Yu Guangzhong, a blind fortune teller _ Why is Yu Guangzhong, a blind fortune teller, led by others?

Yu Guangzhong has been engaged in poetry, prose, criticism and translation all his life, calling himself a "four-dimensional space" for his writing. Today, he has been in the literary world for more than half a century, and he has been widely involved, and is known as "artistic polygamy". His literary career is long, broad and profound, so what are Yu Guangzhong's modern poems? The following is for reference only!

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