Charles Thysell had been Agincourt’s semi-unofficial poet laureate for several years, though he didn’t know it. Now it’s too late to tell him. He left us yesterday afternoon, Monday, April 6th, 2020, at about 4:30 in the afternoon CST.
The closest thing to a bio we could find is something from the Angela King Gallery in New Orleans, though it was at the Rourke in Moorhead that most of us got to know him. A local boy, born in the west-central Minnesota town of Hawley, you knew he was destined for something big. Yes, you can take the boy out of the country but in this case trying to effect the opposite was doomed from the git-go.
In the next few weeks, I’ll try to post some of Charlie’s short poems for you edification—they have that kind of power. Without seeking permission, here is a sample:
“Art, and every myth we’ve made on earth
– about nature, gods, ourselves, each other –
is an expression of our freedom of form, personified.
It wasn’t taught or brought to us.
It was born here. This is what it resembles.
And this, in the end, is what makes it – and us
so very interesting.” — Charles Thysell