Quotes about horseback, page 4
Inversnaid
This darksome burn, horseback brown,
His rollrock highroad roaring down,
In coop and in comb the fleece of his foam
Flutes and low to the lake falls home.
A windpuff-bonnet of fawn-froth
Turns and twindles over the broth
Of a pool so pitchblack, fell-frowning,
It rounds and rounds Despair to drowning.
Degged with dew, dappled with dew,
Are the groins of the braes that the brook treads through,
Wiry heathpacks, flitches of fern,
And the beadbonny ash that sits over the burn.
What would the world be, once bereft
Of wet and wildness? Let them be left,
O let them be left, wildness and wet;
Long live the weeds and the wilderness yet.
poem by Gerard Manley Hopkins
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Sonnet XXII: In Highest Way of Heav'n
In highest way of heav'n the Sun did ride,
Progressing then from fair twins' golden place:
Having no scarf of clouds before his face,
But shining forth of heat in his chief pride;
When some fair ladies by hard promise tied,
On horseback met him in his furious race,
Yet each prepar'd with fan's well-shading grace
From that foe's wounds their tender skins to hide.
Stella alone with face unarmed march'd.
Either to do like him which open shone,
Or careless of the wealth because her own:
Yet were the hid and meaner beauties parch'd,
Her daintiest bare went free; the cause was this,
The Sun, which others burn'd, did her but kiss.
poem by Philip Sidney
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Melpomene
The forest bitter, spiky,
no shore breeze, no foothills,
the grass grows matted, death will come
with horses' hooves, endlessly
over the steppes' mounds, we went back,
searching the sky for the fort
that could not be razed.
The villages hostile,
the cottages cleared out in haste,
smoked skin on the attic beams,
snare netting, bone amulets.
All over the country an evil reverence,
animals' heads in the mist, divination
by willow wands.
Later, up in the North,
stag-eyed men
rushed by on horseback.
We buried the dead.
[...] Read more
poem by Peter Huchel
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Doctors
They work with herbs
and penicillin
They work with gentleness
and the scalpel.
They dig out the cancer,
close an incision
and say a prayer
to the poverty of the skin.
They are not Gods
though they would like to be;
they are only a human
trying to fix up a human.
Many humans die.
They die like the tender,
palpitating berries
in November.
But all along the doctors remember:
First do no harm.
They would kiss if it would heal.
It would not heal.
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poem by Anne Sexton
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V.R. Lang
You are so serious, as if
a glacier spoke in your ear
or you had to walk through
the great gate of Kiev
to get to the living room.
I worry about this because I
love you. As if it weren't grotesque
enough that we live in hydrogen
and breathe like atomizers, you
have to think I'm a great architect!
and you float regally by on your
incessant escalator, calm, a jungle queen.
Thinking it a steam shovel. Looking
a little uneasy. But you are yourself
again, yanking silver beads off your neck.
Remember, the Russian Easter Overture
is full of bunnies. Be always high,
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poem by Frank O'Hara
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Summer in the country
One smiles at me
from where she sits
with her hands on a cow’s tits
spraying milk in a bucket
with her blonde hair
bunched beneath a big straw hat,
a picture of unspoilt beauty and innocence
another whistles from horseback
while having a jolly ride
waving as she gallops by
an image of movement
caught under a blazing sun
and you my love are the only one
who gives me kisses,
plaster my cheeks with mulberry lips,
who rides bareback, unsaddled
sitting behind me
on my black stallion
[...] Read more
poem by Gert Strydom
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Your Tongue
I wish I could sit upon your tongue,
And saddle it to ride...
Like on horseback bared!
It moves so ever constantly.
Galloping as if in an adventure!
I wonder when you're sleeping...
Does it feel corralled between your teeth?
You seem to have something to say all the time.
Your tongue has to be strong...
It is moving day and night long!
And even alone in bathroom visits...
How do you keep from drowning,
In the shower?
When your tongue and lips,
Move without stopping?
I am left amazed as I witness this!
I would like to tell you, you are rare!
But when you are cranked up and motorized...
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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Portrait In The Rock
Oh yes I knew him, I spent years with him,
with his golden and stony substance,
he was a man who was tired -
in Paraguay he left his father and mother,
his sons, his nephews,
his latest in-laws,
his house, his chickens,
and some half-opened books.
They called him to the door.
When he opened it, the police took him,
and they beat him up so much
that he spat blood in France, in Denmark,
in Spain, in Italy, moving about,
and so he died and I stopped seeing his face,
stopped hearing his profound silence ;
then once, on a night of storms,
with snow spreading
a smooth cloak on the mountains,
on horseback, there, far off,
I looked and there was my friend -
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poem by Pablo Neruda
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Kurosawa and truth
recall a movie of Kurosawa
akira kurosawa’s, darsu usala
three people involved
a pretty lovely girl, her husband
and a vagabond in forest.
Girl and man on horseback
Looklike a honeymoon trip
Into the vastness n wilderness
On the way in some corner
vagabond appeared and
killed her husband and lope with lass
Later in court jurisdiction
The wonderful part of the story
Jury listen the girl, wagabond
and two three witnesses
all illustrates the events taken place
all in different version and dimension,
she has a role in killing, the husband too
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poem by Salu Salu
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After The Battle
MY father, hero of benignant mien,
On horseback visited the gory scene,
After the battle as the evening fell,
And took with him a trooper loved right well,
Because of bravery and presence bold.
The field was covered with the dead, all cold,
And shades of night were deepening : came a sound,
Feeble and hoarse, from something on the ground ;
It was a Spaniard of the vanquished force,
Who dragged himself with pain beside their course.
Wounded and bleeding, livid and half dead,
'Give me to drink - in pity, drink!' he said.
My father, touched, stretched to his follower now
A flask of rum that from his saddle-bow
Hung down : 'The poor soul - give him drink,' said he
But while the trooper prompt, obediently
Stooped towards the other, he of Moorish race
Pointed a pistol at my father's face,
And with a savage oath the trigger drew :
The hat flew off, a bullet passing through.
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poem by Victor Hugo
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