With Faith, there is no Doubt

A Poem

2012-01-18T19:21:00.000-08:00

There was a certain Poet with much rhymery by verse,
And his poor mocking Rival had procrastination's curse.
Full witty was this poet, yea, his words rang so grammatical,
His topics dull were but absorbed by rhyme-schemes mathematical.

Did he, when writing poesy, perhaps the wrong Muse smooch?
To College Rhymeschemelogical for him mayhap we'll vouch,
His brilliantly clunky words no human meter bear,
But as a Poet excellent his rhymes are always fair.

And having mastered th'only part of poetry e'er mattering,
He gazes at his Rivals work- his laughter's sound is shattering.
The Poet is superior, and blogs so very frequently,
He nags and scorns his Rival for not writing thus subsequently.

For after all, at every call, on every single day,
Of every week and month, the Poet writes his heart away,
While his benighted Rival, coward! makes verse with great caution:
Ha! Knowing Complex Rhymes, the Poet heeds no such fool's notion.

The Poet stands in Triumph, Rival dragged behind in chains:
To write, the Poet laughs- he will not take such silly pains:
He's mastered all there is to know of all poetic skill,
And now's content to mock his foe for not writing his fill.

And thus, stood straight, not writing, high above, with jeering tongue,
He fails to read his Rival's blog when a new poem's strung.
The Poet writes a ton each day, and therefore he is Better,
Which is wherefore he ne'er again need write a single letter.

Glory

2012-01-14T16:02:00.000-08:00

Within a coffee-shop I think:
Upon a bench of crafted wood,
As I imbibe my sweetened drink
I dream of noble things and good:

The shelves of books rise high above.
What dwells within their written lines?
The whisper in each paper glove
The wists of former times refines.

Within each dwells great words of old,
Scribed down in past days long forgot,
And relics they stand, stories told:
But what was each its writer's thought?

These texts recount of glories vast,
Of deeds, adventures, scholar's tomes:
As real as now, 'twas real the past,
And each these legends reached their doomes.

Both foundations and monuments
They stand to their posterity:
Displaying glorious excellence,
While built on with austerity.

But pray, what remains presently
But dusty shelves? Parchment and mold.
The ancients see their children's pageantry;
But souls are cold, no heart is bold.

Old weeping wisdoms stand so high,
With all their glory scarred and frayed.
Immortal words are asked to die,
By heirs who have from fathers strayed.

But shall this glory pass away,
Heroic aeons last no more?
Let it not be- let each man pray
A hero's heart to have at core.

A Tobacco Thanksgiving

2011-11-27T17:49:00.000-08:00

At harvest's end, we thank the Lord, at winter's dawn
For granting Man a myriad gifts, Tobacco one.
As howling winds and snow grasp cold this world below
We, grateful, smoke our pipes beside the red hearth's glow.

A Tobacco Poem

2011-08-25T19:55:00.000-07:00

To Smoke!
To puff each stroke,
A pipe in hand to stoke;
Sweet tastes betwixt my jaws provoke
To thoughts and proofs my mind. Whiles I am woke
I drift in dreams of streams of silky smoke, I soak
My flying whims, to all philosophies: can words evoke
Those selfsame schemes as swim in bounteous clouds of smoke, tall tales of folk,
Those epics, sonnets, ballads long of yore when men were strong, without revoke?
What spacious power, expressed in silvery wisps, can cause a soul to glimpse the essence spoke
By his own words, and sung by his own chords? What clarity of will dost he convoke?
Forgotten fancies candid made, of rushes stirred, of wildest bullfrog's croak
The Muse's ancient kiss revived dwells full alive, without a yoke-
Received while to the pipe-stem press my lips- I feel a poke
I rest, armchair ornate, as if I had awoke
From slumber, taking sips of bottled coke.
Strength I now wield, a heart not broke
To write what Muses voke.
Tragic or joke,
I Smoke.

