Ronsardian
Ode
The Ronsardian
ode (named after Pierre de Ronsard 1524-1585)
is the only kind of ode that specifies a particular rhyming scheme - ababccddc, with
syllable counts of 10, 4, 10, 4, 10, 10, 4, 4, 8.
In the present rather windy economic climate, I thought
an owed might be appropriate.
Owed to the Bank
I rue the day when I picked up the
phone
(Connected then)
And asked them to advance me a
small loan.
Never again!
The moment the transaction was
arranged,
The pattern of my entire life was
changed.
More than I’d guessed,
The interest
Mounts up. I must have been
deranged.
Eleven thousand pounds I owe, they
say.
That’s quite a debt.
I swear I’ll pay it back to them
one day,
But not just yet.
Meanwhile I need a place to lay my
head,
A jug of wine perhaps, a loaf of
bread.
Then there’s my wife...
For normal life
Can’t stop because I’m in the red.
I’ve hardly slept since this
nightmare began.
I lie awake,
Find fatal flaws in every single
plan
I try to make -
But last night all my ideas seemed
to gel.
I’ll find another job; all will be
well.
A banking post
Will pay the most.
Why’s that? It’s not too hard to
tell.
Ah,
life as a teller. It's a tempting thought. I think there should probably be a
fourth stanza, but as yet there isn't. Sorry.
I
bought a book of Ronsard’s selected poems, and it didn’t include a single
Ronsardian ode. So some further research may be called for.
Thanks to Bob Newman
for his wonderful Volecentral resource site.
My example poem
Ode to a Creek (Ronsarian Ode)
The little creek was
built to irrigate
so men could farm.
Thus, daily men
would rise to raise some gate
when days were warm.
Those summer days
the creek would draw the boys
away from practiced
games and silly toys
to share the breeze
with brush and trees
that lined the
creek, contained their noise.
The larger boys had
tied a swinging rope
on which we played
and dropped to take
our daily bath sans soap,
quite unafraid.
When swing and drop
became at last mundane
up to that branch
we'd boldly climb again
into two feet
it seemed so neat,
we bore our
scratches with disdain.
One fall they warned
we could not swim nor fish
White poison flowed
and fish preceded
it; to live their wish.
Death was bestowed
on parasites and all
the mossy growth.
But all the neighbor
boys I knew were loath
to think them right
when deadly white
killed life and our
short season both.
When winter came a
fragile sheet of ice
made young boys bold
for they could walk
across it once or twice
when it was cold.
They'd taunt the
older boys and wouldn't care
how fast were bigger
kids who'd chase them there.
The small ones knew
just what to do;
The bigs fell
through most anywhere.
I cannot tell now
where that creek had been;
growth needs, I
guess.
New roads exist that
hadn't been there then,
such is progress.
That creek's as gone
as are my boyhood years.
but still the
memories of it endears.
It served its roles
and other goals
before it bowed and
disappeared.
© Lawrencealot -
April 15, 2014
Visual Template
