Big Sis Zhou said with a surprise, “What’s Little Zhang saying?”
“This doesn’t sound like what Little Zhang would say.” Auntie Sun was also wondering.
Tian Bin interjected, “He’s been forced by the situation. From a certain perspective, Little Zhang has matured.”
The old editor sighed, “Indeed. Hai, this is also a chance to reconcile relations. Little Zhang is still quite smart. He knows that this situation is not a time for private emotions.”
…
The famous Program Producer formerly from Central TV was also offstage. He had been transferred to the Beijing Television Station for work, so he was naturally invited for the Golden Microphone Awards.
“Old Hu, this is the newcomer that you recommended?”
“Yes. He is Zhang Ye, a very talented young man.”
“His looks are quite plain. You want him to be your segment’s host or guest? I don’t think it’s appropriate.”
“I seldom make a mistake in my judgment of people. This kind of talent is not met even in a hundred years. Isn’t he going to recite a poem soon? Listen well. See if my evaluation is wrong.”
Hu Fei began promoting Zhang Ye.
…
“Sis Zhang, you know this Zhang Ye?” a young judge in the first row spoke softly.
Zhang Yuanqi gave a smile, “I don’t know him.”
“Then why did you give the additional nomination to him?” The youth was puzzled.
Zhang Yuanqi said, “I’ve seen his ‘See Me or Not’ poem before. I think it’s very good.”
The young judge was enlightened, “I see. This person’s poems are indeed exceptional. I have not seen ‘See Me or Not’, but ‘Shuidiao Getou’ was like a precious jewel falling into my hands.”
Another old judge said, “Let’s see what poem he will recite today. I happen to have heard of his ‘A Generation’. I heard that there were some problems with that bunch of people from the Beijing Writers’ Association?”
…
Other than these industry insiders, other people were not looking forward to it.
“Thank the Leaders?”
“What’s nice about such an acceptance speech?”
“That’s right; to think he even wrote a poem to thank his Leaders? What an ass-kisser! He’s kissing too much ass!”
“What can you do? It’s all people in the system. Who can you thank other than the Leaders?”
Quite a number of radio and television station counterparts from other provinces were dismissive. Some even silently scolded Zhang Ye as an ass-kisser!
…
Everyone was discussing.
However, Zhang Ye was not distracted. In this atmosphere that was not particularly quiet, on this stage with elites and Leaders gathered, Zhang Ye recited a poem. “This poem is me giving back to my station’s Leaders, as well as Beijing Radio Station, which nurtured and taught me!”
Everyone listened most devoutly and respectfully.
Zhang Ye closed his eyes to gather his emotions. The first lines of his poem dumbfounded everyone. His opening expression was that of a mocking laughter, “This is a bleak pool of dead water, where no breeze can raise a ripple. One may as well throw in metal scraps and leftover food!”
Dead water?
Furthermore, a bleak pool of dead water?
What modern poem was this? Are you sure that this is thanking the Leaders and the unit?
Many people began whispering. Some of them had not even gotten around to it!
Zhang Ye carried on, and sneered, “Perhaps the metal will turn into emeralds, the rusty cans into peach blossoms, the grease will weave a silken gauze, and the mold will rise and become twilight clouds. Let the dead water ferment into a green wine, in which white foam floats like pearls. Tiny pearls giggle and turn into big pearls, then get broken by pilfering mosquitoes. Perhaps a bleak pool of dead water is fair, after all. If the frogs get lonely, they can bring music to the place.”
Upon reaching this point, Zhang Ye’s expression suddenly changed into a cold and angry look as his voice reached a crescendo, “This is a bleak pool of dead water! Where beauty cannot reside!” Finally, he stressed, “One may as well let the Devil cultivate it! And see what kind of world he will create!!!”