艾米·洛威尔经典诗歌欣赏

艾米·洛威尔，美国诗人，她的第一部诗集是《多彩玻璃顶》。1913年她在实验性的意象派运动中脱颖而出，并继埃兹拉·庞德之后而成为该运动的领袖人物。她运用“自由韵律散文”和自由诗的形式进行创作，被称为“无韵之韵”。下面本站小编为大家带来艾米·洛威尔经典诗歌欣赏，欢迎大家阅读!

艾米·洛威尔经典诗歌欣赏：The Red Lacquer Music

A music-stand of crimson lacquer, long since brought

In some fast clipper-ship from China, quaintlywrought

With bossed and carven flowers and fruits inblackening gold,

The slender shaft all twined about and thicklyscrolled

With vine leaves and young twisted tendrils,whirling, curling,

Flinging their new shoots over the four wings, andswirling

Out on the three wide feet in golden lumps and streams;

Petals and apples in high relief, and where the seams

Are worn with handling, through the polished crimson sheen,

Long streaks of black, the under lacquer, shine out clean.

Four desks, adjustable, to suit the heights of players

Sitting to viols or standing up to sing, four layers

Of music to serve every instrument, are there,

And on the apex a large flat-topped golden pear.

It burns in red and yellow, dusty, smouldering lights,

When the sun flares the old barn-chamber with its flights

And skips upon the crystal knobs of dim sideboards,

Legless and mouldy, and hops, glint to glint, on hoards

Of scythes, and spades, and dinner-horns, so the old tools

Are little candles throwing brightness round in pools.

With Oriental splendour, red and gold, the dust

Covering its flames like smoke and thinning as a gust

Of brighter sunshine makes the colours leap and range,

The strange old music-stand seems to strike out and change;

To stroke and tear the darkness with sharp golden claws;

To dart a forked, vermilion tongue from open jaws;

To puff out bitter smoke which chokes the sun; and fade

Back to a still, faint outline obliterate in shade.

Creeping up the ladder into the loft, the Boy

Stands watching, very still, prickly and hot with joy.

He sees the dusty sun-mote slit by streaks of red,

He sees it split and stream, and all about his head

Spikes and spears of gold are licking, pricking, flicking,

Scratching against the walls and furniture, and nicking

The darkness into sparks, chipping away the gloom.

The Boy's nose smarts with the pungence in the room.

The wind pushes an elm branch from before the door

And the sun widens out all along the floor,

Filling the barn-chamber with white, straightforward light,

So not one blurred outline can tease the mind to fright.

"O All ye Works of the Lord, Bless

ye the Lord; Praise Him, and Magnify Him

for ever.

O let the Earth Bless the Lord; Yea, let it Praise Him,

and Magnify Him

for ever.

O ye Mountains and Hills, Bless ye the Lord; Praise

Him, and Magnify Him

for ever.

O All ye Green Things upon the Earth, Bless ye the Lord;

Praise Him,

and Magnify Him for ever."

The Boy will praise his God on an altar builded

fair,

Will heap it with the Works of the Lord. In the morning

air,

Spices shall burn on it, and by their pale smoke curled,

Like shoots of all the Green Things, the God of this bright World

Shall see the Boy's desire to pay his debt of praise.

The Boy turns round about, seeking with careful gaze

An altar meet and worthy, but each table and chair

Has some defect, each piece is needing some repair

To perfect it; the chairs have broken legs and backs,

The tables are uneven, and every highboy lacks

A handle or a drawer, the desks are bruised and worn,

And even a wide sofa has its cane seat torn.

Only in the gloom far in the corner there

The lacquer music-stand is elegant and rare,

Clear and slim of line, with its four wings outspread,

The sound of old quartets, a tenuous, faint thread,

Hanging and floating over it, it stands supreme --

Black, and gold, and crimson, in one twisted scheme!

A candle on the bookcase feels a draught and wavers,

Stippling the white-washed walls with dancing shades and quavers.

A bed-post, grown colossal, jigs about the ceiling,

And shadows, strangely altered, stain the walls, revealing

Eagles, and rabbits, and weird faces pulled awry,

And hands which fetch and carry things incessantly.

Under the Eastern window, where the morning sun

Must touch it, stands the music-stand, and on each one

Of its broad platforms is a pyramid of stones,

And metals, and dried flowers, and pine and hemlock cones,

An oriole's nest with the four eggs neatly blown,

The rattle of a rattlesnake, and three large brown

Butternuts uncracked, six butterflies impaled

With a green luna moth, a snake-skin freshly scaled,

Some sunflower seeds, wampum, and a bloody-tooth shell,

A blue jay feather, all together piled pell-mell

The stand will hold no more. The Boy with humming head

Looks once again, blows out the light, and creeps to bed.

The Boy keeps solemn vigil, while outside the wind

Blows gustily and clear, and slaps against the blind.

