關(guān)于長篇著名詩歌朗誦
英語詩歌是英語語言與文學(xué)的精華。開展英語詩歌教學(xué)能提高學(xué)生英語語言基礎(chǔ)知識(shí)水平、寫作水平,有助于學(xué)生西方歷史文化的學(xué)習(xí),提高學(xué)生的想象力,也有助于對(duì)學(xué)生的道德教育。小編精心收集了關(guān)于長篇著名詩歌，供大家欣賞學(xué)習(xí)!
關(guān)于長篇著名詩歌：The Liberal Arts
Alicia Ostriker
In mathematics they say the most beautiful solution is the correct one
In physics they say everything that can happen must happen
In history they say the more it changes the more it is the same
In astrophysics you take the long view
In chemistry you explode and blend, it is a bit like freestyle cooking, the
Yiddish term would be: you potschke
In biology you smell the flowers, the enticing flowers, and you play with mice,
and you write grant proposals
In jurisprudence they say there is no justice
In philosophy they say there is no truth
In literary studies they say everybody come along be ironic now
Business school we systematize the competitive strategies we learned in the
sandbox
Engineering moves us firmly into manhood, we grip the material world in our
fists
Computer science assists us toward the goal of replacing our species with a
new, improved, more efficient form of life, based in electronics instead of carbon --
many of us
are rushing to transform ourselves as quickly as possible
Religion is still hot
People keep plunging passionately into and out of it at the usual brisk rate
Geography suggests the future dominance of North America by Spanish-
speaking people
but it does not say when; geology looks stony, takes the long view
Music bridges mathematics, the soul of the universe, and my personal soul
Visual art is the bridge between my bag of body and bones and stuff in the
painterly universe
Drama crosses this bridge on foot
In the novel they say omit nothing, harvest the entire goddamn world
In memoir they say the self is silently weeping, give it a tissue
In poetry they say the arrow may be blown off course by storm and returned
by miracle
關(guān)于長篇著名詩歌：Road Metal
Timothy McBride
-- for my grandmother, Margaret Kelly
"You don't need that," she'd tell us when we'd beg
Two cents for bubblegum or licorice.
A bricklayer's daughter, she'd grown up hard
As cement -- never reached 100 pounds,
Lived on potatoes and tea, cut her own hair.
Husband gone, youngest child killed in the street,
She carried a ball peen hammer up her sleeve
On the daily walks she made us take all over town,
Crossing the river and the canal, circling the miles
Of Eastman Kodak's smokestacks, through the invisible
Hops-scented cloud of the Genesee Brewery,
Past the burned-out storefronts of the '67 riots,
Never stopping at the church where the brother
She wouldn't speak to, a Catholic priest,
Celebrated morning mass. We followed her
Through drain pipes and alleys. We crawled under a gap
She found in the fence beside the KEEP OUT sign
And up onto the tracks of the New York Central Line,
Startled when she unclasped (this once) her change purse
And gave us each three pennies to lay on the polished rail.
When the tank cars and ore jennies had passed,
We sifted through the ballast rock
She said was called "road metal," excited as prospectors
For the ruined and unspendable glints of warm copper
Lincoln's face flattened to a smudge
Our first lesson in what our city's daily freight
Can do to words like "God" and "Trust."
關(guān)于長篇著名詩歌：Scrapbook
Kim Addonizio
This is me, depressed out of my mind,
frailing the banjo, spilling red wine
on the white
king-sized
luckily-hotel's-and-not-my-
goose down comforter, this is me
walking and waxing nostalgic through the girlish shadows
of tall palm trees, the déjà vus
flying through the scene
suddenly, like those three
unnameable and therefore beautiful white birds.
This is me as a slowly-tearing-itself-apart cloud
and marveling
at a fire palely and flamily
emerging from a bowl, wavering
up through stones of cobalt glass. The air
wavers back. This is me in love
with the beauty of blue glass in flames, this is me on drugs
prescribed by my doctor
as I try once more
to sneak into night's closely guarded city,
my hollow horse ready
to wreak my demons and Blue Morphos
on the citizens of my sleep. I am most
myself when flashing rapidly
my iridescent wings, drinking
the juice of fallen fruit. Then again
look for me under your bed
where the ugly premodern vampires
still hide. The undead and I are lying
in wait. We are very interested in you
though this is still me. We are unstable and true.
We believe in the one-ton rose
and the displaced toilet equally. Our blues
assume you understand
not much, and try to be alive, just as we do,
and that it may be helpful to hold the hand
of someone as lost as you.
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