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　　詩(shī)歌是一種精美的藝術(shù),其語言之精煉,語匯之豐富,表達(dá)形勢(shì)之精妙令人嘆為觀止。

　　優(yōu)秀英語詩(shī)歌朗誦稿：Even the Ohio Can Change

　　Rick Campbell

　　The river I grew up on was rank

　　with oil. Shoreline stones

　　gleamed slick-blue and nothing

　　in the river was worth a slug

　　of scrap metal: carp and catfish,

　　sick, riddled with chemical blood.

　　My river was for barges,

　　owned by US Steel, ARMCO, J&L.

　　They pumped it full of slag,

　　dripped and drained oil and gas

　　through a thousand hidden holes.

　　Nothing good could come of it

　　except a living and life,

　　a whole valley"s clinging dream.

　　The Indians who named it beautiful river

　　weren"t wrong; how could they know

　　what would come, dark and sooty,

　　burning the sky, turning the earth

　　to mud and cinder.

　　Even in our terrible need

　　we couldn"t kill it and the river

　　is coming back to river once again.

　　In the cold ruin of the Ohio"s banks

　　muskies swim the secret paths below.

　　We grow older, the river younger,

　　and great fish smash into the air

　　to swallow a caterpillar

　　fallen from a willow branch.

　　優(yōu)秀英語詩(shī)歌朗誦稿：Adam Home from the Wars

　　Sean Bishop

　　Yes, when the orchard"s dolled up in pastels

　　and the finches scrawl cursive across the sky

　　and the big moon sags like a tit o"er the meadows,

　　I"ll trade in my Glock for a pocket of dew.

　　And the wars will stop. And everyone

　　will do the dishes. And the lion

　　will sweetly go down on the lamb

　　as among the rifle casings the brambles

　　eject -- at last -- their thorns.

　　Once, on a bench by the river, the little ducks

　　seemed bread-sated and happy. I had my girl.

　　It was the Great Past Tense and everything was lovely.

　　Then, on the breeze: burnt spruce or a musk

　　of black powder and blood from a further field.

　　I made for my wound a poultice of wounds,

　　and the ones I wounded made poultices too.

　　We"ve come here this evening to give them to you.

　　優(yōu)秀英語詩(shī)歌朗誦稿：Parable

　　Sandra Beasley

　　Worries come to a man and a woman.

　　Small ones, light in the hand.

　　The man decides to swallow his worries,

　　hiding them deep within himself. The woman

　　throws hers as far as she can from their porch.

　　They touch each other, relieved.

　　They make coffee, and make plans for

　　the seaside in May.

　　All the while, the worries

　　of the man take his insides as their oyster,

　　coating themselves in juice - first gastric,

　　then nacreous - growing layer upon layer.

　　And in the fields beyond the wash-line,

　　the worries of the woman take root,

　　stretching tendrils through the rich soil.

　　The parable tells us Consider the ravens,

　　but the ravens caw useless from the gutters

　　of this house. The parable tells us

　　Consider the lilies, but they shiver in the side-yard,

　　silent.

　　What the parable does not tell you

　　is that this woman collects porcelain cats.

　　Some big, some small, some gilded, some plain.

　　One stops doors. One cups cream and another, sugar.

　　This man knows they are tacky. Still, when the one

　　that had belonged to her great-aunt fell

　　and broke, he held her as she wept, held her

　　even after her breath had lengthened to sleep.

　　The parable does not care about such things.

　　Worry has come to the house of a man

　　and a woman. Their garden yields greens gone

　　bitter, corn cowering in its husk.

　　He asks himself, What will we eat? They sit

　　at the table and open the mail: a bill, a bill, a bill,

　　an invitation. She turns a saltshaker cat

　　between her palms and asks, What will we wear?

　　He rubs her wrist with his thumb.

　　He wonders how to offer

　　the string of pearls writhing in his belly.