Magnificent modern poetry

Original publisher: * * Magnificent Modern Poetry in Asia Part I: Magnificent Modern Poetry Suitable for Recitation 1, Waiting for You in the Rain Yu Guangzhong is waiting for you. In the rain, in the sound of rain making rainbows, cicadas sink and frogs raise a pool of red-violet flames. It doesn't matter whether it comes or not in the rain, but I feel that every lotus flower is like you, especially through the dusk and the eternal drizzle. Waiting for you, in an instant, in eternity, if your hand is in my hand, at this moment, if your fragrance is in my nostrils, I will say, little lover, this hand should pick lotus flowers, and in the Wu Palace, this hand should shake cinnamon pulp. On Mulan's boat, a star hung on the cornice of the Science Museum, like a Swiss watch, saying it was seven o'clock. Suddenly, you come and go, like a poem, red-violet after the rain. Beauty is like dew, and the smile is hidden in the flash of shellfish teeth. That is God's smile, a beautiful smile: the reflection of water, the light song of the wind. Laughing is her loose curly hair, scattered in the ear. Soft as a flower shadow, itchy sweetness pours into your heart. It was a poem's smile, a painting's smile: traces of clouds, soft waves of waves. 3. "Star" is a famous star all over the sky, and it is said to be an eternal spring flower. There is a shadow of begonia flowers on the east wall, which is said to be the eternal autumn moon. Waking up in the morning is a winter night dream. Last night, the stars in the middle of the night were as clean as a clear net, and so were the spring flowers and the autumn moon. 4, "Broken Chapter" Bian Zhilin, you are standing on the bridge watching the scenery, and the people watching the scenery are watching you upstairs. The bright moon decorated your window, and you decorated other people's dreams. 5, "Mistaken by mistake" Zheng Chouyu, I walked through the south of the Yangtze River, and I looked like a lotus in the season, and the east wind was coming. The catkins in March don't fly, and your heart is like a small lonely city. Why does the prelude to the long poem of North Island run counter to ancient history at this moment? Why does the cycle of everything deviate from the process of time? Why are ancient information told by stone tablets? Why did the empire decline like a dream? Why is there a river of blood before an armchair strategist? Why is the land drawn in the name of freedom? Does the pie fall from the sky have anything to do with short-circuit love? Is youth on the road? Leave a retrogressive footprint. Does the horse rush in all directions to drink the horizon at night? Is the Great Wall also poetic on paper? Black Dragon, silently chanting for us among the saints, constantly calling for us from the gilded wind chimes and bloody whips, illuminating the boundless land with red poppies of lies, selling the dialogue between doors and windows to Chuanliu, and directing the autumn band to marry the resentful fishing lamp for the small bridge. Where is the home of the deceased? Where is the cradle? Let the poem cross to the end? Where is peace? Let the days distribute the blue sky? Where is history for storytellers to record? Where is the revolution? Play with the horizon with a storm? Where is the truth? Find the volcano with words. When did you taste the sadness of spring from the brewed new tea? When do you whistle to open the midnight sky? When do you cough? When will you release the pigeons? When did you shrink the largest square into a seal without words? When does it start with the closed palace door? The moonlight poured into the flood, long poem, the first chapter, what was lost was the sea, foam, spring water, empty riverbed, clear sky, roaring arrows, seeds, running accounts, trees, fire, frost, ancient legends, rumors, birds, poems, star banquets and night tyranny. It is the return of man, emperor, dream, song, road, road, foreign land, endless questioning. There is no sound. I am an old fisherman who put the story of the storm into the net of silence. I am a blacksmith, forging invisible desires in the pain of quenching, making steel stronger. I am a female worker who dresses on the assembly line, and I am pursuing the hometown of the clouds one by one. I am the organizer of the coal mine strike. Release the gas volume in the black word. I am the jailer who guards my life. Let the running horse of the key pass through the light of the keyhole. I am an old blind librarian, listening to the breeze and dust on the pages of the book. I am the king who lives in the inner cage. When silks and satins return to the sunset from the loom and watch the sunset banished in the bronze mirror, it is the time when the morning bell rings, when the soul emerges in the abyss, when the season blinks, when the flowers bloom and when the seeds spit out. This is a spider web. It's time to reconstruct logic, shoot old memories, kill executioners, miss empty beds, connect the living and the dead with starlight, smile in advertisements, release tigers from banks, walk around with stone statues, whistle and scream, turn upside down, be anonymous and reveal the secrets of poetry.