accessibility. After studying at Oxford University, he taught in the UK and Hong Kong before moving to New Zealand in the early 1980s. A respected teacher and mentor, Ricketts has shaped both the literary culture of New Zealand and the broader English-language literary world through his poetry, essays, and guidance to emerging writers. His works include a major biography of the British India-born journalist, novelist, poet, and short-story writer Rudyard Kipling, The Unforgiving Minute, Strange Meetings: The Poets of the Great War, and his most recent books, the memoir First Things, and the poetry collection Bonfires on the Ice. His How to Live Elsewhere (2004) is one of twelve titles in the Montana Estates essay series published by Four Winds Press. The press was established by Lloyd Jones to encourage and develop the essay genre in New Zealand. In his essay, Ricketts reflects on his move from England to New Zealand. In this interview, he brings to us not only on his writerly life but also his journey as a mentor for other writers.

KL: Tell us about your early life?

HR: My father was a British army officer, and we moved every two years till I was ten: England, Malaysia, two different parts of England, Hong Kong, England. My first words were probably Malay. From eight to eighteen, I went to boarding schools in England; apart from the cricket and one or two teachers, this was not a positive experience.

KL: How do you think moving around affected you, and your sense of self and being in the world? Does that transience shape your perspective and writing now?

HR: I think constantly moving around gave me a very equivocal sense of belonging anywhere and also a strong sense of needing to adapt (up to a point) to wherever I found myself. I was an only child, and friendship became and remains incredibly important to me. Perhaps this hard-wired sense of temporariness has contributed to my trying to produce as many different kinds of books as possible, but eventually you discover what you can and can’t do: I can’t write novels.

KL: How has your sense of ‘home’ evolved in your work over the years?

HR: As above, but I’ve lived in New Zealand for more than forty years, so that must count for something. My second wife, Belinda, was a Kiwi; for thirty years, she was a lovely person to share the world with. I’d say I like to live slightly at an angle to whatever community I’m in.

KL: How did books and poems come into your life, and what do you think have been influences on your later work?

HR: My mother was a great reader and read me Beatrix Potter, A.A. Milne etc as a child. When I was seven, I had measles and had to stay in bed for a fortnight. I read Arthur Ransome’s Peter Duck and then I couldn’t stop. Books were a protection and a passion at boarding school. As for poetry, at school we had to learn poems by heart which I enjoyed and later recited them in class which was nerve-wracking. When I was fifteen – like many others – I fell in love with Keats, then a few years later it was Sylvia Plath, Ted Hughes, T.S. Eliot, Gerard Manley Hopkins, C.P. Cavafy ….. I was also listening to a lot of music, particularly singer songwriters like Bob Dylan, Leonard Cohen, Richard Thompson, Joni Mitchell.

Everything you read and listen to is an influence. My mind is a lumber-room of things I’ve read and listened to, things other people have said, things that have happened to me and to others, places I’ve been, love and friendship – and all that crops up in my poems in one way or another. Plath and Hughes were a wrong trail. It took me a while to work that out. Well into my twenties, I couldn’t stand Philip Larkin, but not now. I like witty, melancholy poets.

KL: Your first book, People Like Us: Sketches of Hong Kong was published when you were 27. How did that come about.? What satisfaction did you get from seeing your name in print?

HR: People Like Us is a mixture of short stories and song lyrics. Hong Kong, as I experienced it in the 1970s, (still very much a British colony) was a heterogeneous mishmash of styles, and I tried to mimic that mishmash in the pieces I wrote. I was pleased when it got published but it wasn’t much good.

KL: Can you describe your writing space?

HR: I have a small study, but since Belinda died two years ago, I’ve shifted to the kitchen table. She wouldn’t have approved, but the kitchen is light and airy and the stove-top coffee-maker close by.

KL: What is your writing process from start to finish?

HR: I do a lot of drafts. First thoughts can almost always be improved. A friend likes to say, ‘It’s not the writing; it’s the rewriting’, and I agree. But some poems have come quite quickly. When I’m writing prose, I often play music, but not when I’m working on a poem.

KL: What usually sparks a new poem for you: an image, a phrase, or a rhythm?

