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各种英文诗歌主欣赏
诗歌欣赏：Canto
by Ezra Pound
And then went down to the ship，
Set keel to breakers， forth on the godly sea， and
We set up mast and sail on tha swart ship，
Bore sheep aboard her， and our bodies also
Heavy with weeping， so winds from sternward
Bore us out onward with bellying canvas，
Circe's this craft， the trim－coifed goddess．
Then sat we amidships， wind jamming the tiller，
Thus with stretched sail， we went over sea till day's end．
Sun to his slumber， shadows o'er all the ocean，
Came we then to the bounds of deepest water，
To the Kimmerian lands， and peopled cities
Covered with close－webbed mist， unpierced ever
With glitter of sun－rays
Nor with stars stretched， nor looking back from heaven
Swartest night stretched over wretched men there．
The ocean flowing backward， came we then to the place
Aforesaid by Circe．
Here did they rites， Perimedes and Eurylochus，
And drawing sword from my hip
I dug the ell－square pitkin；
Poured we libations unto each the dead，
First mead and then sweet wine， water mixed with white flour．
Then prayed I many a prayer to the sickly death's－head；
As set in Ithaca， sterile bulls of the best
For sacrifice， heaping the pyre with goods，
A sheep to Tiresias only， black and a bell－sheep．
Dark blood flowed in the fosse，
Souls out of Erebus， cadaverous dead， of brides
Of youths and at the old who had borne much；
Souls stained with recent tears， girls tender，
Men many， mauled with bronze lance heads，
Battle spoil， bearing yet dreory arms，
These many crowded about me； with shouting，
Pallor upon me， cried to my men for more beasts；
Slaughtered the heards， sheep slain of bronze；
Poured ointment， cried to the gods，
To Pluto the strong， and praised Proserpine；
Unsheathed the narrow sword，
I sat to keep off the impetuous impotent dead，
Till I should hear Tiresias．
But first Elpenor came， our friend Elpenor，
Unburied， cast on the wide earth，
Limbs that we left in the house of Circe，
Unwept， unwrapped in sepulchre， since toils urged other．
Pitiful spirit． And I cried in hurried speech：
"Elpenor， how art thou come to this dark coast?
Cam'st thou afoot， outstripping seamen?"
And he in heavy speech：
"Ill fate and abundant wine． I slept in Circe's ingle．
Going down the long ladder unguarded，
I fell against the buttress，
Shattered the nape－nerve， the soul sought Avernus．
But thou， O King， I bid remember me， unwept， unburied，
Heap up mine arms， be tomb by sea－bord， and inscribed：
A man of no fortune， and with a name to come．
And set my oar up， that I swung mid fellows．"
And Anticlea came， whom I beat off， and then Tiresias Theban，
Holding his golden wand， knew me， and spoke first：
"A second time? why? man of ill star，
Facing the sunless dead and this joyless region?
