Body
by: Alissa Leigh
Map of terror and pleasure,
ardent junk, passionate congress
filled with the arguments of chemicals,
Echo chamber for the fanatical cries
of stubborn generations, all the quaint invisibles
death has grown a beard on,
labyrinth of desire, playing field of impulse,
factory where decay's silent armies clock in,
philosopher-clown blowing a horn at each epiphany.
Washed by the rough nurse of morning,
wheeled into the ward of the afternoon,
feeds, grateful, on the rich broth of dusk.
Reads the erratic cards of dreams,
turns on the rack of insomnia,
steals the two-bit grace of sleep.
Loses its name in foreign embraces,
forges a passport to the country of tenderness,
gestures like a child at the thing that it wants,
I truly enjoy Odes, and I particularly enjoyed the Ode you posted on the "Body". Many odes that I have read/seen are mostly about food, so to see one outside that realm of thought was a nice read. I actually found an ode "To the nice guy" on my surfing of the web; however, it was set up much differently then odes I have seen before. In conclusion, I've come to understand that there may not be an actual form to how an ode is written, by line style, and that makes me enjoy them even more!
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