Cicada belongs to summer and is a unique symbol of summer. When you find yourself surrounded by cicadas, it's already summer.
Every summer, cicadas sing like clouds, one tree after another, one after another, from sunrise to sunset, from dusk to dawn. At that time, it was slow and urgent, high and low, and there seemed to be cicadas singing, quiet and far away, away from a monotonous and hot season.
This is the unique style of summer.
It can be said that it is summer without cicadas. Just like there are flowers without butterflies and bees, the breeze and bright moon are in my arms without piano, wine, tea and poetry, and I always feel a little less artistic conception.
Cicada is everywhere, flowing in the wind, dying in Lu 'an, warm in the mountains and noisy in the countryside, like a pot of old wine, which makes thousands of villages a little drunk. Listening carefully, I seem to feel the cicada singing swaying gently in the wind.
In such an atmosphere, you can invite pillows to enjoy the cool, play piano and books for another day, order wine on the wall, play chess with a fan, throw ink and books, and steal half a day. At that time, those who are carefree, relaxed, carefree, even tired and lazy, sleeping with cicadas on their pillows, have become part of summer quatrains.
The ancients often listened to cicadas.
Juck Zhang, a writer in the Qing Dynasty, wrote in Sleepy Dreams: "Listening to birds in spring, cicadas in summer, insects in autumn, snow in winter, chess in the day, flute in the moonlight, wind in the mountains and internal sounds in the water will inevitably lead to falsehood." It can be seen that this simple original music with local flavor is a poetic existence!
However, when did this melodious cicada sound appear in the literati's pen?
Opening volumes of ancient books, we can easily find the most common images in rural areas, which often play a role in leisure, guest feelings and worries, affecting the softness and remoteness in the depths of the soul.
The earliest recorded cicada singing can be traced back to China's first collection of poems, Poems 300, April Beauty, May Singing, Like Cockroaches, Like Boiling Soup, Like Willows, Singing, The Book of Rites also records the name with the aesthetic feeling of classical poetry, "Midsummer cicada begins to sing, Qiu Meng cicada begins to sing". There is a saying in Nine Debates on Songs of the South called "Swallows return to their words, cicadas are silent", which not only explains the change of time sequence, but also permeates the author's subjective feelings, making people feel sad and choked up.
After that, cicadas sang like rain, lingering in the poet's ears for a long time, and cicada-chanting poems were endless, and excellent works were frequently passed down. The cicada in the poem has also been endowed with profound cultural significance by the sentimental poet and won the hearts of the people.
I think what the poet is afraid of is that he can deeply understand the meaning of cicada.
Whether it is Wang Wei, Lu Tong, Yu Shinan, Zhu, Liu Yong or Luo, their understanding of cicada singing is full of life experience, worries of monarch and minister, wisdom of life and pain of parting. The voice of cicada is the poet's inner voice. They have complicated feelings for cicadas, different opinions, different love and hate, and the cicadas they sing have different postures and rich spirits, which all describe the lofty and elegant silence of cicadas.
Maybe cicadas come and go in a hurry like spring flowers, morning dew and sunset glow. So this eternal little stunner often makes people feel that life is short and the universe is eternal. Coupled with factors such as being in a foreign land and dying, it is even more difficult to feel family affection. There are countless people who are sad when they smell cicadas, sad and sad, but they are entangled in their hearts.
Cicadas come from their hometown. Tell me what happened there! . In the cicada singing, the poet saw the land haunted by dreams and the most beautiful and simple scenery in his hometown. Cicada regards the countryside as her eternal hometown, so why haven't people regarded cicada as something that they will miss after seeing it? Among them, the poem full of the deepest homesickness belongs to the first cicada written by Bai Juyi, a great poet in the Tang Dynasty: "When you hear sadness, you will hear homesickness." The cicada singing in Shangwei Village is similar to that of Xiongnu. "
Similar to "life in heaven and earth is like a long-distance traveler", most poets who have heard of cicada singing will also feel sad at that time, resulting in depression, frustration and helplessness with bad luck and ill-fated life, as well as distant thoughts with short time and endless universe, such as "The New Cicada" by Sikong Shu, "Today, cicadas suddenly sing, but it seems to move guests? Then feeling an old age can make all the feelings ",Wang Luobin's" His flight is heavy through the fog, and his pure voice is drowned in the windy world. Who knows if he is still singing? Who will listen to me again? " .
Maybe it's because cicadas eat wind and drink dew and live in tall trees. It has always been regarded as a symbol of nobility. Drinking dew on the river street makes the singing lasting appeal longer. "How far the cicada is, the lush trees have a lingering sound", "Drinking dew is clear and the sound is sparse. It's not the autumn wind that keeps you away. "
Of course, in the long years when there were cicadas, the cicada singing with the color of Laozi and Zhuangzi also made many poets quiet, carefree and detached from things, and entered the realm of ancient times. Typical examples are "the cicada forest is quieter, and Tonamiyama is quieter", "By my thatched door, leaning on my staff, listening to cicadas in the evening wind".
