Write poetry outdoors in winter
When I started writing poetry, the world fell silent.
I broke free from the shadow of running.
The sun hugged me.
The wind, hurrying by.
Like a superficial poet, insisting on ineffective writing.
I repel the feathers and the slenderfoot.
Clear a small piece of territory.
Abandon distracting thoughts like detoxification.
Boiling words like medicine.
Some sentences, getting longer and shorter.
Read it over and over again, change it over and over again.
Precise as testimony.
Concise as a last word.
When writing poetry, I was a drop of high-purity oil.
Able to imprison a sun.
but it does not dissolve in the muddy waters of the world.
The sun gathers its last rays.
The earth darkens rapidly.
And the text of the branch on the phone screen.
Like a pearl of the night, it lit up.
Memories
I want to have a small courtyard.
Half courtyard bee butterfly.
Half courtyard breeze. I want to get back to the old wooden door of my childhood.
Shop the first ring. Wait for someone to ring.
When people don't come. The wind comes.
Want to give up all electronics.
Lay out a few pieces of stationery.
Write letters stroke by stroke.
Start with spring, follow the chronology, and write slowly.
At the end, the snow that fills the courtyard is written.
Wipe the house number every day.
Wait for a reply. Look at the postman's wide pouch.
Only one letter.
I catch it. He held the handle with one hand and walked away briskly.
I miss you from afar.
At this moment, it should also be reminiscing.
Also writing letters. You like to use pink letterhead and pure blue ink.
Under the blue sky, I looked up and down.
It's all love. Wen plays walnuts
Intercept a length of life and talk to a pair of fruit pits.
This is a dialogue between life and life.
It is not the sun and the moon that are old.
It's the palm of your hand.
The deep and shallow lines are the ruggedness of life.
I didn't change them.
Just copy-pasted the full amount of wrinkles.
The shiny surface hides the slurry of life.
It was I who lit them with body heat.
And they, quietly rubbing oil in the palm of my hand.
The goodness of walnuts lies in perfection.
It's the light sound of touch.
I know that moonshine is poetic.
And the moon is incomparably desolate.
Don't try to get to the bottom of it.
Once you knock it on, it's all good.
It's all in the past. As some words are said, never spoken.
Once exported, even if it is affectionate for a lifetime.
It will also be scattered with the wind.
Author:Ma Weiju, male, from Huining, Gansu Province, lives in Beijing. He is a member of the Chinese Writers Association and the China Railway Writers Association. He has written more than 1,000 poems, some of which have been published in hundreds of publications such as "Poetry Magazine", "Poetry Monthly", "China Railway Literature and Art", "Ginseng Flower", "Green Wind", "Star" and "Selected Poems", and have been selected into a variety of anthologies. Published poetry collections "Gap" and "Deep Snow".
Read the Sleep Poet Shooting.
Face the sea and look for the light with your black eyes. Founded on November 16, 2015, the Poetry Club takes "speaking for grassroots poets" as its mission and promoting the "spirit of poetry" as its purpose, that is, the pursuit of truth, goodness and beauty of poetry, the artistic innovation of poetry, the spiritual pleasure of poetry, and the revelation of poetry to living life.