2018 April PAD Challenge: Day 15

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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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.

Click to continue.

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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

*****

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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231 thoughts on “2018 April PAD Challenge: Day 15

  1. Austin Hill

    I am a file cabinet
    crammed with normal life experiences
    arranged
    alphabetically &
    chronologically.
    The unexpected,
    arranged
    casually.
    The painful,
    arranged
    haphazardly.

    © April 2018 Suzanne S. Austin-Hill

  2. Bruce Niedt

    I’m all about metaphors, but here I’m stretching the concept a bit. Also, it’s political satire, so apologies in advance to those who may disagree.

    Vader Redux

    They all hate me, that Rebel Alliance,
    those troublemakers in their X-wing fighters.
    They don’t want me to build the Death Star,
    my greatest idea. It’s huge, the size of a moon,
    a deterrent, a barrier, a wall if you will,
    against alien insurgents, rapists and murderers.
    I mean, what’s the point of a Death Star
    If you can’t use it? They hate my storm troopers too,
    good people, just misunderstood. I want a parade
    with the greatest show of force this empire
    has ever seen. They’ll all salute me.
    I know more than the generals anyway.
    Maybe I didn’t have a chance to play
    Clone Wars with storm trooper figures as a kid.
    Maybe my dad didn’t give me enough attention,
    and when he did, he criticized me without mercy.
    But none of that matters now. I’m at the top
    of the heap. They all fear my imposing presence –
    the mask, the black cloak, the full head of hair.
    I can choke any of them with a single thought,
    and my light saber is the biggest, in my normal-sized hands.
    That lyin’ Kenobi learned the hard way.
    Just you wait – I’ll Make the Empire Great Again!

  3. Jane Shlensky

    Necessity

    He is wood for her fire,
    and tea for her cup.
    He is roof and foundation,
    the food she will sup.
    He is wonder and blunder,
    a miracle, spine,
    and helps her forget
    all the loss she calls ‘mine’.

    He believes she is magic–
    a sorceress, queen;
    what befell her, not tragic
    but something between
    for they are for each other
    the most they will need
    two plots for one garden,
    two bearers of seed.

  4. Jane Shlensky

    Grief

    Grief is a dirty fighter,
    a below the belt,
    sucker punching,
    gut kicking,
    hair pulling brute.

    Just when I think
    he’s down and out,
    just when I can breathe
    at last, hope at last,

    he gets me where
    it hurts and twists
    all my memories
    into pain’s rope
    for me to hang myself.

  5. Jane Shlensky

    Duet

    She’s a melody;
    he’s a banging drum.
    She is harmony;
    he is conundrum.
    She’s a lilting tune;
    he’s a trumpet blast.
    She’s a soulful croon
    as he wanders past.
    She’s the heart of song;
    he’s a deafened ear,
    yet they sing along
    without doubt or fear.

  6. Jane Shlensky

    Tweet

    She’s a cow, she’s a hag!
    He’s a lying scumbag!
    They are all rotten sheep!
    They are all stinking —–bleep!
    It’s a witch hunt, a bitch hunt,
    a snitch hunt—all fake!
    It’s a cesspool, a clown, fool,
    a dumb mule, a Flake!
    I’m a name-caller, spit-baller,
    tweet mauler—Scream!
    I am pinch, grab, and wrench,
    the American Dream!

  7. Connie Peters

    I am a Fencepost

    One man actually told another in my hearing,
    “This is between you and me and the fencepost.”
    I was the fencepost.

    Strong, quiet, easily overlooked
    Keeping out the predators
    Keeping in what needs protection

  8. Monique

    Broken Things

    Pedestals holding up former friends
    Images of seemingly perfect people
    Shattered pieces of a fun house mirror
    All are broken
    Inside and out

    Trust in anything or anyone
    Memories of time gone by
    The happiness in ignorance
    All broken things
    That time can’t fix

    The hearts, once all connected
    The reputations, once shining
    Castles built in the skies
    Broken
    Burned
    Fallen

  9. Brian Slusher

    THEIR LOVE STORY WAS

    He was a solar-powered bicycle.
    She was a fur coat floating in a swimming pool.
    They were a cartoon with French subtitles.

