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关于长篇著名诗歌朗诵

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  关于长篇著名诗歌:The Liberal Arts

  Alicia Ostriker

  In mathematics they say the most beautiful solution is the correct one

  In physics they say everything that can happen must happen

  In history they say the more it changes the more it is the same

  In astrophysics you take the long view

  In chemistry you explode and blend, it is a bit like freestyle cooking, the

  Yiddish term would be: you potschke

  In biology you smell the flowers, the enticing flowers, and you play with mice,

  and you write grant proposals

  In jurisprudence they say there is no justice

  In philosophy they say there is no truth

  In literary studies they say everybody come along be ironic now

  Business school we systematize the competitive strategies we learned in the

  sandbox

  Engineering moves us firmly into manhood, we grip the material world in our

  fists

  Computer science assists us toward the goal of replacing our species with a

  new, improved, more efficient form of life, based in electronics instead of carbon --

  many of us

  are rushing to transform ourselves as quickly as possible

  Religion is still hot

  People keep plunging passionately into and out of it at the usual brisk rate

  Geography suggests the future dominance of North America by Spanish-

  speaking people

  but it does not say when; geology looks stony, takes the long view

  Music bridges mathematics, the soul of the universe, and my personal soul

  Visual art is the bridge between my bag of body and bones and stuff in the

  painterly universe

  Drama crosses this bridge on foot

  In the novel they say omit nothing, harvest the entire goddamn world

  In memoir they say the self is silently weeping, give it a tissue

  In poetry they say the arrow may be blown off course by storm and returned

  by miracle

  关于长篇著名诗歌:Road Metal

  Timothy McBride

  -- for my grandmother, Margaret Kelly

  "You don't need that," she'd tell us when we'd beg

  Two cents for bubblegum or licorice.

  A bricklayer's daughter, she'd grown up hard

  As cement -- never reached 100 pounds,

  Lived on potatoes and tea, cut her own hair.

  Husband gone, youngest child killed in the street,

  She carried a ball peen hammer up her sleeve

  On the daily walks she made us take all over town,

  Crossing the river and the canal, circling the miles

  Of Eastman Kodak's smokestacks, through the invisible

  Hops-scented cloud of the Genesee Brewery,

  Past the burned-out storefronts of the '67 riots,

  Never stopping at the church where the brother

  She wouldn't speak to, a Catholic priest,

  Celebrated morning mass. We followed her

  Through drain pipes and alleys. We crawled under a gap

  She found in the fence beside the KEEP OUT sign

  And up onto the tracks of the New York Central Line,

  Startled when she unclasped (this once) her change purse

  And gave us each three pennies to lay on the polished rail.

  When the tank cars and ore jennies had passed,

  We sifted through the ballast rock

  She said was called "road metal," excited as prospectors

  For the ruined and unspendable glints of warm copper

  Lincoln's face flattened to a smudge

  Our first lesson in what our city's daily freight

  Can do to words like "God" and "Trust."

  关于长篇著名诗歌:Scrapbook

  Kim Addonizio

  This is me, depressed out of my mind,

  frailing the banjo, spilling red wine

  on the white

  king-sized

  luckily-hotel's-and-not-my-

  goose down comforter, this is me

  walking and waxing nostalgic through the girlish shadows

  of tall palm trees, the déjà vus

  flying through the scene

  suddenly, like those three

  unnameable and therefore beautiful white birds.

  This is me as a slowly-tearing-itself-apart cloud

  and marveling

  at a fire palely and flamily

  emerging from a bowl, wavering

  up through stones of cobalt glass. The air

  wavers back. This is me in love

  with the beauty of blue glass in flames, this is me on drugs

  prescribed by my doctor

  as I try once more

  to sneak into night's closely guarded city,

  my hollow horse ready

  to wreak my demons and Blue Morphos

  on the citizens of my sleep. I am most

  myself when flashing rapidly

  my iridescent wings, drinking

  the juice of fallen fruit. Then again

  look for me under your bed

  where the ugly premodern vampires

  still hide. The undead and I are lying

  in wait. We are very interested in you

  though this is still me. We are unstable and true.

  We believe in the one-ton rose

  and the displaced toilet equally. Our blues

  assume you understand

  not much, and try to be alive, just as we do,

  and that it may be helpful to hold the hand

  of someone as lost as you.

  
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