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原标题:洛威尔经典诗歌欣赏

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艾米·洛威尔,美国诗人,她的第一部诗集是《多彩玻璃顶》。1913年她在实验性的意象派运动中脱颖而出,并继埃兹拉·庞德之后而成为该运动的领袖人物。她运用“自由韵律散文”和自由诗的形式进行创作,被称为“无韵之韵”。下面学习啦小编为大家带来洛威尔经典诗歌欣赏,欢迎大家阅读!

洛威尔经典诗歌欣赏:Malmaison

How the slates of the roof sparkle in the sun,

over there, over there,

beyond the high wall! How quietly the Seine runs in loops

and windings,

over there, over there, sliding through the green countryside! Like

of the line, stately with canvas, the tall clouds pass along the

over the glittering roof, over the trees, over the looped and curving

A breeze quivers through the linden-trees. Roses bloom

at Malmaison.

Roses! Roses! But the road is dusty. Already

the Citoyenne Beauharnais

wearies of her walk. Her skin is chalked and powdered

with dust,

she smells dust, and behind the wall are roses! Roses

smooth open petals, poised above rippling leaves . . . Roses

They have told her so. The Citoyenne Beauharnais shrugs

her shoulders

and makes a little face. She must mend her pace if she

would be back

in time for dinner. Roses indeed! The guillotine

more likely.

The tiered clouds float over Malmaison, and the slate roof sparkles

in the sun.

洛威尔经典诗歌欣赏:The Hammers

Frindsbury, Kent, 1786

Tap-a-tap! Rap!

All through the lead and silver Winter days,

All through the copper of Autumn hazes.

Tap to the red rising sun,

Tap to the purple setting sun.

Four years pass before the job is done.

Two thousand oak trees grown and felled,

Two thousand oaks from the hedgerows of the Weald,

Sussex had yielded two thousand oaks

With huge boles

Round which the tape rolls

Thirty mortal feet, say the village folks.

Two hundred loads of elm and Scottish fir;

Planking from Dantzig.

My! What timber goes into a ship!

Two years they have seasoned her ribs on the ways,

Tapping, tapping.

You can hear, though there's nothing where you gaze.

Through the fog down the reaches of the river,

The tapping goes on like heart-beats in a fever.

The church-bells chime

Hours and hours,

Dropping days in showers.

Bang! Rap! Tap!

Go the hammers all the time.

They have planked up her timbers

And the nails are driven to the head;

They have decked her over,

And again, and again.

The shoring-up beams shudder at the strain.

Black and blue breeches,

Pigtails bound and shining:

Like ants crawling about,

The hull swarms with carpenters, running in and out.

Joiners, calkers,

And they are all terrible talkers.

Jem Wilson has been to sea and he tells some wonderful tales

Of whales, and spice islands,

And pirates off the Barbary coast.

He boasts magnificently, with his mouth full of nails.

Stephen Pibold has a tenor voice,

He shifts his quid of tobacco and sings:

"The second in command was blear-eyed Ned:

While the surgeon his limb

was a-lopping,

A nine-pounder came and smack went his head,

Pull away, pull away, pull

away! I say;

Rare news for my Meg of Wapping!"

Every Sunday

People come in crowds

(After church-time, of course)

In curricles, and gigs, and wagons,

And some have brought cold chicken and flagons

And beer in stoppered jugs.

"Dear! Dear! But I tell 'ee 'twill be a fine

There's none finer in any of the slips at Chatham."

The third Summer's roses have started in to blow,

When the fine stern carving is begun.

Flutings, and twinings, and long slow swirls,

Bits of deal shaved away to thin spiral curls.

Tap! Tap! A cornucopia is nailed into place.

Rap-a-tap! They are putting up a railing filigreed like

Irish lace.

The Three Town's people never saw such grace.

And the paint on it! The richest gold leaf!

Why, the glitter when the sun is shining passes belief.

And that row of glass windows tipped toward the sky

Are rubies and carbuncles when the day is dry.

Oh, my! Oh, my!

They have coppered up the bottom,

And the copper nails

Stand about and sparkle in big wooden pails.

Bang! Clash! Bang!

"And he swigg'd, and Nick swigg'd,

And Ben swigg'd, and Dick swigg'd,

And I swigg'd, and all of us swigg'd it,

And swore there was nothing

like grog."

It seems they sing,

Even though coppering is not an easy thing.

What a splendid specimen of humanity is a true British workman,

Say the people of the Three Towns,

As they walk about the dockyard

To the sound of the evening church-bells.

And so artistic, too, each one tells his neighbour.

What immense taste and labour!

Miss Jessie Prime, in a pink silk bonnet,

Titters with delight as her eyes fall upon it,

When she steps lightly down from Lawyer Green's whisky;

Such amazing beauty makes one feel frisky,

She explains.

Mr. Nichols says he is delighted

His work is all requited

If Miss Jessie can approve.

Miss Jessie answers that the ship is "a love".

The sides are yellow as marigold,

The port-lids are red when the ports are up:

Blood-red squares like an even chequer

Of yellow asters and portulaca.

There is a wide "black strake" at the waterline

And above is a blue like the sky when the weather is fine.

The inner bulwarks are painted red.

"Why?" asks Miss Jessie. "'Tis a horrid note."

Mr. Nichols clears his throat,

And tells her the launching day is set.

He says, "Be careful, the paint is wet."

But Miss Jessie has touched it, her sprigged muslin gown

Has a blood-red streak from the shoulder down.

"It looks like blood," says Miss Jessie with a frown.

Tap! Tap! Rap!

An October day, with waves running in blue-white lines and a capful

Three broad flags ripple out behind

Where the masts will be:

Royal Standard at the main,

Admiralty flag at the fore,

Union Jack at the mizzen.

The hammers tap harder, faster,

They must finish by noon.

The last nail is driven.

But the wind has increased to half a gale,

And the ship shakes and quivers upon the ways.

The Commissioner of Chatham Dockyard is coming

In his ten-oared barge from the King's Stairs;

The Marine's band will play "God Save Great George Our King";

And there is to be a dinner afterwards at the Crown, with speeches.

The wind screeches, and flaps the flags till they pound like hammers.

The wind hums over the ship,

And slips round the dog-shores,

Jostling them almost to falling.

There is no time now to wait for Commissioners and marine bands.

Mr. Nichols has a bottle of port in his hands.

He leans over, holding his hat, and shouts to the men below:

"Let her go!"

Bang! Bang! Pound!

The dog-shores fall to the ground,

And the ship slides down the greased planking.

A splintering of glass,

And port wine running all over the white and copper stem timbers.

"Success to his Majesty's ship, the Bellerophon!"

And the red wine washes away in the waters of the Medway.

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