英文詩(shī)歌由于用詞典雅、句法精煉、形式別致以及意象豐富等等的緣故,英文詩(shī)歌的學(xué)習(xí)很是難的。下面就是小編給大家整理的英文詩(shī)歌朗誦稿，希望大家喜歡。

　　英文詩(shī)歌朗誦稿：Apples

　　Gillian Clarke

　　They fill with heat, dewfall, a night of rain.

　　In a week they have reddened, the seed gone black

　　in each star-heart. Soft thud of fruit

　　in the deepening heat of the day.

　　Out of the delicate petals of secret skin

　　and that irreversible moment when the fruit set,

　　such a hard harvest, so cold and sharp on the tongue.

　　They look up from the grass, too many to save.

　　A lapful of windfalls with worms in their hearts,

　　under my thumb the pulse of original sin,

　　flesh going brown as the skin curls over my knife.

　　I drown them in water and wine, pushing them under,

　　then breathe apples simmering in sugar and spice,

　　fermenting under the tree in sacs of juice

　　so swollen they'd burst under a wasp's foot.

　　英文詩(shī)歌朗誦稿：Baby-sitting

　　Gillian Clarke

　　I am sitting in a strange room listening

　　For the wrong baby. I don't love

　　This baby. She is sleeping a snuffly

　　Roseate, bubbling sleep; she is fair;

　　She is a perfectlyacceptable child.

　　I am afraid of her. If she wakes

　　She will hate me. She will shout

　　Her hot midnight rage, her nose

　　Will stream disgustingly and the perfume

　　Of her breath will fail to enchant me.

　　To her I will represent absolute

　　Abandonment. For her it will be worse

　　Than for the lover cold in lonely

　　Sheets; worse than for the woman who waits

　　A moment to collect her dignity

　　Beside the bleached bone in the terminal ward.

　　As she rises sobbing from the monstrous land

　　Stretching for milk-familiar comforting,

　　She will find me and between us two

　　It will not come. It will not come.

　　英文詩(shī)歌朗誦稿：Scrapbook

　　Kim Addonizio

　　This is me, depressed out of my mind,

　　frailing the banjo, spilling red wine

　　on the white

　　king-sized

　　luckily-hotel's-and-not-my-

　　goose down comforter, this is me

　　walking and waxing nostalgic through the girlish shadows

　　of tall palm trees, the déjà vus

　　flying through the scene

　　suddenly, like those three

　　unnameable and therefore beautiful white birds.

　　This is me as a slowly-tearing-itself-apart cloud

　　and marveling

　　at a fire palely and flamily

　　emerging from a bowl, wavering

　　up through stones of cobalt glass. The air

　　wavers back. This is me in love

　　with the beauty of blue glass in flames, this is me on drugs

　　prescribed by my doctor

　　as I try once more

　　to sneak into night's closely guarded city,

　　my hollow horse ready

　　to wreak my demons and Blue Morphos

　　on the citizens of my sleep. I am most

　　myself when flashing rapidly

　　my iridescent wings, drinking

　　the juice of fallen fruit. Then again

　　look for me under your bed

　　where the ugly premodern vampires

　　still hide. The undead and I are lying

　　in wait. We are very interested in you

　　though this is still me. We are unstable and true.

　　We believe in the one-ton rose

　　and the displaced toilet equally. Our blues

　　assume you understand

　　not much, and try to be alive, just as we do,

　　and that it may be helpful to hold the hand

　　of someone as lost as you.

　　
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