Writing an Ode!!!

So You Want To Write An Ode

Ode: (ohd)

1. An ode is a type of poem lyrical poem - of elegant, elevated style - marked by exaltation, lofty feeling, and flowery (flattering) language, Complimenting/Extolling a specific, person, place, or thing: An Ode has no specific rhyming or metrical pattern and can vary in length of lines and complexity of rhyme scheme and stanza form. It must include the word "ode" in its title and the poem must meet the fore stated standards to qualify as an ode. (A form of stately and eloquent lyrical verse)

2. A lyrical poem praising or glorifying a person, place, or thing.

________________________

The Ode is a very friendly form, in that its requirement is primarily focused not on the construction of the stanza but on the organization of stanzas in the poem, the requirement for these stanzas being little more than a personally constructed meter and rhyme scheme.

There are two types of odes based on the classical poets Pindar and Horace, respectively called the Pindaric and Horatian ode.

The Pindaric Ode

Now I am pretty sure that these were originally written for public events, where they'd be sung by a chorus, but I'm not sure about that. What the Pindaric Ode uses is a three-stanza structure that is repeated throughout the poem. The first two stanzas, the strophe and the antistrophe both use an identical meter and rhyme scheme, but the third stanza, the epode, uses a unique form from these two. Throughout the poem the strophe and antistrophe repeat the same form, and the epode repeats the same stanza form as the previous epodes. A good example would be Ben Jonson's pindaric ode, found here,

(http://oldpoetry.com/opoem/4324-Ben-Jonson-A-Pindaric-Ode)

but it's not necessary for stanzas to be as long as his are. I realize this is a workshop, so we're really just trying new stuff out, and stanzas of four or five line length would be fine.

The Horatian Ode

This is an easier one. Horace was a Roman poet who wrote more personal and less broadly-based odes, and so his format seems more personal and individual. All that is necessary to write a Horatian ode is that some stanza format (metered and rhymed) be developed and followed in every succeeding stanza in the poem. So it's similar to the Pindaric ode but without the strophe/antistrophe/epode rules, just a single stanza that is repeated.

Irregular Ode

Apparently (I just read this somewhere) comes from a misunderstanding of the Pindaric ode format. In this format no particular stanza form is followed but the traditional "themes" of the ode are present, the celebratory tone, the particular subject matter addressed from a personal perspective. There is still rhyme and meter used, but the stanza structures are diverse and disjointed.

Stanza Development

When developing your stanza, remember what you all probably know already about meter and rhyme from your participation in this workshop. Make sure that each line rhymes with at least one other line. A first stanza might operate best by curiously describing from an outside point of view the subject matter, and then delving further until coming to a more intimate understanding in the final stanza.

Developing the Pindaric "unit" one should try to keep a certain unity between the strophe/antistrophe and the epodes, so that the units are each distinct and transist one into the other.

The "epode" can differ from the other stanza formats but it is probably a good idea to keep a similar meter and rhyme style, with a subtle variance, or maybe a shortening of line count to have a more pointed effect.

Odes can be of any length but traditionally are long rather than short. I think that in this workshop we could happily function with Pindaric odes a length of three units or more, or Horatian odes of four stanzas or more (maybe less if the stanzas are on the larger side, more if on the smaller side).

Line lengths do not need to be consistent throughout a single stanza, but if they are inconsistent, then those inconsistencies must be maintained in stanzas following that format. If anybody doesn't understand this, please ask me in a reply, because I feel like I'm unclear.

Subject Matter

The subject matter of the ode tends to be celebratory, and of a particular subject matter or personage (ode to my sister, ode on a box of crayons, &c). Keep in mind when titling your odes, that typically an ode "to" something is written as address, with second-person reference (a "You" entity and an "I" entity). An ode "on" something is more detached and written with third person reference to the subject matter.

Again, if you want to stay traditional, Pindaric odes best celebrate something of public importance, where Horatian odes are more personally inclined---but even the great Romantics are guilty of wandering from these traditions a little, so it's not set in stone at all.

Some techniques that might come in handy

Apostrophe: Directly addressing a non-human or absent figure as though they were human or present. This is a good way to get started if you're stumped for a first line. Such as "O cheese stain! Had I but a drop of bleach," etc, etc, etc.

Personification: Speaking of something as though it were a human figure or had human characteristics, attributing thought, will and/or intent to inanimate objects. "The torrent beat me back with anger," or "The sunset smiled at me," something like that.
Thanks for playing, and good luck!

