Author:Ma Weiju, male, born in 1957, is a native of Huining, Gansu Province, and lives in Beijing. He is a member of the Chinese Writers Association, the China Railway Writers Association, and the Chinese Poetry Society, and a columnist of the Reading and Sleeping Poetry Society. His poems have been published in dozens of publications such as "Poetry Magazine", "Poetry Monthly", "China Railway Literature and Art", "Ginseng Flower", and some of his works have been included in various anthologies. Published poetry collections "Gap" and "Deep Snow".
A man of faith
Shop the first title ring, and wait for someone who understands to buckle it.
I wandered outside this old-fashioned gallery.
From the wide door crack and the blurred window, I stared at it for a long time.
The wind howls endlessly.
I vaguely see, maybe smell faintly.
Those old things, which smell musty, are also there.
The old fragrance of the years.
I've tried to walk in too.
But he was in a daze, and every time he returned empty-handed.
What kind of display is this?
The directory is scattered and the clues are confusing.
The shriveled blood vessels and meridians are entangled, if they are broken.
A lifetime of experience, a heavy burden in the chest.
Joy, pride, regret, pain and remorse.
And his eyes, having lost their clarity, have been.
It is no longer a window to the mind.
The flame, extinguished between the heart and lungs that are deprived of oxygen.
The War of Liberation, the War to Resist US Aggression and Aid Korea, the construction of roads in the northwest, and the ...... of joining the party
Many nodes with temperature, like fragments of blue and white porcelain.
Scattered in different corners.
New dust, obscuring the porcelain light of glory.
The groans of sickness covered the echoes of the years.
A daily must-see news broadcast that can't replenish the dehydration of the body.
The three-foot sickbed can't restrain an old party member.
Far love, and indignation.
He stated over and over again: I am a certain year, a certain month, and a certain day.
Someone introduced to the party.
I was disciplined by the organization once.
At this time, tears glistened in his eyes.
Word by word, like a will.
Difficult to destroy
Square words, rivet-like, glowing with a dark light.
The two-hundred-page collection of poems carries the thoughts and emotions of forbearance.
Paper from trees, the temperature of human beings.
There was the hardness of the metal, too.
Shredders, with the teeth of beasts.
Whether it is the seal of the organ or the signature of the leader.
will be chewed instantly.
And this book of poems was returned by the machine over and over again.
Let the destruction become an uphill tug-of-war.
What tortures people is good poetry after all.
Determined to destroy because there was no other choice.
Me and the poem, it's really to the point where you live and die.
I destroy it, or it destroys me.
One or the other.
A shredder with an iron mouth and steel teeth, and an iron heart.
I can't bear to chew on a book of poetry.
It's its weak side.
In black and white, it has read too much and sent away too much.
I know best, what kind of thing should not be destroyed.
Porcelain jar of **
Good glaze, good mud.
You are a mud placenta glazed amphora.
After more than a thousand degrees of flame, you stand firmly on earth.
Holding you, the wind at the mouth of the can is tight.
Float out of the fishy past life.
Put a few cases, the house spins up, the building spins.
My imagination spins.
You are the main axis, the black hole, the convergence point of energy.
Flames rush through your mud tires.
All things rush around you.
The heart rushes in the vast starry sky.
Only you don't move.
Your emptiness is fragile emptiness.
It's a can of air, a can of wind, a can of imaginary emptiness.
In the presence of your emptiness, my body.
There is an uncontrollable tilt.
Author:Ye Xiaosong, born in 1964, screen name, Prometheus (fire thief), columnist of the Reading Sleep Poetry Society, and a good poet in poetry writing. Some of the poems are included in "Reading Sleep Poems: Spring Blossoms" and "Reading Sleep Poems: The Grass Grows and the Warbler Flies". The language of poetry is unique, the poetry is agile, and he is good at digging out the poetic soil and building the castle of poetry from the silhouette of life. Poetry has its own unique meaning and specialness, and has a certain degree of recognition.
Men's Books
A person who has never given birth to a son.
Not worthy to talk about fathers.
The father who also gave birth to only one son.
Nor is it worthy to talk about having six sons.
father. ——
If it's Sunday.
The woman did not wear perfume after taking a bath.
She must be a good woman. ——
If the man does not return home at night.
