For today’s prompt, write a metaphor poem. That is, write a poem built around a metaphor. Remember: Metaphors actually take on another object (like “I am a Tree” or “I am a Rock“). This is not to be confused with similes, which are like metaphors (for instance, “I am like a tree” or “I am like a rock”), but not quite. Dig? If so, then you are a shovel or spade or bulldozer. Now poem the heck out of metaphors today.
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Re-create Your Poetry!
Revision doesn’t have to be a chore–something that should be done after the excitement of composing the first draft. Rather, it’s an extension of the creation process!
In the 48-minute tutorial video Re-creating Poetry: How to Revise Poems, poets will be inspired with several ways to re-create their poems with the help of seven revision filters that they can turn to again and again.
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Here’s my attempt at a Metaphor Poem:
“i am a bell”
i am a bell ready to ring
with just a touch for you i’ll sing
throughout the day into the night
ringing for you with all my might
but when you leave me on a shelf
i collect dust all by myself
so tie me to a piece of thread
& i’ll ring wherever i’m led
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Robert Lee Brewer is Senior Content Editor of the Writer’s Digest Writing Community and author of Solving the World’s Problems (Press 53). He is a bell.
Follow him on Twitter @RobertLeeBrewer.
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A Tea-bag Kind of Day
This has been a tea-bag kind of day
A day where I’ve been dunked in
And out of hot water
Then been left to steep too long
Had every ounce of juice
Squeezed out of me
And now you wonder why
I am just a bit bitter
If you were more observant you
Could have read the warning in the
Dregs left behind
This is so creative! Love your last two lines.
METAPHOR
I do not want to be
A simile
I do not want to be like something
I do not want to be an ellipses
Dragging on
Pausing
Confused
I wanted to be
A metaphor
Solid
Sure
“Spring Entering”
What happens after the last snowstorm of winter?
Spring enters, shy at first, a grinning lost friend.
Except sometimes the illegit relative jotted on our Bible
frontispiece—that’s who walks in the door. Anything,
dear lord, but more family drama, though finally,
what’s another seat at the picnic table? Children
best know how to usher summer, running, glancing back
to their parents, destination, the lakeside playground
with sandy beach, beyond that, the soothing purple
of a pine forest along the opposite shore. Catching fish
from the wooden rowboat and releasing them. Falling
in love with lingering twilight and the single bird
that speaks its mind just as dark drops. A century
transpires during heat-we-hope-will-never-end: fun
multiplies each day into many. A perennial nineteen,
the way we adults feel. How long since we were cautioned
a kiss leads to something stronger, though we already knew,
back when. Don’t say nothing’s forever. We’ve buried
the truth that autumn will bring down its ornery ax—
again and again. If we can’t let go, then one huge snow, hard.
Never mind. Spring will knock once more, some time ahead.
—B Peters
Endwords from Richard Hugo, “Brief History,” Making Certain It Goes On
Lantern Acrostic
Lighting the path of others with my word—
Always, I hope to change those who have heard.
Notice my fire while hiking through the dark—
This is my aim—help them to leave a mark.
Entering and exiting life’s dense woods—
Reflecting love, I lead them to the goods.
Need I remember to burn midnight oil?
What I Want to Say
My table wobbles when I write
and I cannot keep my words from
sliding to and fro before they
fall completely off the page
and bounce—marbles on the floor.
You watch with pursed lips when I write.
Sometimes you take my pencil as if
your hand knows what I want to write.
It only proves that you can write.
Your table doesn’t wobble like mine does.
You probably don’t realize my frustration
with having a body generate its own earthquake
every time I want to share a thought.
If only you could show me,
help me steady this damn table,
without that look on your face
that tells me I’ll never be much of a writer
and, perhaps you’re right.
But, you will never get to read
the love songs I write for my dog.
Love this, especially that ending!
I am a book.
The title changes
from day to day
as do the contents.
Sometimes I’m poetry,
Sometimes prose.
