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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 |
| 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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