This Old Porch — Image by kenne
House in a Field of Lonely Dreams
Many lives,
shared this roof.
Many hands
worked the land.
Now forgotten
tired and worn
windows broken
doors unfastened
through which
no one enters
from the windswept
field of lonely dreams.
— kenne
Chris Duarte — Image by kenne
A Song of Silence
Music is
what enables you
in your work,
soothes you
when you rest
reminds you
of images past
of dreams yet fulfilled.
It is not the words,
nor the beat,
nor the instruments,
nor the relationships.
It is the rhythm
of the moments,
composed by the
silence in between.
— kenne
Images by kenne
It has been over three years since Carmen Tafolla did a reading at the Lone Star College – Montgomery, Writers In Performance Series. To see Carmen do a reading is to witness more than a poetry reading; it is to witness a performance. Carman’s poems reflect her Chicano identity through her ancestors, and often in her readings she portrays the strong, self-empowered women who are a common theme in her works.
La Miss Low didn’t talk much
tried to raise her chin like a noble figure,
to let her Silence
(Guardian of the Princess)
speak for her,
speak complex, sensitive things,
to hold her face expressionless,
revealing the nobility of her soul.
To model a high example
for these
uncultured children.
From the poem, La Miss Low
In Carmen Tafolla’ poetry, I listen and hear the voices of the common people, the wisdom of their experience revealed in their views.
“This hand?’
This hand?
It was an accident.
You do not understand –
Poquito aquí, poquito allá –
that’s how Dios meant it, yes, to be.
It doesn’t bother me too much.
In fact, it gives me less to work about.
Less people who will trust their broken chairs to me.
Yet I can still these roses plant,
Like that one, standing by your feet –
‘Las Siete Hermanas,’ for they always bloom together,
like sweet sisters – seven in each bunch.
And I can still make chocolate, stirring strong,
The fingers do not slow me down –
These two, cut off, nor this one, sews back on.
From the poem Poquito allá
Now that we live in Tucson, I am experiencing her poetry in let another perspective – so inspirational, so real!
kenne
Poem selections from: Sonnets and Salsa
Sunrise On A Chilly Morning — image by kenne
life
foothills sunrise
backpack walker
cyclist passes
different pace
similar existence
My desire is to say in ten words what other’s say in a book!
kenne
Annie Guthrie/University of Arizona Poetry Center
This past Sunday, former U.S. Poet Laureate Billy Collins was in Tucson for a University of Arizona Poetry Center event.
Having Collins here is draw enough, but the event drew national attention on NPR because of a precocious
three year old’s (Samuel Chelpka) YouTube video reading the Collin’s poem, “Litany.”
Samuel’s video reciting the Collin’s poem by heart has more than 320,000 hits, a lot more than the more than 93,000 hits Collins has received reading “Litany.”
kenne
Image by kenne
Birds Circle
People want to know,
Why Tucson?
With so many roots tied
to the star,
deep and connected,
why turn a back
To comfort?
To convince?
To culture?
Reasons abound
answers diverse,
yet similar.
Some old,
some recently learned.
More often than not
my answer is earthy,
yet ethereal.
Of another world,
yet of one world.
Answers giving birth
as hawks circle
riding the currents
above the foothills
gawking the ground
providing a Gary Snyder image
clear of mind
having no meaning, “but that
which sees is truly seen.”
— kenne
One of my favorite poets, Gary Snyder will be reading at the University of Arizona Poetry Center, October 7th. Lawrence Ferlinghetti has called Snyder, “the Thoreau of the Beat Generation.” He is a political, cultural, and environmental activist with superb writing skills, which allow him to effectively connect with the reader and listener in a very basic way. Here’s an example:
The shack and a few trees
float in the blowing fog
I pull out your blouse,
warm my cold hands
on your breasts.
you laugh and shudder
peeling garlic by the
hot iron stove.
bring in the axe, the rake,
the wood
we’ll lean on the wall
against each other
stew simmering on the fire
as it grows dark
drinking wine.
— Gary Snyder
As I often do at each Writers In Performance Series reading, I purchase one of the writer’s books of poetry. It was not different May 4, 1998 when Beth Ann Fennelly was our guest writer. It was an evening I remember well, not because she was a young attractive women, which could serve to bias one’s impression, but because I loved her poetry and her spoken-word skills.
After the reading, I ask her to sign her book of poetry, A Different Kind of Hunger, in which she was kind enough to write:
For Kenne,
Thanks for your presence here tonight.
