This is just temporary
an excerpt from an essay I did on poetry for a few friends to see
Many enjoy poetry that has hidden meanings, often completely
indiscernible to me, couched in metaphor. Reminds me of the Simon and Garfunkel
song Sounds of Silence:
Like a circle in a
spiral,
like a wheel within a
wheel.
Never ending or
beginning
on an ever spinning
reel 4/
This example is not a
metaphor, the words ‘like’ and ‘as’ typically bring a simile, a comparison of
things that share some quality. A problem for me in reading this kind of poetry
is that often there is no metaphor, not in a poetic grammar sense. Instead a context or a situation in which
readers find resemblances to other things then assume they are metaphors.
Langston Hughes, one of America’s
great poets and writers, was a master of placing complex ideas into metaphors
that would likely be remembered by his readers. A metaphor can do this: become
a simple phrasing of a complicated idea, none more excellent of an example than
his masterpiece- “Dreams”.
by Langston Hughes
Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.
Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.
These are classic examples of metaphor -- which I will
quickly define here so that this discussion can be easily followed -- as this: a metaphor is a sentence using the verb “to
be” that converts one thing into another thing, which in the real world would
be impossible.
In the Hughes poem
“Life” is converted to a “broken wing bird”. Later, “Life” is converted into “a
barren field” and then extended to “a barren field covered with snow”.
Excellent metaphors, using the verb “is”.
Many find metaphors that are not as clear; they come in the context of a
story or a scene. Some are not in any
technical or grammatical sense a metaphor.
Quick example is the famous Villanelle by Dylan Thomas “Do Not Go Gentle
Into That Good Night”
“Do not go gentle into
that good night,
Old age should burn
and rage at close of day;
Rage, rage against the
dying of the light….”
I have seen scores of readers leave comments about this
famous poem. They frequently discuss the
metaphors in that villanelle when in strict form there are none. I think Thomas
knew what a metaphor was and chose not to use it. In a form like a villanelle, I have found it
becomes difficult to do much with a metaphor- to extend it or define it.
Instead, Thomas used brilliant imagery and asked profound questions.
There is a popular belief that everything is a metaphor for
something else, one which I cannot begin to accept. It cancels-out the few instances that a
skilled writer might use a metaphor. A well
used metaphor can express --in a short set of words-- what might need many, many
pages. Is the “good night” a metaphor
for death? Perhaps it may be so to many people but not likely in this
poem. First, it is not impossible, I
mean by this that when we die we no longer see or so we think. It is possible
that we sink into darkness. A metaphor should be clearly impossible, like -
life is a broken wing bird. If death were a metaphor then it would be that “good
night”, I think it an unlikely way to see death. Many people claim to find metaphors that do
not use the verb “to be” and this too has created a class of things- I call it a
presumed metaphor. In grammar a verb or subject can be understood, unstated. I
would not argue these sentences with implied subject and predicates can indeed be
metaphors.
We are free to do as we agree with our language; it grows
every day in some unexpected way by usage. I don’t mean to be restrictive here
because I think in the end it matters very little. It is enough to appreciate
that there are definite ways to make a metaphor and that readers may find them
where not intended. Either way, whether one actually makes them or not, there
will likely be some who will praise the metaphoric depth! My point is that I
think this is a widely misunderstood element in poetry and writing more
generally.
Images
I think there is a sense among many editors and writers that
metaphor is a higher calling than images in poetry, that metaphor is a more
artistic style. I think this comes in part from a too loose idea of what a
metaphor is. But there is no scale or
measure, the writer is free to use metaphor or imagery as his or her talent
might lead them. I write haiku and have
spent many hours trying to capture an image in as few as three or four words.
For me there is nothing more desirable about metaphor, although I quickly add
that a well designed metaphor can replace many paragraphs of writing and deliver
a message with great impact. I have chosen a short poem translated into English
from Spanish written by Octavio Paz. I
think this was a most difficult poem to translate and the job was done well
here, the basic feeling has been delivered in English. Paz connects images like a chain and in each
link of the chain the image has a different quality. This is a technique I admire and one that
serves the poet well:
“a rose drips morning
dew; morning-wet leaves on
shoes.”
Exerpt from
by Octavio Paz
Listen to me as one listens to the rain,
not attentive, not distracted,
light footsteps, thin drizzle,
water that is air, air that is time,
the day is still leaving,
the night has yet to arrive,
figurations of mist
at the turn of the corner,
figurations of time
at the bend in this pause,
listen to me as one listens to the rain,
without listening, hear what I say…”
Uses of imagery
Words can paint a picture for a reader; leave an impression
that might never go away. For me, there
have been verses that not only stay, but become places on which ideas and
values are built. There is a great power to words that render images for a
reader. Take as an example a single line from a fantastic writer, William
Carlos Williams :
“It is at the edge of
a petal that love waits.”
For me, this was a lasting image one that not only found a
home in my thoughts but became a foundation for many ideas, many ways to
express feelings in poetry.
there was a scent of bloom
in warm night air, as skies
made turns of clear and cloud
moonlight came bright then seeped away
I chose to stay, there on the cusp
of a sudden storm.
In distance, lightning flashed
thunder murmured; its voice
not clear, indifferent to this dark shawl.
