優秀英語詩歌朗誦稿

  詩歌是一種精美的藝術,其語言之精煉,語彙之豐富,表達形勢之精妙令人歎為觀止。學英文而不懂英文詩歌,從審美角度看是個遺憾。小編分享,希望可以幫助大家!

  :Even the Ohio Can Change

  Rick Campbell

  The river I grew up on was rank

  with oil. Shoreline stones

  gleamed slick-blue and nothing

  in the river was worth a slug

  of scrap metal: carp and catfish,

  sick, riddled with chemical blood.

  My river was for barges,

  owned by US Steel, ARMCO, J&L.

  They pumped it full of slag,

  dripped and drained oil and gas

  through a thousand hidden holes.

  Nothing good could come of it

  except a living and life,

  a whole valley's clinging dream.

  The Indians who named it beautiful river

  weren't wrong; how could they know

  what would come, dark and sooty,

  burning the sky, turning the earth

  to mud and cinder.

  Even in our terrible need

  we couldn't kill it and the river

  is coming back to river once again.

  In the cold ruin of the Ohio's banks

  muskies swim the secret paths below.

  We grow older, the river younger,

  and great fish smash into the air

  to swallow a caterpillar

  fallen from a willow branch.

  :Adam Home from the Wars

  Sean Bishop

  Yes, when the orchard's dolled up in pastels

  and the finches scrawl cursive across the sky

  and the big moon sags like a tit o'er the meadows,

  I'll trade in my Glock for a pocket of dew.

  And the wars will stop. And everyone

  will do the dishes. And the lion

  will sweetly go down on the lamb

  as among the rifle casings the brambles

  eject -- at last -- their thorns.

  Once, on a bench by the river, the little ducks

  seemed bread-sated and happy. I had my girl.

  It was the Great Past Tense and everything was lovely.

  Then, on the breeze: burnt spruce or a musk

  of black powder and blood from a further field.

  I made for my wound a poultice of wounds,

  and the ones I wounded made poultices too.

  We've come here this evening to give them to you.

  :Parable

  Sandra Beasley

  Worries come to a man and a woman.

  Small ones, light in the hand.

  The man decides to swallow his worries,

  hiding them deep within himself. The woman

  throws hers as far as she can from their porch.

  They touch each other, relieved.

  They make coffee, and make plans for

  the seaside in May.

  All the while, the worries

  of the man take his insides as their oyster,

  coating themselves in juice - first gastric,

  then nacreous - growing layer upon layer.

  And in the fields beyond the wash-line,

  the worries of the woman take root,

  stretching tendrils through the rich soil.

  The parable tells us Consider the ravens,

  but the ravens caw useless from the gutters

  of this house. The parable tells us

  Consider the lilies, but they shiver in the side-yard,

  silent.

  What the parable does not tell you

  is that this woman collects porcelain cats.

  Some big, some small, some gilded, some plain.

  One stops doors. One cups cream and another, sugar.

  This man knows they are tacky. Still, when the one

  that had belonged to her great-aunt fell

  and broke, he held her as she wept, held her

  even after her breath had lengthened to sleep.

  The parable does not care about such things.

  Worry has come to the house of a man

  and a woman. Their garden yields greens gone

  bitter, corn cowering in its husk.

  He asks himself, What will we eat? They sit

  at the table and open the mail: a bill, a bill, a bill,

  an invitation. She turns a saltshaker cat

  between her palms and asks, What will we wear?

  He rubs her wrist with his thumb.

  He wonders how to offer

  the string of pearls writhing in his belly.