En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Hypocrite Auteur

mon semblable, mon frère
(1)
Our epoch takes a voluptuous satisfaction
In that perspective of the action
Which pictures us inhabiting the end
Of everything with death for only friend.

Not that we love death,
Not truly, not the fluttering breath,
The obscene shudder of the finished act—
What the doe feels when the ultimate fact
Tears at her bowels with its jaws.

Our taste is for the opulent pause
Before the end comes. If the end is certain
All of us are players at the final curtain:
All of us, silence for a time deferred,
Find time before us for one sad last word.
Victim, rebel, convert, stoic—
Every role but the heroic—
We turn our tragic faces to the stalls
To wince our moment till the curtain falls.
(2)
A world ends when its metaphor has died.

An age becomes an age, all else beside,
When sensuous poets in their pride invent
Emblems for the soul’s consent
That speak the meanings men will never know
But man-imagined images can show:
It perishes when those images, though seen,
No longer mean.

(3)
A world was ended when the womb
Where girl held God became the tomb
Where God lies buried in a man:
Botticelli’s image neither speaks nor can
To our kind. His star-guided stranger
Teaches no longer, by the child, the manger,
The meaning of the beckoning skies.

Sophocles, when his reverent actors rise
To play the king with bleeding eyes,
No longer shows us on the stage advance
God’s purpose in the terrible fatality of chance.

No woman living, when the girl and swan
Embrace in verses, feels upon
Her breast the awful thunder of that breast
Where God, made beast, is by the blood confessed.

Empty as conch shell by the waters cast
The metaphor still sounds but cannot tell,
And we, like parasite crabs, put on the shell
And drag it at the sea’s edge up and down.

This is the destiny we say we own.

(4)
But are we sure
The age that dies upon its metaphor
Among these Roman heads, these mediaeval towers,
Is ours?—
Or ours the ending of that story?
The meanings in a man that quarry
Images from blinded eyes
And white birds and the turning skies
To make a world of were not spent with these
Abandoned presences.

The journey of our history has not ceased:
Earth turns us still toward the rising east,
The metaphor still struggles in the stone,
The allegory of the flesh and bone
Still stares into the summer grass
That is its glass,
The ignorant blood
Still knocks at silence to be understood.

Poets, deserted by the world before,
Turn round into the actual air:
Invent the age! Invent the metaphor!

poem by Archibald MacLeish
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The Poem Is A Metaphor

THE POEM IS A METAPHOR

The Poem is a Metaphor
It means ‘the world’
It means ‘all that there is’
It means ‘the soul’
It means ‘our deepest feeling’.

The Poem is a Metaphor
It is more than what it just appears to be
It takes on a life of its own
It says more than it can define itself as

The Poem is a Metaphor
And it itself does not understand
Where it began and how it will end
And whether or not
It should always be rewritten.

The Poem is a Metaphor
And we too are metaphors
That will vanish one day
When all the real Poems
Pretend to still be here.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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Is letting go a metaphor?

what is letting go -
letting go of grief?
the serenity of letting go?
(must be a bad metaphor)
losing represents letting go of control

I need to understand this 'letting go'
is it a metaphor for facing the inevitable?
breathing as a metaphor for living
'the practice of pruning wine vines'
is that a metaphor for letting go?
surrender. reaching towards the future
if you'll excuse another bad metaphor...
'the last of the sand is pouring...'
onion metaphors are stripped down to the core
letting go is a metaphor for acceptance
is acceptance a metaphor for failure?
'The freedom of letting go'
that does sound grand

letting go is not for the faint-hearted
my hands and heart are tired from letting go
so many times over

examine why metaphor is not
a substitute for the literal

letting go is
a metaphor
for goodbye

110709

poem by Terri Turrell
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Seeking Metaphor

Metaphor’s the soul of poetry:
this incongruous instrument of speech
with which we say one thing,
when we mean quite another:

I wish that Shakespeare, its greatest English user,
had coined a truly English word for it –
or perhaps, those blunt and foursquare Anglo-Saxons
who came before; their words as hand-hewn as are spades –

the word comes from the Greek, and means a transference;
‘My lord, your transference is apt and shrewd…’
no, even that’s but transferred to a Latin stem,
‘carrying across’. Too late to seek some native word –
a ‘thoughtshift’ or a ‘mindmatch’ then?

We wear it down, and make it less
by thoughtless grabbing at the candy-jars
upon the shelves of sweetshops of our speech,
as if to mimic poetry that we haven't earned..

but at its height, a metaphor shines like new light;
bringing together, two images so disparate
and making of their neighbouring, a moment magical in memory
as if we’d never seen the world so brilliant
or so revealing; moments when the mind’s a god,
and life itself a metaphor; a glimpse
that somewhere, two things mentioned meet
under the astonished, single gaze of eternity itself..