Nectar-dipped brushes painted the wind,
raised to my notice as it touched another sense
small hair on skin and now my vapored thoughts
as if waiting for a bubble to burst
having risen from a depth in me,
the feeling simply remained
within this still flower before dawn
frozen in a moment so beautiful
and so plain,
now a bridge to morning
a pendant dew drop suspended on the edge
of a petal of time.
By Howard D. Moore
originally published under the pen name- “Peteskid”
Sometimes a poem can make someone see another point of view,
imagery can do this- help someone see the importance of another person’s ideas
when they might be quite different from their own view. Here in the poem “Small voice” is a different set of
views on manliness, the stereotype of the strong male. Once denied to men of ordinary stature, and
then denied to men of unassuming personality, the male image has grown in U.S
culture. From brute strength to strength of character, a kind of strength that
can be displayed by everyone, regardless of sex, age, physical attributes and
the like. It is more than sex-neutral,
it is gender shattering, yet, and there are many who cling to the traditional
role plays- to the ‘he’ stronger than the ‘she’. So this poem is about that dialogue, when she
found him to be unmanly.
My soft voice, you say;
when a roar is expected, too gentle.
I stand in a veiled tense of tenderness
and your eyes judge.
I do not wither 'neath your gaze, did you notice
my eyes at yours; and in drizzling rains,
I still walk empty streets searching
damp city air for my freedom.
And when lightning flashed
those hot summer nights, and heavy air
teased our bare skin; I did not flinch,
but taught you to count to thunder.
When howling hurricanes come to strike down
walls holding the sea, and skies turn in seeming anger
staring down gasping life; when evil crosses
the doorway, in the pitch of darkness
I stand there too,
commanding storms with my whispers,
promising never to leave your side;
standing with my small voice
breath and faith near your ear,
and my ever quiet whispers
close to your heart.
Perhaps this was the end that discussion or the beginning of
a far more meaningful dialogue about personal strength which depends on nothing
except the size of the will within each individual.
the spells of silence work well enough
to suspend the roll of time, thought
comes to life as vivid places, voices
blend with sounds I speak to me;
in a quiet night,
the past rehearses a better ending
to notice the start of the next play.
The regrets seem deeper, the joy
more intense, yet expectations fill me
in a quiet night.
Wandering across the world I've made
there is always a destination: horizons,
coming dawn, in sweet moonlight; the steps
take me to love, treasured end of a journey -
and to you, there in a quiet night.
Imagery: The woman
who is not there…
This is a favorite theme for my writing, and for many I
think for whom love has been a long search.
A long search is a sign of futility to some, but to the poet it is also
the watermark of an heroic soul, a lover of love; one who is a champion of a cause more
vital than the ordinary things of life.
The woman who is not there, or the man who she wishes for, perhaps creates
from the salvage of disappointment.
watching one thing
as a thousand things pass by
each brings a thought, memory
Ideas sprout like a flower garden of neon
sprinkled by imaginings.
I speak to one not here
joins me when driving
like the empty place next to me
suddenly filled by my wish--for her.
When each neon blade
becomes a grassy swale
combed by fingers of winds;
bright flowers lend a sun dance
send perfumes to fill air.
In a language I invent
one between her ‘many’ and my ‘few’
we travel to a place less important
in time that matters little for anything else
by a touch of her hand to my face
and how I whisper into her palm...
this is the first kiss of the evening
When someone is missed, absent in a physical sense, the poet
can fill the absence with thoughts, after all, we spend our entire existence in
thought; in a sense, it is the world in which we really exist. All of our
experiences from a quiet moment of meditation to falling out of an airplane
with a parachute are experienced and repeated in thought, in the endless
dialogue from self to self. Love is no different, and the poet can find a
wonderful opportunity to show how absence is another way of being together—in
thought.
I missed you and the Moon
at the end of a world-soaked day
drenched in wasting minutiae
of other folk's woes, and tired then
I paused when the journey home
seemed unending, and fate
was a giant's hand swatting me fly-like
pushing away a twig in a stream
I missed you and the Moon
as afternoon curled inside evening
even as I pushed the wall of time
begged it to stop the vise to close
and something shoulder tapped my turn
to upward eyes to squint into
pale blue and wispy cotton, wind shredded
canopy that held...a soft golden shoulder
in silhouette upon a bed of blue,
as if to whisper entre nous she'd glanced
and then, just you were missed.
So I stood above the noise and crowd
spoke softly, aloud...and told how much.
Imagery also makes the other side of this difficult question.
There is more to life than sweetness and light, other ways of seeing any event
or encounter and other ways of expressing feelings. Here is an example of the
idea of change and whether it is always welcomed. Many people use a way of thinking, a way of
speaking that grudgingly accepts even the best of circumstances. It makes for an interesting balance in
perspective. Let’s see if you agree.
There were warning signs everywhere
painted passions on a collision course
and time ticking away like a fuse.
High sounding words and reasons
wouldn't warm the bed.
Whispers from empty pillows
made haunting echoes;
and so it began,
sighs and whimpers, sweet tones and subtle touches.
There were warning signs before the eyes
but eyes needed to be open
not half lidded and misted, focused on blank wall;
even bells and whistles
had the qualities of winds and birdsong.
Still there was all of the experience
fore warned by frequent falls,
no fear when we are in an embrace
we think it is a swoon,
loon call on a glassy lake
echoing off the pines.
There were warning signs everywhere,
and still they found goodbye
can be an awful burden in the morning.
