Metaphor

Exploring Metaphor

The brain is a tree.

What is a metaphor?

A metaphor is a figure of speech in which one thing is described as another in order to reveal something they have in common.
The word metaphor comes from the Greek idea of carrying or transferring something across. In writing, meaning is carried from one image or idea to another.
A simple metaphor says:

X is Y.

The brain is a tree.

A simile makes a comparison using words such as like or as:
The brain is like a tree.

They are closely related forms of figurative language, but they work slightly differently. A metaphor makes the identification directly and asks the reader to discover the connection.

How does a metaphor work?

Take my example:
The brain is a tree.
A brain and a tree are clearly not the same thing, so why might the comparison work?
When looking for a metaphor, I often begin by brainstorming objects or ideas that might share some characteristic with the subject.

For the brain, I might write:
clock, water wheel, computer, tree, river, car engine, telephone exchange, cauldron… shoe? snail? coil?

Some possibilities immediately suggest connections. Others may appear ridiculous — although sometimes the ridiculous ones lead somewhere interesting.
Then I ask:
What is the connection?

Consider the tree.
A tree grows and develops. It branches. It depends upon nourishment. Its roots and branches form intricate networks.
The brain also develops through learning and experience. Its neurons form vast networks of connections, and it depends upon nutrients supplied by the body in order to function.
So although:
brain ≠ tree
figuratively:
brain = tree
because there are enough meaningful characteristics connecting the two ideas.
That is what gives the metaphor logic.

Now consider:
The brain is a shoe.
There may be a metaphor hiding there somewhere, but the connection is less obvious. Perhaps the brain is something we squeeze into shapes that do not fit us. Perhaps ideas wear grooves into it. A writer could make it work.
And that is important.
A surprising metaphor is not necessarily a bad metaphor.
The question is whether the writer can create a connection that the reader can recognise or discover.

But the shoe really does prove the point beautifully: a metaphor can look ridiculous for about three seconds, then one good connection suddenly makes it work. “My brain is an old shoe, shaped by every road I have walked” has far more life than it had any right to.

Then how about the 🐌 snail
The snail is even better than the shoe. 🥳

The brain is a snail. At first it sounds daft. Then the connections start appearing:
A snail carries its home with it; the brain carries memory, identity, habit, history.
A snail leaves a trail; thought leaves traces — associations, patterns, learned pathways.
A snail can withdraw into its shell; so can the mind under fear, stress or overload.
A snail moves slowly, but steadily; some thinking does too. Not every insight arrives like lightning. Some of it creeps towards us.

We could turn it into something quite lovely:
My brain is a snail, carrying old rooms on its back.
Or darker:
My brain is a snail, retreating into itself at the first shadow.
Or more playful:My brain is a snail, leaving silver trails between one thought and the next.
So, sometimes the unusual can throw up some thought provoking ideas.
.
A famous metaphor in action
Shakespeare gives us one of the best-known examples in As You Like It:
“All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players.”
The world is not literally a stage, and we are not literally actors.
Yet the comparison works because life involves entrances and exits, changing roles, performance and relationships with other people.
During a lifetime we may become child, parent, lover, friend, teacher, writer, judge, cook, hero, coward or villain.
The metaphor gives us another way of looking at something we already know.

That is one of metaphor’s great strengths.
It doesn’t merely decorate an idea.
It can change the angle from which we see it.

Why use metaphor?
Metaphor can make writing more vivid, but decoration is only part of its purpose.
A good metaphor can:
make an abstract idea concrete;
help explain something difficult;
create an image in the reader’s mind;
suggest emotion without explaining it;
allow the reader to make connections for themselves;
and turn an ordinary observation into something memorable.
It can also help when we are telling the reader too much.

If I simply write:
I truly love poetry.
you understand what I mean, but I have done all the interpretive work for you.
If I write:
Poetry is the oil that keeps the cogs turning
I create an image. You understand that poetry feels essential to me, something without which life would be diminished.
Admittedly, the oil that keeps the cogs turning is a familiar metaphor, so I might push myself further and look for an image that belongs more particularly to me.
That is where metaphor becomes interesting.

How critique can wake you up

Do you find yourself returning to the same words and images?
Does your poetry sometimes lack sparkle?
Are you explaining feelings instead of allowing the reader to experience them?
I learned a great deal about metaphor through critique.
A poetry group once gave me feedback that could be brutal, but it was honest. They showed me where I relied on worn-out metaphors, where an image was so opaque that nobody could follow it, and where I was telling the reader what to feel instead of creating something they could enter.
It stung occasionally.
It also taught me.
Criticism made me examine the limitations of my vocabulary and, more importantly, made me notice how easily writers reach for the first comparison that comes into their heads.
Heart of stone.
Sea of tears.
Light at the end of the tunnel.
They once had power. Repetition has worn much of it away.
That does not mean every metaphor must be startlingly original. It means we should become conscious of the images we choose.

What does a good metaphor give the reader?
Space.
A good metaphor does not explain everything.
It allows the reader to make the final connection.
That moment of recognition is part of the pleasure.
All the world’s a stage.
Shakespeare does not need to provide paragraphs explaining every possible correspondence between life and theatre. The image opens, and the reader enters it.
That is what strong figurative language can do.
It sparks interest.
It invites imagination.
Sometimes it enchants.
Finding your own metaphors
Aristotle regarded the ability to recognise similarity between unlike things as one of the great skills of language.
That is at the heart of metaphor:
seeing a relationship where, at first glance, none appears to exist.
You do not become a master of metaphor in a fortnight.
It develops gradually through reading, writing, noticing and experimenting.
Start simply.
Choose something ordinary.
A cup.
A key.
A staircase.
Rain.
A cracked plate.
Then choose something apparently unrelated and ask:
What do these two things share?
Do not stop at the first answer.
Push further.
Some comparisons will fail.
Some will be absurd.
And occasionally one will make you stop because you have suddenly seen the familiar differently.
That is the metaphor worth keeping.
And remember: metaphor needs balance.
Too few figurative images can leave writing flat.
Too many can smother it.
A strong metaphor earns its place not because it sounds clever, but because it makes the reader see, feel or understand something differently.