Encierro Poem by Matthew Johnson

The city of Pamplona
Is so beautiful in August.

You say you don't remember?

You were there, that afternoon;
Navarre, nine years ago;
Under a sun riotous and red.
The air was dusted orange.

Encierro: The Running of the Bulls.
Encierro: The running
Of men mad in a ritual
Of adrenalin and chance.

The crowd of onlookers watched them approach.
Like bees tending their honey.
They drew towards the barricaded edge.
A far-off patter of shouts
Was suddenly no longer distant.
The men, frenetic and wild, passed in a furious blaze.
We joined in with the on-looking swarm,
Shouting and cheering and jeering them on.
The bulls, determined and single-minded,
Clattered their hooves on the cobbled streets.
A crush of eyes, fearful and angered and joyful and mad,
Pierced the still, warm air.

As soon as they had come, they were gone,
The orange-dusted air returned to stillness.
The chatter of the swarm around us resumed.
We turned away to find a bar,
But as we walked,
Amidst the jerky flow
Of background conversation,
Came the tiniest of cries.

"Mama."

And you say you don't remember.

A woman screamed from the barricade.

And you say you don't remember.

I ran back, to see
What seemed to be a miracle:
A young child had crawled onto the route
And had somehow escaped the hooves.

And you say you don't remember.

The people of the background barely glanced
Back to the child, seeing him alive.

But something else had caught their eye.
The air was coated with more than left-over rage.
The air was red now, not orange,
And blood ran through the cobbled street.

The blood pounded in me
As I followed the young boy's hand,
Towards another figure on the ground.

"Papa."

And you say you don't remember?

The city of Pamplona
Was so beautiful that August.