Quatrains of Love

2011-08-17T15:48:00.000-07:00

To Vicky

O mountains high and spacious, how far do ye span?
O rivers dry, be gracious; quench this thirsty man!
I wander, mad, I weep, I scream "Set this heart free!"
O sweetest maiden, hear my endless love for thee!

The ever-humble worshipper of your Beauty,
Stu

To Vicky

While journeying through toils, each challenging my strength,
I gaze down towards the soil, I stare the trees at length.
Within the whirling leaves I see your curling hair
Though distant run my feet, my thoughts take refuge there.

Always lovingly yours,
Steve

Summer's End

2011-08-11T12:43:00.000-07:00

The August sun shines high above the trees,
While bees for nectar search the warming breeze.
The flowers fade, dark green's the tint of leaves
Awhiles this scene, the grey-cloaked dove soft grieves.

The trees and leaves hear not its mournful note
For earless do they grow, bedecked in barken coat.
The bees hear not the call, for they but live
Unto their hive their each-sworn lives to give.

And as the autumn comes, these fade away;
The leaves and bees approach their final day.
But prayers remain within the grey dove's heart
That one day, far away, new spring will start.

The Ballad of Cassandros, Master of Argument

2011-06-22T20:48:00.000-07:00

So fine and eloquent the master quoth his argument
His foes were instant swept away, their phrases torn and rent.
Heap praises endless unto him- what title beareth he?
Heir to title Oracle- such great AUTHORITY!

But what opinions hold this noble modern Solomon?
What wisdom, what ecclesiast's dwell deep within his dome?
A list of little things of common life that irketh him
He writes for all to read, upon a wisest little whim.

The first and foremost of these irrelevant things reads thus:
(Drawn from his Bottom Ten, that is, the bottom-most) "Primus-
BULVERISMS". For indeed, to flee these 'tis good votive:
For low must one descend to change debate from Fact to Motive.

Now being right concerning everything, Cassandros shall we call him-
But why? What secrets doth he bear? What tragedy befalls him?
No-one believes him, even though he knows that he is right!
And enemies charge unto him, in argument to fight!

One dreams up strange theologies, defends them with insistence:
A dreadful foe, spawned from his nightmares, Bain of His Existence.
The other's but his Nemesis- of statecraft waxes he:
Of politics, the natures of both Law and Liberty.

The Oracle-in-training speaks of Hierarchic Pyramids,
Indeed he speaks the truth, rising above each of us hearing this!
The lady sitting next to him, he asks to be his Queen:
Each every glorious word he speaks is confident in mien.

His nemesis- oh horrors! doth believe in Rule of Law!
He searches through our hero's arguments to find a flaw!
The foe spies logic-circular, deep at its very root-
Our hero, though is always right- why ought he move his foot?

"But EVERYBODY uses Circle-logic!" whineth he,
"Now Bulverisms, how I hate those! O so verily!"
And so the villain asks him, "What gives you thine firm opinions?
If 'tis still true, what truths around it form its binding pinions?"

A trap! The wise Cassandros, Oracle-forsaken,
Considers his escape, lest his dear words be fried like bacon.
A secret weapon dost the anti-Bulverist pull forth-
What is this last resort of his? 'Tis Bulver'sm, of course!

Indeed, lest it be forgot, it must now be repeated,
Our hero's words are always true! He cannot be defeated!
With skill and eloquence and being-right his foe is pulverized:
How gloriously is his flimsy, poor argument now Bulverized!

Indeed Cassandros reigns victorious, shouts it to the crowd!
The Master of all Argument, O chant his praises loud!
The audience 'round the ring speak in an loud and echoed fluster-
That on this day he Bulverized- best tactic he could muster!

Indeed he did his best, this Bulverist, best words e'er spoken!
For he was right, and Bulverized, and thus his foe is broken!
Such great integrity is held within Cassandros' heart-
The anti-Bulverist, however, now deigns to depart.

For he is humble 'fore the crowd, his man of endless fame:
For humbly doth he say he's right- none can put him to shame!
His words are all immune, indeed, to insult or to satire,
For he is always right, and so why do others' words matter?

