目前分類:習‧或忘(摘錄) (11)

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America
Allen Ginsberg

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A Song in the Front Yard
Gwendolyn Brooks
 
I've stayed in the front yard all my life.
I want a peek at the back
Where it's rough and untended and hungry weed grows.
A girl gets sick of a rose.
 
I want to go in the back yard now
And maybe down the alley,
To where the charity children play.
I want a good time today.
 
They do some wonderful things.
They have some wonderful fun.
My mother sneers, but I say it's fine
How they don't have to go in at quarter to nine.
My mother, she tells me that Johnnie Mae
Will grow up to be a bad woman.
That George'll be taken to Jail soon or late
(On account of last winter he sold our back gate.)
 
But I say it's fine. Honest, I do.
And I'd like to be a bad woman, too,
And wear the brave stockings of night-black lace
And strut down the streets with paint on my face.

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Do Not Go Gentle Into that Good Night
Dylan Thomas
 
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
 
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
 
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
 
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
 
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
 
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

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One Art
Elizabeth Bishop
 
The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.
 
Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
 
Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.
 
I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
 
I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.
 
--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

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Fabliau of Florida
Wallace Stevens
 
Barque of phosphor
On the palmy beach,
 
Move outward into heaven,
Into the alabasters
And night blues.
 
Foam and cloud are one.
Sultry moon-monsters
Are dissolving.
 
Fill your black hull
With white moonlight.
 
There will never be an end
To this droning of the surf.

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America
Walt Whitman
 
Centre of equal daughters, equal sons,
All, all alike endear'd, grown, ungrown, young or old,
Strong, ample, fair, enduring, capable, rich,
Perennial with the Earth, with Freedom, Law and Love,
A grand, sane, towering, seated Mother,
Chair'd in the adamant of Time.

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Song
Christina Rossetti  

When I am dead, my dearest,
Sing no sad songs for me;
Plant thou no roses at my head,
Nor shady cypress tree:
Be the green grass above me
With showers and dewdrops wet;
And if thou wilt, remember,
And if thou wilt, forget.
 
I shall not see the shadows,
I shall not feel the rain;
I shall not hear the nightingale
Sing on, as if in pain:
And dreaming through the twilight
That doth not rise nor set,
Haply I may remember,
And haply may forget.

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Ode on a Grecian Urn
John Keats 
 
Thou still unravish’d bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fring’d legend haunts about thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
in Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?
 
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear’d,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal—yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!
 
Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearied,
For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
For ever warm and still to be enjoy’d,
For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy’d,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.
 
Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead’st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What little town by river or sea-shore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul, to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.
 
O Attic shape! fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou, silent form! dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
'Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.'

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So, We’ll go no more a Roving
Lord Byron
 
So, we’ll go no more a roving
So late into the night,
Though the heart be still as loving,
And the moon be still as bright.
 
For the sword outwears its sheath,
And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
And love itself have rest.
 
Though the night was made for loving,
And the day returns too soon,
Yet we’ll go no more a roving
By the light of the moon.

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十月初開課的「英美詩 停‧看‧聽」在課程內容方面老師以介紹作者出發,沒有太多準備,許多詩篇剪貼缺少出處、源流介紹顯得片段,不甚令人滿意;但藉此空出一段時間可以專心讀詩(儘管每週上課必須從南港趕回,總是匆匆忙忙),搭配讀詩的聲音緩緩起伏,仿若在煙塵之上的敏隆講堂(最好的是,此空間還可以保有舒適的溫度)漂浮修行,十分享受。以下我也繼續按照詩人為單位,親手敲打鍵盤,在速度中感受英文詩句的韻律。

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(以下轉貼自 http://0rz.tw/5439w )
 
繚綾①
念女工之勞也
白居易
 
繚綾繚綾何所似?不似羅綃與紈綺②;
應似天台山上明月前③,四十五尺瀑布泉④。
中有文章又奇絕⑤,地鋪白煙花簇雪⑥。
織者何人衣者誰?越溪寒女漢宮姬⑦。
去年中使宣口敕⑧;天上取樣人間織⑨。
織為雲外秋雁行⑩,染作江南春水色。
廣裁衫袖長制裙,金鬥熨波刀剪紋11。
異彩奇文相隱映12,轉側看花花不定。
昭陽舞人恩正深13,春衣一對直千金14。
汗沾粉污不再著,曳土踏泥無惜心15。
繚綾織成費功績,莫比尋常繒與帛16。
絲細繰多女手疼17,扎扎千聲不盈尺18。
昭陽殿裡歌舞人,若見織時應也惜!

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