The relationship between poetry and books - a poetry recital in the library

The poet is the holy priest of Dionysus. In the holy night, he traveled all over the earth - Holderlin.

This poetry recital is hidden deep in the library. I had to go through many books to find it. The poetry recital awakened the sleeping books, and the sleeping books paved a path for me to go to the poetry recital. I didn't know this beforehand. I just heard Xiaojie's call. She said, if you are not busy, come and take a look!

Xiaojie enthusiastically invited some people, but the invitees behaved strangely, or thought her behavior was strange, and her invitation became a double-sided mirror. For example, her colleagues said, we are all common people! In fact, it is precisely because of vulgarity that life needs singers. Poetry is like an eraser, blurring the lines between human and divine.

Her invitation turned into a funny mirror, showing ordinary people making funny faces. For example, her friend laughed, "These days, there are poetry recitals, why not just stay at home and eat a piece of meat, hahaha, hahaha!" In the mirror was a happy and deformed face. Her friend enjoys a life of fish and meat, and other things are excluded from this standard.

I am also an ordinary person, but the unknown life makes me feel mysterious and interesting. My day always starts when the sun shines on the earth, and the stopping places are either preset or suddenly created. For example, now I am just a passer-by, occasionally passing by the door of a poetry reading.

I was wearing a red jacket, sitting on a blue chair, looking at the materials for the poetry recital, and people were coming and going around me. Occasionally I looked up and watched some people being swallowed up by the gate. It was the mouth of a whale, and between swallowing and swallowing, people changed their dojo.

I heard a voice shouting to the receptionist, the reading will start quickly, or I will leave! I smiled slightly, without raising my head, and judged that this was probably a middle-aged man. His voice was neither fast nor slow, neither high nor low, with a hint of irritability and uneasiness. In fact, a person who has not learned to wait is just a child who has not grown up.

I regarded this immature voice as poetry and divine revelation, so I stood up and left here.

I walked according to the rhythm of the sound, neither fast nor slow, neither high nor low, but I did not feel uneasy or irritated, nor did I leave, but walked deeper into it. This is a deep and secret place, this is a library.

There were more and more books, and I walked deeper and deeper, and even walked into the maze of time, and saw Borges throwing the endless Book of Sand into the library.

When I had a drink with the poet Bird's Nest ten years ago, he said that he also had a magical book that could be constantly rearranged and combined. I asked him who the author was, like "The Castle of Crossed Destinies" by Italo Calvino, "Hopscotch" by Julio Cortázar, and "The Sound and the Fury" by William Faulkner. He said it was not similar to the way it was written.

Ten years later, we met again in a pub. He said he had found the book. I hurriedly asked who the author was, but I saw him downing a bowl of wine and then getting drunk again.

After so many years, I have come to understand that any good book will be constantly rearranged and reorganized. On the one hand, it is not a pool of stagnant water without any change, but has been dug through by the masters with their lives. In the spring, fresh water flows continuously. On the other hand, maybe the words don’t seem to change, but your age, time, and experiences are constantly permuting and combining, giving you new perspectives. Calvino concluded that a classic is a book that brings as much discovery every time it is reread as it was when it was first read.

I felt confused by the endless array of books, and their expressions were also constantly arranged and combined by the library managers. At this time, I pulled out a copy of "On the Road". The simple binding made me unable to bear to leave. Go, there are a few lines of Chinese and English black characters underneath the large white area. Isn’t that my figure? I have been on the road for so many years. Although I have experienced setbacks, I am still firm and high-spirited.

As a traveler, I hold this book in the palm of my hand as a bible, but the cover of my translation shows a few young men with dragons and phoenixes on them, the so-called Beat Generation.

There is a joke that a businessman's father beat his son until he screamed. The mother stopped him and asked why. The father replied, "This boy changed the God of Wealth I worshiped into Ultraman. I worshiped him a lot." Genius discovery. The mother said calmly, "You take a break and I will continue to beat you."

