Poets Online Archive



Odes to Common Things   

April 2020

Nobel laureate Pablo Neruda decided in his late forties that he would commit himself to write an ode a week. Eventually, he produced 225 odes.

Neruda conceived his odes as an homage to common things that he encountered frequently and might have otherwise overlooked. He wrote about an artichoke, clouds, the moon and onions.

In his "Ode To The Onion," he writes of this "luminous flask" that:

...in the secrecy of the dark earth
your belly grew round with dew.
Under the earth
the miracle
happened
and when your clumsy
green stem appeared,
and your leaves were born
like swords
in the garden...
You make us cry without hurting us...
and the fragrance of the earth lives
in your crystalline nature.

We referenced Neruda's "Ode to Broken Things" in an earlier prompt that featured Yusef Komunyakaa's poem "The God Of Broken Things." But Neruda almost exclusively chose as his topics real things. One of the broken things in that poem is a clock.

And that clock
whose sound
was
the voice of our lives,
the secret
thread of our weeks,
which released
one by one, so many hours
for honey and silence
for so many births and jobs,
that clock also
fell
and its delicate blue guts
vibrated
among the broken glass
its wide heart
unsprung.

Are Neruda's odes classic odes? A classic ode is structured in three major parts: the strophe, the antistrophe, and the epode. Greek odes were originally poetic pieces performed as a song or with musical accompaniment on aulos and the lyre.

To be a professor of poetry, I'll say that there are a number of odes forms including the Pindaric, Horatian, English and irregular - but I don't want you bogged down this month in forms that are overly restrictive. Still, many of you probably have discovered the way forms and structures can help a poem move forward.

Pindaric odes consist of three distinct stanzas (strophe, antistrophe, epode with the first two having the same meter and length, while the epode has a different meter and length) and it was very much meant to be used with music.

Horatian odes (from Horace's poetry) have rhyme and a specific stanza structure.

Irregular odes use rhyme but not a formal rhyme scheme and not the three-part form of the Pindaric ode, nor the two- or four-line stanza of the Horatian ode. It offers the most freedom. William Wordsworth and John Keats are two poets who extensively wrote irregular odes.  Wordsworth's "Ode on Intimations of Immortality" and Keats' "Ode on a Grecian Urn" or "Ode to a Nightingale."

All of those seem very formal to us today. So, I return to Pablo Neruda and his collected All the Odes to common things, such as his "Ode to My Socks."

...They were
so handsome
for the first time
my feet seemed to me
unacceptable
like two decrepit
firemen, firemen
unworthy
of that woven
fire,
of those glowing
socks...


Keats' odes to that classical urn or bird are also "common" objects that he saw in the course of his days. Don't make the mistake of assuming that because many contemporary odes are less classical in their form that they are less serious. Neruda's odes have been described as "the personal diary of a man in search of meaning who sings to life itself, to our connections to one another." Wordsworth's "Ode on Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood" is an ode to the Platonic doctrine of "recollection" and John Keats's "Ode on a Grecian Urn" describes the timelessness of art, and Percy Bysshe Shelley's "Ode to the West Wind" addresses the strength of nature. 

Neruda even tells us why those socks are worth observing.

The moral
of my ode is this:
beauty is twice
beauty
and what is good is doubly
good
when it is a matter of two socks
made of wool
in winter. 


In his "Ode To The Onion," he writes of this "luminous flask" that:

...in the secrecy of the dark earth
your belly grew round with dew.
Under the earth
the miracle
happened
and when your clumsy
green stem appeared,
and your leaves were born
like swords
in the garden...
You make us cry without hurting us...
and the fragrance of the earth lives
in your crystalline nature.

We referenced Neruda's "Ode to Broken Things" in an earlier prompt that featured Yusef Komunyakaa's poem "The God Of Broken Things." But Neruda almost exclusively chose as his topics real things. One of the broken things in that poem is a clock.

And that clock
whose sound
was
the voice of our lives,
the secret
thread of our weeks,
which released
one by one, so many hours
for honey and silence
for so many births and jobs,
that clock also
fell
and its delicate blue guts
vibrated
among the broken glass
its wide heart
unsprung.

Are Neruda's odes classic odes? A classic ode is structured in three major parts: the strophe, the antistrophe, and the epode. Greek odes were originally poetic pieces performed as a song or with musical accompaniment on aulos and the lyre.

To be a professor of poetry, I'll say that there are a number of odes forms including the Pindaric, Horatian, English and irregular - but I don't want you bogged down this month in forms that are overly restrictive. Still, many of you probably have discovered the way forms and structures can help a poem move forward.

