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 |    Online journal capturing the moment and the memory of moments. A meadow meditation. |
   L'aura del campo 'é a lua, é a lua, na quintana dos mortos' ♣ Federico García Lorca ♣  L'aura del campo. A breeze in the meadow. So it began the last day of Spring, 2005; on the 16th day of the month of Light of the year 162. This is a supplement to my daily journal written to a friend, my muse; notes I do not share. Here I will share what the breeze has whispered to me. PLEASE LEAVE COMMENTS! I L  V COMMENTS!On a practical note, in answer to your questions: IN MEMORIUM VerySara  passed away November 12, 2005 Please visit her port to read her poems and her writings. More suggested links:  These pictures rotate.   Kåre  Enga~ until everything was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow! And I let the fish go. ~ Elizabeth Bishop, The Fish |
| O Ye Born Again! We are the plenary inspiration of this world, not you who seek to divide us into caste, creed or color. © Kåre Enga [177.226a] (16.september.2020) 28 syllables. Caste: the Gospel of Prosperity. Creed: the intrareligious squabbles and demonization of other religious belefs. Color: the refusal to embrace people-of-color as members of their family. From NPR: "For many, the Gospel is more about the need for personal salvation than the duty to address societal ills." Basically, White Evangelicals are racist, so they aren't bothered by that. "White evangelicals love Trump and aren't confused about why. No one should be." https://www.nbcnews.com/think/opinion/white-evangelicals-love-trump-aren-t-confu... From elsewhere: Therefore, the phrase “verbal plenary inspiration” means that all parts of the Bible, as well as every Word of the Bible, says exactly what God wanted said. Biblical inspiration is the doctrine in Christian theology that the human authors and editors of the Bible were led or influenced by God with the result that their writings may be designated in some sense the word of God. |
| Soaking in your tub Let salts draw out this poison; drain me of all care. Foment my breast with jasmine; flush away my fear. © Kåre Enga [177.225] (13.september.2020) 24 syllables: a couplet 12/12 aa but could be quatrain 7/5/7/5 with xaxa rhyme. Foment, pronunced 'foMENT': verb: bathe with warm water or medicated lotions Example: "His legs should be fomented" verb: try to stir up public opinion For:
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| Is this a haiku? A Japanese haiku? No. An American haiku? Maybe. One cherry blossom settles on a toddler's nose: first tears now giggles. © Kåre Enga [177.224] (12.oktober.2020)  1. length (11-17max) = 17 syllables is so American... will you forgive me.  2. cutting word (two parts) = punctation 3. nature/season word = spring (cherry blossom) 4. observation, no emotion provided = ? seems okay as the emotion response is observed and doesn't come from the poet. ("she crosses her eyes" may be better.) 5: does this (juxtaposition of two parts) evoke emotion = maybe 6: overall = may be okayMy use of symbols: = success. (cutting: 2 parts not 1 nor 3) = may be okay or acceptable. (length = 11-17max) = prose not poetry, abstract not concrete. = fail (white is the color of death in the Far East)Seasons: = spring = summer = autumn =winteror something similar and natural: May denote a season...  ... except in Ireland or anywhere without a dry season. ... except in Chicago, Wichita, Buffalo or anywhere it's windy. ... maybe spring (March-June) in Oklahoma.  ... end of autumn in the North; end of summer in Costa Rica. a symbol of winter (January) in Japan. No particular season in Seattle nor elsewhere but associated more with winter. spring-early summer in Kansas. (April-May-June) dry summer in the plains. (August) spring after the daffodils (March-April-May) tulips aren't blue ... just saying. fruit harvest (June-July) is this a sunflower? If so, end-ofsummer (August-September) summer ... if you are lucky. autumn. autumn harvest (September-October)A calendar symbol (tend to be abstract) seldom based on nature:  November 1-2, Day of the Dead in Montana. But not everywhere. Halloween. (pumpkin is seasonal) Christmas. (a tree would be seasonal) Easter or Christian.  Chanukah.Natural but not seasonal:  Some bugs are ... but roaches aren't seasonal. not ... unless you have surfing season or storms. (typhoons) either you have it or you don't. Not very seasonal unless you have wet/dry seasons. In Costa Rica this would be January-March while  would be October. |
Minimalist I'm not a sonnet —too many syl- lables, they clutter. I'm the progeny of Diogenes. © Kåre Enga [177.225] (11.september.2020) 24: 5/4/5 5/5 Note: Diogenes (the cynic) is 4 syllables. For:
