\n<\/strong>\u201cTHE LAST POEM I LOVED: SHE HAD SOME HORSES BY JOY HARJO\u201d \u00a0\u00a0BY\u00a0JULIE MORSE<\/a>
\nReading my own poetry feels like looking into a blurred old mirror at an antique shop. I can\u2019t tell if I look good or pale and pasty. I can\u2019t figure out if it\u2019s my writing or my self-criticism that is falling flat. But lately that\u2019s been changing. I\u2019ve been writing poems that aren\u2019t cast in a massive shroud of self-judgment and I think it\u2019s because I found Joy Harjo.<\/p>\n
I discovered \u201cShe Had Some Horses\u201d while preparing for the poetry class I teach at an elementary school in San Francisco. Harjo\u2019s poems ache with grit, grief and nature. They feel like that moment of insomnia when twilight breaks. Her lines are curt and heavy but they construct delicate stories. I thought\u00a0She Had Some Horses\u00a0would be perfect for kids this young, whose imaginations are still lush and wild. To them, horses are still spirited creatures, not farm workers.<\/p>\n
My students are eight through eleven years old. Some of them are at their grade reading-level, some are above and a few still can\u2019t spell. My students don\u2019t have the compulsion to analyze or to second-guess themselves. They\u2019re quick to voice their instincts. But at the same time, they\u2019re terrified of being wrong. Some days I feel like I\u2019m a teacher, and others I feel like I\u2019m just a referee hopelessly demanding that kids stop teasing, stop yelling, stop throwing pens.<\/p>\n
At many schools, teachers have to adhere to a curriculum predesigned by a corporate education company. I am lucky that I get to make my own lesson plans. We\u2019ve read Carl Sandburg, Rita Dove, Pablo Neruda and Luisa Valenzuela untranslated. Every kid in my class speaks Spanish at home and English in school; their brains are racing to simultaneously master two languages. Their poems are often a composite of Spanglish.<\/p>\n
I can\u2019t teach poems that have words with too many syllables, or poems about sex or violence or drugs. Although most of these kids already know about that stuff, and the meanings of the words they\u2019re not supposed to hear or say. I must pretend that they don\u2019t and that their minds are wholesome and pure.<\/p>\n
She had horses with eyes of trains.
\nShe had horses with full, brown thighs.
\nShe had horses who laughed too much.
\nShe had horses who threw rocks at glass houses.
\nShe had horses who licked razor blades.<\/p>\n
We only read the first half of part one of the poem, and I ask if anybody has any thoughts about it. \u00a0\u201cThe horses are magical,\u201d says Silvia, a fourth-grader.\u2028\u201cThe horses are supposed to be something else,\u201d says Emanuel, a fifth-grader.\u2028\u201cYes, perfect!\u201d I say, this is probably the most in-depth analysis the class has made about any poem we\u2019ve read. \u00a0I tell the class the horses mean more to Native Americans than they do to us. I explain that they are supposed to be a feeling, that they\u2019 re something important to her, they\u2019re her community. The repetition of \u201cshe had horses\u201d is to express their significance.<\/p>\n
She had horses who danced in their mothers\u2019 arms.
\nShe had horses who thought they were the sun
\nand their \u2028bodies shone and burned like stars.
\nShe had horses who waltzed nightly on the moon.
\nShe had horses who were much too shy,
\nand kept quiet\u2028in stalls of their own making.<\/p>\n
\u201cI don\u2019t get it,\u201d mumble a few students. I falter. I realize I was being too conceptual. \u00a0Then I tell them these horses are horses but they\u2019re also everything and everybody that she loves or make her feel sad or happy. \u00a0I could say more but I\u2019m always afraid of saying too much. The poem is a gorgeous chant that swims laps in my mind. It\u2019s about horses and it\u2019s not. It\u2019s something that I read over and over again just to bury myself deeper into its staggering meaning.<\/p>\n
She had some horses she loved.
\nShe had some horses she hated.
\nThese were the same horses.<\/p>\n
It\u2019s time to write. I put on Stevie Wonder and a few kids rock in their seats to the music. I instruct them to write about something or someone that is important to them, and define them using Harjo\u2019s style of repetition. But instead of \u201cshe had horses\u2026\u201d, to say, \u201cmy sister\u2026\u201d or \u201cmy dog\u2026\u201d. Some of the students almost get it, but really just end up writing physical descriptions, \u201cmy turtle is small, my turtle has a hard shell\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n
But, Kimberly, a fourth grader has got it:
\nMy sister when she uses a red marker she thinks about blood.
