September 2016: the Mystical Septem

To the seven seas of septem, as mystical as ever insofar as their power continues to enthrall, and to the stirring possibilities introduced at the very end, which pertains also to a beginning, we tribute and attribute this month. September, insofar as it remains the month of so many dawns and dusks, shall be remembered for ages to come. And so we celebrate the palisades: poetic, Gregorian, seasonal. Embrace the fall, for it is only beginning, but fear not, because it is not through space, but through time.

To Inseafar, a poem that was finished recently:
________________________________________________________________________________

Inseafar

Where begins the ocean, ends the sea,
Crimson spears, sky-bound, shattering free,

A dredging darkness deems the door to undoubted doom,
Tears of ocean spray wash ashore legacies of the sunken tomb,

An outcry out-crag jutting, a suicide bomber one day to fall,
Millennium mysteries dashed with white fury, caught amidst a titanic brawl,

Breeze of Poseidon's breath, sands of titanium snow,
Tide realms rife underfoot, a continuous commuting flow,

Twin worlds: a boundless battle, twin armies: a feud of force,
Between: a frothing conflict, of strife, discord, remorse.

Reeking of gullible breeze, the sweeping scent of fishy air,
Bursting with ambient beams, flits a fulgurating flare,

Quick to the skies, a pendent pennant,
Slow till it flies, a puttering penchant,

A leaf amid a torrent, yet a torrent amid the sea,
Disguised as the skies, a melting pot-pourri,

Casual to the end, a solicitous supplication unsaid,
Crosswise the telluric bend, promises in empty stead,

Tendrils of serpent's breath from shadows surge,
Hues of vessel smoke and mirrors contrive to purge,

Before the after––look now––and nevermore,
Pendulous, the perennial ponder thereon the hindmost fore,

A reflection glimpsing prismatic voices beyond,
Past a future, a future past betraying inner bond,

Self-promise, unyielding convolution within dream,
Profuse in deliberation, word by phrase by page by ream,

Gyre of living death, back from blue to calming brown,
Sharp, passing weighty breath, drifting aloft an airy crown,

Silently heave the mighty flows,
Shifting withal flighty blows,

For where begins the ocean, ends the free,
Wherefore sanguine spears, sky-bound, a shattering sea,

Darkness dredging, door deemed undenied to sunken tomb,
Tears of ocean spray fold over footprints of undoubted doom,

A looming rainbow fraught with white fury, destiny bravers ill-fated to fall,
A nigh-gliding nirvana, dashed with obsidian doubt, yet one day to realize it all.

________________________________________________________________________________

And finally, to the future.

(Note: sorry for the belated month overview)

Failures and Life Lessons (the two are pretty much synonymous)

I've learned.

After a sudden burst of inspiration, I endeavored to write a short story in a time frame of 2-3 weeks...but I failed miserably. The daily going-ons of life made it so that this chunk of work, much like a large object being shoved into an overflowing suitcase, just did not fit. Persevering in an auspicious moment, I managed to write up an idea and the first part of a potential short story; however, there the line was drawn. There came time after time of almost-opportunities in which I hoped to write the story, but in every instance I was plagued by work that sprang from nowhere, school projects that appeared out of the blue, or various other unforeseen obstacles. In short: progress failed to be made. And with this came a bout of stagnation: one look at the "last published on" Blogger message told me everything I needed (and desperately feared) to know. Driven deeper by this inevitable sense of failure, I pushed back the deadline with excuses, farther and farther back. And progress still failed to be made.

But looking back at the successful poem of the first few months, a question sprang immediately into my mind. Where did that time I had found to work on the blog previously go? Had it miraculously disappeared? It is true that several sources of extra time consumption have been introduced since then (on which I tended to blame the stagnation), but it still did not add up. I remained constantly surprised by how much I had accomplished before. What happened? What changed?

