This refers more to the form Keats used in his odes than to his style. I wrote this first ode for the NFSPS Keatsian Ode poetry contest. I thought it was one of the stronger pieces I sent in, but it failed to place. I still consider it one of the best things I've written to date.
Ode to Prometheus
In fire we found our voice. The endless howl
of vowel’s “ah…oh” pleasure and “oh! ah!” pain
opened, closed incontenent. Furrowed scowl,
flapped arms, or flailing fists could not explain
balled anger shucking fears forlorn. But fire
inspired coarse mimes of rage a reason bright
to come together in the night. We stoked,
in darkness, mighty blaze, a golden pyre
with crackling sparks that burned our lips midflight
while wails choked on thick smoke the flames invoked.
We learned the plosive pops of ember snap
dry kindling’s consonantal velar crack
and felt our tongues burn with power to entrap
crude ululation front, middle and back.
With words came story- first mundane then tall,
shadowy tales of hero, god and beast.
Fire amplified projections of the mind
stride with enormous reach in deed and fall
from grace as monsters, spawned of horror, feast
on primal fears displaced and undefined.
Words, words more ashen words from dragon tongue
that scorched the earth with theory, tool and state
now jabber drivelous on, branding young
with ancient host of coal their parents ate.
And smothered by inferno’s rise, raw tears
stream down as coughs of pandemonium
relieve our worried minds with apish thought.
You gave us fire. You gave us words. But fears
consume our livers, chain our faces numb.
For light cannot dispell a darkness sought.
Ode to a four letter word
When William conquered England in ten six-
ty six, the Normans changed Boudica's daught-
ers' cunts' into vaginas (Latin lex-
icon for sheath or scabbard. And so met-
aphor and euphemism hid this hol-
low place in references to fuzzy mam-
mals like beavers and pussys, vague seafood
analogies and any other sprawl-
ing image built on sacred bliss or shame
(Men feared to look unless it sounded crude)
It is no church. It is no sewer. It
is gateway to the union of the el-
ements through sex. Too narrow to permit
great expectations. Too wide to be well
fulfilled by small malefactors empow-
ered from a desperate weakness. All men hate
a mirror when reflections speak unspok-
en truths that they will not admit and cow-
er at themselves. But if they cross the gate
with honest steps, it won't become a yoke.
The first step must be what we call it. None
of these expansive words, attempting to
distribute impact, will suffice. An un-
equivocal word -- solid, graceful, true
and brief like gut and hips and heart. An e-
qual partner to the cock or prick that fucks
much better than a penis can. A blunt,
explosive word that crackles energy,
consumes with passion and resolves with ac-
cent daintily spent. Which brings us back to cunt.
Love Ode of the High School Science TeacherFor light cannot dispell a darkness sought
Observation—Whenever I am in
your general proximity, I have
noted biochemical reactions
in my circulatory, digestive,
nervous, respitory and endocrine
systems. Including but not limited
to a quickened heart rate, shortness of breath
an increased amount of perspiration,
the failure to finish thoughts I started
and strange sensations from my stomachs depths.
Hypothesis—I believe these events
to be the result of phenomena
beyond explanation by fundement-
al laws of science. I must, therefore a-
ppeal to less orthodox sources, hereto
known as poets and other such persons
that dabble in the more ineffable
facets of humanity’s contemplations.
In light of countless tomes(circumstantial
though they are), I must assume I love you.
Prediction—If this variable I
tentatively refer to as love is
allowed to gestate, then stimuli
introduced through a prolonged emphasis
on commitment (demonstrated by time,
money, and sexual energy spent) will force
this love to flourish or become stagnant.
Since monitoring data is a prime
concern for no one but the both of us,
a control group would be irrelevant
and indeed detrimental even when
merely recalling past experiments.
Test—in our love’s chemical equation
neither is the limiting reagent
for you are the equal and opposite
reaction Newton promised. You have a
friction coefficient that approaches
zero. You are the electron shell that
needs my valence and we are drawn to each
other gaining stability from the
tight knit bond. We titrate our love to form
much more than water and a salt laden
precipitate. One look from your eyes warms
me in a way
6.02*10^23
Bunsen burners could
never accomplish, would engulf me till
or past the heat death of the universe
and gives me reason to be skeptical
as to whether visible spectrums should
be worthy of transmitting your features.
Conclusion—from intensification
of my initial responses, I
must conclude that the sole explanation,
however illogical it seems, lies
in the untested science of love. And
though I prefer a sterile environment
I cannot deny the apparent ben-
ifits. So therefore, I ask for your hand
that we may explore life’s great experiment
in micro and macroscopic union.
Some say a trumpet shall herald the end
consuming the world in tumultuous roar—
an ear rending sign no man could ignore
inviting the virtuous to ascend.
Till that time man waits around patiently
for that magical moment of judgment
when God rights all wrongs with a divine snap.
Till that time man shudders at prophecy
looking to heaven which remains silent
and wrings his hands at rumor and mishap.
But what if the sign is but a whisper
a gentle breeze caressing us gently
to open our eyes and finally see
truths that lurk behind the ether.
Will such whispers wake us from our slumber
or will we continue to loudly snore
and dream of inheiriting paradise.
Will such whispers convince the believer
expecting to hear that tumultuous roar
when even muffled murmurs should suffice.
For what if the fanfare has ever sounded
underscoring the birth of countless men
one unwavering tone of salvation
droning static in the ears of the dead.
Still we remain unmoved and unshaken
unwilling to accept God as subtle
rather than needing brimstone and trumpets.
Still we remain and still the note beckons
alone in the minds of a million souls
who haven’t decided to listen yet.
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