By feeling, not with a pen.
Turn inspiration into symbols and hit the keyboard.
All the ghosts have hit.
Pat my stomach and dance after my words.
The room was burning with fire from transparent wood.
Beautiful floating artistic conception leads to ancient times.
Beat a drum with a heartbeat.
All thoughts raise their javelins and covet the prey of words.
therefore
Cang Xie is strung with the squares in the dictionary.
Shake hands with popular dialects on the Internet and write a book.
Open your eyes in the dark.
Through the wall, unruly soul through the wall.
You don't need an umbrella to put all the filth and hypocrisy in the dark.
Take off your heavy coat and run naked.
Dew in the morning and eyes patrolling the road
Wet shower
then
Looking for the beam of light left by Apollo's passing car
Look up at the incomprehensible sun.
I was deeply impressed by the courage of moths to put out the fire.
I watched the vulture flapping its wings and hitting the sky.
A fearless gesture
Open your arms, I will run without wings.
Head on towards the distant
The tearful flute mourns the legend of a poet.
I am writing with my heart in the morning.
Poets and Poetry 2 Poets and Poetry
Is an innocent child.
With relish in the scorching sun
Play with your own mud.
Poets and Poetry
Is a half-crazy and half-stupid adult.
Build a plane out of wood.
Dream of flying into the sky
Poets and Poetry
She is a woman over half a year old.
Insist on being a man for yourself.
Give birth to a lovely son
Poets and Poetry
Is a poor fisherman.
Every day on the boat that comes home late.
Sing a happy or melancholy fishing song
Poets and Poetry
Is a tired and loving mother.
Still working for children in the middle of the night.
Humming a soft sleep song
Poets and Poetry
He is an old man in his seventies.
In a friend's mourning hall
Singing melodious and touching songs for the elderly
Poets and Poetry
Is a humble person.
Have a crush on a lady
Never forget to say love.
Poets and Poetry
Is a clever shepherd boy.
Facing the empty mountain forest
Blow the leaves with your mouth.
Poets and Poetry
Is a dying beauty.
Interested in your youth and beauty
A hundred turns and a thousand turns.
Poets and Poetry
Just a stolen floating life
People who have leisure for three or two days.
Looking back on childhood endlessly
Poets and Poetry
Is a dying man.
The concept of afterlife after death
Talking about waiting for the next life.
Poets and Poetry
It was played by a man.
Or being played by a woman
The pain and sadness that followed.
Poets and Poetry
Also entered an empty door.
The sound of dusk drums and morning bells
This has nothing to do with emotion
It's also related to emotions.
Poet and Poetry 3 It is a delicate, beautiful and exquisite flower.
Driving quietly on a stinking corpse on the side of the road.
Other plants around have withered because of diffuse death.
But god let it bloom alone in the dusk.
The poet is on the way to pursue his ideal.
Inadvertently saw a strange sight over there.
Realistic eyes warned him not to approach.
But the innate curiosity finally occupied all his thoughts.
The poor ghost carefully broke the flower branch.
Sniffing the rotten fragrance greedily with his nose.
Such a beautiful flower, cold and tenacious
Maybe its entity doesn't exist in this world.
The poet fell into it and became more and more crazy about it.
He lost himself and picked a bright red petal.
Listen to that charming voice and taste it.
Looking for a smell full of blood with sinful taste buds.
He cut himself open with a sharp knife.
Willing to nourish flowers with your body
He knows that the owner of the body is also a poet.
But he can't extricate himself, let him draw nutrition from it.
"Goodbye, distant heaven."
The poet still maintained his good wishes before his death.
On his cold body
A flower called the flower of evil.
Towards the next poet.
Poets and Poems 4 Poets are called poets because they are obsessed with more beautiful or sad things outside their normal study and work, and like to wander between words, an all-encompassing love, smelling their ink and dancing their fragrance.
The rhythmic heart, like a butterfly, flies to the sea of flowers, revels in the horizon and is brewed by bees. Day after day, the cold gradually disappeared, and the summer gradually drifted away. Finally, this excellent work floated around like a fairy, showing it to its lover and those who loved it, and making those who loved it linger and revel in it. The person you love deeply must be a poet who has devoted a lot of blood and sweat.
It is true that the publication of every work is not easy, especially the excellent works, such as Zhouyi, Zhong You's Spring and Autumn Annals, Qu Yuan's Li Sao, the blind Mandarin, Sun Tzu's Fat Feet, and the revision of Sun Tzu's Art of War, have not violated Lu Lan, Han Fei's Biography of Moving the Capital and Qin. When the poet pays you a thousand lines of poetry, he or she has already paid a thousand lines of tears; When he (she) touches you, he (she) has been begging in front of the Buddha for 500 years; When you stand and look at the scenery in the article, he (she) has struggled out of the trough and stood as a beautiful image; When you lament life, he (she) is heartbroken at the end of the world!