I’ve been a mystery
Some days
I’m a book of happiness
full of laughter
and stories
I’m ready to share
because few know them
Some days I’m a book of sadness
of events gone by, of twists
and turns that went the wrong way
or never came at all.
It’s best to share sadness
to help it go away.
This book
drifts in clouds,
the cover closed
revealing nothing
of what’s inside
until you open it.
Admonitions to be gentle
with this book
fall on unhearing ears
in the noise of the day.
Ralli rilius
seeded where suns
scarce & acid seeps
so easy to rip free
on a southern breeze
calling forth
the saplings brave
to touch down
elsewhere
roots spread not deep
but weave with others
till the sky is reached
by all
I Am a Mermaid
But I don’t live
in the sea.
I flower from May
to September
when I add
a sweet touch
of color
to your garden.
Those who
have cultivated me
call me
a forget-me-not.
I’m easy to grow,
reliable, too—
you can count on me
to bloom and add cheer
to your life
when you’re feeling blue.
Love the idea of a garden mermaid!
I Am George Lucas
I am not a Stair Way
I am a Star War
Metaphors be with you
I’ll look you in the jedi
Give you (pop)corn to chewie
But I ain’t goin’ over to the darth side
So call me evader, if you want
I know it’s only sci & fi
But I like it
gpr crane
Love this – made me smile. I like sci & fi too.
This is so clever! Well done.
Cast
I am a plaster cast,
and fit snugly,
molding to the contours of an injured
arm or leg. I tend to shed while wet
creating somewhat of a mess. Best to cover me with
a large baggie for
showers or baths.
Thanks for following my directions. Get well soon!
I Am a Metaphor
Not content to be like something else,
to behave as another not like me,
I am a metaphor.
I teach the unknown, placing it just so,
beside the known, pointing out
just how much they are alike.
I set up a blind date between the familiar
and the unfamiliar, hoping
what little they have in common
takes hold.
I am a metaphor, direct
in finding connections, aware
that word play is not play at all.
SWEET OR SALTY
Do you
remember when we first met
and I was your bowl of frosting
smooth and creamy, delightfully sweet
a complement to your devil’s food mood–
I was your balance.
Perfection.
But
somehow in time
I became your box of salt
existing only to season your life
to bring out the flavors of your interests
your friends your desires your work your play
while at the same time
solely to blame for your high blood pressure.
So
before my heart
became jerky, I left
You quickly finding a new bowl of
frosting.
And I hope you did!
The Match
He is a match
the last in the box
all others spent and carefully gathered
heart parched and withered
soul scorched and shrivelled
Fuel assembles at His feet
those too long unchallenged fear
something fresh, something new
something not them…so
they strike the match and
the flame dies
they think it’s ended…but
heart blazes bright
soul burns unquenchable
fuel catches flame
not the end they looked for
but a new beginning
Eden opens its gate
Viewfinder
The camera clicks
what comes into focus
first: the filled sink,
the woman beside
the counter, bathrobe
tied loose, zooms to
a breast in silhouette,
the hand clutches a knife,
carrots and onions splayed
on a board, then pulls back to
man by door, watches
the woman, shakes
his head and mouth opens,
then closes, camera zooms
to the knife slicing
through vegetables,
bathrobe drawn
bight, face hidden
in shadows, jaw
pulsing in time
to the knife.
I am
the blank Word Document
mocking you
with every blink of my cursor.
I am
the pen that refuses to move
across the page.
I am
the sound of crickets
that echo in your brainpan
when you tell your significant other
that you’re writing poetry.
I am
every person that has crossed your path
asking you what your Plan B is.
You are
The Bride, back from the dead
spitting blood at your attackers.
You are
the sound of your
steeling resolve and unwavering belief
that poetry is a good thing.
You are
the spent pages and empty pen cartridges.
You are Command + S.
You are
You will be
ok.
Love this Matt. That blank page can be quite daunting.