He wasn't necessarily a good husband.
Because the stars are shining and the boss is in a hurry.
Just need it. If a woman.
Spread the delicious food on the bed and the moonlight will surely shine in.
Their carcasses are as smooth as silk.
Refusal is a woman's right. Men just.
A soft body that stretches freely to the bones.
We open up the land and sow the seeds, but leave the harvest to the earth.
Remember, you are.
The shadow of the mother, but now the tired father.
Get in the way. ——
The Book of Dreams
Someone I've loved.
Now dead. Outside the window.
Layers of twilight drifting.
It seems like one will give birth at any time.
Straw that kills people.
A lot of people who are out of the world.
Stand on the oleander in March.
Pursue a gentle drizzle.
It's a day without a trace.
That's when I'm bored.
Last night in a dream again.
Meet you. You're wearing.
Moonlit white, but not the pink color it used to be.
Nor is it the kind that is pulled out by electric shock.
Weld red. It's my hand.
Cover your face, carefully.
Lotus root red in the palm of your hand.
I turned around and screamed when I kissed you.
White and red. ――
Ah, red in white, red in white.
Calm in the night
On an empty stomach in the calm of the night.
The poet pulled yesterday's hangover out from under his pillow.
A small-capacity washing machine simply can't fit it.
Emotionally noisy vomit.
The tengu snatches the eyeballs of the sky, who is the former deceased.
Hold up the finger of mockery of God. Night!
Even if it's quiet, the sheets will.
Crumple the lost dreams.
A fifty-year-old man, only one pair remains.
A body hollowed out by desire. The one who is still stubborn and obsessed.
How like a fishmonger stripping off his scales.
Old crucian carp. ——
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!
Fall (outer one).
Fluttery. A piece of moonlight.
Fall among the grass.
It became verdant. Fall in a wheat field.
It's golden.
Under the laurel tree. Transparent glasses.
Pondering. The fragrance of osmanthus wine.
Whispering
Brass bells under the eaves.
Unhurried. Shake gently.
Little Maza. Afternoon time.
It's been a long time.
Footsteps on the trail.
Air-dry. A string.
A faint longing.
Embrace autumn (outer song).
The season when the grapes are ripe.
Pick one. Heavy red fruits.
Towards the rainy season. Towards you.
The sky is a cloud of abundance.
The earth is full of baskets of smiles.
The branches danced. See you in the depths of the field.
Fiery red beating songs.
And among them. Blue eyes flickered.
along the pale yellow.
A fruity hometown.
Towards you. The first fallen leaves
Like a wisp. A touch of nostalgia.
That leaf. Floating in the sound of cicadas.
The tranquility of the night. It's moonshine in a wine glass.
Half-closed windows.
A brown pipe.
On the roof (outside the first song).
Geese chirp. Put the golden color of the field.
Dragged. Extraordinarily long.
On the trail. People who carry their bags.
with a flask. Packed away the sunset.
on the roof. Green tiles and cooking smoke.
Together. Grazing in the fall.
Umbrella repairs
in the pipe. It's yellow mud on the green tiles.
by the rain. The sound of dripping.
on the anvil. Day.
It's an old pair of gloves.
Put the rust of the years.
Mending the cracks in life.
Autumn Moon (outer one).
Crops. Matured.
in a flask. Golden yellow grain fragrance.
When ascending. Pick one.
Geese chirp. Hang on the eaves.
I know. It used to be my hometown.
Autumn colors
Rhizome. The unbridled state of sailing.
interpreted. The vastness of the wilderness.
Just like geese. In the sky high and far.
Fly to the blue. Wind.
Half in the bag. Golden autumn colors.
Autumn colors are picturesque
Text: Song Maolin (Hebei).
In October, the wind grows bones.
The reeds turned into unbridled wolves.
The grass is no longer timid.
The drawn leaf sword clanged.
Tang Di's floral clothes are displayed in the wind.
The red fruits of the mountain plum blossom decorate the autumn face.
Cattail took her hand and held it.
Late lotus's tender white little face.
Small fish in the water, schools of fish.
One look, a flash.
Under the street lamp, young parents.
Take your child's hand.
The backs of their projections.
It warms the heart that is getting cooler in October.
Under the blue sky
Text: Song Maolin (Hebei).
