Mrding
Mrding is a man.
Eat a person.
People whose families are not hungry.
People usually call him Mrding.
Sometimes people
Joke, call him Ding Ju.
I ate with him in a pot for six or seven years.
I didn't expect to ask his name.
His main job
Is every day
Make tea for the bureau
Then give it to the leaders of the bureaus.
Bring water and newspaper.
And do a good job of corridor cleaning.
When the FBI encounters sporadic incidents,
Tell him to handle it.
Usually Mrding.
Always carrying a big key.
Leading office
Only he can get in and out.
On New Year's Day or Mid-Autumn Festival
He often helps people carry things.
Sometimes in the middle of the night, in our case,
Need to stamp
Knock on his dormitory, too
Mrding to the sub-bureau
Time as a temporary worker
About the size of a sub-bureau
The branch has only been established for more than 20 years.
But Mrding is sixty years old.
I asked him if he had resigned.
Where will you live in the future?
Mrding fiddled with most of it.
The key in your hand
Can't find his own.
Hongbo is a poet who loves life. His poems are always permeated with love and hate for life, concern for people and things around him, and feelings about the years. On the surface, the poem "Mrding" looks like a casual poet. Everything seems casual, but in essence, the poet takes great pains. At the beginning, the poet wrote: "Mrding is a well-fed person/the whole family is not hungry/everyone usually calls him Mrding/sometimes someone jokingly calls him Ding Ju/I had dinner with him for six or seven years/I didn't expect to ask his name". A few short lines of poetry capture Mrding's personality. Then, through Mrding's daily trivia, the poet wrote the image of Mrding, a seemingly dispensable person in the unit, but actually inseparable from him. At the end, "I asked him if he would resign/where he would live in the future/Mrding fiddled with his keys for a long time/couldn't find one of his own". This is a detail, describing Mrding's inner pain, expressing the poet's concern for the bottom people, his pity, sadness and humanitarian concern for the fate of the little people, deepening the theme and making people think deeply.
stepmother
Hold your fingers and count.
You were with your father.
It's been eleven years.
Because we're separated from mom.
So every time I see you,
Call you.
aunt
Ever since you became
A member of our family.
We people.
Children away from home
You don't have to worry every day.
I'll take her place after mom leaves.
remain; stay
So many blanks
Go home every year.
I want both.
Bring you a coat.
Become a villager
Put on your new clothes. Bye.
You will ask
Who bought it for you?
You always say with a smile
It's a son
Although the stepmother written by the poet is not the real mother, blood is thicker than water. This reminds people of Meng Jiao's Ode to a Wanderer in the Tang Dynasty: "The thread in the hands of a loving mother makes clothes for the wayward child's body. Before leaving, I had a stitch for fear that my son would come back late and his clothes would be damaged. However, an inch of long grass is a bit sentimental, and it is rewarded with three spring rays. " People can't help but think of the Tenth Five-Year Plan written by the Song Dynasty poet Wang Anshi: "Put your mother in the ditch and leave your family in the shade." When I heard about Du Yu in the moonlight, I was always worried about the North and the South. "
This poem by Hongbo takes emotion as a clue and adopts the writing method of inhibition and promotion. First, I wrote "Because we are separated from our mother, I just call you/auntie every time I see you", then I wrote "We/children away from home/don't have to worry about/fill so many gaps left by my mother's departure every day", and finally I wrote "When villagers/see you put them on"
Motherly love is linked by blood; Motherly love is a child's eternal concern. In this age of apathy and emotional decline, reading such poems is an invisible medicine for an increasingly numb and heartless mind.
Uncle's funeral
My second uncle died.
The family cried into tears.
Become friends and relatives
When he was put in the coffin,
Think seriously
Who should I ask to carry it?
Search all corners of the village
Finally, filter it out
Some of the youngest men
At first glance, my hair is all gray.
Is there any way?
A few people had to bite the bullet.
Accept an invitation
But we're not halfway there yet
One by one, like cooked lobsters.
I can't stand up anymore.
The funeral procession suddenly
Very confused
Some people look at the sky.
Some look at the ground.
An old man comes from a neighboring village.
Drag two or three.
A young man who just got back from work.
Finally solved the problem.
done
brick by brick
Until the sun goes down
Just take my second uncle
Slowly put it in the grave.
So much has happened.
My second uncle sleeps in a coffin.
know nothing at all
Poetry is valuable in discovery. It can be said that without discovery, it is impossible to write a good poem.
According to the poet, this is a real opportunity for him to return to his hometown. It was an afternoon when the poet went back to his hometown on business but met his uncle's funeral. In the past, all the people in the village who met the dead and carried coffins were young and strong, and they were on call. It's different now. "I searched every corner of the village/finally screened out/several of the youngest men/saw that their hair was gray/what could I do/several people had to bite the bullet/accepted the invitation/but they were not halfway there/they were like cooked lobsters/they couldn't stand up anymore" "The funeral procession was in chaos/some looked up at the sky/some looked up at the ground/an old man dragged two or three from the neighboring village/.
quiet
After the meal
Adults will blow out the lights.
So darkness
It soon occupied all the space.
I had to run.
On the bed under the Ailanthus altissima tree
Lie down and count the stars.
Sometimes fireflies pass by.
Just get out of bed and chase.
And catch fireflies
Put it in the bottle.
At this moment
There are continuous flutes.
Floating down from the top of the mountain
I'll throw away the bottle at once.
Quietly let
Those notes are like springs.
Slowly bypass the ear
Flowing into my thirsty heart
There seems to be something in my chest.
Countless greedy mouths
Inhale zizi.
I asked my mother.
Who plays the flute?
She said it was the sixth child of the thirteenth team.
It is said that he is lovelorn.
He goes to Dongshantou every night.
Blow for a long time
I don't know that woman.
Can you hear me?
At that time, I
I still don't understand.
The meaning in the flute
I don't understand what my mother said.
But I always had an idea.
It is along the mountain road behind the village.
Climb to his side
Look at the way he plays the flute.
Hongbo's poems are very realistic and don't pay much attention to the integration of feelings into the scenery. The flute is an exception.
On summer nights, I ran to the bed under the Ailanthus altissima tree/lay down to count the stars/sometimes fireflies passed by/got out of bed to chase/put the caught fireflies in the bottle. From the beginning, the poet created a beautiful country night for me with a soothing style, creating or setting off an environment and atmosphere for the flute and the fate of the characters. Through such an environment, the poet naturally led the "flute" down from the top of the mountain, "bypassing my ears and slowly/flowing into my thirsty heart/chest, as if there were/countless greedy mouths/sucking". Then the poet asked his mother who played the flute. Naturally, it leads to the sad love between the piper and the piper.
Especially at the end of the poem, "But I have always had an idea/climb up to him along the mountain road behind the village/see how he plays the flute", which gives people endless reverie and aftertaste. As Yan Yu said in Cang Hua: "The antelope hangs on the horn and there is no trace to be found. Therefore, its beauty, transparency and exquisiteness cannot be mentioned in the same breath. Such as the voice in the air, the color in the phase, the shadow in the water, and the image in the mirror, there are endless words and meanings. " (Wang Guowei's "Words on Earth")
Huai 'an on June 8, 2008.