And thus he humbly states that he is right 'bout everything,
And shouts it to the throngs, and in the streets it he doth sing.
Why is he right? He Bulverizes, winning every fight:
Bulverisms, of course, justified, because he knows he's right.

The Ruins

2011-04-16T14:19:00.000-07:00

I

The biting winds and scattered dust-clouds cross the plain
Their endless whirls begin a wretched grey refrain.
Wide streets, tall arches, scaffolds, spires all reaching high
All empty, lifeless, rotting 'neath a blood-red sky.
One solitary soul, in nearby lonely hills
At day's end, tolled in mind, feels night's cruel coiling chills.
He sees this desolation, barren fruit of toil,
Untimely ended, lost to pillage and turmoil.

II

A great barbarian horde doth lay tremendous waste
Unto the city's streets, with merciless swift haste.
Their chieftains cry aloud, an order new to bring.
Their praises do they force their captives all to sing;
They swear that this new age is greatest of all times.
They burn all relics of the past, they melt the chimes,
Lay fire to tomes and letters, tear great bridges down:
By morning they shall forge a wretched Babylon.

III

The wanderer above reveals his face- a child!
His eyes are bruis'd and downcast, and his hair is wild.
He wonders at these conquerors who rule the land
A rusted locket doth he hold within his hand.
A portrait lies within, of tow'ring gilded spires
The ruined city's streets, before the gnawing fires.
Two warriors seize him now, and drag him back in pain
Unto the city's ruin, to serve for others' gain.

IV

The child now holds fast to his mother's tender arm;
His father's eight years gone; his mem'ries are but harm.
Within a putrid place, with others do they dwell
They hear the tyrant's roars, they see his armies swell.
For every day, another swears a mighty oath
To purge the past away, forgotten deeds to loathe.
Beneath the ancient spires, a brutal order keep
Of every older loyalty, away these warriors sweep.

V

Inside the hovel, do the children gather 'round
These slaves supposed at rest, their hands and feet unbound.
They look upon the locket, and smell the filthy air.
They look upon an apple tree, withered yet fair.
None can remember days 'fore tyrants raped the land;
They scrape for scraps of food midst piles of ash and sand.
An elder lies nearby, his ancient heart lies broke
A little tinder-fire he aims to try to stoke.

VI

He tells unto the children tales of days gone by
Of bustling city walks, of bird up in the sky
Destruction has been brought by this new conqu'ring foe:
No greatness as before, but only ash and woe.
A few wise men remain, rulers survived from old,
They flee in fear and pain, they fight but are not bold.
Mere losing struggles are their battles, weak in will:
They lack morale, and half-believe the lies they kill.

VII

As crushing boot-steps near, as morning nears its dawn,
The foes seize up each wretch to be a slave and pawn.
The wild-hair'd lad hides deep within his frown one thought:
A question without answers, a soul's war ever fought.
Within his beaten scalp, this sacred task he takes:
When those who tell the truth bittersweet life forsakes
He shall alone preserve whate'er few truths remain
When there is naught to lose, there's everything to gain.

VIII

If none are strong whose hearts and souls are full of light,
The weak they could protect would perish in the night.
The tyrant's words, constructed with deceptive mind,
Replace true sense and fact, strike innocent men blind.
Proud banners wave from ruins where proud tyrants dwell;
All right is wrong, all wrong is right, the decadent would tell.
Proud orgies of new lunacies shroud all in gloom,
And the old man, the dying slave, crawls to his tomb.
Last words he speaks, with rasp, and bitter weeping grin:
"These foes are of our blood- they conquered from within."

The Rebel Monarchist, stanzas VI-XI

2011-02-10T16:13:00.000-08:00

Behold! On new adventures doth our Hero swift embark.
To sail the seven seas, or maybe just to stroll the park?
His myriad crushing arguments, for Might-makes-Right's True Cause
In former times serv'd as his cymbals, clashing without pause.