Under the blue sky
The painter splashes ink and graffiti.
The national acacia is dried brocade clothes, and the green willows are like waterfalls.
The colorful clothes of the torch tree.
The red fruit polished Autumn's face.
In the fields, colorful fruits.
Mountains and seas of rice waves.
I'm like a rice plant.
...... smiling at your loved ones
Frost falls
Text: Song Maolin.
It's a sharp bayonet.
The mist in the dark has frosted.
Floated to the hearts of men.
The down-and-out coldness intensified.
Pu Jia's head is completely white.
Ginkgo biloba turns into dead leaf butterflies.
The water-loving egret smelled the cold.
Escape to the pinpoint of the little tree.
But some people don't feel it at all.
Loneliness and coldness became the mainstream.
The human heart becomes as fragile as glass.
When the frost falls one by one.
Tiny suns.
It is more necessary to huddle together to warm up ......
Fallen leaves are silent
Text: Song Maolin (Hebei).
Like nature's slender hands.
Gently patted me on the shoulder.
A fluttering elf.
It has a transparent palm and a clear vein.
A fine snort.
Warmth, straight to the heart.
She, condensed life.
Dancing ballet all the time standing at the top.
Brush and burn happy flags.
The wind and rain have never extinguished the fire in the heart.
The shining eyes convey the original intention that does not change.
Even if you say goodbye, you dance lightly.
The swaying beauty has dressed up the world.
The earth was clothed with a garment.
Warmth is passing ......
Mid-Autumn Festival prayer for the moon
Wen Caohui. Follow the ancient trails, galloping.
It has illuminated the joys and sorrows of many dynasties.
Tonight, it is round again in the heavens.
It gathers the eyes of the world.
It was a silver platter, old in the spin.
It is still wiped repeatedly by the world, even if.
Wind and dust corroded it.
We carry the moon that we look up to all our lives.
Blown by the wind and dust, the moon is also blown.
On the ground I heard its sighs from darkness to light.
The heart of fear also beats with it.
It has been spinning for hundreds of millions of years, and for how long.
We pray for the moon in the Mid-Autumn Festival.
Between heaven and earth, I hope that the moon will be bright and people will be long.
Ninety-nine
Wen Caohui. When I came, it was the Mid-Autumn Festival of 2022.
The old house has been renovated.
The surviving silhouette is vaguely discernible in the history of rise and fall.
Ninety-nine rooms are grandiose, but the chessboard is no longer in existence.
Where have all the inhabitants gone, leaving behind this decay and desolation?
Leave it to the world to chew slowly.
The chessboard is still the same chessboard, but it blurs the Chu River and Han realms.
The chess pieces have been looted by that chaos.
The dogtail grass stationed in the cracks of the tiles shook its head and tail in the wind.
Ba looked at the footsteps of the master's return.
The open patio is blue and white clouds drift by.
Like the old man riding away on horseback.
Floating across land and sea, scattered in foreign lands.
Ninety-nine wooden doors were left empty, looking at the dusk and setting sun.
All the joys and sorrows are eternally embedded in the stone on the wall.
Every year in the Mid-Autumn Festival, the people of Tianya look at the ninety-nine rooms.
Looking up at the bright moon, silently reciting.
I hope that people will last a long time, and they will be together for thousands of miles.
Author:Geng Bing, net name: Houde Zaiwu, post-70s, college culture, member of Jiangsu Writers Association, columnist of Reading Sleep Poetry Society. In 95, he began to publish his works, and his works were scattered in more than 100 kinds of literary publications such as "Writer's Daily" and "Poetry", and won more than 30 national awards.
Q
Please forgive me for this night what will be returned to me in the end:
Black wings sing in the wind.
The smart water raft comes with a fresh breeze.
Let me look up again and again-
Starlight The green butterfly born in this void will dissolve the blade of autumn with what kind of piety.
Tearfully refused, regretfully left.
The abyss is like fire.
It's a fire.
Forgive. I'm covered in rain and what kind of trek I'm going through.
Let me rather believe in the reincarnation of past lives.
There must be thousands of butterflies. Flooding in.
A jackdaw
Finally, I don't have the luxury of expecting this paper to be shallow.
can accommodate the legendary and repeated life of my father:
It's like I long to be able to comprehend the tragedy of the deep snow from that vast night
I hear the war, I smell the fire, I hear the wind in the night.
