Thomas R. Turner, May 23, 1942 – November 13, 2014 — Image by kenne
Standing above me in Smith’s Awkwardly looking down through a clipped hesitancy Our lives came together.
From within, mutually canceling Vignettes of naturalness and gender-cliche.’ She kissed through closed lips of Pristine openness. Innocently I loved.
After my return from the war I stepped into a world of Kafkaesque embraces; yearning . . . Paled with particular sensations I was momentarily blinded.
I could taste the t.s. eliot peach that I dared to eat. Looking at you the way you love the first person Whoever touched you And never quite that way again I savored my idea of you but missed the obvious.
Paradoxes betray the limits of logic Not of the reality, we shared. Your “passion” was stillborn through so dame necessary.
The aesthetics of my artifice went against the grain: Recreation, utilitarian achievements, and another sexuality Were hidden karmas of your soul. My recondite preoccupations rung up as No sale.
But let’s Skip the arguments. I already know how the story ends: A not so cryptic message – Don’t be naive You could only gaze into the distance at my life.
— from 24 to Harwood and Cropsey — No Road Back Home by Tom Turner
######
A Brother Lost
Now that it’s daylight at five, I am awakened by the Soft sounds of morning doves,
Delaying for a moment My feet hitting the floor — Just long enough
To think about my brother Who no longer writes, Calls or returns mine.
There’s no reason. He has never needed A reason to not call —
For him, calls need a reason, even made up ones —
Sharing a quote, Name now forgotten, Need to reach out.
Now lost in the northwest, Imprisoned by his mind, Lacking courage to create.
Now each day, I live with Words no longer spoken, Words no longer written.
In June of this year, George Booth passed away. Like so many people, especially
readers of The New Yorker, I love his cartoons. For the last three years, this one I
look at every day and shout, “What the hell is happening?”
But, more importantly, for several years starting in the early 2000s, my brother
Tom placed the cartoon in the upper right corner of copy paper he used to write
letters to me, always written in large capital letters. His letters, sometimes unable
to read without having a dictionary nearby, were always informative.
He once wrote:
“OOOOOPS . . . LOST MY FOCUS . . . (WHAT A HOOT!) I’VE BEEN, AS OF LATE,
DWELLING UPON THE YIDDISH IDEA OF DRECK . . . “MATTER” WHICH PRESENTS
ITSELF AS NOT WHOLLY RELEVANT (OR INDEED, AT LL RELEVANT . . . WHATEVER
‘RELEVANCE’ IS!) . . . BUT WHICH CAREFULLY ATTENDED TO CAN SUPPLY A KIND
OF ‘SENCE’ OF WHAT-IS-GOING-ON. THIS ‘SENCE IS NOT TO BE OBTAINED BY
READING THE WORDS, THINGS . . . SORT OF NON-SEMANTIC STUFFING OR
‘SLUDGE’ WHICH ARE EASILY CONFUSED FOR CONDUITS OF COMMUNICATION . . .
BUT PERHAPS OBTAINED BY CHECKING OUT THE INTERICES OF THE DRECK . . .
SPACES SURROUNDING THEM.”
Events are always perceived with reference to a particular frame; in another system of coordinates, the ‘same’ events are not the same.
Thomas R. Turner (May 23, 1942–November 13, 2014) — Photo-Artistry by kenne
This posting is the sixth, and last, I will be sharing from a long poem written by Tom
sometime around 1980 after his wife left him. Today is the fifth anniversary of his death.
24 to Harwood and Cropsy: No Road Back Home (Taken from a Brooklyn Bus Route and the Title of a Blues Album.)
The nuances between us were scattered with the
January snows of Peter's arrival.
Ambiguities, second starts and brokendreams were too
Tangled up in Blue to
Cut to the exact place on the page where our rhythm had
Broken.
I'm not that young any more.
"Get off your stagnant ass and do something."
The scenario years later would speak.
The Pacific Northwest and a three quarter profile statement
Echoing out Denny's window
Why I never got a job during all those summers.
Only the facts she put to me.
I couldn't keep in step with the definitions you
Dreamed.
We speculated endlessly in different directions
Whether our togethrness might might imaginable be framed
From inside so that the usual connection between lover
And lover and loved and loved would be interchangeable but
Paradoxically unchanging.
(For my benefit, I suppose)
Was the fiction of my eroticism so damn necessary?
