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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 |
For: "Promptly Poetry Challenge (2024-2025)"  7 Days, 7 Lines Write a poem where each line is about a day of the week Sju dagar Odin the Wise wanders in search of the week as thunder crashes through Thor's sacred groves, on the longest night when Freya's beauty glows till the wash day dawns to prepare us all for the return of the Sun to warm our skin and Moon to shine softly to soothe our burns. For where there is no justice, Tyr wages war. © Kåre Enga [175.96] (16.juni.2020) Dagane på norsk: (in Norwegian) mandag, tirsdag, onsdag, torsdag, fredag, lørdag, søndag (bokmål) Måndag, Tysdag, Onsdag, Torsdag, Fredag, Laurdag, Sundag (nynorsk) (Moon, Tyr, Odin, Thor, Freya, wash-day!, Sun) Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday |
| From Missoula with Love When once an old man from Missoula bought tickets for Hilo to hula along came an illness that threatened to kill us and now he's stuck home with his moolah. He shuffles alone in his slippers, drinks cold coffee black for his jitters; he dreams of a Kona and cries out, Ramona! if only to hula and kiss her. Ramona buys flour by the kilo then stretches and butters the phyllo with stiletto at hand twirls her gold wedding band and moans for her lover in Hilo. © Kåre Enga [177.94] (15.Iune.2020) (revision expansion of [92]) For:
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| Everytown, Kansas We clean up after storms have waved good-bye, gather sad leavings of twigs and moss, spring's bouquet to place on the grave of our loss. Nothing threatens faith; we've seen this before: sow, tend and harvest; birth, growth and death. Survival matters more than tears or regrets. We repair Ken's shanty, right the outhouse, then count Ben's chickens and our blessings, bury Bob, press lips tight against misgivings. Forgiving Tim's slights that cut like paper, mending Tom's fences that both must share, we congregate at Deb's potluck, ban dispair. Kåre Enga [177.88] (11.juni.2020) For: "The Random Poetry Contest" 16 lines of an unnamed form (if named, unknown to me). 4 quatrains of 10/9/8/3 syllables with an x/a/x/a rhyme scheme. Prompts: spring, repair, threaten |
Snow geese Her meadows brown and wither, coarse stubble wedged between thighs; An ancient gander gleans grains during this rice harvest time. Kåre Enga [177.87] (10.juni.2020) 雪雁 草甸棕色和枯萎, 大腿之間的粗茬; 老甘德收集種子, 在水稻收穫季節。 草地 微風 [177.87] (2020年6月10日) xuě yàn cǎo diàn zōngsè hé kūwěi dàtuǐ zhī jiān de cū chá lǎo gān dé shōují zhǒngzǐ zài shuǐdào shōuhuò jìjié cǎodì wéifēng For:
Notes: Jue Ju (絕句: juéjù) (七絕: qījué = 7 zi) I approached this as a challenge to translate back and forth from English to Chinese trying to make some sense of tonal patterns in Chinese (level (平) tones and oblique (仄)) while following word count (5) and syllables (6 or 7) in English. A real pain. To be erotic is to suggest ... who knows whether it's erotic in Chinese! In English it may be too subtle. 草地 微風 (cǎodì wéifēng) is the translation of my name: kåre = breeze (ripple) = 微風 (wéifēng); enga = meadow (grassy field) = 草地 (cǎodì) [a rough translation between 3 languages]. Note that 草, the first character of my name, starts the poem (I thought that was neat). Also that cǎo in line 1 has the same tone as lǎo in line 3 and dàtuǐ in line 2 is echoed as zài shuǐ in line 4. The end characters follow a tonal abab (although they are all oblique 仄). The patterns: ○ is a character with a level tone, while ● is a character with an oblique tone (a rising, departing or entering tone). This poem doesn't match as well as I'd like ● ● ○ ● ● ○ ● (first line: isn't a traditional pattern nor does the opposite pattern follow like it should) ● ● ○ ○ ● ○ ● . Same with 3rd and 4th: ● ○ ● ○ ● ● ●, ● ● ● ○ ● ● ●. To know ones word choices and adjust? Yes ... this is frustrated verse.  . But since I'm interested in Tang dynasty poetry it's good place to begin.In English I tried to have 5 words and 7 syllables per line. I succeeded but word choice was difficult: (the/her) (meadow/field) (stubble/straw) (wedged/grasped) (goose/gander) (during/through) (season/time). A 5 word / 6 syllable would look like this: Her fields brown and wither, coarse straw grasped between thighs; An old gander gleans grains through this rice harvest time. [177.87b] It's at best a transliteraton, an attempt to be poetic in two languages. IMHO, it's best to start from the second language and translate into ones first; but, at least it's an attempt. |
