經(jīng)典洛威爾詩(shī)歌欣賞

　　艾米·洛威爾，美國(guó)詩(shī)人，她的第一部詩(shī)集是《多彩玻璃頂》。1913年她在實(shí)驗(yàn)性的意象派運(yùn)動(dòng)中脫穎而出，并繼埃茲拉·龐德之后而成為該運(yùn)動(dòng)的領(lǐng)袖人物。她運(yùn)用“自由韻律散文”和自由詩(shī)的形式進(jìn)行創(chuàng)作，被稱為“無(wú)韻之韻”。下面學(xué)習(xí)啦小編為大家?guī)?lái)經(jīng)典洛威爾詩(shī)歌欣賞，歡迎大家閱讀!

　　經(jīng)典洛威爾經(jīng)典詩(shī)歌：The Pleiades

　　By day you cannot see the sky

　　For it is up so very high.

　　You look and look, but it's so blue

　　That you can never see right through.

　　But when night comes it is quite plain,

　　And all the stars are there again.

　　They seem just like old friends to me,

　　I've known them all my life you see.

　　There is the dipper first, and there

　　Is Cassiopeia in her chair,

　　Orion's belt, the Milky Way,

　　And lots I know but cannot say.

　　One group looks like a swarm of bees,

　　Papa says they're the Pleiades;

　　But I think they must be the toy

　　Of some nice little angel boy.

　　Perhaps his jackstones which to-day

　　He has forgot to put away,

　　And left them lying on the sky

　　Where he will find them bye and bye.

　　I wish he'd come and play with me.

　　We'd have such fun, for it would be

　　A most unusual thing for boys

　　To feel that they had stars for toys!

　　經(jīng)典洛威爾詩(shī)歌欣賞：The Fruit Shop

　　Cross-ribboned shoes; a muslin gown,

　　High-waisted, girdled with bright blue;

　　A straw poke bonnet which hid the frown

　　She pluckered her little brows into

　　As she picked her dainty passage through

　　The dusty street. "Ah, Mademoiselle,

　　A dirty pathway, we need rain,

　　My poor fruits suffer, and the shell

　　Of this nut's too big for its kernel, lain

　　Here in the sun it has shrunk again.

　　The baker down at the corner says

　　We need a battle to shake the clouds;

　　But I am a man of peace, my ways

　　Don't look to the killing of men in crowds.

　　Poor fellows with guns and bayonets for shrouds!

　　Pray, Mademoiselle, come out of the sun.

　　Let me dust off that wicker chair. It's cool

　　In here, for the green leaves I have run

　　In a curtain over the door, make a pool

　　Of shade. You see the pears on that stool --

　　The shadow keeps them plump and fair."

　　Over the fruiterer's door, the leaves

　　Held back the sun, a greenish flare

　　Quivered and sparked the shop, the sheaves

　　Of sunbeams, glanced from the sign on the eaves,

　　Shot from the golden letters, broke

　　And splintered to little scattered lights.

　　Jeanne Tourmont entered the shop, her poke

　　Bonnet tilted itself to rights,

　　And her face looked out like the moon on nights

　　Of flickering clouds. "Monsieur Popain, I

　　Want gooseberries, an apple or two,

　　Or excellent plums, but not if they're high;

　　Haven't you some which a strong wind blew?

　　I've only a couple of francs for you."

　　Monsieur Popain shrugged and rubbed his hands.

　　What could he do, the times were sad.

　　A couple of francs and such demands!

　　And asking for fruits a little bad.

　　Wind-blown indeed! He never had

　　Anything else than the very best.

　　He pointed to baskets of blunted pears

　　With the thin skin tight like a bursting vest,

　　All yellow, and red, and brown, in smears.

　　Monsieur Popain's voice denoted tears.

　　He took up a pear with tender care,

　　And pressed it with his hardened thumb.

　　"Smell it, Mademoiselle, the perfume there

　　Is like lavender, and sweet thoughts come

　　Only from having a dish at home.

　　And those grapes! They melt in the mouth like wine,

　　Just a click of the tongue, and they burst to honey.

　　They're only this morning off the vine,

　　And I paid for them down in silver money.

　　The Corporal's widow is witness, her pony

　　Brought them in at sunrise to-day.

　　Those oranges -- Gold! They're almost red.

　　They seem little chips just broken away

　　From the sun itself. Or perhaps instead

　　You'd like a pomegranate, they're rarely gay,

　　When you split them the seeds are like crimson spray.

