關於簡單的英文詩歌篇壹
Skills
by Jonathan Aaron
Blondin made a fortune walking back and forth
over Niagara Falls on a tightrope—blindfolded，
or inside a sack， or pushing a wheelbarrow， or perched on stilts，
or lugging a man on his back. Once， halfway across，
he sat down to cook and eat an omelette.
Houdini， dumped into Lake Michigan chained
and locked in a weighted trunk， swam back to the boat
a few moments later. He could swallow more than a hundred needles
and some thread， then pull from between his lips
the needles dangling at even intervals.
I can close my eyes and see your house
explode in a brilliant flash， silently，
with a plete absence of vibration. And when I open them again，
my heart in my mouth， everything is standing
just as before， but not as if nothing had happened.
關於簡單的英文詩歌篇二
Skunk Hour
by Robert Lowell
For Elizabeth Bishop
Nautilus Island's hermit
heiress still lives through winter in her Spartan cottage;
her sheep still graze above the sea.
Her son's a bishop. Her farmer
is first selectman in our village，
she's in her dotage.
Thirsting for
the hierarchic privacy
of Queen Victoria's century，
she buys up all
the eyesores facing her shore，
and lets them fall.
The season's ill——
we've lost our summer millionaire，
who seemed to leap from an L. L. Bean
catalogue. His nine-knot yawl
was auctioned off to lobstermen.
A red fox stain covers Blue Hill.
And now our fairy
decorator brightens his shop for fall，
his fishnet's filled with orange cork，
orange， his cobbler's bench and awl，
there is no money in his work，
he'd rather marry.
One dark night，
my Tudor Ford climbed the hill's skull，
I watched for love-cars. Lights turned down，
they lay together， hull to hull，
where the graveyard shelves on the town. . . .
My mind's not right.
A car radio bleats，
'Love， O careless Love . . . .' I hear
my ill-spirit sob in each blood cell，
as if my hand were at its throat . . . .
I myself am hell，
nobody's here——
only skunks， that search
in the moonlight for a bite to eat.
They march on their soles up Main Street：
white stripes， moonstruck eyes' red fire
under the chalk-dry and spar spire
of the Trinitarian Church.
I stand on top
of our back steps and breathe the rich air——
a mother skunk with her column of kittens swills the
garbage pail
She jabs her wedge-head in a cup
of sour cream， drops her ostrich tail，
and will not scare.
關於簡單的英文詩歌篇三
Sky
by Anzhelina Polonskaya
Translated by Andrew Wachtel
He broke up the sky on the square and gave it like bread crumbs to birds.
Then he cut it in pieces and threw it to the beggars，
the crazies， the blind， and their panions.
But I got an end， *** ashed like a cup thrown to the ground，
lying on its back like a wounded soldier，
unplaining， as a harem wife
hiding her gaze behind a black veil.
The plains' bed is spread with houses， and everyone
beneath it ages like a slave chained in bondage;
save his high-cheek-boned face.
Tensing my voice I started to refuse my free portion.
But I stayed mute， the sky's mouth was filled with lead.
關於簡單的英文詩歌篇四
Skylab
by Rolf Jacobsen
Translated by Roger Greenwald
We've e so far， thought the astronaut
as he swam around the capsule in his third week
and by accident kicked a god in the eye
——so far
that there's no difference anymore between up and down，
north and south， heavy and light.
And how， then， can we know righteousness.
So far.
And weightless， in a sealed room
we chase the sunrises at high speed
and sicken with longing for a green stalk
or the heft of something in our hands. Lifting a stone.
One night he saw that the Earth was like an open eye
that looked at him as gravely as the eye of a child
awakened in the middle of the night.
關於簡單的英文詩歌篇五
Slanting Light
by Arthur Sze
Slanting light casts onto a stucco wall
the shadows of upwardly zigzagging plum branches.
I can see the thinning of branches to the very twig.
I have to sift what you say， what she thinks，
what he believes is genetic strength， what
they agree is inevitable. I have to sift this
quirky and lashing stillness of form to see myself，
even as I see laid out on a table for Death
an assortment of pomegranates and gourds.
And what if Death eats a few pomegranate seeds?
Does it insure a few years of pungent spring?
I see one gourd， yellow from midsection to top
and zucchini-green lower down， but
already the big orange gourd is gnawed black.
I have no idea why the one survives the killing nights.
I have to sift what you said， what I felt，
what you hoped， what I knew. I have to sift
death as the stark light sifts the branches of the plum.