Jie Jiang, a poet in the Southern Song Dynasty, wrote a poem "Listening to the Rain", saying: "Young people listen to the rain and the red candle is faint. In the prime of life, the boat is listening to the rain, the river is wide and the clouds are low, and the geese are broken. Now listening to the rain monk Lu, there are stars on his temples. There is always no sadness or joy. Before the next step, wait until dawn. " By listening to the rain, Ci tells the story of life.
I also like rainy days best. It's quiet outside the window, and it's raining in Mao Mao. Listen to the rain at night.
The sound of raindrops falling, the heart is pure. Close your eyes slightly, and the door of thoughts and memories will open. Sometimes, the mood will be like the sky outside the window, infected with a trace of melancholy, a ray of inexplicable sadness. At this time, there is often an impulse to write something. In this state of mind, I want to invite three or five friends, stroll into a small shop, and pour melancholy, sadness and creative impulse into three glasses of light wine to ferment and sublimate it, creating an atmosphere of "the wind is fluttering and the rain is whispering" and "worrying about drinking". Rainy days, let us find instant peace in the noisy city sound and relax our dry state of mind. I am waiting for inspiration to come out in the rain, when my thoughts are exhausted. I cherish the melancholy brought by rainy days, like cherishing an innate disease.
I like rainy days best, which may be related to my trip as a farmer's child. In that deserted village with ten years and nine droughts, a long-overdue soaking rain will always make fathers and brothers smile with their dark faces facing the loess. This not only nourishes the barren land, but also soothes the dedicated mind. No matter how busy the farm work is, rainy days are their natural holidays. On rainy days, they can scoop two spoonfuls of red sorghum, shout for wine, pick mushrooms, sweet potato skins and some particularly fresh and tender vegetables on rainy days, stretch their tired bodies on the warm heatable adobe sleeping platform, and then fall asleep with the heavy rain, snoring like thunder. We, a group of inexperienced children, slipped out of the house, put on their father's sweat-soaked cotton-padded jacket, made hemp fiber, put on straw hats and went barefoot to play in the rain. It was not until the darkness enveloped the whole mountain village that I was carried home with my ears twisted ... this was the happiest time of my childhood. Many years later, this scene still haunts my dream in a foreign land. It's a pity that "flowers have reopened, teenagers are no longer", so we can only immerse ourselves in the continuous rain outside the window and re-emphasize the lost fashion in the helpless journey of life.
I like rainy days very much. I started with Dai Wangshu's Rain Lane. At that time, I was studying in a middle school in a small town dozens of miles away from home, separated by several mountains and ridges. The classroom was rebuilt by the abandoned dormitory of educated youth who returned to the city. That rainy summer, because the classroom leaked rain, all the students nearby went home on holiday, and the campus in the rain was silent. I hid in the dormitory, I didn't know where to turn to a reprint of Selected Poems of Wang Shu, and I ate like a hungry time. The melancholy mood of Rain Lane infected me like a plague. It was my young age full of dreams, although I didn't get involved in the river. The rain lane made my eyes go beyond the desolate mountains and rivers I could see. I seem to have grown from an ignorant teenager who often plays in the rain and forgets to go home to a teenager who knows loneliness, sadness and melancholy. Unexpectedly, a poem by Dai Wangshu has a great influence on my future life choice. In the years to come. I walked into literature along the misty "rain lane". In the college entrance examination, all major choices were filled in with "Chinese". In college, reading and writing poems almost occupied all my after-school life. I also organized a poetry club named "Sanye" with another student who is good at poetry and calligraphy in Lan Bing, and sang with each other, accompanied by very "modern" pictures, and posted them in the advertising column in front of the girls' dormitory, hoping that those flying "lilacs" would stop. It is often covered by various notices of "looking for something" or "wanting something". This is a reward for our poem. Now that I think about it, I still feel a little angry. Up to now, I still have nothing in my studies, but I have no regrets about my choice. Perhaps, the journey of literature and even life is like walking through a lonely "rain lane" with no beginning and no end, and the "lilacs" of hope may not meet in the street as scheduled. In the later years, I also waded into the river with Yuxiang. My wife kept nearly a hundred "books of two places", most of which were love songs written by poems. She was also the first reader of my works. In my spare time, I still like to walk in the drizzle with my wife, who holds your hand and grows old with your son. I will never get old. I like to write the "lilac knot" in my heart into every poem that belongs to me ... sweetness and sadness always go hand in hand.
Over the years, on many rainy nights, I recalled this feeling, recalled the artistic conception of "lilacs are empty in the rain" in the rainy lane, and wrote in the form of prose poems: "Through the dusty time, looking at the old lane in the south of the Yangtze River, the poem is so silent that I can't miss it. The immortal poet is immersed in the plum rain, and the moonlight enters with the frost. Children with rain and no rain, I like to walk through the alleys dotted with poems and pretend to be poems ... Lilac-like girls and sad artistic conception have long fallen on the branches of the years, but the footsteps echo all the time ... "
Listening to the rain outside the window, sitting alone at the table, it is easy to produce a sense of melancholy and sadness, which is mostly related to my reading interest. Among the classical poems I studied in my early years, the poem about writing rain left a deep impression on me. "Bamboo dock clean threshold, acacia city. In autumn, the frost does not fly in the evening, leaving the residual lotus to listen to the rain. " This life is doomed not to really have a bamboo dock sill that only Jiangnan can see, but I hope my heart is pure; Naturally, you can't expect a lotus root in a small house, but you are willing to keep a "residual lotus" in your heart. From "I have been there, Liu Yiyi; When I think about it today, at the beginning of the Book of Songs, all previous dynasties always liked to use endless rain as the spiritual time and space to express their feelings of parting, to touch sensitive and fragile heartstrings with the rustling rain, and to stretch endless thoughts with the incessant rain. The process of listening to the rain is actually the process of poetizing the inner sadness, so there are such well-known poems as "Autumn rain is coming, the heart is full of rain", "Raqqa-the leaves fall to the ground, after the autumn rain" and "The bell in the rain is heartbroken". In fact, everyone has the same topic, that is, "born between heaven and earth, suddenly like a passer-by." However, all previous dynasties only turned this apocalyptic sadness into a scene. This consistent sentimental tradition is haunting my mind with its slightly poisonous sweetness.
Today, the sound of falling rain came from the window. Sitting at the desk, I was deeply distressed that I couldn't write anything decent. But 30 years old has passed the sentimental age, and I prefer to enjoy this tranquility alone in rainy days. In a lonely and quiet environment, in a quiet mood, I have leisure to let my mind shine, let me know myself more clearly, know the truth more clearly, understand what is right and wrong, and maintain my spiritual independence and freedom. On rainy days, I will spend half my life quietly observing my heart and everything, making my heart clear, reflecting all the shadows clearly, making the scenery there like a gorgeous autumn, and everything is slowly brewing in my heart:-a song, an article, a poem. ...