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William Wordsworth, the subject of the poem. P...

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by Karen Miner (guest blogger)
Rummaging through poetry’s tool box we find lots of tools to help us express ourselves originally. Previously I discussed the use of metaphor; today let’s explore another tool – “simile.”

The Britannica Concise encyclopedia defines simile as: “an explicit comparison between two different things, actions, or feelings, using the words ‘as’ or ‘like’, as in Wordsworth’s line: “I wandered lonely as a cloud.”

Metaphors differ from similes in that the two objects are not compared, but treated as identical: The phrase “The snow was a blanket over the earth” is a metaphor. Contrast the previous metaphor with this simile: “The snow lay soft as a down comforter upon the ground.” It would be difficult to read the works of the masters without finding examples of simile within some of his/her poems. A common example is:

A Red, Red Rose
by Robert Burns

O my luve’s like a red, red rose,
That’s newly sprung in June;
O my luve’s like the melodie
That’s sweetly played in tune.

The similes shout for attention! Love is like a rose, love is like a melody…a simple thought and yet Mr. Burns burrowed into immortality with such simple tools as similes. How then can we expand our writing using simile as a unique fingerprint on our own poetry? A simple exercise is to begin by choosing the noun that indicates your poem’s theme. Let’s try it together. Assume we are writing about a tsunami.

Noun: Tsunami. With me? Great! Now let your mind roam…what are some words a tsunami elicits? Don’t over-think it; quick! Sudden, Water, Rushing, Fear, Screams. Good! Now expand those words to similes: Sudden as a sneeze, Water tall as trees, Screams exploding like bombs, Rushing like a linebacker.

You’ve assimilated the common descriptive words used for a tsunami, sculpted them, and molded a personal framework upon which to hang the rest of your poem. Give it a try…get wild and weird. Go where the reader least expects! Please share your experience with simile, offer an example from your own work, or just say hello!

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IMG_0054 лето ушло

Image by alubavin via Flickr

 
~ pronounced pae-neh-SEE-eh (noun) – A remedy for everything, for all problems or difficulties; a cure-all, a catholicon. From Latin “panacea,” a herb Romans believed could cure all diseases. The word was borrowed from Greek panakeia “universal cure,” the feminine of the adjective panakeios “all-healing” from pan “all” + akos “cure.”

The Greek adjective pan “all” also appears in Pandaemonium, the all-demon city in the Hell of Milton’s ‘Paradise Lost.’ It is productively used to create adjectives like “pan-Arab,” “pan-African,” “pan-American,” whose abbreviation, “Panam” underlies the name of Panama. “Pan” can also be seen in panegyric “elaborate oration of praise” from Greek panegyris “public festival,” originally based on pan- + agora “assembly” + -ikos “ic.”

I’ve read on many poets in the past few years and found that a lot of them had great trials and turmoil’s in their past. Some even being in asylums and committing suicide. Join me here in reading and discovering more about our great writers of the past. Then turn that knowledge to our on usage and advantage. So with that being said, what I’m hoping to provide in this blog is a “Panacea”, a cure all for poets fighting depression, going on a wild roller coaster ride of hills and valleys, writers block, and various other ailments…

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Many Times

Guest Contributor: Walter William Safar

Many times, while escaping the real world, I used to find my sanctuary in the blissful chest of mother Art. With these poems, I am curing the hungry soul, and it hungers for compassion, love and faith, just like any human soul does.
Hungry and thirsty, I am staring into the very heart of the dark spirit of my own subconscious, and I would feel betrayed for who knows how many times, only to appease my thirsty soul with a torrent of tears, because poetry is like a tear on the face of mankind.
I don’t know much about victories, but I still believe that compassion itself is a victory, and if my poems can awaken compassion in people, than I can count myself as a victor.

