My voice teachers seem to invent a new metaphor a week
-- a few of which prove useful and many amusing. I put
together a short poem about this phenomenon. Perhaps
some of you will find it amusing:
-- -- -- -- --
"I want you to imagine . . ."
To Amy and Corinne who spin more
metaphors in an hour than poets in a day
Standing still, knees slightly bent, head suspended
From a string, I carry my breasts on a silver platter
Like Herod?s daughter, the head of St. John:
His tongue finally flat, and resting just behind his
lower teeth.
My forehead smooth (no furrows, please), I flare my
nostrils in anticipation of the first note. I sparkle
my eyes with surprise as I breathe it in, pretending I
am from any part of Britain as long as it is the
better part.
My throat a tube, an elevator shaft stretching up to
go down; down to go up. As I ready a yawn, I feel my
larynx locking: my pharynx -- a padded cell against
whose walls the notes beat, weeping for release . . .
The metaphors for support are barely mentionable in
polite society, so we shan?t Let me just add that I
wanted to be a bird with a sunny note for a grey day .
. . and a whistle to chill the heat.
-- Deb. Johnson
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