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
Revelation
Suddenly 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 envy
and 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 to
a country never short of citizens.
You will toss in sleepless nights,
confused, homesick, and weeping in silence.
Indeed, loyalty is a ruse
if only one side intends to be loyal.
You will have no choice but to join the refugees
and 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 where
food and drinks are provided for them.
Their lungs are unused to fresh air
and their eyes bleary in sunlight.
They believe the worst life
is better than a timely death.
Their heaven is a banquet table.
Their salvation depends on a powerful man.
Spring
In the late afternoon a chorus of birds drifts
and sways a boat brimming with hopes,
forgotten but still floating in the bay.
a 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, crooning
to the wind, and let my songs
be carried off by the wings
that still cleaved the hazy evening.
I saw my words fall on a mountainside
where trees and grass were dying.
Now and again
your little gate would wave
as if to say “Go away.”
Afterward, weaned from love
and sick of everything,
I thought I would stop singing.
Yet words lined up, kept coming,
though in my voice I heard
a different ring.
A Love Bird
How I would like to be a bird
kept in your cage of love.
You called me Sparrow but preferred
an eagle or a dove.
You shooed me off your cozy eaves
and made me use my wings.
How I cried for fear, for relief.
You merely said “Poor thing.”
Across oceans and con
tinents
I’ve traveled, wrestling winds.
My heart, homesick, often regrets
my strong and spacious wings.
I’ve lost my sparrow’s melody
and cannot find your house.
Many times you must have seen me
as one born in the clouds.
Pomegranates
Another rain will burst them—
full of teeth, they will grin
through the tiny leaves
that used to conceal their cheeks.
I’ll take a photo of my pomegranates
for you, the only person
I care to show. Like others
you craved the fruit
so much, you overlooked
the crimson blossoms wounded
by worms and winds.
You could not imagine
some of them would swell
into such heavy pride.
I can tell you, they are sour.
A Good-bye in January 1987
“All aboard!” cried the train attendant.
My father was holding my three-year-old son
to watch me leaving for another continent.
“Good-bye, Taotao.” I waved,
but my child was silent
staring at me with a sullen face,
his tears trickling down.
If only I could have brought him along!
The wheels hissed, about
to grind. “No good-bye,”
he cried finally, “no good-bye, Mama.”
I forced a smile, then climbed
the ladder, stabbed by pain.
The village platform began to fall away,
blurred, and disappeared in the plain.
Since then his tears, mingled with mine,
have often soaked my bad dreams,
although he did join me in ’89.
I swear I’ll never say good-bye
to my son again, not until
he graduates from Parkview High.
The Donkey
Mama, do you remember the donkey
who collapsed on the street that afternoon?
And the overturned cart, its wheel still moving,
mussels and clams scattered in heaps all around?
He lay in a ditch, his belly sweating,
heaving, while blood flowed from his mouth.
The old one-eyed driver was kicking him
and yelling, “Get up, you beast!”
Only a long ear twitched, as if to say “I’m trying.”
I swear, he was too tired to get on his feet.
Unlike a horse playing sick,
he was too weak to pretend.
Mama, I can still see that mountain of seafood,
the driver standing on it and cracking his whip.
My Doves
All night long I hear my doves cooing
to tell me there’s a snowstorm gathering.
Their feathers, once intensely white,
are gray and tattered, though the whistles
I tied to them eleven years ago
still scatter notes of brass when they fly.
They tremble a little from cold.
Their short bills having lost the jadelike translucency
are more fragile than before.
Who feeds them now?
Under whose eaves is their cote?
Do they still go to the aspen grove to look for worms?
Do the cats still attack them and steal their young?
Time and again they seem to cry,
“Nan, Nan, come and take us away.”
They make my morning blue,
bluer than a freezing dusk.
All day long I see the shadows
of their wings flitting about—
through my lawn, along the asphalt,
across the walls of the dining hall,
on the kitchen floor, around my wok…
Groundhog Hour
As the groundhog enters our yard
all the noise ceases in our house.
I dare not raise my voice
to tell my family in the kitchen
that we have a little visitor,
a portly guy in a brown coat.
If he hears any sound in here
he’ll run away, rocking his ample rump.
He stands up on his hind feet,
clasps his hands below his ursine face,
and looks right then left as if to make sure
his shadow hasn’t followed him.
