詩歌通過對事物、人物或事件的戲劇性表現(xiàn)來激發(fā)我們的想象。意象作為詩歌的核心,是通過感情以傳達(dá)經(jīng)驗的語言,它是欣賞和翻譯詩歌的關(guān)鍵。下面是由帶來的經(jīng)典英文詩歌閱讀，歡迎閱讀!
【篇一】經(jīng)典英文詩歌閱讀
What Wild-Eyed Murderer
by Peter Meinke
We shouldn‘t worship suffering： the world’s
a spinning rack where suffering indicates
all goes well we‘re alive and not curled
up in the black hushhush death dictates
as its first condition： no screaming there
We crown ourselves with thorns of past
transgressions Sharp spears of deed spare
no rib of pain： around the cross crashed
common lightning usual blood Who earns
our reverence should break both cross and crutch
in the face of suffering： while the rack turns
and tightens they‘ll smile at the sense of touch
Suffering‘s too common to be worth
anything joy too rare to be priced
The saints we search for will embrace the earth：
what wild-eyed murderer suffers less than Christ?
【篇二】經(jīng)典英文詩歌閱讀
What the Chairman Told Tom
by Basil Bunting
Poetry? It's a hobby.
I run model trains.
Mr. Shaw there breeds pigeons.
It's not work. You dont sweat.
Nobody pays for it.
You could advertise soap.
Art， that's opera; or repertory——
The Desert Song.
Nancy was in the chorus.
But to ask for twelve pounds a week——
married， aren't you?——
you've got a nerve.
How could I look a bus conductor
in the face
if I paid you twelve pounds?
Who says it's poetry， anyhow?
My ten year old
can do it and rhyme.
I get three thousand and expenses，
a car， vouchers，
but I'm an accountant.
They do what I tell them，
my company.
What do you do?
Nasty little words， nasty long words，
it's unhealthy.
I want to wash when I meet a poet.
They're Reds， addicts，
all delinquents.
What you write is rot.
Mr. Hines says so， and he's a schoolteacher，
he ought to know.
Go and find work
【篇三】經(jīng)典英文詩歌閱讀
Diving into the Wreck
by Adrienne Rich
First having read the book of myths，
and loaded the camera，
and checked the edge of the knife-blade，
I put on
the body-armor of black rubber
the absurd flippers
the grave and awkward mask.
I am having to do this
not like Cousteau with his
assiduous team
aboard the sun-flooded schooner
but here alone.
There is a ladder.
The ladder is always there
hanging innocently
close to the side of the schooner.
We know what it is for，
we who have used it.
Otherwise
it is a piece of maritime floss
some sundry equipment.
I go down.
Rung after rung and still
the oxygen immerses me
the blue light
the clear atoms
of our human air.
I go down.
My flippers cripple me，
I crawl like an insect down the ladder
and there is no one
to tell me when the ocean
will begin.
First the air is blue and then
it is bluer and then green and then
black I am blacking out and yet
my mask is powerful
it pumps my blood with power
the sea is another story
the sea is not a question of power
I have to learn alone
to turn my body without force
in the deep element.
And now： it is easy to forget
what I came for
among so many who have always
lived here
swaying their crenellated fans
between the reefs
and besides
you breathe differently down here.
I came to explore the wreck.
The words are purposes.
The words are maps.
I came to see the damage that was done
and the treasures that prevail.
I stroke the beam of my lamp
slowly along the flank
of something more permanent
than fish or weed
the thing I came for：
the wreck and not the story of the wreck
the thing itself and not the myth
the drowned face always staring
toward the sun
the evidence of damage
worn by salt and away into this threadbare beauty
the ribs of the disaster
curving their assertion
among the tentative haunters.
This is the place.
And I am here， the mermaid whose dark hair
streams black， the merman in his armored body.
We circle silently
about the wreck
we dive into the hold.
I am she： I am he
whose drowned face sleeps with open eyes
whose breasts still bear the stress
whose silver， copper， vermeil cargo lies
obscurely inside barrels
half-wedged and left to rot
we are the half-destroyed instruments
that once held to a course
the water-eaten log
the fouled compass
We are， I am， you are
by cowardice or courage
the one who find our way
back to this scene
carrying a knife， a camera
a book of myths
in which
our names do not appear.
