初中英語勵志詩歌

　　分享幾首簡單的適合初中的勵志英文詩歌，一起來看看吧。下面是小編給大家整理的，供大家參閱!

　　：Historically Speaking

　　It was a year of pirates in speedboats,

　　anonymous bullies spreading privacies

　　on the Internet, and the worst of them

　　doing worse than that and wishing to be known

　　for what they'd done, their perfidy

　　an advertisement for a cause.

　　Thus it was a bad year for historians,

　　whose stories couldn't be correct

　　for longer than a few days. More than ever

　　the imperfections of memory

　　would combine with the slipperiness

　　of documentation to produce versions

　　only people who need not be persuaded

　　could agree with.

　　It was a war

　　where the enemy sometimes was wearing

　　the same clothes as its opponent,

　　and both sides believed their cause

　　was righteous, and years from now the victors,

　　if we were unlucky, would tell it as it wasn't,

　　unless we were the victors, and our historians

　　would tell it from so many angles

　　that both was and wasn't

　　would read like a symphony of discordancies,

　　an honoring of so many counterpoints

　　that I, for one, might find a place to rest uneasy,

　　historically speaking, among all the bloodshed,

　　the horror, which would stop for a while and continue.

　　：Lines Written for Elmo Castelnuovo

　　It's not time that passes, it's you, it's I

　　-- Rutger Kopland

　　In winter, by late afternoon, it's almost dark

　　when you come home from the mine. I hear

　　the front gate creak and the metallic clink

　　of your pail before you round the corner

　　by the back steps where I've been waiting.

　　In the sharp chill of the air, the mineral

　　undercurrent of damp earth and shale comes with you. You turn down the collar

　　of your shirt and let water from the pump

　　pour down your face and nape, the skin above

　　your undershirt pale as the crescent moon visible

　　above the darker mass of the hills.

　　• •

　　You drive for hours, heading nowhere; you walk

　　the streets at night and argue with the moon --

　　something hidden and manic in you emerged,

　　almost unnoticed, until at last you huddled homeless and bewildered under a pile

　　of coats in an alleyway no wider

　　than the mines you entered as a young man.

　　The rat scuttling in the garbage bin, the cat

　　stalking the rat, did they become your familiars?

　　And the passersby, who glanced at you and hurried

　　on their way, did they believe you were invisible?

　　Did the tag knotted to your toe say nameless?

　　• • •

　　What I loved was the touch of your calloused hand

　　on my head, the coal-rimmed hollows of your eyes.

　　If you returned now from the sooty underworld

　　in which you dwell, you would not recognize me.

　　The gate is gone; the house and those who lived in it

　　are hidden elsewhere. Only the crescent moon

　　and darkling hills are as you left them. Come back

　　as you were, if only for a moment. I'm waiting

　　by the back steps. The kitchen window casts

　　its light; at the laden table the absent prepare

　　for your arrival. You will be hungry and tired,

　　as in those years through which our lives passed.

　　：I Woke Up

　　and it was political.

　　I made coffee and the coffee was political.

　　I took a shower and the water was.

　　I walked down the street in short shorts and a Bob Mizer tank top

　　and they were political, the walking and the shorts and the beefcake

　　silkscreen of the man posing in a G-string. I forgot my sunglasses

　　and later, on the train, that was political,

　　when I studied every handsome man in the car.

　　Who I thought was handsome was political.

　　I went to work at the university and everything was

　　very obviously political, the department and the institution.

　　All the cigarettes I smoked between classes were political,

　　where I threw them when I was through.

　　I was blond and it was political.

　　So was the difference between "blond" and "blonde."

　　I had long hair and it was political. I shaved my head and it was.

　　That I didn't know how to grieve when another person was killed in America

　　was political, and it was political when America killed another person,

　　who they were and what color and gender and who I am in relation.

　　I couldn't think about it for too long without feeling a helplessness

　　like childhood. I was a child and it was political, being a boy

　　who was bad at it. I couldn't catch and so the ball became political.

　　My mother read to me almost every night

　　and the conditions that enabled her to do so were political.

　　That my father's money was new was political, that it was proving something.

　　Someone called me faggot and it was political.

　　I called myself a faggot and it was political.

　　How difficult my life felt relative to how difficult it was

　　was political. I thought I could become a writer

　　and it was political that I could imagine it.

　　I thought I was not a political poet and still

　　my imagination was political.

　　It had been, this whole time I was asleep.