L'aura del Campo

Blood of the Garlic

Blood of the Garlic

My friend, Meadowlark's father ran Nightengale Funeral Home, a well known family business of five generations standing. Neighbors still remembered how her great-grandfather had died suspiciously, but most folks had forgiven and forgotten. Mortuaries were not their concern, the pranks from the ghosts in the nearby cemetery were enough cause for gossip. Other than an aversion to meetings during the day, no one thought him odd. Afterall, he had enough business considering the rash of recent shootings, and viewings were at all hours day and evening, even midnight when arranged in advance. Mr. Nightengale was tall, elegant and well spoken. Always polite. A well-polished funeral director and respected as well.

"Lark" however was not. She loved to party and she'd dress up all in black, swinging her blood red purse for a bit of color. I remember how she had shocked all her parent's friends, at least once. When they would make remarks, she'd just smile and reply how black looked good in the once-used red velvet lined coffin she used for her bed. After awhile, folks knew better than to ask.

To say Lark was a free spirit was mild compared to her mother, who kept insisting she was younger than her daughter. Wanda was the belle-of-the-midnight-ball. She ruled the night from one side of town to the other, had a special corner reserved in the all-night cafe and only went home when dawn sent her to bed. Wanda didn't drink; she didn't have to. A squeeze of lemon in her Coke and she was a she-wolf-dancing-on-tables. Folks hid the Jolt. And the local store refused to sell her anything with caffeine after midnight. Milk-chocolate would calm her down enough that she could give her drunk friends a ride home. And she could be depended on if there ever was an accident at night. A few dislocated limbs did not phase her; blood did not frighten her.

Lark accepted her parents the way that they were. She had no choice. Every family had secrets she figured. She knew and cared too much and felt she was born to protect them. But every saint has a price. And sainthood for Lark was garlic. She craved it day, noon and night. She rented a small plot of bottom land, that we all helped her plant. Deep black dirt accepted the cloves and seeds of her favorite elephant garlic, of a hundred other varieties collected from China to Chile. She'd clear her calendar each year to make her pilgrimages to Saugherties and Gilroy to find more. There was no one within 500 miles who knew as much as she did.

Her family did not approve of her passion. They had hoped she'd go into the family business as her brother Brett wasn't the brightest stick in the matchbook and her cousin Lily was, well ... psychotic. But they were loyal to family, had raised her that way. Just asked that she didn't bring that God-forsaken-smelly-stuff home with her. They were also allergic to it, she confided in me. So Lark had a small hut built with a kerosene stove where she could roast away to her delight. Her prize possessions were a collection of garlic presses hung up along the wall by the door like prized tools in a farm shed. In fact, they were.

She knew when the garlic was ready for harvest, knew how to squeeze the last drop of crystal tears from cloves that were reluctant to release their life-blood. She did a short ritual of thanksgiving before she sacrificed each one.

Lark believed in the old Pagan belief of "Harm none". But she had to eat, so she asked permission from each fruit and herb she plucked, praised each leaf and root she boiled, each meal she prepared with garlic. She knew hundreds of combinations gleaned from the recipe books that adorned the third wall. The fourth had a window to gaze out on her Garden-of-Life, as she called it.

Lark lived on garlic, exuded the aroma of garlic and was content to know it warded off anyone too shallow to be friends. She was loyal to the few who were; she cherished them. Nicknamed each one after a translation of garlic she had come across: Czeszniak, Ajo (her name for me), Knyflok, Thoom. Her best friend she named Bawang-Boomerang just to annoy him or her. Since Bawang never knew day-to-day which gender would emerge upon waking, it did seem appropriate somehow. She was royalty among us misfits in town.

And so it was that Lark was known as the most fervent of vegetarians. Life sought balance she had been taught. While dad was draining blood from the dead and Lily and Brett were feasting on hickies and sucking on friends, mom, dear mom, was chasing the ambulances and helping an occasional alley rat or stray cat face the unknown realm of death. We all have to survive Meadowlark thought as she served us up another plate spiced with the blood of garlic.

Kåre Enga [164.39] 16 April 2007

Written for Kelly Nightengale of Lawrence, Kansas.

