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Yet Another Extended Metaphor Poem: The Wino Confesses Her Addiction

This is a fairly obvious extended metaphor. I think instead of spelling it out this time, for once, I'll just let it speak for itself. So, that being said, here ya go. . .

The Wino Confesses Her Addiction

He's a ripe grape --

crushed, strained, bottled, and

fermented.

When he finally

comes to me,

he's finely aged,

full-bodied,

with dry overtones,

and most importantly,

completely intoxicating.

He comes with a warning

Label that I never

bother to read.

He sits chilled

and breathing

and encased in a shapely package

that gleams

and glistens

as beads of moisture

form upon it.

His heady scent

and taste evoke

danger and thrills

and secrets and late-nights and

things we shouldn't do but would never

take back.

I greedily swallow him down.

I want to take in every

last drop of him,

know every note

of his flavor,

have him

deep inside me

as I become an expert in

the ways in which

he wields his weapons.

He never fails

to seduce me,

when he chooses

to do so.

All it takes is a waft

of his oaky aroma

in my direction,

a gleam from

a bead of moisture

on his wrapping,

I lose myself to him.

It's a fight

I'll never win.

He'll always get his way

with me.

I'm powerless

against this vice

and though I know

I shouldn't drink so greedily

from his cup,

I can't help but gulp

ravenously.

copyright 2009 Katherine Andrews

matthew: an acrostic poem

First off, let me explain must what I'm doing here. The poem I've got for y'all today is what is called an acrostic poem, which is a poem in which (generally) the first letter of each line in a poem spells out a word or name. In this poem, I spell out the name "Matthew," yet with an "s" on the end because in my early-mid 20s, I dated two men named Matthew back-to-back with less than a 6-month gap in between the two. That, coupled with the fact that, especially while I was dating the first Matthew, they were close friends, is just a bit odd to me, even today, and will forever, in some ways, link them together in my mind (as well as with the man I was involved with after the both Matthews, but that's a story for another poem *grin*). Therefore, the "s" at the end is symbolic of the poem not necessarily being representative of one or the other of them, but of facets of each of them, and of my sort of recollection of them as encompassing and symbolizing together, more than what they do apart, since their relationships have similarities that act as major metaphors for the general state of my life at that point in time, which was both wonderful and horrific, but couldn't last, that's for sure, just as neither of these relationships ever had any real lasting power as romances. Anyway, since I'm trying to become the next Faulkner or James Joyce here with the run-on sentences, I think I'll let the simplicity of this short poem (way shorter than this intro) do the talking for me from now on . . .

*(Oh, just a quick fyi, I put a space between the first and second letter of the first word of each line so that the words that's spelled out is more clearly visible without any concentration, just to make it uber-easy)

matthew

M ust this come to its inevitable end.

A ll in all we come out good, still friends.

T here were the drunken nights when I lost you downtown,

T he drunken fights where I lost my crown.

H ow far apart we grew, then came back together.

E ven after all our debauchery we still seem better off together.

W e fit like gloves, like cuffs, like hugs. 

Some things are just meant to be love.

copyright 2007 Katherine Andrews

The Lover as an Extended Metaphor for Death: Two Poems

Here are two poems in which I use a lover as an extended metaphor for death, or rather, more specifically, with my (past/previous/long-gone) obsession with death and death wish (of sorts). Yeah, I was an angsty, fucked up adolescent and twenty-something. Ah, thank god I've matured. I mean, I have, right??? (Just joshin' yas! I *know* I have. Yay)!

