經典優美英文詩歌欣賞

　　英語詩歌的特點和其他語言詩歌的特點一樣,都是形象的語言和富於音樂性的語言。這是它的特點,也是其難於學習之處。下面是小編帶來的，歡迎閱讀!

　　篇一

　　Mongrel Death Blues

　　by Joshua Weiner

　　What's that behind my back

　　What's that gnawing behind my back

　　It sounds like a dog crunching bones for marrow.

　　Bones here so old， the sun's dried up the marrow.

　　What kind of dog splinters bone like that

　　Don't turn around， I hear it getting louder.

　　Don't turn， don't turn， its growl is getting louder.

　　Oh， don't you growl at me， nappy rabid dog.

　　My joints may be cracking， but my bones ain't buried yet.

　　I said， my skeleton is talking， but my bones ain't buried yet.

　　Hear my belly growling I'm hungrier than I've ever been.

　　Are you baring pearly whites I can almost smell your mongrel breath.

　　Yes， your pearlies， they are snapping， and I can smell your stinking breath.

　　I'd turn around and pet you， but I've given up on pets.

　　I am reaching for a stone.

　　I swear my aim is sharp.

　　I swear my arm is strong.

　　It's growing dark， but I won't miss.

　　It's darker now， but I won't miss.

　　O shine down moonlight， my whole life has led to this.

　　篇二

　　Monologue for an Onion

　　by Suji Kwock Kim

　　I don't mean to make you cry.

　　I mean nothing， but this has not kept you

　　From peeling away my body， layer by layer，

　　The tears clouding your eyes as the table fills

　　With husks， cut flesh， all the debris of pursuit.

　　Poor deluded human： you seek my heart.

　　Hunt all you want. Beneath each skin of mine

　　Lies another skin： I am pure onion——pure union

　　Of outside and in， surface and secret core.

　　Look at you， chopping and weeping. Idiot.

　　Is this the way you go through life， your mind

　　A stopless knife， driven by your fantasy of truth，

　　Of lasting union——slashing away skin after skin

　　From things， ruin and tears your only signs

　　Of progress? Enough is enough.

　　You must not grieve that the world is glimpsed

　　Through veils. How else can it be seen?

　　How will you rip away the veil of the eye， the veil

　　That you are， you who want to grasp the heart

　　Of things， hungry to know where meaning

　　Lies. Taste what you hold in your hands： onion-juice，

　　Yellow peels， my stinging shreds. You are the one

　　In pieces. Whatever you meant to love， in meaning to

　　You changed yourself： you are not who you are，

　　Your soul cut moment to moment by a blade

　　Of fresh desire， the ground sown with abandoned skins.

　　And at your inmost circle， what? A core that is

　　Not one. Poor fool， you are divided at the heart，

　　Lost in its maze of chambers， blood， and love，

　　A heart that will one day beat you to death.

　　篇三

　　Morning in the Burned House

　　by Margaret Atwood

　　In the burned house I am eating breakfast.

　　You understand： there is no house， there is no breakfast，

　　yet here I am.

　　The spoon which was melted scrapes against

　　the bowl which was melted also.

　　No one else is around.

　　Where have they gone to， brother and sister，

　　mother and father? Off along the shore，

　　perhaps. Their clothes are still on the hangers，

　　their dishes piled beside the sink，

　　which is beside the woodstove

　　with its grate and sooty kettle，

　　every detail clear，

　　tin cup and rippled mirror.

　　The day is bright and songless，

　　the lake is blue， the forest watchful.

　　In the east a bank of cloud

　　rises up silently like dark bread.

　　I can see the swirls in the oilcloth，

　　I can see the flaws in the glass，

　　those flares where the sun hits them.

　　I can't see my own arms and legs

　　or know if this is a trap or blessing，

　　finding myself back here， where everything

　　in this house has long been over，

　　kettle and mirror， spoon and bowl，

　　including my own body，

　　including the body I had then，

　　including the body I have now

　　as I sit at this morning table， alone and happy，

　　bare child's feet on the scorched floorboards

　　***I can almost see***

　　in my burning clothes， the thin green shorts

　　and grubby yellow T-shirt

　　holding my cindery， non-existent，

　　radiant flesh. Incandescent.