英文詩歌是給人以享受的文學(xué)體裁之一。英文詩歌的欣賞可以促進(jìn)學(xué)生的語言學(xué)習(xí)。下面就是小編給大家整理的英文簡(jiǎn)單詩歌，希望大家喜歡。

　　英文簡(jiǎn)單詩歌：The Interrogation

　　Amit Majmudar

　　When they leathered his arm to the armrest and began

　　like manicurists in a nail salon

　　he says that he "retreated" from his hand

　　until the part of him that dwelt there once was gone

　　and heard no news from his own outer reaches.

　　In his memoir of those years, he sketches

　　the tricks he used, one of which was "vision."

　　Maybe it's better we present his version:

　　"I imagined my arm as a slope I had to scale,

　　shaft of the humerus as smooth as shale

　　but white like bone and giving way like sand

　　wherever I set foot. I couldn't stand,

　　couldn't take a breather, or I'd ride my own

　　disintegration down and end up on

　　the shore -- which was my hand, my fingernails.

　　I crested my shoulder, rested on its knoll.

　　I looked down then and saw the pain as men

　　charging uphill to where I hid my sense

　　of pain. At once I stomped a foot to see

　　the whole arm crack, calve, crash into the sea,

　　disarticulated, part of me no more.

　　I did this for the other arm and for

　　my feet and testicles and eyes until

　　I found myself on a Pacific atoll

　　that had no latitude, no longitude.

　　I built a hut, I scuttled the one canoe.

　　I saw a sun that weighed a kiloton

　　and the power cord by which it swung."

　　英文簡(jiǎn)單詩歌：The Halo

　　C. Dale Young

　　In the paintings left to us

　　by the Old Masters, the halo,

　　a smallish cloud of light, clung

　　to the head, carefully framed the faces

　　of mere mortals made divine.

　　Accident? My body launched

　　by a car's incalculable momentum?

　　It ended up outside the car. I had no idea then

　　what it was like to lose days, to wake

　　and find everything had changed.

　　Through glass, this body went

　　through the glass window, the seatbelt

　　snapping my neck. Not the hanged man,

　　not a man made divine but more human.

　　I remember those pins buried in my skull,

　　the cold metal frame surrounding my head,

　　metal reflecting a small fire, a glow. All

　　was changed. In that bed, I was a locust.

　　I was starving. And how could I not be?

　　I, I . . . I am still ravenous.

　　英文簡(jiǎn)單詩歌：The Mind Is Its Own Place

　　Ann Townsend

　　Mated and unmated,

　　starlings swarm the willow

　　with their devotions

　　until the tree roils

　　and sways, wing-beats

　　sounding the torrent

　　through which they swim.

　　Dopamine, paroxetine,

　　an injection of adrenaline

　　into the bloodstream:

　　these deliver the dissident

　　fuel I crave for the mind's

　　pleasure, and for its pain.

　　Call it one song indispensable

　　to trouble the branching

　　arteries. The willow divinates

　　toward water, switching

　　in the breeze; it grazes

　　the edge but cannot

　　rest there. My fingertips

　　pressed against my temples:

　　ten points of sensation,

　　a vaulted cage where

　　starlings congregate

　　to rustle their chaos,

　　their alphabet blown to bits

　　in the wind's rush.

　　Yes, you heard me.

　　Like an aviary, Plato said,

　　the mind is full of birds.

　　
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