Bricolage

<p class=ql-align-justify>To create order from chaos is what the poet achieves at his best. Defying the Third law of thermodynamics; who's to say that there's no science to poetry? Same muted arrogance of seeking truths absolutes although deconstruction tells us truth does not exist? Stimac states - in a kind of Wildean preface a one paragraph Manifesto-: that he views his role poetical as a mosaicist -. Is this the call of all good poetry? The claim is well stated by this poet. Name form vision: it's an absurd time that we live in. Any way to bring things closer helps... indeed only rendering all things with dear intimacy will sustain our compass. Mosaic collage; it's in the shimmer of collision & shift that beauty exists. Perhaps the mind of the poet is most suitable to the gathering & hunting the Bedouin Hungry seeking to find that perfect stone? Chaos is what we are. Language is part of the mess we are the part over which we have most control. As my friend Charles the anthropologist said art is communication. </p><p class=ql-align-justify><br></p><p class=ql-align-justify>-C Srygley-Moore <em>Termites Amidst the Milky Way</em> (Kung Fu Treachery Press 2022)</p><p class=ql-align-justify><br></p><p class=ql-align-justify>Richard Stimac's beautiful Bricolage gathers objects lost uncovered unearthed and remembered and reencountering these relics asks for what good? Why remember? Why revisit? Memory Stimac says demands we act. These poems are themselves acts in the vein of John Clare: observing praising and aching. Stimac has redeemed these lost wrecks bottle shards old dolls and distinctively American landscapes with formal acuity simultaneously precise and inventive. Bricolage is a delight. </p><p class=ql-align-justify><br></p><p class=ql-align-justify>-Stephen Frech <em>Into Night's Tent</em></p><p><br></p><p class=ql-align-justify><br></p><p class=ql-align-justify>Richard Stimac has woven together a collection of the tiniest treasures and moments of life- from a boy trying to make stone walk on water to yard sales where the bargains make their value known. These remembrances ring true for all of us. He asks us to reconcile an authentic life out of the shards of what has been left behind by the years. Stimac travels through the mysteries of a childhood faith weaving in a history of time and place--the pieces of life for which we have no choice but to eventually confront. </p><p class=ql-align-justify><br></p><p class=ql-align-justify>-Diane Vogel Ferri author of <em>Everything is Rising</em></p><p class=ql-align-justify><br></p><p class=ql-align-justify><em>Bricolage </em>reminds me of the different time and century we live and die in now of the desuetude and tragic damage everywhere. We live in it and it lives within us. It's a high technomass world that is totally unsupportable and is crumbling around us. What remains for us are the fragments of our past the sociopathic dream of a metastatic parking lot world upon which the real infrastructure our bio structure: the insects worms mice birds and other mammals and microbes are poisoned die and dry amidst junk cars stalled in huge parking structures or out somewhere in rows and stacks running off into the deepest topsoil in the world. Stimac has seen it all with an ophthalmologic eye and delicately transmutes this desolate and choking world into his work. His art is expressed so colorfully full of kairic moments of satori and inspiration. His poems come up for us like mushrooms or fungi after a rain between the cracks in the broken asphalt next to a tiny daisy and a closed empty factory. </p><p class=ql-align-justify><br></p><p class=ql-align-justify>-Steven H. Bridgens <em>The Hobo Bob Cantos </em>(OAC Press 2022)</p><p><br></p><p class=ql-align-justify><br></p>