HR: It can be anything really. I’m usually doing something else entirely – writing an email or some piece of prose or just walking around – and something will interrupt me. It’s often a phrase which for some reason acts like a magnet, attracting another phrase or an images or an idea. It might be something I’m reading; this has happened with English poets like Edward Thomas, Philip Larkin, James Fenton, Hugo Williams and Wendy Cope and New Zealand poets like Bill Manhire, Fleur Adcock and Nick Ascroft. Occasionally, I’ve written a commissioned poem: for a friend’s wedding, say.

KL: How do you balance experimentation with accessibility in your work?

HR: I don’t think like that, but I do try not to repeat myself if I can help it. However, several poems of mine have had successors; so I wrote a poem in the mid-1980s about my six-year-old daughter Jessie called ‘Your Secret Life’, imagining her as a teenager and me waiting up late for her to return home, and my latest collection contains a ‘Your Secret Life 5’, written when she was forty. I’ve found myself writing a few poem-sequences recently, including one about an imaginary New Zealand woman poet. That was quite new for me.

KL: How do your roles as poet, biographer, and critic feed into each other?

HR: Constructively, I hope. I think you can always get prose out of yourself if you sit there long enough (fiction writers might disagree), but not poems. Some initial reverberation/interruption has to happen, some ‘spark’, as you put it. It’s all writing, of course, and writing is a habit. You have to keep doing it, otherwise that part of you switches itself off or attends to other things.

KL: Looking back across more than thirty books, what evolution do you see in your writing life, and what themes do you keep on coming back to?

HR: I think lots of writers (except the very vain ones) suffer from versions of ‘imposter syndrome’ and have problems with their personal myth — that they are a writer. I’ve got a bit more confident that I am a writer and in particular that I can write poems. Getting published helps a lot with the personal myth: something you’ve done is now out in the world. Once you publish a book, though, you lose any control you had over it. People may love it, hate or, worst of all, ignore it. But that’s just the deal.

I prefer the term preoccupations to themes. I’m preoccupied with people, places, trying to make sense of the past, happiness, the role of luck, life’s oddities, incongruities and ambiguities….

KL: You often talk about ‘gaps’, doubt, and ambiguity as central to your work. How do these function in your poetry today?

HR: To measure gaps, to be in doubt, to see the ambiguity in things: that just seems to me to be human. Poems can be acts of discovery or at least partial clarification. They can also simply preserve something: an experience, a moment, a realisation, some sense of those we love.

KL: You describe teaching as a kind of midwifery: helping writers bring out what is already within them. How did you arrive at that approach?

HR: Decades of teaching suggest to me that encouragement is more likely to help someone tell the stories they have it in them to tell rather than giving them a hard time. Writing can be a bit like giving birth and, for some, having support and encouragement is more helpful than trying to do it all on your own. Of course, in the end you do have to do most of it on your own.

KL: What advice did you find yourself giving students most often, and does it still hold true for you?

HR: I have taught poetry courses, but over the last twenty-five years I’ve mostly taught creative non-fiction. I often quote Lytton Strachey’s comment that ‘Discretion is not the better part of biography’ and then add: ‘Nor the better part of autobiography.’ I also suggest that mixed feelings are more interesting to write out of and about than clearcut ones. If you’re writing about someone else, pure admiration tends to produce hagiography, pure dislike a vindictive portrait – all warts, rather than warts and all. Serious doesn’t mean earnest; you can be serious and funny at the same time.

KL: What is the best advice you’ve received as a writer?

HR: The best advice it would have been helpful to be given (but no one did) would have been: ‘Don’t eat your heart out trying to be a kind of writer you aren’t (say, a novelist). Try to find out what kind of writer you are and pursue that as hard as you can.’ Chaucer knew: ‘The lyf so short, the craft so long to lerne.’

KL: Which authors do you most often recommend to students or emerging poets?

HR: I mostly suggest they should read as widely as they can and that they should read as a writer.

KL: What writers are you returning to most these days?

