This poem recitation will be hidden in the depths of the library, and I have to rummage through many books to find it. Poetry reading awakened the sleeping books, which paved the way for me to go to the poetry reading meeting. I didn't know about it beforehand. Just heard the call of Xiaojie. She said, if you are not busy, come and have a look!
Xiaojie invited some people with great interest. The invitee behaves strangely, or thinks her behavior is weird. Her invitation turned into a double mirror. For example, her colleague said, we are all laity! In fact, it is because of vulgarity that life needs singers. Poetry is like an eraser, blurring the boundary between man and God.
Her invitation turned into a mirror, and ordinary people were photographed laughing. For example, her friend laughed, and there are poems read these days. It is better to stay at home and eat a piece of meat, hahahahahahaha! In the mirror is a happy and deformed face. Her friends like to eat fish and meat, and the rest are not within this standard.
I am also an honest man, but the unknown life makes me feel mysterious and interesting. My day always starts when the sun shines on the earth, and the parking place is predetermined or suddenly produced. For example, now I'm just a passer-by, passing by the door of a poetry recital occasionally.
I am wearing a red jacket, sitting in a blue chair, looking at the materials of the poetry reading, and people are coming and going around. I occasionally look up and watch some people being swallowed up by that door. This is the whale's mouth. Between breaths, people change the Dojo.
I heard a voice shouting to the receptionist, "The recital will start soon, or I will leave!" I smiled and didn't look up, judging that this should be a middle-aged man, with a slow voice, neither high nor low, and a faint irritability and anxiety. In fact, a person who has not learned to wait is just a child who has not grown up.
This immature voice was regarded as a poem and a symbol by me, so I stood up and left here.
I walked according to the rhythm of the sound, neither fast nor slow, neither high nor low, but I didn't feel uneasy and uneasy, not leaving, but going deeper. This is a deep and mysterious place. This is a library.
There were more and more books, and I went deeper and deeper. I even walked into the maze of time and saw Borges throw endless books of sand into the library.
When drinking with the poet's bird's nest ten years ago, he said that he also had a magic book, which could be rearranged constantly. I asked him who the author was, like an Italian. Calvino's fate crosses the castle, Julio? Whether Coltaza's hopscotch and william faulkner's The Sound and the Fury were written in a similar way, he said neither.
Ten years later, we met again in a pub. He said that the book had been found. I hurried to ask who the author was, and only after drinking a bowl of wine did I find that he was drunk.
After so many years, I have a little idea that any good book will be constantly rearranged and combined. On the one hand, it is not a pool of stagnant water, but the masters have drilled through the spring with their lives, and fresh water keeps pouring out. On the other hand, the words may not seem to change, but your age, your time and your experience are constantly arranged and combined, which brings you new eyes. Calvino concluded that classic works are books that will bring discovery every time you reread them, just like reading them for the first time.
I feel confused about the endless books, and its manifestation is also the constant arrangement and combination of library managers. At this time, I dug up a book on the road, because the binding was simple, and I was reluctant to leave. A few lines of Chinese and English black words broke into a large white background. Isn't that my figure? I have been on the road for so many years. Although I have setbacks, I still have a firm pace and high morale.
As a traveler, I hold this book in the palm of my hand as a Bible, but the cover of my translation is a few young people who stab dragons and draw phoenix, which is the so-called beat generation.
There is a joke that the father who is doing business screams at his son, and the mother stops him and asks why. Father replied, this boy changed my god of wealth into Altman, and it took me many days to know. Mom said calmly, then you have a rest and I will continue to play.
Now, I'm going to take the God of Wealth home and put the Altman back on the bookshelf. I believe this god of wealth will bring me and the people around me good luck.
Just like the word seemingly decadent collapse in Kerouac's eyes, it conveys a state of excitement and exhaustion, but it can represent the soul of saints' direct knowledge of God in heaven.
Before the poetry reading, I turned a complaint into a poem, which brought me back to the scene from my poetic journey in the library. This also means that I need to read 1000 books to reach a scene of reading poetry, which also means that my life has to be constantly arranged and combined to reach a scene of reading poetry. Otherwise, how can I fly poetically? Why else would I be on the road?
The man clamoring to leave, I guess he hasn't left yet, just disappeared behind the crowd and the blue chair. Every chair is waiting for someone. When one hundred sailors were full, we all rowed the boat of knowledge and sailed for the boundless blue. Blue is a quiet color, which can make people feel gratified and feel magical love.
The theme of today's recitation is to praise filial love.
In music and melody, ordinary words began to fly around and bump around. It doesn't matter who delivers the voice and words. At this moment, they were forgotten in the rivers and lakes, and the whole room was full of strong emotions.
Open your eyes, it is a small lamp with bright white stars. Close your eyes, this is an empty world.
From this perspective, walking on clouds is not a legend, but an enlarged imagination. When the poetic voice rings in your ears, close your eyes gently, and you can travel far by poetry!
Red apples read aloud. Without my grandfather, I will lose the whole village! Poetry shines, and poetry illuminates the earth.
Our culture is too old, and the word "love" has been refined into many contents. If divided from the direction, upward love forms a special word called filial piety, which is the love of children to their parents. The word "filial piety" in Oracle Bone Inscriptions is a young man holding the hand of the old man and walking slowly. The long curly hair in the middle of the word "filial piety" is the flowing beard of the old man. Describe in human form.
Downward love is the love of parents for their children. Because there are too many rivers, there is no need for special words to define them.
Children and grandchildren are full of vigor and vitality, but the future is hope and fantasy. You can put everything on it, and it seems that you can recycle it no matter how much you pay.
The old man is lifeless, old and broken, and how much he pays is like a mud cow entering the sea, silent.
A poem sums up the above contents. There have been many infatuated parents since ancient times. Who has seen filial piety for children and grandchildren?
The library is a guy with a big belly and can easily digest a poetry recital. Or it turns poetry reading into a cultural symbol, carefully stored on a bookshelf, or poetry reading will be put into material bags by busy sanitation workers and thrown into garbage trucks.
When people heard the cry for help, they searched the garbage truck and finally found the dying poet in a material bag. He curled up in a ball and cried loudly. He can't treat us like this because my poems stink.
People politely apologize, saying don't throw the child away when the amniotic fluid is poured out. They should always let him grow up, let him know how hard life is, and let him know what filial love is!
I left halfway because I knew that the beginning was the end, and the following content was basically the same. Some people are passionate, and his words grow wings to drive everyone to fly. Some people are already dead, and they are still mumbling. It was a few degrees below zero. The child lost his life while he was still in his mother's belly.
I am a listener and a singer. I have to cook. I bought half a catty of noodles and half a catty of beef. This is my lunch with my mother. I tried adding oil, salt, sauce and vinegar, but it didn't taste very good. I also put some love in the poetry recital. My clumsy cook actually satisfied the old lady. She ate and drank a poem, so she didn't have to worry about having a field at home and a big steamed bun a day.
I said you always eat noodles, but praised steamed bread, which made me feel embarrassed?
She said life is life, poetry is poetry, life is poetry, and poetry is life!
Of course, the old lady can't say such things, but these words are piled together and her face is full of smiles.