<h1 class= "pgc-h-arrow-right" > Yang Heng: Poetry and wine can live forever</h1>
Personal profile: Yang Heng, male, Han ethnicity, pen name "Beiya", poet, born on February 12, 1993 in Baoshan, Yunnan, is now living in Dali, a contracted writer of the Young Writers Network.
I condensed and grew in the shaking city, like many people's city, the black streets, the loose walls, the old things, and I couldn't escape the madness. Later, I stole a pair of leather bags, shoes, tickets, and advice for the long journey, and went to other cities. They are well-grounded, the weather is clear, the temperature is gentle, the characters are rare, and with harmonious breathing, I enjoy the ultimate moments of this environment. But when I'm about to get used to it, I'll rush home, be a mother's son, go to the vegetable market to pick, and then go to the life of eight years old, and just like that, repeated separation, repeated growth...
I love the nights of the campfire, the crowd holding the wine, holding the kindness of rejection during the day, and I am used to conditioning, like the man who is taken in by the sun, naturally angry and habitually calm. He warned me that there was nothing far away, but in his words, I did not believe this.
I can't live without poetry, she's more important than rice and water, even more important than my favorite apple. I kept walking, I kept picking up the bits and pieces of poetry in my life, and of course, these poetry also loved my ordinary, the passenger, the drunkard, God, the captain, she brought all the inexplicable people to my side, kissed my heart. I passed by mature children and warm carriages and horses, passed by wise old people and friendly wilderness, passed many well-behaved but deviant things, how complicated things, in which I was more willing to sing the praises of the ordinary and love... Later, I wrote all these encounters and observations into songs and poems, trying to depict as much as I could see when I first saw them, and I hoped to use this concise text to let the people I like occasionally listen to and occasionally look at in the trivialities of life.
How anachronistic, yet incomparably appropriate, the bread in my left hand is not hot, and the wine in my right hand is not decaying, and I walk steadily on the road, taking in warmth and loneliness, and degenerating into the original appearance.
Appreciation of Yang Heng's works:
Tears
The air is humid
It's confusing
hush
It is the rain that crosses the border
It's a blur city
You wipe your ears clean
listen
It's a cat in heat
It was a melting piece of snow
It's leaving
I'm going to see somewhere else
Look at the rain there
Look at the cats and the plums planted in the snow
Look what you give
And what you can't give
Look at the irrelevant rings
Look at the new joy of its other knots
"Lin He"
The eyes are wrapped in bandages
We weave through the darkness
The referee was silent
All things are silent, and a thousand mountains are silent
You follow your life
My loneliness cannot be punctured
We pray to each other
Find the whereabouts of love
Alcohol, letters, forbidden fruit
The three primary colors of love
Pointing at you and me
Make your life go wrong
Unlock my loneliness
Each dragged the carnival of life
Travel to the sour kingdom of heaven
Love is the river that runs through the forest
Break free from the lush greed
We are at the mercy of time
Reborn or fallen
Wait for it to reveal the outline
Will change your past
Fade away your weakness
Wait for it to pass in a hurry
Will take away my future
Blow my heart waves
Letters
He was reborn in the Sea of Stars here
He is lush here
Seagulls dance in the waves
The crowd warmed up
Stained with the setting sun burning
Warmly happy
Quietly lonely
He waited for a message
It's a tree in the mountains
Fall into the dirt of autumn
It's a fish in the sea
Wander away from the other shore and hide in the depths
The wind and snow moon were originally the way to come
He waited for the news
The white cloud dog is the way home
Strangers
He had only one person in his dreams
You weigh in his dreams
Messenger let the night wind spread
Just give him an invitation
He lived up to his sorrows for thousands of days and nights
All you need is a piece of paper
He was famous for these three thousand miles
"March"
It is the month when the bottle code on my collection expires
It is the month when the milk dog crawls out of the nest and harvests the night during the day
It is the month of birth and death of a person who has run away from the sun
It is the month when the soul escapes from the world, meets and bids farewell
It's a month when children run and fall under a clear sky