诗歌是一种典型的文学形式,它既属于文学,又是一种艺术。下面是小编带来的，欢迎阅读!
篇一
Nigger lipson each fore arm
by Martín Espada
Niggerlips was the high school name for me.
So called by Douglas
the car mechanic， with green tattoos
on each forearm，
and the choir of round pink faces
that grinned deliciously
from the back row of classrooms，
droned over by teachers
checking attendance too slowly.
Douglas would brag
about cruising his car
near sidewalks of black children
to point an unloaded gun，
to scare niggers
like crows off a tree，
he'd say.
My great-grandfather Luis
was un negrito too，
a shoemaker in the coffee hills
of Puerto Rico， 1900.
The family called him a secret
and kept no photograph.
My father remembers
the childhood white powder
that failed to bleach
his stubborn copper skin，
and the family says
he is still a fly in milk.
So Niggerlips has the mouth
of his great-grandfather，
the song he must have sung
as he pounded the leather and nails，
the heat that courses through copper，
the stubbornness of a fly in milk，
and all you have， Douglas，
is that unloaded gun.
篇二
Next Door weighted by yesterday snow
by Joan Selinger Sidney
Oaks drag alongside the road，
weighted by yesterday‘s snow.
There‘s Frauka walking alone，
the hood of her parka
snow-lit against the trees.
I pull over. How is he? But before
I can answer， I see them last
summer： Frauka， and Father
leaning on Mother， wanting to believe
her will can make him well.
Sitting on the lawn，
pretending to read， I am unable
to tell them， My legs won‘t walk.
Go on without me.
Eleven years I‘ve protected them—
Holocaust survivors—by not naming
my disease. Wishing them dead
before they‘d see me in a wheelchair.
Frauka whispers， My younger brother
died one day before your father.
Tears rim her eyes， her slim
body shivers in the wind.
For a moment we are closer
in our sorrow than we‘ve ever been.
篇三
Nearing Autobiography
by Pattiann Rogers
Those are my bones rifted
and curled， knees to chin，
among the rocks on the beach，
my hands splayed beneath my skull
in the mud. Those are my rib
bones resting like white sticks
wracked on the bank， laid down，
delivered， rubbed clean
by river and snow.
Ethereal as seedless weeds
in dim sun and frost， I see
my own bones translucent as locust
husks， light as spider bones，
as filled with light as lantern
bones when the candle flames.
And I see my bones， facile，
willing， rolling and clacking，
reveling like broken shells
among themselves in a tumbling surf.
I recognize them， no other's，
raggedly patterned and wrought，
peeled as a skeleton of sycamore
against gray skies， stiff as a fallen
spruce. I watch them floating
at night， identical lake slivers
flush against the same star bones
drifting in scattered pieces above.
Everything I assemble， all
the constructions I have rendered
are the metal and dust of my locked
and storied bones. My bald cranium
shines blind as the moon.
