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 ![]() ![]() 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 ![]() ~ until everything was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow! And I let the fish go. ~ Elizabeth Bishop, The Fish |
I prefer reading prose or poetry that connects. Who cares what you call it? Only those nitpicking gatekeepers who can't write creatively and need to stick to technically perfect essays and/or get a life. Poetry is an oral-aural art form that depends on repetition of sounds and rhythms. Rhyme, alliteration, meter, consonance, assonance... It's even possible to recognize poetry in an unknown language as it doesn't follow normal speech patterns. Poetry is related to songs. My boyfriend is presenting traditional songs at a temple this week. I hear the rhythm and even notice the rhymes although I don't know the language... yet. That said... free-verse depends on the flow of words; alliteration and rhyme help with this. Because it doesn't depend on the exact placement of sounds and doesn't count syllables and isn't bound to meter it can be disparaged by traditionalists but it is far superior to some of their tortured verse. It isn't merely chopped up prose. But short prose can connect as well. And the best does so. Do you prefer reading poems with rhyme and rhythm more than others? What about writing poems? Is free-verse really poetry? ~171 words |
Frozen beneath the pond you skate on, I look up and gasp at beauty as you glide over my eyes. Do you see me waiting? do you hear the ice crack? will you recognize me when I melt into mud? |