Alley Rats
They were calling certain styles of whiskers by the name of “lilacs.”
And another manner of beard assumed in their chatter a verbal guise
Of “mutton chops,” “galways,” “feather dusters.”
Metaphors such as these sprang from their lips while other street cries
Sprang from sparrows finding scattered oats among interstices of the curb.
Ah-hah these metaphors—and Ah-hah these boys—among the police they were known
As the Dirty Dozen and their names took the front pages of newspapers
And two of them croaked on the same day at a “necktie party” … if we employ the metaphors of their lips.
poem by Carl Sandburg
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Related quotes
Let's Leave The 'Poems' Without Metaphors
LET’S LEAVE THE ‘POEMS’ WITHOUT METAPHORS
Let’s leave the ‘poems’ without metaphors
Bare and stark and original
Quiet and sleeping and still
The soothing poems the calming poems
The poems that even in the middle of the night
Let us sleep.
Let’s leave the poems without metaphors
And go back to the simple words
And let them say all they can by themselves
Until they become metaphors too.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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A Poet's Old Age Should Be An Adventure In Metaphors
A Poet's old age should be an adventure in Metaphors-
Traveling to distant unknown shores-
Discoveries undreamed before -
Old Age should be the Age of Metaphors-
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Tomas did not realize at the time that metaphors are dangerous. Metaphors are not to be trifled with. A single metaphor can give birth to love.
Milan Kundera in The Unbearable Lightness of Being
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Plain Cat
i do not have the mood
for tautologies
and dialectics
and metaphors
so a cat is just a
cat and the printer
is just another printer
and the bloody ink
is just the plain
bloody ink on those
literal floors
but i like your
idea of the cat calling
for a cat's nap ang
perhaps a little pat
on her back
cats too have
birthdays and
metaphors may
convert them
to wives and
concubines
cats and moons
struck and grinning.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I Don't Know Why I Should Try To Write A Poem Now
I don't know why
I should try to write
A poem now-
There will be other times
When the Metaphors
I ordinarily do not have
Flow not easily in me
Like water lava
Like blood- thinned by aspirin-
All I have to do is
Keep reading enough poetry of others
And exotic metaphors
Will come to me
As if I were another person's voice
And nothing in myself
Real as my own.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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A Sower Went out to Sow
It sprang up at once because the soil was not deep,
and when the sun rose it was scorched, and it withered for lack of roots.
Some seed fell among thorns, and the thorns grew up and choked it.
But some seed fell on rich soil, and produced fruit, a hundred or sixty or thirtyfold.'
for the Lord speaks
in parables
in the same manner that
we
who try to become poets
shall too
speak in
metaphors
sometimes
to please you
i shall only
speak
those words that
you want to hear
and not the
truth
thereof
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Moderns
To many reading modern poetry more interesting the meaning in the metaphors they seek to find
They feel it makes their brains work that much harder that it is good exercise for the mind
Rhyme for their great brains seems that bit too simple it does not test their thinking power at all
'Tis not a poem to them if it seems simple and the meaning in it easy to recall,
Yes rhyme for them it does seem that bit simple and deciphering it to them is not a test
The hidden meaning in the metaphors is something that does seem to try them best
Rhyme poetry to them is too simple and far too easy for to understand
It has to be blank verse with dozens of metaphors for their interest for to command
They look on rhyme and bush poets as inferior their preference in poets and poetry they make known
On literature they air their opinions like it is said to each their own
Their poetry evenings do seem quite exclusive rhyme poets to read they never do invite
Their unmusical lines that are laced with metaphors to each other they do recite
They do not like rhyme or they do not like bush poetry to them it is of another time
And in their poetry evenings there is no place for the men and the women of rhyme.
