A Step Closer

 

A Step Closer

The difference in here
and there, a step closer to infinity
swallowing the clover and wild onion.

Not knowing, you shift purpose to intent.

Following the sun,
the flower sips light all day,
pausing only when I walk between.

 

 

My Poem “The Sky Withholds” is Live at Bright Sleep

My poem, “The Sky Withholds,” is live at Bright Sleep.

Chill (Cento)

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Chill (Cento) 

I shiver a little, with the evening,
and you print a shadow like a thin twig.

Wait for my death, then hear me again.
He believes a pomegranate is a thesaurus,

the thundercloud, tomorrow’s puddle. Is
this hunger unlike that of others?

When a drowning man calls out,
his voice follows him downstream.

Why am I grown so cold?

 

A cento is composed of lines borrowed from other poets. “Chill” owes its existence to: James Wright, H.D., Ingeborg Bachmann, Eduardo C. Corral, Blaga Dimitrova, Forrest Gander, Yusuf Komunyakaa, and Adelaide Crapsey.

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“Chill” first appeared on the blog in March, 2016, and was subsequently published in Long Exposure in October 2016.

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″

 

 

 

My Poem “Scarecrow Sings the High Lonesome” Has Been Published in Crannóg 45

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My poem, “Scarecrow Sings the High Lonesome,” has been published in the summer issue of  the Irish journal, Crannóg, available in printed form only. Alas, I was unable to attend the June 30 launch at the Crane Bar in Galway. Maybe next time!

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The Fog (after H.D.)

Man in fog

 The Fog (after H.D.)

I am dead.
You avoid me.
I open like a shell.
You expose me with your breath.
What am I, heartless one?

This was an exercise in which I used H.D.’s poem “The Pool” as the launching point. It’s fun and occasionally illuminating to try these. “The Fog” first appeared on the blog in April 2016.

shell

 

 

 

And to Sleep

And to Sleep

and what we
sense if not
of our selves

or within this
space we contain
may be of

no thing touched
by one’s fluttering
eye as if

awake we see
even less the
dreams of course

real though we
hold them only
in our sleep

Another poem from the 80s. “And to Sleep” first appeared here in February 2015.

Bonsai

Bild

Bonsai

no feature enhanced
but beauty of
the whole and

its container the
tree is not
deprived and grows

as it must
though slowly like
a wave which

gathers itself for
years there is
no completion only

process a lapse
which presumes the
most delicate design

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Originally published in Aileron in 1988, “Bonsai” appeared on the blog in December 2014.

 

Recording of “The Resonance of No”

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“The Resonance of No,” was published in December 2016 in Gravel, and is included in my forthcoming chapbook, From Every Moment a Second, available for prepublication order at Finishing Line Press.

Music Credit: Cool Vibes Kevin MacLeod (incompetech.com)
Licensed under Creative Commons: By Attribution 3.0 License
http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/

Untitled from the 80s

Another untitled poem from the 80s…

wood and water
the wave of
fragrance so perfect

we seek to
obtain it as
if we could

be windows open
to a light
the gentlest cloud

would obscure still
spreading like one’s
final exhalation which

travels only to
disperse and become
at last another’s