關於優美的英語詩閱讀

　　詩歌是一種典型的文學形式,它既屬於文學,又是一種藝術。下面是小編帶來的，歡迎閱讀!

　　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.

　　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.

　　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.