White Nights
I was dancing in the square, uneasy
Follow me; I'm late at night
Flip through a book with no beginning and no end
Suddenly I felt inexplicable panic. One
An ominous shadow stared at me. It stands in the wilderness
Walking with the lights on, footsteps in the rain
The gaze is like a beam of light pressing. So many years
I felt guilty that it made me look down on myself
See the holes and cracks in the body. I
The heart of the locust flower is still soft
I've accumulated so much darkness
I haven't really cried yet
It has not yet been born in this world
It was like a thorn piercing into my slowly opening
heart. Soft, like a jacket
Poetry is life, welcome to the "Caotang Reading Poetry" jointly launched by Cover News, Chengdu Radio and Television Station Listening Hall FM and Caotang Poetry Magazine, I am a reading poet Juanzi. The poem "White Night" that I just heard came from the poet Xue Songshuang's group poem "I Haven't Really Cried Yet". Today we will share Xue Songshuang's poems together.
The post-70s poet Xue Songshuang, a native of Nanyang, Henan, has been writing poetry for many years. He tended to write original poetry, trying his best to return to the original in this avant-garde, broken world, to the original, to the original, to the essence, to the original heart. Let's listen to this "Constellation" in the group poem:
constellation
The previous winter night. I talked to my history teacher about us
This nation. Confucius temples, cracks, scriptures... Cypress
Lying alone at the head of the bed late at night, listening to a drop of eaves
Drop. We built a solid roof with grief
to carry those ice and snow. Later I got drunk
The footsteps are staggering, and the earth is tilting. Seems
A baby is reborn. The overhead constellations are connected
Filled with darkness. And us
It was never clear what my mother looked like
Xue Songshuang's poetry is pure and restrained, showing the spirituality and wisdom of realization. As the poet himself said, he smiled in the face of the mediocre life and the black oppressive crowd, turned around, and walked into the garden of poetry and the starry sky. Between them, there is no distance, in the poem, the turbidity and the clarity slowly mixed together...
Poetry is life, "grass hall reading poetry", there is temperature, there is texture. Reading the poem today is here, thanks for the attention, we will see you next time.
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