The above was written to a prompt "vegetarian vampire". Since, I want to share the prompts I use to write, I opened a forum. Feel free to peruse them and use them and post the poems or prose they inspire, so we all can learn and be inspired in return. Come visit: "Plum petals, Roseberry thorns" . I only bite during the day; but I warn ya, my breath ain't too sweet.

L'aura del campo

Spring: 8 Jalal 164 (16 April) 47 degrees at night and clear.

'é a lua, é a lua, na quintana dos mortos'
♣ Federico García Lorca ♣

WRITING AND REVIEWING

Wrote [39] to a prompt as above and "Desire of Desert Sands" [38] on a postcard for an art exhibit of Emily Momohara in Kansas City.

Edited the last blog entry's poem and made it a separate review-and-rate item: "Palette of Pastels" . I think I improved it a lot. I'll leave the old version in the blog.

My plugging is working! Still needing reviews: "Alps" , "Spear" , and "Flight of the unwanted son" .

These are in the folder "Room 222 - New Poems" ; they pay 222 gps per review.

Me, my friends and my family

It has warmed up. 70s today and mild weather forecast for the coming week. some of the trees are reviving.

My cousin Betty called me yesterday from the shores of the Allegheny River; no spring there yet.

Went to SRS today and spoke to Patty, who moved here from Emporia. The good news is posted elsewhere. Lots of Spanish spoken in Emporia; nice quiet place.

Went to a writer's reading last evening and wanted to die. Three loooooong essay/short stories, two on cancer. Which is a great topic, but 20 minutes a piece is way too much for me.

The poet, Ben Cartwright, was very good. He did poems written to slides of 'found' old photographs of women. The second one was done in a neat way too. Poems randomly sorted to be read to slides (therefore each presentation is unique). He's from the Spokane region and getting his MFA at K.U. After speaking with him, I felt confirmed as to why I shouldn't go there. I want a bloody MFA degree, not just another name for an MA with a 'concentration' in writing, ensconced in an English department run by literary dinosaurs.

Ate a hamburger tonight. I think the jug of chocolate milk may have made me drowsy earlier.

Daily Scripture

And if, confirmed by the Creator, the lover escapes from the claws of the eagle of love, he will enter The Valley of Knowledge and come out of doubt into certitude, and turn from the darkness of illusion to the guiding light of the fear of God.

— Bahá’u’lláh

Excerpt from The Seven Valleys. link: http://reference.bahai.org/en/t/b/SVFV/svfv-1.html

WATT'S GNU!

Wonderful word site: http://wordnavigator.com/

Found the word 'snirt' there:

(United States English) Snow that is dirty, often seen by the side of roads and parking lots that have been plowed.

And this is what they had for cancer:

Words found within cancer:

ace acer acne acre ae an ance ane ar arc are can cane caner car care carn ceca cran crane crena ea ean ear earn en er era ern na nacre nae narc nare ne near race ran rance re rean rec ren

They also had word lists related to cancer:

Words within cancer, by length
Words starting with cancer
Words containing cancer
Words ending with cancer
Words formed from cancer by changing one letter
Words starting with cancer by next letter

What a neat tool! I could do a poem using mostly words contained within a specific word. That would also repeat the sounds.

IMAGES and RAMBLINGS

Picked lilac and viburnum and put it in my pocket. Some late daffodils just came out.

Along Kentucky: striped tulips; pink-lavender phlox; fresh mulch in the children's playground; dead glove; ivory flowers of the leathery-leafed viburnum; star-of-Bethlehem; dandelion poofs.

The weather has been sunny and warm. A bit too warm for me today after all that cold. Lots of rain and snow back East though.

READING

The complete poems of Elizabeth Bishop. I'm impressed with "The Man-Moth" which was inspired by a newspaper typo of 'mammoth'.

BLOGVILLE AND THE WDC COMMUNITY

I tooled around a bit, I always do. More folks missing. Just as long as they have moved on to better things that's okay. I, on the other hand, have nowhere else to go, so you-all are stuck with me! And I am kinda comfortable in the neighborhood.

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 Kåre Enga
~ until everything was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow! And I let the fish go.
~ Elizabeth Bishop,
The Fish