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學(xué)習(xí)啦 > 學(xué)習(xí)英語 > 英語閱讀 > 英語詩歌 > 關(guān)于唯美英語詩歌精選

關(guān)于唯美英語詩歌精選

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關(guān)于唯美英語詩歌精選

  朗誦是一種傳統(tǒng)教學(xué)方式,是書面語言的有聲化,是語言教學(xué)的重點(diǎn)。在教學(xué)中教師應(yīng)注重語音、語氣、速度、節(jié)奏、語調(diào)等技巧的訓(xùn)練,鼓勵學(xué)生進(jìn)行朗誦實踐,培養(yǎng)學(xué)生的朗誦能力。下面是學(xué)習(xí)啦小編帶來的關(guān)于唯美英語詩歌,歡迎閱讀!

  關(guān)于唯美英語詩歌篇一

  My Mojave

  by Donald Revell

  Sha-

  Dow,

  As of

  A meteor

  At mid-

  Day: it goes

  From there.

  A perfect circle falls

  Onto white imperfections.

  (Consider the black road,

  How it seems white the entire

  Length of a sunshine day.)

  Or I could say

  Shadows and mirage

  Compensate the world,

  Completing its changes

  With no change.

  In the morning after a storm,

  We used brooms. Out front,

  There was broken glass to collect.

  In the backyard, the sand

  Was covered with transparent wings.

  The insects could not use them in the wind

  And so abandoned them. Why

  Hadn't the wings scattered? Why

  Did they lie so stilly where they'd dropped?

  It can only be the wind passed through them.

  Jealous lover,

  Your desire

  Passes the same way.

  And jealous earth,

  There is a shadow you cannot keep

  To yourself alone.

  At midday,

  My soul wants only to go

  The black road which is the white road.

  I'm not needed

  Like wings in a storm,

  And God is the storm.

  關(guān)于唯美英語詩歌篇二

  My Mother on an Evening in Late Summer

  by Mark Strand

  1

  When the moon appears

  and a few wind-stricken barns stand out

  in the low-domed hills

  and shine with a light

  that is veiled and dust-filled

  and that floats upon the fields,

  my mother, with her hair in a bun,

  her face in shadow, and the smoke

  from her cigarette coiling close

  to the faint yellow sheen of her dress,

  stands near the house

  and watches the seepage of late light

  down through the sedges,

  the last gray islands of cloud

  taken from view, and the wind

  ruffling the moon's ash-colored coat

  on the black bay.

  2

  Soon the house, with its shades drawn closed, will send

  small carpets of lampglow

  into the haze and the bay

  will begin its loud heaving

  and the pines, frayed finials

  climbing the hill, will seem to graze

  the dim cinders of heaven.

  And my mother will stare into the starlanes,

  the endless tunnels of nothing,

  and as she gazes,

  under the hour's spell,

  she will think how we yield each night

  to the soundless storms of decay

  that tear at the folding flesh,

  and she will not know

  why she is here

  or what she is prisoner of

  if not the conditions of love that brought her to this.

  3

  My mother will go indoors

  and the fields, the bare stones

  will drift in peace, small creatures ——

  the mouse and the swift —— will sleep

  at opposite ends of the house.

  Only the cricket will be up,

  repeating its one shrill note

  to the rotten boards of the porch,

  to the rusted screens, to the air, to the rimless dark,

  to the sea that keeps to itself.

  Why should my mother awake?

  The earth is not yet a garden

  about to be turned. The stars

  are not yet bells that ring

  at night for the lost.

  It is much too late.

  關(guān)于唯美英語詩歌篇三

  La Coursierde Jeanne

  by Linda McCarriston

  You know that they burned her horse

  before her. Though it is not recorded,

  you know that they burned her Percheron

  first, before her eyes, because you

  know that story, so old that story,

  the routine story, carried to its

  extreme, of the cruelty that can make

  of what a woman hears a silence,

  that can make of what a woman sees

  a lie. She had no son for them to burn,

  for them to take from her in the world

  not of her making and put to its pyre,

  so they layered a greater one in front of

  where she was staked to her own——

  as you have seen her pictured sometimes,

  her eyes raised to the sky. But they were

  not raised. This is yet one of their lies.

  They were not closed. Though her hands

  were bound behind her, and her feet were

  bound deep in what would become fire,

  she watched. Of greenwood stakes

  head-high and thicker than a man's waist

  they laced the narrow corral that would not

  burn until flesh had burned, until

  bone was burning, and laid it thick

  with tinder——fatted wicks and sulphur,

  kindling and logs——and ran a ramp

  up to its height from where the gray horse

  waited, his dapples making of his flesh

  a living metal, layers of life

  through which the light shone out

  in places as it seems to through the flesh

  of certain fish, a light she knew

  as purest, coming, like that, from within.

