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    Sylvia Plath - The Goring


    by poetictouch

    Sylvia Plath reads her poem The Goring

    The Goring
    by Sylvia Plath (1932-1963)

    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.