ང་ཚོས་སྐད་ཆའི་ལམ་ནས་མདུན་སྐྱོད་ཀྱི་བསང་ཆུ་སྒྲོག
We use our voices to tell the story of the Summer River in the endeavor
ང་ཚོས་སྐད་ཆའི་ལམ་ནས་འཕེལ་རྒྱས་ཀྱི་ངོ་མཚར་འབྲི།
We record the developing times with sound
བསང་ཆུའི་གསུང་དབྱངས། ཁྱོད་ཀྱི་སྙན་དུ་སྒྲོན།
The sound of the Summer River is in your ears
བསང་ཆུའི་གསུང་དབྱངས། ཁྱོད་དང་ལྷན་དུ་ཡོད།
The Sound of Summer River is with you
Introduction to authorship
Ah Xin, born in 1964, formerly known as Mou Jixin, born in Lintao, Gansu, is a contemporary poet. Graduated from the History Department of Northwest Normal University, he has been working in Gannan for a long time. Most of the poems are set in the Qinghai-Tibet Plateau and the Gannan meadows. Published poems include "The Poems of Ashin", "Meadow Poems", "Letters to Friends", "Those Years, by the Sando River", "Surprise Notes" and so on. His works have been translated into English, French, Korean and other languages. He has won the 4th Xu Zhimo Poetry Award (2015), the 4th Western Literature Award (2016), the 2nd Changyao Poetry Award (2018), the Chen Ziang Annual Poet Award of poetry journal (2018), the 2nd Twelve Backs Meier Poetry Award poet of the year (2021) and other important awards.
Let a person who rarely writes poetry write a poet, and a poet who is famous and influential throughout the country, will be a little nervous. I have been wondering: how can we use the most refined language to present a poet with a combination of talent, unworldly temperament and interesting soul to everyone in 360 degrees without dead ends?
A few days ago, I went to Yeliguan to attend a pen meeting, and happened to be in the same car with Teacher Ashin, so I expressed my anxiety in my heart. He said very generously: Feel free to write, just be interesting...
Thank you for his openness and inclusion.
The name Ashin was first remembered because of the poem "On the Hillside". I remember reading this poem at that time, I giggled for no reason: How can there be such a clean and vast expression?
The car passed
Sheep grazing with their heads bowed
Looking back together ——)
The one that is still grazing, it seems
Unusually lonely
A few numbers instantly lay out the sense of loneliness that is infinitely clear and angular between heaven and earth, and people can't help but fall into it. So later, whenever I went out through the grassland, I always couldn't help but look at the sheep on the hillside who were looking down at the grass, guessing which sheep would be the loneliest sheep in my world...
At that time, there was no blog or WeChat, and to read Ah Xin's poems, you could only wait for the newly published "Gesang Flower". I'm looking forward to reading another poem as clean and unique as On the Hillside. In May 2008, Ashin published his first personal poetry collection, "The Poems of Ashin", with a cover as green as the meadow, which is very in line with the upcoming spring of the grassland. As his "wide fan", I had the privilege of seeking a book to read and study. At this point, I found that his poetry and poetic language are warm, textured, niche, and as clean as the first snow. For a person with a serious penchant for writing cleanliness, this is a very gratifying thing.
In the 1980s and 1990s, at the height of literature, if a person is named "poet", he will surely become a luminous body of supreme glory. At that time, Ashin, Sangzi, and Wanmayangjin were known as the "troika" of Gannan poetry, and they drove side by side on the vast Gannan grassland. So when I met Ashin, he was already the luminous body that was followed by countless fans. I remember a foreign poet who learned that I lived in Gannan, and I left a message in the blog enviously: Living in Gannan is so happy, you can see the poet A Xin at any time... Where did he know that although we lived in the same city, the poet Ashin was not something he could have seen if he wanted to. However, I was an exception: because of my status as a journalist, and because I happened to be interviewing and reporting at the Gansu National Normal College in previous years, I was able to occasionally seek his side. I can even occasionally paint him in poetry!
That time was also to participate in an activity at the Division's College. At that time, Ashin was sitting on the rostrum, and his unsmiling appearance was quite funny. As I scribbled on the paper, I thought: Whenever this happens, where does the poet Ashin go? Following this line of thought, I actually drew a short poem for him, and after writing it, I almost laughed out loud. After many years, I only remember the last two sentences: When you are sitting on your stomach, where are you and your poetry? Did you hear the grass outside the window singing all the time?
Of course, when I appeared as a journalist, Ashin only appeared as an executive leader. At such times, we rarely say hello—I always lack the ability to communicate with leaders, and Ashin seems to be reserved for my gender—which is very much in line with the poet's temperament: most men who write poetry and composition will still maintain a rare shyness and childishness no matter how old they are. In my eyes, so is Ashin.