Displaced and homeless.
A life of poverty and misery.
Is this humble night rain as he is?
On his deathbed. Sigh softly.
Time: Like a down-and-out faint king
What else can I say about this autumn night:
Fierce flames.
Thick cloudy liquor.
A faint sense of melancholy.
Sparkling blue waves.
I see you clearly.
A haggard heart falls apart in time and space.
Like a green coconut fruit bursting one night.
These winds are about to move.
How do you know that my heart is being imprisoned by you?
You're burning a piece of basswood?
Those brilliant roses.
Maybe it's from my narrative.
Explain my turmoil and displacement.
Poignancy and sentimentality.
Say no, tolerate it.
I can always hear you praying for me and chanting for me in front of the Buddha hall.
Troubled by my recklessness.
Yes, I'm just a certain dynasty.
The down-and-out faint king.
Riding a white horse, hurried from the moonlight.
If you want.
Please on this snowy night.
Elope with me. 
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.
Fang Zhi (Group 1).
Text: Blue Ice. 1. "Big Wild Goose Pagoda".
If conditions permit.
I want to hide the scrolls under you.
A manuscript of a fragment from the Western Regions.
Make up for the lost Buddha light of Sanzang.
Climb over you, climb over your heroes.
It's already started**, no longer just looking around.
As a responsibility for the poetry of the Big Wild Goose Pagoda.
I don't want to climb up and down again.
I just want to save all my energy.
Hold your leaning body.
Keep your face close to your **.
Feel the body temperature of history once.
In the wrinkles of your vicissitudes.
The great poets carved the words deeper and deeper.
I'd like to give you a facelift with a pen knife.
Wrinkle removal, take your time, don't rush.
There is no poem that can write the Tang Dynasty in one go.
If you carry the city's business card.
Heavy can't straighten the waist.
What a good time, come and come.
Let me pull you, youthful.
Facing the rising sun, running into the future.
2. "Qin Ling".
A sword slashed out of the two waters.
In order to conquer the momentum of the country.
In Lishan, dig a big grave for heaven.
Buried the paper ashes of book burning, and the acid rot of Confucianism.
You have to break the earthly spirit of the mountain, and use the majesty of the emperor.
Suppress the dragon vein, with the intention of thousands of generations.
Covering the sealed soil of the sky, such as Ding to contain Kyushu.
The dungeon is only used for legends, to show mystery.
I am close to Lishan in the south and Weishui in the north.
Like a waking terracotta figurine, looking west and east on the pillow.
Look for traces of the Qin people in the body.
Chariots shouting "Gale" dragged the army of Yin soldiers.
Drive into Lishan Mountain to protect the unification of China.
First Emperor, you sleep peacefully in history.
Continue your ideal of ascending to immortality.
Comments on the ground, Mizumi knows.
The merits and demerits of the underground will be left to the hegemony of the single mound.
3. "Jiangzhai Ruins".
The Wei River is tied with a golden fishing net around its waist.
Catch fish from the Neolithic civilization.
My ancient ancestors multiplied in Jiangzhai.
The sky is thundering and frightened, and the wind and fire are blazing.
Wild beasts run wild in Lishan, trying to escape the hunt.
The stone axe shoots down the wild boar, and the stone knife cuts through the fur.
The stone drill is decorated with bones, and the stone ball rolls the meat into a cake.
The blood vessels in the neck were steaming hot, and the ancestors approached the bloodthirsty lips.
The stone axe shattered the bones and shattered the command.
A clay pot holding a frog figure in a matriarchal clan meeting.
Pour out the water of the source of Huaxia, the totem of Nuwa.
Continuous Yangshao and Longshan, buried deep in Jiangzhai.
In a secondary plateau on the east bank of the river.
Now the grass is overgrown, and the dilapidated in front of me.
Cutting the remnants of ancient civilizations, I am sad and indignant.
Your neighborhood attracts investment, real estate development.
But in your name, I will build a mound of concrete.
I'm waiting, a national key cultural heritage site.
Over the years, it has gradually become, a pie painted in spring.
The descendants of Jiang Zhai can only fill with sleepy dreams.
Hunger and conscience for history.
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.