Metaphor’s a holy sacrament: one should never dare
to use it without some faint echo, of a moment clear recalled
when that which one refers to, came dazzling bright into the mind
as life transfigured to another world,
time lifted to the timeless;
the radiance of the world’s first day,
Creation, in itself, one glorious godly metaphor..
and nothing ever less than one.

poem by Michael Shepherd
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For I Am A Metaphor

'For i am a Metaphor

For i am free as a bird

wiser than wise itself

brighter than a sun gama ray

FOR I AM A METAPHOR

for i love like the word

think like einstein

dream like Martin

FOR I AM A METAPHOR

For i smell like success

Achieve like achievers

and soar like number 23

FOR I AM A METAPHOR

for i deliver like mailmen

determine like focus

and prosper like underdogs

FOR I......AM.....A METAPHOR'

By: Kottrell Johnson

poem by Kottrell Johnson
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Metaphor lives a secret life all around us. We utter about six metaphors a minute. Metaphorical thinking is essential to how we understand ourselves and others, how we communicate, learn, discover and invent. But metaphor is a way of thought before it is a way with words.

James Geary in Metaphorically speaking (2009)
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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In the steps of Rumi 88: Metaphor

Simile – what looks like something else –
that’s a fun game for the senses,
for the mind: oh look Dad,
there’s a scarecrow in that field
that looks just like a man, does it
really scare crows?

Oh look Dad, there’s a beggar in the street
who looks just like a scarecrow,
I wonder if the same crows
see him too?

But metaphor – ah, that’s something else:
explanations don’t quite explain it:
you see something; it brings to mind
something very different; maybe
you just forget it, pass on; maybe
you’re a poet, and you think,
that other thing casts a subtle light
on this first thing, I’ll see if others
find the same.. and, sometimes they do,
sometimes they don’t…

Metaphor brings the whole universe,
world upon world, to the mind:
you could write a poem full of metaphor
as long as the circumference of the world,
and when you’d written it out, you’d find yourself
right here again just where you were.. but
what a lot you’d seen on the way…

We’re so used to some metaphors
because by now, they’re shared,
written into language (lucky the people
who inherit languages such as these,
they’re born into poetry…) :

take ‘bread’: you walk past the baker’s shop
in the early morning when the air is clear –
or better, go in to buy your breakfast rolls:
the smell couldn’t be more wonderful,
more promising.. the bread’s so delicious,
and best eaten today..

ah yes, ‘daily bread’ – that becomes a metaphor
for all that each and every day brings –
waking up, new thoughts, new experiences,
all that brings life to life…
that covers so many subtle things…
where does it all come from?
that’s for you to say…

Sometimes it seems that the whole world
is a metaphor for something…
for what? For its own unity,
for its very creation,
for that which we call God,
for our very self?
that’s for you to say…

Metaphor. When you meet it,
does it make you think of
English class, another boring
poem, another boring question
to answer as you chew your pen –
‘What does the poet mean when
he speaks of, lies like oyster shells
to be penknifed for their pearls? ’…

or - does it fill your heart with joy
as if someone had given you
a golden key to a secret garden
which is all you ever hoped for;
more than you could ever imagine…
and yet you recognise
it’s all really just yourself? …

In the corner of your room
there's a little girl curled up
in a large armchair, reading a book.
Don't disturb her.
The book she reads with all her self today,
may never read again, doesn't need to -
is a metaphor for
all she needs to know today
about the world, about herself;

she finishes the book,
closes it thoughtfully,
looks up at you;
she knows herself
a little more today.

poem by Michael Shepherd
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One Night She Reads My Poems

one night she reads some of my poems
those that speak about leaving
images of sunset and dusk
a bird flying away from the cage
a stone thrown to space like one tennis ball
at night
something that is gone away
for good

she feels each line and well
every metaphor she understands

and she asks me if i have something to tell her
i smile and like Robert i play nice and then i utter the most
philosophical word in the entire history of humanity:

'nothing'

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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the happy child of God

there is no other
metaphor for the child of God

it is the smile
after the rain
that you show to the
trees and the skies

it is the silence in you
that best speaks

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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In Search Of Metaphors And Images To Express Yourself In A Poem

it is the expression that matters most.

it is the relational flow from the writer to the reader
the bond that is created anew, just like an ordinary conversation
one fine day.

why can't poetry be simple and direct? that is the question that poetry
asks

to itself, in itself.

the poet in us can be lost because of so much demands for the absurd,
this metaphor fits, this imagery is perfect, what is it?

