Selected Beautiful English Poems 1
This work
Martha Zweig
The salamander's cold orange hand is still wrapped.
Untie his dream baby.
Long before the human family appeared.
Then their work has just begun.
Wet rocks and moss.
He must be as strange as possible.
They created the world. Studying him, too.
He is warmer than moss or stone, but not so strange.
That saved him.
Moss also grows on rocks.
This stone worked on him, just like the heart.
He must grow up before he can talk to others.
Dreamed but didn't become strange.
Cold hands caressed him.
They read the body of his dream baby to the stone.
Before there was any human family
This made him feel that the work had just begun.
Selected Best Beautiful English Poems II
This used to be a love poem.
Jane Hershfield
This used to be a love poem,
Before its hips thicken, its breathing becomes short,
Before it sits down,
At a loss and a little embarrassed,
Parked on the fender of a car,
And many people walk by without looking back.
It remembers dressing like it was going to a great date.
It remembers to choose these shoes, this scarf or tie.
Once, he drank beer for breakfast and walked unsteadily.
Side by side with another person's feet in the river.
Once it pretends to be shy and then becomes really shy,
Lower its head and let the market fall forward,
So that the eyes can't see.
It is full of historical and artistic passion.
This poem is lovely.
Under its chin, no skin folds become soft.
There is no yellow fat pad behind the knee.
What it knows in the morning still believes at night.
An unharmed self-confidence raised its eyebrows and cheeks.
The desire has not diminished.
It still understands. It's time to think about getting a cat,
Cultivation of African violets or flowering cacti.
Yes, it decided:
Many miniature cacti are placed in blue and red flowerpots.
When it feels uneasy
Its new life is pure and strange silence,
It will touch them-one by one.
Stretch out a finger, like a small flame.
Selected Best Beautiful English Poems 3
Those winter sundays
Author: Robert Hayden
My father also gets up early on Sunday.
Put on clothes in the blue-black cold,
Then use the painful cracked hand
Obtained from weather labor on weekdays.
The piled fire blazed. No one ever thanked him.
I will wake up and hear the crash of cold.
When the room is warm, he will call,
Slowly I will stand up and get dressed,
Afraid of the long-term anger of that house,
Tell him coldly,
Who drove away the cold?
And polished my good shoes.
What do I know? What do I know?
Simple and lonely office of love?
Selected Works of Best Beautiful English Poetry 4
weakness
Troy Dricott
That time my grandmother pulled me.
Through the perfume aisle of Saks,
She grabbed my arm and picked me up.
Hissing, "Stand up,"
Grit your teeth,
Her eyes are as bright as dogs.
Desperate in the light.
She said it again and again,
It seems that she is Jesus and I am dead.
She is as strong as a tree,
The fur around her neck,
A light-skinned housewife,
Who is walking on the revolving marble?
And through the brass opening-at 1945.
Saks doesn't even have black elevator operators.
The salesgirl brought velvet tights to tie my shoelaces.
Mumbling, as if serving all grandmothers.
My grandmother ate something, but she was not hungry.
Unlike my mother who hates them but wants to please them,
They're back,
It seems that they are wearing wooden collars.
When my legs fail,
My grandmother tore me apart and held me like a god.
Grab the roots of the saints.
I begged her to believe that I had no choice.
Stumbling, sweat soaked her face,
She pushed me through the crowd,
Escape from those eyes that see through her clothes,
Under her skin, until the transparent gene confessed.
Selected Works of Best Beautiful English Poetry 5
Comfort miracle
By Chad Davidson
In the chapel in San Juan Chula,
A Tzozil Indian in New Scotland
Break a chicken's neck. Through pi? oned air，
Stars from tourist flashlights burn and reflect.
In red eyes, in the mirror
The statues on their plates-
Glass box. A mother fills a glass-
Glass with fire. Others offer the moon-
Glossy swelling in slender goat bladder.
Coke bottle throat, as if God is thirsty.
For the real thing. The tiniest angle
Sent me to Florida,
Insomnia people claim that the stars are talking.
Too many. They stumbled towards themselves.
Worn-out virgin Mary's eyes, they swear,
Bleeding. Florida: Rise with the Dead,
Even if it sinks into the glade.
At the same time, off the coast, a heavenly gait
In the famous Super 8,
Voice a mammal scientist.
Almost laughed at the zipper-lined torso.
Bigfoot left California.
Walking into my living room is a miracle.
In the middle of the chaos of events
The horizon, between every big wave
Time is as heavy as bigfoot,
Awkward, too real and unreal touch.
Miracle cleaners make everything.
Disappeared in the faint fragrance of flowers.
Longing for miracles, lack of sleep.
I have been watching it, not to see bigfoot.
But to be bigfoot, through the granular screen,
There are countless staring eyes, brilliant
Nebula bleeding. Snowman, pray.
There you go again, you Sasquatch. videotape
Our world is for your religion. memory
All these happy light bulbs, these satellites,
Our eyes, our stars. Look: How do we turn?
Come one by one tonight.