poemoftheday

Ode to Anonymous – Let’s Talk About Lyrical Poetry

Poetry

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Ode to Anonymous - Pindaric Ode - Lyrical Poem

New beauty with frosted skin and colorful harmony,
Singing warrior songs, under skies covered with nightfall.
A sleek princess with a voice like warm honey,
Your soft tongue, well-influenced by life’s days, your arsenal.

You sound just like a fantasy, and never could be heartless; I am consumed. 
With piercing eyes, like sapphire ocean waves, you struck me leaving wonderful wounds.
A whirl of energy enters me, and I’m enthralled with you; it is so wrong,
Searching for your taste, to you I do not belong.

Your lips are unafraid, and bitter as vinegar.
Grim lady, you are genuinely magnetic. 
Your melody is lucid; haunting and sinister.
The chaos that is you, inspires only those most poetic.
My captivating, candy-coated glacial Queen,
Your euphonic touch is so surreal, this must be a dream. 


by KimberlyAnneInc
Art by Mélanie Delon

My poem was definitely inspired by someone. It’s an Ode, so that should be pretty self-explanatory.

For all you know, it could be the Queen of England, or Betty White. Maybe I’m a bit fond of her. Whoever this is about, can be revealed at a later time. For now – let’s talk about lyrical poems.

The more I’ve been studying poetry, and its different forms and structures, they less intimidated I feel by it. I remember writing poems as a little kid in my bedroom. Music and words have somehow always made me feel more complete. For as long as I can remember I’ve considered music, poems, storytelling, art and everything in between as the most important and valid forms of expression. Emotional expression, artistic expression – these are actual declarations of human existence.

Despite writing little rhymes when I was a kid, somehow in my adult life within the last decade or so I started to let poetry intimidate me. I thought I couldn’t do it. I thought it would be pointless or a waste of time. Somehow along the way, I lost a piece of my creative self-expression. I’m grateful now to have put more time into learning, and I mean truly learning more about poetry and reconnecting with my own creative spark of self-expression.

My poem above, Ode to Anonymous is an example of a Pindaric Ode. During my studies, I learned about many different kinds of poetry; and lyrical poetry was one of them.

Lyrical poetry does not just consist of odes, but in this blog – that is what I’ll be focusing on. Generally, lyric poetry focuses on a brief description of intense thoughts and emotions. Sometimes this style of poetry is about nature, romance, grief, or death – just to name a few.

In my example above, it does have a bit of romance, but there are plenty of other elements that are hidden and not so hidden. Lyric poetry is also meant to be read aloud. By studying even further, I realize how important it is now to read poems aloud and hear them read aloud by others.

The thing with poetry is that when it’s spoken, and you hear it vs. just reading it, it can be interpreted differently. It’s like you experience the words differently. You feel the emotion differently. The message that the poet is trying to send is just absorbed so much better when you hear the words aloud.

The form of my poem above is called Pindaric Ode. The Pindaric Ode originated in ancient Greece and is named after Pindar. He was known as one of the most epic lyric poets of all time. Pindar is also the reason why Odes exist.

The word ode derives from the Greek word oide, which means “to sing or chant.” Odes were originally performed to music. The duration, metrical patterns, and rhyme of these songs were certainly different long ago. Since the time of the ancient Greeks, odes have evolved into three different varieties, but the core form and premise have remained the same.

Pindaric

Horatian

Irregular

If you want to learn more about all three types of Odes, check out the Poetry Foundation website. (By the way, The Poetry Foundation is based in my hometown, Chicago – so you know I have to show love!)

The structure of an ode is distinct from that of other forms of poetic expression. Each of the three varieties of odes has its own particular characteristics. In contrast to Pindaric and Horatian odes, which must adhere to strict rules, irregular odes are free to take any form. It is common for odes to be constructed of several lines or stanzas of poetry, but they can be of any length.

