關(guān)于簡(jiǎn)單好背的英文詩(shī)
關(guān)于簡(jiǎn)單好背的英文詩(shī)
詩(shī)歌朗讀、學(xué)習(xí)詩(shī)歌、并進(jìn)行詩(shī)歌創(chuàng)作和翻譯過(guò)程中都是一種美的感受,能夠讓學(xué)生體會(huì)其特有的韻律美,盡情發(fā)揮想象,馳騁在詩(shī)歌的海洋中。學(xué)習(xí)啦小編整理了關(guān)于簡(jiǎn)單好背的英文詩(shī)，歡迎閱讀!
關(guān)于簡(jiǎn)單好背的英文詩(shī)篇1
Twenty Twenty Vision
by Mark Ford
Unwinding in a cavernous bodega he suddenly
Burst out：——Barman， these tumblers empty themselves
And yet I persist; I am wedged in the giant eye
Of an invisible needle. Walking through doors
Or into them， listening to anecdotes or myself spinning
A yarn， I realize my doom is never to forget
My lost bearings. In medias res we begin
And end： I was born， and then my body unfurled
As if to illustrate a few tiny but effective words
But——oh my oh my——avaunt. I peered
Forth， stupefied， from the bushes as the sun set
Behind distant hills. A pair of hungry owls
Saluted the arrival of webby darkness; the dew
Descended upon the creeping ferns. At first
My sticky blood refused to flow， gathering instead
In wax-like drops and pools; mixed with water and a dram
Of colourless alcohol it thinned and reluctantly
Ebbed away. I lay emptied as a fallen
Leaf until startled awake by a blinding flash
Of dry lightning， and the onset of this terrible thirst.
關(guān)于簡(jiǎn)單好背的英文詩(shī)篇2
September
by Joanne Kyger
The grasses are light brown
and ocean comes in
long shimmering lines
under the fleet from last night
which dozes now in the early morning
Here and there horses graze
On somebody's acreage
Strangely， it was not my desire
that bade me speak in church to be released
but memory of the way it used to be in
careless and exotic play
when characters were promises
then recognitions. The world of transformation
is real and not real but trusting.
Enough of the lessons? I mean
didactic phrases to take you in and out of
love's mysterious bonds?
Well I myself am not myself
and which power of survival I speak
for is not made of houses.
It is inner luxury， of golden figures
that breathe like mountains do
and whose skin is made dusky by stars.
O fresh day in February
Come along
with me under pine whose new cones
make flowers. In a mellow mood
let's take anything
and you're better
in the peaceful flowing
in the bech
in the bird who flys up
out of coyote bush，
bob cat who crosses the road.
For who could think I could see
the grace of other souls born， and reborn
before in crab shells
snail shells， the head of a grebe
molesin， new onions up. Drawn by
your clever sleigh of tortoise
I listen for the melody
to sing along.
關(guān)于簡(jiǎn)單好背的英文詩(shī)篇3
Sakura Park
by Rachel Wetzsteon
The park admits the wind，
the petals lift and scatter
like versions of myself I was on the verge
of becoming; and ten years on
and ten blocks down I still can‘t tell
whether this dispersal resembles
a fist unclenching or waving goodbye.
But the petals scatter faster，
seeking the rose， the cigarette vendor，
and at least I‘ve got by pumping heart
some rules of conduct： refuse to choose
between turning pages and turning heads
though the stubborn dine alone. Get over
“getting over”： dark clouds don‘t fade
but drift with ever deeper colors.
Give up on rooted happiness
(the stolid trees on fire!) and sweet reprieve
(a poor park but my own) will follow.
There is still a chance the empty gazebo
will draw crowds from the greater world.
And meanwhile， meanwhile‘s far from nothing：
the humming moment， the rustle of cherry trees
關(guān)于簡(jiǎn)單好背的英文詩(shī)篇4
To the Tune of "Telling My Most Intimate Feelings"
by Li Ch'ing-chao (Translated by Arthur Sze)
When night comes，
I am so flushed with wine，
I undo my hair slowly：
a plum calyx is
stuck on a damaged branch.
I wake dazed when smoke
breaks my spring sleep.
The dream distant，
so very distant;
and it is quiet， so very quiet.
The moon spins and spins.
The kingfisher blinds are drawn;
and yet I rub the injured bud，
and yet I twist in my fingers this fragrance，
and yet I possess these moments of time!
關(guān)于簡(jiǎn)單好背的英文詩(shī)篇5
Salmon
by Kim Addonizio
In this shallow creek
they flop and writhe forward as the dead
float back toward them. Oh， I know
what I should say： fierce burning in the body
as her eggs burst free， milky cloud
of sperm as he quickens them. I should stand
on the bridge with my camera，
frame the white froth of rapids where one
arcs up for an instant in its final grace.
But I have to go down among
the rocks the glacier left
and squat at the edge of the water
where a stinking pile of them lies，
where one crow balances and sinks
its beak into a gelid eye.
I have to study the small holes
gouged into their skin， their useless gills，
their gowns of black flies. I can't
make them sing. I want to，
but all they do is open
their mouths a little wider
so the water pours in
until I feel like I'm drowning.
On the bridge the tour bus waits
and someone waves， and calls down
It's time， and the current keeps lifting
dirt from the bottom to cover the eggs.
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