Pindaric odes consist of three distinct stanzas (strophe, antistrophe, epode with the first two having the same meter and length, while the epode has a different meter and length) and it was very much meant to be used with music.

Horatian odes (from Horace's poetry) have rhyme and a specific stanza structure.

Irregular odes use rhyme but not a formal rhyme scheme and not the three-part form of the Pindaric ode, nor the two- or four-line stanza of the Horatian ode. It offers the most freedom. William Wordsworth and John Keats are two poets who extensively wrote irregular odes. 

All of those seem very formal to us today. So, I return to Pablo Neruda and his collected All the Odes to common things, such as his "Ode to My Socks."

...They were
so handsome
for the first time
my feet seemed to me
unacceptable
like two decrepit
firemen, firemen
unworthy
of that woven
fire,
of those glowing
socks...


Keats' odes to that urn or bird are also "common" objects that he saw in the course of his days. Don't make the mistake of assuming that because many contemporary odes are less classical in their form that they are less serious. Neruda's odes have been described as "the personal diary of a man in search of meaning who sings to life itself, to our connections to one another." Wordsworth's "Ode on Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood" is an ode to the Platonic doctrine of "recollection" and John Keats's "Ode on a Grecian Urn" describes the timelessness of art, and Percy Bysshe Shelley's "Ode to the West Wind" addresses the strength of nature. 

Neruda even tells us why those socks are worth observing.

The moral
of my ode is this:
beauty is twice
beauty
and what is good is doubly
good
when it is a matter of two socks
made of wool
in winter. 


We used odes in a more formal way in a previous prompt

For more on all our prompts and other things poetic, check out the Poets Online blog.


THIS ODE
 No lyric address to a particular
or elevated in style or manner
not Pindar, Wordsworth, Shelley
(none of which I can sing)
No museum urn
No unravish'd bride of quietness
Not even a sonnet or elegy
Its origin [Greek, aeidein] seems off
like my misstepping metrical feet.

I sang a baby's lullaby tonight.
A rhyming chant in praise
of sleep, whose effect was greater
than any poem I have sung before.

Lianna Wright



ODE TO OLD JEANS

 Hardiest,
most comfortable of leg-wear,
armor against devils-club, greenbrier,
manzanita thicket –
I wore you for years of trails,
of search-and-findings,
of knees-to-earth gardening
and fetching firewood.
You saved my skin in falling.
When at last you failed at my joints,
you became cutoffs –
your lopped-off shins salvaged
among sewing-scraps and patches.
Now, I choose a length of leg
faded blue but fabric intact, sturdy,
durable. Nothing
so fine and thorough as denim.
I cut a strip wide enough
to fold across my face, tack edges
in place. Snug over nose and mouth,
you muffle my words
to a slow sort of cowboy far-off
meditation, like speaking
softly to my horse. You’re my
shield in time of contagion,
my mask presented to the world.
Old jeans, my safety.

Taylor Graham



ODE TO OUR GARDEN

 You don’t look that great
This time of year
But as I excavate
A mat of last year’s leaves
Remove dead stalks
Make room for tender shoots
Already poking through the mulch
New growth sprouting from old roots
A complex system ready to reboot
I am excited, nonetheless
Recall you all dressed up
Resplendent in your Sunday best
Smelling sweet, ablaze with color

You are an abundant source of food
Peppers, greens, bright red tomatoes
And then, of course, the herbs
Basil, thyme, oregano
Flowering plants grow everywhere
Bee balm, daisies, lavender
Tulips, Zinnia and Marigold
Some to be picked, some left alone
To decorate this lovely outdoor room
Azure roofed and cedar fenced
White birch and sugar maple accents
Soundtrack by Mother Nature’s latest stars
Blue Jays, Chickadees, Cardinals

You are where we take our morning coffee
Sit with a book on quiet afternoons
Watch humming birds and Bumble Bees
Our tenant rabbit and her brood
Grill vegetables and steaks
Take breaks from uninspiring chores
And so much more
You could be on the cover of some magazine
Manicured and tended by a crew
A perfect, stunning blend of old and new
A splendid, sanctuary for two

Frank Kelly



 ODE TO JOEL

 Joel a task master
brevity for you a disaster

Your salary Five Hundred Thousand
Your work product simply unseasoned

Kindness far from your realm
Bad behavior you practiced it well.

You were a cyst
A classic narcissist.

You said, “I am fifty-six and cannot change.”
“Let me find an underling to blame.”

