I'm an almost-lifelong reader of poetry. The first poems I encountered were probably nursery rhymes--at age 4, 5, and 6. Then, in grammar school, I was introduced to such poems as Frost's "Stopping By Woods" and Wordsworth's daffodil poem, among others. I've been intrigued by poetry ever since, and whereas many English professors prefer fiction and drama and often place poetry third, I tend to place it first. I've been writing poetry on my own (that is, independently of "school assignments") since I was in high school.
Consequently, this confession is not an easy one to make: I don't particularly like epic poems.
I certainly enjoyed, and enjoy, parts of the
Iliad, the
Odyssey,
Paradise Lost, and
The Prelude (for example), but I simply don't
relish these poems. I have colleagues who remain devoted to such works, particularly the middle two. I cannot and do not wish to quibble with the foundational stature of Homer's epics, with the monumental achievement in verse that
Paradise Lost is, or with the essential modernity of Wordsworth's epic about himself. I can clearly see why others not only laud these works but truly enjoy them. It's just that I've never enjoyed them as whole works, even as some parts of them satisfy me greatly. Regarding Milton's epic, I agree with Samuel Johnson: "No one wished it longer." I find the
Iliad downright tedious in places. The same goes for Virgil's Latin sequel to the Greek epics, Spenser's
The Fairie Queen, and Goethe's
Faust. Nonetheless, I'm more than glad such works exist, and they constitute an inexhaustible mine of invaluable cultural allusions. What would we do without the Trojan horse, the Achilles heel, Scylla and Charybdis, "the world was all before them," Milton's roguish Satan, the Sirens, Circe, Faust's bargain, and those vivid "spots of time" in the
Prelude? I even volunteered to teach a whole course on Wordsworth once, including the
Prelude. The course went about as well as I could have hoped--and I'll never teach it again. The students did not wish the
Prelude longer, to put it mildly. I also published an article on George Meredith's quasi epic Victorian sonnet-sequence,
Modern Love. It's not as if I haven't tried. Moreover, in my defense, I might also mention Miguel de Cervantes, who was moved to write what is arguably the first European novel by something of a bad attitude toward epic literature and its conventions. (Unlike me, Don Cervantes had actually been to war, so I acknowledge that he had more reason than I to be unamused by conventions of epic war-poetry and codes of chivalry.)
At any rate, in honor especially of those who
love poetry but only
like (parts of) epic poetry and of those who may feel a little guilty about not enjoying the monumental epic poems more, I hereby post the following short poem about epics. It is not, however, nearly as short as Gary Snyder's wry haiku about the Trojan War: "Moonlight on the burned out temple/wooden horse shit." I believe that's to be found in
The Back Country, and I may not have quoted it perfectly, but you get the joke. Thanks to Mark Twain and his attitude toward Wagner's music for the allusion at the beginning of my poem.
Generic Epic
Imagine a long story that is more interesting
than it sounds. Its hero, like certain pop
stars, has one name, many egos. Ignore
a probability that the dull parts are merely
padding. Look for symbols, but don’t kill yourself.
Try to find parallels between your life and the hero’s.
Doubtlessly, there are none. Otherwise you would be
famous or in prison or both. Imagine a fierce
climax scene here. Got it? Fine. Know Hollywood
will film it with profligate ineptitude. (Costumed thusly,
Victor Mature and Brad Pitt were right to look
embarrassed, even as they cashed the epic checks.)
Hero, journey, a lot at stake, revenge, an awkward
plot, and, as noted, a long story. There you have it,
an epic of your own design, a sense of accomplishment,
a vague notion of having read something
you were supposed to have read before. Now:
be off with you—on to your own long story.
Savor it. Seek symbols, but don’t kill yourself.
Ignore a probability that the dull parts are merely
padding. Every so often, do something vaguely
heroic, but don’t push your luck because whether
gods are in charge is an open question, but
whether you are in charge is not.
Copyright 2007 Hans Ostrom, from Subjects Apprehended (Pudding House Press, 2000)
