I don't know if it is because of "picking chrysanthemums under the east fence" that I "see Nanshan leisurely"; As a result, the unrestrained poet suddenly became interested and finally went hiking. This time, I definitely went, without half a book or extremely; No luggage, no poetry. Naked, not in the world of mortals …
However, at the moment, the poet's pastoral is bathed in autumn wind and autumn rain, swaying, hazy and miserable. Not the poet himself, but us. I just stood in the poet's hut and had a heart-to-heart communication.
The mobile phone rang, and the poet hung up after only one sentence. My ear is faint and delicate, as if "there is nothing but the Yellow Crane Tower now", and I suddenly turn back?
Distant mountain, "see how Zhongnanshan takes off, and the white top crosses the clouds"; In the further mountainous area, the poet of "the desolate land of Bashan and Shushui" is climbing? The poet said, "With my hundred years of sorrow, I climbed this height alone" has passed, and the poet also said, "But through all these clouds, how can I know which corner of the mountain I am heading for?" And the poets even said, "I don't know the true face of Lushan Mountain, but toward which corner of the mountain." ...
The phone rang, breaking the short loneliness. Wechat then issued "There is someone in the depths of the white clouds ..." Wechat said, "Maple leaves and mature rushes rustle in autumn, and I, the host, have dismounted, and my guests have boarded his boat ..." Wechat also said that "I still miss Xiang Yu and refuse to cross Jiangdong"; Wechat also said: "I have been in a cage for a long time." Oh, thiamine? Is the poet's hut still a cage? From spring to summer, from summer to autumn, I have "read 300 Tang poems by heart" and "can sing without writing poems". Alas ..... I don't care about this mountain, I hope to see through the autumn water. At the end of the mountain, it is not the sea, nor the plain, but the wasteland. At the moment, "the desert is lonely and straight, and the long river falls into the yen." In the evening, the "night glass of grapes and wine" cleans the battlefield in the morning. Who is "wrapped in a horse" or whose body? Or the soul? The password of the poem was returned? Or should we store "poetry" ...
Continue to link, Weibo News said: "The autumn wind is bleak and the weather is cold, and the vegetation is like frost"; Clicking on the link turned out to be a blog with a sad title. Click on "where brothers climb" to see the signature, and the network is interrupted. ...
Poetry can be absent, but only poets live forever; Because there is also a poet's hut here!
I am a cocoon-making silkworm, wrapped in MengMeng. I want to break out of the cocoon with the poet-I am with the poet, I am on the other side of the sea of poetry, and I am waiting for the next poet to settle in at the end of the poet's hut.
Autumn has passed and winter has come; And the hut in winter is full of melancholy and sacredness.
The poet has hatched; The clean earth just places the poet's soul in a place without dust. Yes, it is a poet, not a sculpture, who lingers between the half-open and the half-closed in Chai Men; It is on the river bank where the years have solidified, putting on warm clothes of ice and snow, waiting for the soul of poetry to melt slowly; Isn't the poet a warm, fragrant and unruly person in the book? Is it a grinding that laments "things are like chess" and "the wind blows snow and hits stones"?
Push open the hut. The flat pond froze the poet's eyes, the stubborn dead tree stung the poet's heart, and the peeling wind swept away the poet's irritability. Who is looking for "a few plums in the corner"? Don't do anything to retain?
Look at the distance. Who made a frozen soul with a ruthless hook in the forgotten river, in the river of the ice sheet? The silence of this song "Fisherman in the Cold River-Snow" has moved for thousands of years? Who else is waiting outside Chai Men to "return home at night in the snow", even if the soul of self is carved into the pride of a poet by the cold winter?
So we went through the length of a whole season and the thickness of a volume of poems, looking for the poet's shadow in the yellow thread-bound book?
It can be said that the poem is not written, so it is no wonder that it is full of tears, that it is as long as "midnight strikes the passenger ship", that there is a struggle of "two sentences for three years", and that there is a magnanimity of "sky is high and clouds are light" ... Don't laugh at the burning "keeping the world innocent" and the tragic "drunken lying on the battlefield".
At this moment, the dream is poetic-the distance, the end of the wave, is always so dazzling. Red roof, green coast, white clouds and blue sky. But that's someone else's scenery. The poet is in the landscape and also outside the landscape. The poet looked at it proudly and escaped humorously, just like his poems, so casual, so hot, so smart, so bold and fearless.
Ah, this poet's hut can't hold a chic and free body, but it can be carved into an eternal and vivid soul!