And therein lied the issue. I realized, probably like countless others over the course of history, that the problem was in how I organized the work. As an indefinite number of 5-minute poetry lines, the work seemed negligible. For what is a couple of minutes in the day? But as the clump of work I had deemed the short story, it had ceased to be so. It was not short but infinitely long, an enormous project-like goal that I could never find the time for. I had always assumed that I wrote my best in a 2-hour-long typing session, but this was no longer possible or practical. And thus I resolve to break up the work, to divide and deci(or however many days)mate the work, to split up what was a vast unknown into smaller, more manageable fragment. And the funny thing is, this all sounds familiar. Perhaps this is what every teacher or advisor suggests. Amidst the flurry of speech, it is just a suggestion among a million others. But in the reality of the world, brushing past the chaos and the downfalls of daily life, it is the truth.

We've all learned.

In fact, we've learned so many things that it becomes hard to pick out one from the rest. But experience is the best impetus. So go implement it; I've saved you the painful experience. And in the future, as well as now, with the short story looming ahead more accomplishable and irresistible than ever, I shall too. For everything that is old was new, and everything that is new will be old someday. And in pursuit of that day,

I learn.

Update: Project Looking Glass

After experimenting with different prospects (and going on vacation), I found an interesting path for the short story that I hope to explore: here lies a preview, which I conceived in light of such an idea. I know the project seems to be taking a long time, but I assure you that other than certain setbacks, the full story shall be released in due time. So, the preview. See what you think.

        Six doors stood, pillars of possibility, in front of me. Three to a side, flanking the muted red of hallway carpet, they guarded the seventh door like hounds to a master. Without hesitation, I moved to open each in turn, slowly, carefully, avoiding the wrathful gaze of hundreds that were unblinking, staring from cold lenses at each ceiling corner.
        I knew I could not face the seventh door, what with my family bearing down on me even through the wires of the wall telephone and my inbox flooding with pleading or reproachful comments, and sometimes comments that were both at the same time. It was clear that the seventh door would involve others in a way that was inevitably to inflict the greatest shame on myself. The psychologists that I knew were watching had always meant for this to happen: the polar fusion, the polar tears. Self-sacrifice to self-service to self-shame. The seventh door.

The First Door
        Turning the cool, brass knob beneath my spidery fingers, I awaited the promised. And yet as the first breath hit me, it was not the heat of a thousand fires, but the frost of a million winters that I found behind the mahogany. Or rather, it found me. Irony at its best, perhaps.

To be continued...

(Short) Storytime!

Hooray! Pleonasm in Poetry is officially in story mode! You might have noticed a pause in the poetry updates, and this is attributed to a new project: Project Looking Glass, as I shall make it known. This entails the writing of a (not very) short story, which will be released in a week or two. Of course, the poetry will have to be put on hold, but expect a substantial update concerning the finished product. This is certainly an exciting time for the blog, but hopefully all will turn out well and some successful "pleonasm in short story" will be unveiled soon.

Poem 2 Part 5

Traversing tirelessly stagnant sands,
Roaming freely o'er uncertain lands,

Poem 2 Part 4

Reality within reverie,
Sow ponder with latent levity,

Story 1 Chapter 1 Draft 1

Okay people; so before you read (or not) this terrible piece of writing that follows, you must understand that this is only a draft, completely un-reread and unedited in any way, and represents nothing in particular except the paper-bound ramblings of a potential first chapter in my mind; that being said, I can already anticipate many possible errors made:
1. too much telling and not enough showing
2. overuse of some verbs or nouns
3. overly boring and/or not enough action
4. uneven flow
5. strange introduction?
6. no description of character(s) and/or setting
7. lots of pointless words with no purpose

