爱吃爱疯
英语诗歌因其节奏、思想意义及艺术价值,在英语教学中占有一席之地。我整理了有关经典的英文诗句，欢迎阅读!
Survivor
by Vijay Seshadri
We hold it against you that you survived.
People better than you are dead，
but you still punch the clock.
Your body has wizened but has not bled
its substance out on the killing floor
or flatlined in intensive care
or vanished after school
or stepped off the ledge in despair.
Of all those you started with，
only you are still around;
only you have not been listed with
the defeated and the drowned.
So how could you ever win our respect?——
you， who had the sense to duck，
you， with your strength almost intact
and all your good luck.
Syrinx
by Amy Clampitt
Like the foghorn that's all lung，
the wind chime that's all percussion，
like the wind itself， that's merely air
in a terrible fret， without so much
as a finger to articulate
what ails it， the aeolian
syrinx， that reed
in the throat of a bird，
when it comes to the shaping of
what we call consonants， is
too imprecise for consensus
about what it even seems to
be saying： is it o-ka-lee
or con-ka-ree， is it really jug jug，
is it cuckoo for that matter?——
much less whether a bird's call
means anything in
particular， or at all.
Syntax comes last， there can be
no doubt of it： came last，
can be thought of (is
thought of by some) as a
higher form of expression：
is， in extremity， first to
be jettisoned： as the diva
onstage， all soaring
pectoral breathwork，
takes off， pure vowel
breaking free of the dry，
the merely fricative
husk of the particular， rises
past saying anything， any
more than the wind in
the trees， waves breaking，
or Homer's gibbering
Thespesiae iache：
those last-chance vestiges
above the threshold， the all-
but dispossessed of breath.
Sweat
by Sandra Alcosser
Friday night I entered a dark corridor
rode to the upper floors with men who filled
the stainless elevator with their smell.
Did you ever make a crystal garden， pour salt
into water， keep pouring until nothing more dissolved?
A landscape will bloom in that saturation.
My daddy's body shop floats to the surface
like a submarine. Men with nibblers and tin snips
buffing skins， sanding curves under clamp lights.
I grew up curled in the window of a 300 SL
Gullwing， while men glided on their backs
through oily rainbows below me.
They torqued lugnuts， flipped fag ends
into gravel. Our torch song
had one refrain——oh the pain of loving you.
Friday nights they'd line the shop sink， naked
to the waist， scour down with Ajax， spray water
across their necks and up into their armpits.
Babies have been conceived on sweat alone——
the buttery scent of a woman's breast，
the cumin of a man. From the briny odor
of black lunch boxes——cold cuts， pickles，
waxed paper——my girl flesh grows.
From the raunchy fume of strangers.
Queen Maeve
by Eloise Bruce
Dreaming within these walls all night，
we woke with both eyes open，
barely winking at the morning light.
We shower and sing with the long-legged fly.
Queen Maeve keeps time in the attic，
and the pig-keepers roar in the toy box below stairs.
Turn out the lamp whose fringe rhymes with orange.
Our words wait in sun-melted butter.
We'll eat our troubles with bubbling metaphor，
punctuate the teapot with boiling time，
hang the wash out on the line.
Today， we'll scrub and paint the walls
using colors we don't yet recognize.
The key in the door shines.
Come in. The poem is just here. Come inside.
Question
by May Swenson
Body my house
my horse my hound
what will I do
when you are fallen
Where will I sleep
How will I ride
What will I hunt
Where can I go
without my mount
all eager and quick
How will I know
in thicket ahead
is danger or treasure
when Body my good
bright dog is dead
How will it be
to lie in the sky
without roof or door
and wind for an eye
With cloud for shift
how will I hide?
今天天很蓝
诗歌朗读、学习诗歌、并进行诗歌创作和翻译过程中都是一种美的感受,能够让学生体会其特有的韵律美,尽情发挥想象,驰骋在诗歌的海洋中。我整理了优美经典的英文诗句，欢迎阅读!
Nothing Stays Put
by Amy Clampitt
In memory of Father Flye， 1884-1985
The strange and wonderful are too much with us.
The protea of the antipodes——a great，
globed， blazing honeybee of a bloom——
for sale in the supermarket! We are in
our decadence， we are not entitled.
