Author:Ma Weiju, male, born in 1957, is a native of Huining, Gansu Province, and lives in Beijing. He used to be the executive deputy secretary of the Party Committee of the Ministry of Railways and the China Railway Corporation, and was a member of the Chinese Writers Association, the China Railway Writers Association, and the Chinese Poetry Society. His poems have been published in hundreds of publications such as "Poetry Magazine", "Poetry Monthly", "Stars", "China Railway Literature and Art", "Ginseng Flower", etc., or have been selected into various anthologies such as "Chinese New Poetry" by the Chinese Poetry Society. Some of them are on the **People's Radio "Voice of China? Read Poetry for You" aired. Published his personal poetry collections "Gap" and "Deep Snow".
Loved the junction in the middle of the night
Loved the second half of the night, those intersections with traffic lights.
For a long time, there were no cars and no pedestrians.
I would stand on the edge of the zebra crossing and wait quietly.
Wait for the red light to turn green, then wait for the green light to turn red.
At this time, the whole intersection, all the traffic lights.
They were all speculating about my behavior.
And I, not in a hurry to pass.
I don't even set routes and destinations for myself.
Just to visit them—these faithful lights.
They are so serious, so stereotypical.
Over and over again, just for me to count the seconds.
At this time, the night dew is shining, and the stars are bright.
After standing for a long time, the tips of the eyebrows condensed into fine droplets.
The heart shimmers with the light of the starry sky.
At this time, there was silence in the world.
Only those lights, twinkling and shining, like.
A few children who forgot to go home.
Playing intently with rock-paper-scissors.
Eye contact with a bird
Cockatiels are able to stay on the stand for a long time.
Don't eat, don't drink, don't sing, don't move.
Its gorgeous feathers, growing, are also shedding.
Look at each other and freeze the clock.
People and birds are covered with frost and snow.
I'm going to win.
It took me five times as long.
And I, with only one-fifth of the time, won its spring and autumn.
It also diluted my life.
It's a race between a man and a bird.
As a winner, I am extremely sad.
And it had turned into a piece of rotten wood.
The feathers gradually change, and the eyes are covered with thick fog.
At the same time, we heard the great sound of the wind running naturally.
It swallows gently.
I, on the other hand, shivered.
All have a thrilling figure
Every two or three steps, take a break.
Sometimes it's him.
Sometimes it's it.
There's always one that stops first.
It's dusk, and they all have dark problems in their legs.
He was eighty-nine years old.
It is equivalent to one hundred and five years of human beings.
My car followed.
It cannot be surpassed, and it is not suitable for honking.
The old man has his own rhythm of the old man.
Perhaps, slowness is the secret of longevity.
I've heard that when he was younger, he was a city-wide running champion.
And it's close to 100 years old, it's still chasing Sahuan.
It's useless to be in a hurry.
Simply turn on the headlights to illuminate the road in the community.
At this time, I was amazed to find that this pair of weak old men.
There is a thrilling figure.
Author:Lan Bing, currently living in Xi'an, is a doctor and a member of the Sleep Poetry Society. I love to write poems, I want to be washed by the heavy rain, and I want to kiss the dripping lily of the valley in the poem.
A few words, for the person who complains about the woman
There is no power to turn the tide.
At the very least, keep your mouth shut.
Don't feel sorry for yourself.
A chef who only disturbs the dough.
Hold the rolling pin.
Don't knock on the bowl and ask for the full Han banquet.
Be careful, break the porcelain.
Suck up the. For a man who is more brittle than porcelain.
How many blows can you withstand in life?
Little Gold
In this half-mountain pond.
The lotus leaves are withered and old, and the wind chirps with the frogs.
Cut off the ears and put them on top of the hollowed sunflower plate.
The season is wrong, and the redemption is a little sad.
Lift up the full pool of folds and do the ** of life.
The ploughshare of the ditch and the furrow, the heart of the mountain beam.
Throw a fire crystal persimmon and light a pool of autumn.
