Chapter 14 Data link: Jiang Nanchun's "Lyric Era" Preface and Poetry Excerpts

Writing is already an extremely difficult thing for me now, even if I write a preface to the poems I left in college.Thinking back to my life on the campus of Normal University many years ago, I always feel that the end of the road has come to an end, and the peak moment in my life has really passed.I remember, back then my nights were longer than my days. I often walk in the playground, eat in the cafeteria, listen to middle-aged teachers explaining modernism in class, and think of some novel things during my afternoon nap.I will spend the whole afternoon paying attention to the pretty girl at the front table, and solemnly write a wonderful comment for her. In the evening, I usually summon up the courage to go to the school ballroom to get involved in a love affair or be easily rejected.But no matter what, when the moon is dark and the wind is high, I will definitely go back to the dormitory alone, and write small poems with ease.Every morning, when I turn over and get out of bed, and see yesterday's slightly flawed poem is still standing in the frantic syntax, I think that feeling is clearly called happiness.If time does not make it lose, I believe it will be more pure.

In fact, I can't be called a poet or a poet. Facts have proved that I can't leave the sky of colorful flags far away, just dragging a belief and rocking forward.Keats said: "No one can reach the top, except those who take the suffering of the world as suffering, and restless day and night." I think that is probably the case with real poets.They carry secret passwords from the sky, hide weapons in their arms, and use fragile flowers to resist the invasion of reality.And I'm obviously not, I didn't intend to take on all of this in the first place.I live and write small poems just out of nostalgia or imagination. More often than not, I study hard and make progress every day, just like today I am sitting in the ashes of desire, seeing the cemetery/disease and working hard all night to heal, I could clearly hear Ricker saying: "What about Rome, it's crumbling."

If I were once a wanderer, these poems published this time may be my records. I once saw the courage of the spirit, but now I am ready to face premature aging and death early.As an older brother of mine wrote: "I put on weight in the spring / And sleep too much, and my memory fades / I despised the flesh / Now it tempts me." After sorting out this batch of poems, I felt a sense of relief. When I was in my later years, holding this collection of poems alone, I sat carefully on the wide balcony, staring into the distance, recalling the long past and those calm and beautiful days. time.I thought, maybe that's all I have.

Jiang Nanchun February 26, 1998 First, the lyrical era lover (1) In the afternoon, I was at the beach.the wind is blowing no one will sit behind me in a prodigal son's song Recalling the beautiful and distant breath Facing the sun, what else will I think of?cradle Or old lovers who are kind and melancholy Excited for the arrival of a dream They always say that during puberty The poems I wrote were quite moving, and later They grow prettier, they say When I was young, I should have spoken plain and simple It's afternoon, walking on the beach, the wind is blowing I'm singing, I know, there's no one at the moment

Under the tree, I will dream of my appearance when I am expressing love alone lover (2) All winter I sat on the threshold Drink water, keep warm, and see how the flowers are emotional How the sun falls on other people's shoulders All winter, I sit and look Take a pen and write down beautiful and melodious lines of poetry Lover is absent, lover and her two souls walk in the middle of the street And a letter she made herself It's sitting on my desk right now Sitting silently in the treetops at night Throughout the winter, I read and recalled over and over again Complete the final injury to yourself with emotion

Throughout the winter, the heavy snow has not fallen And my lover never came Second, the diary of winter Diary of the winter of 1993 (October 5th) I'm always used to being in winter remember small things Even want to put wine, pulse with the wreckage of the rose old book sewn into thread until the day of old age I will respond with greater silence And listen carefully to the harp of time how to trap love Third, get drunk with insomnia return remember these days of suffering We return home from exile Holding hands, the only body temperature convey their secret thoughts

love, miss or hate Seen by the crisp firelight we are now penniless with an innocent smile Tolerate crimes repeated day after day neither back down nor surprised On the edge of night, our remains Will blend deeply with the sunset And people who have tried their best to fail Finally gave up trying Fourth, a teenager's dream of the afterlife Violin Night (1) Who is holding the bow at this moment Close to the night when the feathers rise look who sleeps all night Witness this oncoming light