The cool wind and dew are chilling.
Well, it's autumn.
The water is thin and the mountains are cold, and the vegetation is sometimes thin and old, and the cicada becomes silent. From then on, we can no longer hear cicadas singing all over the shore, pond and world.
Listening to cicadas in autumn is always a bit bleak, which is enough to make people feel deeply grieved.
Qiu Lai's songs are more bitter, half swallowing and half drifting. Cicada is so sad, her voice comes gently with the wind, and it seems that there is a chill spreading in this twilight city.
Silence. High willow late cicada, listen to the news of the west wind. The essence of all sounds is actually quiet. Road flyover Baishi tells in silence that the sequence of time will become cold and lonely. At this moment, the poet's heart must be sad.
Just like Zhang Han in Jin Dynasty saw the autumn wind and thought of the beauty of perch in Wuzhong, if the fallen leaves are a reminder of autumn, the cicada singing is a reminder of life.
Fabres, a French entomologist, told us that four years' hard work in the dark and one month's enjoyment in the sun is a cicada's life. We shouldn't hate its noisy singing, because it has been dug for four years. Now it can put on beautiful clothes, grow wings that can compete with birds and bathe in the warm sunshine. What kind of cymbals are loud enough to praise its hard-won happy moment?
Zhuangzi once lamented "I don't know the Spring and Autumn Period". However, this creature who sings about life all his life solemnly declares to us: I have been to this world. They have turned their ideals into their own.
This is a realm.
All is silent except cicadas.
I suddenly admire cicada's new life.
Cicada sang "cicada-cicada", and the cicada sang a clear artistic conception again and again.
Got it, you know?
I am the cicada on your branch.
The cicada chirps out of the window, far and near.
That was the cicada singing twenty years ago.
For me, the lingering, intense and endless nature is the summer and village I accidentally lost many years ago.
The village in my memory is quiet and serene, and many past events are fixed as "How to live without going deep into the mountains".
Cicada rejoices in distant villages and awakens sleeping ears, regardless of people's irritability and impatience in hot summer days. They remained motionless for a long time, lying in the thick shade of trees, holding my childhood and singing the glory of life.
Changfeng keeps cutting, and it's still among the branches.
Passing under the tree, you can't see its lurking, only the classical artistic conception spreads in your heart. The flowing poem is Lu You's The Continuation of Cicada Singing and Willow Sound, or Mao Wenxi's Sunset and Cicada Falling.
Cicada is the product of China classical pastoral.
In my impression, the flourishing Little Beauty on Earth covers many views of China people on nature, universe, humanity and life. It can be said that it is the materialization of people's spiritual world.
Goethe said: Nature is the greatest book. On every page, you can read the most profound news. In people's extremely deep souls, the cicadas of nature have a vast and rich world, and every sound is full of life.
Throughout the ages, some people praised its nobility, some praised its leisure, some pitied its sadness, some thought it was short-lived, and so on.
Sometimes, cicada is the spokesman of local complex.
Homesickness is the root of China culture. When cicadas gradually disappear and become cool, they convey the news of autumn. In the cold autumn season, it is easy to arouse the wanderers' long-term homesickness.
The cicada singing at this time is so lonely and sad that I never seem to feel this way in my hometown. As a result, in the hustle and bustle of the world of mortals, no matter how long you wander and where you go, those endless things are given to a familiar hometown cicada.
Suddenly, all the scenery related to my hometown has been revived in different places.
Through the vast space and time, I began to miss every passing summer, the smoke from old houses, stone mills, fences and kitchens, and the blue sky where birds occasionally flew.
Going deep into cicada is actually going deep into hometown.
Therefore, cicadas have temperature, length and weight.
However, since when did we lose our village, cicada and ourselves?
The city under my feet, the busy city, is not my land, although it believes in beauty. Modern people who have left their homes to live in downtown areas can't help but feel ashamed and throw away their competitive heart. "What kind of life do we want, what kind of ourselves?"
Time goes by.
The village is far away.
I can't find the well of my childhood, the bridge of my childhood, the dirt road of my childhood, the dandelion of my childhood, and the summer dusk of my childhood to find cicadas with my partners.
It's all over.
The only constant is cicada singing.
Just above the village, just above the mountain forest, just above the ripples and layers of flowing water that don't know where to start and where to go.
The Book of Rites says that water is pure and clean. So are cicadas. Cicada, Zen also. Listening to cicadas is also listening to yourself.
The ups and downs of cicadas will always bring us a profound and far-reaching vision. Even if our world is an endless fallen flower and snow tree, it can also wash away the dust accumulated in our hearts, ignore the indifference and desolation in life, gently put aside the joys and sorrows, utilitarianism and greed, tolerate thousands of miles of wind and frost, embrace the autumn scenery in Wan Li, and be able to convert to home.
