Wen Fu Part II

1. The Motive

Standing erect in the center of all, the poet views the expanse of the whole universe, and in ancient masterpieces his spirit rejoices and finds nurture.

His lament for the fleeting life is in observance of the four seasons as they pass, his regard for the myriad growing things inspires in him thoughts innumerable.

As with the fallen leaves in autumn's rigor his heart sinks in grief, so is each tender twin in sweet spring a source of joy.

In frost he finds sympathy at moments when his heart is all frigid purity, or far, far in to the highest clouds he makes his mind's abode.

The shining, magnamimous deeds of the world's most virtuous are substance of his song, as also the pure fragrance which the most accomplished goodness of the past yields. The flowering forest of letters and treasuries of classics are his favorite haunts, where he delights in nothing less than perfection of beauty's form and matter.

Thus moved, he will spread his paper and poise his brush
To express what he can in writing.


2. Meditation Before Writing

In the beginning,
All external vision and sound are suspended,
Perpetual thought itself gropes in time and space;

Then, the spirit at full gallop reaches the eight limits of the cosmos, and the mind self-buoyant, will ever soar to new insurmountable heights.

When the search succeeds, feeling, at first but a glimmer, will gradually gather into full luminosity, when all objects thus lit up glow as if each the other's light reflects.

Drip-drops are distilled afresh from a sea of words since time out of mind, as quintessence that savors of all the aroma of the Six Arts.

Now one feels blithe as a swimmer calmly borne by celestial waters, and then, as a diver into a secret world, lost in subterranean currents.

Arduously sought expressions, hitherto evasive, hidden, will be like stray fishes out of the ocean bottom to emerge on the angler's hook;

And quick winged metaphors like birds are brought down from the curl-clouds by the fowler's bow.

Thus the poet will have mustered what for a hundred generations awaited his brush, creating music that has waited unheard for a thousand ages.

Let the full-blown garden flowers of the ancients in their own morning glory stand; to breathe like into late blossoms that have yet to bud will be his sole endeavor.

Eternity he sees in a twinkling,
And the whole world he views in one glance.