    Their love was a package that rattled when you shook it.
    His song was a treehouse held together with moonlight.
    Her vow was a lap dog barking at a bay window.

    Their life was a submarine without a compass.
    His doubts were an ant dragging a chicken bone.
    Her secrets were a fan of fake IDs.

    His goodbye was a bolder dropped on a greenhouse.
    Her reply was a sandwich left by a highway.
    Their story was a burnt matchstick thrown from a car window.

  10. CMcGowan

    I am a Book

    I am a book,

    open and closed –

    filled with ideas,

    filled with emotions,

    filled with joy and pain.

    I am a book,

    captured in words –

    filled with similes,

    filled with setting,

    filled with reality and escape.

    I am a book,

    creating a life –

    filled with adventure,

    filled with travel,

    filled with now and then.

    I am a book.

  11. bethwk

    The Beloved

    She is a whisper
    in the breeze,
    ‎calling you
    ‎into the wilderness,
    ‎reminding you
    ‎of your true name.

    She is a crocus
    in the wild wood,
    ‎escaping the borders
    ‎of the gardens,
    ‎catching the gaze
    ‎of your downcast eye.

    She is three crows
    casting themselves
    ‎into the tempest,
    ‎claiming the sky,
    ‎inviting you
    ‎to take wing.

    (www.farmpoem.wordpress.com)

  12. deringer1

    A FOREIGN COUNTRY

    my mind is a foreign country
    and sometimes my passport is denied.

    such a lot of unexplored territory to see
    but a wall of fear and indolence

    blocks my way and I wonder just
    how much more I really want to know.

    so I remain in the bliss of
    just enough and no more.

  13. acele

    I am the books by my bed
    And as such
    My most treasured lines
    Are purely aspirational.
    I am ever shifting in interest and often feel neglected
    But if you look deep within me
    You will see on the pages
    Many a story,
    Some yet unreadL.

  14. Jennifer

    The Untitled Screen

    I’m vacant and empty and beautifully gray
    I wait to write down what you want to say.
    I don’t sit in judgement; I just sit and blink,
    waiting and waiting while you try to think.

    I never have moods, don’t get in a snit.
    What does it matter how long that I sit?
    Sit. Sit. Sit. Sit. Sit. Blink. Blink. Blink. Blink. Blink.
    It’s a good thing you don’t have to use ink.

    Dried up and gone it would be by the time
    You figured out that those words don’t rhyme.
    I’m only saying, it’s not a critique:
    My thesaurus will know the word that you seek.

    I’m sure you realize I could have been rock.
    Or paper or parchment or clay in a block.
    A tablet ready for ancient scribes who
    scratched out hieroglyphics faster than you.

  15. MET

    Betrayal

    I am the tree
    That sheltered you;
    The one that you played near
    And imagined dragons
    Lurking behind me.
    The one that rocked you
    To sleep with the wind
    Rustling through my leaves
    In a song sweet and light.
    I am the tree
    You cut down
    Without thought.

    Mary Elizabeth Todd
    April 15, 2018

  16. JoMae

    Pining For My Weeping Willow

    Deep in the middle of the right as I lay seeking
    sleep, I’d listen to the soaring stately pine
    pillared strong outside our room,
    standing, waving in the breeze
    scraping at the window to
    remind me he was there

    dancing with the willow just next door
    who wept for joy at his attention – his
    whispered love sending shock waves
    through her limbs. Her languid branches
    sweeping the lawn with abandon, then 
    reaching out for him in the wind as he
    smiled back and nodded gallantly

    Many years ago, my young husband sound
    asleep, instead of counting sheep I’d listen
    to the couple cavorting in the yard. The
    elegant tall pine and whimsical willow
    took on a life of magic in the night.

    No longer dancing together,
    neither tree survived the
    devastating ice storm
    of 1991.

