On the other hand, Gail Upchurch did raise a serious question. She wrote: "The reason I have advised you to write prose is that the main function of prose is to tell a story. But poets should have a different kind of ambition, i.e., to enter into the language they use. Can you imagine your work becoming part of our language?"

I have no answer to that xenophobic question, which ignores the fact that the vitality of English has partly resulted from its ability to assimilate all kinds of alien energies. From now on, I won't send my work to Arrows again and will avoid Gail Upchurch, that killjoy. She even said, "So don't continue until you learn how to rhyme 'orange.' "

October 2, 1998

Today I heard on NPR that Linda Dewit had passed away two weeks ago. At the news I wasn't sad somehow, probably because I felt her poetry became more precious to me. I went to Borders and bought two of her books, though I already had her Collected Poems. I'm glad that her death in a way consecrated her, and now to me she exists solely as a genuine spirit embodied in her work. Had I met her in person, I might have been disappointed, just as I was by Edward Neary. It's better this way, letting Linda Dewit's poetry shape her image and keep it intact in my mind. A poet's work should always be better than the poet. That's why one writes-to make something better than oneself.

October 30, 1998

Sent out five poems to the Kenyon Review this morning.

These days I have tried to memorize a few lines by Auden every day. Sadly, my memory is no longer as strong as ten years ago. Today I can hardly recall what I learned yesterday. Probably my creative powers have passed the peak and I started too late. Yet for me there is only trying, and I will be happy if I can work this motel job for many years.

POEMS BY NAN WU

RevelationSuddenly he saw his mother's ugly face after seeing her smile for thirty years.Suddenly he heard his mother's monstrous voice, having remembered all her lullabies.Suddenly he found his mother's secret cookhouse stocked with human flesh and blood.For the first time he tasted tears of rage and hated the nickname she called him.He soon left for a distant place, where he has lived secluded.A Contract

Long ago I was promised a contract. This made me feel rich and brave. In return I pledged all my faith, eager to serve and praise. I was a normal child, sure about what to love and what to hate.

When I grew up I was given the contract itself.In it was the map of a whole country,there was no mention of money or property,but it guaranteed me a happy future.I knew nobody merited my envyand nothing else could make me succeed.I took my contract to another land,where I showed it at an international bank.People cringed and whispered.A large man burped and said to me,"Sir, this doesn't mean anything."Choking back tears, I muttered, "Thank you."Homeland

You packed a pouch of earth into your baggage as a bit of your homeland. You told your friend: "In a few years I'll be back like a lion. There's no other place I can call home and wherever I go I'll carry our country with me. I'll make sure my children speak our language, remember our history, and follow our customs. Rest assured, you will see this same man, made of loyalty, bringing back gifts and knowledge from other lands."

You won't be able to go back. Look, the door has closed behind you.Like others, you too are expendable toa country never short of citizens.You will toss in sleepless nights,confused, homesick, and weeping in silence.Indeed, loyalty is a ruseif only one side intends to be loyal.You will have no choice but to join the refugeesand change your passport.Eventually you will learn:your country is where you raise your children,your homeland is where you build your home.My Pity

I pity those who worship power and success. When they are weak they close their borders, which when they are strong they expand. They let a one-eyed ruler lead them into a tumbling river, where they are told that under the water stepping-stones form a straight path to the other shore.

I pity those whose wisdom is all worldly. They take the death of the young calmly, but when the old die, they will collapse, pounding their chests and wailing to heaven as if they were willing to go with the dead. Their sense of life is circular, so their solution to crises is to wait, wait for the wheel of fate to turn. "History," they're fond of saying, "will sort out things by itself."

I pity those who love security and unity.They're content to live in cellars wherefood and drinks are provided for them.Their lungs are unused to fresh airand their eyes bleary in sunlight.They believe the worst lifeis better than a timely death.Their heaven is a banquet table.Their salvation depends on a powerful man.SpringIn the late afternoon a chorus of birds driftsand sways a boat brimming with hopes,forgotten but still floating in the bay.If your heart is full of longing fora distant trip, it's time to go.You must set out alone-expect no company but stars.

In the early twilight golden clouds billow, suggesting a harvest, remote yet plausible. Perhaps your soul is suddenly seized by a melody that brings back a promise never fulfilled, or a love that blossoms only in thought, or a house, partly built, abandoned…

If you want to sing, sing clearly.Let grief embolden your song.A Change

You didn't come. I was there alone watching drenched dragonflies cling to the grapes under your trellis, listening to a flute that trilled away in the shuttered nursery.

Alone I stood in the rain, crooningto the wind, and let my songsbe carried off by the wingsthat still cleaved the hazy evening.I saw my words fall on a mountainsidewhere trees and grass were dying.Now and againyour little gate would waveas if to say "Go away."