What have we done to deserve
all the produce of the tropics——
this fiery trove， the largesse of it
heaped up like cannonballs， these pineapples， bossed
and crested， standing like troops at attention，
these tiers， these balconies of green， festoons
grown sumptuous with stoop labor?
The exotic is everywhere， it comes to us
before there is a yen or a need for it. The green-
grocers， uptown and down， are from South Korea.
Orchids， opulence by the pailful， just slightly
fatigued by the plane trip from Hawaii， are
disposed on the sidewalks; alstroemerias， freesias
fattened a bit in translation from overseas; gladioli
likewise estranged from their piercing ancestral crimson;
as well as， less altered from the original blue cornflower
of the roadsides and railway embankments of Europe， these
bachelor's buttons. But it isn't the railway embankments
their featherweight wheels of cobalt remind me of， it's
a row of them among prim colonnades of cosmos，
snapdragon， nasturtium， bloodsilk red poppies，
in my grandmother's garden： a prairie childhood，
the grassland shorn， overlaid with a grid，
unsealed， furrowed， harrowed and sown with immigrant grasses，
their massive corduroy， their wavering feltings embroidered
here and there by the scarlet shoulder patch of cannas
on a courthouse lawn， by a love knot， a cross stitch
of living matter， sown and tended by women，
nurturers everywhere of the strange and wonderful，
beneath whose hands what had been alien begins，
as it alters， to grow as though it were indigenous.
But at this remove what I think of as
strange and wonderful， strolling the side streets of Manhattan
on an April afternoon， seeing hybrid pear trees in blossom，
a tossing， vertiginous colonnade of foam， up above——
is the white petalfall， the warm snowdrift
of the indigenous wild plum of my childhood.
Nothing stays put. The world is a wheel.
All that we know， that we're
made of， is motion
Outside
by Michael Ryan
The dead thing mashed into the street
the crows are squabbling over isn't
her， nor are their raucous squawks
the quiet cawing from her throat
those final hours she couldn't speak.
But the racket irks him.
It seems a cruel intrusion into grief
so mute it will never be expressed
no matter how loud or long the wailing
he might do. Nor could there be a word
that won't debase it， no matter
how kind or who it comes from.
She knew how much he loved her.
That must be his consolation
when he must talk to buy necessities.
Every place will be a place without her.
What people will see when they see him
pushing a shopping cart or fetching mail
is just a neatly dressed polite old man
Outside Abilene
by Harley Elliott
the full rage of kansas turns loose upon us.
On the mexican radio station
they are singing Espiritu de mis suenos
and that is exactly it tonight.
The spirit of my dreams
rises in the storm like vapor.
Deep clouds bulge together and below them
we are a tiny constellation of lights
the car laid under sheets of lightning
moving straight in to the night.
Before us are miles and miles of water and wind
Outskirts
by Tomas Transtromer (Translated by Robert Bly)
Men in overalls the same color as earth rise from a ditch.
It's a transitional place， in stalemate， neither country nor city.
Construction cranes on the horizon want to take the big leap，
but the clocks are against it.
Concrete piping scattered around laps at the light with cold tongues.
Auto-body shops occupy old barns.
Stones throw shadows as sharp as objects on the moon surface.
And these sites keep on getting bigger
like the land bought with Judas' silver： "a potter's field for burying strangers."
Ox Cart Manby Donald Hall
In October of the year，
he counts potatoes dug from the brown field，
counting the seed， counting
the cellar's portion out，
and bags the rest on the cart's floor.
He packs wool sheared in April， honey
in combs， linen， leather
tanned from deerhide，
and vinegar in a barrel
hoped by hand at the forge's fire.
He walks by his ox's head， ten days
to Portsmouth Market， and sells potatoes，
and the bag that carried potatoes，
flaxseed， birch brooms， maple sugar， goose
feathers， yarn.
When the cart is empty he sells the cart.
When the cart is sold he sells the ox，
harness and yoke， and walks
home， his pockets heavy
with the year's coin for salt and taxes，
and at home by fire's light in November cold
stitches new harness
for next year's ox in the barn，
and carves the yoke， and saws planks
building the cart again
