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goldenlangur

Spring

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goldenlangur

On an icy spring night the full moon burns with an intensity that makes Karma blink. Persimmon buds pale as if hesitant to draw attention, but in the bright streaks through greening boughs the checkered bark of the trees are clearly visible.

 

She feels the scrunch of frozen grass as she makes her way into the middle of the Royal orchard.

"You need an old persimmon tree to bury your pain", the old oracle had said.

 

Fearful that her young brothers might hear and see her amongst the fruit trees by their old farmhouse, Karma chooses the Queen’s large grove. She knows the caretaker is on patrol only when the persimmon globules are ripening in autumn.

 

In her jute bag she carries an earthen lamp, a cotton wick, a small container of vegetable oil, a box of matches and some incense sticks. She has written a name on a page torn from her school notebook.

 

The lower branches brush her hair. Every now and then she stops and crouches but its only field mice or perhaps a deer rustling the undergrowth. She stops by a tree, its trunk, leaning away from its neighbour in an arc of shadow and she recalls the oracle’s words:

 

"You’ll know when you come to it."

 

A calmness has taken hold of her. With steady hands Karma pours oil into the earthen container, adjusts the wick in place, then lights it and the incense sticks. The letters on the paper wobble through her tears. It’s a name. A baby born without a pulse, cry or father. Only the old oracle and the full moon bore witness to a child burying her child.

 

Karma holds the paper to the flame and sobs a prayer. She hears the faint cry of a baby. But the face that appears in the flame is not the angry one of her recurring dreams. Did she imagine a smile?

 

 

goldenlangur


goldenlangur

 

 

Even a single enemy is too many and a thousand friends too few - Bhutanese saying.

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Aleksandra

Ah Golden what an interesting piece my friend. I must come back on this again to put more attention, now I am stopped by the time.

 

So see ya again on this one icon_wink.gif

 

ALeksandra


The poet is a liar who always speaks the truth - Jean Cocteau

History of Macedonia

 

 

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goldenlangur

Many thanks Aleksandra for giving this a read.

 

I look forward to your thoughts.

 

 

Thank you for the trouble,

 

 

goldenlangur


goldenlangur

 

 

Even a single enemy is too many and a thousand friends too few - Bhutanese saying.

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Aleksandra

Ahh thank you so much my friend icon_smile.gif Now I feel that my thoughts are sometime wanted icon_rolleyes.gif useful icon_smile.gif

 

I will come here for close read icon_smile.gif just wait icon_smile.gif

 

Aleksandra


The poet is a liar who always speaks the truth - Jean Cocteau

History of Macedonia

 

 

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goldenlangur

Hi Aleksandra,

 

I always enjoy and indeed appreciate the care and thought you give to reviewing the works of fellow PMOers.

 

aleksandra wrote:Now I feel that my thoughts are sometime wanted
icon_rolleyes.gif
useful
icon_smile.gif

Aleksandra

 

So rest assured, my friend, your thoughts and opinions are more than welcome icon_smile.gif

 

 

I looked at the Macedonian symbols in the link you've got and realize that your avatar is the fabulous Macedonian 16 rays sun! It's stunning!

goldenlangur


goldenlangur

 

 

Even a single enemy is too many and a thousand friends too few - Bhutanese saying.

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Aleksandra

I read this now much more better than the first time golden.

This story made me so scary on the end. From this the blood freezes.

 

It is not so clear still to me.

This piece starts in some calm atmosphere, the expressions gives an cold imageries but still there is some calm.

 

I loved this expression because sounds perfectly:

 

She feels the scrunch of frozen grass

 

The usage of " Karma " confused me, because late I got that it is talking about name , not about karma.

So after that expression what I loved, it starts some other way of the poem. With old oracle and happening after, this prose piece touch the pedestal.

 

Just on the end I become with opened mouth... So it is very mystical and mysteriously.

 

I will come again I must get the last part better

 

Wonderful and amazing write my friend

 

Aleksandra


The poet is a liar who always speaks the truth - Jean Cocteau

History of Macedonia

 

 

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goldenlangur

Hi Aleksandra,

 

Thank you so much for the trouble you've taken with this piece. Yes, you're right "Karma" is indeed the Buddhist/Hindu concept but also used as a name in Tibetan Buddhist societies - both male and female with a second part which will indicate the gender in most cases.

 

I 'm grateful that you understood the calmness in the beginning before the girl performs a rite - a kind of exorcism of pain, anger, fear, and a dark past. Thus, your reading of a "scary" tone here is absolutely correct.

 

I appreciate your trouble very much.


goldenlangur

 

 

Even a single enemy is too many and a thousand friends too few - Bhutanese saying.

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tonyv

Quite heart wrenching, Golden. The tip-off comes early (in the first words of the oracle) that all is not right. In the back of my mind I want to imagine that the reality is different, that this girl has gone into the garden to write poetry about love and romance, but then that which has actually transpired becomes apparent:

The letters on the paper wobble through her tears. It’s a name. A baby born without a pulse, cry or father. Only the old oracle and the full moon bore witness to a child burying her child.

The startling albeit somehow relieving sounds of the night, of the wildlife, augment the solitary mournful tone.

 

Tony


Here is a link to an index of my works on this site: tonyv's Member Archive topic

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