In ancient Greece, odes to sports or other events were designed to be performed with dancers and a chorus. Odes were used in celebration of major athletic affairs, such as the Olympics.

Pindar enjoyed including mythical allusions in his art as a way of paying homage to the gods. See, now this is something Pindar and I have in common. If you know me, you know how much I love allusions and mythology. Pindar was spot-on by making sure everyone knew that mythological allusions are the best. Pindar was one super cool dude; he even taught Sappho a thing or two. Epic.

Before I get carried away about mythology and allusions, let me get back to the point!

The particular form that I used above is the Pindaric three stanza form, also known as a public/celebration form. The reason for this is due to Pindaric odes commonly being used for public events, sports competitions, or celebrations.

Generally speaking, Pindaric odes are separated into three sections, or stanzas: the strophe, the antistrophe, and the epode.

  • strophe – first section of an ode; a group of stanzas of alternating metrical form (see my 1st stanza and check out the ending words of lines 1-4)
  • antistrophe – second section in a poem consisting of alternating stanzas in contrasting metrical form (kind of like the 1st stanza, but AABB pattern instead of ABAB for rhyming end words)
  • epode – third section that follows the strophe and antistrophe and completes the movement (Stanza 3 (6-line sestet) – lines 9-14)

And there you have the structure and form of a Pindaric Ode! Writing poems with strict form and rules is actually quite challenging – especially if you’re a rebel writer like me. One time I did get in trouble for writing too many words over the limit on a school assignment. I have issues, I know – but only the best kind. It’s embarrassing since that happened not so long ago, but it’s true! If you are a rebel writer, tend to overwrite or just totally despise following forms and structures of any kind – but especially in writing, then you understand what I mean. 🙂

An Ode that I read, that really helped me understand the form of a Pindaric Ode was the poem, The Bard by Thomas Gray.

Here’s a stanza from his poem: 

II.2.
"'Mighty victor, mighty lord,
Low on his funeral couch he lies!
No pitying heart, no eye, afford
A tear to grace his obsequies.
Is the Sable Warrior fled?
Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead.
The swarm, that in thy noon-tide beam were born?
Gone to salute the rising Morn.
Fair laughs the Morn, and soft the Zephyr blows,
While proudly riding o'er the azure realm
In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes;
Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm;
Regardless of the sweeping Whirlwind's sway,
That, hush'd in grim repose, expects his evening prey.

See the rhyme scheme and pattern?! The poem was crafted with excellence and has provided me with a perfect example on how I could attempt to write my own Pindaric Ode (even though mine is much shorter!).

In this poem by Gray, he presents ideas about two nations sharing a common history. Gray sought to investigate the concept of the significance of Wales within an old British nation.

Gray chose the poem’s structure and words with care and intention in order to make his poem appear a bit more ancient, and more important, so that he could use it to convey his ideas.

The conflict between Edward I, the English invader, and the last bard of Wales is depicted in Thomas Gray’s poem “The Bard,” which was written in 1757. The poem was a major success, and it played a significant role in establishing the image of the Welsh mountains as a symbol of liberty in popular culture.

I could probably go on and on about this, but it’s late so I’ve got to stop right here. A post from me was way overdue, so I figured this would suffice. If you’ve read this far, thank you. Your attention span makes me extremely jealous! I hope you enjoyed this post and maybe learned something new. Let me know in the comments.

To read more, you can check out these links for reference:

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44298/the-bard-a-pindaric-ode

https://www.historyextra.com/period/medieval/edward-i-the-dutiful-conqueror/

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/sappho

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/pindar

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/thomas-gray

https://www.instagram.com/melaniedelon/?hl=en

The Gift: A Poem

Poetry 
I have a gift for you, my grandpa says. 
With excitement, I jump up and down. 
So tiny and little, my feet make no sound. 

He has a box and it's wrapped with a bow. 
Someday, my dear, you will certainly know. 
Keep the box with you and never let go. 

