Archive for the ‘kenne g. turner’ Tag

Self Portrait — Changing The Portrait, But Not The Moment   3 comments

Mr. VSelf Portrait — Image by kenne

You can never change the moment of the picture, but you can change the pixels.

— kenne

Posted July 30, 2014 by kenneturner in Art, Information, Photography

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A Man Named Kenne   6 comments

Green Mountain TrailImages Taken by fellow naturalist and hiker, Maribeth Morehart.

A Man Named KenneGreen Mountain Trail

My name is a conversation starter,
Kenne with an “e”, not a “y”.


I’m not a Kenneth,
named after
my great-grandmother,
Kenne was her maiden name.

You can call me Ken,
some even call me Keene,
(Word spellcheck corrects to Keene)

but I go by Kenne —
fate put a star by my name
by naming me Kenne.


(The name continues to be passed on — four generations, now.)

Capturing the Moment — Texas Bar   Leave a comment

Texas Bar

Posted January 17, 2010 by kenneturner in Art, Photography

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Sixth Stage of Man — You’ve Got To Be Kidding!   Leave a comment

Tom & Kenne

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!



. . . with apologies to “Unknown!”

(Thirty more years and Dylan Thomas lived.)


Posted January 15, 2010 by kenneturner in Family, Friends, Photography, Poetry

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The Brother of Distractions   Leave a comment

Winter Morning — by kenne

I didn’t get up this Christmas Eve morning thinking about Susan Sontag, that is, not until receiving an email from brother tom.

The book about Eugene Smith reminded me of Susan Sontag and her book : ON PHOTOGRAPHY.  Robert Hughes did a splendid review of her book in 1977. You will enjoy  how beautifully Hughes captures it.   t.

Of course he knew I would enjoy Hughes’ review of one of my favorite books! Even more so when the title of the review is, “Books: A Tourist in Other People’s Reality,” a phase I have used for years to describe my existence. Here’s my reply to tom:


I love this book —  it is one that grows with you.

“Recently, photography has become almost as widely practiced an amusement as sex and dancing — which means that, like every mass art form, photography is not practiced by most people as an art,” wrote Sontag — sad, but true. For me, it has always been a tool for expressing my vision of existence. The realism of a photograph is superficial, since in truth it is inherently surreal. As Sontag points out, “Surrealism lies at the heart of the photographic enterprise.”

I don’t know if I should thank you for sending this or not. I already have so much I want to read — now I feel a need to go back and reread this great book on photography.


On Photography is a must read for any photography. Thank you, tom, for the distraction!


The Gifts That Keep On Giving   1 comment

The things that happen to us in life do so because we act. The more we act, the more opportunities we have upon which to act, the more we connect creating a vessel filled with learning moments. If we don’t act on the moments, each will become an opportunity lost.  Even so, it’s important to not think about what may have been left behind.

My vessel is an alchemy of acts from which new opportunities are poured – acts attract acts. Paulo Coelho wrote in his bestseller, The Alchemist, “There is only one way to learn,” the alchemist answered. “It’s through action. Everything you need to know you have learned through your journey.”

It was ten years ago that I first read Coelho’s enchanting fable. It was in preparation for leading a group of four young professionals to the state of Sáo Paulo in Brazil that I learned of Paulo Coelho and his 1988 novel. The book fit well into my own philosophy and set the tone for the trip and remains instrumental to my life.

Again, one act leads to another when at this past Sunday’s Society of the 5th Cave reading club meeting, The Alchemist was selected for the March reading. Once again the concept of alchemy is front stage, this time from a different perspective, which will create many new learning moments.

I’m please to be reading this inspiring book ten years out. The Alchemist is the gift that keeps on giving.  Just today I received an email from my brother Tom, reminding me of someone I have also not read in recent years, American poet, Conrad Aiken, which my poem “Solstice Night,” reminded him of the first lines from Aiken’s long poem, “The House of Dust.”

The sun goes down in a cold pale flare of light.
The trees grow dark: the shadows lean to the east:
And lights wink out through the windows, one by one.
A clamor of frosty sirens mourns at the night.
Pale slate-grey clouds whirl up from the sunken sun.

In turn, his reminding me of Conrad Aiken, and the return of The Alchemist, that reminded me of the following from Aiken’s poem, “A Letter from Li Po.”

what’s true in these, or false? which is the ‘I’
of ‘I’s’? Is it the master of the cadence, who
transforms all things to a hoop of flame, where through
tigers of meaning leap? And are these true,
the language never old and never new,
such as the world wears on its wedding day,
the something borrowed with something chicory blue?
In every part we play, we play ourselves;
even the secret doubt to which we come
beneath the changing shapes of self and thing,
yes, even this, at last, if we should call
and dare to name it, we would find
the only voice that answers is our own.
We are once more defrauded by the mind.

Defrauded? No. It is the alchemy by which we grow.
It is the self becoming word, the word
becoming world. And with each part we play
we add to cosmic Sum and cosmic sum.
Who knows but one day we shall find,
hidden in the prism at the rainbow’s foot,
the square root of the eccentric absolute,
and the concentric absolute to come.

So many gifts that keep on giving.


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