Ode to Bacon

Ode to Bacon

How you lend
yourself
to others,

enhancing even
the sweetest fig
in your embrace
over coals,

or consider
your rendered
self, how it

deepens flavor
with piggish
essence, coating

or absorbed,
blended or
sopped. O belly
of delight, o wonder
of tongues,

how could I not
love you
and your infinite
charms, even

when you resist
my efforts and
shoot sizzling bits

of yourself
onto my naked
hands? I pay

this toll
gladly,
today and

next year
and all those
days to follow,

till the last piece
is swallowed
and our sun
goes dark.

Hyperbole
becomes you,
smoked beauty,
salted love,

and I shall never
put you down
or leave you
behind

on a plate
to be discarded
or forgotten,

unloved.

With thanks to T.S. Wright, for her challenge.

 

Sunday Compulsion: Ron Throop (Why I Paint)

Welcome to “Sunday Compulsion,” in which creatives answer one question: Why do I create? Here’s artist Ron Throop:

I began an expressionist career as an autobiographical writer, revering the American masters Henry Thoreau, Walt Whitman, and Henry Miller. The latter would paint whenever the writing blocked his freedom. I too found this to be very helpful. When I write, I am tight. When I paint, I am light. Painting is never frustrating. However, writing is a lot like bricklaying. It is linear, and sure, there is a place for that in my psyche, but it must make room for physical play and surprise. I can express so much more in a painting, especially one with a pertinent title. Kenneth Patchen did this with what he called “picture poems”. He is worth looking up to get more of an idea about what moves me. For pay I worked many jobs in the restaurant business as a cook and chef. I also tutored at home both of my daughters until their teenage years, and then enrolled them in school.  My children came first, always, so my lust for expression (which is terribly strong), often sat on the back burner until it boiled over. In my early 30’s I began to nurture it into a regular regimen. Found a feel and haven’t looked back. No more line cooking for me. I am too old for hollandaise. 

 

 

 

“KI + 2S -> KISS” 2014. Acrylic on canvas, 30 x 24″

I believe that words and images are easily connected. Text, like anything in a painting, can be used to promote the painter’s propaganda. Craft and ability have their place, to be sure. But please make me think. I do not want art that cannot make me think! I have a television for that. 

 

 

“James Mott, Via PTSD, Mutilates Young Henry’s Politics” 2014.
Acrylic on canvas, 30 x 24”

 

 

I like titles. It gives me, the painter, the last word. You want to see something else and not be told what I am thinking? Go make it yourself. 

“Nothing But a Stranger in This World” 2017. Acrylic on paper, 11 x 15”

The process of painting can bring temporary untethered freedom, the future promise of practice, growth, self expression, liberation, eternity in an afternoon, trancing, the joy of man’s desiring, judgment, forgiveness, laughter, and a very content and satisfied melancholy.

* * *

Ron Throop (b. 1967)

I am a determined man. Unlike Henry Miller who arrived in Paris at the age of forty suspecting that he was an artist but needing six months of stimulation-by-poverty to prove it, I have known all my life that I am another one in a long line, both ignored and distinguished, to have the (mis)fortune of that mysterious element “X” inside me. I am forty-nine years old, a dutiful husband and father, and dedicated practitioner of acrylic painting and self-liberation writing.

I live in a cedar shake cottage along the shore of Lake Ontario. 

All days I wake up with a charged exuberance and hope that begins to wane with the rising sun. By mid-afternoon I accept failure as a routine chore of this modern day art business. This is good. It keeps me upright through supper and doing the dishes. At dusk, after a long day of wonder and work in the studio, I take dreamy walks with my wife down to the lake. I am so lucky to have life and love even if career success is a crapshoot each year I come closer to the big sleep. Oh well. I paint. I write. There is always posterity to think about. Then night and gentle sleep and another day of sublime torture.

I have hundreds of paintings like these for sale, all very affordable. This year, believe it or not, I have become an internationally known painter. I have shown work in Moscow and St. Petersburg Russia and Liverpool England. I am a practitioner of the modern movement called Stuckism (look it up please), and its founder Charles Thomson has recently written that I am a key figure here in the U.S. My paintings are colorful, lively, of the moment, and affordable. I could even make them more affordable if you like me.

I cannot get enough of paint. I am the art crazy old man at late mid-life.