He hardly tries to sleep, so sharp his ecstasy

It burns his soul to emptiness, and sets it free

For adoration only, for worship. Dedicate,

His unsheathed soul is naked in its novitiate.

The hours strike below from the clock on the stair.

The Boy is a white flame suspiring in prayer.

Morning will bring the sun, the Golden Eye of Him

Whose splendour must be veiled by starry cherubim,

Whose Feet shimmer like crystal in the streets of Heaven.

Like an open rose the sun will stand up even,

Fronting the window-sill, and when the casement glows

Rose-red with the new-blown morning, then the fire which flows

From the sun will fall upon the altar and ignite

The spices, and his sacrifice will burn in perfumed light.

Over the music-stand the ghosts of sounds will swim,

`Viols d'amore' and `hautbois' accorded to a hymn.

The Boy will see the faintest breath of angels' wings

Fanning the smoke, and voices will flower through the strings.

He dares no farther vision, and with scalding eyes

Waits upon the daylight and his great emprise.

The cold, grey light of dawn was whitening the

wall

When the Boy, fine-drawn by sleeplessness, started his ritual.

He washed, all shivering and pointed like a flame.

He threw the shutters open, and in the window-frame

The morning glimmered like a tarnished Venice glass.

He took his Chinese pastilles and put them in a mass

Upon the mantelpiece till he could seek a plate

Worthy to hold them burning. Alas! He had

been late

In thinking of this need, and now he could not find

Platter or saucer rare enough to ease his mind.

The house was not astir, and he dared not go down

Into the barn-chamber, lest some door should be blown

And slam before the draught he made as he went out.

The light was growing yellower, and still he looked about.

A flash of almost crimson from the gilded pear

Upon the music-stand, startled him waiting there.

The sun would rise and he would meet it unprepared,

Labelled a fool in having missed what he had dared.

He ran across the room, took his pastilles and laid

Them on the flat-topped pear, most carefully displayed

To light with ease, then stood a little to one side,

Focussed a burning-glass and painstakingly tried

To hold it angled so the bunched and prismed rays

Should leap upon each other and spring into a blaze.

Sharp as a wheeling edge of disked, carnation flame,

Gem-hard and cutting upward, slowly the round sun came.

The arrowed fire caught the burning-glass and glanced,

Split to a multitude of pointed spears, and lanced,

A deeper, hotter flame, it took the incense pile

Which welcomed it and broke into a little smile

Of yellow flamelets, creeping, crackling, thrusting up,

A golden, red-slashed lily in a lacquer cup.

"O ye Fire and Heat, Bless ye the Lord;

Praise Him, and Magnify Him

for ever.

O ye Winter and Summer, Bless ye the Lord; Praise Him,

and Magnify Him

for ever.

O ye Nights and Days, Bless ye the Lord; Praise Him,

and Magnify Him

for ever.

O ye Lightnings and Clouds, Bless ye the Lord; Praise

Him, and Magnify Him

for ever."

A moment so it hung, wide-curved, bright-petalled,

seeming

A chalice foamed with sunrise. The Boy woke from his

dreaming.

A spike of flame had caught the card of butterflies,

The oriole's nest took fire, soon all four galleries

Where he had spread his treasures were become one tongue

Of gleaming, brutal fire. The Boy instantly swung

His pitcher off the wash-stand and turned it upside down.

The flames drooped back and sizzled, and all his senses grown

Acute by fear, the Boy grabbed the quilt from his bed

And flung it over all, and then with aching head

He watched the early sunshine glint on the remains

Of his holy offering. The lacquer stand had stains

Ugly and charred all over, and where the golden pear

Had been, a deep, black hole gaped miserably. His dear

Treasures were puffs of ashes; only the stones were there,

Winking in the brightness.

The clock upon the stair

Struck five, and in the kitchen someone shook a grate.

The Boy began to dress, for it was getting late.

　　艾米·洛威尔经典诗歌欣赏：Spring Day

The day is fresh-washed and fair, and there is

a smell of tulips and narcissus

in the air.

The sunshine pours in at the bath-room window and

bores through the water

in the bath-tub in lathes and planes of greenish-white. It

cleaves the water

into flaws like a jewel, and cracks it to bright light.

Little spots of sunshine lie on the surface of

the water and dance, dance,

and their reflections wobble deliciously over the ceiling; a stir

of my finger

sets them whirring, reeling. I move a foot, and the planes

of light

in the water jar. I lie back and laugh, and let the green-white

water,

the sun-flawed beryl water, flow over me. The day is

almost

too bright to bear, the green water covers me from the too bright

day.

I will lie here awhile and play with the water and the sun spots.

The sky is blue and high. A crow flaps

by the window, and there is

a whiff of tulips and narcissus in the air.

Breakfast Table

In the fresh-washed sunlight, the breakfast table

is decked and white.

