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精选英语诗歌欣赏

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精选英语诗歌欣赏

精选英语诗歌欣赏

诗歌欣赏:Batuschka

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!

诗歌欣赏: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!

诗歌欣赏: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.

诗歌欣赏: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.

诗歌欣赏: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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