Similes
Similes are employed to show one’s skills
And to treat the readers as ignorant
In knowing without the aid of similes.
Must we write her hair is as black as coal?
24.08.2010
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Plainest of Plain
No matter how many poems I write
I can’t impress you
The love that I write
The love I express
The love I try to show you
You just don’t see it
So let me tell you
In the plainest of words
No metaphors
No similes
Rhymes
Or complex descriptions
Only the plainest of plain
It’s been you
From the day we collided
You been in the depths of my heart
Pumping your love through me
I know it’s you I want
You I need
You I love
The only other way to prove this to you without words
Would be to slowly kill myself
Only to show you how much it hurts to be without you
I may not be your first crush
I may not be that vampire you like so much
Or the werewolf
But I’m something they’re not
I’m real and here for you
You won’t find anyone else like me
So now you can see what I feel
Hopefully now you truly understand
So now when I see you next (and to quote the Beatles)
Maybe “You’ll let me hold your hand”
Written: March 24,2010
And to any Twilight fans yes I referred to Edward and Jake.
poem by Ryan Collins
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The Poem That Failed
There is a place where significance ends -
that is the place where the metaphors tire
and the similes dimmily fail to inspire
and the poem runs out in a meaningless flood
but the poet won’t give up and declare it a dud
for the critics they spot and the readers they know,
you can get up and go, it’s the end of the show…for
there is the place where significance ends.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Cremation
Well the coal black sea waits for me me me
The coal black sea waits forever
The waves hit the shore
Crying more more more
But the coal black sea waits forever
The tornados come up the coast they run
Hurricanes rip the sky forever
Through the weathers change
the sea remains the same
The coal black sea waits forever
There are ashes split through collective guilt
People rest at sea forever
Since they burnt you up
Collect you in a cup
For you the coal black sea has no terror
Will your ashes float like some foreign boat
or will they sink absorbed forever
Will the Atlantic Coast
have its final boast
Nothing else contained you ever
Now the coal black sea waits for me me me
The coal black sea waits forever
When I leave this joint
at some further point
The same coal black sea will it be waiting
song performed by by Lou Reed
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Cremation - Ashes To Ashes
Well the coal-black sea waits for me-me-me
The coal-black sea waits forever
The waves hit the shore, crying more-more-more
But the coal-black sea waits forever
The tornados come up the coast they run
Hurricanes rip the sky forever
Through the weathers change, the sea remains the same
The coal-black sea waits forever
There are ashes split through collective guilt
People rest at sea forever
Since they burnt you up, collect you in a cup
For you the coal-black sea has no terror
Will your ashes float like some foreign boat
Or will they sink absorbed forever
Will the atlantic coast, have its final boast
Nothing else contained you ever
Now the coal-black sea waits for me-me-me
The coal-black sea waits forever
When I leave this joint at some further point
The same coal-black sea will it be waiting
song performed by by Lou Reed
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Wish
I'd like to write - like grown-up poets do:
with similes that span the universe,
that sparkle, crackle, dazzle, woo the mind;
and touch the heart with tender, swoony verse...
I'd like to write - like grown-up poets do:
in literature that's all the better for
those soaring, parabolic parables
and paradigms, and rhymes, and metaphor...
I'd like to write - like no-one else has done:
forget the rules and precedents; let fly
to heights undreamt of yet, new mindscape won..
And yet, perhaps, the world's served better by
small lamps of words amidst the cold night winds
of chance and change; cupped in a poet's hands.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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In argument similes are like songs in love; they describe much, but prove nothing.
quote by Franz Kafka
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Similes prove nothing, but yet greatly lighten and relieve the tedium of argument.
quote by Robert South
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Gerunds
'We are no fragile poets, ' he said
sipping panaceas;
no,
we bleed in these bloody times.'
Our descriptors screech-
show calluses.
Our gerunds
are heavy-laden,
participled
and unrelieved.
In our time
we've had sex
with the dark and delicious.
Our tiny lusts are autographed
on our eyelids.
We have ridden the night bull
and kissed cold similes
licked razor blades,
cut ourselves.
Our body linings
have slipped to edges-
scabs removed-
our scars exposed.
Our loves have been tattooed
on our foreheads and we consume
what we love best.
We've known villainous reprieves-
raw extremes.
