enlightened horsemanship through touch

This courtesy of trainer, counsellor, redhead and amateur writer of haiku, David Roe

~ soft hands raise you up
~ eyes finally see the light
~ taking flight at last

Puerhan, one of my favorite poets, wrote this on the subject of hurt:

image of Bodhi Leaf courtesy Tim Buckley www.redbubble.com/

Hurt

Unclench my fist

Feel cool air on my palm

And space between my fingers

What if I unclench my heart?

It might just as easily address the issues of frustration, anger, and the desire to control or dominate.

© 2009 enlightened horsemanship through touch and Kim Cox Carneal

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We now return to our regularly scheduled Verse Thursday.

Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing,
there is a field. I’ll meet you there.

When the soul lies down in that grass,
the world is too full to talk about.
Ideas, language, even the phrase each other
doesn’t make any sense.

–Rumi

© 2009 enlightened horsemanship through touch

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See if you can find the horsie bits.

Alfred Lord Tennyson (1809-1892)

The Lady of Shalott (1842)

Part I
On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And thro’ the field the road runs by
To many-tower’d Camelot;
And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below,
The island of Shalott.

Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Thro’ the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river
Flowing down to Camelot.
Four gray walls, and four gray towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
The Lady of Shalott.

By the margin, willow veil’d,
Slide the heavy barges trail’d
By slow horses; and unhail’d
The shallop flitteth silken-sail’d
Skimming down to Camelot:
But who hath seen her wave her hand?
Or at the casement seen her stand?
Or is she known in all the land,
The Lady of Shalott?

Only reapers, reaping early
In among the bearded barley,
Hear a song that echoes cheerly
From the river winding clearly,
Down to tower’d Camelot:
And by the moon the reaper weary,
Piling sheaves in uplands airy,
Listening, whispers ” ‘Tis the fairy
Lady of Shalott.”

Part II
There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colours gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott.

And moving thro’ a mirror clear
That hangs before her all the year,
Shadows of the world appear.
There she sees the highway near
Winding down to Camelot:
There the river eddy whirls,
And there the surly village-churls,
And the red cloaks of market girls,
Pass onward from Shalott.

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
An abbot on an ambling pad,
Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad,
Or long-hair’d page in crimson clad,
Goes by to tower’d Camelot;
And sometimes thro’ the mirror blue
The knights come riding two and two:
She hath no loyal knight and true,
The Lady of Shalott.

But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror’s magic sights,
For often thro’ the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights
And music, went to Camelot:
Or when the moon was overhead,
Came two young lovers lately wed:
“I am half sick of shadows,” said
The Lady of Shalott.

Part III
A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
He rode between the barley-sheaves,
The sun came dazzling thro’ the leaves,
And flamed upon the brazen greaves
Of bold Sir Lancelot.
A red-cross knight for ever kneel’d
To a lady in his shield,
That sparkled on the yellow field,
Beside remote Shalott.

The gemmy bridle glitter’d free,
Like to some branch of stars we see
Hung in the golden Galaxy.
The bridle bells rang merrily
As he rode down to Camelot:
And from his blazon’d baldric slung
A mighty silver bugle hung,
And as he rode his armour rung,
Beside remote Shalott.

All in the blue unclouded weather
Thick-jewell’d shone the saddle-leather,
The helmet and the helmet-feather
Burn’d like one burning flame together,
As he rode down to Camelot.
As often thro’ the purple night,
Below the starry clusters bright,
Some bearded meteor, trailing light,
Moves over still Shalott.

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow’d;
On burnish’d hooves his war-horse trode;
From underneath his helmet flow’d
His coal-black curls as on he rode,
As he rode down to Camelot.
From the bank and from the river
He flash’d into the crystal mirror,
“Tirra lirra,” by the river
Sang Sir Lancelot.

She left the web, she left the loom,
She made three paces thro’ the room,
She saw the water-lily bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume,
She look’d down to Camelot.
Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror crack’d from side to side;
“The curse is come upon me,” cried
The Lady of Shalott.

