The 4th issue of new poems recommended for reading | Yang Yunju: The River That Crosses through the Heart

A river that runs through the heart

Author: Yang Yunju

1

The night is burning with a river of oblivion

The rain was over thirty years old and slightly drunk. Hit on the plantain.

rustle of falling leaves, snow and rain. Slow plates, row plates, allegro plates, and than arranged phrases are urged to each other. Broken chapters, truncated sentences.

Tick-tock, there seems to be a half-stringed hoarse sound.

The stems and leaves carry the summer trepidation that does not move backwards like a stream.

The poem inscribed in the temple was gone, and the monk was gone. Plantains are made into banana fans.

For a long time, the rain spit out mermaids. One says dragons, one says beasts.

Houses, fields, and villages became her prisoners. The subway, the tunnel in her spell.

Daisy-woven waiting towered over the subway entrance, desperate baffles blocking the red warning.

The rain wet Changting Street, and the night is burning with a forgotten river.

2

The river is the home of the blood flowing in the blood

Night, fat again. My hometown has lost a lot of weight.

In order to close the distance to the city, this small mountain village underwent anesthesia surgery.

The anesthetic that penetrated deep into her bone marrow did not make her lose all consciousness.

The femur creaked, and she felt her whole body like a stray building. She was afraid of losing all consciousness.

Fear of never waking up from sleep, fear of vomiting out on the Serpentine Mountain Road and the cover of forest areas.

She should soberly remember that the fish in the stream were on the stone, and the water grass was gently swaying. The raccoon woman lifted her blue skirt.

In August, the papaya cracked its mouth, and the reservoir on Tianchi Mountain was still waiting for a rain.

The knowing cry changed several times.

It's August, the magic box is opening, and the anticipation of the reception is changing every second.

Climb over the wall of time. Winding roads to the outside world, networked tunnels in all directions, and blood vessels like small rivers flow slowly in the body of the hometown.

3

That bitter melon from last year

I thought that last year's bitter melon had climbed over the fence and gone to the Persian Gulf under the Baltic honey tree to reminisce bitterly.

Not really. He was like a cut leek, and with a heavy mood the wet wound could not escape the law that could not be escaped.

He wants to survive the small summer, the big summer, and the summer heat.

He craned his neck to wait for a rain, cirrus clouds pressed down the treetops, and high-rise clouds ran the train with their mouths full. The thunder was loud and the raindrops were without a trace.

The neem tree beside him lost its bitter taste, and the jujube turned across the highway through no man's land to reach Thorn Island.

Verdant islands in the middle of the lake, some people study the routines in the water. Well-behaved cats lie on every lane.

He is a complex of multiple particles and a contradiction of many atoms.

He wanted to grow greener and rounder, but the long-term loose water and soil caused the loss of calcium and his face was full of acne.

He wanted to be warmer, warmer, but his heart was broken into cotton wool, and eventually it was hollowed out.

He wanted to condense his grief to a dignified level. He saw: shrunken farms, exaggerated knives and forks.

4

Beautiful flowers bloom on the wound

I stood outside the window of my hometown with the Book of Drifting in my hand.

Without the preaching group, a leaf of green onion can blow out the country sound, and my throat is trembling.

Corn shed her beard and put on her leggings. The canoe bridge I once squeezed, the old goat fell into the river, and the weight of its soul never changed before and after death.

The transposed dialect, interspersed with flavored Arabic numerals, overwhelmed the last camel and overwhelmed the large locust tree in the village of Zhongshu. The only thing that remains is plunged into a deep cellar.

Excavators roared and shouted slogans to revitalize the countryside. The land I love is retreating step by step, retreating to the cliff.

The high cliff does not need traffic, it would have been standing at the top of the peak.

The cutter engraved it with an epitaph: each rock has its own value——— agate, emerald, diamonds. No, calcined lime. Not yet, build a staircase.

Every wall needs to be whitewashed, and every step needs a stepping stone.

There is no more surplus value to be desired, and it is placed on a stone bed to make an incense corpse. Detonate the pawn shop.

The ruins of the quarry grow moss flowers, as white as residual snow and as small as grains of rice.

5

A river that runs through the heart

In his life full of thorns, he had thought of flying. The wind broke his wings and sucked away the bones of his whole body.

A life of chaos, the body is full of cobweb-like nodules, pick out one, and bear more branches.

He wanted to use his body to net poverty, suffering and death, and it was an unspeakable time, and he did not dare to squeak for the ants. As soon as there was a sound, the phosphorus fire on the entire river surface flashed its words.

The light that came over him, too late to dodge, gave birth to the blade of light, slit his throat.

He was used to looking for the black dawn in the darkness.

The clichés in the ancestral hall drip from one bowl into another.

He decided to climb out of the embankment that covered the coffin and climb out of the calm of the river.

It wasn't until he left the branches that he remembered the nest that had sewn up the leaky wind. Feathers, fine sand, and the tip of the squirrel's tail are all his surplus value.

He poked his shield with his spear while piercing the old sand table on the beach. The black and white impermanence in his grip was like the hourglass of his body, empty and lonely.

He only wants to restore the location of the small river in his hometown, even if it passes through the heart. Read the story of flowing water, count the petals of time, and sort out the relationship between hemp and hemp. Sit shoulder to shoulder with the weeping old house.

concentrate:

This article was published in the New Poetry Classic column of The New Poetry Classic, Issue 4, 2022 of Yanhe Magazine

This article is an excerpt

The pictures in this article are from the Internet