The walnut tree is empty, as quiet as sitting meditation.
An old man herding sheep on the Little Gold Mountain.
Singing Su Wu shepherding sheep.
Sing and smash the wounds in my Qin cavity.
The pomegranate grinned.
Say, for you a blood-red heart.
Decapitated and dismembered, I don't frown.
In the abundance of autumn, I looked at the blue fields from afar.
Together with Wang Wei, he entered Zhongnan.
A copper stove
The West is on the right path, led by the gods.
When riding the clouds and soaring.
Time leaves relics, touch them.
The inscription of sweat on the fingertips, clenched and cracked.
When the crane returns.
There is a kind of cold, and it needs to protect the hands of all beings.
Hold up the remaining carbon of heaven and earth, and burn yourself into relics.
The echo of the unforgettable, will be the encounter of the world.
Remember the gift of reunion in a previous life, and I want to pay you back.
It's the memory of a copper furnace, cold waiting to be claimed.
Our strangeness in this world is separated by air.
Burn your heart to take smoke, and burn your bones into incense.
Sit in this copper furnace and retreat, waiting for sentient beings to make a vow.
shed a tear and remembered a handful of ashes.
Take it, each other's never-ending past.
Including the strangeness of countless oneself in this life.
Author:Zhang Zhanyun, born in the 60s of the last century in the mountainous area of eastern Ningxia, now lives in Lanzhou City, Gansu Province, a shepherd living in the city, a poetry lover!
Angler (outer one).
The ship is gone. On the empty river.
It's a breeze. Drifting fishing songs.
Pour a pot. Sunset.
Sit on the other side of the city.
Put the days. Hang on a fishing hook.
Curtain call
The wine is gone. Upside-down goblet.
I want to keep. The last rays of the sunset.
In the backyard. The cook's chopping axe.
Put the desolation. Split into fallen leaves.
A. Another piece.
Drift into the depths of darkness.
White Dew (outer one).
The cicadas are singing and cooling. Moonshine on a whetstone.
Pale yellow. Like the fragrance of the valley in the wilderness.
From early spring. Brewed through the middle of summer.
Sweet wine on your back.
In the sound of your light footsteps.
Trend. Deep in autumn.
Fallen leaves
The shadow of cooking smoke.
By the setting sun. Elongated.
The vastness of the wilderness.
Tired. I thought.
Make a butterfly once.
Fly to the haystack in your hometown.
Then get drunk.
September (one song).
At dusk. It was raining lightly.
A flower. Fall on the windowsill.
Golden. You said.
Osmanthus blossomed. Brew pot wine.
Let the wind bring the fall.
Piggyback to you. etc
Warm wine. It's cold.
Rewarming. The white of the reed flower.
Fall on the green silk.
If. It's foggy.
You'll see.
I was holding a fishing lantern.
Standing on the bow of the boat.
Fiction (one other song).
The ship is gone. Rivers.
On the table.
Like a game of chess. Shake off a feather.
Fill with wine. Angler.
Sit under the willow tree.
Zephyr. Discussing the distance.
Regression
It was very windy. It's also cold.
Cloud. It's ethereal.
That piece of blue. It's just a vision.
Relative to the sky.
People without feathers.
Preferred. Earth.
Elsewhere
Wen Qingwei. I go far away.
Find your steadfast tracks.
Far away, far away.
Breathe in your warm breath.
The cold wind was silent.
Flowers bloom in clusters.
I went to a distant land.
Courage to love.
The desert of ruins.
The cold and dry Gobi Desert.
The sea water that communicates silently.
Meet the tranquil schools of fish.
Far away people are far away.
A city full of wind and sand.
The sound of the waves calms the noise.
White seabirds flying in the air.
From all directions.
Soar as an eagle.
Oh, my far-flung land.
Delicate seaside.
The wind is roaring, and the plants and trees are all covered with armor.
It is welcoming the sleeping wilderness.
The trumpet of peace sounded.
