Figurative Language in Poems
A Thunderstorm
Boom, bang, boom, bang, Rumpety, lumpety, bump! Zoom, zam, zoom, zam, Clippity, clappity, clump! Rustles and bustles, And swishes and zings! What wonderful sounds A thunderstorm brings. |
To Hope
Charlotte Smith Oh, Hope! thou soother sweet of human woes! How shall I lure thee to my haunts forlorn! For me wilt thou renew the wither’d rose, And clear my painful path of pointed thorn? Ah come, sweet nymph! in smiles and softness drest, Like the young hours that lead the tender year, Enchantress! come, and charm my cares to rest:-- Alas! the flatterer flies, and will not hear! A prey to fear, anxiety, and pain, Must I a sad existence still deplore? Lo!—the flowers fade, but all the thorns remain, “For me the vernal garland blooms no more.” Come then, “pale Misery’s love!” be thou my cure, And I will bless thee, who, tho’ slow, art sure. |
City I Love
Lee Bennett Hopkins In the city I live in-- city I love-- mornings wake to swishes, swashes, sputters of sweepers swooshing litter from gutters. In the city I live in-- city I love-- afternoons pulse with people hurrying, scurrying-- races of faces pacing to must-get-there places. In the city I live in-- city I love-- nights shimmer with lights competing with stars above unknown heights. In the city I live in-- city I love-- as dreams start to creep my city of senses lulls me to sleep. Fantasy
Rodney Caulder I wish I could construct a colossal web sweeping across starry heavens to ensnare the morning dew to illustrate your day. |
Magenta
Juliet Gainsborough Magenta is the taste of cherries on a cool evening: raspberries in a purple bowl, a sunset over the summer tide, the fragrance of a rose at dawn. Magenta is the grating of water on a rock: the winding motion of a waterfall, luscious strawberries that melt in the mouth, an aroma of cake and tea leaves at six. Winter Trees Denise Overfield We make a way through the snow Just my father and me And Pennsylvania's woods stand guard all around Now I can smell the winter desolation in the firs I can hear it in the silence And the taste in the ice in my throat I sneak a glance at my father when he takes my hand He has never done that before Then I see his eyes and in their depths of brown I see a sadness so intense like a life of love gone bad Everything here in the night is just like a black-and-white movie There is a valley in the distance crowned with black lace maples The sky is pure velvet and the moon's not in sight I believe the paleness of our faces is giving off the only light There's not a sound all around and I wonder if perhaps I've gone deaf Because now I see tears pouring down his cheeks and there's not a sob to be heard I can't even hear my own I don't have the sky in my dreams I never asked for more than my father I thought his presence in the house would be all we'd ever need But illusions tumble down like the leaves on the maples And the dreams are buried in the snow Now I can smell the winter desolation in the masculine presence beside me I can hear it in his silence And the taste is salt in my tears |
Willow and Ginkgo
Eve Merriam
The willow is like an etching,
Fine-lined against the sky.
The ginkgo is like a crude sketch,
Hardly worthy to be signed.
The willow’s music is like a soprano,
Delicate and thin.
The ginkgo’s line is like a chorus
With everyone joining in.
The willow is sleek as a velvet-nosed calf;
The ginkgo is leathery as an old bull.
The willow’s branches are like silken thread;
The ginkgo’s like stubby rough wool.
The willow is like a nymph with streaming hair;
Wherever it grows, there is green and gold and fair.
The willow dips into the water,
Protected and precious, like the king’s favorite daughter.
The ginkgo forces its way through gray concrete;
Like a city child, it grows up in the street.
Thrust against the metal sky,
Somehow it survives and even thrives.
My eyes feast upon the willow,
But my heart goes to the ginkgo.
Eve Merriam
The willow is like an etching,
Fine-lined against the sky.
The ginkgo is like a crude sketch,
Hardly worthy to be signed.
The willow’s music is like a soprano,
Delicate and thin.
The ginkgo’s line is like a chorus
With everyone joining in.
The willow is sleek as a velvet-nosed calf;
The ginkgo is leathery as an old bull.
The willow’s branches are like silken thread;
The ginkgo’s like stubby rough wool.
The willow is like a nymph with streaming hair;
Wherever it grows, there is green and gold and fair.
The willow dips into the water,
Protected and precious, like the king’s favorite daughter.
The ginkgo forces its way through gray concrete;
Like a city child, it grows up in the street.
Thrust against the metal sky,
Somehow it survives and even thrives.
My eyes feast upon the willow,
But my heart goes to the ginkgo.