初中英語(yǔ)勵(lì)志詩(shī)歌
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初中英語(yǔ)勵(lì)志詩(shī)歌：Historically Speaking
It was a year of pirates in speedboats,
anonymous bullies spreading privacies
on the Internet, and the worst of them
doing worse than that and wishing to be known
for what they'd done, their perfidy
an advertisement for a cause.
Thus it was a bad year for historians,
whose stories couldn't be correct
for longer than a few days. More than ever
the imperfections of memory
would combine with the slipperiness
of documentation to produce versions
only people who need not be persuaded
could agree with.
It was a war
where the enemy sometimes was wearing
the same clothes as its opponent,
and both sides believed their cause
was righteous, and years from now the victors,
if we were unlucky, would tell it as it wasn't,
unless we were the victors, and our historians
would tell it from so many angles
that both was and wasn't
would read like a symphony of discordancies,
an honoring of so many counterpoints
that I, for one, might find a place to rest uneasy,
historically speaking, among all the bloodshed,
the horror, which would stop for a while and continue.
初中英語(yǔ)勵(lì)志詩(shī)歌：Lines Written for Elmo Castelnuovo
It's not time that passes, it's you, it's I
-- Rutger Kopland
In winter, by late afternoon, it's almost dark
when you come home from the mine. I hear
the front gate creak and the metallic clink
of your pail before you round the corner
by the back steps where I've been waiting.
In the sharp chill of the air, the mineral
undercurrent of damp earth and shale comes with you. You turn down the collar
of your shirt and let water from the pump
pour down your face and nape, the skin above
your undershirt pale as the crescent moon visible
above the darker mass of the hills.
• •
You drive for hours, heading nowhere; you walk
the streets at night and argue with the moon --
something hidden and manic in you emerged,
almost unnoticed, until at last you huddled homeless and bewildered under a pile
of coats in an alleyway no wider
than the mines you entered as a young man.
The rat scuttling in the garbage bin, the cat
stalking the rat, did they become your familiars?
And the passersby, who glanced at you and hurried
on their way, did they believe you were invisible?
Did the tag knotted to your toe say nameless?
• • •
What I loved was the touch of your calloused hand
on my head, the coal-rimmed hollows of your eyes.
If you returned now from the sooty underworld
in which you dwell, you would not recognize me.
The gate is gone; the house and those who lived in it
are hidden elsewhere. Only the crescent moon
and darkling hills are as you left them. Come back
as you were, if only for a moment. I'm waiting
by the back steps. The kitchen window casts
its light; at the laden table the absent prepare
for your arrival. You will be hungry and tired,
as in those years through which our lives passed.
初中英語(yǔ)勵(lì)志詩(shī)歌：I Woke Up
and it was political.
I made coffee and the coffee was political.
I took a shower and the water was.
I walked down the street in short shorts and a Bob Mizer tank top
and they were political, the walking and the shorts and the beefcake
silkscreen of the man posing in a G-string. I forgot my sunglasses
and later, on the train, that was political,
when I studied every handsome man in the car.
Who I thought was handsome was political.
I went to work at the university and everything was
very obviously political, the department and the institution.
All the cigarettes I smoked between classes were political,
where I threw them when I was through.
I was blond and it was political.
So was the difference between "blond" and "blonde."
I had long hair and it was political. I shaved my head and it was.
That I didn't know how to grieve when another person was killed in America
was political, and it was political when America killed another person,
who they were and what color and gender and who I am in relation.
I couldn't think about it for too long without feeling a helplessness
like childhood. I was a child and it was political, being a boy
who was bad at it. I couldn't catch and so the ball became political.
My mother read to me almost every night
and the conditions that enabled her to do so were political.
That my father's money was new was political, that it was proving something.
Someone called me faggot and it was political.
I called myself a faggot and it was political.
How difficult my life felt relative to how difficult it was
was political. I thought I could become a writer
and it was political that I could imagine it.
I thought I was not a political poet and still
my imagination was political.
It had been, this whole time I was asleep.
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