關於經典英語詩歌朗誦

　　選用合適的英語詩歌進行基礎階段的教學可以在培養學生的聽、說、讀、寫等諸方面起著十分積極的作用,能激發學生對語言本身的興趣和熱愛。小編分享關於經典英語詩歌，希望可以幫助大家!

　　關於經典英語詩歌：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.

　　關於經典英語詩歌：The Trespass Fetches Herself for Sacrifice

　　HeidiLynn Nilsson

　　We are not surprised,

　　those of us who are made,

　　we've been told,

　　in God's image,

　　that our God, who has

　　neither tissue nor tail,

　　is a jealous God.

　　What makes us

　　snappish, after all, about God

　　is impeccability but

　　if jealousy makes us

　　also Godlike, and if that's

　　where our love turned wrong,

　　then light with light, loss with loss,

　　on the strict and ruined earth,

　　someone gets the very thing

　　he longs for -- and who

　　will let him? Lord I'm

　　desolate enough --

　　I see the fire

　　starving on a switch

　　after all of those years

　　making for him

　　myself into a forest.

　　關於經典英語詩歌：Honeymoon

　　Dorianne Laux

　　We didn't have one, unless you count Paris,

　　20 years later, after we'd almost given up on the idea.

　　We'd imagined one, long nights beneath

　　a warm celestial sky; him growing his beard,

　　me in a silk turquoise robe, floating, billowing,

　　on a deserted beach foraging for whole sand dollars,

　　jelly fish washed up on the shore, their glittering insides

　　visible, still pulsing through flesh made of glass,

　　but it never happened. We had to work through

　　our vacations, refinance the house, find someone

　　to cut down the cedar that threatened to bury us

　　with each storm. We wanted to make up

　　for the wedding, or lack of one, the granite

　　courthouse steps, the small room with a desk,

　　the flimsy document stamped with a cheap gold seal.

　　Even then we meant to have a party on the deck,

　　cheese and crackers, fruit plates, sparkling

　　grape cider in plastic cups, our friends on the lawn

　　calling you the Big Kahuna, me Mrs. Dynamite,

　　me calling you my Sweet Dragon, you calling me

　　your little Red Corvette. Instead, time found a way

　　to demand each minute, until one night,

　　after you'd gotten a small windfall in the mail,

　　you turned to me and said, I'm going to take you to Paris,

　　me in my ratty robe and floppy slippers, you

　　in your flannel pj bottoms and black wife beater,

　　muting the clicker when I said "What?"

　　and saying it again. Then we were there,

　　in our 60s, standing below the dire Eiffel Tower,

　　its 81 stories of staircases we couldn't possibly climb,

　　its 73 thousand tons of puddled iron, you

　　taking my picture for posterity, me

　　kissing you beneath the pathway of arched trees,

　　our voices echoing against the six million skulls

　　embedded inside the stone catacombs, me

　　saying, I guess you weren't kidding, you

　　taking my hand in the rain.