英文簡單詩歌
英文詩歌是給人以享受的文學體裁之一。英文詩歌的欣賞可以促進學生的語言學習。下面就是小編給大家整理的，希望大家喜歡。
：The Interrogation
Amit Majmudar
When they leathered his arm to the armrest and began
like manicurists in a nail salon
he says that he "retreated" from his hand
until the part of him that dwelt there once was gone
and heard no news from his own outer reaches.
In his memoir of those years, he sketches
the tricks he used, one of which was "vision."
Maybe it's better we present his version:
"I imagined my arm as a slope I had to scale,
shaft of the humerus as smooth as shale
but white like bone and giving way like sand
wherever I set foot. I couldn't stand,
couldn't take a breather, or I'd ride my own
disintegration down and end up on
the shore -- which was my hand, my fingernails.
I crested my shoulder, rested on its knoll.
I looked down then and saw the pain as men
charging uphill to where I hid my sense
of pain. At once I stomped a foot to see
the whole arm crack, calve, crash into the sea,
disarticulated, part of me no more.
I did this for the other arm and for
my feet and testicles and eyes until
I found myself on a Pacific atoll
that had no latitude, no longitude.
I built a hut, I scuttled the one canoe.
I saw a sun that weighed a kiloton
and the power cord by which it swung."
：The Halo
C. Dale Young
In the paintings left to us
by the Old Masters, the halo,
a smallish cloud of light, clung
to the head, carefully framed the faces
of mere mortals made divine.
Accident? My body launched
by a car's incalculable momentum?
It ended up outside the car. I had no idea then
what it was like to lose days, to wake
and find everything had changed.
Through glass, this body went
through the glass window, the seatbelt
snapping my neck. Not the hanged man,
not a man made divine but more human.
I remember those pins buried in my skull,
the cold metal frame surrounding my head,
metal reflecting a small fire, a glow. All
was changed. In that bed, I was a locust.
I was starving. And how could I not be?
I, I . . . I am still ravenous.
：The Mind Is Its Own Place
Ann Townsend
Mated and unmated,
starlings swarm the willow
with their devotions
until the tree roils
and sways, wing-beats
sounding the torrent
through which they swim.
Dopamine, paroxetine,
an injection of adrenaline
into the bloodstream:
these deliver the dissident
fuel I crave for the mind's
pleasure, and for its pain.
Call it one song indispensable
to trouble the branching
arteries. The willow divinates
toward water, switching
in the breeze; it grazes
the edge but cannot
rest there. My fingertips
pressed against my temples:
ten points of sensation,
a vaulted cage where
starlings congregate
to rustle their chaos,
their alphabet blown to bits
in the wind's rush.
Yes, you heard me.
Like an aviary, Plato said,
the mind is full of birds.