Part IV
In the stormy east-wind straining,
The pale yellow woods were waning,
The broad stream in his banks complaining,
Heavily the low sky raining
Over tower’d Camelot;
Down she came and found a boat
Beneath a willow left afloat,
And round about the prow she wrote
The Lady of Shalott.

And down the river’s dim expanse
Like some bold seër in a trance,
Seeing all his own mischance–
With a glassy countenance
Did she look to Camelot.
And at the closing of the day
She loosed the chain, and down she lay;
The broad stream bore her far away,
The Lady of Shalott.

Lying, robed in snowy white
That loosely flew to left and right–
The leaves upon her falling light–
Thro’ the noises of the night
She floated down to Camelot:
And as the boat-head wound along
The willowy hills and fields among,
They heard her singing her last song,
The Lady of Shalott.

Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her blood was frozen slowly,
And her eyes were darken’d wholly,
Turn’d to tower’d Camelot.
For ere she reach’d upon the tide
The first house by the water-side,
Singing in her song she died,
The Lady of Shalott.

Under tower and balcony,
By garden-wall and gallery,
A gleaming shape she floated by,
Dead-pale between the houses high,
Silent into Camelot.
Out upon the wharfs they came,
Knight and burgher, lord and dame,
And round the prow they read her name,
The Lady of Shalott.

Who is this? and what is here?
And in the lighted palace near
Died the sound of royal cheer;
And they cross’d themselves for fear,
All the knights at Camelot:
But Lancelot mused a little space;
He said, “She has a lovely face;
God in his mercy lend her grace,
The Lady of Shalott.”

© 2009 enlightened horsemanship through touch

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When I said Ladies and gentlemen, this concludes our series on National Poetry Month.

I’ve got something else for you.

On today’s Tell Me More on NPR, Michel Martin interviewed poet Elizabeth Alexander, professor of African-American studies at Yale University, who delivered the poem below at President Obama’s January 2009 inauguration.

The segment reminded me of what poetry means to me. As Martin and Alexander discussed taking poetry out of the ivory tower and into the hearts and minds of ordinary people, I began to think of what language has meant to me throughout my life. Oddly enough, I can’t put it into words.

I feel regret that more people are afraid of poetry. Perhaps it’s that we are forced to study Blake and Shakespeare in school, when most are really not ready to understand either the meaning or the language. This is enough to put most off for life. I wish instead everyone were educated like my daughter, who was taught that words were wonderful gifts, to be molded and played with like clay, used for immediate purpose, joyfully. She has never been intimidated by words, by poetry. We should all be so lucky.

So I present to you a real American poet, unintimidated by the word, spoken or written, who, on a day no one ever thought would come, stood before the world and spoke our words.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nH6fC3W3YvA&hl=en&fs=1]

Praise Song for the Day
by Elizabeth Alexander

A Poem for Barack Obama’s Presidential Inauguration

Each day we go about our business,
walking past each other, catching each other’s
eyes or not, about to speak or speaking.

All about us is noise. All about us is
noise and bramble, thorn and din, each
one of our ancestors on our tongues.

Someone is stitching up a hem, darning
a hole in a uniform, patching a tire,
repairing the things in need of repair.

Someone is trying to make music somewhere,
with a pair of wooden spoons on an oil drum,
with cello, boom box, harmonica, voice.

A woman and her son wait for the bus.
A farmer considers the changing sky.
A teacher says, Take out your pencils. Begin.

We encounter each other in words, words
spiny or smooth, whispered or declaimed,
words to consider, reconsider.

We cross dirt roads and highways that mark
the will of some one and then others, who said
I need to see what’s on the other side.

I know there’s something better down the road.
We need to find a place where we are safe.
We walk into that which we cannot yet see.

Say it plain: that many have died for this day.
Sing the names of the dead who brought us here,
who laid the train tracks, raised the bridges,

picked the cotton and the lettuce, built
brick by brick the glittering edifices
they would then keep clean and work inside of.

