Red Sky at Sunset –“Rage, Rage Against the Dying of the Light.” — Photo-Artistry by kenne
Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height, Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
“I hold a beast, an angel, and a madman in me, and my enquiry is as to their working, and my problem is their subjugation and victory, down throw and upheaval, and my effort is their self-expression.”
Duck Standing On Water In October — Image by kenne
My birthday began with the water-
Birds and the birds of the winged trees flying my name
Above the farms and the white horses
And I rose
In a rainy autumn
And walked abroad in shower of all my days
High tide and the heron dived when I took the road
Over the border
And the gates
Of the town closed as the town awoke.
A springful of larks in a rolling
Cloud and the roadside bushes brimming with whistling
Blackbirds and the sun of October
Summery
On the hill's shoulder,
Here were fond climates and sweet singers suddenly
Come in the morning where I wandered and listened
To the rain wringing
Wind blow cold
In the wood faraway under me.
-- from Poem In October by Dylan Thomas
Tom and Kenne Turner (Tom would have been 77 today.)
POEM ON HIS BIRTHDAY
We are hairy men who may be thought of a “Twits,” but I dare say, are not. Why might you ask? If you look closely, you will not see tasty morsels in our beards, while Twits upon close review will have tiny little specks of dried-up scrambled eggs.
So says Roald Dahl, and he should know of all the disgusting things found in the beard of a twit, but no need to hold your noses.
So, what is it these hairy men are trying to hide? Is it an ugly face, you ask? No, not really, for we are two guys possessing good thoughts, which shone out of our faces like sunbeams, so we will always look lovely.
Again, Roald Dahl should know: ‘If a person has ugly thoughts, it begins to show on the face. And when that person has ugly thoughts every day, every week, every year, the face gets uglier and uglier until it gets so ugly you can hardly bear to look at it.’
Even so, on this sand grain day in the bent bay’s grave I celebrate and spurn what would have been brother Tom’s driftwood
seventy-seventh wind turned age, shall seventy-seven bells sing struck.
— kenne
(Some lines in this poem are from Dylan Thomas’ poem, Poem On His Birthday. My brother loved quoting lines from Dylan Thomas’ poems.)
(Click on any of the tiled images for larger in a slide format.)
Lummi & MCLAC
Thomas Robert Turner, May 23, 1942 – November 13, 2014
I love you, Bobby!
And death shall have no dominion.
Dead man naked they shall be one
With the man in the wind and the west moon;
When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,
They shall have stars at elbow and foot;
Though they go mad they shall be sane,
Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;
Though lovers be lost love shall not;
And death shall have no dominion.
And death shall have no dominion.
Under the windings of the sea
They lying long shall not die windily;
Twisting on racks when sinews give way,
Strapped to a wheel, yet they shall not break;
Faith in their hands shall snap in two,
And the unicorn evils run them through;
Split all ends up they shan’t crack;
And death shall have no dominion.
And death shall have no dominion.
No more may gulls cry at their ears
Or waves break loud on the seashores;
Where blew a flower may a flower no more
Lift its head to the blows of the rain;
Though they be mad and dead as nails,
Heads of the characters hammer through daisies;
Break in the sun till the sun breaks down,
And death shall have no dominion.
We are hairy men who may be thought of a “Twit,” but I dare say, are not. Why you might ask? If you look closely, you will not see tasty morsels in our beards, while Twits upon close review will have tiny little specks of dried-up scrambled eggs.
So says Roald Dahl, and he should know of all the disgusting things found in the beard of a twit, but, no need to hold your noses.
So, what is it these hairy men are trying to hide? Is it an ugly face, you ask? No, not really, for we are two guys possessing good thoughts, which shone out of our faces like sunbeams, so we will always look lovely.
Again, Roald Dahl, should know: ‘If a person has ugly thoughts, it begins to show on the face. And when that person has ugly thoughts every day, every week, every year, the face gets uglier and uglier until it gets so ugly you can hardly bear to look at it.’
Even so, on this sand grain day in the bent bay’s grave I celebrate and spurn my driftwood seventy-sixth wind turned age.
Yet, I remain steadfast in Shakespeare’s fifth stage in The Seven Stages of Man, still acquiring wisdom, enjoying the finer things in life and remain very attentive of my appearance, trying to live life to its fullest, preparing for the final stages of life. Shall seventy-six bells sing struck.
kenne
The above illustration is by Quentin Blake in Roald Dahl’s book, The Twits. Part of this posting contains copy from The Twits and Dylan Thomas’ Poem On His Birthday.
I can’t let this pass without again sharing Dylan Thomas’Poem On His Birthday.
(CLICK ON ANY OF THE FOLLOWING IMAGES TO VIEW SLIDESHOW FORMAT.)
This past Sunday, in a drizzling chilly rain, I was with my nieces Vanessa and Lisa scattering their dad’s ashes at Meydenbauer Beach Park where they often spent time with their dad. Joy and I first visited the park in the mid-eighties and with the passing of time the park has changed — then a more rustic park with a lot more trees and shrubs. Either way, it’s still a beautiful park on Meydenbauer Bay on Lake Washington. Among the stories the girls shared as we walked together in the park was of their dad running from their home in Bellevue to the park — running directly into the water, which sounds a lot like Tom.
Knowing that we would be with Vanessa and Lisa as they scattered their dad’s ashes, Joy and I traveled to Seattle with some of Grandma Agnes’s aches so they would be scattered together. Since we had an “In Loving Celebration of Thomas R. Turner” ceremony Saturday in the Main Hall at Camp Long in West Seattle, there was no formal scattering of ashes ceremony — just Vanessa and daughter Violet, Lisa, Joy and me. Vanessa’s husband Jon was home with son Henry, and Lisa’s husband Mike home with son Austin. The scattering of ashes at Meydenbauer Beach Park was the way Tom would have wanted it, intimate and personal.
