Song Lin: male, born in Xiamen, Fujian, ancestral home in Ningde. He graduated from the Chinese Department of East China Normal University in Shanghai. He moved to France, studied in the Department of Far Eastern Studies at the University of Paris VII, and lived in Singapore and Argentina. Over the years, he has been employed to teach at several universities in China. He is currently working on writing and drawing. He is the author of the poetry collections "City People" (collection, Xuelin Publishing House, year), "Foyer" (Beiyue Literature and Art Publishing House, year), "Fragments and Li Song" (French publishing house, year), "City Wall and Sunset" (Paris publishing house, France, year), "Snowy Night Visiting Dai" (Writers Publishing House, 2015), "Telling the Clouds" (Taiwan Xiuwei Information, 2015); Essay collections "Approaching Moving Glaciers" (Beijing University of Posts and Telecommunications Press, 2014), "Orpheus Turning Back" (Peking University Press, 2014); He is the author of an anthology of poems, Blank Etudes (co-author, Oxford University Press, year). He is the poetry editor of the literary magazine "Today", and a member of the editorial board of "Reading Poetry" and "Contemporary International Poetry Circle". He has won the Rotterdam International Poetry Festival Award, the Shanghai Literature Award, and the Dongdangzi Poetry Award.
Sent to Tübingen
To a sick friend.
My New Year's Reading Plan Snow choked my throat. No! There is absolutely no word that can be grasped, a word that is supersonic that can carry my worries to you.
Now it's time for your life to be at its most critical moment, and your constellation is deflecting off track heading west.
The little ghost of the sign hides in the X-ray to eat you, and it is late at night, and I hear the owl chirping.
I prayed to a god to destroy it with its might.
Siege of darkness, raise the banner of your life high.
Surviving this winter is victory, you have to hold on!
Run, antelope
Run, antelope
Walk through the mute snowy fields.
Stay away.
Human teeth.
Volcanic scorching alum.
Run, antelope
Avoid the arrows of the constellation Orion.
Stone rain in July.
Swamp Witch. A whirlwind smile.
Run, antelope
Don't eat black poppies on barbed wire.
Don't race against trains.
Don't stand in the crosshairs.
Don't look back. Run, antelope
Hide your horns in the moon.
Like a dolphin in flight.
Like a word on the cusp of a wave.
Leave no footprints.
Run, antelope
A motor that starts the limbs.
Disappear in Hoh Xil.
That is the last of the earth. Suburbs.
Eleven-line poem
After the Great Destruction.
There may be people coming here.
Salvage wrecks, remove silt, and get used to it again.
Life without a poll tax and a secret police.
Mobile phones, lipsticks, mahjong tiles, ......The water was dripping up.
From a well, perhaps some tin box will emerge:
A ** diary.
Unfold under the incandescent lights of archaeologists.
In a dense forest with a small fly.
Mushroom-like, a filthy soul. Scream.
Something we call a sign
Something we call a sign
Through the surface of the moon or porcelain.
Tangled near one of the screws on the wing.
Linger in the lily-shaped vaults of the Grand Theater.
Unless it's right underfoot.
We are not interested in the rattling of ice.
*, we'd rather be silent.
so as not to break the strings.
We are so fascinated :
Moire on a lacquer bottle.
A nautilus-shaped hyperbola of a spiral ladder.
As long as the alarm does not go off until sunset.
We will be tireless** on the beach loungers.
Miss Wave has a wide and sultry skirt.
We won't know.
Or simply don't want to know.
Meteor shower doctor from the constellation Leo.
Who will be craniomy tonight.
Visiting Dai on a snowy night
What isn't a quirk?
Like a sudden snowfall at night and a thought?
I was awakened, drunk, and Zuosi's poem reminded me of a hermit.
Untying the cable is already clear, is it also a heavy snow pressure on the other side of the county?
And in San'in, we talked passionately about metaphysics from the summer, leaning on a few and talking until dawn.
O Yanxi, since the first time I tested the temperature of your water, you have flowed in your own clear rhythm, and I wish my boat would be like a shuttle, on your silk.
