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