A budding poem
Zhang Xiaofeng
The cold rain in February in Bai Lianhua got wet with street lamps and poems. Life and death, light and darkness, love and suffering are so close.
And poetry, at this moment, in the labor room, I feel lonely, and you and I are lonely and suffering in our own world. Why are poetry, all comfort and all pity eyes so unrealistic? Who will understand the pain, the pain that twisted my body and shattered my soul? I struggled and cried in vain. What is poetry and life? Is it a kind of regeneration from fracture and self-scar? It's rain outside the window, it's a heavy winter night outside the window, it's ancient firecrackers outside the window, the world is quiet and beautiful, and I, Shishi, where is my direction? If I die, this will be the last bed I have made, a white bed behind the curtain in the delivery room. I leave my love to you. Love is my name and love is my photo. One day, when you walk through weeds and smoke, I will whisper to you there-accompanied by wind and water.
Poetry, why is the dawn so far away? My bones are collapsing, my blood is flowing backwards, and my muscles and tendons are corrected like burning. Shishi, where are you? They pushed me into the delivery room and wrote poems. Is there a lonelier place in the world? That hand was shut out of the door-it held my hand all night, it held my hand in the moonlight many years ago. His eyes, his prayers and his love were shut out, and I, alone, was heading for an unpredictable fate.
All faces recede, and all the past events are like an abandoned shepherd's flute. In the middle of the room, a headlight leans on my upturned face, like an upside-down lotus, burning a thousand layers of white in nothingness. Flowers are real, flowers are illusory, flowers are everything, poetry.
Rosemary in April seems to be in April, it seems to be yuan-leaved, and it seems that the wings of butterflies are flapping in the valley of flowers.
"Breathe, take a deep breath!" From far away, there came such a gentle voice.
Where am I? Poetry, the pain is getting farther and farther away. I hear the clash of metals, and I smell such a refreshing fragrance. Where are you, Shishi?
"Hard work! I see the head! Push hard! " Poetry, I am a star, scattered in the division. And you, Shishi, you are a brand-new star, new and bright, and your light will shine tonight.
Poetry, I look at myself, wet with sweat and blood, and suddenly feel that the cross is not terrible, the skeleton is not terrible, the crown of thorns is not terrible, and loneliness is not terrible-if there is something lovely, if there is a life to offer, if there is an ideal to bleed.
"Breathe, take a deep breath." What a good rosemary, a poem, I am floating in the fragrance of flowers, floating in the fearless love.
Morning came, everything was silent, and the universe returned to ancient times, mixed and empty, only rosemary, intoxicating rosemary, poetry, where are you? I still clearly feel the slaughter of the scalpel, and I can still feel the warm blood flowing, blood and tears.
I still feel like I'm waiting.
The singer hangs like a waterfall, and you suddenly leave me.
"Congratulations, it's a boy." "Thank you." I whispered, comforting and sad.
I can almost hear them cutting the umbilical cord. Our lives are divided, divided and cut by sharp knives. Poetry, from time to time, although seemingly we will live in the same room, I will breast-feed you, hug you, kiss you and send you to your dreams every night, but in any case, you are yourself. Your tears and your laughter will have nothing to do with me. You will flap your wings and fly to your clear sky.
Poetry, but why do I cry, why do I always want to save something.
What role in the world is more lonely than mother, Shi Shi, they are destined to cry, Shi Shi, let me hold your hand and let us get as close as possible. And when you fly, let me stand on a higher hill and worry about every passing cloud for you.
Why don't they show me your face? I am tired and silent. But suddenly, I heard you crying.
This is a poem, a poem. What kind of harmony is this? Crying, but full of joy, like your father, you have a beautiful tenor voice, I knew it as soon as I heard it. And poetry, my young singer, what's your theme? Some compliments? Some thanks? Some awe? A little confused? But anyway, they touched me, such a simple melody. Poetry, let your song live forever in the dead silence of life. Poetry, we don't often hear flowing springs, loose winds, liberal arts and Wagner, but we always have babies. The land with babies is convenient for music, mysterious and beautiful, as if copied from overlapping outer space.
Poetry, singer, may your life be a solemn song, sung to the valley full of people with or without sound.