HR: I often go back to Montaigne’s essays and Orwell’s and Virginia Woolf’s. Poets I often reread include: Derek Mahon, Hugo Williams, Thomas Gray, Wendy Cope, Fleur Adcock, Edward Thomas, Andrew Marvell, Seamus Heaney, Lauris Edmond, Anne French, Robert Browning, Thomas Hardy, Philip Larkin …

KL: What responsibilities do reviewers have to writers, and what responsibilities do they have to readers?

HR: Reviewers have an obligation to be fair-minded towards their subject and to write something as worth reading (ie well-written and enjoyable) as any other piece of prose.

KL: How can reviewers give criticism that is honest yet constructive?

HR: They should try to understand what the writer was aiming at (rather than the thing they think the writer should have been aiming at) and judge the work accordingly. This is easier said than done. Writers rarely remember the positives reviewers say, and rarely forget the negatives. Reviewing is hard, if you’re trying to do a good job. In a small country like New Zealand, there’s only one-and-a-half degrees of separation, which makes puffing and pulling your punches a tempting prospect.

KL: What kind of legacy do you hope to leave through your poetry and teaching?

HR: Whatever legacy you might leave (and few writers or teachers in the scale of things leave any) is not up to you. But of course writers hope people will positively remember something they’ve written and that their work will continue to be read after their death. When I think of the teachers who have matter to me, I think of them with immense gratitude and I hope some of my pupils might feel something of that, too.

KL: Is there a question about your work that you wish people asked more often?

HR: Interesting question, but I don’t really have an answer. Perhaps ‘Why, given that you also write plenty of poems in free verse, do you still think that there are possibilities in fixed poetic forms like the sonnet, villanelle and triolet?’ I could talk about that for a long time.

KL: If your life was a movie, what would the audience be screaming out to you now?

HR: Keep going! Well, I’d like to think they might.

KL: What’s next for you? What are you working on now?

HR: I’m threequarters of the way through a second volume of memoirs and about to write about a particularly difficult part of my life. I want to finish that and then a third volume, if I can. And write more poems.

*This interview has been conducted through emails.

Click here to read Harry Rickett’s poem.

Keith Lyons (keithlyons.net) is an award-winning writer and creative writing mentor originally from New Zealand who has spent a quarter of his existence living and working in Asia including southwest China, Myanmar and Bali. His Venn diagram of happiness features the aroma of freshly-roasted coffee, the negative ions of the natural world including moving water, and connecting with others in meaningful ways. A Contributing Editor on Borderless journal’sEditorial Board, his work has appeared in Borderless since its early days, and his writing featured in the anthology Monalisa No Longer Smiles.

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Kindle Amazon International

Interview

Folklore, Fiction, Ghosts and Grammar

Post author By borderlesssg1
Post date March 14, 2025
No Comments on Folklore, Fiction, Ghosts and Grammar

Storytelling is central to the life and work of Malaysian author, editor and teacher, Daphne Lee. Keith Lyons finds out what keeps her up at night.

When I¹ first met Daphne Lee in person, in a Chinese Buddhist cafe in Christchurch, New Zealand, on a summery day. I was struck by her curiosity. And I came away impressed, not just by how she delights in hearing ghost stories, myths, supernatural tales, and folklore but how she makes connections to the universality of storytelling, and what lies beneath.

As well as being a collector and curator of stories, she’s a writer, a creative writing teacher, and an editor—since 2009 she’s been consulting editor at Scholastic Asia. She’s been active in supporting the work of writers and illustrators of children’s and young adult literature with Asian content. Daphne curated and edited Malaysian Tales: Retold & Remixed (ZI Publications) in 2011 and Remang: An Anthology of Ghostly Tales (Terrer Books) in 2018, while Bright Landscapes, Daphne’s first collection of short stories, was published in 2019. She’s working on a new short story collection, and her first novel, which she is currently revising while in New Zealand on a writing retreat, far from the streets of Kuala Lumpur and her Roman Catholic school upbringing.You can find out more about the multi-talented Daphne at her website https://daphnelee.org/.

Interview with Keith Lyons

What inspired you to create Remang: An Anthology of Ghostly Tales?

