Thomas R. Turner — Image by kenne
In Tom’s notes under,
“Nostalgia For Lost Illusions,”
he wrote:
Archive for the ‘Tom Turner’ Category
Nostalgia For Lost Illusions Leave a comment
“A person becomes a writer
On His Birthday, 84 Years Out 5 comments
Thomas R. Turner, May 23, 1942 – November 13, 2014 — Image by kenne
A Brother Lost
Now that it’s daylight at five,
I am awakened by the
Soft sounds of morning doves,
Delaying for a moment
My feet hitting the floor —
Just long enough
To think about my brother
Who no longer writes,
Calls or returns mine.
There’s no reason.
He has never needed
A reason to not call —
For him,
calls need a reason,
even made up ones —
Sharing a quote,
Name now forgotten,
Need to reach out.
Now lost in the northwest,
Imprisoned by his mind,
Lacking courage to create.
Now each day, I live with
Words no longer spoken,
Words no longer written.
— kenne
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Before The Eulogy — Ten Years Out 2 comments
Before Giving the Eulogy at Brother Tom’s Memorial (01/10/15)
A Brother Lost
Now that it’s daylight at five,
I am awakened by the
Soft sounds of morning doves,
Delaying for a moment
My feet hitting the floor —
Just long enough
To think about my brother
Who no longer writes,
Calls or returns mine.
There’s no reason.
He has never needed
A reason to not call —
For him,
calls need a reason,
even made-up ones —
Sharing a quote,
Name now forgotten,
He needs to reach out.
Now lost in the northwest,
Imprisoned by his mind,
Lacking courage to create.
Now, each day, I live with
Words no longer spoken,
Words no longer written.
— kenne
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Thomas R. Turner — Looking Back 2 comments
Thomas R. Turner at Home In The Seattle Area
“To use a few of Eliot’s words;
‘As we grow older, the world becomes stranger,
the pattern more complicated . . .’
Complications, ambiguities, nonsequiturs.
I keep searching for clarity . . . lucidity;
and I know each time I seek
that I’ll become more entangled.
No, I’m not bored — just scared.”
— Thomas R. Turner
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The Existential Man Would Have Been 81 Today 2 comments
Tom Turner in an Existential Moment — Image by kenne
“If thought corrupts language,
language can also corrupt thought.”
— George Orwell
He gazes through the
rained soaked window
into his confused mind.
Lonely in the moment
turning his head away
from my open hand.
He was not prepared
to be rejected and
broken up by life.
— kenne
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Ghost Of Yesteryears 2 comments
Ghost Of Yesteryears — Photo-Artistry by kenne
Ghosts of yesteryears
Follow me around each day
Soothing my being.
— kenne
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Nothingness 2 comments
Brother Tom at the Fish Market Window in Seattle — Photo-Artistry by kenne
Nothingness
Staring out the window
nothing comes into view,
fog drafts off the sound
It doesn’t matter
if nothing is seen,
gaze drafts afar
Even the usual seagulls
are overlooked,
even their calls
It is as if my senses
have ceased,
for the duration
Standing at the window
in my solitude,
fade into nothingness
Yet, still waiting
in my loneliness,
the vacuum to end.
— kenne
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No Words Can Describe 1 comment
We spent some brief moments with brother Tom during our trip to Seattle for Lisa’s and Mike’s wedding on Lummi Island (August 29, 2009).
It’s never been easy for anyone to figure out the Turner boys, let alone one to the other. In some ways,
however, if you know one of us, then you know the other. We are very much alike, but selectively taking some similarities to an extreme (by choice and personality), which appear different.
This video is about my brother; therefore, it’s about me.
“The cat’s in the well and grief is showing its face
The world’s being slaughtered and it’s such a bloody disgrace.”
— kenne
For Crying Out Loud (September 2009)
(The video can be enlarged by clicking on HD at the top right and the four arrows in the the lower right corner.)
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May 23, 1942 5 comments
Thomas R. Turner, May 23, 1942 – November 13, 2014 — Image by kenne
Standing above me in Smith’s
Awkwardly looking down through a clipped hesitancy
Our lives came together.
From within, mutually canceling
Vignettes of naturalness and gender-cliche.’
She kissed through closed lips of
Pristine openness.
Innocently I loved.
After my return from the war
I stepped into a world of Kafkaesque embraces; yearning . . .
Paled with particular sensations
I was momentarily blinded.
I could taste the t.s. eliot peach that I dared to eat.
Looking at you the way you love the first person
Whoever touched you
And never quite that way again
I savored my idea of you but missed the obvious.
Paradoxes betray the limits of logic
Not of the reality, we shared.
Your “passion” was stillborn through so dame necessary.
The aesthetics of my artifice went against the grain:
Recreation, utilitarian achievements, and another
sexuality
Were hidden karmas of your soul.
My recondite preoccupations rung up as
No sale.
But let’s
Skip the arguments.
I already know how the story ends:
A not so cryptic message –
Don’t be naive
You could only gaze into the distance at my life.
— from 24 to Harwood and Cropsey — No Road Back Home by Tom Turner
######
A Brother Lost
Now that it’s daylight at five,
I am awakened by the
Soft sounds of morning doves,
Delaying for a moment
My feet hitting the floor —
Just long enough
To think about my brother
Who no longer writes,
Calls or returns mine.
There’s no reason.
He has never needed
A reason to not call —
For him,
calls need a reason,
even made up ones —
Sharing a quote,
Name now forgotten,
Need to reach out.
Now lost in the northwest,
Imprisoned by his mind,
Lacking courage to create.
Now each day, I live with
Words no longer spoken,
Words no longer written.
— kenne
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My Introduction To Wallace Stevens 4 comments
Tom Turner (08/29/09) — Image by kenne
With so much of my knowledge of literature I was taught by my brother, Tom. In an April 26, 2003 note from him, he wrote:
“Hey . . . you
Metaphysical degenerates . . .
Bantered alone by impulse . . .
Here I am attempting to essay a few
coherent thoughts . . . God it’s risky!
‘God and the imagination are one.’
I am in the midst of trying to
memorize a poem . . . ‘Final Soliloquy
of The Interior Paramour’ by
Wallace Stevens . . . never mind why.”
Tom goes on to write about a piece by George Steiner
on memorization amid the technological revolution
where media is ubiquitous:
“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.”
He continued — “I can really be in awe of
Shakespearean stage people in recitation
of exact lines!! Read closely . . .”
Our wills and fates do so contrary run
that our devices still are overthrown:
our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own.
(The Player King’s Crucial Speech in the Play
Within the Play — Act 3, Scene 2, 183-209-Hamlet)
I probably don’t need to tell you that Tom
never memorized the Wallace poem.
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
