关于优美的英语诗阅读

诗歌是一种典型的文学形式,它既属于文学,又是一种艺术。下面是小编带来的关于优美的英语诗阅读，欢迎阅读!

关于优美的英语诗阅读篇一

Nigger lipson each fore arm

by Martín Espada

Niggerlips was the high school name for me.

So called by Douglas

the car mechanic， with green tattoos

on each forearm，

and the choir of round pink faces

that grinned deliciously

from the back row of classrooms，

droned over by teachers

checking attendance too slowly.

Douglas would brag

about cruising his car

near sidewalks of black children

to point an unloaded gun，

to scare niggers

like crows off a tree，

he'd say.

My great-grandfather Luis

was un negrito too，

a shoemaker in the coffee hills

of Puerto Rico， 1900.

The family called him a secret

and kept no photograph.

My father remembers

the childhood white powder

that failed to bleach

his stubborn copper skin，

and the family says

he is still a fly in milk.

So Niggerlips has the mouth

of his great-grandfather，

the song he must have sung

as he pounded the leather and nails，

the heat that courses through copper，

the stubbornness of a fly in milk，

and all you have， Douglas，

is that unloaded gun.

关于优美的英语诗阅读篇二

Next Door weighted by yesterday snow

by Joan Selinger Sidney

Oaks drag alongside the road，

weighted by yesterday‘s snow.

There‘s Frauka walking alone，

the hood of her parka

snow-lit against the trees.

I pull over. How is he? But before

I can answer， I see them last

summer： Frauka， and Father

leaning on Mother， wanting to believe

her will can make him well.

Sitting on the lawn，

pretending to read， I am unable

to tell them， My legs won‘t walk.

Go on without me.

Eleven years I‘ve protected them—

Holocaust survivors—by not naming

my disease. Wishing them dead

before they‘d see me in a wheelchair.

Frauka whispers， My younger brother

died one day before your father.

Tears rim her eyes， her slim

body shivers in the wind.

For a moment we are closer

in our sorrow than we‘ve ever been.

关于优美的英语诗阅读篇三

Nearing Autobiography

by Pattiann Rogers

Those are my bones rifted

and curled， knees to chin，

among the rocks on the beach，

my hands splayed beneath my skull

in the mud. Those are my rib

bones resting like white sticks

wracked on the bank， laid down，

delivered， rubbed clean

by river and snow.

Ethereal as seedless weeds

in dim sun and frost， I see

my own bones translucent as locust

husks， light as spider bones，

as filled with light as lantern

bones when the candle flames.

And I see my bones， facile，

willing， rolling and clacking，

reveling like broken shells

among themselves in a tumbling surf.

I recognize them， no other's，

raggedly patterned and wrought，

peeled as a skeleton of sycamore

against gray skies， stiff as a fallen

spruce. I watch them floating

at night， identical lake slivers

flush against the same star bones

drifting in scattered pieces above.

Everything I assemble， all

the constructions I have rendered

are the metal and dust of my locked

and storied bones. My bald cranium

shines blind as the moon.