The world needs more poetry-loving,
coffee brewing deans.
I hope you enjoy these
poems and share this hunger.
Indeed I have. My biggest regret is that I will not be there to brew the coffee when Beth Ann returns to the Writers In Performance Series this Thursday evening (7:00 p.m. September 16, 2010 at Lone Star College – Montgomery).
After her reading in 1998, Beth Ann went on to receive many awards for her writing and is now a professor at the University of Mississippi.
For this Capturing the Word posting, I have selected “Poem Not to Be Read at Your Wedding,” from A Different King of Hunger
Poem Not To Be Read at Your Wedding
You ask me for a poem about love
in lieu of a wedding present, trying to save me
money. For three nights I’ve lain under
glow-in-the-dark stars I’ve stuck to the ceiling
over my bed. I’ve listened to the songs
of the galaxy. Well Carmen, I would rather
give you your third set of steak knives
than tell you what I know. Let me find you
some other store-bought present. Don’t
make me warn you of stars, how they see us
from that distance as miniature and breakable
from the bride who tops the wedding cake
to the Mary on Pinto dashboards
holding her ripe red heart in her hands.
kenne
Beth Ann Fennelly photo source – Google Images
Dave Parsons, W. D. Snodgrass, Kenne Turner, 1999
One of my favorite Writers in Performance (WIP) appearances was that of the 1999 W. D. Snodgrass, Pulitzer Prize winner and a major influence on American poetry in the 20th century. In February of last year, after Snodgrass’s death, I wrote on the Writers in Performance blog:
Conversations
from the past
lost
in the images
of memories
amassed
only to return
on the backs
of death
resurrected
by poets
serving only
to introduce
images
of what was
like water
returning
from a fountain’s
reservoir
only
to be reborn
again
and again
and again
This blog series, “Capturing the Word” is like the fountain’s reservoir, providing an opportunity to revisit again the WIP presenters.
Today being the 1st of September, nearing the autumn of the year, I share the following from the poem “Autumn Variation,” in Each In His Season.
iii
In spray-paint, psychedelic, gaudy,
Fall scrawls its name – a blunt and bawdy
Challenge to the complacent wood.
We say: there goes the neighborhood;
It is not and it cannot come to good.
Soon, flustered leaves will sag like torn
Wallpaper; solid dark walls, worn
Through here and there, exposed a bitter
Sky while, on the bare ground, litter
And stub ends pile up everywhere.
Not even one green plant would dare
Poke its nose out in the crude air
Of catch-as-catch-can thievery, lust,
Cut-throat protection and sick trust.
Where year by year we walked together
Determined paths, a wilder atmosphere
Wheels in, flaunting its chains, blades and black leather.
kenne
Catalina Foothills, Tucson, Arizona — image by kenne
During this summer’s rainy season, many storms have provided much needed rain to southern Arizona. However, when it comes to rain fall, not all areas are treated equally. We had received little rain till the other evening, so when the rain began, it was a time to rejoice. So much is special about the desert, I wrote a poem and produced a video. You can read the poem below and/or in the video.
Desert’s Rainy Season
Desert’s rainy season is
A product of summer highs
Mixed with atmosphere lows
Bringing a refreshing brief break
To her blue-skied summer heat
Desert’s wide-open spaces
Provide panoramic views
Showcasing threatening clouds
Only to often breakup
Before reaching your sky
Welcoming rains come
Only at Desert’s well
Playing havoc with forecasters
Never seeming to learn
She does not keep time
Wind shaking the trees,
Olive, palo verde and mesquite
Shadowed by rains wetness
Shining with each lightening flash
While drinking of life’s fountain
Olives falling from twisted branches
Rolled by wind over wet flagstone
Pounding rain leaving behind puddles
As rainwater exits through openings
In old pueblo walls
Wind chimes dance wildly
Ringing out in nervous joy
Desert’s unlocked sounds
Composing a melodic refrain
Proclaiming Desert’s delight
kenne
“Talking Tree” — Image by kenne
Talking Tree
“Hey you,” said a hollow raspy old voice.
Looking around, there was no one near me.
Concluding the voice came from people
on nearby boulders, I kept on walking.
“I know you heard me, don’t you see me?”
The voice was the same, this time more stern.
Still, there was no one behind me,
only the remains of an old tree.
Perhaps the voice came from behind the tree.
I began moving toward the tree, when,
suddenly one of the tree limbs began to move.
This can’t be, the tree was waving to me.