We've seen our low expectations
sucked dry;
our joyless roses decline to bloom;
we have seen steeled excusings,
blatant excrescences
resent me's,
poxed regrets,
vampire ideologies,
deeply cutting debaucheries
and Unspeakeries.
We've had
our wisdom wrung
from emotion's sponge;
our oasises
have been carved from pulp existence-
our meanings extracted
from Carpathian realities.
We are no fragile poets then
opining on slippery metaphysical surfaces.
We are similes' survivors-
denizens of the electron brainscape;
voices winnowing;
down into the strangled world;
our task is, nonetheless
to re-dream all things.
Our callouses grant us the mettle,
our hearts show the way
our determination is un-sunk.
We must be the Rough Poets
eyeball to eye ball
with both Dream and Reality;
we must brandish
the seemly
against the unseemly
and remain true to Poetries.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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0003 Similes, Metaphors and stuff (2)
Isn’t it strange, this thing called
Poetry – and even stranger, these things
called similes and metaphors, which are
the very essence of what poetry
uses to try to get to us?
Look! Over there, in that field! Did you
see it?
No, what?
A hare! Never seen one before! It’s
hiding in the grass now – there! It’s jumped up again!
watch it bounce up and down as it runs,
must have strong hind legs,
isn’t it funny? So fast, too – our dog will never catch it…
No I still didn’t see it, I was watching that beautiful
perfect V-formation of wild geese against the blue sky
over there, I wonder where they came from,
where they’re going? And does
their leader know and lead them, or
do they all know and they're
all on the same goosy wave-length and
they must be cleverer than us then,
how do they do that...?
You missed them, they're
out of sight now, so
we'll never know...I guess our dog
barking, set them off…
And so, our mind – that lively, scatty, playful, faithful dog,
chasing hares which catch our idling attention,
chasing wild geese which are out of reach,
barking up the wrong tree,
seeking with a wagging tail
the beautiful, elusive good;
Or, like Swami Vivekananda describes,
mind as monkey – restless, vain, vindictive,
agile, watchful, quick to move,
never quite at rest – and worse,
intoxicated, selfish, full of pride; and
worse again – cunning, drunken, angry,
inventing enemies in its divided mind –
Similes for one thing like another,
metaphors for situations which
connect in depth of mind like
crossword clues which finally
illuminate – ah yes, now I see
what it’s getting at…and
we're into a world of enchantment where
the word makes all Creation one, and new...
Like parables, they take us deeper, subtly
tease the mind, and then dart round and past it
like wingers on the football field
thrilling our attention, their joyous goal
touching our heart with the adventure and
pointing it towards a boundless love;
similes, metaphors, homely proverbs, parables –
more difficult than thinking, easier than thought,
magic.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Clubwich: An Art Experience
lay the lettuce on the plate first
that damps down the sound
of the iceberg lettuce which can
disturb hearing aids
if you’re into fartsy additional veg
chop them up small and sprinkle
it saves the whole edifice deconstructing
when you take the pin out
then a slice say an inch thick
of wholemeal bread which
you’ve soaked in olive oil and lemon juice
and rubbed garlic across as if
you were ironing the curtains
of a dolls’ house
then throw the half-tin of tuna
or the salmon you’ve just caught
on the top since after all
that’s what you want to taste
so put it out front stage
and cover it with mayonnaise
bet you’re drooling at this point
maybe looking at your watch
then eat while looking at
a reproduction of a reproduction
of Andy Warhol’s priceless screenprint
of a Campbell’s soup tin
gratitude may arise
sheer poetry
simple sensual immediate
self-expression clearly communicated
practical copy it in your faves
slip it in your Pulitzer Christmas Cracker
in place of the joke did I say joke since it
touches the heart touches all our lives
and for once you’ve read
right to the end of a poem haven’t you and
I bet you’ll remember it longer than
the thirteenth verse of the Ancient Mariner
similes metaphors you want
similes and metaphors supply your own then
they’ll be fresher than mine and
more spontaneous more relevant
yes that’s what I call a real poem
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Black Rabbit
Under the hedgerow
The black rabbit pauses
Eyes bright as diamonds.
Fur black as coal
It has survived the sharp vision
And hunting skills of predators.