    JoMae
    4/15/18
    #aprpad

  17. Michelle Hed

    I am a Wave

    I’m on a journey
    rolling on a path
    full of exhales and inhales

    sometimes I come in and
    tickle the toes of some girls fancy
    before traveling back

    and sometimes
    I’m cresting over jagged pinnacles
    licking my wounds as I limp away

    but I always keep on rolling.

  18. Patricia A. Hawkenson

    Inflate

    I can’t float
    alone
    so let your fingers
    pull me close to you
    a lifesaving
    embrace
    pierce
    the memory
    of almost drowning
    in that darkened space
    with fear
    screaming
    water in my lungs
    that makes me
    want to ride
    a sparkling wave
    a lovers embrace
    before giving up
    and sinking,
    dissolving
    as we merge

  19. MET

    Memories

    You are the shadow
    Secreted from me.

    You are the voices
    I hear whisper
    The last sound
    Before slipping into sleep.

    You are the vision
    Trapped behind me.

    You are moonbeams,
    That slide through my fingers
    As sand on beach.

    You are the will-o’-wisp
    In the quagmire of my sorrow.

    You are the dew
    That clings in morning light
    Sparkling….

    You are bread
    For you feed my heart.

    You are the cat
    Sitting in the sun
    Renewing itself.

    You are never loss
    For you reside with me

    Sitting on my screen porch
    I sit on the bench my father made,
    And I remember the days…

    Mary Elizabeth Todd
    April 15, 2018

  20. Smruti

    I am the wind

    You cannot hold me
    You cannot catch me
    You cannot see me

    I am a gentle touch
    on your soft cheeks
    I am a cool breeze
    on a hot summer day
    I am the happy blows
    to your bubbling bubbles
    and your musical whistles
    I am the energetic gust of joy
    on the swaying grass
    and ruffling play of leaves
    I am the freshness
    of the clean air in your breath
    I am life in you

  21. De Jackson

    This Poem is a Kitchen Sink
    Everything, and Nothing {in Between}

    This poem is a well
    -kept secret, a forgotten song,
    a vanilla skeleton portrait
    left in one dark closet.

    This line is a semiformal suit
    -case
                    (black tie optional)
    party of the elite intelligencia
    comparing IQs and elbow lament
    -ations over cocktails of questionable
    worth.

    This particular stanza is a small lady
                         -bug
    on a lonely flower. She would like
    to report that her house was never
    really on fire, and her children are just fine.

    Can you smell this line’s timed rhyme?
    It’s a rhythm and blues sky,
    a tide without a moon,
    an embattled bitter salt-lick rain
    that ended too soon.

    This poem is negotiating for better pay
    (ha! just kidding, nobody
    really pays for poems).

    It’s a small and silent warning
    sign, graffiti’d on hungry skin.
    It’s a tattoo that says
    stop touching me. It’s a plea

    to forgive, to live,
    to move again. It’s a dance
    under the most significant
    of stars. It’s fireflies
    in jars, and the way they
    light our way
    home.

    This poem is a roaming
    charge. A mountain’s edge.
                           A tiny stone.

    ::
    {This poem is the one with all the prompts.}

  22. Cam Yee

    Dog is Cat, a Metaphor

    Bear with me now, I know that this is not the norm,
    that it stretches our traditional understanding of the form.
    that two such diametrically opposed creatures
    cannot possibly inhabit the same being, share the same features,
    unless of course,
    dog ingests cat.

    But really, we’re not being literal here, after all,
    I can make this work, I’ll find the words,
    like: dog is cat, with calico befurred
    white and black and grey and even brindle,
    it blows the mind, but really, it’s quite simple,
    calico, when used as an adjective, “is of an animal USUALLY a cat” ,
    that is mottled or multi-colored but,
    the world is full of multi-mottled mutts,
    could be cats, right? Metaphorically, I mean.

