The art of the horse

This is just a small sampling of the magnificent "horse art" of Wesley Dennis, who illustrated all of Marguerite Henry's most famous books. He had a sense of the horse that transcended mere likeness and transformed Henry's books from ripping good stories into something magical and unforgettable. I still have my old, yellowed copy of Misty of Chincoteague, and my King of the Wind with the cover long gone. Some of the black-and-white illustrations have been coloured in with pencil crayons - surely not by me! I had three older siblings who all had their way with these books until they were handed down to me. This merely added layers of magic.

Dream horse

 
I was a horsy little girl, meaning I was obsessed with anything Horse, and even owned a horse/pony for a couple of years, until he was just too expensive to keep. This means I'm condemned to forever-longing, because it's not practical for me to ride unless I am willing to drive to Langley (1 1/2 hours round-trip) and pay fifty bucks an hour to go on an unfamiliar trail with an iffy horse. They also took one look at me and told me I needed at least an hour of refresher lessons before they would let me even get on. And forget about Caitlin, who took to horses just as easily and naturally as my daughter did: she would need at least 8 weeks. Ching.

So. No more horses, except the horses of the mind that have probably kept me from going completely crazy in my life (with a few exceptions).

For years I loved Arabians, as most little girls seem to, but now I see them as too exaggeratedly pretty, the forehead so broad and the muzzle so teeny it seems almost silly. The "jibbah" or dished shape of the head has become nearly ridiculous.  Perhaps this is public demand causing breeders to go for a My Little Pony look.

But there is no doubt that tipping a little Arab sauce into the mix can fire up equine genes, and it amazes me to see the Arabiform (my word) sculpted head and fine muzzle even in chunkier breeds.

All right, I'm working up to something here. I began to see pictures of this breed on Facebook not long ago, and was startled, not so much by the conformation as the coat. I felt I was looking at something like a Tennessee Walker with a very long, flexible neck, sleek body and impossibly high head carriage, but the forequarters were rippling with muscle like those of a Quarter Horse or even a Morgan. And then there was that supernaturally-glowing, metallic coat, as if the horse had been airbrushed with some sort of  platinum-based spray paint.

Not that I didn't love it.

This was a horse in silver and gold, a very ancient breed called an Akhal Teke. I had never heard of it before, but I was intrigued by the fact that  the legendary Byerly Turk, one of the three foundation sires of the Thoroughbred breed, may have been an Akhal.

I was always told the Arabian was "it", the fountainhead, the source of all horsedom, particularly the racehorse, but maybe "they" were wrong. These guys look more like the ancient representations of horses in stone friezes. No one would need to hold this horse's head up.

The Akhal-Teke (/ˌækəlˈtɛk/ or /ˌækəlˈtɛki/; from Turkmen Ahalteke, [ahalˈteke]) is a horse breed from Turkmenistan, where they are a national emblem.^[1] They have a reputation for speed and endurance, intelligence, and a distinctive metallic sheen. The shiny coat of palominos and buckskins led to their nickname "Golden Horses".^[2] These horses are adapted to severe climatic conditions and are thought to be one of the oldest existing horse breeds.^[3] There are currently about 6,600 Akhal-Tekes in the world, mostly in Turkmenistan and Russia, although they are also found throughout Europe and North America.^[4]

These horses know they're beautiful, sort of like cats do, and who can blame them? I'm interested in the fact that they were crossbred with Thoroughbreds a long way back, perhaps to improve their speed and sleekness, as those frieze horses are more powerful and chunky. But they still hold their heads up high.

Silver and gold can't buy you a home 

When this life has ended 

And your time is gone 

But you can live in a world where 

You'll never grow old 

And things can't be bought there with silver and gold

  Visit Margaret's Amazon Author Page!

http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B001K7NGDA

My beautiful! my beautiful!

'Arab's Farewell to his Horse'

Transcription

Arab's Farewell to his Horse.

PRICE ONE PENNY.