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I am going!… I am leaving you, world!
How horrible this admission echoes
in the company of solitude.
And while the northern wind, like an invisible carpenter,
peels the bark off the old wooden cross,
an old homeless man, with his trembling hand,
leaves a red rose at a nameless grave,
my future home.
And while hyppocrites pretend to be compassionate,
I know that they won’t shed a tear for me.
There are wonderful people who can shed their tears,
but they won’t know where my grave is.
The old homeless man stares at the grave,
wondering whether death might come for him
before the black soil covers the body
of his brother in poverty.
It is sad to end up in a nameless grave,
but the world doesn’t care too much about sadness.
Perhaps a priest might come to the funeral by chance,
but not to hold a farewell speech,
no, rather to see if the nameless grave
takes up too much space,
and maybe a flower shall rise from the black soil tomorrow,
like a beautiful bride to the soul of the dead poet.
The time to leave is approaching… my tired body
is waiting for the blistered hands of the grave diggers
to be lowered into the nameless grave.
Oh, Lord, give me time enough
just to fill this white paper,
my sad testament to the cold world.
Above me, a turquoise butterfly is wistfully flapping its wings,
as if it came to his poet’s funeral.
It is so young and beautiful,
as if it arose from my poem back when I believed in the world.
There is nothing left for me apar from my imagination.
Yes, world, me and my imagination used to knock
on your thick door for days, months and years,
but you would always send us away like tramps.
I wanted to ransom your sin with my poems,
but you always crumple them and threw them into the bin.
You threw away your children… your conscience!…
It is time to leave!
You know, Lord, that I’m not one of those who give up
at the halfway point.
Now I am standing in the same place
where I took off into the world, followed by childish dreams,
and the reverberating echo of my mother’s wishes,
I am going, leaving behind imagination
which is feverishly clinging on to me…
I know it would like to go with its poet,
but there is no space for it down in the black soil.
Wise men say that the imagination
is the mother and father to every poet,
but I am just leaving…
leaving for a world without imagination.
I am taking all my life’s legacy with me,
a stack of white paper, a dry pen,
and ink as hard as flintstone,
because I haven’t immersed my pen in it in ages,
but what good is any of this without imagination?
Where I am heading, there is no place for imagination,
my faithful squire, is there?
Death is silently standing in its black cloak,
everything on it is black apart from… apart from…
Oh, Lord, can it be that death is crying…?
Never in my life did I see such a big pearly tear,
slowly sliding, silvering all the darkness surrounding death,
and in death,
how strange it is for death to cry because I’m leaving,
and the world… living people… they don’t even turn to see.
There is no fear in me, only sadness,
not because I am leaving this cold world,
but because I am leaving my imagination,
and it needs me so much,
because there are so many sheets of white paper left unfilled.
I am leaving!… Do not worry, my imagination!…
Just wait for me in the same spot!…
From our poems, a new soul shall arise
and enter a new mother’s womb
to bring a poet into this world
who will be luckier than I was.

©Walter William Safar

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A poem from our guest mark Russell:

My World

My world falls apart.
All I remember is love…
How can I survive?
I try to create a way.
It all seems to be in vain…

Structured poetry is new to me but I feel i must try.

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kgcummings

by kgcummings (World of Poets member)

I recently took an online class for advertising and marketing. I learned a lot, and would like to share some of what I learned with you. Several years ago when I happened upon the arena of online poetry sites I was amazed at what I found. The site where many of us met is now a fond distant memory, but joining it was one of the few smart things I’ve ever done by chance!

As I looked around the site, I noticed people had names that were not their own. I thought long and hard about that before choosing a member id name. The more I thought about it, the more sense it made to join with the name I wanted to be known as in the publishing world. Now, it seems, that is the smartest thing I did with no knowledge as to why.

The marketing guru made several comments, when looking over my online presence, that I had “branded” myself well with the name kgcummings. If you, or anyone you know is seriously considering publishing, choose your name wisely. It can work for, or against you.

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Bottled Up Sentiments Blog
Bottled Up Sentiments

I would like to welcome Bottled Up Sentiments, our latest blog addition to our growing contributors.  Click on the image to visit this beautifully designed blog!

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