Maybe we are amazed at the author's words and fragments, but sometimes how precious is that short inch of time? The ink is elegant, charming and fragrant, but: "You can see the words I typed on the keyboard, but you can't see the tears I dropped on the keyboard." Because these seemingly simple truths must be experienced before they can be deeply understood.
In life, poetry is that you are sitting here, which is a kind of distance. With poetry, you can see the flowers blooming on the other side, and you can see your lover in the distance with poetry. You can also see the Iraqi who sells the West Building alone and the lonely figure of the window standing by, and you can also see the bloody sunset deep in the desert. The poet's journey is spiritual and beautiful scenery, often in strange mountains and rivers; Extremely strong music is often in a sad rhyme. If the poet's pen is not full of blood, how can he touch his people? Reading poetry is like tasting tea, and tasting tea is like tasting people. If life is like a song, then every poet is the lyrics of that song. The rhythm in the poem is the poet's dancing wings, and the glittering phosphorescence is the tears carved by the poet with a knife.
Tagore said: "I am the earth scorched by the hot summer sun, tired and thirsty, and my life is exhausted." I am waiting for your nectar to fall at night, and I will open my heart and suck it quietly. I am eager to repay you with songs and flowers, but I have nothing but a heartfelt sigh through the hay. " Yes, the poet has nothing but a sighing heart and a clover. If that heart exists, it will be moved, sometimes blurred, like spring rain; Sometimes hot, like the hearts of lovers in love; Sometimes longing, like burning faith, never becomes indifferent, lingering in the fleeting time, or weeping, or rejoicing, or thinking deeply. Weave tassels with one hand and convey love with the other. In the boundless wilderness, under the cold sky, floating is the soul of poetry.
The poet is both a shooter and Bai Niao. If you accidentally knock on the door of loneliness, it will fall on your heart and become a ruin. Xi Murong said: "If you are a tearful shooter, I am Bai Niao who will never dodge again in my life, just waiting for the arrow to break through the air and shoot into my broken heart;" If you are the only shooter in the world who can hurt me, I am all your youth, all unforgettable joys and sorrows. "The poet roams in the ocean of time in his dream. In the boundless darkness, fate is like a sea breeze, blowing the boat of youth, and writing the loneliness of the world with a stormy mast.
Xu Zhimo loved Lin and wrote the immortal poem Farewell to Cambridge. Lin misses Xu Zhimo's April Day on Earth. San Mao lost Jose and rolling in the deep, tearfully telling "how many flowers fall in a dream"; Pushkin's devotion to Baku Nina sings the flavor of his first love "yevgeni onegin". Then, the poet clung to his sadness and was never comforted. I have only seen this kind of sadness with my own eyes, but looking back, my heart is broken, but I have to piece it together bit by bit, waiting for a miracle, waiting for my heart to bloom again!
Love is the end of the world, love is endless, ink is fragrant, and plain pen writes farewell. Love has no reason. The poet's pen was covered with tears. Goethe said: "He who has not eaten bread with tears does not know the taste of life." Full of emotion and spirit is the beauty of a poet. However, your tears cannot be interpreted or explained in the material world. Only appreciate, lest blasphemy; Just follow, it will spoil the fun.
Poet, if you are a mountain, I would like to be running water; If you are a cape, I would like to be the ends of the earth; If you are a desert, I wish it were spring; If you were a candle, I would like to be a moth and burn the last tear with you until it disappears!
Poets and Poetry Poetry 5 The country of poetry is like a galaxy. The poet's life, that is, like a meteor, has been confusing; Genius poets, especially in their lives.
Keats, a talented poet far away in England, lived only for 256 spring and autumn periods, but left behind a large number of catchy carols such as Ode to Autumn, Ode to Melancholy and Ode to the Nightingale. The productivity and high quality of creation are amazing. It is such a poet who sees life very clearly. At the end of his life, he left himself an epitaph: "Here lies a man whose name is written in water." Modern people agree that even if Keats didn't write any other works, those carols are enough to make him immortal. Shelley praised Keats like this: "Quiet! He's not dead, he's not dozing off, He has awakened from the dream of life, ..................................................................................................................................................... In addition, Byron, the three outstanding poets of English romanticism, was equally charming and brilliant, but died young. Although they are gone, can the spring of poetry be far behind?
