Conor Dowd Poems
Comments about Conor Dowd
Inside the dusty yellow ring the drama is enacted -
a drama of death and dissolution -
a spectacle of life in a theatre of execution.
this searing Spanish sun moves slowly but intently
and daubs our stage a blood-red mix of colours.
Cries of the aficionada, maestros of their voyeurism,
fill the evening air like smoke
as crowds mingle amid hushed murmurs of excitement.
The stage is set, the camera films:
bull against man and man against bull -
barbarism and beauty.
Sleek, lithe matadors pace the circle, awaiting their prey,
I wake and try to shake the threads of broken sleep from me.
Not easy. Not by any means.
I'm troubled by my dreams.
You see, I've tossed and turned all night
and wrestled in my sleep,
now on my back or side
and I haven't found a posture I could keep.