Matthias Polytiki is known as a globetrotter and literary adventurer among German writers. He spends half of his time on the road every year and has traveled to more than 100 countries around the world. It is worth mentioning that Polytiki has always retained the habits of old-school Germans, stubbornly refusing to use mobile phones, relying only on maps and notepads to arrange travel and work. During his travels, he tried to leave pictures and historical temperatures around the world in words, and refined the experiences and experiences of traveling around the world into novels through the catalysis of literary imagination. "Around the World in 180 Days", "The Man with horns" with African themes, "The Story of the Other Shore" with Chinese themes are all such masterpieces, and he has also written a number of travel-related prose and poetry collections.
Despite being known for his novels, Polytiki preferred to think of himself as a lyric poet. Since writing poetry at the age of sixteen, poetry has been the only way for Polytiki to unravel the worries of his daily life, and in his words, the meaning of writing poetry is to "rehabilitate the sloping world." Most of his poems are written in unfamiliar cities, in the mountains, in the desert, on the seashore, and only a very few are written at desks, which means that the poet has to write down the necessary things at a very fast speed. In Polytiki's view, poetry is born out of difficulties and passions, "powerful and precise words and phrases are hard mixed with clichés and self-hatred." In order to give such a record a clear form and make it a poem, the poet needs to look at it again and again with a "cold gaze", keeping a distance between time and emotion, and looking at it again and again. ”
Unlike the older generation of "68 generation" writers, the works of "generation 78" writers such as Polytiki no longer focus on grand historical narratives and reflective wars, and they are eager to step out of the linguistic labyrinth of postmodern literature and find their personal style. In this context, Polytiki put forward the idea of "neo-readableism" in German literature, pointing the finger at the tradition of German literature that focuses on philosophical speculation and despises narrative techniques. He believes that the avant-garde of literary experimentation often "has nothing but language and bears no fruit", in fact, those obscure and mysterious, high and low literary styles are not the embodiment of some kind of internal speculation, but the result of writers' attempts to be different from words and do not respect the feelings of readers. For writers, writing is not only a mission, but also a profession. Therefore, writers should not be above the public, but should try to make readers as satisfied and happy as possible. "The only poems that touch us are those that are told with their lives and eager to be understood immediately."
Recently, Polytiki's poetry collection "Behind the Light and Everything" was published Chinese edition, bringing together 81 poems selected by the poet for Chinese readers. In his poems, Polytiki shares many of his feelings about nature, cities, life and love over the past 30 years, as well as the inspirations he has received from traveling around the world. Although Polyticki has visited China many times, there is not much poetry about China in this collection. In this regard, the poet said: "Poetry is the product of sorrow, and I do not write poetry when I am in a good mood. Obviously, I've been happy most of my time in China — and that's my simple and precious answer to that question. ”
<h3></h3>
Botswana Blues
There is a great river in the north of the desert,
Can't find the way to the sea,
Dry rivers, huge deltas,
Tens of thousands of square kilometers of sedge forests are tight and solid,
There are also water lilies, herons, ospreys,
Covered in white and black feathers.
I put on khaki cargo pants,
Lying in a canoe, through the reeds:
The man sat at the stern of the ship, holding a long pole,
I don't know where to take me,
He hummed a black song,
Actually, I just need it
Drive away the small flies.
You have to understand, on this day, the world has worked quite hard
I really don't want to complain:
Boom and clatter, so many leaves and reeds
Behind us there was a bang...
When I returned from this sedge paradise
(two days, three days, maybe four days later),
No one will know the day I'm booming.
"It's funny", someone might perfunctory me:
"It's like a Danube Delta
In Africa "...
Do you understand,
Tired sun, layers of reeds
It wasn't a fun day.
The day was so beautiful, so much so
I don't want to go through it again, best
Forget it now,
For I understand, and I know clearly in my heart,
I may spend the rest of my life alone
With water lilies, herons and ospreys,
and the howls and hisses from afar,
With the buzzing flies in front of you.
In my canoe,
On this horribly beautiful day.
(Translated by Hu Wei)
<h3>Light rail station, sparrow chirping</h3>
A cold Monday morning,
The sun is still low in the air,
The light is already so intense,
Rust spreads on the tracks,
Transform out the rubble on the side of the track,
It's a piece from last night.
Dark candied remains covered in white frost.
There are only a few people on the platform,
As if it comes from a movie that has long been discontinued,
Wearing a felt hat, the defeated Tatars,
Disguised as a smoker, a silent extra.
If you listen slightly,
In the bare bushes on the other side of the track
A daring bird chirps,
It must have been a Persian prince who had been poisoned, or
At least a sparrow with a broken heart,
But at this time, it was at this time,
Someone started calling and talking non-stop
It was so loud again, so loud that he
Dissolve in the steam of words that spews out.
<h3>Behind the light and all things</h3>
sometimes
On a Sunday afternoon,
Everything was so silent that the days suddenly cracked open.
So you look up
From the file at hand
You look up,
At one point, you might hear:
The turbulent current of time,
Behind the Light and all things. But
As you turn your head slightly sideways
Put your hands behind your ears,
This crack,
It has been reclosed.
(Translated by Guo Xiaoyao)
<h3>Tears of bitter truth</h3>
It's always there —
Dormant in the bubbles of amber,
Patrolling on the dial of the clock,
Knock on it as I write a poem
The darkness of the keyboard lurks,
It's still haunted by a pair of duck chicks.
They huddle up on the lampstand,
I want to make people laugh.
It dwells in the stubborn rocks of the paperweight,
And fled into the drawer,
Turn into ink bottles, handkerchiefs,
Printing table and
Crumpled note.
It's always there.
Even if I leave this hut,
Go to the other side of the corridor and find my happiness,
Even if I say goodbye to this house,
Rush to another city,
It goes with autumn leaves,
Whisk across the street.
Sit in the café around the corner,
Throw it at me and smile.
Wherever I go,
It all waved at me, sang, jumped.
It's there.
(Translated by Zhang Weijie)
<h3>Why do people like me run in bad weather? </h3>
--Thursday March
Run, run, run, run,
Through the park, and the boulevard —
Run, run, run, run, run
Like a beast, never stop!
All the way through the puddle,
Wash away the mud, wash away the wind and dust,
Run, run, run
The trees roar, the sky rotates,
Run, run, not only
Dogs and forgotten old men,
Greetings to you,
Run, run, run, until you too
No more consciousness, morning and evening sequence,
Run, run, run
Grow palms, and cacti,
And youlan, rich and fragrant,
If you are intoxicated, you can-
No, you don't take a break.
Instead, walk lightly
Leap by, as on Tuesday,
<h3>Cherry blossom festival</h3>
Narration from Meng Anhe
Drinking under the cherry blossom trees,
Forget the seasons.
I put on the shoes
Thrown up the treetops.
Cherry blossoms fall like snow.
The shoes did not fall.
We worked together to shake the trunk.
Our bodies are full of cherry blossoms
A whole day.
(Translated by Shao Mengqi)
<h3>rainy season</h3>
Siem Reap, Cambodia
In the morning, it rains
At noon, it rained
At night, it rains
rain
Or rain
We sat under the umbrella of the coconut merchant
Or on the ruins of the monk's temple,
rainwater
Along the crevices of the square stones
Drop
If we have good luck,
Lying on the hotel bed,
The sound of the ceiling fan will be
Like rain hitting the roof, it clicks and clicks
(Translated by Lai Yuqi)
The poems in this article are selected from the book "Behind the Light and All Things", and are published with the permission of the publishing house.