Ten years ago, in the autumn, at a pen meeting in Yeliguan, a drunken Ah Xin dragged a crowd of people to his room to chat. At first, the room was full of life, and the bed on the couch was crowded with people. Ah Xin sat by the window and told everyone some distant past about the rushing Yemu River outside the window. The people listening to the story suddenly laughed and suddenly collectively silent, only Ashin's eyes were always bright, a little drunk and he woke up. After the night, people began to yawn and slip away one by one. By two o'clock in the morning, only me and Teacher Li Dequan were still listening in the room. Ashin didn't care about everyone's departure either, still focused on his memories. To my surprise, even when drunk, Ashin's thinking was surprisingly clear, and if one topic was extended or forked to another, he could pick it up without leaking after a large circle, and it was so clear that there was no repetition. It is his serious and focused talk that makes the sleepy and hazy us can't bear to leave--all the excellent poets have a shy child living in their hearts. Only when you are drunk, you are willing to release the child who is locked up in your heart. Usually, he can only write poems one after another, completing the dialogue with himself again and again:
At the intersection of the street rushing to the hospital, I met a red light——
The vehicle slowly passed, and the two sides were so long that they could not be seen
I grabbed my wife, who was in disarray, and said,
No rush. Early winter in the air
A few golden ginkgo biloba leaves, from the branches
Float to the ground and land at your feet. I hugged my wife
Trembling shoulders, watching the traffic pass silently and slowly
I've been to my wife and to myself over and over again
Say: No hurry, no rush
We are not in a hurry
We are on earth, like two grains of dust that depend on each other
Wait quietly and endure
- "On Earth"
One evening in the late autumn of 2015, I was carrying a camera and wandering alone on the campus of the Normal College, fantasizing about encountering one or two strange and fresh shots that would allow me to create "amazing works". In the midst of such aimless walking, I saw a striking red banner in the gentle light and shadow of the sunset, which read: Congratulations to the poet Of our school, Ah Xin, for winning the Xu Zhimo Poetry Prize! This award, jointly sponsored by the Chinese Poetry Society, the Zhejiang Writers Association and the Haining Municipal People's Government, is naturally well-known and influential in the domestic poetry scene. When I picked up my camera and aimed it firmly at the banner, I clearly felt a hint of warmth in my heart—any award related to literature is worth looking up to. When Ah Xin won this award, did the glory not only belong to him? Every little grass on the Gannan grassland should be in awe of him.
For a while, I would often visit Ashin's Sina blog. Every time I go, there will be updates. It is still a very quiet and restrained poetic temperament, and it is still a warmth that makes people read and can't bear to turn the page. As for the award information, other people's comments, it is even less unusual. It seems that the editors of those discerning journals are always waiting for the update of Ah Xin. As soon as a new work appears, it will immediately be turned into a grain of lead in their pockets...
Therefore, it is often heard that foreign poets express their admiration for Ashin. A northeastern poetry friend nagged me on WeChat: You have a poet in Gannan who is old and powerful, do you know him? It's called Ashin... The breath was as hot as a burning flame, and it seemed that he could cross thousands of mountains and rivers in a few minutes to Gannan and meet the powerful poet Ashin.
How powerful is literature? Sichuan Aba Prefecture built a book house named after the writer Alai, which once became a spiritual universe visited by many literary lovers. The annual poetry contest named after Aba State has attracted widespread attention from people all over the country and even overseas, and has played a more than expected role in promoting and promoting Aba. Therefore, it is not surprising that foreign poets envy Gannan of Ashin's life. Didn't I send a manuscript to this year's "Alai Poetry Festival" competition in order to meet Ah Lai? It is a pity that the epidemic situation did not go to the scene to meet Ah Lai, which became a regret. Fortunately, I have learned to comfort myself: "It doesn't matter, anyway, we have a lot of Beauty Gannan and Ah Xin, anyway, you can read the poems he wrote to Gannan anytime and anywhere..." In fact, with the frequent appearances in major competitions across the country over the years, Ah Xin's name has long gone out of Gansu. For Gannan, Ashin has always been an unquestionable poetic business card.
After living in Gannan for a long time, Ah Xin wrote many poems to the land under his feet. In the pursuit of the great beauty of the unity of heaven and earth, he often completed a different life experience in the form of poetry. For example, the great beauty -
There is a monologue that comes from sorrow all over the earth
Only the great mind can hear its burning song
I was gripped by the language of life in a wandering
First the wind, then the palpitations
Look around at the dazed chanting
"Rong is also lonely
It's dry and lonely."
- "Little Grass"
For example, friendship -
Finally, accompany you to Donk across from Maqu
See the most beautiful grasslands in Asia and see the river bending after the rain
Magnificent sunrise...
