A Society of the 5th Cave Book Club Meeting In The North Montgomery County Woods (April 10, 2005)– Images by kenne
(Click on any image to see slideshow.)
— Barbara Tuchman
Ilya Repin (1844-1930), A Ploughman, Leo Tolstoy Ploughing, 1887
The actions of the laboring people,
of those who create life,
began to appear to me as the one true way.
I realized that the meaning
providing by this life was truth,
and I embraced it.
— Leo Tolstoy, from CONFESSION
Vessels — Image by kenne
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 essential 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 fifteen 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 São Paulo in Brazil that I learned of Paulo Coelho and his 1988 novel.
The book fits well into my philosophy
and set the tone for the trip and remains instrumental in my life.
I’m pleased to be reading this inspiring book fifteen years out.
The Alchemist is the gift that keeps on giving.
Some years ago after reading my poem “Solstice Night,”
my brother Tom wrote to me that my poem reminded him
of the first lines from Conrad 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 my return to 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.
— kenne
Nature Made — Image by kenne
I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix,
angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,
who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats
floating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz,
who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tenement roofs illuminated,
who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes hallucinating Arkan- sas and Blake-light tragedy among the scholars of war,
who were expelled from the academies for crazy & publishing obscene odes on the windows of the skull,
– Read more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15308#sthash.QAcTplGR.dpuf
— from Howl, by Allen Ginsberg
Philip Levine — Image by kenne
Writers In Performance Series, Mid-1990’s — Images by Nancy Parsons
Voice of the Voiceless
Life,
life is simple,
we make it complicated —
that’s the simple truth.
Today,
I found myself reading
the poems of Philip Levine —
blessed with the gifts
of listening and observing;
enabling him to care,
he has called the
“voice of the voiceless”.
Above all,
Levine is a story-teller
of people decaying
in the spoils of the rich,
speaking directly
from the front lines,
bearing witness to
worker revolutions, faded.
By writing about work,
Levine writes about life.
Waiting,
waiting in the work line.
Waiting,
waiting in the assembly line.
Waiting,
waiting for the next task —
not changed from the last.
I, too,
worked an assembly line.
I, too,
bless the imagination
that have given me
myths I live by —
images created by
my visionary power
to bear witness.
I, too,
sing America —
that’s the simple truth.
— kenne
p. s. The other day I was listening to NPR when I heard that Philip Levine added another award to the many this great American poet has received, the American Academy of Poets life-time achievement award (Wallace Stevens Award). Levine, the 2011 U.S. poet laureate and Pulitzer Prize winner for his book, “The Simple Truth” is one of my favorite living poets. It was not long after this book’s publication that we were honored to have Levine read at Long Star College – Montgomery, Writers In Performance Series.
Laureate Philip Levine, Working Class Poet
by Robin Bates
An Abandoned Factory, Detroit
by Philip Levine
The gates are chained, the barbed-wire fencing stands,
An iron authority against the snow,
And this grey monument to common sense
Resists the weather. Fears of idle hands,
Of protest, men in league, and of the slow
Corrosion of their minds, still charge this fence.
Beyond, through broken windows one can see
Where the great presses paused between their strokes
And thus remain, in air suspended, caught
In the sure margin of eternity.
The cast-iron wheels have stopped; one counts the spokes
Which movement blurred, the struts inertia fought,
And estimates the loss of human power,
Experienced and slow, the loss of years,
The gradual decay of dignity.
Men lived within these foundries, hour by hour;
Nothing they forged outlived the rusted gears
Which might have served to grind their eulogy.
