现代英语诗歌精选:关于唯美英语诗歌精选

副标题:关于唯美英语诗歌精选

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【#英语资源# 导语】朗诵是一种传统教学方式,是书面语言的有声化,是语言教学的重点。在教学中教师应注重语音、语气、速度、节奏、语调等技巧的训练,鼓励学生进行朗诵实践,培养学生的朗诵能力。下面是由©文档大全网带来的关于唯美英语诗歌,欢迎阅读!


【篇一】关于唯美英语诗歌精选


  My Mojave


  by Donald Revell


  Sha-


  Dow,


  As of


  A meteor


  At mid-


  Day: it goes


  From there.


  A perfect circle falls


  Onto white imperfections.


  (Consider the black road,


  How it seems white the entire


  Length of a sunshine day.)


  Or I could say


  Shadows and mirage


  Compensate the world,


  Completing its changes


  With no change.


  In the morning after a storm,


  We used brooms. Out front,


  There was broken glass to collect.


  In the backyard, the sand


  Was covered with transparent wings.


  The insects could not use them in the wind


  And so abandoned them. Why


  Hadn't the wings scattered? Why


  Did they lie so stilly where they'd dropped?


  It can only be the wind passed through them.


  Jealous lover,


  Your desire


  Passes the same way.


  And jealous earth,


  There is a shadow you cannot keep


  To yourself alone.


  At midday,


  My soul wants only to go


  The black road which is the white road.


  I'm not needed


  Like wings in a storm,


  And God is the storm.


【篇二】关于唯美英语诗歌精选


  My Mother on an Evening in Late Summer


  by Mark Strand


  1


  When the moon appears


  and a few wind-stricken barns stand out


  in the low-domed hills


  and shine with a light


  that is veiled and dust-filled


  and that floats upon the fields,


  my mother, with her hair in a bun,


  her face in shadow, and the smoke


  from her cigarette coiling close


  to the faint yellow sheen of her dress,


  stands near the house


  and watches the seepage of late light


  down through the sedges,


  the last gray islands of cloud


  taken from view, and the wind


  ruffling the moon's ash-colored coat


  on the black bay.


  2


  Soon the house, with its shades drawn closed, will send


  small carpets of lampglow


  into the haze and the bay


  will begin its loud heaving


  and the pines, frayed finials


  climbing the hill, will seem to graze


  the dim cinders of heaven.


  And my mother will stare into the starlanes,


  the endless tunnels of nothing,


  and as she gazes,


  under the hour's spell,


  she will think how we yield each night


  to the soundless storms of decay


  that tear at the folding flesh,


  and she will not know


  why she is here


  or what she is prisoner of


  if not the conditions of love that brought her to this.


  3


  My mother will go indoors


  and the fields, the bare stones


  will drift in peace, small creatures ——


  the mouse and the swift —— will sleep


  at opposite ends of the house.


  Only the cricket will be up,


  repeating its one shrill note


  to the rotten boards of the porch,


  to the rusted screens, to the air, to the rimless dark,


  to the sea that keeps to itself.


  Why should my mother awake?


  The earth is not yet a garden


  about to be turned. The stars


  are not yet bells that ring


  at night for the lost.


  It is much too late.


【篇三】关于唯美英语诗歌精选


  La Coursierde Jeanne


  by Linda McCarriston


  You know that they burned her horse


  before her. Though it is not recorded,


  you know that they burned her Percheron


  first, before her eyes, because you


  know that story, so old that story,


  the routine story, carried to its


  extreme, of the cruelty that can make


  of what a woman hears a silence,


  that can make of what a woman sees


  a lie. She had no son for them to burn,


  for them to take from her in the world


  not of her making and put to its pyre,


  so they layered a greater one in front of


  where she was staked to her own——


  as you have seen her pictured sometimes,


  her eyes raised to the sky. But they were


  not raised. This is yet one of their lies.


  They were not closed. Though her hands


  were bound behind her, and her feet were


  bound deep in what would become fire,


  she watched. Of greenwood stakes


  head-high and thicker than a man's waist


  they laced the narrow corral that would not


  burn until flesh had burned, until


  bone was burning, and laid it thick


  with tinder——fatted wicks and sulphur,


  kindling and logs——and ran a ramp


  up to its height from where the gray horse


  waited, his dapples making of his flesh


  a living metal, layers of life


  through which the light shone out


  in places as it seems to through the flesh


  of certain fish, a light she knew


  as purest, coming, like that, from within.


  Not flinching, not praying, she looked


  the last time on the body she knew


  better than the flesh of any man, or child,


  or woman, having long since left the lap


  of her mother——the chest with its


  perfect plates of muscle, the neck


  with its perfect, prow-like curve,


  the hindquarters'——pistons——powerful cleft


  pennoned with the silk of his tail.


  Having ridden as they did together


  ——those places, that hard, that long——


  their eyes found easiest that day


  the way to each other, their bodies


  wedded in a sacrament unmediated


  by man. With fire they drove him


  up the ramp and off into the pyre


  and tossed the flame in with him.


  This was the last chance they gave her


  to recant her world, in which their power


  came not from God. Unmoved, the Men


  of God began watching him burn, and better,


  watching her watch him burn, hearing


  the long mad godlike trumpet of his terror,


  his crashing in the wood, the groan


  of stakes that held, the silverblack hide,


  the pricked ears catching first


  like driest bark, and the eyes.


  and she knew, by this agony, that she


  might choose to live still, if she would


  but make her sign on the parchment


  they would lay before her, which now


  would include this new truth: that it


  did not happen, this death in the circle,


  the rearing, plunging, raging, the splendid


  armour-colored head raised one last time


  above the flames before they took him


  ——like any game untended on the spit——into


  their yellow-green, their blackening red.


关于唯美英语诗歌精选.doc

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