    And let’s see, what else? What else?
    dog is cat, all paws and claws, and wagging, twitching tails,
    dog is cat, all pink tongue and tapping toenails,
    dog is cat, because… they’re both four-legged!
    dog is cat, to be found at dinner, begging,
    dog is cat they suffer from the same intestinal worms and protozoa,
    ok, ok, I’m stretching, yes, I know! Uh,
    I may have googled that one but you see
    heartworms make no distinction between the canine and the feline, why should we?
    They share the same gestational period, so there could be kittens OR puppies,
    cute either way, don’t you agree?
    And both are hunters. When I say ‘Mouser” which could it be?
    Depends on if you have a tom or a terrier, doesn’t it?
    See? It’s starting to make sense.

    So, dog is cat, deep in the wilds of the shag rug, stalking its prey,
    the unsuspecting squeaky toy, not even squeaking,
    Just kinda hanging out innocently on the floor until…
    Pounce! The dog IS cat, because cats pounce,
    don’t they? Do I have that right? Or is it dogs that pounce and therefore,
    cat is dog?

    *** My teenage niece is visiting and I told her to give me a metaphor. No response. So I told her I’d settle for a noun. She grudgingly gave me “dog”. Then I told her I needed another noun. She snickered and gave me “cat”. Teenagers…

  23. thunk2much

    Seed

    I’m sure I told you,
    confessing,
    that the light scattering
    of flower seeds
    planted so long ago
    in my heart has
    turned to stone,
    petrified
    at the thought
    of so much
    wasted time,
    but lately spring
    and her whispered
    green promises
    have me wondering
    if there might be
    just one last seed
    still bursting
    with life and hope
    reaching even now
    for fertile ground.

  24. jhmaloney

    In a Safe Place

    Behind a tinted window,
    a safe distance away,
    in armor scratched and dented
    from too much time in the fray
    and locked inside a bunker
    made of steel and thick cement
    I watch the world pass by
    and wonder where all my time went.

  25. cobanionsmith

    I Couldn’t Find Poem Today

    I knew Poem
    was somewhere
    in the sanctuary
    because we usually
    worship together.
    Although rejected,
    I respected
    Poem’s wish
    to be left alone
    with God. Besides,
    turnabout is fair play.

    Then, I thought
    I glimpsed
    Poem again
    in a wandering
    cloud, but no;
    just a couple
    of floating words
    or maybe birds.

    Refusing to play
    fair, Poem stayed
    in my periphery.
    Every time I looked
    straight at
    Poem, Poem
    disappeared. Then,
    right there!
    Winking at me,
    smug with victory,
    I found Poem
    hiding behind
    the quiet cursor
    all along.

    Courtney O’Banion Smith
    @cobanionsmith

  26. Margot Suydam

    Riding Shot Gun

    A reckless yet time-worn pickup
    truck, you skid and slide,

    blind and off kilter you crunch
    the ancient oak

    where we carve our names.
    So much for any meager escape.

    Already, I am signed with hardly
    a thought past the crooked roads

    you race down hoping for a fast 
    exit to get me home on empty.

    You are treacherous as pigeon
    holes in metal yet slow 

    like burning wood settled 
    by a homeless fire-side.

    Kindness tires you so you dispense
    with forgotten

    shot gun riders, throw us out
    with the gasket.

  27. MargoL

    I am a rose
    ‘I am a rose ‘
    I am a rose, lusty red
    Romantic love, it is said

    One solitary flower
    That’s sitting on the dresser

    In our bedroom next to you
    Mixed with passion that is true

    Remaining with us thereof
    Forever abiding love

  28. carolecole

    Going Home

    Follow the road to the end, Just ahead
    is a small bay off a large bay off the Gulf.
    On the right is the closely guarded entrance
    to a small community. The guard is unarmed
    but will not allow you in unless you push
    a series of buttons, which action not only triggers
    an alarm inside a house but scans your body
    and your car for weapons and illegal drugs.
    You cannot escape this scrutiny.

    I have chosen not to turn onto the path
    that takes me home. I drive straight on,
    stopping at the edge of the bay, watch
    the egret stalk along the edge, ducks paddle
    into a sheltered cove. Storms move in fast here,
    sweeping in from the Gulf across the narrow
    spit of land. I stay to watch the palms bend,
    pelicans slide sideways on the wind. It’s far
    too harsh here and the water far too deep.

