Metaphors and similes are both classified as figurative language, or "language using figures of speech....language that cannot be taken literally (or should not be taken literally only)" (Arp, Thomas, Johnson, Greg.
Perrine's Sound and Sense, 11th edition. Boston: Thompson Wadsworth, 2005, 70).
"Simile and metaphor are both used as a means of comparing things that are essentially unlike" (70).
Similes, however, use
like,
as, similar to, resembles, seems, or
than (70). "In metaphor, the comparison is not expressed but is created when a figurative term is
substituted for or
identified with the literal term" (70).
The Guitarist Tunes UpWith what attentive courtesy he bent
Over his instrument;
Not
as a lordly conqueror who could
Command both wire and wood,
But as a man with a loved woman might,
Inquiring with delight
What slight essential things she had to say
Before they started, he and she, to play.
--Frances Cornford (1886-1960)Taken from
Sound and Sense (70).
The HoundLife the houndEquivocal
Comes at a bound
Either to rend me
Or to befriend me.
I cannot tell
The hound's intent
Till he has sprung
At my bare hand
With teeth or tongue.
Meanwhile I stand
And wait the event.
Robert Francis (1901-1987)
Taken from
Sound and Sense (70-71).
Here are some similes from Dante's
Inferno.
Canto I
As flowerlets drooped and puckered in the night/ turn up to the returning sun and spread/ their petals wide on his new warmth and light--/ just so my wilted spirits rose again/ and such a heat of zeal surged through my veins/ that I was born anew (124-129).
Canto II
Voices hoarse and shrill/ and sounds of blows, all intermingled, raised/ tumult and pandemonium that still/ whirls on the air forever dirty with it/ as if a whirlwind sucked at sand (25-30).
Weeping and cursing they come for evermore,/ and demon Charon with eyes like burning coals/ herds them in, and with a whistling oar/ flails on the stragglers to his wake of souls./ As leaves in autumn loosen and stream down/ until the branch stands bare above its tatters/ spread on the rustling ground, so one by one/ the evil seed of Adam in its Fall/ cast themselves, at his signal, from the shore/ and streamed away like birds who hear their call (105-114).
Canto V
Now a choir of anguish, like a wound,/ strikes through the tortured air (25-26).
I came to a place stripped bare of every light/ and roaring on the naked dark like seas/ wracked by a war of winds (28-30).
As cranes go over sounding their harsh cry,/ leaving the long streak of their flight in air,/ so came these spirits, wailing as they fly (46-48).
As mating doves that love calls to their nest/ glide through the air with motionless raised wings,/ borne by the sweet desire that fills each breast--/ Just so those spirits turned on the torn sky/ from the band where Dido whirls across the air;/ such was the power of pity in my cry (84-87).
Canto VI
As a hungry cur will set the echoes raving/ and then fall still when he is thrown a bone, / all of this clamor began in his craving,/ so the three ugly heads of Cerberus,/ whose yowling at those wretches deafened them,/ choked on their putrid sops and stopped their fuss (28-33).
Canto VII
As puffed out sails fall when the mast gives way/ and flutter to a self-convulsing heap--so collapsed Plutus into that dead clay (13-15).
Canto VIII
Phlegyas, the madman, blew his rage among/ those muddy marshes like a cheat deceived,/ or like a fool at some imagined wrong (22-24).
Canto IX
Belts of greenest hydras wound and wound/ about their waists, and snakes and horned serpents/ grew from their heads like matted hair and bound/ their horrid brows (37-40).
Suddenly there broke on the dirty swell/ of the dark marsh a squall of terrible sound/ that sent a tremor through both shores of Hell;/ a sound as if two continents of air,/ one frigid and one scorching, clashed head on/ in a war of winds that stripped the forests bare, ripped off whole boughs and blew them helter skelter/ among the range of dust it raised before it/ making the beasts and shepherds run for shelter (61-69).
Canto X
It had raised itself,/ I think, upon its knees, and it looked around me/ as if it expected to find through that black air/ that blew about me, another traveler (53-57).
"'We see with eyes asquint, like those whose twisted sight/ can make out only the far-off," he said,/ "for the King of All still grants us that much light" (99-102).
Canto XII
As a bull that breaks its chains just when the knife/ had struck its death-blow, cannot stand nor run/ but leaps from side to side with its last life--/ so danced the Minotaur, and my shrewd Guide/ cries out: "Run now! While he is blind with rage! Into the pass, quick, and get over the side!" (21-27).
Canto XIII
As a green branch with one end all aflame/ will hiss and sputter sap out of the other/ as the air escapes--so from that trunk there came/ words and blood together, gout by gout (40-43).
"It falls into the wood, and landing there,/ whatever fortune flings it, it strikes root,/ and there it sprouts, lusty as any tare,/ shoots up a sapling, and becomes a tree" (97-100).
We waited by the trunk, but it said no more;/ and waiting, we were startled by a noise/ that grew through all the wood. Just such a roar/ and trembling as one feels when the boar and chase/ approach his stand, the beasts and branches crashing/ and clashing in the heat of the fierce race (109-114).
Canto XIV
Like those Alexander met in the hot regions/ of India, flames raining from the sky/ to fall still unextinguished on his legions:/ whereat he formed his ranks, and at their head/set the example, trampling the hot ground/ for fear the tongues of fire might join and spread--/so so in Hell descended the long rain/ upon the damned, kindling the sand like tinder/ under flint and steel, doubling the pain (28-36).