But now, he chooses a new task, a most amusing chore:
He gives his challenge, whipping up a witty Poet's War.
Perhaps he entertains certain fresh subjects for this duel?
Indeed! For his old arguments, this duel's his brand-new tool!

And thus he hurls his javelins, his Monarchistic jabs!
Twice swinging at the Constitution, stumbling as he stabs,
While throngs of weeping flatterers adore his rival's verse,
Each begging on their knees "Mock Me! O! Mock me too!" 'til hoarse.

A third blow, now, the Monarchist brings down with vicious clamor,
And those around him tremble at this stroke's resounding tremor.
These new-spun stanzas show his creativity; his best!
He rhymes with eloquence, then writes it oth'rwise like the rest.

In Riotous effort to advance his point through rants and wits
In Tantrum urges 'gainst his foe, t'abstain from "Kicking Fits".
He who would freely break the Constitution for some cause
Accuses his vile rival of now posing 'bove the laws.

How public, bravely, fiercely, does he give his foe hortation
To "Lay Low and Enjoy" it all when evil chokes our Nation.
If only he'd believe in freedom- Paragon he'd be:
He puts such pain and effort toward the cause of Apathy.

The Rebel Monarchist, stanzas II through V

2011-02-04T16:49:00.000-08:00

'Twas God ordained Authorities, of all shapes, over men,
Ordaining o'er America the sovereign Constitution.
"This law is illegitimate!" the Monarchist doth stammer-
"MY only law is law of might, of shotgun and steel hammer!"

In order to save countless helpless fools lost in deception,
He mocks the Constitution with his brilliant new perception;
That great enlightened Monarchist gives us a wise perspective:
"It is the will of God for us to follow this directive:

Against what certain is God-given power, our Rule of Law-
Rebel! For thus God wills it ever, fore and even now!
Let government throw off all limits, let the nation tremble-
And him opposing this rebellion is the real rebel!"

"Obey the laws, obey them all!" is what he recommends-
And when unto the nation's throne he mightily ascends:
"No law shall bind me, though I've sworn an oath to law uphold!"
And soon, corrupted by such pow'r, he takes a tyrant's mold.

Quatrain: The Rebel Monarchist

2011-01-31T12:47:00.000-08:00

"Might makes right!" he fiercely cries, with rhetoric and quoting,
"The Constitution wields no gun- so therefore it is nothing!"
"Republic is Rebelliousness"- this thought he's oft promoting,
And afterwards goes to the polls to take his part in voting.

For Those who were Interested

2011-01-27T16:39:00.000-08:00

The following link contains a copy of Raphael's School of Athens, with all the major figures identified.

http://www.newbanner.com/AboutPic/athena/raphael/nbi_ath4.html

A Haiku on Fishing

2010-08-22T17:41:00.000-07:00

Flowing waters whirl
Trout swims in weeds 'round grey rocks
Setting sun glistens

Teaser Scene, from The Two Brothers

2010-07-05T11:40:00.000-07:00

[Scene: A bedchamber, where Lord Royksar, a sickly old man, lies bedridden. Zashaznon, the court enchanter, Prince Nornivvus, heir to the throne, his wife Elzera, a doctor, the lady Grenella, and a few others stand round him.]

Nornivvus:
I heartily have hopes that you will get well as soon as possible, Lord Royksar.

Royksar:
Thank you, Nornivvus. But I fear I am going cold. I am weak. It is a curse upon me.

Nornivvus: A curse, you say?

[Enter Prince Razagos, brother of Nornivvus, husband of Grenella]

Razagos:
My lady, I greet you.[kisses Grenella's hand] Royksar, are you feeling better?

Royksar:
No. I am still in pain. [Razagos walks over to Royksar's bed]

Razagos:
Have you discovered the nature of the ailment yet, doctor?

Doctor:
It is a wicked curse. It is wretched witchery.

Royksar:
I feel weaker. Listen to me! If I die now-

Doctor:
You will not die, my lord.

Grenella:
You can't!

Royksar[moaning]:
Please! Help!

Zashaznon:
Wait, doctor! He needs our help, quickly!

