This poetry recital is hidden in the depths of the library. I have to go through many books before I can find it. Poetry reading awakened the sleeping books, and the sleeping books paved a way for me to go to the poetry reading meeting. I didn't know this beforehand. I just heard Xiaojie's call. She said, if you are not busy, come and have a look!
Xiaojie invited some people with great interest. The invitee acted strangely, or thought her behavior was weird, and her invitation turned into a double mirror. For example, her colleague said, we are all laity! In fact, it is because of vulgarity that life needs singers. Poetry is like an eraser, blurring the boundary between man and god.
Her invitation turned into a haha mirror, and the plain people were photographed with haha faces. For example, her friends laughed, and these days, there are poetry readings. It is better to stay at home and eat a piece of meat, hahaha, hahaha! In the mirror is a happy and deformed face. Her friends enjoy eating fish and meat, and everything else is excluded from this standard.
I'm also an ordinary person, but the unknown life makes me feel mysterious and interesting. My day always starts when the sun shines on the earth, and the parking place is set in advance or suddenly produced. For example, now I'm just a passer-by, passing by the door of a poetry reading occasionally.
I'm wearing a red jacket, sitting in a blue chair, looking at the materials of the poetry reading, and people are coming and going around me. I occasionally look up and watch some people being swallowed up by that gate. It's a whale's mouth, and between breaths, people change Dojo.
I heard a voice calling to the receptionist, the recitation will start soon, or I'll leave! I smiled, didn't look up, and judged that this should be a middle-aged man, with a slow voice, neither high nor low, and a faint irritation and anxiety. In fact, a person who hasn't learned to wait is just a child who hasn't grown up.
I took this immature voice as a poem and a sign, so I stood up and left here.
I walk according to the rhythm of the sound, neither fast nor slow, neither high nor low. It's just that I'm not upset or upset, not leaving, but going deeper. This is a deep and secret place. This is a library.
There are more and more books, and I go deeper and deeper, even into the maze of time, and see Borges throwing the endless book of sand into the library.
Ten years ago, when drinking with the poet's Bird's Nest, he said that he also had a magical book that could be rearranged and combined constantly. I asked him who the author was, like Italo. Calvino's Castle with Crossing Fates, Julio? Whether cortazar's hopscotch and William Faulkner's The Sound and the Fury are written in a similar way, he said neither.
Ten years later, we met again in a pub. He said that the book had been found. I hurriedly asked the author who he was, only to find him drunk after drinking a bowl of wine.
After so many years, I have come to understand that any good book will be rearranged constantly. On the one hand, it is not a stagnant pool, but the masters have used their lives to drill through the spring eyes, and fresh water keeps emerging. On the other hand, perhaps the words don't seem to change, but your age, your time and your experience are constantly arranged and combined, which brings you new eyes. Calvino concluded that a classic work is a book that brings discovery every time it is reread, just like the first reading.
I feel confused by the endless books, and their manifestations are also the constant arrangement and combination of librarians. At this time, I pulled out a book On the Road, which I couldn't bear to leave because of its simple binding. A few lines of Chinese and English black characters broke into the bottom of a large piece of white. Isn't that my figure? I have been on the road for so many years. Although I have experienced setbacks, I still have a firm pace and high morale.
As a traveler, I hold this book in the palm of my hand as a Bible, except that the cover of my translation is a few young men who stab dragons and draw phoenix, which is the so-called beat generation.
There's a joke that the father who was doing business beat his son screaming, but the mother stopped him and asked the reason. The father replied, this boy changed my god of wealth to Altman, and it took me many days to find out. Mother said calmly, then take a break and I'll continue to beat.
Now, I'm going to take the God of Wealth home and replace the Altman on the bookshelf. I believe this God of Wealth will definitely bring good luck to me and the people around me.
Just like the seemingly decadent word "collapse" in Kerouac's eyes, it conveys a state of excitement and exhaustion, but it can represent the saints' souls' direct knowledge of God in heaven.
Before the poetry recital began, I turned a complaint into a poem, and this poem took me back to the scene after a poetic journey in the library. This also means that I need to read 1 books to reach the scene of a poetry reading, which also means that my life has to be arranged and combined constantly to reach the scene of a poetry reading. Otherwise, how can I fly poetically? Otherwise, how can I be on the road?
The man who is clamoring to leave, I guess he hasn't left yet, just disappeared behind the crowd and the blue chair. Every chair is waiting for a person. When one hundred sailors are filled, everyone will paddle the knowledge ship together and sail to the boundless blue. Blue is a quiet color, which can make people feel gratified and feel magical love.
The theme of today's recitation is to praise filial love.
In the music and melody, ordinary words began to fly everywhere and bump around. It doesn't matter who carries the voice and words. At this moment, they are forgotten in the rivers and lakes, and the whole room is full of strong emotions.
When you open your eyes, it's a small light with bright white stars. When you close your eyes, it's an empty world.
In this way, walking on clouds is not a legend, but an enlarged imagination. When the poetic voice rings in your ears, you can travel far by poetry by gently closing your eyes!
Red apples read aloud. Without my grandfather, I would lose the whole village! Poetry shines, and poetry illuminates the earth.
Our culture is too old, and the word "love" is refined into many contents. If divided from the direction, upward love forms a special word called filial piety, which is the love of children to their parents. In Oracle Bone Inscriptions, the word "filial piety" is a young man walking slowly holding the hand of the old man, and the long curl in the middle of the word "filial piety" is the old man's floating beard. Described in human form.
downward love is the love of parents for their children and grandchildren. Because there are too many rivers, there is no need for special words to define it.
children and grandchildren are full of vigor and vitality, but the future is hope and fantasy. You can pin everything on it, and it seems that no matter how much you pay, you can recycle it.
Old people are lifeless, decrepit and broken, and how much they pay is like a mud cow pouring into the sea, silent.
a poem sums up the above contents. There are many infatuated parents since ancient times. Who has seen filial piety for their children and grandchildren?
The library is a guy with a big belly, and it can easily digest a poetry recital. Or it turned the poetry recital into a cultural symbol, carefully stored on a bookshelf, or the poetry recital was put into a material bag and thrown into the garbage truck by busy sanitation workers.
When people heard the cry for help, they searched the garbage truck, and finally found a dying poet in a material bag. He curled up into a ball and cried out loudly. We can't be treated like this just because my poems are smelly.
People politely apologize, saying that children should not be thrown away when the amniotic fluid is poured out. They should always let him grow up, let him understand how difficult life is, and let him understand what filial love is!
I left halfway because I knew that the beginning was the end, and the following content was basically the same. Some people were impassioned, and his words grew wings to drive everyone to fly. Some people were lifeless, and the words were still a few degrees below zero in their mouth, and the child lost his life while still in his mother's stomach.
I am a listener and a singer. I have to cook. I bought half a catty of noodles and half a catty of beef, which is my lunch with my mother. I tried to add oil, salt, sauce and vinegar, but it didn't taste much. I also put some love from the poetry reading party. My clumsy cook actually made the old lady feel satisfied. She ate and drank a poem, so she didn't have to worry about having a field at home, and a big steamed bun a day.
I said that you always eat noodles, but you praise steamed bread. What makes me feel sorry?
She said that life is life, poetry is poetry, life is poetry, and poetry is life!
Of course, the old lady couldn't say such things, but when these words were piled together, they were all smiles on her face.