Copies of this popular production can always be had in

the Poet's box

My beautiful! my beautiful! that standest meekly by,

With thy proudly arch'd and glossy neck, and dark and fiery

eye,

Fret not to roam the desert now with all thy winged speed,

I may not mount on thee again-thou art sold, my Arab

steed.

Fret not with that impatient hoof, snuff not the breezy wind,

The further that thou fliest now, so far am I behind.

The stranger hath thy bridle rein-thy master hath his gold-

Fleet limbed and beautiful, farewell, thou'rt sold, my steed,

thou'rt sold.

Farewell, these free untired limbs full many a mile must

roam,

To reach the chill and wintry sky which clouds the stran-

ger's home.

Some other hand, less fond, must now thy corn and bed

prepare-

The silky mane I braided once must be another's care.

The morning sun shall dawn again, but never more with thee

Shall I gallop through the desert paths where we were wont

to be.

Evening shall darken on the earth, and o'er the sandy plain,

Some other steed, with slower step, shall bear me home

again.

Yes, thou must go, the wild free breeze, the brilliant sun

and sky,

Thy master's home, from all of these my exiled one must fly.

Thy proud dark eye will grow less proud, thy step become

less fleet,

And vainly shalt thou arch thy neck thy master's hand to

meet.

Only in sleep shall I behold that dark eye glancing bright;

Only in sleep shall hear again that step so firm and light;

And when I raise my dreaming arm to check and cheer thy

speed,

Then must I startling wake to feel thou'rt sold, my Arab

steed.

Ah! rudely then, unseen by me, some cruel hand may chide,

Till foam-wreathes lie, like crested waves, along thy panting

side,

And the rich blood that is in thee swells in thy indignant

pain,

Till careless eyes, which rest on thee, may count each started

vein.

Will they ill-use thee? If I thought-but no it cannot be-

Thou art so swift yet easy curbed, so gentle yet so free.

And yet, if haply when thou'rt gone, my lonely heart should

yearn,

Can the hand which casts thee from it now command thee

to return?

Return, alas! my Arab steed, what shall thy master do,

When thou who wert his all of joy hath vanished from his

view;

When the dim distance cheats mine eye, and, through the

gathering tears,

Thy bright form for a moment like the false mirage appears,

Slow and unmounted will I roam, with weary foot alone,

Where with fleet step and joyous bound thou oft has borne

me on.

And sitting down by that green well I'll pause and sadly

think,

It was here he bowed his glossy neck when last I saw him

drink.

When last I saw thee drink? Away! the fevered dream is

o'er,

I could not live a day and know that we should meet no

more.

They tempted me, my beautiful! for hunger' s power is strong,

They tempted me, my beautiful! but I have loved too long.

Who said that I'd giv'n thee up, who said that thou wert

sold?

'Tis false, 'tis false, my Arab steed, I fling them back their

gold;

Thus, thus, I leap upon thy back and scour the distant plains,

Away! who overtakes us now shall claim thee for his pains!

Commentary This ballad begins: 'My beautiful! my beautiful! that standest meekly by, / With thy proudly arch'd and glossy neck, and dark and fiery eye'. This broadside was priced at one penny and published on Saturday, 5th June 1869. It was published by the Poet's Box, (probably Glasgow) but the town of publication has been obscured. Although it is not attributed on the broadside, this poem was written by Caroline Norton (1808-77). Norton was the granddaughter of playwright Richard Brinsley Sheridan (1751-1816). Her first published poetry appeared in 1829 and as a result she became a successful magazine editor. She found further fame as a political poet and pamphleteer, but also a certain amount of notoriety when it was alleged that she had been having an affair with the Whig Home Secretary Lord Melbourne. The claims were made by Norton's husband, a Tory who was known to be violent toward her. Norton's unhappy marriage influenced her political activism, which contributed to the Marriage and Law Act of 1857. The Poet?s Box in Glasgow operated from 1849 to 1911. Matthew Leitch was the proprietor at 6 St. Andrew Lane?s, a narrow street on the south side of Gallowgate, from 1850 to 1858. His son William Munsie Leitch worked at the same address from 1859 to 1865 and at varous addresses in London Street until 1911. Many of the broadsides published by the Glasgow Poet?s Box were dated and some carried advertisements, not just for printed items but also for shoe blacking and ?soap for lovers?! Like the other ?boxes? in Dundee and Edinburgh, the Glasgow one sold love songs, sea shanties, parodies and dialogues. It is not clear what the connection between the different Poet?s Boxes were. They almost certainly sold each other?s sheets. It is known that John Sanderson in Edinburgh often wrote to the Leitches in Glasgow for songs and that later his brother Charles obtained copies of songs from the Dundee Poet?s Box. There was also a Poet?s Box in Belfast from 1846 to 1856 at the address of the printer James Moore, and one in Paisley in the early 1850s owned by William Anderson. Broadsides are single sheets of paper, printed on one side, to be read unfolded. They carried public information such as proclamations as well as ballads and news of the day. Cheaply available, they were sold on the streets by pedlars and chapmen. Broadsides offer a valuable insight into many aspects of the society they were published in, and the National Library of Scotland holds over 250,000 of them.