Doctor[examining Royksar again]:
What- no! How can this be?

Royksar:
What is it?

Doctor[panicking]:
I am afraid that I was wrong. He is going, fast. I am sorry.

Royksar[coughing, voice fading]:
Let me speak. I have lived a long life. I have had my failures. But listen- please!

Nornivvus:
What is it?

Royksar[very weakly]:
My young prince, there is a plot.

Nornivvus:
A plot? What? Don't go! Don't go!

Royksar[fading,coughing]:
A plot to betray us all. The darkness..... demons..... tell your father.... danger....

Nornivvus:
Royksar? What! Pull yourself together!

Zashaznon:
It is too late. He is dead.

A Limerick I Found, Concerning Hamlet

2009-12-14T20:10:00.000-08:00

Did Ophelia ask Hamlet to bed?
Was Gertrude incestuously wed?
Is anything certain?
By the fall of the curtain

Almost everyone's certainly dead.
— A. Cinna, found in The Penguin Book of Limericks

The Remainder of the Poetic Cycle

2009-11-25T18:43:00.000-08:00

It may seem somewhat late to post the autumn poem, as it has already snowed, and may seem somewhat early to post the winter poem, as it is not yet December. However, I have decided to conclude this poetic cycle at this time, and move to a differently themed series of posts, perhaps one whose subject matter can be reasonably updated more frequently.

Autumn

But as this year's life drags along its path,
A gloomy darkness transfixes the clouds.
The golden wheat is reaped for toil's reward,
But its grey stalks soon crumple in cold dirt.
The sorrowed oak trees drop their brownish leaves
And willows wilt, casting long umbral shades.
The sable ravens croak forth requiems
As everything with life withers away.
The trees are each laid bare, the aster-plants
Turn grey, a sadness to the weathered eyes.
As pumpkins, deathly fruit, grow in night's grasp
The final show of colour's glory dims
As sorrow's heart strikes its dark twilight beat.

Winter

The elder year is crippled, dying fast-
Cold enters bones and nerves of every thing.
Dead grasses fade into black dusty grime,
And limp and leafless trees stand towering high
As sable beacons of this futile age,
While silver clouds are clustered in the sky.
From these white heavens come down an alban shroud
Of snow, a final resting beauteous touch
That glazes the vast world in stabbing cold's
Cruel knives, and wreathes every dark bough.
The old year smiles as its new heir is born
And breathes its last, is buried in soft snow,
And then departs forever to the heights.

Ode to Summer

2009-08-23T08:39:00.000-07:00

I apologize for not posting much over the summer. Here is the next poem in the cycle:

The year grows older, to a blazing peak,
A pinnacle, a stony-mountain-height.
The shining sun beams down across the vale,
Its daylight rays bestowing full comfort.
A glorious warmth envelopes every rock
And tree, burning each touching mortal hand.
Long, endless fields of grain-stalks grow- tall wheat
And barley grass, as purple cicadas
Sing heat-born songs from towering maple-trees.
That blinding fire, that great laborious sweat
Is placed, as the worlds weight, upon the ground.
Throughout the rufous meadows, golden larks
Seal this fierce season with heroic cries.

An Ode to Spring

2009-04-22T16:23:00.000-07:00

The newborn year shoots up in youthful growth,
With it, the golden tulip-petals sprout-
Each one a beauteous, lively spectacle.
On every tree-twig leaves bud, blossoms flower-
Fair-featured life comes unto everything.
The water-lilies in the wet mill-pond
Bloom as white lanterns, glowing o'er the night,
Their verdant stalks and leaves the thrones of frogs
That hum vivacious, sanguine melodies.
Ambrosial winds of bright new nectar- scents
Blow lightly through euphoric warming air.
The merry year grows fast, the trees grow tall
And bud out forth their sylvan leafy hair.

A Quote from Aristotle's Poetics

2009-03-25T20:48:00.000-07:00

"...Comedy aims at representing men as worse, Tragedy as better than in actual life."