you do not accept the sun and the moon and the stars.
cliches of their poetry. You do not show compassion for his feelings
of being abandoned

simply because there are no images that tickle your senses.

even if he jumps with joy, you do not relate to his joys
simply because the images are bland like
burger without the black pepper.

it is enough that one bleeds, one wants a listener, one wants to open
up to the world
Like a bud turning into a flower

(oh forgive this lousy metaphor
i am not a good poet somehow at imaging
at imagining.
Am not a camera.
My eyes are clumsy at details.
And my ears are not sensitive to sound of
beautiful words. They even hide behind my head under my hair.
And there is no compulsion for high highfalutin
Ivory towers of similes from the gods and goddesses of
Literature)

Why can't poetry be just an expression? Just that. A dialogue.
This one, this monologue.

It is enough that you write from the heart.
It is enough that you are true

(oh forgive me, can i be really
true to you? Do i have to be naked and tell you that i am beautiful?
Do i have to master the art of metaphorisms
to be your poet
for the night?)

Or is it that poetry is simply our hiding place
From this world of pain?

Or our chapel for our prayers
Or our playground where we can be children again?

I am tired of squeezing my brain in the quest of the perfect metaphor.
I have read what they have written.
I pretend i like them. They sound so well.
They must be poetry. Real poetry
Those that garner plaques.
Prizes from the jury.

Honestly, I do not understand a thing. Those poems of my idols.
But I read them just the same.
Hoping that I am in and be counted as one of the stars in those
Metaphoric Heavens.I watch every meteor that drops
to the ground. Their tails.

I am not a star. I am just a pebble.
And it is enough for me.

The poem says, just write me.

Don't squeeze your brain to have metaphors
To draw the images.

Just be yourself, and for God's sake if you have something to say
Just say it.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Sidewalk at Night

Fear is a place we go
when we don't know
fear is the man
in the shadows
behind that bush
or that memory
or that time
walking in the peace of the streetlights
down the sidewalk
waiting
for fear to jump out
grab us
and pull us deeper
into the metaphor
just close your eyes
and get lost in the metaphor
of blue skies
and fearless dreams

poem by Ray Katherine
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0004 M i n d

and mind might ask,
why then are brain cells gray? Is it
because the world is just
so wonderful, that they, stunned
and amazed, cannot decide
which colour to praise first?
(Mix all the colours of the paints,
and the result is gray.)

or is it because they feel themselves
so dull in comparison
with the miracle which is creation,
the miracle they (miracles themselves) , faithful, serve?
(Mix all the colours of the spectrum,
and the result is white.)

or is it, because they know
their work lies between ultimates
such as (do they themselves
call them this?) black,
and white? do they know
their work is equity –
to balance all things, so that gray is not gray
as we use gray for worldly metaphor; but

the gray of lakes at peace;
of silver that lives in itself,
needing no sun but its own innerness;
mercury that is moved but longs
to be united in a perfect sphere;
gray of clouds that know
the blessings that they hold;

and, the shining gray of mind -
for which gray hair is living metaphor,
the wisdom which life holds in store for you -
as how many poets, this moment round the world,
are joining new electric paths of thought between
these tiny, great gray worm-like cells which hide, compact,
their vast and inner space which spins out eager words
of metaphor, for that so nameless,
boundless, dazzling spectrum,
the radiant space of self?

poem by Michael Shepherd
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The Poem Is A Metaphor/ For Whatever The Poet Needs It To Be

THE POEM IS A METAPHOR / FOR WHATEVER THE POET NEEDS IT TO BE

The Poem is a Metaphor
For whatever the poet needs it to be-
It need not know its own name
Or its destination-
It simply may suddenly appear
And take us to a place we’ve never been,
To a connection we never would have found on our own.

The Metaphor is a vehicle of transport for the Soul
And he who spells it out literally
Grounds it.

Why then oh why is this where we all be?

poem by Shalom Freedman
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0003 Reborn Metaphor

I was born to be a metaphor;
Darwin, embarrassed, did not talk of me;
I did not fit into his scheme of things; I,
knowing secrets of the tears of things,
while he used his fine mind
(which is, so obviously, beyond the physical)
to deny that world, the metaphysical..

To be a metaphor
you need to know your place;
stay around too long, you lose
that vital force; no one believes
in the unbelievable – when there’s no mystery,
that’s the end of metaphor for man.

Better choose a quiet place,
some corner of a foreign field
only to be found in mind,
do the necessary – a few dry leaves and sticks
to lay false trail – and the semblance of a nest; you,
a place apart..