【篇一】經(jīng)典英文詩歌閱讀
What Wild-Eyed Murderer
by Peter Meinke
We shouldn‘t worship suffering： the world’s
a spinning rack where suffering indicates
all goes well we‘re alive and not curled
up in the black hushhush death dictates
as its first condition： no screaming there
We crown ourselves with thorns of past
transgressions Sharp spears of deed spare
no rib of pain： around the cross crashed
common lightning usual blood Who earns
our reverence should break both cross and crutch
in the face of suffering： while the rack turns
and tightens they‘ll smile at the sense of touch
Suffering‘s too common to be worth
anything joy too rare to be priced
The saints we search for will embrace the earth：
what wild-eyed murderer suffers less than Christ?
【篇二】經(jīng)典英文詩歌閱讀
What the Chairman Told Tom
by Basil Bunting
Poetry? It's a hobby.
I run model trains.
Mr. Shaw there breeds pigeons.
It's not work. You dont sweat.
Nobody pays for it.
You could advertise soap.
Art， that's opera; or repertory——
The Desert Song.
Nancy was in the chorus.
But to ask for twelve pounds a week——
married， aren't you?——
you've got a nerve.
How could I look a bus conductor
in the face
if I paid you twelve pounds?
Who says it's poetry， anyhow?
My ten year old
can do it and rhyme.
I get three thousand and expenses，
a car， vouchers，
but I'm an accountant.
They do what I tell them，
my company.
What do you do?
Nasty little words， nasty long words，
it's unhealthy.
I want to wash when I meet a poet.
They're Reds， addicts，
all delinquents.
What you write is rot.
Mr. Hines says so， and he's a schoolteacher，
he ought to know.
Go and find work
【篇三】經(jīng)典英文詩歌閱讀
Diving into the Wreck
by Adrienne Rich
First having read the book of myths，
and loaded the camera，
and checked the edge of the knife-blade，
I put on
the body-armor of black rubber
the absurd flippers
the grave and awkward mask.
I am having to do this
not like Cousteau with his
assiduous team
aboard the sun-flooded schooner
but here alone.
There is a ladder.
The ladder is always there
hanging innocently
close to the side of the schooner.
We know what it is for，
we who have used it.
Otherwise
it is a piece of maritime floss
some sundry equipment.
I go down.
Rung after rung and still
the oxygen immerses me
the blue light
the clear atoms
of our human air.
I go down.
My flippers cripple me，
I crawl like an insect down the ladder
and there is no one
to tell me when the ocean
will begin.
First the air is blue and then
it is bluer and then green and then
black I am blacking out and yet
my mask is powerful
it pumps my blood with power
the sea is another story
the sea is not a question of power
I have to learn alone
to turn my body without force
in the deep element.
And now： it is easy to forget
what I came for
among so many who have always
lived here
swaying their crenellated fans
between the reefs
and besides
you breathe differently down here.
I came to explore the wreck.
The words are purposes.
The words are maps.
I came to see the damage that was done
and the treasures that prevail.
I stroke the beam of my lamp
slowly along the flank
of something more permanent
than fish or weed
the thing I came for：
the wreck and not the story of the wreck
the thing itself and not the myth
the drowned face always staring
toward the sun
the evidence of damage
worn by salt and away into this threadbare beauty
the ribs of the disaster
curving their assertion
among the tentative haunters.
This is the place.
And I am here， the mermaid whose dark hair
streams black， the merman in his armored body.
We circle silently
about the wreck
we dive into the hold.
I am she： I am he
whose drowned face sleeps with open eyes
whose breasts still bear the stress
whose silver， copper， vermeil cargo lies
obscurely inside barrels
half-wedged and left to rot
we are the half-destroyed instruments
that once held to a course
the water-eaten log
the fouled compass
We are， I am， you are
by cowardice or courage
the one who find our way
back to this scene
carrying a knife， a camera
a book of myths
in which
our names do not appear.