诗歌通过对事物、人物或事件的戏剧性表现来激发我们的想象。意象作为诗歌的核心,是通过感情以传达经验的语言,它是欣赏和翻译诗歌的关键。下面是小编带来的经典英文诗歌阅读，欢迎阅读!

经典英文诗歌阅读篇一

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?

经典英文诗歌阅读篇二

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

经典英文诗歌阅读篇三

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.