詩(shī)歌通過(guò)對(duì)事物、人物或事件的戲劇性表現(xiàn)來(lái)激發(fā)我們的想象。意象作為詩(shī)歌的核心,是通過(guò)感情以傳達(dá)經(jīng)驗(yàn)的語(yǔ)言,它是欣賞和翻譯詩(shī)歌的關(guān)鍵。下面是由帶來(lái)的經(jīng)典英文詩(shī)歌閱讀，歡迎閱讀!
    
    【篇一】經(jīng)典英文詩(shī)歌閱讀
    What Wild-Eyed Murderer
    by Peter Meinke
    We shouldn‘t worship suffering： the world’s
    a spinning rack where suffering indicates
    all goes well we‘re alive and not curled
    up in the black hushhush death dictates
    as its first condition： no screaming there
    We crown ourselves with thorns of past
    transgressions Sharp spears of deed spare
    no rib of pain： around the cross crashed
    common lightning usual blood Who earns
    our reverence should break both cross and crutch
    in the face of suffering： while the rack turns
    and tightens they‘ll smile at the sense of touch
    Suffering‘s too common to be worth
    anything joy too rare to be priced
    The saints we search for will embrace the earth：
    what wild-eyed murderer suffers less than Christ?
    【篇二】經(jīng)典英文詩(shī)歌閱讀
    What the Chairman Told Tom
    by Basil Bunting
    Poetry? It's a hobby.
    I run model trains.
    Mr. Shaw there breeds pigeons.
    It's not work. You dont sweat.
    Nobody pays for it.
    You could advertise soap.
    Art， that's opera; or repertory——
    The Desert Song.
    Nancy was in the chorus.
    But to ask for twelve pounds a week——
    married， aren't you?——
    you've got a nerve.
    How could I look a bus conductor
    in the face
    if I paid you twelve pounds?
    Who says it's poetry， anyhow?
    My ten year old
    can do it and rhyme.
    I get three thousand and expenses，
    a car， vouchers，
    but I'm an accountant.
    They do what I tell them，
    my company.
    What do you do?
    Nasty little words， nasty long words，
    it's unhealthy.
    I want to wash when I meet a poet.
    They're Reds， addicts，
    all delinquents.
    What you write is rot.
    Mr. Hines says so， and he's a schoolteacher，
    he ought to know.
    Go and find work
    【篇三】經(jīng)典英文詩(shī)歌閱讀
    Diving into the Wreck
    by Adrienne Rich
    First having read the book of myths，
    and loaded the camera，
    and checked the edge of the knife-blade，
    I put on
    the body-armor of black rubber
    the absurd flippers
    the grave and awkward mask.
    I am having to do this
    not like Cousteau with his
    assiduous team
    aboard the sun-flooded schooner
    but here alone.
    There is a ladder.
    The ladder is always there
    hanging innocently
    close to the side of the schooner.
    We know what it is for，
    we who have used it.
    Otherwise
    it is a piece of maritime floss
    some sundry equipment.
    I go down.
    Rung after rung and still
    the oxygen immerses me
    the blue light
    the clear atoms
    of our human air.
    I go down.
    My flippers cripple me，
    I crawl like an insect down the ladder
    and there is no one
    to tell me when the ocean
    will begin.
    First the air is blue and then
    it is bluer and then green and then
    black I am blacking out and yet
    my mask is powerful
    it pumps my blood with power
    the sea is another story
    the sea is not a question of power
    I have to learn alone
    to turn my body without force
    in the deep element.
    And now： it is easy to forget
    what I came for
    among so many who have always
    lived here
    swaying their crenellated fans
    between the reefs
    and besides
    you breathe differently down here.
    I came to explore the wreck.
    The words are purposes.
    The words are maps.
    I came to see the damage that was done
    and the treasures that prevail.
    I stroke the beam of my lamp
    slowly along the flank
    of something more permanent
    than fish or weed
    the thing I came for：
    the wreck and not the story of the wreck
    the thing itself and not the myth
    the drowned face always staring
    toward the sun
    the evidence of damage
    worn by salt and away into this threadbare beauty
    the ribs of the disaster
    curving their assertion
    among the tentative haunters.
    This is the place.
    And I am here， the mermaid whose dark hair
    streams black， the merman in his armored body.
    We circle silently
    about the wreck
    we dive into the hold.
    I am she： I am he
    whose drowned face sleeps with open eyes
    whose breasts still bear the stress
    whose silver， copper， vermeil cargo lies
    obscurely inside barrels
    half-wedged and left to rot
    we are the half-destroyed instruments
    that once held to a course
    the water-eaten log
    the fouled compass
    We are， I am， you are
    by cowardice or courage
    the one who find our way
    back to this scene
    carrying a knife， a camera
    a book of myths
    in which
    our names do not appear.