January '24 Poetry Challenge B: Write an Imagist Poem

Tzara

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Imagism was an early twentieth century movement in poetry that advocated for directness and concision in poems in reaction to the highly metrical and emotionally overwrought poetry of the Victorian period. Imagist poems are typically quite short, non-metrical, and (as one would suspect, given the movement's name) focused on imagery as the basis of their composition.

Ezra Pound is probably the name most often cited as the founder of the movement, though he was himself influenced by the poet T.E. Hulme as well as some of his fellow Imagists such as F.S. Flint and, perhaps especially, H.D. (Hilda Doolittle, his one-time fiancée). Amy Lowell later became a prominent advocate for the movement, though Pound ridiculed her contributions as "Amygism". An early statement of the Imagist's ideals of poetry, attributed to Flint but written by Pound, consisted of the following three principles:
  1. Direct treatment of the "thing", whether subjective or objective.
  2. To use absolutely no word that does not contribute to the presentation.
  3. As regarding rhythm: to compose in sequence of the musical phrase, not in sequence of the metronome.
Imagist poems often seem almost haiku-like in their compression of expression and their brevity, for example in what is probably the most famous Imagist poem ever written:

In a Station of the Metro
Ezra Pound

The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.​

The description is, like in a haiku, straightforward—concrete imagery that is presented literally rather that emotionally. It is metrically irregular (I scan it as The ap · par · i ·tion of these fa · ces in the crowd; / Pet · als on a wet, black bough.) and quite succinct—no wasted words. It is interesting, at least to me, that it rhymes ("crowd" and "bough" are not exact rhymes, but very close near rhymes), which distinguishes it from haiku.

It is also, importantly for this challenge, a metaphor. A metaphor is "a figure of speech in which one thing is described in terms of another" (Hirsch, A Poet's Glossary, 373). Here the faces in the Metro station are identified as being "Petals on a wet, black bough." They are equated rather than being considered similar. This is the difference between metaphor and simile. A metaphor says one thing is the other, whereas a simile says that one thing is like the other. They are both comparative figures of speech but the metaphor is more emphatic than the simile.

So let me finally get to the actual challenge: Write an Imagist poem—a short poem consisting of a strong central image—and structure it as a metaphor. The poem doesn't have to be as short as Pound's, but don't try and make it too long. The focus should be on trying to make a clear and concrete image describing your subject.

Here's my example, adapting the line "O my Love is like a red, red rose" from Robert Burns (which is, of course, a simile) to an extended metaphor (a version of metaphor that extends over the course of multiple lines, paragraphs, or stanzas of prose or poetry):

Susan, Standing in the Doorway

She is a red, red rose,
her hair a swirl of blossom,
lissome and slender, a slim stem
swaying slightly in a breeze.
If held too tightly, she is prickly
to the point of drawing blood,
but when finally the last soft petals
fall away, what remains but the plump,
smooth swell of one newly exposed hip.​

Final comment: Don't overly sweat this. It is intended as an exercise in the use of metaphor and in constructing images in poems. If you have questions, just ask. If you have comments, please post them. Please post your poems, questions, comments, and anything else related to this challenge in this thread.

Oh, and happy new year, all.
 
Here are some more examples of Imagist poems, with my comments:

Above the Dock
T. E. Hulme

Above the quiet dock in mid night,
Tangled in the tall mast’s corded height,
Hangs the moon. What seemed so far away
Is but a child’s balloon, forgotten after play.​

Hulme, as I mentioned in the previous post, was kind of a precursor to Imagism. The central image is the metaphor of the moon as a child's balloon, surrounded by some other concrete images that fill out the scene: the quiet dock, the cords (ropes?) hanging from the ship's mast in which the moon is "tangled," the image of abandonment. The meter is more nearly regular than in Pound's poem, but certainly is not "metronomic," as the Flint/Pound list of objectives proscribes. The rhyme is straightforward, including the internal rhyme of moon/balloon (which is perhaps meant to reinforce the identification between the two images/concepts?).

