Xiamen fortune-telling blindness _ Xiamen fortune-telling blindness event

Modern poetry, also known as "vernacular poetry", can be traced back to the late Qing Dynasty, which is a kind of poetry. Compared with ancient poems, although they are all written for understanding things, they are generally informal in format and rhythm. The following are the modern poems edited by Yu Guangzhong. Welcome to read!

Brief introduction of poet

Yu Guangzhong was born in 1928 in Yongchun, Fujian. Because his mother and wife are from Changzhou, he also calls himself Jiangnan. He studied in Nanjing University and Xiamen University, and graduated from Taiwan Province Provincial University. He studied and taught in the United States for five years, and served as a professor at Taiwan Province Provincial Normal University, Political University, Chinese University of Hong Kong and Kaohsiung Sun Yat-sen University.

He made contributions to poetry, prose, criticism and translation, and published 50 monographs. In recent years, more than 20 books have been published in mainland provinces. Yu's contribution to poetry creation, poetry criticism, poetry translation, poetry teaching and poetry editing is all-round. Poems such as Nostalgia, Wait for me to die, Wait for you in the rain, White Jade and Bitter Melon were all told for a while.

Blind fortune teller

The cold huqin extended the afternoon,

There is not a customer in the streets;

He hugged Hu Qin and complained to dusk:

Walking empty for a day only earns loneliness!

He can clearly know the fate of others,

His own fate is being dragged:

A girl will spend the rest of her life with him,

A crutch tastes the ups and downs of his life!

1950. 1 1.8

inspiration

Your radiant tropical bird,

Happiness flies back and forth on my head,

Every time I break free,

Only one blue feather fell.

I picked it up and stuck it on the edge of my hat.

Pedestrians are surprised to see it.

Oh, how can I catch flying birds,

Let them see exactly like me!

1952. 10. 10

Drink 1842 wine.

What fragrant and bright red grape blood!

So warm, slowly pouring into my chest,

My happy heart is full of summer nights in southern Europe,

Pregnant with the golden sunshine on the Mediterranean coast,

And the nightingale in Provence.

When slender fingers first pluck you from the branches,

Round and plump, full of life-threatening plasma,

Bai Langning and Elizabeth never eloped across the Strait.

But Mazzocca Island once lived in george sand and Chopin.

Shelley lies beside Keats' grave.

At that time, you hung on the top of the grape trellis,

Gently swayed by the warm wind blowing from Africa on the other side;

At night, I silently look up at the starry sky in southern Europe.

Maybe someone will meet at the bottom of the frame and stare at the stars.

Suck on wine sweeter than my arms.

Maybe, ah, maybe there's a ripe grape,

Falling quietly because of the burden of honey juice,

Arouse the characters in the kiss and make them smile at each other.

Listen to who serenades in the distance and who is accompanying the guitar;

Life blooms on a warm and dense summer night.

But all this withered with that summer.

Thousands of miles away, a hundred years ago, someone else's past,

Who else knows except me, who is slightly drunk? Any other person

Can you recall which grave was buried with a pick?

The caress she would rather insist on is long gone!

Everything is gone except this magic cup in my hand.

It also hosted the Spring Festival Evening and summer morning in a foreign country a century ago!

Violet zombies have long decayed and turned to grass ash.

The blood left behind is still so bright red, and there is still a residual temperature.

To moisten the lips of oriental teenagers.

1955.9.29

Starting at 37 degrees

From 37 degrees, gravity is heavy.

If I land on Jupiter, it will suddenly increase to 274 pounds.

Watch eleven months spinning in space.

Standing on the Cretaceous active volcano, fighting dinosaurs alone.

The earth is shaking violently. If the earth is going to derail,

Seven-color fire spits poison everywhere.

The ghost defected and rushed out of the iron gate of hell.

And shouting, chasing behind me;

Nightmares rode me to the cliff of the Grand Canyon.

Only the soul is standing in the tsunami of memories.

Tropical heart, 40 degrees Celsius, white blood cells and red blood cells.

Race horses on the bloody road.

In the end, everything fell silent.

The universe stopped on a watch, and I woke up at the white South Pole.

The nurse stood next to me, a fat female penguin.

Reach out your right finger and touch your flat body.

Blood is cold, and I find myself a fish.

1957.9.9

West Luo Qiao

Suddenly, the soul of steel woke up.

Serious silence clanged.

The sea breeze in Xiluo Plain shakes this force pattern, which is beautiful.

Net, shake this violently.

Every nerve in the tower of will,

It shook violently and screamed in despair.

The teeth of nails are clenched tightly, and the hands of iron arms are tightly held.

Serious silence.

So, my soul woke up, I know.

I will be different from the one I crossed.

I didn't cross the line, I know.

I can't recover from the other side.

I'm on this shore.

But fate extends from a mysterious point.

A thousand welcome arms, I have to cross the river.

Facing the door to another world

In the corridor, I trembled slightly.

But the glory of Xiluo Plain

Face to face, tell me the sea is on the other side,

I trembled slightly, but I

We must cross the river!

Standing, there was a great silence.

Wake up, soul of steel.

1958.3. 13

Charming piccolo

Come back, mother, the east can't stay long,

The tropical ocean where typhoons were born,

The air pressure in the North Pacific is very low in July.

Come back, mom, the south won't stay long,

One-way street of the sun train,

The equator in July scorched the soles of pedestrians.

Come back, mother, the north can't stay long,

The white kingdom of reindeer,

There is no rest night in July, only day.

Come back, mom, you can't stay in a foreign country for long.

In front of the French window, the little urn dreamily,

Holding a small plant in his hand.

Come back, mom, and protect your town after the fire.

Spring is coming, and I will tread the wet and cold Qingming road.

Bury you in a small grave in your hometown,

Bury you in Jiangnan, a small town in Jiangnan.

The weeping willows hang down to your grave,

When spring comes, you must dream of a girl.

Dream of your mother.

Mother, on the Qingming road, my footprints will be deep,

Willow hair dripping with rain, mother, dripping with my memories,

Come back, mother, and protect this empty city.

1958.7. 14 nights