The rabbit hops away
And a slender stoat appears
Relentlessly following the scent.
poem by Colin Ian Jeffery
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King Death
King Death was a rare old fellow!
He sate where no sun could shine;
And he lifted his hand so yellow,
And poured out his coal-black wine.
Hurrah! for the coal-black Wine!
There came to him many a Maiden,
Whose eyes had forgot to shine;
And Widows, with grief o'erladen,
For a draught of his sleepy wine.
Hurrah! for the coal-black Wine!
The Scholar left all his learning;
The Poet his fancied woes;
And the Beauty her bloom returning,
Like life to the fading rose.
Hurrah! for the coal-black Wine!
All came to the royal old fellow,
Who laugh'd till his eyes dropped brine,
As he gave them his hand so yellow,
And pledged them in Death's black wine.
Hurrah! Hurrah!
Hurrah! for the coal-black Wine!
poem by Barry Cornwall
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Why I Write?
I write poems for myself and I write for the readers
I write for the masses and I write for the leaders
I write to imprint my thoughts in people's mind
I write to make the bad guys helpful and kind
I write to light up our path to Great God
I write for everyone home and abroad
I write to preserve values new and old
I write to make my ink precious like gold
I write for peace and I write for progress
I write to make the world a better place
All major issues I want to address
I write to see smile on God's face
poem by Asif Andalib
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Ch 08 On Rules For Conduct In Life - Maxim 67
Fortunate men are admonished by the adventures and similes of those who have preceded them, before those who follow them can use the event as a proverb, like thieves who shorten their hands, lest their hands be cut off.
The bird does not go to the grain displayed
When it beholds another fowl in the trap.
Take advice by the misfortunes of others
That others may not take advice from thee.
The body to communicate
Don’t dress to show your wealth.
Don’t dress with much costume.
Don’t sink in jewelry.
Your body must communicate.
Don’t write to show your skills.
Don’t write extensively.
Don’t invent frequent rhymes.
Your message must communicate.
26.11.2011
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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A Star To Come Down
Someone pulled the Stars down last night
wrapped up the Moon in bubble-wrap,
Night itself was eclipsed
horizon to horizon.
The Silver Stars settled in your eyes;
the Moon in your hair;
and Night became ours.
That day was expunged from calendars;
Orion's Belt snapped;
Andromeda strained and parted,
pouring down smiles
into the fading Dark.
It's You.
That's How Much.
I have put away
Similes and Metaphors
these bow to
The Verisimilitudes.
No more smiles to invent
after yours.
All broken hearts mended now.
It's You.
That's How Much.
Time too
is suspended.
I have rolled up
my Heart-Break Carpet
and put it away.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Imagination is the sixth sense
Without the help of imagination,
The future and the past cannot be seen;
Similes and metaphors are meaningless.
Parts under the clothes cannot be x-rayed.
Images from the screen cannot be fantasized.
Thinking and musing are stalled.
Judgments and beliefs are out of preview.
No intuition; no speculation.
Imagination is man's sixth sense.
07.06.2012
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Scarlett Treat
Scarlett,
Treat me to your insights.
Your thoughts with wit,
So delight.
And Scarlett,
I must say
If not for you...
I would not feel as much encouraged,
Had not your comments
Made more sense and cleared my view!
Scarlett,
Treat me to your insights.
Your thoughts with wit,
So delight.
I just can not sit knowing you are right...
And knowing I had perhaps been wrong,
By not accepting a reflection of me,
With belief.
I see that clearly now...
Scarlett Treat.
And as I write,
High on a consciousness
I am blessed with that excites.
Thank you Scarlett for your 'wit treats'.
They have provided a wider vision,
For a mind like mine
That feeds to nourish
This mental appetite that loves to bite on wit!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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S i m i l e
‘A golden evening; and we watched
the sun sink slowly below the horizon
like a golden dime
into a flaming jukebox’..
well, yes and no… similes –
one thing likened to another –
are sacred food: gifts
that we give to one another’s mind
to lift it with a sudden joy;
expand it so that all the world
is made afresh, anew, and
full of wonder and of praise..
a world whose unity becomes
in a moment, here and now, forever…
give a simile in words as if – like -
the most careful choice of gift of love
to the one you love the most:
to say, this is to show how much
I love the world in you; in You.
My eyes shine like your heart.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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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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