I like flowers that are so beautiful and thick, like lilies, lotuses, kapok, but I also like those flowers that are so beautiful that they are worrying, especially in the spring, the petals are so thin that they look thin, like peach blossoms, apricot blossoms, plum blossoms, pansies or cosmos.
The color and line of the flower are always relatively "real", but the fragrance of the flower is a kind of existence between "virtual" and "real". There are kinds of flowers, like night incense, fragrant wild and brute, it is indeed the kind of incense that "flowers want to break Zen", the incense with laughter and white orchid is meat, jasmine is vegetarian, vegetarian and tea, daffodils are more beautiful, the reflection of a daffodil is simply a piece of alum, can make a pool of water clean and clear. The incense of gardenia and woody orchids is always fragrant when the sun is warm and the wind is warm, so it is also particularly worrying, because I don't know when it will be gone.
The flowers on the tree are novels, with branches and stems climbing on the horizontal structure, looking down on its gorgeous sky, "a tree hanging down by the river", "Huang Siniang's family flowers are full of flowers, thousands of flowers are low on the branches", there are multiple levels and angles of endless stories.
Grass flowers are poetry, because of their dwarfness, as if they had just jumped up from the soil, a kind of essence, vividness, condensation, concentrated beauty. The prose is climbing vine flowers, such as the nine-fold lotus, tea jing, wisteria, terranus, and even morning glory and loofah flowers, lentil flowers, all have a kind of sprinkling that blooms wherever they go. Climbing vine flowers seem careless, and when you look back after the whole season, there is no one without its rules - whether it is opened between the fences, sprinkled on the flower stands, rushing down the melon shed, or flowing on the slope without pity, or even naughty and tricky climbing old trees, as if the dead wood is alive... They all have their own style, really, the loofah flower has its own grammar, and the morning glory flower has its own rhetoric. If there is any flower that can be called a stage play, it is probably a short flower. It is a thorough art of time, born and died in the opening and closing of the silk curtain, every second of it is "moving", it simply strictly abides by the "trinity" of classical drama - "one moment", "one place", "one thing", what moves me is not the petals that accidentally whiten overnight, nor the fine buds that are accidentally incensed, but the process of dismantling the exhibition that is almost audible.
If literary criticism uses the analogy of flowers, it can probably be like a cactus flower, tall and frightening, with more thorns and fewer flowers, but the big thorns rise up like a thunderclap - of course, good cactus flowers are still beautiful.
The color of aquatic flowers is naturally good, it is a very fresh splash of ink painting, and aquatic flowers always surprise people, as if they are too good to be reasonable. It is good enough that there are flowers on the ground, and there are flowers in the valley that are good enough, and there are flowers in the water, which is simply unbelievable, but it is evil there again. Aquatic flowers are lotuses, water lilies, daffodils or horseshoe lotuses that are so white that they are confused, and there is a purple bunch of lotuses that seem to be called cloth bag lotuses, all of which have a strange characteristic: no matter how many miles they open it, it seems that each flower is lonely and lonely, and the kind of handsome seems to be independent of time and space, and the aquatic flower is probably a small word belonging to the gentle school, and when the orchestra touches the water, it is accidentally metamorphosed into a flower.
Not only aquatic flowers, but even aquatic plants like crabapples, like Tang calamus, like reeds, are all beautiful and melancholy, and a poem begins with a water plume with jagged water birds with water lettuce - can't think about it, such a clean river, such a clean water, such a clean grass, such a clean classical love can not be thought of, think of a kind of mourning after being exiled as an old royal family.
It seems as if we are really going to lose water—clean water—and the flowers in the water.
In March, some of the acacia trees on campus that could not stand up burst into an uproar and released all the soft yellow flower balls overnight. After April, almost all the trees could not hold up, so they simply blossomed together and broke the vows for a whole year of practice!
I have always liked the acacia tree, not for the name but for the delicate little leaves of the tree, and when I saw the leaf, I thought of the sentence "I don't know who cut the fine leaves, and the spring breeze in February is like scissors".
The flowers of the acacia tree are also small, almost like the meaning of not daring to show off, but the whole ball looks at the whole ball, the whole tree looks, it is still very colorful and compelling.
Chatting with his son, he suddenly said:
"Everyone in our class is like a flower."