poem by Francis Duggan
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My Love Is Not Like A Poem
the years of experience
of being real, concrete as
cemented pavements, real as
these hands that are warm
and callous, love has not become
like a poem
where metaphors are written
for more understanding
pulsating hearts
and other nuances of
sly literature, words, and more words,
and more connotations and denotations
of this image and that image
this scent of roses and colors of sunsets
too beautiful to behold in our mortal
eyes and bleeding hearts
my love is real, it feeds on love and thrives
on your love, my love is real like stones
i hurl and disturbs the calm waves
of the sea,
my love is not like a poem
need i say, it is more than any poem
beyond metaphors
and images, the face that i touch
the lips that i kiss, and the night
cold enough for us to think
that we badly need this hug.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Poems Became Metaphors
The poems became metaphors-
They took off like meteors,
They turned into shimmering white almond tree beauty-
They danced-
They went home
They became sick and died-
They did everything a human being and a non- human being could try to do -
They were nothing and they were everything-
They turned the sky white and blue on its darkest day
And made the nights green-
Oh they were something else the poems when they became metaphors-
And still now,
They are rising up and going deep into a different universe,
No one not even the most quiet eyes can ever fully dream-
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Failure Of Rhyme
it i were to speak to you
in rhyme
and well thought of metaphors
it will take me
more time
and i do not have much of it
and i cannot possibly tell you
what i have within
completely
i have no dream of perfection
there is no such things as us
as perfect as a cup or a ring
and we will be at a loss at the end
not having said
what should have been stated so clearly
and spontaneously
as river and rain
or as dew on a leaf of grass
early dawn
when metaphors fail
when rhythm and rhyme stand aloof
along the boulevard without rails
the streams of our consciousness is always there
to save us
willing to adopt us in the form of a sacrifice
i am here now and
i am talking to myself
and since you are here not to listen
i reserve this
space for you for the future
for time that does not die
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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In Loosing Control
Your translucent metaphors
Make my blue words to become
Seeds of a mirrored thinking.
My words need your metaphors to scream,
While emerging from their painful cage.
They need to be washed
Again and again
In the Light downpour.
My words need to be loved, sweetheart,
Their mad escape happens
Sometimes, in haste.
You can make them to get out
By being so well
Mixed with hate and pain.
My words may bite your lips
In a love kiss, baby.
My words need the blood of your love.
Moreover,
They need to breathe your love
In loosing control.
Your words are leaves,
Sometimes,
Being carried off their knowledge to spread
Inside of me
For changing something-
Your very red, orange and yellow words,
Preceding the white silence of our winter.
Your words, my love,
Can become icy cubs slipping into my hot mouth
To kill my silence.
In-between dark and light,
In our secret dawns,
You make me miss their sweet touch
Inside of me
In making them to be
Love.
poem by Marieta Maglas
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Funny People
we have friends who during a
party ask us
where have we been all these times
what we have been doing
on those spare days
and we answer that
we have been writing poems
and trekking the country for metaphors
and they all laugh while holding their wine glasses
thinking that we are joking
and finding us all
funny
'cheers! we'll drink to that' says a friend
to celebrate those days
when we merely talk about stocks and dividend
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Hiding Emotion in Metaphors
I'm sitting here wondering
can i hide my emotion through words
writing in metaphors
when really its all plain
I'm broken
easy enough to say
but what does it mean
I'm in pieces
i don't work anymore
I'm broken
who says that to explain emotion
except a poet
finding metaphor for emotion
does it mean I'm sad, yes
does it mean I'm torn, yes
what does torn mean
torn like an old rug
torn like a dollar bill
ripped to shreds, broken
who needs a metaphor to explain emotion
when its laid out in front of everyone
my eyes are swollen
my body is bruised
my words are silent
my smile is fake
its all plain and simple
laid out like a flashing sign
i am broken
even though my emotions are plain
i still have to explain through metaphors
because people don't look for a simple answer
they look for the secrets people tell
is she holding back tears
is her smile today real
I'm broken
but people don't look to see me
they look to find emotion
encoded in this poem
hiding my feelings
in this metaphorical language
because people don't look
i am broken
poem by Audrey Marie Kay
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The Poetry In The Heart Of Hazel
far in the hills of cancainap
she feels poetry like the winds of the mountain
like the forest trees
and she writes them line to line
each syllable keeps on dripping
like the raindrops from the
roof to her footsteps
i have read what she sends me
day by day through the internet
i could have told her that the metaphors
are still looking for her because she did not put them
i didn't. Finally i did not tell her. In her lines i have seen
how her heart is burning like the wildfires in the forest
and no kind of criticism has the right to put it off.
