POETRY CENTRAL Vol. 1 No. 4: Three Poems Shortlisted from Metaphor Workshop

I am happy to announce the three poems shortlisted in the Metaphor Workshop:  Alchemist’s Grailpot, by Carolion Grailbear; Carapace, by Faith H; and Road Rash Reaction, by Bill’s Spirit.  I received over thirty poems, all of which met the parameters of the workshop, and many of which could easily have made the final three.  This sort of culling and selection process is always difficult, and I do hope no one will feel slighted in any way.  Those who wrote poems for the workshop should feel free to publish them here at Gather and indicate that they were written for this exercise.  The assignment of the workshop was, in a nutshell, to write a free verse poem of 8-14 lines that used a metaphor as a central theme, stemming from an event or feeling in the author’s experience, and that ended with flair.  I hope you enjoy these as much as I did.     

Alchemist’s Grailpot, by Carolion Grailbear

 

Sun bright BLUE sky, Wind blew through me then,
opening the green door to nowhere, nowhen.
Child-me: I was a Willow tree, whips of weeping branches budding yellow,
and all the earth flying in my heart-of-hearts
freeing itself-as-me running,
not away, not gone, but running home,
breathless, excited, ready for Life
I was Tree, I was Home,

I was the RedOrangeYellowGoldBlueRose Sunset,
breathing a silvery wind of healing words in Moon-form dancing body.
I was uphill downdale everywhere between, and Yes! Yes -
I was. And so: I was.
Empty now, the vessel-over-fire.

The alchemist's changing-grailpot, empty mind.

Carolion Grailbear (notice something in “Grailbear?”) has challenged us with a highly illusory poem.  I love the title here, and immediately one wonders about the intended meaning of connecting “grail” with “pot” in the title.  The connotation calls to mind something being held under an unusual power, as in the medieval legend of the Holy Grail, or chalice.  We wonder, initially, who is the “me” in “Wind blew through me then.”  A provincial answer is given in the third line, “Child-me:  I was a Willow tree…”  Thus, we’re presented with the metaphor of a child as seen through the willow tree.  The nicely metered image follows, “…and all the earth flying in my heart-of-hearts,” a charged expression giving the tree (the child), a sentient quality.  Something is being loosed here, perhaps by an unseen, benevolent force.  Is it the alchemist in charge here?  We think of the mythical sorcerer turning some metal into gold.  Dross to value.  The shift from tree to home to multicolored sunset, to healing wind is provocative and teases the reader in its whimsical wordplay.  Are we making light of this unleashing, or about to find something more devastating?  “I was uphill, downdale, everywhere between,” a kind of universal ubiquity.  Then, the declaration is made:   “I was”, repeated twice.  This is an effective device, as well as the invented compound words (nowhen, Red,OrangeYellow… and downdale), purposefully linked together to show a kind of unity or essence.  The poem ends with a dramatic shift, and causes the reader to reconsider their presumptions.  “Empty now, the vessel-over-fire.”  Who emptied it?  Was it not “being” after all?  The poem leaves us wondering.  “The alchemist’s changing-grailpot, empty mind.”  Was the being, then our thoughts, our changing ideas, now left void and empty?  How are we to feel about the emptying of the mind?  A complex poem, perhaps somewhat suffering from its own veiled symbols and overriding metaphors, but one that sings in some very unique and fresh imagery.  I will be very interested to hear some of the author’s comments here, to further enlighten.

Carapace, by Faith H.
 
Hard as stone
wrapped on a core
could not let in
would not let out.

What is hidden
behind that mask
who the nautilus
covers or protects.

A heart held close
behind a shell
protected and deceived
the carapace believes.

So, this one toys with us in the early verses.  Faith gives us a poem here about turtles.  Or are they seashells?  Okay, there’s a metaphor to be found here, but not overtly.  Carapace is one of those great onomatopoeias!  But are we talking about the shell or the animal, or something else here?  From the outset we’re made to feel the texture of brittle enamel.  A covering, a protective layer, as “Hard as stone,” which makes an impervious barrier (“could not let in, would no let out”).  Is this describing a defense mechanism in a metaphor?  “What is hidden behind that mask [who] the nautilus covers or protects” (I might have used “that” or “which”).  At this point we think we have it, the nautilus, that familiar spiral-shaped shell we know all… but have you ever seen the animal within?  I haven’t.  The third stanza brings us into the metaphor.  “A heart held close behind a shell.”  One doesn’t normally think of the heart of a shelled organism.  Therefore, we understand this to be a metaphor on the tough exteriors we present as barriers.  To what?  “Behind a shell protected and deceived”.  The metaphor takes an unexpected turn into the inner workings and motives of the carapace.  Outwardly it deceives, inwardly, its heart is walled off, “protected” in a derogatory sense, I imagine.  For it knows (believes) it hasn’t really protected anything.  The poem is an exhortation for openness and vulnerability and uses the hard shell covering as a vivid metaphor for the obstacles we find in relationships and everyday life.  It is well built in three stanzas of terse quartet free verse.  Very nice.

Road Rash Reaction, by Bill’s Spirit

 

the scrubbing away of swaths of flesh via asphalt
stripes and patches sanded from our largest sense organ
wounds that occur, not in an instant;
but over a surreal period of time
as mass moves frictionally across an abrasive surface
gorily revealing the vein, muscle and bone beneath
an apex in epidermal abuse
whose healing is long and painful and tender
with wounds that weep as flesh repairs
leaving blotchy scars to banter with humor
through periods of ache that make you wish for death
like those last three years we spent together
(and the three that came after for me)
when dissolution resolved your itching.

This nearly unpunctuated poem hits us up front with a title that pulls no punches as to what may follow.  Bill intends for us to know, initially, that some skin is going to be flying, and we’re not surprised to read about it in the first line (“swaths of flesh”).  A whimsical tone is set, perhaps, with reservations that quickly morph into a more serious poem.  We’re soon informed that wounds from bouncing off the asphalt (hence title) have not occurred from one event, but have built up over time ("surreal time").  Next we’re privy to a gaudy representation of the trauma, “gorily revealing the vein, muscle and bone.”  The wounds are deep and healing is slow (and painful).  It’s not hard to see the metaphor here representing some kind of deep-seated emotional scarring (“wounds that weep… periods of ache that make you wish for death”).  Then comes the clincher, as the poem reveals the nature of the road rash:  “like those last here years we spent together.”  Thus, the injuries of a very close relationship (it is not said exactly what kind, but the implication is clear) persisted at least in part for a significant duration, and then went on for at least three years afterwards for the narrator.  The poem ends in an interesting phraseology which seems, to this reader, an almost cynical declaration of blame, “when dissolution resolved your itching.”  I like this off-the-cuff, abrupt ending which really shows a bit of anger (why not?) and perhaps a little blame-casting that nearly equates the scars of peeling flesh with itching.  It certainly leaves one with an amped-up response, most likely one of the intents of the author.  I think the poem is well founded in its metaphor, but may benefit from some attention to the punctuation which might guide the reader in understanding some of the syntax.  As well, it could use some work on line break choices; but, all things considered, it’s a poem that left me shaking my head, and evoked a distinct and memorable emotion.   

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Written by Edward Nudelman, Books Correspondent for POETRY CENTRAL

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