When Keats and Shelley died more than one hundred years later, just before and after the May 4th Movement in China, an equally talented poet grew up in this period, that is, "Keats of China" (Lu Xun's language) ── Zhu Xiang. Although his name is far away or even unfamiliar to contemporary young people. "Zhu Xiang, Zi Ziyuan, from Taihu Lake, Anhui Province", only from his name, can also perceive the poet's closeness to water. In his poems, his love for water is everywhere: "Huan women wash clothes by the lake, and soldiers wash rice." Another example: "Sunset, microwave, The golden thread crossed the stream. ................................................................................................................................................. .................................................................................................................................................................................. Our poet died, but he didn't. His reputation was restored. In "Two Romances", Mr. Luo Niansheng said: It seems a bit flattering to compare Zhu Xiang to "Keats of China", and the poet was so desolate and lonely before and after his death. However, even so, who can deny Zhu Xiang's pioneering work in the history of modern poetry in China?
Xu Zhimo, another contemporary poet of Zhu Xiang, has a more unrestrained genius. It is not surprising that he left in another way. Born romantic, Xu Zhimo also loves flying and dreams of flying. Little did he know that the safety factor of airplanes in those days was far from "romantic", so the poet romanticized himself prematurely. It is said that after his death, a close friend picked up the wreckage of the plane and put it on his desk as a souvenir, which shows his deep regret for the poet. Today, we can't remember Xu Zhimo, but we can't forget the poem "I left gently", just because Xu Zhimo, as a poet, has been deeply integrated into the lines of poetry as a new life.
Looking back, Wang Bo, one of the "four outstanding men in the early Tang Dynasty", unfortunately drowned on his way to visit relatives in the South China Sea, and he also became the kind who died young. The poet was swallowed up by the sea, but where was his achievement swallowed up by the sea? Famous sentences such as "The sunset is lonely in Qi Fei, the autumn waters are * * * and the sky is one color" can be sung through the ages, which is the witness of the poet's endless life. Looking back, these indelible contemporary names, Gu Cheng, Haizi and Luo Yihe, maintain a sad story about life. "The death of illusion becomes the real death." "The body is the beginning of the soil. The corpse is not anger or disease, it contains fatigue, sadness and genius. " (the land king of Haizi 1987)
Poets regard life and death as so ethereal and light, only because in the poet's bones and temperament, new life is gestating. Their passing like meteors is only temporary. But their lives, in this death, got eternal life.
Poets and Poetry 6 Your Ink Color
Cover up the burning desire
Feel uneasy and dizzy
It is permeated with a sad and lonely taste.
I am waiting for flowers to bloom in the fleeting time of snow.
And you are like a fishbone.
Stabbed into my poor life
……
Youth is broken and scattered like stars.
Memories, tears at the fingertips
I was awake that night.
Trying to sort out the confused thoughts
Just stretch out his arm.
But it was an electric shock and the red tide broke out.
The locked door was opened at once.
At this time, I saw a sentence that was once left out.
Run to me willfully.
Cry wildly. Those birds with no feet
Start taking off in the dark
A poem with a straight face.
Also began to sprout.
■ Poetry dedication
My first poem. That was when I was in a coma.
Pushed by a man named Guangming
Every word I write is like a fire.
Burn the impurities in your mind and the filth in your heart.
Every word makes my inspiration erupt like a volcano.
A newly reclaimed virgin land was illuminated. Bright, shiny; Shine, shine
Nourishing my cultivated land like a virgin.
20xx is going to say goodbye to me.
Tonight, I sow the seeds.
20xx years will surely take root and sprout, just like
The orchid I planted.
Will bloom with dazzling innocence.
I want to fly against the current like a kingfisher.
On a warm night.
Let my poems splash with waves and a sea of fresh flowers.
Dance, endless. ...
Poet and Poetry 7 I married a poet.
He has nothing but poetry.
At the wedding, someone else's bride wears a diamond ring.
He put it on me.
It was a gentle kiss and tears of excitement.
But I'm happy because he gave it to me.
True feelings and beauty woven with poetry
A room full of happiness and a romantic bed.
His poems are streams flowing from his blood.
Drop into my heart and become the fragrance of roses.
His poems are rain on the horizon.
Moisturize the dry land and grow seedlings of hope.
I am proud that I am the bride of the poet.
When I married a poet, I swam into the ocean of love.
The poet's heart is like a newborn sun.
There is warmth in warmth and shyness in enthusiasm.
I close my eyes intoxicated, but I can see everything.
Because I married a poet, I can see his heart.
It is transparent and crystal clear.
What is reflected is alive.
I married a poet, lucky but unlucky.
Because he belongs to me and to you.
In public, he secretly made eyes at me.
It's for me and for the readers.
Our hearts beat with his poems.
Only I know.
The poet is too affectionate and loves too much.
The poet's feelings are like the stars in the sky.
The poet's love is like a dream gyro in the moonlight.
You do, but the poet doesn't.
The poet does, and neither do you.
I have no regrets. I married a poet.
Although we are short of materials.
But we have love.
That's the richest baby.