Sagittarius by Marcus Manilius

"The double Centaur different Tempers breeds,
They break the Horse, and tame the fiery Steeds;
They love the sounding Whip, the Race, the Rein,
And whirl the Chariot o're the duty Plain;
Nor is their Humor to the Fields confin'd,
They range the Woods, and tame the Savage Kind;
Young Bears they break, and Tygers heats asswage,
And hear Young Lions roaring without Rage,
Discourse the Elephant, and Teach the Mass
A mimick Action, and a decent Grace;
To Act in Plays, or raise th'unwieldly load,
To Dance, and be the Darling of the Crowd.
For in the Frame, in double forms exprest,
The Man is uppermost, and rules the Beast;
His Bow full drawn implies, his Rays impart,
Strength to the Limbs, and Vigor to the Heart.
Quick active Motions, full of warmth and heat,
Still pressing on, unknowing to retreat."

Rudyard Kipling's Centaurs

"Up came the young Centaur-colts from the plains they were
fathered in--
Curious, awkward, afraid.
Burrs on their hocks and their tails, they were branded and
gathered in
Mobs and run up to the yard to be made.

Starting and shying at straws, with sidlings and plungings,
Buckings and whirlings and bolts;
Greener than grass, but full-ripe for their bridling and lungings,
Up to the yards and to Chiron they bustled the colts...

First the light web and the cavesson; then the linked keys
To jingle and turn on the tongue. Then, with cocked ears,
The hours of watching and envy, while comrades at ease
Passaged and backed, making naught of these terrible gears.

Next, over-pride and its price at the low-seeming fence
Too oft and too easily taken -- the world-beheld fall!
And none in the yard except Chiron to doubt the immense,
Irretrievable shame of it all!...

Last, the trained squadron, full-charge -- the sound of a going
Through dust and spun clods, and strong kicks, pelted in as
they went,
And repaid at top-speed; till the order to halt without slowing
Showed every colt on his haunches--and Chiron content!"

The Centaur
By May Swenson (1919 - 1989)

"The summer that I was ten --
Can it be there was only one
summer that I was ten?

It must have been a long one then --
each day I'd go out to choose
a fresh horse from my stable

which was a willow grove
down by the old canal.
I'd go on my two bare feet.

But when, with my brother's jack-knife,
I had cut me a long limber horse
with a good thick knob for a head,

and peeled him slick and clean
except a few leaves for the tail,
and cinched my brother's belt

around his head for a rein,
I'd straddle and canter him fast
up the grass bank to the path,

trot along in the lovely dust
that talcumed over his hoofs,
hiding my toes, and turning

his feet to swift half-moons.
The willow knob with the strap
jouncing between my thighs

was the pommel and yet the poll
of my nickering pony's head.
My head and my neck were mine,

yet they were shaped like a horse.
My hair flopped to the side
like the mane of a horse in the wind.

My forelock swung in my eyes,
my neck arched and I snorted.
I shied and skittered and reared,

stopped and raised my knees,
pawed at the ground and quivered.
My teeth bared as we wheeled

and swished through the dust again.
I was the horse and the rider,
and the leather I slapped to his rump

spanked my own behind.
Doubled, my two hoofs beat
a gallop along the bank,

the wind twanged in my mane,
my mouth squared to the bit.
And yet I sat on my steed

quiet, negligent riding,
my toes standing the stirrups,
my thighs hugging his ribs.

At a walk we drew up to the porch.
I tethered him to a paling.
Dismounting, I smoothed my skirt

and entered the dusky hall.
My feet on the clean linoleum
left ghostly toes in the hall.

Where have you been? said my mother.
Been riding, I said from the sink,
and filled me a glass of water.

What's that in your pocket? she said.
Just my knife. It weighted my pocket
and stretched my dress awry.

Go tie back your hair, said my mother,
and Why Is your mouth all green?
Rob Roy, he pulled some clover
as we crossed the field, I told her."

from http://www.babsonarabians.com/Readers_Corner/The_Centaur.htm

by James Stephens

Playing upon the hill three centaurs were!
They lifted each a hoof! They stared at me
And stamped the dust!

They stamped the dust! They snuffed upon the air!
And all their movements had the fierce glee
Of power, and pride, and lust!

Of power and pride and lust! Then, with a shout,
They tossed their heads, and wheeled, and galloped round,
In furious brotherhood!

In furious brotherhood! Around, about,
They charged, they swerved, they leaped! Then, bound on bound,
They raced into the wood!