Praise song for struggle, praise song for the day.
Praise song for every hand-lettered sign,
the figuring-it-out at kitchen tables.

Some live by love thy neighbor as thyself,
others by first do no harm or take no more
than you need. What if the mightiest word is love?

Love beyond marital, filial, national,
love that casts a widening pool of light,
love with no need to pre-empt grievance.

In today’s sharp sparkle, this winter air,
any thing can be made, any sentence begun.
On the brink, on the brim, on the cusp,

praise song for walking forward in that light.

© 2009 enlightened horsemanship through touch

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The hooves of horses!
Oh! witching and sweet
Is the music earth steals from the iron-shod feet;
No whisper of lover, no trilling of bird,
Can stir me as much as hooves of horses
Have stirred.

~Will H. Ogilvie

Ladies and gentlemen, this concludes our series on National Poetry Month. There are two more days left to post your poetry in your blog and link back here to Enlightened Horsemanship Through Touch or to post your poetry here for our collective enjoyment. Go ahead–take a risk!!!! Thank you!

© 2009 enlightened horsemanship through touch

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Earth Day was on the 22nd of April. I usually make a big deal about it, but, um, I forgot this year, due to an unusual load of planning and packing. I’m overwhelemed.

This idea just occurred to me, and I simply HAVE to share it with you. It’s been working for me for over a year now. I hope it will do the same for you.

I have one of those big, country-style rural delivery mailboxes. It’s always been as if the catalog and junk mail people know this, and send as much as possible to fill it. I got wind of Catalog Choice, and checked every possible catalog and mailing available. Within several months, the mailbox was manageable again.

Try it!

Earth Day and Catalog Choice

Reduce your incoming mail, and not only is it more convenient to go to the mailbox, but every day is Earth Day.

© 2009 enlightened horsemanship through touch

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Somewhere in time’s own space
There must be some sweet pastured place
Where creeks sing on and tall trees grow
Some paradise where horses go,
For by the love that guides my pen
I know great horses live again.

~Stanley Harrison

© 2009 enlightened horsemanship through touch

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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!

~James Sheridan Knowles, The Love-Chase

© 2009 enlightened horsemanship through touch

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Where in this wide world can man find nobility without pride,
Friendship without envy,
Or beauty without vanity?
Here, where grace is served with muscle
And strength by gentleness confined
He serves without servility; he has fought without enmity.
There is nothing so powerful, nothing less violent.
There is nothing so quick, nothing more patient.

~Ronald Duncan, “The Horse,” 1954

Poems, please!

Visit The Telegraph for a video. The Telegraph does not make embedding easy.

What are they thinking?

The As-Yet-Unbuilt Giant White Horse Has Finally Bee Named!

What? Aren’t there enough giant white horses in England? Do they really need another one? Can’t they just wander around scraping up the chalky sod and find another? Do they have to construct one? Apparently the answer is yes. The proposed horse evokes ideas of national identity that artist Mark Wallinger said were behind the sculpture.

Wallinger’s submission, which draws on Anglo-Saxon legend, Stubbs’ paintings of thoroughbreds and the ancient White Horse of Uffington, won a competition to construct a landmark work of art to be placed by the A2 near Ebbsfleet.

A 164ft-high sculpture of a white horse will be called Kingdom, according to Alan Hill, the winner of a tongue-in-check Daily Telegraph competition. Hill’s approval of Wallinger’s giant horse is not shared by all. Due to be completed by 2012, the enormous white Kingdom will undoubtedly dominate the skyline in part of north Kent. Several people suggested it should be called the Big White Elephant; others proposed Eyesore and Nightmare. Jake Dowding from Girton, Cambs., thought the “only name for a 160ft steel horse” was Rusty.

One man even suggested structural improvements to enable the horse to collect and then pass water for “dramatic effect.” “When full, the tank should discharge its contents in a stream from the obvious place.”