關(guān)于適合朗誦的英文詩歌欣賞
文學(xué)是一種語言藝術(shù),詩歌又歷來被視作文學(xué)的最高形式。學(xué)習(xí)英語詩歌不但有助于開闊視野,陶冶性情,而且對(duì)于英語學(xué)習(xí)有很大幫助。小編精心收集了關(guān)于適合朗誦的英文詩歌，供大家欣賞學(xué)習(xí)!
關(guān)于適合朗誦的英文詩歌篇1
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)于適合朗誦的英文詩歌篇2
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)于適合朗誦的英文詩歌篇3
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)于適合朗誦的英文詩歌篇4
The Mind Is Its Own Place
Ann Townsend
Mated and unmated,
starlings swarm the willow
with their devotions
until the tree roils
and sways, wing-beats
sounding the torrent
through which they swim.
Dopamine, paroxetine,
an injection of adrenaline
into the bloodstream:
these deliver the dissident
fuel I crave for the mind's
pleasure, and for its pain.
Call it one song indispensable
to trouble the branching
arteries. The willow divinates
toward water, switching
in the breeze; it grazes
the edge but cannot
rest there. My fingertips
pressed against my temples:
ten points of sensation,
a vaulted cage where
starlings congregate
to rustle their chaos,
their alphabet blown to bits
in the wind's rush.
Yes, you heard me.
Like an aviary, Plato said,
the mind is full of birds.
關(guān)于適合朗誦的英文詩歌篇5
The Halo
C. Dale Young
In the paintings left to us
by the Old Masters, the halo,
a smallish cloud of light, clung
to the head, carefully framed the faces
of mere mortals made divine.
Accident? My body launched
by a car's incalculable momentum?
It ended up outside the car. I had no idea then
what it was like to lose days, to wake
and find everything had changed.
Through glass, this body went
through the glass window, the seatbelt
snapping my neck. Not the hanged man,
not a man made divine but more human.
I remember those pins buried in my skull,
the cold metal frame surrounding my head,
metal reflecting a small fire, a glow. All
was changed. In that bed, I was a locust.
I was starving. And how could I not be?
I, I . . . I am still ravenous.
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