Thomas Robert Turner, May 23, 1942 – November 13, 2014
I love you, Bobby!
I, slave, chained to an oar of poem,
Inhabiting this faraway province where
Nothing happens, I wouldn’t want it to.
I have expressly deprived myself of much:
Conversation, sweets of friendship, love. . . .
The public women of the town don’t appeal.
I wouldn’t want them to. There are no others,
At least for an old, smelly, covetous bookman.
So may things might have fed this avocation,
But what’s the point? It’s too late.
— from the poem STOIC, by Lawrence Durrell
