關于最經典優(yōu)美的英文詩歌
關于最經典優(yōu)美的英文詩歌
英語詩歌是英語語言與文學的精華。開展英語詩歌教學能提高學生英語語言基礎知識水平、寫作水平,有助于學生西方歷史文化的學習,提高學生的想象力,也有助于對學生的道德教育。小編精心收集了關于最經典優(yōu)美的英文詩歌，供大家欣賞學習!
關于最經典優(yōu)美的英文詩歌篇1
Portrait of Madame Monet on Her Deathbed
by Mary Rose O'Reilley
Monet confided to his journal， "All the while she was dying， I could not stop painting her face."
—Monet at Vétheuil
He will paint her again as grain;
now she is fog
the chantilly fog of the Seine：
avoiding no hint of the slow dissolve，
the bandage around her jaw，
rigor's cramp at the lip，
how death abraded and hollowed her，
while he remembered light.
Had he a failed heart
or a wholly transfigured eye
that knew her tonight as water
convulsion and sky?
that stared through layers of the body
at more than it took to die?
關于最經典優(yōu)美的英文詩歌篇2
On a Line from Valéry (The Gulf War)
by Carolyn Kizer
The whole green sky is dying. The last tree flares
With a great burst of supernatural rose
Under a canopy of poisonous airs.
Could we imagine our return to prayers
To end in time before time's final throes，
The green sky dying as the last tree flares?
But we were young in judgement， old in years
Who could make peace; but it was war we chose，
To spread its canopy of poisoning airs.
Not all our children's pleas and women's fears
Could steer us from this hell. And now God knows
His whole green sky is dying as it flares.
Our crops of wheat have turned to fields of tares.
This dreadful century staggers to its close
And the sky dies for us， its poisoned heirs.
All rain was dust. Its granules were our tears.
Throats burst as universal winter rose
To kill the whole green sky， the last tree bare
Beneath its canopy of poisoned air.
關于最經典優(yōu)美的英文詩歌篇3
Portrait of God on Work Release
by Peter Jay Shippy
I walk in the park and select a maple leaf.
With my Sharpie I write：YOU ARE HERE.
Carefully， I place the leaf back where I found it.
關于最經典優(yōu)美的英文詩歌篇4
On a Night Like This
by Michael Teig
When he couldn't sleep and his sight got going
he noted the colors on the back of each painting;
this one forest blue， that gunpowder，
one blue to make the yellow tell，
and one bluer than that.
Certain nights only the rain will have
its say， troubling the downspout.
When morning came
he chose a white shirt
(they're all white) and followed the buttons down.
At least he says there is Billie Holiday
and the plants bring every green with them.
When I make his breakfast， the bed，
sweep the house out with a broom，
he stands by the window longer than one should.
I know he believes in progress
even if it's the kind you can't see.
When his sons grew tall and remote
and moved to cities he'd barely heard of，
he talked to them on Sundays.
Though perhaps it's too late
a silk rose in his lapel.
When I came back some nights
I saw him caught beneath a streetlamp
talking with the girl he loved turning his palm over
like a phrase he couldn't remember.
I saw the night come down around them one hand turning
and how she turned in the dark
and smiled， blue scarf on her head，
blue dog at her feet， blue attic between the stars.
關于最經典優(yōu)美的英文詩歌篇5
On Becoming a Poet in the 1950s
by Stephen Beal
There was love and there was trees.
Either you could stay inside and probe your emotions
or you could go outside and keenly observe nature.
Describe the sheen on carapaces，
the effect of breeze on grass.
What's the fag doing now? Dad would say.
Picking the nose of his heart?
Wanking off on a daffodil?
He's not homosexual， Mom would retort， using her apron as a potholder to
remove the apple brown betty from the oven.
He's sensitive. He cares.
He wishes to impart values and standards to an indifferent world.
Wow! said Dad， stomping off to the pantry for another scotch. Two poets in
the family. Ain't I a lucky duck?
As fate would have it， I became one of your tweedy English teachers， what
Dad would call a daffodil-wanker，
and Mom ended up doing needlepoint， seventy-two kneelers for St. Fred's
before she expired of the heart broken on the afternoon that Dad
roared off with the Hell's Angels.
We heard a little from Big Sur. A beard. Tattoos. A girlfriend named Strawberry.
A boyfriend named Thor.
Bars and pot and coffeehouses， stuff like that.
After years of quotation by younger poets， admiration but no real notice，
Dad is making the anthologies now.
Critics cite his primal rage， the way he nails Winnetka.
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