Ode to the Horse

Most of the news at the moment is, I will venture to say, more disturbing that it has been in a long, long time. No, it’s not because of the internet making us all more aware than we were in years previous – it actually IS worse and it’s full-on terrible. I’m almost afraid to keep up – something I don’t even have to worry about actually since The General and his new Mac maintain an informal news-anchor presence at the kitchen table, constantly updating with bulletins from around the world, a trait which I am not used to but have grown to appreciate; however, I still have to walk that fine line between being a responsible adult who knows what’s happening and tries to do The Right Thing and reconciling that with the thin-skinned, highly strung artist-type who lies in bed at 3 am trying to untangle the finer points of European foreign policy after weeping openly at all those abused animal videos I should never have clicked on, hours before.

But I digress.

For me and possibly because I am that person I have just described, I find that reading poetry can often soothe me.

As I type this I am aware that many people will consider that “flaky” and be ready to provide courtroom-worthy lists of why it is illogical and irrational.

(And to that, I say, show me a person with good self-esteem and I’ll show you a person without big brothers …)

I just know that someone who can highlight the beauty in everyday life, who can draw our attention back to a few of the things that are not full of hatred and/or evil is sometimes what I need.

It’s like therapy if you let it be – and I do.

Pablo Neruda is my favourite for this; his careful, precise adjectives make me cry out “Exactly!” even if I am alone in the house.

Since the Odes are always about such everyday things (even more appealing) it’s easy to import that inspiration right back to one’s own life.

And it’s important to note that I am not suggesting in any way that poetry should be used as an anesthetic to the world’s problems but rather, as a coping tool that can be much more effective than benzodiazepines.

Because without hope, we have exactly nothing.

Here’s a mere extract only from “Ode to the Horse” in which Neruda pays tribute to an older horse that has seen better days.

I hope you will seek out the whole poem as soon as you can because it is so perfect.

He trotted down all the hard roads,

ate badly with his yellow teeth,

drank little — his owner

used more stick than well —

my friend with the sharp pointed

back

is dry,

and has the thin soul of a violin,

a tired heart,

the hair of a suburban carpet.

Ay, looking at him, touching him,

One sees his many bones,

The ark his ribs protect,

The fallen, weighed-down thighbones

In the working metatarsals

And the cranium, pure-bone cathedral,

On which two saintly horse eyes

Live in its two altars.

All The Odes, by Pablo Neruda, Bilingual Ed.edited by Ilan Stavans ©2013