Thinking of horses and loss

Since the weekend I've been reflecting on the troubling events at Rolex. Like everyone elese, I want to understand what happened. I watched the video. I looked at the photos. Some of my questions about the facts and the circumstances of the falls are answered. But I still reflect on the loss of these beautiful animals and the psychological and physical damage to the riders and their families. In early April, I started to write a blog entry about my favorite poets--Maxine Kumin. MK writes poetry about horses, but saying this is like saying Moby Dick is a book about whales. Her writing has an authenticity that horsemen and women will feel in their gut, but the themes are broad: appreciation for the natural world; our connectedness to animals; and our responsibility to protect them. Her poems seem especially relevant now, so I'll share it with you. I'm including one of her poems in its entirety -- a violation of copyright that hopefully will go unnoticed or overlooked.

Maxine Kumin: A poet and writer

Maxine Kumin is a poet that I think all horsewomen should read. Kumin is a lifetime rider with a horse farm in New England. At 73 she severely injured her back in a near-fatal fall from a horse. She wrote about the experience in her book Inside the Halo. She writes about a physician who asks about her accident. When she describes her fall from a horse, he jokes that "the only fit place for horses is in an Alpo can." Kumin writes:

"I am still lying on the examining table and am perfectly positioned to kick this man in the groin. The intravaginal probe still in place restrains me from yielding to the impulse."

Her language is as sparse and practical as the crustiest of horsewomen I know, but it is also eloquent. Like Robert Frost, she uses plain language to evoke powerul thoughts and feelings. She writes a series of poems about her horse Amanda in the volume House, Bridge, Fountain, Gate.

My favorite of these is below.

Amanda dreams she has died and gone to Elysian Fields

This morning Amanda
lies down during breakfast.
The hay is hip high.
The sun sleeps on her back
as it did on the spine
of the dinosaur
the fossil bat
the first fish with feet
she was once.
A breeze fans the deerflies from lighting.
Only a gaggle of gnats

housekeeps in her ears.
A hay plume sticks out of her mouth.

I have come calling with a carrot
from which I have taken
the first bite
She startles
She considers rising
but retracts the pistons
of her legs and accepts
as loose lipped as a camel.

We sit together.
In this time and place
we are heart and bone.
For an hour
we are incorruptible.


My heart goes out to the riders and their families.