After the MFA

The Satisfaction

The pleasure a writer knows
is the pleasure of sages.

Out of non-being, being is born;
out of silence,
a writer produces a song

In one yard of silk, there is infinite space;
language is a deluge
from one small corner of the heart.

The net of images is cast wider
and wider; thought searches
more and more deeply.

The writer offers
the fragrance of fresh flowers,
an abundance of sprouting buds.

Bright winds lift each metaphor;
clouds lift
from a forest of writing brushes.

From Lu Chi’s “Wen Fu: The Art of Writing”