This gift will guide you and it will protect.
When it is open you can see the things you will never forget. 
Greater than any other gift, nothing will compare. 
Unwrap the box and you will see how I care. 

All of those times you should not have been alive, 
And should not have survived,
It was me
And the gift, 
Working out of sight. 

The one that I gave you so long ago. 
The prettiest one, that was wrapped with a bow.
You have much work to do still, here in this life.  

This is a gift that can withstand all time. 
You can pass down the gift to your own down the line. 
It was given to me, and now I’ve given it to you. 
Stay strong and have courage, as we need you to do. 

There is no greater gift than the truest of love. 
Marching behind you, we push and we shove.
Your wisdom is brimming, your light they'll try dimming.
Do your greatest and make us so proud. 
Believe in the magic and keep passing it around. 

Do not be afraid, and hold close your gift. 
It’s been crafted with much care, I’m here to uplift. 
Remember me always, my grandpa says. 
No longer tiny and little, I’m fierce and I’m loud. 

When I stomp on the ground my feet do make a sound. 
With all of my force I shake and I scream, 
Energy swarms and it moves and
I see. 

All of the things I was meant to see. 
With the power of the gift, I have so much more. 
It’s everything I’d ever need or could imagine.
More than just one lifetime could fathom. 

Looking at the gift now, the box and the bow, 
I wrap it back up knowing what I know. 
Tie it so tightly, 
With all the love 
And care that I can, 
Now the box feels mighty, even more than before.

Set it aside and wait patiently for the next, 
Now when it’s my turn 
I’ll give it to them too, 
When they most need it!
When the day comes, with honor I'll tell
Someday, my dear, you will certainly know.
Greater than any other gift, nothing will compare. 
With the power of this gift, You will never be defeated.
Keep the box close and always be aware.
Untie the bow and you will see how I care.

The Homemaker: A Poem

Poetry 
On a Saturday afternoon, 
When the sun is out, and the sky is bright blue, 
I’m in the house stuck again. 
All alone and dancing in my room, 
With a vacuum in hand. 

I remember your face and the things that you said. 
You don’t remember of course, 
But I’ll never forget. 
Now I’ll dance with my vacuum instead of with you. 

I open the window to let in some fresh air. 
Make my way down the three flights of stairs.
Just to wash all the laundry, I see images of you 
In my mind, they taunt me. 
Loading the clothes bit by bit, 
I wash them and you as I close the lid. 

Carrying my soap and basket 
Back up the stairs, it’s not so bad I say, 
Carrying the weight of my fears. 
The weight of the years, the ones spent.
The time wasted that I won’t get back. 

Into the kitchen now, here I go. 
A sink full of dishes is waiting for me. 
They’ve been there forever, just like I waited for you. 
Those dishes can’t sit much longer, 
We can’t live that way. 
Soak them in suds, watch it go down the drain. 

Turn around now, and I stare at the floor. 
Bits and crumbs, tiny pieces on the tile.
The walls close in, and I feel the pressure.
Grabbing the broom hardly even remembering your smile. 
Sweeping myself off my feet as I sweep the kitchen,
You’d be silly to think I even miss you a smidgen. 

Hot water now fills up a bucket. 
Another romantic date with my mop.
This is what I signed up for, 
It’s exactly what I wanted. 
Did you think I’d be your little puppet?
You had them lined up. 
No use for me. 
The truth would have been good. 
Or maybe even sympathy. 
Dirty mop water, pour it all out. 
Like I did with my heart, 
And you flushed it all down.
Not a care in the world, you don’t hear a single sound. 

I make. 
There’s a pot on the stove, 
It’s been cooking all day. 
Stirring and stirring, daydreaming as I go my own way. 
Who is better at stirring the pot? 
Is it me or is it you? 
Because it’s not just myself who I need to feed, 
But the little one who is relying on me. 