Watch This

2009-02-26T21:18:00.000-08:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=euJ0gBaUGAw&feature=related

The Futility of Money

2009-02-10T07:24:00.000-08:00

One never knows when he is about to be robbed. I decided to go down to the local supermarket yesterday as I normally do on Mondays to buy soda. Unfortunately, the Coca-Cola machine there has a record for criminal behavior. Fifty cents may be cheap for a can of soda, but one might never know how much he is actually spending until it is too late. In this particular incident, the machine refused my dollar bill five times before accepting it. It finally gave me my soda, which was obviously two months old, due to the fact that it had a Santa Claus picture on it, and then only gave twenty-five cents as change. My remaining twenty-five somehow remained inside. I put my change back in, hoping that with fifty cents in the machine I could get a second soda, but it would not give me one. It would not give me the fifty cents back either.
Money is indeed a thing that can disappear just as quickly as one earns it. One can survive without money, however, as money is merely a representation of one's labor. Money can buy luxury, but if life denies me luxury, so be it.

Predictions for the Conclusion of The Office

2009-01-23T20:33:00.000-08:00

This week's episode of The Office seemed uneventful compared to the previous one. It simply consisted of two gags being drawn out for a long time. The episode becomes serious where it should be funny when Michael begins to regret spying on a family business, and the argument concerning whether Hilary Swank is hot seems silly compared to the raucous slapstick of the duel over Angela.
I do, however, understand, that this episode is merely an ordinary episode in the season, and not one of the major ones. The finale for the show will be worth looking forward to. I predict that Jim will definitely marry Pam, and Angela will most likely become reunited with Dwight. Although she has earned her current state of being rejected by both Dwight and Andy, if the series is to end this season, all conflicts will be resolved. Dwight will most likely take an interest in her again, for whatever reason, because that will be the most fulfilling ending for the major struggle in Season 5. I think that Michael, though, who has had a different girlfriend every season, will remain single, and end the finale giving an awkward remark to the camera.

Remarks Concerning The Mummy III

2009-01-01T08:47:00.000-08:00

Last night, I watched The Mummy: Tomb of the Dragon Emperor for the first time. It was definitely an enjoyable movie to see, but there seems to be a drastic decline in the quality of the Mummy movies. The original The Mummy had an excellent storyline, an element of horror, and was set in Egypt. It had a dark and mysterious feel to it. The Mummy Returns was a good movie as well, although taking more of an action-adventure flavor. This flavor has repeated but has unfortunately become distasteful in the third installment of the series.
The movie begins with probably the most commonplace introduction possible. Telling of a warrior conquering the known world and then becoming cursed is an introductory sequence already used in the series, and using it again simply makes the film seem repetitive. The focus then switches to the retired hero of the previous films, portraying him as finished with his adventures. Unfortunately, necessary character development is lacking. A different actress portrays the heroine of the previous films, disconnecting the series by disallowing the audience to easily picture the recurring characters in their minds. And before this major change in casting can be adjusted to, the focus switches again to the O'Connells' son, who was only a boy in The Mummy Returns. This transition is made with absolutely no character development, showing him immediately opening the Emperor's tomb and fighting a female ninja. He immediately recognizes this enemy the next time he sees her, but they suddenly join forces against the general trying to summon the Emperor. For a story portraying retired heroes and starring a different cast than the prequel, the plot seems rushed to the action, with nothing spectacular. The characters are simply created and then thrust into the plot.
The plot of The Mummy: Tomb of the Dragon Emperor is also quite below average. The summoning of yetis to defeat the Chinese commandos is obviously an enormous deus ex machina. The Emperor's general is thrown down two flights of stairs by a yeti and is later crushed by an avalanche, yet miraculously survives without breaking a single bone. The final battle lacks the climatic tension one would expect it to have. The terracotta army intends to become invincible by reaching the Great Wall, but they never even come near it. The army of undead holds them off easily, and most of the Emperor's remaining forces are easily broken into pieces by bullets. Jet Li's character is the only villain in the entire movie who ever seems to pose a real danger. The general's miraculous powers of survival return at the end, when he survives a direct hit to his motorcycle from a bomb, and must be crushed and juiced between two turning wheels to be killed off. Essentially, the plot exists as an excuse to show overdone action sequences.
The third Mummy does not measure up at all to its prequels, and is basically a series of fights that the heroes never come close to losing. There is no horror at all as there was in the first movie, and the final battle does not have the desperate feel of the battles in The Mummy Returns. The Mummy: Tomb of the Dragon Emperor is unfortunately somewhat of a B-movie action flick, despite its great potential.

