They shouted for me
when their horses snorted, when restless
hooves traced circles in the earth
and shimmering muscles refused the plough.
My secret was a spongy tissue, pulled bloody
from the mouth of a just-born foal,
scented with rosemary, cinnamon,
a charm to draw the tender giants
to my hands.
They shouted for me
when their horses reared at the burning straw
and eyes revolved in stately heads.
I would pull a frog’s wishbone,
tainted by meat, from a puch,
a new fear to fight the fear of fire,
so I could lead the horses,
like helpless
children, to safety.
I swore I would protect
this legacy of whispers
but the tractor came over the fields
like a warning. I was the life-blood
no longer. From pulpits
I was scorned as a demon and witch.
Pitchforks drove me from villages and farms.
My gifts were the tools of revenge.
A foul hex above a stable door
so a trusted stallion could be ridden
no more. Then I joined the stampede,
with others of my kind,
to countries far from our trade.
Still I miss them. Shire, Clydesdale, Suffolk.
The searing breath, glistening veins,
steady tread and the pride,
most of all the pride.
Overview.
Andrew Forster’s Horse Whisperer vividly explores the decline of pastoral traditions or ‘magic’, through the dramatic and sensory recollection of a first person narrator whose practices are now redundant.
These reminiscences seem to recollect the old way of life and reveal how the advent of the mechanization of farming, of the nemesis figure of the ‘tractor’ with both its literal and symbolic meaning, marked the beginning of the end for the very special talents of the horse whisperers.
The narrator’s tender, sensory impressions of the horses are vividly communicated and reveal the strong affection and respect between animal and man. When we read the poem we feel the powerful and enduring preternatural intimacy between the horses and their healers.
These village healers seem part shaman, part witch doctor, part conjurers and the poem draws to a close reaffirming the connection between animal human being.’Still I miss them…’
In a curious way this poem reminds me of a very short parable tale or ‘ficcion’ by the celebrated South American writer Borges called The Witness.
In this tale the narrator asks what unique ‘story’ dies with each individual death. ‘In time there was a day that extinguished the last eyes to see Christ…’ The modern poet Andrew Forster whose popular poem Brothers is also in the AQA Anthology, created this resonant testimony to old ways of life, as a means of old, declining traditions.
Like Borges, Forster wants to ask us ‘what will die with me when I die…?'(The Witness)
Stanza One.
They shouted for me
when their horses snorted, when restless
hooves traced circles in the earth
and shimmering muscles refused the plough.
My secret was a spongy tissue, pulled bloody
from the mouth of a just-born foal,
scented with rosemary, cinnamon,
a charm to draw the tender giants
to my hands.
The noisiness of the poem is important as the sounds uttered within the poem convey the physical demands of the old pastoral way of life. The poem thus opens urgently with the declaration: ‘They shouted for me/when their horses snorted..’ Here we are alerted to the fact of the community’s desperate reliance upon the horse whisperer in times of need.
Horses were essential to farming and to everyday life in general and so the special gifts and knowledge of the horse whisperer would much admired and valued. The elemental is vividly represented by the narrator through a choice of language which reanimates the natural medicines utilized by the horse whispers in order to heal the distressed animals. ‘ ‘when restless hooves traced circles in the earth..’ We can hear the presence of agitated animals and we can see them too.
The poem celebrated the very animated sensory life of the old country communities. The details conjure up the concoction of practices and primal elements used and these details lead to the tender, seemingly oxymoronic summary of the horses as ‘tender giants.’ This oxymoron stresses the very special, even singular connection between animal and these special men.
Interestingly one of the herbs mentioned is ‘rosemary’ and this herb is traditionally linked to remembrance too. ‘Rosemary for remembrance…’ as the old saying goes. This idea sits very well with the last words of the first stanza, when the poet talks of drawing ‘the tender giants to my hands.’
The magical concoction of practices is significantly drawn together in this opening stanza through the evocation of the horse whisperers hands, reminding the reader and the speaker, that all these remedies worked because the healers were so tenderly connected to the animals. They truly cared, unlike the sterile mechanical machines that violated such connectedness and natural resonance.
Forster is writing this poem long after writers like Thomas Hardy whose poems and novels (see Hardy’s novel Far from the Madding Crowd on this blog) explored the gradual decline of country side traditions.
More to come. See forthcoming Horse Whisperer TWO