Anyway, here we go:
        Sometimes I felt that the bell was too quiet. Other times I insisted upon its being too loud. But I knew it was illogical for such a bell to fluctuate in volume, and thus supported by the testimonies of other students, I resolved to find the answer in the only place it could be: in myself. Claimed a “perfect bell” by our school and others, it even once warranted a newspaper article (the school newspaper, of course) about its alleged “perfection.”
        The reality? It sucked. And in a whole new level of inadequacy. Aside from this seemingly fluctuating volume level, the bell always remained the subject of many hand-covered ears. I, for one, would never expend the energy and break my thoughts just to commit such an act of self-preservation, as I deemed the shrieks of pain the bell often effected (and those it seemingly sought to embody) to be undeserving of the act. It was, in short, a tribute I would never pay to the bell.
        Anyhow, such an act would be cowardly in itself, and never would I stoop to such a level. Self-preservation was one thing; the bell was another entirely. It was of no importance after all, however, for the thoughts I so contrived to preserve were often shattered nonetheless by the resounding screeches that had been named the bell. At other times, I felt missing a class would be imminent, as everyday classroom commutes were really only signaled by the mass movement of others nearby. Someone must have really good ears, I reasoned. For how else would this chain be started? But once the first domino fell, the rest could only follow, and I was one of such followers. Sometimes I questioned whether such a position suited me; it felt almost common and ordinary. No, this could not be. For if none were special, then all were special, and vice versa for the opposite. And therefore I was both ordinary and special, something I took much pride in being.
        I had been ordinary once. At least that was what I told myself. But it really was a lie. For there remained clear evidence––both online IQ tests and my interactions with those around me had seen to that––of my extraordinary status. Though I never showed it––I had learned to keep my unusual qualities to myself. I knew from the countless accounts in literature and history that it was never a good idea to announce one’s abnormality. And my case was abnormal indeed.
        For as long as I could remember, I always had an uncanny ability to mentally do in seconds what others did in minutes, to do mentally in minutes what an ordinary human might do in hours. This hyper-thought processing existed in coexistence with my almost omniscient awareness: not only was I fully conscious of all that was in my peripheral vision, I held a simultaneous curiosity that made me notice the most mundane of observations, from the number of cars in a parking lot nearby to the nuances of footprints in the dirt––from the subtle disturbances of dead leaves and half-footprints etched into the swirling dust, I could unconsciously discern the trails of those before, just as I could predict the paths and goals of those just entering my “field of omniscience.” That being said, I had no Sherlock Holmes-like deduction or so-called “photographic” memory. In some ways I was almost inferior: my physical abilities were in no way exceptional and in every way normal, and my eccentricities in observation sometimes led me into trouble.
        When it came to school, the teachers had naught to teach me that I did not already know. I quickly realized that flaunting my acumen, as satisfying as it might be, was just not a path I was willing to go down. From the little glimpse I had seen of such a prospect, I garnered that it was to be of isolation and abnormality. And all I wanted to do was blend in. Sure, I was often bored and uninterested in the banal matters that presented the school curriculum, and I often dreamed of a school that would enrich me with the knowledge that I sought, but it was a futile dream. Anyway, I felt content with surfing the internet and binge-reading any textbooks that came my way; the library in the city was a warm blessing. I even found myself spending hours between the brown walls, reading all that I could find. It was truly a treasure trove of insight.
        Recently, however, neither the peeling walls of Haymith High nor the spectral dusk of the Haymith Public Library satisfied me anymore. I had grown bored of the life I was trapped in, and there was no longer enough to satisfy me. As with all high schools, Haymith had always offered––no, forced upon its students––a Health class; in addition to visits by the local police and increasingly predictable anti-drug and sex ed lectures, it always spoke of the positive mindsets that supposedly lowered suicide rates and cured the possibility of depression. Mrs. Naory once said that negativity was the birth of everything bad, and that positivity was the impetus behind all success, but I did not believe so. After all, what was success when life dealt you a hand full of blank cards?

What do you think?

Poem 2 Part 3

The rise and fall of feeble heart,
Insight within a polar art,

Self-Newsflash: Poetry ≠ Fiction Writing

That's right, me! Fiction writing is obviously unfit for a blog such as this one, which is so clearly (and aptly) named "Pleonasm in Poetry." Thus, I will neither be posting spontaneous pieces of writing that culminate in a novel-like format nor be beginning such a story soon. Of course, it would logically follow that this nonexistent publication-to-be will not have been inspired by a suggestion I gave to a friend in need of short story ideas, and thus, it will not be short at all, as it will not have existed in the first place. Anyway, you definitely should not be expecting anything random anytime, especially within the next couple of days.