Was the sun starting to get to me?
“Don’t be afraid, come a little closer.
My voice was damaged from all the smoke.
Yes, the voice you hear is me,” said the tree.
This cannot be a talking tree, I thought.
Yet, there’s no one else around.
Still a non-believer, I nervously whispered,
“You cannot be a talking tree!”
“When I was green, I lived with other trees,
sharing views of ten mountain ranges,
dancing with the wind at Windy Point
where the desert turns into a lush forest.”
“Daily I would talk to stone images
carved over time by the wind,
creating impressionable stone statues
guarded by the Rock spire at Windy Point.”
“Over time lightening strikes have spark fires,
destroying forests, scarring the mountainsides,
leaving stumps and distorted trees
to cultivate a new life in the Catalina Mountains.”
“You should always listen,” said the tree.
“Listen to the trees and stone images, for they
hold the secrets to this mountain jewel overlooking
the Old Pueblo in the desert below.”
kenne
Images by kenne
Wendy seems like a close friend. We have met only on special occasions. Birthday parties, Emily Dickinson birthday parties. So often over the years, Wendy is my picture of Emily. Why not? I have photos of Wendy on those special occasions when we shared our appreciation and love for Emily Dickinson’s poetry. As much as I may love poetry, it is the spoken word that really touches me. Only then can I see the poets mannerisms, hear the voice annunciation and feel the emotions of the moment. Wendy came to fill the void through which Emily and I have become friends. Wendy has added color to sepia, she is my muse.
So, it’s no wonder that when Wendy was schedule to read her own poetry at a Writers In Performance Series last December, I could help but feel that Emily Dickinson was coming to read Wendy Barker. Think about it. How wonderful! My muse meets the goddess.
At the December series, Wendy read from her recent novel in prose poems, Nothing Between Us. For this “Capturing the Word” posting, I have chosen to share Wendy’s prose poem, “Sunday Morning, Go for A Drive:”
Up the coast. Or down. Bring the binoculars. Get out of town. Breathe.
Always hungry before we got where we were going. Stinson Beach,
Bolinas, Point Reyes. Greg would want a big meal—two cheeseburgers,
double order of fries, a full pitcher of Bud. I’d want a tuna sandwich,
banana, orange juice. No matter how I’d try to focus the binos,
no matter what rock I scrambled up on, I could never spot the bird I
wanted to see up close. Feathers confused among breaches and twigs.
The wind off the water roughing my hair. And Greg’s voice, breath
smelling of tannic acid, saying hurry it up, time to go.
kenne
Thirty Years Out — Image by kenne
(This posting first appeared earlier this year near my birthday. It is interesting to read after all the life changes resulting from our decision to move to Tucson. “. . . Felling the itch, Pacing the cage.”)
Turned around,
Here am I.
Knowing how,
Not the why.
Young in heart
Old in age.
Feeling the itch,
Pacing the cage.
Inner peace,
Knowing the thou.
Learning to write
Thesis of now.
Turned around,
Found love.
Living the moment,
Free as a dove.
Still learning,
When to talk.
Listening for,
Beat of the walk.
Reality is now,
Truth in the heart.
Singing the knowledge,
Requiem to smart.
Turned around,
Found beauty in art.
Traveling the future,
With Dylan and Descartes.
kenne
“Night Tease” — Image by kenne
Night Tease
The big dipper in the sky above,
lightening on the mountains backside.
There is silence on the ridge,
as lights dim and glow.
No light next door,
yet it feels like home to me.
Slowly, the lightening draws nearer,
chasing away the big dipper.
The breeze chiming breaks the silence,
as lights in the valley flicker.
No light next door,
yet it feels like home to me.
Scattered raindrops begin
penetrating the dry air.
Silence returns,
only to be chimed away.
No light next door,
yet it feels like home to me.
The night calmness struggles
to hold the moment,
as the night air
becomes filled with pressure.
No light next door,
yet it feels like home to me.
Will this be another tease
in the desert night?
The air becomes thicker,
with the passing of time.
No light next door,
yet it feels like home to me.
The valley lights glow
off the blanketed ski.
Yet, I will not wait
for the passing storms.
No light next door,
yet it feels like home to me.
Morning comes early in the desert,
with its alluring fresh air.
The only evidence of passing rain
still lies on the patio table.
No light next door,
yet it feels like home to me.
kenne
Presenters Reading Poetry from Holly Hughe’s Beyond Forgetting (Holly is on the left) — Images by kenne