　　Yes, they're high, they're high, and those Turkey figs,

　　They all come from the South, and Nelson's ships

　　Make it a little hard for our rigs.

　　They must be forever giving the slips

　　To the cursed English, and when men clips

　　Through powder to bring them, why dainties mounts

　　A bit in price. Those almonds now,

　　I'll strip off that husk, when one discounts

　　A life or two in a nigger row

　　With the man who grew them, it does seem how

　　They would come dear; and then the fight

　　At sea perhaps, our boats have heels

　　And mostly they sail along at night,

　　But once in a way they're caught; one feels

　　Ivory's not better nor finer -- why peels

　　From an almond kernel are worth two sous.

　　It's hard to sell them now," he sighed.

　　"Purses are tight, but I shall not lose.

　　There's plenty of cheaper things to choose."

　　He picked some currants out of a wide

　　Earthen bowl. "They make the tongue

　　Almost fly out to suck them, bride

　　Currants they are, they were planted long

　　Ago for some new Marquise, among

　　Other great beauties, before the Chateau

　　Was left to rot. Now the Gardener's wife,

　　He that marched off to his death at Marengo,

　　Sells them to me; she keeps her life

　　From snuffing out, with her pruning knife.

　　She's a poor old thing, but she learnt the trade

　　When her man was young, and the young Marquis

　　Couldn't have enough garden. The flowers he made

　　All new! And the fruits! But 'twas said that

　　he

　　Was no friend to the people, and so they laid

　　Some charge against him, a cavalcade

　　Of citizens took him away; they meant

　　Well, but I think there was some mistake.

　　He just pottered round in his garden, bent

　　On growing things; we were so awake

　　In those days for the New Republic's sake.

　　He's gone, and the garden is all that's left

　　Not in ruin, but the currants and apricots,

　　And peaches, furred and sweet, with a cleft

　　Full of morning dew, in those green-glazed pots,

　　Why, Mademoiselle, there is never an eft

　　Or worm among them, and as for theft,

　　How the old woman keeps them I cannot say,

　　But they're finer than any grown this way."

　　Jeanne Tourmont drew back the filigree ring

　　Of her striped silk purse, tipped it upside down

　　And shook it, two coins fell with a ding

　　Of striking silver, beneath her gown

　　One rolled, the other lay, a thing

　　Sparked white and sharply glistening,

　　In a drop of sunlight between two shades.

　　She jerked the purse, took its empty ends

　　And crumpled them toward the centre braids.

　　The whole collapsed to a mass of blends

　　Of colours and stripes. "Monsieur Popain, friends

　　We have always been. In the days before

　　The Great Revolution my aunt was kind

　　When you needed help. You need no more;

　　'Tis we now who must beg at your door,

　　And will you refuse?" The little man

　　Bustled, denied, his heart was good,

　　But times were hard. He went to a pan

　　And poured upon the counter a flood

　　Of pungent raspberries, tanged like wood.

　　He took a melon with rough green rind

　　And rubbed it well with his apron tip.

　　Then he hunted over the shop to find

　　Some walnuts cracking at the lip,

　　And added to these a barberry slip

　　Whose acrid, oval berries hung

　　Like fringe and trembled. He reached a round

　　Basket, with handles, from where it swung

　　Against the wall, laid it on the ground

　　And filled it, then he searched and found

　　The francs Jeanne Tourmont had let fall.

　　"You'll return the basket, Mademoiselle?"

　　She smiled, "The next time that I call,

　　Monsieur. You know that very well."

　　'Twas lightly said, but meant to tell.

　　Monsieur Popain bowed, somewhat abashed.

　　She took her basket and stepped out.

　　The sunlight was so bright it flashed

　　Her eyes to blindness, and the rout

　　Of the little street was all about.

　　Through glare and noise she stumbled, dazed.

　　The heavy basket was a care.

　　She heard a shout and almost grazed

　　The panels of a chaise and pair.

　　The postboy yelled, and an amazed

　　Face from the carriage window gazed.

　　She jumped back just in time, her heart

　　Beating with fear. Through whirling light

　　The chaise departed, but her smart

　　Was keen and bitter. In the white

　　Dust of the street she saw a bright

　　Streak of colours, wet and gay,

　　Red like blood. Crushed but fair,

　　Her fruit stained the cobbles of the way.

　　Monsieur Popain joined her there.

　　"Tiens, Mademoiselle,

　　c'est le General Bonaparte,

　　partant pour la Guerre!"