Chapter 54 West Suburb Short Brief

Comrade Ke Jia: You asked me to talk about poetry, I really don't know where to start.I have read and learned a little bit of poetry theory, but I have forgotten it all. At the same time, I think the definition of poetry is not very useful. Some poems are written in the form of poetry, but the content does not have the taste of "poetry". , There are examples of this in ancient and modern China and abroad, and there are good poems, bad poems, and non-poems written by the same poet. As a poetry lover, I can only tell what kind of poetry I like. I like the poems full of sincere and strong emotions.There was a hot spring of tens of thousands of dendrobium in his heart, and he couldn't hold back, like a cuckoo "crying blood", he sang loudly!He loves people and loves life.He has endless affection for everything around him, he loves them, misses them, and sings them; if suddenly a violence, a shadow, chokes and darkens the lives of his people over the heads of his people, he It is necessary to shout, to curse... Between sincere love and sincere hatred, he can write poems that are "not light enough to touch the paper", and he can also write "strength through the back of the paper". !

Of course, a good poem should not only have noble and strong feelings, but also have beautiful and sonorous rhyme.I am a person who likes to recite poems, and I deeply feel the importance of the musicality of poems.A good poem with strong musicality can greatly inspire and inspire the masses.Indian people love poetry, and I think it has a lot to do with the sonorous rhyme of their poetry.Look at the thousands of men, women, old and young people sitting in crowds in the square, they will be silently dancing with the ups and downs of the recitation, while shaking their heads.I think that the first requirement of the general public for poetry is that it should be "easy to read." Almost all the poems I read written by children and soldiers have rhymes—this "rhyme" is of course a modern spoken language. The "rhyme" on the poem and the words in the rhyme of the poem, if read according to the modern method, many of them do not rhyme.

When it comes to the love of poetry by the Indian people, one cannot fail to think of the Indian poet Tagore who is loved by the Indian people.No matter when I hear the national anthem of India or someone recites it on the stage, my Indian friends always tell me softly beside me: "This song was written by Tagore!" It is remarkably glorious, remarkably proud.I can understand why Indian people like Tagore, his poems are always so beautiful, so fresh, so full of music, but until I translated Tagore's, I didn't come into contact with his patriotic and nationalistic poems.When I was translating his poems sternly denouncing the colonialists, I was always very excited and very nervous!I have often been happy--joyed that he had uttered for me thunderous and severe words that I could not utter, and I have often been pained--because I could not find the right words from my own poor vocabulary. Words to translate his scathing lines.There are many such poems in the book, and my original manuscript has been handed over to the publishing house. Let me pick out a poem about Africa that he published in 1937, and let you have a look.

When God rages at his own work and shakes his head violently at his childish creation, a wave of restlessness snatches you from the arms of the East, Africa, and shuts you in a dark pen surrounded by trees Let you meditate. There, in your deep dark burrows, you slowly accumulated the incomprehensible mysteries of the wild, and studied the unreadable symbols of earth and water; ritual of witchcraft. Thou shalt taunt the terrible by pretending to be crippled, and subdue terror by imitating a majestic and ferocious howl that made thee dreadful.Mourn, you are hidden under a black veil, and make thy human dignity a dark phantom of Shame.

Those hunters who have stalked you with their traps are sharper than your wolf's teeth, and their pride is blinder than your dark forest. The savage greed of the civilized man strips the shameless inhumanity naked, you weep, but your cries are stifled, your forest paths are muddy with blood and tears, the spiked boots of the robbers are left in the history of your humiliation left their indelible imprints.But across the ocean, there are always church bells ringing in their towns and villages, children sleeping soundly in their mother's arms, and poets singing "beauty" carols.On the western horizon today the wind and sand clogged the sunset sky, and beasts crawled out of their dark lairs, announcing the day of the dead with their roars.

Come, you poet of fatal time, stand at the door of this robbed woman, beg her forgiveness, and let it be the last great word in the stupor of this dead continent. Just record this one, what do you think? Hurry, I wish you healthy and happy writing! Xie Bingxin May 25, 1957