The Horse
from Song of Myself
by Walt Witman 1855
I think I could turn and live with animals,
they are so placid and self-contained,
I stand and look at them
long and long.
They do not sweat and whine about their condition,
They do not lie awake in the dark
and weep for their sins,
They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God,
No one is dissatisfied,
not one is demented with the mania of owning things,
Not one kneels to another,
nor to his kind that lived thousands of years ago,
Not one is respectable or unhappy
over the whole earth…
A gigantic beauty of a stallion, fresh and responsive to my caresses,
Head high in the forehead, wide between the ears,
Limbs glossy and supple, tail dusting the ground,
Eyes full of sparkling wickedness, ears finally cut, flexibly moving.
His nostrils dilate as my heels embrace him,
His well- built limbs tremble with pleasure
as we race around and return.
from The Horse
by Frances Ponge
translated by Beth Archer
Many times the size of a man,
the horse has flaring nostrils,
round eyes under half closed lids,
cocked ears and long muscular neck.
The tallest of man’s domestic animals,
and truly his designated mount,
Man, somewhat lost on an elephant,
is at his best on a horse,
truly a throne to his measure.
Ah, the horse is also – does man suspect it?—-something else besides!
He is impatience nostrilized.
His weapons are running, baiting, bucking.
He seems to have a keen nose,
keen ears, and very sensitive eyes.
The greatest tribute one can pay him
is having to fit him with blinders.
But no weapon…
Whereby the temptation to add one.
One only.
A horn.
Thereby the unicorn.
The horse, terribly nervous, is aerophagous.
Hyper sensitive, he clamps his jaws,
holds his breath,
then releases it, making the walls
of his nasal cavities vibrate loudly.
That is why this noble beast,
who feeds on air and grass alone,
produces only straw turds and
thunderous fragrant farts.
Fragrant thunderisms.
What am I saying, feeds on air?
Gets drunk on it.
Sniffs it, savers it, snorts it.
He rushes into it, shakes his mane in it,
kicks up his hind legs in it.
He would eventually like to fly up in it.
The flight of clouds inspires him,
urges him to imitation.
He does imitate it: he tosses, prances…
And when the whips lightning claps,
the clouds gallop faster
and rain travels the earth….
Great saint, with your byzantine eyes,
woeful, under the harness…
A sort of saint, humble monk at prayer,
in the twilight.
A monk? What am I saying?…
A pontiff, on his excremental palanquin!
A pope--
WHAT IS THIS CLACKING OF THE BIT?
THESE DULL THUDS IN THE STALL?
WHAT'S GOING ON?
PONTIFF AT PRAYER?
SCHOOLBOY IN DETENTION?
---INTERRUPTED DURING HIS MASS,
HE TURNED HIS BYZANTINE EYES TOWARDS US....
The End
