Seeking poetry and distant places
This is a friend of mine, specifically a fellow writer. That day, he sent me this message on WeChat: "The new rice has arrived! I'm free now. Come over sometime, let's taste the new rice, have a few drinks, and chat." He included a photo of plump, translucent grains of rice cascading down the hillside. In the setting sun, glistening beads of sweat glistened on his joyful face.
He's a farmer, a farmer who loves writing poetry. He runs his own small newspaper called "Poetry," published weekly, and has already published over 300 issues. His payment for my writing is probably unique in the country: three jin (approximately 1.5 kg) of rice; all from his own farm, absolutely organic and pollution-free.
After a long day of running around, I finally had two or three days of free time, so I quickly called him to tell him my plans. He happily agreed.
Around noon, I arrived at Shangnan Station. He was waiting for me in his car outside. I got into the car, and we drove slowly towards his home.
This was Shangnan; the mountains were a pleasing green, the water crystal clear, the sky a deep blue, the clouds pure white, and the air clean and fresh. His small village was nestled amidst dense greenery, dotted with tiny stars.
As soon as I got out of the car, I immediately felt the refreshing coolness—not from air conditioning, but from nature itself. The air carried the fragrance of flowers, grass, and trees, and I couldn't help but take several deep breaths.
His front yard consisted of a two-story building with three rooms. His wife ran a small supermarket in the two rooms on the east side of the first floor, while the west room served as a passageway. The back yard also had a two-story building with three rooms. The first floor was their living quarters. He pointed to the second floor and said to me, "The second floor is my newspaper office and my writing studio." I said, "Let's go upstairs and take a look." The stairs were outside, and he led me up.
In one room, on either side were two enormous bookshelves, each occupying an entire wall. He had commissioned a carpenter in the village to make them for him. Both bookshelves are filled with over three hundred issues of newspapers he has published. Sample copies mailed to authors and newspapers sent to various publications take up most of the space; almost every issue has a small portion remaining, which he keeps here. During the busy farming season, he works during the day and edits the newspaper at night. During the off-season, he reads and writes during the day and reviews manuscripts and designs plates at night.
He then led me into his study, showing me his own poems. His poems depict wisps of smoke from chimneys, muddy paths, babbling brooks, and narrow stone bridges… The poems overflow with a deep and passionate love for his hometown and for life itself.
Here, he appreciates the tender green of spring, the blooming flowers of summer, the falling leaves of autumn, and the drifting snow of winter; he watches the sunrise, observes the sunset, chases the dawn, and admires the twilight. He watches the orioles dance, listens to the singing streams, and observes the white clouds and rosy clouds, the bright moon and starlight. He is moved by the small bridges, the flowing water, and the houses…
learning to discover the beauty of life, to feel the flow and change of the seasons, and to listen to the sounds of pursuit and striving. In this way, you can transform the restlessness of life into nourishing rain and dew for your soul. Poetry then exists in our ordinary days, under every dim lamplight, in every ray of bright sunlight.
In the preface to his newly published poetry collection, he wrote: “Words have the power to penetrate time. They guide me to resist all the restlessness and clamor of the world, to find peace of mind, and to breathe freely in the fragrance of words. And my world has become so rich and beautiful because of writing and reading.”
Night fell, and I rested in his study. The night was quiet, so quiet that I could clearly hear the distant croaking of frogs and the nearby murmurs of insects, so quiet that I could hear my own heartbeat. A bright moon shone in, half the bed bathed in moonlight, half filled with books. I seemed to see his shadow writing at the computer, after finishing his work in the fields, coming here to pursue his poetry and distant horizons.
He's a farmer, a farmer who loves writing poetry. He runs his own small newspaper called "Poetry," published weekly, and has already published over 300 issues. His payment for my writing is probably unique in the country: three jin (approximately 1.5 kg) of rice; all from his own farm, absolutely organic and pollution-free.
After a long day of running around, I finally had two or three days of free time, so I quickly called him to tell him my plans. He happily agreed.
Around noon, I arrived at Shangnan Station. He was waiting for me in his car outside. I got into the car, and we drove slowly towards his home.
This was Shangnan; the mountains were a pleasing green, the water crystal clear, the sky a deep blue, the clouds pure white, and the air clean and fresh. His small village was nestled amidst dense greenery, dotted with tiny stars.
As soon as I got out of the car, I immediately felt the refreshing coolness—not from air conditioning, but from nature itself. The air carried the fragrance of flowers, grass, and trees, and I couldn't help but take several deep breaths.
His front yard consisted of a two-story building with three rooms. His wife ran a small supermarket in the two rooms on the east side of the first floor, while the west room served as a passageway. The back yard also had a two-story building with three rooms. The first floor was their living quarters. He pointed to the second floor and said to me, "The second floor is my newspaper office and my writing studio." I said, "Let's go upstairs and take a look." The stairs were outside, and he led me up.
In one room, on either side were two enormous bookshelves, each occupying an entire wall. He had commissioned a carpenter in the village to make them for him. Both bookshelves are filled with over three hundred issues of newspapers he has published. Sample copies mailed to authors and newspapers sent to various publications take up most of the space; almost every issue has a small portion remaining, which he keeps here. During the busy farming season, he works during the day and edits the newspaper at night. During the off-season, he reads and writes during the day and reviews manuscripts and designs plates at night.
He then led me into his study, showing me his own poems. His poems depict wisps of smoke from chimneys, muddy paths, babbling brooks, and narrow stone bridges… The poems overflow with a deep and passionate love for his hometown and for life itself.
Here, he appreciates the tender green of spring, the blooming flowers of summer, the falling leaves of autumn, and the drifting snow of winter; he watches the sunrise, observes the sunset, chases the dawn, and admires the twilight. He watches the orioles dance, listens to the singing streams, and observes the white clouds and rosy clouds, the bright moon and starlight. He is moved by the small bridges, the flowing water, and the houses…
learning to discover the beauty of life, to feel the flow and change of the seasons, and to listen to the sounds of pursuit and striving. In this way, you can transform the restlessness of life into nourishing rain and dew for your soul. Poetry then exists in our ordinary days, under every dim lamplight, in every ray of bright sunlight.
In the preface to his newly published poetry collection, he wrote: “Words have the power to penetrate time. They guide me to resist all the restlessness and clamor of the world, to find peace of mind, and to breathe freely in the fragrance of words. And my world has become so rich and beautiful because of writing and reading.”
Night fell, and I rested in his study. The night was quiet, so quiet that I could clearly hear the distant croaking of frogs and the nearby murmurs of insects, so quiet that I could hear my own heartbeat. A bright moon shone in, half the bed bathed in moonlight, half filled with books. I seemed to see his shadow writing at the computer, after finishing his work in the fields, coming here to pursue his poetry and distant horizons.
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