i know, perhaps after four summers, she and her metaphors
soon shall meet. And there will be a big feast.
A truce, perhaps between feeling and discipline.
Art is always a patient listener
and in such slow
touches and brushes it paints more beautifully
than the warm hands of reality.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Dont Bust My Chops
Im sick and tired of you calling me names Im sick and tired of your childish games
Im sick and tired of your bullshit brats cocaine stupor and anxiety attacks
Picked up the magazine, I see your face youre nothin boy, a goddamn waste
With the lamest fashions on your back youre never happy, a hypochondriac
Dont bust my chops, baby, dont bust my chops
Dont bust my chops, baby, dont bust my chops yeah
Youre a styling queen and an alley cat too many chocolates keep a fat man fat
Youre a pain in the ass, and your on the loose all I get from you is your bad attitude
Dirty mouth, its all I can bear get outta here bitch, cause youre nowhere
Always wearin that cheap perfume can always tell when youre in the room
Dont bust my chops, baby, dont bust my chops
Dont bust my chops, baby, dont bust my chops ah
Dont bust my chops, baby, dont bust my chops
Dont bust my chops, baby, dont bust my chops
Dont bust my chops, baby, dont bust my chops
Dont bust my chops, baby, dont bust my chops alright
song performed by by Ramones
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Poems Are The Sparrows
Poems are the sparrows,
Swing they branch to branch,
In the green tree of poetry,
They chirp and pick the grain,
Of diction, thoughts, metaphors,
And bring in their beaks,
The straws of meters,
And thorns of realities.
Poems are the Sparrows,
Build their nests place to place,
In the valleys of poetic minds,
To lay and hatch eggs of wisdom,
Awake they early in the morn,
To sing hymn, when gently
Breeze begins to blow, to and fro.
The sparrows chirp in my heart,
And when hiding behind the tassels,
Extend I my hand to them to catch,
They fly away; and when I scatter
The grain, they cluster around me,
To sing the chorus of love and peace,
My restless heart then pours
Them on pages of the book,
And the starving ears become,
Impatient to listen to the honeyed,
Lines of love.
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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A Metaphor Is Easy To Make
a metaphor is easy to make
and so easy to recall
remember the cat's feet like a fog
leaving softly the harbor in the city?
remember a misery that jumps like a flea &
bites you and you cannot sleep
and you say life is like that
a flea
remember
you think of time as a growing child
a man,
a wild man running and chasing
virgins that must make most of their time
because
time is a-flying and
the rose that blooms today
tomorrow
may be dying
remember time in a bottle
remember life like a fruit fly trapped
trying to figure
out how to escape
and you say life is like that
a fruit fly
remember death
like a woman sleeping in her chambers
closing the curtains
and you say
death is like that
a mere closing of a curtain
just like that
remember how
loneliness is like a steel tunnel
you get in there,
some birds hover and fly away from you
you get in there,
and there seems to be no light visible
at the end
loneliness
life is like that
you see
metaphors and dissect every vein
every artery
every bone and
cartilage of
these metaphors that you
say do not exist
in prose
, , , , , , , , , , , that you say do not exist in my prose
mine is not poetry
mine is a poverty of poetry
and you claim
yours is the basket the cornocupia of true poetry
good for you, you are the prima donna
of this
dance
this quibble in poetry
it does not matter
give me some metaphors
about poverty, discrimination, meaninglessness,
purposelessness,
non-being, the metaphysics of early death
a being-in-distress
an addict
a streetchild
a battered wife
a cruel father
a hypocirte priest
an embittered professor
a disgruntled student
give me some metaphors about
corruption, lying presidents, secret killings
you are the master of metaphor
you are the queen of slave
metaphors
so be it.