"Which kind of Xie Wanzhen is?"
Xie Wanzhen was the girl he felt was the most extraordinary.
"She's a lotus."
"Why?"
"Because every summer is fresh and beautiful."
"What about yourself?"
"I am a rose," he explained after a pause, "because until death it is incense." ”
Such a self-metaphor for fragrant flowers is simply Qu Yuan, which is really amazing!
In the spring, I always take my little daughter to see the dazzling azaleas.
She was still young, and the cuckoo was almost a tree to her.
She did not pay much attention to the flowers, but she was very intent on finding the small bud in the shape of a spinning, and when she found it, she shouted:
"Look, Flower Baby!"
She seems to be only willing to identify with those "flower babies", and she tirelessly pours those unopened beauties along the way into her cheers!
Traveling to America, the favorite is not Hawaii, not Florida, not theater, not highway or Disneyland, but wildflowers in the wilderness. In Arizona, the highway was a few hours of driving, and the roadside was full of wildflowers, and the yellow japonica was driving to the end of the world, and people suspected that there was a crop called "wildflower" that was planted there, and the bison and Indians seemed to appear at any time.
What a luxurious way to use the land, not to build apartments, not to open paddy fields, thousands of miles only to the wildflowers to develop.
In Chicago, a friend drove me to his house, and he looked at the road, and I looked at things on the road.
"What kind of flower is that?"
"I don't know."
"What about that bird?"
"I don't know, there are more near our homes."
He hurriedly told me how one winter he had been trapped by heavy snow, could not return home, had been out in a hotel for a few days, and said how the Sears tower was a little taller than the existing skyscrapers in New York.
But I stubbornly wanted to know the little blue-purple flowers whose petals stretched out as softly as silk.
I liked this unsophisticated beauty more and more.
All the way east, I always saw that kind of face, and finally, in Boston, I knew its name, "Blue Sailor," Blue Sailor.
Like a young boy, once surprised by a pair of translucent eyes, he can't help but try to know her name--knowing and how, in fact, it is still the same, just sitting alone at dusk, letting the thousands of thoughts find a nothing, hanging branch.
Knowing that a flower you love, year after year, blooming peacefully under the blue sky of a foreign country, although they do not meet, there is also a happiness that is shared at the end of the world.
The Book of Poetry has an alias called the Book of Poetry, which makes me think that putting a Book of Poetry on the table simply has a rich and lush aroma that breaks out of the page.
Middle school was in the south, the campus was large, and each student was given a piece of land to plant, and that year we planted cowpeas.
For some reason, a small wild chrysanthemum grew in a small field - perhaps its predecessor was in the same field as the predecessor of cowpea, and it was still mixed together when the seeds were harvested, so it was inadvertently sown together. Maybe it's the occasional wind this spring that brings a touch of color by chance.
Later, the teacher asked us to pull the weeds, and I pulled it.
"Why don't you pull out that grass?"
"It's not grass," I protested, "it's a small wild chrysanthemum." ”
"Unplug, unplug." He actually pulled it out, "You don't know what grass is—either what you want to plant is grass." ”
Do I want to grow cowpeas? No, I don't want to plant cowpeas, all I want is life.
Many years later, I still remember the bush of small wild chrysanthemums that had been deprived of the right to live.
The flower, which was planted in the vegetable garden, may be really unfortunate.
There's a flower called popcorn, and I really like that name—because it has color, it has a sound, and it's almost a progressive verb.
That kind of flower, Which is more common in Hong Kong, belongs to the climbing vine class, the flowers are not large, the yellow is like a thousand feet of gold, and when it opens up, it is fiercely full of shelves, as if there is something happy in the house, so it crackles all the way and vigorously burns the joyful color.
There is also a flower name that has also achieved good results, called Ichijo Red, which is very classical and very fierce.
In fact, that flower is also ordinary, just because of such a good name, it seems that it is only a red fountain that rises up to the sky, spraying from the bottom up, spraying into a zhang, spraying into a thousand, spraying into the limit of a person's imagination.
Some flowers only appear in the Chinese Chinese texts, but they are not flowers in textbooks, like snowflakes and waves.