Dr. Ding and Dr. Ding come from far away, poetry and poetry, far away from Ireland. You don't know him and he doesn't know you. When he was a bagpipe boy, did he know that in half a century, he would extradite a child with black hair and eyes? Poetry, what kind of hand makes him the first face you see? What beautiful blond hair and eyebrows he has, his kind eyes and red baby cheeks make people feel that he is always smiling.
Last summer, when he came out of the laboratory and said "congratulations" to me, I really wanted to kiss his hand. His bright light brown eyes are full of understanding, kindness and poetry, which makes us love him.
And this morning, he put a clip on your big head, and you were brought into this world. When it was all over, he breathed a sigh of relief after a sleepless night. When someone was changing my clean sheets, he suddenly said, "Look, I can go to Paris. I draw better than them. " All the nurses in the room laughed, and so did I. Suddenly, I realized how tired I was.
They took the painting, which showed my blood and my love, poetry, and that was the first painting you saw. Life and death are on it, poetry, and no painting.
Cart, sweet cart, outside the delivery room is a busy corridor, and outside the corridor is a world of sadness and joy, poetic and picturesque.
Dr. Ding came to my bedside and shook hands with your stunned father. "Let's pray." He said, close his thick and big palm-it is the palm of the healer and the palm of the prayer. I don't know which palm I prefer.
"God, we thank you because you created a new man on earth, keeping him upright, helping him and making him useful."
Poetry, at that time, I cried. Poetry, 27 years later, until this morning, I suddenly found that I don't understand what is man, what is survival and what is God.
Poetry, let us love him, love the first face in your life, and love all faces-lovely, unlovable, holy, guilty, happy and sad. Until the end of my life, I love you for the last time in Kurome.
Poetry.
Red cherry for no reason, I dreamed of red cherry in the alley.
In my dream, the cherry tree is so tall and colorful. My dream is like Trollope in the epic, and the whole place is on fire. I can almost hear the crackle of flames.
And Shishi, I rode a sports car and zigzagged along the mountain road. I feel like I'm flying
So, when I woke up, I was still lying on the strange white bedding in the hospital. What about those cherry blossoms? What about those cherry blossom petals that really only bloom for three or five days in the whole spring? So, I think of those landscapes, those flowers and birds, and the world separated from the ward. Poetry, I was madly in love with all that, and now, I am imprisoned, waiting for the meeting every four hours, waiting for your little face.
When you smile occasionally, my heart feels that there is no room for so much joy. The so-called mother is such a humble role.
But why, when I woke up from a strange dream, I felt sad. The world of spring flowers seems to be drifting away from me, and carefree years have waved goodbye to me. From time to time, I can only live in your world, guarding your cradle, waiting for you to toddler until you come out of my sight.
I close my eyes and want to dream of cherry trees again-those cherry trees that grow in the wild and are dyed red by water, but they refuse to come again.
When I was sixteen, I stood in the garden of a girls' middle school and felt dizzy. That spring, the universe was particularly wild. I stood in the middle of the garden and looked at all the flowers around me. I'm really afraid that I will be stunned by those beautiful women.
Now, poetry and the dream of youth are fading away, leaving only something more real than reality, and this beauty is more beautiful, that is you.
But Shishi, what are you? Is it the last dream of my dream life? Bless those teenagers who are still dizzy in the sea of flowers. I may not envy them. But why? Poetry, I feel sad, in the white shell-like ward, after the dazzling dream of red cherry.
On a quiet night, you know everything, poetry, although words are still strange to you. But at this moment, when you are sleeping like a pine tree in the windless valley, let my voice gently pass through your dreams. If someone gives me the honor of monarch and poetry, I will retreat. I know I am not a talented person. If someone gives me the respect of a scholar, I will refuse. Poetry, I know I'm not a learned man.
But one day, I was named mother, which was an honor as a monarch above scholars, and I accepted it. Poetry. So, when your life was confirmed in my stomach, I was shocked, as if I was pregnant with more than just a baby, but a universe.
I'm surprised how many women in the world dare to feel inferior to a mother.
I try to be a good boy, a good student, a good teacher and a good person. But at this moment, I know my greatest honor will be to be a good mother. I feel crowned when your smile is displayed in a secret dream late at night. And when you cry, all the jewels in oriental mythology are eclipsed by the crystal tears. When your little arms are wrapped around me like vines, every day is a sacred mother's day.
