关于长篇经典英文诗朗诵
发布时间：2021-03-21 来源：文档文库
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关于长篇经典英文诗朗诵
Sticks
by Thomas Sayers Ellis My father was an enormous man
Who believed kindness and lack of size Were nothing more than sissified Signs of weakness. Narrow-minded， His eyes were the worst kind
Of jury — deliberate， distant， hard. No one could out-shout him Or make bigger fists. The few Who tried got taken for bad， Beat down， their bodies slammed. I wanted to be just like him： Big man， man of the house， king. A plagiarist， hitting the things he hit， I learned to use my hands watching him Use his， pretending to slap mother When he slapped mother. He was sick. A diabetic slept
Like a silent vowel inside his well-built， Muscular， dark body. Hard as all that With similar weaknesses
— I discovered writing， How words are parts of speech With beats and breaths of their own. Interjections like flams. Wham! Bam! An heir to the rhythm
And tension beneath the beatings， My first attempts were filled with noise， Wild solos， violent uncontrollable blows. The page tightened like a drum Resisting the clockwise twisting Of a handheld chrome key，
The noisy banging and tuning of growth Stonemason by James O'Hern My stonemason John says
he uses Elberton granite from Georgia It has the best grain and lasts the longest How long is long I ask Oh he says a thousand years I want more than hard gray stone to guard her silence
I want stone that stays alive a megalith jammed deep into earth an antenna to amplify the signals emitted from her ash and bone
I went to Ireland
looking for the perfect stone found stone cottages and monuments mountains and fields of stone continuous rows of stonewalls
wound round the island like an offering I found stone carvings of mermaids and ancient unnamed river gods a Sheela-na-Gig I thought I recognized having seen her name
on the walls of a cave in the Dordogne along with her portrait cut and shaped on the rounded surface of soft white stone There are no stones
where my mother and I were born only the jagged edges of memory ground down by the desert molcajete to caliche and polished round pebbles leaving no trace of history but an abandoned pulque farm an adobe jail
and a dried up river bed Stone Bird by Pattiann Rogers
I remember you. You‘re the one
who lifted your ancient bones of fossil rock， pulled yourself free of the strata like a plaster figure rising from its own mold， became flesh and feather， took wing， arrested the sky.
You‘re the one who， though marble， floated as beautifully as a white blossom on the pond all summer， who， though skeletal and particled like winter， glimmered as solid as a bird of cut crystal in the icy trees. You are redbird—sandstone wings and agate eyes—at dusk. You are greybird—polished granite and pearl eyes—just before dawn， midnight bird with a reflective vacancy of heart like a mirror of pure obsidian.
You‘re the one who flew down to that river from the heavens， as if your form alone were the only holy message needed. You were alabaster then in the noonday sun.
Once I saw you rise without rising
from your prison pedestal
in the garden beneath the lime tree. At that moment your ghost in its haunting permeated every regality of the forest with light， reigned with disdain in thin air above the mountain， sank in union with the crosswinds of the sea. I remember you. You‘re the one who entered in through my death as if it were an open window
and you were the sound of the serenade being sung outside for me， the words of which， I know now， are of freedom cast in stone forever.
