Modern Ding Jin Dong
I often think of gentle stabbing pain.
From the first time I forgot,
The shadow of the moonlit night is innocent,
The falling dew is innocent.
Always read the green leaves with their heads down,
Starting with the left hand holding hands,
The path we took was innocent,
Silent lips are innocent.
No longer accept strange flowers,
Your name makes my heart ache.
Can't hold it in the palm of your hand,
Had to stay away.
Extended data
The main varieties are: pink roses, with large flowers, single petals, pink or rose red, and many flowers clustered into umbrellas; Lotus roses, double flowers, pink to pink, mostly clustered; Seven Sisters, double flower, dark pink, often 7- 10 flowers clustered together, with fragrance;
Bai Yutang, white, double, often with 7- 10 flower clusters; Japanese thorn-free rose, with white flowers, single petal, many flowers in one village, open and fragrant; Ordinary roses have no characteristics.
There are many kinds, varieties and varieties of roses, and their names vary from place to place. What people usually call a rose is just a generic term for this flower. There are many colors, such as milky white, goose yellow, golden yellow, pink, scarlet, purple black and so on. There are large and small flowers, double petals and single petals, but they are all clustered at the top of the tree.
2. The modern poem "Rose" often reminds me of the gentle sting about the rose.
From the first time I forget, the shadow of the moonlit night is innocent, and the falling dew is innocent. Always remember the green leaf with its head down, starting from the left hand holding hands, the road we have traveled is innocent, and the silent lips are innocent.
No longer accept strange flowers, your name makes my heart ache. I can't hold it in my hand, so I have to stay away from it.
The main varieties of expanded data are: pink rose, with large flower shape, single petal, pink or rose red, and multiple flowers clustered into umbrellas; Lotus roses, double flowers, pink to pink, mostly clustered; Seven Sisters, double flower, dark pink, often 7- 10 flowers clustered together, with fragrance; Bai Yutang, white, double, often with 7- 10 flower clusters; Japanese thorn-free rose, with white flowers, single petal, many flowers in one village, open and fragrant; Ordinary roses have no characteristics. There are many kinds, varieties and varieties of roses, and their names vary from place to place. What people usually call a rose is just a generic term for this flower.
There are many colors, such as milky white, goose yellow, golden yellow, pink, scarlet, purple black and so on. There are large and small flowers, double petals and single petals, but they are all clustered at the top of the tree.
3. Poems about roses sometimes really envy those who dare to do, say and sing.
It is always wrong to write these things, but that kind of sadness is another kind of humor under that kind of introduction. Gently push the bun to help the gums.
Turning out of the window, Yutu is still pounding Gui Xiang. Lazy to help, tears filled my cheeks, God locked my dream, Cui Jiasilang's Nong.
After breaking up, I have reduced my clothes and pearls. When you turn your glasses, you are no longer like the last wave of peach blossoms.
Looking at that compartment, Yingying Yan Mantang sang that the white shadow must not be like the emperor of the Ming Dynasty in Hanwu, and suddenly broke into the Golden House and Mei Fang. Fat water cleans the wound, and I'm too lazy to paste it.
Clothes are difficult to tie wide and cloth shoes are difficult to move. I'm afraid to see my neighbors laugh at you and hurt myself. For days and years, I didn't see the curtain, Cui Jiasilang's Nong.
The geese have passed several times, and there is nothing in the pink. The golden bell is dull, but it is driven by the wind. After tossing and turning slices and bead curtains, Jade Man's face suddenly panicked, like a rope.
Don't look, don't expect, don't regret, don't offer spiritual buns, and don't have plastic surgery. What do you think, Cui Jiashiro of Nong?
4. Modern beautiful poems (preferably about roses, roses and starry sky) are under the starry sky.
A cold mist
You can't help looking up.
Like a vast dictionary from the starry sky
Find your own source
A star suddenly shines like a nail.
Nail you vertically there
So it was named and lit.