The desert, then, was easier; Egypt understood;
the sun rose warm
on the eggshell of pure thought;
Greece, appreciative, then found a name for me;
a whole race followed in my rise;
Rome was, how to put it, unoriginal;
America called a dry town, in an arid zone, after me;
may yet know me, nested in my cruellest magnificence,
ash and twisted steel and concrete, office equipment;
I a metaphor, awaiting a new birth.

poem by Michael Shepherd
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Woman And Poetry

writing poems together

with that woman is so much fun

i write mine, (i am much better than that woman)

i ask her to read my poems she obliges with her spectacles

as she opens her mouth to syllabicate

i gulp some saliva to my mouth

this woman is terrible

she makes me giggle

i have her word for word i have her metaphor per metaphor

there is no time to discuss

i like her to undress this time

i'll take the magic of her word

this time i will open my mouth

this time i will read all of her

i will not discuss i will not understand

i will just feel these metaphors

this mouth this tongue this body

this most important poetry

this love this lust this moment

after we have written

our poems together.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Wires

Wires

I was fourteen
when our literature teacher said:
‘For today’s homework
you have to write a poem about your arms’.
The next day I stood up before the class and recited:
‘My arms are like very, very long wires
with which I can embrace the whole world.'
The teacher said: ‘Very good, great metaphor’.
He died peacefully
just a few years before the Wireless Era.
Lucky for him, he escaped the struggle
of all these wireless things,
even wireless loves.
Meanwhile, I mourn for the death of my first great metaphor.

poem by Ndrek Gjini
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Poetry Is A Metaphor

Poetry is a metaphor
For beauty
For deepest feeling
For light
For all kinds of dreams we may not know the name of-

Poetry is a metaphor
For life at its most intense

Poetry is a metaphor for Poetry.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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In the Spirit of Rumi-39-The Desert

As the cool dawn brings the light
to the desert where the blue-white sky
meets the sand that time and man have brought,
and you wake the camel boy
to lead the camels from the waterside –

before you mount the lurching beast
and sway off into the desert on your path,
the camel-bells tinkling on the harness,

look into the camel’s eyes.
There you will see mingled,
pride in its being; patience in its duty.

The wise men say that God is found
where opposites meet and are resolved.
Proud in its being, patient in its duty –
no great wonder, then, that the camel
has been chosen of God to take you
across the desert of your destiny in faith and trust;

for in the world of metaphor, where man meets God
in the mind’s own language,
the camel is your body; dutiful proud servant
for the journey you must take; your company
for the length of time that journey takes.

So, traveller, when you reach the green and cool oasis
at the ending of the day’s sufficient journey -
first tie your camel by the waters of refreshment
before you kneel; for food; for prayer; then
resting in the bright-eyed company;
the eyes of those who scan the round horizon as they ride
and wonder always, what oasis lies beyond.

poem by Michael Shepherd
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For I'm a Metaphor

For I am a metaphor, I am wiser trhan wise itself.
I am the fullness of life's soul.
I am what can not be given.
I'm what make birds soar.
I am the intellectual abilities Eistein.
For I am a Metaphir,
At which I am Martin Luther's dream.
I am the symbol of peace, love, care, and compassion.
When all hope is lost I am there.
I am the jingle of a child's laughter.
I am the dropp of golden sun on a rainy day.
No I'm nothappiness nor hope but,
I am everything you need.
For I am a metaphor.

poem by Quiana Souder
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Making Of A Poem

What's a poem?
It's a metaphor, it's a metaphor,
What's a metaphor?
'It is a device for seeing something in terms of something else.
It brings out the thisness of that, or a thatness of this.'

How do I write a metaphor?
Think of rain as the cry of the heavens,
Think of love as a rose,
Think of burning candle as the agony of a lonely heart.

How do I piece together metaphors?
On a moonlit night, I see my love reflected in the moon's silvery light,
Holding her tight, I smell the fragrance of jasmine tonight,
Adoring her smile, I see the beauty of monarch butterflies,
Staring in her eyes, I see the oasis of love in my high desert lonely life.

How do I write a poem?
I love her but have not a spoken a word.
You have the inspiration, put in some romantic words.
On a beautiful moon lit night, I wonder who is prettier,
When I look at you, I forget about the moon.

Knit together love, loneliness, fear and tears of heart,
Into a beautiful tapestry of emotions and feelings that mask your heart,
Stitch some metaphors, make it a heartwarming comforter.

poem by Jay P Narain
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Without A Promise

On the eve of dawn,
The words seem to scramble,
Forging their own messages,
Their own secrets.
The words are lying,
Leaving the pages scandalously clad.
A letter to remember;
The letters so empty.
The words have no meaning,
They rest as empty shells,
For metaphor upon metaphor.

poem by Daniel Yetman
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