Archive for the ‘Photo-Artistry’ Category

Cabin In The Northwest   Leave a comment

House In The Meadow-7651-art-72.jpgCabin In The Northwest — Photo-Artistry by kenne

In profound silence
Abanded in the meadow
Not without certain.

— kenne

Posted November 21, 2019 by kenneturner in Information, Photo-Artistry, Poetry

Tagged with , ,

Dark Clouds Over Tanuri Ridge   2 comments

Dark Clouds-art-72.jpgDark Clouds Over Tanuri Ridge– Photo-Artistry by kenne

Signs of fall gone

No more drives up the mountain

as the days become shorter

Evening sunsets now darker

as the rays reflect over the clouds —

winter hides behind the clouds 

— kenne

 

 

Beware   2 comments

Raven-0470-art-2-72.jpgRaven — Photo-Artistry by kenne

. . . beware those who seek constant crowds for
they are nothing alone
beware the average man the average woman
beware their love, their love is average
seeks average

but there is genius in their hatred
there is enough genius in their hatred to kill you
to kill anybody
not wanting solitude
not understanding solitude
they will attempt to destroy anything
that differs from their own
not being able to create art
they will not understand art
they will consider their failure as creators
only as a failure of the world
not being able to love fully
they will believe your love incomplete
and then they will hate you
and their hatred will be perfect . . .

— from The Genious of the Crowd by Charles Bukowski

Lost Universe   Leave a comment

Turkey Creek TrailLost Universe — Abstract Art by kenne

“Our wills and fates do so contrary run/That our devices are overthrown:/
Our thoughts our ours, their ends none of our own.”

–William Shakespeare

Live Jazz In The Old Pueblo   Leave a comment

Old Pueblo  9724 - 2010-08-01-art-72.jpgLive Jazz In The Old Pueblo — Photo-Artistry by kenne

The Weary Blues

— Langston Hughes

Droning a drowsy syncopated tune,
Rocking back and forth to a mellow croon,
     I heard a Negro play.
Down on Lenox Avenue the other night
By the pale dull pallor of an old gas light
     He did a lazy sway . . .
     He did a lazy sway . . .
To the tune o’ those Weary Blues.
With his ebony hands on each ivory key
He made that poor piano moan with melody.
     O Blues!
Swaying to and fro on his rickety stool
He played that sad raggy tune like a musical fool.
     Sweet Blues!
Coming from a black man’s soul.
     O Blues!
In a deep song voice with a melancholy tone
I heard that Negro sing, that old piano moan—
     “Ain’t got nobody in all this world,
       Ain’t got nobody but ma self.
       I’s gwine to quit ma frownin’
       And put ma troubles on the shelf.”

Thump, thump, thump, went his foot on the floor.
He played a few chords then he sang some more—
     “I got the Weary Blues
       And I can’t be satisfied.
       Got the Weary Blues
       And can’t be satisfied—
       I ain’t happy no mo’
       And I wish that I had died.”
And far into the night he crooned that tune.
The stars went out and so did the moon.
The singer stopped playing and went to bed
While the Weary Blues echoed through his head.
He slept like a rock or a man that’s dead.

 

The Blast of The Self   1 comment

Aspen Draw Fall Colors 2013-8364 blog IIAn Aspen Fall — Photo-Artistry by kenne

In a letter dated 4/26/03, by brother Tom wrote:

“I am in the midst of ‘trying’ to memorize a poem . . .
‘Final Soliloquy of the Interior Paramour’ by Wallace Stevens . . .
never mind why . . .
although the exercise was triggered by a piece by
George Steiner in which he wrote:

‘The danger is that the text or music will lose what physics
calls its ‘critical mass,’ its implosive powers within
the echo chambers of the self.'”

Tom was aware that what is committed to memory
and susceptible to recall constitutes  “The Blast of  The Self,”
an intensity of outward attention — interest, curiosity,
a healthy obsession was a motivation stronger
even than love or hatred or fear.

— kenne

Final Soliloquy of the Interior Paramour

Light the first light of evening, as in a room 

In which we rest and, for small reason, think
The world imagined is the ultimate good.

This is, therefore, the intensest rendezvous.
It is in that thought that we collect ourselves,
Out of all the indifferences, into one thing:

Within a single thing, a single shawl
Wrapped tightly round us, since we are poor, a warmth,
A light, a power, the miraculous influence.

Here, now, we forget each other and ourselves.
We feel the obscurity of an order, a whole,
A knowledge, that which arranged the rendezvous.

Within its vital boundary, in the mind.
We say God and the imagination are one…
How high that highest candle lights the dark.

Out of this same light, out of the central mind,
We make a dwelling in the evening air,
In which being there together is enough.

— Wallace Stevens

24 to Harwood and Cropsy: No Road Back Home #6   3 comments

Lummi & MCLACThomas R. Turner (May 23, 1942–November 13, 2014) — Photo-Artistry by kenne

This posting is the sixth, and last, I will be sharing from a long poem written by Tom
sometime around 1980 after his wife left him. Today is the fifth anniversary of his death.

24 to Harwood and Cropsy: No Road Back Home
(Taken from a Brooklyn Bus Route and the Title of a Blues Album.)

The nuances between us were scattered with the 
January snows of Peter's arrival.
Ambiguities, second starts and brokendreams were too
Tangled up in Blue to
Cut to the exact place on the page where our rhythm had 
Broken.
I'm not that young any more.

"Get off your stagnant ass and do something."
The scenario years later would speak.
The Pacific Northwest and a three quarter profile statement
Echoing out Denny's window
Why I never got a job during all those summers.

Only the facts she put to me.
I couldn't keep in step with the definitions you
Dreamed.
 We speculated endlessly in different directions
Whether our togethrness might might imaginable be framed
From inside so that the usual connection between lover 
And lover and loved and loved would be interchangeable but
Paradoxically unchanging.

                     (For my benefit, I suppose)

Was the fiction of my eroticism so damn necessary?

Somewhere I glimpsed you
Coming at me; balancing cryptic hats . . .
Laughing comic confusion.

Now I never see you anymore.
The summers are much colder tha used to be
In that other time, when you and I were young.

I miss the human truth of your smile;
The half-hearted gaze of your voice and all the things
That you'll always be to me.
Only thee is no comic relief
Just a 
Curious translation of cracked nostalgia.

But lets 
Skip the arguments.
I already know how the story ends:
A-not-so-crytic-message:
Don't be naive
You could only gaze into the distance at my life.

	
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