In the darkest hour
In this way, he was driven to the vast wilderness.
Like a beggar, his palm is spurned.
Pick up the crumbs scattered by the stars
Every ray of starlight thrown into my heart
Will grow into stone as scheduled.
-How did you find it?
How will you crawl?
I want to find some modern poems "Rose" that describe the beautiful artistic conception of roses.
Pompeii
Please tell me: I have woken up from the gloomy night.
The house soon took shape.
The window is hung on a nail, which is a small frame.
A copy of an ancient painting.
My body went through the messy bed to get that one.
Guitar against the wall, and I'm holding summer.
Beautiful and dazzling chords
Please tell me that the blue peacock fell from the tree in late spring.
Under the neighbor's window, shaking, whose tears?
An old ship, abandoned on the beach, in the cabin.
Half of it has been submerged, and the moss duckweed floats.
The rapids in the past storms turned into dead leaves.
In the hands of dead spring
Hold a handful of intact pulp.
Quiet ship mud, like pure winter snow.
Hanging in its own decay, it can no longer dream.
The depth of the sea and the villages in distant water towns.
Barefoot women carry water chestnuts from Luji Mountain in the morning.
It heard the stone revetment in the town.
Collapse in the scorching sun. The old ancestral temple at noon
The pig iron knocker of the sun has been covered by weeds-
I'm already awake.
I am a descendant of an ancient village.
There is a haystack, the son of the wilderness, right next to A Mu.
Guard your youth. The blood on my body is the croak of frogs in the water bamboo field.
I can grow into an adult, made entirely of mortar and cement on the ground.
Brick kiln abandoned in strong wind-on the plain.
Drift, feed me ...
Sometimes, I am a piece of pottery deeply embedded in the soil.
Scratch mother's feet when busy farming.
My taciturn temperament inadvertently influenced the decision-making of the whole clan.
It's like a pitcher on the table-a jar and an urn on the roof.
My cool eyelids are as sober and full as spring rain.
My life story
This is a rural porcelain burning technology passed down from generation to generation. ...
On a little rose, rose
My dear lover leaned over her blushing cheeks.
Her slender waist comes from a moonlit night, from the legend of ancient brilliant peach blossoms.
Shiban Lane, a water town, is a Night Fierce troupe in spring.
There is a voice of Hu Qin in her smile.
There is a needle and thread with small blood beads on the embroidery tension frame-
Her father is a poor teacher. ...
Please remind me: the lost blue sky.
In the corridor that disappears in summer, where should I be for a while?
In the afternoon breeze, open the pages of Li He.
Or "promoting weaving"
When the sparkling waves on the river are covered by vast plains
Blow in front of my eyes-how should I behave?
In the shadow of broken leaves, in the stagnant water in alleys and farmland?
6. Who has a poem about roses? If you don't shake the incense, it will be chaotic, and flowers will fly without wind.
Petals are very light. Dance without wind.
Ode to the Rose in the Southern Dynasties
If you don't stay in Dongshan for a long time, roses will bloom several times.
Tang Li Bai's Two Stories of Dongshan (I): "If you don't stay in Dongshan for a long time, rosa multiflora will return several times." The white clouds are still scattered, and the bright moon is falling. "
There's no need to shed tears in front of the mirror. Bai Yutang thanked her and returned it.
Don Tu Mu's Leave a Gift
Affectionate peony contains spring tears, weak rose lies on the branches.
Spring tears: refers to wet raindrops. Write two sentences about the gentle gesture of flowers and plants after a night of spring rain.
Guan's Spring Day
7. Pompeii's appreciation of the modern poem Rose:
This is a modern poem, abstract, profound and simple, as fresh as Chun Xue. It's so kind and touching. She draws on the ground with a simple stick. Just like the clay pottery made by our ancestors in ancient times. And that individual, in the crystal tears of the village girl, is feeling his breasts and fat buttocks, like baked clay, being shaped and broken into butterflies, flapping his wings and wanting to fly. This poem is eclectic and uninhibited, like a light stream in the country, like a vast and fragrant field in my hometown, like the simple eyes of my ancestors. After reading it, people want to hurry back to their hometown and mother's arms. Let the moonlight fill the countryside and wash away the sadness in the hometown river.
rose
Please tell me: I have woken up from the gloomy night.