Stand from the fosse， leave me my bloody bever
For soothsay．"
And I stepped back，
And he stong with the blood， said then： "Odysseus
Shalt return through spiteful Neptune， over dark seas，
Lose all companions．" And then Anticlea came．
Lie quiet Divus． I mean， that is Andreas Divus，
In officina Wecheli， 1538， out of Homer．
And he sailed， by Sirens and thence outward and away
And unto Circe．
Venerandam，
In the Creatan's phrase， with the golden crown， Aphrodite，
Cypri munimenta sortita est， mirthful， orichalchi， with golden
Girdles and breast bands， thou with dark eyelids
Bearing the golden bough of Argicida． So that
诗歌欣赏：Called into Play
by A． R． Ammons
Fall fell： so that's it for the leaf poetry：
some flurries have whitened the edges of roads
and lawns： time for that， the snow stuff： &
turkeys and old St． Nick： where am I going to
find something to write about I haven't already
written away： I will have to stop short， look
down， look up， look close， think， think， think：
but in what range should I think： should I
figure colors and outlines， given forms， say
mailboxes， or should I try to plumb what is
behind what and what behind that， deep down
where the surface has lost its semblance： or
should I think personally， such as， this week
seems to have been crafted in hell： what： is
something going on： something besides this
diddledeediddle everyday matter－of－fact： I
could draw up an ancient memory which would
wipe this whole presence away： or I could fill
out my dreams with high syntheses turned into
concrete visionary forms： Lucre could lust
for Luster： bad angels could roar out of perdition
and kill the AIDS vaccine not quite
perfected yet： the gods could get down on
each other； the big gods could fly in from
nebulae unknown： but I'm only me： I have 4
interests——money， poetry， sex， death： I guess
I can jostle those． ． ． ．
诗歌欣赏：Ephemera
‘Your eyes that once were never weary of mine
Are bowed in sorrow under pendulous lids，
Because our love is waning．‘
And then she：
‘Although our love is waning， let us stand
By the lone border of the lake once more，
Together in that hour of gentleness
When the poor tired child， Passion， falls asleep：
How far away the stars seem， and how far
Is our first kiss， and ah， how old my heart！‘
Pensive they paced along the faded leaves，
While slowly he whose hand held hers replied：
‘Passion has often worn our wandering hearts．’
The woods were round them， and the yellow leaves
Fell like faint meteors in the gloom， and once
A rabbit old and lame limped down the path；
Autumn was over him： and now they stood
On the lone border of the lake once more：
Turning， he saw that she had thrust dead leaves
Gathered in silence， dewy as her eyes，
In bosom and hair．
‘Ah， do not mourn，’ he said，
‘That we are tired， for other loves await us；
Hate on and love through unrepining hours．
Before us lies eternity； our souls
Are love， and a continual farewell．‘
诗歌欣赏：A Prayer for my Daughter
Once more the storm is howling， and half hid
Under this cradle－hood and coverlid
My child sleeps on． There is no obstacle
But Gregory's wood and one bare hill
Whereby the haystack－ and roof－levelling wind，
Bred on the Atlantic， can be stayed；
And for an hour I have walked and prayed
Because of the great gloom that is in my mind．
I have walked and prayed for this young child an hour
And heard the sea－wind scream upon the tower，
And under the arches of the bridge， and scream
In the elms above the flooded stream；
Imagining in excited reverie
That the future years had come，
Dancing to a frenzied drum，
Out of the murderous innocence of the sea．
May she be granted beauty and yet not
Beauty to make a stranger's eye distraught，
Or hers before a looking－glass， for such，
Being made beautiful overmuch，
Consider beauty a sufficient end，
Lose natural kindness and maybe
The heart－revealing intimacy
That chooses right， and never find a friend．
Helen being chosen found life flat and dull
And later had much trouble from a fool，
While that great Queen， that rose out of the spray，
Being fatherless could have her way
Yet chose a bandy－leggèd smith for man．
It's certain that fine women eat
A crazy salad with their meat
Whereby the Horn of Plenty is undone．
In courtesy I'd have her chiefly learned；
Hearts are not had as a gift but hearts are earned
By those that are not entirely beautiful；
Yet many， that have played the fool
For beauty's very self， has charm made wise，
And many a poor man that has roved，
Loved and thought himself beloved，
From a glad kindness cannot take his eyes．
May she become a flourishing hidden tree
That all her thoughts may like the linnet be，
And have no business but dispensing round
Their magnanimities of sound，
Nor but in merriment begin a chase，
Nor but in merriment a quarrel．
O may she live like some green laurel
Rooted in one dear perpetual place．
My mind， because the minds that I have loved，
The sort of beauty that I have approved，
Prosper but little， has dried up of late，
Yet knows that to be choked with hate
May well be of all evil chances chief．
If there's no hatred in a mind
Assault and battery of the wind
Can never tear the linnet from the leaf．
An intellectual hatred is the worst，
So let her think opinions are accursed．
Have I not seen the loveliest woman born
Out of the mouth of Plenty's horn，
Because of her opinionated mind
Barter that horn and every good
By quiet natures understood
For an old bellows full of angry wind?
