關於適合朗誦的英文詩

　　英語詩歌文學意境和音樂意境豐富性的特點決定了詩歌教學要藉助諸多手段引導學生品味詩歌的意境,產生共鳴。小編整理了，歡迎閱讀!

　　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.

　　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.

　　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.