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學(xué)習(xí)啦 > 學(xué)習(xí)英語 > 英語閱讀 > 英語詩歌 > 關(guān)于經(jīng)典英語詩歌朗誦

關(guān)于經(jīng)典英語詩歌朗誦

時間: 韋彥867 分享

關(guān)于經(jīng)典英語詩歌朗誦

  選用合適的英語詩歌進行基礎(chǔ)階段的教學(xué)可以在培養(yǎng)學(xué)生的聽、說、讀、寫等諸方面起著十分積極的作用,能激發(fā)學(xué)生對語言本身的興趣和熱愛。學(xué)習(xí)啦小編分享關(guān)于經(jīng)典英語詩歌,希望可以幫助大家!

  關(guān)于經(jīng)典英語詩歌:Thick Description

  Eleanor Chai

  I cut lines of ink as I read through the night.

  I imagine the margins on pages are slim wings

  between plankton and stars. I find what I need

  in far sources. I make them intimate,

  I make them mine with the speed of light.

  He was seventeen, just a man, still a boy and ready to die.

  A true sacrifice, a living encounter --

  This father has paid

  the sum of a daughter's dowry for his son to be consecrated

  with a rod through his cheeks and tongue. The boy's face,

  his mouth pierced and gaping, hangs on the page, helpless.

  His clove-jelly eyes float and metamorphose into my mother's

  eyes, eyes I can't possibly remember without images like his --

  images forbidden, seized and smuggled into my life.

  I can make anything mean what I need to find.

  The stolen scrap, the plosive glance saturated in

  longing is not looking at me: I am looking at it.

  Every description is thick with a will to revivify --

  reclaim, renounce, rename what is sought.

  Blind hunger drives when I read. A scream, the echo of

  a scream, hangs over that Nova Scotian village ... and bit

  by bit a village I've never seen swells into me. The ovoid

  mouth of my mother's life, its slivering silence exists

  in that scream -- unheard, in memory. She came alive

  forever -- not loud, just alive forever redeemed from her never

  with no speech. A noun transformed to modify

  action revived her, returned her to me.

  The words as they lay may refuse to say what you need.

  Drop to your knees. Crawl beneath the overhanging,

  the dangling down. Stroke the described,

  from underneath. It reeks of the atavistic

  to live. It survives by swallowing.

  關(guān)于經(jīng)典英語詩歌:The Trespass Fetches Herself for Sacrifice

  HeidiLynn Nilsson

  We are not surprised,

  those of us who are made,

  we've been told,

  in God's image,

  that our God, who has

  neither tissue nor tail,

  is a jealous God.

  What makes us

  snappish, after all, about God

  is impeccability but

  if jealousy makes us

  also Godlike, and if that's

  where our love turned wrong,

  then light with light, loss with loss,

  on the strict and ruined earth,

  someone gets the very thing

  he longs for -- and who

  will let him? Lord I'm

  desolate enough --

  I see the fire

  starving on a switch

  after all of those years

  making for him

  myself into a forest.

  關(guān)于經(jīng)典英語詩歌: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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