Jiang He, whose original name is Yu Youze, was born in 1949 in Beijing. Graduated from high school in 1968. In 1980, he published his debut work "Star Variations" in "Shanghai Literature" and wrote poetry collections "Start From Here" and "The Sun and His Reflection". He is one of the representative poets of hazy poetry in the new era. He instilled a strong sense of history into his poems, and won social attention with political lyric poems such as "Monument" and the ancient mythological poem "The Sun and Its Reflections". Jiang He is one of the representative poets of (mist) poetry, and "Star Variations" is one of his important poems. (Mist) Poetry is a very important literary genre in the new era. It is the product of a group of young people who began to awaken their self-awareness in the late "Cultural Revolution" and used the form of poetry to reflect on reality and pursue the independent aesthetic value of poetry. This "Star Variation" embodies some typical characteristics of (Mist) Poetry in terms of poetry theme, creative techniques and poetry techniques. [Masterpiece] "The Unfinished Poem" 1. The ancient story I was nailed to the wall of the prison. The black time gathered together, and a flock of crows pecked heroes to death one after another from every corner of the world, every night in history. On this wall, the hero's pain turned into stone, lonelier than the mountain, carved out and molded into the character of the nation. The hero was crucified. The wind eroded, the rain beat the blurred image on the wall, revealing the mutilated arms, hands, and face. The braids whipped, the darkness pecked at the hands of ancestors and brothers, worked hard to build themselves into the wall silently, I came here again to resist the fate of slavery, and shook the soil off the wall with fierce death to let the people who died silently Get up and scream 2. Suffer. My daughter is about to be executed. The muzzle of the gun is coming to me. A black sun is coming to me on the cracked land. The withered fingers of the old tree are spasmodic wrinkles on the face. I and the land endure*** My heart fell to the ground with my daughter's blood splattered all over the soil. My child's tears flowed on my face. My child's tears were also salty in winter. The small rivers stopped singing in the frozen rivers. The clothes of sisters, daughters and wives were torn, and their hair fell down. The waves splash on the rocks. My hair is like a sea. The hands of father, husband, and son are bumping on the sea of ??hair. The joints are clanging dullly. The ship is growing roughly. 3. Short Lyrics Like in a dream, I became a girl and came here. The creaking gravel road of the world tramples the shadows. I run barefoot and the blood drops melt into the dew. The red agates flash and rise and fall. For the tender green heart, I open at dawn. I dedicate the pure turmoil of my youth to the revolution. My arms are white. Looking for the bridge, looking for the sun, no longer afraid of the stars trembling in the water, the woods on the spine, the groping of the night, I become a star, no longer trembling. 4. Execution, the wind of deception covers the windows, the massacre is going on, I can't hide in the house, my blood won't let go. I do this, the children in the morning don't let me do this, I'm thrown into prison, the handcuffs, the shackles are embedded in my flesh, the whip is webbed around me, the sound is cut, my heart is like a fire, silently burning on my lips, I walk to the place of execution. , looking at this historical night with disdain, there is no other choice in this corner of the world. I choose the sky. The sky will not rot. I have to be executed. Otherwise, there is nowhere to hide in the night. I was born in the night. In order to create light, I can only be killed. Execution, otherwise lies will be shattered. I am against everything that light cannot tolerate, including silence. The surroundings are crowded with people who have been driven away. The darkness is crowded with people who have been stripped of their light. I also stand in this crowd and watch myself being executed. Watch my blood drain out drop by drop. Five unfinished poems. When I die, the bullets leave craters on my body like empty eye sockets. I die not to leave a cry or a feeling of emotion, not to leave flowers alone on the grave. The land is open and the nation's feelings are rich enough. The grasslands are covered with dew every day and the rivers flow to the ocean every day. How many times have these long-lasting moist feelings been touched? I am nailed to the wall and the skirt of my clothes is slowly fluttering like a rising sea. Flag "Star" I remember when I was a child, I painted one blue star after another on the square wall where the children sold crumpled paper exercise books. They were crooked, big and bright. Nowadays I rarely think of that first time. When the lover's eyes closed the stars of acacia leaves, I came to the seaside to look for the path paved by the moon, and a large silver-white wave unfolded towards me, and there were many distant sounds. So many tiny mountain peaks flashing slightly, like little birds, the stars are flying slowly, all the fish schools have left, the moon is small and lonely, like a small forgotten memory, I stand and experience death, with a few rocks and a few animals beside me. The wooden ship remained motionless for thousands of years. The labor of the sea and hands, strong winds and turbulent waves, left only a rocky, hard-shelled ship.
Real and empty, one star after another died piecemeal in the morning, seemingly still with hope. I was left here to look at the stars, looking for the big and bright one. Take me back to the boundless place and burn willfully. Standing there awkwardly and brightly every night "Star Variations" If every corner of the earth is full of light, who needs the stars? Who will still stare at the night to find distant comfort? Who doesn't want every day to be a poem? Every word is like a star trembling in the heart like a bee. Who doesn't want to have a soft night, as soft as a lake? Fireflies and stars swimming among the water lilies. Who doesn't like spring. Birds fall on the branches, like stars falling on the sky, twinkling. The voice floated from afar, and hazy clusters of white lilacs. If every corner of the earth was full of light, who would need the stars? Who would still burn lonely in the cold, seeking the little bits of hope? Who would be willing to write year after year? Each poem of suffering is a group of trembling stars, like ice and snow covering the heart. Who would like to watch the night, frozen and stiff like a piece of land, and the wind blows down one thin star after another. Who doesn't like the fluttering flag, like the fire gushing out golden When the stars in the sky are tired - they rise to shine in places where the sun cannot shine/xlib/xd/sgdq/jianghe.htmChinese Poetry Library: Selected Poems of Rivers