各種英文詩歌主欣賞

　　詩歌欣賞：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－h(huán)ead；

　　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

　　詩歌欣賞：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． ． ． ．

　　詩歌欣賞：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．‘

　　詩歌欣賞：A Prayer for my Daughter

　　Once more the storm is howling， and half hid

　　Under this cradle－h(huán)ood 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．

　　詩歌欣賞：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－h(huán)anding 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．

　　詩歌欣賞：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．

　　春天就在這里。

　　冬天走了。

　　而且鳥兒回來。

　　雪融化了。

　　而且花兒回來了。

　　舊衣服走了。

　　而且新衣服在這里了。

　　春天是一段美麗的時(shí)光。

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