The Bulls

Benjamin Palencia

Toros

The Bulls

Six bulls I saw as black as jet,

With crimsoned horns and amber eyes

That chewed their cud without a fret,

And swished to brush away the flies,

Unwitting their soon sacrifice.

It is the Corpus Christi fête;

Processions crowd the bannered ways;

Before the alters women wait,

While men unite in hymns of praise,

And children look with angel gaze.

The bulls know naught of holiness,

To pious pomp their eyes are blind;

Their brutish brains will never guess

The sordid passions of mankind:

Poor innocents, they wait resigned.

Till in a black room each is penned,

While from above with cruel aim

Two torturers with lances bend

To goad their fieriness to flame,

To devil them to play the game.

The red with rage and mad with fear

They charge into the roaring ring;

Against the mockery most near

Of human might their hate they fling,

In futile, blind blood-boltering.

And so the day of unction ends;

Six bulls are dragged across the sand.

Ferocity and worship blends,

Religion and red thirst hold hands . . .

Dear Christ! 'Tis hard to understand!

~ Robert William Service ~

Les Grands Mutiles

Sir Stanley Spencer

Travoys Arriving with Wounded at a Dressing Station

Les Grands Mutiles

I saw three wounded of the war:

And the first had lost his eyes;

And the second went on wheels and had

No legs below the thighs;

And the face of the third was featureless,

And his mouth ran cornerwise.

So I made a rhyme about each one,

And this is how my fancies run.

~ Robert William Service ~

Regret

Vincent Van Gogh

Old Man in Sorrow

Regret

It's not for laws I've broken

That bitter tears I've wept,

But solemn vows I've spoken

And promises unkept;

It's not for sins committed

My heart is full of rue,

but gentle acts omitted,

Kind deeds I did not do.

I have outlived the blindness,

The selfishness of youth;

The canker of unkindness,

The cruelty of truth;

The searing hurt of rudeness . . .

By mercies great and small,

I've come to reckon goodness

The greatest gift of all.

Let us be helpful ever

to those who are in need,

And each new day endeavour

To do some gentle deed;

For faults beyond our grieving,

What kindliness atone;

On earth by love achieving

A Heaven of our own.

~ Robert William Service ~

Work And Joy

Edward Hopper

Soir Bleu

Work And Joy

Each day I live I thank the Lord

I do the work I love;

And in it find a rich reward,

All price and praise above.

For few may do the work they love,

The fond unique employ,

That fits them as a hand a glove,

And gives them joy.

Oh gentlefolk, do you and you

Who toil for daily hire,

Consider that the job you do

Is to your heart's desire?

Aye, though you are to it resigned,

And will no duty shirk,

Oh do you in your private mind

Adore your work?

Twice happy man whose job is joy,

Whose hand and heart combine,

In brave and excellent employ

As radiantly as mine!

But oh the weary, dreary day,

The wear and tear and irk

Of countless souls who cannot say:

'I love my work.'

~ Robert William Service ~

The Walkers

Henri Rousseau

Carnival Evening

The Walkers

(He speaks.)

Walking, walking, oh, the joy of walking!

Swinging down the tawny lanes with head held high;

Striding up the green hills, through the heather stalking,

Swishing through the woodlands where the brown leaves lie;

Marveling at all things -- windmills gaily turning,

Apples for the cider-press, ruby-hued and gold;

Tails of rabbits twinkling, scarlet berries burning,

Wedge of geese high-flying in the sky's clear cold,

Light in little windows, field and furrow darkling;

Home again returning, hungry as a hawk;

Whistling up the garden, ruddy-cheeked and sparkling,

Oh, but I am happy as I walk, walk, walk!

(She speaks.)

Walking, walking, oh, the curse of walking!

Slouching round the grim square, shuffling up the street,

Slinking down the by-way, all my graces hawking,

Offering my body to each man I meet.

Peering in the gin-shop where the lads are drinking,

Trying to look gay-like, crazy with the blues;

Halting in a doorway, shuddering and shrinking

(Oh, my draggled feather and my thin, wet shoes).

Here's a drunken drover: "Hullo, there, old dearie!"

No, he only curses, can't be got to talk. . . .

On and on till daylight, famished, wet and weary,

God in Heaven help me as I walk, walk, walk!

~ Robert William Service ~

The Farmer's Daughter

John Everett Millais

The Farmer’s Daughter

The Farmer's Daughter

The Rector met a little lass

Who led a heifer by a rope.

Said he: "Why don't you go to Mass?

Do you not want to please the Pope?"

The village maiden made reply,

As on the rope she ceased to pull:

"My father said this morning I

Must take Paquerette to see the bull."

The Rector frowned. ";Tis wrong, I wist

To leave your prayer-book on the shelf.

Your father has a stronger wrist;

Why can't he do the job himself?"

Then lovely in her innocence,

With gaze as pure as meadow pool,

The maid spoke in her sire's defense:

"But Daddy, please your Reverence,

Would rather leave it to the bull."

~ Robert William Service ~

Careers

Edward Hopper

New York Office

Careers

I knew three sisters,—all were sweet;
Wishful to wed was I,
And wondered which would mostly meet
The matrimonial tie.
I asked the first what fate would she
Wish joy of life to bring to her.
She answered: ‘I would like to be
A concert singer.’

I asked the second, for my mind
Was set on nuptial noosing,
Unto what lot was she inclined
If she could have the choosing?
Said she: ‘For woman I can see
No fortune finer,
Than to go in for Art and be
A dress designer.’

With heavy heart I asked the third
What was her life ambition;
A maiden she in look and word
Of modest disposition.
‘Alas, I dearly wish,’ said she,
‘My aims were deeper:
My highest hope it is to be
A good house-keeper.’

Which did I choose? Look at my home,—
The answer’s there;
As neat and sweet as honeycomb,
With children fair.
And so it humbly seems to me,
In common life,
A woman’s glory is to be
A good house-wife.

~ Robert Service ~

?

Edvard Munch

Red and White

?

If you had the choice of two women to wed,

(Though of course the idea is quite absurd)

And the first from her heels to her dainty head

Was charming in every sense of the word:

And yet in the past (I grieve to state),

She never had been exactly "straight".

And the second -- she was beyond all cavil,

A model of virtue, I must confess;

And yet, alas! she was dull as the devil,

And rather a dowd in the way of dress;

Though what she was lacking in wit and beauty,

She more than made up for in "sense of duty".

Now, suppose you must wed, and make no blunder,

And either would love you, and let you win her --

Which of the two would you choose, I wonder,

The stolid saint or the sparkling sinner?

~ Robert William Service ~