When your crystal eyes look at me, carnations bloom everywhere in May. So, if I give you something, I don't know. I only know that what you gave me surprised me, made me happy and made me feel loved. Imagine how sad it would be if one day you grew up so big that we had to be unfamiliar and misunderstood. Therefore, we will try our best to get to know you, just as a rocky beach is to the sea. I would like to watch you all the year round, be familiar with your ebb and flow, and know your every wave. I will try to love your blue and pure white at the same time-even if it is gray and turbid at stormy dusk.
If my love for you becomes a kind of pressure, if my attitude is too clumsy, please forgive me, Shishi. I sincerely hope to give you the greatest reward in Ceng Cheng. I once imagined that you were the happiest child in the world. If I don't succeed, you can be proud
I never thought "inherit the wind". If the Almighty Lord judges, babies will always be pure and far away from adults. If one of us should learn from the other, it is me. Help me, son, and let me learn the best things in the world from you. I will never ask you to follow me or tradition. There is no golden rule worthy of your worship except the creator himself. If there is truth in the world, it is in your heart.
If I have a prayer, if I have a wish, it is that you allow me to love you more and to draw more love from you.
On this quiet night, may my words surround you like a hill far and near.
If you are an angel, how can I imagine you are an angel?
In that case, you won't cry at night. Explain your needs to me in such a helpless voice. I won't get up in my clothes on a cold winter night, nor will I enjoy holding you and watching you fall asleep again with satisfaction.
If you were an angel and a poet, you wouldn't be running around asking for milk with your neck twisted and your mouth pursed when you were hungry. Poetry, you never know how your little moves touch my heart.
If you were an angel, after every rebeccalu nap, you wouldn't quietly climb up my big bed, climb up my neck, kiss my two troubles, bite my nose, make my face spit, and poetry. I love all this.
If you were an angel, you wouldn't get under the table, get your hands dirty, paint all over your face, or paint everywhere. However, whenever you do this, you are usually a thousand times cuter. If you were an angel, you wouldn't stumble into a wall and learn to walk, so I won't appreciate the fun of teasing you backwards. And you, Shishi, whenever you can walk a few more steps, you fall to the ground laughing. Your unbridled laughter is shocking. Angels don't know this, do they? Moreover, in that poem, how can an angel have your curiosity? How can an angel stand underground and look at a little black ant? How can an angel point at the stars and moons in the sky with a chubby hand in spring night? How can an angel chase a clumsy duck mindlessly? How can an angel enthusiastically imitate the barking of a dog next door and learn so much? When you do dirty things, when you reach for forbidden books, when you tiptoe near flowerpots, how amazing you look when you wander around. Angels never do bad things, and lovely thieves will never shine in their gentle eyes when you do bad things. Therefore, angels are far less than you.
And every morning, when I pick up my handbag, you rush to hug my leg. You cry, you scratch and do useless retention-you wouldn't do that if you were an angel-but I'd rather you did. Although it was a very sad moment, when I was walking in the alley, your undisguised love made me suffocate and rejoice.
If you were an angel and a poet, I wouldn't have heard such beautiful words. I wouldn't have died because I heard a simple "dad" and "mom". I wouldn't have kissed you so much because you said a string of meaningless notes. I would never have left my parents? The first word you can say is "lamp", which means that lamp is the most beautiful thing in the world.
If you were an angel, you would never sing such an ugly song, knock on the piano so harshly, tear up the picture book you just bought, tear up the clothes you just bought, break the glass deer your mother loves, and push two knotted calves around because of unsatisfactory things, and your little face will swell red. But why do your little bad things make me feel cute and weak in your character, so I feel close to you and therefore feel the need to pamper you.
Maybe you will have clearer eyes, redder cheeks, more beautiful blonde hair and a more perfect personality-if you are an angel. But I don't need those. I am only satisfied with you, Shishi, and only with the children on earth. Let angels flap their happy wings in the blue sky. I just want to have you, in my dreams, in my weak arms.
The North Exhibition showed us shell exhibitions and poems, and let us see the glorious life belonging to the sea.
There is also the sea, poetry, how far the sea is, the sea that breathes thousands of waves, the sea that hides ichthyosaurs, and the sea that makes your mother's dreams fragrant. Where is the sea? Poetry must be outside Qianshan. I have long since lost sight of the surf. I have forgotten the soft blue that drowns people. There are only shellfish in front of us, and only colorful halos under the museum lights witness the surging place.