The Skaters
John Gould Fletcher

Black swallows swooping or gliding
In a flurry of entangled loops and curves;
The skaters skim over the frozen river.
And the grinding click of their skates as they impinge upon the surface,
Is like the brushing together of thin wing-tips of silver.​

Here the metaphor is to identify the skaters with a group of swallows, their "loops and curves" and how they "skim" over the ice evoking the flight of birds. The metaphor is extended to sound—equating the "click of their skates" to the "brushing together of thin wing-tips" (though this last is expressed as simile).

Sea Poppies
H.D.

Amber husk
fluted with gold,
fruit on the sand
marked with a rich grain,

treasure
spilled near the shrub-pines
to bleach on the boulders:

your stalk has caught root
among wet pebbles
and drift flung by the sea
and grated shells
and split conch-shells.

Beautiful, wide-spread,
fire upon leaf,
what meadow yields
so fragrant a leaf
as your bright leaf?​

This poem is both longer than the other examples and more complex in its imagery. The first part seems to play two different metaphors against each other—that of the sea poppy as being a food plant/crop ("husk"/"fruit"/"grain") and that of it being gold, perhaps coins ("gold"/"treasure", perhaps "spilled" as coins might be). H.D. is the first poet that Pound described as an Imagist, editing her poem to ascribe it to "H.D. Imagiste".

I will try to add more examples and possibly more background on the Imagist movement throughout the month.
 
Midday at 59th Street

When red becomes green
a semi growls, then rolls
forward, but cabs leap
ahead in a dizzy buzz,
limos glide and shine.

One madcap messenger
bikes through the gaps,
weaving hell-bent, wheeling
south down Madison

through the cacophony
of screech and honk, heading
for the relative quietude
of MOMA.*

*Museum of Modern Art
 
Contrast (Sycamores in Winter)

A January downpour
Left a child’s mishmash watercolor
Of clouds

Blue slate and asphalt
And forty nine shades of gray
Smeared across the sky

A few low pleasant weather clouds
Scudding quickly
As if they were
Tired workers rushing home
Also two tiny holes of blue sky

The clouds wrestled with
The stark white bark
Of sycamores in winter

Reverse lightning bolts
Their limbs reaching
upward in surrender

The bright yellow
Of the late afternoon sun

Illuminating all.



(I don’t know if this ruins or enhances my poem, but here’s my inspiration)
 
Onion

The skin is papery,
whether faded shades of copper,
brilliant purple, or white
that peels away in translucent
sheaves. Hairy at the root end,
fleshy and juicy underneath,

the layers reveal smoother
skin. It's a puzzle that sliced.
or chopped, with noxious juices
stinging and tear inducing,
can't be made whole again

and yet sauteed in butter,
scattered through a dish
or even disintegrated
into a soup or gravy it still
asserts itself while savored
and swallowed
with faint reminders
of its earthy beginnings.
 
I've been thinking about this challenge a lot and what makes the the poems I like in it work so well. Imo there needs to be two things happening: a clear and faithful description of the image in question and a metaphor that fits the image. So, for example, I'd say my first poem, about traffic in NYC does not really work. It's a good, accurate description but where's the metaphor? The truck and the cabs are likened to animals, but that's not enough to carry the whole poem.

I very much like Tzara's poem that describes a woman with a rose as the metaphor. The qualities of the metaphor enhance the description to the point where you almost can't separate them, which is really good. And the ending has a great sensual punch which underscores how well the metaphor (or is it the description?) is working.

Wonderer's poem also works well because it states the metaphor (the sky is a painting) right away and uses language in the description of the sky to support it. It does use some other metaphors too. I like them but am not sure if it helps (i.e., make a better Imagist poem) to have more than one metaphor support the thing being described.