  29. LCaramanna

    All-I-Can-Eat Buffet

    Though I prefer a champagne brunch,
    with waiters in tuxedos,
    linen tablecloth, sterling silver,
    china edged in gold,
    omelettes, fresh fruit pastries with whipped creme fraiche,
    and bottomless flutes of champagne,
    my life is an All-I-Can-Eat for $6.95 Buffet,
    for $3 extra, get peel and eat shrimp,
    add $5 for a glass of house wine.
    No one waits on me,
    I help myself
    to a healthy green salad, grilled chicken, vegetables,
    steak, baked potato –
    pass by the fried offerings and pasta,
    though a pile of french fries invites a second look.
    There is nothing gourmet here,
    just common everyday food
    some of it comfort, some of it heartache,
    a daily dose of calorie needs or not.
    The buffet is never boring,
    additional choices every day.
    Sometimes, I step way out of the ordinary
    and wear my lavender lilac dress,
    include the peel and eat shrimp,
    and sip white wine from a plastic cup.
    When I feel adventurous,
    I make my own sundae for dessert.
    I never fail to turn heads
    when I speak a bit too harshly
    to the child in front of me
    who empties all the rainbow sprinkles
    on her ice cream sundae –
    again, there are none for me!
    My life is an All-I-Can-Eat Buffet,
    but I dream of a champagne brunch.

    Lorraine Caramanna

  30. Nurit Israeli

    SUMMER’S END

    She’s summer’s end,
    just before
    the fall.

    Still sun-dazed,
    she stretches
    the final days,

    before
    flowers fade
    and leaves drift away,

    before
    the nest empties
    and heat tapers off.

    Oh, how she savors
    her last rays
    of bright light,

    how tightly she holds on,
    ignoring the calendar
    that warns of cold days ahead.

    ~ Nurit Israeli

  31. Nurit Israeli

    SUMMER’S END

    She’s summer’s end,
    just before
    the fall.

    Still sun-dazed,
    she stretches
    the final days,

    before
    flowers fade
    and leaves drift away,

    before
    the nest empties
    and heat tapers off.

    Oh, how she savors
    her last rays
    of bright light,

    how tightly she holds on,
    ignoring the calendar
    that warns of cold days ahead.

    ~ Nurit Israeli

  32. Janet Rice Carnahan

    A DAY AT THE LAKE

    A friend and I sat to chat
    About it all, this and that
    Laughter, love, joy
    Long term friendship to enjoy
    Only stopping to observe
    A sudden sight, aimed to serve
    A complete moment of silence
    No blockade or fence
    Sunlight on the lake
    More than we could take
    Bouncing glitter captivating
    An instant moment, invigorating
    As if we were the light
    Transfixing us, creating delight
    It held our stare
    Suspended in air
    Becoming sparkles, dancing, swaying
    Going towards the playing
    Nothing separate, just the sun
    Filling with that endless fun
    We were the bubbly motion
    Caught in the same emotion
    As if we were in unity
    No longer us or me
    Just trusting we were it
    Becoming the entire moment
    What a metaphor for life
    Gone away any strife
    Once the time came and went
    That connection hardly spent
    Tingling excitement stayed and stayed
    Until our day began to fade
    We hugged and headed back
    Happiness and joy still on track
    Such pleasure when we can enter a space
    Yet ground us back to a familiar place

  33. Walter J Wojtanik

    ALL THAT AFFLICTS ME, I AM

    In decline, I am less
    than all I’ve been.
    I am all that ails me,
    the skill that fails me.
    The pains that afflict me
    affect me most grievously.
    This sinking derails me,
    as thinking still fails me.
    The poet I used to be
    struggles and toils.
    It foils my muse and
    it refuses to ease me,
    Never does it please me,
    will not appease me.
    I do not like my work of late
    I should just recuperate.

