Who is Kim Heep?

Poet Jin Xipu

Every year before the Spring Festival, the leaders of our county will bring local specialties from their hometown - in the past few years, it was big candied dates, in recent years, it is big steamed buns - Come to Beijing to host a banquet to entertain fellow countrymen working in Beijing. This event has become a routine, and the number of people attending the reception has increased year by year from 70 to 80 people more than ten years ago to more than 400 people now. I never imagined that in our small county, there are so many people working in Beijing. Lao Lu, the person in charge of the Beijing Office of our county that is responsible for convening and liaison—it is no longer called the Beijing Office, but the Guild Hall—told me that this is only at the local level and above, and at the army regiment level and above. If all the people working in Beijing are included All the fellow villagers were invited, at least a thousand people. To be honest, I don't mind having such a grand gathering every year. It's the same people every time, saying the same thing every year, and there's nothing new about it. But I still go to participate every year, because of the big white steamed buns, the big steamed buns made with old noodles instead of yeast powder, the big steamed buns shaped like a big watermelon cut in two along the middle, and the sweet smell The smell of the big steamed buns, the big steamed buns steamed after grinding wheat grown on the land in my hometown, always arouse my nostalgia... For those two big steamed buns, I also want to participate.

Last year’s party was held in the Longyun Hall of Hongdu Hotel. There were more than 40 tables lined up in the hall, which was very lively with people laughing, shaking hands, greetings, and taking photos.

At the entrance registration desk, a young man from my village was stopped because he was not of a high level. As soon as he saw me coming, he immediately came to greet me and asked me to intercede. Several people in charge of registration were staff members of the county party committee office and all knew me. I pointed at the young man and said: "He is from my village, let him in." A staff member said: "Of course he can go in, but I'm very sorry, there are not enough steamed buns." I said: "Give him my share. "Okay." The young man said, "I don't want it, I don't want it. I just went back to my hometown and brought back a sack of steamed buns."

They led me into the VIP lounge, and I saw the county secretary Hu was talking with me. Several retired generals talked with several fellow villagers with officials to deputy ministerial level, and then sat quietly aside. The conversation that had been interrupted by my entrance resumed in earnest. At this moment, the protagonist of this article, our famous Northeast Township poet Jin Xipu, burst in with great enthusiasm.

Jin Xipu, formerly known as Jin Xuejun, is the youngest son of Jin Shengshui, a butcher from our neighboring village. He is more than ten years younger than me, and he and my cousin are middle school classmates. My cousin's studies were good at first, but later he joined Jin Xipu's Goddess Poetry Club, and his studies plummeted. After failing the college entrance examination, he was afraid of hard work and tiredness while doing farm work. He idled around all day and became a monster in the village. For this reason, my uncle often scolded Jin Xipu in front of me, and I also had a very bad impression of this person.

As soon as he entered the door, carrying the pungent smell of smoke and alcohol, he went straight to Secretary Hu, shook hands with him, gave him his business card, and then shook hands with several generals and deputy ministerial fellows. , give them business cards. When shaking hands with the leaders, he repeated over and over again: "I'm sorry, I'm late. I just came from Peking University. The traffic jam in Beijing is really a headache..."

He sat down next to me. , grabbed the Zhonghua cigarette on the coffee table, lit it, and took a fragrant puff. Two streams of white smoke spurted out from his nostrils.

"Third brother, long time no see!" He stretched out his hand, shook my hand, and then handed me a business card. I felt his hands were sticky and cold.

"Poet, what have you been busy with recently?" Secretary Hu asked him, and at the same time introduced to several retired generals around him, "This is our poet, Jin Xipu. There is Pushkin in Russia and Jin Xipu in China."

Amid the laughter of the crowd, he stood up, hunched over and said: "This year, I gave a lecture tour in 100 universities across the country, published five books of poetry, and held three I want to set off a poetry renaissance and bring Chinese poetry to the world.”

I saw clearly printed on the business card he gave me: The greatest poet after Pushkin: Jin Xipu. Below, some scary titles.

Amidst the roar of laughter from everyone, Jin Xipu ran to the door and clapped his hands.

He pointed to a girl with a ponytail, a camera and a delicate face and said: "This is my full-time photographer Xiao Wu, a master's degree from the Central Journalism Institute."

< p> "This is my full-time videographer Xiao Gu. He graduated from the China Film Academy and worked in Hollywood in the United States." He pointed to a young man with long shawl hair and a camera.