優(yōu)秀經(jīng)典英語(yǔ)詩(shī)歌：School of Practical Dissection
Kenny Williams
In the hands of the priest
the heart has to break
like crockery, for a single man,
not the human race
which we love into oblivion
and despise in general.
In the hands of the anatomist
it leaps, the heart, like a trout --
small, brown, and poached --
at the end of the line.
Faster students than our teachers,
we feel like boys playing hooky,
just wetting our toes
in the landlord's river,
passing his jug from
mouth to mouth.
優(yōu)秀經(jīng)典英語(yǔ)詩(shī)歌：The Dream of a Little Occupied Japan Doll
Kimiko Hahn
Among the hundred porcelain figurines,
the first one -- with slanted eyes, fat cheeks,
queue (though that's Chinese), and Chinese bonnet --
is my favorite. Among all those in pajamas
or gowns or the two in kimono,
the first is my favorite. Of those with rickshaw,
tambourine, or parasol and fan --
I keep on my desk the first one
though she -- or he -- is not doing a darn thing.
Here in sleep, rivalry is reserved.
And as dreams "tune the mind for conscious awareness"
perhaps this favoritism suggests
I've quit hoarding and now collect myself.
For Alice and Laurie
優(yōu)秀經(jīng)典英語(yǔ)詩(shī)歌：About Opera
Geoffrey Brock
Fuggirmi io sol non so
In the real world, lighting is undesigned;
here it's high art. After we find our seats,
silence our cells and smooth our ruffled minds,
and just before the curtains rise, houselights
go out. We vanish, and before our eyes
adjust, a splendid spectacle begins
in which we're borne, again, into the lives
of others -- figures whose shaded joys and pains
might be, for these three hours, ours. Yet
what can we hope to understand of them?
Words in a strange, old tongue (il fazzoletto!)
shine through the wordless music as through a scrim
by turns opaque and blindingly transparent --
words whose sources are masks, mouths gaping wide.
Still, some intelligence like a welder's current
leaps the orchestra pit (where shadows hide
that pulsing drum, those lacerating strings),
and something is spilling, something even grander,
perhaps, than life, from the woman who now sings,
now dies, as passion fills white space around her,
fills us, and tears are spilling down our faces --
there's too much light, it's all too brightly lit!
Kind curtains fall, and a governed dark replaces
all light but the glow of the pages in the pit.