Found at:
http://piptalk.com/pip/Forum22/HTML/000806.html

Example of Odes:

Ode to Beauty by Mary Darby Robinson
http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/poets/mary_darby_robinson/poems/6423.html

EXULTING BEAUTY,¬phantom of an hour,
Whose magic spells enchain the heart,
Ah ! what avails thy fascinating pow'r,
Thy thrilling smile, thy witching art ?
Thy lip, where balmy nectar glows;
Thy cheek, where round the damask rose
A thousand nameless Graces move,
Thy mildly speaking azure eyes,
Thy golden hair, where cunning Love
In many a mazy ringlet lies?
Soon as thy radiant form is seen,
Thy native blush, thy timid mien,
Thy hour is past ! thy charms are vain!
ILL-NATURE haunts thee with her sallow train,
Mean JEALOUSY deceives thy list'ning ear,
And SLANDER stains thy cheek with many a bitter tear.

In calm retirement form'd to dwell,
NATURE, thy handmaid fair and kind,
For thee, a beauteous garland twin'd;
The vale-nurs'd Lily's downcast bell
Thy modest mien display'd,
The snow-drop, April's meekest child,
With myrtle blossoms undefil'd,
Thy mild and spotless mind pourtray'd;
Dear blushing maid, of cottage birth,
'Twas thine, o'er dewy meads to stray,
While sparkling health, and frolic mirth
Led on thy laughing Day.

Lur'd by the babbling tongue of FAME,
Too soon, insidious FLATT'RY came;
Flush'd VANITY her footsteps led,
To charm thee from thy blest repose,
While Fashion twin'd about thy head
A wreath of wounding woes;
See Dissipation smoothly glide,
Cold Apathy, and puny Pride,
Capricious Fortune, dull, and blind,
O'er splendid Folly throws her veil,
While Envy's meagre tribe assail
Thy gentle form, and spotless mind.

Their spells prevail! no more those eyes
Shoot undulating fires;
On thy wan cheek, the young rose dies,
Thy lip's deep tint expires;
Dark Melancholy chills thy mind;
Thy silent tear reveals thy woe;
TIME strews with thorns thy mazy way,
Where'er thy giddy footsteps stray,
Thy thoughtless heart is doom'd to find
An unrelenting foe.

'Tis thus, the infant Forest flow'r
Bespangled o'er with glitt'ring dew,
At breezy morn's refreshing hour,
Glows with pure tints of varying hue,
Beneath an aged oak's wide spreading shade,
Where no rude winds, or beating storms invade.
Transplanted from its lonely bed,
No more it scatters perfumes round,
No more it rears its gentle head,
Or brightly paints the mossy ground;
For ah! the beauteous bud, too soon,
Scorch'd by the burning eye of day;
Shrinks from the sultry glare of noon,
Droops its enamell'd brow, and blushing, dies away

Ode to Beauty
BY RALPH WALDO EMERSON
HTTP://WWW.POETRYFOUNDATION.ORG/ARCHIVE/POEM.HTML?ID=184657

Who gave thee, O Beauty,
The keys of this breast,—
Too credulous lover
Of blest and unblest?
Say, when in lapsed ages
Thee knew I of old;
Or what was the service
For which I was sold?
When first my eyes saw thee,
I found me thy thrall,
By magical drawings,
Sweet tyrant of all!
I drank at thy fountain
False waters of thirst;
Thou intimate stranger,
Thou latest and first!
Thy dangerous glances
Make women of men;
New-born, we are melting
Into nature again.

Lavish, lavish promiser,
Nigh persuading gods to err!
Guest of million painted forms,
Which in turn thy glory warms!
The frailest leaf, the mossy bark,
The acorn’s cup, the raindrop’s arc,
The swinging spider’s silver line,
The ruby of the drop of wine,
The shining pebble of the pond,
Thou inscribest with a bond
In thy momentary play,
Would bankrupt nature to repay.

Ah, what avails it
To hide or to shun
Whom the Infinite One
Hath granted his throne?
The heaven high over
Is the deep’s lover;
The sun and sea,
Informed by thee,
Before me run
And draw me on,
Yet fly me still,
As Fate refuses
To me the heart Fate for me chooses.
Is it that my opulent soul
Was mingled from the generous whole;
Sea-valleys and the deep of skies
Furnished several supplies;
And the sands whereof I’m made
Draw me to them, self-betrayed?
I turn the proud portfolio
Which holds the grand designs
Of Salvator, of Guercino,
And Piranesi’s lines.
I hear the lofty paeans
Of the masters of the shell,
Who heard the starry music
And recount the numbers well;
Olympian bards who sung
Divine Ideas below,
Which always find us young
And always keep us so.
Oft in streets or humblest places,
I detect far-wandered graces,
Which, from Eden wide astray,
In lowly homes have lost their way.

Thee gliding through the sea of form,
Like the lightning through the storm,
Somewhat not to be possessed,
Somewhat not to be caressed,
No feet so fleet could ever find,
No perfect form could ever bind.
Thou eternal fugitive,
Hovering over all that live,
Quick and skilful to inspire
Sweet, extravagant desire,
Starry space and lily-bell
Filling with thy roseate smell,
Wilt not give the lips to taste
Of the nectar which thou hast.