A Movie I Watched

2008-12-29T19:21:00.000-08:00

I saw Casablanca for the first time yesterday. It is, suffice to say, one of the best movies I have ever seen.

Comparison of the Homeric Epics

2008-12-21T22:22:00.000-08:00

On my Classical Literature final last Tuesday, there was an essay question asking which of Homer's epics, the Iliad or the Odyssey, I preferred. This question has come up again several times in conversations with various people. But how can such a question be answered? The epics are equally famous, equally great and have each made an impact upon society. Each one is interesting and inspirational in its own way. To prefer one over the other should therefore require a more careful analysis of the story itself, and not merely a personal opinion.
The question of the preferred poem becomes more difficult when the genres of the poem are taken into account. The Iliad is a war story, and a tragedy: Achilles' tragic flaw is his bitter anger, which causes the deaths of many of his men, including his best friend. Achilles avenges Patroklos, but his actions have caused him to fall into a state of mourning, and he awaits his foretold death. The Odyssey, is a plot-oriented, adventurous story of Odysseus' journey and return home. It has a complete story with an ending favorable to the protagonist, with Odysseus' return and the restoration of his defiled household. One reader may prefer one or the other based on the structure of the plot, but since the plots are of different genres, they cannot be the sole cause of one's opinion concerning the superority of either epic.
Perhaps it is better to analyze which of the epics utilizes its given structure in a better way. A good story, indeed, needs a strong, gripping plot. The Iliad may be a tragedy, but much of the action has little to do with the story's conclusion, instead being detailed descriptions of every battle. While these battle scenes may be exciting to the reader, they are not plot driven, and do not add to the tension of the story. The Odyssey has a more prevalent plot throughout the story, with each event adding to the tension. Each time a servant recognizes Odysseus, it adds to the reader's interest in the story as the hero prepares for the inevitable battle. The battle at the end is the climax of the plot, not merely another bloodbath, as it is the awaited scene that has been foreshadowed throughout the previous chapters. The detail in Odysseus' battle against the suitors is not simply to add to the excitement, but to tell the reader how the story ends.
The ending of the story and the author's use of foreshadowing is another factor that differentiates the epics. In the Iliad, it is declared halfway into the story that Patroklos will be slain by Hektor and avenged by Achilles. This blatant foreshadowing gives away the plot twists before they happen. In the Odyssey, the prophecies point to Odysseus' battle with the suitors, but the plot does not rely on these prophecies: it develops independent of them, with Odysseus suffering many trials while disguised as a beggar, and choosing to whom he ought to reveal his identity. The reader of the Odyssey knows of the inevitable battle, but the outcome is not openly revealed, allowing tension to rise up to the climax.
The Odyssey can thus be declared the better story. Although it has perhaps less action than the Iliad, it has a well-constructed plot, with every element leading to a climax. The Iliad explains what events will happen and then allows them to happen, but the Odyssey is more vague about these things, focusing instead on how Odysseus cleverly makes his return. I therefore prefer the Odyssey for its being a more complete, plot-driven story.

Welcome to this Blog

2008-12-21T17:29:00.000-08:00

I have, at last, started the blog that I have been planning to write. I have decided to create this blog to post thoughts and ideas for discussion. Obviously, being young and foolish, some of my ideas may be inaccurate or incorrect, so feel free to correct me where I am wrong.
If you are posting comments, please do not post any offensive material, or flame anyone. Thank you.