Malaysians love ghost stories. We would rather any misfortune or unusual occurrence be caused by a spirit or other supernatural phenomena than try to figure out a logical reason. Having said that, I don’t believe in ghosts, but I do enjoy ghost stories. I thought it would be fun to edit a collection of these, but I was wrong …

How do you approach writing and curating ghost stories? What elements do you feel make a truly eerie and memorable tale?

I prefer a story to suggest a mood and to be atmospherically or suggestively spooky than to be full of gory and blood-curdling details. I like the sort of ghost stories that are frightening only if you read between the lines or that seem unremarkable at first, but months later, you suddenly realise what it all means.

Your work often draws from Asian folklore and supernatural beliefs. Are there any particular myths or legends that have influenced your storytelling?

Nothing in particular, but I have heard the same stories all my life and with surprisingly few variations and differences. I enjoy retelling the old tales or building on elements in them. Hopefully, I make a completely new story, but with recognisable features because I like reading stories in which there are some familiar details.

Do you have a personal ghost story or supernatural experience that shaped your interest in this genre?

My family lived in a haunted house in my hometown (Segamat in Johor, the peninsula’s southern-most state) and we experienced things like lights going on and off, footsteps, odd, unexplained sounds, and so on. I can’t remember much, but I don’t think any of us ever felt threatened during the eight years we lived there. If there were spirits, they were not malevolent. My interest in the supernatural was probably more shaped by the films I watched as a child, including The Exorcist and the Hammer House of Horror — Dracula films starring Christopher Lee.

As an editor, what do you look for in a compelling ghost story?

The problem with the ghost stories we tell one another is that they are usually just anecdotal fragments. I look for fully-formed stories with well-developed characters—the ghostly element might even seem merely incidental to the plot yet be significant enough to make an impression. It should haunt you a long time after you’ve stopped reading.

How do you balance creative freedom with maintaining a strong thematic or narrative structure in an anthology?

I’ve curated two anthologies—one of ghost stories and the other of retellings of folktales, myths and legends. For both the brief was quite open and I welcomed a variety of styles and voices.

What are some of the challenges you face when working with authors, particularly in speculative fiction and folklore-based stories?

I find that when it’s an open call, it can be challenging to gather enough suitable stories for an anthology. Once you’ve made the selection, the editing process is usually long and laborious, with more back and forth than the deadline allows. It’s a much more straightforward process when experienced authors are invited to contribute to an anthology. With the authors published by my day-job (at Scholastic Asia), the major challenge is when the author is too precious about what they’ve created and is adamant about retaining something that doesn’t work or refuses to/is unable to develop a half-formed idea. Fortunately, that has rarely been the case. It’s imperative that authors trust their editors and, thankfully, I’ve had a good relationship with most of the writers with whom I’ve worked.

You’ve been deeply involved in the Malaysian publishing scene. How has the landscape for local horror and supernatural fiction evolved over the years?

I’m not directly involved in the scene as most of my work as an editor is with an American publishing house, albeit its Asian imprint. However, I am a reader of locally published books and do read some supernatural fiction written in the Malay language. When I was a teenager, I was a fan of a series of books with the series title Bercakap Dengan Jin (Talking with a Jinn)—they were dark tales that featured a witch doctor, set in rural Malaysia, with lurid covers and badly designed interior pages. The production value of horror fiction has improved, but the stories that are most popular are still the ones we are familiar with, especially about the ghosts that haunt every school and hospital in the country. They are hastily written and barely edited, with high print runs—horror sells, second only to romance novels.

How important is it for Malaysian and Asian supernatural stories to be represented in the broader literary world?

The world needs to realise that there is more to Asia than just what the West is showing it. Right now, a handful of houses controls what most of us are exposed to and end up reading. Even if Asian fiction is getting on the shelves, it’s only what these publishing houses have decided is worthy. In Asia, especially those countries that were colonised, readers are still stuck with the idea that books out of the UK and the US are better than those published locally. In Malaysia, we have some authors who have ‘made it’ in the West—people like Tan Twan Eng, Tash Aw, Preeta Samarasan and Zen Cho. They are excellent writers, but I don’t know if many Malaysians would pay attention to their work if they were published by Malaysian houses. Unfortunately, we don’t appear to be very discerning readers. Penguin Random House SEA, which runs out of Singapore and is riding on the Penguin brand, fails to offer sufficient editorial support to its authors and seems to be prioritising marketability and quantity over quality. Readers buy the books because Penguin is supposed to equal quality. Writers sign contracts with the house because they recognise PRH as a popular brand with a great reputation. They complain about the poor editing but choose to stay with the company. This is a kind of horror story too!

