關(guān)于適合朗誦的英文詩(shī)
英語(yǔ)詩(shī)歌文學(xué)意境和音樂(lè)意境豐富性的特點(diǎn)決定了詩(shī)歌教學(xué)要借助諸多手段引導(dǎo)學(xué)生品味詩(shī)歌的意境,產(chǎn)生共鳴。學(xué)習(xí)啦小編整理了關(guān)于適合朗誦的英文詩(shī)，歡迎閱讀!
關(guān)于適合朗誦的英文詩(shī)篇一
Scrapbook
Kim Addonizio
This is me, depressed out of my mind,
frailing the banjo, spilling red wine
on the white
king-sized
luckily-hotel's-and-not-my-
goose down comforter, this is me
walking and waxing nostalgic through the girlish shadows
of tall palm trees, the déjà vus
flying through the scene
suddenly, like those three
unnameable and therefore beautiful white birds.
This is me as a slowly-tearing-itself-apart cloud
and marveling
at a fire palely and flamily
emerging from a bowl, wavering
up through stones of cobalt glass. The air
wavers back. This is me in love
with the beauty of blue glass in flames, this is me on drugs
prescribed by my doctor
as I try once more
to sneak into night's closely guarded city,
my hollow horse ready
to wreak my demons and Blue Morphos
on the citizens of my sleep. I am most
myself when flashing rapidly
my iridescent wings, drinking
the juice of fallen fruit. Then again
look for me under your bed
where the ugly premodern vampires
still hide. The undead and I are lying
in wait. We are very interested in you
though this is still me. We are unstable and true.
We believe in the one-ton rose
and the displaced toilet equally. Our blues
assume you understand
not much, and try to be alive, just as we do,
and that it may be helpful to hold the hand
of someone as lost as you.
關(guān)于適合朗誦的英文詩(shī)篇二
Semblance: Screens
Liz Waldner
A moth lies open and lies
like an old bleached beech leaf,
a lean-to between window frame and sill.
Its death protects a collection of tinier deaths
and other dirts beneath.
Although the white paint is water-stained,
on it death is dirt, and hapless.
The just-severed tiger lily
is drinking its glass of water, I hope.
This hope is sere.
This hope is severe.
What you ruin ruins you, too
and so you hope for favor.
I mean I do.
The underside of a ladybug
wanders the window. I wander
the continent, my under-carriage not as evident,
so go more perilously, it seems to me.
But I am only me; to you it seems clear
I mean to disappear, and am mean
and project on you my fear.
If I were a bug, I hope I wouldn't be
this giant winged thing, spindly like a crane fly,
skinny-legged like me, kissing the cold ceiling,
fumbling for the face of the other, seeking.
It came in with me last night when I turned on the light.
I lay awake, afraid it would touch my face.
It wants out. I want out, too.
I thought you a way through.
Arms wide for wings,
your suffering mine, twinned.
Screen. Your unbelief drives me in,
doubt for dirt, white sheet for sill --
You don't stay other enough or still
enough to be likened to.
關(guān)于適合朗誦的英文詩(shī)篇三
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.
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