惠特曼詩歌分析A noiseless patient spider
詩歌欣賞:A noiseless patient spider
I mark'd where on a little promontory it stood isolated，
Mark'd how to explore the vacant vast surrounding，
It launch'd forth filament， filament， filament， out of itself，
Ever unreeling them， ever tirelessly speeding them．
And you O my soul where you stand，
Surrounded， detached， in measureless oceans of space，
Ceaselessly musing， venturing， throwing， seeking the spheres to connect them，
Till the bridge you will need be form'd， till the ductile anchor hold，
Till the gossamer thread you fling catch somewhere， O my soul．
詩歌欣賞：Epistle from Mrs.Yonge to Her Husband
by Lady Mary Wortley Montagu
Think not this paper comes with vain pretense
To move your pity， or to mourn th' offense．
Too well I know that hard obdurate heat；
No softening mercy there will take my part，
Nor can a woman's arguments prevail，
When even your patron's wise example fails．
But this last privilege I still retain；
Th' oppressed and injured always may complain
Too， too severely laws of honor bind
The weak submissive sex of womankind．
If sighs have gained or force compelled our hand，
Deceived by art， or urged by stern command，
Whatever motive binds the fatal tie，
The judging world expects our constancy．
Just heaven！ （for sure in heaven does justice reign，
Though tricks below that sacred name profane）
To you appealing I submit my cause，
Nor fear a judgment from impartial laws．
All bargains but conditional are made；
The purchase void， the creditor unpaid；
Defrauded servants are from service free；
A wounded slave regains his liberty．
For wives ill used no remedy remains，
To daily racks condemned， and to eternal chains．
From whence is this unjust distinction grown?
Are we not formed with passions like your own?
Nature with equal fire our souls endued，
Our minds as haughty， and as warm as our blood；
O'er the wide world your pleasures you pursue，
The change is justified by something new；
But we must sigh in silence——and be true．
Our sex's weakness you expose and blame
（Of every prattling fop the common theme），
Yet from this weakness you suppose is due
Sublimer virtue that your Cato knew．
Had heaven designed us trials so severe，
It would have formed our tempers then to bear．
And I have borne （oh what have I not borne！）
The pang of jealousy， the insults of scorn．
Wearied at length， I from your sight remove，
And place my future hopes in secret love．
In the gay bloom of glowing youth retired，
I quit the woman's joy to be admired，
With that small pension your hard heart allows，
Renounce your fortune， and release your vows．
To custom （though unjust） so much is due；
I hide my frailty from the public view．
My conscience clear， yet sensible of shame，
My life I hazard， to preserve my fame．
And I prefer this low inglorious state
To vile dependence on the thing I hate——
But you pursue me to this last retreat．
Dragged into light， my tender crime is shown
And every circumstance of fondness known．
Beneath the shelter of the law you stand，
And urge my ruin with a cruel hand，
While to my fault thus rigidly severe，
Tamely submissive to the man you fear．
This wretched outcast， this abandoned wife，
Has yet this joy to sweeten shameful life：
By your mean conduct， infamously loose，
You are at once my accuser and excuse．
Let me be damned by the censorious prude
（Stupidly dull， or spiritually lewd），
My hapless case will surely pity find
From every just and reasonable mind．
When to the final sentence I submit，
The lips condemn me， but their souls acquit．
No more my husband， to your pleasures go，
The sweets of your recovered freedom know．
Go： court the brittle friendship of the great，
Smile at his board， or at his levee wait；
And when dismissed， to madam's toilet fly，
More than her chambermaids， or glasses， lie，
Tell her how young she looks， how heavenly fair，
Admire the lilies and the roses there．
Your high ambition may be gratified，
Some cousin of her own be made your bride，
And you the father of a glorious race
Endowed with Ch——l's strength and Low——r's face．
詩歌欣賞：Epitaph X
by Thomas Heise
My birthright I have traded for a petal dress
and a summer eulogy． I have pawned my soul
for this opal ring， the color of a pale， taxidermied eye．
If I could carry calla lilies on my shoulder once more
like an umbrella in daylight， I would lean them
on the cemetery gate and sleep until the groundskeeper found me．
For some of us， beauty is carcinoma．
The saint‘s stigmata is god’s rose， bestowed
for forgoing a human lover， who will， of course， die．
I died last year． My mother made her tears into crystal
earrings and clipped them to my ears． “Son， you will
pay for your sin，“ my father spoke from his throne of glass．
Stars burn a sharp， white nacre until they evaporate．
The moon‘s flamingo unfolds her iodine wings over the broken city．
My necropolis． My teeth are the fruit of your olive tree．
詩歌欣賞：Buying Stock
by Denise Duhamel
"……The use of condoms offers substantial protection， but does not
guarantee total protection and that while
there is no evidence that deep kissing has resulted in
transfer of the virus， no one can say that such transmission
would be absolutely impossible．"
——The Surgeon General， 1987
I know you won't mind if I ask you to put this on．
It's for your protection as well as mine——Wait．
Wait． Here， before we rush into anything
I've bought a condom for each one of your fingers． And here——
just a minute——Open up．
I'll help you put this one on， over your tongue．
I was thinking：
If we leave these two rolled， you can wear them
as patches over your eyes． Partners have been known to cry，
shed tears， bodily fluids， at all this trust， at even the thought
of this closeness．．
詩歌欣賞：Epithalamium
by Matthew Rohrer
In the middle garden is the secret wedding，
that hides always under the other one
and under the shiny things of the other one． Under a tree
one hand reaches through the grainy dusk toward another．
Two right hands． The ring is a weed that will surely die．
There is no one else for miles，
and even those people far away are deaf and blind．
There is no one to bless this．
There are the dark trees， and just beyond the trees．
詩歌欣賞：Barrio with Sketchy Detail
by Andrea Werblin
Except for the chickens humming to each other，
making themselves look boneless in the dirt，
I want no memory of this place．
I will leave gingerly．
I will leave strung out．
I will leave rocking on my heels in unbearable heat．
the Mexican girls still faking and mourning Selena
from their perfect cement stoops，
not yet sworn to the anger hanging
from their papas' mouths like cigarettes．
I will leave stunned， from across the room．
I will leave by instinct， my tongue intact．
I will leave understanding it
was always coming， before that night， even
before we met． Marta will stand quiet， a glyph，
Pedro offer beer in cups． We'll sit．
When I leave， the sky will be a gouache of scratches，
the morning sluggish， a cactus flowering．
Or I will leave in blistered dark． It will still be true．
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