A collection of poems by P. Ralston Hinchcliffe:



P. Ralston Hinchcliffe

The Cadence of Calculus

Kicked back in math,

but I don’t slack and laugh;

infact, I’m intact

and react fast and exact.

On top of my class

like a common nominator;

equatin’ straight data

dominate a calculator.

I like to simplify,

combine and derive;

differentiate, negate,

multiply and divide;

conceptualize the question,

consider and define,

then project my expression

between the X and the Y.

I’m always on the next step, like the derivative.

Feeling infinite and unlimited.

I take action uninhibited.

The skills I’ve exhibited

Evidently are indicative

of the math mastery

that leaves scholars inquisitiv--

--wait what? Huh?

Uh-oh, the teacher’s askin’:

“Patch, where’s your head at, man?

What’s the big distraction?”

Fine. Back into action.

To substract a dumb fraction.

Success may seem simple,

but perfection is practice.

I use abstract tactics to attack the mathematics.

I’m Patrick.

_________________________________________________________________

P. Ralston Hinchcliffe

Brainworms

Fingers can think

when paper meets ink,

as the mind and the hand make a subliminal link

Frolicking between lobes,

creative thought sparks and spreads;

it saturates and simmers

in the substance of your head.

But in no time, the mind

can become labyrinthine,

when elaborate conundrums

flip out the inside.

Curiosity fuels

a conscious conquest

to constantly contemplate

complex concepts;

So to capture the contrast

between reason and nonsense,

consider the big picture

in a wider context

Don’t wander beyond your

cognizance,

or you’ll be lost in conflicts

that are bottomless

So brainstorm on;

 let its thunder rage.

Just don’t hold your wonder

locked up in a cage.

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Writer's reflection:

I very much enjoy listening and partaking in rap and poetry. My musical background certainly impacts this interest, but the combination and relation of language and timing in poetry is what most compels me. Many of the admirable lyrical values in well-regarded rap songs became clear to me as I started writing poetry. What makes a verse or stanza audibly appealing has to do largely with the poetic elements I’d learned about in middle school like alliteration, repetition, and metaphors. As I continued learning of the mechanics of hip-hop, I took on more complex rhyme schemes and played with intonation, timing and cadence. I maintain I’ve learned more about vocabulary, grammar and syntax from reading and creating stanzas than any formal schooling. Constructing verses has taught me more about the interaction of words than anything else.

These are two poetry pieces I developed over the course of the year. The first poem originally had a conventional structure and rhyme scheme. One day during downtime I decided to write a poem and couldn’t think of anything to write about. This led me to ponder thought itself, and I attempted to paint a picture of the complexities of thought. As I invested more time, I began to play more with words. The second poem technically needs a beat, but on the page it’s another poem. This project was inspired by a daydream during calculus class believe it or not.

An satirical introductory paragraph for a term paper:

Put simply, buses take too long, it’s too cold to bike, and cars are plain carbon wasteful.  It seems we are in an energy enigma, and can only select from bad options. Perhaps our knight in shining armor will be the very steed he’s riding.  There’s certainly no shortage of horses here in Saratoga, as our noble mascot could tell us; once the racing season is over they’re practically set wild. Until a car fueled by carrots and sugar cubes comes around, we should make use of our ponytailed friends down at the stables, who must be awfully bored during the offseason. This arrangement could benefit the horse trainers too; after all, we’d be giving them free practice. No one could say “neigh” to the speed of a car without the cost of gasoline and the harmful emission. In fact, their emission could double as fertilizer. Instead of limiting our options to machines, lets harness the energy of our breathing brethren and take advantage of a horse-sharing program.  Saddle up Skidmore, we’re making the transition from wheels to hooves.

writer's reflection:

This was a sample introductory paragraph for a paper that explored the holes in Skidmore’s environmental efforts and proposed a solution. Hopefully it’s evident that the paragraph was meant to introduce a satire. This was the first time I was able to write comically in the classroom setting, and I think satire will have a huge component of my future with writing. It was very enjoyable to write the intro, but I ultimately went with a more serious option because I didn’t think that I’d be able to make serious points in a facetious paper without degrading the quality of either. While plans for next semester didn’t quite work out, I absolutely plan on pursuing satirical writing, and this intro started it all. 

Continuity of Parks: a Modern Rendition of a Classic Short Story

by Patrick Hinchcliffe

As he came to the side door of his apartment building, the man reached for the key atop the doorframe. He opened the heavy door and replaced the key, continuing up the steps to the third floor. The man then unlocked and entered the door to the left; finally, he had escaped the buzzing and bustling chaos of the city. At last the worries and struggles of work and society were behind him; the only conflicts that mattered now were those of the characters in the man’s novel, which was laid facedown invitingly on his table: the portal to a new world. It was here that the man was free to slip from the sprawling city and sink into his story, wandering between chapters as he followed the convoluted conflicts of his favorite characters.

