[简单又经典的英文诗歌]经典英文诗歌阅读三篇

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【#英语资源# 导语】诗歌通过对事物、人物或事件的戏剧性表现来激发我们的想象。意象作为诗歌的核心,是通过感情以传达经验的语言,它是欣赏和翻译诗歌的关键。下面是由©文档大全网带来的经典英文诗歌阅读,欢迎阅读!


【篇一】经典英文诗歌阅读


  What Wild-Eyed Murderer


  by Peter Meinke


  We shouldn‘t worship suffering: the world’s


  a spinning rack where suffering indicates


  all goes well we‘re alive and not curled


  up in the black hushhush death dictates


  as its first condition: no screaming there


  We crown ourselves with thorns of past


  transgressions Sharp spears of deed spare


  no rib of pain: around the cross crashed


  common lightning usual blood Who earns


  our reverence should break both cross and crutch


  in the face of suffering: while the rack turns


  and tightens they‘ll smile at the sense of touch


  Suffering‘s too common to be worth


  anything joy too rare to be priced


  The saints we search for will embrace the earth:


  what wild-eyed murderer suffers less than Christ?

【篇二】经典英文诗歌阅读


  What the Chairman Told Tom


  by Basil Bunting


  Poetry? It's a hobby.


  I run model trains.


  Mr. Shaw there breeds pigeons.


  It's not work. You dont sweat.


  Nobody pays for it.


  You could advertise soap.


  Art, that's opera; or repertory——


  The Desert Song.


  Nancy was in the chorus.


  But to ask for twelve pounds a week——


  married, aren't you?——


  you've got a nerve.


  How could I look a bus conductor


  in the face


  if I paid you twelve pounds?


  Who says it's poetry, anyhow?


  My ten year old


  can do it and rhyme.


  I get three thousand and expenses,


  a car, vouchers,


  but I'm an accountant.


  They do what I tell them,


  my company.


  What do you do?


  Nasty little words, nasty long words,


  it's unhealthy.


  I want to wash when I meet a poet.


  They're Reds, addicts,


  all delinquents.


  What you write is rot.


  Mr. Hines says so, and he's a schoolteacher,


  he ought to know.


  Go and find work

【篇三】经典英文诗歌阅读


  Diving into the Wreck


  by Adrienne Rich


  First having read the book of myths,


  and loaded the camera,


  and checked the edge of the knife-blade,


  I put on


  the body-armor of black rubber


  the absurd flippers


  the grave and awkward mask.


  I am having to do this


  not like Cousteau with his


  assiduous team


  aboard the sun-flooded schooner


  but here alone.


  There is a ladder.


  The ladder is always there


  hanging innocently


  close to the side of the schooner.


  We know what it is for,


  we who have used it.


  Otherwise


  it is a piece of maritime floss


  some sundry equipment.


  I go down.


  Rung after rung and still


  the oxygen immerses me


  the blue light


  the clear atoms


  of our human air.


  I go down.


  My flippers cripple me,


  I crawl like an insect down the ladder


  and there is no one


  to tell me when the ocean


  will begin.


  First the air is blue and then


  it is bluer and then green and then


  black I am blacking out and yet


  my mask is powerful


  it pumps my blood with power


  the sea is another story


  the sea is not a question of power


  I have to learn alone


  to turn my body without force


  in the deep element.


  And now: it is easy to forget


  what I came for


  among so many who have always


  lived here


  swaying their crenellated fans


  between the reefs


  and besides


  you breathe differently down here.


  I came to explore the wreck.


  The words are purposes.


  The words are maps.


  I came to see the damage that was done


  and the treasures that prevail.


  I stroke the beam of my lamp


  slowly along the flank


  of something more permanent


  than fish or weed


  the thing I came for:


  the wreck and not the story of the wreck


  the thing itself and not the myth


  the drowned face always staring


  toward the sun


  the evidence of damage


  worn by salt and away into this threadbare beauty


  the ribs of the disaster


  curving their assertion


  among the tentative haunters.


  This is the place.


  And I am here, the mermaid whose dark hair


  streams black, the merman in his armored body.


  We circle silently


  about the wreck


  we dive into the hold.


  I am she: I am he


  whose drowned face sleeps with open eyes


  whose breasts still bear the stress


  whose silver, copper, vermeil cargo lies


  obscurely inside barrels


  half-wedged and left to rot


  we are the half-destroyed instruments


  that once held to a course


  the water-eaten log


  the fouled compass


  We are, I am, you are


  by cowardice or courage


  the one who find our way


  back to this scene


  carrying a knife, a camera


  a book of myths


  in which


  our names do not appear.


经典英文诗歌阅读三篇.doc

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