All the flowers bloom on their backs, except for the snowflakes, which bloom in the depths of the earth, but the snowflakes are pregnant high in the sky. Snowflakes with clouds as mud, wind as branches, only once, drifting through the cold, simply falling on the warm collar of a passerby, or a watcher's hazy window paper, only in the six-petal order, beautiful for a moment, and then, back to half a drop of water, back into the earth.
The waves bloom only in the sea, the sea is not a pond, it cannot breed large purple, white, pink flowers, God planted the waves in the sea, and the waves bloomed every second in the sea.
What flower can bloom more hugely than a wave, more vigorously, so swirling and spinning, so that the square life and death - but there are four seasons of irregularity, straight to the earth and the sky.
People stand on the seashore, and the waves are like the rings of the Indian woman's feet, wrapped around your ankles and made flowers.
Someone plays surfing, and it looks like the whole person is blooming in the heart of the flower, standing in the intricate flower buds.
Speaking of the wave as a flower, only the Middle Chinese Wen can say it so well!
I hate all the paper flowers, ribbon flowers and plastic flowers, and I always feel that there is a kind of overstepping, a kind of blasphemy.
There is also a kind of "dried flower", dehydrated, pale yellow and old, is a kind of mummy in the flower, never withered, but perennial on the desk, making people feel tired. For some reason, because it never dies, but you feel as if it never lived brightly.
I only want to love flowers, the colors, the breath and the shapes that I can't hold tomorrow—because it's going to disappear tomorrow, I have to love it today with too much love. I want to look at it well, and the beauty of each moment of it is actually its only beauty, and the next moment, or open or closed, it is already another flower.
My insistence on flowers makes an exception when I meet glass flowers; there is a room full of glass flowers in the Harvard showroom, so delicate and transparent—perhaps the artificial flowers are made very well and have a mysterious nature that is almost leaky.
Maybe I don't love glass flowers, but the art that has become a masterpiece, those glass flowers were made by a father and son, and they were lost after they died—and the flowers were certainly not passed down so well.
I really don't know if I'm in love with the crystal-illusory flower that's done so well, or if I love the lonely story behind the flower.
I love flowers, maybe not exactly the flowers themselves, but the surprise of the sudden encounter.
Once, when we went to the beach, we were ready to go to the sea, and there was a small rock headland on the seashore, and we climbed up, hoping to see farther, but unexpectedly a trace of lilies came out of the cracks of the stone, and they were sprayed white.
The whole thing is almost a little unreasonable, of course, to come to the beach to see the sea to pick up shells, no one wants to see the flowers, but accidentally encountered flowers, do not look at it and can not bear it.
I don't have a work schedule myself, and I don't care about other people's travel schedules— the cuteness of that flower is all about its unreasonableness.
I have never been happy in a flower show, and it makes me feel discouraged to see life standing in a row of bottles and cans so regularly, and it is very reasonable to mark the value.
I heard that there is a kind of canned flower, which must bloom a few days after opening the can, and that kind of flower I have not seen has been tired of it first.
Shouldn't life be filled with mysterious unknowns? Isn't there a stirring tension between great successes and great failures, great sorrows and great joys? Civilization has taken away the right of the trickster to make mistakes, and his success seems like a lump of dry wax.
The flowers I dream of are the gardenia that can scream out loud enough to wake you up on a spring morning, or the rape flowers that make people overwhelmed when walking through the countryside, or the apricot blossoms that force pedestrians in the rain to lose their dreams during the Qingming Festival, the flowers that all kinds of Japanese flowers can't get in, the ones that can't be marked at market prices, and the ones that refuse to be subservient to horticultural magazines.
Let the earth be an accident floating out of the waters and forests, and let the hundred flowers be a whistle raised on the reckless earth!
(Source Internet, only for exchange of Xi, invasion and deletion)
Focus on reading and sleeping, poetic inhabitation
Facing the sea, look for light with black eyes. Founded on November 16, 2015, the Poetry Club takes "giving voice to grassroots poets" as its mission and carries forward the "spirit of poetry" as its purpose, that is, the pursuit of the truth, goodness and beauty of poetry, the artistic innovation of poetry, and the spiritual pleasure of poetry. He has published a collection of poems co-authored by poets, "Spring Warm Blossoms of Reading Sleeping Poems" and "Grass Long Warblers Flying in Reading Sleeping Poems".