關(guān)于長(zhǎng)篇經(jīng)典英文詩朗誦
詩歌是一種典型的文學(xué)形式,它既屬于文學(xué),又是一種藝術(shù)。古今中外,對(duì)于詩歌的研究從未間斷,我們?cè)谘芯康倪^程中發(fā)現(xiàn)詩歌的美,同時(shí)又在前人研究的基礎(chǔ)上創(chuàng)造出更好的詩歌作品。學(xué)習(xí)啦小編整理了關(guān)于長(zhǎng)篇經(jīng)典英文詩，歡迎閱讀!
關(guān)于長(zhǎng)篇經(jīng)典英文詩篇一
Sticks
by Thomas Sayers Ellis
My father was an enormous man
Who believed kindness and lack of size
Were nothing more than sissified
Signs of weakness. Narrow-minded，
His eyes were the worst kind
Of jury — deliberate， distant， hard.
No one could out-shout him
Or make bigger fists. The few
Who tried got taken for bad，
Beat down， their bodies slammed.
I wanted to be just like him：
Big man， man of the house， king.
A plagiarist， hitting the things he hit，
I learned to use my hands watching him
Use his， pretending to slap mother
When he slapped mother.
He was sick. A diabetic slept
Like a silent vowel inside his well-built，
Muscular， dark body. Hard as all that
With similar weaknesses
— I discovered writing，
How words are parts of speech
With beats and breaths of their own.
Interjections like flams. Wham! Bam!
An heir to the rhythm
And tension beneath the beatings，
My first attempts were filled with noise，
Wild solos， violent uncontrollable blows.
The page tightened like a drum
Resisting the clockwise twisting
Of a handheld chrome key，
The noisy banging and tuning of growth
關(guān)于長(zhǎng)篇經(jīng)典英文詩篇二
Stonemason
by James O'Hern
My stonemason John says
he uses Elberton granite from Georgia
It has the best grain and lasts the longest
How long is long I ask
Oh he says a thousand years
I want more than hard gray stone
to guard her silence
I want stone that stays alive
a megalith jammed deep into earth
an antenna to amplify the signals
emitted from her ash and bone
I went to Ireland
looking for the perfect stone
found stone cottages and monuments
mountains and fields of stone
continuous rows of stonewalls
wound round the island like an offering
I found stone carvings of mermaids
and ancient unnamed river gods
a Sheela-na-Gig I thought I recognized
having seen her name
on the walls of a cave in the Dordogne
along with her portrait cut and shaped
on the rounded surface of soft white stone
There are no stones
where my mother and I were born
only the jagged edges of memory
ground down by the desert molcajete
to caliche and polished round pebbles
leaving no trace of history
but an abandoned pulque farm
an adobe jail
and a dried up river bed
關(guān)于長(zhǎng)篇經(jīng)典英文詩篇三
Stone Bird
by Pattiann Rogers
I remember you. You‘re the one
who lifted your ancient bones
of fossil rock， pulled yourself free
of the strata like a plaster figure
rising from its own mold， became
flesh and feather， took wing，
arrested the sky.
You‘re the one who， though marble，
floated as beautifully as a white
blossom on the pond all summer，
who， though skeletal and particled
like winter， glimmered as solid as a bird
of cut crystal in the icy trees.
You are redbird—sandstone
wings and agate eyes—at dusk.
You are greybird—polished granite
and pearl eyes—just before dawn，
midnight bird with a reflective
vacancy of heart like a mirror
of pure obsidian.
You‘re the one who flew down
to that river from the heavens，
as if your form alone were the only
holy message needed. You were alabaster
then in the noonday sun.
Once I saw you rise without rising
from your prison pedestal
in the garden beneath the lime tree.
At that moment your ghost
in its haunting permeated every
regality of the forest with light，
reigned with disdain in thin air
above the mountain， sank in union
with the crosswinds of the sea.
I remember you. You‘re the one
who entered in through my death
as if it were an open window
and you were the sound of the serenade
being sung outside for me， the words
of which， I know now， are of freedom
cast in stone forever.
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