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Metaphor
by Doug Talley
“Brevity is
the soul of wit,” wrote the poet, and likewise metaphor is the soul
of poetry. In metaphor eternal truths are both found and embraced.
“You are the salt of the earth.” “Take my yoke upon
you.” “Remove this cup from me.” Christ, the Master Poet,
found profoundly apt images to convey spiritual truths. And centuries
later the images continue to convey those truths. Scientific theories
will come and go. The abstract language of science alters. But
a “cup” remains a “cup” and every week in sacrament meeting, as
we lift our own tiny vessel, we may still drink in remembrance.
For a poet the
search for metaphor is a pilgrimage. To discover a personal, resonating
symbol is exhilarating in its own right, and also redemptive, because
the symbols all around not only explain our present dilemma, but
may resolve it as well. Through metaphor we not only compare, but
may also transform. On one level, we look at an old sedentary cat
and call it a turtle. On another level, we witness truly deep suffering
and send out words like ministering angels.
Christ demonstrated
this principle in his parables, when he admonished his disciples
to “consider the lilies of the field”. He taught them to observe
and think and find in the bric-a-brac of the world around them a
metaphor sufficient to answer their every concern. Consider the
lilies of the field, or the sparrow in its fall, or the candle on
its stand, or the red and lowering sky, or virtually anything else
– consider and search the precise and simple articulation of your
need, because those who so seek will find the meaning of their life,
and if that meaning seem more modest and humble than a mustard seed,
it may nonetheless take hold until it branch into the heavens and
invite the company of angels and spring into a tree of everlasting
life.
The great value
of poetry, the reason why it endures as an art form, is precisely
its capacity to open windows into heaven. And at the heart of poetry
– the key to those windows – is always a singular word that suggests
an angel of mystery.
Consider in
this installment of Meridian’s poetry column, the following poems
of Jim Richards. It seemed an appropriate farewell, and a tribute
to Jim’s labor as the first editor of this column, to present some
of his own fine poetry. Among the admirable qualities of Jim’s
work is a gift for metaphor. His ability to see one thing as something
else breathes life and excitement into his poems. In Pacifier
he looks at a baby’s pacifier and sees a “small, warm pet” in
the mouth. And beyond that compelling image, he sees the pacifier
as even more. It becomes a “missing word” our mouths would shut
around, the ironic articulation of being “lost in darkness”. Consider
how the pacifier, as a metaphor, not only explains the dilemma the
author feels, but how it also may resolve that dilemma as well.
Consider in Pure Speculation how pain might grow “an arm
to drag itself away,” and how that metaphor might help the troubled
heart to cope. And finally, in Adam’s Song consider how
the poet’s effort to define words helps to define and cope with
loss.
We hope you
enjoy the poems and would welcome any comments. And as always,
your own submissions are welcome also.
Pacifier
For Wordsworth,
it was fields of trembling
daffodils,
a steady wind coming
off the lake.
For Isaac, my two-year-old,
it’s
a “passy” the colors of Ronald
McDonald,
it’s what I took away
and replaced
with words for loss: “Can you say
gone, Isaac,
all gone?” With scissors I cut
the
nipple off; he said nothing but
—“passy?”
His countenance fell; he sighed
and tried
to mend the thing, but failing, cried.
I sympathized
and said: “We’ve gone from
sweet,
clear milk to simply numb
replacements,
haven’t we, Isaac?
We’re
older now; we need to sac-
rifice the
toys that help us sleep. But sleep is
hard enough
without another absence—
we’re lost
in that darkness, our mouths shut
around
a missing word. What is it
we’re trying
to say?” A steady
voice
cried and cried that night “Dad? Daddy?
Passy?” the
maudlin vowels drawn out
calling
that small, warm pet into the mouth
where it
could curl in place of a word.
“Dad?
Daddy?” What is it I wanted
to say? Something
about daffodils . . . something
warm,
about Wordsworth, about trembling.
Pure Speculation
An end to suffering
might be finding its way
across
the ocean on a raft with a makeshift sail.
Perhaps hope
will be discovered in a garden
like a
single, unexpected shoot of peppermint.
That tickling
inside you is possibly pain
growing
an arm to drag itself away.
The night is
so clear, maybe grief will sleep alone,
under
the stars, and wolves will come.
In the end,
we might rise out of mud
and God
will greet us, his hands on our shoulders.
Perhaps he will
not be surprised or offended
should
we remove his hands, and say, explain.
Adam’s Song
Tommy was the
first pet I had in Eden,
par·a·keet
seemed to fit—small parrot
with
long tail, the color of apple, new leaf,
and
lemon; harsh, irritating song.
I called
it “screaming” at first but my softer side
said “song,
Adam, song.”
Eve taught me
about mu·sic—a medley
of
sounds and tones, as of the wind.
Cain
taught me that some music is hard
to hear:
“Father, I have killed Abel
and buried
myself where frozen stars
draw black
flowers from my grave.”
That was
a song.
I clipped Tommy’s
wings the day of Abel’s death,
with
scis·sors—a cutting instrument, two pivoted blades.
I gathered
the yellow, green, and dark
red shadows
in the valley of my palm.
Eve sang
a music I could hardly hear.
I inserted
one-by-one into the warm earth of Abel’s grave
the cool
feath·ers—lighter than flowers, less afraid
of
flying; colorfast and hardened by a harsh song.
About the
Poet
Jim
Richards completed his B.A. and M.A. in English at BYU, and is currently
a doctoral Cambor Fellow in the creative writing program at the
University of Houston. His poetry has appeared in Literature
and Belief, BYU Studies, and elsewhere. He lives with
his wife and two sons in Houston, where he serves as second counselor
in the bishopric of the Spring Branch Ward.
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© 2002 Meridian
Magazine. All Rights Reserved.
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