關(guān)于經(jīng)典英語(yǔ)詩(shī)歌朗誦
關(guān)于經(jīng)典英語(yǔ)詩(shī)歌朗誦
選用合適的英語(yǔ)詩(shī)歌進(jìn)行基礎(chǔ)階段的教學(xué)可以在培養(yǎng)學(xué)生的聽(tīng)、說(shuō)、讀、寫(xiě)等諸方面起著十分積極的作用,能激發(fā)學(xué)生對(duì)語(yǔ)言本身的興趣和熱愛(ài)。學(xué)習(xí)啦小編分享關(guān)于經(jīng)典英語(yǔ)詩(shī)歌，希望可以幫助大家!
關(guān)于經(jīng)典英語(yǔ)詩(shī)歌：Thick Description
Eleanor Chai
I cut lines of ink as I read through the night.
I imagine the margins on pages are slim wings
between plankton and stars. I find what I need
in far sources. I make them intimate,
I make them mine with the speed of light.
He was seventeen, just a man, still a boy and ready to die.
A true sacrifice, a living encounter --
This father has paid
the sum of a daughter's dowry for his son to be consecrated
with a rod through his cheeks and tongue. The boy's face,
his mouth pierced and gaping, hangs on the page, helpless.
His clove-jelly eyes float and metamorphose into my mother's
eyes, eyes I can't possibly remember without images like his --
images forbidden, seized and smuggled into my life.
I can make anything mean what I need to find.
The stolen scrap, the plosive glance saturated in
longing is not looking at me: I am looking at it.
Every description is thick with a will to revivify --
reclaim, renounce, rename what is sought.
Blind hunger drives when I read. A scream, the echo of
a scream, hangs over that Nova Scotian village ... and bit
by bit a village I've never seen swells into me. The ovoid
mouth of my mother's life, its slivering silence exists
in that scream -- unheard, in memory. She came alive
forever -- not loud, just alive forever redeemed from her never
with no speech. A noun transformed to modify
action revived her, returned her to me.
The words as they lay may refuse to say what you need.
Drop to your knees. Crawl beneath the overhanging,
the dangling down. Stroke the described,
from underneath. It reeks of the atavistic
to live. It survives by swallowing.
關(guān)于經(jīng)典英語(yǔ)詩(shī)歌：The Trespass Fetches Herself for Sacrifice
HeidiLynn Nilsson
We are not surprised,
those of us who are made,
we've been told,
in God's image,
that our God, who has
neither tissue nor tail,
is a jealous God.
What makes us
snappish, after all, about God
is impeccability but
if jealousy makes us
also Godlike, and if that's
where our love turned wrong,
then light with light, loss with loss,
on the strict and ruined earth,
someone gets the very thing
he longs for -- and who
will let him? Lord I'm
desolate enough --
I see the fire
starving on a switch
after all of those years
making for him
myself into a forest.
關(guān)于經(jīng)典英語(yǔ)詩(shī)歌：Honeymoon
Dorianne Laux
We didn't have one, unless you count Paris,
20 years later, after we'd almost given up on the idea.
We'd imagined one, long nights beneath
a warm celestial sky; him growing his beard,
me in a silk turquoise robe, floating, billowing,
on a deserted beach foraging for whole sand dollars,
jelly fish washed up on the shore, their glittering insides
visible, still pulsing through flesh made of glass,
but it never happened. We had to work through
our vacations, refinance the house, find someone
to cut down the cedar that threatened to bury us
with each storm. We wanted to make up
for the wedding, or lack of one, the granite
courthouse steps, the small room with a desk,
the flimsy document stamped with a cheap gold seal.
Even then we meant to have a party on the deck,
cheese and crackers, fruit plates, sparkling
grape cider in plastic cups, our friends on the lawn
calling you the Big Kahuna, me Mrs. Dynamite,
me calling you my Sweet Dragon, you calling me
your little Red Corvette. Instead, time found a way
to demand each minute, until one night,
after you'd gotten a small windfall in the mail,
you turned to me and said, I'm going to take you to Paris,
me in my ratty robe and floppy slippers, you
in your flannel pj bottoms and black wife beater,
muting the clicker when I said "What?"
and saying it again. Then we were there,
in our 60s, standing below the dire Eiffel Tower,
its 81 stories of staircases we couldn't possibly climb,
its 73 thousand tons of puddled iron, you
taking my picture for posterity, me
kissing you beneath the pathway of arched trees,
our voices echoing against the six million skulls
embedded inside the stone catacombs, me
saying, I guess you weren't kidding, you
taking my hand in the rain.
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