Do you think traditional ghost stories still resonate with modern readers? How do you adapt them to contemporary audiences?

I think so. I think part of the attraction of ghost stories is that people like to be scared as long as they can also feel safe while feeling terrified. Traditional ghost stories are the perfect comfort reads. They are thrilling yet familiar. You know what’s coming—all the scary bits, but there’s usually a happy ending too, when the ghosts are put to rest and the humans go back to their boring lives.

Many Western readers are familiar with ghosts like the vengeful spirit or the haunted house trope. What uniquely Malaysian or Asian ghostly elements do you wish more people knew about?

The Asian ghosts most familiar to Western readers are probably the Japanese yokai. Once again, there is a degree of gatekeeping going on. A Malaysian author I know was looking for a lit agent and was told that although her writing was good, her stories were ‘too South-east Asian’. What does that even mean? Western publishers and agents underestimate the ability of readers to relate to subjects unfamiliar, especially when they originate in South-east Asia. Often you hear that a publisher or agent already has a South-east Asian on their list and does not have room for more. Yet, there are officially eleven countries that make up the region. They are not interchangeable, and do not share a common language, history or culture. Malaysia has many types of ghosts and they each reflect the various beliefs and attitudes Malaysians have towards life and all its big and petty questions. To know these spirits is to know the fears and anxieties of the common Malaysian.

You’re planning an online archive of Malaysian folktales. Could you share more about this project and why it’s important to preserve these stories?

I was recently on a panel about folktales with two other Malaysian authors who write books that draw on folktales for inspiration and one of them said that the folktales that stick around are the ones that mean something to the community. This may have been true in the past when folktales were shared orally. These days, the ones that survive are those that get included in collections or are retold and reimagined into films etc. The same ones get recycled time and time again, probably because they are the most dramatic or sentimental. Collecting as many folktales as possible and storing them online gives them all a fair chance of surviving. What may be insignificant to one generation, may resonate for another. The main thing is to let each generation decide, and for the stories to be available and accessible.

Bright Landscapes was your first personal collection of short stories. How did that experience differ from curating Remang?

For Bright Landscapes I had only myself with whom to argue and disagree. My editor and I were, fortunately, on the same wavelength, but she really helped me improve on the quality of the stories. I wouldn’t undertake another project like Remang unless more time and more resources were available.

Can you share any details about your upcoming novel? What themes or ideas are you exploring?

During the pandemic I completed a novel but on reading it, I realised how rubbish it was. It’s very close to my heart, but I think it’s not quite the right time for a rewrite. It needs to ‘cook’ more, in my subconscious. That novel is set in a world where gods and humans live side-by-side, during a time of religious reform. The protagonists are a priest and a deity, and the story deals with questions of friendship, integrity, religious belief, and faith. I have a second novel that I am currently working on—a coming-of-age story set in a convent school in a small Malaysian town in the 1980s. It also explores questions of friendship and faith. I attended two Convent schools from age five to seventeen, and I was raised Roman Catholic. I did think of becoming a nun when I was in my early teens, like the protagonist of my novel, but I have been an atheist since my early twenties, although I am now probably more agnostic than anything. Religious belief and faith are subjects fascinating to me.

As a creative writing teacher, what advice would you give to aspiring writers interested in supernatural fiction?

The same advice I would give any aspiring writer: Read widely and voraciously. And write every day, about anything and everything.

If you could collaborate with any author—living or deceased—on a ghost story, who would it be and why?

I don’t want to collaborate with anyone, but I would like to have a conversation with Elizabeth Bowen about the handful of ghost stories she published. They are my favourites—quiet, mysterious, melancholy, sardonic. I have questions about them that still keep me up at night, decades after I first read them.

Keith Lyons ↩︎

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