Getting Intimate with Death

Year after year he waits for me

So calm, so cool, so smug and self-assured

Secure in his knowledge that one day I will be his, that he will possess me

And I am so afraid that eventually I will succumb

Say yes to his promises of a world without pain

A place without race or class or religion

A place where happiness is the rule

And there are no exceptions

He catches up with me at a party

He puts his hands on my hips

I feel his warm, smoky breath on the back of my neck

I don't need to turn to know who's standing behind me

Coolant-coated fingers travel the length of my spine

He whispers softly in my ear and I automatically turn to him

I had forgotten how even a glance at him could make me forget myself

Our eyes connect

He grabs my arm, gripping tightly

Forcing bruises shaped like fingerprints onto my skin

He leads me to a bedroom, still holding my arms

Making me feel like a delinquent elementary-schooler being marched to the principal's

office

I had forgotten how he could instantly control me

I can't do anything but stare at him

Looking so good, standing tall, his slender body emphasized by jeans that look painted on

On his jaw a slender white scar

In his face a past, mystery

He is so forbidden,

I cannot help but want him

He puts his lips to mine, holding my face in his big hands

He presses the length of his body against mine

Running his fingers down my neck

Moving his hands across my body

Tugging at my hooks and buttons and zippers

My body reacts and I grab at his clothing

Pulling him down onto the bed

Not wanting to wait even a second longer

Then my head starts screaming at me

"NO! Not again, not like this," I think to myself

He stares at me, his coal-black eyes angry slits,

Leans over again

I try to resist, to push him away

To dissect myself from him

Always reminding myself "this is wrong, this is bad"

But I can't believe my own words, can't make myself stop

All the time I'm so very aware of his presence

In my deepest hunger

I want him to ease the ache at my very core

Fill the gaping hole

Days I yearn for him, pray to him, believe him inevitable

Others I resist, will him out of my thoughts

Dare him to come to me, a cigarette-smoking, soul-selling savior

I have kept him at bay, a memory best left untouched

His lips are on my breast, his hands on my ass

Salty sweat and bare skin against bare skin

But I can't go through with it this time

I push him away from me

Get up, begin to dress

We are all the time engaged in these same struggles

The prize being my life

I am so tired of our endless fighting

The pointless power struggle

The contest for a soul perhaps not worth saving

That I almost give up, give in, give away

But I can't

To lose would be to die

And then he would own me

He would recreate me

As a bitch who never thought of anyone but herself

Playing the same damn mind games he played on her

As a cunt who fucked them all over

Spreading her legs for the biggest player of them all

And never caring

As a murderer who killed all that was good within herself

This lover of mine, with his sexy eyes and charming way

Would use me

Destroying anything pure inside me, anything worthwhile

And when he had finished molding me into his image

He would have made me

A monster

copyright 2006 Katherine Andrews

Getting Intimate with Death Revisited

Even though I was so sure

That I had rid myself of him,

he still has a power over me,

an inexplicable hold.

I am no longer always so very aware of his presence

in my deepest hunger,

but I still rush towards him

in small increments, selling my soul

piece by piece, letting him

kill my spirit slowly,

gradually.

I encounter him recently,

often,

again and again.

We come together quickly,

feverishly,

lips meeting hungrily, almost

violently.

He'll run his hands across my ass;

before I know it my sweater will be around my neck:

breasts loose, free.

He'll tweak a nipple and

I'll run my hands across his crotch,

undo his belt, pull down the zipper.

Even now, I always

take an active role.

We meet as animals:

primal and fierce.

Our encounters are brief, almost

meaningless at times.

Afterwards I am always left feeling

less than.

I give up, I give in, I give away

oh so much.

I let him steal

so many bits and pieces.

Increasingly,

I ache to free myself

from my sick obsession,

to rush towards the answer,

to embrace life like the long-lost lover,

rather than continuing to rush

towards all that will,

in the end, only

kill me.

copyright 2009 Katherine Andrews

Erotic poetry from E.E.???

e.e. cummings (more at The Academy of American Poets), an Massachusetts writer - primarily a poet (1894-1962), who, one would hope, you've heard of, is most known for his unusual word usage, phrasing, and typography (for more on typography see this encyclopedia article  at thefreedictionary.com; another definiton from businessdictionary.com; and this article, "What is Typography?", from About.com Web Design / HTML). He is especially known for his unique use of syntax, punctuation, and enjambment. His protest poetry and his social commentary poems are probably the most-often mentioned. At least, that's the impression I've gotten from both my secondary and higher educational experiences, as well as my own observations of what is and isn't usually included in anthologies, mentioned in articles, featured on websites, and the like. However, in my extensive post-school exporation of his work, I've discovered two things - first, the man loooooved women and second, he could write one hell of a love poem, erotic or not. I will admit this little dirty secret as well - his erotica makes my panties get more than a little damp and makes my skin turn pink with the flush his words force upon it.

