Poetry composition 1 Four poets are sitting around a table with a bowl of wine on it.
The first poet said, "I seem to see the rich aroma of this wine in the air with my third eye, just like a group of birds floating in the charming forest."
The second poet said proudly, "Through my inner ear, I can hear these misty birds singing, and the melodious songs permeate my heart, just like a white rose wrapped in petals of a honey-collecting bee."
The third poet closed his eyes, raised his hands and said generously, "I touched them with my hands, and I felt their wings, like a sleeping fairy, exhaling gently on my fingers."
Then the fourth poet stood up, picked up the wine bowl and said, "Oh, friends! My eyes, hearing and touch are too dull. I can't see the aroma of this wine, I can't hear its singing, and I can't feel the flapping of its wings. I only know this bowl of wine itself. It seems that I should drink it now and make myself sensitive to reach your realm. "
Then, he raised the bowl to his lips and looked up to drink the wine.
The three poets grinned and looked amazed. In their eyes, there is a strong and no longer poetic hatred.
Poetic Composition 2 Some people like the poet Li Bai, others like the poet Sheng Fu, and I like Jia Dao who is meticulous about poetry.
On that occasion, Jia Dao went to a friend's house-Li Ning. Unfortunately, Li Ning was not at home, so Jia Dao wrote a poem for him and went on his way. The next day, Jia Dao felt that the word "push" in "Trees and Birds Stay by the Pool, Monks Push the Moon Down the Door" was not appropriate enough, and it was more appropriate to use the word "knock" instead. When he was singing, he knocked at the door and accidentally walked into Chang 'an. People in the street were amused to see him pointing and talking to himself, but he didn't notice. Jia Dao was bent on the exam and broke into Han Yu's honor guard. Fortunately, Han Yu is also a famous poet. Instead of blaming him, he discussed the matter with him. After discussion, the two decided to use the word "knock" better. Because of this mistake, the two became friends and became beautiful talks at that time.
I like Jia Dao because he is very attentive when thinking. He is singing and walking in the street. Passers-by laughed at him but he didn't know it. If it's us. It would be embarrassing to see passers-by laughing at us when we were painting in the street, but Jia Dao didn't notice and was still doing his own thing. Not only that, but even the honor guard didn't know it was coming. There are so many people in the honor guard, and when they walk in front of him, they will definitely be black at the moment, but he didn't feel it. The most exaggerated thing is that passers-by have let go, and Jia Dao didn't even feel it. It can be seen that he only has his beloved poems in his heart and is completely free from secular interference. If I could study like Jia Dao, wouldn't I be a poet? Then I can also reach the state of "forgetting myself" in my study?
I really admire Jia Dao's serious attitude towards classical literature. His poems are meticulous and strive for perfection. I think this is also an example for any student to learn. I admire him. I will work as hard as Jia Dao in the future and strive for a higher level.
Poet's composition on the topic 3 In the early morning, the morning light shone through the cracks in the leaves, smiling like a magic sword carved on the desk. It looks like a photo frame through the window in front of me.
What you see is the morning glory on the thin rock, which is beautifully printed in red, purple and white.
They held their little cough bells high, but kept silent until they withered.
I look at all this and think it is a rare nobility. I expect a poet to write a poem for them, thinking that the poet can see this scene and leave a poem written on the fallen leaves on the windowsill.
If it is true, that would be great. This may also be what flowers want. After all, their lives are too short, and a little praise is not enough.
Maybe their indifference actually shows something.
But I don't understand.
My expectation, as well as the expectation of flowers, has passed for a long time.
The poet still hasn't come.
Only I look at them enviously through the curtains every day.
Look at those flying butterflies and bees, those beautiful scenery outside the window.
This beautiful scenery close at hand has a slight touch in my heart.
You ask, is the poet here? No, not yet.
The sunshine is still bright, but the taste of autumn is getting stronger and stronger. The wind can't help looking for its winter and has no intention of staying.
The pool next to it gradually stopped sobbing.
Leaves, withered, yellow, falling.
The poet still hasn't come.
Only when I pass by here every day, I rub my frozen eyes to care for those withered.
Expect, admire and sigh. The poet hasn't come yet.
Don't wait for him. I wrote this little poem on the title page and quietly hid it in the fading and brilliant night.
I don't think the poet will come.
I was filled with joy that night.