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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 |
| "Annie, go get your rod" She'd heard that all her life. Ann stood there in the cold water. Looked down the river at others standing off-shore. Cast her rod. Reeled it slowly in. Cast it again. The day was cloudy, just like yesterday, just like they predicted for tomorrow. She had plenty of time to think. That was the problem. Not the rod and reel, not the wary fish. She tried to meditate by breathing in the smell of spring runoff before the big melt, breathing out the stench of winter. The line became taut. Just a snag she thought. And slowly let the water work it loose. She would love to let everything go. November's heartbreak had led to December's dilemma. Should she have moved? No, this was her home. The river ran through it. The river had always ran through it. This time the tug on the line was no snag. She reeled in a small brown trout. Too small. She unhooked it, threw it back. Fly-fishing was what had keep her sane through her marriage, would keep her sane through the divorce. She pulled back her rod, let another one fly. There were always more fish to catch and release. With that thought, the sun came out. © Kåre Enga [176.73] (6.maio.2019) |
| Crafty... funny that thát word was used! In many ways, a chapbook is a craft. I've done them in the past. Some have turned out well. One of my goals is making a quarter page chapbook of poetry, a chapbooklet let's say. I want to incorporate some art in it, but easier said than done. MY CRAFT Well, that was fun! I use to play with color, size, fonts, emoticons... in this blog. Not now.  Writing craft: what are the options? Gimme options! I demand options!!! *don't-hurt-me* (they don't have an emoticon for that... yet). 1. I continue to read. That may sound banal but it really helps. I've finished off some fantasy novels and will next read a book of poetry. Any reading helps. What could I work on? Read more? Sit down with a book on geology? That's helped in the past... really... plate tectonics is great for erotic poetry. Perhaps pick a subject I know little about. 2. Reread some books on poetry and the craft of poetry. Going over the basics reminds me that I don't always work on them. And there is so much to learn on the second, third, fourth rereading. 3. I have made editing and submission goals. That's key to being published. Who knows what I'll learn if I take the risk and share my work with a publisher? An uncaring public means the poem hasn't found its audience... and a publisher may be able to help. Of course, many poems will never find an audience... people aren't stupid. 4. Tightening up language; spending time with a thesaurus and rhyming tool; letting the poem breathe. Short stories ... novels ... what makes it engaging? Why does this one work and not the other. In other words: I need to continue to workshop my work. I need new eyes to see these things and mine are old. 5. I'm going to read some blogs for ideas... ACCOMPLISHMENTS: I told WakeUpAndLive️~🚬🚭2024  that I would wash my dishes. And I did ... and cleaned out the sink and stove top as well. Surfaces tend to collect things wherever I am.  I went for a walk to the grocery store and back along the river. IMAGES: Apricots in bloom, chatter over the fenced in yard, golden blaze of forsythia, purple-white pansies, black-dog / tan-squirrel (tree refuge), Cleo-the-kitty begging for a rub — 3 year old helping shop — dandelion puffs, rough log by the bridge, glossy smooth-to-the-touch poplar leaf, grey lichen on purple rock, dog pawprints in the mud, spent catkins on beige sand, flotsam, soft lap of water at the river's edge, purple rose and grey river stones, one big black bird, abandoned multi-colored baby-bootie, sound of "rapids", duck resting, breeze flicking through leaf litter, whizz of bicycle tires, raindrop, limb floating down the south channel, new tree stumps, bird chirp, white hawthorn?, green swords of iris. NEW BLOGVILLE: I've left about 45 comments in the first 5 days. I missed some blogs, but not many. Blogs are so much better than facebook or twitter. It's possible to actually get to know someone. Green Swords of May They have won the battle with ice and snow, determined to ride out this storm till summer, swords pointed to the sky. How dare it defy them? The grey clouds must part! The Sun must come back! And stalks must raise blooms of purple, blue and yellow to bask in it's rays, to beckon me and the bee to visit. I bow down to each iris, stoop to inhale each one's fragrance, quickly am reminded about the bee. © Kåre Enga (6.maio.2019) [176.72] 101.536 |
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). That said, use what the Muse gifts.