The house soon took shape.
The window is hung on a nail, which is a small frame.
A copy of an ancient painting.
My body went through the messy bed to get that one.
Guitar against the wall, and I'm holding summer.
Beautiful and dazzling chords
Please tell me that the blue peacock fell from the tree in late spring.
Under the neighbor's window, shaking, whose tears?
An old ship, abandoned on the beach, in the cabin.
Half of it has been submerged, and the moss duckweed floats.
The rapids in the past storms turned into dead leaves.
In the hands of dead spring
Hold a handful of intact pulp.
Quiet ship mud, like pure winter snow.
Hanging in its own decay, it can no longer dream.
The depth of the sea and the villages in distant water towns.
Barefoot women carry water chestnuts from Luji Mountain in the morning.
It heard the stone revetment in the town.
Collapse in the scorching sun. The old ancestral temple at noon
The pig iron knocker of the sun has been covered by weeds-
I'm already awake.
I am a descendant of an ancient village.
There is a haystack, the son of the wilderness, right next to A Mu.
Guard your youth. The blood on my body is the croak of frogs in the water bamboo field.
I can grow into an adult, made entirely of mortar and cement on the ground.
Brick kiln abandoned in strong wind-on the plain.
Drift, feed me ...
Sometimes, I am a piece of pottery deeply embedded in the soil.
Scratch mother's feet when busy farming.
My taciturn temperament inadvertently influenced the decision-making of the whole clan.
It's like a pitcher on the table-a jar and an urn on the roof.
My cool eyelids are as sober and full as spring rain.
My life story
This is a rural porcelain burning technology passed down from generation to generation. ...
On a little rose, rose
My dear lover leaned over her blushing cheeks.
Her slender waist comes from a moonlit night, from the legend of ancient brilliant peach blossoms.
Shiban Lane, a water town, is a Night Fierce troupe in spring.
There is the voice of Hu Qin in her smile.
There is a needle and thread with small blood beads on the embroidery tension frame-
Her father is a poor teacher. ...
Please remind me: the lost blue sky.
In the corridor that disappears in summer, where should I be for a while?
In the afternoon breeze, open the pages of Li He.
Or "promoting weaving"
When the sparkling waves on the river are covered by vast plains
Blow in front of my eyes-how should I behave?
In the shadow of broken leaves, in the stagnant water in alleys and farmland?
Pompeii, born in 1962, is a poet and essayist. Wandering in Jiangnan in his early years. Prose works include: Whisper, Five Memories, National Portrait, Dizziness in the Dark, Hotel, Pamirs, Maiden, etc. Now lives in Jiangyin, Jiangsu.
8. There is a modern poem that says "roses wither in roses". Who can wither the whole poem in the rose?
The night that comes as scheduled is no different from other nights.
The ink wind blowing in the opposite direction, the wind blowing.
It is no different from other people's nights coming from the same silent lips.
Hanging at night, black pushes black, and the lights are on.
Everyone's collar stood up to cover their faces.
Go on aimlessly
Suddenly I thought of rose for no reason, and now it is in the corner of the campus.
The next week, it will wither and disappear.
I once broke my heart for the arrival of late spring in one night.
For its firmness and tenacity, for thinking of it again and again when dreaming.
Roses wither among roses.
In fact, every line has its own pain, some in the body and some in the heart. If you draw an equal sign between pain and suffering, it must have a dusty past. Memories of rain, rivers of blood. Only then did I realize that we were already in two worlds, and our hearts could never meet again. Fragments of brocade flowers were suddenly sprinkled on the grass, as if these six years had come together and intertwined.
I just hope someone hears that love has arrived in Shanghai.