This coming May 23 we will be remembering Tom’s birthday with the Dylan Thomas line he always sent to me on my birthday:
“…High Among Beaks and Palavers of Vultures He Celebrates and Spurns His Driftwood SEVENTY-THIRD Wind Turned Age…”
In your honor, Tom, we will keep searching for clarity . . . lucidity.
kenne
Walking down to the beach
View from beach
Joy and Vanessa
Vanessa, Kenne and Lisa
Vanessa, Kenne and Lisa
Violet, Vanessa, Kenne and Lisa
Vanessa, Lisa and Kenne
Lisa with her dad’s ashes
Kenne with Tom’s ashes
Violet and Vanessa
Vanessa, Kenne and Lisa
Leaving Meydenbauer Beach Park
The following poem ended Saturday’s “In Loving Celebration of Thomas R. Turner” ceremony.
A Clear Midnight
by Walt Whitman
This is thy hour O Soul, thy free flight into the wordless,
Away from books, away from art, the day erased, the lesson done,
Thee fully forth emerging, silent, gazing, pondering the themes thou lovest best,
Night, sleep, death and the stars.
(Go To kenneturner.com to see all the “Becoming is Superior to Being” Postings.)
We are hairy men
who may be thought of a “Twits,”
but I dare say, are not.
Why you might ask?
If you look closely, you will not see
tasty morsels in our beards,
while Twits upon close review
will have tiny little specks
of dried-up scrambled eggs.
So says Roald Dahl,
and he should know
of all the disgusting things
found in the beard of a twit,
but, no need to hold your noses.
So, what is it these hairy men
are trying to hide?
Is it an ugly face, you ask?
No, not really,
for we are two guys
possessing good thoughts,
which shone out of our faces
like sunbeams,
so we will always look lovely.
Again, Roald Dahl, should know:
‘If a person has ugly thoughts,
it begins to show on the face.
And when that person
has ugly thoughts every day,
every week, every year,
the face gets uglier and uglier
until it gets so ugly
you can hardly bear to look at it.’
Even so, on this sand grain day
in the bent bay’s grave
I celebrate and spurn
my driftwood seventy-first
wind turned age.
Yet, I remain steadfast
in Shakespeare’s fifth stage
in The Seven Stages of Man,
still acquiring wisdom,
enjoying the finer things in life
and remain very attentive to my appearance,
trying to live life at its fullest,
preparing for the final stages of life.
Shall seventy-one bells sing struck?
kenne
The above illustration is by Quentin Blake in Roald Dahl’s book, The Twits. Part of this posting contains copy from The Twits and Dylan Thomas’ Poem On His Birthday.
I can’t let this pass without again sharing Dylan Thomas’Poem On His Birthday.
I am a child of the forties, a rebel of the fifties, becoming a native of the sixties. Each decade saw the influence of art; not as the creator, but in me, the person listening and seeing what the creator sent along. Together we have traveled as companions, moving along and being moved.
Now, in my driftwood seventieth wind-turned age,* “I am of the old and young, of the foolish as much as the wise.”** An age whose troubadour companions have included: Bob Dylan, Joan Baez, Paul Simon, George Clinton, Paul McCartney, Aretha Franklin, Carole King, Brian Wilson, Lou Reed, Jimi Hendrix and Jerry Garcia. Whether a mere coincidence with others, I am ever grateful — each having moved me to thought in the course of my daily life.
Often alone with my thoughts, each shaped by others in a sea of music, I picture an image, one I might take with my camera. Knowing the words and images don’t come out of nowhere, but are the result of shared paths for my feet to use, I always keep an eye on my traveling companions, and people down the road who might bring a fresh breath of air, making me younger than I am now – he said, pausing with reflection.
“May you stay forever young,
Forever young, forever young,
May you stay forever young.”***
kenne
(This posting is deticated to all those born in 1941. We are traveling companions.)
*Dylan Thomas — Poem On His Birthday
** Walt Whitman — Leaves of Grass *** Bob Dylan — Forever Young
It would not be my birthday if not hearing Tom read from Dylan Thomas’ Poem On His Birthday. “This sandgrain day in the bent bay’s grave He celebrates and spurns His driftwood thirty-fifth wind turned age;”
On this birthday, in addition to Tom’s usual reference to Dylan Thomas, he referenced Shakespeare’s “Seven Ages of Man.” Most people know it from the beginning line, “All the world’s a stage, And all the men and women merely players. . .” But, for Tom the reference was:
“. . . The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper’d pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side,
His youthful hose well sav’d, a world too wide,
For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,
Turning again towards childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. . . ”
Now Tom, I must make exception to my being in Shakespeare’s sixth stage. I haven’t begun to lose my charm and whit. Nor have I begun to shrink in stature and personality. I remain in the fifth stage, still acquiring wisdom, enjoying the finer things in life and remain very attentive of by appearance — so there!
Duck Standing On Water In October — Image by kenne
Variegated Fritillary Butterfly — Photo-Artistry by kenne
A Tucson Sunset — Photo-Artistry by kenne
Tom and Kenne Turner (Tom would have been 77 today.)
Mushrooms On A Log — Computer Art by kenne
Tom and Kenne Turner (October 2009)– Image by Joy
View from the Green Mountain Trail with Thimble Peak & the Tucson Basin in the Background.
Panorama View of Meydenbauer Bay, Bellevue, WA 
