精美英文诗歌两首

英语诗歌是英语语言的精华。它以最凝练的文字传递时间与空间、物质与精神、理智与情感。诗歌本身包含的丰富社会生活内容和艺术内涵，诗歌语言的独特的美与和谐都使它们具有无穷的魅力。下面本站小编为大家带来精美英文诗歌两首，欢迎大家阅读!

My life's calling， setting fires.

Here in a hearth so huge

I can stand inside and shove

the wood around with my

bare hands while church bells

deal the hours down through

the chimney. No more

woodcutter， creel for the fire

or architect， the five staves

pitched like rifles over stone.

But to be mistro-elemental.

The flute of clay playing

my breath that riles the flames，

the fire risen to such dreaming

sung once from landlords' attics.

Sung once the broken lyres，

seasoned and green.

Even the few things I might save，

my mother's letters，

locks of my children's hair

here handed over like the keys

to a foreclosure， my robes

remanded， and furniture

dragged out into the yard，

my bedsheets hoisted up the pine，

whereby the house sets sail.

And I am standing on a cliff

above the sea， a paper light，

a lantern. No longer mine

to count the wrecks.

Who rode the ships in ringing，

marrying rock the waters

storm to break the door，

looked through the fire， beheld

a clearing there. This is what

you are. What you've come to.

You know that they burned her horse

before her. Though it is not recorded，

you know that they burned her Percheron

first， before her eyes， because you

know that story， so old that story，

the routine story， carried to its

extreme， of the cruelty that can make

of what a woman hears a silence，

that can make of what a woman sees

a lie. She had no son for them to burn，

for them to take from her in the world

not of her making and put to its pyre，

so they layered a greater one in front of

where she was staked to her own——

as you have seen her pictured sometimes，

her eyes raised to the sky. But they were

not raised. This is yet one of their lies.

They were not closed. Though her hands

were bound behind her， and her feet were

bound deep in what would become fire，

she watched. Of greenwood stakes

head-high and thicker than a man's waist

they laced the narrow corral that would not

burn until flesh had burned， until

bone was burning， and laid it thick

with tinder——fatted wicks and sulphur，

kindling and logs——and ran a ramp

up to its height from where the gray horse

waited， his dapples making of his flesh

a living metal， layers of life

through which the light shone out

in places as it seems to through the flesh

of certain fish， a light she knew

as purest， coming， like that， from within.

Not flinching， not praying， she looked

the last time on the body she knew

better than the flesh of any man， or child，

or woman， having long since left the lap

of her mother——the chest with its

perfect plates of muscle， the neck

with its perfect， prow-like curve，

the hindquarters'——pistons——powerful cleft

pennoned with the silk of his tail.

Having ridden as they did together

——those places， that hard， that long——

their eyes found easiest that day

the way to each other， their bodies

wedded in a sacrament unmediated

by man. With fire they drove him

up the ramp and off into the pyre

and tossed the flame in with him.

This was the last chance they gave her

to recant her world， in which their power

came not from God. Unmoved， the Men

of God began watching him burn， and better，

watching her watch him burn， hearing

the long mad godlike trumpet of his terror，

his crashing in the wood， the groan

of stakes that held， the silverblack hide，

the pricked ears catching first

like driest bark， and the eyes.

and she knew， by this agony， that she

might choose to live still， if she would

but make her sign on the parchment

they would lay before her， which now

would include this new truth： that it

did not happen， this death in the circle，

the rearing， plunging， raging， the splendid

armour-colored head raised one last time

above the flames before they took him

——like any game untended on the spit——into

their yellow-green， their blackening red.

精美英文诗歌