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经典的英文简单诗歌赏析

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  Making a Fist

  For the first time, on the road north of Tampico,

  I felt the life sliding out of me,

  a drum in the desert, harder and harder to hear.

  I was seven, I lay in the car

  watching palm trees swirl a sickening pattern past the glass.

  My stomach was a melon split wide inside my skin.

  "How do you know if you are going to die?"

  I begged my mother.

  We had been traveling for days.

  With strange confidence she answered,

  "When you can no longer make a fist."

  Years later I smile to think of that journey,

  the borders we must cross separately,

  stamped with our unanswerable woes.

  I who did not die, who am still living,

  still lying in the backseat behind all my questions,

  clenching and opening one small hand.

  Man and Wife

  Tamed by Miltown, we lie on Mother's bed;

  the rising sun in war paint dyes us red;

  in broad daylight her gilded bed-posts shine,

  abandoned, almost Dionysian.

  At last the trees are green on Marlborough Street,

  blossoms on our magnolia ignite

  the morning with their murderous five days' white.

  All night I've held your hand,

  as if you had

  a fourth time faced the kingdom of the mad

  its hackneyed speech, its homicidal eye

  and dragged me home alive. . . .Oh my Petite,

  clearest of all God's creatures, still all air and nerve:

  you were in our twenties, and I,

  once hand on glass

  and heart in mouth,

  outdrank the Rahvs in the heat

  of Greenwich Village, fainting at your feet

  too boiled and shy

  and poker-faced to make a pass,

  while the shrill verve

  of your invective scorched the traditional South.

  Now twelve years later, you turn your back.

  Sleepless, you hold

  your pillow to your hollows like a child;

  your old-fashioned tirade

  loving, rapid, merciless

  breaks like the Atlantic Ocean on my head.

  Mama, Come Back

  Mama, come back.

  Why did you leave

  now that I am learning you?

  The landlady next door

  how she apologizes

  for my rough brown skin

  to her tenant from Hong Kong

  as if I were her daughter,

  as if she were you.

  How do I say I miss you

  your scolding

  your presence

  your roast loin of pork

  more succulent, more tender

  than any hotel chef's?

  The fur coat you wanted

  making you look like a polar bear

  and the mink-trimmed coat

  I once surprised you

  on Christmas morning.

  Mama, how you said "importment"

  for important,

  your gold tooth flashing

  an insecurity you dared not bare,

  wanting recognition

  simply as eating noodles

  and riding in a motor car

  to the supermarket

  the movie theater

  adorned in your gold and jade

  as if all your jewelry

  confirmed your identity

  a Chinese woman in America.

  How you said "you better"

  always your last words

  glazed through your dark eyes

  following me fast as you could

  one November evening in New York City

  how I thought "Hello, Dolly!"

  showed you an America

  you never saw.

  How your fear of being alone

  kept me dutiful in body

  resentful in mind.

  How my fear of being single

  kept me

  from moving out.

  How I begged your forgiveness

  after that one big fight

  how I wasn't wrong

  but needed you to love me

  as warmly as you hugged strangers.


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