  Not flinching, not praying, she looked

  the last time on the body she knew

  better than the flesh of any man, or child,

  or woman, having long since left the lap

  of her mother——the chest with its

  perfect plates of muscle, the neck

  with its perfect, prow-like curve,

  the hindquarters'——pistons——powerful cleft

  pennoned with the silk of his tail.

  Having ridden as they did together

  ——those places, that hard, that long——

  their eyes found easiest that day

  the way to each other, their bodies

  wedded in a sacrament unmediated

  by man. With fire they drove him

  up the ramp and off into the pyre

  and tossed the flame in with him.

  This was the last chance they gave her

  to recant her world, in which their power

  came not from God. Unmoved, the Men

  of God began watching him burn, and better,

  watching her watch him burn, hearing

  the long mad godlike trumpet of his terror,

  his crashing in the wood, the groan

  of stakes that held, the silverblack hide,

  the pricked ears catching first

  like driest bark, and the eyes.

  and she knew, by this agony, that she

  might choose to live still, if she would

  but make her sign on the parchment

  they would lay before her, which now

  would include this new truth: that it

  did not happen, this death in the circle,

  the rearing, plunging, raging, the splendid

  armour-colored head raised one last time

  above the flames before they took him

  ——like any game untended on the spit——into

  their yellow-green, their blackening red.

  關(guān)于唯美英語詩歌篇四

  My Mother Would Bea Falconress

  My mother would be a falconress,

  And I, her gay falcon treading her wrist,

  would fly to bring back

  from the blue of the sky to her, bleeding, a prize,

  where I dream in my little hood with many bells

  jangling when I'd turn my head.

  My mother would be a falconress,

  and she sends me as far as her will goes.

  She lets me ride to the end of her curb

  where I fall back in anguish.

  I dread that she will cast me away,

  for I fall, I mis-take, I fail in her mission.

  She would bring down the little birds.

  And I would bring down the little birds.

  When will she let me bring down the little birds,

  pierced from their flight with their necks broken,

  their heads like flowers limp from the stem?

  I tread my mother's wrist and would draw blood.

  Behind the little hood my eyes are hooded.

  I have gone back into my hooded silence,

  talking to myself and dropping off to sleep.

  For she has muffled my dreams in the hood she has made me,

  sewn round with bells, jangling when I move.

  She rides with her little falcon upon her wrist.

  She uses a barb that brings me to cower.

  She sends me abroad to try my wings

  and I come back to her. I would bring down

  the little birds to her

  I may not tear into, I must bring back perfectly.

  I tear at her wrist with my beak to draw blood,

  and her eye holds me, anguisht, terrifying.

  She draws a limit to my flight.

  Never beyond my sight, she says.

  She trains me to fetch and to limit myself in fetching.

  She rewards me with meat for my dinner.

  But I must never eat what she sends me to bring her.

  Yet it would have been beautiful, if she would have carried me,

  always, in a little hood with the bells ringing,

  at her wrist, and her riding

  to the great falcon hunt, and me

  flying up to the curb of my heart from her heart

  to bring down the skylark from the blue to her feet,

  straining, and then released for the flight.

  My mother would be a falconress,

  and I her gerfalcon raised at her will,

  from her wrist sent flying, as if I were her own

  pride, as if her pride

  knew no limits, as if her mind

  sought in me flight beyond the horizon.

  Ah, but high, high in the air I flew.

  And far, far beyond the curb of her will,

  were the blue hills where the falcons nest.

  And then I saw west to the dying sun——

  it seemd my human soul went down in flames.

  I tore at her wrist, at the hold she had for me,

  until the blood ran hot and I heard her cry out,

  far, far beyond the curb of her will

  to horizons of stars beyond the ringing hills of the world where

  the falcons nest

  I saw, and I tore at her wrist with my savage beak.

  I flew, as if sight flew from the anguish in her eye beyond her sight,

  sent from my striking loose, from the cruel strike at her wrist,

  striking out from the blood to be free of her.

  My mother would be a falconress,

  and even now, years after this,

  when the wounds I left her had surely heald,

  and the woman is dead,

  her fierce eyes closed, and if her heart

  were broken, it is stilld

  I would be a falcon and go free.

  I tread her wrist and wear the hood,

  talking to myself, and would draw blood.

  
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