The purest cause (holderling language) has been carried forward and passed down, shining with the most dazzling brilliance.
The great metaphor in books that people open, study and read in order to understand nature is just another opposite and visible aspect, and it is a deeper aspect, which forces language to exist in the world, between plants, vegetation, stones and animals. Michelle. Foucault seems to have predicted some obvious truths in words and things. It can be said that words are everywhere. When we open sunshine, spring and rivers, and open every closed door, you will see that words have always stood in front of us, never dodging or avoiding. Just like a child sees the withered flowers on the windowsill, mom, the flowers are gone, and there is no need for any emphasis or carving. Language is a building buried in a sand dune. Once you wipe away the dust, poetry will naturally stand out. Protrusion is an aesthetic. In the final analysis, it is the poet's unique language (art) perception.
You put a bunch of flowers in a bottle and said that you are a flower that must bloom. You bowed your head and answered me faintly. I will kill you with a withered flower. Is there anything else to say about andrade's memorial service? This withering power is enough to resist any earthly stress and wind and rain. Close to the earth and detached from the world, andrade's poems set out from the earth and tirelessly used the symbols of poetry to build a spiritual home rooted in the earth and yearning for the sky. The poet is the most sensitive nerve on the earth. He is a human being.
Absolute revelation of the soul. I have always stubbornly believed that poets are the closest people to God or God. They kept vigil for the human soul and bowed their heads consciously. Poetry is the ultimate goal of art (Sartre). And what is the purpose of poetry? I don't think even Sartre can give an accurate answer. Actually, we don't necessarily need answers. Like cutting. Milosz wrote "Don't leave me" in the song. Will this classic poem become a poet's helpless prayer? Dylan, one of the most outstanding poets in British and American poetry in the 20th century, focused on life, desire and death. Thomas, who usually shows infinite poetry with the most common images, returns poetry to the eternal proposition that death cannot unify the world. Seagulls may no longer sing in their ears, and waves will no longer beat the coast; It's not a place where flowers bloom.
Spend more, stand upright against the wind and rain; Although they are crazy and stiff as nails, the heads of the characters will be exposed in the daisies; Broken before the sun goes down, death can't rule the country. From this we can see the poet's proud and lonely soul. But in the poem "The Mountain of Sheep's Teeth", he left time for my youth and death/even though I was bound by shackles, I still sang like the sea. Embracing the broad mind like the sea and silent faith made Dylan. Thomas's poems are full of profound and touching feelings. Melancholy and sensitive, Pound also clung to his fragile and powerful heart and shuttled through Washington, Paris and Rome, passing by vague faces: these faces were ghostly in the crowd/petals were blooming on the wet black branches. For the city, the subway is a metaphor. For a poet like Pound, it symbolizes an absolute pain. It crosses and pauses again and again, and those superimposed faces can only find responses in poetry. There has never been an art form that pays more attention to human survival and disillusionment than poetry. Time is our eternal master, giving us light and love. In addition to digging and praising life and death, many poets left excellent poems about their mothers without exception. This kind of works with maternal love as the motif is filled with the quiet echo of religion. Zvetayeva said: With my mother, I can only do one thing: become a poet. The coolness of the sheet just taken off the clothesline makes me think it must still be wet. But when I grabbed the two corners at one end of the linen sheet and pulled it away from her, I straightened the edge of the sheet first, then leveled the middle corner, and then beat it and shook it. The sheets bulged like sails in the cross wind and made a dry sound. We just straightened it, folded it, and touched it, as if nothing had happened.
Nothing unusual happens day after day, just moved and then left, hesitated and approached. I'm X moving, and she's O, written on the sheet she sewed with a flour bag. This is the Irish poet Siemers. Heaney's poem Out of the Air, a long poem in memory of his mother. Straighten the linen sheets and give them to each other, and feel the warmth after touching your hands from the cold at first. That subtle and suffocating touch makes people uneasy and can't be let go for a long time. Everyone has experienced this coolness, and it flows back to an inseparable complex in life. After all, Mom will leave before Siemers and us. Sydney never believed in the religious concept of going to heaven after death, but he believed that the soul could not die and love could not die. this
This complex, direct and profound experience also appears in my poems. Here, I don't want to repeat my work too much. I just quote a few lines from my long poem "Chasing the Soul": On rainy days, I am seven times weaker than you, and I approached the pigsty. The bucket is full of warmth. In order to prevent it from tilting, you carefully moved to the back of my eleven-year-old hand but crossed the shoulder-length fence, which became a problem. This is not because of illness. You have the strength to try again and again. Broken bones are still rising. Look at the English poet Margaret. Wei's "Mother's Care";