On Excellent English Poetry (I)
sequential
Author: Peter Summer
Everything will never be the same,
Even enjoy the same things.
It won't be the same. Our sadness
Will be different.
Our worries will be different.
Everything will never be the same,
There's nothing. Simple ideas will sound
Different, newer, because they will be simpler and newer.
Spoken language The heart will know how to open its heart to love.
It won't be love anymore. Everything will change.
Everything will not be the same as before.
This is also new to some extent, because after all,
In the past, things might have been similar: in the morning,
The rest of the day, evening and night, but not now.
On Excellent English Poetry Part II
The White Room
Author: Charles Simic
Obviously, it is difficult.
To prove it. Many people prefer it.
Hidden. Me too.
I listened to the sound of trees.
They have a secret.
That's what they're going to do.
Let me know-
And then it was gone.
Summer is coming. Every tree
It has its own on my street.
Scheherazade. My night
Is part of their wildness.
Tell a story. we are
Into the dark house,
There are always more dark houses,
Silent and abandoned.
Someone's eyes closed.
Upstairs.
Fear and curiosity about it,
Makes me sleepless.
The truth is naked and cold,
Woman said
Always wearing white clothes.
She didn't leave her room.
The sun points to one or two
What survived
The long night is intact.
The simplest thing,
An obvious difficulty.
They didn't make noise.
This is the kind of day.
People describe it as "perfect"
God disguises himself
Black hair clip, hand mirror,
B without a tooth?
Don't! That's not why.
That's the way it is,
Unblinkingly, silent.
In that bright light—
The trees are waiting for the night.
On Excellent English Poetry Part III
continuity
Author a.r. amons
I already pressed it.
stay far away
I hope
If you ask
I what me?
If I want to,
Accept harmony
accomplish
Drift, such as annihilation,
Probably.
On Excellent English Poetry Part IV
A drinker
Tennessee Williams
The wine drinker sat under the porch basking in the sun.
Their failure in love numbed them.
They move the fans with a gesture of not moving their feathers.
The dazzling sunlight darkened their antennae.
Let's improve their conversation.
One said "Oh" and the other said "Indeed."
Afternoon must be extended forever,
Because night is impossible for them.
They know bright and delicate needles.
Insert it under their skin.
I will still work after dark-I am anesthetized and dormant at present.
No one dares to make trouble suddenly.
One said "no" and the other muttered "Why?"
Cousin paused: swelling.
What are they dreaming about? Murder?
They dreamed of desire, and they longed for violence, but it didn't happen.
Their quarrel stopped forever because of lack of motivation.
Light is empty: the sun prevents reflection.
On Excellent English Poetry Part V
Wolf's postscript to Little Red Riding Hood
Aga Shahid Ali
First of all, please give me a sense of history:
I'm doing this for future generations,
To the kindergarten teacher
And a clear moral:
Little girls shouldn't get lost.
Looking for exotic flowers,
They can't talk to strangers.
Then give me a rich sense of plot:
Can't I swallow her?
In the jungle?
Why did I ask her where her grandmother lived?
Like me, a forest dweller,
I don't know this cabin
Under three oak trees
The old woman lives there.
Alone?
Like I couldn't have swallowed her a few years ago?
You can call me the wolf,
Now my only reputation.
But I didn't molest children
Although you will agree that she is beautiful.
And hunting:
Was I sleeping when he cut it?
My thick black hair
Fill me with rubbish and stones?
I ran with a heavy load and fell down.
Just to make the children laugh
Hear the sound of stones
Cut open my stomach,
Look at the spilled garbage
With a perfect sense of time,
Just as this story
It's time to end.