Glide briskly and at your pace.
There was only snow in the middle of the thousands of mountains, and soon the white eyebrows were going to dress me up as a fisherman.
May you sleep soundly tonight, my friend, as you lay out like a beloved book.
If you dream of a fairy in the mountains, am I not the one who walks side by side with you?
Long Shangxi shone on the snow, and when I put down the oars, why was I so elated like the herald of the previous dynasty?
There are no pedestrians outside your hut yet, and I want to knock on your door and shout
Antao, it's Ziyou who is here." Oh, except for the snow.
I don't have any good news for you.
Forget it, I'm going to go back.
I have come to see you, and why should I disturb you with my summons?
In the depths of the Little Khingan Mountains
The river crosses it. You'll never go to the other side.
The owl crouched on a high branch with its eyes closed, never praying!
Nor will it fly into your house to dictate prophecy.
No! There is only survival and patience here. Scraps of tortillas are in the cracks of the pine table.
The hand, the hand of the light, stretches out from the opposite side and can't reach you.
The cold mist separates visitors like a leper's village.
The sand willow weaves a soft wind. It's not time to go.
Until sleep is woven into the middle of winter, into snow.
Heavenly Lake
The meteorite brought fire from beyond the sky and buried it in this huge pit, and then the lake appeared. They told me that the truth was once a lump.
Blind fire, which leaves burns around when it falls.
After that there were ripples, after which there were no witnesses.
It could come from Mars or Sirius beyond.
Recently I've noticed that the unusually active light is constantly being thrown in the northerly direction), rounding the Arctic Circle, all the way south. The immeasurable lamp moth illuminated the entire Wuhua Mountain in an immeasurable moment.
Dense red pine forests.
Inverted lake. Shadows are digging;
Billion trillions of pines knit the silence of the ground.
A pebble was slightly hot in my palm.
From the pods
In the soybean field. The pods clinked.
The handlebars of the bike resemble the horns of a monster.
Hold against the haystack.
The rails are discarded in the distance.
The Manchurian dragon slept on the edge of the crater.
Dotted ladybugs.
Climb the walls that fill the farmhouse.
No one came from late autumn.
Pods burst. Seeds are counted into the sunlight one by one.
than I saw in my dream last night.
Brighter and fuller.
Ping An Station
On both sides of the canyon, dense crystals are piled up.
The penetration of snow water was rejected.
When something is struggling to squeeze in.
The voice, not yours, not mine.
From the sky or underground, dragging the shadows of silence.
Unloaded heavy objects, embedded in this site on the plateau.
A few gadflies roared in the horse's snout.
Hundreds of miles away, the temple bell polishes the golden top and.
The threshold is trampled on, and here is desolate.
There were neither pilgrims nor pilgrims.
The wind picks up the name that I don't know who left behind.
When I came out of the breathless forest.
An alpine aster saw me.
Fragment of Matteo Ricci's Chinese Notes
I've heard that the devil never sleeps.
I was also told that he was mischievous and bouncing.
You can't see him in the crowd, and he can call everyone by name.
He doesn't need to dream, he lives on the ignorance of others.
His favorite game is: Possess when you are angry and weak.
Yesterday, a ** killed his wife who was having an affair.
Today, a ruffian who cheated on someone else's sister was killed.
The speed of action surpasses that of the most vicious arrows.
The telescope couldn't catch it at all, but I knew he was there.
He always made a loud noise when he drank the soup on the deceased.
Will tomorrow be good? God, please make me believe.
A gift from a lady
The finest tweezers can't be separated either.
Those two twisted words, the two imprints of your soul, come from Germany, and carry your body heat.
This brown-skinned notebook, I know, is your raft, with which you have ferried, in the valley of the river on the occasion of your death.
Hey, Captain! The wind is high and the waves are urgent, and the other name of the river is Wan Gu Chou.
crossed over, broke into the bardo area, and also broke through the short and long net.
Your last words, I keep.
In the Taihang Mountains
The Assassin was in the mountains, and as he walked, he vanished, and the Cambrian rocks were still growing.