What is a bathroom break when you must clean the bathroom? 
Bleach, baking soda, and mini cleaning brushes, 
Are part of my auxiliary. 
It’s standard for the code, luxury is forebode.
Don't get caught taking a breather. 
Scrubbing the shower, I scour and scour. 
Pretending I could scrub you just the same, 
But off of my skin. 

Dusting the shelves and little knick knacks is part of the routine. 
When cleaning the home, I’m also cleaning me! 
I polish the floors, while you polish your whores. 
When I caress the dishes, you are giving kisses. 
I wash the tub, and I dry the puddles. 
Reminiscent of the time when I wasn’t sitting in a muddle. 

What touch feels like now is a mystery to me. 
But then again, so are communication, respect, and boundaries.
The night comes fast, almost too quickly. 
I still have one task to complete swiftly. 
On top of the cooking and cleaning, I take out the trash. 
Symbolic, I think, as I laugh and I laugh. 
The house is sparkly and gleaming. 

But a repair needs to be made, so I’ve learned how to do it. 
I do your job now since you’re not around. 
I don’t mind it at all, in fact, it’s quite profound. 
The things you’ve taught me just by disappearing, I find quite endearing. 

While you’re out nailing and screwing, I’m doing the same. 
The only difference is the things you nail and screw actually breathe and have a name.

Time Does Not Exist

Poetry 
The first time I saw your face
My heart sank into my chest 
It fell into my stomach!

My eyes could not believe the sight 
You took over my entire being 
No one else had any meaning.

How could I be so lucky?
You just fell into my life 
On one of the worst nights. 

I could get lost in you, 
Like you could get lost in me, 
It’s been years now and -  

My feeling only grows deeper. 
If there was ever a time I was not sure, 
It’s not today. 

I made some mistakes 
But still, I cannot ever replace you. 


I don’t want to go back and forth 
Or waste any more time. 
It is easy to see 

That you should be mine. 

I am addicted to your mind. 
When I look into your eyes 
I feel like I am home. 

This is where I want to be and this is where I will stay. 
Only if you let me. 
Just let me stay, 
I’ll be with you forever. 



I will never leave your side. 
You mean more to me than most, 
And more than you will probably ever know!

My words written can never explain. 
They will never portray! 

It would be impossible to capture how I feel. 
Trying to catch that feeling and make it tangible, 
Just to show you that it's real. 

It can’t happen. 
I just need you to believe 
In the chemistry. 

When I’m with you 
Time Does Not Exist. 
You always notice the little things. 

The important ones. 
You remember. 
Can you be yourself with me? 
I can with you. 

It’s hard to do with others, 
But they don’t matter now. 
Focused. 
We are focused. 

When you smile at me 
I know what it means. 

With you, everything feels different. 
It feels right. 
Let me keep you forever,
Brilliant. 

Like a bright light. 
You showed me how to love again, 
And how to be a friend. 

In the darkest times, 
My soul was lost. 
Now it has been found. 
To you, I owe many things.
A teacher and a lover. 
A true best friend. 

Let me keep you forever, 
For me, there is no one better.  

Sweet as honey.  
I Love you endlessly because 
With you it's always sunny.

He Knew

Experiences, Poetry 
He knew she was beautiful. 
Clearly, he could see. 
But her beauty is not all he saw. 
What he saw, made him stand out to her. 
What he saw, made himself in return, be seen. 
It made her look. 
She knew. 

He saw much deeper than the surface. 
He saw inside of her. 
The mystic that was her soul. 
The darkness that was her heart. 
The brilliance that was her mind. 
He knew that those other superficial things, 
That existed in their world,
Meant nothing to her. 

Somehow, nobody could really see her. 
Unless it was him. 
She was all alone. 
Unseen. But no, not to him. 
Only he had the eyes 
That had the power to see, 
Her visionary and gallivant spirit. 
The wandering and traveling force 
That was buried inside of her 
From the weight of 
All the things.  
She loved him for that. 

She loved him for the way that he could see her. 
Like nobody else could. 
He knew.