BLOGGER'S NOTE. I decided to leave these rather boring notes attached, because? I was so intrigued by? all the? question marks. I suppose they were meant to represent some? other kind of punctuation mark, but I can't quite? figure out which one. My favorite passage is:

Many of the broadsides published by the Glasgow Poet?s Box were dated and some carried advertisements, not just for printed items but also for shoe blacking and ?soap for lovers?! Like the other ?boxes? in Dundee and Edinburgh, the Glasgow one sold love songs, sea shanties, parodies and dialogues

"Soap for lovers?!". These people were obviously well ahead of their time.

Order The Glass Character from:

Thistledown Press 

http://www.thistledownpress.com/html/search/genre/Fiction/the_glass_character_p580.cfm

Amazon.com

http://www.amazon.com/Glass-Character-Margaret-Gunning/dp/1927068886/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1395534131&sr=1-1&keywords=the+glass+character

Chapters/Indigo.ca

http://www.chapters.indigo.ca/books/the-glass-character/9781927068885-item.html?ikwid=the%2520glass%2520character%2520margaret%2520gunning&ikwsec=Home

Paradise lost

I don't know if it's really gonna be like this, but Cavalia, a travelling horse show which is billed as a kind of Cirque de Soleil with horses, is supposed to be impressive beyond words. They claim to train their horses naturally with hand signals, and yes, I know it can be done, with years of patience. And it's a damn sight better than the foam-dripping mouths of horses with their chins cranked into their chests, hiking their knees so high they must risk injuring themselves with every performance.

You hear stories of heavy clunky boots strapped on to the feet of Tennessee Walkers, forcing them to lift their hoofs higher than they know how. Sometimes harsh chemicals are applied to their feet to blister them into obedience.

Anyway, it won't be like that tonight, as I watch in wonder on opening night of Cavalia in Vancouver. We lucked into four choice tickets from a news anchor at my daughter's workplace: all the anchors got free tickets, whereas the mere reporters, who work twice as long and hard, got doodlysquat. But fortunately, the 11:30 p.m. anchor couldn't attend, and so. . .

And so, four of us, my daughter, 7-year-old Caitlin, her little friend and I, will sit and watch (in good seats, saved for media who might write it up or broadcast a glowing report) as horses prance and dance, and riders twirl around balletically as they gallop in circles.

The horse is my totem animal, my touchstone, the essence of my soul, even though I never get to spend any time with them. This seems to symbolize the essential frustration I feel about living on planet Earth: I am forever thrust out of Eden, though there was a time when I lived there and didn't even know it.
That time whizzed by at light speed, leaving me behind to look around in bewilderment: where have all the horses gone?

This blog originally was supposed to be about The Writer's Life. Phoooey on that. If it is, it's a place to pour out the corrosive acid of having doors continually slammed in my face. The situation seems nearly hopeless, as I am long past writing for fun or amusement. An author, like an actor, is someone who has crossed a certain threshhold. Driving cab will never do it, though everyone seems to think I should just be happy I put those books out at all.

