超級(jí)經(jīng)典的英文詩(shī)歌欣賞
超級(jí)經(jīng)典的英文詩(shī)歌欣賞
詩(shī)歌是人類的語(yǔ)言瑰寶,可以提高人的精神修養(yǎng)、藝術(shù)修養(yǎng)和語(yǔ)言修養(yǎng)。學(xué)習(xí)啦小編整理了超級(jí)經(jīng)典的英文詩(shī)歌，歡迎閱讀!
超級(jí)經(jīng)典的英文詩(shī)歌篇一
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.
超級(jí)經(jīng)典的英文詩(shī)歌篇二
Such a Good Dancer
by Douglas Goetsch
Desperate to be part of the night，
we jerked like a bunch of spazzes
to that screaming eunuch， Michael Jackson.
Randi Muelbach kept remarking
You're such a good dancer!
drawing closer， letting me grab her
saggy ass. My boogying was a sort
of two-step hip gyration while holding
my plastic cup of grain alcohol level.
I had perfected the arm that remained still，
kept it out like a bird feeder. Randi
glued elbows to waist and swung
forearms， hands and hips furiously.
She was sweating something fierce.
Her perfume was foul swamp flowers.
From the futon on her floor I watched
her pull her dress over her head.
Fat and sadly flat-chested，
legs already bluing with veins， thick
knees knocked in， the way the back
wheels of a Volkswagen buckle with a load.
Disgusted with myself——two years
in college and still a virgin——I would
stick my dick in a girl and end that.
As she stepped out of her underwear
I said， After tonight I don't want us
to ever talk again. OK?
That's what I said.
She looked down at me and said
Sure， like it was nothing.
Through the cinderblock walls
I could hear that whole dorm writhing
on a Saturday night. Even Kim Putnam，
the born again who wore only long skirts
and was losing her hair， was getting banged
and moaning like a wild woman.
Sometimes it sounded like a crowd
ooh-ing and ahh-ing at a car accident;
sometimes I heard the night as one fuck
xeroxed and traveling room to room
like a rumor， or luck——good or bad，
either way， I wriggled and fought
on top of Randi Muelbach，
who kept whispering in my ear
Such a good dancer.
超級(jí)經(jīng)典的英文詩(shī)歌篇三
Summer Holiday
by Robinson Jeffers
When the sun shouts and people abound
One thinks there were the ages of stone and the age of
bronze
And the iron age; iron the unstable metal;
Steel made of iron， unstable as his mother; the tow-
ered-up cities
Will be stains of rust on mounds of plaster.
Roots will not pierce the heaps for a time， kind rains
will cure them，
Then nothing will remain of the iron age
And all these people but a thigh-bone or so， a poem
Stuck in the world's thought， splinters of glass
In the rubbish dumps， a concrete dam far off in the
mountain……
超級(jí)經(jīng)典的英文詩(shī)歌篇四
Suicide of a Moderate Dictator
by Elizabeth Bishop
This is a day when truths will out， perhaps;
leak from the dangling telephone earphones
sapping the festooned switchboards' strength;
fall from the windows， blow from off the sills，
—the vague， slight unremarkable contents
of emptying ash-trays; rub off on our fingers
like ink from the un-proof-read newspapers，
crocking the way the unfocused photographs
of crooked faces do that soil our coats，
our tropical-wight coats， like slapped-at moths.
Today's a day when those who work
are idling. Those who played must work
and hurry， too， to get it downe，
with little dignity or none.
The newspapers are sold; the kiosk shutters
crash down. But anyway， in the night
the headlines wrote themselves， see， on the streets
and sidewalks everywhere; a sediment's splashed
even to the first floors of apartment houses.
This is a day that's beautiful as well，
warm and clear. At seven o'clock I saw
the dogs being walked along the famous beach
as usual， in a shiny gray-green dawn，
leaving their paw prints draining in the wet.
The line of breakers was steady and the pinkish，
segmented rainbow steadily hung above it.
At eight， two little boys were flying kites.
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