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| Breakfast at Tiffany's She cooked him eggs and bacon, traveled for twenty years, their worldwide gest— till she broiled him in Macon. © Kåre Enga [177.221] (9.september.2020) 24σ: 7/10/7 axa GEST 1 : a tale of adventures especially : a romance in verse. 2 : adventure, exploit knightly gests For:
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| white-grey ashes choke this heat-filled valley — poplars flame in shades of gold I turn to watch potatoes start to sizzle on the stove © Kåre Enga [177.219b] (14.september.2020) For:
I just kept to American 5/7/5 7/7. 17 Charcoal skies glower / over withering hills — moisten / maple-lined streets 11 The east wind freshens / to wipe my sweat away. [219a] 17 the neon sign sells / gasoline by the gallon / under pewter skies 14 do I venture out for milk / or do I stay warm inside [219c] (an observation out my window) Tanka: What I have read over many years is that it's 5/7/5/7/7 usually 5/7/5 and 7/7. But that is onji not syllables. On-line: "The tanka is sometimes separated by the three “upper lines” (kami no ku) and the two “lower ones” (shimo no ku)." The two parts feel linked which is also traditional (a verbal bridge). Traditionally it is written as one line. This is an interesting website that has some 'modern' tanka in translation by a contemporary Japanese writer: http://www.gtpweb.net/twr/indexe.htm |
| Libra known for poems on eclectic topics —such as sex or stars— he scribbles 'peaches' 20 syllables: 4/6/6/4 © Kåre Enga [175.218a] (6.september.2020) For:
Note to self: 24 syllable: Mid May [218b] Eclectric trek: plane to Oslo, train to Bodø, ferry to Moskenes, no bus to Å? I walk. 22 syllable (cinquain): Eclectric trek [218c] I plane to Oslo, train to Bodø, ferry to Moskenes, but no bus to Å? I walk. |
2020/2020 Seeing double looking forward looking back we wrap ourselves in golden pasts we try to grasp a shiny future and begin to argue as fights break out. Is this the best of times? It's very bad times a year of utter chaos no winners anywhere. Can you see clearly now — the smoke has cleared and what remains? Just the dead and dying. © Kåre Enga [177.220] (6.september.2020) 15 lines free verse (free wurst?) For:
PROMPT: Write a poem about seeing 2020 off. Will you send it away with a bang or a whimper? Is it dependent on something external? Maybe 2020 hasn't bothered you all that much. That's fair, too. |
| I, Spaghetti Flacid noodle — pine-smoked, sun-burnt — toadstool-sauced, now supine — staring at the ceiling. © Kåre Enga [177.217] (5.september.2020) 20σ: 4 lines 4/4/6/6, free verse Prompt: supine: lying face upward, offering no resistance For:
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Won 1st place  Redaction song “This is not war. It is the ending of the world." A dancer — clean white cotton kurta, metallic ghungroo around his ankles, jingling as he moves. think — human connection, tradition, cultural identity, stability. Ropes begin to move, pulling away life — chairs, tables. Lights flicker. Ghungroo transform into bells shaped into bullets. become more. words drift across the stage: music transforms, an industrial crescendo of percussion Stage blackens, the light revealing floating beings in despair made aware of the futility of resisting — the descent into chaos, already sobbing. © Kåre Enga [177.216] (6.september.2020) 28 lines Blocked out text x'd, quote used in bold. A dancer, in Indian classical Kathak style, appears on the stage and enters into a corporeal conversation with the seated vocalist and percussionist. He wears a clean white cotton kurta, metallic ghungroo around his ankles, jingling as he moves. Watching, you think of human connection, tradition, cultural identity, stability. But the idyllic scene quickly transforms. Ropes hitherto leaning innocuously against the high, backwards-angled wall begin to move, slowly pulling away the few objects of “civilised” life — chairs, tables. Lights hanging over the stage flicker. The ghungroo transform into bandoliers, bells shaped into bullets. The dancer’s moves become more contemporary, while foreboding words drift across the stage: “This is not war. It is the ending of the world.” The music too transforms, now an intense relentless industrial crescendo of violin, double bass, percussion, saxophone. The stage blackens, the only light revealing the musicians on a platform above, as if floating ethereal beings in despair of what is to come. You are made acutely aware of the futility of resisting the imminent descent into chaos. I am transfixed, and already sobbing. For:
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). That said, use what the Muse gifts.