Your audience grew thinner
Your colleagues ran for cover

Sadly, they will etch upon your grave
“From Himself —He could not be saved.”

Lisa Salerno Honecker


ODE TO A NUTCRACKER

 My dad wasn’t an artist
And he didn’t make art,
Only a cast iron nutcracker
He fashioned some eighty years ago
When he worked in a foundry;
Just something to fill in dead time;
And bring a smile to his new wife
When she held the heavy puppy,
With its glazed-white body,
And its jet black ears and tail.
Lift the tail,
And its mouth opened for a walnut;
Press the tail down and its mouth cracked the shell.

But this was all theoretical.
Neither I nor any of my brothers
Ever saw it used that way.
All our lives,
It was used as a bedroom door stop,
A damn heavy one
That would have held open
The door to a bank vault.
It was only noticed with a curse,
After a stubbed toe,
Or when it was dusted,
And it must have been dusted,
Because my mother dusted everything.
Otherwise, it was invisible,
Like the crucifix above each door.
Maybe it was only kept
Because it was too heavy
To tote downstairs to throw away,
Or, perhaps, we held onto it because dad made it,
Though no one in the family was that sentimental.

It’s only now, with our parents gone
And the house sold,
That the four of us,
Over cigars and dad’s favorite whiskey,
Wonder where it went.
Does a grandkid have it?
If so, great.
If not, how did we lose it?
Only as a topic
Which unites us,
Has it any weight.

Ron Yazinski


TO A WREN
 Earth Day 2020

     Elusive bird,
Pouring forth your song this April morn,
    I cannot see you
Among the trees and tangled yaupon thickets,
But you proclaim your presence
    In long, ecstatic bursts
That are echoed from far deeper in the woods.

Each year you build in hanging pots outside my porch,
     Only later to abandon
Them for more unobtrusive lodgings,
My coming and going not conducive to your
      retiring nature.
You raise your young among the dappled
      shade of oak and pine where
For generations past you’ve come and gone,
      a tiny, brown, conduit of life.

But now the wilding dwindles, man intrudes, laying
     Waste to forest, holt, and heath
In his dominance of all other life to please
     Himself, to reshape the very planet
To his will, proliferating like a giant fungus
     On the land, putting out the light
Of species after species that he might live
     In wasteful abundance and desperate need.

And now we pay the price, dying by the thousands,
     Falling to an even smaller living thing,
A mere snippet of RNA bringing the world of man
     To its knees, stopping commerce,
     Cleaning the air and water as we
Hide indoors, brought to a standstill, alone in our homes,
Wearing masks as we did in countless plagues past,
     Wondering if we’ve finally gone too far,
Have outraged Nature once too often in our tireless
     Quest for more.

Yet you sing among the green abundant earth,
     The roll of eons throbbing through your song,
     The promise of eternal spring, the tilt and spin
Of earth as it moves, and our sun whirling on and on
     Round the central darkness of one of billions
Stretching beyond all the imaginings of man.
One song, one earth, one small brown bird, here, now,
    And so forever.

Robert Miller



APRIL

I sing to the robins that follow me in the backyard
as I rake the last of the winter's leaves and acorns.
They are happy for my work that reveals their meals.

I praise the green sedum that covers bare spots
with bright, spring color without my intervention.
Natures hates a vacuum and bare soil.

Here is a chorus for the honeybee that I lifted
from the birdbath who might have stung me
but did not. We both took a chance.


And this tiny ode is for the weathered bench
where I sit to rest from my garden singing.
It is close enough to home. Far enough to be alone.

Kenneth Ronkowitz



THE SUNCATCHER
It is neither stained glass nor glass
A classic steam locomotive
this train that is not a train
Wheels unmoving; whistle without sound
Muted red and gold and blue
This beautiful acrylic ornament
Part of a child’s craft kit
Decades old
Suspended in time
by soft golden threading

It sits silent in a storage box
An ornament amongst many
But none as precious
I lift it gently from its wrappings
As if it were one of the three
Original magi gifts
unearthed
I hold it up to the light
Myself the only communicant
tracing it raised outlines
like a lover’s gentle touch

From early Roman colored glass
to Native American light catchers
This small harnesser of the sun
Bringer of light, light in hand
This train, your train
The more “masculine” choice
or simply what remained?
The engine and its smoke stack;
cab, window, wheels
and cow grater too

Before automobiles
Trains, real and toy
Brought to us by the Lionel empire,
modern advertising,
America’s great railroad history
and Britain’s first steam engines