make me a poem to the strictures of metaphor
give poems a strange face
a hybrid of dog and man
make them read and not understand
delude them
give them illusions
confusions
make them baffled, submissive, uncritical, uncomplaining
complacent,
bewilder them to your secret,
derivative and too personalized
metaphors
and you are happy
they do not understand a thing
and they will believe that you are God.
for those that we do not understand
we call it mystery
we call it metaphor
we call it
unquestionable.
let the oppression stay.
let the discrimination live in the metaphors that
you have made.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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36
a metaphor is easy to make
and so easy to recall
remember the cat's feet like a fog
leaving softly the harbor in the city?
remember a misery that jumps like a flea &
bites you and you cannot sleep
and you say life is like that
a flea
remember
you think of time as a growing child
a man,
a wild man running and chasing
virgins that must make most of their time
because
time is a-flying and
the rose that blooms today
tomorrow
may be dying
remember time in a bottle
remember life like a fruit fly trapped
trying to figure
out how to escape
and you say life is like that
a fruit fly
remember death
like a woman sleeping in her chambers
closing the curtains
and you say
death is like that
a mere closing of a curtain
just like that
remember how
loneliness is like a steel tunnel
you get in there,
some birds hover and fly away from you
you get in there,
and there seems to be no light visible
at the end
loneliness
life is like that
you see
metaphors and dissect every vein
every artery
every bone and
cartilage of
these metaphors that you
say do not exist
in prose
, , , , , , , , , , , that you say do not exist in my prose
mine is not poetry
mine is a poverty of poetry
and you claim
yours is the basket the cornocupia of true poetry
good for you, you are the prima donna
of this
dance
this quibble in poetry
it does not matter
give me some metaphors
about poverty, discrimination, meaninglessness,
purposelessness,
non-being, the metaphysics of early death
a being-in-distress
an addict
a streetchild
a battered wife
a cruel father
a hypocirte priest
an embittered professor
a disgruntled student
give me some metaphors about
corruption, lying presidents, secret killings
you are the master of metaphor
you are the queen of slave
metaphors
so be it.
make me a poem to the strictures of metaphor
give poems a strange face
a hybrid of dog and man
make them read and not understand
delude them
give them illusions
confusions
make them baffled, submissive, uncritical, uncomplaining
complacent,
bewilder them to your secret,
derivative and too personalized
metaphors
and you are happy
they do not understand a thing
and they will believe that you are God.
for those that we do not understand
we call it mystery
we call it metaphor
we call it
unquestionable.
let the oppression stay.
let the discrimination live in the metaphors that
you have made.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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My Love (Do Not Ask Me)
Do not ask me, the name of my love
I fear for you, from the fragrance of perfume
contained in a bottle, if you smashed it,
drowning you, in spilled scent
By God, if you even croaked a letter,
Lilacs would pile up on the paths
Do not look for it here in my chest
I have left it to run with the sunset
You can see it in the laughter of doves
In the flutter of butterflies
In the ocean, in the breathing of dales
and in the song of every nightingale
in the tears of winter, when winter cries
in the giving of a generous cloud
Do not ask about his lips…as elegant as the sunset
And his eyes, a shore of purity
And his waist, the sway of a branch
Charms…which no book has contained
Nor described by a literate's feather
And his chest, his throat, enough for you
I won't breath his name, my lover…
poem by Nizar Qabbani
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We are such materialists that all our metaphors are going to be material.
quote by J.T. Walsh
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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