好聽(tīng)的英文詩(shī)歌朗誦精選
好聽(tīng)的英文詩(shī)歌朗誦精選
英語(yǔ)詩(shī)歌同建筑藝術(shù)一樣,也需要追求外在的視覺(jué)藝術(shù)和造型藝術(shù),講究外部的象形、對(duì)稱(chēng)、參差和魅力,所以詩(shī)歌語(yǔ)言也具有建筑藝術(shù)美感。詩(shī)歌比其他任何文學(xué)樣式更接近建筑藝術(shù),更具有建筑美。學(xué)習(xí)啦小編整理了好聽(tīng)的英文詩(shī)歌，歡迎閱讀!
好聽(tīng)的英文詩(shī)歌篇一
The Waltz We Were Born For
by Walt McDonald
I never knew them all， just hummed
and thrummed my fingers with the radio，
driving five hundred miles to Austin.
Her arms held all the songs I needed.
Our boots kept time with fiddles
and the charming sobs of blondes，
the whine of steel guitars
sliding us down in deer-hide chairs
when jukebox music was over.
Sad music's on my mind tonight
in a jet high over Dallas， earphones
on channel five. A lonely singer，
dead， comes back to beg me，
swearing in my ears she's mine，
rhymes set to music that make
her lies seem true. She's gone
and others like her， leaving their songs
to haunt us. Letting down through clouds
I know who I'll find waiting at the gate，
the same woman faithful to my arms
as she was those nights in Austin
when the world seemed like a jukebox，
our boots able to dance forever，
our pockets full of coins.
好聽(tīng)的英文詩(shī)歌篇二
Cold Morning
by Eamon Grennan
Through an accidental crack in the curtain
I can see the eight o'clock light change from
charcoal to a faint gassy blue， inventing things
in the morning that has a thick skin of ice on it
as the water tank has， so nothing flows， all is bone，
telling its tale of how hard the night had to be
for any heart caught out in it， just flesh and blood
no match for the mindless chill that's settled in，
a great stone bird， its wings stretched stiff
from the tip of Letter Hill to the cobbled bay， its gaze
glacial， its hook-and-scrabble claws fast clamped
on every window， its petrifying breath a cage
in which all the warmth we were is shivering.
好聽(tīng)的英文詩(shī)歌篇三
Cockroaches: Ars Poetica
by Chad Davidson
They know that death is merely of the body
not the species， know that their putrid chitin
is always memorable. We call them ugly
with their blackened exoskeletons，
their wall-crawlings as we paw at them.
Extreme adaptability， we say.
And where there‘s one there’s probably a million
more who lie and laugh in cracks close by.
At first they seem so pitiful and base
feeding on what we leave behind. Content
to watch us watching them， their hidden grace
is endless procreation： it keeps them constant，
believing they‘ll live to read our requiem
with the godlike eyes we used to look at them.
好聽(tīng)的英文詩(shī)歌篇四
The War Works Hard
by Dunya Mikhail (Translated by Elizabeth Winslow)
How magnificent the war is!
How eager and efficient!
Early in the morning
it wakes up the sirens
and dispatches ambulances to various places
swings corpses through the air
rolls stretchers to the wounded
summons rain from the eyes of mothers
digs into the earth
dislodging many things
from under the ruins……
Some are lifeless and glistening
others are pale and still throbbing……
It produces the most questions
in the minds of children
entertains the gods
by shooting fireworks and missiles into the sky
sows mines in the fields
and reaps punctures and blisters
urges families to emigrate
stands beside the clergymen
as they curse the devil
(poor devil， he remains with one hand in the searing fire)……
The war continues working， day and night.
It inspires tyrants to deliver long speeches
awards medals to generals and themes to poets
it contributes to the industry of artificial limbs
provides food for flies
adds pages to the history books
achieves equality
between killer and killed
teaches lovers to write letters
accustoms young women to waiting
fills the newspapers with articles and pictures
builds new houses for the orphans
invigorates the coffin makers
gives grave diggers a pat on the back
and paints a smile on the leader's face.
It works with unparalleled diligence!
Yet no one gives it a word of praise.
好聽(tīng)的英文詩(shī)歌篇五
Company of Moths
by Michael Palmer
We thought it could all be found in The Book of Poor Text，
the shadow the boat casts， angled mast， fretted wake， indigo eye.
Windows of the blind text，
keening， parabolic nights.
And the rolling sun， sun tumbling
into then under， company of moths.
Can you hear what I'm thinking， from there， even as you sleep?
Streets of the Poor Text， where a child's gaze falls
on the corpse of a horse beside a cart，
whimpering dog， woman's mute mouth agape
as if to say， We must move on，
we must not stop， we must not watch.
For after all， do the dead watch us?
To memorize precisely the tint of a plum，
curve of a body at rest (sun again)，
the words to each popular song，
surely that would be enough.
For are you not familiar with these crows by the shore?
Did you not call them sea crows once?
Did we not discuss the meaning of "as the crow flies"
one day in that square - station of exile - under the reddest
of suns? And then， almost as one， we said， It's time.
And a plate shattered， a spoon fell to the floor，
towels in a heap by the door.
Drifts of cloud over
steeples from the west.
Faith in the Poor Text.
Outline of stuff left behind.
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