Somewhere I glimpsed you
Coming at me; balancing cryptic hats . . .
Laughing comic confusion.
Now I never see you anymore.
The summers are much colder tha used to be
In that other time, when you and I were young.
I miss the human truth of your smile;
The half-hearted gaze of your voice and all the things
That you'll always be to me.
Only thee is no comic relief
Just a
Curious translation of cracked nostalgia.
But lets
Skip the arguments.
I already know how the story ends:
A-not-so-crytic-message:
Don't be naive
You could only gaze into the distance at my life.
Thomas R. Turner (May 23, 1942–November 13, 2014) — Photo-Artistry by kenne
This posting is the fifth of several I will be sharing from a long poem written by Tom
sometime around 1980 after his wife left him. Today is the fifth anniversary of his death.
24 to Harwood and Cropsy: No Road Back Home (Taken from a Brooklyn Bus Route and the Title of a Blues Album.)
In the inerstices of "hold me," and "stop hovering,"
The symbiosis of us succumbed
An anamoly had intruded
The desideratum of my life found my eyes
Bestial and sought transcendence through "appointments-only."
The spontaneity of our quick was cheapened.
(Funny how incredulity becomes more than a word)
The aesthetics of my artifice went against the grain;
Recreation, utilitarian achievement and another sexuality
Were the hidden Karmas of your soul.
My recondite preoccupations rung-up as
No sale.
Impressions filtered through my extranceous fictions
Single out shared neck massages and inept peeling of oranges.
Her solipsistic soaking in the tub found me
Speaking my love through
Closed doors. Anxiety and discontent had obscured our moments
Together.
My metamorphosis was quixotic and debilitating
Labor for the demensional person on which
Her eyes tried to focus.
Making love in the afternoon was an
Extreme of ethos a sexual shadow world for her
Yet the doctrine-of-discontinous-selves found a measure of
Your accentance.
Odd.
Thomas R. Turner (May 23, 1942–November 13, 2014) — Photo-Artistry by kenne
This posting is the fourth of several I will be sharing from a long poem written by Tom
sometime around 1980 after his wife left him. Today is the fifth anniversary of his death.
24 to Harwood and Cropsy: No Road Back Home (Taken from a Brooklyn Bus Route and the Title of a Blues Album.)
Closely watched trains came and went without me without us
I somehow missed you
Eyes have a way.
After love with my caliban sweat and noises
A vacant resentment would knife
From glares askance
First seen in the pain of Vanessa-labor.
And this is what happens when you love someone?
Progeny and sunburn haired sensualness
Prefaced Rare-Earth and a student nurse.
The ideology of lesbos intimacy had
Clandestinely raised its latent head.
But it doesn't matter anymore.
(You were the poet in my heart)
91st street was the end
Wasn't it?
Curious how our windows are always steamed-up
On Autumnal days.
(Was ANYTHING central?)
The "is-this-all-there-is" syndrome sums up the
Period: Existentialist discontent
With a walk-up duplex decor.
A matter-of-fact sexuality
Presaged a psychic-incarnation I couldn't see.
Lisa brought home a metamorphosis I didn't
Realize.
They cut your "tubes" after she came and that was that.
Funny how I thought even then that is was
All a matter of hormonal imbalance. Shit!
And what about you?
Paradoxes betray the limits of logic
Not of the reality we shared.
Your "passion" was stillborn though so damn necessary.
A dissolution of absence into substance sucked
Screaming through a Rimbaud-Day-On-Fire.
I could't laugh enough for the
Frivolity she needed but detested.
Thomas R. Turner (May 23, 1942–November 13, 2014) — Photo-Artistry by kenne
This posting is the third of several I will be sharing from a long poem written by Tom
sometime around 1980 after his wife left him. Today is the fifth anniversary of his death.
24 to Harwood and Cropsy: No Road Back Home (Taken from a Brooklyn Bus Route and the Title of a Blues Album.)
The metaphor Milwaukee-East-Side
Found an oblique happiness on Newhall street and other avenues.
A thirty-three-o-one flight walk-up
Mingled with a sweaty montage of
Walk-down circus parades:
Beer with Richard punctuating assassinations
Democratic conventions and
Halloween readings.
My movements in a not-always-silent
Desperation enveloped the shit of a B.S. paperchase.