Butters' and Snow's poems also caught my attention for having good description/metaphor fits. Everyone has great images in their poems though. I hope more people post in this challenge and with the whole month ahead it's not hard to try it more than once.
 
books, covers, and exceptions to the rule

hag tree squats
stick-dry and leafless
knotty roots knuckled into verge

extends twisted limb
across the woodland trail

dangles a lone apple
poison-red and shiny
waiting for snow
 
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single, pristine vase & plate glass shop window survive blitz


her mama always told her
catch a jar of sunshine
save it for a cloudy day


& when life's a pile of rubble
& you want nothing more than to buy a vase
not for its purpose or its art
but because you've never owned one
& all it represents

& your pockets are empty
of anything but promises
at least you'll have a little sunshine
in your life
 
cabin-in-the-woods-winter.jpg


Cabin in the Mountains

The rolling sea of white
floods the surrounding landscape,
drowning plants, paths, fenceposts.

Marooned on this island,
we build a fire for warmth and wait
for the waves to recede in spring.
 
January thinking

Custom's a deep pond
flat
reflective surface
but deep
in dark, wet infinity
purpose sits a silty bed

To wash a loved one's limbs
bereft of life's glow
as january's cold ashes
settle into bones
leaves those respecting ritual
no doubts:

lungs will never more inflate
eyes open to this world
nor gentled fingers stroke a soft-flushed cheek—
a vessel, emptied
& ready
to be one with the earth
 
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Hi all! I'm a poetry section lurker and recently thought I should start writing poetry to help get my creative juices flowing.

Well here goes. I hope it follows the rules :giggle:

your love is simply a rock

your love is simply a rock,
that scars the sky in a flicker,
then scatters its stardust somewhere far,
like a cornfield in northern Iowa.
 
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Flame

Tell me you feel it,
the warmth of her presence,
so radiant,
all-encompassing,
ready to fuel passion
or consume everything about her;
People say she's hot,
if only they knew,
she is a fire, running from match head
to a storm worth multiple Dresdens,
I find myself wondering,
will I be basking on the hearth of a
gentle fireplace glow,
or gnashing my teeth in the prophecied
lake of fire.
 
Metamorphosis

An organ
Mouth organ
Blind tongue
Thick
Gastropod meat
Wriggle into spaces
Eat

Maybe
We melt
Digested
Rearranged
At last
Unfolding
Drying out
Dewy skin
Standing fearlessly
On hawthorn daggers

Precious fleeting
Fresh wings beating

Learn too late that
False light lures
The fragile body
Home

*
 
Inclusion Body Myositis

My hands are sieves
that I can open
but not close.

Life flows
its stream over
my spread fingers

but I cannot grasp
any floating bit
I might want

to examine, to know.
I can only feel
its current

in which my limp fingers sway
like kelp, trying
at least to sense

something about your body,
other than how
it now is always
drifting slowly away.
 
Snow Day

It's a pen and ink world,
the lines clearly defined, snow
outlining thin branches,
roadways stark against the white
margins. The rectangular frame
is my window and the drawing
comes to life as cars navigate
Route 29 and a lone cyclist
swerves and pedals along
the shoulder until he's gone,
disappeared from my border.

If I squint far to the left, beyond
the whirling flakes, a silver ribbon
appears, the icy glint of the Delaware,
comforting presence of home,
a river of memories swirling in me,
ice skating on the Log Basin,
tasting falling flakes on the tip
of my tongue.

I'm tired now and the storm
is relentless, but I'll sleep and maybe
dream of stepping into the drawing
and taking hold of my sister's hand
to glide and crack the whip
one more time.
 
OK. We're getting close to the end of this challenge, though feel free to add poems if you want after its month-end terminus.

I appreciate all of you who have posted poems to this thread. To date I get interesting poems by 29wordsforsnow, butters, Angeline, Winter_Fare, Wonderer67, HarryHill, Lonsome_Cowboy_Dad, Piscator, Jackie.Hikaru, Remec, lookcloserpal, and XShadynzX. I'm especially appreciative of poems by those who haven't previously posted in the PF&D.

There's still a few days left. Make your Imagist statement while you can.
 
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