By Ashley Lister
The ode is one of my favourite
styles of poetry, partly because it can take whatever form the poet decides. Traditionally
the ode is written in praise of something.
One of the most famous odes in poetry, Keats’s ‘Ode to Autumn’, begins
with the following lines:
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that
round the thatch-eaves run;
I could go into a pretentious
poet mode here, discuss the fact that this is written in iambic pentameter and
mention the a-b-a-b rhyme scheme in these opening four lines.
But, really, there’s no hard
and fast rhyme scheme for the ode. And there’s no definite metre. And, rather
than discuss immaterial points of poetry, instead I’d prefer to dwell on the
obvious reverence Keats is bestowing on his beloved season of autumn.
Note the affectionate language
used in this piece. In the first two lines we have:
‘mellow
fruitfulness’
‘close
bosom-friend’
‘maturing
sun’
This is the language of
someone who adores autumn. This is the work of someone who has used the concept
of the ode to fully lavish praise on what he perceives as the most deserving of
seasons.
I’m discussing the ode this
month because I think it’s singly the most appropriate form of poetry for erotica.
It somehow feels right to lavish ode-worthy praise on an erotic partner or some
aspect of eroticism because they’re deserving of such high esteem.
Elevated language is no longer
a necessary requirement of this type of poem. All that’s needed is the desire
to write with adoration about something that deserves praise. Below is my
humble attempt.
Broad and boundless round backside
Cheeky cheeks just made to twerk
Built to bounce and buck and slide
Help me put your ass to work.
As always, I look forward to
reading any contributions that appear in the comments box this month.
Ash
Eyes as glittering as gemstones
A smile bright like morning sun.
I want to ride you till you`re senseless.
And stick a finger up your bum
My god, how terrible was that? Still, it`s going on my blog. Will try and write more odes, as per your advice, Ashley.
xx Jilly
Jilly,
You're too hard on yourself. I've been over to your blog and left my comments there but I love the fact that your ode contains the word bum. You can't get much more British-sex-talk than that 🙂
Ash
Make Up Sex
Despite our love which we declare,
There comes a time when we still fight,
Each other’s wrongs are all laid bare,
And old resentments brought to light.
Though angry words in haste are said,
We can not let them last the night,
But in the safety of our bed,
Let quarrels die and flesh unite.
Graham,
Elegant as always. There's an elevated phrasing to the start of your second stanza (Though angry words in haste are said) which foregrounds the reverential tone of this piece.
Good one,
Ash
Lazy Dreamer
Was it ever thus, I wonder, as I wake.
That dreams take hold of lovers as they sleep
and with some passing fancy do they make
the covers damp and sticky? I could weep
for lack of will to Morpheus' hand
but is it he that whips my aching bud
until a needy blossom comes to fruit?
I confess a lapse in memory. The sand
that crusts my eyelids shutters dreams but could
they keep me in erotic plots? The point is moot.
I can recall but little of the plot;
a lazy dreamer, I. I have forgot.
Rachel,
I'm almost lost for words – iambic pentameter, a rhyme scheme that's reminiscent of the petrarchan sonnet, a mixture of enjambment and end stops…
Thank you! If you're ever in Blackpool I'd expect you to attend one of our open mic nights and read something of this calibre 🙂
Ash
Jilly, Graham, and Rachel!
I'm awed. And intimidated.
Wonderful examples!
Thank you Ashley. I thought it perhapas a little short for an ode so I still have the exercise open and may post another in a day or two.
My New Obsession
How can I tell you of my desire
when you have no recourse to make the dream
reality? If only words could tire
that tumultuous heart and make you scream
my name in blood and sweat and snot and tears.
You have no need to know of what I speak,
no eyes to see how much I ache; no ears
to hear how short my breath. My flesh is weak
and though I wield the crop or cane to beat
your flesh in red and weeping welts, I die
a little every time you leave your seat
to beg for more or less or ask for my
forgiveness of some vague imagined slight.
For when you have foregone your bonds and left
my lair to meet some boy or man or fight
your need to fuck, and go to bed bereft
of comfort in the arms of someone new–
Will you not think of me, my love, and lift
a hand to call your mistress for a few
unguarded hours? Consider this a gift:
I cannot take your heart. You are not free
to love as other women do. No more
will I bind your limbs with silk or hemp. Be
happy in your life, my traitorous whore.
And now, alone, I watch you walk away
without a single look behind, your heels
clip-clop into the wet and greasy day,
your knickers wet. A shadow of your weals
furrows your brow. How can the smile you show
reflect the darkness in your soul? How can
the joy you bring to life where're you go
take you to places where the shadows fan
the flames of lust? What brought you to my door
when all seemed lost, my love? What needy beast
has bid you crawl on bended knee for more
than I could offer? A salacious feast
could not satisfy the hurt within your breast.
You suffered much, and more than I could give
lay buried in your wounded flesh, the best
will always suffer more than I, and live.
What manner of a man deserves your trust,
to bare your thighs in heat and passion true?
For such a man I might also find a just
and useful purpose in my boudoir too.
Meanwhile I'll watch you walk and live your life
without my guiding hand. No need to fret
for I will always be close by, a knife
with which to judge. A new obsession met.
I will always be discreet, a presence
rarely in your thoughts at all or line of sight
a passing face was in the crowd, a sense
of being watched, perhaps a touch so light
that you would barely register my hand
upon your arm or hair. I pause to smell
your perfume-have you bought another brand?
The centre surrounds and masks your mask; a shell
to cover what you are my darling girl.
If only you would care to see my heart
exposed in adoration and unfurl
for want of you. My skill, your blood, my art
inspired anew with just the briefest smile
I follow as a lover might, my gaze
upon your daily tweets, the extra mile
you ran today, updates on your Facebook page
keep me informed. I want to let you go.
If only I could trust another soul
to care for you as I would do and show
the world your perfect form; a meagre goal
I think you will agree. But there is none
to recognise perfection in your grace
and beauty and before the years have gone
all I need's the memory of your face.
Rachel,
Wowser. The narrative here is compelling. The persona of the poem is presented as someone driven and devoted. And the rhythm of this piece rushes in parts at a delightfully swift pace.
Even when the language becomes explicit, it's appropriate for the context and is not done to shock.
Powerful writing. Thank you for sharing it with us here on ERWA.
Ash
Thank you for the feedback, Ash.