Someone said, "A poet seems sacred in history, but a poet next door is a joke." That's not bad. Look at the portraits of ancient poets. They are all take off your coat Bo Dai, and they seem to be out of touch. The characters in "Wangchuan Villa" are all Confucian crowns and feathers, and their attitudes are bleak. We only feel that they are fascinating in those days, and that he fell into the vinegar urn when he was bitter, and We pay tribute to the Caotang of the Ministry of Industry by the Huanhua River, and think of the appearance of Du Lingye's old classic Yi Yi wine in Maozi, singing the surging waves, being in charge of coquettish, and the scene that he died in Leiyang, who was mad at the bull-roasted white wine, was unsightly. For the dead, as usual, we are hiding evil and promoting good, not to mention the ancient poets, whose texts are inherited, as if they are spiteful, even if they are a little eccentric, they should be beautified and can be used as a reference. Wang Moqiao fell into the vinegar urn. It was his own vinegar urn, not our water tank. Du Gongbu was in trouble during his trip, but he was tired of Leiyang magistrate of a county, not asking my family. Ordinary people read poetry, just like watching a drama, just enjoying it at the front desk, and they don't need to go behind the toilet to inquire about the life of the actress. Even if they hear many anecdotes, they only cooperate to tell stories for the pear garden.
if a poet lives next door, it will be different. Although almost every door says, "Poetry will last forever", not many people know poetry. If I am a man of fame and fortune, and there is a poet living next door, his masterpiece will never be shown to me, and I will think it is not worth a penny when I read it. He will give me a dirty look, and I will not like it when I look at him. The poet doesn't often visit the barber shop. His hair looks like a flying canopy, a poodle and an artist. If he wears a Chinese costume, he must be like a blind fortune teller with muddy feet; If he is wearing a suit, he must be like Belarus selling blankets, covered in dust. He idles, he dreams in the daytime, he groans without illness, he sometimes lives in seclusion, closes the door to thank guests, he sometimes wanders all the year round, he is at home everywhere, he laughs and laughs inconstantly, he eats excessively, he is sometimes poor, and he sometimes spends money like water. If she is a poetess, she can hold a big cigar in her mouth; If it is a man, he worships all kinds of women. He likes cigarettes, wine, children, flowers and small animals-he can make a poem when he sees a mouse, and he can make a poem when he touches a louse on his chest. His living habits are different from others in many ways. A man told me that he once lived next door to a poet. Once he went on a long trip together, the poet left his toothbrush at home for his wife's use. He asked, "Did you use one?" The poet was frightened and said, "Do you each use one?"
The poet lives next door and is a monster. Walking in the street is especially easy to cause misunderstanding. Browning has a poem "Contemporary People's Perceptions of Poets", which describes a Spanish poet who is so fond of observing social life that he is mistaken for a spy. How ironic it is! He was dressed in shabby black clothes, his walking stick knocked on the ground, followed by a bald and blind old dog, watching the shoemaker repair leather shoes, watching people cut lemon slices into drinks, watching the brazier baking coffee, and reading a book stand with half an eye. Whoever abused livestock and cursed women could not escape his attention-so he was probably a spy and reported his observations to the king. Look at his appearance, he is a little old, and those two eyebrows, thanks to his eyes living below! The shape and color of the nose are like talons. A was killed, a B was missing, and a C got his mistress-isn't it all his fault? He went to so much trouble that he didn't know how much he was paid. Everyone said that when he came home for dinner, the lights were bright, four famous paintings were hung on the wall, and twenty naked women gave him a plate to change. In fact, the poor man leads a different life. He lives in the third house near the bridge, a newly painted house. People all over the street can see him crossing his legs, putting his feet on the dog's back, playing cards with his maid, eating cheesecake and fruit, and going to bed at ten o'clock. When he died, he was still wearing that shabby coat, knee-deep mud and eating bread shells, which were as dirty as Ichijo Kaoru fish!
This Spanish poet is lucky to be regarded as a spy. In another country, such a suspicious poet may become the target of a spy.
A juggler always has to say a few incantations to mystify him and increase his mystery, and a poet can't help being a bit of a quack. He is either an immortal or a genius, or a dream gives birth to flowers, and there is always something strange. Foreign poets are even more powerful. When they write poems, they can directly pray for God's help, as if they were possessed by fairies.
See a world in a grain of sand,
See a heaven in a wild flower,
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand
Put eternity in an instant.
if you don't have a little wisdom, can you say such nonsense? You don't understand? You are a fool! If you say you understand, you can be among the elegant forests. God knows whether you understand or not.
Probably everyone has had some experience as a poet. In the season of "blaming Huang Yinger for opposing, blaming the butterfly for being in pairs", it is also frightening to see the flowers thank, and it is also sad to listen to the cat's meow, and the poem will come, as natural as the branches are relaxing. However, after China's entry into WTO, it gradually became a "hard-boiled egg". Prose came in from the door and poetry went out from the window. "Lips only sing when they can't kiss." If a person reaches a certain age, he still has a childlike heart, and after the wind and rain, he can still be poetic. He is blessed and he is a poet.
Poetry can't be sold. If a new poem can be released immediately by breaking several whiskers, the cost is still light. I'm afraid it's like a pearl in the belly of an oyster. It's a disease. How long will it take for it to be tempered and bred successfully? Where can I find my employer when writing? Poetry can't decorate the living room of the rich, and it can't entertain the readers. What the rich want is rare calligraphy and painting, while what the public wants is novels, dramas and poems, which are short and useless. Poetry is such a useless thing, so a poet who lives next door with poetry is naturally a joke. Whether the future will become sacred in history is also very slim.