Country life or city life? by sam celio

The glorious life in the countryside !!!

samcelio_a — 2017-05-11 18:40:38 UTC

The contact of the human being with the natural

The hectic life in the city!!!

samcelio_a — 2017-05-11 18:48:02 UTC

We change the rest, the contact with a nature, the quality of life in the country by the hectic life in the city

what's up ? What is better?

samcelio_a — 2017-05-11 18:57:55 UTC

Living in big cities. Example: Hong Kong

samcelio_a — 2017-05-11 19:11:15 UTC

Hong Kong, a former British territory, is one of the most densely populated places in China and in the world.

You’ll have a marvelous time shopping in tax-free Hong Kong, where you’ll be able to find clothing, jewelry, furniture, and everything else under the sun.

From there, your Hong Kong sightseeing may detour to Central, the city’s main business district, which looks like something out of a sci-fi film. The observation deck atop the International Commerce Centre will show you fantastic views of the city.

samcelio_a — 2017-05-11 19:16:42 UTC

Life in the Countryside

samcelio_a — 2017-05-11 19:22:55 UTC

O! Beautiful spot where the hill and the valley
They are blooming with mullen and thistle,
While over the hills comes the low, gentle sound
Of the cow-boy's unmusical whistle.

The moonbeams fall soft on that cobble-stone wall
Beside which those pigs are reposing,
While calmly I sit on this half-rotten log,
This eloquent poem composing.

Those cows over there, Gray would call "lowing herd,"
And sing of their voices are mellow,
Well, perhaps they did low in the days that I wrote,
But those animals, certainly bellow.

Those sheep in the road add their share to the sounds
That evening of quiet is cheating;
Their utterance I'm sure it's an unqualified ba-a,
Instead of soft, gentle bleating.

There's a lake just in sight, and its waters lie there
As calm as the slumber of childhood;
But alas, all around it is growing marsh hay
Instead of a shadowy wildwood!

The brook that runs by, in the days that are past
May have ahd some romance in its winding,
But Yankee mill-dam has now sobered its song,
And turned its attention to grinding.

The life in the countryside! The rural retreat!
No wonder I'm growing poetic;
For if streamlet and lake fail to waken my muse,
Those mosquitoes would make me romantic.

The beautiful spot! I must bid thee adieu;
Farewell to thy pigweed and clover;
May no one who enters these hallowed abodes,
Ever fail all thy charms to discover.

Poems

samcelio_a — 2017-05-11 19:29:28 UTC

1
I understand the boredom of the clerks
fatigue shifting like dunes within their eyes
a frightful nausea gumming up the works
that once was thought aggression in disguise.
Do you remember? then how lightly dead
seemed the moon when over factories
it languid slid like a barrage of lead
above the heart, the fierce inventories
of desire. Now women wander our dreams
carrying money and to our sleep's shame
our hands twitch not for swift blood-sunk triremes
nor languorous white horses nor ill fame,
but clutch the groin that clouds a pallid sky
where tow'rs are sinking in their common eye.

2
My ship is flung upon the gutter's wrist
and cries for help of storm to violate
that flesh your curiosity too late
has flushed. The stem your garter tongue would twist
has sunk upon the waveless bosom's mist,
thigh of the city, apparition, hate,
and the tower whose doves have, delicate,
fled into my blood where they are not kissed.

You have left me to the sewer's meanwhile,
and I have answered the sea's open wish
to love me as a bonfire's watchful hand
guards red the shore and guards the hairy strand,
our most elegant lascivious bile,
my ship sinking beneath the gutter's fish.

3
How can I then, my dearest winter lay,
disgorge the tasty worm that eats me up
falling onto the stem of a highway
whose ardent rainbow is the spoon's flat cup
and in the vilest of blue suited force
enamored of the heated needle's arm
finds the ministrant an own tongue's remorse
so near the blood and still so far from harm,
thus to be eaten up and gobbled down
volcanoes of speedometers, the strike
that heats the iris into flame and flow'rs
the panting chalice so a turning pike:
you are not how the gods refused to die,
and I am scarred forever neath the eye.

4
What are my eyes? if they must feed me, rank
with forgetting, in the jealous forest
of lustrous blows, so luminously blank
through smoke and in the light. All faint, at rest,
yet I am racing towards the fear that kills
them off, friends and lovers, hast'ning through tears
like alcohol high in the throat of hills
and hills of night, alluring! their black cheers
falling upon my ears like nails. And there
the bars grow thick with onanists and camps
and bivouacs of bears with clubs, are fair
with their blows, deal death beneath purple lamps
and to me! I run! closer always move,
crying my name in fields of dead I love.

5
I plunge deep within this frozen lake
whose mirrored fastnesses fill up my heart,
where tears drift from frivolity to art
all white and slobbering, and by mistake
are the sky. I'm no whale to cruise apart
in fields impassive of my stench, my sake,
my sign to crushing seas that fall like fake
pillars to crash! to sow as wake my heart

and don't be niggardly. The snow drifts low
and yet neglects to cover me, and I
dance just ahead to keep my heart in sight.
How like a queen, to seek with jealous eye
the face that flees you, hidden city, white
swan. There's no art to free me, blinded so.