I've been idle for a long time, lazy to go out, and my heart is full of mushrooms
We went to Donk with our companions for the first time
Possibly, it was the last time
The rainy season is so long that the paths on the prairie are muddy
I went to the woods behind the house
Cut two handy wooden sticks and take advantage of the morning fog
- "The Rainy Season"
For example, loneliness —
Light a candle and listen to the delicate rain outside the window
Tonight's horse, tonight's rock, tonight's fading stars
Let me enjoy a cold silence
Let me sit alone on the plateau, as well as in the poems
An infinitely lonely black felt room
In this silence I always look back at myself
My compassion and cherishing for myself made myself unbearable
I made myself miserable and miserable and desperate and proud
I used to do this: listen to the rain on the plateau and sit silently until dawn
- "Exclusive Plateau"
For example, everyday —
When it snows, I'm probably
Be at home, reading novels, writing poems, or
Write back to a distant place:
Snow, pounce on lanterns, pounce on window glass
Throw at the winter coal blocks and cow dung piled up in the corner
I still don't have enough to say, and then add another sentence:
Snow, pounce on the countryside
A wooden bridge in disrepair
Behind me, an aluminum pot on the fire
Puff up the heat
……
- "Those Years, by the Sando River"
Ashin once said in a creative talk: After living in the plateau for a long time, a person will become quiet, religious, and less frivolous. According to the Tibetans, at every moment, there will be gods passing above your head – you will be dignified, you will be pious. That's how I treat the words I write—because the plateau I live in is not only mysterious, but spiritual. I write here, I live here, I love here, I cry here, I grow old here. All this, as I understand it, is nature, poetry.
He said, I am often amazed by the ordinary mornings of ordinary shepherds or monks' houses on the plateau. A shepherd's and monk's breakfast is usually made up of a bowl of butter tea and a bowl of rice dumplings. The breakfast was simple to the extreme. But these most basic substances not only provide all the physical energy of a person, but also support his energetic spiritual world, and maintain a constant belief dimension in his heart. More often than not, I want to be the shepherd, or the monk. I hope to really arrive at one such morning in my own poetry...
In fact, the poet Ashin has already arrived at countless such mornings: the morning sun is clear, the cooking smoke is light, and every little grass is singing fondly under his pen...
Poet Kuwako said that in the early 1980s, when he and Ashin had just graduated from college and were assigned to Gannan, both of them wore fashionable flared pants, had cool and handsome long hair, and were full of ambition to paint pictures of the Gannan grasslands with words. Perhaps, from the moment they stepped into Gannan, poetry took firm root in their hearts. Perhaps it was fate that Ashin would become Gannan's Ashin, and then bring Gannan to the world in the form of poetry...
Excellent works Selected readings
In our Northwest
□ A-Xin
In our northwest, there are emperors, elders, magic immortals, and peach growers.
One day, they will grow old too. The beard grew longer and longer, and the sky fell, and they couldn't take care of it.
In our Northwest, meet someone. So-and-so, or so-and-so, with a name and a surname,
Well documented: He came from under the big locust tree, with your ancestors, three generations of in-laws.
In our northwest, the snow flakes are as big as a mat, and the human feelings are as big as the sky. A fellow countryman, cross-legged on the kang.
Eight hundred miles of Qin Chuan, not as good as Dong Ziyuan on one side.
In our northwest, the world is big, a sheepfold.
Eighteen princes, sixty-four smoke, a bag of dry smoke, half a can of tea.
In our northwest, the sun is not called the sun, it is called the sun. The father is not called the father of the praise, but the name of the melon.
The cottage is called Baozi, the emperor is called Ye, and no matter how big the onion is, I have never planted it and have seen it.
In our northwest, do not pull the tiger skin as a big banner. One is one, and two is two.
Lao Tzu's green cattle cross the Han Valley and wad through the quicksand; Confucius never came, indeed, who do you love?
In our northwest, the desert is lonely and the long river is full of sunsets.
Two poets: one Wang Wei and one Li Bai.
In our northwest, a road, the Silk Road; One river is the Yellow River.
A sheepfold, Ye Zhou said it was Dunhuang, believe it or not.
In our northwest, the motherland is called the home country, the first home and then the country, to protect the family and defend the country.
The Yellow River is the mother, Qin Ling is the father, zhao zhao old Qin, a breath still exists.
In our northwest, blood is hot, fire is hot, and hearts hurt.
Cold ice is three or nine days, is not talking, is drinking and not dry.
In our northwest, the grain brew is called wine, and the head is cut off from the bowl with a large scar.
Blood and snow, the mother rhymes, are not clear. Love and righteousness, dynasties change, blood exchange to buy salt.
In our northwest, two sisters: han tang, tubo, bactria, Xiongnu and Rouran.
Three brothers: one named Helan, one named Qilian, and one named Tianshan.
Dazon Lake
□ A-Xin
No one knows
Dazon Lake
No one was leading the horses
In the midst of the mountains
Walk for three days and three nights
Night falls
Dazon Lake
Almost transparent
Snow-capped mountains on three sides, a whole sky of stars
All poured into the lake
It, surplus without overflow
Meadows by the lake
The tents are empty, the air is thin, and the fragrance of flowers is striking
Just sit on your knees
It's like that
That's it
Tears
In a daze, until dawn, lead the horse
Leave quietly
Source: Gannan Daily "Centennial Glory Gannan Wenhua" column
Anchor of this issue: Yuan Maorun
Editor: Ma Xuejing
Editor-in-Charge: He Xiayan
Producer: Qi Zhengming