Simile and Metaphor

Today's assignment: "Write a brief seven-to-ten-line poem with an abstract title (Loneliness, Fear, Desire, Ecstasy, Greed, Suffering, Pleasure). Make the poem a metaphor for the title, without using the abstraction in the poem.

I worked a bit harder on this one than the last few. Just coming up with a decent idea took some time. As I sat looking out the window trying to think of something that meant loneliness to me, I saw one of those blinking lights that sit on top of radio transmitting towers. If sitting all alone in the fog where your sole purpose in life is to warn others away from you isn't lonely I don't know what is.

So, I thought I'd research the progression of man-made lights/lanterns from burning moss to LED lights. I had also earlier thought of the Greek/Roman myth about Prometheus, a Titan who stole fire from the gods in power to give to the humans on earth. In punishment he was chained to a mountain and every day Zeus (technically, his nephew) sent an eagle to eat out his liver. As an immortal being, the liver would grow back and he could not die, but it still hurt, supposedly. Eventually, Hercules kills the eagle as part of his legend, but the rescue happens after his famous twelve labors. I'm giving this context because I tried to reference it continually in the poem. We'll see what my professor has to say about that.

Oh, and along the way, I changed my abstract idea from Loneliness to Futility to Progress.
Without further ado, here is my poem for today:

"Progress"

Ancient ages ago humans loaned fire from the sky and hid
warmth within lanterns of hallowed stone. Once a section of
dusty shelf between bookends of time, each day became our
annuity. Synthetic suns advised, “Early to bed, early to rise,”
and we stopped sleeping.

Over eons our light moved from terra cotta jars to kerosene pools and metal
doodles trapped in glass bulbs. Office lights flicker a fluorescent S.O.S. over
cubicles that devour inner organs, shredding creativity into eternal monotony.
A dreaded dozen labors circle like the eagle, come to collect the compounded
consequence of stealing the night from ourselves.

01.27.09