Poetry! This rainy early summer is sad because of a room full of shells. Those colorful shells seem only suitable for echoing an old song, a forgotten poem. But it's noisy and crowded. Who looks back at the life that once wriggled, and who pities the wandering souls that never return to the sea?
And you, your childish black eyes, only see colorful brilliance. Those beautiful women don't seem unexpected to you. All beauty is inevitable for you, because you don't know what ugliness is. Ugliness is far from you. I stopped suddenly when I walked past a glass cabinet. The name of the collector suddenly stung me. This once resounding name is now under a lonely shell. I remember his bright eyes after middle age. He still has angry voices for many years, but I haven't seen him for years. How can I meet his name under the cold glass plate? I will feel sad when I think about his years, but you won't, Poetry. Ah, the thought that you will understand makes me want to cry. My mother didn't expect me to understand all this at first, but this day will come and the fence of Eden will fall down.
Let's see how these shells, poems and ethereal bodies are bright and shining like a spring flower. Look at the broken red, bright white, dark purple, greasy yellow, poetic and tragic life.
In the afternoon of June, standing in front of thousands of shells, how can you not cry, for the dead shells, for the old man who picked up shells, and for the dream of loving the sea? Poetry, don't raise your amazing little eyes, don't ask, play with this transparent Beckham I bought for you. One day, maybe one day, we'll take him back to the seaside and replay it in bright blue.
Cicadas sing in July, and poetry is poetry. Cicada sings like a net, scatters from the classical blue sky, breaks through the window and stains our pillows.
Poetry, your little mouth squeaks, so it imitates? Like imitating some beautiful arias. And poetry, knowing where it is, on the top of the most profitable branch, on the cloud with the lowest clear sky, or on your forever red lips.
And when you smile and hang the splendor of July outside your narrow eyes, have you ever thought about that miserable life, which has been underground for more than ten years, leaving only a cicada to spend a summer in the fragrant wind from the south? And when he sings, how do we know it's not deep silence? Cicada floats above the sound of the city, cicada floats above the messy buildings, cicada is the wind, cicada is unstoppable compassion. Poetry, let's love this last music struggling in the city. One evening, Shishi, one evening, your mother went to the forest in the middle of Yangming Mountain, and there was a lecture in the youth camp. As soon as she broke into the path full of mountain breeze, her heart was taken away by memories. Ten years later, the path is still the same, the glow of Guanyin Mountain is still the same, and the cicadas of thousands of forests are still the same. But ten years later, the soft blue dress is not what it looked like ten years ago, and the ponytail is not what it looked like ten years ago. Poetry, I should calm down or stop to catch my breath. That year, four complete seasons, your mother lived on this mountain. When the cuckoo flies, the girl's dream opens to Wei Yun. She is a prostitute. That boy always comes from this mountain path-that boy, Shi Shi, once held hands with your mother on the path and stamped his feet in the mountain spring with your mother. Now he holds you in his lap every night and lets you explore his stubble with your little finger like a white silkworm.
Poetry, cicadas churned on the path and flew away in ten years. Poetry, the past of boys and girls is blown away in the empty night breeze, beautiful but vague-like cicadas singing on another mountain.
I looked down, and a cicada that had not peeled off was clumsily walking towards acacia forest, with warm mud sticking to it, which was indescribably touching. She, your mother, or that girl-I don't know who she is-picked it up.
There is a mysterious crack in its back. Through that crack, the shell will die and the cicada will live. How can cicadas not be poems?
That night, the cicada quietly exposed its black body under the lamp. This is for you. Poetry, cicadas always exist, but we can only hold this year's July, July wind, cicadas in the wind. As soon as July is over, cicadas will get old. As soon as the fragrant wind passes, cicadas are no longer cicadas, and you are no longer you. Poetry, let's listen to the joyful and melancholy hymns in the summer, and listen to the mysterious voice of life, echoing from the last cool curry in this city.
One spring morning, I saw a woman walking on the road to the city.
She carried two baskets of flowers with a pole. Poetry, can you not exclaim? Two baskets full of crystal clear spring flowers.