Now, I am going to take the God of Wealth home and replace the Ultraman on the bookshelf. I believe that this God of Wealth will definitely bring good luck to me and the people around me.

Just like the seemingly decadent word "beat", in Kerouac's eyes, it conveys an excited and exhausted state, but it can represent the saint's soul's direct recognition of God in heaven.

Before the poetry reading began, I turned a complaint into poetry, and let the poetry take me on a poetic journey in the library and back to the scene. This also means that I need to read a thousand books before I can reach the scene of a poetry recital. It also means that my life must be constantly arranged and combined before I can reach the scene of a poetry recital. Otherwise, how can I fly poetically? Otherwise, how could I be on the road?

The person who was clamoring to leave, I guess he has not left yet, he just disappeared behind the crowd and the blue chair. Every chair is waiting for someone. When a hundred sailors are seated, everyone works together to row this ship of knowledge toward the boundless blue. Blue is a quiet color that can make people feel happy and happy. To magical love.

Today’s recitation theme is to praise filial love.

In the midst of music and melody, ordinary words began to fly and crash everywhere. It no longer matters who carries the voice or the text. At this moment, they are forgotten in the world, and the whole room is filled with strong emotions.

When you open your eyes, you will see small lights that are as dense as bright white stars. If you close your eyes, you will see the empty world.

From this point of view, Soaring in the Clouds and Riding on the Mist is not a legend, it is just an enlarged imagination. When the poetic voice rings in your ears, you can gently close your eyes and travel far away with poetry!

Red Apple recited loudly, “Without grandpa, I will lose the whole village!” The verses sparkle and the poetry illuminates the earth.

Our culture is too old, and the word "love" has been refined into many contents. If we divide it from the direction, upward love forms a special word called filial piety, which is the love of children for their parents. The word "filial piety" in the oracle bone inscriptions is a young man holding the old man's hand and walking slowly. The long stroke in the middle of the word "filial piety" is the old man's flowing beard. Someone described it vividly.

Downward love is the love that parents have for their children and grandchildren. Because there is too much, the rivers overflow, so there is no need for special words to define it.

Children and grandchildren are full of vitality, which is the future, hope and fantasy. You can put everything on it, and it seems that no matter how much you pay, you can get it back.

The elderly are sluggish, old and dilapidated. No matter how much they give, they are like a cow in mud sinking into the sea, making no sound.

A poem summarizes the above content. There have been many infatuated parents since ancient times. Who has seen filial children and grandchildren?

The library is a big belly, and it can easily digest a poetry reading. Or it turns the poetry recital into a cultural symbol, carefully stored on a bookshelf, or the poetry recital is packed into material bags and thrown into the garbage truck by busy sanitation workers.

When people heard the cry for help, they searched all over the garbage truck and finally found the dying poet in a material bag. He curled up in a ball and shouted that he was wronged because my poems stink. Being treated like this.

People apologized politely, saying that they should not have thrown away the child when they poured out the amniotic fluid. They should always let him grow up, let him understand how difficult life is, and let him understand what filial love is!

I left halfway because I knew that the beginning was also the end. The content below was basically the same. Some people were impassioned and their words grew wings and led everyone to fly. Some people were lifeless and it was below zero while the words were still in their mouths. Several times, children lose signs of life while still in their mother's belly.

I am a listener and a singer. I have to cook. I bought half a catty of noodles and half a catty of beef. This is lunch for my mother and me.

I tried adding oil, salt, soy sauce and vinegar, but I felt it didn’t have much flavor. I added some love from the poetry recital. I, a clumsy cook, actually made the old lady feel satisfied. She ate, drank, and composed a poem. There is no need to worry about having a field at home, just one big steamed bun a day.

I said that you always eat noodles, but you praise steamed buns. How can I feel embarrassed about this?

She said, life is life, poetry is poetry, life is poetry, poetry is life!

Of course the old lady couldn't say such words, but these words were put together and brought a smile to her face.