on line rhyming tool:
http://www.rhymer.com/
http://www.rhymezone.com/
++++ overusing a word, see it big:
http://www.wordle.net/
Wordle is a toy for generating “word clouds” from text that you provide. The clouds give greater prominence to words that appear more frequently in the source text. You can tweak your clouds with different fonts, layouts, and color schemes. The images you create with Wordle are yours to use however you like. You can print them out, or save them to the Wordle gallery to share with your friends.
fix it? http://thesaurus.reference.com/
++++++++++++++
need to start?
100 Best First Lines of Novels
As chosen by the editors of American Book Review
http://www.infoplease.com/ipea/A0934311.html
now....
NEED TO FINISH, a PDF, but.....
http://americanbookreview.org/PDF/100_Best_Last_Lines_from_Novels.pdf
+++++++++++++++
Alliteration is one of several aural devices in literature making use of the repetition of single sounds or groups of sounds.
http://www.xs4all.nl/~in/Poet/VocAll.htm
I found the format difficult to handle, but . . .
+++++++++++++++++++
the experts speak:
http://www.goodreads.com/author/quotes/500.Jorge_Luis_Borges
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Sunday, January 24, 2010
synecdoche
SYN-EC-DO-CHE (si nek' da ke) n. [< Gr. Synekdochê, lit., a receiving together < synekdochesthai, to receive together] A figure of speech in which a part is used to represent the whole, an individual for a class, a material for a thing, or the reverse of
From: Beckham, John (John.Beckham@latimes.com)
Sent: Thu 12/28/06 3:11 PM
To:
http://www.vanguard.edu/english/synecdoche/index.aspx?doc_id=9099
Introduction
Dr. Jerry Camery-Hoggatt
Welcome to the Spring issue of Vanguard University's student literary journal, Synecdoche. An aptly-named journal, this. The dictionary defines the term synecdoche this way:
SYN-EC-DO-CHE (si nek' da ke) n. [< Gr. Synekdochê, lit., a receiving together < synekdochesthai, to receive together] A figure of speech in which a part is used to represent the whole, an individual for a class, a material for a thing, or the reverse of any of these. -syn´ec-doch´i-cal-ly adv.
When the captain bellows out the order, "All hands on deck," she is using a synecdoche. When Shakespeare's Mark Antony opens his famous speech with, "Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears," he surely wants more than their ears; he wants their whole heads, and their hearts, too. When we pray, "Give us this day our daily bread," we are praying synecdochically.
The title Synecdoche is a clue to what you will find in this issue, in three ways. First, this is a part that represents the whole of the literary stuff of a vigorous and curious student body. In this issue you will find poetry, a short play, a rather free-form essay or two, and some carefully researched papers on topics of importance at this moment in history. You'll even find one on historiography itself.
The poems and essays in this issue were selected from nearly two hundred pieces, entered for consideration in two categories - critical and creative. The student editorial board passed to me the five best selections from each category. Student committees on the Synecdochestaff made the selections and participated in the editing, which suggests a second way in which this issue is synecdochical: What you find here is indirect evidence of the literary tastes and critical sensibilities of Vanguard students turned critics.
The third way in which these poems and essays turn out to be synecdochical is that each one stakes out a tiny piece of reality, and by subjecting it to critical scrutiny or refracting it through a poetic lens makes it a window through which larger human issues can be seen more clearly. Perhaps that is one function of good writing, both creative and critical. The particular can become a clue to the universal.
Emily Key's short poem, "Mein Doravka," is angular, lean, and unsettling. It is a poem of only twenty lines, too brief to do much more than intimate something or other about a love gone wrong-or perhaps right. The intimations are agonizing and cryptic (even the title is cryptic), so that the poem finally splinters into sharp slivers of hope and loss.
Aaron Abubo's haunting poem, "Janie Didn't Know," is a double-sided mystery, a slice out of a woman's deep grief. It is as though we are viewing this woman's experience through a scratched and damaged lens, a lens that replicates her puzzlement and confusion, her inability to see very clearly what has happened. Like "Mein Doravka," "Janie Didn't Know" gives us too little information to get a good fix on what happened, and so leaves us bewildered, trying to understand what this loss might have been. If we surrender to it, the poem ends up being a kind of sponge that draws out our own experiences of loss, and grief, and confusion. Then, as often happens in good narrative writing, it refuses to close its plot complications, and leaves them open instead like the festering wound that Janie, the protagonist, must feel.
From: Beckham, John (John.Beckham@latimes.com)
Sent: Thu 12/28/06 3:11 PM
To:
http://www.vanguard.edu/english/synecdoche/index.aspx?doc_id=9099
Introduction
Dr. Jerry Camery-Hoggatt
Welcome to the Spring issue of Vanguard University's student literary journal, Synecdoche. An aptly-named journal, this. The dictionary defines the term synecdoche this way:
SYN-EC-DO-CHE (si nek' da ke) n. [< Gr. Synekdochê, lit., a receiving together < synekdochesthai, to receive together] A figure of speech in which a part is used to represent the whole, an individual for a class, a material for a thing, or the reverse of any of these. -syn´ec-doch´i-cal-ly adv.
When the captain bellows out the order, "All hands on deck," she is using a synecdoche. When Shakespeare's Mark Antony opens his famous speech with, "Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears," he surely wants more than their ears; he wants their whole heads, and their hearts, too. When we pray, "Give us this day our daily bread," we are praying synecdochically.
The title Synecdoche is a clue to what you will find in this issue, in three ways. First, this is a part that represents the whole of the literary stuff of a vigorous and curious student body. In this issue you will find poetry, a short play, a rather free-form essay or two, and some carefully researched papers on topics of importance at this moment in history. You'll even find one on historiography itself.
The poems and essays in this issue were selected from nearly two hundred pieces, entered for consideration in two categories - critical and creative. The student editorial board passed to me the five best selections from each category. Student committees on the Synecdochestaff made the selections and participated in the editing, which suggests a second way in which this issue is synecdochical: What you find here is indirect evidence of the literary tastes and critical sensibilities of Vanguard students turned critics.
The third way in which these poems and essays turn out to be synecdochical is that each one stakes out a tiny piece of reality, and by subjecting it to critical scrutiny or refracting it through a poetic lens makes it a window through which larger human issues can be seen more clearly. Perhaps that is one function of good writing, both creative and critical. The particular can become a clue to the universal.
Emily Key's short poem, "Mein Doravka," is angular, lean, and unsettling. It is a poem of only twenty lines, too brief to do much more than intimate something or other about a love gone wrong-or perhaps right. The intimations are agonizing and cryptic (even the title is cryptic), so that the poem finally splinters into sharp slivers of hope and loss.
Aaron Abubo's haunting poem, "Janie Didn't Know," is a double-sided mystery, a slice out of a woman's deep grief. It is as though we are viewing this woman's experience through a scratched and damaged lens, a lens that replicates her puzzlement and confusion, her inability to see very clearly what has happened. Like "Mein Doravka," "Janie Didn't Know" gives us too little information to get a good fix on what happened, and so leaves us bewildered, trying to understand what this loss might have been. If we surrender to it, the poem ends up being a kind of sponge that draws out our own experiences of loss, and grief, and confusion. Then, as often happens in good narrative writing, it refuses to close its plot complications, and leaves them open instead like the festering wound that Janie, the protagonist, must feel.
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