關(guān)于有趣的英文詩歌欣賞
英語詩歌因其節(jié)奏、思想意義及藝術(shù)價(jià)值,在英語教學(xué)中占有一席之地。學(xué)習(xí)啦小編整理了關(guān)于有趣的英文詩歌，歡迎閱讀!
關(guān)于有趣的英文詩歌篇一
Next Door
by Joan Selinger Sidney
Oaks drag alongside the road，
weighted by yesterday‘s snow.
There‘s Frauka walking alone，
the hood of her parka
snow-lit against the trees.
I pull over. How is he? But before
I can answer， I see them last
summer： Frauka， and Father
leaning on Mother， wanting to believe
her will can make him well.
Sitting on the lawn，
pretending to read， I am unable
to tell them， My legs won‘t walk.
Go on without me.
Eleven years I‘ve protected them—
Holocaust survivors—by not naming
my disease. Wishing them dead
before they‘d see me in a wheelchair.
Frauka whispers， My younger brother
died one day before your father.
Tears rim her eyes， her slim
body shivers in the wind.
For a moment we are closer
in our sorrow than we‘ve ever been
關(guān)于有趣的英文詩歌篇二
Next Day
by Randall Jarrell
Moving from Cheer to Joy， from Joy to All，
I take a box
And add it to my wild rice， my Cornish game hens.
The slacked or shorted， basketed， identical
Food-gathering flocks
Are selves I overlook. Wisdom， said William James，
Is learning what to overlook. And I am wise
If that is wisdom.
Yet somehow， as I buy All from these shelves
And the boy takes it to my station wagon，
What I've become
Troubles me even if I shut my eyes.
When I was young and miserable and pretty
And poor， I'd wish
What all girls wish： to have a husband，
A house and children. Now that I'm old， my wish
Is womanish：
That the boy putting groceries in my car
See me. It bewilders me he doesn't see me.
For so many years
I was good enough to eat： the world looked at me
And its mouth watered. How often they have undressed me，
The eyes of strangers!
And， holding their flesh within my flesh， their vile
Imaginings within my imagining，
I too have taken
The chance of life. Now the boy pats my dog
And we start home. Now I am good.
The last mistaken，
Ecstatic， accidental bliss， the blind
Happiness that， bursting， leaves upon the palm
Some soap and water——
It was so long ago， back in some Gay
Twenties， Nineties， I don't know . . . Today I miss
My lovely daughter
Away at school， my sons away at school，
My husband away at work——I wish for them.
The dog， the maid，
And I go through the sure unvarying days
At home in them. As I look at my life，
I am afraid
Only that it will change， as I am changing：
I am afraid， this morning， of my face.
It looks at me
From the rear-view mirror， with the eyes I hate，
The smile I hate. Its plain， lined look
Of gray discovery
Repeats to me： "You're old." That's all， I'm old.
And yet I'm afraid， as I was at the funeral
I went to yesterday.
My friend's cold made-up face， granite among its flowers，
Her undressed， operated-on， dressed body
Were my face and body.
As I think of her I hear her telling me
How young I seem; I am exceptional;
I think of all I have.
But really no one is exceptional，
No one has anything， I'm anybody，
I stand beside my grave
Confused with my life， that is commonplace and solitary.
關(guān)于有趣的英文詩歌篇三
Niggerlips
by Martín Espada
Niggerlips was the high school name for me.
So called by Douglas
the car mechanic， with green tattoos
on each forearm，
and the choir of round pink faces
that grinned deliciously
from the back row of classrooms，
droned over by teachers
checking attendance too slowly.
Douglas would brag
about cruising his car
near sidewalks of black children
to point an unloaded gun，
to scare niggers
like crows off a tree，
he'd say.
My great-grandfather Luis
was un negrito too，
a shoemaker in the coffee hills
of Puerto Rico， 1900.
The family called him a secret
and kept no photograph.
My father remembers
the childhood white powder
that failed to bleach
his stubborn copper skin，
and the family says
he is still a fly in milk.
So Niggerlips has the mouth
of his great-grandfather，
the song he must have sung
as he pounded the leather and nails，
the heat that courses through copper，
the stubbornness of a fly in milk，
and all you have， Douglas，
is that unloaded gun.
關(guān)于有趣的英文詩歌篇四
One Petition Lofted into the Ginkos
by Gabriel Gudding
For the train-wrecked， the puck-struck，the viciously punched，
he pole-vaulter whose pole snapped in ascent.
For his asphalt-face，his capped-off scream，
God bless his dad in the stands.
For the living dog in the median
car-struck and shuddering on crumpled haunches，
eyes large as plates， seeing nothing， but looking，looking.
For the blessed pigeon who threw himself from the cliff
after plucking out his feathers just to taste a failing death.
For the poisoned， scalded， and gassed， the bayoneted，
the bit and blind-sided，asthmatic veteran who just before his first date in years
and years swallowed his own glass eye.
For these and all and all the drunk，
Imagine a handful of quarters chucked up at sunset，
lofted into the ginkgos and there，at apogee，
while the whole ringing wad pauses， pink-lit，
about to seed the penny-colored earth with an hour's wages
As shining， ringing， brief， and cheap as a prayer should be
Imagine it all falling into some dark machine brimming with nurses，
nutrices ex machina and they blustering out with juices and gauze，
peaches and brushes，to patch such dents and wounds.
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