There is an artist inside of everyone, and the small town of Paterson, New Jersey, is home to so many poetic people.
The dreamer girlfriend who is crazy about black and white patterns, Everett, the inner performer who is self-indulged in love in the bar, the black rapper who stirs the rhythm to the drum machine in the laundry room, and the poem of the little girl who writes poetry on the street. Water Falls in her delicate cheeks and strands of hair. There was something longing and ideal in their eyes.
Patterson is a bus driver who refuses to use the Internet and communication tools, but poetry runs through every moment of his life, and his poetic mind is rippling on the water on the road. But he never considers himself a poet, and refuses to publish and print the poems in his secret notebook, so low-key seeks inner peace and tranquility between the lines. Until Marvin the pit bull shredded and destroyed Patterson's beloved notebook, the only thing that could prove his existence and trace, the thing that carried all the thoughts and warmth in his life. Of course, I knew that what he cared about was not whether he could prove his existence, but the poems themselves.
(This reminds me of the days when I was painting in Beijing in my third year of high school. When I was the closest to painting, I had a high-intensity training camp, running in the snow in the early morning, staying up late in front of the drawing board with the quilt, racking my brains to dare. When I started writing, there were still many bold attempts, and it seemed that the only imagination broke out. But those paintings that contained all the headaches and strengths at that time were lost on the way back home from a nervous breakdown. This became a piece of my heart. The regret that will never be erased seems to be difficult to prove the existence and traces of the time, and it is impossible to tell others. I am more concerned about those paintings, the feeling is exactly the same as the pain of Paterson losing his poems.)
But to exist is to exist, and those inner strengths and feelings will not disappear with it. Poetic people will sympathize with each other, and poetry will make them meet.
"The translation of a poem is like taking a bath in a raincoat", so the best poems to feel are in the author himself, in his surroundings and life.
"Sometimes blank pages represent more possibilities," the words of the Japanese poet and the gift of the book gave Patterson new hope.
The sun rises every morning and sets at night, and every day is a new day.
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