Poetry is glass itself.

"The sunlight drove away the dew from the wheat seedlings."

"She leaned forward slightly, trying to minimize the sound of rain."

This is a poem by Li Songshan, a shepherd poet.

Li Songshan's poems describe the villagers in Li Lou Village, wugang city, Henan Province. They have always been puzzled and lived by herding sheep.

Because of meningitis, he can't move easily and his language is not fluent.

But Li Songshan did not give up his love and thinking about life. He likes reading, writing poems and herding sheep quietly.

Ruthless fate doesn't seem to show sadness in his poems, but plain and spiritual language gives people a feeling of peace and wisdom.

In 20 19, the literary publication Poetry Magazine published his 13 poems. Poetry magazine commented:

It is because of the publication of Poetry magazine that we got to know this extraordinary poet.

The following are Li Songshan's works, to share with you.

I drove the sheep up the hill.

I drove the sheep to the mountain,

The sunlight drove away the dew on the wheat seedlings.

I use nonstandard slogans,

Teach them to distinguish weeds from crops,

Just like the kindness and ugliness you wrote on the blackboard,

From this point, we have reached a * * * understanding.

It's raining. You said the glass was upside down.

Poetry itself is glass.

You wipe the dust off the glass,

I drove the sheep and the sunset down the mountain.

rain

In the pub, we talked about the ambiguity and roundness of words.

Just like that dazzling sentence in your poem.

Raindrops stick out their tongues from the glass.

At this moment, it suddenly began to rain outside the window:

Crash is also retelling this absurd world?

Silence is invalid.

Rain surges in the vocal cords of clouds.

It's like you walk into your real self and fix it at your pen.

Hidden diseases between nouns.

self-portrait

You can call him goat or beard.

Shangdian Town Li Lou Village

The way he walks and the nervous expression when he speaks,

It often leads to a burst of laughter.

If you talk to him about poetry,

A little tension will pass over his dark face,

He will welcome you to Gangpo,

Sheep is the only verb;

They will come across a handwritten book of poems.

Speaking of the wind, his nihilism;

Will turn over your hat and pull your hair.

You can stand. Or sit on the big bluestone with him,

He is looking at the mountains with ecstasy;

It's like Nie Luda sitting on the beach, looking at the right girl.

dispatch

-Go to Korea

A pair of scissors danced skillfully,

Just like a metaphor in Moriko's works:

"Silver shovel, shovel the snow on your head."

This is the city center, with heavy traffic.

Quickly. The glass door vibrates like a wave.

From Wangdian to Yakou, you have completed a leap-forward migration-

You talk about your daughter: smart,

Sensible, like dancing,

Have an amazing talent for painting.

Speaking of which, the haze in your eyes

Instantly dispersed. When I left, you were busy again: a pair of scissors danced skillfully,

In a barber shop of 20 square meters,

Like a silver shovel, "click click",

Shovel away the snow outside life.

The subtext of rain

She shook the pot cover rhythmically in her hand,

The beans clicked into the sieve.

After his father died, the whole family was immersed in grief.

In a trance, she comforted us first.

Just after May 7th, she urged her elder sister and second brother to go to work at once.

Take care of your home.

For two years, she quietly cleaned up the housework.

In the garden in front of the door,

Still growing the line pepper that my father likes to eat. ...

Now she is picking beans again,

Beans fell down the pot cover;

As if the rainstorm followed her;

She leaned forward slightly, trying to minimize the sound of rain.

Gezhaoge

In the box, Zhao Dage was yelling.

Run in the Adam's apple

From snowy areas to subtropical rainforests,

The sonority of men has the sadness of the sunset.

Is the Pacific Ocean really sad?

In the forests of Norway,

There must be a little rabbit.

Fall in the moonlight, or be forgotten.

We clinked glasses,

Your cup is always getting lower and lower,

Below the desktop,

Lower than your humble half-life

Give a poem

I was drunk and herded sheep in the wild.

Poplar seems a little drunk,

Its leaves droop, enjoying the massage and destruction of light?

Several grey magpies practice ninja on reeds.

You are in your city. Work, drink;

Write down the poem of smog accumulation.

The blue-gray lake in Shimantan,

Forging a red-hot soldering iron in the sunset.

In Wancheng

I woke up and was already in Wancheng.

From Wugang to Nanyang,

It's just the distance from a glass of wine around the tongue coating to the stomach.

At two o'clock in the morning, I was on the fourth floor of the hotel:

Wancheng Street in the night,

Cars are like a bullfight with excess hormones.

Crawling wearily on the clockwork.

You said that the boundary of rhetoric is slightly smaller than that of life.

It is equivalent to talking and drinking.

Return. Crossing the Baihe bridge, the water is calm,

Golden light, the whole Nanyang city is soft.

Several egrets crisscross,

Like some naughty children, it's a waste of water

heavyweight

I'll put patterned stones,

Put it in the canvas bag,

Between the two books,

Stones and words stir up a thousand waves;

Weightless leaves,

Fall on the lake;

A rotten sparrow,

Light enough to make your partner forget death.

When I put the book back on the shelf.

The storm of words has subsided,

On the black balance,

Stars covered with buttons.

fantasy

The charcoal fire has gone out.

The moonlight outlined the narration on the window lattice.

The pencil is sleeping soundly,

Snowflakes left in memory, and a few shining stars.

You can't mail it in the folds of the manuscript paper.

People who live in the depths of tile houses,

He pushed the door open,

Dew with the sun,

Running among the swaying branches.

Days of stay

A table of people playing mahjong,

A table of people is fighting the landlord,

A group of onlookers walking back and forth.

Sunlight falls on the fallen leaves,

The wind caressed the low wall and whispered.

This is their leisure time,

Their wheat

In their respective wheat fields

Grow up on your own,

How it grows is a problem for wheat.

On the Jatropha curcas behind the canteen,

Two magpies are in the nest.

Do not crow, do not fly,

When they are free,

And the canopy.

Simple love

Mother always gets up early every morning.

She stood in the yard, facing the twittering magpies.

Put your hands together and say something.

Zhejiang's brother called,

My four-year-old niece is in the microphone.

Shout: grandma, grandma ...

She kept nodding and laughing.

Then he took the portrait of his father.

Repeated wiping

snow

Out of Evonne's restaurant,

We went back along our respective routes.

Snowflakes are entangled in the wind,

Between buildings,

Like a flock of frightened pigeons flying.

I walked dully,

Didn't look back at you.

In this trance-like world,

Every piece of snow,

There are tears of years.