I am the last to criticize a fellow
Traveler up this dangerous slope of art;
Last to call for censorship, to burn a book
But sometimes when I wend through the renderings
Of the modern art museum I feel as gypped
As the emperor in his new birthday suit.
I stand dumbfounded at a six-foot canvas
Totally awash in thick black tempera.
Except for three tan splotches at the bottom,
Which for all intent and purpose appears that
The artist set the painting down wet upon
A piece of butcher paper that left a stain.
The little information plate along side
Says the painting’s moniker is “Untitled”.
I think, Well, the artist did not know what the
Hell it was either, but then the Plate explains
The artist’s enchantment with the bull ring and
Black is the power of the bulls on the sand.
A modern poem:
Do you sense the power of the fighting bulls?
Do you not see them snorting as they saunter
Into the ring to face the matador’s sword?
Do you feel the hoof scratch at the arena
Sand as the bull sets its feet for final charge?
My poem is not untitled. I call it BULL!