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學(xué)習(xí)啦 > 學(xué)習(xí)英語(yǔ) > 英語(yǔ)閱讀 > 英語(yǔ)詩(shī)歌 > 精美英文詩(shī)歌兩首

精美英文詩(shī)歌兩首

時(shí)間: 焯杰674 分享

精美英文詩(shī)歌兩首

  英語(yǔ)詩(shī)歌是英語(yǔ)語(yǔ)言的精華。它以最凝練的文字傳遞時(shí)間與空間、物質(zhì)與精神、理智與情感。詩(shī)歌本身包含的豐富社會(huì)生活內(nèi)容和藝術(shù)內(nèi)涵,詩(shī)歌語(yǔ)言的獨(dú)特的美與和諧都使它們具有無(wú)窮的魅力。下面學(xué)習(xí)啦小編為大家?guī)?lái)精美英文詩(shī)歌兩首,歡迎大家閱讀!

  精美英文詩(shī)歌:My Life's Calling

  My life's calling, setting fires.

  Here in a hearth so huge

  I can stand inside and shove

  the wood around with my

  bare hands while church bells

  deal the hours down through

  the chimney. No more

  woodcutter, creel for the fire

  or architect, the five staves

  pitched like rifles over stone.

  But to be mistro-elemental.

  The flute of clay playing

  my breath that riles the flames,

  the fire risen to such dreaming

  sung once from landlords' attics.

  Sung once the broken lyres,

  seasoned and green.

  Even the few things I might save,

  my mother's letters,

  locks of my children's hair

  here handed over like the keys

  to a foreclosure, my robes

  remanded, and furniture

  dragged out into the yard,

  my bedsheets hoisted up the pine,

  whereby the house sets sail.

  And I am standing on a cliff

  above the sea, a paper light,

  a lantern. No longer mine

  to count the wrecks.

  Who rode the ships in ringing,

  marrying rock the waters

  storm to break the door,

  looked through the fire, beheld

  a clearing there. This is what

  you are. What you've come to.

  精美英文詩(shī)歌:La Coursier de Jeanne D'Arc

  You know that they burned her horse

  before her. Though it is not recorded,

  you know that they burned her Percheron

  first, before her eyes, because you

  know that story, so old that story,

  the routine story, carried to its

  extreme, of the cruelty that can make

  of what a woman hears a silence,

  that can make of what a woman sees

  a lie. She had no son for them to burn,

  for them to take from her in the world

  not of her making and put to its pyre,

  so they layered a greater one in front of

  where she was staked to her own——

  as you have seen her pictured sometimes,

  her eyes raised to the sky. But they were

  not raised. This is yet one of their lies.

  They were not closed. Though her hands

  were bound behind her, and her feet were

  bound deep in what would become fire,

  she watched. Of greenwood stakes

  head-high and thicker than a man's waist

  they laced the narrow corral that would not

  burn until flesh had burned, until

  bone was burning, and laid it thick

  with tinder——fatted wicks and sulphur,

  kindling and logs——and ran a ramp

  up to its height from where the gray horse

  waited, his dapples making of his flesh

  a living metal, layers of life

  through which the light shone out

  in places as it seems to through the flesh

  of certain fish, a light she knew

  as purest, coming, like that, from within.

  Not flinching, not praying, she looked

  the last time on the body she knew

  better than the flesh of any man, or child,

  or woman, having long since left the lap

  of her mother——the chest with its

  perfect plates of muscle, the neck

  with its perfect, prow-like curve,

  the hindquarters'——pistons——powerful cleft

  pennoned with the silk of his tail.

  Having ridden as they did together

  ——those places, that hard, that long——

  their eyes found easiest that day

  the way to each other, their bodies

  wedded in a sacrament unmediated

  by man. With fire they drove him

  up the ramp and off into the pyre

  and tossed the flame in with him.

  This was the last chance they gave her

  to recant her world, in which their power

  came not from God. Unmoved, the Men

  of God began watching him burn, and better,

  watching her watch him burn, hearing

  the long mad godlike trumpet of his terror,

  his crashing in the wood, the groan

  of stakes that held, the silverblack hide,

  the pricked ears catching first

  like driest bark, and the eyes.

  and she knew, by this agony, that she

  might choose to live still, if she would

  but make her sign on the parchment

  they would lay before her, which now

  would include this new truth: that it

  did not happen, this death in the circle,

  the rearing, plunging, raging, the splendid

  armour-colored head raised one last time

  above the flames before they took him

  ——like any game untended on the spit——into

  their yellow-green, their blackening red.

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