Today, I'm going to share with you my favorite straightforward, non-erotic e.e. cummings love poem (though, there is something melty and sexual about it in its ferocity of emotion and its exporession of devotion), as well as two more explicit poems. However, I warn you, if you're expecting anything but metaphor with mister cummings, you're looking in the wrong place entirely. That does not prevent him from explicitly stating his meaning within the framework of that metaphor though, and doing so beautifully and poignantly as well. In one of the poems presented today, you'd be hard-pressed not to smell the reek of sex wafting from the page - that is, if this were a book, as it should be, and not a computer or  cell phone or tablet or e-reader or what have you, you technophile, you! Whoa... enough of that nonsense ranting. Okay, not complete nonsense - in the lifetime of e.e. cummings, 1894-1962, not a soul read anything but a book, because that's all that was availble (print copies of written materials, duh), hence, the previous technology rant and my sudden and overpowering nostalgia for real books. Anyway, regardless of the cause of that blathering and babbling, it's time to move on and get this show on the road. Without further ado, I present to you my second favorite e.e. cummings poem (perhaps) and maybe his finest love poem (also read somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond for comparison) followed by two of his more erotic offerings.

"i carry your heart

i carry your heart with me(i carry in in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear,and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
                                             
                                    i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)"

- e.e. cummings


Next, I am going to convince you even e.e. cummings could be erotic. In the next poem, cummings uses a simile likening a lovers' tryst to music at first, then goes on to use other various and varied similes and metaphors, the imagery strong and undeniable, to make clear the undefined, confused, conflicted atmosphere of the couple's rendez-vous. Eventually, ending the poem with a question that seems to sum up the ambivalent nature of their relationship portrayed within, he brings the poem back around to music with a question that serves as both the defining question of the poem and as a musical allusion, since the hurdy-gurdy is a musical instrument . In my opinion, the poem is effing brilliant. And now, (drumroll please) here's...

"when my love comes to see it's

when my love comes to see me it's
just a little like music, a
little like curving color (say
orange)
           against silence, or darkness...

the tower of my love emits
a wonderful smell in my mind,

you should see when i turn to find
her how least my heart-beat becomes less.
And then all her beauty is a vise

whose stilling lips murder suddenly me,

but of my corpse the tool her smile makes something
suddenly luminious and precise

-and then we are I and She...

what is that the hurdy-gurdy's playing"

- e.e. cummings


Last, but not least, we have a poem that may need no introduction. Perhaps the most famous of cummings' romantic and risque work, this poem, while it does make use of some of the most lovely imagery I've ever had the pleasure to read, leaves nothing to the imagination either, and in places, all but explicitly spells out the good parts. It is perhaps for that reason, it is so widely read and quoted. This poem, unlike the previous poem, however, is quite clear in its intent - to praise the female and to express the narrator's adoration of her, the pleasure he finds exploring and learning her body, and how each new discovery makes him that much more in awe of her. It is truly a hymn to the female form and the act of love between two people and for that, this would most definitely be my favorite of cummings more risque or erotic poems. And now, on to the sexy stuffs...

"i like my body when it is with your

i like my body when it is with your
body. it is so quite new a thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does to me.
i like its hows. i like to feel the the spine
of your body and its bones, the trembling
-firm-smooth ness of which i will
again and again and again
kiss. i like kissing this and that of you,
i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz
of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh ... and eyes big love-crumbs,

and possibly i like the thrill

of under me you quite so new"

- e.e. cummings


Le sigh.

I think you'll see there's definitely a reason to get ya some more e.e. cummings. I suggest checking out the amazon kindle store or google books. And that's all she wrote, folks. Au revoir. Arriverderci. Adios.