關於最經典優美的英文詩歌

　　英語詩歌是英語語言與文學的精華。開展英語詩歌教學能提高學生英語語言基礎知識水平、寫作水平,有助於學生西方歷史文化的學習,提高學生的想象力,也有助於對學生的道德教育。小編精心收集了，供大家欣賞學習!

　　篇1

　　Portrait of Madame Monet on Her Deathbed

　　by Mary Rose O'Reilley

　　Monet confided to his journal， "All the while she was dying， I could not stop painting her face."

　　—Monet at Vétheuil

　　He will paint her again as grain;

　　now she is fog

　　the chantilly fog of the Seine：

　　avoiding no hint of the slow dissolve，

　　the bandage around her jaw，

　　rigor's cramp at the lip，

　　how death abraded and hollowed her，

　　while he remembered light.

　　Had he a failed heart

　　or a wholly transfigured eye

　　that knew her tonight as water

　　convulsion and sky?

　　that stared through layers of the body

　　at more than it took to die?

　　篇2

　　On a Line from Valéry ***The Gulf War***

　　by Carolyn Kizer

　　The whole green sky is dying. The last tree flares

　　With a great burst of supernatural rose

　　Under a canopy of poisonous airs.

　　Could we imagine our return to prayers

　　To end in time before time's final throes，

　　The green sky dying as the last tree flares?

　　But we were young in judgement， old in years

　　Who could make peace; but it was war we chose，

　　To spread its canopy of poisoning airs.

　　Not all our children's pleas and women's fears

　　Could steer us from this hell. And now God knows

　　His whole green sky is dying as it flares.

　　Our crops of wheat have turned to fields of tares.

　　This dreadful century staggers to its close

　　And the sky dies for us， its poisoned heirs.

　　All rain was dust. Its granules were our tears.

　　Throats burst as universal winter rose

　　To kill the whole green sky， the last tree bare

　　Beneath its canopy of poisoned air.

　　篇3

　　Portrait of God on Work Release

　　by Peter Jay Shippy

　　I walk in the park and select a maple leaf.

　　With my Sharpie I write：YOU ARE HERE.

　　Carefully， I place the leaf back where I found it.

　　篇4

　　On a Night Like This

　　by Michael Teig

　　When he couldn't sleep and his sight got going

　　he noted the colors on the back of each painting;

　　this one forest blue， that gunpowder，

　　one blue to make the yellow tell，

　　and one bluer than that.

　　Certain nights only the rain will have

　　its say， troubling the downspout.

　　When morning came

　　he chose a white shirt

　　***they're all white*** and followed the buttons down.

　　At least he says there is Billie Holiday

　　and the plants bring every green with them.

　　When I make his breakfast， the bed，

　　sweep the house out with a broom，

　　he stands by the window longer than one should.

　　I know he believes in progress

　　even if it's the kind you can't see.

　　When his sons grew tall and remote

　　and moved to cities he'd barely heard of，

　　he talked to them on Sundays.

　　Though perhaps it's too late

　　a silk rose in his lapel.

　　When I came back some nights

　　I saw him caught beneath a streetlamp

　　talking with the girl he loved turning his palm over

　　like a phrase he couldn't remember.

　　I saw the night come down around them one hand turning

　　and how she turned in the dark

　　and smiled， blue scarf on her head，

　　blue dog at her feet， blue attic between the stars.

　　篇5

　　On Becoming a Poet in the 1950s

　　by Stephen Beal

　　There was love and there was trees.

　　Either you could stay inside and probe your emotions

　　or you could go outside and keenly observe nature.

　　Describe the sheen on carapaces，

　　the effect of breeze on grass.

　　What's the fag doing now? Dad would say.

　　Picking the nose of his heart?

　　Wanking off on a daffodil?

　　He's not homosexual， Mom would retort， using her apron as a potholder to

　　remove the apple brown betty from the oven.

　　He's sensitive. He cares.

　　He wishes to impart values and standards to an indifferent world.

　　Wow! said Dad， stomping off to the pantry for another scotch. Two poets in

　　the family. Ain't I a lucky duck?

　　As fate would have it， I became one of your tweedy English teachers， what

　　Dad would call a daffodil-wanker，

　　and Mom ended up doing needlepoint， seventy-two kneelers for St. Fred's

　　before she expired of the heart broken on the afternoon that Dad

　　roared off with the Hell's Angels.

　　We heard a little from Big Sur. A beard. Tattoos. A girlfriend named Strawberry.

　　A boyfriend named Thor.

　　Bars and pot and coffeehouses， stuff like that.

　　After years of quotation by younger poets， admiration but no real notice，

　　Dad is making the anthologies now.

　　Critics cite his primal rage， the way he nails Winnetka.