It offers itself in flat surrender, tendering tastes, and smells,

and colours, and metals, and grains, and the white cloth falls over

its side,

draped and wide. Wheels of white glitter in the silver

coffee-pot,

hot and spinning like catherine-wheels, they whirl, and twirl --

and my eyes

begin to smart, the little white, dazzling wheels prick them like

darts.

Placid and peaceful, the rolls of bread spread themselves in the

sun to bask.

A stack of butter-pats, pyramidal, shout orange through the white,

scream,

flutter, call: "Yellow! Yellow! Yellow!" Coffee

steam rises in a stream,

clouds the silver tea-service with mist, and twists up into the

sunlight,

revolved, involuted, suspiring higher and higher, fluting in a thin

spiral

up the high blue sky. A crow flies by and croaks at the

coffee steam.

The day is new and fair with good smells in the air.

Walk

Over the street the white clouds meet, and sheer

away without touching.

On the sidewalks, boys are playing marbles. Glass

marbles,

with amber and blue hearts, roll together and part with a sweet

clashing noise. The boys strike them with black and red

striped agates.

The glass marbles spit crimson when they are hit, and slip into

the gutters

under rushing brown water. I smell tulips and narcissus

in the air,

but there are no flowers anywhere, only white dust whipping up the

street,

and a girl with a gay Spring hat and blowing skirts. The

dust and the wind

flirt at her ankles and her neat, high-heeled patent leather shoes. Tap,

tap,

the little heels pat the pavement, and the wind rustles among the

flowers

on her hat.

A water-cart crawls slowly on the other side of

the way. It is green and gay

with new paint, and rumbles contentedly, sprinkling clear water

over

the white dust. Clear zigzagging water, which smells

of tulips and narcissus.

The thickening branches make a pink `grisaille'

against the blue sky.

Whoop! The clouds go dashing at each

other and sheer away just in time.

Whoop! And a man's hat careers down the street in front

of the white dust,

leaps into the branches of a tree, veers away and trundles ahead

of the wind,

jarring the sunlight into spokes of rose-colour and green.

A motor-car cuts a swathe through the bright air,

sharp-beaked, irresistible,

shouting to the wind to make way. A glare of dust and

sunshine

tosses together behind it, and settles down. The sky

is quiet and high,

and the morning is fair with fresh-washed air.

Midday and Afternoon

Swirl of crowded streets. Shock and

recoil of traffic. The stock-still

brick facade of an old church, against which the waves of people

lurch and withdraw. Flare of sunshine down side-streets. Eddies

of light

in the windows of chemists' shops, with their blue, gold, purple

jars,

darting colours far into the crowd. Loud bangs and tremors,

murmurings out of high windows, whirring of machine belts,

blurring of horses and motors. A quick spin and shudder

of brakes

on an electric car, and the jar of a church-bell knocking against

the metal blue of the sky. I am a piece of the town,

a bit of blown dust,

thrust along with the crowd. Proud to feel the pavement

under me,

reeling with feet. Feet tripping, skipping, lagging,

dragging,

plodding doggedly, or springing up and advancing on firm elastic

insteps.

A boy is selling papers, I smell them clean and new from the press.

They are fresh like the air, and pungent as tulips and narcissus.

The blue sky pales to lemon, and great tongues

of gold blind the shop-windows,

putting out their contents in a flood of flame.

Night and Sleep

The day takes her ease in slippered yellow. Electric

signs gleam out

along the shop fronts, following each other. They grow,

and grow,

and blow into patterns of fire-flowers as the sky fades. Trades

scream

in spots of light at the unruffled night. Twinkle, jab,

snap, that means

a new play; and over the way: plop, drop, quiver, is

the sidelong

sliver of a watchmaker's sign with its length on another street.

A gigantic mug of beer effervesces to the atmosphere over a tall

building,

but the sky is high and has her own stars, why should she heed ours?

I leave the city with speed. Wheels

whirl to take me back to my trees

and my quietness. The breeze which blows with me is fresh-washed

and clean,

it has come but recently from the high sky. There are

no flowers

in bloom yet, but the earth of my garden smells of tulips and narcissus.

My room is tranquil and friendly. Out

of the window I can see

the distant city, a band of twinkling gems, little flower-heads

with no stems.

I cannot see the beer-glass, nor the letters of the restaurants

and shops

I passed, now the signs blur and all together make the city,

glowing on a night of fine weather, like a garden stirring and blowing

for the Spring.

The night is fresh-washed and fair and there is

a whiff of flowers in the air.

Wrap me close, sheets of lavender. Pour

your blue and purple dreams

into my ears. The breeze whispers at the shutters and

mutters

queer tales of old days, and cobbled streets, and youths leaping

their horses

down marble stairways. Pale blue lavender, you are the

colour of the sky

when it is fresh-washed and fair . . . I smell the stars . . . they

are like

tulips and narcissus . . . I smell them in the air.