HOW TO WRITE POETRY, BY OLAN L. SMITH

Part 5: The Ode Writer

Letter to an Ode Writer

Dear Mr. Keats,

I find it sad that you are dead, though no one lives forever, and it may be a tad late for me to tell you thanks for your poem, Ode to a Nightingale. Without it, I am afraid I would never have gained quite the interest I have in writing poetry. I remember the day Professor Cornelia Barnhart told us to read it and rewrite it in our own words. I thought myself quite the hotshot and wanted to impress her, so I rewrote it with my best effort—well, with the best effort of a young lad in college. The following week, after turning in the assignment, I came into class hoping to hear high praise from her, but she said nothing. After class, I lingered to ask her what she thought of my rewrite of your work. She said, "It was okay, but it dulled it and removed all [your] genius." I was heartbroken, John, but after rereading it, I realized she was correct. But John, I touched her somehow because she became my poetry mentor for the next two years. I couldn't write like you and still can't, but I learned to write like me. You see, she set us up to fail. No way could any of us match your work, but we tried.

I try to understand your Ode to a Nightingale to this day, and each time I reread it, I come up with different meanings. I see each line differently, but a stanza stands out at one time compared to the time before. Followers of my work, John, will ask me what I meant by a line or the entire poem, but I am afraid to influence them with my simple meanings, so I won't ask you what you were thinking when you wrote these eight ten-line stanzas. I did notice you used iambic pentameter for the rhythm of the last two lines of each stanza, although the rest of the lines are irregular, giving each stanza ending power. Things haven't changed that much for poets; we all struggle to be noticed, and we struggle to find our voice in the void in which the din of voices echo loudly, but I don't think poetry has lost its edge. I read many great poets from around the world who are managing to be heard despite the ruckus.

I won't ask my readers to rewrite your work; rather, I will ask them to listen to your voice echoing across time. I will ask them where they thought you were in your mind when you wrote this ode, and I will not dare tell them they are wrong. I will ask them how this ode makes them feel. I will ask if they feel fatalistic or uplifted after reading your ode. I will ask them what the nightingale is to them. Is it the bringer of death, or has it become their muse as well? I will ask them if they feel inspired to write, and I will ask them if they can still hear your voice speaking to them.

John, it is getting time for me to end this letter and bid you adieu. The music is fleeting, and my muse has taken flight. In another hour or so, I will sleep, and perhaps in a dream, we will meet in the Universal Library of Knowledge poetry section.

Sincerely yours,

©Olan L. Smith, 6.23.17