Soon he roams the grass casually,
sampling our clover and alfalfa,
catching an insect or snail.
He never jumps like his cousin the squirrel.
How can I tell him he’s always welcome?
A humble guest, he has no idea
we celebrate a day in his name.
I keep my face back from the window
so he can enjoy a quiet meal,
or even a sunbath as
he often does back home.
Whenever he’s here
my winter shrinks, green-faced.
The Drake
Oh, what human bastard threw the lines
and hooks into the lake?
Instead of a fish they caught me,
slashed my tongue, mangled my wings.
All my ducks thought I was finished
and left me to die on this shore.
I know they’re fighting over my post,
their voices shrilling in the woods—
ka, keck, quack.
Oh, even a god dies alone.
I won’t complain or sob,
although my heart is sore,
gripped by numbing sleep.
I must remain mute like an earthworm
and dense like a tree.
If only I could rise and swim again,
again commanding my clan—
ka, keck, quack.
Oh, how can I thank the Wus enough?
They cut the lines and dislodged the hooks.
They cleaned the maggots off my wounds
and even gave me a pill before
they put me back into the lake.
Now I’m going to rejoin my tribe
and tackle their new chief.
First they should know I’m still alive—
ka, keck, quack.
Nan, a Fantasizing Husband
I dream of becoming an idle Nan,
in whose calendar all days are blank.
Don’t blame me if I am such a man
who goes to ball games as a major fan
and whose job is to draw cash from the bank.
I dream of becoming an idle Nan.
Scientists, artists, statesmen do what they can,
but I would have my good fortune to thank.
Don’t scold me if I am such a man.
Trouble will always come if you have a plan
to attack front and flank.
I dream of becoming an idle Nan—
in the morning I’ll eat omelet with ham;
if it’s fine, I will roam the riverbank.
Don’t pinch me if I am such a man!
Time will crush everything into one span.
Why strive for money, power, fame, and rank?
I dream of becoming an idle Nan.
Don’t kill me if I am such a man!
A Father’s Blues
Again I’m back at square one,
where every street says “Dead End.”
I thought my daughter, unborn yet,
would show me an outlet.
Again I’m back at square one
to face an empty yard where a house once stood.
My child was a vision I lost myself in.
If only I had unlearned selfish parenthood.
Again I’m back at square one,
holding a little casket I cannot inter.
My child died before she grew a lung.
If only I knew where they dumped her.
Again I’m back at square one,
where a man has to restart alone.
Let me unsee my daughter’s twinkling pulse
so I can search my soul for a milestone.
A Mother’s Blues
I had my baby with me again last night.
She curled up at my side,
saying, “Mommy, your bed is so nice.
It’s cold out there,
I’m so scared.”
“Don’t be, my child.”
I patted her silky hair.
She told me,
“I won’t wet your bed, Mommy.”
I said, “Don’t be silly—
you’re not big enough to pee.”
I woke to find her tiny coffin against my cheek,
still stuffed with her little quilt and mattress.
Oh if only I could hold her again inside me.
Again I saw my baby this morning.
She was on the deck, toddling.
Now and then she peeked in through
the glass door, prattling.
Homework
Under his pencil a land is emerging.
He says, “I’m making a country.”
In no time it blooms into colors.
A blue bay opens like a horseshoe on
the shoulder of a glacier.
Below, a chain of mountains zigzags,
greened with rain forests.
Farther down he places mines:
aluminum, silver, copper, titanium,
iron, gold, uranium, tungsten, zinc.
Two oil fields beside branching rivers
are kept apart by a sierra called Mount Funfun.
In the south a plain stretches
into vast fertile land, where
he crayons farms that yield oranges,
potatoes, apples, strawberries,
wheat, broccoli, cherries, zucchini,
poultry, beef, mutton, cheese.
(There’s no fishery
because he hates seafood.)
On the same map he draws a chart—
railroads crisscross the landscape;
highways, pipelines, canals
entwine; sea lanes curve
into the ocean, airports
raise a web of skyways.
He imposes five time zones.
For a child a country is a place
unmarked by missiles
and fleets. He doesn’t know
how to run it with the power
to issue visas and secret orders
and to rattle nuclear bombs like slingshots.
Her Dream
was to be free of responsibility,
to be born the youngest in her family,
pampered by her parents and humored