Thread: Bullfighters lament

My poetry walks around
on four legs
sometimes trotting
indifferent to prying eyes
chewing the cud
of literature
like
most others

without warning
rope appears
cast around the neck
though rugged
on the scrap
suspect magnificence now faces
confinement
the untamed urges of
barbaric beasts in writ
domesticated
into form
and the absurd sense of function

like any struggle
ink must be shed like blood
trading one freedom for another

so it lives
waiting
spending a life
far from natures call
under thumb
of an insidious
master
passing from guide to guru
like a crown over a scalp
until it is pushed Into
the coliseum
in tribute to the brave
in the abode of slavery
through cheering
and clapping
and howling
it is enticed
by the red

freedom and fury
all that it has left
is its charge

with a flick of my wrist
the crowning stab
is given

bleeding it falls
exposed
belonging to another
which is
unfitting

for the poem
the bull
I sit maligned
the bullfighter
feeling occasionally
like an enemy
of pure thought and words
as should all
criminals of script

who stand upon
freshly slain poems
and feel
liberated.

"flick of the wrist..nice "in tribute to the brave" Is that the writer? brave for putting it out there? , "crown over scalp..." Is that like a royal crown? or ... ? I struggle with that image and how it applies... The rest, though..all...really good... killed it.

¡Olé! You are victorious Whit. I enjoyed the metaphor/ analogy of this one.

Took me long enough to get here, it's been a horrible stretch of horrid weeks. There's unspoken belief amongst us that writing about writing is almost always pooh. Either it's been done to death or is boring as heck. But every once in awhile, someone like you comes along and writes something like this that blows that unspoken belief to bits. Cindy has it right, you're victorious, indeed. You carried your metaphor brilliantly, and what a strange and wonderful choice of a metaphor it is. Nasty contrary words mimic ornery bulls more often than not. lol. In penning up we find freedom, but at what cost to those subdued words and ourselves? Unfair, fair? Who decides? I loved this, Whit, really. Whatever suggestions I mentioned earlier have morphed to ghosts, I'd not change a word of this. I will ask one question though, is that cap in Into in S4 intentional? Well done, love, you've branched out admirably.

I think this was an excellent work. Although it leaves me wondering (as good poems often do), as to why the poetry must be slain. Is it alive, vibrant, and full of energy until written, only to become still and lifeless?

Just a thought. Very nice. It gives one much to think about.

JRB