Writer 1978: I Need to Give the Literary World a Lesson

Chapter 28: Poetry that Astounds the Audience
As soon as Liu Yimin locked his bicycle, several members of the cultural center's creative team and Director Zhang rushed up to him.

"Old Zhang, look at my bicycle! If we hadn't arrived in time, we wouldn't have been able to get it today." Liu Yimin patted the bicycle seat; the genuine leather seat had the same elasticity as a beautiful woman's buttocks.

"Yimin, stop looking at the car! Everyone's waiting for your poem. Show it to us!" Old Li, who usually loved to complain, grabbed Liu Yimin's hand and was about to rush towards the dormitory building, his face flushed.

"Comrade Li, be more careful!" The hand that Li usually uses to hold a pen was now gripping his wrist so tightly it was painful.

Old Li still pulled Liu Yimin along as they ran towards the dormitory building: "You can't be calm! Yimin, our cultural center is counting on you."

"Old Li, you wait here for me. I can run faster by myself."

Liu Yimin quickly ran to the dormitory, pulled out the manuscript from his desk, and returned to the writing group. A group of people stared at the manuscript in his hand.

Their eyes widened in surprise. Old Zhang wiped the sweat from his brow and said, "Yimin, hurry up and read it!"

Old Li swallowed hard and echoed the sentiment, unusually refraining from making any sarcastic remarks about Old Zhang.

"Now I'll start reading, everyone listen carefully!"

Liu Yimin smiled calmly and read it aloud.

Motherland, my beloved motherland!
I am the old, dilapidated waterwheel on your riverbank.
For hundreds of years, we have spun weary songs;

I am the blackened miner's lamp on your forehead.

As you slowly grope your way through the tunnels of history

I am a withered ear of wheat, a neglected roadbed;

It was the barges on the silted-up beach that dug their tow ropes deep into your shoulders;

O motherland! I am poor, I am sorrowful.

I am the hope that has caused you so much suffering for generations.
Motherland! I am one billionth of you, equal to your total area of ​​9.6 million square kilometers;

You fed with your scarred breasts
Confused, thoughtful, and passionate;
Then take your wealth, your glory, your freedom from my flesh and blood;
...]

Liu Yimin had participated in poetry recitals before and was very familiar with the melody of poetry recitation. Therefore, he did not simply read, but recited with great emotion.

This poem was written by Shu Ting in 79. He changed the line "I am a withered rice stalk" to "a withered wheat stalk," which was more suitable for him, a farm boy from the north who had only ever seen wheat stalks.

After the recitation ended, the creative team's office was deathly silent; you could hear a pin drop. It was only after Liu Yimin had stopped for a long time that Old Zhang was the first to react.

"Yimin, keep reading!"

"Gone!"

"That's it?" Old Zhang's voice immediately rose several octaves!
"Gone!"

"Clap clap clap clap clap! Good! Good! Good!" The seven members of the creative team clapped their hands with all their might, and then Lao Zhang also joined in enthusiastically.

He didn't stop until his hands were as red as his flushed face.

"Yimin, can I see your draft?" Old Li said excitedly, looking at Liu Yimin's face with a hint of pleading.

"This poem is grand and full of hope. It's a good poem. The old, dilapidated waterwheel by the river—I remember there was one in the river in our county town, abandoned for a long time. The blackened miner's lamp—doesn't that refer to our coal mines here? Comparing the mine shafts to tunnels of history. What a wonderful metaphor! I could never come up with such a good metaphor in my entire life. Yimin, I really want to know, what was going through your mind?"

"Don't even mention a lifetime, you couldn't figure it out even in eight lifetimes," Old Li said sarcastically.

These words were spoken by Old Sun. Normally, Old Sun would definitely have retorted to Old Li, but now he just chuckled, then squeezed to the side of the manuscript, stood on tiptoe, and opened his eyes wide.

Someone's head swayed, blocking his view, and he angrily pushed the other person's head away.

"Is this acceptable? Is this acceptable? Everyone, get out of the way and stop looking." Old Zhang pushed through the crowd, snatched the draft, and started reading it himself.

"Excellent, truly excellent. This one poem alone can withstand the pressure of many people for half a lifetime, or even a lifetime. Especially this line, 'I am one in a billion of you, the sum of your 9.6 million square kilometers,' is truly powerful. The beginning depicts the confusion of youth, while the latter part is full of hope."

After the four baseball players stepped down, our country was filled with hope. The poem concludes by expressing the patriotic aspirations of the younger generation, elevating the sentiment from the individual to the nation—truly a beautiful poem.

Old Zhang's analysis drew frequent nods from the others. Then, Old Zhang excitedly asked, "Yimin, have you decided which journal to submit to?"

"I plan to submit my work to Poetry Journal, since it is currently the top poetry journal in China and has a great influence."

"Yes! It has to be submitted to Poetry Journal. Such a masterpiece will be buried if it's submitted to other small publications." Old Zhang slapped the table, making a loud thud.

After Old Zhang finished speaking, he pulled Liu Yimin to go to the post office. Only when he saw Liu Yimin write the mailing address on the cover: "People's Cultural Center, Wangsong South Road, Ruxian County, Luocheng City, Henan Province" did Old Zhang feel relieved.

Smiling like a child who had received a beloved toy, Liu Yimin asked the post office staff for a piece of paper that read, "Please indicate the author's affiliation when publishing—Ruxian People's Cultural Center."

"Yimin, I'm sorry you had to laugh at me. The main problem is that the people in our center are so unambitious. I've been the director of the cultural center for so many years, working diligently, but this one wish of mine still hasn't been fulfilled. If it isn't fulfilled soon, I won't have the face to meet Marx."

Of course, at my level, I probably won't even get to see Marx.

Old Zhang rarely cracked a joke, and then said, "When I passed by the Revolutionary Committee on my way to work today, the director of our county's Revolutionary Committee asked about you. He was very happy to hear that you took the college entrance examination and even asked someone from the Education Bureau to check your college entrance examination results from last year to see how good your chances are this year."

Liu Yimin: "."

What hope can be found in last year's zero score on the college entrance exam?
Back at the cultural center, everyone was still excitedly discussing Liu Yimin's poetry, with Old Li undoubtedly leading the discussion. His years of witty banter were put to good use in his praise, and it was as sharp as ever.

"Comrades, you can discuss this, but only within our creative team. Once you're out here, you must maintain confidentiality! You're all veterans, so I won't explain what I mean; you all understand!"

Comrades, we should all learn from Comrade Liu Yimin and dedicate ourselves to serving the people in the field of literature and art.

Old Zhang is a good person, but sometimes he likes to shout a few slogans to encourage everyone.

In the days that followed, Liu Yimin continued writing while discussing creative ideas with the other members of the writing team.

After Liu Yimin's report, quite a few people actually started going to the production teams below to collect materials, instead of just wandering around the streets as before, not even taking a short walk.

September is approaching, and the news of the results being released is getting closer and closer, making all the candidates taking the college entrance examination and even the members of the Revolutionary Committee nervous.

The director of the Revolutionary Committee was also worried. He learned that Liu Yimin, a well-known writer in the county, had also taken the college entrance examination. He thought that since the writer wrote such good novels, his grades must be good as well.

So I checked my scores from last year, and I was shocked to find out I got a zero.

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(End of this chapter)