關於經典優美英文詩歌篇1
Somewhere Else
by Matthew Shenoda
It is here on this ridge
exposed to the orange dusk
of mountain autumn
that the story begins.
Buck wood for the stove
feel the heat of shoulder to tendon
greet the mule deer
and water the garden again.
In rhythm， with song
when the ax begins to blend with wind
carry on to warmer days
on the river's open banks
where the fervor of healing is found in water.
Flow from one origin to another——
there is never a place where we cannot begin
where the current is ancient， the wind is young
teaching each other like the ax and the wood.
Carve a place for dignity
plant a seed and pray for rain
for sun
for understanding outside your self.
There will e a day when they say：
who do you think you are
and another day will e
for you to tell.
On that day the story will appear
but do not tell of yourself
tell the story of the staff that blossomed in the desert
or the one about your enemy's greatest victory
tell the story of somewhere else
關於經典優美英文詩歌篇2
somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
by E. E. Cummings
somewhere i have never travelled，gladly beyond
any experience，your eyes have their silence：
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me，
or which i cannot touch because they are too near
your slightest look will easily unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers，
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
touching skilfully，mysteriouslyher first rose
or if your wish be to close me， i and
my life will shut very beautifully ，suddenly，
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility：whose texture
pels me with the color of its countries，
rendering death and forever with each breathing
i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses
nobody，not even the rain，has such *** all hands
關於經典優美英文詩歌篇3
Silence Ravingby Clayton Eshleman
Patters， paters， Apollo globes， sound
breaking up with silence， coals
I can still hear， entanglement of sense pools，
the way a cave might leak perfume——
in the Cro-Magnons went， along its wet hide walls，
as if a flower in， way in， drew their leggy
panspermatic bodies， spidering over
bottomless hunches， groping toward Persephone's fate：
to be quicksanded by the fungus pulp of Hades' purple hair
exploding in their brains.
They poured their foreheads into the coals and corrals
zigzagged about in the night air——
the animals led in crossed
a massive vulva incised before the gate，
the power that came up from it was paradise， the power
the Cro-Magnons bequeathed to us：
to make an altar of our throats.
The first words were mixed with animal fat，
wounded men tried to say who did it.
The group was the rim of a to-be-invented wheel，
their speech was spokes， looping over，
around， the hub of the fire， its silk of us，
its burn of them， bop we dip， you dip，
we dip to you， you will dip to us， Dionysus
the plopping， pooling words， stirred
by the lyre gaps between the peaks of flame，
water to fire， us to them.
Foal-eyes， rubbery， they looped
back into those caves whose walls could be strung
between their teeth， the sticky soul material pulled to
The sides by their hands， ooh
what bone looms they sewed themselves into， ah
what tiny male spiders they were
on the enormous capable of devouring them
female rock elastic word!