原版英文故事与诗歌：Poetry as a Foreign Language（打印版）

　　"...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.