One basket is in front and the other is in the back, so she is sandwiched between the two baskets. Half a bamboo pole arched slightly, as if ready to shoot the two baskets of arrow-like springs at any time.
The faint fragrance followed her footsteps and spread all the way. When the farmer put those half-vomited blue seedling needles in the paddy field, she planted a trance-like fragrance on the black asphalt road. Poetry, let's love those smells, the smell of spring soil.
When she approached, Shi Shi, when her face suddenly came too close to me like a picture, I suddenly froze. Sweat ran down her forehead and wet her homespun shirt. I can't help blaming myself. I only see those colorful colors, but what a heavy burden it is for her. She trudged and her weak shoulders tilted slightly.
Poetry, what kind of burden is life? When she left, I was still standing on the side of the road, the morning dew was still wet, and the blue tide surrounded us. Poetry, I looked at her and her in confusion, the vague flower burden that gradually did not enter the market. Is she happy? Still very painful? Poetry, what's it like to bear such a burden? What kind of road is this? Thinking about it, I began to blame myself again. I have no right to pity her. I should only respect-respect for the holder. That morning, when we left the roadside, I suddenly felt the weight of the burden on my shoulders. All good things always seem heavy, but our pain is our meaning and our burden is our value. Poetry, how can there be weightless flowers in the world? How can there be cheap beauties on earth? Shishi, lift your little feet, and let's go back along the road that the woman walked. Poetry, when your toes first set foot on the earth, thorns and gravel lurk on the road ahead. Poetry, the red wine of life is always squeezed from the broken grapes, and the sweet juice of life always comes from the dry sugarcane stems. This spring, poetry, let's try to understand and understand this spring. Poetry, let us no longer pray that our shoulders can relax, let us just pray that we are carrying a basket full of beauty.
May the image of this morning remain in our hearts forever, just as light and heat are always in the spring sunshine.
The first poem, winter dusk, the rain curtain reminds people of Jiangnan, you sit on my lap, and the beauty is a wet white jade.
So, we started our first poem: the poem with such bright light at the foot of my bed, has it been frosted? Looking up, I found that it was moonlight and sank again. I suddenly remembered home, simple words and simple melody. After only two passes, it will be catchy. You shout happily, treat it as a new song, and recite it again and again. You can control the rhythm so well before you are two years old.
The lights in the city are like fruits after autumn, which light up outside the window one by one, but I hang my head blankly and let the tears fall in the fading dusk. Poetry, poetry, what a wonderful poem, our first poem. In such a bleak foreign dusk, under such a strange palm tree outside the window, we began our first poem in life, such a beautiful and sad quatrain.
When I was eight years old, I came to this island and found a Tang poem in an adult's book. I memorized it in a daze. After a while, I got married and had children, and suddenly understood what homesickness was. Recalling that year, I was taken for a walk by my grandfather, and it suddenly got dark. I said anxiously, "Grandpa, let's go home!" " ""home? Wood, that's not home, that's just a residence. " "Yu? "I am more anxious." Isn't our home home? ""no, people only have one home, one hometown, and other places are apartments. "If Nanjing is an apartment, what is Xinsheng South Road? Poetry, please stop reading poetry. A lonely house in a guest has no moon and no frost. I don't understand why I think of this birthday every evening, let alone why I taught it to you at a young age. Poetry, what is hometown, you don't know, in fact, even I don't know much about it. Apart from those vague memories, I can only know the old country of "Sanqiu Devil" and the old country of "Ten Miles of Lotus Fragrance" from old books. But what about you? I'll never forget the day when you finished performing a poem in front of a guest and were suddenly confused by a sudden question.
"Where is your hometown?" You were anxious to look around the house, but then you patted your pocket with relief and said, "Here it is." I can't help but feel my heart broken in laughter.
Where is it? Poetry, a water barrier, a dream barrier, where? Poetry, when one day, when you grow up, when you wander around the world, you will think of this poem on a simple moonlit night.
At that time, you will be speechless, just like every poet who has read this poem since ancient times. Will your mother be settled by then? She may or may not have closed her tearful eyes, but in any case, she will remember that on that quiet winter night, she held you in her lap and recited such sad sentences together.
Let's read it, poem. Let's read it again: There is such bright light at the foot of my bed. Is there frost already? . I looked up at the moon and looked down, feeling nostalgic.