The footsteps of the border city are surging.
Smile sweetly at me.
Come slowly to me.
Take love as the landscape.
Hand in hand with the witnesses of time.
All suffering was razed to the ground.
Those warriors and virgins hold fast to the desert.
When the night is gone, the sky is white.
I tied my hair and walked on with my head held high.
When everything is ready, put on summer clothes in the cold.
Bright birds fly across the ocean in unison.
The hands that chased the sunset.
Embrace the sky deeply.
lamps
Wen Qingwei. It's under this lamp.
We sat down.
A stream of heat envelops the neck.
I said, "That's how nice."
Wrapped in gentle light.
Talking about good luck.
Lights flow past your eyes.
I was leaning against the wall under the lamp.
You gaze at me with the light.
Remembering the loneliness of the night.
A garment woven in the cold wind.
From the window handed to the moonlight.
Greet
Wen Qingwei. Just today, with all the past.
Let's say it quietly.
Darkness doesn't change the original intention.
There will be a flag.
Plug in ahead of the dawn.
Wanderers with neat steps.
I am flying a signal to return home.
The road stretches towards familiar villages.
The scenery shifts at high speed.
The sky is closed with festive clouds.
Under the trees. I'm going to deliver some of them all.
Give Sunshine some thoughts.
Give Shanhe a vision.
Give hope to the elderly man.
Give some attachment to youth.
Give it to the boy who is studying hard in the twilight.
A deep look back.
The mountains sketched quickly.
A secluded path in the forest.
and scenery with nowhere to hide.
Grow violently on this land.
I'm going to look for grass on the water's edge.
Loved ones surrounded by a lakeside pavilion.
They were waiting for me quietly.
Plum blossoms are about to bud and are ready to be released.
The rising sun is about to leap into the rising sight.
Painting dedicated to Saleh Khalaf
The sail of the heart.
One. The darkness is soft and astringent.
Spewing out a head-stranded steamboat.
Cesium atomic clock. Flowing with melted bullet holes.
The pointer is bent.
The mother's body writhed like a bee sting.
All that remains is a worn-out trumpet.
Wailing my pain.
Look at me with a clumsy paintbrush strapped.
Beautiful roses kiss their blackened fingers.
I drew the black plane.
Like a crow pecking at a spotlight wound.
Drop the cannonballs.
Two. Rain drifts on Iraq.
The car bent my father's crutches.
I would look up at the sky.
Like your bow sobbing in the snow.
I'll put my hand in there.
Pull out a hot key.
Three. It was the plane that passed through Baghdad.
Countless flaming heads fell from the air.
A piece of black frosted glass.
Stop and plug my wound with wheat straw.
Rebecca is picking at the dirt.
I was talking to myself on my mother's breast.
Grey stars.
Look at my black broken eyes.
I'm still drawing. Including a helpless pencil.
Four. The darkness is soft and astringent.
Spewing out a head-stranded steamboat.
An ice skate opens a small mushroom-like umbrella.
That's my gift.
Please open. Is it a trail.
Five. Let's go, the road is full of red poppies. ”
appeared
The sail of the heart.
You must have appeared.
In the arc of a certain blue glass light reflection.
Somebody passed by.
Someone who no one cares about.
Forest paths. Footnote.
Failed to infiltrate. Two worlds.
The sun has failed to illuminate all land.
Among us. A soul and a soul - start a conversation.
Strange and familiar elaborations.
Something groaned. Like a forgotten elk on the battlefield.
Somehow broken. Like falling.
Something is not remembered.
Like fate. Body.
It's not just the mold of your existence.
When I disappear.
Let me. I'll see you again.
Will you still be there as scheduled?
Do you still bloom your beautiful tulips.
Do you remember what I looked like?
You also overlook. The Grand Canyon of the Carolado, which is as red as a maple leaf.
Walk independently. Crossed.
Own barren heart.
There may be only one ending.
Countless butterflies are released from the body.
Dreamlike. Fly over Maimang.