New Life

Poetry 
Here is a thing you should know. 
When love is true it doesn't need to be proven. 
It's just something you can feel. 
Like a vibe. A sudden burst of energy. 

Like a ray of sunshine, you feel the heat touch your skin. 
You just know it's there. 
She didn't have to prove to you. You know she cared. 
But the best part now is all the time and energy she put into you - 

Now it goes into her. 
Right where it should have been all along. 
She thanks the gods every day,
The moon, and the stars - 
For showing her the way.

The goddesses too,
For leading her down a path -
To where she'd never have to see you, 
Ever again in her life. 

She's happier than ever that she is not yours!
And even more ecstatic that she's
Not a wife. 
2 Years. 

Two years ago today, 
She thought you'd be together forever. 
Two years ago today, she'd never forgotten your face. 
Now she can barely remember your name. 
The memory and pain,
It haunts her - but not all the time. 

Her brain, it wants her;
To Leave you Behind. 
Just like you did to her heart. 
She just doesn't understand why you even had to start. 


Some things are better left unanswered;
Now she doesn't care if she will ever know. 
See. Despite any difficulties, 
Her life has improved drastically since you left. 
In fact, she said she feels 
Like she was saved from sudden death. 


She thinks of it as some sort of a "Divine Intervention"
It's really that magical. 
She laughs out loud now if someone even 
mentions your name. 
Although she is still healing, 
she no longer has the feelings; 

Of her heart sinking deep 
into seas of anguish and misery.
Chained down by an anchor of sorrow.  
She is Lied to, not anymore. Not her. 
She was relieved when you walked out the door. 
Your exit gave her a better tomorrow. 

And when you said goodbye, for the hundredth last time; 
That goodbye was the opening of the doors 
to her New Life.

I wrote this poem one night while laying on the couch. It was after a long day of work, and I was all alone with nothing but my thoughts. Being alone is not something that I’m really afraid of anymore. I think at one point, I may have been. Due to that fear, I put myself into some really ugly situations. If it wasn’t for those “situations”, this poem would not have been born. This just emphasizes my personal belief that most certainly everything happens for a reason.

Blankets of Snowflakes

Poetry 
It's so damn hot outside. 
Not a drop of snow in sight. 
Blankets of snowflakes are just a memory. 
Jack Frost should have put up a better fight. 
Green grass in December. 
"All you need is a hoodie", kinda weather. 
Icicles are non-existent. 
Sweating now, I'm reminiscent. 
This is the first time in my Chicago life, 
That I haven't seen a white Christmas.

This morning we woke up to no snow. This is the first time that I can really remember not having a “White Christmas”, in my entire life. Being from the mid-west, Chicago, IL specifically it is odd to say the least that we have woken up to spring like weather. It’s been warm the past few weeks, but this poem is just something that came to my mind as I took a walk outside this morning. I’ve never had such a warm Christmas day holiday before. It’s so rare. It makes me think of other holidays like Halloween for example, where we’d wish and wish for there to be no snow or rain on that day. Maybe our wishes got all mixed up in some sort of wish cyclone or hurricane, which has resulted in our wishes being granted today instead. Wishful thinking, perhaps because that is likely not the case despite my imagination being at play.

Happy Holidays to All

Dear Death

Poetry 
I'm becoming sick of the pictures of dead friends on my walls. 
They hang and stare at me; now they are just memories. 

I am immune to Death at this point. 
But a break would be nice. 

Dear Death, 
If you are reading this - 
Please slow down.
Take it easy for a minute. 

Can't you go somewhere else? 
Why do you have to come this way? 
Do you even think about what you're doing? 

I wonder if you have a list. 
Or if it's totally random. 

Do you have a quota to meet? 
Is that why you keep doing this? 

Dear Death, 
Please just go away. 

I know you well and I wish I didn't. 
I wish I’d never even known of your existence. 
You are not welcome here, but yet you still show your face! 

