Jan 05

雪中花抒情散文:天国的嫁衣系雪花做成

作者: 如果爱 iflove.com 如果爱文学

雪中花颂词,雪魂的秘密。天国的嫁衣雪花做成的。雪中花,梦里夸;雪花咏,颂娘家。洁白的衣裳姑娘织,美丽的容颜红满颊。天使舞翩跹,我心似狂澜。化作雪随风卷起,漫游于天际寰宇。漫游窗外,独我垂泪涟涟。《雪中花颂词:天国的嫁衣系雪花做成》,如果爱www.iflove.com即将推出,白雪公主不容错过,敬请关注!Coming up next, Ode to Snowflakes, My Fairy Angel, here we shall fall in love now.

中文标题:雪中花颂词:天国的嫁衣系雪花做成
English Title: Ode to Snow, My Fairy Angel

中文关键词:白雪公主雪景,雪花,雪灾,姑娘,天国的嫁衣,天使,瑞雪兆丰年,琼楼玉宇,童话故事神话故事,神话传说, 散文,散文诗诗歌,诗词,唯美,冰雪融化,梦境解析,周公解梦查询,散文诗,朦胧诗,抒情散文
中英双语说明:本文系中英双语,中文关键词如上,英语关键词如下。如果出现不对照现象,请及时在后面的留言评论中指出!谢谢!
Keywords: Snow White, Snow, Snowflake, Snow Disaster, Miss, Heaven’s Wedding Gown, Angel, Year of Snow, Beautiful Sceneries, Fairy Tale, Myth, Mythology, Prose, Poem, Poetry, Aestheticism, Ice, dreamland, Dream Dictionary, prose poem, misty poetry, Lyric Prose

前言:神创造了整个美丽的世界就是让我们用充满爱的眼睛去观察,用充满爱的心去生活。但是这个冬天是否太过温暖?这个冬天是否太多干燥,让人的心也难免躁躁的。在那个城市里竟然之下过一场很小很小的雪,回到这个城市,却因着太温暖了,只有雨水能给这躁躁的空气里带来稍是清新的感觉。马上就要过年了,不知道还会不会有雪下。:) 愿神祝福啊!:)

梦否?

仿佛一股刺骨的凉意迅速由颈后漫延到周身的每一寸肌肤,朦朦胧胧中慵懒地支起眼皮,困乏的双眸被一道冷峻的光线射中,快意的兴奋起来,忽然发现自己正在被包围。
纯洁的片状的花形的东西在我的周围飘舞漫转,我就躺在由这铺就而成的毯子上,环视,只见突兀的高耸的林木,交错纵横的枝丫上也被裹了一层素练,我想我这使在童话世界里吧!我激动的欢喜起来,浪漫加幸福的味道升腾着把我环绕。

忽然被忘却的意识作用清醒起来,我这一定是在一得的雪的国度,震撼震惊。好一片琼楼玉宇,好一个冰天雪地,处处冰雕玉砌,时时飘琼撒玉。在这里我竟然没有寒冷的感觉,有的是温暖是温馨是种种美好的美妙的感觉,或许这就是梦想中的乐园。

看!那边飘来一位身着洁白衣裙的正欢快地跳着翩跹的舞步的天使,清脆的声音从她的喉咙里发散,似银铃,让我思绪飘飞遐想万千。此刻,正在我的身边温柔地伸出娇嫩的小手,意欲帮助我站起来,我怀着惊恐又欣喜的表情不自主地伸出一只手,当我触到她的时候,第一次有了害羞的感觉,红潮飞涨遍及脸颊。我还没意识过来她又飘去,我想它应该是由去找寻像我这样“迷失“在这里的人吧。或许我是真的迷失了,迷失在这玄妙的意境之中了,要不怎么在雪地里躺这么久还没想到要站起来。

我开始了慢悠悠的散步,在这童话长廊里,一幕幕透明的风景在眼前行走,也在脑海里铭刻,很快就感觉不过瘾,我肆意狂奔起来,一道道雪幕在身后扬起又落下,迎面得寒风也温柔起来,不断抚摸我的脸庞和发丝,形式各样的景象掠过眼线,陶醉着我的思维,沉浸着我的心房,我飘忽了,化作雪随风卷起,漫游于天际寰宇。

这次我是真的醒了,张望窗外,没有雪的丝毫痕迹。

我想昨夜我见到的是雪的灵魂吧,高贵纯洁,是精灵是天使,是美好的化身。

不然,她怎么会无端入吾梦呢?!

Lyric Prose: Snow in the Prose Poem

With thousands miles of snow flying silently in air,
The mountains were dressed with pure silver cover.
The Great Wall inspired heroes’ Elan and enthusiasm
When seeing the white fairy floating through the sky.
Creatures hiding away
Mountains swung the white blanket
Snow led human beings welcome the winter
Tens of thousands people marched in the cold
Struggling and creating new career.
Just wait,
The earth will wake up with spring green over the north land.

I enter snow when I enter a piece of good writing, when I enter a paragraph through the sentence, whether or not snow resides in the short-short, prose-poem, or not. Nonetheless, if we are certain that the sentence is just as significant a measure-marker today as the line, many writers have fallen into a “911 syntax.” When each sentence begins with a monotonous subject/verb construction, without clausal variation, the sentence heart explodes, the EKG machine goes straight, and just reading the reader falls into a coma, praying the paramedic vehicular sirens arrive to resuscitate.

When we travel our eyes reading through the heavy sentence of the prose poem, we smooth the snow from its road if the language is not too heavy to plunge through. If the diction is muddied with too many polysyllabic words, too many abstract nouns and formal verbs, even the plow sinks and will refuse to move. School is cancelled. We learn nothing. We are dead on arrival.

Pound, in the Cantos, slid smoothly through prosodic centuries of the Anglo-Saxon alliterative-accentual-quantitative measure to the infant iambic pentameter of Chaucer, to free-verse and back again in one brief stanza. In an object poem, however, something else is taking place between movement and stasis. It is neither standing or moving (same for syntax), not sleeping or awake, but somewhere in between, somewhere in between motion and inertia. The best prose poems do this unlike short shorts and lined poetry. These latter always have narrative and eye movement down the page.

“Sit boy! Sit boy!” the language tells the prose poem sentence.

In flash fiction, verbs should slap the nouns around. The flash fiction piece hollers, paces both and forth, is in a short session of laughing yoga with itself. But not always. Sometimes it swallows slowly each word, spits it forward and back out onto the page. Its sentences rain. It can hop like a frog and breath like a frog, too.

In a world where contemporary religion and government conspire to destroy the Self and Language, is it possible to go beyond even Language and Cybersyntax, to God’s Mantra in the Silent, Paranormal Porchlight? Is the right-justified block of the web template’s type a quest for God?

To bed-leap each morning and to shower our armpits and legs with assonance, and then to walk our favorite prose poems and short shorts around town. To find the sound of the wind and snow and God in each word. At last, the word is the onomatopoeia of God, leading us beyond.

The Gettysburg Address was a Prose Poem, no doubt. Or was it flash fiction?

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