Photo-Artistry by kenne
Charles Bukowski: A Bio Poem
yes,
there was a
Charles Bukowski
sad eyes
weary voice
a poet-recluse
writing about
down and outs
skid row
alcohol
relationships with women
German American
raised catholic
abused
shy, alienated
teenage acne
desperate days of the
great depression
attended
Los Angeles City College
art,
journalism
literature
flirted with the far-right
grew bored
failed a physical and
psychological exam
classified 4-f
“on a Santa Monica Monday.”
first story
published at 24
grew disillusioned
quit writing
“on the sidewalk and in the sun”
ten-year drunk
bleeding ulcer
nearly died
begin writing poetry
first wife
small-town Texas poet
decapitated in India
religious zealots
obscure cult
traumatized by wife’s death
resulting in a powerful series of poems
“I hold fast to me, that’s all there is”
series of muses
a daughter
ten years with post office
wrote a column
“notes of a dirty old man”
quit the post office
decided to starve
full-time writer
a loner
unable to live alone
“because I’ve got
a pocket full of dreams….”
— kenne
Charles Bukowski in Ham On Rye writes of Henry Chinaski, his raw voice alter ego having a beer with Becker:
“. . . I’d like to be a correspondent in Washington, D.C. I’d like to be where big things are happening.”
“Washington’s crap, Becker.”
“And women? Marriage? Children?”
“Crap.”
“Yeah? Well, what do you want?”
“To hide.”
“You poor fuck. You need another beer.”
“All right.”
The beer arrived.
Source: Booktryst
“The difference between life and art is art is more bearable.”
– Charles Bukowski
Loueva Smith — Photoshop image by kenne from Google Images
(Originally posted in 2008)
DoubleTake magazine was unique in American publishing, influencing the way other media began to use photography with writing. Originally published at Duke University’s Center for Documentary Studies between 1995-1999, before moving to Massachusetts, continuing to publish to 2003. I still have issues 8 – 30 from between 1997-2003, including a special edition on September 11, 2001. DoubleTake is a publication I will always treasure. From time to time, I will share some of its content.
kenne
Barn In The Meadow — Image my kenne
Eternity: Counting the Moments in an Air of Timelessness — Image by kenne
It is the clock that
counts the moment —
the sum of all
clocks ticking
in circles
spiraling
in an air
of timelessness
is eternity.
— kenne
— from Song of Myself by Walt Whitman
Image by kenne
— Nature, Poem 15: The Bee by Emily Dickinson
— from Song of Myself by Walt Whitman,
Images by kenne
“It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.”
— from the poem, Annabel Lee, by Edgar Allen Poe
“Place In The Desert” Image by kenne
How will you know when
you are in the right place?
The secret is out!
. . . in a place where
each question
contains the answer.
You will know
that place
when you have
the right feeling —
The secret is out!
Or is it?
What to do
when the feeling
is missing?
. . . sadly,
your place
is not the right place.
kenne
Carmen Tafolla — Images by kenne
It was a little over six years ago that I first met Carmen Tafolla. She was the March 2007, guest reader at Montgomery College’s (now Lone Star College – Montgomery) “Writer’s In Performance” series. I was impressed!
Carmen, a native of the West-Side barrios of San Antonio, Texas is an excellent writer, but first and foremost a storyteller. Often her readings include taking on the persona of the person in the poem, as shown in two of the photos in the above collage (older women and a child). Carmen is very inspirational — she touches your heart.
As a storyteller, Carmen follows the instruction from a historian, which she writes about in the poem, “The Storykeeper:”
Ask the whispers, she whispers,
breathed out in unguarded moments,
when the soul is too worn down to hurt more,
in the numbness of the night,
when the father wrestles with the unwritten history,
pleading to save it, speak it, bury it,
staring at the pluma across the room,
avoiding the paper.
from the poem “The Storykeeper” in the book of poems, Sonnets and Salsa
Even though I like to think I’m relatively up to date with the southwest literary world, I was surprised to learn yesterday that last March 2012, San Antonio Mayor Julián Castro appointed Carmen Tafolla as the inaugural poet laureate — an honor well deserved.
The University of Arizona houses one of the best-known centers of poetry, “Poetry Center,” in the country; yet after doing a site search, I learned that Carmen Tafolla has never read there, which I difficult hard to believe — wondering out loud (in print), WHY! The Poetry Center should invite this unique Southwestern voice to read in Tucson.
