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好听的英文诗歌朗诵精选

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好听的英文诗歌朗诵精选

  英语诗歌同建筑艺术一样,也需要追求外在的视觉艺术和造型艺术,讲究外部的象形、对称、参差和魅力,所以诗歌语言也具有建筑艺术美感。诗歌比其他任何文学样式更接近建筑艺术,更具有建筑美。学习啦小编整理了好听的英文诗歌,欢迎阅读!

  好听的英文诗歌篇一

  The Waltz We Were Born For

  by Walt McDonald

  I never knew them all, just hummed

  and thrummed my fingers with the radio,

  driving five hundred miles to Austin.

  Her arms held all the songs I needed.

  Our boots kept time with fiddles

  and the charming sobs of blondes,

  the whine of steel guitars

  sliding us down in deer-hide chairs

  when jukebox music was over.

  Sad music's on my mind tonight

  in a jet high over Dallas, earphones

  on channel five. A lonely singer,

  dead, comes back to beg me,

  swearing in my ears she's mine,

  rhymes set to music that make

  her lies seem true. She's gone

  and others like her, leaving their songs

  to haunt us. Letting down through clouds

  I know who I'll find waiting at the gate,

  the same woman faithful to my arms

  as she was those nights in Austin

  when the world seemed like a jukebox,

  our boots able to dance forever,

  our pockets full of coins.

  好听的英文诗歌篇二

  Cold Morning

  by Eamon Grennan

  Through an accidental crack in the curtain

  I can see the eight o'clock light change from

  charcoal to a faint gassy blue, inventing things

  in the morning that has a thick skin of ice on it

  as the water tank has, so nothing flows, all is bone,

  telling its tale of how hard the night had to be

  for any heart caught out in it, just flesh and blood

  no match for the mindless chill that's settled in,

  a great stone bird, its wings stretched stiff

  from the tip of Letter Hill to the cobbled bay, its gaze

  glacial, its hook-and-scrabble claws fast clamped

  on every window, its petrifying breath a cage

  in which all the warmth we were is shivering.

  好听的英文诗歌篇三

  Cockroaches: Ars Poetica

  by Chad Davidson

  They know that death is merely of the body

  not the species, know that their putrid chitin

  is always memorable. We call them ugly

  with their blackened exoskeletons,

  their wall-crawlings as we paw at them.

  Extreme adaptability, we say.

  And where there‘s one there’s probably a million

  more who lie and laugh in cracks close by.

  At first they seem so pitiful and base

  feeding on what we leave behind. Content

  to watch us watching them, their hidden grace

  is endless procreation: it keeps them constant,

  believing they‘ll live to read our requiem

  with the godlike eyes we used to look at them.

  好听的英文诗歌篇四

  The War Works Hard

  by Dunya Mikhail (Translated by Elizabeth Winslow)

  How magnificent the war is!

  How eager and efficient!

  Early in the morning

  it wakes up the sirens

  and dispatches ambulances to various places

  swings corpses through the air

  rolls stretchers to the wounded

  summons rain from the eyes of mothers

  digs into the earth

  dislodging many things

  from under the ruins……

  Some are lifeless and glistening

  others are pale and still throbbing……

  It produces the most questions

  in the minds of children

  entertains the gods

  by shooting fireworks and missiles into the sky

  sows mines in the fields

  and reaps punctures and blisters

  urges families to emigrate

  stands beside the clergymen

  as they curse the devil

  (poor devil, he remains with one hand in the searing fire)……

  The war continues working, day and night.

  It inspires tyrants to deliver long speeches

  awards medals to generals and themes to poets

  it contributes to the industry of artificial limbs

  provides food for flies

  adds pages to the history books

  achieves equality

  between killer and killed

  teaches lovers to write letters

  accustoms young women to waiting

  fills the newspapers with articles and pictures

  builds new houses for the orphans

  invigorates the coffin makers

  gives grave diggers a pat on the back

  and paints a smile on the leader's face.

  It works with unparalleled diligence!

  Yet no one gives it a word of praise.

  好听的英文诗歌篇五

  Company of Moths

  by Michael Palmer

  We thought it could all be found in The Book of Poor Text,

  the shadow the boat casts, angled mast, fretted wake, indigo eye.

  Windows of the blind text,

  keening, parabolic nights.

  And the rolling sun, sun tumbling

  into then under, company of moths.

  Can you hear what I'm thinking, from there, even as you sleep?

  Streets of the Poor Text, where a child's gaze falls

  on the corpse of a horse beside a cart,

  whimpering dog, woman's mute mouth agape

  as if to say, We must move on,

  we must not stop, we must not watch.

  For after all, do the dead watch us?

  To memorize precisely the tint of a plum,

  curve of a body at rest (sun again),

  the words to each popular song,

  surely that would be enough.

  For are you not familiar with these crows by the shore?

  Did you not call them sea crows once?

  Did we not discuss the meaning of "as the crow flies"

  one day in that square - station of exile - under the reddest

  of suns? And then, almost as one, we said, It's time.

  And a plate shattered, a spoon fell to the floor,

  towels in a heap by the door.

  Drifts of cloud over

  steeples from the west.

  Faith in the Poor Text.

  Outline of stuff left behind.

  
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