Just off the Highway to Rochester, Minnesota
Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass.
And the eyes of those two Indian ponies
Darken with kindness.
They have come gladly out of the willows
To welcome my friend and me.
We step over the barbed wire into the pasture
Where they have been grazing all day, alone.
They ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happiness
That we have come.
They bow shyly as wet swans. They love each other.
There is no loneliness like theirs.
At home once more,
They begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness.
I would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms,
For she has walked over to me
And nuzzled my left hand.
She is black and white,
Her mane falls wild on her forehead,
And the light breeze moves me to caress her long ear
That is delicate as the skin over a girl's wrist.
Suddenly I realize
That if I stepped out of my body I would break
Into blossom.
I chose this poem as the first to talk about (out of many on a regular basis) mainly because it is my wife's favorite, and one of mine as well. It is published in the Poulin anthology of the "post moderns" or "Contemporary Poetry". I'm new to blogs and hope I don't get in trouble for putting the whole poem here, but I do this to discuss and to enjoy, so I hope any relatives understand.
What a gift this poem is- its imagery starts with the mundane (most mundane in the heartland, perhaps) and teases us right away with a wonderful twilight picture. Wright's tacking between the mundane or simple and the beautiful image is my favorite aspect of this poem. From stepping over a barbed wire fence to suddenly imbuing the ponies with the human happiness (or, maybe I should say that is contained in the ponies and I am being unfair), takes the full first third of the poem. From mundane (the opening setting) to the first bright turn, he takes his time, as if easing us in. Then he seems to wax and wane with the description and his desire:
They begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness.
I would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms,
And then he returns us to delicate imagery, before delivering a truly transcendental ending. Some of his most powerful, to me, turns go from the most simple, to the most active:
She is black and white,
Her mane falls wild on her forehead,
What could be more simple, followed by a most passionate description?
A finally note about this post- I have read Robert Bly extensively, but I wrote this off the cuff. I'll produce another post with writings about James Wright and Robert Bly talking about this famous poem. I purposefully tried to stay away from those writings, because I wanted a simple explanation of why I love this poem.
-Doug
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