(My illusions were so intensed christ I missed you)
"Im Home:" used to reverberate through someone's contentment
Of newhall evenings and milwaukee days.
Introspective space refracted my looking-glass image and the
Ennui of your self-esteem.
The enigmatic fruit of our "intimacy"
Was even then becoming spurious and estranged
Yet continued to sustain me and confine you.
Our spring had clouded into a season of
Discontinuities.
Snap-shot ambiguities cannot clarify
Where we were
Only echo tangents of truth
Which negate explanations of a then with Allison:
Lake Michigan shoreline Dr's Park Flag day
Too much to drink
We ate dogs with laughter went to bed at ten
And felt safe.
(I still see the scenes, but no longer see
myself among those present no longer
can improvise the dialogue)
Thomas R. Turner (May 23, 1942–November 13, 2014) — Photo-Artistry by kenne
This posting is the first of several I will be sharing from a long poem written by Tom
sometime around 1980 after his wife left him. Today is the fifth anniversary of his death.
24 to Harwood and Cropsy: No Road Back Home (Taken from a Brooklyn Bus Route and the Title of a Blues Album.)
Standing above me in Smith's roomAwkwardly looking down through a clipped hesitancyOur lives came together.TURNERWith all the ambiguity that last name usage impliesWas what she called me.Mannerisms of ingenuousness and a tendency toward the atypicalBespoke your ambiance
(Ineffably I wanted Her)That voice -FalsettoLaced in bursts of Peter's guffawsSeemed contrived with a dreamed-of authenticity.
(Your mouth, my love,the
thistle in the kiss?)
From within mutually cancellingVignettes of naturalness and gender-cliche'She kissed through closed lips ofPristine openness.Innocently I loved.Through summer notes of vulnerabilityTogether we embraced an entangled growth of uncertainty
(Our fictions were tempered in
a painful and inward time)Desperate needs equivocated against ordained directions andDead-end holdings of night-bakery-work.Even then yours wasn't other-directed butA need to keep the Self-absorption of your Ann Arbor soul on a
Pedastal of conforming difference.Eliptically we lived in the intersticesBetween an illusion of Fulfillment and letters etched with"Know what?"
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.)
Thomas Robert Turner, May 23, 1942 – November 13, 2014
I love you, Bobby!
On this day as I have many days since his passing, I read from the many notes, letters and emails I now cherish as he seems to grow bigger than life with each passing day, just like children sleeping his being inside me can’t be dreamed away.
The many words he shared can be taken away,
but not the love that keeps growing in
the soul of my very being.
He left for me many literary and philosophical
examples to live by, probably not knowing they
would continue to shape my very being as I
continue my journey in other people’s reality. One was a quote by Paul Lafargue:
“Healthy in body and mind, I end my life before pitiless old age
which has taken from me my pleasures and joys one after another;
and which has been stripping me of my physical and mental powers,
can paralyse my energy and break my will,
making me a burden to myself and to others.
For some years I had promised myself not to live beyond 70;
and I fixed the exact year for my departure from life.”
Last weekend, as I stood in front of those attending the celebration of life services for my brother Tom, I couldn’t help but notice the tears on the face of a dark-haired women among those attending. I had not yet met this beautiful women, so I had no idea who she was.
Knowing that some of Tom’s former students would be in attendance, I was not surprised when she came up to me after the service, with tears still in her eyes, and introduced herself — Ana Claudia, one of Tom’s former students. We embraced with the affection of dear friends seeing one another after years of being apart. For Ana, I was channeling Couch Turner, something that is second-nature for me since my brother and I are kindred spirits. We talked, drifting from the present to the past and back, her tears of joy still on her face.
As we talked and hugged, Ana shared something she had posted on Facebook after the death of Coach Turner:
I don’t often share my feelings on here,
but today I have a good reason to do so.
I’ve often thought about how blessed I am
for having had tough but kind coaches
and mentors throughout my life.
I am grateful beyond words
that good-hearted people took time
to help keep a poor immigrant kid from the hood
on a path towards a positive life
that included the desire to give back or pay it forward.
I know most of you didn’t know him but in honor of him,
I want to say that among all of those good people
none made more of a difference
in my life than this good man — Coach Turner.
He passed away yesterday and now,
here I sit openly weeping still, smiling,
and remembering him not only as a coach,
but also as a mentor, a defender, a family friend, and even a father.
