Tuesday, September 27, 2016
(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.
Wednesday, September 21, 2016
Sunday, September 18, 2016
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?
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?
Saturday, September 17, 2016
Friday, September 16, 2016
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.
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.
Thursday, September 15, 2016
Saturday, September 10, 2016
"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.
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!
Friday, September 9, 2016
Thursday, September 8, 2016
Tuesday, September 6, 2016
Saturday, September 3, 2016
Friday, September 2, 2016
Thursday, September 1, 2016
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,
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...
[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...
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