最適合小學生朗誦的英文詩歌

　　英語詩歌是英語語言的瑰寶,是學習英語語言必要的媒介材料。它有助於培養英語學習興趣,提高學生的審美情趣,因而在切實可行的操作下,能夠推進大學英語素質教育。小編精心收集了，供大家欣賞學習!

　　篇1

　　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.

　　篇2

　　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3

　　Post-Modernism

　　by James Galvin

　　A pinup of Rita Hayworth was taped To the bomb that fell on Hiroshima.

　　The Avant-garde makes me weep with boredom.

　　Hares are wishes， especially dark ones.

　　That's why twitches and fences.

　　That's why switches and spurs.

　　That's why the idiom of betrayal.

　　They forgive us.

　　Their windswayed manes and tails，Their eyes，Affront the winterscrubbed prairie With gentleness.

　　They live in both worlds and forgive us.

　　I'll give you a hint： the wind in fits and starts.

　　Like schoolchildren when the teacher walks in，The aspens jostle for their places And fall still.

　　A delirium of ridges breaks in a blue streak：A confusion of means Saved from annihilation By catastrophe.

　　A horse gallops up to the gate and stops.

　　The rider dismounts.

　　Do I know him?

　　篇4

　　Postcard from Searsburg

　　by Wyn Cooper

　　What was it you wanted he calls out the door

　　as I walk toward his house， which tilts uphill.

　　I just wanted to ask， I start to say — but he

　　cuts me off， tells me he doesn‘t talk to strangers，

　　says that I should go away. I tell him I like

　　his old car， I name the year and model，

　　and soon he is shaking my hand，

　　inviting me in for home-brewed beer.

　　After my second and his who-knows-

　　how-many-pints， he tells me he‘s ready

　　for the government when they come.

　　He takes me down to the cellar， filled

　　With enough food for years， calendars

　　for the coming one， enough water for

　　about a month. He shows me the vegetables

　　he‘s growing under lights， but I can’t see them.

　　I swirlout the door like the windmills

　　we watched from his den， ten spinning，

　　one broken. I stand in his driveway

　　and feel them， their slow whipping roar.

　　The town‘s elevation is unmatched，

　　except by a few of its people， higher

　　than kites from the slogans they write

　　on the outside of their dwellings，

　　which no wind has managed to blow down

　　篇5

　　On Gifts For Grace

　　by Bernadette Mayer

　　I saw a great teapot

　　I wanted to get you this stupendous

　　100% cotton royal blue and black checked shirt，

　　There was a red and black striped one too

　　Then I saw these boots at a place called Chuckles

　　They laced up to about two inches above your ankles

　　All leather and in red， black or purple

　　It was hard to have no money today

　　I won't even speak about the possible flowers and kinds of lingerie

　　All linen and silk with not-yet-perfumed laces

　　Brilliant enough for any of the Graces

　　Full of luxury， grace notes， prosperousness and charm

　　But I can only praise you with this poem-

　　Its being is the same as the meaning of your name