In some countries, the walls of the kingdoms of Li, Korea and Zhao have fallen into decay as they have been repaired, and the beards of goats are still growing.
The oak forest stretches to the east and to the west, and a drama of life and death in late spring and autumn has come to an end. And at the foot of the mountain, the pathetic Yangge is in full swing, the assassin's soul restoration technique.
On behalf of the losing side, the conscience is making up for a history lesson.
The Zhanghe River went around the bend, clear and rippling, the young peasant woman pounded her clothes on the stone, and the water stretched out her hand with a wide long tongue ** frozen red, licking the one that swam to the opposite bank.
The wounds of the leopard also licked the poachers' gunpowder.
Taihang Mountain, majestic like a big Buddha, your ear-shaped cave hangs down to me, Zhang Liang's iron stool, Fa Xian's tin staff, still hidden in the mountain, called timidity and ignorance weightless.
Your legendary bird, with its singing voice, has recruited the heroes of the world.
I'm small enough to walk in front of you, ashamed of the rocks. A wild chrysanthemum.
Imitation of the Bi Mo Sutra
The distant mountains pressed on the brows, the soul was wet and heavy, and the sleeping sampan crashed into the beachhead crow.
Your dreams have been paddling at night.
And the baby fish is in the deep stream.
Wrestling with the mileage. Across the memory center, from a pair of fishbones, from a hundred checkpoints on the crossroads, you wake up and continue to wake up in the dreams of your families.
The wild ginger flowers in the cemetery are scarlet, and the bloodshot silk on the eyeballs catches the morning light.
Breathe, breathe deeply, and survive death.
Fog said, "I am goat's milk, I am offering." ”
You swallow it, and gradually, your body turns blue.
A walk in the upstate countryside of New York
To Li Dong. The fire of the maple leaf is in full swing, or it will turn dark in a few days.
The snow that is extinguished in every hill near and far.
But late autumn here will be longer than I can do.
It has no way to go, no need to go back.
A fiery and blind country.
I came, at the right time, with the cunning and curiosity of the Orientals.
The eyes accept the hospitality of the sunset.
And don't be confined to the attributes of this landscape.
The weather tripled my good mood.
Some of the houses are located on the top of the hill and occupy a farther view.
Others are scattered in the woods and along the roadside.
Fences that resemble customs and hierarchies.
The notice of the private domain guided me to learn to walk the way.
I'm smart enough, but the deer herd is even more enviable.
With a flick of the hind hooves, it roams freely throughout the area.
Or study the strange habits of humans nearby.
The canyon's large speakers are not *** but **quiet.
The sky is so busy, like a theater on Broadway.
From time to time, the engine of a private jet.
Like a lit match, it disappeared through the living room and outside the back door of the kitchen.
The small pond there was suddenly filled with smoke.
The grass is connected to the bushes, and the crows resemble a flock of witches.
Fluttering down, and secretly exchanging new spells.
This time I don't care how many times they scream).
It's getting dark, and the flashing headlights are asking:
Are you lost? Need a ride?
Thank you! I just went a little further.
In order to distance myself from the old self shaking in front of the table.
But there is no such thing as a wild goose.
The front of his neck was stretched out and clinging to the treetops, and his wings seemed to fly.
The paddles of the dragon boat sailors are neatly lifted and lowered.
They threw down their greetings, and I responded politely.
With a wave of his hand, the singing herringbone has passed through the full moon.
2014/11/12 ghent
Mother's face
The small mountain town is locked in the cold wind.
It was 1967, and I held on to my mother's hand, afraid of losing.
Forty-eight years later I understood why my palms were sweaty while my head was walking down the street that day.
but shrunk in the buttoned collar. When I came out of my uncle's house, my mother took us to my brother-in-law, my eldest brother, my second brother, my cousin and me.
Go to the photo studio. I looked up at her, studied the unfamiliar, smiling face, and confirmed that it was my mother's.
And I, the "orphan" in my grandfather's house, kept my eyes on it for fear of losing.
The only frame in the family:
I sat on my mother's left, happy and worried, like a lover.
Hold her hand tightly in mine.
2015 4 5 Qingming.