Quality vs. Quantity

I’m not a great writer — I’ll never win a Pulitzer Prize, and I don’t expect to make a living through my writing. Glancing at this writing blog, you might think that I should slow things down, and post fewer items (of presumably higher quality). I don’t disagree.

But to put things in perspective:

  • Most of what I’m now posting was written decades ago when I was young — over the course of many years. So even though I may be posting one or two posts a day, most of them are just old pieces that I’ve recently typed up. I’m not currently cranking out new writings that fast. (The ‘classic’ posts outnumber the ‘new’ posts 5 to 1.)
  • Again, most of what I’m posting was written long ago. What I’m now writing shouldn’t be worse quality, and is likely better. (Compare my ‘new poetry‘ to my ‘classic poetry‘.)
  • I have little patience. So rather than writing a 5000 word story with sophisticated, descriptive phrasing, I’m more inclined to write a 500 word bare-bones story that gets right to the point, with the knowledge that I may one day come back and expand it.
  • I’ll never be a novelist. I’d rather write 100 short pieces (and publish the best 10?), than write one long piece (and possibly never get it published). I see myself as more of a poet and a (very) short story guy.

Naming the Baby

Every poem and story posted here has a tidy title. WordPress — the blog software for this site — works best when there is a title for each entry to click and link to. However, not all of my older stuff has titles. So sometimes I need to come up with a name for an entry that I may have written 30 years ago and not thought about since.
 
Not surprisingly, it can be difficult — but I’ve been successful so far. Only once or twice have I gone back and adjusted the title that occurred to me just before I clicked ‘publish’. I think part of that comes from reconnecting with the piece as I am typing it up on the computer.

Categorical

I’ve updated the categories on this writing blog. It’s now easy to pick new or old (‘classic’) poems or stories. Plus unfinished poems and stories have their own categories.

Remember, ‘classic’ stuff was written before my marriage and before I moved to California — about 30 years ago or longer. New stuff was written within the last couple of months (mid-2015 and on) as I’ve gotten back into writing.

Another Riddle [Classic] (4 line poem)

Here’s another riddle. It’s not fully baked/polished, but it holds together OK. Not sure if my brother Rick helped me with this years ago for Dungeons & Dragons — probably.

Enter guesses as comments. 


Indifferent to their fate
Trampled without hate
Though some are eaten first
Their blood will quench a thirst

Arsenal [Classic] (12 line poem)

Wait! I found another horrible old poem. If you’re just starting to read my old stories and poems, I should warn you that many are dark, with frequent violence and death.

You can find some lighter poems in my collection destined for my longer connected narrative here.


Armed with but a memory
Sentiment my shield
I attacked her for her callousness
My army took the field

I played on her compassion
“Remember how things were…?”
Complaints about her cruelty
Meant not a thing to her

Armed with but my hunting knife
I visited her home
We left the world together then
No more to be alone

Punctuation

I’ve noticed that, now that I’m typing things up, I’ve gravitated away from ending my poem lines with punctuation. I find that the structure of seeing it all cleanly laid out in type on a computer screen seems to reduce the need to separate each line with specific punctuation. In my head, it’s as if each line ends in an implicit comma, and each verse ends in an implicit period.

Is this direction a good thing? I don’t know.

Pursuit [Classic] (30 line poem)

To round things out, since today is (apparently) ‘Demon Day’, here is another terrible but silly old poem about death and hell.


They stole my heart
They took my brain
They threw my body off the train
Yet magic made me whole again
But now I’ve witnessed death

I stalk them now
I roam the night
My body whole, my mind not right
I see ahead a distant light
And draw a rasping breath

I shuffle nearer
To the place
A look of menace on my face
My anxious steps become a race
I open up the door

I step inside
They scream, “Surprise!”
And poke their fingers in my eyes
But I choke each one till he dies
Then throw him on the floor

The episode
Has just begun
Now it’s time to have some fun
I look around and find a gun
And blow my face away

Falling, falling
Down a well
We land amid the fires of Hell
I grin a grin so they can tell
That now it’s time to play

Hero Quest [Classic] (unfinished poem)

I was going to post another ‘going to Hell’ poem — damn, I have a lot of them — but I decided to mix things up instead and post something entirely different.

Why are the nouns capitalized? Who knows, but it seems more dramatic, doesn’t it?

Anyone notice the structural similarity to Longfellow’s ‘Hiawatha’? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?


And then the mighty Dragon spat
A Gout of Flame to sear his Foe
But on and on our Hero fought
Full safe within his Suit of Mail
The clever craft of woodland Elves
Designed to turn the sharpest Blade
And save the Wearer from the Fires
That of the Dragon burn within

Some Other Kind of Love [Classic] (4 line poem)

It would be a nice story if I wrote this after some sad breakup, but in truth I think I spent more time writing about love than experiencing it.


There must be some other kind of love
A kind that gives as well as takes
A kind forgiving and forgetful
That doesn’t dwell on past mistakes

Possession [Classic] (20 line poem)

Must be ‘Demonic Day’ or something like that. Including this poem, I’ll have posted, within the last two days, 3 pieces about demons and hell.


A name from out of nowhere
A word from ancient lore
Summoning forth memories
That were not there before

The echoes don’t diminish
But fill my empty brain
Extinguish personality
Till nothingness remains

My mind cries out in anger
And then whimpers in fear
I lose control, give up my soul
To thoughts I now can hear

The purpose is apparent
It reeks of evilness
Again I fight, again I fail
Fall victim to the stress

I perform its vile actions
Then with a piercing scream
As the Presence leaves me, wondering
Was it real or just a dream?