Well, maybe I should be.

Writer's workshops and conferences (and books and more books) tell you how to present your work to editors effectively. Yes. And that's about it. No one tells you how to navigate the desperate minefield of actually dealing with publishers when you are at cross-purposes with them, and when your agent continually sides with them as they slowly mangle your work to pieces.

What does all this have to do with Cavalia? Exactly nothing, except that horses, like publishing my novels, seem to be part of a great Paradise Lost that I wander around in every day. I must have had some sort of stupid expectation that I would go on publishing. I went on writing, after all, didn't I? I wrote three more books. And there they sit, warehoused.

I wonder if maybe this really is about the writer's life, as every other writer I've talked to tells the same bitter story. Yet, at the same time, someone is being published, or there wouldn't be a publishing business, would there? Well, would there?

It's just that the someone needs to be me.

And a few more

Couldn't resist a few more comparisons of Cass Ole with the kind of Arabian I see on web sites today. Whew. Though he does have a tapered muzzle, the head is more substantial, not so "dished", and the neck well set on the body, not abnormally curved.

Obviously, like vain actors, these horses have a "good side"!

A horse is a horse is a. . .?

I don't know how many times I've seen this movie, but it always knocks me out. Almost brings me to tears with its beauty.

It's simple: a boy and a horse on an isolated beach, all wildness and sand and blistering sun. And a story, without words, of incredible bonding. The kid, Kelly Reno, was wonderful in this movie and looked as if he did much of his own riding. The horse, however, was the real star: a "superhorse" by the name of Cass Ole.

This horse, more of a dark chestnut than a true black stallion, could really act! He wheeled, and snorted, and raged on command, and burst forward with spurts of headreeling speed. He followed the boy around with the curiosity of a dog, his shining flanks reflecting the sun like black silk. He stepped and turned as delicately as a dancer. This was a horse among horses, and I don't remember ever seeing one more magnificent, not just because of his classic Arabian conformation but the way he moved, which was somehow mysteriously spiritual.

OK THEN: I have a beef! Why is it that when I see pics of Arabians now, some 30 years later, they look so weird? Something has happened to their heads, for sure, and the necks. . . long, skinny, high-crested, they're nothing like Cass Ole's powerful, almost Morgan-like neck. These are toy horses that look like bizarre china figurines, or, worse, My Little Pony.

This is what happens when breeders get carried away. You end up with a ridiculous-looking thing (with no acting ability either). I don't know what happens to temperament with this much inbreeding, but it can't be good.

I think these creech-ers must be bred specifically for the show ring, so that they can be draped in long fringey things while the owner tries to look like one-a-dem Arab guys. It's ridiculous.

I didn't have one of them, of course, but when I was a girl we all thought the Arabian (we called then Arabs then) was some kind of ultimate dream horse. I read King of the Wind by Marguerite Henry, a fictionalized story of the Godolphin Arabian, one of the main foundation sires of the racing Thoroughbred. Arabians were fiery yet gentle ("My beautiful! My beautiful! that standest meekly by," etc., etc.), not too tall so you could leap on to his back without stirrups, and all that girl-dreaming jazz. We didn't know that Arabs or Arabians or whatever they were farted and pooped and consumed prodigious amounts of food and had things go wrong with their feet and threw you off if they didn't like you. But they sure didn't look like this.

Myth has it that the Arabian should have a muzzle tiny enough to drink from a teacup. Nowadays it's more like a thimble. I feel a little sorry for these beasts, with their tubular noses and enormous round nostrils. They look weird.

I'm sorry, but they do. Come back, Cass Ole. We need you.

Lamborghini in Black: Morgan Park Stallion

Do I seem obsessed with horses? Oh dear. Somehow or other, in my later years, it has come back stronger than ever. I wonder why this is.

It may, in fact, be my eldest grandchild who brings me back to riding. There's a stable near where she lives, in a woodsy, gorgeous old part of North Vancouver. Not sure if they rent horses or not. We'd have to start slow. But oh my God, to be back in the saddle again!

