I can almost see my house...ha.
Showing posts with label City. Show all posts
Showing posts with label City. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
In Italy
by Derek Walcott
April 21, 2008
I
Roads shouldered by enclosing walls with narrow
cobbled tracks for streets, those hill towns with their
stamp-sized squares and a sea pinned by the arrow
of a quivering horizon, with names that never wither
for centuries and shadows that are the dial of time. Light
older than wine and a cloud like a tablecloth
spread for lunch under the leaves. I have come this late
to Italy, but better now, perhaps, than in youth
that is never satisfied, whose joys are treacherous,
while my hair rhymes with those far crests, and the bells
of the hilltop towers number my errors,
because we are never where we are, but somewhere else,
even in Italy. This is the bearable truth
of old age; but count your benedictions—those fields
of sunflowers, the torn light on the hills, the haze
of the unheard Adriatic—while the day still hopes
for possibility, cloud shadows racing the slopes.
II
The blue windows, the lemon-colored counterpane,
the knowing that the sea is behind the avenue
with balconies and bicycles, that the gelid traffic
mixes its fumes with coffee—transient interiors,
transient bedsheets, and the transient view
of sea-salted hotels with spiky palms,
in spite of which summer is serious,
since there is inevitably a farewell to arms,
to the storm-haired beauty who will disappear.
The shifted absence of your axis, love
wobbles on your body’s pivot, to the carriage’s
shudder as it glides past the roofs and beaches
of the Ligurian coast. Things lose their balance
and totter from the small blows of memory.
You wait for revelations, for leaping dolphins,
for nightingales to loosen their knotted throats,
for the bell in the tower to absolve your sins
like the furled sails of the homecoming boats.
from : http://www.newyorker.com/fiction/poetry/2008/04/21/080421po_poem_walcott
by Derek Walcott
April 21, 2008
I
Roads shouldered by enclosing walls with narrow
cobbled tracks for streets, those hill towns with their
stamp-sized squares and a sea pinned by the arrow
of a quivering horizon, with names that never wither
for centuries and shadows that are the dial of time. Light
older than wine and a cloud like a tablecloth
spread for lunch under the leaves. I have come this late
to Italy, but better now, perhaps, than in youth
that is never satisfied, whose joys are treacherous,
while my hair rhymes with those far crests, and the bells
of the hilltop towers number my errors,
because we are never where we are, but somewhere else,
even in Italy. This is the bearable truth
of old age; but count your benedictions—those fields
of sunflowers, the torn light on the hills, the haze
of the unheard Adriatic—while the day still hopes
for possibility, cloud shadows racing the slopes.
II
The blue windows, the lemon-colored counterpane,
the knowing that the sea is behind the avenue
with balconies and bicycles, that the gelid traffic
mixes its fumes with coffee—transient interiors,
transient bedsheets, and the transient view
of sea-salted hotels with spiky palms,
in spite of which summer is serious,
since there is inevitably a farewell to arms,
to the storm-haired beauty who will disappear.
The shifted absence of your axis, love
wobbles on your body’s pivot, to the carriage’s
shudder as it glides past the roofs and beaches
of the Ligurian coast. Things lose their balance
and totter from the small blows of memory.
You wait for revelations, for leaping dolphins,
for nightingales to loosen their knotted throats,
for the bell in the tower to absolve your sins
like the furled sails of the homecoming boats.
from : http://www.newyorker.com/fiction/poetry/2008/04/21/080421po_poem_walcott
How much do you love the city?
I love my city. Wherever that is, I just love the city I have my life in.
Seoul...I spent all my life in this city until I came to the U.S.
Even until now, I swear that I can see and feel everything in that city when I close my eyes. Every street I walked, the noise of the cars, the smell of the air and all the little places where I spent time with my good friends.
My Favorite part was walking down the street with a fresh brewed coffee on my hand when the city was just preparing to wake up for a new day beginning.
You can only see the glipse of the sun through the blue grey sky and street is so quiet you feel that somebody might hear what you are thinking in your mind.
It's just one of the most pure beauties you can ever experience.
Washington D.C... now I live here. I've been here for about almost 5 years now.
If I be more accurate, I live in Fairfax which is a city about 25 minutes away from DC. However, I spent most of my time in DC when I first got here.
Every morning 8:30, I was on M street. Drop by the small coffee shop owned by a very kind lady with a smile every morning and I got my coffee and biscotti.
I was pretty much lonely at that time, so her friendly smile and little words meant so much. I wonder if she will remember me still...
As time goes by, I made friends with everyone. The clerks at the shops, some homeless guys I see everyday, some people I chat very often without knowing name. Juslike that, I fell in love with the city.
I don't know if I love Seoul or DC more now.
Right this moment, I close my eyes and I feel the blocks on the street under my feet. I feel that I can just keep walking into the night along the street.
It could be Seoul... or it could be DC.
Would you like to join me?
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