Useless dawn found me on a desolate street corner; I survived that night. Black is a proud wave: dark blue waves fall high, full of deep soil of various colors, full of unreliable and desirable things. The night has a mysterious habit of giving and choosing, giving up half of things and keeping half of things, which is the happiness of the dark hemisphere. I'm telling you, night is like this. As usual, the rough waves and the dark night left me with trivial things: some annoying chat friends, music played to my dreams, and smoke from stinging ashes. My hungry heart doesn't need it. Huge waves have sent you.
Words, all words, your laughter; And so lazy and endless beautiful you. We were talking, and you forgot the lyrics. At dawn, I appeared on a desolate street in my city. The outline of your back, the voice that makes up your name, and the tune of your laughter: these are the famous tools you left me. I abandoned them at dawn, I lost them and I found them; I told some lost dogs and some lost morning stars.
Your dark and rich life? I must recognize you, in some way: I put away these famous tools you left me, and I want your hidden face, your real smile-the familiar lonely and mocking smile in your cool mirror.
I give you sparse streets, desperate sunsets, and the moon in the wilderness. I will give you a sad look at the lonely moon for a long time. I'll give you my dead ancestor, the ancestor who was commemorated with marble in later generations: my father's father was killed at the border of Buenos Aires, and two bullets went through his chest. When he died, he had a beard and his body was wrapped in cowhide by soldiers; My mother's grandfather-who was only 24 years old at that time-led 300 people to charge in Peru, and now they are all ghosts on horseback. I give you all the insight in my book and all the masculinity and humor in my life.
I give you the loyalty of someone you never trusted. I'll give you the core that I'm trying to preserve-the core that doesn't make words and sentences, doesn't trade dreams, and isn't moved by time, joy and adversity. I will give you the memory of a yellow rose, which you saw one night many years before you were born. I will explain your life, your own theory, your real and magical existence to you. I give you my loneliness, my darkness and my inner desire; I tried to impress you with confusion, danger and failure.
I am not a person who can read poetry, because I can't read it, my heart is not quiet enough and I have no patience. Borrowed poems are always returned without reading, even if they are read, they don't know what they are reading. Borrowed Rilke, Nie Luda and Baudelaire didn't look carefully. I like Trondstrom's poems, but I can't figure out what they are saying. It's a very illusory feeling, like floating clouds in the sky. You seem to feel it, but you can't catch it and you can't say it. I have read Whitman and Tagore. The former's poem is about a man, strong, upright and gentle. The latter's poetry is a romantic Oracle, like a dialogue with God.
Eliot's "Waste Land" and other poems have been turned over, but they are completely ignorant because of lack of knowledge. The only collection of poems I have read carefully is Selected Poems of Borges. I marked the reading record of this book with a red line, indicating that it is very beautiful and worth buying. Now, when I take it off the shelf, it seems like another new encounter. Who says a classic book is to make it look like the first time every time you read it, and it will make you read it again and again.
Once upon a time, a girl asked me which writers I liked in Latin America. I said marquez without hesitation. I had just finished reading Love in Cholera and liked this writer very much. She said that she had read Marquez's works, but she preferred Borges. At that time, my mind was in a mess and I couldn't remember what I had read in Borges. I remember reading his poems, but I have completely forgotten them. I was confused by his novel. I read The Garden with Branched Paths three times before I got a vague understanding of it. The only thing I can recall is a story about a murderer who hid in a very hidden corner.
His "poetic art" makes me feel good now, but now I don't know what he wrote. Every time I think about what books I have read, my mind goes blank. I really answered a friend's question: "How many books have you read?" I am speechless. Well, no more. No. I looked at my reading records and was surprised that I had read so many novels, but I had no impression at all.
I read the names of several books and thought: Wow, I have read this book! Looking back on the past year and a half and the last two years, I really don't know what I did. Except reading or reading, I found that I couldn't remember the books I had read. Even the vivid feeling at that time was completely forgotten. If only the memory of one thing could be completely forgotten like reading! Rereading Borges's Selected Poems, I think the girl's love is reasonable. I haven't read any poems. But this is the best poem I have ever read.
Every time I read a poem, I will write one or two very lame and totally unreasonable poems; Just like every time I read an English novel, I suddenly write a few words in English, then I sink into the sea, never write or read again, and then I forget it completely.