Outside, the night’s rain drummed on his wide window. His apartment was illuminated by the artificial glow of neon. Outside of his brick enclosure, sirens wailed and traffic bustled, but this was all peripheral: mere details of a world soon to be left behind. Besides, he was comforted by the high, supportive back of his green velvet armchair. To his left stood a seat-side table holding an open pack of cigarettes within arm’s reach. On his right was a tumbler half full of smoky scotch, whose aroma soon filled the man’s nostrils. To his back, the unlocked apartment door—one that might have been a source of concern. If he hadn’t been distracted by his newfound comfort, he might’ve been worried by the possibility of a break-in right behind his back, but in the pristine, peaceful pleasure of his favorite chair, the man didn’t care. His left hand picked through pages as his right stroked the soft green velvet of his chair, and the man dove into his story.

The protagonist dashed through the depths of dark alleys. He panted, but his pace remained steady. He splashed through puddles and tripped over rocks on the uneven ground, but still, the man continued unwavering and unnoticed behind buildings and businesses. His clothes were worn and wet. Spotting his face were bruises: stinging reminders of what had happened to him and what he must do. Through the cold and the dark, the man carried on to his destination, thoughts sprinting at the speed of his feet.

At last he came upon the familiar oak door. The paint was chipped and stained with time, just as it had always been. He opened it carefully to avoid its welcoming squeak and continued down the dusty corridor, just as he had always done. As his heart rate adjusted to the calmer pace of his steps, he carried on across the tattered red rug to the building’s only room. He turned the cool copper knob and met his woman. She began kissing the cuts and bruises on the man’s face, but they both knew this was no meeting of love and the man denied her soft advances.

They maintained eye contact but not a word was spoken. The plan had been established and their business was clear. The couple held one another in the dark and dank room. The air smelled of age and rain drummed on the windows. Lost in the silent final embrace, the man came to at the stone-cold sting of steel in his palm. They both knew what would come next.

He bid his mistress a silent farewell, took the gun from her hand and departed. The final stage of his plan was now in motion, and the man retreated through the labyrinth of alleyways, swallowed by the darkness. At last he arrived, approached the side door and felt for the key. Once inside, the never-ending activity of the city was silenced; its sounds suppressed under a blanket of falling rain.

Taking steady steps, he recalled his woman’s voice, gently leading him through the directions. First, up the stairs to the third floor. There were two doors as promised; his business was to the left. The unlocked knob turned with ease, just as he had been assured. Before he entered, the man thought of his mistress, the reason behind his endeavor. For their love to live on, he knew he must execute the plan and the person in the way.

With this final encouragement, he drew his weapon and opened the apartment door—his entrance muffled by the distant pitter-patter of raindrops. The glow of neon radiated in from outside a wide window, illuminating the atmosphere of cigarette smoke that had consumed the room. Down the barrel of his gun was the back of a chair—where the victim sat facing away with all but his head obscured. He aimed his weapon and advanced but the target sat peacefully still, captivated in the pages of a book in his left hand. His right hand softly stroked the green velvet of his armchair. 

Writer's reflection:

Continuidad de los Parques” (or Continuity of Parks) is a remarkable short story by Argentine writer Julio Cortázar. Before you read this reflection you should read the story I attached to it.

In the original short story, Cortázar blurred the boundaries between realities, effectively making the reader uncertain about where the characters stand—and even more uncertain of their own reality. As writer Daniel Lannes once put it, the short story “seems to present a puzzle that readers must solve, as reality and fantasy intersect. In fact, however, no solution is possible, and Cortázar is not interested in puzzles in the first place.” Thus, there is no mystery with a single solution; the story is a metaphor for the experience of reading. I began the story reading innocently just like like the protagonist does, but as the plot thickens and realities converge, the metaphysical limits of realities came into question.

I wanted to make an adaptation of “Continuity of Parks” to test my writing ability. It was difficult, interesting and useful to replicate the unique structure of the story. Primarily, I changed some elements of the setting. Whereas the original took place in a suburban setting on a bright and beautiful day, I decided to take a more ominous tone with my rendition to build anticipation. The darker tone of my version was certainly influenced by Hollywood, as I pictured a dark and spooky Gotham-type city. I think my version was more entertaining in that way, but part of the genius and mastery of Cortázar’s original has to do with the immaculate, sunny setting and the beautifully flowing tone he writes with.

In my adaption of the story I attempted to make the reader aware that something bad was going to happen and build the anticipation for it. I primarily did this through vagueness by never making clear what the heck was going on. In addition, I added ominous elements to the setting with the dark and rain. The story had me thinking so much that I had to take my own spin; I wanted to use descriptive writing to paint a picture half as clear as Julio’s in the phenomenal short story.