Ode on a Greasy Spoon

I'm not the type to dance with a lampshade over my head, but I have my own form of over-the-top end-of-holidays merry-making. I get a sudden craving for English romantic poetry. But being a chef I have to substitute my own ingredients while keeping the form. So here is "Ode on a Greasy Spoon," with deepest apologies to John Keats (whose original, "Ode on a Grecian Urn," follows immediately after).

I'm not the type to dance with a lampshade over my head, but I have my own form of over-the-top end-of-holidays merry-making. I get a sudden craving for English romantic poetry. But being a chef I have to substitute my own ingredients while keeping the form. So here is "Ode on a Greasy Spoon," with deepest apologies to John Keats (whose original, "Ode on a Grecian Urn," follows immediately after).

“Ode on a Greasy Spoon”

(With deep apologies to Keats)

Thou still untarnished pride of Progress,
Thou foster child innocent of art and time,
Suburb historian, who canst thou express
A culin’ry tale more heartless than our rhyme:
What scornèd fashions ghost about thy shape
Of dishes mortal, divine, or of both,
In Princeton or the strand of beaches at sea?
What chefs or clods are these?  What artisans loth?
What mad pursuit?  What struggle to create?
What exotic sauces?  What sad ecstasy?

Tasted plates are sweet, but those un-savored
Are sweeter: therefore, ye wraithen chefs cook on;
Not to the sensuous tongue, but more revered,
Roast to the spirit deities of Aeon:
Fair youth before the stoves, thou canst not leave
Thy braise, nor ever can those pans be bare;
Pyrrhic victor in common grave,
Never winning, near the goal-I see the grieve;
On earth she fades, though eternity has thy bliss,
For ever wilt be praised what work was fair!

O happy stainless flanks that cannot shed
Thy gleam, nor ever gain patina true;
What winged Chrysler shape inspired
Form: for ever pleasing-for ever new?
Within more happy laughter, hearty food!
For ever hot and fragrant to be enjoy’d,
For ever free from doubt, for ever young;
Free of aesthetic, passion, Muse’s mood,
That sets the artist heart destroy’d,
A restless mind, and a jaded tongue.

Which chefs are coming to the sacrifice?
To which white altar, O anonymous guest,
Writest thou review glowing to the stars,
Or panning satire with adjectives drest?
What new-born salon by river or sea shore,
Or tower-held in madd’ning citadel,
Holds service in anxiety torn?
And, proud hearth, thy stoves for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
Why Art thy art disconsolate, still-born.

American shape! Guileless here to feed
Our working men and Titans overwrought
With business deals, and travelers in need.
Thou silent form dost suggest a thought,
Mind and Reuben in Reynold’s wrapped to enthrall,
Though diner shall demure, in midst of other woe
Than ours, touchstone in the wars of taste:
“Beauty is truth, truth beauty” – that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.

by Craig Shelton

'Ode on a Grecian Urn'

Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,
    Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thou express
    A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fring'd legend haunt about thy shape
    Of deities or mortals, or of both,
        In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
    What men or gods are these?  What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit?  What struggle to escape?
        What pipes and timbrels?  What wild ecstasy?
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
    Are sweeter: therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
    Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
    Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
        Bold lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal - yet, do not grieve;
        She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
    For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!
Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
    Your leaves, nor ever bid the spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearied,
    For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
    For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,
        For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
    That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,
        A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.
Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
    To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
    And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What little town by river or sea shore,
    Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
        Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
    Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
        Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.
O Attic shape!  Fair attitude! with brede
    Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
    Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
    When old age shall this generation waste,
        Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
    Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty," - that is all
        Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.

by John Keats

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