A poem about Art

Last Saturday the Lichtenbergian Society held its Annual Meeting, one of our two communal RITUALS, and it was good despite our missing some of our key members.

Part of the Agenda for the meeting is a discussion, the topic for which eluded me until shortly before the meeting.

First, a scene from Waiting for Godot:

—————

VLADIMIR: 
I'd like well to hear him think. 

ESTRAGON: 
Perhaps he could dance first and think afterwards, if it isn't too much to ask him. 

VLADIMIR: 
(to Pozzo). Would that be possible?

POZZO:
By all means, nothing simpler. It's the natural order.
He laughs briefly.

VLADIMIR:
Then let him dance.
Silence.

POZZO:
Do you hear, hog?

ESTRAGON:
He never refuses?

POZZO:
He refused once. (Silence.) Dance, misery!
Lucky puts down bag and basket, advances towards front, turns to Pozzo. Lucky dances. He stops.

ESTRAGON:
Is that all?

POZZO:
Encore!
Lucky executes the same movements, stops.

ESTRAGON:
Pooh! I'd do as well myself. (He imitates Lucky, almost falls.) With a little practice.

POZZO:
He used to dance the farandole, the fling, the brawl, the jig, the fandango and even the hornpipe. He capered. For joy. Now that's the best he can do. Do you know what he calls it?

ESTRAGON:
The Scapegoat's Agony.

VLADIMIR:
The Hard Stool.

POZZO:
The Net. He thinks he's entangled in a net.

VLADIMIR:
(squirming like an aesthete). There's something about it . . .

—————

The Topic for the meeting was therefore The Net Effect of Art: Safety or Trap?

Discussion was wide-ranging and not particularly on-topic, but as always it’s simply a pleasure to have communion with your SCENIUS, especially in these times.

A couple of days later, Daniel sent us this in email.

Net, after 12/18/21

We here are un[L]ucky in the net,
dancing but caught, clutching to catch, to tear.
Movements ours, but in the partner’s snare
—webbing always suggesting we submit
our steps to its squares. If we haven’t yet,
we’ll admire how the strands check us with care,
stopping movement here, starting it there—
through our thrashings made marionette.
Or are we still atop the pedestal,
calculating the leap into the swing.
It’s waiting below with the eyes and all.
Above, gears turn and sweaty palms grip rings,
knowing it is there lest we slip and fall
without our ten-thousand hours or wings.

— Daniel Conlan

I mean to say, are we an insanely talented bunch or what?

So how about you? Is your art safety or a trap?