Rivers, the representative poet of modern obscure poetry school
Where the hero fell, I stood up and sang about my motherland.
I solemnly put the Great Wall on the mountain in the north, like shaking a chain that has been heavy for thousands of years, like holding up my son who just died. His body is still twitching in my hand. Behind me is my mother, the pride, suffering and struggle of the nation. In the merciless eyes of history, an anxiety passed by and was deeply engraved on my forehead, a glorious scar. Smoke rose from my head, and countless broken bones roared and drifted away with the wind.
With pigeons, anger and enthusiasm, I have gone through many ages and places, wars, ruins and corpses, flapping waves like rolling mountains, bleeding, lifting, sending away the blood-red sun, and floating shadows on boundless land, like lakes, like tears, like green forests and grasslands, with hidden sadness and life flashing, like my nation's insipid.
This land, as if tired, has been sleeping for thousands of years. Stones toss and turn in nightmares, piling up like mountains, and slowly growing into stone steps, walls, cornices, like incense seats, like gilded flowers. The faint bell trembled in the branches, shaking off the annual hope and ruining one morning after another. Cities float and drift like islands, more chaotic than ships in fog, and large crops are there.
Leave it awake, leave it sunny silence.
Perhaps, from this moment, troubles and blood began to surge, gunpowder began to smoke, the pointer touched the boat in the shape of the bow, and the silk flowed to the world across the river, like a touch of afterglow, gently weaving the stars, entrusting beautiful myths and women to the moon. Then, what is the need to let the emperor's carriage run over the rut on the paper, make the people as thin as two words, and then let me show off my past?
I can't say it. I can only open my eyes and watch the bronze civilization peeling off layer by layer, like dry land, calluses on my hands and honest lips being slapped by the wind. I want to announce to the sky as luxurious as satin that your blood has solidified before dawn.
However, motherland, after all, you have left so many sons, and your bloodshot arms hang down after work-gradually clench your fists, leave a rebellious flag in the dust of history, leave a failure, leave a rotating forest, branches alternately stretch out into the sky, wild animals roar, leaves fall in layers in the north, and still densely cover the south, rolling heavy crops and birds.
Motherland, you left some beautiful mountains and rivers, longing and responsibility, waterfalls and grasslands, resplendent palaces, ancient moans, groups of gasping gray houses, strong contrast, rugged, desert and winding harbor, ice-cold thinking on the top of the mountain, years of thinking, rumbling, breaking, turning into water and throwing it into the canyon, deeply and deeply.
In the gentle character of my nation, between simplicity, the pain of brewing and drinking, I saw large tracts of sheep and horses moving over the fence to the grassland. Between the sweaty cowhide and the plow, between the palms as thick as my old tree, the land becomes soft and the feelings become hard.
As long as there are mountains, plains and oceans, my body will always be magnificent, just like the sound of waves between trees, rolling in from the blood-vessel river-my team is vast and boundless, as long as there is abyss, darkness and sky, my thoughts will rise painfully and fly on the top of the mountain. As long as there is storage and sunshine, how can my heart not bloom and travel all over the motherland?
Roots and feet trudging in the mud are my foundation. The biting cold wind stimulated me. Wheat and chimneys are growing and nothing can stop them. Even if doors and walls are built, the house is built for gathering, sleeping and living. A window is like a shiny glass knocking, like a shiny book turning from page to page. Education does not mean crowding and quarreling. As long as there are hands, they will be together.
Even a string of bells in the desert, such as bells, coconuts shaking around the neck of coconut trees, hot air on the beach and tired nets, are my hopes. Cold pine needles and rice thorns are my sunshine, which hangs on my shoulders, like cherries and grapes.
Itchy and brittle, like sweat and kisses flowing through my chest, dark clouds and rain like dying revenge after my crying and lightning.
Falling into the tragic torn sky, then, in history, I will always choose such a moment, in the tide, oil, humidity and air, pressing my voice low, pressing it into the deep mineral deposits and chest, echoing the songs of another mainland black, singing the motherland with a deep throat.
Extended data:
1, creative background:
Poetry creation began at 197 1, and was first influenced by the works of elizabeth barret browning and Meijeretis, and then his interest turned to Eliot's neoclassicism and mythological ritual school theory. In the winter of 1978, I participated in the activities of today's magazine. After 1980, poems such as Variations on the Stars were published in Shanghai Literature. Rivers' influential works in this period include Monument and Motherland, Motherland.
2. Introduction to the author:
He Jiang, formerly known as Yu Youze, was born in 1949, a Beijinger, and graduated from 1968 high school. /kloc-0 published his debut novel Variations on the Stars in Shanghai Literature in May, 1980, and wrote poems such as Starting from Here and The Sun and Its Reflection. He is one of the representative poets of the obscure poetry school in the new period. His poems are full of a heavy sense of history, and his political lyric poems, such as Monument and the ancient myth poem The Sun and Its Image, have won the attention of the society. Together with Gu Cheng, Bei Dao, Shu Ting and Yang Lian, they are called "five outstanding poets in misty poetry".
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