50 lines of modern poems and prose about the best Chinese traditions

Traditional Chinese Festivals (Poems)

The Spring Festival

The Spring Festival is a colorful leopard

She captures the most brilliant scenes of life in heaven and earth

Chews all our hypocrisies, grudges, clutches, sorrows and joys

Chews them over and over again and penetrates through them one by one

The Spring Festival is a cradle full of wishes

She hangs in front of the doors of thousands of houses in a crisp and clear manner. She hangs in front of thousands of homes

and wraps our year's wishes tightly

and never lets a single red apricot come out of the wall

Chinese New Year is a fish hovering between forgetting and remembering

Year after year, it slips in and out of our fidgety fingers

Like the flowers we've been waiting for

and then, after a brief kiss, leaves in a hurry.

Dwelling in the jungle of Chinese New Year

I'm sure there are many like me

Watching the back of Chinese New Year with indifference and indifference

Like my father, who slowly rises and falls on the horizon ......

Lunar Lantern Festival

Lunar Lantern is the drumbeat of the early spring.

The drumbeat of the Lantern Festival

happily smashes into

cities and villages

The tears that have dried up

wake up and boil one by one in one night

Walking on the tip of the lamp's light

The Lantern Festival warms up the sorrows of the time

A thousand years of lions, a thousand years of dragons

To the words of the Orient's appendicular smiles

The Lantern Festival is the most important festival in the world, and it is a great opportunity for the people of the world to learn from each other. p>

The peach blossoms everywhere kindly

Pave our year's red

The vineyard of the heart

Never planting skinny fireworks

Drinking in the folklore and memories

Each Lantern Festival breaks up and gathers together

We all make the time sleep through the night in a different way

One of a kind Boiled, fried, steamed and deep-fried happiness

Roaming through the spring tide

Wrapped tightly around the face of the moon

Let not the sweetness and reunion slip away in a hurry ......

Ching Ming Festival

Dreaming of paradise

Jie Zi Tui and his mother embraced each other in a fire

Between the yin and the yang

My mother and I are separated by a grain of yellow earth

A silver-white waterfall

Mother chews on it

Freezing fire on cold food

The wind rolls on the branches of the trees

Swallows are like sponges

Sucking up the sound of the dim water

Which makes our souls

Squeeze up against each other

To raise a glass and drink tears

Mother said, "Son

Living is enough"

Walking past so many neighbors

I am no longer formal ......

Duanwu Festival

The poet's blood is magnificent

The poet's spirit and flesh are deep in the core of every rice dumpling seed

Poets felt it thousands of years ago and thousands of years from now

Many quotes are heavy as stone

Scented incense follows

On this day, the fifth day of the fifth month, the Dragon Boat Race is on

On the banks of the Miluo River, a small handful of long whiskers holler as a flag

along the trail of History and culture are as brilliant as the stars

Poets cry out Poets, each piece of Chinese characters is a bullet hole and a drop of blood

The world is also a vicissitude and lofty

Calm and wise

On the fifth day of the fifth lunar month, the poets never ate rice dumplings seeds

They all threw them in the river

The words of sacrifice in the belly of the fish turned into a power

Power burning

Power burns, language burns, nation burns

Poets: What is dead is a mission

What is alive is also a mission

It is the mission that illuminates and brightens the world's path

Mid-Autumn Festival

Classical Mid-Autumn Day

Far from the hustle and bustle of the Old Man Dongpo

On the beaches, in the jungles, and on the strata of roads

Drawing China's ageless mountains and rivers.

Painting China's ageless rivers and mountains

Booking China's immortal words

A bamboo cane and a straw raincoat

Classical Mid-Autumn Moonlight is like a dream

Chang'e in the palace is stretching her sleeves

Wu Gang is bringing out osmanthus wine

An old man in the moonlight strokes a lock of his beard and gets drunk

Turning to the vermilion pavilion, leaning low against the door

Fondling the qin, he sings: "What year is it now and what year was it ago? What year is it now

But I wish it would last forever

A bolt of lightning

Brightened the desolate starry sky

And tonight the moonlight remains the same

The soul travels through the eternal space and time of the Northern Song Dynasty

Do you sing a song to the wine tonight

On the eve of the seventh moon festival

A spinning woman weaves the magpies in the countryside into mandarin ducks. After weaving the magpies of the countryside into lovebirds

The weaver moves to the lungs of the city

The weaver starts weaving the buildings of the city, the neon colors of the city

Talking under the grapevines, night and day

The ever-so-clever, ever-so-elegant weaver

Weaving the first flush of the first tide

The winds of early autumn wrinkle the pools of water

A thousand years of sighs, orchestrating the fall of flowers

A thousand years of writing.

The city and the countryside stare

Still as far away as the Milky Way

On the canvas of independent time, the spinning woman's autumn waves

Frame a rehashed version of the rainy swallows

Waiting is not the most beautiful way to hold hands

Wheat in the countryside yellows and then grows green again

An embroidered letter arrives at night at the hill of the white-watered smoky fields

Men lie on another patch of milk, a patch of milk, a patch of milk, a patch of milk, a patch of milk.

The man lies in the other milk

Roughly swimming himself

Mouths the name of the weaver

Whether to be a fish in love's tears

Or to be a living stream

Watching the watercresses ambiguously march away

The weaver's heart is no longer a frog's chorus

The ribs of autumn still throw their weight around the ground. A pair of eyes that understand her ......

The Chongyang Festival

Chrysanthemum stalks are like ink, the hometown like Dai

The Chongyang has waded through the water from ancient times

The Chongyang dwells serenely on the tips of our shoes

The clumps of colorful chrysanthemums

How like the lilting zither in the smoky rain

Refurbishing the sun of 1200 years ago

Condensing the moon of 1200 years later

The nostalgia of the empty valley

The Chongyang Festival is the sunlight that penetrates my bones

Mother is riding on a hilltop, drunk on cornelian cherry blossoms

Mother's nagging falls like rain after she finishes eating a plate of pastry

The nagging falls like rain after she finishes eating a plate of cake

The nagging falls like rain after mother finishes finishing her needlework. It fell on my mother's mottled basket of needles and threads

and on my father's bewilderment at the idea of drinking alone

and on the shattered eaves of the three of us

Mother's nagging

was like the sea bursting its banks and flowing on and on

It tormented us in our lives

and in each and every scene it was as fresh as ever

Blue skies, the flying birds were multiplying. The sky's cloudiness

Standing at the height of time we will eventually grow old

But the wheezing of the soot never lacks oxygen

The Chongyang never loses its memory

The hooves of the horses south of the south and north of the north

Finally don't know where to go

The Milky Way is still shimmering......

Winter Solstice

Who edited the day so transparent

Who soaked the night so heavy

We rolled up our pants and struggled to

Push the winter solstice's heavy boat

The gray hairs on our heads began to burn

No need to look back and the fallen leaves can't return to the past

Snow's significance lies in the sign of a good year

Snow is the sign of a good year

The snow is the sign of a good year.

We find our place

Silent as the snow's staccato breath

The bone-chilling ice

is our unfinished poetry

Its frozen tenderness

carries the fishing fires of spring

The power of those details

is passing us by again

The beauty on the outside, the beauty of the leaves, the beauty of the heart, the beauty of the mind, the beauty of the heart.

The ruins of exterior beauty

How like a goldfish imprisoned by the wind

Our prayers become lighter

And the sound of blood flowing so close

At the winter solstice, for every blossom of the waxberry

Our blood aches

We clench our hands in pain

Whom no one can decipher

We hide our blood, and we hide it in our hands

We hide our blood.

The power we hide in the tip of a needle

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