I’ll never forget you Coach Turner. Thank you from my heart.
— Ana Claudia
I have no doubt that her words are shared by so many of his former students. He was a special man who liked using the power of his vocabulary to impress those around him, but for Tom his ability to share his feeling was more powerful the words. Like all of us, he had his demons, but above all, “Bobby”, my little brother, knew the value of caring and sharing.
In the form of a elegy, I share the last two stanzas from Federico Garcia Lorca’s, “A Dream of Life”:
No one knows you. No one. But I sing you — sing your profile and your grace, for later on. The signal ripeness of your mastery. The way you sought death out, savored its taste. The sadness just beneath your gay valor.
Not soon, if ever, will Andalusia see so towering a man, so venturesome. I sing his elegance with words that moan and remember a sad breeze in the olive groves.
(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.)
Thomas R. Turner, May 23, 1942 – November 13, 2014
Today we are flying to Seattle to be with my brother’s daughters, Vanessa and Lisa and their families and friends to celebrate his life in words that communicate thoughts and feelings manifested in knowledge, experience and love.
My brother often shared and laughed about the closeness to home the following Woody Allen quote was for us:
“It reminds me of that old joke – you know, a guy walks into a psychiatrist’s office and says, hey doc, my brother’s crazy! He thinks he’s a chicken.
Then the doc says, why don’t you turn him in?
Then the guy says, I would but I need the eggs.
I guess that’s how I feel about relationships. They’re totally crazy, irrational, and absurd, but we keep going through it because we need the eggs.”
Saturday’s celebration of Tom’s (aka, Bobby) life will include a “sharing” program, because we need the eggs!
You may call me Tommy, you may call me Jimmy
You may call me Bobby, you may call me Zimmy
You may call me T.R, you may call me Ray
You may call me anything but no matter what you say.
You’re gonna have to serve somebody, yes indeed You’re gonna have to serve somebody, Well, it may be the devil or it may be the Lord But you’re gonna have to serve somebody.
— minor changes to Bob Dylan’s “Gotta Serve Somebody”
Click to see a pdf file of “In Loving Celebration of Thomas R. Turner.” Tom’s Celebration
Thomas R. Turner, On The Waterfront (June 2, 2006) — Image by Mary Ann
Have you not done tormenting me with your accursed time! It’s abominable! When! When! One day, is that not enough for you, one day he went dumb, one day I went blind, one day we’ll go deaf, one day we were born, one day we shall die, the same day, the same second, is that not enough for you?
They give birth astride of a grave, the light gleams an instant, then it’s night once more.
Dedicated to Brother Tom (RIP) and Daughters, Vanessa and Lisa — Images by kenne
Marcy Now
My father could use a little mercy now The fruits of his labor Fall and rot slowly on the ground His work is almost over It won’t be long and he won’t be around I love my father, and he could use some mercy now
My brother could use a little mercy now He’s a stranger to freedom He’s shackled to his fears and doubts The pain that he lives in is Almost more than living will allow I love my bother, and he could use some mercy now
My church and my country could use a little mercy now As they sink into a poisoned pit That’s going to take forever to climb out They carry the weight of the faithful Who follow them down I love my church and country, and they could use some mercy now
Every living thing could use a little mercy now Only the hand of grace can end the race Towards another mushroom cloud People in power, well They’ll do anything to keep their crown I love life, and life itself could use some mercy now
Yeah, we all could use a little mercy now I know we don’t deserve it But we need it anyhow We hang in the balance Dangle ‘tween hell and hallowed ground Every single one of us could use some mercy now Every single one of us could use some mercy now Every single one of us could use some mercy now
Thomas R. Turner (May 23, 1942–November 13, 2014) — Photo-Artistry by kenne
Tom and Kenne Turner (Tom would have been 77 today.)
Thomas Robert Turner, May 23, 1942 – November 13, 2014
Ana Claudia 
Coach Turner
Turner with some of his track students
Panorama View of Meydenbauer Bay, Bellevue, WA 
Thomas R. Turner, May 23, 1942 – November 13, 2014
Thomas R. Turner, On The Waterfront (June 2, 2006) — Image by Mary Ann
Dedicated to Brother Tom (RIP) and Daughters, Vanessa and Lisa — Images by kenne
Still-life Image by kenne
Becoming is Superior to Being 