Best Matador Poems
Pedro, a slick, suave and smooth matador
The pride of his native-state, Ecuador
He'd flash his red cape
The bull would go ape
After each pass, the fans shouted, 'Encore!'
One time Pedro let the bull come too close
The crowd sat in stunned silence, comatose
Pedro may have been gored badly
Yet he still smiled most gladly
'Time for a new gig,' he said ~ 'Adios!'
The roaring bull
enters the arena;
clouds of dust raise.
Then the slender matador
in tight attire arrives;
he has no knowledge
of who is watching.
The prettiest girl
in traditional dress
has set eyes on him;
her posture is elegant.
A red flower in her dark hair
suggests an inflamed passion.
It's a scorching day
in Madrid; the fan she holds
does little or nothing
to keep her cool.
Thoughts in their minds
contradict; she's the admirer
from the balcony.
He is the fighter in the arena.
He must kill that bull
to win her; fierce are his looks
while his hands keep on fanning
the red cloth to gain control.
He can't lose this fight;
he must win at any cost.
It's a battle of strength and pride;
man against animal.
Ah, the bull succumbs to injury...
maestro grabs his horns and claims victory!
" O Matador, my matador...
you are the bravest one in all Spain! "
Stretching her arms.
.
Limerick : Once a Toro loved by a Matador
Once a Toro* loved by a Matador*
Maimed between shoulders by Picador*
Matador garrocha*
Picador muchacha*
Picador cornudo* Matador.
*Toro : bull raised for fighting in arenas (rings)
*Matador : « matador de toros », bullfighter ; usually
the head « torero », title obtained after the
« alternativa », ceremony honoring the torero
or « novillero », the apprentice bullfighter
*Picador : the well-protected assistant to the matador
on horseback who wounds the toro between
the shoulders in order to cause the bull to hang
its head
*garrocha/garrochar : (to use) the long lance with a metallic
harpoon-like head , wielded by the Picador
*muchacha : Spanish for girl or « daughter » as in this case
*cornudo : cuckolded (husband gored)
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
Poet: Ken Jordan
Poem: Matador
Edited by: Sparkle Jordan
written: October/2015
Bravely
he
poses
before
the
gates
of
sudden death -
Poised
to
face
his
most
formidable
foe -
He's
the Toreros,
fearless
with
bullfighting
etched
way down
in
his soul.
He's
Debonair;
In
a
Traje De Luces,
holding
Banderillas,
and
Montera.
A
Matador?....
Yes,
Agile
with
grace,
His skills
are
mystic
Inside
the
Bull Ring
where
thousands
roar!
to
watch him
wave
his
Capote De Paseo,
to
the face
of
a charging
beast -
And
with each
narrow escape,
the
Matador De Toros,
hear's
the crowd
roar!
for
his artistry......
He's
a
flamboyant
maestro -
King
of
the ring -
Dressed
to
kill,
preparing
to
thrust
banderillas
Into
a bull,
upon
the blood red
dirt,
in
black
Zapatillas
Copyright (c). 2016 Ken Jordan
Near small Rapid City,
a man came up to me,
said,”Hey, I’ll show you a good time.”
I thought that meant girls,
turns out, as things unfurled,
the man had something else in mind.
We went to a garage,
a rusty, grease-stained blotch,
type of place you’d see a drug deal,
not sure I could trust him,
but then as we stepped in,
I saw a crowd, excitement real.
Just judging by the sight,
it looked like a cockfight,
roosters with spurs, green money flew,
people from everywhere
were all jammed into there,
jostling for a better view.
But then when I got close,
no chickens, don’t you know,
just a small man inside the ring,
not even three-feet tall,
the smallest of them all,
just perched in there, calmly waiting.
I scratched my head and stared,
what was he doing there?
Why did this whole thing feel so strange?
What had I stumbled in?
Fighting midgets seems wrong?
It struck me as a bit deranged.
Then came the weirdest bit,
rooster thrown in the pit,
the midget pulled a handkerchief,
It was paisley and red,
at him the chicken sped,
lashing out with two claw-spurred feet.
That midget spun around,
the rooster did go down,
and all the crowd cried out,”Ole!”
This little man was fast,
poor poultry couldn’t last,
he spun around it like at play.
Then a man at my side
told me there’d been a time,
when the midget had wanted bulls.
Size had precluded him,
his fate would’ve been grim,
but without it he’d not feel full.
He’d found another path,
and I was watching that,
matadoring the fighting cocks,
Then that rooster he faced,
sought out a resting place,
and the whole warehouse soon did rock.
Never thought I would see
such a strange victory,
they raised a cheer and paid out bets.
Matador got his share,
and I got out of there,
some fresh air I needed to get.
Guess my timing was good,
’cause right then guess who should
choose that fine moment to arrive?
Cops dressed in riot gear,
dressed to inspire fear,
they smashed the door and rushed inside.
So what else can I say,
I quickly slipped away,
and to the city I did go.
That was my strangest ‘fun,’
until I rode a bison
right through a small town rodeo…
A well-groomed matador José
Liked to moisturize with Oil of Olay
His hands lost their grip
The cape it did slip
He was gored as he cried out "¡Olé!"
