An Ode to 2 Odes, in Prose

This is not about Who I love. This is about What I love. 

And I tell you – I love words, the spoken ones too, but here I speak about the written words. How used how not. The pictures they create in my mind, and the chains of thought. The craft of putting one before the other, or something amiss with the whole structure, making me frown. Thinking, could this have been better? And then re-writing the sentence, anew. Leaning back to read those words strung together again. A smile on my face reflective of a satisfied mind, or the pencil scratching my head – this doesn’t look right! 

Words. The games they play, and the games we play with them.

And when you say ‘Ode’ on a day that stands for love, I think of 2 written long back. No, not by me, dear me! But by two poets who mastered their words – in ivory towers or sitting under trees. Even in the busiest of streets. Scribbled or typed, but always streams of thought, put in a language such that not a word I would dare change. Here’s them odes that I often go back to, and if you ask me why, I myself know not. Perhaps because these two odes rest unblemished by popularity. Also because while conventionally an Ode is supposed to be emotional and introspective, these here charm by being exactly the opposite.  

A few waltzing words, and the thoughts they conjure in my mind. Oh, I love! 

Ode on the Death of a Favourite Cat

Drowned in a Tub of Gold Fishes

Gray

Now, Gray was a mid-18th century poet, and unlike most others, he had inherited sufficient to not write for Grub Street. He read for amusement and wrote for the same reason too. No wonder then that humour ran in his veins and out his pen too. No wonder again that when he was asked to write an epitaph for his friend’s cat who drowned in a fish bowl, this is what he wrote. Here are a few lines (with many skipped in between): 

‘Twas on a lofty vase’s side,

The pensive Selima reclined,

Gazed on the lake below.

Her conscious tail her joy declared;

She saw; and purred applause.

Two angel forms were seen to glide,

The genii of the stream:

She stretched in vain to reach the prize.

What female heart can gold despise?

Presumptuous maid!

Again she stretched, again she bent.

(Malignant Fate sat by and smiled.)

She tumbled headlong in.

She mewed to every watery God

No cruel Tom nor Susan heard.

A favourite has no friend.

From hence, ye beauties, undeceived,

Know one small step is ne’er retrieved,

And be with caution bold.

Not all that tempts your wandering eyes

Not all that glisters gold.

Notice the controlled humour in this mock-epic - a composition using grand images to describe the most mundane. Also realize how the ode, an otherwise emotional piece, is actually devoid of any feelings for a dead animal. And this was supposed to be an epitaph! Look how it’s laden with moral and sexual undertones. If you can, keep aside the unflattering references to womenkind in the guise of the Narcissistic proud, gold (fish) greedy and over-reaching kitty, and see how the cat and woman blend. This masterfully written and endearing ode never fails to make me smile at my own kind. 'What female heart can gold despise?’ and yes he means to say a rich man no woman can ignore, today or back then in the London of yore. Keep those claws in, dear cats, and let us forgive him. Partly because it's a day for love, and partly because he's right! As for Fate? Are not we just playthings in the hands of our ‘Watery Gods’? Now that’s a thought to calm the mind! 

Ode to the Tomato

Neruda

You know Neruda – Neftali Ricardo Reyes, the much quoted Latin American poet. Of course you know! Now, his odes were known for their mastery of imagery and the skill of raising mundane objects to sublime heights. Simple language, simple technique, but deliciously cooked. Yes, this Ode is like a salad in the making. Single word lines make us read and read further as if we’re adding ingredients to the bowl. Step by step. While he is alluding to American culture behind all the red of the tomatoes, read this and tell me if it’s not enjoyable without that dimension too. Just pure pictures of culinary delight with an eye for detail and ahem, violence in the kitchen too. (Some lines skipped)

The street drowns in tomatoes:

summer

light

breaks

in two

tomato

halves,

and the streets

run with juice.

the tomato

cuts loose,

invades

kitchens,

takes over lunches,

too bad we most

assassinate;

a knife

plunges

into its living pulp,

red

viscera,

deep,

beds cheerfully

with the blonde onion

and to celebrate

oil

lets itself fall

over the gaping hemispheres,

we have the day’s

wedding:

parsley flaunts

its little flags.

its time!

lets go!

and upon the table

show off

their convolutions,

canals

and plenitudes

and the abundance

without husk,

or scale or thorn,

grant us

the festival

of ardent colour

and all-embracing freshness.

Our commonplace buy from the vegetable guy is celebrated in Latin America. It connotes beauty and fun and forms a meal for everybody. Yes, no elitism! A life without pretences and an ordinary that is celebration-worthy. So Neruda, including how he inscribes his geographical identity and nationality in an ode written for tomatoes! Did you feel the build-up of momentum? Like a painting being created. And the after-effect? A feeling of festivity and celebration. A poem I look at as romantic, because it makes us look at the most ordinary with such wonderment. Isn't it? 

A few waltzing words, and the thoughts they conjure in my mind. Oh, I love! 

Happy Valentine’s.

[Written for WordPress Daily Prompts : 365 Writing Prompts aimed at posting at least once a day, based on the prompts provided. The prompt for today was: Cupid’s Arrow - It’s Valentine’s Day, so write an ode to someone or something you love. Bonus points for poetry!]