But as always, the (hopefully) daily poetry will be coming as always, unhampered by nonexistent novel sections and only by lack of time or opportunity on my part. With the end result of Inseafar (Poem 1) being largely successful, Poem 2 is already underway and will take us into yet another realm of wonders.

Poem 2 Part 2

Thick the mind, and thicker still,
Depth within misted window sill,

Poem 2 Part 1

Periodically, eye to transient eye,
Hovering amidst silent call of magpie,

"All Good Things Must Come to an End": Poem 1 Conclusion

"...to make way for better things to happen, because the best is yet to come” wrote Geoffrey Chaucer once; and such proceeds this blog as well. As the end of the so-called "Poem 1" has arrived, it is time to tribute the full painting of poetry. I promote thee, Poem 1, as with the exemplary efforts thou hath shown, thou deserveth a formal naming: henceforth, this first poem shall be known as "Inseafar," in hopes that its seafaring inner messages and nuances shall be revealed to the probing reader insofar as they can see far into its depths.

A high-flying poem, dashing along a viridian route, yet only one way to read it all:

Inseafar
Where begins the ocean, ends the sea,
Crimson spears, sky-bound, shattering free,

A dredging darkness deems the door to undoubted doom,
Tears of ocean spray wash ashore legacies of the sunken tomb,

An outcry out-crag jutting, a suicide bomber one day to fall,
Millennium mysteries dashed with white fury, caught amidst a titanic brawl,

Breeze of Poseidon's breath, sands of titanium snow,
Tide realms rife underfoot, a continuous commuting flow,

Twin worlds: a boundless battle, twin armies: a feud of force,
Between: a frothing conflict, of strife, discord, remorse.

Reeking of gullible breeze, the sweeping scent of fishy air,
Bursting with ambient beams, flits a fulgurating flare,

Quick to the skies, a pendent pennant,
Slow till it flies, a puttering penchant,

A leaf amid a torrent, yet a torrent amid the sea,
Disguised as the skies, a melting pot-pourri,

Casual to the end, a solicitous supplication unsaid,
Crosswise the telluric bend, promises in empty stead,

Tendrils of serpent's breath from shadows surge,
Hues of vessel smoke and mirrors contrive to purge,

Before the after––look now––and nevermore,
Pendulous, the perennial ponder thereon the hindmost fore,

A reflection glimpsing prismatic voices beyond,
Past a future, a future past betraying inner bond,

Self-promise, unyielding convolution within dream,
Profuse in deliberation, word by phrase by page by ream,

Gyre of living death, back from blue to calming brown,
Sharp, passing weighty breath, drifting aloft an airy crown,

Silently heave the mighty flows,
Shifting withal flighty blows,

For where begins the ocean, ends the free,
Wherefore sanguine spears, sky-bound, a shattering sea,

Darkness dredging, door deemed undenied to sunken tomb,
Tears of ocean spray fold over footprints of undoubted doom,

A looming rainbow fraught with white fury, destiny bravers ill-fated to fall,
A nigh-gliding nirvana, dashed with obsidian doubt, yet one day to realize it all.

And there you have it. About a month's worth of line-composing, line by line. More poems to come!

Poem 1 Part 36

A nigh-gliding nirvana, dashed with obsidian doubt, yet one day to realize it all.