Poetry can be absent, but only poets live forever; Because there is a poet's hut here!
I am snow silk all over the sky, pure as snow silk in MengMeng. I am with the poet-I am on this side of the sea of poetry, at the end of the building of the poet's hut, waiting for the poet to go home and reunite.
Winter goes and spring comes, and spring blooms; The hut is still there, and of course the poet is still there.
I saw the poet's hut full of bright colors.
The pace of spring is always uneasy. Walking on the road, the distance is really a "poet's cabin". Poetry and painting came to me and spread out. The spring breeze was full of vitality, the spring water was bright and the spring flowers were shy. Yes, like the most shy little girl, the red heart beats on the pink face and changes the rhythm of spring; It is like a simple and honest old cow, stumbling through a muddy ridge, and then solemnly standing on the most sacred mission, that is, the mission of spring; Like two ignorant orioles, twittering among the willows about their recent strange journey. ...
Not far or near, clear and hazy; Painters began to sketch in the winter scenery, and musicians began to pluck the strings uneasily in the dry branches. This is inevitable after experiencing the cold winter. This budding poem is not "the grass is near but there is no grass", but the joy of "the duck prophet in the spring river". It is not the magic of "an almond coming out of the wall", but the expectation of "spring breeze and green Jiang Nanan". Don't be embarrassed by the frustration of "getting flowers all over your body", don't laugh at the shyness of "sending them to my branches", don't be surprised by the vastness of "blowing open the petals of ten thousand pear trees", and don't dwell on the helplessness of "peach blossoms still smile at the spring breeze" ... Here, spring is everywhere, everywhere, everywhere, thinking.
On the bank of the spring water, Mimi is clean. Only these creamy little girls can really feel the joy and novelty. They look at the noise of "the rain brought by the spring tide comes late and comes urgently" and listen to the surprise of "charming yinger chirping at home", instead of caring about "they grow taller again in the spring breeze" and forgetting "when those red berries come in spring".
White walls with twists and turns, old trees with branches; Nearby is the shyness of flowers, and the extreme is the germination of grass; Backed by the mountain god, snuggling is the spring tide of Xiushui ... what a romantic poet's hut! I wonder if this is a bluebird that belongs only to poets. ...
Poetry can be absent, but only poets live forever; Because this is the poet's hut!
I am catkin all over the sky, pure catkin from MengMeng. I woke up with the poet-I was with the poet, I was on the other side of the sea of poetry, and I was waiting for the next poet at the end of the poet's hut building.
If the cabin in autumn is seven words, then the cabin in winter is antique; If the hut in spring is the five wonders, then the hut in summer is a song. Poets live in wine, and wine belongs to the jar of heaven and earth. Only through the enthusiasm of the sun and the lovesickness of the bright moon; Poets have lived in the Three Gorges, because the wonders of the Three Gorges and the passion of flowing water are enough to spew out the poet's lofty sentiments and proud heads.
That's right, it's not all leisure, such as "Qingjiang is a song-holding village, and the village under the river is quiet"; It's not all "the south wind comes at night, and the wheat is yellow"; There are not only free and easy "we look at the green trees around your village, but also the light blue of the surrounding mountains", as well as amazing "red and purple have become dust, and the cuckoo sounds new in midsummer"; Perhaps it is the hope of "spring planting" and the expectation of "autumn harvest".
Cut the grass at noon, and sweat drips down the soil! This sweat not only irrigated the barren fields, but also nourished the poet's compassion ... seeing the weather and knowing the geography; Do your best, be careful enough. "Prepare chicken and rice for me, old friend. You entertain me on your farm." We are not only concerned about "when the warm wind blows the wheat fragrance in sunny days, when the green grass wins the flowers", but also happy with the harvest of "when the rice smells sweet, you can listen to the frogs". ...
Yes! Walking through Yuan Ye, a poet, is in the same strain with a long history of rhyme. This kind of poetry is not only free and easy, but also a person who practices in the mountains.
In front of the poet's hut, there are not only landscapes and poems, but also flowers before and after the month; Not all personal feelings; More expectations, a little busy, a little worried, in the long summer, everything is bustling ... summer is the hottest honeymoon with clean water and sunshine; It is also the season of crops and labor.
Please open the window and let the temperature of the sun warm the poet's heart; Please let the breeze enter the window! Poets have long been eager to wear them-poetry can be absent, but poets are first and foremost people; The poet is not in the hut, but between heaven and earth!