We do know that many in Tucson are aware of Carmen Tafolla, since one of her books, “Curandera” was banned Tucson Unified School District’s unprecedented censorship and massive removal of Latino and Mexican American literature and texts from its classroom. As a result, and in honor of the book’s 30th anniversary, Wings Press reissued a special “Banned in Arizona!” edition, of “Curandera.”
kenne
(The title of this posting, “HealthCare” — ” But, No One Cares” is a line from Carmen Tafolla’s poem, “HealthCare” the sign says.)
Why, Arizona
Disregarding our “laced with fear” friends, Tom Markey and I drove Ajo Way (Arizona 86 Highway) out of Tucson to Puerto Peñasco, Mexico. The drive, most of which is through the Tohono O’odham Nation, is a very picturesque drive to Why, Arizona in the Sonoran desert.
On The Way To Why
The road is long,
a straight blacktop
across the land
of the Tohono O’odham.
Each passing mile
stirring up reflections
while pondering
each crucifix
with plastic flowers —
conquering my thoughts
drifting in and out
of my soul
wondering why,
why-not,
on the way
of leftover dreams.
— kenne
(The Sonoran desert has awaken my yearning for the spiritual allowing me to feel the mysterious anguish of all things.)
Tom and Pedro
We drove through the communities of Sells, Why and Lukeville before crossing the border about 80 miles north of Puerto Peñasco (Rocky Point). This sea-shore desert town is at the north end of the Gulf of California on the narrow strip of land that connects Baja California with the rest of Mexico.
Our plan was to have Pedro (the boat owner who has taken Tom fishing in the past) take us fishing in the Gulf. However, given the neuropathy Tom was still experiencing from his last chemo (#6) session, and after meeting with Pedro, we decided fishing would be left for another day.
Now Tom and I would have more time to walk the beach discussing poetry, philosophy and life stories.
Tom had brought alone the bilingual edition of Federico Garcia Lorca‘s Collected Poems. I don’t recall my having discussed Lorca with Tom, but he soon learned of my love for the man, his daemonic genius and ability to invoke the duende in his poetry.
“I want to summon up all the good will, all the purity of intention I have, because like all true artists I yearn for my poems to reach your hearts and cause the communication of love among you, forming the marvelous chain of spiritual solidarity that is the chief end to any work of art.” — from Lorca’s “Lecture,” Poet In New York
Until moving to the desert southwest, it was Lorca’s writings that served as a substitute for what was absent, since nothing is as it should be. I had a powerful desire to move from the there to the here and until I could be more in the present, planting roots in the spirituality of the border lands — invoking a deep trance-like emotion, his poetry satisfied the desire .
KenneTurner, Edward Hirsch and Dave Parsons
In his book, The Demon and The Angel, Edward Hirsch writes that duende (or the demon) and the angel are vital spirits of creative imagination, two figures for a power that dwells deep within us:
“Lorca’s myriad crystal tambourines wounding the new day are fresh poetic fact, an extrasensory event that strikes the reader or listener as something that has been creatively added to nature, something beyond natural or even metaphorical description, something visionary.”
As we drove the Tohono O’odham land, the land of the “Desert People,” so much around us began to invoke the presence of duende, a feeling I continue to try to express, but remains beyond description, while allowing a spiritual absolute — “toward which all artistic endeavor, especially music and literature, seems to tend.”
Tom Markey On The Beach At Mayan Palace
The poet is the medium
of Nature
who explains her greatness
by means of words.
The poet understands
all that is incomprehensible,
and things that hate each other
he calls friends.
He knows that all paths
are impossible
and thus he walks them
calmly in the night.
— Federico Garcia Lorca
kenne
Where The Desert Touches The Beach
“The duende does not come at all unless he sees that death is possible,” Lorca wrote in “Deep Song.”
Malagueña
Death
goes in and out
of the tavern.
Black horses
and sinister people
pass along the Sunken roads
of the guitar.
There’s an odor of slat
and female blood
in the feverish spikenard
along the shore.
Death
goes in and out,
out and in
of the tavern goes
death.
— Federico Garcia Lorca
“I Stare At Shadows” — Image by kenne
— kenne
Becoming is Superior to Being 