In ye old days of yore on Malaga's dreary shore
An untidy castle rimmed by salty moor
Housed a lonely, oft-drunk matador
In briny marsh grazed no sheep, but wild pigs three score
Staggering oft around soggy, muddy estate in boozed, dazed state; prating conquistador
With fitted bed sheet he dodged each, wild, voracious boar
On one fateful eve a rabid boar did his flabby posterior gore
Now ambitions stored, bedded his dreams, salved his sore
'Til one morn, a damsel in distress swooned at his door
Bereft of virility, but saddled with tales of chivalric lore
A hearty tonic the prone maiden he did pore, and spouted tawdry tales galore
Unentranced by availing circumstance, his rambling advances she did ignore
Intoxicated by her lovely essence, her father's residence did implore
Confounded by his incessant inebriating pleas, she fell to the floor
Mistaking her bended knee as fealty to be, he let out a drunken roar
Enraged by his licentious intentions, she yelled, I will not take any more
Mind numbed from numerous droughts, he heard, I am your whore
Giddy, his infertile, limp shaft tried into her sweet mound to bore
But his drooping shaft could not breach her silty core
Frustrated the horny goad reversed positions. riding her till both were saddlesore
Finally breaching the chasm, his spent rod found reeling a chore
But her tapped well gushed and she yelled encore
Now understanding his riding days were over, he cried and swore
His ripening virgin unsatiated bade his pallid pilot her canyon explore
Now contrite, he explained fertile streams no longer from stagnant fount could pore
Giving due penance, purged the dross, and from her steamy vat tore
Forevermore an unfit paramour, jilted matador; who no longer his tainted cape wore
The Bull and the Matador
Stalwartly, the bull gaits around
the confines of the arena ring,
snorting and displaying
piercing horns and muscle-bulk build.
For this he was bred and raised;
to be a champion of beasts,
and no matter where placed,
will claim as his domain and ferociously
defend until death, if necessary.
Then into the ring swaggeringly treads the matador
(flamboyantly dressed, touting a cape),
saluting the crowd, though calmly noticing
the bull, whose eyes appear red
from the blood gorging in its head.
“Estás loco!” scream the patrons packing the place
(thoroughly enjoying every minute of this barbaric sport).
“¡Ole! ¡Ole!” They sing in unison in a horrific overture,
encouraging the matador to kill the bull or vice versa.
***
Carlos was a world famous matador
He had suffered a ton of blood and gore
He'd made lots of dinero
Tanglin' with old el toro
Carlos retired to be 'bullied' no more
Under
The full moon
El Matador
Dressed in his Bolero
Held pose
His lean
Muscled form
Above the norm
Now shows a pounch from age
Still loved
The Matador
I was thinking of taken the bus Seville
But don`t know what to do when getting there
Unless I run into a female Toreador
I once met in Seville she was good at killing things
She had once worked at an abattoir, alas, too many men
Surrounded her, she didn`t see me
That was long ago she must be 70 years old now
And probably glad to see a man who remembers when
She cut the ear of the of her prey and held it aloft
And the spectators were ecstatic.
Perhaps she has turned away from this slaughter and
Become and protector of all animals.
Did I tell you I was in Seville ten years ago with
A drunken girlfriend?
In a bar, she got up pretending to be a matador,
This was embarrassing
I had to get her out and to the hotel
But, she was in a festive mood
and disappeared in the night.
There are idle moments when I wonder what happened to her.
It was in Historic Forcados,
Where I’d first touched Pride of Barbados:
I’d run into A Talking Salvador
Long arguing with Unshaken Ricardo,
Whose interest were in Stark Bravado,
His body partly building with Mamador …
Bravado-Loving and Preaching Ricardo
Would sooner he became A Matador
Than A-Many-Times-Decorated Commodore,
This proclaiming in a corridor,
Where on display, besides Mamador,
Were nourishing-seeming tomato
And as nourishing-seeming pimento.
“If you were a Commodore
For all your sung bravado,
You wouldn’t last with A True Bull!
Even energized and you were full!
You wouldn’t assert you had The Beast won
Between A healthy and Sickly one …”
A Commodore’s strength is his ship
Plus the holstered pistol on his hip,
No frightening neck muscle sticking out
When chooses he to ‘MARINERS!’ shout.
He readies himself to battle once more,
his cape bleeds red from another loss.
The scars he hides is what they all adore
Ruega humildemente, he kisses his cross.
Today he has another chance to die alone,
even though death is quite a familiar face.
Matador de toros, he will forever be known
there will be others who may take his place.
The beast now circles his new found prey,
ahora hay silencio, not a word is spoken.
On that quiet afternoon close to Santa-Fe,
the crowd applauds and the silence is broken.
A horned behemoth now infuriated with rage,
leaves tracks as it charges in for the kill.
Se engaña el toro, on this theater stage,
the audience amazed at the fighters skill.
The flowers are thrown from rows upon rows,
la gente está contenta, at this glorious display.
his own blood and tears all over his clothes,
a job well done as tomorrow is another day.
disjointed efforts pulling sinews apart
inside the coliseum of sexual contest
an ensanguined sheet is waved
relentlessly taunting the stubborn beast
their saline soaked hides
give meaning to the matador's intent
without spilling the bull's blood
he sighs with lament
In the ring of life I stand
with the bull called Time and me
Anxious crowd anticipates
of just what end they see
Alone I stand with cape and spear
And in-ev-i-ta-bil-ity
Time enraged with froth and stamp
Has set its eyes on me
It comes at me with all its might
I let my cape swing free
Angry Time again slips by
Its aim was meant for me
The crowd-the bull-the matador
Time will only see
In the end the fight will cease
And one will be set free
David Kettler
12/19/ 2019