英文诗歌作为文学的精华,作为一种艺术形式,对于培养学生的审美观和情感价值观在英语阅读课教学中起着举足轻重的作用,下面就是小编给大家整理的，希望大家喜欢。
：The Names of the Trees
Laura Kasischke
I passed this place once long ago
when a man lived here with his four
daughters, peacefully, it seemed. Those
daughters took turns washing
dishes, doing laundry. Frothy pearls and
feathers in a sink. Soft
socks, warm towels, folded, clean, in
closets, drawers, and baskets, and
on shelves. To me
this was astonishing. The laundry
done by daughters! No
mother in the house at all. A weeping
willow grew in their back-
yard, but it was not a symbol then.
It could not have been
because this was the only tree
I knew the name of yet -- unless it was a tree
that bore familiar fruit. Like
an apple tree, a mulberry. This
willow's branches did not seem to be
branches at all to me, but
ribbons dangling loosely, tangling
girlishly. If there was any weeping, it
was inaudible to me. Was
I supposed to see it? One
of the daughters was only
a year ahead of me, and she
invited me once inside because
she wanted to play house with me. When
I confessed I wasn't sure what playing
house might mean, this girl
said she would teach me.
She was Mother for this reason.
I was the family dog. She
told me to eat Froot Loops
from a bowl on the kitchen floor
while on my hands and knees. We
laughed when I couldn't do it. But when
I was Mother, she
couldn't do it either.
That there was laughter!
A blue tablecloth.
Salt and pepper shakers shaped
like hands, which, put
together, appeared to pray. When
I was thirsty, another daughter poured
a cup of water for me, pouring
water with such confidence it
seemed to me that she
might have poured the first water
from the first tap. When, out
of curiosity, I went
into their bathroom and pretended to pee
I witnessed toilet paper printed with
forget-me-nots, along with a little dish
that held a piece of pink soap in it.
And, when, after this, I couldn't sleep
for three nights in a row, my
mother finally gave up
trying to comfort me.
：Famous Negro Athletes
Adrian Matejka
after Jean-Michel Basquiat
We are all famous Sunday mornings at the Y.
That magnificent & rattled-rim space of big·timing
Sundays. Gym bag hung over the shoulder
of a matching sweatshirt Sundays. Touch one toe
then the other if you can kind of days. Ball shoes
crisp in the bag & What up, team? we say.
For real, on Sundays, we're sweating in quintuplicate
like a grinning team portrait. Knees swollen as roundly
as the composite basketball we play with. & sometimes,
the shoe-string glance from the trainer up front, the
straight up & down of would-be ballers orbiting the ball
court like paparazzi & handshake laughs at bad passes
have to be adequate when your jumper is so far off
somebody should staple flyers to telephone poles for it.
：The Trespass Fetches Herself for Sacrifice
HeidiLynn Nilsson
We are not surprised,
those of us who are made,
we've been told,
in God's image,
that our God, who has
neither tissue nor tail,
is a jealous God.
What makes us
snappish, after all, about God
is impeccability but
if jealousy makes us
also Godlike, and if that's
where our love turned wrong,
then light with light, loss with loss,
on the strict and ruined earth,
someone gets the very thing
he longs for -- and who
will let him? Lord I'm
desolate enough --
I see the fire
starving on a switch
after all of those years
making for him
myself into a forest.