The water of Lake Autumn
Wen Caohui. The hustle and bustle of the years passed by with the shadow of the clouds.
We stopped by the lake.
The calm waters of the lake.
Contains your tired reflection.
That's the way it is
Like a gust of wind blowing through the lake.
Thousands of waves are in full bloom.
Fulfilled your short-lived glory.
Then there is boundless emptiness.
The water of the lake ripples with the clarity of autumn.
With a chrysanthemum word, and as an elegy.
Say goodbye to the departed grace.
and unwilling. And the fate you want has been arranged.
The stars and moons are stocked in the lake.
Harness the flat boat of fate and go to salvage.
Those fleeting points of light.
If (outside the first one).
Wen Caohui. If the years are an old mossy road.
Waiting for your return horses' hooves.
We reunite in the pavilion of yesteryear.
Drink fragrant wine together.
The garden is full of chrysanthemums.
If life is an unfinished story.
Waiting for your return.
Let's talk about ups and downs.
Not to mention that Uz turned gray.
It is only said that the vicissitudes of a lifetime have dyed the sunset red.
If I were a pot of tea.
On autumn nights.
Boiling prepared for you.
The white porcelain cup is still full of it.
Full of looking back and the attention of the family.
If not, if.
We only wait in the face of each other.
Looking forward to the moment of reunion.
We drank osmanthus wine together.
Don't talk about the joys and sorrows of life.
Only say that the Mid-Autumn Festival is shining with moonlight.
bleached the rushing river.
Wildflower Lamp
Who put it away. That peach blossom dream.
Ruthless again. Drain the heart of the Flame Flower.
I'm in a Mercedes car.
Twilight on the horizon. Who lights up the stars.
Those looking eyes.
Speeding by. That red cloud on the horizon.
It's fleeting. The stars twinkled in the sky.
When the autumn wind blows.
I walked with Autumn Grass all the way.
Wildflower lamp in hand.
Running on the autumn field.
Brother Xun
Grain and wheat.
Speechless".
But there was a lot of text left.
In the hometown, in the town of Lu.
In the vast twilight.
Brother XunAged dragon clock.
Worried about becoming sick.
It has been full of vicissitudes.
Dark clouds suppressed the sky.
The Upong ship drifted deeper into the darkness.
I used to eat on the same stove.
The same river drinks water.
The bones of the intercalary earth.
Firmly leaning against the earth.
Brother Xun's bones.
but it has been scorching in the fire.
Tormented in blood and tears.
There was no way on earth.
There are more people walking.
It's the road," Brother Xun sat on that chair.
It seems that he has never left for a moment.
The chair. All his life has helped him think.
Leap soil is the town of Lu.
The one who walks the most.
It's just the pain of the leap earth.
It's a burning pain. Brother Xun'er's pain.
It's painful. In that dark world.
Only pale yellow and depressed.
and desolate ......Brothers
Grain and wheat.
King 2 xxvi.
To promote a box of ***
He handed me a cigarette.
Since then, we have become brothers.
He invited me to eat meat.
I invited him for a drink.
Not once? The money is given by him.
There are new people coming in.
Every time? I shouted through a loudspeaker:
Wang Er: Nice.
Upright. Secretly.
He pretended to be weird with Lao Tzu.
Say that Lao G is a fool.
To this day I don't buy his ***
Let him turtle son.
Stay until the Chinese New Year. — Blow.
Upright.
Grain and wheat.
Li Si arrived in Chongqing.
The other end of the ticket. Printed with Chengdu.
He asked our director to get the project.
Abalone lobster.
The director laughed haha.
Eat and drink to your heart's content. Said the director
There are eight provisions in total.
Engineering matters. More on that later.
After eating, Li Si sent him.
All the way downstairs to the director's house.
I haven't been back for a long time. In front of the bar.
The master of the checkout.
Staring at me with eagle-like eyes.
It's been more than two hours.
Li Si hasn't returned yet.
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.