Cicada is singing, and the sound is in the ear.
Know, know, my distant hometown? I am the cicada on your branch. Every summer on the solstice in Qiu Lai, I hear a long-lost local accent.
Where is the township pass?
For many years, when I was busy in the city, I often thought of my childhood country.
At that time, there were many trees, grass, water and birds in the village Compared with the reinforced concrete city, life here is quiet and leisurely, just like a classic. A casual glance lets you enter the realm of poetry, painting and dreams.
The most unforgettable thing is the clear and shallow river, which winds from a distance and then winds away, dividing my village into families facing north and south and hearing from each other. The clear river is dripping with clouds, reflecting the world and rendering a poetic paradise.
This poem, on the misty river, on the dreamy cricket, in the windy forest, in the dripping morning dew, beside the bluestone in the evening, on the humble stage, in the silent courtyard, on the mother's stove smoke, under the parents' soil, and also in the summer night, I ran barefoot all over the village with my friends or lay on the high haystack to see the stars in the sky.
Under the country sky, Tsinghua, Shui Mu, is covered with white clouds. No matter you walk by the willows or sit on your own heatable adobe sleeping platform, there is always a cool breeze, and birds are singing in your ears, which is a kind of ethereal Zen.
It's just that the memories remain the same, and my hometown has changed.
This village is strange.
The dirt road once covered with plantains and green bristlegrass disappeared when it rained. The big pond once covered with reeds and white flowers disappeared every autumn. The mud river once surrounded by willows and birds of Yiyi dried up, and the old houses with wooden doors, bamboo fences and blue tiles and white walls were demolished.
Everything has become history, has become the past.
The whole once I knew.
Up to now, I only see wider and wider asphalt roads criss-crossing fields, more and more high-rise luxury houses have sprung up, and more and more loud noises are hovering in my ears.
Standing in the background of the countryside, I have been lost for a long time.
On the shore of the years, the grass is flourishing and the river is clear and rippling.
I lost my village.
Following my footsteps, I will never return to my innocent childhood or my beloved, warm and poetic village.
Through the glitz, I saw a familiar and unfamiliar village, a vicissitudes of life.
The times are progressing and the society is developing. However, the countryside that nourishes people's hearts and feeds back families has gradually drifted away, becoming an ancient symbol of a nation and a vivid memory and imagination.
In today's rich material civilization, how many villages are left, simple houses, villages where the sun rises and the sun sets, villages where people are outside in July, August and September and crickets are under my bed?
What kind of world do we want?
The sadness of this era haunts me.
Everything in front of us makes people have an impulse to escape.
I recall Zhuangzi's kind reminder that "modern men and women are born in the soil, but they do the opposite", the sadness of "returning home before they are old and having to be heartbroken", and Cooper's responsibility and compassion that "God created the countryside and mankind created the city".
Will the countryside, our last poetic dwelling place and spiritual home, no longer be known after many years and become an eternal search and yearning in the history of ancient books?
The countryside itself is a poem.
When the village with low life, burdened with ancient stories and heavy history, approached the city and was alienated by the city, blurring the boundary between the city and the countryside, did modern people who came and went in a hurry ever think about how desolate a nation without villages was?
When Xi 'an is mentioned, people will think of inheritance and civilization. When people mention Yuanmingyuan, they will think of history and dignity. When it comes to Shanghai, people will think of prosperity and the future; What will our children and grandchildren think of when they mention the countryside in a few years?
Old house? Stone mill? Yellow cattle? Wheat field? Paddy fields? Fireflies? Singing cicadas? Architecture?
While striving for benefits, we should cherish and attach importance to it. No matter what kind of reform and construction, we all know how to protect the original true and pure form of the countryside and give play to a nation's flamboyant and introverted, prosperous and simple, dignified and profound temperament, so that the countryside will not become a part of national history and culture and become a yellow memory in people's hearts.
We might as well pin our dreams on the countryside, purify our hearts and present the initial consciousness of life. As Heidegger called for, people live poetically on the earth.
Birds love the mountains, but fish miss the source.
With the piety of pilgrimage, you can relive and review your hometown or deep or warm memories.
Dream at night.
Standing in front of the village twenty years ago, I chickened out.
Is the embarrassment of nowhere to go.
Like a stranger, I can't settle my wandering soul here. Neons are flashing in front of us, and the city is noisy behind us.
I closed my eyes and couldn't say a word.
Hu Bugui?
Hu Bugui?
There will be no countryside, Hu Bugui?
"But I look to my hometown, and the twilight is getting dark, and there is a sad mist on the river waves." I vaguely hear Cui Hao's voice, which has been chanting since the Tang Dynasty.
Where is the township pass?
There is no talk in the village, but homesickness lurks in my heart.