(There is controversy about how these horses are trained, with unnatural weights and even chains attached to their feet, and - even worse - acid substances applied to their ankles so that they throw their legs up in pain. What is wrong with people, anyway? According to captions, this horse was not trained that way. And oh God is he beautiful. I love the clean way he picks up his feet, his high but not strained head carriage, and the effortless (seemingly) way he changes from one gait to another. This is a combination of a well-trained horse, and a well-trained rider.)

(And how I love that gorgeous waterfall of a tail that lightly sweeps the ground.)

Back in the saddle again

Nature or God saw fit to erase my last post. Since I'm too thick-headed to get the message, I'll try again. For New Years, I wanted to return to a favorite subject (except that by now, after the 50th attempt to make it stick, I'm sick of it all). I'll have to address my feelings about all this later, perhaps when I get over this 3-week flu bug that shows no signs of abating.

So here it is, a florid but delicious poem about a florid but delicious subject. IF it posts.


The Arab’s Farewell to His Steed

Caroline Norton (1808-1877)

My beautiful! my beautiful! that standest meekly by.
With thy proudly-arched and glossy neck, and dark and fiery eye!
Fret not to roam the desert now with all thy winged speed:
I may not mount on thee again – thou’rt sold, my Arab steed!

Fret not with that impatient hoof, snuff not the breezy wind,
The farther that thou fliest now, so far am I behind,
The stranger hath thy bridle rein – thy master hath his gold;
Fleet-limbed and beautiful, farewell! – thou’rt sold, my steed, thou’rt sold.

Farewell! Those free, untired limbs full many a mile must roam,
To reach the chill and wintry sky which clouds the stranger’s home.
Some other hand, less fond, must now thy corn and bed prepare;
The silky mane I braided once must be another’s care.

The morning sun shall dawn again, but never more with thee
Shall I gallop o’er the desert paths, where we were wont to be;
Evening shall darken on the earth and o’er the sandy plain
Some other steed, with slower step, shall bear me home again.

Yes, thou must go! The wild, free breeze, the brilliant sun and sky,
Thy master’s home – from all of these my exiled one must fly.
Thy proud dark eye will grow less proud, thy step become less fleet,
And vainly shalt thou arch thy neck thy master’s hand to meet.

Only in sleep shall I behold that dark eye glancing bright;
Only in sleep shall I hear again that step so firm and light;
And when I raise my dreaming arm to check or cheer thy speed,
Then must I starting, wake to feel – thou’rt sold, my Arab steed.

Ah, rudely then, unseen by me, some cruel hand may chide,
Till foam-wreaths lie, like crested waves, along thy panting side;
And the rich blood that’s in thee swell in thy indignant pain,
Till careless eyes, which rest on thee, may count each starting vein.

Will they ill-use thee? If I thought – but no, it cannot be.
Thou art so swift, yet easy curbed; so gentle, yet so free;
And yet, if haply, when thou’rt gone, this lonely heart should yearn,
Can the hand that casts thee from it now command thee to return?

Return! – Alas, my Arab steed! what shall thy master do,
When thou, who wert all of his joy, has vanished from his view?
When the dim distance cheats mine eye, and through the gathering tears
Thy bright form, for a moment, like the false mirage appears?

Slow and unmounted shall I roam, with weary step alone,
Where with fleet step and joyous bound thou oft hast borne me on;
And sitting down by that green well, I’ll pause and sadly think,
" ‘Twas here he bowed his glossy neck when last I saw him drink!’ ”

When last I saw thee drink! – away! The fevered dream is o’er!
I could not live a day and know that we should meet no more!
They tempted me, my beautiful! for hunger’s power is strong-
They tempted me, my beautiful! but I have loved too long.

Who said that I had given thee up? Who said that thou wert sold?
‘Tis false! – ’tis false! my Arab steed! I fling them back their gold!
Thus, thus, I leap upon thy back, and scour the distant plains!
Away! who overtakes us now may claim thee for his pains!