Purple Prose of Horses

The literary greats have contended—-God Himself contends—-the exceptional combination of majestic grace, fire, and power that resides in the sinews of a horse; pulses through his veins and burns in his eyes. In Homer’s Iliad, they are said to be “immortal…of divine stock.” Indeed, the black stallion Bucephalus lives on in the city Alexander the Great named for him.

Muslims honor the equine species many times in the Qu’ran, once quoting Allah’s words, “When God created the horse, he said to the magnificent creature: ‘I have made thee as no other. All the treasures of the earth lie between thy eyes. Thou shalt carry my friends upon thy back. Thy saddle shall be the seat of prayers to me.’”

People of all histories and faiths can agree that there is something special-—almost sacred or mystical-—about these animals that have caused humans to honor them all throughout history, in reality and in myth.
The mighty Prince Hector of Troy was reverently referred to in The Iliad as “Tamer of Horses”, and only those who have spent enough years mingling with these magnificent creatures know how high such a title is; how rare and fierce and kingly.

“A man on a horse is spiritually as well as physically bigger than a man on foot.” Said John Steinback, trying to put into words the empowering ecstasy one instantly finds upon mounting one of these creatures. In another attempt to capture the feeling, William Faulkner wrote, “There is something about jumping a horse over a fence, something that makes you feel good. Perhaps it’s the risk, the gamble. In any event it’s a thing I need.”

It’s a thing I need.

You do not know a certain kind of “raw power” until you have ridden bareback on a partially-green horse as he thunders over the ground, rhythmically surging beneath you, lounging violently with every stride in rebellion against the bridle. He launches his hind hooves up into the air in a buck bursting forth from pent-up energy and you have to throw your body backwards while keeping your fingers tightly entwined in his mane, the locks of coarse hair constricting your fingers. You must lock your legs around his middle until your inner thighs burn; heels down, toes up and feel the jerk of his movements rack your body, threatening balance to the last.

You don’t know an enthralling meaning of the word “thrill” until you’ve barreled over a distance, thighs aching from their grip on a horse’s ribcage and muscles as they swell and retract, flexing and sliding beneath his thin skin and silky coat; the vibrations as each hoof pounds the ground. The speed whips back your hair; it makes your eyes water. Your fingers may grip reins, but it is only an illusion of control. Because, at any moment this powerful beast-—this 1500lbs of compact muscle—-could send you flying from his back if he chooses, in a single movement: a buck or a swift turn; a sudden spook at the way the light reflects on a piece of plastic, or shying at his own shadow like the untamed Bucephalus.

“Have you given the horse his strength? Have you clothed his neck with thunder? Can you frighten him like a locust? His majestic snorting strikes terror. He paws the valley, and rejoices in his strength. He gallops into the clash of arms. He mocks fear, and is not frightened; nor does he turn back from the sword. The quiver rattles against him, the glittering spear and the javelin. He devours the distance with fierceness and rage; nor does he come to a halt because the trumpet has sounded.” –Job 39:19-24

You are riding the static shock from God’s finger that crackles when He touches the earth. That is what it’s like to ride a horse; a huge animal with a wild nature and a mind of its own, allowing you to cling to its back as it runs.

“A gigantic beauty of a stallion,” Says Walt Whitman in Leaves of Grass, “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 finely cut, flexibly moving. His nostrils dilate as my heels embrace him, his well-built limbs tremble with pleasure as we race around and return.”

To ride a horse is to play with a loaded gun; to risk catching on the bullet that discharges. The beautiful, majestic bullet that sparkles in the sun, so bright you’d hardly mind dying by it if it meant that glittering shard could become part of you. Like it would shine out from inside you, and by it’s glory you too would become glorious. Herman Melville saw this and said, “Honor lies in the mane of a horse.”

You feel as if your heart might swell too large for your chest in those moments as you straddle Chaos itself. In fear—-there is some—-and in determination; in pride half borrowed from the creature, half provided by the courage you know it takes to even try wrestling the beast into submission. In admiration of the animal, and in love for the bond between you; the titanium comradery when your natures have finally synced and you find your jigsaw-fit. Like a puzzle, and every fiber of your being can tell this was what you were meant for. Anything could come and the two of you would face it unflinching—you emboldened by the horse’s strength, and him made confident by having learned to trust in your superior wisdom. And if nothing comes—if the ride goes as expected—there is such sweet harmony in bodies and in consciences, as if both your veins and his have poked through skin and entwined together; as if you share the same blood.

Astride such a comrade as this, how can all the world be anything but a vast, conquerable beauty, visible there between the ears of your friend? How can a breeze sound like anything but sweet whispers ghosting through his flowing mane and tail?

“When I bestride him, I soar; I am a hawk: he trots the air, the earth sings when he touches it; the basest horn of his hoof is more musical than the pipe of Hermes.” –William Shakespeare.


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