To learn more about Ron and his art, visit these sites:

Ron Throop Art

Ron’s blog

Round Trip Stuckism

Stuckism Invitational at Watkins Glen

 

 

“Always Six Seasons at the Table for the Magnanimous Narcissist” 2017. Acrylic on cardboard panes in old wood window, 34 x 36″

 

 

 

Two Cranes on a Snowy Pine

snow

Two Cranes on a Snowy Pine (after Hokusai)

Who knows where bird
begins and tree

ends,

which branch shifts
snow, which bears

eternity. This, too, will share

joy,
elusive green

and breath,
with no thought

of flight

and night’s
fall.

This first appeared in Panoply in summer, 2016, and was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Many thanks to editors Ryn Holmes, Jeff Santosuosso and Andrea Walker for this honor, my first such nomination.

It also appears in my forthcoming chapbook, From Every Moment a Second.

See the woodblock print that sparked this poem: Hokusai

crane

(Hotel Eden) In Full Light We Are Not Even a Shadow

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(Hotel Eden) In Full Light We Are Not Even a Shadow

Which is to say clarity persists in
increments, in the silent space between
color and lens, within parables seen
in the incomplete: straw, hand. Imagine

white valued more than manner as hidden
thought remains obscured. Lower your eyes, lean
forward. Perspectives tilt towards the mean,
suggesting purpose. When we examine

intent, do we find it? The irony
of bottled cork, of sullied paradise,
a coiled wire, the parrot whose voice,

unheard, implicates us. What felony
must we commit to admit the device
in play? Pull or release? The mimic’s choice.

Notes: “In full light we are not even a shadow” is a line from Antonio Porchia’s Voices.

Hotel Eden is the title of a piece of art by Joseph Cornell. An image may be found here:
http://www.wikiart.org/en/joseph-cornell/untitled-the-hotel-eden-1945

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This made its first appearance here in March 2015.

Thunderstorm Below the Mountain

image

Thunderstorm Below the Mountain
(after Hokusai)

Lacking humility, I take without thinking.
How far we’ve come, to look below for
lightning, the valleys shaken
with thunder, answers

like pebbles flung outward,
each to its own arc, separate
yet of one source, shaded into the question.

Is it for the scarcity of reach,
the reverse view through the bamboo rings
well out of sight, that

breath in the wave’s tuck or
smoke mingling with the clouds
and figures collecting salt,

that I edge myself closer, again,
to this place? To be nothing
presumes presence in absence.
Lacking humility, I accept without thinking.

image

“Thunderstorm Below the Mountain” first appeared here in March 2016.

Morning Covers You

eye camera

Morning Covers You

1

We extract
light, bleeding
it out one

diamond-shaped
hole after
another.

Finger the results.
Remediation
in form

or placement
to best
advantage?

At night
loneliness cradles
our bones.

2

You arrange our bodies to greater effect,
presuming lesser horrors
to be less.

A list emerges.
Refuting one,
accepting another.

Choices fixed.
Ecstasies of failure
purged.

Morning covers you
like a blue
shroud, so pale.

So cold
and bitter.

This originally appeared in Boston Poetry Magazine in April, 2014, and on this blog in October 2015.

diamond fence

Still Life with Silence

 

stump 


Still Life with Silence

Not two, but one,
invisible

and stretched between
stump and fence,

filled with
time, defining

implication. Empty
the pitcher. Accept

its limitations.
Listen to what is not.

pitcher

 

My Poem “Two Cranes on a Snowy Pine” has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize

snow

The editors of Panoply have nominated my poem, “Two Cranes on a Snowy Pine,” for a Pushcart Prize. Many thanks to editors Ryn Holmes, Jeff Santosuosso and Andrea Walker for this honor, the first such nomination I’ve ever received.

Their full list of nominees can be found here.

See the woodblock print that sparked this poem: Hokusai

crane

“Two Cranes on a Snowy Pine” named Panoply Magazine’s First Editor’s Choice for Issue 3

footprints

I’m delighted to report that the editors of Panoply Magazine have designated my poem “Two Cranes on a Snowy Pine” as their first Editor’s Choice for Issue 3.

A video of me reading “Two Cranes on a Snowy Pine” has been posted on Panoply Magazine’s Facebook site.

New Poem in Panoply, A Literary Zine

snow

My poem “Two Cranes on a Snowy Pine” has been published in Issue 3 of Panoply, A Literary Zine, aka Panoplyzine. Many thanks to editors Jeff Santosuosso, Katheryn Holmes and Andrea Walker.

See the woodblock print that sparked this poem: Hokusai

crane