Your train - my train - our train
an inexpensive, mass produced import
Its one voyage across the Pacific
with its puffy plume of faux steamy smoke
forever rising from its tinted faux chimney
A traveler of time more than miles

The wonder of modern plastics
Porcelain for all its beauty
has not nearly the same fortitude
And as I look for any signs of wear
upon its pebbled surface
I think of the hands that once held it
The hands that painted it
The same hands that butchered meat
washed clean of stain and scent
That choice of color palette
still clinging to it

Like the memory that remains within me
of the time we sat together
each of us choosing one design
I do not recall any of the others
They no longer exist
This the sole survivor
though the painter is gone

We did not do many things together
And I stop to think of what if any
I have that was yours
and it is all I can think of
And so its value grows
over the years
It is rich in the only way that matters
It connects me to a time and place
that no longer is
and to a father, loving and loved
who once was

No mere memento
this irreplaceable artifact
from a life past
It reaches out, tells a story
without words, without voice
It tells me who I am
And as it has been
for so many travelers
past and present,
anxious, lost, weary, wanting,
in joy and grief gathered,
it is the train
that brings me home

Terri J. Guttilla


ODE TO A HARVEST FLY
Cicada minstrel
sings for me,
vibrates membranes,
creates sounds
that amplify,
resonate from
branch to branch,
tree to tree,
their high-pitched
drone,
a passionate,
piercing buzz,
fills the quiet hush
of shadowy
forest floors,
summer’s silent
corners,
lightens up
my pensive
thoughts,
ushers on
courageous,
life affirming
wails,
permeating
daylight hours
with July’s concerto,
August’s symphony,
Mother nature’s
circadian melodies.

Sterling Warner



ODE TO MY GRANDMOTHER'S CLOCK

 When grandma was alive, the antique
clock, she received as a wedding
gift, sat quite regally on the mint green
cement shelf in the cellar, above my grandpa's
wine spout. Even then, as a youngster it
seemed out of place to me.

How I loved it! Yearned that one day
it would be mine. This family heirloom,
bone china white porcelain with green
wisps of leaves and pink rosettes,
surrounding the face of time. When
grandma died, it remained in the house

with my eldest aunt. When she died,
her younger sisters offered it to my
mother who graciously accepted it. I
got custody when I had to put my mom
in a nursing home. It pained me to
receive it that way,.

Now it sits in my bedroom, just waiting
to be passed on to my younger sister,
who will pass it on to her daughter, who
will pass it on to her eldest daughter.
That's the way it goes in our family.
That is the rule.

Marie A. Mennuto-Rovello



ODE TO THE FRIDGE

 Born in 1960,
The Fridge is older than me.
Older than me,
and colder than me,
with more staying power
than any fridge
made today.
Pre-dating
planned obsolescence
by several decades,
it's never missed a beat
since Mum and Dad
brought it home
to their little love-nest,
all those years ago.
Open it up and see
a freezer box at the top,
black door opening sideways
to the ice-cream
and the vodka;
alongside, a half-shelf
where the milk jug was kept
when I was a kid.
Who uses milk jugs now?
Three full shelves -
choose their location
using the little grooves
moulded into
the white, plastic walls.
On the inside of the door,
a blue egg-rack
and a drop-down
sky-blue
door-width
compartment
where we used to keep
the butter;
now it houses
carrots for the dog and,
when I'm pushed for space,
a can of Camden Hells.
The white, solid shelf
at the bottom of the inside
of the door,
with it's stainless steel retainer
held milk bottles
in the day when they were glass,
delivered clinking to the doorstep
six days a week,
at three in the morning,
and that chimed
a friendly greeting
whenever we opened
or closed
The Fridge door.
If we didn't move
the milk bottles
from the step to The Fridge
early enough in winter,
the cream at the top
would freeze, expand,
pop the silver foil top
and raise it up
on an obscene pillar
of frosted cream.
A delay in summer,
too long after the dawn chorus,
meant a ragged hole in
the silver foil,
and a fat, sated blue tit
snoozling
in a nearby tree.
What do blue tits drink now
On a golden summers' morn?
Closed, the door is white,
a chrome handle
set horizontally
into a jet-black
polished-onyx
wide-set band
at the top,
bearing the legend,
"Prestcold."
Established in 1934,
they no longer exist;
nothing they made
ever needed
replacing!
My lovely Mum
(born in 1939)
can never be
replaced and,
since she died,
The Fridge is all there is
left in the world
that's known me
all my life.

Robert Best