關(guān)于英語(yǔ)詩(shī)歌演講朗誦稿
關(guān)于英語(yǔ)詩(shī)歌演講朗誦稿
英語(yǔ)詩(shī)歌是英國(guó)文學(xué)的精粹,更是世界文學(xué)的瑰寶,集中體現(xiàn)了詩(shī)歌形式美與非形式美的高度統(tǒng)一并傳遞了詩(shī)歌的美學(xué)價(jià)值,給人以音樂美、視覺美、意象美。本文是關(guān)于英語(yǔ)詩(shī)歌，希望對(duì)大家有幫助!
關(guān)于英語(yǔ)詩(shī)歌：Road Trip
Road Trip
Davis McCombs
Over the singed and brittle roadside stalks,
over cotton, corn and stubble,
our car's dark bug-shape slithers.
Over the metal drainpipe, over the oil rig,
and the burned field where a windmill
cranks its pinch of rust, we are
a hurried sweep of shadow, a sleek chromatic
gleam the cold sun follows
with its blue-orange dot of concentration.
We scurry like a flea across the hide of something
both immense and underfed,
a creature from the mind’s culvert,
an animal concocted out of barbed-wire ribs
and cockleburs, the grass its rippling fur
through which our small wake passes like a shiver.
關(guān)于英語(yǔ)詩(shī)歌：The Names of the Trees
Laura Kasischke
I passed this place once long ago
when a man lived here with his four
daughters, peacefully, it seemed. Those
daughters took turns washing
dishes, doing laundry. Frothy pearls and
feathers in a sink. Soft
socks, warm towels, folded, clean, in
closets, drawers, and baskets, and
on shelves. To me
this was astonishing. The laundry
done by daughters! No
mother in the house at all. A weeping
willow grew in their back-
yard, but it was not a symbol then.
It could not have been
because this was the only tree
I knew the name of yet -- unless it was a tree
that bore familiar fruit. Like
an apple tree, a mulberry. This
willow's branches did not seem to be
branches at all to me, but
ribbons dangling loosely, tangling
girlishly. If there was any weeping, it
was inaudible to me. (Was
I supposed to see it?) One
of the daughters was only
a year ahead of me, and she
invited me (once) inside because
she wanted to play house with me. When
I confessed I wasn't sure what playing
house might mean, this girl
said she would teach me.
She was Mother for this reason.
I was the family dog. She
told me to eat Froot Loops
from a bowl on the kitchen floor
while on my hands and knees. We
laughed when I couldn't do it. But when
I was Mother, she
couldn't do it either.
That there was laughter!
A blue tablecloth.
Salt and pepper shakers shaped
like hands, which, put
together, appeared to pray. When
I was thirsty, another daughter poured
a cup of water for me, pouring
water with such confidence it
seemed to me that she
might have poured the first water
from the first tap. When, out
of curiosity, I went
into their bathroom and pretended to pee
I witnessed toilet paper printed with
forget-me-nots, along with a little dish
that held a piece of pink soap in it.
And, when, after this, I couldn't sleep
for three nights in a row, my
mother finally gave up
trying to comfort me.
關(guān)于英語(yǔ)詩(shī)歌：Famous Negro Athletes
Famous Negro Athletes
Adrian Matejka
after Jean-Michel Basquiat
We are all famous Sunday mornings at the Y.
That magnificent & rattled-rim space of big·timing
Sundays. Gym bag hung over the shoulder
of a matching sweatshirt Sundays. Touch one toe
then the other if you can kind of days. Ball shoes
crisp in the bag & What up, team? we say.
For real, on Sundays, we're sweating in quintuplicate
like a grinning team portrait. Knees swollen as roundly
as the composite basketball we play with. & sometimes,
the shoe-string glance from the trainer up front, the
straight up & down of would-be ballers orbiting the ball
court like paparazzi & handshake laughs at bad passes
have to be adequate when your jumper is so far off
somebody should staple flyers to telephone poles for it.
關(guān)于英語(yǔ)詩(shī)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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