|
|
Classic Travel Books |
|
|
The Classic “John Murray” Travel Collection
Website designed by Basha O'Reilly
|
George Kalamaras is Professor of English at Indiana University-Purdue University Fort Wayne, where he has taught since 1990. He is the author of five books of poetry. After he read South Pole Ponies Professor Kalamaras was interviewed, and this is what he had to say about the book:
I became enamored with the Manchurian ponies that Shackleton took on his 1914 expedition to the South Pole, described beautifully in a book from the late 1970’s, The South Pole Ponies (Theodore K. Mason). The ponies, transported from Siberia, had been touted as more suited for sledding in the extreme climate of the South Pole than dogs, which proved to be wrong. Their extra weight caused them more easily to sink in snow, and—unlike dogs—they sweated through their coats (and not through panting), which would obviously then freeze, so their frozen hides would need to be “chipped” each day so they wouldn’t overheat. If anyone knows anything about that fated expedition, all the dogs and ponies were eventually shot. I have a poem about these ponies in my second book of poems, Borders My Bent Toward, in which I call eight of them by name, telling part of their story, which felt important to embody them again and give them presence. Though I was greatly saddened by their story I keep it now in the bookcase by our living room fireplace to finally “give the ponies a warm home.”
Fourteen Hands High
for the Manchurian ponies of Antarctic exploration
They came like wind or snow cold as the North, each fourteen hands high.
They came like snow all the way from Harbin, Siberia, weeks up the River Amur to Khabarousk, going as far south as one could—all twenty-nine with their pure Manchurian mood.
Each, fourteen hands, yes, each, fourteen hands high. If I said Nobby, Snatcher, Sox, even poor Jimmy Pigg, who now would hear their hindquarter and limp?
Let me open the book, examine their photo, and nibble the itch right out of their mane.
Let me trace with my finger what they have nourished most in my own snowy mood.
So, call me Quan. Call me Snippets, Jehu. Call me Bones. Call me something truly noble. Like Manchurian wind,
like cold as cold as the furthest South, their hoof print remains solid, frozen, in a tender yet tentative way. Hoof print in snow, hoof print in snow, in my chest, yes, in our chests. |
|
