Mixed flowers tree: Plum tree likes 300 poems

Author: Li Shuxi
Publisher:
Publishing Date: 2005-05-01
Features: Li Shuxi has compiled his poems from past years into a collection titled The Mixed Flower Tree. This title is both a reflection of his name and an embodiment of his writing interests. Shuxi and I are old friends, nearly twenty years apart in age, and have been lifelong companions. He is a renowned journalist, reportage writer, and has published numerous specialized works. He has also achieved remarkable success in poetry, truly deserving of being called a vibrant "mixed flower tree." In his preface, Li Shuxi writes: "I write poetry with certain principles yet strive for novelty, though it does not involve strange or chaotic themes, there are still things that neither the ancient nor the modern have yet expressed." "Striving for novelty" is a defining feature of his poetry. In my view, "novelty" has two meanings: first, it reflects the new thoughts, emotions, and contemporary phenomena of our time, imbued with a sense of the era. Second, it conveys what neither the ancient nor the modern have expressed, creating new imagery, perspectives, and flavors. These two aspects are often intertwined. In one of his poems set in Xinjiang, he writes: "The night is dim, the moon is sorrowful; in autumn, it is still summer attire. In dreams, I fear awakening tears of parting; I dare not blow the Qiang flute in my embrace." Throughout history, poets have often used the melancholic tune of the flute to express the sorrow of parting. This poem reverses the convention, employing a unique and original approach to convey deeper sorrow. In another poem about the Li River, he writes: "With a giant brush, he strokes the sky beyond; painting rain and wind. Without intent, it becomes a belt; at will, it forms peaks." Han Yu once described the Li River as "water like a green silk belt," a line that has become a timeless masterpiece. Today, however, the poet perceives it differently. He compares the Li River to a large brush, dipping into the wind and rain, painting diverse and extraordinary peaks at will. Not only is the creativity novel, but it also captures the essence of the Li River. Anyone who has visited the Li River will feel that the mountains resemble water, and the water resembles mountains, with a damp, freshly painted appearance, as if the ink has just dried. The poet's verses are often filled with exquisite lines and profound insights. For example: "The stream is as gentle as a newlywed, the pines and rocks are as aged as an old fisherman," or "The boundless autumn stirs the wanderer's heart, the clear waves are like wine, the moon like a sickle." The metaphors in these lines are unparalleled, capturing the beauty of the stream in its ultimate form. In the poem "Spontaneous Lines," he writes: "The human heart is like winding waters, the world is like repetitive mountains, emotions are like rich wine, and life is like rain and wind." The poem extensively uses compound words, which were occasionally seen in classical poetry but were often trivial in nature. This one, however, offers deeper meaning, revealing the complexities of human emotions with a lingering aftertaste. In "Spring Returns," he paints a small landscape of spring in the countryside, both fresh and beautiful: "Shallow water in the lotus pond under the moon, gentle breeze with willow catkins and flowers. Spring returns like swallows, arriving early at the farm." Traditionally, poems about spring's return often carry a sense of melancholy. This one, however, creates a completely new realm. As spring fades and summer arrives, the busy season of farming begins. Farmers do not mind the falling flowers but welcome the new fruits that appear on the branches after the petals fall. Li Shuxi, deeply versed in history, has written numerous historical poems with unique perspectives and innovative insights. Here is an example: "Peace treaties are always made under military pressure, abdications often occur when swords are at the throat. The victor becomes king, the loser a rebel; with fanfares and parades, a new dynasty takes the throne." In just over twenty words, he exposes the political tricks of "peace treaties" and "abdications" throughout history, both in ancient and modern times, across the world. His words are sharp and to the point. The abdication of and in ancient China was once celebrated as a noble tale, yet was imprisoned, and died in the wilderness, prompting many historians to question the narrative. Consider the abdication of the last Qing emperor, the of the Qing dynasty, which was a desperate act under the threat of "military pressure" and "swords at the throat," yet the abdicating edicts often referred to it as a "peaceful abdication." Look at the world today, where grand and beautiful words often mask the blood on the blades of knives. Reflecting on this poem, one cannot help but laugh. Li Shuxi is also deeply emotional. In "Mid-Autumn Reflection," he writes: "Regretting accepting my father's old silver dollars, the moon shines on the mid-autumn night, never to return. New grass grows on the graves, yet paper money cannot replace rice and firewood." The poet notes, "In recent years, every time I return home, my father has offered me a few old silver dollars. My refusal has always carried an indescribable sense of unease, but it was always a bad feeling. Last year, during the National Day holiday, I returned with my wife and children, and my father gave all the silver dollars to my granddaughter to keep. As I left, his eyes were filled with tears, making me unable to look directly at him. The following year, on Qingming, he passed away. I am filled with sorrow and reflection—can fate and omens really exist?" The poem and its accompanying notes are deeply moving, leaving one heartbroken. The desire to care for one's parents while they are still alive, yet finding that they are no longer there, and no amount of paper money can replace the care and attention given during their lifetime. This is a shared emotion among children with deep filial piety, and Li Shuxi has eloquently expressed it. He thinks what others think and says what others have not said, creating an even deeper impact. There are many more poems worth discussing, but I will cite just a few. Yet, it is necessary to conclude with one poem. In "Grass on the Riverbank," he writes: "Spending life to endure the cold winter, leaves turn green, flowers bloom red. Regardless of others' opinions, I bloom and wither at my own pace." This is a self-portrait of the poet's spirit. How composed and carefree! The development of contemporary poetry requires many conditions. Among them, striving for novelty is a matter of life and death. It is not easy to seek novelty, and it is even harder to create a new poetic voice for the era with a deep foundation in classical poetry. A lifetime dedicated to this pursuit can only add a brick to the grand edifice of poetry. Though I am old, my passion for poetry remains. I wish to encourage Li Shuxi and myself. I currently reside in Auckland, New Zealand. In February, it is summer here, yet the weather is cool like autumn in Beijing. After the recent rain cleared, the birds chirped melodiously. Outside the window, the lawn and flowers were all lush green. Having finished the preface, my inspiration still flowed, so I added a small poem to conclude: "In the island's library, the summer breeze is refreshing, rain drips from the treetops, birds sing of the clear sky. The lush grass grows new green, a tree of mixed flowers blooms in perfect harmony."