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初中英語(yǔ)勵(lì)志詩(shī)歌

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  初中英語(yǔ)勵(lì)志詩(shī)歌:Historically Speaking

  It was a year of pirates in speedboats,

  anonymous bullies spreading privacies

  on the Internet, and the worst of them

  doing worse than that and wishing to be known

  for what they'd done, their perfidy

  an advertisement for a cause.

  Thus it was a bad year for historians,

  whose stories couldn't be correct

  for longer than a few days. More than ever

  the imperfections of memory

  would combine with the slipperiness

  of documentation to produce versions

  only people who need not be persuaded

  could agree with.

  It was a war

  where the enemy sometimes was wearing

  the same clothes as its opponent,

  and both sides believed their cause

  was righteous, and years from now the victors,

  if we were unlucky, would tell it as it wasn't,

  unless we were the victors, and our historians

  would tell it from so many angles

  that both was and wasn't

  would read like a symphony of discordancies,

  an honoring of so many counterpoints

  that I, for one, might find a place to rest uneasy,

  historically speaking, among all the bloodshed,

  the horror, which would stop for a while and continue.

  初中英語(yǔ)勵(lì)志詩(shī)歌:Lines Written for Elmo Castelnuovo

  It's not time that passes, it's you, it's I

  -- Rutger Kopland

  In winter, by late afternoon, it's almost dark

  when you come home from the mine. I hear

  the front gate creak and the metallic clink

  of your pail before you round the corner

  by the back steps where I've been waiting.

  In the sharp chill of the air, the mineral

  undercurrent of damp earth and shale comes with you. You turn down the collar

  of your shirt and let water from the pump

  pour down your face and nape, the skin above

  your undershirt pale as the crescent moon visible

  above the darker mass of the hills.

  • •

  You drive for hours, heading nowhere; you walk

  the streets at night and argue with the moon --

  something hidden and manic in you emerged,

  almost unnoticed, until at last you huddled homeless and bewildered under a pile

  of coats in an alleyway no wider

  than the mines you entered as a young man.

  The rat scuttling in the garbage bin, the cat

  stalking the rat, did they become your familiars?

  And the passersby, who glanced at you and hurried

  on their way, did they believe you were invisible?

  Did the tag knotted to your toe say nameless?

  • • •

  What I loved was the touch of your calloused hand

  on my head, the coal-rimmed hollows of your eyes.

  If you returned now from the sooty underworld

  in which you dwell, you would not recognize me.

  The gate is gone; the house and those who lived in it

  are hidden elsewhere. Only the crescent moon

  and darkling hills are as you left them. Come back

  as you were, if only for a moment. I'm waiting

  by the back steps. The kitchen window casts

  its light; at the laden table the absent prepare

  for your arrival. You will be hungry and tired,

  as in those years through which our lives passed.

  初中英語(yǔ)勵(lì)志詩(shī)歌:I Woke Up

  and it was political.

  I made coffee and the coffee was political.

  I took a shower and the water was.

  I walked down the street in short shorts and a Bob Mizer tank top

  and they were political, the walking and the shorts and the beefcake

  silkscreen of the man posing in a G-string. I forgot my sunglasses

  and later, on the train, that was political,

  when I studied every handsome man in the car.

  Who I thought was handsome was political.

  I went to work at the university and everything was

  very obviously political, the department and the institution.

  All the cigarettes I smoked between classes were political,

  where I threw them when I was through.

  I was blond and it was political.

  So was the difference between "blond" and "blonde."

  I had long hair and it was political. I shaved my head and it was.

  That I didn't know how to grieve when another person was killed in America

  was political, and it was political when America killed another person,

  who they were and what color and gender and who I am in relation.

  I couldn't think about it for too long without feeling a helplessness

  like childhood. I was a child and it was political, being a boy

  who was bad at it. I couldn't catch and so the ball became political.

  My mother read to me almost every night

  and the conditions that enabled her to do so were political.

  That my father's money was new was political, that it was proving something.

  Someone called me faggot and it was political.

  I called myself a faggot and it was political.

  How difficult my life felt relative to how difficult it was

  was political. I thought I could become a writer

  and it was political that I could imagine it.

  I thought I was not a political poet and still

  my imagination was political.

  It had been, this whole time I was asleep.

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