thartic

Karl Kempton on Martin Koppany

Admin says:
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I get emails. Some of them are not even junk. Some of them are jewels, I mean really precious stones.
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The email I have included in this post upon receiving an OK from the originator is an agate.
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Not to deviate without letting you go along but allowing you the opportunity to play with why I relate an email to an agate, skip the next paragraph or come on along.
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ART IN NATURE SLIDESHOW

An ongoing theme will be art in nature and nature in art.

What artistic motif is not represented in nature?

We will be exploring fractals, numbers, self similarity, Goethe’s Phenomenology and Thoreau’s appreciation of it.

How timely then was the arrival of the slide show which I have of the slides and pics page.

Please enjoy.

The Beau Weaver Web Works folks will be contributing some game / learning material related to the slide show very shortly. Check back for that.

Look forward to articles on the subject described above.

Thanks.

Be Cool,
Thartic Circle

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Poetry and Me - Starting with Landis Everson

Poetry and Me
and the way I see
Do not let it be
more than that,
I say to me.

And you say to you. Unless you do not want to.

But when you do not want to, I suggest to you, you have not gone through the little village of poetry.

What I say to you is what escapes me.

This book is the tall tale of one madman’s maunder with the psychotic paraclete named poetry. Where we have gone together, what we have flung against the wall on the way to R. D. Laing’s “other side” is individual, undividual, dividends not withstanding.

I have so much to tell you, how poetry and I fell in love, fought over the silliest things, shrieked with eurekas on the word found, how it wound itself around itself and fortuitously fell into itself, its own structure, its own attempt to meet other words and paragraph itself into a long time love or a tryst, for a stanza or two, should it come to that, fall into a stupor of ability or inability to express the unknown until the unknown helplessly falls into the eternal triangle, perhaps managing to trample all ten commandments, raging, ranting “you cannot command a poet any more than you can command a poem.”

But let me begin at the beginning, which is now, and work my way forward into the past.

Now is the time to leave me for a moment to consider another poet for I am not alone. I am that I am. I am the pantheist product of every poet that ever broke through these walls as well as I am the scion of those who did not stand a chance.

I am the bastard son of Homer. I am the post-humus son of Wallace Stevens. I am Lorca’s left hand. My poetry is my own sword of Damocles, my own golden ring by which I may brachiate among the stars or tumble into the duff of my own jungle.

Landis Everson ever and forever landed on this son who did not know or care that he is award material. Who would memorialize and eulogize a poet had he not blown his brains out with a ward in hand?

To the man. To the poet. Of the moment.

Who would say, who could say,

“The hot sun of Spain
sweats the poem.”

without forsaking the strand of Catalan for Extremadura for a spell?

without leaving Lorca to his own bludgeoning.

He who said “they would not shoot a poet” forgot that they might just beat him to death.

The “authorities.” The “protect and to serve.” The makers of laureates. The manufacturers of award processes.

Poets are often ignorant. Never stupid. The poet IS the award process. The poet is an award giver. Awe shucks, render unto Awards the things that are Awards’s. Render unto poets the things that are poet’s.

“The poem is wary”

Be wary the poem.

Be prepared to leave town quickly should the sheriff get too close.

Mrs. Dalloway said “I will get the flowers myself.”

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Finally, a Thart

I just have to start with no thart. Just a thought. When I first thought about creating all the sites I could blog, all the blogs my personalities could muster, I thought of thartic. A year later Thartic finally gets a kick off edition, I mean a kick on edition.

It took this long for the Irish part of me to realize that all my Irish friends will may not visit this site because they have trouble saying words that begin with the letters ‘TH’ … Well, James Joyce for one. Ever notice how you are just cruising along through Finnegan’s Wake for the umpteenth time and suddenly you notice how Joyce hies away from words that begin with ‘th’. Not just Joyce but, let me think. I hear a voice that I heard through more than five years of more than five countries. Ah, yes, my friend from Cork. Michael McGrath. Michael had a brother named Michael. A great guy. They called him Mick. And both might say if they weren’t particularly concentrating like maybe while reading Joyce, Michael might say “What day is today? I tink it is Tursday.”

I do not have any idea why tinking or tursday of Mick or Michael should come to mind but now that it has tharted its way into this post I lift it up as an example of the kind of thoughtic artistry, unhackneyed though it might be, that this blog will be made of.

We might even tink, I mean think, about how an Irish writer who just bubbles babble like a book in a brook is surrounded by countryment who have trouble incorpusing the letter ‘h’ in ‘th’ words.

OK, I had a little fun reJoycing and we will probably take another look and listen to Joyce in some future edition when we tink about including a thousand page post but not that often and certainly not with the thigh thumping and sophisticated humor that the superlative semioticist, Umberto Eco, put into his thin, ethereal, yet mind thawing, howbeit theatrical, thicket like, thumping good thirty page tome, Talking of Joyce.

Mostly, though, we will be asking important questions of ourselves like why do we keep returning to Leonard Shlain’s book whose cover image keeps us tinking about Magritte mostly, that book named Art and Physics or why I get lost for days in Rosey Rosenthal’s fantasy figures.

I hope Thartic becomes an a locus for you to locust through our cyber pages of issues.

tink you,

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