I am a poet
I like to retrograde in **.
Likes to chase the sunset without any scruples.
Likes to look up at the night sky and look for Sirius.
He likes to prostrate himself in the grass and exchange code words with dirt and insects.
I like your stupidity, your silence.
I ran on the ground with the skeleton of a man.
But he gave a soft heart to the earth.
Hang hard thoughts in the void.
With my increasingly nearsighted eyes, I looked into the depths of the universe.
I love fireworks on earth.
I love your dead heart, your sighs and your tenacity.
I am a poet, a useless poet.
A poet whose soul is higher than his body and whose eyes look into the depths of space.
At the desk in the middle of the night.
I'm pretending to be a ghost.
Magic flows from the tip of the pen.
Empower the square words and tame them one by one.
Return
When you go out, rest your key on top of the door frame.
Leave the door for your returning self.
Go up the hill and walk on a steep slope.
The flat one is the way back for yourself.
All departures.
It's all about returning.
All the options.
It's all a foreshadowing of a certain ending.
Returned late at night.
It's not the same person you set out for.
The last time I went out, I was a teenager.
Forty years later.
Hometown old has become hometown.
The young man lost his green onion on the wandering road.
This time, I couldn't find the key from the door frame of the old house.
But I felt my baby teeth under the threshold.
In the cracks of the leaky wall, I felt out.
When my mother was alive, she had a clump of gray hair stuffed in.
Daily
The frost on the window panes has been meticulously sculpted.
Like a mother's handiwork.
That little pair of scissors, what to cut, what to look like.
The snow has depressions that can't be concealed.
Pile of firewood in the courtyard.
It has been gently flipped.
Snow, shaking down the snow.
One layer of cold overcomes another layer of cold.
Push open the double doors.
There is a line of one-way footprints at the gate.
I recognized it as my father's.
He dragged on.
Walk towards the mountain beam.
Last night, he shook Suosuo's big hand and touched the top of his head.
Pinch your fingers and count. Today, it has been 60 years since my father died.
He buried his bones four thousand miles away.
Get up and hit the road.
It's not easy to make a trip.
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.