\nMy sister is plenty of books.
\nMy sister people thinks she is my aunt.
\nMy sister she loves to study
\nMy sister her eyes sparkle like a star.
\nMy sister she sings like a jazz singer.<\/p>\n
Kimberly\u2019s is an ode to her sister just like Harjo\u2019s is an ode. The repetition in both is a comforting reinforcement.\u00a0 In the introduction to her book,\u00a0She Had Some Horses, Harjo says, \u201cit\u2019s not about what the poem means, it\u2019s \u2018how\u2019 the poem means.\u201d And maybe that\u2019s what helped turn poetry around for me. A poem is just the flight of colors and the collision of stories. No scrutiny needed.<\/p>\n
Everybody raises their hand to read first. I declare every poem \u201cawesome\u201d, \u201cbeautiful\u201d, \u201camazing\u201d. I dole out compliments like the guy who hands out flyers that say \u201cCOMPRAMOS ORO\u201d down the street. Sometimes I am surprised by my own generosity, but to me it is perfect, beautiful and amazing when anybody can be this vulnerable and proud.<\/p>\n
Julie Morse lives in San Francisco and is a poetry teacher.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Today\u2019s post: \u00a0<\/strong>She Had Some Horses<\/strong><\/p>\n She had some horses. She had some horses.<\/p>\n She had horses with long, pointed breasts. She had some horses.<\/p>\n She had horses who danced in their mothers\u2019 arms. She had some horses.<\/p>\n She had horses who liked creek Stomp Dance songs. She had some horses.<\/p>\n She had horses who called themselves, \u201chorse\u201d. She had some horses.<\/p>\n She had horses who whispered in the dark, who were afraid to speak. She had some horses.<\/p>\n She had horses who got down on their knees for any saviour. She had some horses.<\/p>\n She had some horses she loved. These were the same horses.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Monday, June 1 \u2014 rules are meant to be broken sometimes Before I decided about today\u2019s post, I sent an email birthday card to a soul friend who loves Joy Harjo\u2019s poetry; me too; whenever I read \u201cShe had some … Continue reading
\nShe had horses who were bodies of sand.
\nShe had horses who were maps drawn of blood.
\nShe had horses who were skins of ocean water.
\nShe had horses who were the blue air of sky.
\nShe had horses who were fur and teeth.
\nShe had horses who were clay and would break.
\nShe had horses who were splintered red cliff.<\/p>\n
\nShe had horses with full, brown thighs.
\nShe had horses who laughed too much.
\nShe had horses who threw rocks at glass houses.
\nShe had horses who licked razor blades.<\/p>\n
\nShe had horses who thought they were the sun and their
\nbodies shone and burned like stars.
\nShe had horses who waltzed nightly on the moon.
\nShe had horses who were much too shy, and kept quiet
\nin stalls of their own making.<\/p>\n
\nShe had horses who cried in their beer.
\nShe had horses who spit at male queens who made
\nthem afraid of themselves.
\nShe had horses who said they weren\u2019t afraid.
\nShe had horses who lied.
\nShe had horses who told the truth, who were stripped
\nbare of their tongues.<\/p>\n
\nShe had horses who called themselves \u201cspirit\u201d; and kept
\ntheir voices secret and to themselves.
\nShe had horses who had no names.
\nShe had horses who had books of names.<\/p>\n
\nShe had horses who screamed out of fear of the silence, who
\ncarried knives to protect themselves from ghosts.
\nShe had horses who waited for destruction.
\nShe had horses who waited for resurrection.<\/p>\n
\nShe had horses who thought their high price had saved them.
\nShe had horses who tried to save her, who climbed in her
\nbed at night and prayed as they raped her.<\/p>\n
\nShe had some horses she hated.<\/p>\n![\"\"](\"https:\/\/sites.udmercy.edu\/poetry\/wp-content\/uploads\/sites\/170\/2020\/06\/Joy-Harjo.jpg\")
<\/a>
\nJoy Harjo<\/p>\n