Imagery and Metaphor
What is imagery? What is metaphor?
Imagery is the usage of words that appeals to the five senses. While most poetry relies heavily on visual images, it can also have other images, such as auditory and smell. Imagery adds depth and concreteness to poetry, and helps readers better understand the meaning of the poem.
Metaphor is a comparison of two unrelated objects in order to create greater meaning. If a metaphor is extended to exist throughout the poem, then we call this a conceit. Both images and metaphor inherently add greater meaning and richness to poetry, and should almost always be used.
Metaphor is a comparison of two unrelated objects in order to create greater meaning. If a metaphor is extended to exist throughout the poem, then we call this a conceit. Both images and metaphor inherently add greater meaning and richness to poetry, and should almost always be used.
Understanding the poems
In the poems below, I tried to appeal to many senses in each, but with focused on one in each. For example, "Space" uses visual imagery to create a metaphor of two people falling apart and the center of the galaxy slowly pulling all celestial bodies toward its center. The poem "Grace" follows the auditory images through the progression of food to table. "Burnt" appeals to the sense of smell--different smells of burning--as does "Honeysuckle", which draws upon the smell of a honeysuckle. "Not That Cold" appeals to the sense of feeling and illustrates several metaphors throughout. Each of these poems uses descriptive language about concrete things to create a greater significance beyond their literal meaning.
SpaceYou sweep the dust into miniature
mountains around the house and dig the dirt from under your nails. Again. Look up for once, I say. But your light had burnt out long ago, you were light years away being pulled just a little bit more than the rest of us. I remember the night when your cerulean eyes began to blend into the sunless sky so that I could see not passed but through you like the stars had taken you by the hands dragging you to their ever-deeper core. But you hadn’t fought it either. You took off your shoes, in fact, so that you could be a bit lighter on your ascension. You were always drawn to darkness. You’re like the northern star on my map, you had told me once. Bright and bold and steady. But I should have known that even the northern star will not be forever. One day it too will collapse on itself and become dark as the emptiness around it. And so I ask: shall I assume my place, another star among stars, one whose edges are so dangerously close to the fire from those around it that you don’t know where I begin and where I end? Or one that no matter where you stand is still just a bit too far to see? |
GraceBless us, O Lord.
May we listen to the stories of our days and the troubles of our work. May we laugh in good company, and may the sound of forks and knives upon our plates eternally percuss our lives. May the the clicking of saliva in our cheeks fill our heads as we consume these gifts. May the plastic and the Styrofoam continue to squeak as we poke and prod at the chilled red section of the grocery store. May the boxes of stacked meat continue to thump and thud with every bump in the road, and may the driver continue to curse at the matter in the trunk. May the metal and saws continue to be sharp and sleek and the factory floors continue to be painted crimson. May we always listen to the soft whimper of a being that will never speak our language, and to the droplets like a metronome into a shallow pool of a liquid that will always be thicker than water. Amen. |
BurntEach morning
I heat my hair; pulling straight and warming curls. The smell of burn. Each week, I carelessly clean the drain. Each morning, she lies under machines; chemicals burning her veins, radiation searing her skin. The smell of burn. Each week, she carefully cleans the drain. |
HoneysuckleWe once thought that we could
bottle up all of the nectar of the honeysuckle bush along the fence. We thought we could take back all of the summers that the flowers watched us grow And hide their sweetness in mason jars beside our dimming glasses of fireflies. Each day, we would sit in the dirt drawing the liquid from the bud and wonder how much we’d need to hold us over until next summer. There was never enough. |
Not That ColdIt wasn’t like a summer zephyr
that whispers to the trees and asks them to dance. Or like a body of air that glides in uninvited, but flees once the door is shut. It was a suffocating cold, the kind that jolts you forward like the world has suddenly stopped turning. The kind that causes your lungs to forget, for just that moment, just how much they love air. |