Canto XV
They stared at us/ as men at evening by the new moon's light/ stare at one another when they pass by/ on a dark road, pointing their eyebrows toward us/ as an old tailor squints at his needle's eye (17-21).
I did not dare descend to his own level/ but kept my head inclined, as one who walks/ in reverence meditating good and evil (43-45).
"Remember my Treasure, in which I still live on:/ I ask no more." He turned then, and he seemed, / across that plain, like one of those who run for the green cloth at Verona; and of those, / more like the one who wins, than those who lose (118-122).
Canto XVI
As naked and anointed champions do/ in feeling out their grasp and their advantage/ before they close in for the thrust or blow--/so circling, each one stared up at my height,/ and as their feet moved left around the circle,/ their necks kept turning backward to the right (22-27).
But here I cannot be still: Reader, I swear/ by the lines of my Comedy--so may it live--/ that I saw swimming up through that foul air/ a shape to astonish the most doughty soul,/ a shape like one returning through the sea/ from working loose an anchor run afoul/ of something on the bottom--so it rose,/ its arms spread upward and its feet drawn close (127-134).
Canto XVII
As a ferry sometimes lies along the strand,/ part beached and part afloat; and as the beaver,/ up yonder in the guzzling Germans' land,/ squats halfway up the bank when a fight is on--/ just so lay that most ravenous of beasts/ on the rim which which bounds the burning sand with stone./ His tail twitched in the void beyond that lip,/ thrashing, and twisting up the envenomed form/ which, like a scorpion's stinger, armed the tip (19-27).
Like one so close to the quaternary chill/ that his nails are already pale and his flesh trembles/ at the very sight of shade or a cool rill--/so did I tremble at each frightful word (79-83).
As a small ship slides from a beaching or its pier,/ backward, backward--so that monster slipped/ back from the rim. And when he had drawn clear/ he swung about, and stretching out his tail/ he worked it like an eel, and with his paws/ he gathered in the air, while I turned pale (93-99).
As a flight-worn falcon sinks down wearily/ though neither bird nor lure has signalled it,/ the falconer crying out: "What! spent already!"--/ that turns and turns and in a hundred spinning gyres/ sulks from her master's call, sullen and proud--/ so to that bottom lit by endless fires/ the monster Geryon circled and fell,/ setting us down at the foot of the precipice/ of ragged rock on the eight shelf of Hell./ And once freed of our weight, he shot from there/ into the dark like an arrow into air (121-131).
Now I'll try for metaphors. Keep in mind that I do not consider myself a talented poet. I'm doing the best that I can. Please be kind!
Remember too--it's a process. I'm likely to make still more changes.
1. Write a metaphor about loving someone (could be a friend, boyfriend, girlfriend, relative, or a pet).
I want you to see my process: I'll write about the Deacon McCommodore Charles ("Mac" to me and to few others) from my church. He has been like a second father to me. When I was most afraid during my cancer treatment, he offered his support. On one of my dark nights of the soul, I called him. I was in tears. Because my parents were also scared, I did not want to disturb them with my own fears. It might have exacerbated theirs. Instead, I called Mac, who told me that I could call him at any time of the day or night. "I don't sleep as well as I used to," he said. One reason that he does not sleep as well is because he is in constant pain. He was 84 years old at the time.
There were five drafts altogether. I actually looked up information on the painting, so that my metaphor could be more complete. I also left out the Sistine Chapel. I went back to my third draft. In the first draft, I spoke of God touching Adam's hand. Then I looked up "Michelangelo's Adam" and realized that he was not actually touching Adam's hand. I had also said something about Saint Peter's, as opposed to the more specific "Sistine Chapel." It was all pretty long and clunky. It only got clunkier when I decided to add the Sistine Chapel. And then, last night (Sunday), I added "Adam's straining hand." Also, I wrote, "as his hand reaches for Adam's straining hand." When I looked at it this morning, I thought, "ugh." I also did not like "as he reaches for Adam's straining hand." It makes God sound needy. "Toward" implies an offer, one that will ultimately be rejected, according to the story. As it turns out, I think that the shorter [and sweeter] version works better.
His voice is that of Michelangelo's God, ancient and wise, as his finger reaches toward Adam's.
2. Write a simile about feeling rejected by someone you love/admire (could be a pet).
Again, my process, beginning with a subject.
I'll write about one of the cats I have had, Chagall. He died last year. He's a better example, however, because he's more like most cats than the cat I still have--Sadie. Chagall showed love when he wanted love; more often than not, he ignored his humans unless he wanted something--like food. As he got older, however, he liked to cuddle with anyone that fell asleep on the family room couch.
Like a teenager about to be chided for failing to complete a chore, Chagall's ears are deaf to my calls for affection. He groans, sighs, and goes back to sleep. When I open a can, however, he has the alertness of a hawk, ready to strike the chipmunk that has just left the garden for its nest.
3. Write a conceit--could be a simile or a metaphor. See sonnets.
This could be fun; let's see:
I'll write about lymphedema treatment (which includes the bandaged arm). It has been frustrating and painful of late. The conceit will help me get even.
It starts with cotton, artfully wrapped like a birthday gift. Pads and bandages follow, until the gift becomes a grotesque and monstrous patchwork of layers found only in the sarcophagus of an ancient Egyptian, one that has come back to life and moves like one whose sleep of a thousand years has ended in a horrific rebirth.
Hey, I got a simile in too. I know it's not art, but I think it does the job.
