I am a pen pal in the sixth grade of primary school. Our teacher asked us to write a story about me and poetry. Please tell me how to write it.

I began to remember it a long time ago. -self-deprecating.

I don't write novels or tell stories. This is an old story from many years ago.

Where to start? -let's start with writing poems, and let's start with writing poems in universities.

At the end of 1980s, when political agitation came, the campus was still in the dream of literature, and reading and writing poems became the spiritual life of students with dreams at that time. They are lucky enough to catch up with the tail of misty poetry fashion in the 1980s, and everyone wants to make their youth beautiful. Holding the poems of Nie Luda and Baudelaire, I pretended to chew them carefully one by one.

After I accidentally fell into that small university with a high score, I turned all my depression into poetry.

Lovers in the same trade are envious and take it to the school radio station to read it out. Then, in the restless late spring before the arrival of the wave, in the evening, on the way to the canteen or library, a very magnetic voice floated in the air, reading sad poems. "My sigh/is the only green plant in this desert", a puzzling sentence, soon found me many similar green plants, which made me feel that in this ordinary campus, many people who think they are as talented as me are buried.

The next thing is a little troublesome. It's not just Chinese sauerkraut that is touched by poetry.

When the boy called my name at the door of the dormitory, I rushed out wearing freshly washed hair. I remember wearing a dress, the white seersucker that was popular at that time.

My fine features-my roommate's comments-must have surprised the boy in front of me a little. His smiling eyes hesitated on my face, and my face turned slightly red. He said, I'm looking for someone.

I said, I am.

He said: I heard your poem on the radio. I like it.

I said, really.

He said: My name is XXX, I'm from the political department and I'm the president of the student union. He made his identity so clear that I immediately felt a sense of looking up and produced a distance, but the distance did not produce beauty. I suddenly pulled him away from myself-with my traditional prejudice, I vaguely felt that such a person was still not close-and his generosity surprised me, a little girl who had never seen the world.

I said, oh.

His name is very similar to that of our first space hero, except that one word is missing.

I want to be your friend, okay? His generosity caught a little girl like me off guard.

I said, look at my hair. Let's talk about it later.

He said, good.

He smiled with a white eye and left.

This is a very touching smile. Unfortunately, I didn't understand it at that time, and I was not impressed, because I was young and didn't understand the cold humor contained in his name.

I soon received his letter, which was very implicit and said that I wanted to make friends with my classmates in the dormitory. As the president of the student union with strong political color, I was a little puzzled at that time, and I wondered whether his understanding had some political purpose.

At that time, he was ambitiously forming a society with strong political significance. With my literary talent and knowledge, he wants me to participate-mobilize all the students in the dormitory to go. This is a dormitory that is said to have concentrated beautiful women from the Chinese Department. -the "political meaning" here was gradually understood by me later.

I lack the courage to mobilize, and I have never mobilized anyone. Only one male classmate was mobilized, which was my classmate at that time.

In fact, this male student said that he would join without mobilizing-I told him about the person, the letter, and my own plan.

This classmate later became my boyfriend, and later, now, my husband. This is another story, let alone for the time being.

Speaking of clubs. This classmate of mine attended the meeting of the Political Department for the first time and talked about Kan Kan. This is quite amazing. The chairman of the Political Department finally gave a vague evaluation-what is the Chinese Department?

Later, the development was a bit urgent. The chairman said that he would become a diplomat in the future-no matter what he takes-and his wife should be a talented, enlightened and polite woman. "You, at least for now, are the most suitable candidate." His words do not contain any characteristics of diplomatic rhetoric, but are direct and urgent.

I feel hard and cold.

In the future, what if it isn't? Or, what if you don't think so in the future?

On a peach blossom afternoon, I invited the Chairman of the Political Department and Chinese Department students to play in a park.

It's April and everyone feels hot. I blush and my heart beats as soon as I meet you. Some people look on coldly.

Very gentle and tactful. I didn't leave my white gloves behind, nor did I throw a pistol and sword. I said, there is nothing to play. You two play chess.