All that’s good and great with thee
Works in close conspiracy;
Thou hast bribed the dark and lonely
To report thy features only,
And the cold and purple morning
Itself with thoughts of thee adorning;
The leafy dell, the city mart,
Equal trophies of thine art;
E’en the flowing azure air
Thou hast touched for my despair;
And, if I languish into dreams,
Again I meet the ardent beams.

Queen of things! I dare not die
In Being’s deeps past ear and eye;
Lest there I find the same deceiver.
And be the sport of Fate forever.
Dread Power, but dear! if God thou be,
Unmake me quite, or give thyself to me!

Ode To Pleasure
http://allpoetry.com/opoem/58962-Elizabeth-Bentley-Ode-To-Pleasure

COME, thou, who art by all pursu'd;
Art thou with magic pow'rs endu'd,
To charm each woe, each bliss impart,
Fill with delight th' enraptur'd heart,
And make the gloomy aspect gay,
Then child of Fancy hither stray.
But how wilt thou thy footsteps guide?
If, to Frenzy near ally'd,
Thou com'st with loose, ungovern'd pace,
Void of ev'ry decent grace;
If deck'd with each alluring spoil,
If Lux'ry, with unceasing toil,
With Art combin'd, has rang'd the globe,
To form thy gaudy, glitt'ring robe;
With thee if Vice's train advance,
And Folly's race around thee dance;
And Guilt and Pain, who ne'er divide,
O'er the motley tribe preside;
With sullen mien succeeds Disgrace,
And Shame, who veils her abject face;
Malignant Strife, with blood-stain'd hands,
And lawless Mischief grinning stands;

And dark Deceit, with baleful smiles,
Thy thoughtless vot'ries still beguiles;
Led by specious, false Pretence,
Foes to Virtue, Goodness, Sense;
And thou with Riot spend'st the day,
Vain Goddess, then I scorn thy sway.
True to Wisdom's hallow'd flame,
True to Honor's sacred name;
On Virtue's nobler pinions rise,
And all thy glaring pomp despise.
But if thou com'st by Reason led,
If sweetest flow'rs adorn thy head,
Cull'd from Nature's simplest walks;
If with thee fair Prudence talks,
And Innocence, in snowy vest,
And Temp'rance, with unruffled breast;
And Exercise, to crown whose brows,
Enliv'ning Health a wreath bestows;
If Friendship, open and sincere,
And smooth Tranquility be there;
Then, Pleasure, I no more disdain
To join thy sportive, harmless train;
To quit the hut of sordid Care,
Awhile thy sylvan joys to share;

To range the riv'let's grassy side,
Or view the garden's purple pride;
Or meet the smiling, festive throng,
With lively dance and artless song;
Still awake at Wisdom's voice,
And in her just commands rejoice;
When she bids to shun thy gate,
And on her solemn footsteps wait;
With her th' instructive page turn o'er,
And all her hidden laws explore;
Her studious paths ne'er end in pain,
But lead to thy eternal reign.

Ode To A Naked Beauty
http://www.poemhunter.com/best-poems/pablo-neruda/ode-to-a-naked-beauty/

With chaste heart, and pure
eyes
I celebrate you, my beauty,
restraining my blood
so that the line
surges and follows
your contour,
and you bed yourself in my verse,
as in woodland, or wave-spume:
earth's perfume,
sea's music.

Nakedly beautiful,
whether it is your feet, arching
at a primal touch
of sound or breeze,
or your ears,
tiny spiral shells
from the splendour of America's oceans.
Your breasts also,
of equal fullness, overflowing
with the living light
and, yes,
winged
your eyelids of silken corn
that disclose
or enclose
the deep twin landscapes of your eyes.

The line of your back
separating you
falls away into paler regions
then surges
to the smooth hemispheres
of an apple,
and goes splitting
your loveliness
into two pillars
of burnt gold, pure alabaster,
to be lost in the twin clusters of your feet,
from which, once more, lifts and takes fire
the double tree of your symmetry:
flower of fire, open circle of candles,
swollen fruit raised
over the meeting of earth and ocean.

Your body - from what substances
agate, quartz, ears of wheat,
did it flow, was it gathered,
rising like bread
in the warmth,
and signalling hills
silvered,
valleys of a single petal, sweetnesses
of velvet depth,
until the pure, fine, form of woman
thickened
and rested there?

It is not so much light that falls
over the world
extended by your body
its suffocating snow,
as brightness, pouring itself out of you,
as if you were
burning inside.

Under your skin the moon is alive

Ode to Music - Joseph Warton
http://oldpoetry.com/opoem/5381-Joseph-Warton-Ode-to-Music

Queen of every moving measure,
Sweetest source of purest pleasure,
Music; why thy powers employ
Only for the sons of joy?
Only for the smiling guests
At natal or at nuptial feasts?
Rather thy lenient numbers pour
On those whom secret griefs devour;
Bid be still the throbbing hearts
Of those, whom death, or absence parts,
And, with some softly whisper'd air,
Smooth the brow of dumb despair.