關(guān)于經(jīng)典英語(yǔ)詩(shī)歌精選
關(guān)于經(jīng)典英語(yǔ)詩(shī)歌精選
英語(yǔ)詩(shī)歌的特點(diǎn)是短小精悍,語(yǔ)言簡(jiǎn)練,注重押韻,具有豐富的想象力,是英語(yǔ)文學(xué)中的瑰寶。詩(shī)歌朗讀、學(xué)習(xí)詩(shī)歌、并進(jìn)行詩(shī)歌創(chuàng)作和翻譯過(guò)程中都是一種美的感受,能夠讓學(xué)生體會(huì)其特有的韻律美,盡情發(fā)揮想象,馳騁在詩(shī)歌的海洋中。本文是關(guān)于經(jīng)典英語(yǔ)詩(shī)歌，希望對(duì)大家有幫助!
關(guān)于經(jīng)典英語(yǔ)詩(shī)歌：Semblance: Screens
Liz Waldner
A moth lies open and lies
like an old bleached beech leaf,
a lean-to between window frame and sill.
Its death protects a collection of tinier deaths
and other dirts beneath.
Although the white paint is water-stained,
on it death is dirt, and hapless.
The just-severed tiger lily
is drinking its glass of water, I hope.
This hope is sere.
This hope is severe.
What you ruin ruins you, too
and so you hope for favor.
I mean I do.
The underside of a ladybug
wanders the window. I wander
the continent, my under-carriage not as evident,
so go more perilously, it seems to me.
But I am only me; to you it seems clear
I mean to disappear, and am mean
and project on you my fear.
If I were a bug, I hope I wouldn't be
this giant winged thing, spindly like a crane fly,
skinny-legged like me, kissing the cold ceiling,
fumbling for the face of the other, seeking.
It came in with me last night when I turned on the light.
I lay awake, afraid it would touch my face.
It wants out. I want out, too.
I thought you a way through.
Arms wide for wings,
your suffering mine, twinned.
Screen. Your unbelief drives me in,
doubt for dirt, white sheet for sill --
You don't stay other enough or still
enough to be likened to.
關(guān)于經(jīng)典英語(yǔ)詩(shī)歌：Stand by Me
David St. John
When the solace of angels is named,
When the winds blister the academy,
When the first lesions of winter light
Scrawl their paths across the black sheet
Of the bed beneath the skylight,
When the algebras of my past repeat
Themselves drunkenly on into the night,
When the lemon peels twist
At the edge of the porcelain saucer,
When the door is closed behind me,
When the stilettos all stand at attention
The moment I step onto the subway,
When my future's looking dim,
Stand by me
no matter
The declensions of light along the shore,
No matter the new color of my hair,
No matter the tattoo I've solicited
In a bar fight over nothing,
No matter the earrings on the dresser top,
No matter the motion of my body against yours
Breaking its own rainbow,
No matter what,
stand by me;
If some innocent misanthropy unties me
From my new suede shoes,
If the many travellers within me all
Depart together, or if the one who's most
Rude & surly returns to you alone,
If every word I've lifted with such effort
Hangs in its residue of ash,
If there's still some consequence in this,
Stand by me;
after the music
Rasps its way out of my chambered bones,
After the shuffle I'm famous for is reduced
To nothing but the white tracings
Of shoes on a sidewalk,
Numbered 1, 2, & 3 ...
After the legato which will leave me alone,
After the third day of prolonged applause,
After the newscasters impress upon me
The transitory nature of all earthly fame,
After my make-up begins to run like
Stigmata in the shadow of the klieg lights,
After the night before the night
You decide it really isn't
Worth it anymore,
stand by me;
Because the antiphony of my conscience
Has become quite enough,
Because you remember me believing
Whatever it was that I believed,
Because it's getting late no matter which
Country, heart or clock we consult,
Because the outfield is moving in,
Because even the women on the Pirelli
Calendar are looking grim,
Because everyone has to forgive someone,
Because I miss you & it matters,
Because no one else wears the morning
Quite so well, stand by me, please;
Stand by me.
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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