Poem 1 Part 35

A looming rainbow fraught with white fury, destiny bravers ill-fated to fall,

Poem 1 Part 34

Tears of ocean spray fold over footprints of undoubted doom,

Poem 1 Part 33

Darkness dredging, door deemed undenied to sunken tomb,

Poem 1 Part 32

Wherefore sanguine spears, sky-bound, a shattering sea,

Poem 1 Part 31

For where begins the ocean, ends the free,

Poem 1 Part 30

Shifting withal flighty blows,

Poem 1 Part 29

Silently heave the mighty flows,

Poem 1 Part 28

Sharp, passing weighty breath, drifting aloft an airy crown,

Poem 1 Part 27

Gyre of living death, back from blue to calming brown,

Poem 1 Part 26

Profuse in deliberation, word by phrase by page by ream,

Poem 1 Part 25

Self-promise, unyielding convolution within dream,

Poem 1 Part 24

Past a future, a future past betraying inner bond,

Poem 1 Part 23

A reflection glimpsing prismatic voices beyond,

Poem 1 Part 22

Pendulous, the perennial ponder thereon the hindmost fore,

Poem 1 Part 21

Before the after––look now––and nevermore,

Poem 1 Part 20

Hues of vessel smoke and mirrors contrive to purge,

Poem 1 Part 19

Tendrils of serpent's breath from shadows surge,

Poem 1 Part 18

Crosswise the telluric bend, promises in empty stead,

Poem 1 Part 17

Casual to the end, a solicitous supplication unsaid,

Poem 1 Part 16

Disguised as the skies, a melting pot-pourri,

Poem 1 Part 15

A leaf amid a torrent, yet a torrent amid the sea,

August 2016: An August Legacy

As the end of August has come, it is time to honor the time spent in that month––the first month of this blog!––that has set us upon the journey of our first poem. So here's to the undying legacy of the august lines of August 2016, and to a new month: the month of septem, where the mystical seven seas shall shine:

[Unnamed Poem 1]
Where begins the ocean, ends the sea,

Crimson spears, sky-bound, shattering free,

A dredging darkness deems the door to undoubted doom,
Tears of ocean spray wash ashore legacies of the sunken tomb,

An outcry out-crag jutting, a suicide bomber one day to fall,
Millennium mysteries dashed with white fury, caught amidst a titanic brawl,

Breeze of Poseidon's breath, sands of titanium snow,
Tide realms rife underfoot, a continuous commuting flow,

Twin worlds: a boundless battle, twin armies: a feud of force,
Between: a frothing conflict, of strife, discord, remorse...

Poem 1 Part 14

Slow till it flies, a puttering penchant,

Poem 1 Part 13

Quick to the skies, a pendent pennant,

Poem 1 Part 12

Bursting with ambient beams, flits a fulgurating flare,

Poem 1 Part 11

Reeking of gullible breeze, the sweeping scent of fishy air,

Poem 1 Part 10

Between: a frothing conflict, of strife, discord, remorse,

Poem 1 Part 9

Twin worlds: a boundless battle, twin armies: a feud of force,

Poem 1 Part 8

Tide realms rife underfoot, a continuous commuting flow,

Poem 1 Part 7

Breeze of Poseidon's breath, sands of titanium snow,

Poem 1 Day 6

Millennium mysteries dashed with white fury, caught amidst a titanic brawl,

Poem 1 Part 5

An outcry out-crag jutting, a suicide bomber one day to fall,

Poem 1 Part 4

Tears of ocean spray wash ashore legacies of the sunken tomb,

Line by Line

Yes; I admit between schoolwork and extra(curricular) pursuits, my "a line a day" goal has not been going all to plan. Thus I think (at least until I can get things in order) the new adage will be "Line by Line," conveniently blurring the frequency and rate at which lines will be published. In addition, the naming convention will henceforth be changed to that of parts instead of days. But in any case, aside from that small development, continueth we on our journey!

Poem 1 Day 3

A dredging darkness deems the door to undoubted doom,

Poem 1 Day 2

Crimson spears, sky-bound, shattering free,

Poem 1 Day 1

Where begins the ocean, ends the sea,

One Line a Day

Hello anyone who might be reading this! Welcome to Pleonasm in Poetry, a blog I've just created, and an empty blog at that, full of pages and pages of NOTHING. That's right, if what I've just described sounds wrong, then you may indeed be a traveler from the future–at least as of the time I am writing this. So here I shall embark upon a quest for the most amazing poem in the history of poetry. Or at least something like that. And now we begin the adventure...one line a day.