As a life-long bumpkin with lay-overs in Vietnam, Berlin, Saudia Arabia, Panama, and many duck-ins along the way, I will venture a few things about this, otherwise good, calm, narrative which do not track: cannot recall ever having seen 'mistletoe' grow low enough on any branches to be within reach of an animal as relatively short as an equus; while I can't be certain, I do not believe that horses will eat mistletoe; 'loosing flies', again, I doubt that flies will come to pester horses at night, and the 'huffing steam' implies a cold time of day or season that would also lessen the presence of flies. However, I am willing to accept these uncertainties for the good sake they lend to the poem as a whole - a willing suspension of dishorsesense, so to say.

For me the crux of the poem is in "They walk because night streaches out, and there is a road,and someone has opened the gate." The metaphorical derrivation we can make of this circumstance is such that one can identify with the quicksilver moments of the dark, the variously pent-up beast within us, and the suggestion of willful adventure to be realized. The only real question here is who/what/why of that "someone" who opened the gate. Us? The at large? the "a man (who) will find them" - regardless, makes for an iteresting landscape to think upon.

I admire how the whole poem stands quietly within itself. An 'it is what it is' instance that does not beg or hammer its points.

Carpe Verve all.

Bratsche, I think the poet, Rachel Richardson, lives in the deep south, where mistletoe does, indeed, grow low enough to be eaten by horses and where a cool night might still have flies.

In Googling around, I discovered that some mythologies consider mistletoe a remedy for barrenness in animals, which, I think, fits nicely in this poem (although I think it's a minor point).

Any poem about wild horses is delightfully absurd to me. On the one hand, because horses are not native to North and South America (relatives of the horse had long since died out in these parts) the animals lineage comes from domesticated ancestors. They're sort of an oddity in that way, wild animals descended from domesticated ones, who at one time were part of man's world but aren't anymore.

And yet they are part of man's world, whether we accept that or not. If one were the worshippin' kind, if you could ask God what kind of animal would be a good biological vehicle for people and baggage, God would craft some horses on down by the river. Isn't that how the Pawnee explained how horses came to be? So, seeing these horses-without-riders doing their own thing is probably like seeing a pack of Toyotas in a nondescript carlot gathering around, pondering a midnight drive.

I guess. A nice little poem.

Holy smokes! Do you think it could be an analogy to North American civilization? Americanization? The evolution of us? U.S.? Of being from one land with stated purposes and lifelong training, coming to a new world and finding our unique way in it?

I don't know. Fun poem.

Holy smokes! Do you think it could be an analogy to North American civilization? Americanization? The evolution of us? U.S.? Of being from one land with stated purposes and lifelong training, coming to a new world and finding our unique way in it?

No, I don't think so. I think it's about horses, period.

If you get a chance, Worthy, read all of richard's thread.

MaryAnn -

Thanks for the notice/reply.

Indeed, location is everything. My questionings

about the mistletoe and flies as posited in this poem may be essentially correct in my neck of the woods, but may be equally valid in the area where the poet lives. Small points to be sure, and ones, as I said, that I am willing to moot to the side for what those elements added to the poem as a whole.

Read an interesting bit of folk-etymology regarding "live oak" as opposed to just "oak" - damned if I can remember what the distinction was, will let you know if it comes to me.

Also among the thready-thrums of folk-etymology is the word-set, "deep south". Where in hell is this bit of geography anyway? Does it have a GPS/generic ZIP code, or is it merely a euphumistic way used by the rest of States of America as a way to look down their socio-political egos at the native citizens of that area? "deep south" - interesting mix of the sootable dynamic that keeps tradition between kettle and pot.

Gotta go.

CArpe Verve