Bold. You are bold, Death.  
You have more audacity than all of us combined, on our worst days. 

You just have to show up, when none of us are ready. 
It must be your favorite thing to do. 

Do you have a team? Is it just you, alone? 

I wonder if there is a warehouse. Or a factory. Do you have weekly meetings to decide who is next? Is there only one of you, Death? 

Tell me, Death; Do you enjoy your job? 
Or are you actually like the rest of us? We, who do work because we need to, and barely get to enjoy any time off?

That's how the system works. Is it the same for you?  
I can imagine, with how frequently you visit us, you rarely get a break. 

Is it true? Does any of this happen by mistake? Do you get to decide when, where, or how? 

Tell me how it works so I can better understand why you feel the need to take the hand of everyone I love and guide them down that road!

The one we are "supposed" to cross only when we are old. 
It never works that way, though. Does it? Hardly ever!
You are as impatient as the changing of the weather. 

Do you have any remorse at all? I really wonder. 
Do you laugh behind the shadows as you steal from us and rob us blind? You are vicious. 

There can be nothing good about what you are doing. 

Have you ever been a victim of yourself? 
Have you ever lost anyone or anything you cared about? 

I wonder. 

Maybe if you did, you could understand. 

Someday, Death, I will face you. And when I do I will have my questions ready. I can only hope you will be prepared to explain. 
There must be a reason for us to experience such grief and pain. 

I'm not in a rush, so you can take your time. 
You can head back the other way, far, far from this place. 

Just leave. Be gone. It is the least you can do! 
And this time, on your way out - don’t take anyone else with you.

The Search

Poetry 
Every day a land far away looks more and more appealing. 

Dreaming of a feeling that I'm constantly reeling in, 

but the waves wash it away. 

Thinking, and thinking, maybe I can catch it again. 

The search for a simple life clearly is not so simple - 

it never ends.

Paper and Pen

Poetry 
The paper doesn't yell. 
It doesn't tell me I'm wrong. 
The pen leads the way. 
It listens to what I have to say.
The pen encourages me to sing my song. 

The paper doesn't judge me. 
It knows all of my issues. 
The paper carries my weight. 

It calls out to me saying, 
I miss you. 
Come back. 

I have PTSD from my past. 
Sometimes it creeps up to haunt me. 
Like waiting for the suspense in a story 
To turn into a climax. 

Except unlike a story, 
I have no conclusion. 
There is no resolution. 
Only confusion. 

Sometimes I think I'm doing well. 
Other times I am compelled 
To stay inside all day. 
I don't want to play. 

Conversations happen. 
And that is it. 
They happen. 
When arguments exist,
I shut down. 
I'd rather walk away. 

Despite my exterior,
I hate confrontation. 
I don't WANT to hurt other people. 
Although I know I am MORE than capable. 
Being called names, or judged 
Just for simply 
Speaking my opinion. 

Stuff like this is the reason;
Why I let the seasons pass. 
I'm not meant to be human. 
What am I? 

Smart and kind and loving. 
Successful. 
That is what they say. 
But on the inside 
I hide. 

Everything. 
The anxiety. The guilt. 
The fire and the rage. 
Sometimes it all goes so fast 
I can't even remember the day. 
I don't know my own name. 

Hiding my true form, nobody understands. 
I don't want to touch you, please don't hold my hand. 

Without some sense of intelligence - 
I'm not into it. 
Without some emotional expression 
and connection 
It's irrelevant.

Just go away. 
I Tell them and myself everyday. 
My intention isn't to hurt. 
I'm just fully misunderstood. 

By the everyday happenings, 
That I never thought would. 

You can't get what you want from me now, 
So you treat me like a b*tch. 
Tired of this world, 
I've got more than a 7 year itch. 

Paper and pen. 
My only friends. 
They don't get mad. 
They let me in. 

Paper and pen, accept me for who I am. 
What do I need humans for, ever again?