原版英文故事與詩歌：Poetry as a Foreign Language

Poetry as a Foreign Languageby Mike Ramsden"...Not really sure I'll get much out of it,

Understand what's going on,"

I whined and vacillated.

I was assured he was big

(Though not in size)

Old, blind and from the capital.

So in I went with the rest of the faculty

To the biggest hall on campus,

Packed with more than I'd ever seen before

And when the applause started from the back

And advanced with him to the front,

It was not polite or respectful

But loud and from beyond the palms of hands,

And they were standing and clapping

The old blind poet right up to the stage

With videocams and flashlights on his face

And I knew I'd not seen the likes of this before,

And not only the intoning of the country's prayers

But the readings from the campus luminaries,

Strong declamatory stuff,

Speaking to the audience. You could

Tell this because they'd clap and cheer

Right in the middle of the poet's flow.

All this told me it was not like

My home, my country,

And when the old poet began...

But why go on?

Well, yes, I told myself,

A different tradition,

An oral society, the public

Gesture, their particular

Stage of development,

The revolution, nationhood.

The excuses flooded in.

Yes, I understood in the end.

This was not British.

This was not our language at all.