I wrote to AJBurchell- Australia  in a response to a review of a recent flash fiction: I have about 150 in my folder "Flash Fiction". Some seem to be there to remind me that I'm NOT a short story writer! My strength is lyrical poetry. But there are a few other flash fictions that I'm quite proud of. The reason why there are so many is that I decided to expand my writing abilities and short stories are too much work for me. Don't ask about novels. Even with poetry I prefer 20-30 lines max and 8-16 can be better. Flash means one can't be wordy and occasionally I can be lyrical. A narrative line is the key ... and after writing so many I'm getting better at that. I'm glad the images worked for you. In 'painting/drawing terms' it's a matter of evoking a reaction with only a few brush strokes. Almost like a rotund haiku with lots of flesh.  A sumo wrestler perhaps? Thanks for reading, K. This got me to thinking. I do like haiku! But they aren't easy. A juxtaposition of two 'images' (the frog, the splash) set in a season, evoking an emotion from the reader/hearer without providing it. It shows ... never tells. A senryu is a close cousin. Of course haiku in earlier form was a back and forth renga of hokku (5-7-5 then 7-7 ... 'on' not syllables) that was a kind of 'parlor/drinking competition/game' dating back over a millennium. I can't remember whether the renga or tanka came first but the tanka gave rise to it's own game (can you match the two parts?) A haibun was a mix of prose (like Basho's travel narrative) punctuated by haiku. I think of it as a long walk through nature (a telling); the haiku being that moment when I sit down to really notice and write a couple lines that evokes something (by showing). A flash fiction is neither! But it is short. It does drop the reader into one moment, preferably a key moment, that defines a person, nation, object; it's a turning point, a road taken or not taken, the consequences of life distilled into it's essence. But unlike poetry, it maintains a narrative. So maybe it's like a sumo wrestler. Big, rotund, yet in one fleeting moment one wins, one loses. It's catching that moment in a fewness of words. The FLASH in question:
The folder for my flash:
104,247 |
| Resolving you I stand too far and see a blob I do not know one with the crowd, fuzzy cipher, and yet aglow, and I am attracted, like a moth to the flame eager to embrace your essence, to ask your name. I come too close and see only black and white dots, brown mole on your lip, a whisker missed, aging spots. When I open my heart I see you dearly now: soft wrinkles, firm grip, under young strong brows: love's knot. KE [177.58] (30.april.2020) Alexandrine rhyming couplets. Notes: Resolve: (of something seen at a distance) turn into a different form when seen more clearly. "the orange glow resolved itself into four lanterns" Similar: turn into, be transformed into, become clearly visible as, change into, metamorphose into, be transmuted into (of optical or photographic equipment) separate or distinguish between (closely adjacent objects). "Hubble was able to resolve six variable stars in M31" separately distinguish (peaks in a graph or spectrum). 104.164 |
| ...our nerves are wound back to the breaking, ears strained for the ghost of a wrong note. From "Drum Beat: The Eleventh Night", a poem of Northern Ireland (1973) by Rosemary Canavan. Mutiny Our troubles started before Twenty-Twenty but vision became blurred by constant lies; hindsight sees so much more clearly. As drumming of incessant nonsense drowned out voices of reason, seldom reached those who nurtured a conscience. For there was enough blame to shame a nation, enough hatred to hurry the end of our nation as Our Dear Leader bowed to ovations. What went wrong and when we asked ourselves. We got fingers wagging, pointing. We might as well have asked that damn elf on the shelf. Now what will we do. Abandon ship, pink slips in fists, ready to pummel those in our way? Or will we look in the mirror and get a grip and will we stand in lines to cast our vote. ... our nerves ... wound back to the breaking, ears strained for the ghost of a wrong note. KE [177.57] (29.april.2020) |
| Spirit of the meandering stream Tears fall on mountains, feel the weight of gravity, slowly wend their way down to roots or down in rivulets to streams that babble over rocks, placed in their way. No time for chatter, to stay to greet the greening banks strewn with falling petals; the willow waves good day. All gives way to water as it wanders, droplets dancing to celestial songs. KE [177.56] (28.april.2020) https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=10156745955395728&set=a.61847975727&type... |
| Fire in the woods Four words of dread as lodgepine flames and underbrush burns. The distant fires send smoke signals to warn us: fire in the woods, where flare ups coalesce and devour what lies in between combining forces in a wall of heat racing east burning what lies in its path. We hear news from China, fairy tales of a fiery foe. But from afar: too foreign, not us, not US; we brush them off as some fantasy. Do we ever heed smoke signals, the lightning strikes, the looming black clouds that seek to consume us. Do we wait too long then flee with only what we have on, leaving our life behind as blinded, mankind buries its apprehensions as comprehension dawns in ash, as piles of Mardi Gras masks catch fire, all good intentions neatly stacked on the funeral pyre. KE [177.53] (27.april.2020) |
| Sonata for one It's the voice in my head speaking to myself drowning you out, distracting from the day, comic blurbs of dreams and disassociations no one can hear as gears grind out ideas that won't be shared, a litany of unspoken thoughts, grand deeds that won't get done, empty maracas rattling between my ears. KE [177.52] (26.april.2020) 104.151 |
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