January '24 Poetry Challenge B: Write an Imagist Poem

[29wordsforsnow]

Birthdays

Added another one to this string of pearls
the last ten or so, smaller and less shiny
less a distraction from the growth rings
that take over in my reflecting image

The sensational bright peak to climb it's been
a flattened hill like the vast plains all around
overgrown with red X's and rabbit holes
a river flows to the endless, dark sea

 

[Tzara]

Galatea

She is a statue,
pale marble skin
cool to my touch,
yet so smooth,
as if polished glass.

She is so still
I can run my hands
over her lovely hips,
their firm curve
elegant as a swan,

neck arched, settled
into a quiet pond.
If only I can somehow will
her into being, so
her stone softens

into flesh. When
the goddess grants this wish
and I enfold the quiet girl
into my eager arms,
I try to remember to pray,

for we all owe the gods
for whatever joy
we find on this earth.
Even when that joy is you.

 

[Piscator]

This isn't an imagist poem per se, but my reaction to the image in Rattle's Ephrastic Poem Challenge for January
And yes, my May challenge may well be for an Ephrastic poem.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The simulacrum is never that which conceals the truth - it is the truth which conceals that there is none. The simulacrum is true. – Ecclesiastes

_____________________________________________________________________________



It’s not that I’ll lose my job

that went when I was

‘retired' long ago, and

the pension will get us by

if inflation don’t get worse.



Yet, I know that this

collection of one and zeros

flicking on and off can

solve the five stop - lowest cost

delivery algorithm

in nanoseconds

while it would take hours.

when I was working.



And when it has a spare millisecond

it can cover the sonnet skeleton key

with words to rival Shakespeare

but the words would ring hollow

and I am sore afraid

cause they got no soul.





Yet​

 

[Angeline]

Strange Street Affair Under Blue

We took the train
to 30th Street Station, high
on hashish, skimming
over sidewalks, one flight up
to The Trauma, a tiny club
with no seats and day-glo
paint in bright swirly patterns
on the walls and ceiling.

You stood on the stage, diffident
almost dwarfed by your guitar,
a slight man with pale skin,
piercing black eyes, corkscrew curls
and the voice of an archangel.

You are the sixties: defiant,
questing, experimental, a poet
whose Irish tenor soars
over the small room
to where I stand, transfixed
in the moment and scene,
in the thrill of being young
and drenched in music
when everything seemed possible
on that long-ago winter's night.

 

[JaySecrets]

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.

A filthy rag discarded, offcast, he
lives worse than despised, less than ignored. He
is
invisible. He
Is that puddle skipped past unnoticed. He
was that one you passed today and looked away because he
wasn't really there because statistics rarely are and he
is just another number in a welfare line where he
isn't really needed. He
is a ghost dismissed to ease a conscience, a convenience when he
can boost social standing, inconvenient when he
actually said hello. He
didn't seem to know that ghosts don't speak.
he
is
invisible
and no one seems to know that on his tongue
He carries diamonds.

 

[PennyCleaver]

A filthy rag discarded, offcast, he
lives worse than despised, less than ignored. He
is
invisible. He
Is that puddle skipped past unnoticed. He
was that one you passed today and looked away because he
wasn't really there because statistics rarely are and he
is just another number in a welfare line where he
isn't really needed. He
is a ghost dismissed to ease a conscience, a convenience when he
can boost social standing, inconvenient when he
actually said hello. He
didn't seem to know that ghosts don't speak.
he
is
invisible
and no one seems to know that on his tongue
He carries diamonds.

I love this

 

[JaySecrets]

Thanks. Kind of a heartbeat piece.... and lots of little nuances hidden in there if you like hunting those down. I gave a couple of those away in the challenge discussion thread.

 

[JaySecrets]

Retirement Home

welcome to the florist
Rose, Daisy, Iris, Violet
uprooted and well-kept
all their beds are tilled

cut flowers
a variety of vases
each on their own
on showcase

your watery words
the fertilizing touch
ration for a week
of empty calories

This really is beautifully poignant. The imagery of uprooted flowers... It's gut-wrenching, and it's powerful. Thank you for this one.

 

[JaySecrets]

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.

To be honest, the first half of this felt a bit cliche... I'm not sure if that was intentional or not. But those last few lines, that was brilliant. Moving from the cliche about the assumptions about her to a very much more dangerous and raw reality... And that turn of phrase at the very end is amazing.

 

[JaySecrets]

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.

I don't want to like this poem because I really really hate snow and hate winter... But this really is a beautiful piece. The imagery at the beginning is stunning and very well crafted to avoid cliches... One of my biggest pet peeves. And the way you move it from that to the intimate in those last few lines, That's beautiful.

 

[JaySecrets]

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.

I wish I could remember the form that you're using here... I know it's an actual form that is similar to interlinked haikus... I've actually done a few of them. I just can't remember what it's called. Anyway, it is a rather well-crafted and thought provoking piece. I'm thanks a lot for reminding me of the form. Now I have to go back in files and find the form and play with it again. Ugh! Poets!

 

[42Below]

Obeisance

Sir’s clothes rack
drapes over Sir’s thigh
with her hands clasping
the backs of her knees