I was learning chess and warming up.

China students are not good at chess and have a little sweat on their foreheads. The chairman of the political department was eager to show his desire. After three or two times, he only killed his opponent. I stopped a feeling of inferiority and conceit in time.

I see. You don't have to get off.

I'm not going to find a chess master and learn chess all day.

On the way back to school, I said to the chairman, please don't look for me again.

Life is as thin as mine, but I still don't want to be a lady. Otherwise I can't afford it.

The political wave that shocked the world followed, and the chairman of the Political Department was eager to make a speech. From now on, let's go our separate ways.

Keep reading this poem.

Before that, when I first entered the university, I received a letter almost every other day-a letter, actually a poem, bulging every time, several pages-which I sorted once when I graduated from the university, and I nailed it together to make a thick collection of letters. It's also a love letter.

The author of these poems is a slender scholar. At that time, he liked to wear light green short-sleeved shirts, tall and thin, with a white face, which was my favorite type when I was a child. He has slender hands. I remember when I gave him a picture book-with my photos in it-he took them with him, which really moved me, so that I thought those hands should be artists' hands.

He used these hands to write letters to me, write poems, and address my name with a pen and paper kiss-those concerned youth nights, when I was walking on campus or reading a book of poems, I was often inexplicably excited-those hands were writing letters to me, writing my name.

The hot letter that came every other day only lasted less than a year. One day, I said to him, please don't write to me, I have someone I like.

I really haven't seen his letter since then. I received it again after a while. Thaksin's tone became objective and calm, and the sentences were no longer branched and not that long. At the moment I told him to stop, these words seemed to have been finished. It was not until later that I vaguely realized that he was very sad at that time, but even now, I don't know what he was thinking, and I am no longer confused. I still don't ask these words.

Those poems can only belong to youth. I think.

Unlike his poetic letters, those non-poetic letters received are not in my calculation. They have nothing to do with poetry.

As the freshman year approached, I began to write poems for a male classmate. His poetry dealer is definitely not in my category, but I wrote the poem to him anyway. There is a saying that young people in love are all poets. It was at that time that he wrote the only poem in his life.

There's another person I have to mention. My deskmate, a boy who is a little neat. He wears a pair of black-rimmed glasses and is withdrawn, but I only remember his smile, a little shy and a little proud. He likes poetry, which is very profound to me. It was under his influence that I began to chew Flowers of Evil and Selected Poems of Nie Luda. Unfortunately, I still don't understand them. Most of his poems are difficult for me to understand. But he just likes to write to me. So, at that time, students hardly skipped classes, just didn't like listening, so we exchanged our poems in such classes, of course, most of them were his. He used a small piece of paper to write tiny words, tiny words. Every time he finished writing, he wrote "Please ask Ms. Ping Zi to correct the axe", and sometimes he wrote "Use your small axe". Actually, I really don't understand his poems. It was many years before I realized his hidden loneliness. Even in the Chinese department, few people write poems. His poems are really few. He pinned his hopes on me. Until now, I still feel guilty. In fact, I didn't really understand his poems, nor did I try to read them. I neglected a lonely heart seeking understanding.

Twenty years have passed, I want to ask this deskmate, how is it now? Is everything all right? However, looking at the catkins in front of me, I asked who would go?

Now we can still find the envelope when we exchanged poems, which has been deformed and turned into a small package. It is like a bulging grave, which buries our youth. We love the prosperous and barren years of poetry and literature.

Many years later, I told my daughter about my deskmate who wrote poems for me in college. The daughter asked, does he love you? It's hard to explain. I replied blankly, no, he knew I had a definite lover.

"That doesn't prevent him from liking you." The daughter said. Children today are just different.

No, times have changed. I think. But I can't explain it to the children.

Anyway, youth is always related to poetry.

-looking back 20 years ago. It's best not to look back in the future, but you can't see clearly if you are too close.

Haha, blogger, you are a little narcissistic! )