2006-10-08

Is it about time for me to post a found poem about Shetland ponies, inspired by the orgy of pony poetry currently in progress over at Schmutzie’s? I think it just may be.

The Boom in Shetland Pony

Shipwrecks stranded ponies. Vikings left their signature
in the white markings. The ponies howled hostility
in every breeze, and would-be thieves
cut any other man’s horse-tail
or main; the pain of pounds stranded
in the continual path of the driving wind.
Big stock starved, fragile stock broke;
they are foaled in the fields to die in the fields.
Ponies enjoy meals of seaweed at low tide—
dished faces, jaws capable, looking wild but all
owned. Accidents of nature are measured in hands.
Bad grass, hard ground, and on the continual path
a hooded priest riding a very small pony.

I hope that you, my loyal readers, do not feel that I have abandoned you to post pornographic interpretations of Wallace Stevens’s poetry over at his birthday blog. Posting will be scarcer here throughout the month of October, it is true, but rest assured that you are my first love; you are a hooded priest riding my very small pony.

previous - next