M E R I D I A N     M A G A Z I N E

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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