Kelly Belmonte started off this series with a challenge to think about the ode, a poetic form that seems to be an easy target for satire in the modern day.
Certainly it’s hard to imagine writing an ode like Keats’ “Ode on a Grecian Urn” or Wordsworth’s “Ode: Intimations of Immortality.” But why not, I wondered? And it occurred to me that perhaps what makes it difficult to write (or write about) an ode today is that the form is not the least bit ironic. The ode challenges us to look long and hard at something and take it seriously.
Taking things seriously is hard for us to do, these days. I think we’re afraid of seriousness, because to be serious means that we care, and if we care, we can be hurt.
Last year I taught several sections of the undergraduate English courses, Great Works I and II. I assigned my students into groups to create a dramatization of a short scene from their assigned book, which they presented to the whole class. The results were often highly creative and delightful – ranging from a guided tour of Dante’s Hell (with tour guides, tickets, and snacks provided) to a talk show program interviewing the characters from Beowulf.
After a while, though, I noticed something that disturbed me. The default approach of most students was that of parody. (In fact, I had to veto a few project ideas as being too flippant to do justice to the book at all.) The predominant ‘voice’ that came out in the projects was ironic. There was a sense of distancing, that the students were working very hard to convey a sense of ‘we’re not taking this seriously.’
In my entirely anecdotal and unsystematic experience, it seemed that the groups that had leadership from very engaged, interested students – ones who weren’t afraid to show that they really enjoyed the books – were the least likely to do parodic or highly ironic presentations. Their projects were often leavened with humor, but not to the point of subverting the story. On the other hand, the groups with students who were, I think, somewhat afraid of being ‘uncool’ tended to be much more parodic – as if that were the only way they could engage with the material safely.
But I also sensed a deep yearning to drop the irony, to let go of parody and enjoy these stories for themselves. Several times a semester, I’d have the whole class do an activity that involved reading or acting out part of the story, such as reading scenes from Sophocles’ Oedipus Rex (in front of HBU’s ten Grecian pillars!) or having the students traipse across campus to act out the pilgrimage from Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales. We always had fun – un-ironic, enjoying-ourselves fun. Probably it worked because, if they felt like they looked silly, they could just blame it on the crazy professor.
How does this come back to the ode? I think the ode is profoundly non-ironic, even anti-ironic. The ode calls us to take seriously what we’re looking at, or remembering, or thinking about. It challenges us to use the language of deep emotion, and not be embarrassed by it.
Irony can be a necessary seasoning, like salt; but, just as salt plowed into the ground will sterilize it, irony can kill our ability to feel.
The ode provokes us to let down our cynical, ironic guard – and I think that’s a good thing. If we can’t truly admire, and be awed, and be serious, neither can we truly laugh, and enjoy frivolity. And we need both.
Holly is a poet, teacher, and apologist exploring the intersection of literature and faith, reason and imagination. Follow Dr. Ordway’s reflections on the practice of living a holy life at her website at http://www.hieropraxis.com.