I thought I'd read you the only ode I have ever written.
I'm not sure this is an ode, but then in truth nobody
is quite sure what an ode in English is.
Now odes in Greek or Latin everybody knows what they are.
At least they've got all kinds of rules to them.
But an ode in English--
you compare the various things in English poetry called odes.
And about all they have in common
is that they're sort of irregular on the page in shape
maybe, not always.
And they are usually about some highfalutin and inspiring
subject like a Grecian urn, or intellectual beauty,
or a skylark, or something lofty like that.
So maybe this is not really a true ode
but the subject is my own rear end.
Now how this thing came about.
A poet friend of mine, Keith Waldrop,
gave me for a birthday present a little dictionary
of French slang.
And I looked up all the dirty words
and I was amazed to find all the colorful synonyms
for the human rump that the French argot has.
And I tried to weave some of these synonyms into this ode
and to make up a few new ones besides.
So here is my ode, I am addressing my rear end.
Old tumbril, rolling with me till I die.
Divided face I'm hung with, hindside-to,
how can a peace be drawn between us who never see eye to eye?
Why, when it seems I speak straight
from the heart most solemn thought,
do you too have to speak?
What about your horse laugh?
Whistle as I break the news to my mother that I must depart.
Moon always waxing full, barrage balloon, Vesuvius upside down,
dual rump roast, cave of the winds, my Mississippi coast.
Cyclops forever picking up and chucking stone.
Caboose, poor ass I'm saddled with from birth.
Without your act, the dirty deed I share,
how could the stuck up spirit in me
bear coming back down to Earth?