  34. PSC in CT

    Ephemeral

    My beautiful bloodroot,
    sweet spring flower
    fresh and pure

    a delicate trillium,
    beloved blossom
    tender, young, fragile

    a gentle bud,
    he was never meant
    to weather summer’s fire

  35. Joseph Hesch

    The Deaf Ear

    Fine, you don’t have to talk to me.
    Show me the palm of your hand
    and push me away. Your message
    has always been clearer that way.
    If we were to sit side by side,
    face to face, I would only misconstrue
    whatever flimsy bond of you and me
    I could dream actually existing.
    But I do long to feel your words
    buffeting me like winds, freezing
    and teasing, scolding and caressing,
    their temperature and velocity
    more important than their meaning.
    They bump up against me and fall away
    so that I must imagine their substance
    and insinuation. But to not feel them
    at all has left me voiceless,
    spitting senseless utterances into a gale
    where they become as lost as I am
    perched here waiting to sense your meaning
    if only you would speak to me once more.
    Yes, I am the deaf ear to your words,
    yet it is I who will fall without them.

  36. Walter J Wojtanik

    I AM THE WRITTEN WORD

    I am the written word.
    I am passion.
    I am expression.
    I am the poetry of life.
    I am the vision of the world.
    I am a pen scribbled page.
    I am wisdom and sage.
    I am the long lost muse.
    I am the heart that writes,
    I am what I choose.
    I am frazzled and worn,
    I am vitriol and scorn.
    I am all that you’ve heard,
    I am the written word.

  37. Earl Parsons

    I am the Defeater

    I am the Defeater
    The good feelings eater
    The one that deflates my balloon
    Even the good lines
    With or without rhymes
    Are bashed from inside me too soon

    The thousands I’ve written
    He’s pretty much smitten
    Those thousands rest on my hard drive
    My hope is that someday
    In print they’ll make their way
    Even though I may not be alive

    Although the Defeater
    That good feelings eater
    Lurks ever instilling his fear
    I will not be beaten
    With good feelings eaten
    I will forward on persevere

    I’ll write and I’ll write
    Both day and into night
    The words that appear in my head
    The Defeater can scream
    But I’ll keep with my dream
    Tell my story until I am dead

  38. Nick

    Dream as a Metaphor

    I am the women
    hanging from the 17th
    Floor.
    I am the the palm of
    her left hand
    that feeds her kids
    – never grasped
    anything for herself.
    I am her mother
    whose teeth have
    broken on the edges.
    I am the halo of birds
    below her in case she
    falls.
    I am the dream she wants
    to fall back into.
    I am the breeze that
    smells like rain-
    will loosen her grip
    she has been crushing
    dreams with.
    I am the Infinite Power
    that softens the concrete
    below.
    Her fingers loosen
    and I am the rocking
    chair you sit nursing
    your baby in a room,
    the baby, once a dream
    is me.

    1. Nick

      OOPs
      forgot to mention this poem is based on a
      poem “The Women Hanging from the 13th floor Window”
      by Joy Harjo an amazing Native American Poet. I thought her
      poem was such an amazing Metaphor.

    2. Nick

      OOPs
      forgot to mention this poem is based on a
      poem “The Women Hanging from the 13th floor Window”
      by Joy Harjo an amazing Native American Poet. I thought her
      poem was such an amazing Metaphor.

  39. tunesmiff

    SHE IS
    G. Smith (BMI)
    ·–=–=–=–·
    She is my dance,
    She is my song,
    She is my right,
    When everything goes wrong.
    She is my sunrise,
    My evening star;
    She is my here and now,
    Wherever we are, wherever we are.

    She is my shower,
    When my ground is dry,
    She is my reason,
    When I wonder why.
    She’s my beginning,
    When I’ve reached the end,
    She’s my reality,
    In a world of let’s pretend, let’s pretend.

    She is, she is,
    She’ll always be;
    The biggest and the best,
    Part of me.

    She is my color,
    When my world is gray;
    She is my answer,
    When I don’t know what to say.
    She is my future,
    Despite my past,
    She is my one and only,
    My first and my last, first and last.

    She is, she is,
    She’ll always be;
    The biggest and the best,
    Part of me;
    The biggest and the best,
    Part of me.

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