I am considered the member of our household least likely to appreciate reading or writing poetry. I find the position rather ironic, as the first thing I ever wrote was a poem, and throughout most of my childhood and adolescence I wrote far more poetry than fiction. A few hot, summer nights ago, we sat down to read the icy, Christmas-time poem, "Roan Stallion," from a book of selected poems by Robinson Jeffers.
The poem is a beautiful epic. Its heroine, California, embodies her dual heritage (and the poet's love of the West Coast) with only her evocative name. Although the poem was written in 1925, California's quest is so easy for the modern reader to grasp. I loved the scene in which she gathers her daughter's Christmas toys to keep them from getting wet (perhaps because, if I'd been in her place, I, too, would have been more worried about the gifts than drowning or freezing). The mystical scene which follows this is a vivid mix of naturalism and Christian mythology, again reflecting California's dual heritage. And the end of the poem was a strong union of spirituality and animal nature, in which California once more embodies two different natures.
The experience of reading "Roan Stallion" has me wondering our small town, composing impromptu poems on the voice recorder of my iPhone. Fortunately no one has come after me with a straitjacket, yet
