關於簡單好背的英文詩

　　詩歌朗讀、學習詩歌、並進行詩歌創作和翻譯過程中都是一種美的感受,能夠讓學生體會其特有的韻律美,盡情發揮想象,馳騁在詩歌的海洋中。小編整理了，歡迎閱讀!

　　篇1

　　Twenty Twenty Vision

　　by Mark Ford

　　Unwinding in a cavernous bodega he suddenly

　　Burst out：——Barman， these tumblers empty themselves

　　And yet I persist; I am wedged in the giant eye

　　Of an invisible needle. Walking through doors

　　Or into them， listening to anecdotes or myself spinning

　　A yarn， I realize my doom is never to forget

　　My lost bearings. In medias res we begin

　　And end： I was born， and then my body unfurled

　　As if to illustrate a few tiny but effective words

　　But——oh my oh my——avaunt. I peered

　　Forth， stupefied， from the bushes as the sun set

　　Behind distant hills. A pair of hungry owls

　　Saluted the arrival of webby darkness; the dew

　　Descended upon the creeping ferns. At first

　　My sticky blood refused to flow， gathering instead

　　In wax-like drops and pools; mixed with water and a dram

　　Of colourless alcohol it thinned and reluctantly

　　Ebbed away. I lay emptied as a fallen

　　Leaf until startled awake by a blinding flash

　　Of dry lightning， and the onset of this terrible thirst.

　　篇2

　　September

　　by Joanne Kyger

　　The grasses are light brown

　　and ocean comes in

　　long shimmering lines

　　under the fleet from last night

　　which dozes now in the early morning

　　Here and there horses graze

　　On somebody's acreage

　　Strangely， it was not my desire

　　that bade me speak in church to be released

　　but memory of the way it used to be in

　　careless and exotic play

　　when characters were promises

　　then recognitions. The world of transformation

　　is real and not real but trusting.

　　Enough of the lessons? I mean

　　didactic phrases to take you in and out of

　　love's mysterious bonds?

　　Well I myself am not myself

　　and which power of survival I speak

　　for is not made of houses.

　　It is inner luxury， of golden figures

　　that breathe like mountains do

　　and whose skin is made dusky by stars.

　　O fresh day in February

　　Come along

　　with me under pine whose new cones

　　make flowers. In a mellow mood

　　let's take anything

　　and you're better

　　in the peaceful flowing

　　in the bech

　　in the bird who flys up

　　out of coyote bush，

　　bob cat who crosses the road.

　　For who could think I could see

　　the grace of other souls born， and reborn

　　before in crab shells

　　snail shells， the head of a grebe

　　molesin， new onions up. Drawn by

　　your clever sleigh of tortoise

　　I listen for the melody

　　to sing along.

　　篇3

　　Sakura Park

　　by Rachel Wetzsteon

　　The park admits the wind，

　　the petals lift and scatter

　　like versions of myself I was on the verge

　　of becoming; and ten years on

　　and ten blocks down I still can‘t tell

　　whether this dispersal resembles

　　a fist unclenching or waving goodbye.

　　But the petals scatter faster，

　　seeking the rose， the cigarette vendor，

　　and at least I‘ve got by pumping heart

　　some rules of conduct： refuse to choose

　　between turning pages and turning heads

　　though the stubborn dine alone. Get over

　　“getting over”： dark clouds don‘t fade

　　but drift with ever deeper colors.

　　Give up on rooted happiness

　　***the stolid trees on fire!*** and sweet reprieve

　　***a poor park but my own*** will follow.

　　There is still a chance the empty gazebo

　　will draw crowds from the greater world.

　　And meanwhile， meanwhile‘s far from nothing：

　　the humming moment， the rustle of cherry trees

　　篇4

　　To the Tune of "Telling My Most Intimate Feelings"

　　by Li Ch'ing-chao ***Translated by Arthur Sze***

　　When night comes，

　　I am so flushed with wine，

　　I undo my hair slowly：

　　a plum calyx is

　　stuck on a damaged branch.

　　I wake dazed when smoke

　　breaks my spring sleep.

　　The dream distant，

　　so very distant;

　　and it is quiet， so very quiet.

　　The moon spins and spins.

　　The kingfisher blinds are drawn;

　　and yet I rub the injured bud，

　　and yet I twist in my fingers this fragrance，

　　and yet I possess these moments of time!

　　篇5

　　Salmon

　　by Kim Addonizio

　　In this shallow creek

　　they flop and writhe forward as the dead

　　float back toward them. Oh， I know

　　what I should say： fierce burning in the body

　　as her eggs burst free， milky cloud

　　of sperm as he quickens them. I should stand

　　on the bridge with my camera，

　　frame the white froth of rapids where one

　　arcs up for an instant in its final grace.

　　But I have to go down among

　　the rocks the glacier left

　　and squat at the edge of the water

　　where a stinking pile of them lies，

　　where one crow balances and sinks

　　its beak into a gelid eye.

　　I have to study the small holes

　　gouged into their skin， their useless gills，

　　their gowns of black flies. I can't

　　make them sing. I want to，

　　but all they do is open

　　their mouths a little wider

　　so the water pours in

　　until I feel like I'm drowning.

　　On the bridge the tour bus waits

　　and someone waves， and calls down

　　It's time， and the current keeps lifting

　　dirt from the bottom to cover the eggs.