Wild
Horses
April 20 2010
I
want to save the wild horses.
Not
that I ride.
And
I live a thousand miles away
from
their steep-sided valley
their
wild pasture
their
Shangri-la.
I
want only to know they are there,
inhabit
this planet
with
the same sense of rightness
entitlement,
ownership
as
us.
They
could be mustangs, misfits, feral stock
who
would not be broken.
Long-legged
foals, dropped
in
a bitter spring
a
grudging thaw.
A
stallion, glaring fiercely
zealously
guards his harem of mares.
He
runs free
snorting,
stomping, pawing the ground,
flanks
steaming
in
the pre-dawn air.
I
want horses in the world
somewhere
who
will not be ridden, bridled, tied.
Who
will die of cold, or starve,
wolves
nipping
at their legs, clamped to their necks
dragging
them down.
Where
they will lie, panting
with
the preternatural calm
of
prey.
But
no poison, shotguns, nets,
not
corralled, hobbled, led.
Or
even photographed.
Just
tell me they live.
Let
me know
wild
places like this still exist.
Wild Horses came about in the most extraordinary way. I was reading the Globe book section, and an ad for a book about saving wild horses caught my eye -- really, just a quick glance. The ad consisted mostly of a picture of the book's cover. I didn't even read the copy. Instead, the whole idea utterly captivated me, and I almost immediately got up and started writing. I think the entire piece was completed in under 5 minutes, and at the time almost written out word for word as it now appears. There was certainly no research involved!
It's natural to mistrust a poem that comes this easily. Even the hot fire of inspiration is no guarantee, since it can obscure judgment as easily as it powers the writing. So I'm still not sure if the feeling of satisfaction I have from this poem -- in the immediate aftermath of writing it -- will persist. But it's certainly strong enough that I can't resist sending it out, as well as posting it on my blog.
1 comment:
Hi I'm Mary E.'s friend of T.B, school chums, I live in London. She was telling me about recognizing your canoe while kayaking and true to her nature, brazenly 'parking' her kayak and dropping in.
Reading your poem about the wild horses is such an amazing coincidence as I watched the Calgary Stampede for the first time (now I'm retired) this past week. I fell in love with the horses and a friend told me how wild ponies are rounded up and driven in from off the range for the bucking bronco events.
It brought to mind my girlhood summers riding my bicycle up and down the sidewalk trying to lasso fire hydrants. It ignited memories of my passion for Thunderhead and My Friend Flicka and for horses across the board even though I never lived with them, don't know how to ride or even knew one.
Thank you for this strong, poignant poem that speaks from the heart, to the heart.
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