Chapter 27 American poet

Khalil organized the meter of poetry into order, as if stringing pearls into necklaces.If he could have imagined that these maxims would become the yardsticks by which people measure intelligence; Put on the necklace, let those pearls fall to the ground and scatter. Mudai Nabi and Ibn Farid wrote immortal poems.If they could have foreseen that their poems would become the source of some people's dry thoughts; The pen holder broke in my own hand. If the souls of Homer, Virgil, McAlee, and Milton knew that the poem, which seemed to be the soul of God, had stopped at the rich and rich, then these souls would definitely go away Our Earth, hidden behind other planets.

I don't want to be picky or opinionated, but I really can't bear to see the language of those souls being passed around in the mouths of a group of people, and I don't want to see the ink of the gods flowing on the pens of a group of swindlers.I am not the only one who expresses strong dissatisfaction with this, I think I am just one of the many people who watch "Frog" and insist on blowing themselves up as "Buffalo". People!Poetry is the embodiment of the divine soul.It is a smile—the spring breeze blows to wake up the heart; it is a lament—one weeps; it is a phantom—living in the heart, what nourishes it is the soul, and what it drinks is emotion.If poetry didn't come like this, it would be like a false Christ and be despised.

O poet!O Erato!Please forgive those who approach you innocent! —they talk and talk like crazy, but they don't worship you with their hearts, imaginations, and minds. what!The soul of a poet!You are watching us from the firmament of the eternal world.We do not have access to your altar, which you have adorned with the pearls of your mind and the treasures of your heart, but our age is full of fighting and the noise of factories, so our poems come into play Born, as long and heavy as a train, as harsh and unpleasant as a siren. You—true poets, forgive us!We belong to the New World, and we have always pursued material things. Therefore, poetry has become material, which has nothing to do with the soul, but communicates through people's hands.