Considering that， all hatred driven hence，
The soul recovers radical innocence
And learns at last that it is self－delighting，
Self－appeasing， self－affrighting，
And that its own sweet will is Heaven's will；
She can， though every face should scowl
And every windy quarter howl
Or every bellows burst， be happy still．
And may her bridegroom bring her to a house
Where all's accustomed， ceremonious；
For arrogance and hatred are the wares
Peddled in the thoroughfares．
How but in custom and in ceremony
Are innocence and beauty born?
Ceremony's a name for the rich horn，
And custom for the spreading laurel tree．
诗歌欣赏：Baseball and Writing
by Marianne Moore
（Suggested by post－game broadcasts）
Fanaticism? No． Writing is exciting
and baseball is like writing．
You can never tell with either
how it will go
or what you will do；
generating excitement——
a fever in the victim——
pitcher， catcher， fielder， batter．
Victim in what category?
Owlman watching from the press box?
To whom does it apply?
Who is excited? Might it be I?
It's a pitcher's battle all the way——a duel——
a catcher's， as， with cruel
puma paw， Elston Howard lumbers lightly
back to plate． （His spring
de－winged a bat swing．）
They have that killer instinct；
yet Elston——whose catching
arm has hurt them all with the bat——
when questioned， says， unenviously，
"I'm very satisfied． We won．"
Shorn of the batting crown， says， "We"；
robbed by a technicality．
When three players on a side play three positions
and modify conditions，
the massive run need not be everything．
"Going， going ． ． ． " Is
it? Roger Maris
has it， running fast． You will
never see a finer catch． Well ． ． ．
"Mickey， leaping like the devil"——why
gild it， although deer sounds better——
snares what was speeding towards its treetop nest，
one－handing the souvenir－to－be
meant to be caught by you or me．
Assign Yogi Berra to Cape Canaveral；
he could handle any missile．
He is no feather． "Strike！ ． ． ． Strike two！"
Fouled back． A blur．
It's gone． You would infer
that the bat had eyes．
He put the wood to that one．
Praised， Skowron says， "Thanks， Mel．
I think I helped a little bit．"
All business， each， and modesty．
Blanchard， Richardson， Kubek， Boyer．
In that galaxy of nine， say which
won the pennant? Each． It was he．
Those two magnificent saves from the knee－throws
by Boyer， finesses in twos——
like Whitey's three kinds of pitch and pre
diagnosis
with pick－off psychosis．
Pitching is a large subject．
Your arm， too true at first， can learn to
catch your corners——even trouble
Mickey Mantle． （"Grazed a Yankee！
My baby pitcher， Montejo！"
With some pedagogy，
you'll be tough， premature prodigy．）
They crowd him and curve him and aim for the knees． Trying
indeed！ The secret implying：
"I can stand here， bat held steady．"
One may suit him；
none has hit him．
Imponderables smite him．
Muscle kinks， infections， spike wounds
require food， rest， respite from ruffians． （Drat it！
Celebrity costs privacy！）
Cow's milk， "tiger's milk，" soy milk， carrot juice，
brewer's yeast （high－potency——
concentrates presage victory
sped by Luis Arroyo， Hector Lopez——
deadly in a pinch． And "Yes，
it's work； I want you to bear down，
but enjoy it
while you're doing it．"
Mr． Houk and Mr． Sain，
if you have a rummage sale，
don't sell Roland Sheldon or Tom Tresh．
Studded with stars in belt and crown，
the Stadium is an adastrium．
O flashing Orion，
your stars are muscled like the lion．
诗歌欣赏：Beautiful spring
Beautiful spring is here．
The winter is gone．
But the birds are back．
The snow is gone．
But the flowers are back．
Old coats are gone．
But new ones are here．
Spring is a beautiful time．
春天就在这里。
冬天走了。
而且鸟儿回来。
雪融化了。
而且花儿回来了。
旧衣服走了。
而且新衣服在这里了。
春天是一段美丽的时光。
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