英語詩歌欣賞

          時間:2024-09-15 17:32:18 詩歌 我要投稿

          精選英語詩歌欣賞

            詩歌欣賞:Batuschka

          精選英語詩歌欣賞

            From yonder gilded minaret

            Beside the steel-blue Neva set,

            I faintly catch, from time to time,

            The sweet, aerial midnight chime——

            "God save the Tsar!"

            Above the ravelins and the moats

            Of the white citadel it floats;

            And men in dungeons far beneath

            Listen, and pray, and gnash their teeth——

            "God save the Tsar!"

            The soft reiterations sweep

            Across the horror of their sleep,

            a term of endearment applied

            to the Tsar in Russian folk-song.

            As if some daemon in his glee

            Were mocking at their misery——

            "God save the Tsar!"

            In his Red Palace over there,

            Wakeful, he needs must hear the prayer.

            How can it drown the broken cries

            Wrung from his children's agonies?——

            "God save the Tsar!"

            Father they called him from of old——

            Batuschka! . . . How his heart is cold!

            Wait till a million scourged men

            Rise in their awful might, and then——

            God save the Tsar!

            詩歌欣賞:Camma

            Camma

            (To Ellen Terry)

            As one who poring on a Grecian urn

            Scans the fair shapes some Attic hand hath made,

            God with slim goddess, goodly man with maid,

            And for their beauty's sake is loth to turn

            And face the obvious day, must I not yearn

            For many a secret moon of indolent bliss,

            When in midmost shrine of Artemis

            I see thee standing, antique-limbed, and stern?

            And yet - methinks I'd rather see thee play

            That serpent of old Nile, whose witchery

            Made Emperors drunken, - come, great Egypt, shake

            Our stage with all thy mimic pageants! Nay,

            I am grown sick of unreal passions, make

            The world thine Actium, me thine Anthony!

            詩歌欣賞:A Prayer for My Son

            Bid a strong ghost stand at the head

            That my Michael may sleep sound,

            Nor cry, nor turn in the bed

            Till his morning meal come round;

            And may departing twilight keep

            All dread afar till morning‘s back,

            That his mother may not lack

            Her fill of sleep.

            Bid the ghost have sword in fist:

            Some there are, for I avow

            Such devilish things exist,

            Who have planned his murder, for they know

            Of some most haughty deed or thought

            That waits upon his future days,

            And would through hatred of the bays

            Bring that to nought.

            Though You can fashion everything

            From nothing every day, and teach

            The morning stars to sing,

            You have lacked articulate speech

            To tell Your simplest want, and known,

            Wailing upon a woman‘s knee,

            All of that worst ignominy

            Of flesh and bone;

            And when through all the town there ran

            The servants of Your enemy,

            A woman and a man,

            Unless the Holy Writings lie,

            Hurried through the smooth and rough

            And through the fertile and waste,

            Protecting, till the danger past,

            With human love.

            A Path Between Houses

            Where is the dwelling place of light?

            And where is the house of darkness?

            Go about; walk the limits of the land.

            Do you know a path between them?

            The enigma of August.

            Season of dust and teenage arson.

            The nightly whine of pickup trucks

            bouncing through the sumac

            beneath the Co-Operative power lines,

            country & western booming from woofers

            carved into the doors. A trace of smoke

            when the wins shifts,

            spun gravel rattling the fenders of cars,

            the groan of clutch and transaxle,

            pickup trucks, arriving at a friction point,

            gunning from nowhere to nowhere.

            The duets begin. A compact disc,

            a single line of muted trumpet,

            plays against the sirens

            pursuing the smoke of grass fires.

            I love a painter. On a new canvas,

            she paints the neighbor's field.

            She paints it without trees,

            and paints the field beyond the field,

            the field that has no trees,

            and the upturned Jesus boat,

            made into a planter,

            "For God so loved the world. . ."

            a citation from John, chapter and verse,

            splattered across the bow

            the boat spills roses into the weeds.

            What does the stray dog know,

            after a taste of what is holy?

            The sun pulls her shadow toward me,

            an undulant shape that shelters the grass,

            an unaimed thing.

            In the gray house, the tiny house,

            in '52 there was a fire. The old woman,

            drunk and smoking cigarettes, fell asleep.

            The winter of the blizzard and her son

            Not coming home from the Yalu.

            There are times I still smell smoke.

            There are days I know she set the fire

            and why.

            Last night, lightning to the south.

            Here, nothing, though along the river

            the wind upends a willow,

            a gorgon of leaves and bottom-up clod

            browning in the afternoon sun.

            In the museum we dispute

            the poet's epiphany call——

            white light or more warmth?

            And what is the Greek word for the flesh,

            and the body apart from the spirit,

            meaning even the body opposed to the spirit?

            I do not know this word.

