一首好诗的诞生,无不是语言与心意的水乳交融。好比光、电迸发火花。没有合适的语言载体再独特的意识、灵感、甚至新经验也不过是在大山挖起一锹沙土:既不是泥塑更不等同黄金;没有主见的语言,最聪明出彩的表达,充其量也只是一架纸飞机徒有外壳,引不起人们内心的震撼与共鸣。或者可以是诗,但与我们所期待的好诗相距甚远。譬如某些“废话”:“下雪了,我披上棉袄,走在解放大街,然后,走着”。由此可见,唯有语言与意识的自觉媾和才可能产生我们为之心动、深刻隽永的诗句。没有明确指向的语言,只是一场游戏的碎片,终赢 The birth of a good poem, all is the perfect blend of language and mind. Like light, electricity burst sparks. No appropriate language carrier and then a unique sense of inspiration, even the new experience is nothing but dig a shovel in the mountains of sand: Neither clay nor more equal to gold; no assertive language, the brightest and most brilliant expression, at best, only one Paper planes have a shell, can not afford to lead people’s inner shock and resonance. Or it can be a poem, but far from the good poems we expect. For example, some “bullshit ”: “snow, I put on a jacket, walk in the liberation of the street, then walked.” From this we can see that only the conscientiousness of language and consciousness can produce the poignant and profound verses we have taken. No explicit language, just a game of debris, the end win