June and July 2017: A Renaissance

Such an unlikely union, that of Juno and Caesar, precipitates, nonetheless, a renaissance of sorts. While the Roman Renaissance took inspiration from the past, this blog took inspiration from the future. From its rebirth in early June ("Important Blog Update") to the subsequent flow of poetry, and even to the recent sharing of posts through Facebook, the blog has undergone quite a bit of change.

I suppose it would be prudent of me to share some highlights, so I shall.

Firstly "Wonder; wander," the first of its intruiging kind.
Of course we can never forget "The Nowhere Walk," which shows that outward simplicity can conceal deep wisdom.
"Terrestrial Slumber" paints a vivid picture with extensive metaphor.
"Untaken Paths" takes rhyme to an entirely new level.
Lastly, "Where All Must End" sets up an especially enticing genre of poetry.

But nothing quite inspires like what has yet to be, so until it is......write on.

On Poetry Competitions and Unposted Poetry

        It presents such a dilemma when I am forced to choose between posting a poem for public viewing and submitting it (or saving it for submission) to a poetry competition. It seems as if the "system" wants to limit the public posting of such poems; of course, if the poet is significantly accomplished and eminent, such problems naturally dissipate. For example, the purpose itself of submitting to poetry competitions, as well as the complementary issue of being able to come up with good poetry consistently enough that posting some (and thus voiding their utility in competitions) cease to be a problem.

        And in creating something of a balance between posting and "saving," I have found a notable drawback: this creates the scenario that all poetry posted is poetry that was at some point deemed "inferior," thereby potentially decreasing the desire for people to read the poetry and also the desire of the poster to continue. This endless downward spiral is terrible and cannot be allowed.

        A potential solution? Make it so that poetry that is submitted can have been published beforehand, as long it has not won another competition and there is proof that the author wrote the original poem. Of course, this requires more work to prevent plagiarism, but it resolves the key issue that remained beforehand, namely, the existence of plagiarized submissions. I do not possess extensive (or even that much) knowledge of the anti-plagiarism (and as of now anti-published) "checks" the organizations that run competitions go through, but I believe the burden this solution creates can be mitigated greatly if the competitors are required to provide proof of originality and the like. As for what form this proof might take and how this can be verified, I am not entirely sure. But it's an idea.

        I suppose for now I will continue on my current system of posting most of my poetry, only withholding a small proportion in order to use as "competition material." Even that proportion I will endeavor to publish after the competition ceases to be, either having rejected the poetry or having lauded it. In either case, I will add an "originally written" date for informative purposes, and will try to fill the gap where poems were withheld with some shorter, less time-consuming (but hopefully just as interesting) poetry.

        Well, there you have it. A bit of a rant, but hopefully some food for thought. Who knows, maybe the system can be changed someday. But for now, on with the poetry!

Important Blog Update

        Hello, everyone! Unfortunately, as you might have noticed, I put this blog on the back burner for much of the school year, instead working on other projects and extra-curricular events. Several times, I tried to continue the blog through posting something special, such as a piece of writing or an experimental poem.  However, I never got around to it, and as the school year comes to a close, I would like to release this announcement.

Drafts and more drafts!

        In order to further the development of this blog, I will now start to make daily and weekly releases. This will also help improve my poetry-writing skills, and perhaps I will even throw in some writing or similar work. As a concrete goal, my aim is to release three poems a week, unless I am working on a larger project. To kick-start this goal, I will be releasing some poems and other pieces I have written (or started to write) during the interim since the last post.
        All in all, it's time for the rebirth of Pleonasm in Poetry!

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.

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?

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.

"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!

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...

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!

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.