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關(guān)于簡(jiǎn)單的英文詩(shī)朗誦

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關(guān)于簡(jiǎn)單的英文詩(shī)朗誦

  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。小編精心收集了關(guān)于簡(jiǎn)單的英文詩(shī),供大家欣賞學(xué)習(xí)!

  關(guān)于簡(jiǎn)單的英文詩(shī)篇1

  Report from the Skinhouse

  by Jan Beatty

  I went looking for the body.

  The apple, tree, the river.

  Gliding voice, curve of arm,pearly blue uterus.

  Muscled calf, the neptune green eye,

  blood with the same taste as mine.

  Why do I write my report this way?

  An adopted child needs to find a face.

  What does a real mother's body look like?

  River, chalkline, bloody cave?

  I am replica of nothing.

  birthmother, conjurer, boneshaker, witch,

  let me smell your skin just once,

  I'll give you your bloody daughter.

  關(guān)于簡(jiǎn)單的英文詩(shī)篇2

  Rhode Island

  by William Meredith

  Here at the seashore they use the clouds over & over

  again, like the rented animals in A?da.

  In the late morning the land breeze

  turns and now the extras are driving

  all the white elephants the other way.

  What language are the children shouting in?

  He is lying on the beach listening.

  The sand knocks like glass, struck by bare heels.

  He tries to remember snow noise.

  Would powder snow ping like that?

  But you don't lie with your ear to powder snow.

  Why doesn't the girl who takes care

  of the children, a Yale girl without flaw,

  know the difference between lay and lie?

  He tries to remember snow, his season.

  The mind is in charge of things then.

  Summer is for animals, the ocean is erotic,

  all that openness and swaying.

  No matter how often you make love

  in August you're always aware of genitalia,

  your own and the half-naked others'.

  Even with the gracefulest bathers

  you're aware of their kinship with porpoises,

  mammals disporting themselves in a blue element,

  smelling slightly of fish. Porpoise Hazard

  watches himself awhile, like a blue movie.

  In the other hemisphere now people

  are standing up, at work at their easels.

  There they think about love at night

  when they take off their serious clothes

  and go to bed sandlessly, under blankets.

  Today the children, his own among them,

  are apparently shouting fluently in Portuguese,

  using the colonial dialect of Brazil.

  It is just as well, they have all been changed

  into small shrill marginal animals,

  he would not want to understand them again

  until after Labor Day. He just lays there.

  關(guān)于簡(jiǎn)單的英文詩(shī)篇3

  Parent's Pantoum

  by Carolyn Kizer

  for Maxine Kumin

  Where did these enormous children come from,

  More ladylike than we have ever been?

  Some of ours look older than we feel.

  How did they appear in their long dresses

  More ladylike than we have ever been?

  But they moan about their aging more than we do,

  In their fragile heels and long black dresses.

  They say they admire our youthful spontaneity.

  They moan about their aging more than we do,

  A somber group——why don't they brighten up?

  Though they say they admire our youthful spontaneity

  They beg us to be dignified like them

  As they ignore our pleas to brighten up.

  Someday perhaps we'll capture their attention

  Then we won't try to be dignified like them

  Nor they to be so gently patronizing.

  Someday perhaps we'll capture their attention.

  Don't they know that we're supposed to be the stars?

  Instead they are so gently patronizing.

  It makes us feel like children——second-childish?

  Perhaps we're too accustomed to be stars.

  The famous flowers glowing in the garden,

  So now we pout like children. Second-childish?

  Quaint fragments of forgotten history?

  Our daughters stroll together in the garden,

  Chatting of news we've chosen to ignore,

  Pausing to toss us morsels of their history,

  Not questions to which only we know answers.

  Eyes closed to news we've chosen to ignore,

  We'd rather excavate old memories,

  Disdaining age, ignoring pain, avoiding mirrors.

  Why do they never listen to our stories?

  Because they hate to excavate old memories

  They don't believe our stories have an end.

  They don't ask questions because they dread the answers.

  They don't see that we've become their mirrors,

  We offspring of our enormous children.

  
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