Orchid with broken finger
These should involve a kind of silence when words face words. I label everything around me with symbols of words. Even for myself, I look at it from this angle.
Named after the combination of three Chinese characters, I have formed a connection with such things as "computer" by tapping my fingers on the keyboard, and my imaginary listening object is talking to me in the corner not far from me. No matter who knocks out these dialogues full of argots by hand, they will become the embryonic form of a poem.
However, the object of listening is not something with the same attributes as me. The huge material world has been closely surrounding us, and the randomness of my conversation has obviously deviated from my original intention of careful recording. In the process of conversation, I often can't remember the important parts, so these unnecessary things will be recorded and become my poems.
So at this moment, I define poetry as dialogue.
But, like I said before, I always can't record the most important part. This paradox makes me feel that if the output of a poem is as simple as that, it can erase everything I have daubed on this virtual paper. It has lost its most fundamental authenticity (screening and forgetting), which scares me.
There is also a saying that creation itself is actually contained in an interactive behavior, which makes me secretly happy. I finally have reason to keep these Chinese characters that have not been abolished before, and give them the most pertinent, emotional and authentic explanation:
Poetry creates new things and names them.
Yes, that's right. First, I'm sure I'm creating something. If I happen to be divorced from all the things that have been named, it means that I am not far from great poetry. The meaning of dialogue seems to show more guidance and inspiration here. In the constant invisible dialogue, I will suddenly find unexplored areas that are different from all discourse systems. This discovery fascinates me.
More profoundly, around us, these potential virgin lands with masks are waiting for a poet who belongs to him to reclaim and establish his own creative territory. Yes, I am fascinated by these stylized poets. Although many of them are near the kingdom of cultured poetry, in the near future, they will definitely dig a poetry church that survived in the Middle Ages. By touching its lines, he can feel love, warmth and liberation.
But back to the beginning, I suddenly found that since everything around me was labeled as language, it must be admitted that everything under these labels was taken back and touched the fingers of all creative poets. How can I find something that really belongs to me?
Poetry is a metaphor. I think I found the answer here. If you materialize the core of a poem (obviously this core will be extremely rich), metaphor is to take the label of something you are familiar with and throw it at it as a weapon:
"Dimension", a symbol with an arrow, generally describes the image planning of the core of poetry. Follow the direction created by these words: Oh, my God, I found it. It's right there, warm and charming, inaccessible. I don't even have to touch it, I know it is magnificent and vast, and every detail is round and rich, exciting and frustrating. ...
Here, metaphor has become a practical and concrete tool in my hands.
Another fact is that whenever I try to pick up these words for creative metaphor, I naturally feel their weight, temperature and volume. They have their own imaging, and in my opinion, the basic effort is to weigh their most suitable uses:
Poetry is a kind of adaptation to local conditions.
In this way, in the process of constant pursuit, I will naturally encounter many unanswered questions, why I cry, why I become so depressed and uneasy in front of my inner religion, and why I can't feel its weight when I laugh. Upward, downward, unfamiliar, changing, there are more things that can't be grasped, which will put a familiar emotion like "frustration" on me.
"100,000 tons of clouds" I use this expression to express my feelings, so my search and excavation are based on the weight of this 100,000 tons of clouds-dancing with shackles. Oh, yes, you see, it has been said all the time, and these things are depressing.
This is poetry, what I am looking for, what I am confused and helpless. They are still standing where I can't see them, and they keep gesturing to me: Come on, dear. It is guiding me and making me face such a road more painfully: the orchid with broken fingers.
Pain is followed by beauty, achievement and escape. I always go against the blade.