The Goring

 THE GORING

Arena dust rusted by four bulls' blood to a dull redness, The afternoon at a bad end under the crowd's truculence, The ritual death each time botched among dropped capes, ill-judged stabs, The strongest will seemed a will towards ceremony. Obese, dark- Faced in his rich yellows, tassels, pompons, braid, the picador Rode out against the fifth bull to brace his pike and slowly bear Down deep into the bent bull-neck. Cumbrous routine, not artwork. Instinct for art began with the bull's horn lofting in the mob's Hush a lumped man-shape. The whole act formal, fluent as a dance. Blood faultlessly broached redeemed the sullied air, the earth's grossness.

This was honestly my favorite poem read in class. It was the ONLY poem that ever gave me a visual sense of what the author was trying to portray. It made me use pretty much all of my senses in actuality

See: the dust of the arena / ill stabs/ rich yellows

Hear: the dropped canes

Touch:the bulls horn/ the ill stabs

Taste: the dust

Smell: the earths grossness

reading this poem makes me feel like I'm watching a bull fight

Picador

Bull fight