Poems About Horses
Equin-etry
This page is simply a celebration of horses through poetry and art. Horses have such marvelous presence and sometimes a poem, or piece of art, is able to capture some essence of that presence. All of the paintings below are by a German artist I like, FRANZ MARC. I hope you enjoy the poems, pics and art as much as I do.
There is something about the outside of a horse that is good for the inside of a man.
~ Winston Churchill ~
The wind of heaven is that which blows between a horse's ears.
~ Arabian Proverb ~
Franz Marc
The White Horse
by David Herbert Lawrence
The youth walks up to the white horse, to put its halter on
and the horse looks at him in silence.
They are so silent, they are in another world.
Four Horses
by David Whyte
(excerpt)
On Thursday the farmer
put four horses
into the cut hay-field
next to the house . . .
Since then I see
their curved necks
through the kitchen window,
sailing like swans
past the pale field.
Each morning
their hooves fill my
open door
with an urgency
for something
just beyond my grasp
and I spend my whole
day in an idiot joy,
writing, gardening,
and looking
for it
under every stone.
I find myself
wanting to do
something
stupid and lovely . . .
I hear the whinny of
their fenced and abandoned
freedom
and feel happy
today
in the field
of my own making,
writing non-stop,
my head held high,
ranging the boundaries
of a birthright
exuberance.
Franz Marc
The Love-Chase
by James Sheridan Knowles
What delight To back the flying steed,
that challenges The wind for speed!
seems native more of air Than earth!
whose burden only lends him fire!
Whose soul, in his task, turns labour into sport;
Who makes your pastime his! I sit him now!
He takes away my breath! He makes me reel!
I touch not earth - I see not - hear not.
All Is ecstasy of motion!
Horses and Men in Rain
by Carl Sandburg
LET us sit by a hissing steam radiator a winter's day, gray wind pattering frozen raindrops on the window,
And let us talk about milk wagon drivers and grocery delivery boys.
Let us keep our feet in wool slippers and mix hot punches-and talk about mail carriers and messenger boys slipping along the icy sidewalks.
Let us write of olden, golden days and hunters of the Holy Grail and men called "knights" riding horses in the rain, in the cold frozen rain for ladies they loved.
A roustabout hunched on a coal wagon goes by, icicles drip on his hat rim, sheets of ice wrapping the hunks of coal, the caravanserai a gray blur in slant of rain.
Let us nudge the steam radiator with our wool slippers and write poems of Launcelot, the hero, and Roland, the hero, and all the olden golden men who rode horses in the rain.
Franz Marc
A Blessing
by James Wright
Just off the highway to Rochester, Minnesota,
Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass.
And the eyes of those two Indian ponies
Darken with kindness.
They have come gladly out of the willows
To welcome my friend and me.
We step over the barbed wire into the pasture
Where they have been grazing all day, alone.
They ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happiness
That we have come.
They bow shyly as wet swans. They love each other.
There is no loneliness like theirs.
At home once more,
They begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness.
I would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms,
For she has walked over to me
And nuzzled my left hand.
She is black and white,
Her mane falls wild on her forehead,
And the light breeze moves me to caress her long ear
That is delicate as the skin over a girl's wrist.
Suddenly I realize
That if I stepped out of my body I would break
Into blossom.