            Dante claims there are pools of fire

            in the middle regions of hell,

            but the lowest circles are lakes of ice,

            offering the hope our greatest sins

            aren't the passions but indifference.

            And the willow grew for years

            With no real hold upon the ground.

            How the accident occurred

            and how the sky got dark:

            Six miles from my house,

            a drunk leaves the Holiday Inn

            spins on 104 and smacks a utility pole.

            The power line sparks

            across the hood of his Ford

            and illuminates the crazed spider web

            of the windshield. His bloody tongue burns

            with a slurry gospel. Around me,

            the lights go down,

            the way death is described

            as armor crashing to the ground,

            the soul having already departed

            for another place. Was it his body I heard

            leaning against the horn,

            the body's final song, before the body

            slumped sideways in the seat?

            When I was a child,

            I would wake at night

            and imagine a field of asteroids, rolling

            across the walls of my room.

            In fact, I've seen them,

            like the last herd of buffalo,

            grazing against the background of fixed stars.

            Plate 420 shows the asteroid 433 Eros,

            the bright point of light, as it closes its approach

            to light. I loose myself in Cygnus,

            ancient kamikaze swan,

            rising or diving to earth,

            Draco, snarling at the polestar,

            and Pegasus, stone horse of the gods,

            ecstatic, looking one last time at home.

            August and the enigma it is.

            Days when I move in crabbed circles,

            nights when I walk with Jesus through the fields.

            What finally stands between us

            and the world of flying things?

            Mobbed by jays, the Cooper's hawk

            drops the dead bird. It tumbles

            beneath the cedar tree,

            tiny acrobat of death,

            a dead bird released

            in a failed act of atonement.

            A nest of wasps buzzing beneath the shingles,

            flickers drilling the cottonwood,

            jays, sparrows, the insistent wrens,

            the language of birds, heads cocked,

            staring the moon-eyed through the air.

            Sedge, asters, and fleabane,

            red tins of gasoline and glowing cigarettes,

            the midnight voice of a fourteen-year-old girl

            wailing the word "blue" from the pickup's open doors,

            illuminated by the dome light,

            the sulphurous rasp of another struck match,

            and foxglove, goldenrod and chicory,

            the dry flowers of late summer,

            an exhaustion I no longer look at.

            Time passes. The authorities

            gather the wreckage, the whirr

            of cicadas, and light dissembles the sky.

            A wind shift, and the Cedar Creek fire

            snaps the backfire line

            and roars through the cemetery.

            In the morning,

            I walk a path between houses.

            I cross to the water

            and circle again, the redwings

            forcing me back from the marsh.

            Smoke rises from a fire

            still smoldering along the power lines,

            flaring and exhausting itself

            in the shape of something lost.

            Grass fires, fires through the scrub

            of the clear-cut, fires in the pulpwood,

            cemetery fires,

            the powder of ash still untracked

            beneath the enormous trees,

            fires that explode the seed cones

            on the pines, the smoke of set fires

            and every good intention gone wrong,

            scorching the monuments

            above the graves of the dead.

            詩歌欣賞:Bamboo Adobe

            I sit along in the dark bamboo grove,

            Playing the zither and whistling long.

            In this deep wood no one would know

            Only the bright moon comes to shine.

            詩歌欣賞:Byzantium

            The unpurged images of day recede;

            The Emperor‘s drunken soldiery are abed;

            Night resonance recedes, night-walkers‘ song

            After great cathedral gong;

            A starlit or a moonlit dome disdains

            All that man is,

            All mere complexities,

            The fury and the mire of human veins.

            Before me floats an image, man or shade,

            Shade more than man, more image than a shade;

            For Hades‘ bobbin bound in mummy-cloth

            May unwind the winding path;

            A mouth that has no moisture and no breath

            Breathless mouths may summon;

            I hail the superhuman;

            I call it death-in-life and life-in-death.

            Miracle, bird or golden handiwork,

            More miracle than bird or handiwork,

            Planted on the star-lit golden bough,

            Can like the cocks of Hades crow,

            Or, by the moon embittered, scorn aloud

            In glory of changeless metal

            Common bird or petal

            And all complexities of mire or blood.

            At midnight on the Emperor‘s pavement flit

            Flames that no faggot feeds, nor steel has lit,

            Nor storm disturbs, flames begotten of flame,

            Where blood-begotten spirits come

            And all complexities of fury leave,

            Dying into a dance,

            An agony of trance,

            An agony of flame that cannot singe a sleeve.

            Astraddle on the dolphin‘s mire and blood,

            Spirit after spirit! The smithies break the flood,

            The golden smithies of the Emperor!

            Marbles of the dancing floor

            Break bitter furies of complexity,

            Those images that yet

            Fresh images beget,

            That dolphin-torn, that gong-tormented sea.

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