Archive for the ‘Literature’ Tag

Let It Shine   Leave a comment

Lummi & MCLACBarn In The Meadow — Image my kenne

Let It Shine

Morning awakens the light

Slowly stirring the heart

Revived from the sleeping night

By a singing meadowlark.

 

Accounting for the moment

Can we ever know

How age built a monument

From what it doesn’t show?

I don’t mind

As long as you know

I will make it shine

By allowing time to slow.

— kenne

Let Me Count The Moments In An Air Of Timelessness   1 comment

Tanuri Ridge Flowers Auguat 2013-7791 Barrel Cactus paint filter blog II framedEternity: 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

44
It is time to explain myself—let us stand up.
What is known I strip away,
I launch all men and women forward with me into the Unknown.
The clock indicates the moment—but what does eternity indicate?
We have thus far exhausted trillions of winters and summers,
There are trillions ahead, and trillions ahead of them.
Births have brought us richness and variety,
And other births will bring us richness and variety.
I do not call one greater and one smaller,
That which fills its period and place is equal to any.


— from Song of Myself by Walt Whitman

Capturing The Moment — “. . . Brings More Beauty Than Words Can Tell.”   6 comments

Sunset Trail HikeImage by kenne

“Like trains of cars on tracks of plush
I hear the level bee:
A jar across the flowers goes,
Their velvet masonry

Withstands until the sweet assault
Their chivalry consumes,
While he, victorious, tilts away
To vanquish other blooms.

His feet are shod with gauze,
His helmet is of gold;
His breast, a single onyx
With chrysoprase, inlaid.

His labor is a chant,
His idleness a tune;
Oh, for a bee’s experience
Of clovers and of noon!”

Nature, Poem 15: The Bee by Emily Dickinson

******

“The world is rude, silent, incomprehensible at first,
nature is incomprehensible at first,
Be not discouraged, keep on,
there are divine things well envelop’d,
I swear to you there are divine beings
more beauty than words can tell.”

— from Song of Myself  by Walt Whitman,

Capturing The Moment — A Girl And The Sea   4 comments

Virginia & Outer Banks 2013

Virginia & Outer Banks 2013

Virginia & Outer Banks 2013

Virginia & Outer Banks 2013

Virginia & Outer Banks 2013

Virginia & Outer Banks 2013Images 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

A Place Where Each Question Contains The Answer   1 comment

Olives“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

“HealthCare” — ” But, No On Cares” from Carmen Tafolla’s Poem, “HeathCare, The Sign Says”   1 comment

Carmen Tafolla Collage blogCarmen 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.)

Where The Desert Touches The Sea — Puerto Peñasco   2 comments

Why, Arizona

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

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 presentplanting roots in the spirituality of the border lands — invoking a deep trance-like emotion, his poetry satisfied the desire .

Ed Hirsch & Yard Photos

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

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

Rocky Point

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

“All that has black sounds has duende.”

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